The day after: An apocalyptic morning (153 page)

              The second battle had begun.

              Four of Stinson's men had been taken down with the initial volley and an additional two since then. Now everyone had found reasonably good cover behind rocks or trees. Stu's voice was screaming over the radio, demanding to know what the hell was going on but he ignored it for the moment. He fired a short burst at one of the flashes coming from the hill, knowing he probably wasn't hitting anything but doing it anyway.

              "Goddammit, Brandon," he shouted at one of his corporals, "easy on that automatic. Bursts you asshole, bursts! Don't fire a whole fuckin clip off at once!"

              Brandon ignored him completely, slamming another magazine in and firing half of it off with one trigger pull. Perhaps the first three bullets went where he had aimed them but the rest flew well over the top of the hills as the barrel was forced up.

              Stinson ignored the fact that he'd been ignored and turned his attention elsewhere. Two of his squads were still lingering in the rear, where it was reasonably safe. "Sanders, Jackson," he barked at the leaders of those squads. "Get your people the fuck up here and help us put fire on that hill! Get in the fuckin war why don't you?"

              They at least did as he ordered, bringing their understrength squads up to covering positions. One of them, a young private from the Grass Valley raid, didn't move fast enough or crouch low enough and was drilled with two bullets. Stinson shook his head a little, wondering just what the hell was going on. What were they doing out here, having a gun battle with a bunch of women? What was the damn point?

              "Stinson, Lima," Stu's voice barked from the radio once more, "what the hell is going on out there? Report!"

              "Asshole," Stinson muttered, ducking as the next volley of fire came rolling in from in front of them. The tree he was hiding behind took several shots right on the other side of his head. It was becoming such a common occurrence that he hardly jumped. He pulled out his radio and keyed up. "Stinson here," he said, shouting into it so he could be heard over the noise of gunfire, "we're taking fire from the hills at our one o'clock. I estimate platoon strength up there at least."

              "Who is firing from up there?" Stu demanded. "They don't have that many people!"

              "Well they sure as shit dug them up from somewhere!" Stinson yelled back. "Or maybe we're imagining all this fucking lead flying at us!"

              "You watch your mouth with me," Stu said angrily. "Remember who you're talking to!"

              "I remember," Stinson said. "We're pinned down at the moment but seem to be safe. The fire has slacked off some. I've got seven casualties."

              "Hold in place for now," Stu told him. "And conserve ammo if you can. Lima, are you there? What's your situation?"

              Lima's voice came on the air a moment later. He was very excited and gunfire could be heard in the background. "We're under fire from the hills," he yelled. "We're also taking crossfire from the left! I have nine dead and four wounded!"

              There was a long silence over the airwaves as Stu pondered this new information. Finally he came back on. "Stinson, Lima," he said, "you need to move your troops forward. Split your commands in two and advance half at a time! One group gives covering fire while the other group moves forward and then you do it the other way."

              Stinson looked at his radio in disbelief for a moment. Around him, those squad leaders that had radios were looking at theirs as well. Was Stu insane? Advance into that fire? The bitches hadn't even pulled out their automatic weapons yet.

              "Stinson, Lima, Goddammit, did you copy me?"

              Stinson keyed his radio up, not sure what was going to come out of his mouth. "Stu," he said into it. "With all due respect, we'll take very heavy casualties if we try to advance against them. They're behind heavy cover and they have automatic weapons."

              "I agree with Stinson, sir," Lima cut in before Stu had a chance to reply. "I'm not sure we can take this hill with the troops we have available."

              "Now listen up, you two," Stu growled back at them. "You will advance to those hills now! At this very fucking minute! We need to take them and get rid of this resistance while we have a fucking chance to do it, before they shift their forces around again and make it even harder. The covering fire from the static half of the advance will keep their heads down while the other half moves. You won't just be charging into a slaughter. Now fucking do it or I'll see every one of you that lives through this hang when we get back to Auburn! Or better yet, I'll fucking shoot you myself right here!"

              There was another pause and then Lima's voice said: "Copy, sir. We'll be moving in."

              Stinson continued to stare at his radio, shaking in fear and rage.

              "Stinson," Stu's voice barked, "did you copy your orders?"

              His men were looking at him, waiting for him to do something. Finally he did. He was naturally the type to avoid confrontation with others, particularly those in power over him. True, he had become somewhat more aggressive over the course of the march, he had even mouthed off to Stu just now. But when push came to shove, when the time for a real decision came, he found himself unable to deny the authority. "I copy," he said into the radio. "We'll be moving in shortly."

              He actually heard the collective gasp of his remaining men as he said these words. He could feel the burning of their murderous glares upon his face. He was suddenly very scared, and not just of being killed in battle. But he allowed no fear to show on his face. Calmly, he turned to them. "You heard the man," he said evenly. "First, second, and third squads, get ready to advance. Fourth and fifth squads, get ready to lay down some covering fire."

              Nobody moved, they all continued to glare at him. He stared back. "You guys want to mutiny?" he asked them. "You want to disobey orders and pull back from here? Go ahead if you dare. Just remember, you may be saving your asses for the moment, but we have to go back to Auburn eventually. You'll live through the battle but you'll hang for mutiny."

              Uncertainty showed in most faces at his words. They realized there wasn't really much of an option. As perverse as it sounded, their best chance of long-term survival meant rushing into the onslaught of rifle fire.

              "Let's get it done," Stinson said, sensing the change in mood. "We don't have all fuckin day. Fourth and fifth, covering fire!"

              A rifle popped from one of the men, sending a bullet towards the Garden Hill positions. Another pop followed. Soon, nearly twenty rifles were firing at them.

              "All right," Stinson said over the tactical radio, "first, second, and third squads, move in!"

              They obeyed him. Though they had been on the very verge of mutiny a moment before, thirty men now pulled themselves to their feet, hefted their weapons, and began rushing forward.

              The covering group fired as quickly as they could, plastering the hillside with bullets in an attempt to keep the enemy's head down. It worked to a certain degree but not quite as well as was hoped. The flashes of return fire still appeared only not as intense as the initial barrage. Men in the advancing platoon began to fall. Two of them fell down about thirty yards in and then another three went quickly after this. One more crashed to the ground at about the fifty-yard line.

              "Get down," Stinson ordered over the tactical radio. "Get down and take cover!"

              The men didn't have to be told twice. They hurled themselves into the mud and found whatever piece of shelter they could from the rain of lead that was hitting them. No sooner had they settled in however, than bullets began to plink in from another direction; from the hillside to the right of them.

              "Goddammit," Corporal Givens, one of the squad leaders from the advancing half of the platoon, yelled into his radio. "We're taking fire from our two o'clock. They've got us in a fucking crossfire again!" Even as these words were leaving his mouth, the man to the right of him suddenly gasped and slumped forward as a bullet smashed through his shoulder and into his chest.

              "Hold in place," Stinson yelled back. "Start putting fire on the hill in front of you! The sooner we make it to that hill, the sooner they stop shooting at us."

              Givens heard this and shook his head in disgust. "What the fuck are we doing this for?" he mumbled to himself. To his men, he yelled: "Covering fire on the hill, right now!"

              The rifles began to pop as the lead group took over the job of keeping the enemy occupied. Stinson gripped his rifle and looked at the men with him. "Let's go," he told them. "We'll advance to the left of Givens' group and take up position fifty yards in front of them. Go fast and keep low."

              They began their dash. Stinson, as any commander would do, waited until they were all under way and then brought up the rear. His feet pumped up and down and his back cried in protest from the hunched over gait. Mud splashed up over his legs and onto his feet. He stepped over the top of the bodies that had fallen in the first advance, not giving them a second glance, not even Private Landau, who was still screaming for help. Two of his men went down with body shots before they even reached Givens' position. But it was when they passed this point and began to move into new territory that the punishment really started. The defenders on the hill opened up with their automatic and semi-automatic weapons.

              Stinson clearly saw the rapid, flashbulb-like flashes from the gaps in the cover. He kept running. Three of his men were peppered with bursts of fire, blood flying out of holes ripped in their backs, brains flying out of smashed skulls, bodies thumping into the mud. He stepped over them and kept going. Two more men were mowed down - one with legs cut out from beneath him, one with a gut shot that exited just above the buttocks. Stinson himself felt a sting across the side of his face, had an impression of something whizzing just under his ear. It took him a moment to realize that a bullet had just kissed him, digging a furrow in his face but not penetrating. He ran faster, wanting desperately to dive down and take cover.

              At last it was time. When two more men were down and the rest were sixty yards closer to the hill, he gave the order. "Down! Take cover!"

              Within a second every last one of his men was face down in the mud, scrambling for cover.

              Stinson found shelter behind a large rock. A bullet zinged off of it, chipping a piece of stone free. He touched his face and his hand came away bloody. His body tried to react to the thought that he had come within a millimeter or so of having a bullet drill right through his face, but he refused to allow it. This wasn't over yet. He pulled out his radio and keyed up. "Givens, are you there?"

              "Here, sir!" Givens' voice replied.

              "Advance to the left of us," he ordered. "Same drill. We'll keep fire on the hill for you."

              "Yes, sir," Givens answered, obviously not happy about this order but not protesting it either. "We're moving in."

              Stinson looked to his men. "Covering fire!" he screamed.

              On the other side of the battlefield, Lima's group was advancing as well, although they were taking a few more casualties. The left side of Christine's platoon was in a better position to provide a crossfire and Christine, taking advantage of this, had most of her automatic weapons shifted over there. This forced Lima's group to place their covering fire in two different directions at two different targets. It also forced them to make shorter hops. In all, Lima's group lost sixteen men in the first hundred yards, nine of them killed outright, the other seven lying defenseless in the mud, bleeding from their wounds and, in some cases, pleading for help from their comrades.

              But still they advanced, steadily closing the gap between the positions they had held all morning and the hills beyond where the Garden Hill defenders were entrenched.

              Back at the main line, where Stu and his covering platoon were still uselessly firing upon empty hills, Stu was listening to the reports on the radio and becoming excited. Sure, the casualties were a little heavier than he'd expected, but they were advancing. They were going to take those hills and rout those bitches all the way back to the walls of the town. He had every confidence that he would still be inside of that wall and in possession of that community center within two hours.

              High above, Skip, Jack, and Sherrie watched the steady, though costly advance as well. As before it seemed almost surreal watching from 2000 feet over the action. All they saw were flashes from the weapons, a haze of smoke over the area, and the tiny figures of men dashing through the mud or crouching in it. Skip could see that the group attacking Mick's position on the left flank was having a much harder go of it than the bunch attacking Paula on the right. Part of this was that they did not seem to be as ably led. Another part of it was that Christine's left side positions, being closer, were putting much more accurate fire on them. He could also see that it would soon be time for the friendly forces to pull back.