"More like the ugliest thing in the whole wide world," Dowling said, too startled for once to watch his tongue as well as he should have.

He got lucky. Custer didn't hear him. Major Sherrard did, but didn't act insulted. Custer said, "So this is what a barrel looks like, eh? Bigger than I thought. Tougher than I thought, too."

Had Dowling named the beast, he would have called it a box, not a barrel. Big it was, twenty-five feet long if it was an inch, and better than ten feet high, too: an enormous box of steel plates riveted together, with a cannon sticking out from the slightly pointed front end, four machine guns-a pair on either flank-a driver's conning tower or whatever the proper name was sticking up from the middle of the top deck, and, as Dowling saw when he walked around to the rear of the thing, two more machine guns there.

"You've got it on tracks instead of wheels," he remarked.

"That's right," Sherrard said proudly. "It'll cross a trench seven feet wide, easy as you please-climb out of shell holes, too, and keep on going."

"How big a crew?" Custer asked.

"Eighteen," Major Sherrard answered. "Two on the cannon-it's a two-incher, in case you're wondering, sir-two on each machine gun, two mechanics on the engines, a driver, and a commander."

"Engines?" Dowling said. "Plural?"

"Well, yes." Now the major sounded a trifle embarrassed. "Sarah Bernhardt here does weigh something over thirty tons. It takes a pair of White truck engines to push her along. They're a handed pair, like gloves, one with normal rotation, one with reverse. That lets us put the exhausts, which are very hot, in the center of the hull, and the carburetors and manifolds toward the outside."

"Thirty-tons," Dowling murmured. "How fast will, uh, Sarah go?"

"Eight miles an hour, flat out on level ground," the barrel enthusiast told him. "You must remember, Major, she's carrying more than an inch of steel armor plate all around, to keep machine-gun fire from penetrating."

"Are these chaps gathered here and around the tent the crew?" Custer asked eagerly. "If they are, may I see the barrel in action?"

"They are, and you may," Sherrard said. "That's why I brought you here, sir." He clapped his hands and called out a couple of sharp orders. The crew scrambled into the barrel through hatches Dowling had hardly noticed till they swung wide. Major Sherrard opened the whole front of the tent, which was, Dowling realized with that, a special model itself, made to shelter barrels. The War Department was serious about barrels, all right, if it had had tents created with them in mind.

The driver and commander, up in that little box of a conning tower, opened their armored vision slits as wide as they could; no one would be shooting at them today. The engine-no, engines, Dowling reminded himself-must have had electric ignition, because they sprang to noisy, stinking life without anyone cranking them.

"Let's step outside," Major Sherrard said. "Even with the slits wide, the driver hasn't got the best view of the road. Wouldn't do to have us squashed flat because he didn't notice we were there, heh, heh."

Dowling's answering chuckle was distinctly dutiful. Custer, though, laughed almost as loud as he had on learning Richard Harding Davis had dropped dead. He was enjoying himself. Dowling wasn't. The day was hot and sticky, the worst kind of day for anyone with a corpulent frame like his. As the sun beat down on him, he wondered what it was like for the crew of the barrel inside that steel shell. He wondered what it would be like in combat, with the hatches and slits closed down tight. He decided he was glad to be on the outside looking in, not on the inside looking out.

The rumble changed note as the driver put Sarah Bernhardt into gear. Tracks clattering, the barrel slowly crawled out of the tent. Through the slit, Dowling heard the commander shouting at the driver. In spite of the shouting, he wondered if the driver could hear anything.

Down into a shell hole went the barrel. The engine note changed again as the driver shifted gears. Up out of the hole the barrel came, dirt clinging to its prow. Down into another hole it went. Up it came once more. It rolled over some old, rusty Confederate barbed wire as if the stuff hadn't been there. As Major Sherrard had said, it showed no trouble crossing a trench wider than a man was tall.

"Do you know what this is, Major?" Custer said to Dowling. "This"-he gave an utterly Custerian melodramatic pause-"is armored cavalry. This, for once, is no flapdoodle. This is a breakthrough machine."

"It may well prove useful in trench warfare, yes, sir," Dowling agreed-or half agreed. Custer had always wanted to use cavalry to force a breakthrough. Dowling remembered thinking about armored horses, but, to his mind, Sarah Bernhardt didn't measure up-the barrel struck him as more like an armored hippopotamus.

But Custer, as usual, was letting himself get carried away. "Give me a hundred of these machines on a two-mile front," he declared, "and I'll tear a hole in the Rebs' lines so big, even a troop of blind, three-legged dogs could go through it, let alone our brave American soldiers."

Major Sherrard coughed the polite cough of a junior-grade officer correcting his superior. Abner Dowling knew that cough well. "War Department tactical doctrine, sir," Sherrard said, "is to employ barrels widely along the front, to support as many different infantry units with them as possible."

"Poppycock!" Custer exclaimed. "Utter goo and drivel. A massed blow is what's required, Major-nothing less. Once we get into the Rebs' rear, they're ours."

"Sir," Major Sherrard said stiffly, "I have to tell you that one criterion in the allocation of barrels to the various fronts will be commanders' willingness to utilize them in the manner determined to be most efficacious by the War Department."

Custer looked like a cat choking on a hairball. Dowling turned to watch Sarah Bernhardt climb out of yet another shell hole so his commanding officer wouldn't see him laugh. Custer had gall, all right, if on three minutes' acquaintance with barrels he presumed to offer a doctrine for them wildly at odds with that of the people who'd invented them in the first place. Well, Custer's gall wasn't anything with which Dowling had been unacquainted already.

"Very well," the general commanding First Army said, his voice mild though his face was red. "I'll use them exactly the way the wise men in Philadelphia say I should."

"Good." Major Sherrard smiled now. Of course he smiled-he'd got his way. "Progress on this front, I am sure, will improve because of them."

"I'm sure of that myself," Custer said. Now Dowling did look at him, and sharply. He was sure of something, too-sure his boss was lying.

Reggie Bartlett glanced over at Senior Lieutenant Ralph Briggs. Briggs no longer looked like a recruiting poster for the Confederate States Navy, as he had all through his stay in the prisoner-of-war camp near Beckley, West Virginia. What he looked like now was a hayseed; he was wearing a collarless cotton shirt under faded denim overalls he'd hooked off a clothesline while a farm wife was busy in the kitchen. A disreputable straw hat perched on his head at an even more disreputable angle.

Reggie looked down at himself. By his clothes, he could have been Briggs' cousin. His shirt, instead of hiding under overalls, was tucked into a pair of dungarees out at the knee and held up by a rope belt in lieu of galluses. The straw hat keeping the sun out of his eyes was even more battered than the one Briggs wore.

Catching the glances, Briggs clicked his tongue between his teeth. "We've got to do something about our shoes," he said fretfully. "If anyone takes a good long look at them, we're ruined."

"Sure are, Ralph," Bartlett said in his not very good rendering of a West Virginia twang, an accent altogether different not only from his own soft Richmond intonations but also from the Yankee way of talking Briggs had tried to teach him. His brown, sturdy Confederate Army boots were at least well made for marching. Briggs' Navy shoes, both tighter and less strongly made, had given him trouble after he and Reggie and several others tunneled their way out of the prisoner-of-war camp. Reggie went on, "Hard to steal shoes, though, and no promise they'll fit once we've done it."