Chapter 7
The pale light of early morning broke over the barracks like a cold splash of water, illuminating the exhaustion etched deeply into every face. The squad stood at attention in the central aisle, their boots dried and polished to a dull shine, their uniforms brushed free of mud, though the faint stains of Cedar Creek still clung stubbornly to the seams of their trousers.
Drill Sergeant Vance walked down the line, stopping in front of each recruit to inspect their gear with microscopic scrutiny. His gloved fingers brushed against rifle barrels, checked belt buckles, and tested the tension of rucksack straps. When he stopped in front of Miller, his eyes narrowed slightly.
"You smell like swamp water, Private," Vance noted, his voice flat.
"Sir, yes, sir!" Miller replied crisply, keeping his eyes locked straight ahead on the green wall behind the sergeant.
"Good. That means you were actually in the swamp." Vance moved down the line, pausing finally in front of Elena. He didn't inspect her rifle or her uniform; instead, his gaze dropped to the stainless-steel dog tags hanging outside her collar, swaying slightly with her steady, measured breathing. "Private Vance."
"Sir!" Elena responded sharply.
"You carried extra weight last night. Not just your own pack, and not just Davies." Vance’s voice dropped an octave, carrying a rare note of genuine professional assessment. "A soldier who looks out for herself survives the day. A soldier who looks out for the formation wins the war. Don't ever forget the difference."
"Understood, Sergeant," Elena replied, her expression remaining entirely restrained, devoid of any pride or relief.
The inspection ended with a sharp dismissal, sending the recruits scrambling to the mess hall for a breakfast of cold eggs, thick oatmeal, and bitter black coffee. The atmosphere in the mess hall was vastly different from their first days at the base. The casual cliques and regional rivalries that had defined the initial weeks had dissolved into a quiet, functional solidarity. Recruits from big cities and rural towns sat side by side, sharing silent nods of mutual respect forged in the mud and the dark.
Miller sat across from Elena, stirring his coffee until the dark liquid swirled in a monotonous vortex. "You think Vance actually meant what he said?" Miller asked quietly, keeping his voice below the ambient roar of the mess hall chatter.
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Elena took a slow bite of her toast before answering. "Vance doesn't waste breath on things he doesn't mean," she said, her gray eyes steady. "He’s not here to make friends, Miller. He’s here to build a wall. And right now, we’re still just wet clay."
"Then we better let him bake us hard," Miller said, a faint, rare smile touching the corners of his mouth.
