“If someone is, I’m sure he’ll get in touch with you,” Colonel Summers said, which again told Moss nothing. “Was anything else troubling you? As I say, you’re not the only one who doesn’t like it here. Remember that and you may keep from winning one of the guards a furlough.”

“Bastards,” Moss muttered. The POWs didn’t know for a fact that their guards got time off for shooting a prisoner who’d set foot on the smoothed ground just inside the barbed wire-or, sometimes, for shooting a prisoner who looked as if he was about to do such a thing. They didn’t know it, but they believed it the way a lot of them believed in the divinity of Jesus Christ.

“Of course they’re bastards,” Summers said. “They get paid to be bastards. You don’t want to make things easy for them, do you?”

“Well, no, sir,” Moss said.

“Good.” Summers nodded in a businesslike way. “I should hope not.” He waved to Lieutenant Swinburne, who was on his way back to the barracks. “What do you think of the guards, Lieutenant?”

“Me, sir? Pack of bastards,” Swinburne answered at once. The word was bahstuds in his mouth, giving it only a vague resemblance to what Moss had called the guards.

“Thanks. I couldn’t have put that better myself,” Summers said. The officer from Maine touched his cap with a forefinger and went on his way. Colonel Summers turned back to Moss. “You see? You’re not the only one who loves these people.”

“I never said I was, sir.” Moss scowled. “I’ve got more right to complain than he does. I’ve been here longer.”

“Yes, but they interrogate him more. They’ve already squeezed everything out of you that they’re going to get,” Summers said. “He’s new, so they still have hopes.”

“If there’s more than three Confederate officers between here and Richmond who don’t know my name, rank, and pay number, I’d be amazed. And not a goddamn one of them knows anything but that.” Moss spoke with a certain somber pride.

“They’ve grilled all of us, Major,” Summers replied, wearily rolling his eyes as if to say, Haven’t they just! “I know they get more out of some people than they do from others.” He held up a hasty hand. “I’m not talking about you, and I’m not talking about Swinburne, either.”

“I know, sir. I understood that. Some men will talk more than others, and they lean on some harder than others, depending on what they think the poor sons of bitches know.” Moss sighed. “I can’t even cuss ’em for that, or not real hard, because I know damn well we do the same thing.”

Monty Summers shrugged. “It’s war,” he said: two words that covered a multitude of sins. “We all do the best we can.”

“Yes, sir,” Moss agreed mournfully. “And look what that’s got us.” His wave encompassed the camp. “God knows what would have happened if we tried to screw up.”

“Heh,” Colonel Summers said-a noise that sounded like a laugh but wasn’t. “A hell of a lot of people who didn’t do their best are dead right now.”

“Oh, yes, sir,” Moss agreed. “And some of them are back in Philadelphia with stars on their shoulder straps. They’re drinking good booze and eating steaks and screwing their secretaries. For them, the war’s a nuisance or an opportunity, depending on how you look at things.”

Summers eyed him for a long moment before saying, “That holds on both sides of the border, you know.”

“I sure hope so, sir,” Moss said. “But what worries me is, the Confederates may have done a better job of sweeping away their deadwood than we have, and that’s liable to cost us. It’s liable to cost us a lot.”

Dr. Leonard O’Doull wondered how many places he’d set up his aid station since returning to the war. A lot of them-that was all he knew for sure. After a while, they started blurring together. So did cases. What made that worse was, he never saw them again after they went back for more treatment. He never found out whether they got better or worse. They were just arms or legs or bellies or chests or heads-not that he or anybody else this side of God could do much for too many head wounds.

When he complained about that outside the aid tent one day, Granville McDougald said, “Well, Doc, remember the fellow who had the round burrow under his scalp and come out the back?”

“Calisse! I’m not likely to forget him,” O’Doull said. That one would stay in his memory forever. “I haven’t come that close to crapping myself since I was three years old. But most of the bullets don’t go around. They go in.”

McDougald grimaced. He crushed a cigarette under his foot. They’d set up in some woods north of Pittsburgh. Catbirds mewed and squawked in the trees. They made an ungodly racket, not all of it catlike. You didn’t see them all that often. They were gray with black caps and rusty brown under their tails-good camouflage colors-and stayed where leaves and bushes were thick. A cardinal scratching for seeds on the ground, on the other hand…

“I used to love those birds,” O’Doull said sadly, pointing towards it. “Nowadays, though, the color just reminds me of blood.”

“You are cheery this morning, aren’t you?” McDougald studied the plump, crested cardinal. “I still like ’em.”

“To each his own.” O’Doull looked up at the leaves and branches overhead in a different way. “I wish we were a little more out in the open. A tree burst right above us would fill the aid tent with shrapnel.”

“If we were out in the open, we’d get shrapnel from ground bursts that the tree trunks will stop,” McDougald answered, which was also true. “Only way not to worry about artillery is not to have a war, and it’s a little late for that now.”

“Just a bit, yeah,” O’Doull said. “And ain’t it a shame?”

His head came up like a pointer’s taking a scent. So did McDougald’s. But they didn’t smell anything. No, they heard heavy footsteps: the footsteps of stretcher bearers bringing back a casualty. “Doc!” Eddie yelled. “Hey, Doc! Here’s a new model for you!”

“Back to work,” O’Doull murmured, and Granville McDougald nodded. The doctor raised his voice: “Bring him to us, Eddie!” He went inside and washed his hands with soap and disinfectant, taking special care to clean under and around his nails. McDougald did the same. They slipped on surgical masks together. Sometimes O’Doull wondered how much good that did when wounds were often already filthy before they got back to him. He supposed you had to try.

Another groaning wounded man, this one shot in the leg. Except, as Eddie had said, he wasn’t what O’Doull was used to seeing. He was short and swarthy and black-haired, and wore a uniform of cut and color-a khaki more nearly yellow than brown-different from either U.S. green-gray or C.S. butternut. When words broke through the animal noises of pain, they came in Spanish, not English.

“Heard there were Mexican troops in front of us,” McDougald remarked.

“So did I.” O’Doull nodded. “Poor devil came a long way just to let some nasty strangers put a hole in him.”

McDougald shook his head. “He came to put holes in the nasty strangers himself. Suckers always do. They never figure the guys on the other side are gonna shoot back.”

The Mexican soldier’s moans eased. Eddie or one of the other corpsmen must have given him morphine. He said something. O’Doull couldn’t figure out what it was. Spanish and French were related, sure, but not closely enough to let him understand one even if he knew the other.

He spoke in English: “You’ll be all right.” From what he could see of the wound, he thought that was true. The bullet looked to have blown off a chunk of flesh, but not to have shattered any bones. He turned to McDougald. “Put him under.”

“Right you are, Doc.” McDougald settled the ether cone over the wounded man’s face. He and Eddie had to keep the soldier from yanking it off; a lot of men thought they were being gassed when they inhaled the anesthetic. After a few breaths, the Mexican’s hands fell away and he went limp.