The Middle Guard might have saved some of their ships, might have them hidden out in the bush, but the usefulness at this time of superstratospheric shuttles which required unmovable launching catapults was conjectural. As for the Ground Forces a good half of them had been captured or killed at Buchanan Island Base and at lesser garrisons. While the enlisted survivors were being released, the only officers still free were such as Lieutenant Busby, those who had been on detached duty when the attack came. Busby's unit had been manning a radar station outside New London; he had saved his command by abandoning the now useless station.
The civil government of the baby republic was, of course, gone; almost every official had been captured. The command organization of the armed forces was equally out of action, captured in the initial attack. This raised a point that puzzled Don; Busby did not act as if his commanding generals were missing; he continued to behave as if he were a unit commander of an active military organization, with task and function clearly defined. Esprit de corps was high among his men; they seemed to expect months, perhaps years of bush warfare, harrying and raiding the Federation forces, but eventual victory at the end.
As one of them put it to Don, "They can't catch us. We know these swamps; they don't. They won't be able to go ten miles from the city, even with boat radar and dead-reckoning bugs. We'll sneak in at night and cut their throats -and sneak out again for breakfast. We won't let them lift a ton of radioactive off this planet, nor an ounce of drugs. We'll make it so expensive in money and men that they'll get sick of it and go home."
Don nodded. "Sick of fighting the fog, as Lieutenant Busby puts it."
"Busby?"
"Huh? Lieutenant Busby-your C. O."
"Is that his name? I didn't catch it." Don's face showed bewilderment. The soldier went on, "I've only been here since morning, you see. I was turned loose with the other duckfeet from the Base and was dragging my tail back home, feeling lower than swamp muck. I stopped off here, meaning to cadge a meal from Wong, and found the Lieutenant here-Busby, did you say? with a going concern. He attached me and put me back on duty. I tell you, it put the heart back into me. Got a light on you?"
Before he turned in that night-in Mr. Wong's barn, with two dozen soldiers-Don had found that most of those present were not of Busby's original detail, which had consisted of only five men, all electronics technicians. The rest were stragglers, now formed into a guerilla platoon. As yet few of them had arms; they made up for that in restored morale.
Before he went to sleep Don had made up his mind. He would have looked up Lieutenant Busby at once but decided that it would not do to disturb the officer so late at night. He woke up next morning to find the soldiers gone. He rushed out, found Mrs. Wong feeding her chickens, and was directed by her down to the waterfront. There Busby was superintending the moving out of his command. Don rushed up to him. "Lieutenant! May I have a word with you?"
Busby turned impatiently. "I'm busy."
"Just a single moment-please!"
"Well, speak up."
"Just this-where can I go to enlist?" Busby frowned; Don raced ahead with explanation, insisting that he had been trying to join -up when the attack came.
"If you meant to enlist, I should think you would have done so long ago. Anyway, by your own story you've lived a major portion of your life on Earth. You're not one of us."
"Yes, I am!''"
"I think you're a kid with your head stuffed with romantic notions. You're not old enough to vote."
"I'm old enough to fight."
"What can you do?"
"Uh, well, I'm a pretty good shot, with a hand gun anyway."
"What else?"
Don thought rapidly; it had not occurred to him that soldiers were expected to have anything more than willingness. Ride horseback? It meant nothing here. "Uh, I talk `true speech'-fairly well."
"That's useful-we need men who can palaver with the dragons. What else?"
Don thought about the fact that he had been able to make his escape through the bush without disaster-but the Lieutenant knew that; it simply proved that he was truly a fog-eater in spite of his mixed background. He decided that Busby would not be interested in the details of his ranch school education. "Well, I can wash dishes."
Busby grudged a faint smile. "That is unquestionably a soldierly virtue. Nevertheless, Harvey, I doubt if you're suited. This won't be parade-ground soldiering. We'll live off the country and probably never get paid at all. It means going hungry, going dirty, always on the move. You not only risk being killed in action; if you are captured, you'll be burned for treason."
"Yes, sir. I figured that out last night."
"And you still want to join?"
"Yes, sir."
"Hold up your right hand."
Don did so. Busby continued. "Do you solemnly swear to uphold and defend the Constitution of the Venus Republic against all enemies, domestic and foreign; and to serve faithfully in the armed forces of the Republic for the duration of this emergency unless sooner discharged by competent authority; and to obey the lawful orders of superior officers placed over you?"
Don took a deep breath. "I do."
"Very well, soldier-get in the boat."
"Yes, sirl"
There were many, many times thereafter that Don regretted having enlisted-but so has every man who ever volunteered for military service. More of the time he was reasonably content, though he would have denied this sincerely-he acquired considerable talent at the most common of soldiers' pastimes, griping about the war, the weather, the food, the mud, the stupidities of high command. The old soldier can substitute for recreation, or even for rest or food, this ancient, conventional, and harmless form of literary art.
He learned the ways of the guerilla-to infiltrate without a sound, to strike silently, and to fade back into the dark and the mist before the alarm can be raised. Those who learned it lived; those who did not, died. Don lived. He learned other things-to sleep for ten minutes when opportunity offered, to come fully and quietly awake at a touch or a sound, to do without sleep for a night, or two night sor even three. He acquired deep lines around his mouth, lines beyond his years, and a white, puckered scar on his left forearm.
He did not stay long with Busby but was transferred to a company of gondola infantry operating between CuiCui and New London. They called themselves proudly "Marsten's Raiders"; he was assigned as "true speech" interpreter for his outfit. While most colonials can whistle a few phrases of dragon talk-or, more usually, can understand a bit of a pidgin sufficient for buying and selling-few of them can converse freely in it. Don, for all his lack of practice during his years on Earth, had been taught it young and taught it well by a dragon who had taken an interest in him as a child. And both his parents used it as easily as they did Basic English; Don had been drilled in it by daily use at home until he was eleven.
The dragons were of great use to the resistance fighters; a while not belligerents themselves their sympathies lay with the colonials-more accurately, they despised the Federation soldiers. The colonials had managed to make a home on Venus through getting along with the dragons-an enlightened self-interest policy instituted by Cyrus Buchanan himself. To a human born on Venus there was never any doubt that there existed another race-dragons-as intelligent, as wealthy, and as civilized as their own. But to the great majority of the Federation soldiers, new to the planet, the dragons were merely ugly, uncouth animals, incapable of speech and giving themselves airs, arrogating to themselves privileges that no animal had a right to claim.