One thing neither God nor gas nor shelling had managed was to sweep all the Canucks and limeys from that board. Machine guns began winking from redoubts of timber and sandbags. Between them came flashes of rifle fire. From his lofty perch, Moss saw the American advance falter.
He also saw Dud Dudley wagging his wings up ahead of him. The flight was supposed to support the infantry attack on Acton. Dudley put the nose of his fighting scout down and dove on the enemy trenches. Tom Innis followed. So did Moss, the wind howling past the wires supporting his wings. So did Phil Eaker, who had replaced Zach Whitby, who had replaced Luther Carlsen, who had probably replaced…
Moss didn’t want to think about that, either. He was a replacement here, too, even if he’d been in the war from the beginning. Instead, he thought about the rapidly swelling scene below. Yes, the attack had bogged down, sure as the devil. The artillery hadn’t cut enough wire in front of the enemy trenches to give the Americans decent avenues to close with their foes. The United States had come as far as they had in Canada on the strength of overwhelming numbers. If they kept throwing men away at this rate, their numbers wouldn’t stay overwhelming forever.
“That’s what I’m here for,” Moss said. “To get rid of some numbers on the other side.”
He squeezed the firing button for his machine gun. Tracers let him guide the stream of bullets down the trench ahead of him as he roared over it at treetop height. The way the khaki-clad soldiers scattered before him made him feel treetop tall himself, as firing at men on the ground always did. He felt like a boy in short pants, amusing himself by stepping on bugs.
If you fooled with the wrong bug, though, you were liable to get stung. And the soldiers in the traverses, which ran perpendicular to his line of fire, blazed away at him instead of scattering. He laughed, as he would have laughed stepping on a bee while wearing shoes. They’d have a hell of a time hurting him: how could they draw a bead on a target streaking past at almost a hundred miles an hour?
Thwump! A bullet passing through canvas made a noise like a drumstick tapping on a rather loose drumhead. A lot of bullets were in the air. Some, dammit, would touch the aeroplane. He’d found that out in scraps with the limeys and Canucks, right at the start of the war. It was unnerving (thwump!), but you could put a lot of holes in an aeroplane’s canvas and it would keep on flying. Thwump!
Clang! He swore. That wasn’t canvas, that was the engine. His oil pressure began to drop. Maybe, he thought hopefully, the bullet had only damaged the pump mechanism. He had a hand squeeze-bulb to augment that; the pump was often balky. He couldn’t shoot and work the squeeze-bulb at the same time. When he stopped shooting to work the bulb, the pressure kept dropping. It wasn’t the pump mechanism. A fine mist of oil started coating his goggles. He could leave them on and not see well from oil…or take them off and not see well from the breeze.
Clang! “That’s not fair!” he shouted angrily. Fair or not, the damage the second bullet had done was immediately obvious. A plume of hot water from the radiator rained back on him.
He turned back toward the U.S. lines and put the Martin into a steep climb, figuring he’d need all the altitude he could get before-No sooner had the thought crossed his mind than the engine started dying. He throttled back for a moment, to see whether it would run better at low revs.
When it didn’t, he gave it all the power it had. “A short life but a merry one,” he said, and wondered whether he was talking about the engine or himself. He’d find out, one way or the other.
Abruptly, the engine went from dying to dead. That left him in charge of a nose-heavy glider a couple of hundred feet above no-man’s-land. He kept the nose up as best he could. The ground got closer with every beat of his heart.
He was over the American trench line-not very far over it, either. An idiot took a shot at him. Thwump! The bullet drilled through the fuselage, not far behind him. Nice to know our boys on the ground are such good shots, he thought, and then, If I ever find out who that son of a bitch is, I’ll kick his teeth in.
Between trenches and shell holes, he couldn’t have found a worse landscape in which to try to set down an aeroplane. If he’d had a choice, he wouldn’t have tried it. He had no choice. There was a road of sorts, one on which fresh ammunition and supplies came to the front. And there was a little train of wagons on it, bringing forward whatever they were bringing.
Would he-could he-get over them and set the Martin down? “I’ll do it or die trying,” he said, and giggled. Never had a hackneyed phrase been more literally true.
With his engine fallen silent, he could hear the horses whinny in fright. He could hear their drivers cuss, too. He thought that, if he’d wanted to, he could have reached down and snatched the caps off those drivers’ heads. He cleared their wagons that closely.
A moment later, his landing gear thudded down on rutted earth. The ruts, God be praised, ran in the direction he was going. The surface, he thought thankfully, wasn’t that much worse than the usual landing strip.
Then one of the wheels went into a hole. His teeth slammed together on his tongue. Blood filled his mouth. The aeroplane tried to stand on its nose. If it had succeeded, it would have shoved the engine and machine gun back into his chest and squashed him into jelly. It didn’t have quite enough momentum. The tail slammed back to earth. Moss bit his tongue again.
He unfastened his harness and scrambled out of the Martin. It hadn’t caught fire, but that didn’t mean it couldn’t. He stood there on the muddy, half-frozen ground, looking for any sign of the rest of his flight. He saw no aeroplanes at all.
The driver of the rearmost wagon hopped down and ran toward him. “You all right, buddy?” he asked.
Moss spat a mouthful of red into the muck, but then he nodded. “Think so,” he answered. Talking hurt, but other than that and what would probably be bruises where the harness had kept him from going facefirst into the instrument panel, he didn’t seem damaged.
“Thought you was going to clip me there,” the driver said. “Had time for one Hail Mary”-he crossed himself-“and then you was over me.”
“Yeah.” Moss’ legs suddenly felt as if they were made of some cheap grade of modeling clay, not flesh and bone. Now that he was down, he could realize what a narrow escape he’d had. Before, up in the air, he’d been too busy trying to stretch every last inch from his bus.
Soldiers came out of the trenches to shake his hands and congratulate him on being in one piece. Among them was a captain who asked, “Where’s your aerodrome, pal?”
“Back near Cambridge,” he answered.
“We’ll get you home,” the captain told him. “Probably tomorrow, not today. You can enjoy the hospitality of the trenches tonight.” He stuck out a hand. “I’m Clyde Landis.”
“Jonathan Moss, sir.” Just then, the Canucks started lobbing artillery at where they thought his aeroplane had gone down. Diving into the trenches seemed the most hospitable thing in the world.
All the rest of that day, the soldiers made much of him. They gave him cigars and big bowls of horrible slumgullion and enough shots of the rotgut they weren’t supposed to have to make his head swim. They all sounded convinced he was a hero, and made him tell story after story of what fighting in the air was like.
More shells rained down. He wouldn’t have done an infantryman’s job for a million dollars. If there were any heroes in the war, the foot sloggers were the ones. They laughed when he said so.
“This is a letter from your father,” Sylvia Enos said to George, Jr., and Mary Jane. “See how it says NAVAL POST on the envelope by the stamp?” George, Jr., nodded impatiently. He knew his ABCs, and he could read a few words. To Mary Jane, the rubber-stamped phrase didn’t mean anything.
Sylvia opened the envelope and took out the letter. She read aloud in a portentous tone: “‘Dear Sylvia’-that’s me-‘I hope you and the children are well. I am fine here. We have done some fighting on the river. I came through it fine and so did the ship. We hit the e
nemy and he did not hit us.’”
“Boom!” George, Jr., yelled, as if he were a shell going off. Then, as best he could on the floor of the front room, he imitated a stricken warship capsizing and sinking, finishing the performance with a loud, “Glub, glub, glub!”
Mary Jane thought that was very funny. So did Sylvia, till it crossed her mind that the Punishment could have been the vessel going to the bottom as easily as its foe. “Do you want to hear the rest of the letter?” she asked, more sharply than she’d intended. She wanted to finish it; George didn’t write so often as she wished he would. With a touch of guilt, she realized her own letters were also fewer and further between than they should have been.
“Yes, Mama,” George, Jr., said, Mary Jane chiming in with, “Rest of letter!”
“‘I miss all of you and I wish I could come back to Boston,’” she resumed. “‘Here in the middle of the country you cannot get any fish that is very good. The cooks do up catfish we catch in the river but no matter what you do to it it still tastes like mud.’”
“Yuck!” George, Jr., exclaimed. Mary Jane stuck out her tongue.
“‘I love all of you and hope I will get some leave one day before too long,’” Sylvia finished. “‘Tell the children to be good. I bet they are getting as big as can be. Your husband, George.’”
“George,” Mary Jane said in tones of wonder. She pointed to her brother. “George.”
“That’s right,” Sylvia said. “George, Jr., is named after his papa-your papa, too, you know.”
“Papa.” Mary Jane dutifully repeated the word and nodded, but she didn’t sound convinced. She hadn’t seen her father for months. Sylvia wondered if she remembered him. She said she did, but then she said all sorts of things that had only the vaguest connection with reality. Seeing her, remembering George, Jr., at the same age, Sylvia was convinced two-year-olds lived in a very strange world. She wondered if she’d been like that at the same age. She probably had.
George, Jr., asked, “Will Papa ever come home before the war ends and we’ve beaten the Rebs all up?”
Where does he hear such things? Sylvia wondered. At home, she didn’t talk much about the war. That left Brigid Coneval and the other children she watched. Sylvia shrugged. She supposed war needed hate, but wished it didn’t. The question deserved an answer, though, no matter how it was framed. She said, “When Papa talked about getting leave in his letter, that meant he hoped he could come for a visit before he had to go back to his ship.”
“Oh,” her son said seriously. “Well, I hope he can, too.”
“I’ll get supper going now, and then we’ll wash you two and put you to bed,” Sylvia said. That drew mixed responses. Her children were hungry, but unenthusiastic about baths and even more unenthusiastic about bedtime. She told them, “If you eat all your supper up and you’re good in the bathtub, maybe you can play for a little while afterwards.”
They wolfed down fried halibut and potatoes, they didn’t do anything too outrageous when she took them out of the apartment and down the hall to the bathroom at the end (a good thing, too, with her carrying hot water to mix with the cold), and they didn’t splash up the place too badly. She brought them back swaddled in towels, and changed George, Jr., into pajamas (which made him look very grown-up) and Mary Jane into her nightgown.
George, Jr., played with toy soldiers, the U.S. troops storming trench after Confederate trench. Sylvia wished it were really so easy. Mary Jane gave her doll a bottle, then climbed up into Sylvia’s lap and fell asleep there. Not even the bloodcurdling explosions her brother kept producing did anything to stir her.
Maybe so much warmaking had worn out George, Jr., too, for he didn’t put up his usual complaints about going to bed. That left Sylvia the only one awake in the apartment, which seemed, as it often did at such times, too big and too quiet.
“I should write to George,” she said. She found paper and a pen soon enough, but the bottle of ink had escaped. She finally came upon it lurking in her sewing box. “I didn’t put it there,” she declared, and wondered which of her offspring had. Mary Jane would say no to everything on general principles, and George, Jr., knew better than to admit to anything that would get him spanked.
Dear George, Sylvia wrote, I got your letter. It was good to hear from you. I am glad you are well and safe. I saw Charlie White’s wife on T Wharf and she says he is out to sea on a cruiser. They will have good food on that ship. Despite his name, Charlie was black, not white, and had been the cook on the Ripple. Reinking her pen, she went on, I am well. The children are well. We all hope you do get leave so we can see you. We miss you. I love you. Sylvia.
When she was done, she read the letter over. It seemed so flat and empty. She wished she were a better writer, to be able to say all the things she wanted to say, all the things that really mattered. Maybe she could have done that if she’d had more schooling. As things were…it would have to do. More searching scared an envelope out of cover. Seaman George Enos, she wrote on it. U.S. Navy. Central River Command. St. Louis, Mo. She went on one more scouting expedition, this time through her handbag in search of a stamp. She found one, stuck it on the envelope, and put the letter in the handbag so she could mail it in the morning.
In the chaos of getting the children ready and over to Mrs. Coneval’s and then of getting herself off to work, she forgot about the letter. She remembered only when her machine stuck the first label on a can of mackerel. Can after can followed that first one. She had to pull three levers for each can, keep the machine full of labels and paste, and clear the feeding mechanism when it jammed, as it did every so often.
After a while, she noticed Isabella Antonelli wasn’t at the machine next to hers. The foreman, Mr. Winter, was running it instead. Mr. Winter was fat and fifty-five and walked with a limp from a wound he’d got in the Second Mexican War. The Army didn’t want him, which made him a godsend for the canning plant.
When she asked him where her friend was, she thought for a moment he hadn’t heard her over the rattle of the lines that sent the cans moving from one station to the next. Then he said, “She called on the telephone this morning. Western Union visited her last night.”
“Oh, God,” Sylvia said. Isabella Antonelli’s husband had been a fisherman on a little boat that operated out of T Wharf. Then the Army had taken him and sent him off to Quebec. The newspapers did their best to be optimistic about the fighting north of the St. Lawrence, but their best wasn’t all that good. The going was hard up there, and bad weather liable to last till May.
Mr. Winter nodded. He was bald, with a fringe of gray hair above his ears; the lights shone off his smooth pate. “She’ll be out a few days, I’m afraid,” he said. “They’ll put a temporary on the machine here tomorrow, I expect, till she can come back.”
Sylvia nodded, too, hiding a flash of fury frightening in its fierceness. Yes, Mr. Winter was a godsend for the canning plant, all right. He thought of getting the mackerel out before he worried about the people who got it out. Keep the machines running, no matter what, she thought. Antonelli was one more line in the casualty lists? So what?
She filled the paste reservoir to her machine from one of the cans under it. The foreman at the paste plant probably had the exact same attitude. For that matter, the generals probably had the exact same attitude, too. What was Antonelli to them but one more line in the casualty lists?
All the canning machines, including Sylvia’s, ran smoothly, unlike the war machine. She pulled her three levers, one after the other, then went back and did it again and again and again. If you didn’t notice how your feet got sore from standing by the machine for hours at a time, you could get into a rhythm where you did your job almost without conscious thought, so that half the morning could go by before you noticed. Sylvia didn’t know whether to like those days or be frightened of them.
Mr. Winter’s voice startled her out of that half-mesmerized state: “Your husband well, Mrs. Enos?”
“What?” she said,
and then, really hearing the words, “Oh. Yes. Thank you. I got a letter from him yesterday, as a matter of fact. I wrote an answer, too,” she added virtuously, “but I forgot to mail it this morning. I’ll do it on the way home.”
“Good. That’s good.” The foreman’s smile displayed large yellow teeth, a couple of them in the lower jaw missing. “Good-looking woman like you, though, I bet you get lonely anyhow, no man around. Being lonely’s no fun. I know about that, since Priscilla died a few years ago.”
Numbly, Sylvia nodded. The machine ran low on labels, which let her tend to it without having to say anything. Mr. Winter hadn’t been crude, as men sometimes were. But she felt his eyes on her as she loaded in the labels. He was the foreman. If he pushed it and she said no, he could fire her. The line kept running smoothly, but she never got the easy rhythm back.
VII
Among the butternut uniforms in the West Virginia prisoner-of-war camp were a few dark gray ones: Navy men captured by the damnyankees. Reggie Bartlett found himself gravitating toward them. For a while, he wondered why; he’d never had any special interest in the Confederate States Navy before the war began. After a bit, he found an answer that, if it wasn’t the whole picture, was at least a good part of it.
The trouble was, soldiers were boring. He’d done as much hard fighting as any of them, and more than most-war in the Roanoke valley was as nasty a business as war anywhere in the world. He’d seen almost all the horrors there were, and heard about the ones he hadn’t seen. Soldiers told the same kinds of stories, over and over again. They got stale.
Navy men, now, Navy men were different, and so were their stories. They’d been in strange places and done strange things-or at least things Reggie Bartlett had never done. Those tales made the time between stretches of chopping wood and filling in slit trenches and the other exciting chores of camp life pass more quickly.
Even when things went wrong in the stories, they went wrong in ways that couldn’t happen on dry land. A senior lieutenant who somehow managed to look clean and spruce and well-shaved in spite of the general camp squalor was saying, “Damnyankees suckered me in, neat as you please. There sat this fishing boat, out in the middle of the Atlantic, no ships around her, naked as a whore in her working clothes. So up came my boat to sink her with the deck gun-cheaper and surer than using one of my fish-”
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