The lieutenant commander had some mileage on him. By the fruit salad on his chest, he’d started out during the Great War. He knew what the petty officer wasn’t saying. Knowing, he turned red-not so red as George’s footprints, but red enough. “Carry on,” he said in a choked voice, and got out of there in a hurry.

“You showed him,” George said.

“Yeah.” Fremont Dalby didn’t sound happy. “You shouldn’t have to show officers, though, especially not the ones who’ve been around the block. But some of ’em just have to make like they’re God.”

When stretcher bearers came by, the men from the Townsend waved to them. They hurried over, but they didn’t stay. “We’re supposed to be looking for wounded,” one of them said. “Those birds ain’t goin’ anywhere if we leave ’em where they’re at. Sooner or later, the meat wagon will deal with ’em.”

“Not right,” George said. “These guys were doing everything they could till their number came up. Shouldn’t just leave ’em like garbage.” Actually, they reminded him of what was all over the decks of the Sweet Sue after the men on the fishing boat had been gutting big cod.

But Dalby cut the stretcher bearers more slack than he’d given the officer. “Wounded count for more,” he allowed. “You can still save them.”

“Thanks, Chief,” said the man who’d spoken before. The bearers hurried away.

Dalby looked at his shipmates. “Either one of you notice if we had bombers taking off?”

“Not me,” George said at once. “I was too busy trying not to let the Japs blow me to kingdom come, and then trying to shoot ’em down.”

“We did,” Fritz Gustafson said. “They were already airborne when I hit the trench.” Two consecutive sentences from him were a telephone book, an unabridged dictionary, from a noisier man.

Fremont Dalby nodded. “That’s pretty good. We ought to be hitting back pretty damn quick, then. Those bastards need to pay.”

“Bombers should have taken off the minute we picked up the Japs’ airplanes on the Y-range set,” George said.

“Yeah,” Dalby said thoughtfully, and then, in deeper, gruffer, angrier tones, “Yeah!” He kicked at the sidewalk. “Yeah, goddammit. Somebody was asleep at the switch again. That would have been the best way to do it, sure as hell. Christ, there are times when I really do think we want to lose this fuckin’ war.”

“Hey, Dalby, you still in one piece?” The shout came from the direction in which the gunners had come. Only another CPO would have used the gun chief’s naked surname with such relish.

“Yeah, we’re here, Burnett.” Dalby gave back what he’d got. “Leastways we didn’t stay in the trench sucking our thumbs and hanging on to our Theodore bears.”

Chief Burnett’s reply offered an improbable and uncomfortable destination for both thumbs and Theodore bears. Dalby suggested that Burnett’s mother already resided there. Burnett gave forth with an opinion on certain habits of Dalby’s mother about which he was unlikely to have personal knowledge. Then, in the same unruffled tone of voice, he asked, “You cocksuckers hit anything?”

“Damfino,” Dalby answered, also without much heat. “We gave it our best shot, that’s all.” He slapped Gustafson and George on the back, staggering them both-and George was not a small man, and Fritz Gustafson was a big one. “You already knew the squarehead’s solid. And this guy here ain’t half bad.”

George shuffled his feet on the blood-splashed sidewalk. “Thanks, Chief,” he mumbled. A Naval Cross from the hands of an admiral wouldn’t have meant nearly so much as that laconic praise from a man who mattered to him.

“Well, well,” Tom Colleton said. “What have we here?”

What they had there was a company of Confederate barrels: big, snorting machines painted in butternut with swirls and splotches of dark green and dark brown to make them harder to spot and harder to hit. But they were barrels the likes of which hadn’t been seen up in Ohio before.

Lieutenant-Colonel Colleton strolled over for a closer look at the new monsters. They were plainly related to the beasts that had spearheaded the Confederate thrust to Lake Erie the summer before. They were just as plainly bigger and meaner-Tyrannosaurus rex next to the earlier Allosaurus. They seemed more squat, lower to the ground. As Tom Colleton got up to them, he realized they weren’t, but the impression remained. Instead of going straight up and down, most of their armor was cleverly sloped to help deflect shells. And their turret guns were bigger and longer than those of the earlier models.

One of the barrel drivers was head and shoulders out of his machine: no point in buttoning up when the damnyankees weren’t close. “That’s a two-and-a-half-inch cannon you’ve got there?” Colleton asked.

“Three inches, sir,” the man answered, proud as if he’d said eight inches of himself. “Some of those Yankees’ll never know what hit ’em. Seventeen-pound shell.”

“Sweet Jesus!” Tom exclaimed. “Yeah, that’ll make you sit up and take notice, all right. How many of these bastards have we got?”

“Many as we need, I reckon,” the driver said.

“Oh, yeah? I’ll believe that when I see it,” Tom Colleton said. In his experience, nobody ever had as many barrels as he needed. The enemy wrecked a few, some more broke down-and then, just when they would have come in handy to take out some well-sited, well-protected machine-gun nests, there wouldn’t be any for miles around.

But the driver nodded. Why not? He could duck down inside all that lovely armor plating. He didn’t have to look longingly at it from the outside. He didn’t have to worry about machine guns, either, no matter how well protected they were. He said, “Sir, don’t you fret. This time, by God, we’re going to get the job done.”

“Here’s hoping,” Tom said. The driver-a cocky kid-just grinned at him. He found himself grinning back. It wasn’t as if barrel crewmen didn’t have worries of their own. When they were in the field, they were cannon magnets. All the enemy’s heavy weapons bore on them. The armor that kept out small-arms fire could turn into a roasting pan to cook soldiers if something did get through.

“You’ll see.” Yeah, the kid was cocky.

He also sounded like somebody who knew more than he was letting on. “What is the job we’re going to get done?” Tom asked. He commanded a regiment; nobody’d bothered to tell him anything. He should have been miffed that a noncom from another unit knew more about what was going on than he did. He should have been, but he wasn’t, or not very. He’d seen enough in both the Great War and this one to know that kind of crap happened all the time.

Before the barrel driver could answer, somebody inside the machine said something to him through the intercom. Tom heard the squawk in the kid’s earphones, but he couldn’t make out any words. The driver said, “Sorry, sir-gotta go. Orders are to push up a little closer to the front.”

“Be careful,” Tom warned. “The damnyankees have started sneaking in more and more infiltrators. They like to plant mines, and their snipers try and blow the heads off drivers and commanders who don’t stay buttoned up.”

“Sir, we’ve got us this big ol’ cannon and two machine guns. I reckon we can make any old infiltrators knuckle under,” the driver answered. He ducked down into the barrel, but didn’t close the hatch. The engine’s note deepened as the machine rattled forward with its companions.

Tom stared after them, coughing a little from the noxious exhaust fumes. He would have bet everything he owned that the kid had never seen combat. Nobody who had was that casual about snipers. If the other guy shot first, how big your gun was or how many rounds per minute you could put out didn’t matter.

“Luck,” Tom muttered. If that smiling puppy lived through his first couple of brushes with U.S. soldiers, he had a good chance of living quite a while longer. You got experience in a hurry-or, if you didn’t, they buried you somewhere up here with a helmet stuck on a stick or on a rifle to mark where you lay.