Page 8 of Metal & Mud

* * *

5

LOGAN

Sergeant Adams moved around the squad with brisk efficiency, eyes narrowed as she inspected their form during early morning PT. Logan tried to stretch deeper, his hamstrings already protesting. He had never been this sore in his life, not even during the worst days of basic training. Every muscle felt tight, and the grit in Adams's voice only underscored his exhaustion.

“Straighten your back,” she said, pressing down firmly between Logan’s shoulder blades. Her touch was impersonal, yet it sent a jolt of adrenaline through him. He knew he was lagging, and he did not want another lecture on failing to keep up.

They had been at Fort Pickett for a week, and Logan had seen just how intense this unit could be. Their nickname—Cranked—fit perfectly. Everyone pushed themselves to the limit every day, and in some ways it thrilled him. He had joined the infantry because he wanted a challenge, a mission worthy of his time and sweat. He just had not expected it to feel like every breath was a test of his right to remain here.

Adams straightened and surveyed the rest of the group. “Keep your focus, people. We have a long day ahead.”

Staff Sergeant Nichols, their squad leader, signaled for the squad to stand. “That’ll do for warm-ups. Grab a quick drink. Today we’re focusing on room-clearing drills for urban combat. After breakfast, we move to the training facility.”

Logan took a deep breath and followed his fire team to the water cooler, shifting his shoulders to ease the tension that had built up overnight. He had come to accept that anything done under Sergeant Adams’s watch would be stretched to its limit. He still remembered the first day’s obstacle course, the rope burns on his palms, the knots in his shoulders, and the trembling in his quads. He had been proud of his performance until he noticed that she always wanted more. Nothing he did seemed good enough. If he ran fast, she told him he was sloppy. If he tried to be extra precise, she claimed he was slow.

Though she was relentless, he could handle her. The bigger problem was Corporal Franklin, a lean soldier in his early twenties with a sharp tongue and a perpetual sneer. Franklin was an E-4, only a single pay grade above him, but he wielded more authority than anyone at Logan’s level could challenge. If Adams pushed Logan to improve, Franklin just needled him to provoke a reaction.

“Hope you’re ready to clear some buildings, Hollywood,” Franklin said, tossing his empty cup into the trash. “Try not to trip over your pretty boots.”

Logan gritted his teeth. The nickname Hollywood had stuck after the first day. Maybe it was his Florida background or the casual jokes he had made about warm beaches and bright lights, but he had not realized how quickly it would become his identity here. Franklin said it with contempt, while Sergeant Adams used it mostly as a direct reminder of who was in charge.

Carter, Logan’s roommate, sidled up to him. “Let it go. He just wants to get under your skin.”

Logan forced a nod, but tension roiled in his stomach. He did not want to keep letting it go. This was supposed to be his team, and yet a piece of him felt like an outsider. He craved acceptance for more than just comedic value. Some days, though, he wished he had never been singled out with that nickname at all.

The chatter died down when Nichols signaled them toward the barracks. They had thirty minutes to shower and grab breakfast before heading out to the training area. Logan pushed himself through a hasty routine, trying not to think about the fresh bruises on his forearms and the stiff ache in his thighs.

At the chow hall, he downed enough eggs and bacon to feed two men. Exhaustion nipped at his heels. He reminded himself to keep his calories up, both to handle the physical punishment and to avoid losing any more weight. Within a few minutes, everyone was forming up in front of the waiting trucks, gear in hand, ready for the day’s training.

As they rolled out to the urban combat course, Nichols stood near the cargo area and projected his voice so all could hear. “We’ll do walk-throughs of building assaults this morning—no simunition yet. Once you’re comfortable with the procedures, we’ll move to practice runs with paint rounds.”

Sergeant Adams leaned against the side, arms folded over her chest, her eyes guarded. Her short stature did nothing to diminish her formidable presence, and Logan found himself sending quick glances in her direction. A small part of him admired how strong she was, how she carried herself with an unshakable confidence. He also felt a flicker of curiosity about who she was when she was not yelling commands, but that was as far as he let his thoughts stray. He had enough trouble without complicating things by growing attached to the badass NCO who kept him on edge.

They pulled into the training area, a mock town with cinderblock structures meant to replicate houses and shops. The place looked deserted. Logan hopped off the truck and fell into step behind the rest of his squad, who gathered near Nichols for the briefing.

“Rules of engagement for the morning,” Nichols said. “First, we’re doing talk-through and walk-through. Think of it as a synchronized dance. We’ll practice dividing rooms, covering each angle, identifying threats, and making sure no innocent bystander gets caught in the crossfire. We will be simulating unarmed civilians, so keep those eyes open. Griffin from first squad is playing a civilian in white. Don’t shoot your own friend, unless you like scrubbing white T-shirts in the laundry.”

A few chuckles rose. Franklin gave Logan a taunting grin, and Logan turned away to focus on Nichols’s words.

They worked through the motions step by step, gradually speeding up. Once the squad had finished a series of slow walkthroughs, Nichols announced a lunch break. Because it was too far to go back to the main post, they were stuck eating MREs under a large oak that offered some welcome shade.

Logan genuinely did not mind MREs. He ripped open the thick pouch and pulled out his meal, grateful for the temporary rest. He had already broken a sweat under the midmorning sun. Bron Davis, a massive soldier with a friendly face, settled next to him, though the bench groaned ominously under Bron’s weight.

“Anything good in yours?” Bron asked, poking a plastic spoon into his own ration.

“Beef something or other,” Logan said, searching for a napkin. He tried not to stare too much at Adams, who sat with a different squad. She wore a focused expression, apparently immune to the complaining around her. Nichols had taken a seat by the trucks to go over more training notes, while Franklin leaned against a doorframe with a smug posture, listening to country music at a volume too loud for Logan's taste.

The twanging notes slid into Logan’s awareness like nails on a chalkboard. He exhaled, deciding to ignore it. If Franklin wanted to annoy him, he was winning, but Logan refused to give him the satisfaction.

Ten minutes later, they gathered again for the second half of training.

Nichols clapped his hands for attention. “Time to pick up the pace. We’ll start with practice runs at full speed, no return fire yet. This is to get you used to moving as a single element. Once we’ve nailed that, we’ll add simunition. Remember, these paint rounds hurt, and you definitely don’t want to take one in the face or groin. Wear your gear properly.”

They lined up outside a squat concrete building. The interior had four rooms, each connected by narrow doorways, plus a hallway that branched off unpredictably. Logan’s heart thudded in anticipation. This was the kind of training he had come here for. He wanted to prove he could do more than keep pace.

Inside the building, their first run exposed a few weak links. Carter missed a target behind an overturned table. Franklin tore into him with disdain. Logan missed a corner because he got distracted by Franklin’s constant yammering and took a paint mock-round from a supervising NCO. The bright red splotch on his thigh served as an embarrassing reminder to keep his head clear of petty arguments.

---