It took less than five minutes for everything to devolve into a clusterfuck. It took less than three for Gus to realize this was a mind-fuck on the part of the CPT and drill sergeants. Instead of prodding the recruits along, the NCOs just stood together off to the side and watched.
Gus’s first order was to get everyone formed up, but getting one thousand teenagers into formation proved more than his patience allowed. “Once you have your platoons together head straight to the chow hall!” His voice carried across the assembly area to the platoon leaders.
Still, it took ten minutes for Roman’s seventh platoon to be the first one on their way. Gus waited for the first few to get moving before following them to the large, white building at opposite end of the barracks row. That was when they drill sergeants threw the first curveball at him.
“Every recruit must complete ten pulls when they enter and exit the chow hall.” A SSG blocked the door with his muscular figure, and pointed at two rows of twenty-five pull-up bars. It was enough to have one platoon going at a time.
Two minutes on the bars and all unit cohesiveness broke down. Clan members were able to knock out the ten repetitions without a sweat. Some even did them one handed to show off. Not all the norms were as fit or skilled. Several looked like they hadn’t set foot in a gym, or played team sports, in the last four years.
Gus got in line with the rest of first platoon and waited his turn. He saw Roman motivating and assisting his people, and with a sigh, Gus knew he should to do the same. He ignored the rumbling of his stomach as the line moved forward. He got a moment’s reprieve when he watched Liliana’s toned butt bounce up and down as she completed the reps with ease.
Over the next thirty minutes, Gus got more ass than he had in his whole life, and not in a good way. He had his hands all over more than one norm’s fat ass to get them to power through the last few exercises. After a dozen platoons had made their way through, Gus was finished. A leader couldn’t lead effectively on an empty stomach. You needed to look after your troops, but you also had to take care of yourself.
The chow line moved way too slow. “Everyone let’s keep it moving,” he yelled when he’d stood in the same place for longer than five seconds. “Pick what’s there and go. This isn’t your parent’s home cooking, and the more you dawdle, the more likely the people behind you don’t get to eat.” The line picked up a little after that as the platoon leaders jumped in to move things along.
There were other little things along the way that held things up. People took the closest seats instead of filling in from the rear, so it created a log jam when the first recruits went back for seconds. Recruits thinking they could have seconds was another problem, so Gus physically placed himself so he could ward people off. He ate standing up and away from the rest of his platoon. Then there was the traffic jam at the tray return station. The steps were simple: scrap off your plate in one carton, silverware in another, and plates in the final one. He could already hear the chow hall staff muttering angrily about the “kids not being able to follow simple directions”. Gus knew there would be physical punishment coming his way, but that was for future Gus to handle.
“Ten minutes!” he yelled when they were running low on time. “If your ass is in a seat get up and return your tray. If you haven’t sat down, shovel what you can in your face and take something with you. Next time, don’t drag ass getting here.” He saw several stink eyes shot in his direction, but he didn’t care. He wanted to meet the time-hack.
He missed it by a minute and thirty-two seconds. It led to the whole class being marched back out, formed up, and run through a simple iteration of physical training (PT). Norms ended up puking left and right, but worst of all, the CPT made Gus stand in front of everyone while they did it. He didn’t do one push-up, burpee, or flutter-kick while everyone else sweated their ass off. Gus wished he could have done the exercises. Standing, watching as everyone glared at him between sets, was the worst form of punishment.
The class filed back into the hangar – which was cleared of chairs and the presentation equipment – formed up, and broken back down into platoons for drill and ceremony practice. Gus could march circles around these people in his sleep, so he took the time to plan. He grabbed his platoon leaders when he could. Surprisingly, the drill sergeants didn’t chew his ass out as he moved around the open space. The CPT was true to her word.
“We can’t let that clusterfuck happen again.” All of the leaders were in agreement, even Ulysses, who despite wanting to see Gus fail, had been slow to get his people to the chow hall. They’d eaten nothing but cookies stuffed in their pockets on the way out the door. “I want a list of squad leaders by the end of this training period. I’ll record them, and we’ll get this class organized. I can’t do it all from the top. Everyone needs to start policing their own people.”
Despite some leaders’ grumbles, it was the truth. Gus hadn’t sat down in the last few hours, he was always running from problem to problem. He was finishing up with a platoon leader from Clan Lupus, whose name Gus still couldn’t peg, when the CPT appeared at his side
“Having fun, class leader.”
“Ma’am, yes, ma’am,” Gus snapped to attention, and kept the snark to a minimum.
“I’m glad you have a sense of humor,” she shot back. “I also remember stating that you would have to meet all the same qualifications on top of your leadership duties. At the moment, you are on track to fail the drill and ceremony iteration of your training.”
“Moving, ma’am,” Gus took off and jogged back to first platoon. The CPT could have yelled about not dismissing him, but she knew he was already overwhelmed.
As he knew he would, Gus knocked the drill and ceremony out of the park. He even knew more than the SGT instructing them, which was a bit embarrassing for the NCO when Gus corrected him. The SGT had dressed him down on the spot, but was then informed by a SSG that Gus was right. Seeing the SGT apologize to Gus was the highlight of his day, even if the SGT tried to cover it up with a speech about people owning up to their mistakes and learning from them. Judging by the look of Liliana’s face, she didn’t buy his bullshit either. They shared a smile over that. To most of the norms, and a few of the clan’s people here, the NCOs were just below the Creator, with the CPT being their god’s right hand. Gus knew NCOs were people just like him, who made mistakes, and tried to blow smoke up people’s ass when they were caught. Thankfully, it seemed the NCOs were rotating around, so Gus wasn’t stuck with the SGT for longer than an hour.
After drill and ceremony was completed, they moved to the equipment depot next to the hangar for their initial equipment draw. Unlike some country’s basic training programs – who gave their recruits equipment that had seen more blood, sweat, tears, and semen than a Las Vegas hooker – Atlantis gave their recruits current equipment, and let them keep it. The Kingdom only had five active duty marine divisions, and a slightly larger navy. Current manning levels had the Atlantean military at just over a quarter million active personnel. For a small country as isolated at they were, that was large; but nothing compared to the standing armies of a half dozen other nations. Some had multi-million-man forces.
Gus also knew his father was committed to being a power in the Pacific, which was why he was confronting the USA on the Philippine’s independence movement, and building up the navy to be a buffer between the USA and China. That required the reservists: the individuals between eighteen and twenty-five who didn’t sign on for active service, and the Individual Ready Reserve (IRR): anyone who attended Boot but was out of the reservist category while under the retirement age of sixty-five, to be ready for action in the event of an emergency. With that strategic posture, the kingdom sent everyone home with everything they needed except for armor and weapons, which could be readily supplied from armories spread throughout the islands.
Gus knew it was an integral part of the kingdom’s military strategy, but as one thousand recruits filed through the depot and signed for their equipment, Gus had to log it all on his holocom. The scanning function did most of the work, but a dozen pieces of gear times one thousand, and Gus felt like blowing his own brains out rather than being class leader.
“And they still have to inventory it,” he mentally groaned, but put off thinking about it.
Now that they were issued uniforms, all recruits were required to maintain grooming standards. Everyone stripped down and changed back in the hangar until they met regulations. The kingdom’s summer uniform was khaki tactical pants, with plenty of pockets and insert sections, a utility belt to clip on gear, and a short-sleeved blouse that had more pockets. A blank Velcro section in the center, and epilates on the shoulder, were reserved for rank insignia. For most recruits, they remained bare, but the supply SGT handed out single emerald dots to the platoon leaders, a pair of dots to Gus, and upside down SGTs tabs for the squad leader positions. Gus doled those out to the leaders to be used at their discretion.
With equipment drawn, uniforms on, and back in formation, Class 01-84 looked somewhat respectable. The only thing left to do was address their hair. CPT Livingston returned for this portion – the last iteration before personal hygiene and hitting the head before lights out – due to its importance. After all, it was the reason Gus had broken the guys arm back in LA.
As the class marched together towards a group of gathered men and women in uniform, he thought about the significance of the event. The tradition went back thousands of years. Before Atlantean men went into battle they cut their hair. It was practical. Long hair was a liability in combat. You didn’t want someone yanking you down and slashing your throat.
When they returned from battle, they let their hair grow again until their next fight. Women could always tell a warrior from a civilian by the length of their hair. Traditionalists believed the practice kept the bloodlines strong as warriors tended to do well with the ladies. Gus didn’t fully buy into it, but he understood the significance of this first cut. It was the cut that signified transformation from boy to man. Historically, it was done by someone of importance. Some recruits had their cuts before coming to boot so family could participate. Traditionally, royalty waited until boot to do it. The practice also allowed for the King to show up and do it for his son or daughter. Looking around, Gus didn’t see the normal hoopla, or armed response team, that followed his father everywhere. Judging by the side conversations creeping up, he wasn’t the only one.
As class leader, Gus was one of the first up. Liliana stepped up as well. Women had a choice, but many chose to have the cut done like their male counterparts. It was easy enough to go to a salon after boot and have it grown back in a few minutes. She gave Gus a side smirk as a man forced her head down, grabbed her hair roughly, and drew a blade across it. Her white locks fell away, leaving her with a short bob.
“Recruit Drake,” the COL who’d greeted the class earlier stepped up to Gus. “Her Majesty expresses her regrets that His Majesty was not able to attend. If you’ll allow me to do the honor.”
“He couldn’t even express his own regret. Mom had to do it for him,” Gus grimmaced, but he nodded.
As he bent his head toward the ground, he noticed how the light caught something on the COL’s chest. It was a badge that he hadn’t seen before. It was four golden claws that looked like they were tearing out of his chest. Of all the officers and senior enlisted present, he was the only one with the badge.
<The colonel is CLAWS qualified,> Gus respect for the man went way up.
Unlike some nations, the kingdom had no specific special forces units. The USA had their SEALs, the Confed’s their Green Berets, the Republic of Texas their Rangers. The Russian had their Spetsnaz, the Germans their Kommando Spezialkräfte (KSK), and the Chinese their People’s Liberation Army Special Operations Forces. The list went on. The kingdom just had their royal marines. If the king needed someone for a special mission, he simply selected them from the ranks based on their skillset. Technically, anyone could be picked, but most likely the personnel had been through assessment and were CLAWS (Clandestine Warfare Specialist) qualified. Gus heard horror stories about assessment, but as crown prince it was one of his possible career tracks.
“It sure as hell would be more interesting than sitting here on my ass doing spreadsheets,” the holocom in his pocket was a constant reminder of the logistical pain in his ass.
The COL cleanly drew his blade across the back of Gus’s head. The hair dropped away, and he gestured for Gus to move on. Just like that it was over. It was a little anticlimactic. He almost wished he hadn’t broken that Yanks arm . . . almost.
Gus moved along to a group of barbers that quickly buzzed his hair down to stubble. Liliana didn’t opt for that, so her barber just evened everything out. Her hair didn’t reach her collar – which was the regulation – but Gus made sure all of his platoon leaders double checked their people. He didn’t want uniform infractions on the second day. It was the second day by the time they finished up.
The CPT dismissed everyone back to the barracks along the main road, their class’s home for the foreseeable future. Everyone went in, secured their gear, used the head, and generally collapsed into their bunks. Gus had no such luck. The CPT disseminated the operations order (OPORD) for day two to him, and he had to review it with his team before they could hit the sack. Gus guessed it was 0200 by the time he finally fell onto his bed in first platoon’s barracks. As class leader, he had his own room alongside the NCO that was assigned to their platoon for the duration of the training cycle. It only separated him further from the other recruits, but at the moment, he didn’t care. He was mentally exhausted, and all he wanted to do was sleep. Before he could even think about the litany of things he needed to get done, he was out.
Previous: https://beammeupscottysstuff.wordpress.com/2020/10/19/clans-of-atlantis-sneak-peek-4/