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Authors: Harry Turtledove
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the same sort of .50-caliber antibarrel rifles as U.S. troops. Even one of those big armor-piercing bullets wouldn’t penetrate the front glacis plate or the turret, but it might punch through the thinner steel on the barrel’s sides.
Sergeant Pound and the bow machine gunner, a redheaded mick named Teddy Fitzgerald, opened up on the Confederate soldiers they’d caught in the open. Pound abandoned the turret machine gun after a little while. “H.E.!” he called to Sweeney, who fed a high-explosive round into the cannon. It roared. Through the periscopes, Morrell watched the round burst. A couple of enemy soldiers went flying.
The Confederates didn’t put gas down on top of their own men. They didn’t break through east of Chillicothe, either. Morrell’s barrels gave them a good mauling there. But they did break the U.S. line west of town. Morrell had to fall back or risk being surrounded. Even pulling back wasn’t easy. He fought a brisk skirmish at long range with several C.S. barrels. If the Confederates had moved a little faster, they might have trapped him. He hated retreat. But getting cut off would have been worse. So he told himself, over and over again.
A s Mary Pomeroy walked to the post office in Rosenfeld, Manitoba, with her son Alexander in tow, she laughed at herself. She’d always thought she couldn’t hate anyone worse than the green-gray-clad U.S. soldiers who’d occupied the town since 1914. Now the Yanks, or most of them, were gone, and she discovered she’d been wrong. The soldiers from the Republic of Quebec, whose uniforms were of a cut identical to their U.S. counterparts but sewn from blue-gray cloth, were even worse.
For one thing, the Yanks, however much Mary despised them, had won the war. They’d driven out and beaten the Canadian and British defenders of what had been the Dominion of Canada. If not for them, there wouldn’t have been any such thing as the Republic of Quebec. Quebec had been part of Canada for more than 150 years before the Yanks came along. The USA had no business splitting up the country.
For another, hardly any of the Quebecois soldiers spoke more than little fragments of English. You couldn’t even try to reason with them, the way you could with the Yanks. Some Yanks—Mary hated to admit it, but knew it was true—were pretty decent, even if they did come from the United States. Maybe some Quebecois were, too. But if you couldn’t talk to them, how were you supposed to find out? They jabbered away in their own language, and it wasn’t as if Mary or anybody else in Rosenfeld had ever learned much French.
And not only did the men in blue-gray speak French, they
acted
French. She’d long since got used to the way American soldiers eyed her. They’d done it in spite of her wedding ring, later in spite of little Alec. She was a tall, slim redhead in her early thirties. Men did notice her. She’d grown used to that, even if she didn’t care for it.
But the two Quebecois soldiers who walked by her were much more blatant in the way they admired her than the Yanks had been. It wasn’t as if they were undressing her with their eyes—more as if they were groping her with them. And when, laughing, the Frenchies talked about it afterwards, she couldn’t understand a word they said. By their tone, though, it was all foul and all about her. She looked straight ahead, as if they didn’t exist, and kept on walking. They laughed some more at that.
“Are we almost there yet?” Alec asked. He’d be starting kindergarten before long. Mary didn’t want to send him to school. The Yanks would fill him full of their lies about the past. But she didn’t see what choice she had. She could teach him what he really needed to know at home.
“You know where the post office is,” Mary said. “
Are
we almost there yet?”
“I suppose so,” Alec said in a sulky voice. He didn’t take naps any more. Mary missed the time when he had, because that
Sergeant Pound and the bow machine gunner, a redheaded mick named Teddy Fitzgerald, opened up on the Confederate soldiers they’d caught in the open. Pound abandoned the turret machine gun after a little while. “H.E.!” he called to Sweeney, who fed a high-explosive round into the cannon. It roared. Through the periscopes, Morrell watched the round burst. A couple of enemy soldiers went flying.
The Confederates didn’t put gas down on top of their own men. They didn’t break through east of Chillicothe, either. Morrell’s barrels gave them a good mauling there. But they did break the U.S. line west of town. Morrell had to fall back or risk being surrounded. Even pulling back wasn’t easy. He fought a brisk skirmish at long range with several C.S. barrels. If the Confederates had moved a little faster, they might have trapped him. He hated retreat. But getting cut off would have been worse. So he told himself, over and over again.
A s Mary Pomeroy walked to the post office in Rosenfeld, Manitoba, with her son Alexander in tow, she laughed at herself. She’d always thought she couldn’t hate anyone worse than the green-gray-clad U.S. soldiers who’d occupied the town since 1914. Now the Yanks, or most of them, were gone, and she discovered she’d been wrong. The soldiers from the Republic of Quebec, whose uniforms were of a cut identical to their U.S. counterparts but sewn from blue-gray cloth, were even worse.
For one thing, the Yanks, however much Mary despised them, had won the war. They’d driven out and beaten the Canadian and British defenders of what had been the Dominion of Canada. If not for them, there wouldn’t have been any such thing as the Republic of Quebec. Quebec had been part of Canada for more than 150 years before the Yanks came along. The USA had no business splitting up the country.
For another, hardly any of the Quebecois soldiers spoke more than little fragments of English. You couldn’t even try to reason with them, the way you could with the Yanks. Some Yanks—Mary hated to admit it, but knew it was true—were pretty decent, even if they did come from the United States. Maybe some Quebecois were, too. But if you couldn’t talk to them, how were you supposed to find out? They jabbered away in their own language, and it wasn’t as if Mary or anybody else in Rosenfeld had ever learned much French.
And not only did the men in blue-gray speak French, they
acted
French. She’d long since got used to the way American soldiers eyed her. They’d done it in spite of her wedding ring, later in spite of little Alec. She was a tall, slim redhead in her early thirties. Men did notice her. She’d grown used to that, even if she didn’t care for it.
But the two Quebecois soldiers who walked by her were much more blatant in the way they admired her than the Yanks had been. It wasn’t as if they were undressing her with their eyes—more as if they were groping her with them. And when, laughing, the Frenchies talked about it afterwards, she couldn’t understand a word they said. By their tone, though, it was all foul and all about her. She looked straight ahead, as if they didn’t exist, and kept on walking. They laughed some more at that.
“Are we almost there yet?” Alec asked. He’d be starting kindergarten before long. Mary didn’t want to send him to school. The Yanks would fill him full of their lies about the past. But she didn’t see what choice she had. She could teach him what he really needed to know at home.
“You know where the post office is,” Mary said. “
Are
we almost there yet?”
“I suppose so,” Alec said in a sulky voice. He didn’t take naps any more. Mary missed the time when he had, because that
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