Futuristic Infantry 4

Anyone with mil experience knows there aren't lotsa well-kept secrets. It comes as no surprise my phone rings off the hook for the next 3 days. Only one surprise - the sheer magnitude of it compared to previous tours.
I'm guessing all our neighbors (every unit within 100 miles) are more bankrupt than in the past. Yep, everyone wants to invite herself along on our XMG tour.
I go from shortage to cornucopia. In all cases, I tell people to send email or fax resume.
I'm not choosing. I believe in decentralizing authority. Let every Capt and Lt choose for herself. First, better odds of a good personality match. Second, why take the blame myself for the few lemons?
I declare an officer staffing day. We all gather, look at the package of available people, make outgoing calls. Fairest, everyone sees it at the same time.
Late in the afternoon, we send for pizza to celebrate. Just today's calls, we have now passed 110% strength - can cover surprise absences.
Even then, there are no rules against going on tour a few % over, long as you aren't ridiculous about it.
Lt Duncan waxes enthusiastic, "actually found another Newf out there. Electronics tech, ours is missing."
"Good," I reply, "now you'll have a friend. Tell me, how is your literature project going?"
"Funniest thing, Col, only people who are interested, the old-fashioned religious sort. Hey, didn't mean any offence, just stating a fact."
I laugh easily, "no offence taken. Rest are just too busy to read."
She continues earnestly, "why is it the army is so bad?"
"Go centuries back in history, back when men did it. Same stuff happened. So, you could say women are simply carrying on the tradition. Other thing, outcast factor. When one outcast is in a corner by herself, just quietly depressed. Small group, it becomes a depressed coffee circle. Gather a large group of outcasts - well you guess what happens."
"Forms a critical mass. Immense reference group. Lotta chance to take that quiet depression and do something active about it. And usually not something good. So Col, you seem way more sensible than mosta this crowd. Would it be too offensive if I asked why you hang around?"
"I'm a double outcast. First, women in general, not doing well. Second, well Afghans are doing less well than women in general. Army is a home, place to hide from the cold cruel world. And yes, sometimes even to be useful and respected." I wipe an eye.
"Sorry Col, should not have asked."
"That's ok, better you know. You hafta make the same choices. If it isn't too offensive, could I ask why you left Newfoundland?"
"Col, there is something obscene about oil. Brings out the absolute worst in people. You think army is bad? Go see how your rigpig lives. Makes ours look like a girls church choir."
"Oh well, now I know."

Meena receives her notification making her Acting/Major; Lt Duncan, A/Capt.
I must admit, gentle reader, Meena had me scared. Too long of being too crazy. This vanishes like the mist. Now she has a real job to do, she's all business. My relief is immense.
Likewise, Capt Duncan; in her case, my fear was her inexperience. Once I see that old-style Newfy work ethic and that careful triple-checking of everything, I know she's ok.
The whole place battens down for tour preparations. Sgt's who haven't drawn a sober breath in months, night or day, suddenly become eagle-eyes pros again. Corporals and privates, bored to death, are wildly enthusiastic.
As Meena is very technically knowledgable, I send her and Lt Morelli to make the selection of armored cars. They come complete with crews. (None of ours are armored car trained.) These crews are impressive. 9 shots outa 10, can hit a 2 foot diameter target with cannon shells. Their machine gunners, sweet rhythm, 2 or 3 at a time, not long bursts which will overheat a barrel.
As I watch training, I have conflicting emotions. Part of me wants to bring everyone back alive and well. Yet part of me feels cheated. One tour in Belfast and one in Londonderry, saw action for real. My 4 rural tours, nada. I find myself hoping the Ra will come out and play.
To me, it seems wildly paradoxical. When you consider the men's attitudes at home; how do people of such poverty (most on the dole) have such a sense of chivalry? I admire them, bigtime, but still I'd like to meet them for real. Just to see who is better, them or us.
I regularly tour all the training, not to nitpick, to encourage the girls, show they aren't forgotten. Of course I use every opportunity to tell people of my Belfast tour. We didn't know it was Belfast until we were airborne, changed at the last moment. Moral of the story, expect surprises, don't be lulled.
As I dismount from my jeep at the rifle range, I hear, "Col, over here," in the on-deck line.
I shudder inwardly, it's the 2 domestic disputers. To my surprise, each gives me a warm hug, thanks me for my kindness and advice.
News to me. "I don't really recall what I said."
Hugging her partner warmly, the larger one smiles, "more like what you didn't say."
"Oh?"
"We came outa there, went for coffee before booking with the counsellor. Realized we'd spent 3 hours playing prize horses' asses. Realized you were a lot more patient, kinder than the counsellor."
The smaller one smiles, "what else? Made a deal, then and there. Anything to avoid seeing those morons."
We all laugh at the rich irony of it.
As I drive away, I feel warmed. Every now and again, you get evidence that it's not totally futile.
I will not bore the gentle reader with chronicling people problems during this time.
Yes we had the odd drunk go crazy. But we boarded the giant transports at 109% strength. It's a mega-achievement. First time in ages a unit has had over 80% turnout.

Futuristic Infantry 3

Breakfast I pick a window seat. Meena joins me, 2 fresh bruises on her face.
"Girlfriend or coffee house?" I drawl.
Proud grin, "fight by consent. Here's hoping 1st Battalion don't need their linguistics expert for the next month. So, now I've chucked the bum, I'm looking for someone who believes in equality. Any ideas?"
"Don't look at me; forbidden to fraternize with your CO."
She laughs easily, "I know. Lt Morelli, that hot bod."
"Go on, you'd never keep up with her."
"Is that a fact now? A challenge? I love a challenge."
"You are almost old enough to be her mother - shame on you!"
"Did I ever tell you what a stick-in-the-mud prude you are?"
"Sure. Almost daily."
We both laugh.
"Just one thing," I drawl, "don't put her in hospital. Motor pool is already in bad enough shape."
She laughs.
I continue, "6 girlfriends in a row you have hospitalized. But then - who's counting?"
She sticks out her tongue, "I'm going after that hot number alla same."
I groan inwardly. Month or two, it will all happen again.
She gets up to fetch a refill. As I see her swagger step, the realization hits. How on earth do we the officers have even one ounce of credibility left? Do we have any moral right to ask enlisteds to behave? Maybe 20 years ago, not now.
I do the math, 5 years to earliest retirement. In that moment, I change, ever so slightly.
She sits, "well now, ain't seen that look on you before."
"What look?"
"Trademark look that says 'had enough, watching the calendar."
"Ah yeah."
"What would it take to change your mind?"
"Field duty. Tired to death with garrison BS."
"Well who knows, we might get the tour the Dragoons didn't."
"Do the math, we'd look like morons, fielding a battalion of 80."
"My friend, you worry too much. A trait you share with anyone who ain't getting. Go and find a girlfriend."

I've barely started my morning paperwork, when Brigadier-General Federenko phones. What's she doing calling at this hour? Rumor has it she never gets up before noon.
"Ah yes, Major Zamani, news for you. It seems Col Pearson is going for a nice long rest in a quiet place. Which makes you Acting Colonel, commanding 1st, 2nd and 3rd Battalions."
"Ma'am, who did you have in mind for my replacement?"
"That Capt in charge of A Co seems capable. She gets the nod."
I groan inwardly.
She continues, "and to command A, Lt Duncan. Come on, it is a Newfy unit. Gotta have at least one Newf commanding a company."
I hang up, stare out the window in surreal disbelief. May God have mercy on us if we get a tour.
An hour later, same courier. I tear it open in trepidation. This one is to the right Maj Z, me.
After she leaves, I groan, loudly, Ulster. Not just Ulster, South Armagh, bandit country down near the Eire border. I am to take 1st and 3rd Battalions of the Torngat Highlanders to XMG, army-speak for Crossmaglen. 2nd Batt will stay home.
With shaking hand, I dial, "Meena, get over here now."
As I wait, I flip pages. Footnote at the back says the Dunvegan Dragoons hafta give me 4 armored cars. Better yet, I choose which 4, so they can't stick me with lemons. Revenge is bittersweet.
Meena flips pages, snorts, "you mean, we gotta give that wet-behind-the-ears Newf my company?"
"Fraid so."
"I sure hope the IRA is as screwed up as us," absolutely wicked grin, "but the upside."
"There is an upside?"
"Of course Zohra. We screw up and Newfies get the blame. Not the East Indians and Afghans and Russians and everyone else pretending to be Newfy."
It is so ridiculous that I laugh.
"There, feel better?"
Surprise, I do.
"Then pick up that phone and dial the Newfy nutbar."
Lt Duncan flips paper, "wow, what an honor. We Newfs have a real reputation for drinking and fighting. Meaning the Ra will want to try us on for size."
I don't wish to dampen her enthusiasm, but I do have a six-pack of Ulster tours.
Grins, "so Col, your take on the Ra?"
"City ones, fully modernized, no inhibitions. Country ones, old style of chivalry. Simply never attack a womens' unit. Still, gotta prepare, never know if younger leadership has taken over."
"That seems very sexist to me."
Meena chimes in, "listen up, what the Col is saying is we are the problem, not the IRA. Girls don't take the tour serious, fall asleep on patrol. Job One is keeping our side awake."
"Gotcha. So, what do we do about troop numbers?"
I could answer that, but prefer not to. Gotta get Lt Duncan used to Meena as her Batt Commander. "I ah I'll hafta check the other 2, Meena, give us your take on the 3rd."
"Let's fire up the computer. Today, strength is 82, not good. But Friday, our barroom brawlers get outa civvy jail after 14 days D&D (Drunk and Disorderly). Pulls us up to 142."
Lt Duncan protests, "isn't there danger of re-offending? It is 3 months to tour start."
Meena smiles gently, "yes and no. Any one person can do any one crazy thing. No as a group."
"Why not?"
"Ten years ago, there was an excess of red-zones. Lotta trouble in the world. Almost back to back tours. Life was profitable, all that triple pay. Peace is not only boring, it's impoverishing. Some 9/10 of the girls have rather parlous finances."
"The other tenth?"
"The tenth that stays outa drugs and booze ain't cheapskates. They mostly do it for religious reasons."
"I'm starting to get your drift. Any one drunk can do any one thing. As a whole, they are afraid to miss the tour. Might be a long time waiting for another."
"Excellent. Now 20 in detox. Pulls us up to 161."
Lt Duncan queries, "ok, the girls in hospital. What's your take?"
Meena laughs ironically, "44 there. I'd say 35 connected with these endless stupid fights." She blushes just a bit, "maybe 10 are real illnesses. Ok, 196 now. Now the brig, 42. Be empty in no time once people start behaving. Brings us to 238. Stockade, ain't gonna see them, longtimers."
Lt Duncan asks, "we gonna shake the trees in 2nd Batt?"
Meena has the proud smile of a prof whose student just got A+. "Formally, 2nd Batt ain't going. Informally, mosta the girls will loan themselves out to 1st and 3rd."

Futuristic Infantry 2

I emerge from the meeting to discover a corporal-courier waiting, "you Major Zamani?"
"Yes."
"ID please."
I produce.
She takes out an 8 1/2 by 11 thick sealed envelope and I sign. My heart drops seeing the label, "don't run away just yet Cpl."
I tear it open. Sweet - an operational tour. My joy lasts all of 3 seconds, "Cpl, have to take it back. You're my witness I saw the cover page only."
"Why ma'am?"
"For Maj Arezou Zamani, Dunvegan Dragoons. I'm Maj Zohra Zamani, 3rd Battalion, Torngat Highlanders."
Instant suspicion, "you don't look like a Newfy to me."
"Cpl, if you bothered to read the newspaper even thrice per year, you'd know no one in Newfyjohn joins anymore. All that offshore oil, big bucks, why bother with the army?'
"Oh, sign here and I'll witness."
"6 miles up that road, on your right, lotta armored cars parked."
Morosely I watch as she mounts her scooter, heads north. Too late for paper now, I head for supper, choose a window seat. As I watch, 3 obviously drunk soldiers and 2 MP's get into a fist fight.
My friend Meena, who commands A Company, joins me.
"Those yours?" I ask, pointing.
"Oh no, 3rd time this month for them. Gonna read them the Riot Act, send them to you."
Just exactly what I need, I think acidly.
"Forget all that crap, Zohra. It'll keep. Serious stuff to talk bout. See my girlfriend is getting to be a problem. Things started out equal, now she's pushing, wants me to do all the work."
So goes my evening. I get back late, feeling utterly wiped and crash. Maybe tomorrow will be better.
I'm soon disabused of this notion. Newly minted Lieutenant Duncan shows, "ma'am, nothing personal, nothing against you, but I'm requesting a transfer outa this battalion."
"May I ask why?"
"Ma'am, I was defrauded, told this was the Newfoundland and Labrador unit. It ain't, I'm the only Newfy in the whole place."
"So where is it you want to go? It's not like there are other Newfoundland and Labrador groups."
She pauses, stares out the window a moment, blushes, "I ah never thought of that. So I guess I'm the only Newfy in the whole army."
"I would imagine so."
"And from what I hear, every place is as screwed up as this or worse."
I nod.
"Well then, pointless to move."
"Lt perhaps you could look upon it as a cultural mission. Help introduce people to literature from there. Lotta good authors over the years."
"No one has written anything but crap for the last 50 years."
I nod.
"But I do like the Classics. Yes Maj, I'll take you up on that suggestion." She leaves, looking cheerful. I'm relieved. Any idea how hard it would be to replace her?
The phone rings, the other Maj Zamani. Does she waste one nanosecond on courtesy? On hello fellow Afghan? Not on your life, rude as all get out, "so when are you sending A Co?"
"And why would I do that?"
"You haven't heard?"
"Heard what?"
"Hey sorry if I seemed a bit ah abrupt. My ground support was taken away, to aid some other unit in New Guinea. Now, Ulster tour coming up for us. Time to rob Peter to pay Paul."
I hang up, chuckling. If orders really do come through, she's the loser. A Co is down to 20 now. So where are the rest? Stockade, brig, civvy jail, sick bay, hospital, rehab center and detox. So there!
My frivolity is short-lived. The same courier shows. I am to render B Co, which costs me 45, instead of 20. I mean how sadistic can you get? They coulda chosen C Co, would only cost 30.
So there you have it, a whole battalion. On paper we are 550. Two days from now, we are 20 plus 30.
It goes downhill from there. Salima, company sgt-maj for A Co shows. She's finished the 20 years today, earliest you can go on early pension. Had enough, can't put up with another day. I really do not blame her.
Next the civvy cops show, arrest a dozen from B Co for the breakin at the local Food Bank. I chuckle, the other Maj Z's loss, not mine.
Lunch is sub-par, our best cook among those arrested. After lunch I settle in to do the paper to render up B Co to the Dragoons.
Just before supper, the courier shows. The order to send B is cancelled. No explanation given. Perhaps the Dragoon tour is cancelled.
Well, good news and bad. Good, least I keep B Co. Bad, wasted an afternoon of this nonsense when I could have done real paper.

That evening, I head for another public lecture, end up in the same coffee house. The 4 lads see me, call me over, want to show me what they've written so far.
I react to this on 2 levels. As a mil, I can offer a suggestion or 2. As a woman, I'm impressed; most positive things I've seen written about women in general for years. Maybe there is hope for the younger generation.
"So ma'am, whaddya think?"
"Lads, I'd focus just a little more on overseas peacekeeping. Most important job done."
"How did women get these roles? Centuries ago, was all men."
"Go back to the dawn of Womens Lib, 500 years ago. Started showing up in frontline jobs. Authorities soon discovered men make the best warriors; women the best peacekeepers. Nowadays, there are 8,000 warriors and 26,000,000 peacekeepers."
"Why do you suppose that is ma'am?"
"Patience. Men get bored, do something, upsets the balance. Next thing you know, the shooting starts up again."
One guffaws, "looking at nowadays, that's hard to believe. Who is fighting in every alley?"
I grin broadly, "men, they misbehave on the front and in garrison. Women, yeah they go crazy on garrison duty. On the front, where it counts, they behave."
"How many tours have you done ma'am?"
"6 in Ulster, 2 in Belize, 1 in Guyane, 2 in Cyprus, 1 in New Guinea, 2 in Sudan. So I speak from experience."
I cheerfully go on my way. Maybe life is ok or sort of.
Today's lecture is on how internet radically altered fiction publishing over the centuries. As in ease of typeset, making smaller printing runs profitable and allowing smaller publishing houses to survive and compete.
Tonight's BOQ debate is bestiality. Ufff. I'm tired, straight to bed.

Futuristic Infantry 1

I'm on my way to a public lecture at the university. Knowing what the mess will serve tonight, I opt for a university area coffee house. I order a grilled Italian sandwich and vanilla hazelnut.
My order arrives just as 4 university students, all male, take up station at a nearby table. I'm not eavesdropping, they are speaking too loudly.
Look of disgust, one pulls out a paper, "for your group term paper, argue one of 2 sides:
a) women are now totally obsolete; or
b) women are largely obsolete, but not totally yet."
"Hey come on, I opt for 'a'. Who here has screwed the real thing, I mean after age 14?", accusing look.
"Yeah, I hear you, it's a crazy law, can't own a droid til age 14."
"Ye-ah, like every father above the rank of dishwasher buys his son a droid for 14th birthday present. Those things are awesome. All orifices automatically adjust to perfect fit."
"And only poor people own one. Everyone else has a harem. Perfect, no headaches, or PMS'ing, happy to do the housework."
"And if you're crazy enough to want kids, get em out of a lab. No genetic defects, perfection."
"Ok, so we agree, argue 'a."
The quietest of the lot says gently, "look 2 tables over, whaddya see?"
"So?"
"Career mil. You boyos wanna bring back the draft? Get your asses shot off? So maybe just maybe they're useful for something."
Oy! Now none of this is news to me. Still, does not do wonders for your self-esteem. Now, I'm not in the mood for the lecture anymore. Big heap of paper on my desk, could use an evening.
I'm about to leave, when it hits the fan. Two girls I vaguely recognize (in civvies) walk up to their table.
Each grabs a shirt front in each hand. Mocking tone, Southern accent, a giant paratrooper drawls, "you boys care to put your fists where your mouths are?"
Obvious fear on all four lads, the paras could wipe them without raising a sweat.
I realize duty calls, walk over, quietly say, "y'all are familiar with the law?"
Nods.
I continue, "back door, to the alley, means fight by consent, no assault charges. Front door or stay inside, means no consent."
The giant para leers, "what'll it be?"
The guys have enough sense to stay inside. The paras shrug, return to their table.
Quietly I remark, "10 decibels lower and it could be a private conversation."
Blushes all around, "yeah ma'am, we get the message. Be more careful in future."
I turn to leave.
"Wait a moment." It's the guy who argued for option 'b'. "Could we ask you something?"
"Sure."
"Truth is we don't have tons of free time. Parttime jobs, endless term papers. Right guys?"
Nods.
"Suppose you could show us a fast way to surf onto the positive contribution of the military?"
I smile, yeah why not? I sit, take out my palm pilot, give them a dozen sites. As I leave, they are already dividing them down.
I feel marginally better, decide to catch the lecture.
It's fun. History of how, over the centuries, the novella came to dethrone the full-length novel. On the Metro ride back to base, I think. Just a minute. Men never read either, novel or novella. All the fiction, now or in Antiquity, was read by women.
And name a woman who does not have tons of free time these days.
So, it's a paradox, how the novel fell and novella rose.
Maybe the real truth is simply novella fits easier into bag or military pocket.
I arrive back in BOQ (Bachelor Officer Quarters). Tonight's debate is history of porn. I skip it, go to bed early.

I always pick up the student newspaper when I'm there. Witty, irreverent, tells you stories the corporate media won't. I read it over breakfast.
One is halfway between a rant and whine. A busy grad student/sessional lecturer relates his woes. It's a struggle, finding time, attend and give classes, mark papers, thesis. His droids aren't helping matters any, that insane level of jealousy among them. He even goes so far as to suggest a grad student/sessional stop at one droid. At least til the thesis is done.
The adventures of a girl taking an advanced statistics course. Considerably brainier than the guys, she demands payment (and I don't mean money) for any assistance.
The final resolution of the Smith case. The university rules she didn't misuse her authority. As a lab assistant, she had no authority over marks. The guys' complaints are dismissed.

I do not get even one minute to start on my paper backlog. Two soldiers are at my office door. "Uh ma'am, MP's gave us the choice, it's you or the counsellors."
I groan inwardly, but usher them in. Everyone else in that stairwell is lodging complaints. Frequent loud arguments, at all hours. As there is no violence (yet), MP's cannot charge.
As they talk, it's obvious why - mismatch. "Butch" is bound and determined that "femme" will do the sweeping, dusting, laundry. (No grocery shopping, cooking or dishes as all eat in mess.)
"Femme" is equally determined to get exact equality.
Quantity of work is tiny, but the battle lines are hard-drawn. Not one iota of give on either side.
Trouble is, regulations forbid me from even hinting at mismatch. The morning vanishes in circles. Finally I suggest the counsellors. They cannot suggest mismatch either, but have more leeway than an ordinary officer.

My afternoon is little better. Three hours of Library Committee meeting. What is the burning issue? Why so much passionate debate? Well, our periodicals budget is a mere $350 for the upcoming fiscal year.
With this level of vitriol, they aren't far from fisticuffs. Only my presence, deference to authority, keeps them from duking it out in the alley behind the building.
We adjourn for the day, having agreed on zero. Think I'd be crazy enough to make suggestions? They'd hate me for picking sides.

Preview of "Futuristic Infantry"

Meet Major Zohra Zamani, an infantry battalion commander 500 years in the future. Come along for the ride as she does 2 tours in ever-hot Ulster, Crossmaglen and Belfast. Yes, there is some shooting, how would there not be? But it isn't a shoot-em-up. Oh no, a view of her struggle to maintain dignity and unit effectiveness in a massively underfunded organization. Between the insanity of the High Command; the addictions, foibles and antics of her subordinates; and the true dysfunctionality of her society; well let's just say she has her hands full.