The First Reginald Bretnor MEGAPACK ®. Reginald Bretnor
about gnurrs, was promoted to the rank of General of the Armies, and given supreme command. Major Hanson became a brigadier, a change of status which left him slightly dazed. And Sergeant Colliver (reflecting ruefully that he was now making more than enough to marry on) received his warrant.
General Pollard took immediate and decisive action. The entire Air Force budget for the year was commandeered. Anything even remotely resembling a horse, saddle, bridle, or bale of hay was shipped westward in requisitioned trains and trucks. Former cavalry officers and non-com’s, ordered to instant duty regardless of age and wear-and-tear, were flown by disgruntled pilots to assembly points in Oregon, Nevada, and Arizona. Anybody and everybody who had ever so much as seen a horse was drafted into service. Mexico sent over several regiments on a lend-lease basis.
The Press had a field day. NUDE HOLLYWOOD STARS FIGHT GNURRS! headlined many a full front page of photographs. Life devoted a special issue to General of the Armies Pollard, Jeb Stuart, Marshal Ney, Belisarius, the Charge of the Light Brigade at Balaklava, and AR 50-45, School of the Soldier Mounted Without Arms. The Journal-American reported, on reliable authority, that the ghost of General Custer had been observed entering the Officer’s Club at Fort Riley, Kansas.
On the sixth day, General Pollard had ready in the field the largest cavalry force in all recorded history. Its discipline and appearance left much to be desired. Its horsemanship was, to say the very least, uneven. Still, its morale was high, and—
“Never again,” declared the General to correspondents who interviewed him at his headquarters in Phoenix, “must we let politicians and long-haired theorists persuade us to abandon the time-tried principles of war, and trust our national destiny to—to gadgets.”
Drawing his sabre, the General indicated his operations map. “Our strategy is simple,” he announced. “The gnurr forces have by-passed the Mohave Desert in the south, and are invading Arizona. In Nevada, they have concentrated against Reno and Virginia City. Their main offensive, however, appears to be aimed at the Oregon border. As you know, I have more than two million mounted men at my disposal—some three hundred divisions. In one hour, they will move forward. We will force the gnurrs to retreat in three main groups—in the south, in the center, in the north. Then, when the terrain they hold has been sufficiently restricted, Papa—er, that is, Mister—Schimmelhorn will play his instrument over mobile public address systems.”
With that, the General indicated that the interview was at an end, and, mounting a splendid bay gelding presented to him by the citizens of Louisville, rode off to emplane for the theatre of operations.
Needless to say, his conduct of the War Against the Gnurrs showed the highest degree of initiative and energy, and a perfect grasp of the immutable principles of strategy and tactics. Even though certain envious elements in the Pentagon afterwards referred to the campaign as “Polly’s Round-up,” the fact remained that he was able to achieve total victory in five weeks—months before Bobovia even thought of promising its Five Year Plan for retrousering its population. Inexorably, the terror-stricken gnurrs were driven back. Their queasy creaking could be heard for miles. At night, their shimmering lighted up the sky. In the south, where their deployment had been confined by deserts, three tootlings in reverse sufficed to bring about their downfall. In the center, where the action was heavier than anticipated, seventeen were needed. In the north, a dozen were required to do the trick. In each instance, the sound was carried over an area of several hundred square miles by huge loudspeaker units mounted in escort wagons or carried in pack. Innumerable cases of personal heroism were recorded—and Jerry Colliver, after having four pairs of breeches shot out from under him, was personally commissioned in the field by General Pollard.
Naturally, a few gnurrs made their escape—but the felines of the state, who had been mewing with frustration, made short work of them. As for the numerous gay instances of indiscipline which occurred as the victorious troops passed through the quite literally denuded towns, these were soon forgiven and forgotten by the joyous populace.
Secretly, to avoid the rough enthusiasm of admiring throngs, General Pollard and Papa Schimmelhorn flew back to Washington—and three full regiments with drawn sabres were needed to clear a way for them. Finally, though, they reached the Pentagon. They walked toward the General’s office arm in arm, and at the door they paused.
“Papa,” said General Pollard, pointing at the gnurr-pfeife with awe, “we have made History! And, by God, we’ll make more of it!”
“Ja!” said Papa Schimmelhorn, with an enormous wink. “But tonight, soldier boy, ve vill make vhoopee! I haff a date vith Katie. For you she has a girl friend.”
General Pollard hesitated. “Wouldn’t it—wouldn’t it be bad for—er—discipline?”
“Don’dt vorry, soldier boy! Ve don’dt tell anybody!” laughed Papa Schimmelhorn—and threw the door open.
There stood the General’s desk. There, at its side, stood Brigadier-General Hanson, looking worried. Against one wall stood Lieutenant Jerry Colliver, smirking loathsomely, with a possessive arm around Katie Hooper’s waist. And in the General’s chair sat a very stiff old lady, in a very stiff black dress, tapping a very stiff umbrella on the blotting pad.
As soon as she saw Papa Schimmelhorn, she stopped tapping and pointed the umbrella at him.
“So!” she hissed. “You think you get avay? To spoil Cousin Anton’s beaudtiful bassoon, and play vith mices, and passes at female soldier-girls to make?”
She turned to Katie Hooper, and they exchanged a feminine glance of triumph and understanding. “Iss lucky that you phone, so I find out,” she said. “You are nice girl. You can see under the sheep’s clothings.”
She rose. As Katie blushed, she strode across the room, and grabbed the gnurr-pfeife from Papa Schimmelhorn. Before anyone could stop her, she stripped it of its reed—and crushed the L-shaped crystal underfoot. “Now,” she exclaimed, “iss no more gnurrs and people-vithout-trousers-monkeyshines!”
While General Pollard stared in blank amazement and Jerry Colliver snickered gloatingly, she took poor Papa Schimmelhorn firmly by the ear. “So ve go home!” she ordered, steering him for the door. “Vere iss no soldier-girls, and the house needs painting!”
Looking crestfallen, Papa Schimmelhorn went without resistance. “Gootbye!” he called unhappily. “I must go home vith Mama.”
But as he passed by General Pollard, he winked his usual wink. “Don’dt vorry, soldier boy!” he whispered. “I get avay again—I am a chenius!”
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