In at the Death (9 page)

His back grumbled at lugging—toting, they said down here—a heavy crate. He was the oldest man in the guerrilla band. Spartacus, who’d been a Confederate noncom in the Great War, was within a couple of years of him, but Spartacus was the CO. Nobody expected him to fetch and carry.

After what seemed like forever, the Negroes and the U.S. soldiers they’d taken in got back to the swampy hideout from which they’d started. And then…to the victors went the spoils. “Let’s eat!” Spartacus said, and they did.

C.S. military rations were nothing to write home about. In truces to pick up wounded men, Confederate soldiers traded tobacco and coffee to their U.S. counterparts for canned goods made in the USA. And U.S. rations, as Moss knew too well, wouldn’t put the Waldorf out of business any time soon.

But greasy hash and salty stew filled the belly. Moss’ had rubbed up against his backbone too often lately. He was amazed at how many tins of meat he could bolt down before he even started getting full.

“Man, I feel like I swallowed a medicine ball,” Nick Cantarella said after a while.

“Yeah, me, too,” Moss said. “I like it.”

He lit a cigarette, the way he might have after a fine meal in a fancy restaurant. He’d had plenty to eat, and nobody was shooting at him right this minute. How could life get any better?

C
incinnatus Driver wanted to strut through the streets of Ellijay, Georgia. Strutting wasn’t in the cards when you walked with a cane and a limp, but he felt like it anyway. How could a black man from the USA
not
want to strut in a little town his country had taken away from the Confederacy?

Here I am!
he felt like shouting.
What are you ofay bastards gonna do about it?
And the whites of Ellijay couldn’t do one damn thing, not unless they wanted the U.S. Army to land on them with both feet.

The hamlet seemed pleasant enough, with a grassy town square centered on a rock fountain. Groves of apple and peach trees grew nearby; Cincinnatus had heard the trout and bass fishing in the nearby stream was first-rate. Ellijay probably made a nice place to live…for whites.

Whenever the locals saw Cincinnatus, though, the way they acted gave him the chills. They stared at him as if he were a rare animal in a zoo—a passenger pigeon come back to life, say. They hadn’t thought any Negroes were left in these parts, and didn’t bother hiding their surprise.

“What’re you
doin’
here?” a gray-haired man in bib overalls asked around an enormous chaw.

“Drivin’ a truck for the United States of America,” Cincinnatus answered proudly. “Helping the Army blow all this Confederate white trash to hell and gone.”

He thought the Georgian would swallow the cud of tobacco. “You can’t talk that way! You ought to be strung up, you know that?”

Along with his cane, Cincinnatus carried a submachine gun some Confederate soldier would never need again. He gestured with it. “You try, Uncle, an’ it’s the last dumb thing you ever do.”

“Uncle?
Uncle?
” That pissed the white man off as much as Cincinnatus hoped it would. It was what Confederate whites called Negroes too old to get called
boy
. Throwing it in the local’s face felt wonderful. “You can’t speak to me that way! I’ll talk to your officer, by God, and he’ll teach you respect.”

Cincinnatus laughed in his face. “You’re the enemy, Uncle, and we done beat you. We don’t need to waste respect on the likes of you.”

Muttering under his breath, the local stomped off. Cincinnatus hoped he did complain to an Army officer. That would serve him right—wouldn’t it just? Cincinnatus tried to imagine what the officer would tell him. He couldn’t, not in detail, but it would boil down to,
Tough shit, buddy. Now fuck off and leave me alone
. He was sure of that.

Technically, Cincinnatus wasn’t even in the Army. The U.S. Navy accepted Negroes, but the Army didn’t—though he’d heard talk that that might change. If it did, it would matter to his son, but not to him. He was both overage and not in any kind of shape to pass a physical.

But he could still drive a truck. A lot of drivers were overage civilians, many of them with not quite disabling wounds from the Great War. They freed up younger, fitter men to go to the front and fight. And, when Confederate bushwhackers hit them, they showed they still knew what to do with weapons in their hands, too.

When Cincinnatus first volunteered to drive after getting back to U.S. territory, he’d carried a .45. He patted the ugly, functional submachine gun with almost the affection he might have shown his wife. Elizabeth had got him out of some tough spots, and so had the captured Confederate piece. And it didn’t talk back.

U.S. 105s north of Ellijay thundered to life. Somebody—a spotter in a light airplane, maybe—must have seen Confederates up to something. With luck, the guns would disrupt whatever it was. Before long, Confederate artillery would probably open up, too, and maim or kill a few U.S. soldiers. Always plenty of fresh meat on both sides in war.

U.S. forces might push farther east from Ellijay, but they were unlikely to go farther north soon. They held this part of Georgia mostly to keep the enemy from bringing reinforcements down towards Atlanta. They didn’t want any more of it—they were shield, not sword.

The drivers guarded their own trucks. Several men who weren’t on sentry duty sat around a liberated card table playing poker. Soldiers probably would have sat on the ground, but it wasn’t comfortable for geezers with old wounds and assorted other aches and pains. Green U.S. bills and brown C.S. banknotes went into the pot. They had good-natured arguments—and some not so good-natured—about what Confederate money was worth. Right now, in the drivers’ highly unofficial rate of exchange, one green dollar bought about $2.75 in brown paper.

“Call,” Hal Williamson said. A moment later, Cincinnatus’ friend swore as his three sevens lost to a nine-high straight.

“Come to papa.” The other driver raked in the pot.

Williamson got to his feet. “Well, that’s about as much money as I can afford to lose till Uncle Sam gives me some more,” he said.

One of the kibitzers sat down in the folding chair he’d vacated and pulled out a fat bankroll of green and brown. “I’m not here to lose money,” he announced. “I’m gonna win me some more.”

“Emil’s here. We can start now,” another poker player said. The guy with the roll flipped him off. The other man turned to Cincinnatus. “How about you, buddy? Got any jack that’s burning a hole in your pocket?”

“Nope,” Cincinnatus said. “Don’t play often enough to get good at it. Don’t like playin’ enough to get good at it. So why should I throw my money down the toilet?”

“On account of I got grandkids who need shoes?” suggested the man sitting at the card table. “We need suckers in this here game—besides Emil, I mean.”

“You’ll see who’s a sucker,” Emil said. “You’ll be sorry when you do, too.”

“If you’re no good at somethin’, why do it?” Cincinnatus said.

“Well, there’s always fucking,” the other driver replied, which got a laugh.

“Maybe
you
ain’t no good at that,” Cincinnatus said, which got a bigger one. “Me, though, I know what I’m doin’ there.”

“That’s telling him,” Williamson said.

Cincinnatus’ answering grin was crooked. Even his buddies seemed surprised when he held his own in banter or didn’t turn cowardly when he got shot at or generally acted like a man instead of the way they thought a nigger would act. It might have been funny if it weren’t so sad. These were U.S. citizens, men from a country where Negroes mostly had the same legal rights as anybody else, and they thought—or at least felt down deep somewhere—he ought to be a stupid buffoon.

What about white people in the Confederate States? His mouth tightened, the grin disappearing altogether. He knew the answer to that, knew it much too well. They thought Negroes were so far below ordinary human beings that they got rid of them without a qualm. And what would the local in overalls say about that? He’d probably say the Confederacy’s Negroes had it coming.

“Fuck him, too,” Cincinnatus muttered.

“Who? Dolf there?” Williamson nodded toward the poker player who’d gone back and forth with Cincinnatus. “What’d he do to you?”

“No, not Dolf. This peckerhead redneck I was talkin’ with in town,” Cincinnatus answered, not even noticing he was tarring the Confederate with the same kind of brush whites in the CSA used against blacks. “He reckoned I was uppity. If I was really uppity, I would’ve plugged the son of a bitch.”

“Probably no great loss,” Williamson said. “We’re gonna have to kill a lot of these Confederate assholes to scare the rest into leaving us alone.” Again, Confederate whites might have talked about Negroes the same way.

The next morning, soldiers loaded crates of 105mm shells into the back of Cincinnatus’ truck. The convoy of which he was a part rattled north to replenish the guns that had been firing at the Confederates the day before. The artillery position was only a few miles away. Even so, a halftrack and three armored cars came along with the trucks. No one inside Ellijay seemed eager to take on the assembled might of the U.S. Army, but things were different out in the countryside. It seethed with rebellion.

Two bushwhackers fired from the undergrowth that grew too close to the side of the road before the convoy got halfway to where it was going. One bullet shattered a truck’s windshield. Another flattened a tire. The armored cars sprayed the bushes with machine-gun fire. Cincinnatus hadn’t seen any muzzle flashes. He would have bet the soldiers in the armored cars hadn’t, either.

One of those cars stayed behind to help the truck driver with the flat change his tire—and to shield him from more bullets while he worked. Cincinnatus hoped the driver would be all right. He had to keep going himself. He wished a barrel with a flail were preceding the convoy. That way, it would probably blow up any land mines before they blew up people. As things were…

As things were, they didn’t run into—or over—any. Cincinnatus figured the convoy was lucky. He also figured it had no guarantee of being lucky again on the way back. Who could guess what holdouts or stubborn civilians were doing while nobody in a green-gray uniform could see them?

Gun bunnies unloaded the crates. “We’ll give ’em hell,” one of them promised. Cincinnatus nodded, but the artillerymen couldn’t do anything about the enemies likeliest to hurt him.

He wished he could stay by the gun pits. Bushwhackers didn’t come around here. But then, as he was driving back towards Ellijay, he heard thunder behind him. A glance in the rear-view mirror told him the artillerymen were catching it. Wherever you went, whatever you did, the war would reach out and grab you and bite you.

Snipers fired a few shots at the trucks on the way back to the depot. When they got there, one of the drivers said, “You guys are gonna have to help me out of the cab. They got me in the knee.”

“Jesus, Gordie, how come you ain’t screamin’ your head off?” another driver asked. “How the hell’d you make it back?”

Gordie started laughing to beat the band. “On account of I lost that leg in 1915,” he answered. “Fuckers ruined the joint in my artificial one, but that’s about it.”

“How’d you work the clutch without your knee joint?” Cincinnatus asked.

“Grabbed the leg with my hand and mashed down on the sucker,” Gordie said. “Wasn’t pretty. Don’t figure I did my gear train any good. But who gives a damn? I made it back. ’Course, the leg’s just a piece of junk without that joint. Better find me a wheelchair or some crutches—I ain’t goin’ anywhere without ’em.”

Cincinnatus had a lot of parts that didn’t work as well as they should have. He wasn’t out-and-out missing any, though, and he never would have imagined that losing a leg could prove lucky for anybody. If they’d already got you there once, they couldn’t do it again.

The supply dump stocked both wheelchairs and crutches. That didn’t surprise Cincinnatus, although it saddened him. Maimed men were a by-product of war. The powers that be understood as much.

Gordie’s leg went out for repairs. Technicians who dealt with such things were also necessary. When it came back, the amputee was full of praise. “Feels like I just got new spark plugs on my Ford,” he said. “Joint’s smoother and easier to work than it ever was before, I think. Quieter, too.” He still walked with a rolling gait like a drunken sailor’s, but so did anybody who’d lost a leg above the knee. The roll locked the joint till the next step. Cincinnatus also thought the artificial leg was quieter now than it had been.

Except for harassing fire as he drove his routes, everything seemed pretty quiet. He’d drifted into a backwater of the war. Part of him wanted to be doing more. The rest—the larger portion—thought that part was out of its tree.

III

G
eorge Enos, Jr., liked being back on the East Coast. When the
Josephus Daniels
came in to the Boston Navy Yard for refit or resupply—or even to deliver a package—he had a chance for liberty, a chance to see his wife and kids. Unlike a lot of sailors, he preferred getting it at home to laying down money in some sleazy whorehouse and lying down with a girl who was probably more interested in the current crossword puzzle than in him.

That didn’t stop him from lying down with a whore every once in a while. It did leave him feeling guilty whenever he did. That, in turn, meant he drank more on liberty than he would have otherwise. He couldn’t get drunk enough to stop feeling guilty, which didn’t keep him from trying.

When he came into Boston, he didn’t have to worry about it. He could go to bed with Connie with a clear conscience. And, being away so much, he felt like a newlywed whenever he did. Most of his married buddies weren’t lucky enough to have caught a warm, willing, pretty redhead, either.

“I wish you didn’t have to leave,” she said, clinging to him with arms and legs the night before he was due back aboard his ship. When she kissed him, he tasted tears on her lipstick.

“Wish I didn’t have to go, too,” he answered. “But it’d be the Shore Patrol and then the brig if I tried to duck out. They’d bust me down to seaman third, too. You fight the Navy, you’re fighting out of your weight.”

“I know,” she said. “But—” She didn’t go on, or need to.
But
covered bombs and torpedoes and mines and everything else that could mean this was the last liberty George ever got. She clung to him tighter than ever.

He found himself rising to the occasion once more, which told how long it had been since his last liberty. In his thirties, he didn’t do that as automatically as he had once upon a time. “Hey, babe,” he said. “Hey.”

“Ohh,” Connie said when he went into her—more a sigh than a word. He wasn’t sure he could come again so soon after the last time, but he did, a moment after she gasped and quivered beneath him. But then she started crying all over again. “I don’t want you to go!”

“I don’t want to, either. But I’ve got to.” He stroked her hair and kissed her in the hollow of her shoulder, all of which made things worse instead of better.

Finally, after she cried herself out, she reached for a tissue and blew her nose. “Good thing the lights are out,” she said. “I must look like hell.”

“You always look good to me,” he said, and that started her crying again.

He wasn’t very far from blubbering himself, but he didn’t. He did fall asleep a few minutes later. Connie couldn’t tease him about that, because she’d already started to breathe deeply and slowly herself.

She fed him an enormous plate of bacon and eggs the next morning. The way the boys stared at it said how unusual it was. They ate oatmeal as they got ready for school. Connie ate oatmeal, too, and drank coffee that smelled like burnt roots. “Rationing that bad?” George asked.

“Well, it’s not good—that’s for sure,” his wife answered. “Better for us than for a lot of folks. I know people at T Wharf, so I can get fish for us. We’re tired of it, but it’s better than going without.”

“Sure.” George remembered his mother talking about doing the same thing during the last war. All over the country, no doubt, people were doing what they could to get along.

What George could do was shoulder his duffel bag, kiss Connie and the kids good-bye, and head for the closest subway station. When he came up again, he was on the other side of the Charles, half a block from the Boston Navy Yard.

He and the duffel got searched before the guards let him in. “All right—you’re not a people bomb,” one of the men said.

“Has that happened here?” George asked.

“Not here at the Yard, no, but it sure as hell did in New York City. Twice,” the guard answered.

“Jesus!” George said. “Nobody’s safe anywhere any more. I’d rather put to sea. At least out there I know who’s on my side and who isn’t.” With a nod, the guard waved him on.

Armorers were bringing crates of ammunition aboard the
Josephus Daniels
. They were eloquently obscene, creatively profane. George had heard that before among men with especially dangerous trades. It gave them a safety valve they couldn’t find any other way. He paused not just to give them room but also to admire their invectives. He’d thought he’d heard everything, but they showed him he was wrong.

He was almost sorry when they finished and walked down the pier. “Permission to come aboard?” he called as he set foot on the destroyer escort’s gangplank.

“Granted,” answered Thad Walters, who had officer-on-deck duty. After the formal response, he unbent enough to ask, “Liberty good?”

“Yes, sir,” George said. “Kids are growing like weeds. Connie pisses and moans about the rationing, but she’s sure keeping them fed.” He turned to salute the flag at the stern.

“Well, that’s good.” The grin on the OOD’s face said he knew George and Connie didn’t spend all their time talking about rations. He was younger than George himself. Chances were he didn’t spend all his time thinking about Y-ranging gear, either. He went on, “Well, stow your gear below and get used to the ship again. You’d better—we put to sea tomorrow morning, early and”—he looked at the cloudy sky—“not too bright.”

“Aye aye, sir.” After his own apartment, the accommodations belowdecks were a rude reminder that he was back in the Navy’s clutches. Everything was cramped and smelly. Instead of a bed to share with his wife, he had a hammock in a compartment full of snoring, farting sailors. If he tried to roll over, he’d fall out.

Some kid was bragging about how many times he’d done it in a whorehouse. Only a couple of guys were even half listening to him, and they mainly seemed interested in telling him what a liar he was. George thought the same thing. Anybody who boasted about what a great lover he was had to be lying, even if he didn’t always know it.

Chow was another disappointment: some kind of hash and lumpy mashed potatoes. Connie would have been ashamed to put slop like that on the table no matter how bad rationing got. The coffee was better than hers, though. The Navy and the Army got most of the real bean that came into the USA; civilians had to make do with ersatz.

Maybe because he’d gone without real coffee for a couple of days and it hit him harder when he drank it again, maybe because his own mattress had spoiled him, he had a hell of a time going to sleep that night. He knew he’d stagger around like a zombie in the morning, but he lay there in the hammock staring up at the steel ceiling not nearly far enough above his head.

A pilot had brought the
Josephus Daniels
in through the minefields shielding Boston harbor from enemy submersibles. Another one took her out again. A small patrol boat followed the destroyer escort to pick up the pilot and bring him back. George stayed at his 40mm mounts till well after the pilot was gone. The powers that be had installed the guns to shoot at airplanes, but they could also do dreadful things to subs forced to the surface.

“We have ourselves a new assignment.” Sam Carsten’s voice blared from the loudspeakers. George still thought it was bizarre that he’d met the man now his skipper when he was a kid in Boston. Carsten went on, “We’re heading for Bermuda, and then for the central Atlantic. We’re going to try to find convoys bringing food up from Argentina and Brazil to England and France. And when we do, we’ll sink ’em or capture ’em.”

Excitement tingled through George. This was the work his father had done in the last war. It was what finally made Britain decide she’d had enough. And it was the work that cost his father his life.

“Some of you poor devils are polliwogs,” the skipper boomed. “When we get to the Equator, King Neptune and the shellbacks aboard will take care of that.”

George laughed. He’d been initiated into the shellbacks when he crossed the Equator for the first time. He could hardly wait to give the new fish a taste of what he’d got.

And he had another reason for wanting to get down by the Equator. The North Atlantic was kicking up its heels. He had a strong stomach, and he’d known worse seas than this in a fishing boat that made the
Josephus Daniels
seem as sedate as a fleet carrier. That meant he kept down what he ate. It didn’t mean he enjoyed himself. And using the heads was rugged, because a lot of guys were desperate and weren’t neat. Some of them didn’t make it to the heads. The skipper had cleaning parties out all the time. They almost kept up with the sour stink. Almost, here as in so many places, was a word nobody really wanted to hear.

The ship approached Bermuda from the northeast. That made for more time at sea, but lessened the chance of meeting C.S. bombers or seaplanes on the way in.

“No liberty here,” Carsten announced as they tied up in the harbor. “Sorry, guys. We don’t have time. On the way back to the USA, I’ll give you the best blowout I can, and that’s a promise.”

By the way the old-timers on the destroyer escort nodded, the skipper kept promises like that. George wasn’t surprised. Keeping them seemed in character for Carsten. Being a mustang, he knew what ratings liked better than most officers with Annapolis rings did. And one of the things they liked was officers who delivered on their promises.

Because of the threat from the Confederate mainland, the crew spent the night at battle stations, four hours on, four off. A handful of bombers did come over. Bermuda had Y-ranging gear far more powerful than the set the
Josephus Daniels
carried; sirens started shrieking before the destroyer escort picked up the bombers.

And even after the ship did, the gunners were firing by earsight, hoping to get lucky or to nail a bomber caught by the blazing searchlights ashore. Yellow and red tracers crisscrossed the night sky.

U.S. night fighters were up over Bermuda, too. George wondered if they had their own Y-ranging sets. If they did, it didn’t seem to do them much good. He heard the harsh crump of bombs—none very close—but saw no bombers going down.

Even after the all-clear sounded, ships and land-based guns kept throwing shells around. George was glad he had a helmet on. Shrapnel clattered down from the sky like sharp-edged hail. It could kill the people who’d fired it even if it didn’t do a damn thing to its intended targets.

“Boy, I enjoyed that,” he said when the other gun crew relieved him and his comrades.

“You be able to sleep?” his opposite number asked.

“Fuck, yes. I don’t care if the Confederates come back and the noise starts up all over again. I’ll sleep.”

And, some time in the wee small hours, the Confederates
did
come back. They couldn’t take Bermuda away from the USA, but they could make sure the United States didn’t enjoy holding it. George opened his eyes when the shooting started again, then closed them and began to snore louder than ever.

The
Josephus Daniels
sailed the next morning, her tanks topped off and ammunition replenished. The Atlantic was a changed beast; as the destroyer escort steamed south, the ocean went from tiger to kitten. The sun shone warm and bright. The air turned sweet and mild. George was reminded of the weather in the Sandwich Islands. It didn’t get any better than that.

British submersibles. French submersibles. Confederate submersibles. Misguided U.S. submersibles. Confederate seaplanes. Maybe even bombers and torpedo-carriers from a prowling British carrier. This part of the Atlantic was like the Sandwich Islands in more ways than the weather: it was also full of danger. Standing by the breech of the twin 40mm, George hoped he wouldn’t follow in his father’s last footsteps, as he’d already followed in so many.

D
r. Leonard O’Doull watched Sergeant Vince Donofrio chatting up a well-fed blond Georgia farm girl with a mixture of amusement and exasperation. The senior medic seemed to try his luck with everything female from fourteen to fifty. This one—her name was Billie Jean—fell toward the lower end of the range, but not so low that she didn’t have everything a woman needed. She also had an inch-long cut on her left index finger, which was what brought her to the U.S. aid station in the first place.

Donofrio had given her a shot of novocaine and put a couple of stitches in the cut. In O’Doull’s professional opinion, it needed nothing but a bandage, but Donofrio had motivation beyond the purely professional.

“I never reckoned Yankees could be so kind and helpful,” Billie Jean said, which showed the sergeant had made some progress, anyhow.

“I’m a medic. We help everybody on both sides.” Donofrio turned to O’Doull for support. “Ain’t that right, Doc?”

“That’s our job.” O’Doull could hardly deny it—it was true. He said it himself, somewhere between once a day and once a week. Here, though, he wished he weren’t agreeing with the horny sergeant. He’d never sewn up a pretty girl’s wound in the hope of getting into her pants.

Then he shook his head and started to laugh. When he sutured a cut on Lucien Galtier’s leg up in Quebec, that put him in the good graces of the man who became his father-in-law. It didn’t hurt him with Nicole, either. Still, he wasn’t inclined to look at Vince Donofrio and Billie Jean Whoozis and intone,
Bless you, my children
.

As if Vince cared. “Can I walk you home, sweetie?” he asked.

Billie Jean frowned. O’Doull gave her points for that. “I don’t know,” she said. “Some of the guys here, they don’t like it if they see a girl walkin’ with a Yankee.” At least she didn’t say
damnyankee
.

“Like I said, I’m a medic,” Donofrio said. “I don’t give trouble, and I don’t want trouble.” He had a .45 on his hip, just in case. So did O’Doull.

He also had the gift of gab, even though his boss was the Irishman. He talked Billie Jean into letting him tag along. And he talked O’Doull into letting him go, which was harder. “You be back in an hour, you hear me?” O’Doull growled. “And I don’t mean an hour and one minute, either. I don’t see you here in an hour’s time, I send a search party out after you, and you won’t like it when they find you.”