Starship Troopers

Dismissed.” So I got home just in time to catch extra duty for “Uniform, Untidy in, Two Particulars” and see the sickening end of Ted Hendrick’s time in the M.I.

So I had plenty to think about as I lay awake that night. I had known that Sergeant Zim worked hard, but it had never occurred to me that he could possibly be other than completely and smugly self-satisfied with what he did. He looked so smug, so self-assured, so at peace with the world and with himself.

The idea that this invincible robot could feel that he had failed, could feel so deeply and personally disgraced that he wanted to run away, hide his face among strangers, and offer the excuse that his leaving would be “best for the outfit,” shook me up as much, and in a way even more, than seeing Ted flogged.

To have Captain Frankel agree with him — as to the seriousness of the failure, I mean — and then rub his nose in it, chew him out. Well! I mean really. Sergeants don’t get chewed out; sergeants do the chewing. A law of nature.

But I had to admit that what Sergeant Zim had taken, and swallowed, was so completely humiliating and withering as to make the worst I had ever heard or overheard from a sergeant sound like a love song. And yet the Captain hadn’t even raised his voice.

The whole incident was so preposterously unlikely that I was never even tempted to mention it to anyone else.

And Captain Frankel himself — Officers we didn’t see very often. They showed up for evening parade, sauntering over at the last moment and doing nothing that would work up a sweat; they inspected once a week, making private comments to sergeants, comments that invariably meant grief for somebody else, not them; and they decided each week what company had won the honor of guarding the regimental colors. Aside from that, they popped up occasionally on surprise inspections, creased, immaculate, remote, and smelling faintly of cologne — and went away again.

Oh, one or more of them did always accompany us on route marches and twice Captain Frankel had demonstrated his virtuosity at la savate. But officers didn’t work, not real work, and they had no worries because sergeants were under them, not over them.

But it appeared that Captain Frankel worked so hard that he skipped meals, was kept so busy with something or other that he complained of lack of exercise and would waste his own free time just to work up a sweat.

As for worries, he had honestly seemed to be even more upset at what had happened to Hendrick than Zim had been. And yet he hadn’t even known Hendrick by sight; he had been forced to ask his name.

I had an unsettling feeling that I had been completely mistaken as to the very nature of the world I was in, as if every part of it was something wildly different from what it appeared to be — like discovering that your own mother isn’t anyone you’ve ever seen before, but a stranger in a rubber mask.

But I was sure of one thing: I didn’t even want to find out what the M.I. really was. If it was so tough that even the gods-that-be — sergeants and officers — were made unhappy by it, it was certainly too tough for Johnnie! How could you keep from making mistakes in an outfit you didn’t understand? I didn’t want to swing by my neck till I was dead, dead, dead! I didn’t even want to risk being flogged … even though the doctor stands by to make certain that it doesn’t do you any permanent injury. Nobody in our family had ever been flogged (except paddlings in school, of course, which isn’t at all the same thing). There were no criminals in our family on either side, none who had even been accused of crime. We were a proud family; the only thing we lacked was citizenship and Father regarded that as no real honor, a vain and useless thing. But if I were flogged — Well, he’d probably have a stroke.

And yet Hendrick hadn’t done anything that I hadn’t thought about doing a thousand times. Why hadn’t I? Timid, I guess. I knew that those instructors, any one of them, could beat the tar out of me, so I had buttoned my lip and hadn’t tried it. No guts, Johnnie. At least Ted Hendrick had had guts. I didn’t have … and a man with no guts has no business in the Army in the first place.

Besides that, Captain Frankel hadn’t even considered it to be Ted’s fault. Even if I didn’t buy a 9080, through lack of guts, what day would I do something other than a 9080 — something not my fault — and wind up slumped against the whipping post anyhow?

Time to get out, Johnnie, while you’re still ahead.

My mother’s letter simply confirmed my decision. I had been able to harden my heart to my parents as long as they were refusing me — but when they softened, I couldn’t stand it. Or when Mother softened, at least. She had written:

—but I am afraid I must tell you that your father will still not permit your name to be mentioned. But, dearest, that is his way of grieving, since he cannot cry. You must understand, my darling baby, that he loves you more than life itself — more than he does me — and that you have hurt him very deeply. He tells the world that you are a grown man, capable of making your own decisions, and that he is proud of you. But that is his own pride speaking, the bitter hurt of a proud man who has been wounded deep in his heart by the one he loves best. You must understand, Juanito, that he does not speak of you and has not written to you because he cannot — not yet, not till his grief becomes bearable. When it has, I will know it, and then I will intercede for you — and we will all be together again.

Myself? How could anything her baby boy does anger his mother? You can hurt me, but you cannot make me love you the less. Wherever you are, whatever you choose to do, you are always my little boy who bangs his knee and comes running to my lap for comfort. My lap has shrunk, or perhaps you have grown (though I have never believed it), but nonetheless it will always be waiting, when you need it. Little boys never get over needing their mother’s laps — do they, darling? I hope not. I hope that you will write and tell me so.

But I must add that, in view of the terribly long time that you have not written, it is probably best (until I let you know otherwise) for you to write to me care of your Aunt Eleanora. She will pass it on to me at once — and without causing any more upset. You understand?

A thousand kisses to my baby,

Your Mother

I understood, all right — and if Father could not cry, I could. I did.

And at last I got to sleep … and was awakened at once by an alert. We bounced out to the bombing range, the whole regiment, and ran through a simulated exercise, without ammo. We were wearing full unarmored kit otherwise, including ear-plug receivers, and we had no more than extended when the word came to freeze.

We held that freeze for at least an hour — and I mean we held it, barely breathing. A mouse tiptoeing past would have sounded noisy. Something did go past and ran right over me, a coyote I think. I never twitched. We got awfully cold holding that freeze, but I didn’t care; I knew it was my last.

I didn’t even hear reveille the next morning; for the first time in weeks I had to be whacked out of my sack and barely made formation for morning jerks. There was no point in trying to resign before breakfast anyhow, since I had to see Zim as the first step. But he wasn’t at breakfast. I did ask Bronski’s permission to see the C.C. and he said, “Sure. Help yourself,” and didn’t ask me why.

But you can’t see a man who isn’t there. We started a route march after breakfast and I still hadn’t laid eyes on him. It was an out-and-back, with lunch fetched out to us by copter — an unexpected luxury, since failure to issue field rations before marching usually meant practice starvation except for whatever you had cached … and I hadn’t; too much on my mind.

Sergeant Zim came out with the rations and he held mail call in the field — which was not an unexpected luxury. I’ll say this for the M.I.; they might chop off your food, water, sleep, or anything else, without warning, but they never held up a person’s mail a minute longer than circumstances required. That was yours, and they got it to you by the first transportation available and you could read it at your earliest break, even on maneuvers. This hadn’t been too important for me, as (aside from a couple of letters from Carl) I hadn’t had anything but junk mail until Mother wrote to me.

I didn’t even gather around when Zim handed it out; I figured now on not speaking to him until he got in —