Chapter 10

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Alex's PoV

I make my way back to my tent after assigning someone in my place. I stop every now and then to listen to the soldier's conversations, sometimes adding or correcting something, or cracking a joke that sends them into peals of laughter. I finally reach my tent. Anger pings off me in sharp flares when I see the discarded tin laying in the grass. I pick it up and throw it at John. "Hey!" He complains. I scowl at him. "What was that for?"

"You don't get rid of those." I hiss. "It's a rule. One, we don't pollute. Two, we always fashion knives out of them. Third, they're very useful when utilized right." I snarl, getting in his face. I feel a little bad about being hard on him, but I know I have to be just as hard on him as I would be on anyone else or he'll never adjust.

"Okay. Cool it." He snaps. "Show me what to do." I sit beside him.

"These are made in a way that they can easily be taken apart and reconstructed in a number of ways." I explain, plucking the tin out of his hands. "I started this fun little tradition with my men that the first ration tin on a mission is turned into a knife. If you already have one, you add to it anyway you want. Add another blade, add a little piece to it, use some to mess with the hilt, whatever. The men love it and have a lot of fun showing their's off, it's always fun to see what they make. It also boosts morale if the situation is grim." I pull my knife out of its sheath and proudly show him. "It used to be a lot smaller, but I added to it and it got bigger."

"Cool." He says, looking at it enviously.

"See these groves? You pull them." I tug at the slight groves, pulling the tin can apart. "And there. A small sheet of metal to make a little blade. They normally start out as just little trinkets, then as knives you can use to cut through a few materials after a few missions, and after a while, you have a knife that you can actually use to defend yourself with. This has gotten me out of a few sticky situations." I say, lovingly running my fingers across the long, sharp blade I nicknamed Slasher.

"That's pretty awesome." He says, staring at the smooth, shiny surface of it. It's a few different colors due to different ration tin colors, there's copper and silver and a silvery blue. I'm quite proud of my blade to be honest, it's one of my most treasured possessions.

"Yes." I agree. "I won't show you what to do to make one, it's up to you. I've seen dozens and dozens of different ways to bend that metal to make a knife." I inform him, sliding Slasher back into its sheath. "I will watch you though to make sure you don't hurt yourself too bad. It's rare that you don't get cut when making it, but we're all proud of the little cuts they leave." I show him a small white scar running from the first digit on the inside of my thumb all the way down the length of it. "So don't bother to be that careful." I watch him as he stares at the sheet of metal, then starts bending it, forming the hilt then the blade. It's not as neat or as elegant as some I've seen, but it still looks nice.

"Ow, shit." He hisses, blood welling up on his pointer finger. I pat his shoulder.

"Good man. You got yourself a custom made, traditional knife." I congratulate him. He smiles a little. "We'll be leaving in a few hours, so don't get too comfortable." I warn him. "We have to get there as soon as we can without killing ourselves on the journey."

"Are you joking?" He asks carefully.

"Sadly, no." I reply ruefully. "When driven too hard, some men will die. I've had to force some people to step down because they wouldn't allow their men a break when they had to travel to fight."

"That's awful." He says, appalled.

"I know." I sigh. "But that's what happens in war. Listen to me, nothing, nothing, can prepare you for your first battle. I handled mine better than most, but only because I was born and raised in the war and seeing dead bodies often. But it was still awful. They warn you about the noise, the chaos, the death, the smell, but you're never prepared fully. The only thing that keeps some of us from running away is our strong belief that we're going what's right. It's a terrifying experience, but you adjust to the battlefield quickly." I say grimly. "After your first few battles, you learn how to ignore it all and just concentrate on staying alive and killing as many of the enemy as you can."

"Wow." He says softly. "How fast do most adjust?" I shrug.

"It depends really. If you were born and raised during the war like I was, then you normally adjust after your first or second battle. There's only a few of us though. If you were born before the fighting started and joined older, then you'll get over it in between three to six battles. But if you come from a place where there's no fighting, then it normally takes five to seven before you get over it." I reply, thinking about it as I speak. "And it takes up to a week for an older man to get used to army life, and a few weeks for someone who hasn't lived with the war to adjust. So don't feel bad if it takes you awhile."

"Oh." Is all he says. We lapse into silence. I stand up after a few minutes and make my unnecessary rounds through the makeshift camp. It's just a little past noon, we've been resting for I'd guess about three hours now. We should get moving soon, travel for the rest of the day and then make camp for the night. I think, inspecting my men. They all seem only slightly tired, only a few scattered yawns here and there. Yes, they can stand traveling for a few more hours. "Alright men! Pack up and get ready to move out. We'll stop in about six hours for the night, but we need to cover as much ground as possible so we can retake Albany and get back." I call out to the men in French. "We'll be in Albany by tomorrow, and hopefully retake Albany within a few months. We got the news late, so it'll be overrun with the British. But we'll retake it. I know we will."

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