The 401st through 411th regiments were camped in the rolling hills overlooking Cohenburg. The fields and pastures that once fed the village had been cleared, pounded flat, and pegged with rows of ridge tents big and small. The smallest tanned-leather tents were fit for two soldiers, the largest ones contained the munitions depots, the mechanic shops, and the local command post. For each company of a hundred infantry, there was a mess tent and an infirmary, and the barracks was organized such that there were wide aisles between the densely-laid tents.
When last he walked the barracks, Matteo was in the ‘company’ of the 3rd platoon and so hadn’t appreciated the sights and sounds. While he followed sergeant Zanon, a thick man who filled out his blue greatcoat like a woolly bear, his eyes wandered the tent sea. There were hundreds of soldiers around, either sitting in—and standing about—their tents, or moving up and down the aisles with gear in hand. The loitering ones kept out of the way, smiled at one another or said their goodbyes. They traded in commissary goods and conversation, and played games with their bayonets. The busy soldiers appeared less care free as they focused on their tasks, such as requisitioning equipment or assembling for deployment.
Sergeant Zanon had said the 401st was ordered to deploy, but in practice only one battalion—approximately half the regiment—was required. That had something to do with their strategy, some of which Zanon meant to explain, but Matteo had trouble hearing over the hive of activity: Chatting men, their laughter, and the battering of many boots. He also heard the fits of nearby engines and the buzz and beep of the loudspeaker as an officer directed platoons to their vehicles. Curiously, he heard crying as well. Thoughts of the inquisition and stalking crows flit through his mind, but he was more comfortable not dwelling on it.
Zanon took a turn toward a very large and rectangular ridge tent patterned in brown and blue camouflage. The scent of food joined smells of cigarettes, unwashed men, and those of rain. Matteo felt the protests of his stomach and laid his hand over his greatcoat; it had been a while since he ate last. Zanon pulled apart the bug net that was the mess hall door and stepped inside. Matteo followed right behind him.
The mess hall was setup in typical Atilonian fashion. There were forty benches and twenty tables, long enough to fit five muscular men on each side. A cafeteria-style, self-serve buffet counter was place on one side of the tent and staffed by what rotation of soldiers had drawn mess duty. The sounds of conversation were amplified the moment Matteo stepped inside; mixed with the ring of tin forks on serving trays, cups slapped on tables, and the proud cheers of competitive men, satisfied after a bout of arm wrestling.
Sergeant Zanon led him to one bench with three open seats, where seven men looked as busy with each other as they were with their food. They were young men, mostly, but all of them in the middle of their youth, with heads of black or blonde hair and familiar complexions of olive and rose. Matteo’s heart felt easy, because although he didn’t recognize them, he could tell by their accents that they were also highlanders of the Atilonian heartland.
By just hearing those voices, Matteo felt he stood in an amber field, behind his brothers with scythes in hand. It had been many months since he’d seen them last, and many—many—more since he saw a harvest worth smiling over. He started thinking of home.
“Matteo!” a familiar voice shouted.
The boy blinked, pulled from his day dreaming. He was in the mess hall again, beside Zanon, and Lucas was waving from the table. “Zanon!” Lucas shouted. “Come on, sit down, we can make room!”
“Lieutenant Benasso,” Zanon said respectfully.
Lieutenant? Matteo thought and squinted at Lucas’ face. That man with smiling blue eyes, short golden-blonde hair, and a toothy, yellow grin looked only a little older than Matteo himself. This guy is my lieutenant?
Zanon pushed Matteo forward. “Sit down,” the bear-like-man said. Matteo turned his head as he stumbled and saw a slight smile on the sergeant’s face.
“I’ll get you something to eat,” he said.
“You don’t have to—”
“Let him do as he likes,” a man said from where he sat beside the lieutenant. “Besides he knows what’s good eating and what will open the sluice on both ends.”
Matteo knit his brows together as he watched Zanon walk toward the buffet line. He sighed and turned to the bench and took his seat across from Lieutenant Lucas Benasso, hereafter recorded as Lieutenant Benasso, because although he looked young, he was not a boy.
“Baby face here said you were out in the swamp,” the man beside Benasso said again. “3rd Platoon really knows how to welcome new blue-patterns.”
“This time their ‘hospitality’ went too far,” the man to Matteo’s left said. “They could have killed him, and for what, calling out an angel? I would have done the same.”
The man by the lieutenant shook his head. “You?” He smirked. “No way.”
Benasso nodded. “It’s one thing to boast about it, it’s another to do it, and our boy here did it where no one else dared,” he said. “Not just anyone speaks to an angel, and you all know why. The 3rd thought they could get away with their own punishment.”
“And we saw what happened,” the man beside Matteo said.
The members of the 2nd platoon became quiet as they took bites from their meals.
Benasso sighed and settled his shoulders on the bench table. He looked at Matteo with a smile on his face. “Anyway, I double checked with the Major,” he said, pointed his fork at the boy’s head. “You’re in the 2nd, congratulations. I’ll do the introductions.”
The lieutenant stood up, fork in hand, and started walking down the bench. “The one sat next to me is corporal Esidoro Denato,” he said. The corporal made a mock salute, his hand angled over his round brown eyes.
“Next we have corporal Giosue and Graziano, and Michele,” Benasso said as he rounded the table. “And there’s Vicenzo, and sergeant Ilario Medati beside you.” The lieutenant pointed his fork at the buffet line, where the large Zanon stood with comparatively small dishes in hand. “You’re already familiar with Manzu Zanon.”
Matteo nodded to Benasso and straightened up on his bench, looked around his new platoon. “Matteo Venturi,” he said, introduced himself with a sheepish smile.
Medati, the sergeant sat to Matteo’s left, patted him on the shoulder and flashed a big smile of his own. “We know who you are,” he said.
Benasso sat down. “Everyone has a vague idea,” the lieutenant said. “About the blue-pattern that spoke to an angel from a transport. Inquisition types rolled through last night and picked a few… misfortunate ones up.”
“Some from the 4th and 5th, even one from the 3rd,” Denato said from beside the lieutenant. He took a bite of his meal. “After they picked up the kid from the 3rd, rumor is they were satisfied. Whatever happened, they packed up and left.”
“Don’t ask after it,” Benasso said to Matteo. “Better they think they got the right one and you’re saved from the fire.”
“It’s just not right,” Medati said. “Then again, what do we know?”
Denato took a sip from his tin cup. “Venturi here is looking pretty good after getting a bare-knuckle hello,” he remarked.
“Is that so?” Medati asked and turned to look at Matteo more closely. “I think you’re right.”
“Medics did a good job with your face,” Benasso said. “But there’s not even a bruise on you. Were they trialing a new gadget from the skunkworks?”
Matteo shrugged. “I just sort of fell asleep,” he said. “I woke up and I was all better—I don’t know.”
It’s not like I could tell them why, he thought. I definitely can’t say why.
Benasso whistled in admiration. “To be that young again,” he said.
Denato laughed. “You’re an early thirty-something that still looks eighteen,” he said with a smile. “He’s got Achlesial’s own timeless face and he’s here misty eyed about youth.”
“Thirty-one,” Benasso said, sipped from his own tin. “But who’s counting?”
Medati looked up from his plate. “Now that Matteo is here, what are we waiting for?” he asked.
Benasso blinked and leaned back on the bench seat, held his elbow as he touched his chin. “Well after the grub, the guns, the bullets, and the uniform inspection, uhm… wait, I mean before that—”
Zanon slapped down a thin tray, heavy with a mound of pasta, cheese, and fragrant sauce. He pushed it in front of Matteo and sat beside the boy with his own spartan meal of thin pita bread and olive oil.
“Sir,” he said to Benasso. “Excuse me.”
The lieutenant nodded at him. “Where was I?” he wondered aloud. “Oh, right, we’re still one man short. Instead of another blue-pattern, the Major said we were getting someone new.”
“New? Blue-patterns are new,” Denato remarked.
“He didn’t sound certain himself,” Benasso said, “but the jist of it—I think—was Command had changed our organization at the last minute. We’re getting a specialist.”
Medati frowned at Benasso. “Specialist?” he asked. “We’re a reserve battalion in the rear guard. What do we need that for?”
Benasso shrugged. “Good conversation in the backseat while we watch the fireworks?” he wondered. “He’s supposed to show up here, so we’ll head out after I give him the meet-n-greet.”
Matteo was deep in his plate while he listened to the conversation. He stuck fork-fulls of penne pasta, rolled them in melted white cheese and heirloom tomato sauce. It was an extravagant meal for a farmer, but it was just another breakfast for the soldiers of the 401st. Atilonia may have been a conscript army, but volunteers stayed on long after their obligated tour, where good food, clean water, and steady pay beat life as a laborer. It didn’t hurt that Atilonia knew only victory, either.
“How do you stay so big, Manzu?” Denato said to sergeant Zanon.
The sergeant looked at him, took a sip from his plain water, and set it beside his plate of bread. “Practice,” he said.
“Didn’t you know?” Benasso asked. “Bread and oil were an athlete’s meal; thousands of years ago, anyway. Back when olive oil was expensive as gold, and bread was about the only fresh thing you could eat on a given morning.”
“I wouldn’t go to battle on a full stomach,” Zanon said.
Everyone glanced at Matteo. The boy blinked, a bit of sauce on his lip.
“Well,” Zanon continued, “I make exceptions.”
Laughter erupted from the table and lively conversations carried on for the next twenty minutes. Matteo finished his meal, and almost stood for seconds, when Benasso’s eyes sharpened. “Excuse me?” the lieutenant asked, directed his cutting tone behind Matteo.
The boy turned his head and saw a tall man standing there, black hair, blue eyes, and an olive complexion. He looked a little dirty in his dusty greatcoat and there was a large camo-green backpack with a tall antenna strapped to his shoulders.
“Are you staring at our blue-pattern for some reason?” Benasso asked the man.
The stranger blinked as if dispelling his stupor; a smile whipped onto his face. “Meneghin,” he said.
That’s a highlander name, Matteo thought.
“I’m Simone Meneghin,” he said again, cleared his throat. “Do you, perhaps know where the 4th company’s 2nd platoon is meeting?”
“You’re looking at us,” Benasso said, and his eyes relaxed. A smile returned to the lieutenant’s lips. “You’re our specialist, aren’t you?”
Meneghin made a salute. “Second Lieutenant Simone Meneghin,” he said in crisp formality. “I’ve been assigned to your platoon as your radio officer.”
“Radio?” Zanon asked, turned his shoulder.
“For coordinating with the Air Legion,” Meneghin said. “They said you’d have the best vantage point of Vultheras.”
Denato leaned to whisper to lieutenant Benasso, loud enough so everyone could hear. “I think he’s trying to say it’s because we’re not fighting at all.”
“Not every battle is fought from the front line,” Meneghin said. “We in the reserve battalion have to do our best too.”
Benasso nodded. “Well said. Let me introduce you….”
His name sounds highlander, he looks highlander, Matteo thought as the lieutenant’s introductions faded into the background clamor of the mess hall. But I can tell by his accent….
He’s not one of us.
