Diary of soldier Pedhaer, soldier of the third Evendim Footmen company. Summary of January, Third Age 2983.

Never let it be said that the Dúnedain do not know how to drill a militia. I came here after having lived a rather adventurous life, to cut thirty-five years of misery and bad luck short, expecting to breeze through the training and land myself a nice, cosy job as a soldier in their service. Technically I'm one of them by birth. Realistically... My father, my mother and everyone I knew or cared for died fighting while I was nothing but a young chap. Through some type of forsaken happenstance I survived, to make a long story short, and grew up with a lovely burn scar that covers most of my face. Needless to say, most people do not like how I look and growing up this disfigured has dictated my path in life. At least here I got to wear a helmet. I don't recognise any of the other Rangers that greeted the bands of misfits that signed up along with me, but then again I didn't expect them to. I doubt any of the veteran Rangers would recognise me. My name, they might recall. Not my face though. Hah.

Most of men came here with the same expectations as me, I suppose. Three meals a day and finding some purpose in life, preferably in the shape of killing Orcs and Goblins and other ne'er-dowels. Some were in it for vengeance. Others for glory. Others just were strung along by Rangers and were given the choice between being handed over to the constabulary or joining the Evendim squads and help keep the peace. Matter of employing a poacher to catch a poacher, I suppose. Anyway, when the training started the more experienced among us began laughing. I understood why easily enough, half of the blokes couldn't figure out what the blunt end of the mace was, let alone wield it with any shape or form. The Rangers weren't with us then.

I'll admit to making a scene. I don't like it when people are mocked for things they weren't expected to know. These men weren't soldiers. They were farmers, people who survived misfortune by a stroke of luck, or kids who ought to have been too young to join up for fighting. So I went over and made sure that they stopped demoralising the group before it'd even begun. A unit's no good if they're falling apart from the get go. You need unity. There's a reason the word unit and unity sound so damned similar. Kicking off a division only will see us all get killed in the end. So I kicked them in crotch when they didn't want to listen. They weren't bad men, they were just... Well. They didn't understood the concept of surviving at all costs and they sure didn't have a fraction of the combat experience I've accumulated over the years.

Of course, that very moment is when the drill sergeants showed up. Couldn't be bothered to explain it, so I just took the fall and let them punish me. Not like they could do anything to me. Sure, they made me do all the dirty jobs for the rest of the week, but eh, I've been through worse. Carrying the bag of stones didn't slow me down much either. Like I said, I've lived an adventurous life.

By the end of that week the drill sergeants had figured out that I wasn't going to break and that most of the men had begun looking up to me. Couldn't say why, really. Not like I did anything heroic. I even annoyed the crap out of some when I corrected their form when the drill sergeants weren't looking. Figured it'd be more efficient for me to quietly show them than have the sergeants yell at them for half an hour. Again. You know, writing it like that, maybe that's why they liked me. I didn't yell at them, merely showed them how it was done. And took a lot of flak in the process. 'Get back to your position!' Figured it also helped when that one sergeant wanted to show the rest how you wielded a mace by smashing my face in. He certainly didn't expect me to break his nose with my shield though.

Anyway, they made me a squad leader because of that. One of the Rangers dropped by, saw the men fawning over me, pulled me aside and told me to do it. I don't mind terribly. I get some wine with my meals now because of it. I share it with the men, of course. I'm only as good as my squad and them liking me will means they'll fight all the harder for me in the field. It's not the most nice way of thinking about it, but then again I am not a very nice man. I also help out the drill sergeants.. Well, lead them Those who I've not damaged, at least. Their fault really. I understand that the Rangers are short on men, but someone really dropped the ball in that regard. You don't go around breaking bones to prove a point. I mean, that's what I did, but that's a different thing.

That was two weeks ago. Since then I've been drilling the men my way. They've cursed and shouted and swore at me, but I explain the purpose of everything to them and they obey without question, even if with a fair amount of vocal protest. I don't mind. The unit cohesion is at an all time high and even the men who I beat down at the start cooperate with the rest. They're by no means an elite unit, but they can hold the line decently enough. Real step up from the farmers they used to be. Their stamina and morale have improved, but in the end they're an impromptu unit. Not terribly tough and reliable, but there's a limit to how much I can do with the time given to me.

I trained them to use their shields well, so they have a fair bit of protection against arrows. Mostly Orc arrows, crude things can't punch through the shields well. Still, if they'll get targeted by a full enemy unit they'll start taking losses. Only so much body a shield can protect, really, and they don't have any proper armour to speak off. I'll have to talk to the Rangers to see if anything can be done about that. Blokes at least should have some chainmail if they're expected to hold a line. Would increase their life expectancy a fair bit.

Then there's their maces. Simple, crude weapons, but they most definitely pack a solid punch. Not much good when an enemy is half again your height or has a weapon that he can poke you with before you can get close, but if they can get close enough, or if they can hunker behind their shields long enough to get stuck in a proper melee, they'll reap their fair toll. The weapon itself is good for them. Easy to wield. Breaks bones and doesn't care if there's armour in the way, but the men wielding them are, well, I said it before. They're not an elite force. They're not bad, oh no, we practised their swings until their arms fell off, but I'd rather not see them tangling with anything more than a ragtag bunch of Orcs. They're a militia, in the end. Better suited to sitting on top of a wall and waiting for the enemy to come to them than run out in the field and risk being surrounded or outnumbered. Or worse, to face Wargs.

Anyway, I did the best I could. The men are decently trained and they'll be marching off to... well they didn't tell me. Some Rangers will guide them along the way. Not me though. Apparently they liked my training methods and I'm being told to sit here and wait for the next group to arrive. My fault really, I never should've gone hunting. Never expected that damned Ranger, the same one who roped me into this training gig, to be keeping an eye out on me. Can't even shoot a few beasts through the eye to supplement supper with some meat without being called out. Now I'm stuck for another training gig rather than going with my men. Not that they were mine, but I think of them as such. No, now I get to train archers. Given how much damage some of the men managed to inflict on one another with maces, I am rather fearful for my life. Already bothered the healers in the nearby village for some extra supplies. I get a feeling I'll need them.