You see them in movies all the time, or sometimes from a distance as they work their way across the sky, but you never forget the first time you get up close and personal with a military helicopter. There’s something menacing about the way they sit hunched on the tarmac, bristling with guns and rockets, that civilian aircraft just can’t match. Then, when you stand right next to one for the first time, you feel almost disappointed to realise that it’s a machine; just metal and plastic, not some ferocious air-beast.
An atmospheric shuttle had taken the new recruits of A Company down to the surface of Kulkarni’s Purchase and sure enough, it was indeed winter on the outlying planetoid. A shiver passed through each recruit like an electric current, working its way along the lines of bodies as a cold wind blasted in through the slowly opening cargo bay doors. They marched out onto the tarmac, swaddled in beige microfleece jumpers under bulky, camouflage-patterned parkas. Each recruit wore a belt of pouches held up by what looked like a very wide pair of suspenders; the Personal Cargo Harness that held ammunition, water, and vital equipment on their bodies, in case they ever had to ditch their main Battle Pack. They also wore smallish day packs loaded with extra water, spare clothes, and extra equipment. On each head was a knitted, beige watchcap with white tabs at the front and rear, to designate them as recruits.
They were marched around to where six helicopters squatted on another runway in single file. The lumpy, dark grey birds of prey blew a fierce wind across the tarmac, as though warning the recruits to stay away. The platoon sergeants were at the head of the three lines, pressing on through the cold wind. Loganathan and Porter led their platoons onward, while Sgt. Weaver brought Two Platoon to a halt on the snow-covered grass. He motioned for them all to sit down, though none was game enough to just crash right down into the snow. As they dug small holes in the thin layer of snow and perched on the wet grass, they watched the sixty other recruits climbing aboard the choppers, ten to each bird. Once the monstrous things had taken off and swung away to the north, Sgt. Weaver stood in the middle of the cluster of recruits.
“See this big crate?” the Canadian asked them, gesturing to a large box nearby. It was about six feet long by four wide and four tall, made of thick, dark green plastic.
“That’s one of your standard CNF cargo crates. You’ll see them all over the place, for the rest of your career. Get used to opening them; they’re a little fiddly, because they’re designed to be tossed out the back of a low-flying shuttle and survive the landing. Inside this one are the cleaning kits for your rifles and combat rations for breakfast. You’d better get used to those, too. They’re not a whole lot of fun, but they keep you moving. A couple of volunteers to get the lid off? No? Okay, Kulhu’ra and Nicholson, you’re it.”
After a couple of minutes of attacking the locks, the lid sprang open. It took two people to set it down to one side. The recruits stowed the cleaning kits, which came in canvas pouches, inside their battle backpacks. The lightweight ration packs were indeed a little disappointing, but the foil pouches of soups and stews were nutritious enough. They could feel their spirits lifting a little as they helped each other to set up the little solid fuel stoves that came inside the plastic pack, to heat the pouches inside tins of water. They broadened the circles in the snow and clustered around the warm little burners as tendrils of steam rose above them. Breakfast was a brief but cheerful affair.
“If you like these packs,” laughed Sgt. Weaver at one point, “you wait ‘til you get the ration cubes. It’s food for one person for two days. Got some survival gear in there as well.”
A low hum rose in the north, growing louder and seemingly closer. The six helicopters appeared over the horizon, and within seconds they were over the Naval base. Three of them peeled off from the formation and went to land somewhere out of sight, while the other three cruised down onto the runway beside Two Platoon. The burners had been packed away in a flash and backpacks hauled onto shoulders. Sgt. Weaver gave them the signal to stand up, and there was a stamping of feet and a rustling of fabric as they adjusted their kit.
“One Section, to the lead helo. Two Section, the middle. Three Section, the tail,” shouted Weaver above the blasting rotor wash. He pronounced helo as ‘heel-o’; somebody had once explained that the term ‘chopper’ was for some unknown reason frowned upon, or perhaps was simply archaic. Veraa was third in line as they marched toward the rearmost helo. One of the aircrew was standing on the tarmac, the headset built into his helmet still connected by a long cable. Her heart was in her mouth as they ducked to push through the rotor wash that blasted down and outwards, as though trying to sweep them off their feet. She thought of the blades spinning several feet above her, but kept her eyes on the boot heels of the recruit in front. They reached the side of the helo, and the man in front climbed aboard. The floor of the aircraft was almost at waist height on her, and she had to swing a knee up to get in. It was crowded, everything was vibrating, and there was a smell of grease and jetfuel. Several recruits sat on the edge of the floor and hung their legs down into the void as the helos sprang away from the runway, squashing everything under several gravities. Seeing the others so close to the edge made Veraa a little ill. She wedged herself into a back corner between the side of the aircraft and another recruit, shutting her eyes and breathing slowly. As she quickly became acclimatized to the immensely noisy, vibrating metal box, she opened her eyes and fished in one of her PCH pouches for some of the boiled sweets that had come with the rations. Sucking happily on the red sweet, she looked out the open doorway, over the shoulder of Recruit Tahj Al’tehl Syrr. The snowy, undulating landscape rolled by quickly. Through the windscreens, she could see the other two helos up ahead. They passed the bombed-out remains of a tank amid a field of craters, and a sudden reality came crashing into her mind. After Recruit School, she would be sent to another school, then eventually work in a Cavalry unit. Armoured vehicles may protect you from a lot, but not from everything. Whatever had hit that tank had caused the turret to fly off and land beside the hull, raining debris all around. She tapped Tahj on the shoulder, and he glanced back.
“Did you see that tank back there?” she shouted in his ear.
“Yeah. Looks like they used it for target practise.”
“Kinda crazy, thinking that you’re not safe even in a tank.”
“Yeah, and soon, Armour will be our specialty,” he laughed. “Don’t worry, they’re safe enough. That one took a direct hit, but I hear glancing blows aren’t so bad. Besides, with a direct hit, at least it’d be quick.”
She smiled nervously. “Yeah, I guess. Boom, finished.”
Life on the Fringes 