It was a leadership challenge for the veteran NCOs. On the one hand, the violations of regulations were innumerable, but on the other hand the individuals were otherwise as good as any NCO could dream. The worst part was that being a military leader depends, strongly, upon respect. To order troops into a situation quite probably resulting in their deaths requires that those troops respect, love, fear you more than practically anything in the world. Sending a group of recruits off to battle believing that they could pull off a caper like this would be worse than giving them no training at all. But they were so good at the business of soldiering—Stewart particularly—they had such a knack that sending them all off to the stockade would be a waste of training and talent.
They had a few moments to discuss it. The drill corporals were running the recruits ragged with grass drills and Sergeant Pappas was fairly certain that they did not expect a search. He had not found the material before during his occasional fits nor would he be expected to now. They quickly finalized and implemented their plan, then left to torment the recruits. The reconstruction of the squad areas would be carefully supervised by the drill corporals. By the time Stewart had a chance to check the hidey-hole he would be forced to wonder whether it was the NCOs who raided the stash or a trainee.
Two days later there was an unscheduled field exercise. At two A.M. the recruits were hounded out of their beds, into field gear and out into the darkness.
The platoon was broken down into squads and put through hours of murderous squad drills. This is the sprint and dash technique of the infantry, dropping to the prone to take the enemy under fire as another squad moves then leaping to their feet and running forward to the next firing position. Deceptively beautiful to watch when well performed it is brutally physical work: a tremendous aerobic exercise. Run twenty or thirty yards throw yourself to the ground, fire a few blank rounds, push yourself to your feet with fifty pounds of equipment on your back then do it over and over again for hours on end.
The squads were supervised by the drill corporals as Gunny Pappas moved quietly through the darkness from squad to squad, observing them all, yet unobserved. All the fluff was gone now, the "civvie fat" that was so evident on their arrival, even on those who were in shape. Each of them was a hard, tough little bundle of killing energy, as dangerous as so many baby rattlers. Just the way they were supposed to be.
Towards dawn the squads were well scattered and, per instructions, the drill corporals gathered each of them in and in a complete violation of doctrine built a fire. Fire was anathema to the modern infantry, revealing of your position, potentially dangerous in the form of a forest fire and, yes, environmentally harmful. But Pappas knew the infantry man is in many ways atavistic. He revels in the dirt and the mud even as he curses it and fire strikes a special cord in the human breast. Fire opens up the soul in a way that few things can, to those who are open to it, and there are times when nothing but a fire will do.
As second squad settled back against its packs relaxing in the warmth and light Pappas stepped silently out of the darkness and gestured for the drill corporal to leave.
The squad sat up and shot covert glances at Stewart. He in turn fixed Sergeant Pappas with a basilisk stare; one of his many attributes was that he had a stare to give a bull pause. He had learned the first week not to direct it at Pappas but now it seemed time to do so.
Pappas reached into his thigh bellows pockets and drew out twelve wads of bills. "I suspect you might be looking for these," he said and tossed one to each of the recruits.
"Sir," started one of the recruits, "this isn't what it looks like!"
"Shut up," said Stewart in a voice he would use to order French fries. The recruit shut up.
"I want to tell you a secret, soldiers," said Pappas in a quiet, neutral voice. It was the first time he had used that appellation for them and they were universally startled. Technically they should not be referred to as soldiers until they completed their final tests. It was a goal they had all been striving for, whether they had realized it or not, a mark of approval more important than life in many ways.
"It's one of the big secrets," Pappas continued. "You know, the Sergeant Secrets. It's one of the secrets you really believe exists even when you deny it. Recruits always believe that the sergeants have special secrets you never learn until you're a sergeant. Like we get told the secrets on our last day at `Sergeant's School.' " He smiled at the weak joke and puffed out his cheeks.
"Well, you don't. You learn it just by being in a unit, by being in the military, whether it's in the Army, Marines, Line or Strike or whatever. You learn it usually in your first few months. But it isn't the big secret. It's a little secret.
"Here it is in three words," he continued, seriously. " `Contraband is everywhere.' There's always drugs, or personal firearms, or military demolitions somewhere in any barracks. And there's always a black market in the stuff. You guys weren't the first or the second or the two hundred and fifty-ninth. Contraband in barracks is as old as armies.
"And the stuff that we are going to be issued is a black marketer's dream. Everybody in the fuckin' country wants the Galactic weapons, the combat drugs, the Hiberzine. Hell, even the littlest GalTech shit, pens, Eterna batteries, everything, is worth big bucks. So, where we're going is the jackpot; you can get a piddly little twelve grand for one hit of regen. And that leads to another thing." He picked up a stick and stirred the dying fire, puffing his cheeks in and out in silence for a moment.
"There's a bigger secret," he said in a near whisper. "One little sentence. `As long as it does not affect the unit's effectiveness, no big deal.' "
He smiled again and looked up at the circle of recruits. As he did his eyes turned frosty and his grin turned to a snarl. "But none of you cocksuckers were a gleam in your daddy's eye when I was in the fuckin' Marines. Back then the fuckin' officers in the Army had to have armed guards to go into the fuckin' barracks because the fuckin' drug problem was so bad, and it wasn't much better in the fuckin' Corp.
"If we had to fight a war during the seventies, warn't nobody coming. There wasn't a unit in the whole fuckin' Army, not the infantry, not the artillery, not the armor, not the airborne, that was combat ready because the criminals owned the Army. And the Corp would have been hard pressed to carry a war on its own, especially with our own drug problems.
"If you guys go up there thinking that you're being handed the keys to the candy shop the unit that receives you will be fucked. When they really need the shit, when lives are going down the drain and your buddies are dyin' all around you, the shit they need won't be there.
"The ammunition and weapons and every little bit of equipment that we depend on will be sold out from under us. And then we are fucked. It's happened. And I'm damned if it will happen on my watch." He looked back at the fire and poked at the flames, his rage subsiding. He made a faint motorboat sound.
"We fought long and hard to erase that," he continued briskly. "We had to, 'cause a military like that just can't function.
"It's about respect. If you think you can pull one over on me, you haven't got any respect for me and you won't obey my orders, or the orders of your officers, when it's time to lay it on the line." He paused and looked at the fire for a moment, hoping that some of them were getting it. But he was really talking to Stewart and they all knew it.
"Now, you guys are good, really good, on paper. But if you think money is what it's all about you can't be Strike troopers 'cause you won't be there when I need you." He really did not want to lose the investment that he had made in them but he was deadly serious and both emotions showed. Sincerity usually does.