Training

[GSgt Mike Hefner 0]

Training

 

Two kinds of training came down the pike when it came to combat. The usual took months. It was intense, but slow and intricate. Classroom sessions followed by drill followed by weeks of down and dirty field work with the occasional break for sack and chow. It broke the mold of individuality, stripped the recruit of all vestiges of past comforts and blended him or her into a team mentality.

 

Rapid-fire training, what produced a 30-day wonder, was a more intense in-your-face approach. Rapid-fire training was more commonplace since the Soltan took out too many bases to count and destroyed training facilities, not to mention half the Corps and Fleet. It gave just as much training in a fraction of the time and was designed to deliver a functional Marine to the front lines yesterday. This method didn't set well with anyone - the DIs or the recruits - mostly because it produced more of a half-baked Marine than a fully-trained one.

 

But Gunny Hef and the rest of the instructors figured they were ahead of the game as far as half-baked was concerned. On Agincourt they were not dealing with raw recruits. Fed regs, strategy, chain of command - no problem. But, in the Colonel's words, "We don't have three months to do this," - that was a problem. Training in explosive munitions couldn't be done effectively in a few days, so, as reluctant as they were, training had to be short, clipped, and direct - in-your-face. Which, of course, resulted in quite a few minor injuries. Acceptable for a Marine. Apparently not acceptable for Fleeters. Or the doctor.

 

Given the circumstances and the number of wrenched shoulders and bruised elbows he'd seen, it wasn't all that surprising to be interrupted in the middle of one of the best sack-outs he'd ever had on the coveted NNC couch.

 

"I need to have a word with you Sergeant. Either find your way to a private room or come to my office."

 

Doc Trenral didn't sound too pleased over the comm, and for the kind of conversation Slick imagined would follow, he figured her office was the best place. In less than a minute he was standing at attention in front of the doctor's desk. And no, she didn't look too happy.

 

"At ease, Sergeant. As much as I want to yell at you I won't. I'll preface this by saying I appreciate the work you've been doing with the training."

 

Okay, so he wasn't exactly expecting that lead-in. Standing at full parade rest, he settled in to get her take on the situation. Never hurt to learn the opposite side, especially from the Fleet doctor. If nothing else he'd know which buttons not to push next time.

 

"However. I need to remind you that Starfleet is still an exploration branch of the Federation and the "squids" as I believe you call them, are not made of your hardy stock. We've had 82 cases of shoulder bruising of various intensities, and we've been going through anti-inflammatories like they're breath mints. We don't have unlimited resources here. Therefore, in any further training exercises I expect there to be shoulder pads available to those that choose to use them. Understood?"

 

Eighty-two? "Yes, ma'am." Seems like they had more raw trainees than that. Who'd they miss? Follow the strict rules of reaming - eyes front, look sharp, listen, and do not make excuses. Forget that shoulder pads would probably not be available in a real combat situation.

 

"Now, since you look like day old gagh standing there you're to get at least eight hours undisturbed sleep, excepting an issuance of battlestations, using whatever means you deem necessary. We need you sharp."

 

"Yes, ma'am." Doc Trenral was on the right track, so he took a chance. "With your permission, ma'am? It was understood from the beginning that there would be physical problems during training. Our main objective was not only to teach the proper use of those weapons but to see who would survive in a battle situation. And who would not. Our training... and the bruises you patched up, ma'am? They were to prevent worse injuries in the field. And deaths."

 

"Which is precisely why I waited for that phase of the training to be over before bringing this up, Sergeant. But I can't have cross-department training eating up sickbay resources and potentially causing a loss of efficiency in other departments. So, in the future, anyone that proceeds is to have the option. If they want to swap over to a gray uniform they're more than welcome to pound their flesh to dust. Now go get some rest, I expect you to blow apart any Soltans that pop up so I don't have to use that damnable firearm."

 

"Understood, ma'am." Taking that as a dismissal, the Gunnery DI snapped back to attention and took a sharp 180 on one heel for a formal exit. His estimation of the doctor was up a notch. Maybe a few. Direct and thorough, she seemed to look at both sides of the coin.

 

Look like day-old gagh? Hell, he felt like day-old gagh. 'Course, a few days in the field followed by long hours on the firing line gave a person a certain ripeness that was the hallmark of a Marine. Judging from the looks he was getting and the lack of willingness of others to step into the lift with him, he figured it was time.