Robert Frezza - [Colonial War 01]

by A Small Colonial War (epub)

“We do not make ‘men’ out of ‘boys’ or any such puerile nonsense. A seven-year term of service is a long period of time. ’ ’ Having broken away from the pattern of his presentation, he examined Snyman intently. “Now tell me, Meneer Snyman, does your father know you have come here to sign up?” Snyman sucked in his breath. For a short moment, he did not speak and did not attempt to meet Redzup’s eyes.

  When he did speak, it was in a dull voice very much unlike his own. “No, he does not, quartermaster sergeant. If he knew that I was here, he would disown me—if he has not done so already. Does he have to sign papers or something, quartermaster sergeant?”

  Redzup smiled his wolf smile, all incisors. “Not for Vereshchagin’s battalion, he doesn’t, Meneer Snyman. We are more concerned with what you are than with how old you are. Had you lied to me, however, I would have thrown you out. Whatever else may be said about Vereshchagin’s, we do not lie to each other. What age would you prefer to be? I suggest nineteen.” Snyman exhaled. “Nineteen is fine, quartermaster sergeant, ” he said quietly. Although there was a great deal more to be said, he was suddenly very tired. "I think that I would like to become a soldier.”

  * * *

  HANS COLDEWE SAT UP WITH HIS FEET IN A BUCKET OF MEDI-cated water, reading Karl May. While medicated water may have been Vincente’s prescription for badly blistered feet, Karl May was Coldewe’s.

  For some silly reason, his boot lining had developed a crease about thirty kilometers out, and while Coldewe was wringing out the blood, Rudi Scheel had happened by. Scheel, who occasionally delighted in antique idiom, had pointed out with some degree of accuracy that lieutenants are expected to exercise at least as much sense as green recruits and observed that Coldewe could either soak his feet or his head.

  Unabashed, Coldewe had his reader out. While disks of Thomas Mann and Goethe occupied prominent places in his box, Karl May and James Fenimore Cooper were well worn.

  He sighed and set aside the untamed frontier, reflecting that the enforced rest was an unusually good opportunity for reflection. He found himself mildly surprised at how well the Afrikaners were taking the Imperial presence. So far, even the one percent that had some genuine interest in how things were run had been fairiy quiet. In Jo’burg in particular, Beyers had things under control. Certainly he had handled the search very well, as had the Ice Maiden.

  Still domiciled in the farmhouse’s back bedroom, Bruwer would say the things she’d been taught to say, but she was unpredictable. She had her own mind and listened more than she spoke, which evidently pleased Shimazu to no end. The hostility of the townspeople had evidently been a jolting experience for her. Coldewe looked to see little doors in her personality open up.

  By coincidence, Steel Rudi interrupted Coldewe’s musings. “There you are, Lieutenant Hans. I’ve been looking for you.”

  Coldewe grimaced. Company Sergeant Scheel had first put on his uniform as a callow youth to see out the tail end of the uchikowashi after the crack-up, nuclear firestorms, and the plagues. Anything that Rudi thought was funny wasn’t.

  “You know, Hans, for eighteen months you’ve been tipping the horse dung in my lap. Today, I light one small candle,” Scheel said by way of conversation; he had no religion worth mentioning. “You remember the translator that came with Shimazu, Bruwer her name is?”

  “What about her?” Coldewe replied cautiously.

  “She just had some kind of argument with Raul, and she’s packing her bags to leave. Her religious beliefs, I think. Raul’s wandering about with some kind of funny look on his face, and she’s up there crying.”

  Coldewe said something sulfurous that didn’t come from Karl May.

  Scheel laughed. “The way I read human beings, you’d think I was one. You, go knock sense in his head.”

  Coldewe put on his shoes. He left to find Sanmartin in quarters, morosely stirring sugar into a mug of hot water and studying the mail that had been emptied out of the computer.

  “Hello, Hans. Sit down. Whatever you want to talk about, this comes first,” he said sharply as he began skimming and summarizing for Coldewe’s benefit.

  “Ebyl’s boys have their vehicles out of their wrappers, and they’ve captured the spot where Chalkton used to be. Also, number five platoon was out to Dewetsdorp to back up the Border Police. A retired civil engineer stood up in the middle of a sermon and starting preaching jihad. The hospital has him for evaluation.”

  “It sounds like your Mend Rettaglia has nets in place already.”

  “I wouldn’t doubt it. One bit of humor, there was a mutiny in Reading a few days back. The cowboys who were supposed to go to the volunteer battalions went on a tear and ran out the red banner. One of Eybl’s officers handled it.”

  “It’s nice to know there’s another battalion on this stupid ball of mud,” Coldewe said agreeably.

  “Just so. This is for you. USS had decided to run a convoy from the mines to the spaceport Wednesday. Gold, niobium, palladium, tantalum, and so forth—the usual. Seven and twenty trucks, maybe thirty billion yen or so. We provide the escort. Two Cadillacs, two slicks, and an infantry section, commanded by an officer of suitable rank, which is you. Signed by Vereshchagin, commanding.”

  “Is the Variag dipping powder?”

  “I’ll mention your concerns to Admiral Lee. That’s where this one originated. Take a section out of number ten and rendezvous at Boksburg thirteen hours Wednesday.”

  Coldewe wrinkled his nose.

  “And last, the admiral has officially accepted our assessment of the area as pacified.”

  “Ha! It took him long enough. Which means when?” Coldewe said rubbing his hands together.

  “Friday. The shuttle’s going to dump off six one-ton pallets: ammo, rations, wire, matting. Redzup’s coming up to handle the joystick himself. ’ ’

  Paradropping was a cheap and effective means of resupply. A skilled operator could bring a load within meters of a mark without even cracking the breakaway plastic that absorbed the shock of impact. Redzup had been pulling pallets from the sky as long as anyone could remember, having handled in excess of two hundred live drops and uncounted thousands of computer simulations.

  “It’s still a stupid regulation.” Coldewe stopped rubbing his hands. ‘‘We don’t get bulk supply until we demonstrate we don’t need it.”

  "It would be a little embarrassing to have one of the happy natives put a rocket into fifty cases of mortar rounds.”

  “In the middle of the perimeter. Agreed. Now, is that all for overnight message traffic?”

  “All right, go ahead.”

  “What’s between you and Bruwer?”

  Sanmartin looked down at the flimsies uncomfortably. “I don’t know, Hans. We were up late, so I took her down for breakfast at a reasonable hour for a change.”

  “Everything fell through to the substrata?”

  "Number ten was in there. Little tin gods, Hans, she stopped, she turned white, she pointed to Isaac, and she asked me, ‘You let them eat with people?’ Then she said something about Ban-tus which could have come straight out of that thing about the Mad Hatter’s Tea Party which you have a habit of quoting sotto voce on ceremonial occasions. What’s a Bantu?”

  Isaac Wanjau was the biggest, blackest man Coldewe knew. “That must have been one of the things they covered while you were dozing through Political Theory,” Coldewe said agreeably. “What then?”

  “When Isaac turned and waved, she went up the steps two at a time. Well, I followed her. ’ ’

  “Of course.”

  “When I got up there, all she could say was, ‘He was right there! He waved at me! The big, black one! ’ Waving her arms. ’ ’ Isaac was a former cake from Ashcroft. Sanmartin had jumped him two grades for time spent shooting at Imperials.

  “And then?”

  “Well, after ten minutes of that, I finally lost my temper and told her that Isaac was worth about ten mop-headed civilians on any scale of relative values.”

  “Tactf
ul.”

  “And she quit. She said, ‘I never wanted to be part of this precious battalion of yours. ’ So I said, ‘Quit! ’ I don’t know what I did wrong.”

  “She’s packing her things to leave,” Coldewe told him, folding his arms.

  Bruwer was still getting over one disastrous love affair she refused to talk about, a fact known to everyone except Sanmartin, who had clearly spent too much time with slugs and bugs in his youth.

  “Does Shirnazu know?” Sanmartin asked uncomfortably. “Shimazu knows everything about everything. Rudi said she was crying,” Coldewe added unnecessarily. “If she goes we’ll be short an interpreter. Also, think of Rettaglia’s feelings.” “He doesn’t have any. Damn it, Hans! Has she been on the same planet with the rest of us?”

  “That’s ninety percent of the problem. Don’t shout.”

  “I’m not shouting!”

  Coldewe examined him with exaggerated compassion. “Well?”

  “Well what?”

  “Well, apologize to her!”

  “Hans, she’s wrong!” Sanmartin found himself shouting. “You’re shouting. Of course she is. That’s an even better reason for apologizing.”

  “Hans, you’re not making sense. Besides, all I’ve done since I met the woman is apologize.”

  “Consider it good practice.”

  “Hans?!”

  “Raul, you’re shouting. How much do you know about women?”

  “Damn all. How do you think I got this job?”

  “Sometimes I wonder.”

  “Hans, just forget it. Anyway, I’ve got to go running with number ten in fifteen minutes.”

  “Raul, you’re pretty well done with the fimbriatid monograph, and you definitely need a new hobby. Look, we’ve got ten minutes to rehearse before we go meet Rudi, who is having the same conversation with Hanna, undoubtedly with more success.”

  “All right, Hans. I’ll try.” Sanmartin sighed, wondering how his exec could make the dumbest ideas sound plausible.

  Fifteen minutes later, Coldewe, relapsing in the mess with

  No. 10, saw his company commander saunter in. With a polite smile, Coldewe turned to Wanjau, who was big, black, and shaking his head in disbelief. Coldewe accepted his custard with a polite comment on the evils of gambling and assumed an unusually angelic look as Sanmartin slung his weapon and mounted a chair.

  No. 10 quieted expectantly.

  “I am told the seventh day is a day of rest, and last Sunday, some of you commenced by resting through His Excellency the chaplain’s sermon.” His remarks were greeted by a scattering of polite laughter.

  His Excellency, Superior Private Erixon of No. 11 platoon, was a Lutheran lay deacon, a pleasant, towheaded man who found the call to arms not incompatible with his calling to God or vice versa. He was deeply wounded by the callousness of his compatriots.

  “In order to permit all of you to rest up for tomorrow’s sermon, we will run short route number two today.” Turning to Gavrilov, the sergeant platoon commander of No. 10, he said, “My turn to lead. Four columns.” Gavrilov nodded. Sanmartin hopped off his chair and headed for the door.

  A few groans percolated upward along with laughter. Short route number two crossed two dongas and went up one side of a towering kopje and down the other.

  As he came out, he saw Bruwer at her window. She waved. He took his rifle up in his left hand and waved back just as No. 10 came pouring out to form up.

  In four columns, Platoon No. 10 moved out at a quick pace behind their mortified company commander. Carrying weapons and full gear, they ran through the streets of Johannesburg and out into the rain.

  Monday(3)

  SCHEEL’S BODY BLOCKED THE SUNSHINE IN FRONT OF HIS DOOR. “Company for you,” he announced gently.

  Seated behind a desk borrowed for the occasion, Sanmartin sighed and looked up. “Last one, Rudi?” he asked in a despairing tone.

  Rudi Scheel shook his head. Sanmartin sighed again. “Father or husband, this time.”

  “Father. A dominee named Snyman, Louis Pretorius.”

  “The name sounds familiar, I think Rhett mentioned it. Well, as the Variag is fond of pointing out, an infantry battalion is an inherently unnatural arrangement. How many does that make? ’ ’ “Four this week. Ours are making up for lost time.”

  “Just so. I suppose the Boers are afraid of miscegenation. In nine months, the population of this town would double if holding hands were all it took. It may do that anyway; ours seem more appreciative than the local males. If this keeps up, we’ll have sections volunteering to man checkpoints.”

  “The honeymoon will be over soon enough.”

  “All too true. Does this dominee have any English?”

  “Not a word. Bruwer will escort him up.”

  “That will seriously restrict what I can say. I wish I could do what the Iceman does.’’

  Scheel laughed and attempted to mimic Kolomeitsev’s even baritone voice. “Good afternoon to you. I have been informed that you have come to discuss your daughter’s relationship with Superior Private Ivan Ivanovich Ivanov. Superior Private Ivanov requires authorization in order to marry. He has not been so authorized. Company Sergeant Leonov? How many years has Superior Private Ivanov? Four years, one hundred seventy days? In two years, one hundred ninety-five days he will be free to consider the notion. I will not attend the ceremony. If you will excuse me, I have duties to which I must attend.”

  Sanmartin laughed. “The Hangman’s worse, though. He has them out in two minutes, and they actually thank him for it.” “This one will take longer. It’s not the daughter, it’s the son. He enlisted yesterday. The Hangman has him out training on the island.”

  “Damnable,” Sanmartin said with a touch of clairvoyance. “If this dominee didn’t hate us poisonously before, he will now.” He looked at Scheel and his eyebrows wrinkled. “Hold on, Rudi, you just reminded me of something. When Colonel Lynch was here, he complimented me on overfulfilling our training schedule. What was that about?” He looked out the window to where the engineers were laying steel-reinforced sidewalks, to the evident puzzlement of the local inhabitants who were in a position to observe.

  “The battalion training officer said that we met or exceeded all objectives of our unit training program,” Scheel said with a placid expression.

  “We don’t have unit training objectives. I didn’t even know

  we had a battalion training officer,” Sanmartin said with a puzzled look.

  Scheel held a finger to his lips. “Little colonels have big ears.

  I lie holy Table of Organization still has a place for one somewhere.”

  Sanmartin managed a shocked but dignified expression. "And Colonel Lynch thinks that...”

  “And demands appropriate reports on a daily basis,” Scheel replied. “If he found out the Variag cannibalized things like that to fill out the rifle platoons years ago, he might be distressed.” “I imagine he would.” Sanmartin was trying to maintain an expression that would be consistent with the dignity of a bereft dominee. “Think up some names so we can get them right if we’re asked.”

  “Already I asked our resident intellectual to make them up. We now have a Sergeant Felsen, a Sergeant Roche, and a Sergeant Pena.”

  “I can’t put my finger on it, but something is suspicious.” “When you know what the joke is, tell me so I can kill him.” “Count upon it.” Sanmartin grimaced. “Ship in the dominee. If he’s not gone in ten minutes, come in and bail out the ship. When will this foolishness end?”

  Scheel brayed loudly through his nose. “About the same time you get your pistol back! ’ ’

  ON THE HANGMAN’S ISLAND, THE DOMINEE’S SON WAS RECEIV-

  ing firsthand exposure to the Hangman’s mode of discourse.

  Henke glanced over the recruits mustered into four uneven ranks. “Good morning, gentlemen. I am Major Paul Henke. I will be your chief instructor. Please take a moment and look at (he man on either side of you,” he added. “One
of the two will not be here when you complete training.”

  In the front rank, Jan Snyman, standing rigid in the manner demonstrated by Corporal Orlov, echoed the major’s comments in Afrikaans for the Afrikaners whose English was not yet up to standard.

  “The standards you are expected to meet are high, perhaps higher than you can imagine. Each of you will require assistance at some time during training. If you fail to request assistance from me, from your other instructors, or from your comrades, you will be terminated, for stupidity, and rightly so.”

  Even on Ashcroft, where potential recruits had been scarce, the Variag’s officers had been a little careful about trying to make over garbage into soldiers. Henke waited for some comment to make itself apparent from the staggered ranks. None was forthcoming.

  Snyman found himself comparing Major Henke’s laconic style to Corporal Orlov’s. Corporal Orlov’s introduction had been equally unpromising.

  “If the answer to any of my questions is ‘yes,’ please raise your right hand,” the Hangman continued. “Are any of you practicing homosexuals? ’ ’

  They looked at each other uncertainly.

  “Are any of you practicing heterosexuals?”

  Most cautiously raised their hands.

  “Are the rest of you out of practice, unsure, or undecided?” This last question was greeted by a nervous laugh.

  “Plus, minus, or alternating current, we have one simple rule: on leave with consenting adults. In uniform, on duty, keep it in your trousers. If you wish to play around in the bunkers at night, please feel free to join Lieutenant-Colonel Kimura’s battalion.”

  In addition to battle dress, Henke wore a small, flat pack that looked unconscionably heavy, as did Orlov and the rest of the cadre. Snyman did not, as yet, know why.

  “Do any of you use alcoholic beverages, tobacco, or other drugs, excepting coffee, tea, or mate?”

  All of the cowboys and many of the Boers raised their hands.

  “Occasional social use is acceptable. Dependence or drunkenness is not. Use in the field is not. If any of you believe you will have difficulty with this, see me. Any habit of yours which would endanger your comrades we will eradicate, or we will eradicate you. We have few rules. We do not expect you to break the ones we have.”