Lieutenant Commander August Johannes Trapp was fairly sure that his new squad would either turn his hair grey or kill him outright by the time he was done with them. He was silent through the rest of the procedure as the 7th came back into the hanger safe from the operation. He stood there clad in stoicism and looking like a complete wreck; sweat laden hair sticking to his head, blood matted jumpsuit and distant grey eyes focused somewhere in the distance. He did not respond to Trent as he flew off on some death wish, he did not respond to Ms. Nishizumi's own remarks to his own commands. He only stood there and waited for them all to gather back together. His eyes never wandered from the hangar door and any comment that passed his way seemed to fly over his head or through his ears and out the other side. The mission was never over till the last man got home and Trent was pushing it real close. When the proclaimed wizard finally did make it back home only then did he breathe out a sigh of relief.
Trapp listened as the rest of the 7th voiced their complaints and congratulated the rookie never speaking, only listening. As he did he was well aware of the black visors of the Imperial Service pilots upon them. The stoic guardians of the imperial family that would lay down their lives and more for the sake of duty. In a different universe somewhere Trapp might of been wearing one of those uniforms. His father in the political position that he was had the sway to get him into such a highly praised position. He calmed it would be good for the family name. But that always how Trapp’s father was, always concerned about the good of the name rather than the good of the son. Trapp of course declined the offer maybe at first out of rebellion and once he met Gates who pushed him towards the 101st the rest was history. In reality that decision reflected a lot of Trapp own life, taking the harder path to spite those around him. Shooting himself in the foot to prove a point.
He give the pilots a small nod out of polite courtesy before turning away from them.. The 7th did okay, the rookie didn't kill herself and their objective was completed more or less. But the success on paper did not really concern him. You grab any MAS team in the 101st and they will get the job done, no matter the cost. That’s why they were on call because they all would willing leap into hell head first. What concerned him was the signs of emotional overtake, disregard for orders, and near suicidal tendencies in the name of a joy rush. No matter how much the 101st focused on individuality they were still pilots in a war. They lose sight of that and it leaves room for mistakes and people end up dying. Trapp wasn't in the mood to have to write any other letters home.
Trapp pulled a cigarette out from his container and placed it in his mouth letting the small cylinder of tobacco burn. The power flickered as the Lincoln entered hyperspace and the soft glow coming from Trent and the commanders cigs were the only light illuminating the squad for a moment . Moments later the power steadied and the brief moment of silence was ended as the chorus of voices began again. Entering hyperspace was always the most tense part of travel on any large ship, mostly because it was all out of there hands. One minor miscalculation or misfire from the reactor and they would all be dead before they had a chance to even realize. Killed at the speed of light.
”People die rookie get used to it.... In other news you band of misfits: AAR, squad room, in 30.” Trapp turned around and left before he could hear the protest that were bound to be heard. AAR or after action reports were one of the most hated tasks to be performed by the 7th. Squadron leaders are mandated to perform them after every battle and had to mark each one, crossing out a little check box saying that it was done. This would be fine and all except that they usually consisted of the commander drilling into them on the values of efficiency or some other BS. Nobody honestly liked them not even the squadron leaders but it was just another facet of the bureaucracy that needed to be followed.
The squad room was not really preserved just for the 7th. Rather it was extra sleeping quarters on the Lincoln that never ended up being used. So teams from MAS pilots to fighter pilots and even the marines occasionally borrowed it for their meetings. Over time beside the two double bunks on either side of the wall others had brought in small assortment of items that give the place its own quality. Part of a worn in couch, a rickety old table that on most nights soldiers could be found playing some kind of card game upon, an illegal tv set small in stature and producing fuzzy image quality but still semi functional in its age. All of these marked it as not some other place in the Lincoln it was a place for soldiers created by soldiers.
Trapp had arrived only minutes before having completed his visit to the medical bay. After receiving complaints for the doctors about his disregard for his own life, they patched him up as best as they could. Afterwards he stepped into the bathroom and cleaned his face off, so that in the end he looked slightly more presentable. He sat at the rickety old table in silence trying to push out a headache, cigarette chomped in his mouth, datapad in hand. Having arrived early on purpose he was contemplating on his next course of action, on the words he would speak when the 7th arrived. He recalled the words of Sun Tzu he had studied back in his military history course at the Offizierschule des Heeres, "Regard your soldiers as your children, and they will follow you into the deepest valleys; look on them as your own beloved sons, and they will stand by you even unto death.". The question was what kind of father would he be: stern or forgiving? Gates had told him once that being in such a position was always to be frank a bitch. Being stuck being pleasing the upper brass and being faithful to the men that you died around. It was a struggle that every NCO or commissioned officer had to deal with. In his mind Trapp already knew his answer and he knew exactly what he was going to say.
The rest of the 7th soon began to file in slowly and as they did he never spoke up and was still focused intently on whatever the datapad in front of him said. They all arrived more or less on a time and as they gathered Trapp went into the standard talk of things. Talks which most of them were used to by that point. Going over kill counts, statistically efficiency, ways to improve and all of that. It was completely standard and he showed no signs of changing anything up as he followed protocol to the standard. It was not until the end where he would normally dismiss them that he didn't. Rather he just sat down at the table and brought out a small box he carried in with him. Out of the box he produced a small bundle of dog tags which he laid out upon the table
Calmly Trapp turned and faced the rest of the 7th still without speaking any words. Then he spoke to them and when he did he was not angry. The commander sounded more disappointed and morose than anything else. It was if he had just woken up and found a cop at his door with them all in handcuffs. All he did was start to list names as he separated each dog tag.
"Jonathan Wiltshire, 22 years of age. He had a girl that he was going to marry when he got home, ID number 224335495311, died taking a hammer missile to the front of his sentry to protect a shuttle. Arryn Vral, 24 years of age, ID number 434324314515, plasma bolt to the cockpit, she missed her mom's chicken and rice. Caite Dunwich, 24 years of age, ID number 984314142, blunt trauma from an alloy knife, all she wanted to do was write stories, Ewan Lemon, 29 years of age, he liked to play pranks and could drink anyone under the table, ID number 2234154515, killed outside of his MAS by sniper fire, I cradled him like a babe for an hour before he finally bled out, Masako Unmei, 23 years of age, ID number 3332424141, self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head, all she wanted was to go home...." Trapp continued his voice never changing and his eyes never leaving contact with the seventh, it went on until twenty two names had passed. Twenty two was remarkably low number for a squadron leader most who would have close to double that by the time they had finished it was one of the reasons Trapp was considered the best they had. But these numbers enforced a fact that most tried to forget those that die underneath them. It was easier that way. Trapp never did, he still remembered writing the letter home for each and everyone of them. They still appeared in his dreams. As the last name was called he took another drag before he spoke again. The voice was the same flat morose tone tinged with disappointment, never rising.
"They all died to give us a chance at winning this war. The rest of the 5th fleet is going to die to give us a chance. The people of Cerol are going to die to give us that chance. Your own squad mates have died to give you a chance. A chance that I don't know if any of you truly appreciate. A chance you might as well be wasting."
"You think just because you're part of the "Legendary 7th Mobile Armor Suit Team" that you are entitled to something. That you can act the way you do with blatant disregard to orders and your own safety. This is War, this is not some kind of game where the person with the most kills becomes some sort of god. People die every single day in this fight, people are going to die if you fuck up even once, they are going to die even if you do everything perfect. And yet you let your emotions and feelings get ahead of what matters. You expect praise just because you are the best at what you do. You can feel entitled when you've won this god damn war. Until then we aren't heroes, we are soldiers we have a job to do, that involves following orders that we sometimes don't like. That involves not jeopardizing lives and valuable military equipment for an adrenaline rush."
"Most of you still do not trust me nor will take heed of my words. This is because you and I both know that I'm not Ms. Astelion. But what you seem to have forgotten is that squadron leaders talk to one another on the odd occasion. I can not say that I knew Tori as well as any of you but I can tell you what she told her fellow pilots. All she could do was speak praise of you and your actions, never taking the acclaim for herself. She was like a mother that only told the best of her children. And we could all see that she meant every word of it. She honestly believed that you all could hold up the world. What I had seen displayed by the 7th here today can only be described as shameful not only to yourselves but to her legacy and her overwhelming conviction in all of you. She fought for you every time somebody said something ill of the 7th and this is how you repay her. This is how you uphold her ideals."
"Now I'm not going to make any of you change. I'm not here to fix any and as long as you get results I’m fine. Frankly, I'm here because statistically speaking I'm the best you got. Now we can all have a shred of decency in our bodies and try and get along. Or you can bite and I will bite the fuck back. Most importantly of all, I want you to prove to me that I'm wrong. I want you all to prove to me that Tori didn't die believing in a lie. And I think you can all manage that. " The commander’s voice softened as the tone of serious retrospective thought vanished and his voice being more informal and natural.
"And yes Ardin is a spineless child that gives out orders that he himself would never follow, but he also outranks all us and is of imperial blood. Meaning we do anything to even make him think about feeling sad and he will find a way to get us removed or worse. So as long as you keep your comments to yourself and the members of the squad I'm fine with it. Hell if you can come with new names for the cocksucker I'm all ears..... And as I've noticed some of you enjoy Japanese proverbs so here is one for you. Deru kui wa utareru. The stake that sticks out gets hammered down. None of us want to be that stake. Understood?" Trapp finished his report and nodded, the dog tags going back into the box and placed it aside. He took his cig out of his mouth and ground it out against the wooden table. He finally shrugged taking the small flask from his jacket and popping it open took one long swig before speaking again. His voice returning to normal as the seriousness of his former word. What had been said had been said and that was all that needed to be said about it in his mind..
”Now in the time honored tradition of the pilots that came before us. In honor of the rookie surviving her first real combat mission, in honor of those that have died before, in honor of those that will come after us... We Drink!” The words he spoke were as old as the founding of the 101st. They celebrated death as well as any soldier but more importantly they celebrated life.
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