Settling Accounts_ Drive To The East Part 49

Logic said he was right. Sometimes logic let you down with a thud, but. . . . "Sounds good," Moss said.

Sentries did patrol the peanut fields around Plains. With almost contemptuous ease, the Negroes disposed of the one who might have discovered them. The gray-haired man died almost before he knew someone was drawing a knife across his throat. Only a small, startled sigh escaped him. A guerrilla threw aside his own squirrel gun and appropriated the sentry's Tredegar. "Too good a piece to waste on a d.a.m.n fool," he said.

"Let's go," Spartacus said.

They trotted silently into Plains. The silence didn't last long. They started firing into some houses and tossing Featherston Fizzes into others. Fires roared to life. Alarm bells started ringing. Volunteer firemen emerged from their houses to fight the flames. The raiders picked them off one after another.

"n.i.g.g.e.rs!" somebody shouted. "Holy Jesus, there's n.i.g.g.e.rs loose in Plains!"

"Phone wires cut?" Cantarella demanded of Spartacus.

"We done took care of it," the guerrilla leader said with a savage grin. "Don't want no help comin' from nowhere else."

Here and there, townsfolk fired from windows with rifles or shotguns. Those houses got volleys of fire from the Negroes, as well as gasoline bombs to kill the resisters or drive them out in the open where they made easier prey. Moss also heard women's screams that sounded more outraged than terrified. "You won't find any fighting force in the world where that s.h.i.t doesn't happen," Cantarella said. Moss nodded, which didn't mean he liked it any better.

Somebody in Plains organized defenders who fought as a group, not as so many individuals. "Over here, Jimmy!" a woman called. "We got trouble over here!"

"Be there real quick, Miss Lillian!" a man answered. Moss got a glimpse of him in the firelight: a kid with a mouthful of teeth, wearing a dark gray C.S. Navy tunic over pajama bottoms. Home on leave? Whatever the reason he was here, he was tough and smart and brave, and he'd make real trouble if he got even half a chance.

He didn't. Moss made sure of that. The Tredegar's stock didn't fit his shoulder quite the same way as the U.S. Army Springfield he'd trained with, but the difference didn't matter. He pulled the trigger gently-he didn't squeeze it. The rifle bucked. Jimmy, the Navy man here in the middle of Georgia, spun and crumpled.

"Good shot!" Spartacus yelled.

Without a commander who sounded as if he knew what he was doing, the defenders went back to fighting every man for himself. Spartacus' raiders weren't well disciplined, but they had a better notion of what they were doing than their foes. They killed as many whites as they could, started fires all over town, and faded back into the countryside. "Well," Moss said, "we yanked their tails pretty good."

"Sure did," Nick Cantarella agreed. "Now we see how hard they yank back."

Clarence Potter had been going at a dead run ever since he put on the Confederate uniform again. He'd been going even harder than that since the war started. And he was going harder still these past few weeks, since things started turning against the CSA.

To make matters worse, he and Nathan Bedford Forrest III flinched whenever they saw each other even if they were just getting bad fried chicken in the War Department cafeteria. He wished Forrest had kept his mouth shut. Now the chief of the General Staff had him thinking-always a dangerous thing to do.

What if Jake Featherston wasn't crazy like a fox? What if he was just plain crazy, period? Around the bend? Nutty as a fruitcake? Two cylinders short of a motor?

"Well, what then?" Potter muttered. He wouldn't have been surprised if there were microphones in his subterranean office. The President of the CSA wouldn't need to be crazy to mistrust him, not after everything that had happened between them over the past twenty-five years. Featherston wouldn't need to be crazy to mistrust his spymasters, either, no matter who they were. But that handful of words seemed safe enough; Potter could have been wondering about any number of things.

He laughed, as people will laugh when the other choice is crying their eyes out. The rescue drive toward Pittsburgh was moving forward. The map on his wall showed that. But it wasn't moving forward fast enough. And the cargo airplanes that were supposed to supply the Confederates trapped in the Pittsburgh pocket were taking an unG.o.dly beating. Potter didn't know what the officers who'd promised transports could do the job had been smoking. Whatever it was, he wished he had some now. Reality needed some blurring.

And Featherston still wouldn't let the men in the pocket fight their way west to meet their would-be rescuers, either. "What we have, we hold!" he said, over and over again. Clarence Potter didn't know what he'd been smoking, either.

Just to make matters more delightful, Lubbock was liable to fall. Some of the nuisance drives the USA had launched to keep the Confederates from strengthening themselves for the rescue effort in Ohio and Pennsylvania were turning into bigger nuisances than even the generals who'd launched them probably expected.

The Attorney General's office, of all things, was having conniptions about this one. Somewhere southeast of Lubbock was something called Camp Determination. Clarence Potter didn't know what that was, not in any official way. He didn't want want to know, not in any official way. He had a pretty good unofficial idea. to know, not in any official way. He had a pretty good unofficial idea.

He also saw the need for places like that. Negro raiders were getting more and more annoying. That Navy man in that little Georgia town, shot down in front of his mother . . . Half the town was wrecked, too, and it wasn't the only one guerrillas had hit. Two people bombs in Augusta, one in Savannah, another in Charleston . . .

Potter whistled tunelessly between his teeth. The really alarming part was, things could have been worse. The USA did only a halfhearted job of supplying black guerrillas. Whites up there didn't love them, either. If the d.a.m.nyankees had gone all-out, they could have caused even more trouble than they did.

One bit of good news-Mexican troops would take some of the spook-fighting off the CSA's hands. Potter didn't know what Jake Featherston said to Maximilian. Whatever it was, it got the Emperor of Mexico moving. It probably scared the living bejesus out of him, too. Jake Featherston was not a subtle man.

Someone knocked on Potter's door. He paused to put a couple of papers into drawers before he said, "Come in."

"Here you are, sir." A lieutenant handed him a manila envelope.

"Thanks," Potter said. "Do I need to sign for it?"

"No, sir," the junior officer answered, which surprised him.

"All right, then." The lieutenant saluted and disappeared. When Potter opened the envelope, he understood. It was a progress report from Henderson V. FitzBelmont. That project was so secret, it didn't have a paper trail. This way, no Yankee spy filing sign-off sheets would wonder about it. Better safe.

He quickly read through the report. It was, for the most part, an account of technical difficulties. Uranium hexafluoride was poisonous and savagely corrosive. FitzBelmont and his people were still working out techniques for handling it. Till they did, separating U-235 from U-238 couldn't even start.

Do you have any idea how the U.S. project is proceeding? FitzBelmont wrote. Potter didn't. He wished he did. He didn't think anyone in the Confederate States did. If someone did, the report would have come through him . . . wouldn't it? If it didn't, it would have gone only one place: straight to Jake Featherston. The President knew Potter was loyal to the CSA-otherwise, he wouldn't have got involved in this uranium business in the first place. So everyone else in the country was probably as ignorant as he was about Yankee progress, if any. FitzBelmont wrote. Potter didn't. He wished he did. He didn't think anyone in the Confederate States did. If someone did, the report would have come through him . . . wouldn't it? If it didn't, it would have gone only one place: straight to Jake Featherston. The President knew Potter was loyal to the CSA-otherwise, he wouldn't have got involved in this uranium business in the first place. So everyone else in the country was probably as ignorant as he was about Yankee progress, if any.

Featherston didn't seem to have found out he and Nathan Bedford Forrest III had met, there in Capitol Square. If the President did know, neither man would still be free. Potter's first thought was that neither would still be alive. After a moment, he realized that wasn't necessarily so. Some of the people Ferd Koenig bossed could keep a man alive and hurting for a long, long time before they finally gave him peace-or maybe just made a mistake and hit him too hard or once too often.

Potter rolled a sheet of paper into the typewriter on his desk and started an answer to Professor FitzBelmont. If he worked on something important, he wouldn't have to think about some of the people who took the Attorney General's orders. Dear Professor, Dear Professor, he typed, he typed, I hope you and your fmaily are well. I hope you and your fmaily are well. The error in the first sentence a.s.sured FitzBelmont the letter really came from him: a simple code, but an effective one. The error in the first sentence a.s.sured FitzBelmont the letter really came from him: a simple code, but an effective one. Thank you for your recent letter, which I have just received. I wish I were more familiar with the j.a.panese project you mention, but I am afraid I cannot tell you how close they are to invading the Sandwich Islands. Thank you for your recent letter, which I have just received. I wish I were more familiar with the j.a.panese project you mention, but I am afraid I cannot tell you how close they are to invading the Sandwich Islands.

That, of course, was also code. It might be obvious to anyone who intercepted the letter that Potter wasn't talking about j.a.pan. What he was talking about wouldn't be so obvious, though. He wondered if the j.a.panese were working on nuclear fission. They weren't white men, but they'd proved they could play the white man's game. He shrugged. That wasn't his worry. It was probably the USA's nightmare. If one bomb could wreck Pearl Harbor or Honolulu, how did you defend them?

Back to what was his problem. He clacked away at the big upright machine. It had a stiff action, but that didn't matter; he was a two-fingered typist with a touch like a tap-dancing rhinoceros. You did not state when we could expect success from your own work. Its early completion could result in a major increase in efficiency. Hoping to hear from you soon on this point, I have the honor to remain. . . . You did not state when we could expect success from your own work. Its early completion could result in a major increase in efficiency. Hoping to hear from you soon on this point, I have the honor to remain. . . . He finished the flowery closing phrases on automatic pilot, took out the sheet of paper, and signed the squiggle that might have been his name. He finished the flowery closing phrases on automatic pilot, took out the sheet of paper, and signed the squiggle that might have been his name.

He put the letter in an envelope, sealed it, and wrote Professor FitzBelmont's name and Washington University Washington University on the outside. Then he took it down the hall to the couriers' office, first carefully locking the door to his own office behind him. He nodded to the major in charge of the War Department's secret couriers. "Morning, d.i.c.k," he said. "I need one of your boys to take this out of the city." on the outside. Then he took it down the hall to the couriers' office, first carefully locking the door to his own office behind him. He nodded to the major in charge of the War Department's secret couriers. "Morning, d.i.c.k," he said. "I need one of your boys to take this out of the city."

"Yes, sir. We can do that." The dispatching officer took the envelope, glanced at the address, and nodded. "Do you want someone who's been there before, or a new man?" That was the only question he asked. Who Henderson V. FitzBelmont was and what the professor was working on were none of his business, and he knew it.

"Either way will do," Potter answered. FitzBelmont might recognize a courier he'd seen before. Then again, he might not. He wasn't quite the absentminded professor people made jokes about, but he wasn't far removed, either. Potter got the feeling subatomic particles and differential equations were more real to him than most of the human race.

"We'll take care of it, then," the major said. "You'll want the courier to report delivery, I expect?"

"Orally, when he gets back here," Potter said.

The major raised an eyebrow. Potter looked back as if across a poker table. He held the high cards, and he knew it. So did the major. "Whatever you say, sir."

"Thanks, d.i.c.k." Potter went back to his own office. Whatever you say, sir. Whatever you say, sir. He liked the sound of that. As a general, he heard it a lot. The more he heard it, the more he liked it. He liked the sound of that. As a general, he heard it a lot. The more he heard it, the more he liked it.

How long had it been since Jake Featherston heard anything but, Whatever you say, sir? Whatever you say, sir? Since he took the oath of office in 1934, certainly. In most things, n.o.body'd tried arguing with him for years before that. And he was a man who'd liked getting his own way even when he was only an artillery sergeant. Since he took the oath of office in 1934, certainly. In most things, n.o.body'd tried arguing with him for years before that. And he was a man who'd liked getting his own way even when he was only an artillery sergeant.

If somebody had tried telling the President more often, the country might be in better shape right now. Or it might not-Featherston might just have ordered naysayers shot or sent to camps. He'd done a lot of that.

Potter lit a cigarette and blew a meditative cloud of smoke up toward the ceiling. Two questions: was Jake Featherston leading the Confederate States to ruin, and could anybody else do a better job if Featherston came down with a sudden case of loss of life?

With the building disaster in Pittsburgh, with Featherston's stubborn refusal to cut his losses and pull out (which looked worse now than it had when Nathan Bedford Forrest III and Potter sat on the park bench), the answer to the first had gone from unlikely unlikely through through maybe maybe and on toward and on toward probably, probably, even if it hadn't got there yet. even if it hadn't got there yet.

As for the second . . . Potter blew out more smoke. That wasn't nearly so obvious. n.o.body could wear Jake Featherston's shoes. The Vice President? Don Partridge was a cipher, a placeholder, somebody to fill a slot because the Confederate Const.i.tution said you needed to fill it. His only virtue was knowing he was a lightweight. Ferdinand Koenig? The Attorney General would have the Freedom Party behind him if the long knives came out. He was able enough, in a gray, bureaucratic way, but about as inspiring as a mudflat. As a leader . . . ? Potter shuddered. Ferd Koenig was one of those people who made a terrific number two but a terrible number one. Unlike some of them, he had the sense to realize it.

Which left-who? Congress was a Freedom Party rubber stamp. Potter couldn't think of any governor worth a pitcher of warm spit. Besides, most people outside a governor's home state had never heard of him.

What about Forrest? Clarence Potter blinked, there in the privacy of his office. He was surprised the idea had taken so long to occur to him. He laughed at himself. "You old Whig, you," he murmured. If the armed forces were going to overthrow the President-and it wouldn't happen any other way-who better to take over the government than the chief of the General Staff? The Freedom Party had danced on the spirit of the Const.i.tution while holding on to most of the letter. Throwing it out the window altogether seemed not just unnatural but wicked. But Forrest just might do. Clarence Potter blinked, there in the privacy of his office. He was surprised the idea had taken so long to occur to him. He laughed at himself. "You old Whig, you," he murmured. If the armed forces were going to overthrow the President-and it wouldn't happen any other way-who better to take over the government than the chief of the General Staff? The Freedom Party had danced on the spirit of the Const.i.tution while holding on to most of the letter. Throwing it out the window altogether seemed not just unnatural but wicked. But Forrest just might do.

Losing the war is wicked. Anything else? Next to losing this war to the USA, anything else looks good. Anything at all. Potter nodded decisively. About that, he had no doubts at all. The United States had forced a harsh peace on the Confederate States in 1917, but hadn't kept it going for very long. Terms would be even worse this time, and the United States would make sure the Confederates never got off their knees again. Potter nodded decisively. About that, he had no doubts at all. The United States had forced a harsh peace on the Confederate States in 1917, but hadn't kept it going for very long. Terms would be even worse this time, and the United States would make sure the Confederates never got off their knees again.

The next time Potter saw Nathan Bedford Forrest III in the cafeteria, he nodded casually and said, "Something I'd like to talk to you about when we have the chance."

"Really?" Forrest said, as casually. "Can we do it here?"

Potter shook his head. "No, sir," he answered. "Needs privacy." From one general to another, that wasn't a surprising thing to say. For a split second, Forrest's eyes widened. Then he nodded and put some silverware on his tray.

Michael Pound grinned as his barrel rumbled forward, jouncing over rubble and grinding a lot of the big chunks into smaller ones. "Advancing feels good, doesn't it, sir?" he said.

Lieutenant Don Griffiths nodded. "You'd better believe it, Sergeant. We've done too much falling back."

"Yes, sir." Pound wouldn't have argued with that for a moment. "Looks to me like the Confederates are starting to feel the pinch."

"Here's hoping," Griffiths said. "I wouldn't want to try reinforcing and supplying an army the size of theirs by air, I'll tell you that. And I don't think they've got an airstrip left that our artillery can't reach."

"My heart bleeds-but not as much as they're going to bleed before long," Pound said. "I wonder why they haven't tried to break out to the west. Somebody in their high command must have his head wedged. Too bad for them." He had no respect for his own superiors. Finding out some dunderheads wore b.u.t.ternut was rea.s.suring.

A rifle bullet pinged off the barrel's armored side. That That wouldn't do the Confederates any good. As if to prove it wouldn't, the bow machine gun chattered. Pound peered through his own gunsight, but he couldn't see what the bow gunner was shooting at-if he was shooting at anything. It hardly mattered sometimes. wouldn't do the Confederates any good. As if to prove it wouldn't, the bow machine gun chattered. Pound peered through his own gunsight, but he couldn't see what the bow gunner was shooting at-if he was shooting at anything. It hardly mattered sometimes.

Off to the left, something on the Confederate side of the line blew up with a roar loud enough to penetrate the barrel's thick skin. "That sounded good," Pound said. "Wonder what it was."

"Want me to stick my head out and look around?" Lieutenant Griffiths asked.

"Not important enough, sir," Pound answered. "Who knows if our machine gun took out whoever was shooting at us?" Barrel commander was a dangerous job. Now that Pound had finally found an officer with some notion of what he was doing, he didn't want to lose him for no good reason. There were too many times when a barrel commander had perfectly good reasons for exposing himself to enemy fire.

Something else blew up, even louder. Griffiths put a hand to his earphones. He often did that when he was getting a wireless message. Sergeant Pound had no idea whether it helped or how it could, but he'd never said anything about it to the officer. It couldn't hurt.

Lieutenant Griffiths leaned forward to use the speaking tube to the driver's position: "Forward again, and a little to the left, but slowly," he said. He turned to Pound. "That was an ammunition dump. They won't be able to sh.e.l.l us so well for a while."

"We hope," said Pound, ever willing to see the cloud next to the silver lining.

"Well, yes. We hope. There's always that," Griffiths agreed. "But we've got infantry moving up with us. With luck, they'll keep the short-range trouble away from us. As for the other side's barrels and antibarrel guns-we've done all right so far. Of course, we've got a pretty good gunner."

"So we do." Pound knew his own talents too well to be modest about them. Half a second later than he should have, he added, "You're not bad at spotting trouble before it spots us. Best way to get rid of it that I know."

No sooner had he said that than something clanged against the front of the turret with force enough to shake the whole barrel. I'm dead, I'm dead, Pound thought. Only a moment later did he realize he would have been too dead to think if that round had got through. Pound thought. Only a moment later did he realize he would have been too dead to think if that round had got through. Thank G.o.d for the upgraded armor on the new turret. If this beast hadn't been retrofitted, I'd be burnt meat right now. Thank G.o.d for the upgraded armor on the new turret. If this beast hadn't been retrofitted, I'd be burnt meat right now.

Without waiting for orders, the driver roared forward, looking for cover behind the nearest pile of rubble. Then, abruptly, he slammed on the brakes. "Did you see it, sir?" Pound asked.

"No, G.o.ddammit." Griffiths sounded angry at himself. "That son of a b.i.t.c.h knows where we're at, and I didn't spot the muzzle flash. Wherever he is, he's hidden good."

"Not sporting," Pound agreed. He'd been more than happy enough to ambush C.S. barrels from an empty garage, but having them turn the tables on him wasn't playing fair. Someone with a more objective view might not have found that unfair, but so what? It wasn't the impartial observer's neck. It was his.

He traversed the turret, staring through the gunsight as he did. The hatch opened. Lieutenant Griffiths stood up to get a better look than he could through the periscopes in the cupola. This was one of those those times. Griffiths might get shot, but he also might get a better look at the hidden cannon or barrel that had just come within inches of incinerating him. times. Griffiths might get shot, but he also might get a better look at the hidden cannon or barrel that had just come within inches of incinerating him.

It didn't fire again, which argued that the rubble in front of Pound's barrel gave pretty good protection. A rifle bullet snapped past; as always, the sound seemed hatefully malicious. Lieutenant Griffiths ducked a little-you did that without thinking-but he didn't come back inside the steel sh.e.l.l. He had b.a.l.l.s. Pound nodded approvingly.

Probably not somewhere close, the gunner thought, looking for straight lines that broke the irregular pattern of the ruins of Pittsburgh. If the enemy were close, he would have a better shot at the U.S. barrel. And, if he were close, his round likely would have penetrated in spite of the improved turret. A cannon made a d.a.m.ned effective door knocker. the gunner thought, looking for straight lines that broke the irregular pattern of the ruins of Pittsburgh. If the enemy were close, he would have a better shot at the U.S. barrel. And, if he were close, his round likely would have penetrated in spite of the improved turret. A cannon made a d.a.m.ned effective door knocker.

There! Or Pound thought so, anyhow. "Armor-piercing!" he snapped.

"Armor-piercing," Cecil Bergman answered. The loader slammed a black-tipped cartridge into the breech. Pound worked the elevation handwheel. Fifteen hundred yards was was a long shot. As near as he could tell, he fired at the same time as the C.S. gunner. The enemy's shot snarled past, a few feet high. Pound's struck home. The enemy barrel started to burn. a long shot. As near as he could tell, he fired at the same time as the C.S. gunner. The enemy's shot snarled past, a few feet high. Pound's struck home. The enemy barrel started to burn.

"Hit!" Lieutenant Griffiths shouted. "How on earth did you make that shot?"

"Twenty-odd years of practice, sir," Pound answered. The Confederate gunner hadn't had so much-though he'd hit Pound's barrel before Pound even knew he was there. He wouldn't get another chance now. A great cloud of black smoke was rising, almost a mile away.

The shot ricocheting inside the barrel would have killed or maimed some of the crew. The fire would be searing the rest. By the way the smoke billowed out, that barrel was a total loss. Odds were the crew was, too. Pound had bailed out of a crippled barrel, but then only the engine compartment was burning. Could anyone get out here? He didn't think so.

I just killed five men. Most of the time, he didn't worry about that. When he watched a barrel brew up, it was only a machine that died. But he'd just had his own brush with death, and it reminded him of the soldiers inside the barrels. He knew what they were going through; he'd come close to going through it himself. If he'd met them in a bar, he could have drunk the night away talking shop with them. Most of the time, he didn't worry about that. When he watched a barrel brew up, it was only a machine that died. But he'd just had his own brush with death, and it reminded him of the soldiers inside the barrels. He knew what they were going through; he'd come close to going through it himself. If he'd met them in a bar, he could have drunk the night away talking shop with them.

But they'd just done their best to kill him, and their best was hideously close to good enough. They're dead and I'm alive and that's how I want it to be. They're dead and I'm alive and that's how I want it to be.

"We can move up a little more now, sir," he said.

Griffiths thought about it, then nodded. He called up to the driver. The barrel came out from behind the pile of wreckage and clattered towards another one. Pound tensed when it came out into the open. If the Confederates had drawn a bead on them . . . But no hardened-steel projectile tore into the machine's vitals. He breathed again as a pile of tumbled bricks came between his machine and the people who wanted to do unto it as he'd done unto theirs.

U.S. foot soldiers ran forward with the barrels. A Confederate machine gunner opened up on them. "Front!" Lieutenant Griffiths shouted.

"Identified!" Pound answered. He turned his head and shouted to the loader: "HE!"

"HE," Bergman said. A white-tipped high-explosive round went into the breech. Pound lined up the sights on the C.S. machine gun's winking muzzle. He jerked the lanyard. The cannon bellowed. The sh.e.l.l casing clanked on the floor of the fighting compartment.

A 2.4-inch sh.e.l.l didn't have room for a whole lot of explosive. A three-incher from one of the Confederate barrels would have held almost twice as much. Sandbags and rubble flew from in front of the C.S. gun, but it kept shooting. Tracers drew fiery lines through the air.

Pound abstractly admired the enemy gunners' nerve. If a round burst right in front of him, he would have got the h.e.l.l out of there. They kept doing what they'd been trained to do. "Another round," he said. In went the sh.e.l.l. He swung the cannon's muzzle a gnat's hair to the left and fired again.

Another hit, but the enemy gun went on firing. He needed two more rounds before it fell silent. The stink of cordite was thick in the turret. "Stubborn b.a.s.t.a.r.ds," Lieutenant Griffiths said.

"Yes, sir," Pound agreed, coughing. "They're the ones you've especially got to get rid of."

With the machine gun knocked out, U.S. infantry moved up some more. They took casualties. With automatic rifles and submachine guns, the Confederate soldiers could outshoot them. But how long could the Confederates keep outshooting them if more ammunition didn't come into Pittsburgh?

The Confederates couldn't use captured U.S. ammo unless they also used captured Springfields. They'd chosen different calibers on purpose, to make it harder for U.S. soldiers to turn captured automatic rifles against them. It must have seemed a good idea at the time. It probably was. But it cut both ways.

Off to the left, a U.S. barrel got hit and started burning. Nothing in Pittsburgh came cheap. Nothing came easy. The Confederates weren't going to quit, and they fell back only when they had no choice. How long could they keep it up?

He shrugged. That wasn't his worry. People with shoulder straps and metal ornaments on them had to fret about such things. All he had to do was shoot whatever he and Lieutenant Griffiths spotted in front of their barrel and hope like h.e.l.l n.o.body shot him. He nodded. That would do nicely.

Sh.e.l.ls started bursting around them. The bursts weren't the ordinary kind; they sounded wrong, and even through the gunsight he saw the crawling mist that spread from them. "Gas!" he yelled.

Griffiths clanged down the hatch on top of the cupola. "I saw it," he said. "I was hoping those f.u.c.kers were running short. No such luck, I guess."

"No, sir," Pound said as he put on his mask. Out in the open, U.S. infantrymen paused to do the same. Pound went on, "Now we'll throw some at the Confederates, just to make sure they have to wear masks, too. As long as both sides have it, it doesn't change anything."