The transition from the chaos of the gear-drop to the stillness of the march was jarring. Jack felt the phantom weight of his pack still pulling at his shoulders as they moved in a loose, weary column. The sun was beginning its slow descent behind the jagged peaks of the mountain, casting long, bruised shadows across the gravel paths of the 506th's cantonment.
Sergeant Lewis didn't rush them. He walked with a measured, predatory grace, his boots crunching rhythmically. "Alright," he called out, his voice not a shout this time, but a low rumble that carried in the thin air. "Dump the rest of your personal anxieties here. We're heading to the Lecture Hall. You're about to meet the keeper of your lives, and you'll want your ears open."
Jack caught Kenlil's eye. The smaller recruit was wiping sweat from his brow, his curiosity seemingly immune to the day's exhaustion.
"What do you think our new division is really about, Jack?" Kenlil whispered, leaning in as they skirted a row of identical wooden barracks. "Everything here feels... different. The air, the way the officers look at us. It's not just paratroopers. It feels like we're being forged for something specific."
Jack adjusted the collar of his stiff, new fatigue jacket. "I don't have the slightest idea, Ken. It's all just rumors and ink until they put us on a plane." He paused, a memory of the intake center flickering in his mind. "But I remember the officer back at the reception center. He didn't talk about holding lines or defending territory. He said they needed us to cause as much trouble as possible. Chaos with a purpose."
They reached the Lecture Hall, a long, low-slung building that smelled of fresh sawdust and floor wax. Inside, the air was cool and held the stillness of a cathedral. Rows of heavy oak desks were bolted to the floor in perfect, geometric precision.
At the front of the room stood a man who looked remarkably out of place. He was young—perhaps only twenty-one—with a soft face and a quick, intelligent gaze. On his sleeves were the three chevrons and single rocker of a Staff Sergeant, but he lacked the scarred, leather-tough exterior of Lewis.
"Is he the teacher?" someone whispered from the row behind Jack. "He looks like he's barely out of basic himself."
Sergeant Lewis stepped to the side of the room, crossing his massive arms over his chest. His presence alone seemed to raise the temperature of the room. "Listen well," Lewis rumbled, eyes scanning the fourteen recruits. "Age is a civilian luxury. In the Army, you follow the rank, not the wrinkles. This man knows more about your future than you do. Sit. Now."
The young Sergeant at the front smiled. It wasn't the mocking smirk of the instructors they'd met so far, but something genuinely friendly.
"Pick a seat, gentlemen. Ladies," he said, gesturing to the empty desks. "We have a bit of time before the mess hall opens, and I'd like to introduce myself before the paperwork buries us all. My name is Staff Sergeant Harry Ackle. I am the Easy Company Clerk."
He picked up a piece of chalk and turned to the board, writing his name in a clean, flowing script.
"I handle the morning reports," Harry said, turning back to face them. "To most of the Army, you are a serial number and a pulse. To me, you are a series of boxes. I track who is present, who is lying in a bed in the infirmary, who has earned a pass, and who was foolish enough to go AWOL. If one of you goes missing during a night exercise in these woods down below, it's me who has to explain to the Colonel where you went. And if my numbers don't match..." he glanced at Lewis, "...First Sergeant Lewis will have my head for breakfast."
He let that sink in. The silence in the hall was heavy. Jack could hear the distant sound of a bugle across the camp.
"But," Harry added, his smile widening, "I am also the man you want to be friends with. Because I am the gateway to the forty-eight-hour pass."
A collective breath seemed to leave the room. The prospect of leaving the mountain, even for two days, felt like a dream.
"After the first phase of your training," Harry explained, "you'll be granted leave to the local town. Forty-eight hours of being a human being again. You can spend your salary, find a warm meal that wasn't cooked in a vat, and remember why you're fighting. But..."
He paused, the 'but' hanging in the air like a guillotine.
"That is once a month. Not every week. Month. And only if you meet the standard. If your NCO finds a smudge on your boots or a wrinkle in your bunk, your pass request dies on his desk before it ever reaches mine. If the entire company lacks discipline, the Captain revokes the whole lot. You succeed as a unit, or you rot here as a unit."
The mood in the room shifted instantly. The recruits looked at one another—some with determination, others with a dawning sense of dread.
"And remember," Harry's voice grew serious, "if you don't make it back before the clock strikes forty-eight, or if you cause trouble in town, the Military Police will bring you back in handcuffs. And I promise you, the paperwork I have to fill out for a court-martial is much longer than a pass permit. I will not be happy, and neither will the First Sergeant."
He leaned back against the desk, shifting the tone again. "On a lighter note, I handle the mail. Every letter from your mother, every package from your girl, every 'Dear John' letter from your ex—it all passes through my hands. If you want to write home, the Orderly House sells stamps, stationery, and luxury rations. Cigarettes, too."
"Does that include mail from the High Council, sir?" a recruit asked, drawing a round of nervous chuckles.
Harry laughed, a bright, genuine sound. "Yes, even the three leaders of our country have to go through me if they want to talk to Easy Company. But be careful. The items you buy at the store aren't contraband, but they must be kept in your locker. If an NCO finds a stray cigarette on your bunk, you can kiss that forty-eight-hour pass goodbye. It's that fragile."
Lewis stepped forward then, his shadow falling across the front row. "That's not being strict," he interjected, his voice gravelly. "That's the standard. In the field, a stray piece of trash or a poorly placed piece of gear can give away your position and get your entire squad killed. If you can't keep a cigarette in a locker, how can I trust you to keep a grenade in a pouch? You don't want to be the reason your friends lose their weekend, do you?"
The recruits remained silent, the logic of the discipline finally beginning to take root.
"To make it easier," Harry continued, "we use scrip. It's military currency. Your salary is converted into these slips so you can buy what you need without carrying heavy coins into the field. At the end of the month, we sit down. We talk about how much you want to send home to your families and how much you want to save. Your pay will be deducted for insurance, store credit, and any fines you've picked up along the way."
"Store credit, sir?" Kenlil asked, leaning forward.
"Yes," Harry nodded. "You can buy on credit, but I wouldn't recommend it. It's a hole that's hard to climb out of. Some of that money can also go to the Company Fund."
Emily Randell raised her hand tentatively. "Sir, what exactly is a Company Fund for? Doesn't the Army pay for everything?"
Harry shook his head slowly. "The Army pays for the essentials. The Fund pays for the soul of the unit. We use it to buy our own company flag—because we aren't just flying a scrap of white silk forever. We use it for the Yearbook, so you can remember these faces when the war is over. It pays for the Dayroom—the card decks, the dartboards, and the Rune-Radio for music during your off-hours."
He looked around the room, his gaze lingering on each of them. "The Captain decides how it's spent, but the First Sergeant is the one who tells him what you need. If you're a good company, you get a good life."
Lewis checked his watch, the metal clicking in the quiet hall. "Alright. Enough talk. You have twenty minutes of rest before dinner. Dismissed. Sterling, stay behind. You're coming with me to learn the reporting route for the Mess Hall."
As the other recruits stood up, their bones aching as they stretched, Jack remained at his desk, watching the sunlight fade from the chalkboard. The world felt smaller now, defined by rules and ledgers, and for the first time, he realized that surviving the training was only half the battle.