Phule's Company Part 3

A few of the more seasoned Legionnaires within earshot grunted their agreement or simply grinned in amus.e.m.e.nt at the top sergeant's a.n.a.lysis. They, too, had heard it all before.

"Basically you've got two choices," Brandy continued. "You can wait him out, or you can toady up to him and hope he'll take you with him when he transfers out of this sewer."

There were several moments of uncomfortable silence before one of the newer Legionnaires voiced the thought that was on all their minds.

"Do you think we could get a better deal in another outfit, Sarge?"

The top sergeant spat noisily on the floor before answering.

"That all depends on what you think a better deal is. Standin' guard in a swamp is no picnic, but it beats getting shot at. As far as the company itself goes . . ."

She shot a glance at the company's two lieutenants fidgeting in opposite corners across the room and lowered her voice . . . all officers are pretty much the same, and none of them are good for much except signing reports and holding the bag. If you're asking what I think of the working end of the company, the grunts, well . . . do you know what an Omega Company is?"

The sudden crash of chairs being knocked about and voices raised in cheers and catcalls drew the attention of everyone in the room, at least momentarily. That was all the time it took for most of the company to realize it was only Super Gnat on another one of her rampages and return to whatever they were doing before.

Super Gnat was the smallest Legionnaire in the company, and had a fiery temper that exploded at any provocation, real or imagined. In particular, she was sensitive to any comments made about her height . . . or lack thereof.

"I wonder what set the Gnat off this time?" Brandy mused, half to herself.

"Who knows?" one of her listeners said. "The other day she jumped me in the chow line at breakfast. All I did was ask the cook for a short stack of pancakes."

"That sounds like her." The top sergeant nodded as the others chuckled appreciatively. "You know, with as much fighting as the little runt does, you'd think she'd be better at it: Look at that."

The Legionnaire under attack was laughing openly, keeping Super Gnat at arm's length by the simple tactic of holding his hand on the top of her head as she flailed away blindly with her fists.

Brandy shook her head sadly.

"It looks more like a schoolyard than a s.p.a.ce Legion company. That's what I was starting to say about Omega Companies. Counting up all the oddb.a.l.l.s and basket cases we've got in this outfit, it's a cinch that-"

"Ten-HUT."

Lieutenant Armstrong's voice reverberated off the walls, but no one paid it much heed. He was rumored to be a reject from the Regular Army, and had never rid himself of the reflex of calling a room to attention when a superior officer entered.

Such traditions were not practiced in the Legion. Courtesy between the ranks was a matter of personal preference rather than required performance, and as such was generally ignored. His eruption did call attention to the fact that the new CO had just entered the rec room, however, and all the Legionnaires craned their necks to see their new commander.

Framed by the door behind him and poised in a parade-rest stance that was at once relaxed and vibrating with restrained energy, the figure that had just entered the room dominated the a.s.semblage with its mere presence. His uniform was a glowing black jumpsuit edged with gold piping and tailored to flatter his slim body. A rapier with a polished bra.s.s swept basket hilt that hung at his side by a baldric might have made him look comical if it were not offset by the icy gaze he leveled at the company. So unsettling was the stare and the silence which accompanied it that several Legionnaires nervously rose from their seats and drew themselves up into an approximation of the position of attention. The CO seemed not to notice, any more than he noticed those who remained seated.

"They tell me you're all losers and misfits," he said flatly without introduction. "I don't believe it . . . though it's clear most of you think you're losers from the way you conduct yourselves."

The company exchanged glances, suddenly self-conscious of their soiled uniforms and the garbage in the room. A few eyes were turned toward the first sergeant as if to ask what had happened to the expected joke. She ignored them, making a show of concentrating on the CO's words as he continued.

"I'm aware that you are all lacking in the abilities or character traits that usually define the so-called perfect soldier. I'm also aware that the perfect soldier doesn't exist in reality. I'm not looking for you to be perfect soldiers, just effective soldiers. 'Effective' means getting the job done with whatever or whomever you have handy . . . not letting the job or the world run over you while you moan about what you haven't got. You've all spent so much time concentrating on your shortcomings that it's hard for you to see your own strengths. That's where leadership comes in."

He swept the room with that gaze again.

"My name is Captain Jester, and I'm your new commanding officer. Since I've seen all of your files and know quite a bit about you, I thought I'd return the favor and let you know a bit about me . . . even if it means departing from the Legion tradition of secrecy. My actual name is Willard Phule, and my father owns Phule-Proof Munitions. As you might guess from that, I'm quite rich."

There was a minor stir at this information, but most kept their attention on the captain.

"Some of your resent the practice the Legion has of raising money by charging a fee for the commissioned-officer examination . . . 'selling commissions,' as it's often referred to. I won't apologize for the system or for using it to my advantage. Purchasing commissions was common at one time in the British empire, and they did quite well militarily. There is another tradition from that time I intend to implement, however; that the commanding officer supplements the units under his command with his own finances. I'll get to that in a moment, but first I'd like to make one point clear. I didn't inherit my money. While my father provided some seed money at first, it was in the form of a loan, long since paid off. I was a multimillionaire before I was out of my teens, and I did it by buying companies and corporations that others thought were losers and turning them into winners. That's what I intend to do with this unit. Developing and making use of raw material is the job of management, and if this company can't become an effective force, it'll be my fault, not yours.

"Now then, as to special gear . . ." Phule held up one hand and used the other to pull back the sleeve of his uniform, revealing a wide leather band housing a watchlike mechanism.

"You will each be issued one of these. It's a wrist communicator and can be used as either a paging system or a private phone. They will enable you to stay in touch with each other and with Headquarters at all times, and vice versa. As you notice, I'm wearing one as well. I will be available to any of you at any time, day or night. Obviously I have to sleep sometime, as well as take care of other matters of importance. At those times, my number will be monitored by either a clerk or my butler. I can be wakened or interrupted at any time if it's important . . . but be sure it's actually important or we'll have a few words."

"Speaking of my butler, you've probably heard of him if not seen him by now. His name is Beeker, and in addition to being my employee, he's also my friend and confidant. I have a great deal of respect for him, and would appreciate it if you treated him with the courtesy he deserves. I can't and won't order it, but I will ask it. Remember, however, that he is not in the Legion and therefore not in your chain of command. Anything he says should be treated as his opinion only and not an order or official policy statement from me or the Legion. Similarly you will find that he will respect and keep any confidence you care to share with him, so feel free to speak with him or in front of him without fear of it being reported back to me or anyone else in the chain of command. If some of you feel that his job is demeaning or subservient, I'll share with you the fact that after several years of working for me and investing his savings, he is currently independently wealthy in his own right. In short, he's working for me because he wants to, not because he has to."

"That brings us to another point. I don't know what plans any of you have for life after your enlistment is up, or if you're saving any of your wages toward that day. I do know that if you aren't preparing yourself financially, you should. Well, handling money is something I do well, and I hereby place that skill at the disposal of the company . . . just as I hope some of you will be willing to use your strengths and skills, however praiseworthy or dubious, to the benefit of all. I will be opening a portfolio of stocks to enable any of you who wish to partic.i.p.ate to invest your savings or whatever portion of your pay you wish to a.s.sign to that purpose. While I can't guarantee success, I have never managed a portfolio that lost money. Personally I would suggest setting aside one third of your wages for this purpose, but again the amount is completely up to you, as is your partic.i.p.ation at all. If any of you have questions on this, feel free to talk to me during breaks or off-duty hours."

The captain surveyed the room again.

"While there's a lot more to cover, it can wait. I just wanted you all to get an idea of who I was and what I had in mind for this unit. We all know, however, that talk is cheap, and I'm sure you're all more interested in my actions rather than my words, so I'll keep the speeches to a minimum for the time being."

"I'll be meeting with each of the officers and cadre members in my office after we finish here. Are there any immediate questions before we break up?"

There was a low buzz among the Legionnaires, then a voice floated up clearly from the back.

"We hear that the governor's decided to post a color guard on his office."

The commanding officer c.o.c.ked his head.

"This is the first I've heard of it, but I'll check into it first thing tomorrow. Off the top, however, I don't see any problem with it. It could make a nice break from swamp duty."

"Umm . . . excuse me, sir?" Brandy drawled. "I don't think you quite understand. Scuttleb.u.t.t has it that he's invited Regular Army to perform that duty instead of us. They get to show off their pretty dress uniforms in town while we sit out in the swamp . . . same as always."

A low growl rumbled though the a.s.semblage. Phule noted it, as his lips compressed into a thin line of annoyance.

"We'll see about that," he said grimly. "All right. Anything else that won't keep until tomorrow?"

He waited a moment, then nodded at the silence.

"Very well, then. The last note is that I want you all to a.s.semble your personal gear and stand by to move out first thing in the morning. We're going to be moving out of these quarters for a while."

Scattered groans greeted this announcement. It sounded like the new CO was going to make them camp out while taking their measure.

"Why? Are you going to have the place fumigated?"

Phule seemed not to notice the snickers that answered the question which had been shouted anonymously.

"Actually I'm going to have the place remodeled," he said casually. "In the meantime, we're going to move into the Plaza Hotel in town."

Thunderstruck silence followed his words. The Plaza was the ritziest, most expensive hotel on the planet. The few times that Legionnaires had attempted to stop in the c.o.c.ktail lounge for a drink, they had been driven out by the prices and dress codes.

For the first time since entering the rec room, Phule allowed himself a small smile.

"Like I said, gentlemen . . . and ladies . . . things are going to be different from now on. Officers and cadre . . . outside my office. Now!"

CHAPTER THREE.

Journal File #014

Honoring the tradition of the s.p.a.ce Legion, my employer did not have, nor did he request, any information regarding the lives of those under his command prior to their enlistment. Not being a member of the Legion, however, I felt no obligation to be so restrained, and consequently had compiled substantial dossiers on the individuals that would be affecting my employer's, and therefore my own, life and well-being for the foreseeable future.

For the most part, this was relatively easy to accomplish. A computer check of the police records and news items around the time and place of each Legionnaire's enlistment provided a starting point for most of the searches. There were some, however, that required much more extensive research, and occasionally I was forced to resort to mere extrapolation and guessing. Such was the case of the two lieutenants my employer had inherited with his command.

"Good evening, Lieutenant Armstrong, . . . Lieutenant Rembrandt. Please, have a seat."

Phule had deliberately kept his office as small and spartan as possible. It was his belief that large meetings were useless for anything except announcements. Consequently there were only two visitor chairs in his retreat.

Rembrandt nodded her thanks and reached for one of the seats. She was of medium height which made her look small beside Lieutenant Armstrong's six foot plus-with dark hair, a round face, and a vaguely rotund body . . . not fat, but broad across the rump and far from slender.

"Thank you, sir. I'd rather stand."

Armstrong, recruiting-poster correct in his parade-rest stance, barked out his response just as his counterpart's rump was beginning its downward movement toward her chair. At his outburst, however, Rembrandt abandoned her maneuver, electing instead to stand beside Armstrong in a rough approximation of his posture. From her grimace and his smirk, it was apparent to Phule that this little game of one-upmanship was nothing new between them.

"Very well," he said. "I'll try to keep this short.

"I'm probably going to be rougher on you two than on anyone else in the company . . . with the possible exception of myself. Being an officer is more than paying for your exam fee. As I said in the general meeting, this company needs leadership, and if we're going to inspire and lead the Legionnaires, we're going to have to stay one jump ahead of them. You two are going to be my stand-ins when I'm otherwise occupied, but though I'll try to be understanding while you're learning my priorities and style, I will not tolerate laziness. In fact, the only thing I detest more than sloth is thoughtlessness. I want you two to be thinking and a.n.a.lyzing all the time. For example . . . Lieutenant Armstrong. "

"Sir?"

"From your manner and performance reports, you fancy yourself to be a disciplinarian . . . a by-the-book man. Right?"

For a moment, Armstrong's apparent confidence was shaken.

"I . . . that is . . ." he stammered, obviously unsure of what response was expected.

"Well?"

"Yes, sir."

"All right." The captain smiled. "Then consider this . . . By the book, is it better or order soldiers to shape up or to lead by example?"

"Lead by example, sir," Armstrong replied briskly, back on familiar ground.

"Then why don't you?"

The lieutenant under fire frowned, his eyes wandering from their straight-ahead stare to look directly at the commander for the first time since the interview began.

"I . . . I don't understand, sir," he said. "I try to conduct myself in an exemplary manner. I thought I was . . . I try to be the best Legionnaire in the company."

"You have that potential," Phule acknowledged easily, "but I think you're overlooking one vital element. Most people don't want to be seen as a tight-a.s.sed, overbearing prig . . . which is what you tend to show them. If anything, your manner is driving them away from proper military behavior because no one wants to be like you."

Armstrong opened his mouth to reply, but the commander cut him off with a gesture.

"I don't want to talk about it, Armstrong. I want you to think about it. Then maybe we'll talk about specifics. If you can temper your rigid manner with a little compa.s.sion, show that someone can be a bandbox soldier and still be human, then the troops will follow you anywhere because they want to, not because they're ordered to."

The lieutenant wrenched his gaze back to its original distant stare and nodded once, curtly, as his only acknowledgment of having heard Phule's words.

"As for you, Lieutenant Rembrandt," the commander said, swiveling his chair to face the second of his sub-chieftains, "it appears you don't expect, or want, anyone to look to you for an example. "

The dark-haired lieutenant blinked at him in surprise. She made no effort to duplicate Armstrong's distant stare, but met Phule's eyes directly as he continued.

"From the notes on your record, it would seem you're content to let the sergeants run the company when you're supposedly in command, while you wander off with your sketch pad looking for things to draw. " He paused and shook his head ruefully. "Now, I'm all in favor of art, Rembrandt, and I don't mind at all your pursuing it as a hobby during your off hours. I may even be able to pull a few strings to help you get a showing when your enlistment is up. However, during duty hours I expect your attention to be focused on the company. The sergeants may be experts in their own right and may think they run the company, but their focus is on the immediate job and not the long term. That's your job, as well as Armstrong's and mine, and if we don't do it, the company will flounder. We can't do that job if we don't know what's going on or aren't familiar with the performance of the Legionnaires as individuals and as a group. Now, the three of us will be meeting on a weekly if not daily basis to discuss the troops and the company, and I'll expect you to take an active and knowledgeable part in those discussions. Do I make myself clear?"

"I . . . I'll try, Captain."

"Good. As long as people are willing to try, I can work with them. That goes for you, too, Armstrong. The three of us have to be the eyes and the brains of the company, and that means functioning as a team within the team. Which reminds me . . ."

He stabbed a finger into the air between the two lieutenants and made a little stirring motion.

"I don't want to see any more little games between the two of you as to who's the better soldier. As of now, you two are partners . . . and your first order of business is to start building a tolerance for your differences. It's my belief those differences will work in your favor if each of you can learn to rely on the other's strengths rather than envying them. I won't ask for respect, though I'm hoping that will come with time. Just realize that you're holding opposite sides of the same bucket, and you're going to have to learn to move together to keep it from falling or splashing."

The commander leaned back in his chair and made a little shooing gesture.

"Now, I suggest you get out of here and hole up over coffee or a drink and start figuring out what you have in common . . ."

He allowed a ghost of a smile to flit across his face . . . aside from the belief that your new commander is an unreasonable and unjustly demanding sonofab.i.t.c.h, that is."

Escrima, the mess sergeant, was a wiry, swarthy little man with wavy black hair, dark wide-s.p.a.ced eyes, and a nearly perpetual grin that beamed from his wrinkled walnut face. It was the "nearly" part that made him someone worth watching.

Phule returned his somewhat exaggerated salute and studied him for a few moments before speaking.

"Without meaning to break the rule against prying into backgrounds, Sergeant, am I correct in a.s.suming from your name that you're of Philippine descent?"

The little sergeant bobbed his head in quick acknowledgment, the smile never wavering.

"I've always heard that the Filipinos were some of the best cooks and some of the fiercest fighters on Old Earth."

That earned the commander a modest shrug, though the smile broadened slightly.

"Then perhaps you can tell me why the food in the mess isn't better. "

Phule had planned the phrasing of that question very carefully. According to his record, Sergeant Escrima had attacked people who criticized his cooking on three separate occasions, hospitalizing two of them. It was therefore important to be sure to say only that the food could be better, not that it was bad.

Even with the added precaution, the cook's dark eyes glittered for a moment. Then the look pa.s.sed and he gave another of his shrugs.

"Mmmm . . . I am given a menu by the Legion. They say . . . they tell me I should cook what it says. And the meat they give me . . . is, how you say, stiff . . . tough. I tell the supply sergeant, I say to him, 'How can I cook with this meat? Look at it! Here, you show me!' but he just shrug and say, 'That's all the Legion budget can afford. Do the best you can.' So I do the best I can with the meat he gives me . . . and the Legion menu . . . but . . ."

The sergeant let his oration die off with a more exaggerated shrug and a meaningful jerk of his head at Phule.

"I see. Well, forget about the budget . . . and the menu. I want the company to eat well, and we don't pay them enough for them to eat out all the time. While I'm commander and you're the cook, I want this to be the best-fed company in the Legion. "