Starship Troopers

The Colonel frowned. “I have been telling you how wonderful you are — physically perfect, mentally alert, trained, disciplined, blooded. The very model of the smart young officer—” He snorted. “Nonsense! You may become officers someday. I hope so … we not only hate to waste money and time and effort, but also, and much more important, I shiver in my boots every time I send one of you half-baked not-quite-officers up to the Fleet, knowing what a Frankensteinian monster I may be turning loose on a good combat team. If you understood what you are up against, you wouldn’t be so all-fired ready to take the oath the second the question is put to you. You may turn it down and force me to let you go back to your permanent ranks. But you don’t know.

“So I’ll try once more. Mr. Rico! Have you ever thought how it would feel to be court-martialed for losing a regiment?”

I was startled silly. “Why — No, sir, I never have.” To be court-martialed — for any reason — is eight times as bad for an officer as for an enlisted man. Offenses which will get privates kicked out (maybe with lashes, possibly without) rate death in an officer. Better never to have been born!

“Think about it,” he said grimly. “When I suggested that your platoon leader might be killed, I was by no means citing the ultimate in military disaster. Mr. Hassan! What is the largest number of command levels ever knocked out in a single battle?”

The Assassin scowled harder than ever. “I’m not sure, sir. Wasn’t there a while during Operation Bughouse when a major commanded a brigade, before the Soveki-poo?”

“There was and his name was Fredericks. He got a decoration and a promotion. If you go back to the Second Global War, you can find a case in which a naval junior officer took command of a major ship and not only fought it but sent signals as if he were admiral. He was vindicated even though there were officers senior to him in line of command who were not even wounded. Special circumstances — a breakdown in communications. But I am thinking of a case in which four levels were wiped out in six minutes — as if a platoon leader were to blink his eyes and find himself commanding a brigade. Any of you heard of it?”

Dead silence.

“Very well. It was one of those bush wars that flared up on the edges of the Napoleonic wars. This young officer was the most junior in a naval vessel — wet navy, of course — wind-powered, in fact. This youngster was about the age of most of your class and was not commissioned. He carried the title of ‘temporary third lieutenant’—note that this is the title you are about to carry. He had no combat experience; there were four officers in the chain of command above him. When the battle started his commanding officer was wounded. The kid picked him up and carried him out of the line of fire. That’s all — make a pickup on a comrade. But he did it without being ordered to leave his post. The other officers all bought it while he was doing this and he was tried for ‘deserting his post of duty as commanding officer in the presence of the enemy.’ Convicted. Cashiered.”

I gasped. “For that? Sir.”

“Why not? True, we make pickup. But we do it under different circumstances from a wet-navy battle, and by orders to the man making pickup. But pickup is never an excuse for breaking off battle in the presence of the enemy. This boy’s family tried for a century and a half to get his conviction reversed. No luck, of course. There was doubt about some circumstances but no doubt that he had left his post during battle without orders. True, he was green as grass — but he was lucky not to be hanged.” Colonel Nielssen fixed me with a cold eye. “Mr. Rico — could this happen to you?”

I gulped. “I hope not, sir.”

“Let me tell you how it could on this very ’prentice cruise. Suppose you are in a multiple-ship operation, with a full regiment in the drop. Officers drop first, of course. There are advantages to this and disadvantages, but we do it for reasons of morale; no trooper ever hits the ground on a hostile planet without an officer. Assume the Bugs know this — and they may. Suppose they work up some trick to wipe out those who hit the ground first … but not good enough to wipe out the whole drop. Now suppose, since you are a supernumerary, you have to take any vacant capsule instead of being fired with the first wave. Where does that leave you?”

“Uh, I’m not sure, sir.”

“You have just inherited command of a regiment. What are you going to do with your command, Mister? Talk fast — the Bugs won’t wait!”

“Uh …” I caught an answer right out of the book and parroted it. “I’ll take command and act as circumstances permit, sir, according to the tactical situation as I see it.”

“You will, eh?” The Colonel grunted. “And you’ll buy a farm too — that’s all anybody can do with a foul-up like that. But I hope you’ll go down swinging — and shouting orders to somebody, whether they make sense or not. We don’t expect kittens to fight wildcats and win — we merely expect them to try. All right, stand up. Put up your right hands.”

He struggled to his feet. Thirty seconds later we were officers—“temporary, probationary, and supernumerary.”

I thought he would give us our shoulder pips and let us go. We aren’t supposed to buy them — they’re a loan, like the temporary commission they represent. Instead he lounged back and looked almost human.

“See here, lads — I gave you a talk on how rough it’s going to be. I want you to worry about it, doing it in advance, planning what steps you might take against any combination of bad news that can come your way, keenly aware that your life belongs to your men and is not yours to throw away in a suicidal reach for glory … and that your life isn’t yours to save, either, if the situation requires that you expend it. I want you to worry yourself sick before a drop, so that you can be unruffled when the trouble starts.

“Impossible, of course. Except for one thing. What is the only factor that can save you when the load is too heavy? Anyone?”

Nobody answered.

“Oh, come now!” Colonel Nielssen said scornfully. “You aren’t recruits. Mr. Hassan!”

“Your leading sergeant, sir,” the Assassin said slowly.

“Obviously. He’s probably older than you are, more drops under his belt, and he certainly knows his team better than you do. Since he isn’t carrying that dreadful, numbing load of top command, he may be thinking more clearly than you are. Ask his advice. You’ve got one circuit just for that.

“It won’t decrease his confidence in you; he’s used to being consulted. If you don’t, he’ll decide you are a fool, a cocksure know-it-all — and he’ll be right.

“But you don’t have to take his advice. Whether you use his ideas, or whether they spark some different plan — make your decision and snap out orders. The one thing — the only thing!—that can strike terror in the heart of a good platoon sergeant is to find that he’s working for a boss who can’t make up his mind.

“There never has been an outfit in which officers and men were more dependent on each other than they are in the M.I., and sergeants are the glue that holds us together. Never forget it.”

The Commandant whipped his chair around to a cabinet near his desk. It contained row on row of pigeonholes, each with a little box. He pulled out one and opened it. “Mr. Hassan—”

“Sir?”

“These pips were worn by Captain Terrence O’Kelly on his ’prentice cruise. Does it suit you to wear them?”

“Sir?” The Assassin’s voice squeaked and I thought the big lunk was going to break into tears. “Yes, sir!”

“Come here.” Colonel Nielssen pinned them on, then said, “Wear them as gallantly as he did … but bring them back. Understand me?”

“Yes, sir. I’ll do my best.”

“I’m sure you will. There’s an air car waiting on the roof and your boat boosts in twenty-eight minutes. Carry out your orders, sir!”

The Assassin saluted and left; the Commandant turned and picked out another box. “Mr. Byrd, are you superstitious?”

“No, sir.”

“Really? I am, quite. I take it you would not object to wearing pips which have been worn by five officers, all