by Lou Cameron
“You are right,” Duran sighed. “War is a bore. I find it most annoying that the traitor, Morales, gets to decide all the moves!”
Captain Gringo smiled softly and said, “Not all of them, sir. No matter when he gets here, we figure to give him a dismal surprise. The advantage of being the attacker is that, as you say, he gets to pick the time and sometimes the place, if he knows the whole situation. That’s why everyone likes to be on the offensive. But once the shooting starts, the defenders have the advantage. It takes eight or ten assault troops to pry one dug-in defender out, and Morales doesn’t outnumber us by that much. Our guys up here on the track are positioned as good as we can manage. Let’s see how old Gaston’s making out.”
He cut down the far bank and waded through the waist high pepper plants to the dark mass of Gaston’s moonlit gun emplacement. Gaston saw them coming and climbing out of the gun pit to meet them. Gaston said, “Regardez my substitute for sandbags. The soil from the pit laced with pepper stalks. We smell like an Italian grocery store and I still don’t think we’ll make it if they lob a 155 anywhere near us!”
“Relax. How the hell are they going to shell you if they can’t see you? You’re dug in with that railroad embankment screening your position. They’ll be firing from back in the trees, two or three miles away. They’d have to carpet this whole big field to have a fifty-fifty chance of even scaring you, right?”
“Wrong. I am scared already. 155s have that effect on me. Meanwhile, I am zeroed in on the bottleneck you suggested and I’ve picked a bright lad to be my observer from the tracks. Can I take a piss, now?”
“You can beat your meat, as long as you stay near that 75. The colonel and I were just trying to estimate their time of arrival. Any suggestions?”
Gaston shook his head and said, “I learned in the legion not to waste time even guessing. They could pop out at us in the next ten seconds, or they could never come at all. It is the latter I am hoping for. What the hell are we doing here, Dick? You worry me with your wild ideas on warfare.”
Colonel Duran wasn’t used to Gaston’s bitching. So he said, “I think the captain, here, has prepared a very good defensive position, Lieutenant.”
Gaston shrugged and said, “The best defense is a good brisk walk in the opposite direction. That is how I survived the Siege of Camarón, up in Mexico. Our utterly mad legion commander told us we would hold those adobe walls to the last man. Actually, I later heard Juarez spared the two privates still alive when they overran the place. By then, of course, I was too far away to concern myself with the details.”
Before Duran could answer, Captain Gringo laughed, “He’s pulling your leg, sir. The way I heard it on the grapevine. Gaston was one of those Frenchmen Juarez spared.”
Gaston sniffed and said, “I have told so many versions of the tale I am no longer sure just what happened. It was very noisy at Camarón, and Juarez did not have 155s, either.”
Duran nodded and turned back to Captain Gringo as he said, “I must say you seem to be the only man here who takes those big guns of Morales so calmly, Captain Gringo.”
The tall American said, “I’m not taking them calmly, sir. That’s why I had the men dig in. You do what you can and you take your chances. War is hell and war is a bore. Nobody said it was supposed to be fun!”
~*~
The sunlight was slanting almost straight down through the forest canopy as General Morales rose from his seat on a log and called out, “Vamanos, muchachos. We must push on. Where is my mule?”
As Morales walked stiffly toward the private holding his mount by the side of the trail, an aide asked him, “With your permission, sir. It is almost siesta time.”
Morales frowned and said, “I know what time it is and I spit in your mother’s milk! This is the Iron Brigade, not a gang of field hands! I will tell you when it is siesta time. It will be siesta time when I say it is siesta time!”
Then, because he really liked to feel his men adored him, the general added in a softer tone, “We will soon be coming to a plantation, according to my map. It is called Cinco Palmas and there may be a veranda to sit on as we sip and smoke like civilized people instead of sprawling under these fever infested trees, see? More important, we will be across that damn railroad spur with no way for anyone to cut us off from the capital. Once we get out of those accursed lowlands we’ll make better time on the march and be able to take longer breaks. But this jungle is not a healthy place to siesta, hot or not.”
He mounted his mule, taking the reins from the peon who’d been holding it, and looked grandly about, master of all he surveyed.
In truth he couldn’t see his whole column, strung out as it was along the jungle trail, but he was pleased at the way his picked men kept order on the march. He smiled as he thought of the pobrecitos he’d left poor dumb Gomez to lead. His agents had told him his old rival, Duran, had been sent to take charge of the survivors. Duran was a laugh. It was a pity it had not been Duran in command when he and his renegades shot up the official Iron Brigade. Morales knew he would never meet Duran in battle, now. Duran was tiresomely stubborn about La Constitution, but only an arm chair soldier. Long before the presidio back in Puerto Cortes could be put back to strength, Duran would be out of a job. As El Presidente, General Morales had no intention of leaving any political enemies in positions of power.
He watched as his company of disguised skirmishers marched forward past him. They marched in step in their military boots, but to the casual eye they would of course appear to be peons until it was too late. Behind the irregulars marched the first platoons of uniformed infantry, with the field artillery rumbling still unseen behind them. Morales nodded to himself and spurred his mule forward, followed by his four mounted aides as the men on the trail made way for them. Morales remembered one of his junior officers had made a suggestion about mounted scouts out ahead of the column. Morales made a mental note of the kid’s name. One had to keep an eye on junior officers who thought for themselves. Such men could be dangerous.
It hadn’t been a bad idea. Just a needless complication, in the general’s view. Morales knew how the book said a column should move in enemy territory. But he wasn’t marching through enemy territory. The people of Honduras loved him. Or, at least, they’d better learn to love him, poco tiempo!
Morales had eliminated all the possible resistance near the coast. He didn’t expect to meet any resistance in the highlands, but of course one never knew about that idiot, Carillo, in command of the garrison at Santa Rosa. He’d have to think of scouting Santa Rosa a bit before he marched through there. But Santa Rosa was days away and, meanwhile, he had to get out of these infernal swamplands, so to hell with the book.
The general was planning his victory parade in Tegucigalpa when he saw a break in the trees ahead. He grinned. They were making good time, he rode his mule out into the cleared pepper fields and reined in. This had to be Plantaclon Cinco Palmas, but where was the house? He saw the long low railroad embankment crossing his path from left to right. So he knew where he was. He noticed the railroad right of way was heavily overgrown with weeds. It was disgraceful the way people let things go to seed in this country. Once he was in charge he’d put an end to their lazy ways. Under him, Honduras would be the great country God had meant it to be.
The same young officer who’d annoyed him before by offering unasked-for suggestions reined in beside him and requested, “Permission to scout ahead, sir?”
“Permission denied. Can’t you see there isn’t even a work shed out in all that pepper, Lieutenant? This must be an occasionally worked outfield of the main plantation. The peppers are not half ripe. Nobody has been around here for weeks. Nobody will be around here until it’s time to pick the peppers.”
He turned in his saddle and shouted to the white clad men coming out of the trees on foot, “Move it, muchachos. It’s getting hot but we shall have shade on the far side.”
The column broke into a slow jog up the trail toward the tracks a
s the general watched, approvingly. Meanwhile, since rank had its privileges, he moved his mount off the trail under the shade of a big live oak. His Iron Brigade looked more impressive as they marched out into the open at double time, jogging in step with rifles at port. He wondered if he ought to have them double time like that past the reviewing stand at his inauguration.
Morales watched, bemused, until all his infantry and the first mule-drawn 155 were clear of the trees and stretched in a long line out across the pepper field. His advance irregulars were almost to the tracks, now, so he spurred his mount out of the shade to lope alongside, enjoying the sound of the squishing pepper plants as he rode through them.
And then all hell broke loose.
Warned in advance by Robles and his other scouts, Captain Gringo had braced the two machineguns on the steel rail in front of his foxhole. The shavetail had been right, a two machine gun man was wild as hell. But as the husky Yank opened up with both Maxims at once he saw it worked pretty good. By swinging the trigger grips in each big fist he could literally use the streams of automatic fire like a gargantuan pair of shears clipping a hedge. In this case the hedge was the triple file of jogging men coming at him along the trail through the peppers!
They weren’t jogging now. Those he hadn’t chopped across the middle with his deadly shears of hot lead were running every which way like chickens with their heads cut off. They made swell targets for the riflemen to either side of Captain Gringo as they gleefully opened up with their weapons over the rail, all up and down the line. Some of Morales’ men had balls enough to hit the dirt between the peppers and return their fire. A lot were hitting the same dirt never to move again, while the mass still on their feet were running back in blind panic. They made swell targets. But Captain Gringo ceased fire to let his Maxims cool as he looked for bigger game.
A bullet spanged into the steel rail in front of him, between his guns. He didn’t know where it came from, but he spotted a clump of men in white cotton, bunched up like suckers as a non-com tried to rally them out in the open. The tall American snorted in disgust and only used one gun to blow them and their dumb non-com away. Further out he spotted an officer aboard a bucking mule. It looked like it could be Morales. So Captain Gringo swung both barrels, opened up to send a line of slugs to either side of the spooked mule and simply closed his shears on it. Mule and rider went down in a haze of bloody froth and chopped up pepper plants. He didn’t know if he’d finished the rider. He fired another burst into the waist high peppers for luck and looked around for something else to shoot at. He spotted the wheeling 155 far across the clearing as its crew swung it’s gun shield and long barrel their way just outside the tree line. It was a bit far to hose with his machinegun fire even if they hadn’t had all that Krupp steel plate protecting them. But he elevated his muzzles to give it the old college try. And then the 75 to his rear went off with a big tinny bang. So he held his fire and … beautiful! Gaston’s canister shot landed less than a yard from the 155’s left wheel and somebody staggered out from behind the shield to flop face down out of sight as Gaston fired again. His second round landed short, obscuring the bigger gun in dust and shredded vegetation. But the bastards behind the shield were good and the barrel was still swinging as Captain Gringo muttered, “Come on, Gaston!” and heard the 75 behind him cough again.
For a moment nothing happened. Then the gun shield across the way was outlined in a huge mushrooming ball of smoke and flame as the ammo caisson and everything within a good fifty yards around it was blown to hell! He saw what looked like a couple of rag dolls flying ass over tea kettle through the sky amid the other debris. But before they landed his attention was diverted by an ominous noise to his left. Captain Gringo looked north along the track in time to see the front end of a locomotive bearing down on him and his whole outfit! This was a hell of a way to run a railroad indeed! It was a whole fucking freight train, exploding out of the jungle uninvited to the party!
The engineer hit the brakes and whistle, of course. But the long string of loaded produce cars weren’t about to stop, so the backward spinning wheels of the locomotive screamed in vain as the train bore down on Captain Gringo. It had already rolled over lots of foxholes, now, and the tall American could only hope the others had been as smart as him as he yanked back his two guns and tried to fit himself in with them in the little hole between the ties. The dirt walls shuddered around him and it got dark all of a sudden as the train rolled over him, shooting sparks with its wheels.
And then the assholes managed to stop the Goddamn train, right on top of him. The locomotive tender was over his position, So Captain Gringo banged on the steel bottom and yelled, “Get that fucking thing off me!”
The fireman got down from the cab to hunker down and peer between the wheels as he asked, “Why are all you people on our track, señor?”
Before Captain Gringo could answer, the fireman grunted like he was trying to take a crap and keeled over, dead, with a rifle bullet in his spine. Another bullet clanged into the wheel nearest Captain Gringo’s head as he swore, helplessly. The sons-of-bitches out there were starting to rally, now that he and his men had been forced to cease fire. He peered over the rail and, damned if they weren’t coming his way again in a long ragged skirmish line!
But the engineer was a man who could take a hint. So as more slugs bounced off the steel around him he threw the gear to forward and opened the throttle wide to roll on. It called for more ducking up the line, but as the last car rolled off Captain Gringo’s position he popped up to blast away again with both Maxims at point blank range, and as his other men began to fire again, the skirmish line wavered and began to fall down and back.
They were in trouble either way. It was hard to miss at such close range and by the time Morales’ troops had staggered back to long range, there weren’t nearly as many of them left. Gaston was merrily lobbing canister shot for them to run into as they ran, unthinking, for the trail they’d come along through the trees. Canister shot made a hell of a mess out of human flesh when it hit, and Gaston was lobbing the stuff like it was going out of style and he wanted to get rid of it all at once. Gaston had told them he was an old artillery man. He hadn’t just been sounding off!
But the other side still had three field guns left. Bigger ones. Captain Gringo winced as a 155 screamed down to land near the tracks, shaking the earth like jelly under him. He yelled out, “Get down and stay down, muchachos!” as he hunkered in his foxhole, trying to make himself smaller. He heard and felt six or eight big shells land too close for comfort. Then, farther away, he heard a thunderous roar. He grinned and said, “It’s about time!” Then the tremendous explosion was joined by two more. He rose to his knees and started propping his guns over the rail again as he yelled, “Their big guns are out of action, muchachos! Keep your eyes open and let’s see if we have any more customers!”
Apparently they didn’t. Captain Gringo stared out across the pepper tops, silent in the noonday sun. The whole battlefield now reeked like a giant slab of salami. Salami was a mixture of meat and peppers, too, when you thought about it. Somewhere a man was groaning weakly. A carrion crow wheeled down out of the sky to land in the peppers. It was soon joined by others.
“Robles!” Captain Gringo called out. “Front and center!” And when Robles crawled along the tracks to him, he said, *Take your scouts out for a look see. Watch your step, but I think it’s about over.”
“I think so, too. Captain. What about the wounded?”
“Do onto others, Robles. They knew the customs down here when they started up with us. You’d better see if you can take a couple of officers alive, though. Colonel Duran may want to question them.”
Robles left to gather his patrol. Colonel Duran came walking along the tracks like a big ass bird until he got to Captain Gringo’s foxhole and asked, “I think we must have killed them all. Don’t you?”
Captain Gringo shot a withering look at the man in a field grade kit outlined against the skyline and
said, “I do now, sir. If anybody out there was still looking for a fight, you’d be dead.”
Duran blinked and said, “Oh, I see. Stupid of me. But, as I just said, they must have had enough.”
Captain Gringo nodded as he climbed out of his hole and led the older man down the far, safe side of the bank. Gaston headed over to join them, saying, “I am missing something, you cunning dog.”
“You didn’t miss, Gaston,” Captain Gringo said. “You put every round of 75 where it would do the most good.”
“Oui, I told you I am trés formidable. But explain to me how I knocked out four 155s with canister shot. I wasn’t aiming at the last three, since I had no idea where they were!”
Captain Gringo grinned as he lit a smoke and said, “That’s right. I forgot to tell you what I did in the hold of El Nombre Nada when I found it filled with shells for Morales. You see, I wanted old Esperanza to get paid for delivery, so I found this dynamite and ...”
“Sacre Goddamn!” Gaston cut in, “But of course! You sabotaged the rounds by packing dynamite in with the cordite! No wonder those guns blew up!”
Duran still looked blank, so Captain Gringo explained, “The breeches of those 155s were designed to resist slow burning cannon powder. Dynamite goes off in one sharp detonation. They had me worried for a minute when they lobbed a few rounds left over from before. But as soon as they tried to fire my doctored rounds, you heard the results. From the strength of the blasts, I’d say they had their ammo caissons a lot closer to the guns than they should have. So now Morales has no artillery, whether we nailed him out there or not”
They had. Robles came back to report that there were no surviving officers and that they’d found Morales in a messy condition. They didn’t ask him about wounded enlisted men. They followed Robles out into the peppers to where the late General Robles lay near his shot up mule. He’d died messy indeed. He’d apparently landed unhurt after Captain Gringo shot his mule out from under him. But as he’d been crawling for safety a shard from that first exploding field gun had sliced into his middle and spilled his guts out among the peppers. From the way the dirt was torn up around the body he’d taken some time bleeding to death.