Chapter the 2nd
Battle: He Is Dead Who Will Not Fight
. . . And life is colour and warmth and light,
And a striving evermore for these;
And he is dead who will not fight;
And who dies fighting has increase.
"Into Battle"
Julian Grenfell
Melville's troops were in a line, facing downhill. The grassy stubble made the slope a golden brown, ending abruptly when it hit the gray boles and emerald leaves of the forest. Many habitable worlds in the galaxy had been seeded by a mysterious ancient civilization, but this was a world with its own, independently evolved ecology. Flitting across the slope were splendid, beautiful, red and blue things that looked a bit like dragonflies that glistened in the sun like rubies and sapphires, unlike anything they'd ever seen before.
Every warrior in that thin line had a clean shot at the approaching foe. When speed was required their muskets were loaded with paper cartridges and minié balls, but now every double-barreled musket in the line was carefully and lovingly prepared with precise loads of powder, and carefully selected minié balls and percussion caps. The first shot would be at 250 yards. Precision and care was required at this range. As the enemy drew closer, less care and more speed would become the order of the day.
The center of the line was anchored in the southern, downslope edge of the little copse of trees. The wings extended straight out to the left and right, prepared to wheel back and defend the trees and the bones of their cutter, which was immediately adjacent and upslope of the trees. Twenty-four redcoated marines formed the center of the line. Six bluejacketed sailors were on each wing.
Lieutenant Melville and Sergeant Broadax stood in front of the line.
Melville was a man of Westerness. He was tall and slender in a blue jacket and sailcloth trousers, with nut brown hair tussled by the light breeze.
Broadax was a Dwarrowdelf in sworn service to the Crown of Westerness. She was short, squat and wide, dressed in marine red, with long dark hair jutting out from under a round iron helmet. She looked like the stump of a mighty tree, painted red. Except this stump had the stub of a cigar clenched in her teeth, and a thin little beard on the point of her chin.
Other than Broadax, and a few sailors with a kerchief tied to protect a bald head from the sun, the rest of the company were bare headed. Everything about them was a product of their endless years sailing the seas of Flatland. Their hair was generally short, since water was a scarce and precious commodity in two-space and long hair was almost impossible to keep free of fleas and other exotic vermin. They were also barefooted, having built up thick calluses from a lifetime aboard ships where the floorboards and spars were coated with Elbereth Moss. When their bare feet were in contact with the smooth white Moss they were in contact with their Ship, and they didn't want to scar or scuff the precious Moss with rough boots or shoes.
Both Melville and Broadax knew that anything they had to say to their men was best said in front. Throughout history military leaders knew that they needed to get out in front if they wanted to influence the behavior of their troops. They also knew that the one in front usually died first. They weren't out front because they wanted to. They were in front of their men because they had to.
Over the centuries military leaders had succeeded in convincing themselves that it was bad for morale for leaders to die. A little blood was okay, even good for the troops' morale, but death was definitely out. So they tried hard to find a balance between necessity and stupidity. In this case Broadax and Melville had worked out a plan. A tried and tested plan. One leader led from the front to direct and exhort, and one stayed behind to direct, push and prod.
Private Jarvis' heart was pounding in his chest. He'd been taught the breathing exercise to prevent this from happening, but his training failed him. He was already experiencing a loss of peripheral vision, like looking through a "toilet paper tube." And he was experiencing "auditory exclusion," in which his sense of hearing "tuned out" as his brain focused all attention toward his vision, the primary sense bringing in survival data.
The marines here on the left flank were commanded by the huge Corporal Kobbsven. Sergeant Broadax was striding down the front of the line just as Kobbsven was passing on some of his old soldier wisdom. "Yah, yew betcha," said Kobbsven, "I svare it's true. If ya put a coat of olife oil on yar bayonet blade unter a full moon, then the blade von't schtick in the enemy. Olifes represent peace, and under the full moon there's power to resist stickin' to the enemy. 'Course, it vouldn't vork on an ordinary vorld, but once that blade comes out into Flatland the Elder King makes it so."
"Really, Corp'rl?" squeaked Jarvis.
"Kobbsven," said Broadax, stopping abruptly and scowling up at the towering corporal, rolling her glowing stub of a cigar to the corner of her mouth. Red veins in her eyes, set between a repeatedly broken nose, made the map of two small neighboring villages separated by a vast mountain chain. "We ain't got no olerv earl, an' this wurld ain't got no moon. So it looks like we's scruwd, blued and tattooed. So how 'bout if ye jist remember to twist the blade as ye pull it out! Ye think 'at might wurk too?!"
There was only one thing in all the world that Kobbsven feared, and she was standing in front of him, looking him squarely in the belt buckle. "Uhh, yeah, Sarge, I reckon that'd wurk. . . ." Kobbsven was a giant of a man with a huge, scraggly, handlebar mustache. He was standing at rigid attention, but despite all efforts his belly was at ease. If Broadax's eyes were the maps of two mountain villages, then the pink lines in Kobbs' two cheeks were the map of a thriving metropolis being savagely mauled by a ferret.
"All right yew lot, listen up! Look at me! Look at me, Jarvis!" roared Broadax, glaring at him as she strode in front of the marine private and caught his eye. Her glare was particularly effective. A veritable concentrated essence of NCO glare flowed out from the small space between her helmet and beard, and her voice echoed in the hot stillness as she clenched her cigar in the corner of her mouth. "Don't let yer mind wander, son. It's too small to be out on its own!" A ripple of nervous laughter went through the ranks, easing the tension.
"By the Lord, all of ye'd better pay attention to me. I'll make yer life a hell of a lot more miserable than they will if ye don't listen up!" She scanned the line and made sure every set of eyes was on her. As they looked at her they began to listen. As they looked and listened they were able to shake off the spell of tunnel vision and auditory exclusion. Jarvis' training began to kick in and he started taking slow, deep breaths.
Broadax stood with her stubby legs planted as if the 1.5 gees of her homeworld's gravity held her down. Her twenty pound, double-bladed battle-ax hung lightly in her left fist, carried at the balance point, right up near the business end. "Lads, in this heat yer powder is gonna perform extra well an' ye'll shoot flatter, so ye can aim a little lower than usual. The heat shimmer is also gonna distort their image an' make it look a little higher than it really is. And some of ye sorry bastards will tend to overshoot when ye shoot downhill."
Everyone nodded as she continued. "We're gonna get a lot of cheap shots at 'em as they come up this hill. By God I almost feel sorry for 'em. By God I do! But it's no damn good if ye waste it! We will fire our first volley when they pass the two-hundred- and-fifty-yard stake, but I want ye to treat it like two hundred yards. Then we'll adjust from there. When we've loaded our last volley we'll fix bayonets an' see if the bastards can digest cold steel!"
There was a lot of drop in the trajectory of black powder projectiles at 250 yards. You had to aim well above your target. But Broadax's marines trained extensively for this kind of combat. The key was using the ramrod with great precision, so that you "seated" the bullet down with consistent pressure, every time.
The weird twisting of Flatland wouldn't tolerate anything more complex than a rifled musket, and that only with daily maintenance, so their sights were a crude but effective set of posts that weren't even placed on the sailors' muskets. "Ye
damned blueboys," she added, looking first left and then right to catch the eye of the two groups of sailors on the wings. "Jist fire right at 'em, like they was on a ship right next ta ye. By the time all the factors balance out, that's as good as ye'll ever do. If ye undershoot, yer bullets will likely hit this dry ground and bounce up into 'em."
Then she concluded, reversing her ax by twirling it in her fingers like a baton and waving the wooden haft in the air with the steel in her big palm, "An' if I sees any of ye firing too high ye'll feel the smack o' me ax hilt on ye, damn me if ye don't! The lieutenant will be walking the line, an' he'll be doing the same with the flat o' his sword. So don't shame me boys, put them minié balls right where they'll do the most good." Here her voice dropped, but it still carried clearly in the hot air. "Make me proud boys, do like I trained ye." Melville could almost swear he saw a tear well up in her eye. But it was hard to be sure, what with all the gristle and hair.
Melville stood beside Broadax, anxiously anticipating his first major battle, and his first command of troops in combat. He thought he was ready, and now found himself frustrated and bemused by the way his mind kept slipping off into inconsequential distractions.
Right now he couldn't help himself from asking, not for the first time, just why did they call it a mini ball? There was nothing "mini" about the .50 caliber "ball," which was bullet-shaped and not ball-shaped at all. The bullet was smaller than the bore, which made it easy to ram down the barrel. A cavity in the back of the soft lead bullet expanded when it was fired, digging in to the rifling of the barrel and giving the bullet a spin that made the muskets deadly accurate. So why a mini ball? Oh well, just another mystery lost in antiquity and the Crash.
The two rangers continued to fire, "Ch-BANG! Ch-BANG!, Ch-BANG! Ch-BANG!" roughly every fifteen seconds, as they trotted across the golden stubble, bringing their newfound friends along behind them. The foe had to be tired by the long chase but they plodded along doggedly, not able to close the distance and obviously not willing to stop.
* * *
Broadax had said her piece and now Melville had a few seconds to say his bit before the foe hit the 250 yard aiming stake. The troops expected him to say something appropriate, and he reached deep into their heritage for Words that would lift their hearts. Something that could reach down through a frightened man's brain, and pull him up by the short-and-curlies.
"Stout servants of Westerness!" he started, as he drew his sword with a flourish. The flash of the sword caught the attention of eyes that were primed and alert to detect motion and danger. Since he was standing beside Broadax, they were already looking that way, and were psychologically primed to shift their attention to the young lieutenant and listen to his words.
He was pleased that his voice was calm and steady. Unlike his traitorous heart, pounding in his chest. He reached out for his training and breathed deeply. Just as his weapons master, old Lieutenant Ed Stack, taught him back at the academy. He could hear that gravelly voice. "In through the nose, two, three, four. Hold, two, three, four. Out through the lips, two, three, four. Hold, two, three, four."
Elite warriors have known for centuries that the autonomic nervous system, or ANS, controls your heart rate, perspiration, and adrenal flow. Your ANS can't be consciously controlled. But your breathing is one ANS mechanism that can be brought under conscious control. As you pull your breathing down, your whole autonomic nervous system, including your heart rate and adrenal flow, come with it.
There's a tendency in humans to place their breathing in sync with the person they're watching. As Melville took his deep breath, consciously and unconsciously many of his men did too. His calm was contagious.
Now the words, those words, those ancient, sacred words began to flow like old wine. "Warriors of Westerness. Foes are before you, and your homes far behind. Yet though you fight on an alien field, the glory that you reap here shall be your own forever. Oaths ye have taken, now fulfill them all. To lord and land and league of friendship!"
Now Melville was sure he could see a tear escape the gristle and hair around the old Dwarrowdelf's eye. She looked with pride on her young lieutenant. So far, so good. The men nodded their heads calmly and smiled fell, fey smiles. Many of them were chewing tobacco, or smoking hand-rolled cigarettes. No great cheers came from these men. They radiated an icy calm that would keep their heart rates low and their trigger fingers steady.
Melville fell back behind the line now. His purser, Theo Petreckski, stood immediately behind the line, in command of their three midshipmen, Crater, Archer, and little Aquinar. Together they formed his reserve. Farther behind them, in the cutter, was their Sylvan surgeon, Lady Elphinstone, with the ship's cat and their one wounded sailor. Three ship's dogs sat in various relaxed positions in the shade of the trees, along the center of the firing line.
The fighting man shall take from the sun
Take warmth, and life from the glowing earth;
Speed with the light-foot winds to run,
And with the trees to newer birth;
And find, when fighting shall be done,
Great rest, and fullness after dearth.
Broadax was a master at controlling an infantry firing line. She stood in front of the line, dead center, two paces out. She held her twenty pound ax out horizontally before her in one hand, parallel to the firing line, in the same way that Melville would hold his sword out in front of him, and with no more difficulty. Her best marksmen were here in the center. Her oldest and truest marines. She paced the line while they loaded, but she would stand in the center when she gave the command to fire. That way she'd be as safe as any leader could ever be, standing in front of the firing line in battle.
Melville was stunned by the alien beauty of it all. A vast sea of emerald forest, as far as the eye could see, beneath a pure, powder blue sky. From the green forest came a dirty white wave of exotic beasts, flowing up a golden hillside, dotted with the flashing rubies and sapphires of insects glistening in the sun. Add in the scarlet tunics and royal blue jackets of the firing line. At this moment there was a flavor, a spice to his life that he'd never known. For a few seconds he savored it, and felt more . . . alive than ever before in his life.
The white tide finally showed its full measure. They weren't endless. There was a limit to their number. The enemy was now a discernible mob, roughly 150 yards long, 25 yards wide at the front, and 50 yards wide at the rear.
The rangers were still 100 yards in front of the apes, spinning and firing like clockwork, four times a minute. Ch-BANG!Ch-BANG!, Ch-BANG!Ch-BANG! Every time they each fired both barrels, turned, and loaded on the run.
Broadax was making one last, calm inspection of the line. She turned to old Chief Hans, in charge of the sailors on the right wing as he spit a stream of tobacco at a blue dragonfly. The hapless creature was picked cleanly out of the air and glued to the ground. Thinking it was raining, the bewildered insect began to burrow into the ground. "Well Chief, 'ave ye inspected yer boys?" she asked.
Chief Petty Officer Bronson Hans was a grizzled, bearded old salt who was the senior NCO in charge of their detachment of sailors. "Aye. Next y'll be teaching me 'ow to suck eggs?" he replied with a nicotine-stained grin and a stream of tobacco juice.
"Well, ye know Chief," she said, blowing a stream of cigar smoke into the general region south of his belt buckle. "They say yer memory is the second thing to go." The warriors around them laughed and old Hans smiled admiringly as she moved back to the center.
Broadax's ax lifted slowly and gently into the sky, moving from the vertical, as the lead element reached the 250 yard mark. These stakes were tree branches with bits of cloth tied to them. The distance had been carefully paced off and marked in all directions, as the first step in the defensive plan. They couldn't defend the entire perimeter, so breastworks or trenches would work against them if occupied by the enemy. Besides, there were no trees of manageable size to build fortifications with, and what deadwood was available was needed for cooking
fires. Nor did the dry, powdery earth lend itself to entrenchments. With their small force they were counting on mobility and firepower against any attacker, and range stakes carefully placed out from all the planned defensive lines were key to the accurate and effective marksmanship.
"Remember, treat it like two hundred yards. Ready boys, readyyyy! Wait for it." They'd loaded from a standing position, but now most of the line was kneeling, some even sitting to get a more stable position as they fired. "Squeeeeze it off on my command!" Broadax inhaled deeply on her cigar. The coal glowed deep red as she gently, almost lovingly let her ax head fall, soft as a floating leaf. Her calm voice carried clearly, as she gave the command, "Firrre."
The falling ax was the signal for the rangers to hit the dirt, pulling their dogs down with them. With a thunderous ch-BANG!, thirty-six muskets spoke and a cloud of smoke appeared. Ch-BANG! and the second barrels roared, adding to the smoke at the top of the hill. Adding even more to the carnage at the bottom. The rangers leaped up and continued their trot uphill.
The furry, white mass of aliens obstinately followed the rangers. They scuttled along on all six legs like insects. When the volley rang out they seemed to stagger, stunned by the noise as much as the bullets. A full score of the foe in the front ranks fell to the first volley, perhaps less at the second, since the smoke of the first shot partially obscured the view. Several aliens in the rear ranks also dropped from sight, caught by shots aimed too high.
The men of the firing line avoided firing at the center, where the rangers were in the line of fire. They could be relatively sure of their accuracy to the left and right, but not up and down, and none of them wanted to risk a shot directly over the rangers' heads. After a brief, stunned pause the attackers continued uphill. There was no stumbling or hesitating as they crawled over the dead and dying.
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