old to get called
boy
. Throwing it in the local’s face felt wonderful. “You can’t speak to me that way! I’ll talk to your officer, by God, and he’ll teach you respect.”
Cincinnatus laughed in his face. “You’re the enemy, Uncle, and we done beat you. We don’t need to waste respect on the likes of you.”
Muttering under his breath, the local stomped off. Cincinnatus hoped he did complain to an Army officer. That would serve him right—wouldn’t it just? Cincinnatus tried to imagine what the officer would tell him. He couldn’t, not in detail, but it would boil down to,
Tough shit, buddy. Now fuck off and leave me alone
. He was sure of that.
Technically, Cincinnatus wasn’t even in the Army. The U.S. Navy accepted Negroes, but the Army didn’t—though he’d heard talk that that might change. If it did, it would matter to his son, but not to him. He was both overage and not in any kind of shape to pass a physical.
But he could still drive a truck. A lot of drivers were overage civilians, many of them with not quite disabling wounds from the Great War. They freed up younger, fitter men to go to the front and fight. And, when Confederate bushwhackers hit them, they showed they still knew what to do with weapons in their hands, too.
When Cincinnatus first volunteered to drive after getting back to U.S. territory, he’d carried a .45. He patted the ugly, functional submachine gun with almost the affection he might have shown his wife. Elizabeth had got him out of some tough spots, and so had the captured Confederate piece. And it didn’t talk back.
U.S. 105s north of Ellijay thundered to life. Somebody—a spotter in a light airplane, maybe—must have seen Confederates up to something. With luck, the guns would disrupt whatever it was. Before long, Confederate artillery would probably open up, too, and maim or kill a few U.S. soldiers. Always plenty of fresh meat on both sides in war.
U.S. forces might push farther east from Ellijay, but they were unlikely to go farther north soon. They held this part of Georgia mostly to keep the enemy from bringing reinforcements down towards Atlanta. They didn’t want any more of it—they were shield, not sword.
The drivers guarded their own trucks. Several men who weren’t on sentry duty sat around a liberated card table playing poker. Soldiers probably would have sat on the ground, but it wasn’t comfortable for geezers with old wounds and assorted other aches and pains. Green U.S. bills and brown C.S. banknotes went into the pot. They had good-natured arguments—and some not so good-natured—about what Confederate money was worth. Right now, in the drivers’ highly unofficial rate of exchange, one green dollar bought about $2.75 in brown paper.
“Call,” Hal Williamson said. A moment later, Cincinnatus’ friend swore as his three sevens lost to a nine-high straight.
“Come to papa.” The other driver raked in the pot.
Williamson got to his feet. “Well, that’s about as much money as I can afford to lose till Uncle Sam gives me some more,” he said.
One of the kibitzers sat down in the folding chair he’d vacated and pulled out a fat bankroll of green and brown. “I’m not here to lose money,” he announced. “I’m gonna win me some more.”
“Emil’s here. We can start now,” another poker player said. The guy with the roll flipped him off. The other man turned to Cincinnatus. “How about you, buddy? Got any jack that’s burning a hole in your pocket?”
“Nope,” Cincinnatus said. “Don’t play often enough to get good at it. Don’t like playin’ enough to get good at it. So why should I throw my money down the toilet?”
“On account of I got grandkids who need shoes?” suggested the man sitting at the card table. “We need suckers in this here game—besides Emil, I mean.”
“You’ll see who’s a sucker,” Emil said. “You’ll be sorry when you do, too.”
“If you’re no good at somethin’, why do
boy
. Throwing it in the local’s face felt wonderful. “You can’t speak to me that way! I’ll talk to your officer, by God, and he’ll teach you respect.”
Cincinnatus laughed in his face. “You’re the enemy, Uncle, and we done beat you. We don’t need to waste respect on the likes of you.”
Muttering under his breath, the local stomped off. Cincinnatus hoped he did complain to an Army officer. That would serve him right—wouldn’t it just? Cincinnatus tried to imagine what the officer would tell him. He couldn’t, not in detail, but it would boil down to,
Tough shit, buddy. Now fuck off and leave me alone
. He was sure of that.
Technically, Cincinnatus wasn’t even in the Army. The U.S. Navy accepted Negroes, but the Army didn’t—though he’d heard talk that that might change. If it did, it would matter to his son, but not to him. He was both overage and not in any kind of shape to pass a physical.
But he could still drive a truck. A lot of drivers were overage civilians, many of them with not quite disabling wounds from the Great War. They freed up younger, fitter men to go to the front and fight. And, when Confederate bushwhackers hit them, they showed they still knew what to do with weapons in their hands, too.
When Cincinnatus first volunteered to drive after getting back to U.S. territory, he’d carried a .45. He patted the ugly, functional submachine gun with almost the affection he might have shown his wife. Elizabeth had got him out of some tough spots, and so had the captured Confederate piece. And it didn’t talk back.
U.S. 105s north of Ellijay thundered to life. Somebody—a spotter in a light airplane, maybe—must have seen Confederates up to something. With luck, the guns would disrupt whatever it was. Before long, Confederate artillery would probably open up, too, and maim or kill a few U.S. soldiers. Always plenty of fresh meat on both sides in war.
U.S. forces might push farther east from Ellijay, but they were unlikely to go farther north soon. They held this part of Georgia mostly to keep the enemy from bringing reinforcements down towards Atlanta. They didn’t want any more of it—they were shield, not sword.
The drivers guarded their own trucks. Several men who weren’t on sentry duty sat around a liberated card table playing poker. Soldiers probably would have sat on the ground, but it wasn’t comfortable for geezers with old wounds and assorted other aches and pains. Green U.S. bills and brown C.S. banknotes went into the pot. They had good-natured arguments—and some not so good-natured—about what Confederate money was worth. Right now, in the drivers’ highly unofficial rate of exchange, one green dollar bought about $2.75 in brown paper.
“Call,” Hal Williamson said. A moment later, Cincinnatus’ friend swore as his three sevens lost to a nine-high straight.
“Come to papa.” The other driver raked in the pot.
Williamson got to his feet. “Well, that’s about as much money as I can afford to lose till Uncle Sam gives me some more,” he said.
One of the kibitzers sat down in the folding chair he’d vacated and pulled out a fat bankroll of green and brown. “I’m not here to lose money,” he announced. “I’m gonna win me some more.”
“Emil’s here. We can start now,” another poker player said. The guy with the roll flipped him off. The other man turned to Cincinnatus. “How about you, buddy? Got any jack that’s burning a hole in your pocket?”
“Nope,” Cincinnatus said. “Don’t play often enough to get good at it. Don’t like playin’ enough to get good at it. So why should I throw my money down the toilet?”
“On account of I got grandkids who need shoes?” suggested the man sitting at the card table. “We need suckers in this here game—besides Emil, I mean.”
“You’ll see who’s a sucker,” Emil said. “You’ll be sorry when you do, too.”
“If you’re no good at somethin’, why do
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