First to Fight (12 page)

“PFC Dean,” Conorado went on, “you fired High Expert and were squad leader in Boot Camp. PFC McNeal, you were assistant squad leader. Speaks well of both of you. You apply what you learned on Arsenault and you should do well here. I expect you to do as well here as you did with the 14th, PFC Chan.” He stood. The first impression he gave was that he was a tall, gangly man. It was only on second look that they realized he was average height and build.

“The Top already welcomed you aboard,” Conorado said. “I’d like to second that. With some effort on your part, you’ll fit in here very shortly. Now, as for assignments . . .” He glanced at a sheet of paper on his desk. “We’ve got holes to fill all over this company, but third platoon is more shorthanded than the others. I think I’ll let Staff Sergeant Bass have all three of you. That’ll almost bring his platoon up to the level of the others.”

Dean blinked. Maybe it was some kind of game they were playing, showing the new men how much they knew.

“I’m short an officer,” Conorado continued, “that’s why your new platoon commander is a staff sergeant. Pay close attention to him. He knows more than any ensign I’ve ever known, and more than most lieutenants and captains as well. Matter of fact, Charlie Bass is something of a legend in the Corps.”

It was Chan’s turn to blink. He had heard of Charlie Bass—but the Charlie Bass he’d heard of was a gunnery sergeant.

“He’s got one problem, though. A lot of junior officers think he’s insubordinate. And he’s got no fear of the consequences when he takes action to back up his convictions.’’ He sat back down. “That’s it for now. Staff Sergeant Bass, they’re yours. Get them processed in.” He returned to the work on his desk.

Back in the outer office, Palmer took them through the company check-in process. It wasn’t much more than sticking their wristbands in the reader to check them against the records netted to the company personnel files while they were walking from Battalion to the barracks. Palmer asked them a couple of confirming questions: date of birth, blood type, mother’s birth name. Finally they looked into the retinal scanner for positive physical ID, and that was it. The processing-in for all three took less than five minutes.

“I’ll take you to meet Sergeant Souavi later—he’s the company supply sergeant,” Bass said when Palmer was through with them. “First, let’s go to the platoon squad bay. Grab your seabags. I’ll introduce you to everybody and assign you to squads.”

On the way, Bass told them that the left wing of the building, one of the verticals on the H, was the L Company area, and that the right wing housed the artillery battery. The company’s living quarters proper were divided into small rooms, each housing the three men of a fire team—squad leaders had private rooms. First and second platoons were on the first deck—the ground floor. Third and the assault platoon were on the upper. A recreation room with two vidscreens, library cards, and various table games was in the rear of the second deck, and a weight room was under it.

CHAPTER

NINE

The wide-eyed PFC took a few more steps along the corridor, then spun back as soon as Bass and the strangers went through the office door. He dashed to the streamer staff and stood next to it, listening to the Marines in the office. When Top Myer led them into Captain Conorado’s office, he darted into the office and spoke with Palmer in a hushed-rushed voice.

“New guys?” he asked. “Really? And they’re being assigned to third platoon? Two of them are really boot?”

“So boot they still smell like Lincoln shoe polish, Claypoole,” Palmer assured him.

“Sumbitch,” Claypoole said when Palmer said it was so. “Thanks, Palmer. You just made me the happiest man in the company.” He gave a quick glance at the men in the commander’s office, then raced out and headed for the third platoon squad bay.

He hit the second level on the double and turned left. Halfway down the corridor he skidded to a stop, grabbed a door frame, and spun himself into the three-man room he shared with Lance Corporal Lupo “Rabbit” Ratliff, his fire team leader.

“No more ‘New Guy,’ Rabbit,” he almost shouted. “I’m not ‘New Guy’ anymore. We’ve got two boots joining the platoon. They can be ‘New Guy.’ New Guy One and New Guy Two even. I’m not ‘New Guy’ anymore. Got it?”

Ratliff didn’t look up from the graphic novel that was scrolling across his vid. “New Guy,” he said dryly, “you’ve always been New Guy, you’ll always be New Guy. Go away, I’m busy.”

Claypoole glared at him, then snarled something and twisted out of the room to dash farther down the corridor into NCO territory, where he grabbed another frame and spun into the doorway of Sergeant Wang Hyakowa, his squad leader.

“Sergeant Hyakowa, I’m not ‘New Guy’ anymore. Got it? Staff Sergeant Bass is bringing two new guys up. One of them can be ‘New Guy.’
Both
of them can be ‘New Guy.’ I don’t care, just so it’s not me.”

Hyakowa was playing a platoon-level tactical simulation game, part of a Marine Corps Institute correspondence course, in preparation for the tests for promotion to staff sergeant. He didn’t bother looking at Claypoole when he said, “New Guy, you were born New Guy, you’re going to die New Guy. Says so on your birth certificate. Now, stop bothering me while I’m studying.” Still without looking up, he reached out and pushed his door shut in Claypoole’s face.

Claypoole jerked back far enough to avoid being hit by the closing door and stood slack-jawed for a moment. Then, grimly determined, he began making a circuit of the platoon area, visiting every room, telling everybody he wasn’t New Guy anymore. Some looked at him, some didn’t. Some grunted, some were silent. None agreed to stop calling him New Guy.

“Attention on deck!” Bass’s voice boomed out. “Third platoon, assemble in the rec room. Now.”

All along the corridor heads popped out of rooms to see what was up. No officers were visible, so no one bothered to check clothing for proper military appearance before they headed for the company rec room. In little more than a minute all twenty-two men of the platoon were gathered. The first ones there grabbed chairs that were not occupied by the members of other platoons who were already in the room, reading or watching flicks on the big-screen vids. The later arrivals lounged against the walls. All looked expectantly at Bass, or curiously at the three men who stood somewhat self-consciously near him.

Bass gave them a moment to get a good look, then said, “We’ve got some replacements. This is PFC Chan. He was with the 14th FIST on Euskadi, Ivanosk, and Cross and Thorn. I’m sure he’ll fit in with us right away. PFCs Dean and McNeal recently completed the best military training humanity has ever devised. It’ll take them a little longer, but we’ll all see to it that they quickly become productive members of the best platoon in the best company of the best FIST in the Corps.”

“Then how come he’s introducing them to third platoon instead of second?” one of the vid-watchers whispered to his neighbor.

“Two guesses,” Bass boomed. “And neither of them is second platoon.”

The man who whispered turned red. “Uh, excuse me, Staff Sergeant Bass,” he said, and stood up. “We, uh, we shouldn’t be in here while you’re meeting with your platoon.” He nudged the man he’d whispered to and the two of them quickly left the room.

Amusement flickered across Bass’s face, then he asked the other Marines in the room who weren’t in his platoon, “Any other comments?’

“No, Staff Sergeant Bass,” one said and got up and left. Everyone else who wasn’t in third platoon followed his example.

Bass waited until he was alone with his platoon before he laughed. “Looks like they all agree that third platoon is the best. Now, down to business.

“Everybody’s equally shorthanded, each squad is short two men, so we’ll do it by the numbers and each squad gets one replacement.” He paused to look at them, particularly the squad and team leaders. “If anyone has any objections to how I’m making the assignments, speak up.” There were many reasons Charlie Bass’s men respected him, not least of which was his willingness to hear their ideas and accept the good ones. “Now, I don’t like to put a new man or a man I don’t know in the gun squad. Neru, you still want to be a gunner?”

A swarthy lance corporal said, “I sure do.”

“Think you can train him, Hound?”

“I can make a gunner out of anybody big enough to carry one,” Corporal “Hound Kelly said.”

“That okay with you, Wang? Do you mind having two replacements?”

“Not as long as one of them has experience,” Sergeant Hyakowa answered.

“Okay, you’ve got Chan. I’ll also give you Dean. Eagle’s Cry, that leaves McNeal for you. Any questions? Any problems?”

Nobody questioned or objected.

“All right, squad leaders, let me know how you reorganize your squads so I can update the platoon roster. Dismissed.” Bass left the rec room.

“First squad, on me,” Hyakowa said, and the members of his squad gathered around him.

“Second squad, over here,” Eagle’s Cry said.

“Guns up,” Kelly called.

“Let second team have the new guy, Sergeant Hyakowa,” Claypoole said eagerly when first squad assembled. “Right, Rabbit? Second team gets the new guy. We’ll train him right.”

Hyakowa looked at him innocently. “All right, you got New Guy.” He looked at Ratliff. “Think you can handle Chan?’ he asked without expression.

Ratliff grinned back. “As many campaigns as he’s been on? Yeah, I can use some help breaking in New Guy.”

“I’m not New Guy anymore,” Claypoole snapped.

“Chief,” Hyakowa ignored Claypoole’s outburst, “you’re my most experienced fire team leader, you get the greenest one. PFC Dean, meet Corporal Leach. We call him ‘Chief.’ Don’t ask why, nobody knows. All right, team leaders, get them settled in.” Hyakowa looked around and saw the other two squad leaders were also finished making their assignments. He gave a signal and Eagle’s Cry and Kelly went with him to report to Bass.

It took only a few minutes for Corporal Leach and Lance Corporal Justice Goudanis, the other member of first fire team, to get Dean settled into their room. With everything he owned in one seabag, Dean didn’t have much unpacking to do. It didn’t take Ratliff any longer to settle Chan in, even though Claypoole wasn’t there helping—he was busy running back and forth between the rooms where the two replacements were, greeting them, calling them each New Guy, and making sure everybody in the platoon heard the two new men being identified as New Guy.

Other members of the platoon stepped into their rooms to meet the new men and introduce themselves during the unpacking, but neither Leach nor Ratliff let them stick around where they’d be in the way. Second squad’s first fire team leader, Corporal Tim Kerr, who got McNeal, said it as well as any of the others: “Get out of here. When the new guy’s unpacked, I’ll bring him out for you to confuse with all of your names.”

Nobody argued the point, not with the third man in the fire team, Lance Corporal Dave “Hammer” Schultz, standing there looking at them. Schultz was acknowledged as the platoon’s crazy, and nobody wanted to cross him.

When he was almost finished unpacking, during a moment when nobody from one of the other squads was interrupting, Dean asked Leach, “Chief, how come everybody’s hanging around in the barracks? I thought everybody’d be doing something.”

“You mean like hand-to-hand combat training, or classroom work?”

“Yeah, something like that.”

“You just got here, right?”

Dean nodded. “It’s been less than an hour since we got off the Dragons at Battalion.”

“How long did it take you to get here?”

Dean thought that was an odd question. Everybody who knew where Thorsfinni’s World was knew how far it was from Arsenault. “Six weeks.”

“Did you go home on leave after Boot Camp?”

“No. I came right here from Arsenault. A transport took us someplace where we split up. McNeal and me and a couple others transhipped directly onto an assault carrier coming here. We didn’t even make planetfall; I don’t even know what planet we orbited then.”

“You’re from Earth, right? That’s what your accent sounds like.”

Dean hadn’t known there was such a thing as an “Earth accent.” He’d always thought it was everybody else who had accents. “That’s right, New Rochester.”

“Let’s see, a standard month from Earth to Arsenault, five standard months there, then a standard month and a half in transit here.” He cocked his head. “You haven’t seen a calendar in more than half a standard year, have you?”

“That’s right.” Until that moment Dean hadn’t realized he hadn’t seen a calendar in all that time.

Leach grinned broadly at him. “Well, Dean, nobody’s doing any work because this is Saturday. We’re all on liberty.”

That didn’t explain why they were all hanging around the barracks, though. Leach and Goudanis quickly filled him in. Payday was every other week, and last week had been payday. On payday weekends almost everybody left the base Friday evening for shore liberty in Bronnoysund, which the Marines called “Bronny” for short, the town right outside the main gate, and didn’t come back until Sunday. Some went farther, to the larger cities of Troms or Bergen—or even went all the way to the other end of Niflheim to the big city, the capital, New Oslo. That day, between paydays, the Marines were preserving their money to spend tonight.

Claypoole came around to call Dean New Guy again and arrived in time to hear the end of the explanation.

“You have any money, New Guy?” Claypoole asked. “You must have money if you just got off ship. I’ll take you into Bronny tonight, show you the sights. Hey,” his eyes glowed, “I’ll even take you to a real restaurant so you won’t have to eat the swill they serve in the mess hall.”

“You think he’s got all that back pay in his pocket and he’s going to pay for your dinner, right?” Leach asked.

“Go away, New Guy,” Goudanis said. “
I’m
taking him on liberty tonight.”

Dean didn’t have a chance to tell them that in his entire time in the Corps he’d received only a few credits in pay.

The notes of the chow call bugle had barely died away over the parade ground before the men of third platoon were back in the barracks, making sure their garrison utilities were clean and squared away. Hardly anybody was going to stay on base to eat at the mess hall, not on a Saturday night, not if they had any money in their pockets.

“You haven’t been paid yet, right?” Goudanis asked Dean.

“No, Lance Corporal. We didn’t need any money on Arsenault and I didn’t bring any from home.”

“Call me Juice, Dean. Okay. Staff Sergeant Bass’ll get you squared away at the finance office on Monday. Here.” He handed Dean a wad of bills he took from a compartment in his locker. “Take this. It should cover you for tonight. You can pay me back when you get paid.” The bills were green, blue, and white with a picture of a fierce-looking, bearded man on the front and an imposing public building of some sort on the back. The denominations were clearly printed in Arabic numbers in each corner. The wad added up to 100 kroner, whatever that was.

“Well, thanks,” Dean said, flattered but at the same time embarrassed at the lance corporal’s openhandedness.

“Don’t mention it, Dean. We take care of each other in this platoon. See?” He tapped the touchpad locking device on his personal gear locker. It didn’t activate when it came in contact with Goudanis’s fingertips. “No locks on our personal stuff. We don’t have any thieves in this company. That’s enough cash to get you through a
good
liberty night in Bronny. Since it’s Saturday, there’s no curfew for Marines until midnight tomorrow. M’boy,” Goudanis clapped Dean on the shoulder, “we’re gonna see just how good you are with a schooner of beer this evening!”

“Juice!” Claypoole shouted from the doorway. “What’s taking you so long!” Claypoole glanced at Dean, still in his Class A parade uniform. “New Guy, get a move on. You’re holding up the whole Third Herd!”

Dean was beginning to tire of Claypoole. He reminded him of that bully long ago who’d tormented him on the playground about his middle name. But he sensed that Claypoole’s foolishness was being tolerated by the other Marines in the platoon, and he understood instinctively that overreacting would be a mistake.

“Pipe down, New Guy,” Goudanis muttered. “PFC Dean is ‘PFC Dean,’ until we come up with a new name for him, and as for you, reindeer face, you always were New Guy, you’re New Guy now, and you’ll always be New Guy.”