Read Online First to Fight by Dan Cragg, David Sherman - Free Book Online
Authors: Dan Cragg, David Sherman
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said into the mike. “This ship has twenty-five decks—that’s ‘levels’ to you landlubbers. You’re on Deck Twenty-three. You will not leave Deck Twenty-three for the duration. Remember that! Your training area for this flight is half a kilometer sternward, in Area Whiskey. Remember that! You will be confined to that area for the entire voyage. Don’t worry, it’ll be big enough for all of you. When we arrive there, I’ll hand you back to your corporal and won’t have to worry about you until it’s time to jettison you on Asshole.”
The monorail disgorged the fifty-five recruits into a huge, well-lighted bay. To their surprise, at least 150 other recruits were already there, gripping handholds sticking out from what Dean thought of as the ceiling. They faced a raised dais behind which a group of Marines managed to hover without seeming to hold on to anything. They were dressed in green jackets and trousers with khaki-colored shirts. Each wore a brown-leather “Sam Browne” belt over the green jacket—the Class A uniform, as the recruits were soon to learn. That was the only uniform they were to see, except for garrison utilities, until after they graduated from Boot Camp and were assigned to the Fleet. Each of the Marines on the dais wore a kaleidoscope of ribbons fastened above his left jacket pocket.
Corporal Singh nudged and pushed his group into the rear rank of the bobbing recruits already holding on there and made sure each grabbed a handhold. He nodded toward an officer on the dais, a captain, judging by the gold orb that graced each shoulder strap on his jacket.
“At ease!” the captain shouted. “That means, shut up and listen up, in civilian,” he added. He spoke with a distinct but unfamiliar accent. Silence, punctuated only by the humming of the air ducts, the creak of expanding and contracting metal, and vast booming noises far within the hull—sounds that would accompany them all the way to Arsenault and soon go unnoticed—was immediate.
The captain smiled and nodded approvingly. “You’re learning. My name is Captain Tomasio and I am your company commander. Welcome to Company A, First Battalion, Fleet Training Regiment. These Marines up here with me are the company executive officer, the company first sergeant, and your drill instructors. Your squad leaders and fire team leaders—you’ll learn what all those are very soon—will be selected from among you, once we get organized and get a few things straightened out. We are all going to get to know each other very well over the next six months. Now, painted on the deck in front of each bulkhead—that’s ‘wall’ in civilian—you will see large yellow squares numbered one to four. When your name is called, you will move smartly, and I emphasize smartly,” a ghost of a smile flickered across his lips, “to your designated number. That will be your platoon assignment. Later, you will be organized into squads and fire teams by your drill instructors.” Captain Tomasio turned to one of the other Marines. “First Sergeant.”
The company first sergeant didn’t appear to make any movements to direct himself, but still drifted sharply to the front of the platform. “When I give your name and platoon assignment, move sharply.” He barely glanced at the clipboard in his hands when he began calling the names off: “Abercrombie, one . . .”
The Marines had an ancient expression they used to describe what happened when the first sergeant started giving platoon assignments to the recruits: Chinese fire drill. None of the recruits had much experience with movement in null-g, and most had none at all. There was chaos in the compartment for several moments until, at a soft command from Captain Tomasio, the drill instructors took over and started physically moving the recruits from their handholds to their designated platoon areas.
Dean found himself assigned to the second platoon. Fred McNeal joined him there and the two shook
The monorail disgorged the fifty-five recruits into a huge, well-lighted bay. To their surprise, at least 150 other recruits were already there, gripping handholds sticking out from what Dean thought of as the ceiling. They faced a raised dais behind which a group of Marines managed to hover without seeming to hold on to anything. They were dressed in green jackets and trousers with khaki-colored shirts. Each wore a brown-leather “Sam Browne” belt over the green jacket—the Class A uniform, as the recruits were soon to learn. That was the only uniform they were to see, except for garrison utilities, until after they graduated from Boot Camp and were assigned to the Fleet. Each of the Marines on the dais wore a kaleidoscope of ribbons fastened above his left jacket pocket.
Corporal Singh nudged and pushed his group into the rear rank of the bobbing recruits already holding on there and made sure each grabbed a handhold. He nodded toward an officer on the dais, a captain, judging by the gold orb that graced each shoulder strap on his jacket.
“At ease!” the captain shouted. “That means, shut up and listen up, in civilian,” he added. He spoke with a distinct but unfamiliar accent. Silence, punctuated only by the humming of the air ducts, the creak of expanding and contracting metal, and vast booming noises far within the hull—sounds that would accompany them all the way to Arsenault and soon go unnoticed—was immediate.
The captain smiled and nodded approvingly. “You’re learning. My name is Captain Tomasio and I am your company commander. Welcome to Company A, First Battalion, Fleet Training Regiment. These Marines up here with me are the company executive officer, the company first sergeant, and your drill instructors. Your squad leaders and fire team leaders—you’ll learn what all those are very soon—will be selected from among you, once we get organized and get a few things straightened out. We are all going to get to know each other very well over the next six months. Now, painted on the deck in front of each bulkhead—that’s ‘wall’ in civilian—you will see large yellow squares numbered one to four. When your name is called, you will move smartly, and I emphasize smartly,” a ghost of a smile flickered across his lips, “to your designated number. That will be your platoon assignment. Later, you will be organized into squads and fire teams by your drill instructors.” Captain Tomasio turned to one of the other Marines. “First Sergeant.”
The company first sergeant didn’t appear to make any movements to direct himself, but still drifted sharply to the front of the platform. “When I give your name and platoon assignment, move sharply.” He barely glanced at the clipboard in his hands when he began calling the names off: “Abercrombie, one . . .”
The Marines had an ancient expression they used to describe what happened when the first sergeant started giving platoon assignments to the recruits: Chinese fire drill. None of the recruits had much experience with movement in null-g, and most had none at all. There was chaos in the compartment for several moments until, at a soft command from Captain Tomasio, the drill instructors took over and started physically moving the recruits from their handholds to their designated platoon areas.
Dean found himself assigned to the second platoon. Fred McNeal joined him there and the two shook
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