Warriors of Landa love to fight, traditionally. All real Landanians love the sting and clash of battle. You are here for three reasons. First, because you are here to defend your homestone. Second, you are here for your own self respect and honor, because you would not want to be anywhere else. Third, you are here because you are real gorean men and all real men like to fight. Landa will not tolerate a loser. Landa despise cowards. Landa play to win all of the time. I do not give a bosk shit for a man who prefers to fur slaves instead to defend his homestone. That’s why Landa have never lost nor will ever lose a war; for the very idea of losing is hateful to a Landanian.

You are not all going to die. Death must not be feared. Death, in time, comes to all men. Yes, every man is scared in his first battle. If he says he’s not, he’s a liar. Some men are cowards but they fight the same as the brave men or they get the hell slammed out of them watching men fight who are just as scared as they are. The real hero is the man who fights even though he is scared. Some men get over their fright in an ehn under fire. For some, it takes an ahn. For some, it takes days. But a real man will never let his fear of death overpower his honor, his sense of duty to his homestone, and his innate manhood. Battle is the most magnificent competition in which a man being can indulge. It brings out all that is best and it removes all that is base. Landanians pride themselves on being He Men and they ARE He Men. Remember that the enemy is just as frightened as you are, and probably more so. They are not supermen.

Alertness must be bred into every member of the red caste. I don’t give a fuck for a man who’s not always on his toes. You are ready for what’s to come. A man must be alert at all times if he expects to stay alive. If you’re not alert, sometime, an outlaw of Port Meqara or one of the sleens of Fina is going to sneak up behind you and beat you to death with a sockful of bosk shit!

An army is a team. It lives, sleeps, eats, and fights as a team. This individual heroic stuff is pure Kaiila shit.

We have the finest food, the finest equipment, the best spirit, and the best men in Gor. My men don’t surrender. I don’t want to hear of any warrior under my command being captured unless he has been hit. Even if you are hit, you can still fight back. That’s not just bosk shit either. The kind of man that I want in my command is just like the lieutenant, who, with a blade against his chest, jerked off his helmet, swept the sword aside with one hand, and busted the hell out of the enemy with his helmet. Then he jumped on the shield and went out and killed another enemy before they knew what the hell was coming off. And, all of that time, this man had an arrow through a lung. There was a real man.

Each man must not think only of himself, but also of his buddy fighting beside him. We don’t want yellow cowards in this army. They should be killed off like urts. If not, they will go home after this war and breed more cowards. The brave men will breed more brave men. Kill off the damned cowards and we will have a homestone of brave men.

Don’t forget, you men don’t know that I’m here. No mention of that fact is to be made in any letters. The world is not supposed to know what the hell happened to me. I’m not supposed to be commanding this army. Some day I want to see them raise up on their piss-soaked hind legs and howl, “Priest Kings, it’s the damned Landa army again and that son-of-a-fucking-slave Yuroki.”

Sure, we want to go home. We want this war over with. The quickest way to get it over with is to go get the bastards who started it. The quicker they are whipped, the quicker we can go home.

When a man is lying in a shell hole, if he just stays there all day, an enemy will get to him eventually. The hell with that idea. The hell with taking it. My men don’t dig holes. I don’t want them to. Keep moving. And don’t give the enemy time to dig one either. We’ll win this war, but we’ll win it only by fighting and by showing the enemies that we’ve got more guts than they have; or ever will have. We’re not going to just shoot the sons-of-slaves, we’re going to rip out their living damned guts and use them to grease the sheats of our blades. War is a bloody, killing business. You’ve got to spill their blood, or they will spill yours. Rip them up the belly. When shells are hitting all around you and you wipe the dirt off your face and realize that instead of dirt it’s the blood and guts of what once was your best friend beside you, you’ll know what to do!

I don’t want to get any messages saying, “I am holding my position.” We are not holding a damned thing. Let the enemies do that. We are advancing constantly and we are not interested in holding onto anything, except the enemy’s balls. We are going to twist his balls and kick the living shit out of him all of the time. Our basic plan of operation is to advance and to keep on advancing regardless of whether we have to go over, under, or through the enemy. We are going to go through him like crap through a goose; like shit through a tin horn!

From time to time there will be some complaints that we are pushing our people too hard. I don’t give a good damn about such complaints. I believe in the old and sound rule that an ounce of sweat will save a gallon of blood. The harder WE push, the more enemies we will kill. The more enemies we kill, the fewer of our men will be killed. Pushing means fewer casualties. I want you all to remember that.

There is one great thing that you men will all be able to say after this war is over and you are home once again. You may be thankful that twenty years from now when you are sitting by the fireplace with your grandson on your knee and he asks you what you did in the great war, you WON’T have to cough, shift him to the other knee and say, “Well, your Granddaddy furred slaves in Landa.” No, Sir, you can look him straight in the eye and say, “Son, your Granddaddy rode with the Great Landa Army and a Son-of-a-damned-slave named Rarius Yuroki.”

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