Never Sound Retreat

by William R. Forstchen

  With the stub of a pencil, Hans traced out the extent of Ha'ark's breakthrough in the north and the suspected positions of the umens pressing up from the south.

  In the minutes since they had gathered together there was no longer a need for the kerosene light, the sky to the east brightening with the dawn, though the western horizon was dark with clouds that threatened to bring rain by midday.

  Hans sipped the scalding hot tea from his battered tin field cup and munched on a piece of hardtack with a slab of salt pork on top.

  "Well, how many of you are for breaking out to the north?"

  "Only way I can see it," Bates announced. Using the cigar he had been chewing on, the corps commander traced out the route through the mountains.

  "Set up a blocking force on our defensive line. Fall back to our base of supplies, then cut our way north put pressure on that bastard. O'Donald and his four corps must be pressing back from the east; they'll be bringing up reserves from the west; we'll have him in a three-way vise; we'll be reunited within a week. "That last report said he had maybe three, four umens at most," Watley interjected.

  Hans nodded, saying nothing, looking around the other officers. He had trained all of them, some as far back as the drill field in front of the state capital building in Augusta, others before Suzdal and Roum.

  Hans looked over at Ketswana. "What do you think?" Ketswana shook his head.

  "Go this way," he said, and with his finger he traced a line to the south and west.

  Several of the officers chuckled tolerantly at what they thought was the opinion of an amateur, but Hans's steely gaze stilled their voices.

  A rumble of rifle fire echoed up the valley, and the group turned to look. A dismounted line of Bantag skirmishers was probing in. Over at the telegraph station, set up under an awning, the key started to clatter, while off to the southwest there came the hollow thump of artillery.

  Hans sat waiting patiently, munching on his hardtack while an argument about Ketswana's suggestion broke out. The telegrapher edged through the crowd and handed Hans the message, the group falling silent.

  "Report from water tank number twenty-five," Hans announced, and motioned toward the map. The tank was twenty-five miles south of Junction City, where the open steppe started to give way toward the successive series of ridges forming the Green mountains.

  "Station shutting down. Bantag land cruiser and three regiments of Bantag infantry approaching." Hans put the message down next to the map. "Boys, if we head north, do you know what will happen? There'll be a dozen passes we'll have to fight through. Bates, Watley, you remember the

  march to Antietam?"

  The two nodded. The others in the group looked at the two and back to Hans respectfully. The Battle of Antietam, the first action of the Thirty-fifth Maine, was the stuff of legends, and those few who had been with the Thirty-fifth from the beginning still spoke of it with awe.

  "Turner Gap. We was in reserve for that and saw the Iron Brigade go in. You saw it, so did I. A few Reb regiments held up the entire army for the better part of the day before we pushed them out. Boys, It'll be the same thing here. If I was Ha'ark, I'd move as quick as I could, throw half an umen up into the mountains, and lock us in tight."

  "Don't we have anything holding the passes?"

  "Some garrison troops, old men guarding bridges. It'd be a day, two days before we could throw any type of sufficient force up there. We're talking about Ha'ark's elite troops coming on against old men, disabled veterans, rear-line troops. They'll have the passes for ten miles into the mountains by tonight, and thirty miles by tomorrow."

  The group was silent as he traced the rail line and Its twisting, curving path through the mountains out on the map.

  "So, we try and hold along our defensive line while pushing a corps north? How long did we actually think we'd hold them up out here before having to fall back?"

  "A week," Bates ventured.

  Hans snorted with disdain. "If we had managed to get the railroad built all the way up to our defensive positions, then run a parallel track the length of the line to move troops back and forth, and on top o that had six corps, maybe we could have stoppep them out here. Our supply head is forty miles back and there won't be any more supplies coming our way. If we hold this position for three days, I'll be amazed; then the squeeze starts. Remember, our plan was to abandon this line if pressed and then hold in the mountains. The problem is our rear has been compromised, they can bottle us up, and we starve Hans continued to trace out the lines as he talked. "Three corps falling back, pressed by a hundred thousand Bantag from the south while we try and cut our way north. Let's say we do cut through. The Bantag won't leave a scrap of track from anything they've taken, every bridge will be blown. Grante we'll slow the bastards down pursuing us, but they'll,be weaving through every pass they can find along a 150-mile front while we're withdrawing. Gentlemen Ha'ark has put us in a trap."

  Hans sighed and leaned over the map, his whitened knuckles bearing down on it.

  "We'll be trapped in the mountains from both sides, supplies running out, and they can finish off at their leisure."

  "What about Pat's army, or troops coming up from Roum?" Bates asked.

  "Even if Pat can break through," Hans replied wearily, "he'll be forced to drive westward, to try and break through toward Roum. Trying to link up with us won't solve anything other than to put both of us into the trap. Remember, interior lines. Ha'ark can pivot and turn, facing each threat as it develops."

  Hans traced out the lines on the map again. "Pat pivots south toward us, Ha'ark cuts him off from Roum. Pat drives toward Roum, Ha'ark can still keep us in the bottle."

  "But if we go south, that takes the pressure off Ha'ark," Flavius interjected. "By going north, we'll force him to divert some of his strength to block us."

  Hans nodded and took another sip of tea, raising his head to look at the skirmish, which was broadening out across the valley. A mounted Bantag unit of regimental strength came up out of a curtain of ground fog, facing a scathing volley from a dug-in

  line of infantry.

  "True. But again, remember the Antietam campaign, South Mountain. One damn Reb division dug In at the passes tied up most of the Army of the Potomac for an entire day. All Ha'ark needs to do is divert four or five thousand troops, and we'll bleed ourselves while being the diversion you talked about. Gentlemen, this army is not a diversion. My goal is to have as much of it as possible so it can fight again."

  A gentle gust of wind, damp and cooling, swirled through the encampment from the west. Hans raised his head, sniffing the wind. It reminded him of days out on the prairie, the first scent of rain coming down out of the Rockies after endless days of scorching heat.

  "And there is one final thing to consider here. Retreating is exactly what Ha'ark expects us to do, what he wants us to do, and damn him, that is exactly why we will not do it."

  He looked back over at Ketswana, who nodded in agreement.

  "We'll continue to retreat today, as if heading back into our defensive lines. At the same time I want all supplies that can be moved loaded up. We should be back to our defensive lines by late afternoon, and the men are to get some rest. As soon as it gets dark we begin to shift everything west, abandoning th line as we go. The following morning we break ou toward the southwest."

  "Back out in the open?" Flavius asked.

  "Exactly." He traced a line on the map, following the Green Mountains southwestward to where they finally dropped down to the sea.

  "We make for Tyre."

  "That's a Cartha town; they're neutral, sir," Bates said.

  "It's the only port city on the east coast of the Inland Sea that our ships can get into. We take Tyre, and the hell with their so-called neutrality."

  "They'll cut us off." Bates drew a line straight across the map from where the Bantag umens were advancing. "Pin us against the mountains."

  Hans pointed toward the western sky.

  "We'll have rain to
day, maybe even tomorrow. With luck, it'll keep their damn airships down.

  "We'll form up tight, square formation, supplies, wounded in the middle, each corps its own square. And then we just move, take Tyre, and get picked up."

  "By who?"

  Hans smiled. "Bullfinch will get something there. He pulled me out before; he'll do it again."

  "My God, sir, you're talking about evacuating three corps, nearly fifty thousand men."

  "Actually closer to forty thousand. Bates, I'm detaching you and one of your divisions to head up Into the mountains. Act as if you're trying to break through; it should throw Ha'ark off for a while. You'll disperse out, raise hell, bushwhack. They might even detach some of their units to pursue you. In fact,I suspect Ha'ark is counting on the umens in front of us to be the force to strengthen him. We, however, will draw them in the opposite direction, away from the main fight."

  "Our pickup, sir?"

  Hans smiled sadly.

  "I can't promise that, son. Fight as long as you can, then break into small units and head for the coast. I'll try and get some light ships in to pick you up."

  Bates nodded.

  "I won't leave you up there, Bates. We need to throw Ha'ark off, make him think there's some force coming up, and that's your job. Throw him off, then head west."

  "But Bullfinch, sir?"

  "He'll be there. I sent half a dozen mounted couriers north last night with the message for a pickup."

  The roar of skirmish fire was building into long, sustained volleys, and the division forward was beginning to leapfrog back, men moving at the double. Just forward of where Hans was holding his meeting, a battery deployed opened up, lobbing its shells over the retreating line.

  "Gentlemen, that's our plan. We've got a lot to do today. I'll have your orders drawn up. Now get moving."

  He studied the group as they saluted. He could see that most of them were not convinced, shocked by his unorthodox move. As the assembly broke up officers calling for their staffs, who had been watching quietly at the edge of the circle, Hans looked over at Ketswana.

  "They don't like it, my friend." Ketswana said.

  "They don't have to. Just as long as they do it."

  "This message you sent."

  Hans motioned Ketswana to draw closer.

  "We won't know if it got through till we get to Tyre. If the ships are there, the message got through. If not . . ." He shrugged his shoulders.

  Ketswana shook his head and laughed.

  "I always knew you were a madman."

  "That's why we'll win."

  Andrew was off the train before it had even come to a full stop. Word had already been sent up from the telegraph station twenty miles west of Port Lincoln and a long row of ambulances was waiting. Emil pushed his way through the crowd of stretcher bearers, grabbed hold of Andrew, and guided him up to the porch of the station.

  "Emil, I'm all right."

  "Like hell you are," Emil snapped, forcing him to sit down. He took off Andrew's glasses, examining his eyes, then put his ear to Andrew's chest.

  "Breathe deeply."

  Andrew did as ordered, knowing he wouldn't escape until Emil was satisfied.

  Next he took Andrew's hand, and, for the first time, Andrew muttered a protest, wincing as Emil ordered him to flex it.

  Opening his black medical bag he pulled out a jar of ointment and smeared it on Andrew's face and hand. He started to bandage the hand, Andrew protesting that he needed it to write.

  "Get someone to take dictation. You were lucky, Andrew, damn lucky."

  Andrew told him about the sacrifice of his staff, first to protect him from the exploding boiler, then the rush to the next train.

  "Stanisloff, Kal's nephew, is dead." Andrew sighed.

  Emil paused in his work and looked back at the flatcar, where more than twenty bodies were stretched out.

  "He saved my life. I think he's the one who knocked me down and covered me when the boiler burst."

  Andrew leaned back and closed his eyes, struggling for control. It was one thing to break down in the dark, another to do it now, the sense of panic hanging in the air, thick and palatable as the scent of death.

  "Oh God," Andrew whispered. "How many have died like that for me?"

  "It's not just you, Keane," Emil said softly while snipping off the end of the bandage. "It's the Republic, it's winning this war. That's what he died for. He couldn't get us out; you can. That's what he died for. So you can get all of us out."

  "Thank you for the guilt, good doctor."

  Emil patted him on the shoulder. "Anytime it's necessary, Andrew, anytime."

  "What's happening with Pat?"

  "Telegraph line just came backup. Near thing, almost got flanked, but managed to pull back to their depot. The first trains are coming returning with the wounded."

  He paused. "Hell of a fight for him yesterday. Ha of Eleventh Corps overrun. Five thousand dead an< wounded."

  A booming explosion erupted, shattering the windowpanes behind Andrew, a geyser of dirt soaring up less than a hundred feet away, just behind the last car of the train.

  "What the hell?" Andrew shouted, standing up.

  "Just their damn ironclads," Emil announced. "Put a few shells in the hospital a half hour ago. Most of their shooting is damn poor though."

  "Ironclads here?"

  "Apparently moved up during the night. The hundred-pound Parrott is keeping them back, though just an annoyance more than anything else at th moment."

  Andrew stood up and walked to the side of the station. Shading his eyes from the early-morning light, he looked out to sea and saw four ships lying a couple of miles offshore. A jet of smoke erupted from one and long seconds later a tower of water shot up a couple of hundred yards short of what was left of Petersburg.

  "They think she's still worth something, so that's where most of the fire's been directed."

  Andrew stood silent, still not quite able to grasp] that in twenty-four hours so much had been reversed.

  Emil joined him, offering a flask of vodka.

  "You haven't slept. Take a drink, and let me give you something for the pain. You need some rest."

  Andrew looked down at Emil and shook his head.

  "Is there anything you can actually do at this moment?" Emil asked.

  "We have to deploy toward Junction City, try and

  slow them down, save as much of the line as possible."

  "Rest first, Andrew. There'll be time enough later. Let some others do the worrying for a little while. I'll see to it."

  Andrew felt a moment of surprise as he lay down on the cot in his office, surprised that he had, in fact, agreed to Emil's orders, and then there was nothing but silence and the nightmare of a boy dying in his arms.

  Chapter Eight

  "My God, Vincent, you look like hell."

  Vincent Hawthorne smiled as he pulled up a chair by Ferguson's desk and sat down.

  "Two days and nights on one of your trains will do it to you."

  Vincent looked at his old friend closely. Ferguson seemed to have slipped even more since their last meeting; there was an almost translucent glow to his skin, a pale ghostly quality that he knew was typic of consumption victims.

  Taking off his rain-soaked campaign hat and poncho, Vincent sighed with relief, gladly accepting the mug of hot tea Chuck offered.

  "I have to be at the White House in an hour, but I wanted to see you first. It's actually the main reason I came all the way back here."

  "I'm flattered."

  Vincent smiled.

  "You might not appreciate what I need and the timetable to deliver it."

  "Something to stop the land cruisers."

  "Exactly. Look, I took notes of everything I saw out there. Ranges we fired at, effect of weapons. I also know the reports on our own land ironclads. We're faster, but they'll kill our machines in a head-on attack." As he spoke he pulled a pad of paper out of his haversack and laid it on Chuck's desk.

&
nbsp; "What's the latest? I've been locked up in here," Chuck asked absently, thumbing through Vincent's notes.

  "Marcus is moving Tenth Corps up, reinforcing the survivors of Fifth Corps who are digging in west of Junction City. Ha'ark moved about eight miles west, then stopped, holding a ridgeline and the pass facing where First and Second Divisions of Fifth Corps dug in. He hasn't pushed any farther since."

  "Why?"

  "I think he's stretched. Burned up a lot of munitions taking Junction City, and pushing a frontal attack will cost too much. My bet is he has enough reserve supplies for one damn good fight, and he's waiting for reinforcements and additional supplies to come up first. Then he'll broaden his hold to the west and really lock the door shut on Andrew, Pat, and Hans."

  Chuck laughed softly.

  "So the Quaker guns I recommended scared him off from attacking?"

  Vincent nodded uncomfortably. Any reference to his own Quaker upbringing, even unintentional, triggered a sense of guilt for the pacifist heritage he had abandoned in favor of war.

  "We've got forty logs, painted black, with just their lake barrels exposed, the rest concealed inside covered bombproofs so their flyers can't see them from above. Damn, it's the same trick the Rebs used at Manassas. Never thought it'd work, but I could see Ha'ark studying our position and immediately afterward they started to dig in rather than attack."

  "What about Andrew and Hans?"

  "Not a word since we lost Junction City."

  "They'll find a way out."

  "Are you so certain of that?" Vincent asked quietly.

  "And you aren't?"

  "Between us?"

  Ferguson nodded.

  "It doesn't look good. Junction City was our major supply depot. We had it there to shift equipment either east or south as needed. Chuck, we lost enough ammunition and rations to keep half a dozen corps in the field for a month. We lost the equal of all the ammunition expended at Hispania. Pat and Hans have enough with them for four, maybe five days of sustained action, then it's going to get tight. If there's going to be a breakthrough, it's got to come from our side, not theirs."