* * *
Onboard the CCS Santa Maria it was the third week of training and contrary to his expectations, Spartan was actually starting to enjoy himself. In the first two weeks he had already gone through the gruelling ordeal of Gym, Mathematics and English Assessment as well as the start of basic drill and training.
In the first days they had split the recruits up into squads and platoons. He was getting to know his other platoon companions quite well. They didn’t all get on of course, there was the odd rumour about why he was there, but on the whole there was a certain level of respect for each other.
As expected he did much better on the physical than the mental side but it wasn’t as bad as he thought. Either that or perhaps the competition wasn’t as far advanced in the learning stakes as he thought they might be. He easily passed the initial assessment for combat training which meant it was more likely to lead to a frontline posting. He much preferred that to the other posts on offer such as intelligence, command or engineering. The last thing he wanted was to be stuck in an office dying of boredom while the rest of the recruits got to experience the full life as a marine. If he had to spend ten years doing this then he was going to give it his damned best.
He stood in line along with the rest of his training platoon. There were thirty-six of them and now technically classed as privates though the drill instructor called them all ‘recruits’. The term marine was only applied after completing training and being accepted by the Sergeant as fit and able. The title had to be earned, at least that’s what he kept saying. The group was diverse in every way. There were blacks, Hispanics, men and women. The age range was also surprising, from early twenties right up to some in their forties.
The training hall was in yet another part of the full gravity section of the ship and to all intents and purposes looked like any other training hall, apart from a slight curve in the floor. Along the walls was a selection of training tools, weights, equipment and even firearms, though they were locked in cabinets. There were no windows and the light was bright, really bright. As they stood to attention their Drill Sergeant approached, he matched almost every stereotype he’d ever heard of. The man was clean-shaven, a good two metres tall with the trim and muscled body of a man who took his job very seriously. He strolled in front before stopping in the centre and turning to face them.
“Okay, ladies, today is close quarter combat day. I am going to instruct you in the sophisticated art of using every part of the body as a lethal fighting machine. In the Marine Corps it is every marine’s duty to be able to defend himself whether you are armed or not.” He looked directly at Spartan.
Without saying anything he moved up to him and walked back and forth, examining him in detail. Like the rest of the recruits, Spartan wore a pair of shorts and a t-shirt. His body was unlike any of the others there. Some were bigger and others undoubtedly stronger but none had the mixture of muscles, fitness and scars that he carried.
“What’s your name, son?”
“Spartan!” he answered quickly.
"In the CMC it is polite to refer to me as Sergeant, Sir or Drill Instructor! Now, shall we try that again?"
"Spartan, Sir!"
“Oh, yeah, I’ve heard of you. You’re some kind of gladiator, bet the girlies get excited when they see you.” He sneered and then shouted.
“Recruit Spartan, three steps forward!”
Spartan, without hesitating stepped ahead and the instructor walked around him.
“This is an example of a marine’s body. He looks strong, is fit and has the marks of a man who has seen action. There is one thing that makes him different though. He works alone, he is not part of a team and he fights for pleasure or money! He might look like a marine but a marine his is not!”
“You, you, you and you! Forward!” He pointed at the four weakest members of the platoon.
The two women and two men moved ahead, each looking nervous as they stood unprotected at the front.
“You four are pathetic, look at you!” The Sergeant shouted at them.
A giggle came from the back of the group where Jesus was pushed into the back row.
“Stop! Who did that?” The instructor marched up the line but nobody responded.
“So help me, God, you have five seconds or the entire platoon will suffer. Who did that?”
“I did,” came a sheepish response from Jesus.
“I did?”
“I did, Sergeant,” said Jesus as he remembered the correct form.
The instructor grinned to himself for a moment before continuing. “You snivelling piece of shit. You think learning to be a marine is funny? When you are face down in the dirt fighting those Zealot bastards are you gonna be laughing then? Let me tell you, son. In my last tour I saw smart asses like you get themselves cut in half by improvised explosives. And there was nothing anybody could do to help them! One marine is an asset and an entire platoon is unstoppable. If you treat them with contempt you treat the Corps with contempt, now get your ass to the front!”
Jesus moved quickly and joined the other four recruits. Spartan was still stood alone and said nothing though he wasn’t convinced he was going to like what came next. The drill instructor rubbed his hands together with glee.
“Now, let’s find out what you have. You are going to learn an important lesson today and if you’re smart you’ll stay out of the medical bay. You’re going to show the platoon how to bring a man like Spartan down!”
Jesus looked at Spartan and back at the drill instructor. “What the fuck?”
The instructor moved right in front of him, his look of humour having vanished.
“What’s the matter, pretty boy? You worried the big man will treat you like his bitch? What if you five are unarmed and face an enemy? You gonna cry to momma or are you going to stand up and be a marine? There are five of you. Now, get in there and show us you have what it takes!”
Spartan knew it was coming and turned to face the five of them. He was by far the biggest, but they still had the advantage of numbers, and who knows what skills or training they might have.
“I’m waiting!” barked the instructor.
Jesus, obviously feeling the pressure rushed forward as the other four looked on in a mixture of fear and confusion. The distance was only five metres but by the time he was close enough to reach Spartan, it was clear to everybody how it was going to go. Jesus ran right up to the man, presumably expecting to throw him to the floor. As he reached grabbing distance, Spartan lowered his body slamming his shoulder into the man’s stomach. The impact and speed of the strike forced the air out of his lungs nearly knocking him out. With him doubled over, Spartan brought his left elbow down to strike on his back and it was over. Jesus lay face down on the floor and Spartan stood up to face the other four. The drill instructor stood smiling as he watched.
“Bravo, bravo. An excellent lesson in what not to do.” He turned to the four that were left. “Well?” he asked sarcastically.
Three of the group inched forward but the fourth, the younger of the women, stayed back not sure as to what she should be doing. The tallest of the three was a well-built middle-aged man and he made the first move. He stepped closer though unlike Jesus he adopted a traditional boxing stance. His left foot was forward and both his hands held up to protect his face.
Spartan moved towards him, quickly closing the distance until they were within easy punching range. Unlike his opponent, Spartan had his hands much lower and he looked relaxed, almost unready. The black haired woman, with the younger man, moved to his flanks. They obviously felt more confident with the more experienced man taking the centre position. Spartan noted the way the man moved, he’d had a decent amount of boxing training at the very least. Spartan threw a couple of light jabs to get his hands up and then took two strong steps to the right to face the younger man. His face turned to stone as Spartan smashed his fist hard into the man’s jaw and sent him tumbling to the ground. Spartan turned quickly back to face the bo
xer when the dark haired woman moved nearer. She was trying to do something though it seemed she didn’t know what.
The boxer moved in and caught him with a punch to the arm, then moved in to try for a hit to his head. Luckily, Spartan’s reactions were fast enough that he was able to avoid the second strike but not fast enough to stop the woman jumping on him. She hung onto his shoulder and her weight pushed him off balance.
Spotting the turn of the tide the woman hit him repeatedly on the side of the head with her hands as the second woman ran over to join in, trying to hold him down. He struggled and fought but between the two of them and the big guy he couldn’t move. The man lowered himself down and punched him twice in the stomach, instantly making him gasp for air. It wasn’t enough though, Spartan had been in much worse positions. Sensing his foes thought they had the upper hand he grabbed the first woman with his legs in a strong pincer like movement. She cried out as he squeezed her, following up with a head-butt to the boxer.
He stumbled backwards but managed to stand up straight. The woman he’d locked with his legs was easily dealt with as he kicked her in the side, rolling her away from him. Blood ran down from the boxer’s nose, dripping from his lip to the floor. With this brief respite Spartan was able to strike the second woman with the base of his fist and then release himself from his position on the ground. She tumbled backwards, clutching her left arm that was at the very least dislocated. Jesus was still lying on the floor as the kicked woman lay groaning.
“Enough!” The Drill Instructor shouted.
Spartan relaxed a little as he lifted his body up straight and waited for whatever was coming next. With a couple of hand gestures three medics ran in, each checking on the injured recruits though none bothered to head for Spartan, not that he was that concerned, he barely even considered that a fight.
“As you can see, even a man like Spartan can be brought down by the co-ordinated use of appropriate numbers. A man called Lanchester created a set of laws for calculating the relative strengths of a predator and prey pair. These laws have been used ever since to help calculate the combat effectiveness of units when placed together and we can confirm their accuracy from real world testing. Place two men of the same skills together and the fight can go either way. Place two on one side and how often does the paired team win? Twice as likely as before or more?”
The room was silent as the recruits listened though not really knowing what to say. The Drill Sergeant walked around them, pretending to listen for answers.
“It is simple, very simple. The combat power of a unit increases by a much, much higher factor as the numbers increase. Two against one can easily expect to win four out of five matches, often more. This is because when working together you massively increase your individual effectiveness!”
Walking along the line, he stopped at Spartan.
“Even more importantly it means that two average fighters can take on and beat a better one. That is why you work together and do not do what Jesus did here and run out on your own. There is no glory in letting down your squad. You get me?”
“We get you, Sergeant!” came the chorus from the recruits.
“Now, while these newbies get some basic medical attention I am going to introduce you to the fine art of combat. You will learn to breathe, move, strike, punch, kick, block, throw and stab. By the time I have finished with you, you will be able to fight no matter what your condition is or what weapons you have. You are a marine at all times and you are expected to fight like a marine at all times!”
He moved over to the wall and gave a signal. The room darkened and a series of images popped up. Each image showed various fighting moves though some looked antiquated and from unfamiliar cultures.
“Now, what we have here is a selection of images from fighting manuals going right back to the middle ages. Note how they are standing, how they move and throw their opponents. In the last few thousand years the human body has changed in almost no discernable fashion. What was true for a Roman soldier at the time of Christ is true today. You can break an arm, sever an artery or crush a windpipe. This is true for all of humanity and it will remain so for a good time to come. These images are from the manuals of those before us who knew EXACTLY what they were doing.” He paused, looking at a weedy looking man.
“You, recruit snot brain, here now!”
The man looked around before realising he was being pointed at. He then rushed to the front and stood at attention in front of the Sergeant. The instructor reached down and pulled out a standard issue marine’s knife and placed it in his hand.
“Stab me, son, right in the heart!”
The man was obviously terrified of either messing it up or hurting the instructor, so simply stood there, and doing nothing.
“Do it, boy or I’ll try it on you!”
With a scream the man pushed it forward aiming for the centre of the man’s chest. With a simple move the Sergeant grabbed the man’s arm pulling him past before he snapped it up behind him. The man dropped to his knees whimpering.
“Now, look at the image on the right, it is from a late twentieth century riot police training film. Notice how the officer is restraining the man. That’s right, ladies, he’s using the same damned technique.”
“Back in line, boy!” He looked around he group.
“You!” he said as he spotted the big German.
The man moved to the front without the fear and hesitation the younger man had. The Sergeant passed him the knife.
“Stab me here, down through my collar and in…..” he was unable to finish his sentence as the man was already moving to strike him.
The Sergeant incredibly lifted his right arm, struck the inside of the German and brushed the knife hand away from him. Then he brought up his left, slamming the back of his fist into the German’s jaw. It sent a cloud of blood from his mouth and into the faces of the recruits stood behind him. The German staggered back as he lifted his hand to his mouth. Another medic ran over and placed a pack on his face before moving to the back.
“Image four, this one is from a medieval fighting manual by a man called Talhoffer. Note the way he has displaced the knife attack and then struck his attacker in the jaw. These people knew their business. A punch, stab or strike is the same the galaxy over and you have months to perfect your skills. Now look at the rest of these images. In the fourteenth century the German fencing masters taught a complete system for a warrior to be able to fight in all circumstances.” As he spoke a sequence of images appeared from the manual.
“Each man would learn how to fight without a weapon. He needed to know how to stop a knife attack, a very common weapon that all would carry, how to throw a man down or how to break limbs. He was then taught to use a sword, a two handed sword, a long knife like a machete, spears, pole arms. I think you get the picture.” As he finished the lights came back up.
One of the marines approached from one of the storerooms with what looked like a toolbox and placed it on the ground. The drill sergeant reached inside and pulled out a large fighting knife.
“This here is the M11 Bayonet. As well as doubling for a bayonet on your rifle it is also designed to be one hell of a fighting knife.” He flipped the knife around so everybody could see the tip.
“It features a sharp, heat hardened point that helps penetrate the body armour that many of our adversaries will be wearing. The serrations near the handle help improve its function as a utility knife, so you will want to look after this fine piece of equipment. The M11 Bayonet is made from high carbon steel and is capable of functioning without breakage in operating temperatures in excess of -25 to 135 degrees farenheit. This means we can use this weapon in all environments where we expect trouble, and then some.”
Leaning down he pulled open the lid to reveal scores of the blades, each neatly packed away inside their sheath. He pulled another out and waved it at the recruits.
“This is your first piece of gear and you will respect it. Wherever you go and whatever
duties you are carrying out you will always carry this weapon with you.” He stood up. “Now, each of you take your knife and get back in line.”
It took less than a minute for them all to take their knives before they were back in position. The Drill Sergeant waited for a short while before continuing.
A group of marines walked in, pulling behind them a set of six life-size dummies attached to stands. The dummies were perfect doubles for humans apart from lacking any discernable clothes. They positioned them in a neat line facing the recruits and then left the room. The Drill Sergeant walked along the line of dummies, looking at the various nicks and marks from where they had been used scores of times before. In a move that surprised the recruits he flipped his own knife from his sheath and stabbed the first in the collar, then the same on the other side and then slashes across the throat before returning the blade. He stopped, tucked in his shirt and then turned to the recruits.
“You might think this weapon is a waste of time in this decade of advanced armours, state of the art rifles and space travel. But let me tell you, a knife can be used silently and discreetly. It can be hidden if you are captured and may be used for hundreds of non-combat related roles. If you can kill with a knife you can kill with a rifle!” He took a few more steps before halting and continuing his speech.
“Today we are going to start with knife training. First, you will learn how to stab and cut at the important parts of the body. When you are ready, I will then teach you the defences to all these attacks. Are you ready?” he shouted.
“Yes, Drill Sergeant!” the group stood to attention and shouted in chorus.
Siege of Titan (Star Crusades Uprising, Book 1) Page 7