Terran Snipelang
"Hey Guttersnipe!" The Vandoos were milling, awaiting their transport, next to where the Fusiliers were staying.
"See these? That's Mister Guttersnipe to you!" Pointing to his shoulderboards, then signing to his eyes, then to his counterpart, then miming a dove, or other flying bird, taking off, he just slouched off.
"What were those handjive signs?"
"Not sure, looked like Snipelang though."
"What, Terran Snipelang, here?"
"The fusiliers, and every single other regiment amalgamated in the 22nd division has "TERRA" emblazoned, that's why the division can emblazon it itself, too, you didn't read your packet?"
"No, I have my platoon sargeant to read it for me..." He grinned, irritatingly, and his sargeant wanted to rearrange his teeth, then and there, but decided teaching this one discretion would take too long, better to just transfer him out, he'd start the paperwork today, complete with the better half of what he'd been building himself, a dishonourable discharge, if the latter, maybe there wouldn't even be a transfer, and that would be even less work for the sargeant, who felt he had quite enough, with this very green platoon and greener second lieutenant.
"At any rate, for the rest of you, who may learn something from this, that man's shoulderboards, as he pointed out, are a Scout-unit's XO boards, and worthy of respect. He would technically, since I'm a non-specialist sargeant, outrank me. But is there another reason I don't want any of you apes to start shit with the fusiliers? Yes, yes there is!"
"What's that sarge?"
"I've told you of the time this entire, five-brigaded regiment was cut down to eighteen-percent survivors, haven't you?"
"Sir-yes-SIR!"
"The fusiliers who found us were their 1st recon, which this man now is the second-in-command of, and their HQ Company. Do I need to add anything about this colossal debt of honor to you apes?"
"Sir-NO-SIR!" Even the grinning fool had the sense to look ashamed.
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