Battle in the Ashes

by William W. Johnstone

  The tom-toms ceased their drumming and Hanks and his now nearly exhausted “witch doctors” vanished from the long lenses of the SWAP members.

  “What the hell’s Ben Raines up to now?” Masters questioned. The cuts on his face from the stone splinters had been dabbed with iodine and he looked like he was suffering from some horrible pox. “Where’d all them niggers and Injuns go to? What the hell’s goin’ on out yonder? What’s all them wimmin back yonder squallin’ about?”

  “’Bout sixty-seventy kids is gone,” he was informed. “The Rebels done been in the town and snatched ’em. They cut a bunch of throats and they used silenced guns to kill more of ourn, too. Nobody saw nothin’. Bastards move like ghosts, they do.”

  “Raines is tellin’ us to send out the women and kids,” a radio operator said. “Says he don’t want to see them hurt.”

  Masters felt something cold and slimy roll around in his guts. He’d spent years boasting about how he and his people would kick the crap out of the Rebels should they ever show up. Now they were here and Masters had lost about fifty people to sniper bullets, the Rebels had arrogantly slipped into his town and kidnapped dozens of kids, cut throats, and killed his people without being seen, and his SWAP forces had not been able to fire an effective round against the Rebels.

  “Send out the women and kids, John,” a doctor urged him. “We can then make our stand, if that’s what you want to do.”

  “What do you mean, if?”

  “You want to die for nothing?” the doctor questioned.

  “What do you mean, nothin’? Our cause ain’t nothin’. We got a free white society. We got what we always wanted. This is what we worked for, even before the Great War.”

  “And when we die, we will have a cold lonely grave,” the doctor said. “I don’t take much comfort in that. General Raines let some of his troops have a little fun at our expense. That’s how confident he is. I’m taking my wife and family and leaving under a white flag. The rest of you can stay here and die. For your cause.” He walked away.

  Masters leaned against the wall of a building. He hated Ben Raines almost as much as he did niggers. But the idea of dead kids and women didn’t appeal to him. “Send out the women and kids,” he ordered. “And everybody else that’s turned chickenshit. Me . . . I’m stayin’.”

  “They’re showing a white flag,” Ben said, looking through long lenses. “Corrie, ask Buddy if he’s receiving the same signal.”

  “That’s ten-four, General. Women and children and a few men in the bunch.”

  There were six highways leading into the town. The Rebels had blocked them all. 60 mm mortars had been set up and the crews were standing by, ready to drop the rockets down the tubes.

  “Tell those surrendering to get their vehicles and drive out of here,” Ben said. “Jesus, we can’t handle all those people. Tell them to head down to Interstate 40 and then cut west. I don’t ever want to see any of them again. There must be four or five thousand of them. My God, they could overwhelm us by sheer numbers.”

  “Hell of a way to fight a war,” Jersey muttered.

  SIX

  The old cars and trucks smoked and rattled and rolled on, the occupants staring silently through hate-filled eyes at the Rebels as they drove past.

  “We’ll probably have to fight those kids someday,” Buddy radioed to his father.

  “I’m certain of that,” Ben replied, watching as a boy of about ten gave him the middle finger from the back seat of a car. Ben resisted an impulse to return the bird.

  “The children sure have lovely manners, don’t they?” Jersey remarked.

  “Yes. Remarkably well-behaved,” Ben replied drily. “They have certainly been steeped in the social graces.”

  “What will happen to them, I wonder?” Beth asked.

  “Oh, they’ll drive until they find some deserted and isolated little town,” Ben replied. “Then they’ll set up there and once more start teaching and preaching hate against people not of their color or faith or personal opinion or whatever. Years back, those of us with any sense knew that laws and legislation alone could never erase hatred and prejudice and bigotry . . . anymore than governments could effectively legislate morality. It was going to take education and a hundred percent effort on all sides of the color line.”

  “But none of us had to go to school to be able to get along with others,” Corrie said.

  “True,” Ben said. “So maybe there is hope for the human race after all. But not for that bunch holed up in the town. Corrie, tell them to surrender. They’ll have one chance and one chance only.”

  Corrie did and listened for the reply. She smiled sadly. “They said for you to go to hell, sir.”

  “Start dropping in mortars,” Ben ordered.

  “Here we go,” Jersey said.

  Mortar teams had ringed the town from about 2,500 yards out, and their crews started dropping in M734 preset rounds of HE. Some exploded on contact with earth. Others detonated near the surface, and still others were used as proximity rounds, killing anything within a predetermined range.

  Still other mortar crews dropped in willie peter, and the white phosphorus rounds soon had flames leaping into the dry air and thick smoke billowing up from the burning town.

  Those inside the town had the Rebels outnumbered, but anytime a fighting force bunkers themselves in tight with no escape routes, the outcome of the battle is nearly always predictable.

  John Masters was only minutes away from learning a hard lesson about the fighting savagery of Ben Raines and the Rebels.

  There were those who tried to run from the flames. Snipers cut them down. Confusion was the order of the day as the mortar rounds never stopped coming in. Each mortar crew was throwing six to twelve rounds a minute at the town, and it was a constant roar of deadly booming thunder. Old burning buildings were collapsing all around the SWAP defenders and flying rubble was causing as many casualties as anything else. Men were being buried alive under tons of brick and mortar. The Rebels had come with plenty of supply trucks following them, and planes were ready to fly in more rounds if needed.

  “We gotta surrender, John!” a weeping man screamed at Masters. “We’re all gonna die in here if we don’t.”

  “Hell, no!” Masters shouted. His face and head were dripping blood from minor wounds caused by flying debris, he had lost his beret and his rifle, and was armed only with a .357 revolver, which was about as effective as a club since the Rebels were still a good mile and a quarter away, most of them lounging on the ground, smoking or reading or gossiping or catnapping.

  “John, goddamnit, look around you!” his friend shouted. “The damn town is bein’ destroyed around us whilst we talk. Can’t you see what them Rebs is doin’? They’re walkin’ mortar rounds in, John, startin’ at the outskirts and workin’ in. They’re pushin’ us back to the center of the town. Once they have us all within a two or three block area, they’ll just pour it on and kill us down to the last man.”

  Masters looked at the pistol in his hand and threw it to the rubble-strewn street. “Git on the horn and tell Ben Raines we give up. Go on, do it.” When his friend had raced away, Masters turned and looked toward the south. “Goddamn you, Ben Raines. I hate you!”

  “You ain’t never gonna make me take orders from no nigger, Ben Raines!” Masters declared, standing in front of Ben, who was sitting in a camp chair, drinking a cup of coffee. “I ain’t never took no orders from a coon and I ain’t about to start now. Not you, not God, not nobody can make me do that.”

  A Rebel psychiatrist was seated a few feet away, observing and listening to Masters. As for Ben, he hadn’t as yet made up his mind exactly what to do with the prisoners, about fifteen hundred of them, but he was working that out in his mind.

  “You might as well go on and shoot me now, Raines,” Masters stood his ground. “’Cause there ain’t nothin’ gonna convince me that niggers is good for anything other than bein’ a white man’s slave. And what are you doin’ with a
ll them goddamn witch doctors, anyways?”

  All the Rebels standing around laughed at that.

  “Y’all quit laughin’ at me!” Masters hollered. “Stop it, now, you hear?”

  That just got the Rebels laughing all that much harder and louder.

  “What are we going to do with all these people, father?” Buddy asked.

  “Put them on trucks, send them to California, put them on a couple of those ships we have out there, and dock them at San Carlos, Baja, Mexico.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “You have a better idea?”

  “Unfortunately, no.”

  “You ain’t sendin’ me down to live with no damn bunch of lazy-assed, greasy beaners!” Masters hollered.

  “On second thought,” Buddy said, “I approve of your plan. Wholeheartedly.”

  “Thank you. I think those warm, friendly, and very pleasant people down in the Baja will know exactly what to do with Mister Masters and his ilk.”

  “I think General Payon is going to get a big laugh out of this,” Jersey said.

  “I hate Mexican food,” a SWAP member said. “Makes me fart.”

  “We have lost a stronghold in North Texas,” Jesus Hoffman was informed. “Raines and his Rebels wiped out John Masters and his group. It is unconfirmed, but reports are he killed them to the last man.”

  The Rebels had sent out that report.

  Field Marshal Hoffman sighed and shook his head. This campaign was not going well at all. “What is General Brodermann’s location?”

  “Just south of San Antonio. But the Rebels have put the city to the torch. They have destroyed it. General Brodermann reports that there is little left.”

  “Order him to halt there.” Hoffman was thoughtful for a few moments, staring out the window of his trailer. He wanted North America, but he wanted it whole, not the charred useless remains of it. The U.S. had factories he could reopen; but not if Ben Raines kept putting them to the torch.

  Hoffman thought he knew Ben Raines’ long-range plans, and they distressed him. Ben Raines was looking far to the future; planning for decades after his own death. The man was not looking for immediate personal creature comforts and glory, he was thinking of his grandchildren and his grandchildren’s grandchildren. Ben Raines’ plan was to tear it all down and rebuild from scratch, politically, judicially, and economically.

  He must be stopped.

  “What Masters said back there, General,” Beth asked. “Before we shipped them out. Was any of that true?”

  Ben and Buddy’s columns were heading south, to take up positions just north of San Antonio. Ben had received word that Hoffman’s columns had stopped and were bivouacked just south of San Antonio, about forty miles apart.

  “To a degree, yes,” Ben replied. “But people like Masters always take things out of context. The government did put in place a number of programs aimed at helping minorities, and some of them were blatantly unfair. Anytime the government forces private industry to hire someone or promote someone based on color instead of ability, that’s wrong . . . on the one hand. On the other hand, many companies would not have hired or promoted minorities had the government not put those laws in place. It was a Catch 22 situation.

  “But Masters was right when he said that too many times minorities cried racism when none existed, or was intended. And he was right when he said that the welfare system was abused. It was. By too many people, of all colors. And he was right, again, to a degree, in saying that the government—when we had a government—pandered to minorities and crapped on the white middle class. Just before the Great War knocked everything down, race relations were at their lowest point in three decades. The much-put-upon middle class had grown weary to the point of armed rebellion by seeing certain types of minorities burn and loot and riot every time some decision or event went against their beliefs. And he was right in saying that you didn’t see white Americans taking to the streets and looting and burning and acting like crazy people when a black person shot a white person. People like Masters are uncomfortably correct on a lot of points, as far as they choose to take the issue.

  “But, Beth, up until the 1960s, many blacks, and other minorities, in certain parts of the country, weren’t even allowed to vote. They had to pay taxes, serve in the armed forces, and obey the laws, but they couldn’t vote, go to a school of their choice, sit in the front of public transportation, eat in a public restaurant, stay in a white hotel or motel, or walk in certain parts of town. They were beaten, lynched, tarred and feathered, castrated, raped, falsely imprisoned, kept from holding public office, and forced to suffer all sorts of other indignities. Most received substandard education, using hand-me-down textbooks and were taught in dilapidated, poorly maintained buildings.”

  Ben looked out the window at the seemingly deserted countryside. “Takes a long time for people to forget. It doesn’t excuse lawless behavior or preferential treatment, but I don’t blame them for not forgetting.”

  “But on the other hand . . .” Corrie said with a smile, wanting Ben to warm further to the subject.

  Ben laughed. “What do you want me to say, Corrie? That we all have a streak of bigotry or racism in us? Well, we all do. Anyone who says they don’t is a damn liar. What we have to do—black, white, yellow, red, tan—is work to overcome that. The white people can’t be expected to work at one hundred percent in overcoming it, and allow the blacks to work at fifty percent. It must be a joint effort, pulling in double harness all the time. But it wasn’t, it isn’t now, and it never will be. Cultures will always clash. But what we can do—the Rebels—is attempt to teach people to clash gently, not violently. To talk it out instead of duking it out. Or shooting it out. To convince people to stop pointing fingers and saying ‘you owe me something for what your ancestors did to mine.’ That’s bullshit. What’s past is past. Let’s bury it, stand side by side, and look toward the future.” Ben smiled. “Just please turn down that goddamn boombox!”

  The Rebels headed south, with a lot of laughter coming from Ben’s command vehicle.

  The battalion commanders met at Ben’s CP north of San Antonio. Payon, the Russian, Striganov, Rebet, Danjou, Ned Hawkins of the New Texas Rangers, and O’Shea, of the Free Irish.

  They commanded some 6,000 men and women. Against some 21,000 elite SS troops under the command of General Brodermann.

  After greeting everyone, coffee was poured and the commanders sat down, while Ben moved to a large wall map of Texas. “Here is the latest from Intell, and it’s easy to see what Brodermann has in mind. Green denotes where his main forces are located, ready to thrust north. Highways 83, 35, and 37. Orange denotes his smaller units—trained and experienced guerrilla forces. They are poised on Highways 181, 123, 80, and 183. Well, Brodermann just made his first fatal mistake. He split his forces to meet us at our own game. He fails to realize that we’ve been playing this game for years. He’s a comparative newcomer at it. But it won’t take him long to learn. He’s an experienced commander. Now then, his men are still in bivouac. So we’re going to get in place and hit him hard at first light day after tomorrow. Buddy is in place over here, on Highway 90, in hiding and ready to strike from the east the instant we hit from the north. Georgi, I want you and Payon to launch full battalions in what will appear to be a major assault at the westernmost column along Highway 83 at 0535. At the same time, the rest of us will hit the smaller units over here, from the north, while Buddy’s people come at them from the east.

  “The instant the attack begins, preset charges will be blown, knocking out the bridges across the Nueces, the Leona, and the Frio, west of Brodermann’s GP, which is here, on 35. Bridges will be blown on the San Antonio and the Atasosa. Brodermann’s two centrally located columns will be cut off, unable to head straight east or west. They’ll have to detour far south and then cut across. By that time, our work will be done and we’ll be gone.” Ben sighed and then smiled faintly. “Hopefully. If we do this right, we will have eliminated a very elite
part of Hoffman’s army and demoralized the hell out of the rest of it. There is no point in taking prisoners.” That was said very flatly and it left no doubt in any commander’s mind. “There will be no circling around or prolonging this affair. We hit them hard, gather up as much equipment as we can in a very short time, and get the hell out of there. If the enemy wants to pursue us, that’s going to be their funeral. I don’t think they will. But if we’re successful, Brodermann just might be so angry he’ll throw caution to the wind and come chasing us.” He smiled. “I hope he does.”

  Beth and Cooper passed out briefing kits to the commanders and they sat for a time, studying them. Jersey sat in a chair in a far corner of the room, her M-16 across her knees. She was expressionless. Jersey made even hardened commanders nervous.

  Striganov finally turned his head and stared at Jersey. “You don’t trust us, girl?” he rumbled.

  “When it comes to the General’s life, I don’t trust anybody,” Jersey said.

  Payon laughed at the expression on the Russian’s face. “With a battalion like her, we could win the war in a week, hey, Georgi?”

  “Less than that,” Georgi replied.

  Payon had noticed that Ben’s team always positioned themselves at separate locations around any room he was in, offering him the maximum of protection. Outside any building Ben was in, there was always at least one full squad of heavily armed Rebels, and a hundred yards away, ringing them, another squad or two.

  “You ready, my friend?” Georgi asked the Mexican.

  “Yes. It is going to be payback time for my people.”

  “You want to lead the assault?”

  “I would be honored.”

  “So it shall be.”

  The Russian and the Mexican left the room.