Page 28 of Wings of War

“Red, are you bothering this mechanic?” the sergeant’s voice barked from behind him.

“No, Drill Sergeant.” Fieran kept his gaze straight ahead.

“He really isn’t bothering me,” Pip added, stepping closer.

Her defense didn’t matter. The sergeant shouted, “Put your face to the floor and give me a hundred.”

More push-ups. He was going to have the arms of a gorilla at this rate.

At least with Pip standing there, Fieran could take the opportunity to show off a bit. He might not want to flirt with her more than that, but showing off was still always acceptable.

Chapter

Ten

Fieran waited in line in the mess hall, counting those ahead of him in line, then the seats left at the next table. Four people in front of him in line. Five seats left on one side of the table.

That meant he would be the last person to sit down, and he’d have the least amount of time to eat. As soon as the first person who sat down was done eating, the whole side of the table had to be done, no matter how much or little they’d eaten.

At least they only had one more day of this. After tomorrow, they would get five minutes to eat.

Five whole minutes. Such luxury.

At the moment, Merrik was in that first spot. He’d slopped some of the tough mystery meat onto his tray, and he was gamely chewing the leathery stuff, buying the others as much time as he could without getting yelled at by the drill sergeants for obviously delaying.

As the line moved forward, Fieran grabbed two slices of bread and scanned the offered food.

Ah, good. Spaghetti and meatballs. Lots of good carbs and proteins there.

He slopped the spaghetti and meatballs onto one of his slices of bread, flopped the other bread on top, and hurried to the table.

The fastest way to eat anything was as a sandwich. If there was mac and cheese? Put it between bread and it was a mac-and-cheese sandwich. Spaghetti? Spaghetti sandwich. Even soup was poured onto bread and eaten as a sandwich.

Fieran plunked his rear into the last seat on the bench, picked up his spaghetti sandwich, and wolfed down a huge bite. He spared only a brief nod for Stickyfingers sitting next to him.

Next to Stickyfingers, Tiny hunched to take up less space on the bench, his elbows tucked as close to his body as he could, given his brawny arms.

Lije squashed onto the seat on the other side of Tiny, and he dug into his own spaghetti sandwich as if it was his favorite meal.

Across the way, more recruits began filling up the table. The self-obsessed handsome man who had the bunk below Merrik sat across from Fieran. Everyone called him “Pretty Face.” Pretty Face had turned out to be the seventh son of an earl who was more prolific at producing children than was fiscally wise, given his penchant for gambling. As Pretty Face had become a bit of a wastrel himself, his only way to dodge both his and his father’s creditors had been to join the army.

At the far side of the mess hall, a group of mechanics sat at a long table, sequestered away from the army recruits. Pip sat at the far end of the table, the table coming up higher on her than on the others.

She glanced up, and Fieran caught her eye. He grinned, and she smiled back.

Merrik glanced down their bench, gave them all an apologetic wince, and popped his last bite into his mouth.

As a sergeant was already patrolling in their direction, Merrik grabbed his tray and stood.

On cue, the rest of them slid to their feet. Even though Fieran’s mouth was already full, he shoved the rest of his sandwich in anyway, struggling to chew so much food. But he had to eat every calorie he could get.

He’d thought himself fit before, but after two weeks with the army, he’d dropped so much weight he had to cinch his belt to the last hole to keep his pants up. He’d need the next size down if he kept losing so much weight.

After filing out of the mess hall, Fieran, Merrik, and the others lined up on the parade ground before their barracks, standing at attention while they waited for the rest of their unit to finish eating.

A light drizzle misted the air while dark clouds piling in the west threatened more rain. Their slickers shed most of the rain, but some dribbled down Fieran’s collar onto his neck.

Fieran worked a bit of gristle from between his teeth with his tongue, careful to keep his expression blank and his jaw from moving. If the sergeant caught so much as a hint of movement in his face, he’d be down in the mud doing push-ups or sit-ups in a heartbeat, especially if one particular drill sergeant happened to look his way.

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