Days of Burning, Days of Wrath

by Tom Kratman

  Turning his attention to the Hordalander, Marciano ordered, “Pay the first one for the loss of his horse and wagon, but do not give him the twenty percent kicker and subtract the cost of one round of pistol ammunition. Drag the horse off the road and burn the wagon. Give the other two fair rental for a month on theirs. Then load our wounded, as many of the more serious ones as will fit, and get them moving.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Haukelid, sounding about as shocked as the Santa Josefinans.

  “And next time, Captain, do not wait for me to shoot a horse to get their attention.”

  “No, sir. I won’t, sir.”

  Then, feeling quite ill, Claudio Marciano walked off into the woods to find a place to empty his stomach.

  Headquarters (mobile), First Santa Josefinan Infantry Legion

  It was an empty title but that was how they were billed, anyway: the “First Santa Josefinan Infantry Legion.” It was about half true, and a bout half an outrageous lie. The half-true part was that, indeed, the bulk of the officers and men of two of the infantry tercios, the Tercio La Negrita, Legate Salas, commanding, and the Tercio la Virgen, Legate Villalobos, commanding, were essentially pure Santa Josefinan. Moreover, those tercios had grown to near divisional strength, themselves, by recruiting among the people of the country.

  The part that made it a lie was that the Legion was under the command of a Balboan, Antonio de Legazpi, that all of the cadre and even now still a huge percentage of the rank and file were recruited and trained by Balboa, that all the equipment, less some captures from the Taurans, had been provided by the Balboans, and that the entire crew answered with alacrity to the orders of Balboa’s Dux Bellorum, Patricio Carrera.

  That the whole illusion was nothing more than a politically and diplomatically useful fig leaf didn’t change the reality that they were part of Carrera’s army.

  And I wish to hell, thought de Legazpi, that Carrera had seen fit to hide about five hundred trucks, a hundred of them full of engineering material, to move my legion forward after the damned Taurans.

  What brought Legazpi that particular thought were the twin factors of having to order the newly arriving troops to peel off and hide themselves in the woods to either side of the road, while his engineers figured out what to do, and the image of the bent, spindled, folded, mutilated, twisted, and utterly wrecked bridge that formerly spanned the road and now rested pretty much in the flood of the river. And it was a broad river, without a decent ford within forty kilometers. And no decent road to that.

  The engineers hadn’t even bothered to inspect the ruin of the bridge. One look from the bank and their chief, a junior legate, had just said, “Fuck it; we’ll have to start from scratch.”

  “How long?” Legazpi had asked.

  “Three days,” had been the reply, “and that won’t stand up to heavy traffic.”

  “Cars?” he’d asked. “Three or four tons each, loaded?”

  The chief of the engineers had looked down into the stream. “You’ll have to unload them on this bank, cross the vehicles, hand-carry the supplies across, and then reload them.”

  “Fuck.”

  “You said it, sir.”

  I suppose, Legazpi thought, that they’ll use some of the delay. Coming to a quick decision he shouted out, “Get me the Ic, the commander of the cohort from Fifth Mountain, plus Villalobos and Salas, plus Macera!

  “And I need a message sent to Carrera!”

  Amidst the sounds of engineers frantically felling trees, and overlooking the ruined bridge, Legazpi gave his orders.

  “We’ve got a problem, gentlemen. Every day the Taurans run without us pursuing not only gives them more time to dig in wherever they’re going, but also more time to ruin more roads and drop more bridges.

  “We’ve got to get something on them to pursue, but I’m badly limited in what I can supply. I sure as shit can’t supply more than a thousand men.

  “The Zhong lodgment still blocks the highway in Balboa, so no trucks are getting to us. I’ve messaged Carrera and he promises me four cargo helicopters, IM-71s. Unfortunately, at this range, two or three of those will have to be used to support one or two, but probably one. I can supply one cohort with one IM-71.”

  Legazpi pointed down at the river, just to the right of the dropped bridge. “So here’s what we’re going to do; Ignacio Macera, you’re going to cross this fucking river by hook or by crook, and by God pursue those fuckers. Get the engineers to make you a raft or something to get at least your light vehicles across. We’re going to give you a maniple of—”

  “Sir,” Macera interrupted, “with recent recruits, my cohort is about two thousand men strong. I need fifteen thousand kilograms of supply a day for that, fifteen tons. And I cannot carry a fraction of it even if I do manage to get my light vehicles across.

  “That means I need probably five or—since so much of it will be food, which will cube out the helicopter before it weights out—six or seven lifts a day. Frankly I—”

  “Shut up, Tribune. You’ll take what food the countryside has to offer and get by on no more than nine tons, three lifts, a day. Or you’ll go hungry. But you are going across the river and you are going to pursue the Taurans, to keep the pressure on them, so they can’t fuck up the roads and bridges so thoroughly.”

  Macera blew air through his lips, tapped his forehead a few times, then put his palm up in an admission of acceptance.

  “Now,” Legazpi continued, “as I was saying, you’re going to get a maniple of Cazadores attached to your cohort. Maybe more importantly, though, the classis has broken out of Bruselas; since Santa Josefina’s new, revolutionary government has officially joined the war, the internment is over. What that means is that now you and you cohort are going to have air superiority for the first time. So along with the Cazadores, I’m sending my own forward air controller with you to coordinate and call for air support.”

  Macera whistled, then asked, “No shit, huh?”

  “No shit, Ignacio.”

  “Well, fuck; I’ll try.”

  Headquarters (mobile), Task Force Jesuit, Santa Josefina

  Marciano didn’t speak a word of any of the languages spoken in Ming Zhong Guo, the New Middle Kingdom. For this he didn’t really need to; the determination of the man on the other end of the radio conversation to stand and fight where he was told to came through loud and clear. Even so, he waited for the translation.

  “Captain Liu says it would mean the lives of his wife and children, their children, and just possibly the lives of his parents as well, to abandon the position and mission he has been assigned, General. He says, moreover, that it would go just as hard on his officers and men, such that they would certainly cut his throat and throw him overboard if he ordered them away.”

  Marciano shook his head in disgust. Fuck, to live under such a system. I wanted them to buy me some time, yes, but not to throw their lives away without a chance.

  “Ask him if there’s anything we can do to help.”

  “He says, ‘graciously, no, but thank you for the offer.’”

  “Fuck.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “Be extremely subtle, even to the point of formlessness. Be extremely mysterious, even to the point of soundlessness. Thereby you can be the director of the opponent’s fate.”

  —Sun Tzu

  Cristobal Province, Balboa

  The prisoners of war marched into captivity with their arms, as promised, but had to deposit them at a point along the way.

  As it turned out, there were a lot more non-Anglian Taurans with the Die-hards than Carrera had expected. More of them were wounded, too, than he’d hoped for. The sirens of ambulances filled the air along with the continuous whopwhopwhop of helicopter blades, fetching the savable among the wounded. This was still a welcome improvement over the roar of the big guns and the screams of the dying. Not that there weren’t men still dying; there were. At least, though, they could die drugged against the pain.

  That’s som
ething, Carrera thought.

  Carrera asked RSM Ayres to send the senior medico to him. As it turned out, that was an officer, a surgeon major, whom the RSM simply hadn’t counted among the officer ranks. When the surgeon showed up, Ayres was in attendance.

  “How many ‘expectants’ have you, Major?” the Duque asked. “Expectant” was code for “expected to die no matter what we do so last priority for evacuation and treatment except for pain.”

  “Between fifty and sixty,” the Anglian major replied.

  Carrera nodded and said, “We’re giving your wounded priority equal to our own, but our hospitals, military and civil, both, are overtasked and not as modern and sophisticated as you’re probably used to. Think: A generation behind the times.”

  “Between ninety and one hundred, then,” the major amended. “I hope.”

  “Amen,” said the RSM, then asked Carrera, “What becomes of us now, sir?”

  “You’ll be going on a ship.” Seeing a distressed look cross Ayres’ face, Carrera hastened to assure him, “Not a prison ship, RSM, relax.” On two worlds prison ships had history enough to make them synonymous with misery. “For you it will be one of the ones that brought us the supplies we’d stockpiled out of country. They’re reconfiguring the containers on that one now to accommodate you and about ten or twelve thousand more Anglians. Won’t have much in the way of bedding, but we can probably get you some lumber and nails to build your own. I’m not telling you it won’t be crowded and uncomfortable, no, but you’ll be dry and well fed. Medical care will be as good as yours and ours can provide.

  “And . . . ummm . . . you’ll have an opportunity for some education.

  “Speaking again of medical care, Major, we’ve made an arrangement with some of the Tauran medical personnel we’ve captured to accept their parole and, just for the time being, work as part of our overall medical establishment, some in field hospitals and some in city hospitals. My troops are forbidden from giving their parole, with the two huge exceptions of medical and religious personnel.

  “I won’t ask for your answer now, but when you get to the ship, if you could tell your keeper that you would prefer to pitch in against the common disaster . . .”

  “I’ll consider it, sir,” the major replied, “but my priority has to remain my own.”

  “Funny,” Carrera said, “the priority for my medical folks is saving human life, period. Surely we’re not more civilized than you.”

  The Anglian medico started a retort but bit it back; there really was no good answer to that one.

  “How do we get to this ship, sir?” interrupted Ayres.

  “There’ll be trucks within the hour. They’re going to be crowded, too, what with your folks and the guards. In your case, we won’t ask for your parole. However, you might pass the word that it is our fixed intention to get you all back home as soon as a final peace is negotiated. Hence, why risk the jungle or getting shot or running into a minefield? To say nothing of the antaniae and snakes . . . oh, and caimen.

  “The other thing is,” Carrera said, “that I have, oh, excellent reason to believe Anglia is going to need all her sons and daughters. And soon.”

  “Why’s that, sir?” the RSM asked.

  Carrera just shook his head and smiled, while thinking, Because I’ve arranged for you to be needed soon.

  Muelle 81, Ciudad Balboa

  Sergeant Major Kris Hendryksen, Army of Cimbria, waited under a tiled bohio for the new prisoners to arrive. With him stood Marqueli Mendoza, tiny and perfect, and her husband, Jorge. Behind them and the bohio, tied to the dock, rode MV Clarissa, one of the ships aboard which had been stored the carefully gathered and even more carefully hidden war stocks that had seen Balboa through a frightful war. The Clarissa, a container ship capable of carrying some seven thousand forty-foot containers, was still in the process of being reconfigured and reloaded with material for her soon to arrive occupants. This was a little tougher than planned, since one of the two cranes for the dock had been destroyed in the war, the remnants even now being cut away by men with acetylene torches.

  Opposite Clarissa was another ship, the slightly smaller Beatriz. While Clarissa was being configured for English speakers, Beatriz was already set up for both Anglians and contingents of those reasonably expected to speak English as a second language, the Hordalanders, Haarlemers, and Cimbrians, among others. Farther down were more boats for French speakers, Italian speakers, Portuguese speakers and whatnot. A special ship, one of the two ocean liners that had been used to ferry in allied troops between the campaigns, was set aside for officers. The other, the Mary Ann Ball, had been set up as a hospital ship.

  For everything but the hospital ship, some space had been left for future cargoes.

  Most of the ships were unoccupied but for some advanced parties, from both Balboa and the prisoners, setting things up for the expected mass arrivals. The bulk of the prisoners, nearly two hundred thousand of them, by now, were still coming in, some by foot, some by truck as trucks could be made available. The advanced parties had come from those captured in the first Tauran invasion, who had been moved for their own safety to the national airport.

  The road to the dock was lined on both sides with armed guards. They looked bored.

  And I sincerely hope they stay that way, thought Jorge.

  “And I see an old friend,” said Hendryksen. “Guard? If you would be so kind as to escort me?”

  The trucks pulled in en masse, about one hundred of them. The first twenty or so contained several hundred wounded, in various states of corporeal disrepair, though none urgent enough to have needed aeromedevac. Those went to the more permanent facilities in the city, in any event. One exception among the wounded was an officer, an Anglian major, confined in what appeared to be a home-made straitjacket. Someone had written on the straitjacket, in marking pen, “Do not open until Christmas.”

  The guard on the wounded was quite light. An MP from the guard on the docks took charge of that section of the convoy, leading it slowly toward the hospital ship, where a couple of hundred prisoners waited to cart and assist the wounded aboard.

  The next group were the officers, a dozen trucks’ worth. The g uard here was considerably heavier, as was the guard waiting to double search them and escort them to their new quarters. It was expected that every officer would be reasonably fluent in English, so the educational cadre for that boat was entirely English-speaking, though they all spoke Spanish as a native tongue, and had a fair sprinkling of every other language of the Tauran Union, to boot.

  The last group was made up of about fourteen hundred POWs, mostly Anglian but also with the one hundred percent English-speaking Haarlemers and the nearly one hundred percent English-understanding or -speaking Cimbrians. The guard here was quite heavy, but jovial enough. Administration and logistics personnel lined the space before the ship’s brow, with containers filled with supplies for the latter, including books, and cameras and computers for the former.

  RSM Ayres stood by the line, along with a sprinkling of some of his fellow warrant officers, to maintain order and decorum as the men passed through. Previously taken senior POWs waited aboard ship, to ease the men into their new billets.

  Ayres heard from behind, in a perfect Anglian accent, “I suspect you’ll be senior, RSM, so you’ll end up having to take charge of both English-speaking ships.”

  Ayres didn’t turn immediately, puzzling, Now where have I heard that voice, that impeccable received pronunciation  .  .  .

  He spun about. “Hendryksen! I am surprised you’re still alive, frankly; surprised and pleased.”

  “No less than me, I assure you, RSM.”

  Turning to speak over his shoulder, Ayres called out a name, ordering, “Take charge of this mob until I return.” Then, with Hendryksen in tow, he marched just out of earshot.

  “This is the strangest thing I’ve ever seen, Kris,” Ayres said. “They’re treating us like guests, not enemies. No threats and no attempts to b
ribe anyone into cooperation. What the hell is going on? Is this because they think the war’s over?”

  Hendryksen laughed softly. “You want my personal opinion? Okay, no, they know the war is still on until its officially over. As to what they’re doing . . . they’re turning us into weapons.”

  Ayres’ quizzical look prompted the addition, “Wait until the education sessions start.”

  “Aha, so it’s going to turn nasty after all.”

  “Sadly not, RSM; you could resist that. Indeed, it will all be most civil, and in ways that are hard to resist. You won’t even have to attend. And, if you do attend, you can sleep in the back and no one will mind as long as you don’t snore too loudly. The only restriction is that you won’t be allowed to prevent anyone else from attending and you won’t be allowed to prevent those who do attend from talking. Other than that, they don’t really care what you do except that they’ll prevent escapes.

  “Indeed, the only enticements they’ll use to get people to come and pay attention are boredom—there won’t be much to do aboard ship except education, refreshments offered during the instruction and . . . well . . . turn around and look for the very tiny and very beautiful girl. That’s Marqueli Mendoza. The man standing next to her is her husband, Jorge. Both fine folks and she, in particular, is both a great instructor and an extremely nice woman. Your men are going to love her more than they do the queen, and in very short order. I watched it happen with your Paras, some of whom are going to be her and her husband’s assistant instructors.”

  “Treason,” Ayres growled.

  “Nope; they will never say a word against the sovereign of Anglia, the Anglian Parliament, or Anglian law, and will reserve judgment on Anglian food. Instead, they’ll be talking about history, right and wrong, the Tauran Union, undemocratic rule by unelected and unaccountable bureaucrats, and against a great number of things one doubts you or any of your men swore or owe allegiance to. Moreover, if you or anyone should claim it’s treason they’ll simply change the subject until they can decide if it is or isn’t. But that’s not going to happen, I don’t think. They despise traitors and have very strong—I mean absolutely frightful—laws against treason which they apply impartially to their own and us. For example, there are some hundreds of Taurans who came here trying to become hostages for the Balboans. The Balboan courts duly sentenced the lot to death and threw them out of the country with the warning that, should they ever return, they’ll be stood against a wall and shot.”