Marko Kloos - Terms of Enlistment

The Marine snorts in disbelief, and turns around to share an incredulous look with the others. Jackson picks up a fork, and takes a bite of the dessert, seemingly unconcerned that she’s blocking the chow line in front of twenty Marines.

With dozens of combat grunts from two different service branches watching, the Marine doesn’t have a choice but to accept the challenge. He turns back to Jackson and smirks. She’s a tall girl, but he’s almost a head taller, and probably half again as heavy. He reaches out and puts a palm on her collarbone to shove her away from the chow counter.

Jackson drops her fork, grabs the Marine’s wrist with her right hand, and drives her left elbow into his ribs. He recoils in pain, and she sweeps her foot and takes him down at the ankles. The Marine crashes to the floor of the chow hall with an embarrassing lack of grace.

Just like that, the chow hall is transformed into a hand-to-hand combat training pitch. We rush to Jackson’s side, where the Marines closest to her are trying to make a better showing than their comrade, and soon every member of our squad is tangling with a Marine or two. They outnumber us by more than two to one, but TA troopers from other platoons are jumping into the fray. I grab a Marine by the front of his ICUs and shove him into the chow counter, where he bounces off the sneeze guard over the mashed potatoes. One of his buddies throws a punch that hits me on the side of the face, but then Stratton is by my side, and he clocks the second Marine with a textbook jab right to the tip of the chin. To my left, two Marines try to tackle Hansen, whose ponytail bounces as she sidesteps one of them gracefully before kneeing the second Marine in the groin. As I watch, another Marine tackles me from behind, and we both go down.

The next few minutes are a blur of punching, kicking, and shoving, Marine and TA camouflage patterns all blending in a flurry of skirmishes. The Marines hold their own, and they’re very good fighters, but we have the numbers on them, and our hand-to-hand combat training is just as good as theirs.

Then the doors of the chow hall fly open, and a whole bunch of Military Police in full riot gear come flooding in. They all carry electric crowd control sticks.

“Break it up! Break it up!” someone yells over a helmet mike. The MPs don’t waste much time waiting for compliance. They start applying their buzz sticks to the nearest brawlers. I hear shouts of pain, and Marines and TA troopers alike fall to the ground, immobilized by fifty-thousand volt shocks. All around me, the fighting ebbs.

The Marine who had me pinned to the ground releases his hold on my collar. Then he stands up, and extends a hand.

“Party poopers,” he says as he pulls me up, and we exchange grins. My jaw hurts on both sides, my nose is bleeding profusely, and I know I’ll have a bitch of a headache later tonight, but this has been one of the most entertaining dinners in months.

When we step out of the building for Orders the next morning, we have a surprise waiting: Command Sergeant Major Graciano, the battalion’s senior non-commissioned officer, is standing next to our company sergeant. I have a good idea why the CSM is present, and from the looks on the faces of many of my platoon mates, so do they.

“Sergeants, step out and tend to your shops,” CSM Graciano begins. “This one is for junior enlisted ears only.”

The squad leaders and platoon sergeants step out of the back of the formation and head back to the building. They have their own chow hall, and none of them were present last night when we redecorated ours with Marines.

“Funny thing happened yesterday,” the Sergeant Major says after the last of the sergeants disappears in the company building.

“The Sergeant of the Guard called me up last night to tell me some fairy tale about a bunch of my troopers hassling some Marines in the enlisted chow hall at dinner.”

He walks along the front rank, hands clasped behind his back, pausing to look at those of us who bear particularly obvious marks of last night’s dinner hall fracas.

“I told him that he must have been mistaken, because I know that none of you knuckleheads would start a fight with members of our esteemed sister services.”

He walks back to the center of the formation. The CSM is a short man, built like a bar brawler, and even though his military high-and-tight hair is snow white, he looks like he could take most of us in a fight. The CSM wears a lot of stripes, and there are a lot of colorful ribbons on his Class A shirt. When he says “jump”, the entire battalion is usually in mid-air before asking for an altitude parameter.

“Now,” he says. “I want to see everyone’s hands. Master Sergeant Rogers and I are going to check and see who here has recent unexplained injuries.”

We all hold out our hands in front of us, like a bunch of kindergartners being checked for cleanliness before lunch. CSM Graciano and Master Sergeant Rogers walk the line, and everyone with bruised knuckles or scrapes on the face receives a stern glance, and a growled “ You .”

When the sergeants have finished checking the company, CSM Graciano parks himself front and center once more.

“Everyone we’ve pointed out—fall out and make a new line over there.” He points to the curb behind him.

My entire squad walks over to line up behind the Command Sergeant Major. We’re joined by most of Second Squad, and a fair chunk of Third and Fourth Squads.

“Now, everyone who wasn’t in the chow hall at the time, step out and go to your duty stations. You’re dismissed.”

About half of the remaining troops of Bravo Company file back into the building, relief on their faces.

“That means the rest of you were present, and did not participate in the alleged fight,” the CSM says. Then he turns to us.

“And you misfits decided to take on half a platoon of Marines, huh?”

We don’t say anything. Speaking without permission is a grave offense during Orders. We just stand and await our fate.

“Well, I told the MP and the battalion commander that I’d investigate the whole thing, and dish out punishment as required. Therefore, your weekend leave is cancelled. You will have an extra training session on Saturday, and one on Sunday.”

He waits for a moment to let the news sink in, and gives us a grim smile.

“We’ll be doing some supplemental close combat training in the gym. That was a disgraceful performance. You should have been able to mop up that herd of space apes before the MP even got to the mess hall.”

Then he turns around to face the remaining section of the company.

“And you people can kiss your weekend leave good-bye as well. The vehicle park needs a scrub-down, and I’m going to volunteer all of you to Master Sergeant Blauser for the job.”

The expressions on the faces of the remaining troopers change from smugness and relief to distress.

“The next time your comrades get into a fight, you jump in and help out, you understand? If they can’t count on you when they’re getting pushed around by a bunch of jarheads, they won’t be able to count on you when they’re under fire.”

CSM Graciano turns on his heel, clasps his hands behind his back once more, and shakes his head.

“ Dismissed , all of you. Don’t make me come back out here real soon, you understand?”

“That was fucking awesome,” Stratton says as we file back in. “The best ass-chewing I’ve ever gotten. The old grunt has his head on straight, that’s for sure.”

“Yeah, he does,” I say. “I thought for sure our goose was cooked.”

“Don’t be too chipper,” Hansen throws in as she comes up behind us. “You know the CSM. He’ll invite those same Marines over for the extra close combat sessions, and have them gang up on us two to one.”