Mehl's place in the barrack deck was something of a blessing and a curse at the same time. Situated just a few meters from the entrance he had the easiest time of getting to the washrooms and the mess-decks before the majority of the First Vosmarth could even hope to be half way across the massive room that stored them, and on the other end he got to enjoy the near constant trundle of boots as they passed and was almost always one of the first members of the regiment to meet the incoming officers and other higher-ups that the massive transport carried along in it's cavernous holds. It had kept him on his feet to say the least, a constant feeling of dread at every sound of boots walking past the bulkhead to get to some unknown destination of the ship had kept him wondering when the next officer or worse would enter through the doors and start an impromptu inspection or drill him on his knowledge of the [i]Uplifting Primer[/i].

Mehl was by no means a small man, though he wasn't among the largest that the regiment had to offer he felt he struck a good middle ground of both compact and muscular. Coming in at a little over 180 cm and something around 88 kg of mostly muscle that he had been happy for when he'd been strapped with the rather heavy voxcaster set and it's peripherals on top of his standard kit. Though he couldn't argue that it hadn't gotten him a good position. He quietly turned over in his rack to make sure that his caster was still nestled neatly beneath the rack next to his combat boots and chest locker before turning back up with a feeling of relief that was quickly cut into by the sounds of boots approaching the bulkhead once more.

The pair of boots was making their way down the hall at a good clip and he couldn't help but to inspect himself quickly in the small mirror hanging from the side of his rack, he needed a bit of a shave as the inklings of a black beard were showing but his dark hair was solidly in regs as far as he could tell from his position, he clenched his teeth as the boots neared the door and then passed right on by without stopping. He cursed his nerves and wondered what he'd be like when the boots were even worse than a commissar, when they were the boots of a heretic or some vile Xeno out for his blood. Shaking his head to will the images away he'd recite a quick prayer to the God Emperor and once more take up his routine of listening for any footsteps coming his way as he diligently stared at the bottom of the bunk above his.

There was more sound in the compartment than the footsteps outside though. There was the occasional cough that as far as he could tell sounded a world away in the cavernous hold that was the regiments barracks, the constant drone of the air recyclers somewhere above them as the ship filtered out and back in air that had been breathed in more times than he was willing to even fathom, the slow sounds of his fellow Firsts breathing as they slept soundly without a care in the world for the footsteps outside the door, and to top it all off there was the near constant whisper of a prayer being said by one scared guardsmen or another somewhere in the room. They were too quiet to make out, or even get a general direction from, instead they were just the hint of words that seemed to come and go like the wind that didn't even exist on the transport ship outside of exhaust vents and fans. He rolled himself over in his rack and stared off into the rows upon rows of racks before hearing another set of footsteps closing in on the bulkhead. He pulled his sheet up and shut his eyes, mutter a few curses at his over imaginative mind as he tried to force himself to finally get some sleep.