In Every Clime and Place (15 page)

“So we lost Marines for nothing?” Li asked through his teeth.

“No Marine dies for nothing,” I snapped. “I don’t know if the battle was good for Europe or America or human rights, but it was good for the Corps. Why the hell do you think we’re better than the Army? The Marines always have combat veterans among the officers and NCOs because of all the little fights. If and when a big war comes, we’ll be ready. They only dust off the Army after an act of Congress. That shows. In WWII the Army got the hell beat out of it the first time they fought the Germans and the Japanese, because the only vets they had were a few colonels left over from the trenches in France. We had sergeants and corporals and company officers who’d fought in Haiti, Nicaragua and China, so when we met the Japanese at Guadalcanal, we kicked their asses.

“Srebrenica blooded a new generation of Marines. Africa blooded me and O’Rourke, this cruise has blooded you new guys. When you get promoted to squad leader, you’ll know you can handle the stress of combat. You don’t know how somebody will hold up until you see it. And even though we joke about how you poor bastards got stuck in our squad, don’t you feel a little better knowing that some of us have done this before?”

“I guess,” Li replied. “But why are these little piddly-shit wars worth our lives?”

“This is a volunteer outfit, kid,” Terry explained. “If you didn’t think getting shot at was part of the package, you should’ve picked a different service. And no war is piddly-shit to whoever’s in it.”

There wasn’t much more to say to that.

“What was Africa like?” Johnson asked.

“Great,” said I.

“Sucked,” said Terry at the same time.

“Different,” Sabatini added a moment later, smiling.

“I liked seeing the sun and breathing real air, not this shipboard recycled shit,” I said.

“It was hot, dusty, humid, and miserable,” O’Rourke countered. “Bugs like you wouldn’t believe. And the cities were full of poverty, disease and filth. Half the damn native population was malnourished and the other half was shooting at us.”

“That’s just because the warlords wrecked any attempt at agriculture or industry,” I argued. “Kenya was in good shape.”

“’Cause it was full of Marines,” Terry rebutted. “I’ll grant things are getting better now, but two days after we pull out, the machetes will get dusted off and it’ll go straight back to hell.”

I shrugged. I gave Africa more credit than that. It was in rough shape, but that was after a few centuries of abuse. The colonial powers used the continent like a two-dollar whore for three hundred years, and when they left they tried to nab everything decent in the joint before taking off. The twentieth century was the Cold War, where the Russians supported some vicious left-wing regimes and our government supported some vicious right-wing regimes and left the business of worrying about the populations to the Peace Corps and rock stars. I thought that, given a century of peace, the Africans could build a viable economy and realize that that was more rewarding than hacking up their neighbors. Hell, if my ancestors can be civilized, anybody can.

In any case, I didn’t think we were leaving Africa any time soon. We still had bases in Europe more than a hundred years after WWII. I didn’t think the government wanted to give up airstrips near Asia and the Indian Ocean.

“It was nice to see some real scenery,” Sabatini continued, “but on a ship, you know you get to sleep between clean sheets every night, you don’t have to dig a hole to shit in, you get a shower every day and you don’t march fifty miles a day over mountains in the sun, rain, mud and cold. Mosquitoes don’t drink half your blood and give you fucking malaria. Recycled water tastes bland, but it doesn’t give you dysentery. Duty on Earth is different. Better in some ways, worse in others.”

She had a point. Terry did too, to be honest, but I missed seeing real sunsets. I missed the earthy smell of forest, or the clean cold air of the mountains. I didn’t miss the smell of a shot-up refugee camp, or the flies, but the sterile surroundings out here got to me.

“It is easier to get drunk and laid on Earth,” Terry conceded.

“And who needs ambitions beyond that?” asked Sabatini sarcastically.

Terry shrugged and shook his head like he didn’t understand the question.

At that moment, the hatch slid open and Gunny Taylor stepped into the room, preventing a blowup.

“Come right in!” said Terry, still failing to grasp the fact that gunnery sergeants don’t have to knock.

The Gunny stared at him one long moment. “O’Rourke, are you any fucking use at all outside of a firefight?”

“What can we do for you, Gunny?” I interrupted.

“NCOs to the chow hall for the post-op in twenty minutes. You and Sabatini.”

“Why me, Gunny?” she asked.

“Battlefield promotion, Marine. Consider yourself acting corporal. You got Bauer and Li. Merry fucking Christmas.”

“Thanks, Gunny.”

“Wait and see before you thank me.” His eyes flicked over the pile of empties and the remaining sixpack.

“It’s just the squad’s beer ration, Gunny.”

“I bet it’s the whole squad’s.”

“The rest are with us in spirit, Gunny.”

“Well, offer me one, dammit. Sgt McCray would want me to have one of his.”

USS
TRIPOLI

“So, what’s this all about,” Sabatini asked as we made our way to the chow hall for the post-op.

“After a deployment, the officers and NCOs have a meeting and discuss it,” I replied. “That way we can all get an idea of what went right, what went wrong and how to train for next time. We go over who should be written up for awards or reassigned, that kind of stuff.”

“But I wasn’t a team leader this time out.”

“You are now. This’ll be a good time to get used to the process.”

Lt Mitchell was already at the chow hall when we arrived. He looked a little pale and his arm was bandaged and supported by a sling, but he was not going to let a mere wound make him miss a debriefing.

“Morning, sir,” we said in unison as we entered.

“Morning Corporal Collins, Corporal Sabatini,” he replied. “Congratulations, Sabatini.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“You earned it. Thank me by doing a good job.”

Typical Lt Mitchell response. I wondered if his mom watched too many old John Wayne movies when she was pregnant.

“How’s the arm, sir?” I asked.

“A damn nuisance.” His expression was one of annoyance rather than suffering. He shrugged self-consciously. “Stupid mistake. I broke cover too soon.”

“Any word on the rest of the wounded?”

“Rodriguez will be fine in a few days. The round just plowed a groove in the meat of his arm. Williams is going to need muscle tissue implanted into his thigh. At least the bone didn’t get hit. Sergeant McCray’s in rough shape. The round shattered his shoulderblade. Blew out a chunk of his lung, shredded the muscle around the shoulder and played hell with the nerves. The docs don’t have any idea how much function he may lose.”

“Shit. He’s a good sergeant.” I didn’t like the idea of Sgt McCray being shifted to a desk job. That would be like taking a Rottweiler off guard duty and making him an old lady’s lapdog. He might wind up retired with disability pay, but that only goes so far. That’s a rotten end for a good Marine.

“I’ll do everything I can to keep him in the platoon,” said the lieutenant, apparently reading my thoughts.

Soon the rest of the platoon’s leaders filed in. They all had a handshake for Sabatini. Any uneasiness she may have felt at a new situation was softened by the camaraderie of the unit. Rank was seldom mentioned at these meetings, and every Marine present was expected to state opinions honestly. If you were here, you were at least a fire team leader, with the lives of three Marines depending on your skills and training. As we had so recently seen, lieutenants and sergeants get shot. A corporal could wind up leading the platoon. It had happened before. If you wanted to lead Marines in battle, you had to have the courage to speak your mind.

We reviewed the footage from the rifle cameras. Everything went smoothly, with little to criticize until we reached the point where our squad entered the cargo bay. When I took the point, Lt Mitchell politely expressed his desire to examine the decision in more detail.

“Evers! Stop the damn feed!” He turned on me. “Collins, what the fuck was that about? You have a point man for that shit!”

I took a deep breath and forced my voice to remain steady as I answered. “Sir, I had a bad feeling about that hatchway. I can’t explain it, but it’s the same intuition I learned to trust in Africa on recon patrols. I didn’t want to put one of my Marines in that position.”

“The goddamn government already put
my
Marines in that position! What, you didn’t have faith in your point man?”

I felt a surge of anger that he was questioning me like this, but he was right. That made it worse. Having no desire to lose a stripe again, I fought down my rage. My temper is every bit as bad as Terry’s, but I can usually apply the brakes in time.

“Sir,” I said after a long pause to compose myself, “I have complete faith in every one of my Marines. I had a gut feeling. I went with it. I was right about the shit behind that hatch. It was a pretty damn good ambush. I made the decision on my instinct. The Corps taught me to rely on my judgment. I didn’t have time for a debate. I know it was the wrong decision by the damn book, but sometimes the book doesn’t apply.”

Lt Evers’ eyes narrowed. The Guidebook for Marines was his Bible. In questioning it I offended his sense of decency. I expected an angry response, but Lt Mitchell beat him to it, turning his question to Sabatini.

“Do you think this hatchway was too much for you to handle, Marine? Did you feel it was appropriate for Corporal Collins to take that on himself?”

Sabatini was taken aback by the question. Her eyes flicked to me for guidance.

“The lieutenant asked you a question, Corporal,” I said. “You should get used to speaking freely here.”

“No, sir,” she told the boss. “I was surprised when Corporal Collins told me he was taking the lead.”

“So you didn’t think it was a good idea?” he persisted.

I almost got out an angry retort about whether I needed my orders ratified by the team, but Sabatini beat me by a split second.

“I wasn’t leading the team, sir. I expressed my disagreement, and Corporal Collins restated his order. With respect, sir, he did an OK job on point,” she finished with her trademark smile.

I think it melted the lieutenant’s resolve a bit. I know it did things to me, and I wasn’t even in the direct line of fire.

He returned his attention to me, but more quietly. “Collins, your job is to lead the team. If you get killed on point, you can’t do that. There’s enough risk in your job, don’t take anybody else’s. Christ, what I have to deal with.”

“You know, sir,” Sgt Pilsudski observed quietly, “you didn’t get wounded hanging in the back and co-ordinating the assault.”

Lt Mitchell glared at him for a moment, but Ski’s expression didn’t change. The tall, lean Pole had looked death in the face too often to flinch at the lieutenant’s displeasure. I think he had icewater in his veins. Lt Mitchell always scared the shit out of me.

“Moving on.” Lt Evers defused the situation by resuming the playback.

We watched the assault. I wasn’t really in the mood to relive it. I watched with approval as my team moved in. Even the old fossil of a corporal got to cover pretty quick. The whole team moved well, keeping spread out so as not to give the enemy a big target, and varying their interval to prevent a marksman from anticipating one Marine’s rush from the one before. Their firing was accurate and deadly.

Johnson impressed me the most. The kid was a born athlete. He sprinted to cover weighed down with that machine gun and got his weapon in action, laying down covering fire in damn good time. He was performing like a veteran.

A grim silence settled over the chow hall as we saw the squad start to take casualties. The last thing I wanted to see again was Chan’s head wound. There was no criticism of the squad’s actions, Chan and McCray were hit doing what they were supposed to do. Casualties are a part of combat. It’s one of the things you accept when you join the Corps.

“Williams should’ve stayed down,” Sgt Hernandez muttered.

“Looks like he learned,” Ski pointed out.

“Johnson’s doing good,” said the gunny. “He’s getting the TAR in action real quick. He could’ve covered for Williams or the corpsman if he’d had a chance.”

“I should’ve been quicker to call for covering fire,” I said.

“No,” Lt Evers disagreed, “you did a good job with the squad. They should wait for the call, not jump the gun. If he didn’t think you were going to call for fire, he should have said something before he made his rush. Williams displayed poor co-ordination with the rest of the squad. He’ll recover and know better next time.” Lt Evers was one cold-blooded bastard. He was also probably the best officer I’d ever met. As tough as Mitchell, but cooler-headed. I wouldn’t be surprised if he made Commandant some day.

The other Marines had no criticism for the rest of the firefight. The homogenous nature of the enemy weapons was commented on, as was the strange cargo.

The intelligence we gathered was not really a tactical concern, but it was out on the table, and we all had enough brains to see that it meant something. If supply ships were being hit, how many more of these fights would we get into? What were the pirates after? It made more sense to find out what their goal was and stop them rather than waiting to see where they hit and then chasing them. I wanted to know if the riots and the sabotage at the mining outposts were related.

We kicked the facts around for a bit, then left off after Lt Evers told us he would update us after he questioned our prisoners and the women we had liberated from the pirates. The meeting broke up shortly.

“Collins,” Lt Mitchell called, “wait here a minute.”

“Aye, sir.” I wondered what I was in for now.

When the rest of the Marines had filed out, the platoon leader took a deep breath and fixed me with a long stare before beginning. “Good job taking over the squad. And with the sniper. You’ve gotten your fire team working together beautifully. You have your Marines’ respect and loyalty. Sabatini checked with you before she answered me.”

“Sorry, sir.”

“Don’t be. That kind of loyalty is like gold. Treasure it. I think you have a lot to do with creating that atmosphere in your team. You’re a good NCO.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“You could be a great NCO. You take too much on yourself. Your Marines are tough, they can handle their jobs. It’s not easy to watch them go into danger. I know. Believe me, I frigging know. But you can’t do it all alone. It’s harder with a squad, and even worse with a platoon. Work on it. Get your shit together and I’ll write you up for sergeant after this cruise.”

“Aye, sir. Thank you, sir.”

“Now get out of here. Gunny Taylor will take charge of McCray’s squad until we get some replacements or Sergeant McCray gets back on his feet.”

“Aye aye, sir!” I did an about-face and marched out the hatchway.

Sabatini was waiting in the passage. “How’d it go?”

“Not bad.” I shrugged. “He chewed my ass a little.”

“He left the good part,” she commented after a quick look.

“He just told me I could be a decent team leader if I wasn’t such a soft-hearted screw-up.”

“Shit, Mick, I could’ve told you that.”

“Yeah, but he feels he’s gotta justify his bars. What’re you hanging around for? Besides eavesdropping.”

“Gunny Taylor told me to get you to show me the personnel files for my new team. And how to fill out reports and do all that Corporal shit you make look so easy.”

“Where’s the rest of the squad?”

“Gunny’s got ’em working on hand-to-hand exercises.”

“Terry’ll love that.”

“Be good for him, getting his ass kicked at something other than cards.”

When we reached our squadbay, there was a package on her bunk. It was a small flask of CPO Kelly’s whiskey, with a note signed by the whole squad. Some clever individual had even forged my name; Terry has a number of useful skills which polite society would frown on.

“Join me?” she asked.

There was no way I could turn that down. “Delighted.”

She dug out two canteen cups and sloshed about three fingers worth of spirit into each of them, then handed me one.

“You’re new to this stuff, aren’t you?” I asked.

“What makes you think that?”

“It’s a wee bit potent to be drinking in that volume.”

“The Old Man was right, you are a softie.”

“Oh I am, am I?” I asked. “Alright. Congratulations on your well deserved promotion, and may you be the best damn Corporal the Corps has ever seen.” I raised my cup.

“Second best. I had a good teacher.” She clanked hers against mine. It wasn’t the ring of fine crystal, but the noise of dented aluminum mess gear seemed more appropriate for two infantry Marines. I emptied my cup in one long swallow. She got half of hers down before she had to stop, coughing.

“Told you,” I said, enjoying the fire running down my throat. I can’t take credit. It’s genetic.

“Touché,” she gasped, her eyes watering. “So teach me more, oh wise one. And help me finish this poison.” She poured half of the remaining liquor from her cup into mine.

We went to Sgt McCray’s office where the personnel files for the squad were stored. I showed her the data disk and inserted it into the computer on the sergeant’s desk. We pulled up Bauer and Li’s records. I watched as she studied them. She lowered her eyebrows and chewed her lip in concentration. A point Marine doesn’t get exposed to a lot of performance evaluations. She slowly absorbed the information and reasoning behind each of their proficiency and conduct marks, trying to fit this into what she already knew of the two Marines to get a picture of how they would shape up as a team.

“When you have something to add,” I said, “open a new entry here. Key in what you want to say, then close it with your initials and the last two digits of your service number. AS27 in your case.”

“How do you know my number?”

“I’ve been filling out your file for two years.”

“Can I see it?” she asked in a mischievous whisper, like a child searching for hidden Christmas presents.

“Sure. It’s not that exciting. Just my opinion of your performance. It’s mostly complimentary.”

“Nothing I shouldn’t see?”

“Just official Marine Corps business. I write all my kinky fantasies about you in my confidential file.”

She laughed then looked at me for a long moment. I’d like to blame the whiskey for the way my stomach dropped at that moment, but I’m not that convincing.

“Why did you take the point at that hatch, Mick?”

“I told you, I had a bad feeling about it.”

“Would you have taken the lead if somebody else were point?”

I squirmed. The correct answer to give was ‘yes’ but the truth was ‘no’. I wavered for a moment, but those dark eyes fixed on mine and the whiskey coursing through my veins made it impossible to lie.

“No. I’m sorry. I guess Lt Mitchell was right. I feel protective of you. I care about you a lot. It’s not real professional of me.”

“It’s OK.” She leaned closer. “I’m flattered.”