There was plenty of daylight left. If the Moondaggers were daylight fighters, it was all the better. His men would worry more about inflicting damage on the enemy and less about what might be lurking in the woods.
He topped another rise, puffing. No one was there to see him take a knee and dig around for a handkerchief to wipe off the summer sweat. His pits and crotch stuck and chaffed.
Legworm leather breathed well, but there were limits to any material.
The west-most column looked to have found the road they were looking for. It wasn't in good shape at all, a broken surface with fully grown trees erupting from parts of the pavement. Of course men trav-eling on foot without heavy weapons could easily find a path. It looked as though the deer had already made one.
He checked his bearings and picked a target on the next ridge north in the direction of headquarters.
Valentine ran down the opposite side of his ridge from the col-umn, firing first his machine pistol, then the deeper bark of the Type 3. Every now and then he broke up the sound with a longer burst.
The phantom firefight might just turn the Moondaggers aside from their path to investigate.
How well they could track and read shell casings was anyone's guess.
What counted at this point was delay.
* * * *
Valentine came to the Turky Neck bridge, approaching along the eastern bank, and found chaos.
The river ran beneath deep, sculpted banks-Valentine guessed they were a flood prevention measure. Bluffs to the south frowned down on the slight river bend.
The old metal-frame highway bridge had been dynamited, quite incompetently, resulting in no more than the loss of some road bed and a few piles of paving. Bloom had sensibly sent several companies across to secure the far bank. But light mortar shells were now falling at the rate of one a minute all around the bridge area, keeping crews from covering the damage with timber and iron.
Legworms might be able to get across, but not trucks, vehicles, and horse and mule drawn carts. The brigade could cross, even through this shell fire, but would leave the supply train behind.
Valentine did his best not to anticipate the shells as he found headquarters, placed in a defile about a quarter mile from the east bank.
"Well?" he asked the first lieutenant he saw, ready to give someone a few choice words.
Why wasn't anyone shooting back with the light artillery?
"Thank God you're here, sir. We've been under aimed artillery fire, sir. Cap-Colonel Bloom's wounded!"
"What's being done about those mortars?"
"They're trying to find a route north around the downed bridge. We're supposed to be set to move."
"On whose orders?"
"Not sure. You can countermand, sir."
"Why would I do that?"
"I think you're in command now, sir."
* * * *
If he was in command, he might as well take charge. Valentine walked over to the headquarters vehicle, a Hummer bristling with antennae like some kind of rust-streaked insect.
Valentine studied a notated ordinance map. Pins marked the positions of his various companies. His jack-of-all-trades former Quislings were up waiting to assist the engineers in repairing the bridge.
He checked the bluff where the Moondaggers-if they were Moondaggers, and not troops out of Lexington or God knew where else-had set up their pieces. It was about a mile and a half south of the bridge.
"Set up an observer post, or better, two, to call in fire on those enemy mortars, if they can be effective. I'm going to the hospital."
He issued orders for defense of the temporary camp. He directed their tiny supply of anti-armor gear to the road that would most likely see the armored cars, and gave orders for everyone to be ready to move as soon as the bridge team could go to work. As soon as Moytana arrived, he was to take charge of the rear guard.