The disputed border between the United States of America and the Confederate States of America, South Kansas, 1923

“We thank You for the blessings You continue to shower on the Confederate States of America, the most favored of all Your nations.”

Private David Slater looked along the barbed wire fence that stretched as far as the eye could see in either direction across the flat, almost featureless Kansas plains. His unruly blond hair, roughly trimmed in the standard haircut of the Army of the Confederacy, was full of the dust blown by the almost constant wind.

“Don’t reckon them Yankees is going to be bothering us much today,” he remarked to his companion, scratching his head, and took a swig of the whiskey that he carried in his back pocket. The other shook his head, indicating his dissent and refusing the whiskey with the same motion. David wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and stuffed the bottle back in the pocket of his threadbare uniform pants. And, he noted to himself, they were far too short. He’d shot up like a beanpole these last months, and there was now almost a two-inch gap between the bottom of his pants legs and the top of his boots. Good job he hadn’t filled out at the same rate, he thought, otherwise he’d be busting the buttons off of his pants. Mind you, no-one ever got fat on Army food.

“You never know with those Yankee bastards,” Tom replied. “You hear about last month?”

David nodded grimly. “A whole column of what they call motorized infantry with one of them airplanes came up out of nowhere and busted down that fort that our boys built down New Mexico way. Man, I know we lost that one, but I sure would have liked to be in on that. You know something?” He took another sip of the whiskey, more to impress the other with his maturity than because he liked the taste or effect of the moonshine which, truth be told, he’d diluted heavily with water before putting the bottle in his pocket this morning. “I only seen but three of them automobile things in my life.” This last was partly a reflection of David’s relative youth—he was only sixteen years old, and partly a reflection on the Confederate States of America, whose technology had advanced only slightly from the time the Southern states had split off from the United States of America a little more than 60 years earlier.

“Well, I’ve seen a fair number of them in Richmond. Some of my mother’s kin are from up that way, and quite a few of them rich folks in Richmond get themselves automobiles from the North. Even the President.”

“They ain’t meant to be doing that,” objected David. “They should be like the rest of us, buying their goods from good old Southern boys, or else from our friends in Europe.”

“Well, why don’t y’all go down to Richmond, and tell them that?”

“By heck, I might just do that if you’re telling me the truth about them in Richmond. I don’t care if President Davis is kin to the first Jeff Davis. He ought not to be doing that. He should be setting an example to the folks.”

“Reckon you may be right there, Davy, but I wouldn’t push your luck on that one. You wait till you get out of the army—it’s only another five years or even less for you. Then you can get back to Tallahassee and take life easy.”

Almost another five years of Army life away from home, and no time he could call his own seemed like an eternity to the young conscript. Although he’d only been drafted six months previously, with his folks unable to pay the money for a substitute, it seemed to him now that his whole life had been spent in his butternut gray uniform, constantly walking up and down barbed wire fences looking for dust clouds that might or might not be the hated and feared enemy from the North. “Reckon I could do just that. Sit on the porch and let the darkies do all my work for me.”

“You know, Davy, I figure you’ll be going to college some time soon,” Tom remarked. “All the other guys reckon you’re smart enough to get in there, you know.”

“Come off it, Tom. You and me, we know how them colleges is only for the rich folks. Folks like us, we don’t stand a chance of getting there.”

Tom nodded. “That’s true, I reckon. Anyways, what good is them colleges? All they do is give you a load of crap what contradicts what you and I know to be true from the Bible.” He stopped speaking, and strained his eyes to look south, away from the fence, towards the town hall clock. Neither boy wore a watch. Neither could afford one. “Coming up to prayer time, Davy,” he remarked. “Time to thank the Lord.” The Confederate Army was keen on public expressions of religion, and morning and evening prayer according to the beliefs of the Confederate Baptist Conference was compulsory for all, and “voluntary” prayers throughout the day were encouraged.

The two boys kneeled down in the hot sun, gripping their Parker-Hale rifles firmly in their right hands. “Almighty God,” they prayed together. “We thank You for the blessings You continue to shower on the Confederate States of America, the most favored of all Your nations. We pray for strength and courage to fight and defeat all those who would challenge the true Southern way of life. We pray for health and strength for President Davis, that he may continue to lead us in the paths of righteousness and truth, and for his Senate, that they may continue to provide wise and godly counsel to him. We ask this in the name of Jesus Christ, who washes away our sins, and will receive us when we arrive at the gates of glory. Amen.”

Brushing the dust from their knees, the two stood up, and resumed scanning the fence in silence.

Cordele, Georgia, Confederate States of America

“My guess is that they were looking for any excuse to kill you.”

The sun was going down as Christopher walked from the drugstore, where he’d just purchased a packet of headache powders, back to Miss Justin’s. As he turned the corner behind the railroad depot, he noticed the Childers girl sitting in the road, crying.

“Why, Miss Anna-Mary, what’s the matter with you?” he asked.

“I fell down and hurt my knee, and my doll has hurt her knee, too.”

“Oh, that’s too bad now. Let’s have a look at your dolly and your knee. Oh yes,” he shook his head sympathetically. “She is in a bad way. And so are you. Let me help you up, and I’ll take you home.” He reached down and took her hand, when he was interrupted by a shout from behind him.

“Hey! Nigra! Take your dirty black hands off her, y’hear?” It was Lamar Fitchman’s raucous voice. Scared, Christopher dropped Anna-Mary’s hand and turned to face Fitchman. With a sinking feeling, he saw that Fitchman was not alone. Three friends were with him. Wild boys from the other side of the tracks, one swinging a corn liquor jug from one hand. As Fitchman made his way, somewhat unsteadily, towards Christopher and Anna-Mary, it was obvious to Christopher that he been drinking heavily.

“Now, sweetheart,” Fitchman slurred towards the little girl. “You leave this nasty black boogeyman to us, and run along home.” Forgetting both the pain in her knee, and a loaf of corn bread which she’d been carrying in her other hand, she fled, doll firmly clutched to her breast, from this new apparition with hate in his reddened eyes, and a strong smell of stale whiskey on his breath.

“So, Nigra? Whattya doing with a nice little white girl, all alone behind the depot, then? Holding her hand? Wanted to hold something else of hers, diddya?” Before Christopher could answer, a fist thudded into the side of his neck, knocking him off his feet.

“I was only trying to—” he started to say, struggling to sit up, but a heavy boot in the pit of his stomach cut him off.

“No excuses, boy. Hey, fellas, come and help me. We’re gonna string us up an uppity Nigra tonight. But before we do that… ” Another vicious kick, this time aimed at Christopher’s face, which caught him sickeningly on the cheekbone. Christopher heard something crack inside his head.

“You can’t do that, Lamar,” objected one of the good old boys with Fitchman. “That there’s your aunt’s Nigra.”

“So she’s kin to me. Means I can do what I damn’ well please,” kicking him again, this time in the ribs. Christopher had the sense to lie limp and stay still, but the kicking and beating continued. He had no idea how long it went on. He forced himself to think of happy memories, music he loved, good times he had enjoyed. He recited the Lord’s Prayer to himself, and concentrated hard on the parts where he asked God to deliver him from evil and to forgive those who sin against us. He lost consciousness briefly once or twice from the pain in his face and body and two fingers of his left hand were in screaming agony, but he was almost beyond caring by this point, and his body refused to react to the blows that Fitchman and one of his friends continued to deal him.

At length he heard, “Fetch a rope, Slim. Time to string him up.” Trying hard not to be seen moving, Christopher opened one eye slightly, and painfully moved his head slowly. He saw the largest of Fitchman’s friends detach himself from the group and move towards the depot.

As he left, a tall man in the uniform of the Confederate army, a rifle slung over his shoulder, stepped out of the shadows. The town had been full of strangers in uniform over the past few days, as troop-trains had been coming and going through the town. “Fancy a spot of help?” asked the stranger in an accent that Christopher couldn’t place.

“Why, sure. Always glad to have the military help out,” replied Fitchman, swinging his hand up in a drunken parody of a salute.

“I wasn’t talking to you,” replied the newcomer, coldly. “I was talking to that poor chappie there,” jerking his thumb at Christopher. “Except that he doesn’t seem to be talking much right now, so I suppose I’d better do his talking for him. Four against one doesn’t seem fair play, what? Even if the four of you are half-monkey. Thought I might come along and even things up, don’t you know?”

“Why you Nigra-loving son of a—”

“Don’t say it.” The rifle had somehow slipped off the man’s shoulder and was pointing straight at Fitchman. “Slim? That your name, fat boy?” he called to the man who’d gone for the rope. “Over here where I can see you.” The muzzle of the rifle swung slightly in Slim’s direction. Slim hurried back and took his place beside Fitchman. It wasn’t so much the rifle in the man’s hands, it was the way he was holding it, which told you he was someone who had used a rifle before, and the look on his face, which told you he was prepared to use it again.

“Over towards the light, all of you potato-brains, where I can get a better look at you.” The rifle barrel moved again, and Fitchman and his friends moved towards the light. “Don’t even think of doing it, monkey boy,” to Fitchman, whose body seemed poised to make a rush at the speaker. “I don’t shoot to kill people, I shoot to hurt them. Even if one of you manages to get to me, you and at least one of your friends are going to wake up every morning for the rest of your life, screaming in pain, and cursing the day you tried something stupid against me. That’s better,” as Fitchman’s body relaxed. “And just in case,” the soldier added, fixing a bayonet to the end of his rifle faster than their eyes could follow, “you have any silly ideas about bullets, maybe cold sharp steel is easier for your slow brains to understand.”

“You stinkin’ bastard!” One of Fitchman’s friends made a move toward the tall stranger, drawing his Bowie knife as he lunged forward. Christopher couldn’t quite make out how it had all happened, but suddenly the rifle had reversed itself in the tall man’s hands, with the butt first smashing upwards into his opponent’s groin and then coming down with a sickening crack onto the right knee. With a tight scream, the man went down, dropping the knife, and looked up to see the bayonet’s point inches away from his eyes.

“Kneecap broken, I hope,” said the tall stranger, with a hint of satisfaction. “Jolly painful, you know. Never properly heal and all that. Now, which of you boys is going to drag away your fallen hero? Probably take two of you, he looks a bit large,” reflectively prodding his victim’s stomach lightly with the tip of his bayonet.

“You dirty skunk!” exclaimed Fitchman. “Slim and Jerry, you’d best be taking Mikey.” The other two moved forward, under the single watching eye of the rifle muzzle.

“Where do you want us to take him?” asked Slim, half to Fitchman and half to the stranger.

“If it were up to me, I’d just put him in the sewer where he belongs,” replied the stranger. “But you seem to have some sort of sentimental attachment to dumb animals, so you’d better take him home or something. Take that knife thing with you as well.”

The groaning Mikey was helped to his feet, and half-carried, half-dragged towards the town center. “And as for you, Mr. Fitchman—”

“How the hell do you know my name?” stammered Fitchman.

“Elementary, my dear Watson,” replied the stranger, taking Fitchman’s billfold out of his tunic pocket, and holding it up. “It must have slipped out of your pocket at some time while you were taking your exercise before I picked it up just now.”

“Huh?”

“Let explain a few things to you, old boy.”

“And if I don’t want to listen?”

“Oh, I shall shoot you,” replied the stranger, cheerfully. “First in one knee, then in the other. And then, if I’m feeling kind, I shall shoot you one more time in the stomach. With luck you’ll last for a week or two that way. Of course, if I’m not generous, I won’t shoot you a third time, and you can live for years as a cripple in constant pain.”

And so it was that David found himself to be the senior (and for the moment, the only) NCO of the First Airship Support Regiment of the Army of the Confederacy. He was in charge of four desks, a large filing cabinet, and two rather bewildered civilian surveyors, who were not actually in the Army, but who were on loan to help the Germans with their work once they arrived. Two hundred fifty new recruits and twenty NCOs were scheduled to join the unit as construction workers, together with a number of slaves, once it had been decided exactly what sort of construction was to be carried out.

Major LeHay had temporary command of the unit, such as it was, and he and David, in their best dress uniforms, met the advance party of three Germans at the railroad depot. The rest of the party was due to arrive in the next few days.

A Major Weisstal, who wore a monocle, led the party. His English was good, even if he did sound a bit like Brian at times, and he explained that he’d been to college in England. David’s immediate task was to show the Germans to their huts, and explain to them exactly where the mess hall, recreation areas, and so on, were located.

Weisstal seemed slightly less than enthusiastic about what he saw. “Of course, we thank you for your hospitality, Sergeant,” he said. “But the first thing we are going to have to do here is to clean everything properly.”

David, who had spent the past two days supervising a squad tidying up the huts and cleaning them, felt offended, and took refuge in silence. Major Weisstal sniffed the air disdainfully as they entered the mess hall.

“What in the name of God was served here this morning at luncheon?” he asked.

“Fried chicken with rice and beans and turnip greens, sir,” answered David.

“Is this the kind of food you are expecting to be serving to my men?” asked Weisstal.

“Why, yes sir. There’s no special arrangements been made that I’ve heard tell.”

Weisstal made no verbal answer, but sniffed, dismissing the culinary achievements of the South in one noisy inhalation of breath. “There are in my company some men who can cook well,” he said. “Maybe we should help in the kitchen and prepare our own food? Some of the civilians in my party are important men. Professors and doctors of engineering who are not used to this kind of army food. For myself, of course, as a German solider, I do not care too much what I eat. But I have been told that we soldiers must look after the civilians, so I think my men should be cooking.”

“That’s a question for my Major to decide, sir,” answered David stolidly.

“Of course, Sergeant. I quite understand you cannot make these decisions by yourself.”

The rest of the tour of inspection went the same way, with the Major making some scornful remark or passing a snide comment on the cleanliness or efficiency (or to be precise, the lack thereof) of the Army of the Confederacy. Nothing seemed to escape his criticism; the barracks, the latrines, the recreation facilities (“what sort of person plays this game, anyway?” when looking at the baseball diamond), and David became more than a little tired of this constant complaining. It wasn’t that he thought that the food or conditions in the Army were the best to be found anywhere—heck, anyone knew that Army food was the worst in the world, and you had to share your bed with a variety of many-legged creatures, but it wasn’t for some darn foreigner to come round and sniff at things that any Southern soldier took in his stride.

By the time they returned to the offices, David could have spit a possum, as his grandfather would have put it.

“Thank you, Sergeant,” said the Major as he went inside. Davis saluted as smartly and as insolently as he dared, and inwardly wished Major LeHay joy of the meeting. He had already discovered that his Major had a short fuse when it came to what he called “this administrative bullshit” and he expected fireworks. Nor was he wholly disappointed. About twenty minutes after Weisstal and his Germans went inside, they came out, looking, as David told it later, “as though each one of ‘em had a poker stuck down the back of his pants.” They were followed by an angry shout from inside the office for David to get inside.

“Yes, sir?” said David innocently, saluting and closing the door behind him.

“I tell you, Sergeant, those goddarn Germans. Do you know what they want to do?”

“I can guess, sir.”

“Darn it, Sergeant, I’m an engineer, not a soldier. I trained in aeronautics at Georgia Tech, and they expect me to make decisions about who cleans the latrines!”

“Yes, sir,” said David, as neutrally as he could manage without laughing. “My advice, sir, is if the Germans want to clean their own latrines, and do their own laundry and wash their own dishes, we should let them. Let our own boys do what they want, and not be doing the dirty work for those Germans. We’re to help them, not be their servants, ain’t that right, sir?”

“You reckon we could give them a few of our darkies to help out, Sergeant?”

David hesitated, and picked his teeth before answering. “My reckoning is that that wouldn’t be a very smart idea, sir. See, we Southerners, we know how to treat colored folks. We’re kind of good to ‘em, long as they stays in line, but they knows with us just where that line is, and not to step over it. Those Germans, see, they don’t rightly know how to treat our Nigras. Maybe I shouldn’t be telling you this, sir, but when I was in Germany, I seen and heard some things that made me worry a bit about those German folks.”

“I see your points, Sergeant, but it might be easier for everyone if we let them have the use of two or three of our coloreds to start with. If it doesn’t work out, we can always do something about it, and if it does, we can let them have a few more and we’ll all be happy.”

“Yes, sir,” said David, much less sure of the wisdom of this idea than LeHay.

“So pick out a couple, say three, of the better-spoken colored boys and make sure that Major Weisstal knows they’re his boys. And Sergeant,” he added, noticing David’s continued look of doubt, “you might just happen to be right about what you say. So I’d like you to instruct Major Weisstal on the right way to handle darkies—the Southern way, that is. To be frank with you, I don’t think I want to spend much more time with Major Weisstal, so you have this job.”

“Yes, sir,” said David, saluting.

“Remember, Sergeant, RHIP.”

“Sir?” said David, turning the letters over in his puzzled mind, and thinking of gravestones.

“Rank Hath Its Privileges, Sergeant. Means I can tell you to do what I goddamn please. There are some things I don’t feel like doing right now, and talking to Major Weisstal about Nigras is one of them. So you’re doing it. Go off and see about them coloreds now.”

“Yes, sir,” said David, saluting again as he walked out of the office towards the slave quarters.

He picked out three of the most likely bucks, and took them over to the Germans, who were sitting round a table in the officers’ mess.

“Sir,” he addressed himself to Major Weisstal. “Major LeHay’s compliments, and he says these is yours on loan while you are here. From left to right, we have Jacob, Sammy and Leonard.” The three slaves grinned and ducked their heads in a half-bow deferentially. Sammy sketched a salute.

“Now, sir,” said David, making himself feel brave about talking to an officer in this way. After all, if Major LeHay didn’t think that these Germans amounted to much, why should he bother himself being that polite with them? He let a little more down-home slip into his speech than usual to make his point. “I know this may be seeming a trifle impertinent to you at first, but I hope you’ll take it as part of this Southerner’s welcome to this fine country of ours. I’ve been in your land, and I know there’s different ways of doing things there than there is here. So I’d surely appreciate it if you won’t take it amiss when I explain to you some of the ways we do things in these parts, and you can pass the word to your folks. These three boys is government property, sir. Means that you can’t do what you like with them as if they was your own. Don’t let up on these lazy boys, sir, but don’t be too hard on ‘em, either, and they’ll do you proud. Ain’t that right, boys?” turning to the slaves.

“Yessir,” in chorus.

“You see, Major,” David turned back to Weisstal. “Any problems with these three, just send for me, and I’ll be happy to help out.” He saluted.

“Thank you for your explanation, Sergeant. We’ll make a start by getting those huts cleaned up. You three,” to the black slaves. “Follow me there and I’ll explain exactly how things should be done for me.”

David watched them set off for the huts, and sighed. He had a feeling that this was going to lead to trouble. In fact, he rather hoped it was going to lead to trouble, so that he could be proved right, and Major LeHay could be proved wrong.