The Great Martian War

by Scott Washburn

  Secretary Root managed to catch the ball Roosevelt had so unexpectedly thrown him and discussions immediately began on locations and timing. A beaming President slipped out the door, covered by the distraction.

  * * * * *

  January, 1909, Albuquerque, New Mexico Territory

  “We finally goin’ t’move, sir?” asked Sergeant McGill.

  “I think so,” replied Andrew Comstock. “Better warn the men to get packed—again.” He couldn’t keep the exasperation out of his voice. They’d been told almost ten days ago that they’d be moving out immediately, and here they were still in Albuquerque. Oh, the army had started moving out immediately, but they were moving by rail and there was a strict order of priorities. First had gone the cavalry, to create a scouting screen in front of the army. This made sense, of course, since they had no real idea just where the Martians were. They couldn’t risk trying to steam straight into Fort Wingate on a train! Then had come artillery and infantry and all the supplies for them and a hundred other items; all deemed vital by someone. Major Comstock’s little band of Ordnance people had a priority so low he hadn’t been sure that they’d ever be allowed to go. He’d been tempted to try to go by road, but it was fifty miles in a straight line just to the first assembly point in Laguna and then another hundred to Wingate. His batch of novice riders and teamsters would never make it; not in this weather. Better to wait for a spot on the trains.

  “Yes, sir,” said McGill. “We’re not waitin’ for the tanks, sir? They’re just up the tracks in Santa Fe, aren’t they?”

  “Yes, and God only knows when they’ll get the clearance to come forward! No, we’ve got a spot on one of the trains this afternoon and I’m not going to pass up on that. The tanks can follow when they can.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll get the lads movin’.”

  “Right. I’ll get my own stuff together.”

  “You sure you don’t want one of the men to act as your batman, sir? T’ain’t right for an officer to be doin’ his own chores, sir.”

  “I can manage, Sergeant. I was a second lieutenant not that long ago. And the men have other things to do.”

  “If you say so, sir.” He didn’t look convinced, and as Andrew made his way back to the boarding house, he had to admit that a major really did have an image to uphold. With all his prior duties since graduation, he had people to take care of those things: restaurant waiters, hotel valets, boarding house washwomen, even Victoria or Mrs. Hawthorne if he had a tricky bit of clothing repair. But now, he was going to be out in the field for days and weeks and if he didn’t have one of the men do it, he’d have to do it himself. Not just his laundry, but fixing meals, saddling his horse, and all those other little chores. Of course, he’d done all that stuff while he was a cadet and he remembered how much time it took away from more important things. Yes, maybe he ought to take McGill up on the offer. Whatever man he chose probably wouldn’t mind, since he’d get paid for the extra duty, and Andrew had a stipend in his pay to take care of exactly those sorts of things.

  The town was still bustling, but it was impossible not to notice that there were far fewer people around. Thousands of troops and their officers had already departed and many more were preparing to go. Of course, new units were arriving, too; the force which had been assembled at Albuquerque was just the vanguard of a general redeployment of the army westward. Trains carrying more forces were backed up to the Mississippi. All the more reason to get out now, while they could.

  Andrew reached his boarding house and went up to his room. Packing didn’t take long since he hadn’t really unpacked from the last false alarm. He did have to search out the landlady, Mrs. Muntz, and get a few bits of laundry he’d left with her and pay her for it. He was paid up for his room through the end of the week, but he didn’t feel inclined to argue with her for a refund on the days he wouldn’t be here. “I don’t know when I’ll be coming back this way,” he said. “If any mail should come for me, please leave it with the provost office here.”

  “All, right,” she replied. “You be careful with those Martians! And don’t you be letting any of ‘em to come here, will you?”

  “Don’t worry, ma’am, you’ll be safe here.” He said it automatically, but he wondered if it was really true? The force being sent out to Fort Wingate was large, but not all that large. Two brigades of infantry, one understrength cavalry brigade, and eight batteries of field artillery; maybe 12,000 men all told; not counting all the supply and support troops and the various other hangers-on that are attached to any army—like Andrew and his men. The Martians, as far as could be determined, were landing in groups of five cylinders. If there were three of the war machines in each cylinder, as had been the case in the first invasion, then they might have fifteen of the war machines. Could General Sumner’s force handle fifteen tripods?

  He finished his packing and then headed for the rail yards. It was crowded there but eventually he found his men, along with their baggage, two wagons, and thirty horses. He felt a bit guilty that he and his twenty men were going to need no less than six railway cars to move everything. No wonder it was taking so long to move the army! It was early afternoon before they were directed to a siding where they could begin loading and it was nearly dark before they were done and the cars hitched to the other cars of the train. His men were stuck in one box car with all their gear, the horses took up four more and the wagons were lashed to a flat car. There were several dozen other cars making up the train, but he wasn’t sure what they were all carrying. A regular passenger car was attached just ahead of the caboose and that was where all the officers congregated. Andrew climbed aboard just before the whole thing lurched into motion.

  A quick look around revealed that he was the senior officer present; all the others were captains or lieutenants. He picked a seat next to a captain with Signal Corps insignia, stuffed his valise in the overhead rack, and sat down. The man looked at him with interest.

  “Evening, sir.”

  “Evening.”

  “I’m Tom Selfridge, Army Aeronautical Division.”

  Andrew’s eyebrows went up. “Really? I met one of your fellows last year at the Wrights’ place in Ohio. What the hell was his name…?”

  “Lahm? Frank Lahm?”

  “That was it! He actually took a ride in the contraption. Braver man than me.”

  “Oh, they aren’t that bad—most of the time.”

  “You’ve ridden in one of them?”

  “Better than that, sir! I’m a pilot myself!” Andrew stared at him and decided that he wasn’t pulling his leg.

  “Really? What are you doing here?”

  “Hunting Martians. We’ve got my flier and mechanics packed up in one of the box cars.”

  “I’ll be damned. I’ve seen the machines flying around Fort Myer, I guess one of them must have been yours.”

  “Probably; there were only a half-dozen of us then. Did you see my crash?”

  “Uh, no…”

  “Came within an inch of cracking my fool skull open,” said Selfridge with an obvious tone of pride in his voice. He pointed to a pink scar on his forehead. “Smashed the hell out of the machine though,” he added sadly.

  “And yet you went back up again.”

  “Of course. They promoted me to captain, so how could I refuse? Although if I’d known they were going to pack me up and send me out here…” He grinned.

  “I know what you mean,” said Andrew, smiling in turn. “A few months ago I was snug and warm back in Washington.”

  “Ordnance, eh? What are you doing here, sir? Seeing what our guns do against the Martians?”

  “Yes. That and how the new tanks do—if they can ever catch up with us.”

  “Tanks? Oh, you mean those steam-gun-tractors things they’ve been talking about? You have them here?”

  “Trying to get them here. They’re stuck at Santa Fe right now. Hope they can join up with us before the fighting starts. But I’m also here in hopes of salvaging any wre
cked Martian equipment that we might capture in the course of things.”

  “Ah! A treasure hunter! Well good luck! I’ll tell you what: I’ll find ‘em, your tanks can smash ‘em, and then you can go sweep up the pieces!”

  They both laughed and shook hands. He decided he liked the crazy pilot. A little while later he liked him even more when he produced a bottle from his bags and shared it. This attracted some of their fellow passengers and more introductions were made. Most of the other officers were with the Quartermaster Corps and they seemed quite envious of the dashing Selfridge and even—to his surprise—himself. Apparently quartermaster work was really boring.

  They had a jolly time for a while, but eventually things quieted down and they all tried to get some sleep. The train rattled and lurched through the night with frequent stops. They travelled about twenty miles south to the town of Los Lunas where the line branched off to the west. Morning found them well short of the assembly point at Laguna. Dozens of trains were blocking the track ahead of them. Andrew was impressed to see railroad work gangs actually laying track to create new sidings.

  During one of the innumerable stops, a man got aboard their car. He was dressed in a heavy civilian overcoat with a broad-brimmed white hat. He glanced around and then came over to where Andrew and Selfridge were sitting. “You in charge here, Major?”

  Andrew shrugged. “Seem to be. Can I help you?”

  “Was wondering if I could ride with you folks?”

  “Uh, this is a military transport train,” said Selfridge. “I don’t think we’re taking paying passengers.”

  “Oh, I’m not paying!” snorted the man with a grin. He looked to be in his forties and was carrying a large valise. “I’m a newspaperman, White, Bill White, Emporia Gazette.” He held out a thick-fingered hand and Andrew automatically shook it.

  “There’s a mob of other reporters with the general’s headquarters, oughtn’t you be with them?”

  “No doubt! But I just managed to catch up with this travelling circus! Wasn’t easy! Been riding in box cars and such for the last three days. Then I saw you fellows and thought that this might be a bit more comfortable! D’you mind?”

  “Not at all. We’ve got room. Make yourself at home.”

  “Many thanks!” White crammed his valise into a rack and then sat down next to them.

  “Emporia? Where is that, if I may ask?”

  “Kansas. And you?”

  “Well, the last posting for both of us was Washington. But now we’re here. And you’re here to report on the army?”

  “The army, the Martians, anything worth reporting about! My readers are tired of all the rumors and guesses and half-truths being bandied about. And so am I! I’m here to get some facts!”

  “Well, if you find any, be sure to share them with us, will you?” said Selfridge. “We probably know about half as much as your readers right now.”

  White laughed. “I guess that’s the way the army operates, isn’t it? But I’ve learned that people usually know more than they realize.” With that, the newspaperman proceeded to squeeze both of them dry of everything they knew about the current situation. White seemed genuinely interested in everything they had to say and took copious notes. He spent more time on Selfridge’s glamorous job as a pilot, but he showed real interest in Andrew’s mission, too. Neither officer felt any inhibitions about talking—it wasn’t as if the Martians were going to be reading the Emporia Gazette and learning secrets!

  “Glad I bumped into you young fellas,” said White after a while. “I don’t think most folks realize just how big a thing this all is. My paper reprints stories from overseas telling how the Martians are landing all over the place, but it doesn’t seem to make much of an impression. Deep down, I think most folks just don’t believe there is a big wide world out there, so anything happening there isn’t real, either. All they’re worried about is new taxes and the possibility of a draft. Hell, some of the damn fools still believe that this is all a hoax to get Roosevelt a third term!”

  “That did bother a lot of people,” said Selfridge. “Some felt that two terms was written in stone even though it isn’t written in the Constitution. Like that lunatic, Schrank who was planning to shoot him at the inaugural next month. Thank God they caught him before he could!”

  “True,” said White, “it did bother me a bit, too. But in a real crisis, there’s no one I’d rather have at the helm!”

  “He’s an amazing man,” said Andrew.

  “Have you met him?” asked White.

  “I’ve been at meetings where he was present. Read a few reports with him listening, but I’ve never really spoken to him.”

  “I’ve known him for years,” said White proudly. “And you are right: he’s amazing. A bit strong-willed for peacetime, but in a real war, he’s just the man we need.”

  “Well, it looks like we may have a real war,” said Andrew.

  “Yes. And that’s why we’re all here, isn’t it?”

  The train slowly moved along. During the stoppages, they got off to stretch their legs. The very cold weather of the previous week had subsided a bit, but it was still damn cold. The snow on the ground was only a few inches deep and melting, but he could see that the mountains to the south and west were heavily shrouded in white. He had expected the southwest to be warm and sunny, but he hadn’t allowed for the much higher elevation. They had winter here just like home!

  Eventually they made it to Laguna, which wasn’t much of a town compared to Albuquerque, and unloaded. Mr. White went his way and Selfridge went his, but they promised to stay in touch. Andrew found that he liked both men quite a lot. A new tent city had sprung up on both sides of the tracks and small mountains of supplies were growing hour by hour. Andrew checked in at headquarters and learned that the cavalry was already fifty miles farther west, near the town of Grants, probing to find the enemy. Some of the infantry and artillery was preparing to move out on foot to follow.

  Andrew was very happy that Sergeant McGill had been able to acquire all that field gear when he discovered that tiny Laguna couldn’t provide housing sufficient even for the army headquarters, let alone all the other officers who were arriving. The wall tent McGill had for him was only slightly warmer than being outside, but wrapped in his overcoat and a few blankets he was able to survive the nights. McGill did assign him a batman, a corporal named Kennedy, who was nearly as accomplished a scrounger as McGill himself. By the second night he had a tiny coal stove in his tent, which made a huge difference.

  They waited and shivered for a few days, but then word came back from the cavalry that they were encountering civilians fleeing east. They reported that Martians had attacked them. The next day, a dozen miles west of the town of Grants, which was deserted but undamaged, they encountered a single enemy war machine which retreated when it saw them. Pursuing for a few miles they discovered that the railroad had been torn up beyond that point. Not just torn up, but completely destroyed; the ties burned to ash and the metal rails missing entirely. A few ranches in the area had also been destroyed.

  General Sumner concluded that the destruction of the railroad was to hinder the army’s approach and that the Martians feared an attack. Emboldened, he ordered the army to push forward as quickly as possible. With the rail line near at hand, the infantry didn’t need to carry a lot of supplies on their backs and could make good speed along the road that paralleled the tracks. They managed ten or fifteen miles a day despite the muddy conditions, and made it to Grants near the end of January. There they halted to let everyone else catch up. From there they would resume the drive to Fort Wingate.

  Andrew and his men made it to Grants a few days later than the infantry and artillery. Even mounted, it was a difficult journey for inexperienced men. Many of the riders were still very green and the teamsters were still learning how to drive the wagons. They frequently had to pull off the road to let faster units pass. But they did get there. Grants was little more than a whistle stop on the railroad,
so another city of canvas quickly arose. Even General Sumner was in a tent now. Andrew bumped into White from time to time but the newspaperman could provide little except the gossip he picked up around headquarters—which was little different from the rumors floating through the camps. He tracked down Tom Selfridge and watched him and his men assembling his flying machine. He still felt that a man would have to be crazy to go up in one of those things. Like the one he’d seen in Dayton, this was a two-seater and Selfridge had a sergeant who would fly with him when they went up.

  The cavalry was still catching occasional glimpses of Martian machines off to the west, but they were not making any attempt to engage them by themselves. Although no definitive information had been received, it had to be assumed that the scouting force of the 5th Cavalry which had gone south from Fort Wingate had been destroyed or scattered. Unsupported cavalry couldn’t be expected to hurt the enemy war machines.

  So it would be up to the infantry and artillery. Andrew wasn’t exactly sure what the infantry could hope to accomplish since, with the exception of a few machine guns, they were armed exactly like the cavalry. But the artillery could certainly hurt the Martians! The British had managed to destroy several of them during the first invasion with standard field guns. The American guns ought to be able to do as well. Assuming the Martians haven’t improved their machines…

  And they only had eight batteries of artillery; thirty-two guns in total. If the Martians had fifteen war machines as they were expecting, that was only two guns for each machine. Not a very good ratio. A nagging feeling that this ratio wasn’t going to be good enough began to grow in Andrew. It became so strong that he actually worked up the nerve to suggest to General Sumner, during the last meeting before the final advance was ordered, that perhaps they should wait for the tanks.

  “T-they have over fifty 3-inch guns between, them, sir,” he stuttered. “It could make a big difference.”