But now they were all needed, veteran and cherry alike. Any day would mark the beginning of the Battle of Washington.
Animal sighed over the radio. “That fucking artillery has been diverted.”
Stephie pushed the PTT button and replied with, “Shut the fuck up!”
“We ain’t gettin’ no support!” came Animal’s retort. “They’ve forgotten about our asses. Or they’re up to their own asses in the shit! The plan’s been changed, only those little fucks forgot to tell us!”
“That’s bullshit!” she replied. “They’d tell us.”
“When was the last time you heard anything from anybody?” Animal asked. “What’s your signal strength? Mine is shit!”
Stephie raised the small stick that dangled from her helmet and read its tiny color LCD display. The cellular radio signal strength was a barely visible nub. She arched her neck to curse the high ridges between which they lay and cranked up the gain.
A squeal climbed in strength in her right ear, lighting up her command channel with unintelligible electronic noise. After a few seconds of steadily rising squall Stephie could make out a human voice from the howling. A few seconds later, she realized it was a man, and that the man, whoever he was, was shouting. Then the tone — desperation — became clear. Finally, she recognized the words. “…outa there! Pu-u-l-l ba…!” Then the voice.
It was the voice John Burns.
A helicopter’s rotors beat at the air to their rear. John’s voice grew ever clearer. John wasn’t on the helicopter, as much as Stephie knew he’d want to be. The helicopter’s radio was simply relaying his urgent orders.
“Pull outa that valley right now ’cause they’re comin’ through and not stopping!”
Artillery crackled overhead.
“Say again!” Stephie shouted in anticipation of the roar that was soon to follow. She burrowed deep into her hole, and the earth and air shook. Rock chips peppered the boulders. Twigs and branches scratched off her helmet.
“Stephie…!” she heard over her earbuds. But the excited shout was drowned out by the deafening barrage. Dozens of heavy shells slammed into the ground to Third Platoon’s front. The concussive waves reverberated across Stephie’s position.
“We’re taking fire!” Stephie screamed over the company net.
“Those are our guns!” John shouted back. “Pull back! Do it now! Right now!”
Stephie understood the situation from the tone of John’s voice. Something bad was coming. “Animal, you heard him!”
“We’re outa here!” he replied. Just then, the Chinese guns opened fire.
“All squads, withdraw to the rally point!” Stephie commanded when the first American rose.
“Smith!” Stephie shouted. “Covering fire!”
Smith’s two machine guns both roared instantaneously. But as Stephie watched, two of Animal’s retreating cherries fell in the hail of Chinese fire. Their buddies retrieved the writhing soldiers and dragged them toward the rear, heedless of their wounds. The troops on Stephie’s left flank fared slightly worse. By the time they passed Stephie’s position, most were clutching at spurting wounds or holding gaping rends, eyes wide with shock and fear.
“Smith!” Stephie shouted. American artillery lit the rocks ahead with concentrated fire. Smith stuck hard by his two machine gun crews. John shouted in Stephie’s ear, but she ignored him. In the fires from the artillery barrage, Stephie could see thousands of Chinese soldiers pouring down the narrow ravine toward the guns.
“Smi-i-ith!” Stephie shouted, but to no avail. Some men sprinted by weaponless. Without leadership, they would arrive at the rally point and keep running. “Smith!” she screeched. “Get back here! We’re pulling back!”
Bullets smacked into the hard earth and snapped through the branches. The zipping sounds forced Stephie’s head down. When she raised her head, she raised her rifle and felled two enemy soldiers, who climbed up the steep slope on their left for better shots. “Smith! God-dammit!”
Smith rode the two big guns like a trick rider. He lay hunched over on the bank almost leaning against one. The other gun fired a continuous stream of lead from directly across the streambed up the hill past Smith’s outstretched finger.
Smith pointed, and the guns laid waste to dozens of onrushing Chinese, just as Stephie had planned.
“Stephie, for God’s sake, answer me!” John called pitifully.
It was her last chance to escape. Smith and the four men in the machine gun crews — fifteen meters closer to the enemy — had already let their last chance pass.
“Smith!” Stephie screamed one last time as she pushed herself out of her hole. She half expected the guns to fall silent as the five men tried to disengage too late. But it wasn’t her nerves that held them in place. It was Corporal “S.” Fucking Smith — the rock — whose radio was obviously shot through.
A couple of minutes later, when the two guns finally died, almost in unison, Stephie finally paused from her flight to the rear. Breathing hard, Stephie called over the radio, “Last position is clear! Adjust fire to last position! Fire for effect! Fire for effect!”
“Stephie?” John interrupted over the company net.
“Adjust fire to last position!” she repeated.
“But Stephie…?” he questioned.
“The valley is clear! Fire for effect! On my fucking authority!” She resumed her personal retreat with her back lit by flame.
Major Ackerman arrived with an old-fashioned pad and pen. “Casualties?” he asked at the front bumper of his armored car. John Burns looked at Stephie. “Four dead,” she answered woodenly. “Eleven wounded. Six missing, presumed KIA.”
Ackerman wrote. That pissed Stephie off. She heaved a sigh, rubbed her eyes, and dabbed her runny nose on her sleeve.
“How about enemy casualties?” John asked.
Stephie licked her chapped lips and shrugged. “I dunno.” She looked away, exhausted. The panicked hour that it had taken to round up her stray platoon and to treat dying men and women in the dirt behind cold rocks had sapped hours of strength from her reserve. That reserve was dipping dangerously low. She cared very little about anything. When the well went dry, she wouldn’t care at all.
“Take a guess,” Ackerman prompted.
She had to think. Enemy casualties? “From the artillery? And the two guns?” Again she shrugged. “A hundred. Two hundred. Three hundred. I dunno.”
Ackerman wrote something.
“Are you writing down a number, or are you writing down something about me?” Stephie asked. Ackerman and John both looked up.
“How many days have you been in combat?” Ackerman asked.
“It’s been over two weeks since we had a break,” she replied.
“He means you,” John said gently.
“How long?” Ackerman repeated, pen in hand.
“You want me to count all the way back to Alabama?” Stephie asked.
“I mean continuous combat?” Ackerman said. “How long?”
Stephie sneered and turned from Ackerman to John. “As if you don’t know.”
Ackerman put his pad and pen into his blouse pocket.
“Thirty-five days, Stephie,” John supplied.
“That’s too long,” Ackerman concluded.
“Oh, well no fucking shit!” Stephie snapped. Ackerman’s driver and commo at the rear bumper overheard. Ackerman headed for the passenger door. “I’m pulling Third Platoon off the line.”