by Rob Buckman
“I know so, you brain dead dock rat.” Mike answered in a hard voice. The man hesitated. “And do it with great pleasure, without a second thought.” He added, baring his teeth in a parody of a smile.
“Oh, you are one of those colonial boys who thinks he’s hard ass.”
“You touch these covers and you’ll find out just what a hardass I am.” The man hesitated before pulling his hand back. “I’d watch my back if I was you, cadet!”
“For a dock rat like you, I don’t need to, I can smell you coming.” The man clenched his fist again and gave Mike a hard look before turning away.
“Time to get up. Reveille in five minutes and first muster at 06:00 hundred.” The man bellowed. He looked over his shoulder, thinking to say something else. There was something in this Cadet's eye that said that might not be a good idea. He looked big enough. He wondered for a moment where he’d learned the Marine nickname ‘dock rat’ for sailors then brushed it away, not his problem.
“Thank you for the information, asshole.” Someone else yelled.
“First muster at 06:00!” He bellowed again as if everyone was deaf, and after looking over his shoulder and giving Mike a last dirty look, walked out of the dorm.
“My, my, you took a chance there, Mr. Gray.” Janice Fletcher grinned at him from across the room.
“The man’s a jerk and just taking his frustration out on a bunch of poor cadets.” Mike smiled, wondering how on Earth she could look that great this time of the morning.
“Everyone outranks us, Gray! Don’t you know anything?” Heartmore sneered.
“Not an Able Rating. Only the training staff and instructors,” he shut up then. Realizing it was something he’d have to watch. Knowing too much could be a danger.
“I hope he’d not one of those, or your ass will be grass with him,” Janice said, shaking her head. Mike shrugged and climbed out of bed, doing a little dance on the cold floor until he got his socks on.
Luckily, someone yelled down the room to turn to heat back up, then ask what icebound planet the idiot who turned it down came from. From the red face of one young man, it was obvious who the culprit was.
“I’m sorry, it's just that I like to sleep in a cold room…”
“The next time you want a cold room, take your fucking bed and sleep outside you stupid moron!” Someone shouted, amid the general sound of displeasure.
Taking his toilet kit Mike went off to the bathroom before the general stampede started. Even so, he only just managed to get a sink. He washed with just enough warm water to rinse off before it turned ice cold. So much for the hot water supply. He pitied the poor sods that had to shave and silently thanking the genetic engineer who’d taken facial hair out of his genes. With chattering teeth he rushed back to the dorm and dressed, silently cursing the man who’d turn the heat down.
At 06:00 hundred they stood in the freezing cold while a Petty Officer called out their names, ticking them off on a lighted clipboard. It was still dark, and the only light came from the barracks around them and a nearby streetlight that proved totally inadequate to illuminate the scene through the falling snow. They stood there for fifteen minutes, stamping their feet and blowing into frozen hands to warm numb fingers.
“Welcome to your new home, H.M.S. Marchwood.” He gave them an evil grin. “My name is Jackson, Senior Petty Officer Jackson.” His voice sounded like an old foghorn. “This training establishment has been re-commissioned solely for your benefit.” From the way he said it, it was clear he personally disapproved.
“You are the first contingent in the Royal Navy’s plan for an accelerated training schedule and this will be your home for the next six months. After that, you will go to other facilities for additional training. That is if you complete basic training and graduate.” He walked slowly back and forth in front of the twenty odd people, looking them over.
“How many of you will still be here a month from now I don’t know, very few unless I miss my guess.” That brought a few heads up.
“To leave, all you have to do it ask,” grinning at them over his scarf, “and I know many of you will. This is not, I repeat, not a boy scout camp, a vacation resort, or your whore mother’s cozy little home.” He strolled up and down in front of the first rank, taking his time.
“I am going to make it my personal ambition to make your collective and individual lives as miserable as possible and bounce as many of you worthless, pathetic idiots out of here as fast I can.” That brought a few heads round to look at each other, and a murmur of protest.
“How any of you thought you could ever become officers in His Majesties Royal Navy is beyond me. As of now, you are all on defaulters for mustering late.”
“What! You can’t do…” Someone protested.
“Did I give you permission to open your fucking mouth, Cadet?” The Petty office Jackson stormed over to the unfortunate man in the second rank, shouldering individuals out of the way as he did, standing nose to nose, as he shouted the question.
“No, sir.”
“I’m not a SIR! You poncy little baboon. I work for a living, unlike you; you pile of worthless dog shit! Drop and give me ten!” After that, he worked his way down the line, asking each his name, eyeing him or her up and down as the poor individual did his push up with frozen hands.
“Where are you from, Gray?” Mike’s tan was too obvious.
“Kellman, Senior Petty Officer Jackson!” Standing this close, Mike could feel the heat radiating from the man. The miserable bustard was wearing a powered thermal suit, and taking malicious pleasure in watching them all freeze. Hearing Mike’s answer, his eyes narrowed slightly.
“You’ve done this before, haven’t you?” he asked sharply.
“Done what, Senior Petty Officer Jackson?”
“Don’t fuck with me son, I know a retread when I see one.” His eyes narrowed even further.
“I have no idea what you are referring to, Senior Petty Officer Jackson.” Mike bit his tongue against saying more. Pricks like Jackson pissed him off no end.
From the top of his close-cropped hair down to his shiny snow covered shoes, even the way he stood spoke volumes. However, that wasn’t Petty Officer Jackson’s concern. The man obviously had military training somewhere before, say on Kellman, if that was really where he was from, if so, so much the better. It would make his, and the rest of the training staff’s lives that much easier.
“I’ll be watching you, son. You fuck up this much,” Jackson held his gloved hand out with about half an inch between his thumb and forefinger, “you’ll be out of here so fast it’ll make your head spin.”
“Yes, Senior Petty Officer, Jackson.” Mike mentally kicked himself. Old habits die hard. He’d have to watch himself very carefully from now on.
That set the tone for the next six weeks. As Mike expected, after breakfast they gathered their belonging and moved to another barracks. There, they joined other recruits who’d arrived in the past two weeks and in all, the 150 men and women made up number three training squadron, and began the transformation from civilians to Naval Cadets. They marched to the Quarter Masters store and drew their basic equipment, three sets of dark blue uniforms with a white plastic circle with an anchor in the center, one on each collar. This designated them as cadets and easy for anyone to recognize. Boots, socks and an assortment of underwear came next, plus caps, gloves and sundry other items they’d have to learn how to use. After that, it was back to the barracks to change, but no time to sort out their gear, that would come later. Everything was done on the run, and no matter how fast they were, someone always managed to get them extra demerits by arriving late. From the moment, they woke in the morning, to the last second in the evening people were constantly yelling at them. Mike was thankful he was in top physical condition as the daily routine the instructors put them through was murder. For the first two weeks, they did nothing but march endlessly up and down the ice covered parade ground for hours on end in the freezing cold. Many a cadet en
ded up with a trip to the Medical Center with bumps and bruises from slipping on the ice, and the JDI seems to take malicious delight in making it happen. Mike had to admit the JDI; junior drill instructor did have a good line of sneering remarks for the unfortunate souls, especially those that fell down, some of them quite original.
‘Left – Right – Left – Right! Pick your bloody feet up you pathetic little man!’ was the mildest. ‘Do I need to shove a broom handle up your fucking ass to make you stand up straight, you worthless twat?’ he yelled at one of the female cadets, bringing her to tears, or if someone slipped on the ice covered parade ground …‘who gave you fucking permission to lay down on MY fucking parade ground, moron?’... And so it went. The assault courses and physical training were worse, and more than one gave up and went home.
A five mile run across snow covered open-country in sub zero temperatures was one quick way to weed out the soft ones in a hurry, not that it bothered Mike, he got to the finish line even before the instructors. One or two eyed him as he stood there running in place as they waited for the slower members of the class to arrive. Gradually the discipline sank in until their responses became automatic. Within two weeks, they gave up any resemblance to normal rational thinking human beings and turned into automatons. They simply reacted to and shouted commands no matter how idiotic. From the level of shouting it was clear the instructor’s thought they were all hearing impaired and took great delight in yelling in some poor cadet’s ear at the top of their lungs. The worst part was the daily inspections ritual, and Mike saw more than one cadet reduced to tears as the instructor tore their locker apart. When it came to his turn, the instructor’s always gave him a surly look as they found nothing out of place, but even so, once or twice they turn his locker over on principal. Of course, the barracks were never clean enough, no matter how many times the swept, wash, polished and dusted. They quickly learned that no matter what they said, they were wrong. To them, and a cadet midshipman was the lowest form of sentinel life on the planet and ranked somewhere between a worm and a dog. Dogs were credited with a slightly higher intelligence as they were smart enough not to be here.
As it turned out Petty Officer Jackson was right, as day-by-day trainees simply vanished. They’d return to the barracks to find another mattress neatly folded in half with blankets and pillow on top, the signal that another cadet had quit. It was unusual for the training staff too actually let someone go, but Mike knew of two cases where the person in question was discharged, obviously considered unsuitable to be a Naval Officer. It didn’t help Mike’s mood any when he realized that both the people were off-worlders like himself. PO Jackson looked at him several times in an odd way; usually when he did something too well, and Mike wondered if he would be next to go. In answer, Mike redoubled his efforts and deliberately fouled up, yet he dreaded the moment when it might be his turn to get kicked out. After the first three months of basic, the original 150 was down to 75. The days gradually rolled into one another, each more miserable than the last. By now, they just reacted to whatever someone yelled. It was with an enormous collective sigh of relief that they made it to graduation day without further casualties. Not that their time in purgatory was over, just the first part. So far they’d learned nothing about being a Naval Officer, just how to march up and down, look smart and jump like a frog at any orders screamed at them.
“That’s the point, Mike.” Janice Fletcher pointed out one day when he asked. “That’s all this six months is about.”
“Seems like a waste of time to me,” he grumbled hearing Janice chuckled. He was grateful that at least she’d thawed out to the point where he could use her first name. He carefully famed his question and responses to sound like just another no-nothing-hick recruit from the colonies.
“That's because you’re not from Earth, or know the history of the Royal Navy.”
“Oh, I know a lot about it. I’ve read about its history since I was three.” That remark brought an odd look.
“Yes, the official history in the books, all the battle and famous officer and all that, but not about what made is as good as it is... Did you say three?”
“Yes. And that is?”
“Discipline Mike, basic, down to earth, excuse the expression, discipline.”
“All they’ve done is got us to the point where we jump around like idiots the moment they shout something at us.” He lay back on his bunk with a sigh, willing to suffer the consequences just for a moment's relaxation.
“Exactly. In combat when you want something done instantly under fire, or while the ship is disintegrating around you, you know that when you give an order, it will be obeyed, right?” Mike thought about that for a moment.
It seemed simple enough, yet it was the opposite of what they taught at home. Where he came from, everyone had to think for themselves, and take responsibility for their actions. On the other hand, he could see that where you had a wide range of human beings from different backgrounds, there had to be one common denominator. Something that everyone knew and respected. Considering the Royal Naval record over the last 800 odd years he had to admit that discipline might just be the key. Even with all its ups and downs it was still considered the best and most copied Navy on and off planet. They managed to get two days off after the graduation and Mike ventured outside the gate for the first time. He took the naval ferry across the Solent to Southampton, braving the cold, gusty wind and light chop on the surface. He wandered through the town for a while just soaking up the atmosphere, finding the ultra-modern structures set amongst the older historic building slightly jarring. At one time this port was the one of the busiest in England, with surface ships leaving to distant port-of-call all over the world. From here, the great ocean liners took the rich and famous to New York, Sidney, Rio and point beyond. Standing on the old docks, he could almost imagine the original Queen Mary, or Queen Elizabeth steaming down the ‘Solent’ on yet another transatlantic voyage. In the end, he took in dinner and a drink at the ‘Royal Crown’ on the High Street before heading back to the dock and the ferry back to Marchwood to finish packing his gear. Tomorrow they’d move to another base and make way for the next intake of poor recruits to spend their time in purgatory.
* * * * * *
Settling into the padded seat the next morning, he took a short nap, despite the noise from the crowded shuttle and the muted thunder from the reaction drive, waking just as the shuttle touched down on the landing pad at Dartmouth Royal Naval Academy. If they thought it would be better or different here, that illusion vanished the moment the ramp hit the ground the instructors started yelling at them all over again. This immediately dispelling any lingering thoughts that they’d left all that behind them. All morning they charged about, from the hairdresser to the quartermaster store for new uniforms and equipment, still doing everything on the double. No matter what they did, it was still wrong, from standing up straight to sitting down, and he pulled more than one set of fifty pushups. Just to be funny, Mike did it one handed, complaining he didn't want to get the other dirty. There was no trick to it, as Avalon sat at the bottom of 1.6 gravity well. The Petty Office instructor didn’t see the humor in that, and made him do fifty more with both hands. The other cadet eyed him enviously, as even after the last six-month; few of them could do more than thirty before exhaustion set in.
At ten o’clock, they ran to the barracks, carrying a pile of equipment in their arms, including blankets, sheets and pillowcases and a miscellaneous assortment of additional uniforms. Falling in line behind the rest of the trainees, Mike waited his turn for a room assignment, vainly trying to see who was ahead of him over the pile in his arms. Another gravel voiced Petty Officer called out their names as the line followed him down the hallway, assigning two to each room. It wasn’t a straight two for two as he suspected, as some trainees dashed off down the hallway once their heard their room number called. It was with a certain amount of uneasiness that he waited his turn.
“Gray! M!” The instruc
tor yelled.
"Sir!" He replied.
"Room 27."
"Aye-aye, Sir! - Room 27." He yelled back, kicking his knee up to shift the load a little higher. Mike could feel something dragging, but couldn't do anything about it.
"All right Gray, get a bloody move on then. We don’t have all day to stand around here and watch you practice your fucking dance steps!" Mike half carried, half dragged his equipment to the room 27, muttering under his breath about Petty Officers with loud voices.
"What did you say?" A female voice asked. A voice he recognized. Mike stopped and tried to peer over the top of his load; then just dropped it.
"I don't believe it!" He stood there looking at Janice. "Petty Officer Wilson!" He yelled.
"What's your problem, Gray?" PO Wilson yelled back, his size 12 boots thundering on the wooden floor of the corridor as he came back. The expression on his face said volumes.
"Can I request a change of quarters, sir?"
"No you can’t!"
"But, sir…” Mike stammered, blushing furiously.