Return Engagement (47 page)

When artillery failed to silence the Mormon machine gun, dive bombers paid it a call. They didn’t scream like Confederate Asskickers, but they flattened the house. The machine gun fell silent at last. U.S. soldiers, Armstrong among them, cautiously moved forward.

No one shot at them from the shattered house any more. But as they drew near, somebody stepped on a cunningly buried land mine. The man in green-gray screamed, but not for long—he’d been blown to red rags below the waist. And another machine gun a couple of hundred yards father back, whose crew seemed to have waited for just that, opened up on the Americans.

Armstrong didn’t know whether to shit or go blind. He threw himself to the ground, wondering if explosives hidden beneath it would blast him sky-high an instant later. Bullets stitched malevolently through the dirt all around him, kicking dust off the portholes of his gas mask. He crawled for the shelter of a rock. It wasn’t much shelter, because it wasn’t much of a rock. He gratefully took anything he could get.

Behind him, an American machine gun opened up. Bullets zipped over his head—not far enough over it, as far as he was concerned. They’d probably nail some of his buddies, not that the gunners would give a damn. He didn’t shed a tear when machine gunners got shot. They were almost as bad as snipers.

And they couldn’t knock out the Mormon machine gunners, which made them all the more worthless. He had no idea where or if the Mormons had done their basic training. Wherever it was, they all fought like ten-year veterans. They never showed much of themselves, they always had gun positions supporting other gun positions, and they didn’t seem to have heard of retreat. The only way U.S. soldiers moved forward was over their dead bodies.

Armstrong spotted Corporal Stowe sprawled behind another rock. He pointed toward the Mormons ahead—making sure he exposed no part of himself to their fire—and shouted, “Why can’t we turn these fuckers loose against the Confederates? They’d kick Featherston’s ass.” Through the mask, he sounded disembodied, unearthly.

“Tell me about it,” Stowe yelled back. “Only trouble is, they’d rather shoot us.”

“Yeah. I know.” Armstrong started digging in behind his rock. The corporal was only too right.

As usual, U.S. artillery went into action to try to neutralize the latest Mormon machine-gun nest.
Neutralize
was a nice, meaningless word. If you neutralized somebody, you just took him off the board like a captured checker. You didn’t blow his arm off halfway between the elbow and shoulder or drive red-hot metal shards through his balls or take off the top of his skull like the shell from a hard-boiled egg. Of course, he was trying to do all those charming things to you, too. You couldn’t afford to waste a lot of grief on him. Not wasting grief on him was what brought words like neutralize front and center.

The machine gun stopped shooting. Armstrong stayed right where he was. He’d seen soldiers play possum before. If you thought they were really down for the count, you’d pay for it. Armstrong’s goal in life was to make the other guy pay for it. So far, he’d managed.

He glanced over to Corporal Stowe. The two-striper wasn’t going anywhere, either. Armstrong just hoped some whistle-ass lieutenant wouldn’t order everybody forward. That would show whether the Mormons were fooling, all right—probably show it the hard way.

Before a junior officer could do anything stupid, some dumb kid did it for him, standing up so he could move toward the objective. Somewhere up the road was a town romantically called Thistle. That was about as good as naming a place Dandelion or Poison Ivy.

As the kid walked forward and a couple of other soldiers stood up to go with him, Armstrong hoped the artillery had got lucky. It could happen; a direct hit from a 105 would make even a sandbagged machine-gun nest say uncle.

Armstrong still sat tight. He wanted to see what was happening before he put his neck on the line. He didn’t always get the chance, but he wanted to. Then more trusting soldiers trotted forward. They carried their Springfields at the ready.
Fat lot of good it’ll do them,
Armstrong thought.

Fat lot of good it did them. The machine gun, very much unsubdued, opened up again. Several advancing soldiers fell. Others dove for cover.
Fools. Suckers,
went through Armstrong’s mind. He was no great brain, but he could figure out when somebody was lying in wait for him. Maybe some of the men who’d managed to take cover would learn that lesson now. The sorry bastards who’d stopped bullets wouldn’t get the chance.

Eventually, a barrel shelled the machine gun into silence. Armstrong scurried forward. Would Thistle be worth having once the Army finally took it? Not likely. And what would happen after that? They’d push on to Provo, where the Mormons would fight from house to house, and which was big enough to have a lot of houses. How many men would go through the grinder there? How many would come out the other side? And the most important question of all:
will I be one of them?

A
lec Pomeroy wrinkled his nose when he walked into the barn on his grandmother’s farm. “It smells like animal poop in here!” he said.

“Well . . . yes.” His mother fought not to laugh. To Mary Pomeroy, the smell of a barn was one of the most normal, natural things in the world. She’d grown up with it. Even now, she took it altogether for granted. But Alec was town-raised. Farm life and farm smells didn’t come natural to him. Mary said, “Don’t you like it?”

“No! Eww! It’s nasty! It’s disgustering!” Alec hadn’t quite learned how to say that, but he knew what he meant.

“Well, why don’t you go back to Grandma at the farmhouse, then?” Mary said. “If you ask her nicely, maybe—just maybe—she’ll let you have another piece of rhubarb pie.”

“Do you think so?” Alec’s eyes got big.

“You’ll never know till you try, will you?” Mary said. Alec was off like a shot.

Mary breathed a sigh of relief. She’d hoped the odor of the barn would be enough to get her son out of her hair for a little while. She didn’t need long. The old wagon wheel still lay in the same old place. Moving it took an effort, but not an enormous one. She scraped away the dirt under it, and then lifted up the flat board the dirt concealed.

Under the board was a hole her father had dug. Mary nodded to herself. She’d taken years to find that hole. No one else ever had. It had kept Arthur McGregor’s bomb-making tools safe, even though the Yanks had searched the farm at least a dozen times.

And now it would keep them safe again. Mary was carrying the biggest handbag she owned, one the size of a young suitcase. It was plenty big enough to hold the dynamite and blasting caps and fuse and crimpers and other specialized tools of the bomber’s trade.

She took them out of the purse and put them back in the hole from which she’d exhumed them years before.
You’re not going in there forever,
she thought,
only for a while.
Who could say whether Wilf Rokeby would tell the occupiers what he knew about her? If he decided she was the one who’d planted that flyer in the post office, he would. She wanted the evidence out of the way, just in case.

With the explosives and tools stowed once more, she replaced the board and pushed dirt and straw over it till it looked like the rest of the barn’s floor. Then the old wagon wheel went back where it belonged. She scuffed around the dirt where it had lain after she’d moved it, so that place looked ordinary, too.

Then she had to clean her hands as best she could on her skirt. Fortunately, it was beige, so the dust hardly showed. She looked around one more time. Satisfied she’d set everything to rights, she went back to the farmhouse herself.

As she always did, she felt as if she were falling back into her childhood when she went inside. But how had her mother got old? Maude McGregor’s hair was supposed to be as red as her own, not this dull, lifeless gray. And when had her back begun to bend?

Alec was devastating an enormous chunk of rhubarb pie. Mary’s mother looked up with a smile on her face. It slipped a little when her eyes met Mary’s. “Did you take care of whatever needed taking care of?” she asked.

Maude McGregor had never said much of anything about what Arthur McGregor had done. She’d known. Mary was sure of that. Her mother couldn’t have failed to know. But she’d got into the habit of keeping quiet, and she’d stuck with it. She’d never said much of anything about what Mary was up to, either. Plainly, though, she also knew about that—or knew enough, anyhow.

Mary nodded now. “Everything’s fine, Ma. Everything’s just fine.”

“Good,” her mother said. “Always nice to have you visit, dear. Don’t want to see any trouble. Don’t want to see any trouble at all. We’ve had enough, haven’t we? Come back whenever you need to.”

“Can I have some more pie?” Alec asked.

“If you eat any more pie, you’ll turn into a rhubarb,” Mary said. That was the wrong approach; Alec liked the idea. He would have liked it even better if he’d had any idea what a rhubarb looked like.

He’d eaten enough rhubarb pie and other things to fall asleep on the trip home. He hardly ever did that any more, however much Mary wished he would. He’d be grumpy when he woke up, grumpy and then bouncy. Mary knew he wouldn’t want to go to bed tonight. She’d worry about that later.
You sure will,
she told herself.

On the way back into town, the Oldsmobile bumped over the railroad tracks. Alec stirred and muttered, but didn’t rouse. Mary smiled to herself.
One of these days before too long . . . but not quite yet.

“I hope you told your mother hello for me,” Mort said when he got home that night.

“Of course I did,” Mary said.

“That’s good.” His smile was wide and genial, as usual. “I’m glad. You haven’t been out there for a while. Is she still all right by herself?”

With a parent getting older, that was always a worry, and Mary had noticed how the years were starting to lie heavy on her mother’s shoulders. Even so, she nodded. “For a while longer, I think. She hangs on. That farm is her life—that and her grandchildren.” For some reason, Alec wasn’t much interested in supper. Mary didn’t scold him, not after what she knew he’d put away.

Three days later, someone knocked on the door in the middle of the afternoon. When Mary opened it, she found herself facing a tall, skinny, swarthy officer in a blue-gray uniform. “Mrs. Pomeroy?” he asked in accented English. “I am Captain Brassens of the Army of the Republic of Quebec.” He touched one corner of the skinny black mustache that made him look like a cinema villain. Behind him stood four or five soldiers, Frenchies all.

“Yes?” Mary said. “And so? What do you want with me? I haven’t done anything.”

“It could be,” Captain Brassens said. “Or it could be otherwise. We shall see. Do you know a certain Mrs. Laura Moss, formerly Laura Secord, of Berlin, Ontario?”

“Never heard of her,” Mary said at once. Wilf Rokeby was throwing mud, then. She might have known. She
had
known.

Brassens’s raised eyebrow was Gallic almost to the point of self-parody. “You deny, then, that you posted to the said Mrs. Moss a package shortly before a bomb burst in her flat, killing her and her young daughter?”

“Of course I deny it,” Mary said. “I’ve never heard anything so ridiculous in all my born days.”

“This may be true. Or, on the other hand, this may be something other than true.” Captain Brassens turned to the men at his back and spoke to them in French. Mary knew next to nothing of what had been Canada’s other language. The soldiers showed her what their commander had said, though. They turned her apartment upside down.

“I don’t suppose you have a warrant,” she said as they got to work.

The Quebecois officer shook his head. “I have none. I need none. Military occupation takes precedence. You should know this.” He looked at her reproachfully, as if to say he might have to give her a low mark because of her ignorance. But she knew. She’d just wanted to get her protest on the record.

And she had one more protest to add: “I think it’s a crying shame you can do this to an innocent person who’s never done anybody any harm.”

“So you say,” Captain Brassens answered coldly. “But is it not true that your brother was shot for sabotage? Is it not true that your father was a notorious bomber who killed many? It could be that you are an innocent person. It could be, yes. But it also could be that you are not. We shall see.”

Wilf Rokeby must have been singing like a meadowlark in spring.
He has a yellow belly like a meadowlark, too,
Mary thought. “You can’t blame me for what my family did—and my brother never did anything,” she told Brassens. “Go ahead and look as much as you please. I’ve got nothing to hide.”
That’s the truth. I already hid it.

The soldiers were gentle with Alec. They didn’t let him interfere, but they didn’t smack him or even shout at him. He seemed to decide they were making a mess for the fun of it. To a little boy, that was a perfectly reasonable conclusion. He started throwing things around, too. The Frenchies thought that was funny.

After they’d done their worst, they reported back to Captain Brassens. They spoke French, so Mary didn’t know what they said. He asked them several sharp questions in the same language. After they’d answered, he turned to her and said, “
Eh bien,
it appears—it appears, mind you—that you have been telling the truth and someone else is the liar. We shall remember that.”

“I hope you do,” Mary said—raw relief helped her sound angry, the way she was supposed to. She drew herself up and glared at Captain Brassens. “And I hope you’ll have the common decency to apologize for being wrong.”

He stared steadily back at her. “I am sorry . . .” he began, and she could tell he meant,
I am sorry we did not catch you.
But then, after a pause, he finished, “. . . we have disturbed your tranquility. Good day.” He started to turn away.

“Wait,” Mary said. The Quebecois officer stopped in surprise. “There’s some of our stuff stored in the basement, too,” she told him. “If you’re going to do this to me, you might as well do everything at once.”