the Ami attack much more easily. We need more beef. But that problem will be taken care of later. As soon as this barrage lifts, I want you to get back to your men immediately.'
`You mean they'll come back, sir?' von Dodenburg asked.
`Of course,' the Vulture said easily and slapped his cane against the side of his riding boot. 'Believe you me, gentlemen, we haven't seen the last of our black friends from the land of the boundless possibilities this night ...’
` Hello , Sunray ... This is Moonbeam ... Hello , Sunray , this is Moonbeam , are you receiving me ?'
The radio operator, crouched in the cover of the snowbank at the bottom of the mountain called over and over again, while the officers of the 93rd came and went, reporting the terrible losses the Regiment had suffered.
`First company, Second Battalion - twenty killed, fifty wounded, thirty missing ... First Battalion, sir, three officers and six non-coms unwounded ...’
Black Jack Jones slumped behind the operator, the blood pouring down from the gash on his forehead, received the news of the terrible casualties blankly, as if they had happened to someone else's regiment and not to his own beloved 93rd. In the shelter of a poncho, the regimental surgeon was sawing off the leg of an eighteen-year-old runner. He could hear the harsh grate of the bone-saw on the boy's leg bone and his rapid, shallow breathing.
`Hello Moonbeam,' a voice broke through the static suddenly. 'Hello Moonbeam ... Here Sunray.'
Black Jack Jones shook himself out of his lethargy. He grabbed the mike from the operator's frozen hand.
`Hello Sunray, here Moonbeam. Are you receiving me?'
`Sure, I'm receiving you,' a well-remembered, satisfied Southern voice answered. 'Your boys sure did get their black asses whupped, colonel, didn't they!' The staff colonel's voice, distorted as it was by the static, was unmistakably gleeful. 'I told you they would. Yer can't make fighting men out of that kind of material.'
Black Jack Jones exploded with rage.
`Get off the radio, damn you!' he cried, forgetting radio procedure completely. 'I want to speak to the Corps Commander!'
`Who the hell do you think you're talking to, Colonel!' the fat staff officer cried.
`I know who I'm talking to - a mean bastard of a bigot whom I'm personally gonna pistol-whip when I come to Corps HQ. Now get your ass off this radio - quick!'
The staff colonel blustered but he fetched Keyes to the radio. Underneath the poncho the surgeon had finished with the boy. A blood-stained orderly deposited the severed limb in the snow, and as the boy was carried out, another soldier with most of his lower jaw shot away, was led in.
`Listen, General,' Black Jack snapped, 'I need all the artillery support you can give in thirty minutes. I want that goddam peak slapped with everything you've got.'
`You're going in again, Moonbeam?'
`Yes,' Black Jack said.
`What are your casualties like?'
`Bad, hellishly bad, sir. My First Battalion has had it. The Second is still capable of combat. The Third is in good shape. I'm jumping off with the Third.'
Black Jack could almost hear Keyes thinking.
`You were at the Point, weren't you, Jones? You're a regular?’
‘Y essir.'
`Don't you know that you're in a bad enough hole now as it is. The 93rd is a publicity exercise in the final analysis. If you can get them out without any more casualties, you'll save your career. But if you go in again and get plastered again, you've had it.'
Keyes' harsh, monotonous voice became gentler. The old cavalryman had a soft spot in his heart for determined young officers, especially if they were from West Point as he was and three generations of Keyes before him.
`It'd be kinda foolish to ruin your career, Jack, for a bunch of – well, you know what I mean?'
`I appreciate your concern, sir. But my 93rd is going to take that damned peak or - ' Jones hesitated a moment – 'or I shan't be coming back, sir.'
`All right, Colonel, be it on your own head. I'll
`You mean they'll come back, sir?' von Dodenburg asked.
`Of course,' the Vulture said easily and slapped his cane against the side of his riding boot. 'Believe you me, gentlemen, we haven't seen the last of our black friends from the land of the boundless possibilities this night ...’
` Hello , Sunray ... This is Moonbeam ... Hello , Sunray , this is Moonbeam , are you receiving me ?'
The radio operator, crouched in the cover of the snowbank at the bottom of the mountain called over and over again, while the officers of the 93rd came and went, reporting the terrible losses the Regiment had suffered.
`First company, Second Battalion - twenty killed, fifty wounded, thirty missing ... First Battalion, sir, three officers and six non-coms unwounded ...’
Black Jack Jones slumped behind the operator, the blood pouring down from the gash on his forehead, received the news of the terrible casualties blankly, as if they had happened to someone else's regiment and not to his own beloved 93rd. In the shelter of a poncho, the regimental surgeon was sawing off the leg of an eighteen-year-old runner. He could hear the harsh grate of the bone-saw on the boy's leg bone and his rapid, shallow breathing.
`Hello Moonbeam,' a voice broke through the static suddenly. 'Hello Moonbeam ... Here Sunray.'
Black Jack Jones shook himself out of his lethargy. He grabbed the mike from the operator's frozen hand.
`Hello Sunray, here Moonbeam. Are you receiving me?'
`Sure, I'm receiving you,' a well-remembered, satisfied Southern voice answered. 'Your boys sure did get their black asses whupped, colonel, didn't they!' The staff colonel's voice, distorted as it was by the static, was unmistakably gleeful. 'I told you they would. Yer can't make fighting men out of that kind of material.'
Black Jack Jones exploded with rage.
`Get off the radio, damn you!' he cried, forgetting radio procedure completely. 'I want to speak to the Corps Commander!'
`Who the hell do you think you're talking to, Colonel!' the fat staff officer cried.
`I know who I'm talking to - a mean bastard of a bigot whom I'm personally gonna pistol-whip when I come to Corps HQ. Now get your ass off this radio - quick!'
The staff colonel blustered but he fetched Keyes to the radio. Underneath the poncho the surgeon had finished with the boy. A blood-stained orderly deposited the severed limb in the snow, and as the boy was carried out, another soldier with most of his lower jaw shot away, was led in.
`Listen, General,' Black Jack snapped, 'I need all the artillery support you can give in thirty minutes. I want that goddam peak slapped with everything you've got.'
`You're going in again, Moonbeam?'
`Yes,' Black Jack said.
`What are your casualties like?'
`Bad, hellishly bad, sir. My First Battalion has had it. The Second is still capable of combat. The Third is in good shape. I'm jumping off with the Third.'
Black Jack could almost hear Keyes thinking.
`You were at the Point, weren't you, Jones? You're a regular?’
‘Y essir.'
`Don't you know that you're in a bad enough hole now as it is. The 93rd is a publicity exercise in the final analysis. If you can get them out without any more casualties, you'll save your career. But if you go in again and get plastered again, you've had it.'
Keyes' harsh, monotonous voice became gentler. The old cavalryman had a soft spot in his heart for determined young officers, especially if they were from West Point as he was and three generations of Keyes before him.
`It'd be kinda foolish to ruin your career, Jack, for a bunch of – well, you know what I mean?'
`I appreciate your concern, sir. But my 93rd is going to take that damned peak or - ' Jones hesitated a moment – 'or I shan't be coming back, sir.'
`All right, Colonel, be it on your own head. I'll
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