Walk in Hell

Water sprayed up from the trolley's wheels as it slid to a stop near the wharves. Cinci

"Morning, Cinci

"Sure enough is, suh," Cinci

The lieutenant looked troubled. "Cinci

"What kind of problem you talking about, sir?" the Negro asked, expecting it to be something to do with the bad weather and what it was doing to the schedule and to Kentucky's miserable roads.

Lieutenant Straubing looked even less happy. "A sabotage problem, I'm afraid," he answered. Just then, an enormous clap of thunder gave Cinci

"Yes, suh, I'll do that," Cinci

Straubing said, "Damned if I can figure out who's playing games with us, either. Maybe it's the Reds"-he didn't say anything about niggers, as most whites, U.S. or C.S., would have done-"or maybe it's Confederate diehards. Whoever it is, he'll pay when he gets caught."

"Yes, suh," Cinci

"I'm letting everyone know," Straubing said. "If you've seen anything, if you do see anything, don't be shy."

"I won't, suh." Cinci

More drivers, white and black, came dripping into the shed. Straubing spoke to them all. Cinci

"Let's move out," the lieutenant said at last. "We've got a cargo of shells the artillery is waiting for."

"Weather like this, they're going to be waiting a while longer," said one of the drivers, a white man Cinci

Lieutenant Straubing was a born optimist. A man who treated blacks and whites the same way had to be a born optimist-or a damn fool, Cinci

Out they went. Cinci

Right from the start, he had the feeling he wouldn't be lucky. The truck's acetylene headlamps didn't want to light, and, once they finally did, hissed and sputtered as if about to explode. He had to crank the engine half a dozen times before it turned over. One of those fruitless tries, it jerked back on him, and he yanked his hand off the crank just in time to keep it from breaking his arm.

Unlike some, the truck had a windshield and a wiper for it. It thrashed over the glass like a spastic man's arm, now two or three times quickly, now all but motionless. The idea was good. As far as Cinci

Even on the paved streets of Covington, the White seemed to bang unerringly into every pothole. Nor was Cinci

So thick were the clouds, it seemed more like twilight than advancing morning. Cinci

Paved road ended about twenty-five miles south of Covington. Before the war, it had ended at the city limits: Yankee engineers were pushing it on toward the front for reasons of their own. The difference between pavement and dirt was immediate and appalling. Muck flew up from the back tires of the White in front of Cinci

Swearing, Cinci

The trucks sped up again once they finally got beyond the head of the infantry column. A little farther along, they had to go onto the shoulder: a pair of bogged barrels plugged the road tight as a cork in a bottle. Cinci

A noise like a gunshot made him jump in his seat. The truck slewed sideways. It wasn't Confederates or Reds. "Puncture," he said resignedly, and pulled off the road to fix it.

By the time he scrambled back into the cab of the truck, he was soaked from head to foot and all over mud. He felt as if he'd been wrestling somebody three times his size. He'd put a board under the jack before he tried using it. It had done its level best to sink into the ooze board and all. The ordeal was almost enough to make him wish he were back at the docks.

He shook his head. "I ain't that stupid," he said, gu

He did, too, soon enough; no one could make any sort of time through the mud. He managed to get more gasoline before he stopped dead. Putting everything together, the trip wasn't so bad as he'd expected. Only goes to show I don't expect much, he thought.