Riding the Red Horse (10 page)

Jerry has packed more than a single full life into his eighty-one years. He is a man of remarkable accomplishment. From the aerospace industry to the Reagan administration, from Avalon Hill to the SFWA, he has left his indelible mark on a wide array of industries, organizations, and individuals. He served his country in the US Army during the Korean War, after which he racked up an impressive number of advanced degrees, though I've never had the impression that they impress him all that much.

He is the author of more works of fiction and non-fiction than most of the other contributors
combined
. He's been an advisor to the Office of the President, and is entitled, along with that great President, to his share of the glory attendant on overcoming the Soviet Union.

He is also the author of a military science fiction series that appeared in the 1980s and made a lasting impression on more than a few of the contributors to this anthology. Without the nine volumes of
There Will Be War
, the original anthology of military strategy and science fiction, it is doubtful that you would be reading this book now. And that is why it is a distinct privilege to be able to present to you one of Jerry's justly more famous stories, “His Truth Goes Marching On”, a tale from the CoDominium universe of Falkenberg's Legion that harks back to one of Earth's more savage internecine conflicts.

For some older readers, and younger ones with a better education than most get today, there will be hauntingly familiar elements in this story, for it is derived from incidents that took place in a conflict of the past. Nearly every incident in this story actually happened to people much like those Jerry pictures here.

The Spanish Civil War was, to a generation of American liberals, a matter of good vs. evil. The Republicans were good, the Falangists were evil, and there was no compromising between them. Hemingway tried to show that it wasn't that stark, although his sympathies remained with the Republicans. George Orwell went into more detail and showed the naked cynicism of the Communist elements of the Republic, but no one wanted to hear his message; to this day most believe that his largely unread
Homage To Catalonia
condemns only Franco.

The world was never permitted to forget Guernica, as Pablo Picasso's masterpiece was hung in the Museum of Modern Art. Guernica was a Basque fishing village bombed by units of the Luftwaffe's Condor Legion. The town was largely destroyed, and the incident was seen as one more illustration of the utter moral worthlessness of Spain and Germany alike. Picasso's violent painting, showing men and animals disjointed and scattered, was tremendously effective in stirring up sympathy for the Republicans and hatred for both the Germans and Franco.

Only later did it come out that the town had been occupied by Republican military units, that at least part of the destruction resulted from the detonation of Republican munitions stored there, and there was a strong suggestion that retreating Republican engineers had dynamited other structures not damaged by the air raid.

Jerry himself notes: “Those who wonder why I sometimes use historical models for stories are referred to Mr. Santayana.
'Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.
'”

“As He died to make men holy, let us die to make men free…”

The song echoed through the ship, along gray corridors stained with the greasy handprints of the thousands who had traveled in her before; through the stench of the thousands aboard, and the remembered smells of previous shiploads of convicts. Those smells were etched into the steel despite strong disinfectants which had only added their acrimony to the odor of too much humanity with too little water.

The male voices carried past crew work parties, who ignored them, or made sarcastic remarks, and into a tiny stateroom no larger than the bunk bed now hoisted vertical to the bulkhead to make room for a desk and chair.

Peter Owensford looked up to blank gray and beyond it to visions within his own mind. The men weren't singing very well, but they sang from their hearts. There was a faint buzzing discord from a loose rivet vibrating to a strong base. Owensford nodded to himself. The singer was Allan Roach, one-time professional wrestler, and Peter had marked him for promotion to noncom once they reached Santiago.

The trip from Earth to Thurstone takes three months in a Bureau of Relocation transport ship, and it had been wasted time for all of them. It was obvious to Peter that the CoDominium authorities aboard the ship knew that they were volunteers for the war. Why else would ninety-seven men voluntarily ship out for Santiago? It didn't matter, though. Political Officer Stromand was afraid of a trap. Stromand was always suspecting traps, and was desperate to “maintain secrecy”; as if there were any secrets to keep.

In all the three months Peter Owensford had held only a dozen classes. He'd found an empty compartment near the garbage disposal and assembled the men there; but Stromand had caught them. There had been a scene, with Stromand insisting that Peter call him “Commissar” and the men address him as “Sir.” Instead, Peter addressed him as “Mister” and the men made it come out like “Comics-star.” Stromand had become speechless with anger; but he'd stopped the meetings.

And Peter had ninety-six men who knew nothing of war; most had never fired a weapon in their lives. They were educated men, intelligent for the most part, students, workers, idealists; but it might have been better if they'd been ninety-six freakouts with a long history of juvenile gangsterism.

He went back to his papers, jotting notes on what must be done when they reached dirtside. At least he'd have some time to train them before they got into combat.

He'd need it.

Thurstone is usually described as a hot, dry copy of Earth and Peter found no reason to dispute that. The CoDominium Island is legally part of Earth, but Thurstone is thirty parsecs away, and travelers go through customs to land. The ragged group packed away whatever military equipment they had bought privately, and dressed in the knee breeches and tunics popular with businessmen in New York. Peter found himself just behind Allan Roach in the line to debark.

Roach was laughing.

“What's the joke?” Peter asked.

Roach turned and waved expressively at the men behind him. All ninety-six were scattered through the first two hundred passengers leaving the BuRelock ship, and they were all dressed identically. “Humanity League decided to save some money,” Roach said. “What you reckon the CD makes of our comic-opera army?”

Whatever the CoDominium inspectors thought, they did nothing, hardly glancing inside the baggage, and the volunteers were hustled out of the CD building to the docks. A small Russian in baggy pants sidled up to them.

“Freedom,” he said. He had a thick accent.

“
No pasaran!
” Commissar Stromand answered.

“I have tickets for you,” the Russian said. “You will go on the boat.” He pointed to an excursion ship with peeling paint and faded gilt handrails.

“Man, he looks like he's lettin' go his last credit,” Allan Roach muttered to Owensford.

Peter nodded. “At that, I'd rather pay for the tickets than ride the boat. Must have been built when Thurstone was first settled.”

Roach shrugged and lifted his bags. Then, as an afterthought, he lifted Peter's as well.

“You don't have to carry my goddam baggage,” Peter protested.

“That's why I'm doing it, Lieutenant. I wouldn't carry Stromand's.” They went aboard the boat, and lined the rails, looking out at Thurstone's bright skies. The volunteers were the only passengers, and the ship left the docks to lumber across shallow seas. It was less than fifty kilometers to the mainland, and before the men really believed they were out of space and onto a planet again, they were in Free Santiago.

They marched through the streets from the docks. People cheered, but a lot of volunteers had come through those streets and they didn't cheer very loud. Owensford's men were no good at marching, and they had no weapons; so Stromand ordered them to sing war songs.

They didn't know very many songs, so they always ended up singing the Battle Hymn of the Republic. It said all their feelings, anyway.

The ragged group straggled to the local parish church. Someone had broken the cross and spire off the building, and turned the altar into a lecture desk. It was becoming dark when Owensford's troops were bedded down in the pews.

“Lieutenant?”

Peter looked up from the dark reverie that had overtaken him. Allan Roach and another volunteer stood in front of him. “Yes?”

“Some of the men don't like bein' in here, Lieutenant. We got church members in the outfit.”

“I see. What do you expect me to do about it?” Peter asked. “This is where we were sent.” And why didn't someone meet us instead of having a kid hand me a note down at the docks? he wondered. But it wouldn't do to upset the men.

“We could bed down outside,” Roach suggested.

“Nonsense. Superstitious garbage.” The strident, bookish voice came from behind him, but Peter didn't need to look around to know who was speaking. “Free men have no need of that kind of belief. Tell me who is disturbed.”

Allan Roach set his lips tightly together.

“I insist,” Stromand demanded. “Those men need education, and I will provide it. We cannot have superstition within our company.”

“Superstition be damned,” Peter protested. “It's dark and gloomy and uncomfortable in here, and if the men want to sleep outside, let them.”

“No,” Stromand said.

“I remind you that I am in command here,” Peter said. His voice was rising slightly and he fought to control it. He was only twenty-three standard years old, while Stromand was forty; and Peter had no experience of command. Yet he knew that this was an important issue, and the men were all listening.

“I remind you that political education is totally up to me,” Stromand said. “It is good indoctrination for the men to stay in here.”

“Crap.” Peter stood abruptly. “All right, everybody outside. Camp in the churchyard. Roach, set up a night guard around the camp.”

“Yes, sir,” Allan Roach grinned.

Commissar Stromand found his men melting away rapidly; after a few minutes he followed them outside.

They were awakened early by an officer in synthi-leather trousers and tunic. He wore no badges of rank, but it was obvious to Peter that the man was a professional soldier. Someday, Peter thought, someday I'll look like that. The thought was cheering for some reason.

“Who's in charge here?” the man demanded.

Stromand and Owensford answered simultaneously. The officer looked at both for a moment, then turned to Peter. “Name?”

“Lieutenant Peter Owensford.”

“Lieutenant. And why might you be a lieutenant?”

“I'm a graduate of West Point, sir. And your rank?”

“Captain, sonny. Captain Anselm Barton, at your service, God help you. The lot of you have been posted to the Twelfth Brigade, second battalion, of which battalion I have the misfortune to be adjutant. Any more questions?” He glared at both Peter and the commissar, but before either could answer there was a roar and the wind whipped them with red dust; a fleet of trucks rounded the corner and stopped in front of the church.

“Okay,” Barton shouted. “Into the trucks. You too, Mister Comics-Star. Lieutenant, you will ride in the cab with me…come on, come on, we haven't all day. Can't you get them to hop it, Owensford?”

No two trucks were alike. One Cadillac stood out proudly from the lesser breeds, and Barton went to it. After a moment Stromand took the unoccupied seat in the cab of the second truck, an old Fiat. Despite the early hour, the sun was already hot and bright, and it was a relief to get inside the air-conditioned compartment.

The Cadillac ran smoothly, but had to halt frequently while the drivers worked on the others of the convoy. The Fiat could only get two or three centimeters above the road. Peter noted in wonder that there were ruts in the dirt track, and remarked on them.

“Sure,” Barton said. “We've got wheeled transport. Lots of it. Animal-drawn wagons too. Tracked railroads. How much do you know about this place?”

“Not very much,” Peter admitted.

“Least you know that,” Barton said. He gunned the engine to get the Cadillac over a deeply pitted section of the road, and the convoy climped up onto a ridge. Peter could look back and see the tiny port town, with its almost empty streets, and the blowing red dust.

“See that ridge over there?” Barton asked. He pointed to a thin blue line beyond the far lip of the saucer on the other side of the ridge. The air was so clear that Peter could see for sixty kilometers or more, and he had never seen farther than twenty; it was hard to judge distances.

“Yes, sir.”

“That's it. Dons' territory beyond that line.”

“We're not going straight there, are we? The men need training.”

“You might as well be going to the lines for all the training they'll get. They teach you anything at the Point?”

“I learned something, I think.” Peter didn't know what to answer. The Point had been “humanized” and he knew he hadn't had the military instruction that graduates had once received. “What I was taught, and a lot from books.”

“We'll see.” Barton took a plastic toothpick out of one pocket and stuck it into his mouth. Later, Peter would learn that many men developed that habit. “No hay tobacco” was a common notice on stores in Santiago. The first time he saw it, Allan Roach said that if they made their tobacco out of hay he didn't want any. “Long out of the Point?” Barton asked.

“Class of '93.”

“Just out. U.S. Army didn't want you?”

“That's pretty personal,” Peter said. The toothpick danced across smiling lips. Peter stared out at the rivers of dust blowing around them. “There's a new rule, now. You have to opt for CoDominium in your junior year. I did. But they didn't have any room for me in the CD services.”