Post by Cabel on Aug 25, 2019 3:57:33 GMT -6
This backstory post will focus on Mark during his early years in the Corps, ideally thirteen years (Circa 2531) after enlisting in the UNSCDF Marine Corps. This would roughly translate into him having achieved the rank of Staff Sergeant (E-6). This backstory post takes place on Earth, at the Grounds of Ft. Lewis-McChord, near Tacoma, Washington. Mark has spent the last nine years at Ft. Lewis after completing the DI (Drill Instructor) School.
[Inner Colonies: System: Sol: Planet: Earth: Continent: North America: United Republic of North America: Region: Northern Pacific Coast]
[State: Washington: Location: Joint Base Lewis-McChord: Marine Training Barracks: Platoon Two-Six-Eight: Date: 06 March 2531: 0430 Zulu: E-6 Staff Sergeant Mark 'Spade' Sorelson]
Standing in the darkened training barracks for Training Platoon Two-Six-Eight, the Marine Staff Sergeant heard the rhythmic breathing of the thirty-six sleeping Marine Recruits snug in their bunks deep into what their subconscious minds could have formed. The thirty-six Marine Recruits had been assigned to his Training Platoon, Platoon Two-Six-Eight, and had been the latest batch out of thirty-one previous over the last two tours of duty or roughly nine years. He'd been proud of each of his Marines once they'd graduated to go on to serve the United Nations Space Command Defense Force Marine Corps, and he'd found he'd had a knack for training Marine Recruits the Expectations, Responsibilities, Duties and the Story of how the Marine Corps obtained the Eagle, Globe, and the Anchor. If they'd managed to learn what it meant to be a Marine and the Motto of the Marine Corps of Semper Fidelis -- Always Faithful, it had meant he'd at least taught them something of Respect.
“Up and at 'em. It's Oh-Four-Thirty. Get out of those bunks. You have five minutes. Five minutes,” he'd shouted, over banging his training baton around the insides of a corrugated metal trashcan.
“Get the Lead out of your socks. Out of those bunks. I'm not your Dad or your Mommy. I'm not your Uncle. Up and at 'em. I will not get you your Morning Slippers. I will not serve you a glass of Orange Juice. I will not serve you a cup of Coffee -- that Gift from the Corps that you will be reaching for after a long day on my Obstacle Course,” The coarseness of his voice reverberated along the polished tiled floors to the immaculate bulkheads and ceiling panels of the training barracks from one end of the Instacrete structure to the other to reverberate through the Head maintained by his Recruits.
The Thirty-Six Marine Recruits had been received the night before and had filed off of the bus that had brought them to the Marine Recruit Depot on the grounds of the Joint Base Lewis-McChord where the bunch of former Civilians that had either thought playing a Marine would have been fun to those that had been determined to have earned the Mantle of a Marine had been met or greeted by Sergeant Williams. Those Recruits had been processed before the former Civilians with raw wide-eyes opened to the harsh reality of their predicament had been transferred to his Training Platoon. Through the power of his voice or perhaps out of the fear of a harsh reprimand from their Senior Drill Instructor that so happened to go by the name of Staff Sergeant Sorelson, the Raw Recruits still under the partial throws of sleep began stumbling out of their bunks with a lack of agility or grace that Mark and his two Junior Drill Instructors -- Sergeant Williams and Sergeant Jackson seemed to relish in some twisted way or perhaps it had been through the perceptions of those Recruits when their two Junior Drill Instructors denoted by their green webbed belts began chewing them out for not having moved fast enough or for having tripped over themselves either from the top bunks or over their foot lockers.
“Are you awake? Did you get enough of your Beauty Sleep?” Mark shouted, his voice worn coarse from nearly two Tours of yelling at Recruits.
“I bet you dreamed of being back home. I bet you dreamed of your Mommy or Daddy or a Relative making you a big, hearty Breakfast of Eggs, Toast with Butter, Pancakes or Waffles smothered in Syrup and a nice tall glass of Orange Juice or Milk. I bet you didn't even want to leave, did you? You were so wrapped up in your dream, in that nice warm dream provided to you by the nice warm blanket provided by the United Nations Space Command Defense Force Marine Corps,”
“Yes, Senior Drill Instructor,” the Recruits shouted weakly.
“I didn't hear you? Are you certain you cleaned out your ears and told Mister Sandman your Senior Drill Instructor requested you stand at Attention?” he'd asked, loud enough for the Recruits to have heard.
“Yes, Staff Sergeant Sorelson,” the Recruits replied with a bit more determination.
“Good,” Spade said. “The next time, I expect you to do that right the first time. If either of your Drill Instructors asks you a Question or gives you an Order, I want you to give them your full attention,”
“Yes, Sir,” the Recruits shouted strongly in unison.
“I think I heard the Bulkheads tremble in fear from that. That is the kind of Devotion you must show to your Drill Instructors,” Mark said. “I understand you are fresh from the Civilian World and have been by the Graciousness of my Beloved Marine Corps dropped on my doorstep to be remade into the very Devil Dog revered through History on this World and on Others. You will not disappoint me. You will not let me down. If you do, rest assured we will prove to you a Devil Dog does not Quit. We do not Retreat and we do not Surrender. If there is a problem, we Overcome it. We adapt. That is the Nature of my Beloved Marine Corps,”
“Yes, Sir,” he'd heard the Recruits shout.
“You will have fifteen minutes to use the Head, to brush your teeth, and to get dressed in your PT gear. We're going on a little Run this morning,”
* * * * * * *
[Mess Hall]
[0600 Zulu]
The experienced Staff Sergeant watched as the Recruits of Training Platoon Two-Six-Eight filed into the Chow Hall after the Training Platoon had stood double-file outside the side doors of the Mess Hall until he had been ready for them to enter and enough time for lines at the Counter to thin. He'd witnessed the Recruits had been a sloppy sort, that had fallen short of his own Standards, but that had been why they had been given to him to train. His own superiors had known that Mark set high Standards for himself, for his Family and for those Recruits that had been fortunate enough to have been trained by him in the past.
Stepping aside, the Staff Sergeant and his Staff watched as the Recruits stepped down the line with trays in hand while the Cooks doled out golden Flapjacks, Grits, Scrambled Eggs, two small discs of Sausage complete with a glass of Orange Juice, Milk or Water. A single fork had been placed on the trays, but the reason for it hadn't even registered yet with the hungry, exhausted Recruits. One of the Sergeants in his Staff directed the Recruits to three tables, with twelve Recruits to each. At each table, the Recruits had been instructed to set their trays down while facing six of their fellow Recruits standing at attention.
“Recruits, on the Low Side take your seats,” Sergeant Jackson called out.
The six Recruits on the Low Side, the side of the table facing away from the main doors or the left side of the table pulled out their chairs in unison before taking a seat bringing the chairs close enough for them to be able to reach their meal.
“Recruits, on the Upper Side take your seats,” the Sergeant called out.
The six Recruits on the Upper Side, or the Right Side of the Tables pulled their chairs out before being seated.
“Heads down,” Sergeant Jackson said, as the Recruits heads lowered.
“Recruits, you have been Blessed by the Corps with this Bountiful meal. Pray to the Commandant, and thank him,” Mark said, his voice course enough to be barely more than a loud whisper in the otherwise crowded Mess Hall. The Recruits had heard him as if he'd yelled at them, and exchanged in a little prayer to the Commandant of the United Nations Space Command Defense Forces Marine Corps. “Amen,”
A series of “Amen” followed in rapid succession.
Mark watched as his Staff took over the duties of teaching the Recruits not only how to eat, but in the small though no less important rituals including how to properly hold their forks, how to lift their glasses, and how to properly drink before they were allowed to even take a bite.
“What do you think of them?” Sergeant Williams asked, having crossed over to where Mark had stood. The Sergeant had kept his voice low enough, not to be overheard by the civilians in training during their breakfasts.
“They're a loose bunch. Unrefined, and eager,” Mark said. “What do you think?”
“They're sloppy,” Sergeant Clark Williams replied.
“They are sloppy. I won't argue with that,” Mark said.
“Staff Sergeant,” a voice chimed in. Turning around, Mark found a Lance Corporal standing not far behind the NCOs.
“Yes, Lance Corporal?” Mark asked.
“The Captain wants to see you, Staff Sergeant,” the Lance Corporal, by the name of Amaro, said.
“She does? Did the Captain give a reason?” Mark asked.
“No, the Captain didn't,” Amaro replied.
“Alright,” Spade said. He'd known that if the Captain had wanted to see one of her Officers, even a Non-Commissioned Officer that it had been usually for a very good reason. He hadn't been one to disobey one of his Superiors, and wouldn't have disobeyed the Captain currently in charge of the Company his Training Platoon belonged to.
“Clark, can you and Jim take over? I'm going to see what the Captain needs me for,” Spade said.
“Consider it done, Mark,” Clark replied, with a smile. He'd intended to inform Sergeant James 'Jim' Jackson know they would be taking command of the Training Platoon until Staff Sergeant Sorelson returned. “I'll let Jim know,”
“Lead the way, Lance Corporal,” Mark said.
* * * * * * *
[Company Administration Building]
[Captain Stillwell's Office]
The experienced Staff Sergeant followed his escort, the Lance Corporal Amaro out of the Mess Hall and down the various corridors to stand and to wait a little in the Ante Room outside of Captain Stillwell's Office. The only other Marine present had been one of the Captain's Aides occupied typing and translating Requisitions Forms and other documents. The first thing he'd seen to after stepping through the doors leading to the Company's Administration Building, Mark had taken off the broad rimmed Campaign Cover to hold it in his hand.
“Staff Sergeant, the Captain will see you now,” Lance Corporal Amaro said. He'd stepped inside the Captain's Office for only a few moments before having stepped back out into the Ante Room, and held the door open for the older Staff Sergeant. With a nod and thanks, Mark stepped inside before snapping to attention. His hands were at his side with his boots together, and his eyes stared ahead.
“Staff Sergeant Mark Sorelson, Reporting,” Mark said.
“At Ease,” Captain Martha Stillwell said, acknowledging the Staff Sergeant's presence. The Captain had sat behind her desk, a broad oak affair that had probably been in the building for years if not decades or longer that had been neatly ordered.
A few stacked folders marked for the In and Out Files had sat neatly in one corner of the desk while a computer sat on the other, and in between were little knickknacks and a name plate bearing her name and rank. Martha hadn't been that tall to begin with at clearing roughly over five and a half feet, but what she lacked as Mark had found out when an errant or disorderly Recruit had crossed her path to her speeches at the Graduating Ceremonies that marked a Recruit's passage through Marine Basic Training that Captain Stillwell had been a force to contend with.
“Aye, Ma'am,” Mark said, shifting from Attention to a more relaxed stance. His arms folded behind him, with his feet spread a little bit more apart -- though well within Regulations. The Campaign Cover lay behind him, and had been held in hand.
“How are your current Recruits doing?” Martha asked, moving to her feet.
“They're rough around the edges, and there are a few that haven't realized they're not at a Saturday Country Club and they can't simply roll over to hit the alarm button on their clock during Reveille,” Mark said.
“They haven't posed a challenge?” Martha asked. “If they were, I wouldn't have assigned them to you. You're a bit of a legend, Staff Sergeant. I'll save the pleasantries, but we both know you're not one to allow a Recruit to fail,”
“I won't let them Fail. I won't let my kids Fail, and I won't let the Recruits do it,” Mark said.
“You've held yourself to immeasurable Standards. Some might even say those Standards are too high, but I'm not one of those,” Martha said. “You're a good Man, and a better Marine. I'm surprised that you decided to stay here in the role of a Drill Instructor. Why haven't you put in a Request for a Transfer?”
“May I speak Freely, Ma'am?” Mark asked.
“Permission granted,” Captain Stillwell said.
“There are a few reasons why I haven't put in a Request for a Transfer. The first, I want to train Recruits to be the Marines they can be proud of. The Corps needs that. The second, I've set roots. I have a Family, with three kids and a lovely wife. I don't want to uproot them, and have them get used to life on Reach or Mars or aboard a ship. I'd rather my kids were able to live their lives on Earth, and to enjoy themselves,” Mark explained.
“Those are some noble reasons. I won't argue with that,” Martha said. “I'm more than certain you're a wonderful Father, and that same Devotion's carried over into your role as a Drill Instructor. It's why it's going to be hard to see you go,”
“To see me go? Could you clarify that?” Mark asked. He hoped he hadn't been about to be kicked out of the Corps over some Recruit's snotty complaint. He'd made it a point never to manhandle or rough up a Recruit except in the verbal dress-downs.
“You're being Transferred, Mark. Before you ask, I know you didn't put in a Request for a Transfer. I didn't put it in either,” Martha said. “Colonel Logan, of the One-Two-Zero MEU of the VII MEF put in that Request. He wants you, and your expertise,”
“Did he give a reason?” Mark asked.
“He told me that he was short on Senior NCOs,” the Captain said. “The One-Two-Zero is currently stationed on Reach,”
“Reach?” Mark asked. He hadn't wanted to leave his children or his wife, and thought that his days of Galavanting around aboard a ship in space had mostly been over. He'd been in the Corps for thirteen years since Late twenty-five seventeen after his passage through Basic Training. Though, he hadn't been one to have argued or debated the logic of the Corps. If the Corps required his expertise on any Front or Colony World or even Station in the UNSC's Territory he wasn't about to argue or turn it down. He'd have to inform his Staff in the Training Platoon, his Wife, his three Children, and his Parents about the change in Orders.
“When does the Transport leave?”
[Inner Colonies: System: Sol: Planet: Earth: Continent: North America: United Republic of North America: Region: Northern Pacific Coast]
[State: Washington: Location: Joint Base Lewis-McChord: Marine Training Barracks: Platoon Two-Six-Eight: Date: 06 March 2531: 0430 Zulu: E-6 Staff Sergeant Mark 'Spade' Sorelson]
Standing in the darkened training barracks for Training Platoon Two-Six-Eight, the Marine Staff Sergeant heard the rhythmic breathing of the thirty-six sleeping Marine Recruits snug in their bunks deep into what their subconscious minds could have formed. The thirty-six Marine Recruits had been assigned to his Training Platoon, Platoon Two-Six-Eight, and had been the latest batch out of thirty-one previous over the last two tours of duty or roughly nine years. He'd been proud of each of his Marines once they'd graduated to go on to serve the United Nations Space Command Defense Force Marine Corps, and he'd found he'd had a knack for training Marine Recruits the Expectations, Responsibilities, Duties and the Story of how the Marine Corps obtained the Eagle, Globe, and the Anchor. If they'd managed to learn what it meant to be a Marine and the Motto of the Marine Corps of Semper Fidelis -- Always Faithful, it had meant he'd at least taught them something of Respect.
“Up and at 'em. It's Oh-Four-Thirty. Get out of those bunks. You have five minutes. Five minutes,” he'd shouted, over banging his training baton around the insides of a corrugated metal trashcan.
“Get the Lead out of your socks. Out of those bunks. I'm not your Dad or your Mommy. I'm not your Uncle. Up and at 'em. I will not get you your Morning Slippers. I will not serve you a glass of Orange Juice. I will not serve you a cup of Coffee -- that Gift from the Corps that you will be reaching for after a long day on my Obstacle Course,” The coarseness of his voice reverberated along the polished tiled floors to the immaculate bulkheads and ceiling panels of the training barracks from one end of the Instacrete structure to the other to reverberate through the Head maintained by his Recruits.
The Thirty-Six Marine Recruits had been received the night before and had filed off of the bus that had brought them to the Marine Recruit Depot on the grounds of the Joint Base Lewis-McChord where the bunch of former Civilians that had either thought playing a Marine would have been fun to those that had been determined to have earned the Mantle of a Marine had been met or greeted by Sergeant Williams. Those Recruits had been processed before the former Civilians with raw wide-eyes opened to the harsh reality of their predicament had been transferred to his Training Platoon. Through the power of his voice or perhaps out of the fear of a harsh reprimand from their Senior Drill Instructor that so happened to go by the name of Staff Sergeant Sorelson, the Raw Recruits still under the partial throws of sleep began stumbling out of their bunks with a lack of agility or grace that Mark and his two Junior Drill Instructors -- Sergeant Williams and Sergeant Jackson seemed to relish in some twisted way or perhaps it had been through the perceptions of those Recruits when their two Junior Drill Instructors denoted by their green webbed belts began chewing them out for not having moved fast enough or for having tripped over themselves either from the top bunks or over their foot lockers.
“Are you awake? Did you get enough of your Beauty Sleep?” Mark shouted, his voice worn coarse from nearly two Tours of yelling at Recruits.
“I bet you dreamed of being back home. I bet you dreamed of your Mommy or Daddy or a Relative making you a big, hearty Breakfast of Eggs, Toast with Butter, Pancakes or Waffles smothered in Syrup and a nice tall glass of Orange Juice or Milk. I bet you didn't even want to leave, did you? You were so wrapped up in your dream, in that nice warm dream provided to you by the nice warm blanket provided by the United Nations Space Command Defense Force Marine Corps,”
“Yes, Senior Drill Instructor,” the Recruits shouted weakly.
“I didn't hear you? Are you certain you cleaned out your ears and told Mister Sandman your Senior Drill Instructor requested you stand at Attention?” he'd asked, loud enough for the Recruits to have heard.
“Yes, Staff Sergeant Sorelson,” the Recruits replied with a bit more determination.
“Good,” Spade said. “The next time, I expect you to do that right the first time. If either of your Drill Instructors asks you a Question or gives you an Order, I want you to give them your full attention,”
“Yes, Sir,” the Recruits shouted strongly in unison.
“I think I heard the Bulkheads tremble in fear from that. That is the kind of Devotion you must show to your Drill Instructors,” Mark said. “I understand you are fresh from the Civilian World and have been by the Graciousness of my Beloved Marine Corps dropped on my doorstep to be remade into the very Devil Dog revered through History on this World and on Others. You will not disappoint me. You will not let me down. If you do, rest assured we will prove to you a Devil Dog does not Quit. We do not Retreat and we do not Surrender. If there is a problem, we Overcome it. We adapt. That is the Nature of my Beloved Marine Corps,”
“Yes, Sir,” he'd heard the Recruits shout.
“You will have fifteen minutes to use the Head, to brush your teeth, and to get dressed in your PT gear. We're going on a little Run this morning,”
* * * * * * *
[Mess Hall]
[0600 Zulu]
The experienced Staff Sergeant watched as the Recruits of Training Platoon Two-Six-Eight filed into the Chow Hall after the Training Platoon had stood double-file outside the side doors of the Mess Hall until he had been ready for them to enter and enough time for lines at the Counter to thin. He'd witnessed the Recruits had been a sloppy sort, that had fallen short of his own Standards, but that had been why they had been given to him to train. His own superiors had known that Mark set high Standards for himself, for his Family and for those Recruits that had been fortunate enough to have been trained by him in the past.
Stepping aside, the Staff Sergeant and his Staff watched as the Recruits stepped down the line with trays in hand while the Cooks doled out golden Flapjacks, Grits, Scrambled Eggs, two small discs of Sausage complete with a glass of Orange Juice, Milk or Water. A single fork had been placed on the trays, but the reason for it hadn't even registered yet with the hungry, exhausted Recruits. One of the Sergeants in his Staff directed the Recruits to three tables, with twelve Recruits to each. At each table, the Recruits had been instructed to set their trays down while facing six of their fellow Recruits standing at attention.
“Recruits, on the Low Side take your seats,” Sergeant Jackson called out.
The six Recruits on the Low Side, the side of the table facing away from the main doors or the left side of the table pulled out their chairs in unison before taking a seat bringing the chairs close enough for them to be able to reach their meal.
“Recruits, on the Upper Side take your seats,” the Sergeant called out.
The six Recruits on the Upper Side, or the Right Side of the Tables pulled their chairs out before being seated.
“Heads down,” Sergeant Jackson said, as the Recruits heads lowered.
“Recruits, you have been Blessed by the Corps with this Bountiful meal. Pray to the Commandant, and thank him,” Mark said, his voice course enough to be barely more than a loud whisper in the otherwise crowded Mess Hall. The Recruits had heard him as if he'd yelled at them, and exchanged in a little prayer to the Commandant of the United Nations Space Command Defense Forces Marine Corps. “Amen,”
A series of “Amen” followed in rapid succession.
Mark watched as his Staff took over the duties of teaching the Recruits not only how to eat, but in the small though no less important rituals including how to properly hold their forks, how to lift their glasses, and how to properly drink before they were allowed to even take a bite.
“What do you think of them?” Sergeant Williams asked, having crossed over to where Mark had stood. The Sergeant had kept his voice low enough, not to be overheard by the civilians in training during their breakfasts.
“They're a loose bunch. Unrefined, and eager,” Mark said. “What do you think?”
“They're sloppy,” Sergeant Clark Williams replied.
“They are sloppy. I won't argue with that,” Mark said.
“Staff Sergeant,” a voice chimed in. Turning around, Mark found a Lance Corporal standing not far behind the NCOs.
“Yes, Lance Corporal?” Mark asked.
“The Captain wants to see you, Staff Sergeant,” the Lance Corporal, by the name of Amaro, said.
“She does? Did the Captain give a reason?” Mark asked.
“No, the Captain didn't,” Amaro replied.
“Alright,” Spade said. He'd known that if the Captain had wanted to see one of her Officers, even a Non-Commissioned Officer that it had been usually for a very good reason. He hadn't been one to disobey one of his Superiors, and wouldn't have disobeyed the Captain currently in charge of the Company his Training Platoon belonged to.
“Clark, can you and Jim take over? I'm going to see what the Captain needs me for,” Spade said.
“Consider it done, Mark,” Clark replied, with a smile. He'd intended to inform Sergeant James 'Jim' Jackson know they would be taking command of the Training Platoon until Staff Sergeant Sorelson returned. “I'll let Jim know,”
“Lead the way, Lance Corporal,” Mark said.
* * * * * * *
[Company Administration Building]
[Captain Stillwell's Office]
The experienced Staff Sergeant followed his escort, the Lance Corporal Amaro out of the Mess Hall and down the various corridors to stand and to wait a little in the Ante Room outside of Captain Stillwell's Office. The only other Marine present had been one of the Captain's Aides occupied typing and translating Requisitions Forms and other documents. The first thing he'd seen to after stepping through the doors leading to the Company's Administration Building, Mark had taken off the broad rimmed Campaign Cover to hold it in his hand.
“Staff Sergeant, the Captain will see you now,” Lance Corporal Amaro said. He'd stepped inside the Captain's Office for only a few moments before having stepped back out into the Ante Room, and held the door open for the older Staff Sergeant. With a nod and thanks, Mark stepped inside before snapping to attention. His hands were at his side with his boots together, and his eyes stared ahead.
“Staff Sergeant Mark Sorelson, Reporting,” Mark said.
“At Ease,” Captain Martha Stillwell said, acknowledging the Staff Sergeant's presence. The Captain had sat behind her desk, a broad oak affair that had probably been in the building for years if not decades or longer that had been neatly ordered.
A few stacked folders marked for the In and Out Files had sat neatly in one corner of the desk while a computer sat on the other, and in between were little knickknacks and a name plate bearing her name and rank. Martha hadn't been that tall to begin with at clearing roughly over five and a half feet, but what she lacked as Mark had found out when an errant or disorderly Recruit had crossed her path to her speeches at the Graduating Ceremonies that marked a Recruit's passage through Marine Basic Training that Captain Stillwell had been a force to contend with.
“Aye, Ma'am,” Mark said, shifting from Attention to a more relaxed stance. His arms folded behind him, with his feet spread a little bit more apart -- though well within Regulations. The Campaign Cover lay behind him, and had been held in hand.
“How are your current Recruits doing?” Martha asked, moving to her feet.
“They're rough around the edges, and there are a few that haven't realized they're not at a Saturday Country Club and they can't simply roll over to hit the alarm button on their clock during Reveille,” Mark said.
“They haven't posed a challenge?” Martha asked. “If they were, I wouldn't have assigned them to you. You're a bit of a legend, Staff Sergeant. I'll save the pleasantries, but we both know you're not one to allow a Recruit to fail,”
“I won't let them Fail. I won't let my kids Fail, and I won't let the Recruits do it,” Mark said.
“You've held yourself to immeasurable Standards. Some might even say those Standards are too high, but I'm not one of those,” Martha said. “You're a good Man, and a better Marine. I'm surprised that you decided to stay here in the role of a Drill Instructor. Why haven't you put in a Request for a Transfer?”
“May I speak Freely, Ma'am?” Mark asked.
“Permission granted,” Captain Stillwell said.
“There are a few reasons why I haven't put in a Request for a Transfer. The first, I want to train Recruits to be the Marines they can be proud of. The Corps needs that. The second, I've set roots. I have a Family, with three kids and a lovely wife. I don't want to uproot them, and have them get used to life on Reach or Mars or aboard a ship. I'd rather my kids were able to live their lives on Earth, and to enjoy themselves,” Mark explained.
“Those are some noble reasons. I won't argue with that,” Martha said. “I'm more than certain you're a wonderful Father, and that same Devotion's carried over into your role as a Drill Instructor. It's why it's going to be hard to see you go,”
“To see me go? Could you clarify that?” Mark asked. He hoped he hadn't been about to be kicked out of the Corps over some Recruit's snotty complaint. He'd made it a point never to manhandle or rough up a Recruit except in the verbal dress-downs.
“You're being Transferred, Mark. Before you ask, I know you didn't put in a Request for a Transfer. I didn't put it in either,” Martha said. “Colonel Logan, of the One-Two-Zero MEU of the VII MEF put in that Request. He wants you, and your expertise,”
“Did he give a reason?” Mark asked.
“He told me that he was short on Senior NCOs,” the Captain said. “The One-Two-Zero is currently stationed on Reach,”
“Reach?” Mark asked. He hadn't wanted to leave his children or his wife, and thought that his days of Galavanting around aboard a ship in space had mostly been over. He'd been in the Corps for thirteen years since Late twenty-five seventeen after his passage through Basic Training. Though, he hadn't been one to have argued or debated the logic of the Corps. If the Corps required his expertise on any Front or Colony World or even Station in the UNSC's Territory he wasn't about to argue or turn it down. He'd have to inform his Staff in the Training Platoon, his Wife, his three Children, and his Parents about the change in Orders.
“When does the Transport leave?”
