The aeroplane had spotted the Bonefish, too, and came in for a closer look at her. Kimball understood that; he’d come to the surface too recently to have run up a Confederate naval jack on the conning tower or at the stern.
Kimball waved to the pilot. The fellow waved back. He was close enough for Kimball to see—and to distrust—his smile. Kimball smiled, too, as he would have at a poker table. Through that smile, he said, “Mr. Brearley, go below, but don’t make a big fuss about doing it. Order the machine-gun crew topside. Tell them to act as friendly toward that goddamn aeroplane as they can—and if he gives them half a chance, even a quarter of a chance, I want them to shoot his ass off.”
“Aye aye, sir,” Brearley said. “Shall I have some other men come up on deck, too, to gawk at the aeroplane and keep the pilot from paying attention to the gunners?”
“Yeah, do that, Tom.” Kimball nodded. Without noticing, he slipped back into the informal address common aboard submersibles. Now that the exec had made a good suggestion, he tacitly forgave him.
Brearley slipped below. If the pilot of that aeroplane didn’t like it, all he had to do was turn around and fly away. He didn’t. He came around for another pass close by the Bonefish: he was still trying to figure out to whose navy she belonged.
Out came the sailors. They pointed at the aeroplane and waved to the pilot and generally acted as much like damn fools as they could. Some of them were alarmingly good at the role. The pilot waved back. He was spiraling higher into the sky now. Maybe he’d satisfied himself that the Bonefish was a U.S. boat. In that case, he was a damn fool. Or maybe, like everybody else in this little charade, he was sandbagging.
Nobody had fired the machine gun aft of the conning tower at a real target since the Bonefish went up the Congaree River to help put down the Red uprising among the Negroes almost a year and a half before. It burst into noisy, staccato life now, tracers drawing hot orange lines in the direction of the U.S. flying machine.
Something fell from between the aeroplane’s floats. Kimball yipped with triumphant glee, thinking the gunners had damaged the Yankee aircraft. A couple of his men cheered, too.
But someone yelled “That’s a bomb!” an instant before it smashed down into the sea and exploded a few yards in front of the Bonefish’s bow. A great column of water and spray rose and then fell, drenching the sailors farthest up the hull and even splashing a little water into Kimball’s face.
He swiped a sleeve across his eyes, then stared up toward the U.S. aeroplane with a new and startled respect. If it had another bomb…He was about to shout orders for a crash dive when the aeroplane flew off in the direction from which it had come.
“That son of a bitch,” he said indignantly. “That son of a bitch. He’d hit us square there, he’d have sunk us.” He shook his fist at the receding aeroplane. “I didn’t know the damnyankees were putting bombs aboard those things these days. Can’t trust anybody any more.”
“I expect we gave him a nasty surprise, too,” Tom Brearley said.
“Hope to Jesus we did,” Kimball said. “But putting a bomb on one of those scout aeroplanes—war just got a little tougher. Having ’em flying around and spying on us is bad enough. If they can hurt us once they spot us instead of sending for their pals on the wireless—well, hell, if they can do that, how are we supposed to do what we’re supposed to do?”
“We need a proper antiaircraft gun, sir, a one-pounder, not just the machine gun,” Brearley said.
Kimball nodded. That might help. It wasn’t the answer, though. For the life of him, he didn’t know what the answer was.
Sylvia Enos was discovering that Brigid Coneval had been right: Boston held plenty of jobs. A lot of them paid better than the one she’d had in the canning plant, too. In the time since she last looked for work, wages had risen sharply. Her own had gone up, too, but not by so much. The more she saw what others were getting, the more she kicked herself as a fool for not quitting sooner.
She also discovered many more jobs were open to women than had been true when she got work after George went into the Navy. She didn’t see any women in overalls with pickaxes and sledgehammers on road-paving crews, but that was about the only limitation she found.
“Reason for quitting previous position?” a—female—clerk asked at a shoe factory.
“Both my children came down with chicken pox at the same time,” she answered, as she’d answered several times already. She looked for a sympathetic glance from the clerk, who wore a wedding band, but got nothing but the Well, where’s the rest of it? expression a bored man might have used. A bit nonplused, she went on, “I didn’t have anyone else who could watch them, and the canning plant wouldn’t hold the job for me—they could hire someone without any experience and pay her less.”
That still rankled. They’d used her, and then they went and threw her away with no more hesitation than if she’d been a torn label. Massachusetts, despite agitation, did not let women vote. If it had, Sylvia would have voted Socialist without a moment’s hesitation.
“Except for that, will this plant give you a good character?” The clerk made as if to reach for the telephone on her desk.
“Yes, I think so,” Sylvia said.
The clerk did not pick up the earpiece and ask for the operator. Sylvia smiled to herself. The woman had wanted to see if she’d been lying and could be panicked into revealing it. After scribbling a note to herself, the woman said, “You do know how to use a sewing machine?”
“Oh, yes.” Sylvia nodded. “I’m like most people, I suppose. I have one at home, and I use it when I have the time. I buy some ready-to-wear, but making clothes for myself and the children saves a lot of money.”
She’d done a lot of sewing while she was home with George, Jr., and Mary Jane. She’d sewn, and she’d taken care of the children, and she’d read the books and magazines in the apartment till she could have recited chunks of them from memory. She’d got out very little. She was hard pressed to remember when she’d felt more delight than that which filled her when her children’s blisters got crusty and scabbed over and the scabs started falling off.
“Have you ever sewn leather with a sewing machine?” the hiring clerk asked.
Sylvia shook her head. If she lied there, she would be too easily found out. “No, I’ve never done anything like that,” she admitted.
“Well, come try it,” the clerk said. “I’m sure we’ll be able to find you an empty machine.” She got up from her desk. “Follow me, please.”
Back in the enormous work area, little old men—too old to be conscripted—sat hunched over about a third of the sewing machines. Women of all ages used the rest. The men, with only a couple of exceptions, ignored Sylvia, so intent were they on their work. Most of the women looked her over, curious as she would have been to see who might be hired next.
“Here,” the clerk said, pointing to a machine with no one at it. “Let me find you a couple of leather scraps, and you can see what it’s like.”
The stool behind the sewing machine had no back and was not very comfortable, but it was an improvement over standing all day, which Sylvia had been doing before. When she stretched out her right leg to set her foot on the treadle, she got a surprise.
“We have electric motors on the machine,” the clerk said, seeing what must have been the startled look on her face. “It lets the operators work much faster on thick leather like this than they could with foot-powered machines. You’ll see what I mean.” She handed Sylvia two pieces of shoe leather. “Join these together with two straight seams about a quarter-inch apart.”
“All right,” Sylvia said. Sure enough, the sewing machine had a switch near the base. She flicked it, and the motor hummed to life. Before guiding the pieces of leather under the needle, she noted how sturdy it was, and how strong and thick the thread that went through the eye.
As she started to sew, her right foot went up and down, up and down, even though it wasn’t on a treadle. The hiring clerk smiled.
“A lot of girls do that when they first come here,” she said. “Some of them keep right on doing it even after they’ve worked here for years.”
“Do they?” Sylvia hardly noticed answering, because the needle snarled into action. The motor was strong as the very devil; she felt as if she were riding a poorly broken horse. The needle seemed to bite its way through the leather with every stitch the machine took. She’d hurt herself once or twice with her own sewing machine—she didn’t want to think what this one would do to her hand if she slipped or got careless.
She knew nothing but relief when she turned off the machine and handed the clerk her sample work. The woman examined it, then slowly nodded. “That’s very nice,” she said. “Even, straight. You can do the work, no doubt about it. Starting pay is fifty cents an hour. You go up to fifty-five after three months.”
That was more money than she’d been making at the cannery. “What time does the shift start tomorrow morning?” she asked.
“Eight o’clock,” the hiring clerk answered. “Eight o’clock sharp. You’re docked for every minute you’re late, and for every minute you clock out early.”
“I didn’t expect anything different,” Sylvia answered. This place looked to be like all the others. They wanted everything from the people they were generous enough to hire—that was how they’d look at it, anyhow—but what would they give back? What had the canning plant given back? Only a swift good-bye.
Still, at fifty cents an hour—fifty-five if she stayed—she’d soon make up for the time she’d lost taking care of the children. Fifty cents an hour plus the allotment she got from George’s pay was pretty good money. It was more money than she’d ever imagined making for herself. It would have been more money still had prices not risen right along with, and sometimes faster than, wages.
She got reminded how prices had gone up when she stopped at the Coal Board offices on the way home from the shoe factory. Being able to go without having the children along was an unusual blessing. The Coal Board was bureaucracy at its most plodding, and George, Jr., and Mary Jane did not take well to waiting in interminable lines.
Neither did Sylvia, not when the petty functionary she finally reached told her next month’s ration would be smaller but cost more. “This is the third time this year I’ve heard that!” she exclaimed in dismay. “It’s not right.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” the fellow said, sounding not a bit sorry. Why aren’t you in the Army? Sylvia thought resentfully. The Coal Board clerk went on, “I am not responsible for setting policy, you must understand, ma’am, only for seeing that it is carried out. Here, let me stamp your ration tickets”—he did, plying the rubber stamp with might and main—“so you can go over to Line 7C to pay for the coal. Remember, you cannot acquire it without the stamp I just gave and the pay confirmation stamp you will receive in Line 7C.”
“I remember,” Sylvia said. “How could I forget?” She went and stood in Line 7C, and stood there, and stood there.
At last, grudgingly, the clerk there accepted her money and added his square red stamp to the other bureaucrat’s round black one. “Obtaining coal without a ration coupon showing both authorization and pay confirmation marking is a violation of law punishable by fine or imprisonment or both,” he droned.
“Oh, yes, I know.” Sylvia could have repeated the rigmarole back at him. She heard it every month.
“We are pleased to have been of service to you,” the clerk said, just as if he meant it. Then, while she was still standing in front of him, he forgot Sylvia existed. “Next.”
Luxuriating in an afternoon without the children and with a job in hand, Sylvia went out and bought a couple of shirtwaists and a skirt in the new style that daringly left the ankles bare. It was advertised as saving fabric for the war effort. That, she was convinced, had nothing to do with why only a couple were left on the rack. People finally felt victory in the air, and wanted to bust loose and go a little wild.
She took her purchases home before going out again to pick up the children. That was another small extravagance, but she would have plenty of nickels coming in to make up for the extra one she was spending on trolley fare. Both George, Jr., and Mary Jane looked forlorn, with the marks of the chicken pox still upon them, but they had been certified as noncontagious. Several of George, Jr.’s, classmates were down with the disease, as well as another girl Mrs. Dooley cared for.
After supper, the children were playing and Sylvia washing dishes when someone knocked on the door. “Who’s that, Mama?” Mary Jane said.
“I don’t know,” Sylvia said. “I’m not expecting anyone.” Apprehension filled her as she went to the door. Opening it, she breathed a silent sigh of relief to find no Western Union messenger standing there, but rather Isabella Antonelli. “Come in,” Sylvia exclaimed. “Have you eaten? Can I make you coffee?”
As the children stared at the woman who was a stranger to them, Mrs. Antonelli said, “Coffee will be fine. I have eaten, yes, thank you. I am not very hungry anyhow.”
The two women sat at the kitchen table and chatted. When they didn’t pay much attention to George, Jr., and Mary Jane, the children gradually stopped gaping at Isabella Antonelli. Sylvia was sure she hadn’t come to talk about the weather or even the high price of coal. Whatever was on her mind, she would get to it when she was ready.
Eventually, she did: “Mr. Winter asked me to marry him the other day.”
“That’s wonderful!” Sylvia said, at the same time thinking, Better you than me. “Have you set a day yet?”
“He wants it to be in about six months,” Isabella answered. Slowly, deliberately, she set both hands above her navel. “That is about five months later than I would like.” Her meaning was unmistakable. Sylvia’s eyes widened. The widow Antonelli nodded, adding, “He does not know this yet. What do I do?”
“Oh.” Sylvia understood why Isabella had not gone to her family. Even if she was a widow, they would have pitched a fit. All the Italians she’d ever met were like that. After some thought, she said, “I think you’d better tell him.”
Panic filled Isabella Antonelli’s face. “And what if he leaves me? I do not know if he wants a child.”
“Dear, doesn’t he have one whether he wants one or not?” Sylvia asked, to which Isabella gave a miserable nod. Or you could look for an abortionist, Sylvia thought. But she had no idea how to go about finding one; she’d never needed to, for which she heartily thanked God. She never would have advised anyone to do anything so flagrantly illegal, anyhow. And Isabella was Catholic, which would have made the suggestion worse than illegal in her eyes.
“That is so,” she said now. Her fingers spread, there on her belly.
“He’d better know,” Sylvia said. “It is his business, too, after all. I think he’ll do what’s right.” She was by no means sure the canning-plant foreman would, but…“If he doesn’t, do you want to have him around anyway?”
“With a bambino coming, I want someone around,” Isabella said in a firm voice. “I think you are right, though. He is a good man. He will do what is right. Grazie. Thank you.” She rose, kissed Sylvia on the cheek, and was gone before Sylvia could say good-bye—or anything else.
“Why did she come over here, Mama?” George, Jr., asked.
“To talk,” Sylvia answered absently. “Why don’t you and your sister get ready for bed?” She ignored the howls of protest that brought. Better you than me, Isabella, she thought again. Better you than me.
Wearily, Jefferson Pinkard and the rest of his regiment marched out of the front lines. Wearily, he groused with his buddies about how criminal it was to leave them at the front for so long without a breather. “What I reckon it is,” Sergeant Albert Cross said, “is that Richmond done forgot we was even here, so of course they forgot to send anybody out to take our goddamn place.”
A couple of people laughed: relatively recent replacements, most of them, who were innocent enough to think that was meant as a joke. “This Texas prairie sure as hel
l is the ass end of nowhere,” Pinkard muttered. “Wouldn’t surprise me one damn bit if everybody forgot about us.”
“To me, the country does not look so bad,” Hipolito Rodriguez said. Pinkard grunted; next to the chunk of Sonora Rodriguez had tried to farm, the west Texas prairie was liable to look pretty good, which, when you got down to it, was a frightening thought. The stocky little Sonoran went on, “And the Yankees, Jeff, the Yankees, they don’t forget about us.”
Pinkard grunted. Nobody could deny that. The U.S. advance wasn’t going fast—the United States didn’t have as many men in Texas as they needed, either—but it was and remained an advance. Nobody talked about throwing them back on Lubbock any more. The most anybody would talk about was halting their advance, and talk outran reality there, too.
Sergeant Cross said, “Damn me to hell and toast my toes over the fire if it ain’t gonna feel good not to get shot at for a while.”
“Sí, es verdad,” Hip Rodriguez said. “Muy bueno.”
“Yeah,” Pinkard said, because Rodriguez expected him to say something like that. He didn’t mean it, though. He suspected his pal knew he didn’t mean it. Rodriguez had enough tact for any other dozen soldiers Jeff had ever met. Jeff wanted to be in the trenches. He wanted to be in the Yankee trenches, killing Yankees. When he was doing that, he didn’t have to think about anything else.
Replacements came forward to fill the trenches Pinkard and his comrades were leaving. It was a black unit, with white noncoms and officers moving the men along. “Mallates,” Rodriguez said, shaking his head. “You know, down where I was living, I didn’t hardly never see no niggers, not till I come into the Army.”
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