“Sir?”
“Too late now. Forget it. Mmm … your instructor in History and Moral Philosophy seems to think well of you.”
“He does?” I was surprised. “What did he say?”
Weiss smiled. “He says that you are not stupid, merely ignorant and prejudiced by your environment. From him that is high praise — I know him.”
It didn’t sound like praise to me! That stuck-up stiff-necked old—
“And,” Weiss went on, “a boy who gets a ‘C-minus’ in Appreciation of Television can’t be all bad. I think we’ll accept Mr. Dubois’ recommendation. How would you like to be an infantryman?”
I came out of the Federal Building feeling subdued yet not really unhappy. At least I was a soldier; I had papers in my pocket to prove it. I hadn’t been classed as too dumb and useless for anything but make-work.
It was a few minutes after the end of the working day and the building was empty save for a skeleton night staff and a few stragglers. I ran into a man in the rotunda who was just leaving; his face looked familiar but I couldn’t place him.
But he caught my eye and recognized me. “Evening!” he said briskly. “You haven’t shipped out yet?”
And then I recognized him — the Fleet Sergeant who had sworn us in. I guess my chin dropped; this man was in civilian clothes, was walking around on two legs and had two arms. “Uh, good evening, Sergeant,” I mumbled.
He understood my expression perfectly, glanced down at himself and smiled easily. “Relax, lad. I don’t have to put on my horror show after working hours — and I don’t. You haven’t been placed yet?”
“I just got my orders.”
“For what?”
“Mobile Infantry.”
His face broke in a big grin of delight and he shoved out his hand. “My outfit! Shake, son! We’ll make a man of you — or kill you trying. Maybe both.”
“It’s a good choice?” I said doubtfully.
“‘A good choice’? Son, it’s the only choice. The Mobile Infantry is the Army. All the others are either button pushers or professors, along merely to hand us the saw; we do the work.” He shook hands again and added, “Drop me a card—‘Fleet Sergeant Ho, Federal Building,’ that’ll reach me. Good luck!” And he was off, shoulders back, heels clicking, head up.
I looked at my hand. The hand he had offered me was the one that wasn’t there — his right hand. Yet it had felt like flesh and had shaken mine firmly. I had read about these powered prosthetics, but it is startling when you first run across them.
I went back to the hotel where recruits were temporarily billeted during placement — we didn’t even have uniforms yet, just plain coveralls we wore during the day and our own clothes after hours. I went to my room and started packing, as I was shipping out early in the morning — packing to send stuff home, I mean; Weiss had cautioned me not to take along anything but family photographs and possibly a musical instrument if I played one (which I didn’t). Carl had shipped out three days earlier, having gotten the R&D assignment he wanted. I was just as glad, as he would have been just too confounded understanding about the billet I had drawn. Little Carmen had shipped out, too, with the rank of cadet midshipman (probationary)—she was going to be a pilot, all right, if she could cut it … and I suspected that she could.
My temporary roomie came in while I was packing. “Got your orders?” he asked.
“Yup.”
“What?”
“Mobile Infantry.”
“The Infantry? Oh, you poor stupid clown! I feel sorry for you, I really do.”
I straightened up and said angrily, “Shut up! The Mobile Infantry is the best outfit in the Army — it is the Army! The rest of you jerks are just along to hand us the saw—we do the work.”
He laughed. “You’ll find out!”
“You want a mouthful of knuckles?”
03
He shall rule them with a rod of iron.
I did Basic at Camp Arthur Currie on the northern prairies, along with a couple of thousand other victims — and I do mean “Camp,” as the only permanent buildings there were to shelter equipment. We slept and ate in tents; we lived outdoors — if you call that “living,” which I didn’t, at the time. I was used to a warm climate; it seemed to me that the North Pole was just five miles north of camp and getting closer. Ice Age returning, no doubt.
But exercise will keep you warm and they saw to it that we got plenty of that.
The first morning we were there they woke us up before daybreak. I had had trouble adjusting to the change in time zones and it seemed to me that I had just got to sleep; I couldn’t believe that anyone seriously intended that I should get up in the middle of the night.
But they did mean it. A speaker somewhere was blaring out a military march, fit to wake the dead, and a hairy nuisance who had come charging down the company street yelling, “Everybody out! Show a leg! On the bounce!” came marauding back again just as I had pulled the covers over my head, tipped over my cot and dumped me on the cold hard ground.
It was an impersonal attention; he didn’t even wait to see if I hit.
Ten minutes later, dressed in trousers, undershirt, and shoes, I was lined up with the others in ragged ranks for setting-up exercises just as the Sun looked over the eastern horizon. Facing us was a big broad-shouldered, mean-looking man, dressed just as we were — except that while I looked and felt like a poor job of embalming, his chin was shaved blue, his trousers were sharply creased, you could have used his shoes for mirrors, and his manner was alert, wide-awake, relaxed, and rested. You got the impression that he never needed to sleep — just ten-thousand-mile checkups and dust him off occasionally.
He bellowed, “C’pnee! Atten … shut! I am Career Ship’s Sergeant Zim, your company commander. When you speak to me, you will salute and say, ‘Sir’—you will salute and ‘sir’ anyone who carries an instructor’s baton—” He was carrying a swagger cane and now made a quick reverse moulinet with it to show what he meant by an instructor’s baton; I had noticed men carrying them when we had arrived the night before and had intended to get one myself — they looked smart. Now I changed my mind. “—because we don’t have enough officers around here for you to practice on. You’ll practice on us. Who sneezed?”
No answer—
“WHO SNEEZED?”
“I did,” a voice answered.
“‘I did’ what?”
“I sneezed.”
“‘I sneezed,’ SIR!”
“I sneezed, sir. I’m cold, sir.”
“Oho!” Zim strode up to the man who had sneezed, shoved the ferrule of the swagger cane an inch under his nose and demanded, “Name?”
“Jenkins … sir.”
“Jenkins …” Zim repeated as if the word were somehow distasteful, even shameful. “I suppose some night on patrol you’re going to sneeze just because you’ve got a runny nose. Eh?”
“I hope not, sir.”
“So do I. But you’re cold. Hmm … we’ll fix that.” He pointed with his stick. “See that armory over there?” I looked and could see nothing but prairie except for one building that seemed to be almost on the skyline.