SHIP'S LOG
SUNDAY
55 - 07 - 06
ENTRY 22
Sabott strained all of the muscles on his rib cage reentering atmosphere on the squad bay early this afternoon. Seems like Rojas forgot to tell him to just collapse in his suit on reentry—and to go dormant every hour or so. With Stone's sprained knees from colliding with the firing range wall, that makes two DIs I've got hobbling around trying to keep the recruits from seeing that they're nearly incapacitated.
Things here are well beyond the call of duty for both the DIs and the Boots. I've got to give them all the credit they deserve. This place is so hand‑made, such a reflection of the things we know, that we cannot hope to succeed. But everybody makes the most of it and doesn't bitch at me.
I've stopped thinking of the Malacan recruits as alien, or non‑Marine. They're caught between two planets, but they do without question. Even the things that rub across their grain. I never realized just how terrified they were of water in quantity. And we had to teach 185 rocks to swim.
Poor Roach, he's everybody's Guinea pig. We had him in full battle dress, complete with unusable M16, walking the shallow end of the pool to see if we could safely teach any kind of water survival course. The little bastard waded right in, to knee depth. With Stone under one arm & Rojas under the other, they walked him in to shoulder length. Once we got him to stop screaming and hold all the air he could in his lung, we could get him to float in a ball three or four inches below the surface. We've gone back to the old fill‑your‑pants‑with‑air‑and‑float device.
They have such superior upper body strength that when they beat the water in what looks like a perverted Butterfly stroke, they can sprint at almost Olympic speeds for about thirty or forty yards—then they sink. But I have enough confidence at this point to get them to jump off the tower and swim or float a full lap.
Spent six hours today retrieving cargo on circular path. Extremely proud of platoon 3031. They did a fine job. They also showed me something. They refused to leave the landing bay until Sabott was standing on his own. They knew how terrified a man can get the first time he steps into the void. Sabott earned big points by not handing his platoon over.
Have instructed Maysfield to light the actual kitchens and begin some balanced meals for a change. That cryogenic vegetation shipment was a Godsend. Peas, carrots, lettuce, squashes—you name it, we got. And two or three tons of any animal you can think of eating, butchered/frozen/oven ready!
Have ordered mess crews to have steak on the menu for 185. Have finally found use for the four Tall Ones. They crabbed a little, but we now have four master cooks on three shifts in a floating rotation. We've gone through Basic Betty Crocker and they understand the principles enough to supervise the shifts. They look pretty good on paper, but I’m not too sure how things will look on the plate.
I wonder what's going to happen when they get the real food to work with? coHLI warned me once that cooking wasn’t exactly a Malacan strong point!
The operation of a mess went better than anticipated. They brought in welding gear—the heavy stuff for external work—and cut three sheets of steel six feet long, two feet wide and six inches thick and mounted them on metal horses. The welders made run off lanes that fed slop pails at either end. Utilizing the torches, they created three giant fry-stands. Against the walls they welded a row of the 4x4 metal boxes used for transporting medicals, and by heating them up with the torches, bakers’ ovens were fashioned. They utilized a small Petillo cell to supply water, and boiled it by passing coils over the thermal feeds that ran to the engines through the overheads. Any manner of devices needed for the preparation of foods for the Marine had been made available in at least a modified form. The heat wasn't always even, and with a crew of twelve running around it could get tight for floor space, but it worked and that was all that matters. Crews still had to lug frozen chow from two or three levels away, but given the Malacan propensities for eating, nobody seems to mind if the toast had been burned or the soup was watery because the cooks were lugging the next meal down instead of watching their pots.
The Boots were well into Phase One training when the mess officially opened. It was a monumental experience for all concerned. Almost 300 pounds of beef had been fried, mountains of baked potatoes, hot and cold vegetables, and bread. Nobody had quite figured out the dietary needs of Malacans when translated into these foreign foods, but Christopher said, "Fuck it! Feed 'em!" and Stone, who had acquired the detail, made no argument. They were working these people every bit as hard as any class of Parris Island Boots (probably harder in some areas) and feeding them antique foods in a box or can that would have caused a major revolt on Earth—Hell, give them something for their efforts! It was fair. They would watch to see if a dietary correction was in order, but for now, they set the galley up with as many of the choices a boot at the Island could expect.
The meal began with a condition run of almost ten miles in full gear. That included a drag through the pool and a swing through the Obstacle Course. They were running at full tilt when halt was called in front of the mess area. Each platoon placed its gear in the traditional piles—weapons stacked in tepee fashion as usual—but unlike the past when entire platoons were sent to their tables, they were led in two single file lines to the serving areas. As the doors swung open, the aroma of freshly cooked vitals permeated the area. It took a few seconds to reach the Malacan minimally equipped noses, but when it did, an eerie quiet settled over them like a wet blanket on a campfire.
"What the fuck's goin' on here?" muttered Sabott in a hushed tone to Maysfield. "I was afraid they'd rush the kitchens! It's like somebody died in there.”
Abner looked at the stunned lines as they cautiously and almost fearfully approached the cooks. "Hell, son, this is the workin' class. These boys have never seen this much cooked food in one place at one time when it wasn't being turned over to an officer! They don't know what to do with it! Before they leave the halls, it’s goin' to be open‑pockets inspection so nobody brings any mementos back to their bunks!"
Christopher had been party to the conversation, and it had opened his eyes even more than Sabott's. It had never clearly occurred to him that there were two distinct camps of Malacans—those who ordered, and those who carried the orders out. He had never considered that situation into the equation. If democracy was beyond their mentality, this may not be such a hot idea. A Marine‑trained army of warriors who obeyed without question, without thought, without any regard for personal well being, was a dangerous, dangerous enemy.
Maybe he had better take this little comedy of errors more seriously than he already was.
* * *
As Phase One of training drew to its conclusion, certain things were becoming obvious. The Malacans could learn how to move in formation enough to pass initial drill. They were bright enough to pass the academics. And not one of the Drill Instructors wanted to take responsibility for turning any of their platoons loose on the bayonet course. So it fell to Christopher.
"AAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH!!! AH! Push through, through!" One hundred and eighty-five pairs of eyes stared blankly at Christopher as he lunged at the hanging foam-filled spacesuit serving as an enemy. "People. This is it! We're close quarter fighters. Shout, lunge. Shout, lunge."
Nothing. No drive at all.
The Boots went through the motions perfectly—but their shouts sounded more like a bullfrog caught in a bear trap than anything else. When they made contact with the suits swinging in front of them, it was tepid at best. Christopher would note in his logbook that in all his years in the Corps, he had never seen an enemy more politely bayoneted. But there were intermittent flashes of hope.
3030 was limp enough to give Maysfield distemper for a week. But Roach, who had just about had enough of the quarter deck for a whole career, saw Maysfield's disapproval and flew at the suit like it was life or death, driving the blade deep into the dummy and snapping it with a twist. It didn't help. Abner pegged him as "not a team player," and Roach spent an hour more than the rest of the platoon on the quarterdeck.
3031's Blue Lewis drove through the dangling target with so much force that he ripped it off the hangers and straight into the floor, almost pole vaulting over it. He was awarded the first kill of the day.
When 3032 came to the plate, they looked dismal. And Arnold was the worst of the lot. He couldn't generate any speed, but lumbered forward like a small locomotive seemingly out of balance and amuck. As he chugged towards his victim, Christopher hooked the suit with his own weapon and jerked it quickly away from the oncoming bus. Christopher expected Arnold to rush clumsily past it—but the behemoth Malacan, seeing his target jump from his path, wheeled 360 degrees. Instead of coming up with the bayonet to follow his fleeing foe, he came out of the spin holding the muzzle end of his Johnson as if it were a baseball bat and followed through with a devastating blow. The butt of the rifle impacted with the suit's helmet and crushed it. The sudden shock popped the suit free of Christopher's grasp. It flew back at Arnold and he spun again, this time came up with his bayonet tip. There was a loud SNAP as the blade, having caught the steel collar of the suit, shattered. But the momentum of Arnold's thrust couldn't be turned—he drove the muzzle through the collar and clean through the helmet.
Maysfield, standing slightly off to the left as Arnold had rumbled by, had a ringside view of the entire event. "Not bad," he commented to the mini‑giant. Arnold, remembering Maysfield's words on Salo Majoris, smiled the kind of smile that skirts the edges of both sincerity and spitefulness. "Master Sergeant," he said calmly, "the recruit is learning, sir." And with that, he walked slowly back to the end of the platoon line.
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2nd day of Mho To: MOSA YOzi Ne oab-Razooli 66509 |
55 - 07 - 15 From: Marine Training Station Platoon 3030, M Company MCS phEY-QUAD |
Mother & Father,
Even though I cannot mail this, or any of the last five letters I have written home to you since becoming a United States Marine Boot/Recruit, Master Sergeant Drill Instructor Maysfield Abner/Willie tells me I must write you and mail it when I can. So I'm writing you.
I have lost almost twenty-two pounds! And I am eating all the time. Food like nothing you ever had, more different kinds than you'd think could exist in the whole universe. And I eat THREE TIMES A DAY! Master Sergeant says I'm on my way to being a by‑god Marine.
Everything we do is at twice the speed other folk would do these things at. And the things we do! We do things here that you, my family, will think me crazy for doing—and why we do these things, no one is quite certain. Wearing all our clothing and carrying all our gear, they make us walk through water, twelve men at a time, in a great tub that starts at ankle depth and rises to a depth of nearly thirty feet! Back and forth we walk, going deeper and deeper, until the water touches our chins and we hold our rifles over our head to keep them from getting wet. If they did not want them wet, why did they make us go into the water? The only answer I can give you is because that is what Marines must do is! Because we recruits do not float well, Master Sergeant says we would be great swamp fighters because we can walk through water as if it is not there. We climb tangled up ropes and over log fences, and jump off great towers along thin ropes or into water as if a boat was sinking. A boat is a type of Terran craft for limited flight. They have two great propellers that spin at each end, one horizontal and the other vertical, on conventional gazzoline motors, and you jump off of them as they hover above the ground. But this is what Marines do! They do things other people think are crazy!
We finished our Phase One training today. We had a big test. It was easy, I thought. We know all the parts of the Johnson Rifle, what kind of wounds it can cause, whose orders we have to obey in combat... This you will not believe. If my officer gives me an order to do something I think is unlawful—I can contest it! It has something to do with the two party system of Democratic Governments. You can live in the Democracy of America, and still be what is called a Republican. So that means you can do anything, go anywhere, or say anything to anybody as long as a law isn't broken—or they can lawsuit you!
Well, I must go now. My two minutes to write you are almost over. We are celebrating the end of Phase One tonight. We are going to watch a Terran Marine movie film called "Full Metal Jacket" that Master Sergeant really seems to like. He says it will show us just how easy we've got it here. Platoon 3033 saw it last night and the guys said they liked it too. But wouldn't you know it, there was an air raid drill right in the middle of the video, so they didn't find out if the fat kid ever graduated Boot Camp!
Love to you all.
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Your son, who is now called Recruit Dirty John |
