Private Jackson looked toward Sarah.
Sarah was still in the front-leaning rest.
Hayes saw it.
“Miller, recover.”
Her arms buckled as she pushed herself backward onto her knees.
Only then did the rest of the platoon stand.
The silence felt different from obedience.
It felt like judgment.
Hayes walked slowly down the first rank. He had spent nine weeks convincing those soldiers that hesitation was weakness and collective discipline meant carrying out every order exactly as given. Now they had used the lesson against him. They had acted as one, but not in the way he intended.
“You think this is loyalty?” he asked.
Nobody answered.
“You think helping a soldier avoid a lawful correction makes you a team?”
Jackson’s jaw tightened.
Hayes stopped in front of him.
“You started it.”
“No, Drill Sergeant.”
“You dropped first.”
“Yes, Drill Sergeant.”
“That means you started it.”
Jackson kept his eyes forward.
“Private Miller started the repetition, Drill Sergeant. We joined it.”
A few soldiers almost smiled.
Hayes did not.
He looked back at Sarah.
Her hands were bleeding.
The sight changed something in his face for half a second.
Then the mask returned.
“Miller, how many?”
“Two hundred and two, Drill Sergeant.”
“You were ordered three hundred.”
