The thin uniforms were supposed to be proof against any normal cold and so it seemed; the lightly clad soldiers were handling the windy winter day with aplomb. Although combat silks were officially the daily uniform of Fleet Strike units, most personnel elsewhere in the battalion seemed to be wearing BDUs and field jackets. It also answered the question of whether any GalTech equipment was available. What the acting battalion commander had to say about wearing the uniform might be instructive. Colonel Hanson wondered why the rest of the battalion was out of uniform and where he was going to get his own set of silks.
He gestured for the driver to pull up in front of the company headquarters.
«Go take my bags to my quarters. Then head back to headquarters.» He wished he could keep him—the kid seemed well turned out and smart—but the G-1 had been specific, «Send the driver back along with his Humvee, clear?»
«Yes, sir.»
«If anybody gives you any flack over at my quarters, come get me. I'll be with the Bravo Company commander.» He gestured at the company headquarters with a thumb.
«Yes, sir.»
As Colonel Hanson headed up the snowy path to the trailer the two guards came to attention to a barked «Atten-hut» from the right-hand guard. The guard could see that it was just a baby-faced kid walking into the headquarters, but the kid had been riding in a Humvee and wheels were hard to find. Ergo, it was not a kid; it was a rejuvenated officer or NCO and it looked like an officer. When the private first class finally determined that the black rank on the kid's BDU collar was oak leaves, he blessed his prescience. The two dropped back to parade rest at a returned salute and traded shrugs after the colonel entered the trailer. The senior private blew on his frigid hands and gave a quiet smile. By the appearance of the commander, things were going to go either very well or very poorly for Bravo Company. And he was willing to take book which it would be.
Colonel Hanson was surprised and pleased to see a CQ—a sergeant detailed for a twenty-four-hour period to be in charge of the company area—standing behind a table inside the door at the position of attention. The slight, dark-haired sergeant, who did not look old enough to shave, saluted.
«Sir, Sergeant Stewart, Bravo Company, First Battalion, Five-Fifty-Fifth Mobile Infantry. How may I help you, sir?»
The sergeant was either a refurb, or well trained, and Colonel Hanson could not tell off-the-cuff which it was.
«Well, Sergeant,» he said, returning the salute, «you can show me to the company commander's office and get me a cup of coffee if it's available. Water if not.»
«Yes, sir,» said the sergeant, rather too loudly. Fred wondered why, until he realized that it would probably be audible through the paper-thin walls. He smiled internally as the sergeant continued in the same loud tone. «If the Colonel will just follow me to the commander's office, I'll see about the coffee!» Colonel Hanson kept from laughing with only marginal success as a small snort slipped out.
«Pardon, sir?» asked Sergeant Stewart as he led the colonel down a corridor on one side of the trailer.
«Cough.»
«Yes, sir.»
The narrow passage to one side of the trailer passed one door labeled «Swamp,» a second labeled «Latrine» and a third, which showed signs of repair, labeled «First Sergeant.» At the end of the corridor the area opened out to reveal a desk with someone who was probably the company clerk behind it at attention. On the table was a cup of coffee and the private's position was ruined by having a pitcher of cream in his left hand. He saluted.
«Cream, sir?»
«Black. Do you have sugar?»
«Sir!» The private held up a handful of packets.
«One, please.» The sugar was dumped and stirred as Sergeant Stewart knocked on the door.
«Enter,» came a raspy voice from the interior.
Normally on taking over a unit the incoming commander had the option of studying his officers' open records—their 201 files as they were called—and the officers' efficiency reports. In addition he was able to discuss the strengths and weaknesses of his subordinate personnel with the outgoing commander. In this case the G-1 admitted he was only able to provide the officers' names, and that with difficulty. The information systems were as confused as everything else and in most cases officers' files were still in storage in St. Louis. All that Colonel Hanson remembered was that his Bravo Company commander was named O'Neal.
«Sir, a Lieutenant Colonel Hanson is here to see you,» Stewart said through the doorway, respectfully.
Colonel Hanson had pegged Stewart immediately as one of those individuals in any command who can make or break a small unit. He would have to be in charge of something and needed to respect his leaders or he would be running all over them in short order. So the deference he showed towards his company commander told Fred something. Of course the condition of the company had told Colonel Hanson something already but that could be due to several causes. This Captain O'Neal could have an enormously effective senior sergeant, he could be a martinet, and so forth. But O'Neal had at least one hard case eating out of his hand and that said everything necessary about his leadership. Now if he only had some tactical sense.
Thus Fred Hanson thought he showed admirable control when a squat juggernaut who, despite the faint sheen of sweat from a recent workout, was immediately recognizable from numerous TV appearances rolled through the door. Hanson noticed in passing the scars still on O'Neal's forearm as the captain saluted.
«Captain Michael O'Neal, sir, Commander, Bravo Company First Battalion, Five-Fifty-Fifth Mobile Infantry Regiment. How may I help you, sir?»
Fred Hanson slowly returned the salute, as properly as he had ever done in his life. That's how you do it when returning the salute of a holder of the Medal of Honor.
«Lieutenant Colonel Frederic Hanson,» said the colonel into the silence. «I'm about to assume command of the One-Five-Five-Five and I thought you might like to come along.»
Fred thought he saw a brief flash of suppressed glee go across O'Neal's face but the shuffle of Stewart's boots was the only sound in the silence that followed that announcement.
«Yes, sir. I'd like that main well. Stewart, go find the Gunny then come up to battalion.»
«Yes, sir.»
«Shall we?» asked the baby-faced battalion commander.
«After you, sir,» answered O'Neal, his eyes shining.
* * *
«I think that went rather well,» said the colonel, shutting the door on the departing major.
«Yes, sir. I think Major Stidwell will be a real asset at post headquarters,» agreed O'Neal. «Although he might want to be a tad more careful about who he calls a 'snot-nosed kid' next time.»
«I also suspect,» continued the colonel with a slight grin at the memory, «that despite whatever damage this might have done to his career, any complaints that Major Stidwell might voice will be pro forma.»
«Surely you're not questioning the major's, uhm, intestinal fortitude are you, sir?»
«Not really,» Colonel Hanson said, glancing over the battalion commander's desk at his most junior company commander. The new battalion commander started taking down the late Major Stidwell's extensive «I-love-me» wall. As a piece or individually it was impressive. From his West Point diploma to his graduation from Command and Staff College Major Stidwell seemed to have all the merit badges any field-grade infantry officer could ever wish. A graduate of both Ranger School and Special Forces Qualification Course, when in uniform Major Stidwell would be entitled to wear the «Tower of Power»: the three stacked tabs of Ranger, Special Forces and Airborne qualification. He was a holder of the PT badge and probably could make a fire with only two sticks.