That night there was a two-hour alert.
But eventually I learned to appreciate the homey luxury of two or three dozen warm bodies to snuggle up to, because twelve weeks later they dumped me down raw naked in a primitive area of the Canadian Rockies and I had to make my way forty miles through mountains. I made it—and hated the Army every inch of the way.
I wasn't in too bad shape when I checked in, though. A couple of rabbits had failed to stay as alert as I was, so I didn't go entirely hungry... nor entirely naked; I had a nice warm thick coat of rabbit fat and dirt on my body and moccasins on my feet—the rabbits having no further use for their skins. It's amazing what you can do with a flake of rock if you have to—I guess our cave-man ancestors weren't such dummies as we usually think.
The others made it, too, those who were still around to try and didn't resign rather than take the test—all except two boys who died trying. Then we all went back into the mountains and spent thirteen days finding them, working with copters overhead to direct us and all the best communication gear to help us and our instructors in powered command suits to supervise and to check rumors—because the Mobile Infantry doesn't abandon its own while there is any thin shred of hope.
Then we buried them with full honors to the strains of "This Land Is Ours" and with the posthumous rank of PFC, the first of our boot regiment to go that high -- because a cap trooper isn't necessarily expected to stay alive (dying is part of his trade)... but they care a lot about how you die. It has to be heads up, on the bounce, and still trying.
Breckinridge was one of them; the other was an Aussie boy I didn't know. They weren't the first to die in training; they weren't the last.
CHAPTER 5
He's bound to be guilty ‘r he
wouldn't be here!
Starboard gun... FIRE!
Shooting's too good for ‘im, kick
the louse out!
Port gun... FIRE!
Ancient chanty used to time saluting guns
But that was after we had left Camp Currie and a lot had happened in between. Combat training, mostly—combat drill and combat exercises and combat maneuvers, using everything from bare hands to simulated nuclear weapons. I hadn't known there were so many different ways to fight. Hands and feet to start with—and if you think those aren't weapons you haven't seen Sergeant Zim and Captain Frankel, our battalion commander, demonstrate la savate, or had little Shujumi work you over with just his hands and a toothy grin -- Zim made Shujumi an instructor for that purpose at once and required us to take his orders, although we didn't have to salute him and say "sir."
As our ranks thinned down Zim quit bothering with formations himself, except parade, and spent more and more time in personal instruction, supplementing the corporal-instructors. He was sudden death with anything but he loved knives, and made and balanced his own, instead of using the perfectly good general-issue ones. He mellowed quite a bit as a personal teacher, too, becoming merely unbearable instead of downright disgusting -- he could be quite patient with silly questions.
Once, during one of the two-minute rest periods that were scattered sparsely through each day's work, one of the boys -- a kid named Ted Hendrick -- asked, "Sergeant? I guess this knife throwing is fun... but why do we have to learn it? What possible use is it?"
"Well," answered Zim, "suppose all you have is a knife? Or maybe not even a knife? What do you do? Just say your prayers and die? Or wade in and make him buy it anyhow? Son, this is real—it's not a checker game you can concede if you find yourself too far behind."
"But that's just what I mean, sir. Suppose you aren't armed at all? Or just one of these toadstickers, say? And the man you're up against has all sorts of dangerous weapons? There's nothing you can do about it; he's got you licked on showdown."
Zim said almost gently, "You've got it all wrong, son. There's no such thing as a ‘dangerous weapon.' "
"Huh? Sir?"
"There are no dangerous weapons; there are only dangerous men. We're trying to teach you to be dangerous—to the enemy. Dangerous even without a knife. Deadly as long as you still have one hand or one foot and are still alive. If you don't know what I mean, go read ‘Horatius at the Bridge' or ‘The Death of the Bon Homme Richard'; they're both in the Camp library. But take the case you first mentioned; I'm you and all you have is a knife. That target behind me -- the one you've been missing, number three -- is a sentry, armed with everything but an H-bomb. You've got to get him... quietly, at once, and without letting him call for help." Zim turned slightly—thunk! -- a knife he hadn't even had in his hand was quivering in the center of target number three. "You see? Best to carry two knives— but get him you must, even barehanded."
"Uh—"
"Something still troubling you? Speak up. That's what I'm here for, to answer your questions."
"Uh, yes, sir. You said the sentry didn't have any H-bomb. But he does have an H-bomb; that's just the point. Well, at least we have, if we're the sentry... and any sentry we're up against is likely to have them, too. I don't mean the sentry, I mean the side he's on."
"I understood you."
"Well... you see, sir? If we can use an H-bomb—and, as you said, it's no checker game; it's real, it's war and nobody is fooling around— isn't it sort of ridiculous to go crawling around in the weeds, throwing knives and maybe getting yourself killed... and even losing the war... when you've got a real weapon you can use to win? What's the point in a whole lot of men risking their lives with obsolete weapons when one professor type can do so much more just by pushing a button?"
Zim didn't answer at once, which wasn't like him at all. Then he said softly, "Are you happy in the Infantry, Hendrick? You can resign, you know." Hendrick muttered something; Zim said, "Speak up!"
"I'm not itching to resign, sir. I'm going to sweat out my term."
"I see. Well, the question you asked is one that a sergeant isn't really qualified to answer... and one that you shouldn't ask me. You're supposed to know the answer before you join up. Or you should. Did your school have a course in History and Moral Philosophy?"
"What? Sure—yes, sir."
"Then you've heard the answer. But I'll give you my own – unofficial views on it. If you wanted to teach a baby a lesson, would you cut its head off?"
"Why... no, sir!"
"Of course not. You'd paddle it. There can be circumstances when it's just as foolish to hit an enemy city with an H-bomb as it would be to spank a baby with an ax. War is not violence and killing, pure and simple; war is controlled violence, for a purpose. The purpose of war is to support your government's decisions by force. The purpose is never to kill the enemy just to be killing him... but to make him do what you want him to do. Not killing... but controlled and purposeful violence. But it's not your business or mine to decide the purpose or the control. It's never a soldier's business to decide when or where or how—or why—he fights; that belongs to the statesmen and the generals. The statesmen decide why and how much; the generals take it from there and tell us where and when and how. We supply the violence; other people -- ‘older and wiser heads,' as they say -- supply the control. Which is as it should be. That's the best answer I can give you. If it doesn't satisfy you, I'll get you a chit to go talk to the regimental commander. If he can't convince you—then go home and be a civilian! Because in that case you will certainly never make a soldier."