Free First To Fight (The Empire's Corps Book 11) by Christopher Nuttall Page B

me?”
     
    “YES, SIR,” we screamed.
     
    I’ll say one thing for the Drill Instructors.  They never asked us to do anything they couldn't or wouldn't do for themselves.  Bainbridge walked up to the first structure, clambered up a wooden wall that looked unbeatable, then waved to us from the top.  Nordstrom, following him, showed us how to find handholds and make our way slowly up the wall.  Johnston stood at the back, watching us all.  We advanced forward, one by one, and tried to climb the wood while Nordstrom offered advice and instructions.  It was tricky as hell to clamber up without looking down, but somehow we made it.  I think it would have been easier if I hadn't made the mistake of looking down.
     
    “Don't look down, you fucking idiot,” Nordstrom called.  He was right, of course.   “There’s no safety wire holding you in place.”
     
    The next structure had a rope I was meant to clamber along to reach the other side.  It gave me trouble; I barely made it three or four steps along before I lost my grip and plummeted into the safety netting.  Johnston helped me out, then pointed me back to the end of the line and offered some valuable pieces of advice.  I honestly wasn't sure if I needed to learn how to clamber along a rope, but I later learned it was a very useful skill.  Besides, another recruit - who had been having problems after three successive tries - quit in disgust.
     
    “This one is particularly interesting,” Bainbridge said, as we walked up to a large metal barrel.  It was surrounded by a square marked out with string that was anchored firmly to the ground.  I didn't understand what I was seeing; the string, barely a couple of inches off the ground, was hardly high enough to keep anyone from reaching the barrel.  A coil of rope had been placed just outside the square.  “And - this time - we are not going to show you what to do in advance.”
     
    I eyed him, torn between nervousness and puzzlement.  Everything else had seemed obvious, but this was odd.  Were we meant to jump over the barrel?  I didn’t see how.
     
    “A convoy of vehicles is running short of fuel,” Bainbridge informed us.  “The intrepid flyboys have dropped a barrel of fuel for you, but they managed to put it in the middle of a minefield.  If you put a foot into that patch of ground” - he pointed to the square - “you will be blown to smithereens and the fuel will explode.  All you have to do is get the barrel out of the square without putting a foot into the field.”
     
    I stared.  How the hell were we meant to do that?  I could just reach the barrel, if I stretched, but I couldn't hope to pick it up.  If someone was on the other side ... no, we’d break our wrists if we tried.  They wouldn't have given us an impossible task, would they?  There had to be a solution, but what?
     
    “We could try to pick our way through the minefield,” a recruit offered.
     
    “Bang,” Nordstrom said, coolly.  “You’re dead.  Drop and give me twenty.”
     
    “Can we set up a pipe?”  Another recruit asked.  “Drain the barrel without moving it?”
     
    Nordstrom smirked.  “With what?”
     
    I looked back at the coil of rope.  They wouldn't have left it there by accident, would they?
     
    “Here,” I said, as everything fell into place.  I picked up the rope and uncoiled it.  “Wrap the rope around the lid, then use it to lift up the barrel and get it to the edge of the square without touching the ground.”
     
    “Try,” Nordstrom said.
     
    It was the hardest thing I’d done so far.  I’d never seen myself as a leader and getting everyone organised wasn't easy, but somehow we managed to lift up the barrel and manoeuvre it to the edge of the square and over the line.  Bainbridge congratulated us briefly, just enough to make me flush with pleasure, then mustered us for the march back to the barracks.
     
    “It isn’t enough to fight,” he said, as we started to