Jerry Pournelle - West of Honor

There weren't many, but there were more than in Harmony. Most of the vehicles were surplus military ground-effects troop carriers. There were also more wagons.

"March or die, Louis. March or die." Deane grinned.

Louis said something under his breath. "March or Die" was a slogan of the old French Foreign Legion, and the Line marines were direct descendants of the legion, with a lot of its traditions. Bonneyman couldn't stand the idea that he wasn't living up to the service's standards.

Commands rattled down the ranks of the marching men. "Look like marines, damn you!" Ogilvie shouted.

"Falkenberg's showing off," Deane said.

"About time, too," Louis told him. "The fort is just ahead."

"Sound off!" Ogilvie ordered.

We've left blood in the dirt of 25 worlds,

we've built roads on a dozen more,

and all that we have at the end of our hitch

buys a night with a second-class whore.

The Senate decrees, the Grand Admiral calls,

the orders come down from on high.

It's "On Full Kits" and "Sound Board Ships."

we're sending you where you can die.

Another legion tradition, I thought. Over every orderly room door in Line regiments is a brass plaque. It says: "YOU ARE LINE MARINES IN ORDER TO DIE, AND THE FLEET WILL SEND YOU WHERE YOU CAN DIE." An inheritance from La Legion Etrangere. The first time I saw it I thought it was dashing and romantic, but now I wondered if they meant it.

The troops marched in the slow cadence of the Line marines. It wasn't a fast pace, but we could keep it up long after quick-marching troops keeled over from exhaustion.

The lands that we take, the Senate gives back,

rather more often than not,

but the more that are killed, the less share the loot,

and we won't be back to this spot.

We'll break the hearts of your women and girls,

we may break your arse as well,

then the Line marines with their banners unfurled

will follow those banners to hell.

We know the devil, his pomps and his works,

Ah yes! We know them well!

When you've served out your hitch in the Line marines,

you can bugger the Senate of Hell!

"An opportunity we may all have," Deane said. "Rather sooner than I'd like. What do they want with us here?"

"I expect we'll find out soon enough," I shrugged.

Then we'll drink with our comrades

and throw down our packs,

We'll rest ten years on the flat of our backs,

Then it's "On Full Kits" and out of your racks,

you must build a new road through Hell!

The Fleet is our country, we sleep with a rifle,

no man ever begot a son on his rifle,

they pay us in gin and curse when we sin,

there's not one that can stand us unless we're downwind,

we're shot when we lose and turned out when we win,

But we bury our comrades wherever they fall,

and there's none that can face us though we've nothing at all.

Officers' Row stretched along the east side of the parade ground. The fort was nothing special. It hadn't been built to withstand modern weapons, and it looked a bit like something out of Beau Geste, which was reasonable, since it was built of local materials by officers with no better engineering education than mine. It's simple enough to lay out a rectangular walled fort, and if that's enough for the job, why make it more complicated?

The officers' quarters seemed empty. The fort had been built to house a regimental combat team with plenty of support troops, and now there were fewer than a dozen marine officers on the planet. Most of them lived in family quarters, and the militia officers generally lived in homes in the city. It left the rest of us with lots of room to rattle around in. Falkenberg drew a suite meant for the regimental adjutant, and I got a major's rooms myself.

After a work party brought our personal gear up from the landing boat I got busy and unpacked, but when I finished, the place still looked empty. A lieutenant's travel allowance isn't very large, and the rooms were too big. I stowed my gear and wondered what to do next. It seemed a depressing way to spend my first night on an alien world. Of course I'd been to the moon and Mars, but those are different. They aren't worlds. You can't go outside; you might as well be in a ship. I wondered if we'd be permitted off post-I was still thinking like a cadet, not an officer on field duty-and what I could do if we were. We'd had no instructions, and I decided I'd better wait for a briefing.

There was a quick knock on my door, then it opened. An old Line private came in. He might have been my father. His uniform was tailored perfectly, but worn in places. There were hash marks from wrist to elbow.

"Private Hartz reporting, zur." He had a thick accent, but it wasn't pure anything; a lot of different accents blended together. "Sergeant Major sent me to be the lieutenant's dog robber."

And what the hell do I do with him, I wondered. It wouldn't do to be indecisive. I couldn't remember if he'd been part of the detachment in the ship, or if he was one of the garrison. Falkenberg would never be in that situation. He'd know. The trooper was standing at attention in the doorway. "At ease, Hartz," I said. "What ought I to know about this place?"

"I don't know, zur."

Which meant he was a newcomer, or he wasn't spilling anything to officers, and I wasn't about to guess which. "Do you want a drink?"

"Thank you, yes, zur."

I found a bottle and put it out on the dressing stand. "Always leave two for me. Otherwise help yourself," I told him.

He went to the latrine for glasses. I hadn't known there were any there, but then I wasn't all that familiar with senior officers' quarters. Maybe Hartz was, so I'd gained no information about him. He poured a shot for himself. "Is the lieutenant drinking?"

"Sure, I'll have one." I took the glass from him. "Cheers."

"Prosit." He poured the whiskey down in one gulp. "I see the lieutenant has unpacked. I will straighten up now. By your leave, zur."

He wandered around the room, moving my spare boots two centimeters to the left, switching my combat armor from one side of the closet to the other, taking out my dress uniform and staring at it centimeter by centimeter.

I didn't need an orderly, but I couldn't just turn him out. I was supposed to get to know him, since he'd be with me on field duty. To hell with it. "I'm going down to the officers' mess," I told him. "Help yourself to the bottle but leave two shots for tonight."

"Zur."

I felt like an idiot, chased out of my own quarters by my own batman, but I couldn't see what else to do. He was clearly not going to be satisfied until he'd gone over every piece of gear I had. Probably trying to impress me with how thorough he was. They pay dog robbers extra, and it's always good duty for a drinking man. I was pretty sure I could trust him. I'd never crossed Ogilvie that I knew of. It takes a particularly stupid officer to get on the wrong side of the Sergeant Major.

It wasn't hard to find the officers' club. Like everything else it had been built for a regiment, and it was a big building. Inside I was met by a marine corporal from the detachment we'd brought with us. I started to go into the bar, where I saw a number of militia officers, and the corporal stopped me.

"Excuse me, sir. Marine club is that way." He pointed down the hall.

"I think I'd rather drink with the militiamen, Corporal."

"Yes, sir. Sergeant Major told me to be sure to tell all officers, sir."

"I see." I didn't see, but I wasn't going to get into an argument with a corporal, and there wasn't any point in being bullheaded. I went down the hall to the marine club. Deane Knowles was already there. He was alone except for a waiter-another trooper from our detachment. In the militia bar the waiters were civilians.