A Hymn Before Battle

The campaign on Barwhon dragged on, and the factors that made Barwhon a tough nut to crack—relative lack of relief, and high levels of resources for the Posleen to draw on—were magnified on Earth. The victory on Diess, the victory that required thousands of the Earth's finest soldiers, was being spun as the work of one man. No matter how he protested, no matter how he stressed the importance of teamwork, he knew better than to mention the problems of training; in his speeches, it always came out as "O'Neal, O'Neal, O'Neal."

And, in the "briefings" to senior officers—actually dog and pony shows for brass hats who wanted a good war story—when he pointed out the mistakes in training and doctrine they stopped being so friendly. He had yet to meet one senior officer on Earth that could find his ass with both hands. And now this.

He did not even know what unit he was reporting to. His orders just directed him to report to 555th Fleet Strike Infantry for duty. "The Triple-Nickle" was a separate regiment, ACS and even Fleet Strike, but it was the last one to be formed before the invasion. Last on the list for equipment and perso

And now receiving a lieutenant, battered and more than a little shocky, for duty. Duty, training and preparation. The next time he would be ready and so would the men he commanded. He swore that on the souls of his dead.

He had taken the time in the hospital, immediately after the general left, to start on the letters to the families. The information was sketchy on who exactly had been in the platoon. Sergeant Green and he had the only complete rosters. Sergeant Green had bought the farm and Mike never memorized his, depending upon the "late" Michelle to remember it for him.

He remembered the total well, fifty-eight. But the total that the survivors could remember only came up to fifty-five and he had never been able to reconstruct who those other three were. It ate at him. Three of his men, MIA and unknown soldiers. Was there anyone he should have written letters to?

Letters to mothers and fathers, letters to wives, letters to sweethearts. Who had come up with that masochistic custom? Tell me that the Mongols personally told the wife that her husband would not be coming home? Well, yes, probably and then married them to keep them from poverty. Probably the British, it was a properly masochistic tradition; their style if anyone's. Or maybe an early American officer, knowing that the congressman would be writing a letter to ask anyway and then the tradition started . . .

"Dear Mr. and Mrs. Creyton, I was your son's commanding officer when he lost his life and I wanted to tell you what a fine and honorable young man he was. He was covering the retreat of the German Panzer Grenadier . . . etc." Thirty-two letters. He was saved from writing three because they listed no next of kin. One of them was Wiznowski. Well, I remember you, Wiz. Drink one for me in Valhalla. I'll be there shortly.

"Sorry about that, Captain," said the MP, breaking Mike out of his daze. His expression was different. Mike saw the now-to-be-expected hero-worship, but there was something else. Mischief?

"We have to call in all the officers coming in under orders, to find out where they go. The units keep moving and we don't have the central processing facility set up yet. Anyway, Captain, the problem was that your orders had changed and they had to find the new ones."

"It's Lieutenant, Sergeant, and where do I get the new ones?"

"I wrote them down, Captain." He cleared his throat. "So much of paragraph 13587-01: `O'Neal, Michael L., First Lieutenant USAR to report to the 555th Mobile Infantry, Fort Indiantown Gap, Pe

"Damn!"

"Congratulations, sir!"

"Uh, thanks."

"Are you who I think you are, sir?"

"Yeah, probably," Mike shrugged.

"Is it as bad as they say, sir?" asked the MP, his voice lowered.

"Worse, Sergeant, worse," said Captain O'Neal, shaking his head. "It's dancin' with the Devil, Sergeant. An' the Devil's leading."

* * *

–Kipling