A Band of Brothers

by William R. Forstchen

  Andrew took a deep breath and blew out, mist coiling around him.

  “This how most of you boys feel?” he asked.

  Some of the men, embarrassed, averted their eyes or lowered their heads, but more than one nodded.

  “Boys, I don’t have the time right now to explain it all. Some of you might not like the folks from Roum all that much. I’ve heard some mutter about them being heathens, or that they haven’t carried their share of the fight. Believe me, when it comes to fighting I count on their regiments just as much as the ones from Suzdal, from Rus. You boys were inside the pocket with me and fought at the Rocky Hill. Remember it was two corps of Roum troops that fought their way in to us and got us out of that trap.”

  Several of the men grudgingly nodded agreement.

  “Well, there was not talk then about who was Rus and who was Roum. We can’t evacuate all of Roum the way we did Suzdal back in the Merki war. It was early spring then, not the dead of winter. Besides, by holding Roum we’ll have shelter to fight from. Every house will be a fortress. If we can hold till spring, the rail lines they’ve laid will disappear into the mud and they’ll be cut off.

  “I’m going to have to ask you men to trust me. Now, I’ll be back in Roum tonight. If some of you want to come see me tomorrow to talk it over, that’s fine with me. Pick out some men from the other regiments—enlisted men only, captain, if you don’t mind. Come see me and we’ll talk.”

  Andrew’s tone indicated that the meeting was at an end. The men, caught off guard, nodded their thanks, some saluting. The captain looked as though he wanted to say something more but lowered his head.

  Andrew turned, Pat falling in by his side and chuckling.

  “What’s so damn funny?”

  “Could you imagine Little Mac or old snapping turtle Meade allowing us boys to talk to him like that?”

  “I’ve got a warm bed most nights, they don’t. Besides, this is a republic. There are times a general’s gotta listen to a private. I don’t have to agree, but I’ve got to listen.”

  “Retreat’s hard on these boys,” Pat said. “He was right on that. We’ve been running for three months now. It starts to get to be habit. Damn difficult to finally turn an army around to make a stand.”

  Andrew nodded, distracted because his glasses had fogged over and frozen. Pat reached over, took the glasses, wiped them, and passed them back to Andrew.

  “Fabian tactics, Pat.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Roman general who faced Hannibal. Scorched earth, fall back, delay and delay, then fall back. We’ve got to stretch Ha’ark out to the breaking point and then when we do we cut his head off.”

  “How, Andrew? We’re at the breaking point, too. Fabian or not, retreat’s hard on an army, hard on the soul.”

  Andrew nodded. Hard on the soul. Yes, but could he ever admit that about himself? The strain was almost beyond bearing. The waiting for the day when the Bantag fell behind, gave up, stopped to give Andrew’s forces the breathing room to rebuild their strength. Yet Ha’ark kept coming in, day after day. God, to be able to rest, to have a day, a week, a precious season without him always there, always pressing in. Just to rest, to escape all this.

  Yet again he realized he had drifted off into silence, staring blankly at the horizon. He stirred, seeing Pat watching him.

  “Casualties today?”

  “Not bad. Under a hundred pulling out. A few of the pickets out forward were taken—they started to probe in around three in the morning. Buggers are not as afraid of the dark as they were, but we put a real twist on them … caltrops, land torpedoes, barrels of benzene with slow fuses buried in the snow. You could hear the devils howling.”

  “Can you see their front?”

  “They’re crossing the river now.”

  “Their land ironclads?”

  “Swarms of them up on the flank. The real battle is brewing up there.” Pat nodded toward the ridgeline, where the battery dug in around the ruined villa was increasing its tempo of fire.

  Andrew took a deep breath. He was up at the front, he had to see, that was expected. He felt a prickle of fear but pushed it aside.

  “I want to see.”

  Pat nodded and motioned for his orderlies to bring two horses over. Mounting, Andrew grimaced as the cold of the saddle seeped through his pants, chilling him. Following Pat’s lead, he trotted through the snow, eyes watering in the chilled air. Stopping just below the villa, Pat dismounted.

  “Can’t ride up there. They’re getting pretty good at spotting groups of riders and dropping a mortar round right in on them.”

  He pointed to his greatcoat, torn open by a shell fragment, a frozen streak of blood soaked into the frayed fabric.

  Andrew started to voice a concern, but Pat laughed.

  “Far worse than that in my life. Just a nick.”

  “Don’t let Emil hear you say that. He’s hollering like mad about the men staying clean. Says that infections from wounds are climbing.”

  “Everyone and me included is lousy, Andrew. Just how the hell are we suppose to wash in this blasted cold?”

  There was a flash of anger in his voice, and then he forced a smile.

  “Please keep your head down, Andrew darlin’. Like I said, they’re getting good at spotting us. Ain’t like the old days when you could just go galloping around.”

  Andrew, keeping low, stepped into the narrow trench that zigzagged up the reverse slope and led into the ruined villa. Following Pat’s lead, he scrambled through the rubble, motioning for the observation team in the ruins to stay with their tasks. He looked around at the ruins and felt, yet again, as if he had stepped back in time, though this time the wreckage fit more to his image of how the ancient world now looked.

  The roof of the villa had collapsed, charred beams overhead standing out darkly against the icy blue crystal sky straight overhead. Flame-scorched frescos covered the walls of the room, the scenes from ancient mythology, or current religion, Andrew mused.

  Pat saw him examining the wall, a scene of nymphs being chased by satyrs, and chuckled. “Look in what’s left of the next room,” he suggested, pointing to a broken doorway, the overhead lintel smashed down.

  Andrew stepped to the door and looked into the room, and retreated a second later, a bit embarrassed with the realization he was blushing.

  “Better than them French cards we had back with the Army of the Potomac,” Pat chuckled. “Never knew people could do some of the things painted in there. The boys here are really miffed—there was a beautiful portrait, never seen a lady with such ample charms, and a shell blew it apart an hour ago.” He pointed sadly to the opposite wall, which was now just a pile of shattered bricks and plaster.

  Andrew shook his head and followed Pat through ruins and up to what was left of the north wall, where a firing position for a ten-pound breechloader had been hacked out of the ruins. Broken timbers piled up to either side and above provided some protection from the mortars of the Bantag.

  A shell whispered down, Andrew ducking for cover as it detonated on the far side of the wall.

  “Just about have us zeroed in,” Pat announced as he handed over his field glasses to Andrew.

  Andrew stepped up to a hole cut in the wall and peered out. The view was panoramic. The long open slope sweeping down from the prominence they were on had been planted in grapes, the trellises covered with dark vines currently covered with snow. The passage of a Republic ironclad directly in front of their position had cut an ugly swath through the orderly landscape. He could imagine a time before the Republic when this land was cultivated by slaves. To. damage even one of the vines would have earned the harshest of punishments; now they were tearing them to shreds in order to save them.

  The vineyard swept across the open field and up to a low series of hills nearly two miles away. In the glasses he could see another ruined villa up there, a small cluster of outbuildings around it, several of them burning, the villa pouring out dark gouts of
smoke. There was barely a glimpse of a village on the next ridge several miles beyond, all of it consumed in fire, a black column of smoke rising from it in feeble mimicry of the conflagration consuming Capua.

  Off to his right at the lower end of the valley that emptied out into the flood plains around Capua he saw a ragged line of Bantag skirmishers advancing on foot. A quarter mile in front of them a unit of mounted infantry was pulling back slowly, some of the men dismounting for a moment to fire a few shots, then mounting again to pull back.

  “Not much pressure over there,” Andrew said.

  “The marshy ground north of the city is tough going. Even though it’s frozen, those big bastards still break through the crust. The main column’s going to have to come through the city, and the way that’s burning it’ll be sundown before they can advance. The only worry now is the units that flanked us and the ironclads that came with them.”

  He pointed back to the next ridge to the north, where distant figures moved through the snow.

  “And the flanking cavalry?”

  “All our mounted infantry, supported by artillery, is screening the rail line. Timokin’s armored regiment is engaging along that ridge ahead, holding their ironclads back. Had one breakthrough to the track but closed it off before they could do any damage.”

  Andrew nodded, having seen the piles of Bantag bodies ten miles back. Damn all, he thought again. Because a couple of damn umens get behind us we lose this position. Stringing the army out to protect seventy-five miles of track was simply impossible. But his attention was fixed farther forward where a line of a dozen ironclads of the Republic, the center one flying the yellow triangle pennant of the 1st Ironclad Regiment, were drawing back over the top of the ridge, moving in reverse.

  A geyser of dirty snow erupted beside the lead ironclad, long seconds later the thunderclap boom echoing over Andrew.

  “At least they must be warm in there,” Pat announced with a grin.

  Cursing the boiling heat. Lieutenant Colonel Gregory Timokin leaned back and reached up, popping open the top hatch of his ironclad, St. Malady, breathing deeply as frigid air cascaded down into the turret.

  Cursing erupted below as his crew, stripped to the waist in the steaming heat inside the steam-powered ironclad, shouted to him to shut the hatch.

  Ignoring their complaints, he stood up, bracing his elbows on the outside of the turret, and quickly scanned the landscape. Another mortar round detonated nearby, fragments whirring past, striking the side of his ironclad with ringing metallic pings. Looking to left and right he saw his first company arrayed in good order, slightly aft of the ridge, hulls down, waiting. Two ironclads burned fiercely over on the next ridge, one Bantag and one of his. He whispered a silent prayer for the crew. It had been their first action … and it was a damned waste of a good machine.

  Resting his elbows on the top of the open hatch, he raised his field glasses and scanned the opposite ridge. Bantag mounted units were moving just beyond the reverse slope, their deployment revealed by the fine plumes of powdery snow kicked up. Damn, they were learning. Now if only the bastards would charge, the gatling would cut them to ribbons.

  Darker swirls of smoke were rising up as well on the still morning air. Waiting, he counted them off. Nearly thirty … a full brigade of machines. He grinned in anticipation.

  Looking to either side he saw his ironclad commanders, heads out of hatches, waiting for orders. He raised his hand, pointed to the smoke, then extended both arms out, fists clenched, and dropped his arms down, signaling that they were to wait for the enemy to close.

  The first enemy ironclad cleared the ridge, followed within seconds by two dozen more, dismounted infantry fanning out around them.

  Sliding back down into the turret, he locked the hatch. “Load case shot, five-second fuse. Aim for their mortar batteries if they deploy out!”

  Gregory grinned. This was going to be a slaughter.

  Another mortar detonated just in front of the villa, Andrew ducking down as fragments sliced the air overhead.

  “There must be thirty machines over there. More than I figured,” Pat announced. “He’s trying for a breakthrough.”

  Andrew looked back behind him to where the long columns of infantry were still loading onto the trains. If the ironclads should break through, he thought, it will be chaos. They’ll shoot up the locomotives and strand the better part of two divisions. He felt impotent; this was a new type of war, and increasingly it was a war that he was forced to be detached from. If that had been a Bantag cavalry or infantry charge coming in, he would have been mounted, deploying his troops out, riding the length of his line. Instead he was crouched down in a dugout, forced to sit and watch, to do nothing.

  Pat reached into his pocket, pulled out two cigars, puffed both of them to life, and offered one to Andrew, who gladly took it and settled back to watch.

  The Bantag machines, cloaked in clouds of coiling black smoke, slid down the slope, snow plowing out like waves curling back from the bow of a ship.

  Half a dozen mortar batteries, dismounting on the ridge behind them, were opening up, shells raining down around the Republic’s ironclads so that it sounded to Gregory like hail rattling against a window pane.

  The enemy ironclads lurched to a stop, still two hundred yards short of extreme range for the anti-ironclad bolts, and opened up with a sustained barrage of shrapnel, drenching the slope around Gregory. Bantag infantry by the hundreds charged forward, wading through the snow straight toward him. Sighting in his gatling, he opened the steam cock, lowered the barrel, and squeezed a quick burst, signaling for the other ironclads armed with gatlings to open fire as well.

  The long morning’s fight had depleted more than half his cartridge rounds, so he limited himself to short bursts, aiming where groups of the Horde were bunching up, dropping one or two, sending the rest scattering.

  Still the enemy ironclads did not advance. A thunderclap boom snapped through his machine, the impact of the shell on the forward armor hurling him against the hot barrel of the gatling. Cursing, he pulled his hands back.

  “All right below?” he shouted, leaning forward to look down between his legs to where his crew labored. Gunnery Sergeant Basil Vasilovich was cursing loudly, holding his arm, which was torn open just below the elbow.

  Basil looked up and nodded. “Damned bolt sheered off. I’ll be all right. Let’s go for the bastards, sir.”

  Gregory turned his turret to the left with his hand crank, looking left, then right. One of his machines was backing down from the firing line, the barrel of its ten- pound gun cocked at a strange angle. Damn, a lucky hit on the gun port must have dismounted the piece, he thought.

  He looked back forward. Up on the far ridge he could see swirling crystalline clouds of snow powder. They must be moving more mounted units around to the flank. They’d extend our line out, then try to cut the rail.

  Uncorking the speaking tube that snaked aft to his engineer, he blew on it.

  “Yuri, full steam. We’re charging!”

  “Full steam it is, sir.”

  Gregory braced himself as Yuri opened the steam valves into the drive pistons. He could feel the rear drive wheels spin over in the snow until the heavy cleats on the iron wheels finally caught and gripped the ground underneath. St. Malady lurched forward. Yuri held down on the steam whistle with three long blasts, signaling to the other ironclads to charge.

  “Their orders are to hold, then pull back once the trains are out,” Andrew snapped.

  “Flanking force, Andrew,” Pat replied, pointing to his left. Andrew’s glasses were steaming up again and it was hard to see.

  “Timokin knows what he’s doing; their ironclads are slower—he’ll tear ’em up, then cut into the cavalry beyond the next ridge.”

  “Wish he’d hold.”

  “Well, it’s too late now,” Pat chuckled.

  Trusting to Basil’s judgment, Gregory stayed up in the turret, leaving the aiming of the ten-pounder to his
gunner. The Bantag machines had switched over to solid bolts. Another one impacted on their forward shield, sparks flaring up in front of his view port.

  One of the Bantag machines erupted, fire and smoke pouring out of its stack, followed less than a second later by a roaring blowtorch explosion bursting out its forward gunport.

  He felt his own machine lurch as Basil fired. A second later the brass cartridge ejected, clanking with a bell-like ring. A pillar of snow kicked up just forward of the enemy machine now less than two hundred yards straight ahead.

  The Bantag ironclads were holding their position, and he grinned. If they want a stand-up, knock-down fight, well here it comes.

  Explosions rippled up and down the line as the two units slowed, lurching to a stop, guns blazing.

  From around the enemy machines hundreds of Bantag emerged, charging on foot. In the swirling confusion it was hard to make them out; they were covered in white blankets, and as they went down, they disappeared, then they would lurch back up and rush forward again half a dozen strides, then go down again.

  Conserving ammunition, he let off short bursts, aiming at the infantry, then shifting to the ironclads for a moment, hoping to put a shot in through the open gunports.

  An explosion rocked him. Unbolting his hatch, he stuck his head out and saw one of his machines, the third one down on his right, cooking off. But straight ahead half a dozen Bantag machines were now ablaze. The enemy machines started to lurch backward, retreating.

  Sliding back down into the turret, he called for full speed forward. The Bantag infantry now moving in the middle between the two battling lines went to ground, burrowing into the snow. Well, if they wanted to get run over, let them. Lowering his aim with the gatling, he fired random sprays of shots, kicking up the snow. Occasionally a Bantag would rear up, his white camouflaged poncho streaked bright red, then collapse.

  Another Bantag ironclad flamed up. “Good shot, Basil!” he roared.