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Authors: William R. Forstchen
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wounded.
The overcast skies finally opened up, as if they hac been respectfully waiting for the parade to end, anc a chilly rain came spattering down, with big heavy drops that set the crowd in the square scattering.
Andrew looked over at Father Casmar.
"Join us for dinner, Father?"
"Why I'd be delighted, thank you."
Andrew smiled, for he never knew a clergyman to turn down the prospect of a good home-cooked meal.
"Andrew Lawrence Keane, where's your poncho?"
Andrew looked down from the reviewing stand to see Kathleen standing beneath an umbrella, looking up at him peevishly. It still thrilled him that even after the nearly seven years they had been together the mere sight of her, the look of her green eyes, the wisp of red hair peeking out from under her bonnet, could set his heart pounding. He loved, as well, that when she was upset with him or when affection took hold, a touch of her old Irish brogue came back.
She motioned for him to join her under the umbrella, but he shook his head. There was something about an umbrella that he felt was somehow undignified; a man made do with a good slouch cap and poncho or not at all. Fortunately his orderly came up and helped Andrew throw the rubberized canvas poncho over his head. It was not army regulation, fortunately; otherwise, it would barely come to his thighs. Like all armies, the belief was that one size fit all, and his first chief quartermaster, John Mina, had decreed that ponchos were to be cut for the height of an average Rus soldier, which was five-foot-six. Fortunately there was the privilege of command and Andrew had one made to cover his lanky six-foot-four-inch frame.
John . . . and Andrew found he still missed his old friend, dead in the final day of Hispania. He had briefly transferred responsibility of logistics to Ferguson, almost a punishment, for Ferguson had often been the biggest thorn in John's side. Now it fell under Pat's control, and Pat had wisely found a team of young men to handle the responsibility for him.
Though Pat might feign the role of a hard-drinking and not-too-smart Irishman, the years of war had seasoned him into a tough and proficient commander in his own right. Beneath the roaring, swearing, drinking, and bluster, traits which endeared him to the men of his command, he was a shrewd pragmatist with the sort of common sense that seemed capable of taking the most complex of issues and reducing them to a simple answer.
Stepping down from the podium, he fell in by Kathleen's side, joined by Kal, Father Casmar, and a moment later by Hans, who trotted up, then dismounted to lead his horse.
"The boys looked splendid," Kal announced.
"The question is, how will they fight," Hans replied. "Nearly half our men did not serve in the last war, they've never stood on a skirmish line, let alone against a Horde charge."
"They'll learn," Kal said. "Same way I did back in the beginning, same way we did at Hispania."
"Different kind of fighting now," Hans continued, and he looked over sharply at Kal.
Andrew was silent. There had been a sharp debate on the floor of Congress only the day before about the nature of the war. This, at least on the surface, did not seem like the same grim war of survival back when the Merki had overrun Rus. It was distant, remote. Over 150,000 men were now deployed a thousand miles away, and yet, to date, there had been precious little fighting—a few skirmishes on the front facing Nippon, the occasional bombing of a ship by a Bantag flyer. More men were dying of disease than of wounds. It had finally been voiced, the question of whether they were really at war. The wild enthusiasm expressed when Hans had escaped was tempered now. The economy was again on a wartime footing—anything but the most essential items was scarce, food was rationed, nearly every family had someone up at the front—but there was no fighting.
Beyond that, Ha'ark had proven to be a masterful diplomat. A steady stream of human ambassadors,
The overcast skies finally opened up, as if they hac been respectfully waiting for the parade to end, anc a chilly rain came spattering down, with big heavy drops that set the crowd in the square scattering.
Andrew looked over at Father Casmar.
"Join us for dinner, Father?"
"Why I'd be delighted, thank you."
Andrew smiled, for he never knew a clergyman to turn down the prospect of a good home-cooked meal.
"Andrew Lawrence Keane, where's your poncho?"
Andrew looked down from the reviewing stand to see Kathleen standing beneath an umbrella, looking up at him peevishly. It still thrilled him that even after the nearly seven years they had been together the mere sight of her, the look of her green eyes, the wisp of red hair peeking out from under her bonnet, could set his heart pounding. He loved, as well, that when she was upset with him or when affection took hold, a touch of her old Irish brogue came back.
She motioned for him to join her under the umbrella, but he shook his head. There was something about an umbrella that he felt was somehow undignified; a man made do with a good slouch cap and poncho or not at all. Fortunately his orderly came up and helped Andrew throw the rubberized canvas poncho over his head. It was not army regulation, fortunately; otherwise, it would barely come to his thighs. Like all armies, the belief was that one size fit all, and his first chief quartermaster, John Mina, had decreed that ponchos were to be cut for the height of an average Rus soldier, which was five-foot-six. Fortunately there was the privilege of command and Andrew had one made to cover his lanky six-foot-four-inch frame.
John . . . and Andrew found he still missed his old friend, dead in the final day of Hispania. He had briefly transferred responsibility of logistics to Ferguson, almost a punishment, for Ferguson had often been the biggest thorn in John's side. Now it fell under Pat's control, and Pat had wisely found a team of young men to handle the responsibility for him.
Though Pat might feign the role of a hard-drinking and not-too-smart Irishman, the years of war had seasoned him into a tough and proficient commander in his own right. Beneath the roaring, swearing, drinking, and bluster, traits which endeared him to the men of his command, he was a shrewd pragmatist with the sort of common sense that seemed capable of taking the most complex of issues and reducing them to a simple answer.
Stepping down from the podium, he fell in by Kathleen's side, joined by Kal, Father Casmar, and a moment later by Hans, who trotted up, then dismounted to lead his horse.
"The boys looked splendid," Kal announced.
"The question is, how will they fight," Hans replied. "Nearly half our men did not serve in the last war, they've never stood on a skirmish line, let alone against a Horde charge."
"They'll learn," Kal said. "Same way I did back in the beginning, same way we did at Hispania."
"Different kind of fighting now," Hans continued, and he looked over sharply at Kal.
Andrew was silent. There had been a sharp debate on the floor of Congress only the day before about the nature of the war. This, at least on the surface, did not seem like the same grim war of survival back when the Merki had overrun Rus. It was distant, remote. Over 150,000 men were now deployed a thousand miles away, and yet, to date, there had been precious little fighting—a few skirmishes on the front facing Nippon, the occasional bombing of a ship by a Bantag flyer. More men were dying of disease than of wounds. It had finally been voiced, the question of whether they were really at war. The wild enthusiasm expressed when Hans had escaped was tempered now. The economy was again on a wartime footing—anything but the most essential items was scarce, food was rationed, nearly every family had someone up at the front—but there was no fighting.
Beyond that, Ha'ark had proven to be a masterful diplomat. A steady stream of human ambassadors,
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