"Buddies" (1st draft, 1st chapter)
I began writing this military science fiction story, and I thought it might benefit from some informed commentary. For starters, I am not the world's greatest expert on military ettiquite -- in particular, while I know that one addresses a commissioned officer as either "sir" (if of lower rank) or by rank title plus name (if of higher rank), I am not sure what one calls a "specialist" (the rank formerly known as "corporal") if one is of lower rank. I think I got the platoon lieutenant to platoon sergeant dynamic correct, though. Any advice, either on the military-culture or the story in general, is appreciated.
===
"Buddies"
(c) Jordan Bassior, 2007
How I became involved?
Now that’s a long story, ma’am, and you’re right that I’m not much like the rest of you. I’m from West Virginia - the hill country, “Appalachia” to be fancy - and while my folk didn’t like us being called “hillbillies,” that was close to the truth on it. We ran a little garage on the main road, and nested back of it, and made a fair living that way. I wasn’t book-smart, though I liked to read - did poorly in school, just too weary for me. My skill was with machines, specially rifles. I learned machines fixing cars, but I loved tinkering with firearms of all kinds - modifying the magazines, changing the firing pins, and - well, I didn’t think you’d want to hear the details. Most of you haven’t, I know you don’t like guns. It’s different in the hills: hunting’s second nature to us. And you probably like that even less.
Anyway, I stuck it through my junior year of high school but I was close to dropping out. I was making money on the side repairing rifles and shotguns, not just for the local boys but also for some of the big boys out of town. No, that wasn’t legal, but in our neck of the woods that wasn’t no big thing anyhow. Least it wasn’t until the ATF come down on us, raided our little shop, all rude they were. Nearly shot our best coon dog, too. Now that’s not polite, was it?
Government men wanted to blame my family, but I wasn’t raised to let my folks take my punishment. Every time they asked me questions, I made it plain that I was the one with the gun business. So they had themselves a problem: I was a minor, which meant they couldn’t hold me for more than a couple years at most, and they didn’t really want to put me in the Federal pokey with the real bad men; but they didn’t want to have their big raid come to just a kid in juvie either. Heck, they didn’t even want a long trial.
Judge offered me a deal. “You turn seventeen in two months,” he told me. “The army could use some with your skills.” I remember that because it made me a mite proud. “When you turn seventeen, you march down to that recruiting office, and sign up for a four-year hitch. You’ll come out with a high school equivalency, college credits, and this whole mess will be behind you.”
Well, what was I going to say but “yes” to an offer like that? Especially when I found out that the Feds were willing to drop the asset forfeit on the garage? There’s a long Army tradition in our county, anyway - our boys have left their bones from everywhere to Gettysburg - and we were on the Union side, let me tell you -- Normandy, Caracas, you name it, we’ve been there. So while my folks were going to miss me, they were glad I was going to fight for my country, instead of rotting in jail. And they were powerful glad about not losing their land!
Nothing much happened to me in the Army at first. Basic training was a bit tough in spots, but I’m a mountain boy - most of it was just like a hunting trip, except that the drill sergeants wouldn’t leave us alone. I liked the weapons training - the shooting, of course, but even more the maintenance. They’ve got some guns like you wouldn’t believe in the Army these days - my favorite’s the M-65 PAW, that’s the 25mm Platoon Automatic Weapon with the variable rotary action, fuel cell powered, 300 RPM, smart rounds with designator homing capability, optional ladar air defense mode - oh, sorry, I forgot you don’t like firearms. I’ll just say that she’s sweet, and leave it at that.
Well, what’s important to my story is that she’s also a big gun. You don’t fire that baby from the hip like you see in those action movies, that would tear your arms right out of their sockets if you tried. Even those power-armor boys, what use it as a Squad Automatic Weapon, they have to brace themselves or they’d fall right on their tails. Us light infantry, we always shoot her from the bipod, sometimes tripod mount. And you still need to be a big man to hump her over the hills, specially on route march.
You may have noticed that I have a bit of altitude, broad shoulders? Well that, added to my hunting days, made certain that I wasn’t going to spend my war in the depot, like my folks had hoped. Big, good shot, good with fixing firearms - when I got out of basic training I was assigned to the light infantry as a PAW crewman. Loader first - you also need a big boy to carry all her ammo, my, she’s a thirsty girl! - but then when Jimmy who was the gunner on my team caught some metal on Mindano, I was promoted to specialist and made gunner, on the spot.
Well, I purely loved getting to shoot the PAW for serious, when she spoke those Muzzies sure took notice - but I can tell you don’t want to hear about that, and it’s not the important part of the tale. So I won’t digress on that.
Here’s the point - I was the gunner, but I didn’t have a real loader. They got me a private right out of Basic, he was big but not too bright, and then he stepped on a land-mine. Only lost a leg, that’s no big deal these days, but once again I was having to carry the PAW and the ammo, which aren’t so bad when you’re mounted, but when you get out of the trucks and climb those ridges?
So when we were rotated back to base, we got a replacement. And that’s where it really starts.
***
Instead of just picking a loader out of the new boys, like we normally would, they had us mustered out on a parade ground, and a major came over with a person in fatigues with no rank insignae, and a couple of civilians. Now, this sort of thing is never good - what it usually means is either a special mission or special equipment.
You think I’d like that sort of thing? Well, maybe if it was a new shooting piece, sure, but what “special mission” usually means is you’re going to lose boys, and “special equipment” can mean that we’re going to beta-test some kludged-up gadget that the lab boys are sure will work perfect in the field, and when it doesn’t, our condolences to the family, if you see what I mean?
Well, I didn’t see no gadget - though it turned out I was wrong on that - so I was thinking “special mission.” Though I was a mite distracted when I saw the person in the nondescript fatigues. My first thought when I saw the face was My Lord, what an ugly boy, and then when I looked a bit closer My lord, what an ugly girl, and then Oh dear, but she does look so lost!
How to describe her?
It’s hard, because later I knew her so well, it’s hard to remember exactly how she seemed to me on first impression. Think of a short, broad-shouldered girl in Army fatigues, standing kind of slouchy, long arms, and that face - brow ridges, big mouth, broad nose, huge lips, the skin pink and slightly wrinkled -
Well, of course you realized what she was. That’s your specialty. Me, I’d never read much on zoology or anthropology or genetic engineering. Not till later, anyway.
The major started the explanation:
“As I’m sure you know,” he began, “the US Army is running short of recruits for the Philippines. We compensate for this with normal automation as much as possible, but machines are unreliable and difficult to maintain in the bush, and you light infantry have to carry heavy combat loads over rough terrain. Mecha can do it, but walker vehicles are expensive. Mules can do it, but mules are stupid.
“We have the solution.”
She was sort of staring at the ground - trying to avoid eye contact with anyone, as I later realized. I felt plumb sorry for her. Having a face like that couldn’t have made her life easy, and here she was being put on display before us with all these brass and brains - I’d be embarrassed too.
I didn’t know the half of it, then.
One of the scientists took over.
“Organic automation,” he said, his eyes glinting with enthusiasm. I didn’t have the slightest idea what he meant.
“Man is intelligent. But Man is not the only intelligent animal. Man’s cousins - the great apes - are almost as intelligent as ourselves, but are considerably stronger, pound for pound. Many apes have learned to understand spoken language, and some have been trained to speak sign language. Indeed, if it were not for the lack of brain and vocal structures evolved by humans, they would almost certainly be able to speak human vocal languages as well.
“This was an obstacle to using them for most military purposes,” he explained. “Until now.”
I’d like to say that I got it immediate, but I didn’t. I know that some of the others in my platoon were getting it, because they began to stare with a certain dawning horror.
The scientist who was talking pointed at her. She cringed, though he didn’t notice. The other scientist flinched a little, and patted her on the back, which helped a little.
“Pan paniscus hominoidis,” he said proudly. “We considered using orangs, for their climbing skills, or gorillas, for their vastly superior strength, but there were tempermental problems with the first and logistical difficulties with the second species. Chimpanzees, in general, were also easier to genengineer for human-like vocal capabilities, The common chimpanzee, pan troglodytus, however, is bad-tempered - too volatile to use in combat.”
About this point even Yours Truly, Mr. Dumb Mountain Boy, got what he was driving at. But - she was ugly, sure, but she still looked human! Maybe it was because I hadn’t gotten the idea early, but she never looked like an animal to me. Just a strange-looking person, if you know what I mean.
“Pan paniscus was much more amenable. Their social relations are moderated by amatory and hedonic behavioral displays - “
The major gave him a hard glance.
“Er, I mean, instead of fighting among themselves, they make nice to each other,” the scientist continued, clearly simplifying for the kiddies. Actually, he was also leaving something out, but it was probably a good thing that he didn’t tell that to us at first. I was to find that out on my own, later. “This is actually better for military purposes, as the last thing you would want is an angry ape in your midst.”
He was surely right!
“The common name for this species is ‘bonobo,’” the scientist said. “Some of you will probably heard this on nature shows. They are extinct in the wild, but fortunately, there was a large captive population available for our work. This -“ he motioned again at her, “is our end product.”
“Those of you who know a little Latin will have realized that I called it hominoidis, or “manlike one”. We started with regular bonobo DNA, and introduced the human genes which govern language ability, the formation of the vocal structures, and to some extent we also tinkered with the spine. Bonobos are already among the most bipedal of nonhuman great apes; hominoidis is fully bipedal.
“How do they differ from humans? Hominoidis is still, on the average, less intelligent than a human. Its linguistic capability is less - though through rigorous training, this unit and others like it have been taught to follow reasonably simple military orders. It is not a moron, though - simply a bit dull by human standards.”
She was biting her lip now, gazing fixedly at her own boots.
“It is hairy - not as hairy as a true bonobo, but with much more body hair than a human being. It is strong - which will be useful for your purposes. Despite its size, it is in fact stronger than the strongest man in your platoon, with all that implies for load-bearing capacity. It is a good climber. It is physically tough, quite good at ignoring pain and to some extent severe injury.
“As to its weaknesses, of which you should all be aware - that strength comes at the price of high muscle density. Put simply, hominoidis cannot float, and is a very poor swimmer. Be careful of the unit when fording streams. Also, it is somewhat more vulnerable to human respiratory infections, but the supplies we have provided your medic should alleviate this problem.
“Properly maintained, this unit should prove valuable to you in carrying supplies in the field. We have tested its capabilities in American and Central American rainforests: it performed well. This will be its first test in Oceanic rainforests. I hope that it will serve you well.
“It is not human. But it is valuable. Please, don’t break it.” The scientist smiled. To me it seemed like skin over skull.
The major took the risk more seriously. He might have been rear-echelon now, but he’d plainly done his time with real troops.
“I emphasize the good doctor’s point. Don’t break it. You will all be very sorry if you do.”
That sounded like a threat, and was clearly meant that way.
The major called our lieutenant and the platoon sergeant up, and had a few quiet words with him. Then the major and the lead scientist turned to go. The other scientist gave the bonobo a short but tight hug, and followed them. The bonobo stood there, looking forlornly after the departing scientists, until the platoon sergeant barked “Attention!”
Our lieutenant then said “We needed a replacement loader for the PAW team. This transport unit is our replacement. Treat it well.” He turned to the platoon sergeant.
“Specialist MacLean!”
“Yes, sergeant?” I replied.
“This unit is your responsibility. Keep it clean and in good condition. Don’t let any of the other apes break it. Breaking it won’t mean that you get a real replacement loader any faster, it will just mean that you’ll have to keep carrying all that ammo yourself. Understood?”
“Yes, sergeant!”
The lieutenant dismissed us. The platoon dispersed, muttering amongst themselves. And I was left with my charge - the new “transport unit.”
Who looked very small, and very sad, and very human in her ill-fitting fatigues.
“Um,” I don’t usually stammer, but this was a very unusual situation. “what should I call you?” I asked.
“Unit P-AM-X12-14, sir.” she replied. Her voice was a bit husky for her height, but otherwise sounded surprisingly normal. “Personal Ammunition Carrier.” Her eyes were still firmly fixed on the ground.
“Well, that’s a sure a mouthful,” I commented, stroking my chin. “Look, if we’re going to be working together, I’m going to need something shorter than that. Don’t you have a name?”
She looked up at me, very shyly, not still not directly meeting my gaze. “Amanda - Doctor Boulle - called me ‘Pam,’ sir.”
“All right, then,” I said. “You’re Pam.” I gave her a smile, and she relaxed a little. “So, have you ever met the M-65 Platoon Automatic Weapon?”
“Yes, sir,” Her expression brightened. “I am trained in the portage and basic maintenance of that weapon and its ammunition.” It spilled out in obvious rote.
“Well, that’s good,” I said. “Now, first of all, we have to clear a couple of things up before we continue -“
She grimaced, and shivered slightly.
“Nothing that bad,” I said. “It’s just that, first of all, I’m not a commissioned officer, I’m a specialist. What they used to call a ‘corporal.’ So you don’t call me ‘sir,’ you call me ‘corporal.’”
“Yes, sir - corporal, I mean. Sorry.”
“And second, you only need to call me ‘corporal’ when we’re being formal. Socially, I’m John. That’s my name, and since we’re going to have very little time to be formal out in the woods, you can call me that. Or just ‘hey you,’ if it suits you better.” I grinned widely at her, and extended a hand.
Her face broke out in a smile. It should have been hideous, on that face - but it wasn’t, it was beautiful, like the sun emerging through the clouds. “Yes, John,” she said. “Thank you.” And now she did look at me directly - only for a moment, but I caught a flash of strong white lower teeth and deep brown eyes. We shook hands.
“Don’t mention it,” I said. “Now, let me introduce you to my special lady.”
We walked off to the armory.
***
===
"Buddies"
(c) Jordan Bassior, 2007
How I became involved?
Now that’s a long story, ma’am, and you’re right that I’m not much like the rest of you. I’m from West Virginia - the hill country, “Appalachia” to be fancy - and while my folk didn’t like us being called “hillbillies,” that was close to the truth on it. We ran a little garage on the main road, and nested back of it, and made a fair living that way. I wasn’t book-smart, though I liked to read - did poorly in school, just too weary for me. My skill was with machines, specially rifles. I learned machines fixing cars, but I loved tinkering with firearms of all kinds - modifying the magazines, changing the firing pins, and - well, I didn’t think you’d want to hear the details. Most of you haven’t, I know you don’t like guns. It’s different in the hills: hunting’s second nature to us. And you probably like that even less.
Anyway, I stuck it through my junior year of high school but I was close to dropping out. I was making money on the side repairing rifles and shotguns, not just for the local boys but also for some of the big boys out of town. No, that wasn’t legal, but in our neck of the woods that wasn’t no big thing anyhow. Least it wasn’t until the ATF come down on us, raided our little shop, all rude they were. Nearly shot our best coon dog, too. Now that’s not polite, was it?
Government men wanted to blame my family, but I wasn’t raised to let my folks take my punishment. Every time they asked me questions, I made it plain that I was the one with the gun business. So they had themselves a problem: I was a minor, which meant they couldn’t hold me for more than a couple years at most, and they didn’t really want to put me in the Federal pokey with the real bad men; but they didn’t want to have their big raid come to just a kid in juvie either. Heck, they didn’t even want a long trial.
Judge offered me a deal. “You turn seventeen in two months,” he told me. “The army could use some with your skills.” I remember that because it made me a mite proud. “When you turn seventeen, you march down to that recruiting office, and sign up for a four-year hitch. You’ll come out with a high school equivalency, college credits, and this whole mess will be behind you.”
Well, what was I going to say but “yes” to an offer like that? Especially when I found out that the Feds were willing to drop the asset forfeit on the garage? There’s a long Army tradition in our county, anyway - our boys have left their bones from everywhere to Gettysburg - and we were on the Union side, let me tell you -- Normandy, Caracas, you name it, we’ve been there. So while my folks were going to miss me, they were glad I was going to fight for my country, instead of rotting in jail. And they were powerful glad about not losing their land!
Nothing much happened to me in the Army at first. Basic training was a bit tough in spots, but I’m a mountain boy - most of it was just like a hunting trip, except that the drill sergeants wouldn’t leave us alone. I liked the weapons training - the shooting, of course, but even more the maintenance. They’ve got some guns like you wouldn’t believe in the Army these days - my favorite’s the M-65 PAW, that’s the 25mm Platoon Automatic Weapon with the variable rotary action, fuel cell powered, 300 RPM, smart rounds with designator homing capability, optional ladar air defense mode - oh, sorry, I forgot you don’t like firearms. I’ll just say that she’s sweet, and leave it at that.
Well, what’s important to my story is that she’s also a big gun. You don’t fire that baby from the hip like you see in those action movies, that would tear your arms right out of their sockets if you tried. Even those power-armor boys, what use it as a Squad Automatic Weapon, they have to brace themselves or they’d fall right on their tails. Us light infantry, we always shoot her from the bipod, sometimes tripod mount. And you still need to be a big man to hump her over the hills, specially on route march.
You may have noticed that I have a bit of altitude, broad shoulders? Well that, added to my hunting days, made certain that I wasn’t going to spend my war in the depot, like my folks had hoped. Big, good shot, good with fixing firearms - when I got out of basic training I was assigned to the light infantry as a PAW crewman. Loader first - you also need a big boy to carry all her ammo, my, she’s a thirsty girl! - but then when Jimmy who was the gunner on my team caught some metal on Mindano, I was promoted to specialist and made gunner, on the spot.
Well, I purely loved getting to shoot the PAW for serious, when she spoke those Muzzies sure took notice - but I can tell you don’t want to hear about that, and it’s not the important part of the tale. So I won’t digress on that.
Here’s the point - I was the gunner, but I didn’t have a real loader. They got me a private right out of Basic, he was big but not too bright, and then he stepped on a land-mine. Only lost a leg, that’s no big deal these days, but once again I was having to carry the PAW and the ammo, which aren’t so bad when you’re mounted, but when you get out of the trucks and climb those ridges?
So when we were rotated back to base, we got a replacement. And that’s where it really starts.
***
Instead of just picking a loader out of the new boys, like we normally would, they had us mustered out on a parade ground, and a major came over with a person in fatigues with no rank insignae, and a couple of civilians. Now, this sort of thing is never good - what it usually means is either a special mission or special equipment.
You think I’d like that sort of thing? Well, maybe if it was a new shooting piece, sure, but what “special mission” usually means is you’re going to lose boys, and “special equipment” can mean that we’re going to beta-test some kludged-up gadget that the lab boys are sure will work perfect in the field, and when it doesn’t, our condolences to the family, if you see what I mean?
Well, I didn’t see no gadget - though it turned out I was wrong on that - so I was thinking “special mission.” Though I was a mite distracted when I saw the person in the nondescript fatigues. My first thought when I saw the face was My Lord, what an ugly boy, and then when I looked a bit closer My lord, what an ugly girl, and then Oh dear, but she does look so lost!
How to describe her?
It’s hard, because later I knew her so well, it’s hard to remember exactly how she seemed to me on first impression. Think of a short, broad-shouldered girl in Army fatigues, standing kind of slouchy, long arms, and that face - brow ridges, big mouth, broad nose, huge lips, the skin pink and slightly wrinkled -
Well, of course you realized what she was. That’s your specialty. Me, I’d never read much on zoology or anthropology or genetic engineering. Not till later, anyway.
The major started the explanation:
“As I’m sure you know,” he began, “the US Army is running short of recruits for the Philippines. We compensate for this with normal automation as much as possible, but machines are unreliable and difficult to maintain in the bush, and you light infantry have to carry heavy combat loads over rough terrain. Mecha can do it, but walker vehicles are expensive. Mules can do it, but mules are stupid.
“We have the solution.”
She was sort of staring at the ground - trying to avoid eye contact with anyone, as I later realized. I felt plumb sorry for her. Having a face like that couldn’t have made her life easy, and here she was being put on display before us with all these brass and brains - I’d be embarrassed too.
I didn’t know the half of it, then.
One of the scientists took over.
“Organic automation,” he said, his eyes glinting with enthusiasm. I didn’t have the slightest idea what he meant.
“Man is intelligent. But Man is not the only intelligent animal. Man’s cousins - the great apes - are almost as intelligent as ourselves, but are considerably stronger, pound for pound. Many apes have learned to understand spoken language, and some have been trained to speak sign language. Indeed, if it were not for the lack of brain and vocal structures evolved by humans, they would almost certainly be able to speak human vocal languages as well.
“This was an obstacle to using them for most military purposes,” he explained. “Until now.”
I’d like to say that I got it immediate, but I didn’t. I know that some of the others in my platoon were getting it, because they began to stare with a certain dawning horror.
The scientist who was talking pointed at her. She cringed, though he didn’t notice. The other scientist flinched a little, and patted her on the back, which helped a little.
“Pan paniscus hominoidis,” he said proudly. “We considered using orangs, for their climbing skills, or gorillas, for their vastly superior strength, but there were tempermental problems with the first and logistical difficulties with the second species. Chimpanzees, in general, were also easier to genengineer for human-like vocal capabilities, The common chimpanzee, pan troglodytus, however, is bad-tempered - too volatile to use in combat.”
About this point even Yours Truly, Mr. Dumb Mountain Boy, got what he was driving at. But - she was ugly, sure, but she still looked human! Maybe it was because I hadn’t gotten the idea early, but she never looked like an animal to me. Just a strange-looking person, if you know what I mean.
“Pan paniscus was much more amenable. Their social relations are moderated by amatory and hedonic behavioral displays - “
The major gave him a hard glance.
“Er, I mean, instead of fighting among themselves, they make nice to each other,” the scientist continued, clearly simplifying for the kiddies. Actually, he was also leaving something out, but it was probably a good thing that he didn’t tell that to us at first. I was to find that out on my own, later. “This is actually better for military purposes, as the last thing you would want is an angry ape in your midst.”
He was surely right!
“The common name for this species is ‘bonobo,’” the scientist said. “Some of you will probably heard this on nature shows. They are extinct in the wild, but fortunately, there was a large captive population available for our work. This -“ he motioned again at her, “is our end product.”
“Those of you who know a little Latin will have realized that I called it hominoidis, or “manlike one”. We started with regular bonobo DNA, and introduced the human genes which govern language ability, the formation of the vocal structures, and to some extent we also tinkered with the spine. Bonobos are already among the most bipedal of nonhuman great apes; hominoidis is fully bipedal.
“How do they differ from humans? Hominoidis is still, on the average, less intelligent than a human. Its linguistic capability is less - though through rigorous training, this unit and others like it have been taught to follow reasonably simple military orders. It is not a moron, though - simply a bit dull by human standards.”
She was biting her lip now, gazing fixedly at her own boots.
“It is hairy - not as hairy as a true bonobo, but with much more body hair than a human being. It is strong - which will be useful for your purposes. Despite its size, it is in fact stronger than the strongest man in your platoon, with all that implies for load-bearing capacity. It is a good climber. It is physically tough, quite good at ignoring pain and to some extent severe injury.
“As to its weaknesses, of which you should all be aware - that strength comes at the price of high muscle density. Put simply, hominoidis cannot float, and is a very poor swimmer. Be careful of the unit when fording streams. Also, it is somewhat more vulnerable to human respiratory infections, but the supplies we have provided your medic should alleviate this problem.
“Properly maintained, this unit should prove valuable to you in carrying supplies in the field. We have tested its capabilities in American and Central American rainforests: it performed well. This will be its first test in Oceanic rainforests. I hope that it will serve you well.
“It is not human. But it is valuable. Please, don’t break it.” The scientist smiled. To me it seemed like skin over skull.
The major took the risk more seriously. He might have been rear-echelon now, but he’d plainly done his time with real troops.
“I emphasize the good doctor’s point. Don’t break it. You will all be very sorry if you do.”
That sounded like a threat, and was clearly meant that way.
The major called our lieutenant and the platoon sergeant up, and had a few quiet words with him. Then the major and the lead scientist turned to go. The other scientist gave the bonobo a short but tight hug, and followed them. The bonobo stood there, looking forlornly after the departing scientists, until the platoon sergeant barked “Attention!”
Our lieutenant then said “We needed a replacement loader for the PAW team. This transport unit is our replacement. Treat it well.” He turned to the platoon sergeant.
“Specialist MacLean!”
“Yes, sergeant?” I replied.
“This unit is your responsibility. Keep it clean and in good condition. Don’t let any of the other apes break it. Breaking it won’t mean that you get a real replacement loader any faster, it will just mean that you’ll have to keep carrying all that ammo yourself. Understood?”
“Yes, sergeant!”
The lieutenant dismissed us. The platoon dispersed, muttering amongst themselves. And I was left with my charge - the new “transport unit.”
Who looked very small, and very sad, and very human in her ill-fitting fatigues.
“Um,” I don’t usually stammer, but this was a very unusual situation. “what should I call you?” I asked.
“Unit P-AM-X12-14, sir.” she replied. Her voice was a bit husky for her height, but otherwise sounded surprisingly normal. “Personal Ammunition Carrier.” Her eyes were still firmly fixed on the ground.
“Well, that’s a sure a mouthful,” I commented, stroking my chin. “Look, if we’re going to be working together, I’m going to need something shorter than that. Don’t you have a name?”
She looked up at me, very shyly, not still not directly meeting my gaze. “Amanda - Doctor Boulle - called me ‘Pam,’ sir.”
“All right, then,” I said. “You’re Pam.” I gave her a smile, and she relaxed a little. “So, have you ever met the M-65 Platoon Automatic Weapon?”
“Yes, sir,” Her expression brightened. “I am trained in the portage and basic maintenance of that weapon and its ammunition.” It spilled out in obvious rote.
“Well, that’s good,” I said. “Now, first of all, we have to clear a couple of things up before we continue -“
She grimaced, and shivered slightly.
“Nothing that bad,” I said. “It’s just that, first of all, I’m not a commissioned officer, I’m a specialist. What they used to call a ‘corporal.’ So you don’t call me ‘sir,’ you call me ‘corporal.’”
“Yes, sir - corporal, I mean. Sorry.”
“And second, you only need to call me ‘corporal’ when we’re being formal. Socially, I’m John. That’s my name, and since we’re going to have very little time to be formal out in the woods, you can call me that. Or just ‘hey you,’ if it suits you better.” I grinned widely at her, and extended a hand.
Her face broke out in a smile. It should have been hideous, on that face - but it wasn’t, it was beautiful, like the sun emerging through the clouds. “Yes, John,” she said. “Thank you.” And now she did look at me directly - only for a moment, but I caught a flash of strong white lower teeth and deep brown eyes. We shook hands.
“Don’t mention it,” I said. “Now, let me introduce you to my special lady.”
We walked off to the armory.
***