Recruit

by Jonathan P. Brazee

  He looked around at the 18 of the recruits in turn, catching each one of them eye-to eye, before saying, “OK, bring it in. On three. One, two three!”

  “Fourth Squad, 1044! We bring it!” they shouted almost in uniform.

  Then it was time. Despite himself, Ryck forgot about his previously-held notion that pugil stick bouts were a waste of time. He jumped up and down, shaking out his arms, feeling the aggressor in him surface. He was going to kick some grubbing ass! He didn’t lose that when the first two recruits in Fourth Squad fell quick victim to their Third Squad opponents. He was going to break that trend.

  “So what are you going to do, Recruit Lysander?” Drill Instructor Lorenz asked him as he gave Ryck’s equipment one last check.

  “He ain’t nothing but a grub, Drill Instructor. He can’t even run. He’s got no heart, I’m gonna dash in and hit him, then I’m gonna . . .”

  “Don’t give me all the details, recruit. Just tell me what you’re going to do.”

  “Uh . . . oh, I’m going to destroy him! Oorah!” Ryck shouted.

  “OK, go do it.”

  Ryck stepped into the ring and approached the center. He and No Initial got there at the same time. The TDI running the bouts started going over the rules once more.

  I don’t need no grubbing rules, Ryck thought, tuning out the Green Shirt. No rules in war!

  He looked at No Initial. Ryck knew the recruit was stronger than he was, but Ryck also knew he owed Ryck. Without Ryck helping him, he would have fallen out of a number of runs. So Ryck knew No Initial wouldn’t go after him too hard. And that was his Achilles’ Heel.

  Ryck has considered putting on his warface, the expression of determination and mayhem that most of the recruits had tried to cultivate. But he thought it better to lull No Initial by not seeming too aggressive. Instead, he smiled and gave a shrug. Just two friends who would do enough to appease the DIs, but not enough to really hurt each other. No Initial smiled back. He was copacetic with it.

  The Green Shirt was done and stepped back. He raised the whistle to his lips.

  Ryck tried to look relaxed. At the whistle, he was going to spring before No Initial could react and knock the big guy on his ass for a quick win. He almost felt sorry for him. They had just agreed to an unspoken arrangement to take it easy, and Ryck was going to break that to win. But Ryck was tired of carrying No Initial around, both literally and figuratively. Better he learn his lesson here at the Depot then in combat.

  The whistle sounded, and Ryck lunged. He had his pugil stick swinging in an upper cut, ready to connect with No Initial’s chin. He barely saw No Initial’s own stick swinging, then he saw nothing at all.

  Chapter 8

  “Doggie, check for the DIs,” Hamilton Ceres, the recruit squad leader for First said. Hamilton had gathered Doggie and the other three squad leaders, the platoon guide, the whiskey locker recruit, and the scribe for an impromptu meeting. Doggie was the “house mouse,” the recruit tasked with cleaning the DIs’ office, so if he checked and a DI was still there, it should rouse no suspicion.

  The seven of them, the entirety of the recruit leadership in the platoon, waited silently in the head until Doggie came back with news that the DIs were gone. They could get down to business. Ryck already had a good idea on what Hamilton wanted to tell them. Earlier in the day, Seth MacPruit, a recruit in First, had told Hamilton to fuck off, reminding the squad leader that Hamilton was a recruit just like the rest of them, and that he had no real authority over him. Technically, that was true. The recruit squad leaders were only acting squad leaders. All authority was in the hands of the DIs. If Hamilton was having a problem with Seth, then he could go to the DI and report the other recruit, but that would show a lack of leadership capability, and Hamilton could be stripped of his position right then and there.

  Seth knew that. Seth also knew that Hamilton couldn’t force him to comply with any order. Seth was a Combined Martial Arts phenom, actually having fought in the Ultimate Warrior Tournament, winning his weight class at the planetary level before bowing out. He proclaimed this loudly and often from their first training day, and many of the other recruits, Ryck included, thought he was spewing so much BS. But in the Marine Corps Martial Art class four days before, he’d taken on the instructor, a MCMA black belt, and handily beat him. Seth was the real deal.

  Seth was also an asshole. Now that the others knew what he was capable of in a fight, he’d become even more arrogant and unruly. Telling Hamilton to fuck off was the final straw.

  “So, I know you all know why I’ve called you here. The question is what do we do about it,” Hamilton told the group, keeping his voice low.

  The DIs might not be in their office, but they had a habit of turning up anywhere at any time. This meeting, after lights out, was against the rules, and recruits who broke the rules almost always wished they hadn’t after they’d been caught.

  “Not much of a choice, as I see it,” John McGruder said without much emotion. “We can’t let anyone flaunt our authority.”

  “I hear you, Mac, but we really don’t have any authority,” Shaymall Cammille, the platoon guide said.

  The guide was the top recruit billet, naturally assigned to the recruit who the DIs thought was the strongest. That opinion affected the rest of the recruits, and he was unconsciously considered the first among equals by the others.

  “Bullshit, Shay-man. The Senior gave me this position, and that’s all the perking authority I fucking need. Ham, you need to call this perking arsehole out. Now,” Mac said.

  Hamilton visibly blanched before stammering out, “I can do it, I mean I can call him out, but shit on me, you saw him with that DI. He flattened the guy. A MCMA black belt! I’d only last an ant’s heartbeat.”

  Mac rolled his eyes, but Ryck answered for him, “Not just you, Hamilton. You call him out, but all of us take care of him. You bring him in here, and we’ll be waiting.”

  The thought had obviously never occurred to Hamilton, and he seemed to think it over for a moment before asking, “But what does that say about me? That I can’t handle my own problems? And is it fair, eight against one?”

  “Stick it, Ham,” Mac told him. “All’s fair in perking love and war. We love that arsehole as a fellow Marine recruit, as a platoon mate, but this is war when he thinks he’s too perking special to follow the rules. And when he tells you to fuck off, he’s telling all of us to fuck off. So all of us need to give him a little ‘extra instruction’ on following orders. A beasting he’s asking for, and a beasting we’ll give him.”

  “You mean a ‘beating?’” Ham asked, obviously confused.

  “What? No. Don’t you speak Standard? This is a ‘beating,” he said, mimicking the pounding on a drum. “This is a ‘beasting’” he added, pounding one fist into the his other open palm.

  Hamilton took in Mac’s meaning before looking at each of the others in turn.

  “Do you all agree with that?”

  Each one of them nodded, even if Doggie’s nod was late and without enthusiasm.

  “And none of you think I’m wimping out?” Hamilton asked.

  Each head shook in a “no.”

  “OK, then. So I guess it’s now or never. Let me go get him and bring him back here,” he said as he left the showers and made his way into the darkened squadbay.

  The seven recruits moved closer to the entrance to the showers so they wouldn’t be seen when Hamilton and Seth walked up.

  “Shit, shit, shit . . .” Doggie whispered to himself, fear evident in his voice to those who overheard him.

  Ryck sympathized, but he was not going to voice that. Even with eight of them, Seth was a grubbing monster, and there could be some serious ass-kicking going on—not all of it on Seth. He swung his arms back and forth, trying to get ready, only stopping when he heard murmuring as the two recruits approached.

  “I gotta give you props. I never thought you had the balls to call me out. It ain’t gonna make any difference ‘cause I
’m still gonna to take you apart, but I gotta respect your effort,” Seth said as they walked into the showers.

  He stopped dead as the seven recruits waiting moved to surround him. Hamilton stepped back to join the circle of recruits.

  “Hey, what’s this bullshit? It jus’ me an’ fuckhead here. This is between me an’ him,” Seth protested.

  “Well, you see, Mac-Pisshead, it’s like this. When a chav like you goes and disrespects one of us, you disrespect all of us. So we all need to sort of, you know, show you the error of your ways.”

  Seth stood there looking at them, hands on his hips.

  “What a bunch of fucking marigolds. My great-granny’s got more balls than you, an’ she’s been dead for two years,” he said with a sneer on his face. “I guess I’ll have to show you the fucking error of your ways. You don’t mess with me! Which one of you pussies is first?” he asked getting up on the balls of his feet, fists raised.

  Mac rushed him, head down, arms outstretched. Seth’s foot caught him on the chin, folding him in a heap on the tile deck. Seth somehow kept his foot going, bringing it to his right, connecting with the side of Du Boc’s neck, sending him to his knees. At that moment, Ryck’s fist connected with the back of Seth’s neck, right below the skull. Seth staggered forward, clearly stunned, and Shaymall’s fist came up in a picture perfect-uppercut, catching Seth on the chin. He went down hard, head bouncing off the tile. Despite Seth being down and out, several more punches and kicks were thrown at his unresponsive body, the last by Du after the recruit squad leader got back up to his feet.

  Ryck’s heart was pounding. It had all happened so quickly. His fist hurt, but the adrenaline kept most of the pain at bay. He had to concentrate on calming down. Taking care of Seth was only half of the equation. Now they had to get back into their racks before there was a bed check.

  Shaymall was checking on Mac, who was just coming to. Ryck joined him as they pulled Mac into a sitting position.

  “Mother fuck! What train hit me?” he asked groggily. “What about Mac-Pisshead?” he asked, trying to see around the two other recruits.

  “Lesson learned,” Shaymall said. “He was too busy with you, so we got him.”

  “Copacetic! Figured that would work. That perking arsehole knew I was the harry von bad one, right? Knew he had to take me out first, right?” Mac said, his words only slightly slurred.

  “You were right, Mac,” Shaymall answered. “Think you can get up? We need to get back in our racks.”

  “Oh, sure, man,” Mac responded.

  With a little help, the two of them got Mac out of the showers and up into his rack before going back and helping carry the limp body of Seth to his rack, an upper bunk. They had to push him up, stepping on the rack below to get him in. Ryck stepped on Seth’s bunkmate in the process, but that recruit never said a word.

  The seven of them got Seth up and under his sheets, then scattered for their own racks. Ryck had just gotten in and pulled up his sheets when the front hatch opened. A flashlight pierced the darkness and swept over the sleeping, or at least prone, recruits.

  “All quiet, fire watch?” the unseen DI asked the recruit standing at the fire watch podium at the front of the squadbay.

  Recruit Dixby Zeller, who had observed everything except for what actually occurred in the showers, said, “All quiet, Drill Instructor!”

  “OK, carry on,” the voice reached out to them.

  The next morning, despite two recruits with very visible bruises, the DIs seemed not to notice that anything had happened during the night.

  Chapter 9

  “Fucking A, Calderón, get it right! Look at the grubbing diagram, for J’s sake!” Ryck said as he looked over Recruit Jorge Calderón’s junk-on-the-bunk.

  This was the last scheduled function in Phase 1 of recruit training, and Ryck wanted to make sure it was done right. Recruits from the other platoons had started calling 1044 the “booger platoon,” and Drill Instructor Phantawisangtong, the platoon “heavy hat,” was on the warpath. Du had already lost his billet as squad leader, and his replacement, Scotland Blythe, lasted less than two hours before he was relieved.

  Phase 1 had been boring—it had been a bitch, but a boring bitch. It had been PT, close order drill, more PT, basic tactical formations, history classes, more PT, inspections, martial arts training, swimming, pugil stick bouts, more PT, and still more PT. Ryck hated it. He hated doing things he’d never do once he was actually in the Corps. He hated the stupid pink safety tie that rendered his weapon inoperable, and he really hated the “pink baby” catcalls they got from the more advanced recruits. The history classes turned out to be pretty interesting, but Ryck wanted to fire his M99, he wanted to maneuver in a PICS. This inspection was so the DIs could check their gear for their trip to the range in the morning, their first training event of Phase 2. No more pink babies!

  Calderón was a gumball. Frankly, Ryck was surprised that he had made it to T24. Twenty-four days of difficult training, and this royal fuck-up couldn’t do anything right. Ryck was sure he spent 80% of his squad leader time with the guy, and that was a burden. Ryck might be a recruit squad leader, but the key word was “recruit.” He still had to hit every training objective for himself just like everyone else. Sometimes, he resented being held accountable for the others, but still, he liked the ego boost. He was bound and determined to keep his billet all the way to graduation, something almost never achieved.

  Calderón placed his Goodell at the top right of his rack. The molecular blade was supposed to go on the top left side, not the right.

  “Damn it! Can’t you fucking read? I’ve had about had it with you,” Ryck told the other recruit. “I’ve got to get my own gear laid out, and we’ve got less than ten minutes to get it done, so you’re on your own. King Tong’s going to fry your ass if you screw it up.”

  At the mention of the nickname the platoon had given the heavy hat, Calderón looked up in alarm as if the drill instructor was already there. Ryck just turned away, not willing to waste another precious second on that lost cause.

  He hurried to get his own gear laid out and had just finished when the fire watch called the squadbay to attention and the entire DI team marched in. Ryck jumped to the foot of his rack and came to the position of attention, hoping everyone was inspection-ready. He’d checked the others, of course, and they had been making good progress—all except Calderón, that was.

  I hope the sorry sack of shit fucks up, he thought. And then Despiri or Tong’ll see the guy just can’t cut it and recommend him for a retention hearing.

  The DIs started their inspection at the other end of the barracks. Ryck could hear low murmurs as they spoke to the recruits being inspected. Once, there was a huge crash coming from Second Squad’s area as gear was thrown on the floor. King Tong was going at it but good, and Ryck pitied whomever was at the receiving end of that tirade.

  It took awhile as the sounds of inspections got closer and closer, but finally, Senior Drill Instructor Despiri moved in front of Ryck.

  “Recruit Lysander ready for inspection, Senior Drill Instructor Despiri!” he told the DI.

  Ryck wasn’t sure if he should be relieved or worried that he’d drawn Despri. The drill instructor didn’t scream and shout as much as the others, but he was very demanding, and his eyes missed nothing. Ryck made an about-face and stood ready to respond to any questions the DI might ask during the inspection. He slightly broke his position to look out of the corner of his eyes at Despiri, trying to gauge the progress as the DI inspected his gear.

  “Serial number?” Despiri asked.

  “4795553744, Senior Drill Instructor” he responded immediately.

  That was an easy one. He had his M99 memorized five minutes after being issued it.

  Despiri picked up Ryck’s powerpack from the rack, then turned it around to look at the back.

  “Wrong. Again, serial number?”

  Ryck was confused. DIs always asked for the weapon’s serial number
, not anything else. Ryck didn’t have a clue as to the powerpack’s serial number.

  “I . . . uh . . .this recruit does not know his powerpack’s serial number, Drill Instructor,” he stammered out.

  “Find out. And if a question or order is not clear, clarify it. You have five items with serial numbers on your rack. I could have been asking about any one of them,” the DI said.

  “Aye-aye, Senior Drill Instructor Despiri,” Ryck said.

  Despiri gave one more glance at the gear on the rack before turning to move on to Hodge’s rack. Ryck let out a sigh of relief. Despite getting caught by the blindside, it seemed his gear was passable. He returned to his position of attention at the end of the rack, listening in as the DIs hit the rest of his squad. He caught some corrections, and Lipitski stumbled over the normal combat load of M505 grenades, but it seemed like it was going well—until King Tong, of all DIs, hit Calderón’s rack. Ryck heard the recruit report ready for inspection, and not 15 seconds later, the eruption began. King Tong was in rare form, screaming at the top of his lungs. Ryck could hear gear being slammed on the deck.

  Serves the shithead right, he thought, a small smile creeping onto his face despite him being at attention.

  “Who’s your squad leader?” King Tong shouted, despite knowing the answer, and Ryck blanched for a moment. He knew he would be questioned, but all he had to do was be straightforward and recite the facts. The prime fact was that Calderón was not suited to be a Marine.

  Ryck heard a murmur in response, then “Recruit Lysander, front and center!” from the DI.

  Ryck did a right face, then double-timed down the three racks to where King Tong waited.

  Ryck didn’t even have a chance to report in before King Tong went off, “What kind of sorry-ass preparation is this? Didn’t Recruit Calder-none know we were having a junk-on-the-bunk? Didn’t he think it was important that his gear be squared away before you piss-poor excuses go to the field?”