Harry Turtledove - Drive to the East

“I’m sorry I can’t be more exact.” As usual, the sawbones sounded not the least bit sorry. “You aren’t ready yet, not unless you don’t intend to do anything more strenuous than stay behind the line-far behind the line-and move pins on a map.”

Since Morrell intended no such thing, he swore under his breath. A barrel commander who didn’t lead from the front wasn’t worth much. So he told himself, anyhow. It was true enough. The other half of the truth was that he’d always been a man who liked to mix it up with the enemy.

Rohde knew what that muttering meant. He didn’t even smirk and look superior; he had a deadpan that probably won him money in poker games. He did say, “You see?”

“The arm’s not too bad,” Morrell insisted. “Honest to God, it’s not.”

Dr. Rohde didn’t come right out and tell him he was a liar. He thought for a moment, then said, “You’re in a barrel. It gets hit. It starts to burn. You have to bail out-right now. Can you open a hatch with that arm?”

Morrell thought about it. He raised the injured member. It hurt. That didn’t bother him so much. He’d learned to live with pain. What bothered him was how weak the arm was. Savagely, he said, “I wish I were lefthanded.”

“I can’t do anything about that. You should have talked to God, or to your parents.” Rohde was maddeningly unhelpful. “Since you aren’t lefthanded, do I take it you’ve answered my question?”

“Yes, dammit.” Morrell couldn’t have been more disgusted. He was even willing to make what was, for him, not far from the ultimate sacrifice: “If they need me on light duty behind the lines for a while, I’ll do that. Anything to get out of here.”

Rohde looked at him. “You don’t like it in beautiful, romantic Syracuse?”

“Now that you mention it, no.”

“And if I turn you loose, how do I know you won’t head straight for the front? That’s the reputation you’ve got.”

The reputation was well deserved. Morrell knew as much. He said, “I could sign a pledge, but you probably wouldn’t believe me. Or you could take your chances and let me take mine. I’m a big boy, Doc. I can take my own chances if I think I ought to and if I think the country needs me.”

“Part of my job, General, is to see that you don’t endanger yourself without good reason,” Dr. Rohde replied. “And do you really think you’re as indispensable to the United States as all that?”

“As a matter of fact, yes,” Morrell said. “Go call Philadelphia and find out what the War Department thinks. They wouldn’t have given me stars if they didn’t think I was good for something. Call them. If they say I can sit on the shelf a while longer, I’ll sit. I’ll even stop bitching about it. But if they say they need me…”

He was rolling the dice. Not everybody in the War Department loved him. He also had a reputation for being right in spite of people. High-ranking officers were supposed to be right. They weren’t supposed to rub their superiors’ noses in it, as Morrell had done. But if even the Confederates thought him worth killing, his own side ought to be able to figure out he was worth a little something. That was how he’d got promoted to general’s rank.

“I’ll take you up on that-sir.” Dr. Rohde lumbered out of the room.

He didn’t say anything to Morrell about the War Department for the next several days. With some men, that would have made Morrell suspect he hadn’t got on the horn to Philadelphia at all. The barrel officer didn’t believe that of Rohde. The doctor struck him as honest, if stuck in a rut. And the War Department never had been, wasn’t, and probably never would be an outfit that could make up its mind in a hurry-which was part of the reason the United States were in the current mess.

I’ll give him a week. Then I’ll ask him, Morrell thought. Nobody could get huffy about his asking after a week. And if Rohde hadn’t made the call or if the War Department was still twiddling its thumbs, well, at least he would know what was what.

Come the day, he got ready to beard Rohde. But the doctor forestalled him. Wearing an uncommonly sour expression, the big blond man said, “Pack your bags-sir. Philadelphia is dying to have you, and I don’t suppose you’ll die if you go there.”

“Thanks, Doc!” Morrell grinned as if he’d just stuck in his thumb and pulled out a plum. “Uh-what bags? All I came here with was the uniform I got shot in, and that’s never going to be the same.”

“A point,” Dr. Rohde said. “Nothing to flabble about, though. I’m sure we can fix you up. This sort of thing happens now and again.”

The hospital proved to have a good selection of uniforms for both officers and enlisted men. Some of them bore signs of being repaired; others seemed as fresh as the day they were made. Morrell didn’t care to think about how they’d been obtained, or about what had happened to the men who’d formerly worn them. He chose an officer’s tunic and trousers that fit well enough, and pinned his stars on his shoulder straps and the Purple Heart with oak-leaf cluster above his left breast pocket. He got his own shoes back. The hospital had cleaned off whatever blood he’d got on them, and polished them to a higher gloss than he usually achieved himself.

Getting dressed was tougher and more painful than he’d thought it would be. It left him feeling worn as a kitten, and without the kitten’s sharp claws and teeth. He did his best not to show Dr. Rohde weakness. The doctor didn’t say a word, but Morrell doubted he was fooling him.

A driver took him to the train station in an ordinary auto. He’d wondered if Rohde would stick him in an ambulance and gain a measure of revenge for getting overruled by Philadelphia. Maybe the doctor was too nice a man to do something like that. On the other hand, maybe it just hadn’t occurred to him.

Coming down from upstate New York brought Morrell back to the war a little at a time. It hadn’t touched Syracuse. The farther east and south the train went, the more bomb damage he saw. Before long, the train started sitting on sidings or just on the tracks when it should have been moving. He wondered whether that was bomb damage or sabotage. Whatever it was, it slowed him to a crawl.

A sergeant waited for him on the platform when he finally pulled into Philadelphia in the middle of the night. The man wasn’t standing there in plain sight. He dozed on a bench near the far wall. Morrell shook him awake.

Horror spread over the noncom’s face when he saw a general looming over him. “I’m sorry, sir!” he cried, and sprang to his feet.

“It’s all right. Don’t blow a gasket.” Morrell returned a rather frantic salute. “You weren’t on sentry duty. Nobody’s going to shoot you for sacking out. How late was I, anyway?”

Before answering, the sergeant looked at his watch. “Uh-just over three and a half hours, sir.”

“That’s about what I thought,” Morrell said. “Are things always that bad around here?”

“Well…” The sergeant didn’t want to admit it. “They’re not what you’d call real good.” Whether he wanted to admit it or not, he didn’t seem to have much choice. Reality spoke for itself.

“Take me to the War Department,” Morrell said.

“Yes, sir.” The sergeant did. The short journey was slow and roundabout. Philadelphia had a battered look. Months of bombing hadn’t knocked it out of action, though. Traffic still moved, even if it had to detour around craters in the street. Repairmen swarmed over damaged buildings, even if the next raid might hit them again. Men and women filled the sidewalks and the shops: Philadelphia ran around the clock. They didn’t seem beaten or intimidated, just determined to get on with the job no matter what.