Recruit - Jonathan Brazee (highly illogical behavior .txt) 📗

marched into the mess.  A few moments later, another drummer appeared, commencing to join the first as soon as he crossed the threshold into the room.  Six more drummers made their way, one-by-one, until all eight were at the center of the ballroom, right in front of the head table.  They looked like robots, their arms in perfect unison as they pounded out the beating.

Ryck especially liked it when different drummers snapped their drumsticks to eye level, horizontal, and held them there for a second, before bringing them back down again to re-join the rest.  This went on for about seven or eight minutes, the drummers marching in complex patterns, their beat never faltering.  Ryck found himself beating out his own tattoo with his left hand on the table.

When the drummers at last finished, the mess erupted once more into cheers and applause.   This was always one of the highlights of a mess night, or most any celebration.  When the Federation Marines were formed, there had been some discussion on the Marine bands.  The 38 Marine bands (not every corps had a band) actually performed a throw-down.  The US Marine Band, with its members having music degrees, had probably been the most technically-advanced band, and it had been chosen by the brass to form the basis of the new Marine band.  The Royal Marine Band, though, and in particular, the Royal Marine Drum Corps, had been the immediate favorite of the rank and file, and by popular demand, were given a place in the new corps.  A US Marine Band clone was set up on Earth at Marine Headquarters, but for the divisions, it was buglers and drummers.  The leopard skin worn by some Royal Marine drummers became the uniform for all drummers, something worn with pride. 

Members of the band practiced in their free time.  They were not professional musicians but came out of all the jobs that Marines held.  The long hours they put in, all in their free time, did not bother them, and there was always a waiting list to join.

A Marine mess night was loosely based on the old Royal Navy and Marine mess nights, but the mess beating was something that was right out of 21st Century Great Britain.

The mess butler (a civilian worker for the resort) stepped up with a silver tray and two glasses of port.  The senior drummer came forward to meet him at the head table.  The mess president took one glass, the drummer the other.  At the colonel’s nod, they both lifted and emptied their glasses.  Once more, applause broke out.

The colors were then marched on.  Being part of the color guard was considered a great honor, but Ryck did not really know any of the four Marines who were part of this year’s guard.  Of course, these were all Marines who had done well in combat, and Ryck had been bedridden or worked in the armory for the past year, so that was not surprising.

With the colors emplaced, next came the citation.  This could be something from past battles to great deeds, but for the birthday, it was always the same thing, a copy of the first commandant’s birthday message to the Corps on its first birthday.  It was read by the junior member of the mess, in this case, Private Topol Narx, all of 18 years, 256 days old.  His quavering voice went through the citation, faltering twice as he spoke before the assembled mess.

There was one more ceremony before they could eat. 

The president of the mess stood up, and in a loud voice of authority, ordered “Parade the beef!”

Two servers pushed a large silver tray on wheels.  The top was opened up to reveal a huge prime rib roast.  To Ryck, it looked like real organic beef, not a manufactured roast.  His mouth started watering as the servers pushed it through the aisles.  As the cart was wheeled out, the order came to take their seats.

“That was pretty copacetic,” one of the Marines at the table said, someone Ryck didn’t really know.

“Yeah, brills,” Jonas added.  “It always gets my blood pounding.  Bata-tat tat!  Bata-tat-tat!”

Ryck had to admit it had much the same effect on him.  He looked up at the head table.  Corporal Gutterheim was sitting there, his pride evident even at this distance.  The man had served only one enlistment, even if it was in a full-out war.  He’d had a successful career, married, had children, even grandchildren, but he seemed to hold a special place in his heart for being a Marine, to wear his old uniform, to be called “Corporal Gutterheim” again.

Ryck was proud of being a Marine, too.  He’d made it through recruit training when so many others hadn’t.  He’d proven himself under fire.  It was just that lately, he didn’t feel like a Marine.  He was missing something.  Looking up there at the old man, though, tweaked something deep within his consciousness.  There was something special about being a Marine, even if he hadn’t gone on a mission in over a year.

“Hey, spaceboy!  Where you at, there?  You gonna eat?” Troy’s voice cut through his reverie.

He looked down at the salad that had appeared in front of him.  The servers were busy getting everyone fed.

“Yeah, sure.  I’m starving,” he replied.

And he was pretty hungry.  The Mövenpick had done a pretty good job with the meal.  It was all delicious.  He joked with the others at the table, realizing that all of them were in the same boat.  All were temporarily out of action, but they would all return to it.  That gave them a bond of shared experience.  They were not alone in that, though.  Looking up at the colonel on the head table, with his four purple hearts, that was proof that people could get through it and on with their lives.

After the main courses, the birthday cake was wheeled out.  It was immense.  The colonel cut two pieces with his sword.  The first was given to the guest of honor as the oldest member of the mess.  The second was given to Pvt Narx as the youngest.  The Mövenpick servers then descended on the cake, and in a surprisingly short amount of time, it was cut up and all 2,000 + Marines served a piece.  With the meal itself finished, all the plates were cleared, leaving only the port decanters and the glasses. 

“Mr. President, the port is placed,” intoned the sergeant major.

This was the cue for the pouring of the port.  On each table, the decanter was poured, then passed to the left, sliding the decanter along the table, never lifting it off.  Three of the Marines at their table, alongside the table, to be precise, could not move their arms, and their corpsmen attendants, in their Navy full dress, were prepared to pour for them, but before the port made it around, the colonel and the guest of honor walked up, and without a word, the colonel took the decanter and poured for the three Marines.  The old Marine whispered something into the ear of Chase Hannrahan, one of the immobile men.  Whatever he said brought tears to Chase’s eyes.

The two men walked back to the head table and waited for the sergeant major.

“Mr. President, the port is passed.”

With the port passed, the toasts started.  The Corps, the Marines in the corps, the sister service of the Navy, the president, the Federation, the guest of honor, the good wives of Marines . . . pretty much everyone received a toast. 

The conclusion of the toasts marked the end of the formalities of the mess.   The colors were marched off, and the officers and staff NCOs made their rounds, shaking hands, before leaving.  For smaller unit messes, everyone might stay together for drinking and mess games, but the common understanding was that it was a little difficult for a private to let loose and have fun when there was a colonel standing there at his shoulder.  The senior Marines slowly filtered out, off to drink and do whatever officers or SNCOs did in another room, leaving the main ballroom to the NCOs and non-rates.

“Gentlemen, the bar is open for an hour, courtesy of the officers,” the battalion sergeant major said, pausing at the door.  “Enjoy, brothers, and audaces fortuna iuvat.”

The cheer was deafening.  Some Marines rushed the bar, ready to maximize the hour.  One of the servers came over to take orders for the gen hens, which made it easier.  Ryck was tempted to order a glass of wine, but after the heavy port, a beer sounded better.

He was sipping on the beer, chatting with Jonas, when a voice interrupted him with, “Is this a private party, or can anyone join?”

Ryck looked up to see Sams standing there, beer in hand.  He looked good in his dress blues.  The BC1 he had, along with his Combat Mission Medal and BC3, especially made him stand out.  It wasn’t hard to see why the guy was so popular with the ladies.

“No, take a seat,” Ryck said eagerly.

“Well, actually, some of the guys sent me here to see if you wanted to join us.  We don’t want to take you away from your new buddies,” he said, indicating Jonas, “but we kinda miss your sorry ass and want to catch up.”

Ryck looked to Jonas who said, “Nah, you go.  I’m about ready to call it in.  The buses are going to start the runs back, and I think I’ll get on one.”

Ryck wished Jonas a happy birthday, then followed Sams back to the Fox Company area.

“’Bout time you showed up, you limp dick!” Smitty shouted, already well on his way to a horrendous hangover in the morning.  “Let me get you another beer!” 

The others shouted their welcome as well.  Hu kicked out a seat which Ryck took.  There were several new Marines that Ryck barely knew or didn’t know at all. 

“You hanging in there?” Sparta asked.

“Yeah, no problem.  All’s good.”

“Ryck’s been fingerfuckin’ all the PICS,” Smitty yelled out.  “He’s gonna jump ship and go