In Every Clime and Place

by Patrick LeClerc

  The Slav’s eyes grew a shade cooler. “My friend, the people of the Balkans will never forget their history. We cannot forget the Turks seven hundred years ago, or the Fascists a hundred and thirty years ago or even the bombs of your own countrymen eighty-five years ago. Our history is what made us who we are. I and many like me supported your troops when you broke the back of the hard liners because we wanted to save our nation and build a future for it, not so we could forget our heritage.”

  “I’m sorry,” Lt Evers said sincerely. “I had no intention of offending you.”

  “I know.” Vojislav smiled wryly. “You Americans never do.”

  Chapter 24

  20 DEC 2075

  SHORE LEAVE, MARS STATION

  We woke up late the next morning, and got out of bed even later. She woke me up. All I’ll say is that her way beat the hell out of Reveille.

  We lay there afterward for a long time, just enjoying the feeling of closeness. I drank in the bliss of clean sheets and the soft, warm weight of her body against me, her head resting on my chest. I thought again how lucky I was.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “It’s not like I don’t enjoy it, you know,” she replied.

  “I don’t mean that. I mean thanks for standing up to Gunny Taylor and not dropping me like a live grenade. It means a lot.”

  “Gunny Taylor was nothing. You wouldn’t believe the disapproval I have to put up with from my family.”

  “Really?”

  She sat up, looking at me intensely. “You have no idea what it’s like. Your parents are probably proud of you.”

  “Yours aren’t? You’re a damn good Marine.”

  “That doesn’t matter. I’m a girl. My family is traditional. Girls grow up to be nuns or mothers. They can’t believe I’d want to waste my life as a Marine. My brother Anthony is an Army Ranger. They have pictures of him in uniform hanging in the house. They’re all proud of his medals. But all I hear when I go home on leave is, ‘Angelina, when are you going to marry a nice Italian boy and give us some grandchildren?’ Like my only reason for existence is to be fucking breeding stock.”

  She was serious. Her glare would have made strong men run for cover.

  “I’ll have frigging babies when I damn well feel like it. If I have ’em at all,” she declared. “I like being a Marine. I never played house when I was a kid. I played war, and cops and robbers. I enjoy the Corps. I like that I’m one of the few and the proud. Even fewer and prouder because I’m a woman. And I’m good at it, damn it.”

  “Yes you are. You’re one of the best Marines I’ve served with. Man or woman. Of course, I’ve been stuck with Terry for years, so the bar is pretty low.”

  She smiled. “That’s one thing I like about you, Mick. You judge everybody by what they can do, not what people say they should do. I don’t like people who think my life is worth less because I haven’t dropped a frigging litter.”

  “Hey, the world has plenty of babies. How many good fire team leaders do we have who can make lingerie work?” I sat up and slid an arm around her waist.

  We ordered room service again and spent most of the morning in bed. Eventually, we got dressed and headed out on the town.

  My previous impression of Mars Station was that it was a shithole. I wasn’t ready to believe that it had changed very much, so I was forced to conclude that my enjoyment of it this time was a result of the company. Most of my previous shore leaves had consisted of hanging with Terry, drinking far too much, and getting into fistfights.

  This time I was with a beautiful, funny woman, saw some sights, ate and drank just enough, had a lot of sex and didn’t have to hit anybody. And she looked good when I woke up next to her.

  I wondered why this had never occurred to me before.

  We were due back at 1200 the following day. We spent the afternoon shopping for the usual junk souvenirs to send home, talking, laughing and just generally enjoying life. This was bliss. No head to scrub, no inspections, no rifles to clean, no watch to stand, no frigging drills, just kick back and enjoy life.

  The day passed quickly, and that night we did manage to find a few Army guys who wanted to play poker. We were kind. We left them cab fare.

  ****

  The next morning we had arranged to meet the team at 0900, to give us ample time to get back to the lander for noon. We were sipping coffee at a table on the sidewalk in front of the hotel when we noticed a general purpose transport vehicle pull up. It was painted in the brown Army color scheme. A sergeant was driving and a young lieutenant was in the passenger seat. I was about to comment, when the sergeant waved me over.

  “Mick, get your ass over here!”

  “Holy Shit! Terry?”

  “Move it, corporal!” ordered Second Lieutenant Johnson.

  We trotted over to the car. Johnson and O’Rourke were dressed in Army uniforms. A good stack of contraband was stashed in the cargo area.

  “Get in.”

  “We gotta meet Bauer and Li.”

  “One step ahead of you, Mick,” Terry said. “Met up with ’em last night. They’ll meet us at the shuttle.”

  “Jesus,” Sabatini exclaimed as we piled into the back seat. “When’d you pick this up?”

  “Got drunk with an Army quartermaster last night. When he wakes up with the mother of all hangovers, he’s gonna find out his uniform and his ride are missing.”

  “We got you two some threads too,” said Johnson. “Had to guess at the sizes.”

  There were two sets of Army fatigues, complete with the Big Red One unit patch on the shoulder.

  “Where to now, Lieutenant?” I asked.

  “Our friendly quartermaster sergeant told us they’re getting a shipment of new thermal gear to go under the combat space suits,” said O’Rourke. “I figured the Marines need that a lot more than the Army. We’re a working party headed to the loading zone right now. Get changed.”

  We hastily changed uniforms.

  “Is that USMC issue, Corporal?” asked Johnson, sneaking a glance in the rear-view mirror as Sabatini unbuttoned her dress blue blouse to reveal something black and lacy. She replied with a middle finger.

  “Eyes front, Marine,” I growled. We had gotten used to changing in the same squad bay, but usually it was just good old olive drab underwear that was about as un-sexy as it was possible for underwear to be.

  We were shortly transformed into two Army PFCs. Terry had clearly planned it so he and Johnson could order us around. Johnson, as a second lieutenant, would not be expected to know anything, so any rookie mistakes he made were covered. Terry O’Rourke, wearing three stripes for the first and probably only time in his life, would be calling the shots.

  Terry had had the good sense not to include Sabatini’s team. She didn’t need the added command problems that would arise if she were seen taking orders from O’Rourke. As I’ve always said, he’s an insubordinate bastard, but looks out for his fellow Marines when it matters.

  We pulled up to the gate. A bored-looking PFC saluted Johnson. I felt a moment of panic, but the young Marine didn’t blow his cue. He popped a perfect salute in return.

  The guard asked our business.

  “Working party from Echo Company, 2ndBattalion,” Terry lied. “Here to pick up some thermals.”

  “I need to see your paperwork, Sergeant.”

  I sensed Angelina stiffen beside me, but I knew Terry better than that. He handed over the forms that I knew he would have lifted from the quartermaster before planning a heist this big.

  The guard compared the forms to his own list and waved us through.

  “You had me worried for a minute, O’Rourke,” said Sabatini.

  “I been robbing the Army since you were in high school, Corporal. Now just remember, I’m ‘Sarge’ and the kid is ‘sir’. And don’t say ‘aye aye.’”

  “Yes, Sergeant!”

  “Aren’t I a little old for a PFC?” I asked.

  “We’re the same age and I was a PFC a
month ago.”

  “And will be again if we get caught,” cautioned Sabatini.

  “Never happen. Luck of the Irish.” Terry O’Rourke smiled his biggest leprechaun grin.

  We got to the warehouse and started in. Angelina and I worked away, bitching and moaning like good soldiers on a working party. I had to slow her down so we wouldn’t look too eager. We did turn the tables on O’Rourke a bit by making all the standard wiseass remarks to his orders. It was nice to play the problem child of the battalion, assigned to work as punishment duty, while my old comrade, whose usual insubordination would make Judas look like a yes-man, had to keep his detail in line. Johnson was perfect, standing straight, perfect parade-ground posture, his expression both eager and confused. He marched around with his hands behind his back, got in the way, and shouted “Outstanding!” at appropriate intervals.

  He looked exactly like a new lieutenant fresh out of Basic School.

  This left Terry, playing his part of harassed sergeant, to do all the actual organizing.

  Within an hour, we had a truck full of cold-weather gear.

  When the entire shipment for Echo Company, 2ndBattalion had been loaded, we climbed into the truck and headed back toward the gate. I felt my stomach drop. We were almost in the clear, which was when I started to worry. A good plundering mission was a lot like a hot landing. Before starting, the anticipation of pulling it off kept me focused. When we were actually working, I was too busy to worry. Now, with nothing to do but sit in the back of the truck and cross my fingers, the heebie-jeebies set in with a vengeance.

  They were not entirely uncalled for. As we approached the gate, I got my first clue that things might not be going perfectly.

  “Fuck,” muttered O’Rourke.

  “What?” asked Sabatini nervously. “What about fuck?”

  “Don’t get your panties in a bunch, Corporal. It just looks like our friend at the guard post is hearing about us.”

  I leaned forward to look out the windshield between Johnson and O’Rourke. The sentry looked in our direction, said something into his radio and nodded, listening to the response.

  “I didn’t think that QM sergeant would be conscious this early.”

  “Oh, shit,” exclaimed Johnson.

  I agreed. The sentry stepped from his shack into the roadway.

  “He’ll move,” Terry assured us, maintaining our current speed.

  “I don’t know...” said Sabatini.

  “What if he pulls his weapon?” asked Johnson.

  “Oh for Christ’s sake! We’re on a safe planet. The damn thing won’t be loaded. Didn’t you have to guard the officer’s head at Parris Island? It’ll take him a good five seconds to put in a magazine and chamber a round. He’ll move.”

  I’m glad Terry was sure. That made one of us. Although he was probably right about the unloaded weapon. Unless there was an imminent threat of attack, sentries almost never had the magazine in place. I used to think that was a stupid rule. At that moment, I was all for it.

  As predicted, the young soldier jumped back into the guard shack as we sped through. We missed him by a good meter. Maybe a meter and a half.

  Once out of the compound, Terry turned down the first side street we came to. He made a number of quick rights and lefts before choosing a direction.

  “Where to now, Mr Dillinger?” I asked.

  “I got it all planned out,” he assured me.

  “I hope so. I don’t want to be scrubbing the head for the next six months.”

  It wasn’t long before we pulled up to the loading door of an abandoned warehouse. There were a lot of these, as business on the mines was in a slow downward spiral. Terry whistled a few bars of Anchors Aweigh.

  The cargo door rose with a rattle of rusty gears. We drove inside and CPO Kelly met us. A pair of sailors in coveralls stood behind him.

  “Welcome aboard!” he grinned as he inspected the vehicle. “Not a bad haul for a bunch of jarheads.”

  “Thank’ee, Chief,” O’Rourke replied. “Just have your boys give this beast a paint job in good old Navy grey, and we’ll be on our way.”

  They shook hands and we changed back into our Blues.

  As we left the warehouse, I asked, “What’d the chief give you for the GPV?”

  “We got first pick of the thermals, a case of liquid paradise, and Chief Kelly’s undying gratitude. Hate to give up the truck, but the Army will be looking for it. They ain’t real bright, but they might expect us to give it a facelift. They’ll be stopping any GPV in Marine green and checking the serial numbers.”

  “Sometimes you amaze me,” I said.

  “Not a bad con, for an Irishman,” Sabatini agreed with a smirk.

  “Hey, my people were great horse thieves in the old country. And how about Johnson, huh?” He clapped the young Marine on the shoulder. “Shoulda got the damn Oscar for that. You played a second lieutenant better than most second lieutenants do.”

  “Too bad they don’t give a medal for looting and pillaging,” I mused. “You’d have one with five stars, a combat V and oak leaf cluster.”

  “Lt Evers is not gonna be pleased,” Sabatini pointed out. “The doggie sergeant you robbed, plus the guard at the depot will be able to get a decent description of us. Mitchell will have a good laugh, and Evers won’t turn us in, because the thermals are a good thing for the platoon, but he’ll be pissed. Or do you have a plan to avoid cleaning the head for six months?”

  “I may just.” Terry held up a bottle of dark amber fluid. I read the label.

  It was authentic, real, honest-to-God, distilled-in-the-good-old-land-o’-Dixie bourbon.

  “You should transfer to supply,” I told him. “Or some other organized crime family.”

  Chapter 25

  22 DEC 2075

  USS TRIPOLI

  We got back aboard the Tripoli and took over for Ski’s departing squad. Hernandez’s Marines were already ashore, having left twenty-four hours after we did. They were due back the next day, then Ski’s would come back, and we’d get our replacements and shove off.

  The story of our larceny must have made the rounds. Lt Mitchell was looking at us like he was proud, but knew he shouldn’t be, like your dad when you get in your first fight at school and win. Lt Evers was bribed with the bourbon, and, as the equipment was a benefit to the unit, he turned a blind eye. He was too much a professional officer to compliment us on our crime, but his forbearance was reward enough.

  Gunny Taylor was open in his appreciation. “I guess you are good for something, O’Rourke,” he said wryly. “I owe Ski twenty bucks.”

  “I told you, Gunny,” I explained, “he’s only useless on garrison duty. In the field he’s an OK Marine.”

  “I am inspired to excellence by the sterling example of my senior NCOs,” O’Rourke replied piously.

  “Spare us the act,” growled the gunnery sergeant.

  I changed the subject. “Heard anything about the replacements, boss?”

  “Nothing good. We’re the most experienced platoon, so we get the greenest replacements.”

  “Why?” asked Johnson, still innocent in the ways of the military mindset.

  “The Powers That Be figure we got enough veteran Marines to absorb and train the new boots,” Sabatini explained.

  “And God help us,” muttered Gunny Taylor. “Get settled in. I have to make up the duty roster.” He walked off.

  “Hope we get another brother in this fire team,” said Johnson. “I’m getting sick of being surrounded by all you white folks.”

  “Whadaya mean all us white folks?” asked O’Rourke. “Sabatini’s Italian.”

  Unsure which of them was being insulted, both Marines punched him in the arm. The rest of the squad thought it was funny. I just prayed that the replacements, whatever shade they were, were well trained and, most of all, not overly sensitive to Terry’s brand of humor.

  The next few days were busy but unexciting. We had security watch to stand, supplies to onloa
d, and equipment to maintain. We took our pick of the new thermal gear and tried it outside the hull. It worked well, but not perfectly. It pulled sweat away from the body so you didn’t freeze when you stopped moving, and it kept you warm longer than the old gear. It was a step in the right direction.

  Nobody got lost on leave, but Lt Mitchell had to go get two of Hernandez’s Marines out of the brig. I guess after experiencing my flock the local Gestapo weren’t inclined to let any Marines off with a warning.

  Corporal LeBlanc got his third stripe and came over from Ski’s squad to replace Sgt McCray as our squad leader. LeBlanc: a black Marine from Philadelphia. As a former inmate of a Catholic school in New England, I had picked up enough French to find that funny. He was a professional, competent Marine. He wouldn’t have made corporal under Pilsudski if he weren’t. He was tall, well built, athletic, a rifle expert, and looked like a goddamn recruiting poster. He was the kind of military ideal who could make Alexander the Great feel insecure.

  My friendship with Terry was slowly returning to its old state. We both knew we’d been out of line, but were too stubborn and Irish to admit it. Fortunately, we both understood that the other wasn’t going to apologize, so neither of us was holding out.

  I needed to talk to him about team business anyway, so I caught him after duty hours and pulled him aside. I slipped a flask into the cargo pocket of my trousers before we left.

  “What’s up?” he asked.

  “We’re getting some new meat.” I handed him the flask.

  He tipped it, smiled and passed it back. “Won’t be the first time.”

  “I guess not.” I hesitated, covered the silence with a sip. “Just seems like a lot of shit’s changing all of a sudden.”

  He nodded, waiting for me to go on.

  “So, you want to partner up with Johnson or the new guy?” I asked. Even in a four-man team it was customary for each Marine to have a buddy to watch his back in action. Terry and I had been partners for years, but we were the only real seasoned Marines in the team. Johnson was still too green to buddy with a new boot. I didn’t want the blind leading the blind.