Joshua Gayou - Commune - The Complete Series - A Post-Apocalyptic Survival Box Set (Books 1-4)

Jake pulled a confused look and said, “You’re talking about medals you’re awarded?”

“That’s right. You pay for everything, and some of those fuckers were pricy. I think the one that pissed me off the most was the Purple Heart. It was something like fifty bucks. Think about that for a second, okay? Say you pulled a Gump and took a round to the ass; you have to pay for the privilege of owning the medal that commemorates that proud event.”

“Uh, I’m sorry if I’m missing the point,” Jake said, “but that doesn’t sound like such a big thing, really. You buy the medal once, and then you’re good, no?”

“You know how much a PFC makes, Jake? Call it about thirty-nine grand a year, including drill and hazard pay, okay? That’s an E2. I took every dollar those men and women had to spend on such shit as a personal insult. I can think of at least two occasions where I ended up helping one of my Marines pay for his getup because he’d fucked up his pay, albeit usually at a titty bar, if I’m being fair. Even so, they were humiliated to ask for my help both times, though I told them it was fine, and they always paid me back.”

I could tell I was winding up for a rant at this point and didn’t care. I restrained myself from standing up out of my chair and pacing around the room.

“It’s never a single thing that makes that one final straw for you… until it is. It’s a bunch of little things added up over time. Bureaucracy had totally taken over, and everyone was more worried about perception than they were reality. By the time I left, it was just fine to skate along at the bare minimum so long as the PowerPoint slides were up to snuff. So long as the platoon had a nice collective tick mark next to the sexual harassment training box. On those occasions that we screwed something up, we weren’t supposed to acknowledge it for fear that it might look bad. Do you know how hard it is to learn from a fuck up if you can’t even say that you fucked up?”

Jake shook his head and spread his hands out helplessly.

“Pretty fucking hard. They tell you at the Infantry Unit Leader’s course that the most important role of a leader is to get your guys to suck it the fuck up when they want to give in. It’s the leader that says, ‘Bullshit, job’s not done, so just grab the closest goat and keep on fucking.’ And if you’re good, if you’re respected, your guys will absolutely take ahold of that goat and reach for the closest bottle of lube. They tell you that, and yet in the normal day to day life, you don’t actually see enough leaders doing that. Everyone above a certain level is getting all political and shit. They’re chasing a bunch of meaningless paperwork while the big-deal shit, the most important of all shit, slips right through the cracks.”

“I think you’re describing most organizations, really,” Jake said.

I sighed and collected my thoughts. “Jake, when you have that kind of groupthink in other organizations, profits drop, stocks go to shit, and maybe workers take a pay cut. In the Corps, that shit results in dead Marines. Look, as a Staff Sergeant, one of my jobs, maybe my most important job, was to mentor my Marines. I worked with them every day, worked on their weaknesses, helped them line up their career tracks. I even helped them with their family shit when they needed me. A lot of these guys were working second jobs waiting tables to help make ends meet or pay for college, by the way. These people were my family. I’ve been married twice; both times it didn’t last, either because of my charming personality or theirs. Wives walk out on you. My boys in the pit were always there. They looked to me to help guide them in an organization in which (it seemed clear to me) the priority was placed on appearances rather than the wellbeing of its people. And maybe it was always like this from the time that I enlisted, and I was just too young and stupid to see it; maybe we all are. But I had to get out in the end. I couldn’t keep looking my family in the face and believe what I was telling them anymore. They deserved better than bullshit. Better than me.”

I’d run out of things to say and stopped talking entirely. I was looking up at one of the bookshelves and reading off the titles, many of which I was mildly entertained to note had been on the Commandant’s List not so long ago.

Jake said, “I don’t think I believe that. I don’t think your Marines would have either.”

“Beg pardon?” I asked, mildly annoyed.

“I mean, I believe you felt as you say, certainly. But I also think you sell yourself short. If you were supremely confident in your abilities as a leader or mentor, I think I’d have an easier time believing that you were bullshit.”

“Well, have it your way,” I said, not interested in arguing the point.

“Given everything you’ve just shared with me,” Jake continued, “I’m not entirely sure how to bring up my next point.”

“The best way is usually to just spit it the hell out.”

“So it is,” Jake agreed. “What is your assessment of the people here?”

“What, here right now? They seem to be pretty decent to me… even Edgar has his good points if I’m being fair.”

Jake smiled and asked, “What do you think of them in a fight?”

“Oh,” I said. I raised my shoulders and let them drop. “Like trying to herd autistic kittens for the most part. I went shoulder to shoulder with Davidson, and he wasn’t too bad, but that was close in and ugly; mostly a bunch of spray ’n’ pray. Oscar’s good too. Keeps his head on. I don’t think we’d have made it out of Denver without him driving if you want to know the truth.”

Jake adjusted his position in the chair; crossed a leg over his knee. “So, two people that you rate as ‘kind of good’ and the rest are newborn kittens with birth defects. What do you think it would take to make them competent riflemen?”

Looking back on our discussion, it’s easy for me to see now that Jake was leading things in this direction. Without the benefit of hindsight, the question caught me flatfooted.

“You mean, like, turn them into Marines?”

“Well, perhaps not full Marines but approximating a Marine’s competency? Someone who knows how to fight in a group and coordinate attacks. You’ll have to excuse me; I don’t know the appropriate terminology.”

“I think I get what you’re asking,” I said. “You’re talking about fire teams and infantry tactics.”

“Okay, sure. How about it?”

I gave it some honest consideration before answering. “I really won’t know until I get some time with them. I think everyone here should be able to handle a weapon; that’s just basic. People like George and Barbara shouldn’t go much further than that, though. They’re not able-bodied. The younger people though… maybe.”

“And is that a role you’d be willing to take on here with us?”

He was looking at me intently; either trying to gauge my reaction or I had a dick growing out of my ear. When I didn’t answer, he said, “Do you think Denver would have gone differently if you’d had more competent people in the fight?”

“Fuck’s sake,” I said.

What you have to understand is that back in those early days, no one was actually pointing fingers at people and saying, “Okay, you’re gonna be in charge of building… and You? You’re gonna be in charge of farming,” and the like. There was just a list of things that had to get done and, once everybody got an idea of what we all could do, people jumped in based on what they knew. After a while, the same people kept taking on the same kinds of jobs and everybody just kinda fell into their roles.