“Follow me,” Bainbridge ordered, when that had sunk in. “One, two; one, two; one, two ...”
It felt like hours of marching, winding our way through a series of buildings that looked depressingly identical, before we reached another set of barracks. Bainbridge stopped outside, then looked us up and down. We did our best to look back at him, but very few of us could meet his gaze.
“These are your barracks now,” he said. His voice was very calm. “Most of you will be staying here until you complete Phase Two Recruit Training, whereupon you will be moved to new accommodation. You will be responsible for keeping your sleeping quarters in shape. They will be inspected every morning, after reveille. Anyone who fails to keep his bunk in shape will be given a hefty dose of Incentive Training. Do you understand me?”
“YES, SIR,” we bellowed.
He led us into the barracks and pointed towards the nearest bunk. “The last occupants of these barracks did it up for you,” he snarled, in a tone that suggested he thought we should have started from scratch. “Note just how it has been done, because that’s what we want to see every day. The showers and toilets are to be cleaned once a day too and the floor is to be swept - we expect you to sort out your own rota for cleaning. You’ll find cleaning equipment in the cupboard.”
I swallowed. I’d been a teenage boy. Okay, I wasn't as bad as some of the assholes from school who would deliberately make a mess, just to force someone to clean it up, but I’d still been pretty messy. My mother had never tried to get us to do chores, or clean the apartment; I honestly didn't know where to begin. And, judging from some of the looks, nor did most of my fellow recruits.
“One of us will be sleeping there, every night,” Bainbridge continued, pointing to a bunk by the door. “After Hell Week, one of you will also take watch every night. Should you notice any problems with your fellow recruits, we expect you to bring it to us. Homesickness is not uncommon among new recruits. Later, there may be depression, even suicidal thoughts.”
I wasn't impressed. Why would I want to go home?
“Place your bags in the lockers, then meet me back outside,” Bainbridge ordered. “If any of you need to go to the head” - the toilets - “go now.”
The locker was barely large enough for my bag, but I managed to put it inside and check out the showers and toilets before going back outside. They were communal - there was no such thing as communal showers and toilets on Earth, for fear of lawsuits - and the thought of either stripping naked or having a shit in front of my new comrades was appalling. But it was clear I had no choice. None of us did.
I can endure, I told myself, as I stepped back into the warm air. Whatever they throw at me, I can endure.
“Now,” Bainbridge said, in a sweet voice that fooled absolutely no one. “Who wants to learn how to do a push-up?”
Chapter Six
Everything in Boot Camp is meant to be a teachable moment, even if it’s nothing more than a lesson in what not to do.
-Professor Leo Caesius
We lost our first recruit later that day.
I never knew his name. In truth, I barely remember him as anything other than the wimp who opened the floodgates. There’s a certain reluctance among humans to be the first to do anything, be it the first to put up one’s hand or the first to quit military training. But once someone actually takes that first step, others follow. We had been told, time and time again, that there was no shame in quitting - and there was some truth to it - but at the same time we needed to develop the stubbornness not to quit. The reluctance to be the first might have saved many of us from quitting within the first few days of Boot Camp.
“When you do something mildly stupid,” Bainbridge told us, as soon as we gathered outside the barracks, “you will be given push-ups to do. This serves as both a punishment to remind you of your own stupidity and a chance to do more exercise, which will help you to develop more upper body strength. You will not be expected to do many push-ups now, but as you progress you will be given more and more to do every day.”
He dropped to the ground, rested briefly on his chest and then used his arms to push his entire body upwards. I watched, doubtfully, as he lowered himself until his chest was almost touching the ground, then pushed himself back up again. It didn't seem to cost him any effort at all.
“You are not to allow your body to return to the ground until you have finished,” Bainbridge said, without standing up. “As you can see” - he lowered himself to the ground; Nordstrom blew a whistle, making us all jump - “we will be watching and we will add more push-ups for you to do, just to make sure you get the right amount of exercise.”
He jumped to his feet, then smiled at us. “Spread out,” he ordered, “then lie down on the ground.”
I scowled as I fell to my knees, then rested on the hard ground. I’d gotten them wrong, back when I’d been trying to make myself stronger; I’d lowered my body to the ground every time, rather than just at the end. I had a feeling I was going to find it hard to keep my body in the air, no matter how hard I tried. Bainbridge glanced from recruit to recruit, then motioned for us to lift up our bodies. It felt easy at first, resting on my hands, but the longer I kept my body in the air the harder it grew. The aches and pains were surprisingly strong.
“Lower yourself, gently,” Bainbridge ordered. “Do not touch the ground.”
I tried. It wasn't easy, but somehow I managed to hold my chest an inch above the ground. I heard the whistle blow, again, as some unlucky recruit was caught resting his chest on the ground; I felt a flicker of sympathy, which I ruthlessly suppressed. My arms were aching badly now; it was almost a relief when I was ordered to lift my body again, even though the aches and pains were getting worse. Bainbridge ordered us to lower ourselves again, then rise; the whistle blew, several times, as others failed to follow orders. By the time we had stumbled through ten push-ups, I felt as though my arms were on the verge of breaking. It looked as though others felt the same.
“Only nine of you managed to follow orders and keep your chests off the ground,” Bainbridge said, in a disgusted tone. I couldn't help a flicker of pleasure at being one of the few who’d made it, even though I knew it had been a damn close shave. “Let’s try that again, shall we?”
There was a collective groan as we fell back to the ground and stumbled through another ten push-ups. This time, I managed to get through five before I lost control and fell to the ground. The whistle blew - my face went red with shame - and somehow I started again, plodding through the remaining five push-ups. I doubted the Drill Instructors would be pleased, really. But they’d sighted another target.
“Recruit,” Nordstrom snapped, pointing at a young man who couldn't have been any older than myself. “Did you only do one push-up before parking your chest on the ground?”
The recruit looked terrified. “No, sir,” he said, weakly. “I ...”
Nordstrom purpled. “I? I?”
There was a nasty pause. “I quit,” the recruit said, finally. “I want to go home.”
Some of us sniggered. Bainbridge shot us all a dark look and we shut up, instantly.
“Very well,” Nordstrom said. His voice dripped honey and battery acid. “A wise decision, if I may say so. Walk to the administrative building over there and report to the front desk. They’ll send you home.”
I watched the former recruit go before we were sucked back into more physical training. A day? No, not even a day; I wasn't sure of the time, but I knew it couldn't be later than 1100. He’d gone through Nice Day, but Hell Week had defeated him. I wondered just what would happen when he got home, if he had a home to go to, then pushed the thought to the back of my mind. Later, I would be glad that that person wouldn't be behind me when I went to war.
“See how easy it is to quit?” Bainbridge asked. “Anyone else want to go now?”
There was an awkward pause. No one said a word. I tried to avoid rubbing my arms as the Drill Instructors looked at us, then started to show us mo
re exercises. Some of them were easy enough, others were far more complicated; the stretching exercises, in particular, seemed designed to tear our limbs from their sockets. I puzzled over them as we were put through our paces, then ordered to take another run to the Chow Hall and back.
“There are fifty headshots - criminal acts - you can commit that will get you kicked out of Boot Camp,” Bainbridge informed us, as we ran. “These include insubordination, use of drugs, tobacco and alcohol, possession and/or consumption of food outside designated eating periods, possession of any contraband, failure to perform duties as assigned to you by lawful authority, being absent without leave and, last, but far from least, fraternisation. To repeat; any of those offences will get you a punishment that may range from summarily discharged to court martial and execution. You will have those offences read to you every day, along with the definition of each offence. You will have no excuse for committing any of them!”
“Fraternisation,” Nordstrom said. He was talking and running, but he didn't sound even remotely winded. “Sexual contact with a marine, marine recruit, marine auxiliary or marine consultant. Punishment: immediate discharge from the corps. You may request a court martial, if you wish, but a court martial can heap additional punishment on you if it feels you have no acceptable excuse.”
I glanced at the recruits running beside me. They were all male: hot, sweaty, smelly and tired. It didn't seem likely that I’d come to see any of them as potential conquests, assuming I’d have the energy. The files I’d read told me that we’d be worked to death every day, then woken up after seven hours of sleep to do it all over again. It wasn't until later that I learned just how badly sexual integration had damaged the Imperial Army when the discipline to enforce regulations against fraternisation had faltered. The Marine Corps was determined not to allow it to undermine its fighting power.
The day started to blur into a haze as we worked our way through a long program of exercises, running, more exercises and yet more running. I rapidly realised that Bainbridge hadn't been kidding about using push-ups as punishment; every little mistake, no matter how minor, was greeted with an order to do an immediate ten push-ups. Nordstrom watched us closely, snapping orders to repeat the entire ten push-ups if a single one was dropped. We lost two more recruits after lunch, when one gave up in the middle of a push-up and the other tried to throw a punch at Nordstrom. The Drill Instructor caught his arm and asked if he wanted to quit. It wasn't until later that I realised it was a mercy. Legally, the recruit could have been put in front of a court martial for attempting to strike a superior officer.
By the time we staggered back into barracks, we were tired, cranky and utterly drained ... but it didn't end. The Drill Instructors lined us up in front of the showers and demonstrated how to use them, one by one. I couldn't believe it when they told us we were expected to wash by numbers - heads, then arms, then legs, etc - but they were insistent. Somehow, I forgot my embarrassment as we were marched through a hasty shower, then were guided towards our bunks. I noted that several of the other recruits clearly intended to go to the head after the rest of us were fast asleep. It was hard to blame them. I knew, all too well, what could happen to people at school who were caught in the toilets by the bullies.
“If you wish to make a head call,” Bainbridge informed us, once we had all showered and changed into a fresh set of underwear, “you must ask permission from the watch officer. It doesn't matter how urgent it is; request permission from the officer before leaving your bunk. For the moment, that’s the Drill Instructor on duty.”
He pointed to the bunks, then strode back towards the front of the building. “Lights will dim in ten minutes,” he added. “After that, anyone moving around without permission will be in deep shit.”
I believed him. Hastily, I scrambled into my bunk and closed my eyes. It had been hard sleeping in a crowded barracks last night, but this time I fell asleep almost at once. My entire body was sore after running hundreds of miles - it certainly felt like hundreds of miles - and I was dreading the rest of Hell Week. It would be easy to quit, I knew, but where would I go if they sent me home? I had the feeling that begging for mercy wouldn’t get me anywhere - and even if it did, what could they do? Perhaps they could send me to a colony world ...
... But I still wouldn't have any stake, no money to buy land. Maybe I’d be better than an indent, but not - alas - by much.
It felt like seconds had passed before Bainbridge started shouting at us, again. I’d been too tired to realise - and I should have realised - that we would be woken up in bare hours and driven back out to the training field. I jerked out of bed - my body felt stiff and unfamiliar - and groped for my uniform, cursing under my breath. Hell Week wasn't called Hell Week because some asshole had wanted to make it sound bad. Someone literally fell out of bed with a crash, then picked himself up just before Nordstrom stamped over to check he was alive and well. I barely had time to notice before we were headed back outside, where the sun was just peeking over the horizon. The Drill Instructors looked disgustingly fresh and eager as they looked us up and down, then started to point out all the problems with our uniforms.
“We expect you to be out, in future, within five minutes,” Bainbridge said, once he had finished telling us off for a number of minor problems, including - in one case - forgetting to don underwear. I honestly don’t know, even today, just how Bainbridge knew the poor recruit was going commando. “Those of you who don’t get out in time will be doing more push-ups. Now drop and give me twenty.”
“YES, SIR,” we bellowed, somehow.
We dropped and, somehow, stumbled through the push-ups, even though our bodies were aching from the previous day. Oddly, the heavy exercise helped me feel better, as if my body was slowly becoming accustomed to the new workload. The Drill Instructors paced around, bawling out anyone who dared let their chests touch the ground, then assigned a whole series of new exercises, followed by a run to the Chow Hall. This time, there were two platoons already there, waiting in line to be served. None of us dared to try to cut in line ahead of them, not when they looked nastier than any of the gangsters on Earth. It would be weeks, if not months, before we looked like them.
As soon as we had eaten, we marched around the field, chanting the latest cadence. This time, we didn't have quite so many problems, although Bainbridge kept varying the speed to keep us alert. I found it harder and harder to think clearly as we paused for breath, then stepped into an obstacle course. Some of the wooden frames looked easy - we rapidly learned that that was deceptive - and others looked impossible to understand, let alone complete. The netting under the high wire structures chilled me to the bone.
“This is the Phase One Obstacle Course,” Bainbridge informed us. “Each of you will be expected to master each and every one of these structures by the time you proceed to Phase Two. Should you fall off” - he waved at the netting - “it will be counted as a fail. Do you understand me?”
“YES, SIR,” we screamed.
I’ll say one thing for the Drill Instructors. They never asked us to do anything they couldn't or wouldn't do for themselves. Bainbridge walked up to the first structure, clambered up a wooden wall that looked unbeatable, then waved to us from the top. Nordstrom, following him, showed us how to find handholds and make our way slowly up the wall. Johnston stood at the back, watching us all. We advanced forward, one by one, and tried to climb the wood while Nordstrom offered advice and instructions. It was tricky as hell to clamber up without looking down, but somehow we made it. I think it would have been easier if I hadn't made the mistake of looking down.
“Don't look down, you fucking idiot,” Nordstrom called. He was right, of course. “There’s no safety wire holding you in place.”
The next structure had a rope I was meant to clamber along to reach the other side. It gave me trouble; I barely made it three or four steps along before I lost my grip and plummeted into the safety netting. Johnston helped me out, then pointed me back to the end o
f the line and offered some valuable pieces of advice. I honestly wasn't sure if I needed to learn how to clamber along a rope, but I later learned it was a very useful skill. Besides, another recruit - who had been having problems after three successive tries - quit in disgust.
“This one is particularly interesting,” Bainbridge said, as we walked up to a large metal barrel. It was surrounded by a square marked out with string that was anchored firmly to the ground. I didn't understand what I was seeing; the string, barely a couple of inches off the ground, was hardly high enough to keep anyone from reaching the barrel. A coil of rope had been placed just outside the square. “And - this time - we are not going to show you what to do in advance.”
I eyed him, torn between nervousness and puzzlement. Everything else had seemed obvious, but this was odd. Were we meant to jump over the barrel? I didn’t see how.
“A convoy of vehicles is running short of fuel,” Bainbridge informed us. “The intrepid flyboys have dropped a barrel of fuel for you, but they managed to put it in the middle of a minefield. If you put a foot into that patch of ground” - he pointed to the square - “you will be blown to smithereens and the fuel will explode. All you have to do is get the barrel out of the square without putting a foot into the field.”
First To Fight (The Empire's Corps Book 11) Page 6