the headquarters building. Dowling thought of the Angel of Death, and wondered if someone had slapped lamb’s blood on the doorframe at the entrance. The bursts diminished in force as they got farther away.
“Whew,” somebody said, which summed it up as well as anything else.
“Columbus is catching hell, though,” someone else said. “Too goddamn bad. This is a nice town.”
“Too goddamn bad is right,” Morrell said. “This is a town we’ve got to hold.” He plainly didn’t care whether Columbus was nice, dreary, or actively vile. All he cared about was Columbus as a military position.
After about half an hour, the all-clear sounded. Confederate air bases weren’t very far away. The bombers could loiter for a while if U.S. fighters didn’t rise to drive them off. That didn’t seem to have happened this time. Of course, the C.S. bombers would have had fighters of their own riding shotgun.
“Well,” Dowling said in what he hoped wasn’t black despair, “let’s see what they’ve done to us this time.”
He and Morrell and the rest of the officers and enlisted men climbed the stairs out of the basement. A corporal looked up and said, “Jesus God, but it’s good to see the sky again!” He crossed himself.
Dowling was more than happy to see the sky again, too, even if clouds and streamers of smoke and the contrails left by airplanes now departed still marred its blue perfection like burn scars on what would have been a beautiful face. A staff officer pointed to a tall pillar of smoke off to the west and said, “They’ve gone and pasted Camp Custer again, the sons of bitches.”
“No big surprise there,” Dowling said. The Confederates had been hitting the training facility every chance they got ever since the war broke out. It was, without a doubt, a legitimate military target. But they were also punishing civilian sectors of Columbus and other U.S. cities. In retaliation—President Smith said it was in retaliation—the United States were visiting the same sort of destruction on C.S. towns.
Colonel Morrell was thinking along the same lines. “Going to be a swell old war, isn’t it?” he said to nobody in particular.
The air-raid sirens started up again, not the usual shrill warble but one that got louder and softer, louder and softer, over and over again till back-teeth fillings started to ache. “What the hell?” Dowling said.
Everybody stared for five or ten seconds, trying to remember what that signal was supposed to mean. At last, a sergeant exclaimed, “It’s a goddamn gas alert!”
There was a new wrinkle. The Confederates hadn’t dropped that kind of death from the air before, at least not on Columbus. The soldiers dashed back into the building they’d so gratefully vacated moments before. Some of them found gas masks. Others had to take their chances without.
From behind his hot, heavy rubber monstrosity, Dowling said, “This is going to be hell on civilians. They don’t have anywhere near enough masks.” Even he could hear how muffled his voice was.
Morrell wore a mask, too. He did so self-consciously, as if he didn’t want to but knew he had to. He said, “The Confederates only need to drop a few gas bombs, too, to make us flabble all over the place. You can’t help taking gas seriously, and they get a big payback for a small investment.”
“So they do,” Dowling said morosely. “But I’ll tell you this, Colonel: they won’t be the only ones for long.”
III
W hen it came to waiting tables at the Huntsman’s Lodge, summer was the worst season of the year. Scipio had to put on his tuxedo in the Terry—Augusta, Georgia’s, colored quarter—and then walk through the heat and humidity to the restaurant where he worked. The walk would also expose him to what passed for wit among the whites of Augusta. If he had a dime for every time he’d heard
penguin suit,
he could have retired tomorrow and been set for life.
He would have liked to retire. He was,
“Whew,” somebody said, which summed it up as well as anything else.
“Columbus is catching hell, though,” someone else said. “Too goddamn bad. This is a nice town.”
“Too goddamn bad is right,” Morrell said. “This is a town we’ve got to hold.” He plainly didn’t care whether Columbus was nice, dreary, or actively vile. All he cared about was Columbus as a military position.
After about half an hour, the all-clear sounded. Confederate air bases weren’t very far away. The bombers could loiter for a while if U.S. fighters didn’t rise to drive them off. That didn’t seem to have happened this time. Of course, the C.S. bombers would have had fighters of their own riding shotgun.
“Well,” Dowling said in what he hoped wasn’t black despair, “let’s see what they’ve done to us this time.”
He and Morrell and the rest of the officers and enlisted men climbed the stairs out of the basement. A corporal looked up and said, “Jesus God, but it’s good to see the sky again!” He crossed himself.
Dowling was more than happy to see the sky again, too, even if clouds and streamers of smoke and the contrails left by airplanes now departed still marred its blue perfection like burn scars on what would have been a beautiful face. A staff officer pointed to a tall pillar of smoke off to the west and said, “They’ve gone and pasted Camp Custer again, the sons of bitches.”
“No big surprise there,” Dowling said. The Confederates had been hitting the training facility every chance they got ever since the war broke out. It was, without a doubt, a legitimate military target. But they were also punishing civilian sectors of Columbus and other U.S. cities. In retaliation—President Smith said it was in retaliation—the United States were visiting the same sort of destruction on C.S. towns.
Colonel Morrell was thinking along the same lines. “Going to be a swell old war, isn’t it?” he said to nobody in particular.
The air-raid sirens started up again, not the usual shrill warble but one that got louder and softer, louder and softer, over and over again till back-teeth fillings started to ache. “What the hell?” Dowling said.
Everybody stared for five or ten seconds, trying to remember what that signal was supposed to mean. At last, a sergeant exclaimed, “It’s a goddamn gas alert!”
There was a new wrinkle. The Confederates hadn’t dropped that kind of death from the air before, at least not on Columbus. The soldiers dashed back into the building they’d so gratefully vacated moments before. Some of them found gas masks. Others had to take their chances without.
From behind his hot, heavy rubber monstrosity, Dowling said, “This is going to be hell on civilians. They don’t have anywhere near enough masks.” Even he could hear how muffled his voice was.
Morrell wore a mask, too. He did so self-consciously, as if he didn’t want to but knew he had to. He said, “The Confederates only need to drop a few gas bombs, too, to make us flabble all over the place. You can’t help taking gas seriously, and they get a big payback for a small investment.”
“So they do,” Dowling said morosely. “But I’ll tell you this, Colonel: they won’t be the only ones for long.”
III
W hen it came to waiting tables at the Huntsman’s Lodge, summer was the worst season of the year. Scipio had to put on his tuxedo in the Terry—Augusta, Georgia’s, colored quarter—and then walk through the heat and humidity to the restaurant where he worked. The walk would also expose him to what passed for wit among the whites of Augusta. If he had a dime for every time he’d heard
penguin suit,
he could have retired tomorrow and been set for life.
He would have liked to retire. He was,
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