The machine-gun crews mounted their heavy weapons on top of the even heavier tripods in time that would have kept a drill sergeant happy on the practice field. It wasn't for prestige here; it was for survival.
Morrell cursed as one of his men slumped over, briefly kicking in a way suggesting he'd never get up again. "Advance on them!" he yelled. "Shift to the northeast, so we can take that hilltop and support Captain Spadinger's company. Move, move, move!"
It wasn't the fight he'd wanted, but it was the fight he had. Now he had to make the best of it. Keeping everything as fluid as possible would also keep the Canucks confused about how many men he had and what he intended to do with them. Since he suspected he was outnumbered, that was all to the good.
Back where this movement had originated, Sergeant Finkel's machine gun started hammering. Morrell nodded to himself. The Canucks wouldn't be getting into his rear. Now he had to see if he could get into theirs. "Hold fire as much as you can as you advance," he called to the riflemen. "Let them think Spadinger has the main force. If they concentrate on him, we'll make them regret it."
"Aren't you telling the men more than they need to know?" Captain Hall shouted as the two of them ran to a boulder and flopped down behind it side by side. Bullets whined away from the other side of the stone, then went elsewhere in search of fresh targets.
"Just the opposite, Captain," Morrell answered. "This way, if I go down, the attack will go forward, because they'll know what I expect of them." Hall didn't look convinced, but he didn't argue with his commanding officer, either. If Morrell's methods didn't work, odds were he'd end up dead and so beyond criticism. Morrell raised his voice: "Keep the machine guns well forward, Lieutenant Lewis!"
Lewis and his machine gunners, bless their hearts, didn't need that order. They treated the machine guns almost like rifles, advancing at a stumbling run from one patch of cover to the next they saw-or hoped they saw.
Even so, Morrell was worried, and worse than worried. From the sound of the fighting off to the east, Spadinger's men weren't withholding fire. On the contrary; it sounded as if every man was in the line, fighting desperately to stay alive. If the forces they'd run into could crush them, those forces would swing back on him and smash him up, too. "Hold on, Karl!" he whispered fiercely. "Make them pay the price."
One of the Canuck machine guns up at the crest of the hill fell silent. Morrell whooped as he ran forward. The Canadians were used to facing slow, carefully set up attacks, not to this sort of lightning strike with things hitting them all at once from every which way.
And then he whooped again, for men in khaki scrambled out of their trenches and ran down-to the southeast, toward Captain Spadinger's embattled company. They gave Morrell's men the kind of target soldiers dreamt about. "Now!" he shouted. "Give 'em everything we've got."
Again, the men did not need the order. They loosed a storm of lead at the Canadians, who shouted in dismay at taking such fire from the right flank and rear. Yelling with glee, the U.S. soldiers dashed forward to take out the foes giving their comrades so much trouble.
Half an hour later, Morrell stood on the height he'd intended to bypass. A long file of dejected prisoners, many of them roughly bandaged, stumbled back toward what had been the U.S. line. "You don't fight fair," one of them shouted to Morrell.
"Good," Morrell answered. The Canuck scowled. His own men laughed. They felt like tigers now. For that matter, he felt on the tigerish side himself. Things hadn't gone exactly as he'd thought they would, but they seldom did. One thing both real war and the General Staff had taught him was that no plan long survived contact with the enemy.
He looked around. The view was terrific. He'd taken the objective. He hadn't taken crippling casualties doing it. How he'd taken it didn't matter. That he'd taken it did. He looked around again. A new question burned in his mind-what could he do next?
Jefferson Pinkard looked down at himself. His butternut uniform was so full of stains from the red dirt of southern Georgia, it might as well have started out mottled. He smelled. By the way his head itched, he probably had lice. Emily would have thrown him in a kettle, boiled him, and shampooed him with kerosene before she let him into the house, let alone into her bed.
He didn't care. He was alive. He'd seen too many different kinds of horrible death these past few weeks-he'd dealt out too many different kinds of horrible death these past few weeks-to worry about anything past that. The Black Belt Socialist Republic was dying. When he'd set out, he'd supposed that would make everything worthwhile. Did it? He didn't know. He didn't care much, either.
He detached the bayonet from his Tredegar and methodically cleaned it. It was clean already, but he wanted it cleaner. It had had blood on it, a couple of days before. He couldn't see that blood, not now, but he knew it was there.
"Damn niggers ought to give up," he muttered under his breath.
"What you say?" That was Hip Rodriguez, a recruit from down in Sonora. He didn't speak a whole lot of English. Most of what he did speak was vile. Up till the Conscription Bureau nabbed Jeff Pinkard, he'd thought of Sonorans and Chihuahuans as one step above Negroes, and a short step to boot. But Rodriguez had saved his life. If that didn't make him a good fellow, nothing ever would.
And so, instead of barking, Jeff repeated himself, adding, "They're licked. They damn well ought to know it."
Rodriguez shrugged. "We keep licking they, they quit-one way or t'odder." He carried a thoroughly nonregulation knife on his belt, and a whetstone to go with it. When he honed that blade, it made a vicious little grinding sound. He smiled, enjoying it.
"That's true," Pinkard admitted. "No two ways around it, I guess. Question that keeps comin'up in my mind, though, is what happens afterwards. They gonna be pullin' knives like yours out o' their hip pockets and stabbin' white men twenty years from now when they think they got the chance? That's a hell of a way to try and run a country, you know what I'm sayin'?"
Rodriguez shrugged again. "They try that, they get killed. Is no big never-mind to me." He flashed a big, shiny grin at Jeff. "In Sonora, we don't have no mallates-no niggers-till you Confederates, you buy us from Mexico. You bring in the problem. You should ought to fix it, too."
With some amusement, Pinkard noted that Rodriguez looked down his nose at Negroes, too. In a way, it made sense: if not for them, he would have been on the bottom himself. But the blacks were on the bottom. That made putting them down harder, because they had so little to lose from their rebellion.
Off to one side, a field piece began barking, throwing shells into Albany, Georgia. Captain Connolly looked up from his tin cup of coffee and said, "All right, boys, now we go and take their capital away from 'em. About time, I'd say. And doing that'll just about put the last nail in the coffin. Can't hardly claim they've got a country when they haven't got a capital any more, can they?"
"Damnyankees do," Stinky Salley said.
Connolly didn't catch him opening his mouth. He looked around. "All right, who's the smart bird?" he demanded. Nobody said anything. He gulped down the rest of the coffee-heavily laced with chicory and God only knew what all else, if it was anything like Jeff's. Pinkard didn't care. It was hot and strong and made his heart beat faster. The captain said, "Come on, boys. Time to do it."
He didn't tell them what to do and sit back on his duff. He went out with them and helped them do it. Pinkard had appreciated that in a foundry foreman. He appreciated it even more in an officer. After patting himself to make sure he had plenty of spare clips for the Tredegar, he scrambled to his feet and trudged on toward Albany.