Battle in the Ashes

by William W. Johnstone

  “Yes, sir.”

  Ben walked the lines, and was impressed at how quickly and proficiently the new battalions worked. He concluded that they had been thoroughly trained by experts. Up to now, the only thing lacking had been motivation. Now they had it.

  Colonel Garcia approached him. “General . . .”

  “It’s your show, Colonel,” Ben cut him off. “You call the shots. I’m just an observer.”

  The young colonel knew that he and his command were being tested by the experienced older warrior. And he knew this was one test that none of them could afford to fail. He had looked into the eyes of all the Rebels, young and not so young. Jorge Garcia had seen years of combat experience in those eyes. These Rebels were experts at war. Even now, with hordes of SS troops advancing toward their position, many of the Rebels were resting on the ground, some reading worn books, some eating, some even asleep. They were, amazingly, utterly, totally calm. Jorge had never seen anything like it.

  “Si, General Lobo,” Jorge said. “We will not fail you.”

  Ben smiled, not taking offense at being called a wolf. “I’m counting on that, Colonel. The last thing I want is a Nazi bayonet up my butt.”

  “That will not happen,” Jorge said.

  Ben nodded and watched as the colonel trotted off, yelling orders in rapid-fire Spanish. All of the new people had some English, but Ben had okayed the use of Spanish until all of Jorge’s people could master a new language.

  “Ten miles out, sir,” Corrie called. “Coming hard. They have towed artillery.”

  Colonel Garcia had his own spotters out with Ben’s Scouts, and he was receiving the word at the same time as Ben. Ben sat down in a camp chair and rolled a cigarette.

  “Preparado,” Garcia spoke into his mic, his voice calm. Ben was a thousand or so meters behind the lines, monitoring Garcia’s orders by radio.

  The crews manning the 155s locked in HE, WP, and M449 antipersonnel rounds. The M-449 rounds each contained dozens of grenades and they were highly effective rounds.

  “Good choice of rounds,” Ben said, after thanking Cooper for a fresh cup of coffee.

  The SS troops were well in range of the 155s, and still Colonel Garcia held his fire. Ben smiled at that. Jorge knew his business. At eighteen miles this type of 155 could be accurate within approximately one hundred yards of its target. But the closer the target, the more accurate the big guns became.

  The Rebels had stopped their reading and sleeping now, and were watching the crews preparing their howitzers for battle. The infantry battalions were dug in deep, the positions staggered in the shape of a huge and very wide U. This country was perfect for concealment and surprise, and Colonel Garcia was using it to its utmost.

  “Six miles out,” Corrie said. “And closing.” She paused, a thoughtful expression on her face. “Whoever is commanding those SS troops is an arrogant fool, General,” she added.

  “You’re right,” Ben said. “They should be stopping and getting their artillery in place to soften us up. Instead, they just keep barrelling on. Right about now they’re entering the first perimeters of the U. Jorge knows what he’s doing. He’s impressing the hell out of me. Jorge is going to give those SS troops a real nasty surprise.”

  Lieutenant Jackie Ballard leisurely strolled by. Cooper noticed with a very appreciative eye that she filled out her jeans remarkably well.

  “Down, boy,” Jersey told him, noticing the direction his eyes were traveling.

  “It ain’t no crime to look,” Cooper replied. “Is it, General?”

  “Damn sure isn’t,” Ben said. Ben always had an eye for the ladies.

  “Fuego!” Colonel Garcia shouted, and the ground beneath their boots began to tremble as the 155s roared into action.

  Whatever the SS troops expected, it certainly was not this rain of death that began hailing down on them from the skies. Jorge Garcia had aligned his guns with graduated elevation. The first mile of the SS convoy was suddenly turned into an exploding inferno. Bodies were ripped and torn apart and bloody bits and pieces hurled high into the hot smoky air. As those toward the rear began leaping from trucks in an attempt to escape the barrage, Jorge ordered his gunners to fire their antipersonnel rounds. It got real interesting for the SS troops when those started landing. The ground around the panicked SS troops, no matter which way they ran, turned deadly as the grenades began exploding.

  Spanish armies have for centuries been big on bugles, and this one was no different. As the last rounds struck, Colonel Garcia shouted, “Ataque!” and about twenty-five bugles blew.

  Ben nearly left his seat, for he had not noticed the trumpeters gathering a few yards behind him.

  “Jesus H. Christ!” Jersey hollered, jumping up and looking wildly all around her.

  Cooper had just lifted a coffee mug to his lips and when the bugles blew he spilled the whole cup down the front of his shirt. Beth was writing in her journal, and when the attack bugles blew, her pen went one way and the journal went another. Corrie had just taken off her earphones when the bugles blew, and she fell off the tailgate of a pickup truck, landing on her butt.

  Ben looked at his team and started laughing, the laughter just audible over the bugles. Cooper was jumping around hollering, trying to get out of his steaming shirt, Jersey was wild-eyed, Beth looked numb, and Corrie just looked disgusted.

  And the bugles continued to blow while Ben was cracking up with laughter.

  Ben rode with Colonel Garcia up to the smoky field of death. The colonel’s troops were just finishing off the last of the SS troops, and they were not being gentle in dealing with them. Garcia had ordered no prisoners taken, and his soldiers were following his orders to the letter.

  A few of the SS troops were begging for mercy, for Heaven’s sake. “Compasion, dios!” they cried. What they got was a bullet, for the South American allies of the Rebels were well aware of Hoffman’s orders should they be taken prisoner, and they knew the SS troops would be happy to execute them on the spot, and take great joy in doing so.

  “Gather up all the weapons and other usable equipment, Colonel,” Ben instructed. “And equipment that even looks like it might be repairable. That’s the Rebel way. We fix it up and store it.”

  “It is a very good way,” Jorge agreed. “And one that we shall adopt, beginning now.”

  “Your troops were excellent in battle, Colonel,” Ben complimented him. “Superb.”

  Colonel Garcia drew himself up to his full height, which was a good half a foot shorter than Ben. “We are Rebels now, General,” he said proudly. “Anything less than perfection would not please me.”

  Ben smiled and patted the man on the shoulder. “Lighten up, Jorge. In battle, striving for absolute perfection is a good way to get killed. We just do the best we can and then get the hell gone. The Rebels do stand and slug it out from time to time, but we’re at our best doing what Jim Bowie advocated. Cut, slash, and run.”

  “I know who that is!” Cooper said. “He was killed at the Alamo, right, General?”

  “That’s right, Cooper. He tried to convince Travis to abandon the old mission and launch a guerrilla type of war against Santa Ana. But in the end, Travis, Bowie, Crocket, and a hundred and eighty other men—give or take a few—died defending the mission.”

  “Was it worth it?” Beth asked.

  “That’s always been debatable,” Ben replied. “I guess that as long as there is someone around with some knowledge of history, it always will be. But if you’re asking for my opinion, yes, I think it was necessary; I think the time demanded that sacrifice. It galvanized the feelings of others and that helped win the war for Texas independence.” He looked around him. “This is no time for a history debate. Let’s get cracking, people, and then put some miles behind us.”

  Buzzards were circling high above them when the Rebels pulled out, heading east. Even if they were spotted by Hoffman’s scouts, no light force would dare attack them, for they were now several thousand strong, and Ben knew
that his new Rebels could fight, and fight well.

  Far to the north, Hoffman sat behind his desk and silently fumed. The man was absolutely livid with rage, but he had vented his vocal rage and now sat silent. He had sent hundreds of elite troops to crush a few battalions of dissident and ignorant troops, and they had been wiped out to the last man.

  “Raines!” he suddenly shouted, leaping to his feet and startling the room full of staff officers. “Raines joined them. Has to be. He’s south of us. We’ve got him and I didn’t realize it.”

  “Got him?” a junior officer questioned before he thought.

  Hoffman took no umbrage at the blurted insolence. “Of course. Shift two divisions to the south and engage the bastard and his ignorant new followers.”

  A senior officer, far too old for the field, was the first to speak. “Jesus, no,” he said quietly.

  “Uncle Frederich,” Hoffman said, looking at the man. “You are questioning me?”

  “Yes, Jesus. I am. The rabbit does not pursue the wolf. And Ben Raines is an old gray lobo. And those with him are not lobeznoes.”

  Hoffman waved that aside. “I know they are not cubs. They are nothing more than ignorant savages. Many of them can scarcely read and write.”

  “But they showed today that they could fight,” the old man didn’t back up. “I, along with others, have warned you about conscripts. I have taken the liberty of purging our ranks of conscripts. It is rare that they make good soldiers . . . for us. Today certainly proved that.”

  “Uncle Frederich . . .”

  “Hear me out, Jesus! I am owed that much.”

  “Si, mio tio,” Hoffman said, and sat down. He could not be disrespectful to a man who had helped raise him.

  “I think I know what General Raines is doing. He is making you split your forces, making you fight on many fronts. And that is nearly always the kiss of death. Don’t fall for this trick, Jesus.”

  The other staff officers sat quietly, none of them wanting any part of this exchange. The old soldier could get away with arguing with the field marshal . . . and he was about the only one who could. The exploding rage of Jesus Hoffman toward anyone who questioned his orders was well known.

  “Uncle Frederich,” Hoffman said, “even with the addition of these turncoat troops, we still have Raines vastly outnumbered. I feel now is a golden opportunity for us.”

  The old soldier shook his head slowly, a grim expression on his face. “You heard the desperate radio calls from those dying troops. General. Raines now has a new name: ‘El Lobo.’ And you know how superstitious many of our most loyal troops are. There are murmurings even among them. ‘Shape-changer,’ is what many are calling General Raines. They roll their eyes and shake their heads just at the mention of his name. My suggestion is this: dispatch enough troops to block the highways and keep General Raines and troops occupied. But no more than that. Shift a division up north to assist General Jahn’s paratroopers now fighting those Rebels commanded by General McGowan. Crush those Rebels closest to us. Using massive force, crush them, defeat them battalion by battalion. But don’t, don’t, spread your forces too thin. Don’t fall for this plan of General Raines’.”

  The meeting was interrupted by a messenger. “General Raines on the radio, Field Marshal. He is asking to speak with you.”

  “Ah!” Hoffman said with a smile, sitting down and turning up the volume on his speaker. In a moment, the patch was completed. Hoffman’s mouth dropped open and a collective gasp went up from everybody in the room except Frederich when the voice of Ben Raines boomed throughout the room.

  “Hello, Hoffman,” Ben said. “You goose-stepping shithead!”

  FOUR

  Hoffman’s face drained of color. Nobody—nobody—spoke to him in such a manner. Hoffman sat, momentarily speechless. A small smile curved the lips of the old soldier. He knew only too well what Ben Raines was doing. And he knew without any doubt that his nephew was going to take the bait. Frederich Rasbach started making plans that moment. Even before Hoffman found his voice in retort, the old soldier had made up his mind to take a few troops and leave. North America was about to become very unhealthy. Frederich rose and moved toward the door. There, he paused, to confirm his suspicions.

  “I’ll crush you!” Hoffman screamed into the mic. “Raines, you bastard! I’ll grind you under the heel of my boot.”

  “Fuck you, Hoffman,” came the calm voice of Ben Raines.

  Frederich put out his hand toward the door knob and shook his head slowly and sadly.

  “How dare you speak to me in such a manner!” Hoffman hollered, his face flushed. “You . . . you trash!”

  Frederich heard fast-approaching boots and stepped aside to let a runner in. The young man rushed to Hoffman’s side. “We have his location pinpointed, Field Marshal.”

  Hoffman nodded his head in understanding and with an impatient wave of his hand, silenced the runner.

  “How about you and I settling this, Hoffman?” Ben questioned. “Just the two of us. Man to man. We’ll meet and duke it out. Winner take all.”

  “Duke?” Hoffman questioned the room.

  “He means fists, sir,” a staff officer said.

  “Fist-fighting?” Hoffman said. “How barbaric. But what else should I expect from a low-life with no breeding? Why, the man must be at least fifty years old. He wouldn’t offer such a challenge unless he planned some sort of trick.”

  “General Raines is totally untrustworthy, Field Marshal,” another staff officer spoke. “He is not a gentleman.”

  Frederich smiled. Gentleman, or not, Ben Raines meant every word he had just spoken, and the old soldier hoped his nephew would not take up the offer. Ben Raines would kick the snot out of the younger man.

  And enjoy doing it, the old soldier mentally added.

  “Two and Three divisions to the south,” Hoffman ordered, his face still beet red and his hands trembling with fury. “Immediately. Full armor and artillery.”

  A staff officer rushed from the room.

  You young fool! the old soldier thought. Sending troops right into the wolfs den. And sending them to their deaths.

  “How about it, fart-breath?” Ben spoke. “Are you still there or have you gone to the latrine to shit your fear?”

  The old soldier by the door had to suppress a chuckle. He despised Ben Raines, but he admired greatly the man’s courage and grasp of tactics. And also how well he played on human egos.

  Hoffman was so outraged he could not speak. He sat holding the microphone and sputtered.

  Say something, you idiot! Frederich thought. Go ahead, step deeper into the trap General Raines is laying out for you. We had such high hopes for you, Jesus. But we failed to see your frailties. You were too coddled, kept too close to the breast. What you are is not your fault, but ours.

  “You are a dead man, Raines,” Hoffman finally found his voice and composure.

  Someday, for sure, as all of us must face that long sleep, the old soldier thought. But not by your hands, Jesus. Resist those orders, Generals, Frederich silently urged.

  The officer who had left the room returned, his face flushed with excitement. “Generals Kroesen and Schmidt will be heading south within the hour, Field Marshal,” the officer said, waiting until after Hoffman had released the talk key.

  “Very good,” Hoffman said, then frowned as Ben’s voice once more filled his head.

  “Hey, Hoffman!” Ben called rudely. “Stop playing with your dick and talk to me.”

  Hoffman clicked off the radio and turned to face his staff officers. “I will not dignify any remark from that barbarian with a reply.”

  Several hundred miles south, Ben grinned and handed the mic to Corrie. “Did I talk long enough for them to pinpoint our location?”

  “They’re probably halfway here by now,” Corrie said drily.

  Ben laughed and patted her shoulder. “Well, you said you were getting bored, remember? All right,” Ben said, rubbing his hands together and pacing as he
talked. “Hoffman is going to throw quite a number at us. He’s not going to take any chances on us slipping away this time. He’ll throw at least one division and probably two at us. What divisions are closest to us, Colonel Garcia?”

  “Hoffman’s First division is the nearest. But I’d guess Two and Three divisions will be the ones chosen for this. Commanded by Generals Kroesen and Schmidt. They’re professionals.”

  “Not SS?”

  “No. That is Brodermann. And we wiped out nearly half his troops.” He smiled. “And he was running a very short division, as you may recall.”

  Ben recalled. “Then for all intents and purposes, the SS troops are but a memory.”

  “I would guess that he has perhaps four to six battalions left.”

  “Can he rebuild?”

  “Possibly. But not too quickly. He chose his people very well, over a period of years. And Brodermann was not among the dead. At least not that we could identify.”

  “No. We wouldn’t be that lucky, Jorge. All right. We’ll say he has five thousand troops left him. That’s still a lot of SS crap to have looking over our shoulders.”

  “I hate those people,” a young captain from Garcia’s command said. “I loathe them.” He shuddered. “They’re cruel and twisted men and women.”

  “So were the ones who surfaced seventy-odd years ago,” Ben replied. “Nothing changes.”

  “So what do we do now?” Colonel Garcia asked.

  “Why, we wait for the Blackshirts to get here,” Ben said calmly. Then he smiled and confused the colonel when he said, “Sort of.”

  Ben had forced Hoffman to spread his people all over a front that extended hundreds of miles, and Hoffman had no choice but to move his people around in an oftentimes futile attempt to plug holes. He had been forced to send additional troops north of I-20 to assist General Jahn in fighting Ike McGowan and his people. Hoffman’s supply lines had been stopped cold in South America and whatever supplies he received had to be flown into the airport at San Antonio and trucked out into the field. Hoffman’s grandiose plans to conquer all of North America by fall had been tossed on the scrap heap. Ben Raines and his Rebels had stopped him cold in Texas with little hope of getting out anytime soon.