"Well, I hated everything and everybody when I caught this." Sergeant Konstam held up the hook. Cincinnatus nodded; he could see how that might be so. The white man took another drag-he handled a cigarette as deftly as a pen. After he exhaled a gray stream of smoke, he went on, "But life is too short, you know? Whatever you've got, you better make the most of it, you know?"
"Oh, yeah. I hear that real good," Cincinnatus said.
"Figured you did. You're a guy who busts his hump. You made something out of yourself, and that's pretty goddamn tough for somebody your color. Probably a lot easier to be a shiftless, no-account nigger the way most people expect."
"Know somethin'?" Cincinnatus said. The sergeant raised a questioning eyebrow. Cincinnatus explained: "Think maybe this is the first time I ever heard a white man say nigger an' I didn't want to punch him in the nose."
"Yeah, well, some colored guys are niggers. It's a shame, but it's true. And some Jews are kikes, and some Dutchmen are goddamn fuckin' squareheads-not me, of course." Konstam flashed a wry grin. "We got rid of all those assholes, we'd be better off. Good fuckin' luck, that's all I got to tell you. We're stuck with 'em, and we just have to deal with 'em the best way we know how."
"Like them Freedom Party goons," Cincinnatus said.
Sergeant Konstam nodded. "They fill the bill, all right. Only good thing about them is, we can shoot the fuckers if they step out of line. Nobody's gonna miss 'em when we do, either."
"Amen," Cincinnatus said. "If I was whole myself…" He didn't want to go on and on about his physical shortcomings, not when he was talking to a mutilated man. "My work was messed up after I got back from Covington. Ain't gonna get no better now."
"Remind me what line you were in."
"Had me a hauling business. Had it, yeah, till before the war. Damned if I know how to put it back on its feet now. Ain't got the money to buy me a new truck. Even if I did, I need somebody to give me a hand with loadin' an' unloadin' now."
"Got a son?" Konstam asked.
"Sure do," Cincinnatus said, not without pride. "Achilles, he graduated high school, an' he's clerking for an insurance company. He don't want to get all sore and sweaty and dirty like his old man. And you know what else? I'm damn glad he don't."
"Fair enough. Good for him, and good for you, too. Insurance company, huh? He must take after his old man, then-wants to make things better for himself any way he can. Maybe his kids'll run a company like that instead of working for it."
"That'd be somethin'. Don't reckon it'd be against the law up here, the way it would in the CSA. Don't reckon it'd be easy, neither. Achilles' babies, they're half Chinese."
Konstam laughed out loud. "Ain't that a kick in the head! Who flabbled more when they got hitched, you and your wife or your son's new in-laws?"
"Nobody was what you'd call happy about it," Cincinnatus said. "But Achilles and Grace, they get on good, and it ain't easy stayin' mad at people when there's grandbabies. Things are easier than they were a while ago, I got to say that."
"Glad to hear it." Dick Konstam whistled through his teeth. "I wasn't exactly thrilled when one of my girls married a Jewish guy. Ben hasn't turned out too bad, though. And you're sure as hell right about grandchildren." His face softened. "Want to see photos?"
"If I can show you mine."
They pulled out their wallets and went through a ritual as old as snapshots. If people had carried around little paintings before cameras got cheap and easy, they would have shown those off, too. Cincinnatus and the sergeant praised the obvious beauty and brilliance of each other's descendants. Cincinnatus didn't think he was lying too hard. He hoped Dick Konstam wasn't, either.
The sergeant stuck his billfold back in his hip pocket. "Any other problems I can solve for you today, Mr. Driver?"
He hadn't solved Cincinnatus' problem. He had to know it, too. But he had helped-and he sounded like a man who wanted to get back to work. "One more thing," Cincinnatus said. "Then I get out of your hair. How can I keep from wantin' to hide behind somethin' every goddamn time I hear a loud noise?"
"Boy, you ask the tough ones, don't you?" Konstam said. "All I can tell you is, don't hold your breath. That took me years to get over. Some guys never do. Poor bastards stay nervous as cats the rest of their days."
"Don't want to do that." But it might have more to do with luck than with what he wanted. Slowly and painfully, he got to his feet. "I thank you for your time, Sergeant, an' for lettin' me bend your ear."
"Your tax dollars in action," Konstam replied. "Take care of yourself, buddy. I wish you luck. You haven't been back all that long, remember. Give yourself a chance to get used to things again."
"I reckon that's good advice," Cincinnatus said. "Thank you one more time."
"My pleasure," the sergeant said. "Take care, now."
"Yeah." Cincinnatus headed for home. A work gang with paste pots were putting up red, white, and blue posters of Tom Dewey on anything that didn't move. HE'LL TELL YOU WHAT'S WHAT, they said.
They were covering up as many of Charlie La Follette's Socialist red posters as they could. Those shouted a one-word message: VICTORY!
Cincinnatus still hadn't decided which way he'd vote. Yes, the Socialists were in the saddle when the USA won the war. But they also helped spark it when they gave Kentucky and the state of Houston back to the CSA after their dumb plebiscite. The promise of that vote helped get Al Smith reelected in 1940.
The colored quarter in Covington was empty because of the plebiscite. If Cincinnatus wanted to, he could blame the auto that hit him on the plebiscite. Oh, he might have had an accident like that here in Des Moines chasing after his senile mother. He might have, yeah. But he did have it down in Covington.
How much did that count? He laughed at himself. It counted as much as he wanted it to, no more and no less. Nobody could make him vote for the Socialists if it mattered a lot in his own mind. Nobody could make him vote for the Democrats if it didn't. "Freedom," he murmured-in the real sense of the word, not the way Jake Featherston used it. Cincinnatus grinned and nodded to himself. "I'm here to tell you the truth." The truth was, he was free.
When he got back to the apartment, he found his wife about ready to jump out of her skin with excitement. Half a dozen words explained why: "Amanda's fella done popped the question!"
"Do Jesus!" Cincinnatus sank into a chair. When he left Des Moines not quite two years earlier, his daughter hadn't had a boyfriend. She did now. Calvin Washington was a junior butcher, a young man serious to the point of solemnity. He didn't have much flash-hell, he didn't have any flash-but Cincinnatus thought he was solid all the way through. "She said yes?"
Elizabeth nodded. "She sure did, fast as she could. She thinks she done invented Calvin, you know what I mean?"
"Expect I do." Thoughtfully, Cincinnatus added, "He's about the same color she is."
"Uh-huh." His wife nodded again. "It don't matter as much here as it did down in Kentucky, but it matters."
"It does," Cincinnatus agreed. That an American Negro's color did matter was one more measure of growing up in a white-dominated world, which made it no less real. Had Calvin been inky black, Cincinnatus would have felt his daughter was marrying beneath herself. He didn't know whether Amanda, a modern girl, would have felt that way, but he would have. Were Calvin high yellow, on the other hand, he might have felt he was marrying beneath himself. Since they were both about the same shade of brown, the question didn't arise. "When do they want to get hitched?" Cincinnatus asked.
"Pretty soon." Elizabeth's eyes sparkled. "They're young folks, sweetheart. They can't hardly wait."
"Huh," Cincinnatus said. It wasn't as if his wife were wrong. Whether he was ready or not, the world kept right on going all around him.
The first thing Irving Morrell said when he got into Philadelphia was, "This is a damned nuisance."
John Abell met him at the Broad Street station, as he had so many times before. "If you want to get it quashed, sir, I'm sure we can ar
range that."
"No, no." Regretfully, Morrell shook his head. "The man's a cold-blooded son of a bitch, but even a cold-blooded son of a bitch is entitled to the truth."
"Indeed," the General Staff officer murmured. Abell was a cold-blooded son of a bitch, too, but one of a rather different flavor. He had two virtues, as far as Morrell could see: they were on the same side, and Abell didn't go around telling the world how goddamn right he was all the time. Right now, he asked, "Shall I take you over to BOQ and let you freshen up before you go on?"
Morrell looked down at himself. He was rumpled, but only a little. He ran a hand over his chin. Not perfectly smooth, but he didn't think he looked like a Skid Row bum, either. He shook his head. "No, let's get it over with. The sooner it's done, the sooner I can head west and see my wife and daughter."
"However you please," Abell said, which meant he would have showered and shaved and changed his uniform first. But he left the editorializing right there. "My driver is at your disposal."
"Thanks." Morrell followed him off the platform.
They didn't have far to go. Morrell didn't have to look at the slagged wreckage on the other side of the Schuylkill, which didn't mean he didn't know it was there. Its being there, in fact, was a big part of why he was here.
There was no fresh damage in Philadelphia now that the war was over. Some of the wrecked buildings had been bulldozed, and the rubble hauled away. Repairmen swarmed everywhere. Glass was beginning to reappear in windows. "Looks…neater than it did before," Morrell remarked. "We're starting to come back."
"Some," Abell said. "It won't be the way it was for a long time. As a matter of fact, it will never be the way it was."
"Well, no. You can't step into the same river twice." Some Greek had said that a couple of thousand years before Morrell. He didn't remember who; John Abell probably did. Morrell, no great lover of cities, didn't much care how Philadelphia rose again. As long as it had peace in which to rise, that suited him.
The War Department had set up a Tribunal for Accused Confederate War Criminals in a rented office building not far from the government buildings that dominated the center of town. Despite the stars on Morrell's shoulder straps and those on John Abell's, getting in wasn't easy. Security was tight, and no doubt needed to be.
A neatly lettered sign outside a meeting room turned courtroom said UNITED STATES OF AMERICA VS. CLARENCE POTTER, BRIGADIER GENERAL, CSA. "I would never tell you to perjure yourself," Abell said as they paused outside the door, "but I wouldn't hate you if you did, either."
"I'm Irving Morrell, and I'm here to tell you the truth," Morrell said. Abell winced. Morrell went on in.
Inside the makeshift courtroom, everyone except a few reporters and the defendant wore green-gray. The reporters were in civvies; Clarence Potter had on a butternut uniform that, even without insignia, singled him out at a glance. Morrell knew of him, but had never seen him before. He was a little older and more studious-looking than the U.S. officer expected, which didn't mean he wasn't dangerous. He'd already proved he was.
His defense attorney, a U.S. major, got to his feet. "Since General Morrell has chosen not to contest our subpoena, I request permission to get his remarks on the record while he is here."
He faced a panel of five judges-a brigadier general sitting in the center, three bird colonels, and a lieutenant colonel. The general looked over to the light colonel who seemed to be the prosecutor. "Any objections?"
"No, sir," that officer replied. I'm stuck with it, his expression said.
"Very well," the chief judge said. "Come forward and be sworn, General Morrell, and then take your seat."
When Morrell had taken the oath and sat down, Potter's defense counsel said, "You are aware that General Potter is on trial for conveying the Confederate superbomb to Philadelphia while wearing the U.S. uniform for purposes of disguise?"
"Yes, I know that," Morrell said.
"This is considered contrary to the laws of war as set down in the 1907 Hague Convention?"
"That's right."
"Had the Confederates ever used soldiers in U.S. uniform before?"
"Yes, they had. Their men in our uniforms helped get a breakthrough in eastern Ohio in 1942. They even picked men who had U.S. accents. It hurt us."
"I see." The defense attorney looked at some papers. "Were the Confederates alone in using this tactic?"
"No," Morrell said.
"Tell the court about some instances when U.S. soldiers under your command used it."
"Well, the most important was probably the 133rd Special Reconnaissance Company," Morrell replied. "We took a page from the CSA's book. We recruited men who could sound like Confederates. We armed them with Confederate weapons, and put them into Confederate uniform."
"Where did you get the uniforms?" asked the major defending Potter.
"Some from prisoners, others off casualties," Morrell said.
"I see. And the 133rd Special Reconnaissance Company was effective?"
"Yes. It spearheaded our crossing of the Tennessee in front of Chattanooga."
"Surprise and deception made it more effective than it would have been otherwise?"
"I would certainly think so."
"Thank you, General. No further questions."
The chief judge nodded to the prosecutor. "Your witness, Colonel Altrock."
"Thank you, sir." Altrock got to his feet. "You say you were imitating Confederate examples when you dressed our men in enemy uniform, General?"
"I believe that's true, yes," Morrell said.
"Would you have done it if the enemy hadn't?" Altrock asked.
"Objection-that's a hypothetical," the defense attorney said.
After the judges put their heads together, their chief said, "Overruled. The witness may answer the question."
"Would I? Would we?" Morrell pursed his lips. "Probably. It's too good a move-and too obvious-to ignore."
"No further questions," Altrock said. One had done him enough damage.
"Anything on redirect?" the chief judge asked Potter's lawyer, who shook his head. The judge nodded to Morrell. "You are dismissed, General. We appreciate your testimony."
Clarence Potter spoke for the first time: "If I may say so, I appreciate it very much." His own accent might have inspired him to dress up Yankee-sounding Confederates in U.S. uniforms.
"I don't love you, General, but if they hang you it should be for something you did and we didn't." Morrell got to his feet. He nodded to the judges and left the courtroom.
John Abell wasn't waiting there any more. Morrell hadn't expected him to hang around. The driver was. "Where to, sir?" he said. "Wherever you need to go, I'll take you there."
"Back to the train station, quick, before somebody else here decides he needs me," Morrell answered. "By God, I am going to see my wife and daughter."
The driver grinned. "I know how you feel, sir. Let's go."
Two and a half hours later, Morrell was on a train bound for Kansas City. He traveled through the stretches of western Pennsylvania, Ohio, and eastern Indiana that had seen the hardest fighting inside the USA. Looking out the window at the devastation was like falling back in time. Down in the occupied Confederacy, hardly anyone looked out of train windows. What people saw there was too likely to hurt. The United States was luckier, but this one stretch of terrain had suffered as much as any farther south.
Morrell breathed easier when he neared Indianapolis. C.S. bombers had hit the city, but nowhere near as hard as they'd pummeled Washington and Baltimore and Philadelphia. And the only soldiers in butternut who'd made it to Indianapolis went into the POW camps outside of town. Some of them still languished there. Most had gone home by now. Some of the ones who had would make U.S. authorities sorry they'd ever turned them loose. Morrell was as sure of that as he was of the scars on his thigh and shoulder, but what the hell could you do?
St. Louis had taken a beating, and Missouri went up in flames whenever war broke out. Even three generation
s after the War of Secession, it had some stubborn Confederate sympathizers. Lines were fluid in the West, too; C.S. raiders had little trouble sneaking up from Arkansas and raising hell.
Kansas City and Leavenworth, as well as the fort nearby, had also suffered. But, as the war went on, the Confederates found troubles of their own closer to home. Morrell knew Agnes and Mildred had come through without a scratch. To him, selfishly, that was all that mattered.
They were waiting for him when he got off the train. Agnes was about his age, but her black hair showed not a streak of gray. Maybe that was a miracle; more likely it was dye. Morrell didn't care either way. His wife looked damn good to him, and she had ever since they met at a dance right here in town.
He was amazed at how shapely Mildred had got. She was nineteen now, but the years had gone by in a blur for him. He eyed Agnes in mock severity. "You've been feeding her again," he said sternly. "Didn't I warn you about that? See what happens?"
"I'm sorry, Irv." Agnes sounded as contrite as he was angry-which is to say, not very.
"Daddy!" Mildred was just plain indignant.
He gave her a kiss. "It's good to see you, sweetheart. You've grown up as pretty as your mother." That he meant. Mildred was certainly better off with Agnes' looks than with his own long-faced, long-jawed countenance. He wasn't an ugly man, but a woman with features as harsh as his wouldn't have been lucky.
"How long can you stay?" Agnes asked.
"They promised me a couple of weeks, but you know what Army promises are worth," Morrell answered. The rueful twist to his wife's mouth said she knew much too well. He went on, "We'll just have to make the most of the time, however long it turns out to be."
"Of course we will." Agnes looked at Mildred. "That's good advice any old time." She had her own bitter experience; she'd lost her first husband in the early days of the Great War.
Mildred wasn't impressed. With a toss of the head, she said, "I thought I graduated from high school."
Morrell started to give her a swat on the behind for sass, but checked himself. She was too big these days for a man to spank. He contented himself with asking, "Have you been giving your mother lip all the time I've been gone?"
In At the Death sa-4 Page 61
