Bill, the Galactic Hero's Happy Holiday

BILL THE GALACTIC HERO’S HAPPY HOLIDAY Harry Harrison

It was a big bribe, a full bottle of DrainO-the Drunkard’s Delight, 180 proof and strong enough to etch glass. But knowing this man’s Army — or any Man’s Army — Bill did not slip it to the Duty Sergeant until he had actually seen his name posted on the leave roster.

This was it! His first R&R ever. His lips lifted in an unaccustomed smile, a drop of saliva on each fang, as he read his orders.

Now hear this. At 0324 hours you will be taken in the company of other R&Rs to the luxurious Holiday Island of Anthrax where you will Enjoy sun, sand, etc. Not enjoying is punishable by death ….

His eyes were so misted with simple pleasure that he could read no further. He would enjoy the sun and sand-and even learn to like the etc.

Promptly at 0324 the following morning nothing happened, for this was the military way. Bill, and the other lucky Troopers sat buckled into their knobbed-steel seats in the hover-jumper for over two hours until, prompted by some secret signal, the pilot started the engines and the hovercraft, lifted by its mighty fans, floated across the beach to the ocean beyond.

And hurtled a hundred feet into the air — and crashed back to the sea.

“Accident! We’re doomed!” Bill shouted as his teeth clashed together and his head was slammed down onto his spine.

“Shut your gob, bowbhead,” grated the Sergeant in the seat next to him-just as there was another horrendous collision. “Civilian hovercraft hover. This is the military version that jumps as well. To dodge enemy fire.”

“And crush everyone inside at the same time?”

“That’s right, bowb-boy. You’re learning.”

After a lifetime of soaring and crashing there was a sudden stillness. Broken only by the moans of the castrated, crunched and crumbled Troopers.

“Disembark!” the loudspeakers grated. “Last one off gets latrine duty for the week.”

Sobbing and moaning the happy holiday makers crawled and stumbled to the exit, fought their way free of this hideous form of transport. Staggered and fell onto the sandy shore.

“This sand is black,” Bill mumbled.

“Of course it is,” the Sergeant said sadistically. “Because this is a volcanic island and lava is black. Fall in for roll call!”

As punctuation to his words there was an orgasmic rumble in the ground, which shook beneath their feet like a dog scratching fleas, and they looked in horror as the top of a nearby mountain spewed out smoke and a few clods of flying stone.

“Are we getting our R&R on an active volcano?” Bill asked.

“Where else in the military,” the Sergeant said not unreasonably. “Shout out when you hear your name. Aardvark… “

They stood in the burning tropical sun-that is those who didn’t collapse with heatstroke — until the Sergeant reached Zzowski. Only then did they march in staggering formation into the jungle.

It was a long climb up to the R&R barracks. Made even longer by the truckloads of officers that roared by them, laughing gaily, waving emptying bottles and giving them the finger. They could only plod on in insulting silence.

It was dusk before they reached the summit. Here the road split; a sign reading OFFICERS ONLY pointed to the right. Ahead of them fumaroles steamed out clouds of sulfur dioxide and other poisonous chemicals. There was still enough light to reveal that the trade winds blew the clouds off to the left. Shuffling, wheezing, coughing, crying they found the way to their holiday bungalows, downwind from the volcano of course, and dropped onto the rock-hard bunks.

“Gee this is fun!” Bill said, smiling through his tears, then lifted his arm to ward off the flying boots that came his way.

Even these hardened Troopers found it difficult to fall asleep with the seismic rumblings and acrid VOG, Volcanic Smog. But if they hadn’t learned to sleep under these, or worse, conditions they would all have been long-since dead of fatigue. Within minutes the zizzing of snores, and death-rattles of acid-eaten throats, made live the night. Until the lights gashed on and the sergeant burst through the door bellowing loudly.

“An attack! A Chinger attack!”

They groaned awake, groped for their boots, until the sergeant added, “They’re attacking the officer’s quarters!”

Groans were replaced by cheers as they hurled their boots away and climbed back into the sack. Only to be stirred out again as the sergeant shot holes in the ceiling.

“I share the feeling,” he growled empathetically. “But they may hit us next. To arms.”

This reasoned argument, appealing to their sense of survival-not the officers-sent them to the gun lockers.

Bill, dressed only in natty orange underpants and boots, grabbed up an ion rifle, checked that it was fully charged, then joined the others on the porch to enjoy the fun. Explosions and screams of pain penetrated the clouds of drifting VOG.

“Hear that? Must of got a dozen of the bowbers that time!”

“And I almost volunteered for OCS!”