“Chorus!”
“Chorus!”
A simple enough one to remember, and the Marines boomed it out as they approached the top of the hill and the long road home.
But at the top of the hill, where they’d assembled before learning to love it, where they’d turned to begin the descent more times than they’d bothered counting, was something that hadn’t been there ten minutes earlier. A Looking Glass, shining bright in the rising sun. And a grinning crew of techs who had just set it up.
Berg gave them a few moments to contemplate that, pausing as the Marines continued to keep time approaching the Looking Glass.
“By column of twos!” Lieutenant Bergstresser boomed, breaking the unit down until it was two abreast instead of four. The Marines, despite carrying a hundred and fifty pounds of gear apiece, having marched nearly a hundred miles grand total and with minimal sleep or food, did the maneuver flawlessly. Two by two they entered the Looking Glass to an unknown fate. For all they knew, it could have been pointed at another planet. But there wasn’t a flicker from any of them as they approached the gate.
When Berg emerged, he had to chuckle. The other side emerged on the parade field in front of the company headquarters building in Newport News.
“By column of fours… Companeeeee… halt.”
“I’m glad to see everyone made it,” Captain Zanella said to the assembled Marines. “But it’s what I expect of Space Marines and you can recover on the ship. We have loading to do…”
There were some groans to that and he grinned, thinking that maybe he should revise the schedule he and the first sergeant had worked out. But, no, it was one of those times the CO got to be the good guy.
“I have convinced the first sergeant, however, that we do not have to start right away,” he continued.
It was military leadership. Call it good cop/bad cop. The senior NCO in any unit was the bad cop. He was the one who assigned all the crappy details and meted out minor punishments. The officer, on the other hand, remained generally distant and only interacted when there were good things to be said and done. Except on the rare occasion where someone truly grapped up, in which case, like calling Dad in for punishment, you knew you were really grapped.
The first sergeant had punished the company for their grandstanding. Now he got to pat them on the head.
“You have the rest of the day off. Recall formation at 1700. We’ll then commence loading. The majority of materials have been pre-loaded for us this time, the remainder will be doled out at 1700. Following the formation, platoon sergeants and leaders in my office. First Sergeant!”
“Okay, this has put a total crimp in my planning,” First Lieutenant Javier Mendel said. Despite his Hispanic name, the lieutenant looked more like a poster child for the Waffen SS, tall and slender with blue eyes and short-cropped blond hair. However, in keeping with his name, he was a second generation immigrant from Peru. If the hundred mile ruck march had bothered the officer it wasn’t apparent, he was still carrying his ruck on his back as he and Berg made their way into the heaquarters building. “I had maulk to do last night.”
“You weren’t married less than a month ago,” Berg pointed out. “But when Top gets a bee in his bonnet, well…”
“Good training, though,” Lieutenant Morris said. Morris was medium height with brown hair and eyes. He’d entered from one of the few Marine ROTC units and had never intended to be a Force Recon officer, it was just bad timing. Since he’d graduated in winter semester, his whole career had been out-of-schedule; newly minted officers were supposed to show up at the beginning of the summer. He’d completed his time as a platoon leader and was supposed to take over a company XO position in a different MEU. However, that unit was deployed when he became available. He had the choice of a make-work position until it came back or a course. The only course available was Force Recon. Once he joined the course, though, he’d just refused to quit and graduated as the Honor Graduate from Force Recon qual and FROT. Since he’d already had a platoon, he qualified as an FR platoon leader. And the FR platoon leader spot open had been in Bravo Company after its merciless first mission. At this point he had one mission under his belt in the Blade and was still refusing to quit. “Glad Top got it out of his system.”
“OKAY, WHO IN THE HELL… ?”
“Had,” Berg said, grinning. “Had it out of his system.”
“TWO-GUN!”
“That would be Sir Two-Gun, First Sergeant,” Eric said, as the three officers walked into the orderly room.
To approach the CO’s office there were two choices. On one side, the side enlisted approached from, there was the gauntlet of the orderly room, held down by the company clerk and the operations sergeant. From there, if a person was worthy, they could enter Top’s office. On the other side was the XO’s office, the route normally taken by officers. In this case, since it was the shorter route and there was more room to dump their rucks in the orderly room, the officers had taken that route. Which was how they got to see the sign.
Someone had been busy while the company was gone. Before they left, the first sergeant’s door had only a simple plaque: “First Sergeant Jeffrey Powell.”
Now, over the door there was a large wooden sign which read:
“You were addressing me, First Sergeant?” Two-Gun asked as he slipped his ruck to the floor. He had to admit he was grateful to finally have the thing off his back but he tried to keep the relief off his face.
“No, sir,” the first sergeant said, grinding his teeth. “I would never address an officer in that manner. I believe I was addressing a smart-aleck sergeant I once knew.”