[h3][color=fff79a]Jonnie[/color][/h3]

The ever louder report of artillery guns told Jonnie that he had probably made it to the front. He looked around at the scenery as the truck he was riding in the bed of moved along the road, and in the early morning sun he was just now able to spot the guns he had first heard thousands of meters away. It wasn’t quite the very front trenches, since he was to report to his platoon while they organized in the rear, but the tension here felt palpably different even if these were still just the reserve lines. Some of the others riding with him in the truck seemed relaxed, even eager. But Jonnie saw a sort of grimness in the faces of those he spotted as the truck carried through, and at this time he didn’t know what stories those stark expressions could tell.

There was one person on the truck, though, who had the same expression as the soldiers in the lines did. That one wasn’t a new recruit, Jonnie guessed; he learned that when one of the others, a talkative boy that seemed a bit younger than he himself, made an off-the-cuff remark about how excited he was to finally get a chance to stick it to the Imps. The veteran shot the boy a harsh look, told him darkly that he would change that attitude right quick, and muttered curses under her breath. That shut the kid up, and for the rest of the ride few words were exchanged that could break up the incessant clamor of the guns. Most of the others, though, were trying to catch a little more sleep and had been in no mood for talk in any case. 

But Jonnie himself was wide awake, struggling to keep the nervous energy inside of him contained. It felt as if it had just been a short few days since Jonnie had disembarked from the train that had brought him to basic, but of course it had been months ago. The drill sergeants, the corporals, they had been strict, unforgiving disciplinarians. But Jonnie thought he had felt himself turning into a soldier under their orders. He followed orders, saluted, and kept his boots shiny, and that was enough to keep the noncoms happy, even if it sometimes drew snickers from the other enlisted recruits. In exchange, he’d learned to shoot, to dig trenches, to fix bayonets and charge. Now he wanted the chance to put that to use. He was going to fight the Imperials, after all, and was proud to do it. He took out his father's knife and turned it over in his hand, feeling the Fhiraldian leather on the hilt. For Fhirald, Jonnie was going to give the Imperials a bloody nose, and worse if he could manage it.

After a short while more, the truck stopped and Jonnie and all the other soldiers trundled off, headed towards their respective units. Another private pointed Jonnie out to the 15th Atlantic Rifles, which he promptly made his way towards. The intensity in the air was even greater now that the front was so close, and Jonnie only had a few minutes to orient himself before a bugle call caught his attention. He saw the colors of the 8th platoon, his assignment, and found a spot in the ranks to line up and pulled off a crisp salute. His new lieutenant Middleton gave a curt address. At some point in the past this attitude might have made Jonnie bristle, but weeks of training had made him used to taking orders from officers, as a good soldier does. 

As the assembly dispersed, Jonnie took note of the two lance corporals Lieutenant Middleton had pointed out gathering together, one of them with a pad and pencil. By the lance corporal’s hair color Jonnie could see that the one with the pad was a Darcsen. Assuming the noncom was taking the roll, Jonnie came up to them and snapped to attention.

[color=fff79a]“Private Katz reporting, Lance Corporal Charpentier, Lance Corporal Black.”[/color]

[sub][@FalloutJack][@LetMeDoStuff][/sub]