A Band of Brothers

by William R. Forstchen

  He didn’t look at her, not sure, afraid that if he did she would disappear.

  Maine … I wish I had stayed here forever. No war. Yes, there had been a war. Dreams of glory at first, then the all-consuming passion of it. Maine, his Maine, started to fade, but he willed it to stay and the nightmare was held at bay, though he could sense them still watching, beckoning.

  “I’m home,” he whispered. He wanted her to lie with him in the high grass, to nestle by his side, listening to the night whispers, to watch the fireflies dancing through the trees. And then the moon would rise and there would be stillness and peace.

  Another loon called. Strange … distant, quavering, louder … louder. I want to go home.

  The world shook a flash of brilliant light, and oh God the pain, the unbearable pain … drowning, drowning in my own blood …

  Screaming, he sat up. Arms were around him, hushing his cry.

  The explosion rumbled through the building. Another shell streaking in. He tensed, waiting for the explosion.

  “The Bantag?” he whispered.

  “They’ve started shelling,” Kathleen said, still trying to ease him back down onto his cot.

  Blinking, he looked around. All was darkness.

  “Light, please. I want light. It’s too dark.”

  She stirred, slipped away. A match flared. She touched the flame to a candle, then returned to sit by his side, rinsing a cloth out in a basin and wiping his brow.

  “You were dreaming.”

  “I know.”

  “Go back to sleep.”

  “How long have they been shelling?”

  “It started an hour ago.”

  “I saw Johnnie.”

  She stiffened. The first time they had met, aboard the Ogunquit, it had been the dream, the one that used to torment him, of his baby brother, dying at Gettysburg. He had been asleep in the ship’s wardroom and she had come in, gently talking to him as he awoke screaming. By the candlelight he could see her, eyes wide.

  “He wanted me to go with him.”

  She shook her head, her voice quavering. “Don’t listen to him, Andrew. Stay with me.”

  “That’s what you said. Stay with me, stay with me at home. Home … where is it?”

  “Here, Andrew.”

  He said nothing, laying his head back, closing his eyes, listening as she talked softly, as if he were a child, the lilt of her Irish brogue returning, sounding so gentle and warm … and he wanted the warmth, the gentleness, to stay forever.

  Chapter Seven

  The bombardment grew in intensity across two days and nights. It was impossible to see a target to fire back at, for with the shelling had come the snow, not heavy, but constant, dimming vision, cloaking the men waiting in the trenches with a soft white mantle that muffled all sound except the insistent thumping of the guns. Fires erupted in the city, and bucket brigades laboring in the cold struggled to keep the flames in check. Companies of soldiers moved through the confusion, shoulders bent under the weight of their greatcoats, weapons, and packs, moving like ghostly shadows, shuffling soundlessly through the night

  Field batteries which had once stood in open array were now deployed on narrow streets, cobblestones pulled up to form barricades, gunners huddled inside adjoining buildings, gathered around flaming hearths, burning their precious rations of firewood and coal to keep warm.

  Down at the harbor occasional supply ships from Suzdal still came in. Five hundred tons of food a day was the barest requirement to keep the army and the civilians alive, off-loaded by work gangs and moved under guard to warehouses.

  Heading into the headquarters office the hour before dawn, Pat went up to the map board and turned to the officer on duty.

  “Anything since midnight?”

  The office walked over to the northeast corner of the map and pointed.

  “Sir, forward pickets report noise, sound of equipment moving. There’s been flare-ups of skirmishing, driving the pickets back, since two. The snow’s been falling steady. Visibility isn’t twenty yards at the moment.”

  Pat nodded.

  “Everyone awake.”

  “As you ordered, sir.”

  Pat nodded as he flared a cigar to life and sat down by the table. He could feel it in his bones … they were coming.

  “All is ready, my Qar Qarth.”

  Grinning, Ha’ark nodded to Jurak, who would directly command the attack. Spurring his mount, he cantered through the snow, passing the heavy columns of assault troops deployed in massive block formations.

  Looking up, he saw that the snow was still holding, a blessing from the ancestors the shamans had called it. If it was a blessing, it was twofold. First, it had allowed him since the afternoon before to move ten umens of troops down from behind the Apennine Hills and to within half a league of the city without being detected. The second blessing was that with the storm the temperature had risen almost to freezing. After the long weeks of frigid cold it almost seemed warm in comparison.

  He could hear the rumble of guns to the north. Good—the diversion a mile away was heating up. In the dim light he could sense more than see the vast power at his command. Each umen of ten thousand was drawn up into regimental blocks of a thousand, twenty warriors across and fifty deep. Marker pennants had been set in the snow just after dusk pointing the way toward the city.

  As he rode along the lines he could see his warriors were ready. The bitter months of struggle through the cold had thinned the ranks of weaklings; what was left was the hard inner strength of an army thirsting for blood. And that thirst had been fed by the sacrifice of five thousand Chin brought up and parceled out one to each twenty warriors. The slaughter had been cruel; since fires were forbidden the flesh was eaten raw and the snow was splattered thick with blood, offal, and bones gnawed clean. His master of cattle had protested the slaughter, arguing that it was the waste of five thousand trained slaves when the looting of the city would offer the same and more, but Ha’ark had insisted, knowing that the scent of blood aroused the lust for more.

  He could see now that it had worked. Here and there along the line his warriors had decided that entertainment was better than eating and had spent the night devising ingenious torment which was still being drawn out, but as word now passed that the assault was about to go in, the last surviving cattle were slaughtered, their throats cut, limbs torn off, brain, heart, liver, and lungs drawn out and devoured.

  Turning to look back to the east he could sense the rising of the light. Individual snowflakes swirling past could be seen now at arm’s length.

  He looked over at Jurak.

  “Remember, just get over the wall. You’ll lose control once that happens—all will be confusion. The regiment commanders know to drive for the harbor. That’s enough. Now begin!”

  Jurak saluted, spurring his mount forward. Guidon bearers stood tall in their stirrups, waving red standards that still looked black in the dim light, and raced off down the length of the half-mile-wide column. Discipline held; there was no cheering, no chants. That would not begin until they hit the wall.

  Ha’ark reined his mount in, letting the swaying columns pass, and standing tall he raised a clenched fist in salute to the victory about to come.

  Colonel William Shippey walked the battlement, collar of his greatcoat pulled up over the back of his neck to keep the heavy wet flakes out. The night had dragged out for an eternity, but now, looking over at his sergeant major, an old Rus veteran, he could distinguish the dark craggy features, the beard flecked with ice. Dawn was approaching.

  “Still think they’ll come, sergeant?”

  “I can smell ’em,” the sergeant announced, sniffing the air.

  Shippey laughed.

  “Serious, sir, I can. Smell like wet bears they do. Wind’s been backing around to the east and you can smell ’em. They’re out there, thousands of them.”

  Shippey tensed at the suggestion. Strange how it’s worked out now. Saw battle in the Tugar war, then missed th
e entire Merki war with the typhoid. Then this one always seemed to be somewhere else, first out on the western frontier watching for raiding Merki, then to reserve here in Roum, finally replacement commander for this regiment.

  Now was the chance to prove the worth of getting a brigade. Hell, Hawthorne was only six months older, and him in command of an entire army. Luck, nothing but luck.

  The sergeant tensed, leaning up against the ice wall.

  “What is it, sergeant?”

  “Here they come! Here they come!”

  The sergeant, not even waiting to reply to his colonel’s question, started to run along the battlement wall, tearing back the blanket curtains of dugouts cut into the ice wall, shouting the alert.

  Shippey looked out over the field, wondering for an instant what had overcome the sergeant. There was nothing … and then he saw it, a darkness deeper than the dull gray world, a solid wall of black coming forward through the knee-deep snow at the double.

  Sentries posted along the wall already had rifles up. Shippey wanted to shout for them to hold fire, because pickets from the regiment were still out and forward, but rifle fire was already erupting, and he realized that whoever was out there was in fact already dead.

  The charge came on, not wavering, no one slowing to fire, the dark wall advancing, bounding through the snow with great leaping strides, crashing into the entanglements of sharpened stakes, chevaux-de-frize, and traps of telegraph wire strung out on stakes buried under the snow.

  Raising their rifles, they smashed at the barriers. Bantag began to drop from the rifle fire atop the battlements, others pressing forward out of the crush, tearing into the barricades. A few snaked their way through, sliding down into the ditch, which was nothing more than a shallow depression drifted over with snow. Floundering through the waist-deep snow, they kicked and struggled to reach the ice wall barricade.

  A bugle sounded to his left, and another picked up the alert. A cannon cracked to his right, and startled, he looked and saw a tongue of flame piercing the gloom, files of Bantag going down from the canister blast.

  Looking over the wall, he saw a Bantag directly below him, smashing with the butt of his rifle against the ice wall, caving a section in to gain a foothold. Drawing his revolver, he leaned over, fired three times, and the Bantag soundlessly collapsed, but another one was up in an instant, using the foothold to vault up higher, then in turn he raised his rifle and started to smash another hole. To the left half a dozen came forward carrying a ladder and slammed it down against the battlement wall.

  Shippey stepped back. I’m the colonel, damm it, he realized. Not my job to shoot the buggers. He ran to his left, dodging around an artillery crew scrambling up from their bunker, one of the men pulling on his greatcoat. He wanted to swear at them—they should have been at their guns, not malingering down in a hole—but he pressed on, racing to his headquarters dugout.

  Tearing the curtain aside, he stepped inside, momentarily blinded by the glare of the kerosene lamp suspended from the ceiling.

  “Does brigade know?” he shouted to his telegrapher.

  “Already told them,” the boy replied, obviously frightened. The key in front of him started to chatter, and Shippey stared at it.

  “What the hell is it saying?”

  “Attack all along the line, sir. There’s millions of ’em.”

  “Sir!”

  Shippey saw Alexandrovich, commander of Company B, come sliding down the steps into the dugout, nearly losing his footing.

  “Should I bring up our reserve companies, sir? Company C is giving way.”

  “Where?” And Shippey scrambled back out of the dugout and started back to the right of his line. In the shadows he saw a lone Bantag gain the battlement wall and instantly collapse as half a dozen rifle shots tore into his chest, but even as he fell he managed to kill, flinging his rifle down like a spear, pinning a screaming corporal.

  Shippey raced past the melee and then froze. Dark forms were scrambling over the wall, a knot of them spilling into the street below.

  “Dammit, get up the reserves!” Shippey roared, but Alexandrovich was gone, his cry unanswered. Rifle fire stuttered behind him. Looking back, he saw men lining the wall, oblivious to the breakthrough on their right less than twenty yards away. The line was peeling back as more and yet more Bantag swarmed up into the breech.

  Grabbing a private, Shippey turned him and shoved the boy toward the melee. The private hesitated, then, levering his breech open, he slammed in a round and started forward, bayonet poised low. Shippey grabbed yet more men, pushing them toward the fight.

  Rifle fire from the Bantag line was coming in now, bullets smacking the top of the wall, shards of ice slashing out, cutting his face. He could hear a solid volley, and looking down to the street below he saw a ragged line. Company B, supported by Company A, racing up, crashing into the swarm of Bantag. A vicious hand-to-hand fight erupted below.

  An explosion behind him slammed Shippey facedown.

  Stunned, he rolled over.

  “Damn all to hell,” he gasped, cursing even louder when a soldier running along the battlement stepped on his legs, bounded over him, and kept on going. There was another flash a dozen feet farther down the line, bowling several men over.

  Staggering to his feet, he looked over the battlement wall. Down in the barrier ditch dozens of Bantag moved about, several of them holding sputtering torches. Several of them held their clenched fists up to the fire, fuses flickered, and they lobbed ball-like objects up and over the wall.

  One of them came down at Shippey’s feet. He stared at it uncomprehending, remembering at last something about grenades. He scooped the grenade up with his left hand to throw it back and in the next instant he was back down again. Someone was screaming, and it was long seconds before he realized it was his own voice.

  Coming to his knees, he tried to brace himself with his hands and collapsed. Something was wrong. Terrified, he looked and saw that his arm from the elbow down was nothing but shreds, blood pulsing out.

  More explosions rocked the battlement, grenades showering down. Men screamed, cursed, some rolling down into the shelter of the dugouts. Sitting up, Shippey huddled against the battlement wall, tucking the shattered arm in tight against his chest.

  Luck, damnable luck. Bleed to death out here if I don’t get help.

  In the smoking confusion he looked along the battlement, wanting to call for help, but men were down all around him. A darkness was above him, and looking up he saw an impossibly tall form, a Bantag warrior, leaping down into the line roaring a wild battle cry.

  Raising his revolver, Shippey pressed the barrel into the Bantag’s stomach and squeezed the trigger. Shrieking, the Bantag fell backward.

  Another one slid down beside the gasping struggling warrior. Shippey aimed, fired, missed. The Bantag turned. He cocked, fired again, this time catching the Bantag in the arm so that he staggered backward.

  Cocking his revolver, Shippey squeezed again … and the hammer fell on an empty chamber. The Bantag, who had been recoiling in anticipation of the killing blow, stopped, staring at Shippey over the sight

  There was a long moment, the Bantag staring at him with rifle half raised. Cursing, Shippey cocked the revolver again, and again the dead click, a sound that was as shattering as a cannon’s roar.

  A grin creased the sharp ugly features of the Bantag. He said something dark and guttural while reaching down to his belt and drawing his dagger. He stepped forward, leaning down, and in his final minutes Colonel Shippey learned the mistake of not saving the last round when facing a warrior of the Horde. Fortunately the blood pouring from the lost arm ended the agony at last.

  Pat leaned on the table, watching as the headquarters staff moved wooden blocks on the table.

  “Dammit, isn’t there any word from 9th Corps?” he asked, looking back at the telegraph.

  “Sir, the line’s still dead.”

  “All right then, the division headquarters of th
e 9th. Give me a damn brigade commander if you can!”

  “Sir, all the lines are dead. Something must have cut them.”

  He turned and looked to the next telegrapher.

  “First Division, 4th Corps—they moving up to block the center?”

  “Last report indicated that, sir.”

  A messenger came into the room, and there was the faint scent of burnt powder clinging to him. Wet snow puddled off his rubber poncho onto the floor. A staff officer opened the message, Pat watching as the officer nodded, then handed the message over to Pat.

  It was from Schneid of 1st Corps reporting that he was preparing to bend back his left flank because of a breakthrough between his corps and the 11th. All of 9th Corps apparently had given way on his right.

  Pat looked back at the map. The wooden blocks indicated that only one division of the 9th had lost the wall; the two divisions to the right of the breakthrough supposedly still held.

  Damn, if Rick’s report was true, 1st Corps was holding in the middle of the eastern wall, but most of the wall curving back to the river, except for the large bastion anchored to the river, was gone, and Schneid was being flanked on the left as well. If it was true, Schneid had to be pulled out and the entire eastern side of the outer wall conceded.

  “Get that boy over here,” Pat snapped, motioning for the messenger, who came up and nervously saluted.

  “You know what this message says, son?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Did you see any of this?”

  “Sir, the general sir, he said we was getting cut off and I was to get back here fast.”

  “What did you see on the way, son?”

  “It’s all burning out there, these Roum cities sir, thought they wouldn’t burn like ours did, them being made of brick and all, but they’re burning.”

  “Did you see any Bantag?”

  The boy nodded, wide-eyed.

  “Where?”

  “Halfway back to the inner wall. Seen three of them dead in the street, a battery cut ’em up.”