Recruit (18 page)

After the infantry came the armor, artillery,
transport, engineers, and the rest.  Recon put on a good show.  They had flown up on their one-man scoots in full stealth mode.  One moment, the area in front of the CO was empty, a moment later, in unison, the recon company appeared, 15 meters in the air. The crowd broke out into applause.

The reception was even better for the air pass
-over.  First came the Marine air.  The six Storks attached to the regiment did a flyover, followed by the Hummingbird aerial recon team.  A big Navy planetary transport flew by, low and slow, looking huge.  The Marine Wasps drew the oohs and aahs, looking sleek and deadly.  But it was the Navy Experion fighters that caused the crowd to break out in applause again.  The deadly dual space and planetary fighters were impressive, to say the least.  The entire pageant took over an hour, with the band, the adjutant, the sergeant major, and the CO standing at attention, never moving except for the CO when he returned a salute.  To Ryck, that was more impressive than anything else.

“Well, another pageant come and gone,” CWO4 Heng said.

“How many of them have you seen?” Ryck asked.

“Too many to count,” was the simple reply.  “
You going down there to say hello to your bros?”

Ryck looked to the right where all the equipment had been set up as static displays and Marines were already milling about.

“No, sir, I don’t think so.  I might need a little extra time to get ready for the mess night, so I think I’m heading back to the barracks.”

“OK, but make sure you are there on time.  You know how that is,” the chief warrant officer said.

“No problem sir.  I’ll be there.”

Ryck made his way out of the bleachers.  He said hello to Jonas and a few of the other gen hens, then quietly slipped away.  He just didn’t feel up to mixing with the able-bodied Marines.

Chapter 22

There wasn’t a facility large enough for a full regimental mess night, so the battalions had broken off to have their own.  Second Battalion
had rented out the Raging River
Mö
venpick
Resort, some 50 km outside of Rostov and Camp Kolesnikov.  It was out in the middle of nowhere, but that was probably all for the best.

Ryck looked across the ballroom at the gathering Marines.  Despite himself, he started feeling the esprit de corps he’d felt was missing since his injury. 
For some reason, he almost wanted to hold onto his feeling of isolation, but he knew that was crazy.  He had to just let go and enjoy himself.

“Look, there’s Captain
dela Grosso,” Troy Simmons said, pointing to the battalion’s most decorated Marine.  The captain had two Navy Crosses, one of only two Marines on active duty to be so distinguished.  One of those should have been a Federation Nova, most Marines thought, but still, two Navy Crosses was nothing to sneeze at.

“He’s sure got a shitload of hangers,” Ryck said to Troy, watching the captain make his way to his seat.

Troy was a sergeant, but among the gen hens, ranks had a tendency to fade, and first name use between ranks was pretty common. 

“Yeah, him and your good buddy, Heng,” Troy said.  “He’s got more hangers than anyone, just no Navy Crosses.”

Ryck looked over next to the bar where CWO4 Heng was standing.  Troy was right.  Heng had to have at least 25 hangers on his chest.  Ryck looked down at his own chest.  He had three.  There was his Combat Mission Medal with a bronze star, his Purple Heart, and his Battle Commendation Third Class.  Some of the long-time Marines had upwards of 10 or 15 hangers, but still, Ryck had more than most of the non-rates.

“Recruit Lysander!
  Get down and give me 20” a gravelly, unforgettable voice rang out from just in back of him.

Ryck spun around to see Ting Tong standing there, a grin on his face.  Ryck couldn’t have been more surprised had an elephant walked into the room.  His heart fell.

“I, uh, I can’t really, I mean, my arm!” he protested.

“Relax,
Lysander!  I’m just messing with you,” Sgt
Phantawisangtong said
.  “So how’ve you been doing?  I mean, I can see you took some shit, but the word is that you’ve been doing yourself proud.”

Ryck subconsciously covered the regen chamber on this right arm with his left hand and said, “I don’t know.  I guess so, but really, it was no big deal.”

“That’s not the word on the street,” King Tong said.

“Don’t liste
n to him.  He’s a certified ass-kicker,” Troy said, holding out his hand and introducing himself.  “Troy Simmons.”

“Hector
Phantawisangtong, or as Lysander here will tell you, they sometimes call me ‘King Tong’”.

“So what are you doing here?” Ryck asked
, trying to change the subject from the King Tong nickname.

“Since this is a mess
night for 2/9, I guess that means I’ve been transferred here.”

Just then, the bugler played the call to order.  The Guest of Honor must have just arrived.  Marines started to move to the main ballroom where the mess night would be held.
King Tong made his apologies and went his own way while Ryck followed the other gen hens to a table close to the front entrance to the ballroom where they would be sitting.  Three Marines in their hospital gurneys were already there, waiting for them, as well as those in wheelchairs.  Ryck took the first empty seat, next to Jonas, who was at the table in his wheelchair.

There was minimal milling about as the Marines and sailors took their seats.  When the CO, who was the president of the mess, called the mess to attention, eyes craned to see the guest of honor.

“Battalion, I present Corporal Lek Gutterheim, veteran of the War of the First Reach!”

All the members of the mess applauded as the frail old man, on the arm of the sergeant major, entered the mess.  He was bent at the back, but his head was held high, his eyes blazing with pride.

The adjutant’s voice rang out as the three made their way to the head table, “Corporal Lek Gutterheim enlisted in the Marines on February 3, 256, Standard Accounting.  His first duty station was with the Alpha Company, First Battalion, Sixth Marines, Second Marine Division.  He participated in three operations, rising to the rank of lance corporal, and was a fire team leader at the outbreak of the war.  During the conflict, he made two opposed landings, on G-12 and Felicity.  He was promoted to the rank of corporal, and after the surrender of the CALCON forces, served out the remainder of his enlistment.  He returned to his home here on Alexander where he married his wife Anna, and had four children:  Paul, Sarah, Allison, and Horace.  Horace served 30 years in the Federation Navy, reaching a rank of master chief.”

More applause sounded as the head party took their seats.  The War of the First Reach had been a full-scale, ship-on-ship, opposed
-landing war, not like the skirmishes and police actions since then.  Entire fleets had been wiped out.  Very few vets from the war were still around, and it was a privilege to have Cpl Gutterheim as their guest of honor.

Once the head party was in place, the bugler stepped forward, along with the mess butler, and called forth the beating.
  A palpable sense of anticipation arose among the mess.  It started with loan beat of the drum outside the ballroom.  A single drummer marched into the mess.  A few moments later, another drummer appeared, commencing to join the first as soon as he crossed the threshold into the room.  Six more drummers made their way, one-by-one, until all eight were at the center of the ballroom, right in front of the head table.  They looked like robots, their arms in perfect unison as they pounded out the beating.

Ryck especially liked it when different drummers
snapped their drumsticks to eye level, horizontal, and held them there for a second, before bringing them back down again to re-join the rest.  This went on for about seven or eight minutes, the drummers marching in complex patterns, their beat never faltering.  Ryck found himself beating out his own tattoo with his left hand on the table.

When the drummers at last finished, the mess erupted once more into cheers and applause.   This was always one of the highlights of a mess night, or most any celebration.  When the Federation Marines were formed, there had been some discussion on the Marine bands.  The 38
Marine bands (not every corps had a band) actually performed a throw-down.  The US Marine Band, with its members having music degrees, had probably been the most technically-advanced band, and it had been chosen by the brass to form the basis of the new Marine band.  The Royal Marine Band, though, and in particular, the Royal Marine Drum Corps, had been the immediate favorite of the rank and file, and by popular demand, were given a place in the new corps.  A US Marine Band clone was set up on Earth at Marine Headquarters, but for the divisions, it was buglers and drummers.  The leopard skin worn by some Royal Marine drummers became the uniform for all drummers, something worn with pride. 

Members of the band practiced in their free time.  They were not professional musicians but came out of all the jobs that Marines held.  The long h
ours they put in, all in their free time, did not bother them, and there was always a waiting list to join.

A Marine mess night was loosely based on the old Royal Navy and Marine mess nights, but the mess beating was something that was right out of 21
st
Century Great Britain.

The mess butler, a civilian worker for the resort, stepped up with a silver tray and two glasses of port.  The senior drummer came forward to meet him at the head table.  The mess president took one glass, the drummer the other.  At the colonel’s nod, they both lifted and emptied their glasses.  Once mo
re, applause broke out.

The colors were then marched on.  Being part of the color guard was considered a great honor, but Ryck did
not really know any of the four Marines who were part of this year’s guard.  Of course, these were all Marines who had done well in combat, and Ryck had been bedridden or worked in the armory for the past year, so that was not surprising.

With the colors emplaced, next came the citation.  This could be something from past battles to great deeds, but for the birthday, i
t was always the same thing, a copy of the first commandant’s birthday message to the Corps on its first birthday.  It was read by the junior member of the mess, in this case, Private Topol Narx, all of 18 years, 256 days old.  His quavering voice went through the citation, faltering twice as he spoke before the assembled mess.

There was one more ceremony before they could eat. 

The president of the mess stood up, and in a loud voice of authority, ordered “Parade the beef!”

Two servers pushed a large silver tray on wheels.  The top was opened up to reveal a huge prime rib roast.  To Ryck, it looked like real organic beef, not a manufactured roast.  His mouth started watering as the servers pushed it through the aisles.
  As the cart was wheeled out, the order came to take their seats.

“That was pretty copa
cetic,” one of the Marines at the table said, someone Ryck didn’t really know.

“Yeah, brills,” Jonas added.  “It always gets my blood pounding.  Bata-tat tat! 
Bata-tat-tat!”

Ryck had to admit it ha
d much the same effect on him.  He looked up at the head table.  Corporal Gutterheim was sitting there, his pride evident even at this distance.  The man had served only one enlistment, even if it was in a full-out war.  He’d had a successful career, married, had children, even grandchildren, but he seemed hold a special place in his heart for being a Marine, to wear his old uniform, to be called “Corporal Gutterheim” again.

Ryck was proud of being a Marine, too.  He’d made it through recruit training when so many others hadn’t.  He’d proven himself under fire.  It was just that lately, he didn’t
feel
like a Marine.  He was missing something.  Looking up there at the old man, though, tweaked something deep within his consciousness.  There
was
something special about being a Marine, even if he hadn’t gone on a mission in over a year.

“Hey, spaceboy!
  Where you at, there?  You gonna eat?” Troy’s voice cut through his reverie.

He looked down at the salad that had appeared in front of him.  The servers were busy getting everyone fed.

“Yeah, sure.  I’m starving,” he replied.

And he was pretty hungry.  The
Mö
venpick
had done a pretty good job with the meal.  It was all pretty delicious.  He joked with the others at the table, realizing that all of them were in the same boat.  All were temporarily out of action, but they would all return to it.  That gave them a bond of shared experience.  They were not alone in that, though.  Looking up at the colonel on the head table, with his four purple hearts, that was proof that people could get through it and on with their lives.

After the main courses, the birthday cake was wheeled out.  It was immense.  The colonel, with his sword, cut two pieces.  The first was given to the guest of honor as the oldest member of the mess.  The second was given to Pvt
Narx as the youngest.  The
Mö
venpick
servers then descended on the cake, and in a surprisingly short amount of time, the cake was cut up and all 2,000 + Marines served a piece.  With the meal itself, all the plates were cleared, leaving only the port decanters and the glasses.

“Mr. President, the port is placed,” intoned the sergeant major.

This was the cue for the pouring of the port.  On each table, the decanter was poured, then passed to the left, sliding the decanter along the table, never lifting it off.  Three of the Marines at their table, alongside the table, to be precise, could not move their arms, and their corpsmen attendants, in their Navy full dress, were prepared to pour for them, but before the port made it around, the colonel and the guest of honor walked up, and without a word, the colonel took the decanter and poured for the three Marines.  The old Marine whispered something into the ear of Chase Hannrahan, one of the immobile men.  Whatever he said brought tears to Chase’s eyes.

The two men walked back to the head table and waited for the sergeant major.

“Mr. President, the port is passed.”

With the port passed, the toasts started.  The Corps, the Marines in the corps, the sister service of the Navy, the president, the Federation, the guest of honor, the good wives of Marines
. . . pretty much everyone received a toast. 

The conclusion of the toasts marked the end of the formalities of the mess.   The colors were marched off, and the officers and staff NCOs made their rounds, shaking hands, before leaving.  For smaller unit messes, everyone might stay together for drinking and mess games, but the
common understanding was that it was a little difficult for a private to let loose and have fun when there was a colonel standing there at his shoulder.  The senior Marines slowly filtered out, off to drink and do whatever officers or SNCOs did in another room, leaving the main ballroom to the NCOs and non-rates.