Walk in Hell

brave man, wouldn’t spoil them even if he was under attack. Moss knew what that took, since he’d piloted observation aircraft himself. He prepared to make the enemy pay for his courage.

He’d just fired his first burst when tracers streaked past him-not from the Avro, but from behind. Zach Whitby’s fighting scout tumbled out of the sky, not in any controlled maneuver but diving steeply, a dead man at the controls, flame licking back from the engine. Sure as hell, the Canucks had had a surprise waiting.

Moss threw his own aeroplane into a tight rolling turn to the right. He was more maneuverable than the two-seater on his tail, but the biplane kept after him, firing straight ahead. That wasn’t right-the enemy wasn’t supposed to have an interrupter gear yet. And they didn’t, but this enterprising chap had mounted two machine guns on his lower wing planes, outside the arc of the propeller. He couldn’t reload them in flight, but while they had ammo he was dangerous any way you looked at him.

Then, all at once, he wasn’t. Tom Innis knocked him down as neatly as he and his chums had ambushed Whitby. Then Innis and Dudley teamed up against one of the other aeroplanes, which caught fire and fell like a dead leaf.

Moss’ own turn brought him close to the decoy observation aircraft. The observer, done with photos now, blazed away at him from a ring-mounted machine gun. He fired a burst that made the observer clutch at himself and slumped the pilot over his joystick, dead or unconscious. If he was unconscious, he would die soon; his weight on the stick sent the aeroplane nosing toward the ground.

Jonathan Moss looked around for more foes. He found none. The last enemy two-seater had streaked away, and had gained enough of a lead while the Americans were otherwise engaged to make sure it would not be caught.

Got no guts, Moss thought with weary anger. But for himself and Dudley and Innis, the sky was clear of aircraft. He turned the nose of his Martin toward the aerodrome. Wonder what they’ll find us to fill the fourth cot in the tent. With Whitby dead, he knew he should have felt more, but for the life of him that was all his weary brain would muster.

Rain drummed down on the big canvas refugee tent. Here and there, it came through the canvas and made little puddles on the cold ground. One of the puddles was right in front of Anne Colleton’s cot. Unless she thought about it, she stepped right into the puddle when she got down.

A couple of little wood-burning stoves in the open space in the middle of the tent glowed red, holding the worst of the chill at bay. One of the women who made the dreary place her home looked at a watch and said, “Five minutes to twelve.”

A couple of women and girls murmured excitedly. Anne knew her own face remained stony. Who cared whether 1916 was only five minutes away? The one thing for which she could hope from the year to come was that it would be better than the one that was dying. She did not see how it could possibly be worse, but what did that prove? She was no longer so confident as she had been that she had such a good grasp on what might lie ahead.

“Come on,” said the woman with the watch-her name was Melissa. “Let’s sing ‘Auld Lang Syne.’”

Some of the women did begin to sing: softly, so as not to disturb those who had gone to sleep instead of staying up to see in the new year. Off in the distance, artillery rumbled, throwing shells at the territory still proclaimed to be the Congaree Socialist Republic, the territory that, shrunken though it was in the fighting of late, still included Marshlands.

Before the Red revolt, Anne could not have told that distant artillery from distant thunder, nor the crack of a Springfield from that of a Tredegar. She’d learned a lot, these past few weeks, and would have given a lot to unlearn it.

Melissa looked across the tent at her. “You’re not singing, Miss Colleton,” she said, her voice full of shrill complaint. She was plump and homely, and her hair must have stolen its golden sheen from a bottle, because the part of it closest to her head had grown out mouse-brown.

“That’s right. I’m not singing,” Anne replied. Take it or leave it, her tone said. She did not feel like being sociable. Unlike most of the women in the tent, unlike their male kin in other tents, she could have escaped the refugee camp any time she chose. But she could not make herself move any farther from Marshlands than she had to. She had food of a sort, shelter of a sort, clothing of a sort. Yes, she’d been used to better, but she was discovering better, while pleasant, was less than necessary. Here she would stay, till the rebellion collapsed-or till she strangled Melissa, which might come first.

The pale, pudgy woman with the two-tone hair certainly seemed to be trying to promote her own untimely demise. Glaring at Anne, she remarked, “Some people don’t seem to care about anyone but themselves.”

“Some people,” Anne said, relishing the chance to release the bile that had been gathering inside her ever since the Negro uprising began, “some people don’t care about anything except stuffing their faces full of sowbelly till they turn the same color as the meat and the same size as the hog it came from.”

She heard the sharp intakes of breath from all around the tent. “Here we go,” one woman said in a low voice to another. So they’d been expecting a fight, had they? They’d been looking forward to one? Anne had thought only of entertaining herself. But if she entertained other people, too…She showed her teeth in what was more nearly snarl than smile. If she entertained other people, too…that was all right.

Melissa’s mouth opened and closed several times, as if she were a fish out of water. “Weren’t for you damn rich folks, the niggers never would have riz up,” she said at last.

Two or three women nodded at that. Anne Colleton laughed out loud. Melissa couldn’t have looked more astonished had Anne flung a pail of water in her face. For about two cents, Anne would have, and enjoyed it, too.

“It’s the truth,” Melissa insisted.

“In a pig’s eye,” Anne replied sweetly. “It’s you who-”

“Liar!” Melissa squealed, her voice shrill. “If you’d have been born on a little farm like me, nobody would’ve ever heard of you.”

“Maybe,” Anne replied. “And if you’d been born at Marshlands, nobody would ever have heard of you, either.” A classical education came in handy in all sorts of unexpected ways. The jibe was so subtle, the eager listeners needed a moment to take it in. When they did, though, their hum of appreciation made the wait worthwhile.

Melissa needed longer than most of the women around her to understand she’d been punctured. When she did, she sent Anne a look full of hate. That look also had fear in it, as if she’d only now realized she might have picked a dangerous target. Proves you’re a fool, for not seeing it sooner, Anne thought, not that she’d been in any great doubt of that.

But Melissa did not back away from the argument. “Go ahead, make all the smart cracks you want,” she said, “but you rich folks, you-”

“Stop that,” Anne said coldly. “You talk like the Negroes with their red flags, pitting rich against poor. Are you a Red yourself?” Melissa didn’t have the brains to be a Red, and Anne knew it full well. But she also calculated the other woman would need some little while to find a comeback.

That calculation proved accurate. Melissa looked around the tent for support. When she saw she wasn’t getting any-no one there, for good and sufficient reasons, wanted anything to do with either Reds or even ideas possibly Red-she resumed her attack, though she had only one string on her fiddle: “Weren’t for you rich folks, niggers’d just stay in their place and-”

“What a pile of horseshit,” Anne said, drawing gasps on account of the language as she’d known she would. She’d also shocked Melissa into shutting up, as she’d hoped would happen. Into that sudden and welcome silence, she went on, “Yes, I’m rich. So what? If you ask me, it’s the way the po’ buckra”-she dropped into the Negro dialect of the Congaree for those two scornful words-“like you treat the Negroes that-”

Melissa surged to her feet. “Po’ buckra? Who are you calling white trash?”

“You,” Anne told her. “And I don’t need to give you the name, because you give it to yourself by the way you act. You’re the sort of person who treats a Negro like an animal, because if you treated him any different, he might think-and you might think-he was as good as you.”

She rose, too, as she spoke, and just as well, for Melissa rushed over to her, aiming a roundhouse slap at her face. As her brothers had taught her in long-ago rough-and-tumble, Anne blocked the blow with her left hand while delivering one of her own with her right. She didn’t slap, but landed a solid uppercut with a closed fist square on the point of Melissa’s chin.