What she did NOT appreciate was the homework. Captain Wilkes had scrounged textbooks for her to study. Not just Marine manuals, either. Math, science, English. Chemistry. Yuck! With weekly tests. And he was making her do all her platoon reports, then “annotating” them. He had given her a dictionary and thesaurus, among other things, and after the first report after giving them to her told her she was “not allowed words of more than two syllables.” It was worse than fucking school. “Recess” was killing zombies.
“Hey, how’s the report going?” Wilkes said.
“Fine, sir,” Faith said, standing to attention.
“As you were,” Wilkes said, coming in and looking over her shoulder. “I would say that ‘fine’ would be mostly done, Lieutenant. Not stuck on the first sentence.”
“I was reading Lieutenant Fontana’s report, sir,” Faith replied. “And trying to determine a better way to say what I was trying to say, sir. But… sir, what’s an ‘action plan’?”
“An action plan is any plan which involves action, Lieutenant,” Wilkes said. “Direct conflict. When you told me to prepare to fire through the zombies, multiple times, and try to aim my shots so that TnTs would go through the hatch, that was an action plan.”
“Battle field preparation plan, sir?” Faith asked.
“Knock on the door and make sure the zombies are awake,” Wilkes said. “You’re preparing the battlefield to optimize your strengths, kinetic projectile fire, over their strengths, direct contact engagement.”
“So it’s another way of saying ‘get them into your killzone, don’t go into theirs,’ sir?”
“It’s a more modern way of saying it,” Wilkes said. “Your father’s background is historical. Useful, don’t get me wrong. But he tends to phrase things in a way that would be normal in a staff meeting for, say, Operation Overlord.”
“That’s… D-Day,” Faith said. “Sixth of June, 1944.”
“Fifth and sixth, yes,” Wilkes said. “I’d expect that of your father’s daughter.”
“Horrible with dates, sir,” Faith said. “But there’s this band, Sabaton, that’s got this really rocking song about it.”
“Okay,” Wilkes said, chuckling. “Why am I not surprised. Lieutenant, the report will keep. It’s time for some professional education.”
“Yes, sir,” Faith said.
“Accompany me,” Wilkes said, waving.
They went out of the cabin, down the corridor and around the corner to what Faith remembered as being one of the “big” cabins, the real luxury ones.
“Senior officer’s country?” Faith asked.
“We don’t have many of those, yet,” Wilkes said, wielding the key. As he opened the door, Faith could hear people laughing. “So we appropriated it. Officially. I wrote a staff study. It was approved.”
Fontana, Lieutenant Volpe, Janu and the Gunny were all sitting around a table playing poker. There was a bar set up on one bulkhead and some snacks laid out.
“There really aren’t enough of us for an O club,” Wilkes said. “So this is the Staff NCOs and Officer’s club.”
“The dues are we gotta scrounge the stuff,” Fontana said. “Seawolf owe you any favors?”
“Being my big sister and a pain in the ass count?” Faith asked.
“I found you some razzleberry tea, LT,” Janu said, pulling some out of a cooler.
“Staff Sergeant,” Faith said taking the can and popping it. “You shouldn’t have. No, wait, you should, you really, really should. Ah,” she said, taking a sip. “Nectar. I shall see what my sister, terror of the seas, has in her stash. That she’ll give up.”
“In that case, I’m a rum drinker, ma’am,” Janu said.
“No rank in the mess, by the way, Faith,” Wilkes said. “Same to you, Jan.”
“Yes, sir,” Jan said. “That’s going to be tough to manage, though, sir.”
“The point to the mess is that in here, you can say to somebody that they’re as full of shit as a Christmas turkey and get away with it,” Wilkes said.
“I’ve heard that quote somewhere before, sir,” Gunny Sands said. “Brotherhood of War?”
“Love that series,” Fontana said.
“It’s also true,” Wilkes said, picking up the cards and shuffling them. “Reports and after action meetings are important. This is important, too. You can just talk and without it being official. Figure out the stuff you don’t figure out in meetings. Tell somebody they’re fucking up, even if they’re a superior. Although, I’d appreciate nobody telling me I’m a ‘cowardly fucktard.’ ”
“You were out of your depth, sir,” Gunny Sands said. “You’re a pilot, not an infantry captain. And this shit really does suck.”
“Appreciate that, Tommy,” Wilkes said, dealing. “Five card draw. No wilds. I really am out of my depth in clearance. I can’t wait to get a stick back in my hand.”
“TMI, sir,” Lt. Volpe said. “TMI.” He tossed a penny on the table.
“What are we betting for?” Faith asked, examining her cards. She’d played poker before but not a lot.
“We are not betting,” Wilkes said. “That would be against military regulations. We are having a friendly game of cards that happens to involve some items of no particular value being on the table. Purely for the purposes of examination.”
“Each cent is a dollar,” Fontana said. “Against back pay.”
“We get paid?” Faith said.
“Eventually, assuming that we ever have an economy again,” Wilkes said. “We should get paid. Armies that don’t get paid have a tendency to wither and die or revolt. We Marines won’t revolt. I won’t speak to wither and die.”
“I think right now we’re basically getting paid in booze, food and loot,” Januscheitis said. “Which goes a long way to making for happy Marines.”
“Then you trade the loot to the skanks on the Money for Nothing and you’ve got all the bases covered,” Faith said.
“Olga is not a skank,” Volpe said, piously. “And our relationship is one of the mind.”
“Now I know where you keep your brain, Mike,” Wilkes said.
“I have an issue with basing our pay on looting, sir,” Gunny Sands said. “It is corrosive to discipline.”
“Totally agree,” Fontana said. “And this is from an SF guy. We’ve had that problem historically. When people start paying more attention to what they can pick up in an area than their jobs… It can get bad.”
“Especially when an officer goes dress shopping,” Faith said. “That really was a bad call on my part.”
“Not absolutely sure, Faith,” Januscheitis said. “It’s one of those legend things. It’s what makes you, you, LT. We thought it was a hoot. And it wasn’t like the infected ever got close.”
“Still, looting is an issue,” the Gunny said. “In general.”
“Also the only way we’re getting any disposable income, Gunny,” Januscheitis said. “I think we need to come up with some regs about it. It’s not looting, anyway. It’s salvage.”
“Salvage only counts on the sea, St… Januscheitis,” Gunny Sands said, gritting his teeth over the “no rank in the mess” thing.
“Gunny, with respect, everybody in those towns is dead, okay?” Januscheitis said. “If we pick up some stuff from the houses, they don’t know, their relatives don’t know because they’re dead, too. And, no, I don’t like being a damned scavenger, Gunny. But like Miss Faith said, it’s all we’ve got as disposable income.”
“I suppose we need to discuss with command some sort of scrip,” Wilkes said. “There needs to be a better system than loot.”
“What would people buy with it?” Volpe asked. “They’re given food, clothing and shelter.”
“Better food, better clothing, better shelter,” Wilkes said. “We need to have an economy.”
“Christ,” the gunny growled. “Next thing you know there’ll be bankers and loans and pawn stores.”
“There already are pawn stores, Gunny,” Januscheitis said. “At least, places you can trade loot for other stuff. Better stores, better booze.”