Far Horizons: Tales of Sci-Fi, Fantasy and Horror. Issue #21 December 2015 | Page 11
had been fights. Now, so close to shore, it feels like
the order no longer applies. We hand over our letters,
then open our packs and indulge in every soldier’s
favourite habit: barter. We swap our cigarettes for
Bron’s rum, his fresh potatoes for our dried rations,
something he seems particularly pleased about.
under the gaze of his grey eyes.
Gardiner benignly waves a hand, “At ease.”
Feeling the need to make an impression,
I bark, “Squ-ad. At. Ease,” and give him my best
parade-ground salute.
Shouldering our kit, we make our way down
the steel gangplank, assaulted by heat, humidity, the
stink of dead fish, spilt kerosene, wood smoke, the
roar of trucks and armoured cars, and the whistles of
the military police.
“Walk with me, Pedersen,” Gardiner says,
flipping open his cigarette case. “Smoke?”
“Thank you sir.”
A row of trestles has been deployed on the
dry mud along the shore. Above them are a series of
banners displaying group names. I report to one of
the sergeants under the signs for Army Group 8.
“You’ve done well to keep discipline,
Corporal.”
“Corporal Pedersen reporting with machine
gun unit eleven-seventy six assigned to Hagendorf’s
seven-seven-two.” I say.
Gardiner laughs at my formality, and all at
once I understand the loyalty towards him we have
encountered since joining his brigade.
He glares at me, looks down at his clipboard,
flips a sheet, then another, and scowls. “You’re late.”
“I like to meet every new unit, see how they
will fit in. Anyone can soldier, but to campaign you
need a certain style.” He stops walking, “Seen much
action?”
“Thank you sir.”
“Sorry sir. The train was stopped outside the
railhead for three days.”
“No, sir. None at all.”
The sergeant grunted, then says, “I’m not
a sir, I’m a bloody sergeant. I work for my living,
same as you.”
“You’ll be fine, don’t worry. And so will
your boys and girls.”
“Yes, Sergeant.”
“They’re a good team, sir.”
“And don’t give me bloody excuses.” The
sergeant scribbles on a pad of pink, blue, white and
yellow multi-part forms. Tearing free the pink and
blue slips he flourishes them at me. “Hagendorf’s
gone, you’re redeployed. Gardiner’s pulling out in
an hour. If you run, you’ll catch him.”
“I can see that, Corporal.” Pausing to light
our smokes, Gardiner flicks his lighter open and
shut, snick-snap, and slips it into his breast pocket
with practiced precision. “This place,” he says as he
exhales cigarette smoke, “this ridiculous continent,
the outrageous scale of it! It takes nearly six months
for a bullet to travel from the factories to my
soldiers’ guns. A journey that crosses two continents
and an ocean! Tell me, Corporal, what are we doing
here?”
Day 136
Brigade-leader Osman Gardiner is tall, slim,
dapper and energetic. The crispness of his uniform
makes me feel shabby in my combat fatigues. The
rest of my unit stand to attention, uncomfortable
His intimate tone makes me feel I am a
member of his inner circle, but I am unused to
11