We agreed to give the Gunslingers Sunday off to settle their personal matters and say the appropriate goodbyes to their families. There won't be much time for going home from now on. Just a week ago at this time, I was leading the battalion on a long and winding run through Fort Sturm's tranquil peaks in the quiet morning air. Now, everyone stands in full combat gear ready for final preparations. As soon as this formation is released, the first sergeants will start with inspecting their troops' equipment, followed by loading everything into the hovercraft for deployment, and finally, we will begin a series of grueling emergency training sessions and rehearsals. It may sound like a brutal way to spend our last few free hours in civilization, but we must face facts…we're possibly going to war.
"BATTALION!" I shout as I stand in front of everyone once again. "ATTEN-TION!"
"GUNSLINGERS!"
Immediately, I turn around and face Bixby. We haven't said more than two sentences to each other since our little exchange on the post headquarters' steps Saturday morning, but I can tell he's not taking it well. It's like I shoved a needle into his overinflated ego and it's completely deflated. He's standing directly behind me, and I can tell he's trying to hide a hint of restlessness behind his nervous face. As he walks over to take the formation from me, that's when I realize, he's never spoken to the whole battalion at once before.
As he approaches, I keep my hand at the level of my eye. It's a sign of respect that I will continue to show him in front of the troops. They must at least think their command team is on the same page, or else panic and chaos could set in faster than a forest fire in dry timberland.
"Sir, the battalion is formed," I say with a calm tone that I hope will set him at ease.
"Thank you, Sergeant Major," he whispers back with a salute. I nod and take my place to his rear.
He stands there a few seconds just staring at the soldiers like he's never seen them before. I can feel the awkward tension building in the air around us. Then, as I finally see his mouth start to move, it's like he's forgotten everything he's ever learned and trying desperately to remember what to say.
"Post, Sir," I whisper soft enough so that only he can hear me. "Say 'Post'."
"POST!" Bixby shout as he finally comprehends my less than subtle hint. My heart drops as I realize that Bixby is little more than my puppet at this point. Perhaps my words to him had a far greater impact than I could have imagined. The company commanders run around from the back of their formations and silently exchange places with their first sergeants. It's an ancient military tradition that many consider archaic, but it's just how we do things.
Standing there, watching Bixby stumble through basic drill and ceremonies, I realize that I actually have started to genuinely pity this man. My combat experiences brought me recognition and advancement. Though completely unintended (and somewhat unwanted) it's given me a leg to stand on in situations like this. His combat experiences were limited to filing reports in a command post well behind the lines. No soldier would ever give you respect solely for that. I'd never realized before just how difficult it must be for him to have to live in the shadow of your subordinate's reputation.
"At Ease," Bixby says, allowing the men to relax a little. He pauses again, trying to find his voice.
"Men," he states in a stereotypically deep and martial tone which causes me to roll my eyes.
"This isn't a movie, Sir. Speak to them from the heart," I desperately think to myself so loudly I pray he can hear it through my skull.
"Our nation has picked us for a great honor," Bixby continues while trying to steady his voice. "As you probably already know, we've been selected as the only unit in the Defense Forces to deploy to Tripolitania to assist in resolving the crisis there."
He rambles in an artificial and grandiose tone that does little to endear him to the audience. I guess he doesn't remember that the average age of the listeners is early twenties with only a secondary school education. Bixby continues his rant, lacing it with patriotic fervor and obscure notions of what honor and duty means. I must admit, I'm impressed with his sincerity (it's the most I've ever heard out of him), but it still does little to stir emotions in the Gunslingers.
"And in keeping with our warrior ethos, I know that every single one of you will do us proud…" he says finally finishing after about five painful minutes. He stares out a sea of blank faces and I can instantly see his nervousness turn to panic. His eyes dart back and forth from one end of the formation to the other looking for some kind of recognition, but there is none. Luckily, for him, I've prepared for this unfortunate eventuality. Just when I think he's about to run back inside the building and hide, I whisper again
"Sir," I say with a subtle nod of my head. Thankfully, Bixby finally figures out when it's time to call it quits.
"Sergeant Major!" he shouts with resolve back in his voice. "Do you have anything?"
"Yes, Sir," I say striding back out in front of him. "Thank you," I nod respectfully. He nods back and steps aside. While I was getting ready for this formation, I tried to think of the most motivating words I've ever heard before going into action. Instantly, I remembered General Snow's speech to the troops before the Francian invasion. He had a genius idea of how to make the troops want to fight...make it personal.
I reach into my pocket and pull out a small chrome sphere. Clint struck up a good relationship with Maggie while we were still in Britannia, and she let him take this diabolical little object from one of their Research Labs. I've never viewed it as anything more than a toy until today, when I realized it could be a valuable visual aide as well.
I start to pace back and forth across the front of the formation, making eye contact with as many soldiers as I can. I need their undivided attention. I casually toss the sphere up into the air and then catch it over and over again. Their gazes are drawn to its steady motion. Suddenly, I spot a private from Bravo Company in the front row.
"You!" I say pointing my right index finger directly at him. "What's your name?"
"Private Orlius, Sergeant Major!"
"And where are you from?"
"District 9, Sergeant Major!"
"How old are your parents, Orlius?"
"My dad is almost sixty, Sergeant Major. My mom's a little younger."
"But not by much?" I ask flippantly.
"No, Sergeant Major," he says sounding quite confused.
"Hmmm…" I say starting to toss the sphere again. I can tell everyone is wondering where I'm going with this, which is exactly what I want…
"Did they ever tell you stories of what it was like growing up before the Revolution?"
"Yes, Sergeant Major…" Orlius says trailing off a little. They had to work in the wheat fields for fourteen hours a day."
"I bet they still didn't get enough to eat."
"No, Sergeant Major. They remember taking tesserae."
"I bet they do. I bet they told you what it was like to live through a Reaping…trading the chance at death for a little extra food …" I say turning around and pacing back in the other direction.
"Yes, Sergeant Major," Orlius says quietly behind me.
"Did anyone here ever know of someone who was taken as a tribute by the Capitol? Perhaps a family member or maybe even a close family friend?" A few dozen hands shoot up in the crowd. First Sergeant Galbiaz's is one of them.
"First Sergeant," I say walking towards him. "Do you mind telling us who that was for you?"
"No, Sergeant Major," he says with a quiet calm in his voice. "It was my uncle. He was a tribute from District 10 in the Sixty-Third Hunger Games. He was taken from my family, dressed in a ridiculous cowboy outfit, paraded in front of millions of people, and then died when another starving child stabbed him in the back for a piece of bread he had in his backpack."
There's an audible gasp from the formation as he continues his story.
"My mother's family worked on a ranch with two-thousand head of cattle…but they couldn't take a single one of them to feed themselves. After my uncle was reaped…and killed…they almost starved because his tesserae were taken away. Whenever I wouldn't finish the food on my plate, my mother used to tell me stories about him and how she used to cry herself to sleep every night because of how hungry she was after he was gone. It's something I will never forget as long as I live, no matter how hard I try."
Even though five hundred people stand shoulder to shoulder, you can easily hear a pin drop. I look around and see some eyes even have tears in them as similar personal memories are drawn to the surface. I look back over to First Sergeant Galbiaz. He stands as stoically as ever, but I know on the inside his heart is screaming.
"Thank you for sharing that with us, First Sergeant," I say respectfully. I turn back to the rest of the soldiers. "Like First Sergeant here, I know how painful it is to live with a burden like that." I pause and take a deep breath. "Well, I'm sure as a lot of you already know, my mother was a tribute in the Games…twice. When I was growing up, she used to tell me stories about her experiences…horrible stories that I tried to block out with every bit of my conscious effort. I remember screaming at her, 'Why are you telling me this? That's in the past! It doesn't happen anymore!' Unfortunately, I was wrong…"
Without warning, I throw the chrome sphere into the ground next to me. The micro-holoprojector inside engages and broadcasts a twenty foot tall image into the air in front of the whole formation. It is the gaunt face of the starving little girl from the news report Clint and I watched last week. Her piercing gaze, magnified by size and proximity, burns into every single member of the battalion.
"…The horror stories are still happening. They happen every day in places like Tripolitania, where some still use food as a weapon to control the helpless." I look out to the faces in the formation, staring up at the holo-image with a mix of horror and rage.
"But we have something that our parents, and our parents' parents, and our parents' parents' parents, never dreamed of in their world: we have the means to make a difference. We have the resources, the training, but most of all, we have the stone-cold will to say that we will no longer tolerate crimes like this in our world.
Our unit may be the only force going on this mission right now, but I don't care about that," I say clenching my fists into tight balls at my sides. "All I know, is that I'm going to fight like hell for my mother, and First Sergeant Galbiaz's uncle, and every other man, woman, and child who ever was the victim of sick and twisted sh.t like this!" I say pointing up the girl's gaunt face. "Now, who here wants to fight with me?" I spit out with a venom that cuts like the sharp edge of a knife.
Suddenly, a roar erupts from the Gunslingers that echoes across all of Fort Sturm to the distant mountains and back again. I'm positive that there's no longer a single sleeping human being left on this whole post.
"Alright then," I say stepping back to my place at the head of the formation. "Let's get to work!"