They drove to a spot a few blocks northwest of the park and stopped next to an especially large tower. An officer with the collar disks of the coast artillery was there to meet them. “General Wood!” he shouted above the roar of the guns. “I’m Major Bill Hase, I just received word you were coming!”
“Didn’t mean to trouble you, Major. Just wanted to get a closer look. Can you see anything from up there?” He pointed at the tower.
“Hell, yes, sir! Helluva fight going on to the southwest! Come on! Take a look for yourself!” Hase led the way inside the massive concrete tower and up a flight of stairs. Just below the top, he paused at a landing and motioned. “Main command center for this section of the line is in there, sir.” Wood peered inside and saw a dimly lit room with narrow view slits and a dozen men; spotters for the artillery, he assumed. “Better view from up top, though.”
“Lead on.”
They went the rest of the way up onto the roof. Wood was a bit winded after the five-story climb. There were a few men already up there, peering through binoculars and a small telescope. Wood went to the parapet and looked around. The tower was higher than the walls and projected out in front of them a bit so he could look along their length.
The walls were thirty feet high, but only about eight feet thick. Against rifled artillery, they would be breached pretty quickly. But the Martian heat rays had no impact like an artillery round and concrete had proved to be the perfect insulator against the high temperatures of the alien weapons. Eight feet of concrete could defeat the rays almost indefinitely. In front of the wall was a ditch about ten feet deep, although this one was full of water. The experts claimed that a tripod could not climb over the wall. Wood hoped they were right.
The top of the wall had a parapet tall enough for men to shield themselves behind and spots where they could fire out. There were a few machine gun teams at intervals but not many other troops. Wood hoped there were more in reserve somewhere. A few hundred feet to the north there was a broad platform behind the wall on which was mounted a large gun on a disappearing mount. In the loading position, the gun was completely concealed behind the wall. But once loaded and aimed, a counterweight would lift the gun up above the wall for a moment where it would fire. The recoil would drive the gun back down to the loading position. Done properly, it would only be exposed for a few seconds to return fire by the Martians. Wood could make out another platform farther along the wall, and maybe another one beyond that. In the flickering dark it was hard to tell. Walking to the other side of the tower, he could see a similar arrangement going in the opposite direction.
“Quite a set-up you have here, Major.”
“Thank you sir. We’re the 112th Coast Artillery. I’ve got six of these twelve-inchers under my command.”
“The 112th? You were originally stationed at…?”
“Fort DuPont, sir. Well, our guns were mostly at Fort Delaware in the middle of the river, but we lived at DuPont.”
“Oh yes, I remember,” said Wood. He didn’t add that he also remembered the 112th had the worst gunnery scores in the entire army. A report had crossed his desk several years earlier noting how they’d inadvertently fired a dud practice round into downtown Salem, New Jersey. Now that they’d been transferred to St. Louis, he hoped their gunnery had improved.
“I think we can see something from here, General,” said Drum gesturing to him from the western edge of the tower. Wood moved over to join him, and Hase offered him a much larger pair of binoculars than what he’d been using. He brought them up to his eyes and focused on an area where there seemed to be a lot of explosions.
Between the larger binoculars, and being five miles closer, he could see quite a lot now. There were clouds of smoke, glowing red from raging fires, billowing up from several areas. Burning villages? Burning supply dump? Burning tanks? All three perhaps. And silhouetted against those clouds he could see tripods, still very small, even with the binoculars, but unmistakable. The light of the drifting flares reflected off others as they moved. Their heat rays stabbed out at intervals and new fires would erupt. From time to time, patches of inky darkness would appear in the midst of the battle, blotting out everything.
“What’s that?” asked Drum. “Their black dust weapon?”
“Probably. They like to use it against our artillery and they must be in among some of the batteries behind the defense line by now.” Wood didn’t like to think what that horrible poison was probably doing to the men and horses out there.
But the Martians were being hit in return. Exploding shells burst around and sometimes on the tripods, obscuring them for a moment—or sometimes obscuring them permanently. Shells had to be raining down on them from almost every direction. Looking to where the Martians were firing their heat rays, he thought he could see small shapes firing back at them. Tanks or maybe field batteries, he couldn’t really tell, but whoever it was, they were fighting.
“Looks like they are moving north, across our front, sir,” said Drum. He had to shout because the noise here was much louder. “They’ll run smack into the 1st Tank Division if they keep going that way.”
“Good!” Or he hoped it was good. What if the tanks weren’t ready yet? They needed to give them all the support they could. He looked north and south along the wall and then at Major Hase. “Your guns don’t seem to be firing, Major.”
“No, sir,” said the young man, looking frustrated. “We’ve got orders not to.”
“Why not? You’ve certainly got targets.”
“Yes, sir, but we’re not really set up to fire a barrage like most of the big guns. We can’t lob a shell up in an arc so it comes down right on the bastards. We’re designed to fire directly at them - like we would at a ship. And right now if we miss, our shells will fly for miles and probably land right in the midst of friendly troops. We’ve got orders to wait until they’re closer - and for daylight.” Hase seemed very eager. “Of course, if you ordered us to shoot…”
“I see,” said Wood. Yes, that did make sense, but he shared Hase’s frustration that these big guns were out of action. Still, he wasn’t going to override whoever had given the order. He said no more and Hase went away disappointed. He watched for a while longer and then went down to the command post to see what he could learn about the big picture. I should have stayed back at the hotel! What was I doing coming out here?
The word from headquarters indicated that the eight tank battalions from the XV Corps had hurt the Martians significantly, but they had shot their bolt, taken heavy losses, and the survivors were falling back to join up with the 1st Tank Division, which was still assembling a few miles to the north. Fortunately, the Martians weren’t pressing them closely. They still seemed distracted by the forts on their flanks and rear, although they had overrun two of them. It was now after two o’clock and it would start getting light around five. The aircraft could join in the fight then and gunnery would improve. Pershing had no good figures on how badly the Martians had been hurt, but it seemed plain to Wood that the battle was going to be decided, one way or another, in the morning.
They watched from the roof again and the fight was definitely drifting to their right, to the north. It had been off to the southwest, but now the heart of the battle was almost due west. Wood asked Drum to see if there were any similar command posts farther north along the walls in case he wanted to move to follow the action.
But as he continued to watch, it seemed the action had stalled.
There was still a hell of a lot of firing going on, but the Martians were no longer advancing. From what Wood could see, they were milling around in the same general area, shooting their heat rays from time to time and dodging fire, but they had stopped moving north. A trip down to the command post confirmed it. Pershing believed they were regrouping, massing their tripods and spider-machines. “They’ve pulled away from the forts along the Donnelson Line,” he said over the telephone. “They’re all assembling in that area near the town of Lackland.”
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p; “Regrouping,” agreed Wood, “but to do what?”
“I guess we’ll find out, sir.”
He hung up and went back up to the roof. An hour went by and Drum found some coffee for them. Major Hase pleaded with him again to be allowed to open fire with his big guns, but Wood refused. The chance of a direct hit at this range was slim, and a miss could fly all the way to the Missouri. It would be a fine addition to the 112th’s record if they sank a navy warship on the river!
More time passed and finally there was a faint glimmer in the eastern sky that wasn’t caused by artillery. The sun was coming at last after what had seemed an endless night. But what sort of day would this new dawn bring?
What are you bastards up to? Wood stared through the binoculars and tried to force them to produce an answer. They can’t stay where they are. Given time, we’ll pound them to pieces. If they go south, it will just be back the way they came; a retreat. To the north they’ll hit the 1st Tanks and that will draw them further into the pocket with the navy on three sides of them. West will take them to the Missouri. That’s no threat, but it could be another direction to retreat. The only other way they can go is…
“General! Sir!” Drum was pointing. “I think they’re moving, sir! It looks like they’re… like they’re coming…”
“East. Straight for us.”
“Yes, sir. General, we better get back to the main command post,” said Drum, gesturing toward the stairs.
“I’m staying here.”
“But, sir!”
Wood stared right at Drum, the young man’s face looked pale in the flickering light. “This is where we stop them, Hugh. I’m done retreating. We will stop them right here!”
Drum swallowed and then nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“Get word to Pershing. Tell him what’s happening. Have him concentrate his forces here. Get the 1st Tanks and the Little Davids on the move: hit them in the flank, by God. Get the planes in the air and send every man he’s got to the walls.”
“Yes, sir!” Drum dashed down the stairs to the command post. Wood turned to Hase, who had been hovering close by.
“Major, you may commence firing.”
“Yes, sir! Thank you, sir!” Hase gave a whoop and he too disappeared down the stairs.
Wood went back to the parapet and raised the binoculars once again. Yes, the enemy had stopped their dithering and were on the move again - straight for him. The artillery was shifting its aim to follow them, but for a few minutes, the Martians outdistanced the fire and broke clear of the clouds of smoke and dust which had cloaked them. The growing light in the east was illuminating them better than the star shells now and they were painted in a pink glow. He caught his breath when the Martians crested a slight ridge and almost their whole force was put on display. There were more than he could count easily, several hundred at least, their metal legs bringing them closer and closer.
An old memory suddenly surfaced and he blinked. Years ago, when he was the military governor of Cuba after the war, one of the local officials had taken him on a trip to a remote area of the coast where a strange phenomenon occurred every year. Thousands, millions of land crabs emerged from the jungles to make a trek down to the beaches to lay their eggs. The land was absolutely carpeted with the things, their multiple legs moving with unwavering determination, even if some of their fellows were crushed by passing carts or human feet. They were driven by some irresistible instinct to make the journey no matter what. What Wood was seeing now seemed just like that - an unstoppable wave.
Not this time! This time we are going to stop them!
They were still at least five miles away, but Wood knew the machines could move very fast when they wanted to. They could be here in twenty minutes if they came straight on. But as he continued to watch, he realized that they were not moving all that fast, and then as the light grew, he could see why. At their feet was another swarm of smaller machines. Or so he assumed; at this distance he could see no details, just a mass of moving objects around the larger tripods. The spider-machines. Reports had said that they were slower than the big tripods, and it seemed as though that was true. Well, good! One of the chief strengths of the big tripods was their speed. If these little things slowed them down, it would be a big help—at least on the strategic scale.
Drum rejoined him on the roof top. “I told Pershing and he’s directing all his reserves here, sir. He asked me if you’d be coming back to the main headquarters. He seemed a bit put out when I told him you were staying.”
“I expect he would be. Well, so be it.”
“I found these for you, sir. Please take them.” He held out a steel helmet and one of the anti-dust kits. It consisted of a canvas bag holding the hood and mask with breathing filters and a pair of leather gloves to protect the hands. “I didn’t bother getting the leggings since you already have your boots. Please, sir, we’ve seen them using the black dust.”
“Very well,” said Wood, looping the strap of bag over his neck, exchanging his hat for the helmet, and stuffing the gloves in his pocket. “Did you get a set for yourself?”
“Yes, sir. I have them right…”
A huge roar drowned out whatever else Drum was going to say. A moment later there was another roar and then a third. Wood walked over to the north side of the tower and saw clouds of smoke billowing up around the platforms for the disappearing guns. Hase hadn’t wasted any time. He immediately turned and went over to the south side, just in time to see the other three go into action. One by one the big guns rose up on their carriages as the counterweights were released. Their muzzles poked over the top of the wall for a few seconds, then a blast of flame belched out, and the recoils drove them back down into the loading position. Three more crashes of noise left his ears ringing.
Impressive, but are they hitting anything?
He directed his attention back to the enemy, but he couldn’t see any notable effect by the twelve-inchers. The other artillery was tracking the movement of the enemy force again and shell bursts were making it hard to see. Hard, but not impossible. A savage grin crossed his face as one of the tripods stumbled and then fell to the ground. We’re hitting them.
A tap on his shoulder made him look aside and there was Drum again, holding out a small ball of cotton. He pointed to his ears. The roar of the big guns made it perfectly clear what it was for. Wood nodded, took the cotton, ripped it into two pieces and stuffed them into his ears. He picked up the binoculars again and continued to watch the unfolding battle.
The Martians were closing, maybe four miles away now, but they didn’t seem to be advancing as quickly as before. Explosions continued to erupt around them, but they were shooting back at things Wood couldn’t see. Infantry? Tanks concealed in gullies? He couldn’t tell.
Drum tapped him again and pointed up. Aircraft were now overhead in growing swarms. Most of them were the smaller ones and at low altitude, but he spotted a few higher up. They were high enough to catch the sunlight which was not yet touched the dark landscape. There were two distinct groups of the small ones close by and he thought he could make out another group or two off to the north. They were circling, waiting, while others joined up with them; massing their strength before they attacked. Yes, the planes needed to attack en masse or they’d just be picked off before they could accomplish anything.
The enemy must have seen the aircraft, but they didn’t pause, they kept on coming. Four miles, three miles, the smaller spider-machines were clearly visible now. Hundreds and hundreds of them, although from time to time Wood could see them - or bits of them - flung into the air by the exploding artillery shells.
“Sir? Maybe we should get back to headquarters.” Drum had to put his mouth right next to his ear and shout to be heard. Wood just shook his head.
And then the aircraft made their attack. A swarm of at least a hundred swept by almost overhead, the noise of their engines even overpowering that of the guns. Three other groups came in from different directions.
Now
the Martians did halt. They quickly formed several tightly-spaced concentric circles facing out in all directions. Wood realized what they were doing and groaned. No! Break off! You don’t have a chance against that!
But the pilots, those brave, crazy pilots, kept right on going; and then the Martian heat rays lashed out, hundreds of them, and the sky was suddenly full of blazing aircraft and dying fliers. One group after another bore in against their target only to meet the same fate. A few made it through, close enough to fire their machine guns and drop their bombs, and Wood even saw a tripod go down here and there, but it was a feeble accomplishment against such a cost.
The survivors, only a few score of them, pulled out of range and tried to reorganize themselves. Wood prayed that they’d have the sense not to try again. Damn, what a waste…
“Sir! Look!” Drum was shaking his shoulder.
Explosions, huge explosions, far larger than artillery would cause, were suddenly erupting in and around the Martian formation! For an instant, Wood thought that perhaps they were from the big disappearing guns along the wall or perhaps some of the railroad guns from across the river, but no, there were far too many of them. He looked up and saw the bombers overhead, just small dots high up in the sky. Bombs!
The wave of explosions marched through the Martian circles and it was too late for them to spread out or avoid them. Tripods were torn apart and flung skyward. One of them blew up in a huge blue flash that left Wood’s eyes dazzled. That hurt them! A loud rumble shook the tower to its foundation.
It was all over in a just a minute or two. The bombers flew on in a stately fashion and then turned to head back to their bases. As the smoke cleared, Wood could see ragged holes in the enemy formation. He couldn’t tell how many machines had been destroyed, but a few dozen at least. Probably a lot of the spider-machines as well. The enemy was trying to reorganize itself, but the artillery, which had paused its fire during the air attack, was finding the range again. The Martians seemed to realize that they couldn’t stay there and lurched into motion again.
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