“Yes, sir. We did not wish to depend solely on a single line of defense, so once this main line was complete, we expanded our defense zones to provide a forward line. As you can see, the Missouri River comes in from the west and then turns to the northeast to join the Mississippi north of the city, forming a rectangular shape with water on three sides. The only landward approach is from the southwest.” He traced the river with his pointer.
“To take advantage of this, we’ve constructed a line from this point on our main line up to the Missouri at the town of St. Charles, giving over two thirds of the main line an outer defense. This new line has a number of concrete forts connected with earthen trenches. We’re calling it the Donnelson Line after an engineering officer killed in an accident during construction.”
“That looks good, Fred,” said Wood. “But it looks like you have an even more extended line further to the southwest.” He pointed at the sand table.
“Yes, sir, we do. The Meramec River enters the Mississippi here, about ten miles south of the city, and provides a natural barrier almost halfway to the Missouri. At this time of year, the Meramec is deep enough to get some of the smaller gunboats almost ten miles upstream, so we’ve built a line of trenches and bunkers along its banks and then the rest of the way to the Missouri here.”
“That line has to be what? Forty miles long?” asked Wood.
“About thirty-seven, yes sir. We realize it is far too long to defend with the troops we have, so this will just be a forward outpost line to force the enemy to deploy and reveal his intentions. The 58th Division is holding the position. And we have all the country registered for artillery fire. Our long-range guns can hit anywhere along this whole line. We’ve also dug thousands of pit traps to snare and immobilize their machines. Our intent is to hurt them as much as possible before they can even reach our main defenses.”
“Just so long as your troops in the forward line don’t get hurt too badly trying to fall back.” The 58th was nearly a third of the whole garrison and they couldn’t afford to have it destroyed.
“Yes, sir, we’ve given a lot of thought to that. As you can see from our table, there are a multitude of small streams which crisscross the area. We’ve seen how the enemy tripods have trouble with soft and marshy ground, so we’ve dammed up a number of these streams creating ponds and small lakes and a lot of flooded ground they will have trouble getting across. Each of our forward units will have designated fall-back routes to the Donnelson Line along dry ground through these areas which are already registered for our artillery. If the Martians follow those routes, they will be hammered by our guns. If they try some other route, they’ll get stuck in the mud - and we’ll hammer them anyway.”
“You are aware that the enemy is now employing a smaller machine in conjunction with the tripods? What provisions have you made to deal with those?”
“Yes, sir. We’ve gotten reports on those. The men who have seen them are calling them spiders. They will make our trenches and underground bunkers less secure, but the reports also say that they aren’t nearly as heavily armored as the big tripods. Rifles, machine guns, and the stovepipes can destroy them. Frankly, sir, our infantry are looking forward to facing something they can fight on more even terms. We’ll handle them.”
“What about ammunition? Particularly artillery ammunition? How are you supplied?”
“We believe we have a sufficient reserve for seven days of all-out combat, sir. We have eight different main dumps and twenty secondary ones closer to the front to assure rapid resupply to our units. If it goes longer than that…” Foltz shrugged. Yes, it would surely be decided one way or another long before that.
Wood nodded. “I’m impressed, gentlemen, very impressed. Oh, what about the captured heat rays we’ve sent you? Where are they positioned?”
“Well, General, we were constrained by the fact that the devices require a huge amount of electrical current to work. The local power plants can meet the demand, but obviously we need to get the current from the plant to the device, so we are limited to where we can deploy them. At first we simply picked five locations along the main walls with good lines of fire and then ran power lines to those locations. Later, the engineers realized that the devices themselves were not that large or especially heavy and could be moved quickly with the right equipment. So what they’ve done is to set up nineteen different locations along the walls and run power lines to each of them. We have the devices themselves on trucks and can move them to whichever locations seem threatened. We can then set up the devices and fire from there.”
“That’s ingenious, Fred. Good thinking.”
“It was the engineers who thought of it, sir, I can’t take any credit. But if the Martians get close enough, they are in for one hell of a surprise!”
Wood and many of the others there chuckled. “I sure hope we can give them one, Fred.” He turned to face all of the assembled officers. “Gentlemen, you have done an outstanding job, but sometime in the coming days, all of your work will be put to the test. St. Louis must be held! At all costs! Not only is it vital to our overall defenses, but all of our future offensive operations depend on our ability to hold on to what we already have.” He looked the men over and they seemed properly sobered.
“With this in mind,” he continued, “we are giving you every bit of support we can. I’ve already told General Pershing that the 1st Tank Division has been put at your disposal. I’ve also alerted II Corps, to your south, to be prepared to take over the southern section of your line on the east bank of the river. So, if necessary, you could cross over the 42nd Division to reinforce your lines here.” Foltz’s eyebrows went up and many of the others nodded. XV Corps had five division, but only three were in the St. Louis lines. The other two extended the corps’ lines north and south along the river.
“That would be excellent, sir,” said Foltz. “I’ll send General Hotchkiss the word to be ready to move.”
“Finally, there will be several ships docking at your wharfs within the next few hours carrying our latest ‘secret weapon’. They’re called ‘Little Davids’ and they are a large steam powered vehicle mounting a twelve-inch gun in a rotating turret. Be advised that they are not tanks. Their armor isn’t particularly strong and they carry no secondary weapons, so they aren’t fit to get in close and mix it up with a bunch of tripods. They are only meant to be a means of moving a very heavy gun to where you might need one. There are six of the beasts and I leave it to you to put them to the best use.”
“Thank you, General,” said Pershing. “I’ve put all of 6th Army’s reserves on call for XV Corps’ use. This is primarily additional artillery, which I’m moving up on the east bank of the river for now.” Black Jack looked at Wood. “Sir, I can guarantee you that St. Louis will be held to the last man.”
* * * * *
May, 1912, near Montgomery Island, Arkansas
Captain Frank Dolfen looked east and could see the glittering waters of the Mississippi in the far distance. Thank God, we made it. The retreat from Little Rock had not been nearly as long as the agonizing trek from Santa Fe two years earlier, but it had been bad enough. For one thing, the Martians had put on a much more aggressive pursuit - although not as aggressive as they might have.
Despite the disastrous explosion among the parked tripods, which had cost the two cavalry regiments five times as many men as the initial attack had, the sudden blow to the enemy seemed to have disorganized them. Precious hours had gone by before any serious response was made, and this allowed the cavalry to put itself back together, slip out to the east to make contact with the survivors of the Little Rock garrison, and retreat down river.
It wasn’t until the next day that any real attacks developed. Even then the enemy seemed very cautious, perhaps because of the gunboats in the river. It was clear the Martians didn’t like ships and the big guns they carried. Any time the ships pulled within range, the tripods would give ground and try to find cover. The retreating troops huddled close
to the river whenever they could. Or maybe the enemy’s caution was because they had no reserve tripods to replace losses. Dolfen liked to think that was the reason.
Even so, the Martians had hurt them. The damn things could move so fast they would dart in, blast away at anything they could, and then fall back again before the ships or any of the artillery could find the range. Only a few dozen of the steam tanks had escaped Little Rock, and on the road they broke down at an alarming rate; there were just a handful left now. Infantry - and cavalry - had to do far too much of the fighting and the dying.
Worst of all, their expected support had vanished.
They’d been told that as they fell back down the river, they would run into the forces of General Funston’s 2nd Army which had been assigned to defend the south shore of the lower Arkansas. The surviving garrison could join up with them and make a stand somewhere. From what Dolfen had heard, there were supposed to be two infantry divisions stretched out along the south side of the river. That was a hopelessly inadequate force to guard a hundred miles of winding river, but it was still a lot better than nothing - and nothing was what they were finding. The 78th Infantry & 5th Texas Volunteers divisions simply were not there.
They found groups of Texas and Arkansas militia, poorly trained and lightly armed, but when asked where the army units had gone, they could only shrug their shoulders and say south. When they found out what was pursuing the Little Rock garrison, most of the militia had melted away. A few had joined in, but only a few.
So the retreat had to continue. There weren’t enough of them left, and no good positions to defend, so it was keep running - all the way to the Mississippi. They did get some help; once they were further down river additional gunboats arrived, and when the water was deep enough, their old friend, the monitor Amphitrite with its ten-inch guns.
There were also Tom Selfridge’s planes, and aircraft from other units as well. During the daylight hours they had planes overhead almost constantly; those gave them warning of approaching Martians and even killed a few of them, too. As a result, the retreat didn’t become a rout - not quite.
And now they were here, at the Mississippi. The river was teeming with ships, both military and civilian. Dolfen could see that some were drawn up along the shore and appeared to be loading troops and vehicles.
“So what now d’ya think, Captain?” He turned in his saddle to see Private Gosling alongside. The Goose had managed to stay alive and even provide a few modest comforts during the retreat. If Dolfen had been forced to command his squadron and look out for himself, he would have gone hungry and slept in the mud. With Gosling’s help, he’d done neither.
“No one’s told me. Looks like they are shifting what’s left of us to the east shore.” He pointed at the boats.
“It’d sure be nice to put that big stretch o’ water ‘tween us and them bastards, an’ that’s the Lord’s truth!”
“Amen.” Dolfen glanced over his shoulder, looking west, to make sure the Martians weren’t going to try and ruin things the way they almost did two years ago, but the horizon was empty. As he looked, he noticed one of his troopers riding past, carrying a strange object. It was a long pole, maybe twelve feet long, and on the end of it was… What the hell?!
“Trooper… Private, uh, King, what the devil have you got there? Is that a stovepipe rocket at the end of it?”
“Yes, sir!” grinned the trooper. “Can’t fire one of them blamed things from horseback! So I figure I can just ride up to one of them tripods and jam this thing up its… well somewhere it’ll hurt, sir!”
“That close and you’re like to blow yourself up!”
King’s smile faded and he shrugged. “Maybe so, sir, but no one can ‘spect to live long these days. If I can take one of those devils with me, it’ll be worth it.”
Dolfen realized that the man was right. Hell, he’d been training his men for months with the idea that they were all expendable if they could hurt the enemy. This wasn’t any more dangerous than using the dynamite bombs. Still… Lancers! Rocket lancers! God help us!
“Well, be careful how you use it, Private.”
“Will do, sir!” King gave him a wave which wasn’t quite a salute and moved on.
Dolfen watched him go and shook his head. He had a hell of a lot of brave men in his outfit. It broke his heart to see so many killed, but what else could they do? He sighed. So now what? Gosling’s question was a good one. Stay here? Ride a hundred weary miles back to Memphis and rebuild the unit again? He’d lost nearly fifty men and all but two of the armored cars were gone—destroyed or broken down and abandoned. He’d have to…
“Captain! Captain Dolfen!”
He jerked in surprise at the shout. He’d been almost dozing in the saddle. He looked and saw a courier riding up. Now what? “Yeah?” he growled.
“Orders from the Colonel, sir! We are to proceed to the river, where we will be loaded on ships to take us back to Memphis!”
“Well, I’ll be damned,” he said. Private Gosling was grinning.
“Beats the hell out of riding, sir!”
* * * * *
May, 1912, Near Ozark Island, Arkansas
Commander Drew Harding eased his ship out of the mouth of the Arkansas River into the much broader waters of the Mississippi and breathed a long sigh of relief. They had made it! The retreat from Little Rock had been hell, sheer hell. The army garrison had been a disorganized shambles and so it had been left to the navy to cover the retreat. Mercifully—and inexplicably—the Martians had left them alone for a few precious hours, allowing the boats and barges to get loaded and the armed vessels to replenish their magazines. But from that point afterward, the Martians had come again and again to try and finish the job.
Santa Fe, Olmstead, and the other gunboats had dashed back and forth, like sheepdogs protecting their flock from a pack of wolves. They hadn’t saved all of the sheep, but by God, they’d done for some of the wolves! There wasn’t any doubt this time that Santa Fe had gotten some of the bastards. Drew could still see in his mind the one that had taken two eight-inch shells square in the head. It had been torn to pieces in a glorious explosion.
It had gone on nearly without a pause for days as the footsloggers made their slow and agonizing way down the river. Drew had barely managed a few hours of sleep a day with the attacks coming frequently and Mackenzie useless. He’d pressed young Alby Hinsworth into service as his first officer, and the boy—he was all of five years younger than him - had done an outstanding job.
Speak of the devil, here he was. Hinsworth appeared on the bridge and saluted. “Pardon me, sir, but the radio is working again. Finally got the new antenna rigged.”
“Good, good. Signal Amphitrite and let them know.”
“Aye aye, sir.” The lad disappeared again.
The only saving grace during the retreat was when Amphitrite joined them. Captain Jorgensen, the monitor’s commander, was the senior by a dozen years, and Drew gladly turned command over to him. With only his own ship to be worried about, the load was merely crushing instead of impossible. Mile by mile they had fought their way along, and now they were here.
So now what? He was so tired he could barely frame the question, let along produce any answers. Well, he could just wait until someone told him…
“Signal from Amphitrite, sir!” said Hinsworth, bustling back.
“Sweet Jesus, now what?”
“We are to head to Memphis for repairs and await orders, sir!”
Drew clutched the railing, closed his eyes, and let out his breath. “Thank God. Mr. Hinsworth, you have the con. Carry out our orders, I’m… I’m going to my bunk for a while.”
“Aye, aye, sir!”
Chapter Ten
May, 1912, St. Louis, Missouri
It was still dark when Colonel Drum woke him up. The XV Corps staff had put Wood in a ridiculously luxurious suite in the Hotel Jefferson. Despite the clean sheets and tidy appearance, the place had obviously been recently occupi
ed and probably by General Foltz. He’d been tempted to insist that there was no need to displace the corps commander, but he supposed if they hadn’t done that for him, they would have felt compelled to do it for Pershing. Protocol; there was no getting away from it, even on the edge of a battle.
“Sorry to wake you, sir,” said Drum, “but it’s started.”
“Where?” asked Wood sitting up and swinging his legs out of bed.
“They are getting reports from all along the outer western perimeter, sir. No major attacks yet, it doesn’t seem.” Drum handed him a cup of coffee and Wood slurped at it appreciatively.
“Probing us. Their standard tactic. But just on the landward side? Nothing along the rivers?”
“No, sir. At least not yet.”
“Good.” Not a crisis then. He could at least take time to shave and dress properly. “Tell them I’ll be up directly.”
“Yes, sir.” Drum withdrew and Wood levered himself up and into the bathroom. It was so odd, he thought, as he lathered his face; a critical, perhaps decisive, battle would soon be fought and here he was in a fine hotel, calmly shaving! It didn’t seem right, somehow. It was like something out of an earlier age. Wellington at the ball in Brussels on the eve of Waterloo. Something like that.
He shaved, took care of other necessities, and carefully put on his uniform. The elevator - a bloody elevator! - took him up to the command center. He paused in the lobby and peered out a window. There were flashes of artillery in the distance and he thought he could hear a low rumble.
He entered the penthouse and saw that everyone else had preceded him. Pershing and Foltz and all their staffs were clustered around the big sand table and the maps hung on the walls. Unlike his own situation room back in Washington, all the communications people were one floor down and messages had to be sent back and forth by runners. All eyes turned to him as he came through the doors.
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