Smeds groaned as he pushed his blanket aside and rolled over. He had bruises on his bruises and aches in every muscle and joint. Sleeping on the ground did not help.
This was the third time he had wakened in this tent he shared with forty men. He was not looking forward to another day in the militia.
“You all right, Ken?” a tentmate asked. He was using the name Kenton Anitya.
“Stiff and sore. Guess I’ll get a chance to work out the kinks before the day is over.”
“Why keep fighting them? You can’t win.”
Someone looked outside. “Hey! It snowed. Got about an inch out there.”
Jeers and sarcastic remarks about their good fortune.
Smeds said, “Since I was a kid people been kicking me around. I ain’t gonna take it no more. I’m gonna kick back and keep on kicking till they decide it’s easier to leave me alone.” He’d had four fights with the grays running their training platoon already.
Another neighbor said, “You’re getting to them. But your tactics aren’t so great. Got to use your head a little, too.”
That was Cy Green. Already he was pretty much the leader inside the tent. Everybody figured Green wasn’t his real name. He didn’t wear it very good. Everybody figured he’d been in the army before. He handled the military crap like he was born to it and he always let you know how you could make it easier on yourself—if you wanted to know. The guys liked him and mostly took his advice.
Smeds was reserving judgment. The guy was too much at home for him. He might be a spy. Or maybe a deserter who got swept up by the gray recruiters. Smeds had a notion that at least here in Oar, a deserter with a long military background probably had served with the Guards at the Barrowland.
“I’m open to suggestions, Cy. But I ain’t going to back down.”
“Look at what’s going on, Ken. Originally they worked on you because they wanted to show us what could happen if we weren’t good boys. You provoked so easy they kept coming back.”
“Over and over. And probably again today. And I won’t back down then, either.”
“Calm down. You’re right. It’s gone past what’s reasonable. But every time you see red you go for Corporal Royal.”
“Only because I can’t get to the sergeant.”
“But the sergeant and corporal are halfway decent guys just trying to do a job that they don’t think there’s any point or hope to. Your real problem is Caddy. Caddy waits till they’re a hair short of having you under control, then he jumps in and kicks the shit out of you.”
Several of the men agreed. One said, “Caddy’s got his bluff in on the rest of them.”
Green said, “And he’s covered as long as he don’t kill you.”
Smeds didn’t really want to talk about it. But they were probably right about Caddy. “So?”
“Go after Caddy if you have to go for somebody. He’s the root of the meanness. He’s the one going to hurt you. Make him pay. And try to put a leash on that temper. You got to blow up, do it when you’re right, not just ’cause you don’t like how things are going. Don’t none of us want to be here. We keep our heads, maybe we’ll all get out of this.”
Smeds wanted to throw a fit right then but he held back, mainly because he’d be doing it in the face of common sense, which would cost him the respect he had won.
He was real worried about Smeds Stahl. Smeds Stahl was getting inclined to let himself get carried away. He did need to keep a better grip. Or he’d end up doing himself in the way Tully did.
He wondered if it was the influence of the spike.
His determination to do right got a big boost at morning roll.
Fortune was all smiles. The tent next on the left started earlier and he overheard the corporal over there bellow, “Locan, Timmy,” so he was ready for the trick when Corporal Royal tried it. He just kind of glanced around dumbly like everybody else, and did not respond at all when Royal tried, “Stahl, Smeds.”
They were getting closer. They knew the names now.
He got another shock an hour later. They were stomping around in the mud, doing close order drill. His platoon passed another headed the other way and there in the outside file was Old Man Fish.
Fish winked and skipped to get in step.