TopGun
258 kills
a great read!
1895-1920: America's rise to Empire
- Thread starter 502nd PIR
- Start date
More Marines moved into position, hit the wall, and Sullivan looked, couldn’t see Contadino. Damn. He looked back across the open plaza, the men who had been killed or wounded in the rush, couldn’t see the small man. He had to be out there, Sullivan thought. He turned back towards the wall, slung his rifle and pulled out the revolver.
Marines had begun to crowd around the windows, tossing in crude grenades, stabbing with the bayonets, the cracks and pops loud, right there. Sullivan followed Galle, moved towards a window with a small crowd, men firing inside the villa. Galle began to yell, orders to hold fire. He turned, pointed at Sullivan.
“Corporal, you and two others are coming with me, we’re going in first.” He looked back through the window, began to organize the mass of men. Sullivan immediately saw Jackson and Cardis, pointed with the revolver.
“You two, you’re with me and the Captain. Bayonets fixed.”
They nodded, moved close to the sides of the window, and Galle moved first, hoisted himself up and into the villa. Sullivan went next, grabbed the window sill, his hands touching the broken glass, cutting, and he ignored it, hoisted himself forward, into the building.
He immediately spotted Galle, moving towards a large opening, a door frame, no door. Sullivan ran, caught up, the revolver slick with blood. He cursed, wiped his hands on his pants. Cardis and Jackson came in behind them, and Galle waved them forward, went back to the windows, called for more men to enter. The Marines began to enter, and Sullivan nodded to Jackson and Cardis, and they entered the room, the Krags and revolver raised.
The room was elaborate, full of rugs and beautiful furniture, a great chandelier hung over the room. There was a fireplace, a picture of some monarch over it, a hole in the shoulder from one of the Sims Dudleys. There were several dead men, Spaniards, slumped by the windows. One of them moved, tried to crawl, wounded, and Sullivan called for a corpsman, and kept moving, Jackson and Cardis following, other Marines entering the room.
Every room they entered was the same. The Spanish had abandoned the first floor, and soon the Marines were going wild, celebrating and looting. Sullivan found himself in the kitchen, surrounded by Marines who had found bottles of alcohol, wine, and Sullivan joined in, singing.
“Why’re we celebrating?” he asked one man, who laughed, the alcohol talking.
“Captain Galle just accepted the surrender of all Spanish Forces on Guam. The island is ours.” The man said, and laughed. The U.S. Marines had secured Guam.
Sullivan himself left shortly afterword, looking for Contadino. He received word from one of the corpsmen. Contadino had been wounded, only minor, and would return to the Company in a few days most likely.
Sullivan went to the outskirts of town, watched groups of prisoners marching out of Agana, toward the beaches. And Sullivan turned looked at the sugar cane field, thought of Greene and Keyes and Pope. What a waste. He found himself on the ground, the dust around his knees, and Sullivan looked out towards the field, and he let out a silent sob, and his shoulders began to shake.
Marines had begun to crowd around the windows, tossing in crude grenades, stabbing with the bayonets, the cracks and pops loud, right there. Sullivan followed Galle, moved towards a window with a small crowd, men firing inside the villa. Galle began to yell, orders to hold fire. He turned, pointed at Sullivan.
“Corporal, you and two others are coming with me, we’re going in first.” He looked back through the window, began to organize the mass of men. Sullivan immediately saw Jackson and Cardis, pointed with the revolver.
“You two, you’re with me and the Captain. Bayonets fixed.”
They nodded, moved close to the sides of the window, and Galle moved first, hoisted himself up and into the villa. Sullivan went next, grabbed the window sill, his hands touching the broken glass, cutting, and he ignored it, hoisted himself forward, into the building.
He immediately spotted Galle, moving towards a large opening, a door frame, no door. Sullivan ran, caught up, the revolver slick with blood. He cursed, wiped his hands on his pants. Cardis and Jackson came in behind them, and Galle waved them forward, went back to the windows, called for more men to enter. The Marines began to enter, and Sullivan nodded to Jackson and Cardis, and they entered the room, the Krags and revolver raised.
The room was elaborate, full of rugs and beautiful furniture, a great chandelier hung over the room. There was a fireplace, a picture of some monarch over it, a hole in the shoulder from one of the Sims Dudleys. There were several dead men, Spaniards, slumped by the windows. One of them moved, tried to crawl, wounded, and Sullivan called for a corpsman, and kept moving, Jackson and Cardis following, other Marines entering the room.
Every room they entered was the same. The Spanish had abandoned the first floor, and soon the Marines were going wild, celebrating and looting. Sullivan found himself in the kitchen, surrounded by Marines who had found bottles of alcohol, wine, and Sullivan joined in, singing.
“Why’re we celebrating?” he asked one man, who laughed, the alcohol talking.
“Captain Galle just accepted the surrender of all Spanish Forces on Guam. The island is ours.” The man said, and laughed. The U.S. Marines had secured Guam.
Sullivan himself left shortly afterword, looking for Contadino. He received word from one of the corpsmen. Contadino had been wounded, only minor, and would return to the Company in a few days most likely.
Sullivan went to the outskirts of town, watched groups of prisoners marching out of Agana, toward the beaches. And Sullivan turned looked at the sugar cane field, thought of Greene and Keyes and Pope. What a waste. He found himself on the ground, the dust around his knees, and Sullivan looked out towards the field, and he let out a silent sob, and his shoulders began to shake.
With Guam in American hands, additional troops had begun to arrive. The Marines were brought up to full strength, 1,200 men in two battalions, now officially the 1st Brigade of Marines. And the Army brought in three additional battalions, each with 800 men. These three battalions were designated 1st Brigade of the 2nd Division. The man assigned to lead them was a Brigadier General. He was a veteran of the Civil War, had charged up Missionary Ridge with the 24th Wisconsin Regiment, had been made a Brevetted Colonel at the age of 19. in 1890, he had been awarded the Medal of Honor for that feat, for electrifying his regiment with the cry, “On Wisconsin!” He left the army in 1865, but returned later in 1877, and for next thirty years he traveled the nation, fought in the Indian Wars. And once again, he had heard the call of his country, the herald of the trumpets. And so, Arthur MacArthur Jr. had arrived in Guam.
…
He arrived into Agana early in the morning, the heat intense, the back of his uniform damp. He looked around, the town shattered, rubble. To the right of the road was a cemetery, and MacArthur did a quick count, thirty eight crosses, the Marines who had stayed behind. MacArthur stopped for a bit, listened, could hear cracks and pops off in the distance, Marines and Army men on maneuver, a short break before the deployment. Behind him a captain coughed lightly, and MacArthur took the hint, began to move into the town, a slight limp, his leg asleep. Not as young as I used to be he thought, ruefully.
He was there to accept his command, meet with his new commanding officer, Elwell Stephen Otis, the commanding officer of the VIII Corps. The captain moved past him, a guide and MacArthur followed, his back straight. MacArthur was still dressed in the old blue uniform, the star on each shoulder, the brass buttons. He carried himself stiffly, formally, a soldier’s walk. He carried a revolver and a saber, but never expected to use them at this point in his career. He was 50 years old, but carried the age well, was still thin and well built, his face covered by a brown and grey moustache. His hair was still thick, and his moustache was waxed and stylish.
The captain led him onward, towards the town plaza, a small villa, and MacArthur looked around himself, could see the sights of the battle, now two days in the past, the blasted buildings. The town was now infested with support troops, rear echelon men, the clerks and staffs of colonels and the few other generals. MacArthur nodded to the officers he passed, knew he would work with some of them. He came to the door of the villa nad the captain opened the door, presented the opening.
“Sir, General Otis is inside, sir.” The man saluted stiffly, and MacArthur nodded, thanked him, and entered. He walked through the hallway, several large rooms off to the sides, went into the largest, knew Otis would be there. The room was elaborate, paintings and chandeliers and furniture. Staff officers hurried about, bringing reports, maps, information, orders, and news. A large table dominated the room, and standing over it was large man, balding, a large moustache and mutton chops covering his face and a pipe sticking out of his mouth. He was older, maybe ten years older than MacArthur, and he looked up, seemed to wait, and MacArthur stopped, saluted him crisply, held it for a second. Otis, and MacArthur knew it was Otis, returned the salute.
Otis stared at him for a second, seemed to size him up, said “General MacArthur, welcome to my corps.” He held out his hand, and MacArthur shook it, a firm grip, silently approved.
“It’s a pleasure to be here, sir.”
Otis nodded, seemed to have his mind elsewhere. “You’re commanding a brigade general. We’ve changed them since the War Between the States, for the field I mean,” he corrected quickly, saw the look on Macarthur’s face. “Brigades are made up of battalions now. Each one has about 800 men, more or less. Lot of us want that number increased as we get more soldiers. Each brigade has three battalions. Support units, artillery, cavalry and the such, are attached to division headquarters. Your brigade is with the 2nd division, General Edson’s men. The division has two brigades. Any questions?”
“No Sir.”
“Very well. Currently the corps is the 1st Division, the 2nd Division, the 1st Brigade of Marines, about 1,200 men, and some additional units. More men are on the way from San Francisco. Right now, the corps is at full strength, 10,800 Marines and Army Infantry, 600 cavalry, and about 16 artillery guns in two batteries.” He looked to the maps on his table, waited, and MacArthur grew slightly impatient, his hands behind his back, waiting.
“The 2nd Division is marked to make our landing in the Philippines, near Tacloban. The 1st will follow you in the. Marines will be in reserve. Your brigade is on maneuvers. Colonel Presley is leading them until you arrive. He will be your second in command. Dismissed.” He saluted, waited for MacArthur to return it, and went back to his planning.
MacArthur turned on his heel, and departed. Well now. Lets go see what this war is all about.
…
The men stood at ranks, about 2,000 of them, the 1st brigade. Like most units of the Army, they were caught in a transition of new uniforms, and so many were clad in dark blue, others in light khaki. Weapons were more uniform, mostly Krags, some of the Lee Straight-Pull rifles, a handful of the breech loading trap door rifles. Revolvers were commonplace. The officers carried swords, sabers. A few men were carrying personal weapons, bowie knives, derringers, and MacArthur even noticed a few double-barreled shotguns, Colonel Presley himself carrying one. MacArthur didn’t mind, would let them carry what they wanted, as long as they did their jobs.
The Colonel was standing at attention near him, the shotgun against his shoulder. He was 39, dark haired, big and imposing. His voice was similar to gravel being swished around in a bucket. His uniform was the old style, dark blue.
“General, does the brigade pass your inspection?” the colonel asked as he judged MacArthur, looked at him, tried to get a feel for this new man. MacArthur let him, made no show of authority, had simply given the man a stare, one that spoke volumes of MacArthur’s character. And the colonel was satisfied. This was a man who would lead.
“It does, colonel. You have maintained them well. All appear well. You say we have 400 in the hospital?”
“Yes sir. Malaria. It’s striking a lot of us. Some are beginning to die. Sir.” Presley stopped, waited, and MacArthur gave the order, dismissed. The brigade fell apart, the men going back to their bivouacs, the shade and water. MacArthur himself was sweating, beads of it on his forehead, and he wiped them away with his white cotton glove, looked around him.
“Colonel. We leave in exactly two days. I’d like for the brigade to get a good meal, something hearty, a celebration. What can you do?”
Presley paused, thought a second. “I’ll check around, sir. The men would certainly appreciate it. They’ve trained hard. All are good men. We had to sit out here, at Guam. They’ll be happy to lead the way at Tacloban. Sir.” He saluted, turned and left. MacArthur watched him leave. Excited to lead the way. Yup. Thoughts of Missionary Ridge went into his mind, memories, the flashes and explosions, the screams. Himself, a young man, grabbing the flag, yelling to his men, taking the colors up the hill, and he saw again the horror, the bodies, his men and theirs, locked together, bayonets and knives and revolvers and the ends of the muskets, the death all around him. He shuddered. Yes. They’re excited to lead the way. They’ve never done it before.
…
He arrived into Agana early in the morning, the heat intense, the back of his uniform damp. He looked around, the town shattered, rubble. To the right of the road was a cemetery, and MacArthur did a quick count, thirty eight crosses, the Marines who had stayed behind. MacArthur stopped for a bit, listened, could hear cracks and pops off in the distance, Marines and Army men on maneuver, a short break before the deployment. Behind him a captain coughed lightly, and MacArthur took the hint, began to move into the town, a slight limp, his leg asleep. Not as young as I used to be he thought, ruefully.
He was there to accept his command, meet with his new commanding officer, Elwell Stephen Otis, the commanding officer of the VIII Corps. The captain moved past him, a guide and MacArthur followed, his back straight. MacArthur was still dressed in the old blue uniform, the star on each shoulder, the brass buttons. He carried himself stiffly, formally, a soldier’s walk. He carried a revolver and a saber, but never expected to use them at this point in his career. He was 50 years old, but carried the age well, was still thin and well built, his face covered by a brown and grey moustache. His hair was still thick, and his moustache was waxed and stylish.
The captain led him onward, towards the town plaza, a small villa, and MacArthur looked around himself, could see the sights of the battle, now two days in the past, the blasted buildings. The town was now infested with support troops, rear echelon men, the clerks and staffs of colonels and the few other generals. MacArthur nodded to the officers he passed, knew he would work with some of them. He came to the door of the villa nad the captain opened the door, presented the opening.
“Sir, General Otis is inside, sir.” The man saluted stiffly, and MacArthur nodded, thanked him, and entered. He walked through the hallway, several large rooms off to the sides, went into the largest, knew Otis would be there. The room was elaborate, paintings and chandeliers and furniture. Staff officers hurried about, bringing reports, maps, information, orders, and news. A large table dominated the room, and standing over it was large man, balding, a large moustache and mutton chops covering his face and a pipe sticking out of his mouth. He was older, maybe ten years older than MacArthur, and he looked up, seemed to wait, and MacArthur stopped, saluted him crisply, held it for a second. Otis, and MacArthur knew it was Otis, returned the salute.
Otis stared at him for a second, seemed to size him up, said “General MacArthur, welcome to my corps.” He held out his hand, and MacArthur shook it, a firm grip, silently approved.
“It’s a pleasure to be here, sir.”
Otis nodded, seemed to have his mind elsewhere. “You’re commanding a brigade general. We’ve changed them since the War Between the States, for the field I mean,” he corrected quickly, saw the look on Macarthur’s face. “Brigades are made up of battalions now. Each one has about 800 men, more or less. Lot of us want that number increased as we get more soldiers. Each brigade has three battalions. Support units, artillery, cavalry and the such, are attached to division headquarters. Your brigade is with the 2nd division, General Edson’s men. The division has two brigades. Any questions?”
“No Sir.”
“Very well. Currently the corps is the 1st Division, the 2nd Division, the 1st Brigade of Marines, about 1,200 men, and some additional units. More men are on the way from San Francisco. Right now, the corps is at full strength, 10,800 Marines and Army Infantry, 600 cavalry, and about 16 artillery guns in two batteries.” He looked to the maps on his table, waited, and MacArthur grew slightly impatient, his hands behind his back, waiting.
“The 2nd Division is marked to make our landing in the Philippines, near Tacloban. The 1st will follow you in the. Marines will be in reserve. Your brigade is on maneuvers. Colonel Presley is leading them until you arrive. He will be your second in command. Dismissed.” He saluted, waited for MacArthur to return it, and went back to his planning.
MacArthur turned on his heel, and departed. Well now. Lets go see what this war is all about.
…
The men stood at ranks, about 2,000 of them, the 1st brigade. Like most units of the Army, they were caught in a transition of new uniforms, and so many were clad in dark blue, others in light khaki. Weapons were more uniform, mostly Krags, some of the Lee Straight-Pull rifles, a handful of the breech loading trap door rifles. Revolvers were commonplace. The officers carried swords, sabers. A few men were carrying personal weapons, bowie knives, derringers, and MacArthur even noticed a few double-barreled shotguns, Colonel Presley himself carrying one. MacArthur didn’t mind, would let them carry what they wanted, as long as they did their jobs.
The Colonel was standing at attention near him, the shotgun against his shoulder. He was 39, dark haired, big and imposing. His voice was similar to gravel being swished around in a bucket. His uniform was the old style, dark blue.
“General, does the brigade pass your inspection?” the colonel asked as he judged MacArthur, looked at him, tried to get a feel for this new man. MacArthur let him, made no show of authority, had simply given the man a stare, one that spoke volumes of MacArthur’s character. And the colonel was satisfied. This was a man who would lead.
“It does, colonel. You have maintained them well. All appear well. You say we have 400 in the hospital?”
“Yes sir. Malaria. It’s striking a lot of us. Some are beginning to die. Sir.” Presley stopped, waited, and MacArthur gave the order, dismissed. The brigade fell apart, the men going back to their bivouacs, the shade and water. MacArthur himself was sweating, beads of it on his forehead, and he wiped them away with his white cotton glove, looked around him.
“Colonel. We leave in exactly two days. I’d like for the brigade to get a good meal, something hearty, a celebration. What can you do?”
Presley paused, thought a second. “I’ll check around, sir. The men would certainly appreciate it. They’ve trained hard. All are good men. We had to sit out here, at Guam. They’ll be happy to lead the way at Tacloban. Sir.” He saluted, turned and left. MacArthur watched him leave. Excited to lead the way. Yup. Thoughts of Missionary Ridge went into his mind, memories, the flashes and explosions, the screams. Himself, a young man, grabbing the flag, yelling to his men, taking the colors up the hill, and he saw again the horror, the bodies, his men and theirs, locked together, bayonets and knives and revolvers and the ends of the muskets, the death all around him. He shuddered. Yes. They’re excited to lead the way. They’ve never done it before.
El Justo
Deity
awesome intro for the senior MacArthur and the old salt Otis 
MacArthur watched them scramble up the hill, pulling themselves up by the scrub, the rifles in hand, unloaded, a drill. These men were a part of a small force, 400 men from his 2nd battalion, and they moved well, in the heat, helped each other up, and he thought of Missionary Ridge, how different that was. Behind these men, the next wave hit the beach, the barges dumping them ashore, the men wading through the water. The 2nd Battalion men, the assault wave, had gotten to their positions, high ground over the beach, and they dropped down, hid themselves in the scrub. It could have been better.
Beside him Presley grunted, his own sign of displeasure. MacArthur wrote his notes, looked back at the beach. Not perfect. But good. They would be able to do it, That was for sure.
“Well Colonel, what do you think?”
“Sir. I believe Major Farrel’s men could have moved faster. Bu honestly, I’m more disappointed with the navy, sir. They dropped our men all over this beach. Of the entire 2nd Battalion, only those 400 hit the right beach. Thank God they were able to correct it the next time. We would have spent the rest of the day collecting the brigade.”
MacArthur grunted, and agreement. “Colonel, you’ve been with these men for a longer time then I have. What do you think of the junior officers? The lieutenants and captains? And what about the sergeants?”
He could see Presley pause, thinking, wipe some sweat from his brow. “Sir, I believe they’re ok. We’ve got a couple of men from the VMI, men who at least know how to do their jobs. The sergeants are good. Mostly older men, men who’ve been in the army a while. There’s no one I’d worry about. But,” He paused again, licked his lips, “Sir, none of these men have been under fire. So I can’t say for certain. How they’ll react.”
MacArthur nodded, could only agree, watched more of the men moving up, the 3rd battalion landing now, and MacArthur let out a sigh of relief, they had all arrived, the whole battalion. They moved far more quickly, immediately veered to the right, rolled onto the flank of the 2nd. “Colonel, who is leading those men?”
“Sir? That’s Major Kennedy, sir.”
“Did he got to the Point?”
“No sir, he’s a volunteer. I’ll be honest, sir. Kennedy is probably the best in the battalion. Works with his men damn well. He’s got the fire, sir.” Presley began to follow MacArthur, looked back at the beach. “Major Meyn is good too. He’s a good man. Major Farrel is the only one of the bunch I’m concerened about. Moves a bit slow. Sir? May I speak my mind?”
“Go ahead Colonel.”
“Major Farrel seems to be a bit of a thinker, sir. Not so much a fighter.”
MacArthur thought about it, paused. Damn, we can’t afford to have a man who’ll pause.
“Will Farrel hold up? Should we have Major Kennedy lead the assault wave?”
Presley seemed to stop and think, consider the alternatives. “No sir. It’s my opinion. Farrel hasn’t been under fire, so I can’t say for certain. He runs the battalion well.” Presley stopped talking, and MacArthur knew him well enough by now to know he wouldn’t raise the question again. In the distance, they could hear the crump of guns, the Dudleys, the pop of rifle fire.
“Major Meyn’s battalion?” Meyn’s unit had been stricken hardest by malaria, was only a little over 600 men fit. MacArthur had decided to keep them out of the assault wave. They would come in with the artillery.
“Yes sir. Working with the guns, practicing assaults, sir.”
MacArthur listened to it, turned back to the beach, watched the 2nd and 3rd battalions reform, the officers pointing out what they had seen. MacArthur made a quick count. A little over 700 men in both units. That damned sickness was hitting them hard. Presley watched them too, turned to MacArthur.
“Sir, I’ll offer my critique, with your permission. You have other concerns.”
MacArthur nodded, wiped his brow and rubbed the bridge of his nose, massaged it, thought of all the damned paperwork. Yes, colonel, I do.
“Very well. I should like to see the 1st battalion, watch them work with the guns. Dismissed Colonel.”
Presley left, and MacArthur watched his men, the talks continuing. Yes, they’re good men. Damn good. They know what to do and they’re ready. MacArthur let out a sigh. Wondered about the leaders. Are they ready?
Beside him Presley grunted, his own sign of displeasure. MacArthur wrote his notes, looked back at the beach. Not perfect. But good. They would be able to do it, That was for sure.
“Well Colonel, what do you think?”
“Sir. I believe Major Farrel’s men could have moved faster. Bu honestly, I’m more disappointed with the navy, sir. They dropped our men all over this beach. Of the entire 2nd Battalion, only those 400 hit the right beach. Thank God they were able to correct it the next time. We would have spent the rest of the day collecting the brigade.”
MacArthur grunted, and agreement. “Colonel, you’ve been with these men for a longer time then I have. What do you think of the junior officers? The lieutenants and captains? And what about the sergeants?”
He could see Presley pause, thinking, wipe some sweat from his brow. “Sir, I believe they’re ok. We’ve got a couple of men from the VMI, men who at least know how to do their jobs. The sergeants are good. Mostly older men, men who’ve been in the army a while. There’s no one I’d worry about. But,” He paused again, licked his lips, “Sir, none of these men have been under fire. So I can’t say for certain. How they’ll react.”
MacArthur nodded, could only agree, watched more of the men moving up, the 3rd battalion landing now, and MacArthur let out a sigh of relief, they had all arrived, the whole battalion. They moved far more quickly, immediately veered to the right, rolled onto the flank of the 2nd. “Colonel, who is leading those men?”
“Sir? That’s Major Kennedy, sir.”
“Did he got to the Point?”
“No sir, he’s a volunteer. I’ll be honest, sir. Kennedy is probably the best in the battalion. Works with his men damn well. He’s got the fire, sir.” Presley began to follow MacArthur, looked back at the beach. “Major Meyn is good too. He’s a good man. Major Farrel is the only one of the bunch I’m concerened about. Moves a bit slow. Sir? May I speak my mind?”
“Go ahead Colonel.”
“Major Farrel seems to be a bit of a thinker, sir. Not so much a fighter.”
MacArthur thought about it, paused. Damn, we can’t afford to have a man who’ll pause.
“Will Farrel hold up? Should we have Major Kennedy lead the assault wave?”
Presley seemed to stop and think, consider the alternatives. “No sir. It’s my opinion. Farrel hasn’t been under fire, so I can’t say for certain. He runs the battalion well.” Presley stopped talking, and MacArthur knew him well enough by now to know he wouldn’t raise the question again. In the distance, they could hear the crump of guns, the Dudleys, the pop of rifle fire.
“Major Meyn’s battalion?” Meyn’s unit had been stricken hardest by malaria, was only a little over 600 men fit. MacArthur had decided to keep them out of the assault wave. They would come in with the artillery.
“Yes sir. Working with the guns, practicing assaults, sir.”
MacArthur listened to it, turned back to the beach, watched the 2nd and 3rd battalions reform, the officers pointing out what they had seen. MacArthur made a quick count. A little over 700 men in both units. That damned sickness was hitting them hard. Presley watched them too, turned to MacArthur.
“Sir, I’ll offer my critique, with your permission. You have other concerns.”
MacArthur nodded, wiped his brow and rubbed the bridge of his nose, massaged it, thought of all the damned paperwork. Yes, colonel, I do.
“Very well. I should like to see the 1st battalion, watch them work with the guns. Dismissed Colonel.”
Presley left, and MacArthur watched his men, the talks continuing. Yes, they’re good men. Damn good. They know what to do and they’re ready. MacArthur let out a sigh. Wondered about the leaders. Are they ready?
Sullivan could hear them shouting, the two men separated but still yelling, insults and curses. Sullivan swore slightly, got up out of the trench and went to find them, thought damn it, we’re still going over this. The company had been on an exercise, found a Spanish trench, and they had occupied it, used it to wait for the opposing side, men from the 2nd battalion. Two men had found an old Spanish pistol, a revolver, and a fight had broken out, the two men punching and grappling, fighting over the pistol. Sullivan had forcibly separated the men, had had to slug one of them in the face, and now they were separated, in different platoons, but the two of them were still yelling insults, still angry, and Sullivan sighed, would have to make them both shut up.
Galle listened, turned to Sullivan. “Didn’t think about this kind of stuff happening, did you?” Sullivan could only shake his head.
“No sir. I’m beginning to think I did something to you.”
Galle had been surprised to find that the company first sergeant, a man named Kresge, had been wounded, his leg sheared off by a round from a Dudley, and so Sullivan had been promoted, filled the spot, and now he was at Galle’s side almost constantly, was now working with all the platoons.
“What’re you going to do with the pistol Sergeant?”
Sullivan thought, shrugged. “I’ll have the scouts pull straws.” He listened to the insults, laughed slightly. “You ever heard of a guy screwing his mother?”
“I knew a guy who screwed his friend’s mother.”
“Not the same.” Sullivan shrugged, got up, began to move in the direction, stopped, turned. “Captain, when do we leave?”
“Tommorow. We’ll be in reserve for the landing on Luzon. Probably, we’re gonna be deployed to take Puerta Princesca. Small island, we’ll be the follow up. 2nd battalion is hitting first.”
Sullivan nodded, walked away, thought about it, remembered Agana, Pope getting hit, going straight down, and he shook his head. There we go again.
Galle listened, turned to Sullivan. “Didn’t think about this kind of stuff happening, did you?” Sullivan could only shake his head.
“No sir. I’m beginning to think I did something to you.”
Galle had been surprised to find that the company first sergeant, a man named Kresge, had been wounded, his leg sheared off by a round from a Dudley, and so Sullivan had been promoted, filled the spot, and now he was at Galle’s side almost constantly, was now working with all the platoons.
“What’re you going to do with the pistol Sergeant?”
Sullivan thought, shrugged. “I’ll have the scouts pull straws.” He listened to the insults, laughed slightly. “You ever heard of a guy screwing his mother?”
“I knew a guy who screwed his friend’s mother.”
“Not the same.” Sullivan shrugged, got up, began to move in the direction, stopped, turned. “Captain, when do we leave?”
“Tommorow. We’ll be in reserve for the landing on Luzon. Probably, we’re gonna be deployed to take Puerta Princesca. Small island, we’ll be the follow up. 2nd battalion is hitting first.”
Sullivan nodded, walked away, thought about it, remembered Agana, Pope getting hit, going straight down, and he shook his head. There we go again.
Nuesvistas had fallen with little resistance. Most of the defenders had been killed attacking the American trench lines. And so the cavalry had been pulled back, a battalion of Negro troops occupying the city. Now, they began to move south, to join back up with the army, the inexorable march towards Santiago de Cuba.
Butchers men were moving south, less than 300 of them now, and Butcher swore, hated the new job. They were guarding the supply lines. As if the damned supply lines needed guarding. There was no threat, certainly not from the civilians. The whole damned force could survive for a month off of what the natives were giving them, thanks for driving off the Spanish. Butcher had been polite, had always responded well with what Spanish he knew.
He shifted in the saddle, moved the horse to the side of the rode, dismounted, stretched his legs. He was sore, tired. A lot of the men were. They had been fighting or moving almost constantly for almost seven days, and they needed a rest. But out of all the men arriving, most were infantry, and there simply wasnt cavalry to spare. And so here they were, moving south, still, no relief and no replacements.
Sergeant Kelly rode up, dismounted, saluted. The recon men had been moving ahead of the supply train.
Sir. Weve reached the front lines, sir. He looked at the supply wagons, a look distaste on his face. Of course. He doesnt like this either. Butcher nodded, thanked him, and dismissed Kelly. Got back on his horse. The animal snorted, and Butcher moved it forward, thought, yes, none of us like this at all.
Vaters squadron was at the lead, the vanguard, followed by Stockton, with Moores battery in the middle, and OHara bringing up the rear. At least the food had been good. Moving with the supplies had put his men straight at the best rations, and they took advantage. If they couldnt rest or be relieved, they might as well eat.
Butcher moved the horse forward, the road going around a bend, and he could now here scattered bursts of fire, rifles and the big guns, the Dudleys and the light horse drawn artillery. Butcher leaned forward, let the horse go, closed his eyes, tried to will himself to sleep, drown out the noise, his hat providing some shade from the damned sun. Already men had dropped from heat exhaustion, and sickness, malaria and dysentery. He could deal with the heat. Malaria, he figured was manageable. But dysentery was not what he wanted. He had seen men get it before, end up with it caked on their legs, the awful smell, nauseous. He shuddered back awake. Yes, it could be worse.
Another entourage of riders moved towards him, officers, from the infantry. One of them saluted, and Butcher returned it, wearily.
Major Butcher?
Yes?
Im Colonel Ross. I have a letter for you, from the general himself.
Now Butcher was wide awake. From the general?
Yes Major. Just handed to me.
Butcher moved the horse forward, took the letter, opened it. He scanned over it once, stopped, read a specific part, reread it.
It went on, but Butcher stared at the one spot, surprised, began to smile. He couldnt help it. Ross watched him, tugged his cap lower, grinned.
Please, allow me to be the first
He saluted, and his staff followed suit, the passing troopers who had stopped to see did the same.
Colonel Butcher.
Butchers men were moving south, less than 300 of them now, and Butcher swore, hated the new job. They were guarding the supply lines. As if the damned supply lines needed guarding. There was no threat, certainly not from the civilians. The whole damned force could survive for a month off of what the natives were giving them, thanks for driving off the Spanish. Butcher had been polite, had always responded well with what Spanish he knew.
He shifted in the saddle, moved the horse to the side of the rode, dismounted, stretched his legs. He was sore, tired. A lot of the men were. They had been fighting or moving almost constantly for almost seven days, and they needed a rest. But out of all the men arriving, most were infantry, and there simply wasnt cavalry to spare. And so here they were, moving south, still, no relief and no replacements.
Sergeant Kelly rode up, dismounted, saluted. The recon men had been moving ahead of the supply train.
Sir. Weve reached the front lines, sir. He looked at the supply wagons, a look distaste on his face. Of course. He doesnt like this either. Butcher nodded, thanked him, and dismissed Kelly. Got back on his horse. The animal snorted, and Butcher moved it forward, thought, yes, none of us like this at all.
Vaters squadron was at the lead, the vanguard, followed by Stockton, with Moores battery in the middle, and OHara bringing up the rear. At least the food had been good. Moving with the supplies had put his men straight at the best rations, and they took advantage. If they couldnt rest or be relieved, they might as well eat.
Butcher moved the horse forward, the road going around a bend, and he could now here scattered bursts of fire, rifles and the big guns, the Dudleys and the light horse drawn artillery. Butcher leaned forward, let the horse go, closed his eyes, tried to will himself to sleep, drown out the noise, his hat providing some shade from the damned sun. Already men had dropped from heat exhaustion, and sickness, malaria and dysentery. He could deal with the heat. Malaria, he figured was manageable. But dysentery was not what he wanted. He had seen men get it before, end up with it caked on their legs, the awful smell, nauseous. He shuddered back awake. Yes, it could be worse.
Another entourage of riders moved towards him, officers, from the infantry. One of them saluted, and Butcher returned it, wearily.
Major Butcher?
Yes?
Im Colonel Ross. I have a letter for you, from the general himself.
Now Butcher was wide awake. From the general?
Yes Major. Just handed to me.
Butcher moved the horse forward, took the letter, opened it. He scanned over it once, stopped, read a specific part, reread it.
It went on, but Butcher stared at the one spot, surprised, began to smile. He couldnt help it. Ross watched him, tugged his cap lower, grinned.
Please, allow me to be the first
He saluted, and his staff followed suit, the passing troopers who had stopped to see did the same.
Colonel Butcher.
Auralia
Sand cockroach
oooo, nice!
When you kill Australia, make sure you split the country. Western Australia as its own state, and the other (cruddy) half as Australia. ;-)
When you kill Australia, make sure you split the country. Western Australia as its own state, and the other (cruddy) half as Australia. ;-)
Ha I will next time I go to war with the British. In my game I'm beginning to wind down American Involvement in WWI. Exept a bunch of small, weak countries keep declaring war on me.
Maybe set up a Federal Republic of Australia
Maybe set up a Federal Republic of Australia
With Guam secured, the newly formed VIII Corps set sail for the Philippines. Commodore Dewey’s fleet engaged and crushed the Spanish fleet in the battle of the Philippine Sea. The Spaniards in the Philippines watch with a sense of dread as a few ships limp back into Manila. The Navy has laid out a carpet into the Philippines. The task now falls to Otis’s VIII Corps to finish the job.
…
The barge touched lightly on the beach, and MacArthur stepped off, his boots sinking into the wet sand. He walked forward, stiffly, Presley following, the staff trailing him at a distance. The 2nd battalion had moved inland, was two hundred yards forward, the 3rd moving up behind them. Behind him the 1st was on its way, along with the single 8 gun battery of Dudleys. There were scattered pops to his front, the men firing at distant movements.
The beach itself was relatively clear. The jungle was close to a mile away, separated by a low, sparse scrub line, one that would give a man cover if he was prone, but it wasn’t thick enough to get in the way of any of the supply wagons, and that was a blessing, would let the army set up a supply base. MacArthur kept going, looking for an officer, saw Kennedy, went that way.
Kennedy saw him, saluted. “Good morning General! My battalion is moving up on Farrel’s flank, sir. I think Major Farrel has reached the main road towards Tacloban. Sir.” Kennedy was obviously excited, anxious. His men were moving quickly, and already the beachhead was being established, and on his left, elements of the 1st Division were landing, extending the lines, and the 1st battalion men were coming ashore, the Dudleys being brought up, the gun crews running back and bringing the ammo ashore, large boxes and crates, loaded with shells.
Major Meyn moved towards him, a run, stopped and saluted, “Sir! 1st battalion of the 1st brigade, 2nd Division, reporting for duty, 619 men and officers, sir.” He was excited, glad to be on the beach. He had chafed with being in the last wave, had wanted his men at the front of the advance. But the casualties made it unlikely, the malaria striking his battalion particularly hard, and so now Meyn was in the rear, the reserve. And he hated it.
MacArthur thanked him, ordered him forward, between Farrel and Kennedy, the seams in their lines. The 1st Division men were now moving up, onto the flank of his brigade, and now the 2nd brigade began to land, the barges setting the men ashore, the soldiers scrambling forward, complaining as their boots were soaked or caked with sand.
General Edson himself had come ashore with the 2nd brigade, and so MacArthur walked forward, sent a man to report to the general, joined up with Meyn’s battalion as it pushed forward.
Farrel’s and Kennedy’s men were still pushing hard, extending the beachhead, trading shots with a few groups of sentries, scattered opposition, not the Spaniards they had feared would be waiting. A runner from Farrel’s battalion arrived, panting, the man holding a Krag. “Sir, Major Farrel has secured the main road, and begs to know what his orders are.”
“Tell Major Farrel to secure his position and wait. I don’t know what our orders are. Sergeant Pence?”
The man, one of his staff, saluted. “General?”
“Report to General Edson that we have secured our positions and have reached the main road to Tacloban, and request orders.”
Pence saluted, turned and took off, running back towards the 2nd brigade. MacArthur turned back, waited, took a sip of water from his canteen. The heat was intense, but the ocean breeze kept the air feeling better, and so it felt 70 degrees when it was really 80 or 90. Farrel and Kennedy’s men had to be suffering. The Dudleys guns had halted, and the 1st battalion had spread out, set up lines around the guns. The invasion was successful. The VIII Corps was on Luzon
…
The barge touched lightly on the beach, and MacArthur stepped off, his boots sinking into the wet sand. He walked forward, stiffly, Presley following, the staff trailing him at a distance. The 2nd battalion had moved inland, was two hundred yards forward, the 3rd moving up behind them. Behind him the 1st was on its way, along with the single 8 gun battery of Dudleys. There were scattered pops to his front, the men firing at distant movements.
The beach itself was relatively clear. The jungle was close to a mile away, separated by a low, sparse scrub line, one that would give a man cover if he was prone, but it wasn’t thick enough to get in the way of any of the supply wagons, and that was a blessing, would let the army set up a supply base. MacArthur kept going, looking for an officer, saw Kennedy, went that way.
Kennedy saw him, saluted. “Good morning General! My battalion is moving up on Farrel’s flank, sir. I think Major Farrel has reached the main road towards Tacloban. Sir.” Kennedy was obviously excited, anxious. His men were moving quickly, and already the beachhead was being established, and on his left, elements of the 1st Division were landing, extending the lines, and the 1st battalion men were coming ashore, the Dudleys being brought up, the gun crews running back and bringing the ammo ashore, large boxes and crates, loaded with shells.
Major Meyn moved towards him, a run, stopped and saluted, “Sir! 1st battalion of the 1st brigade, 2nd Division, reporting for duty, 619 men and officers, sir.” He was excited, glad to be on the beach. He had chafed with being in the last wave, had wanted his men at the front of the advance. But the casualties made it unlikely, the malaria striking his battalion particularly hard, and so now Meyn was in the rear, the reserve. And he hated it.
MacArthur thanked him, ordered him forward, between Farrel and Kennedy, the seams in their lines. The 1st Division men were now moving up, onto the flank of his brigade, and now the 2nd brigade began to land, the barges setting the men ashore, the soldiers scrambling forward, complaining as their boots were soaked or caked with sand.
General Edson himself had come ashore with the 2nd brigade, and so MacArthur walked forward, sent a man to report to the general, joined up with Meyn’s battalion as it pushed forward.
Farrel’s and Kennedy’s men were still pushing hard, extending the beachhead, trading shots with a few groups of sentries, scattered opposition, not the Spaniards they had feared would be waiting. A runner from Farrel’s battalion arrived, panting, the man holding a Krag. “Sir, Major Farrel has secured the main road, and begs to know what his orders are.”
“Tell Major Farrel to secure his position and wait. I don’t know what our orders are. Sergeant Pence?”
The man, one of his staff, saluted. “General?”
“Report to General Edson that we have secured our positions and have reached the main road to Tacloban, and request orders.”
Pence saluted, turned and took off, running back towards the 2nd brigade. MacArthur turned back, waited, took a sip of water from his canteen. The heat was intense, but the ocean breeze kept the air feeling better, and so it felt 70 degrees when it was really 80 or 90. Farrel and Kennedy’s men had to be suffering. The Dudleys guns had halted, and the 1st battalion had spread out, set up lines around the guns. The invasion was successful. The VIII Corps was on Luzon
They had been ordered to move forward, up to the front lines. Butcher’s men were to be attached to a command of volunteers, a regiment under the command of the former secretary of the navy, an eccentric man named Theodore Roosevelt. The 22nd Arizona had been added into Roosevelt’s command to replenish the losses, the men struck down by bullets and malaria and the heat. Attrition had whittled away the battalion. They were now a little over 200 strong.
Butcher spread them out on the left flank, Vater’s and O’Hara’s squadrons on the far left, with Stockton’s men linking up with the men on their right, 2nd Minnesota volunteers. The regiment was at rest, waiting for an order to move out. The fight had become one of infantry now, the Army pushing south, driving up the Spanish, driving them back towards Santiago de Cuba. The armie s were now in constant contact, and so the cavalry had moved back, simply watched and waited for orders.
Butcher himself was refreshed, had finally been able to rest. The battalion had been moved away from the supplies, and had washed up and changed clothes for the first time since the landing. Roosevelt himself had inspected them, and pronounced himself “impressed” with their condition. They were ready for a fight. Butcher knew it, and noted the morale, the men standing a bit straighter. They had stood up to the enemy and had done their job.
Butcher was lying beneath a small tree, the letter in his hands. He could still feel the elation, the sense of accomplishment. Colonel Butcher. He smiled slightly and folded it carefully, put it into his pocket. He shifted hi hat and stood up, put on his gloves, walked out of the shade, surveyed the land. It was a clearing, a small town nearby, and they were surrounded by sugar cane fields. A road split the fields, and it was down this road that Butcher saw a small entourage, mounted men, recognized Roosevelt, the moustache and glasses. They stopped in front of him, the horses snorting.
“Colonel Butcher!” Roosevelt boomed in a foghorn voice. “Ready your men, we’re moving up. Cavalry is going to make an attack on the infantry’s flank. Whole force, a push straight into Santiago de Cuba itself!”
Roosevelt was loud and eccentric, had the strut that the cavalry expected from their own. What’s more, he was a leader, a good one, which wasn’t common. Butcher nodded, had to ask.
“Sir, what’s our objective?”
“A series of hills on the left of the main line. San Juan Hill. We know the Cubans have maybe 800 men on the hill, maybe a bit more. Infantry is taking the main attack; we’re going up some smaller hills surrounding the heights.” Roosevelt paused and nodded, glanced over at Butcher. “Gonna be a dismounted attack, a rough son of a ***** They’ve got that barbed wire up there at the crest of the hill, trenches, etc.”
Butcher nodded, remembered the wire from Arizona. Yep. A rough son of a ***** Roosevelt grunted, offered Butcher a cigar, which he took and lit. Roosevelt lit one too, and they stood there, the delicious smoke around their heads. Butcher pulled his hat back a bit, looked over at Roosevelt.
“Well sir, my boys will be there sir. We’ll follow you right up to the top of that damned hill, all the way.”
Roosevelt nodded, pushed his glasses up, and took another puff on his cigar. “Yes Colonel. I don’t doubt that a bit. Not one bit.”
…
The infantry moved out first, the 1st division, at 12 p.m. The cavalry division followed, the men marching, dismounted, carbines slung across their shoulders. The infantry began to take fire, spanned out, and the cavalry men moved quickly, occupied trenches at the bottom of the hill, in sight of the Spanish who continued to shoot at them. The infantry moved up the Sims Dudleys and the gatling guns, and opened fire, but they were still taking causalities.
Butcher walked through his battalion, trying to keep everyone calm. Rounds whistled by, pounding the ground near him, drilling into the wood of the trench wall. His men were returning fire, and behind him he could ear the roar of the gatling guns, the steady pounding. It was a cacophony of sound, guns and carbines and yells the heartbreaking screams of the wounded and the men who watched a comrade die.
“Colonel Butcher!” He hadn’t heard the runner, noticed him now only because of the taps on his shoulder. The man was sweating, had been running.
“Colonel Butcher, Colonel Roosevelt is going to launch an attack sir. We’re going straight up that hill.” He pointed, and Butcher thought about the ridiculous name, the reason, the kettle they had found at the base.
“Thank you sergeant. Dismissed!”
“We haven’t been ordered to go sir! Division has no clue about this, sir!”
Butcher stopped, began to say something, then stopped and laughed. Roosevelt was impatient. Oh well. They were volunteers. And he knew his men would follow Roosevelt sooner then they’d follow General Wheeler. “Please inform the Colonel that he can expect the 22nd Arizona following him, all the way to the top of Kettle Hill. And beyond if thats what he wants.”
Butcher spread them out on the left flank, Vater’s and O’Hara’s squadrons on the far left, with Stockton’s men linking up with the men on their right, 2nd Minnesota volunteers. The regiment was at rest, waiting for an order to move out. The fight had become one of infantry now, the Army pushing south, driving up the Spanish, driving them back towards Santiago de Cuba. The armie s were now in constant contact, and so the cavalry had moved back, simply watched and waited for orders.
Butcher himself was refreshed, had finally been able to rest. The battalion had been moved away from the supplies, and had washed up and changed clothes for the first time since the landing. Roosevelt himself had inspected them, and pronounced himself “impressed” with their condition. They were ready for a fight. Butcher knew it, and noted the morale, the men standing a bit straighter. They had stood up to the enemy and had done their job.
Butcher was lying beneath a small tree, the letter in his hands. He could still feel the elation, the sense of accomplishment. Colonel Butcher. He smiled slightly and folded it carefully, put it into his pocket. He shifted hi hat and stood up, put on his gloves, walked out of the shade, surveyed the land. It was a clearing, a small town nearby, and they were surrounded by sugar cane fields. A road split the fields, and it was down this road that Butcher saw a small entourage, mounted men, recognized Roosevelt, the moustache and glasses. They stopped in front of him, the horses snorting.
“Colonel Butcher!” Roosevelt boomed in a foghorn voice. “Ready your men, we’re moving up. Cavalry is going to make an attack on the infantry’s flank. Whole force, a push straight into Santiago de Cuba itself!”
Roosevelt was loud and eccentric, had the strut that the cavalry expected from their own. What’s more, he was a leader, a good one, which wasn’t common. Butcher nodded, had to ask.
“Sir, what’s our objective?”
“A series of hills on the left of the main line. San Juan Hill. We know the Cubans have maybe 800 men on the hill, maybe a bit more. Infantry is taking the main attack; we’re going up some smaller hills surrounding the heights.” Roosevelt paused and nodded, glanced over at Butcher. “Gonna be a dismounted attack, a rough son of a ***** They’ve got that barbed wire up there at the crest of the hill, trenches, etc.”
Butcher nodded, remembered the wire from Arizona. Yep. A rough son of a ***** Roosevelt grunted, offered Butcher a cigar, which he took and lit. Roosevelt lit one too, and they stood there, the delicious smoke around their heads. Butcher pulled his hat back a bit, looked over at Roosevelt.
“Well sir, my boys will be there sir. We’ll follow you right up to the top of that damned hill, all the way.”
Roosevelt nodded, pushed his glasses up, and took another puff on his cigar. “Yes Colonel. I don’t doubt that a bit. Not one bit.”
…
The infantry moved out first, the 1st division, at 12 p.m. The cavalry division followed, the men marching, dismounted, carbines slung across their shoulders. The infantry began to take fire, spanned out, and the cavalry men moved quickly, occupied trenches at the bottom of the hill, in sight of the Spanish who continued to shoot at them. The infantry moved up the Sims Dudleys and the gatling guns, and opened fire, but they were still taking causalities.
Butcher walked through his battalion, trying to keep everyone calm. Rounds whistled by, pounding the ground near him, drilling into the wood of the trench wall. His men were returning fire, and behind him he could ear the roar of the gatling guns, the steady pounding. It was a cacophony of sound, guns and carbines and yells the heartbreaking screams of the wounded and the men who watched a comrade die.
“Colonel Butcher!” He hadn’t heard the runner, noticed him now only because of the taps on his shoulder. The man was sweating, had been running.
“Colonel Butcher, Colonel Roosevelt is going to launch an attack sir. We’re going straight up that hill.” He pointed, and Butcher thought about the ridiculous name, the reason, the kettle they had found at the base.
“Thank you sergeant. Dismissed!”
“We haven’t been ordered to go sir! Division has no clue about this, sir!”
Butcher stopped, began to say something, then stopped and laughed. Roosevelt was impatient. Oh well. They were volunteers. And he knew his men would follow Roosevelt sooner then they’d follow General Wheeler. “Please inform the Colonel that he can expect the 22nd Arizona following him, all the way to the top of Kettle Hill. And beyond if thats what he wants.”
Nordstream
Prince
This is great. Very different from the other AOI stories here. I like it.
A quick preview of the next update:
Bastion was awoken by the sound of a pistol shot outside the hotel. His eyes bolted open and he lay there, waited for a second. Another shot rang out, and then a flurry of rifle shots. There was shouting. Bastion bolted out of bed, scrambling to through on his clothes, the trousers, shirt, the deranger and his coat. He grabbed a Schofield revolver and checked it. The brass winked back at him the candle light and he hid it in his coat.
One of the legionnaires pounded on his door. Monsieur Bastion! Wake up! It was Beaumont. Bastion opened the door and Beaumont stumbled inside, followed by two of his men.
The Spanish are onto us, Monsieur. Beaumont spoke quickly, was gathering some of the smaller Straight-Pull rifles into his arms, his men grabbing the bandoleers of ammo. More pistol shots rang out, and Bastion could hear an unmistakable scream, a man wounded. A few seconds later the fourth legionnaire entered the room, panting.
Theyre coming Lieutenant. He said and he leaned back around the corner and fired, two shots. Bastion moved into the hall and dropped to a knee, firing the Schofield, the big revolver crashing. The Legionnaire had taken down one of the first two men, and Bastion had hit the other, a rapid flurry of shots into the neck and face.
Beaumont and his other men ran out of the room, carrying as many of the supplies as they could, and Bastion the fourth man followed them, reloading their pistols as they went, a weary eye behind them.
Bastion was awoken by the sound of a pistol shot outside the hotel. His eyes bolted open and he lay there, waited for a second. Another shot rang out, and then a flurry of rifle shots. There was shouting. Bastion bolted out of bed, scrambling to through on his clothes, the trousers, shirt, the deranger and his coat. He grabbed a Schofield revolver and checked it. The brass winked back at him the candle light and he hid it in his coat.
One of the legionnaires pounded on his door. Monsieur Bastion! Wake up! It was Beaumont. Bastion opened the door and Beaumont stumbled inside, followed by two of his men.
The Spanish are onto us, Monsieur. Beaumont spoke quickly, was gathering some of the smaller Straight-Pull rifles into his arms, his men grabbing the bandoleers of ammo. More pistol shots rang out, and Bastion could hear an unmistakable scream, a man wounded. A few seconds later the fourth legionnaire entered the room, panting.
Theyre coming Lieutenant. He said and he leaned back around the corner and fired, two shots. Bastion moved into the hall and dropped to a knee, firing the Schofield, the big revolver crashing. The Legionnaire had taken down one of the first two men, and Bastion had hit the other, a rapid flurry of shots into the neck and face.
Beaumont and his other men ran out of the room, carrying as many of the supplies as they could, and Bastion the fourth man followed them, reloading their pistols as they went, a weary eye behind them.
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