Blood Contact Page 6

  Bass shrugged. "No time, Barb. Besides, the Corps already has a commandant, and like I've always said, if I can't be Pope, I don't wanna be a Catholic." Barb laughed and her whole body shook. Her laugh sounded from way down inside her belly, and the harder she laughed, the redder her cheeks glowed. When Barb was laughing, men forgot her foul mouth and hamlike fists. Her laugh was infectious. Bass grinned, and that made her laugh even harder. "What'll all that cost me, Barb?"

  Still chuckling, Barb made some calculations and named a figure. Bass's eyebrows shot up. The figure was quite reasonable but he still wanted a better deal. He leaned back in his chair before replying. "Okay, but the five guys promoted, if they want to, they get a free all-nighter with the girl of their choice."

  Now it was Barb's turn to lean back. She put her hands behind her head. Bass marveled again at the vast expanse of her breasts, which were as big as pillows. She looked back at him through narrowed, calculating eyes, but there was a twinkle in them. "Okay," she said at last, and thrust out her hand. Bass took it. For such a huge hand, it wasn't that bad-looking; soft and warm, big but feminine.

  After the perfunctory shake, Barb held on for a long moment. "I alvays like you, Charlie," she murmured as she stood up. Bass stood too as she came around the desk. She walked lightly for such a big person. Barb was packed solid, like a huge, firm sausage, no unhealthy folds of skin hanging about her face and neck or arms. She jiggled like a bowl of gelatin, not a mound of suet. She reached out and grabbed Bass by one arm. It took all his strength to stand his ground. She placed the other arm in the small of his back and drew him to her capacious breasts. "Charlie, I haf alvays liked you," she whispered. Her breath was sweet and warm in his ear. A man could do worse, Bass reflected.

  When they were done, Big Barb liked Charlie Bass even better than before.

  "I'm going to keep these remarks short," Brigadier Sturgeon said. The men of third platoon, Company L, stood in a circle about the FIST commander in Big Barb's private party room. As the guest of honor, he was required to make some remarks. "I have several other promotion parties to attend this evening, and at every one of them I'll be obliged to have two or three beers."

  His remark was greeted by polite laughter.

  "In the recent past I've developed a rather close relationship with some of the men of third platoon here. Claypoole and Dean over there earned their stripes on Wanderjahr, and I took them with me through some mighty tense times on that deployment, let me tell you. And they never let me down. The men of this platoon, this company, this battalion, the men of 34th FIST, have never let anybody down and they never will."

  This remark was greeted by a roar from the men of third platoon.

  "What's a promotion mean?" the brigadier continued after the shouting died down. "Well, for one thing, it's a bit more beer money in your pocket." Another roar of approval from the Marines. "It means a bit more authority too, maybe a new job, another digit to your specialty code. And yes, your new stripes will look great when you wear your dress reds on liberty somewhere. But what a promotion really means is that the military professionals who have been placed over you recognize your ability to share the burden of leadership. And leadership is a burden. It's not fun, it's not easy, and if you do it right, you won't win any popularity contests. But remember this always: if you are a good leader, your men will live to hate your guts. So those chevrons are the marks that show the whole world just where you stand in the ranks of the professionals."

  The Marines shouted, clapped, and stamped their feet until the floor under them shook. Commander Van Winkle, Sergeant Major Shiro, and Sergeant Major Parant, also guests of honor, were right in there with the rest of them, shouting and whistling and stamping their feet. The brigadier raised his arms for silence. "I know there are some of you who don't want to be promoted. Lance Corporal Schultz over there is one of them. That's his privilege. He's proved his worth on many a battlefield. At least I know he's not looking for my job." Again much laughter. Those nearest Schultz clapped him heartily on the back.

  Dean, who was standing closest, hammered him hardest. He would sorely miss the taciturn lance corporal now that he'd been transferred to first squad's second fire team. Bass had said it was to train him to back up the new fire team leader, Corporal Pasquin, and Dean understood it meant he'd someday be in line for a corporal's stripes. But when they went into combat again, Dean knew he would miss the steadying presence of Lance Corporal "Hammer" Schultz. And besides that, there was Pasquin. Goddamnit, Dean thought, why did Hammer have to be so stubborn? He'd have made a fine corporal to lead second fire team. Now he would be stuck between PFC Izzy Godenov, who always seemed unsure of himself, and the new corporal, who for some reason had taken an almost instant dislike to Lance Corporal Joe Dean.

  "Okay, men, enough speechifying. Just let it be known how proud I am of the officers and men of the 34th FIST." Sturgeon glanced at Van Winkle to see whether the infantry commander wanted to say anything. When Van Winkle shook his head, Sturgeon turned to the Company L commander. "Now, Captain Conorado?"

  Conorado stepped into the spot vacated by the brigadier and said, "Let the games begin!" Gunnery Sergeant Bass and Sergeant "Hound" Kelly, gun squad leader, emerged from the crowd. They were to "officiate." Someone brought a small table and set it in the center of the circle. Five of Big Barb's best-looking girls marched in at a signal from Bass and placed five two-liter schooners of beer on the table. Into each schooner Kelly dropped the chevrons of each promoted man's new rank: Hyakowa to staff sergeant; Bladon and Ratliff to sergeant; and Goudanis and Stevenson to corporal. The five promoted men were shoved and pushed into the circle.

  "By the authority vested in me and all that bullshit," Bass bellowed, "we will now vest our beloved comrades into the sacrosanct strata of their recent elevations in rank." That was the "wetting down" of the new stripes. In order of rank, each man would be called in turn, and be required to drink the schooner dry. It was not necessary that every drop be consumed, but deliberately pouring the beer on the floor was not permitted; it could only be spilled on the drinker. After each man was done, Bass and Kelly would then pin the dripping chevrons.

  Staff Sergeant Hyakowa stepped boldly to the table and seized the schooner. "Goddamn, I'm dry!" he shouted. "I haven't had a beer since—since—an hour ago!" With that, he began to gulp the beer down. With each gulp the assembled Marines shouted "A-ruh-ha!" until the schooner was empty. Hyakowa banged the empty glass loudly on the table and belched with enormous satisfaction. He had not spilled a drop! Bass handed the dripping chevrons to Kelly, who pinned them to the new staff sergeant's sleeve—with a stapler.

  Bladon went next.

  The ceremony over, the brigadier excused himself, and everyone dispersed to the wooden tables set up in the center of the large room. Girls came in carrying steaming platters of reindeer steak and schooners of beer. The laughter and talking echoed off the walls and men had to shout to be heard. The NCOs, less the five recently promoted, were on their honor to remain reasonably sober for the night, to break up any fights that might start, and also to help guide the drunks safely back to Camp Ellis when the party was over the following morning.

  Dean had tried to find himself a place next to Schultz but instead wound up sitting between Corporal Pasquin and Izzy Godenov. After a few minutes Erika came in and squeezed between Godenov and Dean. Corporal Pasquin cast an angry glance at Dean when she sat down, but he said nothing. She draped an arm around Dean's and Godenov's shoulders. "How goes it, my happy Marine?" she whispered in Dean's ear, and kissed him. Her breath smelled of beer and her cheeks were flushed. Dean couldn't resist a smile. She ate bits of steak from his and Godenov's platters, drank half a schooner of beer with them, then excused herself. "I see you later," she whispered in Dean's ear.

  Across the table MacIlargie was beerily describing how he and Dean had fought their way out of the cell Marston St. Cyr had put them into when he'd kidnapped the Confederation's ambassador on Diamunde. During the te
lling, Pasquin cast sour glances sideways at Dean, who tried to ignore him.

  " ‘A rather close relationship,’ " Pasquin sneered at last, mimicking Brigadier Sturgeon's words.

  "Huh?" Dean said. Beside him Godenov looked at Pasquin with a troubled expression on his face.

  "I know guys like you, Dean. The officers ever stop suddenly, you'll break your nose."

  Dean could only stare at the corporal in disbelief. He'd probably had more to drink that he should have, Dean reasoned. He took a big gulp out of his own glass, because he didn't know what else to do.

  "You don't like what I jus' said? Shove it!" Pasquin said.

  Again Dean did not know how to respond. He could not understand why the new man disliked him so much.

  "We'll have to issue you an extra ration of toilet paper—" Pasquin began, but Dean had had enough.

  "Look, Corporal Pasquin, you won't find any ass kissers in this outfit," he said hotly, "and until you prove you ain't one yourself, better you just shut the fuck up!" Dean instantly regretted the words, but there they were nonetheless.

  Pasquin grabbed Dean's sleeve. "Look here, sonny—"

  Someone laid a big hand on Pasquin's shoulder then, and he looked up. "Hammer...?"

  "It's ‘Lance Corporal Schultz’ to you, Corporal Pasquin. Nobody calls me Hammer until they earn the right to call me Hammer. And you ain't earned that right yet. Who you callin' ‘sonny’ anyway, Corporal? I've seen your ribbons. You ain't been in half the shit old Dean-o here's been in."

  "I'm an NCO, Schultz—" Pasquin began.

  "Yeah," Schultz answered, "and that's all you are for now. Just remember, you fuck with old Dean-o here and you fuck with me." With that Schultz left.

  "Sheez," Pasquin said, shaking himself, "that guy's had too much to drink. I'll talk to the gunny about him."

  "Won't do any good," Godenov said. "He and Bass are tight. Why, on Elneal—"

  "Oh, shut up, ‘Not Good Enough’!" Pasquin almost shouted. "I don't need advice from a PFC! Man, how'd I ever get stuck with you two birds? I never seen such a collection of asshole buddies—"

  "Corporal," Dean said, "you ever make a remark like that again about any man in this outfit and they'll have to feed you through your asshole from then on, 'cause that's how far down your throat I'm gonna shove your teeth."

  Pasquin blanched. "Dean, threatening a noncommissioned officer is a court-martial offense!"

  "I don't give a damn. Corporal, you've been on my case from the first day you got here, and I don't know why. But I am getting sick of you and your smart mouth. Just lay off me, okay?" Calmly, Dean picked up his beer glass and drained it. Pasquin stared at Dean. Godenov meanwhile stared at Pasquin, a huge grin on his face. Without another word, Pasquin got up and left the table.

  "Jeez," Godenov sighed, "you're off to a good start with our new fire team leader!"

  Dean considered that for a moment. He was frankly surprised at himself; it was the first time he had ever mouthed off to a superior in the Corps. Pasquin was a corporal and his fire team leader, but Pasquin had been way out of line with his remarks. Godenov was witness to that if it came to a captain's mast. Dean doubted it would, but he didn't know Pasquin well enough yet.

  And Hammer! Dean had always felt a bit wary of Schultz, the no-nonsense combat veteran. But Schultz had told Pasquin, "You fuck with old Dean-o and you fuck with me," and, "You ain't been in half the shit old Dean-o here's been in." Those remarks did for Dean's self-respect what no medal given by the commandant himself could ever do.

  "Izzy, why the hell is that guy on my ass?" Dean asked. "I can't figure it."

  "Simple, Joe, he's jealous."

  Dean looked sharply at Godenov. "Jealous?"

  "Yeah. You're only a lance corporal but you got it through a meritorious promotion given by the brigadier himself, and you got a hero medal and he doesn't, and you been in a real war and he hasn't. Also," he leaned close and whispered, "he wants Erika real bad, an' she won't have a thing to do with the bastard."

  Dean started. He remembered the night he'd had the fight with the sailor and what Erika had told him about Pasquin at the time. But he could not understand how anybody could be jealous of medals and promotions.

  "Well, he'll just have to remain jealous," Dean replied, and that settled the matter—for the time being.

  Corporal Raoul Pasquin sauntered disconsolately down the street. That he'd left the platoon party early would be noted, but he didn't care. He hadn't volunteered for duty with the 34th and he didn't want to be on Thorsfinni's World. Mentally he kicked himself. He should never have let that wiseass Dean get the better of him. But he had been out of line, Pasquin admitted at least that to himself. And that damn Schultz! A "professional PFC," not afraid of anybody because he wasn't going anywhere in the Corps except maybe back to private, and that didn't bother a guy like him.

  Now he'd gone and violated etiquette by stomping out of the party early. Bass would have him in his office first thing Monday morning. I better get my pussy layin' on my back from now on because I can only screw up! he thought wryly. He stopped. That was a thought. There was a place on the other side of town—and that would give him the excuse he needed to deflect the platoon commander's wrath. Anybody'd understand a man's need to get laid. No, no, he told himself. Not with Charlie Bass. He'd see through it. Better just tell the truth—that he'd been sent to the 34th because his previous commander wanted to get rid of him.

  "It was a goddamn accident!" he shouted aloud to the empty street. "An accident!" he said to the frigid night. There was no response. There never was. He shook his head sadly and walked on. Eventually he caught a ride back to Camp Ellis.

  Maybe it had been an accident, but nobody else saw it that way.

  PFC Orest Kindrachuck of the gun squad was known as a man who'd eat anything. PFC Nick Rowe of the second squad's third fire team claimed to be a man who'd bet on anything. It was inevitable the two would clash. At around 04 hours the following morning—for months afterward Marines argued over the precise time of the challenge—Rowe bet Kindrachuck a large sum of money—the witnesses argued about how much afterward, and with every telling the sum grew—that he couldn't drink a schoonerful of urine. Kindrachuck took him up on it. One of Big Barb's girls—and not the prettiest—obligingly filled a schooner halfway. "Not enough!" Rowe insisted, and he filled it to the rim. While a crowd of inebriated Marines stood watching with bated breath, Kindrachuck lifted the schooner to his lips and began to chugalug the vile concoction. His Adam's apple bobbed up and down as steadily he drank the schooner dry. A small golden rivulet coursed slowly down one side of his mouth but otherwise he did not spill a drop of the liquid.

  "He drank it all!" someone whispered in awe. The entire room had fallen into a deep and amazed silence. After that night Kindrachuck was known as "Chugalug Kindrachuck," but now he stood there, swaying slightly, a sickish expression on his face. Suddenly he doubled over and vomited copiously on the floor. Men shouted and staggered away from the spray.

  "You—You—didn't—say," Kindrachuck gasped when he was done, "that I had to keep it down! Pay up!" He wiped yellowish slime from the sides of his mouth with one hand. Rowe stared at the mess on the floor, chunks of half-digested steak and vegetables mixed in a beige-colored broth of urine and beer. "Okay!" he shouted, holding up his arms for silence. "Okay, Orie. Here's the deal. I bet you twice as much that you won't, that you can't, eat that slop with a spoon!" The room plunged again into a dead silence. Eat...? Everyone was totally horrified at the dimensions of the new bet. "Double or nothing!" Rowe shouted, breaking the spell. In hushed tones, as befitted deals made in the presence of such an awesome wager, Marines laid side bets.

  Kindrachuck hesitated only briefly. "Gimme a goddamn spoon!" he shouted.

  For the next month PFC Orest "Chugalug" Kindrachuck had more loose cash in his pockets than ever before in his life, and everyone in third platoon remembered that night as one of the finest they'd ever had.

 
Chapter 7

  The morning after the promotion party, a tall corporal in dress reds came out of the Company L office and walked past the company's campaign streamer staff—it may have been only his imagination, but it looked fuller than the last time he'd seen it. Had to be his imagination, the FIST had only been on two operations since he was last on Thorsfinni's World. The corporal's left chest was adorned with nearly a dozen medals, and a wound stripe decorated the lower part of his left sleeve. His expression could have been described as blank, but it had traces of an almost superhuman calmness and a touch of grimness. There was an unsettled quality to his eyes that could have been interpreted as suppressed fear, but was maybe just a bit of nervousness.

  The corporal walked slowly down the mirror-polished floor of the corridor, past the 2-D portraits of the chain of command on its institutional-ochre walls, and mounted the stairs to the barracks' second deck. He paused at the head of the stairs and looked to the right into the company classroom, which off duty Marines were using in its alternate capacity as the company recreation room. Then he looked to his left, where a series of doors lined the corridor. He took a deep breath, turned that way, and slowly, with growing confidence, began walking. Halfway along the corridor he stopped and turned to an open door. He crossed his arms and leaned against the jamb, looking into the room.

  It was a fire team room, living quarters for three men. The room was a mess, as was to be expected on an off day, even more on the day following a big party. Only one man was visible, though sounds coming through the door to the head alerted the corporal that someone else was probably at home.

  The Marine in the room was sitting in his skivvies on his unmade rack, looking the worse for wear. He was staring blankly at the screen of a personal vid.

  Must have been one hell of party, the corporal thought. I'm sorry I missed it. He cleared his throat.