Chapter Seventeen: Phoenix Rising
“The death of one man is a tragedy. The death of one million men is a statistic.”
~Joseph Stalin
“Fuck.”
The explosion followed right on the heels of the curse, turning a small house into flaming matchsticks and smoldering foundations.
“You sure that you’re not holding back?” Len asked Major Tom Hardy, both of them crouching behind a sturdier stone building. Gunfire crackled all around them, the rattling of machineguns and the roar of artillery adding even more chaos to the forerunning wave of Armageddon.
“What I don’t understand is why it’s so damn calm,” Hardy growled. Another artillery shell slammed into Linwood, eliciting a few more furious shouts.
But no shrieks of death. The Unionists are holding back, probing, planning. They’re smarter than the Syndies, what with that death charge in Chicago.
“Yeah,” Len grunted. Colt had run out over to the front already, supervising fireteams and coordinating fire support. Len was in command of the reserves, waiting for the opportune moment to jump in.
And Bradford is somewhere over on the left, giving the Unionists hell – judging from all the gunfire, that is. Should I send Len over there?
For the millionth time, Hardy neutered the thought. The tough Australian could hold the line with his Edwards. If he needed help, he’d contact Price rather than jeopardize the American elements holding the center of the town.
“Bannon’s tanks are moving up,” Len alerted the major. He pushed a few rocks around on the impromptu battle map they’d etched in the dirt. “And it seems that the Unionists are massing another company to pour down the center.”
“Good,” Hardy grunted. “You still have contact with the flyboys?”
“Sure do,” Len confirmed. “The Air Corps has some bombers in the air, just waiting.”
“You understand the plan?” Hardy inquired, grabbing for his rifle as more artillery shells began to come down.
“Of course, sir.” Len chuckled. “Like Chicago all over again.”
“Lure them down the center, damn it,” Hardy ordered. “Bring them in close to the church. As soon as they secure it, we take cover and call in the bombers. Hold back all fire support until then.”
“I said I got it, Major,” Len replied. He picked up his tommy gun – an affection he was starting to favor over the typical Springfield or Krag rifle.
“Good. I’ll move into the center with Colt, while you take the right. Good?”
“On it, boss,” Len answered, all business now. He didn’t waste any more time, just getting up, beckoning to his troops, and then racing off toward the flank. Hardy took a deep breath.
Here we go again. Patton’s pushing hard into Ohio as we speak, and I get the feeling that he’s got a lot more men on the way here. We have to hold at all costs.
Tom Hardy hefted his rifle, summoned his guards, and raced to the battle lines, dodging a hail of shrapnel from a near miss.
“AND IF YOU DON’T GET THAT SODDING GUN LOADED-”
“Peters!”
“Shut up?”
“Exactly.”
Captain Courtney Bradford fired a few shots from his American-made Krag, seeing some Unionists collapse but unsure whether he actually hit them. Machinegun fire lanced from a position up in the church, scything over the few men remaining on their feet.
“It’s a goddamn killzone, sir,” Sergeant Peters commented. He fired a few bullets of his own into the general hailstorm. Thunder rumbled ominously nearby.
Bradford had to agree with the coarse sergeant. There was one trench line in front of the houses, at the base of a mile-long slope down from a thin patch of woods to the south. The Unionists were using the scattered trees and rocks as cover during their advance, and actually fairly skillfully – Bradford was reminded of France in the Weltkrieg, seeing the Germans push forward.
But they were up against Courtney Goddamn Bradford, and he had fought in the Weltkrieg whereas these men hadn’t. A few machineguns set up in overlooking positions – like the church, a hotel, and the town bank – created a crossfire capable of wrecking Imperial Sturmtruppen – which these men were most assuredly not.
And that was before you counted the landmines.
Even as Bradford watched, an advancing squad of Unionists suddenly exploded, screaming as shrapnel ripped through them all with the vengeance of Albion in exile. Hot lead slugs from rifles and machineguns loudly proclaimed their fury as they punched through blood, brains and bones, leaving the ground soaked and fertilized.
“Tell me, Watson,” Bradford began, causing Peters to chuckle at the reference. “Tell me why they keep on just coming, and don’t even pause to consider how many are dead?”
“Well, Sherlock, obviously this is a delaying action meant to distract us and tie us down. The main blow of the offensive is going to fall somewhere else. I’d suspect Price, since that enables them to circumvent the town and come at Philly from an unexpected direction.”
“Except that this is Patton. He’s not stupid. He’ll lose time going cross-country.” Bradford turned to Peters.
“Someone go warn those Irregulars that Hell is about to open up on them.”
“Wreck it.”
There was a sudden explosion as Corporal Lance Gates followed Captain Reznos’ order, then silence. Gates looked up.
“It’s done, cap. What now?”
Reznos turned his gaze south. New Orleans glowed in the afternoon light, the city seeming to whisper and invite seductively.
“Now we push down the road and set up a checkpoint just north of the city at that little ford. The armor will be coming down any minute now and we want them to be able to slam right into the city while we follow on their heels.”
“Will do, sir!” Gates answered cheerfully. He hefted his rifle. “Just let me at ‘em.”
“That’s what I like to hear, Corporal,” Reznos nodded. He turned and waved the company forward, ignoring the muddy terrain following the rain shower. December in Louisiana meant rain – but the North was having an unseasonably warm winter in ‘37-’38. Gates had heard that Philly didn’t have a single flake of snow yet.
They came from the trees, swift and silent. The ford was only garrisoned by a patrol of about fifteen Federals, all on low alert, thinking the explosions in the distance were cracks of thunder as the storm swept back and forth over New Orleans.
Gates led the first fireteam of six other men into the ford, seeing Wayne in command of the other. The two friends nodded to each other, then split up and pushed to opposite banks. The Federals were inside their tents save for a pair of sentinels, eyeing the storm to the south and discussing their odds of catching malaria so close to the swamp.
Well, they proved more susceptible to the most common disease of the Second Civil War: bullets.
Both went down instantly, shrieking as the Unionists took them out. A hand grenade soared into one tent, detonating with a chorus of howls. Two more followed, then silence.
The other tent disgorged a half-dozen Federalists, some half-dressed and bleary-eyed from lack of sleep. Gates and Wayne opened fire, taking down three in the blink of an eye. The others raised their hands.
“Don’t shoot!” one called. Gates shot him anyway.
“They’ve still got their weapons!” he alerted Wayne. “It’s a trick!”
The other Federals didn’t live long enough to make up their minds about whether to really surrender. Less than thirty seconds after the bullets started flying, and without a single casualty, Wayne and Gates stood unopposed in a former Federal guard post. Reznos and the rest of the men were already past it, fanning out along the road and hunting for mines and other traps.
“Gates, look for documentation!” Reznos ordered. Gates nodded and entered the intact tent.
Inside was a jumbled mess of clothes and ration tins, even a bottle of booze. Gates chuckled as he realized the officers’ tent had been grenaded.
“Not enough left in here to fill a tuna can,” Wayne called from the aforementioned tent. “Just total carnage.”
“Well, help me look in here, then!” Gates called. He was smiling darkly, though.
The road to New Orleans had been thrown wide open, and a million men and tanks were surging this way, vengeance for the election foremost on their minds.
“Little. Bitches.”
Captain James Pelt fired his rifle, pegging the target square in the center. He hadn’t missed a single practice shot today.
“We ought to hang the lot of these Unionist scum,” he repeated. “Then kick the Canucks out of New England.”
“Fascinating,” Colonel Brian Matthews replied, having appeared like magic behind the captain. Pelt turned, unabashed.
“You need me, sir?” he asked, with a precise salute. Matthews nodded.
“Command wants reinforcements to assist in the push on Richmond, and I want you to take charge. The Unionists will fight tooth and nail to defend the city, so I only trust this mission to the best soldier I have to spare.”
“Thank you, sir!” Pelt replied, unfooled.
He wants me to get myself shot so he can go on betraying the States to these foul traitors. Well, I’ll show him. I’ll score the greatest victory of the war, then get this foul excuse for a cockroach kicked from the Army like the pig he is!
Pelt didn’t let any of those thoughts show, just listening carefully to what Matthews had to say.
____________________
And thus the battles we've been waiting for are in full swing, after that little Hawai'ian diversion. We're not done there by a long shot, but I figure for the next two chapters we can go back to the vicious war that we've embraced in the Eastern Seaboard.
I've recently realized that Tom Hardy shares the name of an actor. This was entirely unplanned and I am astonished by the coincidence. But if it helps you to imagine my protagonist as Bane from The Dark Knight Rises, well, feel free. But you won't catch Hardy from BHaH making any comments about being anywhere's reckoning, or Batman in general.
Probably. I am a Bat-fanboy, after all.
In other news, I've finally begun making progress on my book again, which is why progress HERE has been slow. Priorities, you know
Potential money beats AAR, I'm afraid, but the good news is I have some ideas for the next few chapters here and you'll get another one or two this week. We still need to check back in with the Sturmtruppen, after all.
Anyway.
Obligatory blog link, as usual, and then, not as usual,
some ambiance for the upcoming chapters.
-L