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They worked out the deal with Lambert, the general, and Southern Command in three days.
When Valentine pointed out that in the long run it would be cheaper than adding more men to the "long out" with bonuses and land grants and so forth, they agreed.
Plus it would be good for the "shit detail's" morale to be led by their own.
Naturally, there were staffing orders to cancel. As luck would have it, one position filled as the order was transmitted: a heavy weapons expert named Glass, rank of corporal and with a spotty record of wanting to do things his own way, showed up at camp and reported to the command shack as everyone was eating their lunches out of wheelbarrows again.
A small man with a big pack, he looked like some kind of beetle with an oversized carapace of pack and camp gear. He also sported the world's scraggliest beard. It looked like Spanish moss Valentine had seen in Louisiana.
Valentine stood up to welcome him and Patel trailed behind.
"Very glad to see you," Valentine said, shaking Glass' hand.
"Thank you, sir," he said rather sullenly.
"Don't want this assignment, Glass? You didn't get someone twisting your arm to volunteer, I hope."
"No. Nothing like that, Major. Tell the truth, I'm glad to be back under General Lehman.
Just tired from the trip."
Glass was one of those compact, wiry men in what looked to be his late twenties. Judging from his qualifications list on his Q-file, he didn't look to be the type to wear down. Valentine let it rest.
"You're early, so you get to pick the most comfortable corner in the NCO tent. It's just you and Sergeant Major Patel for now."
They sized each other up, Patel in his Wolf leathers, hand sewn and patched, Glass in his ordinary Guard cammies. Glass stared vacantly at Patel, not so much challenging his superior as transmitting indifference.
"What's the company's support weaponry?" he asked.
"It's not here yet," Valentine said. "As you can see, everything's late to arrive, even uniforms. You might as well learn early, we're the shit detail of this outfit. Eat up."
"Will that be all, sir?"
"For the moment," Valentine replied.
"I'll get myself squared away, then," Glass said. He turned for the tent with Patel's name painted on the old bit of traffic sign next to the door.
"Brittle," Patel commented. "Just hope he's not about to break."
"He's got outstanding references for his competency. Leadership's lacking. His last CO
called him 'prickly.' "
"Wonder how the guys who had to share a tent with him would have put it," Patel said.
"We're not going across the river to have a harvest bonfire and sing-along," Valentine replied. "I'm willing to wait and see."
* * * *
Valentine's company first lieutenant finally arrived late at night as Valentine caught up on paperwork in the one-bulb shack. He tripped on the doorstep coming in, straightened, saluted, and handed Valentine his orders.
They told a curious tale in the dates and checkboxes and comments. Valentine spent sixty seconds reading through.
Lieutenant (militia) Rowan Rand was Kentucky-bred; his parents made the run for Free Territory when he was fifteen. His father disappeared one night while scouting what looked like a vacant farmhouse and he'd helped his mother and sisters the rest of the way to the Ozarks, crossing the Mississippi on barrels a la Bilbo Baggins.
"Stint in the militia, and then right into Logistics Commandos?" Valentine asked, looking up from the file.
Rand blinked back at him through glasses that the ungenerous might call Coke bottle. "Bad eyesight. Astigmatism. I'm bat-blind without my eyewear plus I don't see so well in the dark.
