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"Good work, first platoon. Get some food and sleep."
* * * *
Valentine fell back into the regime of training as the days turned grim and gray and the nights cold. They'd formalized the roster at last and had three balanced platoons. Valentine had known companies where there was a crack platoon that took the toughest jobs and two less-reliable ones to support it, but he'd rather distribute his best men where they could teach the others than rely too much on a single elite formation. The NCO slots were filled with ex-Quislings.
He gave them a brief speech about duty, as he saw it. In the KZ command flowed down, with a lurking "or else" implicit at the end of every order. While that was a fact of military life regardless of origin and uniform, Valentine would rather have those under his command following orders because they understood the stakes and consequences of failure.
Several of them turned down offers of promotion to leadership roles.
That was the big shortcoming of these men, he'd learned. They could use their equipment but not their minds. Everyone was terrified of making a bad decision, lest they be out a seat when the next round of musical chairs orchestrated by the Reapers came round. Soldiering wasn't for the dumb-not if you wanted good soldiers rather than gun-toting robots.
They held a company party at Christmas, with everyone in their smoky denim uniforms and the kind of glossy shine you could get with new boots. The base hall was being used by the Guards so Valentine spoke to the pastor of a local church and got the use of a big revival tent, complete with a deacon to open the ceremonies and offer a Christmas homily. The company made paper lanterns and fire balloons and put up a Christmas tree in front of the command shack. A distribution of quality flower, confectioner's sugar, and food coloring allowed the foodies in the company to make green-and-red iced cupcakes. With a couple of guitarists, a fiddler, and Rand, who turned out to be an accomplished hurdy-gurdy player (he claimed he was always too clumsy to dance, so he might as well play for others), they held a dance.
Valentine paid a visit to the hospital in Jonesboro to issue a general invitation to the nurses there. A handful were brave enough to show, and a few brought friends. Valentine issued strict orders not to talk about the "move south" no matter how pretty the face or how good the reason for future correspondence.
"We might as well get to know them. Some of us are going to end up seeing a lot of nurses before the operation is over," he finished.
Valentine enjoyed an opening waltz with the senior nurse chaperoning her charges-the nurse had a lot of experience dancing with a man with a stiff leg-and then settled down with Patel to watch the festivities and make sure the punch bowl wasn't spiked to over eighty proof.
The smiles on the men and the laughter of the nurses cheered him more than the music.
The company had worked hard on their uniforms and decorations, and he liked seeing them show off a little.
A blat of a trumpet interrupted the music. There was some kind of stir at the door of the tent and then a Group of Guards forced their way in, dragging what sounded like Marley's chains and lockboxes.
The dancing stopped and the men parted.
"We brung you a Christmas present, Major," one of the Guards said, with a rather drunken salute. "New recruits. You was looking for some Grogs."
Valentine heard a riding crop strike flesh and a "Go on." Two other Guards pulled on a chain, and Valentine smelled a zoo-like stench.
"They'll fit right in with the shit detail," someone guffawed.
A Grog sprawled for a second, then stood up. Two more were pulled in behind. But Valentine couldn't take his eyes of the formost. She was a female gray dressed in an oversized pink tutu and fake ballet slippers.
It was the Grog he'd once known as Bee.
"Bee!" Valentine said.
"Beeee," she said back, eyes open wide and staring. She tried to slink sideways up next to him.
The room fell silent. Most of the men there had never heard Grogs do anything but ook or cry out graaaawg when wounded and begging for assistance.
Valentine locked his gaze on the joker who'd called them the shit detail.
"What did you call this company?" he asked.
"Errr, nothing, sir," the Guard said, red-faced and counting the number of men coming to their feet. One of Patel's Shepherds snapped his teeth at them.
Patel thumped his cane on the floor. "Boys, these visitors seem to be confused as to the location of their barrack. Escort them back."
The party dissolved into chaos. Southern Command soldiers would probably have let out their trademark foxhunt shriek as they chased the Guards back to their regimental grounds.
Valentine's company let out a deeper uhuhl
Patel's Shepherds used the confusion to dump a couple more preserve jars of busthead into the punch.
The Guards wisely dropped the Grog chains and ran, with half the company in hot pursuit, throwing Christmas cupcakes.
