Time Commander (The First Admiral Series)

by Benning, William J.

  “Not yet, Major!” Billy yelled, “Wait until they reach two hundred yards, and if they reach the one hundred yard posts, pour it on thick…as thick as you can!”

  “I’ve got the case shot, sir, but we’re starting to run low on powder!” Smith said.

  Another rifle volley smashed out its hail of death and destruction at the advancing enemy.

  “Can you use rocket powder in your guns?!” Billy asked.

  “Yes, sir!” Smith said.

  “Very well, have Major Russell start to dismantle his surviving rockets, use the propellant for the guns, and start fusing the warheads to use as grenades,” Billy ordered.

  “Major Russell won’t be pleased!” Smith smiled, knowing that the Rocket Troop commander wouldn’t like to be disassembling his weapons.

  “He’ll get over it,” Billy said, “tell him that his lads can throw the bombs!”

  “Yes, sir!” Smith replied with a grin.

  Leaving the eastern gun, Billy decided to visit the eastern wall before returning to the water supply wagon. Walking down the eastern wall, Billy could see that the Zulus had outflanked the position completely and were trying to force a crossing of the donga. So far, there were no Zulu bodies on the British side of the donga, but considerable numbers on the opposite side. As he watched, encouraging the officers, NCOs, and Troopers of the Natal Cavalry, he noticed some Zulus trying to climb over the lip of the donga, on the British side, who were promptly shot back down by the cavalrymen. Durnford, it appeared, had also taught his Troopers how to shoot, as well as to march and parade.

  Billy had almost reached the distance of the southern wall, when he suddenly heard the orders from the north wall to cease fire and fix bayonets. The Zulus had gotten within three hundred yards of the position. Things were getting serious now. At the run, Billy dashed back to the water supply wagon, but had only gotten half way to his destination when the volleys started up again. Breathless from his dash, Billy scampered back up onto the wagon next to the large water barrels, now regretting his little excursion down the firing lines.

  “They’re within three hundred yards, fixed bayonets, sir,” Major Pulleine reported.

  “Surely, they can’t take much more of this?” Billy scanned the battlefield to the north of his position.

  It was like a charnel house out there; dead, dying and injured Zulus lay everywhere, and yet, they still came on. All across the front of the north wall from the six hundred yard markers onwards, the bodies were thick on the ground. More of a shock was the realisation that there had been casualties amongst the British defenders. The Zulus who carried firearms had gotten within effective range and had managed to hit seven redcoats. One was already dead, as indicated by the blanket covered from behind the Quartermasters wagon. Billy was pleased to note that their webbing, with the ammunition pouches, and their rifles were not with them. Someone from their units had grabbed the precious bullets, and their weapons, before the men were carried off to the surgeons.

  From his left, Billy heard the cannon fire once again, but this time there was something different about it. The sharp BOOM of the round shot firing was now replaced by the flatter CRACK of case shot being fired. The Zulus had gotten within two hundred yards. Now, they really were coming to the crisis point. If the Zulus got beyond the one hundred yard line, in sufficient numbers, then there would be a vicious hand-to-hand melee before the barricade was overrun. Looking to the east and west walls, Billy could see that the Natal cavalrymen were on top of the situation. A handful of Zulus had managed to clamber up onto the British side of the donga. But as he watched, they were in the process of being targeted and shot down. The real fight was going to be on the north wall.

  Clambering onto the water barrels stacked in the wagon, Billy raised himself up as high as he could possibly could, and scanned the Zulus approaching the north wall. They were still coming forward at the run, and still being shot down by the volleys from the riflemen. To his right, the cannon bellowed and belched a great plume of smoke. The projectiles from the weapon hurtled downrange and snatched ten Zulu warriors from their feet; shredding them to a red bleeding and twitching ruin in the maelstrom of fire.

  “Dear God, we’re doing murder out there, sir,” Pulleine said.

  “Well, Major, it’s them or us.”

  Strangely, at that moment, Billy did feel surprisingly calm. Perhaps, it was the influence of the part of his mind that was Teg Portan. When the pressure and stress was greatest, Portan had a habit of being icy calm. Now, Billy felt that calmness, and could see the events around him unfolding with the greatest clarity that he had experienced all that day. His instinct also told him that it was time to get down into the firing line.

  Grabbing the rifle that had been supplied by the Ganthorans, he dropped down from the water supply wagon and made a path directly to the centre of the north wall.

  “Come on, make a hole!” Billy shoved and barged numerous red-coats out of his way to reach the front rank of the firing line.

  The burly red-coated sergeant with the bushy sideburns, along with a few of the riflemen stared in open-mouthed disbelief. Never in their lives had they seen an officer, let alone a senior officer, lift up a rifle and join the firing line. Then, it dawned upon the sergeant just how serious the situation must be if the colonel was taking a hand in the defence. Many of the riflemen smiled at the unusual sight of the Commanding Officer with a rifle, and Billy was able to see their teeth shining through the grime and soot of the constant firing of their rifles.

  “Come on lads, out of the way! I’m not letting you have all the fun!” Billy grinned, barging his way to the barricade.

  He landed up beside what looked like a campaign table with a couple of empty wooden crates and several mealie bags piled up on top. Well, at least it’ll be comfortable Billy thought, resting the barrel of the rifle on one of the mealie bags as he loaded it.

  From there, it was a simple step to looking out onto the battlefield. Now, Billy was starting to see the Zulus up close and personal without the aid of his field glasses. At over one hundred and fifty yards, they looked a lot closer.

  “Right, you ‘orrible shower- Load!” The sergeant began the litany of the firing drill.

  “Present!” Billy, like the other riflemen drew the butt of the weapon up to his shoulder.

  “Aim!” Billy drew a bead on a large muscular Zulu with what looked like a top knot in his hair.

  “FIRE!” Billy gently squeezed the cold metal trigger.

  In an instant, the world in front of Billy Caudwell vanished in a great cloud of acrid, burning, dirty grey smoke, and he felt the kick of the rifles recoil on his shoulder. Whether he hit the large Zulu, Billy was unsure, but when the smoke cleared from in front of him a few moments later, the tall muscular figure was no longer loping confidently forward with his war cub and shield in hand.

  Almost at once, Billy felt the enormous exhilaration, and the feeling of raw, naked power that holding and using a firearm gave him. This was nothing like he had ever experienced before. He had fired at targets on the range aboard Aquarius, and the rocks out on the desert of Chronos. Never had he fired at a moving, even if it was computer-generated, human target. However, he had no time to savour the sensation. Quickly, and with nimble fingers, he drew forward the lever to eject the spent cartridge. From his tunic pocket, he fished out a new cartridge, and pushed it quickly into the rifle’s breech. Then, with one sharp movement, he pulled the lever back and snapped the breech closed.

  “Present!” The bushy-bearded sergeant made his presence known as Billy drew the rifle up to his shoulder.

  “Aim!” Billy targeted a smaller, slighter warrior with a brown loin cloth and black cow-hide shield.

  “FIRE!” the sergeant ordered.

  Once again the world in front of him disappeared in smoke and fire, and the rifle kicked against his shoulder, but, this time, Billy knew he had hit the target. The small, slight warrior was on his knees, having dropped his shield and wea
pons. Clutching his abdomen, the warrior keeled over onto his face and lay still.

  Got you! Billy thought, and found that his hands were automatically working the mechanism of the rifle and slotting a new cartridge into the rifle.

  By the eighth shot, Billy’s eyes were starting to sting, and his shoulder was starting to ache. But, by that point, the Zulus had reached the one hundred yard markers.

  The long, loping strides of the warriors suddenly ceased as they ran into the broken glass and nails set down earlier that day. Even with bare feet conditioned to hard marches and running for many years, the sharp edges of the glass and points of the nails tore and stabbed at the Zulus’ soles. The first warriors to reach the glass and nail trap lurched to a halt, with those following them either running into or being blocked by their injured comrades, or else simply running further into the trap themselves.

  “This is it lads, give them everything you’ve got!” Billy fired his rifle at a lurching Zulu warrior, who carried a white shield with what looked like a corn cob at the top.

  The British officers and NCOs, seeing the Zulu attack grinding to a halt, urged the tired riflemen on, and stepped up their firing routine. “Load...present...aim...FIRE!” they shouted, speeding up the tempo of the drill. In the centre of the firing line, Billy Caudwell lost all idea of the concept of time as he repeated the drill of loading and firing at the Zulus who were trying to extricate themselves from the trap he had set for them. The riflemen, sensing that the Zulus were not going to overwhelm their position, and realising that this was their big chance to drive them off, somehow found a second wind. As the adrenaline surged through their bodies, their tired, aching limbs suddenly didn’t hurt any more. Their stinging eyes no longer hurt and the raging thirst from lack of water and the salty taste of the smoke in their mouths abated. Their bruised shoulders found a new strength, as they loaded and fired like men possessed.

  The cannon bellowed once more, his time a much duller CRACK than before.

  He’s double-shotted them, Billy speculated as he loaded and fired at the carnage and confusion ahead of him.

  Major Smith had indeed double-shotted the cannon. Instead of one case shot being used, the Major had increased the powder charge and put two case shots into the barrel. When the gun had been fired, twice the number of projectiles had slashed downrange to tear into the stumbling and lurching Zulus. At one hundred yards, Major Smith couldn’t miss the target.

  The volleys hammered into the mass of Zulus who had been brought to a halt by the glass and nail trap. The more adventurous of the Zulus managed to clamber over the fallen bodies of their comrades to press on to the British position; which seemed so close to them, only to find themselves landing amongst more of the glass and nails. Where the glass and nails trap was sparsely distributed on the ground, some warriors managed to break through, but for only a few steps. The volleys would then cut them down just as indiscriminately as their comrades who had already fallen.

  As with all retreats, the Zulu withdrawal started from the back of the formation. With their formations scattered to the winds, the Impi commanders decided that it was time to regroup.

  The Zulus started to withdraw in good order; holding up their shields as if they were some kind of magic talisman that could stop the heavy bullets that just kept on coming at them from the British position. Billy Caudwell was not prepared to let them off quite so lightly. From his position in the front line, he urged the riflemen to keep firing at the fleeing Zulus. The riflemen, rightfully elated at their sudden success responded by repeatedly pouring volley after volley into the mass of fleeing warriors. The officers and sergeants yelled the orders, held the discipline together and sent one devastating volley after another into the enemy’s ranks.

  When it was over, and the Zulus had retreated back beyond the six hundred yard markers, Billy Caudwell called the “cease fire” order. But still, some of the riflemen; lost in the sheer joy of victory, and, of killing an enemy who would most surely have killed him, kept firing at the fleeing figures. With shouts and curses from the NCOs, the exhausted and elated riflemen were finally silenced. There then followed a great cheer, as the British soldiers celebrated, hoisting their rifles and helmets into the air. Many of the British soldiers shouted insults and jeered at the rapidly disappearing Zulus; who seemed to be heading back to the broken ground at the foot of the ridge.

  Meanwhile, on the flanks of the position, the Zulus trying to cross the dongas were joining the retreat. Having seen the “Chest” of their attack withdraw, they knew that they could never break the British position alone.

  So, to the jeers, insults and sporadic carbine shots of the Natal cavalrymen, the two “Horns” slowly made their way back to the ridge. The Natal cavalrymen, predominantly from the tribes who had been on the receiving end of Zulu cruelty in previous generations, celebrated with cheers and tribal dances for a victory over the enemies of their blood.

  Billy Caudwell, exhausted by the exertions; both physical and mental of the firing line, let them cheer and celebrate for a few minutes, before returning to the water supply wagon he had taken over as his observation and command post.

  “Right then, Major,” Billy began, “issue water to the men, rifles cleaned, fresh issue of ammunition, and post lookouts on top of the barricade wagons. I’m expecting the Zulus to try to sneak warriors up close to our positions. Anything that moves, shoot it.” He took a swig of water from a nearby canteen.

  Rinsing out his mouth from the taste of the gun-smoke, Billy spat the water out and then took a long drink.

  “Do you really think they’ll come back after that thrashing?” Major Pulleine asked.

  “Oh yes, Major,” Billy Caudwell looked out over a battlefield that could have been drawn straight from the pit of Hell itself.

  All the way from the six hundred yard markers the field was littered with dead and wounded Zulus. At the one hundred yard markers; the high-tide of their advance, the dead and wounded were piled up.

  They lay where they had fallen; mowed down by the rifle volleys and cannon case shot.

  What kind of human beings can take that kind of punishment, Billy marvelled at their courage, whilst being sickened by the savagery of it.

  Shields, spears and clubs lay everywhere. Some of the black figures on the ground were trying to drag themselves away to find comfort from their comrades. Many writhed and screamed in their pain and agony, whilst some just lay quietly and awaited the inevitable cold, cloying hand of death to find them. For many, lost in their own worlds of pain and distress, they moaned pitifully. Some called for help. Help that they would never receive.

  By Billy Caudwell’s estimation, there were close to twenty thousand Zulu casualties out there.

  That was half their army, he considered, but also remembered that there was also another half to contend with.

  The British had lost five dead and twelve wounded. The Zulus still had twenty thousand warriors left; that was still an advantage of ten to one, and Billy Caudwell understood the cold, clinical mathematics of the situation. Since the Zulu commanders had been prepared to sacrifice twenty thousand men, they were undoubtedly capable of sacrificing the rest to clear the British out of Zululand before the harvests. His position was far from safe, despite all these Zulu losses.

  “They want us off their turf, Major, they’ll definitely be back,” Billy scanned the carnage in front of them.

  Chapter 33: The Imperial Guard Military Prison, Ganthus City

  Jarrelm Grobbeg, former Frontier General and commander of the Fourth Frontier Fleet, paced nervously back and forth across his pale blue Containment Cell.

  For a Ganthoran military Containment Cell, this particular one was especially luxurious, reserved only for the highest rank of prisoners. At three metres by three metres, it was still larger than those accommodations reserved for those of less, illustrious rank. It was still, however, a lot less luxurious than Jarrelm Grobbeg had grown accustomed to as Frontier General.

 
; As military commander of the Fourth Frontier, Grobbeg had been accustomed to the best of everything; the best food, the best of alcoholic beverages, the best residences, and the company of almost every female he desired. Those were days that were long in the past now for Jarrelm Grobbeg. The finely tailored uniforms were now replaced by a one-piece Imperial Guard fatigues overall. The finely crafted boots that once adorned his feet were also now gone, replaced by roughly made shoes that he found difficulty walking in. With no fastenings, the shoes had a habit of slipping off from his feet when he lifted them from the ground. Thus, the normally proud gait and confident stride of Jarrelm Grobbeg was replaced by an apologetic shuffle.

  His bushy beard and fine dark hair had also been removed as part of the regime enforced at the Imperial Guard Military Prison. At the facility, everyone was clean shaven and bald headed, and in the stifling heat of the Containment Cell, it was something that Jarrelm Grobbeg was grateful for. The idea of removing his facial and head hair had not been for his particular comfort, but more to rob him of his individuality. Every single one of the eight hundred prisoners at the facility had been similarly stripped of head and facial hair. With the beard removed, Grobbeg still retained the sharp, angular features of his lower jaw and forehead, and his dark eyes still missed nothing that was going on around him. After a fortnight of facility food, his rotund frame was already starting to shrink.

  Thus, the life of Jarrelm Grobbeg was just beginning to settle down to a routine that he could scarcely call normal. He ate his meals in his cell, with the military grey containers sliding through the white, shimmering Tele-Portal doorway that stood opposite his bed. Four times per day, he was allowed out of the Containment Cell for a short time to allow for his toilet and bodily functions. When his Legal Representative visited him, the meeting was conducted in a special room where a large transparent partition separated the lawyer from his client. It was an existence for Jarrelm Grobbeg which he had grown to tolerate, and become as comfortable as any prisoner could become with such a regime.