Battle in the Ashes

by William W. Johnstone

  His team was still looking at him thoughtfully, all wondering what Ben really had in mind.

  Hundreds of miles away, Ike looked at Colonel Lenz. “He’s pullin’ somethin’,” Ike said. “But for the life of me, I can’t figure what it is.”

  With a smile, Ben handed the mic to Corrie, “Let’s pack it up and get gone, gang.” Then he picked up his Thompson and left the room, laughing.

  Cooper looked at Jersey. “Whatever he’s got in mind, you can bet it’s gonna be interesting.” He paused. “And sneaky,” he added.

  SEVEN

  Ben and his light battalion, actually about three companies strong, pulled out within the hour and headed east. Ben had said nothing about what he had in mind. But everyone in the headquarters battalion knew they were not going to Base Camp One for R&R. Quiet bets were made among the men and women as to their final destination.

  When they arrived at Base Camp One late the following morning, Ben told Corrie, “Pass the word that we’ll be here for about thirty-six hours. So make the best of it.” To Cooper, “Have all our vehicles gone over front to back and top to bottom.” To Beth, “Draw supplies for an extended campaign.” To Jersey, “Let’s go, Little Bit. We’ve got things to do and not much time in which to do them.”

  “You think that Ike is gonna figure out what you’re up to, huh, and start raising hell about it?”

  Ben smiled. “Something like that.”

  At Cecil’s office, Jersey started yakking with old buddies and Ben closed the door to General Jefferys’ office. The two old friends shook hands and stared at one another for a moment.

  Cecil finally waved Ben to a chair and said, while pouring them coffee, “You must be fairly confident about the outcome of the western campaign, Ben.”

  “Very. When General Jahn surrendered, that signaled the beginning of the end.”

  “You took some chances over there.” He smiled and held up a hand. “Not that I wouldn’t have done the same thing. You had to do something very bold to gain the upper hand.”

  “I just thank God it didn’t backfire on us. And it certainly could have.”

  Cecil smiled. “But it didn’t. You’re confident enough to grab at any opportunity to leave and go off head-hunting on your own, so level with me. You’re up to something, in your usual sneaky way. So let’s have it.”

  Ben managed to look hurt. Cecil laughed at him. Ben grinned. “You’re not going with me, Cec. My first stop was at the hospital to talk to your doctors.”

  Cecil shrugged. “I have resigned myself to this desk, Ben.”

  “I’m going to settle the hash of Moi Sambura and Wink Payne once and for all and get them finally and forever off our backs,” Ben said.

  Cecil drummed fingertips on the desk top. “With how many battalions?”

  “Just mine.”

  “You can’t be serious, Ben! Jesus God, man. Moi alone has about ten thousand back-to-Africa followers. Wink has just about the same number of white trash. They’re spread all over the top half of Alabama. One faction jumps around and beats on tom-toms and the other burns crosses and has the market cornered on bed-sheets. They’re all a bunch of goddamn nuts! But very dangerous ones.”

  Ben laughed at the expression on his friend’s face. Moi Sambura despised Cecil Jefferys and the feeling was certainly mutual. “Oh, I’m going to take along a few tanks and so forth. Maybe some gunships. Don’t worry about me. I’m not going in unprepared.”

  Cecil shook his head and sighed. But he knew that once Ben had made up his mind, nothing was going to change it. “Does Ike know about this?”

  “Oh, hell no. He’d be screaming if he did. I’ll let you tell him once we’re on the way.”

  “Thanks a lot.”

  Ben smiled. “That’s what friends are for.”

  Jesus Hoffman sat in his headquarters and brooded. He was not angry. He had vented that and now he was just depressed. Things were not going well. As a matter of fact, things were just plain shitty for the NAL. He swiveled in his chair and looked out the window.

  Ben Raines had uncorked all his artillery, and the Blackshirts were getting plastered on every front. Raines had rocket-assisted 155s, both towed and self-propelled, with a range of over 26,000 yards, and Raines had placed them well out of range of Hoffman’s largest guns. Every division Hoffman had was tied up, pinned down, or in a box. And they were taking terrible losses. Both in blood and morale.

  I should have stayed in South America, he thought for the hundredth time that day. I should have been content with what I had. He shook his head. No, eventually Raines would have come after me, even down there. So if the dream must end, what difference does it make where it ends?

  Hoffman stood up and walked around the room several times, to get the blood flowing and the kinks out of his joints and muscles. Then he stepped out of his office and told an aide to gather his staff officers. He told another to make fresh coffee and see if the mess had some cakes or cookies. While waiting for his staff to assemble, he drank a cup of coffee and felt better, refreshed. He sat on the edge of a table he used for a desk and his thoughts were bitter.

  “I was going to conquer Texas in a matter of weeks,” he muttered. “The whole of the United States in a year.” Several of his staff people had gathered silently by the open door and were listening to him mutter. “Now my troops are scattered and demoralized. I would go home, but the way is blocked. I would call for planes, but the Rebels have missiles and would shoot them down. That is, providing they even reached the southern borders of this goddamn country.”

  One of his staff officers cleared his throat and if Hoffman heard, he ignored it.

  “Why?” Hoffman said in a whisper. “More importantly, how did it happen?”

  “It happened,” the voice of a senior staff member broke into his mutterings, “because we were all too confident, too arrogant, and we grossly miscalculated the strength and underestimated the resolve of the Rebels.”

  Hoffman lifted his eyes and turned his head while the other staff officers braced themselves for a display of temper. But Hoffman merely nodded his head in agreement and softly said, “Yes. Yes, you are absolutely correct. I have to admit it. But do you have any suggestions that would help us turn the battles around to our favor?”

  “No, Field Marshal. Sadly, I do not.”

  “Nor do I,” Hoffman admitted. “Come in and sit down, gentlemen. There will be coffee and small treats available in a moment. We have to plan. And do it quickly.”

  Just before Cecil shut his office down for the day, Ben walked in and checked on what was happening in Texas. His Rebels were steadily gaining ground. Buddy and the bikers and Mexican guerrillas had trucked in some mortars, and had moved in close and were keeping Hoffman’s Eighth under a ruthless and steady barrage. Buddy predicted the Eighth was near total collapse and would surrender within the week.

  Units from above the Thirty-sixth parallel had moved south and now had a large contingent of Hoffman’s troops trapped between Ike’s units and their own.

  “Down to days now, Ben,” Cecil said. “That’s Ike’s assessment. We sure as hell overestimated the staying power of the Blackshirts.”

  “General Jahn’s surrender knocked the blocks out from under them,” Ben replied. “Never in their wildest dreams did they ever envision Jahn surrendering more than half of his division.”

  “If the Eighth does surrender, what in the world are we going to do with them?”

  “I’m readying ships for that now. We’ll send them right back to South America.”

  “The people down there that the Blackshirts enslaved and tortured will surely kill a lot of them once they land,” Cecil pointed out.

  “I’m counting on that,” Ben replied.

  Cecil shrugged. “When are you pulling out?”

  “First thing in the morning. I’m taking main battle tanks and Dusters and some towed artillery. We’ll clear the first decent airport we find close enough in first thing. I want to make peace with
Moi and Wink. And I’m going to try. But I’m not going to jack around with either faction for very long, Cecil.”

  “Good,” his friend replied.

  An aide came in and said, “This just in, sir.” He held up a sheet of paper.

  “Read it, Frank,” Cecil asked.

  “Field Marshal Jesus Hoffman has ordered all troops to fight to the death. Anyone who surrenders will be branded a traitor and shot on sight.”

  “Thanks, Frank. What do you think about it, Ben?”

  Ben shook his head. “It won’t work. Hoffman has nothing except Brodermann and a few other battalions of die-hard SS troops to back up that threat. They’ll be out of supplies in a week or so. And hungry soldiers don’t fight well.”

  “You’re really that confident, Ben?”

  “Two weeks ago if someone had said what I just said, I would have thought them crazy. But now, yes, I’m that confident. We’ve split Hoffman’s forces hundreds of miles apart. We’ve cut his supply lines. We’ve demoralized his troops. Frankly, I would consider halting all major actions against them and just sit back and starve them out.”

  “Are you leaving that up to Ike and me?”

  “Yes.” Ben eyeballed his friend. “But you keep your ass out of the field, Cec. Do I have to make that an order?”

  Cecil shook his head. “No. The only way I’ll get back into action is if Base Camp One is attacked. And I don’t think that’s going to happen.”

  “The regiment of Blackshirts who busted through?”

  “My home guards have stopped them cold with artillery and gunships. They broke up into small units and scattered. Some of them have surrendered to Rebel patrols and some have thrown away their weapons. We have evidence that many of them have changed out of uniforms and into civilian clothing and are trying to head south toward home. Latest reports say the Mexican guerrillas are not treating those who cross the border with a lot of kindness.”

  “Certainly can’t blame them.” Ben sighed. “Well, it’s all over west of us except for the mop-up. The gods of war did not smile upon Hoffman. Luckily for us. It could have turned out very bad.” Ben stood up and stuck out his hand. “I’ll be pulling out before dawn, Cec. I’ll see you all in a few weeks. I’ll have mess with the troops this evening. See you.”

  Cecil sat and watched his friend leave. He could not recall ever meeting or reading about any man who was more of a soldier’s soldier than Ben Raines. He slept in the mud and the rain and the cold and the heat with them. He ate the same lousy food and shared every hardship. Which was just a few of the reasons why there wasn’t a Rebel in or out of uniform who wouldn’t willingly and immediately lay down his or her life for Ben.

  Cecil had to chuckle when he recalled first meeting Ben. The man was adamantly resisting becoming any sort of leader. All Ben wanted to do back then was travel the country and write about the Great War and the aftermath of it. He was pushed and cajoled into taking the job. But when he finally made up his mind to do it, he threw himself into it a hundred and ten percent.

  The good ol’ days, Cecil thought, leaning back in his chair and listening to the silence of the office building. The hum of computers and copying machines was gone. The chatter of men and women at work gone for the day.

  “You be careful out there, Ben,” he murmured.

  As he had done countless times in the past, Ben walked the long lines of trucks and tanks and Jeeps and Hummers, stopping in the darkness of predawn to chat every now and then, Jersey moving like a silent shadow with him. This was One Battalion. Ben’s personal battalion. Known throughout the entire Rebel army as the toughest and meanest bunch of men and women in the land. Very few rookies in this battalion. These were bloodied and hardened and seasoned combat veterans. And their name was legend.

  “Here we go again, General!” a man called out.

  “Damn right,” Ben said. “Did you pack extra socks, Sonny?”

  “Six pair.”

  “Did you remember to bring your reading glasses, Jeff?” Ben shouted.

  “In an unbreakable case this time!” Jeff said with a laugh. “How about your glasses, General?”

  Ben patted a breast pocket. “Right here.”

  “And I packed an extra pair just in case,” Jersey said.

  Ben approached the line of big main battle tanks. “You boys and girls ready to go?” he called up to the helmeted head sticking out of the turret.

  “Ready to kick ass and take names, General.”

  “That’s my line,” Jersey laughed.

  A runner panted up to Ben. “Great news, sir. General Ike just radioed in. Hoffman’s Eighth division has just packed it in. Buddy Raines is accepting General Schleyer’s surrender as we speak.”

  “Good, good!”

  “There’s more, sir. General von Hanstein hanged himself last night. Guards found him just about thirty minutes ago. He left a note saying he preferred death over dishonor.”

  “How very noble of him,” Ben said drily. “Are you saving the bad news for last?”

  “Yes, sir. Scouts report that numbers of terrorists are still roaming around, sir,” the runner stated. “And many of them have joined with Moi Sambura. Wink Payne has vowed to fight to the death.”

  “How many times have we heard that?” Ben muttered. “All right. Thank you for the news.”

  Corrie, Beth, and Cooper appeared at his side just as the sky was beginning to lighten. Beth said, “Scouts ranging out, sir.”

  “Very good. Any breakdowns or other glitches this morning?”

  “Negative, sir.”

  “Bring the Hummer up, Coop.”

  “Right, sir!”

  “We following I-20 this run?”

  “Yes, sir,” Corrie said. “And recon reports that Moi and Wink are dug in for a fight.”

  “Then they’ll damn sure get one. Right, Jersey?”

  “Fuckin’-A.”

  “Let’s do it.”

  EIGHT

  Corrie received messages all that morning about the surrendering of Hoffman’s Blackshirts, from squad size to company size, they were laying down their arms and walking out with their hands up. But no one from Hoffman’s First Division had surrendered, and not one SS trooper had shown the white flag. So that made Field Marshal Hoffman still a very dangerous enemy. Ben did some head work and concluded that Hoffman could still field about twenty thousand men, perhaps more than that, and all of them hard-core Nazis and dedicated to Hoffman and his dream of a new Nazi empire rising up all over America.

  “Bastard,” Ben muttered.

  No one in the Hummer had to ask who Ben was referring to. They all could pretty well guess.

  Once the convoy left the area tightly controlled by the Rebels, the highways were in bad shape and the convoy was slowed down considerably. Ben ordered the convoy over just west of Meridian, Mississippi with about three hours of light left, at a small deserted town. Scouts had checked out the town and found certain areas of it functioning—in a manner of speaking. The town had been one of the outposts, but those there had not been able to effectively combat the roaming gangs of thugs and could not bring themselves to adopt the harsh law of the Rebels. So they had left—no one knew where—and the town, at least parts of it, had turned into a squatter’s camp.

  “They’re heavily armed,” Ben was told. “And not at all friendly.”

  “Before you tell me,” Ben said, “I can guess. They have hordes of half-naked kids running around, most of them with runny noses and rashes, and dirty diapers, or no diapers at all. They have no schools, no proper sanitation facilities, no doctors. The men all consider themselves to be ‘rough, tough, rugged individualists,’ who hunt and fish while their wives work the gardens, keep house, and bear children. All of whom are illiterate.”

  The Scout laughed. “It never changes, does it, General?”

  “Unfortunately, no. It does not. Damnit!” Ben kicked at a rock and succeeded only in scuffing the toe of his boot. “We had this place all set up and fully f
unctioning. We spent a lot of time and effort in this place. Why in the hell did the good people turn tail and run?”

  No one answered him because they knew he didn’t expect any reply.

  “Maybe,” Ben said softly, “it was because they were good people. Maybe we’ve been the bad guys all these years.”

  “Sure we are, to an extent,” a company commander said. “You said yourself that a nice guy could never be President of the United States, or Prime Minister of England, or the leader of any large country. It takes someone who is part son of a bitch.”

  Ben smiled. “Did I say that? Yeah. I guess I did, at that. Well, I was right. What does Meridian up the road look like, as if I didn’t know.”

  “Burned out, looted, picked over five thousand times,” the Scout replied. “Some pretty sorry outlaw-looking types in there, General.”

  “Any sorrier than the ones now occupying what used to be our outpost?”

  “No, sir. Just about the same.”

  “Company coming,” Corrie said. “Be here in about five minutes. Fifty or so men, all heavily armed. And all in need of a bath. Badly in need, according to the patrol.”

  “That figures,” Ben said. “The easiest thing in the world to make is soap. But will these bastards do it? No. Come on. Let’s get this over with.”

  The men, all bearded and blue-jeaned and booted, carried a wide variety of weapons, but carried them like men who understood guns. And Ben had no doubt but what they did.

  Ben halted them about twenty-five feet from where he stood in the room. “That’s far enough, boys! I can smell you from here.”

  “I always knowed we’d meet up someday, Mr. Big Shot General Raines. Yeah, I knows who you is. I seen your pitcher. You just as ugly as your pitcher made you out to be. I reckon you come here to tell what to do, right?”

  “Judging from your appearance and body odor, I doubt that even your mother could tell you what to do . . . or if she tried you didn’t listen.”

  The man flushed under the grime on his face and cocked his head to one side. He narrowed his eyes. “You got a rale smart mouth on you, Raines.”