Ride The Rising Tide (The Maxwell Saga)

by Peter Grant

  Markovitch brought a unique perspective to bear on junior leadership in combat, using statistics to draw conclusions that sometimes startled his students. “During the Second Global War on Old Home Earth,” he pointed out, “infantry divisions of the United States Army were authorized to have 132 Second Lieutenants — junior platoon commanders, in other words. Over the course of the war, across all divisions, they lost that many of them — killed, wounded or missing — every 88 combat days. That means on average, three of their Second Lieutenants became casualties every two days in combat. They were authorized 99 infantry captains — company commander level — and lost that many every 294 combat days, for an average of one captain down every three days. That’s a far lower casualty rate than for Second Lieutenants. Would anyone like to suggest why the latter became casualties so much more frequently?”

  Responses came thick and fast. “Captains learned how to take care of themselves, so they lasted longer.”

  “No, Captains sent Second Lieutenants and their platoons into the front line while they remained further back, so as to exercise company command more effectively.”

  “There were more platoon engagements than company engagements, so the Second Lieutenants saw more fighting.”

  The Major held up a hand and waited for silence. “You’re all missing the most obvious reason. Occam’s Razor reminds us that when there are multiple possible explanations for something, the simplest is most likely to be correct. In this case, the simplest explanation is also the right one. Many of those Second Lieutenants simply weren’t up to the job.

  “There are several reasons why that was so. Some of them had been commissioned on the basis of possessing civilian academic qualifications. Unfortunately, in those more primitive times, it was wrongly assumed that civilian academic achievement correlated to military leadership potential. Others entered the military through conscription, underwent basic training and had a few months enlisted experience — usually not including combat — then were sent to an officer’s course because they’d performed well so far. In most cases, their training was inadequate; and even when it was adequate, very few of them had a meaningful foundation of experience to help them integrate theoretical training into the reality of combat. As a result, far too many of them failed; and apart from their own pointless deaths, they needlessly killed far too many of their troops through their mistakes.”

  He paused to take a sip of water from the glass on the desk beside him. “Still others became officers because it was arbitrarily decided that certain positions or jobs rated a commission. For example, by the end of the Second Global War the Western Allies commissioned most of their pilots as officers, simply because a pilot’s job was held to involve sufficient responsibility to make that appropriate. That wasn’t the case, of course — enlisted pilots had built up a stellar record in the air forces of all powers, just as the vast majority of our small craft pilots today are enlisted. Still, that’s how they thought back then. Pilots weren’t commissioned primarily because of their leadership qualities, but because they could fly, and were in charge of relatively expensive assets.”

  It was Brooks’ turn to raise his hand, frowning. “But, Sir, by definition, officers are expected to be leaders. What does flying ability have to do with leadership?”

  “A very good question, Candidate Shelby. Officer training back then assumed that leadership could be taught. We’ve learned the hard way that it can’t. We can teach you how to manage others or administer a given function, but we can’t implant in you the kind of character that inspires others to follow you even in situations of mortal peril. You either have that, or you don’t.” He looked around the classroom. “We try very hard to select for that sort of character in our candidates, but it’s a rare commodity. Your future careers will be the test of whether or not you have it, even more than your service record to date. That’s why we won’t promote an officer beyond O–3 grade without either combat or expeditionary experience in commissioned rank — preferably both. They’re acid tests for leadership.”

  Major Markovitch sobered all of them with his exposition of why the Fleet had adopted its officer selection and training system. “We’re the only major military power in the settled galaxy to insist that all combat officer candidates must first prove themselves in our enlisted ranks. There’s another, smaller military force that does likewise; the Gurkha mercenaries of the planet Gandaki. We borrowed that idea from them in the first place, along with several others. Unsurprisingly, they’re generally regarded as being equal to our own Marine Corps. Even we Marines are forced to grudgingly admit that they’re almost as good as us!” Laughter from the Spacer candidates, interspersed with rueful nods from the Marines.

  “That policy means those with political or other influence can’t insinuate themselves into our officer corps without earning their position the hard way. It also makes it easier for us to prevent cliques forming among officers — what they used to call ‘old boy networks’ or ‘Academy mafias’. Since all our combat officers undergo the same training, there’s no incentive to favor those who were commissioned by following a particular route.

  “It also gives us the ability to assess a candidate’s potential more thoroughly over years of enlisted service, and means that our junior officers have all had several years’ military experience before being commissioned. They don’t have to fumble their way through things they’ve never done before or don’t fully understand — unlike those Second Lieutenants during the Second Global War, of whom we spoke earlier.”

  Candidate Rao raised his hand. “Sir, doesn’t our policy cause us to lose many potential officers who don’t want to serve in enlisted ranks, or don’t want to wait several years in junior ranks hoping to be selected for OCS, but with no certainty that’ll happen?”

  “Yes, it does; but we’ve accepted that penalty, because we believe the benefits of our system outweigh its disadvantages. Even so, it does leave us perennially short of officers. We’ve developed some workarounds. We give a lot more responsibility and authority to our Senior NCO’s than do most other armed forces, and our Warrant Officer and Limited Duty Officer programs offer them opportunities to rise to more senior rank in technical and specialist functions. Our Service Corps offers a restricted, non–combatant Fleet career path, freeing Spacer and Marine officers for combat leadership. All those programs are invaluable, and we couldn’t function without them. However, they’re not why you’re here.”

  Markovitch looked around the room. “You aspire to be line officers; combat leaders. Apart from a battlefield commission, there’s only one road to that in the Lancastrian Commonwealth Fleet. It runs from Boot Camp, through enlisted service, to the gates of the Officer Candidate Schools on each of our Sector Headquarters planets.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Field problems were held once per week. At first one candidate would command a group of four to eight fellow students, tackling a relatively simple mission. By the end of OCS the groups had grown to half– or even full platoon size, and the candidate ‘Commanding Officer’ might have up to half a dozen subordinate ‘officers’ to supervise different parts of the operation.

  Steve’s third and final field problem in command came during the second–last week of OCS. By this stage of the course their numbers had shrunk by about twenty per cent, and his platoon was down to thirty–two candidates. He organized it into two squads of twelve, each sub–divided into three four–man sections. The remaining eight candidates were divided into a four–person scout team and Steve’s four–strong platoon headquarters section. To his pleasure, Brooks was appointed as his second in command. That suited him perfectly. He’d have made the same choice if he’d had any say in the matter.

  The problem involved approaching a ‘target’ over a ten–kilometer course through a forested area, then crossing a stream to set up an assault on a hill. Unfortunately, for two days prior to the exercise it rained non–stop. The downpour continued during their march. The ground was sodden and
slick with mud, so deep in places that their boots sank in up to the ankles, making progress very difficult and extraordinarily fatiguing. They were more than two hours behind schedule by the time they reached the stream, only to find it three times its normal breadth, swollen out of its banks. A torrent of water rushed past them carrying branches, small trees and all sorts of debris, including — incongruously — an entire chiller, which bobbed past on the crest of a wave, spinning wildly.

  Staff Sergeant Hernandez was at the scene. He was a Marine instructor with another platoon, whom Steve didn’t know well. He was clearly extremely annoyed at being made to wait for them in the pouring rain.

  “Candidate, you’re late! What do you have to say for yourself?”

  Steve came to attention. “Staff Sergeant, we lost time due to the deep mud. There was no way to avoid it without leaving the designated course; but we’d been ordered not to do that, so as to avoid damage to private property.”

  “A likely excuse! You’ve got to get ropes over that stream so your platoon can cross. How are you going to do it?”

  “I haven’t had time to reconnoiter the stream, Staff Sergeant. With your permission, I’ll do that now before making further plans.”

  “Well, get on with it! I’ve got better things to do than stand around in this bloody rain, waiting for you!” Hernandez stamped off, still fuming.

  Steve and Brooks approached the stream carefully, searching up and down the banks for suitable tie–off points for hand and foot ropes. There were none within easy reach. Brooks pointed out, “The stream’s risen above all the trees we normally use for this crossing. The only way to reach them is to send a swimmer out there with a line.”

  Steve grimaced. “Yeah, but the light’s fading so fast it’ll be hard to see what we’re doing, and the water’s too deep and flowing too swiftly for a swimmer to risk it, even without the added hazard of all that floating debris. I think we’ve either got to cross somewhere else, where it’s safer, or abandon the exercise.”

  Brooks frowned. “You know you’re running a huge risk if you tell Hernandez that, the mood he’s in now?”

  “What’s the alternative? Get someone killed or badly hurt for no good reason?”

  His roommate sighed. “You gotta do what you gotta do. Hey, if it helps, I agree with you, and I’ll tell Hernandez that myself.”

  “No, don’t do that. No sense in both of us getting our heads chopped off. Get everyone into formation.”

  “OK. One thing, though — remember you can ask for a senior instructor to arbitrate any dispute over safety issues. You might need that tonight.”

  “Good point! Thanks for reminding me.”

  Steve marched over to Hernandez, as best he could over the broken, muddy ground, and came to attention. “Staff Sergeant, I’ve inspected the banks with my second–in–command. It’s my judgment that there’s too little light remaining, and the stream is too swollen and fast–moving, and there’s too much debris in the water, for us to safely put lines over and get across here. I therefore request permission to either find a better, safer place to cross, or abandon the exercise at this point on the grounds that conditions are too hazardous to continue.”

  “WHAT? Are you out of your mind, candidate?”

  Steve quailed internally, but held his ground. “Staff Sergeant, my evaluation is that it’s unsafe to continue this exercise using the designated route.”

  “Like hell! I’m ordering you to get across that stream, right now!”

  “Staff Sergeant, I acknowledge your order; but before obeying it, out of concern for the safety of my platoon, I respectfully request arbitration by a senior instructor.”

  Steve knew he’d have to live with the consequences of his request. If a senior instructor ratified Hernandez’ order, he’d almost certainly be dropped from the course at once.

  Hernandez stuttered furiously, “I… you… oh, hell!”

  He stalked a few paces away, dragged a radio from his belt and made a call. Steve heard him speaking, but couldn’t make out his words over the rush of the wind and the lash of the rain. At last he returned the radio to his belt.

  “A senior instructor is on his way, candidate. Wait with your platoon.” Hernandez’ voice was curt, brisk, still angry.

  “Aye aye, Staff Sergeant.”

  Steve took up his position at the head of the formation. Most of his fellow candidates stared at him, some with pity in their eyes. It was clear many of them thought he’d just comprehensively blown his chance at a commission. Steve had a hollow, sick feeling in the pit of his stomach that they might be right; but looking out towards the stream in the fading light, he consoled himself with the thought that he’d make the same call again if he had to. It wasn’t worth risking lives unnecessarily for what was, after all, only an exercise.

  Within minutes they saw the lights of a utility vehicle approaching along a path running on top of an embankment set back from the stream. It stopped, the door opened, and an immense figure climbed out. Steve realized at once that Master Chief Petty Officer Dumisane had come in person to find out what was going on.

  Staff Sergeant Hernandez hurried to the vehicle and spoke for a few moments. Dumisane listened, nodding, then came over to the platoon, Hernandez following him.

  “What’s this all about, Candidate Maxwell?”

  Steve came to attention. “Master Chief, I respectfully submit that in this fading light, considering the breadth, depth and speed of the water and the debris it contains, it would be unsafe to attempt to construct a rope crossing over the stream at this place. I believe the risk of injury or death is unacceptably high. I therefore respectfully request permission to either find a safer place to cross, or to abandon the exercise at this point.”

  “You’re sure about that? Don’t want to change your mind?”

  “I’m sure, Master Chief.”

  Dumisane glanced over Steve’s shoulder. “Yes, candidate?”

  From behind him Steve heard Brooks’ voice. “Master Chief, this candidate respectfully submits that he inspected the stream with Candidate Maxwell, and agrees with his assessment.”

  Steve couldn’t help an instant mental reaction of, Brooks, you damn fool! Why didn’t you stay safely out of this? Even so, he couldn’t help being warmed by his roommate’s loyalty. Brooks had clearly decided Steve wasn’t going to go down alone, if it came to that.

  Dumisane nodded curtly. “Your submission is noted, Candidate Shelby. Candidate Maxwell, come with us. We’re going to take a closer look.”

  “Aye aye, Master Chief.”

  The instructors set off towards the stream. Steve followed, while the rest of the platoon remained in formation, looking on.

  The Master Chief Petty Officer stopped at the water’s edge, his face expressionless as he swept his eyes up– and downstream, then from side to side over the banks. It had grown dark enough that he took a powerful flashlight from his belt and used its beam to aid his inspection. At last he clicked off the light and turned to face Steve and the Staff Sergeant.

  “Candidate Maxwell, do you still maintain that conditions are too dangerous here?”

  Steve gulped. “Yes, Master Chief, with respect, I do.”

  Dumisane looked at him for a long moment, then nodded curtly. “I agree. Rejoin your platoon and stand by. I’ll be there in a moment.”

  The rush of exhilarated relief was almost overwhelming. Steve managed to get out, “Aye aye, Master Chief!” He turned and hurried back to the others.

  “What’s up?” Brooks hissed as he approached.

  “He agrees!”

  The entire platoon seemed to exhale in a single gusty sigh. Smiles broke out on every face.

  The Master Chief was still by the stream, talking with Staff Sergeant Hernandez, who appeared to be very unhappy. Dumisane eventually made a curt gesture of dismissal. Hernandez stiffened to attention, then stalked towards the utility vehicle, his face like thunder. The Master Chief came over to the platoon.

&nb
sp; “Candidate Maxwell, Candidate Shelby, come with me.” He led them away from the platoon, out of earshot, before continuing. “There’s no point in trying to find another place to cross the stream by rope bridge tonight. It runs through private property up– and downstream from here, which we don’t have permission to use; it’s far too swollen and dangerous; and there’s not enough light. We’ll abandon the exercise.

  “Candidate Maxwell, march your platoon down that path I’ve just used. After about a kilometer you’ll come to a road that crosses the stream over a small bridge. Do that, then take the next road to the right, and it’s a five–click march back to base.” He glanced at his watch. “I’ll give you two hours to get back. Make sure everyone puts on their reflective gear. There won’t be many drivers out on these back roads at night, but it’s hard to see pedestrians in darkness, especially during rain like this.”

  “Aye aye, Master Chief.”

  He looked at each of them in turn, a half–smile on his lips. “Candidate Shelby, you could have remained silent and let the blame — if any — fall on Candidate Maxwell alone. It took guts to back him up like that. Candidate Maxwell, you made a good call to point out to an instructor the dangers of continuing, and a gutsier one to ask for arbitration when he disagreed. Even though the exercise has been abandoned, you’ve both earned bonus points for leadership. Well done.”

  Steve felt another rush of relief. “Thank you, Master Chief!” Beside him Brooks echoed his thanks, a broad smile on his face.

  “Very well. On your way.”

  As they walked back to the platoon, Steve thrust out his hand. “Thanks, buddy. I owe you one.”

  Brooks grasped his hand firmly. “So buy me a beer at the graduation party.”

  “It’s a deal!”

  Despite the darkness, blustering wind and pelting rain, Steve felt a warm, happy glow all the way back to base.

  ~ ~ ~

  In the final week of OCS, the instructors interviewed each candidate separately and shared with them, anonymously, the evaluations submitted about them by their peers during the course. Steve was pleasantly surprised to find he’d received high marks from fellow students for leadership, knowledge and ability. He was less pleased to see several negative comments about his lack of patience. One commenter observed, “He’s too much of a perfectionist and doesn’t suffer fools gladly — even when the other person isn’t a fool.”