Bill 7 - the Galactic Hero (22 page)

The senior staff met on the matter, and decided that here was a man whose talents, and also whose fangs, should not be wasted. He should be promoted forthwith.

Bill became a sergeant in the Eyerackian army.

He was all in favor of the change. Non-coms in every military force are mostly involved in supervisory activity, which is always preferable to active activity. No one does less work than non-coms, except officers. They also have access to the NCO club; Eyerack was so primitive in its military culture that they served real beer at the NCO club, instead of the recycled near beer at a real Trooper dive. So Bill, true to his optimistic spirit, was inclined to Consider this a good development.

But something did bother him. Perhaps it was a twinge of conscience, or genuine moral, curiosity, or a side effect of last night's haggis.

But Bill wondered, was it a conflict of interest to be a member of two opposing armies? Did he owe more loyalty to the Eyerackian army because he had a higher rank here than he did in the Troopers? Or did he owe more to the Troopers because he had sometimes held higher ranks there? Or did he owe more to the Eyerackian because he was already seventeen months overdrawn on his advance pay?

The haggis passed at last, leaving Bill with an unresolved question. He was fully prepared to leave it unresolved, and even to forget it entirely, except as a reminder never to eat haggis again. But fate, as it does so often in an episodic novel, intervened.

Since there was virtually no sign of human life remaining on the surface of the planet, Stormy Wormy Weissearse decided that it was time for a daring and spectacular ground assault.

President Grotsky ordered a total mobilization to stop the enemy advance. Every experienced soldier in the Eyerackian forces must contribute.

The commander of Camp Hynline knew talent when he saw it. Within an hour of the order, Bill had his own squad and was on his way to the front.

Being sent to the front had the most amazing effect on Bill's morale. Normally the very thought of such a thing would have hurtled him instantly into a deep depression. Now, however, it provided him with the solution to the moral dilemma he had not had time to expunge from his consciousness. Now he knew that it didn't matter which army he was in. They all wanted him dead.

He and his squad of raw, untrained, resentful, unedified and undersexed conscripts were passed from officer to officer, working their way down from colonel to lieutenant as surely as they passed from rear echelon to the lines of combat.

At last they reported to Brevet Second Lieutenant Haroun al-Rosenblatt. It was all Bill could do to keep from introducing himself as Brevet Lance Corporal Bill. Except that he was a full sergeant in this army, and they would probably frown on his holding a position in the other army. At the very least, they would stop his pay and put a black mark on his record and shoot him. He really wanted to have a clean record in one army, at least. As well as staying alive.

In civilian life — that is, until mid-afternoon last Tuesday — Rosenblatt had been an artist. He painted flowers mostly, and specialized in murals for large country houses. It was obvious that with this background that when he got called up he was immediately made an officer and assigned to combat intelligence. Bill's squad was assigned to Rosenblatt to replace a squad that the lieutenant had lost the day before. Really lost — he had misplaced them somewhere near the Imperial lines when he stopped to admire a particularly elegant and now-rare example of yarrow, and although he waited for them, they never showed up again.

“Well, Sergeant...?” Rosenblatt frowned and muttered to himself.

“Bill,” Bill prompted.

“Oh, yes, it's here in your orders, isn't it? Sergeant Bill. No matter. I'm not going to learn any of your names. You'll all leave me, just like the others...” He moaned unhappily and flicked a tear from his eyelash.

“No, sir!” Bill snapped most militarily. “We'll stay with you through thick and thin! We're all loyal soldiers of the —” Not Emperor; that was the other army. What was it here? Oh, yes. “— Republic.” He kicked his charges into a chorus of agreement.

“No, no,” the officer whined. “None of the soldiers they send me stay for long. They get captured, or they run away, or they get killed, but none of them ever come back from patrol. I don't even deserve to be in the army....”

“None of us do, sir,” Bill reassured him. “But that is the way of the world. So here we all are, and we have to work together, don't we?” He put an arm around Rosenblatt's shaking shoulders. “Of course we'll come back. We're highly trained professional soldiers; these boys have even been through over a week of boot camp. We'll get out there and bring back all the intelligence you need.” He kicked out at the squad, but they had shown their eagerness to learn by moving out of range. Bill had to resort to language an officer was sure to understand. “Trust me,” he implied.

Lieutenant Rosenblatt hesitantly wiped another tear from the corner of one eye. “Well, all right.... If you say so...” He looked over his troops. “I must say, you're a fine-looking bunch of lads. Well, let's get going....”

Bill put one hand on his commander's chest, nearly covering it completely. “Why don't you tell us what the mission is?” he suggested firmly.

“Oh. I guess that's a good idea. We're supposed to go out there....” He waved vaguely toward the enemy lines. “...and find out what's going on, and where the enemy is, and all....”

“May I make a suggestion, sir?”

“Oh? I guess so....”

“You're much too valuable to risk on a routine reconnaissance. I've had much more experience with this sort of thing. I think you should stay here and plan our strategy, and we'll just wander out and have a look around. And be back with the information in no time. That way you can have plenty of time to think about our next orders. Okay?”

“Well, I not sure that that's a good idea....”

“Sir. You can follow us with your field glasses.” Bill fixed Rosenblatt with a baleful glare. “Trust me.” He bared his fangs.

A desultory artillery barrage from both sides had given no-man's land a familiar agricultural texture. So far that had been the biggest problem they'd faced; the men in Bill's squad kept tripping over stones and clods. Though they were starting to look like well-grimed veterans they still hadn't seen any action.

Though normally armed conflict was something better avoided, Bill had worked up a dubious plan that sort of depended on their seeing some action. For this reason he had tried getting closer to the Imperial lines, and in one impetuous moment had even waved at some of the troopers, but no one shot at him. Or waved back. He couldn't risk shooting at them; they might take it seriously and really try to kill him. Instead of simply firing their weapons to show their officers they were still awake. But maybe he could get something going if he called in the Eyerackian artillery.

“Lieutenant,” he whispered into the wrist radio Rosenblatt had given him.

There was no response.

“Lieutenant Rosenblatt,” he whispered a little louder.

Nothing.

He tried again, in a normal speaking voice.

Still nothing.

“Yo! Bowb-head!” he screamed. Way off in the distance, he could see the lieutenant jump. “Sir?” Bill whispered.

“Yes, Sergeant? Did you want me, or anything...?”

“We've gotten about as close to the enemy lines as we can right now, but there's something I'd like to get a better look at. I might be able to identify the units we're facing if I could get in closer.”

“Well, I don't know what I can do to help....”

“I need artillery cover, sir.”

“Artillery cover, Sergeant? I don't know about that....”

Step by step, Bill explained to the lieutenant how to call in an artillery strike. He took a careful reading of his own position, and told Rosenblatt, “Make sure they aim at these exact coordinates. If they aim exactly there, we'll be safe.”

Sure enough, in a few minutes shells were landing all around them, everywhere but on the spot where Bill told his squad to stay put.

Bill started to edge forward through the tumult, keeping one eye on the incoming artillery and one on the enemy lines. Very quickly, this became too much for anyone who wasn't wall-eyed, so he just watched the shells.

As soon as he saw one that looked like it was going to land just in front of him, he started running forward as hard as he could. He dove forward at the last instant, and the shock wave carried him up and into the Imperial trenches, where he landed in the arms of several very surprised troopers.

“Hi, guys,” he said. “I'm home.”

Nobody knew quite what to make of the strange soldier who had appeared in the very front lines. He was wearing Eyerackian insignia, which would make him a prisoner of war, or maybe a defector. But he was also wearing what looked like an Imperial Trooper uniform, which would make him a deserter. But the uniform was clearly a fake, being much too sturdy and well-tailored, which made him a spy. To be safe, they clapped him in irons and sent him to the rear. He smiled all the way.

Bill tried to explain, really he did. He told them, “I'm a prisoner. A P.O.W.” And they would say, “Of course you are, we just captured you,” and he would claim that they hadn't captured him, he had come voluntarily, and they would say that didn't matter, and he would say he was a prisoner, and the whole round would start all over again.

What was important to Bill, of course, was that he was getting farther and farther away from the fighting, and, perhaps even more important, closer and closer to his foot locker.

That had been, in the final analysis, the final element that made up his mind. He had been wearing the Swiss Army Foot for a long time now without a break, and there were no replacements on Eyerack. If he was ever going to get a change of foot, he would somehow have to get back to Camp Buboe. And the first step in that was to get back into the Troopers.

Besides, if he was going to have to go into combat, he'd rather cut down on the chances of being accidentally shot by his own side, and the chances of that looked pretty good in the Eyerackian forces.

So Bill struggled happily in his chains, creating more and more of an administrative problem, until each officer in turn bucked him up the chain of command, and further toward the rear.

Of course, each officer also insisted that more chains be added, so he couldn't be accused of not doing anything about the situation. By the time he was taken out of the colonel's office, the MPs were wheeling him on a hand truck.

At last, utterly immobilized, invisible except for part of his face, rolling along on a machinery dolly, but still smiling like a head case, Bill was wheeled into the Presence.

“Hi, sir! I'm home!”

General Weissearse turned slowly and peered at the mass of chromed steel before him.

“By the Lord above, I know that voice!”

The general tried to push aside some of the coils of chain to see Bill's face more clearly, but there were too many.

“Remove this man's chains at once!”

Adjutants, aides, guards, and everyone else in the room jumped to execute the general's order. A fist fight broke out just on Bill's left, as two officers and a noncom vied to unshackle Bill's leg. The non-com decked the captain with one punch, but collapsed when the lieutenant caught her in the solar plexus with a kick. Most of the action was more of the wrestling variety, however, and Bill got thrown around quite a bit in the process.

One by one, the chains were unlocked and lifted away, gradually revealing God's own tail gunner. At least, Bill hoped he would be recognized as God's own tail gunner by God's own general.

He was not disappointed.

“You!” General Weissearse said.

Bill spread his arms wide. “I have returned!”

“Put that man in chains!” the general ordered.

Putting the chains back on was even more difficult than getting them off, Bill wasn't nearly so cooperative this time. But the results were about the same. Bill was soon completely wrapped in chains again.

“What have you got to say for yourself?”

“Mmrrgm ffmrff hmmff. Mm nrrrnf ffrrm mrrffm. Mrggnff!”

“What language is this man speaking? Get a translator!” the general ordered.

Almost everyone in the room below the rank of full colonel stampeded for the door, each one claiming to know what language it was and someone who could translate.

The non-com who'd been knocked down earlier, and was just now getting up, probably couldn't have made it to the door in competitive time in any case, but she did have an alternate suggestion. “He's got a mouth full of steel. Take off the chain around his head.”

General Weissearse shouted, “Halt!” The stampede stopped. “Why don't we just remove the chain from his head?”

“Terrific idea, General,” said a colonel.

“Great idea, sir,” said a major.

“Brilliant thinking, General,” said a captain.

“You leave me in utter awe, sir,” said a lieutenant.

“My bowbing idea,” muttered a sergeant.

“Sergeant, remove the chain!” General Weissearse proclaimed.

She did it smartly, twirling the end of the chain off with a flip that snapped it neatly against the back of Bill's skull.

“Now, Bill, what have you got to say for yourself?”

Bill swayed slightly, and tried to pick out which of the generals he was seeing was the real one. Weissearse always looked a little like hallucination, so it wasn't an easy choice, but they were all standing pretty close together, so it wasn't an important choice either.

“Brevet Lance Corporal Bill, reporting for duty, sir!” Bill tried to salute, but he could only rattle his chains slightly. He was already immovably at attention.

“Hah! That's what you say! But tell us, Deserter Bill, Traitor Bill, why are you wearing Eyerackian Army insignia on your uniform? And where's your real uniform? This is an obvious forgery.”

“It looks just the same,” Bill protested.

“It's an obvious case of lèse-officier. This uniform is made out of real cloth, not recycled paper.”

“I couldn't help it,” Bill whimpered. “They took it away from me in the hospital.”