“Hey Khalid, it looks like your buddies are here,” he started, before a voice poured down from the above.
“Federation Marines, we are from the Greater French ship Forbin. Please do not fire upon us. The war is over. We repeat, the war is over. We are here to retrieve all French personnel. We already have retrieved your wounded and dead from the other site, and we’ve been informed that you have more in this area. We offer you the same courtesy. If you have any French personnel with you, please make them available. Please acknowledge this on Universal.”
Ryck stared in shock as the shuttle kept circling, moving in and out of his line of sight because of the trees. The voice started repeating the same message.
“Well, what do you think?” he asked the other three. “Is this a trick?”
“If it is, I’m not sure we can do anything about it,” St. Cyr said. “I think a squad of girl scouts could probably handle us about now. We’re out of any real weapons, and almost out of supplements. Besides, I’ve heard the French Navy chow is pretty good,” he said bitterly.
The three waited for his decision. There really wasn’t any decision to make, though. Circumstances had made it for him.
“Khalid,” he said again, “if this is another French trick, I hope you remember that we gave you medical treatment, you and your buddy there.”
He walked over to St. Cyr’s PICS, the only one with any power left, reached in, and toggled the Universal.
“French shuttle, this is Sergeant Ryck Lysander, United Federation Marine Corps. We have two legionnaires here, both wounded, one in stasis. You are welcome to land and pick them up. As for us, if we can hitch a ride back to a Federation ship, we would sure appreciate it.”
Alexander
February 27, 311 (Standard Reckoning)
Chapter 25
Ryck stared at the Navy Cross, hanging crookedly on the chest of his dress blues blouse. He was torn about it. As he’d said during the ceremony after the commandant had pinned it on him only an hour ago, this was for those who hadn’t made it. In that manner it was a fitting tribute. However, Ryck knew the award had also been a political statement.
At the conclusion of hostilities, the Federation had rushed to declare victory. Buckets of medal had been awarded, and all in record time. No less than 18 Federation Novas had been awarded, mostly to Naval commanders, but Doc Grbil received one posthumously, and a living Marine captain in 2/3 had been awarded one. Normally, the Nova took up to two years to be vetted and awarded, but those 18 had flown through the process in less than five months.
Lieutenant Nidishchii’ had been awarded the Navy Cross, too, presented to him earlier in the morning at his bedside in regen. Every other Marine in the platoon had been awarded a Silver Star. Ryck had done a quick search, and never in the history of the Corps had an entire unit been awarded Silver Stars. Now, his platoon and the entire company from 2/3 had received them. The whole thing reeked of politics.
That was not to say that Ryck didn’t think his Marines deserved to be commended. They had kicked ass in a very trying situation. They deserved whatever they got. It was just the political grandstanding tainted the awards, Ryck thought.
The Federation declared victory, and merely going by numbers of men and ships lost, there was a basis for that claim. The Federation had lost 12 capital ships, the largest being the Bismarck. Over 20,000 sailors had died, as had 1,914 Marines. The Greater French alliance had lost 38 ships, 25,000 sailors, 2,400 legionnaires, and a handful of allied soldiers and Marines. The numbers were heavily skewed to the Federation, which wasn’t surprising given their overwhelming superiority in naval forces. Actually, it was surprising to Ryck that the numbers weren’t even more lopsided.
But what had been gained? Greater France was still not a full-member of the Federation. They still had their government in Paris. Not only that, but they had also managed to extract a concession on tariffs. Only they could place import or export tariffs on goods going into or out of their territory. This had been one of their key complaints that had led to the conflict.
The French had remained mostly quiet about the terms of the peace agreement, just issuing the obligatory comments about regretting any misunderstandings and hoping for a prosperous and cooperative future. The blogosphere was live with accusations of the Federation “capitulating,” but from Greater France itself, the media was mostly quiet.
Ryck knew the real reason that the war had ended so abruptly, though. When the Legion suicide team had taken the Siren Corporation’s mine on New Lancashire, the Federations largest source of erbium, the vital rare earth needed for the manufacture of ship hulls, fighter craft, and even parts of Marine PICS, they threatened to set off a dirty bomb, which would somehow chain react, contaminating the resource. Without a source of erbium, commerce would dry up as shipbuilding would cease, and those already in service would eventually lose their ability to use bubble space.
Of course, it didn’t help that Siren Corp was owned by retired and current admirals and a few other high-ranking government officials. The Council was willing to spend Navy and Marine lives to “bring Greater France to the negotiating table,” but threaten their individual financial bottom lines, and the war was over, just like that.
There had never been a way for the French to win a conventional war with the Federation. But they had figured out how to hurt the men in charge, and that was enough to get their basic demands met.
The legionnaire who had led the assault on the mine, breaking through the FCDC officers protecting it, was none other than Commandant Nicholas Gruenstein, the ex-liaison to Third Marine Division. Ryck guessed that the major had pretty much erased any black mark the Legion had given him for the failed negotiations on Soreau .
Ryck removed his medal bar and the free-hanging Navy Cross medal that had just been pinned on his chest. He needed to switch to a medal bar which held each award in place. He’d already had two of them made, with all his previous awards as well as the new Navy Cross, both different in only the last medal on the bar. He considered both for the hundredth time, then chose the second one, pinning it to his blouse. The bar was getting a little crowded. Any more medals and he’d have to go to two rows.
He checked the time. He was tempted to try a quick cam with Hannah. Things had been a little strained after they found out that Ezekiel had been killed on some unnamed moon in the Second Quadrant, but things between them were getting back to normal. He wanted to make a stop before the ceremony, though, so he figured he didn’t have enough time.
He took the blouse off the hanger and put it back on, checking himself in the mirror. The rocker under his chevrons looked good, he had to admit to himself. Staff Sergeant Ryck Lysander, meritoriously promoted, turned and left his quarters.
He had to stop as other SNCO’s offered their congratulations as he walked, or tried to walk, down the passage. The SNCO barracks, the “Holiday Inn,” was packed as Marines were getting into their own blues, and it seemed as if each SNCO had something to say to him. It felt weird to have gunnies, even the master and first sergeants, treating him like that. He made it through their gauntlet and out into the quad. Passing between C and D barracks, it was only 50 meters to Franz Hall, the home of the gen hens.
It felt like he’d never left as he entered the front hatch. He’d spent over a year as a guest there, and it held mixed memories--mostly bad though. The corpsman on duty looked up, then when he saw who it was, went back to his PA. Ryck had a routine that he tried to follow each day. He checked on each of the Marines from the platoon. Peretti was still in an induced coma and back at the hospital, and Justice and Tally had finished regen and had been released back to their units. The rest, though, except for the lieutenant who was at the officers’ quarters, were there.
Ryck started his rounds. Most of them had already left for the ceremony. Keiji was going to be standing in formation, by his special request, but the rest were going to be in the bleachers with the rest of the gen hens. Cpl Winsted and LCpl Cashe
w were there, though, and Ryck chatted with them for a few minutes. Both had their Silver Stars mounted, and both commented on Ryck’s Navy Cross.
Checking the time, Ryck made his excuses and took the elevator to the fifth deck. This was the SNCO’s deck, and seven of the twelve quarters were occupied. Two men, a gunny and another staff sergeant, had been discharged only this morning to get them back with their units for the ceremony.
He knocked on one of the hatches.
“Come in!” a voice shouted.
He opened the hatch and walked in. SSgt Hecs was getting ready to put on his blouse. The left sleeve of his blues had been removed due to the heavy regen cage that surrounded his growing arm, but still, getting the arm and cage through the sleeve opening could be difficult.
“Hey, good timing. Can you help me with this thing?” he asked Ryck.
“Sure, Staff Sergeant,” Ryck answered stepping up to help.
“What the hell, Ryck, what have I told you? Two weeks already with your rocker, and it’s still staff sergeant to me?”
Ryck hadn’t too much trouble with the other SNCOs, but even after fighting side-by-side with the man, Ryck still tended to see SSgt Hecs as his hard-ass heavy hat DI.
“It’s Hecs, Hector, Asshole. Even ‘King Tong.’ Just not ‘Staff Sergeant.’”
Ryck grimaced. No matter what, “Hecs” was still, in many ways. “King Tong” to him.
“Of course I knew what you called me. You think you were the first to come up with that oh-so-clever name? You’ve got to remember, you were my fifth platoon, and each one thought they had come up with it.”
“Well, uh, it kinda fit. You were rather, uh, animal on us,” Ryck said sheepishly.
“Of course I was. You negats needed it. You seemed to have come out OK,” Hecs said, before continuing. “You know what, though? None of you little wannabes knew something. You called me King Tong, but you know I am Thai, right?”
Ryck didn’t know, but he nodded.
“In Thai, ‘ting tong’ means crazy. So Ting Tong King Tong. I just thought that was pretty freaking funny. Hell, I called myself that. I had to keep from laughing anytime I overheard you guys. Did you ever see my I Love Me Wall?”
Ryck had seen it, of course. He’d never really looked at it in any great detail when he was a sergeant. NCO’s didn’t pry into SNCOs’ lives.
“Go take a look at my drill field plaque.”
Ryck walked up to it, saw the drill field emblem, then below it was his name:
Sergeant “Ting Tong King Kong” Hector Phantawisangtong
Feb 22, 306 to July 3, 309
“See, we even had it put on the plaque. We all put our nicknames on them. If you make it there, and I am recommending that you do, you’ll get your own, I’m sure.”
“Really? You think I should go to Camp Charles?”
“Damn right I do. You would do great there, and frankly, it’s a stepping stone you need if you ever want to make sergeant major.”
“I don’t know. I’ve got my best buddy there, and he hates it. He keeps wanting to get into combat.”
Hecs eyeballed Ryck’s chest and said, “I think you’ve got enough combat for now, Ryck.”
Hecs looked closer at Ryck’s ribbon, then said, “I see you went with your Croix de guerre.”
“Yeah, I had two bars made up, one with and one without. I was torn. We just fought them, for God’s sake. We lost good men. But, I don’t know. It wasn’t like the legionnaires chose to fight us, just like we didn’t choose to fight them. We all were just following orders. Orders that were there for grubbing bank accounts, not for freedom or defense.”
“Oh, sounding cynical there, Ryck. I think Sams would have approved. He always thought you accepted too much, you know?”
“Yeah, fucking Sams. He was a cynic, that’s for sure. I miss that bastard,” Ryck said quietly before asking Hecs, “You think I shouldn’t wear it?”
“Look at mine.”
Ryck only then really looked at Hecs’ blues. There, the last medal in his row, was his Croix de guerre.
“Fuck them if they don’t like it,” Hecs said. “So, you here to gab, or are you going to help me get this thing on?”
Ryck held the blouse, maneuvering it around so Hecs could slide his arm through. They checked each other’s uniforms, making sure each was squared way, then left to attend the ceremony.
The Birthday Remembrance was held on February 27 each year, the anniversary of the forming of the Infantería de Marina back in 1537, Old Reckoning. While the November 10 Birthday Celebration was just that, a celebration, the February 27 ceremonies were more somber occasion. While a toast might be lifted to fallen comrades, drunkenness was frowned upon. The most important activity during the day was the reading of the fallen. Each and every Marine who had died during the year had his name read aloud in front of those still left behind.
This year’s reading was going to take a long time. Ninth Marines had lost 1,214 Marines and sailors, most in 1/9 and the regimental headquarters. That would take about an hour and a half to read the names.
As they arrived in back of the parade deck, Ryck said goodbye to Hecs and started walking to where 2/9 was forming. A face in the regimental headquarters caught his eye, a Marine who had not deployed but who had stayed back with the rear party to assist in sending forward replacements.
Ryck walked up to the sergeant and stood there until the sergeant noticed him.
“Staff Sergeant,” he said to Ryck, looking stiff and uncomfortable.
“Sergeant MacPruit. You can be a royal asshole. You know that, right?” Ryck asked.
MacPruit locked his eyes over Ryck’s shoulder, focusing on nothing.
“But, and I say this with all sincerity, you saved my life on Weyerhaeuser. “
MacPruit broke his escape gaze to stare at Ryck in confusion.
“I know you were getting back at me back in your class when you broke my arm. But the class was effective. I don’t know how much you were told about what happened, but when I was weaponless and faced with an armed legionnaire, of all people, it was you who came to me, telling me what to do. I reacted, just as you had taught. And because of that, I’m here today. I just want to thank you.”
Ryck held out his hand, and MacPruit hesitantly took it.
“You’re still a grubbing asshole, but I would be proud to serve with you anytime,” Ryck said, and he meant it.
MacPruit colored, his face turning red, and he said, “You made us all proud. The whole Marine Corps knows you. And if you say I helped at all, well, thank you. I am humbled. I may be an asshole, like you say, I know. But I do respect you, and thank you for your words.”
He seemed to want to say something else, but then let it go. He could imagine MacPruit’s guilt, alive only because he had been left in the rear with the gear. Ryck hoped MacPruit would realize that he had contributed after all.
“Well, we’re forming up. I’ve got to go,” Ryck said, then hurried back to Golf Company.
Captain Quartermain was the new company commander, but commander of a gutted company. Second Platoon was at full strength. Not one of them had died. They had boarded the abandoned French ship, then basically sat out the war after managing to return life support to the aft crew spaces and holing up there until rescued. Ryck had thought they were all dead, and to find out that each Marine had survived had been a welcome piece of news.
With five new Marines, Third Platoon’s formation was up to nine with Keiji joining them again for the ceremony. Ryck was the acting platoon commander. There had been talk about disbanding the platoon, even temporarily, but Ryck had fought that, saying both the platoon commander and platoon sergeant were still alive, as were a number of the rest. As a “war hero,” his opinion had actually carried some weight.
First Platoon, though, had been disbanded. It would be reinstated later, once the personnel situation had stabilized.
The regiment formed up, and led by a single drummer, his leopard skin drap
ed in black, marched onto the parade deck.
The regimental headquarters led the way. Following them was 1/9. Sergeant Mark Tillhouse carried the battalion colors, a black streamer joining the other battle streamers, signifying their unit awards over the battalion’s years of service. Behind him, the other two surviving Marines marched. They were in turn followed by the new cadre staff of about 30 Marines.
Slowly, the rest of the regiment marched in. No music was played. Only the steady beat of the drummer kept a lonely cadence. When the regiment was formed, the Commandant of the Marines marched forward, taking the new regimental commander’s salute. With the Bismarck Marines constituting the single largest loss of life, the commandant had travelled to Alexander for this year’s ceremony. He was accompanied by a large news contingent that was anxious to film the reading of names. Rumor had it that the commandant had wanted to make this a closed ceremony but had been overruled. It took someone very high on the pecking order to overrule the Marine commandant on something like that.
Without an order being spoken, the regimental sergeant major’s voice rang out with “Ninth Regimental Headquarters: Jerome William Able.”
For a last call, ranks were never given. A Marine was a Marine.
Master Gunnery Sergeant Teleste was next with “John King Accord.”
Then it was back to the sergeant major with “Antonio Salcedo Pious Accounte.”
Back and forth, one after the other, they took turns, solemnly reading out each name. Ryck recognized a few. The colonel, of course. The sergeant major. Several of the NCO’s. When they got to 1/9, Ryck could feel the tension increase. He knew the news hounds would be salivating, the reading of the Marines of the “Lost Battalion.”
Ryck’s back started to bother him, but he stood stock still. He hoped Keiji was doing OK. Regen took a lot out of a person.
Sergeant (The United Federation Marine Corps Book 2) Page 25