Уильям Дитц - Battle Hymn

And the strategy worked. As Mac panned her binoculars along the top of the berm, not a single head was visible. So Mac felt a new sense of optimism as the soldiers continued to climb. Then she heard what sounded like hundreds of firecrackers going off as flashes of light rippled across the front surface of the slope. Union soldiers were hurled backwards as the rebs detonated dozens of M18AC Claymore antipersonnel mines. Smoke rose like an evil mist. Badly mangled bodies slid downhill as more people fought their way up and over them.

Now the heads appeared as the Confederates fired down on the soldiers, and the assault stalled. Mac watched in horror as the attackers were forced to pull back under fire. Stretcher parties rushed forward only to stagger and fall.

There was counterfire though… A rocket exploded on top of the wall and sent bodies flying. But it wasn’t enough. The attack is about to stall, Mac concluded. No, the attack has stalled. And our wounded are dying. Mac felt an overwhelming need to do something.

“This is Marauder-Six,” Mac said. “All units will continue to provide fire support as they move forward to evacuate the wounded. Trucks one, two, and three will split left. Four will lead the remaining vics to the right. Let’s go. Over.”

None of the battalion’s Strykers were M1133 Medical Evacuation Vehicles. But all of them could be pressed into service for that purpose. The berm seemed to grow taller as the STEEL BITCHgot closer to it. The TC was a corporal named Provo. Bullets kicked up geysers of mud all around a stretcher party as Provo came to a stop between the soldiers and the incoming fire. Mac felt a stab of fear as a projectile snapped by her right ear. She shouted into her boom mike.

“This is Marauder-Six… Put their heads down!” Then, as if to demonstrate what she meant, Mac aimed bursts of machine-gun fire at the top of the wall.

The fifty began to thump as the BITCH’s ramp went down and soldiers hurried to load stretchers into the cargo bay. “Get them to the LZ (landing zone) as fast as you can,” Mac ordered. “Seconds count.”

Mac removed her headset and jumped to the ground. There were more wounded to care for and not enough medics to go around. For the next twenty minutes, Mac was just another grunt, trudging through the mud and comforting the wounded. All the while waiting for the hammer blow—and the long fall into darkness.

“Don’t worry,” she told the soldiers. “You’ll be fine.” Some nodded, and one kid called her “Mom,” just before the light faded from his eyes. Unrestrained tears ran down her cheeks as Mac turned away.

By the time the last casualty had been evacuated, and the last body bag had been loaded into an LAV, Mac was physically and emotionally spent. What felt like five pounds of mud clung to each boot as she slogged back through the brigade’s perimeter and collapsed next to a wounded private. A bloody bandage was wrapped around his head and his eyes stared at her without any sign of recognition. “Emilia, is that you ? They killed Tom.”

“I’m sorry,” Mac told him as she put an arm over his shoulders. The soldier’s body shook as he cried. Mac held him until a navy corpsman arrived to lead the Marine away.

She wanted to stay there and let the cold rain wash her face, but there were other soldiers to tend to. Her soldiers. And they needed her.

Mac spent the next hour tracking the Marauders down, doing what she could to comfort them and restore morale. Most were okay, but some had been killed, and others wounded in ways that would never heal.

Mac was on her way back to the tent that had been assigned to her when she saw Colonel Walters. The Marine officer was sitting under a tarp, staring at the patch of mud between her boots. “Colonel?”

Walters looked up. Her face was drawn, and for the first time since they’d met, Mac saw despair in the other woman’s eyes. “Major… Thank you for pitching in to help the wounded. I won’t forget.”

Mac felt a lump form in her throat and managed to swallow it. Here, even in defeat, Walters was doing her job. “Permission to speak freely, ma’am?”

Walters pointed to a crate. “Sure… Take a load off.”

Mac sat down. “It wasn’t your fault, ma’am.”

“Thanks,” Walters replied. “But that’s bullshit. I should have thought of Claymores. I should have, but I didn’t. People died. End of story.”

Mac nodded. “Okay, but ask yourself this… Did I think of Claymores? Did Major Corvo alert you to that possibility? There was no negligence involved, Colonel. And, until an all-knowing commanding officer shows up, the job is yours. I, for one, wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Mac saw what might have been a look of gratitude in the other woman’s eyes. “Thanks, Robin, that means a lot. You look like hell, by the way… Try to set a better example for the troops.”

Mac grinned, stood, and delivered a textbook-perfect salute. “Yes, ma’am. I’ll do my best.” And with that, she did an about-face and left.

The rest of the day was spent encouraging the mechanics who were trying to complete field repairs on the vics, requisitioning more of everything, and plowing through all of the usual paperwork.

But throughout it all, there in the back of Mac’s mind, a simple question waited. Was there a way to enter the rebel base without taking so many casualties? Could paratroopers do the job? What about some sort of special ops mission? Or attacking the berm with enormous tractors?

Each scenario had advantages, but each had weaknesses as well, like the tractor concept. Sure, earthmovers could dig a path through the berm. If the rebels allowed them to do so. But they wouldn’t. What to do? The problem continued to plague Mac as she crossed a sea of mud to the area where her vehicles were parked.

The sun was setting, and Sergeant Lang was sitting on the front deck of his mine-clearing tank, smoking a pipe and reading a book. It was a peaceful scene at the end of a very bloody day. And as Mac walked past, something clicked. The result was an idea. But what kind of an idea? A good idea? Or a bad one?

Mac turned, stepped over a puddle, and arrived below the point where Lang was seated. He saw her and stood. “As you were,” Mac said. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but I could use some help.”

“Sure,” Lang replied. “What’s up?”

“I have an idea,” Mac told him. “But I don’t know if it’s feasible. I’d like to pitch it to you. Then, depending on what you think, I might take it to the CO.”

Lang nodded. “Shoot.”

“I want an honest evaluation,” Mac cautioned.

“You’ll get it,” Lang promised.

So Lang listened as Mac explained what she had in mind. And once she was finished, he nodded. “It would take some prep. But if we set it up the right way, I think it will work.”

“You’re sure?”

“Hell, no,” Lang answered with a grin. “But I think it’s worth a try.”

“Okay,” Mac said. “Let’s run it up the flagpole and see if anyone salutes.”

Colonel Walters was in a meeting when the twosome arrived at the brigade’s HQ tent. That left them with no choice but to sip bad coffee and wait. The occasional pop of a flare could be heard, along with the faint strains of “Yankee Doodle Dandy,” and an occasional rifle shot. The snipers were working late.

It was well after 2000 hours by the time Walters was free to speak with them. “So,” Walters said, as her guests perched on stools that had been “liberated” from a nearby house. “I understand you have a proposal. Fire away.”

“We need a way to enter the Confederate compound while suffering only minimal casualties,” Mac began. “And maybe we have it. What if we took one of Sergeant Lang’s mine-clearing tanks, mounted a two-thousand-pound bomb over the front rollers, and pushed the payload up to those steel doors?”