CHAPTER


EIGHT

Arrival, Confederation Military Training World, Arsenault

The suborbital flight from Camp Alpha to Oceanside took about an hour. Before leaving Camp Alpha, Daly had changed into his dress reds so he could report in to OTC in the prescribed uniform. He looked splendid sitting next to his seatmate on the flight, a young man wearing an ugly gray uniform Daly had never seen before. “I see you are a Marine.” The young man smiled, revealing a perfect set of white teeth. “I trained with the Confederation Marines and I am going to their Officer Training College,” he added proudly, displaying a handful of colorful brochures describing Marine OTC.

“Jak Daly.” He extended his hand. “I guess we’re going to be classmates.” Often, Confederation member worlds requested slots at the Marine OTC for their own army personnel.

“Manny Ubrik,” the other responded. They shook. “I am a sergeant in the Soldenese Army. I was trained by a member of your Corps.”

“Yeah? Maybe I know him. What were you trained in?”

“Force reconnaissance.”

Daly couldn’t restrain his astonishment. “Force Recon? Who trained you? Goddamn, I’m Force Recon!” It was not uncommon for military personnel of the Confederation armed forces to be detailed on training missions to the armed forces of member worlds. Force Recon was a popular request.

“Gunny Dubois. Do you know him? There was also a Corporal Renfew, as I recall.”

“Bax Dubois! Bram Renfew! Goddamn! I know them both! Man, what a small world! Your name is Manny? Manny, my man, we have a lot to talk about! Boy, what a small world it is!”

Manny Ubrik smiled broadly.

“Can I see those brochures?” Daly asked. “You ever been to Arsenault, Manny?”

“No, we took our boot camp under a special program that kept us at home.”

“Heh.” Daly laughed, reading. “Listen to this stuff: ‘At any given time, depending on the training cycle then under way, the Confederation’s military training world, Arsenault’—that’s ‘Asshole’ to anyone who’s ever trained there,” he added—“‘has a population of approximately a million and a half. Of this number about two hundred thousand are military cadre’—lucky bastards!” he apostrophized—“‘assigned to the various training centers and administrative headquarters required to operate the many schools that compose the training complex; a further two hundred thousand military personnel are trainees attending the various schools and courses; and the remainder are government civilian employees’—oh, those are the really lucky stiffs!—‘contractors required to support the training activities, and the families of the cadre and civilians.’ Listen to this stuff, Manny! Makes Asshole sound like a goddamn summer resort!

“‘While life for the men and women undergoing basic infantry and naval training courses on Arsenault can be very hard, an experience to be remembered (and cherished as they grow older) the rest of their lives’—oh, the Virgin’s wrinkled old buttocks! Gawd, I can’t believe the government puts out such crap, Manny!” Daly laughed and shook his head in disbelief, continuing, “‘The advanced courses are a lot less strenuous.’ Yeah, I just bet they are! ‘And for the permanent-party personnel and their civilian counterparts, life on Arsenault can actually be quite pleasant, so much so that many of the cadre request an extension of their four-year tours there.’ Manny, you’ll have to excuse me, but I’ve got to go puke!” Daly laughed.

But Daly read on in spite of himself. There was quite a bit here he didn’t know about Arsenault. It had only one port of entry, Camp Alpha, in the northern hemisphere. He hadn’t known that. He had believed that cadre and civilians came in through their own luxurious port of entry. Of course, when he’d gone through Camp Alpha, he’d had no time to take in the surroundings. From there incoming personnel proceeded to their areas of assignment spread out all over the planet. From his time there Daly knew that all recruits prayed for the wonderful day when they would return to Camp Alpha to leave the place, hopefully forever.

The Confederation armed forces operated several commissioning programs on Arsenault. In the northern hemisphere were the four-year naval and military academies that were available to any citizen who could meet the rigorous entrance requirements. In various places around the world, the army and navy also operated commissioning programs, similar to the Marine Officer Training College, which they referred to as officer “basic” schools. The army, for instance, had schools for infantry officers, artillery officers, logistics specialists, and so on. More advanced training for officers was available on Arsenault also, or elsewhere, but the entire military education system, from basic recruit training to courses for field-grade officers, was integrated into one program that was run from the Heptagon back on Earth.

Marine OTC commissioned only infantry officers. Those graduates designated for duty in other specialties—artillery, aviation, ordnance, what have you—received that training after commissioning.

“Hey, Manny, now we get to the good stuff, Officer Training College! Not that I don’t know all this stuff, but for your information: ‘The Confederation Marine Corps OTC is located in Camp Upshur in the southern hemisphere, in the tropics. The nearby liberty town, Oceanside, population ten thousand, is right on the ocean.’ Yeah, like we’re gonna see much of that! ‘Oceanside boasts beautiful beaches that stretch for kilometers north and south of the town, immaculate, affordable recreational facilities, well-run hotels and restaurants, and nearly perfect weather year-round. The town is run by Universal Catering and Recreation (UCR) under contract to the Confederation Ministry of War.’ Man, maybe we can get jobs with them after we’re discharged. Listen to this, Manny! ‘UCR has had the contract to operate Oceanside’s facilities for many years, and there have never been any complaints about the way they run it.’ Hah! That only means they were always able to underbid everybody else competing against them when contract-renewal time came up, you can bet on that. I bet they’re so good at contract renewal no one else even thinks it’s worthwhile to bid against them anymore.”

“What does it say about mess duty?”

“Aha! It’s contracted out. UCR runs the messes at Upshur. Hey, man, they can’t have us potential officers taking time out to pull pots and pans or dining room orderly, now can they?”

“I’m not used to civilians pulling KP for me,” Ubrik sighed. “I’m beginning to think this OTC isn’t such a bad deal after all.”

Daly read between the lines. He realized that had Oceanside existed only on the business provided by the officer candidates at OTC, it could never have survived. Tourism was the main source of income for Oceanside’s businesses. The permanent residents on Arsenault spent their vacations there, as did many Confederation government personnel from other worlds allowed to go there on special tourist visas. So equitable the climate at Oceanside—there was no “off season” there—so reasonable the fees, so excellent the services, even the Military Training Command held meetings, retreats, and seminars there, during the worst weather in the northern hemisphere, of course.

“Ah,” Daly sighed at last, handing the brochures back, “tourists at Oceanside! Nubile young maidens! Well-preserved dowagers lousy with money and anxious to meet young gentlemen such as us!” When authorized liberty, the officer candidates at the OTC flocked to Oceanside as ascending souls to paradise, because Oceanside was a paradise.

Marine Officer Training College, Arsenault

Marine OTC was ten months long. Jak Daly’s class was Session 39, the thirty-ninth OTC class to commence training on Arsenault since the college had been reorganized forty years before. There were 730 candidates in Daly’s Session, divided into three battalions, A, B, and C. Since the Marines attending OTC had all had prior service in the Corps up to the level of the platoon, it was taken for granted they would have extensive knowledge of small-unit tactics. The goal of Marine OTC was to produce ensigns capable of eventually assuming company or battalion command. The motto of the college, emblazoned on a massive arch over the administration building’s main entrance, was TAKE RESPONSIBILITY.

The college commander was a brigadier. Department heads were full colonels or commanders. Tactical officers, those who would be directly administering the courses, served in the grade of major or senior captain. All officer candidates were assigned to an administration battalion commanded by an officer in the rank of commander. This officer was responsible for all personnel and personal matters pertaining to the candidates, including the legal or medical procedures incident to dismissal from the college. To be dismissed for any reason was considered a profound setback to any Marine’s career.

The dormitory provided was an excellent, state-of-the-art, self-contained building consisting of comfortable two-man rooms, study halls with complete online libraries, full recreational facilities, and two mess halls, both operating around the clock. For most of the Marines attending OTC, these were luxuries beyond compare. The classrooms were equally luxurious. The field training exercises, of which there were many, remained as they had been for the past five hundred years—rigorous. Once in the field on exercises, the candidates felt they’d somehow been transported back in time.

The first month of OTC was devoted to physical conditioning and refamiliarization with the basic duties of a Marine infantry private; fire-team, squad, platoon tactics, and weapons training. There was no liberty during that time, which was known as zero month, but afterward candidates were allowed liberty in Oceanside whenever they were in garrison; a candidate could go to town every night if he wanted, but woe unto he who fell behind in his class work. Written examinations were periodically given during the courses, and a final was administered at the end of each course, but a candidate’s exam scores, while important to his class standing, were secondary to his demonstrated leadership skills, and this was finally determined by each candidate’s performance in actual command of his battalion during a mock but realistic combat operation.

Female candidates trained alongside the men and were subject to the same physical demands as the men.

Introduction, Marine OTC

“Gentlemen,” a tall, painfully thin tactical officer greeted Ubrik and Daly as they signed in to the student officer orderly room, “your first duty after quarters assignment will be to draw utilities and tactical gear plus a whole issue of other junk you’ll need while you’re here. You will wear only utility uniforms, I emphasize only, until your graduation parade. If, and I emphasize if, you go on liberty to Oceanside, you will wear your respective service dress uniform—dress reds for you, Marine.” He nodded at Daly, who bristled. Of course he knew what his dress uniform was. The tac officer, a first lieutenant, was not much older than Daly, and it was obvious from the few service medals he wore on his chest that he hadn’t been around the Corps as much as Daly had. But he was a tac officer, a little god to the officer candidates.

“Formations twice a day, gentlemen,” the tac continued, “zero-six and nineteen hours, rain or shine. We march or run, I emphasize run, to every class. You will start each day with thirty minutes of physical training. PT is my job,” he announced proudly. “You will be seeing a lot of me while you are here. My name is Lieutenant Stiltskein.” It did not take long for the officer candidates to start calling him, behind his back, of course, Rumple. “Now hurry it up,” Lieutenant Stiltskein continued. “There are plenty more of you to check in today. I will see you tomorrow at zero-six hours in the company street, ready for roll call and PT. Mess at zero-seven hours, first orientation at zero-eight. Now get a move on!”

Probably because they reported in together, the two were both assigned to the First Company of Bravo Battalion. Their company first sergeant, a real master gunnery sergeant, growled at them around a foul-smelling Clinton. He owned heavy, bushy eyebrows that met in the center of his forehead; he was totally bald and the top of his head showed numerous scars; his hairy fingers were as big as sausages; and thick, black hairs sprouted from his nostrils. He wore no campaign medals or decorations on his uniform. The plain brass nameplate on his desk announced only FIRST SERGEANT, and for all the time they were in OTC, none of the candidates ever used his last name, which someone learned later was Beedle. Inevitably, the candidates dubbed him Beetle, but of course never within his hearing. “You’ll meet yer comp’ny commander when he’s damn good and ready to meet you,” the first sergeant announced. “Now, the officers round here call you birds ‘gentlemen’ and defer to you even when they’re running your asses into the ground. But for me, you ain’t even NCOs ennymore, yer ‘in betweens,’ and you ain’t gettin’ any deference from me until you put on your pips or whatever passes for an ensign’s insignia where you come from. That is, if you make it. I can see now you two pussies droppin’ out. And where do you come from?” He glared up at Ubrik.

“Solden, First Sergeant!” Ubrik replied.

“Never heard of it. You, Marine?” He cast his baleful gaze at Daly.

“I was in Force Recon, Top—”

“Aw fuck.” The first sergeant imperiously waved Daly into silence. “Go see the billeting NCO and get your room assignments. On the way out see my clerk and he’ll download your personnel records and tell you where else you gotta go to complete check-in.” He returned to the paperwork on his desk.

“First Sergeant—” Daly began.

“You ain’t gone yet?” the top growled.

“Top, any chance Sergeant Ubrik and I can get the same room assignment? We sorta know each other,” Daly added lamely.

The first sergeant glared up at Daly as if he were some form of disgusting insect. “You two are buddies awreddy?” he almost shouted. Then, shaking his massive head: “I don’t give a fuck, if it’s okay with the billeting sergeant. Just”—he glared balefully at the pair, shaking a massive forefinger at them—“don’t let me catch you two lovebirds in the same bed together.”

Orientation, Marine OTC

The orientation for new officer candidates was given in an auditorium large enough to accommodate them all. It lasted the entire day and consisted of overviews by members of the staff of the training they would receive. The introductory remarks were delivered by the commandant, a grizzled brigadier named Beemer. Beemer was short, with the physique of a long-distance runner. His remarks were brief and to the point.

“I’ll have no Marine do anything I can’t do myself,” he began without preamble. “When you do your runs in the morning, I will be there with you. In the field, I will be there too. I’ll be sitting in on your classes also. You will get to know this ugly face as well as your own.” Nobody laughed.

“You are among the best in the Corps, that is why you are here. I know many of you have not carried a gun in some time. You may have come here from the staff or some special assignment. But you have performed those duties so well your commanders have recommended you for a commission.

“While I speak of the ‘Corps’ and ‘Marines,’ I know full well that some of you are Confederation Army people and others represent the armed forces of Confederation Worlds, twenty of the former and ten of the latter. I want you to know that I consider you the same as my Marines, and when you get your commissions, you can be proud that you have made the grade and will be standing with the very best.

“Some of you will wash out. Our attrition rate is about ten percent. We will lose some of you through injuries or failure to live up to our physical or academic standards. We will tax your brainpower to the limit while you are here, but we emphasize physical fitness. A Marine officer cannot be out of shape, no matter what his duties! You set the example for every enlisted Marine, you will always be on parade.

“Liberty. After you have completed zero month and whenever we are not in the field, you are authorized liberty after you are dismissed by your instructors or tactical officers. Remember, though, you are each individually responsible for your grades and performance, and if you let liberty nights interfere with your progress as officer candidates, you and you alone will suffer the consequences.

“Fraternization. There will be some of that here. We can’t deny human nature. But—and this is a very big but—there will be none, repeat, none while on duty or within the confines of Camp Upshur and the training areas, on or off duty. No ‘public display of affection’ by any candidate to any other candidate, cadre, staff, or civilian employee inside these gates. You get caught doing it and you’re out, no appeal. Now, when you go on liberty, that’s another matter. What happens on liberty stays on liberty. And when on liberty, we expect each of you to conduct yourselves as officers, not swabbies on a binge in from a six-month cruise. Enough said on that subject.”

Beemer paused for a long moment, taking in the sea of faces staring back at him from the auditorium. “People, our forces are now deployed in a desperate battle on a place known as Ravenette. No Marine worth his salt wishes to be anywhere except with his comrades when they go in harm’s way. But you are here and most of you will remain here for the next ten months, and I guarantee you will not have much time to think about events elsewhere. My staff and I are going to see to it that when you receive your commissions and rejoin the fleet, you are capable of leading your Marines into battle, winning the fight, and bringing them back alive.”

The auditorium had gone totally silent, even the ventilation system seemed muted, the hundreds of candidates rooted to their seats, when suddenly, a staff sergeant sitting in the rear stood up and shouted, “Urrahhhhhh!” Instantly everyone was on his feet shouting urrahhhhhh until the rafters shook with the acclamation of four hundred years of esprit.

The brigadier let the roar sound out three times, and then he held up his hands for silence. “People!” he thundered. “I will see you tomorrow at six hours!” A slight smile crossed his face. He nodded at the candidates. “That is all.”