2953-06-04 – Tales from the Service: Cowardice in Mourning
As several commentors have pointed out, I absolutely have toned down the profanity in this account before publishing it. As a Marine sergeant, our contributor is an artist with profanity, but this colorful and evocative language would not meet the Cosmic Background editorial standards. You will have to re-introduce it in your imagination, if you are familiar with the standard issue vocabulary of a Marine non-com.
Sergeant Cole Morita scowled at the two men blocking his way. According to the regs, and according to the spirit of the Marines, what they were telling him didn’t change a thing, but in the world outside, people would expect a man in mourning to be given some lenity for an act which had, in the grand scheme of things, done little damage.
The spirit of the Corps had, as was inevitable, been eroded somewhat as the Marines had expanded for wartime service. Physical and psychological standards for entry were theoretically as strong as ever, and Cole didn’t doubt that they remained high, but the wartime recruits were missing something else – the willingness to submit to the honored traditions of a service with a contiguous history going back almost a thousand years.
Allscher and Stepanov, like most of the men in the unit, were wartime recruits. They weren’t devoting their lives to the Corps, they were doing a few years to protect the government and Admiralty which had existed for a fraction of the history of the Confederated Marines in a time of need.
No doubt, this was a challenge the Marines had weathered before, and would again. Certainly Cole would have to put the Mark into the files of all three no matter what happened today. The existence of the Mark was no secret, even to recruits, and it served to tell the Corps who among the wartime surge was not fit to carry the traditions of the service into the conditions of peacetime. From a civilian perspective, what the men were doing to protect their comrade was admirable, so it would only make sense to send them out into the civilian world as soon as practical after the war ended.
Allscher and Stepanov seemed to take Cole’s hesitation for a reconsideration of his anger based on this new data, and relaxed their posture somewhat. “Now that we’ve cleared the air, Sarge, we won’t keep you.” Allscher saluted once more and sidled away from the hatch. Stepanov followed suit a moment later.
Cole nodded to both of them, then went in. Olivers was there, sitting on his bunk with his head in his hands, with a few other men standing protectively around him. Everyone saluted their sergeant, as they were expected to, but the tension was as thick as nutrient paste. Cole sized them up, noting their names off in his head. They would all need the Mark.
After several seconds of tense silence, Cole cleared his throat. “Private Olivers, I am putting you in for emergency discharge.” He fixed his eyes on several of those standing between himself and the bereaved man. “Gather your things and report to the passenger berths on the double. The Fleet will get you home as soon as it can.”
For a long moment, nobody moved, then Olivers himself shot upright as if yanked by invisible strings and saluted. “Yes, Sergeant.” His red-rimmed eyes met Cole’s, and he seemed to think this an act of mercy. From a civilian perspective, it certainly was, but Cole was only getting started.
The man tottered around for a moment, gathering his slate and his kit bag, then he trotted out past Allscher and Stepanov. Nobody said another word until the hatch had closed behind him.
Several Marines started to talk at that moment, but Cole held up a hand, and they all returned to attention in an instant.
“As for the rest of you.” Cole turned on Olivers’s friends. “I could have you all court martialed and thrown out of the Corps.” He leveled a finger at Stepanov. “If you lot knew he was too damaged to have his hindquarters busted the same way he always did without blowing a valve, it was sheer cowardice to let him stay on duty. He needed to be on leave the minute after that damned message came in.” Cole turned to make eye contact with everyone, one by one. “Heaven help us if we’d had a combat op today. Or do I need to send you all to scrubbing plating until you remember your basic training?”
“A unit is only as strong as its weakest component, Sarge.” There was a note in Allscher’s voice that might have been resignation, or even sorrow. “A company’s components are its troopers. And I am that weakest component.”
“So you’re not all utterly irredeemable.” Cole turned to Allscher. “Today, you all thought Olivers was the weakest link. But he might have been the damned strongest one. Because he did something. You all just sat on your hands and waited to see what would happen.”
Most of the troopers started studying the deck plating below their feet, wondering perhaps how long they’d be scrubbing it before they regained their sergeant’s trust.
Cole let the silence drive the point into their heads for almost a minute before he continued, tapping the bandage on his arm. “If he’d gotten incredibly lucky and killed me or put me out of action, the Lieutenant would be well within his rights to throw you all out an airlock. As it is, I might still recommend it. If you can’t do the right thing for the unit when it’s damned uncomfortable, how can you call yourselves Marines?”
With that question drifting in the air, Cole waved them all to at-ease and strode out of the barracks, still seething. As soon as he got to the lift, he sent a quick a message to the Navy accommodations liaison explaining Olivers’s situation, then pulled up the personnel files for the unit and started adding Marks.