"Thanks. Go help somebody else," the other man said. Somebody-maybe a pharmacist's mate, maybe a rating one of the doctors had dragooned-stuck a needle into him. Morphine sure wouldn't hurt.
George was helping to get another injured man down to first aid when someone said, "I wonder what we'll do to Miami for this."
"Blow the fucking place off the fucking map," the wounded sailor said. That sounded good to George. He'd heard of people bombs and auto bombs, but a boat bomb? The son of a bitch who thought of that one had more imagination than he knew what to do with. George hoped he'd been on the boat and pressed the button that blew it up. If he had, maybe the scheme would die with him.
Or was that too much to hope for?
"Hell of a note if we've got to inspect every boat that brings us supplies," a CPO said. "Sure looks like we will, though."
When George got down to sick bay this time, he noticed a group of badly hurt men nobody was helping. They had to be the ones the doctors thought wouldn't get better no matter what. No time to waste effort on them, then. That was cruel logic, but it made sense.
The Oregon, he learned later, lost 31 dead and more than 150 wounded. In response, the U.S. Army seized 1,500 Miamians. Some of the attempted seizures turned into gun battles, too. The locals knew what the soldiers were coming for, and weren't inclined to give themselves up without a fight. Because of the casualties the Army took rounding up the hostages, it rounded up more hostages still.
Guns aimed toward the city, the Oregon sailed close inshore. The sharp, dry crack!s of rifle volleys came across the water, one after another after another. They got the message across: if you messed with the USA, you paid. And paid. And paid.
Some of the sailors weren't satisfied even so. "We ought to blast the shit out of that place," Wally Fodor said. "Those assholes fucked with us, not with the Army. We ought to give them a fourteen-inch lesson."
"Sure works for me," George said. All right, so battleships were shore-bombardment vessels these days. There was a shore that needed bombarding, and it was lying there naked and undefended in front of them.
But the order didn't come. The men pissed and moaned. That was all they could do. They couldn't open up on Miami without orders. Oh, maybe they could-the men on the smaller guns, anyhow-but they were looking at courts-martial and long terms if they did. Nobody had the gall to try it.
Discipline tightened up amazingly. They'd taken it easy after the Confederate surrender. They didn't any more. You never could tell what might happen now. George would have bet skippers and execs all around the fleet were preaching sermons about the battleship. That was just what he wanted, all right: to serve aboard the USS Object Lesson.
"Isn't it great?" he said to Fodor. "All those guys are going, 'See? You better not be a bunch of jerkoffs like the clowns on the Oregon. Otherwise, the Confederates'll blow your nuts off, too.'"
"Yeah, that's about the size of it, all right," the gun chief agreed. "They can fix up the scar on the side of the ship and slap fresh paint all over the place, but the scar on our reputation ain't gonna go away so fast. Goddamn Confederate cockknockers took care of that in spades."
"Fuck it," George said. "I just want to get back to Boston in one piece. Goddamn war was supposed to be over months ago."
"You think we were down here for no reason?" Fodor patted the gun mount. "I wish they would've lined up the hostages right there on the beach. Then we coulda opened up on 'em with the 40mms. Boy, we would've gone through 'em in a hurry."
"Yeah." George hadn't thought of the antiaircraft guns as weapons that could substitute for a firing squad. But Wally Fodor wasn't wrong. "You turn these babies on people, you know what you've got? You've got Grim Reapers, that's what."
"I like it," Fodor said, and damned if he didn't show up the next day with a can of white paint and some stencils. GRIM REAPER 1 went on the right-hand gun barrel, GRIM REAPER 2 on the gun on the left. "Way to go, Enos. Now they've got names."
"Oh, boy." George tried not to sound too gloomy. He was stuck on the Oregon, though, and he wished to God he weren't.
A fter so long in the war zone, Cincinnatus found Des Moines strange. Sleeping in his own bed, sleeping with his own wife-that was mighty good. Getting used to a peacetime world wasn't so easy.
He flinched whenever an auto backfired or a firecracker went off. He automatically looked for somewhere to hide. He noticed white men half his age doing the same thing. They noticed him, too. "You go through the mill, Pop?" one of them called when they both ducked walking down the street after something went boom.
"Drove a truck all the way through Kentucky and Tennessee and Georgia," Cincinnatus answered. "Wasn't right at the front, but I got bushwhacked a couple-three times."
"Oughta do it," the white man agreed. "I was in Virginia, and I got shot. Then they sent me to Alabama. I don't think I'll ever stop being jumpy."
"Man, I know what you mean," Cincinnatus said with feeling. They gave each other waves that weren't quite salutes as they passed.
Cincinnatus knew just where he was going: to the recruiting station where he'd signed up to drive a truck. It was right where it had been. UNCLE SAM STILL NEEDS YOU! said the sign out front. He went inside.
Damned if the same recruiting sergeant wasn't sitting in there, doing paperwork with a pen held in a hook. The man looked up when the door opened. "Well, well," he said, smiling. "I know you, and your name will come to me in a second if I let it. You're Mr.-Driver."
"That's right, Sergeant." Cincinnatus smiled, too. "I first came in here, I called you suh."
"You didn't know the ropes then. I see you do now," the noncom answered. "I'm glad you came through in one piece. I bet you cussed the day you stuck your nose in here plenty of times."
"Best believe I did," Cincinnatus said. "You mind if I sit down?"
"Not even a little bit. I remember you had a bad leg. And you can see I'm busy as hell right now, right?" The sergeant got to his feet. "Can I grab you a cup of coffee?"
"I'd thank you if you did," Cincinnatus replied. "Stuff 's startin' to taste good again."
"We're getting real coffee beans for a change, not whatever kind of crap we were using instead," the recruiting sergeant said. "You take cream and sugar?"
"Both, please." Cincinnatus hesitated. "You know, I never learned your name the las' time I was here."
"I'm Dick Konstam-a damn Dutchman, but at your service. You've got a fancy handle. I remember that, but you'd better remind me what it is."
"Cincinnatus-that's me… Thank you kindly." Cincinnatus sipped from the paper cup. The coffee was strong, but it hadn't been sitting on the hot plate long enough to get bitter yet. He took another sip. Then he asked the question he'd come here to ask: "Sergeant Konstam-uh, Dick-how the hell do I get myself to fit back into things? Wasn't near so hard the last time around."
Konstam paused to light a cigarette. It was a Niagara. He made a sour face. "Tobacco still sucks." He blew out smoke. "You sure you want to talk about that with me, Cincinnatus? What makes you think I've got any answers?"
"You done it yourself. And you've seen plenty of other fellows come and go through here," Cincinnatus said. "If you don't know, who's likely to?"
"Well, I hated everything and everybody when I caught this." Sergeant Konstam held up the hook. Cincinnatus nodded; he could see how that might be so. The white man took another drag-he handled a cigarette as deftly as a pen. After he exhaled a gray stream of smoke, he went on, "But life is too short, you know? Whatever you've got, you better make the most of it, you know?"