Von Mellenthin turned to the Chief of Staff. “Horst, do you think he has heavy guns here already?”
Oberst Carnap shrugged. “Weiss nicht, Brigadier. Every hour gives Falkenberg time to dig in at the Gap, and we have lost many hours.”
“Not Falkenberg,” von Mellenthin corrected. “He is now investing the fortress at Doak’s Ferry. We have reports from the commandant there. Most of Falkenberg’s force must be far to the west.”
He turned back to his maps. They were as complete as they could be without closer observation.
As if reading his mind, Carnap asked, “Shall I send scouting forces, Brigadier?”
Von Mellenthin stared at the map as if it might tell him one more detail, but it would not. “No. We go through with everything,” he said in sudden decision. “Kick their arses, don’t pee on them.”
“Jawohl.” Carnap spoke quietly into the command circuit. Then he looked up again. “It is my duty to point out the risk, Brigadier. We will take heavy losses if they have brought up artillery.”
“I know. But if we fail to get through now, we may never relieve the fortress in time. Half the war is lost when Doak’s Ferry is taken. Better heavy casualties immediately than a long war. I will lead the attack myself. You will remain with the command caravan.”
“Jawohl, Brigadier.”
Von Mellenthin climbed out of the heavy caravan and into a medium tank. He took his place in the turret, then spoke quietly to the driver. “Forward.”
The armor brushed the infantry screens aside as if they had not been there. Von Mellenthin’s tanks and their supporting infantry cooperated perfectly to pin down and root out the opposition. The column moved swiftly forward to cut the enemy into disorganized fragments for the following Covenanter infantry to mop up.
Von Mellenthin was chewing up the blocking force piecemeal as his brigade rushed deeper into the Gap. It was all too easy, and he thought he knew why.
The sweating tankers approached the irregular ridge at the very top of the pass. Suddenly a fury of small arms and mortar fire swept across them. The tanks moved on, but the infantry scrambled for cover. Armor and infantry were separated for a moment, and at that instant his lead tanks reached the mine fields.
Brigadier von Mellenthin began to worry. Logic told him the mine fields couldn’t be wide or dense, and if he punched through he would reach the soft headquarters areas of his enemies. Once there his tanks would make short work of the headquarters and depots, the Covenanter infantry would secure the pass, and his brigade could charge across the open fields beyond.
But—if the defenders had better transport than the General Staff believed, and thus had thousands of mines, he was dooming his armor.
“Evaluation,” he demanded. The repeater screen in his command tank swam, then showed the updated maps. His force was bunched up, and his supporting infantry was pinned and taking casualties. “Recommendation?”
“Send scouting forces,” Oberst Carnap’s voice urged.
Von Mellenthin considered it for a moment. Compromises in war are often worse than either course of action. A small force could be lost without gaining anything. Divided forces can be defeated in detail. He had only moments to reach a decision. “Boot, don’t spatter,” he said. “We go forward.”
They reached the narrowest part of the Gap. His force now bunched together even more, and his drivers, up to now automatically avoiding terrain features that might be registered by artillery, had to approach conspicuous landmarks. Brigadier von Mellenthin gritted his teeth.
The artillery salvo was perfectly delivered. The brigade had less than a quarter-minute warning as the radars picked up the incoming projectiles. Then the shells exploded all at once, dropping among his tanks to brush away the last of the covering infantry.
As the barrage lifted, hundreds of men appeared from the ground itself. A near perfect volley of infantry-carried anti-tank rockets slammed into his tanks. Then the radars showed more incoming mail—and swam in confusion.
“Ja, that too,” von Mellenthin muttered. His counter-battery screens showed a shower of gunk.
The defenders were firing chaff, hundreds of thousands of tiny metal chips which slowly drifted to the ground. Neither side could use radar to aim indirect fire, but Von Mellenthin’s armor was under visual observation, while the enemy guns had never been precisely located.
Another time-on-target salvo landed. “Damned good shooting,” von Mellenthin muttered to his driver. There weren’t more than five seconds between the first and the last shell’s arrival.
The brigade was being torn apart on this killing ground. The lead elements ran into more mine fields. Defending infantry crouched in holes and ditches, tiny little groups that his covering infantry could sweep aside in a moment if it could get forward, but the infantry was cut off by the barrages falling behind and around the tanks.
There was no room to maneuver and no infantry support, the classic nightmare of an armor commander. The already rough ground was strewn with pits and ditches. High explosive antitank shells fell all around his force. There were not many hits yet, but any disabled tanks could be pounded to pieces, and there was nothing to shoot back at. The lead tanks were under steady fire, and the assault slowed.
The enemy expended shells at a prodigal rate. Could they keep it up? If they ran out of shells it was all over. Von Mellenthin hesitated. Every moment kept his armor in hell.
Doubts undermined his determination. Only the Confederate General Staff told him he faced no more than Falkenberg’s Legion, and the staff had been wrong before. Whatever was out there had taken Astoria before the commandant could send a single message. At almost the same moment the observation satellite was killed over Allansport. Every fortress along the Columbia was invested within hours. Surely not even Falkenberg could do that with no more than one regiment!
What was he fighting? If he faced a well-supplied force with transport enough to continue this bombardment for hours, not minutes, the brigade was lost. His brigade, the finest armor in the worlds, lost to the faulty intelligence of these damned colonials!
“Recall the force. Consolidate at Station Hildebrand.” The orders flashed out, and the tanks fell back, rescuing the pinned infantry and covering their withdrawal. When the brigade assembled east of the Gap, von Mellenthin had lost an eighth of his tanks, and he doubted if he would recover any of them.
VII
The honor guard presented arms as the command caravan unbuttoned. Falkenberg acknowledged their salutes and strode briskly into the staff bunker. “Tensh-Hut!” Sergeant Major Calvin commanded.
“Carry on, gentlemen. Major Savage, you’ll be pleased to know I’ve brought the regimental artillery. We landed it yesterday. Getting a bit thin, wasn’t it?”
“That it was, John Christian,” Jeremy Savage answered grimly. “If the battle had lasted another hour we’d have been out of everything. Miss Horton, you can relax now—the colonel said carry on.”
“I wasn’t sure,” Glenda Ruth huffed. She glanced outside where the honor guard was dispersing and scowled in disapproval. “I’d hate to be shot for not bowing properly.”
Officers and troopers in the CP tensed, but nothing happened. Falkenberg turned to Major Savage. “What were the casualties, Major?”
“Heavy, sir. We have 283 effectives remaining in Second Battalion.”
Falkenberg’s face was impassive. “And how many walking wounded?”
“Sir, that includes the walking wounded.”
“I see.” Sixty-five percent casualties, not including the walking wounded. “And Third?”
“I couldn’t put together a corporal’s guard from the two companies. The survivors are assigned to headquarters duties.”
“What’s holding the line out there, Jerry?” Falkenberg demanded.
“Irregulars and what’s left of Second Battalion, Colonel. We are rather glad to see you, don’t you know?”
Glenda Ruth Horton had a momentary struggle with herself. Whatever she might think about all the senseless militaristic rituals Falkenberg was addicted to, honesty demanded that she say something. “Colonel, I owe you an apology. I’m sorry I implied that your men wouldn’t fight at Astoria.”
“The question is, Miss Horton, will yours? I have two batteries of the Forty-second’s artillery, but I can add nothing to the line itself. My troops are investing Doaks Ferry, my cavalry and First Battalion are on Ford Heights, and the regiment will be scattered for three more days. Are you saying your ranchers can’t do as well as my mercenaries?”
She nodded unhappily. “Colonel, we could never have stood up to that attack. The Second’s senior centurion told me many of his mortars were served by only one man before the battle ended. We’ll never have men that steady.”
Falkenberg looked relieved. “Centurion Bryant survived, then.”
“Why—yes.”
“Then the Second still lives.” Falkenberg nodded to himself in satisfaction.
“But we can’t stop another attack by that armor!” Glenda Ruth protested.
“But maybe we won’t have to,” Falkenberg said. “Miss Horton, I’m betting that von Mellenthin won’t risk his armor until the infantry has cleared a hole. From his view he’s tried and run into something he can’t handle. He doesn’t know how close it was.