Recruit

by Jonathan P. Brazee

  Where the Navy office was opulent in a technically-advanced setting and the Legion’s office was understated, but classy, the Marine Corps recruiting station was Spartan. There was a plastocrete desk serving for reception, and on a poster on the wall in back of it was an image of a steely-eyed young man in the Marine Dress Blues staring at whomever would be standing in front of the desk. His chest was adorned in ribbons. Unlike at the Navy and Legion recruiting offices, there was no one waiting. In fact, there was no one in the front office at all.

  Proctor started to reach over the front reception desk when a door opened and a Marine and a young man walked out. The Marine was in a khaki shirt and blue trousers, a red stripe running down each leg. His left arm was shorter than normal and covered in the blue bio-wrap that indicated his arm was in the process of being regenerated. Ryck couldn’t help but wonder what happened to his original arm.

  “That is what we can offer you. After that, it would be in your hands. We aren’t going to coddle you, but we will give you the opportunity to maximize your capabilities. That we can promise you,” the Marine was saying.

  “You’ve got my number. If you have any further questions, I’m here for you,” he continued, shaking the young man’s hands.

  “Mr. Miller. You’re here for your ticket,” the Marine said as the young guy left the office. “Let me get that.”

  He pulled out his PA, and hit a few keys. “Open your PA and give it to me,” he told Proctor.

  Proctor complied, and the Marine tapped his PA on Proctor’s.

  “OK, you’ve got it. Be there three hours prior. Take only the items on the list I gave you. Nothing else,” he told Proctor before taking his hand and shaking it. “And are these your friends coming to see you off? A couple nights on the town before we own your soul?”

  If the Marine thought it odd that a Torritite would be hanging out with “Gentiles,” he never let that show.

  “No, Staff Sergeant Wassari, these are my friends, Ryck and Joshua. I just rescued them from in front of the Legion recruiting station, and I thought that since they have to wait anyway, they might as well come down and talk to you, you know, only for information, of course.”

  “The Legion? Good unit. Good men. They’re not Marines, of course, but if that’s what you want to achieve in your life, then I’m sure you will do well. But as Mr. Miller says, it doesn’t hurt to find out about the Corps and how we differ from the rest. Why don’t you step back into my lair and have a seat?” he asked.

  Said the spider to the fly, Ryck thought.

  “I’ll wait for you here,” Proctor said, taking a seat. “Maybe we can get dinner together after you’re all done for the day.”

  Ryck followed Joshua into the Marine’s office.

  Forty-five minutes later, new Marine Corps recruits Ryck Lysander and Joshua Hope-of-Life walked back out to a smiling Proctor.

  Tarawa: Recruit Training

  Chapter 3

  The ship landed in the middle of the night on Tarawa. The recruits debarked the Sally Ling when most of the passengers were either in the casino or in their staterooms asleep. The other passengers probably had no idea that more than 300 recruits had shared the voyage from Vegas. They’d been confined to their billets on F Deck since coming on board. The recruits had been quietly herded out of a cargo hatch, so as not to disturb the paying passengers’ night.

  It was still hot when they walked down the ramp despite the late hour. Ryck strained to make out anything about where he would be spending the next 42 weeks. It was just a standard spaceport, though, and as it didn’t have the glamour and non-stop advertising of Vegas’ main spaceport, it was not much different from the one back on Prophesy. There were a few murmurs coming from the recruits, but most of them walked in silence.

  That silence lasted until they passed through the door over which hung the innocuous sign with “RECEIVING” printed on it. Several civilians directed them to a processing center with five desks in the front. Each recruit gave his name and was scanned. Told to move in by their handlers, they were led outside where buses waited. Ryck got on board, saving seats for Joshua and Proctor.

  “That wasn’t too bad,” Proctor said as he got on and took the seat.

  “Yeah, I thought it would be tougher. I know the training itself will be harder, but I guess it isn’t as bad as what we read on the net,” Ryck said.

  The buses hissed as they lifted off the ground, and the drivers eased the rigs forward. The three recruits were in the second-to-last bus, and as they moved through the streets of Gibraltar, they tried to catch a view of the city’s infamous nightlife. Either that nightlife was somewhere else in the city, or the extent of it was something else that had been exaggerated on the net.

  It was after midnight, but excitement kept most of them awake as the busses picked up speed outside the city. Recruits talked in quiet voices as they discussed what was ahead of them. An hour later, the lights of Camp Charles broke the darkness. Everyone on board shut up as the buses slowed down in front of the gates. Two Marines in their dress blues were manning it, and they motioned the buses to enter. Ryck pushed his face up against the window to be able to see the arch over the gate,

  Per Terra et Mare written in gold-colored metal tubing.

  The buses pulled into a courtyard and stopped. Their civilian guide stood up in front of the bus, turning to face them.

  “OK, this is it. Welcome to Camp Charles. I need all of you to file off the bus, then cross in front and to the area to our left.”

  “What do we do then?” a voice asked towards the rear of the bus..

  “Oh, someone will tell you what to do. Don’t worry about that,” the man said with a chuckle. “And good luck,” he added as they started to file off.

  Ryck, Joshua, and Proctor stuck together as they moved past the bus and into a square with buildings closing in on three sides. Three hundred plus recruits milled about, wondering what was next. Two doors in the one of the buildings opened, sending light out into the square.

  “Come on you spineless worms, get your sorry asses on the yellow footprints!” a voice yelled out from the building.

  Ryck couldn’t see who was yelling, and he couldn’t see any yellow footprints, but he pushed ahead in the herd. He’d read about the infamous yellow footprints before leaving Prophesy and expected them, but reading about something and experiencing it were two different things. Despite himself, he could feel his heart rate soar.

  “Come on,” he told Joshua. “Push. We don’t want to be the last ones there.”

  “Move it, move it!” the voice screamed out. “I can’t believe what I’m seeing here! I refuse to see what pieces of shit think they can be Marines!”

  Other voices chimed in, coming from the sides. Ryck glanced around, and caught sight of a drill instructor closing in from behind. Like a minnow trying to escape a pike, he darted forward, pushing other recruits aside, not wanting to let the drill instructor get close. He’d lost Joshua and Proctor, but he saw the yellow footprints on the floor and got on top of the first free one he reached.

  The DIs continued to scream, their orders only interrupted by their observations on the worth of this batch of recruits; that worth wasn’t much. In position on his claimed footprints, he could see the DI in front of him. The man was red in the face and seemed to be in the throes of an epileptic fit. He was screaming out his displeasure, and Ryck was in awe of the man’s mastery of expressing his distaste. Ryck let his eyes drift down to the DI’s arms. He couldn’t remember if the stripes on the sleeves of his uniform meant the DI was a sergeant or corporal.

  “You eyeballing me, you piece of slime?” the DI shouted at Ryck.

  The shorter DI rushed forward, bending down slightly, then crooking his neck to look right up Ryck’s nostrils, it seemed to him.

  “You don’t rate eyeballing me, farm boy. You keep your eyeballs locked to the front, got it?”

  “Yes, sir!” Ryck shouted, looking straight ahead.

  �
�‘Sir?’ ‘Sir?’ Do I look like a fucking officer? I work for a living. It’s ‘Aye-aye sergeant,’ or ‘aye-aye drill instructor.’ Don’t ever call me sir.”

  “Yes, sir, sergeant!” Ryck stammered out.

  “‘Sir?’ What the hell did I just tell you? Can’t you follow a simple order?” the DI screamed.

  “Uh, aye-aye, sergeant!” he managed to get out.

  “Oh my loving Mary! I asked you a question! You answer yes or no. Not ‘aye-aye.’ If I tell you to do something, then it’s ‘aye-aye.’ My three-year-old niece can manage that!”

  Ryck had to think a moment before offering, “Yes, sergeant.”

  He wasn’t sure he was correct, but the DI had moved on to torment someone else. Ryck let out a sigh of relief.

  How did he know I was a farm boy, he wondered. Do I look like one?

  The next few hours were a blur. A roll call was made, and Ryck remembered to respond with the “Here, drill instructor” as directed. Quite a few other recruits couldn’t manage even that, and they paid the price with pushups. They were broken into groups, then herded to the barber, where their heads were shaved, to the sick bay, as Ryck learned the medical facility was called, for an analysis, and to uniform issue. Ryck had a complete physical two days before leaving Prophesy, so he wondered why another physical was necessary. Did they think they’d gotten some disqualifying condition while en route?

  Uniform issue was done within moments. They were lined up and handed a bundle of clothing, then told to march into an adjoining room to change. The uniforms were plain brown trousers and a shirt, a belt, boots, and a helmet. There hadn’t seemed to be any rhyme or reason to the issuance, and there didn’t look to be any nano-sizing that would adjust the uniforms to each recruit, but the uniforms seemed to fit. The old clothes that they had been wearing were put into plastic bags, sealed, and then taken away.

  Dawn was already breaking four hours later when they were marched into a cafeteria. They went through the receiving line to get their breakfast. Ryck caught a glimpse of Joshua, but they’d all been warned to keep their eyes to the front, so he couldn’t risk trying to catch his attention. He just sat down and shoveled in the food. It was tasteless, but he didn’t care. It was energy, and he’d had a feeling he was going to need as much energy as he could over the course of the day.

  Twenty minutes later, they were herded into an auditorium where they sat and waited.

  “What do you think is next?” the recruit to his left whispered.

  Ryck ignored the question. He wasn’t going to give the DIs any reason to target him.

  After another 10 minutes or so, a voice rang out with “Attention on deck!”

  Ryck jumped to his feet, eyes to the front as everyone stood up. With his peripheral vision, he saw eight Marines making their way down the center aisle and up on the stage. One Marine moved to center stage with another to his left. Another Marine took a position behind him, with a Marine to his left as well. A final four Marines marched to stand at attention in back of them.

  “At ease, recruits,” the one who had taken center stage said. “Take your seats. I am Captain Petrov, company commander for Delta Company, 1st Recruit Training Battalion,” he continued after the auditorium settled down. “To my left is First Sergeant Tyliman, the company chief drill instructor. Behind me is the series commander and series senior drill instructor, and behind them are the four senior drill instructors for the recruit platoons that make up the Follow Series. Each of you has been assigned to a training platoon. The number below the name on your chest is the number of your platoon. Get used to it. That platoon will be your home and family for the next 42 weeks.”

  Despite himself, Ryck glanced down at the white tag on his chest. Below the “Lysander, R.” was the number “1044.”

  “All of you have volunteered to become a Federation Marine. Many of you will not make it through recruit training. Some will wash out, some will quit. A few of you will probably die during training.”

  That made Ryck take notice. He knew that Marines faced danger in battle, but in recruit training?

  “One thing I need to make absolutely clear,” the captain went on, “is that we are not here to make you Marines. We are only here to give you the opportunity to earn the title of Marine. Whether you earn that title or not is up to you. We will not coddle you, we will not lead you by the hand. All we will do is show you the way. It will be up to you to make the journey and grab the prize at the end.

  “We have recruits from 53 planets here in the class, coming from 81 separate governing bodies. Some of your governments have been at odds with each other. All that stops here. The only tie you have now is to your squad, to your platoon, to the Corps. When you are sworn in, you are cutting the ties to the past.

  “Four other platoons in the Lead Series were formed yesterday. In a few minutes, you will formally join them, and your training will officially begin. I won’t wish you good luck. We don’t want Marines who were lucky to make it through training. We want Marines who fought for the title, who kicked and clawed past all the bad luck thrown their way to succeed.”

  The captain paused to scan the auditorium. Ryck couldn’t tell if he looked disappointed or please with the gathered recruits.

  “First Sergeant, bring the recruits to attention,” he told the Marine to his left.

  That Marine stepped forward before bellowing out, “Company, atten-hut!” and then “Raise your right hand and repeat after Captain Petrov,” once everyone was standing.

  “I, state your name,” the captain started, to be followed by an uneven chorus from the recruits,

  . . .do solemnly swear, to support and defend Articles of Council of the United Federation, against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same and above all others; and that I will obey the orders of the Chairman of the United Federation and the orders of the officers appointed over me, according to the Uniform Code of Military Justice. So help me God.

  “You are now officially recruits in the United Federation Marine Corps,” the company commander said.

  He did an about-face and said to the six Marines now in front of him, “Series commander, take charge of your series and carry out the remainder of the training schedule.”

  He did another about face, and without a word, marched off the stage and down the center aisle, followed by his first sergeant. Ryck risked a glance, then jerked his head back forward as four sets of drill instructors marched down the aisles to the front of the auditorium.

  Recruit training had begun.

  Chapter 4

  No Initial huffed alongside Ryck, his mouth open as he gasped for air. Up ahead, just outside the Liberty gate, Ryck could see Drill Instructor Despri waiting for them.

  “Come on, No Initial, another 500 meters and we’re done,” he got out between his own breathing. “Cold water, aircon; think of it.”

  Moreau just nodded, too winded to speak. “No Initial” Moreau was a big guy, almost two meters tall, and a solid 120 kg. He looked the part, but he’d struggled during the heavy

  PT the recruits had been put through the first four days of training, particularly during the runs. This run had “only” been six kilometers, two loops between the gate and The Lost Lady, a rock formation south of the camp wall, but it was with a 35 kg ruck full of sand. The training rucks weren’t like the nice commercial rucks available to any civilian. This was basically a synthetic fiber sack with two thin straps that dug into the recruits’ shoulders as they ran.

  Moreau was from Tai ‘pao, and like most of the residents there, he had only one name. That didn’t fit the Marine standard, so his name tag read “Moreau, N.I..” The “N.I.” quickly turned into “No Initial.”

  Ryck didn’t know if No Initial was going to make it. Platoon 1044 had already lost five recruits: one was whisked away less than an hour after they’d been sworn in for reasons that still fueled the rumor mill four days later. The other four recruits had simply qui
t. No one knew what had become of them. Technically, most recruits could not just give up their obligations once sworn in, but as the DIs kept drilling into their heads, the Marine Corps did not want anyone less than the best in its ranks. The Navy might snag a few depending on the reasons a recruit quit, his capabilities, and his enlistment contract, but the general consensus was that most who quit during training would just be sent home.

  If No Initial was having so many problems with the PT now, Ryck wondered how he would cope when the tempo was increased. One of the required events during the Crucible just before graduation was a 25 km run with 50 kg on their backs. If you couldn’t keep up or quit, it was either get out or get recycled.

  The PT was kicking Ryck’s ass, too, but he managed to struggle through it. It was kicking everyone’s ass except for Clary Won and Born Brilliant. Clary was just a stud, but Born Brilliant seemed to escape to some other plane and breeze through when the going got rough.

  “Tighten it up, ladies,” Drill Instructor Lorenz said as he ran beside the loose formation. He was carrying the same ruck as the recruits, and it looked like it was loaded with twice as much sand as any of them had. “Look good coming in.”

  Ryck hated him at the moment. How could he look so good, so at ease, when most of them were dying?

  Ryck knew the heavy PT was part of the indoctrination, but still, why the rucks? As Marines, they would be in PICS battle suits, or at least with exoskeleton assists embedded into their uniforms. When would they have to carry loads like this without assistance, with only their God-given bodies? He tried to put that thought out of his mind. His was not to reason why, after all.