The Great Martian War: The Gathering Storm - Snippet #9
Jan 27, 2020 17:44:13 GMT
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Post by scottwashburn on Jan 27, 2020 17:44:13 GMT
Chapter Five
Washington, DC, May, 1912
“Ah, Major Bridges, good to see you. You come highly recommended to us.”
Major George Tom Molesworth Bridges stood at attention before the desk of Colonel Lloyd Ellington, His Majesty’s Military Attaché to the United States. “Thank you, sir,” he replied. “Most kind of you to say so.”
“Not at all, not at all; stand easy, Major.” Ellington glanced down at a dossier on his desk and paged through it. “Let’s see… Newton Abbot College, Royal Military Academy at Woolwhich… Royal Artillery… saw action in South Africa against the Boers… Instructor at the Cavalry School, transfers to 4th Hussars… action in Afghanistan against the Martians… wounded. Lucky man, not many wounded against the Martians.”
“Yes, sir.” Bridges grimaced at the memory. Technically, he had not been wounded by the Martians, he’d broken his damn arm flinging himself into a ditch to avoid being killed by the Martians.
“Returns to England for convalescence…” continued Ellington. “Military attaché to the Low Countries and Scandinavia… requests transfer… comes to the United States… my predecessor attaches you to the American 1st Cavalry Division… and now you are here. I read your report, by the by. First rate stuff there.”
“Thank you, sir. The Americans are doing some interesting things with their cavalry and with using aircraft in conjunction. We can learn some things from them.”
“Yes, the War Secretary agrees. In fact, that’s why I’ve called for you. We want you to learn some more.”
Bridges stiffened. “I… had been promised some leave at home, sir.”
Ellington frowned. “Needs of the service come first, I shouldn’t have to tell you that.”
“Of course not, sir. Where am I going now?”
“South. Not exactly sure where. The Yanks have built some sort of gigantic war machines. Land ironclads they are calling them.”
“I think I saw something in a newspaper about them,” said Bridges.
“Yes, there was quite a to-do about them when the first six left Philadelphia last month, headed for the Mississippi. That seemed to wake up the people back home and now they want you join up with them. We’ve gotten permission from the Americans. Last word was they would be stopping in Charleston to refuel. Perhaps you can take a train and catch them there. If you miss them, try one of the Gulf ports. Shouldn’t be too hard to find the great things. Find ‘em, get aboard, look and learn. Clear?”
“Yes, sir. Uh, for how long?”
“Until you don’t think you can learn anything more, or until you are recalled.” He rummaged through some papers on his desk. “I’ll be expecting regular reports.”
“Yes, sir, I understand.”
“Good, that’s all, carry on.” Bridges saluted and took his leave.
The British legation in Washington was a rambling collection of buildings built on Connecticut Avenue in the 1870s in the Second Empire style. It had been perfectly adequate in those quiet times, but these days, with the whole world at war, it was far, far too small. There had been talk of constructing a new and larger compound, but with every construction firm on the continent tied up with essential military work, it had proved impossible.
So there were people working at desks in the hallways and tucked into corners and alcoves. Nearly every person, except for the ambassador himself, was forced to find living space outside of the legation, and with the situation being similar in most of the other legations, housing anywhere near Embassy Row could not be had for love or money. Bridges was staying in a rather run-down inn eight blocks away.
Washington was a pleasant enough city, but not in late May. The heat and humidity was already stifling. Bridges was no stranger to such conditions; it had been even worse in India, but he was still sweating beneath his uniform and was fairly soaked by the time he reached his room. He quickly changed out of the uniform into much more comfortable civilian clothes.
He opened up his luggage and spread his belonging out on the bed and looked them over. If he was going to be on the move again, he was going to have to pare things down a bit. He missed Eames, his old batman, but he’d been killed in the same fight where Bridges had broken his arm. Afterwards, he’d been on the observer missions and had not gotten another man to look after his kit. He’d shared a man with an American officer while he was with their cavalry. He wasn’t sure what opportunities for a servant this new assignment would provide.
By the time the landlady rang the dinner bell, he had compressed his possessions down to a couple of valises which he could carry himself. The rest he’d package up and the embassy could ship them home. He went downstairs to join the other guests in the dining room. Many of them were from embassies in the city and the polyglot uproar made him think of Babel. The woman, a formidable matron named Mertz, took it all in stride while she and several serving girls set out the meal.
When they were all seated, Mrs. Mertz apologized for the quality of the food, complaining about the shortages and high prices due to the war. Bridges felt there was no reason to apologize. Food rationing had been in effect in England for several years now, with the main suppliers in America and Canada no longer able to meet their own needs, let alone export anything. The Martians had invaded in spots well away from the big cities and that meant an awful lot of agricultural land was now occupied by the invaders. England was squeezing by somehow, but in many places, packed with refugees, there was serious want and sometimes outright famine. In that light Washington wasn’t doing badly at all.
After the meal he sought out the landlady. “Mrs. Mertz, would you happen to have a train schedule about?”
“Why certainly, Major,” she replied. “With all the people coming and going I always make sure I have an up to date one on hand.” She went over to the mantelpiece and pulled out a folded paper from behind the clock. “Here it is. Oh, I hope you aren’t leaving already?”
“I’m afraid so. A day or two and I’ll be on my way.”
“Back to England?”
“No, south. Charleston.”
“Oh, I hear that‘s a lovely city. But whatever will you be doing there?
“Just a rendezvous. I expect I’ll be heading out west, to the Mississippi Line. Tennessee, maybe.”
“I hear there’s fighting out there!”
“Well, there is no fighting in Tennessee, the last I heard, but close by.”
“Oh, do be careful!”
“I intend to be, madam, I intend to be.”
* * * * *
Washington, DC, May, 1912
“Ah, Major Bridges, good to see you. You come highly recommended to us.”
Major George Tom Molesworth Bridges stood at attention before the desk of Colonel Lloyd Ellington, His Majesty’s Military Attaché to the United States. “Thank you, sir,” he replied. “Most kind of you to say so.”
“Not at all, not at all; stand easy, Major.” Ellington glanced down at a dossier on his desk and paged through it. “Let’s see… Newton Abbot College, Royal Military Academy at Woolwhich… Royal Artillery… saw action in South Africa against the Boers… Instructor at the Cavalry School, transfers to 4th Hussars… action in Afghanistan against the Martians… wounded. Lucky man, not many wounded against the Martians.”
“Yes, sir.” Bridges grimaced at the memory. Technically, he had not been wounded by the Martians, he’d broken his damn arm flinging himself into a ditch to avoid being killed by the Martians.
“Returns to England for convalescence…” continued Ellington. “Military attaché to the Low Countries and Scandinavia… requests transfer… comes to the United States… my predecessor attaches you to the American 1st Cavalry Division… and now you are here. I read your report, by the by. First rate stuff there.”
“Thank you, sir. The Americans are doing some interesting things with their cavalry and with using aircraft in conjunction. We can learn some things from them.”
“Yes, the War Secretary agrees. In fact, that’s why I’ve called for you. We want you to learn some more.”
Bridges stiffened. “I… had been promised some leave at home, sir.”
Ellington frowned. “Needs of the service come first, I shouldn’t have to tell you that.”
“Of course not, sir. Where am I going now?”
“South. Not exactly sure where. The Yanks have built some sort of gigantic war machines. Land ironclads they are calling them.”
“I think I saw something in a newspaper about them,” said Bridges.
“Yes, there was quite a to-do about them when the first six left Philadelphia last month, headed for the Mississippi. That seemed to wake up the people back home and now they want you join up with them. We’ve gotten permission from the Americans. Last word was they would be stopping in Charleston to refuel. Perhaps you can take a train and catch them there. If you miss them, try one of the Gulf ports. Shouldn’t be too hard to find the great things. Find ‘em, get aboard, look and learn. Clear?”
“Yes, sir. Uh, for how long?”
“Until you don’t think you can learn anything more, or until you are recalled.” He rummaged through some papers on his desk. “I’ll be expecting regular reports.”
“Yes, sir, I understand.”
“Good, that’s all, carry on.” Bridges saluted and took his leave.
The British legation in Washington was a rambling collection of buildings built on Connecticut Avenue in the 1870s in the Second Empire style. It had been perfectly adequate in those quiet times, but these days, with the whole world at war, it was far, far too small. There had been talk of constructing a new and larger compound, but with every construction firm on the continent tied up with essential military work, it had proved impossible.
So there were people working at desks in the hallways and tucked into corners and alcoves. Nearly every person, except for the ambassador himself, was forced to find living space outside of the legation, and with the situation being similar in most of the other legations, housing anywhere near Embassy Row could not be had for love or money. Bridges was staying in a rather run-down inn eight blocks away.
Washington was a pleasant enough city, but not in late May. The heat and humidity was already stifling. Bridges was no stranger to such conditions; it had been even worse in India, but he was still sweating beneath his uniform and was fairly soaked by the time he reached his room. He quickly changed out of the uniform into much more comfortable civilian clothes.
He opened up his luggage and spread his belonging out on the bed and looked them over. If he was going to be on the move again, he was going to have to pare things down a bit. He missed Eames, his old batman, but he’d been killed in the same fight where Bridges had broken his arm. Afterwards, he’d been on the observer missions and had not gotten another man to look after his kit. He’d shared a man with an American officer while he was with their cavalry. He wasn’t sure what opportunities for a servant this new assignment would provide.
By the time the landlady rang the dinner bell, he had compressed his possessions down to a couple of valises which he could carry himself. The rest he’d package up and the embassy could ship them home. He went downstairs to join the other guests in the dining room. Many of them were from embassies in the city and the polyglot uproar made him think of Babel. The woman, a formidable matron named Mertz, took it all in stride while she and several serving girls set out the meal.
When they were all seated, Mrs. Mertz apologized for the quality of the food, complaining about the shortages and high prices due to the war. Bridges felt there was no reason to apologize. Food rationing had been in effect in England for several years now, with the main suppliers in America and Canada no longer able to meet their own needs, let alone export anything. The Martians had invaded in spots well away from the big cities and that meant an awful lot of agricultural land was now occupied by the invaders. England was squeezing by somehow, but in many places, packed with refugees, there was serious want and sometimes outright famine. In that light Washington wasn’t doing badly at all.
After the meal he sought out the landlady. “Mrs. Mertz, would you happen to have a train schedule about?”
“Why certainly, Major,” she replied. “With all the people coming and going I always make sure I have an up to date one on hand.” She went over to the mantelpiece and pulled out a folded paper from behind the clock. “Here it is. Oh, I hope you aren’t leaving already?”
“I’m afraid so. A day or two and I’ll be on my way.”
“Back to England?”
“No, south. Charleston.”
“Oh, I hear that‘s a lovely city. But whatever will you be doing there?
“Just a rendezvous. I expect I’ll be heading out west, to the Mississippi Line. Tennessee, maybe.”
“I hear there’s fighting out there!”
“Well, there is no fighting in Tennessee, the last I heard, but close by.”
“Oh, do be careful!”
“I intend to be, madam, I intend to be.”
* * * * *