Chapter 10: Chapter: 10 Officer
As the quartermaster went out to fetch her replacements, Helen took a moment to glance around the depot, observing the bustling activity of the soldiers as they worked to ensure the smooth functioning of the supply chain. Crates were being loaded and unloaded, weapons were being inspected and repaired, and soldiers were hurrying about with purposeful steps.
Her gaze settled on a group of soldiers gathering about a makeshift table, engaging in an expensive game of cards. Their laughter and banter filled the air, and from the looks of it, the game was getting rather heated.
Before long, the quartermaster returned with a wooden crate, which he carefully set down on the table in front of Helen. He pried open the lid with practiced hands, revealing the contents within. Inside, nestled amongst the packing straw, was an M1903 Springfield rifle with a brand new M1911 that had clearly just been stuffed inside... the indentation on the straw and the slip of paper sticking to the lid gave that away.
"Here you go."
Helen nodded as she inspected the weapons, noting their relatively pristine condition. She carefully lifted the rifle out of the crate, checking its cache for jam and mud before setting it aside. Then, she picked up the M1911, tested its grip once, and weighed it in one hand and the other.
"Stripper Clips?"
Helen stopped for a moment, realizing that she was holding an antique bolt-action rifle.
"How many can I get?"
The Quartermaster smirked,
"No more than 4."
Helen nodded. Four stripper clips would do nicely. She thought to herself.
"Four it is, then,"
Satisfied, she strapped the complimentary holster to her waist belt, holstered the sidearm, and slung the rifle over her shoulder.
"Thank you,"
She offered him a small smile which the quartermaster answered with a curt nod of his own.
'He sure is friendly.'
Helen thought to herself as she made her way through the crowds. Looking around, she saw quite a large number of women there, still not larger than men though. She also noticed that most of the soldiers... didn't seem to look up from their work. No cat-calling, no harassment. It seemed that the army was quite different from movies and records of old.
'These men are simply used to it all. Maybe having women work alongside them made the concept of sexual harassment a bit odd and outcast-like?'
Ghost answered that small doubt of hers,
'More like they are too busy surviving the great war, plus any stress relief is common for both parties so there really isn't much need for forced intercourse.'
Helen nodded inwardly, considering, and finding herself agreeing with Ghost's assessment. It made sense in the context of the harsh realities of war that often stripped away social norms and forced people to focus on survival above all else. Survival was paramount, and in such dire circumstances, trivial matters like harassment take a very, very backseat. In such an environment, mutual respect and cooperation become essential for the collective well-being of the troops.
A soldier looks after fellow soldiers because they are part of the same squad, a squad looks after fellow squads because they are part of the same platoon, a platoon looks after fellow platoons because they are part of the same company, and so on and on and on... the superficial differences between people, leaving only the shared struggle for survival.
Finally armed, Helen made her way out of the depot and started looking around for some sort of authority figure, someone who might assign her some sort of assignment, something like that... something that would make her feel a bit more productive.
She saw multiple officers walking all about, inspecting and giving orders, but none of them seemed to be heading in her general direction, which was rather frustrating... There was quite a bit going on in the dressing station, with everything seeming to be a priority, while Helen felt rather useless, just standing there.
Helen scanned the area for a bare moment longer, her eyes darting from one officer to another, searching for any sign of someone who might be superior enough to provide her with direction or assignment.
'A wiry man with a permanent squint. Athletic. Short blond hair. Meticulously folded kilt. An officer's dirk tucked into his right boot.'
As she walked by him, she took a deep breath that filled her lungs with the smell of charred metal... and the rancid smell of horse leather.
'Lieutenant. Cavalry... Royal Scots Fusiliers.'
{What are you? Sherlock Holmes!?}
Helen couldn't help but chuckle inwardly at the Interface's quip, amused by the sudden surge of detail flooding her mind. While she certainly didn't possess the deductive prowess of Sherlock Holmes, she had learned to pay attention to details during her time in the military, a skill she picked up while working with the MPs... the Holmesian deduction...
'Scot Cavalry?'
Ghost's question made her chuckle,
'Elementary, my dear Watson. He had the Royal Scots Fusiliers' insignia stitched to his collar.'
Since they were of the same rank, but belonged to different nations, there wasn't much need for salutations.
She walked by the Lieutenant, they were of the same rank but different armies, so there wasn't much need for salutations... and his injury made him out to be temporarily in-commissioned.
The next officer she took notice of was a woman,
'A chain smoker. Injury to the shoulder. French. Roughly in her early 30s.'
Her fingers were nicotine-stained, and an uneven gait and stiff shoulder betrayed a past injury likely sustained from the recoil of a powerful field gun. A worn leather pouch on her hip with an old paper peeping out, likely an old map.
'Another Lieutenant. French Artillery... Oooh! A faint lavender cologne, definitely French.'
{Will you shut up and look for a commanding officer already!?}
Helen scanned the area for a moment longer, her eyes darting from one tent to another, searching for the command tent, or something of the sort. As she did, she noticed much to her charring, the French Flag flying high above the most luxurious tent in the whole of the camp.
With twitching eyes, Helen made her way toward the tent, navigating through the streams of soldiers that made up most of the camp. As she approached, she straightened her posture, thankfully she had worn her uniform properly before going for a walk.
She walked up to the tent, and the sentry took one glance at her shoulder, chest, collar, chest... well, mainly at her chest.
"Seen enough?"
She asked, her voice slightly gruff and scratchy from disuse.
The sentry, a woman, rushed inside to ask for permission on her behalf.
Moments later, she returned to her post and opened the flap door for Helen, quite symbolical if she were to say out loud, but she did not. The inside of the tent was clean and... surprisingly simple, much unlike its outward appearance.
There was a simple table, laden with a complete radio set, a map, a pile of papers, a tea set with a saucer and four cups, and an expensive-looking wine bottle.
As Helen approached the table, she noticed the commanding officer seated behind it, studying a map with a focused expression. The commander, or rather Major, looked up at her, his gaze meeting hers with a mix of surprise and interest.
The Major was quite a bulky fellow, probably in his late 40s. He had dark brown hair, electric-blue eyes, and a heavily scarred face. Although he was very tall, he was still not quite as tall as Helen herself.
Next to him sat a woman. She was in her early 30s, with blond hair... Blondish, maybe? Was it Ochre? Maybe. But quite a lighter shade of the color. She was also quite tall... though not as tall as Helen or the Major. She had mint-green eyes, similar to those of a snake.
They both turned to look at her,
"Sir! Ma'am!"
This was the first time in her second life that Helen had saluted anyone.
The Major nodded,
"At ease, Lieutenant."
Helen thought about it for a moment before beginning in a steady and respectful tone,
"Lieutenant Helen Bacchus. I've just been assigned to this dressing camp, sir! I'm Rreporting for duty."
The Major regarded her with a scrutinizing gaze, his electric-blue eyes seeming to assess her carefully. After a moment, he nodded in acknowledgment of her introduction.
"Right, the new Lieutenant."
He recalled before introducing himself and his companion,
"I'm Major Reggie Maximilian, and this is Captain Luce Duval. Welcome to the Western Front."
Suddenly, he flashed her a sarcastic smirk,
"What can we do for you, Lieutenant Bacchus?"
*BANG!*
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