none even had a chance to let out a scream.
“Goddamnit, get the fuck back from there!” Neeley shouted at the other recruits as they instinctively surged in a group toward the bank to help their comrades. Staff Sergeant Pretty immediately began speaking into his headset while Staff Sergeant Neeley and Corporal Singh herded the platoon away from the stream and had the men sit among the trees. The three NCOs conferred hastily. “We stay here until help comes,” Staff Sergeant Neeley told them. Nobody suggested trying to rescue the three men; they hadn’t a chance in that torrent. Within minutes, it seemed, Captain Tomasio was alighting from a command-and-control hopper followed by several staff officers. Seconds later, personnel from the battalion medical staff arrived on another hopper, followed immediately by two more that carried other platoons from the company.
“We’re going to form search parties,” Staff Sergeant Neeley announced. “This stream empties into a larger one about sixteen kilometers downstream. The fourth platoon will be airlifted down there to form a cordon across the water, try to catch our people if their bodies make it that far down. We’ll take this side of the stream and first platoon the other and start looking right now.”
The search stopped after dark and resumed at first light the following morning. The first victim, a pimply lad from Philadelphia named Schwartzer, was found about mid-morning. His mangled remains were pulled from among the branches of a large tree bobbing in an eddy. The men gasped as his corpse was laid out on the bank. He was covered with huge gashes and abrasions, through which stuck the white ends of jagged bones.
Dean found the second man three days later. He was closest to the bank when the body suddenly rolled over in the middle of a raft of driftwood and the corpse’s booted foot stuck up above the water. The body was swollen to twice its natural size, and aquatic animals had been at it for some time before it surfaced. At first Dean hesitated to touch the thing rocking obscenely in among the flotsam. He knew the three men who had fallen in, but could not recognize which of the remaining two this one was. Dean stepped cautiously into the shallow water, hesitant to touch the swollen, discolored skin surface, looking for something to grab on to that wasn’t rotten flesh. Evidently all the man’s clothes had been ripped off by the force of the water, leaving only the boot on his left foot. He tried to drag the body closer to shore using a stick he’d picked up out of the water.
“Goddamnit, Dean, get in there and pull him out!” Corporal Singh snarled. Everyone was on edge by then, even the D.I.’s. Dean grabbed the booted foot and dragged at the body. Under Singh’s prodding, several other men jumped into the water and helped haul the body to shore. Once the corpse was fully exposed on the land, the stench of rotting waterlogged flesh was terrible. Worse, as it lay on its back, everyone could clearly see the damage done to the body by the animals. The man’s face had been destroyed and his genitals had been completely eaten away. The recruits stumbled into the nearby bushes and vomited. Dean heaved until there was nothing left in his stomach. Even Fred McNeal, the acknowledged joker and wise guy in the platoon, remained stoically silent and avoided looking at what had once been a friend.
Two days later the search was given up and training resumed. The third man was never found.
The weeks of training in the temperate zones and mountains came as a blessed relief from the tropics and the zero-gravity training on the larger of Arsenault’s two moons—the “Turd,” to the generations of soldiers and Marines who’d been there—and was an exciting challenge, all the more so because it marked the unofficial end of Boot Camp.
Graduation Day was hot and clear. The sunlight beat down steadily on the men in their ranks; the rainy season was over.
“Goddamnit, get the fuck back from there!” Neeley shouted at the other recruits as they instinctively surged in a group toward the bank to help their comrades. Staff Sergeant Pretty immediately began speaking into his headset while Staff Sergeant Neeley and Corporal Singh herded the platoon away from the stream and had the men sit among the trees. The three NCOs conferred hastily. “We stay here until help comes,” Staff Sergeant Neeley told them. Nobody suggested trying to rescue the three men; they hadn’t a chance in that torrent. Within minutes, it seemed, Captain Tomasio was alighting from a command-and-control hopper followed by several staff officers. Seconds later, personnel from the battalion medical staff arrived on another hopper, followed immediately by two more that carried other platoons from the company.
“We’re going to form search parties,” Staff Sergeant Neeley announced. “This stream empties into a larger one about sixteen kilometers downstream. The fourth platoon will be airlifted down there to form a cordon across the water, try to catch our people if their bodies make it that far down. We’ll take this side of the stream and first platoon the other and start looking right now.”
The search stopped after dark and resumed at first light the following morning. The first victim, a pimply lad from Philadelphia named Schwartzer, was found about mid-morning. His mangled remains were pulled from among the branches of a large tree bobbing in an eddy. The men gasped as his corpse was laid out on the bank. He was covered with huge gashes and abrasions, through which stuck the white ends of jagged bones.
Dean found the second man three days later. He was closest to the bank when the body suddenly rolled over in the middle of a raft of driftwood and the corpse’s booted foot stuck up above the water. The body was swollen to twice its natural size, and aquatic animals had been at it for some time before it surfaced. At first Dean hesitated to touch the thing rocking obscenely in among the flotsam. He knew the three men who had fallen in, but could not recognize which of the remaining two this one was. Dean stepped cautiously into the shallow water, hesitant to touch the swollen, discolored skin surface, looking for something to grab on to that wasn’t rotten flesh. Evidently all the man’s clothes had been ripped off by the force of the water, leaving only the boot on his left foot. He tried to drag the body closer to shore using a stick he’d picked up out of the water.
“Goddamnit, Dean, get in there and pull him out!” Corporal Singh snarled. Everyone was on edge by then, even the D.I.’s. Dean grabbed the booted foot and dragged at the body. Under Singh’s prodding, several other men jumped into the water and helped haul the body to shore. Once the corpse was fully exposed on the land, the stench of rotting waterlogged flesh was terrible. Worse, as it lay on its back, everyone could clearly see the damage done to the body by the animals. The man’s face had been destroyed and his genitals had been completely eaten away. The recruits stumbled into the nearby bushes and vomited. Dean heaved until there was nothing left in his stomach. Even Fred McNeal, the acknowledged joker and wise guy in the platoon, remained stoically silent and avoided looking at what had once been a friend.
Two days later the search was given up and training resumed. The third man was never found.
The weeks of training in the temperate zones and mountains came as a blessed relief from the tropics and the zero-gravity training on the larger of Arsenault’s two moons—the “Turd,” to the generations of soldiers and Marines who’d been there—and was an exciting challenge, all the more so because it marked the unofficial end of Boot Camp.
Graduation Day was hot and clear. The sunlight beat down steadily on the men in their ranks; the rainy season was over.
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