"So they want us to be fookin' cue balls?" private Curren cried, picking up a Nievish Guard helmet so freshly painted white that his fingers stuck as he threw it down.
"No holes, looka'that. I'm sorry Fergus but I need to move on!" Corporal Maguire cried out, unclipping his worn out helmet and placing it respectfully on a hay bail before lunging for the helm Curren had thrown down in a barn.
"The fook is Fergus?" the entire platoon rung out.
"Oi," Maguire whinged as he clipped the new one into place, "a ghost who haunted me mind since he died and I put on that tin, but how do I look?" Maguire asked, posing in the new white helmet and making Sylviewood faces at them.
Instead of responding they inspected the old helmet and found it was shot in thrice with holes. The holes and shrapnel marks in their own helmets caught their fears now as they ran shaking fingers over so many scars from guardsmen of a previous generation.
"I do drink one for Fergus every night, never had a heady, and he always promised me I'd find another helm!" Maguire confessed. "He was so wise and I do hope when I die in in this one I pass our wisdom to the next!"
Sergeant MacAtyr, watching the frenzy in the ranks, walked out towards to the white helm pile with his pistol and shot one in the front. "This one's mine!"
Behind him rifles and pistols began to click but MacAtyr shut it down with an "Oi!", "it was fookin' symbolic gesture for the ghouls, let's not ruin all the new gear!"
Maguire, the company basket case as he was, finally seemed happy and open for the first time since the 1/11th were assigned guarding Pherson's highspeed railway folly. Through their executions, beatings, and outright pressure the project had overcome its harshest challenge by railing the marshes outside of Caitekurke. Today they had cleared out a wee village on the other side of MacKinnon's Preserve where there were more suicides inside old stone homes than villagers to pack off, as most had packed off already.
The reputation of the Nimonnach's 1/11 Terrier Company preceded them as rousting problems in Nieveland. But now here were new helmets, painted white and a barn full of new firearms from the continent and boots for the ragged Nievishmen to treasure and resell for days.
"Put'em in line MacAtyr!" First Sergeant MacDempsey shouted, watching as his ugly little terriers argued over the value of what was being offered to them. MacAtyr duly ordered the young men to cast off their rotting knickers and don new ones, ensuring that none put down their old rifles down without handing them off to a comrade as they put on their new uniforms and white helms.
On the other side of the hot dung ridden barn stood MacDempsey and an officer none recognized. A few groaned and cast sideways glances at the new officer before finding their place in line. "It does so happen that Captain O'Callum has chosen to ride bonus and pension after this," MacDempsey shrugged with a thumb pointing back over his shoulder at the railway plodding forward faster than ever before "victory over ourselves."
"Aye, and that's when I bug in don't I?" a young voice interrupted. "I am Captain Hely and I have been called to lead you wild lot as White Helms on the Mainland!"
Garbles of "save me", "fuck off", "what then", and "dick" rattled off before MacAtyr and MacDempsey barked them all into silence.
"I left Ballyclaire yesterday for the first in my life to lead you lot," Captain Hely offered, "have a wife and a wee one to account for beside, but I do know you all have been away as well for longer?"
"Aye!" the deeper company groaned.
"Now those are white helmets over there, and I know you're not keen on them." Hely appealed, "but this is a holy mission."
Groaning overrun anything more, with too many "nigh" or "save us" cries ringing over Captain Hely who wanted to continue.
"RIGHT THEN!" Sergeant MacAtur shouted, "don your caps and wipe your ass, we're shipping out aren't we? Aren't ye tired of watching railway workers yet?"
"That's not enough, I know" Captain Hely refrained, "but ye'all have the Nievish Spiritual Vision don't ye?"
MacAtyr and Dempsey were down upon any resistance now with bully clubs, smiling at the sarcastic lads who wanted to whisper "pussy vision" or "alemennach" in response.
Corporal Maguire approached the new officer as the rest inspected their new equipment, engaging the better born of his same age. "Look at your boots, Captain Hely!" Maguire ordered after offering a salute and an outdated bow.
Hely saluted back in the defeated way, theirs was a nation that had been occupied for a time none cared to talk about, but when he looked down he saw he was standing in a combed over spot of ash and soot. Shuddering, Hely met Maguire's glance again with a nod. "They had their own vision here didn't they?"
Maguire knocked his new helmet and nodded, "if we're to go abroad we need ye to hold on and remind us of home."
McAtyr was on him then, pricking Maguire in the sternum and shoving him off towards the barn.
Captain Hely sided off to an abandoned home, gas connected but without electricity, and prepared a letter for home. The 1/11th would train here for a week, maybe two, before taking guidance from the Almskeeper who was taking guidance they hoped from the Pope on high.
"No holes, looka'that. I'm sorry Fergus but I need to move on!" Corporal Maguire cried out, unclipping his worn out helmet and placing it respectfully on a hay bail before lunging for the helm Curren had thrown down in a barn.
"The fook is Fergus?" the entire platoon rung out.
"Oi," Maguire whinged as he clipped the new one into place, "a ghost who haunted me mind since he died and I put on that tin, but how do I look?" Maguire asked, posing in the new white helmet and making Sylviewood faces at them.
Instead of responding they inspected the old helmet and found it was shot in thrice with holes. The holes and shrapnel marks in their own helmets caught their fears now as they ran shaking fingers over so many scars from guardsmen of a previous generation.
"I do drink one for Fergus every night, never had a heady, and he always promised me I'd find another helm!" Maguire confessed. "He was so wise and I do hope when I die in in this one I pass our wisdom to the next!"
Sergeant MacAtyr, watching the frenzy in the ranks, walked out towards to the white helm pile with his pistol and shot one in the front. "This one's mine!"
Behind him rifles and pistols began to click but MacAtyr shut it down with an "Oi!", "it was fookin' symbolic gesture for the ghouls, let's not ruin all the new gear!"
Maguire, the company basket case as he was, finally seemed happy and open for the first time since the 1/11th were assigned guarding Pherson's highspeed railway folly. Through their executions, beatings, and outright pressure the project had overcome its harshest challenge by railing the marshes outside of Caitekurke. Today they had cleared out a wee village on the other side of MacKinnon's Preserve where there were more suicides inside old stone homes than villagers to pack off, as most had packed off already.
The reputation of the Nimonnach's 1/11 Terrier Company preceded them as rousting problems in Nieveland. But now here were new helmets, painted white and a barn full of new firearms from the continent and boots for the ragged Nievishmen to treasure and resell for days.
"Put'em in line MacAtyr!" First Sergeant MacDempsey shouted, watching as his ugly little terriers argued over the value of what was being offered to them. MacAtyr duly ordered the young men to cast off their rotting knickers and don new ones, ensuring that none put down their old rifles down without handing them off to a comrade as they put on their new uniforms and white helms.
On the other side of the hot dung ridden barn stood MacDempsey and an officer none recognized. A few groaned and cast sideways glances at the new officer before finding their place in line. "It does so happen that Captain O'Callum has chosen to ride bonus and pension after this," MacDempsey shrugged with a thumb pointing back over his shoulder at the railway plodding forward faster than ever before "victory over ourselves."
"Aye, and that's when I bug in don't I?" a young voice interrupted. "I am Captain Hely and I have been called to lead you wild lot as White Helms on the Mainland!"
Garbles of "save me", "fuck off", "what then", and "dick" rattled off before MacAtyr and MacDempsey barked them all into silence.
"I left Ballyclaire yesterday for the first in my life to lead you lot," Captain Hely offered, "have a wife and a wee one to account for beside, but I do know you all have been away as well for longer?"
"Aye!" the deeper company groaned.
"Now those are white helmets over there, and I know you're not keen on them." Hely appealed, "but this is a holy mission."
Groaning overrun anything more, with too many "nigh" or "save us" cries ringing over Captain Hely who wanted to continue.
"RIGHT THEN!" Sergeant MacAtur shouted, "don your caps and wipe your ass, we're shipping out aren't we? Aren't ye tired of watching railway workers yet?"
"That's not enough, I know" Captain Hely refrained, "but ye'all have the Nievish Spiritual Vision don't ye?"
MacAtyr and Dempsey were down upon any resistance now with bully clubs, smiling at the sarcastic lads who wanted to whisper "pussy vision" or "alemennach" in response.
Corporal Maguire approached the new officer as the rest inspected their new equipment, engaging the better born of his same age. "Look at your boots, Captain Hely!" Maguire ordered after offering a salute and an outdated bow.
Hely saluted back in the defeated way, theirs was a nation that had been occupied for a time none cared to talk about, but when he looked down he saw he was standing in a combed over spot of ash and soot. Shuddering, Hely met Maguire's glance again with a nod. "They had their own vision here didn't they?"
Maguire knocked his new helmet and nodded, "if we're to go abroad we need ye to hold on and remind us of home."
McAtyr was on him then, pricking Maguire in the sternum and shoving him off towards the barn.
Captain Hely sided off to an abandoned home, gas connected but without electricity, and prepared a letter for home. The 1/11th would train here for a week, maybe two, before taking guidance from the Almskeeper who was taking guidance they hoped from the Pope on high.
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