Steve was not particularly good with words; years of low self-esteem made him somewhat introverted, and as for Fury, he wasn't much of a talker either. The two only occasionally chatted along the way.
Steve didn't know why, but he could sense a dark aura from Fury, as if his new friend had been through many things... bad things.
The people in the train carriage subconsciously avoided eye contact with Fury, as if he had some contagious disease.
When they spoke, they would secretly glance at Fury, and if Fury looked back at them, their voices would become quieter until they closed their mouths tightly.
In this strange atmosphere, they arrived at Caspian Camp.
Caspian Camp was built in a forest, quite spacious, and many people could be seen training inside. But by normal military standards, there were only enough for one or two companies, and everything seemed sparse.
"Click."
The tailgate of the truck was taken down, and a few soldiers stood below, with a sergeant watching them sternly.
"Get down, rocks! Hurry up! Pack them!"
Steve was baffled. How could there be British Army—in the United States of all places? And of Indian descent? That Indian-accented American English was truly something...
He hoped this wasn't the person to train him, as communication might be problematic.
Fortunately, with the 'translation' help of other soldiers, the people on the truck finally understood – they were being told to quickly get off the vehicle.
Fury was the first to jump down from the truck, followed by the others disembarking in a haphazard line.
"One, two, three, four... hmm?"
The Indian sergeant held the list in one hand and counted heads with the other. Suddenly, his gaze became sharp—why was there one person missing?
Then he looked into the carriage and saw Hodge, who was sitting still, head drooping as if he wouldn't budge.
The Indian man suddenly erupted. Hodge's behavior clearly showed no respect for him!
He had heard that Americans were not as friendly as the British nobility when it came to Indians, and now he saw it firsthand!
He detested this kind of racial discrimination.
With a swift step, he rushed onto the truck. Fueled by the curry he had for breakfast, he energetically drew a stick from his waist and struck Hodge on the back.
Hodge, already unconscious, had no way to react, only to be knocked to the ground.
The people in the carriage averted their eyes, and under Fury's cold gaze, they pretended to chat or whistled towards the sky.
If you listened closely, someone was whistling the Marseillaise.
But the gaze of the soldiers accompanying the Indian sergeant was different. They looked at the Indian with admiration, as if conveying some unspoken understanding.
"Congratulations, sergeant, you've killed someone."
The Indian sergeant was dumbfounded. Having been involved in dozens of battles in the more than two years since Britain joined the war, even though he had desperately fired on the battlefield, he never hit any Germans.
And now, with just a swing of his stick, was this his first kill?
Wait a minute, aren't Americans supposed to be allies...
The Indian sergeant dropped the stick, felt Hodge's neck, and breathed a sigh of relief; it turned out Hodge had only fainted.
Moreover, he seemed to have fainted before the sergeant even acted.
So there was only one truth... someone else in the carriage knocked him out!
You wouldn't have guessed, would you? Americans, the British Empire is home to classics like Sherlock Holmes, and I could read the illustrated version at the age of twenty!
"Who was it? Who did it?"
The sergeant, having seen through the truth, jumped off the truck and walked in front of the line, squinting as he observed each of them.
Of course, Steve was immediately ruled out. He obviously couldn't have done it.
Fury stepped forward voluntarily; he had completed the task given to him, though he didn't understand what was so special about this little guy, but an agent doesn't ask why.
"It was me."
The Indian officer looked at him, then at the crowd. Someone behind Fury was subtly nodding vigorously, so it seemed that was it.
"Are you tough? Good at fighting?"
"Of course," Fury answered calmly, looking straight ahead.
The Indian sergeant circled Fury, sizing him up, while stroking his beard and tugging at the turban on his head.
"Good, we need people like you, Folomi....."
Fury glanced at Steve, giving a slight nod, and followed the Indian, weaving through the training ground and disappearing into one of the barracks.
The other soldiers took Hodge to the medical room, then led the others to another barrack on the training ground, assigning them lockers and beds.
"There's your military uniform in the locker. Wear it tomorrow and report to the training ground at 7 AM. Dismissed!"
The soldier left them with those words and departed. Steve put down his luggage and immediately went out to find Fury, but Fury seemed to have vanished into thin air.
He returned to the barrack to wait, but even when Hodge returned, Fury was still nowhere to be seen.
Hodge didn't dare provoke Steve anymore. After all, who could say when that black guy would return? The guy seemed to have taken lives before; his gaze alone was terrifying.
Steve lay on the hard bed and inadvertently fell asleep; he was too exhausted, waking only when it was nearly time to line up the next day.
They put on their uniforms and waited on the training grounds. Steve thought that if the training officer was still that Indian man, he would definitely ask where Fury had gone.
After all, Fury had gotten involved for his sake; if punishment was due, they should face it together.
However, it wasn't the Indian man who arrived.
"Recruits, attention!" A crisp voice rang out, and a tall, beautiful, and sensuous woman in a women's military uniform came into view: "I'm Agent Carter, and I'm in charge of everything concerning your squad."
"What's with your accent? Is that a Queen Victoria accent?" Hodge sneered, curling a corner of his mouth, unable to resist flirting with a pretty woman.
"Your name, soldier."
Peggy paused, looking calmly at him. She'd seen many men who were full of themselves.
"Gillmore Hodge, Your Majesty."
He moved his jaw, answering flippantly.
"Step forward, Soldier Hodge," Peggy gestured in front of her, "Put your right foot forward."
"What, are we wrestling?" Hodge smirked and moved closer as she instructed, "I know many positions, and I'm sure you'll enjoy it."
But before he could turn and boast about his joke to his mates, Peggy Carter landed a solid punch to his face, knocking him out cold.
Maybe it triggered a previous day's injury, or perhaps Agent Carter did hit him too hard, but Steve pressed his lips tightly, barely suppressing his laughter.
This Hodge had really asked for it, getting knocked out twice in two days.
"Agent Carter!"
At that moment, a jeep drove up, from which an officer disembarked, loudly calling Peggy's name.
Peggy quickly turned, adjusted her clothes and hair, and saluted the approaching officer.
"Colonel Philip."
A white man, about fifty years old, approached with large strides, appearing authoritative and business-like. He glossed over the incident with little concern.
"I'm glad to see you forming connections with our candidates as soon as I arrived," he noted the foaming-at-the-mouth Hodge with some disgust, "Medic! Get this man out of here, and fix up his mouth!"