what those bastards had laying for us there.”
“That’s their own waters, though,” Fitzpatrick protested. “That isn’t what I meant. What I did mean was, how long before we have to worry about them out here in the Pacific? And out in the Atlantic, too—don’t want to leave out the other ocean.”
This time, Carsten didn’t answer. He looked to Lieutenant Commander Pottinger again. The commander of the damage-control party said, “We’ve already got Jap subs here in the Pacific, and maybe British boats coming up from Australia and New Zealand toward the Sandwich Islands. We’ve got British boats and German boats and French ones, too, in the Atlantic. Enough of those sons of bitches running around loose already. What the hell difference do a few Confederate subs make?”
Now he got a laugh. Sam joined it, even though he didn’t think Pottinger had been kidding. “Back when I started out in the Navy, all we worried about was surface ships,” he said. “Nobody’d ever heard that aeroplanes were dangerous, and submarines were still half toys. Nobody had any idea what they could do. It’s a different world nowadays, and that’s the truth.”
“You betcha,” Seaman Fitzpatrick said. “Nobody ever thought of a funny-looking thing called an aeroplane carrier, neither.”
“Damage control is damage control,” Pottinger said. “Something hurts the ship, we patch it up. That’s what we’re here for.”
Sailors nodded once more. Carsten didn’t argue with his superior, not out loud. But it was more complicated than that. Shells did one kind of damage, torpedoes another, and bombs a third. Bombs had the potential to be the most destructive, he thought. Unlike shells and torpedoes, they weren’t limited in how much explosive they could carry. And explosive was what delivered the punch. Everything else was just the bus driver to get the cordite to where it did its job.
Sam didn’t care for that line of reasoning. If bombs could sink ships so easily, what point to having any surface Navy at all? He’d first wondered about that during the war, when an aeroplane flying out from Argentina had bombed the battleship he was on. The damage was light—the bombs were small—but he thought he’d seen the handwriting on the wall.
Maybe a carrier’s aeroplanes could hold off the enemy’s. But maybe they couldn’t, too. Down in the warm, humid belly of the
Remembrance
, Sam shivered.
III
J onathan Moss was an American. He had a Canadian wife. After studying occupation law, he’d made his living in Berlin, Ontario, by helping Canucks struggling in the toils of what the U.S. Army insisted on calling justice. Without false modesty, he knew he was one of the best in the business.
And what was his reward for doing everything he could to give the Canadians a hand? He stared down at the sheet of paper on his desk. He’d just taken it out of an envelope and unfolded it. In block capitals, it said, YANK SWINE, YOU WILL DIE!
He supposed he ought to turn it over to the occupying authorities. Maybe they could find fingerprints on it and track down whoever had stuck it in the mail. Instead, Moss crumpled up the paper and chucked it into the wastebasket. For one thing, odds were anyone who sent a charming missive of this sort had the elementary common sense to wear gloves while he was doing it. And, for another, taking a crank like this seriously gave him power over you.
During the war, Moss had flown observation aeroplanes and fighting scouts. He’d gone through all three years without getting badly hurt, and ended up an ace. After the real terror of aerial combat, a cowardly little anonymous threat didn’t get him very excited.
He methodically went through the rest of his mail. The Bar Association reminded him his dues were payable before December 31. That gave him two and a half weeks. His landlord served notice that, as of next February 1, his office rent would go up five dollars a month. “Happy day,” he
“That’s their own waters, though,” Fitzpatrick protested. “That isn’t what I meant. What I did mean was, how long before we have to worry about them out here in the Pacific? And out in the Atlantic, too—don’t want to leave out the other ocean.”
This time, Carsten didn’t answer. He looked to Lieutenant Commander Pottinger again. The commander of the damage-control party said, “We’ve already got Jap subs here in the Pacific, and maybe British boats coming up from Australia and New Zealand toward the Sandwich Islands. We’ve got British boats and German boats and French ones, too, in the Atlantic. Enough of those sons of bitches running around loose already. What the hell difference do a few Confederate subs make?”
Now he got a laugh. Sam joined it, even though he didn’t think Pottinger had been kidding. “Back when I started out in the Navy, all we worried about was surface ships,” he said. “Nobody’d ever heard that aeroplanes were dangerous, and submarines were still half toys. Nobody had any idea what they could do. It’s a different world nowadays, and that’s the truth.”
“You betcha,” Seaman Fitzpatrick said. “Nobody ever thought of a funny-looking thing called an aeroplane carrier, neither.”
“Damage control is damage control,” Pottinger said. “Something hurts the ship, we patch it up. That’s what we’re here for.”
Sailors nodded once more. Carsten didn’t argue with his superior, not out loud. But it was more complicated than that. Shells did one kind of damage, torpedoes another, and bombs a third. Bombs had the potential to be the most destructive, he thought. Unlike shells and torpedoes, they weren’t limited in how much explosive they could carry. And explosive was what delivered the punch. Everything else was just the bus driver to get the cordite to where it did its job.
Sam didn’t care for that line of reasoning. If bombs could sink ships so easily, what point to having any surface Navy at all? He’d first wondered about that during the war, when an aeroplane flying out from Argentina had bombed the battleship he was on. The damage was light—the bombs were small—but he thought he’d seen the handwriting on the wall.
Maybe a carrier’s aeroplanes could hold off the enemy’s. But maybe they couldn’t, too. Down in the warm, humid belly of the
Remembrance
, Sam shivered.
III
J onathan Moss was an American. He had a Canadian wife. After studying occupation law, he’d made his living in Berlin, Ontario, by helping Canucks struggling in the toils of what the U.S. Army insisted on calling justice. Without false modesty, he knew he was one of the best in the business.
And what was his reward for doing everything he could to give the Canadians a hand? He stared down at the sheet of paper on his desk. He’d just taken it out of an envelope and unfolded it. In block capitals, it said, YANK SWINE, YOU WILL DIE!
He supposed he ought to turn it over to the occupying authorities. Maybe they could find fingerprints on it and track down whoever had stuck it in the mail. Instead, Moss crumpled up the paper and chucked it into the wastebasket. For one thing, odds were anyone who sent a charming missive of this sort had the elementary common sense to wear gloves while he was doing it. And, for another, taking a crank like this seriously gave him power over you.
During the war, Moss had flown observation aeroplanes and fighting scouts. He’d gone through all three years without getting badly hurt, and ended up an ace. After the real terror of aerial combat, a cowardly little anonymous threat didn’t get him very excited.
He methodically went through the rest of his mail. The Bar Association reminded him his dues were payable before December 31. That gave him two and a half weeks. His landlord served notice that, as of next February 1, his office rent would go up five dollars a month. “Happy day,” he
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