The average civilian hasn't got a clue how a firearm operates. They assume that, like in the movies, one may simply pick up a rifle and hit something. Terms like cavitation, windage, full metal jacket, semi ‑ jacketed, rear and front sights, gun oil, and recoil have little or no bearing on the operation of the tribal fire spear. By simply picking one up it is assumed you were ready to kill!
Throughout Phase One, Stone had taught the course on firearms—in particular, the M1941 Johnson automatic rifle. It was one of the more vigorously studied courses, as word had gotten out that to Unk, or fail to qualify, meant regaining the title of Civilian. Of all the services in the entire world, no other group placed as much emphasis on the usage of the rifle as the Corps had. A boot begins by studying the weapon—how it operated, how it loaded, how it disassembled and reassembled. To the man, by the start of Phase Two, every boot could take apart and rebuild his weapon blindfolded, and could tell you instantly that the .30‑06 round when fired from an M1941 could cover 2770 to 2800 feet per second. The amount of time and detail given to the understanding of the basic tool of the trade imparted by the Corps to its children would stun the average civilian. Especially considering that by the start of Phase Two, a boot had not as yet fired a round of live ammunition.
At the beginning of Phase Two is the prelude to live fire. It is called Grass Week. It is a week of countless hours of learning how to snap in and position your weapon, how to control your breathing and carefully draw the trigger in. It is hours and days of just standing, sitting, kneeling, or lying in the prone position with your weapon at point to acquire the feeling for the instrument. It is a grueling experience, but as necessary as it is mandatory.
I must master my weapon as I must master my life.
Why the time comes, your career as a Marine reduces down to dividing fifty rounds into 250 points shot at three distances from the four basic positions.
There are three qualifications for Marine Riflemen: if you fire between 225 and 250 points, you are awarded the rank of Expert, 215 to 224 you're Sharp Shooter, and if you can squeak through by shooting 190 to 214 points you qualify as Marksman. To fall below 190 points is to Unk—fail! You are given one more chance to re-qualify; failing that, you're allowed to grow your hair to you shoulders, sport a beard and refer to yourself as PFC—Plain Friggin' Civilian.
It had taken Stone and Christopher almost a week to fine-tune the range with the ship's engineers and physicists. The speed at which the projectile exited the casing and moved through the barrel was at a rate of spin less than the rotation of the artificial gravities. Because of the greater mass of the shooter, he generally paid the price for an explosion in positive weightlessness by flying off in one direction or the other and smashing solidly into a wall. The projectile and its frightening energy fired into the heavier gravity slowed almost to a halt and threw the energy back at its point of origin.
The Johnson's weren't terrible—the .30‑06 rounds, when fired singly, were controllable (except they went directly to the starboard wall)—but a three-round burst would knock the rifleman flat on his ass. But put enough .30‑06 rounds together, like a twenty-round burst from a BAR, and it was devastating. The individual explosions at a close proximity, combined with not having enough speed to escape the barrel and too much speed to react properly with the artificial gravity, united for one great reverse flush of gases. When and if it came time for Tactical Weapons Training, unless solved, this would be a major problem. The whiplash caused by a .50 caliber might be enough to kill.
They analyzed the round fired at the pool since Stone had reported it as no particular problem. It had been a 40mm grenade flare from which Stone had removed almost 80% of the explosive ingredients. When the process was analyzed, the ship's physical scientist began to realize that the problem centered on the expeditiousness of rotations. The rotation of the artificial gravity had to be less than the velocity of the exploding round—on the order of nearly five to one—in order to avoid the time flux having to be factored in. Or drop the velocity of the projectile so low that the effect would be like throwing a baseball, as Stone’s round had done, loping freely in an arc. There were only two choices. As the Malacan Physicist expressed it—raise the bridge or lower the canyon.
The question was raised as to the feasibility of removing 80% of the powder from the cartridges. Christopher and Stone had responded by laughing to the point of tears. There was just something that struck them as funny about having to drill out, measure contents, refill and cap 500,000 rounds. So much for raising the bridge!
To change the existing gravity would begin to wreak havoc with living organisms. The only possibility was to subdivide the canyon—which is exactly what they did. A second rectangular field was created that stretched from one foot over the shooting line and ended at the rear target. A walkway of nearly five feet was left along the starboard wall so instructors could approach the targets and stand behind them to change targets and compute scores. A little added benefit was that upon going through the target and entering the slower, heavier gravity of the room, the projectile would all but stop moving and embed neatly on the outer surface of Christopher’s make shift back stop. As long as the shooter leaned forward enough to get his barrel into the second zone, he'd be all right.
When the field was activated, despite Christopher's protests, Stone took one the refurbished Springfields and grouped five rounds in the 500-yard target in a space no larger than a silver dollar. The range was given a good to go and attentions were given to other problems.
As Griffen had expressed, attention had to be given to the teaching of English. Amongst the five of them, there wasn't an English teacher in the lot. A collar translator was not dependable in the field. Recruits had to learn to respond to spoken commands—and those commands were most likely going to be in English.
The ship supplied subliminal linguistics tapes that proved to be quite effective. Played through a sub‑audible generated signal, recruits began to assimilate a new language in their sleep. On more than one occasion a DI would enter a sleeping barracks to hear forty-three sleeping boots asking for a second helping or for directions to a toilet. By the end of Phase One, only one out of four boots were allowed to keep his translator active. While most hadn't fully mastered the art of speaking the language clearly, they could understand it fairly well.
"Hell!" Maysfield had obstinated. "Second helpings, toilets! They're gonna think we're a bunch of pussies if we keep teaching 'em stuff like that!" So, motivated by the great acceptance Full Metal Jacket had received, throughout Phase Two 3030 platoon was marched to the conference bay that had a twenty-foot viewer and were shown every Terran lasered film on the Corps that Maysfield could muster. Whether they viewed standing in full gear or sitting in PT clothes, it was translator off!
From a Marine standpoint, Maysfield knew most the films were bullshit—but it was still better than toilets and second slices. Using some of Roach’s old equipment, he actually created a two-hour tape of Marine terms from the movies at his disposal, and had the linguistics computer create a subliminal tape to be played either before or after those damned toilet tapes that Christopher refused to cancel. By the end of the first week results had proven so dramatic that the other platoons soon adopted the method.
The effect on the troops was also amazing. Most of the films, especially those created during the years of the Second World War, were purely propaganda—and the troops were buying it hook, line, and sinker! So much so that troops not on the firing line were required to attend a newly created course—Marines, Film & Fact.
But they watched them all: Hell to Eternity, Wake Island, Sniper, Death Before Dishonor, Gung Ho… they watched them all. It should be noted that when John Wayne got killed in Sands of Iwo Jima, the DIs were made suddenly aware of just how much slang the troops were in possession of. Shouts of disapproval shook the room and in some eye sockets pupils began to disappear.
As Malacans had no real understanding of the cinema world of old Mother Earth, it was hastily decided that a second feature, Flying Leathernecks, should be shown. There was more than one surprised expression to be noted when the Duke reappeared on the screen.
As off the wall as the process was, it worked.
Throughout the advanced linguistics, one major exception to the no‑translator rule was made. On the firing line, all translators were tied directly into the ear protection and set for maximum translation.
* * *
By the second day of live firing, there wasn't a shoulder in all four platoons that wasn't showing the signs of at least one violent recoil. If the muzzle wasn't far enough into the modified gravity zone, no matter how tightly a boot had the butt pressed into his shoulder, it still wasn't enough to stop the severe blowback of the gravity-defying Johnson. They had taken to firing three-round bursts as well as single firing, just as their predecessors had done, and it was proving successful. When the time came to qualify they'd all do good, no doubt about it.
Even with the complications of the ersatz environment, the scores were coming back unusually high. Near as Stone could determine as he supervised and instructed the lines, the greater diameter of their eyeballs gave them a much clearer sight picture, and their greater upper body strength allowed them the grace of steadier hands when positioned to fire. As long and heavy as the Johnson was, they had no trouble using it to their advantage. Going into the qualification round, each platoon possessed at least one boot that was capable of shooting perfect scores.
3031's Recruit Greasepit had sent three bursts of three down the 500-yard line from the prone position and actually hit dead center of target. At first, Stone believe only the first burst had gone through, and the second and third missed completely. But when he had measured the center bulls eye holes with a micrometer, he realized the little bastard had passed all three bursts through virtually the same spots.
There were no such wonder children in 3030, but Maysfield had concentrated his efforts on instructing his troops to concentrate on hitting anywhere inside a ten inch circle—roughly the size of the kill zone on an enemy's chest. Their platoon score was overall the highest of the four. And even with that, recruits Budweiser and Roach were rapidly approaching perfect score potential. Budweiser had appled on his last shot and Roach, being small in size even for a Malacan, had trouble reaching into the zone from the firing line. On three fires he had been so overextended that the blowback from the three-round bursts had knocked him down.
* * *
Since the onset of the project, a regular DIs meeting had been scheduled for Monday nights. Things being what they were, it had become a poker game during which incidental occupational problems were discussed. It was one of the few moments during the week that only Terrans bided in a single room. One Instructor would remain on night detail, freeing the other three to conference in diamonds, spades, hearts, and clubs. The usual topics of a non‑immediate nature generally centered around the politicians who had never been in the military and who were trying to take their jobs away, or worse, turn them over to Army supervision. But as they sat there, losing their shirts to Rojas on the first wave of Grass Week, the discussion began to center on their own boot camps.
"That son of a bitch crawled up my ass and stayed there for three months. Rode me like a borrowed mule," Rojas reflected in detail.
"Shut the hell up and deal," Sabott jumped in. "We only got six more hours before wake up, and I need every minute of that to win my sisters back from you."
"You know, I hate to admit it, but Mex over there has got a point!" Christopher said. "Are we—”
"The Mex?" Rojas looked innocently at Christopher. "Is the spook in the corner talking about me? Gentleman, feed the pot please."
Christopher looked up from his latest bad hand. "Rojas, if you don't start dealin' me better cards than these, I'm gonna call you a few things you haven't heard since high school!"
"The spook in the corner continues!"
Stone hastily interjected, never lifting his eyes from the cards. "Are we missing an element here?"
"'Es’plain eet to me, oh great black one," Rojas mockingly queried. "I'll take three. What are you looking for, redneck?"
"I suppose that's better than bein' called a pencil dick. "Sabott fanned his cards. "Ah, the redneck wants two… ummm, but which two? By the way, I know what Stoney's getting at."
"Your humble but talented Non‑Commissioned‑Officer‑In‑Charge wants three, and while Rojas is counting three on his fingers and matching up the same number of cards to give me, would the pencil-dicked redneck from Louisiana please enlighten me. Stone hasn't been making sense to me since he lost his dress blues to Rojas an hour ago. HUP! I'll raise a fin."
All eyes rose. Christopher could feel the hands folding.
"Only kidding! Up a buck."
"I wish you wouldn't do that." Sabott pushed backward in his seat. "You know how sensitive Reuben is WHEN IT COMES TO LOSIN' HIS OWN DAMN MONEY! The redneck'll see that and raise y'all a buck. I think what Stone's talking about is… sand fleas. One hundred degrees with ninety‑nine percent humidity. Seeing the flag go up canceling your ten-mile run because the temperature defies the human existence... and knowing that your DI is gonna shut off the air conditioning and run you to the quarterdeck…"
"Air Conditioning?" Christopher cut in. "Hell, boy, I was in Barracks three! We never had AC!"
"Whatever! You see what I'm saying, right?" Sabott said. "The one thing we haven't given them is the one thing common to all Marines for almost two hundred years—Parris Island! Man. I come from Louz'eeehana! I though I knew swamp!"
"Yeahhh, Danny! Oh, the spook is in, sees that and raises two! That's exactly what I mean. For eleven weeks, you baked in that miserable, stinkin' South Carolina sun. You ever had a friend burn a tick off of you? Any Jarheaded dumb‑ass mother-fucker you meet anywhere in the universe, you know he's got to have something goin' for him! He survived the Green Weenie on Parris Island, same as your dumb ass did!"
Christopher looked up pensively. "You got a point! Maybe we can do something 'bout that. The NCOIC has a full house, Jacks over nines."
Rojas looked up with a surprised expression on his face. "Where you come from? People win with a hand like that?" He lowered his hand to eye level. "The Mex has Aces over Queens! AHH HAA!" Rojas reached forward to pull in the pot, but found his wrist clamped tight.
"Where the spook in the corner comes from," Stone tossed in, "a royal flush beats that!" With his palm still tight around Rojas' wrist, the thumb on his other hand pushed the flush across the table.
* * *
The uniform of the day was camy, and it didn't thrill anybody much. Since the third day of Grass Week, bay temperatures and humidity had been slowly rising and now was a sultry eighty-eight degrees with humidity of nearly 90%. Heat was nothing new, but this thing called humidity was unbearable. There were now 185 drooling bug-eyed boots who were consuming water at an awesome pace. And the more they took in, the more had to come out. For the first time in most of their lives, perspiring changed to sweating. At worst, most of them had from time to time found an arm or neck slightly moistening. But yesterday they had dragged back to the barracks ringed with water pouring from poorly designed pores. The worst part of it was the strength-sapping quality it seemed to have. What they couldn't understand was how the DIs, who had set the pace of the day, could do it in their khaki without so much as a dark spot appearing under an arm.
The truth of the matter was that for generations DIs had been waterproofing their blouses from the inside. They had learned the art of the fast shirt change when nobody was looking so that wetness could be not be seen. They paid for the high temperatures every bit as much as the boots did, but experience had taught them how not to show it.
The boots left the barracks running—not towards but away from the range. They knew immediately that the day was beginning with a ten-mile run. It was going to be hell and they all knew it. As unaccepting of absorbing sound as the Malacan metals that fashioned the ship were, they could absorb heat like water into a sponge. In the colder regions of space the metal floors and walls became part of the heating system, spreading evenly the heat dispersed from the engines. As they ran, their feet told them that the floor was at least a rosy eighty-five degrees. It couldn't possibly become worse.
But it did get worse. The Marines had several hundred thousand gallons of water to get rid of and no place to put it—except into the sprinkler system in fire control. They connected the pumps for every bay in their charge and let it rip. South Carolina would have been proud of those five Marines who duplicated a Parris Island downpour right down to the flashing lightning and booming thunder. It was damn near perfect.
The nice part of having a floor blazing away at eighty degrees is that water evaporates quickly, leaving a light white film from all the chlorine they had pumped into it. Normal procedure at Parris Island would dictate that a platoon completing qualifications on the range would spend a week performing Mess & Maintenance for the next platoon on the range. As this was not practical, a week would be spent policing the damage caused by the sudden, unexpected downpour.
By committee decision, it was determined that every third bay the platoons ran through would be dry, but the heat and humidity would come right back. No sooner had a platoon stepped out of a downpour than they were greeted by a hostile, swamp‑like humidity, and then thrown back into a downpour.
When they had reached the range, run time had decreased by almost a full third that, needless to say, set off all four DIs. The troops were exhausted and stomachs were beginning to rumble. Now they faced another problem. Because of the range’s restructuring of the gravities, it was impossible to get the "rains" to fall downward—so the DIs settled for a cooling mist that seemed to swirl. For the first ten minutes there was rejoicing in the ranks. The air was cooler and, despite the extreme wetness of their uniforms, they were allowed to sit on the floor. It felt wonderful. As soon as the platoons began to relax, they came out.
Those attending Parris Island at the proper season can list in great detail the character-building quality of the unofficial Parris Island Mascot—the South Carolina sand flea! The Sand Flea is an amazing creature. Slightly larger than a gnat, its body weight is comprised of 75% teeth and 25% wings, and is in fact generally referred to as 'flying teeth.' And when left to their own devices, sand fleas can snap the concentration of the staunchest boot by its relentless and merciless attacking. Needless to say, a boot is generally not allowed to swat, strike, or in anyway repel this awe-inspiring creature... except as directed, if directed, by one's Drill Instructor.
But the nearest sand flea was, alas, several hundred light years away. It took Christopher almost five hours of research into Malacan insects to find an equal. Just as all hope seemed lost, a little three-line blurb in a farming manual referred to a type of fly the author called “the farmer's despair.” Slightly larger than the pride of Parris Island, these amazing little demons did no physical damage, but affected the audible canals with a ringing that was as annoying as severe poison ivy. Brought out by the sudden coolness after whatever infrequent rains fell, any sudden rise in temperature would kill them off immediately—and without the presence of certain plants indigenous to their home world, there'd be no spawning. It was a custom-made counterpart to the perfect training tool. Much to the amazement of the ship's entomologist, several thousand specially-grown unhatched larvae of Dragonus Malignus (as it was known to the Terran universe) was obtained by Master Sergeant Maysfield.
"Don't move! Don't swat!" DIs moved in and out of the sitting platoons, weaving and changing directions, stamping their feet. This action caused the insect life on the floors to rise and begin to swarm. It stunned the Recruits to see the DIs moving as if nothing was happening—and, in fact, it wasn't. One of the things Christopher had counted on was that the buzzing was beyond the range of human hearing.
"Calisthenics! Push-ups! By my count! ONE… two, three... four. One… two, three... four."
The staggered count left the troops in the down position and really frenzied up the pseudo-sand fleas. It took about an hour, but the entire hatch was up and flying and intermittently mingling with the falling mist. The end of PT exhausted the platoons.
"Each platoon! Two lines! Two lines!"
The Recruits looked up to see boxes of rations being opened and prepared for dispensing. They couldn't expect them to eat in a swarm of flies! Sure enough, chow was served with all the swarming, and the DIs stomping around to make certain the swarm stayed in the air. Instead of the mess crew dispensing the chow, Stone and Rojas handed whole cartons to platoon leaders off of a hand truck with instructions not to begin until everybody was served, including the DIs.
They sat Indian style on the deck, eyes glued forward. In the midst of all the chaos caused by the manufactured environment, the DIs stood by the hand truck casually talking as if nothing was happening. An unexpected charge went through the platoons when Sabott reached for a large thermos that had been stashed on the truck. Every recruit to the man knew that if Sabott opened that jug and began to pour, every insect in the bay would haul it for the liquid in the cup. He'd be covered from head to toe with these annoying pests. But he did… and they didn't. In fact, he poured all the DIs a cup and they stood there sipping away. And while the flies had gathered around them, none of insects seemed to want to come in close to the Marines. Not one boot realized it, but the rising heat from the cups of scalding-hot coffee was the perfect repellent.
So there they sat, one hand palm down on their left knee and the other hand palm up holding the C or K ration box, while the DIs stood calmly drinking coffee. As they sat, the temperature began to rise—about thirty degrees in less than ten minutes. They had been traded off their flies for heat and high humidity. And then the rain returned, only blowing sideways from both directions. Then the rains turn to a monsoon, saturating everything—including the rations.
"Begin! Chow is served!" the DIs called.
"I can't eat this!" the recruit sitting on Roach's left moaned in a whining half-whisper. "This shit's soaked, and on top a' that it's covered with dead flies! How the fuck are we supposed to eat this?"
Roach turned his torso towards him and never said a word. He held up the small can of processed meat in his left hand and held it motionless in front of the bitching recruit. With an unbelievable swiftness, his right fist seemed to come out of nowhere and struck the lid, nearly flattening it and spraying almost a third of the marvel mystery meat back at him. He calmly emptied the remainder of the can into the palm of his hand. He reached into the soggy box of rations and produced a pasty substance that used to be biscuits and slapped those on top of the meat. He dipped in the box one last time, produced a piece of processed cheese, and slapped that in there also. He looked at the dying box, shook loose a piece of the wet cardboard, and tossed that in for good measure. He policed his blouse for the meat that had escaped on the initial hit and scraped that in there too. The Roach calmly rolled the entire soufflé into a ball that reminded Sabott of the bait he used to catch catfish as a kid. With a loud war yell, "aaahhhhhhHHH," Roach waited for his mouth to open to its widest possible point and walloped the entire eyesore to the back of his throat. Without so much as a chew, the entire ball was gone.
The entire proceedings had been casually observed by the DIs. Maysfield turned to Sabott and said proudly, "I knew there was a reason I liked that little prick!" Then, without turning his face, screamed, "ROACH, YOU MISERABLE LITTLE PENCIL-PECKERED BUG BANGER, GET YOUR BUTT ON THE LINE—I WANNA SEE FIFTY!"
|
11th day of Mho To: MOSA YOzi Ne oab-Razooli 66509 |
MARINE TRAINING STATION DETACHMENT ONE Platoon 3030 @ M Company MCS phEY-QUAD |
Dear Folks,
I have been doing this, let's see, seven days for forming, twenty-one days for Phase I, and we are at the tenth day of the twenty-one days of Phase II. For the last week we have spent day after day holding our Johnsons as if we were to discharge them. Hours and hours of drawing the weapons into a firing position. This is what is called ‘Snapping In’. I have not felt very good about all this up until today when we discharged our weapons for real at targets of different distances. Master Sergeant Maysfield (as I know to call him in his language), which I know pretty well, was very pleased with me. By his reckoning I shot a 222, which for the first time he says was exceptional. All our guys did pretty good, except Recruit Headspace who wasn't leaning into the zone enough and got knocked on his ass every time he fired a burst.
I do not know if the Drill Instructors are changing or if we are, but they do not yell at most of us that much anymore. I think that is because we are knowing now what they expect of us. We are nearing the half way point, and no one has failed and been driven out yet. Even four Tall Ones, who are in 3033, are good Recruits. They do what we do and keep up with us when we run or work. Although why they are here with us we do not understand. But Sergeant Christopher must know, or he wouldn't…
|
DS - 79920 – B2a To: OFFICE OF NTA BEAUFORT AIR STATION S.C., U.S.A., EARTH COLONEL A.L. GRIFFEN |
55 - 07 - 24 From: MARINE DETACHMENT MCS phEY-QUAD In Transit SERGEANT R.S. CHRISTOPHER |
REQUIRE DIRECTIVE FOR THIRD PHASE OF PROGRAM. CANNOT PROCEED BY BOOK AS IS, NO EXPERIENCE UNTIL STICKS ARE USED.
SUPPLIES RECEIVED. WILL RENEW AT FORT BRADLEY IN SCULPTOR REGION AT END OF PHASE TWO, APPROXIMATELY NINETEEN CALENDAR DAYS.
WILL HAVE REMARKABLE SCORES TO SHOW YOU I BELIEVE.
AM STILL NOT AWARE OF WHAT MAKES THE TALLER ONES OPERATE AS SUCH. OVERALL SCORES ARE SLIGHTLY BETTER THAN MARGINAL, AM AFRAID SOME MAY NOT MAKE IT.
| SERGEANT R.S. CHRISTOPHER |
‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑FOLD‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑FOLD‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑FOLD‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑FOLD‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑
Griff,
Things here are good to go! About half of them are beginning to speak English semi‑fluently and are at the edge of grasping Esprit De Corps. Damn we're good! We're trying something new, bringing Parris Island to them as best we can. Don't know why, but they can shoot like champs. Have had one day of live fire and most of them could qualify tomorrow if we ran them. My only concerns are those for the Tall Ones we've got.
Hey, look. Unless you want a bunch of street and bar fighters on your conscience, you'd better dig up a close combat instructor for hand-to-hand. Among the five of us, we couldn't remember enough hand-to-hand to give a twenty-minute lecture!
| Bob |
P.S. - Colonel, if you get a few to yourself, call my mom and wish her a happy birthday for me.
The rains never abated and for the remainder of the week, neither did the flies at meal times. A couple of times the flies didn't emerge until the teams went to the firing line. They no longer appeared in great numbers, but they were enough to screw up concentration if the Recruits weren't careful. And still the scores were going up. Stone walked around with a woody all week long, feeling that it was certainly his own innate skills as a shooting instructor that lay at the bottom of their success. Christopher never said a word.
It had become a ritual now. At every meal, Roach would instruct the platoons in how to eat and then give Maysfield fifty. It was neither taken nor given as punishment, but rather fell under the category of entertainment. Roach did his best to make a show of it, giving Maysfield his fifty with one hand or the other or clapping his hands between reps. On the final meal of practice fire, much to the amazement of all—especially to the DIs who were caught by surprise—Roach laid down on his back and gave Maysfield his fifty push-ups in reverse. The crowd went wild. Partly because of Roach, but mainly because they had never seen all five DIs smiling at the same time.
"Forty-eight! Forty-nine! FIFTY! EEEEEEEEERRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!"
"Get off my deck, butt wipe, and get back in the line." It was Christopher moving through the lines from the rear. "Awright! Listen up. Tomorrow we'll start the qualifications. If you unk, you get more instruction and one more try. Unk again, you're gone. Everybody understand that!" The response was crisp and immediate.
"AYE, AYE, SERGEANT!" exploded across the bay.
"Good! Now! Remember! The weapon you will be firing tomorrow was meant to be issued to your predecessors, Marines going into combat in the South Pacific over a century ago, by the government of the United States. THAT MEANS… it was probably made by the lowest bidder, and we all know what that implies!" The statement drew the same response. They understood all too well what results the lowest bid could produce.
"AYE, AYE, SERGEANT!"
"I thought so."
|
DS - 78047 - A9 To: MARINE DETACHMENT MCS phEY-QUAD In Transit SERGEANT R.S. CHRISTOPHER |
55 - 07 - 26 From: OFFICE OF NTA BEAUFORT AIR STATION S.C., U.S.A., EARTH COLONEL A.L. GRIFFEN |
REMOVE TALL ONES FROM LINE IMMEDIATELY! SEGREGATE FROM MAIN BODY IF HAVE NOT DONE SO ALREADY AND CONTINUE IN ALL OTHER RESPECTS.
UPON ARRIVAL AT FORT BRADLEY, SCULPTER PLANET ONE, REPORT IMMEDIATELY TO GUNNERY SERGEANT SCHAFFER ACTING AS COMMISSARY NCOIC AT FLIGHT LINE G FOR SUPPLIES. SCHAFFER WILL DIRECT SECOND LIEUTENANT M. KELLY AND ASSISTANTS ABOARD SHIP FOR PHASE III SEQUENCE AS REQUIRED.
REMAIN IN PROXIMITY TO ORBITER AS KELLY IS REQUIRED FOR DUTY AT STATION PER DIRECTIVE, ARMY AIR WING. WILL RENDER SERVICES NIGHTLY UNTIL 55 - 8 - 12.
| COLONEL A. L. GRIFFEN |
‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑FOLD‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑FOLD‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑FOLD‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑FOLD‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑
Four Tall Ones! You’ve got four Tall Ones in a platoon? Are you crazy? Get them the hell out of there NOW!
And NO! I don't want four platoons of sharp-shooting bar brawlers on my conscience. You lucked out this time; I actually have a jarhead in the area that specialized in hand-to-hand at the Island for almost three years.
See Schaffer. He’s got a bottle with your name on it. Twenty-five year old Scotch, a request from Master Sergeant Tooth Fairy on his last sit‑rep. Schaffer's a good man, he'll get your troops what they need, so don't bust his balls for the impossible. Things are tough all over.
|
Griff |
P.S. - Your mother sends her love and wants to know where the gift is.
When the day to qualify came, it was pouring steadily in at least two directions. The day had begun with another ten mile run, only this time in full gear. By the time they had reached the range, they were carrying at least another ten pounds per man in water that soaked through everything. They did not go en masse but one platoon at a time. Considering what had been put upon them, they had done better than alright.
Despite the strangeness of full equipment, 3030 averaged 231 points. Dirty John left everyone behind with a perfect score of 250 points, eleven points higher than his pre‑qual the day before. Budweiser missed a perfect score when the rain suddenly jumped sides on him. He missed a bulls eye by the width of a matchstick, and had to settle for second-best. Roach, severely hampered by a driving rain and his inability to extend the muzzle deeply enough into the zone, settled for a disappointing eleventh in the order, barely qualifying for Expert with a 227.
Sabott and Rojas' platoons finished only a handful of points behind. Yet they left feeling satisfied, one of them having overheard (and quickly passed on) Christopher remark that the overall company score would be hard to beat.
But Stone's platoon had an advantage by having the range master as a DI. There had been more than a little extra personal coaching going on, and it raised them to an astounding 242 points overall. The biggest boost to the score would come from three consecutive perfect scores by the Tall Ones. Maysfield's platoon was beaten by the "three-day weekend"—Recruits Friday, Saturday, and Sunday.
Stone figured the extra height had something to do with it. He had arranged the targets at a height for the average recruit. These critters were so tall they were actually shooting down at the targets. Their body length also made it easier to lean into the zones.
Some slight protests were made concerning an obvious unfair advantage to which Christopher responded, "Are you kidding!" and let the results stand.
Whether or not Griffen would accept them was another matter.
