"Just a final verification." The recruitment officer pushed his glasses up his nose and glanced up from his desk at the young man standing in front of him. "Rodrigo Lagos, born in 1920 in Soría. Single, no children, two brothers and one sister. One recorded infraction for... 'disruption of the peace under the influence of alcohol'. Is that correct?" "Yes mister, that's uh, that's correct." The farm boy nervously chewed his lip and fiddled with the fedora hat in his hands as the clerk scribbled on a sheet of paper. Rodrigo wore his nicest clothes, as did the other men who came to the vast city of Santania by the thousands, all of them for the same reason. His late father's grey wool jacket, waxed brogue shoes, black cotton pants and a striped shirt that his sister had sewn for him on his eighteenth birthday. "Very well, Mr. Lagos. Medical exams are favorable, you seem to be in perfect health. You are approved for active duty." The clerk turned a file towards him along with a pen. "Please put your signature at the bottom of every paper." The officer handed a copy of the contract to Rodrigo after he was done. "This one is for you. Don't lose it. You will receive your enlistment notice at the post office in three days; in the meantime, I suggest you find somewhere to stay in town. And, that should go without saying, stay out of trouble. Congratulations, Mr. Lagos." The officer glanced towards the queue stretching well into the street and gave a tired sigh. "Next!" Rodrigo stepped outside, clutching the precious piece of paper in his hand. He had never seen so many people before, Santiana was a busy enough place during peaceful times and now it was more active than ever. Trucks and trains flowed in and out, men wearing flat caps and shirts with rolled up sleeves patrolled the streets looking for potential workers for the naval yards, and Guardia Nacional personel on horseback did the same looking for troublemakers and drunkards. All the while, newspaper boys cried out the front page titles, suddenly hard-pressed to satisfy the Castillians' newfound hunger for world news. Hotels all over the city were booked full, while a number of locals offered spare rooms and sofas to the gathering numbers flooding the city. Some had to sleep on the streets while they waited to be enlisted, given blankets and hot cups of tea, coffee and whatever comfort the city folk could provide them with. --- [i]Later[/i] "Too slow! Again, second platoon!" The instructor's voice snapped like a whip, thick with a foreign accent. Rodrigo turned around and jumped into the meter-and-a-half-deep water-filled moat along with the rest of his thirty-five comrades in the second platoon, ninth company, fourth instruction regiment at the Torez Army School, fifteen kilometers away from Santiana. For two months now, he had been learning the myriad of things a soldier needs to know, things he never knew existed. Military jargon, ranks, types of ammunition, how and where to dig a foxhole, cleaning and operating weapons. The rifle he knew, thanks to the countless times he went hunting with his uncle and brother. Mines, machine guns, grenades, those were something else entirely. It took two more laps of running, jumping, climbing and crawling through the obstacle course before the physical instruction corporal was satisfied and gave the soaked and exhausted recruits ten minutes to put on dry fatigues and hurry to their tactical instruction session. The classroom they sat in was not much different from the one in the small school back in Soría. Except instead of spelling and basic mathematics, they learned concepts such as spacing, suppressing fire and anti-tank combat. And singing as well. Each company was expected to march and sing in unison wherever they went. Even as a fresh recruit, the steady rhythm of boots on the ground along with military songs gave Rodrigo pride, a feeling of belonging and brotherhood with his fellow recruits. Some were impatient to get in combat and bemoaned the government's decision to not declare war yet. Others boasted that they would personally put down any Alfheich stupid enough to set foot on Castillian soil. Some others wanted to be the first to take the white-and-blue banner to one of the Alfheichen cities. --- [i]Elsewhere[/i] Marcos Lérida massaged his temple with two fingers, reclining in his leather armchair. The office of the 26th President of Castillia was occupied by a dozen officials for an extraordinary meeting. The Minister of Defense continued: "...In addition to the aforementioned ongoing naval refits, ammunition stockpiles are still too low to allow for large-scale operations for prolonged periods of time. Fuel stocks fare better, still inadequate. Small arms can be expected to be fully replaced in two years, whereas armored vehicles-" "In short, Mr. President, we're not ready," the Chief of Staff of the Army interrupted. "And while the production reports are accurate, we have bigger issues. The Alfheiches Reiyk has been fighting in escalating conflicts for decades, while our most competent soldiers are hunters and mountain shepherds. We do [b][i]not[/i][/b] have a professional force, not anymore." The general leaned forward on the large dark oak table. "We need experienced troops. Otherwise, no matter how well equipped, we'll be fighting a war with armies of paper." "And what do you propose we do then? Throw our men at the enemy and hope to salvage a handful of veterans among the survivors?" The Minister waved his hand broadly across the room. "You forget that we know full well what we need, thanks to reports from the front in Akiya and Longguo. We still have some time to prepare, and we surely can compensate or at least mitigate any experience deficiency with proper support, once the production of aircraft and heavy artillery..." Lérida raised a hand. "So, you are saying that our greatest advantage is that we are fully aware of how weak we are?" The room fell into an uneasy silence. "General Abarquero is correct. We need experienced soldiers." The President rested his elbows on the table and joined hands. "But I will not have us engage in a foolish offensive while as unprepared as we are. We're not alone in this. Akiyans and Longguans are engaged on their own soil as we speak, and there's apparently heavy fighting going on in the Scorched Lands. That's where we need to go." There was a pause as the various officials looked at one another, some pensive, others nodding in agreement. The Minister of Foreign Affairs cleared his throat and adjusted his glasses. "We will have to consult with the other governments, sort through the details et caetera... Given the circumstances, I assume we can expect a response shortly. But ultimately, the decision of where to send our troops will be yours, Mr. President." Marcos Lérida nodded. "General Abarquero. You may begin preparations to organize an expeditionary force immediately."