The men of A Company stood rigidly at attention in their new scarlet and blue dress uniforms. Not a man in the company had ever felt prouder of himself than he did that morning, Dean more than most, because the single golden chevron of a PFC was emblazoned on his sleeves. He was one of five men in the platoon to win meritorious promotion for conduct and achievement during the training cycle.
Presentation of the marksmanship badges was another high point in Joseph Dean’s military life. He’d qualified as one of the best shots in the company, scoring High Expert. “Not one recruit in fifty has shot as high a score as you since I’ve been in command here,” the Brigadier said as he pinned the golden cross onto Dean’s blouse. “Congratulations, Marine.” Dean’s chest almost burst right through his tunic. He wished his parents could see him. After the Brigadier passed down the rank, Dean permitted himself a huge grin. Captain Tomasio, glancing back from where he stood next to the Brigadier, scowled ominously and then winked. With great difficulty, PFC Dean wiped the smile off his face.
“Here you go, Marines,” Staff Sergeant Neeley announced, but then had to pause while the new Marines of second platoon cheer—edit was the first time one of their drill instructors had called them Marines, a title they’d just spent six months striving to earn.
“Okay, okay,” he continued when the shouting had died down. “Here are your assignments for specialty training: oh-one, infantry, the king of battle: oh-two, artillery, can’t fight a war without ’em; oh-three, air assault, you ground fighters’ll love them the first time they show up when you need air support; oh-four, combat engineer, we rely on the navy and army for noncombat-condition engineering; oh-five, armor and combat transport, you remember the Dragons; oh-six, armorer, you break your weapon, they fix it; oh-seven, aircraft maintenance, the flyboys can’t without maintenance; oh-eight, logistics, that’s rations and power packs; oh-nine, administration, it’s a dirty, unappreciated job, but somebody’s got to do it. There are others, but don’t worry about them now, because nobody gets ’em right out of Boot Camp.
“Infantry, you’ll leave for the Fleet tomorrow morning. The rest of you will go to your specialty schools—right here on Arsenault.” This was met by a chorus of outraged screams. “At ease, at ease,” Neeley calmed them down. “Actually, outside Boot Camp, duty on Arsenault is pretty good.” Several men loudly expressed disbelief. “Pretty good,” Neeley continued. “You can even have cold beer in the evenings.”
“Aaaah!” McNeal yelled. “I’d reenlist for a cold beer!”
“As you were,” Neeley said shortly. “Here are your assignments: Anderhalt, Shaqlim X, oh-two, artillery; Clancy, Mordecai, oh-one, you leave tomorrow . . .” and on through the alphabet. Dean did not hear his name called. “McNeal, Frederick D, oh-one,” Neeley announced. Neeley droned on, and each successive announcement was greeted by shouts of joy or groans of despair as the newly minted Marines contemplated their fates for the next seven and a half years. Those going to the same schools broke up into little groups and began speculating loudly about what to expect. At last Neeley was finished.
“Miss anyone?” he asked. Dean raised his hand, bewildered. “Dean, huh? I called your name, Dean, were you asleep or something? Oh-one. PFC, you leave for the Fleet in the morning.”
CHAPTER
----
SEVEN
Everybody has traditions—planetary, national, city, family, individual, group—in all times, in all places. Traditions are important, always have been, always will be—even when they don’t make sense to outsiders. They help people build and maintain a sense of identity and continuity.
On Saint Brendan’s, where they don’t have snakes and never did, they drink green beer every March 17. The Saint Brendan’s calendar
Presentation of the marksmanship badges was another high point in Joseph Dean’s military life. He’d qualified as one of the best shots in the company, scoring High Expert. “Not one recruit in fifty has shot as high a score as you since I’ve been in command here,” the Brigadier said as he pinned the golden cross onto Dean’s blouse. “Congratulations, Marine.” Dean’s chest almost burst right through his tunic. He wished his parents could see him. After the Brigadier passed down the rank, Dean permitted himself a huge grin. Captain Tomasio, glancing back from where he stood next to the Brigadier, scowled ominously and then winked. With great difficulty, PFC Dean wiped the smile off his face.
“Here you go, Marines,” Staff Sergeant Neeley announced, but then had to pause while the new Marines of second platoon cheer—edit was the first time one of their drill instructors had called them Marines, a title they’d just spent six months striving to earn.
“Okay, okay,” he continued when the shouting had died down. “Here are your assignments for specialty training: oh-one, infantry, the king of battle: oh-two, artillery, can’t fight a war without ’em; oh-three, air assault, you ground fighters’ll love them the first time they show up when you need air support; oh-four, combat engineer, we rely on the navy and army for noncombat-condition engineering; oh-five, armor and combat transport, you remember the Dragons; oh-six, armorer, you break your weapon, they fix it; oh-seven, aircraft maintenance, the flyboys can’t without maintenance; oh-eight, logistics, that’s rations and power packs; oh-nine, administration, it’s a dirty, unappreciated job, but somebody’s got to do it. There are others, but don’t worry about them now, because nobody gets ’em right out of Boot Camp.
“Infantry, you’ll leave for the Fleet tomorrow morning. The rest of you will go to your specialty schools—right here on Arsenault.” This was met by a chorus of outraged screams. “At ease, at ease,” Neeley calmed them down. “Actually, outside Boot Camp, duty on Arsenault is pretty good.” Several men loudly expressed disbelief. “Pretty good,” Neeley continued. “You can even have cold beer in the evenings.”
“Aaaah!” McNeal yelled. “I’d reenlist for a cold beer!”
“As you were,” Neeley said shortly. “Here are your assignments: Anderhalt, Shaqlim X, oh-two, artillery; Clancy, Mordecai, oh-one, you leave tomorrow . . .” and on through the alphabet. Dean did not hear his name called. “McNeal, Frederick D, oh-one,” Neeley announced. Neeley droned on, and each successive announcement was greeted by shouts of joy or groans of despair as the newly minted Marines contemplated their fates for the next seven and a half years. Those going to the same schools broke up into little groups and began speculating loudly about what to expect. At last Neeley was finished.
“Miss anyone?” he asked. Dean raised his hand, bewildered. “Dean, huh? I called your name, Dean, were you asleep or something? Oh-one. PFC, you leave for the Fleet in the morning.”
CHAPTER
----
SEVEN
Everybody has traditions—planetary, national, city, family, individual, group—in all times, in all places. Traditions are important, always have been, always will be—even when they don’t make sense to outsiders. They help people build and maintain a sense of identity and continuity.
On Saint Brendan’s, where they don’t have snakes and never did, they drink green beer every March 17. The Saint Brendan’s calendar
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