“Wait a minute, sir,” said McGill. He gestured to a score of enlisted men working on stacks of paper at desks set up on part of the warehouse floor. “Why don’t we have a word with the folks who actually make this all work?”
“What do you mean?”
“Armies run on paper work, sir. And while the brass might think they’re runnin’ the show, it’s really run by these gits who fill out the forms.”
“Huh,” said Andrew, looking at the pack of scribbling scribes. “What do you suggest?”
“Let’s ask ‘em.” McGill strolled over to an especially busy-looking individual. “’Scuse me, Corporal, we’re with General Sumner’s staff and we need to requisition some equipment. But we can’t remember which form to use for that. Can you help us out a wee bit?”
The man looked up, annoyed at first, but when he spotted Andrew’s oak leaves, he suddenly became very cooperative. “Uh, it would be the QM-423 form, sir—uh, Sergeant.”
“Excellent! Would you happen to have some of those forms?”
“Uh, I think I can find some…”
“Well, done! Give us a dozen or so!” The man got up from his chair and started rummaging around in a stack of boxes and eventually returned with a fistful of paper. “And once we’ve filled out the forms, Corporal, how do we actually get the items we need?”
“Uh, well, you can bring them back here and give them to Lieutenant Gilchrist and he’ll send it through channels, or if it’s an emergency…”
“It is, actually.”
“Oh. Well, then, you can go right to the warehouses where the stuff is stored. There’ll be someone there you can give the form and get the gear.”
Andrew was looking the form over. “Each item needs a requisition code. Where can we find that?”
“Oh, they’re all on those lists posted on the wall over there, sir,” said the man, pointing. “We use those all the time.” Indeed, there were dozens of sheets of paper tacked to the wall. Several of the clerks were referring to them as they watched.
“I see. Well, thank you very much, Corporal. What’s your name? I’ll be sure to tell the general how helpful you were.”
“Wenger, sir! Joshua Wenger! Thank you, sir!”
“Don’t mention it. Come on, Sergeant, let’s take a look at this.” They found a crate that they could use as a desk and puzzled their way through the form. “By the way, Sergeant, that was very smart thinking on your part. Thank you.”
“Glad to do it, sir. Once you’ve been in the Army for a few decades you come to know how things work. Don’t worry, sir, you’ll get the hang of it.”
“Can I assume you’ve used similar methods in your normal job, Sergeant?” Andrew asked, grinning.
“Oh, maybe a time or two, sir. See? You’re catching on already!”
Moving between their impromptu desk and the list of items on the wall, they filled out what they wanted on the first form: Haversack, M1908, 20 ea. Haversack straps, M1908, 40 ea. Waist Belt M1903, 20 ea. And so on until they ran out of room. “Uh, oh,” said Andrew as they got to the bottom of the form. “What about this authorization signature they want here?”
McGill looked at it for a moment and then took the pen and wrote: By Order of General Samuel S. Sumner. “There you go, sir. You just sign your name under this and we’re legal.”
“Legal?” said Andrew skeptically.
“Certainly. You asked the general for this stuff and he promised that you’d get it, right?”
“Well, yes…”
“So he wanted you to have the stuff, right?”
“I suppose…”
“So there you go, sir! We’re just carrying out his orders!”
“If you say so, Sergeant.” He took the pen and signed his name. What am I getting myself into here?
“Good! One down! Looks like we’re gonna have to fill out about ten of these to get everything we need.”
Andrew pulled out his pocket watch. “I have to go to a meeting with the general and his staff in less than an hour.”
“Well, you go right ahead, sir. I can handle getting the rest of this. Me and the lads will go and collect it. You just sign all these blank forms and I can fill in the rest.” With a certain amount of misgiving, Andrew did so and left McGill to his task.
General Sumner had made his headquarters in the largest mansion in the city; its owner had graciously given him the use of the place. Naturally, it wasn’t anywhere near the railroad yards, so Andrew had quite a walk to get there. He could have taken the trolley, but the rain had stopped and he felt like walking. The streets were packed with soldiers and this close to the railroad there were plenty of establishments that catered to their needs. He supposed that in normal times they must have catered to the needs of cattlemen and railroad men, but the influx of soldiers was creating boom times in Albuquerque. He’d been told that women of questionable virtue were flocking here from all over the southwest. From what he’d seen, he could believe it.
Eventually, he left most of the crowds behind and reached more respectable neighborhoods. The architecture was a strange mix of Spanish-style adobe-and-tile buildings, with Victorian styles which would not have been out of place in Boston or Washington. Unlike the area near the railroad, the streets here were nearly deserted and he didn’t think the poor weather could all be to blame.
There was a considerable crowd around the headquarters, but they were all military, of course. He went in the front door, still a little bit startled that his major’s rank entitled him to a present arms from the two sentries. The meeting was held in the large dining room. Even his major’s rank wasn’t enough to earn him a chair at the table, but he was very used to standing against one of the walls from all his time as a lieutenant back in Washington. Sumner was already there, a distinguished gentleman with a bushy mustache. The hair of the mustache and that on his head was mostly gray, but there were still a few startlingly black strands evident. Sumner was in his mid-sixties. He’d barely been old enough to have served in the Civil War where his father had been a corps commander. Now, a veteran of service on the plains, Cuba and the Philippines, he was just a year short of the mandatory retirement age.
A few last officers scurried in and found places before the meeting began. “Well, gentlemen,” said Sumner, “we’ve finally got some news. A wire came in this morning from Fort Wingate. The 5th Cavalry, moving south from Wingate, encountered a civilian near the town of Quemado who has seen the Martians and fled from them when they attacked her ranch. We have more information that the initial landing site may have been in a desert region about thirty miles to the south of Quemado. In addition, testimony from the civilian and sighting of smoke by the 5th indicate that Quemado itself has been destroyed.” The general’s words produced a stir in the room and men began pulling out maps to pinpoint the locations mentioned. Andrew craned his neck to get a look.
“So,” continued Sumner, “we have a decision to make, gentlemen. As you can see from the map, we could either move south along the railroad to Socorro and then west overland toward Quemado and the supposed landing site. Or we can take the railroad west to Fort Wingate and then proceed south from there toward Quemado. The overland distance is about the same either way, although there is a better road going west from Socorro. Opinions, gentlemen?”
“Sir,” said Sumner’s chief of staff, “our orders are to find the Martian landing site and destroy it. Even if the Martians have constructed their machines, the landing site could still be an important objective. The Socorro option brings us closer to the reported landing site. Also, Socorro would provide us with a good base of operations. The town of Gallup near Fort Wingate is little more than a whistle stop.”
“But the indications are that the Martians are moving north,” said another officer; one of the brigade commanders, Andrew thought. “They’ve gone almost due north from this San Augustin Plains region over some very rough territory to reach Quemado. If they continue north they’ll reach Fort Wingate and cut the railro
ad to Flagstaff.”
“Yes,” said Sumner, “the east-west railroad is critical, much more so than the railroad south to El Paso that runs through Socorro. We have to keep that in mind for our future operations.”
“But we don’t know they’ll continue north, sir. They might turn east.”
“But they might not…”
The discussion became general with many people expressing opinions or concerns. Andrew wasn’t even tempted to venture an opinion—not that he really had one. He didn’t care which way they decided to go as long as they managed to bag some Martians. The discussion lasted several hours but in the end it was decided to send another cavalry regiment, the 3rd, south by rail to Socorro and have it push west to make contact with the enemy and also take a look at the suspected landing site. In the meantime, more reports were expected from the 5th Cavalry. The rest of the army would make preparations to move out in whichever direction seemed best. The meeting ended and Andrew walked back to check on how Sergeant McGill and the others were making out.
The clouds were breaking up and the setting sun cast long shadows as the short winter day came to an end. Andrew realized, that it was, in fact, the shortest day of the year. The wind was shifting around to the northwest and it would probably get cold again in the coming days.
He reached the warehouse where his men were staying and was surprised to see several wagons parked outside the door which led to the stairs going up to the attic. He was even more surprised to see his own men swarming over them, hauling away piles of stuff under the direction of Sergeant McGill. When he got closer he saw that the ‘stuff’ was just the sort of equipment they’d been trying to get!
“Sergeant! What’s all this?”
McGill grinned a huge grin. “An early Boxing Day gift, sir.”
“You did it!”
“Yes sir! And tomorrow we’ll go and get the horses!”
* * * * *
December, 1908, New Mexico Territory
“They’re still following us, Sarge.”
Sergeant Dolfen looked back over his shoulder and saw that Private Jones was correct: the Martians were still following them. The ugly shape of one of the war machines could be faintly seen four or five miles behind them. As he watched, it caught the rays of the setting sun and briefly glowed red. There were times when he could spot more of the machines far off to the east and west. They appeared to be spread out in a long skirmish line, sweeping all the country—just like the 5th had done going the other way. The damn things had been following them all day, since the nightmarish slaughter that had taken place that morning.
He had no way to know if it was actually following them or if it was just travelling in the same direction. It didn’t really matter because if it caught up with them, he and the others would die just the same. Part of him still couldn’t believe that this was happening. The 1st Squadron wiped out! Probably 2nd Squadron, too. The colonel, the captain, Lieutenant Hopkins, and probably Corporal Kuminski, too. His home… his family, reduced to piles of ash. He’d lost comrades before, but never like this. Burned away with no hope of fighting back. Like jack rabbits stalked by a hunter with a shotgun. Some of the rabbits might escape, but they could do nothing to hurt the hunter. And oh, how he wanted to hurt those bastards!
He’d felt rage like this only a few times before. In the Philippines when an insurgent ambush had killed a buddy and then the ambushers had fled before they could be caught and killed. It was like that—only different. This time the killers were right there, in plain sight, but he couldn’t strike back. It wasn’t right.
“Whadda we gonna do, Sarge?” demanded Jones. “The horses are about finished and those things don’t ever seem to get tired! Another hour and they’ll have us.”
It was true. After the first mad rush to get away, they had proceeded at an easier pace until they realized the Martians were catching up. At a gallop or even a fast canter, they could pull away for a while, but the horses couldn’t stand that pace forever. They’d had to slow down, dismount, and walk the horses for a while and the Martians would start to gain on them. Indeed, they would have overtaken them already if it weren’t for the fact that the country they were passing through wasn’t completely deserted. There were ranches and homesteads scattered about, even a few tiny villages. The Martians would turn aside to destroy them and that allowed them to open up the distance again.
When they came close to such places they would shout warnings for the people to flee. Sometimes they listened. Usually it didn’t make any difference. The people would try to load wagons and take their possessions with them, despite the soldiers’ warning to run at once. By the time they realized their mistake, it was too late. A handful had taken their warnings to heart and escaped on horseback, swelling Dolfen’s party to about twice its original size. Three men, four women, and five children now accompanied them. He wasn’t sure he wanted the extra civilians, but there really wasn’t much choice. At least their horses were fresher.
But now none of the horses could be pushed much farther. They had already lightened the load as much as they could, tossing away their tents and their sabers and any other thing not absolutely needed, but the horses were still nearly spent. And if the Martians came on, they would be done. He looked ahead. They had covered a lot of ground today, as much as they’d covered in three days going the other way. The mass of Oso Ridge loomed up in front of them, the tallest peaks blazing gold in the last of the sunlight. If they could make it there, maybe they could find some place to hide. There was no place to hide where they were. He wasn’t exactly sure where they were. Probably not too far from San Lorenzo where they’d camped… how many days was it ago? It seemed like in some other lifetime now.
“It’ll be dark soon,” said Jones. “Maybe we can lose them in the dark.”
“They… they can see in the dark,” gasped the girl, Becca. “They attacked our ranch at night.”
“Great,” muttered Dolfen.
They splashed through a creek, swollen with the recent rains. It had been nearly dry when they’d crossed it before; now it was halfway up the horses’ legs and the banks muddy and treacherous. The horse of one of the civilians nearly fell and the children were shrieking and crying. “Come on! Keep moving!”
“We’re not gonna make it, Sarge,” said Private Urbaniak in a near-whisper.
“I know. When that thing gets a bit closer, I’m going to veer off and double back and see if I can get it to chase me. When I do, you’re in charge. Keep moving and try to find cover. If it catches up, then the only thing left to do is scatter. Maybe some of you will get away.”
“Sarge!” priested Urbaniak. “You’ll be killed!”
“Yeah? And if we just try to keep running we’ll all be killed. Whaddaya want me to do? Order one of the other guys to go back and get himself killed? It’s my job.”
“Well, don’t do anything yet! It’s still a good ways back.”
“Yeah, yeah.” But it was closing fast. And he had no idea what the range on its heat ray was. If he waited too long they could all get fried.
The ridge got closer but at an agonizingly slow pace. The short winter evening closed in around them and all that could be seen of the Martian was the red light in the middle of its head. It was definitely getting brighter as it closed on them. He’d have to make his move pretty soon. Will it even notice me in the dark? Well, if it doesn’t, then maybe they can’t see in the dark and we’ll all get away. It was a comforting thought—sort of.
The ground was rising now as they neared the ridge. Just about time…
“Hey! It’s stopped!” cried Private Johnson.
Dolfen jerked around to look back. It was nearly dark now and it was hard to see. The waning moon wouldn’t be up for hours yet, but there was still some sky glow off in the west. The shape of the Martian machine could be faintly seen, but its glowing eye flickered on and off as if it were turning from side to side. A tiny gleam of reflected light showed that it was stopped by the creek
they’d crossed.
“Maybe it’s afraid to get its feet wet!” quipped Private Friswell.
“Well, let’s not wait for it to start moving again!” snapped Dolfen. “Let’s go!”
They urged their exhausted horses onward, down into a little valley at the foot of the ridge, and the Martian was lost to sight. They pressed on for another mile or so, looking back every few seconds, fearful to see the red eye. But it didn’t appear, and the ridge was suddenly very close. Now, if they could just find some place to hide…
“There’s someone up ahead there, Sarge!” shouted Private Cordwainer, who was in the lead.
For the first time in his Army career, the sudden appearance of strangers in the dark didn’t send Dolfen’s heart racing or his hand grabbing for a weapon. Whoever they were, they were only people. Only people. Dolfen moved forward.
“Indians, Sarge,” said Cordwainer. “Pueblos, I think.” A dozen dark shapes stood huddled a few yards away.
“Hola!” said Dolfen. He knew a fair amount of Spanish and the Pueblos often knew that language. Dolfen had picked up some Sioux when he was up on the northern plains, but Pueblo had defeated him. At least these weren’t Navajo—their language was impossible. He had to repeat the greeting three times before someone answered his greeting—in Spanish.
“Quien estan y donde vamos?” he asked, wanting to know who they were and where they were going.
The reply was hard to understand, but he thought they said they were fleeing the troubles to the south. But as for where they were going, the words didn’t mean anything to him.
“Donde?” he demanded, but again the reply meant nothing.
“They… they say they are going to an old… dwelling in the cliffs ahead.” Dolfen whipped his head around and was surprised to see that it was Becca Harding who had spoken. She’d scarcely said a word all day.
“You speak their language?”
The Great Martian War Page 13