Lieutenants Rembrandt and Armstrong, standing beside the major, looked out at the formation. It would have been impossible to tell, by looking at Armstrong’s face, what he thought of his new commanding officer. Then again, his face did not reveal a great deal of emotion in any circumstances. Rembrandt’s expression, in contrast, was one of ill-concealed dismay. Botchup’s failure to notice this might have been no more than youthful arrogance; in any case, it was ample proof that General Blitzkrieg had chosen the perfect anti-Phule to undo his predecessor’s work.
“For a change, this company is going to do things the Legion way,” Botchup continued. “You people have been coddled and pampered, living like a bunch of playboys. Well, there’s no room for that in the Legion.”
“Where is there room for it?” came a voice from the back of the formation. “We wanna go there!”
“Who said that?” snapped Botchup. There was no answer.
“Who said that?” Botchup leaned forward on the podium, a snarl on his lips. When nobody responded, he continued, “First Sergeant, I want the legionnaire who said that brought forward to be disciplined.” Lieutenant Snipe pulled out his notebook again and stood poised to enter the offender’s name.
“Begging the major’s pardon, but I haven’t the faintest idea who said it,” said Brandy.
Botchup was incredulous. “You don’t know the voices of your own troops, Sergeant?”
“Not all of them, sir,” said Brandy. “We have new recruits in the company.”
“A good while since, if I recall,” said Botchup, frowning. He shook a finger at the sergeant. “You should know them by now.”