“ATTEN-SHUN!”
The colonel nodded in satisfaction and saluted the group, turning to his 2IC, who, in turn, saluted and took over.
“Right men. The following officers will come and stand in front of me. Lieutenants Garrimore, Hässler, and Fernetti.”
The three selected officers doubled to the front and took up station as directed, each separate from the other by a dozen paces.
As further directed, they raised their hands and shouted a number.
“One!”
“Two!”
“Three!”
“Right men, when your name is called, fall in in column of your marker at the attention.”
The Major consulted his clipboard and made a mark each time a man answered his name and fell in.
“Acron one… Ambrose three… Barry three… Berconi two…”
The colonel watched through his office window, satisfied with the ongoing process, as he shared a coffee with the commander of Zebra Company, a man who he knew little of, but whose reputation had preceded him, a reputation much enhanced by the Medal of Honor that the Captain had earned in the early days of the new European War.
A handful of men remained to be called forward and the company commander took his leave, ready to go round each barracks and introduce himself.
“Rideout one… Rosenberg two… Ulliman one… Vernon one… White two… Yalla three… Stalin two… fucking Stalin? You gotta be kidding me!”
A tough looking corporal doubled to the end of the second platoon line, his face set, having undoubtedly heard it all before.
The Major let it drop.
“1st Platoon,” he extended his arm, pointing at an empty barracks, “That’s your new home.”
He repeated the exercise for the two other platoons and watched as they doubled away.
Hässler, as befitted his rank, pulled one of the two single rooms available.
After a short ‘discussion’, a senior sergeant from the Big Red One ceded the other single bunk to Master Sergeant Rosenberg, leaving a trail of bloody spots behind, his nose leaking the red fluid after receiving an argument-winning tap from Rosenberg forehead.
Having stowed his kit swiftly, Rosenberg made the short trip to the other room, stopping briefly to observe the men in the main bunk area, noting that they had sorted themselves and their kit out with the swiftness of veterans.
He entered without knocking.
“So, what does the First Lieutenant think about this fucking outfit, eh?”
Hässler shrugged and rolled onto the bed, testing the mattress.
“Beds comfy enough, accommodation is sound… lovely view, Rosie” he smiled mischievously and pointed at the window, through which green forest could be seen in all directions.
“If the bacon’s good, I’d say we’ll be fine here. It’s what the bastards decide to do with us, or where they send us, that worries me.”
“Same old shtick. Why always with the bacon, eh?”
Outside came a call they could not ignore.
“ATTEN-SHUN!”
They both went for the door and ran straight into the British RSM, whose unblinking eyes carved through them like a red-hot poker through butter.
“Get fallen in, Sergeant… you too, Sir.”
The barracks was at attention, lined down each side, and the two friends joined the formation, every man’s eyes fixed straight ahead and focussed on something a million miles away.
A slow but measured step broke the silence and, through their peripheral vision, they were aware that a shadow had entered through the end door, a shadow of some considerable size, for the light was all but removed as it came closer.
It was the company commander, in his best uniform, the Medal of Honor ribbon plain for all to see, giving him authority well over his rank of Captain.
In any case, the man was built like a mountain and was solid rippling muscle, and, as such, any confrontation was to be avoided.
“Ben Zona!”
The RSM was straight in Rosenberg’s face.
“Did you say something, Sergeant?”
“No… err… well… yes, I did, Sarge… I mean…”
“You will call me Sarnt-Major. Call me sarge once more and I’ll rip whatever bits the rabbi left you clear off… do I make myself clear, Sergeant?”
“Yes, Sergeant Major.”
The RSM moved to one side, only to be replaced by the towering form of the company commander.
Hässler now caught the officer’s eye and nearly followed Rosenberg onto the RSM’s shit list.
The smile was wide and the teeth were white.
“Well, what we have here then? Don’t I know you from somewhere?”
They knew better than to answer, and in any case, no answer was required by the man in front of them.
Tsali Sagonegi Yona of the Aniyunwiya Tribe, named as Cherokee by the Creek Indians, named as Captain Charley Bluebear by the US Army, and known, both jokingly and seriously, as Moose, was that man.
He had pleaded for a return to combat and, by dint of his award, had been heeded, and given a position in the new unit.
Bluebear had personally asked for Hässler and Rosenberg in his company, something that, again, he was not denied.
The pair of them had seen the things before but, as the Captain moved up and down the lines, the tomahawk and battle knife were in prominent positions on the webbing belt, and had the desired effect, the veterans who had heard of the combats at Rottenbauer and Barnstorf shivered involuntarily, as the man of legend walked up and down.
Charlie Bluebear had changed, the two could see that. It remained to see if it was into something they would like as much as the man who had boarded the aircraft all those months ago.
“Men, we have plenty time to get to know each other. There is much to do. Little time to do it. Weapons inspection at 1700. Sargeant Majah.”
The RSM had long since stopped cringing at the Cherokee’s efforts to say his rank, and simply saluted the departing officer.
“Right… you heard the man. Weapons inspection parade will be outside this barracks at 1700 sharp. Full kit. Any infringements will result in loss of privileges…”
RSM Ferdinand Sunday stopped and stooped, placing his face level with Corporal Zorba.
“Loss of privileges, in this instance, means forfeiture of access to the mess hall which, in your case, might mean you lose more fucking height, soldier!”
Zorba’s eyes blazed but he kept his own counsel.
Sunday marched smartly to the entrance and turned, slamming his feet down like cannon fire.
“Dis-miss!”
The men set to cleaning their weapons, amidst chatter ranging from going AWOL, through to murdering the fucking British bastard.
Sixteen men missed their meal that evening, some for the tiniest infractions, but their comrades found enough space in their pockets to smuggle food back into barracks, something that did not escape the sharp eyes of either Bluebear or Sunday.
It was expected and desirable, the comradeship in adversity already pulling them together into a tight unit.
They would need every ounce of togetherness to get them through the rigorous training ahead.
Brigadier Haugh was grim-faced.
There was no way he could wrap this attack up in pretty ribbons and pass it off as a cakewalk.
None of his experienced officers would buy it for a moment.
It would be a total nightmare.
71st Brigade had already taken a heavy hit, hammering through the Soviet defences as they strove to destroy the Soviet pocket and permit the port to begin resupplying the Allied armies.
In Wandsbek, they had ground to a halt, until Allied air forces took a hand, reducing the area in an attack of great ferocity.