GWOT V - McNasty
Jul. 10th, 2022 05:51 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
drewkittyGWOT V - McNasty
It should be obvious at this point that Sergeant Driscoll is not his real name. If one reviews campaign records of the Border, especially of Campos Sector, you don't find anything about him.
Nor was I court martialed for shooting him, which he clearly and richly deserved. (I'd shot lots of other people, some of them even in the Army of the Republic ... but shooting my NCOIC would get me talked about.)
###
"Sir."
As befit a senior NCO of the California Republic's armed forces, he could say "Sir" and mean "What the fuck you want, asshole?" with the best of them.
"Sergeant."
And so could I.
"First I'm going to hand you this sheet of paper. Then we're going for a drive."
The sheet of paper was on my printer already. I handed it to him.
It was a one page performance evaluation, a standard form.
I knew what it said of course.
He started to explode.
I put my hand on the butt of my pistol.
He flinched.
Damn. It would have been nice if I'd actually started screaming. Because then I could have dropped him and had a good chance of getting through the court martial, especially after planting the drop gun on his extremely fresh corpse.
I still had said drop gun on me. Waste not, want not. And with any luck, I'd still get a chance to plant it.
"To the vehicle," I ordered.
He looked at me. Realized that holy shit, I was an officer, and holy shit, I was giving him an order, and double holy shit, I would literally fucking shoot him for disobedience.
The vehicle had been sluiced out but not well cleaned. It still had blood and piss and shit and mud on the floorboards and seats. Especially the driver's seat, which I sat in and motioned him to sit beside me.
We pulled out smoothly. I was driving towards the Border. Of course.
###
"Sergeant," I began.
"You're not an idiot. You were in line for a promotion before the last three weeks. Before I came into your life, and you became a worthless good for nothing piece of shit."
"Sir, I respectfully request that you treat me with dignity and respect."
"Kiss my ass, traitor," I replied. Making sure that we were going fast enough that a crash would severely injure us both.
"What?!?"
"I have two soldiers and a medic who are dead now who should be alive. And a third missing a leg."
"How is that my fault?!?"
"Issuing orders directly contrary to my own, intended to defeat both my standing instructions and specific orders in life threatening situations."
I sped up further. Merged to the tertiary road that would take us to CA-8.
"How so?"
I noticed he wasn't bothering with the pretense of Sir any more.
"I gave SOPs to my driver and my gunner. My driver followed them. My gunner did not. You, in the presence of both of them, overrode my SOP. Said I was dangerously unstable and that if I said 'Punch It' or 'Open Fire', these suggestions were to be ignored.
"I just spent a year executing people for breaking military law. You fucking mutineer."
"Why are we in this vehicle?" he asked warily.
"I've evaluated that your survival is dangerous to the Republic and to my unit. So I reserve the right to kill you, even at the risk of my own life. Because I am loyal to my soldiers and you aren't."
I'd already said traitor and mutineer. But he wasn't listening, or didn't yet understand.
"I'd much rather get you on board with the program. Get you performing to your capabilities. Accept that three people are dead because you fucked up, but you learn from it. Or I swear by a God that I don't believe in that I will waste you. Training accident. Helicopter fall. Weapons malfunction. The Border is so fucking dangerous.
"And all I'd be doing, _Sergeant_, is what you tried to do to me. Turn about is fair play."
I risked a glance.
He looked... ashen.
Hmmm.
"I wasn't trying to get you killed! I thought the Americans would..."
"Traitor," I interjected. "Conspiring to get me kidnapped is a bit worse than you know. Some of us are examples. Some of us are famous. I can get my ass killed all day, but I am forbidden to be captured."
"You walk in here and take over," he began.
Finally, truth. I bit my lip and merged to CA-8. Eastbound.
I had no desire to take this problem to San Diego, or even El Cajon. El Centro would do. But I was just about ready to dump his ass at the Yuma check point and have him frog marched into Arizona.
"You're totally inexperienced in the operational arts. You have no prior military experience. You're a naive incompetent, dangerous because you speak the language of warfare but you don't understand it and you haven't done it. 'Student of military history' my left nut!"
"Why am I alive then?" I interjected.
"Your ass was saved by air cav!"
"And I had the presence of mind, when ambushed, to call for air cav! You're a veteran NCO. Do you really think I'm a scrub Lieutenant at heart just because you hate my guts? Or can you evaluate someone you hate - which is a core military skill at your rank, and at my rank - and do better?"
He sighed.
"Shit."
And actually engaged his brain. I could almost see the gears stripping and the lube dripping from his ear lobes.
"Yeah, you've got some moves. But you're patchy as hell," he reluctantly conceded.
"Sergeant Driscoll, you are by far the best NCO I have met in California service. That is my evaluation, and the evaluation of your previous rating officer, and the evaluation of the Regimental SNCO as well as the NCO Board. The problem with your most current evaluation is not your skills but your failure to use them appropriately!"
He seemed shocked. Like he couldn't believe his ears. So I repeated the whole thing, slowly but not so slowly as to be insulting.
"I know the old US Army was toxic as fuck. I've executed enough Army officers and NCOs to see it for myself. But you're in the California Republic now, for reasons known only to you and to your God if any, and you don't have to do shit Snake style.
"My gunner is missing a leg because you jacked him up. My driver is crying in a ball wondering how bad she fucked up when all she did was save my life. And also yours. Because if you'd gotten me captured or killed, you'd be explaining this mess to my CO, Collections and eventually, Pat the Governator. Who would probably find a new career for you in forestry management."
Running crews with hand tools, which any veteran NCO could do in his sleep. Until he drank himself to death in shame.
"You get a week, Sergeant," I said as I executed a high speed pit perfect combat bootlegger on the freeway. As we went sideways and our tires screeched and his hands tightened on the oh shit handles.
"You have seven days to either persuade me that you really are that shit hot NCO I need, or get me killed in a training accident. After seven days, I hand you that eval, or a worse one, and you'd better start checking your gear and watching your back real hard. Did I mention that our doc was once a personal friend of mine and she has no silly Hippocratic qualms whatsoever? You can get hurt and die under her knife. Probably will even if you get me first," I warned musingly.
"Where do we start?"
"We go back to base. You keep calling me Sir and meaning Asshole. I keep calling you Sergeant. But you start fucking performing like a fucking Sergeant in the Army of the California Fucking Republic!"
I stopped myself. Then decided, fuck it.
"I don't want to be your friend. I don't even want to be the Doc's friend. You both get to do your jobs until you get killed or I find someone better. So prove yourself to me. Sergeant. And if you can find someone who can do _my_ job better than me, get me killed and find someone better."
He was silent. Seething.
"Copy. Sir."
I slammed on the brakes full power emergency stop.
When we stopped, my right hand was on _his_ emergency seat belt release. The belt was fully engaged but blood was running down his forehead from where he'd braced with a hand to keep from breaking the windshield with it.
If I'd pressed it down, he'd have gone through the windshield. And then I'd have punched it and gone over him. And we both knew it.
"FUCK FUCK FUCK!"
"Not Copy, Sergeant. Wilco. Or we can keep doing this all day."
A pause.
"Wilco," he finally ground out.
I lifted my hand.
"I shall take you at your word until you give me reason not to. Sergeant. When we get back, I expect you to drop everything and retrain everyone on convoy SOP. The right way. We will have a drill just before dinner. And we will continue it instead of eating dinner if you haven't trained people properly. I'm hungry. So get it right. Sergeant."
His 'Sir' was grudging and angry. But it was the first time I'd gotten a real one out of him.
"I hope you get killed." A pause. "Sir."
"As long as you stop trying to make it happen, Sergeant. That's fair."
It should be obvious at this point that Sergeant Driscoll is not his real name. If one reviews campaign records of the Border, especially of Campos Sector, you don't find anything about him.
Nor was I court martialed for shooting him, which he clearly and richly deserved. (I'd shot lots of other people, some of them even in the Army of the Republic ... but shooting my NCOIC would get me talked about.)
###
"Sir."
As befit a senior NCO of the California Republic's armed forces, he could say "Sir" and mean "What the fuck you want, asshole?" with the best of them.
"Sergeant."
And so could I.
"First I'm going to hand you this sheet of paper. Then we're going for a drive."
The sheet of paper was on my printer already. I handed it to him.
It was a one page performance evaluation, a standard form.
I knew what it said of course.
He started to explode.
I put my hand on the butt of my pistol.
He flinched.
Damn. It would have been nice if I'd actually started screaming. Because then I could have dropped him and had a good chance of getting through the court martial, especially after planting the drop gun on his extremely fresh corpse.
I still had said drop gun on me. Waste not, want not. And with any luck, I'd still get a chance to plant it.
"To the vehicle," I ordered.
He looked at me. Realized that holy shit, I was an officer, and holy shit, I was giving him an order, and double holy shit, I would literally fucking shoot him for disobedience.
The vehicle had been sluiced out but not well cleaned. It still had blood and piss and shit and mud on the floorboards and seats. Especially the driver's seat, which I sat in and motioned him to sit beside me.
We pulled out smoothly. I was driving towards the Border. Of course.
###
"Sergeant," I began.
"You're not an idiot. You were in line for a promotion before the last three weeks. Before I came into your life, and you became a worthless good for nothing piece of shit."
"Sir, I respectfully request that you treat me with dignity and respect."
"Kiss my ass, traitor," I replied. Making sure that we were going fast enough that a crash would severely injure us both.
"What?!?"
"I have two soldiers and a medic who are dead now who should be alive. And a third missing a leg."
"How is that my fault?!?"
"Issuing orders directly contrary to my own, intended to defeat both my standing instructions and specific orders in life threatening situations."
I sped up further. Merged to the tertiary road that would take us to CA-8.
"How so?"
I noticed he wasn't bothering with the pretense of Sir any more.
"I gave SOPs to my driver and my gunner. My driver followed them. My gunner did not. You, in the presence of both of them, overrode my SOP. Said I was dangerously unstable and that if I said 'Punch It' or 'Open Fire', these suggestions were to be ignored.
"I just spent a year executing people for breaking military law. You fucking mutineer."
"Why are we in this vehicle?" he asked warily.
"I've evaluated that your survival is dangerous to the Republic and to my unit. So I reserve the right to kill you, even at the risk of my own life. Because I am loyal to my soldiers and you aren't."
I'd already said traitor and mutineer. But he wasn't listening, or didn't yet understand.
"I'd much rather get you on board with the program. Get you performing to your capabilities. Accept that three people are dead because you fucked up, but you learn from it. Or I swear by a God that I don't believe in that I will waste you. Training accident. Helicopter fall. Weapons malfunction. The Border is so fucking dangerous.
"And all I'd be doing, _Sergeant_, is what you tried to do to me. Turn about is fair play."
I risked a glance.
He looked... ashen.
Hmmm.
"I wasn't trying to get you killed! I thought the Americans would..."
"Traitor," I interjected. "Conspiring to get me kidnapped is a bit worse than you know. Some of us are examples. Some of us are famous. I can get my ass killed all day, but I am forbidden to be captured."
"You walk in here and take over," he began.
Finally, truth. I bit my lip and merged to CA-8. Eastbound.
I had no desire to take this problem to San Diego, or even El Cajon. El Centro would do. But I was just about ready to dump his ass at the Yuma check point and have him frog marched into Arizona.
"You're totally inexperienced in the operational arts. You have no prior military experience. You're a naive incompetent, dangerous because you speak the language of warfare but you don't understand it and you haven't done it. 'Student of military history' my left nut!"
"Why am I alive then?" I interjected.
"Your ass was saved by air cav!"
"And I had the presence of mind, when ambushed, to call for air cav! You're a veteran NCO. Do you really think I'm a scrub Lieutenant at heart just because you hate my guts? Or can you evaluate someone you hate - which is a core military skill at your rank, and at my rank - and do better?"
He sighed.
"Shit."
And actually engaged his brain. I could almost see the gears stripping and the lube dripping from his ear lobes.
"Yeah, you've got some moves. But you're patchy as hell," he reluctantly conceded.
"Sergeant Driscoll, you are by far the best NCO I have met in California service. That is my evaluation, and the evaluation of your previous rating officer, and the evaluation of the Regimental SNCO as well as the NCO Board. The problem with your most current evaluation is not your skills but your failure to use them appropriately!"
He seemed shocked. Like he couldn't believe his ears. So I repeated the whole thing, slowly but not so slowly as to be insulting.
"I know the old US Army was toxic as fuck. I've executed enough Army officers and NCOs to see it for myself. But you're in the California Republic now, for reasons known only to you and to your God if any, and you don't have to do shit Snake style.
"My gunner is missing a leg because you jacked him up. My driver is crying in a ball wondering how bad she fucked up when all she did was save my life. And also yours. Because if you'd gotten me captured or killed, you'd be explaining this mess to my CO, Collections and eventually, Pat the Governator. Who would probably find a new career for you in forestry management."
Running crews with hand tools, which any veteran NCO could do in his sleep. Until he drank himself to death in shame.
"You get a week, Sergeant," I said as I executed a high speed pit perfect combat bootlegger on the freeway. As we went sideways and our tires screeched and his hands tightened on the oh shit handles.
"You have seven days to either persuade me that you really are that shit hot NCO I need, or get me killed in a training accident. After seven days, I hand you that eval, or a worse one, and you'd better start checking your gear and watching your back real hard. Did I mention that our doc was once a personal friend of mine and she has no silly Hippocratic qualms whatsoever? You can get hurt and die under her knife. Probably will even if you get me first," I warned musingly.
"Where do we start?"
"We go back to base. You keep calling me Sir and meaning Asshole. I keep calling you Sergeant. But you start fucking performing like a fucking Sergeant in the Army of the California Fucking Republic!"
I stopped myself. Then decided, fuck it.
"I don't want to be your friend. I don't even want to be the Doc's friend. You both get to do your jobs until you get killed or I find someone better. So prove yourself to me. Sergeant. And if you can find someone who can do _my_ job better than me, get me killed and find someone better."
He was silent. Seething.
"Copy. Sir."
I slammed on the brakes full power emergency stop.
When we stopped, my right hand was on _his_ emergency seat belt release. The belt was fully engaged but blood was running down his forehead from where he'd braced with a hand to keep from breaking the windshield with it.
If I'd pressed it down, he'd have gone through the windshield. And then I'd have punched it and gone over him. And we both knew it.
"FUCK FUCK FUCK!"
"Not Copy, Sergeant. Wilco. Or we can keep doing this all day."
A pause.
"Wilco," he finally ground out.
I lifted my hand.
"I shall take you at your word until you give me reason not to. Sergeant. When we get back, I expect you to drop everything and retrain everyone on convoy SOP. The right way. We will have a drill just before dinner. And we will continue it instead of eating dinner if you haven't trained people properly. I'm hungry. So get it right. Sergeant."
His 'Sir' was grudging and angry. But it was the first time I'd gotten a real one out of him.
"I hope you get killed." A pause. "Sir."
"As long as you stop trying to make it happen, Sergeant. That's fair."
