Counterattack

by Scott H Washburn

  “We’ll certainly do our best, General,” said Rush.

  “Good! But as I was saying, West Memphis and the bridge will be held. Supported by our guns on the river and on the eastern shore, we shall crush the enemy attack and then we shall launch an attack of our own!” He waved to his aide and the man uncovered the second map. It showed a much larger area of Arkansas across the river.

  “You’ve all heard of the big victory at St. Louis. I take nothing away from the brave men who fought there, but a huge opportunity was missed. With the enemy defeated, an immediate counterattack should have been launched. Push them and keep pushing! Kansas City might have been liberated and the enemy driven all the way back to their fortress!” He looked out at the assembled officers, his face stern, eyes blazing. “Gentlemen, we shall not make that same mistake!”

  He pointed to West Memphis on the map and then drew a line across it, all the way to…

  “Little Rock! That is our objective! Once we have crushed their attack we shall drive the enemy back and liberate Little Rock!”

  Silence was the immediate reaction of the men in the room. Drew could only think that MacArthur was getting ahead of himself. Surely their immediate concern was defeating the Martian attack. Plans for the future were fine, but until they had won the immediate battle and then seen what they had left fit for duty, how could they know if such a counterattack was even possible?

  One man finally broke the silence, an army officer with two stars on his uniform. “Uh, have you cleared these plans with Washington, sir?”

  MacArthur waved his hand in casual dismissal. “Don’t worry, Bill, when the time comes I’ll make them see what needs to be done. But now, let’s get down to brass tacks!” He turned back to the first map and began to lay out the basic plans for the defense of the city. Most of it was meant for the army and had little effect on the navy or Drew. Still, there was an overall plan for utilizing all the artillery in the region, along with the navy ships, which was of the same sort used down in Panama when he was aboard the old Minnesota. A junior officer circulated among the navy officers handing out folders with the details. Drew paged through while the general dealt with non-navy matters. Yes, he could handle this…

  The meeting dragged on for another hour, but eventually wrapped up with another declaration of their inevitable victory by MacArthur. Then, to Drew’s amazement, a group of newspaper reporters were called in and MacArthur made a prepared statement to them and posed for pictures in front of the maps. Commodore Rush decided they could excuse themselves and they escaped.

  “God in Heaven!” said the captain of Amphitrite. “What a blowhard!”

  Rush snorted, but didn’t dispute the statement—or reprimand the man for having made it.

  “If nothing else, he’s certainly counting unhatched chickens,” said another. “Little Rock! Is he serious?”

  “I’m sure he is,” said Rush. “He was born there, you know.”

  * * * * *

  June, 1912, near Key West, Florida

  Andrew grabbed the railing as the Albuquerque rolled sharply to the right. Salt spray lashed his face, only to be immediately washed away by the wind-driven rain. A weird wailing hum filled the air as that wind whipped through the rigging overhead. He was soaked to the skin, despite a rain slicker. He looked around, but the visibility was less than a quarter mile; he could barely make out the dark bulk of the Monodnock up ahead. The towing ship had a light on her stern which twinkled fitfully in the gray dimness of the storm. None of the other ships were in sight anywhere. The seas were mountainous, with the tops of the waves far above the main deck of the ironclad. They broke and crashed over the flotation modules, which creaked and groaned loudly enough to be heard over the storm.

  “Dear Lord, how much more of this can we take?” shouted Jerry Hornbaker from beside him. “We’re gonna break apart!”

  Andrew didn’t answer. He was wondering the same thing himself. The voyage from Norfolk had been going so well. The sea had been so pleasant that even Major Stavely had managed to throw off his seasickness. They made it past the legendary hazards of Cape Hatteras in a dead calm under sunny skies and paused for two days in Charleston to take on coal. General Clopton had held a wonderful dinner for all the senior officers, both army and navy at the city’s best hotel. Then it was back to sea.

  They had just rounded the tip of Florida when word reached them of a bad storm which had formed in the northern Gulf and was heading southeast toward them. Some had suggested turning back and going north along the east coast of Florida to try and find a sheltered harbor there, but the commodore in charge had insisted they could make it to the navy anchorage at Key West.

  They almost made it.

  They ran into the outer edges of the storm during the night and it built steadily in the hours before dawn. Any hope of sleep was long gone, and Andrew had donned his lifejacket and stared out of the pilothouse windows into the shrieking blackness for an eternity. He hadn’t seen Stavely all night. Now that it was light, he wasn’t sure that being able to see was better than being blind. He’d made it through one storm on that memorable voyage down to Panama with President Roosevelt, but it had been nothing like this.

  “The commodore said we should reach Key West this morning!” said Andrew to Hornbaker, shouting to be heard. “But we probably lost time running against the storm. God knows where we are now!” He looked up to the observation platform. Perhaps he could see farther up there. But then the ship rolled again, the platform swung across the sky, and he decided he didn’t want to see that badly.

  So they clung to the rail as the rain poured down on them. From time to time they’d catch sight of other ships. Usually it would be their escorting destroyer, but sometimes the visibility would improve enough to see farther, and he thought he could see some of the other towing vessels.

  Around eight o’clock, Lieutenant Broadt appeared, coming up the ladder from below. He saw them and paused. “Morning! Quite a little blow, ain’t it?” The man was actually smiling.

  “‘Little blow’?!” cried Hornbaker. “Isn’t this a hurricane?”

  “This? Why, it’s scarcely a breeze. A real hurricane and we’d be on the bottom already.”

  Andrew stared at the man, but then the vessel rolled sharply and even Broadt had to grab the railing. “You’re kidding, aren’t you?” asked Andrew.

  “Well, a bit,” admitted the navy man. “Still, this isn’t a hurricane. A pretty strong gale, but not a hurricane.”

  “Are we gonna make it to Key West?” asked Hornbaker. Jerry was looking a bit green. Quite a few of the army crewmen were bent over railings and looking worse. Andrew had discovered the trick on earlier voyages to stare straight out at the horizon when he was feeling queasy - except today there was no horizon.

  “We ought to see the lighthouse any time now.”

  “So we’re not in any danger?” demanded Andrew. “The ships are holding up?”

  “Can’t speak for the others, but this bucket is doing okay. A few leaks, but nothing to worry about. Once we’re in the anchorage, we’ll be fine.”

  “And we should be there soon?”

  “An hour or two, probably. The approach is going to be a bit tricky, the anchorage was chosen more with coming from the Atlantic in mind, but it should be okay.” Broadt, nodded to them and then went up the ladder to the swaying observation platform as if it wasn’t moving at all. Andrew and Hornbaker retreated inside the pilot house for a while to escape the rain and spray, but the enclosed space made their nausea worse and they soon went back out into the wind and water.

  Suddenly, there was a shout from above and a horn blast from Monodnock. They looked around and spotted a dim light off to the north. It appeared and disappeared on a regular rhythm and they assumed it was the lighthouse Broadt had spoken of. And then, bit by bit, a shoreline appeared, although it was just a slightly darker streak of gray in the gloom. It grew more distinct as the blinking light slowly passed to the east.


  A few minutes later, Broadt came back down the ladder. He grinned and pointed. “We’re here. Told you we’d be all right.”

  “But where’s the anchorage?”

  “We’ll be rounding the point in a little bit. You can just make out Fort Zachary Taylor over there. Then it’s north a few miles and around another point, and we’ll be there. Not an enclosed harbor like Charleston, you understand, but a safe anchorage.”

  He stayed with them as they, oh so slowly, made the turn to the north. The wind and seas seemed worse than ever there and Broadt confirmed that the islands had given them a little shelter which was now lost, but he seemed unconcerned. It was nearly another hour before they saw the second point. Even then they had to claw their way north another mile against wind and waves before they could make their turn. Then, with the weather behind them, they made what seemed like a mad rush into the lee behind the island into the much calmer waters of the anchorage.

  The visibility improved a bit and Andrew breathed easier when he spotted three of the other ironclads and their tows and escorts already there. Monodnock stopped her engines and dropped anchor. Albuquerque followed suit and sat there rolling easily. Signal lamps started blinking, and shortly they received a message that the other ironclads were Omaha, Tulsa, and Springfield.

  “I hope Billings and Sioux Falls are all right,” said Andrew.

  “They’ll be along,” said Broadt, and within a half hour, Billings indeed entered the anchorage. Noon came and Andrew was feeling well enough to go down to the galley and get some food. He’d eaten nothing since dinner the previous evening.

  But he’d barely started on a sandwich when he heard a faint wailing from outside. It went on and on, and after a few minutes, his curiosity overwhelmed his hunger and he went back out on deck. Broadt was there, and this time there wasn’t any trace of good humor on his face. He was leaning into the wind, looking northwest with his head cocked.

  Outside, Andrew recognized the sound: a ship’s steam whistle. Normally they came in short toots, but this one was continuous. Then, it was abruptly silenced and over the roar of the wind and seas came a low rumble which changed to a screech of metal before fading away.

  “That… that surely can’t be good,” gasped Andrew.

  “No,” said Broadt, his face grim. “No it can’t.”

  Nor was it. By late afternoon, the storm dwindled and died with amazing swiftness, and a few rays of sun peeked through the shredding clouds. Shortly, a steam launch put off from the Olympia and swung by Albuquerque to pick up Andrew. General Clopton and the commodore were aboard and the boat chugged out around the point. It didn’t take long to see what had made that ominous noise.

  The ship towing Sioux Falls had lost power just a mile from safety and been thrown up on the shore by the waves. She lay there, her back broken, like a dead leviathan. Amazingly, there had been no loss of life. Even more amazingly, Sioux Falls had also survived somehow. With its puny propeller, there had been no hope of fighting the seas, so its commander had turned directly toward shore. The moment its tracks touched bottom, he had jettisoned the flotation modules and lurched onto the shore with only minor damage. The navy men seemed to think it little short of a miracle.

  “Miracle or not, it’s still stuck here,” said Clopton. It was true, the flotation modules had been smashed to bits on the rocks and there wasn’t another set this side of Philadelphia. “Well, we aren’t going to wait. Can we get going again in the morning, Commodore?”

  The naval commander nodded. “Everyone else is in good shape. By morning, the storm should be completely out of our path and we can make a straight run to New Orleans. But for this evening, I’d be pleased if you and your staff could join me for dinner on Olympia.”

  After days of the simple fare offered by Albuquerque’s small galley, Andrew was more than willing to accept the invitation. But the launch took them straight back to Olympia and he was conscious of his still slightly damp service uniform. He hadn’t brought a full dress uniform, but still…

  Olympia was an old ship and had been one of the navy’s first modern all-steel vessels. As such, she was a transition from the earlier ships. While she mounted her main guns in turrets fore and aft, her secondary guns were in an open gun deck reminiscent of those found on the old wooden ships. The commodore’s cabin, along with the other officers’, were also on this deck and several of the cabins had been temporarily dismantled to make room for the dinner. White-gloved steward guided Andrew to his chair.

  The commodore was naturally at the head of the table with Clopton on his right and Olympia’s skipper on his left. The navy officer ran down one side of the table and the army on the other. Andrew sat next to Clopton, but directly across from him was an officer he’d never seen before, and with a start he realized what sort of a uniform he was wearing.

  “Oh yes, I almost forgot,” said the Commodore. “Let me introduce you all to Major Tom Bridges. He just arrived aboard a few hours ago. Came down from Washington to observe your crazy ironclads. He’s British, as you can see, and we’ve been ordered to extend him every courtesy.” Everyone rendered greetings and the tall, red-cheeked, and mustachioed man smiled and nodded to one and all.

  “Thank you, sir,” he said, his accent very distinct. “I spent a few months observing one of your cavalry units out west. I thought I’d be getting some leave back home, but when we found out that your new war machines are going to see action soon, I was ordered here. I look forward to working with you, General Clopton.”

  Clopton nodded, but didn’t look too pleased. “I hope you find your stay enlightening, Major. But I’m afraid there won’t be any room on Springfield where I’ll have my headquarters. In any case, Comstock here knows more about these contraptions than anyone. You can accompany him.”

  Andrew was taken back, but Bridges grinned and reached across the table extending his hand. “Splendid! I couldn’t be more pleased to serve with you, Colonel!”

  There wasn’t anything to do but to shake his hand. “Uh, glad to have you with us, Major.”

  * * * * *

  June, 1912, Memphis, Tennessee

  Becca Harding peered out over the top of the city wall and across the Mississippi. The sun wasn’t quite up yet and there was a thin mist clinging to the river and the shore beyond. The enemy was over there somewhere. Everyone said that they were coming, coming to attack Memphis. The whole city was in a frenzy, with rumors of every sort flying as fast as loose tongues could spread them. Troops were moving into and through the city in large numbers. Even this early in the morning, she could see a column marching across the bridge into West Memphis. Train loads and ship loads of supplies and ammunition were pouring in. And people were leaving, too. The very young and the old were being moved out, by train and by boat. Others were slipping out, by horse or motor car. Becca turned and looked down from the wall and frowned at the campsite of the Memphis Women’s Volunteer Sharpshooters.

  It was nearly empty.

  The word had come down three days ago that all of the local militia units were being mobilized to defend the city. There had been an initial wave of excitement among the women, and grand plans were made and the whole company assembled at the Oswald mansion. They had paraded through the streets to their assigned spot by the river. Becca had felt a thrill of pride to march as their lieutenant, and a surprising number of people came out to wave and give them a cheer.

  But it had been a long march, and before they were halfway to their designated spot, Mrs. Oswald had pleaded exhaustion and went back to ride in the carriage which had been following the company, driven by one of her servants. Several other women had soon joined her, and by the time they got to the river, the company had dissolved into a long stream of stragglers - a few even gave up and went home before they got there.

  They had pitched camp - fine new canvas tents, also provided by the Oswalds - in the muddy field which had once been a city park, amidst the equipment and supplies of the artillerymen who manned the big gu
ns along the walls, and right next to the other – male - militia unit they were assigned to work with. Sergeant Leo Polk Smith, who she’d met earlier, had strolled over, looking just as amused as before, to make some suggestions on how to arrange things, and he’d been followed by a few dozen of his fellow militiamen. They’d laughed, hooted, and some made some very rude remarks, until one of their officers came over and herded them back where they belonged. That same officer had then posted sentries to make sure they stayed where they belonged.

  By that time, many of the women were having second thoughts about the whole thing, and nearly half of them went to sleep in their own homes despite the fact that the tents were what an officer would normally rate with a cot and everything. A number of them had not come back the next morning.

  Becca wondered if there would be anyone at all here today.

  The artillerymen were up and so were the other militiamen, building fires and boiling coffee. It was an utterly familiar routine to Becca, and she moved to one of the ladders to climb down to ground level to get her own coffee started. A few of the gunners nodded or said good morning. None of them treated her as an officer, but at least they were treating her like a lady. Her hand brushed the lump in her pocket. She still carried the revolver Miss Chumley had given her back at Gallup, almost three years ago.

  Even though it wasn’t proper work for an officer, she stopped at a pile of shattered lumber which had once been a house before it was demolished to make way for the new walls. The soldiers were using it for firewood and she scooped up an armload. One of the campfires still had a few smoldering embers and she managed to coax it back to life and get a coffee pot hung over it.