Page 51 of Winter Longing
He and Tank hadn’t just absorbed information over the past week—they’d shared knowledge as well. While the Sinclairsoldiers were undeniably skilled with swords and adept in hand-to-hand combat, it quickly became clear that many of them lacked stamina.
Tank had been the first to suggest introducing conditioning drills, but explaining the concept to Tavis had been a task in itself.
“What is this ye speak of?” Tavis had asked, brow furrowed as he watched Tank drop to the ground to demonstrate a push-up.
“Strength and stamina,” Cole had explained, gesturing toward Tank. “Right now, your guys are tough and skilled, but they tire quickly.”
Tavis had given a dubious snort. “We train to kill swiftly, nae to linger on the field.”
Cole had held up a hand. “Fair, but what happens if you’re facing an enemy who doesn’t drop so quickly? Or you’re forced to retreat uphill, in the rain, wearing armor?”
To convince Tavis of the benefits of conditioning, they’d had to put on a demonstration. Cole was pitted against the young soldier, Domhnall—the same kid who’d humbled him during his first day of training. Cole had been running since he was seventeen, so the outcome was never in doubt. He and Tank mapped out a five-mile course that looped through the practice field, circled the village perimeter, followed the low stone wall lining the brown and fallow fields, skirted the edge of the beach, and ended back at the field.
When they began, Domhnall took off like a shot, clearly mistaking the endurance race for a sprint. Cole paced himself, knowing the uneven terrain and lack of proper footwear would already test his limits. He returned in just under an hour, winded but far from spent.
Domhnall, however, stumbled back a full thirty minutes later, dragging his feet and gasping for air. By the end, he wasn’t running but walking, his exhaustion plain for all to see.
The demonstration had made its point.
“Aye, but how do ye train for that?” Tavis, more resistant than skeptical then, had wanted to know.
Tank had laughed. “You run. Everyday. For miles.”
The discussion had carried over to the dinner hour, with Cole advising that daily training should begin with warm-ups and running, which Tavis reluctantly agreed could be implemented.
He and Tank had also advocated as well for the use of helmets, which hardly any wore during training.
“Most the lads consider the helms to be cumbersome,” Tavis had reasoned. “They limit vision.”
“They also keep your brain inside your skull,” Tank had quipped. “Can they stop an arrow?”
“Nae always,” Tavis had answered.
“But sometimes?” Tank had pressed.
“Aye.”
“Even without an arrow or blade,” Cole had interjected, “a blow to the head can be crippling, or worse, fatal.”
Dersey was there as well and frowned. “Crippling how? A knock to the skull is common enough. Most men recover well enough after a day or two, save for a bit of soreness.”
“Not always,” Cole countered. “You might not see any injury, but that doesn’t mean there’s no damage. Your brain can get shaken up inside, slamming against the skull. That’s what we call a concussion, and it can lead to all kinds of problems—memory loss, confusion, headaches that never go away. Sometimes, if the injury’s bad enough, a man might seem fine, but he could die later that night.”
Tavis’s expression darkened as he absorbed this. “Some time ago, a lad took a blow during a skirmish, seemed to come out of it right enough. But he passed before dawn, nae wound to show for it.”
“That’s exactly what I’m talking about,” Cole said. “Even if they survive, repeated injuries can add up. Over time, a man might lose his wits—forget things, act strangely. I’ll bet you’ve seen that too, right? Soldiers who’ve fought too long, taken too many blows to the head?”
Tavis’s brow furrowed as if recalling specific men. “Aye,” he said at last.
“That’s traumatic brain injury,” Cole explained, glancing at Tank, who nodded in agreement. “Helmets can’t stop every injury, but they can make the difference between a man walking away and not walking at all.”
Tavis fell silent, his gaze distant, before he narrowed a suspicious gaze at Cole. “Ye are nae a healer, nae a fighting man, but how do ye come by this knowledge?”
Cole scrambled for an answer. “Um, where we come from—Spain—there’s a better understanding of this kind of thing.”
Still, Tavis wasn’t sold on the idea of forcing his men to wear helms at all times.
However, that changed two days later, but not because of any head injury.
