"That's about the size of it."
"And you two, this your first assignment?" he asked Dean and McNeal.
"Yessir," they said in unison.
"PFCs, I'm not an officer, I'm a staff sergeant. I work for a living. Don't 'sir' me."
They grinned. It was an old story by then, but the three PFCs thought they were going to like this Marine.
"Well, PFC Chan, fall those other two in and follow me."
Chan barely restrained a smile as he turned to Dean and McNeal and said, "Detail, attention!" The other two PFCs returned the smile and did as ordered.
Doyle was beyond simply flushing with embarrassment. "Staff Sergeant Bass," he snapped, "I'm senior man here. I should be the one to fall the detail in and march them where you want us to go."
Bass gave Doyle a "Who are you?" look, then said, "You're an oh-nine, isn't that right?"
Doyle drew his lips into a thin line. This staff sergeant had said that as though admin was an unworthy field. "That's right," he said tightly.
"What's your name?"
"Corporal Doyle."
"Well, Doyle, these Marines are going to the company area to be assigned to platoons. You're going to battalion headquarters for orientation. Gunny Mason—you remember Gunny Mason, he was the one who gave the assignments—you know, the hungover one. Follow him. Chan, move 'em out." Doyle was dismissed. And Bass hadn't addressed him by rank.
Doyle glared at Bass, then picked up his seabag and stomped back to report to Gunny Mason. Gunny Mason ignored him too.
Bass didn't seem to mind that the three PFCs "marching" to the L Company area weren't in step—something the three of them, sweating and breathing heavily, appreciated by the time they reached the barracks a kilometer and a half across the rock-strewn, windswept base.
L Company was billeted in an H-shaped, two-story, wood-frame building. The wind that constantly blew on that part of Thorsfinni's World tore at the outside of the building so that it would need a fresh coat of paint in the near future. The central part of the building, the crossbar in the H, where Bass led the company's new men, held the offices and the officers and staff NCO quarters of L Company and of 34th FIST's artillery battery. Bass held the door open for them, then brushed past when they stopped inside.
Inside, the barracks' floors shined from frequent polishing, brass decorations glinted, and glassed-in 2-D's of the FIST chain of command glimmered. The bulkheads and overhead—"walls and ceiling," in civilian—were newly painted and spotless.
"This way," Bass said, leading them toward a door alongside which stood an eight-foot-tall staff that was festooned for half its height with campaign and battle streamers. "Morning, Claypoole," he said to a passing PFC who looked wide-eyed at the new men. Through the door was the company office. Two of its four desks were unoccupied. Two doors led from the other side of the office. One of them was open, and a captain, probably the company commander, could be seen working at a desk.
"Drop your seabags there," Bass said, pointing to an open space next to the entrance. When they did, he led them to one of the occupied desks.
"Morning, Top," he said to the first sergeant.
The first sergeant, like Bass, wore garrison utilities. He looked up from his computer. "Morning, Staff Sergeant Bass. You over it yet? I heard Gunny Mason is still hurting." He had also pulled too much liberty with Bass and Mason the night before.
"I'm good enough for garrison duty, Top."
"So what can I do you for?"
"Well, Top, I was just over at battalion headquarters, checking in on Gunny Mason. You heard right, he's still feeling poorly. On the way back I found these." He jerked a thumb.
The first sergeant looked at the new men for the first time. "Oh? Found 'em, huh. What do you think we should do with them?"
"Well, I found 'em, I get to keep 'em."
The first sergeant leaned back in his swivel chair and looked up at Bass. "You do?"
Bass nodded confidently.
"I've got holes to fill all over this company. What makes you think you should get all the goodies?"
"Third platoon's six men short. Nobody else's more than three men short. I keep these three, that almost brings me up level with everybody else."
"That a fact."
"That's a fact. I've got more two-man fire teams than any of the other platoons. One of my squad leaders is a corporal. Half of my fire team leaders are lance corporals. One of my gun team leaders is also acting gun squad leader. I haven't gotten any replacements since I've been with the company. Anyway, if you really need to assign someone to one of the other platoons, we're also getting a new oh-nine." The PFC at the other desk looked up at that and started paying attention. "He seems like a hard-charger," Bass continued. "You could give him to one of the other platoons."
The first sergeant raised his eyebrows. "Now, that's a thought."
"Oh no you don't," said the PFC at the other desk. "We finally get a second clerk and you want to give him to one of the platoons? Come on, Top, I need some help here. Let me tuck that young man under my wing. I'll have him shipshape in no time, and you'll have the best-run company office you've ever seen. We'll be doing such a good job in here we'll rate as a force multiplier and you won't need to get the other platoons up to full strength." "That a fact," the first sergeant said. "You know it, Top."
"Not so fast, Palmer," Bass said. "The new man's a corporal. Got you ranked. He'll take you under his wing and teach you all kinds of bad habits you haven't had the chance to pick up on your own."
Palmer collapsed against his chair back. "A corporal? You mean I'm still going to be the most junior man in this office?" " 'Fraid so."
Muttering to himself, Palmer went back to what he was doing.
The first sergeant rose to his feet. "I'm First Sergeant Myer," he said to his new men. "Call me Top, unless you've done something wrong and you're on my carpet for it—then you better pray to me as God. Who're you?"
The three introduced themselves.
"Welcome aboard, Marines," Top Myer said. "I want you to know that Company L, 34th FIST is the best company in the Marine Corps. There are few FISTs that have been involved in as many campaigns and other operations as the 34th has. And damn few companies that have been on as many independent missions as L Company, 34th FIST. You may have gotten a hint of that when you came past our streamers outside the hatch." He pointed at the door. "If you bothered to look at it, you saw a lot of Confederation Unit Citation streamers, Marine Unit Citations, and Meritorious Unit Citations. Between what we've been awarded as members of the FIST or larger units, and what we've won on our own, I don't think any company in the entire Corps has been cited as many times. While you're with us you can expect to see a lot of action. What I expect is for you to do your absolute best as members of this company. If you do, we'll get along just fine.
"Now, let's go meet the Skipper. Then we'll decide about what platoons to assign you to."
The captain they'd seen through the open inner door was indeed the company commander. Unlike the two senior NCOs, the captain wore his Bravo uniform, khaki shirt and green trousers. Several rows of ribbons were ranked above his left shirt pocket. The three PFCs came to a rigid attention one pace in front of his desk, eyes fixed on a piece of wall above his head. Top Myer stood at the corner of the company commander's desk; he didn't come to attention. Bass leaned against the door frame, not quite slouching.
"New men, Skipper," Myer said when the captain looked up. "PFCs Chan, Dean, and McNeal." To the new men he said, "This is Captain Conorado." Then back to the captain: "Two of 'em are fresh off Arsenault."
"And the other's got the Third Ivanosk Campaign Medal and the Marine Expeditionary Medal with comet for second award," Captain Conorado said. "It's nice to get a junior man with experience for a change."
Chan held back a smile; he knew Dean and McNeal had to be wondering how the captain knew so much. Not only hadn't Bass or Myer said anything about his level of experience, the captain hadn't
seemed to be paying any attention to them when they were at the first sergeant's desk. This was an old trick Chan had seen before.
"PFC Dean," Conorado went on, "you fired High Expert and were squad leader in Boot Camp. PFC McNeal, you were assistant squad leader. Speaks well of both of you. You apply what you learned on Arsenault and you should do well here. I expect you to do as well here as you did with the 14th, PFC Chan." He stood. The first impression he gave was that he was a tall, gangly man. It was only on second look that they realized he was average height and build.
"The Top already welcomed you aboard," Conorado said. "I'd like to second that. With some effort on your part, you'll fit in here very shortly. Now, as for assignments..." He glanced at a sheet of paper on his desk. "We've got holes to fill all over this company, but third platoon is more shorthanded than the others. I think I'll let Staff Sergeant Bass have all three of you. That'll almost bring his platoon up to the level of the others."
Dean blinked. Maybe it was some kind of game they were playing, showing the new men how much they knew.
"I'm short an officer," Conorado continued, "that's why your new platoon commander is a staff sergeant. Pay close attention to him. He knows more than any ensign I've ever known, and more than most lieutenants and captains as well. Matter of fact, Charlie Bass is something of a legend in the Corps."
It was Chan's turn to blink. He had heard of Charlie Bass—but the Charlie Bass he'd heard of was a gunnery sergeant.
"He's got one problem, though. A lot of junior officers think he's insubordinate. And he's got no fear of the consequences when he takes action to back up his convictions." He sat back down. "That's it for now. Staff Sergeant Bass, they're yours. Get them processed in." He returned to the work on his desk.
Back in the outer office, Palmer took them through the company check-in process. It wasn't much more than sticking their wristbands in the reader to check them against the records netted to the company personnel files while they were walking from Battalion to the barracks. Palmer asked them a couple of confirming questions: date of birth, blood type, mother's birth name. Finally they looked into the retinal scanner for positive physical ID, and that was it. The processing-in for all three took less than five minutes.
"I'll take you to meet Sergeant Souavi later—he's the company supply sergeant," Bass said when Palmer was through with them. "First, let's go to the platoon squad bay. Grab your seabags. I'll introduce you to everybody and assign you to squads."
On the way, Bass told them that the left wing of the building, one of the verticals on the H, was the L Company area, and that the right wing housed the artillery battery. The company's living quarters proper were divided into small rooms, each housing the three men of a fire team—squad leaders had private rooms. First and second platoons were on the first deck—the ground floor. Third and the assault platoon were on the upper. A recreation room with two vidscreens, library cards, and various table games was in the rear of the second deck, and a weight room was under it.
Chapter Nine
The wide-eyed PFC took a few more steps along the corridor, then spun back as soon as Bass and the strangers went through the office door. He dashed to the streamer staff and stood next to it, listening to the Marines in the office. When Top Myer led them into Captain Conorado's office, he darted into the office and spoke with Palmer in a hushed-rushed voice.
"New guys?" he asked. "Really? And they're being assigned to third platoon? Two of them are really boot?"
"So boot they still smell like Lincoln shoe polish, Claypoole," Palmer assured him.
"Sumbitch," Claypoole said when Palmer said it was so. "Thanks, Palmer. You just made me the happiest man in the company." He gave a quick glance at the men in the commander's office, then raced out and headed for the third platoon squad bay.
He hit the second level on the double and turned left. Halfway down the corridor he skidded to a stop, grabbed a door frame, and spun himself into the three-man room he shared with Lance Corporal Lupo "Rabbit" Ratliff, his fire team leader.
"No more 'New Guy,' Rabbit," he almost shouted. "I'm not 'New Guy' anymore. We've got two boots joining the platoon. They can be 'New Guy.' New Guy One and New Guy Two even. I'm not 'New Guy' anymore. Got it?"
Ratliff didn't look up from the graphic novel that was scrolling across his vid. "New Guy," he said dryly, "you've always been New Guy, you'll always be New Guy. Go away, I'm busy."
Claypoole glared at him, then snarled something and twisted out of the room to dash farther down the corridor into NCO territory, where he grabbed another frame and spun into the doorway of Sergeant Wang Hyakowa, his squad leader.
"Sergeant Hyakowa, I'm not 'New Guy' anymore. Got it? Staff Sergeant Bass is bringing two new guys up. One of them can be 'New Guy.' Both of them can be 'New Guy.' I don't care, just so it's not me."
Hyakowa was playing a platoon-level tactical simulation game, part of a Marine Corps Institute correspondence course, in preparation for the tests for promotion to staff sergeant. He didn't bother looking at Claypoole when he said, "New Guy, you were born New Guy, you're going to die New Guy. Says so on your birth certificate. Now, stop bothering me while I'm studying." Still without looking up, he reached out and pushed his door shut in Claypoole's face.
Claypoole jerked back far enough to avoid being hit by the closing door and stood slack-jawed for a moment. Then, grimly determined, he began making a circuit of the platoon area, visiting every room, telling everybody he wasn't New Guy anymore. Some looked at him, some didn't. Some grunted, some were silent. None agreed to stop calling him New Guy.
"Attention on deck!" Bass's voice boomed out. "Third platoon, assemble in the rec room. Now."
All along the corridor heads popped out of rooms to see what was up. No officers were visible, so no one bothered to check clothing for proper military appearance before they headed for the company rec room. In little more than a minute all twenty-two men of the platoon were gathered. The first ones there grabbed chairs that were not occupied by the members of other platoons who were already in the room, reading or watching flicks on the big-screen vids. The later arrivals lounged against the walls. All looked expectantly at Bass, or curiously at the three men who stood somewhat self-consciously near him.
Bass gave them a moment to get a good look, then said, "We've got some replacements. This is PFC Chan. He was with the 14th FIST on Euskadi, Ivanosk, and Cross and Thorn. I'm sure he'll fit in with us right away. PFCs Dean and McNeal recently completed the best military training humanity has ever devised. It'll take them a little longer, but we'll all see to it that they quickly become productive members of the best platoon in the best company of the best FIST in the Corps."
"Then how come he's introducing them to third platoon instead of second?" one of the vid-watchers whispered to his neighbor.
"Two guesses," Bass boomed. "And neither of them is second platoon."
The man who whispered turned red. "Uh, excuse me, Staff Sergeant Bass," he said, and stood up. "We, uh, we shouldn't be in here while you're meeting with your platoon." He nudged the man he'd whispered to and the two of them quickly left the room.
Amusement flickered across Bass's face, then he asked the other Marines in the room who weren't in his platoon, "Any other comments?"
"No, Staff Sergeant Bass," one said and got up and left. Everyone else who wasn't in third platoon followed his example.
Bass waited until he was alone with his platoon before he laughed. "Looks like they all agree that third platoon is the best. Now, down to business.
"Everybody's equally shorthanded, each squad is short two men, so we'll do it by the numbers and each squad gets one replacement." He paused to look at them, particularly the squad and team leaders. "If anyone has any objections to how I'm making the assignments, speak up." There were many reasons Charlie Bass's men respected him, not least of which was his willingness to hear their ideas and accept the good ones. "Now, I don't like to put a new man or a man I don't know in th
e gun squad. Neru, you still want to be a gunner?"
A swarthy lance corporal said, "I sure do."
"Think you can train him, Hound?"
"I can make a gunner out of anybody big enough to carry one," Corporal "Hound" Kelly said.
"That okay with you, Wang? Do you mind having two replacements?"
"Not as long as one of them has experience," Sergeant Hyakowa answered.
"Okay, you've got Chan. I'll also give you Dean. Eagle's Cry, that leaves McNeal for you. Any questions? Any problems?"
Nobody questioned or objected.
"All right, squad leaders, let me know how you reorganize your squads so I can update the platoon roster. Dismissed." Bass left the rec room.
"First squad, on me," Hyakowa said, and the members of his squad gathered around him.
"Second squad, over here," Eagle's Cry said.
"Guns up," Kelly called.
"Let second team have the new guy, Sergeant Hyakowa," Claypoole said eagerly when first squad assembled. "Right, Rabbit? Second team gets the new guy. We'll train him right."
Hyakowa looked at him innocently. "All right, you got New Guy." He looked at Ratliff. "Think you can handle Chan?" he asked without expression.
Ratliff grinned back. "As many campaigns as he's been on? Yeah, I can use some help breaking in New Guy."
"I'm not New Guy anymore," Claypoole snapped.
"Chief," Hyakowa ignored Claypoole's outburst, "you're my most experienced fire team leader, you get the greenest one. PFC Dean, meet Corporal Leach. We call him 'Chief.' Don't ask why, nobody knows. All right, team leaders, get them settled in." Hyakowa looked around and saw the other two squad leaders were also finished making their assignments. He gave a signal and Eagle's Cry and Kelly went with him to report to Bass.
It took only a few minutes for Corporal Leach and Lance Corporal Justice Goudanis, the other member of first fire team, to get Dean settled into their room. With everything he owned in one seabag, Dean didn't have much unpacking to do. It didn't take Ratliff any longer to settle Chan in, even though Claypoole wasn't there helping—he was busy running back and forth between the rooms where the two replacements were, greeting them, calling them each New Guy, and making sure everybody in the platoon heard the two new men being identified as New Guy.
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