The Badlands Brigade (A Captain Gringo Adventure Book 12)

by Lou Cameron

  Gaston shrugged and said, “Most of them are. But evolution has gone mad in the tropics. Where else would one encounter goldfish that swallow people alive, hein? At the moment I am more concerned with the species of insects that were supposed to provide our artillery cover. I did not hear any counter-battery fire when all these 155s were coming down, did you?”

  “No. Gomez ordered Tex Travis to wheel his guns in place, too, now that I think about it. But what the hell, Gomez said he’d start across after we secured the bridgehead, too. He must have sent away by mail for his commission. He sure never cracked a library book on basic field tactics.”

  As any ditch digger can tell you, dry earth is easier to move than wet. So the shell craters grew larger as they approached the far side of the marsh. As he struggled up the shattered slope with his outfit in tow, Captain Gringo spotted one of the 75s upside down near an awesome crater and muttered, “Sorry, Tex. I wasn’t thinking. Naturally they had the bivouac area zeroed before they opened fire.”

  Just beyond the wrecked 75, he spotted a familiar figure seated on the ground with his back braced against an overturned caisson. It was Major Gomez. Two soldiers on either side were trying to comfort him. Gomez looked as if he needed a damn good doctor more than the canteen of water they were trying to get down him. Captain Gringo called out, “You don’t give water to a gut-shot man, Goddamn it!” And then as the major looked up weakly at him, Captain Gringo saluted and said, “Reporting for orders, sir.”

  Gomez stared owlishly, blood and water dribbling down his chin as he tried to figure out who he was and what the hell was going on. Gomez shook his head to clear it and muttered, “We have been defeated. My first battle command and I have failed my general!”

  The tall American dropped to one knee beside him and gently lied, “We fought them off, sir. We’ve heavy casualties, but the Iron Brigade’s not licked. The enemy is in full retreat and they took some casualties, too!”

  “Es verdad? Bueno. You must take command of the advance, Captain. As you see, I have been wounded. How many of us are there to be evacuated?”

  It seemed sort of shitty to tell a dying man his outfit had just about been wiped out. So Captain Gringo said, “We’re still counting casualties, sir. Let me worry about regrouping. We’ve got to see about getting you back to Puerto Cortes.”

  Gomez shook his head and said, “Take care of the others. I am done for. You will tell the general I was in command when we drove the enemy off, eh?”

  “Of course, sir. It was a great victory.” Major Gomez didn’t answer. Captain Gringo could only hope he’d heard that last white lie as he gently closed the dead man’s eyes and informed the others, “He’s dead. Leave him here for now and let’s see if there’s anyone left to save with first aid.”

  There were a few. A very few. Artillery fire had that effect. If you were close enough to an exploding 155 to matter you just got killed. The soft ground had soaked up most of the shell splinters. As they counted noses they found about a third of the outfit had come through the shelling okay, once their ears stopped ringing. Captain Gringo told Vargas to see about a mass grave for the others and to load the few wounded on the carts that could still roll. Sergeant Robles asked where they were going, now, and Captain Gringo shrugged and said, “Back to Puerto Cortes. Where else?”

  “We are going to retreat, sir?”

  “No, we’re going to make a strategic withdrawal. That’s what you call it, when you don’t want to make it official that they’ve kicked the shit out of you.”

  ~*~

  The sun was low and shadows were long by the time Captain Gringo had the battered remnants of the Iron Brigade ready to move out. He’d made some changes in operational procedure since the dying Major Gomez had turned over to him the command of the outfit. Some of the Honduran junior officers were a little miffed when he ordered the surviving mules, including his own Suicida, hitched to the improvised ambulance carts and the one 75 that could still roll after they’d cannibalized a wheel from a total wreck.

  The gesture wasn’t lost on the enlisted men and what did second lieutenants know? The tall American ordered everyone who could walk to walk and offered to settle in Fist City with anybody who didn’t like it.

  There were no takers. Even the pissed off aristocrats thought it was a swell idea to get the hell out of there. So they started back as darkness fell, with Robles and his proven scouts out on point and the brave but less reliable Vargas and his men covering the rear of the column. Gaston agreed that a trigger-happy rear guard would at least offer some warning back there if the mysterious enemy followed up on his massacre with a night attack.

  Captain Gringo wasn’t expecting one. The guys who’d ambushed them had been led by a real pro who wouldn’t want to risk his big guns on this side of that open marsh. He’d pounded them good and pulled back as soon as the people he was butchering started offering moderate resistance. Gaston objected that it seemed an oddly cautious way to invade a country and Captain Gringo said, “I don’t think that was their game, Gaston. We’ve known all along the coastal route was a lousy direction to move an invading army.”

  “Merde alors, what would you call what hit us, if it was not an invading army? Those 155s were set up, waiting for us, well inside the Honduran border, non?”

  “Yeah. After every shoe-shine boy in Puerto Cortes knew Morales was sending us to the Rio Motagua. If they were Guatemalans you could call what they did a standard defensive move. Maybe they didn’t want us to cross the Motagua, either!”

  Gaston placed a finger alongside his nose and said, “Ahah, one sniffs Machiavelli in the evening air. Could someone be telling fibs to both sides?”

  Captain Gringo swore under his breath as he tripped over a root in the lousy light. Then he said, “I don’t know. The reason we’re still alive is that I seem to be the only guy in this war, or whatever, who doesn’t think he has all the answers. Right now I’m trying to get the poor slobs back to their presidio. That’s enough to worry about tonight.”

  For a time Gaston trudged beside him in silence before he glanced about to make sure they weren’t being overheard when he said, softly, “They can make it the rest of the way without us, Dick. I looked about for those two Texans when we were putting things back together. Neither Travis nor his friend, Boggs, lay among the fallen. They are not with us at the moment, either.”

  “I noticed. I guess they didn’t like noise. But since they’re not with us, they’re not our problem.”

  “I agree they were big enough to desert on their own, Dick. But have you considered the advantages in such despicable but trés sensible conduct?”

  “Sure I have. I told you I like to come out of these messes alive. But where in the hell do you suggest we skip to? If we’re caught deserting on this side of the border, the Hondurans will shoot us. Our original ideas about a visit to Guatemala sounded fine until I noticed there’s somebody between here and there lobbing 155s at anything moving their way!”

  “True,” Gaston sighed, “but when we get back to the presidio at Puerto Cortes, some tripple-titted Honduran officer is liable to order us out in the field again, non?”

  “Yeah, but what the hell—we lived through that the last time. You worry too much, Gaston. This shot-up outfit’s not about to go back into action without reorganization and replacements. Meanwhile I’ve got a couple of other irons in the fire.”

  “Oh, are they pretty?”

  “One of them’s beautiful and the other is a hell of a lay,” Captain Gringo chuckled then filled Gaston in on Yvonne from the French legation and the gun running Esperanza before he explained, “Esperanza said she was waiting for a boat. Boats go both ways. I’m not on such close terms with the French girl, but if we can’t hitch a ride with Esperanza’s gunrunners Yvonne might be able to wrangle us new passports people aren’t so interested in.”

  “Ah, then you have seduced the French stenographer, too?”

  “Not yet, damn it. I said she was the long s
hot. Old Esperanza and I seem to hit it off, and if she won’t help fellow adventurers for free, we still have a few bucks left between us. How much could she charge for passage on an empty smuggler’s craft, anyway?”

  Gaston pursed his lips and said, “I told you I knew Esperanza by reputation. I don’t think she would turn us in for the rewards, but one never knows when one is dealing with a businesswoman. I think you should make love to the more idealistic Yvonne and work on her for those passports. Where do you suggest we go, assuming she can get us aboard a steamer without getting arrested?”

  It was a good question. Captain Gringo grimaced and said, “Costa Rica has always been our best bet between jobs. But thanks to that damn cheating wife I’m hot there, too. Guatemala still makes sense, if we could put in up the coast on the far side of those 155s.”

  “Merde alors! They will shoot us as enemy spies if we are recognized, Dick. Those same shoeshine boys must have told everyone the notorious Captain Gringo was commanding a Honduran company!”

  “Big deal. I stand to get picked up in any fucking country where the cops can read. On the other hand, with a good fake I.D., I’d be safer in Guatemala than a lot of places. We’ve never shot anybody in Guatemala. Hell, we don’t even know anybody in Guatemala. Meanwhile, unless you want to screw around with this dumb war some more, we’d better start thinking of going some damn place, right?”

  “Oui. You must be looking forward to seducing Yvonne.” Captain Gringo didn’t answer as he took out a soggy claro and lit it. He supposed he ought to be looking forward to making love to the beautiful redhead from France. He certainly had wanted to the other night. But right now he wasn’t feeling all that sexy. He was tired and dirty and the ghastly death of poor little Golondrina had left a terrible taste in his heart.

  He hadn’t loved her. He’d been trying to figure out a polite way to get rid of her. Maybe that was why he felt so shitty about his intention. The girl would have still been alive tonight had he not taken her away from that unpleasant but safe job in San Jose. He took a drag on his claro and let it out before he said, “I never have liked that adelita bullshit. There ought to be a way to leave women, children, and dumb animals out of a war.”

  Gaston nodded and said, “Oui. She was pretty, but consider the alternatives, Dick. War is only a small part of the life of any soldier. How dreary it would be if we all had to pack our own ammo, cook our own rations, and fuck our own fists, hein? Besides, the admiration of womankind inspires us all to do things against all other common sense.”

  “Yeah. Maybe someday they’ll have a war and instead of waving flags the girls will ask the boys not to go. I wonder what the generals would do.”

  Gaston laughed, “They would have kittens, of course. But it will never happen. The female is more deadly than the male. That is why the nice girls wave flags and knit socks for the soldiers while the adelitas follow them into battle. Virgins ooh and ah and call us brutes for marching off to kill other men, and of course we eat it up. That is why men fight harder for their queens than anyone else. The poor pacifists miss this point entirely. Frankly, a world without war sounds rather dull, but if I were trying to put an end to war I would start by teaching all the little baby girls not to grow up twice as bloodthirsty as the average man.”

  Their philosophical discussion was interrupted by a Honduran shavetail falling in beside them to ask when they were going to trail-break for the night. Captain Gringo said, “We’re not going to stop for anything but the usual five minute piss calls on the hour, Lieutenant. I know they forgot to tell you, but you call what we’re doing a forced march, see?”

  “But Captain Walker, the people are tired. Many are wounded.”

  “That’s why we call it a forced march. The wounded are as well off rolling in the carts as they would be bivouacked on the ground. The rest of you will have to manage.”

  “Madre de Dios! You mean all through the night?”

  “Yeah, and into the morning until we know for sure we’re clear of another attack. You may not have noticed, but we’re not in shape to take another attack, so let’s not I know you and your people are tired. I’m tired, too, and it’s going to get worse before it gets better. Major Gomez was a brave man and he tried, but now that I’m in command, this outfit will be expected to soldier! Puerto Cortes is no further away than real soldiers are expected to march without stopping. So we’re not going to stop.”

  “But, Captain, we have women and children with us, too!”

  “Tough titty. I didn’t order anyone to bring his family along. Civilian stragglers can find their way back as best they can. Any soldier who drops out will be charged with desertion. So tell ’em if their adelitas can’t keep up they’re to wave bye-bye and keep marching.”

  “But, sir—”

  “But me no buts, Lieutenant. You have your orders. Do ’em! If you want to bitch about the way I’m conducting this withdrawal, wait ‘til we get back to the presidio and file formal charges. I allow smoking and pissing on a forced march. I don’t put up with whimpering.”

  The young Honduran gasped, gritted his teeth, and fell back, cursing under his breath. Gaston chuckled, “I don’t think you made a new friend there, Dick.”

  Captain Gringo said, “I wasn’t trying to. He’ll march better now that he’s pissed off. Nothing’s better for a blistered heel than hating your superior officer on the trail. By the time we get these poor jerk-offs safely home, they’ll all be mad as hell at me. But meanwhile we’ll get them back.”

  Gaston said, “Tell me something I don’t know from my days in the legion. I’ll cover your back as soon as it’s light enough to aim. I don’t think we have to worry about the enlisted men. At the risk of embarrassing you, I have heard good things about you from among the peasantry. Some of the men seem quite devoted to you, as a matter of fact.”

  Captain Gringo shrugged and said, “I must have been too easy on them, then.”

  He started marching faster as he called out, “Pick it up, you ragged-ass pobrecitos! Uno. Dos. Tres. In step, you silly sons-of-one-legged whores! Dress those rifles and lift your unwashed feet like soldados, for God’s sake! We should have been in Puerto Cortes hours ago. Are you men or snot-nosed little. muchachos? Let’s move this fuckin’ outfit down the fuckin’ trail!”

  Gaston laughed and said, “That ought to do it,” as the column surged forward, stumbling and cursing. Behind them, a private growled, “The man is a maniac. If only he wasn’t wearing those bars ...”

  But another man snorted, “Bullshit, Captain Gringo needs no bars for to have a pobrecito like you for breakfast. Don’t be a baby. It’s about time they gave us a real officer!”

  Another chimed in, “Es verdad. Captain Gringo is the best. He is hard and tough, but just. You see how he walks like the rest of us? You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Pablo. You said you wished for to soldier, and now, by the beard of Christ, you are soldiering under a man who knows his business! I say Viva Captain Gringo, and I will fight any man who does not say he is proud to serve under such a bull of a man!”

  ~*~

  The sun was high and getting higher when the remnants of the Iron Brigade marched into Puerto Cortes. They’d separated some men from the boys on the long forced march, for more than one unreliable or just plain exhausted soldado had dropped out of the column along with most of the adelitas. Half of those left were so pissed off that steam was coming out their ears. But his men marched in step as Captain Gringo led them through the streets of Puerto Cortes toward the presidio. One man with a bandaged foot left a dotted line of bloody footprints on the pavement as he marched, but he was in step, too, with his rifle dressed on those beside him.

  There was no brass band to greet them. The civilians they passed on the streets stared bemused as they no doubt wondered what the hell they were doing back in town. A lookout on the wall of the presidio shouted down and the gates swung open as they marched briskly in with the vehicles and one salvaged field gun in their wake. Captain Gri
ngo marched them to the center of the parade ground, gave them a right face, and told them they were at ease. Three men fainted on the spot. Most of the others just hunkered down as Captain Gringo left to report in with Gaston and a couple of Honduran junior officers in his wake.

  A Honduran short colonel he’d never seen before came out of the HQ building as they approached, staring at them thunderstruck. Captain Gringo stopped, hit a brace, and saluted before he snapped, “Morales Iron Brigade, reporting, Colonel.”

  The older man said, “If you say so. I’m Lieutenant Colonel Duran. I just arrived from the capital to take command of this garrison, so you must forgive my confusion, ah, Captain. But it was my understanding you people were on the Rio Motagua under Major Gomez.”

  “We never got there, sir. Major Gomez is dead. We were stopped cold by heavy artillery fire. Before he died, Major Gomez turned the brigade over to me and what you see out there is all that’s left of it.”

  Colonel Duran looked like a pouter pigeon in a soldier suit, but apparently he could count. He stared morosely “at the men out on the parade ground and said, flatly, “That is no brigade. It’s not even a battalion.”

  The tall American nodded. “I know, sir. It was never a brigade to begin with. We started out with a couple of rifle companies, an artillery section, and my heavy weapons company. In my book that would be a skinny battalion no matter what the general called it and, as you see, we’ve been whittled down pretty good.”