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The Invisible Enemy

By Arnold Castle

At fifteen he was sent to war to fight an
enemy he couldn't understand. But more puzzling
was the victory to be won—after he met defeat!

[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Imagination Stories of Science and Fantasy
October 1954
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]


It was the day.

The automobile with its three passengers moved slowly along the quietmorning street. There was no need for hurry.

The boy's father was soberly recalling his own war experiences,wondering how similar Tom's would be. The mother was rememberingvividly fragments of films, of facsimile reports, of forgottenconversations, envisioning her son cringing pathetically in a shallowfoxhole as the penultimate weapon burst into grisly glory in the darkdawn sky. Tom's own thoughts were tense, but he managed to conceal hisnervousness from his parents.

"We're here, son," his father announced calmly, pulling the car up tothe curb.

"Dear, can't we drive around the block just once?" his mother asked,her voice almost a whisper.

"We're early."

"No, mom," Tom said crisply. He opened the door and stepped out ontothe sidewalk.

"Want us to go in, son?"

"No thanks, Dad."

"But we want to, Tom," his mother said. "Of course, we'll go in!"

"There's no need for you to. I'm already registered," he told her. Hereached out to grip his father's hand.

"Tom!" his mother protested.

"Don't worry about me." He kissed her hurriedly, and was relieved whenhis father drove away without waiting for him to start up the steps.He knew that they would worry, and he turned abruptly, forcing hisattention away.

The day was bright and a chill breeze swept in from the Pacific. Atopa distant hill eucalyptus glimmered in the white sunlight. Inscribedover the portal of the modest building which he now faced were thewords:

DEPARTMENT OF PEACE
"THAT THE AGE OF
VIOLENCE MAY FOREVER
REMAIN HISTORY"


Bullets splattered into the mound in front of the foxhole, sending adense spray of dust and gravel into the pit. Tom spit out the mouthfulof dirt and cursed.

"They comin'?" the soldier next to him asked, waking slightly.

"No." Tom told him gloomily. "But they know where we are."

"Maybe they'll try mortar. Think they'll try mortar?"

Tom shrugged. "Go on back to sleep. I'm watching."

The other was several years older than he, and a corporal, but not verybright. Still, it was better than being alone. The worst thing he couldimagine was having to face the enemy utterly alone. If only he couldremember what the enemy looked like, it would not be so bad.

He forgot so much. Sometimes it seemed like he had been in combat justa few days. But other times it felt like he had been up there forever,waiting, moving forward, moving backward, thinking that at last hewas beginning to get the picture, but not sure, never sure, never sureof anything. If only he could recall something beside the immediatepresent. Then maybe the situation would start to make a little sense.

He knew why he was fighting, vaguely. It was to safeguard certaininalienable rights, which ones he could not exactly remember. The oddthing was that the enemy was fighting for the same goal—he sensed thatintuitively. But who was the enemy? He thought he had known once, butthat had been quite a while ago. What did they look like? He would haveto ask someone.

An infrared flare blossomed some distance down the valley. Tom adjustedhis binoculars and scanned the slope. Nothing. Remo

...

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