The Texas Front: Salient

by Jonathan Cresswell

  The Martian defenders. Lang liked that phrase. He’d been around Funston long enough to have picked up some of his aggressiveness. It was about time they were the attackers!

  The 83rd was in reserve, ready to make up losses and press on where the defenders had stopped the assault. There were going to be losses; everyone knew that.

  “They’re moving beyond the telephone connections, sir. The last calls are just coming in.” Major Otto Prendergast had worked with Funston for three years; his easy manner overlaid a cool professionalism. Lang had learned a great deal from him.

  Funston smiled wryly. “I find myself wishing that I’d spent less time badgering Leonard for guns and more time asking for radios. And aircraft.”

  “Perhaps aircraft with radios?” said Prendergast.

  “Put heat rays on ’em while you’re at it.” Funston sipped his coffee. “Still, Cronkhite’s well able to judge when to advance. More so than I am back here. All the comforts of home. I remember swimming the Bagbag River in the Philippines and picking the leeches off afterward. I certainly could have used a mug of coffee back then...” He swung abruptly as one of the clerks put down a telephone and nudged two of the wooden blocks forward on the map.

  “Twenty miles more to the base,” muttered Lang. He felt as tense as if he were driving a tank through the darkness himself. Of course the rail line ran much closer to the Martian base than that, but a single line could never be a railhead for four divisions. Even the hastily laid sidings immediately to the west of Alice couldn’t support a fraction of the logistics load. They’d been more or less dumped onto the landscape in endless ranks of tents and vehicle and gun parks, and must advance from there on their own by road and the flatter areas of the countryside. Organizing who went where had been a colossal job.

  And then there was the question of distance... Too close, and the Martians could attack a division’s rear areas in a quick sally – they’d seen that before. Too far, and the steam tanks would run out of coal or water or break down before they even got into the fight. But there’d been no spoiling attacks or probes by the Martians, so moving up at night still made sense. It was going to be a terribly long day when the sun rose...

  “There’s a lot of reports of collisions and accidents coming in,” warned Prendergast.

  “Good,” said Funston. “Otto, if there weren’t any, they’d be spread too thin. It is acceptable.”

  Unlike other Martian bases, this one didn’t seem to have any defensive towers. That meant that if they could push through the mobile forces, they could get artillery observers up onto that defensive wall and shell whatever was inside. Both lead divisions had objectives to get their six-inch howitzers to within three miles of the wall by midday. With the 80th backing them up, at least one ought to do it.

  An hour dragged by; the blocks were pushed closer. By dawn they’d be poised to strike. Lang chafed his hands eagerly. It’s working! Maybe, just maybe, the Martians had become so used to dominating the regions around their bases that they hadn’t anticipated a rapid assault on this scale.

  Just after four o’clock, a flurry of activity among the telephone clerks drew Lang’s attention. One turned, looking pale. “Sir! Sir!”

  “What’s happening?” muttered Prendergast.

  Cycle 597,845.1, Minefast 31.01, South Texas

  Taldarnilis loped through the darkness in its fighting machine, its stride adjusted to accommodate the awkward weight of the eradicator tube it held in its manipulators. Eight other machines followed close behind, each also bearing one of the dust-projecting weapons. Twenty telequel’s distance from the minefast, the first prey forces appeared in its vision – small vehicles, quadrupeds, individual prey-creatures themselves. None of the Race engaged them; instead, they avoided them and continued on. Inevitably, though, some caught sight of them and reacted. Projectile-throwers stuttered flashes across the landscape. After a short interval, spluttering flares arced into the sky, casting enough light even for the prey’s feeble vision. Larger flashes opened up in turn.

  “Make for those flashes,” ordered Taldarnilis. It designated the location on its command screen; a large force of projectile-throwers. “Group One, attack that area on wide beam.”

  The lead machines began panning their heat rays in short sweeps across the flashes. The fire lessened noticeably, confirming the theory that the prey’s optical instruments concentrated all wavelengths of radiation. While the heat rays were ineffective at this range against metal or wood, the prey’s eyes were far more vulnerable...

  Other fire was increasing. One of Group Two’s machines staggered from a hit. They had only moments before risking being overwhelmed.

  “Fire eradicators in sequence!” ordered Taldarnilis. It launched its own first. Invisible in the darkness, the cloud of toxic dust spread along its path. Others launched in turn, laying a nearly continuous strip. With the wind behind them, the dust drifted gradually toward the main enemy force.

  A machine in Group Four twisted under multiple hits and collapsed. The others pressed on; there was no time to retrieve its pilot. Since they had no spare machines, the logic was implacable in any case. As if in response, though, the surviving machines in Group Four opened concentrated fire, targeting the projectile-throwers that had brought down their comrade. Explosions ripped out as they found their marks, but there were too many of the prey to stand and fight them for long, and there were more advancing. Instead, they spun about and retreated, gaining distance on the main body and seeking out the forward elements which they had bypassed earlier – a contest with favorable odds. The fire slackened as they moved out of the prey’s limited night range; Taldarnilis noted with satisfaction that some of those projectiles had landed among the prey’s own forces.

  “Destroy their forward elements,” ordered Taldarnilis.

  April 1912, IX Corps HQ, Alice, Texas

  “The 7th has come under fire from tripods,” reported Prendergast. He was filtering four telephone and three telegraph channels single-handed, reading slips as fast as they were handed over. At the map table, red counters were placed in front of the right-hand block. “They’re estimating twenty.”

  “They didn’t sit still for us after all,” muttered Funston. “But once we can start engaging them, we can wear them down. Still, that’s not nearly their full strength yet.”

  “Heavy losses in the 314th Artillery. And the 7th’s lead elements report being cut off and attacked from behind.”

  Funston paced from the map. “That works both ways. If the main body can come up and act as the hammer...” He laid a hand on a telegraphist’s shoulder. “Send a message to be forwarded by motor courier. Message begins. General Dougherty is to advance his main body at best speed and deploy to attack. End.” The key began hammering; Funston turned away. “No reports from the 49th yet?”

  “Only routine,” said Prendergast. “And the 7th is reporting a lot more vehicle accidents... Oh, my God.” He snatched up the slip he’d been reading. “Sir, there’s reports of that black dust. Men in the 7th are marching and driving right into it! They must have sprayed that entire area!”

  Funston whirled to the telegraphist. “Send another message, quickly!”

  Cycle 597,845.1, Minefast 31.01, South Texas

  Taldarnilis’ force made short work of the isolated prey force, pouncing on each small group and breaking up larger ones, although another machine was lost when two of the prey’s short-range accelerated projectiles flashed out from close range and struck it. Those were new – and dangerous, if even a few prey brought them within range. Soon the dark landscape was speckled with burning vehicles and equipment. The fire from behind them slackened as the dust did its work – or perhaps as well, the prey realized they attacked their own forces. They seemed easily discouraged by that...

  “Commander, Group Six reports that the southern prey force is continuing to advance beyond the northern one,” said Raqtinoctil.

  Taldarnilis consulted its command screen. Group S
ix was swinging around that force, preparing to strike it from the south side. Combined with their own attack, it should be as two tendrils piercing a brain. But the danger was growing by the moment...

  “Group Six, attack! Groups Two and Four, attack!”

  April 1912, IX Corps HQ, Alice, Texas

  At dawn, the sporadic rumbles of gunfire that had drifted toward them during the night from the west intensified.

  “They still own the night,” said Funston grimly, “but we hit harder in the daytime. Now it will be decided.”

  The rumbling ebbed and surged. It sounded like the roaring of some huge, savage beast. And it was, thought Lang. It was the bellow of IX Corps tearing into the Martians. It seemed to galvanize the entire command team despite most not having slept at all during the night.

  “They’ve come up with a new wrinkle,” said Prendergast. “Our scouts reported dozens of odd-looking small fortifications scattered along our line of advance. Like short sections of a defensive wall, but they seemed useless. Well, the Martian tripods are crouching behind them and using them for cover. Harder to get a crippling hit on them with artillery that way. Two or three of them hide behind each one, so when we try to outflank them, they have only to deal with whoever approaches on each side. Then when it gets too hot for ’em, they fall back to the next one.”

  “As long as we’re pushing them back, that’s what matters. They’ll have to make a stand before we reach the base perimeter wall.” Funston studied the map table. Although the blocks were closer to the Martian base, the night had not gone well. The dust attack had seriously disrupted the 7th’s advance, both by inflicting casualties on men and horses, and by forcing the use of respirators, which made marching and driving more difficult. While the 7th was slowed, the 49th had continued on, opening its right flank... and had been attacked in a pincer movement which broke up its advance in turn. While the losses were not high, the expected movement overnight hadn’t materialized. Both lead divisions still had fifteen miles to cover to reach their objectives, and the Martian defenders were putting up strong resistance. The guns’ thunder continued.

  “General, I have a preliminary casualty report,” said one of the clerks just after nine o’clock.

  “Let’s hear it.”

  “For both the 7th and 49th, eleven hundred killed or missing, four hundred wounded. The other divisions combined have a hundred wounded and forty dead, mostly from accidents.”

  Funston nodded without speaking. The clerk turned away, looking pale. That number approached the death toll from the battle of Previtt, and the day was only beginning.

  “We’ve got confirmed reports of five Martian tripods knocked out, including one during the night actions,” said Lang, grateful that Prendergast had given him the good news to pass along. “None of the power cell explosions so far.” He glanced reflexively at the one vacant desk along the wall: the government’s Bureau of Investigation agent who’d manned it – their assigned ‘man in gray’ – had left early that morning to oversee the salvage of any Martian equipment.

  “Some artillery units report ammunition shortages,” said Prendergast. “Particularly in the 7th.”

  Lang had studied the mathematics of that. A battery loaded with a hundred shells per gun could fight a sustained engagement with the Martians, but one heat ray into a limber, and the explosion might knock out half its guns... or all of them. When defending, they could bury their ammunition deep, but in attack, they needed to keep moving up. Like the steam tanks’ crews, the gunners accepted their limited combat lifespans and carried fewer shells. Each division needed to keep ammunition carts and limbers moving forward; but the 7th was hampered by the still-lethal area contaminated with black dust. Too many of the supply vehicles were still horse-drawn, and there was no practical way to protect an entire animal against the dust. Lang had driven a horse team on his farm before they graduated to a tractor; he tried not to think of the ugly picture when black dust met horseflesh.

  “How much do we have left at the railhead depots?” asked Funston.

  “About three thousand for the smaller calibers, a thousand for the 4.7s, and nine hundred for the six-inch. At the rate we’re currently using it, and assuming that artillery losses continue proportionally as well...” Lang juggled sheets of paper to find his calculations from an hour ago. “Ah... we have two days’ worth.”

  “Good God.” Funston wheeled on him. “What are they shooting at? Thin air? Those are supposed to be trained gunners!”

  “The tripods are fast-moving targets, sir. And the men... well, they’re eager. They want to hit back.” As I would. As I did.

  “I can understand that... Well, send out a general order to conserve ammunition and get closer before opening fire. Move up as much ammunition as possible to the division dumps so we can reduce the time to supply it forward – use the rail line. And get in touch with Second Army HQ and have them start sending us more of all shell calibers from the other corps by rail. We can’t run out just as they get the base in their sights!”

  “No, sir! I’ll get right on it.” Lang scrambled to issue both directives. By eleven o’clock, he was able to report that seven boxcars of shells were moving up the rail line and a large number of trucks as well. The 7th’s surgeon-in-chief was screaming at him that the line was needed for sending wounded back, but Lang had his priorities; and may God have mercy on his soul... Surely the divisional hospitals could handle it for now. As with most battles with Martians, there were far more dead than wounded, and there were other ways to transport them if needs be. He tried not to think of a burned man jouncing cross-country aboard a truck or wagon. The shells had to go up.

  By one o’clock it was a hot, cloudless day. The gunfire was growing difficult to hear inside the command center as the guns moved forward, slowly, slowly. Funston made the clerks pause to take a meal. Lang grabbed a plate of beans himself, and more coffee. This day seemed endless; the clocks crawled. Still, they moved faster than the blocks on the map...

  “Has Cronkhite moved up yet?” asked Funston for the fourth time.

  Lang checked. “No, sir. Not before two o’clock, at least.”

  “Tell him to advance. It will be tough getting his tanks forward through all that muddle, but he can’t wait any longer.”

  “Yes, sir.” The order went out; this was the big push. At least thirty tripods were confirmed to be fighting the 7th and 49th by now, darting in to strike, dodging, inflicting losses – but being pushed steadily back. The Martians had committed most of their strength now – assuming they had no more than the forty spotted previously – and IX Corps had them pinned against their base. They couldn’t run away and find a weaker human opponent. There would be no sudden pounce by a large force from a vulnerable direction. The tanks had the opportunity to grind them down.

  Lang remembered his time in tanks: the glaring daylight through a viewslit, the sweltering heat of the firebox, endless lurch and jolt and buffet. “Go and get ’em, 80th,” he muttered, not caring if anyone heard.

  Cycle 597,845.1, Minefast 31.01, South Texas

  “Group Four has lost another machine,” reported Raqtinoctil.

  “Acknowledged.” Taldarnilis took a moment to withdraw its machine several quel to the west into comparative safety, then paused to study its command screens. Group Three was disengaging; the others were regrouping to prepare for the next advance by the prey force. Three had just reported that the prey were deploying armored vehicles in large numbers – a more dangerous threat than any so far.

  The expedition had lost eleven machines now in this battle. They had been pushed back beyond the defensive mounds – nearly halfway to the minefast berm. There was no question that the prey were willing to accept large losses in order to reach there. Had Vantarsilas been right after all?

  Yet if the prey were so determined...

  It checked the exterior temperature readout: high, even for this world. The goodprey often failed at sustained tasks in temperatures at this range
. Perhaps, although they had expended their supply of eradicator dust, the threat of more would be a factor. “Group Six, advance with the eradictor tubes. Perform a rapid movement across here,” it touched the screen with a tendril, “as though you were dispensing the material.”

  April 1912, IX Corps HQ, Alice, Texas

  “Anything from Cronkhite yet?”

  “Nothing, sir – oh, wait.” Prendergast accepted a slip from a telegraph clerk. “Reports of Martians scattering more of that damned black dust. Scouts are warning the rest to avoid that area. He’s having to divert the 315th and 327th tank battalions around it.”

  “Never mind that. Tell him to send them through it. They have respirators – and the tanks will keep most of it out. If the Martians don’t want us strong there, there’s a reason. We must hit them hard everywhere, give them no breathing space!”

  “Yes, sir.” Prendergast moved to the clerk’s desk.

  Funston glanced at Lang. “I know, Willard. It’ll be tough on the crews, and we might lose some.”

  “It’s not just that, sir. If they can drive through it before engaging and vent the vehicles, they’ll give a good account of themselves. But fighting a tank wearing respirators in this heat... Those devils know exactly when to use this on us. At night or in hot weather.”

  “I know. It’s on my head.”

  Cycle 597,845.1, Minefast 31.01, South Texas

  Engagements had begun with the prey armored vehicles across a large front. Taldarnilis felt a cross-clan kinship with the other Threeborn as it observed the deft maneuvering of their machines under such an onslaught. Groups drew together smoothly on its display, concentrated their fire on a few vehicles, and withdrew as more of the prey trundled slowly toward them in response. But each time, they gave ground; and the armored vehicles’ advance, though slow, was inexorable. And it seemed that each time, another machine was lost.