Most Marines celebrated three birthdays in the course of an Earth year. The first was on February 27, commemorating the founding of the Infantería de Marina back in 1537. There had been an unbroken line of service since then, so that was considered the birthdate of the modern Marines. The celebration on Feb 27 tended to be subdued, with memorials for those who had fallen over the years. The most telling moment was when the names of those who had fallen that year were “read out,” that is, their names announced as they joined the list of absent comrades.
The second birthdate was November 10th. This was the date when the Federation Marines were officially stood up. That this was also the anniversary of the date of the US Marine Corps was not lost on anyone, but with the largest contribution to the new Marine Corps, the Americans had held some sway. Politics were not absent in matters of the military. This birthday was more celebratory. The pageant was one of the main events, the mess night the other. Free flowing drink and hearty companionship were the orders of the day.
The third birthday varied by unit. With four Marine divisions, each with four regiments (three infantry and one combat support) that made 48 combat battalions in the Corps. Coincidently, there were 48 separate Marine Corps that joined to form the Federation Marines. While not official at first, each battalion “adopted” one of the old corps. They flew the colors, they kept the artifacts, and they celebrated the founding of that corps. Ryck’s regiment, the Ninth Marines, were the “South East Asia Marines.” First Battalion had Thailand’s Royal Thai Marine Corps. Second battalion, Ryck’s battalion, had the Philippines Marine Corps, and Third Battalion had Indonesia’s Korps Marinir. On their adopted corps’ birthdays, they would serve traditional food from that contributing nation. During the last birthday for Second Battalion, the Philippines had even sent traditional dancers for the celebration. Ryck had been still in the hospital, but the dancers had made the rounds to all the gen hens.
Of course, First Battalion, First Marines had claimed the US Marines, and
3/1 had claimed the Infantería de Marina, but that was a waste, as far as Ryck was concerned. It was like having a personal birthday on Christmas.
Ryck had missed the last battalion party, but no one, if it was at all possible, missed the big celebration. Several ambulances pulled up, and the most of the non-ambulatory Marines and one corpsman were wheeled out. Ryck caught the eye of LCpl Jonas Greenstein and nodded a greeting over the heads of the other spectators. Jonas had badly broken his back in a hover accident and had been Ryck’s hospital suitemate for several months until Ryck was discharged back to the battalion. Even with most of his body intact, it was still going to be awhile until his nervous system re-knitted itself.
“Here we go,” CWO4 Heng said as the regimental commander stood up and approached the reviewing stand, the sergeant major one step behind and to his left.
Back at Camp Otrakovskiy, outside of St. Petersburg, with the division headquarters and two of the regiments, the division commanding general would be the reviewing officer. This year, the assistant commanding general had gone all the way out to Camp Dneprovskiy and Tenth Marines to be their reviewing officer. That meant Col Pierre didn’t have anyone from higher headquarters horning in on the regiment’s celebration.
With the CO in place, the band slowly marched from behind the formed units. Only the lone drummer kept beat. When it reached in front of the formation, it wheeled about to face the CO. The band commander, who was actually a sergeant in First Battalion, raised his baton and waited.
“Regiment, atten . . . hut!” the adjutant shouted from off to the left of the reviewing stand.
There was the swish and slap of close to 7,000 Marines and sailors coming to attention.
“Sir, the regiment is formed!” the adjutant shouted out, his voice only slightly breaking at the end.
“Very well,” came the reply, not as loud, but clear to those in the stands.
With that, the band commander’s baton came down, and the band kicked into the Federation national anthem. Everyone in the stands stood up, those in uniform saluting, the rest with their hands over their hearts.
Next came the Marine Corps Hymn, then the Navy Hymn, followed by the Foreign Legion’s Le Boudin. Finally, Alexander’s planetary anthem was played. Ryck was glad when the last verse of the Dirtball anthem finished that he wasn’t back at Camp Otrakovskiy. As the division headquarters, there would be many more foreign dignitaries, and each one would have his or her anthem played.
As the band finished, the adjutant marched out to the center and read the citation. Each year, the commandant sent out his message, and each year, it was read out at pageants and mess nights. Ryck tuned it out.
With the formalities over, the pageant itself could begin. The spectators sat down, the Parade of Marines led it off. This was Ninth Marines, so the Marines dressed in the uniforms of the Thai, Philippines, and Indonesian Marines were the first to march by. Ryck was surprised to see that it was Sams, LCpl Samuelson now, in the Philippines Marines uniform. Sams had been busted to private only a year before, but he was already back up to lance corporal and the new fair-haired child of the company. Sams and Ryck had two of the four Battle Citation 3s awarded for actions on the Robin, but then Sams had gone and earned a BC1 fighting the Kingdom of Morenvia. The so-called King had declared sovereignty for the island nation of Lesia on Glorywall. The only problem was that the people of Lesia had no intention of letting some outsider in, and “Merlin the First” had taken over 500 children hostage to ensure the cooperation of the people. Two Marine companies had gone in to secure the situation. Against only 30-40 “royal militia,” it should have been and was a cakewalk. Despite this, Sams had managed to distinguish himself in the rescue of the kids, from all reports saving their lives. From women on Atacama to prisoners on the Robin to children on Glorywall, Sams seemed to have a thing for the civilians.
He was grinning ear-to-ear as he marched down in review, smartly saluting the CO as he passed. Following the three positions of honor, Marines marched by in period uniforms for each of the other corps that had made up the Federation Marines. As tradition dictated, once all the corps had marched by, the Federation colors, followed by the Marine Corps colors, passed in review. Everyone came to their feet and saluted again. Then, the mass of Marines started to march. A couple of companies were missing due to operational commitments, but it was still impressive. Ryck hadn’t wanted to come, but he felt the pride stir within him. This was a pretty potent force.
After the infantry came the armor, artillery, transport, engineers, and the rest. Recon put on a good show. They had flown up on their one-man scoots in full stealth mode. One moment, the area in front of the CO was empty, a moment later, in unison, the recon company appeared, 15 meters in the air. The crowd broke out into applause.
The reception was even better for the air pass-over. First came the Marine air. The six Storks attached to the regiment did a flyover, followed by the Hummingbird aerial recon team. A big Navy planetary transport flew by, low and slow, looking huge. The Marine Wasps drew the oohs and aahs, looking sleek and deadly. But it was the Navy Experion fighters that caused the crowd to break out in applause again. The deadly dual space and planetary fighters were impressive, to say the least. The entire pageant took over an hour, with the band, the adjutant, the sergeant major, and the CO standing at attention, never moving except for the CO when he returned a salute. To Ryck, that was more impressive than anything else.
“Well, another pageant come and gone,” CWO4 Heng said.
“How many of them have you seen?” Ryck asked.
“Too many to count,” was the simple reply. “You going down there to say hello to your bros?”
Ryck looked to the right where all the equipment had been set up as static displays and Marines were already milling about.
“No, sir, I don’t think so. I might need a little extra time to get ready for the mess night, so I think I’m heading back to the barracks.”
“O
K, but make sure you are there on time. You know how that is,” the chief warrant officer said.
“No problem sir. I’ll be there.”
Ryck made his way out of the bleachers. He said hello to Jonas and a few of the other gen hens, then quietly slipped away. He just didn’t feel up to mixing with the able-bodied Marines.
Chapter 22
There wasn’t a facility large enough for a full regimental mess night, so the battalions had broken off to have their own. Second Battalion had rented out the Raging River Mövenpick Resort, some 50 km outside of Rostov and Camp Kolesnikov. It was out in the middle of nowhere, but that was probably all for the best.
Ryck looked across the ballroom at the gathering Marines. Despite himself, he started feeling the esprit de corps he’d felt was missing since his injury. For some reason, he almost wanted to hold onto his feeling of isolation, but he knew that was crazy. He had to just let go and enjoy himself.
“Look, there’s Captain dela Grosso,” Troy Simmons said, pointing to the battalion’s most decorated Marine. The captain had two Navy Crosses, one of only two Marines on active duty to be so distinguished. One of those should have been a Federation Nova, most Marines thought, but still, two Navy Crosses was nothing to sneeze at.
“He’s sure got a shitload of hangers,” Ryck said to Troy, watching the captain make his way to his seat.
Troy was a sergeant, but among the gen hens, ranks had a tendency to fade, and first name use between ranks was pretty common.
“Yeah, him and your good buddy, Heng,” Troy said. “He’s got more hangers than anyone, just no Navy Crosses.”
Ryck looked over next to the bar where CWO4 Heng was standing. Troy was right. Heng had to have at least 25 hangers on his chest. Ryck looked down at his own chest. He had three. There was his Combat Mission Medal with a bronze star, his Purple Heart, and his Battle Commendation Third Class. Some of the long-time Marines had upwards of 10 or 15 hangers, but still, Ryck had more than most of the non-rates.
“Recruit Lysander! Get down and give me 20” a gravelly, unforgettable voice rang out from just in back of him.
Ryck spun around to see Ting Tong standing there, a grin on his face. Ryck couldn’t have been more surprised had an elephant walked into the room. His heart fell.
“I, uh, I can’t really, I mean, my arm!” he protested.
“Relax, Lysander! I’m just messing with you,” Sgt Phantawisangtong said. “So how’ve you been doing? I mean, I can see you took some shit, but the word is that you’ve been doing yourself proud.”
Ryck subconsciously covered the regen chamber on this right arm with his left hand and said, “I don’t know. I guess so, but really, it was no big deal.”
“That’s not the word on the street,” King Tong said.
“Don’t listen to him. He’s a certified ass-kicker,” Troy said, holding out his hand and introducing himself. “Troy Simmons.”
“Hector Phantawisangtong, or as Lysander here will tell you, they sometimes call me ‘King Tong’”.
“So what are you doing here?” Ryck asked, trying to change the subject from the King Tong nickname.
“Since this is a mess night for 2/9, I guess that means I’ve been transferred here.”
Just then, the bugler played the call to order. The Guest of Honor must have just arrived. Marines started to move to the main ballroom where the mess night would be held. King Tong made his apologies and went his own way while Ryck followed the other gen hens to a table close to the front entrance to the ballroom where they would be sitting. Three Marines in their hospital gurneys were already there, waiting for them, as well as those in wheelchairs. Ryck took the first empty seat, next to Jonas, who was at the table in his wheelchair.
There was minimal milling about as the Marines and sailors took their seats. When the CO, who was the president of the mess, called the mess to attention, eyes craned to see the guest of honor.
“Battalion, I present Corporal Lek Gutterheim, veteran of the War of the First Reach!”
All the members of the mess applauded as the frail old man, on the arm of the sergeant major, entered the mess. He was bent at the back, but his head was held high, his eyes blazing with pride.
The adjutant’s voice rang out as the three made their way to the head table, “Corporal Lek Gutterheim enlisted in the Marines on February 3, 256, Standard Accounting. His first duty station was with the Alpha Company, First Battalion, Sixth Marines, Second Marine Division. He participated in three operations, rising to the rank of lance corporal, and was a fire team leader at the outbreak of the war. During the conflict, he made two opposed landings, on G-12 and Felicity. He was promoted to the rank of corporal, and after the surrender of the CALCON forces, served out the remainder of his enlistment. He returned to his home here on Alexander where he married his wife Anna, and had four children: Paul, Sarah, Allison, and Horace. Horace served 30 years in the Federation Navy, reaching a rank of master chief.”
More applause sounded as the head party took their seats. The War of the First Reach had been a full-scale, ship-on-ship, opposed-landing war, not like the skirmishes and police actions since then. Entire fleets had been wiped out. Very few vets from the war were still around, and it was a privilege to have Cpl Gutterheim as their guest of honor.
Once the head party was in place, the bugler stepped forward, along with the mess butler, and called forth the beating. A palpable sense of anticipation arose among the mess. It started with loan beat of the drum outside the ballroom. A single drummer marched into the mess. A few moments later, another drummer appeared, commencing to join the first as soon as he crossed the threshold into the room. Six more drummers made their way, one-by-one, until all eight were at the center of the ballroom, right in front of the head table. They looked like robots, their arms in perfect unison as they pounded out the beating.
Ryck especially liked it when different drummers snapped their drumsticks to eye level, horizontal, and held them there for a second, before bringing them back down again to re-join the rest. This went on for about seven or eight minutes, the drummers marching in complex patterns, their beat never faltering. Ryck found himself beating out his own tattoo with his left hand on the table.
When the drummers at last finished, the mess erupted once more into cheers and applause. This was always one of the highlights of a mess night, or most any celebration. When the Federation Marines were formed, there had been some discussion on the Marine bands. The 38 Marine bands (not every corps had a band) actually performed a throw-down. The US Marine Band, with its members having music degrees, had probably been the most technically-advanced band, and it had been chosen by the brass to form the basis of the new Marine band. The Royal Marine Band, though, and in particular, the Royal Marine Drum Corps, had been the immediate favorite of the rank and file, and by popular demand, were given a place in the new corps. A US Marine Band clone was set up on Earth at Marine Headquarters, but for the divisions, it was buglers and drummers. The leopard skin worn by some Royal Marine drummers became the uniform for all drummers, something worn with pride.
Members of the band practiced in their free time. They were not professional musicians but came out of all the jobs that Marines held. The long hours they put in, all in their free time, did not bother them, and there was always a waiting list to join.
A Marine mess night was loosely based on the old Royal Navy and Marine mess nights, but the mess beating was something that was right out of 21st Century Great Britain.
The mess butler, a civilian worker for the resort, stepped up with a silver tray and two glasses of port. The senior drummer came forward to meet him at the head table. The mess president took one glass, the drummer the other. At the colonel’s nod, they both lifted and emptied their glasses. Once more, applause broke out.
The colors were then marched on. Being part of the color guard was considered a great honor, but Ryck did not really know any of the four Marines who were part of this year’s guard. Of course,
these were all Marines who had done well in combat, and Ryck had been bedridden or worked in the armory for the past year, so that was not surprising.
With the colors emplaced, next came the citation. This could be something from past battles to great deeds, but for the birthday, it was always the same thing, a copy of the first commandant’s birthday message to the Corps on its first birthday. It was read by the junior member of the mess, in this case, Private Topol Narx, all of 18 years, 256 days old. His quavering voice went through the citation, faltering twice as he spoke before the assembled mess.
There was one more ceremony before they could eat.
The president of the mess stood up, and in a loud voice of authority, ordered “Parade the beef!”
Two servers pushed a large silver tray on wheels. The top was opened up to reveal a huge prime rib roast. To Ryck, it looked like real organic beef, not a manufactured roast. His mouth started watering as the servers pushed it through the aisles. As the cart was wheeled out, the order came to take their seats.
“That was pretty copacetic,” one of the Marines at the table said, someone Ryck didn’t really know.
“Yeah, brills,” Jonas added. “It always gets my blood pounding. Bata-tat tat! Bata-tat-tat!”
Ryck had to admit it had much the same effect on him. He looked up at the head table. Corporal Gutterheim was sitting there, his pride evident even at this distance. The man had served only one enlistment, even if it was in a full-out war. He’d had a successful career, married, had children, even grandchildren, but he seemed hold a special place in his heart for being a Marine, to wear his old uniform, to be called “Corporal Gutterheim” again.
Ryck was proud of being a Marine, too. He’d made it through recruit training when so many others hadn’t. He’d proven himself under fire. It was just that lately, he didn’t feel like a Marine. He was missing something. Looking up there at the old man, though, tweaked something deep within his consciousness. There was something special about being a Marine, even if he hadn’t gone on a mission in over a year.
Recruit Page 17