Iron Forged

Chapter 2.5 - Time to think

Olle felt lost

He sat on the stump off a tree felled less than 4 hours ago, its wood used in the monumental funeral pyre burning not 5 metres ahead of him. The heat was intense and Olle was covered in a fine layer of ash but none of this mattered to the boy, his mind lay hours in the past. Still enraptured with the desperate dance of death he'd been lucky enough to survive let alone in one piece. His broken arm had turned out to be no more than a bad dislocation, he'd been told it had hurt, he didn't remember.

Olle sat staring into the flames, ignorant of the stares of pity and glares of annoyance sent his way by comrades both new and old. A smaller pyre further from Olle, lain reverently upon it lay the still form of Gerard, the parts of his armour that could not be scavenged burned with him. His sword and the intact parts of his armour would be sent back to his estate for whatever purpose his father deemed necessary.

A strong grip on his shoulder woke him from his reverie and a fist to the stomach ensured he stayed awake. Olle reflexively slapped at the hand on his shoulder unthinkingly using his injured arm. He doubled over with pain, falling off his stump onto the ash covered grass. He dry retched and tried desperately to recover his breath, eventually his breathing eased and the pain in his stomach and arm eased to tolerable levels. He rolled over onto his back heedless of his assailant and stared up into the afternoon sky begging for a release...

It was sooo... so peaceful; Olle ignored his tormentor, a grim figure in his peripheral vision and began to cry. The slow quiet sobs continued for some time before the cast iron grip of his tormentor returned, this time offering peace not pain.

"Hush boy... you've had a long day but its okay now, you've got friends I bet..." Olle didn't answer "let's go find them, and maybe a bite to eat while we're at it." The man's voice was gruff, but kind, he didn't seem to mind coating his officer's coat in ash for this one lost soldier boy.

'Wait!' The still cognitive part of Olle's brain screamed 'officers uniform! Stand to attention you fool!'

In one movement Olle went from a prostrate child to regimented soldier, his back straight chest pumped and injured right arm forming a fist over his heart. The image was only ruined by the tear streaked cheeks, unfocused gaze and his swaying from side to side.

"Whoa boy, calm down... uh... at ease." The man's eyes had widened with shock, and his mouth was upturned at the corners, it made his lined and weary face, surprisingly... mischievous.

"My apologies lieutenant" shouted Olle, as he had been trained in basic "this soldier experienced a momentary phase of weakness it shan't happen again!" He remained at attention; his exhaustion both physical & mental causing his whole body to shake slightly.

"At ease boy, at ease, come with me you... you look like you need a bite to eat." The old lieutenant gestured in the direction of the mess tent. Nothing more than a massive piece of canvas with square gaps in the roof every few meters, designed to let out the accumulated smoke from cooking fires and cheroots. A large pile of still more canvas lay in the corner, ready to form walls and block the roof squares in case of rain. Obviously no one had mustered the energy to prepare for any sudden storms during the night.

Olle and the lieutenant pushed through the mass of unwashed bodies, both were glad for the ready ventilation and slight westward breeze, which made it somewhat bearable in the seething mass of swearing, drunken soldiers.

"Alphonso must have increased the rum ration in celebration!" The lieutenant shouted over the ruckus, finally forging a path through to the camp kitchen. "Or removed any form of rationing all together."