First to Fight (11 page)

The Marines reporting to the FIST on Thorsfinni’s World could have landed in the same sedate manner as the supplies and the later shore-liberty runs that ferried the ship’s sailors planetside. But the Marines have an image to maintain, a reputation to uphold. They make planetfall the traditional way.

CHAPTER

EIGHT

The Dragons didn’t stop on the beach, or even just beyond it. They continued inland off-road at an acute angle to the shoreline, the coxswains gunning them as fast as they dared over the moderately rough terrain. The sailors were determined to demonstrate they were just as tough as the Marines. It was a ride of the kind all the Marines had experienced at least once before: no air and no cushion.

At a flip of a lever on the coxwain’s console, the seats swiveled down and around into their ground mode, vertical, facing the center line of the vehicle. The webbing that held the Marines into their acceleration seats withdrew.

Dean groaned with the change in attitude. The upright seats seemed to magnify every bounce and shudder of the vehicle.

“Hang on back there,” the coxswain yelled to his jouncing passengers. “The ride’s going to be
rough
from here on.”

“Rough?” PFC Chan yelled back. “On a highway like this?” He laughed.

The coxswain grinned through gritted teeth, floored the acceleration lever and held his thumb pressed against the overdrive button. A red light began flashing on the console. The coxswain ignored it and kept his thumb mashed against the overdrive button. Since it was an assault vehicle, the Dragon didn’t have an automatic override that would kick in when the driver exceeded safe speed for the terrain. The bounces became higher and the jounces harder. The Dragon screamed, then shuddered violently when an undercarriage air nozzle slammed onto a rock. The Dragon veered wildly, and the coxswain had to release the overdrive button to fight it back onto a straight path. Sweating and hoping there was no damage, he kept his thumb away from the overdrive after that. He couldn’t afford to get in trouble with the chief.

They reached Camp Major Pete Ellis without further incident or damage to the Dragon. At the main gate they were met by two military police vehicles that led them to their destinations. One Dragon went directly to FIST headquarters, as its passengers were all being assigned to the squadron, artillery battery, or transport company, or to the headquarters of the FIST itself. The other headed straight to the infantry battalion’s headquarters.

Chan complimented the coxswain on the smoothness of his driving as he dismounted from the vehicle. Then the thirteen Marines joining the 34th FIST’s infantry battalion got into formation on the windswept parade ground in front of the headquarters building. The wind smelled of fish.

Gunnery Sergeant Mason, the battalion’s assistant S-1—personnel chief—had too much liberty the night before and didn’t feel quite up to matching replacements’ skills and experience with the needs of the companies. Mostly, though, he wanted to get back inside, out of the constant, damp wind that swept across Camp Ellis. He called out company assignments as his eye fell randomly on names.

Company I needed two infantrymen. “Romanov, Tannenbaum, report to I Company, to your right,” Mason croaked. Two men shuffled out of the line and marched to the gunnery sergeant who signaled to them.

Company K needed three infantrymen. “Hungh, Nu, Llewellan, K Company. Straight ahead.” The three men shouldered their seabags and headed to the staff sergeant who signaled them.

Company L also required three infantrymen. “McNeal, Dean, Chan, L Company. To your left.” Dean, McNeal, and Chan grinned at each other. They shouldered their seabags and marched to a utility-clad staff sergeant who stood looking at them somewhat disinterestedly.

Company L also needed a clerk. “Doyle.”

The three looked at each other, aghast that they weren’t getting away from Corporal Doyle.

“My name’s Bass,” the staff sergeant said when the four reached him. “Who are you?” His face was red and his breathing slightly labored—he’d been on liberty with Gunny Mason the night before.

Dean, McNeal, and Chan introduced themselves.

“Any of you have experience?” Bass asked before Doyle could give his name. Doyle’s jaw snapped shut and he flushed.

“I do,” Chan said.

Bass looked at him expectantly.

“Riot control on Euskadi,” Chan said. “Peasant rebellion campaign on Ivanosk. Peacekeeping in the intersectarian wars on Cross and Thorn.”

Bass shook his head at the mention of Ivanosk. “That’s the fourth peasant rebellion we’ve had to put down there in the past half century,” he said softly, almost as though he was thinking out loud. “I wonder when the Whites will realize their policies are causing the rebellions.” Then, in a stronger voice, to Chan, “Well, PFC, with that much campaigning under your belt, how come you don’t rate a starburst yet?”

Chan grinned crookedly. “Everybody up my chain of command lived a charmed life. We had no serious casualties, and nobody was reassigned. So no slots opened up for me to be promoted into.”

Bass nodded his understanding. “How long were you with 14th FIST?”

Chan raised an eyebrow, thinking that Bass must keep very up to date if he knew which of the hundred FISTs had been on those three campaigns during the past couple of years. “Twenty-two months.” Two months short of a full two-year tour.

“So they rotated you rather than keep you around where they’d have to promote you.”

“That’s about the size of it.”

“And you two, this your first assignment?” he asked Dean and McNeal.

“Yessir,” they said in unison.

“PFCs, I’m not an officer, I’m a staff sergeant. I work for a living. Don’t ‘sir’ me.”

They grinned. It was an old story by then, but the three PFCs thought they were going to like this Marine.

“Well, PFC Chan, fall those other two in and follow me.”

Chan barely restrained a smile as he turned to Dean and McNeal and said, “Detail, attention!” The other two PFCs returned the smile and did as ordered.

Doyle was beyond simply flushing with embarrassment. “Staff Sergeant Bass,” he snapped, “I’m senior man here. I should be the one to fall the detail in and march them where you want us to go.”

Bass gave Doyle a “Who are you?” look, then said, “You’re an oh-nine, isn’t that right?”

Doyle drew his lips into a thin line. This staff sergeant had said that as though admin was an unworthy field. “That’s right,” he said tightly.

“What’s your name?”

“Corporal Doyle.”

“Well, Doyle, these Marines are going to the company area to be assigned to platoons. You’re going to battalion headquarters for orientation. Gunny Mason—you remember Gunny Mason, he was the one who gave the assignments—you know, the hungover one. Follow him. Chan, move ’em out.” Doyle was dismissed. And Bass hadn’t addressed him by rank.

Doyle glared at Bass, then picked up his seabag and stomped back to report to Gunny Mason. Gunny Mason ignored him too.

Bass didn’t seem to mind that the three PFCs “marching” to the L Company area weren’t in step—something the three of them, sweating and breathing heavily, appreciated by the time they reached the barracks a kilometer and a half across the rock-strewn, wind-swept base.

L Company was billeted in an H-shaped, two-story, wood-frame building. The wind that constantly blew on that part of Thorsfinni’s World tore at the outside of the building so that it would need a fresh coat of paint in the near future. The central part of the building, the crossbar in the H, where Bass led the company’s new men, held the offices and the officers and staff NCO quarters of L Company and of 34th FIST’s artillery battery. Bass held the door open for them, then brushed past when they stopped inside.

Inside, the barracks’ floors shined from frequent polishing, brass decorations glinted, and glassed-in 2-D’s of the FIST chain of command glimmered. The bulkheads and overhead—“walls and ceiling,” in civilian—were newly painted and spotless.

“This way,” Bass said, leading them toward a door alongside which stood an eight-foot-tall staff that was festooned for half its height with campaign and battle streamers. “Morning, Claypoole,” he said to a passing PFC who looked wide-eyed at the new men. Through the door was the company office. Two of its four desks were unoccupied. Two doors led from the other side of the office. One of them was open, and a captain, probably the company commander, could be seen working at a desk.

“Drop your seabags there,” Bass said, pointing to an open space next to the entrance. When they did, he led them to one of the occupied desks.

“Morning, Top,” he said to the first sergeant.

The first sergeant, like Bass, wore garrison utilities. He looked up from his computer. “Morning, Staff Sergeant Bass. You over it yet? I heard Gunny Mason is still hurting.” He had also pulled too much liberty with Bass and Mason the night before.

“I’m good enough for garrison duty, Top.”

“So what can I do you for?”

“Well, Top, I was just over at battalion headquarters, checking in on Gunny Mason. You heard right, he’s still feeling poorly. On the way back I found these.” He jerked a thumb.

The first sergeant looked at the new men for the first time. “Oh? Found ’em, huh. What do you think we should do with them?”

“Well, I found ’em, I get to keep ’em.”

The first sergeant leaned back in his swivel chair and looked up at Bass. “You do?”

Bass nodded confidently.

“I’ve got holes to fill all over this company. What makes you think you should get all the goodies?”

“Third platoon’s six men short. Nobody else’s more than three men short. I keep these three, that almost brings me up level with everybody else.”

“That a fact.”

“That’s a fact. I’ve got more two-man fire teams than any of the other platoons. One of my squad leaders is a corporal. Half of my fire team leaders are lance corporals. One of my gun team leaders is also acting gun squad leader. I haven’t gotten any replacements since I’ve been with the company. Anyway, if you really need to assign someone to one of the other platoons, we’re also getting a new oh-nine.” The PFC at the other desk looked up at that and started paying attention. “He seems like a hard-charger,” Bass continued. “You could give him to one of the other platoons.”

The first sergeant raised his eyebrows. “Now, that’s a thought.”

“Oh no you don’t,” said the PFC at the other desk. “We finally get a second clerk and you want to give him to one of the platoons? Come on, Top, I need some help here. Let me tuck that young man under my wing. I’ll have him shipshape in no time, and you’ll have the best-run company office you’ve ever seen. We’ll be doing such a good job in here we’ll rate as a force multiplier and you won’t need to get the other platoons up to full strength.”

“That a fact,” the first sergeant said.

“You know it, Top.”

“Not so fast, Palmer,” Bass said. “The new man’s a corporal. Got you ranked. He’ll take you under his wing and teach you all kinds of bad habits you haven’t had the chance to pick up on your own.”

Palmer collapsed against his chair back. “A corporal? You mean I’m still going to be the most junior man in this office?”

“ ’Fraid so”

Muttering to himself, Palmer went back to what he was doing.

The first sergeant rose to his feet. “I’m First Sergeant Myer,” he said to his new men. “Call me Top, unless you’ve done something wrong and you’re on my carpet for it—then you better pray to me as God. Who’re you?”

The three introduced themselves.

“Welcome aboard, Marines,” Top Myer said. “I want you to know that Company L, 34th FIST is the best company in the Marine Corps. There are few FISTs that have been involved in as many campaigns and other operations as the 34th has. And damn few companies that have been on as many independent missions as L Company, 34th FIST. You may have gotten a hint of that when you came past our streamers outside the hatch.” He pointed at the door. “If you bothered to look at it, you saw a lot of Confederation Unit Citation streamers, Marine Unit Citations, and Meritorious Unit Citations. Between what we’ve been awarded as members of the FIST or larger units, and what we’ve won on our own, I don’t think any company in the entire Corps has been cited as many times. While you’re with us you can expect to see a lot of action. What I expect is for you to do your absolute best as members of this company. If you do, we’ll get along just fine.

“Now, let’s go meet the Skipper. Then we’ll decide about what platoons to assign you to.”

The captain they’d seen through the open inner door was indeed the company commander. Unlike the two senior NCOs, the captain wore his Bravo uniform, khaki shirt and green trousers. Several rows of ribbons were ranked above his left shirt pocket. The three PFCs came to a rigid attention one pace in front of his desk, eyes fixed on a piece of wall above his head. Top Myer stood at the comer of the company commander’s desk; he didn’t come to attention. Bass leaned against the door frame, not quite slouching.

“New men, Skipper,” Myer said when the captain looked up. “PFCs Chan, Dean, and McNeal.” To the new men he said, “This is Captain Conorado.” Then back to the captain: “Two of ’em are fresh off Arsenault.”

“And the other’s got the Third Ivanosk Campaign Medal and the Marine Expeditionary Medal with comet for second award,” Captain Conorado said. “It’s nice to get a junior man with experience for a change.”

Chan held back a smile; he knew Dean and McNeal had to be wondering how the captain knew so much. Not only hadn’t Bass or Myer said anything about his level of experience, the captain hadn’t seemed to be paying any attention to them when they were at the first sergeant’s desk. This was an old trick Chan had seen before.