Robert Heinlein - Time Enough For Love

But a rumor hints that I was once a soldat in the French Foreign Legion. a corps of one of our Allies, made up of cut-throats, thieves, and escaped convicts, and famous for their go-to-hell way of fighting-possibly a deserter from it and almost certainly under another name. I discourage this canard by becoming surly if anyone gets inquisitive and only occasionally make the mistake of saluting French style (palm forward) and correct it at once-but everybody knows that I "polly-voo" because my knowledge of the French language had a lot to do with my change from "acting corporal" to real corporal assigned to instruction, and now greasing for sergeant. There are French and British officers and sergeants here to teach us trench warfare. All the French here are supposed to speak English-but the English they speak these Kansas and Missouri plow jockeys can't understand. So in slips lazy Lazarus as liaison. Me and one French sergeant almost add up to one good instructor.

Without that French sergeant I am a good instructor when I am allowed to teach what I know. But only in unarmed combat am I allowed to, because unarmed hand-to-hand fighting does not change through the ages; only the name changes, and it has only one rule: Do it first, 'do it fast, do it dirtiest.-But, take bayonet fighting- A bayonet is a knife on the end of a gun, and the two parts add up to the Roman pilum, used two thousand years earlier and not new even they. One would expect the art of bayonet fighting, in 1917, to be perfect.

But it isn't. The "Book" teaches parries but not counters-yet a counter is as fast as a parry, far more deceptive, and fatally confusing to a man who has never heard of one. And there are other things-

There was (will be) a war in the twenty-sixth century Greg. in which the use of the bayonet became a high art and I was an unwilling participant until I managed to duck out. So one morning here, on a bet, I demonstrated that I could take on and never be touched by a U.S. Army regular sergeant-instructor-then a British one-and then a French one.

Was I allowed to teach what I had demonstrated? No. I mean "Hell, No!" I wasn't doing it "by the Book," and my "smart-alec" attempt almost lost me my cushy job. So I went back to doing it by the sacred "Book."

But this book (used at Plattsburg where my father- and yours-trained) is not bad. In bayonet fighting its emphasis is on aggressiveness, which is okay within its limits; the bayonet is a horror weapon in the hands of a man eager to close and kill-and that may be all these kids have time to learn. But I would hate to see these pink-cheeked, brave lads go up against some old, tired, pessimistic twenty-sixth-century mercenaries whose sole purpose is to stay alive while their opponents die.

These kids can win a war, they will win this war, they did win it from when you are. But an unnecessary number are going to die.

I love these kids. They are young and eager and gallant and terribly anxious to get "Over There" and prove that one American can lick any six Germans. (Not true. The ratio isn't even one to one. The Germans are veterans and don't suffer from "sportsmanship" or any other illusions. But these green kids will keep on fighting and dying until the Gernians give up.)

But they are so young! Laz and Lor, most of them are younger than you two, some much younger. I don't know how many lied about their ages-but lots of them don't have to shave. Sometimes at night I'll hear one crying in his cot, homesick for his mammy. But next day he'll be trying, hard as ever. We don't have enough desertions to matter; these boys want to fight.

I try not to think about how useless this war is.

It's a matter of perspective. Minerva proved to me one night (when she was still following the profession of computer) that all here-&-nows are equal and "the present" is simply whatever here-&-now one is using. By my "proper" here-&-now '(where I would be if I hadn't hearkened to the wild geese-home on Tertius ) -by that here-&-now these eager, puppylike boys are long dead and the worms have eaten them; this war and its terrible aftermath are ancient history, no worry of mine.

But I'm here, and it's happening now, and I feel it.

These letters become more difficult to write and to send. Justin, you want detailed accounts, written on the spot, of all that I do, to add to that pack of lies you edited. Photoreduction and etching are now impossible. I am sometimes allowed to leave camp for a day, which is just long enough to get to the nearest large town, Topeka (circa 160 kms. round trip), but always on a Sunday when businesses are closed, so I have not had a chance to work up a connection to use a laboratory in Topeka-assuming that there is one with the equipment I need, a doubtful point. I would let letters pile up in a lockbox (since it does not matter when I Delay Mail them)-but banks are never open on Sundays. So a handwritten letter, not too long and bulky, is the most I can manage-whenever I can lay hands on nesting envelopes (also difficult now)-and hope that paper and ink won't oxidize too much over the centuries.

I've started a diary, one which makes no mention of Tertius and such (this letter would get me locked up as crazy!) but is simply a daily recital of events. I can mail it, when it is full, to Gramp Ira Johnson to hold for me; then after the war is over and I have time and privacy, I can use it to write the sort of commentary you want, and take time to miniaturize and stabilize a long message. The problems of a time-tripping historiographer are odd and awkward. One Welton fine-grain memory cube would record all I could say over the next ten years-except that I would have no use for one even if I had it; the technology to use it is lacking.

By the way- lshtar, did you plant a recorder in my belly? You are a darling, dear, but sometimes a devious darling-and there is something there. It doesn't bother me, and I might never have noticed it had not a physician noticed it the day I joined this Army. He brushed the flatter off-but later I conducted my own examination by touch. There is an implant there-and not what Ira says I'm full of. It might be one of those artificial organs -you rejuvenators are reluctant to discuss with your "children." But I suspect that it is a Welton cube with an ear hooked to it and a ten-year power supply; it's about the right size.

But why didn't you ask me, dear, instead of sneaking up on me with a Mickey? It is not true that I always say No to a civil request; that is a canard started by Laz and Lor. Justin could have gotten Tamara to ask me, and no one has ever learned how to say No to Tamara. But Justin will pay for this: To hear what I say and what is said in my presence, he is going to have to listen to ten years of belly rumblings.

No, durn it, Athene will filter out incidental noise and supply him with a dated and meaningful printout. There is no justice. And no privacy, either. Athene, haven't I always been good to you, dear? Make Justin pay for his prank.

I haven't seen my first family since I enlisted. But when I get a long-enough pass I am going to Kansas City and visit them. My status as a "hero" carries privileges a "civilian young bachelor" cannot enjoy; the mores relax a bit in wartime, and I'll be able to spend time with them. They have been very good to me: a letter almost every day, cookies or a cake weekly. The latter I share, reluctantly; the former I treasure.

I wish it were as easy to get letters from my Tertius family.

Basic Message, Repeated: Rendezvous is 2 August 1926, ten T-years after drop. Last figure is "six"-not "-nine."

All my love,

Corporal Ted ("Ol' Buddy Boy") Bronson

Dear Mr. Johnson,

And all your family-Nancy, Carol, Brian, George, Marie, Woodie, Dickie Boy, Baby Ethel, and Mrs. Smith. I cannot say how touched I am that this orphan has been "adopted for the duration" by the Smith family, and to hear that it is confirmed by Captain Smith. In my heart you all have been "my family" since that sad & happy night you sent me off to war loaded with presents and good wishes and my head filled with your practical advice-and my heart closer to tears than I dared let anyone see. To be told by Mrs. Smith-with a sentence quoted from a letter from her husband, the Captain-that I truly am "adopted"-well, I'm close to tears again, and non-coms are not supposed to show such weakness.