George Washington's Ghost

“Not so bad, sir. The new runway is going to have a dip in it but that’s better than having a hump, and anyway we’re only talking about a four or five degree drop over about three hundred feet. We don’t have the diggers to fill up a gap like that and it would take weeks, anyway. One of the new two-engine high-wing transports, like a Manchester Loadmaster could safely put down on what we’ve already completed. The real problem we’ve got is that because of the way the ground gradually falls away to the north, every time we get rains like last week, we’re going to have to check and repair the strip…”

George Washington nodded sympathetically.

“Can’t be helped. The CAF built the strip in the wrong damned place,” he recollected ruefully. “There’s way better ground a few miles north east; and a lot closer to the rail spur, too. Like I say, it can’t be helped. We need to get this field operating. We don’t have the time or the wherewithal to build a new aerodrome up on Indian Heights.”

Bill Fielding thought about this.

“We’ll be through with the heavy lifting extending the runway here in three or four days, sir. I could send the bulldozer, some of the tractors and a work squad north to flatten out a road between here and Indian Heights?”

George Washington raised an eyebrow.

Said nothing.

“I looked at the maps, sir,” the younger man explained with a shrug. “Obviously, I’ve never walked the ground but what you said about this site, that’s God’s truth. They shouldn’t have put an aerodrome here. One big flash flood and the runoff water will cut a new arroyo straight across the field.”

The older man nodded, mildly amused.

“Do you ride, son?”

“No, sir. I’m a city boy, I guess…”

“I’ll get Connie to put you on a good horse. Her and Julio can take you up to Indian Heights. You can take a look around and report back to me. I think the place will make a good airfield; you tell me if I’m wrong.”

“Yes, sir,” Bill Fielding muttered with no little trepidation. A year ago, he had been a dead man walking, waiting for the day they put the noose around his neck. Now he was…

What am I?

I am the guy the general wants to survey ground for a new air base.

Life was full of surprises…

“Do you think Command will reinforce us, sir?” Greg Torrance asked, respectfully.

“Maybe. That rather depends on whether the high command keeps on sending us people like Chinese Forsyth, who’d rather fly off on ‘fact-finding’ jollies than actually sit down and make the hard decisions.”

George Washington sighed wearily, rubbed his jaw with the back of his right hand.

“The fact of the matter is that we’re an awful long way from the real fighting up here. I confess, this talk about scorched earth and trading territory for time would actually make sense if that had been the plan from day one; right now, it’s irresponsible, negligent because we aren’t actually using the time and space it might gain us. The only reason to waste the country as you retreat is to starve and diminish the enemy ahead of a counter attack. I don’t see anybody preparing to counter attack; all we’re doing is giving Santa Anna a free ride all the way to the Red River country when we ought to be bleeding him white. The longer we let the Mexicans call the tune the harder it will be to throw them out. Once there are Spanish troops and land cruisers on the west bank of the Red River, and their scouts and raiders are poking around in the bayous beyond it, we’re in big trouble.”

The younger men were dismissed.

At a few minutes after one that afternoon Greg Torrance coaxed his hastily repaired Fleabag off the ground and set course, very slowly – nothing happened fast in a Fleabag – to the south west.

He had been tempted to ask Washington who exactly, was actually in command down in the Delta; deciding against it because he suspected that he probably did not want to know the answer.

Chapter 30

Sunday 7th May

Imperial Concession, Guaynabo, San Juan, Santo Domingo

Commander Peter Cowdrey-Singh had talked with his men earlier that morning, establishing that he and his fellow survivors of the Achilles were of the same mind. There were still three of their number incapacitated in the Concession infirmary – they would have to be carried by their comrades – but every man was behind him. This, despite the fact he had told them he rated their chances of ‘pulling it off’, escaping, as one in ten.

If they were very lucky!

When it got dark, they would melt into the jungle and make their way down the banks of the Rio Hondo to the coast, seize a boat and probably… all get killed.

However, anything was better than waiting to be gutted by the Inquisition.

It was a counsel of despair; of the last glint of hope.