“You got a wireless?” Scipio asked. The other Negro nodded. Scipio went on, “Reckon the news say one way or de other. If they do it all over everywhere, they won’t hide it. They brag an’ be proud.”
Slowly, Aurelius nodded. Scipio shivered, there in the night. He’d finally found something he feared more than the regime’s hatred of blacks. Its grim certainty that it was doing right frightened him far worse.
The move from Ohio to Virginia had changed life very little for Dr. Leonard O’Doull. He still worked in an aid station not far behind the line. The wounds he and his crew faced changed not at all. The weather was a little milder, but he had scant leisure to notice it. Going outside the aid tent for a quick cigarette every now and then hardly counted.
Repair, stabilize, send the successes back out of harm’s way, send the failures back for burial . . . Sometimes he thought the wounded were war’s mistakes—if everything had gone just the way the enemy planned, they would be dead. Or would they? In his more cynical moments, he reminded himself that a wounded soldier made the USA spend more resources on him than an easily replaceable dead one did.
When he mentioned that to Granville McDougald, the medic only nodded. “Same thing’s occurred to me, Doc—you bet it has,” he said. “Take a look at mustard gas, for instance. That shit hardly ever kills outright. It just makes casualties.”
O’Doull hadn’t even thought about mustard gas. “Tabernac!” he said.
McDougald laughed at him. “When you get excited, you start talking like a Frenchy.”
“I know. I spoke French every day for almost twenty-five years, remember. I wasn’t sure my English would come back as well as it has.” O’Doull paused, then said, “Son of a bitch! There. You feel better now, Granny?”
He got another laugh out of McDougald. “Sure. Much better. I’ll take two aspirins and you can see me in the morning.”
“What I’d like to see in the morning is home,” O’Doull said. His longing for Rivière-du-Loup suddenly pierced like an arrow. “I feel like nothing but a goddamn butcher down here.”
“That’s not right,” McDougald said. “The butchers are the ones with the stars on their shoulder straps—and that maniac down in Richmond. If it weren’t for Featherston, you’d be in Quebec and I wouldn’t be worrying about anything more urgent than shortarm inspections.”
“With the new drugs, we can even do something about a dose of the clap.” O’Doull preferred thinking of gonorrhea to mustard gas. “Who would have figured that ten years ago?”
“Oh, irrigation with permanganate would cure some of the time,” McDougald said. “Of course, most of the guys who went through it would sooner have had the disease.”
“It wasn’t pleasant,” O’Doull agreed. He’d had to administer that treatment a good many times himself. Quebecois civilians were no fonder of it than U.S. soldiers. “A few pills or shots are a lot easier—and they work a lot better, too.”
“And what’s that going to do, Doc?” McDougald asked. “If we can screw as much as we want without worrying about coming down with VD, don’t a lot of the old rules fly right out the window?”
“You come up with the most . . . interesting questions,” O’Doull said admiringly. “I don’t think the rules go till women don’t have to worry about getting knocked up whenever they sleep with a guy. Rubbers aren’t reliable enough for that, and a lot of men don’t want to use ’em.”
“Makes sense.” Granville McDougald started to nod, then caught himself. He pointed a finger at O’Doull. “You’re a Catholic, Doc. Won’t you get in trouble with the Church for saying stuff like that?”
“In trouble? I doubt it. The Church isn’t the Freedom Party, and the Pope isn’t Jake Featherston. Nobody’s going to come and burn me at the stake for having a mind of my own. The Spanish Inquisition went out of style a long time ago, even in Spain.”
“Well, all right.” McDougald seemed happy enough to return to the point: “You think we can do that? Make really good contraceptives, I mean?”
“Sure we can,” O’Doull said. “It’s just a matter of putting our minds to it and doing the research. It’ll happen. I don’t know when, but it will. And the world will be a different place.”
Far above the tent with the Red Cross on each side, shells flew back and forth. O’Doull gauged how the fighting was going by the quality of those sounds. If more came in from the Confederate side of the line than went out at the C.S. forces, he might have to pull back in a hurry. If U.S. gunfire was outdoing the enemy’s, he might have to move up quickly, which could be almost as big a nuisance. Right now, things seemed pretty even.
McDougald was listening, too, but in a different way. “Goddamn gurglers,” he said. “I hate those goddamn gurglers. They’re throwing gas around again. You’d think we had more sense than that. Hell, you’d think the Confederates had more sense than that.”
“No such luck,” O’Doull said sadly.
“I don’t know what the hell good gas is.” McDougald sounded bitter. “It kills people and it ruins people, and that’s about it. You can’t win a battle with it, not when both sides use it. It’s only one more torment for the poor damned fools with guns in their hands.”
“Every word you say is true,” O’Doull answered. “Every single word. But saying it, no matter how true it is, doesn’t make anybody on either side change his mind.”
“Don’t I know it? Haven’t we seen it? Christ!” The way McDougald took the name of the Lord in vain wasn’t so far removed from the Quebecois habit of swearing by the host and the chalice. He went on, “At least we have an antidote that does some good against nerve gas, as long as the casualties get here before it’s too late. But mustard gas? Once you’ve got mustard gas on you or in your lungs, it will do what it does, and that’s that.”
A shell landed a couple of hundred yards away: not close enough to be dangerous—though O’Doull wouldn’t have believed that when he first put on a uniform again—but plenty close enough to be alarming. “Was that a short round of theirs or a short round of ours?” O’Doull wondered.
“What difference does it make?” McDougald asked. “Whoever it comes down on is screwed either way.”
O’Doull sighed. “Well, I’m not going to tell you you’re wrong, because you’re right. How many have we treated where our own guns did the damage?”
“I don’t have the slightest idea, and neither do you,” McDougald said. “The only thing I can tell you is, it’s too goddamn many.”
He was right again. Accidents of all sorts were only too common in war. Some of them made O’Doull think God had a nasty sense of humor. Two U.S. companies would attack the same bit of high ground from different directions. Maybe neither would know the other was in the neighborhood. Maybe somebody in one or the other—or both—would see soldiers moving toward him and open up regardless of what uniform they wore. In a split second, dozens of soldiers would be blazing away at one another, trained reflex overriding thought . . . and adding to the casualty lists.
Artillery wasn’t always the infantryman’s friend, either. Very often, U.S. and C.S. lines would lie close together. Rounds didn’t have to fall short by much to come down on soldiers in green-gray rather than those in butternut. Some of the fault, no doubt, lay in mismanufactured shells and in powder that didn’t do everything it was supposed to. And some, just as surely, lay in the calculations artillerymen botched when they were in a hurry—and sometimes when they weren’t. All those blunders bloated the butcher’s bill.
“One thing,” O’Doull said.
“What’s that?” Granville McDougald inquired.
“Over on the other side of the line, there are bound to be a couple of Confederate medics bitching about the same thing.”
“Oh, yeah.” McDougald nodded. “But does that make it better or worse?”
That was another of those . . . interesting questions. How you answered it depended on how you looked at war. It was better for the USA if the Confederates also kille
d and maimed their own. It was better for the USA, yes, but much worse for a good-sized group of men who would either die too young or go through life with puckered scars and perhaps without fingers or a foot or their eyesight or testicles.
O’Doull answered with a question of his own: “Are you asking me as an American or as a doctor?”
“That’s for you to figure out, wouldn’t you say?” McDougald was enormously helpful when dealing with the wounded, much less so when he and O’Doull were making the time pass by.
Another round burst closer than it should have. O’Doull swore in English and in Quebecois French. Somebody on one side of the line or the other didn’t know his ass from the end zone. No one set out to shell an aid station, but that was also one of the accidents that happened.
“I think we’d better—” O’Doull began.
Granville McDougald was already doing it. O’Doull followed him out of the tent. Both men jumped into a zigzagging trench not far away. O’Doull was glad they had no wounded lying in the tent right that minute. Getting them out would have been a nightmare. The doctor thought he would sooner have stayed in the tent himself and taken his chances.
“Cigarette?” McDougald held out a pack.
“Thanks.” O’Doull took one. They were Niagaras, a U.S. brand, and tasted as if they were made of hay and horseshit. Even bad tobacco, though, was better than no tobacco at all. O’Doull sucked in smoke. “Yeah, thanks, Granny. I needed one there.”
Another shell screamed in. A man who listened closely could tell which rounds were long, which short, and which right on the money. O’Doull ducked and threw his hands up over his head. So did McDougald, who’d judged the incoming round the same way he had.
The shell burst between the trench and the aid tent. Shrapnel whined through the air not far enough over their heads; dirt pattered down on them. Some slid down the back of O’Doull’s neck. He knew that would drive him crazy later. Nothing he could do about it now.
Cautiously, he stuck his head up above the rim of the trench. The explosion had shredded the green-gray canvas of the aid tent; the Red Cross on the side was ventilated with several rips and tears. And what the fragments would have done to them had they stayed in the tent . . . “You know something? I’m not what you’d call sorry we vacated the premises.”
“Now that you mention it, neither am I.” McDougald looked up to survey the damage, too. He whistled mournfully. “No, that wouldn’t have been a hell of a lot of fun, would it?”
“No. Looks to me like we could have practiced sewing each other up,” O’Doull said.
“Suture self, Doc,” McDougald said. O’Doull sent him a reproachful stare. The other man didn’t seem to notice he’d been reproached. Anyone who’d say something like that probably wouldn’t notice such a thing.
Then O’Doull threw himself flat in the trench again. Two more shells came down, one on the tent, the other close by it. He and McDougald would have been in no position to do any sewing after that. Light a candle for me, Nicole, he thought, and wondered if he’d ever see Rivière-du-Loup again.
Mary Pomeroy hugged her mother. “So good to see you, Ma,” she said.
“You, too, dear,” Maude McGregor answered. “It was a nice visit, wasn’t it?”
“I sure thought so,” Mary answered. “Easier to get out of town now that Alec’s in kindergarten.” She made a sour face. “Even so, I wish I didn’t have to send him. The Yanks make teachers fill up the children’s heads with the most fantastic lies you ever heard.”
“You don’t want to get in trouble for leaving him out, though,” her mother said. “You don’t want to get in trouble at all, especially after all the lies Wilf Rokeby told about you.”
“I know, Ma,” Mary said, and said no more. She knew Wilf Rokeby hadn’t told lies. She knew her mother knew, too. Maude McGregor never would have said so, though, even if you put her on the rack. There were things she carefully didn’t see. She hadn’t seen them when her husband was alive, and she didn’t see them when she looked in her daughter’s direction, either.
She’d never asked, for instance, why Mary spent half an hour or an hour or an hour and a half of each recent visit to the farm out in the barn by herself. She never came out to see what her daughter was doing there. She didn’t want to know—or rather, to know officially.
All she said now was, “Whatever you’re doing, be careful about it.”
Gently, Mary answered, “I’m always careful, Ma,” and her mother nodded. Mary knew she hadn’t been careful enough with Wilf. She’d dodged the immediate danger, but the postmaster had brought her to the occupiers’ notice.
The Yanks suspected Pa, but he kept on going, Mary thought fiercely. I can, too. As long as they only suspected, what could they do? They’d never found any evidence against her. They’d never found any evidence against her father, either, till things went wrong when he threw the bomb at General Custer. And if Custer hadn’t been more alert than an old man had any business being, Pa might have got away with that, too.
“I’ll see you before too long,” Mary said. Her mother nodded. The two women embraced. Mary went out to the Oldsmobile. She started the auto and drove away from the farm where she’d grown up.
What went through her mind was, I have to be extra careful now. If the Frenchies caught her with a bomb in the Olds, everything was over. They had no particular reason to search it, but. . . .
Even when she used the bomb, she had to be extra careful. If it went off somewhere too close to Rosenfeld, that would make the occupiers wonder. She muttered to herself as she drove across the vast, wintry Manitoba prairie. The Olds was almost the only motorcar on the road. What she didn’t know was how active the overall resistance against the Yanks was. How many things happened that never got into the newspapers or on the wireless? If the Americans were smart—and they were, damn them; they were—they would keep most of those things quiet.
If she wasn’t the only one fighting the Yanks in this part of the province, though, then one more bomb wouldn’t mean so much. It wouldn’t necessarily make the occupiers look toward her. If nobody else was giving them trouble, that was a different story.
She sighed. She hadn’t heard anyone else’s bombs blow up in Rosenfeld. A lot of the farmers in these parts were Mennonites who went along with the central authority, whatever it happened to be. But there had been that pamphlet, the one she’d turned against Rokeby. Somebody had put it out.
About ten miles west of Rosenfeld lay Coulee, an even smaller town. Like Rosenfeld, Coulee would have had no reason to exist if not for the railroad. It was a place where people loaded grain; Mary had trouble imagining anyone getting off the train in Coulee without the immediate, intense desire to get right back on again. People in Rosenfeld hardly ever thought about Coulee; when they did, it was usually with a condescending smile. Even in Rosenfeld, people needed someone to feel superior to.
The paved road to Coulee paralleled the train tracks. It went on right through the town. Mary got off the paved road before Coulee, went around the place on lesser tracks like the one that led to her family’s farm, and then got back on to drive for another couple of miles.
She stopped the auto there and pulled off to the side of the road. When she got out of the Olds, she looked both east and west. Nobody coming in either direction—that was what she’d wanted to see. She remembered the Quebecois soldiers who’d appeared out of nowhere while her family was picnicking. Having a patrol show up now wouldn’t do at all.
No patrol. There were too many miles of railroad, not enough soldiers to keep an eye on all of them all the time. Mary opened the trunk. She carried the box in it over to the railroad tracks, then came back. As she returned, she scuffed and kicked the footprints she’d made in the snow till they were unidentifiable. She drove the auto back onto the road and did the same thing to the tire tracks. The occupiers would be able to figure out where she’d planted the bomb. The explosion itself would tell them that. Who she was, or even that she
was a she? No. Not if she could help it.
Mary drove back to Rosenfeld the same way as she’d come west, skirting Coulee. Nobody in the town would see the Oldsmobile. She tried to use different little country roads heading east. She didn’t want a farmer remembering he’d seen the same auto coming and going in a short stretch of time.
She got back to her apartment less than an hour later than she would have if she’d come straight from the farm. Who was to say when she’d broken off her visit with her mother? Mort might notice that the gas gauge on the motorcar was down a little farther than it should have been. But so what? Even if he did, would he turn her in to the occupiers? Not likely!
All the way back to Rosenfeld, she’d listened for an explosion. She hadn’t heard one. Maybe no train had gone through during her drive. Maybe she’d got too far away for the sound to carry. Or maybe the bomb had failed. That was an unwelcome possibility, but one she couldn’t ignore.
As soon as she got into the apartment, she used a nail file to get rid of the dirt from the barn and washed her hands. Drying them, she felt a little like Lady Macbeth—another stubborn Scotswoman advancing her cause no matter what.
Music blared from the wireless when she turned it on. It was twenty minutes to the hour, so she had a while to wait before she could hear the news. She used the time to good advantage, making herself a cup of coffee and sitting down with a mystery story set in Toronto before the Great War. She knew what she was doing—pretending things hadn’t changed since. Again, so what?
When the news came on, it talked about an American submersible torpedoing a Japanese cruiser somewhere in the Sandwich Islands. It talked about U.S. bombing raids on Confederate cities, and about Confederate terror attacks on U.S. cities. Mary sneered. She knew propaganda when she heard it. The wireless talked about U.S. progress in Utah. It talked about an Austro-German counterattack against the Tsar’s armies in the Ukraine, and about a German counterattack against the British near Hamburg.
It talked about cuts in the coal ration for Canada, and about reductions in civilian seat allocations on the railroads here. Bombs on the tracks? Not a word.
Settling Accounts Return Engagement: Book One of the Settling Accounts Trilogy Page 72
