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My temporary roomie came in while I was packing. "Got your orders?" he asked.

"Yup."

"What?"

"Mobile Infantry."

"The Infantry? Oh, you poor stupid clown! I feel sorry for you, I really do."

I straightened up and said angrily, "Shut up! The Mobile Infantry is the best outfit in the Army -- it is the Army! The rest of you jerks are just along to hand us the saw—we do the work."

He laughed. "You'll find out!"

"You want a mouthful of knuckles?"

CHAPTER 3

He shall rule them with a rod of iron.

Revelations II:25

I did Basic at Camp Arthur Currie on the northern prairies, along with a couple of thousand other victims—and I do mean "Camp," as the only permanent buildings there were to shelter equipment. We slept and ate in tents; we lived outdoors—if you call that "living," which I didn't, at the time. I was used to a warm climate; it seemed to me that the North Pole was just five miles north of camp and getting closer. Ice Age returning, no doubt.

But exercise will keep you warm and they saw to it that we got plenty of that.

The first morning we were there they woke us up before daybreak. I had had trouble adjusting to the change in time zones and it seemed to me that I had just got to sleep; I couldn't believe that anyone seriously intended that I should get up in the middle of the night.

But they did mean it. A speaker somewhere was blaring out a military march, fit to wake the dead, and a hairy nuisance who had come charging down the company street yelling, "Everybody out! Show a leg! On the bounce!" came marauding back again just as I had pulled the covers over my head, tipped over my cot and dumped me on the cold hard ground.

It was an impersonal attention; he didn't even wait to see if I hit.

Ten minutes later, dressed in trousers, undershirt, and shoes, I was lined up with the others in ragged ranks for setting-up exercises just as the Sun looked over the eastern horizon. Facing us was a big broad-shouldered, mean-looking man, dressed just as we were -- except that while I looked and felt like a poor job of embalming, his chin was shaved blue, his trousers were sharply creased, you could have used his shoes for mirrors, and his manner was alert, wide-awake, relaxed, and rested. You got the impression that he never needed to sleep -- just ten-thousand-mile checkups and dust him off occasionally.

He bellowed, "C'pnee! Atten... shut! I am Career Ship's Sergeant Zim, your company commander. When you speak to me, you will salute and say, ‘Sir'—you will salute and ‘sir' anyone who carries an instructor's baton -- " He was carrying a swagger cane and now made a quick reverse moulinet with it to show what he meant by an instructor's baton; I had noticed men carrying them when we had arrived the night before and had intended to get one myself -- they looked smart. Now I changed my mind. " -- because we don't have enough officers around here for you to practice on. You'll practice on us. Who sneezed?"

No answer—

"WHO SNEEZED?"

"I did," a voice answered.

" ‘I did' what?"

"I sneezed."

" ‘I sneezed,' SIR!"

"I sneezed, sir. I'm cold, sir."

"Oho!" Zim strode up to the man who had sneezed, shoved the ferrule of the swagger cane an inch under his nose and demanded, "Name?"

"Jenkins... sir."

"Jenkins..." Zim repeated as if the word were somehow distasteful, even shameful. "I suppose some night on patrol you're going to sneeze just because you've got a runny nose. Eh?"

"I hope not, sir."

"So do I. But you're cold. Hmm... we'll fix that." He pointed with his stick. "See that armory over there?" I looked and could see nothing but prairie except for one building that seemed to be almost on the skyline.

"Fall out. Run around it. Run, I said. Fast! Bronski! Pace him."

"Right, Sarge." One of the five or six other baton carriers took out after Jenkins, caught up with him easily, cracked him across the tight of his pants with the baton. Zim turned back to the rest of us, still shivering at attention. He walked up and down, looked us over, and seemed awfully unhappy. At last he stepped out in front of us, shook his head, and said, apparently to himself but he had a voice that carried: "To think that this had to happen to me!"

He looked at us. "You apes—No, not ‘apes'; you don't rate that much. You pitiful mob of sickly monkeys... you sunken-chested, slack-bellied, drooling refugees from apron strings. In my whole life I never saw such a disgraceful huddle of momma's spoiled little darlings in—you, there! Suck up the gut! Eyes front! I'm talking to you!"

I pulled in my belly, even though I was not sure he had addressed me.

He went on and on and I began to forget my goose flesh in hearing him storm.

He never once repeated himself and he never used either profanity or obscenity. (I learned later that he saved those for very special occasions, which this wasn't.) But he described our shortcomings, physical, mental, moral, and genetic, in great and insulting detail.

But somehow I was not insulted; I became greatly interested in studying his command of language. I wished that we had had him on our debate team.

At last he stopped and seemed about to cry. "I can't stand it," he said bitterly. "I've just got to work some of it off—I had a better set of wooden soldiers when I was six. ALL RIGHT! Is there any one of you jungle lice who thinks he can whip me? Is there a man in the crowd? Speak up !"

There was a short silence to which I contributed. I didn't have any doubt at all that he could whip me; I was convinced.

I heard a voice far down the line, the tall end. "Ah reckon ah can... suh."

Zim looked happy. "Good! Step out here where I can see you." The recruit did so and he was impressive, at least three inches taller than Sergeant Zim and broader across the shoulders. "What's your name, soldier?"

"Breckinridge, suh—and ah weigh two hundred and ten pounds an' theah ain't any of it ‘slack-bellied.' "

"Any particular way you'd like to fight?"

"Suh, you jus' pick youah own method of dyin'. Ah'm not fussy."

"Okay, no rules. Start whenever you like." Zim tossed his baton aside.

It started -- and it was over. The big recruit was sitting on the ground, holding his left wrist in his right hand. He didn't say anything.

Zim bent over him. "Broken?"

"Reckon it might he... suh."

"I'm sorry. You hurried me a little. Do you know where the dispensary is? Never mind—Jones! Take Breckinridge over to the dispensary." As they left Zim slapped him on the right shoulder and said quietly, "Let's try it again in a month or so. I'll show you what happened." I think it was meant to be a private remark but they were standing about six feet in front of where I was slowly freezing solid.

Zim stepped back and called out, "Okay, we've got one man in this company, at least. I feel better. Do we have another one? Do we have two more? Any two of you scrofulous toads think you can stand up to me?" He looked back and forth along our ranks. "Chicken-livered, spineless—oh, oh! Yes? Step out."

Two men who had been side by side in ranks stepped out together; I suppose they had arranged it in whispers right there, but they also were far down the tall end, so I didn't hear. Zim smiled at them. "Names, for your next of kin, please."

"Heinrich."

"Heinrich what?"

"Heinrich, sir. Bitte." He spoke rapidly to the other recruit and added politely, "He doesn't speak much Standard English yet, sir."

"Meyer, mein Herr," the second man supplied.

"That's okay, lots of ‘em don't speak much of it when they get here—I didn't myself. Tell Meyer not to worry, he'll pick it up. But he understands what we are going to do?"