Recruit by Jonathan Brazee (best historical fiction books of all time .txt) 📖
- Author: Jonathan Brazee
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Uniform issue was done within moments. They were lined up and handed a bundle of clothing, then told to march into an adjoining room to change. The uniforms were plain brown trousers and a shirt, a belt, boots, and a helmet. There hadn’t seemed to be any rhyme or reason to the issuance, and there didn’t look to be any nano-sizing that would adjust the uniforms to each recruit, but the uniforms seemed to fit. The old clothes that they had been wearing were put into plastic bags, sealed, and then taken away.
Dawn was already breaking four hours later when they were marched into a cafeteria. They went through the receiving line to get their breakfast. Ryck caught a glimpse of Joshua, but they’d all been warned to keep their eyes to the front, so he couldn’t risk trying to catch his attention. He just sat down and shoveled in the food. It was tasteless, but he didn’t care. It was energy, and he’d had a feeling he was going to need as much energy as he could over the course of the day.
Twenty minutes later, they were herded into an auditorium where they sat and waited.
“What do you think is next?” the recruit to his left whispered.
Ryck ignored the question. He wasn’t going to give the DIs any reason to target him.
After another ten minutes or so, a voice rang out with “Attention on deck!”
Ryck jumped to his feet, eyes to the front as everyone stood up. With his peripheral vision, he saw eight Marines making their way down the center aisle and up on the stage. One Marine moved to center stage with another to his left. Another Marine took a position behind him, with a Marine to his left as well. A final four Marines marched to stand at attention in back of them.
“At ease, recruits,” the one who had taken center stage said. “Take your seats. I am Captain Petrov, company commander for Delta Company, 1st Recruit Training Battalion,” he continued after the auditorium settled down. “To my left is First Sergeant Tyliman, the company chief drill instructor. Behind me is the series commander and series senior drill instructor, and behind them are the four senior drill instructors for the recruit platoons that make up the Follow Series. Each of you has been assigned to a training platoon. The number below the name on your chest is the number of your platoon. Get used to it. That platoon will be your home and family for the next 42 weeks.”
Despite himself, Ryck glanced down at the white tag on his chest. Below the “Lysander, R.” was the number “1044.”
“All of you have volunteered to become a Federation Marine. Many of you will not make it through recruit training. Some will wash out, some will quit. A few of you will probably die during training.”
That made Ryck take notice. He knew that Marines faced danger in battle, but in recruit training?
“One thing I need to make absolutely clear,” the captain went on, “is that we are not here to make you Marines. We are only here to give you the opportunity to earn the title of Marine. Whether you earn that title or not is up to you. We will not coddle you, we will not lead you by the hand. All we will do is show you the way. It will be up to you to make the journey and grab the prize at the end.
“We have recruits from 53 planets here in the class, coming from 81 separate governing bodies. Some of your governments have been at odds with each other. All that stops here. The only tie you have now is to your squad, to your platoon, to the Corps. When you are sworn in, you are cutting the ties to the past.
“Four other platoons in the Lead Series were formed yesterday. In a few minutes, you will formally join them, and your training will officially begin. I won’t wish you good luck. We don’t want Marines who were lucky to make it through training. We want Marines who fought for the title, who kicked and clawed past all the bad luck thrown their way to succeed.”
The captain paused to scan the auditorium. Ryck couldn’t tell if he looked disappointed or please with the gathered recruits.
“First Sergeant, bring the recruits to attention,” he told the Marine to his left.
That Marine stepped forward before bellowing out, “Company, atten-hut!” and then “Raise your right hand and repeat after Captain Petrov,” once everyone was standing.
“I, state your name,” the captain started, to be followed by an uneven chorus from the recruits,
. . .do solemnly swear, to support and defend Articles of Council of the United Federation of Nations, against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same and above all others; and that I will obey the orders of the Chairman of the United Federation and the orders of the officers appointed over me, according to the Uniform Code of Military Justice. So help me God.
“You are now officially recruits in the United Federation Marine Corps,” the company commander said.
He did an about-face and said to the six Marines now in front of him, “Series commander, take charge of your series and carry out the remainder of the training schedule.”
He did another about-face, and without a word, marched off the stage and down the center aisle, followed by his first sergeant. Ryck risked a glance, then jerked his head back forward as four sets of drill instructors marched down the aisles to the front of the auditorium.
Recruit training had begun.
Chapter 4
No Initial huffed alongside Ryck, his mouth open as he gasped for air. Up ahead, just outside the Liberty gate, Ryck could see Drill Instructor Despri waiting for them.
“Come on, No Initial, another 500 meters, and we’re done,” he got out between his own breathing. “Cold water, aircon; think of it.”
Moreau just nodded, too winded to speak. “No Initial” Moreau was a big guy, almost two meters tall, and a solid 120 kg. He looked the part, but he’d struggled during the heavy PT[11] the recruits had been put through the first four days of training, particularly during the runs. This run had “only” been six kilometers, two loops between the gate and The Lost Lady, a rock formation south of the camp wall, but it was with a 35 kg ruck full of sand. The training rucks weren’t like the nice commercial rucks available to any civilian. This was basically a synthetic fiber sack with two thin straps that dug into the recruits’ shoulders as they ran.
Moreau was from Tai ‘pao, and like most of the residents there, he had only one name. That didn’t fit the Marine standard, so his name tag read “Moreau, N.I..” The “N.I.” quickly turned into “No Initial.”
Ryck didn’t know if No Initial was going to make it. Platoon 1044 had already lost five recruits: one was whisked away less than an hour after they’d been sworn in for reasons that still fueled the rumor mill four days later. The other four recruits had simply quit. No one knew what had become of them. Technically, most recruits could not just give up their obligations once sworn in, but as the DIs kept drilling into their heads, the Marine Corps did not want anyone less than the best in its ranks. The Navy might snag a few depending on the reasons a recruit quit, his capabilities, and his enlistment contract, but the general consensus was that most who quit during training would just be sent home.
If No Initial was having so many problems with the PT now, Ryck wondered how he would cope when the tempo was increased. One of the required events during the Crucible just before graduation was a 25 km run with 50 kg on their backs. If you couldn’t keep up or quit, it was either get out or get recycled.
The PT was kicking Ryck’s ass, too, but he managed to struggle through it. It was kicking everyone’s ass except for Clary Won and Born Brilliant. Clary was just a stud, but Born Brilliant seemed to escape to some other plane and breeze through when the going got rough.
“Tighten it up, ladies,” Drill Instructor Lorenz said as he ran beside the loose formation. He was carrying the same ruck as the recruits, and it looked like it was loaded with twice as much sand as any of them had. “Look good coming in.”
Ryck hated him at the moment. How could he look so good, so at ease, when most of them were dying?
Ryck knew the heavy PT was part of the indoctrination, but still, why the rucks? As Marines, they would be in PICS battle suits, or at least with exoskeleton assists embedded into their uniforms. When would they have to carry loads like this without assistance, with only their God-given bodies? He tried to put that thought out of his mind. His was not to reason why, after all.
Moreau started to fall back.
“Grab my ruck,” Ryck told him, hoping against hope that Moreau wouldn’t hear the offer or wouldn’t take it.
The sudden pull against him threw that hope out the window. He sighed and leaned into the run, pulling No Initial along. It was only 300 meters, then 200, then 100. The platoon started to slow down, over 75 pairs of feet preparing to come to a halt at the gate. Drill Instructor Despiri watch them approach, then motioned his arm around, pointing back out along the trail.
“Not together,” he said in his usual clipped manner. “Again.”
The moans were not suppressed as Drill Instructor Lorenz swung the platoon around and back on the
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