''But fortune is not mocked, and the devil must be paid. A stone's throw from the first trench line, a rocket caught the brave Color Sergeant, picked him up, and flung him broken into the trench. With his dying breath, he passed the Colonel's message to Private Halverson. Now the torch was his. Without a backward glance, the private raced. Like a fearless hind he crossed the shattered field to where the gunners plied their trade.
''On the word of a private, the guns stood silent. At the word of the private, Black Mountain seemed split by quiet. And with a cheer we rose, each man and woman still able to slog through the mud. Those of the third trench who didn't run died where they stood or lived with their hands grasping for the clouds. We, the Highlanders of LornaDo, with a handful of brother Marines, took down a division that storm-racked night.''
Once more the cry of ''Hear! Hear!'' was raised, and the glasses held high and drunk deeply. Emma seemed exhausted, as if she'd climbed Black Mountain herself. She certainly had taken the mess there. When she began again, she was subdued.
''In the morning, when those who boasted they led a corps saw our flag atop Black Mountain, they despaired. They say you could walk from one end of their cantonment to the other without touching the ground, the tossed-off uniforms were so thick. And those of you who know how mankind fought the long-tentacled Iteeche and know what a close-run thing it was, ask yourself if we could have held on until that last desperate battle if not for the weapons forged in the mills of Savannah? So when you gather for a drink, raise your mug with a thought to those fine Ladies from Hell who went dancing that night up Black Mountain.''
The glasses were up and drained, and Kris immediately knew she'd made a mistake. There was no hearth in the mess to smash glasses that now were too sacred to ever be used for mere drinking. But as in so many things, the battalion would survive.
Colonel Hancock cleared his throat in the silence. ''When did you first hear that tale, Captain?''
''At my grandfather's knee.'' She smiled. ''I couldn't have been as tall as his swagger stick. He was Regimental Sergeant Major, as my father is now after him.''
''You took a commission.''
''Yes, sir. Both Pa and Grandpa agreed the family had worked for a living long enough. This time they wanted an officer.'' That brought snickers from along the table, louder at the lower end where Kris suspected Emma's own platoon leaders found humor in the thought that they and she did not work for their pay. As silence returned, the Marine Colonel continued.
''The day you pinned lieutenant's bars on, I suspect your father had some advice for you. As misfortune would have it, there was no one there to perform that sacred duty for Ensign Longknife. Would you be kind enough to share with her what your father or grandfather gave to you?''
''Sir, that would be telling, and the Regimental Sergeant Major is not one I would choose to cross. He might not forgive me.''
The sober looks exchanged among the officers at the table showed agreement. The RSM was one few officers would cross.
Colonel Halverson stood. ''I think I can arrange the proper absolution for you from the Regimental Sergeant Major,'' he deadpanned. The mess broke up in gales of laughter but quickly fell back to silence when the Colonel did not join in but stood, his demeanor most serious. ''If the ensign who bears the weight of a name like Longknife has neither had the blessing nor the admonitions appropriate to her calling, I can think of none better than the words the Regimental Sergeant Major shared with you.''
Emma nodded. She stood and turned to Kris with a solemnity that brought water to Kris's eyes and a tremble that she had not felt at college graduation or Navy commissioning, or for that matter, even under fire. Kris found that to be the center of such intense attention made her skin burn. But that was not what made her tremble. To look into Emma's eyes was to face a goddess; and there is nothing so frightening in the world as the face of absolute truth.
''These are the words of the Regimental Sergeant Major,'' Emma began softly. ''The stories are true, I have not lied to you. Now you will command people, men and woman just as scared, hurt, tired, and confused as those in the stories. The difference between just anyone scared and tired and a soldier is you, the leader. It will be your duty now to help them find, deep within themselves, the courage and the will to go on, to do what you determine must be done.
''Never abuse that power. Waste that, and you waste not just the moment, but a life, and all that life could have held for some trooper.
''When that moment they have trained and lived for comes, you hold the power of life or death for your people. To earn that, you must be their servant. Are their feet dry? Is their food decent? Do they have a place to sleep? You answer for them before you seek an answer for yourself. You have been given authority over them. You waste it if you use it for anything that doesn't prepare the both of you for that critical day when death is at your side.
''You and they will live, or you and they may die. Despite all the care that you put into your training, chance may call the time when the moment comes, but that is no excuse to leave anything more to chance than the laws of the universe demand.
''Despite all you've heard in the stories, there is no room for heroes. You do not make yourself a hero. If you chase after glory, you waste your time and their lives. Glory will find you on its own. If you must spend time thinking of future glory, pray that you and yours will be ready for its heavy burden when it falls upon you in the heat of battle.
''And lastly, remember, we tell the stories not to entertain or bask in others' glory. We tell them because we must. We tell them to keep faith with the faces that haunt our nights and shadow our days. They gave up all they might ever have had—love, children, sunsets—not for a ribbon but for a faith. Not for a planet but for comrades. Not because they were ordered to but because they chose to.
''If you choose this uniform, you enter into that faith, lived and died for by so many before you. Break that faith, and though you breathe, there will be no life within you.''
Done, Emma folded into her chair as if some spirit were going forth from her. Kris sat in a silence more sacred than she had ever touched. Somewhere the Colonel called for the pipes. They marched in, but their skirling did not break the silence in Kris's heart. Kris had gone through college graduation still in the heat of the words she'd passed with her mother and father over her Navy choice. She'd gone through OCS commissioning mad that her parents hadn't bothered to find time in their busy schedules to come. Her thoughts both moments had not been on what she was doing but rather on where she was from. Those moments she'd been wrapped up in being one of those Longknifes.
But here, these strangers with their traditions had kept alive something that brought her closer to what it meant to be a Longknife than she had ever touched. Yet, rather than making her smaller for it, it had grown her into something much more. Something was growing inside her, something she could not begin to fathom. Understanding would come with time. Time she had plenty of.
No longer hungry, Kris sat, hands folded into her lap. Around her, the mess went about its celebration. Pipes played. At some point, Tommy did try his hand, or rather feet, at the sword dance, and did it, if not with grace, at least competently enough not to bring opprobrium on the Navy. Kris's messmates left her in her silent bubble, like a child swimming in its mother's womb. And as with such a child, sounds, feelings, actions impinged on her and were taken into her, not so much by eyes and ears and fingers but somehow grasped whole.