Carnifex

9/5/468 AC, Academia Militar Sargento Juan Malvegui, Puerto Lindo, Balboa

A long line of twenty tanks stood outside the physical training shed cum classroom. Inside, a Volgan instructor droned on in marginal Spanish about the capabilities and limitations of the Jaguar II tank and the Ocelot light armored vehicle Behind and slightly to the right of the Volgan was a table. Upon that table a black cloth covered an object.

Like many another fifteen year old in the wide shed that served as classroom and physical training pit, Cadet Sergeant Acosta paid little attention. For one thing, the information was already in his cadet handbook. For another, the Volgan instructor would surely put him to sleep in no time if he actually tried to listen. The walls were decorated with cadets who'd been caught nodding off. Their feet were against the walls, about four feet in the air, and their hands widely spaced on the sawdust of the pit. From experience Acosta knew, and hated, the modified push-up position used by the Academy cadre.

Instead, while pretending to take notes, Acosta wrote a letter home. He wrote:

"Dear Family,

In the first place let me apologize for not having written in over a month. But, as I told you the last time I wrote, we are given little free time. Monday through Thursday we cram five days of academics into four. Friday and Saturday we train as soldiers. Sunday is parade, church, and inspections in the morning; getting ready for the next week in the afternoon and evening. I couldn't write now except that I am in a class that I really don't need to pay attention to.

Thank my sister, Betania, for the cookies she sent. My whole platoon enjoyed them. (And no, sister, I didn't want to share them, but we are not allowed to keep any kind of food in the barracks.)

To little Eduardo; you tell me you want to be a soldier. I must tell you back, it is hard, little brother, very hard. Never enough sleep, running, marching, harassment all the time. If you are still interested when you turn fourteen in three years, we will talk about it again. In the interim, just keep your grades up in school and obey our parents. That is the best preparation you can do.

Mother and Father, I will be home the week before Christmas until three days after the Intercalary.

Not everyone will be returning to the Academy. Of the eighteen hundred who started here with me, six hundred are already gone. Some of the others remaining will be invited to leave. Do not fear that I will be one of those. My grades are high and my evaluations for leadership also good enough to be retained. I would not fail you, you can be sure."

Acosta stopped writing as the Russian instructor was replaced with a Balboan one, a rather short type. As usual the cadets began to chatter quietly among themselves the moment one class ended. The new speaker was a Cristobalense, Diaz thought. For one thing, he was black. For another, the cuff band on his sleeve said "Barbarossa" which the cadet knew was the local tercio. A silvery cross hung by a ribbon around the instructor's neck.

For a few moments the new man just stood on the podium, looking out over the cadets. Then, turning to the boys with their feet upon the walls, he said, "Take fockin' seats, chicos."

Gradually, the talk died down as the diminutive black instructor continued to glare out over the crowd. As the last whisper died away, the instructor began to speak.

He said, in a hypnotically melodious voice with the accent of the islands of the Shimmering Sea, "Close you eyes, my children. Close you eyes and come with me."

"You in a tank; a big fockin' Jaguar. You out in de desert. De sand be blowin', de rain fallin'. Cuz, yes, my children, even do it never rain in de Legion, even out in de desert it rain on de Legion. You be wet and chilled to de bone. You eyes be full of dust and grit. It be darker dan t'ree foot up a welldigger's ass . . . at midnight. You can'd see notin'. De end of you gun barrel is a misty haze."

Eyes closed, Acosta could see it.

"You try to wipe de sand out of de eyes, but as fast as you wipe you eyes dey fills up again with dat goddamn' sand. So you closes you hatch and you tries to look t'ru de tank sight. You can'd see notin'. Den you looks again. 'Wat de fock be dat?' you asks.

"It a tank, out dere in de desert, you tinks, but you looks again. Oh, shit! No it be t'ree tanks, no six . . . no eleven . . . no, over twenty fockin' raghead tanks and dey all be comin' to kill you little Balboan ass! 'What I goan do?' you asks. 'What de fock I goan do?'

The Cristobalense let the question hang, briefly.

"Open you eyes, children, open dem up and I tells you what you goan do. You goan reach deep inside youself, to where all you little fears and nightmares be. You goan think about callin de white Christ to save you ass. And you calls but you gets de busy signal. So dere you be, one little Balboan boy feelin' all alone in de desert wit' twenty tanks coming to kill you and no God to help.

"And you looks over at de gunner, you eyes wide like saucers in you head, and you asks him, 'What kind of load we be carryin, gunner?'

"And de gunner, he answers, 'Eight ronds HE, t'irty two ronds anti-tank.' And den you knows what you do?"

All the cadets looked up at the instructor with considerable interest. No, they didn't know what to do. And the instructor's face lit up with something that looked like religious devotion. Lifting his arms to the sky as if in prayer, the instructor said, in a voice that thundered across the shed:

"I tell you what you goan do. You goan call on de great Voodoo God: SABOT!" The instructor reached out and deftly pulled the black cloth away to reveal a small glass tray and a brightly polished round of tank ammunition, a sabot round, long alloy penetrating rod surrounded by a plastic sabot, or shoe. When fired, the rod would discard the sabot, cutting down wind resistance greatly, but more importantly putting all its kinetic energy against the very small portion of the target's armor struck by the point of the rod. Penetration of the armor, and death of the crew—a hideous, flesh melting, burning death—usually followed.

To this sabot round, however, anthropomorphic features had been added by a crude hand. The instructor lit a cigar and placed it on the tray in front of the round, pretending to make a small obeisance to it. "Say it wit' me now boys. Sabot!"

And the cadets answered "SABOT!"

"Sabot!"

"SABOT!"

"But de Voodoo God, he no hear you. And den you knows you needs anudder voice to pray wit' you. So you calls on you gunner to pray, too. You says 'Gunner—'"

"GUNNER!" the boys answered.

"Sabot!"

"SABOT!"

"Tank!"

"TANK!"

"Pray wit' me, boys! Gunner, sabot, tank!"

"GUNNER, SABOT, TANK!"

"Gunner, sabot, tank!"

"GUNNER, SABOT, TANK!"

"Louder so de great Voodoo God hear you!"

"GUNNER, SABOT, TANK! GUNNER, SABOT, TANK! GUNNER, SABOT, TANK!"

As the cadets turned the "prayer" into a chant the instructor stuck his right arm straight out, fist clenched, as if it were the barrel of a tank's main gun, and rotated his upper body like a turret. Between each rendition of the chant he pulled his fist straight back to his shoulder as if it were a recoiling tank cannon. The cadets joined him, sticking their own arms out, rotating them, then pulling them back for recoil, all the time laughing their heads off.

Soon, some of the boys thought, or perhaps merely felt, that a recoil should be accompanied by an explosion. The chant gradually changed to "GUNNER, SABOT, TANK, BOOM!"

"GUNNER, SABOT, TANK, BOOM! GUNNER, SABOT, TANK, BOOM! GUNNER, SABOT, TANK, BOOM!"

The instructor let the chant go on for some minutes before raising his arms to quiet the cadets again. When he was satisfied that he had whipped the boys into enough of a chanting and laughing frenzy to carry them through the unavoidably boring mechanical training to follow, he lowered his arms and said "De great god Sabot be pleased by you devotion. Five minute break. Den fall in on de tanks outside."

On his break Diaz took the time to finish his letter:

"But, as hard as this is sometimes, it can also be a lot of fun—and very funny, too—but I'd still rather be home.

Love,

Julio"