Camp Milius

OUTSIDE SAN ANTONIO, TEXAS
APRIL 9th, 2009
7:05 PM

Groggy Dundee, Sergeant Harriman and a small group of staff officers drove in a jeep down the dirt road. The military hadn't been able to arrange a flight, for God knows what reason, so they'd spent the last ten hours driving in a small car with a jabberjaw Sergeant whom Sergeant Harriman desperately wanted to execute.

It had been a tense last few days for everyone. For Groggy, his personal hurt temporarily superceded the importance of war and country. The shock of Edith's dumping him had rendered him all the usual raw emotions - anger, sadness, shock and depression. But now that there was a job to do, something to immerse himself in, he was hoping he could move on from the hurt she'd caused. After all, he had his war to fight.

At present, one of Groggy's staffers - Captain Martinez - was trying to make a phone call. There was news of further military action somewhere, but being in this car, they were only getting sketchy reports. Groggy had left his blackberry in his apartment, and wasn't entirely sure that Edith hadn't swiped it out of spite.

Finally, they reached the entrance to the camp perimeter. An MP asked the driver for ID and waved them through. They drove on towards the camp.

Well, Groggy thought to himself, unable to speak above the din of the car engine. Let's find out what we're made of.

CAMP MILIUS, TEXAS
7:20 PM

The scene before them was something out of Matthew Brady. Hundreds of recruits, at least 700 men and women, had created a sprawling tent city in the middle of nowhere. They were barbecuing and eating, taking baths, reading newspapers or sitting around plyaing games or finding ways to divert themselves in the gleaming spring twilight. One of them had set up a TV and X-Box and was playing Halo 3. Other than a handful of uniformed and armed MPs standing guard, they could have been vacationers on a camping trip.

Groggy frowned as he dismounted from the Jeep, regarding. An MP sergeant sighted him and called out, "Camp, TEN-SHUN!" as Groggy and his entourage approached. Everyone snapped to attention instantly, some more sloppily or unwilling than others.

Groggy returned the salute stiffly. "As you were, ladies and gentlemen," Groggy said, walking with his entourage into the middle of the camp. As they walked, he surveyed the rag-tag collection of volunteers in detail. They'd need considerable training and organization to make into a cohesive unit; but that's why they were here.

"Where are our provisions?" Groggy asked Sergeant Harriman.

"They're on the way, sir," she replied. "Got about 800 M-16s from Ft. Pickens base," she noted, not mentioning the highly questionable way she had procured said weaponry.

"Well, that's a start," the Colonel replied. "Ammunition?"

"50,000 rounds."

"Well, for training that should be sufficient. For now. M-60s?"

"At least two of those."

Groggy smiled, clasping his hand on the Sergeant's shoulder. "Well, we're off to a start, anyway," he said. "You'd make a fine, if morally dubious, quartermaster." Then a thought struck him. "You're a still a Sergeant, are you not?"

"Yes, sir," Harriman said quietly. She hadn't wanted to bring it up, but her promotion ceremony had been post-poned. She was pissed off as all hell about it, but figured her Colonel had enough on his plate to worry about.

"Well, I'm naming you Acting Captain until the official commission comes in," Dundee said.

"Thank you, sir," Harriman said gratefully.

"Time to find out who's in charge of this rabble," Groggy said. "There must be an officer here somewhere..."

As he said this, Groggy felt a man bump into his chest. He looked down and saw a dark-haired young man sprawling to the ground, panting as the result of a series of blows.

"Charlie Keyes!" he proclaimed. "Nice to see you here!"

With a great deal of delighted surprised, the wounded recruit - one of Groggy's college chums - stood at attention and saluted. "Groggy!" he said. "It's been awhile. Nice to finally have you here!"

Groggy turned and saw a thin, wiry hippie-looking man standing next to him, his knuckles raw from the fight. He had a small gathering of men behind him, standing anxiously in the presence of their commanding officer.

"Who are you?" Groggy asked him tersely.

"Nirvana Naslund, sir," came the reply. Two of the other men with him stepped forward.

"What's this about, gentlemen?" the Colonel asked.

"Well, this man here started jabbering about blowing stuff up in an effort to impress me, I reckon."

"I was quoting Shaw, sir," Charlie replied. "Whatever can blow man up, can blow society up."

"You have something against educated men, Mr. Naslund?" Groggy asked.

"No, but the way he said it was what provoked me."

"How did you say it?" Groggy asked his old friend.

"With force and firmness," Charlie replied stubbornly, his eyes on Naslund.

"Like a pansy spoiling for a fight," Nirvana spit.

Groggy smiled. He then stepped between his old friend and Nirvana, smiled at the latter, and then punched him square in the face.

"DAMMIT!" Groggy screamed in pain; in the excitement of the moment he'd forgotten his bandaged fist. He looked down and saw blood spurting through his bandage. He had no time to react, though, as Nirvana tackled him, plowing his head into the Colonel's chest. Charlie, Anna and Nirvana's friends rushed forward to pull them apart. The two men, restrained by their respective parts, staggered to their feet, gasping for breath, sizing each other up.

"Striking an officer is a court-martial offense," Groggy said. "Of course, we don't have to go through all that..." He suddenly drew his pistol and aimed it at Naslund's head; his eyes went wide with terror.

"NO, COLONEL!" Charlie shouted. "Murder's even worse an offense."

"Don't I know it," Groggy muttered. "Shit, I busted my hand." He winced and tenderly held his shattered fist.

"Your hand must be made of glass, old man!" Nirvana chuckled.

"Shut your gob, recruit, or I'll shoot you myself," Sergeant Harriman shouted, producing her own sidearm.

Groggy and Nirvana regarded each other for a moment. Groggy eventually holstered his pistol. Then, still holding his bleeding hand, he turned to see a group of MPs rushing forward.

"WHAT THE HELL'S GOING ON HERE!?!" the Sergeant shouted. Two MPs brandishing M-14 rifles came behind him.

"Nothing but a soldier's fight, sir," the Colonel said hastily.

"Striking an officer is a court-martial offense, soldier!" the Sergeant yelled at Nirvana.

Groggy looked at Nirvana knowingly. "Well, the day I start being a book soldier is the day that hell freezes over," he said. Nirvana grimaced slightly.

"Sir, you really shouldn't be saying things like that to these types," the Sergeant said. "These boys have been roughing each other up regularly the past few days. Hell, we had an attempted rape the other night..."

"Well, I hope you cut off his dick," Groggy spit.

"Speaking frankly, sir, there shouldn't be any women here at all," the Sergeant said, his voice dripping with disgust. "We need to bring the toughness back into the military. Letting women join has made us soften things up. It's just sickening. Next thing you know they'll be letting fags join."

The Colonel stopped in his tracks, and turned to Sergeant Harriman. The Sergeant had continued walking a few steps, and turned and now stood facing Anna, who stood with a bemused look on her face.

"Well, Captain, what do you have to say that?" Groggy asked her. Anna said nothing; her expression of disgust said it all. The Sergeant turned back to the Colonel, flabbergasted.

"Who's the officer in charge here?" Groggy asked, breaking the ice.

"That... that would be Major Atlas, sir. He's in his tent waiting for you."

Groggy bristled. "His tent. Waiting for ME!?" He fumed with anger. "Who the hell is this fuck, George Fucking McClellan? Get his sorry ass out here now!"

"Yes, sir!" the Sergeant said. He then looked down at the Colonel's hand. "Sir, you need your hand looked at?" he asked, watching the blood drip between the Colonel's fingers.

Groggy shook his head absently and looked down. "Maybe later," he murmured. Then, holding his hand, he shooed the Sergeant away.

"No respect for superior officers at all," he muttered. "What the fuck kind of organization is this?"

Sergeant Harriman smiled. "Fort Benlin, sir?"

Groggy didn't smile. "My God, Anna, insubordination may be fine for you and me, but it won't work for these sorry fucks serving under us. We've got to breed it out of them."

"Yes, sir," came the reply.

Groggy looked around him at the camp, at the idle recruits playing and talking and eating and laughing like a bunch of school children on holiday. The innocence of the scene struck him more than anything else; he'd have to transform this polyglot hodgepodge of good-for-nothings into a crack unit of hell-raising murderers.

But for now, he had to ask a more immediate question:

"Where the hell are my officers?"