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"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 go
"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, Cinci
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 Te
"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," Cinci
Cinci
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." Cinci
"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," Cinci
"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," Cinci
"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." Cinci
"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."
"Cinci
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, Cinci
"You done it yourself. And you've seen plenty of other fellows come and go through here," Cinci
"Well, I hated everything and everybody when I caught this." Sergeant Konstam held up the hook. Cinci
"Oh, yeah. I hear that real good," Cinci
"Figured you did. You're a guy who busts his hump. You made something out of yourself, and that's pretty goddamn tough for somebody your color. Probably a lot easier to be a shiftless, no-account nigger the way most people expect."
"Know somethin'?" Cinci
"Yeah, well, some colored guys are niggers. It's a shame, but it's true. And some Jews are kikes, and some Dutchmen are goddamn fuckin' squareheads-not me, of course." Konstam flashed a wry grin. "We got rid of all those assholes, we'd be better off. Good fuckin' luck, that's all I got to tell you. We're stuck with 'em, and we just have to deal with 'em the best way we know how."
"Like them Freedom Party goons," Cinci
Sergeant Konstam nodded. "They fill the bill, all right. Only good thing about them is, we can shoot the fuckers if they step out of line. Nobody's go
"Amen," Cinci
"Remind me what line you were in."
"Had me a hauling business. Had it, yeah, till before the war. Damned if I know how to put it back on its feet now. Ain't got the money to buy me a new truck. Even if I did, I need somebody to give me a hand with loadin' an' unloadin' now."
"Got a son?" Konstam asked.
"Sure do," Cinci
"Fair enough. Good for him, and good for you, too. Insurance company, huh? He must take after his old man, then-wants to make things better for himself any way he can. Maybe his kids'll run a company like that instead of working for it."
"That'd be somethin'. Don't reckon it'd be against the law up here, the way it would in the CSA. Don't reckon it'd be easy, neither. Achilles' babies, they're half Chinese."
Konstam laughed out loud. "Ain't that a kick in the head! Who flabbled more when they got hitched, you and your wife or your son's new in-laws?"
"Nobody was what you'd call happy about it," Cinci
"Glad to hear it." Dick Konstam whistled through his teeth. "I wasn't exactly thrilled when one of my girls married a Jewish guy. Ben hasn't turned out too bad, though. And you're sure as hell right about grandchildren." His face softened. "Want to see photos?"