Alvin Fog, Texas Ranger Read online

  Leaving their officer to deal with the German Sergeant, the other Texans continued to obey their orders and set about trying to take prisoners. They had found no cause to doubt his estimation of their opponents’ quality as fighting men, so none of them offered to duplicate his actions by opening fire with their respective weapons. Instead, while five dropped their Springfields—two drawing their trench knives and three going in with bare hands—the remaining pair who had rifles demonstrated that they had received superior training to that of their attackers in such fighting even though they had not offered to fix their bayonets.

  Kars, were deflected or wrenched from their users’ grasps before their bayonets could drive home. Then their butts, those of the Texans’ Springfields, or the knuckleduster hilts of the trench knives, began to fell the startled and alarmed young Germans before any defensive action could be taken.

  On seeing the field-gray clad figures emerging from the woodland, von Crimmitschau had been content to let them do whatever mopping up might remain after what he believed to have been a highly successful strafing. Then a furious exclamation burst from him as he saw the Texans erupting from the grass and realized he had failed to achieve any noticeable results. Cursing savagely, he began to bring his Albatross around. By the time he had done so, he discovered that they were well on the way to defeating his countrymen.

  ‘Much good that will do you, doughboys!’ the young pilot snarled, watching the infantrymen being felled without any difficulty, guiding the aircraft on its second strafing attack and determined it would be more successful than its predecessor.

  Once again, von Crimmitschau was committing the error of underestimating the enemy. He paid not the slightest attention to the doughboy who had aroused Eisenfaust’s interest and desire to bring off the ambush, apart from noticing that he was standing a few feet clear and was taking no part in the fighting. It was to prove a costly omission and one from which the young flieger-lieutenant would be unable to profit in the future.

  Sergeant Jubal Branch’s assertion that such a new-fangled device as the Browning Automatic Rifle could only be a liability rather than an asset, regardless of how many other excellent firearms its designer had produced, had soon proven to have been made from habit and not out of any deep-seated conviction upon the subject. It had not gone unnoticed by his comrades-in-arms that he had displayed no reluctance over accepting the rifle when he was offered one of the six which had been allocated to the 18th Cavalry. Nor had the respect which he had developed for it escaped their attention.

  Produced out of the mind of arguably the greatest and undeniably the most prolific designer of firearms the world has ever known, John Moses Browning, [28] the B. A.R.—as the weapon was already becoming known by the men to whom it was issued—came close to offering the concept of walking fire [29] so desired by military minds as an answer to the trench warfare of World War I. While heavier by some nine pounds than the Springfield rifle, at seventeen pounds, six ounces with its fully loaded twenty-round box magazine it weighed far less than the Vickers medium or the Lewis Light machine gun. It could be carried by an individual soldier and fired single shot or, with instant conversion, fully automatic which emptied the magazine in two and a half seconds—at four hundred and eighty rounds per minute—from the shoulder or the hip. Furthermore, it was also of such a simple construction that its seventy pieces could be disassembled and reassembled by a trained man in no longer than fifty-five seconds. Nor was its mechanism so complex that the requisite skill required to use it demanded exceptional manual dexterity.

  Despite having been aware that Branch was lying about his age, which was above the stated maximum, the officer in charge of the enlistment center in Polveroso City, Texas, had accepted him when he arrived to volunteer. Even before acquiring the B.A.R., he had had combat duty. Having seen and admired the Texans’ fighting abilities during the punitive expedition he had led into Mexico during 1916, the commander of the A.E.F., General John J. Black Jack Pershing, had soon made use of them on reaching France and the 18th Cavalry, complaining over being deprived of their horses, had been one of the first American regiments to see active service against the Germans.

  Gaining considerable proficiency in handling the B.A.R., Branch’s protests about being compelled to carry its weight and its new-fangledness notwithstanding, he had proved its value as a combat weapon. What was more, the men who served with him had declared its possession had imbued him with considerable luck. On three occasions, being armed with it had been all that stood between him and death. Each had been in circumstances when a fortunate chance rather than conscious effort on his part had saved him. The first had come about when, approaching a wood, the sight of a bird that had been flying towards a tree suddenly veering away in alarm had alerted him to danger, and a burst of fire from the B.A.R. had tumbled an unsuspected sniper from concealment among the branches. The second lucky escape had come when the German gunner of a captured French Char Renault FT 17 light tank had started shooting prematurely while approaching the Texans’ patrol, and missed. Before he could correct his aim, sufficient of the B.A.R.’s twenty bullets—expelled at a speed no manually-operated rifle could attain—had entered via the turret’s observation slits to kill the whole crew. The latest rescue had occurred when a machine gun opened fire on them while they were wading across a muddy river. Despite being soaked when its user and his companions dropped for safety beneath the water, the B.A.R. had functioned perfectly as soon as he emerged above the surface and, once more, its high rate of fire had proved the deciding factor.

  This, then, was the man and the weapon which von Crimmitschau was disregarding. Nor did he see any cause for concern when, while the others were breaking off their attacks on the foot-soldiers and diving for concealment, the doughboy merely sank to one knee and began to take aim at him. Convinced he had little to fear from a rifle while traveling at the Albatross’s maximum speed of one hundred and eighty-seven kilometers (116 miles) per hour, he devoted his full attention to the rest of the enemy and gave not a single thought as to how he was also placing the lives of his countrymen in jeopardy by delivering the attack.

  This time, von Crimmitschau told himself exultantly, nothing could go wrong. The doughboys attempts at duplicating their previously successful evasive tactics would be of no avail. Not only had the struggle flattened sufficient of the grass for him to have a clear indication of where to aim, but he could see some of the khaki clad soldiers trying in desperate haste to find what little concealment remained. Once again his right thumb went to the firing button and he was confident that there was nothing to cause him to miss.

  While the B.A.R. was equipped with a rear leaf sight graduated for ranges up to sixteen hundred yards and which could be adjusted for windage, allowing considerable accuracy up to at least half that distance, Branch did not offer to erect and use it. Instead, he aimed via the V-notch battle sight which was fitted for use when the more sophisticated device was lying flat in its protective housing. Taking sight and swinging the weapon as if employing a shotgun against a swiftly passing Canada goose, he tightened his right forefinger. He had already moved the change lever on the left side of the frame from the position of safety marked ‘S’ to cover the letter ‘A’ ahead of it. [30] So, on the first bullet being discharged, others followed in rapid succession and without the need for further manipulations of the trigger.

  Despite the first three bullets passing in front of the Albatross, its forward momentum and the lateral motion given to the B.A.R. caused those which followed to converge with it. Some struck the engine and the forward part of the fuselage without inflicting any serious damage. Then one entered the cockpit and grazed the pilot’s shoulder in passing. Surprise rather than pain caused him to jerk back in his seat, tug the steering column towards him and thumb the firing button involuntarily. The aircraft’s nose rose sharply under the impulsion of his actions and, again, the bullets emitting from the two Spandaus passed harmlessly over their intended victims.
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  With his thoughts disrupted by the unexpected, if not too serious, injury he had sustained, von Crimmitschau was unable to regain control of the Albatross. Banking steeply, it turned and, rushing towards the woodland from which the infantrymen had emerged, crashed into the trees.

  Having saved his companions by preventing the intended strafing attack, Branch found himself to be in danger. Not from the aircraft, but by a threat much closer at hand.

  Struggling to prevent himself from being disarmed by the Texan who had grabbed his Kar, one of the Germans had had a very narrow escape. Seeing the Albatross returning, his assailant had let go and dropped hurriedly to the ground. Unprepared for being released, the soldier stumbled forward. By doing so, he passed clear of the machine gun’s bullets which—although they were flying over the men who had been felled, or had deliberately taken cover—would have struck him if he had not moved. Instead of being grateful for his salvation, he rushed towards the kneeling sergeant who had contributed to his deliverance.

  Catching sight of the German approaching as the magazine’s last round was expended, Branch responded with the kind of speed which invariably replaced his normally leisurely movements when danger threatened. Thrusting himself from the kneeling position, he deftly interposed the B.A.R. between himself and the Kar’s bayonet. Having deflected the jab which was being directed at him, he disengaged and swung a blow with his weapon. The side of the butt struck the rim of the German’s ‘coal scuttle’ steel helmet, snapping his head sideways and causing him to be half strangled as the chinstrap was jerked savagely against his throat. Knocked in a half circle, with the Kar being sent flying from his grasp, he sprawled to the ground half stunned, rendered incapable of further attempts at aggression.

  Coming to his feet as soon as the aircraft had gone overhead, Jackson Fog looked around and found the situation was being brought under control. The enlisted men were rising and, without needing instructions, were preparing to cope with any hostility on the part of the, German foot soldiers. All of these, however, were either too dazed to resist or saw the futility of even making the attempt to do so. Whichever the cause, all were surrendering.

  ‘Are you all right, Jubal?’ the lieutenant inquired, strolling to where his sergeant stood glowering downwards.

  ‘Well enough,’ Branch answered.

  ‘It’s right lucky for us you had that old B.A.R. along,’ Jackson Fog asserted, glancing to where flames rose from among the trees to mark the point at which the Albatross had crashed.

  ‘Why sure,’ the sergeant answered, but he sounded aggrieved and, holding out the weapon, displayed the groove carved into the wood of the butt as a result of the impact with the rim of the German’s helmet. ‘Just take a look at what that son-of-a-bitch’s done to this lucky ole B.A.R. of mine.’

  World War I came to an end on November the 11th, 1918. Shortly after, along with other members of the Allied Armies, the Texans who had participated on the patrol to capture prisoners were returned to their homeland.

  On arriving in the United States and being discharged, while Jackson Fog went to become the sheriff of Rio Hondo County, Jubal Branch traded his military uniform and weapons for the plain clothes and armament of a Texas Ranger. However, as has been recorded elsewhere, [31] he never forgot his lucky B.A.R. Nor, although he occasionally thought of trying, did he ever find an opportunity to discover what had happened to it after it had left his possession.

  Although there were many who hoped for everlasting peace, fortunately there were also sufficient cynics—or realists—who doubted whether this would be the case. So, along with various other firearms which were no longer required by the men to whom they had been issued, the lucky B.A.R. was not destroyed. Instead it was allocated for storage to the Armory of the National Guard at Wichita, Kansas. It might have remained there until the urgent need, which arose out of Socialist and Liberal politicians having prevented the British Armed Forces from retaining sufficient men and reserve equipment between the wars, caused many of its kind to be disinterred and sent to replace the losses of material at Dunkirk.

  However, this was not to be!

  Early in 1923, having been conscientious objectors during World War I, Cranston Scargill and the band of anarchists he had gathered decided that they should follow the example of their comrades in Russia and strike a blow for the oppressed peasantry of the United States. With that in mind, they raided the National Guard’s Armory at Wichita. Surprised by the guards, they fled with what little loot they had been able to acquire. It was comprised of half a dozen Colt revolvers, an assortment of ammunition and, snatched up in passing by Scargill, Jubal Branch’s lucky B.A.R. Hotly pursued by a police car as they were fleeing, it had fallen upon the latter to prevent them from being captured.

  To avoid any repercussions which might otherwise have arisen over his ‘conscientious objections’, Scargill had enlisted as a medical orderly in the Army. His contribution to the war effort had been small, as he had made sure he was not sent out of the United States and did as little of any kind of work as possible. However, despite his non-combatant role and his expressed abhorrence of killing, he had contrived to acquire some knowledge of how to handle various infantry weapons. So he knew how to charge the B.A.R.’s magazine and prepare it for shooting. Smashing their vehicle’s rear window with its butt, he had opened fire. He was far from being an expert marksman, but apparently the luck of the weapon still held. More by chance than intention, he had the mechanism set for automatic fire and some of the twenty bullets he sprayed behind him smashed the engine of the police car to bring the pursuit to a halt.

  On the strength of his having saved them, Scargill was able to assume the mantle of leadership over the gang. A petty criminal before he had decided the adoption of anarchistic principles might offer an easier way of obtaining money, he had proposed that they should use the weapons they had liberated and emulate Robin Hood. So they had embarked upon a succession of robberies. However, instead of donating the proceeds to the poor, they had kept all they gathered on the pretext that it would be required to finance the forthcoming revolution.

  As was usually the case with their kind, the gang were completely ruthless in the commission of their crimes. They also took as few chances as possible. Their victims were never the big capitalist institutions such as banks or the railroads, but were owners of small stores, cafes, gas-stations, or other one-family businesses. Traveling across the Mid-West, they never pulled more than one raid in a county and avoided larger towns which would have a well-equipped police force. This, taken with their habit of killing without hesitation on the slightest provocation, allowed them to continue their depredations unchecked.

  Lacking any great skill in the use of their weapons, the gang grew increasingly reliant upon the fire power of the B.A.R. Obtaining ammunition for it and their other arms posed no problems. Living in a democracy, which did not have laws restricting the ownership of firearms, they were able to purchase a supply on the few occasions when thefts failed to procure it. Enough service rifles and handguns had been sold to civilians since the end of the war for ammunition to be readily available, the B.A.R. being chambered to take the standard .30.06 bullets used in the Springfields and Enfields that had been sold as surplus to requirements when peace came. So, by the summer of 1924, they had attained considerable notoriety. None of them had been identified, or were known to the authorities. Instead, newspapers and radio newscasters referred to them with more dramatic quality than accuracy as the Machine Gun Gang.

  In spite of adhering to their policy of changing locations after each robbery, which allowed them to retain their anonymity, the gang began to appreciate that they were making the United States too hot to hold them. Yet disbanding and going their separate ways did not appeal to them. None trusted the others sufficiently to chance an accidental, or deliberate, betrayal once they were apart. There was also another problem preventing the dissolution of the gang. The acquisition of moderate wealth had led to them acquiring
tastes for good living which none of them wished to forgo. However, maintaining such improved standards in food, clothing and accommodation, excused on the grounds that their appearance of affluence helped to avoid suspicion falling on them, caused the funds supposedly for financing the ‘revolution’ to be expended instead on their various expenses.

  Discussing the situation after a narrow escape following a hold-up in Oklahoma, the gang decided that Mexico could offer them a greater and, hopefully, safer opportunity to continue with their great work. So they set out for the international border. As usual, they travelled in three groups of two men. By taking one of the airliners which were operating in ever growing numbers, Scargill and his companion, Benjamin ‘Bengie’ Woodwedge, reached the rendezvous in San Antonio, seat of Bexar County, Texas, a few days ahead of the others. When the rest arrived, they found their self-appointed leader filled with enthusiasm over the prospect of pulling off a final and much more lucrative robbery than any they had so far attempted. It was, he assured them as he sat patting the scarred butt of the lucky B.A.R., a cinch. Everything had been cased and nothing could go wrong.

  The wheels of fate were turning to produce the kind of coincidence no author of a work of fiction would dare introduce into his plot.