Starship Troopers Part 14

Of course I knew the textbook answer.

"Mr. Byrd?" the Commandant said.

"Uh . . . to place us in the line of command, sir."

"Exactly!" Colonel glided to a T. O. on one wall. It was the usual pyramid, with chain of command defined all the way down. "Look at this - " He pointed to a box connected to his own by a horizontal line; it read: a.s.sISTANT TO COMMANDANT (Miss Kendrick).

"Gentlemen," he went on, "I would have trouble running this place without Miss Kendrick. Her head is a rapid-access file to everything that happens around here." He touched a control on his chair and spoke to the air. "Miss Kendrick, what mark did Cadet Byrd receive in military law last term?"

Her answer came back at once: "Ninety-three per cent, Commandant."

"Thank you." He continued, "You see? I sign anything if Miss Kendrick has initialed it. I would hate to have an investigating committee find out how often she signs my name and I don't even see it. Tell me, Mr. Byrd . . . if I drop dead, does Miss Kendrick carry on to keep things moving?"

"Why, uh - " Birdie looked puzzled. "I suppose, with routine matters, she would do what was necess - "

"She wouldn't do a blessed thing!" the Colonel thundered. "Until Colonel Chauncey told told her what to do - his way. She is a very smart woman and understands what you apparently do not, namely, that she is not in the line of command and has no authority." her what to do - his way. She is a very smart woman and understands what you apparently do not, namely, that she is not in the line of command and has no authority."

He went on, " 'Line of command' isn't just a phrase; it's as real as a slap in the face. If I ordered you to combat as a cadet as a cadet the most you could do would be to pa.s.s along somebody else's orders. If your platoon leader bought it and you then gave an order to a private - a good order, sensible and wise - you would be wrong and he would be just as wrong if he obeyed it. Because a cadet cannot be in the line of command. A cadet has no military existence, no rank, and is not a soldier. He is a student who will become a soldier - either an officer, or at his formal rank. While he is under Army discipline, he is not in the Army. That is why - " the most you could do would be to pa.s.s along somebody else's orders. If your platoon leader bought it and you then gave an order to a private - a good order, sensible and wise - you would be wrong and he would be just as wrong if he obeyed it. Because a cadet cannot be in the line of command. A cadet has no military existence, no rank, and is not a soldier. He is a student who will become a soldier - either an officer, or at his formal rank. While he is under Army discipline, he is not in the Army. That is why - "

A zero. A nought with no rim. If a cadet wasn't even in the Army - "Colonel!"

"Eh? Speak up, young man. Mr. Rico."

I had startled myself but I had to say it. "But . . . if we aren't in the Army . . . then we aren't M. I. Sir?"

He blinked at me. "This worries you?"

"I, uh, don't believe I like it much, sir." I didn't like it at all. I felt naked.

"I see." He didn't seem displeased. "You let me worry about the s.p.a.ce-lawyer aspects of it, son."

"But - "

"That's an order. You are technically not an M. I. But the M. I. hasn't forgotten you; the M. I. never never forgets its own no matter where they are. If you are struck dead this instant, you will be cremated as Second Lieutenant Juan Rico, Mobile Infantry, of - " Colonel Nielssen stopped. "Miss Kendrick, what was Mr. Rico's ship?" forgets its own no matter where they are. If you are struck dead this instant, you will be cremated as Second Lieutenant Juan Rico, Mobile Infantry, of - " Colonel Nielssen stopped. "Miss Kendrick, what was Mr. Rico's ship?"

"The Rodger Young."

"Thank you." He added, " - in and of TFCT Rodger Young Rodger Young, a.s.signed to mobile combat team Second Platoon of George Company, Third Regiment, First Division, M. I. - the 'Roughnecks,' " he recited with relish, not consulting anything once he had been reminded of my ship. "A good outfit, Mr. Rico - proud and nasty. Your Final Orders go back to them for Taps and that's the way your name would read in Memorial Hall. That's why we always commission a dead cadet, son - so we can send him home to his mates."

I felt a surge of relief and homesickness and missed a few words. ". . . lip b.u.t.toned while I talk, we'll have you back in the M. I. where you belong. You must be temporary officers for your 'prentice cruise because there is no room for dead-heads in a combat drop. You'll fight - and take orders - and give orders. Legal Legal orders, because you will hold rank and be ordered to serve in that team; that makes any order you give in carrying out your a.s.signed duties as binding as one signed by the C-in-C. orders, because you will hold rank and be ordered to serve in that team; that makes any order you give in carrying out your a.s.signed duties as binding as one signed by the C-in-C.

"Even more, " the Commandant went on, "once you are in line of command, you must be ready instantly to a.s.sume higher command. If you are in a one-platoon team - quite likely in the present state of the war - and you are a.s.sistant platoon leader when your platoon leader buys it . . . then . . . you . . . are . . . It!" It!"

He shook his head. "Not 'acting platoon leader.' Not a cadet leading a drill. Not a 'junior officer under instruction.' Suddenly you are the Old Man, the Boss, Commanding Officer Present - and you discover with a sickening shock that fellow human beings are depending on you alone you alone to tell them what to do, how to fight, how to complete the mission and get out alive. They wait for the sure voice of command - while seconds trickle away - and it's up to you to be that voice, make decisions, give the right orders . . . and not only the right ones but in a calm, unworried tone. Because it's a cinch, gentlemen, that your team is in trouble - to tell them what to do, how to fight, how to complete the mission and get out alive. They wait for the sure voice of command - while seconds trickle away - and it's up to you to be that voice, make decisions, give the right orders . . . and not only the right ones but in a calm, unworried tone. Because it's a cinch, gentlemen, that your team is in trouble - bad bad trouble! - and a strange voice with panic in it can turn the best combat team in the Galaxy into a leaderless, lawless, fear-crazed mob. trouble! - and a strange voice with panic in it can turn the best combat team in the Galaxy into a leaderless, lawless, fear-crazed mob.

"The whole merciless load will land without warning. You must act at once and you'll have only G.o.d over you. Don't expect Him to fill in tactical details; that's your your job. He'll be doing all that a soldier has a right to expect if He helps you keep the panic you are sure to feel out of your voice." job. He'll be doing all that a soldier has a right to expect if He helps you keep the panic you are sure to feel out of your voice."

The Colonel paused. I was sobered and Birdie was looking terribly serious and awfully young and Ha.s.san was scowling. I wished that I were back in the drop room of the Rog Rog, with not too many chevrons and an after-chow bull session in full swing. There was a lot to be said for the job of a.s.sistant section leader - when you come right to it, it's a lot easier to die die than it is to use your head. than it is to use your head.

The Commandant continued: "That's the Moment of Truth, gentlemen. Regrettably there is no method known to military science to tell a real officer from a glib imitation with pips on his shoulders, other than through ordeal by fire. Real ones come through - or die gallantly; imitations crack up.

"Sometimes, in cracking up, the misfits die. But the tragedy lies in the loss of others . . . good men, sergeants and corporals and privates, whose only lack is fatal bad fortune in finding themselves under the command of an incompetent.

"We try to avoid this. First is our unbreakable rule that every candidate must be a trained trooper, blooded under fire, a veteran of combat drops. No other army in history has stuck to this rule, although some came close. Most great military schools of the past - Saint Cyr, West Point, Sandhurst, Colorado Springs didn't even pretend to follow it; they accepted civilian boys, trained them, commissioned them, sent them out with no battle experience to command men . . . and sometimes discovered too late that this smart young 'officer' was a fool, a poltroon, or a hysteric.

"At least we have no misfits of those sorts. We know you are good soldiers - brave and skilled, proved in battle else you would not be here. We know that your intelligence and education meet acceptable minimums. With this to start on, we eliminate as many as possible of the not-quite-competent - get them quickly back in ranks before we spoil good cap troopers by forcing them beyond their abilities. The course is very hard - because what will be expected of you later is still harder.

"In time we have a small group whose chances look fairly good. The major criterion left untested is one we cannot test here; that undefinable something which is the difference between a leader in battle . . . and one who merely has the earmarks but not the vocation. So we field-test for it.

"Gentlemen! - you have reached that point. Are you ready to take the oath?"

There was an instant of silence, then Ha.s.san the a.s.sa.s.sin answered firmly, "Yes, Colonel," and Birdie and I echoed.

The Colonel frowned. "I have been telling you how wonderful you are - physically perfect, mentally alert, trained, disciplined, blooded. The very model of the smart young officer - " He snorted. "Nonsense! You may may become officers someday. I hope so . . . we not only hate to waste money and time and effort, but also, and become officers someday. I hope so . . . we not only hate to waste money and time and effort, but also, and much much more important, I shiver in my boots every time I send one of you half-baked not-quite-officers up to the Fleet, knowing what a Frankensteinian monster I may be turning loose on a good combat team. If you understood what you are up against, you wouldn't be so all-fired ready to take the oath the second the question is put to you. You may turn it down and force me to let you go back to your permanent ranks. But you more important, I shiver in my boots every time I send one of you half-baked not-quite-officers up to the Fleet, knowing what a Frankensteinian monster I may be turning loose on a good combat team. If you understood what you are up against, you wouldn't be so all-fired ready to take the oath the second the question is put to you. You may turn it down and force me to let you go back to your permanent ranks. But you don't don't know. know.

"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. Ha.s.san! What is the largest number of command levels ever knocked out in a single battle?"

The a.s.sa.s.sin 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 Sove-ki-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 circ.u.mstances - 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 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 cla.s.s and was not commissioned. He carried the t.i.tle of temporary third lieutenant' - note that this is the t.i.tle 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 commanding officer officer in the presence of the enemy.' Convicted. Cashiered." in the presence of the enemy.' Convicted. Cashiered."

I gasped. "For that? that? Sir." Sir."

"Why not? True, we make pickup. But we do it under different circ.u.mstances 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 circ.u.mstances but no doubt that he had left his post during battle without orders. True, he was green as gra.s.s - but he was lucky not to be hanged." Colonel Nielssen fixed me with a cold eye. "Mr. Rico - could this happen to you?" 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. a.s.sume 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? What are you going to do? With your command, Mister? Talk fast - the Bugs won't wait!" 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 circ.u.mstances 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 before a drop, so that you can be unruffled when the trouble starts. a drop, so that you can be unruffled when the trouble starts.

"Impossible, of course. Except for one thing. What is the only only factor that can save you when the load is too heavy? Anyone?" factor that can save you when the load is too heavy? Anyone?"

n.o.body answered.

"Oh, come now!" Colonel Nielssen said scornfully. "You aren't recruits. Mr. Ha.s.san!"

"Your leading sergeant, sir," the a.s.sa.s.sin 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 c.o.c.ksure know-it-all - and he'll be right.

"But you don't have to take 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 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 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. 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. Ha.s.san - "

"Sir?"

"These pips were worn by Captain Terence O'Kelly on his 'prentice cruise. Does it suit you to wear them?"

"Sir?" The a.s.sa.s.sin'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 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 a.s.sa.s.sin saluted and left; the Commandant turned and picked out another box. "Mr. Byrd, are you superst.i.tious?"

"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 acc.u.mulated 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 Chesapeake and HMF and HMF Shannon Shannon. Try the Naval Encyclopedia 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 hand - "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 goodluck 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 a.s.signment 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 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 a.s.sa.s.sin 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 a.s.signed 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 a.s.sa.s.sin 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, "Ha.s.san could flunk out and get promoted for it."

"Huh?"

"Didn't you know? The a.s.sa.s.sin'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.