In Every Clime and Place

by Patrick LeClerc

  “Jesus, I’m still thinking Johnson is the new guy.”

  “He’s coming along. He learns quick. If the two of us don’t ruin him, he’ll turn out to be a good Marine.”

  “He’s a good shit,” Terry agreed. “If it’s all the same to you, I’ll take him. I have him broke in where I want him.”

  “Another little present for you,” I said. “I’m gonna have to put you on point. At least for now.”

  “Merry fucking Christmas,” he said, taking the whiskey.

  “I know it’s a shit job for somebody with your seniority, but I don’t want the new guy up there. He’ll miss an ambush and get us all killed. Sabatini was good on point, but she has her own team now. Johnson’s just about learned to be a decent TAR man. I don’t want him starting from scratch.”

  He nodded, smiling bitterly. “I guess I see. No, leave the kid on the TAR. I can handle scout duty. Man, I almost miss the wop.”

  “You gonna be OK about me and her?”

  He stared into the middle distance for a few seconds, then turned to face me. “I’ll adjust.”

  “Thanks, brother. It means a lot.”

  “Don’t get mushy on me,” he smirked. “I don’t want her gettin’ jealous.”

  ****

  We met the new meat as a formation as they marched down the ramp from the lander. I have to admit, they looked a little scary. Their uniforms were too new, their eyes too wide.

  “Shit, Mick, they’re just kids.” This from Johnson, apparently going grey and approaching senility at twenty.

  I saw his point though. I was never that green. Sister Rosemary would have eaten me alive in first grade if I were.

  Gunny Taylor read off the names and they hustled over to their new squads at the double, their seabags bouncing and swaying on their backs, to fill in the gaps we left in the formation. I hate to think so, but they may have been divvied up alphabetically. We got Khan and Kovanian.

  Lt Mitchell stood in front of the platoon and gave a “Welcome aboard” speech, then dismissed us.

  On the way back to the squadbay, I took the opportunity to observe our new additions. PFC Khan was now in Sabatini’s team. Give him a turban and a Khyber knife and he could step into the pages of Kipling. I hoped he inherited more than looks. Like my ancestors, his had fought the domination of the hated British Empire; they just did it better. Then, a hundred years later, they fought the Russians to a standstill. And another twenty years after that, they made the US occupation miserable. Maybe some of that had rubbed off.

  My new teammate, Kovanian, was dark, heavyset and wide-eyed. He looked like he had escaped from the farm about twenty minutes ago. It was my job to turn him into an infantry Marine.

  Of the new replacements, only one caused any comment. PFC Wagner went to Ski’s team. She was the only female replacement, bringing our platoon total soaring up to two. She was blonde, green-eyed, and had a dancer’s body. All grace and strength. She naturally attracted a good deal of attention from the platoon. I never gave her a second glance. That was because the cold smile Sabatini flashed me when the new troops walked by reminded me of midnight garrottings and cement shoes. With a wonderful and devoted man like me, she had no need of jealousy, but she was letting me know that even making her suspicious might have deadly consequences.

  After we got the new replacements settled in, the first training we gave them was knife fighting. This might seem strange in the high-tech age we live in, but it was good for developing aggressiveness and reactions for combat.

  Chan would have taught the class if he had survived the boarding action. It was his specialty. Ski wound up filling in, being the most bloodthirsty. We all took turns fighting one on one, then two on one. It was a good workout because we had to combine kicks, punches, throws and blocks with the cut and thrust of the knife. Just because somebody has a knife in his right hand doesn’t mean he won’t kick you in the balls, or punch you with his other hand.

  Khan took to it like a fish to water. He faked me out with a jab at my face, and put me on the deck with a foot sweep. I’d have been all done if I hadn’t caught his ankle and dragged him down with me. I wasn’t going to lose a bout to a replacement. If I couldn’t match his reflexes, I’d fall back on dirty tricks.

  Kovanian was slow. Not stupid, just slow. If another Marine learned something after five repetitions, Kovanian took ten. He would be OK, he just needed a lot more practice than everybody else. I just hoped I’d have time to train him before we got dumped in the shit again. On the plus side, he was strong, eager, and had the stamina to carry on all day. He’d be a good man in a heavy weapons platoon, humping mortar rounds or extra machine-gun ammo. He was definitely not ready to be a point man. He would master the LG/BW and take Terry’s place for now.

  After an hour of knife work, Ski dismissed us.

  Sgt LeBlanc looked at his watch. “OK, squad, we got two hours until we go on watch, so grab some chow.”

  We gratefully headed toward the chow hall, except for Kovanian.

  “Where you headed, Marine?” I asked, “Chow is this way.”

  “Not hungry, boss.”

  “Hey,” I said seriously, steering him toward the chow hall, “eat now when you got a chance. In two hours we go on a four-hour watch. That’s if nothing goes wrong. There’s no guarantee in the world when you’ll get another chance to get some grub. Never pass up an opportunity to eat, drink or sleep.”

  “Or screw,” added Lcpl O’Rourke, ever mindful of a young Marine’s education.

  I rolled my eyes. “He has a point.”

  “Speaking of which,” said Johnson, as we grabbed a table, “what’s the scuttlebutt on Wagner? She seeing anybody?”

  The two new Marines burst out laughing.

  “Bad news, buddy,” said Khan. “She’s a dyke.”

  “What?” asked Johnson incredulously. “No way.”

  “It’s the straight dope, man. We were in the same replacement platoon. I’m telling you, she likes girls.”

  Sabatini and I smiled as the rest of the squad cursed their luck.

  Terry, with his usual eloquence, voiced the regret of the rest of the young men present:“Christ, just when we thought we were getting some more available pussy on this tub, we find out she’s competition for the few women we do see. No offense to Cpl Capone here.”

  “None taken,” said Sabatini. She was used to the language. I took the fact that Terry wasn’t pulling punches as a good sign.

  We ate our meal to the accompaniment of the squad’s shattered sexual fantasies. I wasn’t really surprised. Apart from Terry and me, and Sabatini, who obviously didn’t count, the oldest was Li at twenty-five. Johnson was heartbroken, Terry was just disgusted at what he considered a waste, and Bauer was confused. He was from a small, very religious town in the Midwest, and I don’t think they have accepted the existence of homosexuality yet. I mean, he was actually concerned that I was going to burn because I’m Catholic. The joke is on him: he had no idea how bad a Catholic I am. If his narrow-minded God is in charge, I’ll be interested to see if I get punished more or less than the good Catholics.

  Sabatini listened with amusement. As we were finishing up, she offered her opinion. “Maybe it’s not a waste after all.”

  “You interested, Corp?” asked Khan. “Some hot lesbo action would make this cruise more entertaining.”

  Part of me wanted to deck him, but that part was already in enough trouble. This was just joking, and would help build a rapport within the squad. Angelina Sabatini had heard worse and spent years in the Corps without me to protect her. All the same, my grin was a little strained.

  She noticed, brushing her foot against my calf under the table. Just so I’d know she knew I was concerned, and appreciated it, but was OK. Communication is a wonderful thing.

  “Calm down, Marine,” she told Khan. “What I meant is maybe she could teach you dumb jarheads how to please a woman. She’s probably got a good perspective.”

  The squad broke
into laughter.

  “I don’t need any pointers,” Johnson proclaimed, with all the self-assurance of a twenty-year-old.

  “Unless you’re giving ’em out, that is,” added O’Rourke, “in which case he’ll take notes.”

  Sabatini waited for the laughter at Johnson’s expense to die down then leaned forward and said in a conspiratorial whisper, “I’ll let you in on a special secret.” She looked right and left, as though assuring herself the coast was clear. “If you want to improve your skill in bed, just practice saying ‘loquacious’ fifty times a day.”

  With that, she turned and sauntered out.

  Most of us laughed, but Johnson was turning the concept over in his mind. His lips moved and his brows knit as he tried to figure the significance. It was like watching a new second lieutenant staring at an entrenching tool.

  “It’s a tongue twister, dumbshit!” explained O’Rourke.

  Johnson’s reaction settled the question of whether a black Marine can blush.

  “OK, you guys,” I said, climbing to my feet. “Guard duty in an hour. You probably better grab a cold shower first.”

  Chapter 26

  8 JUN 2078

  ASTEROID BELT RESCUE SUBSTATION ECHO 7

  “Didn’t the fact that we captured one of the pirate prizes tip them off?” I asked. “I wondered how we managed to surprise them after that.”

  “Apparently not,” Jensen answered. “They were trying to keep communications down, to avoid any chance of interception, and they weren’t a very disciplined lot. A ship going rogue and taking its time to report wasn’t completely out of the question. The mercenary leader did think more of his men, but his concerns weren’t taken all that seriously.”

  “Good thing for us,” I replied.

  SNN News File8, courtesy Brian Jensen

  23 Dec 2075

  Unconventional Forces Training Center, Ganymede

  Milos Radicz wished he had loyal troops at his command. Three of the four vessels had returned from their missions, but Slawco, the one officer he actually trusted, had not yet reported in. There were scattered reports of a fight. He prayed the ship had not been captured. If the location of this base were revealed...

  Squalid as the outpost was, Radicz hoped to leave it on his own terms, not under arrest or blasted into his component molecules by a fleet from Earth. O’Hooley swore that the US Navy contacts would know of any move before it was made, and they were silent, but he still felt a rumble in his gut. The intelligence service was far from infallible.

  In the meantime, he had to mediate disputes among his men. Some of the Irish paramilitary exiles (of whom the foolish Americans had given him both faiths) were dredging up old scores, and the fundamentalist Muslim troops were holding an uneasy truce with his own Orthodox soldiers. He shook his head and again cursed the choices which had led him to this rock. At least he had no Indian Hindus to wrestle with the handful of Pakistani extremists he had in his company.

  He dispatched a sharp message to O’Hooley and prayed that Slawco and his crew would soon be back.

  Chapter 27

  24 DEC 2075

  USS TRIPOLI

  If there is one thing I despised about my years in the Corps, it was the cleaning. I understand cleaning weapons. If you don’t, they malfunction and you die. Same thing for our body armor and breathing equipment. And I don’t have anything against policing up the area. In the field it keeps the rats, flies and disease down, and nobody wants to live in squalor. But the whole spit-and-polish, bulkheads-that-shine and decks-you-can-eat-off routine is pure chickenshit. No unit ever won a battle because it had the sparkliest squadbay and heads that smelled of rose petals.

  Besides, if I wanted to clean for a living, I’d have been a janitor. God knows the pay is better. Commercial ships have automated systems to clean and maintain just about everything. It is an old Naval tradition, however, that mindless work is good for morale—or maybe just keeps the crew too tired to mutiny—so military vessels lack such conveniences.

  This attitude, which I’m sure started among some spoiled gentlemen officers in the British Empire who had servants to polish their boots and brass, always rubbed me the wrong way. Kind of like when you complained of being bored as a kid and your mom suggested you clean your room, when all you wanted to do was hang out with your buddies and run around the woods playing war.

  Come to think of it, it’s exactly like that.

  So I was in a foul mood that afternoon as I knelt on the deck, scrubbing furiously with a scuz brush at some scuff marks in the passageway. The whole squad was similarly engaged, except Sgt LeBlanc, who was at a meeting with the Old Man, which left me in charge. Being a corporal wasn’t enough to get me off cleaning detail, but it was enough to prevent me from bitching as loudly as insubordinate non-ranks like Terry.

  “What’s the point of this field day, Corp?” Kovanian asked.

  I hesitated. As an NCO, I couldn’t say it was a stupid order, given because the brass lacked the imagination to find us something useful to occupy our time, but I wasn’t about to sling the whole “this ship is your home” bullshit at a brother Marine.

  I decided on, “We do it because it’s a lawful order.”

  “But it’s a stupid order,” he persisted. “We could get this done in half the time with automatic buffers.”

  I stopped scrubbing. I looked around at my squad. The new guys awaited my explanation with the hope of enlightenment, the old salts with amusement as to how Mick was going to justify this exercise and thus preserve the sacred chain of command and safeguard discipline in God’s Own Marine Corps.

  I rocked back on my haunches. “OK Marines. Listen up. This is a stupid order. You all agree on that?”

  They nodded and voiced their affirmation with a chorus of grunts. “Ooh fucking rah,” came from somewhere, probably Terry.

  “But we do it, right?” I let a little steel into my voice.

  Again, the muttered agreement, although more subdued.

  “One day, your superior is gonna order you to charge an enemy machine gun, and there ain’t nothin’ stupider than that. This is just breaking you in gently.”

  They laughed at that.

  “And looking around, you see the rest of us knuckleheads following the stupid order right along with you. Reassures you we’re all dumb enough to rush that gun with you.”

  “Damn, Mick,” said Johnson in awe. “You just boiled twelve weeks of boot camp down to three sentences.”

  Everybody laughed at that, and the work, still mindless, went easier.

  As we labored away, the squad started talking, playing over the old ritual of “what did you do in the world before the Corps.” Us old veterans told the same lies as usual. I was interested in what the new guys had to say, though.

  “I grew up in Iowa,” said Kovanian.

  Aha! I thought, I was right about the farm boy. But I wasn’t.

  “My dad was big in real estate, wanted me to follow him in the business, but I wanted to see the world first.”

  “Joke’s on you, then,” O’Rourke said with a smirk, “since they sent you off it.”

  I couldn’t get past the image of Kovanian in a suit and tie selling real estate. Stick a straw in his mouth, give him a “John Deere” hat and the guy was a poster boy for “Farm Aid 70.”

  “You don’t look like a land baron,” I observed politely.

  “Grandpa made a killing in real estate out east, then moved the business to Iowa. The old style farms were folding. More and more of the food was being grown in labs. Dad bought a lot of the old thousand-acre places, developed ’em and sold ’em. Affordable homes for city families who thought half an acre was a barony. Then he leased a bunch of fields to the power companies for windmills after the petroleum ban of ‘54. Made a pile.”

  Shows what a judge of character I am.

  Khan had a very different tale.

  “I picked the Corps over prison,” he said.

  “Say what?” asked Joh
nson.

  Khan shrugged. “I grew up in Detroit. Bad neighborhood. Ran with the wrong crowd. I got into some trouble. Nothing big. Just stupid stuff. Graffiti, broken windows, that kind of thing. Then I started stealing cars.” He shrugged again, looked at the deck. “Guess I wasn’t very good. I got busted. Judge gave me the option of the military. I figured I was in the toughest gang back on the block, why not the toughest service?”

  “Wise choice, the Marines over prison,” said Li gravely. “In prison they shave your head. Make you wear the same uniform as everyone else. Keep you confined in a small facility. Shout orders. Make you do mindless tasks. Very wise choice, the Marines.”

  He said it all with a straight face. You had to know Li very well to detect the humor.

  Bauer asked me, “Hey Mick, have you and O’Rourke been in the same team your whole hitch?”

  “Yeah, Mick,” added Sabatini with a twisted smile. “You two have been together long enough to be considered married in some states.”

  “I’d ask him,” said Terry. “But he’s a lousy dancer.”

  “And he won’t put out,” I replied.

  “I need a little romancing,” he countered.

  “OK, before we have to hose you two down, or Rodriguez asks you to dance, have you always been the Two Musketeers?” Sabatini asked.

  “Yep. Ever since second grade at St Joseph’s,” I said.

  “It was the Three Musketeers when we enlisted, though,” added Terry. “Us and Jimmy Sullivan.”

  “Good old Sully. He was a hell of a point man.”

  “What’s he doing now?” asked Kovanian.

  “Decomposing,” answered Terry.

  “I’m sorry—”

  “Don’t be,” I replied. “Sully died in a lifter crash on a training exercise. New assault vehicle to replace the old Osprey class. He volunteered to go to the testing unit. Figured it would be easier duty at Cherry Point than Lejeune. Too bad.” I shook my head.

  “Yep. That was our first fire team. Me, Mick, Sully and Cpl Roberts,” Terry went on.