Riding the Red Horse by Jerry Pournelle, Christopher Nuttall, Rolf Nelson, Chris Kennedy, Brad Torgersen, Thomas Mays, James F. Dunnigan, William S. Lind

marching, and they had no weapons; so Stromand ordered them to sing war songs.
    They didn't know very many songs, so they always ended up singing the Battle Hymn of the Republic. It said all their feelings, anyway.
     
    The ragged group straggled to the local parish church. Someone had broken the cross and spire off the building, and turned the altar into a lecture desk. It was becoming dark when Owensford's troops were bedded down in the pews.
    “Lieutenant?”
    Peter looked up from the dark reverie that had overtaken him. Allan Roach and another volunteer stood in front of him. “Yes?”
    “Some of the men don't like bein' in here, Lieutenant. We got church members in the outfit.”
    “I see. What do you expect me to do about it?” Peter asked. “This is where we were sent.” And why didn't someone meet us instead of having a kid hand me a note down at the docks? he wondered. But it wouldn't do to upset the men.
    “We could bed down outside,” Roach suggested.
    “Nonsense. Superstitious garbage.” The strident, bookish voice came from behind him, but Peter didn't need to look around to know who was speaking. “Free men have no need of that kind of belief. Tell me who is disturbed.”
    Allan Roach set his lips tightly together.
    “I insist,” Stromand demanded. “Those men need education, and I will provide it. We cannot have superstition within our company.”
    “Superstition be damned,” Peter protested. “It's dark and gloomy and uncomfortable in here, and if the men want to sleep outside, let them.”
    “No,” Stromand said.
    “I remind you that I am in command here,” Peter said. His voice was rising slightly and he fought to control it. He was only twenty-three standard years old, while Stromand was forty; and Peter had no experience of command. Yet he knew that this was an important issue, and the men were all listening.
    “I remind you that political education is totally up to me,” Stromand said. “It is good indoctrination for the men to stay in here.”
    “Crap.” Peter stood abruptly. “All right, everybody outside. Camp in the churchyard. Roach, set up a night guard around the camp.”
    “Yes, sir,” Allan Roach grinned.
    Commissar Stromand found his men melting away rapidly; after a few minutes he followed them outside.
    They were awakened early by an officer in synthi-leather trousers and tunic. He wore no badges of rank, but it was obvious to Peter that the man was a professional soldier. Someday, Peter thought, someday I'll look like that. The thought was cheering for some reason.
    “Who's in charge here?” the man demanded.
    Stromand and Owensford answered simultaneously. The officer looked at both for a moment, then turned to Peter. “Name?”
    “Lieutenant Peter Owensford.”
    “Lieutenant. And why might you be a lieutenant?”
    “I'm a graduate of West Point, sir. And your rank?”
    “Captain, sonny. Captain Anselm Barton, at your service, God help you. The lot of you have been posted to the Twelfth Brigade, second battalion, of which battalion I have the misfortune to be adjutant. Any more questions?” He glared at both Peter and the commissar, but before either could answer there was a roar and the wind whipped them with red dust; a fleet of trucks rounded the corner and stopped in front of the church.
    “Okay,” Barton shouted. “Into the trucks. You too, Mister Comics-Star. Lieutenant, you will ride in the cab with me…come on, come on, we haven't all day. Can't you get them to hop it, Owensford?”
    No two trucks were alike. One Cadillac stood out proudly from the lesser breeds, and Barton went to it. After a moment Stromand took the unoccupied seat in the cab of the second truck, an old Fiat. Despite the early hour, the sun was already hot and bright, and it was a relief to get inside the air-conditioned compartment.
    The Cadillac ran smoothly, but had to halt frequently while the drivers worked on the others of the convoy. The Fiat could only get two or