Tad pulled one from the display rack and said, “This is cool, I’m buying it!”
“No, wait until we get our basic issue. There might be one in it,” said Spike.
They hurried, winding through all the aisles, following the arrows on the floor. Finally they reached the check-out counter. A middle-aged civilian, rotund and balding and dressed in a lightweight set of khaki coveralls, greeted them. “So what can I do you for, gentlemen?”
“Basic issue, please.”
“Show me your orders.”
They placed the documents on the counter. The clerk glanced at the paperwork. “Standard stuff.”
He went to the back room for about five minutes and then returned pushing a heavy-duty cart loaded with military gear. “This stuff’s on the house, courtesy of the Brigade. Anything else you want, you pay for. But this standard issue should suit you just fine on Mandarin. I don’t expect to see you again until you get ready to leave.”
“So what do we get?” asked Tad.
“Basic field kit: Bayonet, automatic pistol, three sets of combat coveralls, and your choice of either a rifle or a submachine gun.”
Spike and Galen chose rifles.
“I want a submachine gun,” said Tad.
“Sign here on the hand receipt.”
They did and then the clerk stapled copies of the receipts to their orders and handed them back. “Take those uniforms to the tailor so he can sew on your rank, name tapes and patches.”
They thanked the man and carried their gear outside.
“Wait here,” said Tad. “I’m going back to get that shovel.”
“What do you think of all this, Spike?” said Galen as he reorganized his field gear to fit better in the pack.
“Not bad. Guns and money and uniforms, just what every young man wants.”
“My rifle ain’t too bad but it looks used.”
“A ten millimeter assault rifle with seven clips of caseless ammo. I’m not going to complain about a couple of scratches on the stock. At least we know they’ve been tested.”
“I wonder if we have to ever give this stuff back.”
“Only if we get kicked out for disciplinary actions. That’s what it says on the receipt.”
Galen followed Spike’s lead and put his pistol in its holster, then strapped the belt around his waist. Four extra magazines were on the left, the sidearm on the right. Galen felt more like a warrior already.
“Hey guys, check this out!” said Tad, re-emerging from the armory. He brandished his entrenching tool and made a few swipes at the air to decapitate an imaginary enemy. Then he folded it up, put it in its carrying case and hooked it to the side of his field pack. “But with this submachine gun, I probably won’t need it.”
Tad removed the pistol holster and magazines from his pistol belt and shoved them in the pack. Then he put his submachine gun magazines in the ammo pouches, clipped his bayonet and scabbard to the belt, and slung his gun over his shoulder. Quick as a flash, he un-slung the weapon, had a magazine snapped into its well and had the bayonet fixed. He practiced the action two more times, then picked up and shouldered his field pack.
Spike said, “Let’s get over to the tailor shop. I’ll feel better when I’m in uniform, showing off my Sergeant rank.”
They went to the basement of the in-processing building and found the tailor shop. A tired old man in a wheelchair greeted them. “Evening, gentlemen. Hold still while my sensors get your measurements.” He pressed a button behind the counter and held it for a moment. “That should do it.”
They laid their coveralls on the counter. The tailor took them to the back of the room, laid each set carefully on a conveyor belt. The uniforms slid out of sight, passing through a half meter square opening in the wall. The tailor hit a few keys on his computer terminal and gazed intently at his monitor, occasionally working a joystick control. Galen looked around the shop. It was neat, clean and uncluttered. On the tailor’s desk was a picture of a young man in a space fleet uniform. There was enough detail in the picture, mostly from the uniform worn by its subject, to let Galen know it was taken during the Dissention War. The young man had been a crewman on a Mandarin warship. Galen realized the man in the picture was the old tailor.
“You were in the fleet?” Galen asked him.
“Yes, thirty five years. Then I helped train the young guns of the Panzer Brigade on how to use a Mandarin transport ship. Now I just do what I can to help out. I like being around the military. It gives my life purpose and direction.”
Galen was stunned by his words. Galen was only here to make a fast buck then get back home to a real life and hang up the combat boots forever. The actual living proof, provided by the old tailor, that some people made the military their way of life, made his stomach knot up. Sure, there had been plenty of hard-core lifer types at the academy: Drill instructors, educators, military science instructors; they all seemed to love the military. But never before had Galen met a disabled, aging man with so little time left to enjoy life, wasting that time on the military. He pitied the old man.
“All done,” said the tailor. “You can step into the changing booths and try them on. Make you look a whole lot better.”
They did. Tad’s field uniform fit well, tailored to his figure. It was the first time since leaving the academy he wore something that wasn’t outrageous. Galen looked at himself in a mirror. The field uniform made him look even taller, his average build made more impressive by the elastic waistline and the extra material around the shoulders and chest. The subdued name tapes and rank insignia were clearly visible, well-placed by the tailor in accordance with Panzer Brigade uniform regulations. He had to turn his body to view the unit patch sewn onto his left shoulder. It was a rectangle turned on end, showing a sword pointing down the middle, crossed by two ancient muskets with bayonets fixed. At the bottom the embroidered letters said, “Regulars, By God!”
“Infantry?”
“Yes. Your first year is with the infantry battalion here on Mandarin,” said the tailor.
“Infantry. I should have known something like this was bound to happen,” said Spike, emerging from his changing booth. He looked okay, but somehow less impressive without his high boots and leather jacket. Coveralls just didn’t do much to make the short man look better.
“Don’t sweat it, I’ll keep the enemy off you,” said Tad, performing a martial-arts roundhouse kick with ease. “Hey, it’s only for a year. Then we get tanks.”
They went back to the welcome center and waited for the convoy to arrive.
“Look at you,” said the Corporal behind the counter. “You Sergeants look ready to conquer the whole Mosh invasion force single-handed. Mind if I tag along?”
“I think I hear some disrespect coming from somewhere,” said Galen.
“More like insubordination.” said Spike.
“I wonder what the penalty is?” said Tad.
“Probably death. Yeah, disrespect and insubordination often lead to desertion, so we could nip the problem in the bud and just kill him now,” said Galen.
“Hold up, I was just kidding. Lighten up, Sergeants. You got to have a sense of humor around here.”
“Okay, we’ll forget about it this time. So where’s that convoy you promised us, Corporal?” said Galen.