Free Not For Glory by Joel Rosenberg Page B

half ago—real uniforms, by the way; war prizes—the men gathered around the table in the room were in their fifties, one well into his sixties.
    That's not unusual for us. There are countries, there are worlds, where good, albeit old soldiers are sent out to pasture, to sit uselessly and watch the days go by.
    Good men die too early in those countries, on those worlds, both young soldiers and old ones. We still don't do enough for our old ones, granted, but we do have them teach our young how to not get killed unnecessarily. That's something.
    In the hallway, just outside the door, a twenty-year-old private in Metzadan khakis waited, a pair of goggles high on his forehead, in his hands a Barak assault rifle, its muzzle hooded by the orange cylinder of the fire simulator. His back was to the wall adjacent to the general staff room; at his feet lay a dummy wearing a Freiheimer uniform and private's stripes.
    At the top of the glass wall separating the classroom from the two other rooms beyond, a timer stood, poised at 1503.
    The Sergeant stood at the front of the room, a pointer in his hand. He was pushing sixty and his khakis were cut amply to allow for his expanded belly.
    But, underneath the honorable retirement pin on his chest, there were six rows of campaign ribbons.
    We don't give out medals for bravery on Metzada, not to ourselves. Just campaign ribbons. The Sergeant had six rows of campaign ribbons, under the little gold Star of David pin that means a man is now retired, has completed all military obligations to Metzada.
    The pin is intended to be an honorable award; the notion behind it is that we wouldn't make such jewelry if it could fall into enemy hands.
    We, those of us who haven't gotten one yet, call it an honorable retirement pin.
    The men who wear it call it something else entirely.
    "Okay, now we're fifteen minutes into the assault, and he's taken out the guard. Next step?" He didn't pause in his questioning to greet me; he just gave me a quick nod and smile.
    A skinny fourteen-year-old waved his hand frantically; the Sergeant ignored him and pointed to the round-faced, bored-looking boy sitting behind him. "Aaron?"
    "I dunno." Aaron shrugged. "He should just kick open the door and throw in a grenade, then run like hell."
    The Sergeant grinned. "Not a bad answer."
    Aaron's face broke into a smile.
    "Just a wrong one," the Sergeant said.
    The boy's face fell.
    "Still, let's give it a try," the Sergeant said. He picked up the microphone and announced, "Grenade assault, please. One grenade only—oh, and you kick the door down. Beginning timing in five seconds. Five. Four. Three. Two. One ."
    The private pulled the goggles down. As he moved, the Sergeant slapped his hand down on the big red button on his desk; the timer started.
    Transferring his rifle to his left hand, the private pulled a dummy grenade from his web belt, caught the pin on his belt hook, and pulled the grenade away from the pin, not letting go of the spoon. He kicked at the door—it took him two tries to get it to swing away—then threw in the grenade and ran the couple of feet down the hall until he reached the wall, where he ran in place, miming running along further.
    The general staff room suddenly went dark; the speaker or. the wall announced, "Moderate explosion behind soldier. He escapes down the hall uninjured, for at least the next ten seconds."
    "Freeze," the Sergeant said into his microphone, slapping at the red switch and stopping the timer at 1513. The private stopped running in place, slung his rifle, and leaned back against the wall, closing his eyes.
    "Wait a minute—" Aaron raised his hand to protest. "How many did he kill?"
    The Sergeant shrugged. "I don't know. Do you?"
    "No. Somebody coulda thrown himself on the grenade."
    Another boy laughed. "Yeah, yeah, you'd do that."
    "Maybe," another boy said, "maybe he only got one or two of them. Maybe even none. They could have turned the table over and hidden behind