“The root of our morale is: ‘Everybody works, everybody fights.”… But all ‘soft, safe’ jobs are filled by civilians; that gold-bricking private climbs into his capsule certain that everybody, from general to private, is doing it with him.” – Robert A. Heinlein, Starship Troopers.

“No bureaucracy – just sharp minds, strong bodies, and a mission-first mindset” – US Secretary of Defense Pete Hegseth, on X (formerly Twitter)

(Scene: the cavernous docking bay of the United Earth Space Command troopship USS Duane Doberman. A bulky cargo shuttle comes in for a landing. It settles onto the deck.)

(Nothing happens.)

(Nothing happens some more.)

(Eventually, the shuttle’s cockpit opens, and the PILOT clambers out. He is dressed in nondescript coveralls and carries a clipboard in one hand. He walks across the deck towards a large, closed door. There is an intercom panel beside it. The PILOT pushes a button on the intercom.)

(Nothing happens.)

(The PILOT pushes the button again. This time, he holds it down, and speaks.)

PILOT: Supplies delivery for the Mobile Infantry here. Open up, will you?

(Nothing happens.)

(The PILOT says something under his breath that we can’t quite hear. He moves over to the door, and raps on it sharply with his clipboard.)

(Nothing happens.)

(The PILOT is clearly annoyed by now. He shouts, emphasizing each word with a blow of his fist to the door.)

PILOT: OPEN UP, YOU DOZY BUGGERS! DELIVERY! COME ON, OPEN UP ALREADY!

(There is no response from behind the door, but, nearby, a small hatch opens in the deck, and a STOKER‘s head pops out. The STOKER is a small man, dressed in coveralls like the PILOT, but much grimier.)

STOKER: Oi! What’s all the noise about? You stop that or you’ll wake the ship’s cat – besides, the head stoker’s got a hangover, he doesn’t want all this racket.

PILOT: Sorry, I – wait a minute, since when do starships have stokers?

STOKER: Since Rebel Moon: The Scargiver, that’s since when.

PILOT: … Whatever. Look, I’ve got a delivery here for the MI, and I can’t get a peep out of them. Called them on the radio, tried the intercom, nothing.

STOKER: The Mobile Infantry? Well, you’re out of luck there, mate, you’ll have to wait. They’re out.

PILOT: What do you mean, they’re out?

STOKER: Call to action, innit? Soon as they get that, they get into their little capsules and off they pop, down to the planet, kicking some E.T. arse.

PILOT: What, all of them?

STOKER: Them’s the rules, for that lot. Everybody drops! No exceptions! Makes me glad I’m just shovelling coal, I can tell you. Steady work, that. No surprises. I mean, OK, we got RSI, we got silicosis, we got the odd explosion, but it beats getting shot at by bug-eyed monsters, know what I mean?

PILOT: Never mind all that. I need someone to take delivery of this gear. Can you sign for it?

STOKER: Not my job, mate.

PILOT: Well, whose job is it?

STOKER: Battalion quartermaster, I s’pose. But he’s –

PILOT: On the planet, yeah, I got the message already. Look, I’m on a schedule, here, can’t you find someone to take this lot?

STOKER: Well, I dunno. What are you delivering?

(The PILOT looks at his clipboard.)

PILOT: 600 generic power packs for phased plasma rifles in the forty-watt range. 600 bacterial spasm guns with dual gangrene/leprosy ammunition packages and Get Out Of War Crimes Free card. 5000 rounds of 12.7x99mm ammunition, officers’ sidearms, for the use of. 18,000 MRE packages in cardboard and styrofoam flavours – wait, that should be packaging – no, I was right the first time, flavours. 30,000 tubes of power armour joint lubricant. 600 groinal overcompensators for the Spartan-300 power armour series. 600 Neuralink™ communicator implants with self-drilling inserter attachment. 1800 75mm transgender-seeking missiles for Spartan-300 integrated rocket launchers. Six gross of M999 thermonuclear hand grenades, three trench pens, two purple guns, and a cartridge with a spare key.

STOKER: Gordon Bennett. Well, there’s no way I can fit all that lot through the hatch, is there?

PILOT: So what am I meant to do with it, then?

STOKER: Tell you what, mate, just leave it by the door. It’ll be fine.

PILOT: Leave it by the door!? Who do you think I am, Amazon Prime?

(SCENE: some time later. New Arlington Veterans’ Cemetary (formerly known as Siberia). At the reviewing stand, GRAND ADMIRAL ZAPHOD HEGSETH BRANNIGAN IV, in full dress uniform with an astonishing number of medals, ascends to the podium, his face grave.)

BRANNIGAN: We are gathered here today to commemorate the valiant white cishet men of 404 Battalion Mobile Infantry, lost in battle against the Dreadwokes of Alpha Mensae II. Desperate and starving, with their plasma rifles exhausted, their armour joints seized up, and their groins cruelly undercompensated, they fought on to the last man, preferring death itself to the five-star luxury POW camps of the alien enemy. We honour their sacrifice, their sharp minds, their strong bodies, their mission-first mindset. At the patriotic photo-op, and in the budget committee meeting for military appropriations, we will remember them.