Tasmanian SFG: Welcome to Hell

by C. R. Daems

  Simon was waiting when we finally reached ground level. His first words were as if he had heard our conversation.

  “I’m glad I told that idiot that I ran Tasmanian training and determined who passed and failed, not him.” He smiled at the memory, obviously referring to Colonel Zimmermann. As I learned later, Tasmanians taught the school. Colonel Zimmermann was merely an administrator and figurehead. “Good job up there, Fox,” he said, acknowledging Fox was my official Tasmanian handle, and that I had earned my fur and a life membership in the brotherhood.

  “Thank you, Simon, for everything.”

  “Now, go get a hot meal, have the medics check you out, and get a good eight hours’ rest.” He smiled. “That’s an order I expect you to follow for a change.”

  “Yes, platoon leader,” I said and saluted before turning and walking in the direction of the mess hall.

  * * *

  I woke ten hours later, feeling good about the past few days’ events and my decision to join the Tasmanians, and hungry—no, ravenous. I found the food easily by following my nose. I went through the serving line taking a double helping of each item knowing I must have lost body mass during the past few days. Energy bars were good but weren’t a substitute for a proper meal. When I looked around, I saw Rogers, Cole, and four others I didn’t recognize at one of the tables and decided to join them. Cole waved to an empty seat as I approached.

  “Hi, Luan,” Rogers said as I sat. “The Tasmanians are calling us the Four Sentinels.”

  “Why?” I asked before filling my mouth with a fork loaded with ground meat in a creamy sauce.

  “When we burst into the area you were defending, we had our fingers on the triggers expecting the area to be filled with Hihari,” Cole said with a slight shudder. “Instead, it was creepy silent and the four of you stood frozen with only knives in your hands, covered in blood, and dead bodies lying all around you. Each of you looked like the incarnation of Death and all staring in the same direction as if waiting for more Hihari. Like seeing the Four Horsemen. Scariest sight I’ve ever seen.”

  “I’m never going to complain about the training we do when off assignment. It was the only thing that saved me, because you don’t have time to think. It’s automatic or you’re dead,” Rogers said, nodding to himself. I agreed.

  “What’s been happening since I retired to catch up on my beauty sleep?” I patted my cheeks with both hands and got chuckles and grins around the table.

  “The Harari army has taken over as we have cleared the way to Hilan City.”

  “Then it’s all over,” I said with mixed feelings. This assignment was exhilarating and I loved the mountains, but I felt bone tired and would welcome a rest.

  “No. The miners retreated into the mountains and loaded twenty to thirty of the mines with explosives. They are threatening to set them all off if the army attacks them or their families,” Rogers said. “I was told that could destroy major veins of precious stone and metals. But at a minimum, it would bring down a major part of the mountains, destroy the production facilities, and it would take years to get back to present-day production. It appears they have a standoff which can only be resolved through negotiations.”

  “The contract is finished then?” I asked.

  “The initial one is complete. However, those supporting the miners were airlifted out of Hilan City. The Harari may want some kind of retribution,” Rogers said. I nodded while looking at my empty plate and considering another helping or two. I decided I could wait a few hours.

  “Where do you put all that food? You eat like Avery, who is twice your size.”

  “I’m trying to replace the four or five kilo I lost that I can’t afford to lose or I’ll need lead shoes to keep from blowing away.”

  “Simon wants us,” Rogers said as each of our TCom devices began to vibrate with a note to report to the Tasmanian headquarters tent.

  I snatched two apples as I passed the serving line and doubled time to catch up with the others. Inside the tent, Simon’s group had lost twelve—four more than the last graduating class.

  “It’s strange. The Tasmanians aren’t awarded medals for exceptional performance under fire, but every now and then the Tasmanians themselves recognize their comrades for their impossible achievement. I’ve been told Rogers, Luan, Lyman, and Graham are now the Four Sentinels, by the reinforcement detail sent to rescue them, for their stand against ninety-two Hihari. Congratulations,” Simon said. “We have two days to get our wounded treated, everyone inspected, equipment cleaned and ready. Transportation will pick us up fifty-two hours from now, at zero six hundred hours. The Four Sentinels stay.”

  When everyone else had left, Simon continued. “I don’t like titles like that. We, the Tasmanians, expect outstanding performance from each person we let wear the fur flash. And soon we would be getting titles for performance we expect because you are Tasmanians… But I talked to each man in the reinforcements group we sent. The scene they described when they arrived and what they found afterward lets me believe your actions deserve the title, so I’ll let it stand.” He gave a snort. “Besides, the image reflects highly on all Tasmanians—I’m one of the elite.” He smiled. “Howard is recommending we add two years to your time in service. Congratulations,” he said and walked toward a group that included Howard.

  “What did he mean?” I asked, confused. “How can one add to time in service?” And why would you? I mused.

  “Remember, we are all paid the same based on time in service. So occasionally, when someone does something exceptional, those in charge award the individual additional time in grade, which amounts to a pay raise,” Lyman said, smiling. “Us guys have to pay for our dates.”

  * * *

  The ride back was like night and day compared to the ride to Harari. On the ride back, everyone had a story to tell and several wanted more instruction on balance.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Planet: Delphi: Fort Endeavor: Post Assignment Surprise

  “She’s naked,” Lacy said as I stood in the shower after my first duty day since returning home to Fort Endeavor. I was totally confused, since I frequently showered while men were present.

  “Do you expect me to wash with my clothes on?” I quipped but didn’t understand what was going on. Something was up. Something no one had explained to me, but what?

  “Get dressed, Luan. Fortunately, the problem can be fixed,” Lacy said.

  Now I knew for sure they had something planned that I hoped I like but wasn’t sure. Surprise parties could be good. A surprise initiation might not be. I guess it didn’t matter as I doubted I had a choice.

  I dressed in my Tasmanian uniform as I had no other dress clothing. Outside, a line of cars waited. I was shoved in the first one with Lacy, Rogers, and, to my surprise, Simon. No one said anything on the ten-minute ride into town. When I exited the vehicle, I stood in front of a small storefront with a sign reading Body Art. I had never been tattooed and wasn’t sure I wanted to be. I knew a lot of people liked tattoos indicating relationships, professions, life experience, and images of things they liked or admired. They had something in mind…maybe my Tasmanian handle, a fox. That wouldn’t be too bad, I thought. They sat me in a chair and stripped off my jacket and sweater.

  “There are three phases to becoming a Tasmanian Devil,” Simon said. “Phase one is passing the first two months of the Tasmanian school. Phase two is not screwing up during the second two months of the training. And phase three is reasonable performance on your first assignment. Then and only then, you are awarded the only medal you will ever get—an original Tasmanian shield the first Tasmanian Battalion wore on the shoulder of their uniform. Today, we have it tattooed on your arm so you can’t lose it, and you always have it with you. Master Kishan is the only tattoo artist authorized to give someone the Tasmanian Shield tattoo.”

  I noticed a very old man with brown skin and a full and bushy goatee which was a mixture of black and mostly gray hair. He had a strip of red paint
in the center of his forehead.

  “Good day, Tasmanian Luan,” he said. “Normally, I would numb the skin but you are a Tasmanian.” He smiled. “It will only take a couple of hours.” He picked up a small machine that made a buzzing sound, dipped it into a black mixture, and began. I closed my eyes and began my Gong Luan exercise.

  “Tasmanian Luan, are you the first Tasmanian to sleep while being tattooed or are you doing a yoga meditation?” he asked.

  “Something similar I would imagine. My father’s teachings.”

  “Wise man. You can stand and look in the mirror against the wall.”

  I stood and walked over to the wall and turned to see my shoulder. There was what looked like a shield with a black background. Toward the top was the head of an open-mouthed Tasmanian Devil surrounded by flames. And underneath, the words TASMANIAN DEVILS in white. It was beautiful and my eyes misted with pride. In the mirror, I saw Simon walk up beside me.

  “In the beginning, I had the same concerns as Zimmermann and the generals, but for different reasons. They thought it would somehow diminish the Tasmanian image. I was more concerned with the training: competition between the sexes, lack of separate facilities, the appearance if I had to fail all the women candidates, the potential serious injuries, et cetera. But you seemed to fit in seamlessly. The fights were never a competition with you, more you judging yourself. You showered like one of the men and everyone learned early you knew how to kill, and your father’s training made you one of the best trained of the candidates. And I knew after the incident with Smitty, you were already a Tasmanian in all but name.” He nodded, looking at the tattoo. “But I do worry this may generate a flurry of women candidates who aren’t ready and all the problems I had imagined.”

  “Send all the women who want to apply to me,” I said. “Not to give them hints on how to pass because no one could, but to tell them what they need to do to be ready. I think that will discourage most and hopefully give those who still want to try a chance,” I said, thinking about my qualifications coming into the program. “Maybe a mini-camp to separate the wheat from the chaff.”

  Simon laughed. “On your own time?”

  I nodded. “Weekends.”

  “I’ll talk to the senior Tasmanians and see what they think. It’s a good idea whether they think so or not. But if they like the idea they will support your efforts and provide you help.”

  “Enough business. Let’s celebrate our sister’s joining the Tasmanians,” Rogers said. “I think one of the local nightclubs. I want to show off our sister. It should be a hoot.”

  There must have been twenty waiting outside the tattoo parlor. I recognized most as having been in Harari. They directed me to an empty vehicle and we were driven further into the city. When they stopped it was at nightclub called the Ranch, which looked like an old barn. Inside, were rough wooden tables and chairs, sawdust on the floors, an open dance floor where several couples danced to a brass band on an elevated platform, and a bar running the length of one wall. Although the place looked crowded, Rogers was able to get people to move and we suddenly had four tables shoved together. Most of the men found women to dance with and a few joined us at our table. I was dragged out on the dance floor several times in an attempt to teach me the steps. It was an activity I had never participated in, but I tried my best to learn and had to admit I enjoyed myself. I wasn’t used to drinking either, and managed to nurse a beer all night; well, actually I managed to pass my nearly full one to someone when the next round came. All I all, I enjoyed the evening—the camaraderie, the stories, and the roasting.

  * * *

  One night about a week later, while I was at the Tasmanian Club with Paul and Frank, the sergeant at arms notified me I had Rangers asking to see me. The Tasmanian Club was like any nightclub in town but in Fort Endeavor it was exclusively for Tasmanians and their families and guests. When I arrived the lobby, I found Staff Sergeants Shirley Knight and Clare Beal waiting.

  “Hi, Jolie, we heard you were back,” Shirley said, her eyes bright with excitement as she surveyed my uniform. “I’m jealous.”

  “Hi Shirley, Clare. The unit just returned from Harari,” I said, glad to see the women.

  “Several of the women Rangers are thinking about trying out for the Tasmanian school now that you’ve shown us a woman can pass the course,” Clare said. “They…we would like to hear your thoughts and any insights you can share.”

  “I’ve given it some thought since Simon mentioned women would soon be applying for admission to the school. You name the place and I’ll be there,” I said, knowing my message wasn’t going to be what they wanted to hear but it needed saying.

  * * *

  A week later, I entered the Rangers Club with Shirley. She had said the women had gotten one of the rooms for their meeting. The club looked similar to ours although arranged differently: a dance area, a raised stage platform for a band or entertainment, tables and chairs to eat and drink, and a bar area. It was Saturday night and the room was crowded. Shirley pointed to a set of door to our left, as a tall muscular sergeant rose from a table with six men, located some ten meters away.

  “Well, will you look at that,” he shouted. “The Tasmanians now have camp followers on their campaigns. They give them uniforms to pretend they are in the Tasmanians but look at her. It’s obvious that’s no kickass Tasmanian.” He strutted in my direction and although not staggering, he looked to me to have had too much to drink. When he was within arm’s length of me he stopped and glared. “If you were a Tasmanian you would be kicking my ass by now.”

  “Only if I cared what you thought of me, and I don’t. But I would suggest you don’t say that to one of my brothers. It not nice to criticize family,” I said, not wanting a fight but positive one was coming as he had an audience and couldn’t back down without looking the fool.

  “You think that uniform makes you better than us? Rangers are as good as any Tasmanian.”

  “You’re right. We’re all army and one unit is as important as any other. We just have different training and skills,” I said, thinking that true.

  “See, she’s a coward. Scared shitless,” he shouted, turning to survey the room. He certainly had everyone’s attention.

  “Fighting accomplishes nothing unless you’re being attacked,” I said.

  “Fight, bitch, or I’ll strip that uniform off you.”

  I waited. He no longer had a choice and everyone in the club knew it. I saw his right side tense and knew a right punch was coming. I twisted right, changing my profile. As I did, my right arm came up in time to guide his arm and his melon-sized fist harmlessly by my face. My right arm pushed down on his right arm as my hand latched onto his arm and using his forward momentum pulled him forward and down. Simultaneously, my left arm shot forward with an open palm strike to his temple. He crumpled as he fell forward.

  “You may tell him that fighting accomplishes nothing unless you attack a Tasmanian when you’re drunk. Then it tells everyone you’re stupid.” I began walking toward the doors Shirley pointed to.

  “Sorry, Luan. I didn’t know what to do. I though interfering might… I think the rest of the Rangers felt the same way.”

  “You did the right thing. It was my issue to resolve. But I would imagine most of the male Rangers were interested in seeing the outcome, which by the way was ordained—he was drunk and therefore slow and off balance.”

  To my embarrassment, fifteen women stood when I entered the room.

  “Ladies, for those of you who don’t know her, this is Tasmanian Luan, who just decked Sergeant Duggin with one blow,” Shirley said, and the room erupted in clapping.

  I stayed standing as they took their seats. “I know you are hoping I will tell you things about the training that will make it easier for you. But there are no secrets to tell. The training is designed to test your judgment when you are exhausted to the point of collapse. Rather than explain why I don’t think most women are ready to pass the Tasmanian school, let m
e tell you why I had a chance,” I said and watched the smiles turn to frowns. “I was adopted by a master of the martial arts when he found me half dead from a beating by a group of kids older than me. First, he didn’t raise me as a girl. So all the things society taught you from a baby about how girls are supposed to act I never learned. From day one, I showered with the men, used the same latrine, and slept in the same barracks. The one or two who touched me failed the course by misadventure.” I paused for a sip of water. “I began martial arts training at age eight and because my father was a master who had studied many arts my training was unique. He first taught me balance, for three years. The men I found all had solid stances until they started to fight. They were like Sergeant Duggin, slow and off balance. He taught me knife fighting and how to shoot without the benefit of scopes. In a sense I was better trained when I started than they were. But the biggest difference was my last three years of training. My father taught me not to fear.”

  “How does that help? We have all learned to ignore our fears,” a short but wiry woman in her late twenties said.

  “Yes, to ignore but not to banish fear. But not just fear, also hate, winning, losing, and joy. To see with a clear mind.” I took another sip of water. “The men have an inherent advantage—strength, natural aggressiveness, lots of testosterone, and tend to be more logical. We tend to be more emotional and intuitive but…better thinkers when we have time or are clear of distraction.” I sat and selected a small sandwich from a plate and began eating.

  “You’re saying women can’t survive the school?” Shirley asked.

  “In my opinion, not without additional training to offset the men’s advantage. Specifically, balance and fear. You still might not qualify, most of the men don’t, but you will be competing on a level playing field.”