"Really?" Blackie did not quite sneer. "After that masterly analysis, apply your powers of deduction and tell me why Lieutenant Silva failed to transfer him three weeks ago when we arrived around Sanctuary."

I had wondered about that. The time to transfer a man is the earliest possible instant after you decide to let him go—and without warning; it's better for the man and the team—so says the book. I said slowly, "Was Lieutenant Silva already ill at that time, Captain?"

"No."

The pieces matched. "Captain, I recommended Brumby for immediate promotion."

His eyebrows shot up. "A minute ago you were about to dump him as useless."

"Uh, not quite. I said it had to be one or the other -- but I didn't know which. Now I know."

"Continue."

"Uh, this assumes that Lieutenant Silva is an efficient officer—"

"Hummmph! Mister, for your information, ‘Quick' Silva has an unbroken string of ‘Excellent—Recommended for Promotion' on his Form Thirty-One."

"But I knew that he was good," I plowed on, "because I inherited a good platoon. A good officer might not promote a man for oh, for many reasons— and still not put his misgivings in writing. But in this case, if he could not recommend him for sergeant, then he wouldn't keep him with the team— so he would get him out of the ship at the first opportunity. But he didn't. Therefore I know he intended to promote Brumby." I added, "But I can't see why he didn't push it through three weeks ago, so that Brumby could have worn his third chevron on R & R."

Captain Blackstone grinned. "That's because you don't credit me with being efficient."

"S—I beg pardon?"

"Never mind. You've proved who killed Cock Robin and I don't expect a still-moist kaydet to know all the tricks. But listen and learn, son. As long as this war goes on, don't ever promote a man just before you return to Base."

"Uh... why not, Captain?"

"You mentioned sending Brumby to Replacement Depot if he was not to be promoted. But that's just where he would have gone if we had promoted him three weeks ago. You don't know how hungry that non-com desk at repple-depple is. Paw through the dispatch file and you'll find a demand that we supply two sergeants for cadre. With a platoon sergeant being detached for O. C. S. and a buck sergeant spot vacant, I was under complement and able to refuse." He grinned savagely. "It's a rough war, son, and your own people will steal your best men if you don't watch ‘em." He took two sheets of paper out of a drawer. "There—"

One was a letter from Silva to Cap'n Blackie, recommending Brumby for sergeant; it was dated over a month ago.

The other was Brumby's warrant for sergeant dated the day after we left Sanctuary.

"That suit you?" he asked.

"Huh? Oh, yes indeed!"

"I've been waiting for you to spot the weak place in your team, and tell me what had to be done. I'm pleased that you figured it out—but only middlin' pleased because an experienced officer would have analyzed it at once from the T. O. and the service records. Never mind, that's how you gain experience. Now here's what you do. Write me a letter like Silva's; date it yesterday. Tell your platoon sergeant to tell Brumby that you have put him up for a third stripe -- and don't mention that Silva did so. You didn't know that when you made the recommendation, so we'll keep it that way. When I swear Brumby in, I'll let him know that both his officers recommended him independently—which will make him feel good. Okay, anything more?"

"Uh... not in organization—unless Lieutenant Silva planned to promote Naidi, vice Brumby. In which case we could promote one PFC to lance... and that would allow us to promote four privates to PFC, including three vacancies now existing. I don't know whether it's your policy to keep the T. O. filled up tight or not?"

"Might as well," Blackie said gently, "as you and I know that some of those lads aren't going to have many days in which to enjoy it. Just remember that we don't make a man a PFC until after he has been in combat— not in Blackie's Blackguards we don't. Figure it out with your platoon sergeant and let me know. No hurry... any time before bedtime tonight. Now... anything else?"

"Well—Captain, I'm worried about the suits."

"So am I. All platoons."

"I don't know about the other platoons, but with five recruits to fit, plus four suits damaged and exchanged, and two more downchecked this past week and replaced from stores—well, I don't see how Cunha and Navarre can warm up that many and run routine tests on forty-one others and get it all done by our calculated date. Even if no trouble develops—"

"Trouble always develops."

"Yes, Captain. But that's two hundred and eighty-six man-hours just for warm & fit, plus a hundred and twenty-three hours of routine checks. And it always takes longer."

"Well, what do you think can be done? The other platoons will lend you help if they finish their own suits ahead of time. Which I doubt. Don't ask to borrow help from the Wolverines; we're more likely to lend them help."

"Uh... Captain, I don't know what you'll think of this, since you told me to stay out of troopers' country. But when I was a corporal, I was assistant to the Ordnance & Armor sergeant."

"Keep talking."

"Well, right at the last I was the O & A sergeant. But I was just standing in another man's shoes -- I'm not a finished O & A mechanic. But I'm a pretty darn good assistant and if I was allowed to, well, I can either warm new suits, or run routine checks—and give Cunha and Navarre that much more time for trouble."

Blackie leaned back and grinned. "Mister, I have searched the regs carefully... and I can't find the one that says an officer mustn't get his hands dirty." He added, "I mention that because some ‘young gentlemen' who have been assigned to me apparently had read such a regulation. All right, draw some dungarees—no need to get your uniform dirty along with your hands. Go aft and find your platoon sergeant, tell him about Brumby and order him to prepare recommendations to close the gaps in the T. O. in case I should decide to confirm your recommendation for Brumby. Then tell him that you are going to put in all your time on ordnance and armor—and that you want him to handle everything else. Tell him that if he has any problems to look you up in the armory. Don't tell him you consulted me -- just give him orders. Follow me?"

"Yes, s—Yes, I do."

"Okay, get on it. As you pass through the cardroom, please give my compliments to Rusty and tell him to drag his lazy carcass in here."

For the next two weeks I was never so busy—not even in boot camp. Working as an ordnance & armor mech about ten hours a day was not all that I did. Math, of course—and no way to duck it with the Skipper tutoring me. Meals -- say an hour and a half a day. Plus the mechanics of staying alive -- shaving, showering, putting buttons in uniforms and trying to chase down the Navy master-at-arms, get him to unlock the laundry to locate clean uniforms ten minutes before inspection. (It is an unwritten law of the Navy that facilities must always be locked when they are most needed.)

Guard mount, parade, inspections, a minimum of platoon routine, took another hour a day. But besides, I was "George." Every outfit has a "George." He's the most junior officer and has the extra jobs -- athletics officer, mail censor, referee for competitions, school officer, correspondence courses officer, prosecutor courts-martial, treasurer of the welfare mutual loan fund, custodian of registered publications, stores officer, troopers' mess officer, et cetera ad endless nauseam.

Rusty Graham had been "George" until he happily turned it over to me. He wasn't so happy when I insisted on a sight inventory on everything for which I had to sign. He suggested that if I didn't have sense enough to accept a commissioned officer's signed inventory then perhaps a direct order would change my tune. So I got sullen and told him to put his orders in writing—with a certified copy so that I could keep the original and endorse the copy over to the team commander.