Third Person - Complete

Inprocessing Part Two

"Huh," Another guy shrugged.

They headed down the stairwell and headed into the Ready Room. Stillwater was leaning against the wall next to the Arms Room cage window. The Armorer was handing out weapons.

"Marines, Roberts, get over here. Draw your primary and secondary, if you have them, and double battle load. Extra ammo goes in your ruck or wherever else you want to put it," Stillwater growled. "Get new mask filters, your NVG's, and any NBC gear you're qualified on."

Roberts waited in line till he got to the cage. He turned in his weapon's card and was given his M-16A1 in return. The Armorer slapped down four stacks of four thirty round magazines, put two twenty-round magazines on top, then started stacking up small cardboard boxes of 5.56mm NATO rounds.

Roberts stared at them for a moment.

"Will you get your shit and get out of my fucking face," The Armorer yawned. "Just scoop it into your helmet."

Roberts put it all in his helmet, overflowing it, and moved over to the next window. He juggled his gear and handed over his NVG card, getting his nightvision goggles back. Then over to the NBC Room where that massive NCO was standing.

"Oh, it's you," The big man's disdain was obvious in his voice. "Cruz, take this one."

Roberts just stared as the big man turned away and a shorter Mexican came over. "What's his problem?" Roberts asked.

"You fucking suck," The Mexican said. He slapped down boxed filters and replacement parts. "There. Get the fuck out of here, dickhead."

Roberts wondered what the hell he'd done wrong as he moved over to the big sternum high tables, opening the cardboard boxes and using the stripper clips to load his magazines.

Lewis moved up to the table, setting down four boxes of 7.62mm NATO rounds. She opened each box, pulling out the two-hundred round belts and looking them over before layering the belts back into the boxes. Lewis still had a black eye and a brownish bruise on the side of her face.

"You can fit four magazines in each pouch, that's why you have so many," One of the guys next to Roberts said.

"They only fit three," Roberts corrected, sliding a full magazine into one of his two ammo pouches.

"You want an extra pouch or two?" One of the other guys asked. "I can grab some..."

"No," Roberts said, grabbing another stripper clip and sliding ten rounds into the magazine.

"Whatever," The guy turned away. "Asshole."

Roberts just loaded up the magazines, putting the extra ones in his rucksack. He only had two ammo pouches, so the other thirteen magazines went in his rucksack. He wondered why the hell he had been given 20-round magazines.

"One goes on the right side of your helmet, under your helmet band," Lewis said. When Roberts looked up she had one just as she'd said.

It looked stupid to Roberts. He could also see that she had "O-NEG/NO A" written on the left hand side of her helmet in big block letters.

"Sergeant Cromwell," Lewis called out.

The big fat medic half-waddled over, leaning on the table. "Whatcha need, Lewis?" She asked.

"Roberts needs his blood type put on his helmet," Lewis pointed out.

"What's your blood type?" Cromwell asked.

"It's on my dog-tags," Roberts protested.

"Blood type, Private, now," Cromwell snarled, putting her hand on top of Roberts's helmet.