Never Sound Retreat (20 page)

An explosion ripped across the face of the square, throwing the Bantag charge back into the ravine.

"That's the stuff!" Hans roared. "Use the artillery on them, damn it!"

Whatley apparently had deployed his five batteries in the center of the square. The Bantag charge seemed to disappear as salvo after salvo slammed into their advance, grinding it to a halt.

Fifth Suzdal was less than a hundred yards away from the engagement, with Bantag pouring up out of the ravine that was becoming a death trap for them as well. To Hans's amazement, a lone gun, drivers lashing the straining horses, clattered by on the opposite side of the ravine, the piece that had been manhandled down into the gully only minutes before. The gun crew swung out alongside Fifth Suzdal, unlimbered, and began to spray canister into the Bantag who were pulling back, triggering them into flight as well.

His own square was now less than two hundred yards away, hemming in the Bantag cavalry who had been cutting into Seventh Corps' western flank, so that the mounted warriors were now caught between two walls of fire, while the guns from Eighth Corps sealed off the box.

Within seconds the enemy attack disintegrated. Some of the warriors tried to charge the guns, but were mowed down by a well-timed salvo delivered at less than fifty yards. Others turned to try and ride back down into the ravine and scramble up the other side, but the clutter of bodies was so thick that the horses balked and their riders were slaughtered.

Wild cheering erupted from Second Corps as it pressed its attack in. As the wave of Bantag withdrew the line of fieldpieces of Seventh Corps swept the retreat, finally switching from canister to case shot. Some of the gunners raised their sights, plowing shot into the packed horses, which were being held for the surviving warriors who had fought dismounted. For one warrior to hold a string of six to eight frightened horses was nearly impossible and after half a dozen volleys the herd was running in panic, scattering in every direction.

Hans watched the panic and was tempted to call upon the three regiments of mounted infantry. If they swept forward, they could slaughter thousands of the scattered, leaderless Bantag fleeing on foot, but a quick look to either flank showed where formations still mounted were rallying. If he sent his mounted units in now, they might get caught up in the frenzy, go too far, and be cut off. And besides, the horses would be needed for something else.

As the thunderous roar died away Hans slumped back in his saddle. Riding up to the edge of the ditch he felt a surge of pity for the hundreds of horses trapped in the carnage, many of them still alive, thrashing in agony, or crying piteously. Individual rifle shots rippled along the line as the surviving Ban-tag and their crippled mounts were dispatched.

Breaking clear of his square, Hans trotted over to Seventh Corps, relieved to see Ketswana emerging from the thinned ranks of Fifth Suzdal and followed by his ever-diminishing band of Zulu warriors.

"Not in my wildest dreams did I imagine killing Bantag like this!" Ketswana roared.

The ground in front of Seventh Corps, up to the edge of the gully, was carpeted with blue-clad bodies, dead and dying Bantag heaped on top of them, casualties of the final counterattack.

Hans edged his mount to the edge of the square and, unable to ride farther because of the carnage, dismounted.

"Whatley, where is he?" Hans asked, spotting a stunned colonel who was bent double, gasping for breath.

The colonel looked up at him, wide-eyed, and shook his head.

Hans moved into the square, stepping aside as Ketswana raised his revolver and shot a Bantag who was feebly trying to raise his blade to cut at Hans.

Spotting a corps guidon he moved toward it, cursing himself for the act of dispatching his own guidon north with Bates, hoping that it might fool some Ban-tag scouts into believing he was with the northern feint. It made it damn difficult now to be spotted.

Lying on the ground beside the guidon was Jack Whatley, pipe clenched between his teeth, clutching what was left of his right leg, which was shattered just below the knee.

"How is it, Jack?"

"Hurts like hell, worse than the one I took at Gettysburg."

"Just rest easy, Jack."

"Hans, shouldn't we stop here for the day? The boys just had one hell of a fight. Worst than Spotsylvania, almost as bad as Hispania. They need a break."

Hans shook his head.

"It's just past noon, Jack. Six hours of daylight left. We can make another ten miles. Maybe get ahead of what's coming up behind us."

"We're going to lose a lot of boys doing this, sir. A day here and we might be able to patch some of them up enough to move."

Hans said nothing, knowing that Jack was not talking about himself.

Silently he looked around at the shambles of the corps.

Three, maybe four thousand dead and wounded in the few furious moments of the battle, maybe another five hundred to a thousand in my own square.

Rifle fire still rippled from the flanks and forward, where skirmishers were again deploying. Though they had shattered maybe two umens in the fight, there were thousands of warriors left, some of them still running, but many were forming up again just beyond artillery range.

Going over to a limber wagon, he climbed up and raised his field glasses, sweeping the horizon, focusing in on the northeast. It was hard to tell, it was almost as if he sensed rather than actually saw a dark line on the horizon. Twenty, maybe twenty-five miles? How many?

Hans climbed down.

Hans sighed and knelt by Jack, putting his hand on his shoulder.

"I'm sorry, Jack," he whispered. "They need a field hospital and Dr. Weiss, and we don't have either. There's more of the bastards closing in from the northeast. We have to keep moving."

"Good God, Hans, you're talking about leaving a thousand or more men behind."

Hans sighed. "If a man can hang on to a horse, we'll dismount half our mounted units, but he has to be able to ride."

He hesitated for a moment. "You can take my horse."

Jack grimaced as one of his staff tightened a tourniquet above the shattered knee.

"Don't think so, Hans."

Hans knew his friend would reject the offer. He was tempted to take him anyhow. Jack was a damn good corps commander, a month in a hospital and he could be back in the fight. But the hospital was still over a hundred miles away by land, then five hundred by ship. And there was the cruel bottom line, that if he made an exemption for Jack, what would be said by the hundreds left behind—that rank did have its privileges. This was the Army of the Republic, and officers, no matter how high up, had to share the rations, the wet ground, the filth, and the risks faced by the lowest of privates. If it ever became different, the Republic would never be quite the same.

"I'm thinking about forty thousand men, Jack."

"I know, Hans, fate of the game. I'd do the same."

Hans looked back toward the ravine.

"Twenty rounds for each man who stays behind. Maybe they can buy us some time. This is a hell of a position for men with rifles."

As the columns headed out Hans struggled with the wish simply to move ahead.

"Keep them moving," Hans snapped to his staff. Reining his mount around, he trotted to the back of the square, the men in the ranks looking up at him, knowing what he was doing, and parting to let him pass.

The column slowly pushed on as he headed back to the ravine. The air was thick with the smell of blood and torn bodies. Bantag corpses had been dragged out and piled up along either bank to act not only as a barrier, but also as a taunt.

Hans got off his horse and walked up to the edge of the ravine and knelt. Fishing in his pocket for a plug of tobacco, he held it out.

"Care for a chew, Jack?"

Jack smiled and shook his head.

"Got my pipe, Hans, never could stand chewing, bad for the teeth. How your wife allows you to kiss her is beyond me."

Whatley tried to smile, hiding the pain coursing through his body.

"Anything you want me to take back to . . ." he paused.

"Olga," Jack quickly slipped in, covering for the fact that Hans could not remember Jack's wife's name. He shook his head. "Don't believe in that farewell-letter routine. Too melodramatic, my friend. She'll know I was thinking of her."

"Anything I can do?"

"Well, if you could arrange for a new leg, that would be a fine place to start."

Hans lowered his head. "Jack, I just wanted . . ."

"No need to explain, Hans, I know. I'd do the same if things were different. You've got to get the rest of the boys out."

Hans nodded. Raising his head, he looked down the length of the ravine. Nearly a thousand men were waiting for the final act. Most of them were silent, a few moaning or crying softly. Hans forced himself to look into their eyes. He saw rage and bitterness in some but what was worse was understanding on the part of so many, a forced smile of encouragement, nods of recognition from faces that he knew from other fields of strife.

He slowly stood up and raised his field glasses looking again to the northeast. There was definitely something there. The rain of the previous three days kept the dust down; otherwise, he could have spotted them from forty, even fifty miles away, but they were there and coming on, most likely reaching here by dark.

Hans knelt again and lowered his head to whisper.

"It won't be long, Jack. Three hours, maybe four. They'll see the carnage and come on hard, wanting revenge."

"Long way from Antietam, isn't it?" Jack sighed. "Gettysburg, took one in the chest there, thought I would die for sure, but I came back, remember?"

Hans nodded, saying nothing.

"Funny, survive all that, only to die in this stinking ditch on a damn world Lord knows how many billions of miles from home. Damn, wish I could just see Vassalboro one more time. Take a canoe and fish on Webber Pond in the evening."

"Maybe you will after this," Hans whispered, pat-ting his friend on the shoulder.

"Getting religious on me, Hans?"

"No, just a thought. Maybe we go where we really want to go after it's over."

"Like to believe that, Hans, but don't know if I can"—he chuckled sadly—"but hell, I guess I'll know soon enough."

Hands trembling, he fished in his haversack, pulled out a tin of matches, and relit his pipe.

"Watch your flanks as well," Hans said, and he nodded toward a scattering of mounted Bantag who hovered just beyond rifle range, having re-formed after their defeat. "They'll be looking for vengeance. Most likely wait, though, until their friends come up with reinforcements."

"Let 'em try. There's one of them I'd love to see again." Whatley absently patted his shattered knee.

Hans looked down at the dozens of unconscious men lying along the sides of the ravine.

"Don't worry, I know what to do for them," Jack said, and his composure wavered for a moment. "Hell of a war, damn it. At least the Rebs would give ya a drink, and patch you up the way they did me at Gettysburg. Not this. Just don't like the idea I'm going to be dinner for them bastards."

He forced a smile through his tears.

"Hope some bastard chokes on me."

Hans, unable to speak, patted his friend on the arm and stood.

"God be with you, Hans Schuder."

"And with you."

Hans climbed back into the saddle, snapped off a salute, and reined his mount around, glad that no one could see his tears.

Chapter Nine

Vincent could see that Ferguson was nervous as he slowly paced back and forth behind the land ironclad and battery of guns while waiting for Kal to arrive Jack Petracci, who had just finished the first demonstration flight of the two-engine short-range airship strode over to join them.

"Good machine there, Chuck," Petracci announced. "Handles well, sharper turns."

"Still not fast enough," Chuck replied. "I want my new engine design on it before you go back out to fight."

Jack nodded, and the two started into a technical conversation which quickly lost Vincent. Figuring it was best to leave them alone, he edged over to wher Gates and one of his artists were busy sketching the scene for the paper. Vincent, smiling, motioned for the sketch pad, and the artist handed it over. Vincent leafed through it. The artist had a good sense of detail; the new biwing design for the airship was rendered to perfection, and a close-up front view of the land ironclad, though roughly drawn, was sketche with the crew standing next to machine so that scale was clearly shown.

"I have some bad news for you, Gates," Vincent announced.

"What's that?"

Vincent tore the sheets of paper off the pad the artist was working on, crumpled them up, and tossed them on the ground.

"This is a military secret and will stay that way."

"Come on, Vincent, you can't do that."

"As acting commander on this front, I've just done it," Vincent said with a smile. "If these damn things work, there's no way we want any details in the paper, ever."

"Damn it, Vincent, everyone in Suzdal knows about the machines. Hell, they're made right here. I've got to report something."

Gates smiled as if he had suddenly drawn a trump card. "And besides, the colonel gave me permission to print some pictures just before he left for the front."

"All right, all right," Vincent replied, nodding toward the land ironclad. "But I want to see your drawings distorted, make it bigger, guns sticking out in every direction, and no details about armor."

"Vincent, aren't we getting a bit too nervous about all this?"

"Gates, how many thousands of our comrades died back on Earth because of the loudmouthed press I can't even begin to imagine."

"Listen, Vincent, you didn't even join the regiment until damn near the end of things, so don't pull that 'comrade' line on me. I was with the Thirty-fifth from the beginning; you weren't."

Vincent did not react to the taunt—he knew that more than one of the "old hands" resented his rapid rise over them in the race for promotion.

"You're right, Gates, but I am in charge here now. This Ha'ark can read, and a week from now your paper will be in some soldier's haversack up at the front." He didn't add in the details, the thought of a field of dead, the Bantag butchering them, and a copy of the paper being carried to Ha'ark.

Gates stood silent for a moment, then reluctantly nodded.

"You can be the most reasonable newspaper m I've ever met," Vincent said with a smile.

A carriage came over the crest of the hill behind them, and Vincent snapped to attention, the battery gunners, land ironclad crew, and Chuck following suit. Kal, putting his stovepipe hat on, stepped down from the carriage, and walked up to Chuck, shaking his hand.

"So you think you have something, do you?"

"Yes, sir, but you know how these things go. They work until you try them for real, so I hope you understand if it goes wrong."

"I saw the airship flying on my way over here."

"Still some problems, but it should be ready to go in a few more weeks."

"I want it now," Vincent interjected. "It leaves on the trains heading out later today."

Chuck looked over at Jack Petracci, who was walking back to his airship and shouting orders to the ground crew.

"Vincent, it hasn't been shaken down yet. That was the first flight."

"There's no telling how it might help us. I want it up at the front."

"Jack will scream bloody murder; the ship isn't ready for combat."

"We're in a crisis of the worst kind here. He'll understand."

"What about our other miracles?" Kal asked, nodding toward the firing range and cutting the argument short.

Vincent looked over at Jack, wondering if his abrupt order had just been a death sentence for one of his oldest friends with the regiment. He pushed the thought aside; there was no time now for such sentiments. Airships were needed if his plan was to work, and that meant Jack had to fly, whether the machine was ready or not.

"Ready for you to watch, sir," Chuck announced and, leading the way, he took the visitors over to the ironclad crew.

"Sir, you remember my assistant, Gregory Timokin?" Chuck said, nodding toward the ironclad commander who stood at rigid attention.

"Your father, blessed be his memory, and I were old friends," Kal said warmly, extending his hand.

"I know, sir. Father used to tell me stories about the two of you back in the old Boyar Ivor's court."

Kal smiled and leaned forward. "I hope you're not repeating some of them."

"I wouldn't dare, sir."

Kal laughed as he stepped back from Gregory to examine the ironclad.

"Is this ready to fight?"

"We just finished the changes on the drive system, sir. It's ready."

Kal motioned that he wanted to step inside the machine, and Gregory leapt forward to open the side door. The president, removing his hat, bent low and scrambled through the hatch, Gregory, Chuck, and Vincent going in behind him.

Vincent, felt a sense of uneasiness as Gregory slammed the hatch shut, as if the doorway into a tomb was being sealed behind them. Though it was still early morning, the air chilly and dry after the storm of the last three days, the inside of the machine was already uncomfortably hot, laden with the scent of steam, oil, grease, and coal.

The boiler filled most of the aft end of the machined the heat from the firebox and the glow through the open firebox door giving the interior of the machine a hellish feeling. The forward gun, a cartridge-loading ten-pounder occupied the space toward the front.

Chuck leaned over, features pale, and, clasping a pink-tinged handkerchief over his mouth, started to cough.

"Chuck, get out of here right now," Kal ordered.

Without waiting for a reply, Vincent, who was grateful for an excuse to get out of the machine, took Chuck by the arm and forced him to the door, leading him back out.

Sitting down on the ground, Chuck gasped for breath, Vincent kneeling by his side.

"After we ship out today you can take it easy for a while Chuck."

"A long rest, that's what I need," Chuck whispered, his breath rattling, coming in short gasps.

Vincent watched him intently, not expressing his fears as his old friend leaned forward, coughing, spitting up blood.

"Once Timokin gets his command in battle, make sure the machines stay together," Chuck whispered, "Don't split them up. Still don't like idea of you taking our new flyer up, we lose the element of surprise. Wanted them massed as well."

Sighing, he fell silent, looking down at the ground.

"Wish I could go up to the front with you, find out what happens."

"I'll make sure you get the full reports."

Chuck looked at him wanly and smiled.

"We'll see," he whispered, and struggled back to his feet as Kal, perspiration streaming down his face, emerged from the ironclad.

"Frightful machine," Kal announced. "Now let's wee how you plan to stop them hairy devils."

Chuck slowly walked over to a limber wagon, motioning for a gunner to open the lid.

"Give me a solid shot, then load."

Chuck took the ten-pound bolt, walked back to Kal, and handed it to him.

"Standard ten-pound shot, sir, wrought iron."

Behind him the gun crew slammed the round into the breach, followed by a powder bag. Vincent knew that the lieutenant in command of the piece had been nervously sighting and resighting it, but he checked it once again after the interrupted screw breech was slammed shut.

"The first target we'll shoot at is three inches of armor," Chuck announced, "what we think they have mounted on the front of their land cruisers. Notice, sir, that it's mounted vertically, no deflection."

"I suggest, gentlemen, we get behind some cover." Ferguson motioned for the group to get behind a freshly raised breastwork.

The gun kicked back, followed an instant later by a bell-like clang and shower of sparks, a piece of the shell arcing back over the heads of the observers. Vincent had his field glasses trained on the shield, already knowing what he would see. There was a deep dent, but it had held.

The second shot, aimed at a shield angled back to simulate the front of the land cruiser, did even less damage, the bolt skidding up the side in a shower of sparks.

Two more guns, twenty-pounders, were now brought into play. The round cracked the vertically mounted shield but, like the lighter ten-pound round, skidded off the angled siding.

"A twenty-pounder might shake them up at two hundred yards," Chuck announced, "if the round strikes at a right angle. Any type of deflection over ten degrees or so and again there's a problem."

Chuck looked over at Vincent, who realized that his friend needed help since he was short of breath and going into a coughing spasm.

"The one I saw us knock out," Vincent interrupted, "was hit by a fifty-pound muzzle-loading Parrott at approximately three hundred and fifty to four hundred yards, hitting the side armor. The problem is the rate of fire of a fifty-pound muzzle loader is, at best, a round every two minutes, and that's with a crack crew. Unfortunately, the only fifty-pounders we have are mounted on the ironclads, some of our fixed fortifications, or the armored trains. There's not a single field unit in the army. The only reason we had that piece in action was that we stripped it off a ship and moved it by rail. Remember, we are talking about a piece that weighs over six tons. It is simply not usable except in a fixed position."

"In other words, useless for offensive actions," Kal interjected.

"Yes, sir. In a field action, if we let a land ironclad get to under two hundred yards before we can damage it, they've won. Their riflemen will decimate the gun crews at that range and they know that tactic. We might knock out one ironclad, but before our gun crew could reload, the surviving ironclads will be inside our lines. It was hell near our fieldpieces, made worse by the ironclad gunners pouring canister In on us. Our gun crews were ripped to shreds."

"So what is the answer, Chuck?" Kal asked.

Chuck looked back nervously at the ten-pounder gun crew and nodded.

"Load it up," he gasped.

The loader ran up from the caisson, cradling what looked like a white shell with a dark base, and slid it into the breech.

"Let's try for the sloped armor," Ferguson announced. The lieutenant commanding the piece nodded and brought the gun to bear on the target, stepped back, and looked at Chuck. Vincent trained his field glasses on the armor, holding steady as the gun fired.

Again there was a flash of light, and, to his amazement, as the flash and puff of smoke disappeared, he saw a hole drilled clean through the armor.

He looked back at Chuck, who was grinning nervously.

"What the hell was that?" Vincent asked.

Chuck led the group over to the limber wagon and motioned for the loader to bring out a round. Vincent took it, noticing a needlelike point at the top of the round, which then disappeared into a casing of what seemed to be papier-mache.

"What the hell is this?" Vincent asked.

"It's made of spring steel, the best we've got. The problem with the old shells are they're made of wrought iron and shatter on impact. They're also too broad. I wanted a narrow point of impact, all the kinetic energy of the shell focused at a single point."

"It looks like an arrow," Kal said, taking the bolt from Vincent.

"Well, it sort of is, sir. We had some shells back on Earth called Schenkl rounds. They had a papier-mache section designed to engage the rifling. The papier-mache disintegrated as the shell left the barrel. It set me to thinking. On this shell here I have a lead plate that rests on the back of the round to absorb the explosive charge, the papier-mache sets the shell spinning as it goes down the barrel, then it peels away. The fins on the steel bolt keep the round on track, and it punches clean through. Actually, I'm not sure, but I think it melts when it hits the armor and then burns through it, spraying the inside with molten fragments."

"Range?" Vincent asked.

"Ten-pounder, sloping armor or deflection shots out to two hundred yards, twenty-pounder to three hundred. Straight-in shots on vertical armor, the ten-pounder will nail it at over three hundred and fifty yards, the twenty-pounder at five hundred."

"Damn good," Vincent cried. "Not what I'd hoped for, but pretty damn close."

"Well, it's the best I could come up with for now. We're going to use up a hell of a lot of good spring steel—it'll cut into our rifle production and a few other things—but I could have several hundred rounds ready to go in less than forty-eight hours. The molds are already made, and the crews standing by to start pouring."