“Granted.”
“They won’t be fit for much before noon tomorrow, but we’re on schedule now. The extra work’ll be good for ’em.”
“How many will run?”
Calvin shrugged. “Maybe none, Colonel. We got enough to keep ’em busy, and they don’t know this place very well. Recruits’ll be a different story, and once they get in we may have a couple take off.”
“Yes. Well, see what you can do. We’re going to need every man. You heard President Budreau’s assessment of the situation.”
“Yes, sir. That’ll make the troops happy. Sounds like a good fight comin’ up.”
“I think you can safely promise the men some hard fighting, Sergeant Major. They’d also better understand that there’s no place to go if we don’t win this one. No pickups on this tour.”
“No pickups on half the missions we’ve been on, Colonel. I better see Cap’n Fast about the brandy. Join us about midnight, sir? The men would like that.”
“I’ll be along, Sergeant Major.”
* * *
Calvin’s prediction was wrong: the troops were useless throughout the entire next day. The recruits arrived the day after.
The camp was a flurry of activity. The Marines relearned lessons of basic training. Each maniple of five men cooked for itself, did its own laundry, made its own shelters from woven synthetics and rope, and contributed men for work on the encampment revetments and palisades.
The recruits did the same kind of work under the supervision of Falkenberg’s mercenary officers and NCOs. Most of the men who had come with Savage on the BuRelock colony transport were officers, centurions, sergeants, and technicians, while there was an unusual number of monitors and corporals within the Marine battalion. Between the two groups there were enough leaders for an entire regiment.
The recruits learned to sleep in their military great-cloaks, and to live under field conditions with no uniform but synthi-leather battledress and boots. They cooked their own food and constructed their own quarters and depended on no one outside the regiment. After two weeks they were taught to fashion their own body armor from Nemourlon. When it was completed they lived in it, and any man who neglected his duties found his armor weighted with lead. Maniples, squads, and whole sections of recruits and veterans on punishment marches became a common sight after dark.
The volunteers had little time to fraternize with the Marine veterans. Savage and Calvin and the other cadres relentlessly drove them through drills, field problems, combat exercises, and maintenance work. The recruit formations were smaller each day as men were driven to leave the service, but from somewhere there was a steady supply of new troops.
These were all younger men who came in small groups directly to the camp. They would appear before the regimental orderly room at reveille, and often they were accompanied by Marine veterans. There was attrition in their formations as well as among the Party volunteers, but far fewer left the service—and they were eager for combat training.
After six weeks Vice President Bradford visited the camp. He arrived to find the entire regiment in formation, the recruits on one side of a square, the veterans on the other.
Sergeant Major Calvin was reading to the men.
“Today is April 30 on Earth.” Calvin’s voice boomed out; he had no need for a bullhorn. “It is Camerone Day. On April 30, 1863, Captain Jean Danjou of the Foreign Legion, with two officers and sixty-two legionnaires, faced two thousand Mexicans at the farmhouse of Camerone.
“The battle lasted all day. The legionnaires had no food or water, and their ammunition was low. Captain Danjou was killed. His place was taken by Lieutenant Villain. He also was killed.
“At five in the afternoon all that remained were Lieutenant Clement Maudet and four men. They had one cartridge each. At the command each man fired his last round and charged the enemy with the bayonet.
“There were no survivors.”
The troops were silent. Calvin looked at the recruits. They stood at rigid attention in the hot sun. Finally Calvin spoke. “I don’t expect none of you to ever get it. Not the likes of you. But maybe one of you’ll someday know what Camerone is all about.
“Every man will draw an extra wine ration tonight. Combat veterans will also get a half-liter of brandy. Now attention to orders.”
Falkenberg took Bradford inside the ranch house. It was now fitted out as the Officers’ Mess, and they sat in one corner of the lounge. A steward brought drinks.
“And what was all that for?” Bradford demanded. “These aren’t Foreign Legionnaires! You’re supposed to be training a planetary constabulary.”
“A constabulary that has one hell of a fight on its hands,” Falkenberg reminded him. “True, we don’t have any continuity with the Legion in this outfit, but you have to remember that our basic cadre are CD Marines. Or were. If we skipped Camerone Day, we’d have a mutiny.”
“I suppose you know what you’re doing.” Bradford sniffed. His face had almost lost the perpetual half-smile he wore, but there were still traces of it. “Colonel, I have a complaint from the men we’ve assigned as officers. My Progressive Party people have been totally segregated from the other troops, and they don’t like it. I don’t like it.”
Falkenberg shrugged. “You chose to commission them before training, Mr. Bradford. That makes them officers by courtesy, but they don’t know anything. They would look ridiculous if I mixed them with the veterans, or even the recruits, until they’ve learned military basics.”
“You’ve got rid of a lot of them, too—”
“Same reason, sir. You have given us a difficult assignment. We’re outnumbered and there’s no chance of outside support. In a few weeks we’ll face forty thousand Freedom Party men, and I won’t answer for the consequences if we hamper the troops with incompetent officers.”
“All right. I expected that. But it isn’t just the officers, Colonel. The Progressive volunteers are being driven out as well. Your training is too hard. Those are loyal men, and loyalty is important here!”
Falkenberg smiled softly. “Agreed. But I’d rather have one battalion of good men I can trust than a regiment of troops who might break under fire. After I’ve a bare minimum of first-class troops, I’ll consider taking on others for garrison duties. Right now the need is for men who can fight.”
“And you don’t have them yet—those Marines seemed well disciplined.”
“In ranks, certainly. But do you really think the CD would let go of reliable troops?”
“Maybe not,” Bradford conceded. “OK. You’re the expert. But where the hell are you getting the other recruits? Jailbirds, kids with police records. You keep them while you let my Progressives run!”
“Yes, sir.” Falkenberg signaled for another round of drinks. “Mr. Vice President—”
“Since when have we become that formal?” Bradford asked. His smile was back.
“Sorry. I thought you were here to read me out.”
“No, of course not. But I’ve got to answer to President Budreau, you know. And Hamner. I’ve managed to get your activities assigned to my department, but it doesn’t mean I can tell the Cabinet to blow it.”
“Right,” Falkenberg said. “Well, about the recruits. We take what we can get. It takes time to train green men, and if the street warriors stand up better than your party toughs, I can’t help it. You can tell the Cabinet that when we’ve a cadre we can trust, we’ll be easier on volunteers. We can even form some kind of part-time militia. But right now the need is for men tough enough to win this fight coming up, and I don’t know any better way to do it.”
After that Falkenberg found himself summoned to report to the Palace every week. Usually he met only Bradford and Hamner; President Budreau had made it clear that he considered the military force as an evil whose necessity was not established, and only Bradford’s insistence kept the regiment supplied.
At one conference Falkenberg met Chief Horgan of the Refuge police.
“The Chief’s got a complaint, Colonel,” President Budreau said.
“Yes sir?” Falkenberg asked.
“It’s those damned Marines,” Horgan said. He rubbed the point of his chin. “They’re raising hell in the city at night. We’ve never hauled any of them in because Mr. Bradford wants us to go easy, but it’s getting rough.”
“What are they doing?” Falkenberg asked.
“You name it. They’ve taken over a couple of taverns and won’t let anybody in without their permission, for one thing. And they have fights with street gangs every night.
“We could live with all that, but they go to other parts of town, too. Lots of them. They go into taverns and drink all night, then say they can’t pay. If the owner gets sticky, they wreck the place. . . .”
“And they’re gone before your patrols get there,” Falkenberg finished for him. “It’s an old tradition. They call it System D, and more planning effort goes into that operation than I can ever get them to put out in combat. I’ll try to put a stop to System D, anyway.”