Return Engagement (15 page)

The Mules didn’t, of course, but that bellowed defiance made him feel better. He pulled his .45 out of its holster and banged away at the Confederate dive bombers. That also did no good at all. He consoled himself by thinking that it might. He wasn’t the only one shooting at the airplanes. Several other soldiers were doing the same. Every once in a while, he supposed they might bring one down by dumb luck. Most of the time, they didn’t.

Then the bombs fell from the Mules’ bellies. The airplanes leveled off and zoomed away. Blast picked Dowling up and slammed him down on the dirt as if it were a professional wrestler with the strength of a demon. “Oof!” he said. He tasted blood. It ran down his face, too. When he raised a hand, he discovered it came from a bloody nose. It could have been worse.

A few feet away, Max Litvinoff was trying to get his feet under him. By his dazed expression, he might have taken a right to the kisser. Missing glasses accounted for some of that. Without them, he looked even more confused than he was. He also had a bloody nose, and a cut on one ear that dripped more blood down onto the shoulder of his uniform tunic.

Dowling pointed. “Your spectacles are a couple of feet to the left of your left foot, Captain.”

“Thank you, sir.” Litvinoff plainly had to think about which foot was his left. He groped around on the grass till he found the eyeglasses, then set them on the bridge of his beaky nose. He peered over at Dowling with a worried frown. “I’m afraid I must have suffered some sort of head injury, sir. You look clear enough through one eye, but with the other one I might as well not have the glasses on at all.”

“Captain, if you check them, I think you’ll discover that you’ve lost one lens,” Dowling said.

Litvinoff raised a shaky forefinger. When he almost poked himself in the left eye, he said, “Oh,” in a small, wondering voice. After a moment, he nodded. “Thank you again, sir. That hadn’t occurred to me.” Another pause followed. “It should have, shouldn’t it? I don’t believe I’m at my best.”

“I don’t believe you are, either,” Dowling said. “Unless I’m wrong, you got your bell rung there. If that bomb had hit a little closer, the blast might have done us in.”

“Yes.” Litvinoff looked down at himself. He seemed to realize for the first time that he was bleeding. The damage wasn’t serious, but at the moment he was unequipped to do anything about it.

Dowling plucked a handkerchief from his own trouser pocket and dabbed at the younger man’s nose and at his cut ear. “That’s definitely a wound, Captain. I’ll write you up for a Purple Heart.”

“A Purple Heart? Me?” That needed a while to penetrate, too. Dowling suspected Litvinoff’s likely concussion was only part of the reason. The gas specialist had done most of his work at the War Department offices back in Philadelphia. Thinking of himself as a front-line soldier wouldn’t seem easy or natural. Slowly, a smile spread across his face as the idea sank in. “That will impress people, won’t it?”

“Provided you live long enough to show off your pretty medal, yes,” Dowling answered. “I’ll be damned if I know how good your chances are, though.”

As if to underscore his words, Confederate shells began landing a few hundred yards away. The bursts walked closer. “No special weapons in any of those,” Captain Litvinoff said distinctly. Concussed or not, he still knew his main business.

“Happy day,” Dowling said. “They can kill us anyway, you know.” Litvinoff looked astonished again. That hadn’t occurred to him, either. Abner Dowling wished it hadn’t occurred to
him.

P
roperly speaking, Armstrong Grimes hadn’t had enough training to go into combat. After the Confederates bombed Camp Custer, nobody seemed to worry about anything like that. He had a uniform. They gave him a Springfield all his own. True, he was still missing some of the finer points of the soldier’s art. The theory seemed to be that he could pick those up later. If he lived.

Getting bombed had gone a long way toward clearing notions of immortality from his head. The first bullet that cracked past his head missed him but slew several more illusions. Bombs fell out of the sky, the way rain or snow did. That bullet had been different. That bullet had been
personal.
He’d dug his foxhole deeper as soon as it flew by.

West Jefferson, the town he and his fellow frightened foot soldiers were supposed to defend, lay about fifteen miles west of Columbus. It was on the south bank of Little Darby Creek, and had probably been a nice place to live before the Confederates started shelling it. Brick houses from the nineteenth century stood side by side with modern frame homes. When shells hit the brick houses, they crumbled to rubble. When shells hit the frame homes, they started to burn. Six of one, half a dozen of the other, as far as Armstrong could see.

Up ahead, something that might have been a man in a butternut uniform moved. Armstrong Grimes still had a lot to learn about being a soldier, but he understood shooting first and asking questions later. He raised the Springfield to his shoulder, fired, worked the bolt, and fired again.

Maybe he’d hit the Confederate soldier. Maybe the fellow flattened out and took cover. Or maybe there hadn’t been a Confederate soldier in those bushes to begin with. Any which way, Armstrong saw no more movement. That suited him fine.

His company commander was a pinch-faced, redheaded captain with acne scars named Gilbert Boyle. “Keep your peckers up, boys!” Boyle called. “We’ve got to make sure Featherston’s fuckers don’t ford the creek.”

A corporal named Rex Stowe crouched in a foxhole about ten feet from Armstrong’s. He was swarthy, unshaven, and cynical. A cigarette dangled from one corner of his mouth. It jerked up and down as he said, “Yeah, keep your pecker up. That way, Featherston’s fuckers can shoot it off you easier.”

The mere thought made Armstrong want to drop his rifle and clutch himself right there. He’d seen a lot of horrible things since the war started. He hadn’t seen
that
yet, for which he thanked the God in Whom he believed maybe one morning in four.

A submachine gun stuttered, somewhere not far away. Bullets stitched up dirt and grass in front of Armstrong. Then, when the burst went high the way they always did, more rounds clipped twigs from the willow tree behind him. He tried to disappear into his foxhole. It wasn’t big enough for that, but he did his damnedest.

Stowe fired a couple of times in the direction from which the burst had come. More submachine-gun fire answered him. He curled up in his hole, too. “I think everybody in the whole goddamn Confederate Army carries an automatic weapon,” he growled, a mixture of disgust and fear in his voice.

“Seems that way,” Armstrong agreed. “There’s always more of us, but they put more lead in the air.”

After another burst of fire, this from a new direction, a Southern voice called, “You Yankees! y’all surrender now, get yourselves out o’ the fight, make sure y’all live through the war!”

“No,” Captain Boyle shouted back, and then, “Hell, no! You want us, you come get us. It won’t be as easy as you think.”

“You’ll be sorry, Yank,” the Confederate answered. “Sure you don’t want to change your mind? . . . Going once . . . Going twice . . . Gone! All right, you asked for it, and now you’ll get it.”

Armstrong’s father went on and on about Confederate attacks during the Great War, about artillery barrages and then thousands of men in butternut struggling through barbed wire toward waiting machine guns and riflemen. Merle Grimes had a Purple Heart and walked with a cane. Armstrong thought he was a blowhard, but he’d never figured his old man didn’t know what he was talking about.

These Confederates, though, had a different set of rules—or maybe just a different set of tools. Instead of an infantry charge to clear the U.S. soldiers out of West Jefferson, four barrels rattled forward.

Foot soldiers ran along with the machines, but Armstrong hardly noticed them. He started shooting at the lead barrel. His bullets threw off sparks as they ricocheted from the frontal armor. For all the harm they did, he might as well have been throwing peaches.

“Where’s our barrels?” he shouted. It was, he thought, a hell of a good question, but no one answered it.

Behind an oak tree, three artillerymen struggled to make a 1.5-inch antibarrel gun bear on the Confederate machines. “Fire!” yelled the sergeant in charge of the gun. The shell exploded between two of the barrels. The gun crew reloaded. The sergeant shouted, “Fire!” again. This time, they scored a hit. As flame and smoke spurted from a barrel, the artillerymen whooped in delight.

They didn’t enjoy their triumph long. Two of the surviving barrels turned their machine guns and cannon fire on them. The splinter shield on their piece wasn’t big enough to protect them. Down they went, one after another. Armstrong didn’t know what artillerymen learned while they trained. Whatever it was, it didn’t include much about taking cover. Shell fragments hissed and squealed through the air, right past his head.
He
sure as hell ducked.

On came the three remaining Confederate barrels. They looked as big as houses to Armstrong. The soldiers who advanced with them also shot and shot and shot, making the U.S. defenders keep their heads down. Some of the C.S. foot soldiers carried submachine guns. Others had automatic rifles, which were even nastier weapons. Submachine guns fired pistol cartridges of limited range and hitting power. But an automatic rifle with a round as powerful as a Springfield’s . . . that was very nasty news indeed.

“Hang tough, men!” Captain Boyle shouted. “We can stop them!”

The Confederate barrels shelled the houses on the south side of town. They knocked down a couple of them and started several new fires. Coughing at the smoke, Armstrong didn’t think they accomplished much else.

In spite of Captain Boyle’s commands, U.S. soldiers started slipping back towards and over Little Darby Creek. West Jefferson didn’t seem worth dying for. Facing barrels and infantrymen with automatic weapons when they had none of their own looked like a bad bargain to more and more men.

“How long you going to stick, Corporal?” Armstrong asked. He figured he could honorably leave when Rex Stowe pulled out.

Stowe didn’t answer. Armstrong looked over to his foxhole, fearing the noncom had stopped a bullet while he wasn’t looking. But the foxhole was empty. Stowe had already decided this was a fight the U.S. Army wouldn’t and couldn’t win.

“Shit,” Armstrong muttered. “You might have told me you were bugging out.”

Escaping was harder than it would have been five minutes earlier. With the barrels and the Confederate foot soldiers so close, getting out of his foxhole was asking to get killed. Of course, staying where he was was liable to be tough on living to get old and gray, too.

Captain Boyle kept on yelling for everybody to stand his ground. “Screw you, Captain,” Armstrong muttered. He looked back over his shoulder. If he ran like hell, he could get around the corner of that garage before anybody shot him—as long as he was lucky.

He didn’t feel especially lucky. But he did feel pretty damn sure he’d get his head blown off if he hung around. Up! Run! Pounding boots. Bullets kicking up dirt around his feet. One tugging at his trouser leg like the hand of a friend. Others punching holes in the clapboard ahead. But none punching holes in him.

Panting, trotting along all doubled over to make himself a small target, he headed for the creek. He knew where the ford was. That had to be why the Confederates wanted West Jefferson. Soldiers could cross Little Darby Creek damn near anywhere. It wasn’t so easy for barrels. They couldn’t swim. They couldn’t even wade all that well. They had to have shallow water to cross.

Captain Boyle had stopped yelling about standing fast. Maybe he’d seen the light. Maybe he was too dead to grumble any more. Either way, Armstrong didn’t have to worry about disobeying orders now. He was going to do it, but he didn’t have to worry.

The creek was crowded with men in green-gray floundering across to the north bank. Some of them carried their Springfields above their heads. Others had thrown away the rifles to get across faster. The discarded Springfields lay here and there on the south bank, the sun now and then glinting from a bayonet. Armstrong thought about throwing away his piece. In the end, he hung on to it. The Confederates were going to cross the creek, too, sure as hell they were. He’d need the rifle on the other side.

He hurried down toward the ribbon of water. He was only about thirty feet from the creek when a Confederate fighter skimmed along it, machine guns chattering with monstrous good cheer. Armstrong threw himself flat, not that that would have done him a hell of a lot of good. But the fighter pilot was shooting up the men already floundering across Little Darby Creek. They couldn’t run, they couldn’t hide, and they couldn’t fight back. All they could do was go down like stalks of wheat before a harvester’s blades.

The Hound Dog fighter roared away. Armstrong lifted his head out of the dirt. Bodies floated in the water. Next to them, men who hadn’t been hit—and who had and who hadn’t was only a matter of luck—stood as if stunned. Little Darby Creek ran red with blood. Armstrong had heard of such things. He’d never imagined they could be true.

But he couldn’t afford to hang around here staring, either, not with C.S. soldiers and barrels coming up behind him any minute now. He scrambled to his feet and ran for the water. He splashed into it. It was startlingly cold. The stream came up to his belly button at the deepest. If the Hound Dog came back while he was fording it, he was likely a dead man. If he didn’t ford it, though, he was also a goner.

He got across and, dripping, dashed for the bushes on the far bank. He flopped down behind them. Not ten feet away lay Corporal Stowe, rifle pointed toward the south. Out of curiosity just this side of morbid, Armstrong asked, “What would you have done if I’d kept going?”

Stowe didn’t waste time pretending to misunderstand him. “Shot you in the back,” he answered laconically.

“Figures,” Armstrong said. He peered through the undergrowth, then stiffened. “Here they come.” Sure as hell, the men approaching Little Darby Creek wore butternut and had on helmets of slightly the wrong shape. He drew a bead on a Confederate and squeezed the trigger. Down went the soldier in a boneless sprawl.
Got that bastard,
Armstrong thought, and swung the rifle towards a new target.