Camp Mudhole
The Madam Jao-another converted bulk carrier-emerged from warpspace less than two hundred thousand miles off Pastor Luneburger's World. Brigadier Pyong Pak Singh had been waiting in his cabin to witness the event. Pak, his staff, his regimental commanders and their staffs, and their company commanders had made the trip from Terra "live," sixteen days in hyperspace, then a half-dozen hours in equally featureless warpspace. In between there'd been perhaps a minute in familiar F-space, but he'd been sleeping, and missed it.
They'd hardly noticed the lack of scenery. They'd spent six hours a day in class, reviewing the cube of New Ground Tactics, produced by War House staff. Each day ended with another six of discussion and simulation exercises.
They needed to know the stuff cold, and see that their troops did. Because if things came together as planned-ship-building, fleet training, weapons delivery, and their own preparation-in nine months they'd take this now utterly green division to its home world, New Jerusalem, to wrest it back from the invaders. Whether or not they succeeded, it would be the Commonwealth's first ground campaign; War House had decided to start ground warfare-not defending but attacking. And in the process, for better or worse, they'd learn a lot, both War House and his task force. Though War House wouldn't pay for it the way his people would.
Of course, Pak mused, that assumes the invaders have gotten that far by then. Given their progress to date, and the lack of resistance, they should, easily. But who could be sure about the behavior of an unfamiliar alien life-form? And how large a battle force they'd leave behind in the New Jerusalem System was anyone's guess. Guesses! He'd take Kulikov's and Sarrufs's guesses over anyone's, but still…
Pastor Luneburger's World now occupied all but a corner of his screen. Seen from this distance it showed no sign of humanity. It was almost a core world-an inhabited planet within ten parsecs of Terra. It had been Terra's third outsystem colony, and the first and nearest of the first dispersion. But like most worlds of the first dispersion, it had been settled by an agrarian sect, in this case United Mennonites. Even after the century of Troubles had ended, and Terra had finally begun reconnecting with the worlds of the dispersion, acceptance of technology had been slow and selective on Luneburger's world.
Not as slow as some, he reminded himself, thinking specifically of New Jerusalem. Before leaving Terra, he and his entire staff, down to platoon sergeants, had studied a cube on the planet their recruits were from. The ethnologist who'd done the narration had called New Jerusalem an unintentional reconstruction of the United States in the early 1800s.
Pak could feel the ship slowing under gravdrive. They must, he decided, be getting close to the F1 layer. The view before him was probably centered on the gravitic vector they were riding down. Much of the surface was dominated by forest, with the larger rivers visible, and to one side, ocean. He couldn't make out towns yet, but they were there. Pastor Luneburger's World held some 200 million humans, nearly twenty percent of them townsfolk. Leaving plenty of partially cleared and semiwild tracts on the fringes of settlement, areas well suited for training.
Somewhere down there was Camp Woldemars Stenders. They'd studied a cube on it, too, showing the Terran 4th Infantry Division in training there. The Terrans had dubbed it "Camp Mudhole." Within the hour, the brigadier thought, I'll see it live.
In the real world, Pak had never commanded anything larger than a battalion before-no one on Terra had-and under the circumstances it was natural to feel misgivings. But in sim training he'd commanded a corps, so his misgivings were mild.
The Madam Jao sat on an AG cushion five inches above the surface. Herded by officers and sergeants, the disembarking Jerries saw a world looking not greatly unlike New Jerusalem or Terra: the sky was blue, the vegetation green. It had rained not long before, and things even smelled more or less familiar.
Esau was disappointed. It seemed to him a different planet should look, smell and, in general, feel more different. He could as well have felt that way when he'd disembarked on Terra, but he'd been too uprooted and anxious then to pay much attention. Now, by contrast, he had a new and major stable element in his life-the army-and some idea of what the future held for him: training. Though what training would be like, he hadn't tried to imagine.
Once on the ground, the recruits formed ranks-they'd learned to do that much on Terra-and were led down a graveled road toward camp, lugging their duffel bags, and sweating.
Camp Stenders was unlike the temporary wartime camps on Terra. Basically it consisted of low-tech huts and sheds-concrete slabs, lumber, and linoleum-though with Plastosil panels from a newly built local factory. War House had earlier provided the camp's administrative staff-the bureaucrats who were an essential if not always appreciated part of the system. They'd kept the place running while the 4th Terran Infantry Division got its basic and advanced training there, then had sent them off to Camp Chu Teh, for unit training exercises with the Terran 3rd Armored.
Most of the key administrative elements were "retreads," retired military personnel from the marines or the small, pre-war, Terran planetary defense force. The company clerks, supply clerks, cooks and flunkies were conscripts not considered suitable for combat. They'd been rushed through three weeks of mini-basic, then enough specialist training to function, and learned the rest of their duties on the job.
The second-tier training cadre were holdovers from the 4th Terran, mature men who'd completed their basic and advanced training right there at Stenders, and earned a stripe or two. They would help the first-tier cadre train the recruits.
Esau and Jael Wesley knew nothing of all that. They did know the name of the world they were on, and the camp; reception center personnel had told them that much before loading them onto a snooze ship. The time of day they could only guess-somewhere in the middle, because the sun was high.
They didn't talk as they hiked-no one had told them they could-but there was lots of observing and more than a little wondering. It seemed to Esau that a pound wouldn't weigh a pound here, either, but closer to it than on Terra; apparently Luneburger's World had grabbity, too. Meanwhile he was hungry. They'd each been given an energy bar and a carton of apple juice when they'd been wakened, but it hadn't been enough, for him at least. The road brought them to camp, a broad featureless area of featureless shedlike buildings. Companies began to peel off from the column, moving into company hutments. Shortly, B Company, 2nd Regiment halted on what they would learn was their company drill field and mustering ground.
The second-tier cadre, who'd marched them in, formed up to one side. All wore at least one chevron on their sleeves. In front of the recruits stood the company's first-tier cadre-commissioned and noncommissioned officers. Like the recruits, they'd just arrived, but been bussed to the company area. A step in front of them stood a large, thick-bellied, fiftyish marine retread, with three stripes and three rockers on his sleeve. "All right, recruits," he bellowed, "listen up. I am Master Sergeant Henkel. To you I am god. You are not part of the 587th Infantry Training Regiment, as originally informed. Instead you are Company B, 2nd Infantry Regiment, First New Jerusalem Infantry Division. If any of you goddamn sonsabitches can't remember that when asked, you're in deep shit. So I'll repeat it once: this is B Company… 2nd Infantry Regiment… 1st New Jerusalem Infantry Division."
A voice called from the ranks, loud, clear, and righteous. It was the student speaker of the books, Esau realized, the guy who'd told him about grabbity. "Master Sergeant Henkel, sir," the youth called, "in addressing us, you have twice taken God's name in vain and used several obscenities. Offending everyone, and more serious, offending God. You-"
The sergeant interrupted, his voice soft but easily heard, and dominating. "What's your name, recruit?"
"Isaiah Vernon, sir."
"Come up here, Recruit Vernon."
The young man did so.
"Do you know what pushups are, soldier?"
"Yessir."
"Good. Drop down and give me fifty."
"Fifty, sir?" Vernon sounded unbelieving. He'd never been much for sports or exercise.
"Make that a hundred, for backflash."
"For… but… I can't do a hundred!"
The voice almost purred. "Make that a hundred and fifty, and start NOW!"
Suddenly realizing his situation, Vernon dropped to the ground and started. In Luneburger's relatively modest gravity-1.25 gees compared to New Jerusalem's 1.42-he managed to squeeze out fifteen, then collapsed. To lie there looking up at Henkel. The sergeant's voice became almost kindly.
"Recruit Vernon, you are guilty of backflash, disrespecting a superior, and refusing an order. Considering how green you are, I can overlook your ignorance. But not your stupidity. Common sense should tell you you don't mouth off like that to a superior. And here, anyone with a stripe on his sleeve or an insignia on his collar is your superior. Tonight, report to the orderly room at 2200 hours, to receive company punishment. Now, on your feet."
Pale-faced, Vernon struggled to his feet while Henkel scanned the recruits. When the sergeant spoke again, his voice was no longer soft. "Look at you!" he bellowed. "You look like some goddamn dog shit you out! STAND STRAIGHT!"
Every recruit straightened. Esau's eyes sized the sergeant up. He could, he told himself, throw down the big tub of lard and sit on him, but he doubted the satisfaction would be worth the punishment.
The sergeant turned sharply to the company commander and saluted. "Sir," he said, "with your permission, I will have the men shown to their quarters."
"Do so," the captain said mildly.
Before getting a break, they were shown to their huts, two squads per hut; assigned cots and open-faced wall lockers; given a guided, familiarization tour of the company area while marching in ranks; then issued bedding, field uniforms, and boots. Finally they were taken to the drill field, where they practiced close-order drill for an hour. Esau wondered what possible good close-order drill was.
Finally they were released to use the latrine and wash for supper. The company latrine was a shed with two long parallel rooms, one with two rows of washbowls and mirrors, the other with a row of commodes, and long, troughlike urinals. At one end of the building was the shower room, about twenty by thirty feet, with showerheads at thirty-inch intervals all the way around, and wooden duckboards on the floor.
Most of the recruits headed directly for the latrine. Others went first to the huts, to get towels and soap. Jael went to their platoon sergeant, above whose left shirt pocket "SFC Hawkins, A." was indelibly printed. What SFC meant, she didn't know, but she already knew the three chevrons, and guessed that the two rockers below them stood for increased authority. "Sergeant," she said hesitantly, "where do I go?"
"Go?"
"To-relieve myself."
He regarded her mildly. "There is only the latrine," he answered. "If you are willing, you can use it when the others do. Otherwise you can wait till they're done."
She looked at him with dismay. Dismay and pain, it seemed to him. He made a decision. "Come with me," he said, turning, and led her to the orderly room. There Master Sergeant Henkel ruled. When Sergeant Hawkins stepped to his desk, Henkel looked up at him. "What can I do for you, Sergeant?" he asked.
"Sergeant, I need to speak with the company commander."
"Bypassing your platoon leader?"
Hawkins' voice took an edge. "This is urgent."
Henkel gestured. "Go ahead."
The plaque on the door read CO. Hawkins went to it and knocked, leaving Jael standing in the middle of the orderly room. Through the door, a voice called, "Come in." Hawkins went in and closed the door behind him.
"Sir," he said, "something has come up that needs your attention."
"And what is that?"
Hawkins explained.
Captain Martin Mulvaney Singh's red eyebrows rose. "You've already presented her the options, such as they are, but it's not really practical for her to wait. She'll just have to use the latrine when the men do."
"I realize that, sir. But these Jerries are fundamentalist Christians. It may require some setting up. To lessen embarrassment and avoid incidents."
Mulvaney frowned. His briefing on the Jerries hadn't covered situations like this. "Being a Jerrie, she'll find it embarrassing enough anyway," he said, then paused. "Call her in." Hawkins opened the door to the orderly room and ordered her in. She stood before the captain sturdy but forlorn, and with pain that was more than psychological.
I wonder how old she is, Mulvaney thought. Seventeen? Eighteen? "Sergeant Hawkins explained your difficulty to me," he said mildly. "He has already told you the alternatives, such as they are. But it will seldom be practical for you to wait, so for the most part you'll have to use it when the men do. However, the company will muster before supper, and I will set certain rules of behavior. Which-" His face turned stern. "Which they will obey, as you will, or receive company punishment."
She nodded. Her answer was little more than a whisper. "Yes, sir."
He gestured to a door in the back of the room. "Meanwhile, just this one time, you may use mine if you wish."
"Thank you, sir," she repeated. Her gratitude was too heartfelt to be hidden by her embarrassment.
When she'd entered his little toilet and closed the door behind her, the captain spoke quietly to Sergeant Hawkins. "What is she doing in this company?"
"Sir, there's another Wesley in the platoon. Recruit Esau Wesley. I believe they're husband and wife."
"Ah. What does he look like?"
"Bigger than most Jerries, sir, and looks-like no one to fool with."
"Um-hmm. Good. And Jerries are supposed to be pretty straitlaced. All right, stay here till she comes out. Then take her outside and dismiss her."
Shortly afterward she emerged, and left with Sergeant Hawkins. Which reminded Captain Mulvaney of something he needed to do. Getting to his feet, he stepped to the orderly room door. "Sergeant Henkel," he said, "come in here please," then returned to his desk and sat down.
Henkel came in and stood at attention. He'd spent thirty years around officers. He could smell when something was wrong. "Yes, sir?"
"Sergeant Henkel, the Sikh style of command is different than yours. Therefore I am reassigning your command duties. That will give you more time for your administrative tasks, which in any case have been very much your main duties."
He paused.
"Yessir," Henkel said, but his eyes made it clear that his "yessir" was acknowledgement, not agreement. "You're aware, sir, that my duties are prescribed in our TO."
Their eyes met, the sergeant's resentful, the captain's mild. But behind that mildness was no give at all. "An old marine gunnery sergeant like yourself," he said, "doesn't need to be reminded of my authority. And the appeal authority is back on Terra. Pod time each way is fourteen days. I have no idea how long the turnaround time is at War House, in times like these, but I'm sure things are prioritized by importance.
"Meanwhile, War House has seen fit to provide field commanders with extraordinary authority. The army, the fleet-even the Corps are re-creating themselves, doing things in new ways, to fit the time and resources available. And War House is giving us elbow room to do it."
Henkel's resentment was fading. He'd never had a CO like this one before, and there was something about the man he liked.
"Look around," Mulvaney went on. "The two-tier cadre system itself is new, a necessary response to the enormous training load, and the lack of experienced personnel."
Again the captain paused, then spoke with fresh crispness. "Field Sergeant Fossberg will carry out the command duties that you would otherwise carry. Tomorrow, you and he will go over your job description, write up the changes, and give them to me for approval. By 1700 hours."
The old marine saluted sharply. "Yessir, Captain," he said. "By 1700 hours tomorrow." He still was less than happy with this surprising development, but it would make life easier; he'd mellowed with age, and the captain held a handful of aces.
The company stood in ranks in the slanting rays of an evening sun, facing the company commander and Field Sergeant Kirpal Fossberg Singh.
"Men," Mulvaney said, "when I call you men, I include the sole woman in the company. It has been brought to my attention that among the people of New Jerusalem, men and women do not bathe together or use a latrine together. However, we do not have separate facilities for the two genders, and during duty hours, the opportunities to relieve yourselves are few and crowded.
"Therefore, it will be necessary that men and women use the latrine together. And the shower." He paused. The company stood at ease, but furtive glances flicked, largely avoiding Jael, who stood fiery faced.
Mulvaney went on. "I have consulted with Recruit Spieler about this. For any who don't know him, Spieler is a speaker of the books. He tells me that your religion forbids people to show themselves naked to others. That means men to men, as well as women to men and vice versa. So using the showers with the other gender should be no worse a religious misdemeanor than using it with others of your own gender.
"Some of you will also be sharing a hut with your female comrade. At appropriate times you'll be changing clothes there. So-" He paused, then raised his voice. "LISTEN UP! When someone of the other gender is naked in your presence, you will not stare, you will not make comments or gestures, you will not touch them, even accidentally! If you do, you will receive company punishment! Which is whatever I say it is, or whatever Sergeant Fossberg says it is, or your platoon leader or platoon sergeant!"
Again the captain paused. "You are in the army now, and you'll find many things different than you're used to. If you have difficulties with this, talk to Recruit Spieler about it. I've appointed him the company's religious advisor.
"Now! Back to business! The mess hall opens for supper at 1730 hours. That's in fifteen minutes. It closes at 1815. At 1900 you will muster here in field uniform for an evening speed march."
He turned to his field sergeant. "Sergeant Fossberg, the company is yours."
Fossberg nodded. "Thank you, sir." He turned back to the recruits. "Company," he bellowed, "dismissed!"
That evening the company learned what speed march meant, at least to Sergeant Fossberg, at least on that day. They jogged an easy quarter mile, then walked another, alternating the two for an hour and a half in the warm humid summer evening. And on Pastor Luneburger's World, the hours, minutes, days, were 1.13 times as long as Terran standard. As they ran, they were joined by the local version of mosquitoes, which came out in force about sundown. And though the recruits had lost essentially zero conditioning during stasis, few had had distance running as an important part of their life-style at home. At 2100 hours they were dismissed, slick with sweat. Knowing intuitively that the experience had been just a foretaste of the weeks to come.
Then they headed for the showers. The most difficult thing Jael Wesley had ever done was go to the shower room with no more than a towel wrapped around her. Wrapped around her chest, it was not adequate to hide her loins, while around her waist it left her breasts exposed. She draped it around her waist, and with a truculent-looking Esau glowering beside her, walked to the shower room. Then of course came the new most difficult: she had to remove the towel to shower. Esau stayed by her, his scowl daring anyone to say or do or perhaps think anything out of line. If they did, they hid it. Any erections were concealed by turning away.
After a few days, mixed showering would seem routine, though Jael was never totally comfortable with it.
At 2200 hours the Charge of Quarters threw a switch, and the lights went off throughout the trainees' huts. But the night was clear, and rich in stars, and after a minute, Esau's eyes adjusted. Dimly he could make out the cot next to his, and the shadowed form of his wife. It stimulated him; he wanted her very much. Nonetheless he waited; there were men all around them, not yet asleep.
He lay there for half an hour anticipating, not sleepy at all despite the long day. Then, leaning half out of bed on his left hand, he reached toward her with his right and touched her arm. She flinched out of sleep as if burned, sat half up, then saw her husband's arm, and rested her hand on his. He swung his legs out of bed, and stood. She stood too. For pajamas, the troops wore short, dull-green summer drawers, Jael with a dull-green T-shirt. Esau paused, and from his locker took his poncho. Jael did the same, and they padded very carefully out of the hut. Keeping to the shadows, Esau led her through the night to the latrine building, and around behind it. There was the water heater room, its door without a lock; he'd done some advance scouting. They didn't speak till they were inside with the door closed, and didn't leave for nearly an hour.
Back in bed, Esau thought about how he might get a mattress-something for padding-and stash it behind the large water heater. Jael, for her part, thought about what might happen if she got pregnant. She hadn't in six months of trying back home. What a cruel thing it would be to get pregnant now.
The Wesleys weren't the last recruits to get to sleep that night. Not by a long shot. It was 0255 hours when Isaiah Vernon settled groaning onto his cot. He'd discovered one form that company punishment could take. Under the occasional eye of the Charge of Quarters, he'd dug a hole some six feet long, six wide, and six deep. In loamy clay, while water seeped in around his feet. Then, when the hole had met with the CQ's approval, he was ordered to climb out, urinate into it, and fill it up again.
He'd been careful not to ask why.