Never Sound Retreat

by William R. Forstchen

  The surviving crews of the enemy battery struggled back to their feet, and within seconds were at work once again, loaders running from the still-intact caissons. More and yet more batteries deployed into line, while the twenty guns Schneid had positioned along the northern slope of the hill opened up. Half a dozen of the Bantag guns never even fired a shot before they were smashed by the concentrated blows, but the surviving guns now came into play. The first shots ranged high overhead, plowing into the forest above and behind Andrew, treetops bursting, limbs raining down.

  The Bantag gunners set to work, firing almost as rapidly as their human opponents, concentrating their fire on the battery on the rocky outcropping to Andrew's left. The air around Andrew seemed almost alive, quivering, shaking, as shells screamed in, explosions bursting in the trees, geysers of dirt fountaining upward.

  "Think we better move," Rick shouted. "No sense getting killed when the game's just starting."

  Andrew followed his corps commander up the slope and into the trees, feeling guilty that he was leaving the gunners behind. Kneeling behind a fallen tree, he watched the uneven contest, as the guns seemed to be enveloped in a tornado of fire and slashing iron. The second gun in the line crashed on its side as a shot tore its left wheel off, while in the woods a caisson exploded, several trees toppling from the explosions.

  A battery suddenly opened up to Andrew's right and, surprised, he stood up as the four guns cut loose, their position concealed in the woods.

  "Brought the guns over the top of the hill."

  Andrew looked up in surprise to see Pat coming through the trees from above.

  "Two more batteries on the way over from Ninth Corps. Seemed like this is where Ha'ark was going to hit first," Pat announced.

  "How's it back on the other side?" Andrew shouted, trying to be heard above the cannonade.

  "Half hour or so the first of the buggers on horse will be up."

  "Emil?"

  "Last of the wagons are into the trees. Got two divisions of Ninth Corps digging in on the south slope, the other division and the boys left from Fifth Corps moving in to cover the east slope. What's left of Eleventh Corps is in reserve on top of the hill. Some Bantag with rifles are popping at us from long range, but all the action's up here. So I thought I'd come up for the show."

  Andrew nodded in agreement and realized, that in many ways, he was almost superfluous to this fight. Schneid had done a masterful job of deploying on the north and western slopes, Pat, as usual, had han-dled the rear guard, and Emil had managed to get his wounded safely in.

  Pat stood and started down the slope to where the beleaguered battery continued to fight, the commander pulling the men from his number two gun off to strengthen the ranks of his remaining three pieces.

  "Pat, get the hell back here!" Andrew shouted.

  "Now, Andrew me darlin', this is an artilleryman's fight, it is!" Pat roared, and, going over to the number one gun pitched in, shoving the gun sergeant aside to aim the piece himself.

  Feeling as if some sort of challenge had been offered, Andrew stood and looked down the line. The infantry was deployed, men pressed low, enduring the bombardment. Motioning for his guidon bearer to follow, Andrew started to walk the length of the line, Rick falling in by his side.

  "Sir, aren't these kinds of displays a little ridiculous in a modern war?" Rick asked, ducking low and pulling Andrew down with him as a shell burst directly overhead, clipping the top of a tree in half and sending the branches and severed trunk showering down around them.

  Andrew forced a grin.

  "The men expect it." Andrew could see the troops looking up at him. "And besides, there are times when an army commander's life no longer counts."

  "Damn it, sir, you stole that line," Schneid said in English, laughing. "Hancock said that just before he got shot at Gettysburg."

  Andrew, slightly embarrassed that his theft of a damn good line had been found out, was tempted to order Schneid to leave him alone.

  A high-pitched shriek echoed up from the smoke, which now obscured the valley where the Bantag were deploying. Andrew turned, gazing intently, and finally saw it. The first of the land cruisers was advancing, passing through the line of guns, swarms of Bantag infantry following.

  "Press it in!" Ha'ark shouted.

  "My Qar Qarth, their land cruisers are moving down on us from behind." One of his staff pointed to the swirling columns of black coal smoke.

  Ha'ark turned about to look toward the northwest. The enemy relief column was clearly in view, a dozen land cruisers moving in line abreast, only a light screen of his troops falling back before their advance.

  His own cruisers were deployed, nearly thirty machines. More than one was already falling behind. Looking back to the south, he could see the machines which had broken down in the advance, one of them exploding. If he turned about now, to face the threat, it would mean withdrawing, moving the machines yet again. How many more would break down?

  "Pull five regiments of the Fourth Umen, three batteries of artillery," Ha'ark ordered. "Send them back to slow the advance. In two hours we can finish off Keane and his men trapped on the hill, then we shall turn and deal with the other threat."

  Cursing, Marcus walked around the ironclad, the driver standing on top of the machine oblivious to the sniper rounds whipping past.

  "Sir, the cylinder head's cracked. We have to shut it down, get a new cylinder from supply. I'm sorry."

  "That's two machines down, and we haven't even gotten into the fight yet," Marcus roared.

  The driver leapt down from the top of the machine and took off his helmet and chain-mail face guard which protected him from any flying splinters that would shard off on the inside of the machine when it was hit.

  The driver watched with obvious envy as the ironclad commanded by Timokin crept past, the exuberant major piloting the machine with the top hatch open. Timokin snapped off a smart salute to Marcus and joyfully pointed toward the battle ahead.

  Marcus returned the boy's salute, then fixed his attention back toward Rocky Hill, which was now shrouded in smoke and a near-continual rain of bursting shells. Through breaks in the smoke he could see the first wave of Bantag land cruisers creeping up the slope, guns firing.

  "God help Andrew now."

  "I tell you this is going to be bad," Feyodor shouted.

  "Just do the drop right. We're only going to get one pass."

  Looking down from ten thousand feet, Jack Petracci watched as the line of Bantag land cruisers deployed in open line for the attack up the hill.

  "Hang on and keep an eye open for their airships."

  Pushing the stick forward, he started the airship into a dive, cutting throttles back and pulling the release valve to drain off a couple of hundred cubic feet of hydrogen.

  Within seconds the airspeed climbed up to sixty, then seventy miles an hour. The stick felt taut in his hands, and a shudder ran through the airship as they were buffeted by the warm midday thermals rising from the open prairie.

  Watching the smoke, he tried to gauge the wind speed near the surface, running calculations in his mind for drift, then nosed over even steeper. The height-indicator gauge continued to spin lower, dropping through five thousand feet, then four.

  The enemy line was directly below; he could see the upturned faces of the Bantag, a quick glimpse of a rider on a white horse. A spray of splinters kicked up next to his feet, the rifle bullet passing between his legs and crashing through the top of the cockpit.

  "Damn, they're hitting us!" Feyodor cried.

  "Just hang on and get ready."

  The smoke-wreathed hill was directly ahead, and he continued the dive, crossing through three thousand, then two, trying to remember that the hill most likely stood five hundred feet high.

  "Get ready, get ready . . . now!"

  He felt the weight drop away, and an instant later he yanked the stick back hard into his stomach. The nose of his ship started to rise, splinters kicking around him as
first one, then half a dozen bullets crashed through the cab. Skimming low over the trees, the airship raced over the top of the hill, the ground finally dropping away as he pulled up and away. Focusing at last on the ground southwest of Rocky Hill, he saw where block formations of Bantag riders, tens of thousands of them, were steadily moving up, and a sense of futility tore into his soul, that all that he had risked to drop the three packages would be meaningless when the assault finally came in.

  Andrew stepped out from the protection of the rough breastworks to watch as Petracci pulled up, skimming low over the top of the hill, while, behind him, three multicolored umbrellas opened, a red-lacquered box swinging under each of them.

  The breeze carried the umbrellas across the face of the hill, both sides pausing in their desperate struggle to watch as the packages floated to earth, landing in a line two hundred yards in front of the humans' position.

  Schneid was already past Andrew, shouting, pointing at the boxes, screaming for several companies to get up and rush forward to retrieve the drop. More than a hundred men spread out, racing down the hill, and within seconds the advancing Bantag resumed their fire, men dropping as they raced toward the boxes. As the first men reached a package a cheer went up as the rope attaching the box to the umbrella was cut loose. Four men grabbed the box and started back up the hill. A shell detonated above them, sweeping all four down. Others leapt forward, grabbed the box, and continued up the slope while a surge of Bantag skirmishers charged forward, racing for the third box, which had landed closest to their lines. A desperate battle flared around the red-painted crate as half a dozen Bantag reached the container and a vicious hand-to-hand struggle ensued. Humans and Bantag slashed at each other with bayonets; an officer leapt atop the crate and fired his revolver straight into the face of a Horde warrior, dropping him before being bayoneted in the back.

  Another company dashed forward, charging through the high grass, the flag of the Third Suzdal in the lead. The flag bearer raced to the box and planted the colors next to it while his comrades swarmed around the container, hoisted it, and started to run back up the slope. A charge of Bantag leapt out of the grass, this time going for the colors, the flag bearer crumpling when struck by half a dozen bullets. A groan went up from the line, and the men of the Third Suzdal turned about, charging down the slope to retrieve their precious colors.

  Schneid, screaming encouragement, started after them. Andrew found himself caught up in the passion of the moment as well. Drawing his revolver, he pressed down the hill toward the fight. A Bantag hoisted the colors high in triumph, just as a color guard sergeant leapt upon the Bantag's back and, grabbing his head, bared his opponent's throat and cut it.

  Now a wild cry went up from the Bantag side as their champion fell, and, by the hundreds, skirmishers rose from the grass and began to rush forward. The sergeant tried to pick up the colors and was hit, dropping to the ground, the colors clutched in his hands.

  Andrew could sense that the fight for the colors was out of control, that regimental and corps pride would bring on a hand-to-hand struggle forward of his position, and in such a fight humans were bound to lose against their eight- and nine-foot foes.

  "Sound recall, damn it!" he roared, turning to a bugler. "Sound recall!"

  The bugler began the call, but the passion of the Third and its brother regiments was up as men surged down the hill, colliding in the open field with the advanced lines of Bantag warriors. Bantag artillery now turned on the struggle, pouring in shells regardless of losses to their own side.

  A drummer boy, casting aside his instrument, leapt forward, darting low through the grass, weaving his way through the struggle. Falling atop the sergeant who was lying atop the colors, the boy pulled out a knife and slashed the flag free from its staff. Turning, he sprinted back through the melee, stumbling as a rifle ball spun him around. Coming back up, the boy limped up the slope, holding the flag high over his head. At the sight of his triumph the troops in the melee broke off the struggle and streamed back up the slope, cheering the drummer boy as he paused atop the breastworks and defiantly waved the flag.

  Pat, still in command of the battery, had already ordered his guns swung about, and, as the last of the troops withdrew, he sprayed the grass with canister. With the barrels of the guns depressed, the rounds cut through at knee height, so that it looked like a giant scythe had swept half an acre in an instant, the grass blown high in the air to swirl about, bodies of Horde warriors and the few Republic soldiers caught in the whirlwind, disintegrating under the spray of iron.

  "It's nothing but damn artillery ammunition!" someone shouted, and, turning, Andrew saw a panting crowd of soldiers kneeling by one of the three boxes, a sergeant, using his bayonet like a crowbar, had torn the lid off.

  Andrew went over and looked in the box and saw twenty wooden containers stacked inside, the standard shipping sheath for fixed rounds of powder charge and a ten-pound shell.

  "We got cut to ribbons for this shit?" the sergeant roared with disgust.

  Andrew started to turn away in confusion, wondering what madness drove Petracci to risk a precious airship simply to drop three boxes of shells when one of the soldiers stood up, holding a sheet of paper.

  "This was inside the box, sir. Better look at it."

  Andrew snatched the sheet of paper from the soldier, ducking as a mortar run crumped nearby. He scanned its contents—it was a handwritten note from Chuck Ferguson. Grinning, he stood again.

  "Get that box up by those caissons. One of you men pull out a shell and come with me. Sergeant, find the other two boxes and get them over here. Now!"

  Andrew darted across the slope to where Pat was still working his three guns. Andrew grabbed him by the shoulder and motioned for him to follow him into the boulders. Pat reluctantly followed. Reaching the boulders, Andrew ducked and showed Pat the sheet of paper.

  "It's from Ferguson. He's had three boxes of artillery ammunition dropped in on us."

  "What the hell for?" Pat roared. "Three boxes aren't worth ant piss to us compared to what we need."

  "Look at this," Andrew shouted, and as he handed the paper to Pat, he motioned for him to uncase the shell.

  Pat pulled off the lid of the shell container and let the round slide out. "Damn thing feels light; what the hell is this?" Then his voice trailed away as he held the round and looked back at the sheet of paper explaining its use.

  "Son of a bitch! This will give us something to play with now!"

  "You're going to have to wait," Andrew shouted. "It says three hundred yards is maximum range. Make it a 150. Let them get up in a group. I want this to hit all at once!"

  Grinning, Pat nodded.

  "How many rounds do we have?"

  "Three boxes—I guess sixty—so you have to make them count."

  "I'll pick out my best crews. It's going to be tough, Andrew. They'll be right on top of us."

  "I know, but at least we have something."

  A thunderclap ignited to their right as another caisson blew, the blast slashing through the woods, knocking down dozens of men.

  Andrew looked over the boulder and saw the enemy land cruisers relentlessly pushing up the slope, now less than eight hundred yards away, swarms of infantry moving with them. The thirty land cruisers had stopped and were now bombarding the hill, while farther back on the plains and in the ruins of the village mortar crews were relentlessly at work.

  The bombardment was beyond anything Andrew had ever endured, surpassing even Hispania for its intensity. These were not Merki firing cannons they barely understood; the enemy before him were disciplined and well trained, their fire coming in with frightful accuracy.

  The tearing sound of a volley erupted behind Andrew, and he looked up the slope into the forest.

  "Sounds like things are opening on the other side. Pat, you're in charge here. Get a messenger to me once those damn land cruisers start moving again. I'll be on the other side."

  Andrew scrambled out of the boulder f
ield, calling for his staff. Mounting, he started up the steep slope, weaving through the forest, flinching as shells crashed through the trees. Smoke was billowing where part of the woods, in spite of the driving rain of the previous days, had caught on fire. Wounded men were crawling up the slope, trying to get to the reverse side, and he could sense a growing demoralization. Reaching the pinnacle of the hill, he reined in for a moment, moving around an artillery crew who were busy felling trees to open up a field of fire, one of the guns already in play. Someone had ordered the lightly wounded and a reserve regiment to build breastworks around the pinnacle and they staggered about, ducking whenever a shell screamed in.

  A medical officer came up to Andrew and saluted.

  "Their cavalry is pressing in, units armed with rifles; they're dismounting and pushing up the slope."

  "Any artillery?"

  "We saw a couple of batteries, but I don't think they're in play yet."

  As if in challenge to the major's words a shell thundered in from the southeast and exploded in the treetops. The major looked up at Andrew and shrugged.

  "Where's Emil?"

  "Down there, sir. There's a ravine running down the east slope. That's where's he's putting the wounded."

  Andrew saluted and rode off, picking his way through the forest, passing hundreds of wounded men who were hunkered low against the barrage.

  The ground suddenly sloped off sharply, massive boulders blocking his way. He spotted the green-cross flag of the hospital corps and rode toward it. A makeshift operating theater had been erected under a canvas awning, and Andrew saw Emil at work. Unable to ride farther since every foot of ground was occupied by a wounded man, Andrew dismounted, making his way through the forlorn wreckage of battle. Orderlies moved through the press, passing out water, one crew operating on an anesthetized patient right on the ground. Horrified, Andrew realized they were cutting off the man's arm and he saw a pile of bloody limbs lying in a shallow pit.