by Tom Kratman
Her invitation had had a number to call. Somehow, she hadn’t been surprised when it rang in the Estado Mayor, and in Carrera’s office, no less. Not that the enemy commander had answered himself, of course, but a couple of questions had made it clear enough that one of his aides de camp had. She called on a speaker phone so Hendryksen could listen in.
“Tribune Santillana,” the answerer had announced. “Officina del Duque.”
It was an odd rank, to Campbell’s ear. Worse, she didn’t speak much Spanish. Still…“Tribune, this is Captain Campbell, Army of Anglia seconded to the Tauran Union Security Force…”
The tribune switched to not badly accented English without missing a beat. Indeed, his English would probably have been more easily understandable to someone not from Campbell’s own country than her English was.
“Yes, Captain,” the tribune said, “Legate Fernandez advised me you would probably be calling and Duque Carrera approved. How can I help you? I know you’ve been invited to observe training.”
Jan breathed a minor sigh of relief. She hated speaking or trying to speak in a language she wasn’t totally fluent in.
“What do I do from here?” she asked. “The instructions gave…well…not a lot of detail.”
“I haven’t seen them,” Santillana said. “We’re not that great administratively, frankly. All I had was nothing more than the bare word that you were invited, that you had a choice of units, and that you were to be shown every courtesy consistent with not letting a no doubt clever girl like yourself see too much.”
That last was said with half a laugh and got a full one in return from Campbell.
“So what would you like to see?”
Infantry, Hendryksen mouthed. “Infantry,” Campbell repeated.
“Okay,” said Santillana, “Second Maniple, Second Tercio, Second Legion is about to do a full mobilization as Second Cohort, Second Tercio. They’re pretty representative. Honestly, personal opinion, they’re a little better than most, but still nobody too special or elite. Will that do?”
At Hendryksen’s exaggerated nod, Campbell said, “Splendidly.”
“Very good,” said the tribune. “If you will be so kind as to meet me at the main gate of Fort Guerrero at, let’s say, nine tomorrow morning?”
“Done,” said Campbell. “And thank you, Tribune.”
After she’d broken the connection, she asked Hendryksen, “Why infantry?”
“Because if all else fails,” the sergeant major answered, “the quality of the infantry they can field will tell us a lot about how much they’re going to make us bleed.”
Fuerte Guerrero, Balboa, Terra Nova
With the sun rising blood red in the east, Legate Suarez, Commander of the 2nd Legion, walked briskly into the Legion conference room accompanied by the CO of the Second Tercio, Legate Chin. Nobody was quite sure where Chin’s name had come from; anybody would have taken him for a pure Castilian.
The first centurion of Number Two Maniple, Ricardo Cruz, back from his temporary duty with the cadets, called the room to attention. Suarez walked up to the rostrum standing in front of the chairs and ordered the assembled officers, centurions, and NCOs to take their seats.
“Gentlemen. This has become something of a tradition over the years. It is a tradition I can live with. Although, perhaps much like you, I will not mourn the day when this will not be necessary…when we will be able to assume our full ranks for a bit over three weeks, once a year.”
Suarez turned to his adjutant. “Are you prepared to post the orders?”
“Sir!”
“Gentlemen…if you will stand…Adjutant, read the orders.”
“Attention to orders.” All the men present stiffened slightly. “Number Two Maniple, Second Infantry Tercio, Second Legion, Legion del Cid, is raised to Second Cohort, Second Infantry Tercio, Second Legion, Legion del Cid, by order of Duque Patricio Carrera, Commander, Legion del Cid. Further, it is ordered by the same authority that the officers, warrant officers, centurions, noncommissioned officers, and enlisted men of Second Cohort are to are to assume their Mobilization Level Three ranks and titles; such ranks and titles to be in effect until completion of the cohort’s annual training.
“The purpose of said elevation is to conduct annual training for Second Cohort (MobLev 3).
“Signed: P. Carrera, Duque.”
Suarez called, “At ease…assume your ranks.”
The men of Second Cohort relaxed and, with much joking and laughing, began to help each other to change insignia. The centurions and reserve centurions needed no help. They simply unscrewed the baser metal end pieces from their sticks and replaced them with a metal of higher standing. Ricardo Cruz changed his silver end pieces for gold. Next to him young Julio Porras tried putting on the pips for tribune I in place of his small signifer’s pips. Porras seemed nervous, fumbling with the insignia, until Cruz offered to help.
“Thanks, Centur…Sergeant Major.”
“No sweat, sir.”
* * *
Two and a half hours later, after the obligatory series of toasts to the success of the fully mobilized Second Cohort at their upcoming training, along with some related pleasantries, the command and staff of the cohort met in the conference room outside the commander’s office. These included the cohort exec, the sergeant major, the operations officer, also called the—Roman numeral—“I,” the Ia, Ib, and Ic—operations, quartermaster, and intelligence, respectively—the II, also called the “adjutant,” the assistant for each, plus five company commanders, their executive officers, plus the combat support company’s platoon leaders, Scouts, Heavy Mortars, Sappers, and Light Armor, and the medical platoon leader and supply and transport platoon leader.
Before the commander, a legate I, entered the room, there was a knock on the door. Sergeant Major Cruz opened it, to see someone he recognized as Carrera’s aide de camp, Tribune Santillana. Behind the tribune was an extravagantly well-built blonde, with skin so white she’d have stood out among even the blondest and whitest of the locals.
Almost Cruz whistled. Carrera didn’t tell me back at that beach joint that he was going to send us a movie star. I am impressed. I am also going to act surprised.
“What is this, Tribune?” the sergeant major asked.
Santillana produced Campbell’s invitation, then explained it in as few words as possible.
“We’re going to be living rough, hard, and fast,” said Cruz, feigning ignorance. “I don’t know if a woman…”
“I’ll keep up,” said Jan Campbell, in Spanish.
“She will, too,” piped in a goateed and uniformed foreigner, from behind Campbell, and in better Spanish. “She’s Captain Jan Campbell, Army of Anglia. I’m Sergeant Major Hendryksen, Army of Cimbria.”
Cruz looked again at Santillana. “What are they allowed to…?”
“Everything but the secret things. The boss told me that he wants them to see the unvarnished reality of the legion, what we’re good at, what we’re not so good at or even bad at.”
“All right,” said Cruz. “I’ll explain it to the legate. In the interim, welcome to you both. You’re just about in time for our first staff meeting as a mobilized cohort, this year. Come on in and find seats, while I go inform the legate.”
“I’m to stick around for a couple of days,” said Santillana, “until they have their feet on the ground and are comfortable.”
“That’s very decent of you, Tribune,” said Hendryksen.
“Just part of the job.”
* * *
On ordinary days, in ordinary months, the “Old Man” of the maniple was a tribune II, Velasquez by name. Velasquez would plus up to a tribune III when the reservists were mobilized, to include for weekend training assemblies. But when the entire body of the cohort, regulars, reservists, and militia were called up, as now, he pinned on the silver eagle of a junior legate. He wasn’t really comfortable with the system but, like most, put up with it.
He and his new sergeant m
ajor had known each other since a few days before the now-legate had worked out a short term cease fire in the middle of a vicious fight for Ninewa, Sumer. Cruz had acquired his estimate of the legate back then: Decency and balls, and you can’t ask for a lot more than those.
“Why us?” Velasquez asked. “What the hell did we do to deserve this?”
“I…ummm…I volunteered us, sir,” Cruz admitted.
“Why the fuck would you do that?” Velasquez asked, bewildered.
“I was asked to make a recommendation, sir. By the Duque. You would have preferred I told him, ‘Oh, anybody but us, Duque. Second of the Second sucks aurochs cock; it’s well known.’”
“Phrased that way,” Velasquez admitted, “maybe not. But, Jesus, this is going to be a pain in the ass.”
Cruz shook his head. “I don’t think so, sir. Both the Taurans seem pretty reasonable. And sir? When you see the tits on the Anglian woman, you will think it’s all worth it.”
“Really?” Velasquez asked doubtfully.
“Sir, the very platonic essence of feminine boobage. Magnificent.”
“All right. At least I’ll put a good face on it. Go out to the conference room. I’ll be there about thirty seconds after you.”
* * *
“II,” Velasquez said, addressing the adjutant, “status of the cohort?”
The adjutant stood up and consulted his clipboard. “Sir, the cohort has an assigned strength of seven hundred and seventy-six, not including attachments. This is twenty-nine less than full strength, but certainly combat capable. The men, again not including attachments, include forty-seven regulars, one hundred and forty reservists, and five hundred and eighty-nine militia. Of these, seven hundred and fifty-five have reported for duty. That puts us at approximately ninety-three and a bit percent of wartime strength, still counting attached teams and sections. Of the missing twenty-one, one—Corporal Peña—has called to announce that his wife is having a baby. After checking with the doctor I took it upon myself to authorize him a forty-eight hour unpaid leave. The Tercio sergeant major, Sergeant Major Arredondo, will foot march Peña out to join us on Sunday.”
Everyone but the two Taurans winced in sympathy. Getting foot marched out to the field by “Scarface” Arredondo was not something anyone would look forward to.
“Three men are in jail,” the adjutant continued. “I have notified the authorities and they will be released to us this afternoon, their sentences to be served after annual training. A further eleven are at various technical and leadership courses, including two at the advanced field fortification course out on the island and three at Cazador School.
“A further two are in advanced civil schooling. The cohort staff judge advocate has a civil trial coming up he says he can’t delay any more. He’ll join us the end of next week. Two are sick and in hospital; I sent my assistant around to check and they are sick.”
“That’s twenty,” Velasquez said.
“Private Carillo,” the adjutant muttered. Cruz and two other centurions, along with two officers, rolled their eyes.
“I’m afraid he’s given no word, sir,” said the adjutant. “The police force has been informed of his failure to report. His…Private Carillo’s…apprehension is expected within the hour…”
Velasquez told the adjutant, “Send flowers…my tab…to Mrs. Peña.” He then asked of Cruz, “What do you recommend be done with Carillo, Top?”
“Sir. Frankly, Carillo is a piece of shit. Or, rather, his wife is and he dotes on the bitch. We’ve tried to accommodate him—or her—before, without success. I suggest that, this time, the full rigor of the law be applied. I also suggest that the police be informed to watch the wife in his absence. We owe him that much, anyway.” Cruz looked at Carillo’s centurion as if defying a contrary answer.
Velasquez observed the visual exchange and assumed that the platoon leader, Centurion Ramos, agreed with Cruz. “Very well, Top. Seventeen days at hard labor in the civil prison system…unpaid…followed by another thirty in the tercio disciplinary platoon…half pay, but only upon condition of adequate performance. If that doesn’t work then we’ll court-martial him, kick him out, and he’ll never become a citizen.”
Velasquez’s gaze shifted to his Ib. “Quartermaster, speak to me of more material matters.”
“Sir. Broadly speaking, we’re at a little better than ninety percent. All the mortars are up…well, one was in for borescoping but I borrowed a tube from Third Cohort, so they’re up. Of the six Ocelots tercio attached to us, only five are working. The other needs a new engine and the maintenance platoon doesn’t have one on hand. Trucks…we’ve got nineteen of twenty-three up. The other four should be up within a day or two. All the lighter vehicles are in fair form and the mules are recently shod, though the farmers that had to give them to us are not happy campers.”
“They never are,” Velasquez said. “Even so, let’s make damned sure they get their mules back in at least as good a shape as they gave them to us. The vet’s inspected them?”
“Yes, sir,” the quartermaster said, “just before we signed.
“Night vision and radios are good, but we’re having a minor battery shortage, so we’re going to have to conserve a bit.”
“Ration schedule?” asked Velasquez.
“Well…sir…we’re going to have to talk about that one…”
* * *
The cohort, including vehicles and the mobilized mule train, stretched back for five kilometers, the foot troops marching—weighed down like pack animals—in the blistering Balboan sun. Though, of course, Velasquez had an assigned vehicle, he marched up front, laden like his men. At the rear marched Sergeant Major Cruz’s, likewise bowed under a near killing load. Signifer Porras marched by Cruz’ side, more heavily laden because much less experienced. Laden or not, though, between the two they managed to keep control of the inevitable stragglers; inevitable because two thirds of the men were militia, trained for only twenty-five or so days a year. And it had been a year.
An older militiaman gritted his teeth and tried to smile as he forced worn legs to the limit to keep ahead of Cruz and Porras.
Cruz took a couple of deep breaths then churned out, “Just right, Private San Sebastio. One foot in front of the other and knowing the pain won’t last forever.” Cruz felt a bit of a hypocrite; San Sebastio had a good dozen years on him and had made it this far only on sheer mule-headedness.
“No sweat, Sergeant Major,” said the elderly private. “I’ll make it.”
“I have no doubt of that,” encouraged Cruz. “You will make it.”
Porras asked Cruz in a whisper why the “Old Man,” the commander, was setting such a difficult pace considering how old and out of shape some of the militia were.
“It’s a judgment call,” answered Cruz, equally softly. “In this case, I think he’s right. We’ve got the militia with us. They haven’t trained officially, other than weapons qualification, in a year. Hurting the ones who didn’t make the effort to keep in shape on their own is probably the only way to get them to keep themselves in some kind of shape throughout the year. Sure, it’s hard on the old salts like San Sebastio. But if we didn’t make this first march a hard, painful memory, even the younger militiamen would get sloppy.”
“Okay, I guess,” Porras said. The younger man was in some awe of the Cruz de Coraje in gold—the medal was actually the field version, dull black with a little dull brushed gold showing—that glittered at Cruz’s neck. He was equally in awe of the sergeant major’s complete self-confidence, and the way the men all looked up to him.
It was whispered that on one occasion Cruz had pulverized three half-drunk privates and a corporal who had dared to speak back to the company commander. Porras hadn’t seen that—it had been before his time—but he believed it completely.
It was also whispered that that had been the last incident of that kind of indiscipline that old unit had ever experienced.
Maybe Velasquez is the brains of the outfit, th
ought Porras, but the sergeant major is its heart and soul.
Porras knew that he himself was, at best, a brain under training, adjudged too bright to be a heart. He knew he was not needed, although all hoped he might someday become useful.
Cruz reached out with his badge of office, his stick, the metal ornamented baton that was a centurion or sergeant major’s sole badge of rank, and tapped a militiaman—not San Sebastio—who had begun to fall behind.
“Back up with your platoon, son,” said the sergeant major. “I mean…RUN!” Cruz’s stick slapped again…and rather more stingingly. The militiaman began to run to catch up, panting and dripping sweat.
Porras noted the absolute certainty with which Cruz had acted and hoped…hoped…that someday he might be able to command so effortlessly.
The radio Porras carried on his back, in addition to the rest of his load, crackled to life. Porras answered immediately. It was the commander.
“Top, the old man wants you at the front of the column, now.”
“Right, sir,” said Cruz, as he quickly changed pace to a slow trot. “You keep up the rear.”
Cruz had just about made the front of the column when it began to turn into its bivouac area for the night.
* * *
Hendryksen had offered to let Jan drive and walk himself, bu’ nooo, she wouldna lis’en. Thus, he arrived at the cohort’s bivouac site in fine form, with no more sweat than might be expected of a Cimbrian in a tropical rain forest. She, on the other hand…
“Oh, God, Kris,” she moaned, stripped down to trousers and a sweat soaked t-shirt, back against a tree, and bare and blistered feet elevated and resting on her rucksack, “these people are fuckin’ maniacs.”
“It’s possible,” he concurred. “But speaking of maniacs…”
“Ah, fuck off, ye bloody Viking.”
“Do you want me to find a medic to look at your feet?” he asked.
“Nah, I can do it meself,” she replied. “Mostly, I already have. But if you could dig through me rucksack and find a sheet o’ moleskin…”
