War and Peace

by Stanley Schmidt (ed)

  Falkenberg woke to a soft rapping on the door of his room. He opened his eyes, put his hand on the pistol under his pillow, but made no other movement. “Yes,” he called softly.

  “I’m back, Colonel,” Calvin answered.

  “Right. Come on in.” John swung his feet out of the bunk, put on his boots. Otherwise he was fully dressed. Sergeant-Major Calvin came in, dressed in the light leather tunic and trousers of the CD marine battle dress. Falkenberg could see the total black of a night combat coverall protruding from Calvin’s war bag. A short wiry man came in with the sergeant.

  “Glad to see you,” Falkenberg said. “Have any trouble?”

  “Gang of toughs tried to stir up something as we was coming through the city, Colonel,” Calvin replied. “Didn’t last long enough to set any records.” He grinned wolfishly.

  “What about at the relocation barracks?”

  “No, sir,” Calvin replied. “They don’t guard them places. Anybody wants to get away from BuRelock’s charity, they let ’em go. Without citizens’ basic supply cards, of course.”

  Falkenberg was inspecting the man who had entered with Calvin. Major Jeremy Savage looked tired, older than his forty-five standard years, and thinner than John remembered him. “Was it as bad as I’ve heard?” he asked.

  “No picnic,” Savage replied in the clipped accents he’d learned as a boy on Churchill. “Didn’t expect it to be. We’re here, John Christian.”

  “Good. Nobody spotted you? Men behave all right?”

  “Yes, sir, we were treated no differently from any other involuntary colonists. The men behaved splendidly, and a week of hard exercise and good food ought to have us back in shape. Sergeant-Major tells me the battalion arrived intact.”

  “I sort of filled the major in while we was coming out,” Calvin said. “I think he sees the score, sir.”

  Falkenberg nodded. “But keep your eyes open, Jerry, and be careful with the men until the CD pulls out. Yes, and I’ve hired Dr. Whitlock to check things for us. He hasn’t reported in yet, but I assume he’s on Hadley.”

  “Whitlock?” Savage sat in the room’s single chair, accepted whiskey from Calvin with a nod of thanks. “My, that’s good. Heard of Whitlock. Best in the field, although he puts on as a hillbilly. Very appropriate man for us, don’t you know?”

  John nodded. “Until he reports we won’t have a full staff meeting. Just stay with the original plan. Bradford brings the battalion of marines out tomorrow, and a few hundred volunteers from the Progressive Party’s little private army for us to train. More recruits coming, supposedly. Now tell me a bit about those toughs you fought on the way out here.”

  “Street gang, Colonel,” Calvin replied. “Not bad at individual fightin’, but no organization. Hardly no match for near a hundred of us.”

  “Street gang.” John pulled his lower lip speculatively, then grinned. “How many of our battalion used to be punks just like them, Sergeant-Major?”

  “Half, maybe more, sir.”

  Falkenberg nodded. “I think it might be a good thing if the marines got to meet some of those kids, Sergeant-Major. Informally, you know …”

  “Sir!” Calvin’s faced beamed with comprehension.

  “Now,” Falkenberg continued. “Recruits will be our real problem. You can bet some of them will try to get chummy with the troops, pump the men about their backgrounds and outfits. We can’t have that, of course. Anticipate any problems there, Top Soldier?”

  Calvin looked thoughtful. “No, sir, not for a while. Won’t be no trick to keep the recruits away from the men until they’ve passed through training; till then all they’ll meet’ll be drillmasters. We can do it, sir.”

  “Right.” Falkenberg turned to Major Savage. “That’s it, then.”

  “Yes, sir,” Savage answered crisply. He drew himself erect and saluted. “Damned if it doesn’t feel good to be doing this again, sir,” he grinned. Years fell away from his face.

  “Good to have you aboard,” Falkenberg replied. He stood to return the salute. “And thanks, Jerry. For everything …”

  The Warner estate was large, nearly four kilometers on a side, located in low hills outside the city of Refuge but no more than a day’s march from the Palace and stadium. Falkenberg’s troops found themselves in a partly wooded bowl in the center of the estate. At John’s request there were no cooking services or other support activities other than food and fuel and basic military equipment. The troops spent the first week constructing a base camp.

  The marines relearned lessons of their basic training. Each maniple of five men cooked for itself, did its own laundry, made tents from woven synthetics and ropes, and contributed men for work on the encampment revetments and palisade. When the recruits arrived they were forced to do the same things under the supervision of Falkenberg’s mercenary officers and NCO’s. Most of the men who had come with Savage on the BuRelock colony transport were officers, sergeants, and technicians, while there seemed to be an unusual number of monitors and corporals within the marine battalion, so that there were more than enough leaders for a regiment. Some Progressive Party stalwarts selected by Bradford were given junior commissioned rank and trained separately.

  The men learned to sleep in their military greatcloaks, to live under field conditions with no uniform but synthileather battle dress and boots, cooking their own food and constructing their own quarters, dependent on no one outside the regiment. They were also taught to fashion their own body armor from Nemourlon; when it was completed they lived in it, and any man selected for punishment found his armor weighted with a calculated quantity of lead. Maniples, squads, and whole sections of recruits on punishment marches lasting late into the night became a common sight around the estate.

  The volunteers had little time to fraternize with the marines as Savage and Calvin and the other cadres relentlessly drove them through drills, field problems, combat exercises, and maintenance work. The number of recruits fell every day as men were driven to leave the service, but from somewhere there was a steady supply of new troops. These were younger men, who came in small groups directly to the camp, appearing before the regimental orderly room at reveille, often in the company of a section of marine veterans. There was attrition in their numbers as well as among the Party volunteers, but the proportion was much smaller, and they were eager for combat training.

  One of the regiment’s main problems was the commissioned Progressives. They had to be taught basic military arts, yet they were officers by courtesy and couldn’t be driven out of the regiment without protest from Bradford. The worst of them were summarily dismissed, but Falkenberg was forced to keep many men as officers who he wouldn’t have had as private soldiers if given free choice.

  Twice a week John went to the estate house two kilometers from the camp to report to Bradford, Hamner and, infrequently, President Budreau. Budreau had made it clear that he considered the military force as an evil whose necessity was not established, and only Bradford’s insistence kept the regiment supplied. After six weeks, Bradford raised the question of the decreasing numbers of Progressive volunteers in training.

  “You’re letting those men go too easily, Colonel,” he protested. “Those are loyal men! Loyalty is important here!”

  “Sir, I’d rather have one battalion of good men I can trust than a regiment of troops who might break under fire,” Falkenberg answered stiffly. “After we have the bare minimum of first-class troops, we can consider taking on others for garrison duties. For now I want men who can fight.”

  “You don’t have them yet,” Bradford sniffed. “And where are you getting those new recruits? Jailbirds, kids with police records. I notice you’re keeping them when you let my Progressives go!”

  “It takes time to train green men. The recruits are all treated the same, Mister VicePresident, and if those street warriors stand up better than your party toughs, I can’t help it.”

  “We’ll discuss this later,” Bradford said coldly. “There’s anoth
er thing.” He indicated a large man with a fat jowl seated down the table from him. “This is Chief Horgan of the Refuge police. He has some complaints, Colonel.”

  Falkenberg faced the chief of police, stood silently until the other man spoke.

  “Your marines, Colonel.” Horgan rubbed his chin carefully. “They’re raising hell in the city at night. Never hauled any of them in, but I’m not saying we couldn’thave if we’d wanted to. But they’ve taken over a couple of taverns, won’t let anybody in without their permission. Have fights with street gangs there every night. And they go out into the toughest parts of town, start fights whenever they can find anyone to mix with.”

  “How are they doing?” Falkenberg asked interestedly.

  Horgan grinned, caught himself. “Pretty well. I understand they’ve never been beaten … but it raises hell with the citizens, Colonel. And another trick of theirs is driving people crazy! They march through the streets fifty strong at all hours of the night playing bagpipes! Bagpipes in the small hours, Colonel, can be a frightening thing.” Falkenberg thought he saw a tiny flutter to Horgan’s left eye. The man was holding back a wry smile.

  “I wanted to ask you about that, Colonel,” Second Vice-President Hamner added. “This is hardly a Scots outfit; why do they have bagpipes?”

  “Pipes are standard with many marine regiments,” Falkenberg answered easily. “Very stimulating to the troops. Since the Russki CD outfits started taking up Cossack customs, the Western Bloc regiments looked around for something equally impressive. A lot of them like the pipes.” John grinned openly at the Chief of Police. “I’ll try to keep the pipers off the streets at night, though. I can imagine they’re not good for civilian morale. As to keeping the marines in camp, how do I do it? We need every one of them, and they’re volunteers. They can get back on that CD carrier and ship out, and there’s not one thing we can do.”

  “It’s only a couple of weeks until they haul down the CoDominium flag,” Bradford added with satisfaction. He glanced at the CD banner on the wall behind him, an eagle with a red shield, black sickle and hammer on its breast. The flag meant little to the people of Hadley, but on Earth it was enough to cause riots in nationalistic cities in both the U.S. and the Soviet Union. To Earth the CoDominium Alliance represented peace at a high price, too high for many. For Falkenberg it represented nearly thirty years of service ended by court martial.

  A week before the departure of the CoDominium governor and the official independence of Hadley, Bradford visited the camp to make a speech to the recruits. He told them of the value of loyalty to the government, and the rewards they would get as soon as the Progressive Party was completely in power. Better pay, more liberties, and the opportunities for promotion in an expanding army were all promised. When he had finished, Falkenberg took the vice-president into his cabin and slammed the door.

  “Damn you, you don’t ever make offers to my troops without my permission!” John’s face was cold with anger.

  “I’ll do as I please with my troops,” Bradford replied smugly. The little smile was on his face, a smile without warmth. “Don’t get snappy with me, Colonel Falkenberg. Without my influence Budreau would dismiss you in an instant.” Then, with a sudden change of mood, Bradford took a flask of brandy from his pocket, poured two drinks. The little smile faded, was replaced by something more genuine. “We have to work together, John. There’s too much to do, with both of us working we won’t get it all done. Sorry, I’ll ask in future. But don’t you think the troops should know me? I’ll be president soon.” He looked at Falkenberg closely.

  “Yes, sir,” John said. He took the drink, held it up for a toast. “To the new president of Hadley. I shouldn’t have snapped at you, but don’t make offers to troops who haven’t proved themselves. If you give men reason to think they’re good when they’re not, you’ll never have an army worth its pay. Work them until they’ve nothing more to give, let them know that’s just barely satisfactory, and one day they’ll give you more than they thought they had in them. That’s the day you offer rewards, only by then you won’t have to.”

  Bradford nodded agreement, but then frowned. “That’s all very well, but I insist on keeping my loyalists, Colonel. In future you will dismiss no Progressive without my approval. Is that understood?”

  Falkenberg nodded. He’d seen this coming for some time. “In that case, sir, I will transfer all of your people into the fourth battalion and place your appointed officers in command of their training. Will that be satisfactory?”

  “Provided that you continue to supervise their training, yes.” Bradford thought for a moment, then smiled. “I will also expect you to consult me about any promotions in that battalion, in that case. You agree to that, of course?”

  “Yes, sir. There may be some problems about finding locals to fill the seniorNCO slots. You’ve got potential monitors and corporals, but they haven’t the experience to be sergeants and centurions.”

  “You’ll find a way. I’m sure,” Bradford said carefully. “I have some rather, uh, special duties for the fourth battalion, Colonel. I’d prefer it to be completely staffed by Party loyalists. Is this agreed?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Bradford’s smile was genuine as he left the camp.

  Day after day the troops sweated in the bright blue-tinted sunlight. Riot control, bayonet drill, use of armor in defense and attacks against men with body armor, more complex exercises, and forced marches under the relentless direction of Major Savage, the harsh shouts of their sergeants and centurions, Captain Fast with his tiny swagger stick and biting sarcasm … but the number of men leaving the regiment was smaller now, while there was still a flow of recruits from the marines’ nocturnal expeditions. Falkenberg was able to be more selective in his recruiting.

  Each night groups of marines sneaked past sentries, drank and caroused with the fieldhands of nearby ranchers, gambled and shouted and paid little attention to their officers. But they always came back, and when Bradford protested their lack of discipline off duty he would get the same answer. “They don’t have to stay here,” Falkenberg told him. “How would you suggest I control them? Flogging?”

  The constabulary army had a definite split personality. And the fourth battalion grew larger each day.

  II

  George Hamner tried to get home for dinner every day, no matter what that might cost in night work later. His walled estate just outside the Palace district was originally built by his grandfather with money borrowed from American Express and paid back before it was due, a big comfortable place which cunningly combined local materials and imported luxuries. George was always glad to return there, feel the pride of mastery. It was the only place in Refuge where he felt at home in the last few years.

  It was less than a week until the CoDominium governor departed, one week before complete independence for Hadley. That should be a time of hope, but George Hamner dreaded it. Problems of public order weren’t officially part of his Ministry of Technology assignment, but he couldn’t ignore them. Already half the city of Refuge was nearly untouched by government, an area where police went in squads and maintenance crews performed their work as quickly as possible under the protection of CD marines. What was it going to be like when the CD was gone?

  Hamner sat in the paneled study watching lengthening shadows in the groves outside make dancing patterns across neatly clipped lawns. The outside walls spoiled the view of Raceway Channel below, and Hamner cursed them, cursed the necessity for walls and a dozen armed men patroling them, remembering a time as a boy when he’d sat in this room with his father, listened to the great plans for Hadley. A paradise planet, and Lord, Lord, what have we made of it? An hour’s work didn’t help. There weren’t any solutions, only a chain of problems that brought him back to the same place each time. A few years—that’s all they needed, but he didn’t see how they could get them.

  The farms could support the urban population if they could move the people out to the agricultural i
nterior and get them working, but they wouldn’t leave Refuge. If only they would—if the city’s population could be thinned, the power now diverted to food manufacture could be used to build a transportation net to keep people in the interior or bring food from there to the city. They could manufacture the things needed to make country life so pleasant that people would be willing to leave Refuge and go there. But there was no way to the first step. The people wouldn’t move and the Freedom Party promised them they wouldn’t have to.

  George shook his head, thought about Falkenberg’s army. If there were enough soldiers, could they forcibly evacuate part of the city? But there’d be resistance, civil war, slaughter. Budreau wouldn’t let Hadley’s independence be built on a foundation of blood. Hamner laughed bitterly. Not only Budreau. I can’t do it either, he thought. I can see what’s got to be done, but I can’t do it. Bradford would … but what then? Besides, there weren’t enough soldiers. There was no military answer.

  His other problems were of the same kind. He could see that all the government was doing was putting bandages on Hadley’s wounds, treating symptoms because there was never enough control over events to treat causes. He picked up an engineering report on the fusion generators.

  Spare parts needed … how long can we keep things running even at this crazy standoff, he wondered. A few years. After that, famine, because the transportation net couldn’t be built fast enough, and when the generators failed, the city’s food supplies would be gone. Sanitation services would be crippled too; there would be plague despite the BuRelock inoculations.