These are, of course, the bare facts, and like all generalization,
subject to flaw. There were West Germans who loathed and rebelled
against every hint of the Nazi mentality, Japanese who had never been
violent, Belgians and Swiss who opposed the coming war, members of the
Soviet leadership who cared, and Americans who saw the world clearly.
Unfortunately, as all too many times in the past, there did not seem
enough who broke the mold, nor did they play an active enough role, to
keep the wheels of ignorance and violence from churning. Because the
study of war is the study of people in power and the masses they are
able to persuade---of strife, twisted dreams and ambitions, and of
human nature set in its darkest surroundings. For this reason the
small and destructive characteristics of a people (of the aggressors,
at the least) tend to surface, often riding on the back of what is
truest and noblest in them, and individuals silently opposed to the
politics of carnage don't seem to count for much.
The sad and simple truth remains that, to be prevented, nationalistic
aggression must be resisted from within, either by large numbers of the
population, or by those in positions of power who are willing and able
to stop it. And so far throughout history, with very few exceptions
and during wars uncounted, it had not been.
* * *
0-0
The battle room aboard the armed space station Mongoose was quietly
tense and alert. The Czech and East German officers attended their
various stations with well-drilled efficiency and outer calm,
intermittently reading off coordinates and running hands across
pulsating fingerboards, making adjustments and speaking by headset to
the various squadron commanders of the close-hovering fleet. The
defense grids---interlocking walls of energy which prevented the free
and rapid movement of attacking ships---were in place and activated.
In the center of the room, behind a spherical plexiglass screen, a
three-dimensional monitor projected tiny wavering shapes among the
static lines of the grid, marking the approach of the Belgian-Swiss
forces. A young lieutenant of average height and wiry build, with
intelligent eyes and features, studied the projection and corresponding
console before him with fascination and growing apprehension. He felt
foolish and out of place: his first battle.
A taller man in his late fifties, stern and brown-eyed, a classic Czech
soldier to the last detail, came up behind and put a hand on his
shoulder.
"Courage, Brunner," he said in low harsh tones. "I need your judgment
today." It was the closet thing to a compliment he had ever paid his
young protege.
"I'm sorry, Colonel. It's beginning to look very real."
Dubcek's dark features bored in on him in the familiar
expression---down-thrust head and knitted brows, eyes looking up
through them like a boxer's. It was a hard and intimidating face,
though with a gleam of sharp and illusionless intelligence. Only
Brunner seemed to suspect a deeper humanity beneath the facade, and he
was far from certain.
"It is real, but not something to be feared. Real men will die this
day, as all men must. It is the only way to stop them." At that
moment the voice of the executive officer broke in on them.