Starship Troopers, Page 20

  “So I’ll try once more. Mr. Rico! Have you ever thought how it would feel to be court-martialed for losing a regiment?”

  I was startled silly. “Why—No, sir, I never have.” To be court-martialed—for any reason—is eight times as bad for an officer as for an enlisted man. Offenses which will get privates kicked out (maybe with lashes, possibly without) rate death in an officer. Better never to have been born!

  “Think about it,” he said grimly. “When I suggested that your platoon leader might be killed, I was by no means citing the ultimate in military disaster. Mr. Hassan! What is the largest number of command levels ever knocked out in a single battle?”

  The Assassin scowled harder than ever. “I’m not sure, sir. Wasn’t there a while during Operation Bughouse when a major commanded a brigade, before the Soveki-poo?”

  “There was and his name was Fredericks. He got a decoration and a promotion. If you go back to the Second Global War, you can find a case in which a naval junior officer took command of a major ship and not only fought it but sent signals as if he were admiral. He was vindicated even though there were officers senior to him in line of command who were not even wounded. Special circumstances—a breakdown in communications. But I am thinking of a case in which four levels were wiped out in six minutes—as if a platoon leader were to blink his eyes and find himself commanding a brigade. Any of you heard of it?”

  Dead silence.

  “Very well. It was one of those bush wars that flared 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 a 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 Terrence 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.”

  “Whatever you say, sir.”

  “Or”—he cradled the box in his hands—“you could wear these. They have been worn five times…and the last four candidates to wear them have all failed of commission—nothing dishonorable but pesky bad luck. Are you willing to take a swing at breaking the hoodoo? Turn them into good-luck pips instead?”

  I would rather have petted a shark. But I answered, “All right, sir. I’ll take a swing at it.”

  “Good.” He pinned them on me. “Thank you, Mr. Rico. You see, these were mine, I wore them first…and it would please me mightily to have them brought back to me with that streak of bad luck broken, have you go on and graduate.”

  I felt ten feet tall. “I’ll try, sir!”

  “I know you will. You may now carry out your orders, sir. The same air car will take both you and Byrd. Just a moment—Are your mathematics textbooks in your bag?”

  “Sir? No, sir.”

  “Get them. The Weightmaster of your ship has been advised of your extra baggage allowance.”

  I saluted and left, on the bounce. He had me shrunk down to size as soon as he mentioned math.

  My math books were on my study desk, tied into a package with a daily assignment sheet tucked under the cord. I gathered the impression that Colonel Nielssen never left anything unplanned—but everybody knew that.

  Birdie was waiting on the roof by the air car. He glanced at my books and grinned. “Too bad. Well, if we’re in the same ship, I’ll coach you. What ship?”

  “Tours.”

  “Sorry, I’m for the Moskva.” We got in, I checked the pilot, saw that it had been pre-set for the field, closed the door and the car took off. Birdie added, “You could be worse off. The Assassin took not only his math books but two other subjects.”

  Birdie undoubtedly knew and he had not been showing off when he offered to coach me; he was a professor type except that his ribbons proved that he was a soldier too.

  Instead of studying math Birdie taught it. One period each day he was a faculty member, the way little Shujumi taught judo at Camp Currie. The M.I. doesn’t waste anything; we can’t afford to. Birdie had a B.S. in math on his eighteenth birthday, so naturally he was assigned extra duty as instructor—which didn’t keep him from being chewed out at other hours.

  Not that he got chewed out much. Birdie had that rare combo of brilliant intellect, solid education, common sense, and guts, which gets a cadet marked as a potential general. We figured he was a cinch to command a brigade by the time he was thirty, what with the war.

  But my ambitions didn’t soar that high. “It would be a dirty, rotten shame,” I said, “if the Assassin flunked out,” while thinking that it would be a dirty, rotten shame if I flunked out.

  “He won’t,” Birdie answered cheerfully. “They’ll sweat him through the rest if they have to put him in a hypno booth and feed him through a tube. Anyhow,” he added, “Hassan could flunk out and get promoted for it.”

  “Huh?”

  “Didn’t you know? The Assassin’s permanent rank is first lieutenant—field commission, naturally. He reverts to it if he flunks out. See the regs.”

  I knew the regs. If I flunked math, I’d revert to buck sergeant, which is better than being slapped in the face with a wet fish any way you think about it…and I’d thought about it, lying awake nights after busting a quiz.

  But this was different. “Hold it,” I protested. “He gave up first lieutenant, permanent grade…and has just made temporary third lieutenant…in order to become a second lieutenant? Are you crazy? Or is he?”

  Birdie grinned. “Just enough to make us both M.I.”

  “But—I don’t get it.”

  “Sure you do. The Assassin has no education that he didn’t pick up in the M.I. So how high can he go? I’m sure he could command a regiment in battle and do a real swingin’ job—provided somebody else planned the operation. But commanding in battle is only a fraction of what an officer does, especially a senior officer. To direct a war, or even to plan a single battle and mount the operation, you have to have theory of games, operational analysis, symbolic logic, pessimistic synthesis, and a dozen other skull subjects. You can sweat them out on your own if you’ve got the grounding. But have them you must, or you’ll never get past captain, or possibly major. The Assassin knows what he is doing.”

  “I suppose so,” I said slowly. “Birdie, Colonel Nielssen must know that Hassan was an officer—is an officer, really.”

  “Huh? Of course.”

  “He didn’t talk as if he knew. We all got the same lecture.”

  “Not quite. Did you notice that when the Commandant wanted a question answered a particular way he always asked the Assassin?”

  I decided it was true. “Birdie, what is your permanent rank?”

  The car was just landing; he paused with a hand on the latch and grinned. “PFC—I don’t dare flunk out!”

  I snorted. “You won’t. You can’t!” I was surprised that he wasn’t even a corporal, but a kid as smart and well educated as Birdie would go to O.C.S. just as quickly as he proved himself in combat…which, with the war on, could be only months after his eighteenth birthday.

  Birdie grinned still wider. “We’ll see.”

  “You’ll graduate. Hassan and I have to worry, but not you.”

  “So? Suppose Miss Kendrick takes a dislike to me.” He opened the door and looked startled. “Hey! They’re sounding my call. So long!”

  “See you, Birdie.”

  But I did not see him and he did not graduate. He was commissioned two weeks later and his pips came back with their eighteenth decoration—the Wounded Lion, posthumous.

  XIII

  Youse guys think this deleted outfit is a blankety-blank nursery.

  Well, it ain’t! See?

  —Remark attributed to a Hellenic corporal before the walls of Troy, 1194 B.C.

  The Rodger Young carries one platoon and is crowded; the Tours carries six—and is roomy. She has the tubes to drop them all at once and enough spare room to carry twice that number and make a second drop. This would make her very crowded, with eating in shifts, hammocks in passageways and drop rooms, rationed water, inhale when your mate exhales, and get your elbow out of my eye! I’m glad they didn’t double up while I was in her.

  But she has the speed and lift to deliver such crowded troops still in fighting condition to any point in Federation space and much of Bug space; under Cherenkov drive she cranks Mike 400 or better—say Sol to Capella, forty-six light-years, in under six weeks.

  Of course, a six-platoon transport is not big compared with a battle wagon or passenger liner; these things are compromises. The M.I. prefers speedy little one-platoon corvettes which give flexibility for any operation, while if it was left up to the Navy we would have nothing but regimental transports. It takes almost as many Navy files to run a corvette as it does to run a monster big enough for a regiment�
�more maintenance and housekeeping, of course, but soldiers can do that. After all, those lazy troopers do nothing but sleep and eat and polish buttons—do ’em good to have a little regular work. So says the Navy.

  The real Navy opinion is even more extreme: The Army is obsolete and should be abolished.

  The Navy doesn’t say this officially—but talk to a Naval officer who is on R&R and feeling his oats; you’ll get an earful. They think they can fight any war, win it, send a few of their own people down to hold the conquered planet until the Diplomatic Corps takes charge.

  I admit that their newest toys can blow any planet right out of the sky—I’ve never seen it but I believe it. Maybe I’m as obsolete as Tyrannosaurus rex. I don’t feel obsolete and us apes can do things that the fanciest ship cannot. If the government doesn’t want those things done, no doubt they’ll tell us.

  Maybe it’s just as well that neither the Navy nor the M.I. has the final word. A man can’t buck for Sky Marshal unless he has commanded both a regiment and a capital ship—go through M.I. and take his lumps and then become a Naval officer (I think little Birdie had that in mind), or first become an astrogator-pilot and follow it with Camp Currie, etc.

  I’ll listen respectfully to any man who has done both.

  Like most transports, the Tours is a mixed ship; the most amazing change for me was to be allowed “North of Thirty.” The bulkhead that separates ladies’ country from the rough characters who shave is not necessarily No. 30 but, by tradition, it is called “bulkhead thirty” in any mixed ship. The wardroom is just beyond it and the rest of ladies’ country is farther forward. In the Tours the wardroom also served as messroom for enlisted women, who ate just before we did, and it was partitioned between meals into a recreation room for them and a lounge for their officers. Male officers had a lounge called the cardroom just abaft thirty.

  Besides the obvious fact that drop & retrieval require the best pilots (i.e., female), there is very strong reason why female Naval officers are assigned to transports: It is good for trooper morale.