Starship Troopers (21 page)

He had a point. As long as the war continued, a “term” didn’t end—at least not for cap troopers. It was mostly a difference in attitude, at least for the present. Those of us on “term” could at least feel like short-timers; we could talk about: “When this flea-bitten war is over.” A career man didn’t say that; he wasn’t going anywhere, short of retirement or buying it.

On the other hand, neither were we. But if you went “career” and then didn’t finish twenty . . . well, they could be pretty sticky about your franchise even though they wouldn’t keep a man who didn’t want to stay.

“Maybe not a two-year term,” I admitted. “But the war won’t last forever.”

“It won’t?”

“How can it?”

“Blessed if I know. They don’t tell me these things. But I know that’s not what is troubling you, Johnnie. You got a girl waiting?”

“No. Well, I had,” I answered slowly, “but she ‘Dear-Johned’ me.” As a lie, this was no more than a mild decoration, which I tucked in because Ace seemed to expect it. Carmen wasn’t my girl and she never waited for anybody -- but she did address letters with “Dear Johnnie” on the infrequent occasions when she wrote to me.

Ace nodded wisely. “They’ll do it every time. They’d rather marry civilians and have somebody around to chew out when they feel like it. Never you mind, son—you’ll find plenty of them more than willing to marry when you’re retired . . . and you’ll be better able to handle one at that age. Marriage is a young man’s disaster and an old man’s comfort.” He looked at my glass. “It nauseates me to see you drinking that slop.”

“I feel the same way about the stuff you drink,” I told him.

He shrugged. “As I say, it takes all kinds. You think it over.”

“I will.”

Ace got into a card game shortly after, and lent me some money and I went for a walk; I needed to think.

Go career? Quite aside from that noise about a commission, did I want to go career? Why, I had gone through all this to get my franchise, hadn’t I? -- and if I went career, I was just as far away from the privilege of voting as if I had never enrolled . . . because as long as you were still in uniform you weren’t entitled to vote. Which was the way it should be, of course why, if they let the Roughnecks vote, the idiots might vote not to make a drop. Can’t have that.

Nevertheless I had signed up in order to win a vote.

Or had I?

Had I ever cared about voting? No, it was the prestige, the pride, the status . . . of being a citizen.

Or was it?

I couldn’t to save my life remember why I had signed up. Anyhow, it wasn’t the process of voting that made a citizen—the Lieutenant had been a citizen in the truest sense of the word, even though he had not lived long enough ever to cast a ballot. He had “voted” every time he made a drop.

And so had I!

I could hear Colonel Dubois in my mind: “Citizenship is an attitude, a

state of mind, an emotional conviction that the whole is greater than the part . . . and that the part should be humbly proud to sacrifice itself that the whole may live.”

I still didn’t know whether I yearned to place my one-and-only body “between my loved home and the war’s desolation”—I still got the shakes every drop and that “desolation” could be pretty desolate. But nevertheless I knew at last what Colonel Dubois had been talking about. The M. I. was mine and I was theirs. If that was what the M. I. did to break the monotony, then that was what I did. Patriotism was a bit esoteric for me, too large-scale to see. But the M. I. was my gang, I belonged. They were all the family I had left; they were the brothers I had never had, closer than Carl had ever been. If I left them, I’d be lost.

So why shouldn’t I go career?

All right, all right -- but how about this nonsense of greasing for a commission? That was something else again. I could see myself putting in twenty years and then taking it easy, the way Ace had described, with ribbons on my chest and carpet slippers on my feet . . . or evenings down at the Veterans Hall, rehashing old times with others who belonged. But O. C. S.? I could hear Al Jenkins, in one of the bull sessions we had about such things: “I’m a private! I’m going to stay a private! When you’re a private they don’t expect anything of you. Who wants to be an officer? Or even a sergeant? You’re breathing the same air, aren’t you? Eating the same food. Going the same places, making the same drops. But no worries.”

Al had a point. What had chevrons ever gotten me? -- aside from lumps.

Nevertheless I knew I would take sergeant if it was ever offered to me.

You don’t refuse, a cap trooper doesn’t refuse anything; he steps up and takes a swing at it. Commission, too, I supposed.

Not that it would happen. Who was I to think that I could ever be what Lieutenant Rasczak had been?

My walk had taken me close to the candidates’ school, though I don’t believe I intended to come that way. A company of cadets were out on their parade ground, drilling at trot, looking for all the world like boots in Basic. The sun was hot and it looked not nearly as comfortable as a bull session in the drop room of the Rodger Young -- why, I hadn’t marched farther than bulkhead thirty since I had finished Basic; that breaking-in nonsense was past.

I watched them a bit, sweating through their uniforms; I heard them being chewed out—by sergeants, too. Old Home Week. I shook my head and walked away from there—went back to the accommodation barracks, over to the B. O. Q. wing, found Jelly’s room.

He was in it, his feet up on a table and reading a magazine. I knocked on the frame of the door. He looked up and growled, “Yeah?”

“Sarge—I mean, Lieutenant—“

“Spit it out!”

“Sir, I want to go career.”

He dropped his feet to the desk. “Put up your right hand.”

He swore me, reached unto the drawer of the table and pulled out papers.

He had my papers already made out, waiting for me, ready to sign. And I hadn’t even told Ace. How about that?

CHAPTER 12

It is by no means enough that an officer should be capable . . . . He should be as well a gentleman of liberal education, refined manners, punctilious courtesy, and the nicest sense of personal honor . . . . No meritorious act of a subordinate should escape his attention, even if the reward be only one word of approval. Conversely, he should not be blind to a single fault in any subordinate.

True as may be the political principles for which we are now contending . . . the ships themselves must be ruled under a system of absolute despotism.

I trust that I have now made clear to you the tremendous responsibilities . . . . We must do the best we can with what we have.

John Paul Jones, September 14, 1775; excerpts from a letter to the naval committee of the N. A. insurrectionists.

The Rodger Young was again returning to Base for replacements, both capsules and men. Al Jenkins had bought his farm, covering a pickup and that one had cost us the Padre, too. And besides that, I had to be replaced. I was wearing brand-new sergeant’s chevrons (vice Migliaccio) but I had a hunch that Ace would be wearing them as soon as I was out of the ship—they were mostly honorary, I knew; the promotion was Jelly’s way of giving me a good send-off as I was detached for O. C. S.

But it didn’t keep me from being proud of them. At the Fleet landing field I went through the exit gate with my nose in the air and strode up to the quarantine desk to have my orders stamped. As this was being done I heard a polite, respectful voice behind me: “Excuse me, Sergeant, but that boat that just came down—is it from the Rodger—“

I turned to see the speaker, flicked my eyes over his sleeves, saw that it was a small, slightly stoop-shouldered corporal, no doubt one of our—

“Father!”

Then the corporal had his arms around me. “Juan! Juan! Oh, my little Johnnie!”

I kissed him and hugged him and started to cry. Maybe that civilian clerk at the quarantine desk had never seen two non-coms kiss each other before. Well, if I had noticed him so much as lifting an eyebrow, I would have pasted him. But I didn’t notice him; I was busy. He had to remind me to take my orders with me.

By then we had blown our noses and quit making an open spectacle of ourselves. I said, “Father, let’s find a corner somewhere and sit down and talk. I want to know . . . well, everything!” I took a deep breath. “I thought you were dead.”

“No. Came close to buying it once or twice, maybe. But, Son . . . Sergeant—I really do have to find out about that landing boat. You see—“

“Oh, that. It’s from the Rodger Young. I just—“

He looked terribly disappointed. “Then I’ve got to bounce, right now. I’ve got to report in.” Then he added eagerly, “But you’ll be back aboard soon, won’t you, Juanito? Or are you going on R & R?”

“Uh, no.” I thought fast. Of all the ways to have things roll! “Look, Father, I know the boat schedule. You can’t go aboard for at least an hour and a bit. That boat is not on a fast retrieve; she’ll make a minimum-fuel rendezvous when the Rog completes this pass—if the pilot doesn’t have to wait over for the next pass after that; they’ve got to load first.”

He said dubiously, “My orders read to report at once to the pilot of the first available ship’s boat.”

“Father, Father! Do you have to be so confounded regulation? The girl who’s pushing that heap won’t care whether you board the boat now, or just as they button up. Anyhow they’ll play the ship’s recall over the speakers in here ten minutes before boost and announce it. You can’t miss it.”

He let me lead him over to an empty corner. As we sat down he added, “Will you be going up in the same boat, Juan? Or later?”

“Uh—“ I showed him my orders; it seemed the simplest way to break the news. Ships that pass in the night, like the Evangeline story—cripes, what a way for things to break!

He read them and got tears in his eyes and I said hastily, “Look, Father, I’m going to try to come back—I wouldn’t want any other outfit than the Roughnecks. And with you in them . . . oh, I know it’s disappointing but—“

“It’s not disappointment, Juan.”

“Huh?”

“It’s pride. My boy is going to be an officer. My little Johnnie—Oh, it’s disappointment, too; I had waited for this day. But I can wait a while longer.” He smiled through his tears. “You’ve grown, lad. And filled out, too.”

“Uh, I guess so. But, Father, I’m not an officer yet and I might only be out of the Rog a few days. I mean, they sometimes bust ‘em out pretty fast and—“

“Enough of that, young man!”

“Huh?”

“You’ll make it. Let’s have no more talk of ‘busting out.’ “ Suddenly he smiled. “That’s the first time I’ve been able to tell a sergeant to shut up.”

“Well . . . I’ll certainly try, Father. And if I do make it, I’ll certainly put in for the old Rog. But—“ I trailed off.

“Yes, I know. Your request won’t mean anything unless there’s a billet for you. Never mind. If this hour is all we have, we’ll make the most of it and I’m so proud of you I’m splitting my seams. How have you been, Johnnie?”

“Oh, fine, just fine.” I was thinking that it wasn’t all bad. He would be better off in the Roughnecks than in any other outfit. All my friends . . . they’d take care of him, keep him alive. I’d have to send a gram to Ace—

Father like as not wouldn’t even let them know he was related. “Father, how long have you been in?”

“A little over a year.”

“And corporal already!”

Father smiled grimly. “They’re making them fast these days.”

I didn’t have to ask what he meant. Casualties. There were always vacancies in the T. O.; you couldn’t get enough trained soldiers to fill them. Instead I said, “Uh . . . but, Father, you’re—Well, I mean, aren’t you sort of old to be soldiering? I mean the Navy, or Logistics, or—“

“I wanted the M. I. and I got it!” he said emphatically. “And I’m no older than many sergeants -- not as old, in fact. Son, the mere fact that I am twenty-two years older than you are doesn’t put me in a wheel chair. And age has its advantages, too.”

Well, there was something in that. I recalled how Sergeant Zim had always tried the older men first, when he was dealing out boot chevrons. And Father would never have goofed in Basic the way I had—no lashes for him. He was probably spotted as non-com material before he ever finished Basic. The Army needs a lot of really grown-up men in the middle grades; it’s a paternalistic organization.

I didn’t have to ask him why he had wanted M. I., nor why or how he had wound up in my ship—I just felt warm about it, more ‘flattered by it than any praise he had ever given me in words. And I didn’t want to ask him why he had joined up; I felt that I knew. Mother. Neither of us had mentioned her—too painful.

So I changed the subject abruptly. “Bring me up to date. Tell me where you’ve been and what you’ve done.”

“Well, I trained at Camp San Martin—“

“Huh? Not Currie?”

“New one. But the same old lumps, I understand. Only they rush you through two months faster, you don’t get Sundays off. Then I requested the Rodger Young -- and didn’t get it -- and wound up in McSlattery’s Volunteers. A good outfit.”

“Yes, I know.” They had had a reputation for being rough, tough, and nasty—almost as good as the Roughnecks.

“I should say that it was a good outfit. I made several drops with them and some of the boys bought it and after a while I got these.” He glanced at his chevrons. “I was a corporal when we dropped on Sheol—“

“You were there? So was I!” With a sudden warm flood of emotion I felt closer to my father than I ever had before in my life.

“I know. At least I knew your outfit was there. I was around fifty miles north of you, near as I can guess. We soaked up that counterattack when they came boiling up out of the ground like bats out of a cave.” Father shrugged. “So when it was over I was a corporal without an outfit, not enough of us left to make a healthy cadre. So they sent me here. I could have gone with King’s Kodiak Bears, but I had a word with the placement sergeant—and, sure as sunrise, the Rodger Young came back with a billet for a corporal. So here I am.”

“And when did you join up?” I realized that it was the wrong remark as soon as I had made it—but I had to get the subject away from McSlattery’s Volunteers; an orphan from a dead outfit wants to forget it.