Terms of Enlistment

Chapter 6

The last few weeks of Basic Training are a blur of PT, classroom instruction, simulator sessions, meals, and private little get-togethers with Halley, carved out of our unceasingly busy schedules while dodging the near-constant supervision. At night, the instructor on duty sleeps in the Senior Drill Instructor’s office, and by now we have learned which of our sergeants are light sleepers. Sergeant Riley practically sleeps with one eye open, Sergeant Burke stays up until the early hours doing paperwork and listening to the feed from the platoon bay’s audio monitoring system, but Sergeant Harris is usually fast asleep from lights-out to reveille. That means every third night is what we’ve come to call ’date night’, where Halley and I sneak off to the head in the middle of the night to get a little bit of time together, away from the eyes and ears of our fellow recruits.

Our arrangement is not exactly a secret. It only took so many people walking in on us in the head at two in the morning to make it common knowledge, and I suspect that word has gotten around to the instructors as well. For some reason, however, there are no enforcement measures to keep us from sneaking off to the head together two or three times a week, and the other recruits have entered into a sort of unwritten understanding with us. There aren’t many of us left. Our platoon has shrunk to twelve members just before graduation week. Our chow hall table is still well-represented, since we lost only Cunningham. Everyone else has made it through: me, Halley, Hamilton, Garcia, and even Ricci. Hamilton is still platoon leader, and she will be carrying the guidon of the severely reduced Platoon 1066 at graduation.

When we march to our last communal dinner in the chow hall on the evening before graduation, we are every inch the last-weekers: fit and trim, with mirror-polished boots, marching in a precise cadence and at brisk speed. We march past newly arrived platoons, herds of bewildered-looking , long-haired kids in civilian garb, and they look at us just like we gazed at the last-weeker platoons almost three months ago.

On our last night, the sergeant on duty is Riley. Halley and I are already getting over the disappointment that we won’t get to fool around in the head one last time when Sergeant Riley takes her PDP out of the Senior Drill Instructor’s office, and turns off the light.

“This is your last night,” she tells the assembled platoon, as we wait in front of our lockers for the order to hit the rack.

“You’ve made it this far. I trust none of you will be knuckle-headed enough to pull any stupid shit that’ll get you kicked out just before graduation,” she says, and gives us a little smile. It’s more of a smirk, but it’s the first time we’ve ever seen anything but her perpetual stern expression on her face.

“Have a bit of a party, if you want,” Sergeant Riley tells us as we look at each other in disbelief. “Just keep it down, and make sure you’re where you’re supposed to be when reveille comes around.”

She turns around, tucks her PDP into the side pocket of her trousers, and walks out of the room.

“Good night, platoon.”

We grin at each other as she closes the hatch behind her.

“Well, how about that,” Hamilton says with a chuckle. “I’d say let’s break out the good stuff.”

We’ve all brought back food from the chow hall before, despite the admonitions of our drill instructors. All the PT and quarterdecking has turned us lean and perpetually hungry, and the meal times are simply spaced too far apart to keep our metabolisms going. Every time the chow hall serves a dessert that’s easily portable, many recruits end up taking seconds, wrapping the contraband donuts or brownies into napkins, and tucking them into trouser pockets. The instructors aren’t stupid, of course, but they turn a blind eye.

We pool our hidden food reserves on one of the empty bunks. They amount to a decent sampler of all the desserts served in the chow hall in the last week. We have a good variety of donuts and cookies, lots of fresh fruit, brownies, and even a few slightly smashed pieces of apple pie. There are no drinks, of course, but the water from the fountain in the head is cold and clean, and we’re so elated about this unsupervised night and our impending graduation that it might as well be cold beer.

We eat the hoarded food, not minding the half-stale donuts that date back to the beginning of the week, and toast each other with cold water, using our toothbrush cups as drinking vessels. With the restrictions lifted for the night, we talk and joke around like we’re in the mess hall, only with less restraint. We’ve never had a chance to talk to our platoon mates without a Drill Instructor hovering nearby, and the experience is strange after twelve weeks of social hamstringing.

Later that evening, Halley and I retreat one of the empty bunks by the back wall of the platoon bay. We have to endure some good-natured ribbing from the rest of the platoon as we fashion a sight barrier out of the scratchy issue blankets by hanging them from the frame of the top bunk. When we have finished building our privacy booth, we slip into the bottom bunk, which is now shielded from view on three sides. Our ugly issue pajamas end up in front of the bed, and we finally have some time to enjoy each other on a real mattress, instead of coupling hurriedly in the corner of the head, listening for approaching footsteps in the platoon bay. There are some cat calls and comments from our platoon mates, but we’re too busy with each other to pay attention, and after a while, they go back to their business and leave us to ours.

“We’ll stay in touch, right?” Halley asks later, as we lie on the thin mattress. I remember the original tenant of this bunk, a guy who washed out after three weeks for Failure to Adjust.

“Of course,” I say. “We’ll write each other on the milnet.”

“Too bad Basic isn’t about a month or two longer,” she says, and I laugh.

“I thought you were eager to get out of here.”

“Yeah, I am. But I wouldn’t mind spending some more time with you, chowderhead. I’d even put up with a few more weeks of running and quarterdecking.”

“Aww, that’s so sweet,” I reply, and we both laugh.

“Seriously,” Halley says. “I’d love for it to happen, but I don’t think there’s a chance we’ll both get posted to the same unit. I want to get mail from you every week, you hear? I want to know you didn’t get your head shot off on some crummy colony world on the ass end of the known galaxy.”

“Hey, they may not even post me to the Marines. I may end up being a supply clerk on a carrier. I’ll spend four years handing out towels and paper clips.”

“Come on,” she says. “Five hundred capital ships in the Navy, and they’re all so automated you could fly ‘em with a crew of ten. Over a hundred colonized worlds, and each requires a Marine garrison of at least company size. We’ll all end up in the Marines.”

“I don’t mind. Anything to get off Earth.”

“Hey, I’ve grown kind of fond of the place. It’s home, you know? I mean, smog and crime and all.”

“Seriously?” I say. “You mean you’d not trade this place for a chance to breathe some fresh air on a colony somewhere? I hear there are colonies so small, they have a thousand people on the entire planet. Can you even imagine?”

“Yeah, I can.” She looks down and smiles. “My uncle and his family made one of the colony ships a few years back. They won the ten-state lottery. Now they have five hundred acres on Laconia. They send pictures every now and then.”

“Maybe we can pool our bonus money when we’re out of the military.”

“And what?” she laughs. “Buy a spot on a colony ship and farm a patch of dirt on the other end of the universe?”

“Sure. Why not? What else are you going to do when your time is up? Go back home and buy lots of crap, watch the Networks until your brain rots, and put on the mask whenever there’s a bad air day?”

“Well,” Halley chuckles. “I was going to do exactly that, but now that you put it like that…”

She looks at me again, her eyes finding mine, and her expression turns serious again.

“Fifty-seven months after today, Grayson. That’s a long time. It’s a longer time still in this kind of job.”

She puts a hand against my cheek and holds it there for a moment.

“You try to make it through the next five years and we’ll see, okay?”

I know we’ll spend those five years in different corners of the universe. We both know that the military is not the place to be if you want to get or keep a mate. She’ll probably shack up with some steel-jawed officer, or a succession of them, and I’ll have my own flings. By the time our discharge date comes around, we’ll most likely only be a faint and pleasant memory to each other. But the thought is nice, and we have the events of the last few weeks fresh in our memories right now, so I take the sentiment in the spirit in which it is presented.

“I’ll see you after mustering out,” I say. “Bring your bonus, and I’ll bring mine.”

Graduation day dawns with a cloudless sky.

We’re up well before reveille, restoring the platoon bay to its sanctioned state, and polishing our boots and belt buckles to a spotless shine one more time.

We march to the chow hall for our final meal of Basic Training. After breakfast, we return to the platoon bay to shed our blue-and-greens and don the formal wear we’ve been issued just a few days ago. Sergeant Burke explained the Class A uniforms aren’t issued with the other stuff at the beginning of training because they are too expensive to waste on likely drop-outs, and that recruits lose so much weight and gain so much muscle in Basic Training that the well-fitting uniform issued at the beginning would sit on its owner like a tent after twelve weeks.

We rehearsed for the ceremony in the weeks prior to graduation. Our platoon—what’s left of it—is to march into the parade square behind the platoon guidon, and move smartly to its assigned spot in the rows of graduating platoons. Then the Commanding Officer will hold a brief speech, we will all swear the Oath of Service, and there will be recognitions and merit promotions for excellent training performances. All in all, we’ll be standing in the sun and listening to the brass talk for an hour, and then we’ll be sent back to our platoon bays one last time to pack our gear and receive our final assignments for duty. Everyone wants to know their service branch and final job description, of course, so the whole pomp and circumstance is just largely pointless torture, but we have learned to shut up and execute, so we do.

Despite the rehearsals, we’re not prepared for the sight of the main parade square as our platoon marches in, following Sergeant Burke and our platoon leader Hamilton behind the guidon.

The square is probably half a mile on each side, and it is packed with rows and rows of graduating platoons. There are hundreds and hundreds of platoon guidons flapping in the light morning breeze, making the square look like a multicolored cloth forest. We keep our pace up and our heads straight, but the sheer number of people on the square is a little shocking after twelve weeks of enforced segregation from other platoons.

We find our spot in the line, and the other two drill instructors, Sergeants Riley and Harris, are already waiting. We take our place in the formation that is comprised of hundreds of platoons. When all the graduating recruits have filed into the square and shuffled into position, there are thousands of recruits lined up in front of the podium in the center of the square. We’re all dressed in the Class A uniforms we’re going to have to return right after the ceremony, and we all look lean and sharp.

There’s a speech, of course. The Commanding Officer of the training depot addresses us for a mercifully brief period of time, talking about duty and commitment, and the challenges that await us out there among the stars. It’s all a bunch of fluffy crap, of course, and everyone knows it, but by now we know how to stand at attention and listen.

Then we swear our Oath of Service. There’s something almost mystical about a few thousand voices chanting the same words in unison.

“I solemnly swear and affirm to loyally serve the North American Commonwealth, and to bravely defend its laws and the freedom of its citizens.”

Then we’re sworn in, active soldiers in the Armed Forces of the North American Commonwealth, graduates of Basic Training, the ten-percenters that have made it through twelve weeks of endless PT, lectures, physical and mental exams, and stress-test scenarios. We’re ready to be let loose on the universe, to fight and die for the Commonwealth. There’s only one thing left to do, and that’s to find out what exactly the military has deemed to be our best use.

Back in the platoon bay, our lockers are already emptied, and our duffel bags and rucksacks packed with our gear. Our instructors are standing in the middle of the bay, and we file into the room intent on taking our usual positions of attention in front of our lockers, but Sergeant Burke waves us off.

“At ease, people. Basic Training ended thirty minutes ago. Gather ‘round to get your assignments.”

Sergeant Harris hands him a stack of printed forms, and he goes through them top to bottom. We all cluster around him in anticipation. They’ve determined our final assignments, and now we will learn where and how we will spend the next fifty-seven months of our service careers.

“Garcia—Marines. Second Battalion, Fifth Marines. You’re going to tank school after Marine Induction.”

Garcia accepts the form with a grin, and Sergeant Burke shakes his hand.

“Well done. Kennedy—Marines. First Battalion, Seventh Marines. Infantry School.”

Kennedy accepts his orders, shakes the Sergeant’s hand, and steps out of the cluster of remaining recruits to gather his junk.

“Halley—Navy.”

The rest of us cheer. Navy is the brass ring everyone’s secretly aiming for. I grin as she steps forward to receive her orders. Sergeant Burke takes out another form and puts it on top of Halley’s orders before handing her both.

“You’ll be a drop ship jock. You’re also promoted to E-2 as of this moment. You managed the highest aggregate test scores. That’s quite an accomplishment. I haven’t had a graduate get a Navy slot in three Basic Training cycles.”

“Thank you, sir,” Halley says, her face radiant with excitement. I feel a stab of envy—she’ll be reporting to Fleet School right away, and she’ll probably get to see Earth from space before the end of the week.

“Ricci—Marines. Third Battalion, Third Marines. Mobile field artillery. You’ll be a cannon cocker.”

I had expected him to react to a Marine assignment by making good on his promise and resigning his contract on the spot, but he merely takes the orders from Sergeant Burke and gives him a sharp salute before stepping out of line.

“Grayson,” Sergeant Burke says, and my stomach twists as I await the final word on my fate.

“Territorial Army. Congratulations—you’re staying Earthside.”

Twelve recruits left in Platoon 1066, and eleven of them are going into space. I’m the only one who will get to serve on Earth, doing the shittiest job in the Armed Forces: domestic garbage hauler for the NAC.

I stay impassive when I hear Sergeant Burke’s words, but my first instinct is to punch him in the face. Congratulations? I don’t think I’ve given him any reason to dislike me, at least no more or less than the other recruits, but that word makes it sound like he’s mocking me.

I gather my gear without enthusiasm, my head still spinning with the revelation that I won’t be going into space after all. Still, I made it through Basic, I want the bank account, and I don’t want to waste all the sweat I’ve put into this career already, so I suppress the urge to throw the print-out with my orders at Sergeant Fallon’s feet. The alternative is a shuttle back to the Public Residence Cluster, and whatever the TA has in store for me, there’s nothing that can be worse than that.

“Grayson,” Sergeant Burke says as I shoulder my duffel bag.

“Sir.” I slide the bag off my shoulder to stand at attention, but he waves his hand in dismissal.

“At ease. You don’t seem too happy with your assignment.”

“No, sir,” I say, trying to not look dejected.

“There’s not a thing wrong with the Territorial Army. I was TA myself before I was assigned a Drill Instructor slot.”

“I was looking forward to going into space, sir. TA gets all the shit jobs.”

Sergeant Burke looks at me and shakes his head with a snort.

“TA is the real military,” he says. “Let me tell you something about the spaceborne careers. The Navy guys spend their service mopping decks in windowless metal tubes. The Marines get to go play battle kabuki with the SRA, one company against another, arranged like a fucking sporting event. That’s not soldiering, that’s jerking off. They’re so convinced they’re the sharp tip of the spear, but you know what? Any TA company I’ve ever served with could mop the floor with any Marine company. You know why TA gets all the shit jobs? Because nobody else could handle ‘em, that’s why.

“Go and get on the bus,” he says, nodding toward the door. “Don’t listen to those future space bus drivers and garrison troops about how fucking lucky they are. They don’t know shit about shit yet, and neither do you. Now get out of here, and forget about what you were ‘looking forward to’. This is the military, and nobody gives a shit about what we want. We take what we’re served, and we ask for seconds, and that’s the way it goes.”

There’s a bus waiting to take us to the shuttle port. The ride into the base three months ago was a solitary experience, scared and anxious recruits sitting by themselves. The ride out is much more of a social event, as we take the opportunity to talk to our platoon mates one last time.

“You going to be okay?” Halley asks me as she watches me reading over my printed orders. I am to report to my Territorial Army unit at Fort Shughart in Ohio. She’ll be reporting to Navy Induction at Great Lakes.

“Yeah,” I say. “I’ll be fine. It’s not like I was expecting five years of milk and cookies, anyway.”

“Just keep your head low, you hear? I want to get mail from you every week.”

“You’ll be on a Navy ship,” I say. “You might be out of network for weeks, you know.”

“You’ll still send those messages,” Halley says. “I’ll check the time stamps. And if you get yourself killed, you’ll be in deep shit with me.”

“Noted,” I grin. “And likewise.”

At the shuttle port, we say our final good-byes to each other. The future Marines are all on the same shuttle to Camp Puller, where all the new Marines from east of the Mississippi are trained. Halley and I are on separate shuttles.

“Take care,” she says.

“You too.”

We kiss one last time, this time more like brother and sister. I watch as she walks to her gate, duffel bag over her shoulder.

And just like that, I’m right back where I was when I boarded the shuttle at the Processing Station twelve weeks ago: alone, anxious, and clueless about what the next few days will bring.