II

--Stumbled and pitched to his knees. I ran to his side and would have

carried him, but he shook me off.

"It's too late, O'Shea," he said. "My number's up. Take over. And--" He

hiccoughed convulsively and his lips drooled red. "And for Lord's sake,

Brian, get the men out of this trap!"

His eyes glazed, then, and his head dropped forward to his chest.

Someone tugged at my shoulder. It was Ronnie St. Cloud; he was

screaming, above the splatter of shrapnel, "The hills, O'Shea! They've

cut us off from the river. The hills are our only way out!"

Danny Wilson was beside him, and Knudsen, and a few more. About us

milled a shrieking, terrified throng; it was impossible to tell soldier

from civilian. Our uniforms were anything but uniform. We wore whatever

serviceable garments we could salvage. I still had--though I suppose

it was unrecognizable beneath a layer of caked sweat and mud--an old

khaki campaign shirt, but my breeches were a corduroy pair I had found

in a demolished farm house near Sistersville. St. Cloud wore the

horizon-blue jacket of a _poilu_ beside whom he had fought in Belgium.

Knudsen looked least military of all in whipcord riding breeches

commandeered from the tack rooms of the Greenbriar Inn at White Sulphur.

St. Cloud was right, of course; we might have known from the beginning

we couldn't hold Huntington. It was open to the west, and that entire

sector, from Chicago to Detroit and spearheading southward to Akron,

Cincinnati, Zanesville, was occupied by von Schuler's Death's Head

Brigade.

But Captain Elmon, who had whipped our tiny company into some semblance

of order after the debacle at Pittsburgh and had brought us safely down

the river through Parkersburg and Gallipolis, had believed we might be

able to defend this West Virginia river town until reinforcements could

reach us from the Fort Knox garrison.

* * * * *

There was a school here, a Marshall College, with a layout ideal

for our purposes. The buildings were more than a hundred years old,

sturdily built; there were dormitories, kitchens, private power plants

for heat and light. The campus was encircled by a waist-high brick wall

which, sandbagged, made a perfect first-line defense against infantry.

The rugged, mountainous terrain made it impossible for the Toties to

bring up mechanized units. Nor could they bring pressure to bear from

the Ohio River which, here, was not only shallow but bedded with

rubble from the locks and dams we had blown up.

But--the old, old story. They got us from the air. Their Messerschmitts

and Junkers descended on us like a host of locusts, bombed the town

ruthlessly; small pursuit planes strafed the fleeing populace with

merciless persistence. We couldn't do anything about that, of course.

Captain Elmon told me once--he saw volunteer service in Sweden before

our country got into it--that in the early days of the war, aircraft

confined its operations to military objectives. But I laughed; I knew

he was just leading me on. He was a great one for joking, was the

captain, even in the darkest hour.

Now Elmon lay dead at my feet; his final command had been that I take

over. Get the men out of this trap. There was no time to waste in

bootless grieving. Already the sharp bite of sidearms augmented the

scream of shellfire ... which meant the Toties were up to their old

trick of parachuting an army of occupation into the beleaguered town.

I shouted swift orders to the others, bade them pass the word around to

"take to the hills." There were viaducts under the railroad at 16th and

20th Streets; we used these as our ports of egress. It wasn't a matter

of minutes. We gave ground slowly, fighting off the enemy advance from

street to street, alley to alley, house to house.

By the old football stadium, now an ammunition dump, I found Bruce

MacGregor, the Canadian, and the roly-poly Hollander, Rudy Van Huys.

They had impressed the services of a dozen scared civilians, were

loading trucks, vans, anything with our meager store of ammunition.

MacGregor glanced at me sharply.

"Where's the Old Man, O'Shea?"

"Dead," I told him. "We're on our own. Mac, do you think you can handle

this job alone?"

"Why?"

"I want Van Huys to forage. We're retreating to the hills. Use the 20th

Street underpass, cut south to the Big Sandy, then west at Louisa.

Rudy, get all the food-stuffs you can lay hands on. We're heading for

hungry country."

They grunted understanding and I went on. They were two good men.

The chubby Dutchman could smell out provisions like a beagle. Our men

wouldn't starve immediately, anyway.

That moment's delay was the only thing that saved my life. I was but

a half block away from the underpass when a Totie bomber spotted the

stream of refugees flooding out of the city through that viaduct. My

ears sang to the screaming whine of his power dive, concussion threw

me to the pavement as he loosed his entire rack full of bombs into the

heart of the fleeing throng.

They never had a chance. Those who did not die instantly in the

explosion were buried a split-second later in the tons of twisted steel

and concrete that cascaded down upon them. There was one moment of

dreadful cacaphony, hoarse screams of fear mingling with the thunderous

roar of the explosion--then a dull, unearthly silence, punctuated only

by the muted whimper of a few charred bodies that could not die and the

grating slither of broken masonry filling the chinks of the funereal

mound.

* * * * *

I rose, shaken, nauseated. Others had come up behind me; among them was

Devereaux. There were tears in the young Frenchman's eyes. He lifted

his head blindly toward the sky, shook an impotent fist.

"_Les sales cochons!_ Will it never end, O'Shea, the triumph of these

devils? Are honor and mercy dead? Is God dead? My country ... all of

Europe ... now yours...."

"They haven't taken America," I told him savagely, "yet! Come on. We're

leaving town through the 20th Street viaduct. Is that you, Ronnie?

What's the news?"

"They've consolidated position along Fifth Avenue, thrown a defense

line from Four Pole Creek to the river, infantry advancing north along

the river bank to the college. Thompson and a foray squad are trapped

in the First National, no use trying to save them. We blew the Toties'

brains out, though." St. Cloud grinned ghoulishly. "We had City Hall

plaza groundmined. They chose that spot to set up general headquarters."

"Where's Frazier?"

"Dead. Blue Cross."

"Janowsky?"

"Same thing."

"Wilson?"

"He's all right. Or was. He went back toward the college. Said

something about having an ace up his sleeve, whatever that means."

I didn't tell him. I didn't have to, for at that moment Danny came

racing toward us. He waved his hand at me in a sort of vague salute or

greeting, yelled, "If you're ready to get goin', _git_! There'll never

be a better time."

"Why?"

"Because the Toties are goin' to have their hands full in a minute.

With something too hot to handle. I just happened to remember that

college we were bunked in had its own heating plant. A natural gas

pipe-line. Since it was the Toties' objective, I thought maybe I'd warm

house before they got there. Hold your hats, folks! There she goes!"

There came a sudden, terrific blast of sound. Even at that distance

we felt the shuddering repercussion, felt a breath of superheated air

fan our cheeks as the natural well Danny had set off let go with a

thunderous detonation. Into the gathering dusk shot a writhing spiral

of white-hot flame ... the jagged outlines of oft-bombed houses looked

black and ugly against the searing screen.

The flames leaped higher, higher, spread. An oily pall blotted the

dying rays of the sun; from afar came to us the crackling agony of a

city destroying itself. I watched, spellbound for a moment, then turned

to the others.

"Danny is right. This is our chance. Let's go!"

* * * * *

MacCregor and Rudy Van Huys were waiting for us in the hills beyond

the city. We paused to take stock of equipment, count noses, and

plan our next move. Of our company--which had numbered six hundred

before Pittsburgh, and had been one hundred and sixty-odd at yesterday

evening's rollcall--now there remained but fifty-seven men. Twelve

recruits joined us from the clamoring mob of civilian refugees. These

were, of course, either graybeards, striplings, or men of dubious value

as soldiers. All men of fighting age and caliber had long ago been

called to the colors by wave upon wave of government drafts.

We were a pitiful collection, poorly fed, inadequately armed, raggedly

clad. Even so, the civilians were loud in their demand that we remain

with them to "protect" them. But this I could not agree to do.

"You'll be safer," I told them, "hiding here in the hills than marching

with us. We'll try to contact Preston's brigade at Fort Knox. You have

food, water, radios, medical supplies. Hide out, keep living and--keep

hoping!"

And so we left them. They must have numbered three thousand, mostly

women and children. A few tried to follow, but I quickened the pace.

The last weeping woman abandoned the pursuit after five miles; I saw

her fall to earth, beating the insensate soil with weary, hopeless

fists.

Beside me marched Danny Wilson. He was a reckless, devil-may-care

lad, was Danny. Even in the thick of battle his ruddy features were

habitually wreathed in a grin. But it had deserted him now. He said

soberly, "Maybe we should have stayed with them, Brian, boy. It's a

hard row to hoe."

"We can't fight a war in small detachments," I told him grimly. "You

know that. Mexico tried it, and now their country is under Totie rule.

Nova Scotia tried it, and now the swastika flies there. Our only hope

is to concentrate, meet them somewhere in one decisive battle."

"I suppose you're right. We go to join Preston?"

"Yes. It's the general concentration point. Elmon got instructions

by radio just before he went west. Jackson is bringing up his army

from the Gulf, Davies is marching in from Springfield. They say

three flights are taking off from Fort Sill; we'll have a small air

force. If we can beat the Toties off at Louisville, we'll cut their

communications line from Pittsburgh to Cincinnati, hold the Ohio."

That night we slept along the Big Sandy. Before we bivouacked I broke

our little company into six squads, each of eleven men, each headed by

a veteran on whom I knew I could depend. I appointed Danny Wilson and

Ronnie St. Cloud as my lieutenants. In arranging the squads, I tried to

place the men according to nationality under one of their own race.

Raoul Devereaux led one of the French squads, while Anatole LeBrun

the other. That would have been funny a few years ago, when the army

was still organized under the caste basis, because Devereaux used to

be a captain and LeBrun a common private. But that old "officer and

gentleman by Act of Congress" stuff had gone overboard a long time ago.

Now we picked our leaders by their leadership ability.

Ian Pelham-Jones, the Britisher, and Bruce MacGregor headed two

English-speaking squads; Rudy Van Huys commanded a group of Dutch and

Belgians; the tall Norwegian, Ingolf Knudsen, led a collection of

assorted Scandinavians. Norwegians, Swedes, Finns, Danes--Lord, there

was a tough outfit!

And so we hit the trail. There's not much use telling about the days

that followed. We marched and slept and ate and marched again. We were

spotted once by a Totie spyplane; he came down to do a little plain and

fancy strafing but we had the advantage of broken terrain. We took to

cover and turned his crate into a colander before he decided he'd had

enough. Lars Frynge, the Swedish sharpshooter, claims he punctured the

pilot as well as the plane, but I wouldn't know about that. Though it's

true that he did wobble as he flew away.

* * * * *

We avoided Lexington, cutting south through Campton and Irvine. We

picked up a railroad at Lancaster. Joe Sanders, a native of these

parts, said it was a part of the old Louisville & Nashville. If it

were in operation, he said, it would take us right to our destination.

But that was like saying if we had wings we could fly. The rails were

twisted ribbons of steel; in some places the roadbed had been so

completely eradicated you would never know it had been there.

We saw people from time to time, but mostly in the small towns. They

came out to cheer us as we marched through, offered us what little they

had in the way of fresh water, barley bread, clothing that would never

be used, now, by sons, husbands, brothers, who had fought their final

battle. I got a fine new sweater in one village. In another we had an

odd experience. A white-haired granddame insisted we accept a flag she

had sewn for us. A funny-looking red flag with blue diagonal cross-bars

and thirteen white stars. We used it later to bury Johnny Grant. He

died of a delayed gas hemorrhage.

The larger towns were deserted. We saw only one man in Danville. A

scrawny, long-haired weasel skulking through the ruins of what had once

been an A & P supermarket. Bruce MacGregor took a shot at him, but I

knocked his rifle up. The bullet whistled over the man's head, and he

scurried away like a sick, desperate rabbit. I knew there was a G.O.

to shoot all looters on sight, but the time had passed, I told Mac, to

concern ourselves with such trivialities. Ammunition was too precious.

And, anyway, if he didn't find the buried provisions, maybe the enemy

would.

The seventh night out, we camped in the woods north of Bardstown, just

a few yards off what had once been a main highway. I was beginning

to smell smoke. Tomorrow we would join the main garrison, get fresh

clothing and equipment and be assigned our duties in the projected

offensive. That is, I suppose, why I was sleepless.

We had stumbled across a deserted tobacco shed the day before. The

brown leaves were old, parched, crumbling, but it was better than the

hay-and-alfalfa mixture they had given us up North. I rolled myself a

cigarette and was sitting by the side of the road when suddenly I heard

it. The sound of an approaching automobile.

A moment later moonlight glinted on metal; I saw it picking its slow,

lightless way over the cracked asphalt. My heart leaped. This must be

a car from Louisville. I ran down to the road, stood waiting eagerly.

It approached at a snail's pace, but in the gloom the driver must have

had all he could do to watch the road without keeping an eye peeled for

vagabond troops, for when, as it came beside me, I cried a greeting

and reached for the door, there came a startled sound from within, the

motor roared stridently, and the car leaped forward, almost wrenching

my arm from its socket.

Somehow I managed to hold on, though the automobile bounced and jarred

crazily as it struck deep ruts in the roadbed. My head glanced metal

and I saw whirling stars. "Hey!" I yelled. "What the almighty hell are

you trying to do! Take it easy!"

Brakes squealed; the car jolted to a stop. And from the interior a

voice, high-pitched with relief, cried:

"You--you're an American! Thank Heaven!"

Then a slim form collapsed suddenly over the wheel. I yanked the door

open, dragging the unconscious driver from the cab. He must be, I

thought, wounded. He must be--

But it wasn't a "he" at all. As the body fell back limply over my arm,

a campaign hat tumbled earthward. Soft brown hair cascaded from beneath

it. The driver was a girl!

I had ammonia tubes in my first-aid kit. I snapped one beneath her

nose, jolted her back to awareness. And she proved her femininity by

coming out of it with a question on her lips.

"Who--who are you?"

"O'Shea," I said, "commanding a detachment from the Army of the Upper

Ohio. Marching to join Preston's brigade at Louisville. But never mind

that. Who are _you_? Where do you think you're going?"

She said, "Louisville!" In the darkness her face was a white blur,

drab, expressionless, but there was a touch of hysteria to her voice.

"Louisville! But haven't you got a radio? Didn't you know--"

We hadn't. It didn't make sense. As she faltered, I snapped, "Know

what? Go on!"

"Louisville has fallen. The Toties have taken Fort Knox. Our troops are

destroyed, the government has fled, and the Army of the Democracies is

in utter rout!"

I stared at her numbly. In the black of the woods a nightjar screamed a

single, discordant taunt....