"Uh, I'm not sure, sir."

"You have just inherited command of a regiment. What are you going to do? With your command, Mister? Talk fast—the Bugs won't wait!"

"Uh..." I caught an answer right out of the book and parroted it. "I'll take command and act as circumstances permit, sir, according to the tactical situation as I see it."

"You will, eh?" The Colonel grunted. "And you'll buy a farm too that's all anybody can do with a foul-up like that. But I hope you'll go down swinging—and shouting orders to somebody, whether they make sense or not. We don't expect kittens to fight wildcats and win—we merely expect them to try. All right, stand up. Put up your right hands."

He struggled to his feet. Thirty seconds later we were officers—"temporary, probationary, and supernumerary."

I thought he would give us our shoulder pips and let us go. We aren't supposed to buy them—they're a loan, like the temporary commission they represent. Instead he lounged back and looked almost human.

"See here, lads—I gave you a talk on how rough it's going to be. I want you to worry about it, doing it in advance, planning what steps you might take against any combination of bad news that can come your way, keenly aware that your life belongs to your men and is not yours to throw away in a suicidal reach for glory... and that your life isn't yours to save, either, if the situation requires that you expend it. I want you to worry yourself sick before a drop, so that you can be unruffled when the trouble starts.

"Impossible, of course. Except for one thing. What is the only factor that can save you when the load is too heavy? Anyone?"

Nobody answered.

"Oh, come now!" Colonel Nielssen said scornfully. "You aren't recruits. Mr. Hassan!"

"Your leading sergeant, sir," the Assassin said slowly.

"Obviously. He's probably older than you are, more drops under his belt, and he certainly knows his team better than you do. Since he isn't carrying that dreadful, numbing load of top command, he may be thinking more clearly than you are. Ask his advice. You've got one circuit just for that.

"It won't decrease his confidence in you; he's used to being consulted. If you don't, he'll decide you are a fool, a cocksure know-it-all—and he'll be right.

"But you don't have to take his advice. Whether you use his ideas, or whether they spark some different plan—make your decision and snap out orders. The one thing—the only thing! -- that can strike terror in the heart of a good platoon sergeant is to find that he's working for a boss who can't make up his mind.

"There never has been an outfit in which officers and men were more dependent on each other than they are in the M. I., and sergeants are the glue that holds us together. Never forget it."

The Commandant whipped his chair around to a cabinet near his desk. It contained row on row of pigeonholes, each with a little box. He pulled out one and opened it. "Mr. Hassan—"

"Sir?"

"These pips were worn by Captain Terence O'Kelly on his ‘prentice cruise. Does it suit you to wear them?"

"Sir?" The Assassin's voice squeaked and I thought the big lunk was going to break into tears. "Yes, sir!"

"Come here." Colonel Nielssen pinned them on, then said, "Wear them as gallantly as he did... but bring them back. Understand me?"

"Yes, sir. I'll do my best."

"I'm sure you will. There's an air car waiting on the roof and your boat boosts in twenty-eight minutes. Carry out your orders, sir!"

The Assassin saluted and left; the Commandant turned and picked out another box. "Mr. Byrd, are you superstitious?"

"No, sir."

"Really? I am, quite. I take it you would not object to wearing pips which have been worn by five officers, all of whom were killed in action?"

Birdie barely hesitated. "No, sir."

"Good. Because these five officers accumulated seventeen citations, from the Terran Medal to the Wounded Lion. Come here. The pip with the brown discoloration must always be worn on your left shoulder—and don't try to buff it off! Just try not to get the other one marked in the same fashion. Unless necessary, and you'll know when it is necessary. Here is a list of former wearers. You have thirty minutes until your transportation leaves. Bounce up to Memorial Hall and look up the record of each."

"Yes, sir."

"Carry out your orders, sir!"

He turned to me, looked at my face and said sharply, "Something on your mind, son? Speak up!"

"Uh—" I blurted it out. "Sir, that temporary third lieutenant—the one that got cashiered. How could I find out what happened?"

"Oh. Young man, I didn't mean to scare the daylights out of you; I simply intended to wake you up. The battle was on one June 1813 old style between USF Chesapeake and HMF Shannon. Try the Naval Encyclopedia; your ship will have it." He turned back to the case of pips and frowned.

Then he said, "Mr. Rico, I have a letter from one of your high school teachers, a retired officer, requesting that you be issued the pips he wore as a third lieutenant. I am sorry to say that I must tell him ‘No.' "

"Sir?" I was delighted to hear that Colonel Dubois was still keeping track of me—and very disappointed, too.

"Because I can't! I issued those pips two years ago—and they never came back. Real estate deal. Hmm -- " He took a box, looked at me. "You could start a new pair. The metal isn't important; the importance of the request lies in the fact that your teacher wanted you to have them."

"Whatever you say, sir."

"Or"—he cradled the box in his hand—"you could wear these. They have been worn five times... and the last four candidates to wear them have all failed of commission -- nothing dishonorable but pesky bad luck. Are you willing to take a swing at breaking the hoodoo? Turn them into goodluck pips instead?"

I would rather have petted a shark. But I answered, "All right, sir. I'll take a swing at it."

"Good." He pinned them on me. "Thank you, Mr. Rico. You see, these were mine, I wore them first... and it would please me mightily to have them brought back to me with that streak of bad luck broken, have you go on and graduate."

I felt ten feet tall. "I'll try, sir!"

"I know you will. You may now carry out your orders, sir. The same air car will take both you and Byrd. Just a moment—Are your mathematics textbooks in your bag?"

"Sir? No, sir."

"Get them. The Weightmaster of your ship has been advised of your extra baggage allowance."

I saluted and left, on the bounce. He had me shrunk down to size as soon as he mentioned math.

My math books were on my study desk, tied into a package with a daily assignment sheet tucked under the cord. I gathered the impression that Colonel Nielssen never left anything unplanned—but everybody knew that.

Birdie was waiting on the roof by the air car. He glanced at my books and grinned. "Too bad. Well, if we're in the same ship, I'll coach you. What ship?"

"Tours."

"Sorry, I'm for the Moskva." We got in, I checked the pilot, saw that it had been pre-set for the field, closed the door and the car took off. Birdie added, "You could be worse off. The Assassin took not only his math books but two other subjects."

Birdie undoubtedly knew and he had not been showing off when he offered to coach me; he was a professor type except that his ribbons proved that he was a soldier too.

Instead of studying math Birdie taught it. One period each day he was a faculty member, the way little Shujumi taught judo at Camp Currie. The M. I. doesn't waste anything; we can't afford to. Birdie had a B. S. in math on his eighteenth birthday, so naturally he was assigned extra duty as instructor—which didn't keep him from being chewed out at other hours.

Not that he got chewed out much. Birdie had that rare combo of brilliant intellect, solid education, common sense, and guts, which gets a cadet marked as a potential general. We figured he was a cinch to command a brigade by the time he was thirty, what with the war.