“Oh, come on,” the redfaced man said. “You can’t be pulling down more than twenty thousand a year.”
“Eighteen five, actually,” Thielind said.
“That’s nothing!” the redfaced man exploded.
“Please reconsider,” the man with black eyebrows urged him. “What can the space service give you we can’t?”
“My friends, and my CO,” the ensign said simply.
The councillor looked up at Wolfe. “Him? Why? What’s special about him?”
Thielind smiled brilliantly. “He calls me ensign.”
That last statement didn’t hold any special meaning for the townsfolk, but Wolfe was touched by it. The councillors, seeing where the leverage lay, turned to him.
“Would you like a job here?” asked the man with black eyebrows. “That way you can bring your genius here with you. And anyone else you wish.” He looked around at all of the troopers, whose eyes were suddenly on Daivid.
“Do you know,” Daivid replied, with deep satisfaction, “that is the second job offer I’ve gotten here on Dudley. No, I’m too busy saving the galaxy. But thank you for asking.”
“Oh, well,” the woman sighed. “It was worth a try. We … we do have one more favor we would like to ask of you. As a tribute, of course.”
Daivid nodded. “You want us to help out with a tribute to Mr. Wingle? We’d be glad to. An honor guard at the funeral?” He gathered looks of approval from his troopers.
“Nothing like that,” the woman said, then paused. “Well, perhaps it is something like that. That would be nice, too. What we would really like to do is to create an adventure ride featuring all of you. It won’t open this season, but it could be ready for next year. Visitors would go into an arena and become part of the action, with all of you saving their lives. It would all be perfectly safe, of course.”
“You mean make puppets out of us?” Wolfe asked, shuddering.
“Oh, yes. Come back when it’s open. You’ll love it.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Why not, lieutenant?” Boland asked, with a big grin on his face, unable to keep up the pretense any longer that he wasn’t listening. “I mean, what could possibly go wrong, go wrong, go wrong?”
“No, thanks,” Wolfe said. “We don’t need to relive the last few days.”
“Please consider it seriously,” the town councillors urged them. “We really want to create this attraction. We think it will be very exciting, and have broad appeal for all ages. You will escort visitors through a danger scene, and save the world at the end.” The woman fixed them all with a hopeful look. “We’ll put anyone you like in it.”
Thielind grinned. “You could put Lt. Bruno in it, as a robot who says ‘you can’t have that, you can’t have that,’ and maybe he gets chop suey poured on his lap. All day, every day.”
“I like it, ensign,” Wolfe said, with a laugh. “I can’t wait to tell him he’s been immortalized at Wingle World. You have a deal, councillors.”
“Er, there’s just one thing,” the man with the black eyebrows began trepidatiously. “We hate to call your unit the Cockroaches, though. It’s bad marketing. Our visitors might find the name … objectionable.”
“But that’s our na …” Daivid began.
“We’re the Wolfe Pack,” Boland interrupted, with a look around at all of his buddies. “Whaddaya think of that?” X-Ray platoon in its entirety nodded and grinned at their astonished commander. Wolfe was gratified but speechless. There was no better compliment they could have paid him. He’d been accepted by them, and he was almost too happy to speak.
“We like that much better,” the councillors said approvingly.
“So do I,” Wolfe said.
O O O
The newly named platoon spent the following eight days dining and sleeping in sybaritic bliss in their suites at the Wingle Deluxe. The Welcome town council and the management of Wingle World insisted on splitting the tab of keeping them at the hotel. With the promise of payment, Mr. Codwall turned all of the luxury features on a week early. The days the Wolfe Pack spent at the park, helping to bring it back to its former glory. Another Carrot Palace was erected in under a week, fresher and more beautiful than the one that had been destroyed. Under the care of experienced engineers and willing volunteers, the damage was wiped out so fast that Wolfe had to recount the casualties among his own company to realize that it had all really happened.
The fallen were not forgotten. Vacarole’s wife had sent word she was happy to have her husband laid to rest in the Wingle family cemetery. Adri’Leta was buried with full respect and honor, and no grave marker. Wolfe was pleased that he could keep his promise to her.
The rest of the platoon spent its evenings at Tennie’s enjoying coverage of the non-war.
“Another big boondoggle that cost the taxpayers money,” one of the regular curmudgeons opined. Wolfe could hardly disagree with him. The news commentators were not complimentary. The Space Service had sent two thousand ships, from fighter up to dreadnought, to face two hundred ships and a disorganized rabble.
“Some Insurgency,” Boland had said with a snort.
O O O
The Orion arrived on the eighth day, after having cleaned up the remaining Insurgency ships, and brought the platoon back to rendezvous with the Eastwood a week later.
“Commander Iry wants a debriefing as soon as you have your gear stowed,” Ensign Coffey told him, with a smile. X-Ray Platoon’s exploits had gotten more and better press than the action on Benarli, and they had brought home Oscar Wingle’s last invention, so they were in good odor as far as the brass was concerned. Wolfe hoped it would mitigate Captain Harawe’s reaction about the borrowed flitter. It was back in the hold in good condition.
“I’ll be there soon,” Wolfe promised. He also had a big bag of souvenirs for all his friends in the officers’ mess he couldn’t wait to distribute.
But first he had a more important duty. He joined his troopers in Gehenna day room. The troopers had made themselves comfortable, unashamedly turning away other units who wanted to use the mess.
“We’re heroes, haven’t you heard?” Jones asked them cheerfully, slamming the door in their faces.
“They left our drinks alone,” Boland said, indicating the shot glasses all of them had set down half full the day they had left. They all took one, and waited while Lin spoke.
“We are here to pay tribute to our honored dead,” she said, as the others stood with their heads bowed. “Our friends are no longer with us, but their names will be preserved forever.” The white lightning burned on the way down, and Wolfe remembered why he didn’t chug the home brew.
Okumede cleared his throat. “Here’s to Vacarole and Adri’Leta / On Dudley their fates they did meet-a. / To our heroes and friends! / Our respect never ends, / And we hope their repose will be sweet-a.”
“Nice,” Lin said. “You get the points, Oku.”
“To our friends,” Wolfe saluted.
Parviz and Streb brought the sheet of salmon-colored hull plating forward. D-45 drew his laser pistol, and turned to Wolfe. “Sir, I know they would have wanted it that way. Will you cut the first letter?”
With the greatest of care, Wolfe drilled holes in the shape of a capital “a.” He handed the pistol to the next person in line and took a more cautious sip of his drink.
“What’s the rest of the traditional custom?” he asked. “Borden wouldn’t tell me before we departed.”
“We have a drink and a pow or two, and tell stories,” Boland said easily, settling back in his chair. “Then we bilk our CO out of his last dime playing cards.”
“You’re welcome to try,” Daivid said, with a grin. He watched the memorial taking shape, proud of his unit, proud to be accepted, and overwhelmed by the faith they had shown in him. They were a little unorthodox, but what did that matter? They got the job done and saved a lot of lives. That’s what they were there for. That’s what they were all there for.
&nbs
p; “Sir, I’ve got a surprise for you,” Thielind said, taking a box out of his duffel. “This is from the guys at Wingle World. They whipped it up while I was fixing the repairbots. I’ve been saving it until we got back.” He handed it to Wolfe.
“They don’t need to give us anything else,” Wolfe said, very touched. “We’ve already got lifetime passes to the park. We never touched our wallets again the entire time we were there. We got to spend days whooping it up before the ship came back for us.”
“They wanted to. This is special.”
Wolfe opened the lid with trepidation. But nothing jumped out at him. Instead, he found a folded square of brilliant golden silk. He shook it out. On it was embroidered the silhouette of a black wolf. Daivid stroked it, admiring the beautiful handwork.
“It’s a new banner,” Thielind explained. “To go with our new name. To the Wolfe Pack.” He raised his glass.
“To the Wolfe Pack!” The entire platoon drank deeply.
“Wait a minute,” Wolfe said, holding up the banner and examining it more closely. “This wolf has six legs!”
“’Course it does,” Thielind said, with his brilliant smile. “It evolved from a Cockroach.”
***
Afterword
One Giant Practical Joke
The Relationship Between War and Humor
Soldiers, cops, paramedics, firemen, emergency services people everywhere. They all have things in common. They do an intensely stressful job while watching their pay and benefits being constantly eroded. And they do it with humor or they don’t do it at all.
Why do humor and such intensely serious and stressful occupations go hand in glove? Looked at logically, policemen, firefighters, and combat soldiers should be dour and humorless people. There is nothing more potentially sobering than watching the person next to you step on a mine. But the tales redound of soldiers that then pick up the leg of their buddy and waggle it back and forth. “Look! I’m Wally’s Leg! Wheeee!” Firefighters are some of the most vicious practical jokers in the world. When policemen gather after going to the funeral for one of their brother officers, alcohol often flows free, but not as freely as the humorous stories and very sick jokes, often at the expense of the beloved deceased.
So, the question remains, why?
Essentially, the answer is “self medication for stress.” Humor has (finally) been recognized as one of the most psychologically successful forms of stress relief. It’s the soldier, Marine, cop or firefighter that can laugh at the insanity around him or her that is the most likely to truly “come home.” And often the most likely to survive the carnage around him or her, by being able to overcome and adapt to the horror. Laughter is not only the best medicine: laughter is a weapon in and of itself that acts as a combat enhancer.
Laughter is more than a visual and vocal behaviour. It is accompanied by a wide range of psychological changes. During vigorous laughter the body brings in extra oxygen, shudders the internal organs, causes muscles to contract, and activates the hypothalamus, pituitary, and adrenal glands. This results in an increase in the secretion of endorphins (internally produced morphine-like molecules). This internal jogging produces an increase in oxygen absorption, increase in heart rate, relaxation of the muscles, and increases in the number of disease-fighting immune cells (Cousins, 1989; Siegel, 1989).
Healingwithhumor.com
Cathy Fenwick, PhD
In any study of methods of combating stress, especially post-traumatic stress, humor is repeatedly, pardon the pun, stressed. Humor is the quickest way of overcoming minor depression, anxiety, and generalized stress. “It does you good to laugh” has been proven to be far more than just an old lady’s saying; it is a provable treatment for even serious illness and has been used as therapy in cancer and autoimmune disease patients. But, most especially, it is useful in treating combat fatigue and similar traumatic stress syndromes.
Not to be neglected is the use of humor, which has its place in many forms of psychotherapy, but may be especially useful in working with law enforcement and emergency services personnel. In general, if the therapist and patient can share a laugh, this may lead to the sharing of more intimate feelings. Humor serves to bring a sense of balance, perspective, and clarity to a world that seems to have been warped and polluted by malevolence and horror. Humor, even sarcastic, gross, or callous humor, if handled appropriately and used constructively may allow the venting of anger, frustration, resentment, or sadness, and thereby lead to productive, reintegrative therapeutic work (Fullerton et al, 1992; Miller, 1994; Silva, 1991).
Laurence Miller, PhD
Law Enforcement Traumatic Stress: Clinical Syndromes and Intervention Strategies
In terms of combat, there is a recognized psychological syndrome in which combat fatigue manifests in terms of black humor. It is a functional release, the chimpanzee within dealing with killing stress by using humor to deflect and treat itself. When there is nothing around but the insanity and irony of war, the ability to see the irony and find humor in it can keep a soldier alive and sane when others fall.
When combat veterans get together to tell stories, those that have handled the stresses of combat well almost always concentrate on the humorous (if bizarre) ones. Humor is found in the deaths of the enemies and even the deaths of buddies. This is neither “bad” nor “evil” but a functional human reaction. War, after all, is simply one giant practical joke, with the victims of the joke being both sides.
In terms of writing about combat, neglecting the bleak and black humor of combat veterans is a sure sign of either a combat veteran who never really “came home” or someone with little or no knowledge of how soldiers, sailors, and Marines behave. I have occasionally been castigated by the unknowing for the humor my characters manifest. I know that they are “unknowing” when they react that way. Anyone who knows combat veterans that have truly “come home from the wars” knows that there’s not a bigger group of jokers short of the stand-up comic circuit.
Jody has captured the insanity of a long-term combat unit well in this book. Such soldiers as survive, mentally and physically, survive to the most common extent by becoming the world’s worst jokesters. It was a joy to see how well Jody captured that spirit. I hope you enjoy the tale as much as I.
John Ringo
1/508th Infantry (Airborne), 82nd Airborne Division
June 1983–February 1987
***
About the Author
Jody Lynn Nye lists her main career activity as ‘spoiling cats.’ When not engaged upon this worthy occupation, she writes fantasy and science fiction books and short stories.
Before breaking away from gainful employment to write full time, Jody worked as a file clerk, bookkeeper at a small publishing house, freelance journalist, and photographer, accounting assistant and costume maker. For four years, she was on the technical operations staff of a local Chicago television station, ending as Technical Operations Manager.
Since 1987 she has published 45 books and more than 110 short stories. Although she is best known as a collaborator with other notable authors such as Anne McCaffrey (the Ship Who series, the Dinosaur Planet series), Robert Asprin (Dragons and the Myth-Adventures), John Ringo (Clan of the Claw) and Piers Anthony, Jody has numerous solo books to her credit, mostly fantasy and science fiction with a humorous bent. Her newest book is Fortunes of the Imperium (Baen Books), the second of the Lord Thomas Kinago books, which she describes as “Jeeves and Wooster in space.” Over the last twenty-five years or so, Jody has taught in numerous writing workshops and speaks at schools and libraries, and teaches the two-day writers’ workshop at DragonCon in Atlanta. When not writing, she enjoys baking, calligraphy, travel, photography and, of course, reading.
Jody lives in the northwest suburbs of Chicago with her husband, Bill Fawcett, and Jeremy, their cat.
jodylynnnye.com
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Strong Arm Tactics Page 42
