Love is Always Write Anthology Volume 9

conversation with me had been in receipt of my reprimand. Tice, whom I had misjudged so badly. Fulton and Lexington, both immolated by my fault. Doyle – poor, silly Doyle, who had never found the kind master he wanted. Davey, who had tried vainly all afternoon and evening to revive Fairview, and who had been shot in the head during the last hour of conflict, shortly before I gave the order for retreat.
    Fairview himself, abandoned on the hill.
    Fairview, who would never have abandoned the hill.
    It was at that moment, I think, that I realized why the Fates had stolen Fairview from me. It was because always, equal friends though we were, I had taken my cue from Fairview. He had led in battle; I had followed, standing by his shoulder, but never taking a step where he had not taken a step.
    Even if we had succeeded in installing guns at the top of Spy Hill overnight – an unlikely prospect, I thought – and even if we had entrenched ourselves better up there, it was still a hill that we could not have held, except at the cost of most of our remaining men. I had realized that, looking down at Biddle, and so what I had said to him was the exact truth. His sacrifice was not in vain. His upcoming death, and the death of many others, had woken me to the fact that our war with Mip was a terrible, bloody conflict that was much better resolved through the patient efforts of Pentheusson and other diplomats than through arms on the field.
    Knowing that, I was more determined than ever to be a General.
    It's odd: the same circumstances, which turn some men into pacifists and diplomats, turn other men into better soldiers. Before, war had been a game for me; now, having been on Spy Hill, I knew that every order I gave would determine whether my men suffered without need. So I was determined to give good orders. I was determined to provide them with wise leadership they might not receive elsewhere.
    None of this would have happened if Fairview had not fallen in battle. He was a different man than I; he would have held out to the exceedingly bitter end at Spy Hill. His departure, which tore at my vitals like an exploded shell, had nonetheless freed me to recognize certain facts I would not have seen if he had remained in command.
    I wondered whether he had been granted knowledge of my transformation, in the new life which he must now be living as a baby in someone's cradle.
    I shook my head and strode forward. There were hundreds of men passing through these crossroads, and nearly all of them required comfort. I did my best, during the next hour, to supply that. As the line of ambulance wagons slowly moved its way up Big Pool Road, I met each ambulance and exchanged a few words with the wounded, thanking them for their contributions to the fight. To the wounded men who were well enough to walk – and would therefore likely continue their work as soldiers – I acknowledged the gravity of what had occurred, then did my best to provide a cheerful assessment of what lay ahead. Faces brightened, spines straightened, men who had hovered at the gates of afterdeath seemed to find new reason to remain on this side of the gates.
    I found myself wondering why it had taken me half a lifetime to learn what it meant to be an officer.
    My messenger-lad, newly risen from his sickbed, arrived and handed me a dispatch. It was from the Commander-in-Chief, confirming my appointment as the new Major-General in charge of General Pentheusson's brigade. As an afterthought, the Commander-in-Chief added that he had heard various reports that Colonel Fairview had performed well in battle, and therefore he too was to be rewarded with a brigade, though for now he would remain a Major-General in my brigade . . .
    I folded the note and slipped it into my pocket. Army communications, it seemed, were no better now than they had been in the battle. Still, Fairview's grandmother would be pleased by the posthumous honor her grandson had received; that was something. I turned my attention to the white spaniel, who was yipping excitedly in her usual fashion. What the bloody blades was I to do with the beast? Well, I supposed the brigade might make a pet out of her, given that she had proved herself in battle. I turned to look at what she was yipping at—
    —and then I was running, stumbling, calling, as though my life's thread had just been snapped, and I had only seconds left in which to speak.
    Doyle was holding him. His own right arm was in a bloody sling, but