The Children's War

by C. P. Boyko

  “What the fuck. Was she a scientist or something?” —“Is that thing from her husband?” —“I think it’s her lawyer.” —“Look, it’s signed ‘Thalim.’ Must be her husband.” —“Must be her dad.” —Everyone laughed. —Osini whistled mournfully and said, “Poor bitch is better off dead.”

  Sergeant Costitch alone understood that the dead woman had inherited a factory. She kept the letter, and glanced at it sometimes.

  The Minefield. —The stream through the woods that they had been following up the mountain now led out into a grassy clearing, a dozen hectares in size. Corporal Cobweb signaled a halt, and called over War Juice, Jaywalk, and H. Crap, her section leaders. They knelt around her map. “Well,” she said, “this must be the minefield.”

  The three lance corporals lifted their heads and peered at the harmless-looking glade. This morning, at this altitude, the medipodean summer was balmy. Even Jaywalk, city dweller, who hated the filth and bristly disorder of nature, was charmed. A lukewarm breeze carried glittering pollen through the air; birds and insects chattered and whirred like children’s gizmos. For a moment, the war seemed far away.

  “Are they anti-tank or anti-personnel?” asked H. Crap. Anti-tank mines were deadlier, but sometimes did not explode when stepped on. —“No fucking hunch,” said Cobweb. “All the map says is ‘mines.’” She pointed at the map. —Jaywalk asked, “Are they ours or theirs?” Their own mines were shoddier, but their sappers tended to lay more of them. —Cobweb’s face expressed pained impatience. —“Definitely ours,” said H. Crap, with the conviction of pessimism. “We controlled this hill a year ago, didn’t we?” —“Can’t we go around?” asked Jaywalk. —Cobweb pointed. “We’re continuing up that ravine.” The cliffs on either side were too steep to climb. —War Juice spat. “Exactly why we put a fucking minefield just here.”

  The lance corporals returned to their troops and solicited volunteers. “We just need one person to mark a route with tape.” Each section looked askance at the other two, grumbling. The Colonel, who often volunteered, was disgusted and made obstinate by the assumption that she would volunteer, and by the general lack of esprit de corps. Longpork prayed that no one would volunteer, or she too would feel obliged to. Speed Bumps, who loathed mines, forced herself to stand up—but then could not speak or meet her section leader’s gaze.

  “All right,” said Corp Cobweb, “we’ll all go. We’ll leapfrog in file at quadruple-arm interval. A straight line is our shortest route, so let’s aim for that gap in the rockface. Stay as nearly as possible in the previous soldier’s steps. I’ll go first.”

  “Wait up, Corp,” said Speed Bumps. “I’ll go.” —“It doesn’t matter who goes first. We’ll all get a turn.” —“No, I mean I’ll volunteer. I’ll go the whole way with the tape.” —“No,” said Cobweb. “Too late.” She walked ten steps into the tall grass, stopped mid-stride, and looked back over her shoulder. She nodded at Speed Bumps, who followed without hesitation. Addressing the rest of the platoon, she said, “Don’t make your LCs determine a marching order. We share the risk, and we get across this field intact. Scrunch your tits!”

  Speed Bumps, her pulse sounding in her ears, brushed past the corporal, took another ten steps, and stopped. The Colonel did the same, going a few meters farther; then Jaywalk, then Longpork, then Chop Top, followed by Two Words, Teacher’s Pet, and The Professor. “All right,” Cobweb called to the troops still behind her. “No need to wait till she’s in position. Don’t bunch up, but keep coming.”

  Bongo Drum was the second from last to leave the treeline. By this time, the file had reached the middle of the field. She stole from soldier to soldier, squeezing past each of them as if they shared a foot-wide gangplank. —“Stop jostling,” said Christmas Tree. —“You’re pushing me out of line, cunt-knuckle,” said Triple-Time. —But Bongo was too intent on her footing to spare a reply. When at last she reached Shitjob at the front of the file, she clung to her for a moment, then launched herself forward. —“Hey,” said Shitjob, when Bongo showed no sign of stopping, “don’t get ambitious . . .”

  Then she did stop, abruptly, poised like a cat burglar. Twisting her head around, she shouted, in a deep, even voice, “I think I stepped on something here!”

  Cobweb winced. So much for noise discipline. “What are you spitting about?” —“I stepped on something and it went ‘click’!” —Shitjob giggled anxiously. “Fuckbag, mines don’t go ‘click,’ they go ‘boom.’” —“Hold on,” called the corporal. “I’m coming forward. Everybody stay put.”

  “I’m gonna jump for it,” said Bongo. —“What the fuck are you talking about?” said Shitjob. “You heard the Corp; wait for the Corp.”

  “I can feel it under my boot,” said Bongo, her voice becoming high and thin. A shudder of revulsion moved up her leg. “I triggered it.”

  “Ass-lips, mines go off when you trigger them. You probably just stepped on a fucking twig. Hey!” —Bongo flung herself to the ground.

  At the sound of the explosion, Chop Top, Speed Bumps, and Helmet dove reflexively for cover—regretting it even as they fell. Shitjob was splashed with gore. Bongo Drum had leapt not off, but onto a mine.

  H. Crap said, “Fuck.” The mines were enemy anti-tank mines.

  Doc Throb, hurrying forward, ran alongside the trodden path. Two Words grabbed her arm as she passed and pulled her back into the line. Doc Throb, not understanding the other’s intention, shook her off; Two Words staggered back a step or two, and her whole body cringed in expectation of a blast. Angered, she gave Doc a didactic shove. Doc, exasperated, swung a fist at Two Words, which sent her reeling again into the treacherous tall grass. With an outraged bellow, Two Words lunged at Doc, and they fell to the ground, rolling and wrestling, each infuriated by the other’s recklessness.

  Jaywalk and War Juice pulled them apart. —“For fuck sake,” cried Cobweb, moving back down the line, “everybody stay the fuck put.” She sent Two Words forward to join Shitjob (who was covertly swigging codeine syrup), and ordered Doc Throb to take one person with her and return to company for a stretcher. Doc nodded; she understood that Bongo Drum was dead. She gestured at Helmet, who was nearby, and together they started back towards the woods.

  Corporal Cobweb then turned to Christmas Tree. “C.T.,” she said, “tell me you brought that fucking piece-of-shit metal detector of yours.” —C.T. grinned. “Sure did, Corp.” —Cobweb sighed. The detectors were notoriously unreliable on the mineral-rich medipodean soil, and useless anywhere that ordnance had been dropped. But she hoped that using the tool might restore some of the platoon’s confidence. Extrapolating from her own anxiety, she imagined that the troops were on the verge of hysteria.

  “Do you know how to use the fucking thing?” —“Sure, Corp. I found nearly three dollars in town last month, remember?” —“All right, lady. You got the wherewithal and the inclination to find a route across for us?” —Christmas Tree shrugged bashfully, honored by the corporal’s trust. —Cobweb gripped the nape of C.T.’s neck. “Good woman. Go to.”

  But Speed Bumps, unable to stand still any longer, broke from the line with a strangled cry and dashed across the field at full pelt—as if she might, by sheer momentum, skim across the mines without detonating them. But it was such a relief to be running, and every harmless contact with the earth seemed such a dispensation, that soon she felt a tremulous joy swelling her throat. One course was as dangerous as the next, no step safer than another. She would either die or live, and nothing she did could make any difference. So fuck it. Half laughing, she began to leap and zigzag. She had almost reached the far side of the clearing when several things happened at once.

  With a noise like sundering concrete, an unseen machine gun roared to life, and Speed Bumps fell, tumbling, into the grass; Helmet stepped on a mine, which shattered her legs and sent her torso cartwheeling into the air; and the crump of artillery fire rang out from somewhere in the hi
lls above.

  They all crouched and glanced wildly at one another.

  “That’s incoming!” screamed Corporal Cobweb, as the whistle of shells changed pitch and began to grow louder. “Spread the fuck out!”

  Nobody moved.

  Everything Okay. —Speed Bumps lay dying beneath the sky. She watched as a pill bug, with endearing diffidence, climbed onto a bloodied hand; the hand was as much or as little hers as the bloodied grass around it. A great buoyant relief poured through her, as if some vast, intractable problem were simultaneously revealing and resolving itself. “You’re okay,” she laughed; she didn’t know whom she was talking to. Everything was okay.

  Requisition Mission. —Florze wanted to put together a requisition detail. Lieutenant Farl, washing his hands and face with ashes from the cookfire, paused to consider. They were currently bivouacked in a hangar on the outskirts of Lucallzo, towards which they had been marching without sleep for two days. But more than exhaustion, the platoon—the entire company—felt frustration. The siege that had been expected to last days and cost countless lives was over in hours, before they even arrived. Thus the purpose of all their exertion, sacrifice, and nerve had been negated by the fleeing enemy. No counterattack was anticipated. Meanwhile, the supply column was at least a day behind, rations were scarce as ever, and many of the troops had abandoned every nonessential item on the road. Nothing would be better for morale than a good looting; but looting had been prohibited. It was going to be a long war yet, and they could not afford to alienate the medipodeans. Some soldiers in the Fifty-Ninth had even been shot for slaughtering a cow.

  He told Florze to go ahead, but to restrict herself to whatever rations the enemy had left behind. —“But won’t they be poisoned, sir?” —“I doubt it. We caught them with their pants down. Bring Narran along to translate, so there are no misunderstandings with the locals. And I know our medics are short on morphine, bandages, and, um, antifatigue pills.” Farl had taken his last antifatigue pill five hours earlier, just before hearing that their attack was canceled. He was already feeling frazzled. “Ask Doc Tzu if there’s anything else she needs, and try to solicit some donations from a hospital or clinic, or another company’s aid station.” He gave Florze a score of blank and signed requisition chits, and wished her luck. “Be back by dawn.”

  Despite the lieutenant’s blessing, Florze had difficulty finding helpers. Those who were not asleep were suspicious. “We’re not supposed to loot,” said Tolb. —“We’re not. We’re requisitioning.” —“What’s the difference?” —“We’re not taking, we’re borrowing.” —“I don’t think we’re supposed to borrow, either.” —Florze scoffed. “And we’re not supposed to belch, either. —“I’ll pass,” said Tolb. “Bring me back something nice.”

  Vrail was erasing the answers from the foxed pages of the platoon’s only crossword-puzzle book; Florze decided not to interrupt this delicate operation. Montazo and Burnok were again debating whether tracers had a different trajectory from normal rounds; Florze invited neither, not wanting to risk bringing along the argument too. Winurhtry was tinkering with a dud grenade; Florze kept her distance. She would have liked to ask Sergeant Costitch, who appeared to be awake and idle, but she was intimidated by the woman’s rank, soldierly competence, and self-assurance. Laskantan was amusing herself and a few others with “psychological tactics”: gibbering suprapodean-sounding nonsense into a captured enemy radio. Though no one could understand the aggressors’ replies, their anger and bewilderment were plain, and hilarious.

  Raof did not want to go; she preferred to stay hungry. She believed in a cosmic balance of pleasures and pains, and her secret strategy for survival was to remain as unhappy and uncomfortable as possible, so as not to make herself a target for nemesis. This self-denial, coupled with a natural pessimism, had made of her a surly anchorite. When cold, she refrained from wearing more clothing; she waited a week to read letters from home, by which time they were soiled almost to illegibility; no matter how thirsty, she never emptied her canteen completely; and though always ravenous, she always denied herself the last bite of every meal—and would have denied herself the first, more delicious bite, if that were possible. That afternoon, she had not even permitted herself to feel relief that the attack had been called off.

  Finally, Culverson, one of the pukes, agreed to come. Though exhausted, she could not sleep; her body seemed still to be marching whenever she closed her eyes. She hoped that there would be trouble, for she had not yet been in a real, close firefight. Boorq, too, was eager to try the .31-caliber automatic rifle she had stolen piecemeal from Thirty-Second Company and lugged all the way here. Godbeer wanted to decline, for malnutrition had made her night-blind; but she thought this condition was psychosomatic and best treated with courageous disdain. They all armed themselves heavily, to Florze’s disquiet.

  Narran was in her sleeping bag but not quite sleeping. Since being deafened by an artillery shell three days earlier, she’d spent most of her time inside the bag, and had even wrapped it around her shoulders on the march. With her hearing gone, her skin, and especially her hands and face, had become extraordinarily sensitive, almost painfully so. A breeze now felt like ice-water, walking on gravel was like chewing glass, and shaving her head made her skull reverberate with a noise like tearing canvas. At the moment she was half dreaming, half hallucinating that her hunger was a redoubtable enemy position, that the pinpricks of sweat breaking out on her back were badly aimed shells, and that the glimmers of firelight coming through the sleeping bag’s seams and zipper were falling flares and rising anti-aircraft rounds. It took Florze a few moments to rouse her, and she remained befuddled even as she got her gear together; she never felt quite fully awake anymore. She assumed that they were going on a reconnaissance or prisoner patrol. She too took all the ammunition she had.

  Doc Tzurakinh had gone into town to help at a forward aid station, but they found a medic who told them what was needed. “Ethyl chloride, if you can find any, or any anesthetic, and hydrogen peroxide, or any good disinfectant.” She spelled ethyl chloride and hydrogen peroxide, while Florze watched spellbound as she sprinkled maggots into a soldier’s open wound. “Don’t drink all the ethyl chloride on the way back,” she teased. “And don’t drink any of the hydrogen peroxide,” she added, seriously.

  They escaped the buzzing confusion of camp and began the descent into Lucallzo. After weeks of huddling in wet trenches and frozen dugouts, tramping through fields and forests, and sleeping in barns and basements, they would have found any large town magical. But the sight of Lucallzo was breathtaking, like something out of a dream, or history. Lit only by sporadic fires whose clouds of smoke were made more garish by sunset, its thousands of exotic buildings and structures carpeted the hills around a little glowing mirror of lake. All this was open and available to them. They had to restrain themselves from running.

  In the air were stone dust, the ammoniac smell of cordite, and a delicious aroma of roasting meat. Godbeer’s stomach turned, slightly, when they passed a team of soldiers with flamethrowers who were spraying heaps of rubble with jellied gasoline. They were burning the buried bodies before they could start to stink. This was, she supposed, preferable to waiting till the bodies had begun to rot before burning them. Hard luck for anyone still alive under that rubble, though.

  Down one dim street, Boorq spotted children kicking a ball and laughing; down another, she saw adults standing around in small groups, as if gossiping on market day. She was disgusted. “Don’t they know there’s a fucking war going on?”

  At a makeshift roadblock of furniture, an MP captain asked their unit and destination. He could not direct them to any hospitals or aid stations, but pride in his work, inflated by a long day of chaos and danger, pressed him to offer some advice. “Hug the walls,” he said. “Half the resistance we met here was from local snipers, and we haven’t by any means flushed all of them out.” They thanked him, and with rifle
s at high port, continued in single file along one side of the street, gazing up uneasily at the buildings on the opposite side.

  Boorq was now angry and incredulous, and looked at the civilians in the street differently. Florze was confused and dismayed. Local snipers? Didn’t they realize her army had come to liberate their town from the aggressors? Godbeer began seeing, or imagining that she saw, hostile faces at windows. Narran, who had heard nothing the MP said, deduced from her comrades’ behavior that the town was still teeming with the enemy. Culverson felt an urge, as inexorable as peristalsis, to fire her weapon.

  They entered a wide promenade lit at intervals by burning trees. There were more soldiers here, and they felt safer. From one grandiose hotel there escaped flashes of electric light, the thrum of generators and music, and the smell of frying fish. But a glance inside revealed that only officers were being served here. The sight of so many commanders gathered in one place was tactically repugnant to them, and they hurried from it.

  They were turned away at the door of another hotel by a private made truculent by guard duty; she too would have preferred to be inside and eating. “This is for Twenty-Second Artillery Company only,” she said. “Find your own rations.”

  “Come on,” said Boorq, and led them down a side street of shops and apartment buildings. “There,” she said, pointing up at a window that flickered with what might have been candlelight or might have been the reflection of distant fires. “That’s as good as an invitation.” Finding the front door locked, she tried the next building, and then the next. —“We’re not supposed to bother the locals,” said Florze. —“Who’s bothering anybody?” muttered Boorq. She began hammering the door with the butt of her rifle and shouting the medipodean word for “enter.”

  Culverson, surprising even herself, fired a round into the plate-glass shopfront. Narran started at the sound and also let off a burst. “What the fuck!” cried Florze. Some shards fell tinkling to the ground, but the window did not shatter. —“Sorry,” said Culverson. “I heard a shot.” Indeed, they had been hearing the sporadic crackle of small-arms fire all night, from afar. —“Come on,” Boorq laughed. “Let’s get out of here before we get arrested.” —Culverson, realizing that she was still squeezing the trigger, released it with an effort. —“What happened?” said Narran, shuffling after them.