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Unbalanced, the scale

Unimpressive, the measure

Unprepared, the heart

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Chapter 6: Weighed, Measured, and Found Wanting

Contention surrounding the Global Postwar Coalition 1st Battalion, 1st Self-Defense Marines started well before its official formation. As a unit derived from an international cooperation, most of the participants sought to bring their own organizational structures in as the primary framework. For example, the Eagle Union wanted the GPC's lone infantry unit to be a full division in size with five fully serviceable infantry regiments. However, Iris Libre, the Vichya Dominion, and the Sardegna Empire suffered substantial losses in manpower during the World War and had yet to recover. They did not favor such a large infantry unit as they could not reliably maintain equal shares, and allowing the Eagle Union (or any other power for that matter) to make up the difference threatened to upset the balance of influence within the GPC. In the end, the GPC managed to compromise on a single regiment for use by the Coalition's Joint Fleet. Thus, the 1st Self-Defense Marines were born.

Initially composed of an HQ logistics battalion and three combat-focused battalions, the GPC Admiralty Board later repurposed the 1st Battalion as an auxiliary battalion after determining that the Joint Fleet's logistics resources rendered a logistics-focused battalion redundant. For several years the 1st Battalion, 1st Self-Defense Marines remained an auxiliary unit used mostly for training recruits and light assignments.

Things changed once again when the Joint Fleet's commander reactivated the 1st Battalion as a proper combat unit. The attacks on New York City and the Canal Fortress in Central America demonstrated the need for strong coastal defense. Now, more than ever, the Joint Fleet needed capable soldiers to hold down the fort while the fleets fought for supremacy at sea.

A strategy focused on defense wouldn't stop the Sirens, though, and the Commander knew it. If humanity wanted to survive they would need to strike back at the invaders. With the help of the newly reactivated 1st Battalion, 1st Self-Defense marines, he planned to do just that.

Knowing full well that the Admiralty Board would never approve of repurposing the entire battalion, the Commander limited his appropriation to the battalion's 1st Company. (In an Eagle Union unit structure it would have been Company A. For the sake of those nations with non-latin alphabets the GPC opted to use number designators for all official GPC unit organizations.) Designated the "1st Special Services Company", the unit would report directly to the Commander and participate in critical operations for the Joint Fleet.

The Commander stood at his office window sipping a cup of bitter coffee and contemplating his three month struggle to convince the Admiralty Board to approve the Special Services budget. Captain Rodes hadn't been shy in handing over a shopping list of weapons and equipment he wanted for his new unit. The GCP admirals' eyes nearly popped out of their heads when they read the expense report's bottom line. They scrutinized the necessity and purpose of every item line by line. The board members spent hours at a time on individual items, the Commander defending his chosen officer's need for each procurement with tireless tenacity. In the end, Rodes got everything he asked for right on down to the brand of toothpaste he favored.

Chuckling to himself, the Commander shook his head and took another sip from his mug. What could he say? He offered the captain freedom to ask for what he needed, and Rodes took the Commander at his word. The Commander liked that, and not just because it showed spine. It showed confidence in knowing what would get the job done. Furthermore, it told the Commander that Rodes wanted the best for his troops. No doubt he expected the best from them in return. Putting up with all the Board's squawking would be well worth it If the Commander's assessment of Rodes hit the mark.

"Good morning, Commander." The Commander turned around at the sound of Matchless's voice. She stood in the doorway with a serving tray in her hands while trying her best to close the door behind her with one foot. "I hope the coffee was okay!"

Rounding his desk, the Commander relieved Matchless of her tray before the laws of physics brought about disaster. She offered him a small, embarrassed smile before closing the door behind her. The Commander returned to his desk and set the tray down before taking a seat.

"The coffee is good," he said, a smile warming his face. "Thank you, Matchless." In truth, the Commander abhorred black coffee. He much preferred to temper the bitter beverage with a little sugar and a generous splash of cream, but he chose to spare Matchless's feelings on the matter. She had been so proud the first time she bought gourmet coffee from a specialty shop as a surprise for him. He didn't have the heart to tell her that the only thing worse than black coffee was dark roast black coffee. Plucking his mug from the cork coaster protecting the fine wood of his desk, the Commander took another sip of his Grand Tropics extra dark roast coffee and suppressed a shudder.

A split sesame seed bagel occupied a small plate on the tray Matchless brought in with her, a thick spread of cream cheese applied to each half. A freshly peeled orange and a small raspberry danish pastry sat on a separate dish from the bagel. On the side of the tray opposite the food, a manilla file folder lay fat and brimming with paper. It contained the morning reports, no doubt.

Tearing the danish pastry in half, the Commander set one half back onto the plate which he then held out to Matchless. She took it with a soft word of gratitude and burning cheeks. The Commander popped the other half of the pastry into his mouth in a single bite.

"So, how is Captain Rodes doing with First Company?" The Commander asked once he finished making the danish disappear.

"Captain Rodes has First Company lined up for their morning drills right now," said Matchless, pausing to answer with the pastry halfway to her mouth.

The Commander hummed a note of acknowledgement and picked one of the bagel halves off of his plate. "Let's see if Captain Rodes can teach his pups to run with the wolves," he said.

*;*;*

Rodes stood before his assembled troops. The soldiers formed five platoons of twenty each; one hundred souls under his command altogether. He faced them with his arms crossed, his expression the very essence of gruff disapproval. Steely silver-gray eyes ran up and down the ranks of soldiers like a craftsman judging the subpar work of another. Hood stood off to the side with Tirpitz wondering what Rodes saw that displeased him so completely.

"They lack unity," said Tirpitz, her tone flat. The two women stood far enough off from the group that soft conversation wouldn't carry to Rodes or his troops. Hood glanced over at Tirpitz, surprised by her speaking up out of the blue.

"Pardon?" Hood asked, not understanding Tirpitz's meaning.

"You were watching Captain Rodes with a confused expression," Tirpitz said, looking over at Hood for the briefest of moments before returning her attention to the soldiers. "I guessed that you were wondering why he disapproves of them. I believe it is because they lack unity."

"Oh my," said Hood, frowning a little. "Was I so obvious?" A lady, especially a lady in such high standing within Her Majesty's service, should never be so impolite as to gawk. Tirptz gestured in a way that indicated she could not say for sure in one way or the other. After a long pause, Hood decided to see if she might encourage the Iron Blood battleship to elaborate a little more. "What makes you say that they lack unity?"

Tirpitz remained silent for a long moment. As the silence went on, Hood started to wonder if the battleship didn't want to answer her. Surely Tirpitz heard the question, right? Just as the battlecruiser woman considered giving it up as a lost cause, the Iron Blood spoke.

"They are all exceptional soldiers in their own right," she said, speaking in a slow and contemplative tone. Each word carried a small hesitation as if Tirpitz wasn't sure she trusted her own analysis. "In the past, they stood apart from the others and relied only on themselves. This is acceptable when the rest of your unit must rely on one another to function. But If you bring all those outstanding individuals together, they remain individuals. They stand alone, together."

At first, Hood did not absorb the words. Instead they clung to her like morning dew on blades of grass, waiting for the earth to wake and drink them in. The Royal Navy battlecruiser didn't think she ever heard Tirpitz say so much at one time. Her wonderment passed, and Hood chewed on the other woman's take. Before she could decide whether or not she agreed with Tirpitz's assessment, Captain Rodes's booming voice rolled across the training field like a freight train.

"Let me be very clear," said Rodes, his tone as grim as his eyes. "I am completely disappointed with the results of your work so far." He paused to let that sink in. To their credit, none of the soldiers shifted or shuffled. Some of them went taut around the jaws and stiff in the shoulders, but nothing more than that. "Each of you is an exemplary soldier. You are warriors down to the marrow of your bones, but that does not make you special. It certainly doesn't make you special here. None of you are used to working as a team, and it's clear that some of you think you deserve to be here more than others."

Isn't that what Tirpitz observed just a moment ago? Hood felt a flush threaten her cheeks. Embarrassment flooded her thoughts, but why? She should have been impressed or pleased that her companion proved herself so perceptive. That thought only made Hood feel ashamed as well as embarrassed. Why didn't she see it for herself?

"As it stands I would take the company on galley duty before taking this unit into combat," Rodes barked, mouth twisted into a scowl. "We are going to be fighting the most advanced and experienced enemy anyone has ever known. If you're not ready, we're all dead. Understand this: I will not ask anything of anyone here that I would not be willing to do myself. That includes your training, your diet, and your assignments. I am in charge not because I am better than you, but because I've seen more combat than all of you combined, and I've done so on every continent with any claim to civilization."

Rodes paused again to study their faces, no doubt looking for signs any of them wanted to refute his claim. None of them did, though some of them did seem to be holding back their indignation.

"My responsibility to you is to make sure that when we are finished, you know everything that I do and more. Your responsibility to me is simple: don't let me down. By the time they put me in the ground the only thing this company should lose is dead weight." The captain uncrossed his arms and they dropped back to his sides. His expression cleared some, much of the disappointed severity melting away.

"Starting today," Rodes continued, "our primary focus will be on platoon exercises. Each platoon will be scored on objective completion and overall performances. At the end of the week the Platoon with the highest score will get their pick of meal from the Officer's Mess, two bottles of good whiskey, and a night to make use of it." To Hood's amazement, this news inspired a more open reaction from the troops than the captain's scolding. All across the sea of faces eyebrows arched, eyes widened, and mouths twitched up at the corners. " On the flip side," Rodes said, "any platoon that scores lowest two weeks in a row will get mandatory sanitation duty and be limited to slug rations until they score above last."

Before Hood's assignment as a support asset to the 1st Special Services Company, she knew very little about the struggles of enlisted soldiers nor the slang assigned to them. "Slug rations," she knew now, were what the enlisted troops called the nutrient-dense mixture that Hood thought of as resembling thick oatmeal. The nickname referred both to the slimy consistency of the paste, which only worsened as it cooled, and the need to apply generous amounts of salt to compensate for its poor flavor.

"First Platoon, report to the red block training grounds," Rodes ordered, gesturing with an arm in the general direction of the red block. "Fifth Platoon, report to the blue block training grounds. You will be briefed by a logistics officer once you arrive. Second Platoon, you're headed to the firing range. Third Platoon, you're doing PT. Fourth Platoon, equipment maintenance and readiness drills. You have your orders, now get moving!"

"Sir, yes sir!" The platoon chorused, and the lieutenants in charge of each platoon began directing their troops. Rodes did not wait to watch them go. He turned toward the red block training grounds and started off, paused, then looked back towards Hood and Tirpitz. With a wave of his hand, Rodes gestured for the two ship girls to follow him.

*;*;*

Rodes led Hood and Tirpitz into the observation room for the red block training grounds. Situated atop a stilted platform, the small structure boasted an excellent view of the field below. A floor-to-ceiling window stretched from corner to corner across the wall facing the field. Banks of video monitors occupied the adjacent walls on either side. A tactical map occupied the middle of the room, standing upright like a pane of opaque glass from the ceiling to where it met the operator's console.

"I would like you to watch the exercises from here," said Rodes, turning to face the women. Hood thought that his resting face looked rather severe on its own. If meeting him for the first time, the Royal Navy battlecruiser might have suspected he disliked her company. When she and Tirpitz first went to collect Captain Rodes, his neutral disposition didn't seem so serious. Since accepting the Joint Fleet's commission, however, he appeared nothing but serious. In an almost paradoxical way, Rodes also seemed more at ease than he had when they met.

"Of course, Captain Rodes," said Hood pleasantly.

"As per the Commander's orders we are at your disposal, Captain," said Tirpitz.

A fleeting shadow flickered across the captain's face at Tirpitz's response, his frown deepening at the corners. At first, Hood thought that the momentary displeasure stemmed from a dislike of the Commander, but that made little sense. The Commander offered Rodes the position and an opportunity to resign without repercussion should he feel unwilling or unable to perform his duties for any reason. Given the captain's usual tendency to speak his mind, the Royal Navy battlecruiser doubted he would keep quiet about grievances. What could have agitated him?

"The reason is twofold," Rodes continued, looking at each woman in turn. "First, I appreciate feedback on the toops' performance. I can't be everywhere at once, so you'll see things I don't. I want to know where they're doing well and where they're weak. Second, I want you to understand what you'll be working with. The skills and cohesion learned here will be applied in the field. When supporting infantry from the sea, it's useful to have a sense of the battlefield-can see it in your head."

Hood nodded. That made sense, of course. Providing fire support to distant forces could be considered imprecise at best. Familiarity with the forces a ship is supporting would allow for improved effectiveness. Well, it would in theory, anyway.

"We will pay close attention to every detail," said Hood, donning a serene smile of royal confidence. "This is our assignment, and as such it shall see no less than the full breadth of our effort." Tirptiz's eyes flicked toward her counterpart, then back to Rodes.

"Understood," said Tirpiz simply.

Rodes nodded, the veteran seemingly mollified by their acquiescence. Still, Hood wondered what agitated him in the first place. With the exception of his displeasure with the state of the 1st SpecSvc Company, Captain Rodes appeared fine until Tirpitz mentioned the Commander. Hood found difficulty in reconciling the easiest explanation with what she knew about him. There just seemed to be no apparent reason for Rodes to dislike the Commander.

The door to the observation center swung open behind them, and a team of technicians filed into the room. They stopped to salute Captain Rodes, but he returned their salutes with a distracted salute of his own and instructed them to carry on. All the while his steel gray gaze lingered on Tirpitz, scrutinizing, burrowing, as if trying to drill a well into her thoughts.

"Alright, good," Rodes said after a long pause. He turned to watch the technicians settle in at their stations. Fingers snapped at switches and danced across keyboards. Monitors flickered to life and drives spooled up with a steady hum. Chairs creaked, headsets headbands clicked, and the low murmur of comms checks passed through the room like a draft.

Rodes unclipped the handheld radio from his belt and held it out to Hood. She reached out and took it from him, more on polite instinct than anything, and looked down at the device.

"Call me on the radio if anything comes up," said Rodes. "I'm going to head down and keep an eye on the other training ground." He lifted a hand and pointed one finger at the radio's display. Hood couldn't help but notice the thick scars across his knuckles and the callouses built up on the pad of his extended digit. It was the strong, indelicate hand of a survivor. "That's First Company's officer channel, so you shouldn't have to mess with the thing to get a hold of me."

The striking contrast between the captain's gnarled hand and her own delicate features caused a momentary lapse into reverie. Scars were the true reward of survival, weren't they? A hardening of the flesh and of the heart-the body defending itself against future injury. How much could he still feel beneath all that hard won armour? How would that hand feel against the unmarked skin of her own? More a morbid curiosity than an amorous one. Hood realized with a start that she had been treating Rodes as a spectacle-a curiosity in which to indulge. Shame stirred in the pit of her stomach and started to squirm.

"Of course, Captain Rodes," Hood said, looking away from the captain's rugged hand with a bit of effort.

"Radio me when they finish up here," said Rodes. If he noticed her scrutiny of his hand, or the embarrassment that followed, Hood didn't see any evidence of it. Giving the women a nod, the captain stepped back and turned on his heel toward the door. On his way, Rodes plucked a radio handset from its charging cradle atop one of the observation stations and started adjusting the settings. He shouldered through the door without stopping and disappeared from view.

Hood glanced over at Tirpitz and found her Iron Blood counterpart staring into space. While standoffish and cold in normal circumstances, Tirpitz seemed to have hardened around the edges into something downright glacial. A slight straightening of her already rigid posture drew the muscles in her shoulders taut. Hood thought that Tirpitz appeared to be willing her body to turn to stone. It seemed that she hadn't been the only one to notice Rodes's reaction.

A quiet moment passed while Hood considered bringing the topic up for conversation, but she decided against it in the end. Triptiz didn't seem the type to open up very easily. While Hood couldn't be certain that the little incident bothered the Iron Blood woman, it seemed safer to avoid the topic until it had time to settle.

Around them the technicians continued setting up the exercise, coordinating with one another and the technical team on the ground. Hood found it all too easy to slip away from the background noise and into her own thoughts. The captain's flash of deep displeasure at the mention of the Commander just didn't connect with what she knew about Rodes. Well, it didn't connect with what she thought she knew. Hood supposed that she might have misjudged the man based on first impressions and his impeccable service record.

The Royal Navy battlecruiser's thoughts lingered on the captain far longer than she would have felt proper if not for being distracted. In the end, Hood rendered her questions down one after the next until she came to the one she dared not examine any further: why did it bother her that Rodes might not be who she thought he was?