Astounding Stories of Super-Science 20

Astounding Stories of Super-Science 20

"Those fights are keeping up too long!" he said sharply. "General, don't

you see, they're driving back our line, but they aren't driving it back

as fast as if they were throwing their whole weight on it! If they were

making a frontal attack there, they'd wipe out the tanks we have facing

them; they'd roll right over them! That's a feint! They're concentrating

in the dead space--"

 

"I am waiting," said the general softly, "to hear from those two

infantrymen." He looked at the board again and said quietly, "Have the

call-signal sent them. They may answer."

 

He struck a match to relight his dead cigar. His fingers barely quivered

as they held the match. It might have been excitement--but it might have

been foreboding, too.

 

"By the way," he said, holding the match clear, "have our machine-shops

and supply-tanks ready to move. Every plane is, of course, ready to take

the air on signal. But get the aircraft ground personnel in their

traveling tanks immediately."

 

Voices began to murmur orders as the general puffed. He watched the

board steadily.

 

"Let me know if anything is heard from these infantrymen...."

 

* * * * *

 

There was a definite air of strain within the tank that was

headquarters. It was a sort of tensity that seemed to emanate from the

general himself.

 

Where Coffee and Wallis and the prisoner squatted on the ground,

however, there was no sign of strain at all. There was a steady gabble

of voices.

 

"What kinda rations they give you?" asked Coffee interestedly.

 

The enemy prisoner listed them, with profane side-comments.

 

"Hell," said Wallis gloomily. "Y'ought to see what we get! Las' week

they fed us worse'n dogs. An' th' canteen stuff--"

 

"Your tank men, they get treated fancy?" asked the prisoner.

 

Coffee made a reply consisting almost exclusively of high powered

expletives.

 

"--and the infantry gets it in the neck every time," he finished

savagely. "We do the work--"

 

Guns began to boom, far away. Wallis cocked his ears.

 

"Tanks gettin' together," he judged, gloomily. "If they'd all blow each

other to hell an' let us infantry fight this battle--"

 

"Damn the tanks!" said the enemy prisoner viciously. "Look here, you

fellers. Look at me. They sent a battalion of us out, in two waves. We

hike along by compass through the fog, supposed to be five paces apart.

We come on a pill-box or listenin' post, we gas it an' go on. We try not

to make a noise. We try not to get seen before we use our gas. We go on,

deep in your lines as we can. We hear one of your tanks, we dodge it if

we can, so we don't get seen at all. O'course we give it a dose of gas

in passing, just in case. But we don't get any orders about how far to

go or how to come back. We ask for recognition signals for our own

tanks, an' they grin an' say we won't see none of our tanks till the

battle's over. They say 'Re-form an' march back when the fog is out.'

Ain't that pretty for you?"

 

"You second wave?" asked Coffee, with interest.

 

The prisoner nodded.

 

"Mopping up," he said bitterly, "what the first wave left. No fun in

that! We go along gassin' dead men, an' all the time your tanks is

ravin' around to find out what's happenin' to their listenin'-posts.

They run into us--"

 

Coffee nodded sympathetically.

 

"The infantry always gets the dirty end of the stick," said Wallis

morosely.

 

* * * * *

 

Somewhere, something blew up with a violent explosion. The noise of

battle in the distance became heavier and heavier.

 

"Goin' it strong," said the prisoner, listening.

 

"Yeh," said Coffee. He looked at his wrist-watch. "Say, that twenty

minutes is up. You go down in there first, big boy."

 

They stood beside the little pill-box. The prisoner's knees shook.

 

"Say, fellers," he said pleadingly, "they told us that stuff would

scatter in twenty minutes, but you busted my mask. Yours ain't any good

against this gas. I'll have to go down in there if you fellers make me,

but--"

 

Coffee lighted another of the prisoner's tailor-made cigarettes.

 

"Give you five minutes more," he said graciously. "I don't suppose it'll

ruin the war."

 

They sat down relievedly again, while the fog-gas made all the earth

invisible behind a pall of grayness, a grayness from which the noises of

battle came.

 

In the tank that was headquarters, the air of strain was pronounced. The

maneuver-board showed the situation as close to desperation, now. The

reserve-tank positions had been switched on the board, dim orange glows,

massed in curiously precise blocks. And little squares of green showed

there that the supply and machine-shop tanks were massed. They were

moving slowly across the maneuver-board. But the principal change lay in

the front-line indications.

 

The red glows that showed where tank battles were in progress formed an

irregularly curved line, now. There were twenty or more such isolated

battles in progress, varying from single combats between single tanks to

greater conflicts where twenty to thirty tanks to a side were engaged.

And the positions of those conflicts were changing constantly, and

invariably the American tanks were being pushed back.

 

* * * * *

 

The two staff officers behind the general were nearly silent. There were

few sparks crawling within the American lines now. Nearly every one had

been diverted into the front-line battles. The two men watched the board

with feverish intensity, watching the red glows moving back, and

back....

 

The chief of staff was shaking like a leaf, watching the American line

stretched, and stretched....

 

The general looked at him with a twisted smile.

 

"I know my opponent," he said suddenly. "I had lunch with him once in

Vienna. We were attending a disarmament conference." He seemed to be

amused at the ironic statement. "We talked war and battles, of course.

And he showed me, drawing on the tablecloth, the tactical scheme that

should have been used at Cambrai, back in 1917. It was a singularly

perfect plan. It was a beautiful one."

 

"General," burst out one of the two staff officers behind him. "I need

twenty tanks from the reserves."

 

"Take them," said the general. He went on, addressing his chief of

staff. "It was an utterly flawless plan. I talked to other men. We were

all pretty busy estimating each other there, we soldiers. We discussed

each other with some freedom, I may say. And I formed the opinion that

the man who is in command of the enemy is an artist: a soldier with the

spirit of an amateur. He's a very skilful fencer, by the way. Doesn't

that suggest anything?"

 

The chief of staff had his eyes glued to the board.

 

"That is a feint, sir. A strong feint, yes, but he has his force

concentrated in the dead area."

 

"You are not listening, sir," said the general, reprovingly. "I am

saying that my opponent is an artist, an amateur, the sort of person who

delights in the delicate work of fencing. I, sir, would thank God for

the chance to defeat my enemy. He has twice my force, but he will not

be content merely to defeat me. He will want to defeat me by a plan of

consummate artistry, which will arouse admiration among soldiers for

years to come."

 

"But General, every minute, every second--"

 

"We are losing men, of whom we have plenty, and tanks, of which we have

not enough. True, very true," conceded the general. "But I am waiting to

hear from two strayed infantrymen. When they report, I will speak to

them myself."

 

"But, sir," cried the chief of staff, withheld only by the iron habit of

discipline from violent action and the taking over of command himself,

"they may be dead! You can't risk this battle waiting for them! You

can't risk it, sir! You can't!"

 

"They are not dead," said the general coolly. "They cannot be dead.

Sometimes, sir, we must obey the motto on our coins. Our country needs

this battle to be won. We have got to win it, sir! And the only way to

win it--"

 

* * * * *

 

The signal-light at his telephone glowed. The general snatched it up,

his hands quivering. But his voice, was steady and deliberate as he

spoke.

 

"Hello, Sergeant--Sergeant Coffee, is it?... Very well, Sergeant. Tell

me what you've found out.... Your prisoner objects to his rations, eh?

Very well, go on.... How did he gas our listening-posts?... He did, eh?

He got turned around and you caught him wandering about?... Oh, he was

second wave! They weren't taking any chances on any of our

listening-posts reporting their tanks, eh?... Say that again, Sergeant

Coffee!" The general's tone had changed indescribably. "Your prisoner

has no recognition signals for his own tanks? They told him he wouldn't

see any of them until the battle was over?... Thank you, Sergeant. One

of our tanks will stop for you. This is the commanding general

speaking."

 

He rang off, his eyes blazing. Relaxation was gone. He was a dynamo,

snapping orders.

 

"Supply tanks, machine-shop tanks, ground forces of the air service,

concentrate here!" His finger rested on a spot in the middle of the dead

area. "Reserve tanks take position behind them. Draw off every tank

we've got--take 'em out of action!--and mass them in front, on a line

with our former first line of outposts. Every airplane and helicopter

take the air and engage in general combat with the enemy, wherever the

enemy may be found and in whatever force. And our tanks move straight

through here!"

 

Orders were snapping into telephone transmitters. The commands had been

relayed before their import was fully realized. Then there was a gasp.

 

"General!" cried the chief of staff. "If the enemy is massed there,

he'll destroy our forces in detail as they take position!"

 

"He isn't massed there," said the general, his eyes blazing. "The

infantrymen who were gassing our listening-posts were given no

recognition signals for their tanks. Sergeant Coffee's prisoner has his

gas-mask broken and is in deadly fear. The enemy commander is foolish in

many ways, perhaps, but not foolish enough to break down morale by

refusing recognition signals to his own men who will need them. And look

at the beautiful plan he's got."

 

* * * * *

 

He sketched half a dozen lines with his fingers, moving them in

lightning gestures as his orders took effect.

 

"His main force is here, behind those skirmishes that look like a feint.

As fast as we reinforce our skirmishing-line, he reinforces his--just

enough to drive our tanks back slowly. It looks like a strong feint, but

it's a trap! This dead space is empty. He thinks we are concentrating to

face it. When he is sure of it--his helicopters will sweep across any

minute, now, to see--he'll throw his whole force on our front line.

It'll crumple up. His whole fighting force will smash through to take

us, facing the dead space, in the rear! With twice our numbers, he'll

drive us before him."

 

"But general! You're ordering a concentration there! You're falling in

with his plans!"

 

The general laughed.

 

"I had lunch with the general in command over there, once upon a time.

He is an artist. He won't be content with a defeat like that! He'll want

to make his battle a masterpiece, a work of art! There's just one touch

he can add. He has to have reserves to protect his supply-tanks and

machine-shops. They're fixed. The ideal touch, the perfect tactical

fillip, will be--Here! Look. He expects to smash in our rear, here. The

heaviest blow will fall here. He will swing around our right wing, drive

us out of the dead area into his own lines--and drive us on his

reserves! Do you see it? He'll use every tank he's got in one beautiful

final blow. We'll be outwitted, out-numbered, out-flanked and finally

caught between his main body and his reserves and pounded to bits. It is

a perfect, a masterly bit of work!"

 

He watched the board, hawklike.

 

"We'll concentrate, but our machine-shops and supplies will concentrate

with us. Before he has time to take us in rear we'll drive ahead, in

just the line he plans for us! We don't wait to be driven into his

reserves. We roll into them and over them! We smash his supplies! We

destroy his shops! And then we can advance along his line of

communication and destroy it, our own depots being blown up--give the

orders when necessary--and leaving him stranded with motor-driven tanks,

motorized artillery, and nothing to run his motors with! He'll be

marooned beyond help in the middle of our country, and we will have him

at our mercy when his tanks run out of fuel. As a matter of fact, I

shall expect him to surrender in three days."

 

* * * * *

 

The little blocks of green and yellow that had showed the position of

the reserve and supply-tanks, changed abruptly to white, and began to

crawl across the maneuver-board. Other little white sparks turned about.

Every white spark upon the maneuver-board suddenly took to itself a new

direction.

 

"Disconnect cables," said the general, crisply. "We move with our tanks,

in the lead!"

 

The monotonous humming of the electric generator was drowned out in a

thunderous uproar that was muffled as an air-tight door was shut

abruptly. Fifteen seconds later there was a violent lurch, and the

colossal tank was on the move in the midst of a crawling, thundering

horde of metal monsters whose lumbering progress shook the earth.

 

Sergeant Coffee, still blinking his amazement, absent-mindedly lighted

the last of his share of the cigarettes looted from the prisoner.

 

"The big guy himself!" he said, still stunned. "My Gawd! The big guy

himself!"

 

A distant thunder began, a deep-toned rumbling that seemed to come from

the rear. It came nearer and grew louder. A peculiar quivering seemed to

set up in the earth. The noise was tanks moving through the fog, not one

tank or two tanks, or twenty tanks, but all the tanks in creation

rumbling and lurching at their topmost speed in serried array.

 

Corporal Wallis heard, and turned pale. The prisoner heard, and his

knees caved in.

 

"Hell," said Corporal Wallis dispairingly. "They can't see us, an' they

couldn't dodge us if they did!"

 

The prisoner wailed, and slumped to the floor.

 

Coffee picked him up by the collar and jerked him out of the pill-box.

 

"C'mon Pete," he ordered briefly. "They ain't givin' us a infantryman's

chance, but maybe we can do some dodgin'!"

 

* * * * *

 

Then the roar of engines, of metal treads crushing upon earth and

clinking upon their joints, drowned out all possible other sounds.

Before the three men beside the pill-box could have moved a muscle,

monster shapes loomed up, rushing, rolling, lurching, squeaking. They

thundered past, and the hot fumes of their exhausts enveloped the trio.

 

Coffee growled and put himself in a position of defiance, his feet

braced against the concrete of the pill-box dome. His __EXPRESSION__ was

snarling and angry but, surreptitiously, he crossed himself. He heard

the fellows of the two tanks that had roared by him, thundering along in

alignment to right and left. A twenty-yard space, and a second row of

the monsters came hurtling on, gun muzzles gaping, gas-tubes elevated,

spitting smoke from their exhausts that was even thicker than the fog. A

third row, a fourth, a fifth....

 

The universe was a monster uproar. One could not think in this volume of

sound. It seemed that there was fighting overhead. Crackling noises came

feebly through the reverberating uproar that was the army of the United

States in full charge. Something came whirling down through the

overhanging mist and exploded in a lurid flare that for a second or two

cast the grotesque shadows of a row of tanks clearly before the trio of

shaken infantrymen.

 

Still the tanks came on and roared past. Twenty tanks, twenty-one ...

twenty-two.... Coffee lost count, dazed and almost stunned by the sheer

noise. It rose from the earth and seemed to be echoed back from the

topmost limit of the skies. It was a colossal din, an incredible uproar,

a sustained thunder that beat at the eardrums like the reiterated

concussions of a thousand guns that fired without ceasing. There was no

intermission, no cessation of the tumult. Row after row after row of the

monsters roared by, beaked and armed, going greedily with hungry guns

into battle.

 

* * * * *

 

And then, for a space of seconds, no tanks passed. Through the

pandemonium of their going, however, the sound of firing somehow seemed

to creep. It was gunfire of incredible intensity, and it came from the

direction in which the front-rank tanks were heading.

 

"Forty-eight, forty-nine, forty-ten, forty-'leven," muttered Coffee

dazedly, his senses beaten down almost to unconsciousness by the ordeal

of sound. "Gawd! The whole army went by!"

 

The roaring of the fighting-tanks was less, but it was still a monstrous

din. Through it, however, came now a series of concussions that were so

close together that they were inseparable, and so violent that they were

like slaps upon the chest.

 

Then came other noises, louder only because nearer. These were different

noises, too, from those the fighting-tanks had made. Lighter noises. The

curious, misshapen service tanks began to rush by, of all sizes and all

shapes. Fuel-carrier tanks. Machine-shop tanks, huge ones, these.

Commissary tanks....

 

Something enormous and glistening stopped short. A door opened. A voice

roared an order. The three men, beaten and whipped by noise, stared

dumbly.

 

"Sergeant Coffee!" roared the voice. "Bring your men! Quick!"

 

Coffee dragged himself back to a semblance of life. Corporal Wallis

moved forward, sagging. The two of them loaded their prisoner into the

door and tumbled in. They were instantly sent into a heap as the tank

took up its progress again with a sudden sharp leap.

 

"Good man," grinned a sooty-faced officer, clinging to a handhold. "The

general sent special orders you were to be picked up. Said you'd won the

battle. It isn't finished yet, but when the general says that--"

 

"Battle?" said Coffee dully. "This ain't my battle. It's a parade of a

lot of damn tanks!"

 

There was a howl of joy from somewhere above. Discipline in the

machine-shop tanks was strict enough, but vastly different in kind from

the formality of the fighting-machines.

 

"Contact!" roared the voice again. "General wireless is going again! Our

fellows have rolled over their reserves and are smashing their

machine-shops and supplies!"

 

Yells reverberated deafeningly inside the steel walls, already filled

with tumult from the running motors and rumbling treads.

 

"Smashed 'em up!" shrieked the voice above, insane with joy. "Smashed

'em! Smashed 'em! Smashed 'em! We've wiped out their whole reserve

and--" A series of detonations came through even the steel shell of the

lurching tank. Detonations so violent, so monstrous, that even through

the springs and treads of the tank the earth-concussion could be felt.

"There goes their ammunition! We set off all their dumps!"

 

There was sheer pandemonium inside the service-tank, speeding behind the

fighting force with only a thin skin of reserve-tanks between it and a

panic-stricken, mechanically pursuing enemy.

 

"Yell, you birds!" screamed the voice. "The general says we've won the

battle! Thanks to the fighting force! We're to go on and wipe out the

enemy line of communications, letting him chase us till his gas gives

out! Then we come back and pound him to bits! Our tanks have wiped him out!"