Adventure of Beelow15 1

You enter the company holding area beneath a gray, rain-heavy sky. Five squadmates crouch around a crate of maps and equipment while trucks idle beyond the sandbags.

A broad-shouldered young adult man in a mud-darkened sergeant’s jacket stands over the map. His close-cropped hair and scarred left knuckle mark him as the squad leader.

The company commander, a lean elderly man with weathered cheeks and a neatly trimmed white mustache, an elderly man with a narrow face, silver hair, and a rain cape buttoned to his throat, approaches carrying a grease pencil. He taps two routes on the map.

Haines studies the map, then glances toward the packs: rifles, field glasses, wire cutters, and one radio set. Around him, the five men wait without speaking.

Beelow15 takes his rifle from the crate and settles the sling against his small frame. He checks the pack straps, ammunition pouches, canteen, and belt for loose metal.

A buckle slips beneath his fingers and taps the crate with a sharp click. He catches it, but the sound carries across the holding area; the squad leader’s eyes lift at once.

He opens his pack for the camouflage paint. The expected tin is not among the folded cloth and equipment; only a shallow empty space marks where something once rested.

The rifle remains ready across his knees. Haines’s command turns the inspection practical: the loose buckle must be fixed with the cord already tied around the pack frame, while Beelow15’s skin stays uncovered.

Beelow15 reaches for the cord tied around the pack frame, but it is trapped beneath the tightened load and will not give without loosening the straps he has just checked.

He abandons the cord rather than disturb the pack, pressing the buckle flat and testing each pouch, ammunition tin, canteen, and rifle sling in turn. One folded cloth shifts inside the pack.

The squad leader watches as Beelow15 pulls a narrow strip from the folded cloth and threads it through the buckle’s frame, keeping the loose metal pressed against the pack.

The improvised binding holds. A second inspection finds no other rattle or loose strap, though the buckle remains a weak point that must be watched during the approach.

The squadmates glance among their packs. One freckled young adult man, lean-built with pale skin, a narrow jaw, and a dark wool greatcoat, in a wool cap reaches beneath his greatcoat and produces a dented tin.

He passes the tin across the crate. The dark paste is dry at the rim but usable, and it settles into Beelow15’s open hand without a word of bargaining.

The tin’s weight joins the rifle and ammunition in his kit. Around the crate, the squadmates return to their silent checks while rain ticks against the canvas.

Beelow15 opens the dented tin and works the dry paste loose with one finger. He smears dark bands across his cheeks, nose, and jaw, breaking the clean lines of his face.

Rainlight filters through the canvas while the five squadmates continue their checks around the crate. The camouflage settles unevenly but covers the exposed skin that would catch a watcher's eye.

Beelow15 wipes the excess from his fingertip against the cloth strip, snaps the lid shut, and stows the tin where it will not knock against the ammunition tins.

Haines gives the painted face a final inspection, then returns his attention to the map. Beyond the sandbags, an engine coughs and settles into an impatient idle.

The face paint dulls his outline beneath the gray light. With the buckle bound and the pack secured, Beelow15’s inspection is complete as the holding area waits for darkness.

The squadmates shoulder their packs and rifles around the crate. The freckled squadmate checks the tied buckle once, then gives Beelow15 a brief nod.

Haines folds the map, slips it inside his jacket, and leads the squad from beneath the canvas. Rain whispers over the sandbags as the men form up beside the waiting trucks.

The squad climbs aboard without clatter. Engines idle low beyond the holding area, and the darkening road ahead waits for the first major operation of Beelow15’s service.

The truck rolls away from the holding area, its canvas sides breathing with each gust. Beelow15 sits among his squadmates, rifle upright between his knees as rain drums overhead.

The road jolts beneath the tires. Red lamps glow faintly inside the truck, catching wet sleeves, clenched hands, and the dark paint across Beelow15’s face.

Hours seem to pass in broken stretches of engine noise, rain, and darkness. The truck leaves the main road, crawls over rutted ground, then slows beneath a stand of trees.

The driver brakes at the predetermined location. Haines lifts the tailgate, and cold woodland air replaces the close diesel haze as the squad climbs down with its equipment intact.

Beelow15 steps into the trees and takes his place with the squad. Wet branches brush the canvas of his pack while the men settle into a silent file.

The squad halts among dark trunks and dripping undergrowth. The truck’s engine fades behind them, leaving only rainwater falling from the leaves and the quiet weight of rifles held ready.

Haines raises one hand, checking each man in turn. The five squadmates answer with small nods, their faces dim beneath caps and helmet brims.

He waits for the squad leader’s signal. Ahead, the trees close around the faint track, and the formation remains still until Haines gives the order to advance.