tears no bitterness. Sung on battlefields from time immemorial before facing the bullets; and at the end of a day, as the bloodied remains were collected and prepared for burial. Where is death’s sting? Where, grave, thy victory? Superstition, much of it. Both sides calling on their God for protection, and professing to believe in the same deity. Each man asking for personal protection that day, and for his comrades and loved ones. I triumph still –. Wishful thinking, of that he was convinced. No God of any value would take sides: the battles were of mankind’s own creation.
– if thou abide with me .
Yet the superstitions of the prayerful were irrelevant. The shallow simplicity of their belief did not rule out a superior power. If such a being existed, most soldiers would rather have it content than displeased. Thompson was bred, he had been told, with specially sharpened spatial and numeric abilities to broaden his martial range. His father, a renowned four-star general, had also requested psychological insight and man-management skills for his son, for whom he had great plans. Thompson suspected that his slowish progress up the promotion ladder – he had barely been gazetted as Brigadier at the age of forty, and had only just made it to Lieutenant-Colonel – might have made the old man impatient, had he lived to see it. The General had not approved of that International Studies degree at Oxford, either: idleness, he had called it. His son’s appointment as an aide to King William might have impressed him, though he would have spotted that palace duty could be mind-numbingly tedious. The father’s death when his son was at Sandhurst had freed the young man to grow at his own pace. None the less, it was at moments like this that Thompson was grateful for his traditional Christian upbringing.
Officially the Union was still God-fearing though its citizens were more than lax in attendance, in contrast to the durable fundamentalist revival in the USA. In Britain most churches had closed and had been converted into housing or mini-malls. Even the latter-dayarrivals in Europe, Sikhs and Moslems, bewailed their vanishing congregations, while European Judaism was confined to a few squabbling suburbs in Golders Green, Tel Aviv and Jerusalem.
As for Christianity, Serbian and Russian Orthodox observance had replaced Roman Catholicism as stylish among the glitterati. The Church of England had wilted under the burden of maintenance of its great cathedrals. One Archbishop of Canterbury had hit on an answer. It had been decided to save the jewel of the Anglican rite, Westminster Abbey, by dividing up the days of the week. An auction was held and sealed bids invited (the Catholics held aloof from what they regarded as a disreputable exercise). The results might have been foreseen. Night after night the ancient stones rang to the sounds of strange music, wails and caterwauls from New Age cults and the like, while an astonished public crept in to watch. That was why Mike Thompson preferred St Martin’s: he was alone, but still the church preserved an atmosphere of sanctity. The same could no longer be said of the Abbey.
Rationalise as one might, it was still helpful to believe, particularly in an occupation which required him to carry a laser gun at all times. In his jacket pocket lay his new orders, folded. He was doubly thankful; they would take him out of the palace frying pan (though that was unfair, the King was a kind and undemanding master), but at least, not into the fire. It was not North Africa, this time. The climate change which had wreaked havoc on Mediterranean vineyards had rendered the Magreb virtually uninhabitable. The sub-Saharan region had become a furnace in which nothing could survive outdoors at noon longer than twenty minutes. Why anyone should bother to fight over its empty wastes was beyond him; but they did, and had to be kept at bay.
Asia was not much better, but he was familiar with it. A command
– if thou abide with me .
Yet the superstitions of the prayerful were irrelevant. The shallow simplicity of their belief did not rule out a superior power. If such a being existed, most soldiers would rather have it content than displeased. Thompson was bred, he had been told, with specially sharpened spatial and numeric abilities to broaden his martial range. His father, a renowned four-star general, had also requested psychological insight and man-management skills for his son, for whom he had great plans. Thompson suspected that his slowish progress up the promotion ladder – he had barely been gazetted as Brigadier at the age of forty, and had only just made it to Lieutenant-Colonel – might have made the old man impatient, had he lived to see it. The General had not approved of that International Studies degree at Oxford, either: idleness, he had called it. His son’s appointment as an aide to King William might have impressed him, though he would have spotted that palace duty could be mind-numbingly tedious. The father’s death when his son was at Sandhurst had freed the young man to grow at his own pace. None the less, it was at moments like this that Thompson was grateful for his traditional Christian upbringing.
Officially the Union was still God-fearing though its citizens were more than lax in attendance, in contrast to the durable fundamentalist revival in the USA. In Britain most churches had closed and had been converted into housing or mini-malls. Even the latter-dayarrivals in Europe, Sikhs and Moslems, bewailed their vanishing congregations, while European Judaism was confined to a few squabbling suburbs in Golders Green, Tel Aviv and Jerusalem.
As for Christianity, Serbian and Russian Orthodox observance had replaced Roman Catholicism as stylish among the glitterati. The Church of England had wilted under the burden of maintenance of its great cathedrals. One Archbishop of Canterbury had hit on an answer. It had been decided to save the jewel of the Anglican rite, Westminster Abbey, by dividing up the days of the week. An auction was held and sealed bids invited (the Catholics held aloof from what they regarded as a disreputable exercise). The results might have been foreseen. Night after night the ancient stones rang to the sounds of strange music, wails and caterwauls from New Age cults and the like, while an astonished public crept in to watch. That was why Mike Thompson preferred St Martin’s: he was alone, but still the church preserved an atmosphere of sanctity. The same could no longer be said of the Abbey.
Rationalise as one might, it was still helpful to believe, particularly in an occupation which required him to carry a laser gun at all times. In his jacket pocket lay his new orders, folded. He was doubly thankful; they would take him out of the palace frying pan (though that was unfair, the King was a kind and undemanding master), but at least, not into the fire. It was not North Africa, this time. The climate change which had wreaked havoc on Mediterranean vineyards had rendered the Magreb virtually uninhabitable. The sub-Saharan region had become a furnace in which nothing could survive outdoors at noon longer than twenty minutes. Why anyone should bother to fight over its empty wastes was beyond him; but they did, and had to be kept at bay.
Asia was not much better, but he was familiar with it. A command
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