A Band of Brothers

by William R. Forstchen

  “Which battery?”

  The boy shrugged and shook his head.

  “One of ours, you know, Rus.”

  He wasn’t sure if the boy was making a comment on the Roum.

  “Where was this?” Pat looked back at the map. There was no indication that Bantag units had already cut halfway to the inner wall.

  “I don’t know, sir.”

  Pat walked over to the opposite wall and snatched his greatcoat from a peg.

  “Sir, shouldn’t you stay here to direct things?” one of the staff asked.

  “Shit, son, you direct it from here. I’m going up to see for myself what the hell is going on.”

  Pulling on his slouch cap and grabbing a cigar out of his pocket, he stormed to the door, striking a light on the wall and puffing the cigar to life as he headed down the stairs and then out the door and down the steps into the open Forum.

  The snow was still coming down hard enough that the opposite side of the square was nothing but a faint shadow. The Forum was packed with civilians, panic in the air, and he was glad for the cloaking of the snow so they wouldn’t see him and swarm about asking questions.

  A continual thunder filled the air, and looking eastward he could sense the spread of the battle by the sound. It stretched now all the way from the Tiber farther upstream, back around, and down to the bank where the river widened out into the bay.

  Staff and orderlies came clattering down the stairs behind him and mounted. With a vicious jerk of the reins, Pat spurred his mount around, the horse nearly losing its footing on the icy pavement. He started to urge it up to a gallop, but then was forced to rein back in as he reached the corner of the Senate. The street leading up from the bridge across the Tiber was packed with refugees fleeing the fighting. Several wagons from the ordnance department were attempting to breast the flow in the opposite direction, and he fell in behind them, cursing the waste of precious minutes as they inched along.

  He tried to not look at the refugees. No matter where he had seen them before, in Virginia, the retreat from Rus, now here, it was always the same, the old staggering under the burden of their few precious possessions, young women clutching screaming infants, terrified children lost in the confusion wailing hysterically. Reaching the arched stone bridge, he looked down the river. A wooden side-wheeled steamer was tied up at the dock, crews unloading crates of artillery ammunition and bags of grain and barrels of hardtack and salt pork.

  A geyser from a Bantag shell erupted in the river. The labor gangs ducked down for a moment, then went back to work. There was a flash farther down the river; hard to see, but it must be the ironclad that had escorted the ship up the river. Hysterical screaming came from the middle of the bridge, as a woman pressed up to the side in the crush lost her footing and went over the railing into the freezing river, disappearing under the ice floes. For a brief instant there was a stunned silence. An orderly riding ahead of Pat stepped up onto his saddle, leaped over the railing, and crashed into the river.

  The boy came up to the surface, floundered, went under. Everyone had stopped, even the wagon drivers, and for an instant the insanity of the battle was forgotten. The boy came back up again, clinging to the woman. All held their breath as he kicked against the current, struggling for the shore. Twenty yards out from the shore he went under, and a groan went up from the bridge. He reappeared, trying to clutch to an ice floe, but lost his grip. Dock workers snaked out lines to him, but he was already so far gone that he couldn’t grasp the line. Finally two more men went into the river, clinging to a rope, splashing out to the two, grabbing hold and pulling them to shore.

  A happy shout and applause broke out, all united together in that instant. People around Pat reached up, slapping his leg, shouting their thanks, and for one brief moment he felt that they were all united again. Surprised at his own reaction, he wiped tears from his eyes and looked over at a staff officer.

  “I want the name of that boy. By God, have him at headquarters tonight.”

  Grinning, an officer fell out of the procession and turned back, falling in with the flow of refugees back to the western bank.

  Reaching the east shore, Pat pushed his way out of the crowd, riding down along the warehouses lining the eastern bank of the river and the canal. A building was on fire. A bucket brigade of the Home Guard, old Springfield muzzleloaders stacked, were pulling water from a hole cut in the canal and working to stop the spread of the conflagration. Horrified, Pat realized that hundreds of barrels of salt pork were stored inside, and he shouted for the men to concentrate on saving the food first before riding on.

  Reaching a side street heading east, he started riding up toward the front. Roum cities still amazed him. Unlike the rabbit warren of crooked lanes in Suzdal, or the haunts of the west side of Manhattan and the Five Points district, this city was laid out with remarkable precision, each block a hundred paces square, every fifth road a thoroughfare twice as wide as the other roads, all of them paved with stone. Shopfronts lined the curb at street level, capped by several stories of apartments. Though the high apartments blocked out most light, still it was better than many another city. Emil had marveled at the sanitary arrangements of underground pipes and sewers.

  But sanitation was the least of his concerns as he pressed forward, riding under one of the gates of the old inner wall. Refugees were pouring through, the gate a bottleneck, and it took several minutes to pass. He saw a regiment from the 1st Division, 4th Corps trapped in the press, and pushing his way through the crowd he caught the eye of the regimental commander, to his delight one of his old gunners from the 44th.

  “O’Leary, a hell of a mess it is!” Pat shouted.

  Grinning, O’Leary asked for a cigar, and Pat passed one over. Not bothering to light it, the gunner simply bit off the end and started to chew, tucking the rest in his breast pocket.

  “When did you get orders to move up?” Pat asked.

  “A half hour ago at least. There’s panic in the air, there is. We’ve been trying to push our way through.”

  Pat nodded, disturbed to see more than one infantryman moving back with the crowds. At the sight of the general they ducked low, filtering to the far side of the street. It wasn’t his job to chase skulkers and the provost would stop them at the gate, but it was a hard sight to bear and a grim warning of the panic up at the front.

  Inching forward, they finally cleared the mob, and O’Leary bawled for his unit to form up and move at the double. Picking up the pace, the long serpentine column of blue surged down the street, Pat keeping to O’Leary’s side.

  They passed another burning house, then an entire row, a woman kneeling in front of one of them screaming. A green flag, dimly visible in the snow, marked a hospital clearing area set up in a wealthy patrician’s villa. As Pat rode by he could see red Orthodox crosses, white crosses, and even some red circles on the hats of the wounded, designating them as casualties from the 1st and 2nd Divisions of 9th Corps and 1st Division of 1st Corps. What were they doing over in this sector a half mile or more from their assigned position? The entire line ahead must be confusion.

  A brilliant flash of light erupted straight ahead, followed a couple of seconds later by a thunderclap roar. The flash disappeared and then long seconds later debris started to rain down. A shell ignited on the roof of the hospital, and another one in the street ahead, cutting down several refugees.

  Pat left O’Leary, urging his mount forward, staff trailing behind him. Coming to an intersection with a main thoroughfare he reined in as two fieldpieces, positioned in the middle of the street and pointing south, fired in salvo, the guns leaping back. The gunners tore the breeches open, rammed sponges in, withdrew, reloaded with canister and powder bags, then fired again. Pat rode up to the commander, who was standing between the pieces, looking down the street. It was impossible to see anything except the snow.

  “What the hell are you firing at?” Pat roared.

  “They’re out there!” the section commander roare
d.

  “Dammit, man, cease fire! There are refugees moving back, troops moving up,” and he pointed to where O’Leary’s column was appearing ghostlike out of the snow.

  “Sir, there’s Bantag out there!”

  “They’re not this far in! Cease fire!” .

  The gunners paused, looking up at Pat and then to their commander, who continued to point down the road.

  A bullet snicked past Pat, and suddenly a volley swept the position, the commander wordlessly collapsing in the snow. A piercing ululating scream erupted as a dark wall of Bantag came sweeping up the street and within seconds were into the guns. Pat reined around, drawing his revolver, dropping a Bantag who was swinging at him with a clubbed rifle. Something grabbed him from behind, heavy arms wrapping around his waist, pulling him back off his mount. Swinging his revolver under his left armpit, Pat fired backward, the arms releasing him. Shrieking, his horse started to go down, and pulling his feet from the stirrups, he leaped clear, avoiding the horse as it rolled onto its back, hooves flaying, splitting open the skull of a Bantag trying to scramble over the dying mount to get at Pat.

  Two more Bantag came rushing up, Pat emptying his revolver, then rolling out of the way as they collapsed in the snow. The distinctive rattle of Springfield rifles ignited around him, O’Leary’s men crashing into the Bantag column from the flank, wading into the press. Pat dropped his revolver, picked up a heavy Bantag rifle, leveled it like a spear, and parried another Bantag trying to close with his own bayonet for the kill. The standoff lasted for several seconds, the two poised, facing each other, making short jabs, recoiling, jabbing again. The Bantag lunged in, Pat ducking under the blow aimed at his head, a common mistake of Horde warriors with their two to three feet height advantage over humans. Pat went down low, driving the bayonet into his opponent’s groin, then let go of the rifle, jumping to one side.

  Blue-clad infantry swarmed past him, putting the surviving Bantag to flight and setting off in pursuit. Pat saw O’Leary coming through the press, still mounted.

  “O’Leary, don’t lose control of your men! Call ’em back!”

  Orders were shouted, but several dozen men of the regiment had already disappeared into the snow.

  The battery was a shambles, half the men dead or wounded in the brief melee. Pat looked around, overwhelmed with guilt. The commander had been right and his own brief intervention had caused an interruption in the firing, giving the Bantag the chance to mount a charge.

  “O’Leary, form your regiment here, and give me your horse.”

  “Now Pattie.”

  “General O’Donald to you, O’Leary. Give me the damn horse.”

  O’Leary, shaking his head ruefully, dismounted, handing over the reins. Pat looked around. Half his staff and messengers were gone, some dead, several on the ground wounded, and the others just missing in the confusion. Pat mounted, but O’Leary stepped forward, grabbing the reins.

  “Captain Jovonovich, take Company B and escort our good general here.”

  A young fuzzy-cheeked officer came forward at the double, bawling in a high voice for his company to follow.

  Pat nodded his thanks, grateful as well when O’Leary unholstered his revolver and handed it up.

  “Now don’t go getting killed, Pattie. Not many of us Irish left here to save this godforsaken world. Hell, if I’d known that getting on the boat in Dublin would finally bring me here I’d’ve stayed in Ireland, famine or no.”

  Pat laughed, reached into his pocket, pulled out a couple of cigars, and handed them down.

  “See you in hell, Sean.”

  “See you in hell, Pat.”

  The horse, nervous after the melee and with a new rider, balked as Pat tried to urge him forward and then reluctantly accepted Pat’s urgings. Heading on eastward, Pat agreed to the young captain’s insistence that his men move ahead, checking each street intersection before proceeding. No sense getting ambushed, or worse, shot by your own men. Mounted men were undoubtedly rare in this city now, and in the confusion and snow there was a fair prospect of turning into another Stonewall Jackson if he wasn’t careful.

  Within half a block the scene of the melee was lost to view. As he crossed the next street he could hear rifle fire to both sides. Damn all, they were more than halfway into the city, less than six hundred yards from the inner wall, and if they could find a high prominence the riverfront was within easy mortar range.

  The way ahead grew darker, coils of oily smoke eddying toward him. The street was carpeted with burning rubble, torn bodies. There was movement ahead, and he paused, then urged his mount on, the horse nearly unseating him when it stepped on a pile of smoldering embers.

  Half the street was blocked, flames licking up from the gutted ruin of a temple, the marble columns blown out and resting against the side of a building across the street. Pat shouted for one of the men helping a badly burned comrade to come over.

  “What the hell happened here?”

  “Ammunition depot for 3rd Battalion artillery reserve,” the corporal shouted, trying to be heard above the roaring conflagration. “We had a dozen caissons parked here, more rounds stacked up inside. Got hit by a mortar round. Kesus-damned hell it was!”

  Even as the corporal shouted his explanation a dozen men came running down the street from the east, most of them wounded, all terrified, screaming that they were being chased. Two lone Bantag materialized out of the swirling snow and came to a stop. They turned and started to run, but rifle fire from Pat’s escort cut them down in the middle of the street.

  Pat continued on, having to zigzag his way through side streets to avoid fires, terrified civilians, and demoralized clumps of soldiers running past. At one corner they stumbled straight into a knot of Bantag who were bent over, back turned, and after they were gunned down Pat saw they had been busy butchering some wounded they had cornered, bloodied limbs already dangling from their belts. One of the victims, still alive but with an arm hacked off, staggered to his comrades, sobbing hysterically. Two men grabbed him, and one tore off his belt and tightened it around the stump. They looked up at Pat, who nodded for them to take the man back.

  A solid column of troops, several hundred strong, came down the street, heading back from the front line, this group at least disciplined, the men’s hats adorned with white circles, 2nd Division, 1st Corps.

  “Why are you pulling back?” Pat shouted, edging his mount over to the commander at the head of the column, an old Rus major.

  “Sir, what the hell is going on?” the major shouted back. “We were in reserve, and suddenly they were on our left, behind us.”

  “Were you ordered back?”

  “By who, sir? My colonel’s dead, the lieutenant colonel’s dead. We haven’t heard a damn word from brigade, division, anybody. I figured it was time to get the hell back to the inner wall.”

  “Where’s Schneid’s headquarters?”

  The major paused, looking around in confusion.

  “I guess it’s back up toward the fighting, sir.”

  “Well then, dammit, major, turn your men about. I need to get there now!”

  The major looked up at him, obviously reluctant to head back into the confusion.

  “Major, post two companies here to hold this intersection, and we’ll detail two more off at each street. Get them making barricades, put snipers up in the upper levels of these damn buildings, start digging in, and stop this damn running!”

  The major hesitated, then saluted.

  Pat remembered Andrew once saying that there was nothing more frightening than coming into a battle from the rear of the lines. No matter how good it was going up front, go back a quarter mile and it will always look like defeat. Even as he mused on the thought, a knot of soldiers came running past, making a show of the fact that they were escorting some civilians but nevertheless running.

  All control was breaking down, Pat realized. They had built an army, trained it to fight horse-mounted warriors in the field, or from behind ent
renchments. When the enemy shifted to modern weapons, they trained to face that, always adapting tactics to open fighting. He now realized their one glaring mistake: the regiments were trained to fight as cohesive regiments, a colonel capable of seeing his line from one end to the other. This was different. They had thought they could hold the Bantag at the outer wall, or at worst the breakthroughs would be limited. In the confusion of streets, burning buildings, terrified refugees, all of it made worse by the storm, regimental commanders could not find their brigadiers for orders. Company commanders could not hope to see their colonels, let alone receive timely orders, and individual soldiers could get lost within seconds. And in all the confusion, Bantag appeared like ghostly demons, pouring out of the snowstorm, slashing in, spreading terror, then melting away.

  He had to force himself to realize that for the Bantag it must be equally confusing, but that was small comfort as he sensed that the battle had gone completely beyond his control. Again he felt the aching loss of Andrew. He wished for a drink, wished he could just dismount, find a battery to command, and let others worry about whether the battle would be won or lost by their decisions.

  Taking a deep breath, he tried to clear his thoughts, edging his horse to the side of the road as two fieldpieces clattered past, wounded clutching to the caissons. Pat shouted for them to dismount at the next intersection and train their guns north and south. The., commander saluted, then disappeared into the snow. Pat wondered if the man would just keep on going.

  “Let’s move it!” Pat shouted, and spurring his mount, he continued up the street. The next two intersections were surprisingly quiet, but the next one was the scene of a fierce struggle, Bantag having occupied buildings half a block down. Leaning out of windows, they were firing on anything attempting to move. Pat detailed off a company of infantry to storm the buildings and the men went in.

  Sensing that he was presenting too much of a target, he finally dismounted and on foot sprinted across, his staff following. Finally he recognized where he was again, a large public bath occupying half the next block. It was Schneid’s headquarters. Cannons were deployed in front, gunners at the ready, infantry deployed into the upper stories of buildings, leaning out. A firefight was flaring on the rooftops, men firing at unseen targets.