Hey guys. I've never been much of a gifted crafter of any kind - I can hardly paint something in a single colour, much less build something with my own hands - but I do have one general skill: I'm good with words. And I do enjoy storytelling.

So, after much maturation of the project, and even more procrastinating and plain lazing about, I finally starting writing my "Colonial Tales" - a series of short stories about Colonial Marines, more or less part of a continuity. The Devil only knows if I'll ever finish them - or even one, for that matter. But one thing I've figured out from previous experience, is that encouragement is usually good to keep the writing muscles going.

So, shamelessly begging for scraps of attention and (and I'm serious there) constructive criticism, I submit to you the first few paragraphs of "Colonial Tales", to gauge general interest in such a project, and also to have your opinion on whether the tone is right so far.

Should I manage to drag myself away from Civ IV once I get home from work, I'll keep writing and post what I produce - unless the tomato storm is too violent, of course!

(EDIT 2: more corrections, and changed the end. This is now the full intro)


I enlisted because of a girl.

At 24.

Needless to say, in the long years I have since spent in the Corps, the amount of ribbing I’ve received over that particular fact has been… awe-inspiring. That’s the way it goes with Marines. We’re absolutely merciless when it comes to embarrassing the hell out of our squadmates – preferably in public spaces, hopefully even in front of members of the opposite sex. You get special olive green browny points for that.

Of course, while your fellow Marines are happy to tear your dignity to shreds at the drop of a hat, they’ll pile up – sometimes literally – on any outsider who thinks he can do the same with impunity. After all, it’s okay to take crap from other Marines, but you sure as hell ain’t gonna take none from civilians, corporate rats, or – and the mind recoils in horror at the very thought – from some Space Squid on R&R.

That’s the second thing I learned from joining the Corps. That once you’re a Marine, you can count on the others, absolutely and without conditions, in any circumstances; they’ll be there to back you up in the thickest of shit storms. Once you join the Corps, you’re part of something, something big and strong as steel, and deadly as a fine sword, and yet strangely warm and comforting at times. Oddly enough, it was precisely what I needed, although I didn’t know it when I signed up.

Of course, that didn’t quite register right away. For the first thing I learned upon reaching Camp Dvorak was that Drill Instructors are not human. They are demi-Gods from the dawn of time, with awesome powers and all-encompassing knowledge, capable of fearsome prowess if they didn’t choose to devote their time to train worthless scum like us to be Marines; their mighty boots make the earth quake, and the roar of their voice, like the Horns of Ragnarok, can split the skies asunder. And when one of them threatens to unscrew your head to do terrible things down your neck, you’d better take him at his word, because the bastard’s quite likely to be serious about it.



But on that day, in that slightly anachronistic bus in Northern Germany, arriving at the main USCM Recruitment and Training base in Europe, I didn’t know even that yet. I was 24, heart-broken, suffering from an epic proportions hangover, and starting to have the slightest pang of… not quite regret, but at least puzzlement, as to why on Earth I wasn’t in my comfortable bed in Toulouse, sunny Gascogne.

The regret, the bitter self-recrimination, the mental ass-kicking, the “Mais que diable allais-je donc faire dans cette galere?” would all come soon after, following the first painful contact with the sweet melodic voice of our instructors. A hint, if you are planning on enlisting at some point: no matter how hungover you are, don’t groan when a DI screams in your ear. It’s like a muleta to a bull, they’re guaranteed to pounce on you when they hear it.

I will gloss over the four months of unadulterated hell that followed. Basic Marine training has always been gruelling, and in this space-faring era of ours, even the lowliest grunts have to be able to jump, run, shoot, carry heavy loads, and operate or repair high-tech gizmos under pounding artillery barrages. Which means that not only are the DIs subjecting your body to every kind of legal torture they can think of, as well as systematically trampling on your ego and dignity, but they’re also making sure that your ample spare time is filled to the brim with schematics, theoretical lectures about everything from basic electronics to FTL travel, star charts with accompanying files on planetary conditions, and so on and so forth until you finally ache all over so badly you can feel each individual muscle, bone and neuron.

Many would-be Marines fail because of the physical side of things. Others can’t take the mental abuse, don’t have the frame of mind for military life. But nowadays, most fail because they simply don’t have the technical savvy that a good rifleman needs to survive the battlefield. The old stereotype of the dumb brute – never really true outside of the Army proper, of course – is long gone, as each and every graduated private is certified on equipment civilians would take a couple of years to get a licence for. Of course, there are some strange exceptions to that. Later on, one of my squadmates was an absolute genius with electronic equipment – I swear he could intercept a laser-beam transmission with a wire coat hanger and a transistor stuck in a turnip; at the same time, he had to read out loud any word of more than two syllables. Go figure.

My ‘advanced’ age turned out to be an advantage there. I was, after all, college-educated, even though I’d mucked around so much with my majors I couldn’t claim to be either the technical or the literary type; but at least I was more than passingly familiar with most concepts touched upon. Consequently I got top marks on pretty much all the theoretical stuff, and since I was generous with my help it made me a few friends. And the Devil knows I needed friends, because while I muddled through the physical side with a somewhat average level of competency, the mental pounding almost broke me. Not that I’m weak or wimpy in general, but at the time, I was a sodden mess, a total disgrace to mankind in general and manly men in particular. All that, because of a girl.

Sad, innit?




But, thanks to the support, gentle and not-so-gentle prodding of fellow recruits, I pulled through, with my bones intact, my ego reshaped into something that could slot into the Space Green Machine, and my mind not only whole, but full of many new and interesting facts, like how to strip down and re-assemble an M-41 in under a minute, what is the blast radius of a SADAR round, and how many 2LTs it takes to screw in a light bulb. Along the way I acquired a few nicknames, Frenchy being the obvious and most used one, and I made a few solid friendships, the kind that last a lifetime. I also acquired a certain swagger, at least once I graduated. That feeling of being state of the bad-ass art, as the phrase already went, would last exactly until I reached my first assignment (Nene 246, also known as 52 Tau Ceti II, home to the 1st Battalion, 2nd Regiment of the 3rd Marine Brigade), when the real Marines and Vets already on station would take care to, and delight in, teaching me the difference between theory and practice…

[Ok, so, despite the massive lack of enthusiasm for this I said I'd write and post, so here goes. Seeing that CplTony is also making with the writing removed some of the "I must be a freak" factor too!
I'm not writing nearly as fast as I hoped I would - blame my customers and my newly rekindled taste for painting miniatures. Here's the beginning of tale number one, if anyone feels like commenting, feel free, anything is welcome.]


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- This is it, man, this is it! We’re here!

Private Jube, 18, had his nose pressed to the plex window of the service shuttle, gazing out at mostly darkness. From where he was, you could see neither the transport which the shuttle had left a few minutes earlier, nor the planet they were heading towards. But that obviously didn’t dampen his enthusiasm one bit, as he was all but jumping on the spot.

- Can you believe it? At last! No more training, man! This is the real deal now!

Outside, the stars were fading, and a faint glow was starting to show towards the small craft’s nose. The flight became choppier, losing the vacuum-induced smoothness it had had so far.

Thierry sighed. Ronny was a good kid, but how someone could go through four month of boot camp and come out still that naïve was beyond him. He’d started vibrating with excitement as soon as he’d woken up from hypersleep aboard the transport. That was almost 12 hours ago, as the ship had come out of hyperspace in the outer system.

He’d said “This is it, man!” right there and then, and again as they crossed into the inner system, and as the planet came onto the viewers in the mess hall, and as they entered orbit, and getting into the shuttle… It had been “it” so many times Thierry was the only one of the shuttle’s passengers who still sat near the over-excited youth.

Not that it mattered to Ronny; the older Frenchman was all he needed as friends went for the moment. His maturity and academic knowledge held Jube, the quintessential corn-bred Iowa farm kid, in awe. That a man like him could be friends with a Midwestern doofus like Ronny was obviously proof of greatness. Plus he had provided much help with the more difficult aspects of the theoretical classes, without which Recruit Jube, lowliest of worms, would not have gained access to the exalted ranks of True Marines, but would have become instead Wash-out Jube.
So, Private Castaignede was the kid’s hero, and it was further proof that God was looking out for them both that they had been assigned to the same outfit.

Thierry sighed again. The truth was, Ronny was like an overgrown puppy, stomping around and destroying your metaphorical flower beds, but with similar endearing qualities. You just couldn’t kick him, he’d simply look at you with huge, uncomprehending puppy eyes full of innocent hurt, and then would start jumping and yapping with joy as soon as you spoke to him again.

He felt a bit guilty for thinking in such terms, but it was the truth – he’d seen it happen with other guys during bootcamp. They’d snapped at Ronny, and regretted it almost immediately, no matter how nasty they usually were to their fellow recruits. He was just likeable, the kid was.

And as far as the Frenchman was concerned, Ronny had helped him make it to Marine status as surely as he’d helped Ronny. The kid’s sheer life and his ability to enjoy pretty much anything, even covered in mud and shivering in a German ditch, had been all that kept Thierry from giving up out of heartache and self-loathing. He just couldn’t help feeling better when Jube was around.
He’d told him, about ten weeks into boot camp, as he finally started to surface. Ronny’d looked at him uncomprehendingly, then burst into laughter, as if the idea was ridiculous. Several other attempts had only led to more laughter, and the occasional – no kidding – “Oh, shucks!” Thierry had given up, and settled instead for sticking with the kid against rain and weather.

And the Corps’ authorities, in their infinite wisdom, had decided to help him do that even after boot camp.

The Frenchman let out a third sigh, then smiled wrily. As tiresome as the kid might be, he’d no doubt help his elder settle in more easily, again. That was an acceptable trade-off.

Then Ronny said “This is it, man!” once again, and Thierry groaned.



Nene 246 was a nice enough planet, with a sky more white than blue and a blindingly bright yellow sun. Average temperatures were only slightly higher than Earth, water levels both in seas and rain were similar, flora and fauna were relatively tame and, more importantly, edible. It wasn’t exactly Heaven, but compared to some of the colonies out there, it came close.

The main USCM base was on the Northern tropic, on the main continent, and that spot had everything a Marine could hope for in a tour of duty. Sandy beaches – bright pink, but who really cares – warm water, a large civilian population, shops, pubs, booze, plus the safety accorded by having two regiments of Marines plus Aerospace Wing based there. It was the cushiest posting in this entire corner of the galaxy. Even the Navy had established a base on this spot, ostensibly to replace an aging installation in a neighbouring system, but everyone knew it was because of the surfing potential.

But of course, not all areas of the planet were even remotely nice. Way down south there was a massive nickel mine operated by a South-American corporation, and they were sufficiently important to the local economy that they warranted a permanent USCM presence. It was located on a large rocky island with little in the way of vegetation or animal life, but plenty in the wind and rain department. It was always cold, storms struck every three or four days, and the only bar was full of drunk, rough and usually hostile miners.

So, of course, that’s where all cherries were sent straight away…