Breakthroughs

“Yeah.” It was too dark for Martin to watch Reinholdt nod, but the pause before the corporal spoke again was about right. “Last time, they kept the machine guns banging all night long. You don’t want to do the same thing twice in a row, or the Rebs’ll get wise to you.”

“I hadn’t thought of it that way, but you’re right.” Martin swatted at a mosquito. He didn’t think he got it. Scratching, he continued, “Maybe I’m the dummy.” If Reinholdt finally was getting used to having him in charge, he wanted to help that along as much as he could. Ignoring occasional shells from overmatched Confederate batteries trying to reply to the U.S. barrage, he rolled himself in his blanket and went to sleep.

To Lieutenant Childress’ credit, he went through the trenches an hour before the attack was set to begin, making sure everybody in the company was awake and alert. When he recognized Martin in the predawn gloom, he said, “Remember, Sergeant, we are to form behind the barrels and follow them toward the enemy’s position.”

“Yes, sir.” Martin hid a smile. “I’ve done this before, sir.” The last big attack, he’d done it as a company commander. He let out a silent sigh.

Lieutenant Childress might as well not have heard him. “We have to stay close to the barrels, to take full advantage of what they can do for us.” He could have been reciting something he’d learned by rote. He didn’t understand what it meant, not really, but at least he had it right.

As he was speaking, U.S. artillery came to life again, making the Confederates stay under cover in the key minutes just before the attack went in. Through the booming of the guns and of their shells, Martin caught the sound he was listening for: the rumble of truck engines and the rattle and clank of iron tracks. Sure enough, the barrels were moving up to their jumping-off places.

Darkness slowly yielded to morning twilight. Martin got a glimpse of a couple of barrels not far away, the big boxy steel shapes putting him in mind of prehistoric monsters looming out of the mist. But these monsters were friendly to him and his. Only the Confederates would find them horrid.

And then the note of the engines grew harsher, louder. The barrels waddled forward at their best speed, somewhere between a fast walk and a slow trot, toward the men of the Army of Northern Virginia. Lieutenant Childress’ almost beardless cheeks puffed out like a chipmunk’s as he blew and blew the whistle that ordered his company forward. He was first out of the trench himself: he would do what he could by personal example.

“Come on, you lazy bastards!” Chester Martin shouted. “If the Rebs shoot you, your family picks up a nice check from Uncle Sam. So you’ve got nothing to worry about, right?” He suspected that wouldn’t hold up if anybody took a long, logical look at it. But so what? It got the men moving, which was what he’d had in mind.

Machine guns winked balefully from the Confederate positions ahead. No, the Army of Northern Virginia hadn’t quit, however much Martin wished it would. U.S. machine gu

“Forward!” Lieutenant Childress shouted. “Stay close to the barrels!” He trotted on, doing his best to make sure he was applying what he’d learned in school.

It did him no good. One thing his training hadn’t taught him was how to keep from catching three or four machine-gun bullets with his chest. He let out a brief, bubbling wail and crumpled. Martin was only a few feet behind the company commander. He threw himself flat and crawled up to him. Childress’ eyes were wide and staring. Blood poured from his wounds and from his mouth and nose. He was still twitching a little and still trying to breathe, but he was a dead man.

That meant B Company belonged to Martin again. He scrambled to his feet. “Come on!” he shouted again. “We can take ’em! Let ’em try and stop us, hard as they want. We can still take ’em.”

Talk like that on the Roanoke front in 1915 would have got him laughed at. Taking such talk seriously back then would have got him-and whoever listened to him-killed. Now…Now he was right. The Army of Northern Virginia lacked the men and the guns and, most of all, the barrels to halt the vengeful forces of the United States. Each barrel the CSA did get into the fight had to fight off two or three or four U.S. machines.

Also, at last, even the white Confederate soldiers seemed to have despaired of the fight. Instead of battling in the trenches with bayonet and sharpened spade, more and more of them threw down their rifles and threw up their hands and went into captivity pleased with themselves for having outlasted the war. Here and there, in the trenches and behind them, diehards still fought till they were killed in place, but the tide of war flowed past them and over them and washed them away.

Now, finally, everything was going as the generals and politicians had predicted it would go back in 1914. Martin passed through the little town of Stafford-a few homes and shops clustered around a brick courthouse-hardly noticing it till it was behind him. U.S. artillery had reduced most of the buildings to rubble. The Confederates no longer defended every hamlet as if it were land on which Jesus had walked.

“Come on!” he shouted to the men who advanced with him. “Eight miles to the Rappaha

But only a few Rebs contested the way south of Stafford. Save for those rear guards, most of the Confederates seemed intent on getting to the southern bank of the river, perhaps to make a stand there, perhaps simply to escape. A couple of miles north of the Rappaha

Then the shells stopped falling. The rifle and machine-gun fire from the few men in butternut still north of the Rappaha

“It’s over,” the Confederate officer shouted. “It’s done. You sons of bitches licked us.” Standing there defeated before the soldiers of the United States, he burst into tears.

Jake Featherston had the surviving guns of his battery in the best position he’d found for them since the war began. Back of Fredericksburg, Virginia, up in Marye’s Heights, a stone wall protected a sunken road. If the Yankees swung down along the curve of the Rappaha

At the moment, he had the guns turned toward the north rather than the east, though-the U.S. soldiers seemed to be heading straight for Falmouth instead of Fredericksburg. That was what he gathered from the beaten men in butternut streaming past, anyhow. He’d given up shooting at Confederate soldiers fleeing the enemy. He couldn’t kill them all. He couldn’t even make them stop their retreat. And the more rounds he wasted on them, the fewer he’d be able to shoot at the damnyankees.

He climbed up on top of the stone wall and peered north through field glasses. Sure as hell, here came the U.S. soldiers, trailing the barrels that smashed flat or blasted out of existence any strongpoints in their path. U.S. fighting scouts swooped low over the front, further harrying the men of the Army of Northern Virginia.