Gust Front

And he told how some rag-head had made a stand to equal theirs, taking a bit of this unit and a bit of that and somehow putting enough steel in their spine to hold a vital pass against a whole swarm. Or so they said.

But India was a madhouse and nobody knew what was happening in the Africa swarm. And the one in Kazakhstan was just wandering around trying to find its way out of the plains. . . .

But finally the bottle was empty and it was time to leave.

«Well, Elgars. They say you might be able to hear me. And they tell me you might come out of it someday. I left the e-mail to my . . . our unit with them. They're taking all the survivors from The Stand at the Monument and making a special unit. You're included as one of us. You and all the other . . . wounded. And the dead. So, you can, you know . . .»

He stopped and wiped a tear away. «And I watched Pittets hang. You'd be happy to hear that. They didn't tie it the way I asked, I wanted him to kick for a while. But he's gone. And you know about the decorations.» He tried to think of something else to say but nothing came. «I gotta go,» he said, looking at his watch and trying not to look at the lovely face behind the tubes, as the machine sucked in and out.

«The Galactics, they're picking up the tab now. So there's no reason to, you know . . . to take you off. And they'll be moving you to a Sub-Urb. They've got plenty of room and really good facilities. So they're go

He wished now he hadn't finished the bottle. He could use a little taste. He took her hand one last time. «Thanks for that shot on Sixth Street.» He nodded at her, one soldier to another. «I know it saved you, too. But it still saved my ass.» He nodded again, hoping that she would do the thing with grabbing his hand, but there was no response. «Well, bye, Elgars. Take care.» Finally, he turned and left the room. Behind him it was silent except for the suck and whir of the machines.

* * *

Beyond the path of the outmost sun though utter darkness hurled—

Further than ever comet flared or vagrant star-dust swirled–

Live such as fought and sailed and ruled and loved and made our world.

They are purged of pride because they died, they know the worth of their bays,

They sit at wine with the Maidens Nine and the Gods of the Elder Days,

It is their will to serve or be still as fitteth Our Father's Praise.

'Tis theirs to sweep through the ringing deep where Azrael's outposts are,

Or buffet a path through the Pit's red wrath when God goes out to war,

Or hang with the reckless Seraphim on the rein of a red-maned star.

They take their mirth in the joy of the Earth–they dare not grieve for her pain.

They know of toil and the end of toil, they know God's Law is plain,

So they whistle the Devil to make them sport who know that Sin is vain.

And ofttimes cometh our Wise Lord God, master of every trade,

And tells them tales of His daily toil, of Edens newly made;

And they rise to their feet as He passes by, gentlemen unafraid.

To these who are cleansed of base Desire, Sorrow and Lust and Shame—

Gods for they knew the hearts of men, men for they stooped to Fame,

Borne on the breath that men call Death, my brother's spirit came.

He scarce had need to doff his pride or slough the dross of the Earth—

E'en as he trod that day to God so walked he from his birth,

In simpleness and gentleness and honour and clean mirth.

So cup to lip in fellowship they gave him welcome high

And made him a place at the banquet board—the Strong Men ranged thereby,

Who had done his work and held his peace and had no fear to die.

Beyond the loom of the last lone star, through open darkness hurled,

Further than rebel comet dared or hiving star-swarm swirled,

Sits he with those that praise our God for that they served His world.

Author's Afterword

On September 10, 1998, my father died of a stroke while watching a rerun of Seinfeld.

It was the first cool day of the fall after an awful, sticky summer of blazing heat, repeated heart attacks and kidney failures. The day had been his first good one in six months and fall was his favorite time of year, so it was doubly auspicious.

There is no such thing as «a good day to die.» But there are better and worse. Taking the alternative of D-Day or the Battle of the Bulge or the Hurtgen Forest or Iwo Jima, where so many of his fellow age-mates died, an apparently fast stroke while laughing at Jerry's antics is fair.

I mention my father for two reasons. The first is that I keep his generation in mind while writing my books. The societal conditions that provided the soldiers for the American Army in WWII were unprecedented in history. It was a society that was as technologically adept as any in the world, but that had fallen upon hard times so that there was a great need for work. Also those hard times had hammered out some of the impurities in the metal already. What was left was pretty good iron that was turned to steel by 1944.

Which, if a similar situation were to occur today, would not be the case. Personally, I like the present day. This is, unless anyone is confused, a golden age. With all the ills of a golden age. (Read The Decameron and tell me that there is a new ill under the sun.) But, given the choice between a decadent golden age and a stoic time of privation and war . . . give me the golden age.

But—there is always a but, isn't there? But, if a situation were to occur today which called for a national will to survival, it would be difficult to replicate that «Greatest Generation.» First we would have to go through the sort of pre-tempering that occurred with the Great Depression, getting out all the «lesser» impurities. Only then would we as a nation be prepared for the greater tests.

And I personally don't think we would have the time. So, I always keep my father, and his generation, in the forefront of my mind.

The second reason that I mention my father is that he turned me on to Kipling. I spent about a day of my week's leave after Airborne school at home (hey, there were girls and bottles out there pining for me). And just before I left, my dad handed me this really beat-up old book. He told me that his dad had given it to him before he went to England in 1944 and that it was time to pass it on. I didn't really think anything of it at the time (girls and bottles) but later, after I settled in at my permanent party, I pulled it out and gave it a look.

The Mandalay Edition of the Works of Rudyard Kipling, Departmental Ditties, Barrack-Room Ballads and Other Verses/Five Nations and the Seven Seas by Rudyard Kipling. Doubleday, Page & Company, Garden City, NY, 1925. Note the last poem is «To Wolcott Balestier,» the dedication to Barrack-Room Ballads.

For the longest time I thought I was the only person in the world who still read Kipling. Then an old Vietnam Vet first sergeant (a guy I didn't even know could read) dropped a quote. Then I heard a general «kipple.» A battalion commander. A sergeant. A visiting SAS sergeant major presented a bound collection to our battalion CSM. And I found out a little secret; there are damn few warriors in the world who don't like Kipling. There are some who don't know about him, but the ones who do are fanatics. It's almost a way to separate the sheep from the goats.