The heavy copper whistle atop the Rust Hall mess hall shrieked across the subterranean barracks, signaling the end of an eighteen-hour shift of hauling coal and scraping casting slag.
Exhausted laborers dragged their blistered feet across the stone floor, filing into the long, unventilated dining chamber where iron benches lined grease-stained wooden tables.
A single brass oil lamp suspended from the low timber rafters cast flickering amber shadows over the tired faces of seventy recruits who had spent the day breaking their backs in the outer service wings.
Plates of watery grain porridge and salted turnip roots were shoved down the center of each board by veteran attendants, providing the meager caloric fuel necessary to keep the service wing operating through the night.
Ye Chen sat
