Marko Kloos - Terms of Enlistment

I couldn’t give less of a shit about what you’re pleased about, I think. I briefly consider saying that thought out loud, but then decide against it. He’s near the top of the battalion food chain, and I’m all the way at the bottom. Whatever they have in store for me, I don’t want to compound it with a disciplinary offense.

“I was doing my job, Major. My squad was getting chewed up, and I stopped the threat. That’s all I have to say about that.”

I feel anger flaring up inside me. This jackass with his crisply ironed Class A uniform and his desk jockey ribbons was probably in C2 back at Shughart when we were getting shot up by the locals in Detroit, and if he witnessed the battle at all, it was from the perspective of the drop ship cams and the ground telemetry from the squad leaders. He wasn’t around when we were chewed up by heavy weapons fire out of the blue, and he wasn’t at the receiving end of the thousands of rounds the locals sent our way that night. He didn’t have to drag someone half a mile through a contested urban battlefield lousy with pissed-off hostiles. For just a moment, I have the urge to grab him by the lapels of his immaculate uniform, and drive my forehead right into the middle of his face.

The Major apparently senses my sudden shift in emotions, because he backs off from my bed just a little.

“Well, there’ll be time for a thorough review later,” he says. “We’ll debrief with your squad leader and the rest of your team when you get back to Shughart.”

“I’m looking forward to it,” I say. “Then we can figure out which genius made us walk back to the civic square with half the squad dead or wounded. That was really fun, getting shot to bits.”

Major Unwerth’s eyes narrow. My response seems to have triggered some authority reflex in him, because he straightens up and puts his hands behind his back once more, elbows out, like he’s standing at parade rest.

“When I last checked the personnel files, Mister Grayson, you were a private in the first squad of Bravo Company’s first platoon. I don’t recall you being present at any of the staff officer meetings, so I’m going to assume that’s still the case.”

I don’t answer, and just glare at him.

“You’re in the Territorial Army, and you’re bound and required to follow orders from your superior officers, no matter how much you personally disagree with them. If that’s too much of a challenge for you, let me know, and I’ll inform the personnel office that you’ve changed your mind about serving your term of enlistment.”

I know that he’s full of it—the TA doesn’t release anyone from their service contract after the completion of Basic, unless they get shot up enough to make the medical treatment too expensive. For major fuck-ups, they just give court-martials, and lock people up instead. I don’t have the desire to discuss the Uniform Code of Military Justice with this pencil-pushing asshole, however, so I say nothing. Major Unwerth takes my silence as a sign of acquiescence.

“Now, when you are released from this facility, you will be transferred back to Shughart, where you will report to the Company Sergeant the instant you’re back on base. If you get in after hours, you’ll report to the CQ. Is that understood?”

“Yes, sir, it is,” I reply.

“Good.” He looks around with obvious distaste on his face. I don’t know whether he doesn’t like the comparative luxury of my single-occupancy room, or whether he feels that he has debased himself for arguing with an enlisted grunt who doesn’t even have a rank device on his collar yet.

“That will be all for now, then,” he says, and turns to leave the room. “I will be back later to take a full statement from you. As you were, Private.”

Some motivational visit , I think as the door closes behind him.

I get a trip out of the room later that day, which lifts my mood. Corporal Miller has procured a powered wheelchair for me, and after a short introduction into the fine points of power chair operations and hospital traffic rules, she accompanies me on my first trip out of the room.

“Where do you want to go?” she asks as we wheel along the corridor. The hospital is as sparsely appointed as my room—stainless steel furniture, white walls without decorations, and carpeting in cheerless slate gray.

“I don’t know. Is there anything worth seeing in this place? Some place that has a bit of color to it?”

“There’s a rec room on the top floor, and a cafeteria at the ground level. You can try your hand at some solids if you want. The doctor says your intestinal fusing should be up to it by now.”

“That sounds awesome,” I say. “Do they have anything worth eating?”

“Oh, yeah. There’s your regular Army variety of breakfast pastries, and three varieties of coffee,” she says with a little smile. “We spare no costs to provide our guests with culinary variety.”

“Let’s go, then. I’m dying to chew something for a change.”

The cafeteria is a bit more cheerful than the rest of the facility. There are some baskets with synthetic flowers set up on the sills of the projection windows. The scene outside of the windows is a serene lakeshore, which probably doesn’t even remotely reflect the true scenery outside. There’s a meal counter on one side of the cafeteria. The room looks like a smaller, cozier version of the chow hall back at Shughart. There are small tables all over the room, each just big enough for two people. A few patients are milling about, all in the same green two-piece hospital outfit I’m wearing.

As I roll over to the meal counter, Corporal Miller keeping pace by my side, I hear a familiar voice from one of the tables.

“Grayson, always heading straight for the chow.”

I turn to see Sergeant Fallon at a nearby table. She’s sitting in a powered chair of her own, and there’s a cup of coffee and an empty plate in front of her.

“Hey, Sarge!”

I alter course and veer over to her table. She gives me a tired-looking smile as I pull up.

“I thought you were done for, Grayson. When they put you on the stretcher, you didn’t look too good.”

“I felt like I was going to check out,” I confirm. “The doc says I took two flechettes through my armor. One nicked the left lung, and the other went through my lower intestines.”

“Ouch,” she says. “That ought to be good for a Purple Heart.”

“I doubt that very much,” I say. “I just got chewed out by the battalion S2 for putting a MARS round into that high rise. I doubt they’ll give me any medals any time soon.”

“Major Unwerth? He’s a worthless fat-ass. I punched him in his stupid face once, back when I was platoon sergeant, and he was still a captain. I still can’t believe they promoted that useless pile of blubber.”

She looks up at Corporal Miller, who has followed me to the table.

“You can leave him with me for a little while, Corporal. Go and take a break or something, why don’t you?”

“Sounds good to me,” Corporal Miller agrees amiably. “I’ll be back in twenty minutes or so. Don’t try to do any push-ups while I’m gone, okay?”

“Don’t worry,” I say. “If you go over to the counter, would you mind grabbing something for me?”

“Any preferences?”

“Whatever looks good,” I say.

“No problem.”

Corporal Miller walks off, and Sergeant Fallon watches her with tired eyes. The sergeant looks diminished somehow, as if she left part of her substance on the street back in Detroit. I look down at her leg, the one that I know was mangled by machine gun rounds back in the PRC, and I recoil a little when I see that it’s no longer there. Sergeant Fallon’s right leg ends just below her knee, and the surplus material of her hospital trouser leg is neatly folded up and pinned to the thigh.