: “ The Young Boot Lieutenant ”

Vega Sector HQ
The McAuliffe System, Day Quadrant, Vega Sector
MAR 2 2681/2681.061; 0837 Hours (CST)

Second Lieutenant Danny Roberts, Terran Confederation Marine Corps, was more than a little worried. So far, on his first week as an active duty Marine officer, nothing had gone right.

It all started from his graduation from the Terran Confederation Marine Corps School of Infantry, where he received his orders to report aboard the 24th Marine Expeditionary Unit on board Confed’s newest heavy fleet carrier, the TCS Mistral Sea. Enclosed in his orders were instructions and orders on the next transport leaving Sol System. Unfortunately, the shuttle that he was supposed to travel in had engine problems and was down for at least a day.

So when the shuttle was repaired and that he had finally arrived on McAuliffe Vega Sector HQ, the Mistral Sea and her group had already taken off without him. And the duty Captain in charge of Marine logistics operations in Sector HQ was making it clear that sympathy was on short supply here in McAuliffe HQ. And on top of that, while everyone in the room wore the usual day attire, khaki shirt and olive green pants, Lieutenant Roberts was in his fancy Dress Blue Alphas and stuck out like a sore thumb.

“Listen, Lieutenant, I don’t give a damn what your name is, I don’t give a rat’s ass about your missed ride. Hand me a frigging tissue. We just came off from a five day alert and I got better things to do rather then spend time up rounding up a spare transport and pilot for every woeful, wayward, green as grass replacement wandering around here in Vega. Like scratching my balls, for example. Got it?” The Captain kept his voice low, but Danny could swear that every lowly spaceman and private in the room had heard every word.

Cripes, now what? His first miserable day at Officer Candidates School flashed back to him. The Captain had asked a question in which there was only one permissible answer.

“Sir, yes, sir,” he said while giving a salute, then just stopped as he thought – why was the Captain’s face turning bright red? Hurriedly Lieutenant Roberts carried on, “Could the Captain please direct the second lieutenant to the nearest civilian transport station, then?”

“Oh shit, boy...” The man seemed to be trying hard not to laugh, as he turned to bellow at his topkick standing just a few feet away. “Gunny, see what we can do for this little lost sheep! He gotten astray from his herd and Little Bo Peep is probably pissing his pants right about now. I guess we are playing nursemaid today.”

The Captain turned around and looked at him, “Don’t expect too much or anything too fancy. Admiral Tupelov, the big boss here in Vega, doesn’t like seeing officers spending their time riding around like a bunch of sightseers. Especially when they are wearing their uniform of the day.” Danny thought of everyone looking at him and his Dress Blues and blushed, and he could sense the mockery that the Captain was giving him.

The Captain yawned. “You’re lucky I’m in a good mood, Lieutenant. And now that I’ve put your case in the capable hands of Gunny Phillips, I’ve done all that I can.”

Gunny Phillips, a wiry, thin man, motioned Danny to a chair. He offered, “Better take a rest, Lieutenant. This might take a while.”

Roberts sank to his chair. Jesus, here he was. Stuck in Vega Sector HQ. Stuck in the hands of a bunch of Marine clerks and one ball-scratching Captain. His new battalion commander has probably already listed him as AWOL. He could imagine writing an email to his family back home as he thought of an appropriate message: “Hi mom and dad. I am doing okay. Please send any E-mail to me at droberts@ex.marine.prison.sentence.for.life.com.”

Dropship 263
En route to Task Force 73
1207 Hours (CST)

To the Captain’s word, Gunny Phillips had gone through; for three hours later Lieutenant Roberts found himself in the cargo hold of a Hercules Marine LC that was being assigned to bring in some last minute supplies, equipment, and personnel for the 24th MEU. The Mistral Sea was jumping out to begin her maiden cruise and they were to rendezvous with the battle group before she jumped out. The estimated time to arrival was a little bit more then an hour remaining. Danny looked around.

Danny looked around the generous cargo hold of the dropship. He saw a hover skimmer (basically a 27th century HumVee) resting on one side of the cargo bay secured by rope. Roberts noted the unpowered minigun just standing on its roof. Then there were a few crates of supplies and boxes scattered about a cargo hold designed to hold up to a hundred and twenty Marines and their personal equipment.

Then there were also those Recon Marine.

Throughout the fleet, the elite of the elite of the Marine Corps were still being called “Force Recon Marines” in spite of the Fleet term “Marine Commandos” because they had a long heritage dating back to the Force Reconnaissance Marines of the 20th Century. They were known to be the best of the best, and during the Kilrathi War, they showed that a number of times. And they also had a tendency to be a little bit... uh... rowdy. And from how far they were sitting away from Roberts, it clearly showed that they didn’t like him at all. Roberts had learned that the hard way.

“Damn, fucking...” Roberts muttered to himself as he thought of what happened between him and the Recon Marine. He had reported aboard the dropship and when the Recon Marines saw him, the first thing they did was point at him and laugh. Roberts felt like a moron still wearing his Dress Blues; the recon Marines were wearing standard-issue Marine cammies that sensed the environment around them and blended the colors in accordance with the room. The Marines all looked dark gray, Lieutenant Roberts looked like a recruiting poster in his Dress Blues.

The first stupid thing that Roberts did was ordering the Recon Marines, who he thought were all NCOs, to salute him. They laughed. The second stupid thing that Roberts did was tell them that he was going to report them for insubordination and asked to talk to the commanding officer of the Recon Marine detachment. That was when the Captain in charge of the Recon Marines (he was laughing at Roberts too) came forward and told him to “piss off Lieutenant nobody”, which pretty much shut Roberts up.

Roberts had put himself in the chair farthest away from the Recon Marines. He took a glance at one of them. The Recon Marine looked back, pointed at him, and laughed. Roberts turned away and sulked for being so stupid.

TCS Mistral Sea; Flight Deck Alpha
1303 Hours (CST)

An hour later, after the dropship landed (finally!), Roberts discomfort had come to an end (well, for this part anyhow). He walked out, still in dress blues and carrying his personal bags. He walked out of a shuttle where he came face to face with a Marine sergeant holding a little personal notepad. The Sergeant looked at him, noted the gold butter bars on his shoulder which marked him as a Second Lieutenant, and saluted, “Reporting in, sir?” Roberts saluted back, not knowing that the sergeant had pronounced it “cur” as a little tone of disrespect.

Roberts said, “Roberts, Daniel R., Second Lieutenant. My shuttle was late. I was supposed to be here before the Mistral Sea left Vega Sector HQ.”

The Sergeant looked over his electronic notepad for orders. “Yes, sir. Battalion left word that you’re to report to Major Hawthorne, the XO, as soon as you arrive.”

Danny looked down at the pile of luggage at his feet and was acutely award that he desperately needed a shower and shave to look, feel, and smell human. And he wanted to get out of these cursed dress blues that gave him so much trouble the past day.

The Sergeant smiled, “I think you could interpret that order a little loosely, Lieutenant. I don’t think we’ll be able to log you in here for another half-hour, in the meantime, we’ll get you up to your quarters.” He then turned towards two privates that were walking by during their off-duty time, “Malloy! Browski! Move your lazy off-duty asses here and help the Lieutenant with his bags!”

After he said that, the sergeant turned around back to Danny, “Welcome to the 24th Marine Expeditionary Unit, sir.”

TCS Mistral Sea; front of TCMC Major Michael Hawthorne’s office
1418 Hours (CST)

A quick shower at the Marine officer’s quarters (it is shared by all Marine officers) had left Roberts feeling a lot better. Now dressed in his normal day uniform (he made it a fact not to wear his Dress Blue Alphas anymore unless required), Second Lieutenant Daniel Roberts walked up to the door of the office of the Major. The knots was still turning in his stomach has he knocked the door three times and said, “Sir, Second Lieutenant Roberts requests permission to talk to the Major.”

“Come in,” was the reply. Danny opened the door, stepped inside, marched towards Hawthorne’s desk and came to attention. “Reported as ordered, sir.” Damn, why does every superior officer’s face seem to turn red when I tries to sound properly military?

Major Michael Hawthorne, a salty man with a shaved head, looked Danny over carefully for a brief moment, with all the studied disinterest of a man eyeing a horse he might buy one day. The Major’s gaze made Danny feel as though he was being x-rayed. He wondered what Hawthorne saw, to his discomfort.

Roberts knew he wasn’t tall, barely average in fact. Even though the NROTC Marine Option Leatherneck PT runs and hump sack marches had kept him in top physical shape, with a trim, flat stomach and muscular arms and legs, Danny knew that he’d inherited his family’s stocky build. His dad only kept his weight down by working from sunup to sundown on Nephele II. The Roberts didn’t have much of a choice, it was either sweat or grow fat.

Feeling self-conscious under Hawthorne’s gaze, Danny held his shoulders back and head rigid, resisting the temptation to gaze around the Major’s office. He had the feeling this wasn’t the time to be nose. Not by a long shot, if there was anything he learned while in ROTC, then Officers Candidate School and then The Basic School and then the School of Infantry, was that there was a time to just play dumb. He learned that the hard way. And it had been a difficult lesson to learn.

Curiosity, brains, and the need for adventure were a large part of why Danny Roberts didn’t want to stay at his family’s farm in Nephele II harvesting crops and vegetables. If he was the average kid on the planet, then he’ll never have wanted to go to college. And if he hadn’t wanted to go to college, he wouldn’t have signed up with ROTC to pay for it. And if the Space Force and Navy recruiters weren’t on their lunch break when he came to sign up, he wouldn’t have chosen the Marine Corps. He got a degree al right, (a B.A. in Kilrathi Studies, in the 27th century it is no different then Ethnic study majors here now), but now his service obligations to the Marine Corps had landed him smack-dab on the front.

Part of him was still pissed off. Infantry wasn’t what he bargained for, even though he had been trained as an infantry officer and knew that every Marine is a rifleman. But he wanted something else, and when his orders came, it was like a shock to him. He saw that all of his other classmates at the end of The Basic School had orders to ship out to other places...

Major Hawthorne pushed his chair back and looked at Roberts, “At ease Lieutenant, I’m not going to bite your head off.” He shook Danny’s hand, waved him to a chair, and then perched himself on the corner of his desk.

Danny started off, “Sir, I’m sorry I didn’t get here on time, but you see, my transport...”

Hawthorne interrupted, “Don’t worry about it, Lieutenant. We don’t expect our officers to control the universe, or even the spacelines. Sector HQ called us this morning to let us know what happened to you.” He paused for a moment, “But don’t get the idea that you can be late from now on. I’m going to expect your platoon to be ready to move when I say ‘move’ and to jump when I give the word. Clear?”

Danny nodded.

“Good. That’s settled, then.” Hawthorne pulled a file off his desk and started leafing through it.” There wasn’t much in it. “Now I see from your service record and recommendations that you excelled in several classes. I hope those were your military science and amphibious warfare courses.”

“No, sir, I only got mediocre scores then those classes. I excelled in Kilrathi languages, sociology, and anthropology in college sir, I expected to...” Danny thought that it might not be a good time to finish the sentence.

Hawthorne looked at him, amusement showing in his eyes. “You never expected to get sent to infantry, Lieutenant?”

“Well, sir, no. No I didn’t. I applied for a Kilrathi psychological operations post in Sol.”

Hawthorne shook his head, “Let me get this straight. You took years of Kilrathi languages, studied their politics and culture and all of that stuff real hard, and then you expected the Marine Corps to send you to psy-ops?”

The Major tossed the file back on the desk, “Welcome to the real Marine Corps, Mister Roberts. Let me clue you in on a well-known secret. The Marine Corps moves in mysterious ways. It doesn’t send you where you want to go, or even where you are best suited to go. It sends you where you are needed.”

Hawthorne stood suddenly, walked over to a map and jagged his finger. “And that’s right here, Lieutenant. It just so happens that we’re short a platoon leader in this MEU. That’s gonna be your job for the next twelve months. You read me, Lieutenant?”

Danny remembered the Fifth Marine Captain’s laughter at his midshipman’s salute, so he simply nodded. “Yes, sir, I’ll do my best.”

“Good. I know you will. Now let me bring you up to assignment.”

He walked over to his desk, “This MEU has four parts: the aviation dropship part, the ground vehicle part, the infantry part, and the support/staff puke part. We’re the infantry part and we’re the biggest of the four. The infantry part is pretty much a reinforced battalion, and we have four companies: Alpha, Beta, Charlie, and Delta. Each company has three platoons.”

Hawthorne smiled, ”I’m giving you the Third Platoon in Alpha Company. That’s Captain Mendieta’s mob. Mendieta’s a damn good officer, so you live up to his standards and you’ll go far. You’ll also stay clear of trouble and off my shit list, which is exactly where you want to stay.”

The major handed him disk, “Here are the records of your Marines. Get to know them. Get to know which ones to depend on and which you’ve got to watch. But remember, these records are just paperwork. They don’t tell the whole story. You’ll get to know the real men, the ones behind the paper, and you’ll do all right.”

Danny didn’t know what to say to that, so he just nodded again, feeling a bit like one of those little bouncing fuzzy dice one sticks on their hovercar’s mirror.

Now Major Hawthorne looked at Danny, “Pop quiz, Lieutenant. Now tell me, what is the one man you can rely on to set you straight, spoon-feed you the info you need, and generally make sure you look and act like a proper young Lieutenant?”

Roberts responded immediately, “Captain Mendieta, sir.”

“No dice, Lieutenant. It ain’t Captain Mendieta. He’s got better things to do then try to keep you in line. No, the man you’ll better rely on heavily is your platoon sergeant. He’s the one with the experience and the motivation to keep you from screwing up too badly.”

Hawthorne looked at him. “And that’s where you’re a lucky man, Lieutenant. Your platoon sergeant, Staff Sergeant Irons, is a fine Marine - one of the best. He’s a combat vet. Did two tours during the War. So you listen up real close when Staff Sergeant Irons ‘suggests’ something. It just may save your platoon in a combat situation. It might even save your life one day.”

The Major stood. “Okay, Lieutenant, I’ve jawed at you enough.” He looked at his watch, “It’s twelve thirty-five now. Your Marines won’t get back from the range 'till fifteen hundred. So go get something to eat, study those records, and then go over and meet your Marines. Any questions?”

Danny had a couple, but this didn’t seem like the right time to ask about transfer application procedures. He shook his head, stuffed the platoon personnel files under his arms and saluted.

Hawthorne returned it lazily and turned to some of the paperwork on his desk. But has Danny headed out the door, Hawthorne’s voice stopped him. “One more thing, Lieutenant. Forget most of the crap they drummed into you in ROTC.” He pronounced it "rot-see." “It ain’t gonna help you worth a damn in dealing with real Marines.”

TCS Mistral Sea; TCMC Third Platoon Barracks, Alpha Company
1515 Hours (TCMC)

Excluding the commanding officer, a fullength Marine infantry rifle platoon contains forty men, and all forty of them were lined up in front of their bunks and waiting for Danny Roberts when he came in the door of the barracks housing the Third Platoon, Alpha Company, Infantry Battalion, 24th Marine Expeditionary Unit.

“Stand by... attention on deck!” A loud, bull-like roar brought the jarheads up and straight and nearly gave Danny a care of premature cardiac arrest. He’d hoped to come in quietly and talk to the platoon sergeant before officially assuming command. Scratch Plan A, and on to Plan... oops, poor Danny didn’t have any Plan B. Damn shame, ain’t it?

A big man wearing Staff Sergeants emblems, three stripes and a rocker, stepped out of the ranks and saluted him. “Welcome to Third Platoon, sir. I’m Staff Sergeant Jack Irons.” He was much taller then Roberts and outweighed him by at least 50 pounds, all of it in muscle. He wore his graying hair in a crew cut so short that it was almost invisible.

Danny knew he couldn’t just stand there gaping like some kind of moron. He cleared his throat, “Thank you, Staff Sergeant. Ah...” The only thing Danny knew about replying was that one never calls a Staff Sergeant a mere "sergeant." You either called him "Staff Sergeant," or you got a very pissed off Staff Sergeant. But Danny’s mind was racing now. Cripes, now what was he supposed to do, make a speech or say some jokes or something?

Staff Sergeant Irons cut in, “Would you care to inspect the platoon, sir?” His tone made it clear that this was one of those “suggestions” that Hawthorne had talked about, and Danny felt grateful. The Staff Sergeant seemed to be doing his best to keep him from looking too stupid.

Danny nodded, trying to act as if taking over a platoon was just an everyday occurrence to him. “Yes, Staff Sergeant, I certainly would.” Jeeze, that sounded pretty arrogant. Well, he’d just have to drive on.

Staff Sergeant Irons led him along the row of Marines lined up by their bunks. Names and faced flashed by Danny so fast he knew he’d never remember more then a tenth of them. PFC Grimsly, 1st Squad leader Sergeant Hanna, Lance Corporal Todanski, Private Davis, Corporal Whittiker, and on and on and on.

The equipment he saw looked in pretty good shape, the standard-issue M-58A1 laser rifle and the machine gunner issued M-297 neutron minigun, although Danny knew he’d have trouble telling the difference between a really cared-for weapon and one that had just been “prettied” up for inspection.

There was just one thing left out of the inspection, and when they reached the end of the line, Danny turned to Irons, “I’d like to see the running track Staff Sergeant. I assume we’re going to spend our PT there?”

Danny heard a muffled chuckle, or may it was just a cough, from somewhere in his new platoon. He reddened. Now what?

Irons flashed a warning glance into the ranks and kept his voice low, “We don’t have any indoor track, Lieutenant. Confed might have spent enough money to build ten megacarriers like this that hold two hundred and fifty wing-wiper fighters and a two-thousand strong Marine MEU, but somehow didn’t have any space or the $ to make a little indoor PT track. For our PT, we run along the hallways all around this carrier. It’s practical, it’s great, and our shouting cadences annoy the hell out of the Navy pukes and the Space Force wing wipers.” Irons flashed Roberts a sadistic smile.

Danny said “Oh shit” to himself. He should have remembered that from the briefing order they’d given him back at Sol. It has just slipped out of his brain somewhere along the way.

“Right. We’re in a warship, not on some cruise liner.” Jesus, that sounded professional as all hell.

Irons eyed him calmly, “Yes sir. That’s about the size of it.” Danny nodded as if Irons was just confirming everything he’d known all along. He had the uncomfortable feeling though, that he hadn’t fooled anyone, and certainly not his platoon sergeant. He’d better get out of here before he said anything else that was laughably ignorant.

He clasped his hands behind his back, “Well, Staff Sergeant, the platoon looks fine. Carry on with today’s schedule. See me in my quarters after chow tonight and we’ll go over plans for the rest of the week. Okay?”

Irons saluted, “Yes, sir.” The NCO wheeled to face the Marines still standing at attention. “All right, you heard the Lieutenant. At ease.” The Marines broke ranks – the polished image of unity and order vanishing in a split second, changing instead into a milling crowd of individuals who just happened to be wearing the same clothes.

Danny looked around him, trying hard to conceal his uncertainty. He wasn’t ready for this. By rights he should be sitting at a desk, evaluating the latest intelligence reports on the Kilrathi feudal systems. Infantry hadn’t been in his plans at all.

Dammit, it just wasn’t fair. He joined NROTC to help pay for college and to see the universe. He passed OCS just because he had to pass it to finish NROTC. But never did he expect himself to wind up making an ass out of himself in front of a bunch of tough, professional Marines. And he had the sinking feeling that was precisely what he was doing so far.

Staff Sergeant Irons’s deep voice broke into Danny’s thoughts. “Don’t worry, Lieutenant. It isn’t really as difficult as it might seem. You’ve got a good group of Marines here. I’ve worked ‘em hard and they’re ready for just about anything.” Danny nodded. The men of his new command might
be ready.

But he sure as hell wasn’t.

FINIS