The Great Martian War

by Scott Washburn

  “She’s awake and her story hasn’t changed at all. Bob, your daughter is not making this up! It really happened and you better let someone know!”

  “All right, all right, I’ll go talk to the sheriff tomorrow.”

  * * * * *

  November, 1908, Gettysburg, Pennsylvania

  The line of tanks rumbled across the field, churning up mud with their caterpillar tracks, black smoke belching from their stacks. The practice field had been totally stripped of vegetation and was a sea of mud after recent rains. Captain Andrew Comstock could feel his boots slowly sinking into the goo. The place was called Camp Colt and it had been set up on the edge of the historic Civil War battlefield as a training camp for tank crews. The first two battalions of steam tanks had been delivered from the Baldwin Works in Philadelphia and their crews were learning how to use them. Andrew was here to report on their progress.

  So far, what he was seeing didn’t fill him with a lot of confidence. One of the battalions, some thirty tanks, had lined up at one edge of a field about a half mile across. They had clanked and lurched to the other end and nearly a third of them were stuck, broken down, or in one case turning in random circles, spewing clouds of steam. Baldwin had sent a team of their own mechanics to help train the soldiers and these men were now wearily shouldering their tool kits and wading out to see what they could do with the stragglers. It looked like a ritual they were all too familiar with.

  “Well, we’re improving,” said the camp commander, a Major Wainwright. “Last time, we lost over half of them.”

  “This is an entirely new type of vehicle,” said the head Baldwin man, a fellow named Klein, who Andrew had met before. “You have to expect some initial problems.”

  “This sort of performance would be unacceptable in the field, Mr. Klein,” said Andrew. He was getting pretty good at growling, he thought.

  “As the crews get used to them, they’ll be able to prevent these breakdowns. And what we are learning here will allow us to make the next model even more reliable.”

  “Next model?”

  “Yes, we’re calling this the Mark 1. We’re already working on the Mark 2.”

  Major Wainwright snorted. “The men call this one the Stumbler.”

  “Why Tumbler?”

  “With the gun and ammunition, the thing is seriously front-heavy. A few weeks ago one of them tried to go down a steep slope and it flipped over completely. It was miracle that none of the crew were scalded to death.”

  Klein made a note in a small book he was carrying. “You could try moving the ammunition farther to the rear.”

  “Right next to the firebox for the boiler? Oh, good idea!”

  While they watched, several of the tanks got moving again and managed to rejoin their comrades at the far end. The rest remained where they were and did not look like they’d be moving soon. So much for the demonstration. While Andrew, Wainwright, and Klein were slogging their way back to the headquarters area, a courier on a motorcycle splattered to a stop next to them and handed a dispatch to the Major.

  “They can’t be serious!” he exclaimed after reading it.

  “’Fraid so, sir,” said the courier.

  “What is it?” asked Andrew.

  “We’ve been ordered to move out!”

  “Move out? Where?”

  “Doesn’t say. Just pack up everything, lock, stock, and barrel and be ready to load aboard trains in three days. This is crazy! We’re not ready!”

  “Sorry to hear that, Major,” said Klein sympathetically. “We’ll give you whatever help we can before you go.”

  “Excuse me, sir” said the courier, “Are you…” He was holding another envelope and read from it. “… Douglas Klein?”

  “Yes. What is that?”

  “Dunno, sir, but it’s for you.” He handed it over and Klein opened it and looked it over. He stiffened suddenly and his face paled.

  “What! They… they can’t do this!”

  “What is it?” asked Wainwright.

  “They’ve drafted me! Me and my men! I’m going with you!”

  “Really? Hadn’t heard that Congress had enacted a draft yet.”

  “It amounts to the same thing!” snarled Klein in disgust. “The Army wants us to go along and Baldwin has agreed to lend us to you! If we want to keep our jobs, we’re going! Hell’s bells!”

  Andrew decided that this was a good time to take his leave. He made his way back to the Gettysburg station and caught the next train to Harrisburg. From there he returned to Washington. He had a pretty good idea where Major Wainwright and Mr. Klein were headed with two battalions of steam tanks. He’d been to enough meetings recently to know that the Martians had landed and they’d landed where no one expected them. Alarming reports were being received from all over the world of landings in remote areas, areas far away from where the armies had been massed. Everyone from Buenos Ares to Vladivostok was scrambling to redeploy their forces to meet the threat. And it was no different in the United States. Reports of a landing in New Mexico were being taken the most seriously, although there might be another in Idaho. Troops were being shipped west as quickly as the trains could get them there. Civilian authorities in the east were screaming that they were being left defenseless. The President was calling for more men and more equipment. A draft really was being discussed.

  Despite several delays, he made it back to Fort Myer in time for dinner at the Hawthorne residence. He filled the colonel in on what he’d seen. “And you should have seen the look on Klein’s face when he found out he was going with them!” laughed Andrew.

  For some reason the colonel wasn’t smiling. “I wouldn’t be so quick to laugh, Andy,” he said. “You see, you’ll be going along, too.”

  “What?” exclaimed Andrew, a jolt passing through him like an electric shock.

  “Oh, Dad, no!” cried Victoria.

  “Yes, I’m afraid so. General Crozier wants one of his people out there. Not just to observe how the tanks perform, but also to be on hand to collect any Martian equipment that might fall into our hands. I offered to go, but he wants me here. So you win the prize, Andy. Sorry about that.”

  “When do I leave, sir?” He glanced at Victoria and the poor girl looked stricken. He wasn’t sure how he felt about this. It would be uncomfortable and possibly dangerous, but a part of him was excited at the prospect.

  “Oh, probably a week or so. We are going to give you a team of enlisted men to assist you and that will take a little time to assemble. Then you’ll be off to Santa Fe or maybe Albuquerque. They are collecting everything they can there, including the steam tanks. It will probably be at least a month before they are ready to move. In the meanwhile, they are going to send out a scratch force of cavalry to try and locate the Martian landing area.”

  “Sir… I’ll try to do a proper job of it, sir.”

  “I know you will, son. You’ve been doing some fine work and that’s why Crozier is willing to give you this responsibility.”

  “I won’t let you down, sir.”

  Hawthorne suddenly smiled. “I know you won’t. And by the way, the general is brevetting you major for this mission.”

  Andrew was stunned. “T-thank you, sir!”

  “Well, he wanted you to have enough clout to make sure that if any Martian equipment is salvaged that you’ll be able to keep it from falling into enemy hands.”

  “Enemy hands, sir?”

  “You know, the Corps of Engineers, or even worse, the Navy!”

  * * * * *

  November, 1908, Fort Wingate, New Mexico Territory

  “Prepare to mount… MOUNT!” Sergeant Frank Dolfen swung into the saddle and automatically looked to check on his squad. They were all in order, but not looking terribly military. Each man was bundled up against the bitter wind as he saw fit and they were wearing a collection of issue overcoats, civilian coats, blankets, gloves, and a variety of hats. Veterans.

  “Fours left—MARCH!” came the order, and the troope
rs swung from line into a column four men abreast. A bugle echoed the command down the line to make sure everyone had heard—a needless precaution really, since everyone knew what to do. But this was the Army and the forms had to be followed.

  The column that rode out of Fort Wingate looked impressive; well over two hundred troopers plus a gaggle of hangers-on and a supply train of pack animals almost as big as the rest of the column. Despite his and Stella’s denial, apparently the Martians were real after all. Or at least that’s what the officers were saying. A batch of them had landed eighty or ninety miles to the south and the 5th had been ordered to go find them. Or half of the 5th, anyway. The 1st Squadron had been joined by the 2nd and they were being sent off. The rest of the regiment had been too widely scattered to get here in time. Rumor had it that a much bigger force was being assembled at Santa Fe and would follow along in time—assuming the 5th found anything.

  Colonel O’Dell had arrived to take command and this was the first time Dolfen had actually seen his colonel in the flesh. He was a bit surprised by how young the man looked. At the time Dolfen had first enlisted, all the regimental commanders in the whole army had been veterans of the Civil War, and with a static peacetime army with no hope of promotion to higher rank, and no mandatory retirement for officers, those men had hung on and on. By the time of the Spanish War they were getting pretty ancient. But the campaigns in Cuba and Puerto Rico and the Philippines had weeded them all out—they simply couldn’t stand the pace. So a new generation had taken charge and that was a good thing in Dolfen’s opinion.

  But O’Dell was saddled with a gaggle of other officers sent out from Washington. Engineers and Signal Corps people and even some from the General Staff. Everyone wanted a look at the Martians! Dolfen had to admit that he was a trifle curious himself. He’d been skeptical, but surely all these people couldn’t be wrong! Well, they could, he supposed, but there must be something to it.

  They rode due south for an hour or so, the land climbing gently but steadily, the trees getting thicker. Then they angled a bit to the southwest and managed to strike the road to San Lorenzo about noon. A long, tree-covered ridge to their west gave them some protection from the wind, and with the sun on them, things warmed up quite a bit. Dolfen smiled in satisfaction. This was the sort of thing he loved. Riding with the troops, a clear road stretching before them, beautiful country all around. There was already some snow on the tops of the Zuni Mountains off to the east.

  He dropped back a bit to ride next to Corporal Kuminski and the second squad for a while. He was responsible for both squads, while Lieutenant Hopkins commanded the whole troop.

  “So whaddaya think, Sarge?” asked Kuminski. “We gonna shoot some Martians?”

  “Oh yeah,” he said slapping the saddle holster for his rifle. “Think I’ll have mine stuffed and mounted. Then when I retire, I can take it back east and charge people a nickel each to see it.” They both laughed.

  “You won’t get anything with that Krag of yours! Can’t believe you’re still carrying that thing around!”

  Dolfen patted the butt of his Krag-Jorgensen lovingly. Everyone else was carrying the ‘03 Springfields, but he’d kept the Krag.

  “How do you get ammo for it anyway? Won’t take the thirty-ought-sixes, will it?”

  “No, but I laid in a stock of ammo when I could. She took good care of me in the Philippines and she’ll serve me well against any damn Martian, too!”

  He thought back to his time in the Philippines fighting the insurrectionists there. Bloodthirsty bastards. Didn’t seem to appreciate the Americans freeing them from the Spanish and giving them democracy. Well, they learned! He started humming a song that all the men were singing back then. It was set to the tune of the Civil War song Tramp! Tramp! Tramp! but the men had made up their own words:

  …And beneath our starry flag,

  We’ll civilize ‘em with a Krag,

  And return us to our own beloved home…

  They rode south.

  * * * * *

  November, 1908, Quemado Lake, New Mexico Territory

  “Grandma, what’s happening?” asked Rebecca Harding. “When are Pa and the sheriff going to do something! It’s been a week since that thing got Pepe!” She strode back and forth across her room and thumped her fist against the wall. “It could be coming here next! We can’t just sit around!”

  “They have been doing things, dear,” said her grandmother soothingly. “Your pa talked to the sheriff and the sheriff sent a wire to Albuquerque. They’ve also talked to most of the folks hereabout to warn them.”

  “But… but what about Pepe? Aren’t they going to go look for him? There’s no telling what that thing might be doing to him!”

  “I believe the sheriff sent a few men to take a look, but they didn’t find anything. I’m sorry, Honey.”

  “Did they go all the way down to San Augustin like we did?”

  “I don’t know, dear.”

  “Of course they didn’t! They probably didn’t go any farther than the meadow! The cowards!”

  “Becca! That is no way to speak about your elders!”

  She slumped down on her bed and started to cry. “This is all my fault! I never should have gone out there! And Pepe wanted to turn back when we saw those holes. But I made him keep going and now… now… Oh, Grandma! He’s my friend and I got him into awful trouble!”

  Her grandmother sat down next to her and put an arm around her. “I’m sorry dear. But… well, the plain fact is that folks are scared to go down there. If it really is the Martians. All those stories about what happened in England the last time. If cannons and battleships couldn’t stop ‘em, what are a few men with rifles going to do?”

  Rebecca stopped crying and looked at her grandmother in surprise. She hadn’t thought about that at all. She’d told the grown-ups and she’d expected them to make things right. That was their job, after all! But what had she really expected? The sheriff to go and arrest the Martians? She suddenly felt very insecure, even in her own bedroom. She looked out the window. “What… what if they come here?”

  Grandma frowned. “The sheriff wired for help and they say the Army will be coming. Meanwhiles, your pa is making plans to move the herds, and me and your ma have been packing some things in case we have to leave. Just in case. We didn’t want to worry you until you were well.”

  Rebecca ran her hand along the back of her head. “I’m fine and my hair is growin’ back! I can help!”

  Her grandmother smiled. “That would be good, dear.”

  * * * * *

  Cycle 597,843.25, Landing Site 32

  Qetjnegartis contemplated the message from the Expedition Conclave. Attack. The command had come earlier than planned, but not so early that it would cause major difficulty. Apparently the prey-creatures were reacting aggressively in many areas. So many landing forces had been forced into battle already that holding the others back made little sense. So all would go forth together now.

  The early move and the loss of Lander 4 would leave Qetjnegartis with a weakened command. The original plan would have had fifteen war machines and five constructors. Given time, the salvage of the landers would have allowed the construction of fifteen additional war machines. These would not have been able to fight without operators, but could have followed along in slave-mode until the new buds were sufficiently developed to operate them.

  Now, however, it had only twelve war machines, four constructors, and the salvage of the landers was not complete. It was unwilling to abandon the salvaged materials, so it would have to take a risk. It would attack with only nine of the war machines. Three subordinates would be left to complete the salvage and the construction of the twelve additional war machines. They would then follow along when they were able. The danger would be if a strong enemy arrived to attack the landing site while Qetjnegartis and the others were beyond supporting range. Loss of the constructors and the materials would be a serious blow. But analysis of the surrounding area put the
probability of such an attack at an acceptably low level—especially if Qetjnegartis and the attack force were acting aggressively elsewhere.

  So they would attack—aggressively.

  The master plan called for them to strike north to link up with other forces, cutting the second continent into two. Holdfasts would be established, materials mined, more war machines built, and buds grown to pilot them. The conquest would then proceed.

  Qetjnegartis contacted its subordinates and gave the orders.

  * * * * *

  November, 1908, Vandalia, Illinois

  Brevet Major Andrew Comstock surveyed the wreck and shook his head. What a mess. In fact, the entire attempt to transport the 1st and 2nd Steam Tank Battalions across the country could probably be described as a mess, too. The only way to do it, of course, was by rail and the railroads weren’t really up to it. The problem wasn’t the

  weight of the tanks, they didn’t weigh as much as a gondola car full of coal, after all, but their size. They were over two feet wider than a standard railroad flat car and they hung out over the edges dangerously. They didn’t dare to pass another train on double-tracked sections and Andrew couldn’t count the number of telegraph poles they’d clipped off. It made for a slow trip.

  And now this. They were about sixty miles east of St. Louis and the tracks crossed over a stream on a small bridge. A party had been sent ahead of the trains to make sure that things were clear. They’d promised that the bridge here was wide enough.

  They’d been wrong.

  The engine had passed through with no problem, but the first tank had collided with the bridge girders on either side. It had become wedged and torn loose from the first flat car. The tank on the second car smashed into it. Fortunately, the train hadn’t been going all that fast and the next few cars had simply derailed and turned over on their sides. It looked as though only the first two tanks had been seriously damaged. But the way was blocked and the bridge too damaged to take any more traffic. They would have to back up and find another route. From what the railroad men were saying, that would mean going practically back to Ohio.