“Noticed,” Berg replied, heading back to the loading.
Berg was carrying a bag of miscellaneous supplies out to a truck in the parking lot when he passed Crowley and a corporal with the nametag “Lujan” outside the building puffing on cancer sticks.
“Nice to see some people get a smoke break,” Berg said, shuffling past.
“Did you just dis me, private?” the corporal said angrily.
“Not at all,” Berg replied. “I simply stated that it was pleasant to see you enjoying the air, Corporal.”
“Careful, Drago,” Crowley said, grinning. “This here’s Two-Gun Berg. Don’t want to get old Two-Gun angry with you, do you?”
“Two-gun mojo man,” Lujan said, grinning. “Anybody stupid enough to two-gun mojo ain’t smart enough to know if he’s dissing somebody.”
“I stand corrected, Corporal,” Berg said. “And I guess you need to get your nicotine in now, given that we’re going to be on a ship for some time.”
“The ship’s got a smoking area,” Crowley said, grinning. “Care for a puff?” he added, holding out his pack of Marlboros.
“I do not indulge,” Berg said, tossing the sack in the back of the ten ton.
“Drink?” the corporal asked.
“On occasion,” Berg said. “Lightly.”
“God, tell me that you grapp,” Crowley said. “Otherwise we’re going to have to yank that stake out of your ass, hard.”
“Oh, I grapp like there’s no tomorrow,” Berg said. “They didn’t call me Three-Ball for nothing. And my strength is as the strength of ten because my lungs are pure.”
“Drago, would you mind informing me what you think you are doing out here smoking when the rest of the company is busting its butt loading?” Top said, appearing around the corner of the building.
“Just done, Top!” Corporal Lujan said, pulling the cigarette out of his mouth and starting to drop it.
“And if you mess up my loading bay, you are going to be doing pushups until your MOTHER’S hands bleed!”
“Aye-aye, Top!” Lujan said, field stripping the burning tobacco out of the cigarette instead of crushing it out on the ground.
“Two-Gun, don’t you have somewhere else to be?” the first sergeant asked, one eyebrow raised.
“Aye-aye, Top!” Berg bellowed, trotting up the stairs to the building.
“How in the grapp does he always know what’s going on?” Crowley said as the threesome bolted through the door.
“He’s the first sergeant,” Drago said. “That’s his job.”
“Can I ask a question?” Berg said. “Why do they call you Drago?”
“Wait till you see him in the shower,” Crowley said, grinning.
“Grapp you, Crowie.”
“Two-Gun,” Gunnery Sergeant Hocieniec said as the loading was completed. “Go jump in the back of the ten ton over on bay four. You’re going to the ship to start loading.”
“Aye-aye, Gunny,” Berg said.
“You’re not going to be by yourself,” the gunny said, grinning. “Most of Third Herd is over there already and we’re going to be following in a minute. And I’m sending Staff Sergeant Summerlin over on another truck. You’re just advanced party.”
“Will do, Gunny,” Berg said.
“Holy cow,” Berg muttered as he jumped off the back of the ten ton.
He’d been told the ship was a converted sub, but for some reason nobody had mentioned that it wasn’t extremely converted. And he’d never really thought where the Navy was hiding it. In a massive sub pen was a good choice, all things considered.
The crew of the sub was busy loading stores, and a massive missile that sure looked like an ICBM was being lowered into one of the tubes as he just stood and stared.
“It’s a hell of a sight,” Summerlin said, walking up behind him. “Note the big sword thingy sticking out the front. But we’ve got gear to store. Some of the stuff we loaded was Third’s, but they’ve been down here all day getting it in the sub while we were loading the trucks. First is down in the sub packing it away.”
“And our job is… ?” Berg asked.
“To make sure our stuff gets put in the right place,” Summerlin replied, walking over to the line of Marines loading stores. “Two-Gun, Gunny Hedger, Third Platoon.”
“Hey, Summer,” the gunnery sergeant said.
“We were sent to determine how badly First was grapping up our maulk,” Summerlin said.
They crossed the gangplank, then entered a vertical hatch, sliding down the ladder between bags of gear. Thereafter followed a bewildering, to Berg, series of turns until they got to the ship’s gear room.
The gear room was a combination of battle-rattle storage and armory. Each person’s gear and personal weapon was supposed to be stowed in their personal locker. The armory, in turn, held preloaded sets of rounds. Draw and don their gear, pick up their rounds and they were in business.
The gear room, though, was a nightmare. With so little room on the ship, there wasn’t enough space for the usual locker room setup with lockers lined up on either side of benches. Instead, the battle rattle and weapons were kept in sliding locker walls, that could be moved aside, so that the platoons could access their gear one at a time. The doors of the lockers folded downwards for a seat or table.
The battle rattle and weapons had been sent down in, supposedly, the same order as the locker. But what people like Prabhu had been doing was picking up scattered equipment from their platoon and making sure it got on the trucks.
So when the two members of Second Platoon entered the gear locker, they found a pile of mismatched gear tossed in every corner, a pile of matched gear that hadn’t been loaded, yet, in the companionway and the beginnings of a raging argument.
“God damnit, Staff Sergeant Summerlin,” a gunnery sergeant swore as soon as they entered the compartment. The guy was short and looked about sixty, the type that ages from the outdoors. “Your maulk was totally grapped up. And Third’s is worse!”
“I’m sorry about that, Gunnery Sergeant Frandsen,” Summerlin replied. “May we be of any assistance?”
“You can start going through the pile that’s portside aft is what you can do!” the gunnery sergeant snapped. “That’s all your maulk. I’m going to send a runner up to Hedge to tell him his stuff is starboard side aft and that’s about all the sorting we’re doing. When we’re done loading the maulk that ain’t grapped up, y’all can fight it out to get the rest stored!”
“Very well, Gunnery Sergeant,” Summerlin said, evenly. “We’ll get to it, then.”
“Staff Sergeant,” Berg whispered as they got to the pile. “Our maulk was grapped up. I mean, most of the guys just tossed their stuff in any old way.”
“We’ve got time to sort it out,” Summerlin said, turning to check that the gunny wasn’t watching and then grinning. “And it was worth it to watch Big-Foot Frandsen nearly bust a blood vessel. Hell, Gunga-Din was intentionally mixing in First’s with ours.”
“Oh,” Berg said, trying not to grin. “So why’d we get detailed to do the dirty work?”
“You kidding?” Summer asked, picking up a set of battle armor. “I practically had to kill to get this detail. Everybody wanted to see if Big-Foot would finally have a stroke!”