“Massaraksh!” barked the captain. “The Health Department certified him and the rest is our business.” He looked at Guy angrily and added: “A legionnaire has complete trust in his friend. If he doesn’t, he’s certainly no friend and he ought to kick him out. I’m surprised at you, corporal. OK, back to your platoon. There’s very little time left. I’ll watch the candidate myself during the operation.”
Guy clicked his heels and left. Safely outside, he smiled. The old soldier had taken the responsibility on himself after all. Now, with a clear conscience, he could consider Maxim his friend. Mac Sim. His real surname was a mouthful. Either he had imagined it in a delirious state or he actually was related to those mountain people. H’m, what was the name of their ancient king. Zaremichakbeshmucaray. Guy walked over to the parade ground and scanned it for his platoon. Tireless Pandi was driving the men through the top-floor window of a dummy three-story building. They were soaked from the effort, and with only an hour left before the operation, that wasn’t so good.
“As you were!” shouted Guy from afar.
“As you were!” yelled Pandi. “Fall in!”
The platoon fell into formation quickly.
“Attention!” Pandi shouted. He marched up to Guy smartly and reported: “Corporal, the platoon is learning to take a town by assault.”
“Stand at attention,” ordered Guy, trying to express disapproval by his tone of voice, as Corporal Serembesh was so skilled at doing. He strode back and forth in front of the formation, hands clasped behind his back, looking into the familiar faces of his men.
Bulging eyes—gray, brown, blue—followed his every movement, ready to execute his orders. Ibis was his life, these twelve strong men—six full privates of the Fighting Legion on the right flank and six candidates aspiring to be regular privates on the left flank; all wearing smart black jump suits with shiny buttons, glistening combat boots, and berets tipped jauntily over their right eyebrows. And in the center of the formation, on the candidates’ right flank, lowered Maxim, his favorite, even though it was wrong for a platoon leader to single out one over the others. “Hey, what’s this? Those strange brown eyes of his aren’t rigid like the others. Well, all right, he’ll learn that in time... And what’s this?”
Guy went up to Maxim and jabbed at his open top button. Then, standing on tiptoe, he adjusted his beret. “Damn, there goes that stupid grin again. Well, give him time, he’ll outgrow it. After all, he is the youngest recruit in the platoon.”
To avoid any semblance of favoritism, Guy straightened the buckle on Maxim’s neighbor, although it was unnecessary. Then he stepped back three paces and ordered the platoon to stand at ease.
“Men,” said Guy, “today we’re going to take part in a regular operation as part of the company. We’re going to neutralize the agents of a potential enemy. The operation will be conducted according to Plan Thirty-three. I know that you regular privates remember your part, but I think it would help to refresh the memories of those candidates who neglect to fasten all their buttons. Each platoon is assigned one entrance to the building. The platoon divides into four teams: three teams of three for the inside job, and a backup team outside. The inside teams of two privates and one candidate will go through all the apartments systematically, and remember, without making a commotion. After a patrol has entered an apartment, it will do as follows: the candidate will guard the front door; a private will occupy the rear entrance and not permit anything to divert him: and the team leader will inspect the apartment. The outside backup team of three candidates commanded by the platoon leader—in this case, me—will remain below at the building’s entrance, prepared to render immediate assistance to any inside team requiring it. You know the makeup of the inside teams and the backup teams. Attention!” He withdrew one step. “Fall into teams!”
After a brief shuffling, the platoon regrouped into teams. Each man stood in his proper place. No one had fumbled with his submachine gun, slipped, or lost his beret, as usually happened during exercises. Maxim, with a broad grin on his face again, lowered above the backup team’s right flank. An absurd thought suddenly occurred to Guy—that Maxim viewed the entire operation as an amusing game. Damn it, it couldn’t be true! It was just that damn idiotic smile.
“Not bad,” grumbled Guy, giving Pandi an approving look. The old man had done a fine job—really drilled the men. “Attention! Platoon, fall in!”
A brief shuffling again, neat and precise—beautiful—and the platoon stood before him in a straight row. Good! Simply remarkable! A shiver ran through him. Hands clasped behind his back, he strode up and down in front of the platoon.
“Legionnaires!” he said. “We are the strength and hope of the All-Powerful Creators. In fulfilling their great mission they have only us to rely on.” This was the truth, the real truth; and there was a certain fascination in it. It gave one a sense of superiority to the rest of society. “The Fighting Legion is the iron fist of history. It has been called upon to sweep aside all obstacles on our proud path. The sword of the Fighting Legion has been tempered in fire; it burns in our hands, and only streams of the enemy’s blood can cool it. The enemy is cunning. He is cowardly, but stubborn. The All-Powerful Creators have commanded us to smash this treacherous resistance, to tear out by the roots those forces that drag us down into chaos and depraved anarchy. That is our duty and we are happy to fulfill it. We make many sacrifices. We disturb the tranquillity of our mothers, brothers, and children We deprive the honest worker, the honest civil servant, the honest tradesman and industrialist of much deserved rest. They know why we must invade their homes, and they welcome us as their best friends, as their protectors. Remember this, and do not let anything divert you from your mission. A friend is a friend, but an enemy is an enemy. Are there any questions?”
“No!” bellowed the platoon.
“Attention! Thirty minutes to rest and check your equipment. Dismissed!”
The platoon scattered and headed for the barracks in twos and threes. Guy followed slowly, and Maxim, smiling, waited for him a short distance away. “Guy, how about a fast round of the word?”
Guy groaned to himself. He’d have to shut this kid up! Gag him! God, imagine a candidate bugging his corporal with such idiotic nonsense a half-hour before an operation.
“This isn’t the time for games,” he said as coldly as possible.
“Are you upset about something?” asked Maxim sympathetically.
Guy shook his head in exasperation. What the hell could he do with him? It was utterly impossible to silence such a good-natured giant, who was on top of everything else his sister’s savior and a man far superior to himself in everything but military drill. Guy glanced around and then pleaded: “Listen, Mac, you’re putting me in a damned awkward position When we’re in the barracks, I’m your boss, I give the orders, and you obey. I’ve been pounding that into your dumb head.”
“But I am ready to obey you. Go ahead, give an order! I know what discipline is.”
“I already have. Check your equipment.”
“Excuse me Guy. But that isn’t the order you gave us. You ordered us to check equipment and rest. Have you forgotten? Well I’ve checked my equipment and now I’m resting. So, how about the word game? I’ve thought up a good one.”
“Mac, get this! A subordinate has the right to address his superior officer only according to regulations. And only in regard to military matters.”
“Yes, I remember. Paragraph Nine. But that’s only when we’re on duty. At the moment, we’re resting.”