James Tiptree Jr. - Yanqui Doodle

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2024-11-24 0 0 62.44KB 26 页 5.9玖币

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Yanqui Doodle

JAMES TIPTREE, JR.

Of course they have to visit a hospital. To show they care. But which hospital? Not a big base

hospital, but not a front-line station either—Congressional Armed Service Committee members are too

precious to go where real iron is flying. Not to mention the value of the half-dozen generals escorting the

fact-finding tour of the Bodéguan front.

A perfect hospital is found. The town of San Izquierda, just inside the Bodéguan border, has finally

been liberated by American troops after the Libras had nibbled at it several times, and each time been

run out by the Guévaristas. After the sixth loss the GIs were sent in to take it conclusively—what was left

of it. Now the front has rolled forward twenty-five or fifty kilometers—depending on whose maps you

used—and a big mansion formerly owned by one of the dictator's pals has been converted into an

Intermediate Rehab Unit. The patients are a mix of GIs who would go back on duty, with some whose

condition was bad enough to invalid them back to base, or even home.

So now the cavalcade is driving toward San Izzy, trying to make time. This is the last event of the

Senators' day, and they've been delayed at Hona Base. There was an obstacle course demonstration by

U.S. field instructors, and a parade of Libra troops in training, and speeches. That caused the trouble;

even General Sternhagen has been moved to say more than a few words.

Senator Biller, the ranking Committee member, sits in the rear of the stretch Mercedes with two

American flags on the fenders. Behind him come two new '98 Caddies with the rest of the Committee

and some more generals, similarly beflagged. All the other escort vehicles bear twin flags, one American,

the other the official Libra flag, which had been somewhat hastily designed and is not everywhere

recognized with confidence.

The Senator sits between General Schehl and the interpreter. She is a neat and sultry-looking young

lady, whose grasp of such fundamental phrases as "founding fathers" is, Senator Biller feels, a trifle shaky.

He is wishing he could give her a short course in American— er, United States—history.

He is also musing on the Libra troops he had spoken with after their parade. The Freedom Fighters.

The average Freedom Fighter had a distressing tendency to look like a fifteen-year-old Hispanic

delinquent embracing an M-30.

"What did the Guévaristas do to you?" he had asked one youth. "Why are you here?"

The youth looks at the ground, then into space. "Guéyas very bad," he says to the interpreter, who

amplifies, "Much oppression."

Biller persists. "What did they do to you? How did they oppress you?"

The boy says something cryptic. "They wanted to recruit him for the Army," the interpreter explains.

"But you're in the Army now," Biller says against his better judgment.

"Gué army very bad!" The interpreter smiles ravishingly. "Here is more better."

Looking around at Hona's substantial barracks, the lad's new uniform and boots, the slight but

perceptible bulge under his belt, Senator Biller can believe it.

The boy adds something, scuffing his toe.

"Only he is worried about his Mama," the interpreter goes on. This is something Biller can relate to.

He pats the boy's shoulder comfortingly and smiles.

"He is afraid she will sell his motorcycle," the interpreter finishes.

Several Libras are listening to the exchange. Senator Biller looks round at their young faces and tells

them what fine young men they are, what a good thing they are doing evicting Marxist-Leninism and

saving their country for Democracy—all of which the interpreter seems to shorten unduly.

Then there is a bark, and all come smartly to attention, faces blank. The senator moves on.

Meanwhile his colleagues, some of whom could speak Spanish, were likewise mingling with the

troops, forming invaluable first-hand impressions of the state of the minds and hearts of the people to

whose aid their country had sent her armed might and the blood of her sons. Afterwards Senator

Moverman exclaimed, "Fine brave boys! To think they'd be fighting Soviet gunships bare-handed if we

hadn't sent them aid!"

Another legislator inquired as to whether they had captured many Cubans. A look of intense wariness

came over his informants' faces. "Fidelistas very bad. Very bad soldier." It turned out that they meant

"very dangerous."

"Where are they? Can we see some of the Cubans you captured?"

There was a quick confab, and somebody said "Fidelisto!" and laughed in a private way that gave

Senator Biller grave qualms about the Geneva Conventions. A traitorous thought crossed his mind, about

other boy-men in other uniforms, sent abroad to die for Soviet geopolitik. He shrugged it away. War is

evil. Lying down under communist tyranny is worse.

It was at this point that old Senator Longmast had indicated his desire to address the assembled

Libra and U.S. troops, and got into his brief explanation of What They Were Fighting For that so

terminally delayed them. When he was reminded that they had a hospital to visit, he said "We owe it to

them," and went on.

Now the party is trying to make up lost time on the San Izquierda road, which features a plethora of

potholes and other obstacles. At the moment they have come onto a herd of scraggly cattle trapped

between the steep banks of the mountain road.

The cars stop, the party gets out to stretch. Below them is a superb view of San Izquierda in the

evening sun, nestled around its almost-intact cathedral. Shadowy mountain ridges, forested by pines,

stretch away on either hand. Senator Biller reaches for his camera, as do others.

They are at a small crossroad. On the other road a rusty country bus has also stopped, is letting out

people. The scene is very peaceful. Tropical birds are making exotic evening sounds. There is only the

far-off rumble of heavy trucks on another road; a convoy, probably.

Beside the Senator there looms up what seems to be a self-propelled great load of sticks. It turns out

to be on the head of a small old woman. Biller reflects that only weeks ago she and the town had been

under the iron boots of the Guévaristas. He catches her curious eyes on him and grins broadly, saying

"Libertad!"

"Si! Si!" Her face lights up with a toothy grin. Life is good; only that morning she had sold her

twelve-year-old daughter to three Yanquis for pesos four hundred, about twenty dollars.

Senator Biller steels himself against the impulse to tell his driver to help her with her load. (They're

used to it, this is the way they live.) He turns to his snapshots of the town below.

Ahead, the cattle are dispersing. The party is getting back into their cars. On the side road the bus

has started up, too.

"See—Hospital!" the driver throws back over his shoulder, waving at a large building set in a garden

just in view several kilometers ahead and below.

In that same hospital, Pfc. Donald Still had come back to life some two weeks before. The last thing

he remembered was hearing his patrol leader yell and finding himself falling with an unbelievable pain on

the inside of his thigh. He also remembered thinking that the path behind the ridge they were following

was a natural site for mines, but he was too exhilarated to object. They were in hot pursuit of a bunch of

Gués who were running and dodging just behind the spine of the ridge. The trees cleared out ahead. Don

popped another BZ, looking forward to getting himself some good bursts.

Now he was flat on his back, feeling terrible, with a heavy wrapped-up leg. Steel rails on the bed.

Above him afternoon sun filtered through ornate windows in a high dome. Mostly silence all around, no

shots, no footsteps running. This was no battle-aid station. The choppers must have carried them all the

way back to wherever this was. He felt that a lot of time had passed here: dreams of struggles, dreams of

himself shouting.

His mouth and eyes were painfully dry, his head hurt, he felt weak and fluttery inside, and his leg

ached horribly. Automatically he reached for a Maintenance pill. But his pill kit wasn't there. He was in

hospital pjs, no pockets, no pills, nada.

"Hey! Hello!"

A dizzyingly beautiful girl's face swam in front of him. No, on second look she wasn't so gorgeous,

only cute and very clean.

"Where am I? What's with my leg?"

She produced a clipboard. "You're in San Izquierda Intermediate Rehab Fifteen. Your leg is okay,

you'll be walking tomorrow when the cast comes off. You were lucky, you just lost a lot of blood." She

smiled meaningfully. "Very lucky."

"I need an M."

"Oh-oh." She frowned. "Wel-1-1. Tomorrow you start detox."

"But this is still today!" He tried to smile over sudden panic.

"Wel-l-1. You're just making it harder for yourself."

"But it's today. You said. Please."

Without saying anything she turned away and came back with the precious yellow tab. He managed

to clutch it and dry-swallowed. She tut-tutted at him.

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