Hey, quit zoomin' your hands through the air, boy — I know you was a flier! You flew good in the war, course you did; I'd expect that from a grandson of mine. But don't get to thinking you know all about war, son, or flying machines either. The war we finished in '65 is still the toughest we've fought, and don't you forget it. It was a big war fought by big men, and your Pattons and Arnolds and Stilwells — they were good, boy, no denying it — but Grant, there was a general. Never told you about this before, because I was swore to secrecy by the general himself, but I think it's all right, now; I think the oath has expired. Now, quiet, boy! Put those hands in your pockets and listen!

Now, the night I'm talking about, the night I met the general, I didn't know we'd see him at all. Didn't know anything except we were riding along Pennsylvania Avenue, me and the major, him not saying where we were going or why, just jogging along, one hand on the reins, a big black box strapped to the major's saddle in front, and that little pointy beard of his stabbing up and down with every step.

It was late, after ten, and everyone was asleep. But the moon was up, bright and full through the trees, and it was nice — the horses' shadows gliding along sharp and clear beside us, and not a sound in the street but their hoofs, hollow on the packed dirt. We'd been riding two days, I'd been nipping some liberated applejack — only we didn't say liberated then; we called it foraging — and I was asleep in the saddle, my trumpet jiggling in the small of my back. Then the major nudged me, and I woke up and saw the White House ahead. Yessir, I said.

He looked at me, the moon shining yellow on his epaulets, and said, real quiet, Tonight, boy, we may win the war. You and I. He smiled, mysterious, and patted the black box. You know who I am, boy?

Yessir.

No, you don't. I'm a professor. Up at Harvard College. Or was, anyway. Glad to be in the army now, though. Pack of fools up there, most of them; can't see past the ends of their noses. Well, tonight, boy, we may win the war.

Yessir, I said. Most officers higher than captain were a little queer in the head, I'd noticed, majors especially. That's how it was then, anyway, and I don't reckon it's changed any, even in the Air Force.

We stopped near the White House at the edge of the lawn and sat looking at it — a great big old house, silvery white in the moonlight, the light over the front door shining out through the porch columns onto the driveway. There was a light in an east window on the ground floor, and I kept hoping I'd see the President, but I didn't. The major opened his box. Know what this is, boy?

Nosir.

It's my own invention, based on my own theories, nobody else's. They think I'm a crackpot up at the School, but I think it'll work. Win the war, boy. He moved a little lever inside the box. Don't want to send us too far ahead, son, or technical progress will be beyond us. Say eighty-five years or so from now, approximately; think that ought to be about right?

Yessir.

All right. The major jammed his thumb down on a little button in the box; it made a humming sound that kept rising higher and higher till my ears began to hurt; then he lifted his hand. Well, he said, smiling and nodding, the little pointy beard going up and down, it is now some eighty-odd years later. He nodded at the White House. Glad to see it's still standing.

I looked up at the White House again. It was just the same, the light still shining out between the big white columns, but I didn't say anything.

The major twitched his reins and turned. Well, boy, we've got work ahead; come on. And he set off at a trot along Pennsylvania Avenue with me beside him.

Pretty soon we turned south, and the major twisted around in his saddle and said, Now, the question is, what do they have in the future? He held up his finger like a teacher in school, and I believed the part about him being a professor. We don't know, the major went on, but we know where to find it. In a museum. We're going to the Smithsonian Institution, if it's still standing. For us it should be a veritable storehouse of the future.

It had been standing last week, I knew, and after a while, off across the grass to the east, there it was, a stone building with towers like a castle, looking just the same as always, the windows now blank and white in the moonlight. Still standing, sir, I said.

Good, said the major. Reconnaissance approach, now, and we went on to a cross street and turned into it. Up ahead were several buildings I'd never noticed before, and we went up to them and swung down off our horses. Walk between these buildings, the major said, leading his horse. Quiet, now; we're reconnoitering.

We crept on, quiet as could be, in the shadows between the two buildings. The one to the right looked just like the Smithsonian to me, and I knew it must be a part of it; another building I'd never seen before. The major was all excited now, and kept whispering. Some new kind of weapon that will destroy the whole Rebel Army is what we're looking for. Let me know if you see any such thing, boy.

Yessir, I said, and I almost bumped into something out there in the open in front of the building at the left. It was big and made entirely out of heavy metal, and instead of wheels it rested on two movable belts made of metal; big flat plates linked together.

Looks like a tank, said the major, though I don't know what they keep in it. Keep moving, boy; this thing is obviously no use on a battlefield.

We walked on just a step, and there on the pavement in front of us was a tremendous cannon, three times bigger than any I'd ever seen before in my life. It had an immense long barrel, wheels high as my chest, and it was painted kind of funny, in wavy stripes and splotches, so that you could hardly see it at first in the moonlight that got down between the buildings. Look at that thing! the major said softly. It would pulverize Lee in an hour, but I don't know how we'd carry it. No, he said, shaking his head, this isn't it. I wonder what they've got inside, though. He stepped up to the doors and peered in through the glass, shading his eyes with his hand. Then he gasped and turned to me.

I went up beside him and looked through the glass. It was a long, big building, the moonlight slanting in through the windows all along one side; and all over the floor, and even hanging from the ceiling, were the weirdest-looking things I ever saw. They were each big as a wagon, some bigger, and they had wheels, but only two wheels, near the front; and I was trying to figure that out when the major got his voice back.

Aircraft, by God! he said. They've got aircraft! Win the wart

Air what, sir?

Aircraft. Flying machines. They fly through the air. Don't you see the wings, boy?

Each of the machines I could see inside had two things sticking out at each side like oversize ironing boards, but they looked stiff to me, and I didn't see how they could flap like wings. I didn't know what else the major could be talking about, though. Yessir, I said.

But the major was shaking his head again. Much too advanced, he said. We could never master them. What we need is an earlier type, and I don't see any in here. Come on, boy; don't straggle.

We walked on, leading the horses, toward the front of the other building. At the doors we peeked in, and there on the floor, with tools and empty crates lying around as though they'd just unpacked it, was another of the things, a flying machine. Only this was far smaller, and was nothing but a framework of wood like a big box kite, with little canvas wings, as the major called them. It didn't have wheels, either, just a couple of runners like a sled. Lying propped against a wall, as though they were just ready to put it up, was a sign. The moonlight didn't quite reach it, and I couldn't read all the words, but I could make out a few. World's first, it said in one place, and farther down it said, Kitty Hawk.

The major just stood there for maybe a minute, staring like a man in a trance. Then he murmured to himself. Very like sketches of da Vinci's model; only apparently this one worked. He grinned suddenly, all excited. This is it, boy, he said. This is why we came.

I knew what he had in mind, and I didn't like it. You'll never break in there, sir, I said. Those doors look mighty solid, and I'll bet this place is guarded like the mint.

The major just smiled, mysterious again. Of course it is, son; it's the treasure house of a nation. No one could possibly get in with any hope of removing anything, let alone this aircraft — under ordinary circumstances. But don't worry about that, boy; just leave it to me. Right now we need fuel. Turning on his heel, he walked back to his horse, took the reins, and led him off; and I followed with mine.

Off some distance, under some trees, near a big open space like a park, the major set the lever inside his black box, and pressed the button. Back in 1864, now, he said then, and sniffed. Air smells fresher. Now, I want you to take your horse, go to garrison headquarters, and bring back all the petrol you can carry. They've got some for cleaning uniforms. Tell them I'll take full responsibility. Understand?

Yessir.

Then off with you. When you come back, this is where I want you to meet me. The major turned and began walking away with his horse.

At headquarters the guard woke a private, who woke a corporal, who woke a sergeant, who woke a lieutenant, who woke a captain, who swore a little and then woke up the private again and told him to give me what I wanted. The private went away, murmuring softly to himself, and came back pretty soon with six five-gallon jugs; and I tied them to my saddle, signed six sets of receipts in triplicate, and led my horse back through the moonlit streets of Washington, taking a nip of applejack now and then.

I went by the White House again, on purpose; and this time someone was standing silhouetted against the lighted east window — a big man, tall and thin, his, shoulders bowed, his head down on his chest — and I couldn't help but get the impression of a weary strength and purpose and a tremendous dignity. I felt sure it was him, but I can't rightly claim I saw the President, because I've always been one to stick to the facts and never stretch the truth even a little bit.

The major was waiting under the trees, and my jaw nearly dropped off, because the flying machine was sitting beside him. Sir, I said how did you —

The major interrupted, smiling and stroking his little beard: Very simple. I merely stood at the front door — he patted the black box at the saddle near his shoulder —and moved back in time to a moment when even the Smithsonian didn't exist. Then I stepped a few paces ahead with the box under my arm, adjusted the lever again, moved forward to the proper moment, and there I was, standing beside the flying machine. I took myself and the machine out by the same method, and my mount pulled it here on its skids.

Yessir, I said. I figured I could keep up this foolishness as long as he could, though I did wonder how he had got the flying machine out.

The major pointed ahead. I've been exploring the ground, and it's pretty rocky and rough. He turned to the black box, adjusted the dial, and pressed the button. Now, it's a park, he said, sometime in the nineteen forties.

Yessir, I said.

The major nodded at a little spout in the flying machine. Fill her up, he said, and I untied one of the jugs, uncorked it, and began to pour. The tank sounded dry when the petrol hit it, and a cloud of dust puffed up from the spout. It didn't hold very much, only a few quarts, and the major began untying the other jugs. Lash these down in the machine, he said, and while I was doing that, the major began pacing up and down, muttering to himself. To start the engine, I should imagine you simply turn the propellers. But the machine will need help in getting into the air. He kept walking up and down, pulling his beard; then he nodded his head. Yes, he said, that should do it, I think. He stopped and looked at me. Nerves in good shape, boy? Hands steady and reliable?

Yessir.

All right, son, this thing should be easy to fly — mostly a matter of balance, I imagine. He pointed to a sort of saddle at the front of the machine. I believe you simply lie on your stomach with your hips in this saddle; it connects with the rudder and wings by cables. By merely moving from side to side, you control the machine's balance and direction. The major pointed to a lever. Work this with your hand, he said, to go up or down. That's all there is to it, so far as I can see, and if I'm wrong in any details, you can correct them in the air with a little experimenting. Think you can fly it, boy?

Yessir.

Good, he said, and grabbed one of the propellers at the back and, began turning it. I worked on the other propeller, but nothing happened; they just creaked, stiff and rusty-like. But we kept turning, yanking harder and harder, and pretty soon the little engine coughed.

Now, heave, boy! the major said, and we laid into it hard, and every time, now, the engine would cough a little. Finally, we yanked so hard, both together, our feet nearly came off the ground, and the motor coughed and kept on coughing and like to choked to death. Then it sort of cleared its throat and started to stutter but didn't stop, and then it was running smooth, the propellers just whirling, flashing and shining in the moonlight till you could hardly see them, and the flying machine shaking like a wet dog, with little clouds of dust pouring up out of every part of it.

Excellent, said the major, and he sneezed from the dust. Then he began unfastening the horses' bridles, strapping them together again to make a single long rein. He posed the horses in front of the machine and said, Get in, boy. We've got a busy night ahead. I lay down in the saddle, and he climbed up on the top wing and lay down on his stomach. You take the lever, and I'll take the rein. Ready, boy?

Yessir.

Gee up! said the major, snapping the rein hard, and the horses started off, heads down, hoofs digging in.

The flying machine sort of bumped along over the grass on its skids, but it soon smoothed out and began sliding along, level as a sled on packed snow, and the horses' heads came up and they began to trot, the motor just chugging away.

Sound forward! said the major, and I unslung my trumpet and blew forward; the horses buckled into it, and we were skimming along, must have been fifteen, maybe twenty miles an hour or even faster.

Now, charge! yelled the major, and I blew charge, and the hoofs began drumming the turf, the horses whinnying and snorting, the engine chugging faster and faster, the propellers whining in back of us, and all of a sudden the grass was a good five feet below, and the reins were hanging straight down. Then — for a second it scared me — we were passing the horses. We were right over their backs; then they began slipping away under the machine, and the major dropped the reins and yelled, Pull back the lever! I yanked back hard, and we shot up into the air like a rocket.

I remembered what the major had said about experimenting and tried easing back on the lever, and the flying machine sort of leveled out, and there we were, chugging along faster than I'd ever gone in my life. It was wonderful fun, and I glanced down and there was Washington spread out below, a lot bigger than I'd thought it was and with more lights than I'd known there were in the world. They were bright, too; didn't look like candles and kerosene lamps at all. Way off, toward the center of town, some of the lights were red and green, and so bright they lighted up the sky.

Watch out! yelled the major, and just ahead, rushing straight at us, was a tremendous monument or something, a big tall stone needle.

I don't know why, but I twisted hard to the left in the little saddle and yanked back on the lever, and the wing heaved up and the flying machine shot off to one side, the wing tip nearly grazing the monument. Then I lay straight again, holding the lever steady. The machine leveled off, and it was like the first time I drove a team. I could feel in my bones that I was a natural-born flying-machine driver.

Back to headquarters, said the major. Can you find the way?

Yessir, I said, and headed south.

The major fiddled with the dial in his black box and pressed the button, and down below now, in the moonlight, I could see the dirt road leading out of Washington back to headquarters. I turned for a last look at the city, but there were only a few lights now, not looking nearly as bright as before; the red and green lights were gone.

But the road was bright in the moonlight, and we tore along over it when it went straight, cut across bends when it curved, flying it must have been close to forty miles an hour. The wind streamed back cold, and I pulled out the white knit muffler my grandma gave me and looped it around my throat. One end streamed back, flapping and waving in the wind. I thought my forage cap might blow off, so I reversed it on my head, the peak at the back, and I felt that now I looked the way a flying-machine driver ought to, and wished the girls back home could have seen me.

For a while I practiced with the lever and hip saddle, soaring up till the engine started coughing, and turning and dipping down, seeing how close I could shave the road. But finally the major yelled and made me quit. Every now and then we'd see a light flare up in a farmhouse, and when we'd look back we'd see the light wobbling across the yard and know some farmer was out there with his lamp, staring up at the noise in the sky.

Several times, on the way, we had to fill the tank again, and pretty soon, maybe less than two hours, campfires began sliding under our wings, and the major was leaning from side to side, looking down at the ground. Then he pointed ahead. That field down there, boy; can you land this thing with the engine off?

Yessir, I said, and I stopped the engine, and the machine began sliding down like a toboggan, and I kept easing the lever back and forth, watching the field come up to meet us, growing bigger and bigger every second. We didn't make a sound now, except for the wind sighing through the wires, and we came in like a ghost, the moonlight white on our wings. Our downward path and the edge of the field met exactly, and the instant before we hit, my arm eased the lever back, and the skids touched the grass like a whisper. Then we bumped a little, stopped, and sat there a moment not saying a word. Off in the weeds the crickets began chirping again.

The major said there was a cliff at the side of the field and we found it, and slid the machine over to the edge of it, and then we started walking around the field in opposite directions, looking for a path or sentry. I found the sentry right away, guarding the path lying down with his eyes closed. My applejack was gone, so I shook him awake and explained my problem.

How much you got? he said; I told him a dollar, and he went off into the woods and came back with a jug. Good whisky, he said, the best. And exactly a dollar's worth; the jug's nearly full. So I tasted the whisky — it was good — paid him, took the jug back and tied it down in the machine. Then I went back to the path and called the major, and he came over, cutting across the field. Then the sentry led us down the path toward the general's tent.

It was a square tent with a gabled roof, a lantern burning inside, and the front flap open. The sentry saluted. Major of Cavalry here, sir. He pronounced the word like an ignorant infantryman. Says it's secret and urgent.

Send the calvary in, said a voice, pronouncing it just that way, and I knew the general was a horse soldier at heart.

We stepped forward, saluting. The general was sitting on a kitchen chair, his feet, in old army shoes with the laces untied, propped on a big wooden keg with a spigot. He wore a black slouch hat, his vest and uniform blouse were unbuttoned, and I saw three silver stars embroidered on a shoulder strap. The general's eyes were blue, hard and tough, and he wore a full beard. At ease, he said. Well?

Sir, said the major, we have a flying machine and propose, with your permission, to use it against the rebs.

Well, said the general, leaning back on the hind legs of his chair, you've come in the nick of time. Lee's men are massed at Cold Harbor, and I've been sitting here all night dri— thinking. They've got to be crushed before — A flying machine, did you say?

Yessir, said the major.

H'mm, said the general. Where'd you get it?

Well, sir, that's a long story.

I'll bet it is, said the general. He picked up a stub of cigar from the table beside him and chewed it thoughtfully. If I hadn't been thinking hard and steadily all night, I wouldn't believe a word of this. What do you propose to do with your flying machine?

Load it with grenades! The major's eyes began to sparkle. Drop them spang on rebel headquarters! Force immediate surrend—

The general shook his head. No, he said, I don't think so. Air power isn't enough, son, and will never replace the foot soldier, mark my words. Has its place, though, and you've done good work. He glanced at me. You the driver, son?

Yessir.

He turned to the major again. I want you to go up with a map. Locate Lee's positions. Mark them on the map and return. Do that, major, and tomorrow, June third, after the Battle of Cold Harbor, I'll personally pin silver leaves on your straps. Because I'm going to take Richmond like — well, I don't know what. As for you, son — he glanced at my stripe — you'll make corporal. Might even design new badges for you; pair of wings on the chest or something like that.

Yessir, I said.

Where's the machine? said the general. Believe I'll walk down and look at it. Lead the way. The major and me saluted, turned and walked out, and the general said, Go ahead; I'll catch up.

At the field the general caught up, shoving something into his hip pocket — a handkerchief, maybe. Here's your map, he said, and he handed a folded paper to the major.

The major took it, saluted and said, For the Union, sir! For the cause of —

Save the speeches, said the general, till you're running for office.

Yessir, said the major, and he turned to me. Fill her up!

I filled the tank, we spun the propellers, and this time the engine started right up. We climbed in, and I reversed my forage cap and tied on my scarf.

Good, said the general approvingly. Style; real calvary style.

We shoved off and dropped over the cliff like a dead weight, the ground rushing up fast. Then the wings bit into the air, I pulled back my lever, and we shot up, the engine snorting, fighting for altitude, and I swung out wide and circled the field, once at fifty feet, then at a hundred. The first time, the general just stood there, head back, mouth open, staring up at us, and I could see his brass buttons gleam in the moonlight. The second time around he still had his head back, but I don't think he was looking at us. He had a hand to his mouth, and he was drinking a glass of water — I could tell because just as we straightened and headed south, he threw it off into the bushes hard as he could, and I could see the glass flash in the moonlight. Then he started back to headquarters at a dead run, in a hurry, I guess, to get back to his thinking.

The machine was snorting at the front end, kicking up at the hindquarters, high-spirited, and I had all I could do to keep her from shying, and I wished she'd had reins. Down below, cold and sparkly in the moonlight, I could see the James River, stretching east and west, and the lights of Richmond, but it was no time for sight-seeing. The machine was frisky, trembling in the flanks, and before I knew it she took the bit in her mouth and headed straight down, the wind screaming through her wires, the ripples on the water rushing up at us.

But I'd handled runaways before, and I heaved back on the lever, forcing her head up, and she curved back into the air fast as a calvary mount at a barrier. But this time she didn't cough at the top of the curve. She snorted through her nostrils, wild with power, and I barely had time to yell, Hang on! to the major before she went clear over on her back and shot down toward the river again. The major yelled, but the applejack was bubbling inside me and I'd never had such a thrill, and I yelled, too, laughing and screaming. Then I pulled back hard, yelling, Whoa! but up and over we went again, the wings creaking like saddle leather on a galloping horse. At the top of the climb, I leaned hard to the left, and we shot off in a wide, beautiful curve, and I never had such fun in my life.

Then she quieted down a little. She wasn't broken, I knew, but she could feel a real rider in the saddle, so she waited, figuring out what to try next. The major got his breath and used it for cursing. He didn't call me anything I'd ever heard before, and I'd been in the calvary since I joined the Army. It was a beautiful job and I admired it. Yessir, I said when his breath ran out again.

He still had plenty to say, I think, but campfires were sliding under our wings, and he had to get out his map and go to work. We flew back and forth, parallel with the river, the major busy with his pencil and map. It was dull and monotonous for both me and the machine, and I kept wondering if the rebs could see or hear us. So I kept sneaking closer and closer to the ground, and pretty soon, directly ahead in a clearing, I saw a campfire with men around it. I don't rightly know if it was me or the machine had the idea, but I barely touched the lever and she dipped her nose and shot right down, aiming smack at the fire.

They saw us then, all right, and heard us, too. They scattered, yelling and cursing, with me leaning over screaming at them and laughing like mad. I hauled back on the lever maybe five feet from the ground, and the fire singed our tail as we curved back up. But this time, at the top of the climb, the engine got the hiccups, and I had to turn and come down in a slow glide to ease the strain off the engine till she got her breath, and now the men below had muskets out, and they were mad. They fired kneeling, following up with their sights the way you lead ducks, the musket balls whistling past us.

Come on! I yelled. I slapped the flying machine on her side, unslung my trumpet, and blew charge. Down we went, the engine neighing and whinnying like crazy, and the men tossed their muskets aside and dived in all directions, and we fanned the flames with our wings and went up like a bullet, the engine screaming in triumph. At the top of the curve I turned, and we shot off over the treetops, the wing tip pointing straight at the moon. Sorry, sir, I said, before the major could get his breath. She's wild — feeling her oats. But I think I've got her under control.

Then get back to headquarters before you kill us, he said coldly. We'll discuss this later.

Yessir, I said. I spotted the river off to one side and flew over it, and when the major got us oriented he navigated us back to the field.

Wait here, he said when we landed, and he trotted down the path toward the general's tent. I was just as glad; I felt like a drink, and besides I loved that machine now and wanted to take care of her. I wiped her down with my muffler, and wished I could feed her something.

Then I felt around inside the machine, and then I was cussing that sentry, beating the major's record, I think, because my whisky was gone, and I knew what that sentry had done: sneaked back to my machine and got it soon as he had me and the major in the general's tent, and now he was back at the guardhouse, probably, lapping it up and laughing at me.

The major came down the path fast. Back to Washington, and hurry, he said. Got to get this where it belongs before daylight or the space-time continuum will be broken and no telling what might happen then.

So we filled the tank and flew on back to Washington. I was tired and so was the flying machine, I guess, because now she just chugged along, heading for home and the stable.

We landed near the trees again, and climbed out, stiff and tired. And after creaking and sighing a little, the flying machine just sat there on the ground, dead tired, too. There were a couple of musket-ball holes in her wings and some soot on her tail, but otherwise she looked just the same.

Look alive, boy! the major said. You go hunt for the horses, and I'll get the machine back, and he got behind the flying machine and began pushing it along over the grass.

I found the horses grazing not far off, brought them back, and tethered them to the trees. When the major returned we started back, just as dawn was breaking.

Well, I never did get my promotion. Or my wings either. It got hot, and pretty soon I fell asleep.

After a while I heard the major call, Boy! Boy! and I woke up saying, Yessir! but he didn't mean me. A paper boy was running over with a newspaper, and when the major paid for it, I drew alongside and we both looked at it, sitting there in our saddles near the outskirts of Washington. BATTLE AT COLD HARBOR, it said, and underneath were a lot of smaller headlines one after the other. Disaster for Union Forces! Surprise Attack at Daybreak Fails! Repulsed in Eight Minutes! Knowledge of Rebel Positions Faulty! Confederate Losses Small, Ours Large, Grant Offers No Explanation; Inquiry Urged! There was a news story, too, but we didn't read it. The major flung the paper to the gutter and touched his spurs to his horse, and I followed.

By noon the next day we were back in our lines, but we didn't look for the general. We didn't feel any need to, because we felt sure he was looking for us. He never found us, though; possibly because I grew a beard, and the major shaved his off. And we never had told him our names. Well, Grant finally took Richmond — he was a great general — but he had to take it by siege.

I only saw him one more time, and that was years later when he wasn't a general any more. It was a New Year's Day, and I was in Washington and saw a long line of people waiting to get into the White House, and knew it must be the public reception the Presidents used to hold every New Year's. So I stood in line, and an hour later I reached the President. Remember me, General? I said.

He stared at me, narrowing his eyes; then his face got red and his eyes flashed. But he took a deep breath, remembering I was a voter, forced a smile, and nodded at a door behind him. Wait in there, he said.

Soon afterward the reception ended, and the general sat facing me, behind his big desk, biting the end off a short cigar. Well, he said, without any preliminaries, what went wrong?

So I told him; I'd figured it out long since, of course. I told him how the flying machine went crazy, looping till we could hardly see straight, so that we flew north again and mapped our own lines.

I found that out, said the general, immediately after ordering the attack. Then I told him about the sentry who'd sold me the whisky, and how I thought he'd stolen it back again, when he hadn't.

The general nodded. Poured that whisky into the machine, didn't you? Mistook it for a jug of gasoline.

Yessir, I said.

He nodded again. Naturally the flying machine went crazy. That was my own private brand of whisky, the same whisky Lincoln spoke of so highly. That damned sentry of mine was stealing it all through the war. He leaned back in his chair, puffing his cigar. Well, he said, I guess it's just as well you didn't succeed; Lee thought so, too. We discussed it at Appomattox before the formal surrender, just the two of us chatting in the farmhouse. Never have told anyone what we talked about there, and everybody's been wondering and guessing ever since. Well, we talked about air power, son, and Lee was opposed to it, and so was I. Wars are meant for the ground, boy, and if they ever take to the air they'll start dropping bombshells, mark my words, and if they ever do that, there'll be hell to pay. So Lee and I decided to keep our mouths shut about air power, and we have — you won't find a word about it in my memoirs or his. Anyway, son, as Billy Sherman said, war is hell, and there's no sense starting people thinking up ways to make it worse. So I want you to keep quiet about Cold Harbor. Don't say a word if you live to be a hundred.

Yessir, I said, and I never have. But I'm way past a hundred now, son, and if the general wanted me to keep quiet after that he'd have said so. Now, take those hands out of the air, boy! Wait'll the world's first pilot gets through talking!