School of Fire

by David Sherman

  Schultz snorted. Not very good wasn't the way he'd put it.

  "Do you agree they need to be trained?"

  Schultz looked toward the empty parade ground where the 257th Feldpolizei Battalion had made its abortive assault on one platoon of Marines. "Wrong question. Can they be trained, that's the question."

  "They can be trained. They may never be as good as Marines, but they can be trained."

  Schultz grunted; he'd believe it when he saw it.

  "Think back. Who were your drill instructors in Boot Camp? They were some of the best Marines you've ever served under or with, right?"

  Schultz nodded grudgingly.

  "It's the same here, maybe even more so. We need the best people to train them. And you're the best."

  Schultz challengingly looked Bass in the eye. "So put me in a classroom."

  Bass shook his head. "A classroom won't do it. The FPs are involved in a counterinsurgency war." Bass had tired of constantly using the cumbersome German name for the Wanderjahrian field police and gave it an English abbreviation. Thus, in time-honored military tradition, was born a shorter name for the local paramilitary force. "They can't be taken out of the field for classroom work. Besides, what you know can't be taught in school. What you know has to, can only, be taught in the field. On patrols. I am going to give you a shift of PPs to teach."

  "As squad leader."

  "Not as squad leader." Bass silently thanked the stars for the subtle semantic difference between squad and shift. "They don't have squads, they have shifts. And you'll be a teacher."

  "If all I'm doing is teaching them, how come I'm getting an FP sergeant's warrant?"

  That was really what Lance Corporal Dave Schultz was unhappy about. He was a career lance corporal; he didn't want to be a corporal, much less a sergeant. But in order for the relatively few Marines of 34th FIST to do a proper job of training the many thousands of men in the Feldpolizei, they had to be integrated into the FP units. One platoon of Marines was assigned to each battalion, and at that, there weren't enough Marine platoons to go around. The Marine platoon commander and sergeant worked with the FP battalion commander and his staff. One squad was assigned to each company in the battalion, one three-man fire team to each platoon. The Marine-sergeant squad leader had to teach the FP captain company commander, and the corporal fire team leaders the lieutenant platoon leaders. That left the lance corporals, PFCs, and privates the responsibility of training the shifts and their leaders. But it wouldn't do to have an ensign teaching a commander, a sergeant teaching a captain, a corporal a lieutenant, or a private a sergeant. So Brigadier Sturgeon, with the agreement and assistance of the Confederation ambassador to Wanderjahr, Jayben Spears, secured the appropriate commissions and warrants in the Feldpolizei for all of his Marines. And that made Lance Corporal Schultz extremely unhappy. The way Ensign vanden Hoyt had worded it when he told his men about the arrangement, Schultz interpreted it to mean he was being promoted to sergeant. It wasn't vanden Hoyt's word choice that made Schultz think that, though. Schultz would have reached that conclusion no matter how the order was worded.

  "That's right, FP sergeant's stripes. You're not going to be a sergeant in the Marines," Bass reiterated. "You'll still be a Marine lance corporal. But you need the FP stripes to make sure the men you're teaching obey... ah, make sure they listen when you tell them something."

  "The Eagle, Globe, and Starstream on my collar brass should be enough to tell them to listen up when I speak," Schultz said.

  Bass nodded. "Right, you know that and I know that," he said with the arrogance common to those who served in elite forces. "But not everybody knows it. Some people need to see the rank insignia to be impressed. So you're going to be wearing sergeant's stripes." He held up a hand to stop whatever objection Schultz was about to make. "They're not real sergeant's stripes, not Marine sergeant. They're FP sergeant's stripes. Look at it this way. An FP sergeant knows about half as much about fighting as a Marine recruit who's made it halfway through Boot Camp. Don't think of it as an unwanted promotion, think of it as a bust."

  Schultz knew that wasn't true, but having just said in effect that any Marine outranked an PP sergeant, he couldn't very well argue the point. He gave in—but not graciously.

  Schultz wasn't the only problem Bass had to deal with regarding the Feldpolizei promotions. As soon as Schultz stomped away. Corporals Ratliff and Dornhofer jumped in.

  "No!" Startled at simultaneously speaking so vehemently, they looked at each other. Dornhofer dipped his head, deferring to Ratliff as the senior of them.

  "Godenov isn't good enough to lead a one-man kitchen police detail, much less run a fifteen-man police shift," Ratliff declared. "The man's a natural-bom follower." He looked at Dornhofer as though to say "your turn."

  "Make MacIlargie a shift sergeant, and you'll have the most screwed up, most troublemaking shift in the entire FP," Dornhofer stated.

  In a less heated, less demanding, more conciliatory tone, Ratliff continued, "Besides, it's really not fair to our men to expect an inexperienced junior man to train and lead a fifteen-man shift." He wasn't for an instant fooled by Bass's claim to Schultz that the Marines weren't acting in leadership positions.

  "Right." Dornhofer saw what Ratliff was thinking. "Make us a headquarters group and we'll supervise the FP shift sergeants along with teaching the lieutenant."

  Bass shook his head. "We need to have Marines actually be in the leadership positions, otherwise we'll just be advisers, and history shows us that doesn't always work very well. Besides, Brigadier Sturgeon wants it that way, and when a man with a nova on his collar says he wants something done a certain way, I don't argue the point."

  All four junior NCOs stared at him dumbfounded. They knew very well that Charlie Bass did things the way he thought they should be done, no matter who wanted them done a different way.

  Ratliff was the first to recover. "Right," he said. "You don't argue the point, you just go ahead and do it your own way."

  Hyakowa, silent to that point, gaped at Ratliff. He'd been thinking the same thing, but hadn't thought it was a good idea to voice.

  "You just be glad I didn't hear that," Bass snarled. He felt a blush spreading on his face.

  Leach, who'd been quiet to this point, said, "Staff Sergeant Bass, they're right. This isn't going to work. You and Ensign vanden Hoyt are going to be too busy teaching the new battalion commander and his staff how to run combat operations to supervise the platoon. Sergeant Hyakowa is going to have his hands full running the company headquarters. The three of us will be so busy with the lieutenants," a smile flickered across his face as he thought of himself supervising an officer, "we aren't going to have much time to help our men."

  Hyakowa jumped in for the first time. "As much as I hate to say it, they're right. This arrangement puts too much of a burden on the junior men. There's simply not enough of us to go around."

  "But there are," Bass said. "We're getting reinforced."

  The junior NCOs glanced at each other. What reinforcements was he talking about?

  "Doyle and Stevenson are being assigned to us..."

  "The company clerk and the driver?" Leach and Ratliff squawked.

  Dornhofer nudged Ratliff.

  "Oh, right," Ratliff mumbled. "Doyle, he's okay." Ratliff ruefully remembered that Doyle had a Bronze Star and he didn't.

  "I'm giving Stevenson to second squad to replace Claypoole. You get Doyle to fill in for Dean because you've got two men who've seen him in action and trust him." The two he was talking about were Dornhofer and Chan, each of whom had also won a Bronze Star in the action where Doyle had gotten his. "DuPont," Bass said, naming the platoon communications man, "will help Wang with the lieutenant, which will free him to help you so you can properly supervise your men. So, you see, there's no problem. You've got enough men." Bass turned to leave, but didn't complete his turn before Ratliff and Dornhofer were objecting again.

  "Doyle's okay, DuPont's okay," Ratliff was
n't so sure about Stevenson, "but Godenov's still not good enough."

  "That goes triple for MacIlargie," Dornhofer said.

  Bass turned back, planted his fists firmly on his hips, and leaned forward aggressively. His eyes stopped briefly on Hyakowa and each of his fire team leaders to make sure they knew he was addressing all of them. "We are Marines. From the beginning, way back when Marines carried muzzle-loading projectile weapons and sailed oceans on wooden ships. Marines have always done more with less than anyone else. Marines have always faced problems others said were insolvable. Schultz has a problem with our assignment. That means," he looked Leach in the eye, "that you have a problem. Godenov is a problem," staring at Ratliff, "your problem. MacIlargie is a problem," to Dornhofer, "you have a problem." Then to Hyakowa: "Your fire team leaders have problems, that means you have problems." Back to all of them: "You are Marine noncommissioned officers. You have centuries of history behind you, centuries of Marine NCOs solving the unsolvable. So solve your damn problems!"

  Bass spun about and marched toward the administration building, where he and vanden Hoyt had set up their headquarters.

  He knew that sometimes the best way to deal with problems was to kick them back to the subordinates who brought them to you.

  Not everybody in first squad had a problem with the orders. Chan—not only a lance corporal, but a junior lance corporal—was startled by the orders that incorporated the Marines into the Feldpolizei as its officers and NCOs. Then he started thinking about it. He quickly got beyond the elite arrogance of "We're Marines, of course we should be in charge" and got to the implications. This was going to be a difficult job, he knew that almost instinctively. It was going to put to the test everything he knew about being a fighter, everything he thought he knew about leadership, and it was going to force him to learn a lot in a very short time. It didn't take long for him to stop thinking and start smiling. He hadn't realized it before, but it was exactly the kind of challenge he had joined the Marines for. He was going to enjoy his assignment. And somehow, some way, he was going to succeed at being a squad leader tasked with turning a bunch of glittery amateurs into professional soldiers.

  The real problems began as soon as the Marines started trying to train the Feldpolizei.

  "But if we dress in green, like you do, how will the bandits see us coming?" Acting Assistant Shift Sergeant Alauren asked Acting Shift Sergeant Chan, the Marine who'd supplanted him.

  "That's the idea," Chan said patiently. "If they don't see you coming, you'll be able to catch them."

  "But how will we find them if we don't march in formation?"

  "When you march in formation like you've been doing, that means they get to pick the times and places to fight. When they do that, they hurt you."

  "But they always run away when we fight them."

  "Not until after they cause casualties," Chan said, still with patience.

  "But we win, even when we have men wounded or killed. If that wasn't the case, why would they run away?"

  "Because they aren't trying to beat you, they're trying to hurt you and wear you down."

  "But we are winning. If we weren't winning, the bandits would fight to beat us."

  "They will beat you if you keep using the same tactics you've been using," Chan said. His patience was wearing thin.

  Alauren blinked and looked at Chan blandly. It was obvious he didn't believe the Marine.

  "A couple of days ago, your entire battalion faced one platoon of Marines," Chan said coldly. "We let you have the first shot. If we'd been using live ammunition instead of simulators, most of you would be dead now. And you didn't manage to hit any of us."

  The muscles at Alauren'sjaws bunched and his eyes turned hard. He hadn't yet forgiven the Marines for that embarrassment. He might never forgive them.

  Chan realized he was off to a bad start.

  "You," Schultz snarled, glaring at a randomly selected trooper. "Hit that target." He pointed at a man-size ferrocrete block standing in front of a ten meter-high berm a hundred meters away on the firing range.

  The chosen trooper paled. He swallowed and his knees shook as he stared at the ferocious Marine, hoping that he wasn't really the one picked. But he was. He fumbled a battery into the well of his blaster and raised it to his shoulder.

  "NO, you idiot!" Schultz roared. He took the few steps between him and the trooper and ripped the weapon from his hands. "Don't you know anything about range safety?" he growled in a hardly milder voice. "Never load your weapon until you're in position on the firing line. Keep your muzzle pointed downrange at all times." He grabbed the trooper by the front of his tunic and dragged him to the firing position, where he slammed the blaster back into his hands. The blaster bounced off the man's chest and would have clattered to the ground if Schultz hadn't caught it.

  Schultz closed his eyes and breathed slowly while he counted to ten. When he opened his eyes, he held the blaster out for the quaking Wanderjahrian to take. "Now, mister," he said, the strain of not yelling evident in his voice, "load your weapon, aim at your target, and kill it." He stepped back and watched as the trooper fumbled a battery into the well, put his weapon to his shoulder, pointed it downrange, and pressed the firing lever. He then looked to see where the plasma bolt hit. Steam rising a good four meters from the target showed where it hit.

  "You missed," Schultz began softly. "You weren't even close enough to make him keep his head down." As he spoke his voice rose. "If that was a man and he knew how to shoot, you'd be dead now!" His voice was at full scream before he reached the last word.

  He jerked the blaster from the unfortunate trainee's hands, popped the battery out of the well, and thrust the weapon back at him with a snarled "Don't you dare drop it." He shoved him back toward his position in the shift formation and pointed wildly at another. "You! On the firing line!"

  The second shooter missed by nearly six meters. Schultz howled. The third victim called to the firing line was shaking so badly his shot went completely over the backdrop berm.

  Schultz's complexion was normally a dull copper. It was becoming maroon.

  "Sir," Acting Assistant Shift Sergeant Kharim said, his voice cracking because it took every bit of courage he could muster to address Acting Shift Sergeant Schultz, "that is not the way we have been trained to shoot."

  Schultz spun on the man whose place in the organization he'd taken. In two long strides his nose was mere inches away from the Wanderjahrian's. "You've been trained?" Schultz shouted, spraying the Feldpolizei sergeant's face with spittle. "Not that I can see."

  Kharim swallowed. "Sir, if I might demonstrate."

  Schultz's eyes bored into the man's. Emotions, mostly anger, fury, and frustration, roiled his face. Abruptly he took a step back and swung an arm at the firing line. "Show me," he snapped.

  Kharim swallowed again, then stepped to the front of the shift. "Shift, attention!" The members of the shift snapped to. "Advance on the firing line!" They briskly stepped forward. Kharim was now standing a pace behind the center of the line of his shift. "Load!" Fourteen pairs of hands sharply loaded fourteen blasters. "Shoulder arms!" They brought their weapons sharply to their shoulders, muzzles pointed down-range. "Ready!" Kharim looked to his left and to his right. "FIRE!" Fourteen blasters crackled as one.

  Schultz watched their scattered hits, groaned, and closed his eyes. "Two hits," he mumbled. "The whole damn shift fired at one target and only two of them hit it." He opened his eyes and saw Kharim standing at attention in front of him.

  "Did you see, sir? We hit the target."

  "I want to see it again."

  This time Schultz stood off to one side, where he could watch down the line of shooters. Kharim went through the routine of volley firing again. Again the hits spattered on a ragged line across the target. Again two of the fourteen bolts hit the target.

  Acting Assistant Shift Sergeant Kharim turned and faced Schultz, head held high in triumph. "Sir, that is how we have been trained to shoot."
>
  Without a word, Schultz stepped toward the line of FPs and snatched the blaster from the nearest man. He waved an arm to move the men back from the firing line, then twisted to point his left side downrange, threw the blaster into his shoulder, aimed, and pressed the firing lever. CRACK! He hit the target square. He dropped onto one knee without moving the blaster from his shoulder, fired again, scored a second hit. He fell back into a sitting position, took quick aim, and blasted the target a third time. He threw himself forward onto his belly and hit it again. He popped the battery from the well, hopped back to his feet, and tossed the blaster in the direction of the man from whom he'd taken it.

  "That is how I have been trained to shoot," he snarled. "That is what you will learn to do." He paced the shift line, glaring at each man in turn. "I watched you," he said as he paced. "I saw what you did. Every one of you had both eyes open! You can't aim with both eyes open!" He grabbed a blaster and stepped back where everyone could see him. "Do you see this?" He jabbed a finger at the blaster's front sight. "To aim, you look at this through this." He poked a finger at the optics tube that was the rear sight. "When you are looking at the front sight through the rear sight, and your target is lined up with them, you will hit the target every time. You're lucky any of you hit it at all, the way you were shooting.

  "You fired two volleys. Fourteen shots each time. Each time you got two hits. Do you know what that means? That means you missed six times out of seven! You missed," he shrieked, "a man-size target, standing in the open, at one hundred meters! I'd expect a bunch of civilians who'd never handled a blaster before to do that well!

  "Give me a half-hidden man at one thousand meters and I won't take seven shots at him. Do you know why?" he screamed. "Because before I get to my seventh shot there won't be enough of him left to shoot at!"

  He stomped along the line again, this time checking to make sure all weapons were unloaded. Satisfied there wouldn't be any accidental shootings, he began the training again.