After George remarked on that, Dalby looked at him-looked through him, really. "You'd sooner be torpedoed?"

"Got a better chance against a sub than we would against airplanes," George said stubbornly. Then he wondered if that was true. His father hadn't had any chance against a submarine. But he got sucker-punched after the war was over. We'd be on our toes. But he got sucker-punched after the war was over. We'd be on our toes.

Whenever George was on deck, he kept an eye peeled for periscopes. He also looked for the thin, pale exhaust from a submersible's diesel engine. What with the Townsend Townsend's hydrophone gear, all that was probably wasted effort. He didn't care, not even a little bit. He did it anyhow. He noticed he was far from the only one who did.

He wasn't on deck when general quarters sounded. He was rinsing off in the shower. He threw on his skivvies and ran for his gun with the rest of his clothes, including his shoes, under his arm.

n.o.body laughed, or not very much. n.o.body who'd been in the Navy longer than a few weeks hadn't been caught the same way. He dressed at his post. His hair was still wet. It dripped in his face and down his back. He would have minded that much more in the North Atlantic in December than he did here.

"Now hear this!" The exec's voice crackled out of the loudspeakers. "We've found us a submarine, and we are going to prosecute the son of a b.i.t.c.h."

An excited buzz ran through the sailors. George looked enviously up toward the depth-charge launchers near the destroyer's bow. Their crews were the ones who'd have the fun of dropping things on the j.a.ps' heads.

"Don't go to sleep, now," Fremont Dalby warned. "If those b.a.s.t.a.r.ds surface, we're the ones who'll fill 'em full of holes." He set a hand on one of the 40mm's twin barrels. The quick-firing gun made an admirable can opener.

The Townsend Townsend swung to port. Down under the surface, a submersible was no doubt maneuvering, too. It could have been cat-and-mouse, but the mouse here had almost as good a chance as the cat. The swung to port. Down under the surface, a submersible was no doubt maneuvering, too. It could have been cat-and-mouse, but the mouse here had almost as good a chance as the cat. The Townsend Townsend's advantage was speed, the sub's stealth. Where was that boat?

They must have thought they knew, for depth charges flew from the launchers and splashed into the Pacific. George waited, bracing himself. When the ashcans burst, it was like a kick in the a.s.s from an elephant. The Townsend Townsend's bow lifted, then slammed back down.

More charges arced through the air. Some would be set for a depth a little less than the hydrophone operator thought accurate, some for a little more. With luck, the submersible wouldn't get away. With luck . . .

"Oil! Oil!" somebody yelled. His voice cracked the second time he said it.

"Could be a trick," Fritz Gustafson said. George nodded. A canny sub skipper would deliberately release oil and air bubbles to try to fool his tormentors into thinking they'd smashed him. Then he could slink away or strike back as he got the chance.

Not this time, though. "Coming up!" screamed somebody near the bow. "Motherf.u.c.ker's coming up!"

Like a breaching whale but far bigger, the j.a.panese submarine surfaced. She might not have been able to stay down anymore, but she still showed fight. Men tumbled out of her conning tower and ran for the deck guns. The odds against them were long-a destroyer vastly outgunned a submersible-but they had a chance. If they could hurt the Townsend Townsend badly enough, they might yet get away. badly enough, they might yet get away.

But the destroyer's guns were already manned and ready. George wasn't sure if his weapon was the very first to start blazing away, but it was among the first. Tracers walked across the water toward the sub less than a mile away. They were close enough to the target to let him see chunks of metal fly when sh.e.l.ls slammed into the side of the boat and the conning tower. One of the sh.e.l.ls. .h.i.t a j.a.panese sailor amidships. He exploded into red mist. There were worse ways to go; he must have died before he knew it.

The j.a.ps got off a few shots. One of them hit near the Townsend Townsend's bow, just aft of the ashcan launchers. George heard shrieks through the din of gunfire. But the sub was in over its head. Its guns were out in the open and unprotected, and the American 40mms and machine guns picked off the crews in nothing flat. When the destroyer's main armament started taking bites out of the sub's hull, it quickly sank. It kept firing as long as it could. The crew had guts-no way around that.

A few men still bobbed in the water after the submersible went down. The Townsend Townsend steered toward them and threw lines and life rings into the water. The j.a.panese sailors stubbornly refused to take them. A couple of sailors deliberately sank when lines came near. Others shook defiant fists at the ship that had sunk their sub. They shouted what had to be insults in their own language. steered toward them and threw lines and life rings into the water. The j.a.panese sailors stubbornly refused to take them. A couple of sailors deliberately sank when lines came near. Others shook defiant fists at the ship that had sunk their sub. They shouted what had to be insults in their own language.

"They're crazy," George said. "If that was me, I'd be up on this deck and down on my knees thanking G.o.d they'd rescued me instead of shooting me or leaving me for shark bait or just to drown."

"j.a.ps aren't like that," Dalby said. "Bunch of crazy monkeys, if you want to know what I think."

"They figure being a POW is the worst thing in the world," Fritz Gustafson said. "Far as they're concerned, dying's better."

"Like I said-crazy," Dalby said.

"Nasty, too." Gustafson was, for him, in a talky mood. "Don't let 'em catch you. If you're a POW, they figure you're in disgrace. Anything goes, near enough."

"How do you know that?" George asked.

The loader shrugged. "You hear stuff, is all."

One of the last j.a.panese sailors afloat spat seawater up at the Townsend. Townsend. He made gestures that probably meant the same as giving her the finger. The ship took the perfect revenge: she sailed away. The sailors whooped and cheered. "I think you're right, Chief," George said. "They He made gestures that probably meant the same as giving her the finger. The ship took the perfect revenge: she sailed away. The sailors whooped and cheered. "I think you're right, Chief," George said. "They are are crazy." crazy."

"Told you so," Fremont Dalby said smugly. "I just wish they weren't so G.o.dd.a.m.n tough, that's all."

Jefferson Pinkard inspected his dress grays in the mirror. He looked pretty G.o.dd.a.m.n sharp, if he did say so himself. The three wreathed silver stars on either side of his collar gleamed and sparkled. The way he'd polished them, they couldn't very well do anything else. His silver belt buckle shone, too. So did the black leather of his belt and boots.

When he got married the first time, back before the Great War, he'd done it in a rented tailcoat. He'd thought he was hot stuff, then. Maybe he'd even been right. His belly hadn't bulged over his belt in those days, anyhow.

He scowled as the memory came back. Emily'd been hot stuff in those days, too. Too G.o.dd.a.m.n hot, it turned out. "Little wh.o.r.e," he growled. She hadn't wanted to wait till he got back from the trenches. She'd spread it around, starting with his best friend. He remembered walking in after he got a leave he hadn't told her about ahead of time, walking in and . . .

Angrily, he turned away from the mirror. Then, feeling foolish, he had to turn back to get his hat-almost a Stetson, but with a higher crown and a wider brim-c.o.c.ked at just the right jaunty angle. Everything was going to be perfect, dammit, perfect, and he wasn't going to think about Emily even once.

A Birmingham painted in official b.u.t.ternut waited for him. "Take you into town, sir?" the driver said.

"If you don't, we ain't got a show," Jeff answered, and the fellow behind the wheel laughed. Jeff added, "Yeah, you might as well. I've come this far. I don't reckon I'll chicken out now." He slid into the back seat.

"Better not," the driver agreed. "That's where you get one of them waddayacallems-breeches of promise suits, that's it."

That wasn't exactly it, but came close enough. Jeff wondered if any lawyers were filing breach of promise suits these days, or if the Army had grabbed them all. Most, anyhow, he guessed. But a maiden spurned could probably still find a lawyer to be her knight in shining armor-at a suitable hourly rate, of course.

Edith Blades was no maiden. On the other hand, Jeff didn't aim to spurn her. "Long as I'm at the church, everything'll be just fine," he said.

A couple of buses sat in the church parking lot. They'd brought guards in from Camp Determination. Patrols would be thin there this afternoon and evening. Jeff hoped they wouldn't be too too thin. He didn't think they would. He'd made the camp as hard to break out of as he could. It ought to get along just fine for a few hours with a skeleton crew. thin. He didn't think they would. He'd made the camp as hard to break out of as he could. It ought to get along just fine for a few hours with a skeleton crew.

Hip Rodriguez waited in the doorway and waved when Jeff got out of the Birmingham. Edith had squawked a little when Jeff asked a Mexican to be his best man, but he'd won the argument. "Wasn't for him, sweetheart," he'd said, "it's not real likely I'd be here to marry you." Edith hadn't found any answer for that. Pinkard hadn't figured she could.

"You look good, Senor Senor Jeff," Rodriguez called. Jeff," Rodriguez called.

"So do you," Pinkard said, which was true. His old Army buddy hadn't put on nearly so much weight as he had, and looked impressive as the devil in his guard's uniform. Whoever had designed those clothes knew how to intimidate.

"Gracias." Rodriguez's smile was on the sheepish side. "You know something? This is the very first time I ever go inside a Protestant church." Rodriguez's smile was on the sheepish side. "You know something? This is the very first time I ever go inside a Protestant church."

Thinking about it, Jeff realized he'd he'd never set foot inside a Catholic church. He remembered some of the things he'd heard about those places when he was growing up in Birmingham. Turning them on their head, he said, "Don't worry, Hip. I promise we don't keep the Devil down in the storm cellar." never set foot inside a Catholic church. He remembered some of the things he'd heard about those places when he was growing up in Birmingham. Turning them on their head, he said, "Don't worry, Hip. I promise we don't keep the Devil down in the storm cellar."

By the way his pal started to cross himself, he must have been wondering something like that. Rodriguez broke off the gesture before completing it. "Of course not, Senor Senor Jeff," he said, though his expression argued it was anything but Jeff," he said, though his expression argued it was anything but of course. of course.

Jeff went on into the vestibule or whatever they called the antechamber just inside the entrance. Edith's sister, who would be her maid of honor, stood guard at the door to the minister's little office. The bride waited in there, and the groom was not going to set eyes on her till the ceremony started.

Jeff liked Judy Smallwood just fine. If he hadn't got to know Edith first, he might have liked her sister better. Since Judy was going back to Alexandria right after the wedding, though, that wasn't likely to prove a problem. "You look mighty nice," he told her, and she did. Her dress was of glowing blue taffeta with short puffed sleeves that set off her figure and her fair skin, dark blond hair, and blue eyes.

By the way those eyes traveled him, she thought he cut a pretty fine figure himself in his fancy uniform. She said, "Kind of a shame you haven't got anybody coming out from Alabama for the day."

"My ma and pa been dead for years," Jeff answered with a shrug. "Don't have any brothers or sisters. My cousins . . ." He shrugged again. "I don't recollect the last time I talked to one of them. They heard from me now, they'd just reckon I was aiming to pry a wedding present out of 'em."

"Well, if it's like that, you shouldn't," Judy said. "It's too bad, though."

"Have I got time for a cigarette before we get going?" Jeff wondered. He'd just pulled the pack out of his pocket when the minister emerged from the office. Jeff made the cigarettes disappear again. A smoke would have calmed his nerves, but he could do without. Anyhow, the only real cure for prewedding jitters was about four stiff drinks, and that would make people talk. He touched the brim of his hat. "Howdy, Parson."

"Mr. Pinkard," the Reverend Luke Sutton said, bobbing his bald head in return. He sent Hip Rodriguez a slightly fishy stare. Rodriguez showed no sign of sprouting horns on his forehead or letting a barbed tail slither out past his trouser cuffs, so the minister looked away and started down the aisle.

Mrs. Sutton struck up the wedding march on a beat-up old upright piano against one wall. Some Baptist churches didn't approve of music at all; Jeff was glad the Suttons weren't quite so strict. As they'd rehea.r.s.ed, he listened to her play it through once. Then he headed down the aisle himself. His best man followed.

Uniforms filled the folding chairs on one side. The other held Edith's relatives: ordinary-looking men and women in black suits and in dresses of a variety of colors and styles-some of them must have dated from just after the Great War, and they ran up to the present.

Edith's sons by Chick Blades were the ring bearers. Small, smothered chuckles rose as people got a look at the young boys. Jeff had to work to keep his own face straight. Edith had told him she would make sure Frank and Willie didn't have silly grins on their faces when they came down the aisle. She'd put the fear of G.o.d in them, all right, better than Reverend Sutton could have dreamt of doing. They looked serious past the point of solemnity-all the way to absurdity, in fact.

Edith's sister came next. She was grinning, but on her it looked good. And Edith herself followed a moment later. Her dress was identical in cut to Judy's, but of a taffeta somewhere between cream and beige: this wasn't her first marriage, so white wouldn't have been right. She'd had to do some searching to find a veil that matched, but she'd managed.

She stood beside Jeff. They faced the minister. He went through a wedding sermon he'd probably delivered a hundred times before. It wasn't fresh. It wasn't exciting. It wasn't even very interesting. Pinkard didn't care. It was official-that was all that mattered. Before too long, Sutton got down to business. They exchanged rings, taking them from the velvet pillows Edith's sons carried. "Do you, Jefferson Davis Pinkard, take this woman as your lawful wedded wife, to have and to hold, to love and to cherish, in sickness and in health, for richer, for poorer, for better, for worse, till death do you part?"

"I do," Jeff said.

Edith's vows were the same, except there was a to obey to obey in them somewhere. Jeff hardly noticed it, and suspected Edith would hardly notice it, either. Her chin went up in pride as she also said, "I do." in them somewhere. Jeff hardly noticed it, and suspected Edith would hardly notice it, either. Her chin went up in pride as she also said, "I do."

"Then by the authority vested in me by the Confederate Baptist Convention and by the sovereign state of Texas, I now p.r.o.nounce you man and wife," Luke Sutton declared. "You may kiss the bride."

Jeff lifted Edith's veil to do just that. He made the kiss thorough without, he hoped, making a spectacle of himself. Edith stayed relaxed in his arms, so he didn't think he overdid it.

The wedding march rang out again as the new couple and their attendants went up the aisle to the back of the church. Everybody else filed by to congratulate them. "Well, what do you think?" Jeff asked Hip Rodriguez after the last guards and cousins of Edith's slowly shuffled past.

"Very nice, Senor Senor Jeff," Rodriguez answered, but he couldn't help adding, "I miss the priest's fancy robes and the incense and the Latin. This way, it hardly seems like you are in an Jeff," Rodriguez answered, but he couldn't help adding, "I miss the priest's fancy robes and the incense and the Latin. This way, it hardly seems like you are in an iglesia iglesia-a church."

"Oh, it's a church, all right," Jeff said. He had had seen priests in rich robes down in the Empire of Mexico. He hadn't seen a service there, though. It didn't seem as if those prelates and somebody like Reverend Sutton were talking about the same G.o.d. seen priests in rich robes down in the Empire of Mexico. He hadn't seen a service there, though. It didn't seem as if those prelates and somebody like Reverend Sutton were talking about the same G.o.d.

The church boasted a little social hall next to the sanctuary. The reception was there. The punch and cider were teetotal; Reverend Sutton wouldn't have it any other way. Warned of this, Jeff had got the intelligence to the guards. A lot of them carried flasks with which to improve the liquid refreshment. They stayed reasonably discreet, and the minister stayed reasonably polite.

One of the guards made models for a hobby. Working with a tiny brush, he'd changed the clothes of the groom atop the wedding cake from white tie and tails to dress-gray uniform. The figure was still too slim to make a good image of Jeff Pinkard, but it looked a lot more like him than it had before. Edith stuffed gooey chocolate cake into his mouth, and he did the same for her.

He wasn't sorry not to dance on church property. He'd never been much for cutting a rug. At about ten o'clock, he and Edith went out to the Birmingham. People cheered and yelled bawdy advice and pelted them with rice. The driver took them back to Jeff's quarters. Edith squeaked when he picked her up to carry her over the threshold. Then, as he set her down, he said, "What's this?"

This was a bottle of champagne in a bucket of ice by the bed. A card in an envelope leaned against the bucket. When Jeff opened the envelope and took out the card, his eyes almost bugged out of his head. was a bottle of champagne in a bucket of ice by the bed. A card in an envelope leaned against the bucket. When Jeff opened the envelope and took out the card, his eyes almost bugged out of his head. Hope the two of you stay real happy together, Hope the two of you stay real happy together, it read in a looping scrawl surely written by no secretary. The signature was in that same rough hand: it read in a looping scrawl surely written by no secretary. The signature was in that same rough hand: Jake Featherston. Jake Featherston.

"Oh," Edith said, reading it with him. "Oh, Jeff."

"Yeah," Jeff said. "That's . . . somethin', all right." He picked up the champagne bottle. "Reckon the least we can do is drink some o' this before . . ." He stopped. Edith turned pink anyhow. He laughed. Wedding nights were for laughing, weren't they?

Champagne went down smoother than spiked punch had. Edith got pinker yet, not from embarra.s.sment but from the sparkling wine. Jeff picked her up again. He was a big man, and she wasn't a very large woman. This time, he set her down on the bed.

She was no giggling maiden. She knew what was what, the same as Jeff did. That made it better, as far as he was concerned. When it was over, he stroked her, lazy in the afterglow. "h.e.l.lo there, wife," he said.

"h.e.l.lo . . . husband," Edith said, and started to cry. "I love you, Jeff." Even though she said it, even though he was sure she meant it, he knew she was remembering Chick, too. He didn't know what the h.e.l.l he could do about it. Doing nothing seemed the smartest thing, so he did that.

Chester Martin's leg still didn't feel like carrying him around. Like it or not, though, the leg could do the job. The Army let wounded men heal, but only as long as it absolutely had to. Then it threw them back into the meat grinder to see if they could get chopped up again.

As Martin lit a cigarette in a replacement depot somewhere in western Pennsylvania, he wondered why the devil he'd joined up again. He'd known he could get hurt. Get hurt, h.e.l.l-he could get killed. He'd done it anyhow. After a while, you forgot how bad it had been. That was the only thing he could think of. Women said the same thing happened when they had babies. If they'd truly remembered how bad labor was, none of them would have had more than one.

He couldn't imagine a lonelier place than this depot. He was still part of the Army, of course, but he wasn't exactly in in it. He wasn't part of a unit. A soldier by himself was hardly a soldier at all. Whatever outfit he joined now, he'd be it. He wasn't part of a unit. A soldier by himself was hardly a soldier at all. Whatever outfit he joined now, he'd be the new guy the new guy for a while-till enough other men got killed and maimed and enough other replacements took over for them to make him an old-timer again. for a while-till enough other men got killed and maimed and enough other replacements took over for them to make him an old-timer again.

The way things were going these days, it wouldn't take long.

Men ranging in rank from private up to major sat on benches and folding chairs. Some of them smoked, some read newspapers or paperback adventures or mysteries, some just stared into s.p.a.ce. Chester recognized that stare, because he'd worn it: the look of a man who'd seen too much of h.e.l.l. You could help a buddy out when things got bad, or he could help you. n.o.body here had a buddy. That was part of being in limbo, a bad part. You were stuck with yourself.

A fat technical sergeant who would never get any closer to the front than this called out three names, following each with a serial number. Two privates and a corporal shouldered the packs they'd had between their feet. They went up to the tech sergeant, signed some papers, and went out the door by which Chester had come in. They were fully part of the military machinery again.

Off in the distance, antiaircraft guns barked. Confederate dive bombers and strafing fighters were tearing up U.S. positions in these parts, softening them so C.S. barrels and foot soldiers could cut through them more easily. The boys in b.u.t.ternut had the bit between their teeth again, and they were running like h.e.l.l.

Chester ground out the cigarette under his heel and lit another one. He didn't have the wind he'd had the last time around, but who did? Smoking gave him something to do. It was as much fun as he was allowed to have here.

Out popped that tech sergeant again. Half a dozen privates got up and trudged off to whatever awaited them. Chester went on chain-smoking. Second lieutenants got killed in droves. First sergeants were a tougher, smarter-or at least more experienced-breed. Till one went down, he'd sit here twiddling his thumbs.

"Martin, Chester A.!" the tech sergeant yelled, and his pay number after it. The man also shouted several other names.

Speak of the devil, Martin thought. He rose, slung on his pack-which didn't make his sore leg rejoice-and went over to the other noncom. The men with him were all kids-a PFC and five or six newly minted privates. The technical sergeant paid more attention to him than to the rest of them put together. Chester signed off on his paperwork, then went outside. Martin thought. He rose, slung on his pack-which didn't make his sore leg rejoice-and went over to the other noncom. The men with him were all kids-a PFC and five or six newly minted privates. The technical sergeant paid more attention to him than to the rest of them put together. Chester signed off on his paperwork, then went outside.

He'd wondered if his new outfit would have sent another senior sergeant to collect men from the repple-depple. Instead, a shavetail second lieutenant awaited him. That was good news and bad: good because it showed his new CO had enough sense to pick somebody who wasn't needed in the field, bad because the youngster here was liable to know that and resent it.

By the sour expression on the lieutenant's rather rabbity features, he knew it too well. "h.e.l.lo, Sergeant. I'm Jack Husak," he said. "You're my new nursemaid, aren't you?"

Yes, Chester thought as he saluted and gave his own name. But dealing with a superior with a chip on his shoulder was the last thing he wanted, so he said, "I'm sure that won't be necessary, sir." Chester thought as he saluted and gave his own name. But dealing with a superior with a chip on his shoulder was the last thing he wanted, so he said, "I'm sure that won't be necessary, sir."

"So am I," Husak said. "I've been in charge of my platoon for a good six weeks now, and I've got it running solid-solid, all right." all right."

"I'm glad to hear it, sir." Chester wondered what the youngster's notions of solid were. He hadn't got shot in six weeks, but what did that prove? Not much, as Chester knew too well.

Second Lieutenant Husak didn't want to leave it alone. "Commanding a platoon is an important responsibility," he said, which only proved he didn't understand his place in the world. Lieutenants in charge of platoons had the company CO above them and a senior noncom below to fix things if they screwed up too badly. Doing all right meant you were training for a real role. Not Not doing all right probably meant getting wounded or killed, and certainly meant you'd never see another promotion. Husak went on, "What's the biggest command doing all right probably meant getting wounded or killed, and certainly meant you'd never see another promotion. Husak went on, "What's the biggest command you you ever had, Sergeant?" ever had, Sergeant?"

All right, sonny boy. You asked for it. "Sir, I led a company for a while in the last war, over in northern Virginia." "Sir, I led a company for a while in the last war, over in northern Virginia."

"What?" Husak's voice went high and shrill. By the way he jerked, he might have sat on a tack. "How could you do that?"

"Usual way, sir: all the officers were killed or wounded," Martin answered stolidly. "This was 1917, sir, and we were almost as beaten down and beat up as the Confederates were. Eventually they got around to putting a lieutenant in the slot, so I got b.u.mped back down again, but I had it for a month or so."

"Oh." Husak looked as if he wanted to call him a liar, but he didn't have the nerve. Chester's matter-of-fact account was impossible to contradict, especially for someone who'd been making messes in his drawers in 1917. The young lieutenant also looked as if he hated Chester and as if he was scared to death of him, both at once. He jerked a thumb towards a waiting truck. "Hop in. We'll see how you do in the war we've got now."

"Yes, sir." As Chester did, he called himself seventeen different kinds of idiot. For this sour little punk he'd walked away from his wife, his son, and a pretty d.a.m.n good slot in the construction business? What had had those b.a.s.t.a.r.ds at the recruiting station put in his coffee? Whatever it was, they should have used it against the Confederates instead. It would have made them quit without a fight. those b.a.s.t.a.r.ds at the recruiting station put in his coffee? Whatever it was, they should have used it against the Confederates instead. It would have made them quit without a fight.

The other replacements got in after him. Husak did, too. He spent a lot less time on them than he had on Chester. The PFC-Chester thought his name was Fitzpatrick, though he looked more Italian than Irish-sent him a sympathetic look, but with the lieutenant in the truck with them that was all he could do.

"Move out," Husak called to the driver.

"Yes, sir." The man fired up the engine, put the truck in gear, and started west. Chester sighed softly. Back to the war, dammit, Back to the war, dammit, he thought. he thought.

Instead, the war came to him, and within ten minutes. The truck, which had been rumbling along at a good clip, slowed and then stopped. The driver leaned on his horn. Lieutenant Husak went up to the little window that separated the rear compartment from the driver's and shouted, "What the h.e.l.l?"

"Refugees." The driver's answer was equally laconic.