Walk in Hell

selling dust and spiderwebs. I’m surprised he’s able to get things from the USA, that’s all.” He rubbed his chin. “Maybe I’m not, not with all the soldiers he has in there. No, maybe I’m not. They’re getting things from him they likely can’t get straight from their own quartermasters.”

“I don’t like it,” Alexander said as they got into the wagon.

“Everybody’s got to eat,” Arthur McGregor repeated. “Rokeby the postmaster sells those occupation stamps with ugly Americans on them, because those are the only stamps the Yankees let him sell. That doesn’t make him bad; he’s just doing his job. Weren’t for the Yankees buying our crop last fall, I don’t know what we’d be doing for cash money right now.”

That produced an uncomfortable silence, which lasted for some time. None of the McGregors cared for the notion of the United States as an entity with which they and their countrymen did business, and upon which they depended. But whether you cared for the notion or not, it was true.

When they got back to the farmhouse, the front door was open. Maude spotted it first. “Arthur,” she said reproachfully, “all the heat will have gone out of the house.” McGregor started to deny having failed to shut it, but he’d ducked back inside for his mittens after everyone else was in the wagon, so it had to have been his fault.

So he thought, glumly, till a man in green-gray walked out onto the front porch and pointed at the wagon. Several more U.S. soldiers, all of them armed, came running out of the house. “What are they doing here?” Alexander demanded, his voice quivering with indignation.

“I don’t know,” McGregor answered. Some of the Yankees were aiming rifles at him. He made very sure they could see both his hands on the reins.

The man who’d first spotted the wagon walked toward it. He wore a captain’s bars on each shoulder strap. “You are Arthur McGregor,” he said in a tone brooking no denial. He pointed. “That is your son, Alexander.”

“And who the devil are you?” McGregor asked. “What are you doing in my house?”

“I don’t have to tell you that,” the captain said, “but I will. I am Captain Hannebrink, of Occupation Investigations. We have uncovered a bomb on the railroad tracks, and arrested some of the young hotheads responsible for it. Under thorough interrogation”-which probably meant torture-“more than one of them named Alexander McGregor as an accomplice in their vicious attempt.”

“It’s a lie!” Alexander said. “I never did anything like that!”

Captain Hannebrink pulled a scrap of paper from his breast pocket. “Are you acquainted with Terence McKiernan, Ihor Klimenko, and Jimmy Knight?”

“Yes, I know them, but so what?” Alexander said. Arthur McGregor knew them, too: boys his son’s age, more or less, from nearby farms. He knew Jimmy and Ihor were hotheads; he hadn’t been so sure about the McKiernan lad.

“Do you deny having joined with them in discussing subversion and sabotage?” Hannebrink went on, all the more frightening for being so matter-of-fact.

“No, I don’t even deny that,” Alexander said. “I’m a patriot, the same as any good Canadian. But I never knew anything about a bomb on the tracks, and that’s the truth.”

The American captain shrugged. “We’ll find out what the truth is. For now, you’re coming with us.” A couple of his soldiers gestured with their rifles. Alexander had no choice. He scrambled out of the wagon and walked with them to a big motor truck they had waiting behind the barn. Its engine roared to life. It rolled away, back toward Rosenfeld.

Arthur McGregor stared after it till it was no more than a black speck. Alexander had been talking about the railroad that very morning, but his father still thought he had kept the promise he’d made. That Alexander’s keeping the promise might not matter hadn’t occurred to him, not till now, not till too late.

Jonathan Moss looked down from several thousand feet on a yellow-green cloud of gas rolling from the American line toward the defensive positions the British and Canadians were holding. Chlorine was heavier than air. None of it, surely, had any way of reaching him here, more than a mile up in the sky. In any case, the goggles he was wearing against the wind would have given his eyes some protection against the poison gas. They stung in spite of that, and he felt like coughing.

He shook his head, annoyed at himself. “If the cook takes the head off a chicken, you don’t get a pain in the neck,” he said. The roar of the engine drowned the words, while the slipstream blew them away.

Artillery thundered down onto the Canucks and limeys in the wake of the gas. Some of the shells ripped through the air alarmingly close to his Martin single-decker. Those near misses made the aeroplane buck like a poorly broken horse. Accidental hit…You didn’t want to think about an accidental hit. Odds are against it, Moss told himself very firmly.

Sure as sure, the Canucks and the English soldiers who helped fill their trenches were catching hell. Whenever their long, slow retreat moved them back into another town, they fought harder than ever. Now they were trying to hold on to Acton, a no-account little place a few miles east of Guelph. Acton had been no-account, anyhow. Now its name was going into the history books in letters of blood.

When the artillery let up, Americans swarmed out of their trenches and rushed across fields, some snow- covered, others brown-black with mud, toward the enemy line. Watched from high in the sky, it looked as if God’s hand were moving pieces on an enormous board: more like chess than war.

One thing neither God nor gas nor shelling had managed was to sweep all the Canucks and limeys from that board. Machine guns began winking from redoubts of timber and sandbags. Between them came flashes of rifle fire. From his lofty perch, Moss saw the American advance falter.

He also saw Dud Dudley wagging his wings up ahead of him. The flight was supposed to support the infantry attack on Acton. Dudley put the nose of his fighting scout down and dove on the enemy trenches. Tom Innis followed. So did Moss, the wind howling past the wires supporting his wings. So did Phil Eaker, who had replaced Zach Whitby, who had replaced Luther Carlsen, who had probably replaced…

Moss didn’t want to think about that, either. He was a replacement here, too, even if he’d been in the war from the beginning. Instead, he thought about the rapidly swelling scene below. Yes, the attack had bogged down, sure as the devil. The artillery hadn’t cut enough wire in front of the enemy trenches to give the Americans decent avenues to close with their foes. The United States had come as far as they had in Canada on the strength of overwhelming numbers. If they kept throwing men away at this rate, their numbers wouldn’t stay overwhelming forever.

“That’s what I’m here for,” Moss said. “To get rid of some numbers on the other side.”

He squeezed the firing button for his machine gun. Tracers let him guide the stream of bullets down the trench ahead of him as he roared over it at treetop height. The way the khaki-clad soldiers scattered before him made him feel treetop tall himself, as firing at men on the ground always did. He felt like a boy in short pants, amusing himself by stepping on bugs.

If you fooled with the wrong bug, though, you were liable to get stung. And the soldiers in the traverses, which ran perpendicular to his line of fire, blazed away at him instead of scattering. He laughed, as he would have laughed stepping on a bee while wearing shoes. They’d have a hell of a time hurting him: how could they draw a bead on a target streaking past at almost a hundred miles an hour?

Thwump! A bullet passing through canvas made a noise like a drumstick tapping on a rather loose drumhead. A lot of bullets were in the air. Some, dammit, would touch the aeroplane. He’d found that out in scraps with the limeys and Canucks, right at the start of the war. It was unnerving (thwump!), but you could put a lot of holes in an aeroplane’s canvas and it would keep on flying. Thwump!

Clang! He swore. That wasn’t canvas, that was the engine. His oil pressure began to drop. Maybe, he thought hopefully, the bullet had only damaged the pump mechanism. He had a hand squeeze- bulb to augment that; the pump was often balky. He couldn’t shoot and work the squeeze-bulb at the same time. When he stopped shooting to work the bulb, the pressure kept dropping. It wasn’t the pump mechanism. A fine mist of oil started coating his goggles. He could leave them on and not see well from oil…or take them off and not see well from the breeze.

Clang! “That’s not fair!” he shouted angrily. Fair or not, the damage the second bullet had done was immediately obvious. A plume of hot water from the radiator rained back on him.

He turned back toward the U.S. lines and put the Martin into a steep climb, figuring he’d need all the altitude he could get before-No sooner had the thought crossed his mind than the engine started dying. He throttled back for a moment, to see whether it would run better at low revs.