The Devil's Pay (Dogs of War) - By Dave Gross Page 0,7
we short one cart?”
“What makes you say that?”
“Well, we’re supposed to capture a ’jack. Where do we put it if we find it?”
“When” said Smooth. “Don’t let the captain hear you say ‘if.’”
“But where will we put it?”
“If we’re low on fuel, we’ll put it in the coal cart. If we have plenty of fuel, we’ll fire up Foyle and have him walk until we’re low on coal. It’s all a matter of balance.”
Dawson nodded. “Of course. I don’t know why I didn’t think of that.”
“You’re a pup, that’s all,” said Smooth. He squinted at the shorter man. “You have seen action, though. Right?”
“Of course. I did my service in the Ordic army. I liked it well enough, but the pay...” He rubbed his thumbs across his fingers and showed empty hands.
“So you figured you’d make your fortune with the Devil Dogs.”
“Something like that.”
“I bet you’ve been kicking yourself over that one.”
“No! I mean, not really. There’s been a lot more drilling than I expected. And a lot more waiting around. But now I can throw a net and hit more often than miss.”
“All you got to worry about is: follow your orders. When you don’t have any, watch what us boys do. Now that you been anointed, you won’t get much more razzing… as long as you keep your eye off peepholes.”
Dawson winced. “Does the whole company know about that?”
Smooth grinned and slugged him on the shoulder, just hard enough to bruise.
The rain had left the ground soft but not impassable. The Devil Dogs’ wagon train followed dirt roads when it could, once crossing a fallow field to reach a trail leading east into the Wythmoor. When he spied the local farmer emerging from a cellar, Lister sent over a runner with a gift from the provisions to assuage any hard feelings
At dusk, the Dogs began setting camp without a word from their sergeant. Crawley saved his breath to harangue the mechaniks as they checked and double-checked the warjacks and their wagons. When he set the goggles over his eyes and grimaced to reveal his peg-like teeth through a blast of steam, Dawson finally understood how the man had earned the nickname “Creepy.”
Despite their rank and role in Sam’s inner circle, the “boys” worked side-by-side with the “men.” Dawson found himself clearing mud from the wheels of Foyle’s wagon across from Burns. If the big man harbored any remaining suspicions about Dawson’s loyalties, he made no sign of it.
Lister conferred with Sam. They took turns peering through a spyglass and scratching marks on a map they lay on the tailgate of the supply wagon.
Smooth supervised the preparation of a meal of salt pork and loaves bought fresh in Tarna that morning. He and another man filled four iron pots with barley, dried vegetables, and diced beef. They left the pots to simmer until morning.
Lister sent out sentries in a picket around the wagons, between which the Dogs settled in around the fires. Burns let them in on his version of “The Roundabout Girl,” which somehow he had made even more profane. Dawson hesitated to join in until he heard Sam’s voice belting out the most vulgar refrains. After three songs, the captain said, “Sleep tight, my Dogs.” Minutes later, the camp was silent but for the crackling of the fire, a shush of autumn breeze, and rhythmic snoring.
The next afternoon, Sam halted the wagon train near a village at the edge of the Wythmoor. The clouds had parted just enough to reveal a sliver of blue sky between endless banks of pewter clouds. A lone bar of sunlight draped a golden veil across the heath that lay between the village and the edge of the swamp.
“Harrow, Lister, and you—ah, Dawson. You’re with me. The rest of you stay here with the big lugs. Crawley, get these horses watered.”
The sergeant repeated Sam’s orders for form’s sake, but the drivers were already in motion, eager to stretch their legs after sitting for the past two hours.
The soldiers shrugged off their packs. About a third of them stood watch while the rest sat down to rest, shared a smoke, or drank from their leather canteens.
Sam led the way to the village. Beside one of the thatched cottages, a man and his wife secured a rocking chair to the top of a cart already full of furniture and other belongings. They glanced nervously at the Devil Dogs before hurrying inside for another load.
The village headman and a few teenage boys walked out to