By the Blood of Heroes (14 page)
“Say something to me in German,” Burke told him, and Strauss didn’t hesitate, just rattled off a long phrase in German.
Burke glanced at Charlie, who just shrugged. Neither of them spoke a lick of German, though it sounded good to Burke.
“Where were you stationed before this?” he asked Strauss.
The private looked uncomfortable as he said, “Sorry, sir, that’s classified. I’ve been asked to refer all such requests to Colonel Nichols, sir.”
Burke frowned, pretending to be annoyed at the response but actually just wanting to see how Strauss dealt with the situation.
“I’m your new commanding officer, Strauss. Surely you can tell me where you were stationed?”
Strauss shook his head. “No disrespect, sir, but I’ve been told to refer . . .”
“ . . . all such requests to Colonel Nichols,” Burke finished for him. “All right, that’s enough. Get out of here and get your gear assembled.”
“Yes, sir.” Strauss jumped to his feet, moved to salute, then thought better of it and just hustled out the door in the wake of his new squad mates.
CHÂTEAUROUX
G
iven the three-hundred-pound restriction that Colonel Nichols imposed on each member of the team, the issue of resupply became more complex, and it took them considerably longer to get all their gear sorted and packed away.
In addition to their bedroll and a change of clothing, each man’s field kit contained a mess kit with utensils and a condiment can, a personal kit with razor, comb, toothbrush, shaving brush and soap, and a first aid pouch with a couple of ready-to-use dressings and bandages. Inside the mess kit were four tins of corned beef, a supply of hardtack, and a little sugar and salt. The various pieces of the field kit were carried in a haversack.
The term haversack was a bit of a misnomer; the pack wasn’t a sack at all, but rather two large pieces of leather strapped to a frame on which all the soldier’s gear was laid. The two flaps were then folded up and secured around the gear.
The enlisted men, with the exception of Sergeant Moore, were armed with Lee Enfield rifles, the standard bolt-action magazine-fed repeating rifle that had first been adopted by the British back in 1888 and then later, along with the 1903 Springfield, became the standard weapon of the American doughboy. The Enfield fired a .303-caliber cartridge, and a well-trained marksman could get off anywhere between twenty and thirty rounds in sixty seconds, making it an extremely efficient weapon.
A cartridge belt at the waist carried twelve clips of five rounds each for the rifles. From a hook on either hip hung a canteen full of water, the canteen itself wrapped in cloth to quiet the sloshing of the liquid inside as the men moved. Each soldier also had a box respirator and gas mask, a trenching tool, and a sixteen-inch bayonet strapped to the outside of his pack.
Captain Burke and Staff Sergeant Moore were given the option of carrying one of the newly released Thompson submachine guns, and both of them jumped at the opportunity. The Tommy gun, or trench sweeper as it was also known, had, for the first time, provided the Allies with a portable machine gun that was as deadly as it was useful. The stocky weapon was fitted with a drum magazine that delivered its fifty-round capacity at a rate of six hundred rounds per minute and could be switched out in seconds by a trained operator.
In addition to the Tommy gun, they also carried a Colt .45-caliber 1911 firearm in a holster on their hips. A double-pocket magazine pouch containing two full magazines for the pistol were attached to their cartridge belts. They also carried two British Mills bombs, or hand grenades, that could be set to a timed delay of four to seven seconds before throwing.
Additional equipment—tents and pegs, coils of rope, candles, maps, compasses, matches, additional clips of ammunition—had to be divvied up so that they could meet Nichols’s weight restriction.
The process raised the issue of what was behind the restriction and several of the men asked Burke about it, but he didn’t know any more than they did. All he’d been told was that they were going to be taken by truck to Châteauroux. Once there, someone would see to it that they were informed about the next leg of the journey.
Burke didn’t like it, didn’t like it one bit, but there was very little he could do about it. Nichols had already made it clear that security was paramount and Burke wasn’t getting anywhere pushing for more information.
That didn’t mean he couldn’t use the brain he’d been blessed with, however, and try to work it out for himself. Châteauroux was nearly 150 miles to the east of their current position, in the exact opposite direction they needed to travel in order to reach the POW camp where they believed Freeman was being held. If they were going that far out of their way, there had to be a good reason for it.
Perhaps they’d developed some new sort of transportation system,
he thought,
something to carry them beyond the front and deep into occupied territory, like the burrowing machines that Fritz had used to infiltrate the trenches a few days before. Or perhaps the rumors he’d been hearing for the last few months about a platoon of armored walkers being developed for frontline combat were actually true and they’d been drafted to test the twenty-five-foot behemoths through their raid on the POW camp.
While he was still pondering the issue, he heard a truck pull up outside and moments later Nichols’s aide-de-camp, Corporal Davis, entered the shed and indicated that they were to begin loading their gear.
As the men were getting themselves and their gear settled into the back of the truck, Davis indicated that Burke was expected in the tent next door.
Leaving Sergeant Moore to handle the details, Burke slipped through the opening in the drab-colored canvas and found Colonel Nichols and Professor Graves waiting for him, a long table covered with odd-looking gear between them.
“Quickly, Captain,” Nichols said, gesturing for him to come forward. “Professor Graves has some special gear for you, and we still need to get it packed up and loaded in time for departure.”
As Burke hustled over, Graves turned to the table, picked up the first gadget, and handed it to Burke. It was a revolver, much like the Colt 1917, except the barrel was slightly longer, a lot wider, and was accompanied by an oversized cylinder that made it look slightly comical. He noted that there were eight openings in the cylinder, rather than the usual six.
“This is the Colt Firestarter,” Graves said, “and it fires these . . .”
He handed Burke a two-inch-long cartridge that was as wide around as his thumb. “The bullet inside the cartridge has been coated with a special enzyme that has been designed to interact with a shambler’s blood. One shot should be all it takes to put one of the things down for good.”
There was a holster and an ammo belt with eight full cartridge loops to go with it, giving him a total of sixteen shots with the new weapon. “This all the ammo you got?” he asked, as he buckled the belt around his waist.
“Unfortunately, yes. The components that make up the enzyme are extremely rare, and we haven’t yet found a practical way of making them in large quantities.”
Which was too damn bad,
Burke thought.
Putting a gun like this into the hands of every Tom, Dick, and Harry on the front lines could change the course of the war.
Provided it worked.
Graves moved to a pile of half a dozen objects that looked like German stick grenades; each had a long handle with a fat tube on the far end. He handed one to Burke, who discovered it was a bit heavier than usual, which would make it harder to throw.
Graves caught his grimace. “I know; we’ve done everything we can to shave off some of that weight, but that’s the best we’re going to be able to do at this point. What you’re holding is a magnetism grenade. Six-second countdown; you arm it by twisting the top.” He mimed turning the fat end of the grenade, where Burke would normally expect the explosives to go.
“Magnetism grenade?” Burke wasn’t sure he understood the point. He wanted his explosives to explode, and it sounded like this one might not do that.
He was right. “The device sends out concentric waves of magnetism that impart a positive charge to anything within an eight-foot radius from the blast point. Metal objects, especially anything with high levels of iron in it, will be seized and held in place for the duration of the effect,” Graves told him.
“How long does it last?”
“About ten minutes.”
Not bad. Not bad at all.
Graves wasn’t finished yet. He moved over to where a wide-mouthed metal tube rested next to a plate about a foot square. The plate was made from something that looked like a combination of steel and ceramics, and Burke found it to be lighter than expected.
“Looks like a mortar tube,” Burke said, and Graves nodded eagerly.
“It is. I’m calling it a pulse mortar,” he said with a smile. “It is based on the same principles that created the suitcase device you used previously, but it is much more useful than the earlier device. Dropping the round into the tube triggers the firing pin, which charges the shell and sends it on its way. When the shell strikes the ground, it releases the energy contained in the warhead, sending tendrils of electricity arcing outward from it with enough power to knock a man unconscious. We can give you as many mortar rounds as you can carry.”
Burke’s gaze was drawn to the last piece of equipment on the table, a leather cuirass covered with narrow metal tubes that ran over the shoulders to a boxy collection of gears and wires that came together in a juncture box at the small of the back. Two wire-covered sleeves made from rubber and steel rested on the table beside the remainder of the “suit.”
He looked at Graves with a raised brow. “Dare I even ask?” he said.
“Hercules vest” was the prompt reply. “Runs on a combination of steam and electrical power. Will effectively double a man’s physical strength for a short period of time.”
“How short?” Burke wanted to know.
Now it was Graves’s turn to wince. “We’re still having some issues with the cooling mechanism. As a result, the feeding tubes have a tendency to overheat. Any usage longer than ten minutes runs the risk of bursting the tubes and scalding the wearer with superheated steam.”
Burk took a step back, as if the device had a mind of its own and might suddenly turn itself on, but he was smiling when he turned to Graves and said, “We’ll take them. Give the mortar tube to Jones, the rockets to Compton, and the Hercules vest to Sergeant Moore. We can distribute the grenades among the team.”
As Graves disappeared outside to round up some help with packing up the gear, Nichols appeared at Burke’s elbow.
“A final word, if you please, Captain?”
“Of course, sir.”
Nichols led him into the shadow of a four-ton lorry a few yards away, then wasted a few minutes fussing with a cigar, getting it lit properly. Burke recognized Nichols’s actions for what they were, a delay tactic, perhaps even some distaste over whatever was to come, and so Burke waited him out, having learned plenty of patience while dealing with his so-called superior officers over the years. At last, Nichols got around to the reason for pulling him aside.
“I wanted to stress again the importance of your mission, Captain. The president has been very clear; in no way can Major Freeman remain in the hands of the Boche.”
“I understand, sir,” Burke replied. “We’ll get him out and bring him home.”
Nichols shook his head. “You’re good, Burke, I’ll give you that. A damn sight better than some of the yahoos I’ve dealt with over the last year, to be sure, and the men under your command are all solid, reliable soldiers, but both you and I know the chances of actually getting Freeman back across the front are slim at best.”
Burke stared at him in confusion.
What the fuck kind of pep talk was this?
“I’m not sure I follow you, Colonel.”
The colonel sighed. “No, no, I don’t expect you do.”
He looked away into the darkness, and for a moment Burke saw a fleeting expression cross the man’s face. Frustration? Pain, maybe? He didn’t know; it was there and gone again so quickly that Burke wasn’t even sure he’d seen it at all. When Nichols turned back toward him, his face was set back into the same stone canvas it had been moments before.
He withdrew a piece of paper from his pocket, unfolded it, and read it aloud to Burke.
“If, after arriving at the prisoner of war camp and making contact with Major Freeman,” Nichols began, his voice as flat as the Kansas prairie, “you determine at any time that it is unfeasible to escort him to the safety of the Allied lines, you are ordered to use any and all means necessary to see to it that his physical form does not remain in the hands of the enemy.”
He handed the paper to Burke, who looked down at it in confusion, his mind still trying to process what he’d just heard. It was a telegram, addressed directly to him, and it was signed by none other than Nathaniel Harper, President of the United States.
You’ve just been ordered to kill your own brother and destroy his corpse!
By none other than the president!
It pissed him off. Years ago it would have been inconceivable that such an order would have even been considered, never mind given, but this crazy war had been going on so long that all the old rules had fallen by the wayside. Burke knew that the conflict was no longer about political ideologies or territorial expansion, no longer a question of “might makes right,” but rather had become a fight for survival with the fate of the human race hanging in the balance.
Anything that weakened the ability of the Allied powers to stand in the face of the threat had to be eliminated. He knew that, but the order still stuck in his craw, and for a moment he considered telling them to go fuck themselves. It was an illegal order. He knew that, knew it as well as he knew his own name, but the coldly logical side of his personality also recognized it as a necessary order, one that was ultimately designed to protect the hard-won gains bought with the lives of thousands over the last several months. What was one man’s life against the continued existence of an entire country, an entire way of life?