"Four hundred forty-two." The number sank into Aloj's mind like a rock thrown into a pool of water. Four hundred forty-two wars had been fought, and he was now here with his friends preparing to become soldiers in war number 443. He wondered briefly if this 443 war might be any different from those that came before it and finally decided that if it were, it was only because they would be carrying guns instead of running from them.478Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡI3vViOSU63
Sergeant Oluja had a way of telling them to do things, as he lined them up, that was like a new language, and Aloj realized immediately that the language was something he should have learned last year. Oluja directed them with both the barrel and butt of his rifle, but no matter how fast Aloj followed the gestures, he could not get where he was supposed to be fast enough. Why doesn't he show us what to do? he raged silently, as the sergeant's gun butt cracked his rear for the 3rd time.
But now he saw that the new recruits had been formed into a line opposite a shorter line of experienced soldiers. Then the newcomers were fitted into the other line so that each recruit was between two trained men. Or rather boys. But the boys, never mind their age, seemed to understand the sergeant's signals. They managed to march, wheel, lunge, drop to the ground wiht no more than a second's delay from command to execution. The sergeant did not bother to explain his directions---all hand signals now---but as he stumbled forward Aloj began to sort them out and name them. There were Forward, Halt, Ground, Left, Right, Aim, Fire.
The soldier in front of Aloj was a lanky boy of about fifteen whose face was marred by a cleft lip. He said nothing at all to anyone as he flawlessly executed maneuver after maneuver, and Aloj wondered how long it had taken him to become so good. While Aloj stumbled and groped for directions and grunted curses, the only sounds the other soldier made were the thump of his boots on the ground and the whistle of his breath through his deformed mouth. Aloj began to think of him as the "Whistler," as he struggled to follow his lead.478Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡyM8JSnpbnJ
The afternoon wore on, through what in better places and happier times might have been the Napada, and the heat increased and the dust clogged their noses. Sweat poured down under his loose uniform, and soon everything Aloj had on was wet. The wetness actually helped, because as the sweat evaporated it gave a faint sense of cooling to his hot skin.478Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡbikMmGW2Ur
After what seemed like forever but probably was just two or three hours, the sergeant halted them downslope from the main buildings of the camp. When his signal came, Aloj didn't see it because sweat was streaming into his eyes. He crashed full force into Whistler.478Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡhKtOcjNCka
Instantly Whistler whirled and him and raised a hand for a karate chip at Aloj's throat.
"Stop!" The sergeant's voice raked down the narrow line like a whip. "We kill the enemy. Not each other."
Shakily Aloj reached up and wiped his eyes clear. When he could see again he was looking into Whistler's eyes. They were slanted, a kind of catlike golden brown, and Aloj immediately understood that Whistler was fully as dangerous to the men and boys around him as he was to the enemy.
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