The Badlands Brigade (A Captain Gringo Adventure Book 12)

by Lou Cameron

  “Are you displeased with your adelita, Deek?”

  “No, you’re a great little lay, Doll, but for God’s sake let’s save some of it for more reasonable times and places.”

  “All right. When this war is over, are you going to take me to America with you. Querido?”

  It was a dumb question, even for her, but his voice was gentle as he said, “We’re in America. Central America. If you mean the States, I can’t go there myself, so let’s not worry about it.”

  “For why can’t you go home to Los Estados Unidos, Deek? I know you told me, once, about some trouble there, but I forgot.”

  “Forget it some more and let’s catch forty winks, Doll. It’s been swell screwing you, but a guy feels silly talking to himself.”

  “It is cruel for you to say I do not listen, Deek. I wish for to know all about you. You are my querido and soldado. It is just that sometimes I do not understand all the big words you use.”

  “I know. Let’s see if we can sleep a while. If we ever get through that sawgrass, maybe I’ll tell you about Goldilocks and the Three Bears.”

  She didn’t get it. She couldn’t get it. But she was a sweet little thing who tried. So he wiped her down, too, and held her in his arms as they lazed away the hot siesta break and, even as he fondled her willing flesh, Captain Gringo felt so homesick and alone that his eyes were filled with weary tears.

  ~*~

  By three p.m. it hadn’t really cooled down enough to matter, but the sun was glaring down at a slant instead of from the zenith and at least one side of the lane through the tall sawgrass was partially shaded. The men willingly returned to work after their short break and as they were getting to dryer ground on the far side, the work began to go faster. The cut stems were hauled back to the soggier stretches in the center of the marsh, as the lead-machete men now found themselves on more or less dry stubble. Major Gomez had put a fresh shirt on to resume command. As Captain Gringo reported to him, Gomez asked about Bardo and the scouts. The tall American replied, “I sent runners, sir. They haven’t come back yet.”

  Gomez stared out across the grass tops soberly. Then he shrugged and said, “Well, we should be across by sundown or a little later. We can ask the young fool why he hasn’t seen fit to keep us informed of his position, eh?”

  Captain Gringo answered, “With your permission, sir, I’d like to move my machineguns across ahead of the column. We can haul them through the uncut grass now that the boys have hacked through to drier footing.”

  “You have my permission, but why, Captain? We already have Bardo and his rifles over there to cover our advance across the open marsh, no?”

  “I don’t know, sir. I sent my runners before siesta and they haven’t returned yet. They could be doping off. Somebody could have nailed them. Either way, we ought to have some automatic weapons out front before you move the outfit out across all that open ground.”

  Gomez shrugged again and said, “Well, you went to West Point. But don’t you think we would have heard some fire if Bardo and his scouts ran into anything?”

  “Yessir. Assuming Bardo and his riflemen had time to fire. When I was riding against Apache in my misspent youth, I lost scouts quietly more than once. Bardo could be jerking off under a tree, or he could be under those far trees with his throat cut. It gets less important once we have some heavy weapons forward to cover your advance.”

  “Brrr, I said you have a way with words! You have my permission to take any precautions you think wise. But first explain why, if Bardo and his men made contact with the enemy, the enemy is being so quiet about it? We have many men out there right now. They are working in the open with no cover. Where are the enemy snipers one would expect to hear from at such a grim time?”

  Captain Gringo couldn’t believe a field grade officer could be that dumb about field tactics. But he kept his voice polite as he explained, “They’d be foolish to give their play away by picking off a peon with a machete, sir. I don’t know beans about the Guatemalan Army, but if Geronimo was skulking over there on the far side, he’d wait until the Iron Brigade was moving across en masse, strung out like a mess of shooting gallery ducks, before he opened up.”

  Gomez grimaced and said, “Hmm, we would be in the pickle. I’d better order Travis to set his field guns up to cover us from this side, too. Frankly, I don’t think the enemy is across the Motagua yet; but your suggestions won’t slow down our advance and it may be good exercise for the men.”

  Captain Gringo left the major muttering to himself and went to round up his own outfit. He found Gaston smoking on a caisson talking to Sergeant Vargas. So he said, “We’re moving across to form a defensive position on the far side. Have you any idea what I’m talking about, Vargas?”

  Vargas shook his head sheepishly, so Captain Gringo said, “Never mind. I’ll explain it on the way. Gaston, it’s too muddy to wheel the guns over. So we’ll dismount them and pack ’em with the ammo canisters. You take one and I’ll take one. We’ll see if we can get ’em to dry ground and form the usual crossfire field to cover the column head. We’ll leave most of our gear and two thirds of the men here for now. Let’s move it out.”

  He turned from them to move over to the nearest gun carriage and point at some privates unlucky enough to be near it. He said, “You, you and you. Pick up that Maxim and those ammo cases and follow me.” Then, without looking back to see if his order was being obeyed, he headed for the sunlit sawgrass. He got to the path, turned, and saw Gaston and the others were right behind him. The men were packing two Maxims and the ammo. So since rank had its privileges, Gaston fell in beside Captain Gringo packing only his side arm as he asked, “What is your hurry, my old and rare? The runners we sent to Bardo haven’t returned with any news of enemy activity.”

  “Yeah, and it’s making me nervous. I’m going to be surprised as hell, too, if Guatemala knows they’re invading Honduras this season. But it’s better to be safe than sorry and, what the hell, we’re headed that way anyway.”

  As they started through the high reeds in the van, Gaston said, “Oui, but don’t you think we should let Travis and his sidekicks in on it if we intend to make our break for the border, Dick?”

  “It’s too early to make any breaks. We’re still miles from the border in the first place and Gomez is going to order Travis to position his field guns in the second. We’ll get the whole outfit across, establishing some character with Gomez in the meantime. Whether it’s a false alarm or not, I don’t think he’ll balk, later on, when I suggest going forward again.”

  Their more devious plans were interrupted when Vargas and Robles pushed forward to join them and Captain Gringo had to explain the facts of military life on the fly. The two well-meaning peons probably grasped half of what he meant about picket lines and fields of fire. In any case, they seemed willing to follow orders and he felt a little shitty about deserting them in the near future. But he’d paid for his military education and it was up to them to learn a few things for themselves. Since this whole campaign figured to be a comic opera farce in any case, he assumed they’d come out okay albeit a trifle disappointed in soldiers of fortune.

  They got to where the advance machete men were hacking away, and after that the going got rougher. The marshy ground under foot was reasonably firm this far north-west. But the sawgrass was a bitch. It sliced any bare skin it came in contact with, so Captain Gringo rolled his sleeves down and stomped the cruel grass flat ahead of him. The men behind him who were bare legged were out of luck, but they didn’t cry about it and anyone could see they were almost across.

  Captain Gringo stopped to stare soberly at the spinach green wall of trees ahead before making the final push. Gaston nudged him and said, “Look behind us, Dick.” So he did, and swore. The Iron Brigade was crossing the open marsh in their wake, strung out like a long skinny snake. Apparently Major Gomez had decided that if Heavy Weapons could make it, the rest of the outfit could make it

  Captain Gringo shook his head wea
rily and said, “Okay, Vargas, take two squads through the grass to my left and cover down on the tree line ahead. Robles, you do the same to my right. You guys with the Maxims follow Lieutenant Verrier and me.”

  He started forward again through the tall sawgrass with Gaston and the two machinegun sections behind him. He’d only gone a few yards when somebody ripped the sky open with a canvas-hook and the first shell landed behind them, smack in the center of the straggling column!

  Captain Gringo hit the muck, ignoring the sawgrass slash on his face as another shell landed closer. Gaston flopped beside him and shouted, “Merde alors! Travis has gone made!”

  “That’s not our guns shelling us, you idiot! Don’t you know a 155 when you hear one?”

  Another big shell exploded in the sawgrass as if to make Captain Gringo’s point and Gaston said, “I deserted the legion long before they had 155s, but you have a point, my child. Those are obviously not 75s they are throwing our way. But who on earth could be throwing anything? I thought this whole expedition was a political ruse!”

  “So we owe General Morales an apology. Let’s talk about it later. Where the hell is my machinegun?”

  He propped himself up on one elbow to see the man who’d been packing his Maxim heading south along the path at considerable speed. Fortunately without the machinegun. Other men were up and bolting now. Captain Gringo got to his feet and shouted, “No! Goddamn it, you guys are running the wrong way! Advance on the sound of the guns, you assholes!”

  Nobody listened. As Captain Gringo moved back to pick up the abandoned Maxim, another shell came down to hurl sawgrass, muck, and human bodies high in the air. Captain Gringo groaned as he saw the whole stupid column was reeling back into the falling drumfire, just as the enemy gunners had hoped they might.

  Snarling with fury at both sides, Captain Gringo snatched up the Maxim, turned with the heavy weapon braced on one hip, and advanced toward the tree line with the long ammo belt trailing. Gaston hefted the other gun experimentally, decided he’d only wind up with a hernia, and grabbed two ammo canisters to make himself more useful as he staggered after his younger and stronger comrade.

  Captain Gringo held his fire as he approached the tree line, but from the crackle of small arms out on either flank, he could tell both Robles and Vargas were doing things right. Everyone else had run back in panic to be slaughtered with the others strung out along the pre-targeted trail, as shell after shell screamed down on them.

  As he staggered up the far slope of the marsh something hummed like an angry bee in Captain Gringo’s left ear. He spotted the thin blue cloud of gunsmoke exposing the sniper’s position in a trailside tree and fired a short savage burst to blow lots of leaves and one mangled body out of the tree. Then he pressed on, firing blindly into the tree wall for luck until he and Gaston made it to the cover of a fallen forest giant under the edge of the leafy canopy. The Maxim coughed silent. He swore and tore the wet end of the used-up belt from the action, as Gaston handed him another. He’d just reloaded and primed his weapon when someone on the other side made a terrible mistake. They could see farther into the trees, now that they were under the canopy and clear of the brush along the edges, so it looked like a long ragged line of white clad monks approaching them through the pillars of a vast cathedral as the enemy infantry skirmishers advanced on the sound of his own gun!

  Gaston murmured, “Steady, Dick,” more to steady himself than the professional Captain Gringo, who held his fire until the skirmish line was well within rifle range and then held it some more until one of them spotted them and raised his rifle, a split second too late.

  Captain Gringo hadn’t asked whether the Maxim’s water jacket had been freshly filled that morning. He could only hope it was as he let loose a long withering blast of crotch-high hot lead that folded men like jackknives or screamed off through the trees in a fusillade of ricochets to make any second wave think twice.

  He had at least a dozen on the ground in various states of disrepair when his belt ran out again. As he hastily reloaded, someone nearby fired a rifle and another enemy went down as limp as a used contraceptive. Captain Gringo didn’t bother to worry about who’d fired. Whoever it was obviously was not on the other side and, as he opened up again with his awesome Maxim, the other side had had enough and were falling back. He blew the ass off a running skirmisher, traversed right and stitched two more across the spines. And then, even though he still had half a belt left, there was nobody left to fire at, so he stopped.

  His ears rang in the sudden silence of the forest. The sound of someone groaning in the distance sounded amazingly clear. Sergeant Vargas heard it, too, and broke cover to their right to move in as far as the wounded man and finish him off with a single rifle shot before he turned to grin back boyishly at Captain Gringo and ask, “Did we do that right, Captain?”

  Captain Gringo stood up, leaving the Maxim braced on the log for now as he said, “No. I wanted to have a chat with that hombre before you finished him. You just got yourself killed, breaking cover like that. But they seem to be assholes, too. So you’re still alive. Where’s Robles?”

  Robles called out, “Over here, Captain. Is it all right to come out, now?”

  Captain Gringo laughed and said, “Yeah. Between us we seem to have put some turps under their tail. I don’t hear their big guns either, now. Let’s see if they’re all pulling out. Robles, you take the point and we’ll move in slow and careful. Vargas, you and your guys stay with me so I can keep an eye on you. Somebody grab that Maxim and watch out for the metal. It’s hot as hell now.”

  It only took a moment to get his improvised patrol moving on the sound or, in this case, echoes of the guns again. Captain Gringo holstered his .38 when he got to the line of bodies on the ground and helped himself to a new Snider rifle and the dead man’s ammo belt. Gaston did the same a little further on. None of the dead were in uniform, despite their first-class weapons. They’d walked into his fire dressed as peon field workers, but some of them had new boots. He assumed they’d been the officers, leaders, or whatever. He’d never encountered bandits or guerrillas before who moved under artillery fire and Gaston was right about the 155 being a very modern gun, indeed.

  Up ahead, Robles stopped and pointed at something Captain Gringo couldn’t see until he moved forward to join him. It was Lieutenant Bardo. The kid was dead and covered with flies. His eyes were open and he seemed to be staring up at them surprised as hell. Bardo’s pistol was still in its holster and they hadn’t robbed the corpse of its boots. Captain Gringo nodded grimly and said, “He never knew what hit him. They weren’t bandits, either.”

  Robles said, “Look, over there, too!” and they both circled a bunch of fern to morosely gaze down at one of Bardo’s scouts. Like the young officer, the dead man had been caught flat footed. His rifle was still slung on his shoulder. Like Bardo, he’d been stabbed in the back.

  Gaston came to join them and said, “There’s another scout over behind that log. He went down with his rifle slung, too. How a bright boy like Bardo allowed them to ambush him so neatly eludes me.”

  Captain Gringo shook his head and said, “They weren’t ambushed. They were tricked. Don’t ask me how. I’m still working on it.”

  A shell rolled across the sky above the tree tops and they all winced but stayed on their feet as Captain Gringo said, “Harassing fire. Coming from miles away and not aimed at anything but our general direction.”

  Gaston said, “Oui. They pulled their battery back under cover of that skirmish line. One would gather they have settled for the hit-and-run approach. What do you suggest we do about it, Dick?”

  “There’s not much we can do, here,” Captain Gringo admitted. “They hit us pretty good and they’re running like hell. We’d better get back to the main outfit, if anything’s left of it.”

  So they did, and there wasn’t much left of the Iron Brigade.

  As they recrossed the sawgrass marsh, they gagged at the water-filled shell holes and shatte
red bodies all along the path. The big guns had been zeroed in on the crossing and the panic stricken retreat had added to the carnage. More than one wounded man had been trampled face down in the mud to suffocate. The dead women were even worse to look at, so they tried not to.

  But when Gaston nudged Captain Gringo and pointed at what looked like a muddy bundle of rags in the crushed reeds, the tall American nodded grimly and said, “Yeah, Golondrina was wearing a skirt like that.”

  He moved on, not stopping to roll her over for a better look. She’d been: such a pretty little thing. He knew she’d want to be remembered that way. But as he trudged grimly on, he promised his adelita, silently, that some son-of-a-bitch was going to pay for what they’d done to her.

  He stepped over the body of another adelita who’d died packing ammo for her soldado. She might have been pretty, too. It was hard to tell with her head smashed flat like that.

  A severed human hand lay crushed in the reeds like a stepped on crab. They detoured an overturned supply cart to see a junior officer’s body pinned under his gutted mule. The mule was still breathing despite the way its bloody guts lay festooned across the path. So Captain Gringo drew his .38 and shot it. The pistol report sent a covey of carrion crows skyward, but the big fat flies crawling over everything didn’t seem to notice.

  It got worse as they neared the far side, where most of the shells had landed as most of the people bunched up. Some of the kids tagging along with the adelitas had been pretty young. A girl of eight or ten lay face up across the body of a soldier. Her skirt was up around her waist and her long brown legs and exposed hairless groin made one think of a molested and murdered child. A big green parrot was perched on her chest, biting at the little budding breasts exposed through a rent in her blouse. Captain Gringo shot the parrot, even though he knew something else would soon replace it. He told Gaston, “I know that was dumb. Parrots are supposed to be vegetarians, damn it!”