30
Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound,
That saved a wretch like me.
I once was lost but now am found,
Was blind, but now I see.
Rev stood at attention, his eyes locked straight ahead as the recording faded into silence. He’d heard the ancient hymn too many times over his service as a Marines, but always on foreign soil. Krissy, Staff Sergeant Montez, Kel Dean-Ballester, Bintang Tanuwijaya, Nicte Yazzie, Sisi Wheng. All making the ultimate sacrifice, far from their birthplace. This time, though, in front of the ruins of the Camp Nguyen chapel, it somehow hit harder. This brought the real cost of the war home like an emotional hammer.
Most of the chapel was gone, but in front of what had been the sacristy, six stands were lined up. Rifles, helmets, and other items were placed on a table to the side.
Tanks and mech suffered more casualties, but every single loss was one too many.
Colonel Destafney stood silently to the side, his hair grayer, almost matching his metallic face. He looked older and sadder, not like someone who’d just commanded the Marines who’d helped throw the Centaurs off the planet.
Sergeant Major O’Hara hadn’t survived the fight, and Sergeant Major Perez, the First Battalion senior enlisted Marine, was filling in. Along with the chaplain, this was going to be a long day of ceremonies for the three of them.
The regimental chaplain got up as the strains of the hymn faded away. He looked at the gathered Raiders for a long moment before he made some brief comments about righteousness, about sacrifice, about families and friends. Rev let the words pass through one ear and out the other. He was thinking about those they’d lost.
Colonel Destafney was next. He said a few words about each of the fallen. Rev wondered how many times he was going to have to go through that today, and he understood now why the man looked defeated, even after what had to be considered a resounding victory.
Captain Omestori, his leg in a healing chamber, didn’t have a speech prepared. He called the platoon to attention, and Master Gunnery Sergeant Tuala cleared his throat before calling out in a steady voice, “Acacia, June.”
“Here,” the lance corporal from Second Team responded.
“Anderson, Ji.”
“Here, Master Gunnery Sergeant.”
“Awara, William,” the master guns continued.
“Here.”
Rev started sweating. He knew what the next name would be.
“Badem, Tubba.”
Tulip, you were a good Marine, my man.
“Private First Class Tubba C. Badem,” the platoon sergeant said, his voice slightly louder.
The master guns waited a few more seconds before calling out a third and final time, “Tubba C. Badem.”
Only silence greeted him.
“Private First Class Tubba C. Badem, killed in action, August 2, 3830, Wales Province, New Hope,” he intoned.
Radić and two of Badem’s boot camp friends marched forward and turned to face the photo. Radić placed a rifle in the stand in front of the photo, then put a helmet on top of the rifle. One of the other Marines placed a pair of boots in front of them both, and the third reached over and hung Badem’s dog tags from the M-49. The three Marines saluted and marched back into the formation.
“Černý, Hussein,” the platoon sergeant continued his role call.
“Here, Master Guns.”
“Etherington, Rene.”
“Absent but accounted for,” Top Thapa responded.
Rev knew this wasn’t the only time he’d hear that during the ceremony. Two other Marines had been CASVACd to the temporary aid station.
“Fiorelli, Imminata,” the platoon sergeant called out.
There was no answer.
“Hospitalman Third Class Imminata S. Fiorelli.”
Rev had been treated by Doc Imm in sick call, and he’d only recently transferred over from Recon after Doc Sue had been lost on the Kearsage. He didn’t know the corpsman well, but she’d seemed like a good teammate.
“Hospitalman Third Class Imminata S. Fiorelli.”
The silence was almost too hard to take.
“Hospitalman Third Class Imminata S. Fiorelli. Killed in action, August 2, 3830, Wales Province, New Hope.”
Doc Paul, a chief from the regimental aide station, and Greenie Sjberic took the honors for her before returning to the formation.
“Gantz, Mordechai.”
“Here,” Strap said in a weak voice.
Rev had been surprised to see Strap show up. He’d been taken to the underground aide station after Tensing Station. He was torn up from shrapnel and burns, and had a skull fracture, two broken bones, and some internal damage, but nothing was going to keep him from attending the service. Captain Omestori had picked him up and brought him to the ceremony.
After Strap’s name was called, Rev listened for the next name. He knew what was coming, but he could feel the tension build up as if maybe, possibly, she would answer.
“Harisa, Jamila,” the master gunnery sergeant called out.
“Second Lieutenant Jamila M. Harisa,” the master guns said, with a heavy emphasis on the rank.
Rev broke the position of attention and looked around. She had been a private, not a lieutenant anymore.
“Second Lieutenant Jamila M. Harisa,” rang out one last time, and Rev realized that even if she’d been busted to private, the command still considered her a lieutenant. A small act of defiance, maybe, but one with which Rev heartily agreed.
The platoon sergeant waited a few moments, then went on. “Second Lieutenant Jamila M. Harisa, killed in action, August 7, 3830, Wales Province, New Hope.”
The captain, Top Thapa, and Colonel Destafney took the honors, placing the M-49, helmet, boots, dog tags, and photo in position. Then Captain Omestori added something else. He took a battered gold bar from his pocket and pinned it to the photo before the three of them stepped back and saluted.
And right after Harisa was, “Incrit-Kole, Giselle.”
Rev had butted heads with the sergeant before, and more than once. But he respected her, and he knew the Corps was weaker with her loss.
“Sergeant Giselle Incrit-Kole.”
“Sergeant Giselle Incrit-Kole.”
Someone’s voice reached the formation from behind the chapel, then someone else shushed whoever had been talking.
“Sergeant Giselle Incrit-Kole, killed in action, August 7, 3830, Wales Province, New Hope.”
“Jun, Kim,” the master guns said.
“Here.”
“Krill, Leander.”
“Here, Master Gunnery Sergeant.”
Two more names were called, then, “McAnt, Thesbian.”
There was no reply.
“Corporal Thesbian T. T. McAnt.”
And yet one more time. “Corporal Thesbian T. T. McAnt.”
When there was still no answer, the platoon sergeant said, “Corporal Thesbian T. T. McAnt, killed in action, August 7, 3830, Wales Province, New Hope.”
Rev stepped out of the formation and joined two of the Marines from First Team. He placed the rifle on the stand while the other two took care of the rest. Before he stepped back to salute, Rev reached out with his social arm to tap the barrel of the rifle. “Brothers in Steel, McAnt.”
Rev didn’t step back into formation but stayed by the table.
“Nix, Prestor.”
“Sergeant Prestor L. Nix.”
Rev had hoped for a moment that the master guns would give him the rank he had taken away from him, but it was still sergeant.
“Sergeant Prestor L. Nix.”
Rev felt a lump in his throat.
“Sergeant Prestor L. Nix, killed in action, August 2, 3830, Wales Province, New Hope.”
Tomiko and Hussein joined Rev. Once again, Rev took the M-49 and placed it in the stand. As he watched the other two finish the memorial, he could feel the tears form and start to slide down his cheek. The tears weren’t just for Nix. They were a culmination of the Marines he’d known and lost. They were for Swansea and the civilians. They were for the unknown fate of his family.
“Respect to the fallen, my friend,” Rev whispered.
He marched back into formation and listened as the final names in the roll call were called. The rest of the ceremony consisted of Marines and sailors standing up and saying a few words about each of the fallen, but Rev didn’t listen. He already knew the temper of their steel and didn’t need anyone else to try and tell him more.
The remarks were cut short by a master sergeant who needed to clear the area and put new weapons, boots, and photos up. The six Raider memorials were picked up and taken to a waiting trailer. The platoon was dismissed, and outside, the sapper platoon was waiting their turn.
Rev caught sight of Sergeant Delacrie standing just beyond what used to be the chapel’s front door. He started to go to the man, to tell him he would have been welcomed to join the formation, but the sergeant turned and walked away before Rev could reach him.