P.D. 950
Emily’s Personal Journal
At Victorian Fleet Training Facility on Aberdeen
Some historian I turn out to be! I’ve been here for five weeks now and not made one journal entry. I don’t even have a proper notebook — I am writing this on a roll of toilet paper, much to the amusement of my bunk mates.
I am in the Blue Company barracks, or I should say the Blue Company women’s barracks. The men’s barracks is across the parade ground. Life so far has been pretty regimented. Up at 5 a.m., calisthenics ‘til 6 a.m., breakfast, and then start the days maneuver by 6:45. I have my very own rifle now, and take it everywhere I go. And I mean everywhere. They are very serious about that. One recruit got caught coming out of the toilet without his rifle and spent the rest of the day running up and down a hill with a backpack full of sand. I am in the top bunk and finally learned to just sleep with Gertrude rather than leave her on the floor somewhere. Cookie, my “downstairs” bunk mate, laughed when I named my rifle. But “Gertrude” describes my rifle perfectly: ugly, utilitarian and deadly when angered. We have all learned the hard way it hurts like hell to get shot. And since they started us on a steady diet of combat maneuvers, I have been shot several times. (This has even given rise to “mercy killings” among friends, but the Drill Instructors ream you out if they catch you.)
I was surprised that they started us on field maneuvers so fast. Most of us are going to the Fleet and will be on warships. (I, of course, will be happily ensconced in the Fleet Department of Military History.) If we ever face battle it will be in space, firing missiles and lasers at hundreds or thousands of miles. Why teach us to run around in the woods and spring ambushes? I didn’t really figure it out until this morning after breakfast. They had us moving across a large field, bordered by a hill on one side and a copse of trees on the other. It hit me then: I was no longer thinking like a civilian. I looked at the trees and thought: “Just big enough to hide a squad of men.” Not how pretty the trees were in the morning sun, not curious about what type they were. Just that they were a suitable ambush site. I kept my eyes on those damn trees all the way across that field, feeling naked and vulnerable. It’s a different way of seeing things, and not something you get in a classroom.
My fellow recruits are a mixed lot. Most are young, quite a bit younger than me. Mostly no college, with a few exceptions. In the men’s barracks there are fifteen men from my home planet, Christchurch. All miners, hard, quiet men who just take what the Drill Instructors hand out without complaint. They are old fashioned and proper in their own way. Once they learned I was from Christchurch they made it a point to look after me. On the long marches they offer to help carry my rucksack, even though the DIs would be all over them if I accepted. They tease me and call me “Little Sister” as if I were from their village. I am very proud of my Christchurch men, and a little sad that life on Christchurch offered so little that they had to join the Fleet. Course, that’s why I’m here with them.
Most of the others are here because they couldn’t figure out what else to do with themselves. Some flunked out of school; some had trouble with the law. Only a few seemed to be intent on a military career. Cookie wants to join the Marines. (When we are on a long run, she even chants the Marine creed: “All together! Never alone!” Drives me nuts after a few miles.) Can’t say that I have met anyone quite like her. She dropped out of high school in her senior year — “Had enough schoolin’” — and drifted around at odd jobs after that. Too bad, had she gone to college she could have made it on an athletic scholarship of some sort. She is a large, muscular woman — at 19, more of a girl, really — and fierce. Doesn’t take any crap, never backs down. Amazon warrior type; the Marines will love her, if she doesn’t get canned first. Several of the men have hit on her already (the Fleet seems to take a pretty laissez faire approach to fraternization among the recruits, as long as it does not interfere with discipline). One of them would not leave her alone, so Cookie punched him in the nose. No warning, no pleas, just bam! (DI Kaelin got a little excited about that.) There is actually a quaint little institution here: about a mile behind the barracks there is a lake. Maybe half a mile wide and two miles long. Lots of woods around. On Sunday afternoons, when we are allowed about four hours of time on our own, there is quite a little procession of men and women going up there for some privacy and intense fraternization. “Going up to the lake” has already taken on a distinct connotation. Sociology major would have a field day here. Early tribal customs of warrior groups. Or something.
I must confess here that men have not been hitting on me. No trips to the lake in the foreseeable future. I am too old for most of them. And something else. I try to hide the fact that I have a college degree, let alone a master’s, but my education keeps seeping through. It’s my vocabulary, I think. Cookie says I talk funny. “Girl, where you learn them words?” She started to call me “Professor,” but I threatened her that if she kept it up I would tell some of the other fledgling Marines that she keeps a teddy bear hidden in her bunk. A friendly truce prevails.
Two others merit note here. Hiram Brill is this gangly, shy, nervous kid who always walks around with a notebook, jotting notes on everything under the sun. When Blue Company was formed, he went around to every soldier and asked them about their background, their hobbies and their skills. Want to know who can fix a truck? Brill has it in his notebook. Who used to hunt? Go rock climbing? Who used to run on the cross-country team in high school? Brill can tell you. He also takes notes on the battles we’re in, and analyzes them endlessly. No college degree. Too bad, he’s a natural student. (He also promised to scrounge me a notebook so I don’t have to keep using this damn toilet paper!)
The other one is Grant Skiffington, son of Admiral Skiffington. The Admiral Skiffington, from the Battle of Windsor, where he defeated the Dominion fleet. Mauled them, from all accounts I have read. Admiral Skiffington has a reputation for being arrogant, prickly, and ruthless in battle. Some of it has rubbed off on his son. Young Skiffington knows there is nothing the drill instructors can really do to him. He doesn’t flaunt it, exactly, but you can tell he thinks this is all a big game. Did I mention that he is as handsome as sin? He is not lacking for girls to go to the lake for a little stroll in the woods.
Lights out in five minutes. Thus endeth this entry.