Counterattack

by Scott H Washburn

  And the total strangers were the least of it. He’d only been back in Washington for three days and he was already getting confidential messages from powerful people suggesting that perhaps he ought to challenge Roosevelt for the nomination at the Republican convention in Chicago next month! Most he hadn’t even dignified with a reply, and for the few which he could not avoid answering, he’d made it quite clear that he had no interest. Damn fools! His loyalty to Theodore was absolute and even if it hadn’t been, he firmly agreed with Lincoln’s advice about changing horses in midstream. They’d started this war with Roosevelt and by God they’d finish it with him!

  Or at least he surely hoped so. The victory at St. Louis had given the nation’s morale a sharp boost, but would it be enough? While it was true they had inflicted heavy losses on the enemy, they had not retaken any of the lost territory. Many people were still predicting a victory for Nelson Miles in November.

  He made it to his office with just another dozen salutes, said good morning to Semancik, and went to his desk to look at the latest dispatches. He had a meeting with the President in only an hour and he wanted to be on top of things. His aide had done his usual excellent job in arranging the dispatches in order of importance, and the first one on the pile was from the intelligence officer at 4th Army headquarters in Vicksburg. It told him exactly what he’d been expecting - and fearing. He read through it twice. “Damn him!” he growled. God damn the man!”

  Precisely at seven o’clock he arrived at Roosevelt’s office in the White House. The President was having a ‘working breakfast’ which meant that his desk was piled with dishes as well as paperwork. In spite of warnings from his doctor, he was still eating far too much. The remains of ham, chicken, and sausages as well as rolls and pastries littered plates stacked to each side. A tall pot of coffee sat within easy reach. A servant was trying to clean up, despite Roosevelt snatching a few last morsels before they vanished. Wood’s eyebrows rose when he saw the uniformed man standing off to one side.

  Roosevelt had a new military aide to replace the unfortunate Archie Butt who had drowned so tragically. The new aide, by coincidence, was also named ‘Archie’, but he had a far better last name.

  It was Roosevelt.

  Second Lieutenant Archie Roosevelt snapped to attention when he saw Wood and gave him a parade ground salute. In spite of himself, Wood smiled as he returned it. “At ease, Lieutenant. Good to see you. How’d you like Plattsburg?”

  “Very good, sir. They’ve compressed the course to just ten weeks. No Sundays off now.”

  “And he passed with flying colors, too!” boomed the elder Roosevelt after swallowing down a last mouthful. “Top of his class!”

  “I wouldn’t have expected any less,” said Wood. The Plattsburg officer training school had been set up prior to the Martian invasion, but it had been expanded and was still turning out junior officers to supply the needs of the huge new armies which were being raised.

  “Archie wants a combat assignment, like his brothers, but I thought I’d keep him here for a few months to get adjusted to military life. After that, well, we’ll see.” He shook his head. “Young Quentin is terribly jealous. He’s demanding to go to Plattsburg, too, but fourteen is a bit too young.”

  Wood nodded, thinking that eighteen had been a bit too young, too, for Archie. Hell, he’d only been seventeen when he left for Plattsburg, and Wood had been forced to give him special permission. But there was no keeping a Roosevelt out of uniform when there was a war to be fought. “Mr. President, we have a very serious matter to discuss - several of them, in fact.”

  “I gathered as much from your message. So we can’t even enjoy the laurels of the victory in St. Louis before the next crisis interferes?”

  “I’m afraid not. Still, the victory was crucial. I liked your speech about it very much, by the way. One of your best.”

  Roosevelt waved that away. “Just words. We need action. What have you got for me, Leonard?”

  “Problems. The biggest one comes from down south. I’m afraid that Fred Funston has run amok.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that he’s stripped his defense lines and gone hunting. I’ve gotten word that the troops we thought were guarding the lower Arkansas River have been withdrawn and there’s nothing between the Martians and the Gulf of Mexico. They’re streaming down the west bank of the Mississippi. They’re halfway to Baton Rouge and still moving.”

  “Thunderation!”

  “So far it looks like just a scouting force, but they are burning everything they encounter. If they keep going, we may lose our last rail connection west.”

  “How did this happen? Where are the troops who were supposed to be guarding that area?”

  “That’s the mystery, sir. I’ve managed to piece some of it together, but we are going to have to get the full story from Funston, himself.” Wood sighed and took a seat opposite Roosevelt. He waited until the servant left with the breakfast cart before continuing. “I’d been getting some rumors that Funston was massing his forces for some sort of operation. I knew his defeats at Gallup and later at Albuquerque and Santa Fe were really eating at him. He was just itching to hit back somewhere. It appears that he was planning an attack against the Martian fortress near Albuquerque.”

  “Did he have the sort of strength needed for such an operation?”

  “It’s hard to say. Perhaps he felt that the fortress there, being in the rear area, would not be so heavily defended. But we’ll never know if that was true or not. You recall how back in March, I think it was, we got word of some sort of Martian incursion across the Rio Grande near Corpus Christi?”

  “Yes, we were worried that it was a major attack from Mexico. But then nothing much happened and you thought it was just a reconnaissance.”

  “Well, the word I’ve now gotten is that the Martians set up some sort of operation down there. It doesn’t appear to be construction of a fortress, thank God, but they are up to something. Last month, Funston used those reserves he’d been massing to launch an attack against them. Nothing wrong with that, of course. But the attack failed and rather than inform us and wait for us to send help…”

  “Not that we could have sent much,” said Roosevelt. Wood shrugged, not disputing the statement.

  “Even so, rather than work with us, he stripped out three divisions from the VIII Corps, the ones guarding the lower Arkansas, to reinforce his attack in the south. That was about a week before the enemy hit Little Rock. When our forces retreated along the river, they found nothing there but a few scattered militia companies. The Martians punched through them with ease and are now rampaging south.”

  “Is the Mississippi Line down there secure?” asked Roosevelt, clearly concerned. “If we stopped them at St. Louis, only to let them across the river further south…”

  “As I mentioned, this seems to just be a reconnaissance in force, they’ve made no attempt to cross. Fortunately, there aren’t any bridges below Memphis, just ferries. But that doesn’t change the fact that our defenses down that way are very weak. We skimped on building up 4th and 7th Armies because we were depending on Funston’s forces to at least delay any drive to the south. I’m afraid we cannot afford to skimp any longer.”

  Roosevelt drummed his fingers on his desk. “So the counterattack we were hoping to launch from St. Louis will have to be put off.”

  “Yes, I hate to do it, we have a real opportunity there, but the new divisions are going to have to go south. There’s just no choice.”

  “Blast, and there’s no other forces you can draw on? We really bloodied the Martians, and if we could just launch a serious follow-up, maybe we can start driving the devils back.”

  Wood shook his head. “I’m afraid not. The forces actually at St. Louis are badly battered. Foltz’s corps is a shambles, and the 1st Tank Division, just an empty shell. To make matters worse, the enemy is finally stirring himself up north. Our scouts in 1st Army are reporting tripods massing north of t
he Superior Switch. We don’t dare weaken that area at all. A breakthrough there would be a disaster.”

  “Surely, surely, but what about the 2nd Tank Division? You still have them in reserve, don’t you? Couldn’t something be done with them?”

  “Possibly, but I’m worried about the Memphis area. The force that attacked Little Rock is still out there. The tripods that we’ve seen going south don’t make up a tenth of it, and we need to see where the rest of it is going to strike. Of course, maybe they’ll just send some of it north to reinforce what’s left of the group that hit St. Louis, but we have no way of knowing for sure. I’ve ordered out more cavalry patrols and air reconnaissance in hopes of locating them. Until we do, I want to keep the 2nd Tanks in reserve. The navy is sending more ships to the Memphis area, too. And lastly some good news, the new land ironclads are on their way. They ought to be there in a few more weeks. Perhaps if we can clarify the situation, we can find a place to use them where it will do some good.”

  “Does Memphis have any of the captured heat rays? They really did the job at St. Louis.”

  Wood shook his head. “Four out of the five we had there were destroyed or damaged. We’ve captured dozens more, of course, but it will be quite a while before they are ready to be used. For the time being, Memphis will have to depend on the forces already there, and I want the 2nd Tanks available if needed.”

  Roosevelt frowned and took his pince-nez glasses off his nose, cleaned them with a handkerchief, and put them back in place. “I suppose that’s the sensible course of action, but blast I hate to leave the initiative to those bashi-bazouks. I’d much prefer to take some bold action and force them to react to our moves.”

  “I understand, Theodore, and I share your feelings. But our position is still very precarious. We dare not make a major mistake. If they get across the river in strength, we could be in very serious trouble. We might even lose the war.”

  “Yes, yes, I suppose you are right. So is that all the bad news?”

  “Almost.”

  “What else do you have?”

  Wood got up from his chair and walked over to a window and looked out. The White House gardens were in full bloom, belying the dire situation the country was in. As he watched, young Quentin dashed by, pursued by a pack of boys his own age and several dogs. Wood turned back to face the President.

  “We need to decide what to do about Funston.”

  * * * * *

  June, 1912, Memphis, Tennessee

  “That should about do it, Commander.”

  Drew Harding looked over his ship and had to agree with the manager of the Memphis repair yard. Santa Fe was back in fighting trim. The damage they’d taken at Little Rock had been repaired. If you knew where to look, you could see the patches and new metal, but he could accept the cosmetic blemishes as long as his ship could fight.

  And it looked as though another fight was in the offing. A huge battle had been fought - and won! - up in St. Louis, but the rumors were flying that an attack on Memphis would happen soon. The whole city was stirred up like a nest of bees as last minute preparations were made. The waterfront was crammed with ships, some bringing in supplies, some taking out civilians and wounded; and many were warships, some fresh from the victory at St. Louis, topping off their coal bunkers and magazines. Speaking of which…

  “Mr. Hinsworth, how did you make out with the ammunition?” He turned to his newly promoted executive officer.

  “Great, sir!” answered the young man with a grin. “The magazines are filled to the brim and I found room for an extra ten rounds per gun for the eight-inchers and twelve for the five!”

  “Very good. I don’t want to run short like the last time. The loaders understand they are to use the extra rounds first? We don’t want them lying around outside the magazines any longer than necessary.”

  “Yes, sir, I told them.”

  “Good, good. Well, I have to get over to that big conference, so you are in command, Mr. Hinsworth. Try not to let her sink while I’m away.”

  “Right, sir,” replied Hinsworth, still grinning. The kid was turning into a good exec, and Drew was determined to keep him in that position even in the unlikely event that Mackenzie ever returned. He left the bridge and walked up the gangway to the dock. Making his way around the work gangs, mostly colored men, stripped to the waist in the heat, he reached the gate in the huge concrete walls which ringed the city and passed through. A conference was being held by the local army commander, some general named MacArthur, to coordinate the activities of all the forces which had been massed to defend Memphis.

  The conference was in a big hotel on Union Street, and even though it wasn’t all that far, it was all uphill. Memphis was built on a string of bluffs along the river which were a good sixty or seventy feet above the water level. Drew was soon sweating like those stevedores under his heavy uniform coat. He was slightly amazed that he was being included in this meeting. MacArthur was a corps commander and the place would probably be swarming with generals. But the senior naval commander in the area, Commodore William Rush, apparently impressed by his performance at Little Rock, had made Drew a squadron commander, in charge of a half-dozen small gunboats, in addition to his own Santa Fe, and he’d been ordered to attend.

  He reached the hotel, which was called the Peabody. The entrance had dozens of soldiers and a machine gun stationed there, protected by walls of sandbags. Drew had to present the written order he’d received to get in. From there, he was directed to the ballroom, which was crowded with other officers. Most of them were army, but Drew spotted a cluster of naval uniforms and made his way over to them where he found Rush, who greeted him.

  “Morning, Harding. Ready for the circus?”

  “Uh, yes, sir. What do you think the general is planning to talk about?”

  “God knows. MacArthur has a reputation of being a bit of a showman.”

  “He’s awfully young to be a corps commander, isn’t he, sir?” asked one of the other naval officers.

  “Yes, just thirty-two. But he’s got connection, you know. He was Wood’s chief of staff a few years ago, then was promoted to command of the 66th Division, which was the chief unit in the garrison here. Then he was given command of the whole garrison, and two months ago he was given command of the VII Corps when Clarence Edward was promoted and transferred to take command of 4th Army. A lot of promotions going on these days - but then I don’t need to tell any of you that do I?” He smiled and most of the others did, too. Every one of them was holding a rank they never could have dreamed of just a few years ago.

  Drew looked around and saw that some army junior officers were herding people toward the front of the room where there were two large objects - maps he assumed - covered by cloths standing on a raised stage. “Looks like the show is about to begin,” said Rush. “Let’s find our spots, gentlemen.” They trailed along and stood at the rear of the army.

  There they waited for a good ten minutes before there was a commotion around one of the side doors. An officer strode through and up the steps to the stage. He was tall, with black hair, a long, slightly curved nose, and a strong jaw. He was immaculately decked out with a Sam Browne belt, polished boots, and the widest set of Jodhpur trousers Drew had ever seen. He moved briskly to the center of the stage as someone shouted out for attention. The army people all instantly snapped to. The Navy people did so a bit more casually.

  MacArthur looked over the assembly and stood with feet slightly apart and his hands on his hips. “Stand at ease, gentlemen,” he said. “As you all know, we have a great task ahead of us: defending this city. We all know the Martians are coming, and coming soon, but we shall be ready for them and we shall defeat them!” He waved to an aide and the cover was pulled off one of the maps, revealing the city of Memphis and its defenses.

  The city, itself, was on the east shore of the Mississippi and protected by the line of massive concrete walls which stretched north and south, eventually disappearing off the edges of the
map. A secondary line, which Drew had been informed was not as strong as the main line, formed an arc around the city on the landward sides, meeting the main walls north and south of the city.

  MacArthur grabbed a long wooden pointer and started calling out features on the map, but Drew was more interested in the river than the shore defenses. The Mississippi, close to three quarters of a mile wide in this area, came down from the north and then turned almost due east before swinging in a wide arc until it was heading in the exact opposite direction, slightly north of west, before turning south again. The wide loop to the east was where the city was located. He noted with interest that there was a small channel called the Wolf River which sliced northwest from the city to rejoin the Mississippi several miles above the first big turn, creating a sizable island, which was low and swampy. He wasn’t sure if the Wolf River was navigable for his ship, but he intended to find out.

  MacArthur paused in his lecture and then suddenly slapped the map to the west of the river. “Over here is West Memphis,” he said. “My predecessors have regarded this area as expendable, a forlorn hope, an outer work which in the event of a serious attack would be abandoned, its garrison withdrawn over the bridge, which would be demolished after they passed. ‘Defense Plan M’ they called it. Gentlemen, I feel that plan to be defeatist and I will not endorse it! We will not give up any more ground! Not one inch! So forget Defense Plan M!” He had the attention of everyone in the room now and continued.

  “Up until now, the West Memphis defenses have been held by a single regiment from the 66th Division along with some artillery and local militia. I plan to reinforce them with two brigades, one taken from the 29th Division and another from the 36th Division, to the north and south of the city.”

  This created a stir among the army officers and one asked, “Excuse me, sir, but won’t that leave the defenses along the river in those areas rather weak?”

  “A bit weaker, perhaps,” replied MacArthur, “but not weak. The line of concrete walls extends farther and farther along the river every day. As they do, the heavy artillery takes up most of the load and the infantry can sidle north and south, strengthening their positions as they shorten. In the meantime, our friends in the navy can make sure the enemy stay on their side of the river, right, Commodore?” He looked at Rush.