Walk in Hell (33 page)

Moss pulled up sharply. Down there in the trenches, men in khaki were blazing away at him. He didn’t take them for granted, not any more. They’d brought him down once. He wanted to give them as little chance of doing it again as he could.

A couple of bullets punched through the fabric covering his single-decker’s wings. The sound brought remembered fear, in a way it hadn’t when the Englishman put some rounds through there. No aeroplane had ever knocked him out of the sky, which meant he could make himself believe no aeroplane
could
knock him out of the sky. He couldn’t pretend, even to himself, that the infantry, which had got lucky once, might not get lucky again.

Small arms still aimed his way. Looking back in the rearview mirror mounted on the edge of the cockpit, he saw muzzle flashes bright as the sun. But his altimeter was winding steadily. By the time he passed twenty-five hundred feet, which didn’t take long, he was pretty safe.

Up above him, Dud Dudley waggled his wings in a victory salute. Moss waved back to the flight leader. His buddies had covered for him while he flew down to confirm his kill of the British biplane. He waved again.
Good fellows,
he thought.

Looking around for more opponents, he found none. Dudley waggled his wings again, and pointed back toward the aerodrome. Moss checked his fuel gauge. He had less gas left than he’d thought. He didn’t argue or try to pretend he hadn’t seen, but took his place in the flight above, behind, and to the left of Dudley.

One after another, the four Martin single-deckers bounced to a stop on the rutted grass of the airstrip outside Cambridge, Ontario. Groundcrew men came trotting up, not only to see to the aeroplanes but also to pick up the word on what had happened in the war in the air. “Johnny got one,” Tom Innis said, slapping Moss on the back hard enough to stagger him. Innis’ grin was wide and fierce and full of sharp teeth, as if he were more wolf than man.

“That’s bully, Lieutenant!” The groundcrew men crowded around him. One of them pressed a cigar into a pocket of his flying suit. “Knock ’em all down, sir.” “The more you sting, the fewer they’ve got left.”

Eventually, the fliers detached themselves and headed for Captain Pruitt’s office to make their official report. “That was really fine shooting, sir,” Phil Eaker said. He was skinny and blond and unlikely to be as young as he looked. Nobody, Moss thought from the height of his mid-twenties, was likely to be as young as Phil Eaker looked. He also hadn’t had enough flying time to harden him yet. That would come—if he lived.

“I dove on him out of the sun,” Moss said, shrugging. He could smell the leftover fear in his sweat now that the slipstream wasn’t blowing it away. “If he doesn’t know you’re there, that’s the easiest way to do the job. He only got off a few rounds at me.”

When the war broke out, he’d thought of himself as a knight of the air. Nothing left him happier now than a kill where the foe didn’t have much chance to kill him. He suspected knights in shining armor hadn’t cried in their beer when they were able to bash out a Saracen’s brains from behind, either.

Hardshell Pruitt looked up from the papers on his desk when Dudley and the men of his flight ducked into his tent. The squadron commander pulled out a binder, dipped his pen into a bottle of ink, and said, “Tell me, gentlemen. Try to give me the abridged version. I spend so much time filling out forms”—he waved at the documents over which he’d been laboring—“I haven’t been getting the flight time I need.”

“Yes, sir,” Dudley said. Concisely and accurately, he reported on the flight. The most significant item was Moss’ downing the British flying scout. Moss told a good deal of that tale himself.

“Well done,” Captain Pruitt said when he’d finished. “Let me just see something here.” He shuffled through some manila folders, opened one, read what was in it, and grunted. Then he said, “Very good, Moss. You’re dismissed. I have some matters I need to take up with your pals here. You may see them again, or I may decide to ship them all out for courts-martial.”

“I’m sure they all deserve it, sir,” Moss said cheerfully, which got him ripe raspberries from the other men in the flight. He ignored them, making his way back to his own tent. When he peeled off his flight suit, he realized how grimy and sweaty he was. The aerodrome had rigged up a makeshift showerbath from an old fuel drum set on a wooden platform. The day held a promise of summer. He didn’t even ask to have any hot water added to what was in there. He just grabbed some soap and scrubbed till he was clean.

Dudley, Innis, and Eaker still hadn’t returned from Captain Pruitt’s office by the time Moss got back to his tent. He scratched his freshly washed head. Maybe Hardshell hadn’t been joking, and they really were in Dutch.

He smoked the cigar the groundcrew man had given him, stretched out on his cot, and dozed for half an hour. His tentmates weren’t back when he woke up. He muttered under his breath. What the devil had they done? Why the devil hadn’t they let him do some of it, too?

He got up, went outside, and looked around. No sign of them. Hardly any sign of anybody, when you got down to it. He ambled over to the officers’ lounge. You could always find somebody there. It was nearly sunset, too, which meant the place ought to be filling up for some heavy-duty, professional drinking, the way it did every night.

Except tonight. Oh, a couple of pilots from another squadron were in there soaking up some whiskey, but the place was dead except for them. “Somebody get shot down?” Moss wondered out loud. It was the only thing he could think of, but it didn’t strike him as very likely. When a fellow died up in the sky, his comrades usually drank themselves stupid to remember him and to forget they might be next.

Drinking alone wasn’t Moss’idea of fun, and the other two pi-lots didn’t seem interested in company. Having nothing better to do, he was about to wander off and sack out when a groundcrew corporal poked his head into the lounge, spotted him, and exclaimed, “Oh, there you are, sir! Jesus, I’m glad I found you. Hardshell—uh, Captain Pruitt—he wants to see you right away. I was you, sir, I wouldn’t keep him waiting.” He disappeared.

Moss hopped to his feet. Whatever trouble his flightmates were in, maybe he’d found a piece of it after all. He hurried over to the captain’s tent, which was only a few feet away, wishing he hadn’t been so blithely agreeable about Hardshell’s court-martialing his friends. He was liable to be seeing a court himself.

Captain Pruitt stood outside the tent. Moss didn’t think that was a good sign. Shadow shrouded the squadron commander’s face. He grunted on seeing Jonathan approach. “Here at last, are you?” he growled. “Well, you’d better come in, then.”

Rudely, he ducked through the tentflap by himself and didn’t hold it for Moss. Shaking his head, Moss followed. He was going to get it, all right. Braced for the worst, he lifted the canvas and followed Captain Pruitt inside.

Light blazed at him. All the fliers he hadn’t been able to find packed the inside of the tent. They lacked only a coating of olive oil to be sardines in a can. Tom Innis pressed a pint of whiskey into Moss’ hand. “Congratulations!” everybody shouted.

Moss stared in astonishment. “What the devil—!” he blurted.

Laughter erupted and rolled over him in waves. “He doesn’t even know!” Dud Dudley hooted.

“Clear a space and we’ll show him, then,” Captain Pruitt said.

Clearing a space wasn’t easy. A few people, grumbling, had to go outside. When Moss finally saw Pruitt’s desk, it was for once clear of papers. A cake sat on top of it instead, a rectangular cake with white frosting. A big chocolate symbol turned it into an enormous playing card, with chocolate A’s at the appropriate corners.

“My God!” Moss said. “Was that my fifth?” He counted on his fingers. “Jesus, I guess it was.”

“Here we have something new,” Pruitt observed: “the unintentional ace.”

More laughter rang out. Dud Dudley said, “It’s a good thing you finally showed up. We were going to eat this beauty without you in a couple of minutes, and then spend the next five years gloating about it.”

“Give me a piece,” Moss said fiercely.

“You want a piece, go to the brothel,” Innis told him. “You want some cake, stay here.” A bayonet lay next to the cake. He picked it up and started slicing.

Cake and whiskey wasn’t a combination Moss had had before. After he’d taken a couple of good swigs from the pint, he didn’t much care. The hooch was good, the cake was good, the company was good, and he didn’t think at all about the man he’d killed to earn the celebration.

Jake Featherston went from gun to gun, making sure all six howitzers in the battery were well positioned, supplied with shells, and ready to open up if the Yankees decided to pay the trenches a call. He didn’t think that would happen; the drive through Maryland had taken an even crueler toll on U.S. forces than on those of the Confederacy, and the latest Yankee push had drowned in an ocean of blood a couple of days before.

All the same, he made sure he hunted up Caleb Meadows, the next most senior sergeant in the battery, and said, “You know what to give the damnyankees if they hit us while I’m gone and you’re in charge.”

“Sure do.” Meadows’ Adam’s apple bobbed up and down as he spoke. He was a scrawny, gangly man who spoke as if he thought somebody was counting how many words he said. “Two guns sighted on that ridge they got, two right in front of our line, and t’other two ready for whatever happens.”

“That’s it,” Jake agreed. “I expect I’ll be back by suppertime.”

Meadows nodded. He didn’t say anything. That was in character. He didn’t salute, either. How could he, when he and Featherston were both sergeants? Jake had commanded the battery ever since Captain Stuart went out in a blaze of glory. He was still a sergeant. He didn’t like still being a sergeant.

He went back through Ceresville, past a couple of mills that had stood, by the look of what was left of them, since the days of the Revolutionary War. They weren’t standing any more. U.S. guns had seen to that.

The bridge over the Monocacy still did stand, though the ground all around both ends of it had been chewed up by searching guns. Military policemen stood on the northeastern bank, rifles at the ready, to keep unauthorized personnel from crossing. Jake dug in his pocket, produced his pass, and displayed it to one of the men with a shiny MP’s gorget held on his neck by a length of chain. The fellow examined it, looked sour at being unable to find anything irregular, and waved him across.

He had to ask several times before he could find his way to the headquarters of the Army of Northern Virginia. They were farther back toward Frederick than he’d thought, probably to make sure no long-range U.S. shells came to pay them a call. Once he got into the tent city, he had to ask for more directions to get to Intelligence.

A corporal who looked more like a young college professor was clacking away on a typewriter inside the flap of the tent, which was big enough to be partitioned off into cubicles. He finished the sentence he was on before looking up and saying, “Yes, Sergeant?” His tone said he outranked Featherston regardless of how many stripes each of them wore on his sleeve.

“I have an appointment with Major Potter.” Jake displayed his pass once more.

The corporal examined it more carefully than the military policeman had done. He nodded. “One moment.” He vanished into the bowels of the tent. When he came back, he waved for Jake to accompany him.

Major Clarence Potter was typing, too. Unlike the corporal, he broke off as soon as he saw Featherston. “Sit down, Sergeant,” he said, and then, to the noncom who’d escorted Jake back to him, “Fetch Sergeant Featherston a cup of coffee, why don’t you, Harold? Thanks.” It was an order, but a polite one.

“
Good
coffee,” Jake said a minute or so later. You couldn’t make coffee this tasty up near the front, not when you were brewing it in a hurry in a pot you hardly ever got the chance to wash. Jake realized he couldn’t complain too much, not when the infantry hardly boasted a pot to their name, but made their joe in old tin cans.

“I’d say you’ve earned good coffee,” Major Potter said equably. “Glad you like it. We get the beans shipped up from a coffeehouse in Washington. But enough of that.” He glanced down to whatever paper he had in the typewriter. “I’d say you’ve earned any number of things, but my opinion is not always the one that counts. Which is, I suppose, why you asked to see me today.”

“Yes, sir,” Featherston said. And then, as he’d feared it would, all the frustration came boiling to the top: “Sir, who the devil do I have to kill to get myself promoted in this man’s Army?”

Potter frowned at him. The major didn’t look like much, not till you saw his eyes.
Sniper’s eyes,
the soldiers called a glance like that: they didn’t necessarily mean the fellow who had them was good with a rifle, only that you didn’t want to get on his bad side or he’d make you pay. But Jake was also frowning, too purely ticked off at the world to give a damn about what happened next.

And Potter looked down first. He fiddled with some of the papers on his desk, then sighed. “I’m afraid killing Yankees doesn’t do the job, Sergeant. I wish it did. It’s the criterion I’d use. But, as I told you, my views, while they have some weight, are not the governing ones.”

“I been running that battery every since Captain Stuart went down, sir,” Jake said, and Clarence Potter nodded. “We’ve fought just as good with me in charge of things as we did with him, maybe better. Besides”—he had enough sense to hold his voice down, but he couldn’t keep the fury out of it—“that damned fool would have got every man jack of us killed for nothin’ better than him goin’ out in a blaze of glory. We would have lost every man and every gun we had.”

“I don’t doubt it for a moment,” Major Potter said. “But you asked whom you had to kill to get a promotion, Sergeant?” After waiting for Featherston to nod in turn, he went on, “The plain answer is, you will never be promoted in the First Richmond Howitzers, and you are most unlikely to win promotion anywhere in the Confederate States Army, for the simple reason that you killed Captain Jeb Stuart III.”

Jake stared at him. Potter was dead serious. “I didn’t, sir, and you know I didn’t,” Jake said, holding up one hand to deny the charge. “When I was starting to move the battery out, I did everything I could to get him to come along. He stopped me. He stopped the whole battery. If the damnyankees hadn’t shot him, he would have kept us there till they overran us.”

“‘If the damnyankees hadn’t shot him,’” Potter repeated. “And why, Sergeant, did he put himself in a position where the Yankees were able to shoot him so easily?”

“You ought to know, sir,” Jake answered. “On account of the trouble he got into with you for keeping that snake-in-the-grass nigger Pompey around and not letting anybody find out the son of a bitch really was a Red.”

“That’s right,” Major Potter said. “And, having fallen under a cloud, he did the noble thing and fell on his sword, too—or the modern equivalent, at any rate.” His nostrils twitched; by the way he said
the noble thing
, he meant something more like
the boneheaded thing
. “But now we come down to it. Who was it, Sergeant Featherston, who first alerted Army of Northern Virginia Intelligence to the possibility that there might be something wrong with this Pompey?”

When a heavy shell landed close to the battery, it picked you up and slammed you down and did its level best to tear your insides out right through your nose and mouth and ears. That was how Jake Featherston felt now, sitting in a wood-and-canvas folding chair in a tent too far back of the line to have to worry about shellfire. “Christ,” he said hoarsely. “They’re blaming me.”

“Of course they are.” Major Potter’s manner was as mild as his appearance; to look at him or listen to him, you’d peg him for a schoolteacher—until you noticed what he had to say. “You wouldn’t expect them to blame Jeb Stuart III, would you? All he did, Sergeant, was cause the suppression of an investigation. If some low, crass individual hadn’t mentioned this Pompey’s name, no one would have needed an investigation in the first place, and Captain Stuart could have continued on his brave, empty-headed track toward a general’s stars and wreath.”

Featherston stared at the Intelligence officer again, this time for an altogether different reason. Once he’d drunk the stuff the Russians cooked up from potatoes. It didn’t taste like anything, so he hadn’t thought he was drunk—till he tried to stand up and fell over instead. Potter’s words were like that. They unexpectedly turned the whole world sideways.

“That’s not fair, sir,” Jake said. “That’s—”

“Shooting the messenger for bad news?” Potter suggested. “Of course it is. What do you expect? That they should blame their own? Not likely, Sergeant. You must know the First Richmond Howitzers are a blue-blood regiment if ever there was one. You must know Jeb Stuart, Jr., has a fancy office in the War Department down in Richmond, from which he sends eager young men out to die for their country. I’ve done everything I can for you, Sergeant. I know your record. I’ve urged your promotion. Set that against the traditions of the First Richmond Howitzers and the animus of Jeb Stuart, Jr., and it doesn’t amount to a hill of beans. I’m sorry.”

“If I transfer out, I’ll be—”

“A sergeant, I’m afraid, till your dying day,” Major Potter interrupted. “Jeb Stuart III blighted his career by being wrong. You’ve blighted yours by being right. Sergeant Featherston, I
am
sorry. I feel I ought to apologize for the entire Confederate States of America. But there’s not one damned thing I can do about it. Have you got any more questions?”

“No, sir.” Jake got to his feet. “If that’s how it is, then that’s how it is. But if that’s how it is, then something stinks down in Richmond. Sir.”

He figured he’d said too much there. But Clarence Potter slowly nodded. “Something does stink down in Richmond. If we try to root it out now, we’re liable to lose the war in the confusion that would follow. But if we don’t try to root it out, we’re liable to lose the war from the confusion it causes. Again, I have no good answers for you. I wish I did.”

Featherston saluted. “Thank you for trying, sir. I hope you don’t end up hurt on account of that. All I’ve got to say is, sooner or later there has to be a reckoning. All these damn fools in fancy uniforms who let the niggers rise up without having a notion they were going to, all the damn fools who can’t think of anything past promoting their friends and relations—they ought to pay the price. Yes, sir, they ought to pay the price.”

“That’s a political decision, not one for the military,” Potter said.

“If that’s what it is—” Jake broke off. He saluted again and left the tent, heading back to his battery. All right, he wasn’t going to be a lieutenant. He had a goal even so.

Major Abner Dowling hurried into the fancy house on the outskirts of Bowling Green, Kentucky. “Here’s the motorcar, sir, come to take you back toward Bremen,” he called loudly—you had to call loudly, if you expected General Custer to hear you.

Libbie Custer heard him. She was sitting in the parlor, reading
Harper’s
. Her expression became remarkably similar to that of a snapping turtle on the point of biting. Back in Bremen was Olivia. She didn’t know—Dowling didn’t think she knew—about Olivia, not in particular, but she knew there was someone like Olivia back there, and she didn’t like it for beans. But the car had been laid on not at General Custer’s instance, but at that of the Secretary of War, and she couldn’t do anything about it. No wonder she looked ready to chomp down on a broom handle.

And here came Custer, looking no happier himself. “This is all a pack of nonsense and idiocy,” he said loudly. “Why don’t they leave a man alone so he can run a proper campaign? But no, that doesn’t satisfy them. Nothing satisfies them. Pack of ghouls and vultures is what they are back in Philadelphia, crunching the bones of good men’s reputations.”

At first, Dowling thought that soliloquy was delivered for Libbie’s benefit. But Custer kept on grumbling, louder than ever, after he went outside and waddled toward the green-gray-painted Ford waiting for him in front of his residence. The driver scrambled out and opened the door to the rear seat for him and Dowling. Neither of them was thin, which made that rear seat uncomfortably intimate.

As they rattled off toward the northwest, Custer leaned forward and asked the driver, “What is this stupid barrel thing you’re taking me to see? Some newfangled invention, I don’t doubt. Well, let me tell you, Lieutenant, I am of the opinion that the world has seen too many new inventions already. What do you think of that?”

“Sir,” the driver said, a gloriously unresponsive but polite answer. Dowling didn’t know whether to wish the First Army commander would shut up or to hope he’d go on blathering and at long last give the War Department enough rope to hang him.

A couple of miles later, Custer ordered the driver to stop so he could get out and stand behind a tree. Along with so much of the rest of him, his kidneys weren’t what they had been forty years earlier. He came back looking even more dissatisfied with the world than he had when he’d scrambled up into the motorcar.

The road ran roughly parallel to the railroad line. Every so often, it would swing away, only to return. At one of the places where it came very close to the tracks, the driver stepped on the brake. “Here we are, sir,” he said.

Here
was a meadow that had been part of the Confederate line defending Bowling Green, about halfway between the tiny towns of Sugar Grove and Dimple. But for wrecked trenches and dozens of shell holes big enough to bury an elephant, the only thing to be seen was an enormous green-gray tent with a couple of squads’ worth of soldiers around it. Why the driver had chosen to stop at this particular place was beyond Abner Dowling.