Bullets are not magic. If you point a gun and pull the trigger, the bullets will not seek out living creatures with some preternatural, malevolent intelligence. Some people seem to believe this, and those people usually die quickly if they're unfortunate enough to get into a gunfight. In reality, just an eighth-of-an-inch elevation of a pistol barrel (the height of a front sight blade) at five yards is the difference between hitting an opponent between the eyes and having the bullet pass harmlessly over an opponent's head. At twenty-five yards, the same eighth-of-an-inch elevation in the front of the barrel would cause a bullet aimed for the heart to fly ineffectually over an enemy's head, and just a quarter-inch depression of the barrel at that range could cause a bullet to plow harmlessly into the ground. It takes a trained, skilled, determined warrior to kill consistently and well with a pistol, and that was exactly the kind of individual who stood on the firing line that day.
Each warrior held his pistol out in a firm two-handed stance, and then gently, carefully, lovingly pressed the trigger. "Two things you should never hurry in life," Fielder told them in their training, "A good woman and a trigger. Both will give you the result you want in their own time. Rush either and you'll be very frustrated." And so they silently repeated the mantra of all armed professionals since repeating firearms were invented: "Front sight, press trigger gently. Repeat as necessary."
Added to the physical effect of the thousands of bullets firing rapidly and accurately downrange was the impact of the noise. Again Melville thought of Lord Moran, the great military psychiatrist, veteran of both World Wars on Old Earth and author of the seminal book, The Anatomy of Courage, who had called Napoleon "the great psychologist." And Napoleon truly got it right when he said that the psychological, or "moral," factors were three times more important than the physical.
In this case the physical impact of the lead flying into the enemy ranks was tremendous. But the psychological effect of the sudden noise, flash, and concussion was even greater.
The effect of the two BARs was particularly potent. Its muzzle velocity of around 2800 feet per second, triple that of a .45, created intense concussion and noise for anyone downrange as it punched through the atmosphere at supersonic speeds. Its cyclic rate of fire of about 550 rounds per minute meant that the BAR tore through a 20-round detachable box magazine in under three seconds. Each magazine was like a burst of sustained thunder. Like a shattering, prolonged bolt of lightening.
Melville's tactics instructor, Major Johan Farnham, a master of all aspects of weapons, had taught them about the BAR in the academy. His words came flowing back, in one of those distracting thoughts that can come up in combat. "Aside from its weight, the BAR's only major drawback is its lack of a quick-change barrel. In order to sustain a high rate of fire, a machine gun needs to be able to quickly change barrels, or it needs a water-cooled jacket. I doubt you'll get much more than five magazines out of a BAR at its max rate of fire without risking a stoppage due to overheating." In this case, in order to maintain a sustained fire, his two BAR gunners both burned off four magazines and then started firing in short bursts, picking off particularly aggressive or excessively brave enemy attackers. Firing in careful bursts like this reduced the chance of a malfunction due to overheating.
The enemy line faltered and began to stagger back under this sustained psychological and physical onslaught. Out in front of them, only Marshall DuuYaan still stood among the Stolsh. The members of the firing line all worked hard to prevent hitting the Marshall. The good news was that so far no one had shot him in the back. The bad news was that the area immediately around him contained a high density of surviving enemy troops, and finally he was overwhelmed and brought down just thirty feet in front of them.
The enemy masses began to slowly surge forward again, in spite of the withering fire. Melville looked over at the Stolsh engineer commander. "Five minuutes!" called out the harried engineer. "Dear gods, juust five moore minutes is aall we need!"
It has been proven over and over again, that the attack is psychologically more powerful than the defense. And it is a fundamental principle of combat, that the best time to retreat is after a successful attack. Numerous great commanders, when hemmed in from all sides, have been able to gain a needed respite through a vigorous attack. The Guldur and their Orak allies were on the offensive from the beginning, and thus far they had not been the recipient of any deliberate, decisive assault themselves. Now Melville was determined to buy those five minutes, and to give the enemy a taste of their own medicine. Hell, he could even give his men a mission, an objective to focus the attack around.
"On my command!" bellowed Melville, "the line will rapid fire and advance to within point-blank range of the enemy! The reserve will cut through the center and rescue the marshall, then we will pull back to the bridge." He looked at Broadax, who rolled her cigar to one corner of her mouth and gave him a nod of understanding coupled with a grin of absolute bliss. On her helmet her monkey capered gleefully. All along the line the firing eased as the warriors changed magazines so that they could launch the attack with a full weapon.
The enemy began to surge forward with renewed vigor as the fire ebbed. They were about twenty feet away when Melville stepped through the line, manhandling men to the left and right to create a gap for Broadax and her lads to come through. "Charge!" Melville roared, stepping steadily forward and firing his pistol in a two-handed grip as rapidly as he could bring the sights on target. The shots didn't even register, all that existed was: Front sight, press trigger. Front sight, press. Front sight, press. Front sight, press. Front sight, press. Front sight, press. Front sight, press. Front sight, press. Change magazines!
As he drew closer, accuracy became easier and his rate of fire increased. Frontsight,presstrigger. Frontsight,press. Frontsight,press. Frontsight,press. Frontsight,press. Frontsight,press. Frontsight,press. Changemagazines!
To his left and right every other individual armed with a .45, including the corpsmen, was doing the same, and on the wings Kobbsven and Von Rito burned several magazines of .30-06 ammo at their max rate of fire.
Against an enemy armed with repeating, breech-loading rifles, a pistol-armed force such as Melville's wouldn't have survived. But this enemy was armed with muskets (most of those now empty) and bayonets, with an occasional sword or muzzle-loading pistol. A force equipped with .45 autos, supported by a few BARs, (not to mention the bullet-catching monkey on each back!) had a tremendous, decisive advantage against this enemy.
The men of Westerness advanced to just outside bayonet range, pressing the trigger as rapidly as they could bring accurate fire, and at this range that was very fast. Then the enemy was treated to Broadax, two rangers, their dog, and ten marines sallying forth from the battle line like a high-pressure hose plowing through an anthill.
But before Broadax charged, she had her reserve lob their "cheater." Fielder had put it this way in their training, "The Most Important Rule of a Gunfight is, always cheat, because there are no second-place winners in a gunfight." This was their cheater.
Ten fragmentation grenades, then ten more, and then ten more soared over the firing line as they advanced. While the third volley was still in the air, but before the first volley exploded, Broadax told her marines, "Boys, we're gonna charge through the gap when the second volley explodes! Then we's gonna snag the lizard in the tin can, an' bring 'im back!"
Private Jarvis, standing at the end of the file of ten marines, began to whimper quietly to himself. Yer jist the one we needs, Sarge sez. Saw action wit da bayonet on Broadax's World she sez. Good, broad-shouldered farm stock she sez. Jist the sort I needs behind me on this one she sez. Oh God, get me out of this alive and I swear I'll go back to the farm and never leave.
"Sarge, er, sir," squeaked Jarvis, "I don't think this is a good idea!"
Then the first volley of grenades detonated among the enemy horde, "CHOOM-OOM-OOM!!" with massive concussions hurling Guldur, Goblan and Orak into the air with magical ease.
&n
bsp; "Don't try ta think, son, ye'll hurt yerself," said Broadax, patting as far up Jarvis' back as she could reach.
With that, the second volley went, "CHOOM-OOM-OOM!!"
"Come, on, ye bastards!" roared Broadax, "ye wanna live forever? Yeeeeee-Haaaaw!" This was accompanied by the screeching howl of her monkey, standing on top of her helmet and beating its chest with four little fists. Her ax hit the enemy like a machete through soft bamboo, just as the third volley of fragmentation grenades exploded, several ranks back in the enemy lines.
"CHOOM-OOM-OOM!!"
The six guns of the Stolsh light howitzer battery on the other side of the bridge opened fire, ripping canister rounds into the wings of the advancing enemy mass in a rolling volley. "CRUM!CRUM! CRUM!CRUM!CRUM!CRUMPP!"
The enemy was now confronted with a variety of new experiences, all of them bad. Thirty grenades were exploding in their midst. A battery of artillery was shredding them. A firing line full of semi-automatic pistoleros, supported by two automatic rifles, was advancing toward them. And now cold steel was penetrating into their ranks. All without warning, after a series of successful attacks. The only thing most of the attackers had to respond with was a muzzle-loader that they'd previously fired and hadn't yet gotten around to reloading . . . what with the mad rush and all.
Intelligent members of most species could adapt to almost anything . . . given enough time. Indeed, that might be considered one of the major definitions of intelligent life. Adapting fast enough though, that's the trick. It's the unexpected, the unanticipated, that usually gets you in life. Or death.
A fountain of red follows Broadax's path into the enemy as her marines struggle to keep up. The marines quickly fire both barrels of their muskets and are now slashing and thrusting with bayonets, their monkeys working madly to block incoming bullets and blades.
An enemy blade is barely deflected up from Broadax's face to her helmet by the sadly overworked monkey on her shoulder ("urkk!") where it's further deflected up with a resounding "Clonggg!" Her small heavy skull might be confused and over-taxed by the complexities of "ossifer" duties, but it was designed by ages of selective breeding to be remarkably resistant to falling rocks and ax blows. She shrugs off the hit with little more than a brief instant of cross-eyed distraction, and then she eviscerates her opponent with a quick, upward, backhand slash of her ax.
The stunned enemy formation is rocked backward by this combination of unexpected blows. The ones in the front are retreating. The ones in the rear will eventually start pushing back. There is always a potential for compression in most substances, and compression is exactly what is happening to the attacking enemy forces. Many of them are packed together too tightly to fight effectively, almost none of them have room to reload. Can't fight, can't reload, can't run. The remaining option is to . . . die.
"Dear God I do love the Marines!" Broadax cries up to the rain- filled skies, or perhaps to her monkey, as her ax continues to cut great swaths through the enemy amidst a shower of blood and viscera. Emphasizing every sentence with a sweep of her ax, punctuated in gore and cigar smoke, her monkey working overtime to protect her from bullets and blows, in her deep, gravelly voice she continues her battle chant (with her monkey adding its terrified soprano counterpoint). "Every day's a holiday! (Eeek!) Every meal's a feast! (Eeek!) Every paycheck's a fortune. (Oook!) Every formation's a parade! (Aaak!) An' every battle's an adventure! (Urk?) IN THE MARINES!!"
Now she is standing over Marshall DuuYaan. She clears a space with a horizontal, knee-high sweep of her ax. Curs and piggies, pruned at the knees, are pushed back to flop on the ground by a hedge of marine bayonets. Amazingly, the huge Stolsh marshall is still alive, amidst a pile of his dead soldiers. Broadax heaves him to his feet. (The lead cymbalist, who had climbed up the ravine, fell back onto the toiling percussion section.) A broken sword is dangling from his hand. Now they begin to pull back, the stunned, dazed "lizard in a tin can" staggering and stumbling back with them. ( . . . causing the brass section to lose their grip, just when they'd climbed halfway up.)
Broadax chuckles grimly as she looks at the bedraggled, reeling marshall, "Did anyone git the license number of that truck?"
* * *
Not the be-medalled Commander,
beloved of the throne,
Riding cock-horse to parade when
the bugles are blown,
But the lads who carried the battle and
cannot be known.
* * *
Melville began the battle with an ammo bag slung hanging on his left side, chock full of loaded .45 magazines, all carefully set in, upside-down, bullets pointed forward, ready for rapid reload. Now the bag was almost empty.
With Broadax and her marines safely behind the firing line, and a few precious minutes having been bought, they began pulling back to the bridge. Broadax had her boys chuck three more volleys of frag grenades into the enemy mass, "CHOOM-OOM-OOM!!, CHOOM-OOM-OOM!!, CHOOM-OOM-OOM!!"
A huge Orak plows through the enemy mass, hurling his own troops left and right to get to the front. His drug-hazed eyes focus on Melville, and he charges.
Oh no, thinks Melville, why do the big ones always have to home in on the leaders?
His foe is charging with a big cleaver in one hand, and a shield in the other. Just the enemy's bloodshot eyes and yellow, bristle-covered forehead are visible, peering out over the top of the shield.
The front sight is covering the forehead and . . . _____! A blue hole appears amidst the bristles in the yellow forehead. Again the front sight comes up, this time he covers the hole (aim small miss small!), and . . . _____! A second bluish hole appears right next to the first. Vivid red blood begins to trickle out of the two holes and the huge Orak's eyes cross as though trying to look up at the wound. But he keeps lurching forward, cleaver still raised.
Melville has a moment of panic and despair. If ventilating his skull didn't work, what would? He'd heard rumors about an Orak battle drug that gave their elite fighters great strength and endurance, and the ability to sustain horrific wounds. Now here it was, literally staring him in the face with bloodshot eyes. Indeed, the dribbling wounds in his forehead gave new meaning to the term "bloodshot eyes." Such drugs have often been used in warfare. Fielder had actually addressed this possibility in his class, quoting the semi-mythical Saint Clint the Thunderer, "People ask, What do you do if the bad guy's on drugs? Shoot 'em! But what if it doesn't work? Shoot 'em some more! More lead, more dead!"
Now the enemy was barely six feet away, staggering forward with a host of other foes following him like the tail on a comet. In a split second Melville would be in range of that huge cleaver. The Orak drops his shield just a little and roars in defiance, exposing his two yellow, upward thrusting tusks. Mouth shot. Front sight. Don't jerk the trigger . . . we will fire no projectile before its time . . . prresss trigger and . . . _____!
Brains explode out the back of the foe's head. He has one last, confused, distracted look on his piggish face, then he falls forward. Melville has to skip sideways to avoid having the cleaver chop into his leg.
Melville stops and takes stock for just a split second as he changes magazines. The other members of the firing line are picking off the remaining close-in enemy. Another volley of grenades explodes in the enemy's midst. The BARs roar. The artillery to their rear thunders.
Keith Kreitman, a veteran of Old Earth's World War II, was once asked to describe pitched close combat in words. "Impossible!" he replied. "Because it is all encompassing, six dimensional, from the front, the left, the right, ricochets from the back, exploding shells from above and shaking ground from below. One actually 'feels' the combat in the body.
"It involves blurred vision from sweaty eyes, the acrid choking smell of layers of gunpowder smoke, ear bursting horrific noises, the kinetic nerve vibrations from exploding mortars, hand grenades and shells, the screams of humans, the cries of the wounded, the piercing whine of ricochets of bullets and shrapnel, hiding behind or stepping over bo
dies of perhaps someone you know. All at one time.
"No media can ever duplicate it.
"No mere words can ever convey it . . .
"But, once exposed to the heat of it, it welds you into a bonding, not only with friend, but foe, that no one else, no matter how close to you, will ever be able to share."
* * *
Yeah, thought Melville, there was a lot of that going around today.
There was a brief respite as the enemy kept staggering back. Melville turned to Petreckski, who had just spoken to the engineer commander and was now standing beside him. "Any thoughts?" he yelled.
"Yes, sir," he shouted into Melville's ear "The engineers say they're ready, and there is another 'Thou shalt not,' in the Bible besides the Ten Commandments. 'Thou shalt not be afraid for the arrow that flieth by night, nor for the pestilence that walketh at noonday.' So let us fear not, and get the hell out of here!"
"Volley grenades, and fall back!" Melville shouted, looking back at Broadax to be sure she heard. She smiled, nodded, echoed the command, and the reserve all hurled a grenade.
The reserve, positioned back behind the firing line, was better able to hear and respond to this command. Around Melville the command was echoed, but many members of the firing line were concentrating so hard that they didn't hear the order. These individuals were manhandled back by their comrades, or grabbed by the reserve, and in a matter of seconds the entire line was falling back at a dead run. Melville popped a smoke grenade to cover their retreat, as did Petreckski and a few other leaders.
They raced across the bridge, the medics supporting a few wounded, the BARs bringing up the rear. As they left the bridge, the far end exploded, sending a cloud of wooden shards spinning into the sky. For a brief instant the debris seemed to hang in the sky, and then it came sailing back down. Giving substance to the water drops, and a new meaning to the term "a hard rain."
Two Space War Page 31