Christopher sat in the dimly lit chamber. He had expected thirty year old weapons—but this was an antique gun show! There were weapons here that he had read about in books or his great-grandfather, an old 'Nam Marine, had told him about when he was a child of seven! There were weapons here from as long ago as the First World War! As far as he could tell, the most recent weapon here was manufactured around 1980!
With the advent of polycarbonates and carbon-fibered weapons—ceramic weaponry—the weight of weapons had dropped to less than half of its traditional military standard. These ceramic barrels were fully heat- and dirt-resistant and the rifling—the twists inside the barrel to control the spin of the exiting projectile—never wore out. By 2020, polycarbs had found their way into the casings of the ammunition itself and forever eliminated feeding problems. The elimination of the metal outer casing reduced the overall weight of the ammunition so much that the average foot soldier could carry nearly four times the amount of ammunition into the field than his grandfather could. He had a weapon that weighed virtually nothing, didn't kick back, required no maintenance, and was impervious to heat, water, dirt, and wear. The only imperfection was its inability to fire in the void of outer space (and scuttlebutt had it that they were working on a round that could 'breathe'—supply its own O2 on detonation).
These advances in technology had allowed military and paramilitary weaponry to abandon the old .30 caliber standard. It dispelled, seemingly forever, the myth of 'knock‑down power' in favor of penetration and cavitation. The new 'smaller' .20 caliber rounds would leave the muzzle at almost 8000 feet per second and expand on impact roughly 410%—from slightly less than the size of a pea on detonation to slightly less than the size of a half-dollar coin on penetration.
The old .45 caliber Colt pistol that hung on Christopher's belt at ten or fifteen yards would stop most men dead in their tracks. Further back another ten or fifteen yards, hitting target at center‑mass could supposedly become a rather questionable experience. But the big, slow-moving round had a reputation. It tended to hit with enough force to generate shock sufficient to kill even if the 'hit' was less than perfect.
Tradition held that if a .45 round bounced off an enemy's helmet, the force of impact alone was enough to snap his neck. The new ceramic weaponry and its ammunition, on the other hand, left nothing to chance. If you struck an enemy's helmet at 2500 yards, the force of expansion from the impacting round was enough to push his ears into his armpits! A hit at 1500 yards or less was a 'kill'—no if, ands or buts! On 'full auto' (which unlike other branches of the service was still not looked on favorably by the Corps), modern anti-personnel weapons (APWs) could easily release all sixty rounds in its magazine in a fraction of a second, and whatever was in front of the muzzle would disappear right down to its ankles.
Now, a thirty- or forty-year old rifle would be somewhat diminished in capacity, but it would still be a rifle—effectively the same weapon as a brand-spanking-new model! But Christopher sat there staring into a crate of Winchester Model 1897 pump-action shotguns—a weapon from the First World War—complete with bayonets, and wondered if he could even figure out how to work the damned things, let alone teach a Malacan how to work one.
And there were crates and crates and more crates of the .30 caliber nightmare, as far as the eye could see. Springfields and Trench Guns from the First World War, M‑1 Garands and some other strange looking auto‑rifle from the Second World War called a 'Johnson' that he had never even heard of, a stash of Browning Automatic Rifles from, from… he couldn't tell just by looking at them. He'd have to index the serial numbers later. There were stacks of some derivative of the M‑16 from who knew when, belt-feed machine guns in both the .30 and .50 caliber variety (.50 caliber! If the Malacans were ever attacked by a herd of elephants, they'd be ready!), TOE rockets, LAW rockets, sets of Dragon missiles, a small box of .45 caliber M3A1 submachine guns (the ever popular 'Hollywood' Grease Gun)… uniforms and fatigues that he barely recollected as Marine…
SHIP'S LOG
THURSDAY
55 - 05 - 27
ENTRY 13
Just finished full inventory of all supplies. I have absolutely no idea where Griff found all this garbage, but when this is over he and I are definitely going into the antique business. I didn't think half of this stuff even still existed.
| CALIBER | WEAPON | DESCRIPTION & AMOUNTS | ||
12 Gauge 5,984 rounds |
WINCHESTER 1897 |
Unknown thumb buster! Hold trigger & pump shotgun slide, will fire continuously. 20 units, bayonets attached, plus 36 M-1918 28-round shell pouches. |
||
.30‑06 *See Below |
M1903A1 Springfield (model 1942) |
2800 fps, 43.2", 8.69 lbs w/ oiler attached. 25 Marine modified sniper models w/ 10x scope attached. 5-round bolt action, 3 clips per weapon. 68 units in total. |
||
.223 216,000 rounds |
M16A1 |
3250 fps, 39", 6.3 lbs w/o 20-round magazine. Gas operated. Cycle rate of 700 – 900 rounds per minute (RPM). On auto, mechanism is capable of 600 to 1000 RPM. 720 units. |
||
*40MM |
M203 |
*see above M16A1 detachable grenade launcher. 52 units. |
||
.30‑06 |
M1941 Johnson |
2770 fps, 45.87", 9.5 lbs. 10-round rotary magazine. Recoil operated automatic! Lots of moving parts. 241 units—still in the box! |
||
.30‑06 |
M1918 Browning Automatic Rifle |
2805 fps, 47.8", 19.4 lbs. Gas operated, auto only. 311 20-round detachable magazines. Skid type bipod. Slow auto will cycle 300 ‑ 450 RPM. Fast auto will cycle 500 ‑ 650 RPM. 21 units. |
||
.30‑06 |
M1919A6 Browning 'Light' Machine Gun |
2800 fps, 53", 32.5 lb unit w/ 14 lb mount. Browning recoil operated. Automatic will cycle 500 - 600 RPM. Six 250-round fabric feed belts and a load of disintegrating metal link belts. 6 units. |
||
.45 148,820 rounds |
M3A1 (Grease Gun) |
920 fps, 29.8" w/extended stock. 7.65 lbs. Blowback operated automatic. 30-round detachable box magazines, 43 extras. 8 units. |
||
.45 |
M50 (Reising Gun) |
919 fps, 35.7", 6.75 lbs, selective fire. Delayed blowback operated automatic. Five 12-round & twenty-nine 20-round detachable box magazines. Will cycle 550 RPM. 32 units. |
||
.50 |
M85C Heavy Machine Gun |
2840 fps, 56.25", 61.51 lbs plus mount. Recoil operated, on linked belts. Slow auto cycle of 450 ‑ 500 RPM. Fast auto cycle of 1050 ‑ 1100 RPM (more or less). 2 units. |
||
Approximately 800,000 rounds of .30‑06, mixed manufacturers
(what the hell, they were used in four or five different wars! 80 years
apart!) in reasonable condition.
Four boxes of unassembled .30 caliber machine gun parts. There must be at least 10 working units in those boxes just waiting to be reassembled! There’s a mess of shot-out Garands, too.
1129¼ gallons of Uncle Sam's 'Best & Only' gun oil and assorted cleaning tools (where not contained within weapon).
Slings and bayonets attached where required.
823 WWII type Marine Kabar knives.
28 M‑1 brass‑knuckled trench knives (of which I've commandeered three just for the 'collector' value!)
Have located enough "K" & "C" rations to supply a battalion in the field for at least six to eight months, and enough MREs for ten months to a year!
We have 128 M47 wire-guided missiles with launchers. Bases and sights folded up into individual carrying units. They seem to be in working order—if not, this'll be a really short course!
We have 73 laser wire‑guided units that can be fired either from a bipod or a mounted position. I THINK these are TOE rockets. I have NO idea how these things work.
We have 39 LAW rockets from the 1960's or 70's. If I remember correctly, these are anti‑tank weapons.
We also have a nice assortment of 40MM cartridges for the grenade launchers that attach to the M16s. To the tune of 3,006 units.
Include several more boxes that have caught a little water somewhere and all identification for what their functions are has either faded or rusted away. Couldn't tell you if they're star clusters or frag grenades. If they check out as safe, I guess we can use them for training purposes. If not, I'll mail them back to Griffen!
I can't locate the flintlocks, Sharps rifles, Winchester lever actions, bazookas, pineapple‑style hand grenades, or World War I biplanes that I know must be stashed here somewhere!
JESUS CHRIST! 1297 covers! Now we can really look like ‘Jarheads'! And they can't be more than 80 or 90 years old!
The rest of this stuff looks like Griff knocked over somebody's Salvation Army & Navy store!
INCLUDE ALSO:
| 600 units | Olive drab Skivvies, tops & bottoms. |
| 312 " | White " " " |
| 2200 pairs | Field & Dress Sockets, garters’ inc. |
| 1167 Boots | Direct molded soles. |
| 281 " | Lined winter, rubber soles. |
| 912 units | LC‑1 Helmets. |
| 211 sets | Battle Dress Uniforms, Woodland Type. |
| 296 " | M1951 Winter Uniforms (Korean War!) |
| 411 " | M1944 Utility Camys, Raider Type. |
| 17 units | Ghillie suits w/camy rifle drags - body nets. Great! Now we can look like bushes! |
| 1267 sets | Webbing & assorted attached gear. No idea what half this stuff is for! |
| 9 units | AN/PRC 10 Radios - I got me 9 Pricks! Complete w/ telephone grips! This stuff was old when the Corps used it in Korea! |
We've got assorted tents, field packs, canopies… and I've got to Quartermaster this garbage until things get rolling. If things are on schedule, Maysfield and his team should just about be ready to 'prep the boys' for Marine life.
Somewhere on earth, a war surplus storeowner is laughing his ass off at my expense.
All things being equal, Salo Majoris was nothing more than a bus stop at the crossroads of what had become the military universe. Army rangers en route to great desert planets to test new assault techniques, Navy SEALs embarking for worlds of immense arctic oceans to develop minus‑zero equipment, Marine pilots headed for the ringed planets to experience negative gravity flight with Mesartimian flight crews, and hundreds upon hundreds of new recruits from all branches headed for out‑world training planets—all passing through two processing cities at opposite ends of a planet that had virtually nothing to offer the universe other than it had neutral terrain on a world that was otherwise totally void of personality.
Yet, like other small towns outside military bases from one galaxy to the next, each of these two little processing gems of military operations had a suburb that was custom made for military men on leave. Places where fears of vast unknowns could be soothed away by—well, whatever they would require to sooth these fears. Places that were open 'round‑the‑clock', 26.7 hours a day. It would not be unusual to see work teams of various sorts from all over the universe moving equipment or modifying training bays. It would not be unusual to see 185 Malacans in deep space for eleven months enjoying a little liberty before the long trip home, and being guested at empty Marine barracks.
* * *
On the morning of May 27th, at 05:30 hours, the main body of recruits stood at attention in landing bay C. One hundred eighty-one were scheduled for departure, the other four would be held over to learn the fine art of Quartermastering—which in this particular instance meant 'buggy‑lugging'. The departure was scheduled for 06:00 promptly.
So they waited.
At 07:00, Sergeant Christopher calmly walked towards the makeshift podium at the far end of the bay. He walked through the crowd in an erect, very military fashion, eyes forward and refusing to meet glances or answer greetings from individuals. The Malacans, who had never seen a 'Smokey Bear', wondered why anyone would wear such a ridiculous looking hat, especially indoors. One obviously could not work in it without it falling off, nor could one expect much protection from falling debris. They wondered why the sergeant would wear a pistol. To the small circle around him, Cock Roach tried to explain it. It fell on ears too excited to listen.
Christopher stood at the podium for a long minute staring out into the crowd. It was the type of stare that said "I expect quiet and I expect it NOW!" and it took a second or so to register with the crowd. An almost cold silence fell across the room. The Sergeant let the silence grow into an almost deafening roar, discomforting and upsetting to the mass gathered for the briefing. Griffen had promised him 'backing' in whatever he deemed as necessary in the accomplishing of his mission. Might as well get off with a bang!
"You… what? Men?” he drawled slowly. "You men have volunteered to join the United States Marine Corps. Or more correctly, I have been ordered by my superiors to MAKE you… United States Marines. At this moment, not one of you little piss ants have any idea what is involved with this… or what it means to be a United States Marine. You do not understand the demands I will put upon you, or the demands you will be expected to put upon yourself! I DO NOT NEED YOU… in my Corps. IF YOU DO NOT MEET MY EXPECTATIONS… OR THE EXPECTATIONS OF THE CORPS, YOU WILL BE GONE… from our numbers. If you are not prepared to sacrifice who you are and what you are to be a Marine… THEN GET THE HELL OUT!... NOW!"
Christopher paused. The sudden explosion of the word 'NOW' had startled the crowd. It may have dawned on some them that this wasn't a game.
"There is a fundamental requirement needed in the making of a United States Marine which is missing. I will correct that now. Before you can join the Corps… you need a GREEN CARD. In our particular situation, as we begin our training, we will also conduct classes in Citizenship. If you so chose, by the end of your second enlistment you will eligible for American citizenship. As it stands, one way or another, you WILL swear allegiance to a new flag, a new country… a new planet. It is a lot to ask of anyone, but on the other hand, you will enjoy all rights and privileges accorded to your new status for your duration in the Corps. As Marines, you will be expected to support all political decisions and directives of your new nation—WITHOUT QUESTION! You will be a fully functioning member of the greatest team in the wor— the universe. It is demanding. Physically, emotionally, mentally! If you are not prepared to meet the demands… LEAVE NOW!
He paused and waited.
There was only silence of monumental proportions.
* * *
I —state your name—do hereby acknowledge to have volun— (aw shit!) VOLUNTARILY… enlisted under the conditions prescribed by law, this twenty-seventh day of…
* * *
Cock Roach sat with his thumbs beneath the shoulder straps of his launch harness absently viewing the blackness of space through the small viewing port. He had sworn to abide by and uphold the laws of a country he had spent less than twelve hours in, and then swore again to serve as a member of that nation's Armed Forces. He had filled out an almost endless flow of paperwork, turned in nearly every civilian possession he had on board the ship for storage during his enlistment, and had been subjected to every form of vaccination in the known universe. Sergeant Christopher had sat there asking the doctors questions on male physiology. He didn't seem to be interested in women. CR wondered why?
By the time all the swearing and paperwork was done it was nearly three o'clock in the afternoon—15:00 hours? Could that be right? By the time the troops had been fed, it was 4:30. Loading and embarking the two cargo landers that had been put to their disposal took another hour and a half—by the time the craft hit the ground it would be nearly eight o'clock! The day was gone! By the time the crews boarded the earth‑style buses and arrived at the Marine barracks, it would be almost 10:00 or 10:30. With 'lights out' at 11:15, there wasn't time to do squat! He had hoped for a swing at a couple of cathouses he had heard about—Hell! He had just had every shot known to the galaxy! What better time!
Ah! But there was tomorrow! One day! He'd take it.
First the Cat Houses and then every waterhole his credit card would carry him to. They'd have to roll him into a ball and stow him away as cargo to get him home!
* * *
Of Master Sergeant Abner Willie Maysfield it was commonly said that he had been born with an Anchor, Globe & Eagle in the place where a heart was supposed to be. He was a salty old son by nature, as older members of the Marine establishment would note, who would have been as comfortable in a Vietnamese jungle a century ago as he was on the drill fields of Parris Island today. On the left sleeve of his blouse were six service stripes with a seventh on the way—twenty-eight years a Marine, and twenty-two of those years a Drill Instructor. Normal procedure moved a DI out every two years, but damn Maysfield was great at a time when greatness was greatly needed! So he'd do his two years, pushed a few papers for a series or two, then somebody high up (who knew how to get things done neatly, properly and without attracting much attention) would slide him back in. He was a "Maker of Marines" as he said to the countless recruits he routinely terrified. He had (properly and without attracting much attention) turned his back on promotion to remain a "Maker of Marines.” And indeed, if the truth must be known, his Recruit platoons had been, and were, the best. It didn't surprise Griffen when, despite Maysfield's age, he had been Christopher's first choice. Maysfield felt immeasurably honored that he had been requested by one of his former Students of the Art for this unique exercise.
He had brought a full squad of twelve men—three junior DIs, and nine handpicked Marines of personal acquaintance who knew how to forget what they’d seen at his request.
Of the three Junior DIs, Maysfield had combed through the personnel files for two days solid for only the most perfect of candidates. When Griffen had approached him for the task, there was an urgency sensed by the Master Sergeant that had convinced him that the situation was clearly not what it appeared to be, almost dire in nature. He had been cited a mission to "make Marines" directly from the Commanding Training Officer with nothing more than a transfer order to a foreign space craft. It listed his MOS as 6500, Basic Avionics Ordinance Marine—a job he had not held in twenty-five years—not as 8511, Drill Instructor. There was something, perhaps in Griffen's eyes or the expression on his face, which called for a "no error" margin.
Damn, it felt good to be in something serious again!
Unfortunately for Griff, whose chosen main function was clearly to pull strings and shuffle the papers as unobtrusively as possible, Maysfield's perfect candidates where not only less than perfect, a couple of them were almost downright dangerous. Of the five men Maysfield had selected for Griffen to choose from, only two were active Drill Instructors. Two more had been Drill Instructors five and ten years prior, and were now fleet Marines hoping to survive until retirement. The fifth choice was the ripest of the lot—and, unfortunately, the one Maysfield insisted be called up the most vigorously.
Corporal Daniel Sabott had been a Drill Instructor until he had been Court Martialed for laying hands on a Boot, not more than six months ago, a charge Maysfield himself had strenuously disagreed with. Sabott had stood toe to toe with a fuck up on the rappelling tower and attracted the attention of a passing newly-ordained Lieutenant—who assumed the finger in the Boot’s chest was an attempt to toss him off the forty-five-foot drop. Sabott had not stopped and backed off with the Lieutenant calling from the bottom of the tower, forcing the officer to climb most of the way up. At the Court Martial, he had cited the oath he had taken as a Drill Instructor as his only defense. As he saw it, his first and foremost obligation was to the Boot entrusted to his care, and that his actions were of an "educational" rather than "punitive" nature. His superiors—only one of whom was a Marine, and the lowest-ranking officer on the panel—didn't see it that way.
He had been reduced in rank from a Staff Sergeant to Corporal and only an exemplary record and a list of top flight personal references had saved him from being dishonorably discharged. Nonetheless, with less than eight months left on his current contract, any request to reenlist would be denied. For all intents and purposes, he was a dead Marine. But not in Maysfield's eyes. Old Abner Willie knew a natural‑born DI when he saw one! It took more paper shuffling for Griffen to set him up than the other four together. When the time came for an extension on Sabott's contract, there would be hell to pay. In Griffen's defense, it should be noted that despite all his protests to Maysfield, he had instructed his Master Sergeant to see to it that the Corporal was "field promoted" to the rank of Sergeant the minute the team was airborne for Salo Majoris.
Of the other recommendations, Griff went with the two active DIs, Staff Sergeants Reuben Rojas and Walter Stone. Rojas' Military Occupational Specialty had been 0100, Basic Avionics. He had at least some understanding of flight and the technical problems of space travel. Stone, on the other hand, had been 0300, Infantry, before it had been abolished. But he had served time at the Island as 8531, Range Coach as well as 8411, Recruiter, two skills that Griffen saw as potentially useful tools in the upcoming months.
The flight to Salo Majoris had not given them much time to devise a clear course to be taken. It had, in fact, almost been counter‑productive. There is an old saying, "put four Marines in one room at one time and there'll be five opinions.” The only agreement reached, based on the flimsiest of orders given, was that their main function was to "make Marines.” The numbers facing them in this task were, pardoning the pun… astronomical. Compounding the problem was the fact that these Boots were not even human. Each man would be left pretty much to his own devices to accomplish his mission. They would powwow out the. rest with tie decisions going to the ranking non-coms.
They were shuttled in from their craft directly to receiving point A. As the operation was listed as a Marine expeditionary exercise, there was no breach of protocol or security when their craft slipped through the radar and went off towards the remoter quarters of the planet.
The heavy cloud cover over the area had prevented any view of the terrain. The decision had been made, in rare mutual agreement, to receive the new recruits in as near a traditional situation as possible. A map was obtained and a route and "event" locations laid out, complete with yellow footprints to stand on and the customary "free" hair cut. Maysfield took it as a sign of Divine Approval that they had landed in a downpour damned‑near the ferocity of a South Carolina soaker. The fact that the rain was salt‑laden and hot to the touch was all the better. Old Abner Willie knew God himself had chosen him for this mission, and he wasn't about to let Griffen down. The atmospheric conditions were confirmation from his other God that he was off to the right start!
There is something awe‑inspiring about four Marine DIs garbed in the heavy military brown rain coats, with their stiff-brimmed Smokey Bears channeling the rain off in torrents, and standing at parade rest in a cannonade of water, lightning, and thunder. They watched motionlessly from a two-hundred-yard distance as buses bearing the new recruits pulled up to the barracks. It was 22:50 hours. Without so much as a turn of his head, Maysfield ordered the squad to 'get going' and the nine Marines loaded themselves into a small troop carrier, heading off into the empty darkness. At 23:15, the barrack lights extinguished. At precisely 23:55, he and the three Junior DIs walked the two hundred yards to the barracks and signaled a new set of military transport buses into the compound yard. At one minute into the new day, Master Sergeant Abner Willie Maysfield unsuspectingly fired the shot heard round the galaxy.
* * *
It took him one swift kick to take the barrack's door off its hinges and send it halfway across the squad bay deck. It bounced three or four times, sounding more like a steel wrecking ball than an ex‑barrack hatch. The explosion threw nineteen Malacans off the cots they were sleeping in. He walked slowly through the squad bay calmly shouting, "Get off the Ga'danned bunks and dress!" The juniors walked through the squad bay calmly lifting cot after cot of sleeping recruits off the ground and spilling them onto the deck.
"I am Master Sergeant Abner Willie Maysfield. It is the second day of your Liberty and as per your orders I am meeting you and will begin the forming week of your training as United States Marines! Now get off the Ga'danned bunks and dress! There are ten buses waiting outside. You will file onto each bus in nine groups of twenty and one bus of one! It is now 00:03 hours. At precisely 00:10 those buses will leave. IF… you are not on board, you will be left behind and charged with desertion! You will be arrested. Now get dressed and get on the Ga'danned buses!"
Through it all, the Juniors were shouting orders left and right at dozens of scrambling recruits amidst a dizzying array of flying clothing and furniture. Slower moving recruits found themselves being climbed over by quicker recruits and at 12:10 A.M., ten military buses carrying 181 half dressed, half awake recruits pulled out of the compound.
* * *
The Marine barracks on Salo Majoris lay at the southern most tip of the city, nestled between the brig—which, as the Corps was most historically experienced in operating, was their duty—and the small craft and conventional flight landing field, whose protection they were charged with also. Beyond that was a great dead ocean. Through the city, to the north, was a vast wasteland devoid of anything that constituted life. The heavy rains that fell daily had eroded it all away centuries ago. Unlike the rains that fell on most planets, the storms here were almost half salt. They were not refreshing to be in, but uncomfortably warm to the touch.
Cock Roach sat pressed tightly into a corner seat at the rear of the bus. It pulled out of the compound and headed straight for the Air Station. The jostling of the bus wedged him deeper and deeper into the corner and kept him from sleeping. This wasn't what he had expected, and he felt that he had a better idea than the next guy. So he sat, looking through the lower corner window, and wondering if there was a formula he could use to convert darkness to miles traveled.
The bus was segmented into four sections of different colored seats. He and the other recruits occupied the maroon seats to the rear. When the bus pulled into the civilian-landing depot, the remaining seats were quickly filled with freshly landed young people, mostly from earth, on their way to new military careers. The Malacans, who resembled anything but Marine recruits, went unnoticed. CR wondered if the Marines were giving these other guys a lift or if it was the other way around. Not that it mattered. His one-day of Liberty was disappearing right before his eyes.
The carriers turned around and rumbled down the same road it had just come up. CR decided that this was Standard Operating Procedure for Earth's military. In the little he had actually been exposed to the military, he had learned quickly that if they didn't do everything at least twice, they weren't happy. It was 01:30 in the morning and the din of the new arrivals in conjunction with the rumbling of the bus had made sleeping impossible for the Malacans. They sat there listening as the new arrivals talked of what projects they had chosen to be involved with after their basic training was completed.
It was exciting in a way. The spirits of the Malacans were lifting as they gained their "second wind.” Their need for sleep was fading. They vibrated their way off the dirt path they had been on to the blacktopped road leading onto the town's main and only street which, for whatever reason, ran a good eight or nine miles. Every two miles or so, the bus would pull up to a well-kept one or two story brick building where uniformed men would climb onto the entrance step of the bus and shout "Navy" or "Air Force" or "Army" and be met by returning shouts of "Aye, Aye, Sir!" or "Here Sir!" by the departing recruits. As the new arrivals passed the uniformed representatives, a hand would be extended and greetings of "Welcome aboard" or "Glad to have you—Glad to be here!" exchanged. Excited anticipation was rising with the Malacan crew.
At 02:15 A.M. the town disappeared into the near-moonless darkness and the blacktopped road ran out. They vibrated through the void for about ninety minutes till, through the wide glass front window, a speck of light seemed to appear. It didn't shine as the halogen illuminators so common in those days did, but glowed like the illumination from the pocket butane lighters most of them carried. It was nearly 03:30 A.M. The night rains had begun to fall again, even harder. They had been lucky. If the rains had begun to fall like this twenty minutes earlier, they'd be walking in.
As the illumination began to push back the void, CR realized that they'd left the road and had been moving over open terrain. A faint outline of a small camouflaged field tent appeared. A single glass bulb of small wattage, probably battery powered, was the source of the illumination. The intense darkness had made it seem greater than it was. Standing there, in the rain, were the four men that had awakened them at the barracks. Other Marines in field dress and rain gear were setting up tables and workstations. When the buses began to line up, the four men began walking to the entrances, and while CR could not see the man for his bus from the corner he was wedged in to, he clearly heard him call, "Marines!”
His call was answered by cries of "Here" and "Sir!” There was a split second of dead silence and then…
"WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU LITTLE PISS ANTS WAITING FOR? GET THE FUGG OFF MY BUS! NOW! MOVE IT! MOVE IT! MOVE! MOVE! MOVE!"
