When the Devil Dances

“This day is called the feast of Crispian:
He that outlives this day, and comes safe home,
Will stand a tip-toe when the day is named,
And rouse him at the name of Crispian.
He that shall live this day, and see old age,
Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours,
And say ‘To-morrow is Saint Crispian’:
Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars.
And say ‘These wounds I had on Crispin’s day.’
Old men forget: yet all shall be forgot,
But he’ll remember with advantages
What feats he did that day: then shall our names.
Familiar in his mouth as household words
Harry the king, Bedford and Exeter,
Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester,
Be in their flowing cups freshly remember’d.
This story shall the good man teach his son;
And Crispin shall ne’er go by,
From this day to the ending of the world,
But we in it shall be remember’d;
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;
For he to-day that sheds his blood with me
Shall be my brother; be he ne’er so vile,
This day shall gentle his condition:
And gentlemen in England now a-bed
Shall think themselves accursed they were not here,
And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks
That fought with us upon Saint Crispin’s day.

“Throughout the history of man, small forces facing overwhelming odds have been remembered in storied song. The small Greek force at Marathon that defeated a Persian force that outnumbered it a hundred to one. The Rhodesian SAS team that accidentally ran onto a regimental review of guerrillas and wiped them out. The Heroes of Thermopylae. The Alamo. The Seventh Cavalry.”

He paused and looked around at the silent, blank-faced suits. He knew from experience that better than half of them were composing an e-mail or listening to music or looking for some new and better porn. But what the hell.

“Given our situation, I think the last three are most significant,” he continued, pulling out a dip and putting it in. Spitting to clear his mouth, he looked at the sky. “Today we fly to take and hold a pass. We will do so until we are out of bodies or power or ammo. I’m not sure which we’ll run out of first. All things considered, probably bodies.

“We few, we happy few, we band of brothers. In years to come, men at home now in their beds will think of this day and do you know what they will say? ‘Jesus, I’m glad I wasn’t with those poor doomed ACS assholes or right now I’d be dead.’

“But what the hell; that’s why they pay us the big bucks. Board ships.”

Author’s Afterword

There was supposed to be, there originally was, a long, mildly humorous acknowledgments section here. Of course, I was working on this novel on 9/11. And then, as “they” say, the world changed.

Well, “they” are wrong. “The world” did not change on 9/11, our country did. In the author’s afterword to Gust Front I commented that “we are living in a Golden Age, with all its strengths and ills.” That Golden Age met a distinct reality check on 9/11. The event, more than anything, woke many of us up.

It didn’t wake me up, I was already awake. I’d been awake since I was eleven or twelve and an ammunition ship blew up in Beirut harbor. Of course, I was about ten blocks away at the time, so it was… rather noticeable. “Loud” doesn’t cover it. The world has always been a very hostile place, more so for Americans in the latter half of the twentieth century than for any other group (with the possible exception of Jews). People in the developing nations come in two distinct brands: they love America or they hate it. I never, in all my travels, met one person who was just flat ambivalent. Being awake was one of the reasons I gave my body to Uncle Sammy. I knew there were barbarians at the gates, even if nobody else heard the thumping.