Hurrah for Dixie (Part II)

	Colonel Ardwick stepped out of his tent, only to be greeted by both the brisk morning air and the blinding sun that seemed to aim directly at his face. He had received an order from his brigade commander the day prior that he would need to supervise the training of a few dozen new recruits. "Thank God," he thought to himself, "we took a beating last week, and we need to be back up to full strength as soon as possible."
	He quickly spotted the group awaiting his introduction about two hundred feet slightly downhill from his tent, and he trudged towards them while casually buttoning up his gray coat. As he got closer, he took note of what these recruits looked like, searching for familiar faces but coming up empty. A majority of the men were older than he anticipated; only a handful of them were his age. They all scanned the busy camp anxiously, wondering which direction their commanding officer would approach from. When he got very close, they ceased their quiet conversations and faced him.
	He noticed that one man met his eyes and promptly slumped his black hat down in an effort to hide his identity. He cleared his throat and spoke.
	"Good morning, gentlemen. I am Colonel Samuel L. Ardwick, the commanding officer of the 12th South Carolina Infantry Regiment which you will all soon be a part of. As you may have read in the papers, the 12th was sent back here from Virginia to try and regain its original numbers. Last week, we were overrun by the Yankees at an engagement near-"
	He cut himself short as he finally recognized a face among the recruits.

	He was looking right at you, with that confident and angular face that could effortlessly grab the attention of civilian women and military officers alike. That bushy mustache and thin beard combination, which didn't need to make his chin any more pronounced than it already was. Those piercing green eyes that could either terrify or inspire whoever was at the receiving end.
	Your older brother Sam. The man that indirectly ruined your reputation.
	He started to chuckle, confusing everyone around you. "You're a year late, Anon, but I'm just glad you didn't wait for a draft notice!" The whole gang of recruits slowly turned to view who the colonel was being so informal to. "Mr. Ardwick, front and center!" he barked with a big grin. From what little you knew about military commands, you knew that meant you had to step forward.
	After doing so, he playfully grabbed your shoulders and spun you around to face the swarm of volunteers.
	"Men, this is my younger brother Anon! Despite being such a young and physically able Southerner, it took him almost a full year to decide to enlist! I order you all, as your Colonel, to laugh at him!"
	The puzzled recruits followed his order and did their best to mockingly laugh at you. You obviously knew Sam was just messing with you and didn't mean any genuine disrespect, but this irritated you nonetheless.
	"Okay, okay," he ordered to them, "Cease laughing! Anon, you can return to the ranks now, I was just playing around."
He snickered at the very recent memory of what he just did, and then motioned for someone behind him to come forward. To his side, a short, older man with a graying beard wearing a similar uniform joined him.
	"Gentlemen," he said while forcefully removing his smile and pointing at the officer, "this is Captain McCroskey. He'll first teach you how to march. I'll check back on you men in an hour or two, and if he tells me you performed well, you'll be taught musket drills today."

	Sam turned around and started walking back up the shallow slope. From behind, he heard the captain bark his first orders to the men with that heavily accented Irish voice of his.
	"FIRST OFF, WHEN I YELL "ATTENTION, COMPANY", YOU ARE TO STAND UP STRAIGHT AND PUT YOUR BLOODY HEELS TOGETHER! DO YOU UNDERSTAND THAT?" As he got further away, McCroskey's shouts became indistinguishable from the overall noise of the camp. Mere feet away from his tent, while fantasizing about lighting up a fresh cigar, a cheerful female voice suddenly ambushed him from behind.
	"Hello, Colonel! Anon and your parents told me so much about you!"
	He was then face to face with a type of machine he had heard of, but never seen in person. It wore a man's shirt and pants along with a grin wider than any human he'd ever met. These "nandroids", as they were called, were specifically manufactured in Europe and a handful of northern states. The only one in South Carolina that he knew of belonged to...
	"Oh, you must be Dixie, right? Anon's droid?" he asked as he politely extended his hand without smiling. She swiftly grasped his hand in return, further putting him on edge. "It's uncanny how much this thing acts like a real human," he thought to himself, "but it looks like an oversized doll!"
	"That's right, sir! He doesn't even know I'm here!" she excitedly replied.
	"Well, respectfully, I'd like to know why you came. Did you just want to meet me?"
She sheepishly looked down for a few seconds to queue up her bold request.
	"Colonel, unlike Anon, I am chalk full of pride for my new country. I'm askin' if there's anythang I can do for the regiment besides bein' a cook or a nurse or somethin'."
	Sam fell silent as a dozen clashing ideas and questions rushed into his head. "Should I give this thing a musket? Is that what it wants? What would the generals think if I handed a weapon to it? Should I give it a uniform? Order it to fill our canteens? Put it within a mile of a battlefield? What the Hell should I do?"
	He didn't even take into account the irony of a soulless robot being more patriotic than the man it lives with. Still, its words sounded like that of an ambitious child. He just couldn't immediately turn down its request if it honestly wanted to serve its country.
	"Uh... listen," he said with half-hearted optimism, "I'll send a wire to General Jackson up in Virginia today to see if he'll allow anything, but I don't know if I can make any promises."

	After a long and grueling day of marching around camp with that harsh mick yelling at you, you needed to lie down. Before you could do that, however, you had to find out which tent would be yours.
	Apparently, in the captain's eyes, your group didn't march well enough to warrant practicing musket drills that day. That hardly bothered you though, as you were fairly accustomed to handling and firing rifles from your childhood hunting trips. Once you held one in your hands, you were certain the dormant muscle memory would activate and make a marksman out of you.
	McCroskey was still listing off privates in groups of three or four and pointing them towards where they'd be sleeping. The ranks around you were losing their numbers as the men fell out, up until you were the last one not yet assigned to a tent. Perhaps you weren't on the list?
	"Private Ardwick, the Colonel has already assigned you to a tent of your own. Last one in the row down there," he said while pointing towards the darkest corner of the camp near a cluster of trees. "Sam and his favoritism," you thought.
	"Just me, sir?"
	"Those are the Colonel's orders, boy-o. You are dismissed," he said coldly before walking away.
	"Goodnight, sir," you mumbled.
In the darkness, you stumbled down the row of occupied tents before you found yours and opened the flap, not anticipating to find the outline of another person inside.
	"Good evenin', Private Ardwick!" a familiar chipper voice greeted with a motion that you assumed was a salute, "You look exhausted!"
You found yourself too tired to scold her or even wonder what she was doing there. It would be better to interrogate her when you had a competent amount of energy.
	"You're exactly right, Dixie," you managed to say before collapsing onto the ground blanket face-up and shutting your eyes. Within seconds, you felt a pair of arms gently wrap around your gut and something heavy settle on your chest. As you drifted off, you heard a faint whisper, "Goodnight, Anon..."

	You jolted awake at the sound of your tent flap opening. It was still pitch black outside, so you couldn't see who just poked their head into your sleeping quarters.
	"Psst! Hey, Dixie!" Even at a whisper, you recognized the voice.
	"She needs to be rewound first, Sam," you grumbled, "Speaking of which, how do you know about her?"
"Oh hey, Anon. I met her today and Dad described her often in his letters- Look, can you make sure she reads this in the morning?"
	His silhouette extended something towards you. You grabbed it with your free hand and felt it to be a piece of paper, but you couldn't make out what was written on it. Based on his tone, he didn't seem to care that he woke you up at such an early hour.
	"Yeah, sure."
	He promptly excused himself without another word. It was at this point you were awake enough to notice her unmoving body was tightly clinging to yours, making it hard for you to sit up or move, but you didn't mind. You rested your hand on her head and stroked her soft hair for several minutes until you dozed off again.