The Enemy

                           By RICHARD WILSON

                  _It was a totally new kind of war,
                 and yet not really a new war at all._

           [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
                        Infinity October 1957.
         Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
         the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]


At dusk the sergeant leaned over the parapet, weary, looking south
toward the enemy lines. For him this was the worst part of the day. The
fighting was done until tomorrow and the enemy casualties were being
brought in through the gate below. Their bodies were piled in awful
abandon on the big flat-bed trucks.

A phrase from another war came to his mind. Walking wounded. There were
no walking wounded in this war. They came in on the trucks, still and
tangled, or they didn't come in at all.

He couldn't have merely wounded one of the enemy, as soldiers used
to. The thought of inflicting such an injury, in the old conventional
way, was obscene. To strike through the breast into the heart....
He shuddered with a trembling that came up through the thighs and
contracted his stomach.

The lieutenant had come to stand beside him.

"You shouldn't watch, if it bothers you," the lieutenant said.

"It's all right, sir," the sergeant said. He looked down again.

"We had a good day. Three hundred, the colonel said."

"That's good." The sergeant laughed sardonically. "Are we winning?"

"It's hard to say. We're not losing."

"Aren't we, sir?" The sergeant spoke bitterly. "Aren't they? Aren't we
all?"

"Look, sergeant--" the lieutenant began. Then he shrugged. The sergeant
was older than he was by seven or eight years. There was no need to
give him an orientation lecture. He reached in his pocket and took out
a fresh pack of cigarettes. He opened it. "Have one. A shipment just
got in."

"Thanks." The sergeant took a cigarette. He stared at it and the
fingers holding it trembled. "Look at it," he said hollowly. "Look at
the freakin' thing!"

The lieutenant looked at it, then at the front of the pack. _Ruby tips
to match your lips_, it said under the brand name.

"What are they doing to us?" the sergeant said. He crumpled the
cigarette in his fist and threw it down and ground it under his boot.
"Isn't it hard enough?"

"It must be a mistake," the lieutenant said. He sounded shaken, too.
"Because of the shortage, maybe. Unless it's a fifth column trick. Like
the rumor about them not going to wake up again."

"It is just a rumor, isn't it?" the sergeant said. His voice was almost
pleading. "We just freeze them for--for the duration, don't we? Don't
we, lieutenant? Because I couldn't go on if they were really dead.
Nobody could."

The lieutenant spoke sharply. "Snap out of it, sergeant! It's just
propaganda. I'm surprised at an old hand like you falling for it."

"I'm not, sir. We couldn't really kill them, could we? It'd be suicide,
wouldn't it? It's not total war, is it?"

"Not total, no. There'll be an end to it one day, and then a beginning
again. I know it's hard, but it's the only way."

       *       *       *       *       *

The last of the big trucks had rumbled in from the battlefield. The
sergeant watched the gate close in the fading light. Beloved enemy, he
thought.

"Three hundred today," he said aloud. "And one was my personal
contribution. My platoon was strung out behind me, and she came up over
the hill--"

"Sergeant!"

"She was mine. I got her personally. I aimed slow and held the sight on
her. Then I let go. It was almost like--"

"Sergeant!" The lieutenant was trembling. "The third person singular is
prohibited! You know that, sergeant!"

The sergeant was calm. "Yes, sir." He looked at the young officer. "But
I feel better for having told about it. I'm all right now, sir. I hope
I didn't upset you."

"No," the lieutenant said. "No. We'll forget about it."

"I'll have one of those cigarettes now, sir, if you don't mind. It
doesn't matter about the tip, now that it's dark."

"Well...." The lieutenant hesitated. "I was going to send them back to
Quartermaster, with a report. But all right. Here. I'll have one, too."

As the sergeant lit them he could see a bit of the red tip in the
lieutenant's mouth. He dragged deep on his own, pretending he could
taste lipstick.

"Lieutenant," he said. "It doesn't matter where you hit them, does it?
I mean it doesn't hurt them at all?"

"No," the lieutenant said. "No, it doesn't matter. They just go to
sleep."

"I'm glad." After a while the sergeant said, "I guess I'll hit the
sack."

"It's still early."

"Yes. But I like to get up early. There's always a line in the
latrine--at the shaving bowls."

"Combat troops don't have to shave," the lieutenant said.

"I know. But we do. We all do."