LANCEJACK (The Union Series) (2 page)

The
platoon commander spared me a final glance as he clipped his helmet over his
respirator, 'Get yourself in good order over the next two days. If you think
this place is cheers-easy, you’re in for a nasty surprise.' He entered the
lock.

I
clenched my fists as the inner lock door closed. What the hell was all that
about? Had I said something wrong? The way my new platoon commander had spoken
to me, anybody would have thought I was a crow fresh out of the warren jail for
stealing rations, rather than a newly promoted lancejack.

Eventually,
whilst the lock began its cycle, I made my way back with the corporal into the
bowels of the warren until I was happy I could find my accommodation.

It
didn’t take me long to find my room, right at the end of the corridor with the
other NCOs. I saw that my name was freshly painted onto the door - ‘Lance
Corporal Moralee US,’ - the last two letters standing for Union Star.

I
sighed, wishing that somebody had forgotten to pass the information on to my
new unit. Stupid questions were now inevitable: ‘
How did you get it? How
many Chinese were there in the tunnel when you charged them? What was it like?...
’
Awful, that’s what it was like. One of my mates died and two others were shot.

I
stripped off my equipment, arranged it neatly into my lockers and then slipped
into my bed, which immediately cheered me up. My own bed. No bunks, no bullying
senior privates or snoring troopers, my room was my own. Junior Leaders was
hard, but for just that reason alone, it was worth it. With that thought, I
rolled over and tried to get some sleep.

#

I
had almost grown used to having nightmares about the war. They didn’t come so
often anymore, maybe because the memories weren’t as vivid as they had been
immediately after the invasion. I hadn’t told anyone about them, I didn’t want
people to think that I was weak, and I certainly didn’t want to end up in front
of the unit welfare officer to discuss drugs and memory alteration. My head was
my own, and I wasn’t having anybody messing around with it.

My
first nightmare in Fort Lash was no different from any other, up until I saw my
old platoon sergeant, Sergeant Evans, amongst the bloodied bodies of my old
comrades. It wasn’t the first time that he had appeared in my dreams, but this
time the image was chillingly vivid.

He
looked me square in the eye as he said four words, ‘
It’s not over, Andy.
’

As
if I had been electrocuted, I sat bolt upright in the dark, soaked in sweat,
the words still echoing in my head. I was half expecting to see him beside my
bed, his voice had sounded so real. My nerves tingled.

‘Christ,’
I exclaimed, and examined my wristpad, it was almost six. It was time to get
up, anyway.

I
made my way to the ablutions to wash and shave, trying to cast the memory of my
most recent nightmare out of my mind. Fortunately the accommodation was
entirely empty, and so there was no need to queue for a sink.

I
looked at my tired face in the mirror. I was no longer the young boy I had been
two years ago; the horrors of war had seen to that. My eyes had begun to sink,
and stubble grew where once there had been none. I couldn’t get away with not
shaving any more. I looked old beyond my years.

Patterson
entered the ablutions and joined me at the sinks.

‘Morning,
Corporal,’ he chirped cheerfully, and I grunted in response.

I
finished shaving and began to dry my face, becoming increasingly aware that
Patterson was staring at me. I didn’t know what he wanted, but the unwelcome
interest became increasingly irritating.

‘What?’
I snapped.

Patterson
stammered, ‘Er… How did you get that, Corporal?’

I
realised that Patterson had noticed the vicious scar that ran along my upper
arm. I had been shot by a Chinaman during the invasion, though the dart had
only skimmed the flesh. That was the day that most of my platoon had died in an
enemy counter attack, including one of my best friends. It was also the day
that I had cowered in a ditch waiting to die, whilst my section commander
fought the battle alone.

The
scar was a reminder to me of the pain I had felt in my mind afterwards, and how
I should never shy away from battle again.

I
frowned, ‘None of your damned business!’

I
left the ablutions, ignoring Patterson’s hurried apology. I didn’t want to be
reminded of that day; the nightmares were enough.

#

Finding
my way to the cookhouse was easy, it was at the very centre of the warren, with
all of the platoon lines built away from it like the spokes of a gigantic
wheel. I waited in line with a queue of troopers from the other platoons, as
loud and boisterous as ever. I listened to them exchanging standard issue insults,
but kept to myself.

Occasionally
a trooper would glance at me, sizing up the fresh meat, until his eyes would
fall upon my rank and then they would widen in surprise before he looked away.

I
was young for a lancejack, normally a trooper would wait four years or more for
the chance to promote - but my battalion had insisted that I be sent to Junior
Leaders after only six months service out of training - something that was
almost unheard of. It was the medal again, of course. Whether or not my rapid
promotion was a blessing or a curse, I supposed I would soon find out.

‘Well
I thought I had seen everything,’ a voice mocked me from behind, ‘But is this
the best the Union has to offer now?’

I
spun around and almost fell over backwards. Westy, my old section commander,
was stood there grinning from ear-to-ear! The stocky Welshman laughed as he
shook my hand with a vice-like grip.

I
was still in shock, ‘
What are you doing here!?
’

‘I
should probably be asking you the same question! Funny old world, ain't it? I saw
your name on the warren net and had to see for myself,’ he tapped his wristpad.

I
shook my head in bewilderment. I had never expected to see anybody from my old
platoon again on New Earth, not since passing Junior Leaders and volunteering
to return with a different battalion. It really was a ‘
funny old world.’

‘You
volunteered for this?’ Westy asked as we collected our breakfast; cereals and
bread rolls. My mouth watered, I hadn’t seen fresh food since leaving Uralis.

I
nodded, ‘Yeah,’ I had, and I was still struggling to come to terms with what
had driven me to do so, ‘And you?’

‘Yeah.
Nothing else to do back over there,’ he said with a laugh.  But I noticed
sadness in his voice. I knew what he meant, because I felt the same. I had
nothing back on Earth - my family had no idea what I had been through and
couldn’t understand. And my old friends who had escaped conscription were long gone.
I belonged on New Earth now, I believed, and I would die there, just as I
should have done in the first place.

I
decided to change the subject whilst we found a table to sit and eat, ‘So
what’s the battalion like?’

Westy
considered the question, ‘They’re alright, though they haven’t seen action for
decades. They missed out on the invasion, so their hierarchy are pretty keen to
prove themselves. The blokes get hammered on patrols and ops. If they’re not on
rest, they’re on standby.’

‘Is
there much going on out there?’

Westy
looked down at his food and shrugged, ‘Hard to say. But if  Nelly fighters are
moving into the area then they’re doing a good job at not being noticed.’

‘So
they’ve had no contacts, nothing?’

The
Welshman shook his head, ‘Not a thing. The population can get a bit shitty at
times, but that’s about it.’

The
5
^th
battalion had arrived on New Earth almost six months ago to
begin a ‘residential’ operational tour that would eventually last for two
years. The fact that they had completed a quarter of their tour - without a
single shot in anger - told me that there wasn’t really much going on in the Nieuwe
Poort province at all.

‘It
can get pretty dull for the blokes,’ Westy continued as he spooned cereal into
his mouth, ‘I try to keep my platoon busy when they’re back here so they don’t
end up fighting each other or topping themselves. They get a chance to get away
for some rest in the garrison towns nearby every other month too.’

I
raised my eyebrows, ‘Your platoon?’ My eyes flicked to Westy’s rank, he was
still a corporal, not senior enough to be sent back to Uralis to train for
sergeant.

Westy
smiled, ‘My platoon sergeant injured himself in the gym a few weeks back, so I
was stepped up. Get used to it here, you’ll almost never have a complete
platoon. Don’t expect to have it cheers-easy as a section 2ic!’

All
troopers in the Union were trained to perform the job of the rank above, so
that the death or injury of a commander on the battlefield didn’t result in a
fatal loss of momentum in the attack. It also meant that an absent commander
could easily be replaced by somebody a rank below him. I had been taught how to
lead a section as well as how to be a good section second in command, with the
latter being my primary role. But the idea of leading a section still made me
nervous. I remembered how badly Sergeant Evans and Westy had taken the loss of
their men. If somebody died, a section commander could blame others, but
ultimately the responsibility was on him. The burden must have been
overwhelming.

Sensing
my worry, Westy leant across the table and patted my shoulder, ‘Don’t worry,
lad. You’ll be alright.’

I
took my first spoonful of cereal, ‘Yeah.’

‘Which
platoon are you, anyway?’

‘Two.’

‘Cool,’
he nodded his approval, ‘They’re mostly alright. The boss is a bit of a belter,
though, I hear. He’s a miserable bloke, difficult to get on with.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Yeah,
he’s the senior of the three platoon commanders and thinks he’s something
special. Not a drama really when he has his platoon sergeant to keep the reins
on him, but he’s away, same as mine. A guy called Johnno is in his place. He’s
a good bloke, but I think he struggles with your boss sometimes. I think Mr
Moore winds the screws up on the ground a bit, he’s rude and arrogant. To be
fair, though, he knows his job.’

A
full ‘screw’ corporal could give the boss advice, but it normally took the
platoon sergeant with his years of experience and often fierce temper to steer
an overzealous or misguided officer in the right direction. I could imagine the
NCOs having a nightmare trying to reign him in with their platoon sergeant
absent. He certainly hadn’t come across as an easy man to work with.

‘Brilliant,’
I said sarcastically, and Westy laughed.

I
noticed the crow troopers who had arrived with me yesterday standing sheepishly
in amongst the queue for their food, Patterson among them. A group of senior
troopers were quite clearly talking about them further along the queue,
stealing malicious glances back in their direction. I felt sorry for them,
knowing that whether I was around to stop it or not, their introduction to life
within a dropship infantry company would be harsh.

Westy
followed my gaze, ‘Those your boys?’

I
sighed, ‘One of them is, yeah. I should probably make sure he’s alright.’

Westy
nodded and tapped his wristpad, ‘Stay in touch mate. We’ll do something later.’

‘Roger,’
I agreed. I scraped my chair back and made my way through the tables toward the
new troopers. Patterson noticed my approach and his eyes widened as though I
was the bearer of terrible news.

‘Alright,
lads, found the place okay?’ They nodded, ‘Good. Don’t forget, once you’ve
eaten, wait in your rooms until we get grabbed. Don’t go anywhere else.’

Another
nod. Were they mute?

‘Right,
I’ll catch you back at the accommodation.’

Just
as I turned a voice called out from behind, and this time it wasn’t somebody I
knew, ‘Hey! Don’t go walking round here like you’re the boy, crowbag!’

I
remembered the words of my JL instructor as I turned to face the gang of senior
troopers who had been eyeing up the fresh meat.
‘Upon your arrival to your
relevant companies, you will almost certainly at some stage receive a challenge
to your position as a leader of men
.
Stamp it out. Hard.’

‘I’m
sorry,’ I said darkly, ‘Do I fucking know you?’

The
troopers’ eyes widened as they realised that the young ‘
crow
’ was in
fact a lance corporal, ‘Sorry, Corporal,’ they chorused instantly afterwards.

‘That’s
better,’ I said, calming down, ‘Think before you speak next time, lads.’

I
was glad that they had backed down, though I didn’t want to show it. It
wouldn’t have looked good if I had started throwing punches with random
troopers on my first day in the battalion.

I
made my exit, smiling to myself as I left the cookhouse. Andy Moralee, the little
boy who had been afraid of his own shadow, was no more. I was Lance Corporal
Moralee, and I wasn’t taking shit from anyone.