"Because you're not making orders for the good of the platoon or for a life-and-death mission, Lt. Castle." His blood beats against his ears like it's going to break out. Lt. Castle scares the shit out of him. Christ, he's gonna get discharged. "You're just getting your rocks off the same way he does."
Smith should be scared; there's no humor in the way the smile Frank offers twists his mouth. He checks Jarvis, still standing and looking mutinous, before giving his attention back to Smith, taking a step closer.
"I am your platoon, Private. Jarvis here is your platoon. You would know if I was getting my rocks off because all four of you would be packing your bags. What I am doing is giving you a chance. The only order I am giving you is to deal with Jarvis the way you should have as his leader in the exercise. You think that's bullshit? You are free to go."
He's not asking him to punch Jarvis, to take him apart. Frank doesn't need to see blood; he spent a long time learning that blood isn't the only way to learn a lesson. Frank is asking for Smith for his own opinion.
20 days to decide if q stays or runs, then to write 25% of another book about it
In some ways--in a lot of ways, he wishes Castle had just agreed. Leaned into being the kind of junk-jerking, megalomaniacal sadist that half the middling leadership tends towards, because that would be easy. Quentin's good at taking a beating and feeling self-righteous about it. It's gotten him this far, though letting it get him here, to this moment specifically is admittedly less than ideal. This would be easier if he knew he was right. About Castle, about the operation, about how to handle a problem like Jarvis.
The problem is, he doesn't. He doesn't have a fucking clue, and he'd planned on just riding it out.
If Castle hasn't already observed his absolute lack of poker face, Quentin gives him a robust show now. It's a herculean effort to keep his face from twisting up in frustration, and no amount of effort keeps color from flooding his cheeks and ears as he tries to run the numbers on this. He telegraphs his nerves with a deep breath in that he keeps in his lungs like an anchor as he turns his eyes on Jarvis. In a stage shout, closed off before it can tilt into actual yelling: "Private Jarvis, I need to ask you a question."
Private Jarvis straightens up with similar (if a bit disdainful) resolve. "Please do." "Did you purposefully disregard my orders in the field today?"
"I did, sir."
"Why?"
"Your orders were going to lead us to failure." That gets the kind of bark that echoes off the walls, boosted by spite.
Quentin bristles, shoulders pinning back farther. "And how much success did starting a pissing match in the middle of a firefight bring us?"
Jarvis' glare goes unfocused, jaw grinds tight as he stares about six feet to the left of Quentin's head. No response.
"Well, I know you're sure I'm a fucking idiot, but when I'm the idiot in charge--" If he'd said this in the field, or even as they trekked back in after their miserable defeat, would it have meant anything? Would it have caught him more heat, or might it have earned him respect? The only thing worth respecting here, Quentin knows, is Lt. Castle. Hiding behind him to say what he should have said out there is humiliating. Still, he got an order. He swallows hard. "--you need to step in line behind me. Is that clear?"
There's too long of a pause before Jarvis sucks his teeth and growls at the concrete floor: "Yes, sir."
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"I am your platoon, Private. Jarvis here is your platoon. You would know if I was getting my rocks off because all four of you would be packing your bags. What I am doing is giving you a chance. The only order I am giving you is to deal with Jarvis the way you should have as his leader in the exercise. You think that's bullshit? You are free to go."
He's not asking him to punch Jarvis, to take him apart. Frank doesn't need to see blood; he spent a long time learning that blood isn't the only way to learn a lesson. Frank is asking for Smith for his own opinion.
20 days to decide if q stays or runs, then to write 25% of another book about it
The problem is, he doesn't. He doesn't have a fucking clue, and he'd planned on just riding it out.
If Castle hasn't already observed his absolute lack of poker face, Quentin gives him a robust show now. It's a herculean effort to keep his face from twisting up in frustration, and no amount of effort keeps color from flooding his cheeks and ears as he tries to run the numbers on this. He telegraphs his nerves with a deep breath in that he keeps in his lungs like an anchor as he turns his eyes on Jarvis. In a stage shout, closed off before it can tilt into actual yelling: "Private Jarvis, I need to ask you a question."
Private Jarvis straightens up with similar (if a bit disdainful) resolve. "Please do."
"Did you purposefully disregard my orders in the field today?"
"I did, sir."
"Why?"
"Your orders were going to lead us to failure." That gets the kind of bark that echoes off the walls, boosted by spite.
Quentin bristles, shoulders pinning back farther. "And how much success did starting a pissing match in the middle of a firefight bring us?"
Jarvis' glare goes unfocused, jaw grinds tight as he stares about six feet to the left of Quentin's head. No response.
"Well, I know you're sure I'm a fucking idiot, but when I'm the idiot in charge--" If he'd said this in the field, or even as they trekked back in after their miserable defeat, would it have meant anything? Would it have caught him more heat, or might it have earned him respect? The only thing worth respecting here, Quentin knows, is Lt. Castle. Hiding behind him to say what he should have said out there is humiliating. Still, he got an order. He swallows hard. "--you need to step in line behind me. Is that clear?"
There's too long of a pause before Jarvis sucks his teeth and growls at the concrete floor: "Yes, sir."