Walk in Hell

better plan than any he’d come up with. Since most of his plans amounted to nothing more than finding the enemy and attacking him (not necessarily in that order), that did not say as much as it might have otherwise.

Unlike the general commanding First Army, MacArthur did his homework ahead of time. The map was not the only sheet of paper lurking in his breast pocket. Handing Custer a typewritten list, he said, “Here are the additional artillery requirements for the assault, sir, and other ancillaries as well.”

“See what you think of this, Major,” Custer said, and passed the sheet to Dowling. Precise control of details had never been his strong suit.

MacArthur puffed and puffed, blowing smoke into Dowling’s face as if it were phosgene gas. Dowling read rapidly through the list before turning to Custer. “Sir, he wants all the heavy artillery concentrated on his division’s front, and he also wants almost all of our barrels for the assault.”

“Moving the heavy artillery will take time,” Custer said, “especially with the roads as muddy as they have been lately. I’m sure we can move some of it, but asking for all asks for too much.”

“Even half the First Army reserve would probably be adequate,” MacArthur said. He was smarter than Custer had ever been, Dowling thought: he knew enough to ask for more than he really wanted, to help assure his getting at least that much. He couldn’t quite keep the eagerness from his voice as he asked, “And the barrels-?”

“Ah, the barrels.” Custer assumed a mournful expression. “I have to remind you, General, that I am under strict orders from the War Department not to concentrate the barrels in the manner you suggest. Approved doctrine requires keeping them widely spread along the entire length of the front.”

“But, sir-” Dowling closed his mouth a split second before it got him in trouble. Custer had argued ferociously for concentrating barrels in a mass. Why was he rejecting the idea when one of his subordinates had it?

After a moment, the major understood: Custer was rejecting the idea because one of his subordinates had had it. If a division-sized attack spearheaded by a swarm of barrels succeed, who would get the credit? Not Custer-Daniel MacArthur.

MacArthur said, “Once you let me proceed, sir, I can show those fools in Philadelphia the proper way to do things.”

Abner Dowling sighed. He was but a major; neither of the exalted personages under the awning even noticed. MacArthur couldn’t have said that worse if he’d tried for a week. Custer, as Dowling knew full well, despised those fools back in Philadelphia as much as any man alive. But when MacArthur said I can show, that meant Custer couldn’t show. Custer wanted victories, yes. Custer wanted Teddy Roosevelt reelected, yes. But, most of all, Custer wanted glory for George Armstrong Custer.

Almost sorrowfully, he said, “I wish I could help you more, General, but my own orders in this regard are severely inflexible. I may be able to furnish you with, oh, half a dozen extra barrels without having some pipsqueak inspector-general calling me on the carpet, but no more than that, I fear.”

“But, sir, nothing ventured, nothing gained,” MacArthur protested.

“I am venturing what I can, General, I assure you,” Custer said icily. “Yours is not the only division in the line. Will you prepare a revised attack plan conforming to the available resources, or will you stand on the defensive?”

“You’ll have it before the day is out, sir.” MacArthur’s voice held no expression whatever. Like a mechanical man, he saluted, spun, and stalked off.

Very softly, Custer laughed at his retreating back. Dowling stared at the general commanding First Army. Custer, here, knew just what he was doing-and he enjoyed it, too. You bastard, Dowling thought. You sneaky old bastard. Was that admiration or loathing? For the life of him, he couldn’t tell.

Roger Kimball peered avidly through the periscope. The fish was running straight and true. Suddenly, the U.S. destroyer realized it was under attack. Suddenly, it tried to turn away from the creamy wake the torpedo left. Suddenly, the torpedo struck just aft of amidships. Suddenly, a great pillar of smoke and flame rose into the air. The destroyer, broken in half, sank like a stone-like two stones.

Cheers filled the narrow steel tube that was the working area of the Bonefish, drowning out the echoes of the explosion that the water carried to the submersible. “Hit!” Kimball’s own bloodthirsty howl was but one among many.

He brought his eyes back to the periscope. Only a couple of boats bobbed in the Atlantic; the damnyankees hadn’t had time to launch any more. If he’d been a German submarine commander, he would have surfaced and turned the deck gun on them. The Huns played by hard rules. There were times when Kimball, feeling the full weight of the USA pressing down on him and his country, wanted to play that way, too.

Such thoughts went by the board in a hurry when, turning the periscope, he saw another destroyer running straight for him. His fierce joy curdled and went cold in the twinkling of an eye. “Dive!” he shouted. “Take us down to 150, Tom, and make it snappy!”

“Aye aye, sir, 150 feet,” his exec answered. Compressed air bubbled out of the buoyancy chambers; seawater gurgled in to take its place. Up on the surface, those bubbles would help the Yankee sailors figure out where he was, though they were liable to have a pretty good idea already, what with the course their fellow boat had been making and the way it had tried to escape his fish.

With more and more of the North Atlantic piled atop it, the hull of the Bonefish creaked and squealed. There were a couple of little drips where the seams weren’t perfectly tight, but they were in the old familiar places. Kimball didn’t worry much about them.

Through the hull, the noise of the engine and screw up above them was perfectly audible. No-engines and screws. Two boats were moving back and forth up there. “Leveling off at 150, sir,” Tom Brearley said, straightening the diving planes. In the dim orange light, his grin was almost satanic. “They aren’t what you’d call happy with us.”

“Ain’t been happy with them since we went to war,” Kimball replied, “or before that, either, you get right down to it. Them and us, we don’t-”

He broke off abruptly. Through the pounding drone of the destroyers’ engines, he’d heard another sound, the noise that might have come from a garbage can full of cement being flung into the ocean.

“Depth charge,” Ben Coulter said hoarsely. The veteran petty officer tried to make light of it: “Those damn things, most of the time they don’t work for beans.” A moment later, another splash followed the first.

“Give me eight knots, Tom, and change course to 270,” Kim-ball said.

“Changing course to two-seven-zero, sir, aye aye, and eight knots,” Brearley acknowledged, a certain amount of doubt in his voice. Kimball didn’t blame him. Eight knots used up battery power in a hurry, cutting deeply into the time the Bonefish could stay underwater.

Without much humor, Kimball tried to make a joke of it: “When the boys on top start throwing things at you, Tom, it’s time to get out from under ’em.”

“Well, yes, sir, but-” Brearley didn’t get any further than that, for the first depth charge exploded just then.

It was, Kimball supposed, something like being in an earthquake. It was also like standing inside a metal pipe while giants pounded on the outside of it with sledgehammers. Kimball staggered and smacked the side of his head against the periscope mounting. Something wet started running down his cheek. It was warm, not cold, so he supposed it was blood rather than seawater.

Men stumbled and cursed. The lights flickered. A few seconds later, the other depth charge went off. It was farther away than the first one, so it only felt like a big kick in the ass from an angry mule.

“Sir, on second thought, eight knots is a right good idea,” Brearley said.

“Everything still answer?” Kimball asked.

Brearley nodded. “Seems to, sir.”

“We got a new leak back here, sir,” one of the men in the black gang called from the engines toward the stern. “Don’t seem too bad, though.”

“It had better not,” Kimball answered. “Tom, take her down to 200. I want to put some more distance between us and them.”

“The leaks will get worse,” Brearley said, but that was more observation than protest. The bow of the Bonefish slanted down. If the leaks got a lot worse, Kimball knew he’d have to rise. No one shouted in alarm, so he kept quiet till Brearley said, “Leveling off at 200.”