“Yes, sir,” said the Bravo company commander. “Sir, it would help if we could free up the artillery. We need it to hit that bridge, not the, pardon my French, fucking ‘logistical tail,’ sir.”
Horner smiled even wider, a sure sign of anger, as Cutprice snorted.
“We’re working that out. As of twenty minutes ago General Gramns was relieved by my order. The Ten Thousand artillery coordinator is up there right now trying to convince them that a pontoon bridge is a better target than ‘assembly areas.’ ”
“With a platoon of my MPs,” Cutprice added. “And two saucers. I told him the first one of those chateau generaling bastards gives him shit, he’s to blast him right in fucking public. With a plasma cannon.” The lean colonel was so utterly deadpan it was impossible to tell if he was joking.
“Whatever it takes to get their attention.” Horner sighed. “And it might take a summary execution. I’d put you in charge of the Corps, Robert, but I can’t spare you. And you can’t do both jobs.”
“I’d end up killing all their rear echelon asses anyway,” the colonel grumped. “And all the goddamned regular Army assholes that can’t get their divisions to fight.”
“The 24th New York and 18th Illinois are reassembling near North Chili,” Horner said. “But I don’t want to just slot them into the hole. Once we get the pocket cleared out I want you to throw up bridges and press a counterattack. I’ve sent for Bailey bridge companies and I want you to use them. Harry those horses. Drive them as far east as you can. I guarantee you that there will be infantry for you to fall back on. On my word.”
“What is the target?” Stewart asked. “Where do we stop?”
“The goal is the Atlantic Ocean,” Horner answered. “But don’t outrun your supports. I’d like to see the line pushed back to Clyde. The front would be narrower and the ground is better for us.”