Far Horizons: Tales of Sci-Fi, Fantasy and Horror. Issue #21 December 2015 | Page 8

Just War

breezes through, stamps to attention in front of my
desk and hands me a manila envelope with one hand
while saluting with the other. He can’t be more than
fifteen.

By David Gullen

From the other end Elsa Montana and Suzi
Laumberg appear, swinging across the gap between
the carriages. Kosygyn trails behind, eyeing their
backsides.

Part One
Day 100
Mitchell and Kosygyn are arguing again, and,
as before, it is essentially over nothing. This endless,
mind—numbing train journey has turned us into a
dysfunctional family rather than the disciplined unit
our superiors intended.

barks.

“I’ve located your privates, sir!” Kosygyn

“We were on our way back,” Elsa said. “We
hadn’t forgotten.”
says.

“Enough.” I say. “Kit inspection is at 15:00
hours, weapons at 15:20. You’d better get moving.”
The two break off, giving me resentful looks, united
now in their dislike of my order. Medium build and
height, spiky dark hair and brown eyes, Mitchell and
Kosygyn could easily pass for brothers.

“Get your eyes off her arse, Kosygyn,” Suzi

The two women in my unit are very
different, physically and intellectually. Elsa is tall,
broad-shouldered and dark-haired. Like Kosygyn,
she was sullen to begin with, both of them sensitive
about their peasant background in the re-united
south. Suzi, slender and hazel-eyed, is the confident
intellectual from the city Elysée.

“Very well, corporal.” Mitchell says, turning
to Kosygyn. “Go and find Laumberg and Montana.”
“Sir, yes sir!” Kosygyn snaps to attention,
presenting Mitchell an arm-quivering salute before
slouching to the front of our open carriage.

Kosygyn deliberately blocks the exit for
the subaltern and they dodge from side to side with
Kosygyn effusively apologising before he lets the
red-faced young man through.

I’m sitting at the tiny desk and chair in the
corner of the carriage, what we jokingly call the
office. I’ve pulled the chair well back before I sit
down, not wanting to squeeze my knees under the
low desk, which I am sure has been designed to
make me look ridiculous rather than enhance what
little dignity the rank of corporal brings.

Later, as I look at my soldiers standing
beside their bed rolls, their kit and spare clothing
meticulously laid out on the freshly swept floor, I
wonder exactly how our strangely casual discipline,
which we have all struggled to preserve on this
seemingly endless journey, will hold for another
month until we reach the front line.

Meanwhile Mitchell has gone to the back
of the carriage, where Rolf is resting on his bunk.
“Come on,” I hear him say. “Pedersen wants another
drill.”

I hold up the brown envelope. “Today I have
an all-units dispatch from General Chimerofsky.
It says: ‘Field Marshal Yu-Ang announces that
Army groups 11, 4, 15 and 8 continue to advance
into disputed territory against light resistance with
negligible casualties’.”

Just at that moment both connecting doors
bang open, warm, damp wind swirls at the papers
on my desk. From the engine end a junior subaltern

Everyone visibly relaxes. Assigned as a
support unit to Hagendorf’s 772 in Army Group 8,

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