Some of the men didn’t know what it was and charged into it. After a while there was a little wall of dead men and boys at its edge. No one could advance. Snipers began to pick off any of the still figures that tried to move. Peter lay there, wondering if any of the other companies were making progress. Most of his men tried to find shelter behind the bodies of dead comrades. One by one his troops died as they lay there in the open, in the bright sunshine of a dying vineyard.
Late in the afternoon it began to rain: first a few drops, then harder, finally a storm that cut off all visibility. The men who could crawl made their way back to their dugouts. There were no orders for a retreat.
Peter found small groups of men and sent them out to bring back the wounded. It was hard to get men to go back into the hollow, even in the driving rainstorm, and he had to go with them or they would vanish in the mud and gloom. Eventually there were no more wounded to find.
* * *
The scene in the trenches was a shambled hell of bloody mud. Men fell into the dugouts and lay where they fell, too tired and scared to move. Some of the wounded died there in the mud, and others fell on top of them, trampling the bodies down and out of sight because no one had the strength to move them. For several hours Peter was the only officer in the battalion. The company was his, and the men were calling him “Captain.”
In mid afternoon Stromand came into the trenches carrying a bundle.
Incredibly, Allan Roach was unhurt. The huge wrestler stood in Stromand’s path. “What is that?” he demanded.
“For morale.” Stromand showed papers.
Roach didn’t move. “While we were out there you were off printing leaflets?”
“I had orders,” Stromand said. He backed nervously away from the big sergeant. His hand rested on a pistol butt.
“Roach,” Peter said calmly. “Help me with the wounded, please.”
Roach stood in indecision. Finally he turned to Peter. “Yes, sir.”
* * *
At dawn Peter had eighty effectives to hold the lines. The Dons would have had no trouble taking his position, but they were strangely quiet. Peter went from dugout to dugout trying to get a count of his men. Two hundred wounded sent to rear areas.
He could count one-hundred-thirteen dead. That left ninety-four vanished. Died, deserted, ground into the mud; he didn’t know.
There hadn’t been any general attack. The international volunteer commander had thought that even without it, this would be a splendid opportunity to show what morale could do. It had done that, all right.
The Republican command was frantic. The war was stalemated, which meant the superior forces of the Dons were slowly grinding the Republicans down.
In desperation they sent a large group to the stable front in the south. The previous attack had been planned to the last detail; this one was to depend entirely on surprise. Peter’s remnants were reinforced with pieces of other outfits and fresh volunteers, and sent against the enemy.
The objective was an agricultural center called Zaragoza, a small town set among olive groves and vineyards. Peter’s column moved through the groves to the edge of town.
Surprise was complete, and the battle was short. A flurry of firing, quick advances, and the enemy retreated. Communications were sporadic, but it looked as if Peter’s group had advanced farther than any other. They were the spearhead of freedom in the south.
They marched in to cheering crowds. His army looked like scarecrows, but women held their children up to see their liberators. It made it all worthwhile: the stupidity of the generals, the heat and mud and cold and dirt and lice—all of it forgotten in their victory.
More troops came in behind them, but Peter’s company camped at the edge of their town. The next day the army would advance again; if the war could be made fluid, fought in quick battles of fast-moving men, it might yet be won. Certainly, Peter thought, certainly the people of Santiago were waiting for them. They’d have support from the population. How long could the Dons hold?
Just before dark they heard shots in the town.
He brought his duty squad on the run, dashing through the dusty streets, past the pockmarked adobe walls to the town square. The military police were there.
“Never saw such pretty soldiers,” Allan Roach said.
Peter nodded.
“Captain, where do you think they got those shiny boots? And the new rifles? Seems we never have good equipment for the troops, but the police always have more than enough. . . .”
A small group of bodies lay like broken dolls at the foot of the churchyard wall. The priest, the mayor, and three young men. “Monarchists. Carlists,” someone whispered. Some of the townspeople spat on the bodies.
An old man was crouched beside one of the dead. He cradled the youthful head in his hands, and blood poured through his fingers. He looked at Peter with dull eyes. “Why are you here?” he asked. “Are there not richer worlds for you to conquer?”
Peter turned away without answering. He could think of nothing to say.
* * *
“Captain!”
Peter woke to Allan Roach’s urgent whisper.
“Cap’n, there’s something moving down by the stream. Not the Dons. Mister Stromand’s with ’em, about five men. Officers, I think, from headquarters.”
Peter sat upright. He hadn’t seen Stromand since the disastrous attack three hundred kilometers to the north. The man wouldn’t have lasted five minutes in combat among his former comrades. “Anyone else know?”
“Albers, nobody else. He called me.”
“Let’s go find out what they want. Quietly, Allan.” They walked silently in the hot night. What were staff officers doing in his company area, near the vanguard of the advancing Republican forces? And why hadn’t they called him?
They followed the small group down the nearly dry creek bed to the town wall. When their quarry halted, they stole closer until they could hear.
“About here,” Stromand’s bookish voice said. “This will be perfect.”
“How long do we have?” Peter recognized the German accent of the staff officer who’d briefed them. The next voice was even more of a shock.
“Two hours. Enough time, but we must go quickly.” It was Brigadier Cermak, second in command of the volunteer forces. “It is set?”
“Yes.”
“Hold it.” Peter stepped out from the shadows. He covered the small group with his rifle. Allan Roach moved quickly away from him so that he also threatened them. “Identify yourselves.”
“You know who we are, Owensford,” Stromand snapped.
“Yes. What are you doing here?”
“That is none of your business, Captain,” Cermak answered. “I order you to return to your company area and say nothing about seeing us.”
“In a minute. Major, if you continue moving your hand toward your pistol, Sergeant Roach will cut you in half. Allan, I’m going to have a look at what they were carrying. Cover me.”
“Right.”
“You can’t!” The German staff officer moved toward Peter.
Owensford reacted automatically. His rifle swung in an uppercut that caught the German under the chin. The man fell with a strangled cry and lay still. Everyone stood frozen.
“Interestin’, Captain,” Allan Roach said. “I think they’re more scared of bein’ heard by our side than by the enemy.”
Peter squatted over the device they’d set by the wall. “A bomb of some kind, from the timers—Jesus!”
“What is it, Cap’n?”
“A fission bomb,” Peter said slowly. “They were going to leave a fission bomb here. To detonate in two hours, did you say?” he asked conversationally. His thoughts whirled, but he could find no explanation; and he was very surprised at how calm he felt. “Why?”
No one answered.
“Why blow up the only advancing force in the Republican army?” Peter asked wonderingly. “They can’t be traitors. The Dons wouldn’t have these on a platter—but—Stromand, is there a new CD warship in orbit here? New fleet forces to stop this war?”
More silence.
“What does it mean?” Allan Roach asked. His rifle was steady, and there was an edge to his voice. “Why use an atom bomb on their own men?”
“The ban,” Peter said. “One thing the CD does enforce. No nukes.” He was hardly aware that he spoke aloud. “The CD inspectors will see the spearhead of the Republican army destroyed by nukes, and think the Dons did it. They’re the only ones who could benefit from it. So the CD cleans up the Carlists, and these bastards end up in charge when the fleet pulls out. That’s it, isn’t it? Cermak? Stromand?”
“Of course,” Stromand said. “You fool, come with us, then. Leave the weapons in place. We’re sorry we didn’t think we could trust you with the plan, but it was just too important . . . it means winning the war.”