Chapter 32 Repeat VI from scratch

Funston Barracks, Kansas Dear Twins and the Rest of the Family: Surprise you!Come to the Army of the United States of America and seek out Corporal and Acting Sergeant, Ted Branson, the most vicious Drill Instructor ever.No, I'm not deranged.I just temporarily forgot the basic principle of getting away from something when I first started: namely, that the best way to hide a needle is to put it in a pile of needles.The best place to escape the horrors of war is the army.None of you have been in war, or even seen any armies, so I have to explain. I had (foolishly) planned to go to South America to escape the war.But in South America, no matter how fluent I am in the local dialect, I can't possibly be considered a local - and that place is full of German spies who would suspect me of being an American agent and might arrange some Horrible accident.Bless the innocent.Also, there are girls with big beautiful eyes, suspicious nannies, and dads who are happy to shoot up gringos who don't care.It's too dangerous.

If I were still in the US and refused to join the military - one small mistake would have me locked up behind a cold stone wall, eating terrible food, and working as a quarryman.It's not very attractive. In wartime, troops have all the best of conditions.There is only one small risk: the possibility of being shot.But the latter is entirely avoidable. How to avoid it?Now that the war has not yet broken out, there are countless opportunities in the army for ruffians (like me) to avoid risks from strangers.Currently, only a small percentage of people in the military are actually at risk of being shot. (Even fewer people would get shot. But I'm not going to take that risk.) Right now, there are only a few places where there's ground fighting, and there are countless jobs in the Army that aren't in those places.Where there is no fighting, the soldiers are, apart from the uniform, really only privileged civilians.

That's the job I'm doing now, and probably nothing will change until the war is over.Someone here needs to turn those brave, young, naive, fresh-from-the-farm lads into roughly warrior-like people.A man who can do this kind of work is very valuable, and the officers are not willing to let such a man go. So, although I now exude that old passion for fighting, I don't have to fight.I just discipline them.Intensive team drills, loose team drills, marksmanship practice, how to maintain rifles and bayonets, hand-to-hand combat, field first aid...everything is taught.My "superior" military talents surprised everyone because I was recruited as a "non-soldier". (Actually, the war had ended five years before my grandfather taught me to shoot. I was a high school student when I was first introduced to these techniques, ten years from now. My military experience is scattered across the In the centuries that followed, and in the centuries after that, there were occasional opportunities for review. Of course, I couldn't tell them about these things.)

There is a rumor here that I used to be a soldier in the French Foreign Legion.The Foreign Legion is one of our allies. Composed of assassins, thieves, and escaped prisoners, this Legion is famous for its desperate fighting style.There were rumors that I might have been one of the deserters, almost certainly under another name.Here's how I disapprove of such rumours: If someone asks about it, I immediately get my face down, and I only occasionally make the small mistake of saluting the French way (palms forward) and immediately correct yourself.Plus, everyone knows that I "speak French".My French was instrumental in my progression from "acting corporal" to a real corporal in training, and now I'm fighting for the sergeant again.Here are officers and sergeants from France and England teaching us how to fight trench warfare.All the French people who come here are supposed to speak English, but these peasants with hoes in Kansas and Missouri can't understand their English at all.So, unknowingly, lazy Lazarus became a liaison between them.Together with a French sergeant, I almost made a good instructor.

Without that French sergeant, I'd be a totally good instructor.At this time, I can teach them everything I know.But they only allowed me to play freely when teaching hand-to-hand combat. Anyway, hand-to-hand combat without weapons has not changed much for centuries; what has changed is only the name, and the principle is still the same: strike first to be strong, strike quickly, and use The most indecent means. But it doesn't work when teaching how to fight a bayonet.The so-called bayonet is a knife installed on the head of the gun. The combination of the knife and the gun is similar to the heavy javelin used by the Romans.This is a weapon that was used two thousand years ago, and it was not new even then.By 1917, you would have thought that the art of bayonet-handling had been perfected.

It's not like this. The "book" only taught how to block the bayonet, not how to counter-stab.In fact, counter-stabbing is as fast as parrying, and it has the function of deceiving the enemy. It can confuse a person who has never heard of this technique and kill him.There was (will be) a war in the twenty-sixth century, during which the use of the bayonet developed into an art, and I joined reluctantly, and managed to escape from it.Here, one morning, we made a bet.I showed them that I could hold down opponents and never get touched by an American sergeant instructor - then a British instructor - and finally a French instructor.

Did they allow me to teach the techniques I demonstrated?No.In fact, it is absolutely not allowed”! I didn’t “follow the script”, and this kind of “playing smart” almost cost me this easy job. So I went back to doing it strictly according to the sacred “book”. But this book is actually not too bad.My father--and your father--trained Plattsburgh on the same textbook.When explaining how to fight a bayonet, its focus is on offense.This approach, while limited, is passable.In the hands of a man who is eager to engage and kill the enemy, the bayonet is a weapon that can frighten ordinary opponents very well.Judging from the training time of these children, they may only learn so much.But I wouldn't dare put these rosy-cheeked, brave lads up against seasoned, tired, pessimistic old twenty-sixth-century mercenaries whose sole purpose is to keep themselves alive while seeing their opponents die.

These kids can win the war and they will win the war.Looking back from your time, they did win.But many people who did not need to die will die. I love these kids.They were young, enthusiastic, brave, and eager to go "over there," to prove that one GI could kill six Germans. (This is not true. The real ratio is not even one to one. German devils are old soldiers, not affected by "fair play" or other naive ideas. But these young children will keep fighting and dying until Germany surrender.) But they are so young!Lazu and Laurie, most of them are even younger than you two, some much younger.I don't know how many people lie about their age, but a lot of them don't need to shave.Sometimes at night, I would hear someone crying on the camp bed, thinking about his mother.But the next day he will train very seriously and work harder than ever.We don't have to worry too much about deserters; these kids are eager to fight.

I try not to think about how pointless this war is. It's a matter of perspective on things.Minerva, still a computer, proved to me one night that all here and now are the same, that a "now" is nothing but the here and now that someone is in.If I hadn't heeded the call of the wild geese and stayed where I should be, where I "should" be right here and now is my home on Tertius.According to the here and now, these passionate pompous big boys are long dead, and the worms have eaten their bodies; the war and its terrible aftermath are old history, and I don't have to worry about it.

But here I am, these things are happening.I can feel it all. Letters are getting harder and harder to write and send.Justin, you're asking me to take detailed notes of what I did, and to write it on the spot, and you're going to add that to the pile of lies you've compiled.Both photoreduction and etching are now impossible.Sometimes I can leave the barracks for a day, just enough to make a trip to the nearest big town, Topeka (about 160km away, round trip), but always on a Sunday when the shops are closed.So I haven't had a chance to find a relationship that would give me access to a lab in Topeka - assuming there is such a place and has the equipment I need, I doubt it.I'd like to lock the letter in a safe (it doesn't matter when these delayed mails are delivered now), but the bank never opens on Sundays.So at most I can write a handwritten letter that is not too long and not very bulky.Whenever I have the opportunity to get nested envelopes (which is also difficult now), I will write.Hopefully the paper and ink don't oxidize too much after all these centuries.

I started to keep a diary, in which I didn't mention anything about Tertius (everyone would lock me up like a madman).My diary is just a brief record of what happens each day.When it's full, I can send it to Grandpa Ella Johnson to keep it for me; after the war, when I have time and privacy, I'll write a biography of what you need, based on the diary Something like that, and take the time to get a long, microform letter that you can keep for a long time.Difficult circumstances for a time-traveling historian.If there is a Wilton precision memory, every word I say for the next ten years can be preserved.It's a pity that even if I had it, I wouldn't be able to use it; I don't have the technical conditions it needs. By the way - Ishtar, did you put a tape recorder in my stomach?You're cute, darling, but sometimes your cuteness goes astray.It didn't matter to me, and I never would have noticed it if a doctor hadn't noticed it the day I enlisted.He didn't pursue it, but then I checked it out with my own hands.There was an implant in there, not what Ella called my "bellied full of shit."Or it could be some artificial component that you rejuvenators don't want to discuss with your "patients."But I suspect it's a Wilton memory with a monitor on it, with a ten-year power supply; the thing is about the same size. Why don't you ask me, dear?He wanted to secretly install this thing on me when I was unconscious.Razu and Laurie always said that if I were asked politely, I would say no.This is the rumor they spread.Justin could have let Tamara convince me, no one knew how to say "no" to Tamara's request.For that, Justin had to pay a price: To hear what I said, and what other people said in my presence, he had to listen to the rumbling of my stomach for ten years. No, damn it, Athena would filter out the noise and give him a dated, clear typescript.Unfair and no privacy.Athena, I've been nice to you, haven't I, honey?Make Justin pay for his shenanigans. I haven't seen anyone from my first family since joining the military.When I have a long enough vacation, I will visit them in Kansas City.As a "hero," I get perks that "young single civilians" don't get.In times of war, people always loosen their morals a little bit so that I can stay with them.They are very kind to me: they write a letter almost every day, and they send snacks or cakes every week.I shared the food with everyone, though reluctantly; as for the letters, I kept them like treasures. It would be nice to be able to receive letters home from Tertius so conveniently. Basic information, to repeat: The conjunction date is August 2, 1926, ten years after putting me here on earth.The last digit is "six" - not "nine". With all my love, Corporal Ted Branson (your "dude") Dear Mr Johnson: Give my regards to everyone in the family—Nancy, Carol, Brian, George, Mary, Woody, Little Dick, Little Ithel, and Mrs. Smith.I cannot express how moved I was to hear that my orphan had been "adopted by the Smith family during the war" and that Captain Smith had agreed to it.In my heart, you have been part of my family since that sad but happy night.You sent me on the journey that night, my body was full of gifts, my mind was full of everyone's blessings, and I still remembered the very practical advice you gave me-I was so moved that I was about to cry, but I didn't Dare to let others see it.Mrs. Smith told me—with a sentence she took out of a letter from her husband, Captain Smith—that I had indeed been “adopted.”At that moment, my tears came down again.A non-commissioned officer shouldn't show such a vulnerable side. I didn't go to Captain Smith.I see the hint in your letter - but I really don't need to.I've been a soldier for a while and know what soldiers are not supposed to do.I'm almost sure Captain Smith won't be looking for me either.I don't need to explain this to you, because you've been a soldier longer than Captain Smith and I combined.It's very kind of Mrs Smith to think of that - but could you please explain to her why I can't go and get involved with Captain Smith, why she shouldn't be urging her husband to get a non-commissioned officer. If you can't get her to understand these things (which is possible, after all, the army is a completely different world from the outside world), maybe the following sentence will solve the problem: Funston Barracks is very large, here, except Two legs, no other means of transportation.It would have taken me an hour to walk all over the barracks if I had strode off.If the captain can be found, add five minutes to his time with him.You know our schedule and I gave you a copy.As soon as I saw it, I knew that I didn't have the time at all. But I do appreciate her thoughtfulness. Please pass on to Carol my heartfelt thanks for her brownies.Literally as good as her mother's; I couldn't have rated it higher.I should use the past tense here, because it's all gone in the bodies of us jerks, and there are other people besides me (my brothers here are a bunch of gluttons).If she wants to marry a lean, tall, eatable Kansas country guy, I've got one on hand.For those brownies, he'd decide to marry her before he even saw her in person. I described this place in my previous letters as a messy Mexican fire brigade training ground, and it is no longer that.Where there used to be a big chimney, now there are real mortars; the wooden guns are gone, and even the youngest recruits, as long as they learn how to stand together more or less when they stand in line, they will get A Springfield rifle. But teaching them how to use a rifle "as taught" remains a headache.We have two kinds of recruits here: those who have never used a gun, and those who boast that their father used to send them out hunting some game for breakfast, and they were only allowed to shoot once.I like to teach the former, and even if the lad is frightened, I have to tell him not to tremble.At least he didn't develop bad habits, I can teach him what the regular army instructor taught me, and now the three stripes on my shoulder can make him listen to me. But country boys who think they know it all won't do what I tell them, even though some of them are good marksmen. Our day job is to convince them they can't do it their way, they have to do it the Army way; and he'd better learn to like the Army way. Sometimes these guys who think they know it all get so impatient that they want to fight -- fight me, not the knuckleheads.Usually it's the lads who don't know that I teach hand-to-hand combat.I sometimes have to entertain some of them behind the toilets after the flag has been lowered.I'm not going to get into serious boxing with them; I don't want to have my nose crushed by a milking fist.Just fight together, there are no rules.In the end, either they beat them black and blue, or they decided to shake hands with me and make up, as if nothing had happened.If they did it first, the whole thing wouldn't have lasted two seconds; because I didn't want to get hurt. I promised you I would tell you where I learned French boxing and judo.But it's a long story, and in a way it's not a good story, and I shouldn't be telling it in my letter.I'll tell you about it when I have enough time off to go back to Kansas City. It has been at least three months since anyone has challenged me.A sergeant drill sergeant told me he'd heard the recruits call me "Death" Branson.I don't mind, as long as the nickname allows me to spend my down time in peace and tranquility. Camp Funston still had only two climates, hot and dusty or cold and muddy.The latter, I've heard, is a good time for training to fight in the French climate; the British soldiers here claim that the greatest danger in this war is drowning in the French bogs.The French soldiers among us did not make much excuses, but complained that the heavy rain affected the effectiveness of the artillery fire. The weather in France can be terrible, but everyone wants to be there.The second most talked about topic is; "When?" (What's the first topic? You're a veteran, so I don't need to tell you.) The rumors about sending troops to France are endless, but all is fake. But I've started thinking about it.With wars raging elsewhere, am I going to be stuck here, doing the same thing day in and day out?How will I talk about this experience with my children in the future?Where did you fight during the Great War, Dad?Funston, Billy.Where is that in France, Dad?Around Topeka, Billy shut up and eat your cereal. I have to make some changes. I got a little tired of telling batch after batch of recruits how to hold a gun and use a shovel.We've dug enough trenches in this pasture to reach the moon from here.Now I know four ways of digging trenches: the French way, the British way, the American way--and the one that every new batch of recruits uses, which makes the trenches collapse entirely.The recruits didn't mind, because if we got there, we'd break the deadlock of trench warfare and drive the shit out of the Germans. They may be right.But I'll have to teach them what I'm told to teach, maybe until I'm gray. I am truly delighted to hear that you have joined the Seventh Regiment; I know what it means to you.But please don't belittle the 7th Missouri by calling it the National Guard.Unless someone can clean it up quickly, you may have a lot of battles to fight. But frankly, sir, I hope you don't go to war.I think Captain Smith would agree with me.Someone needs to guard our home—I mean the one on Benton Avenue.Little Hillian is not mature enough to be the man in charge of the house.I think Captain Smith would be worried about the situation at home if you weren't there. But I understand how you feel.I've heard that if a sergeant instructor wants to escape the drudgery of the job, the only way is to degrade.Would you be ashamed of me if I disappeared while on leave for just long enough to demote me to corporal... and do something else and lose the corporal's leverage too?In this way, I am sure, I will be sent into the first ranks of troops going east. It is best not to read the latter paragraph to the rest of the family.As a "respectable Smith," I'd better find another way. With my best regards to you and Mrs. Smith, Send my love to the children, Ted Branson "Smith" (How happy I am to be "adopted" by this family) "Come in!" "Sir, Sergeant Branson is ordered to report to Captain Smith!" (Dad, I shouldn't have recognized you, but you look so much like you. Just younger.) "Relax, Sergeant. Close the door and sit down." "Yes, sir." Lazarus did as he was told, but still couldn't figure it out.Not only did he never expect Captain Smith to contact him, but he never applied for a vacation long enough for him to go to Kansas City.There are two reasons: one, his father may also be home that weekend; two, his father may not be home that weekend.Lazarus didn't know which was worse, so he avoided both. But now, suddenly, an orderly on a sidecar motorcycle came to pick him up with the order to "see Captain Smith."After getting on the motorcycle, he realized that "Captain Smith" was Captain Brian Smith. "Sergeant, my father-in-law told me a lot about you. My wife too." There seemed to be no answer to that, so Lazarus just looked sheepish and said nothing. Captain Smith continued: "Oh, Sergeant, don't be shy; this is a man to man conversation. My family 'accepts you as part of the family', so to speak, and I wholeheartedly approve of that. In fact, It fits into a program the War Department started through the Red Cross, YMCAs and churches to find every youth in the military who doesn't get regular letters from home and find a way to get them. In other words It's 'adopted during the war'. Write him a letter, remember his birthday, give him a little present. What do you think of the plan?" "Sounds good, sir. What the Captain's family has done for me will definitely boost my morale." "I'm glad you said that. If it were you, how would you plan this event? It's okay, just say it, don't be afraid to express your opinion." (Give me a position and see what I can do, Dad!) "Sir, this problem has two parts—no, three parts. Two are how to prepare, and one is how to execute. The first is to find these People. Second, at the same time, find families who are willing to help. Third, get acquainted with each other. The first job should be done by the company sergeant major.” (Will those sergeant majors like this job? No door.) "Let them order the company clerks to check the rosters of who has not received letters from home before distributing the mail. Well, the check must be done quickly; postponing the mail for whatever reason Neither is a good idea. Also, you can't leave the inspection to the deputy platoon commander; that's not their job, and it's going to be a pain in the ass to do it. As soon as the postman hands the letter to the company clerk, he has to start right away." Lazarus thought for a while, "However, let me take the liberty to say that in order to handle this matter well, the base commander must ask his adjutant to ask the company commanders to report every week how many letters his soldiers have received this week. ( This kind of thing is pure bullshit, it is an invasion of personal privacy, and it will multiply the paperwork and make the work of the army more procrastinating! Anyone who is homesick has a home and will also receive mail. As for being alone They don't want letters; they want women and whiskey. Whiskey in this state is like prairie dog piss, and even I'm on the verge of becoming a teetotaler.) Probably not Just add a column of statistics to the normal weekly report as much as you want, Captain. Company commanders and sergeant majors won't like it if it takes too much time, and end up having the company clerk make up a few random numbers Deal with the base chief. I bet you know a lot about this sort of thing, Captain." Lazarus' father smiled in a way that made him look a lot like Ted Roosevelt. "Sergeant, I was writing a letter to the Commander, and after listening to you, I intend to revise and revise that letter. After being charged with 'planning and training', I made great efforts to let anyone The new plan will not add to the already mountain of paper work. As for this new plan, I have been trying to figure out how to minimize the amount of work associated with it. You have a great idea for me. Let me know , when you were offered officer training, why did you turn it down? If you don't want to say it, forget it; it's your own business." (Dad, I'm going to lie to you. A platoon leader, if he leads the whole platoon to "jump out of the trench" according to the regulations, his life expectancy is only about 20 minutes. Of course I can't tell you this. Enough!) "Sir, let's put it this way. Let's say I apply for training, and it takes a month to get approved. Then it's three months at Fort Benning, or Leavenworth, or wherever the top sends these guys. And then Back here again; or Bliss Base, or whatever. I'll be sent out to train recruits, and spend another six months with them before I can finally go abroad. As far as I know, 'over there ', we've got more training to do. It's been a year in total and I haven't had a chance to fight yet, the war is over." "Well...you may be right. Do you want to go to France?" "Yes, sir!" (God, no!) "Just last week, in Kansas City, my father-in-law told me you'd say that. But you might not know, Sergeant, that even if you stay here, you might still not have a chance to go to war... and not let your shoulders In my 'planning and training' department, we keep track of every troop instructor. We send the ones who don't do a good job to the field...but the ones who do a good job, we catch Hold on." "But here's an opportunity—" his father laughed again, "and we've been asked—that's a more polite way of saying 'order'—to provide some of the best instructors to do what you just said Training job in the rear of France. I know you are qualified; I have been following your weekly reports since my father-in-law mentioned you to me. For someone who has not been in combat, your military knowledge and experience Surprising. You have a slight inclination towards non-rule in your conduct, but - privately - I don't think that's a fault; fully disciplined soldiers are only soldiers in the barracks, not adapted to the battlefield. Est- ce que vous parlez la langue francaise?" (Do you speak French?) "Oui, mon captaine." (Will, captain.) Eh, bien! peut-etre vous avez enrole autrefois en la legion etrangere, n'est-ce pas” (Excellent!) "Pardon, mon captaine? Je ne comprends pas?" (Sorry, Captain, I didn't understand.) "A few more words and I don't understand you. But I've worked hard and I see French as a ticket to get me out of this dusty place. Branson, forget that Question. But I have to ask one more question, and I want you to answer it absolutely honestly. Are there any reasons, whatever, that the French authorities are going to find you? I don't give a damn about what you've done in the past, nor does the War Department Will care. But we have to protect our own people." Lazarus didn't hesitate. (Papa was telling me plainly that if I was a deserter from the French Foreign Legion, or escaped from Devil's Island or some other prison, he would protect me from French justice.) "Absolutely not, sir!" "I'm relieved to hear that. There's some bathroom rumours. I asked Dad Johnson, but he couldn't confirm or deny it. Speaking of him—you stand up and let me see yours." Left cheek, turn around again. Branson, I'm convinced. I don't remember my wife's Uncle Ned, but I believe that you are most likely related to my father-in-law. His speculation is completely valid, Matches everything. So we're related too. After the war, maybe we can look into this. I know, my kids call you 'Uncle Ted' now. That's a fitting title, if you don't object. If so, I have no objection." "Sir, of course I don't object! Anyway, it's nice to have a home." "I thought so too. One more thing... you'll forget about it once you're out of this door. I think an officer will come in a few days to select the non-commissioned officers to go to France... Soon after that, the troops will Let you take a short vacation that you didn't apply for. Don't make a fuss when you get the vacation, causing people to speculate. Comprenezvous?" (Got it?) "Mais oui, mon captaine, certainement." (Yes, captain, of course I understand.) "Wish I could tell you we're going to the same unit; Dad Johnson would love that. But I can't. Also, remember I didn't tell you anything." "Captain, I've forgotten. (Dad thinks he's helping me!) Thank you, sir!" "You're welcome. Let's go."

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