First To Fight (The Empire's Corps Book 11)

by Christopher Nuttall

  “Be seated,” the newcomer ordered. His voice was crisp, precise; there wasn’t a hint of doubt in his words. But there wasn't a sense of threat, either. He was deliberately presenting a fatherly image to us. It would have meant more to me if I’d had a father. “I am Commandant Paul VanGundy, CO Boot Camp Olympus Mons.”

  He paused, then spoke on. “In the Marine Corps, we have a tradition we call Nice Day and Hell Week. This is Nice Day. We bring you to Boot Camp, we check your medical condition, we give you this little talk” - he smiled, rather thinly - “and we generally get all our ducks in order before the end of the day. Hell Week ... is your first real introduction to Boot Camp. It is no exaggeration to say that we lose around half of our prospective recruits within the first three to four days as they find themselves unable to cope.

  “We don't promise you anything, but blood, sweat, tears and the simple awareness that it is all worthwhile. Those of you who make it through the course will have your chance to go on to the Slaughterhouse, to become part of the finest fighting brotherhood in human history, or to take up a high position in the army, if that is your wish. I can honestly tell you that I have been a marine for over forty years and I have never regretted sticking with it, even though there were times when I seriously thought about walking away.

  “We are, in many ways, the ones who hold the Empire together. We are the first responders, when a crisis blows up. We have crushed countless warlords, saved the lives of millions of civilians and helped them to rebuild their worlds. We rush from crisis to crisis, putting out fires, and we love it; when we retire, we take our expertise to colony worlds and help the settlers establish themselves. We simply do not know how to quit.

  “It will not be easy. These six months will be the hardest thing you have ever done. Many of you will quit; others, I'm afraid, will die in training. Some of you will complete Boot Camp and choose to transfer into the regulars, rather than go to the Slaughterhouse. But I promise you that it will all be worthwhile. I look forward to the day I shake your hands as you graduate ... wherever you go, afterwards. Good luck.”

  He nodded to us, then strode out of the room.

  The rest of the day passed in a blur. Cobb took us into another room, administered the oath and organised our pay. The marines, it turned out, had their own bank; our salaries were paid directly into those accounts for as long as we served, which could then be transferred to another bank after we retired.

  “Anything you need will be issued to you,” Cobb informed us, as we were shown the sole shop on the base. “If you want anything else, it will be charged to your account ... if, of course, you can convince your Drill Instructor that you need it.”

  He showed us a handful of other locations, ending with the first set of recruit barracks. They were large, crammed with bunks; the toilets - heads, we learned to call them - were at the far end. I couldn't help noticing that all the female recruits had been taken off somewhere; I learned, later, that they were kept strictly segregated from the males until they passed the first two waypoints. By the time I was told I could flop into bed, after a dinner composed of ration bars and juice, I was utterly exhausted ... and yet, in a way, happy. I’d been nervous, and I hadn't liked parts of it, but I could endure six months if necessary ...

  In hindsight, of course, that was just laughable.

  Chapter Five

  The concept of discipline was largely unknown to the children of Earth, in the final years of the Empire. They were not forced to learn, let alone develop the skills they needed; the only form of discipline they could rely on was self-discipline and that was extremely hard to develop. For them, going to Boot Camp - even a relatively mild Boot Camp - would be a complete culture shock.

  -Professor Leo Caesius

  “GET OUT OF BED! GET DRESSED! GET OUTSIDE! MOVE IT!”

  I jerked awake, my head spinning. Where was I? Who was shouting?

  “GET UP, GET DRESSED, GET OUT,” the voice repeated. “MOVE IT, RECRUITS!

  I rolled out of my bunk, grabbed for my uniform and pulled it on as fast as I could. All around me, the other recruits were doing the same, banging and crashing into one another as they hurried towards the door, pulling their jackets over their heads as they ran. Someone grunted in pain as they tripped and fell, two more tripping over the prone body and landing on top of the poor bastard. The voice kept bellowing orders, practically dragging us out into the darkness. It wasn't quite pitch dark outside, but it was dark enough to keep us disoriented.

  “LINE UP,” the voice bellowed. “FEET ON THE YELLOW FOOTPRINTS!”

  In my dazed state, it took me a moment to see the yellow footprints on the ground, glowing slightly in the darkness. We ran forward, the voice growing more and more impatient as the last of us scurried out of the barracks, and rested our feet on the footprints. I would later learn that these were to help us stand at attention, but for the moment all I could do was wonder in horror just what I’d managed to get myself into. This wasn't anything like the last couple of days! I cursed myself for a fool for thinking it could be anything else.

  The lights came on, throwing the entire scene into sharp relief. Three men stood in front of us, wearing Smoky the Bear Hats. (No, I don’t know who Smoky the Bear was, but his name lives on with us.) I’d thought that Bakker and Cobb were intimidating, but these two were far - far - worse. Their faces were set in expressions that promised pain, their eyes seeming to peer straight into our very souls, while their bodies were staggeringly muscular. I had never seen anyone so tough, not even among the gangs. They struck me as men who would dominate anywhere they chose to live.

  “I am Drill Instructor Douglas Bainbridge, Top Hat,” the leader said, in a slightly more normal tone of voice. “To my left is Drill Instructor Scott Nordstrom, Black Hat; to my right, Drill Instructor Alan Johnson, Hard Hat. Our mission is to train each and every one of you to become a Terran Marine. Starting now, you will treat me and every other marine you meet with the highest respect. Do you understand me?”

  There was a ragged chorus of understanding.

  “In future, you will answer YES SIR or NO SIR,” he said. “Do you understand me?”

  “Yes, sir,” we said.

  “Louder than that,” he ordered. “Again!”

  “YES, SIR,” we screamed.

  “Better,” Bainbridge said, grudgingly. “This course is designed to separate those who can handle it from those who can’t. If you want to quit, raise your hand and say so. We will dismiss you from the training platoon, arrange shipping back to wherever you come from and wave goodbye without regret. There’s no shame in admitting you can’t handle it. It might even be easier to give up now.”

  He gave us all a sardonic look, daring us to quit. “The three of us will be with you at all hours of the day,” he added. “We will accept nothing less than the best from you; in return, we will treat you with firmness, fairness, dignity and compassion. If you feel that you have been abused by any of us, you are expected to take the complaint to the base commandant. Do you understand me?”

  “YES, SIR,” we bellowed.

  “I didn’t quite hear that,” Bainbridge said, cocking his head as though he was deaf. “Again!”

  “YES, SIR,” we bellowed.

  “There are four ways you can leave this place,” he said. He made a show of ticking them off his fingers as he spoke. “You can quit. You can die. You can commit an offense against the Imperial Code of Military Justice and get booted out. Or you can graduate and go on to a long and successful career in the military. We will be covering the Imperial Code of Military Justice every day until you can memorise all fifty of the headshots that will kill your career, but for the moment all you need to know is that you must obey orders from seniors such as myself without hesitation. Do you understand me?”

  “YES, SIR,” we shouted.

  “Good,” Bainbridge said. He looked from recruit to recruit. “For the moment, you are all part of Recruit Training Company OM4574, Platoon 2. Do not f
orget those details unless you are reassigned to another unit. If asked, you are expected to shout out the number without hesitation. Do you understand me?”

  “YES, SIR,” we bellowed. My throat was started to get sore.

  Bainbridge didn't look as though he cared. “From now on, you will talk about yourself in the third person,” he said. “You will refer to yourselves as ‘this recruit.’ You” - he pointed at a young man I didn't know - “where were you born?”

  “I was born on ...”

  “I? I?” Bainbridge demanded. He didn't move, but the atmosphere suddenly became a great deal more intimidating. “I?”

  The recruit stumbled backwards, clearly terrified.

  “No, keep your feet on the footsteps,” Bainbridge ordered. “Try again!”

  “YES, SIR,” the recruit bellowed. He took a breath. “This recruit was born in Rowdy Yates Block, Earth.”

  “Better,” Bainbridge said. His eyes swept the row, looking for a second victim, and I found myself praying he didn't choose me. No such luck. “You” - he jabbed his finger at me - “where were you born?”

  I had to swallow before I could answer. “This recruit was born in Jackson King Block, Earth,” I said.

  Bainbridge eyed me for a long moment - it took all I had to stand my ground - then moved to the next victim. I watched, feeling suddenly hungry, as he checked with five more recruits, telling one of them off for getting it wrong after watching four others getting it right. The other Drill Instructors watched us, their eyes following our every movement. They hadn't said a word and yet I was far too aware of their presence. It was almost like sharing a room with Trevor again ...

  ... And yet, none of them gave a damn about me.

  “I’m sure we’re all feeling cold right now,” Bainbridge said, as he returned to his position in front of us. “You see that building over there? That’s where they’re serving the slop that will keep you warm and healthy while we break you down and build you up again. When I blow the whistle, I want you to run over to the building and line up outside the door. Do you understand me?”

  “YES, SIR,” we bellowed.

  Bainbridge smirked, then blew the whistle. We turned towards the building and ran, rapidly falling into a disorganised mass. The three Drill Instructors ran behind us, shouting encouragement; we rapidly discovered that the building was further away than it seemed. By the time we reached the door, we were sweating buckets and gasping for breath. None of the Drill Instructors even seemed to be winded. I fought for breath as Bainbridge eyed us darkly, then made another show of consulting his watch.

  “Over fifteen minutes to run one and a half miles,” he sneered. He gave the recruits who had finished last a sharp look. “Pathetic. Absolutely pathetic. And to think you’re going to be ruining my corps.”

  I swallowed, again. I hadn't finished last, not by any means, but I knew I hadn't done anything like as well as the Drill Instructors. Several of us glared at the slower runners, as if they were to blame for the delay, then straightened up as the Drill Instructors eyed us warningly.

  “This is the Chow Hall,” Bainbridge said, raising his voice slightly. “Inside, you will take one plate from the pile, one serving of food from the cooks, one glass of juice from the dispenser and finally take a seat at the nearest table. You will not eat or drink anything until I permit you to eat. Do you understand me?”

  “YES, SIR,” we stammered.

  “Shout louder,” Bainbridge ordered. “Again!”

  “YES, SIR,” we bellowed, somehow.

  “Inside,” Bainbridge ordered.

  I wasn't sure what to expect from the Chow Hall, but it turned out to resemble a school dining room. The only real difference was that there weren't any armoured bars protecting the cooks from the students, although I rather doubted anyone on the base would dare pick a fight with the cooks. All the material I’d read insisted that all marines, even logistics staff, were riflemen first, having passed both Boot Camp and the Slaughterhouse. I took a plate, received a serving of food from the cook and took a glass of juice before sitting down. The food didn't look very appetizing, but it smelled heavenly.

  Bainbridge watched us all closely, snapping and snarling at anyone who even looked as though they were going to start eating. The other Drill Instructors got their own meals and sat down at the table, but Bainbridge neither ate nor sat. Instead, he strode up and down, eying us nastily. He didn't even give us permission to eat when the last of the recruits sat down and waited, nervously.

  “You may eat,” he said, finally.

  I grabbed for my spoon and started to dig into the slop.

  “Wait,” Bainbridge snapped. “Haven’t you forgotten something?”

  I swore. I wasn't the only one.

  “YES, SIR,” we bellowed.

  “Good,” Bainbridge said. “Eat.”

  The food had the same consistency as porridge, but tasted better. It wasn't until later that I learned that it was seeded with various compounds to boost our energy levels, develop our muscles and enhance our appetites. We ate in silence, listening to Bainbridge telling us more about the Marine Corps and the standards we would be expected to uphold, if we made it through another week of Boot Camp. I looked from face to face as he advised us not to get too close to anyone, not until Hell Week was over. It wasn't uncommon, apparently, for Hell Week to convince half the recruits to raise the white flag and quit. I wondered, at the time, how many of my fellows had homes to go back to, if they left. There was nowhere for me to go.

  We had just finished when the door opened and a second platoon entered, led by another Drill Instructor. I stared at them; they wore the same uniform as we did, but they held themselves like real soldiers, not children playacting at being men. They walked in step, they carried actual weapons ... and there was something about them, a confidence, that I knew none of us showed. Bainbridge let us study them in silence for a long moment - I later learned that absolutely nothing in Boot Camp, including that meeting, happens by coincidence - and then bellowed for us to rise to our feet. We looked like a bunch of slobs compared to the older platoon.

  “And just what,” Bainbridge demanded, “do you think you are doing?”

  He eyed a recruit darkly, while the rest of us were silently grateful he wasn't looking at us.

  “Sir ... ah ... this recruit is saving food,” the recruit said. He reminded me of myself, a little, or perhaps of the boys at school who were hounded away from the dining hall at lunchtime and never had enough to eat. “This recruit couldn’t eat everything on his plate.”

  “There is no need to save food,” Bainbridge snapped. His voice softened, just slightly. “And when you see the medic, tell him about it.”

  He looked us up and down, then led us out of the door and back into the morning air. It felt warmer now, although the sun had barely peeked over the horizon. Mars, I later discovered, had one hell of a greenhouse effect, something designed to trap what little heat the planet received in the atmosphere. For the moment, all that mattered was that it felt warmer, but I had the uneasy feeling that it was going to get warmer still.

  “This time, we are going to march back to the barracks,” Bainbridge informed us. “Line up in a single column, then follow the recruit in front of you.”

  It wasn't anything like as easy as it sounded, I discovered. Our first attempt at marching forward in unison proved to be an embarrassing disaster. Bainbridge and his fellows ran up and down, snapping and snarling at us, until we were shuffling forward, putting one foot forward and then the other. It was hard to hold back the tendency to move faster, or to accidentally walk into the person in front, but we managed it - eventually. Bainbridge chanted a drill march - a cadence - as he took the lead, walking us slowly back to the barracks. I found myself joining in the singing as we marched and I wasn’t the only one.

  “Get inside, stuff all your crap in your bags and get back out here,” Bainbridge ordered, shortly.

  “YES, SIR,” we bellowed.

/>   We were learning, I told myself, as I recovered my bag from the locker and hurried back out of the barracks. The Drill Instructors pointed me towards the yellow footprints, waiting for the others; Bainbridge strode up and down, glowering at the latecomers, then finally waved us all forward into line when we were done.

  “If you need anything you left behind,” he informed us, “it will be coming out of your pay.”

  He paused as I frantically tried to remember if I’d left anything behind. I didn’t think I had, but what if I was wrong? I had only the vaguest idea of just how much the items in the bag cost ... and, in truth, I wasn't sure how much free cash I’d have. It wasn't unknown for employers on Earth to withhold over seventy percent of the money they were meant to pay their employees, just to meet taxes or to keep them dependent. I hadn't realised - yet - that the Marine Corps didn't work that way.