The Ghost of Him |WWII Frerard AU|

-17-

We arrive in England on a cold, dreary evening, when the gray clouds overhead are too thick to even see the stars above. The wind howls, blows the choppy waters, makes our docking much more difficult than it needs to be. I just want off this boat, and I want off now.

Pete practically climbs over everyone to get to land, and when he collapses to the dock, he spends a good five minutes kissing the ground. The poor guy's been in a constant state of seasickness for two weeks. I don't blame him for praising solid land.

As expected, too, I cannot walk straight to save my life. I look like a reckless drunkard, stumbling and wobbling around to get to the camp at the end of the dock, and the wicked wind doesn't help me keep my balance. I thought we were in England, not Ireland.

I humor myself sometimes.

Mikey helps me stay upright as the rest of Delta Company files down the dock and toward the shore, where a stern-looking, well-built man stands waiting for us. Dare I say he looks ten times more intimidating than Sergeant Gioia, and that's saying something.

"I see you've all earned your sea legs," he says with a sly smirk, his arms crossed behind his back and his voice smooth. "Welcome to England, gentlemen, and welcome to Shivering Sands. The name's Captain Felix Kjellberg. I hope you find your stay to be pleasant."

"Shivering Sands?" I hear Patrick murmur. "Why do they get the cool camp names?"

We're taken on a brief tour of the camp, and slowly but surely, I regain my balance for walking on land. Captain Kjellberg shows us the barracks--which are much larger and fancier than ours in Fort Monmouth--the mess hall, the training fields, and finally, the firing range. There are still old targets filled with bullet holes propped up against the trees.

But, Kjellberg tells us that weapons training will come with time. A few weeks, at the most. They want to toss us out into the war as soon as they possibly can.

We end the short tour in the same place we started, just as the night falls and shrouds the camp in darkness. Insects chirp and hum in the nearby forest, despite the chilling breeze that blows through the camp. I've heard that England can be cold and wet and depressing sometimes, but experiencing it firsthand is a whole other story. It might as well still be winter here.

"Now, you'll all be sharing a room with one of my companies," Captain Kjellberg says as the group comes to a stop. "I know that's something you're not quite used to, but my boys don't bite. They know you're coming, so they promised to tidy up and save one half of the room for you. Shouldn't be much of a problem."

Great. Not only are we in an entirely foreign country altogether, but now we have to sleep in the same room as a bunch of other trainees who we don't even know. I wonder if sleeping outside is a viable option.

"Does anyone have any questions for me?" Captain Kjellberg goes on. His voice booms through the quiet, dark camp around us. "Don't be shy. We're all Allies here."

Just when I think everyone is going to remain silent, Dallon raises his hand. "Permission to speak, sir."

"Permission granted," Captain Kjellberg says. "What's your name, private?"

"Dallon Weekes, sir." He clears his throat, uncomfortably shifts his weight from one foot to the other. "Which one of your companies are we going to be rooming with, sir?"

Captain Kjellberg pauses, deep in thought, his brow furrowed. "You're Delta Company, correct?" he asks, and when he gets a nod of approval from Dallon, he continues. "I believe I have you penciled in with Serpent Company. I know they sound intimidating, but trust me, they're far from that."