the others whom society has sent down the same path and who've managed to come back—they'll care very much about the poor bastards who used to be men but are now locked in their own heads with no reality but their own hellish memories.
We may not be able to help, but we'll care.
—Dave Drake
david-drake.com
Or Battle's Sound
Harry Harrison
I
Combatman Dom Priego, I shall kill you. “ Sergeant Toth shouted the words the length of the barracks compartment.
Dom, stretched out on his bunk and reading a book, raised startled eyes just as the Sergeant snapped his arm down, hurling a gleaming combat knife. Trained reflexes raised the book, and the knife thudded into it, penetrating the pages so that the point stopped a scant few inches from Dom's face.
“You stupid Hungarian ape!” he shouted. “Do you know what this book cost me? Do you know how old it is?”
“Do you know that you are still alive?” the Sergeant answered, a trace of a cold smile wrinkling the corners of his cat's eyes. He stalked down the gangway, like a predatory animal, and reached for the handle of the knife.
“No you don't,” Dom said, snatching the book away. “You've done enough damage already.” He put the book flat on the bunk and worked the knife carefully out of it—then threw it suddenly at the Sergeant's foot.
Sergeant Toth shifted his leg just enough so that the knife missed him and struck the plastic deck covering instead. “Temper, combatman,” he said. “You should never lose your temper. That way you make mistakes, get killed.” He bent and plucked out the shining blade and held it balanced in his fingertips. As he straightened up, there was a rustle as the other men in the barracks compartment shifted weight, ready to move, all eyes on him. He laughed.
“Now you're expecting it, so it's too easy for you.” He slid the knife back into his boot sheath.
“You're a sadistic bowb,” Dom said, smoothing down the cut in the book's cover. “Getting a great pleasure out of frightening other people.”
“Maybe,” Sergeant Toth said, undisturbed. He sat on the bunk across the aisle. “And maybe that's what they call the right man in the right job. And it doesn't matter anyway. I train you, keep you alert, on the jump. This keeps you alive. You should thank me for being such a good sadist.”
“You can't sell me with that argument, Sergeant. You're the sort of individual this man wrote about, right here in this book that you did your best to destroy…”
“Not me. You put it in front of the knife. Just like I keep telling you pinkies. Save yourself. That's what counts. Use any trick. You only got one life, make it a long one.”
“Right in here…”
“Pictures of girls?”
“No, Sergeant, words. Great words by a man you never heard of, by the name of Wilde.”
“No, Oscar Fingal O'Flahertie Wills Wilde. No relation to your pug—I hope. He writes, ‘As long as war is regarded as wicked, it will always have its fascination. When it is looked upon as vulgar, it will cease to be popular.’”
Sergeant Toth's eyes narrowed in thought. “He makes it sound simple. But it's not that way at all. There are other reasons for war.”
“Such as what … ?”
The Sergeant opened his mouth to answer, but his voice was drowned in the wave of sound from the scramble alert. The high-pitched hooting blared in every compartment of the spacer and had its instant response. Men moved. Fast.
The ship's crew raced to their action stations. The men who had been asleep just an instant before were still blinking awake as they ran. They ran and stood, and before the alarm was through sounding the great spaceship was ready.
Not so the combatmen. Until ordered and dispatched, they were just cargo. They stood at the ready, a double row of silver-gray uniforms, down the center of the barracks compartment. Sergeant Toth was at the wall, his headset plugged into a phone extension there, listening attentively, nodding at an unheard voice. Every man's eyes were upon him as he spoke agreement, disconnected and turned slowly to face them. He savored the silent moment, then broke into the widest grin that any of them had ever seen on his normally expressionless face.
“This is it,” the Sergeant said, and actually rubbed his hands together. “I can tell you now that the Edinburgers were expected and that our whole fleet is up in force. The scouts have detected them