Read Online Return Engagement by Harry Turtledove - Free Book Online
Authors: Harry Turtledove
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get a good look and draw a bead on him. That didn’t mean a round not so well aimed couldn’t find him, but he refused to dwell on such mischances.
He hoped the Confederates would try to charge his barrels. He could stand them off where he was for quite a while, then fall back to another position he’d prepared deeper in the woods. Defense wasn’t his first choice, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t handle it. And the enemy, charging hard, might well be inclined to run right on to a waiting spear.
But the Confederates had something else in mind. After about ten minutes of confusion, they started lobbing artillery shells toward the woods. At first, Morrell was scornful—only a direct hit would make a barrel say uncle, and hits from guns out of visual range of their targets were hard as hell to come by. But then he caught the gurgling howl of the shells as they flew through the air and the white bursts they threw up when they walked toward the barrels.
Swearing, he ducked down into the turret and slammed the cupola hatch behind him. “Button it up!” he snarled. “Gas!” He got on the wireless to all the barrels he commanded, giving them the same message. “Masks!” he added to the men in his own machine. “That’s an order, God damn it!”
Only when he put on his own mask did Pound and Sweeney reach for theirs. He couldn’t see the driver and the bow gunner up at the front of the hull. He hoped they listened to him. If the barrel stayed buttoned up, the men would start to cook before too long. It might have been tolerable in France or Germany. In Ohio? Right at the start of summertime? In gas masks to boot?
Sergeant Pound asked an eminently reasonable question: “Sir, how the hell are we supposed to fight a war like this?”
“How would you like to fight it without your lungs?” Morrell answered. His own voice sounded even more distant and otherworldly than Pound’s had. He couldn’t see the gunner’s expression. All he could see were Pound’s eyes behind two round portholes of glass. The green-gray rubber of the mask hid the rest of the sergeant’s features and made him look like something from Mars or Venus.
Looking out through the periscopes mounted in the cupola hatch was at best a poor substitute for sticking your head out and seeing what was going on. Shoving one of those glass portholes up close enough to a periscope to see anything was a trial. What Morrell saw were lots of gas shells bursting.
He did some more swearing. The barrel wasn’t perfectly airtight, and it didn’t have proper filters in the ventilation system. That was partly his own fault, too. He’d had a lot to say about the design of barrels. He’d thought about all sorts of things, from the layout of the turret to the shape of the armor and the placement of the engine compartment. Defending against poison gas hadn’t once crossed his mind—or, evidently, anyone else’s.
“What do we do, sir?” Sergeant Pound asked.
Morrell didn’t want to fall back to that prepared position without making the Confederates pay a price. His lips skinned back from his teeth in a fierce grin the gas mask hid. “Forward!” he said, first to Pound, then on the intercom to the driver, and then on the wireless. “Let’s see if those bastards want to drop gas on their own men.”
The barrel rumbled ahead. Morrell hoped not too much gas was getting into the fighting compartment. He could tell the instant they came out into the sunlight from the shade of the trees. It had been hot in the barrel before. It got a hell of a lot hotter when the sun started beating down on the hull and the turret.
Bullets began hitting the barrel as soon as it came out into the open, too. Morrell didn’t worry about ordinary rifle or machine-gun rounds very much, not while he wasn’t standing up and looking out through the cupola. (He didn’t worry about them while he was, either. Afterwards, sometimes, was a different story.) But the Confederates had
He hoped the Confederates would try to charge his barrels. He could stand them off where he was for quite a while, then fall back to another position he’d prepared deeper in the woods. Defense wasn’t his first choice, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t handle it. And the enemy, charging hard, might well be inclined to run right on to a waiting spear.
But the Confederates had something else in mind. After about ten minutes of confusion, they started lobbing artillery shells toward the woods. At first, Morrell was scornful—only a direct hit would make a barrel say uncle, and hits from guns out of visual range of their targets were hard as hell to come by. But then he caught the gurgling howl of the shells as they flew through the air and the white bursts they threw up when they walked toward the barrels.
Swearing, he ducked down into the turret and slammed the cupola hatch behind him. “Button it up!” he snarled. “Gas!” He got on the wireless to all the barrels he commanded, giving them the same message. “Masks!” he added to the men in his own machine. “That’s an order, God damn it!”
Only when he put on his own mask did Pound and Sweeney reach for theirs. He couldn’t see the driver and the bow gunner up at the front of the hull. He hoped they listened to him. If the barrel stayed buttoned up, the men would start to cook before too long. It might have been tolerable in France or Germany. In Ohio? Right at the start of summertime? In gas masks to boot?
Sergeant Pound asked an eminently reasonable question: “Sir, how the hell are we supposed to fight a war like this?”
“How would you like to fight it without your lungs?” Morrell answered. His own voice sounded even more distant and otherworldly than Pound’s had. He couldn’t see the gunner’s expression. All he could see were Pound’s eyes behind two round portholes of glass. The green-gray rubber of the mask hid the rest of the sergeant’s features and made him look like something from Mars or Venus.
Looking out through the periscopes mounted in the cupola hatch was at best a poor substitute for sticking your head out and seeing what was going on. Shoving one of those glass portholes up close enough to a periscope to see anything was a trial. What Morrell saw were lots of gas shells bursting.
He did some more swearing. The barrel wasn’t perfectly airtight, and it didn’t have proper filters in the ventilation system. That was partly his own fault, too. He’d had a lot to say about the design of barrels. He’d thought about all sorts of things, from the layout of the turret to the shape of the armor and the placement of the engine compartment. Defending against poison gas hadn’t once crossed his mind—or, evidently, anyone else’s.
“What do we do, sir?” Sergeant Pound asked.
Morrell didn’t want to fall back to that prepared position without making the Confederates pay a price. His lips skinned back from his teeth in a fierce grin the gas mask hid. “Forward!” he said, first to Pound, then on the intercom to the driver, and then on the wireless. “Let’s see if those bastards want to drop gas on their own men.”
The barrel rumbled ahead. Morrell hoped not too much gas was getting into the fighting compartment. He could tell the instant they came out into the sunlight from the shade of the trees. It had been hot in the barrel before. It got a hell of a lot hotter when the sun started beating down on the hull and the turret.
Bullets began hitting the barrel as soon as it came out into the open, too. Morrell didn’t worry about ordinary rifle or machine-gun rounds very much, not while he wasn’t standing up and looking out through the cupola. (He didn’t worry about them while he was, either. Afterwards, sometimes, was a different story.) But the Confederates had
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