Prologue
"They went with songs to the battle, they were young,
Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow.
They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted;
They fell with their faces to the foe.
They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.
They mingle not with their laughing comrades again;
They sit no more at familiar tables of home;
They have no lot in our labour of the day-time;
They sleep beyond mankind's dome."
- "For the Fallen" by Robert Binyon
I enlisted in the UNSC Army on April 3rd, 2521, in my home city of Scyllion, Charybdis IX. I was 21 years old. I was recently unemployed, and with a young family to support and rebel attacks increasing in the colonies, I turned to the military. My wife, Jennifer, urged me to sign up to join the UNSC Air Force as a pilot. Unfortunately, I failed to pass the flight tests, but those few moments on board the UH-144 Falcons will forever stay with me as a cherished memory.
Shortly after flunking out of flight school, I transferred to the Army as an infantryman. Jen was mildly distraught at the thought of me in the army as an enlisted man – that is, "cannon fodder". She didn't like the idea of becoming a widow, and having to raise our newborn daughter, Maddy, all by herself. I assured her that I wouldn't see much more than base duty on some of the Inner Colonies, and that I would be out of the service after a few years.
Upon first meeting with the army recruiting sergeant to process my transfer between branches, he asked me lots of questions and filled out numerous fields on his datapad.
"Full name," the gruff sergeant asked, or rather demanded.
"James Matthew Clarke," I replied.
When he asked "Any scars, birthmarks, or other unusual features?" I described a three-inch long scar on my lower abdomen. I asked why such a question was necessary, to which the sergeant replied, "So they can identify you on some backwater colony after the Innies blast off your dog tags." This was my introduction to the stark realism that characterized the UNSC Army I later came to know.
I left for boot camp on May 10th. Breakfast at home that morning had been subdued. Jen was up and about taking care of Maddy; she did not cry. It was not a heartbreaking departure. Jen and I had been married for nearly 2 years, but it felt like a lifetime. We knew each other better than we knew ourselves. It was a silent trip across the bustling capital, and it was a rather wordless goodbye in front of the spaceport. Jen embraced me, with Maddy in her arms, gave me a kiss, and with tears in her eyes said, "Be safe."
I entered the busy concourse hall of the spaceport, one duffel bag of belongings in hand, and located the group of other recruits whom I would be heading off to boot camp alongside. We mingled for about an hour before a staff sergeant in a black dress uniform herded the twenty or thirty of us towards a waiting shuttle, which would ferry us to a larger navy vessel. From there, we would depart for UCMBC, or the Unified Combined Military Boot Camp, located on Reach - the basic training course that every newly enlisted recruit in the United Nations Space Command had to undergo, no matter what branch of service you belonged to.
The staff sergeant stood at the head of our shuttle's passenger bay – a middle aged man, slender, with a rather youthful face betrayed by the wrinkles and wear of age.
"Where you are going will not be easy," the staff sergeant said. "When you get to Reach, you'll find things to be very different from civilian life. You won't like it! You'll think they're blowing things out of proportion. You'll think they're the cruelest, meanest bastards you've ever ran into. I'm going to tell you one thing – you'll be wrong! If you want to save yourself plenty of breath and heartache, you'll listen to me right now: you'll do everything they tell you and you'll keep your damn mouths shut!"
He could not help but grin at the end. Never had any of us had such a truthful counselor, and he knew it. He knew we would ignore his every word.
The shuttle ride from the spaceport to the navy transport ship waiting in orbit was relatively short. The boy sitting next to me – a handsome redhead youth from a small town about 20 kilometers from Scyllion – turned out to have a fine singing voice. He and a few others sang several songs for the duration of the ride. Across the aisle there was another boy, whom I shall call Pigeon because of the way he bobbed his head when he talked. He was from Scyllion and had attended college there. Being one of the few college men present, he had already established a sort of literary clique.
When our shuttle arrived at one of the hangar bays aboard the navy vessel, we were brought to the passenger's quarters, which would be our home for the next ten days. The atmosphere inside of the passenger quarters seemed to lift. Other recruits from all over the Outer Colonies were already aboard. Our contingent was the last to arrive, the last to be crammed aboard the aging naval ship. Perhaps it was because of the dingy old transport vessel that made us bright and happy. The food is good. I learn some military songs, which I warble with an atrocious singing voice. The other recruits laugh. They are destined to be my first comrades in the army. From this vessel we would make our way to the epicenter of the UNSC's military might – the planet Reach.
We arrived in orbit above Reach early one morning. Collecting our gear, we boarded our shuttle once more, and disembarked in the city of New Alexandria. We fell into ranks outside our shuttle as a first sergeant came along and told the NCOs on our shuttle which buses to get us aboard. He was wearing a mottled brown army uniform, with campaign ribbons on his chest.
The sergeant made a few brief remarks to us about the tough training we faced ahead. He seemed friendly and compassionate, almost fatherly. His manner threw us into a false sense of well-being that left us totally unprepared for the shock that awaited us when we got off those buses.
"Fall out, and board your assigned buses!" ordered the first sergeant.
"All right, you people. Get aboard them buses!" the NCOs yelled. They seemed to have become much more authoritarian as we approached New Alexandria.
After a ride of nearly five hours into Reach's Viery Territory, the buses rolled to a stop in the big United Combined Military Boot Camp - the basic training course that every newly enlisted recruit in the United Nations Space Command had to undergo, no matter what branch of service you belonged to. Nestled in the mountains, UCMBC would be our home for the next 14 weeks. As I looked anxiously out the window, I saw many platoons of recruits marching along the streets. Each drill instructor (DI) bellowed his highly individual cadence. The recruits looked as rigid as statues. I grew nervous seeing how serious, or rather scared, they seemed.
"All right, you people, off them damned buses!"
We dismounted the bus and formed a motley rank in front of the concrete mess hall. The group that had made the trip from Charybdis IX did not survive the first day in UCMBC. I never saw the redhead singer again, nor most of the others. Somehow sixty of us, among the hundreds who had been aboard the transport frigate, became a training platoon comprised of those destined to serve in the army.
We were assigned a number and placed under the charge of a dark-skinned corporal, who walked over to our group shortly after we debused. He yelled, "Platoon, attention! Right face, forward! Double time, huah!" We followed his orders in our clumsy civilian fashion.
He ran us up and down the streets of the camp for what seemed like hours and finally to a double line of concrete and steel barracks that would house us for the duration of our stay. We were breathless. Some lay down, a few even threw up. The corporal didn't even seem to be breathing hard.
"Platoon halt, right face!" The corporal put his hands on his hips and looked us over with contempt. "You people are stupid," he bellowed. From then on he tried to prove it every moment of every day.
"My name is Corporal Iweala. I'm your drill instructor. This is Platoon 833. If any of you idiots think you don't have to follow my orders, I invite you to step right out here and I'll beat your ass right now. Your soul may belong to your god, but your ass belongs to the army! You people are recruits. You're not soldiers. You may not have what it takes to be a soldier."
No one dared to move, hardly even to breathe. We were all humbled, because there was no doubt the DI meant exactly what he said.
Corporal Iweala wasn't a large man by any standard. He stood about five feet ten inches, probably weighed around 170 pounds, and was muscular with a protruding chest and flat stomach. He had thick lips, a dark complexion, and cropped black hair covered by a field cap. From his accent I judged him to be of West African descent, maybe from Earth. His eyes were the darkest, meanest brown I've ever seen. He glared at us like a wolf whose first and foremost desire was to tear us limb from limb. He gave me the impression that the only reason he didn't do so was that the UNSC wanted to use us for cannon fodder to absorb Insurrectionist bullets and shrapnel so that real soldiers could be spared to capture rebel positions.
None of us ever doubted that Corporal Iweala was tough and hard as nails. Iweala didn't yell very loudly. Instead he shouted in an icy, menacing manner that sent cold chills through us. He was always immaculate, and his uniform fitted him as if the finest tailor had made it for him. His posture was erect, and his persona reflected military precision.
The public pictures a DI wearing sergeant stripes. Iweala commanded our respect and put such fear into us that he couldn't have been more effective if he had had the six stripes of a first sergeant instead of the two of a corporal. One fact became very clear to us: this man would be the master of our fates in the weeks to come.
From the barracks on the first day, Corporal Iweala marched us to the quartermaster. When we arrived, we were stripped of all remnants of personality. It is the quartermasters who make the soldiers, sailors, and marines. In the presence of the quartermasters, we strip down. With each clothing item removed, a trait is lost – the removal of a garment marks the quiet death of identity. I take off my socks - gone is the option for stripes, or checkers, or the novelty pairs that Jen gets me for Christmas, or even solids. My socks from here on out will be brown. They will neither be dirty, nor ripped, nor rolled, nor holey. They will be brown. The only other thing they may be is clean.
There we stood, naked, quivering, struggling with embarrassment that is entirely lost on the stoic clerks who work in the quartermaster building. Character clings to clothes that have been torn from you like adhesive tape, as the quartermaster clerks direct you to step onto a scanner, which takes your measurements. Then, a shower of clothes falls upon you, washing you clean of personality. It is as though some monstrous clothing basket has been placed in the air and tilted – and a rain of caps, gloves, socks, shoes, underwear, shirts, belts, pants, and coats fall upon your unfortunate head. When you have emerged from this, you are but a number: 667461 UNSCR. Twenty minutes prior, there stood in your place a human being, surrounding by fifty-nine other human beings. But now there stood one number among fifty-nine others: the sum of all to be a training platoon.
The color and cut of our hair still saved us. But in a minute those too would be taken from us.
We marched to the barbers, each of us holding onto a shred of hope that we wouldn't have to cut our hair. Before I could say anything, though, the barber had sheared me of my wavy brown hair. I think he needed four, perhaps five, strokes with his electric clippers. The last stroke completed the circle. I was now a number encased in mottled brown encompassed by chaos.
And so began our training.
Iweala rarely drilled us on the main parade ground. He preferred to march or double-time us to a sloping, flat area away from the camp higher up in the mountains. The small, loose pebbles and rocks in the area made walking exhausting, just what he wanted. For hours on end, for days on end, we drilled back and forth across the loose pebbles. My legs ached and burned for the first few days, as did those of everyone else in the platoon. To drop out of ranks because of tired legs was unthinkable. The standard remedy for such an action was to "double-time in place to get the legs in shape" – before being humiliated and berated in front of the whole platoon by Corporal Iweala. I preferred the pain to the remedy.
Before heading back to the hut area at the end of each drill session, Iweala would halt us, ask a man for his rifle – a MA37 Assault Rifle, issued to each person, and tell us he would demonstrate the proper technique for holding the rifle while creeping and crawling. First, though, he would place the butt of the rifle on the ground, let go of the weapon, and allow it to drop, saying that anyone who did that would have a miserable day. Then, after demonstrating how to cradle the rifle, he ordered us to creep and crawl. Naturally, the men in front kicked dirt and stones onto the rifle of the man behind him. With this and several other techniques, Iweala made it necessary for us to clean out rifles several times each day. But we learned quickly an old army saying, "The rifle is a soldier's best friend." We always treated it as just that.
A typical day in boot camp began with reveille at 0400 hours. We tumbled out of our beds in the chilly dark and hurried through shaves, dressing, and breakfast. The gruelling day ended with taps at 2200. At any time between taps and reveille, however, Corporal Iweala might break us out for rifle inspection, close-order drill, or for a run around the parade ground or over the pebbles at the base of the mountains. This seemingly cruel and senseless harassment became much better understood to me later when I found that war allowed sleep to no man, particularly the infantryman. Combat guaranteed sleep of the permanent type only.
We moved to two or three different barrack areas during the first few weeks, each time on a moment's notice. The order was "Platoon 833, fall out on the double with rifles, full individual equipment, and combat packs with all gear properly stowed, and prepare to move out in ten minutes." A mad scramble would ensue as men gathered up and packed their equipment. Each man had one or two close buddies who pitched in to help each other tighten strap and hoist heavy packs onto sagging shoulders. Several men from each barrack would stay behind to clean up the barrack and surrounding area as the other men of the platoon struggled under the heavy loads to the new barracks area.
Upon arrival at the new area, the platoon halted, received barracks assignments, fell out, and stowed gear. Just as we got into the barracks we would get orders to fall in for drill with rifles, ammo belts, and full combat packs. The sense of urgency and hurry never diminished, as Corporal Iweala was ingenious in finding ways to harass us.
The weather became quite chilly on Reach, especially at the UCMBC at the base of the mountains in the Viery Territory, particularly at night. I had to cover up with blankets and an overcoat. Our uniforms were insulated, but not enough to stave off the cold. Many of us slept in uniform pants and sweaters in addition to our underwear. When reveille sounded well before daylight, we only had to pull on our combat boots before falling in for roll call.
Each morning after roll call, we ran in the foggy darkness to a large asphalt parade ground for rifle calisthenics. Atop a metal platform, a muscular physical training instructor led several platoons in a long series of tiring exercises. A set of loudspeakers played a scratchy recording of a flip music song, the name of which escapes me. We were supposed to keep time with the music. The monotony was broken only by frequent whispered curses and insults directed at our enthusiastic instructor, and by the too frequent appearance of various DIs who stalked the extended ranks making sure all recruits exercised as vigorously as the instructor. Not only did the exercises harden our bodies, but our hearing became superkeen from listening for the DIs as we skipped a beat or two for a moment of rest in the inky darkness.
At the time, we didn't realize or appreciate the fact that the discipline we were learning in responding to orders under stress often would mean the difference later in combat – between success or failure, even living or dying. The heightened sense of hearing we gained from such exercises also proved to be an incredibly important skill when Insurrectionist infiltrators tried to slip through our lines at night.
Several weeks into our training, we received word that we were going to move out to the rifle range.
We greeted the announcement enthusiastically. Early on the first morning at the rifle range, we began the thorough and effective marksmanship training given to all troops serving in the UNSC. We were divided into two-man teams, the first week for dry firing, or "snapping in". We concentrated on proper sight setting without electronic aid, trigger squeeze, calling of shots, use of the rifle's built-in ammo counter, and other fundamentals.
On the firing line, angry sergeants filled the air with their cursing, striving to make riflemen of us in what had become a very intense training course. We had to learn to fire standing, prone and sitting. The DIs and rifle coaches checked every man continuously. Everything had to be just right. Our arms became sore from being contorted into various positions and having the weight of the rifle straining our joints and biting into our muscles. Perhaps because it is the most difficult to learn, most of us had problems perfecting the sitting position. But the rifle coach helped everyone the way he helped me – simply by putting his weight on my shoulders until I was able to "assume the correct position." Those familiar with firearms quickly forgot what they knew and learned the Army way.
We went onto the firing line and received live ammunition the next week. At first, the sound of rifles was disorienting and deafening. But not for long. Our snapping-in had been so thorough, we went through our paces automatically. We fired at holographic pop-up targets in the shape of rebel soldiers from 100, 300, and 500 yards. When the range officer ordered, "Ready on the right, ready on the left, all ready on the firing line, commence firing," I felt as though the MA37 assault rifle was part of me and vice versa. My concentration was complete.
Discipline was ever present, but the harassment that had been our daily diet gave way to deadly serious, businesslike instruction in marksmanship. Punishment for infractions of the rules came swiftly and severely, however. One man next to me turned around slightly to speak to a buddy after the order to "cease firing" was given; the movement caused his rifle muzzle to angle away from the targets. The sharp-eyed range captain rushed up from behind and booted the man in the rear so hard he fell flat on his face. The captain then jerked him up off the deck and yelled at him loudly and thoroughly. We all got his message.
Qualification day dawned clearly and brightly. We were apprehensive, having been told that anyone who didn't shoot high enough to qualify as "marksman" wouldn't go offworld. The day when we shot for record – that is, when our scores would be official and determine whether we qualified or not – dawned windy and brutally cold. I remember it as dismal, and that I longed to be near the fires or inside the heated barracks. My eyes watered all day. When we fired from the six hundred yard range, I think I could just about make out the target.
When the final scores were totaled, I was floored. I was one of only two men in the entire platoon to qualify as an "expert rifleman". An Expert Rifleman's badge is to shooting what the Colonial Cross is to bravery. It even brought a 25% pay raise every month. I proudly wore the expert rifleman's badge, displaying a pair of crossed M6J carbines in front of a wreath. I got looks of admiration from soldiers both inside and outside of the platoon.
Feeling like grizzled veterans, we returned to the recruit depot for the final phases of recruit training. There were a few other skills to be learned – shooting and familiarizing ourselves with the various other weapons in the UNSC Army's arsenal, how to drive and operate several of the army's vehicles, and some new hand-to-hand combat techniques. Upon returning, however, the DIs didn't treat us as veterans, though; harassment picked up quickly to its previous intensity, especially by Corporal Iweala.
One morning in the last days of training, we are left standing around after roll call. The omnipresent Corporal Iweala is nowhere to be seen. After an hour, as no one has done anything about us - we stack our weapons neatly, and sit around the paved parade square.
I sit with my closest friend, Alexander "Mack" Mackenzie, a Scottish man from Casbah on Tribute. His thick Scottish brogue is nearly impossible to understand by anyone except those who are used to his accent, myself included. A pale, well-built man, his red hair is as fiery as his personality. We talk all morning, about life, home, the army, and our mutual disdain for Corporal Iweala. The morning goes by, the lunch bell rings, and we put away our rifles before going to the mess hall.
It is now afternoon. Still no duties, no manoeuvres. We can hardly believe it. There is no question of going down to the main parade square; the DIs would only send us off for PT or other monotonous tasks. After lunch, a handful of us, including Mackenzie, slip up to the second floor of the mess hall, where some of the NCO dorms are located. We find a metal ladder which takes us up to the attic, and then to the roof. The sun is beating down onto the massive metal panels on the roof. We stretch out full length, and brace our heels against the gutter so that we won't roll into the parade square.
The day is magnificent. It was the only time I was truly able to appreciate the view of the mountains around the camp, extending for as far as the eye could see, deep into the Viery Territory. On the roof it is almost painfully hot, and before long we are all stripped to the waist, as if on a beach. However, after a while the heat becomes disagreeable, and like many others I abandon my roost. Up to that moment though, it was quite amusing to look down at the frenzied drill manoeuvres of the newly-arrived contingent of rookie recruits suffering under a torrent of abuse from their DIs.
I find myself back at the barracks in the company of Mackenzie, where we are horrified to find Corporal Iweala, screaming like a madman at the recruits who had left the barracks area. He soon turned his attention to us, and for the rest of the day we were punished by doing PT in full combat gear. Exhausted, soaked to the skin in our own sweat, we fling ourselves onto our beds that night, overwhelmed by a crushing sleep, without even the energy to write to our families.
By the end of the gruelling 14 weeks, it had become apparent that Corporal Iweala and the other DIs had done their jobs well. We were hard physically, had developed endurance, and had learned our lessons. Perhaps more important, we were tough mentally. One of our assistant drill instructors even allowed himself to mumble that we might become soldiers after all.
Finally, in the late afternoon of September 26th, 2521, we fell in with rifles and ammo belts. Garbed in our black dress uniforms and berets, each man received three UNSC eagle-and-globe emblems, which we put into our pockets. We marched to an amphitheater where we sat with several other platoons.
This was our graduation from boot camp. A short, affable-looking major standing on the stage said, "Men, you have successfully completed your recruit training and are now soldiers in the United Nations Space Command Army, Put on your UNSC emblems and wear them with pride. You have a great and proud tradition to uphold. You are members of mankind's finest fighting force, so be worthy of it." We took our emblems and put one on each lapel of our black dress jackets and one on the left side of our service caps. The major told several dirty jokes. Everyone laughed and whistled. Then he said, "Good luck, men." That was the first time we had been addressed as men during our entire time in boot camp.
Before dawn the next day, Platoon 883 assembled in front of our barracks for the last time. We shouldered our combat packs, placed our rifles on the magnetic strip on our backs, and struggled down to a warehouse where a line of transport Warthogs was parked. Corporal Iweala told us that each man was to report to the designated Warthog as his name and destination was called out. The few men selected to train as specialists (electronic warfare technicians, vehicle mechanics, etc.) were to turn in their rifles, knives, and ammo belts.
Corporal Iweala called our names in the darkness as we stood around wondering what was happening. As the men moved out of ranks, there were quiet remarks of, "So long, see you, take it easy." We knew that many friendships were ending right there.
"James M. Clarke, 667461. Full individual equipment and MA37 rifle, infantry, Army Training Centre Cold Lake."
I detached myself from my platoon, ending, in that motion, my association with the majority of the men who had been my comrades for three months. Most of us were designated for infantry, and we went to ATC Cold Lake. I approached a Warthog, where an NCO asked questions rapidly, interested only in my answers, ignoring me and typing my response into his datapad. Name, serial number, rifle number, etc. – all the dry detail that tells nothing of a man.
"What'd you do in civilian life?"
"I wrote for a news network, a sports columnist."
"Okay, Third Infantry. Get aboard that 'Hog."
That was how the army classified us. The questions were compulsory. The answers were ignored. Student, farmer, scientist – all were the same to the army and all came forth neatly labeled: Third Infantry. There were no aptitude tests, no job analysis. In the Third Infantry Division the assumption was that a man had enlisted to fight. Nobody cared about what you did in civilian life.
As ordered, I swung up on a Warthog with my new comrades. I was pleased to find the grinning, jovial face of Mackenzie greeting me as I settled into the seat of the transport. As we helped each other aboard the trucks, it never occurred to us why so many were being assigned to the infantry. We were destined to take the places of the ever mounting numbers of casualties in the frontline units on fringe worlds and Inner Colonies alike in the fight against the anti-UNSC Insurrectionist rebels. We were fated to fight the war first hand. We were cannon fodder.
After all assignments had been made, the trucks rolled out, and I looked at Corporal Iweala watching us leave. I disliked him, but I respected him. He had made us soldiers, and I wondered what he thought as we rolled by.
I smiled, watching UCMBC shrink in the distance as we drove into the mountains. I arrived as a young sports writer from the Outer Colonies. A nobody.
I left as Private James Clarke, UNSC Army. A somebody.