Flaming pieces of aircraft flew across the road and into the fields on both sides. When the thunder and debris from the explosion settled, Cody Joe stood up and brushed himself off. With a sad smile and a salute to the burning remains of the ’51, he picked up his weapon and looked at the two men on the ground next to the Jeep.
“Never know when you might need a Thompson,” he said as he climbed in, started it up, and headed for his buddy Travis.
CHAPTER 22
After being mauled for the second time by Cody and his airplane, the colonel was blind with fury. The bodies of his soldiers were strewn across the roadway, hanging in and out of broken and burning vehicles. The wounded cried out and shouts for medics echoed up and down the convoy. Rockford swung around, shouting to his subordinates. “Reynolds, Hawkins! Get your men back in the trucks, now!”
“But the wounded, sir,” said the younger officer.
“Leave the a couple of the medics with them. Move out!”
Rockford marched down the line himself, whipping his soldiers back into the remaining vehicles. Moments later they headed out, leaving the wounded and dead where they lay.
Travis watched from his hiding place as the reorganized convoy came to a halt at the entrance of his property. He could see the two officers in the lead Jeep. Travis had watched from the window as the taller of the two bellowed orders to his soldiers. He heard one of them call him colonel—finally, his enemy had a face. He felt his fingers clench so tightly that his nails bit into his palms.
Reynolds and the colonel were familiar with the layout and the grounds. The plan was simple—move the convoy up the drive and deploy the men into the woods prior to reaching the clearing in front of the house, then surround the place, and burn them out.
Rockford was no fool, however, and he knew he was dealing with professionals. He also knew from experience that the first people into the fray were often the first casualties, so he sent the trucks and his men in ahead. He followed in his Jeep with Reynolds and the driver. The first truck had barely entered the road when it hit the almost invisible monofilament line, pulling the pins from the grenades tied to the base of the two large trees. The explosion was deafening; both trees snapped in half at the base, falling across the road and the truck. Shrapnel from the grenades blew the windows out of the cab and shredded the canvas covering on the back of the truck, killing the front passengers and wounding several of the soldiers in the rear of the vehicle. The tires of the truck were cut to shreds, rendering it useless and further blocking the passageway.
Travis smiled as the explosion and pandemonium sent the officers into a rage. The road was completely blocked; the men would have to go in on foot.
Reynolds ordered everyone out and formed up in front of the ruined truck. After the first booby trap, no one was overly anxious to walk down the road, so the colonel ordered his men into the woods on both sides of the dirt track. They would work their way through to the clearing, then attack on signal, the same way they had the first time. Almost two hundred men moved into the forest, headed for the fifteen men in and around the homestead.
The odds weren’t good, but the deadly grenade ambush lay waiting in over thirty of the trees in front of them.
As the men moved forward, Travis melted silently into the woods and worked his way back to the compound. On returning, he had four men spread out and take positions approximately twenty-five feet into the woods on the clearing side. They held quietly until the majority of Rockford’s men were almost on them, then opened up with their guns. The object was not to kill that many soldiers, but rather to bunch the enemy in the killing zone set up by the grenades. The four men cut loose with a fusillade, causing the colonel and his soldiers to stop and take cover under the trees bearing the fatal fruit. Then the four men retreated to the safety of the buildings in the clearing.
When Travis saw his men fall back, he knew the trap was set. He uncased and armed the last two LAWS anti-tank guns, handing one to the preacher, who smiled grimly. “Let’s get some of them Philistines out of the woods, son,” said the big man. Travis nodded, lifted the first one, aimed into the thick of the forest on the left side of the road and fired. Next to him, the preacher drew the second onto his shoulder and fired into the right side. The blast of the rockets knocked several of the tenuously balanced rocks from their perches in the trees. When they fell, the pins were pulled from the grenades taped to the branches. As each grenade exploded, it kicked the rock from the tree branch closest to it and repeated the deadly performance, sending thousands of pieces of shrapnel toward the men beneath. It was like being caught in the maelstrom of an intense mortar barrage. There was nowhere safe to turn as bomb after bomb detonated and the men were torn to pieces. Wounded screamed and cried, and as the grenades burst around them, the survivors stumbled in blind panic toward the clearing.
It was Reynolds’ ferret-like quickness that saved him and the colonel. When the explosions began, they were about halfway through the woods, off to one side. Reynolds happened to glance up and see a grenade taped to the branch of the tree in front of him. “Run, Run!” he shouted. “They’ve wired grenades to the trees!” The blasts closed in as they dashed for the side of the clearing while cries of the wounded echoed in their ears.
Of the two hundred men in the forest around the homestead, over a hundred were killed or incapacitated in a matter of seconds. Another forty died as they ran from the woods into the clearing and the withering fire of the defenders. The remaining sixty or so rallied and began firing at the house and the outbuildings from the protection of the trees.
Rockford and Reynolds, along with a good portion of their best men, made it past the barrage, to the edge of the woods. They dug in across from the guest trailer, which sat about fifty yards from the main house.
Firing from the corner of his living room window, Travis saw the colonel separate his men and pour fire from two different directions into the small mobile home and the four men holding it. Within five minutes, three of the men had been killed and the fourth retreated to the safety of the ranch house. Rockford and his soldiers rushed in and took positions around and under the trailer. The soldiers on the other side of the clearing, taking heart when they watched the colonel’s accomplishment, charged the barn and overran it, killing another four defenders. It cost them fifteen men, but they forced Carlos and the others holding the outbuildings to fall back to positions in and around the house. Rockford had just rallied his men to rush the house when the sound of a vehicle roaring down on them from behind brought everyone around.
Cody slammed the Jeep in gear and was off like a shot, leaving the smoking remains of the airplane and the burning trucks behind. Twenty minutes later, as he neared Travis’ home, he could hear the exchange of gunfire. “Hold on, amigo, hold on,” he muttered as he >weaved around the ruined, smoking remains of the column he had just chewed up with the Mustang.
When he reached the entrance to Travis’ home, he saw the road was blocked by the wrecked troop transport, but he remembered that his friend had cut a fire lane on the eastern corner of the property that led to the house. He jammed the Jeep into reverse, spun it around, and headed for the lane. Seconds later he was flying down the bumpy path, dodging stumps and practically bouncing out of the Jeep as he hit exposed roots and potholes. The sound of the fight had grown and, as he neared the clearing, he could hear men shouting, wounded crying, and the constant crackle of small-arms fire.
As fate would have it, the fire lane broke into the clearing directly behind the trailer where the colonel and his men stood preparing to charge the house and overwhelm the last of the defenders. They would have, most probably, been successful, had it not been for one William J. Cody and a Thompson machine gun.
Cody burst into the clearing and saw the men gathered behind the trailer. Without even slowing down, he reached for his weapon, shouldered it, and opened up on the group, shooting out the remainder of the Jeep’s windshield in the process.
It was disconcert
ing enough for those men to see some long-haired madman in a leather aviator’s hat and goggles charging down on them, shouting and shooting from a roaring Jeep. It was considerably more disconcerting when one of the madman’s bullets struck the LP gas cylinder next to the trailer and it disintegrated into a fiery ball of red-hot shrapnel.
Travis had watched Reynolds and Rockford gathering a group of men together at the other end of the trailer, preparing to rush the house. He knew the contest was still a roll of the dice. He was yelling at the others to get ready for the attack, when suddenly he heard the roar of a Jeep, the distinctive bark of a Thompson, and saw the propane tank ignite, taking the back half of the trailer and a good portion of Rockford’s squad with it. He knelt there by the window, the cacophony of battle raging around him, and smiled.
“Cody,” he whispered.
Rockford and his soldiers were thrown to the ground from the blast, but committed and under fire, they recovered quickly and charged. Of the dozen or so men nearest the tank at the opposite end of the mobile home, eight or nine were killed instantly. The other four or five lived long enough to stagger to their feet and face the maniac with the machine gun.
The dozen soldiers who had taken the barn saw Reynolds and the colonel converging on the house with the last of their men. Sensing victory, they opened up with their weapons to give them cover and charged the opposite side of the building.
Inside, the remaining defenders consisted of Eric and Derrick, two or three of their men, Travis, Carlos, the preacher, and the sensei. As the men from the barn charged, the twins, who were standing next to the kitchen door, turned and looked at each other. Wordlessly, they snapped fresh magazines into their Thompsons, kicked the kitchen door off its hinges, and walked out side by side, their machine guns booming. Pieces of the porch snapped and exploded around them as they stood together like two deadly genies, Thompsons jumping in their huge hands.
One of the giants flinched slightly as he took a round in the flesh of his side. The other clenched his teeth as bullets struck him in the leg and the arm, but their guns never missed a beat. When the last shell casing from their weapons hit the ground, there wasn’t a soldier left standing in the clearing. Eric and Derrick once again looked at each other, without uttering a word, and smiled. The other side of the house had not fared as well, unfortunately.
Two of the colonel’s men had thrown smoke grenades as they charged, and under the cover they created nearly a dozen of the soldiers reached the house, including Reynolds and Rockford. Reynolds and four of the attackers broke from the charge and attempted to take the defenders from the rear of the structure. The sensei and Travis saw the move and rushed to the back. The first three never made the porch as Travis and his friend magically appeared from behind two of the concrete pillars that supported the roof and cut loose with their M16s. The fourth one, along with Reynolds, had been protected from the murderous fire by the bodies of the first three. As his comrades fell, the fourth made a dive and pulled off two quick rounds as he hit the porch. One of those was wide, but the second smacked the concrete pillar next to Travis’ head. The exploding particles of concrete dust struck Travis in the face and eyes. Momentarily blinded and staggered by the intense pain, he lost his grip on his rifle and threw his hands up to his eyes. Reynolds and the other soldier rose up and leveled their weapons, moving in. In that split second, the sensei realized Reynolds was covering at him, waiting for him to come out from behind the pillar. The other soldier, twenty feet away and on his knees, was bringing his gun to bear on the blinded and helpless Travis. There was no way the sensei could take them both.
He made his choice—a life-and-death decision that was the consummate statement of friendship. The sensei hurled himself against Travis, knocking him through the opening where the sliding glass doors led into the living room, while firing at the man who would have killed his friend. The kneeling soldier never got off a shot as he was bounced backward through the door on the porch. Reynolds, however, got off several, two of which hit the sensei in the chest, knocking him down, his gun flying across the floor. For a moment, everything fell silent. Reynolds paused, quickly scanning the room. The sensei lay motionless, his eyes closed, the blood from his wounds staining his shirt a bright red. He could just see Travis in the other room as he groped around on his hands and knees, blinded. Reynolds walked over slowly, cautiously, listening to the sounds of the fight out front. He reached the Japanese, whose chest barely rose and fell, and nudged him with his boot. Satisfied the man was no threat, the soldier started to move past him to finish Travis, when suddenly the sensei’s eyes snapped open and his hand snaked out behind the heel of Reynolds’ boot and jerked.
Taken completely by surprise, the soldier was thrown off balance and collapsed on top of the Japanese, who grabbed Reynolds by the front of the shirt, pulled the startled man’s face to his own, and drew his short sword. He held Reynolds so tightly the man couldn’t pull away and, as their noses almost touched, he whispered hoarsely, “Come meet my ancestors with me, Captain.” Then he plunged the blade into the officer’s stomach below the abdomen and drew it upward, opening his midsection from groin to sternum.
Reynolds screamed like a pubescent girl, struggling maniacally as the razor sharp sword sliced open his stomach muscles and he felt the warm wetness of his own entrails pouring out. The sensei held the man to him with an iron grip, watching his opponent’s bulging, terrified eyes begin to glaze as the screams ceased and the life force left him. Finally, when the captain quit trembling, the proud old Japanese pushed Reynolds off him, laid his own head on the cold, blood-covered floor and, with a sigh, closed his eyes.
Outside, two more of the colonel’s men fell to the defenders as they reached the walls of the house, but the fire they poured into the windows and through the walls had taken out another two defendants. Rockford was left with less than half a dozen men. The colonel had watched Reynolds break off with his men and charge the porch. He had also heard him scream moments later. Rockford had been in war, and he knew that scream. There was no point in counting on the captain. The furious gunfire on the far side of the dwelling had grown silent, and none of his men who had charged the barn had reappeared. The odds no longer appeared so good.
Travis struggled to his feet, wiping his eyes and trying desperately to clear his blurred vision. As he began to focus again, he turned in a panic toward the silence of the porch. “Sensei! Sensei!” he called, as he stumbled out through the sliding doors.
His friend lay on the floor in front of him, covered in blood. Reynolds lay next to him, his vacant eyes staring at the slowly spinning ceiling fan above him. Travis rushed to his companion’s side, cradling the man in his arms.
Slowly, the sensei’s eyes opened once more, and when he recognized Travis, he did his best to smile. “Ah, my friend. I am glad you are here now,” he whispered. “It is time for me to join my ancestors.” The sensei paused for a moment, drew a small breath and coughed, then looked up at Travis again. “It has been good to know you, Travis-san. You are good Samurai. Now give me your hand.”
Travis felt hot tears running down his cheeks as he put his hand in the sensei’s. Slowly, and with great effort, the Japanese brought his katana around and laid it in Travis’ palm. “My swords are now yours. Keep them with pride and honor, and remember me, my friend, when you clean them at night.”
Numbed with grief, Travis could find no words. He held his companion and brushed the hair away from his face.
The sensei drew one last ragged breath. “Do not despair, Travissan. This is but a journey completed. We have walked together before and we shall walk together again.” For the last time, their eyes locked and in a whisper, the words came. “Sayonara, my friend.”
The sensei’s eyes closed, his last breath passed from his body and, with a quiet, almost peaceful sigh, he joined his proud ancestors.
The preacher found Travis sitting on the floor, holding the sensei.
“Oh God, no,” the big man moa
ned. He moved to his friend’s side and gently put his arm around his shoulders. “I’m sorry, son.” The preacher paused for a moment in reverence, then spoke. “I’m sorry, but we need help now. They’re about to break through the front. Come on, son. Come on.”
Travis laid the sensei on the floor, placing the warrior’s swords by his side. He took a deep breath, then picked up his gun and turned to the preacher. “Okay, let’s finish it.”
Outside the house, Rockford regrouped his remaining men. He pulled two smoke grenades from his belt and threw one at the front steps and the other through the living room window. As the smoke poured out, he ordered the last of his soldiers into an assault on the front door of the house. They rushed the large oak door, shot off its hinges, and charged into the smoke-filled room. The colonel, however, after providing a quick barrage of covering fire, began to retreat slowly through the swirling billows, toward the trailer and the woods behind it.
Cody, Travis, and the preacher reached the smoky living room just as the soldiers broke down the door and rushed in. The attackers, outlined by the light of the doorway, were greatly disadvantaged, and paid for it. Four of the five were cut down in the crossfire created by Carlos near the bedrooms, and Travis and the others, who had come through from the back of the house. The last one, attempting to escape, turned and ran around the kitchen side of the house. He rounded the corner full tilt and stumbled headlong into the twins. Before the man could recover and shoot, Derrick ripped his gun out of his hand and crushed his skull with it.
Travis quickly checked the bodies in the house, looking for the colonel. Cautiously, he moved to the door and peered out through the slowly clearing smoke. He saw the tall man in the distance, running for the woods. The adrenalin of hate slammed his system like a cocaine mainline, and without a word to anyone, he was out the door. Thirty feet from the woods, Rockford turned and saw Travis running toward him. He stopped, raised his rifle, and fired. Travis watched the gun come up and rolled to his left as the automatic weapon stitched the ground where he had been seconds before. When the colonel realized he’d missed, he again swung the gun onto Travis and pulled the trigger, but the weapon was empty, breach open. Having exhausted his last magazine, Rockford threw down the rifle and ran for the woods. Travis rose and fired, but his aim was high, and he tore the branches from the trees above Rockford’s head as the soldier scrambled into the forest. Seconds later, Travis reached the edge of the woods and followed.
The New Madrid Run Page 27
