Tip of the Spear: Imperium's Second Legion

[Gulliver Foyle]

The dropship Foyle's Folly hung over the small green moon, a mechanical blemish over an otherwise pristine landscape. The 2nd Legion's flagship was not, according to more traditional notions of such things, a proper man of war. It was basically a glorified troop transport, with minimal armament, designed solely for the task of delivering fighting men to the fight. It was escorted by three heavy cruisers: Fearless, Fury, and Fortitude. They, in turn, were accompanied by a host of smaller light cruisers, destroyers, and patrol vessels, as well as a smattering of fighters and gunships.

The 2nd Legion was not geared towards naval combat, but if necessary, they could get themselves out of trouble.

In this instance, there was no trouble to be found. The little green moon, an uncharted forest world around a massive gas giant that, some billion years ago, was just a little too small to become a proper star, had no indigenous sentients and precious little to recommend itself to settlers or prospectors. It would have made for an excellent pirate's haven, if not for the apex predators that roamed the forests. There were several species of large felines, the largest weighing in excess of a ton, the prowled the trees.

They were clever, patient hunters. Rudimentary surveys had shown that they might even be pre-sapient. They were certainly capable of solving puzzles and even of rudimentary tool use, though their large paws and razor sharp claws were more suited to latching onto prey than constructing shelters or what have you. With the right scans, one could clearly see that several ships had landed here over the centuries, and the surveys had concluded that the crews had been quite tasty.

The idea of a pristine forest world with no safety net and lethal wildlife had set Gulliver into a tizzy. This was the stuff that gave training planners wet dreams and trainees PTSD.

The mission was simple: 1st Infantry Brigade, along with elements of the 5th Artillery Regiment and the 8th Engineer Corps would drop in after a brief, surgical bombardment by the Fearless cleared exactly 3 square kilometers of the forest. 1 IBE would provide security while the 8th Engineers constructed a firebase. The 5th was mainly there so they could practice setting up on a hostile world.

They would survive on the planet for a month with no support, no relief, and no chance of rescue. The ships in orbit were there strictly to protect them from potential hostile incursions, in case enemy ships entered the system. That was a low probability event, but Gulliver would rather have them and not need them than need them and not have them.

After a month, the location of the world would be revealed to the rest of the Imperium. Any and all comers would be welcome to wrest control of the firebase from the inhabitants, who would almost certainly resent the intrusion. They would be welcome to express their feelings in a manner becoming of the 2nd Legion. That, the old General suspected, would involve lots and lots of shelling. 5th Regiment really had a chip on their shoulders, and as long as they could make good on it, he saw no reason to knock it off.

After a month of fighting off hostile kitties and burning their own crap, Gulliver suspected that every swinging dick on that wretched little moon would have a chip on their shoulders.

That was exactly what he was hoping for.

At the moment, he was standing in the command center of Foyle's Folly, an aptly named ship if there ever was one. It flew in the face of conventional Imperial ship design, and that was exactly what he had wanted. He had no problem working with the Imperium. By and large they were as professional a group of warfighters as one could ask for, but there were more than a few hidebound old relics who viewed Imperial doctrine as sacrosanct. The Supreme Commander tolerated the 2nd Legions heresy (their words, not his) just so long as Foyle and his men could bring results.

The command center was, in essence, a large drop pod with artificial gravity, inertial dampers, and everything else needed to keep the command team functioning on the way down to and on the surface. There were many senior officers who balked at the idea of dropping into the fire with the rank and file, and Gulliver was more than happy to show them the door. But he had to give them a chance to adapt first.

"T-two minutes, General," Chief Warrant Officer 4 Calhoun, who "piloted" the drop pod helpfully announced. She was a tiny little thing, barely 50 kilograms, but she knew her job and could ruck as well as any man in the Legion, and better than some.

"Thanks, Chief," Gulliver replied. He turned to his XO. "Ready to fire up the music?"

Some bright spark in the Supreme Commander's office had decided that music should be played before a drop, in order to motivate the troops. The list of recommended tracks had mostly been stuffy old marches, and while the General was fond of a certain Imperial March that dated back to the original Empire, he knew his boys and girls would prefer something a little more...modern.

The XO, or Executive Officer, a Colonel by the name of Eibenhouser, grinned. He was a tall, lanky man with skin the color of paper and a heart as black as coal. He also had a rather eclectic music collection.

"I'm ready sir. What track do you want?"

Gulliver thought for a moment.

"Suprise me," he said, grinning maliciously. "Just make it as un-Imperial as possible. I wanna shock the hell out of the folks watching the live feed."

Though there were no cameras in the command center, the other pods were all wired up for picture and sound. There were enough people waiting for Gulliver to kark this up that he suspected they'd have quite the audience for the drop.

"On it, sir," Col. Eibenhouser said, returning the grin. "I've got just the thing."

https://youtu.be/YlBnJ0egT_4

 

[Gulliver Foyle]

There was a brief jolt and a sensation of falling as the command center was ejected downwards towards the planet blow. Hundreds of pods, everything from ten man squad pods to the massive artillery pods joined it, accompanied by the soundtrack of mayhem.

This is your time to pay
This is your judgment day
We made a sacrifice
And now we get to take your life

Gulliver knew soldiers. You could give them all the hooah speeches you wanted, make 'em sit through all the motivational ceremonies you wanted, and they'd at least show you the courtesy of falling asleep in formation with their eyes open. Give 'em something to rock out to, however...

We shoot without a gun
We take on anyone
It's really nothing new
It's just a thing we like to do

Most of the squad leaders wisely muted their radios, but that didn't stop the mics in the pods from picking up the sounds of 3,000 some odd soldiers screaming along in unison.

You better get ready to die
(Ready to die)
You better get ready to kill
(Ready to kill)

It was something to behold, that was for sure. For starters, most of them were tone deaf. The redlegs were especially bad. Gulliver made a note to drop by the firing line sometime and make sure people were using hearing protection when the cannon were firing. They collectively couldn't carry a tone in a bucket.

You better get ready to run
'Cause here we co-ooo-ome
You better get ready to die
(Ready to die)

Before long the buffeting of the atmosphere drowned out the sounds of what one might charitably call singing, but by then, the music had done its job. Everyone was pumped up and ready to kill. Now it was time for Fearless to do its part.

The heavy cruiser was positioned a few clicks off the Foyle's Folly's stern, where it could shoot under the pods without hitting them. It began to rain hellfire down on the unsuspecting forest. The intense heat of the turbolasers instantly scorched the LZ, turning everything organic to ash with frightening ease. The resulting firestorm was intense, but short lived. By the time the first of the pods landed, the LZ was uncomfortably hot, but survivable, especially for troopers in armor.

The armor, it should be noted, was not the start Imperial white demanded by doctrine. The troopers of the 2nd Legion believed in learning from the lessons of their predecessors, and one of the most important lessons was don't wear white to a karking forest moon.

Each squad had their assigned area of responsibility. The first order of business was to establish a perimeter around the LZ, completely covering the entire area. They set up 500 meters from the edge of the unburned portion of the forest. Anything that approached was going to end up with more holes than a Rodian bounty hunter in a Mos Eisley cantina. And would then likely end up as dinner. There was a strict ban on going into the woods for the purpose of foraging for food, but anything that got dropped in the killzone was fair game.

The engineers landed next, and quickly set about clearing the empty pods from the LZ. The duraplast drop pods were strictly one use only, but they were also designed to be broken down and used as building materials during base construction. Nothing would go to waste. It would take the better part of the day to get the buildings on base constructed, but that was a secondary priority. Defenses came first.

Heavy earthmovers dug trenches and piled up berms. Pods were broken down and repurposed into guard towers. Concertina wire was spooled out around the outside of the perimeter. As soon as a section was completed, the infantry pulled back from their hasty foxholes and took up residence in the comparative safety of the trenches.

While all this was going on, the artillery pods landed. Unlike the other pods, the artillery ones were designed to be used on the ground. Right before they landed, purpose-built jets blasted the ground beneath them, digging out holes exactly one meter deep. This was important, because the cannon were built into the pods themselves, and required stable anchors for accuracy. The sides of the massive pods opened up, each revealing a platoon's worth of 155mm howitzers. The crew had jump seats inside the pods, and as soon as it was safe, they began readying the guns for use.

In the mean time, the command center dropped into the center of the burgeoning firebase. Because center.

Anyway.

In a real combat drop, the timing would be a lot tighter, but this was training. The 2nd Legion was still learning their trade. With experience would come precision. For now, the goal was to build muscle memory. This training exercise would point out flaws in procedures, flaws that could be addressed. It would also point out which units did well, which ones did poorly, which ones were quick to solve problems, so on and so forth.

Deficiencies could be addressed in future missions. Talent could be nurtured.

Gulliver grinned towards his staff, all of whom who were furiously punching away at their consoles, trying to derive order from the chaos. The only thing that would make this better was a thunderstorm.

"If it ain't raining, you ain't training," he said to no one in particular.

The XO spitted him with a dirty look.

"Don't you use that voodoo on us, sir."

The General parried the glare with a look of innocence so pure it would have made a Jedi a believer.

"I wouldn't dream of it."

 

[Gulliver Foyle]

By the end of the day, the 2nd Legion was sitting on the most heavily fortified patch of dirt in the sector.

All told, there were some 6 kilometers of perimeter, with 3,000+ infantrymen to guard it. When they first landed, the brigade used special foxhole charges, or special explosives designed to dig a hole roughly 6 feet long by three feet wide by two feet deep, to create hasty fighting positions, each one with two meters in between its neighbor on the left and the right. The holes weren't comfortable by any means. They were deep enough that the average soldier could sit and look over the top, but it was hard to lay prone and peek over for most.

Each squad had a sensor probe that could be fed into the helmets of the troopers, which would have allowed them to lay back and keep an eye out if it wasn't for the fact that no squad leader worth the name would allow his joes to rely solely on sensors. All the miracles of modern technology were a poor substitute for human eyeballs and intuition, and good leaders learned that quickly.

Fortunately, the engineers were quick to get proper trenches dug. Though the trenches were still basically just holes in the earth at this stage, they were deeper and the troopers could get comfortable. The side facing outward were sloped so that a trooper could basically lay down it comfortably enough, and the fact that it was an actual trench instead of a series of separate foxholes meant that they could shift around as needed. With the addition of crew served weapons emplacements and guard towers cobbled together from the remains of the drop pods and native timber meant that manning requirements were reduced. Before long, squad leaders were able to rotate their soldiers out to give them a chance to eat and rest. The night shift found themselves napping at the bottom of the trenches, at least until the rain started.

Afternoon thunderstorms were common on the moon at this time of the year. The warm weather and proximity to a nearby sea meant that there was plenty of moisture to be had. At about 1700 local time, the clouds started building, and by 1800 the first drops of rain fell.

By 1900, the trenches were pretty well flooded. It was unfortunate, but more or less expected. Building in proper drainage would take time, time that the engineers simply didn't have yet. The troopers with down time were recruited to put up tents behind the earthen berms that backed the trenches, so they were at least able to grab a short nap in relative dryness before the night shift started, but it was a small comfort.

By the time the sun finally set, the smell of brewing caf was so strong in the camp, it was a wonder anyone would get to sleep that night. The night shift, operating on next to no sleep, was about to be in for a rough night. Stimpaks were banned outside of emergency situations, so they'd have to make due with caffeine. Caffeine was, of course, a diuretic, meaning that everyone would have to piss like mad in a few hours, and it also had a tendency to stimulate bowel movement, too. For sanitation purposes, soldiers weren't allowed to relieve themselves in the trenches. Left to their own devices, more than a few would. Squad leaders were under strict orders to clamp down on that stuff. The last thing they needed was an epidemic in the camp, which was a very real possibility when everyone was running on too little sleep and living in fairly squalid conditions.

That was why, after the fortifications were complete, the next phase of construction was a functioning septic system. Proper sewers were impossible. They would only be here a month, and trying to build underground channels to carry away the waste was impossible with the resources on hand. Instead, portable latrines with underground tanks were installed. The tanks were filled with a chemical slurry that would both neutralize odors and kill any pathogens present. At the end of every day, the contents were incinerated. and the ash was pumped into sealed containers. The containers themselves were technically a biohazard, but they were infinitely safer than the alternative.

Night fell.

Due to strict light discipline, the engineers were unable to continue work, which was probably safer to begin with. Though the infantry wasn't exactly comfortable, they had mostly been stationary all day. The engineers, on the other hand, had been working hard, and needed the rest. They would begin construction of the barracks the next day, and a good night's sleep was critical. If they got too tired, mistakes would be made, and injuries would almost certainly follow.

Injuries on any military operation, even relatively safe training missions, were a given. They simply couldn't afford the safety margins of the civilian world. The process of dropping onto a foreign planet alone was dangerous enough; there was always a slew of minor sprains and breaks from the result of bad landings or improper use of safety equipment. All told, there were over 100 reported injuries in the Legion at the moment, ranging from sprained ankles to broken collarbones to, in one spectacular demonstration of stupidity, a death resulting from a trooper who didn't get far enough away from his entrenching charge to avoid catching the backblast.

Gulliver and his staff were keenly aware that events like that were ultimately unavoidable, but that didn't mean that they wanted to tempt fate by having the already exhausted engineers work through the night. Once the natural light faded, the construction halted and the engineers were ordered to bed down. Anyone that had trouble sleeping was authorized a light sedative. They were on 100% rest that evening.

The command team themselves mostly stayed awake that first night. There was a lot of work to be done, and not a whole lot of time to do it. They'd be able to take it easy themselves after the first few days, but until then, they were facing an organizational nightmare. There was simply no avoiding the paperwork. Many a military had decried the idea of paperwork as unnecessary, and had quickly found out that without keeping track of the three Bs (beans, bullets, and bandages), things fell apart quickly.

Food was strictly rationed. Any snacks the soldiers brought with them, colloquially known as "pogey bait," were there own. Squad leaders could demand that it be shared equally, but most knew better. Things like dried meat, candy, or other snacks were not on the packing list, but experienced soldiers knew to bring them none the less. They were important links to home, and had a direct impact on morale. More enterprising soldiers would pack enough for themselves and to sell later on down the road. It wasn't uncommon for an encampment like this to spontaneously form its own economy among lower enlisted. That was fine by Gulliver. It gave the troopers something to focus on other than the fact that they were bored to tears.

So long as they weren't exchanging treats for sexual favors or gouging the prices to the point of forcing the green troops into servitude, the unofficial word was to let it slide. Resource management was an important skill, and these impromptu economies were excellent sources of education. Next time they dropped, the green troopers would know what to bring and how to manage it, skills that would come in handy when they found themselves in leadership positions.

Ammunition was another finite, but crucial resource that had to be carefully husbanded. Every round was accounted for. While they might have ten times as much ammo as they needed on paper, Gulliver knew there was no such thing as having too much. Many a commander had requisitioned only enough to meet the projected need, and had blown through it all in a single, unexpected firefight. Supply would queen, and there would be much wailing and gnashing of teeth among the bean counters, but they could suck a fat one. Better to have it and not need it than need it and not have it. If the Imperium couldn't afford to keep their troops well armed, they had no business existing in the first place.

And finally, medical supplies had to be carefully tracked. This, more than anything else, was something that the command team had to stay on top of. Most medics were good people who had nothing but the interests of their fellow soldiers at heart, but a few bad apples always made it into the barrel. It wasn't uncommon for a black market to spring up for things like basic painkillers or stimulants. What they brought on their own was their business, so long as they didn't violate the prohibitions against trading goods for sex or servitude, but the official stocks had to be carefully maintained. Much like ammo, medical supplies could be used up quickly in a battle, and if one soldier lost their lives because a crooked medic had squandered supplies for personal gain, Gulliver would shoot the bastards responsible himself.

So far though, everything was going to plan. The command team for the night shift had taken over, so the old mercenary bedded down himself. His tent was a little nicer than most, but in a few days when everyone else was sleeping in climate controlled hooches, he'd still be in the tent. Command might have its privileges, but in the field, those privileges were directly related to the mission. No one would work longer hours than the commanding officer. If something happened, he would be woken up to deal with it. So if that meant he went to bed at night in a dry tent that night, so be it. Their survival depended on him being at the top of his game at all hours of the day or night. It was a fact that the lower enlisted often missed or misinterpreted, but that was fine. It was the prerogative of the lower enlisted to queen.

 

[Joran Greth]

[member="Gulliver Foyle"]

Joren Greth watched the live feed of the 2nd legions planet fall. He normally would not think about a single legions activity, but this group and more so this commander had peeked his interests. It was more so the fact that Supreme Commander Decimus had referred to Foyle as a throne in his ass. Anyone who could make the stuff old man refer to them as such, and still remain alive must be doing something worthwhile. Greth wanted to know what exactly that was.

The initial drop was no different than any other drop he had witnessed. The ship was of a design Greth was not familiar with. That in itself was enough to maintain the his attentions. He held sway over the navy and was involved in every aspect of its operations. For a vessel of an unknown class to even exist without him knowing of it was impressive. This one was interesting in design, but not too impressive. It was functional which was all that mattered for a design to work. This one indeed worked. It had laied down various classes of drop pods rapidly from orbit. This was the most impressive aspect of the 2nd legion he had seen so far.

The legion was impressive in their time management over the hour he continued to watch after they had made landfall. He would check in again on this 2nd legion later on and see how they were developing. His hope was they continued to irritate the Supreme Commander. That in itself was enough to warrant his support.

"Major, I need you to continue to keep me apprised of this legions status. They may be of use to me in the future."

Greth turned off the screen and moved onto another project he had his eye on. This General Foyle was a man to study further at a later time. For now He had other projects that required his attentions. The 2nd Legion could wait.

 

[Gulliver Foyle]

Gulliver awoke the next morning to the smell of roasting meat.

"Good morning, Sir," said the commander of the Night Watch, Colonel Alisa Davis. At forty years old, the Zabrak woman was something that wouldn't be seen in any other legion: a nonhuman female not only in a position of rank, but of trust. There were other females of rank in the Imperium, and other nonhumans as well. They weren't the old Empire, where the policy of discrimination and sexism was all but institutional, but old habits died hard. In another legion, Davis might end up as Major in an administrative position if she was lucky. Gulliver, however, was a gundark of a different color.

He didn't hire because of species or gender. There were plenty of armies throughout history who had made diversity mandatory, and had generally suffered for it. That attitude was just as poisonous as institutional discrimination. Instead, he hired entirely based on ability. And Colonel Davis was exquisitely talented. She lacked the battlefield experience and seniority that would have earned her a permanent command of her own, but that would come with time. In the mean time, placing her in charge of the night shift would give her some experience in command of a large body of troops in a relatively safe setting. There would be plenty of time for her and the rest of this new generation of officers to be blooded later.

In the meantime, the grumpy old officer, who was by no means of the morning person, stared in disbelief at the giant plate on meat sitting on a table in the corner.

"What in the hemorrhaging kark is that?" Gulliver asked, half impressed, half incredulous.

"Some sort of grazing animal. Herd came through the killzone last night, and Alpha 2-1 lit 'em up. There were about sixty of the things all told, about three hundred kilograms apiece. The medics said it was safe to eat, and a damn sight better for us than some of the meat you can get back home."

Gulliver nodded, walked over to the plate, and picked up a big greasy strip. It smelled safe enough, so he took a bite. A bit tough, gamy, but it beat the hell out of field rations.

"How'd the butcher it all," he asked.

"Coupla country boys got together some work teams from the engineers. They managed to get the lot butchered in about two hours. Stripped the meat, put what couldn't be used in flash freezers, and incinerated what they couldn't use."

The general nodded again. They had brought the equipment along for this eventuality. It wasn't uncommon for large forces to have to forage for food in hostile territory. This would be good practice, and hell, it was good for morale.

"Anything else happen?"

"Not really," Davis said, suppressing a yawn. "Bravo 1-1 had a private fall asleep at his post."

She conveyed the news like one might announce the expected weather for the day, but Gulliver knew better. A soldier falling asleep at his post was a serious deal. In garrison, it could be cause for imprisonment, loss of rank and pay, and dishonorable discharge. In the field, whether in training or battle, there was only one punishment.

"Has he been dealt with?"

Davis looked down.

"No sir, not yet."

"Squeamish?"

"No sir. Well, a little, if I'm honest, but that's not it. We need to make an example of him. I wanted everyone to see."

"Not a bad idea. This sort of thing is hard on everybody, but it's necessary."

She nodded.

"Thank you sir."

"Where is he?"

"In the stockade."

"Have him brought out. This will be first, yes?"

Davis nodded again.

"Well, it had to happen sometime. Just remember: show 'em once that you mean business, and they'll never doubt it again."

Thirty minutes later, and everyone not immediately on guard duty was in formation in the center of the compound. The soldier in question had his hands tied behind his back. His squad leader and platoon sergeant stood on either side of him. They would face no censure, at least not officially, but their place on the podium was one of shame. They had failed their soldier, and he would pay the price.

Gulliver was there, but this wasn't his show. Colonel Davis had been in charge at the time, and it was her responsibility to handle it.

"ATTENTION TO ORDERS!" shouted her Command Sergeant Major. "PRIVATE HALE, TIMOTHY! YOU ARE CHARGED WITH DERELICTION OF DUTY IN A COMBAT ZONE!"

There was a muted gasp from the assembled soldiers. They knew what that meant.

"THE SENTENCE IS DEATH, EFFECTIVELY IMMEDIATELY!"

The private's squad leader and platoon sergeant stripped his jacket from him and forced him to kneel. Colonel Davis stepped behind him, blaster in hand. It was her service pistol. There was no need for a ceremonial weapon. She placed the muzzle at the base of his skull and pulled the trigger before he had a chance to react.

Her face displayed no emotion, but Gulliver remembered the first time he had to execute a soldier. She would be a mess later. Lord knows he had been after his first. Killing someone in battle was one thing. The adrenaline and the fear and the knowledge that it was kill or be killed made it a little easier to deal with after the fact. This was necessary, but it was essentially cold blooded murder.

Quiet muttering suffused the formation.

"AT EASE!" Gulliver roared. "Listen up, because I'm only going to say this once. This is, for all intents and purposes, a warzone. When you fall asleep on duty, you don't just get yourself killed. You get your buddies killed. This bastard stained himself, poured his honor out on the dirt like piss from a boot. This is what he got. I don't like this crap, but I promise you one thing: next time someone wants to nod off on duty, someone is gonna stop his ass. Dismissed."

 

[Gulliver Foyle]

Three days.

That's how long it took FOB Stalwart to go from a scorched patch of earth to a fully functioning Forward Operating Base.

It shouldn't have taken that long.

This was still a green force, most of the troopers fresh out of training. Most of the NCOs and officers were recruits from either established militaries or mercenary companies, though a few of the most outstanding recruits had been promoted to junior leadership positions. They were still learning, always learning, improving. It was a process that would continue even after the greenest recruit on the ground today had become a grizzled old man or woman, retelling old, half forgotten tales in taverns.

But even for a new force, there are standards. Standards that must be met before a fighting force can be considered ready to face the fire for real. Elements of the 2nd Legion had thus far proven that they were not ready.

Part of it could be attributed to the execution that first morning. Morale was always low after an event like that. Many of the young soldiers thought it too harsh. It could have been any of them, right? A simple mistake didn't warrant a blaster bolt to the head. Some of them blamed Colonel Davis for pulling the trigger, especially the boy's friends. Others blamed his immediate superiors for his death. Whatever the case, they all tended to spend more time grousing and less time working, or were careless.

The engineers in particular were slow. They weren't strictly considered combat troops. They were expected to drop with everyone else, but their job was to build things, or occasionally blow them up. To see death up close for the first time was...shocking.

Gulliver clamped down on that hard. No one else was shot, but the ones who held up work, who spread the seeds of discontent, they were dealt with harshly. The punishment varied based on severity and on position. Privates were smoked until they could barely stand. Sergeants were made privates, and then smoked until they could barely stand. Officers were docked pay, confined to quarters, or in one particularly egregious case, court martialed. There were about thirty all told who were punished. Once they were put in their places, the pace of work picked up, but they still lost time.

48 hours had been the goal. 60 was the absolute maximum before heads rolled. 72 was absolutely unacceptable.

It was a good thing construction was done, because the engineers were going to spend the next week going through grueling remedial training. It was half education, half punishment; borderline cruel and utterly without mercy. There were consequences for failure, and there wasn't a conscript in the bunch. They all signed up for this. They had agreed to accept the pay and the bonuses and the benefits. Now it was time to earn them.

 

[Gulliver Foyle]

By the end of the first week, the engineers were exhausted, but they were a lot more competent at their jobs.

It was impossible to truly repeat a drop with their current equipment load, but it was not out of the question to make them load their stuff up on transports, haul ass to a remote site, and build an Observation Post from scratch. And that's exactly what they did.

One of the cruisers in orbit would clear out a portion of forest, the transports would land, infantry would set up a perimeter, and the engineers would rush as quickly as possible to get the OP set up. It was worth noting that haste was no excuse for sloppiness. Every OP was inspected thoroughly, and any deficiencies would be corrected before they were allowed to move on. There was no room for error, and even though the inspectors were getting worn out themselves, they did not cut the engineers any slack.

Both engineers and infantry were moving in company-sized elements. Each engineering company was expected to build two OPs per day, and that included time necessary for inspection and for flying back to the FOB for supplies and a fresh infantry company. The first day was their only gimme; they had to be shown what right looked like before they could be expected to do it correctly. After that, any company commander whose troops failed to meet expectations could find himself standing tall before the Old Man, pleading his case for why he or she shouldn't be relieved for cause.

These were not pro forma discussions. If Gulliver wasn't happy with the answers he received, the company commander in question would be cashiered on the spot. For the sake of operational security, he couldn't just send them home, but he could bust them down to no rank and send them up to orbit to scrub refreshers for the naval detachment for the rest of their contract. This happened three times. Once, memorably, the company's entire command staff, from the Captain all the way down to the First Sergeant, were fired for gross incompetence. The company in question was placed under the command of an old Infantry Major who was occupying a staff position and wasn't terribly happy with the idea. He was more than happy to take a notional demotion in order to get a company command again, even if it meant taking over for a bunch of engineers.

He was given a day to whip the company back into shape. The following day, he was expected to go back out with everyone else, and if he couldn't get them up to snuff, he'd go back to his staff position and the company would be dissolved. He was allowed to choose his own officers and NCOs, so long as they came from the company. Seeing as how all the officers were now doing sanitation labor in orbit, that was a tall order. His solution was to put them through hell for that morning. Those who were shown to be leaders were promoted on the spot. Any remaining NCOs who couldn't hack it were busted down. By the end of the day, he had a functioning, albeit rough, chain of command.

The next day, they completed the task to standard, though it took them longer than the average. The day after that, they hit their stride and finished in the half. By the end of the week, no one could touch them. Gulliver idly wondered if maybe they hadn't stumbled onto something big in terms of choosing officers. It was definitely something to keep in mind, and to experiment with later.