Drive to the East

by Harry Turtledove

  “I suppose,” his daughter said again. She went into the kitchen to say hello to Elizabeth. When she came back, she had a glass of beer in her hand.

  Cincinnatus raised an eyebrow when she sipped from it. “When did you start drinking beer?” he asked.

  “I knew you were going to say that!” Amanda stuck out her tongue at him. “I knew it! I started about a year ago. I needed a while to get used to it, but I like it now.”

  Cincinnatus smiled, remembering how sour beer had tasted to him the first few times he tasted it. “All right, sweetheart,” he said mildly. “I ain’t gonna flabble about it. You’re big enough. You can drink beer if you want to. But when I went away, you didn’t.” He didn’t want to get upset about anything, not here, not now. He was so glad to see his daughter, he wouldn’t worry about anything past that.

  She looked relieved. “I was afraid you’d get all upset, say it wasn’t ladylike or something.”

  “Not me.” He shook his head. “How could I do that when your mama’s been drinkin’ beer a whole lot longer’n you’ve been alive?”

  “You could have,” Amanda said darkly. “Some people think what’s fine for older folks isn’t so fine for younger ones.”

  So there, Cincinnatus thought. “Yeah, some people do that,” he admitted. “But I ain’t one of them.” He listened to the way his words sounded compared to those of the people around him. After so many years in Iowa, he’d seemed more than half a Yankee whenever he opened his mouth in Covington. But Amanda and Achilles had taken on much more of the flat Midwestern accent of Des Moines than he had. Next to them, he sounded like . . . a Negro who’d just escaped from the Confederate States. Well, I damn well am.

  “When I was jus’ a li’l pickaninny—this here was back in slavery days—my pa give me my first sip o’ beer,” his father said in an accent far thicker and less educated than his own. He screwed up his face at the memory. “I axed him, ‘Am I pizened?’ An’ he tol’ me no, an’ he was right, but I done pizened myself with beer a time or two since. Yes, suh, a time or two.”

  “Oh, yeah.” Cincinnatus remembered times when he’d poisoned himself, too, some of them not so long ago. He wondered how the Brass Monkey and the dedicated drinkers—and checker-players—who made it a home away from home were doing. Already, the time when he was stuck in Covington was starting to seem like a bad dream. He remembered waking up in the hospital. If only that were a bad dream! The pain in his leg and shoulder and the headaches he still sometimes got reminded him it was all too real.

  He still didn’t remember the motorcar hitting him. The doctors had told him he never would. They seemed to be right. From what they said, lots of folks didn’t remember what happened when they had a bad accident. If his were any worse, they would have planted him with a lily on his chest.

  “Glad you’re home, Dad,” Amanda said. Dad. There it was again. Down in Covington, she would surely have called him Pa. She had called him Pa for years. When had she changed to this Yankee usage? Whenever it was, he hadn’t particularly noticed—till he went away and came back and got his nose rubbed in it.

  “I’m glad I’m home, too,” Cincinnatus said. When you got right down to it, he didn’t much care what she called him. As long as she could call him anything and he was there to hear it, nothing else mattered.

  He thought about the Brass Monkey again, and about Lucullus Wood’s barbecue place, and about his father and mother’s house, now empty and, for all he knew, standing open to the wind and the rain. And he thought about the barbed wire and the guards around Covington’s colored quarter. Autumn was coming to Des Moines, but winter lived in his heart when he remembered that barbed wire.

  ****

  Allegheny. Monongahela. Beautiful names for rivers. Even Ohio wasn’t a bad name for a river. When you put the three of them together, though, they added up to Pittsburgh. Pittsburgh hadn’t been beautiful for a long time. The way things looked to Tom Colleton, it would never be beautiful again.

  The damnyankees were not going to give up this town without a fight. They poured men into it to battle block by block, house by house. Crossing a street could be and often was worth a man’s life. Barrels came in and knocked houses flat and machine-gunned the men who fled from the ruins. Then some damnyankee they hadn’t machine-gunned threw a Featherston Fizz through an open hatch and turned a barrel into an iron coffin for the men inside. And then a counterattack went in and threw the Confederates back six blocks.

  Somebody not far away started banging on a shell casing with a wrench or a hammer or whatever he had handy. “Oh, for Christ’s sake!” Tom said, and grabbed for his gas mask. The weather seemed to have broken; it wasn’t so hot and sticky as it had been. But the gas mask was never any fun. If U.S. artillery was throwing in nerve gas, he’d have to put on the full rubber suit. He’d be sweating rivers in that even in a blizzard.

  Confederate shells crashed down on the factories and steel mills ahead. The bursts sent up smoke that joined the horrid stuff belching from the tall stacks. Air in Pittsburgh was already poisonous even without phosgene and mustard gas and the nerve agents. They called the thick brown eye-stinging mix smog, jamming together smoke and fog. What they got was more noxious than the made-up word suggested, though.

  Tom wouldn’t have wanted to work in one of those places with shells bursting all around. But the factories kept operating till they burned or till the Confederates overran them. Trucks and trains took steel and metalware of all kinds east. Barges took them up the Allegheny, too. Confederate artillery and dive bombers made the Yankees pay a heavy price for what came out of the mills and factories. Some of it got through, though, and they must have thought that was worthwhile.

  Barrels painted butternut ground forward. Telling streets from blocks of houses wasn’t so easy anymore. Confederate-occupied Pittsburgh was nothing but a rubble field these days. The whole town would look like that by the time Tom’s countrymen finished driving out the damnyankees . . . if they ever did.

  A machine gun fired at the barrels from the cover of a ruined clothing store. Bullets clanged off the snorting machines’ armor. Tom didn’t know why machine gunners banged away at barrels; they couldn’t hurt them. Bang away they did, though. He wasn’t sorry. The more bullets they aimed at the barrels, the fewer they’d shoot at his foot soldiers, whom they really could hurt.

  Traversing turrets had a ponderous grace. Three swung together, till their big guns bore on that malevolently winking eye of fire. The cannons spoke together, too. More of the battered shop fell in on itself. But the machine gun opened up again, like a small boy yelling, Nyah! Nyah! You missed me! when bigger kids chucked rocks at him. The crew had nerve.

  All they got for their courage was another volley, and then another. After that, the gun stayed quiet. Had the barrels put it out of action, or was it playing possum? Tom hoped his men wouldn’t find out the hard way.

  And then, for a moment, he forgot all about the machine gun, something an infantry officer hardly ever did. But a round from a U.S. barrel he hadn’t seen slammed into the side of one of the butternut behemoths. The Confederate barrel started to burn. Hatches popped open. Men dashed for cover. The U.S. barrel was smart. It didn’t machine-gun them and reveal its position. It just waited.

  The other two C.S. barrels turned in the general direction from which that enemy round had come. If the U.S. barrel was one of the old models, their sloped front armor would defeat its gun even at point-blank range. But it wasn’t. It was one of the new ones with the big, homely turret that housed a bigger, nastier cannon. And when that gun roared again, another Confederate barrel died. This time, several soldiers pointed toward the muzzle flash. By the time the last C.S. barrel in the neighborhood brought its gun to bear, though, the damnyankee machine had pulled back. Tom Colleton got glimpses of it as it retreated, but only glimpses. The butternut barrel didn’t have a clear shot at it, and held fire.

  He sent men forward to keep the enemy from bringing barrels into that
spot again. He was only half surprised when the machine gun in the ruined store opened up again. His men were quick to take cover, too. He didn’t think the machine gun got any of them. He hoped not, anyway.

  The Confederate barrel sent several more rounds into the haberdashery. The machine gun stayed quiet. Ever so cautious, soldiers in butternut inched closer. One of them tossed in a grenade and went in after it. Tom wished he had a man with a flamethrower handy. The last fellow who’d carried one had got incinerated along with his rig a few days earlier, though. No replacement for him had come forward yet.

  Not enough replacements of any kind were coming forward. Little by little, the regiment was melting away. Tom didn’t know what to do about that, except hope it got pulled out of the line for rest and refit before too long. However much he hoped, he didn’t expect that would happen soon. The Confederates needed Pittsburgh. They’d already put just about everybody available up at the front.

  After a minute or so, the soldier came out of the wreckage with his thumb up. There was one damnyankee machine gun that wouldn’t murder anybody else. Now—how many hundreds, how many thousands, more waited in Pittsburgh? The answer was too depressing to think about, so Tom didn’t.

  One thing he hadn’t seen in Pittsburgh: yellowish khaki Mexican uniforms. The Mexicans hadn’t done badly in Ohio and Pennsylvania, but they weren’t the first team, and everybody knew it. They held the flanks once the Confederates went through and cleared out the Yankees. They were plenty good enough for that, and it let the Confederates pile more of their own troops into the big fight.

  A rifle shot rang out. A bullet struck sparks from the bricks just behind the head of the soldier who’d thrown the grenade. He hit the dirt. Three other Confederates pointed in three different directions, which meant nobody’d seen where the shot came from. The machine gun might be gone, but the Yankees hadn’t given up the fight for this block. It didn’t seem as if they would till they were all dead.

  Down in the CSA, some people—mostly those who hadn’t been through the Great War—still believed U.S. soldiers were nothing but a pack of cowards. Tom laughed as he ducked down into a shell hole to shed his mask and smoke a cigarette—he didn’t turn blue and keel over, so it was safe enough. And much better not to let the match or the coal give the damnyankee sniper a target. He just wished Confederate propaganda were true. Pittsburgh would have fallen long since.

  A runner came skittering back to him, calling his name. “Here I am!” he shouted, not raising his head. “What’s up?”

  “Sir, there’s a Yankee with a flag of truce right up at the front,” the runner replied. “Wants to know if he can come back and dicker a truce for the wounded.”

  The last time a U.S. officer proposed something like that, he’d scouted out the C.S. positions as he moved with his white flag. The damnyankees kept the truce, but they knew just where to strike after it ended. Tom threw down the half-finished smoke. “I’ll meet the son of a bitch at the line,” he growled.

  He made his own flag of truce from a stick and a pillowcase, then went up with the runner. The truce already seemed to be informally under way. Firing had stopped. Confederates were swapping packs of cigarettes for U.S. ration cans. Both sides deplored that. Neither could do anything about it. Commerce trumped orders. The Yankees had better canned goods and worse tobacco, the Confederates the opposite.

  A U.S. captain in a dirty uniform waited for Tom. “I could have come to you,” the man remarked.

  Colleton smiled a crooked smile. “I bet you could,” he said, and explained why he didn’t want the Yankee back of his lines.

  “I wouldn’t do a thing like that,” the U.S. officer said, much too innocently. “And I’m sure you wouldn’t, either.”

  “Who, me?” Tom said with another smile like the first. The U.S. captain matched it. They’d been through the mill, all right. Tom got down to business: “Is an hour long enough, or do you want two?”

  “Split the difference?” the damnyankee suggested, and Tom nodded. The captain looked at his watch. “All right, Lieutenant-Colonel. Truce till 1315, then?”

  “Agreed.” Tom stuck out his hand. The U.S. captain shook it. They both turned back to their own men and shouted out the news. Corpsmen from both sides came forward. Ordinary soldiers did some more trading. Somebody had a football. C.S. and U.S. soldiers tossed it back and forth. Tom remembered the 1914 Christmas truce, when the Great War almost unraveled. He knew that wouldn’t happen here. Both sides meant it now.

  Corpsmen poked around through rubble. They called outside of smashed houses. Sometimes they got answers from smashed people trapped inside. Soldiers helped move wreckage so the medics could do their job. When U.S. corpsmen found wounded C.S. soldiers, they gave them back to the Confederates. Corpsmen in butternut returned the favor for the Yankees.

  Tom and the officer in green-gray—his name was Julian Nesmith—hadn’t agreed to that, but neither of them tried to stop it. “Won’t change how things end up one way or the other,” Nesmith remarked.

  “I was thinking the same thing about smokes and grub a little while ago,” Tom agreed. He’d handed Captain Nesmith a couple of packs of Raleighs, and was now the proud possessor of two cans of deviled ham, a delicacy esteemed on both sides of the front. His mouth watered. If he could scrounge up some eggs . . . Even if he couldn’t, the ham would be a treat.

  “We might as well be comfortable as we can while we slaughter each other,” Nesmith said.

  “We’re enemies,” Tom said simply. “You won’t make me believe the United States wants to do anything but to squash my country, and I don’t expect I can persuade you the Confederate States aren’t full of villains.”

  “It wouldn’t matter if you did,” Nesmith answered. “As long as you’ve got villains at the top, all they have to do is shout loud enough to make everybody else go along.”

  That came close to hitting below the belt. Tom hadn’t much cared to listen to Jake Featherston on the wireless at all hours of the day and night. But Jake Featherston had got Kentucky and Houston back into the CSA after the damnyankees stole them at gunpoint in 1917. The Whigs hadn’t come close to managing that. Featherston was doing something about the Negroes in the Confederate States, too. The Whigs hadn’t known what to do. And so . . .

  “Who’s a villain and who isn’t depends on how you look at things,” Tom said.

  “Sometimes,” Julian Nesmith replied.

  They shook hands again when the truce ended. Corpsmen disappeared. Men got back under cover. Almost ceremoniously, a U.S. soldier fired a Springfield to warn anybody who hadn’t got the word. In that same spirit, a Confederate soldier answered with one round from a Tredegar.

  Then another Confederate squeezed off a burst from his automatic rifle. A U.S. machine gun opened up. Tom sighed. The little peace had been nice while it lasted.

  ****

  Salt Lake City wasn’t hell, but you could see it from there. Armstrong Grimes peered toward the rubble of the Mormon Temple—twice built and now twice destroyed. He peered very cautiously. All the Mormons still fighting were veterans. Some of them were veterans of two uprisings. Show any body part, and they’d put a bullet through it faster than you could say Jack Robinson.

  Armstrong wondered who the hell Jack Robinson was. He also wondered how life would change now that he was a sergeant instead of a corporal. He’d hesitated before sewing the new stripes onto his sleeve. The Mormons’ snipers liked to pick off officers and noncoms.

  Yossel Reisen had two stripes now. He wore them, too. Their promotions both came through while the regiment was in reserve in Thistle. Somebody must have thought they were on the ball when that woman blew herself up in Provo. All Armstrong knew was that the two of them hadn’t got badly hurt when the people bomb went off, and afterward he’d done what anybody else would have. That must have been enough to impress one officer or another.

  He turned to Reisen, who crouched behind a stone fence not far away. “You hear the skinny last
night?” he said. “They figure Sergeant Stowe’s gonna make it.”

  “Yeah, somebody told me.” Yossel nodded. “I would’ve thought he was a goner for sure. He looked like hell.”

  “Boy, didn’t he?” Armstrong said.

  “He’s lucky.”

  “Hunh-unh.” Now Armstrong shook his head. “We’re lucky. We didn’t catch shrapnel. We aren’t in the hospital with our guts all messed up. If Stowe was lucky, he’d still be here, same as we are. Instead, he’s in a bed somewhere, and they probably have to shoot morphine into him all the goddamn time. Belly wounds are supposed to hurt like anything.”

  His vehemence surprised him. It must have surprised Yossel Reisen, too. Armstrong didn’t usually argue with him. Yossel was older and more experienced, even if he didn’t care about rank. Here, though, Armstrong couldn’t keep quiet. And after a few seconds, Yossel nodded. “Well, you’re right,” he said. “He’s alive, and that’s good, but he still isn’t lucky.”

  “There you go,” Armstrong said. “That’s how it looks to me, too.”

  “Sarge! Hey, Sarge!” somebody yelled.

  Armstrong needed a moment to remember that meant him. “Yeah? What is it?” he said, a beat slower than he should have.

  “Mormon coming up with a flag of truce.”

  Firing had died away. Armstrong hadn’t noticed that, either. He felt as far down on sleep as he had before his regiment got R and R. Cautiously, he stuck his head up again. Sure as hell, here came a Mormon in what the rebels used for a uniform: chambray shirt, dungarees, and boots. “Hold it right there, buddy, or you’ll never know how your favorite serial comes out on the wireless!” Armstrong yelled.

  The Mormon waved the white flag. “I want to talk to an officer. I mean no harm.”

  “Yeah, now tell me another one,” Armstrong said. “How do I know you’re not a goddamn people bomb waiting to go off?”

  “Because I say I am not,” the rebel answered. “I am a major in the Army of the State of Deseret.” Armstrong could hear the capital letters thud into place.