A Memory: Fort Moore, Advanced Infantry Training School, Army Training Centre, PX1454, Columbus Subsector, Georgia Sector 2954CE.
'By the last week of the AIT, the combat support specialist should be an integral part of their unit.'
The Drill Sergeants' Handbook 2882
IT WAS THE END of the sixth and final week of the advanced infantry training programme for the twenty-six-year-old Macgregor. He was currently standing at attention in front of the rest of his training section on review for his platoon commanding officer, Lieutenant Hamish Barclay. The parade was taking place in one of the smaller parade rooms in the training barracks. Designed for an entire platoon, the room dwarfed the 15 soldiers, including Macgregor, that were present. Any little noises echoed like thunder. This was the last section review before passing out as a fully fledged Combat Medical Technician of the Royal Gloucestershire Light Infantry Regiment, and it represented the culmination of the last six weeks of advanced infantry training or learning how to integrate with the infantry on operations.
The section stood behind him in three ranks in the middle of the room, struggling to stay awake while their training sergeant finished appraising their uniform. He, unlike them, was standing at attention. It was expected that all of them would pass the test comfortably, and they did. Technically, the officers were supposed to do uniform inspections. However, they never did. They just came in at the end of parades to give the orders for the next day. Not that this was a bad thing, mused Macgregor. Officers gave him a headache. Their gin and tonic drinking caused these headaches, as did their habit of talking about random shit on parades, and not getting to the point. He regularly swore to himself that he would never get promoted. Imagine having to share a mess with them. No, he’d rather go mad.
The section was one of three in the specialist skills training platoon and was fifteen strong. Macgregor was one of five combat medical specialists, two other men and two women. In the section, there were also two bomb disposal experts on loan from the RLC, a few RAF close air support coordinators and a few other technical trades. They were all there to learn the regiment’s light infantry skills so they could work on the frontline without being a hindrance. Because of his proficiency in basic soldiery, this section was his to lead.
Even within training, there was a need for a clear chain of command. The training officers selected promising trainees to be section leaders, with the role rotating if there were a few. The rank of corporal or sergeant would normally hold this role, but in training, it was a brevet appointment with the holder still expected to be called private Bloggs. That being said, though, all the sections called their leaders ‘the Corporal’ informally, as a mark of respect. In Macgregor’s case, he had an even more informal nickname, ‘The Doctor’ because of his PhD, given to him as a degrading name at basic training by the drill sergeants there. However, quickly this transformed into a positive appellation, given out of respect by his fellow trainees. This was because they trusted his experience in managing them, his general intelligence, and his ability to do the job.
In fact, Macgregor’s innate leadership qualities were that evident, he was promoted to a section leader in both his basic and advanced infantry training courses, without rotation off the job. It surprised his original training officer when he said that he wanted to be a Combat Medical Technician rather than a normal soldier. This was, as the officer said in Macgregor’s passing out report, because: ‘Macgregor has a natural flair for reading and understanding tactical situations, with an ability to make instinctive, incisive decisions in response to fluid situations. He is always willing to help his fellow recruits in all aspects of training, and he has kept morale high in his section and training platoon. He is an excellent marksman with the ability to reach out to an astonishing range even with the KM-18. Macgregor also has a proclivity to the soft touch, lending itself to the light infantry way of life, rather than the sledgehammer of armoured or mechanised infantry. I do not believe he cannot fulfil himself in his chosen speciality of Combat Medical Technician, and it is a loss to the army. However, I know he will do staggeringly well in that as well.’ Macgregor always thought that that officer had been full of shit, but looking back, he felt he should be proud of his achievements in basic, especially considering that he was 25 when he started, having just finished his PhD.
Macgregor had known some of his section, such as his best friend Colin Tierney, also a CMT, in basic training and specialism training, and was having a rather enjoyable friend with benefits relationship with one of the female CMTs, Private Helen Susan. The FAC guys, of course, he did not know about. But as a likeable chap, a good listener and a man who led by example rather than expectation, they all respected and followed him. He had even the respect of his ultimate commanding officer, Captain Fowler. The only thorn in Macgregor’s side was Sergeant Eli Lovett.
Lovett was a twenty-eight-year-old career soldier. His experience as one of the few boy soldiers in the modern army had turned him into an absolute bastard of a human being. He enjoyed nothing more than making selected people’s lives hell, and this trait only worsened after he was removed from active duty. Placed on a training detail, he was rabidly of the opinion that this was a slur against his ability and length of service, having fought against the first Tarquin attacks in 2949, as well as the brush war with the Asian Confederacy.
The truth was more complicated than that, but the practical upshot was that company and battalion staff did not trust him on the front line anymore. They tried to temper him by the fact they also thought that his abilities should not go to waste and so posted him to the training centres to bash the recruits into soldiers.
Lovett had chosen Macgregor as this section’s target for his bullying. Everyone could not work out why Lovett hated Macgregor so much.. He had never disobeyed or questioned an order, and he had kept his section ahead of the other two sections in terms of standards. But from the first day of the AIT, Lovett had crapped on Macgregor, making him do a run twice or picking out tiny flaws in his uniform. Macgregor suspected that Lovett’s hatred came from the man’s own insecurities rather than anything concrete on the side of Macgregor.
In Macgregor’s mind, drill didn’t really matter, he was a CMT, and that to him what did actually matter was his ability to keep men alive without getting killed himself. Also important to him was being able to, when the lead flies, return fire on target and help keep his fellow soldiers alive. It was just for drill and ceremonial that he couldn’t be bothered to jump through the hoops. It had been a problem at basic too. Though, of course, Macgregor had patiently sat with his section as and when needed to give pointers and feedback on their drill. This allowed the section to gain nearly full marks in its drill, all but Macgregor, who consistently got 75% in drill tests. The Lieutenant in charge of the training platoon found it funny, as he knew Macgregor could do perfect drill, but Lovett didn’t find it funny at all. Every time Macgregor scored lower than his section, Lovett made him spend the next six hours drilling him until he was perfect. This was unnecessary because, in all actuality, he was perfect at drill. Lovett soon realised and started beasting him by making him dig and fill trenches for the same time.
The Sergeant had got increasingly vindictive over the six weeks and his punitive punishment of Macgregor had become more ridiculous. In the fourth week of the training, they had been doing a lot of night operations and one night when they were under the command of a different sergeant rather than Lovett; he went into the barracks room and systematically take apart Macgregor’s sections billet. He upturned cupboards, removed several uniforms and screwed them up, scuffing up shoes and returned them to their owners, stole personal effects and broke beds. When the section returned from the operation, four hours later at nine in the morning ready to crash out, they walked into their billet and straight into the sergeant, who tried to look innocent, lay into them for the shit state of their billet. Macgregor took all the blame for it, even though he knew it was chickenshit. The sergeant decided punishment was to make him clean, iron and polish his (the sergeant’s) entire uniform selection in one day and if he failed, which he was always going to do, he was to do the same for the officer’s kit.
The Lieutenant partially undid Lovett on this occasion, when Macgregor went to see him about cleaning his kit. The Lieutenant knew nothing about the punishment, and he had only just got his kit back from his dogsbody. Clean, of course. When Macgregor explained why he had come for Lieutenant Barclay’s kit, he took the orders off Macgregor, signed it and gave it back to him whilst winking at him. ‘We wouldn’t want your section to lose its excellence now, would we? Dismissed, Mr Macgregor.’ Macgregor nodded left to go back to his duties, six hours earlier than expected with his respect for the Lieutenant increased. As for the Billet, Alastair had produced such a close-knit of soldiers that, even though the Officers and the CSM were inspecting the barracks that night, and that the troopers were dead on their feet, each man did a job he excelled at, so that in about three hours the billet was in better shape than when they left.
Sergeant Lovett was now standing to one side in front of him inspecting his uniform, when he suddenly barked at him, cutting across Macgregor’s inner thoughts.
"Macgregor, your shirt is crap. What is your sleeve, Birmingham New Street? There are more tramlines than on Everett, and you’ve got dust on your beret and your trousers. You are utter fucking crap. Now everyone on your faces for this shit face’s failure as a human being, give me fifty press-ups. Now before Lieutenant Barclay walks in."
All fifteen members of the platoon fell forwards and started doing their press-ups, shouting the number out as they did so. This was standard practice with Lovett. Pick on Macgregor, then punish everyone. Macgregor couldn’t have been more grateful for their respect and love.
They breezed through the first thirty-five push-ups. No problems, but as Macgregor hit forty, Lovett stepped up to him. All Macgregor could see was a looming shadow above him. The next thing he knew, he felt a sharp pain across the back. Finding himself sprawled on the floor, blood was pouring down his face. Taking a moment to steady his breathing, he continued his press-ups, despite the blood streaming out of his nostrils. He could feel, rather than see, the unit collectively slow down to a crawl as he found his balance. They matched his pace, so that last 10 push-ups took over a minute. Lovett saw this and shouted over the section.
"Keep your eyes down! He doesn’t need you watching his weak arse bleed out." In a quiet voice that only Macgregor could hear, he gleefully said, "Well, well, Mr Macgregor, guess who is nearly here." Over the top of that malicious, hate-filled whisper came the sound of footsteps along the corridor. Macgregor looked up at the sergeant and tried his hardest to give an evil smile back at him, continuing with his forty-eighth press up.
Macgregor’s uniform was becoming slick with his blood, and he was starting to feel sick with pain. He’d just finished his press-ups and stood to attention, blood still streaming out of his nose onto his otherwise pristine barracks dress. His nose, which he suspected had broken, was absolute agony. When the Lieutenant walked in, Macgregor brought the unit to attention as the Lieutenant marched in front of them. He took one look at Macgregor, gasped and said something as Macgregor’s knees gave in. This caused him to collapse on his face again, narrowly missing the Lieutenant’s shoulder, this time from shock. He landed flat on his nose, this time breaking it for sure and knocking himself out cold. As he laid there, the blood pulled around his face; the sergeant stood there giggling under breath.
He woke up three hours later in the medical centre surrounded by his section, seemingly all 14 of them. Colin sat in a plush armchair, which was obviously not army regulation, next to him and read what seemed to be the maintenance SOP for a Mk-485 ship-based radio. He was always the first to find a chair. It was all rather bizarre, to Macgregor’s groggy brain. Tierney put the manual down.
"Good afternoon, Beautiful. Well, I must say, the broken nose is an improvement. It makes you look rugged." Tierney said, before laughing, the dry laugh he had when he knew he really shouldn’t be laughing, but still found the situation funny.
Macgregor looked at him with the most pitiful face he could pull, and when Tierney looked sufficiently chastised, Macgregor, without warning, punched Tierney square in the sternum. Not very hard, though. The anti-concussion meds, which had made him sleep for three hours, also made him super weak. The pathetic slapping sound that resulted made Tierney laugh even harder.
"Shut up Dickless." Macgregor said, trying to be mad at him, but not having the energy. “So why, ladies and Helen, are we all here? Haven’t you got work to be doing?” He looked around them all, now in their PT kit.
"Yes, and at the same time, no corporal." They replied as a unit.
"What do you mean by that?" he asked, trying to sit up, but being forced back down by Helen. Macgregor knew he must be out of it. She could never manhandle him, not in training and not during their usually pretty rough hook-ups.
"Well, we need to be packing up for our transfer off-planet. We are being shipped out to our respective units. However, our intrepid leader was quite unceremoniously placed in the medical wing; and so we wanted to come and see you first. After all, we did just clean your blood off the parade room floor. Oh, and put your uniform in the wash before the blood dried." Helen explained, Macgregor had just realised that he was in a medical gown. This made him felt very exposed, despite having showered naked with all of them regularly over the last few weeks.
"Thanks, guys. I cannot believe that Lovett did that, basically in front of the Lieutenant as well. What happened after I collapsed?" Bitterness burned through his voice.
"Well, The Lieutenant dismissed us himself after making Lovett sit in the corner. I brought you here, and Rachel took over the section." Colin said, "though I didn't strip you." He finished rather quickly. Helen squeezed Macgregor's hand and winked. Rachel Lawley, a tall, thin blonde lady, one of the two disposal experts and the third fire team leader, spoke up.
"I got the Section organised to clean up the place, without being ordered to by the Lieutenant, who was busy telling off Lovett. I think he might get jail time for this."
"We think, well as much as dog soldiers are allowed to think, that he was trying to make you unfit for the passing out ceremony. But then, he might also have done it because he is a sadistic bitch." Said Phillip, the other female CMT.
"I just spoke to the CMO; he says that you can be out of here in a couple of hours after they’ve talked to you." One of the FACs, Pilot Officer Tenadii, had appeared behind the group from the direction of the Chief Medical Officer's office.
"Thank you, guys, really, but now get on with your duties. I don’t want us to fail at the last hurdle, getting ready for the shuttle to the transports."
The section nodded, and shuffled out, mostly saying things of loathing about the Sergeant to him under their breath.
"Colin, do us a favour. Start packing my kit, and I’ll help with yours when I get out," Macgregor said, grabbing him by the wrist.
"Of course, I will, Mon Capitano. By the way, you have spare clothes on the chair." Tierney said, as he saluted in the ancient American style to take the piss. He followed the rest of the section out of the room. Helen, rarely one for sentimentality after their hook-ups, preferring not to cuddle, stayed a moment. She gave him a quick kiss on the forehead and stroked his face with the back of her hand, her eyes lingering on his. Just as their officer walked in. She pulled up hard and threw a hard salute with a look of panic on her face, making Macgregor giggle like a naughty schoolboy. The lieutenant just nodded and waved her to carry on, and she scurried off, then sat down next to Macgregor. He watching as Helen’s fit-thicc frame disappeared around the corner. Just before she was completely gone, she popped her head around the corner.
"I hope, when you are let go, I too will be able to visit the Doctor,"
Which would have been fine, but the way she said it was a bit too weird.
"Whatever that was, Macgregor, I don’t want to know," Barclay said, pointing his thumb at the door that she had just gone through, his eyebrows finding a new home in his hairline. Macgregor just shrugged.
"No comment, sir," He said, though looking appropriately sheepish.
"Ok, then." Barclay said, his eyebrows returning to their usual place, and his tone becoming more managerial. "Now, I hear you have a broken nose, Private. Which won’t heal for a couple of months," he said, inspecting a seemingly blank piece of paper, "but you are free to go about your duties, just with it patched up. You are excused from the passing out parade, though."
"Well, sir, you know more than I do. I just woke up, not sure what they did. I just know they gave me anti-concussion meds and fixed my nose. Last thing I remember is bleeding on your shirt, sir. To be honest, I am not even sure what he did to me."
"No, private, I have spoken to the CMO. The rejuvenation therapy couldn't take too much damage." He said, slowly, leading Macgregor down a path. "As for what happened, according to your unit, He stepped up to you and brought his pace stick down as hard as he could across your shoulder blades, which is what made you collapse. The CMO also says that because of that crack across them, your shoulders may be broken, so light duties whilst in transit, until further notice." He carried on using that slow, insistent tone.
"Ok, that feels like it makes sense, sir. But what is happening with Sergeant Lovett? I mean, the man did just break my nose, and corporal punishment is illegal in all the British Army.”
Barclay sighed, looking at Macgregor, who was usually so quick on the uptake, like he had grown an extra head. He slumped in the plush chair, and then steepled his fingers together, tapping his index fingers against his lips as if chewing something over. Macgregor studied his face, as well as he could in his current state, but the lieutenant's face revealed nothing of how he felt.
"I am aware of the illegality of this situation. However, technically, nothing can be made to stick on the Sergeant because I didn’t witness the event first hand, even if I did see the result. The witness reports of trainees, even if the majority were officers, just is not good enough for the senior staff. They'd rather take the word of a sergeant who has been serving for 12 years with a," he stopped a moment, "well let's just say, a fairly clean record."
Barclay's mask had slipped for just a moment, and he didn’t look happy about the situation.
"But, but, but sir!"
"But nothing private. I just had a conversation with Captain Fowler. There is nothing we can do. It is out of our hands now. Because of earlier events, this has gone up to the MPs and battalion command. I want you to understand something, and please believe me when I say that we, the training staff, are as annoyed as you."
Barclay held up his hand, stopping Macgregor in his tracks as he spoke.
"What do you mean, sir?"
"I cannot tell you that, private. Confidential, innit."
With that, he stood up and went to leave. "Your orders are to be ready for the shuttle at 09:00 tomorrow, meeting with the rest of the platoon at 8:50 in the main hangar. Good afternoon, Mr Macgregor. I hope that nose doesn't stay broken long."
"Good afternoon to you too, sir."
The Lieutenant nodded and walked out of the room, leaving the private by himself, waiting for the CMO to appear, understanding dawning on him, a little slowly, but inevitably.
