The FOXHOLES of MARS
by FRITZ LEIBER
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Thrilling Wonder Stories June 1952.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
The wars of the far future will be fought with giant spaceships,but it will still take the infantryman to hold down the planets. Andsome of the thoughts bred in the foxholes of Mars or Alpha CentauriDuo or Rigel Tres will be fully as bitter as some of those dredged upin the foxholes of Earth.
Ever inward from the jagged horizon the machines of death crept, edged,scurried, rocketed, and tunneled towards him. It seemed as if all thispurple-sunned creation had conspired to isolate, to smash him. To thewest—for all planets share a west, if nothing else—the nuclear bombsbloomed, meaningless giant fungi. Invisibly overhead the spaceshipsroared, distant as gods, yet shaking the yellow sky. Even the soil wastreacherous, nauseated by artificial earthquakes—nobody's mother,least of all an Earthman's.
"Why don't you cheer up?" the others had said to him. "It's a madplanet." But he would not cheer up, for he knew what they said wasliterally true. Soon they would fall back and the enemy would retakethe mangled thing they called an objective. Was it the sixth time? Theseventh? And did the soldiers on the other side have six legs, oreight? The enemy were pretty haphazard as to what troops they used inthis sector.
Worse was the noise. Meaningless, mechanical screeches tore at hisskull, until thoughts rattled around in it like dry seeds in a dry pod.He started to lift his hands to his ears, then checked the gesture,convulsed with soundless laughter and tearless weeping, bitter memoriesand searing hatred. Once there had been a galactic society—a galacticempire—and he had played an unnoticed part on one of its nice quietplanets ... but now? Galactic empire? Galactic horse-dung! Perhapshe had always hated his fellow men as much as he did now. But inthe prewar days his hatred had been closely bound and meticulouslyrepressed. It was still bound, tighter than ever—but it was no longerrepressed.
The deadly engine he tended, silent for a moment, began again tochatter to those of the enemy; its voice was nearly drowned by theirbooming ones, like a spiteful child in a crush of complacent adults....
It turned out that they had been covering a withdrawal of Martiansappers, and must now escape as best they might. They began toretreat. The officer running beside him fell. He hesitated. Theofficer cursed a new, useless joint that had appeared in his leg.All the others—including the black-shelled Martians—were ahead. Heglanced around, fearfully, tormentedly, as if he were about to commita hideous crime. Then he lifted the officer and staggered on, reelinglike a top at the end of its spin. He was still grinning in a spasmicway when they reached the security of lesser danger; even when theofficer thanked him with curt sincerity, he couldn't stop grinning.Nevertheless, they gave him the Order of Planetary Merit for that.
He stared at the watery soup and meat-shreds in his mess-tin. Thecellar was cool, and its seats—though built for creatures with fourlegs and two arms—were comfortable. The purple daylight was pleasantlymuted. The noise had gone a little way off, playing cat and mouse. Hewas alone.
Of course life had never had any meaning, except for