Counterattack

by Scott H Washburn

  * * * * *

  June, 1911, Fort Myer, District of Columbia

  Brevet Colonel Andrew Comstock sat down at the breakfast table and picked up the morning edition of the Washington Post. The headline story celebrated the recent victory at Little Rock. Andrew already knew the full details from his military briefings and chuckled in amusement at the paper’s fanciful descriptions of the ‘gallant defense’. Well, it had been pretty gallant, and he had to hand it to the troops who had succeeded in beating off the Martian attack. Andrew had seen for himself the consequences of an unsuccessful defense and he could imagine the chaos inside Little Rock once the enemy had pierced the defensive lines. That the men had not panicked, but instead had stuck to their posts and then struck back, spoke well of them - very well indeed. Most of the garrison was made up of the 77th Division which had survived the long retreat from Santa Fe last year. Veterans for sure! Andrew had shared part of that journey with them.

  His wife, Victoria, swept into the room with little Arthur on her hip and a cup of coffee in her other hand, which she gracefully slid onto the table next to him. “Good morning, dear,” she said, smiling. “Breakfast will be ready in a little bit.”

  “Thanks.”

  She disappeared for a moment and then came back and sat down at the table with her own cup. Arthur tried to grab it away from her when she took a sip, but she fended him off successfully. “What will you be doing today, dear?”

  “Oh, the same as always,” he replied absently, still paging through the paper. “Reading reports. Writing replies. That sort of thing.”

  “Will you be taking any of those inspection trips again soon?”

  “I’ll be going to Aberdeen, Philadelphia, and then up to Long Island in a couple of weeks, why?”

  “I was… I was hoping we could look for a house soon.” Andrew put down the paper and looked at his wife. She was smiling faintly as she bounced the baby gently in her arms.

  He glanced around at their comfortable surroundings. Since their marriage, a little less than two years ago, they had lived with Victoria’s parents in their cozy home at Fort Myer, just across the Potomac from Washington. His father-in-law, Brevet Brigadier General Hawthorne, was also his boss at the Ordnance Department. They got along well and the house, which was government property, was more than big enough for all of them - and a couple of servants, too. He was perfectly happy staying here.

  But Victoria had been hinting at getting their own place for a while now. Her mother was a delightful lady, but Andrew had noticed a growing tension between her and her daughter. Victoria clearly wanted to be the mistress of her own home…

  “You’re getting the salary of a full colonel now, dear,” she said. “We should be able to afford it.”

  “My permanent rank is only major. If the war should end, I’ll go back to that quicker than…”

  “And how likely is that?”

  “It’ll end eventually…” he said lamely.

  “Not any time soon,” she countered. “I’ve heard you and Dad say so a dozen times when you thought I couldn’t hear.”

  There was no answer to that, but fortunately, the maid chose that moment to come in with their breakfast, so he didn’t have to. He busied himself with his food, but he could sense his wife’s gaze on him. Yes, the war was not going to end any time soon. The Martians had landed in 1908 and things were still going their way. They had occupied nearly all of the Great Plains from Canada down to Texas and from the Rockies to the Mississippi. Except for the path through Texas, the country was cut in two.

  Andrew had been an eyewitness to much of it. He’d been with the army when it first encountered the Martians in strength. He’d been through defeats and victories, he’d sat in on conferences with the President and high-ranking generals, and he’d conferred with brilliant scientists and engineers trying to devise better weapons to fight the merciless foe. And at age twenty-five he was a bird-colonel drawing the amazing amount of $333.33 a month, plus allowances. Even his permanent rank of major paid $250.00. Yes, they probably could afford a home of their own, even with the money he sent to his widowed mother.

  “There are no empty residences left here at the fort,” he said, not quite ready to give in. “And have you seen the prices in the city? Every decent place has been snapped up by generals, congressmen, diplomats, or lobbyists.” It was true: the wartime expansion of the military and the government had swelled the city’s population to the bursting point. There was a serious housing shortage.

  “They are building a lot of nice new houses in Alexandria,” said Victoria, teasing the baby with a piece of bacon. “Electric lights, indoor plumbing…”

  “How would I get to work from way out there?”

  “We could buy an automobile.”

  “If we could find one! All the auto manufacturers are building vehicles for the army these days, you know.”

  “Well then we might still find a place closer by. With all the comings and goings, surely some houses become vacant. We can at least try. Please, dear?”

  He realized this was one battle he couldn’t win. “Of course, love. Perhaps this Saturday.”

  “Thank you, Andrew! Oh, it will be lovely!”

  “Uh, huh,” Andrew went back to his paper. He snorted when he saw the article on page four mentioning that the Panama Canal was scheduled to open in a few weeks. In normal times that would have been the headline story on the front page.

  But these weren’t normal times.

  * * * * *

  July, 1911, Panama City, Panama

  Lieutenant Commander Drew Harding sprawled on his bunk aboard the battleship USS Minnesota and tried to ignore the heat. It wasn’t possible, of course; it was well into the rainy season now and even when it wasn’t raining, it was terribly humid. The steady breezes off the Pacific would bring some relief, but little of that could find its way into the steel bowels of the large warship. Harding was wearing nothing but his underwear, but he was still dripping with sweat. He was tempted to go up on deck to get some of that breeze, but that would mean putting on his uniform. He gave up on that idea and closed his eyes. His next watch wasn’t for a few hours and perhaps he could sleep for a while.

  He was just dozing off when the door to his quarters banged open, bringing him awake again. It was his roommate, Hank Coleman. “Wake up, sleepy head!” cried the man with appalling cheerfulness.

  “Why?” growled Harding.

  “Mail boat! You’ve got a letter!”

  That brought him more fully awake. Mail delivery to Panama was pretty regular, but he didn’t usually get anything. His mother wasn’t much of a writer, his father was too busy, and his girlfriend had broken things off when he’d opted for sea duty. He rolled over and put out his hand. “Gimme.”

  “Looks important!” continued Coleman. “From Washington! Maybe it’s your promotion to admiral!” Even more interested, he sat up and looked at the letter. It was from Washington, but then he recognized the handwriting.

  “Nope, it’s from a friend of mine in the Army Ordnance Department, Andy Comstock.”

  “What’re you doing hanging around with the army?” asked Coleman.

  “Oh, we used to meet a lot when I was on Admiral Twining’s staff on the Ordnance Bureau. There were all these meetings to discuss new weapons and such. I was just an ensign then and he was a second lieutenant and all we did was fetch coffee for the brass and clean up afterward. Well, it wasn’t all drudgery, they’d have these really fine dinners after the meetings at the officers’ club, and we got to tag along. Twinning didn’t skimp on the liquor and we’d get pretty potted by the end of ‘em. Comstock was a good guy and we’ve stayed in touch.” He tore open the envelope.

  “And now you’re the gunnery officer on a battleship,” said Coleman. “Bet he’s jealous.”

  “Ha! Don’t bet on that. He’s a full bird-colonel now!”

  “Really? I know they’re promoting everyone right and left these days, but a colonel? Wait, you m
ean he’s that Comstock? The one who did all that stuff out west when the war started?”

  “None other.”

  “And you’re friends with him? Wow, how about an autograph? Can I touch you?” Coleman leaned over and poked him in the shoulder.

  “Beat it, you goof!”

  Coleman smirked and strolled off, banging the door shut behind him. Harding snorted. Hank was okay, but he could be a jerk at times. He pulled Andy’s letter out of the envelope and unfolded it. It was dated almost two weeks earlier, but that was about normal for mail delivery. It started off in the usual fashion: how are you? I’m fine, etc. etc. Then there were several paragraphs describing Andrew’s infant son. Drew had little interest in children and the man he remembered hadn’t either, so the proud gushing was both boring and a little surprising. He’d noticed the same phenomenon with his older brother and a cousin. The little imps do something to our brains… He resolved to continue avoiding them.

  The next page was more interesting. Andrew’s description of a recent joint meeting between the army and the navy ordnance staffs, like the ones Drew had just mentioned to Coleman, had him laughing with a few sarcastic comments about people they both knew. But then he wrote: The big topic for the meeting was that the stand-in for the land ironclads has started testing. I’ll be going up to Philadelphia to see it in a few weeks. Ah, Drew had been wondering how those projects were going. Both the army and the navy were developing enormous war machines, commonly called ‘land ironclads’. They were going to be like warships on caterpillar tracks. But constructing and perfecting machines of that size was proving very difficult and they were still a long way from being ready. So a smaller and simpler version was being built as a substitute. He was pleased that they were into the testing phase already.

  But enough about me, continued Andy, what have you been doing? Enjoying your exotic location? Entertaining the lovely señoritas? And what about the canal? They say it’s about to open, have you been through it yet?

  As a matter of fact, Drew had been through the canal, just the previous week. The Minnesota and a dozen other ships had been among the first to make the passage. It had been as impressive as all get-out. The enormous concrete locks had lifted the ships up to the level of Lake Gatun and then back down to the Pacific on the other side of the isthmus. It had seemed almost miraculous; the Minnesota, all sixteen thousand tons of her, raised eighty-five feet simply by opening some valves to let water into the locks, and then set back down again, gently as a feather, by letting the water out of the other set of locks. The cruise along the lake, artificially created by a dam, had been impressive, too, especially the enormous excavation at the Culebra Cut, which sliced right through the Continental Divide.

  It had been a little scary, too. The Cut was still very unstable and there had been swarms of workers still moving earth there as they cruised past. Drew had seen stones and even large boulders tumble down the slopes into the water. A few small rocks had actually bounced off the ship. It wasn’t safe, but the rush to get the canal open had overridden safety concerns. The Martians were starting to move south from Mexico and until the army could get its forts built, the navy was the canal’s primary defense. They needed to get more ships on the Pacific side and the long haul around Cape Horn was very difficult these days with most of the old coaling stations in Martian hands—er, tentacles.

  But now there was a strong fleet on both sides. Drew was glad to be with the Pacific Fleet. It was a bit cooler on this side and Panama City was far more pleasant than the city of Colon on the Atlantic side. Not all that pleasant, though, and the señoritas, Andy mentioned had been noticeably absent.

  The fact of the matter was that Panama had been turned into an enormous refugee camp and construction zone. Huge numbers of refugees, hundreds of thousands of them, had fled to Panama from both north and south to escape the Martians. Most had been put to work building the canal and their added labor had gotten it open far ahead of schedule. Many of the rest—mostly women and children—were growing the food needed to feed all the workers and themselves. Vast cities of tents and shacks had been erected to house them, although many simply slept in the streets of Colon and Panama City. More people were coming in all the time and the refugees now far outnumbered the native Panamanians. The locals didn’t like that at all and they had turned sullen toward all foreigners, including the Norteamericanos Fortunately, the army had plenty of troops here to keep order. Few people—even the Panamanians—even bothered to pretend that the United States wasn’t running the place now.

  But everyone was wondering if they had enough troops to defend the canal in the event of a serious attack. The construction crews which had built the canal were now working full steam on building concrete fortifications, but they weren’t even close to being finished. It was probably going to be up to the navy for the near future. Drew was hoping to get a crack at the beasties at some point.

  Andy finished up his letter with the expected best wishes, but there was a postscript after his signature: I’ve been meaning to ask you and I finally remembered to put it in this letter. Do you have any relatives out west? I met a girl on my first trip out there named Rebecca Harding. Same last name as yours. Her family was killed in the first Martian attack. She had an aunt in Santa Fe, but God knows what’s happened to her. I was just wondering if maybe you are related.

  Drew’s eyebrows went up. He had a passel of grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins, but as far as he knew, they all lived in the Albany region, where he had grown up. Still, if anyone knew, it would be his grandmother. He hadn’t written to her in ages. He checked the time and saw he still had a while until he had to get ready for duty. He rolled out of his bunk and sat down at the tiny desk the cabin boasted and pulled out a sheet of paper.

  * * * * *

  August, 1911, Memphis, Tennessee

  Captain Frank Dolfen took a tight hold on the reins of his horse as one of the roaring airplanes flew overhead a little too close for comfort - for both man and beast. “Damn it!” he muttered as his horse shied.

  “By Jove!” cried the rider next to him. “Those blighters should be more careful!”

  Dolfen regained control of his mount and glanced at the man. He was British, which could be instantly discerned from his accent, and almost as instantly from his uniform. This was nearly the same shade of khaki as the one Dolfen wore, but it was cut differently and had a number of small bits of decoration you would never find on an American uniform. And there was his hat; he wore a distinctly British, off-white pith helmet with a gleaming brass regimental badge on the front. The man’s name was George Tom Molesworth Bridges, but as he was quick to inform everyone, he went by the name of ‘Tom’. He held a brevet rank of major.

  “Yeah, they should,” agreed Dolfen. “But you know fliers.”

  ‘Not really, old man. Are they all like that?”

  “Pretty much, from what I’ve seen. All as crazy as jack rabbits. ‘Careful’ doesn’t seem to be in their vocabulary.”

  “And you say we’ll be working with them?”

  “That’s the plan. Don’t know if it will really work. Come on, the headquarters tent is over there.” He turned his horse toward a large tent on the edge of the field the fliers had turned into an aerodrome a half-dozen miles north of the city of Memphis. As they got closer, they saw a large sign erected in front of the tent proclaiming it to be the headquarters of the 9th Air Group. It had an insignia with a red ‘9’ and a yellow lightning bolt going through the hole in the 9. There were a number of men in the area of the tent along with a couple of women in dresses and a scattering of children, too. With the huge refugee camps in the area, the military posts were a magnet for people looking for work or extra food. It was like that back at Dolfen’s own camp, too.

  They dismounted, and Major Bridges bent to give one of the kids a coin to hold both of their horses. “Whew!” he said straightening up and pulling out a handkerchief. “Hot as India! Is it like this all the time?” He mopped sw
eat off his face.

  “For another coupla months. Summers are hell, but the rest of the time it’s not bad.” Dolfen led the way into the command tent, past a sentry who came to attention for Dolfen, but looked in puzzlement for Bridge’s rank. Technically, as a major, the Britisher rated a present arms, but the sentry obviously didn’t know what he was. Until a few hours ago, Dolfen hadn’t either.

  Things were bustling inside the tent. Orderlies were moving to and fro with papers in their hands, clerks were hammering away on typewriters, and there were several people talking on field telephones. Electric lights hung from the canvas roof. Dolfen identified himself to a harried lieutenant who led them to, and then without ceremony, abandoned them with the group’s commanding officer. This was a lieutenant colonel named Selfridge. His first name was also ‘Tom’ and Dolfen had briefly met him in the first days of the war. He was a good looking fellow, and like most of the officers these days, very young in Dolfen’s eyes. The skin on the left side of his face had a smooth and shiny look to it—compliments of a Martian heat ray. Selfridge held the dubious distinction of being the first American pilot to be shot down by the Martians.

  Selfridge popped to his feet when he saw them and greeted Dolfen enthusiastically. “Hello, Captain! Good to see you again! Come up a bit in the world since our last meeting, eh?”

  “We both have, sir,” replied Dolfen. Selfridge had been a captain and Dolfen just a sergeant when they’d met during a desperate retreat to get away from pursuing Martians. “This is Major Bridges, compliments of the 4th Queen’s Own Hussars.”

  “Ah! Our British liaison!” exclaimed Selfridge. “I’d heard rumors we’d be getting one, but I wasn’t sure I should believe it. Glad to meet you, Major!” He extended his hand and Bridges took it without hesitation. Dolfen had heard tales that Englishmen didn’t like to shake hands, but he’d noticed no such reluctance with Bridges.