The Fracas Factor (20 page)

He looked up. There was only one of the enemy still on his feet. Joe carefully rested the pistol on his arm and shot him. Then, still on his belly, he completely reloaded the revolver, cocked it, and cautiously came to his feet. He walked in a crouch. The gun was extended and ready for fire.

At the side of the machinegun nest, Joe stared down and found that only one of the gunners remained alive. The man was in agony and couldn’t possibly survive, especially without immediate medical care. Joe shot him through the heart to take him out of his misery.

Then he turned and made his way over to Paul Warren. Paul was still alive, but he was going fast. He looked up at Joe and said, “I owed you a life.” Then he died.

Joe Mauser turned wearily and started up for the ridge of stone where Max’s rifle fire had been coming from. Max was wounded. Joe pulled off his jacket and his white shirt and began ripping it into bandages.

Max said, “Zen, Joe, we really hit them, didn’t we? First time I ever been in the dill in my life.”

Joe worked on him quickly. Then he leaned back on his knees and said, “Listen, Max. The closest medics are probably up on that hill. I’m going to leave you here, understand? I’ll move you over to that shade, under the ridge, but then I’ll have to go. I’ll be back as soon as possible.”

“Sure, Joe.”

Chapter Eighteen

Joe Mauser put his jacket back on, picked the little man up in his arms, and carried him to the shade. Max had fainted from the pain involved in being moved, but he had revived by the time Joe returned from an expedition to get the canteens of the fallen machine-gunners. He also brought some of their army rations, though he doubted that Max was going to do any eating.

“Okay, Max,” Joe said. “Hold on. We’ll be back soon.”

He went to one side, where Freddy Soligen could see him, and made motions for the telly reporter to come on. He took the gadget bag that Warren had been carrying earlier, including the cameraman’s tripod, and led the way up the arroyo. It was narrow, winding, rocky, and difficult to ascend. Before them, the shelling seemed to have lessened considerably in intensity. Damn it, was Bitter Dave preparing for the assault?

“I hope the hell we make it in time, after all this,” Joe muttered. Freddy merely groaned, saving his breath the better to tote his heavy equipment.

The final score of meters were the steepest and both were panting when they reached the summit. A voice rang out, “Halt!” And then, registering astonishment, “Who in the hell are you?”

“Friends,” Joe answered. Both Joe and Freddy were in civilian clothes, and both were carrying telly camera equipment, so Joe wasn’t particularly afraid of being shot.

“Well, get the hell out of here, before you get your asses shot off.”

Instead, they hurried forward, bent double. Before jumping down into the entrenchments, Joe shot a quick look about the knoll. It was a shambles. Ruined equipment, including two knocked out field guns and several wagons, was everywhere. The horses that had originally drawn the wagons were dead and stretched out on the ground. Exposed to the sun, they already stank.

There were only two men in this section of the trench; obviously, the marshal didn’t expect attack from this point. Both of the men were dirty and unshaven and their clothes were a mess. Both carried rifles, although one of them was a captain. His name was Bowles.

The captain stared at Joe. “Why, you’re Major Joe Mauser. Where the hell’d you come from?” he asked.

“By a path I know about from an earlier fracas. What’s the situation, Captain?”

“You’ve been kicked out of Category Military. You’re not allowed on a reservation during a fracas.”

“What’s the situation?” Joe asked nonetheless.

“Everything’s pickled. Only a few of us made it here to this summit. The general took a freak hit early in the action and was put out of the running.”

“That’s what Warren thought happened,” Joe muttered. “Go on.”

“We tried to capitulate, but Bitter Joe wasn’t having any. Only a handful of us got to this point. We dug in. He brought up all of his field artillery and has been shelling us ever since. We keep digging further in, but we’re still taking casualties, although the fire’s falling off.”

“Where’s the Marshal?” Joe said.

“This way,” The captain led, leaving his one private behind to continue to watch the area that had been thought impassable, but which Joe and Freddy had proved otherwise.

Freddy called after him, “Do you know a Rank Private named Sam Soligen?”

“I don’t think so,” Bowles said, turning down a traverse trench. There were wounded stretched out on army blankets on the floor of the trench and the captain, Joe, and Freddy had to wind in and out among them. Joe could see that some of them had already died. He wondered where they were putting the rest of the already dead. They certainly didn’t have the time for burial squads, nor could they afford to expose themselves.

“How many officers do you have left?” he asked Bowles.

“Three, including me. Another captain and a lieutenant. Both have copped one, but are still on their feet.”

They reached a larger trench and came to a dugout. They entered and found an improvised field hospital. A single kerosene mantle lamp lit it. The floor was covered with wounded men. There was an improvised operating table composed of several wooden ammunition boxes that had once held artillery shells. A single doctor, his once white coat smeared with blood, worked wearily with two medics. The doctor had obviously been at it for more hours than he could remember.

“Where’s the general?” Joe asked him.

“Over in the corner. He comes and goes in and out of delirium.”

A shell broke above the dugout and dirt sifted down from the ceiling.

Joe, followed by Captain Bowles, went over to the army cot Stonewall Cogswell was lying on. It was the only cot in the dugout. The former Field Marshal looked lucid, though he seemed to be in pain. He was breathing deeply.

He looked up at Joe and recognized him. “Mauser?” he asked. “Take over, Mauser. Get my lads out of this death trap.” Then his eyes glazed and he began muttering meaninglessly. He ordered General Jack Alshuler to take his heavy cavalry around the enemy’s flank.

Meanwhile, Freddy was anxiously questioning the doctor, “Sam Soligen, Rank Private. You know anything about him?”

The doctor motioned wearily with his head. “He’s over there, against that wall. Battle fatigue. They used to call it shell-shock. He’ll be all right, when and if we can get him back to a hospital.”

Freddy hurried over, letting the doctor go back to his job of patching up bodies.

Joe said to Bowles, “Let’s give this situation a look.” Joe headed back for the entrance to the dugout. “Let’s meet the other officers,” he said. “The shelling seems to have fallen off considerably.”

In the trench outside they began to run into Rank Privates and Noncoms. Some were at work digging more dugouts; some were repairing sections of the entrenchments that had been caved in by the shellfire.

Bowles explained. “We’re in deep enough that it takes a direct hit or a burst of shrapnel immediately overhead to inflict any casualties.”

“But it’s just a matter of time,” Joe growled.

They came up on a trench which overlooked the valley below. In it were a captain and a lieutenant, both bandaged, using binoculars. In the far distance, Joe Mauser could make out Bitter Dave’s forces, even with the naked eye.

“Hank, Chris,” Bowles said, summoning the two in the trench.

They turned. Bowles said, “Major Joe Mauser, this is Captain Fordham and Lieutenant Vance.”

The two stared at Joe. There wasn’t a man in Category Military, certainly not an officer, who didn’t know the Joe Mauser story. It was commonly thought that Major Mauser had taken a raw deal from the Category Military Department.

Captain Bowles cleared his throat and said, “General Cogswell has just turned the command over to Major Mauser.”

Captain Fordham turned his stare to Bowles. “Are you drivel-happy? Mauser isn’t even an officer any more. He’s not even in Category Military. It’s illegal for him to even be on the Military Reservation with a fracas going on.”

“We’ll worry about that after we get down off this hill,” Joe told him flatly. “Let me have your glasses, captain.”

Fordham handed over his binoculars.

Joe Mauser looked out over the terrain for long time. Finally, he brought them down and turned to the three worn-out infantry officers.

He said, “The reason the barrage has fallen off is because Bitter Dave has run short of shells. But I can make out supply wagons coming up. But there’s something worse than that. He’s also bringing up two heavy mortars—real heavies. When he gets them into firing position, the top of this hill won’t last an hour. We’ve got to pull out soon.”

“Pull out?” Chris Vance asked bitterly. “If we could pull out don’t you think we would have done it yesterday? See those white flags?” He pointed out two white flags. “We can’t even surrender.”

Joe said, “There’s a path of sorts, leading down an arroyo to your rear. Have your men throw away their guns, their grenades, and every other weapon they might have on hand. Have them improvise as many stretchers as they can. We’ll head down the hill. The walking wounded and those who haven’t copped one will carry or support those badly hit. Get to it. If Bitter Dave gets his new supply of shells up, we’ve had it.”

“Why throw away our guns?” Fordham said, scowling with resentment.

“Because there’s not enough of you still operative to make any difference, anyway. Sooner or later, your retreating column will run into some of Bitter Dave’s lads. As soon as he discovers the hill is short of men, he’ll send out cavalry patrols to locate you. The minute you see even one of Langenscheidt’s lads, everybody will throw up his arms in surrender.”

“They’d mow us down,” Bowles said. “They won’t let us surrender. Like Chris here pointed out, they’re not observing our white flags.”

“No, they won’t,” Joe said, exuding more confidence than he felt. “Those men down there are mercenaries. Bitter Dave is so enraged at Stonewall that he’s drivel-happy, but no professional mercenary is going to cut down a column of unarmed men. They might find themselves in a similar pickled situation a month from now. Get to it, men.”

The three officers left to obey his orders.

Freddy Soligen came up, lugging his equipment. He said, “The doc says Sam will be all right, if we can get out of here. He’ll never be able to fight in another fracas, which is okay as far as I’m concerned. What do I do now, Joe?”

“Get to work. Get those white flags on film. Get all those wounded lads laying in the bottom of the trenches, and get the men throwing away their guns. Try to get some pathos into it. Just don’t film me.”

“Wizard,” Freddy said. He began to set up his tripod.

Joe said, “One more thing, Freddy. If we pull this off we’ll throw the book at Langenscheidt. And you’ll have pulled off the biggest beat in the history of Category Communications, Branch Fracas News. Every buff in the country will be shouting your praises. You’ll get your two bounces in caste.”

Freddy looked at him and said, “The only thing that counts at all is getting Sam off this damned hill before the shelling starts again.”

Lieutenant Chris Vance came up. He looked haggard. “We’re short of stretchers, Major. How about using rifles for stretcher poles? We have some tents in one of the wagons. We could cut them up and improvise with the canvas.”

Joe shook his head. “No. When we go off this hill, there won’t be a weapon on us. We give them no excuse to fire.” He brought his own pistol from his belt and threw it to one side. “Not even sidearms, Lieutenant.” He thought about the problem. “As a suggestion, chop up those wagons above and make stretcher poles out of the wood.”

“Yes, sir,” Vance said.

Joe said to Freddy, “When we leave, abandon your equipment. Take only the film you’ve exposed.”

“Are you kidding? It’s worth…”

“You’ll be helping to carry a stretcher, Freddy. Sam will be on it.”

Joe Mauser took the glasses up again and searched out Bitter Dave’s position. He didn’t like the speed at which the shell bearing wagons and the mortars were coming up. But there was nothing he could do about that.

He retraced the route to the improvised field hospital in the dugout. The shelling had stopped completely. At least that was a blessing. Everywhere, the men were putting together stretchers and moving the more desperately wounded onto them.

Joe went into the dugout. The doctor, though standing, was standing over his operating table, his head on his arms. The two medics were sitting on the floor, for lack of somewhere else to sit. They were obviously as far gone as their chief.

Joe said, “All right, let’s start moving out. We’ve got to get going down that hill before they open up again. If they catch us in the open we’re sitting ducks.”

The doctor raised his head in absolute weariness.

Joe said, “There’s a badly wounded man down below. We had to shoot our way up the arroyo. Bring your kit, and you and I will go out in the lead.”

“All right.”

Joe went over to where Stonewall Cogswell was stretched out on his army cot. He looked down at the man he had fought under a dozen times, and pulled back the blanket over him for a quick check. The right leg was shattered. There wasn’t a chance that it could ever be saved. The former Marshal would be lucky if he got out alive.

Joe looked at one of the medics and said, “Give me a hand. We’ll carry the whole cot.”

Then he looked down at Stonewall Cogswell. Meaninglessly, he said, “All right, Stonewall, we’ll go across the river and into the trees.”

It was a tortuous descent, but they made it.

At the foot, Joe said to the stumbling doctor, “Over here.” Joe led the way to where he had left Max. Freddy brought up the rear, bearing his rolls of telly film.

Joe stared down at Max Mainz. He shook his head and closed his eyes in pain and said, “Sorry, Max. Sorry.”

He turned back to Freddy Soligen and said, “We’ve got to get out of here; we’ve got to get back to the car and off the reservation.”