Interlude: Anne Drake

The halls of Sandhurst Military Academy had become a somewhat familiar sight for Anne over the past few weeks. After the weekly sessions on Military History and Economics, she’d begun to gain some familiarity with the premises.

The Academy students wore a mix of uniforms, mostly the greens, whites and blues of the British forces, but there were a smattering of exotic outfits too. She’d seen plenty of khakis, blacks, and midnight blues, and at least one cadet in a bright yellow uniform. 

According to her guide, Captain Lucy Barnaby, Sandhurst had a rich exchange program with foreign militaries, including Commonwealth and NATO allies. Her red school uniform was only slightly out of place; and if any of the cadets undergoing training were curious about it, none stopped to ask. 

Pity. She’d have appreciated some conversation.

She checked her map. Economics and Military History had been sessions in the auditoriums, with hundreds of students in one place - Theory of Tactics, by contrast, was supposed to be held in a separate classroom. One which would be very convenient to find right about now….

After three more turns, a nondescript green door stood before her.

THEORY OF TACTICS

B. PALAMAR

The classroom inside would have fit right in at Everard. An old-fashioned clock on the wall. Two dozen chairs, arranged in a semi-circular pattern around the teacher’s desk - which was occupied by a sleeping white-haired man in a rumpled suit. 

She cleared her throat. “Good afternoon, Professor.”

One eye cracked open. “You lost, girl? This isn’t school.”

“... I’m supposed to be in Theory of Tactics?”

“Are you or aren’t you?”

“Sorry?”

“A sentence with an interrogative at the end is a question. Are you asking me if you’re in Theory of Tactics, or telling me?”

“... I’m Anne Drake.”

“Are you in Theory of Tactics or not?”

“I’m in Theory of Tactics.” She swallowed. “Professor.”

“Take a seat.” The professor flailed his hand in what one could charitably consider as indicative of a direction.

Anne swallowed. “Which one?”

“Do you need me to make that decision for you?”

Flinching at the implied reprimand, Anne inched over to the second row of chairs, tucking into a seat in the corner.

The professor watched with mild disinterest. Finally, he spoke. “Why are you here, Anne Drake?”

“... To learn Theory of Tactics.”

“Does taking the furthest possible position from the lecturer enhance your ability to learn?”

Anne swallowed again. “No, sir.”

“It’s ‘professor’. My days of being called ‘sir’ are long behind me. Do you want to reconsider your seating?”

Quietly, Anne gathered her tablet and bag and moved forward, this time taking a seat slightly off-centre in the front row.

The door opened, letting in a young man in a dark green uniform, who snapped to attention on seeing the professor. “Cadet Mark Ashton reporting, sir!” 

“It’s ‘professor’ and not ‘sir’,” the lecturer intoned. “Take a seat. We still have ten minutes left for the class to start.”

Anne noted that Ashton took a seat in the front row. As the clock ticked down to the start of class, other students filtered in, each introducing themselves and being told not to use the word ‘sir’. 

The other students were a mixed bag, like the rest of Sandhurst. Two green uniforms, two blue, and one burly man in whites with an anchor tattooed on his wrist, who Anne assumed to be Royal Navy (not that it was much of a guess). Each took a seat amongst the sparsely populated classroom. 

At the precise moment the clock struck six, the professor stood up, all traces of sleep gone.

“My name is Professor Bohdan Palamar, as some of you might have noted,” he began. “This class is Theory of Tactics. Some of you are familiar with my work, and teaching methods - which may be why you signed up for this class in the first place.” The professor’s gaze swept across the room. “If any of you feel that your past experience may make this course easier - I warn you, it will not. What is the prerequisite for my course, Cadet Ashton?”

Ashton swallowed. “Prior combat experience, Professor.”

“And?”

“A desire to improve on one’s mistakes.”

“Why might one want to improve on one’s mistakes, Flying Officer Eden?”

A man in the blue jacket of the Royal Air Force answered. “Because we want to save lives next time, Professor.”

“Whose lives?”

“Ours, for starters, and those of the others in our unit.”

Palomar nodded fractionally. “Every person in this room has faced battle. Every one of you has made decisions that saved lives - or cost them. During this course, we will go over the basic concepts of tactics that all of you need to know - and we will also go over your decisions in combat, understanding what went wrong and why you need to improve. I warn you, trying to spare yourself embarrassment in these situations will NOT help you. Only ruthless honesty and self-reflection will make you a better officer.” The professor’s gaze went to Anne. “Or a better ultrahuman. Miss Drake, what is the most important element of battlefield communication?”

Anne blinked. “I’m …. not sure?”

“Are you sure, or are you not?”

“I don’t know,” Anne swallowed. “I haven’t studied this stuff.”

“And yet, at the Battle of London, you had to run the entirety of battlefield communication for a force of several divisions.” Palamar stared at her. “Just because you haven’t studied something doesn’t mean you won’t need to use it. Now, would you like to try answering that question?”

“Professor… I don’t know what the right answer is. This wasn’t in the reading material!”

“If you were on a battlefield, and you had to answer that question - would you still worry about it being in the reading material?”

Anne blinked.

How would she react if this were an actual life-and-death situation - that was obvious.

She thought of Andrew. What would he do in this situation?

He’d plough forward, coming up with an answer from scratch. Which meant…

“Decisiveness,” Anne replied. “Decisiveness is the most important element of communication.”

Palamar’s gaze was neutral. “Would you bet your life on that?”

She felt confident. “Yes.”

“Congratulations. You are now officially dead. I’m sure your father will arrange a pretty funeral.”

Anne blinked. “Decisiveness is important, isn’t it?”

“I asked you for the most critical element in battlefield communication, Miss Drake. The answer is … clarity. In any message you send on the battlefield, you must be crystal clear in what you intend. A mistake which you have made, multiple times, since you entered this classroom.” Palamar flicked open a notebook. “You said, and I quote, that you were ‘supposed to be in theory of tactics’... and then turned it into an interrogative. If I were in the field, and received such a message, I wouldn’t know if you were asking, ordering, or unsure. If bullets were flying at the time, I wouldn’t have the time to check, either.” Palamar mercifully swung his gaze to another victim - a green-uniformed lady seated in the row behind Anne. “Sergeant-Major Keaton, provide an example of how unclear communication can lead to disaster.”

“The Charge of the Light Brigade,” the now-named Keaton replied. “Lord Ralgan, the force commander, ordered the Light Brigade to charge and capture a set of naval guns which the Russians were withdrawing from the south side of the valley. Lord Cardigan, the brigade commander who received the orders, could not see the south side - he could only see the Russian guns in front of him, which were dug in and had excellent fields of fire. As a result, the Light Brigade charged into the teeth of massed fire, and were cut down without reaching their objective. Six hundred men died, and Tennyson wrote a poem about it.”

Palamar nodded curtly. “Poor communication kills. That is the first lesson you must recall about tactics. Clarity of communication - above all else - is the most vital part of any coordinated action, whether battlefield tactics or preparing a pot of tea.” He turned to look at Anne. “However, decisiveness is the second most important element. So perhaps you are not dead, merely crippled for life. Today, we will cover the importance of communication, with special reference to clarity and decisiveness. Over the next few classes, we will cover how you can use these elements to wreck your enemies’ communication and gain a tactical advantage….”

—-----------------------------------------------------------------------

The lecture made Anne’s head swim. 

She thought of Palamar’s course prerequisites - having faced battle and made mistakes. Had she made any? 

She couldn’t tell. Which, in itself, worried her.

As she slunk out of the class, she found two of her new classmates waiting for her. Sergeant-Major Keaton and the pilot, respectively. 

The RAF man was the first to speak up. “Miss Drake? Flying Officer Tony Eden. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Uh, likewise?” 

“If it helps, I believe you also attend school with my daughter Charlotte.”

Pieces clicked into place. “Oh. You’re Charlotte’s dad…” she glanced at the Sergeant-Major, recognizing familiar features. “And you’re… Sally’s mum?”

“That is correct,” Keaton answered. “I hope you don’t mind having two generations as your classmates at the same time, dear.”

Anne chuckled. “I’m getting used to it. Molly Pemberley’s son is in my class, too.”

“Ah yes, young Nick,” Keaton nodded. “How are you finding classes, if I may ask?”

“School or here?”

The two parents exchanged glances. “Both, I suppose,” the Sergeant-Major replied. “Are you comfortable in school? I know Sandhurst Prep is a bit different from American schools.”

“It’s cool. Charlotte and Sally have both been lifesavers.”

“That’s good to hear,” Eden beamed. “Charlotte is quite the fan of your work, I must say. She had a poster of you in her bedroom for a while.”

“Tony, that is the kind of thing you don’t share,” admonished Keaton.

“Oh dear. I hope you don’t mind, Anne.”

“I didn’t even know there were posters of me.”

“They were all the rage across London last year,” assured Eden. “Quite a few, along with the Belessar T-shirts. Particularly the one of him jumping up and down on that kaiju’s head.”

Anne grinned. “Maybe I should buy him one of those.”

“It’s always a good idea to keep brothers on their toes,” Keaton smiled. “How are you finding the courses here?”

“Well….” Anne swallowed. “Military history and economics are fine, but I’m not sure I’m cut out for Theory of Tactics.”

Eden frowned. “How so? You seemed to do fine today.”

“Uh, I didn’t have answers to any of the questions.”

“Educated is what you should be coming out, not going in,” said Keaton. “And Bohdan is a very effective teacher, in his own way.”

“Though he does tend to be a bit abrasive,” added Eden. “Reminds me of my old recruit instructor back in the day.”

“I have every sympathy for your RI,” commented Keaton. “Anne, have you done any sort of formal military training before?”

“I did a basic course with Phoenix Company in Tanisport,” Anne replied. 

“What did that cover?”

“We had a lot of running and physical exercises.”

“But no tactical training,” said Eden. 

Anne shook her head. “It didn’t come up, and Belessar - Andrew - decides what we need to do in combat anyway.”

“He makes all the decisions?” asked Keaton. “Don’t you have a role to play?”

“I guess? I tell him what the generals want, and he figures out a way to do it. Also I watch his back.”

“I believe that emphasizes why you need this course,” Eden said. “Anne, there are times when the generals - or the other officers around you - won’t know what you are capable of, and what is practically impossible. You have to be able to understand what they want, and tell them if it can be done. Or not.”

“Otherwise you could end up like the Light Brigade,” warned Keaton. Her voice softened. “I understand it’s a lot of pressure for you. But it is possible, and Bohdan’s living proof of that.”

Anne blinked. “I’m sorry? What does the professor have to do with me?”

“... Do you know why Bohdan Palamar’s tactics course is so highly regarded?”

“I didn’t know it was. Honestly, I didn’t even know there were prerequisites.”

“How did you end up taking this course?”

“Captain Lucy Barnaby - she’s my academic liaison - said it was part of my schedule. Is Professor Palamar … famous or something?”

The two adults exchanged glances again. Finally, Eden spoke. “Anne. Bohdan Palamar was born in Ukraine in 2006. When he was fifteen years old, Russian troops attacked his country. Mr. Palamar lied about his age and signed up to fight, racking up quite a kill count before the end of the war. He took part in several counter-insurgency movements afterwards, including serving as a military trainer, and was one of the oldest volunteers to see active service against the Hierarchy in their initial raids in 2061 - before ultrahumans became a part of active service - and wrote the standard text on counterinsurgency. If there’s anyone who can truly understand what it means to be a teenager thrown into the middle of a war, it’d be Bohdan Palamar.”