"WHEN THOSE HEELS COME TOGETHER, I WANNA HEAR IT!" Abner walked back and forth in front of the lines.
"KEEP THOSE FEET AT A 45-DEGREE ANGLE. SHOULDERS, HIPS LEVEL! GA'DAMMIT LEVEL, LEV… (ah shit!)… OK, DO… JUS’… GET AS STRAIGHT AS YOU CAN GET!"
There are three phases to Boot training. The first training period is, to generalize, the Academics—Language, Codes, Military Law, History, and enough Physical Training as is needed to turn a gopher into a grizzly. It is the start of a relentless process meant to tear down individuals to the point where they can be rebuilt into Marines. In this instance, however, it was posing a few problems that weren't in the handbook. Under normal circumstances, DIs refer to a regular reference guide of what happens when. That went out the window with the first recruit on the very first PT test.
Christopher had set up a series of 'chin up' bars, which he had seen as 'adequate' for their needs. But when a slightly less than average sized recruit approached the first bar and reached out, palms facing in as he was instructed—and bent the bar down to his shoulder rather than pull his face up over it, a quick conference was called to decide on a new course of action until such time as they could figure out just what exactly was 'normal' for these guys.
It was the start of problems, alterations,
and solutions so numerous that, after a while, Christopher didn't even bother
recording them in his logbook.
UNDERSTOOD! PROCEED AS PREVIOUSLY DIRECTED. ‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑FOLD‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑FOLD‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑FOLD‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑FOLD‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑ OK, OK, I'll do it! But I want 'Top Troops' you got that,
chicken lips?! And they damned well better be able to speak English! Outside
of Miami, it’s still the national language! And I'd surely as hell better see
185 applications for American citizenship come flying across my desk in the
very near future. I worked out a 'deal'. The faster they
file for citizenship, the faster I can get the green cards cleared! The guy I
hooked up with in Immigration thinks it'd be great publicity for the Bureau. And
when somebody turns the light on this whole affair, 185 American would‑be
citizens are going to be a lot easier to explain to my boss and the politicians
than 185 bald-headed aliens! So make certain either you or Maysfield lets them
know what happens around here in November! I want them involved! Maysfield paused just long enough to read
the dispatch. The ninety recruits standing at attention (or as close as they
could get to it) could sense his momentary puzzlement. So did Christopher and
Rojas. What the hell could he be confused about? Griff was almost 'cut and
dry' for a change! Maysfield nodded to the affirmative, as
if answering an unspoken question to himself. He handed Christopher back the
paper, removed his Smokey to pat down the sweatband with a hanky, reinstated it
to his head, then turned and faced the troops. "ON NOVEMBER 10th, IN THE YEAR 1775,
AT TUN'S TAVERN, IN PHILADELPHIA… THE UNITED STATES MARINE CORPS, ACCORDING TO
TRADITION, WAS BORN. IN HONOR OF THIS, EVERY NOVEMBER, THE CORPS CELEBRATES
WITH—AMONG OTHER THINGS—A TRADITIONAL 'BIRTHDAY BALL' AND THE
TRADITIONAL 'CAKE CUTTING' CEREMONY, THE FIRST PIECE GOING TO THE OLDEST
MARINE PRESENT AND THE SECOND PIECE GOING TO THE YOUNGEST MARINE PRESENT!" Maysfield turned his face towards
Christopher who was watching him with a stare just one degree below
incredulous. After a second or two, Rojas gave him a 'thumbs up' and calmly
walked back to his own recruit units, muttering ‘fuckin' A, Master Sergeant'
under his breath. * * * It didn't take them long to realize that
a new playbook was needed. Traditional PT was just not going to work. Any
exercise from the bellybutton up seemed to be in, and from the bellybutton down
seemed to be out. Chin‑ups were still in question. The DIs understood
what needed to be accomplished… but the method to this end eluded them. The
Malacans just didn't bend all the way in all the right places. And what do you
do with a recruit who can start off with a three-mile run over rough
terrain? They had nearly half the ship to work with, so Maysfield had run them
in circles, up one compartment and down another. He estimated he had them
covering five and six miles at a shot and couldn't even get them to crack a
sweat. To Roach, it just didn't make any sense. But
he had already learned about asking questions when questions weren't asked for.
He had been pointlessly running from one end of the ship to the other,
spending hours learning about History, General Orders, Code of Conduct—hours
trying to memorize what he'd been taught. Some place through all that he even
managed to get three meals, something that resembled a shower and, if he was
lucky, a trip to the head to relieve his bladder. This had gone on for a solid
week already with no end in sight! He had to admit, though; there was
something to be said for the way they fed you. They had been given something
called "C rations" because a regular chow situation had not been
developed yet. That was definitely a step up over what they had eaten as basic
bay hands! And there was a bonus in these little packages of alien food. Most
of the rations had little packets with the name ‘Lucky Strike’ printed on it,
containing several units of dried vegetation rapped in a wafer-thin white
paper. Some of the guys had tried eating them at first. They were a little
bit dry, but they weren't bad. Drill Instructor Master Sergeant
Maysfield had seen some of them devouring these things in handfuls and
explained how you were to use a match or lighter to ignite one end and then
draw the fumes into your mouth. But if you were a Marine you could only do
that when 'the smoking lamp was lit'. There wasn't really a lamp, which caused
a little bit of confusion at first, but that was the only time you could do it.
And if you were a Marine Boot, you couldn't have 'tobacco' (as this strange
delicacy was called) at all. So the Master Sergeant had confiscated them as
contraband during every meal. He'd burn the evidence in private over a cold
beer when he was off duty. But a lot of the guys still had handfuls
stashed away and figured it might be wise to hold onto them for a 'snack'
despite what would happen if they were found out. After a small debate, some
of the guys tried doing it like Maysfield had explained, and they liked it! They
were into it. There would have been a lot more guys into it, but Master
Sergeant Maysfield hadn't explained that it was the unlit side that went
into your mouth! And a couple of the guys hadn't figured that out. The smoke
had set off the fire alarms and the platoon got a lot of extra PT. Guys with
burned tongues got extra mess duty as well as extra PT for being ungodly
stupid. It had been a real boost when Sergeant
Christopher had pulled them off regular duty after they had enlisted. They
hadn't been told this would be part of the deal! But from the minute they had
made their marks upon the enlistment forms, the universe had turned to shit. This
was starting to get hard! And they hadn't been told that either! Christopher
had them running—RUNNING!—to the main cargo hold and pulling out huge blocks of
wood and carrying them back to their largest field bay area. They must have
toted out ten tons of the stuff! Then they ran back and carried out another
three or four tons of some strange heavy rope hose. Then they built platforms clear to the
ceiling and started to attach everything to it! Almost seven hundred feet in
the air, and they're attaching wood blocks and hose to the ceiling! Marine Corps. Go figure! * * * Finding the railroad ties and fire hoses
was a break! By laying the ties down in layers and covering them with strips
of hosing Christopher had built his rifle range—well, sort of. The distances
were a problem. Marines still trained on 200, 300, 500
and 1000 yard ranges. As large as some of the areas they had been given were,
not a one of them cut more than 160 yards long. But some of the overheads rose
eight and nine hundred feet straight up (to accommodate entire trees that may
be removed from one location for harvesting or replanting in another). The
ceilings and the decks on top of them were reinforced with extra steel sheeting
to withstand the weight shift of cargo entering atmospheres of different
gravities and pressures. It took a little bit of doing, but Christopher convinced
the ship's engineers to re‑orient the artificial gravity in that one
area. Once the work was completed, you could enter through a small locke and
find yourself standing not on the deck but on a bulkhead! Instant 200- and
300-yard ranges. Okay, the distances were a little short by Marine standards
but, hell, it wasn't like they had to kill anything in the near future. Once
the boys got the distances down, they could jump ship to some deserted planet
and 'Maggie's drawers' at the proper distances. That was the good news. There was a
rifle range under construction. But as often was the case, the bad news
outweighed the good. The enormity of potential bad news began
to be realized by Maysfield and his crew their first night on board. By this
point, Christopher had become used to bad news and was accepting it as SOP. After
they had bedded down the troops, and established a fire watch (in itself no
mean accomplishment), Christopher called his staff into one of the B deck
conference rooms for a pow‑wow to determine what irons were about to put
into what fires. The initial meeting of the Drill Instructors was a
cold one. In fact, it was several cold ones, Christopher having had the
forethought and ingenuity to transport several cases of beer on board in a
crate of liquid coolant. A few seconds in the microwave and the stuff was at
perfect drinking temperature. The four sat there blasting down and away the
rising frustrations that the project was manufacturing. The fifth, Sabott, had
been detailed to mind the store on the first watch. "So what do you think of the troops?"
Christopher asked to no one in particular. "Man, oh man,” Stone drawled out. "What
are we 'sposed to do? The last time I saw that much ugly in one place at one
time, I was getting married to my first wife. Whoa, she had some ugly
sisters." "Yeah, Walt, but your ugly sister‑in‑laws
weren't suposed to look good at formation! These guys can't even stand
at attention without looking like their falling over!" Rojas pointed out. "They're
not built for the uniform! Does Griff really think we can make them look like
Marines?" "NO!" Maysfield hammered the
word into the end of Rojas' question. "Colonel Griffen doesn't expect us
to make them look like Marines. By God, that man expects us to MAKE
them Marines! Or be damned if we don't! There's something goin' on we don't
know about…" "I'll second that!” Christopher
blurted out. "When you get a chance, read the wizzers I've been getting
from him. This project is out of control… covert, secret squirrel stuff—and we’re
nuts hidden in the bushes! I agree with Abner. Griffen wants troops.
But why we're not at the Island?" The Sergeant shrugged. "Have you
guys seen the uniforms and equipment we've got to work with? It looks like the
beginning of a going-out-of-business sale. We've got weapons down there you
can't even see at the Parris Island museum! Half that stuff is so old it’s
going to blow the first time a trigger is pulled!" "You let me worry 'bout that," Maysfield
volunteered. "Stoney and I'll check them through. But I think we'd
better get deadly serious and do this job right! Do we follow the guide
book?" "Guidebook? What guidebook?
I've been on board here for nearly two months and I'm tellin' you straight,
Master Sergeant… if we follow the standard course, the standard requirements? We
fail. These aren't even draftees we've got to work with! They're
forced volunteers. They are unmotivated, ignorant civilians of semi‑unknown
origins that have absolutely no idea what a Marine is. They don't understand
human culture, let alone Marine pride. They are not human! They're
humanoid. Guidebook? I can't even figure out how to PT these poor bastards,
or if that's even needed! That's why I asked Griffen to send me the Great One
himself with hand picked troops of Junior DIs. Do what you want right up to
the point of abuse or takin' 'em to the sack with you. I don't care! You know
what it takes to make a Marine! Do it!" With a little help from some Tennessee
Sour Mash that had found its way aboard with Christopher, they slowly mapped
out an approach to the training program. They divided the troops into four
platoons of forty-six men each, then flipped a coin for choice of platoons and
the odd man. Griffen had informed them that they'd be part of the Third
Training Battalion, Company M. They had no idea of the series or platoon
numbers—so they made them up. Getting the paperwork to match was someone
else's problem. So the boys (as they were becoming known) became platoons 3030
under Maysfield, 3031 under Sabott, 3032 under Rojas, and 3033 under Stone. It was at this point that Christopher had shown
Maysfield the inventory lists. He ogled the lists in amusement. "Hell, son, you should have seen what we had to
work with in the Old Corps!" was his only comment. It was decided that until a PT course of
some diverse and practical scheme was contrived, they'd run the hell out of
them and get into the basic academics. The 'weapon of choice' was still up for
grabs but Maysfield volunteered himself and Stone for the job of 'hands-on
inspecting' and selection of same. The last remaining problem—of major
concern—was uniforms. The Corps had never had to design trousers for men who
walked ‘straight kneed’ but ran 'bow legged'. It was a shame they only had
seventeen Ghillie suits. If they had enough to go around, Christopher would
have used them to disguise his troops as bushes and hoped like hell that no one
noticed them! Abner Willie may have been out of
practice firing a rifle—since becoming a division of the Army, those
over the rank of staff sergeant were no longer required to qualify with a
weapon—but a good old southern boy never forgets what to look for in a
rifle! So far, in a bizarre way, they had maintained the
normal schedule. They had shifted things around a bit due to the unexpected,
but the first week wasn't going to be a total waste of time. They had 'jumped'
a little and gotten into the academics of Phase One training, but still hadn't
figured out how to objectively physically screen or classify the troops. When
their vision had been tested, they checked out as measurable in human terms,
except for a little extra nobody could decide what to do with. The hearing
tests went off the scales and left both sergeants convinced that Malacans could
probably hear fish swimming twenty feet under a boat. During that first week Maysfield in
particular had begun to make a point of Marine 'disciplines'. Well, actually,
it was more like a "dog & pony show" for the benefit of their
respective, uninitiated platoons as far as he was concerned. But his
proceedings would have impressed their predecessors as far back as the Vietnam
Conflict. On this point, however, Christopher would freely admit in future
years that Maysfield purely 'outclassed' him along these lines. On the very first morning after the
recruits had been divided into platoons and been lotted off to their respective
Drill Instructors, Maysfield had calmly walked into a squad bay, right past the
fire watch, with a handful of lit M80s and started tossing them under the bunks
of sleeping recruits. When the 'Martian Chasers' had gone off (with a bang
roughly equivalent to an eighth of a stick of dynamite—acoustics being what
they were, the blasts almost knocked the ship off course) they had blown almost
half of the sleeping recruits right off their racks. Maysfield then proceeded
to read the watch, a former maintenance parts handler known as Blue Lewis, the
riot act for having allowed the 'enemy' to just walk right in and invade their
perimeter, killing almost everyone in the squad bay! And when he had finished
with him, he had spent the next two hours 'drilling’ platoons 3031 and 3032 on
the proper methods of 'rising & shinning'. He redressed the three Junior
DIs for having been so lax in the execution of their duties, and capped the
event off with having Platoon 3032 ("the proud owners of the idiot on
watch") mount Platoon 3031 (the majority of dead and wounded) on their
backs and 'fireman's carry' them over to the sick bay and back—a distance of
roughly half a mile straight up. And just to show that he was a fair man, he
stood 3031 at attention at the foot of their bunks, had 3032 lie on theirs,
rolled another bunch of lit M80s and reversed the process. After the last man
had made it back to the Squad Bay, Maysfield lined up both Platoons and had
each man personally thank Marine Recruit Lewis for allowing them all to
experience this valuable learning opportunity. Then they had been given permission to
join their respective Drill Instructors for calisthenics. By agreement, Maysfield and Christopher
had most of the demonstrative processes and Sabott, Rojas and Stone the hands-on.
But as much as was possible was done in a collective group. The DIs could
rotate around and create a 'man down’ who could either assist with personal
assistance where required—defined as walking through the ranks and causing
whatever personal mayhem was possible—or addressing whatever paper business
required attention. Because of the direct rebuffing to the
Jr. DIs, all hell would be breaking lose and the absence of the two Seniors
would go reasonably unnoticed. It was during this PT session that Maysfield
checked out the onboard weaponry. * * * "Oh, they'll fire all right.” Maysfield
slid the coffee cup another six inches forward. "But the barrels on
almost every one of those '16s is so shot-out the Ga'danned bullet'd come out
sideways! I'd say every one of them passed 25 to 30,000 rounds through! I
can't even see where the lands and grooves used to be on some of
them!" When Christopher had opened the crates,
the only thing he'd had time for was a count. He had pulled a few pieces and
checked quickly for obvious flaws, but Abner had sat there meticulously going
over almost every weapon, one at a time, shinning a small pocket flashlight
through the receiver and peering into the muzzle to look through the barrel. What
he'd seen was of major concern. What he should have seen were clearly
defined spiraling twists in the metal from the receiver clear out to the
business end. From repetitious firing, they had worn to nearly nothing. A
round fired from these weapons would not properly exit, greatly affecting the
accuracy of the weapon. And there were other problems. On about half of the Springfields, the
receivers were questionable according to the reference material he had. But
that was okay, because the headspace was off on the other half. Either way, it
was "fire at your own risk" with all of them. Both the Reising and
Grease guns had at some point in time been either well used or not properly
cleaned. Some of them were 'usable' but Maysfield questioned whether or not he
would let his life depend on them in a crisis. The grenade launchers seemed to
be in good shape—but without the M16s to attach them to (which were thoroughly
trashed from heavy use), they weren't very much good. HAVE SPENT INITIAL FOUR DAYS IN FORMATION. AS OF YET, HAVE
NOT COMPLETED PHYSICAL EVALUATIONS AND FULL RIFLE AND EQUIPMENT ISSUE. HAVE
BEGUN CONSTRUCTION ON LIMITED COURSES AND HAVE INITIATED ACADEMICS OF FIRST
TRAINING PHASE. COMMEND MAYSFIELD AND SQUAD, GOOD‑TO‑GO TO THE
MAN! ‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑FOLD‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑FOLD‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑FOLD‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑FOLD‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑ Unless you've got a tailor that's willing
to travel, we've got problems. Outside of the skivvies, nothing fits! I sort
of crammed them into the woodland BTUs—they're tight in the chest, short in the
sleeve, long in the leg and loose in the crotch. The average recruit here
looks like he's hiding in a tree trunk. Luckily there's enough room in the
boots to stuff six to eight extra inches of pant leg. Oh, by the way, see if
you can get a 'buy back' on the rifles, most of them are either shot‑out
or defective. The only weapons that seem to be in working order are the
Johnsons—and they're still packed in Cosmoline! I don't even want to know why!
We haven't figured out how to we evaluate these guys in understandable Marine
terms. Evaluate them? Hell! We can't even
figure out how to PT 'em! Found out from one of them that they're all
forced 'Draftees'. Conventional motivation techniques don't
work, but they respond well to 'fear' and 'threats of pain'—I can relate to
that. P.S. - We all bow to Maysfield's seniority, but the other three
are top draw! The Johnson rifle was one of two
successful attempts at a semi-automatic rifle. Unfortunately, the other was
the M1 Garand, which the American Army had adopted in or around 1939. Somewhere
around 1940, testing was done to determine which was actually the better
weapon, but many felt that since the largest manufacturers of weapons in America had already 'tooled up' for the M1, the results were almost a forgone conclusion. The
fact that a Marine officer had designed the Johnson probably didn't help the
situation. Needless to say, the Marine Corps wound
up with a shitload of the Johnson M1941s. With the advent of the Second World
War, a number of the Johnsons headed to the South Pacific along with
some very old Springfields. The Johnson itself was not a 'terrible' weapon. It
was a bit more cumbersome than the M1—it weighed close to ten pounds, not much
heavier than the M1. As far as Maysfield was concerned,
though, it was more than four pounds heavier than the pile of M16s he had
sitting in his locker. The Johnson was nice and long, making the Malacans look
that much more ridiculous than they looked already. On the upside, there was
about a half of a million rounds of .30 caliber sitting down there. At least
they could load and fire the damned things for a while. As far as the records went, the main
complaint with the Johnson was that it was a 'dirt collector'—the same
complaint with the Reising and Grease guns. A little dirt in the wrong place,
and the weapon jammed. Well, hell! His little buggers were used to machinery,
a little extra cleaning wouldn't hurt them. Besides, it wasn't like they were
going to have to go into combat. These were strictly 'ornamental' devices. Now
all he had to do was figure out how to strip it down and put it back together. The basic logic behind most shoulder arms
was simple and dated back, oh, five hundred years or so. When the first
gunsmith to realize that you didn't need a fuse to ignite the explosive created
a weapon on the order of the flintlock, he laid out the basic principles for
most such weapons: This hits that, an explosion, projectile exits, death. In
the last fifty or so years, however, most modern weapons had begun to alter the
'this hits that' portion of the plan. Simplicity of firing mechanisms was the
military standard, and Ole Abner sat there, pieces of firing mechanisms—springs,
metal rods, bolts—all over the deck and uncharacteristically cussin' a blue
streak. The one thing the Johnson hadn’t come with was a service manual. SHIP'S LOG WEDNESDAY 55 - 06 - 02 ENTRY 17 Tomorrow we enter First Phase Training. It
took us a full week to put this thing together. They're beginning to
understand the concepts of squad, platoon, company, battalion—it's left foot /
right foot thing they haven't grasped yet! I never thought I'd see the day that old
Abner Willie got rattled by a Boot, but these guys've got him on the ropes. Before
he could get the Johnsons completely issued, three of the little buggers had
already taken them apart, cleaned off the Cosmoline coating, reassembled them,
and were discussing design improvements! And here he'd spent damn near two
hours trying to get the bolt assembly back together! He's had them running for
hours at a time. Instead of slowing down, they pick up the cadence. I can
remember Maysfield dropping me for 'punitive' push-ups… "You know why yer doin' this, Boot?"
"28, 29, Sir, 30, no Sergeant,
31…" "Good! Ya'ain't supposed to know,
and if you need to know, I'll tell you!” He'd keep me going until I dropped. No
matter how many I did, it was always one less than he expected. Today he dropped Arnold for the same act
and then walked over to show one of our other idiots the fine art of Marine head
cleaning. Twenty minutes later he walked back to Arnold, all charged up
for ripping him apart because he'd stopped—and there's Arnold, somewhere around
the 2500 mark and just hitting stride! Abner stood there, mouth open and hands
on hips—what could he say? "Get the hell up and get out of my sight!” That seems to be our motto these days. We've had to redevelop the entire PT
program. The 'citizenship' program is a whole new experience, too. I think
they're having a tough time grasping Walt Stone's ‘America as I Know It'. The two-party
system loses them completely as they can't understand how you can be a Democrat
and live in a Republic. But the idea of doing what you want, when and where
you want to do it, really appeals to them. I'm not certain at this point who's more
off‑balance, them or us, but as long as we stay 'cocky,' we've got them
where Maysfield wants them! Now if I can just figure out how to keep coHLI
where I want him! Then! Maybe we'd get somewhere. Christ, he's getting to be
a big time problem. It's like watching an eight-year-old sneak around the
house at Christmas time looking for his presents. He keeps popping into the
squad bay and cramping Maysfield's style. Maysfield is all right. I guess he's
been around long enough to realize that we're performing a service and probably
nothing more. We all got very toasted last night
talking about the program. When we thought about it, it left us with a sinking
feeling. After the break with the Navy, I guess the Corps dropped its guard. All
this can be is a passing of the old torch. If we're reading the signs right,
these little assholes could be taking over the space program from us. If Griff
is making this much of a big deal about it, it may mean they could be the final
graduating class of Parris Island. Well, sort of. And where does that leave
us? We've got no instructors, no real
training facilities, no proper mess or medical facilities, and equipment that
came over on the Mayflower—out of 185 guys, I've got three that even vaguely
fit in their uniforms. The only thing we've got is a ten-story area—and us!
Our Smokey Bears and us. For whatever it's worth, they jump when they see us
coming. We decided that, as we're light years from the nearest station, we're
going to bend a few rules and traditions. I've already told my guys, do what
it takes. They control their platoons in their entirety, with Maysfield as overseer
and Grand Wazoo in an unofficial capacity. As much as I like old Abner, I do worry
about him sometimes. He's taking on a tough attitude like nothing I've ever
seen. I remember my great-grandfather telling me about his DI from the 'Nam days. Abner seems to be him. He never lets up, not for a moment. It’s as if he’s trying
as much to break them as make them into Marines. 3030 is going to become a
tough bunch! And Rojas? What a Godsend! Marines in
space. With his background in Space Avionics he has begun developing the first
bridge between them and us. He's altered the survival courses to include at
least some of the things they understand: gravitation fatigue, functioning
during time continuum, and survival in weightlessness. Only Rojas could have
thought of using these antique firearms as a possible means of propulsion for
out-of-ship activity! Reuben Rojas is plain "good folks" too. He's
giving them a side of the Earth they've never seen before. Wally Stone's a trip and a half. Most of
these Malacans have never seen a black Earthman. Hell, most of them have never
seen an Earthman! They can't figure out why he seems to be different! I can’t
wait for them to meet Griffen! And Stoney just lets it ride. He's the only
one of us that was an actual Range Instructor, and I count very heavily on his
experience to develop criteria for rating these people on the courses. He
knows that book better than any of us. Sabott is my only question mark, but I
think that's mainly my failure. It's hard to get past the fact that this man
is once removed already. And while I trust Maysfield's judgment, I tend to
keep an eye on him more than the others. He knows it, too. But to his credit
he hasn't said anything. He does his job, and that's all I ask for. The Malacans will get all that we've got.
We'll drill 'em till they drop! If nothing else, the little bastards'll know
how to march by the time we're through with them. The general consensus amongst the troops
qualified as a ‘split decision’ by the end of the first week. On the one hand,
the Marine Corps fed you, clothed you (sort of), and required you to do
almost nothing that was, by and large, considered as genuine work. At the end
of it all, they would even pay you for doing it. On the other hand, the little work you
did went on without pause for hours on end. It was almost impossible to stay
clear of trouble! The sergeants seemed to go out of their way to catch you
doing something wrong—then they'd punish everybody else but you! It
didn't sit well with the other forty-four guys in your platoon when a sergeant
had them running around the squad bay carrying their foot lockers on their
shoulders as you sat in the middle of the deck at chow! By the end of the
fourth day, Platoon 3030—the lost platoon as they had begun to call
themselves—had begun to adopt a philosophical outlook to the situation. There was an old joke that everybody on
board knew about a young Malacan who was shipping out for the first time. He
had barely finished his first shift when he had begun to bemoan the fact that
they'd be in space for months, far away from the company of womenfolk. He was
certain that his body would 'explode' before he reached a 'friendly port'. An old crew chief had overheard him and
walked over to his station. "Come with me" he said. "I'll show
you how we get by in outer space!" They went down to the engine room
where a huge metal fuel drum had been cleaned, polished, and set up in the
middle of the room. “Whenever you feel the urge to mate, just place your
operating end in there," he pointed to a six-inch hole about three-quarters
of the way up the drum, "and your business will be taken care of! And you
can do it at any hour of any day—except the sixth day of the week!" The puzzled crewman looked at the chief
and asked, "Why not on the sixth day of the week?" "Because," said the old chief,
"that's YOUR day in the drum!" And that's the way it was. No use trying
to avoid it or getting pissed off at a shipmate because you were running around
the squad bay with a footlocker on your back—soon enough it would be your 'day
in the drum'! If they wanted to get you, they'd get you. And, simply enough,
which was the way it was. This philosophical outlook would almost
drive old Abner Willie to a nervous breakdown. * * * "Hell, I can't sleep worth a damn. The
bangin's driving me crazy again!" Christopher looked up from the
workstation. Silhouetted against the midnighted hallway was Maysfield—in his
skivvies and boondockers. Christopher had forgotten to warn him to sound proof
his cubicle. No wonder he was starting to look like death sucking on a pickle. "Ah, Jesus! I'm sorry. I forgot to
tell ya' about the ambient sound problem." "Hell, that's awright. Like we
haven't had enough to think about! You mind if I sit down? My legs are
killing me. What gives with these guys, Bobby? I've PT'd them. I’ve run them
three miles, double time. Don’t they EVER get tired?" "I got news for you, bro. They're
half dead now. You just don't know the signs. They don't sweat—not through
pores, anyway. They salivate and swallow so fluid loss is minimal. They don't
need half the water we do. Too much fluid in their system, and their eyes'll
start to glaze and they'll start tearing-up slightly. Clouds their
vision." "Oh really!" Maysfield seemed
pleased with the information. "Ohh, yeah! You gotta sit down and
do a quart or two with one of them. They look shitfaced almost instantly. They're
not! But they look like they are. Hey, listen. I'm due to take a turn
through the squad bay. You wanna sack out here? My fault for not warning you
about the noise problem." "Nah, s'okay. But if you don't
mind, let me check out those old films you got stashed away. I just don't feel
like sleepin’ anymore. Hey, give me your stat sheets; I'll do the profile. I
wanna see what these guys look like on paper." They had taken the smallest storage area
they had been given, divided it in half, divided one of the halves in half
again, tapped in a little running water and a few microwaves and garbage
barrels in one room and some tables in the other, and the galley and mess hall
problem was solved. The fact that food, which at this point was little more
than boxed rations for the troops and Christopher's two-pounders of coffee for
the DIs, had to be carried from a storage bin three stories below was a minor
inconvenience. It was manned by a recruit night crew from all four platoons—mainly
Boots who were informed that their 'Esprit de Corps' required
improvement. It was a concocted excuse on the DIs part, but if you don't know
what's right yourself, how do you nail somebody else for being wrong? The other half of the divided storage
compartment had been partitioned off into four squad bays—each regulation size,
each with its own shower facility. Each had been enclosed on three sides. The
fourth side had a full size hatch. Immediately adjoining the front and rear
entrance to the complex, the DIs had a full size cubicle built. On alternate
nights, a sergeant would take night duty and at irregular intervals would walk
from his cubicle, the DI hut, through the entire complex and back again. Once the galley crew had finished preps,
depending on his mood, the duty sergeant would release all but two of the night
crew and let them sack out for an hour—if he was in a good mood. The remaining
two would be required to keep the Joe pot going, alert the others at ninety
minutes before reveille to start breakfast, and lug the food for the evening
chow up—the "C" and "K" rations served for the noon meal,
too. If the DI was in a bad mood, the crew didn't even want to think about it!
You could find yourself going without sleep for the next twenty-four hours
too. Each barracks was a separate
construction. There had been just enough total space to 'sneak' an alleyway
between them and another behind them. This is where the fire watch had been
placed. It was not uncommon for one of the DIs to walk up from behind
unnoticed, which caused the instituting of another old American custom—the Chinese
Fire Drill! Maysfield had shown great forethought by bringing along ten or twelve
pounds of M80s. When lit and tossed into the middle of the complex, the bang
would reverberate throughout half the ship. They had become standard gear for
all DIs. The Malacans expended a great deal of energy endeavoring to adopt this
bizarre alien Marine behavior—they liked to sleep as a result. The fire
drills, which consisted of dragging both the bunk and the mattress out of the
building, flipping the mattress over (to be certain the underside wasn't on
fire), and dragging it all back in under five minutes, and then lining up to
thank the guard who'd slipped up, was having a devastating effect on the
recruits. "Hell," Christopher thought, standing
behind CR, letting one go. "Startin' to feel like home." On the last day of forming week, full
equipment issue had been made. Several asses had been reamed for disassembling
government property, but by and large and considering the extreme lack of
support personnel, things had gone well. They stretched the 211 sets of
fatigues as far as they'd go, and backed them up with what was still usable of
the old green utility camys for work. Most of the web gear—belts, packs, the
WWII canteen covers and the like—were pretty well dry rotted. There was barely
enough that wasn't to cover them for a ‘once around’ with none to spare. Footwear
was of major concern. Malacan feet were long, wide, and flat. They covered
the long and wide. To compensate for the flat, a good number of WWII utility
pants were cut to form, soaked, and matted into footwear. It actually worked
out pretty well. It created a cushion more accommodating to the normally 'flat
footed' recruits. They had created a series of alternate PT
exercises (more for the sake of the paperwork) which was referred to as the
MET—Marine Equivalency Test. It evaluated the 'boys' in terms practical to
them, but in actuality was nothing more than the setting of some sort of
minimal standards for them. They write down as a re-adaptation of gender
norming on a universal level. How else could you explain 198 push-ups in three
minutes, and zero correct squat thrusts in a day and a half? In normal situations, a new recruit
platoon would be given a guidon, a flag of yellow, indicating Phase I. But
outside of Maysfield, Christopher, and the other DIs, no one else would
understand or be concerned. They opted instead for a generic platoon flag with
the platoon number on it, to be carried by the platoon 'guide'. When the four 'guides' were selected,
they were explained as "he who shines amongst you!" But the truth of
the matter was that they had grabbed the four whom they considered to be the
"most likely to turn Cheese Eater" when pressure was properly
applied. Well, hell! The DIs were out numbered forty-six to one. A
spy could be handy! Somehow, Maysfield and Christopher had
managed to cram everything from hygienics to urinalysis into slightly less that
twice the time allotted in the book. Under normal circumstances, two to four
days were required; they had taken five. They had an extra six to eight weeks
if they needed it, so they entered into the log, 'On schedule, Phase 1 good to
go'. They had parceled off their space allocations and had completed a short
range qualification course, gotten into the building of an obstacle course, and
almost had details worked out on a swimming pool for the water survival course.
The fact that the 'boys' had never developed the concept of swimming and—being
slightly denser in physical composition than a human—would tend to sink in
water like rocks didn't concern any of the sergeants in the least. Getting
killed by an exploding antique did! After a week both Maysfield and
Christopher had developed enough confidence to believe that, even if only on
paper, they could get this thing off the ground—they were doomed to failure, of
course, but at least it would be in the air, not on the ground. Old soldiers
faded away—Marines go out with a bang. There are three very human aspects of
Marine boot camp—a physical, a mental, and an emotional. Sandwiched somewhere
between mental and emotional is the creation of motivation. What they—Christopher,
the DIs, the Corps—had in their possession was 185 "draftees"
waiting to be motivated. They had been drafted, or actually ordered, by their
old government, selectively picked by the Marines. They had no idea
what they were supposed to be when all was said and done. Then again, neither
did their DIs! For some reason Christopher saw this as
an edge.
DS - 7814 – A6
To: MARINE DETACHMENT
MCS phEY-QUAD
In Transit
SERGEANT R.S. CHRISTOPHER
Re: DISPATCH DS – 7809 - A3
55 - 05 - 28
From: OFFICE OF NTA
BEAUFORT AIR STATION
S.C., U.S.A., EARTH
COLONEL A.L. GRIFFEN
COLONEL A.L.GRIFFEN
Griff
DS - 78899 - B
To: OFFICE OF NTA
BEAUFORT AIR STATION
S.C., U.S.A., EARTH
COLONEL A.L. GRIFFEN
55 - 06 - 01
From: MARINE DETACHMENT
MCS phEY-QUAD
In Transit
SERGEANT R.S. CHRISTOPHER
SERGEANT R.S. CHRISTOPHER
Bob
