Snippet #1241829

"You! What’s your province and platoon number!”

“Merov training platoon one-seventy-four” blurted the baby-faced youth, who had the unlucky position of being in front of his thirty-five companions, as he stared at the small man who had yelled at him, “Ahh….Corporal”

“Carry on” snarled Alexei, as the kid struggled in his full kit to make a salute without dropping his rifle. He was a mixed sneer and brooding rage. He had been waiting at the Laufland Central Train Station for a few hours now. Trains from all over his home province and those to the west, carrying supplies and troops stopped here, to have their cargos placed on trains heading towards the front lines. The train carrying the newest batch of Lauflander soldiers was supposed to have arrived fifteen minutes ago and training platoon two-fifty-three was supposed to report to platform fifteen. Which is where he and his fellow, Corporal Guy Bonnet, were suppose to get them on the train heading to the Clovis Line, which was in the northern part of the front lines, instead of the south, where most of the Lauflander regiments had been posted.

The little Corporal had gotten a telegram last week, ordering him to collect the platoon of replacements when his liberty leave was over. He could only assume that Corporal Bonnet had gotten such message, as well or he would have caught the train leaving for the town of Chkalov, two hours ago. Thrusting a ling fingered hand into the pocket of his green breeches, he pulled out the gold watch he had looted from the body of a Laudikian major and glared at it.

“You! What’s your province and platoon number!”

“Merov training platoon two-o-three” came a cheery, pride filled voice.

“Damn” muttered Alexei, shifting the straps of his rifle and pack. There was a very muffled clinking sound, as the bottles of booze, wrapped in his clothing and blanket, touched. Also hidden in the pack were; cigarettes, cigars, paper packets filled with marijuana or opium and small vials morphine, to name some of the semi-illegal contraband he was carrying back to the front lines. He only drank but the rest of the stuff could be traded for more food, medical supplies, new boots or extra socks and a number of other things a soldier needs but rarely gets.

“You!” he shouted, pointing a long, thin finger at a new group of conscripts, “What’s your province and platoon number!”