by David Drake
“Got you, boss, I’ll keep the boys on their toes.”
Krenz glowered at his squad, who didn’t seem too worried. They didn’t look at Allenson but at the people around him.
“The lads know to shoot first if they are in any doubt and leave the lawyers to clear up the mess; simpler that way.”
Allenson wondered where Allenson found Krenz. He was definitely neither militia nor regular army, that was for sure.
The overwhelming smell of sewage and general human waste reminded Allenson of his next priority.
“Gentlemen, this camp stinks. It’s a bloody disgrace, nothing but a breeding ground for pestilence. Even Riders don’t live like this and they take the precaution of moving on after a few days. Tomorrow morning at dawn the whole camp will move to a new location. Tents will be erected in rows and latrines will be constructed at a safe distance from the living accommodation. They will be inspected by your staff, Colonel Wilson, to ensure they meet the requirements necessary for decent sanitation.”
“You expect my men to oversee the latrines?” Wilson asked.
“Indeed, Colonel, furthermore I expect you to lead such inspections to ensure they are carried out properly. In future any man who fouls the camp will be on a charge. No doubt you can invent some suitable punishment, Colonel Hawthorn.”
“Latrines will need to be filled in and new ones dug at regular intervals,” Hawthorn said. “The punishment can fit the crime.”
“I’m damned if I’ll let you turn me and my officers into janitors,” Wilson said, finding his voice. “Who the hell do you think you are, Allenson?”
“I think I’m your superior officer,” said Allenson. “I also think I shall dispense with your services. Thank you for your contribution to defending the Stream. Be assured if we need you again I shall let you know.”
“I don’t understand. What do you want me to do?”
“I want you to go home, Sar Wilson, and enjoy a well-earned retirement.”
Wilson visibly shrank under Allenson’s gaze, aging twenty years in a second. Suddenly he didn’t look like a senior officer but a tired old man in borrowed clothes. Allenson felt a complete and utter shit but he hardened his heart. Battle was too unforgiving for misplaced compassion. He had to establish discipline and quickly if the army and the new state were to survive. Wilson offered himself up as a sacrificial lamb—or more properly a scapegoat. The story of how Firkin was brought to heel and the ruthless disposal of Wilson would spread like wildfire through the army.
“Major Ling,” Allenson said
“Sir?”
“As of now you are chief of staff with the acting rank of colonel.”
“Sir.”
“Do you anticipate any difficulty carrying out my orders?”
“No sir.”
Allenson nodded. Ling would do.
“But do you understand why we must ruthlessly enforce sanitation?” Allenson asked.
“Well, I suppose we have to look the part of army regulars, sir, but it won’t be easy.” Ling said tentatively.
“Go on, I need my chief of staff to speak his mind.”
“Well, it’s just that the men are not used to regimentation so I expect we will have to make examples of a few recalcitrants. Your policy won’t be popular, sir.”
“I really don’t expect to be popular, Ling.”
“No, sir.”
Ling wasn’t stupid so why couldn’t he see the obvious? The answer came to Allenson as a revelation. Manzanita City had long stopped dumping raw sewage offshore after the Big Stink when Lake Clearwater became anything but. The waters around the island turned anoxic. Vile-smelling vapors wafted into the air. Since the people who lived along the shore were the wealthy villa owners this created a political stink of equivalent proportions to the chemistry.
The large cities of the Heilbron colonies, in contrast, were built on continental sized rivers—usually at the point where they opened into an ocean. All they had to do was channel rainfall through the sewers and the waste just washed away and diluted into the oceans.
Similar forces operated in the countryside. In the southern Stream, large demesnes carried out most of the agricultural activity. Manzanita land owners might not be all that concerned over creature comforts in their servants’ barracklike quarters but they sure as hell were willing to spend money on sewage systems. Labor was always in short supply and one just couldn’t afford to have half your servants down with some loathsome disease at harvest time. Beside, loathsome disease didn’t always stay in the servants’ quarters.
In contrast, the Heilbron practiced farming on smaller scales presided over by single family units living on their own land. The opportunity for contagious disease to spread was limited.
Allenson decided to have one more try.
“More soldier casualties are caused by disease throughout history than ever through enemy action. I reckon we were two weeks away from a major outbreak here at most, Colonel.”
Ling looked shocked.
“I’ll get right on the matter at once, General, as soon as we are finished here.”
“Good, in that case we shall proceed to inspect the camp without delay, after you, Colonel Ling.”
The crocodile of officers wound through the camp. Hawthorn’s party attached itself to the rear of the retinue. Ling pointed out the camps of the various militia units. The procession elicited cheery greeting from troops. The better trained occasionally saluted. A courtesy Allenson returned. He stopped every so often to exchange a few words with a man chosen at random.
The results both pleased and depressed him. Morale was high and the physical condition of the troops was generally still good despite the poor hygiene but the place had the feel of a holiday camp. An air of relaxation pervaded that had no place in a combat zone.
Outside one tent an elderly man cut the hair of another soldier. From his kit and competence at the task it was clear that he was a tradesman.
“I see we have all the comforts of home,” Allenson said to Ling. “I’m surprised you can get a barber to come out to the camp.”
The barber smiled.
“Bless you, General, I’m here anyway. I’m the commander of the Treeline Militia. I think they only elected me so they could get a decent trim.”
The barber laughed, clearly having made the joke often. Ling looked embarrassed, an emotion that was becoming his stock expression.
“I set great store by a proper cut myself,” Allenson said, lying.
Trina had to tie him down to a chair when she summoned the demesne barber.
“However you do present me with a certain problem since barbering is a corporal’s job,” Allenson said with a straight face. “So I think we will have to bust you down and promote your second in command. Make a note, Mister Ling.”
“Yes, General.”
They proceeded to the next group of tents. A half dozen men sat outside one tent playing dice and, from the flashes on his sleeve, one of them was the major commanding. They watched Allenson approach with some interest but without letting his presence disturb their game.
“Attention,” Ling yelled, red faced.
“You can’t tell my men what to do,” the sitting officer said.
“Oh, yes, Colonel Ling can,” Allenson said. “I am Captain General Allenson. Now get on your feet before I bust you down to private, soldier.”
The officer jerked to his feet and saluted.
“This is Major Vaun. His unit has performed better than most,” Ling said.
Allenson sniffed.
“Indeed, so what are you doing gambling with the other ranks?”
“No excuse, sir,” Vaun said, showing remarkable quickness on the uptake.
Unfortunately this was not shared by all his comrades.
“Now wait a damned moment,” said a large solid man opposite Vaun said, climbing to his feet. “We’re not your feckin’ servants and you’re not on your sodding estate out on some southern mudball. Here in Heilbron we do th
ings democratically.”
Hawthorn took two steps forward and punched the man on the point of his chin. He went down like a felled log.
“Anyone else have a comment to make?” Hawthorn looked around. “No? Excellent.”
There was one of those tricky silences. Allenson looked around for inspiration on how to defuse the situation. He pointed to a large block of stone beside the tent.
“What do you use that for, Major Vaun?”
“Some of the fellows and I have been throwing for distance: a sort of test of strength and skill, General.”
“I wondered if that was the case. I used to enter similar contests myself. Do you remember, Colonel Hawthorn?”
“I do. I also seem to recall that you usually won. Of course, we were all a lot younger and fitter then,” Hawthorn said.
Allenson laughed.
“I suspect you are being diplomatic. What you mean is that I was a lot younger and fitter in those days. Well let’s see if I have retained any of my talent.”
Allenson picked up the stone, swaying slightly under the weight as he maneuvered his hands underneath. Men from other tents gathered around to watch. The sight of a general playing “toss the stone” must be a remarkable novelty. Allenson pointedly didn’t notice money being produced among the men as bets were laid.
“Is that the mark, Major Vaun?”
“Yes, sir, and that peg marks the furthest throw yet,” Vaun said, pointing to a stick hammered into the ground a couple of meters beyond.
Allenson stood behind the line and inhaled deeply. Taking one step forward he thrust the stone up with both hands. It curved in a parabola and hit the ground just behind the peg, bouncing so it ended up some ten centimeters in front.
Allenson laughed again.
“It seems you are right, Colonel Hawthorn. I’m not the man I was.”
“No, General,” a soldier said, while collecting from his fellows. “We take the mark to be the furthest distance reached by the rock, not its first contact with the ground. You win squarely.”
“Well let’s give the previous record holder a chance to regain his crown with the best of three,” Allenson said. “Who is he?”
“Macreedy, sir” said the soldier, chuckling. “’You’ll have to wait until he wakes up ’cause that colonel of yours has laid him out.”
There was a general burst of laughter. Even the men who had lost money seemed not entirely displeased to see Macreedy knocked off his throne. Possibly he was not the most popular man in the unit.
“Well, well, he obviously needs a bit more practice, as do I. Major Vaun?”
“Sir?”
“Tell Macreedy to come up to the headquarters when he’s recovered and we’ll do a bit of toss-the-stone training together. Carry on, Major.”
Allenson returned Vaun’s salute and resumed his tour.
“Tell me, Colonel Ling, is it normal practice for the officers to share a tent with their men?” Allenson asked when they were out of earshot.
“Yes, sir.”
“That stops now. I want the officers to mess together to create an army esprit de corps. We need to separate them from the men they command. The officers will endure the same conditions as their men, eat the same food and undergo the same dangers but they will not fraternize. When they give an order it must be obeyed without question or argument. That won’t happen if they are seen as one of the boys.”
“Very good sir, I’ll arrange it,” said the unflappable Ling.
Allenson hid a smile. Ling was going to be very busy in the next few days, but if he survived this challenge he would make an excellent staff officer.
The raucous sound of a badly silenced internal combustion engine drew Allenson’s attention. An agricultural tractor pulled a trailer from the direction of the siege lines.
Ling anticipated Allenson’s question.
“Frames near the shoreline attract Brasilian lasercannon fire if they rise above the skyline. We tend to use ground vehicles to shuttle backward and forward. They’re not much slower than a frame crawling along at ground height, particularly if it’s got metal on board,” Ling said.
“Damn sight noisier though,” Hawthorn observed.
The trailer contained a number of soldiers, presumably the relieved shift. A man stood at the front of the trailer where he could hold on to the slatted bulkhead. His considerable silhouette seemed familiar so Allenson shaded his eyes for a better look. One of Ling’s aides materialized at his side with a pair of binoculars. Allenson adjusted the fit until a three-dimensional holographic image was focused into his eyes such that the trailer appeared to be just in front of him.
“Ah,” Allenson said. “I see Colonel Buller has arrived. Perhaps we should wait for him.”
The tractor bounced across the field at a respectable lick. Men dropped off the trailer on the move as it went through the camp. It stopped only for Buller to dismount.
“That is Colonel Buller?” Hawthorn asked quietly.
Ling suddenly acquired diplomatic temporary deafness which was a useful attribute in a chief of staff. The man was recommending himself for permanent promotion in Allenson’s eyes.
“Allenson, I see you’ve been inspecting the camp. Rather you than me. Place is a bloody cesspit, troops a disgrace.”
Ling winced and several of the militia representatives glowered at Buller.
“You really should call me General, you know,” Allenson said gently.
Buller didn’t do tact. It was a warm day so his jacket was unbuttoned. His shirt was done up one button askew so there was a spare button thrust under his left ear and a spare hole above his belt giving a view of an expansive hairy stomach.
“I’ve been down to have a look at the siege lines. I use the words advisedly because there bloody aren’t any. All I found were a few bunkers and they aren’t even much damn use for observing the city. Most of them are on reverse slopes.”
“We tried siting them more prominently but the Brasilians have lasercannon,” Ling said pointedly. “The bunkers were soon discovered and then you could measure their survival time in minutes.”
“You’ve heard of camouflage, I suppose?” Buller asked
“Sometimes we didn’t even finish construction before they were destroyed,” Ling replied.
“For Satan’s sake man, you dig through from the reverse side.” Buller said. “All it needs is work and a modicum of military skill.”
He turned to Allenson.
“There is nothing to stop the Brasilians mounting a sortie any time they damn well please with every expectation of surprising the camp. Can you imagine how a couple of units of Brasilian light infantry would sweep through this rabble?”
Buller waved his arm to encompass the camp, his voice pitched to carry.
“I think you underestimate the resolution and bravery of our soldiers,” Allenson said to forestall a riot. “Nevertheless, you make a valid point. We need containment lines strong enough to hold up any attack until we can reinforce the defenses from the camp.”
Allenson raised his voice to address the entire entourage.
“Colonel Buller is one of the foremost authorities on modern siege tactics. Indeed, I hope I do not embarrass him if I say he probably has more experience of this military art than any man alive.”
“True,” Buller said smugly, clearly not embarrassed at all.
“We would be foolish not to avail ourselves of that knowledge. I propose to put Colonel Buller in command of the siege lines. Arrange with Colonel Ling to co-opt what resources you need, Colonel, but rotate the men as I propose to start intensive training of the reserves here.”
“Excellent, Allenson, nothing wrong with an amateur gentleman figure-heading the operation when he knows when to hand over to the professionals. I’ll make out a list for Ling.”
Buller stomped off.
“At least down at the siege lines the damn man’ll be out of our hair,” Ling said to one of his aides.
Allenson ignored the
remark. Knowing when to be afflicted with temporary deafness was one of the virtues good generals shared with good chiefs of staff.
The next day Allenson’s pad relayed a message from Ling asking for a meeting in the engineering workshops. Ling being Ling, there was a map added giving direction. Allenson walked through Cambridge on his own so he could collect his thoughts. Alone of course, meant being closely trailed by two of Krenz’s goons. By now he regarded them as part of the woodwork. The road was quiet; not even his boots made much in the way of noise on the partly stabilized mud surface.
Small creatures in the undergrowth called to each other with mournful whoop noises. He didn’t know enough about the fauna of Trinity to know whether these were alarm calls notifying others of his presence or mating cries. For all he knew, they just made noises for the fun of it. He made a mental note to discuss the matter with Destry next time he saw him. Then he remembered Destry was gone.
While he walked, he thought through the situation. It seemed to him that they were at stalemate with the Brasilians. Oxford’s location had been chosen by the original colonists partly because of its defensive possibilities. The Stream Army was now paying the price for the stupidity of the Trinity mob. They had done just enough to arouse the Brasilians without doing enough to secure the city.
The Brasilians acquired Oxford on the cheap. It would be the devil’s own job to dislodge them now that they were dug in. The question was, who benefitted from a stalemate? He told the Assembly that the colonies did not have to win the war but merely had to survive to achieve independence. Now he was beginning to wonder whether that was entirely true.
He worried that he may have misjudged matters. He tried to see the situation from a Brasilian perspective. They might be entirely satisfied with hanging on to a few key cities like Oxford and Port Trent while ignoring the rebellion until it fizzled out through logistical decay and exhaustion. That way Brasilia could claim victory in so far as was required for Home World propaganda. But they avoided the cost of a long distance war of attrition for territory that they undoubtedly regarded as next to useless. After all, they lost interest in the Hinterlands after the last war the moment the Terrans had been evicted.