Marching Through Georgia

by S. M. Stirling

Sofie tapped his shoulder.

  "Yes?"

  "Report, Centurion; vehicles coming down the road from the pass. Ours… sort of."

  The convoy hove into sight on the switchback above the town, the diesel growl of its engines loud in the hush after battle, a pair of light armored cars first, their turrets traversing to keep the roadside verges covered with their twin machine guns, pennants snapping from their aerials. Behind them came a dozen steam trucks in Wehrmacht colors. The machines themselves were a fantastic motley—German, Soviet, French, even a lone Bedford that must have been captured from the English at Dunkirk or slipped in through Murmansk before the Russian collapse; two were pulling field guns of unfamiliar make. Bringing up the rear were a trio of bakkies—cross-country vehicles with six small balloon wheels, mounting a bristle of automatic cannon and recoilless rifles. All were travelling at danger speed, slewing around the steep curves in spatters of mud and dust.

  "Quick work," Eric commented, as the vehicles roared down the final slope, where the military road cut through the huddle of stone buildings. "I wonder who—

  The daunting hoot of a fox-hunter's horn echoed from the lead warcar, and an ironic cheer went up from the paratroopers.

  "Need I have asked," the Centurion sighed. "Cohortarch Dale Jackson Smythe Thompson III."

  The warcars rolled into the square at 90 kph, spattering passers-by in a shower of mud, their variable-pressure tires gripping at the earth and cobbles. The lead car finished its circuit with a charge directly at Eric's position, slewed about in a perfect 180 degree turn, and came to rest in front of Century A's commander. There were fresh bullet scars shiny against its dark-grey battlepaint, and a puckered exit-hole in the hexagonal turret just to the right of the machine gun. A jaunty figure in immaculately pressed fatigues pulled himself from the commander's seat and stepped down to the deck, standing with boots braced; a beaming smile showed as he pulled down the silk scarf that covered his face and pushed his dust goggles back onto the brim of his helmet. His left arm was bandaged from elbow to wrist; the right slapped a riding-crop against his leg as he glanced around the square.

  Gaping, blackened holes marred the face of the mosque and the town hall. Just as well for that piece of miniature Stalinist wedding cake, he thought. Pity about the mosque—pretty in a quaint sort of way. There were bodies in Waffen-SS camouflage still lying scattered about the irregular open space, or hanging motionless from windows; the last thirty lay in a neat row, with their hands bound behind their backs. He glanced behind; the rest of the convoy was pulling up at a more sedate pace.

  "Nice piece of driving, Lucy," he called down into the warcar. A giggle came in answer; there was a clatter as a grenade looped out of the driver's port to land on the riveted aluminum of the deck. He ignored it, but the sight brought the beginnings of a dive for cover from the onlookers, until a woman's voice followed it:

  "Never notice the pin's still in, do they?"

  The cohortarch laughed, jumped to the cobbles and strode over, snapping a salute before extending a hand—a rarity in the Draka military and even rarer in the field. "Matters well in hand, I see," he called. "And how are you, Eric, dear boy?"

  Eric returned the salute, smiling at the older man: a slight figure, freckled and sandy-haired and snub-nosed. "Busy. How are things in the cavalry, Dale?"

  "The cavalry's in tanks, and that's the problem—if I'd wanted to crawl about in a giant steel coffin, I would have joined the navy… and flying makes me squeamish, so I'm left here, trying to bring some tone to this vulgar brawl of yours."

  He nodded to the assembled commanders. "Now, I suppose you'd like to know how the war's going…" He assumed a grave expression. "Well, according to the radio, the Americans claim that resistance is still going on in the hills of Hawaii three months after the Japanese landings, and promise that McArthur's troops in Panama will throw the invader back into the Pacific—"

  "Dale, you're impossible!" Marie burst out, with a rare chuckle.

  "No, just a Thompson… Actually, we had a bit of a surprise."

  "We heared about the tanks," Eric said.

  "That was the least of it. Have you ever heard of a Waffen-SS unit, 'Liebstandarte Adolf Hitler?' Perhaps met a few of them?" He smiled beatifically at their nods. "Well, it seems that the good old Fritz were so anxious to get those field fortifications at the southern end of the pass finished that they moved our friends of the lightning bolts up to help the engineers and forced-labour brigades we were expecting. Still stringing wire and laying mines when we dropped in right on their heads. Not on their infantry, praise god—on their H.Q., signals, combat engineers, vehicle park, artillery…

  "Luckily, not all of them were there; still a fair number down in Pyatogorsk, from what the prisoners say. And we had complete suprise, which was just as well, seeing as we lost about a fifth of our strength to their flak before we hit the ground."

  There was a general wince; that was twice the total casualties of a month's fighting in Sicily.

  "Yes, quite distressing. In any case, we were marginally less astonished than they, so we managed to split them up and fight them out of the entrenchments; particularly as they were feeing the other way. Killed about a third—a third of the fighting men, that is—ran a third out south to join their confreres. Unfortunately, the last third escaped up into the hills and woods; there just weren't enough of us left to contain them all. Ever since, they've been regrouping, harassing—one group shot us up on the way down. That's what my warcar cohort is doing, keeping the road open between our units. These ruddy bastards are tough, they just won't give up. Most of the legion is in the line above Kutaisi; we've already had probing attacks from the south, one in strength, and it looks as if they're building up for a major assault. Soon.

  "The rest of us are in hedgehogs down the length of the pass; the Fritz within our lines don't have heavy weapons, but they are making life difficult for our communications, and a secure perimeter is out of the question. So, I'm afraid, are those two Centuries you were supposed to get."

  There was a stony silence, as the leaders of A Century realized that they had just been condemned to death; then a sigh of acceptance. The warcar commander looked slightly abashed.

  "The first casualty of war is always the battle plan,' " Eric quoted. "How's the general offensive going?" He produced a flat silver flask, took a sip and handed it around.

  "Extraordinary, really. We saw the barrage start, it lit the whole southern horizon, thousands of guns lined up hub to hub. The Air Corps caught their planes on the ground around Tiflis; since then the Tac-Air johnnies've been all over them like, pardon the expression, flies on a cowflop. Fighter-bombers, ground-attack, mediums; cannon, guns, rockets, napalm, cluster bombs, fuel air bombs, and for all I know, ginger-beer bottles. You can watch it all like a map. Extraordinary!

  "Then the Janissaries hit them south of Tiflis and Batumi; they re already backpedalling, with us at their rear. The Janissaries are piling up bodies in waves, but keep coming."

  They all nodded; not surprising, given their indoctrination… and the Security Directorate machine-gun detachments at their backs.

  "Well!" the cohortarch concluded cheerfully. "Now to the good news. That air strike on your friends down the road in Pyatigorsk came off splendidly, according to the reports; also, they seeded a good few butterfly mines between thence and this, to muddy the waters as it were. What's more, we captured just about everything in the Liebstandarte divisional stores intact, apart from their armor—hence the two antitank pieces. Russian originally, but quite good. And all the other stuff you requested; blessed if I know what that food and so forth is for, but…"

  "Also, they're putting in a battery of our 107 howitzers just up the way a piece, so you should have artillery support soon, and some Fritz stuff—ISO's. I brought along the observer. As to ammunition, there's plenty of 5mm and 15mm, but I'm afraid we're running a bit short of 85 and 120—we've already had an attack in brigade strength with armored suppor
t. They're desperate, you know."

  Aren't we all, Eric thought. The Draka high command never expended citizen lives without need. There were only thirty-six million free citizens in the Domination, after all, and five hundred million serfs. On occasion it was necessary, and this was obviously one of the occasions.

  Eric turned to the trucks, absently slapping one fist into his palm as he watched the unloading. It went quickly, aided by the two laborers in the rear of each vehicle; they were of the same breed as the drivers handcuffed to the steering wheels—sullen, Hat-faced men in the rags of yellow-brown uniforms.

  "Ivans?" he asked.

  "Oh, yes; we, hmmm, inherited them from the Fritz." A snort of laughter. "Perhaps, if we're to do this often, they and we could set up a common pool?"

  Even then, there was a chuckle at the witticism. Eric's eyes were narrowed in thought. "Surprised you got them to drive that fast," he said.

  "Oh, I made sure that they saw explosives being loaded," Dale said. He grinned wolfishly: his family might be from the Egyptian provinces, where a veneer of Anglicism was fashionable, but he was Draka to the core. "It probably occurred to them what could happen if we stayed under fire long. 'Where there's a whip, there's a way."

  "And there's more ways of killing a cat than choking it to death with cream," Eric replied and turned, [Minting to the combat engineer. "Marie, what do you think of this place as a defensive position?"

  "With only A Century?" She paused. "Bad. These houses, they're fine against small arms, but not worth jack shit against blast—no structural strength." Another pause. "Against anybody with artillery, it's a deathtrap."

  "My sentiments exactly. What about field fortifications?"

  "Well, that's the answer, of course. But we just don't have the people to do much…"

  He chopped a hand through the air, his voice growing staccato with excitement. "What if you had a thousand or so laborers?"

  "Oh, completely different, then we could… you mean the natives? Doubt we could get much out of them in time to be worthwhile."

  "Wait a second. And stick around, Dale. I need that devious brain of yours.

  "All right." Eric turned from his officers. His finger stabbed at the Circassian. "Old one, how many are your people? Are they hungry?"

  The native straightened, met grey eyes colder than the snows of Elbruz, and did not flinch. "We are two thousand, where once there were many. Lord, kill us if you must, but do not mock us!

  "Hungry? We have been hungry since the infidel Georgian pig Stalin—" he spat "—took our land, our sheep, our cattle, for the Kholkohz, the collective; sent our bread and meat and fruit to feed cities we never saw." The dead voice of exhaustion swelled, took on passion. "Then the Germanski war began. He took our seed corn, and our young men—those that did not flee to the mountain. This they called desertion, the NKVD, the Chekists; they killed many, many. What is it to us if the infidels slay one another? Should we love the Russia, that in the days of the White Czar they did to us what the Germanski would do to them? Should we love the godless dog Stalin, who took from us even what the Czars left us—freedom to worship Allah?"

  He shook a fist. "When the Germanski came, many thought we would be free at last; the soldiers of the grey coats gave us back our mosque, that the Chekists had made a place of abomination. I hoped that God had sent us better masters, at least. Then the Germanski of the lightning came and took power over us—" he drew the runic symbol of the SS, and spat again "—and where the Russia had beaten us with whips, they were a knout of steel. They are mad! They would kill and kill until they dwell alone in the earth!"

  He crossed his arms. "We are not hungry, lord. We are starving; our children die. And now we have not enough to live until the harvest, even if we make soup of bark—not unless we eat each other. What is my life to me, if I will not live to see my grandson become a man? Kill us if you will; thus we may gain Paradise. We have already seen hell—it is home to us."

  Eric smiled like a wolf, but when he spoke his voice was almost gentle. "Old man, I will not slay your people; I will feed them. Not from any love, but from my own need. Listen well. We and the Germanski will do battle here; we and they are the mill, and your people will be as the grain between us. Of this village, not one stone will stand upon another. Hear me. If all those of your people who can dig and lift will work for one day, the others and the children may leave, with as much food as they can carry.

  "If they labor well, and if twenty young men who are hunters and know the paths and secret places of the wood stay to guide my soldiers, then by my father's name and my God, if I have the victory, I will leave enough food for all your people until the winter—also cloth, and tools."

  Much good may they do you once the Security Directorate arrives, his mind added silently. Still, the offer was honest as far as it went. The Domination of the Draka demanded obedience; its serfs' religion was a matter of total indifference, and a dead body was useful only for fertilizer, for which guano was much cheaper.

  The Circassian patriarch had not wept under threat of death; now he nodded and hid his face in a fold of the ragged kaftan.

  "Plan," Eric snapped. The tetrarchy commanders and the visiting cohortarch had their notebooks ready. There was silence, except for the scrunch of the commander's soft-treaded boots on the gritty stone of the square.

  "We have to hold this town to hold the road, but it's a deathtrap. Look at how we took it. Marie, I just secured you about 1,500 willing laborers; also some guides who know the way through that temperate-zone jungle out on the slopes. Over to you."

  She stood, thoughtful, then looked at the crude map of the village, around at the houses. She picked up a piece of charcoal, walked to the wall and began to sketch.

  "The houses're fine protection from small arms, as I said, but too vulnerable to blast. So. We use that."

  She began drawing on a stucco wall. "Look, here at the north end, where the highway enters the town. A lane at right angles to it on both sides, then a row of houses butting wall to wall. We'll take the timber from the Fritz stores, some of it, whatever else we can find—corrugated iron would be perfect —and build a shelter right through on both sides, and knock out the connecting walls. Then we blow the houses down on both; knock firing ports out to command the highway. Those Fritz-Ivan 76.2 mm antitank, they can be manhandled—you can switch firing positions under cover, with four feet of rock for protection. Couple of the 15mm's in there, too."

  The charcoal drew, in diagrams, a schematic of the village. Her voice raced, jumping, ideas coalescing into reality.

  "Time, that's the factor. So, that antitank stuff first. With three thousand very willing pairs of hands, though… Listen. This whole village, it's underlain by arched-roof cellars. They don't connect, but there's damn-all between them but curtain walls. Break through, here, here, here; put up timber pillars—" her hands drew a vertical shaft through the air "—pop-up positions; we blow the houses around them, perfect camouflage, let the Fritz get past you and hit them from behind.

  "Then, we can't let them flank us. Get that angle iron, and the wire; wire in like this—" she sketched a blunt V from the woods to the edge of town "—downslope of these two stone terraces, and trenches just above them. Only two hundred meters to the woods on the east, three hundred to the west. Mine the ground in front, random- pattern. State those fields are in, a thousand badgers could dig for a week and you couldn't tell.

  "If the Patriarch Abraham here is going to have hunters show us the forest tracks, we'll mine the forest edge, then the paths—put a few machine gun nests in there, channel things into killing fields— cohortarch, I'm going to need more of the Broadsword directional mines, can you get them? Good. Also more radio detonators, and any Fritz mines you can scavenge.

  "And I can rig impromptu from that Fritz ammunition," she murmured, almost an aside to herself. That would be tricky; she'd better handle it herself.

  "We'll need a suprise for their armor. We've got that clutch o
f plastic antitank mines, lovely stuff. Very good, they can't be swept. Those for the road. That blasting explosive, with the radiodetonators, by the verge… and there, there, where the turnoff points are. And we—"

  "All right," Eric broke in with a grim smile. Marie was brilliant in anything to do with construction; he could see a glow of pure happiness spreading over her face—the joy of an artist allowed to practice her craft. The problem would be keeping her from trying to put up the Great Wall of China.

  "We need immediate antitank while this is going up," he continued briskly. "Tom, you take two of the 120's." His hand indicated where the tips of the V met the woods. "Emplace 'em there. Spider pits for the crews, with overhead protection, close enough to jump to. Marie, push the third down the road, down past the bend—somewhere where it can get one flank shot off where it'll do the most good, and the crew can run like hell. We don't have enough 120 ammunition to use three barrels. Booby traps along the trail, if you've got time. Better ask for volunteers. Take half the rocket-gun teams, start familiarizing them with,the woods up both sides of the valley, for if—when—the Fritz break through. And I want minefields behind us as well, don't get trapped thinking linearly." He paused. "Booby traps, as well. Everywhere."

  He turned to the comtech. "Sofie, we're going to need secure communications. If we ran the Fritz field telephone wire all over the place, underground too, stripped, would it carry radio?"

  She frowned. "Ought… Ya, Centurion."

  "Coordinate with Sparks in Marie's tetrarchy. And set up the stationary radio; I'm going to need a steady link to cohort and up. Run more lines out to the woods, tack it up. A cellar, somewhere as far from the square as possible—those buildings are going to draw a lot of fire." He paused. "Anything impossible?"

  "All that demolition," the sapper Legate said. "Chancy. Very. Especially if we use nonstandard explosives. I can estimate, some of my NCO's…"

  "It has to be done, it can be,' " he quoted with a shrug. "If we're going to be sacrificial lambs, at least we can break a few teeth. There'll be a lot of details; solve 'em if you can, ask me or Marie if you can't.