Walk in Hell

green grass mingled with the brown of earth thrown up from shell blasts.

“Come on. Come on,” Moss whispered, his hand trying to move on the joystick as if he were landing his own aeroplane. Despite smoke and flames and what had to be mortal fear, Innis got the Martin down. You didn’t need much in the way of ground to kill all the speed and hop out. “Come on,” Moss said again as he buzzed overhead. “Taxi, taxi…”

The Martin nosed down into a shell hole and flipped over. It kept right on burning. Nobody came out of it. Nobody was going to come out. Moss knew that. If the fire hadn’t killed Tom, getting the engine and machine gun slammed back into his chest would have done the job.

Infantrymen in green-gray ran toward the crash. Moss and his flightmates kept circling above it. Some of the infantrymen, their faces small pale ovals, looked up at them and shook their heads. No luck. It was over.

Moss felt empty inside as he flew back toward the aerodrome. It could have been me echoed in his mind again and again. It nearly had been him, not so long before. What was the difference between the way he’d put his damaged aeroplane down and how Tom Innis had done it? Luck, nothing more. You didn’t like to think you were alive for no better reason than dumb luck. Was he an ace by dumb luck, too?

When only three returned where four had set out, the mechanics on the ground didn’t need a handbook to figure out what had happened. “What went wrong?” one of them asked quietly. Dud Dudley was the flight leader. That meant he had the delightful job of telling them.

The surviving fliers went into Shelby Pruitt’s tent. The squadron commander looked up from his paperwork. His mouth twisted. “Dammit,” he said, and then, mastering himself, “All right, give me the details.”

Dudley did that, too. When he was through, Moss spoke of the enemy barrels spreading havoc through the U.S. lines. That had seemed the most important news in the world when he’d spotted them. Now he had to flog his memory to come up with details.

Hardshell Pruitt took notes. He had to be a professional about the business of slaughter, too. He asked his questions, both about Innis’ demise and about the barrels. Then he said, “All right, boys. I don’t expect the three of you will be doing any flying tomorrow. Don’t worry about morning roll call, either, come to that. You’ll be recorded as present. Dismissed.”

If that wasn’t an order to head for the officers’ club and get smashed, it might as well have been. Moss would have headed there anyway. Dudley and Eaker matched him stride for stride.

News traveled fast through the aerodrome. When the Negro behind the bar saw them come in, he set a bottle of whiskey, a corkscrew, and three tumblers on the bar, nodded, and said not a word. It was almost as if he stood at the bedside of a patient whose chances weren’t good.

As suited his station as flight leader, Dud Dudley carried the bottle. Moss picked up the glasses. That left the corkscrew for Eaker, who brought it over to the table as if glad to have something to do.

Dudley used the corkscrew, tilted the bottle, and poured all the glasses full. “Well, here’s to Tom,” he said, and drained his without taking it from his lips. When it was empty, he let out a long sigh. “I always thought the ornery son of a bitch would be doing this for me, not the other way round.”

“Yeah.” The whiskey burned in Moss’ throat, and in his stomach. He could feel it climbing to his head. “He went out the way you’d figure, if he was ever going to go. He wanted to hit the Canucks and limeys one more lick.”

“That’s a fact.” Dudley filled the tumblers again. “He was a wolf when he drove a bus, nothing else but. Never saw a man who just aimed himself at the enemy and fired himself off like that.”

“Best straight-out aggressive pilot I ever saw,” Moss agreed. “And Luther was the best technical flier I ever saw. And they’re both dead and we’re alive, and what the hell does that say about the way the world works?”

“It’s a damn shame,” Eaker said. The whiskey was already slurring his speech, but he attacked the second glass as single-mindedly as Tom had ever shot up a target. “Not fair. Not fair.”

He’d joined the flight as Luther Carlsen’s replacement. Now another set of personal goods would have to be cleared from the tent. Somebody else new would be sleeping on Innis’cot. They’d have to point Tom out in the pictures on the wall and explain what kind of a man he’d been. It wouldn’t be easy, any of it.

“God damn the Canucks, anyhow,” Moss said. “If they’d just rolled over when the war started, we wouldn’t be in this mess in the first place.”

“That’s right,” Eaker said. “Then we could have thrown everything we’ve got at the goddamn Rebs, and that would be the war over and done with, right there.”

“Yeah, and if the Russians hadn’t invaded Germany when things got started, France would have gone down the drain and Kaiser Bill would have won his war, too,” Moss said. “But instead, we’ve got-this.”

He waved a hand to encompass this. It was the hand holding the glass of whiskey. Fortunately, he’d already drunk most of it. A little spilled on the table and on his trouser leg, but not much. He started to pick up the bottle to fill the tumbler once more. “It’s empty,” Dud Dudley said.

“You’re right. It is.” Moss stared at it. “How did it get empty so fast?” Before he could get up and do anything about that, the bartender brought over a fresh bottle. Moss nodded. His neck felt loose. “That’s better.”

“How did it get empty so fast?” Eaker echoed. He sounded even more surprised than Moss had, as if there weren’t the slightest connection between his stumbling speech and that poor dead bottle.

“It got empty the same way we did,” Moss said. “It got empty the same way the whole stupid world did.” Rapidly getting drunk as he was, he couldn’t tell whether that was foolish maundering or profound philosophy. The next day, hung over and wishing he was dead, he couldn’t tell, either, and the day after that, climbing into his one- decker for another flight above the trenches, he still didn’t know.

Night lay like a cloak over the Bonefish. “Ahead one quarter,” Roger Kimball called from his perch atop the conning tower.

“Ahead one quarter-aye aye, sir,” answered Ben Coulter, the helmsman, his voice floating up the hatchway to the skipper.

“If we bring this off, sir-” Tom Brearley breathed.

Kimball made a sharp chopping motion with his right hand, cutting off his exec. “We are going to bring this off,” he said. “No ifs, ands, or buts. I don’t care how many mines the damnyankees have laid in Chesapeake Bay, I don’t care how many shore guns they’ve got watching from Maryland. We are going to pay them a visit. If they aren’t glad to see us, too damn bad.”

“Yes, sir,” Brearley said, the only thing he could say under the circumstances. After a few seconds, he went on, “It’s a shame the USA pushed down so far toward Hampton Roads.”

“You’re right about that,” Kimball said. “If we were holding onto both sides of the mouth of the Bay as tight as we ought to…Things’d look a lot better if that was so, I tell you.”

There were, at the moment, any number of ways in which the war could have looked better from the Confederate point of view. Kimball wasted little time worrying about them. They’d given him the job of penetrating as far up the Chesapeake Bay as he could and doing as much damage as he could once he got there, and he aimed to follow his orders to the letter.

Softly, under his breath, he let out a snort. “As if they’d hand this assignment to Ralph Briggs.”

“Sir?” his executive officer said.

“Never mind, Tom,” Kimball answered. “Woolgathering, that’s all. And maybe there’s more to old Ralph than I give him credit for, anyway.”

He’d never expected to see Briggs back in the CSA till the war ended, not when he’d had his submersible torpedoed out from under him and been fished out of the drink by the damnyankees who did him in. But Briggs had managed to break out of the prisoner-of-war camp where they’d stowed him and to make it through enemy lines (or rather, to make it through some country so broken, it had no real front line) and back into Confederate territory. If he could run a submarine as well as he’d run his own escape, he might yet make a captain to be reckoned with.

Tom Brearley coughed, calling Kimball’s attention back to the here-and-now. “Sir, we’re passing between Smith Island and Crisfield.”

“Thank you, Tom,” Kimball said. “I guess we’ll have to start paying attention, then, won’t we?” Even in the midnight darkness, his grin and Brearley’s answering one were broad and white.

The USA had run steel-mesh nets from Point Lookout on the western shore of Chesapeake Bay over to Smith Island, and then again from the island to Crisfield on the Bay’s eastern shore, precisely to keep Confederate raiders