And then Cassius spotted an advancing barrel painted not butternut but green-gray. It had a decal of an eagle in front of crossed swords on each side of the turret. He burst into unashamed tears of joy. The damnyankees were here at last!
After capturing Camp Determination and the vast mass graves where its victims lay, Major General Abner Dowling had trouble figuring out what the U.S. Eleventh Army should do next. He’d handed the United States a huge propaganda victory. No one could deny any more that the Confederates were killing off their Negroes as fast as they could.
Some of the locals were horrified when he rubbed their noses in what their country was up to. The mayor of Snyder, Texas, and a few of its other leading citizens killed themselves after forced tours of the graves.
But others remained chillingly indifferent or, worse, convinced the Negroes had it coming. Only coons and goddamn troublemakers were phrases Dowling never wanted to hear again.
He scratched at his graying mustache as he studied a map of west Texas tacked on the wall of what had been the mayor’s office. Snyder, under military occupation, was doing without a mayor for now. “What do you think, Major?” he asked his adjutant. “Where do we go from here?”
Major Angelo Toricelli was young and handsome and slim, none of which desirable adjectives fit his superior. “Amarillo’s too far north,” he said judiciously. “We don’t have the men to hold the front from here to there.”
Dowling eyed the map. If that wasn’t the understatement of the year, it came in no worse than second runner-up. “Abilene, then,” he said. It was the next town of any size, and it didn’t lie that far east of Snyder.
“I suppose so.” If Major Toricelli was eager to go after Abilene, he hid it very well. Dowling knew why, too. Even if the Eleventh Army captured Abilene…Well, so what? Taking it wouldn’t bring the USA much closer to victory or do anything more than annoy the Confederates.
With a sigh, Dowling said, “We’ve pretty much shot our bolt, haven’t we?”
“Unless they’re going to reinforce us, yes, sir,” his adjutant answered.
“Ha! Don’t hold your breath,” Dowling said. Hanging on to the men Eleventh Army had was hard enough.
“Maybe you’ll get a new command, sir,” Major Toricelli said hopefully.
“Sure. Maybe they’ll send me to Baja California.” Dowling’s voice overflowed with false heartiness.
His adjutant winced. The USA had tried to take Baja California away from the Empire of Mexico during the last war, tried and failed. This time around, the United States seemed to have succeeded. And, having taken Baja California away from Mexico, what did the USA have? Baja California, and that was all: miles and miles and miles of the driest, most godforsaken terrain in the world.
Holding Baja California mattered for only one reason. It let the United States sit over the Confederates in Sonora. U.S. ships could block the outlet to the Gulf of California. U.S. airplanes in Baja California could easily strike the C.S. port at Guaymas. Of course, Confederate aircraft in Sonora could hit back at the warships and the air bases. They could, and they did. The luckless brigadier general in charge of that operation was welcome to it, as far as Abner Dowling was concerned.
“With what you’ve done here, you ought to get a command closer to the Schwerpunkt,” Major Toricelli said.
“How about Sequoyah?” Dowling asked innocently.
That was closer to the center of things than west Texas, which didn’t mean Toricelli didn’t wince again anyhow. Sequoyah was a bloody mess, and probably would go on being one for years. Thanks to a large influx of settlers from the USA, it had voted not to rejoin the Confederacy in Al Smith’s ill-advised plebiscite. But the Indian tribes in the east, who’d prospered under Confederate rule, hated the U.S. occupation. And most of the oil there lay under Indian-held land.
The oil fields had gone back and forth several times in this war. Whoever was retreating blew up what he could to deny the oil to the enemy. When the United States held the oil fields, Confederate raiders and their Indian stooges sabotaged whatever wasn’t blown up. That led to U.S. reprisals, which led to bushwhacking, which led to hell in a handbasket.
“About the only thing we could do to make Sequoyah work would be to kill all the redskins in it.” Dowling sighed. “And if we do that, how are we any better than the goddamn Confederates?”
“Those Indians really are fighting us,” Toricelli said.
“Sure.” Dowling’s chins wobbled as he nodded. “But if you listen to Confederate wireless, you hear all the stories about the terrible wicked black guerrillas. Some of that’s got to be bullshit, sure. But not all of it, because we both know the War Department helps the guerrillas when it can.”
Major Toricelli looked unhappy, but he nodded. One of the reasons Dowling liked him was that he would look facts in the face, even when they were unpleasant.
As if on cue, a soldier from the signals unit stuck his head into the office and said, “Sir, we just got a message that needs decoding.”
“I’ll take care of it,” Toricelli said, and hurried away. Dowling wondered what was going on. Eleventh Army wasn’t important enough to receive a lot of encrypted transmissions. The Confederates were welcome to read most of the usual messages it did get.
“Well?” Dowling asked when his adjutant came back forty-five minutes later.
“Well, sir, we’re ordered to step up air attacks against Abilene.” Toricelli had the look of a man who’d gone hunting in the mountains and brought home a ridiculous mouse.
“We can do that,” Dowling allowed. He even understood why the order was coded—no point to letting the Confederates haul in more antiaircraft guns to shoot down U.S. bombers. But, after what he and Toricelli were talking about, the order felt anticlimactic, to say the least.
Colonel Terry DeFrancis was one of the youngest officers of his rank in the Army. He was also one of the better ones; his fighters had established U.S. dominance in the air over west Texas. “Pound the crap out of Abilene?” he said when Dowling told him about the new order. “Sure. We can do that, sir. I’ll step up the recon right away, so we know what we’re up against.”
“Step up the recon over other targets, too,” Dowling said. “No use advertising what we’re up to.”
“Will do, sir,” DeFrancis promised. “You’re sneaky, you know that?”
“Well, I try.” Dowling paused to light a cigarette. No two ways about it—Raleighs and Dukes beat the hell out of anything the USA made. And Confederate cigars…Reluctantly, Dowling brought his mind back to the business at hand. “That’s one thing I had to pick up on my own. General Custer never much went in for being sneaky.”
“What was it like serving under him?” Colonel DeFrancis asked.
“It wasn’t dull, I’ll tell you that. He always knew what he wanted to do, and he went ahead and did it.” Dowling nodded. That was true, every word of it. It was also the sanitized, denatured version of his long association with the man who was, by his own modest admission, the greatest general in the history of the world. Dowling suspected he’d kept Custer from getting sacked several times. He also suspected he’d kept himself from getting court-martialed at least as often. But Terry didn’t need to hear about that.
“Was he as much of an old Tartar as everybody says?” DeFrancis had already heard something, then.
“Well…yes.” Dowling couldn’t say no without making himself into a bigger liar than he wanted to be.
“But he won the war, pretty much. He got the job done. Morrell was under his orders when he used that armored thrust to roll up the Confederates and take Nashville.”
“That’s true.” Dowling gave a reminiscent shiver. Custer and Morrell had gone against War Department orders to mass their barrels. Dowling himself had lied like Ananias, writing reports that denied they were doing any such thing. Had Philadelphia found out he was lying, or had the attack failed…The aftermath wouldn’t have been pretty.
And it wasn’t a sure thing,
not ahead of time. A lot of Custer’s straight-ahead charges at the enemy failed, and failed gruesomely. Dowling knew how nervous he was before the barrels crossed the Cumberland. If Custer had any doubts, he never showed them.
“You know, Colonel, he really is the hero of the last war. In an odd way, he’s the hero of the whole first part of this century,” Dowling said. “He knew what he wanted to do, and he found a way to make it work.”
“We just have to go and do the same thing, then,” DeFrancis said. “I expect we can.” He saluted and hurried off.
Abner Dowling stubbed out his cigarette. He didn’t have George Armstrong Custer’s relentless drive, or even Terry DeFrancis’. He was a sane man in a business where the crazy and the obsessed often prospered. He hoped his ability to see all sides of a problem gave him an edge over commanders with tunnel vision. He hoped so, but he was a long way from sure it did.
Major Toricelli stuck his head into the office. “Sir, there’s a local who wants to see you. His name is Jeffries, Falstaff Jeffries. He runs the big grocery on the edge of town.”
“Has he been searched?” Dowling didn’t want to talk to a people bomb, or even a fellow with a pistol in his pocket. But his adjutant nodded. So did Dowling. “All right. Send him in. You know what’s eating him?”
“No, sir. But I expect he’ll tell you.”
Falstaff Jeffries didn’t live up to his name. He was short and skinny and somber, nothing like Shakespeare’s magnificent clown. He did have the virtue of coming straight to the point: “Where am I going to get more food, General?”
“Where were you getting it?” Dowling asked.
“From farther east. That’s where everything comes from out here,” Jeffries answered. “Except now I’m on the wrong side of the line. Folks’re gonna start getting hungry pretty damn quick unless somebody does something about it.”
“I don’t think anyone will starve,” Dowling said. “Plenty of rations, if it comes to that.”
The storekeeper looked at him as if he’d just ordered no presents at Christmastime. “Rations.” Jeffries made it into a swear word. “How in blazes am I supposed to run a business if you go around handing out free rations?”
“A minute ago, you were talking about people going hungry,” Dowling reminded him. “Now you’re flabbling about where your money’s coming from. That’s a different story, and it’s not one I care much about.”
“That’s on account of you don’t have to worry about feeding your family.” Falstaff Jeffries eyed Dowling’s expanse of belly. “You don’t worry about feeding at all, do you?”
“I told you—nobody’ll starve,” Dowling said tightly. “Not you, not your family, and not me, either.”
“But my store’ll go under!” Jeffries wailed.
“There’s a war on, in case you didn’t notice,” Dowling said. “You’re alive, you’re in one piece, your family’s all right. Count your blessings.”
Jeffries muttered something under his breath. Dowling wouldn’t have sworn it was “Damnyankee,” but he thought so. The grocer rose. “Well, I can see I won’t get any help here.”
“If you think I’ll open our lines so your supplies can get through, you’re even crazier than I give you credit for, and that’s not easy,” Dowling said.
Jeffries took a deep breath, then seemed to remember where he was and to whom he was talking. He left without another word, which was no doubt wise of him. Abner Dowling hadn’t acted like a military tyrant in the west Texas territory Eleventh Army had conquered, but the temptation was always there. And, if he felt like it, so was the power.
Lieutenant-Colonel Jerry Dover was not a happy man. The Confederate supply officer had had to pull back again and again, and he’d had to wreck or burn too much that he couldn’t take with him. His dealings with the higher-ups from whom he got his supplies, always touchy, approached the vitriolic now.
“What do you mean, you can’t get me any more antibarrel rounds?” he shouted into a field telephone. Coming out of the restaurant business in Augusta, he was much too used to dealing with suppliers who welshed at the worst possible time. “What are the guns supposed to shoot at the Yankees? Aspirins? I got plenty of those.”
“I can’t give you what I don’t have,” replied the officer at the other end of the line. “Not as much getting into Atlanta as there ought to be these days.”
Dover laughed a nasty, sarcastic laugh. “Well, when the U.S. soldiers come marching in, buddy, you’ll know why. Have fun in prison camp.”
“This is nothing to joke about, goddammit!” the other officer said indignantly.
“Who’s joking?” Dover said. “Only reason they haven’t gone in yet is, they don’t want to have to fight us house to house. But if you don’t get out pretty damn quick, they’ll surround the place—and then you won’t get out.”
“General Patton says that won’t happen,” the other officer told him, as if Patton had a crystal ball and could see the future.
“Yeah, well, when a guy wants to lay a girl, he’ll say he’ll only stick it in halfway. You know what that’s worth,” Dover said. “You want to keep the Yankees away from your door, get me those shells.”
“I don’t have any I can release.”
“Aha!” Jerry Dover pounced. “A minute ago you didn’t have any at all. Cough up some of what you’re holding out on me, or you’ll be sorry—will you ever.”
“If I do that, they’ll put my tit in a wringer,” the officer in Atlanta whined.
“If you don’t, you’ll get your ass shot off,” Dover said. “And I’ll tell all the front-line soldiers you’re holding out on me. You can find out if our guys or the Yankees get you first. Doesn’t that sound like fun?”
“You wouldn’t!” The other officer sounded horrified.
“Damn right I would. I was in the trenches myself the last time around. I know how much real soldiers hate it when the quartermasters don’t give ’em what they need to fight the war.”
“I’ll report your threats to General Patton’s staff!”
“Yeah? And so?” Dover said cheerfully. “If they put me in the line, maybe I’m a little worse off than I am here, but not fuckin’ much. If they throw me in the stockade or send me home, I’m safer than you are. Why don’t you just send me the ammo instead? Don’t you reckon it’s easier all the way around?”
Instead of answering, the supply officer in Atlanta hung up on him. But Dover got the antibarrel ammunition. As far as he was concerned, nothing else really mattered. If the other man had to tell his superiors some lies about where it went, well, that was his problem, not Dover’s.
Even with that shipment, the Confederates east of Atlanta kept getting driven back. Too many U.S. soldiers, too many green-gray barrels, too many airplanes with the eagle and crossed swords. If something didn’t change in a hurry…If something doesn’t change in a hurry, we’ve got another losing war on our hands, Dover thought.
He’d never been one who screamed, “Freedom!” at the top of his lungs and got a bulge in his pants whenever Jake Featherston started ranting. He’d voted Whig at every election where he could without putting himself in danger. But he had some idea what losing a second war to the USA would do to his country. He didn’t want to see that happen—who in his right mind did? Following Featherston was bad. Not following him right now, Jerry Dover figured, would be worse.
He stepped away from the field telephone, shaking his head, not liking the tenor of his thoughts. How could anybody in the Confederacy have thoughts he liked right now? You had to be smoking cigarettes the Quartermaster Department didn’t issue to believe things were going well.
Or you had to read the official C.S. Army newspaper. A quartermaster sergeant named Pete handed Dover a copy of the latest issue. It was fresh from the press; he could still smell the ink, and it smudged his fingers as he flipped through The Armored Bear.
If you looked at what the reporters there said, everything was wonderful. Enemy troops were about to get
blasted out of Georgia. A shattering defeat that will pave the way for the liberation of Tennessee and Kentucky, the paper called it. The Armored Bear didn’t say how or when it would happen, though. Soldiers who weren’t in Georgia might buy that. Jerry Dover would believe it when he saw it.
The Armored Bear spent half a column laughing at the idea that the damnyankees could threaten Birmingham. This industrial center continues to turn out arms for victory, some uniformed reporter wrote. A year earlier, the idea of U.S. soldiers anywhere near Birmingham really would have been laughable. C.S. troops were battering their way into Pittsburgh. They went in, yes, but they didn’t come out. Now the story sounded more as if the writer were whistling his way past the graveyard. Had the Yankees wanted to turn on Birmingham, it would have fallen. Dover was sure of that. They thought Atlanta was more important, and they had the sense not to try to do two things at the same time when they could make sure of one.
Photos of night-fighter pilots with gaudy new medals on their chests adorned the front page. The story under the photos bragged of air victories over Richmond, Atlanta, Birmingham, Vicksburg, and Little Rock. That was all very well, but why were U.S. bombers over all those towns?
And another story bragged of long-range rockets hitting Washington, Philadelphia, Pittsburgh (not a word about the great battle there the year before), and Nashville (not a word that Nashville was a Confederate city, either).
There is no defense against these weapons of vengeance. Traveling thousands of miles an hour, they strike powerful blows against the Yankee aggressors, the paper said. Soon improved models will reach New York, Boston, Indianapolis, and other U.S. centers that imagine themselves to be safe. Confederate science in the cause of freedom is irresistible.
Jerry Dover thoughtfully read that story over again. Unlike some of the others, it told no obvious lies. He hoped it was true. If the Confederates could pound the crap out of U.S. targets without wasting precious pilots and bombers, they might make the enemy say uncle. It struck him as the best chance they had, anyway.
In at the Death Page 3