“Well, there you have it, folks,” Bill Carr said. “It’s official now. You saw it for yourselves thanks to our fine camera technicians. Seven casualties confirmed. John, I don’t believe the American team has had its first casualty yet, is that right?”
“That’s right, Bill. The Russian team apparently was caught completely off guard.”
“Colonel Bullock, would you care to comment on what you’ve seen so far?”
“Yes, Bill, I think it’s fair to say that this first skirmish gives the American team a decided advantage. I would like to see the computer’s probability reports before going too far out on a limb, but I’d say the odds are definitely in favor of the American team at this stage. General Caldwell’s election not to take the central hill has paid a handsome dividend here early in the games.”
“General Vorsilov, would you care to give us the Russian point of view?”
“I do not agree with my American friend, Colonel Bullock,” the general said with a crisp British accent. “The fourth Russian squad was given the mission to take the central hill. The central hill has been taken and is now controlled by the Russian team. Possession of the central hill provides almost absolute dominance of the lake and surrounding low land. Those of you who have studied military history know how important that can be, particularly in the later stages of the games. I emphatically do not agree that the first skirmish was a defeat. Possession of the hill is worth a dozen men.”
“Comments, Colonel Bullock?”
“Well, Bill, first of all, I don’t agree that the Russian team has possession of the hill. True they have three men up there, but those men are armed with nothing but rifles and hand grenades—and they are not dug in. Right now the central hill is up for grabs. I—”
“Just a minute, Colonel. Pardon this interruption, but our computer has the first probability report. And here it is! The prediction is for an American victory with a probability rating of 57.2. How about that, folks? Here early in the first day the American team, which was a decided underdog in this year’s games has jumped to a substantial lead.”
Colonel Bullock spoke: “Bill, I want you to notice that man there—over there on the right-hand side of your screen. Can we have a closeup on that? That’s a runner, Bill. A lot of the folks don’t notice little things like that They want to watch the machine gunners or the point man, but that man there could have a decided effect on the outcome of these games, Bill.”
“I presume he’s carrying a message back to headquarters, eh Colonel?”
“That’s right, Bill, and a very important message, I’ll warrant. You see an attack on the central hill from the east or south sides would be disastrous. The Russians, of course, hold the south hill. From their positions there they could subject our boys to a blistering fire from the rear on any attack made from the south. That runner was sent back with word that there are only three Russians on the hill. I think we can expect an immediate counterattack from the north as soon as the message has been delivered. In the meantime, squads five and six will maintain their positions in the eastern sector and try to prevent any reinforcements of the Russian position.”
“Thank you, Colonel, for that enlightening analysis, and now, folks—” He broke off when the runner to whom the Colonel referred stumbled and fell.
“Wait a minute, folks. He’s been hit! He’s down! The runner has been shot. You saw it here, folks. Brilliant camera work. Simply great. John, how about that?”
“Simply tremendous, Bill. A really great shot. Ed, can we back the cameras up and show the folks that action again? Here it is in slow motion, folks. Now you see him (who is that, Colonel? Ted Krogan? Thank you, Colonel) here he is, folks, Private Ted Krogan from Milwaukee, Wisconsin. Here he is coming around the last clump of bushes—now watch this, folks—he gets about half way across the clearing —and there it is, folks, you can actually see the bullet strike his throat—a direct hit. Watch this camera close up of his face, you’ll see him die in front of your eyes. And there he goes—he rolls over and not a move. He was dead before he hit the ground. Bill, did any of our cameras catch where that shot came from?”
“Yes, John, the Russians have slipped a two man sniper team in on our left flank. This could be serious, John. I don’t think our boys know the runner was hit.”
“Only time will tell, Bill. Only time will tell. Right now, I believe we have our first lull. Let’s take thirty seconds for our stations to identify themselves.”
Private Richard Starbuck’s first day was not at all what he had expected. He was with the second squad, one of the three squads which were dug in on the north hill. After digging his foxhole he had spent the day staring at the south and central hills. He had heard the brief skirmish near the central hill, but he had yet to see his first Russian. He strained so hard to see something that sometimes his eyes played tricks on him. Twice his mind gave movement to a distant shadow. Once he nearly fired at the sudden sound of a rabbit in the brush. His desire to see the enemy was almost overpowering. It reminded him of the first time Mr. Martin had taken him fishing on the lake. He had been thirteen at the time. He had stared at that still, white cork for what had seemed like hours. He remembered he had even prayed to God to send a fish along that would make the cork go under. His mind had played tricks on him that day too, and several times he had fancied the cork was moving when it was not. He was not praying today, of course—except the intensity of his desire was something like a prayer.
He spent the entire first day in a foxhole without seeing anything or hearing anything except an occasional distant sniper’s bullet. When the sun went down, he brought out his rations and consumed eighteen hundred calories. As soon as it was dark, his squad was to move to the south slope and prepare their defensive positions. He knew the Russians would be similarly occupied. It was maddening to know that for a time the enemy would be exposed and yet be relatively safe because of the covering darkness.
When it was completely dark, his squad captain gave the signal, and the squad moved out to their predetermined positions and began to dig in. So far they were still following the battle plan to the letter. He dug his foxhole with care, building a small ledge half way down on which to sit and placing some foliage on the bottom to keep it from becoming muddy, and then he settled down to wait. Somehow it was better at night. He even found himself wishing that they would not come tonight. He discovered that he could wait.
Later he slept. How long, he did not know. He only knew that when he awoke he heard a sound of air parting followed by a hard, thundering impact that shook the ground. His first instinct was to action, and then he remembered that there was nothing he could do, so he hunched down as far as possible in his foxhole and waited. He knew real fear now—the kind of fear that no amount of training or conditioning can eliminate. He was a living thing whose dominant instinct was to continue living. He did not want to die hunched down in a hole in the ground. The flesh along his spine quivered involuntarily with each fractional warning whoosh which preceded the mortar’s fall. Now he knew that he could die, knew it with his body as well as with his mind. A shell landed nearby, and he heard a shrill, womanlike scream. Bill Smith had been hit. His first reaction was one of relief. It had been Bill Smith and not he. But why did he have to scream? Bill Smith had been one of the toughest men in the squad. There ought to be more dignity than that. There ought to be a better way of dying than lying helpless in a hole and waiting for chance or fate in the form of some unseen, impersonal gunner, who probably was firing an assigned pattern anyhow, to bring you life or death.