The Third Murray Leinster

by Murray Leinster

  “Fur-fifteen minutes, maybe twenty,” chattered the prisoner. “Don’t put me in there!”

  Coffee scratched his nose again and looked at his wrist-watch.

  “A’right,” he conceded, “we give you twenty minutes. Then we chuck you down inside. That is, if you act real agreeable until then. Got anything to smoke?”

  The prisoner agonizedly opened a zipper slip in his costume and brought out tobacco, even tailor-made cigarettes. Coffee pounced on them one second before Wallis. Then he divided them with absorbed and scrupulous fairness.

  “Right,” said Sergeant Coffee comfortably. He lighted up. “Say, you, if y’ want to smoke, here’s one o’ your pills. Let’s see the gas stuff. How’ y’ use it?”

  Wallis had stripped off a heavy belt about the prisoner’s waist and it was trailing over his arm. He inspected it now. There were twenty or thirty little sticks in it, each one barely larger than a lead pencil, of dirty gray color, and each one securely nested in a tube of flannel-lined papier-mache.

  “These things?” asked Wallis contentedly. He was inhaling deeply with that luxurious enjoyment a tailor-made cigarette can give a man who had been remaking butts into smokes for days past.

  “Don’t touch ’em,” warned the prisoner nervously. “You broke my goggles. You throw ’em, and they light and catch fire, and that scatters the gas.”

  Coffee touched the prisoner, indicating the ground, and sat down, comfortably smoking one of the prisoner’s cigarettes. By his air, he began to approve of his captive.

  “Say, you,” he said curiously, “you talk English pretty good. How’d you learn it?”

  “I was a waiter,” the prisoner explained. “New York. Corner Forty-eighth and Sixth.”

  “My Gawd!” said Coffee. “Me, I used to be a movie operator along there. Forty-ninth. Projection room stuff, you know. Say, you know Heine’s place?”

  “Sure,” said the prisoner. “I used to buy Scotch from that blond feller in the back room. With a benzine label for a prescription?”

  Coffee lay back and slapped his knee.

  “Ain’t it a small world?” he demanded. “Pete, here, he ain’t never been in any town bigger than Chicago. Ever in Chicago?”

  “Hell,” said Wallis, morose yet comfortable with a tailor-made cigarette. “If you guys want to start a extra war, go to knockin’ Chicago. That’s all.”

  Coffee looked at his wrist-watch again.

  “Got ten minutes yet,” he observed. “Say, you must know Pete Hanfry—”

  “Sure I know him,” said the enemy prisoner, scornfully. “I waited on him. One day, just before us reserves were called back home.…”

  In the monster tank that was headquarters the general tapped his fingers on his knees. The pale white light flickered a little as it shone on the board where the bright sparks crawled. White sparks were American tanks. Blue flashes were for enemy tanks sighted and reported, usually in the three-second interval between their identification and the annihilation of the observation-post that had reported them. Red glows showed encounters between American and enemy tanks. There were a dozen red glows visible, with from one to a dozen white sparks hovering about them. It seemed as if the whole front line were about to burst into a glare of red, were about to become one long lane of conflicts in impenetrable obscurity, where metal monsters roared and rumbled and clanked one against the other, bellowing and belching flame and ramming each other savagely, while from them dripped the liquids that made their breath mean death. There were nightmarish conflicts in progress under the blanket of fog, unparalleled save perhaps in the undersea battles between submarines in the previous European war.

  * * * *

  The chief of staff looked up; his face drawn.

  “General,” he said harshly, “it looks like a frontal attack all along our line.”

  The general’s cigar had gone out. He was pale, but calm with an iron composure.

  “Yes,” he conceded. “But you forget that blank spot in our line. We do not know what is happening there.”

  “I am not forgetting it. But the enemy outnumbers us two to one—”

  “I am waiting,” said the general, “to hear from those two infantrymen who reported some time ago from a listen-post in the dead area.”

  The chief of staff pointed to the outline formed by the red glows where tanks were battling.

  “Those fights are keeping up too long!” he said sharply. “General, don’t you see, they’re driving back our line, but they aren’t driving it back as fast as if they were throwing their whole weight on it! If they were making a frontal attack there, they’d wipe out the tanks we have facing them; they’d roll right over them! That’s a feint! They’re concentrating in the dead space—”

  “I am waiting,” said the general softly, “to hear from those two infantrymen.” He looked at the board again and said quietly, “Have the call-signal sent them. They may answer.”

  He struck a match to relight his dead cigar. His fingers barely quivered as they held the match. It might have been excitement—but it might have been foreboding, too.

  “By the way,” he said, holding the match clear, “have our machine-shops and supply-tanks ready to move. Every plane is, of course, ready to take the air on signal. But get the aircraft ground personnel in their traveling tanks immediately.”

  Voices began to murmur orders as the general puffed. He watched the board steadily.

  “Let me know if anything is heard from these infantrymen.…”

  * * * *

  There was a definite air of strain within the tank that was headquarters. It was a sort of tensity that seemed to emanate from the general himself.

  Where Coffee and Wallis and the prisoner squatted on the ground, however, there was no sign of strain at all. There was a steady gabble of voices.

  “What kinda rations they give you?” asked Coffee interestedly.

  The enemy prisoner listed them, with profane side-comments.

  “Hell,” said Wallis gloomily. “Y’ought to see what we get! Las’ week they fed us worse’n dogs. An’ th’ canteen stuff—”

  “Your tank men, they get treated fancy?” asked the prisoner.

  Coffee made a reply consisting almost exclusively of high powered expletives.

  “—and the infantry gets it in the neck every time,” he finished savagely. “We do the work—”

  Guns began to boom, far away. Wallis cocked his ears.

  “Tanks gettin’ together,” he judged, gloomily. “If they’d all blow each other to hell an’ let us infantry fight this battle—”

  “Damn the tanks!” said the enemy prisoner viciously. “Look here, you fellers. Look at me. They sent a battalion of us out, in two waves. We hike along by compass through the fog, supposed to be five paces apart. We come on a pill-box or listenin’ post, we gas it an’ go on. We try not to make a noise. We try not to get seen before we use our gas. We go on, deep in your lines as we can. We hear one of your tanks, we dodge it if we can, so we don’t get seen at all. O’course we give it a dose of gas in passing, just in case. But we don’t get any orders about how far to go or how to come back. We ask for recognition signals for our own tanks, an’ they grin an’ say we won’t see none of our tanks till the battle’s over. They say ‘Re-form an’ march back when the fog is out.’ Ain’t that pretty for you?”

  “You second wave?” asked Coffee, with interest.

  The prisoner nodded.

  “Mopping up,” he said bitterly, “what the first wave left. No fun in that! We go along gassin’ dead men, an’ all the time your tanks is ravin’ around to find out what’s happenin’ to their listenin’-posts. They run into us—”

  Coffee nodded sympathetically.

  “The infantry always gets the dirty end of the stick,” said Wallis morosely.

  * * * *

 
Somewhere, something blew up with a violent explosion. The noise of battle in the distance became heavier and heavier.

  “Goin’ it strong,” said the prisoner, listening.

  “Yeh,” said Coffee. He looked at his wrist-watch. “Say, that twenty minutes is up. You go down in there first, big boy.”

  They stood beside the little pill-box. The prisoner’s knees shook.

  “Say, fellers,” he said pleadingly, “they told us that stuff would scatter in twenty minutes, but you busted my mask. Yours ain’t any good against this gas. I’ll have to go down in there if you fellers make me, but—”

  Coffee lighted another of the prisoner’s tailor-made cigarettes.

  “Give you five minutes more,” he said graciously. “I don’t suppose it’ll ruin the war.”

  They sat down relievedly again, while the fog-gas made all the earth invisible behind a pall of grayness, a grayness from which the noises of battle came.

  In the tank that was headquarters, the air of strain was pronounced. The maneuver-board showed the situation as close to desperation, now. The reserve-tank positions had been switched on the board, dim orange glows, massed in curiously precise blocks. And little squares of green showed there that the supply and machine-shop tanks were massed. They were moving slowly across the maneuver-board. But the principal change lay in the front-line indications.

  The red glows that showed where tank battles were in progress formed an irregularly curved line, now. There were twenty or more such isolated battles in progress, varying from single combats between single tanks to greater conflicts where twenty to thirty tanks to a side were engaged. And the positions of those conflicts were changing constantly, and invariably the American tanks were being pushed back.

  * * * *

  The two staff officers behind the general were nearly silent. There were few sparks crawling within the American lines now. Nearly every one had been diverted into the front-line battles. The two men watched the board with feverish intensity, watching the red glows moving back, and back.…

  The chief of staff was shaking like a leaf, watching the American line stretched, and stretched.…

  The general looked at him with a twisted smile.

  “I know my opponent,” he said suddenly. “I had lunch with him once in Vienna. We were attending a disarmament conference.” He seemed to be amused at the ironic statement. “We talked war and battles, of course. And he showed me, drawing on the tablecloth, the tactical scheme that should have been used at Cambrai, back in 1917. It was a singularly perfect plan. It was a beautiful one.”

  “General,” burst out one of the two staff officers behind him. “I need twenty tanks from the reserves.”

  “Take them,” said the general. He went on, addressing his chief of staff. “It was an utterly flawless plan. I talked to other men. We were all pretty busy estimating each other there, we soldiers. We discussed each other with some freedom, I may say. And I formed the opinion that the man who is in command of the enemy is an artist: a soldier with the spirit of an amateur. He’s a very skilful fencer, by the way. Doesn’t that suggest anything?”

  The chief of staff had his eyes glued to the board.

  “That is a feint, sir. A strong feint, yes, but he has his force concentrated in the dead area.”

  “You are not listening, sir,” said the general, reprovingly. “I am saying that my opponent is an artist, an amateur, the sort of person who delights in the delicate work of fencing. I, sir, would thank God for the chance to defeat my enemy. He has twice my force, but he will not be content merely to defeat me. He will want to defeat me by a plan of consummate artistry, which will arouse admiration among soldiers for years to come.”

  “But General, every minute, every second—”

  “We are losing men, of whom we have plenty, and tanks, of which we have not enough. True, very true,” conceded the general. “But I am waiting to hear from two strayed infantrymen. When they report, I will speak to them myself.”

  “But, sir,” cried the chief of staff, withheld only by the iron habit of discipline from violent action and the taking over of command himself, “they may be dead! You can’t risk this battle waiting for them! You can’t risk it, sir! You can’t!”

  “They are not dead,” said the general coolly. “They cannot be dead. Sometimes, sir, we must obey the motto on our coins. Our country needs this battle to be won. We have got to win it, sir! And the only way to win it—”

  * * * *

  The signal-light at his telephone glowed. The general snatched it up, his hands quivering. But his voice, was steady and deliberate as he spoke.

  “Hello, Sergeant—Sergeant Coffee, is it…? Very well, Sergeant. Tell me what you’ve found out.… Your prisoner objects to his rations, eh? Very well, go on.… How did he gas our listening-posts…? He did, eh? He got turned around and you caught him wandering about…? Oh, he was second wave! They weren’t taking any chances on any of our listening-posts reporting their tanks, eh…? Say that again, Sergeant Coffee!” The general’s tone had changed indescribably. “Your prisoner has no recognition signals for his own tanks? They told him he wouldn’t see any of them until the battle was over…? Thank you, Sergeant. One of our tanks will stop for you. This is the commanding general speaking.”

  He rang off, his eyes blazing. Relaxation was gone. He was a dynamo, snapping orders.

  “Supply tanks, machine-shop tanks, ground forces of the air service, concentrate here!” His finger rested on a spot in the middle of the dead area. “Reserve tanks take position behind them. Draw off every tank we’ve got—take ’em out of action!—and mass them in front, on a line with our former first line of outposts. Every airplane and helicopter take the air and engage in general combat with the enemy, wherever the enemy may be found and in whatever force. And our tanks move straight through here!”

  Orders were snapping into telephone transmitters. The commands had been relayed before their import was fully realized. Then there was a gasp.

  “General!” cried the chief of staff. “If the enemy is massed there, he’ll destroy our forces in detail as they take position!”

  “He isn’t massed there,” said the general, his eyes blazing. “The infantrymen who were gassing our listening-posts were given no recognition signals for their tanks. Sergeant Coffee’s prisoner has his gas-mask broken and is in deadly fear. The enemy commander is foolish in many ways, perhaps, but not foolish enough to break down morale by refusing recognition signals to his own men who will need them. And look at the beautiful plan he’s got.”

  He sketched half a dozen lines with his fingers, moving them in lightning gestures as his orders took effect.

  “His main force is here, behind those skirmishes that look like a feint. As fast as we reinforce our skirmishing-line, he reinforces his—just enough to drive our tanks back slowly. It looks like a strong feint, but it’s a trap! This dead space is empty. He thinks we are concentrating to face it. When he is sure of it—his helicopters will sweep across any minute, now, to see—he’ll throw his whole force on our front line. It’ll crumple up. His whole fighting force will smash through to take us, facing the dead space, in the rear! With twice our numbers, he’ll drive us before him.”

  “But general! You’re ordering a concentration there! You’re falling in with his plans!”

  The general laughed.

  “I had lunch with the general in command over there, once upon a time. He is an artist. He won’t be content with a defeat like that! He’ll want to make his battle a masterpiece, a work of art! There’s just one touch he can add. He has to have reserves to protect his supply-tanks and machine-shops. They’re fixed. The ideal touch, the perfect tactical fillip, will be—Here! Look. He expects to smash in our rear, here. The heaviest blow will fall here. He will swing around our right wing, drive us out of the dead area into his own lines—and drive us on his reserve
s! Do you see it? He’ll use every tank he’s got in one beautiful final blow. We’ll be outwitted, out-numbered, out-flanked and finally caught between his main body and his reserves and pounded to bits. It is a perfect, a masterly bit of work!”

  He watched the board, hawklike.

  “We’ll concentrate, but our machine-shops and supplies will concentrate with us. Before he has time to take us in rear we’ll drive ahead, in just the line he plans for us! We don’t wait to be driven into his reserves. We roll into them and over them! We smash his supplies! We destroy his shops! And then we can advance along his line of communication and destroy it, our own depots being blown up—give the orders when necessary—and leaving him stranded with motor-driven tanks, motorized artillery, and nothing to run his motors with! He’ll be marooned beyond help in the middle of our country, and we will have him at our mercy when his tanks run out of fuel. As a matter of fact, I shall expect him to surrender in three days.”

  * * * *

  The little blocks of green and yellow that had showed the position of the reserve and supply-tanks, changed abruptly to white, and began to crawl across the maneuver-board. Other little white sparks turned about. Every white spark upon the maneuver-board suddenly took to itself a new direction.

  “Disconnect cables,” said the general, crisply. “We move with our tanks, in the lead!”

  The monotonous humming of the electric generator was drowned out in a thunderous uproar that was muffled as an air-tight door was shut abruptly. Fifteen seconds later there was a violent lurch, and the colossal tank was on the move in the midst of a crawling, thundering horde of metal monsters whose lumbering progress shook the earth.

  Sergeant Coffee, still blinking his amazement, absent-mindedly lighted the last of his share of the cigarettes looted from the prisoner.

  “The big guy himself!” he said, still stunned. “My Gawd! The big guy himself!”

  A distant thunder began, a deep-toned rumbling that seemed to come from the rear. It came nearer and grew louder. A peculiar quivering seemed to set up in the earth. The noise was tanks moving through the fog, not one tank or two tanks, or twenty tanks, but all the tanks in creation rumbling and lurching at their topmost speed in serried array.