Starship Troopers

Man is what he is, a wild animal with the will to survive, and (so far) the ability, against all competition. Unless one accepts that, anything one says about morals, war, politics—you name it -- is nonsense. Correct morals arise from knowing what Man is -- not what do gooders and well-meaning old Aunt Nellies would like him to be.

The universe will let us know—later -- whether or not Man has any "right" to expand through it.

In the meantime the M. I. will be in there, on the bounce and swinging, on the side of our own race.

Toward the end each of us was shipped out to serve under an experienced combat commander. This was a semifinal examination, your ‘board-ship instructor could decide that you didn't have what it takes. You could demand a board but I never heard of anybody who did; they either came back with an upcheck or we never saw them again.

Some hadn't failed; it was just that they were killed -- because assignments were to ships about to go into action. We were required to keep kit bags packed—once at lunch, all the cadet officers of my company were tapped; they left without eating and I found myself cadet company commander.

Like boot chevrons, this is an uncomfortable honor, but in less than two days my own call came.

I bounced down to the Commandant's office, kit bag over my shoulder and feeling grand. I was sick of late hours and burning eyes and never catching up, of looking stupid in class; a few weeks in the cheerful company of a combat team was just what Johnnie needed!

I passed some new cadets, trotting to class in close formation, each with the grim look that every O. C. S. candidate gets when he realizes that possibly he made a mistake in bucking for officer, and I found myself singing. I shut up when I was within earshot of the office.

Two others were there, Cadets Hassan and Byrd. Hassan the Assassin was the oldest man in our class and looked like something a fisherman had let out of a bottle, while Birdie wasn't much bigger than a sparrow and about as intimidating.

We were ushered into the Holy of Holies. The Commandant was in his wheel chair—we never saw him out of it except Saturday inspection and parade, I guess walking hurt. But that didn't mean you didn't see him—you could be working a prob at the board, turn around and find that wheel chair behind you, and Colonel Nielssen reading your mistakes.

He never interrupted -- there was a standing order not to shout "Attention!" But it's disconcerting. There seemed to be about six of him.

The Commandant had a permanent rank of fleet general (yes, that Nielssen); his rank as colonel was temporary, pending second retirement, to permit him to be Commandant. I once questioned a paymaster about this and confirmed what the regulations seemed to say: The Commandant got only the pay of a colonel—but would revert to the pay of a fleet general on the day he decided to retire again.

Well, as Ace says, it takes all sorts—I can't imagine choosing half pay for the privilege of riding herd on cadets.

Colonel Nielssen looked up and said, "Morning, gentlemen. Make yourselves comfortable." I sat down but wasn't comfortable. He glided over to a coffee machine, drew four cups, and Hassan helped him deal them out. I didn't want coffee but a cadet doesn't refuse the Commandant's hospitality.

He took a sip. "I have your orders, gentlemen," he announced, "and your temporary commissions." He went on, "But I want to be sure you understand your status."

We had already been lectured about this. We were going to be officers just enough for instruction and testing—"supernumerary, probationary, and temporary." Very junior, quite superfluous, on good behavior, and extremely temporary; we would revert to cadet when we got back and could be busted at any time by the officers examining us.

We would be "temporary third lieutenants" -- a rank as necessary as feet on a fish, wedged into the hairline between fleet sergeants and real officers. It is as low as you can get and still be called an "officer." If anybody ever saluted a third lieutenant, the light must have been bad.

"Your commission reads ‘third lieutenant,' " he went on, "but your pay stays the same, you continue to be addressed as ‘Mister,' the only change in uniform is a shoulder pip even smaller than cadet insignia. You continue under instruction since it has not yet been settled that you are fit to be officers." The Colonel smiled. "So why call you a ‘third lieutenant'?"

I had wondered about that. Why this whoopty-do of "commissions" that weren't real commissions?

Of course I knew the textbook answer.

"Mr. Byrd?" the Commandant said.

"Uh... to place us in the line of command, sir."

"Exactly!" Colonel glided to a T. O. on one wall. It was the usual pyramid, with chain of command defined all the way down. "Look at this—" He pointed to a box connected to his own by a horizontal line; it read:

ASSISTANT TO COMMANDANT (Miss Kendrick).