Breakthroughs gw-3

by Harry Turtledove

  XVIII

  Chester Martin was no longer in command of B Company, 91st Regiment, and did his best to feel resigned about it. Out of some replacement depot had come Second Lieutenant Joshua Childress, who might possibly have been nineteen years old, but might well not have, too.

  “We hit the Rebels one more good lick tomorrow morning,” he declared to the weary veterans in the hastily dug trench north of Stafford, Virginia. “That will take us all the way down to the Rappahannock. Won’t it be bully?” His voice broke with excitement at the prospect.

  Corporal Bob Reinholdt chuckled softly. “Somebody better oil the lieutenant, Sarge,” he whispered to Martin. “He squeaks.”

  “Yeah,” Martin whispered back. “We’ve got to keep an eye on him. He’ll get some good men killed if we don’t.”

  “Ain’t that the sad and sorry truth?” Reinholdt said with a nod. If he still resented Chester for taking over his section-and for coldcocking him-he didn’t show it. Too much water, to say nothing of blood, had gone under the bridge since.

  “We must finish the punishment we have given the Confederate States since 1914,” Childress was saying. “We are all heroes in this fight, and we must not fear martyrdom in our country’s cause.”

  Reinholdt and Martin both rolled their eyes. This couldn’t be anything but Childress’ first combat duty. Firing had been light in the couple of days since he’d come down to the front. People who’d served longer were apt to be less enthusiastic about the prospect of martyrdom when the war was visibly won. People who, like Martin, had won Purple Hearts were apt to be least enthusiastic of all.

  “Be bold,” Childress said. “Be resolute. Be fearless. Now when the enemy totters is the time to strike the fiercest blows.”

  “Christ,” Reinholdt muttered. “Wish you was still in charge of us, Sarge. That stupid prick is going to have us charging machine-gun nests with our bare hands.” He got out a tobacco pouch and began to roll a cigarette. “Well, one thing-he ain’t likely to last long. Then it’s your turn again.”

  “Yeah,” Martin said. “If he doesn’t get me shot, too. Thank God for barrels, is all I can say. Without ’em, most of us’d be dead about five times over.”

  “God knows that’s true.” Reinholdt’s big head bobbed up and down. “If I stay in the Army after the Rebs quit, I figure I’m going to try and get into barrels myself. That way, I’ll have some iron between me and the fuckers we’re fighting.”

  Martin considered. “Only trouble I can see with that is, the other guys go after barrels with everything they’ve got. You’ll get in the way of a lot more cannon shells than you would if you stayed out in the open.”

  “Well, yeah,” Reinholdt allowed. “The thing of it is, though, you get in the way of even one shell when you’re out in the open and it ain’t what you call your lucky day.” He stuck the handmade cigarette in his mouth and brought it to life with a lighter made from a Springfield cartridge case.

  In the background, Lieutenant Childress droned on and on. Some of the men in B Company-replacements, mostly-hung on every word he said. The soldiers who’d been in the trenches for a while either took no notice of him or quietly made fun of him the way Martin and Reinholdt did. They didn’t need him to tell them how to fight; had he been willing to listen instead of banging his gums, he might have learned a good deal.

  The Army of Northern Virginia had taken a hell of a beating, but it hadn’t quit. The Rebs interrupted Childress’ disquisition with a mortar barrage. Martin hated mortars; they dropped bombs right down into the trenches, which regular artillery had a lot more trouble doing. He was damned if he could figure out where the valor lay in cowering and hoping a spinning fragment wouldn’t turn him from a man into an anatomy lesson.

  When the barrage eased, Childress picked up where he’d left off without seeming to miss a word. As Chester Martin got to his feet and tried to brush damp earth from the front of his uniform, he hoped that meant the new company commander had some guts. The other choice was that Childress was so full of himself, he hardly noticed what went on around him. Remembering how he’d been at nineteen or so, Martin knew that was possible.

  U.S. artillery didn’t let the Confederates mortar the forward trenches without paying them back. The USA had more guns and bigger guns than the CSA did; the bombardment went on long into the night. That puzzled Martin, who’d grown used to sharp, short barrages. In the middle of the din, Lieutenant Childress exulted: “See how we thrash the stubborn foe!”

  “He makes more noise’n the guns do,” Bob Reinholdt said disgustedly.

  That gave Martin the answer, or he thought it did. He snapped his fingers. “Bet they’re making a racket to keep the Rebs from hearing the barrels coming forward.”

  “Huh,” Reinholdt said, a noise that could have meant anything. After a bit, he went on, “Maybe I never should have given you no trouble, Sarge. Sure as hell, you’re smarter’n I am. That’s got to be it.”

  “Nothing’s got to be anything.” Martin spoke with the deep conviction of a man who had seen almost everything. “It’s a pretty fair bet, though.”

  “Yeah.” It was too dark for Martin to watch Reinholdt nod, but the pause before the corporal spoke again was about right. “Last time, they kept the machine guns banging all night long. You don’t want to do the same thing twice in a row, or the Rebs’ll get wise to you.”

  “I hadn’t thought of it that way, but you’re right.” Martin swatted at a mosquito. He didn’t think he got it. Scratching, he continued, “Maybe I’m the dummy.” If Reinholdt finally was getting used to having him in charge, he wanted to help that along as much as he could. Ignoring occasional shells from overmatched Confederate batteries trying to reply to the U.S. barrage, he rolled himself in his blanket and went to sleep.

  To Lieutenant Childress’ credit, he went through the trenches an hour before the attack was set to begin, making sure everybody in the company was awake and alert. When he recognized Martin in the predawn gloom, he said, “Remember, Sergeant, we are to form behind the barrels and follow them toward the enemy’s position.”

  “Yes, sir.” Martin hid a smile. “I’ve done this before, sir.” The last big attack, he’d done it as a company commander. He let out a silent sigh.

  Lieutenant Childress might as well not have heard him. “We have to stay close to the barrels, to take full advantage of what they can do for us.” He could have been reciting something he’d learned by rote. He didn’t understand what it meant, not really, but at least he had it right.

  As he was speaking, U.S. artillery came to life again, making the Confederates stay under cover in the key minutes just before the attack went in. Through the booming of the guns and of their shells, Martin caught the sound he was listening for: the rumble of truck engines and the rattle and clank of iron tracks. Sure enough, the barrels were moving up to their jumping-off places.

  Darkness slowly yielded to morning twilight. Martin got a glimpse of a couple of barrels not far away, the big boxy steel shapes putting him in mind of prehistoric monsters looming out of the mist. But these monsters were friendly to him and his. Only the Confederates would find them horrid.

  And then the note of the engines grew harsher, louder. The barrels waddled forward at their best speed, somewhere between a fast walk and a slow trot, toward the men of the Army of Northern Virginia. Lieutenant Childress’ almost beardless cheeks puffed out like a chipmunk’s as he blew and blew the whistle that ordered his company forward. He was first out of the trench himself: he would do what he could by personal example.

  “Come on, you lazy bastards!” Chester Martin shouted. “If the Rebs shoot you, your family picks up a nice check from Uncle Sam. So you’ve got nothing to worry about, right?” He suspected that wouldn’t hold up if anybody took a long, logical look at it. But so what? It got the men moving, which was what he’d had in mind.

  Machine guns winked balefully from the Confederate positions ahead. No, the Army of Northern Virginia hadn’
t quit, however much Martin wished it would. U.S. machine gunners did their best to make their C.S. counterparts keep their heads down. The barrels began firing on the Confederate machine-gun nests, too. They also began smashing down the wire in front of the Confederate trenches, though those belts weren’t nearly so thick as some Martin had seen.

  “Forward!” Lieutenant Childress shouted. “Stay close to the barrels!” He trotted on, doing his best to make sure he was applying what he’d learned in school.

  It did him no good. One thing his training hadn’t taught him was how to keep from catching three or four machine-gun bullets with his chest. He let out a brief, bubbling wail and crumpled. Martin was only a few feet behind the company commander. He threw himself flat and crawled up to him. Childress’ eyes were wide and staring. Blood poured from his wounds and from his mouth and nose. He was still twitching a little and still trying to breathe, but he was a dead man.

  That meant B Company belonged to Martin again. He scrambled to his feet. “Come on!” he shouted again. “We can take ’em! Let ’em try and stop us, hard as they want. We can still take ’em.”

  Talk like that on the Roanoke front in 1915 would have got him laughed at. Taking such talk seriously back then would have got him-and whoever listened to him-killed. Now…Now he was right. The Army of Northern Virginia lacked the men and the guns and, most of all, the barrels to halt the vengeful forces of the United States. Each barrel the CSA did get into the fight had to fight off two or three or four U.S. machines.

  Also, at last, even the white Confederate soldiers seemed to have despaired of the fight. Instead of battling in the trenches with bayonet and sharpened spade, more and more of them threw down their rifles and threw up their hands and went into captivity pleased with themselves for having outlasted the war. Here and there, in the trenches and behind them, diehards still fought till they were killed in place, but the tide of war flowed past them and over them and washed them away.

  Now, finally, everything was going as the generals and politicians had predicted it would go back in 1914. Martin passed through the little town of Stafford-a few homes and shops clustered around a brick courthouse-hardly noticing it till it was behind him. U.S. artillery had reduced most of the buildings to rubble. The Confederates no longer defended every hamlet as if it were land on which Jesus had walked.

  “Come on!” he shouted to the men who advanced with him. “Eight miles to the Rappahannock! If we push these bastards, we’ll be there by sundown.” And if, on the Roanoke front in 1915, he’d heard himself say anything like that, he’d have known he was either shellshocked or just plain crazy.

  But only a few Rebs contested the way south of Stafford. Save for those rear guards, most of the Confederates seemed intent on getting to the southern bank of the river, perhaps to make a stand there, perhaps simply to escape. A couple of miles north of the Rappahannock, shells from the far side of the river began landing uncomfortably close to Martin and his men.

  Then the shells stopped falling. The rifle and machine-gun fire from the few men in butternut still north of the Rappahannock died away. A Confederate soldier-an officer-came out from behind a ruined building. He was carrying a white flag. “Hold your fire!” Chester Martin shouted to his men. The hair at the back of his neck and on his arms tried to stand on end.

  “It’s over,” the Confederate officer shouted. “It’s done. You sons of bitches licked us.” Standing there defeated before the soldiers of the United States, he burst into tears.

  Jake Featherston had the surviving guns of his battery in the best position he’d found for them since the war began. Back of Fredericksburg, Virginia, up in Marye’s Heights, a stone wall protected a sunken road. If the Yankees swung down along the curve of the Rappahannock and tried to force a crossing at Fredericksburg, he could look down on them and slaughter them for as long as his ammunition held out. They would be able to hit him only by luck-by luck or by aeroplane. He kept a wary eye turned toward the sky.

  At the moment, he had the guns turned toward the north rather than the east, though-the U.S. soldiers seemed to be heading straight for Falmouth instead of Fredericksburg. That was what he gathered from the beaten men in butternut streaming past, anyhow. He’d given up shooting at Confederate soldiers fleeing the enemy. He couldn’t kill them all. He couldn’t even make them stop their retreat. And the more rounds he wasted on them, the fewer he’d be able to shoot at the damnyankees.

  He climbed up on top of the stone wall and peered north through field glasses. Sure as hell, here came the U.S. soldiers, trailing the barrels that smashed flat or blasted out of existence any strongpoints in their path. U.S. fighting scouts swooped low over the front, further harrying the men of the Army of Northern Virginia.

  “Come on, boys,” Jake said. “They’re inside seven thousand yards. Let’s remind ’em they have to pay for their tickets to get in. God damn me to hell and fry me for bacon if anybody else is going to do the job. Infantrymen? Christ on His cross, all the good infantry we used to have’s been dead the last two years.”

  The four guns that remained of his battery of the First Richmond Howitzers desperately needed new barrels. They’d sent too many rounds through these; the rifling grooves were worn away to next to nothing. Featherston knew the guns weren’t going to get what they needed. Fat cats in Richmond get what they need, he thought. All I’m doing is defending my country. Does that count? Not likely. What do fellows like me get? Hind tit, that’s what.

  When the guns began to roar, though, he whooped to see the shells falling among the leading damnyankees. He’d spent the whole war doing his best to hurt them. Even if the guns weren’t so accurate as they should have been, he could still do that. He could still enjoy it, too.

  An improbably young lieutenant in an improbably clean uniform came up to him and demanded, “Who commands this battery, Sergeant?”

  Jake drew himself up with touchy pride, and took pleasure in noting that he was a couple of inches taller than this baby officer. “I do,” he growled, “sir.”

  “Oh.” The lieutenant looked as if he were tasting milk that had gone sour. “Very well, Sergeant. I am to inform you that, as of five o’clock P.M., which is to say, about an hour from now, an armistice will go into effect along our entire fighting front with the United States.”

  Jake had been braced for the news, or thought he had, for the past couple of weeks. Getting it was like a boot in the belly just the same. “We’ve lost, then,” he said slowly. “We’re giving up.”

  “We’re whipped,” the officer said. Featherston looked at the men who served the guns. Perhaps for the first time, he let himself see how worn they were. Their heads bobbed agreement with the shavetail’s words-they were whipped. The lieutenant went on, “We’ve done everything we could do. It wasn’t enough.”

  “What the hell did you do?” Jake asked. The lieutenant stared at him, disbelieving his ears-how could an enlisted man presume to question him? Jake shook his own head. Strangling the pipsqueak would be fun, but what was the use? The CSA grew his sort in carload lots. Ask a question with an answer worth knowing, then: “What are we supposed to do with the guns after five o’clock?”

  “Leave them,” the young lieutenant said, as if they were unimportant. They were-to him. He went on, “The Yankees will take them as spoils of war, I reckon.” That didn’t seem important to him, either. Off he went, to give the word to the next battery he found.

  “Spoils of war?” Featherston muttered. “Hell they will.” He looked at his watch. “We got most of an hour, boys, till the war’s over. Let’s make those shitheels wish it never got started.”

  Plainly, his soldiers would just as soon have let the fighting peter out. He didn’t shame them into keeping on-he frightened them into it. That he could still frighten them with everything they’d known crashing into ruin around them said a lot about the sort of man he was.

  At five o’clock, he himself pulled the lanyard to his field gun one last time. Then he
undid the breech block, carried it over to Hazel Run-a couple of hundred yards-and threw it in the water. He did the same with the breech blocks from all the other guns. “Now the damnyankees are welcome to ’em,” he said. “Fat lot of good they’ll get from ’em, though.”

  His words seemed to echo and reecho. As the armistice took hold, silence flowed over the countryside. It seemed unnatural, like machine-gun fire on a Sunday afternoon in the middle of Richmond. When the gun crew talked, they talked too loud. For one thing, they were used to shouting over the roar of the three-inchers. For another, they were all a little deaf. Jake suspected he was more than a little deaf. He’d been at the guns longer than any of his men.

  Before the sun set, Major Clarence Potter made his way to the battery. Featherston nodded to him as to an old friend; in the Army, Potter was about as close to an old friend as he had. The intelligence officer looked at the field guns, then at Jake. “You’re not going to let them have anything they can use, eh?” he said.

  Jake spent some little while describing in great detail the uses the damnyankees could make of his guns. Major Potter listened, appreciating his imagination. Finally, Featherston said, “Goddammit, sir, sure as hell we’re going to fight those bastards another round one of these days before too long. Why give ’em anything they can take advantage of?”

  “Oh, you get no arguments from me, Sergeant,” Potter said. “I wish more men were busy wrecking more weapons we’ll have to turn over to the USA.” He wore a flask on his hip. He took it in hand, yanked the cork, swigged, and passed it to Featherston. “Here’s to the two of us. We were right when the people over us were wrong, and much good it did us.”

  The whiskey burned its way down to Jake’s belly. He wanted to gulp the flask dry, but made himself stop after one long pull and hand it back to Major Potter. “Thank you, sir,” he said, for once sincere in showing an officer gratitude. Then he asked the question undoubtedly echoing throughout the beaten Army of Northern Virginia, throughout the beaten Confederate States: “What the devil happens next? We never lost a war before.”