Starship Troopers

I've never seen it but I believe it. Maybe I'm as obsolete as Tyrannosaurus Rex. I don't feel obsolete and us apes can do things that the fanciest ship cannot. If the government doesn't want those things done, no doubt they'll tell us.

Maybe it's just as well that neither the Navy nor the M. I. has the final word. A man can't buck for Sky Marshal unless he has commanded both a regiment and a capital ship—go through M. I. and take his lumps and then become a Naval officer (I think little Birdie had that in mind), or first become an astrogator-pilot and follow it with Camp Currie, etc.

I'll listen respectfully to any man who has done both.

Like most transports, the Tours is a mixed ship; the most amazing change for me was to be allowed "North of Thirty." The bulkhead that separates ladies' country from the rough characters who shave is not necessarily No. 30 but, by tradition, it is called "bulkhead thirty" in any mixed ship. The wardroom is just beyond it and the rest of ladies' country is farther forward. In the Tours the wardroom also served as messroom for enlisted women, who ate just before we did, and it was partitioned between meals into a recreation room for them and a lounge for their officers. Male officers had a lounge called the cardroom just abaft thirty.

Besides the obvious fact that drop & retrieval require the best pilots (i.e., female), there is very strong reason why female Naval officers are assigned to transports: It is good for trooper morale.

Let's skip M. I. traditions for a moment. Can you think of anything sillier than letting yourself be fired out of a spaceship with nothing but mayhem and sudden death at the other end? However, if someone must do this idiotic stunt, do you know of a surer way to keep a man keyed up to the point where he is willing than by keeping him constantly reminded that the only good reason why men fight is a living breathing reality?

In a mixed ship, the last thing a trooper hears before a drop (maybe the last word he ever hears) is a woman's voice, wishing him luck. If you don't think this is important, you've probably resigned from the human race.

The Tours had fifteen Naval officers, eight ladies and seven men; there were eight M. I. officers including (I am happy to say) myself. I won't say "bulkhead thirty" caused me to buck for O. C. S. but the privilege of eating with the ladies is more incentive than any increase in pay. The Skipper was president of the mess, my boss Captain Blackstone was vice-president—not because of rank; three Naval officers ranked him but as C. O. of the strike force he was de facto senior to everybody but the Skipper.

Every meal was formal. We would wait in the cardroom until the hour struck, follow Captain Blackstone in and stand behind our chairs; the Skipper would come in followed by her ladies and, as she reached the head of the table, Captain Blackstone would bow and say, "Madam President... ladies," and she would answer, "Mr. Vice... gentlemen," and the man on each lady's right would seat her.

This ritual established that it was a social event, not an officers' conference; thereafter ranks or titles were used, except that junior Naval officers and myself alone among the M. l. were called "Mister" or "Miss"— with one exception which fooled me.

My first meal aboard I heard Captain Blackstone called "Major," although his shoulder pips plainly read "captain." I got straightened out later. There can't be two captains in a Naval vessel so an Army captain is bumped one rank socially rather than commit the unthinkable of calling him by the title reserved for the one and only monarch. If a Naval captain is aboard as anything but skipper, he or she is called "Commodore" even if the skipper is a lowly lieutenant.

The M. I. observes this by avoiding the necessity in the wardroom and paying no attention to the silly custom in our own part of the ship.

Seniority ran downhill from each end of the table, with the Skipper at the head and the strike force C. O. at the foot, the junior midshipman at his right and myself at the Skipper's right. I would most happily have sat by the junior midshipman; she was awfully pretty but the arrangement is planned chaperonage; I never even learned her first name.

I knew that I, as the lowliest male, sat on the Skipper's right—but I didn't know that I was supposed to seat her. At my first meal she waited and nobody sat down—until the third assistant engineer jogged my elbow. I haven't been so embarrassed since a very unfortunate incident in kindergarten, even though Captain Jorgenson acted as if nothing had happened.

When the Skipper stands up the meal is over. She was pretty good about this but once she stayed seated only a few minutes and Captain Blackstone got annoyed. He stood up but called out, "Captain—"

She stopped. "Yes, Major?"

"Will the Captain please give orders that my officers and myself be served in the cardroom?"

She answered coldly, "Certainly, sir." And we were. But no Naval officer joined us.