Life in Wartime (Part III): Not Your Father's SA
Sometimes, during the Wyvern War, we sat by the River, and there we wept as we remembered Zion. I remember sitting with the Argonaut at the now-vanished parade square one evening, thinking about what was lost and what was soon to be lost. It was then that I knew he had decided to leave, to turn his back on the place he had made his own for nine years.
I remember the days of my father's world and the world before, when the boss's principal aides were men of valour, the batmen and adjutants from the days of true courage and manhood. I remember growing up in a small wyvern-home where the officers were fearless men with resonant voices, who taught us how to try and determine what was true and right and brave. I remember a cleaner, better time.
But what broke the fragile post-1988 peace was the scurrilous activity of the new right-hand man, an officer who was no gentleman. In private, he would garner personal support from various generals against his own immediate superior. Later, this would all become known, as the generals put the broken pieces together.
This person was well known to be ungrateful to his mentors. His personal belief was that he outshone them all, and that he ought to be recognized for it. He was a very bright fellow — of that there is little doubt. But he gathered around him his own version of the SA, and when the time was right, he made his putsch. The old SA was thrown out, and while those who were loyal to God and the Order remained, they were slowly marginalised.
It was a fact, as a senior staff officer was heard to say, that to oppose the Great Leader was death. To tell him he was wrong would lead to a campaign of destruction aimed at smearing even the memory of the unfortunate commentator. But as long as the people got their bread, circuses and mighty engines of war, nobody complained.
A short generation passed, and a people arose who knew not their past. Those who did remember were sometimes traitors to the old Order. But they were loyalists and faithful servants of the new. And the people did not know their left hands from their right, and there were many cattle besides.
I remember the days of my father's world and the world before, when the boss's principal aides were men of valour, the batmen and adjutants from the days of true courage and manhood. I remember growing up in a small wyvern-home where the officers were fearless men with resonant voices, who taught us how to try and determine what was true and right and brave. I remember a cleaner, better time.
But what broke the fragile post-1988 peace was the scurrilous activity of the new right-hand man, an officer who was no gentleman. In private, he would garner personal support from various generals against his own immediate superior. Later, this would all become known, as the generals put the broken pieces together.
This person was well known to be ungrateful to his mentors. His personal belief was that he outshone them all, and that he ought to be recognized for it. He was a very bright fellow — of that there is little doubt. But he gathered around him his own version of the SA, and when the time was right, he made his putsch. The old SA was thrown out, and while those who were loyal to God and the Order remained, they were slowly marginalised.
It was a fact, as a senior staff officer was heard to say, that to oppose the Great Leader was death. To tell him he was wrong would lead to a campaign of destruction aimed at smearing even the memory of the unfortunate commentator. But as long as the people got their bread, circuses and mighty engines of war, nobody complained.
A short generation passed, and a people arose who knew not their past. Those who did remember were sometimes traitors to the old Order. But they were loyalists and faithful servants of the new. And the people did not know their left hands from their right, and there were many cattle besides.
Labels: Historical Fiction
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