Dead silence.
"Very well. It was one of those bush wars that hared up on the edges of
the Napoleonic wars. This young officer was the most junior in a naval vessel -- wet navy, of course—wind-powered, in fact. This youngster was about the age of most of your class and was not commissioned. He carried the title of temporary third lieutenant'—note that this is the title you are about to carry. He had no combat experience; there were four officers in the chain of command above him. When the battle started his commanding officer was wounded. The kid picked him up and carried him out of the line of fire. That's all—make pickup on a comrade. But he did it without being ordered to leave his post. The other officers all bought it while he was doing this and he was tried for ‘deserting his post of duty as commanding officer in the presence of the enemy.' Convicted. Cashiered."
I gasped. "For that? Sir."
"Why not? True, we make pickup. But we do it under different
circumstances from a wet-navy battle, and by orders to the man making pickup. But pickup is never an excuse for breaking off battle in the presence of the enemy. This boy's family tried for a century and a half to get his conviction reversed. No luck, of course. There was doubt about some circumstances but no doubt that he had left his post during battle without orders. True, he was green as grass—but he was lucky not to be hanged." Colonel Nielssen fixed me with a cold eye. "Mr. Rico—could this happen to you?"
I gulped. "I hope not, sir."
"Let me tell you how it could on this very ‘prentice cruise. Suppose
you are in a multiple-ship operation, with a full regiment in the drop. Officers drop first, of course. There are advantages to this and disadvantages, but we do it for reasons of morale; no trooper ever hits the ground on a hostile planet without an officer. Assume the Bugs know this— and they may. Suppose they work up some trick to wipe out those who hit the ground first... but not good enough to wipe out the whole drop. Now suppose, since you are a supernumerary, you have to take any vacant capsule instead of being fired with the first wave. Where does that leave you?"
"Uh, I'm not sure, sir."
"You have just inherited command of a regiment. What are you going to do? With your command, Mister? Talk fast—the Bugs won't wait!"
"Uh..." I caught an answer right out of the book and parroted it. "I'll take command and act as circumstances permit, sir, according to the tactical situation as I see it."
"You will, eh?" The Colonel grunted. "And you'll buy a farm too that's all anybody can do with a foul-up like that. But I hope you'll go down swinging—and shouting orders to somebody, whether they make sense or not. We don't expect kittens to fight wildcats and win—we merely expect them to try. All right, stand up. Put up your right hands."
He struggled to his feet. Thirty seconds later we were officers—"temporary, probationary, and supernumerary."
I thought he would give us our shoulder pips and let us go. We aren't supposed to buy them—they're a loan, like the temporary commission they represent. Instead he lounged back and looked almost human.
"See here, lads—I gave you a talk on how rough it's going to be. I want you to worry about it, doing it in advance, planning what steps you might take against any combination of bad news that can come your way, keenly aware that your life belongs to your men and is not yours to throw away in a suicidal reach for glory... and that your life isn't yours to save, either, if the situation requires that you expend it. I want you to worry yourself sick before a drop, so that you can be unruffled when the trouble starts.
"Impossible, of course. Except for one thing. What is the only factor that can save you when the load is too heavy? Anyone?"
Nobody answered.
"Oh, come now!" Colonel Nielssen said scornfully. "You aren't recruits. Mr. Hassan!"
"Your leading sergeant, sir," the Assassin said slowly.
"Obviously. He's probably older than you are, more drops under his belt, and he certainly knows his team better than you do. Since he isn't carrying that dreadful, numbing load of top command, he may be thinking more clearly than you are. Ask his advice. You've got one circuit just for that.
"It won't decrease his confidence in you; he's used to being consulted. If you don't, he'll decide you are a fool, a cocksure know-it-all—and he'll be right.
"But you don't have to take his advice. Whether you use his ideas, or whether they spark some different plan—make your decision and snap out orders. The one thing—the only thing! -- that can strike terror in the heart of a good platoon sergeant is to find that he's working for a boss who can't make up his mind.
"There never has been an outfit in which officers and men were more dependent on each other than they are in the M. I., and sergeants are the glue that holds us together. Never forget it."
The Commandant whipped his chair around to a cabinet near his desk. It contained row on row of pigeonholes, each with a little box. He pulled out one and opened it. "Mr. Hassan—"
"Sir?"
"These pips were worn by Captain Terence O'Kelly on his ‘prentice cruise. Does it suit you to wear them?"
"Sir?" The Assassin's voice squeaked and I thought the big lunk was going to break into tears. "Yes, sir!"
"Come here." Colonel Nielssen pinned them on, then said, "Wear them as gallantly as he did... but bring them back. Understand me?"
"Yes, sir. I'll do my best."
"I'm sure you will. There's an air car waiting on the roof and your boat boosts in twenty-eight minutes. Carry out your orders, sir!"
The Assassin saluted and left; the Commandant turned and picked out another box. "Mr. Byrd, are you superstitious?"
"No, sir."
"Really? I am, quite. I take it you would not object to wearing pips which have been worn by five officers, all of whom were killed in action?"
Birdie barely hesitated. "No, sir."
"Good. Because these five officers accumulated seventeen citations, from the Terran Medal to the Wounded Lion. Come here. The pip with the brown discoloration must always be worn on your left shoulder—and don't try to buff it off! Just try not to get the other one marked in the same fashion. Unless necessary, and you'll know when it is necessary. Here is a list of former wearers. You have thirty minutes until your transportation leaves. Bounce up to Memorial Hall and look up the record of each."
"Yes, sir."
"Carry out your orders, sir!"
He turned to me, looked at my face and said sharply, "Something on your mind, son? Speak up!"
"Uh—" I blurted it out. "Sir, that temporary third lieutenant—the one that got cashiered. How could I find out what happened?"
"Oh. Young man, I didn't mean to scare the daylights out of you; I simply intended to wake you up. The battle was on one June 1813 old style between USF Chesapeake and HMF Shannon. Try the Naval Encyclopedia; your ship will have it." He turned back to the case of pips and frowned.
Then he said, "Mr. Rico, I have a letter from one of your high school teachers, a retired officer, requesting that you be issued the pips he wore as a third lieutenant. I am sorry to say that I must tell him ‘No.' "
"Sir?" I was delighted to hear that Colonel Dubois was still keeping track of me—and very disappointed, too.
"Because I can't! I issued those pips two years ago—and they never came back. Real estate deal. Hmm -- " He took a box, looked at me. "You could start a new pair. The metal isn't important; the importance of the request lies in the fact that your teacher wanted you to have them."