Walk in Hell

what might be his own destruction. He’d had to do that before, aboard the submersible-hunting trawler Spray. He didn’t think he’d get used to it if he had to do it a hundred times.

The Punishment’s guns bellowed. The deck quivered under Enos’ feet. He hoped the fellow at the rangefinder knew his business. No way to be certain, not with land and the twists of the river hiding the enemy from sight. Only smoke by which to gauge positions-it was a particularly deadly version of blindman’s buff.

Smoke spurted from the Punishment’s stacks. Now the monitor had to move quickly, either that or present a sitting target to its Confederate counterpart. Moving, though, was as likely to mean heading into the path of enemy fire as away from it. George wondered how Commander Heinrich, the skipper of the Punishment, chose which way to go. However he did it, he earned his money.

More shells from the Confederate gunboat splashed into the Mississippi. These were closer, so that some of the water they kicked up came raining down onto the deck of the Punishment. Enos wished he had his slicker from the Ripple.

Lieutenant Kelly, though, was grinning. “They haven’t straddled us,” he said. “Their next salvo will be long, and the one after that, if we’re lucky, longer yet. That gives us more time to find them and hit them.” He spoke as if that were all in a day’s work-and so, in fact, it was. George still hadn’t got used to the notion that, wearing this uniform, his day’s work involved killing people.

Boom! Boom! The guns in the Punishment’s turret replied to the Confederate fire. George hadn’t watched to see whether their muzzles had moved up or down or whether they thought they had the range. How, firing with only smoke to go by, would they know if they’d made a hit? By seeing more smoke, he supposed, or by having the enemy gunboat quit shooting at them.

It hadn’t quit shooting at the moment, worse luck. As Kelly had predicted, the next two shells were long. Enos waited anxiously for the salvo after that. How clever was the Rebel captain?

George had heard the Confederate shells roaring overhead before they splashed into the Mississippi. When the roar came again, he cringed at his machine gun: the shells screaming down sounded as if they were going to land on top of his head. “Brace yourselves, boys,” Lieutenant Kelly shouted through the screech of their descent. “They’re-”

One of them hit just to port of the Punishment, the other, half a second later, to starboard. The monitor staggered under Enos’ feet, as if it had fallen into a hole. But there were no holes in the Mississippi-or rather, there hadn’t been. That stagger was part of what knocked George off his feet. The rest was blast, which flung him against the side of the turret.

A fragment from the shell clanged off the turret about the same time as he hit it. A fresh, bright scar appeared on the metal, less than six inches above his head. He sucked in a breath, wondering if he’d feel the stab of a broken rib or two. To his relief, he didn’t.

Dazedly, he sat up and looked around. Lieutenant Michael Kelly hadn’t been so lucky as he was. There Kelly sprawled, cut almost in half by a piece of flying steel. To his horror, he saw the lieutenant’s eyes still had awareness in them. Kelly’s mouth moved, but only blood came from it. Then, mercifully, he slumped down dead.

And then, quite as if nothing had happened, the Punishment’s guns bellowed out a reply to the Confederate salvo. The crew might have been damaged, but the warship lived on. It would keep doing its job, too. George had an uneasy vision of a stream of men entering its hatches like beeves being driven into a slaughterhouse, the cannon firing, and out the far hatches coming, not steaks and ground meat, but coffins. But that would not matter to the ship. There would always be more men to feed into it, as there were always more men to feed into the trenches.

Across the water came a deep, low rumble, like thunder far away. For a moment, Enos thought it was the sound of the Confederate gunboat firing. But he hadn’t heard it when the other vessel’s previous salvos reached for the Punishment. The distant plume of smoke suddenly swelled enormously at the base.

“Hit!” somebody shouted. Somebody else yelled, “Blew the bastards to kingdom come!” George Enos started yelling, too. It was victory. Then he looked at Mike Kelly, or what was left of him, and at the gouge on the metal of the turret so close to where his own head had been. As easily as not, Kelly could have been alive and himself dead and mutilated. He yelled louder than ever.

Jefferson Pinkard was one of the lucky ones: he had a real seat in a real passenger coach on the troop train rumbling through the night somewhere in southern Georgia. If this is good luck, he thought, I don’t want to know what bad luck is like.

His backside and the base of his spine ached; the seat was bare wood. It might have been a car for whites too poor to afford even second-class fare, or it might have been reserved for Negroes. If Pinkard had had to ride in cars like this whenever he took the train, he might have risen up himself against the people who made him do it.

He couldn’t stretch his legs out, either; the space between his seat and the one in front of it was too narrow. It would have been too narrow even if he hadn’t been kitted out with a pack on his back and a rifle between his knees. As things were, he felt like a sardine jammed into its tin. His newly issued helmet, a low-crowned iron derby with a wide rim on the British model, added to that canned feeling.

What he didn’t feel much like was a soldier. They’d given him his uniform, they’d given him his Tredegar, they’d given him a couple of weeks’ screamed instruction at close-order drill and ri-flery, and then they’d hauled him and his training regiment out of the camp near Birmingham and put them on the train.

Even his drill instructors-ogres in human shape if ever there were any-hadn’t been happy about that. “Weren’t for them damn niggers, y’all’d be here another month, likely tell longer,” one of them had said when the orders arrived. “Y’all was goin’ up against the damnyankees, wouldn’t be a man jack of you left breathing in two weeks’ time. But they reckon y’all are good enough now to whip them Red niggers back into line.”

Pinkard turned to the raw private on the hard, cramped seat next to his: a skinny little fellow with spectacles who’d been a clerk in Dothan till the Conscription Bureau finally swept him up. “Stinky,” he said, “if them niggers was soldiers as lousy as they say, we’d have done licked ’em already, don’t you reckon?”

“My name,” Stinky Salley said in tones of relentless precision, “is Christopher.” He’d said the same thing in the same tone to the drill sergeants who’d rechristened him after he’d evaded bath call one evening. He’d kept on saying it even after they knocked him down-he had spirit, maybe more than his scrawny body could safely contain. It did no good; the nickname had stuck.

“Listen, Stinky,” Pinkard went on, “it stands to reason that-”

One of the soldiers who sprawled in the aisle between seats, somewhere between sitting and lying, spoke up: “Stands to reason somebody’s gonna kick your ass, you don’t shut the hell up and let him sleep if he’s able.”

Pinkard did shut up. He wished he could sleep. He was too uncomfortable. He wondered how he’d be when the train finally stopped. Probably shuffle around like a ninety-year-old man with the rheumatism, he thought.

The window three seats in front of his suddenly blew in, spraying glass around the car. He yelped when a piece stung his cheek. A warm trickle of blood began to flow. “What the hell-?” somebody yelled.

Another window blew out, this one behind him. He felt something-probably more glass-rebound from his helmet. Back there, a man started screaming: “Oh, Mother!” he wailed. “I’m hit! Oh, God! Oh, Mama!”

Realization smote. “They’re shooting at us, the sons of bitches-niggers in the night, I mean.”

He couldn’t do anything about it, either. He had no target at which to shoot. All he could do was sit there and hope the Red revolutionaries would miss him. That might have been worse than anything else about it-or so he thought till his squad leader, a dour corporal named Peter Ploughman, said, “Thank God they ain’t got but a rifle or two. You boys ain’t never seen what comes out of a train that done got chewed up by a machine gun.”

A couple of the men near the wounded soldier did what they could for him, which wasn’t much. The car held neither a doctor nor a medical orderly. Jeff had no idea how anybody who knew anything could have come from another car to the hurt man, not with the way soldiers had been shoehorned into this train. The poor fellow would have to suffer till it stopped.

And it wasn’t stopping. The reverse, in fact: it was speeding up, to escape the harassing fire from the brush by the tracks. In a speculative voice, Ploughman said, “How sneaky are them damn niggers, anyways? They tryin’ to