Once an Eagle (75 page)

Now they'd lost it. Well, at least they might be able to siphon off some of Atkins' people opposing the main landing.

But the curious thing was there was still no firing.

He worked his way up to the top of the dune, dropped down beside Feltner, pulled out his map, wiped his field glasses against his shirt and peered through the tortured black stems of the manzanita. Yes, there were the railroad tracks, the eucalyptus grove, the two buildings marked on the map, the broken wall, and just beyond the tracks the old road from Seaside. He could see no movement—he was about to turn impatiently to Feltner when a man stepped out of the shadows of the grove, an officer, raised a cigarette to his lips. For a moment he peered west, toward the main landing, where small-arms fire now crackled briskly; then he turned and Damon saw the wide red band on his left arm. Behind him, half-hidden in a clump of scrub oak, stood a motorcycle and sidecar; the flag orderly squatted beside it, waiting. He sighed with relief.

“Umpire,” he said to Feltner, who peered through his own glasses with a harried, drawn expression.

“Oh yes. I'm sorry, Major. I didn't see it—I just saw him moving. Jackson here spotted him.”

“That's all right. Better to be safe than ruled out.” He turned to Jackson. “See anybody else, Hawkeye?”

The Kentucky boy studied the buildings, the grove, the rise beyond it. Damon followed his glance, saw it pause on a ground squirrel, move on again. “Nary a soul,” he murmured. “Except for the feller with the scooter.”

“Good.” Damon got to his feet. “We're wasting time. Let's go on down there.” Turning to Sergeant Bowcher he said: “Wave them all on up, on the double.”

“Yes, sir.”

He hurried down the slope to the clump of deserted buildings. The eucalyptus trees smelled of smoke and urine and beeswax, an alien but not unpleasant odor. As the men came up he deployed them. He had two squads fill the breaks in the old wall with dead brush and placed the BAR teams there, set up his machine guns in the bushes on each flank, and sent out scouts in both directions along the edge of the road. The umpire, a lieutenant colonel with a tired, lined face and a taffy-colored mustache, watched him silently. He nodded once, went on giving orders.

“Now if anything comes along that road I don't want any firing or rebel-yelling or anything else,” he told Bowcher and Starker and several other NCOs. “No one will fire except on command. Pass the word.—Where's De Luca?”

“Right here, Major.”

“Get on that box of yours, Dee. Get me HATCHET. Quick as you can.” The boy bent over the black bulk of the portable radio, fiddling with it. There was no sound. “What's the matter?”

“Can't get them. Can't get anything …” De Luca looked up angrily. “It got wet when we came in. These lousy 131s, I tell you, Major—”

“All right,” Damon cut him off. “Keep at it. —Braun!”

“Yes, sir.”

“Get back to the main landing. Your best bet is double back to the beach. Find Colonel Wilhelm or Colonel Westerfeldt and tell them I have reached the old Seaside Road unopposed and am dug in, interdicting all White movement. I am also in a position to exploit the left flank of Del Monte Heights through Torre Canyon and Hill 83.”

“Yes, sir.” Braun turned to go.

“Wait a minute. Repeat that back.”

Braun stared at him. He was a quick, eager boy, with a good eye and fine stamina, but he was shivering from the Pacific and visibly nervous. “What, sir?”

“I said: repeat back to me what I've just told you.”

Braun got the first part right, the second part wrong. The usual pattern.

“No,” Damon said patiently. “I'll say it once more and then I want you to give it back exactly.” He repeated the message while Braun hung on his words, his mouth open. This time the boy got it right and Damon smiled.

“That's the pitch. Take off, now. Speed is important.”

He made some other dispositions. The radio sputtered and roared for a moment, then went out again, while De Luca cursed at it. He studied the map with Feltner and Captain Booth. The sound of firing drifted up to them from the main landing, punctuated with the thump of artillery from the White forces. It was going to take too long. Far too long, with a runner. It was a difficult decision. He could leave a token force here—a machine-gun squad, say—and push on inland; he could bend south and west to hook up with the regiment; he could stay where he was. Part of him wanted to push off for Del Monte; but if the Whites were to take it into their heads to come up that road in force …

The umpire was gazing at him—a steady, piercing gaze that held just the faintest suspicion of a smile at the corners of his mouth. He felt a rush of irritation, thrust it aside. He looked at his watch. Nine twenty. Was that all? They'd hardly got ashore. No: it would jeopardize too much to leave the road lightly held. The beachhead had to take priority. It was a great chance, a tremendous chance; but he would have to pass it up. The umpire had opened his notebook and was making some notations, biting on his mustache. Damon wondered what he was writing, then forgot about it, looking around. All eyes were on him. One word from him—one word!—and this supine, cleverly concealed configuration would leap to its feet and dispose itself in columns, in ranks, in skirmish lines … He sighed. The sun felt warm in the grove. This would be a lovely spot to live if it was this sunny and warm in January. A place to retire, maybe; when the hurly-burly's done, when the battle's lost and—

He started. Jackson, on the slope to his right, was pumping his rifle frantically up and down. He signaled back. “All right,” he said, his voice loud in the quiet. “Enemy in force, coming up the road. You will fire only on command.”

Horses. Cavalry, coming up the road at a fast trot. A full troop. He ran his eyes over his command: they were perfectly quiet, staring ahead over their weapons. A maneuver, an exercise, but there was nevertheless a faint swelling in the throat, that old, thick pulsing of the blood. Rodriguez at the machine gun near him was grinning, his eyes slitted. Damon wondered where he'd seen that look before, couldn't remember. He watched the troop approaching, bobbing along. Damn fools. Walking right into it. He waited until they were within a hundred yards or so and said crisply:

“Open fire.”

The sudden uproar of blanks was deafening. The lead riders reined up, milling; then one of them raised his pistol and all at once they were charging, coming straight down the lane of disintegrating macadam and weeds. Damon heard himself exclaim: “For Christ sake—” The machine guns clattered away, the loaders feeding the belts smoothly. The cavalry was rushing nearer, as if borne on the cool wind—fifty yards, thirty, at full gallop, a fearsome onslaught: they looked enormous, full of might; the pistols winked brightly here and there against their mass. Two men jumped up from their places by the wall. “Halsman! Brien!” he roared at them, “—get down!”

And then they were on them—a thundering, howling legion. Damon had one last glimpse of the flag orderly wildly waving a huge white flag and Rodriguez still grinning, intent, rocking the gun's muzzle upward—and then men and horses were everywhere, leaping over the wall, wheeling and dancing, spraying sand in their faces. Damon jumped up, shouting angrily, heard a whistle shrill in sharp bursts: three, four times. The umpire was standing upright in his sidecar, pointing at several horsemen.

“No, you don't! Halt your command,” he shouted. “Halt your command!”

There were now several fights going on inside the wall. Two infantry men had pulled a trooper from his horse and all three were rolling in the dirt; another soldier was sitting down holding his shoulder.

“All right,” Damon called, going over to the combatants. “Break it up, now!” Sergeant Bowcher was pulling them apart. Another infantryman was crawling away through a perfect forest of horses' legs.

The troop's captain, a tall, wasp-waisted man with black mustaches and a thin hooked nose, shouted some commands, danced up to the umpire and saluted. “Murdoch, Troop C. I shall accept their surrender.”

“You will not,” the umpire retorted. “I'd say it's very much the other way around.”

The Captain stared down at him. “What's that you say?” Horses were still milling all around the buildings. Bowcher had broke up the fist fight, and the dismounted trooper was looking for his horse. “These people,” the cavalryman demanded, “—what the hell are they doing here, anyway? Way out here?”

“Let me read you something, Captain.” The umpire took a piece of paper out of his blouse pocket and unfolded it. “Quote. The Orange Forces will execute a diversionary feint in conjunction with the main landing at oh-eight-thirty hours in the vicinity of the Oliveira Farm, with the end in view to securing their left flank and interdicting the superseded Monterey-Seaside Highway.” He replaced the paper. “This force has been deployed here for nine minutes.”

The troop commander scowled. “Very well. We've overrun them.”

“I think not. In point of fact, Captain, you've been all but wiped out.” He opened his notebook. “I am ruling that you have just sustained eighty percent casualties.”

“Eighty!”
The troop commander struck his thigh. “That's preposterous …”

“Is it? Where was your route security? You came up that road at a fast trot without outposts or point. Why, Captain? Look at Orange's field of fire, look at his automatic weapons.” He pointed to the gun positions, the gunners, dappled in the sparse shade of the eucalyptus trees. “I am forced to rule that your troop is eliminated as an effective fighting force.”

The Captain swore, glaring at the umpire, then at Damon. “It wouldn't have happened like this in a real combat situation, I can tell you that …”

“No,” the umpire said quietly, watching him. “You'd have just murdered one hundred and fifty good men.”

The Captain swung his horse around in a fury. “All right,” he snapped, “—what do you want with us now? What do I do?”

Damon stepped up to him. “One moment, Captain. Your mount, please.”

“Eh?” Murdoch looked as if Damon had asked him for his breeches.

“Dismount your troop, please. We want your horses.”

“
What?
That's insane—what do you want with them?”

“We're going to ride them.”

“You're going to—?”

“That's right. Ride them.”

The Colonel sat down on the sidecar and began to laugh, bent over, his hands on his knees.

“Sir,” Damon said. “They're ours. I need them.”

“That's rot!” Murdoch shouted. “I appeal this—Colonel, I appeal this!”

The Colonel finally stopped laughing and looked up at the cavalryman. “The Orange commander is within his rights. Dismount your troop. They're his—if he wants them.”

“Now, wait!” Murdoch protested. “That's out!—if we're dead so are our mounts …”

“Not necessarily. I rule”—the umpire made a quick little notation—“that forty-five horses are unwounded and recoverable by the Orange forces.”

“All right,” Damon called. “Who can ride? Who's ever been on a horse? All who can ride step forward.”

There was a great commotion. Soldiers climbed into the saddles, laughing and calling to one another, while the dismounted troopers glared at them.

“This is more like it, Major,” Jackson said. “Riding in style … Where to?”

A powerfully built private named Stankula was lying half across a saddle, his legs flailing in the air; Bowcher and Chip Booth were laughing at him wildly.

“Stankula,” Damon said, “you're from Brooklyn—you've never been on a horse in your life.”

Stankula grinned, still struggling ineffectually. “Ain't anything to it, is there? Just climb on and stay on.”

Damon laughed. “All right. Someone show him how. If he falls off, he stays off.—Hines, I want you to hold here, with the machine guns. Set up a two-way block in case of any retreating White forces.”

“Right, Major.”

He swung into the saddle of Murdoch's mount. The umpire called to him: “Major, I am ruling that you have sustained two percent casualties. Your orders, please.”

“Oh. Yes. I am detaching my weapons platoon to hold a block on the road. With the remainder of my command I propose to advance, mounted and on foot, via Torre Canyon and Pilarcitos Ridge to Hill 83, flanking Del Monte Heights.”

“I see.” The Colonel jotted something down in his notebook. “Very well. De l'audace, toujours de l'audace…” Laughing he went over to his umpire-circuit field jack. “Good luck, Major.”

 

“Our team is
red—hot,” Colonel Westerfeldt chanted. Standing in the center of the tent he did a shuffling two-step, slapped his belly lightly and repeated: “Our team is red—hot!” He was a big man with a heavy, bearlike body and a full, genial face and was easily the most popular officer in the division. “Collins!” he shouted.

A thin, dark-haired soldier stepped inside the tent flap and said: “Sir?”

“You found Colonel Wilhelm yet?”

“No, sir.”

“Well, keep at it. He's got to be around here somewhere. Doubt if even Dutch took off before we secured the problem.” Turning back to Damon and Lieutenant Colonel MacFarlane he struck a sententious, martial pose. “Now I called you gentlemen over here for a very important conference. Yessir.” Bending over a chest at the foot of his cot he took out a handsome leather case, unfastened half a dozen straps and extracted a bottle and four nested brass cups. “The time has come, the walrus said, to talk of many things: of flanks and mounts and landing boats, and looping double wings… ” He cocked an eye at Damon, who grinned.

“Pretty damn clever, Westy,” MacFarlane said; he was short and powerfully built, with a low forehead and square, bulldog face. “Is that a Westerfeldt original?”