Free C.R.O.W. (The Union Series) by Phillip Richards Page B

blazing blue eyes I think he
could sense the predicament I was in. I wasn’t going to tell him that I had
just been filled in by a senior bod and earn myself another hiding for grassing
him up.
    ‘If you fall
over, Moralee, you put your hands out, know what I mean?’ He looked away, ‘Get
out of my sight. Go on.’
    I followed
the platoon to where we were unpacking crates containing smart missiles. They
needed to be checked by an armourer before reloading them onto pallets to be
lifted by forklift onto huge shelving systems a good ten metres high. Most of
the lads noticed my black eye but chose to say nothing about it, I was sure
they would be talking about it when my back was turned.
    Greggerson
and the other new lads all noticed and were keen to find out what had happened.
‘I don’t want to say,’ I said to them all in turn, ‘Let’s just leave it, yeah?’
    It was hard
to lift things when I could hardly see out of one eye and my body had been used
as a punch bag. I pretended I was fine and that I wasn’t struggling with my
injuries, I didn’t want anybody to think I was a soft target or I suspected
things would only get worse for me, plus I think a little part of me wanted to
pretend it hadn’t happened and wanted everyone else to pretend it hadn’t
happened as well.
    A couple of
times I passed Climo as we worked and he looked away from me awkwardly.
    In the end I
found myself carrying out the solitary task of cutting open the seals to the
crate lids with a knife, before the others emptied the half-metre long missiles
for the armourer to inspect them. They were well sealed and it took a good five
minutes to open each crate - and there were a seemingly endless supply of
crates being delivered by the forklift - but I was happy to be doing something
that gave me a good excuse not to talk to anybody. Instead I listened to the
other lads in the platoon who were working nearby chatter about their exploits
on shore leave in the Uralian capital, Forsta Byn, glad to keep myself to
myself. Be the grey man , Andy, I told myself once more, watch the
platoon and learn your place .
    The day had
been such a whirlwind of emotions and information that I had barely even had a
chance to work out anything about my platoon, who its NCOs were, the names of
anyone outside of my room or even which of the three sections I was to be
placed in.
    Every platoon
in the dropship infantry was divided into four distinct groups, much like the
company was divided but on a smaller scale. First of all there were the three
rifle sections which were the fighting units within the platoon, each one being
eight men strong with a further six man headquarter group.  This group included
the platoon commander and his signaller, the platoon sergeant with his runner,
and two smart gunners. Each section also included a section commander who had
the rank of full corporal, or ‘full screw’ as he was known, a word carried
through the centuries which supposedly originated from prison inmates - no
surprise there, then.
    The full
screw was in charge of the section and made all of its decisions, managing the
men beneath him both in and out of contact with the enemy. I suspected that I
was in One section, because I could overhear the lads in my room sometimes
referring to themselves as One section whilst they talked. It was often normal
practice to put all of the section men in rooms together so that they developed
the distinctive bond that only existed between troopers, or in my case so that
they beat any new blokes senseless.
    Corporal
Evans was likely to be our section commander, I presumed. He wasn’t working
with us in the stores, but then I didn’t expect him to, being a full corporal
with far better things to do than lug crates. There was something about full
corporals that filled me with awe and wonder and Corporal Evans was no exception.
They were god-like men; fit, tough, tireless troopers with years of experience
serving the Union, and they were