Of the 185 Malacans selected, four of them were "Tall Ones" as Christopher had begun to call them. Because he still hadn't figured out what made them different (and having been graced by the 'Wit &Wisdom' of Sergeant Maysfield in his own Boot Camp) he thought it more prudent to keep them back with gear. Friday was his old efficient self and his three cohorts—Saturday, Sunday and Monday—were not far behind! They had begun to lay out the clothing stores for dispensing. Christopher wondered where Griff had found so much clothing for short, fat Marines. Well, they were short, they were (comparatively) fat—or more correctly, thick chested—but they did have their upside. From what he could tell from the physiology and anatomy lessons he had gotten from the ship's medical crew, the Malacans' upper arm and leg strength was terrific, as were their wrists and hands, which were capable of rotating almost 320 degrees around. Even if they couldn't hit anything, at least they'd be able to hold the rifles up. Their fingers were fairly flexible, at least on a par with humans, and their eyesight was on the order of the human eye—possibly even a little better, but that was only speculation. There wasn’t much information on the proper testing of alien eyesight. They couldn't smell anything coming from more than ten feet away, but they could hear a rat pissing on a ball of cotton at fifteen yards—or they could shut their hearing canals down and stand there calmly smiling at you as you jumped up and down in front of them!
The main problem was one of rotation in all other joints outside of the wrists. There was less than 60% rotation in the hip and knee joints compared to Earthers. The arms could raise almost directly over their heads, which was good because if they ever had to surrender, they couldn't lace their fingers together and still reach the back of their heads so they could do it the old-fashioned way. If they walked, they walked in a very human fashion, but when they ran they looked more like chimpanzees, body weight shifting side to side because their knees couldn’t support the sudden shock of full body weight dropping suddenly down. They could probably break the Marine record for sit ups and pull ups without even breaking a sweat, but a simple squat thrust done with any force would dislocate both hip joints. Marching was going to be a whole new experience for all parties concerned.
And then there was the question of hair. Four or five inches long, it protruded up from collars and out of shirtsleeves and pant legs.
* * *
"STAND ON THE YELLA’ LINE. STAND ON THE LINE! MOVEITMOVEIT! LETSGOLETSGOLETSGO!"
In the darkness, they were colliding with each other to try and comply with the four men all giving orders. In the blackness, the 'yellow' lines were invisible.
"STAND WITH YOUR BACKS TO THE BUS, YOUR FEET ON THE YELLA' LINES! STAND WITH YOUR…"
The voice drawled on endlessly. It rose above the other voices all screaming at once. The hot rain was increasing in intensity. Standing next to the buses wasn't such a bad idea. If you pressed in tightly against it, at least a little of the water was deflected—until the wind shifted and sent it directly into your face.
A deadly silence, half uncertainty and half surprise, fell over the wet, sleep-deprived recruits. The Marine called Maysfield ordered the Marines in the rain gear to finish their work and light some sort of lamp that smoked. The three other Marines that wore hats like Sergeant Christopher stood behind Maysfield, legs spread slightly apart and hands behind their backs. They did not move, they did not speak; they did not seem to mind standing there in the uncomfortable rain. Maysfield began to slowly pace back and forth in front of the lines of shivering recruits. He marched perfectly erect, hands folded behind his back, his body perfectly perpendicular to the recruits but his face was turned in on them.
Like the other three behind him, he wore the dark blue pants with the red stripe down the leg, and a tan shirt beneath his raincoat and that strange hat. Unlike the other three who wore ties, his shirt was open at the throat and at his side was the same pistol as Sergeant Christopher had worn. And he paced. Slowly. Back and forth. The recruits, too uncertain about the situation, did not turn their faces to follow the man. But their eyes rolled slowly from side to side in almost perfect unison. A habit that would be very short lived, as eyes forward was explained in great and vigorous detail.
Every few moments, Maysfield would glance at his watch. Finally, he positioned himself dead center to the lines and faced them head on.
"IT IS NOW… PRECISELY 06:00 HOURS. AS SUNRISE IS AT 07:23 HOURS, WE WILL WAIT! YOU WILL NOT MOVE, YOU WILL NOT SPEAK, THINK, OR IN ANY WAY MODIFY THE POSITION YOU ARE NOW EMPLOYING. YOU HAVE JOINED THE ARMED FORCES OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA, AND MORE PARTICULARLY, MY UNITED STATES MARINE CORPS. FROM THIS POINT ON YOU WILL BE HELD ACCOUNTABLE FOR YOUR ACTIONS IN THOSE TERMS… TO ME."
He turned and walked through the men standing behind him and disappeared behind the buses.
Maysfield walked into the darkness just beyond the range of hearing of the new recruits. There was a small tent set up lit only by a slender glow stick. Several of the detail were squatting under the cover out of the angry downpour.
"What's the matter, Master Sergeant? You looked annoyed," said a Marine from the deeper recesses of the tent.
"It's this ga'danned 'ship's time.'" He tapped on the illuminated face on his watch. "It's got me all screwed up." This was a common problem. The clock on board a ship was the clock a crew followed. It was "zeroed" to a homeport unless otherwise specified for whatever reason. An out‑worlder, biologically ready for 2:00 AM could find himself sitting down for a noonday meal. It was universally accepted though that for the sake of the crews the less you tampered with the 'time clock' the more efficiently your crews performed their jobs. The Marine from the corner pushed forward with a cup of coffee and offered it to Maysfield.
"What's goin' on here?" inquired the Corporal offering the coffee.
"You know how it works. If there were a reason for you to know, they'd have told you. Just do what you got to do, and let's get the hell out of here. This place gives me the creeps." Maysfield finished the coffee and left the cup on the tent floor.
"Be sure this place is down and cleared out before daybreak."
The rain had stopped.
When the sun had risen enough to push back the greater portion of darkness, Cock Roach could see Maysfield standing behind the three men in the Smokeys. Where the fuck he had come from to get there, CR hadn't a clue. Behind him, back about ten feet, were six tables with small platforms about 2 or 2½ feet high and two feet across, set in front. If the events of the last few hours had left him uncertain as to the shape of his world, what was about to transpire would send that world flying off into space, never to be heard from again.
In about twenty minutes, just as the sun had climbed to a point in the sky that was sufficiently high enough to be directly in the eyes of the shorter recruits, Maysfield stepped again through the men and faced his half-drowned captives.
"ON COMMAND… YOU WILL FORM TWO LINES AT EACH TABLE. ONE ON THE RIGHT-HAND SIDE, ONE ON THE LEFT. THE MAN AT THE FRONT OF THE LINE WILL STRIP DOWN TO HIS UNDERWEAR. IF YOU ARE WEARING AN UNDER SHIRT OF ANY SORT, YOU WILL REMOVE THAT ALSO. YOU WILL HAND YOUR CLOTHING TO THE MAN BEHIND YOU AND ON COMMAND FROM THE TROOP HANDLERS YOU WILL APPROACH THE PLATFORMS. IS! THIS! CLEAR?"
As if by command and without the necessity of an answer to the previous question, the air was filled with a buzzing sound, as if a dozen hives of bees had been kicked over at once.
"WHEN YOU HAVE REACHED THE PLATFORM YOU WILL DO AN ABOUT FACE AND SIT UNTIL YOU ARE INSTRUCTED TO STAND. UPON CONCLUSION, THE RECRUIT APPROACHING WILL HAND YOU BACK YOUR CLOTHES. THE MAN AT THE END OF THE LINE WILL BE HOLDING A CLOTH TO REMOVE LOOSE HAIR. HE WILL WIPE YOU OFF. DRESS AND GET IMMEDIATELY BACK ON THE BUS! IS THIS CLEAR!”
There was no response.
"GOOD! IMMEDIATELY UPON SEATING YOURSELF ON THE PLATFORM, LET THE HANDLER WITH THE ELECTRIC RAZOR KNOW IF YOU HAVE ‘A’ KNOT, ‘A’ BUMP, ‘A’ MOLE, OR ‘A’ PROTRUSION OF ANY SORT!"
The ride back to the barracks was taking on hellish proportions. They were wet, they hadn't had thirty minutes of sleep in the last day and a half, and on Roach's bus they were starting to lose it. Master Sergeant Maysfield just paced back and forth through the isle. After having shouted three recruits awake, he had decided that they were all "sneaky little buzzards who’d try and steal some sleep right under his nose" and made them come to attention standing on their seats, their left hand down the seam of their pant leg, and their right hand holding onto the overhead luggage railing. He then told the driver to pick up the pace to what almost seemed a break‑neck speed over the barren terrain. They rumbled along at thirty-five miles per hour, trying to maintain a position of attention as the Master Sergeant kept pacing back and forth and shouting things like, "Keep those knees bent or you'll pass out!" and "What the hell is this man's Corps coming to! You ain't the bottom of the barrel, you little shitbirds are what's underneath it!"
They must have been in that position for the better part of an hour when Maysfield yelled, "Now sit down in the ga'danned seats!" They dropped as a unit but as soon as their backsides hit the seats the Sergeant shouted, "Stand up and get ready to move out!" The bus ground to a halt.
"Get the hell off the bus and form two lines along the side of the vehicle. MOVE!" The scramble to get out was intense as twenty Malacan Boots blasted forward, flooding the exit and bottlenecking as a result. The dam burst and they spilled onto the sun-baked ground.
"WHAT IN THE HELL ARE YOU GA'DANNED FOOLS DOIN'? GEDUP, GEDUP. AW HELL! SIT ON THE GA'DANNED GROUND! MOVE! MOVE! MOVE!"
They scrambled down the edge of the bus afraid to get off the ground. They sat, not in two lines but more like a herd of bizarre bald‑headed animals bunched together for their own survival from a storm of amazing proportions. The command to "SPREAD OUT! OUT!" came and they reluctantly started to peel apart. Maysfield never stopped shouting as he wove his way through them. Unbeknownst to them, Maysfield was searching for the biggest, toughest looking lad of the lot. Although the 'laying on of hands' had long since been written out of the Marine DI's Code of Ethics, old Abner had never left a Boot unsure, even for a moment, just who the Supreme Commander was. He had been doing this too long to alter his ways. His boss wanted top quality Marines and he was going to get 'em—the surest way Maysfield knew how!
The problem was, even with all his experience, Maysfield had never dealt with Malacans. To be honest about it, he couldn't tell who he was getting to. All he could do was probe and hope for an opening. Finally, he found it. He was bending over and shouting directly in the face of the Boot marked "Arnold.”
"You little short-dicked, pud-pullin' crud!" Maysfield kept pushing his face closer and closer into Arnold's. "If we were back at the Island, I'd be pointin' the paths into the swamps to ya right now."
Arnold was starting to tense. What little neck he had to begin with was disappearing as his head was slowly tilting upward. Maysfield knew he had him.
"I'll tell you right now, shitbird, you ain't gonna make it. You're gonna 'belly up' and blow outa here so fast, you’ll think you had a rocket up your butt! What’cha think about that, Boot?" Maysfield was now almost nose-to-nose with Arnold, who was starting to twitch and jerk from the anger inside him.
What happened next, Maysfield was just not prepared for. Arnold made a weird growling noise and as his eyes locked onto the Master Sergeant's. Maysfield watched, mystified, as the pupils of the recruit's eyes seemed to swirl downward into his head leaving only a white pool. The white melted away into a clear, glassy orb. Maysfield found himself staring into two empty pools. Arnold threw his weight forward suddenly. Unfortunately for him, it wasn't sudden enough, and Maysfield caught him with the heel of his open right palm square between the eyes. Arnold covered the distance he had crossed twice as fast on the way back. His butt hit the ground so hard he bounced. He sat there, stunned.
"Son," Maysfield leaned over him again, face to face. "Don't EVER try anything like that until you learn something about fighting!"
|
DS - 7801 - A1 To: OFFICE OF NTA BEAUFORT AIR STATION S.C., U.S.A., EARTH COLONEL A.L. GRIFFEN |
55 - 05 - 28 From: MARINE DETACHMENT MCS phEY-QUAD In Transit SERGEANT R.S. CHRISTOPHER |
AS PER DIRECTIVE, HAVE SELECTED 185 VOLUNTEERS TO BEGIN THE PROJECT. HAVE PROPORTIONED HEIGHT, AGE, AND WEIGHT REQUIREMENTS TO ADJUST TO PHYSIOLOGICAL DIFFERENCES. HAVE SEGREGATED FROM REGULAR CREWS AND AM INTENT UPON CREATION OF FOUR REASONABLY STANDARD SIZED PLATOONS. WILL RELEASE CLASS "H" CONTAINING ALL ENLISTMENT INFORMATION AND REQUESTS FOR GREEN CARDS. PLEASE ALSO INCLUDE 185 APPLICATIONS FOR CITIZENSHIP. REQUESTING UPDATED COPY OF MARINE GUIDE BOOKS, CAN MANUFACTURE COPIES FROM THIS LOCATION. ENCLOSING A PAYROLL LIST, EFFECTIVE 55-05-27.
| SERGEANT R.S. CHRISTOPHER |
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OK! I got 185 wetback recruits, a gear locker full of hundred-year-old equipment and eighteen to twenty weeks to make the whole thing work! This is the last chance I'll give you to back out.
Expecting the return of the troops momentarily. I can't wait to see what they're like after a day and a half of Maysfield!
|
Bob |
Needless to say, it was the Roach sitting next to Arnold when he got decked. He was having a genuinely 'shit' day, and this was the first upbeat thing that had happened! He was probably the only one in the herd of Malacans that knew Maysfield wasn't supposed to touch, but there were a number of factors in play that he had to take into consideration:
Number 1: From where he sat, Arnold had run into Maysfield, not the other way around. But so what? Where they all came from, it wasn't unusual for a crew chief to walk up behind you and 'clock' you a shot to the back of the head if he caught you goofing off. Arnold had caught one face-first because he was stupid and hot-headed. It seemed outright cordial in comparison.
Number 2: Arnold was a muscle bound butt‑head! He was a pain in the ass to be with on liberty because you never knew who or what he was going to 'take on,' and Arnold took great pleasure from throwing off the balance of the two‑man cargo haulers. Nah, the asshole got was coming to him!
And Maysfield had accomplished what he had set out to do. If there had been any doubt in their minds as to who was in charge or what they had gotten into, it was gone now!
"GET IN TWO LINES, BACKS TO THE BUS, BACKS TO THE BUS!"
Nobody had to ask them twice, the lines formed instantly. For some reason old Abner Willie felt better about the situation. Almost directly in front of them was a small, prefabricated cabin, about fifteen yards long and six or eight feet wide. CR thought it was kind of odd, out here in the middle of what was essentially 'nowhere', to see a building hooked up to nothing but a water tower. What the hell were they doing? On the other side of the building, roughly the same distance from it as they were, was another of the buses. From the far exit, recruits had been running out of it holding most of their clothing, looking like they were sudsing like unfinished laundry. Their troop handler who followed at a somewhat more casual pace trailed them.
"BEFORE WE ISSUE YOU YOUR UNIFORMS," Maysfield drawled, still pacing back and forth, back and forth, "WE ARE REQUIRED TO SEE THAT YOU’RE PROPERLY DEE‑LOUSED… AS WELL AS PROPERLY GROOMED!"
Since the numbers were so out of proportion, Abner Willie had convinced Griffen to allow the revival of a few old customs—leading the list was the "Sixty Second Shower.” With 185 recruits running around and only five DIs to control them, the more the Boots could be kept off balance, the easier it would be to put something between their ears. Besides, drastic times called for drastic measures!
Despite Griffen's 'better judgment,' this almost sounded reasonable, so the Colonel had given him the go‑ahead. Now all Maysfield had to do was convince Christopher this way was 'good to go.'
Christopher, on the other hand, had his own set of problems. He had just blown 185 recruits through the entire pre‑game warm up and thrown them right into the middle of it. They had no idea of Code of Conduct or Rank Structure; Christopher had no idea of what their mental or emotional aptitudes actually were. They had no idea of the physical disciplines required for the job; he had no idea if they could do Marine style squat‑thrusts. There was a world of problems here that were 'implied' rather than clearly stated.
What was he supposed to do if one of these pinheads caught shrapnel from a 150-year-old rifle exploding in his face from a faulty barrel? Holler for a Corpsman? The nearest Corpsman was going to be eighty or ninety light years away! To make things worse, this whole project had a sheet thrown over it. He had no idea what either Griffen or the Corps was planning to do with the two or three Malacans that managed to survive the experience. He had no idea what to do if coHLI tried to give one of his guys an order. Was he supposed to be a diplomat or a Drill Instructor? And he had another problem that was slightly closer to home.
Where did Maysfield stand in relation to him? The guy was a 'professional' Drill Instructor in the truest sense of the term! He'd had the rules bent on his behalf for the last fifteen or twenty years—and he out ranked Christopher! Who the hell was in charge here? Christopher hadn't spoken to either Griffen or Maysfield directly on this matter.
And then there was the "Ultimate Problem!" Contrary to what the civilian population perceived, a Drill Instructor was just that—an instructor of the drill, of marching, of… well, it was just the tip of the iceberg. Sure, he supplied the discipline, but there were regular instructors who taught Recruits navigation, firearms, bayonet use, communication, pugil sticks, water survival, space survival… close combat training was going to be a nightmare of intense proportions! Try as he might, Christopher had consistently drawn a blank at tripwire and mine-disarming techniques. Under normal conditions, being a DI wasn't bad duty. The Recruiters had the Boots already prepped in the basics—there was a three to six-month 'holding pattern' when somebody enlisted. The recruiters would see to it that all enlistees were well conditioned long before they even saw a Drill Instructor.
Through the years, public opinions and perceptions had shaped the DIs image, and the Corps had found no reason to disassemble a perfectly working tool. Most new Recruits were pretty well 'pre-cowed' by the time they reached the receiving depot—when you're not certain of what's going to happen, a rumor is as good as reality. Most of the time all a DI need do is tilt his head and the wide, stiff brim of the Smokey would force a Boot to maintain eye contact—undivided attention was a virtual certainty. It was a good system. It worked. But this was "a whole nether ball o' wax."
Given that neither Christopher nor Maysfield and his crew could do much more than maintain the persona, the geographic logistics alone were… what? Death defying? Where the hell were they going to put a rifle range? A grenade pit? A confidence course?
|
DS -7809 – A3 To: MARINE DETACHMENT MCS phEY-QUAD In Transit SERGEANT R.S. CHRISTOPHER |
55 - 05 - 27 From: OFFICE OF NTA BEAUFORT AIR STATION S.C., U.S.A., EARTH COLONEL A.L. GRIFFEN |
HAVE RECEIVED PAPERWORK RE: CURRENT PROJECT.
REFER TO SHIP'S CAPTAIN FOR IMMEDIATE CLARIFICATION!
|
COLONEL A.L. GRIFFEN |
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And what do you think the boys down in payroll are going to say about issuing a government paycheck to Marine recruit Buttcrack? ARE YOU CRAZY?!
I said "Make them Marines," NOT "Recruit them for the Friggin’ U.S. Marine Corps!" I meant THEIR Corps—not OUR Corps! How the hell am I supposed to get 185 aliens through Immigrations who haven’t spent enough time on Earth to drink a quart of beer and take a good piss?
What we have here is a major failure to communicate!
Get it straightened out—NOW!
|
Griffen! |
|
DS - 7810 – A4 To: OFFICE OF NTA BEAUFORT AIR STATION S.C., U.S.A., EARTH COLONEL A.L. GRIFFEN |
55 - 05 - 27 From: MARINE DETACHMENT MCS phEY-QUAD In Transit SERGEANT R.S. CHRISTOPHER |
PLEASE REFER TO CLASSIFIED DOCUMENT DS-7800-50, DATED 55-05-26, SECOND PARAGRAPH. CANNOT AT THIS TIME CHANGE PARAMETERS OF THE PROJECT WITHOUT SERIOUS LOSS OF CREDIBILITY AND SERIOUS DIPLOMATIC REPERCUSSIONS.
WILL CONTINUE AS PREVIOUSLY DIRECTED. EXPECT NO CHANGE TO SUPPORT OFFERED PREVIOUSLY.
|
SERGEANT R.S. CHRISTOPHER |
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Whoa there, John Wayne! Your words exactly—"crank me out U.S. MARINES.” Well, that's what I'm doing! I got 185 Malacans who are bald‑headed to their knees, a ship's captain who's so beside himself with joy at the way things are going he's walking around with a woody, and two Staff Sergeants who are working overtime going through the gear locker to find enough of that antique military surplus you sent us to outfit a platoon—without blowing us to Kingdom Friggin’ Come the first time somebody pulls the trigger on a grenade launcher!
You packed my butt up, shot me out into space, gave me no indication of what you 'expected' done—now I got 370 semi-flat feet marching in place while I try to figure out where the hell I'm going to build an indoor rifle range in a garbage truck! BLOW IT OUT YOUR ASS!
This is what you wanted. This is what we're doing!
|
R.(andolph) S.(cott) Christopher |
Immediately on their return, Christopher issued skivvies and what would be considered, generally, gym wear. A 'slight problem' had arisen with the 'size' of the outerwear.
He allowed them to hit their bunks—of course it took forty-five minutes to teach them how to climb in a bunk. When the 'tall ones' started to set up a section cubicled off by blankets, Maysfield went through the overhead until Christopher motioned to him to 'just let be.'
After about five hours, somewhere around 04:30, 'lights on' was blasted through the squad bays and—since neither Christopher nor Maysfield had located a garbage pail made of anything but plastic and foot lockers hadn't been issued yet—they walked through the squad bays hammering on the bunks with twelve-inch long steel piping. Sabott, Rojas and Stone began what was to become the morning ritual for late risers—personally conducted trips to the quarter deck for an hour or two of gymnastics that would have warped the minds and bodies of the Flying Wolendas.
It was a horrendous sight for men of the military persuasions—185 totally lost beings running in all directions at once for no other reason than they were being badgered by five strange creatures who yelled and screamed and created a near-perfect mayhem. Well, four strange creatures anyway—Christopher stood motionless in the center of the mobocracy, feet apart and hands behind his back, as if expecting that order would return by force of will alone. It didn't. At least it didn't until Maysfield put the small silver trinket that hung about his neck to his lips and blew—hard.
A high, shrill sound wave ripped through the room like a straight razor slashing wildly about in the hand of an angry pimp, the bizarre acoustical nature of the vessel amplifying and shooting the shapeless tone through the bay like a rocket. It went through the heads of the earthmen like a shot, and only the years of the Marine disciple they employed kept tears from forming in their eyes. It should be noted however, that Stone's eyes did cross. The Malacans weren't quite so lucky. Half of them dropped to their knees, stunned by the pitch. The sudden tone had suddenly invaded their audio canals and now it could not be shut out. An uneasy silence settled in.
It took a full minute before composure on both sides returned. One by one the DIs pulled the fallen off the floor and began regrouping the herd into something that could at least pass for Standing at Attention. Four platoons of about forty-six each were created—four squares of shaved bodies, looking like neither their alien ancestors nor their adoptive Marine fathers.
In the mind's eye of an aging Marine, this image was engraved the most deeply. The sounds of his own footsteps echoing through that most silent bay would still ring in his ears from time to time. Four platoons in a receiving unit were turned over to their Drill Instructors. To this point, outside of Christopher and Maysfield, the other Marines had acted in anonymity, a state quite distressing to the social Malacans. Christopher had walked to the center of the four platoons and one by one called its Drill Instructor forward. And then it was time to get serious.
Christopher strode from the center of the formed square to the northern side of the bay. "Right Face,” "Left Face,” the DIs called to move their squares head-on to face Christopher.
"Master Sergeant Maysfield! Front and center!"
"Aye, aye Sergeant Christopher!" echoed a call from the southern most point of the square. Solid steps echoed the echo moving northward through the formation.
"Up until a decade ago," Christopher continued, "the United States Marine Corps served under the auspices of the Department of the United States Navy. As such, we adopted the language and terminology of the Navy. It is but one of many Traditions we, as Marines, still observe. Master Sergeant Maysfield will now instruct you in that language and terminology."
Old Abner Willie wasted no time in launching himself into the task.
"We will now begin our lesson in Naval Terminology. Naval Terminology! The door you entered in through… is no longer a door! It is a hatch! A stairway is no longer a stairway, it is a ladder well…" There was a strange pause as Maysfield surveyed the formation. "That miserable formation you're standing in is no longer a formation! It is a ga'danned Clusterfuck!"
Christopher could feel beads of perspiration forming on his brow. Oh, well! Might as well give them the whole nine yards from the git‑go.
After an hour of instruction on Naval and assorted Marine Terminology, it was decided that, as the troops had made such a poor display of rising, perhaps a little more instruction on how to get out of the bunks was in order 'before breakfast'.
The greatest motivation Christopher thought he'd have over his new troops was the U.S. military policy of feeding its troops decently, and under normal circumstances that would have been the case. However, it was now almost thirty-six hours since Maysfield had introduced the troops to the Old Corps Tradition of the sixty-second shower. It was beginning to show its effect.
The sixty-second shower was a simple procedure dating back to the Korean and Vietnam era Corps. You marched your recently civilian‑terminated Boots into the shower, wetted them down, told them to lather up, gave them about three to five seconds of water to rinse off with… and then you chased them out of the showers. It left the new Boot with an immediate and definite concept of what On The Double was all about. Especially a day and a half later when the crotch itch began to invade their perimeters. The realization that if you got business over with ASAP, you'd be much better in the long run was fast upon them. This lesson had not been wasted on the Malacans.
They were paying the price for not having moved fast enough. They were further burdened by the loss of a lush covering of body hair that insulated and protected their skin, but served not the foreign garments they'd be expected to wear. They were beginning to twitch and Christopher could see a discoloration of the skin appearing on some of them. Whether it was the covering of dried soap or the lack of normal body insulation that was causing it was not important.
There is a certain mental insulation that comes also from not knowing your enemy's face. Maysfield hadn't been around long enough to know these beings by face, and it was obvious to Christopher that Abner had elected to tend to business as it had been tended to in the mid‑twentieth century. Desperate times had called for desperate measures, and in Abner's mind these times were as desperate for the Corps as 'Nam and Korean had been in the previous century. But Christopher knew them by face. He'd worked with them and eaten with them. He would allow Maysfield to continue his approach to the problem, but there would have to be lines drawn and this was the first.
A shower call was made. Personal products were obtained from the ship's store and issued to half the group while the other half were issued ancient field rations. Maysfield’s platoon had been in the first section called for Shower, but with a rather grandiosely fashioned request Maysfield volunteered his platoon to wait for the second call. Much to the dismay of the Boots in his platoon, the request was granted.
To Christopher's mind a compromise had been successfully negotiated. To Maysfield's mind acceptance of his methods had been approved.
To the 185 new Boots? A point had been made.
