Blood and Iron by Harry Turtledove Read Free Book Online Page A

almost thirty-three tons. It could have bogged on ground better than that it was traveling.
    Morrell snapped his fingers in annoyance at himself for not having brought out a slate and a grease pencil with which he could have taken notes here in the field. He was a lean man, nearing thirty, with a long face, weathered features that bespoke a lot of time out in the sun and wind, and close-cropped sandy hair at the moment hidden under a wool cap and the hood of a rain slicker.
    His boots made squelching noises as he slogged through the ooze toward the barrel. The commander of the machine stuck his head out of the central cupola that gave him and his driver a place to perch and a better view than the machine gunners and artillerymen enjoyed (the engineers who tended the two motors had no view, being stuck in the bowels of the barrel).
    “Sorry, sir,” he said. “Couldn’t spot that one till too late.”
    “One of the hazards of the game, Jenkins,” Morrell answered. “You can’t go forward; that’s as plain as the nose on my face. See if you can back out.”
    “Yes, sir.” Lieutenant Jenkins ducked down into the cupola, clanging the hatch shut after himself. The engines changed note as the driver put the barrel into reverse. The barrel moved back a few inches, then bogged down again. Jenkins had spunk. Having shifted position, he tried to charge forward once more and escape the grip of the mud. All he succeeded in doing was getting deeper into it.
    Morrell waved for him to stop and called, “You keep going that way, you’ll need a periscope to see out, just like a submersible.”
    He doubted Jenkins heard him; with the engines hammering away, nobody inside a barrel could hear the man next to him screaming in his ear. Even so, the engines fell silent a few seconds later. The traveling fortress’ commander could see for himself that he wasn’t going anywhere.
    When the young lieutenant popped out through the hatch again, he was grinning. “Well, sir, you said you wanted to test the machine under extreme conditions. I’d say you’ve got your wish.”
    “I’d say you’re right,” Morrell answered. “I’d also say these critters need wider tracks, to carry their weight better.”
    Lieutenant Jenkins nodded emphatically. “Yes, sir! They could use stronger engines, too, to help us get out of this kind of trouble if we do get into it.”
    “That’s a point.” Morrell also nodded. “We used what we had when we designed them: it would have taken forever to make a new engine and work all the teething pains out of it, and we had a war to fight. With the new model, though, we’ve got the chance to do things right, not just fast.”
    That was his job: to figure out what
right
would be. He would have a lot to say about what the next generation of barrels looked like. It was a great opportunity. It was also a great responsibility. More than anything else, barrels had broken two years of stalemated struggle in the trenches and made possible the U.S. victory over the CSA. Having the best machines and knowing what to do with them would be vital if—
no, when,
he thought—the United States and Confederate States squared off again.
    For the moment, his concerns were more immediate. “You and your men may as well come out,” he told Jenkins. “We’ve got a couple of miles of muck to go before we get back to Fort Leavenworth.”
    “Leave the barrel here for now, sir?” the young officer asked.
    “It’s not going anywhere by itself, that’s for sure,” Morrell answered, with which Jenkins could hardly disagree. “Rebs aren’t about to steal it, either. We’ll need a recovery vehicle to pull it loose, but we can’t bring one out now because it would bog too.” Recovery vehicles mounted no machine guns or cannon, but were equipped with stout towing chains, and sometimes with bulldozer blades.
    More hatches opened up as the engineers and machine gunners and artillerymen emerged from their steel shell. Even in