Battle in the Ashes Read online

  Hoffman had marched into Texas with just under 200,000 troops, and Ben Raines and his rag-tag bands of malcontents had stopped him dead bang.

  Now, to make matters worse, many of his troops were walling their eyes like frightened cattle at the mere mention of Ben Raines’s name. There had been talk of some old man who called himself the Prophet popping up all over the place and calling down the wrath of God upon the heads of the invaders.

  Nonsense, of course, but many of his troops were getting spooked. And Hoffman did not know how to combat the wild rumors.

  And his closer advisor and friend, Hoffman’s Uncle Frederich Rosbach, had flown back to South America. Frederich had urged his nephew to abandon his dreams of conquering all of North and South America and return with him. Hoffman, naturally, refused.

  One thing Hoffman did know for certain was that when his Second and Third Divisions reached Ben Raines’s position in the south of Texas, he would be rid of that bastard forever.

  Hoffman might have felt certain about that, but somebody forgot to tell Ben.

  Dawn.

  “The enemy columns are proceeding very cautiously,” Corrie said to Ben.

  “Placement of vehicles?” Ben asked.

  “Strung out wide and using all accessible roads. ETA of advance troops 1300 hours this day.”

  “Everybody mounted up and ready to roll?”

  “Sitting on ready.”

  “From this moment on, maintain tight radio silence. If something has to be transmitted, use burst only.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Let’s pack it up and get the hell out of here.”

  Ben had split his forces, half heading west, the other half east. Colonel Garcia had stepped aside without a word, knowing this was General Raines’s show.

  When the Second and Third Divisions of Blackshirts had moved out, heading south, Ben ordered four battalions of his Rebels to move east and at his orders, mix it up with the small garrisons left behind. Hoffman had not yet realized it, but he had committed one very large fuck-up. He had left his western flank wide open. Ben could not understand how the man could have made such a terrible error in judgement, but he had, and Ben was going to take full advantage of it.

  It was going to be a race for time and distance, one that if Ben lost could spell disaster for his command. But if he could pull it off, he just might be able to knock the boots out from under Hoffman and really give his own people one hell of a morale booster.

  “Brilliant,” Colonel Garcia said, when Ben outlined his plan. “Absolutely brilliant.”

  Ben didn’t know how brilliant his plan was; he just hoped it would work.

  Ben had left behind a small force, armed with howitzers taken from the demolished SS troops. When the two divisions came into range, the small force of Rebels and South American troops would open fire, engaging the Second and Third Divisions in an artillery duel for as long as possible. Ben and his battalions and Colonel Garcia and his battalions would be driving straight north just as fast as road conditions allowed. When they reached the southern edge of Hoffman’s First Division, the four battalions of Rebels would attack the small garrisons from the Second and Third left behind from the west. Ben and Colonel Garcia would then strike at Hoffman’s First Division, catching them, they hoped, by surprise.

  Scouts were already in place, waiting for Ben’s orders to neutralize Hoffman’s southernmost forward observation posts.

  By the time the troops of the Second and Third Divisions overran the positions of the Rebel gunners left behind, who would, hopefully, have bugged out before that happened, the Blackshirt generals would realize they had been suckered. But they would be a good 175 miles south of the surprise attack on Hoffman’s First Division, and unable to do anything except cuss Ben Raines. Which Ben felt sure they would do, with a great deal of passion.

  Ben was under no illusions concerning the attack. He knew he probably would not get anywhere near Hoffman’s HQ. But just being able to strike within a few miles of the man would shake the Nazi bastard down to his toenails.

  But General Brodermann worried Ben. His intell people had not been able to pinpoint the man’s location. And the thought of that SS son of a bitch launching his own sneak attack against Ben, while Ben was hitting Hoffman with his own surprise attack, was not pleasant.

  Then Corrie dropped the news on Ben.

  “Brodermann is with the First Division,” she said. “Meeting with Field Marshal Hoffman at his HQ. Apache scouts grabbed a Blackshirt recon team and got the information out of them. His battalions have been assigned to Hoffman’s division.”

  “Well, at least we know approximately where he is,” Ben said. “Do we have an exact location of Hoffman’s HQ?”

  “No, sir. Only that he moves it daily. It seems the man is awfully paranoid.”

  “You have any idea what happened to the Blackshirt recon team?” Ben asked.

  “I would imagine they probably tried to escape,” Corrie said blandly.

  “Uh-huh,” Ben said.

  “Our gunners are now engaged in an artillery duel with batteries of the Second and Third Divisions,” Corrie said, after listening to her headset for a moment.

  The convoy rolled past one of Hoffman’s southernmost forward observation posts. Rebel Scouts were sitting by the side of the road, having a late lunch. They gave Ben’s command car the thumbs-up sign as it rolled past.

  Ben returned the thumbs-up as the convoy rolled on.

  “No one’s given any alarm yet,” Corrie said. “The luck is still with us.”

  “May the Force be with you,” Ben muttered.

  “Beg pardon, sir?” Cooper asked.

  Ben smiled. “It’s from an old movie, Coop.”

  “Two minutes to artillery drop off, sir,” Beth said, working the other radio.

  They would drop off the artillery, wait until the guns were ready to fire, and then drive under the overhead arching shells for just under twelve miles. By the time they struck at First Division, the Blackshirts would be softened up . . . considerably.

  Ben’s forces would then liven things up a bit for the hopefully still-stunned Blackshirts.

  “Everybody out and stretch for five,” Ben said, as Cooper brought the Hummer to a halt. It would take the eleven man artillery crews just about five minutes to position the 155s and have them ready for firing.

  Ben rolled a cigarette and stretched his legs while the artillery crews separated, formed up, and set up. He took a drink of water and checked his Thompson, then checked the bag filled with full drums on the floorboards of the Hummer.

  “Colonel Garcia in place,” Corrie said. “We will link up just outside the southernmost edge of First Division’s encampment.”

  “Or what’s left of it,” Ben said, toeing out the butt of his cigarette. “Everybody knows what they’re to do, so there is nothing left to say. Mount up.”

  The now more than regiment size band of Rebels would roar through the devastation, firing everything they had, including Big Thumpers, until they reached the approximate center of the sprawling encampment. There, they would dismount and take the battle hand to hand.

  Those Blackshirts left behind by the Second and Third Divisions had pulled back to the east and joined for greater strength. Four battalions of Rebels were now striking at that small garrison and the plan was for them to punch through and link up with Ben and Colonel Garcia.

  Buddy and his battalion, along with the Outlaw bikers, were driving hard for San Antonio. They would stay there and harass the Eighth Division guarding the airport and the ruins of town. Such a small force had no hope of defeating a division, but they could keep them hemmed in and worry the hell out of them.

  While Ben was striking from the north, Striganov, West, and Danjou would be hammering hard from the north end of the First Division’s lines. If all this worked, Ben’s hopes were that Hoffman would be forced to withdraw to the east. Five battalions of Rebels, Dan, Tina, Pat O’Shea, Greenwalt, and Jackie Malone
’s battalion, were stretching out north to south along Highway 281 and setting up many of the batteries of artillery that Ben had been holding in reserve.

  Payon, Paul Gomez, Jim Peters, and Ned Hawkins’s bunch were pushing hard to get in position to the south.

  If this worked, they would have Hoffman and his men in a box.

  If it worked.

  FIVE

  When the first artillery rounds hit, Hoffman was just sitting down for coffee with General Brodermann. His HQ was several miles from the explosions, but he still heard the booming.

  “What the hell?” he said, turning in his chair.

  Then rounds started coming in fast and hard.

  “We’re under attack from the south!” Brodermann said, jumping to his feet.

  Hoffman ran for the office and reached it just as an aide opened it from the other side. The door impacted with Hoffman’s nose and knocked him sprawling to the floor, his beak bloody. The aide stood frozen, horrified at what he’d done.

  “Idiot!” Brodermann yelled at the young man. “Fool! You’ve injured the Field Marshal. What the hell do you want?”

  “We . . . we’re being attacked from the west, sir!”

  “From the west? What the hell are you blathering about? Are you deaf as well as stupid? We’re being attacked from the south. Goddamn it, can’t you hear?”

  “From the west, too, sir,” the aide blurted. Field Marshal Hoffman was just getting unceremoniously to his feet, grabbing at a chair for support, his nose clearly broken and spurting blood. “The garrison just radioed. They cannot hold and are falling back to our position.”

  “My no’ is ’oken,” Jesus Hoffman said. “Shit!” A fat colonel came running into the outer office and tried to stop. The floor of the old home was slick tile, and his leather-soled boots could find no traction. He slammed into the aide, the aide slammed into Brodermann, and Brodermann slammed into Field Marshal Hoffman. All of them went slipping and sliding and tumbling to the floor. For a few seconds, it looked like the Three Stooges meets Danny Kaye.

  “We’re under massive attack from the north!” the colonel hollered.

  “Get off me, you elephant!” Brodermann yelled.

  “’et off of ’e!” Hoffman shouted, spraying everybody with blood.

  An SS officer came running in. He stood for a moment in the doorway, his mouth hanging open and his face registering his shock.

  “What the hell do you want?” Brodermann screamed.

  “Ah . . . why, ah, General Schleyer says he is under attack at the San Antonio airport. Why are you all on the floor? What has happened to the Field Marshal?”

  Captain Blickle came running in. He blinked at the scene on the office floor. He shook his head and decided it wasn’t any of his business. For the moment, at least. “Scouts from General Mohnhaupt’s Seventh Division say Rebels are lined up north to south in massive numbers along Highway 281. They have begun shelling his command.” He paused. “What are all you people doing on the floor?”

  Before anyone could reply—not that anyone was about to—several artillery rounds landed a few hundred yards from Hoffman’s HQ. The explosions blew out all the windows on that side of the house and tore off part of the old roof. Captain Blickle joined the others on the floor.

  “’Oddamnit!” Hoffman yelled. “’Et off me!”

  The rattle of automatic weapons could now be clearly heard.

  “Rebels!” someone outside screamed. “Thousands of them. El Lobo is leading the charge.”

  Brodermann lurched to his feet. “If I hear El Lobo one more time,” he shouted. “I’ll shoot the son of a bitch who said it.”

  Together, they all managed to get Jesus Hoffman to his unsteady feet and out the door. “Get the Field Marshal to safety,” Brodermann ordered.

  “Where?” Captain Blickle demanded, looking around him at the panicked troops, confusion and the exploding artillery rounds.

  “How the hell should I know?” Brodermann shouted. “Just get him out of here. Move, goddamnit!”

  Blickle and the still nose-bleeding Hoffman rushed to a waiting car and jumped in the back seat. The driver sped off. Brodermann looked around for some of his SS troops, then realized they were miles to the north and probably helping contain the charge of Rebels up there.

  “Damnit!” he swore. “Who would have guessed Raines would do something like this?”

  Brodermann finally and forever, in the span of only a few seconds, realized that one simply could not second-guess Ben Raines. If you made ready for the norm, he would throw something at you completely off the wall. Expect something totally unorthodox, and Raines would hand you something right out of a military textbook.

  Then Brodermann looked on in amazement as the Rebels began slowing and stopping their vehicles, troops dismounting and engaging the Blackshirts in hand-to-hand combat. “No!” he shouted. “This simply cannot be!”

  But it was happening, and Brodermann suddenly got that message and looked around for any officer. He saw one. He jerked his pistol out of the holster and tried to rally the panicked troops. One tried to run past him, all wild-eyed and scared, and Brodermann shot the man. That got the attention of several people. “Throw up a line!” he shouted. “Goddamn you, listen to me. Throw up a line and hold it.”

  He got the attention of several sergeants, and they quickly began to shout and kick some order back into the troops. A line was thrown up and slowly some semblance of soldiering began to take place. The fighting was now going to be house to house and very close up.

  Ben jumped over the sandbags around a machine gun emplacement, jerked the dead body away from an unfamiliar but heavy machine gun, and stitched a deuce and a half from radiator to midway of the bed. Every third or fourth round loaded into the belt must have been incendiary, for the truck exploded and sent body parts flying all over the place.

  Jersey and Corrie jumped into the pit with him and Cooper began helping with the belt while Corrie was trying to raise other battalions for a battle assessment.

  Ben grinned at her. “When you get Ike, tell him we’re having fun down here and wish he could join us!”

  Corrie ignored him. She’d been with Ben for years and nothing he ever did surprised her. She finally yelled, “It was a total surprise, General. All battalions on all fronts reporting we really caught them with their pants down.”

  “Casualties?” Ben yelled, after cutting down three running Blackshirts. He rested his hands from the heavy jarring of the machine gun.

  “Very light.”

  “Give me a status report on conditions right here, Corrie,” Ben requested.

  After a moment, she said, “We’re stretched out along a line approximately three miles wide. Artillery wants to know should they shell the town?”

  “Negative,” Ben quickly told her. “Hell, we’re on the outskirts of the damn town. Tell the batteries to advance to within a few miles of us and set up and wait for orders.”

  That done, Ben said, “Corrie, give the orders to go over the top, people. Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go!” And he jumped out of the sandbagged pit and took off running.

  “Jesus!” Cooper said, and took off after him, Jersey and Beth and Corrie right on his heels.

  Brodermann took one look at the advancing Rebels and cursed as he shook his head. He knew with a soldier’s sixth sense that to stand and face that would be pointless. “Fall back!” he shouted. “Fall back to those woods north of town. Move. Quickly, now.”

  “Secure the town and then advance no further,” Ben panted the orders, squatting down behind a brick house.

  When he had caught his breath, and Corrie had issued the orders, Ben said, “Set me up a CP and rig for long range transmission, Corrie. Tell supply to get our uniforms ready for us. From tiger stripe to desert cammie. We’re back in business!”

  When the major five-front offensive was launched by the Rebels in Texas, those Rebel contingents in California, Arizona, and New Mexico rushed the Blackshirts on the o
ther side of the border, while General Payon’s guerilleros struck them from the south and the worshipers of Nazism were caught by surprise. No prisoners were taken.

  General Cecil Jefferys sat in his command post at Base Camp One with a smile on his face. He had felt all along that when everything fell into place enough to satisfy Ben’s mind, he would quit playing cat and mouse all over the state of Texas and really step in close and slap the crap out of Hoffman. And he had done just that.

  Cecil made a mental note to go see Ben’s dogs that afternoon and play with them for a time. He knew they missed Ben terribly and he needed the exercise anyway.

  “Give ’em hell, Ben,” Cecil said.

  Hoffman and the remnants of his First Division managed to slip through the thin northern lines, running west to east, and hurriedly thrown up by Striganov, West, and Danjou. Hoffman’s Second and Third divisions were being held right where they were by Payon, Gomez, Jim Peters, and Ned Hawkins’s Texas Rangers. Hoffman’s Sixth and Seventh Divisions were taking a real pounding from the battalions of Dan Gray, Tina Raines, Pat O’Shea, Greenwalt, and Malone. Hoffman’s Fourth and Fifth Divisions massed and overran Danjou’s position on the eastern edge of the front and pushed into the clear into northern Texas.

  Ben ordered those contingents coming from the west to angle south and link up with Raul Gomez who was holding east and west of either side of Highway 277. He also ordered everyone back into uniform and pulled out all the tanks and artillery he’d been holding in reserve.

  To the north, Ike ordered teams out to blow all bridges along the Canadian River from the New Mexico line over into Oklahoma, and Cecil sent teams from Base Camp One to blow the bridges along the Canadian from Oklahoma City to the Arkansas line.

  Ben leaned back in a rat-chewed old recliner Cooper had found for him and smiled. “Now, Hoffman, you goose-stepping dickhead. Now, let’s see you wriggle your way out of this one.”