A Day in the Life of: Trooper Stjepan Foele

0630, Reveille: I get up from my bunk, the accommodation’s drafty, but serviceable. A lot of the old Nicersdahian military installations got hammered to hell during The Revolution, so I suppose we’re lucky enough to have a roof and working boiler. My billet has eight bunks, all of them belong to a trooper or lance corporal from my troop, some of the senior corporals have managed to grab themselves single beds or even one man rooms left over from the officers. Once the alarm goes off, I throw on a unit t-shirt and my sandals, and grab my wash kit. One of the guys knocks the flickering light on to a chorus of moans and profanities.

0631-0700, Personal Administration: With my towel over my shoulder and wash kit in hand, I head down the block’s central corridor to the ablutions, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. Doors to my left and right are swinging open, delivering dozens of blearly soldiers in various states of dress into the hallway. I enter the communal washroom, sorting my teeth and face. I shave,and wax my moustache to regulation, then apply a chapstick on account of the cold. The radio is on in the room when I return to get dressed, once another unintelligible Nicer pop track fades into a jingle, sound bites from a furious sounding debate can be heard. Lord only knows what they’re saying though.

0701-0714, Breakfast: We head out of the block to catch breakfast the weather is dismal. A dirty sleet, carried on a frozen wind spits down haphazardly. Everything in this country that isn’t brown-grey, is grey-brown. Myself, my driver, Lew', and Ionnes, One One Foxtrot ‘Rook’s gunner, head through the miserable weather and squat buildings to the mess hall. We grab our trays from the hot plates the cooks have prepared, and grab a seat at a bench. Other outfits are here too, Fusiliers with their green hackles, Lancers, their sleeves sporting distinctive white and red unit patches, all claiming their preferred benches. A projector on the wall is playing highlights of yesterday’s match between the Scarlets and the Citizens while we wolf down heapings of scrambled egg and lamb rashers. With the dishes thrown to the local contractors for cleaning, we head to the day’s first formation.

0715-0719, Morning Parade: The Squadron Sergeant Major takes the morning nominal roll, and, flanked by the duty corporal, sets amongst the parade for a snap uniform inspection. A couple of the younger troopers are sent running laps of the block for minor misdemeanors, and one of the NCO’s is swiftly sent after them for a sauce stain on his lapel. A tittering chuckle through the ranks is silenced by the Sergeant Major’s crimson face and steely stair. The last of the reprimanded men finish their laps, breathing staggered blasts of steam into the January air as they stand awkwardly back at ease, and the Warrant Officer begins listing out the day’s allotted tasks. Second Troop, my unit, is detailed to assist the spanner monkeys on our tanks’ monthly servicing. The daily oath of allegiance to Princeps and Principate is shouted in unison, and the parade is dismissed.

0720-1245, First Shift: Lew’ and I head down to the tank park, Corporal Iorgitt, my commander is already waiting, talking to the man mountain lance Coporal Domnitt, his second in command and our loader. One Two Charlie ‘Rascal’, our sixty five tonne child, sits silently behind them under a remada, a thin layer of frost covers the whitewash and drab of her armoured skin.

“Get that aux’ engine fired up, Lewitt!” came the Corporal's shout, ringing out in his murky Outland drawl. “The poor girl's f*cking freezing out here.”

Along the Troop’s lines each tank begins to sputter into life. ‘Raven’, ‘Ruin’, our own ‘Rascal’, and finally the Lieutenant’s ‘Raider’. The snapping staccato of their auxiliary engines is soon engulfed by the deafening roar of their main power packs, as each vehicle’s systems are brought online. The tanks are marshalled over to the Corps of Mechanical Engineers workshops, which thankfully, are heated.

***

An hour or two later, I lay sandwiched between the power pack and the side armour, taking an oil sample from one Rascal’s drive hubs as blood fills my head. An excited tapping on my boot, gives me an excuse to extricate myself. Returning to the strip lit hangar from the dinge of the powerpack, I’m greeted by a beaming Lew’ and one of the CME mechanics.

“Foeley, check it out, brother. You’re famous ahah!’

He passes up his smart phone, God only knows how he has connection out here, I struggle to get a solitary bar anywhere in the garrison. Quickly, my curiosity is replaced by bittersweet realisation. His screen shows a V24 news clip from back home, the piece is clearly on our deployment. Clear as day, I can see my face, as I disembark from the Airforce liner that landed us here. A crate of beer owed per media photo or footage, a long unwritten army tradition. The video finishes and autoplay loads another, some protest, viewed from a news helicopter. A sporadic fluttering of Nicersdahian flags marching down a snowy street. Who knows what they wanted doing or who they wanted lynched, the country’s a mess.

“Yeah you’ve nailed me, alright, alright” I chuckle, tossing the trooper’s phone back. We’ll take the Autograd into the town after and grab a case, but you’re driving me, eagle eyed prick.” Shaking my head lower myself back into the engine housing, sample pump in hand.

***

1245-1330, Lunch: Following another trudge through the white topped mud that passed for the camp’s central road. We take our place in the queue forming outside the mess hall for our midday meal, Corporal Iorgitt and Domnitt join us.

“What’s the hold up?” asks a Highland accent from behind us, its owner wearing a green beret pinned by the brass citadel insignia of the Army Engineering Corps.

“F*ck knows” replied Domnitt turning to face him. Even in ambivalence, the hulking rugby player carried an air of brute strength, “probably the locals praying to god number 19 of 36” a few chuckles broke out along the line.

***
1331-1735, Second Shift: An afternoon of servicing follows lunch, fan belts and filters are changed, and two dozen readings are taken; interrupted by my taking many brew breaks as I can conceivably sneak past my Corporal. They say you can tell a lot about a peoples by their coffee; if that saying holds a half ounce of truth, then the Nicersdahian’s are thick, dark, but able to deliver a hell of a wakeup call. Come to think of it, maybe that statement isn’t far off a science.

1736-2359hrs, Personal Time: Following our evening meal, sourced from what I believe could have been some missing evolutionary link between a cow and an eraser, Lew’ and I head down to the vehicle park. I chuck the keys for the unit’s duty 4x4 Autograd, the ubiquitous, dated, yet eternally loved utility vehicle of the New Model Army to my designated driver. After a thorough attack on the windscreen with a half litre of de-icer, we're on our way to the local town.

***

“That till jockey could’ve had a bit more of a smile on his face” Lew’ started, raising the tailgate on the Autograd after hauling the two slabs of local lager into the stowage compartment. “Don’t see anyone else around here with money to burn.” He signals around the silent main street of the town, lit by faultering street lamps, the sides of many buildings scarred with the impact of 7.62mm fire. “Hey. When I said keep the change, think what he said was an insult? I can’t understand a word they’re saying, it’s all Qazhshavan to me.” He muses.

“Lord knows,” I reply, “come on, I’m freezing my arse off and that beer is looking dangerously undrunk, let’s head back.”