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“Fathers to Sons” by MikasiWolf (part 1 of 2)

One of thousands of new recruits to the Pura Army, Raja dreads the nightmare that comes from being taken to an island far from home, away from the familiarity of normal life. In-camp processing is only the start of his troubles…

Today’s story is the first of two parts of “Fathers to Sons by MikasiWolf, a Singaporean Wolf Mercenary writer. “Fathers to Sons” have formerly appeared in the Dogs of War and SPECIES: WILDCATS anthology, published by FurPlanet Publications and Thurston Howl Publications. His works have been published by FurPlanet, Rabbit Valley, Goal Publications among others. You can find links to more of his stories on his FA or WikiFur page. This story was inspired by MikasiWolf’s time in the Army.

Read for you by Khaki, your faithful fireside companion.

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https://thevoice.dog/episode/fathers-to-sons-by-mikasiwolf-part-1-of-2

Transcript
Speaker:

You’re listening to The Voice of Dog. I’m Khaki, your faithful fireside companion,

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and Today’s story

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is the first of two parts of

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“Fathers to Sons by MikasiWolf,

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a Singaporean Wolf Mercenary writer.

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“Fathers to Sons” have formerly appeared in

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the Dogs of War and SPECIES: WILDCATS anthology, published by FurPlanet Publications and Thurston Howl Publications.

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His works have been published by FurPlanet,

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Rabbit Valley, Goal Publications among others.

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You can find links to more of his stories on his FA or WikiFur page.

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This story was inspired by MikasiWolf’s time in the Army.

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“Fathers to Sons”

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by MikasiWolf, Part 1

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of 2 What the bloody, unimaginable hell am I doing here?

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That was the very thought running through Raja’s mind,

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even as his muzzle rocked with the motion of his ride.

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Around him was silence,

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save for the odd whimper of fear.

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There were no sounds of overloud music or conversation and if Raja stopped for a moment to think about it,

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he could have been inside a prison bus.

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And in many ways, he was.

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The day of reckoning came more quickly than Raja had expected.

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Months of playing the MMORPG “Resurrection of the Pelts”

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and dancing with his friends at one of the island nation’s two nightclubs had been enjoyable,

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yet pointless and ephemeral

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as such activities had proven time and again.

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Now, aboard the chartered bus

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rumbling towards the famous landmark known

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formally as the Army Ferry Terminal, and colloquially

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as Death Pier, Raja wished he had spent more time doing something constructive,

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such as writing that book about post-apocalyptic survivalism,

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or complete painting the ceiling of his room with a fresco

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he had gleaned from the Internet.

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In time, the joy of dancing to a rapidly changing tune

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and that of blowing up undead freaks time and again on a LED backlit screen

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would fade, all but erased by the prospect of facing the bloodthirsty NCOs

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and officers. At least if he didn’t make it out of

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“Holiday Camp” in one piece,

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his family would have half his fresco to remember him by.

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Or perhaps they would paint it over with a nicer color.

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His younger brother had been eyeing his room for years.

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“Raja?” The lion turned at his mother’s purr.

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“You’ve been quiet for much of the journey.

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What are you worrying about?”

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she asked, her brow wrinkled.

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Despite her good intentions,

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Raja had to admit she had a habit of stating the obvious.

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“The journey’s just a fifteen minute ride, Ma,” huffed

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Raja. “Besides,

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no one’s ever in a joyous mood whenever they’re conscripted into the Army.

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It’s one of our national traditions.

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traditions.” Raja’s tail lashed hard against the seat

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as he turned back to the window.

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Mrs. Jaya shook her muzzle disapprovingly.

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“Raja, I don’t see what’s your cause for complaint.

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Your father managed fine during his stint in Basic Military Training,

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and was even commended by

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for trying to save his fellows from an out-of-control truck!

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I’m sure you’ll do us all proud.”

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Yeah, with bandages wrapped around my limbs,

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Raja thought darkly.

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He had heard that story for like the 57th time.

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Raja’s father, Mr Jaya,

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had attempted to save his platoon from being run over by an improperly braked truck,

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by rushing them in an effort to shove them off the road.

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Unfortunately, a scrawny lion attempting to move a multi-species platoon,

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which included several tigers,

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two elephants and a rhino

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was a tugboat pushing an island out to sea.

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The truck driver would still be laughing about it in his cell.

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Mr Jaya had since then boasted of his

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“war injury” to anyone who would listen,

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despite it happening during peacetime.

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An hour before, Mr Jaya had told Raja

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that he couldn’t see his son off,

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lest he got all emotional.

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The fact that he still shuffled at the pace of a tortoise contradicted that excuse, however,

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and something told Raja that was the more likely reason

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rather than his reputed claim to fame.

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They reached the ferry terminal

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which was jam-packed with thousands of other enlistees,

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either fearful or thoroughly brainwashed by their relatives and the media.

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Queues had been created,

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with stickers issued to those whose turn came to enter the frying pan.

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Sergeants smiled and laughed forcedly,

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their muzzles masks of the actual horrors that lay within the BMT camp.

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Basic Military Training Facility,

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BMTF for short, is a training camp located on Pulau Saikang, an island about ten kilometers northwest of the country

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for the stated reasons of having ample space and safety for training considerations.

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For the ever-pessimistic, and perhaps,

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ever-intuitive Raja,

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this was to prevent recruits escaping by surrounding them with shark-infested waters

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should they manage to give their NCOs the slip.

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The trip on the ferry was as eventful as that on the bus,

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with Raja’s mother continuing to give him all the pointless encouragement he could ever need. Raja could only listen,

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given the little choice he had

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on the fully packed ferry.

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Besides, the doors to the deck were probably locked.

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Here, the scent of fear was almost unbearable,

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punctuated with the occasional whimper.

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At the opposite side of the ferry,

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Raja could see a horse seated by himself,

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muttering feverishly

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with his hoofs clasped in prayer.

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Nothing like enlistment to get one believing.

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Not 20 minutes later,

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the ferry drew alongside a jetty.

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Even if there was a god sympathetic to the plight of conscripts,

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salvation with the fishes was not to be.

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And here the conscripts

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set their paws into another world.

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Looking down the long stretch of sheltered concrete that made up the jetty,

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Raja felt that it was more bridge

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than watercraft stopover.

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A bridge to every young man’s vision of Hell. Raja had once read about Charon in a book on ancient mythology,

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a skeletal jackal

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who ferried departed souls to the underworld in exchange for a coin.

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Like the proverbial journey across the River Styx,

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it felt like Charon himself had steered the ferry he was on,

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which even now returned to the mainland to claim many other souls.

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But the only way was forward,

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and so Raja walked,

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the fear of those who came before strong even on the breeze-exposed concrete.

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An LED display reminded all who passed to

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“Start the day with a positive mindset”,

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further implying

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that there was little to be positive about.

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More forced smiles from the armed Regimental Police,

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who probably had enough ammo to handle the whole lot of them.

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What else were the ammo pouches on their vests for?

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The parents and their young

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were shown into an auditorium,

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where they were soon bombarded by assurances from the commanding officers on stage. “Your cub/kit’s well-being would be taken care of...”,

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“best medical care available...”, “only push-ups to be given as punishment”,

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“cubs with any issues could bring it up with their immediate superiors,” blah, blah, blah…Raja

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was forced to keep his fidgeting to a minimum

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as some Sergeants had been tasked to check on their attentiveness.

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The national anthem was played shortly,

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with all the enlistees sworn in by the oath of allegiance.

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It was a solemn affair,

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with the seriousness broken only by the shouting of many names,

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and National Identification Numbers

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interspersed over one other.

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A sumptuous lunch of chicken rice was provided at the cookhouse,

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courtesy of the army.

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This is what your son would be eating!

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screeched the plates silently.

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Don’t worry, assured the smiles of the NCOs and officers,

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your son’s well-being will be taken care off!

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Rest easy! Not wanting to speak to his ma,

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as nauseated as he was,

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Raja took his time to chew his meal,

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relishing in the taste of chicken and lemongrass.

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Her overenthusiastic advice on remembering to wash his underwear

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and remembering to call home lay his

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ears flat, but what could one do but listen?

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Then came the dreaded call

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of the Angel of Death.

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“All recruits, please say goodbye to your parents and assemble at the parade square,”

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announced an officer over the loudspeaker.

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Raja froze, a piece of chicken hanging from his lower jaw.

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All the recruits froze,

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knowing their time has come.

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Rising from their chairs, they plodded silently towards the parade square,

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tails and bags dragging limply behind them,

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just like those on death row.

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Some had brought travelling cases large enough to fit a bicycle in,

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knowing that they would not see home for a while, if ever.

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Others, believing that their lives would not be for much longer,

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brought little more than themselves,

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with barely a place to fit a toothbrush.

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Historically, these were the ones who would desert on the first night or second night.

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Stowaways were not altogether uncommon, given the nature of the training.

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The island camp’s security had been put to the test a year back,

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when a psychologically-disturbed recruit swam half the way back to the mainland.

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According to the official news reports,

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he had since been transferred to the prestigious,

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yet hazardous Navy Diving Unit.

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If the swim back didn’t kill him,

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the training would.

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Otters, always thinking they can swim out of anything.

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Standing in the parade square with the sun blazing down upon his and many others’ fur,

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Raja felt an odd sense of calm.

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It was the invigorating sense of freedom

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right after being released from one’s cell,

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with the firing squad prepped to release their volley of shots into you.

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Raja kept his face straight.

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He would not cry. Though

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the army may take away his life that once was,

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they will never take his pride.

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The state flag, a crimson lion's head

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set against a white background fluttered high on its flagpole,

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flanked by the unit and service flag. Already

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the scent of fear of the other recruits

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reached Raja's vomeronasal gland,

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but the lion shut his mouth.

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Have fortitude! he told himself. Have pride! Though I walk in the valley of the Shadow of Death,

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I shall fear no superior…

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As the NCOs led him and the other recruits towards the trucks that would take them to the other end of the island,

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Raja gave his mother a casual wave.

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After all, it may very well be the last time he saw her,

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still smiling and cheering him on his way.

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Besides, he had an image to uphold.

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Getting onto the truck known as a 5-tonner proved to be a skill in itself.

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A combination of having a good grip

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as well as basic acrobatics was required to pull oneself up by misplaced handles and undersized steps

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long bent out of shape.

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Raja smacked a weasel on the muzzle in the midst of his ascent,

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earning a glare and the likelihood of future vendetta.

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A dangerous thing

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in a place stocked

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with weapons of war.

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The driver and a 3rd-Sergeant closed the tailgate,

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making their way into the cab of the truck.

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Two other NCOs had stayed in the truck with them,

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ensuring no one tried giving them the slip.

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Raja took one last look at the mass of parents

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waving their sons off

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and closed his eyes painfully.

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No one in the truck spoke.

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Not a whisper could be heard,

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and there weren’t any mice to say otherwise.

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Despite the constant reminders of reporting to BMTF by means of official correspondence,

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including a Muzzbook page

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no one actually followed,

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nothing truly prepared one from being here.

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One could hear accounts of life on the inside,

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be it from relatives or older friends,

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but the fact that they usually came from a different generation,

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coupled with self-serving pride

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meant it was hard to separate truth from fiction.

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An older friend of Raja’s

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had once said the punishment for theft in the barracks

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was for everyone to carry their beds and cupboards down for inspection

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in the parade square.

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He conveniently neglected to mention

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if anyone ever got crushed in the process.

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A small-clawed otter in the middle of the truck

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tried to make conversation with a tiger,

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earning a snarl instead.

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Raja pursed his lips grimly.

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Looks like he and the tiger

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shared the same misgivings.

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They may be forced into conscription,

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but no one could make them like it.

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And the ironic thing was that to his family,

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being a part of the army was part of a long family tradition.

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Raja’s grandfather, the Esteemed Puja Renganathan,

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as his father always saw fit to remind him,

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served in the National Army back in the Old Country.

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Despite Tigers being preferred for active duty, given their natural camouflage,

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and “will to kill”, he and his brothers were soon accepted for service by the colonial government.

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Things being as they were in those tumultuous times,

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they were sent to the many reaches of the Empire.

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Puja had also seen action in the war in the West Savannahs,

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after which his unit was sent to Pura.

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He never found out what happened to his brothers,

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but that was one of the harsh realities in the War of Domination.

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He started a family in the port city,

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where he was welcome because of his people's contribution to the war.

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It would later gain independence,

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with the state flag

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designed to honor the lions that had fought on its behalf.

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Mandatory conscription for every male was enacted shortly to better defend its precarious borders.

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Out of zeal, or a misplaced enthusiasm to emulate his father’s deeds,

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Raja’s father Jaya

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made it his life’s goal to find work in the army.

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Even a pancake of a foot

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during that unfortunate incident in BMT

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didn’t quell his desire in applying for full-time service,

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and soon the Chief Clerk of G1 Army, aka Army HR,

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had no choice but to give him an administrative role as Paper Shredder.

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The Army loved their paperwork.

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Not a glamorous job one associated with a military line of lions, but as a Minister of Parliament once said;

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“Loyalty to the Service is worth more than service itself.”

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As far as anyone knew,

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Jaya had never appeared on the Army’s recruitment posters.

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And now Raja was part of the never-ending line of youngsters who entered its ranks,

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a leaf flowing down the river of fate.

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A fate made possible

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all because someone had drafted a charter on a whim.

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And yet Mr Jaya expected him

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to make it to Officer Cadet School,

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and sign on as a career soldier!

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The family tradition must be upheld. Mr Jaya had said.

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In his dreams, perhaps.

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The truck rumbled through vast stretches of jungle,

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with the occasional dilapidated building flashing past.

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The island used to be home to a hundred villagers,

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before it was converted to a collection of training camps.

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It was surprising how peaceful the military island seemed,

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despite the nature of its purpose.

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Somehow Raja had expected to hear the sounds of gunfire in the forests,

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accompanied by maniacal laughter and cries for mercy.

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Maybe the training won’t be as horrible as others made it out to be.

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After all, hadn’t his father once commented on how things were much better than it was thirty years back? Raja laughed silently to himself.

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He shouldn’t be so tense;

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all this worrying wasn’t going to do him any good if he wanted to make his first book-out.

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The truck roared past two gateposts

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emblazoned with a rather contradictory greeting:

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WELCOME TO BMT CAMP D.

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The sounds of yelling and snarled commands started to reach Raja’s ears,

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and he knew he had relaxed too soon.

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A platoon of recruits flashed past,

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the smell of sweat and mingled scents assailing the 5-tonner.

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Green PT vests

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clinging to their frames,

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the lion just had time to see that their ears were flat as they passed.

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The truck stopped abruptly outside a large open-air training shed,

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jerking recruits and baggage alike.

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Large enough to fit 60 soldiers,

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the shed was piled full of black duffle bags,

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alongside other equipment.

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So they are to be equipped first.

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Good. Maybe there would be something to eat within the bags.

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Raja licked his lips,

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even as the tailgate crashed open with the enlistees pouring out to their new outfit.

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Looking to his right,

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Raja observed that the shed’s

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next to one of the countless five-story buildings the military island was famous for.

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Several men in civilian T-shirts and shorts stood next to red plastic chairs,

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fiddling with their phones.

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“Everyone, assemble in three rows!”

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yelled a 2nd-Sergeant over the din.

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A greyish cat of about five feet,

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his chest epaulette showed three black chevrons roofed by another.

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“You will collect your equipment row by row, and ensure everything fits!

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No exchanges will be entertained after today!

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But before that—” Here, the cat jerked his heads to the now-smirking men in civvies

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—"—those of you who hadn’t done so will get your headfur and manes trimmed!”

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So that’s what these guys were.

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Barbers. In the outside world,

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one went to a groomer to have their fur trimmed or brushed.

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They also provided dye or paint jobs,

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though this were usually requests by the recalcitrant or overly flamboyant.

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But in the army, there was none of the frills.

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Barbers had only one job;

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to hack at fur until it reached a semblance of the dimensions matching military regulation.

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There were rumors that military barbers were once groomers who didn’t meet the finesse of that required in the civilian world.

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Whatever the case,

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they were hired en masse during enlistment days such as this.

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“After that’s done,

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you are to assemble in front of the company line with your bags—”

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Here, the Sergeant pointed to the five-story building.

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“For your information, I am 2SG Ming,

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and this here is 3rd Sergeant Reski!”

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The cat indicated the Alsatian who stood beside him.

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He stared impassively back at the recruits,

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dark muzzle set in a bored line.

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“What are you waiting for?”

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roared the cat in a high pitched caterwaul.

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“MOVE!” The recruits rushed forward in a flurry of activity, ears and tails down.

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Raja tried flattening his mane against his skull,

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in a bid to make it look shorter.

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But either a sharp eye or a sadistic streak

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caused a binturong to point at him,

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his fangs out in a grin.

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“Come on, mister, my mane’s not that

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long,” pleaded Raja. “Lemme on my way, alright?”

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The barber shrugged.

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“There’s no point.

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Even if I wanted to, your sarge will send you back here.

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You have two dollars?”

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“You’ll let me go for two dough?”

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asked Raja, drawing his wallet.

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Cheapest bribe ever.

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The binturong scowled. “No, dammit. The furtrim costs two dollars.

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You think it’s free? Sit your ass down and hold the fuck still.”

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With a huff, the barber whisked the plastic bill away from Raja,

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and shoved him into his chair.

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Raja could only grimace

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as the grime-stained electric shaver descended upon him.

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He hadn’t shaved his mane in like,

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ever. Male lions wore their manes with as much pride as their manhood,

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though there was no question which they would choose over the other.

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As Raja felt the bone-jarring vibrations of the shaver against his skull,

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accompanied by the tearing sensation of an overused blade,

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Raja saw that he didn’t suffer this nightmare alone.

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Right across him was a Samoyed with his fur fluffed up,

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eyes wide in what could only be shock,

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clump after clumps of snowy fur falling to the barber's blade.

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In the Army’s defense,

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Raja could only wonder what the hell possessed the Samoyed to keep his ridiculously fluffy coat,

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especially in such a hot tropical climate.

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He wouldn’t last an hour before being consumed by heatstroke.

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Right next to him was a porcupine with head quills grown in a mohawk,

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which the barber trimmed with tin snips

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and a coarse file.

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Raja could only look on in horror as swaths upon swaths of his yellowish mane fell.

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There was a common saying that one had no mane if you were female or enlisted.

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Raja had no idea how horrible his furtrim had turned out,

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because he was ushered away for a deer to take his place, without a mirror to check the extent of damage.

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He barely heard the barber yell for

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a pair of bolt cutters and saw. Raja got into a queue,

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at the end of which civilian contractors had them try on their helmets and training cap.

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Some idiot in the Central Manpower Base had put him down for headgear meant for

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“HORNED BOVINE”, giving his helmet and cap

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a glaring pair of holes.

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This was exacerbated by a too-narrow headspace,

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and misaligned earholes that would screw his ears up before the week was over.

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It was only after a yak found that he had been issued

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“LARGE FELINE-MANELESS” labeled headgear,

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that Raja was able to do a swap with him.

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Without his mane,

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it fitted perfectly.

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Not that he’d worn any form of headgear before.

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Male lions were one of the few species exempted from having to put on bicycle helmets when cycling on the roads.

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He didn’t envy the one who ended up with a porcupine’s helmet.

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The interior would be pockmarked

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to better seat their shortened head quills.

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He then went to collect the rest of his general equipment,

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a ragtag jumble of pre-packed paraphernalia

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stuffed into an almost-bursting duffel bag.

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There was nothing to eat inside.

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Dragging his crap to the parade square where Sergeant Reski was directing recruits,

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Raja plonked both his overladen personal hiking bag and standard-issue duffel bag onto the red brick of the parade square,

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muttering under his breath.

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His scalp was sore, and what remained of his mane was in tatters.

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The lion drew a finger across a particularly sore spot,

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and he would be damned if that red stickiness wasn’t blood.

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A growl rumbled in his chest,

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and it was all he could do not to snarl outright.

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“Hi there!” greeted a wolf who stood in line beside him.

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“Looks like everything’s going faster than we can blink, eh?”

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Unlike Raja, and most of the recruits,

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his headfur and ruffs

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were immaculately trimmed,

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and the lion was sure that it fitted the guidelines on the Ministry of Defense’s website.

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He had a modest messenger bag to hold his belongings,

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which was even in the regulation black the military seemed to like.

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“Humph.” Raja couldn’t quite bring himself to speak,

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for fear of venting his displeasure at being whisked far from home.

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Well, not that far actually, given that his hometown was but twenty kilometers as the crow flies.

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But on an island no different from Alcatraz itself,

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what with all the fences and cameras abound,

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they could be thousands of kilometers away for all it mattered.

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The Ancient Wolfborn Romans sent its auxiliaries far from home

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to prevent desertion;

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the modern armies

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fenced and surrounded their own with a body of water.

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The lion was starting to see why island prisons were such a big hit.

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The wolf didn’t look annoyed,

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merely tilting his ears and head

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curiously as how canids did.

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“My name’s Jian Lang.

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What’s yours?” “Raja Jayakumar,”

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managed Raja with a cough.

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“I would say I’m pleased to meet you, though that would be best suited for another time and place.”

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“You speak of enlistment like its Hell itself.”

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said Jian with a twitch of his nose.

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“Oh, you have no idea.”

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“Everyone got their stuff?”

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yelled Sergeant Ming

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who stepped before the gathered recruits.

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“For those of you who brought your own shit,

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I want everything turned out for inspection!”

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This was the first of two parts of

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“Fathers to Sons” by MikasiWolf,

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read for you by Khaki,

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your faithful fireside companion.

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Tune in next time to find out what happens to Raja?

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Will he be able to keep whatever’s left of his former life?

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As always, you can find more stories on the web at thevoice.dog,

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or find the show wherever you get your podcasts.

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Thank you for listening

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to The Voice of Dog.

About the Podcast

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The Voice of Dog
Furry stories to warm the ol' cockles, read by Rob MacWolf and guests. If you have a story that would suit the show, you can get in touch with @VoiceOfDog@meow.social on Mastodon, @voiceofdog.bsky.social on Blue Sky, or @Theodwulf on Telegram.

About your host

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Khaki