1916: The War for America by Jeff Thomas

Author:Jeff Thomas [Thomas, Jeff]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2021-01-27T05:00:00+00:00

Evan Carlson, second in command of the Denver Free Militia, watched as the courier ran up to him, panting from fear or exertion, perhaps both.

“Message for you, sir,” the man managed to gasp as he handed over a note. It was handwritten, the handwriting immediately recognizable as the Captain’s.

“Carlson. This is out of hand,” he read, “separate your men at once. Richards.”

He looked over his shoulder at the growing mayhem. “Gee, I wouldn’t have thought of that,” he remarked sarcastically, suppressing the urge to scream.

He had been looking for a way out for several minutes. The Blackshirts outnumbered the Free Militia Company by three to one, and a three-way gun battle had erupted between Militiamen, Blackshirts, and police.

Judge Harrigan’s body dangled from a lamppost. The police appeared trapped on one side of the square.

It was hard to think with the gunfire, screams of wounded men, and the whistle of bullets overhead all competing for his attention. The situation had gone to hell in seconds.

He grabbed his assistant Commander.

“We’ll go this way,” he pointed away from both the Blackshirts and the police, “pass the word; it’s our only chance.”

Blood and brains sprayed from a hole in the back of the courier’s head; the man collapsed in a heap.

“Jesus!”

Carlson ducked down and wiped bits of gore from his face.

A few feet away, a young man, a member of the company, vomited.

He turned back toward the Blackshirts.

They looked like they were forming up for a charge. The police were completing their withdrawal. The courthouse square was empty, except for a few bodies. The dead and severely wounded lay unmoving, a few less seriously injured pathetically tried to crawl out of the way.

The Blackshirts formed a neat row; at least the front rank looked straight. He saw the flash of metal as the rank of men fixed bayonets.

“Oh, God,” he murmured unconsciously.

He turned and looked toward the militia company; some of them were lining up preparing to shoot.

“Pull back,” he yelled, “this way.”

He waved his arms frantically, “get back, leave the square.

We have to stop this.”

“But we can’t just run,” one of his men protested.

Carlson looked over at the Blackshirts; they would start their charge any moment.

“Yes, we can,” he yelled back, “now move!”

Reluctantly, his men began to move backward, toward the square’s only open exit. A few turned and ran; most kept their discipline, walking back, guns held ready towards the Blackshirt Militia.

Carlson felt a momentary knot of fear when he heard a shout go up from the other side.

“They’re running boys,” he heard, “We got ‘em running.”

To their credit, the Blackshirt Militia stayed disciplined, advancing on to the abandoned square in good order. Carlson had feared they would charge into his retreating men, and the slaughter would be worse. He got his people out without taking more casualties, although a count revealed twenty dead or wounded.

He hoped they had made at least some impression on the Blackshirts, making them understand the militia would fight if needed.

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