Settling Accounts Return Engagement: Book One of the Settling Accounts Trilogy

by Harry Turtledove

  If that happens, the United States get to find out what it’s like when an axe comes down on a snake. Both halves wiggle for a while afterwards, but the damn thing dies just the same. Tom grinned fiercely, liking the comparison.

  Freight-train roars in the sky reminded him that the damnyankees weren’t cut in half yet. Half a dozen soldiers yelled, “Incoming!” at the same time. The Mules might have knocked out the battery that had flayed the regiment as it advanced, but the USA had more guns where those came from.

  And, along with the usual roaring and screaming noises shells made as they flew toward their targets, Tom also heard sinister gurgles. He knew what those gurgles meant. He’d known for more than a quarter of a century, though he’d hoped he might forget what he knew.

  “Gas!” he shouted. “They’re shooting gas at us!” He pulled his mask off his belt and thrust it over his face. He had to make sure the straps that held it on were good and tight and that it sealed well against his cheeks. No soldier who wanted to make sure he was safe against gas could afford to grow a beard.

  Shells thudded home, one after another. Most were the robust black bursts with red fire at their heart that Tom had long known and loathed. A few of them, though, sounded more like sneezes. Those were the gas shells going off. Tom wondered what kind of gas the Yankees were using. A mask alone wasn’t really enough protection against mustard gas. It would blister your hide as well as your lungs. A few gas specialists wore rubberized suits along with their masks. A rubberized suit in Ohio in July was torture of its own.

  The gas would also torment the defenders in Grove City, who were falling back toward the racetrack at the north end of town. The Yankee high command didn’t seem to care. The more they slowed down the Confederates, the longer they would have to fortify Columbus.

  Tom wondered if his own side could be that ruthless. Part of him hoped so, if the need ever arose. But he prayed with every fiber of his being that such a day of need would never come.

  Brigadier General Abner Dowling stood by the side of Highway 62, watching U.S. soldiers fall back from the south and into Columbus. Dowling didn’t think he had ever seen beaten troops before. In the Great War, he’d watched George Custer throw divisions into the meat grinder, sending them forward to take positions that couldn’t possibly be taken. Where divisions went forward, regiments would come back. Before barrels changed the way the war was fought, machine guns and artillery made headlong attacks impossibly, insanely, expensive—which hadn’t stopped Custer from making them, or even slowed him down.

  Those who lived through his folly had been defeated, yes. By the nature of things, what else could have happened to them? But they hadn’t been beaten, not the way these soldiers were. They’d been ready to go back into the fight as soon as the trains disgorged some more newly minted, shiny troops to go in with them.

  Looking at the men trudging up the asphalt towards and then past him, Dowling knew they weren’t going to be ready for battle again any time soon. They weren’t running. Most of them hadn’t thrown away their Springfields. Their eyes, though . . . Their eyes were the eyes of men who’d seen hell come down on earth, who’d seen it, been part of it, and had no intention of being part of it again for a long time, if ever.

  Beside Dowling stood Captain Max Litvinoff, a short, skinny young man with a hairline mustache. The style was popular these days, but Dowling didn’t think much of it. He was used to the bushier facial adornments men had worn in years gone by. He didn’t think much of Captain Litvinoff, either. Not that the man wasn’t competent—he was. He was, if anything, the USA’s leading expert on gas warfare. That by itself was plenty to give Dowling the cold chills.

  “If we are to hold this city, sir, we need a wider application of the special weapons.” Litvinoff’s voice was high and thin, as if it hadn’t quite finished changing. He wouldn’t call poison gas poison gas, from which Dowling concluded his conscience bothered him. If he used an innocuous-sounding name, he wouldn’t have to think about what his toys actually did.

  “We’ve already used enough gas to kill everything between the Ohio and here, haven’t we, Captain?” Dowling growled.

  Behind the lenses of his spectacles, Litvinoff’s eyes registered hurt. “Obviously not, sir, or the opposing forces would not have succeeded in advancing this far,” he replied.

  “Right,” Dowling said tightly. “Have we really accomplished anything by using gas? Except to make sure that Featherston’s bastards are using it, too, I mean?”

  “Sir, don’t you think it likely that we would be in an even worse situation if we were not using gas?” Litvinoff replied. “The Confederates would be under any circumstances, would you not agree?”

  Dowling muttered under his breath. However much he didn’t want to, he did agree with that. Jake Featherston’s main goal in life was to kill as many U.S. soldiers as he could, and he wasn’t fussy about how he did it. As for Litvinoff’s other comment, though . . . Dowling asked, “Captain, how in damnation could we be in a worse situation than we are now? If you can tell me that one, you take the prize.”

  You Take the Prize was the name of a popular quiz show on the wireless. Dowling listened to it every once in a while. Part of the attraction, for him, was finding out just how ignorant the American people really were. By the way Max Litvinoff blinked, he’d not only never listened to the show, he’d never heard of it.

  “What do you recommend, sir?” he asked.

  “How about going back in time about five years and building three times as many barrels as we really did?” Dowling said. Captain Litvinoff only shrugged. However good that sounded, they couldn’t do it. What could they do? Dowling wished he knew.

  Soldiers weren’t the only people retreating into Columbus. Civilian refugees kept right on clogging the roads. Naturally, nobody in his right mind wanted to hang around where bullets and shells were flying. And a good many people didn’t want to live where the Stars and Bars flew. Three generations of enmity between USA and CSA had drilled that into citizens of the United States. What nobody had told them before the war was that running for their lives wasn’t the smartest thing they could have done.

  Had they sat tight, the fighting would have passed them by. On the road, they kept blundering into it again and again. And Confederate pilots had quickly discovered that the only thing that blocked a highway better than a swarm of refugees was a shot-up, bombed-out swarm of refugees. U.S. propaganda claimed they attacked refugee columns for the fun of it. Maybe they had fun doing it, but it was definitely business, too.

  Dowling wished he hadn’t thought of air attacks just then. Sirens began yowling, which meant the Y-range gear had picked up Confederate airplanes heading for Columbus. Those rising and falling electrified wails were enough to galvanize soldiers where nothing else had been able to. They scrambled off the road, looking for any cover they could find.

  Civilians, by contrast, stood around staring stupidly. To them, the air-raid sirens were just one more part of the catastrophe that had overwhelmed their lives. Maybe this bunch had never been attacked from the air before. If not, they were about to lose their collective cherry.

  Captain Litvinoff nudged Dowling. “Excuse me, sir,” he said politely, “but shouldn’t we think about finding shelter for ourselves?”

  Dowling could already hear airplane engines. Overeager antiaircraft gunners began shooting too soon. Black puffs of smoke started dotting the sky. “I think it’s too late,” Dowling said. “By the time we can run to a house, they’ll be on top of us.” He threw himself down on the ground, wishing he had an entrenching tool.

  Litvinoff flattened out beside him. “What will the United States do if we are killed on account of this incaution?” he asked.

  By the way he said it, the USA would have a tough time going on if the two of them got hit. Also by the way he said it, he was the one the country would particularly miss. Dowling didn’t blame him for that. Any officer who didn’t think he was indispensable was too modest for hi
s own good.

  On the other hand, reality needed to puncture egotism every once in a while. “What will the United States do?” Dowling echoed. “Promote a colonel and a first lieutenant and get on with the goddamn war.”

  Captain Litvinoff sent him a wounded look. That was the least of his worries. As he answered, his voice had risen to a shout to make itself heard above the rapidly rising roar of the Confederate bombers. Mules, Dowling thought as the airplanes screamed down. No other machines made that horrible screech or had those graceful gull wings.

  They seemed to be diving straight down. Dowling knew they weren’t, knew they couldn’t be, but that was how it seemed just the same. “Crash, you bastards!” he shouted. “Fly it right into the ground!”

  The Mules didn’t, of course, but that bellowed defiance made him feel better. He pulled his .45 out of its holster and banged away at the Confederate dive bombers. That also did no good at all. He consoled himself by thinking that it might. He wasn’t the only one shooting at the airplanes. Several other soldiers were doing the same. Every once in a while, he supposed they might bring one down by dumb luck. Most of the time, they didn’t.

  Then the bombs fell from the Mules’ bellies. The airplanes leveled off and zoomed away. Blast picked Dowling up and slammed him down on the dirt as if it were a professional wrestler with the strength of a demon. “Oof!” he said. He tasted blood. It ran down his face, too. When he raised a hand, he discovered it came from a bloody nose. It could have been worse.

  A few feet away, Max Litvinoff was trying to get his feet under him. By his dazed expression, he might have taken a right to the kisser. Missing glasses accounted for some of that. Without them, he looked even more confused than he was. He also had a bloody nose, and a cut on one ear that dripped more blood down onto the shoulder of his uniform tunic.

  Dowling pointed. “Your spectacles are a couple of feet to the left of your left foot, Captain.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Litvinoff plainly had to think about which foot was his left. He groped around on the grass till he found the eyeglasses, then set them on the bridge of his beaky nose. He peered over at Dowling with a worried frown. “I’m afraid I must have suffered some sort of head injury, sir. You look clear enough through one eye, but with the other one I might as well not have the glasses on at all.”

  “Captain, if you check them, I think you’ll discover that you’ve lost one lens,” Dowling said.

  Litvinoff raised a shaky forefinger. When he almost poked himself in the left eye, he said, “Oh,” in a small, wondering voice. After a moment, he nodded. “Thank you again, sir. That hadn’t occurred to me.” Another pause followed. “It should have, shouldn’t it? I don’t believe I’m at my best.”

  “I don’t believe you are, either,” Dowling said. “Unless I’m wrong, you got your bell rung there. If that bomb had hit a little closer, the blast might have done us in.”

  “Yes.” Litvinoff looked down at himself. He seemed to realize for the first time that he was bleeding. The damage wasn’t serious, but at the moment he was unequipped to do anything about it.

  Dowling plucked a handkerchief from his own trouser pocket and dabbed at the younger man’s nose and at his cut ear. “That’s definitely a wound, Captain. I’ll write you up for a Purple Heart.”

  “A Purple Heart? Me?” That needed a while to penetrate, too. Dowling suspected Litvinoff’s likely concussion was only part of the reason. The gas specialist had done most of his work at the War Department offices back in Philadelphia. Thinking of himself as a front-line soldier wouldn’t seem easy or natural. Slowly, a smile spread across his face as the idea sank in. “That will impress people, won’t it?”

  “Provided you live long enough to show off your pretty medal, yes,” Dowling answered. “I’ll be damned if I know how good your chances are, though.”

  As if to underscore his words, Confederate shells began landing a few hundred yards away. The bursts walked closer. “No special weapons in any of those,” Captain Litvinoff said distinctly. Concussed or not, he still knew his main business.

  “Happy day,” Dowling said. “They can kill us anyway, you know.” Litvinoff looked astonished again. That hadn’t occurred to him, either. Abner Dowling wished it hadn’t occurred to him.

  Properly speaking, Armstrong Grimes hadn’t had enough training to go into combat. After the Confederates bombed Camp Custer, nobody seemed to worry about anything like that. He had a uniform. They gave him a Springfield all his own. True, he was still missing some of the finer points of the soldier’s art. The theory seemed to be that he could pick those up later. If he lived.

  Getting bombed had gone a long way toward clearing notions of immortality from his head. The first bullet that cracked past his head missed him but slew several more illusions. Bombs fell out of the sky, the way rain or snow did. That bullet had been different. That bullet had been personal. He’d dug his foxhole deeper as soon as it flew by.

  West Jefferson, the town he and his fellow frightened foot soldiers were supposed to defend, lay about fifteen miles west of Columbus. It was on the south bank of Little Darby Creek, and had probably been a nice place to live before the Confederates started shelling it. Brick houses from the nineteenth century stood side by side with modern frame homes. When shells hit the brick houses, they crumbled to rubble. When shells hit the frame homes, they started to burn. Six of one, half a dozen of the other, as far as Armstrong could see.

  Up ahead, something that might have been a man in a butternut uniform moved. Armstrong Grimes still had a lot to learn about being a soldier, but he understood shooting first and asking questions later. He raised the Springfield to his shoulder, fired, worked the bolt, and fired again.

  Maybe he’d hit the Confederate soldier. Maybe the fellow flattened out and took cover. Or maybe there hadn’t been a Confederate soldier in those bushes to begin with. Any which way, Armstrong saw no more movement. That suited him fine.

  His company commander was a pinch-faced, redheaded captain with acne scars named Gilbert Boyle. “Keep your peckers up, boys!” Boyle called. “We’ve got to make sure Featherston’s fuckers don’t ford the creek.”

  A corporal named Rex Stowe crouched in a foxhole about ten feet from Armstrong’s. He was swarthy, unshaven, and cynical. A cigarette dangled from one corner of his mouth. It jerked up and down as he said, “Yeah, keep your pecker up. That way, Featherston’s fuckers can shoot it off you easier.”

  The mere thought made Armstrong want to drop his rifle and clutch himself right there. He’d seen a lot of horrible things since the war started. He hadn’t seen that yet, for which he thanked the God in Whom he believed maybe one morning in four.

  A submachine gun stuttered, somewhere not far away. Bullets stitched up dirt and grass in front of Armstrong. Then, when the burst went high the way they always did, more rounds clipped twigs from the willow tree behind him. He tried to disappear into his foxhole. It wasn’t big enough for that, but he did his damnedest.

  Stowe fired a couple of times in the direction from which the burst had come. More submachine-gun fire answered him. He curled up in his hole, too. “I think everybody in the whole goddamn Confederate Army carries an automatic weapon,” he growled, a mixture of disgust and fear in his voice.

  “Seems that way,” Armstrong agreed. “There’s always more of us, but they put more lead in the air.”

  After another burst of fire, this from a new direction, a Southern voice called, “You Yankees! y’all surrender now, get yourselves out o’ the fight, make sure y’all live through the war!”

  “No,” Captain Boyle shouted back, and then, “Hell, no! You want us, you come get us. It won’t be as easy as you think.”

  “You’ll be sorry, Yank,” the Confederate answered. “Sure you don’t want to change your mind? . . . Going once . . . Going twice . . . Gone! All right, you asked for it, and now you’ll get it.”

  Armstrong’s father went on and on about Confederate attacks during the Gr
eat War, about artillery barrages and then thousands of men in butternut struggling through barbed wire toward waiting machine guns and riflemen. Merle Grimes had a Purple Heart and walked with a cane. Armstrong thought he was a blowhard, but he’d never figured his old man didn’t know what he was talking about.

  These Confederates, though, had a different set of rules—or maybe just a different set of tools. Instead of an infantry charge to clear the U.S. soldiers out of West Jefferson, four barrels rattled forward.

  Foot soldiers ran along with the machines, but Armstrong hardly noticed them. He started shooting at the lead barrel. His bullets threw off sparks as they ricocheted from the frontal armor. For all the harm they did, he might as well have been throwing peaches.

  “Where’s our barrels?” he shouted. It was, he thought, a hell of a good question, but no one answered it.

  Behind an oak tree, three artillerymen struggled to make a 1.5-inch antibarrel gun bear on the Confederate machines. “Fire!” yelled the sergeant in charge of the gun. The shell exploded between two of the barrels. The gun crew reloaded. The sergeant shouted, “Fire!” again. This time, they scored a hit. As flame and smoke spurted from a barrel, the artillerymen whooped in delight.

  They didn’t enjoy their triumph long. Two of the surviving barrels turned their machine guns and cannon fire on them. The splinter shield on their piece wasn’t big enough to protect them. Down they went, one after another. Armstrong didn’t know what artillerymen learned while they trained. Whatever it was, it didn’t include much about taking cover. Shell fragments hissed and squealed through the air, right past his head. He sure as hell ducked.

  On came the three remaining Confederate barrels. They looked as big as houses to Armstrong. The soldiers who advanced with them also shot and shot and shot, making the U.S. defenders keep their heads down. Some of the C.S. foot soldiers carried submachine guns. Others had automatic rifles, which were even nastier weapons. Submachine guns fired pistol cartridges of limited range and hitting power. But an automatic rifle with a round as powerful as a Springfield’s . . . that was very nasty news indeed.