by David Weber
“Clyffyrd, yer an idiot,” he growled, holding out the hand that wasn’t full of bayonet to the officer. “Good to see you, Sir,” he continued, still scowling at his corporal. “Sorry ’bout that ‘Alyksberg officer’ crap. Seems Clyffyrd here don’t see too good in the dark.”
“Not a problem, Sergeant.” Captain Haarahld Hytchkahk chuckled as he clasped the noncom’s forearm.
He and Lieutenant Ehlys Abernethy’s platoon had worked together several times over the last few months, and they got along well. Which might, he reflected, have something to do with why Major Mahklymorh had chosen 2nd Platoon for this assignment.
“Hard to recognize anybody in weather like this. Or even see them in the first place … thank Chihiro!” he continued.
“Got that right, Sir,” Taisyn agreed, and craned his neck, looking into the darkness beyond the captain. “Got your people up to the initial point, do you?”
“Just getting the last of them into position now,” Hytchkahk confirmed.
“Damned good work, Sir.” Taisyn’s broad smile showed an elite soldier’s approval of good field craft. “Never heard a frigging thing—begging the Captain’s pardon.”
“Coming from you, the boys’ll take that as a compliment, Sergeant.”
“And damned well should, Sir. Not the easiest thing t’ move that many bodies in the dark ’thout somebody fallin’ over a tree root—or his own two feet—an’ lettin’ the entire world know he’s out there.”
The sergeant slid the bayonet back into the sheath strapped to the outside of his right thigh, then turned back to Clyyfyrd.
“Go find the Lieutenant and tell him Captain Hytchkahk’s here an’ his men’re assemblin’ on the IP. An’ fer Kau-yung’s sake, try not t’ get lost doing it.”
“On it, Sarge.” If Clyffyrd felt crushed by his platoon sergeant’s lack of faith in him, it didn’t show. “Captain,” the corporal nodded to Hytchkahk and faded away into the rain.
* * *
Sergeant Hairahm Klymynty slogged along the muddy trail, ankle-deep in rainwater runoff, with his head bent against the wind while his oilskin poncho flapped around his knees. He hated weather like this. He always had, and it was worse now that his knees had started to age along with the rest of him. The cold and wet weren’t doing any favors for the shoulder which had stopped a Charisian bullet the year before, either. But he was pretty sure the men he’d detailed to stand watch out here were no happier about it than he was, and he wasn’t going to lie around in a nice warm bedroll roll out of the rain—if such a thing actually existed anywhere in the world, a possibility he was coming to doubt—while he had men out here getting rained on.
Not that he had any intention of explaining that to them, of course. Just as he had no intention of mentioning the hot meal he’d arranged to have waiting when they came off duty. As far as they were concerned, those meals were going to be the company cooks’ own idea … and the only reason he was out here was to carry out another “surprise readiness inspection.” And, to be honest, making certain they were on their toes despite the miserable conditions was about as important as things came. Not that he anticipated any problems at his next stop. Ohmahr Swarez ran a tight squad. The possibility that any of his men were slacking off, no matter what the weather was doing, didn’t really exist. Still—
Something moved at the edge of his vision, coming out of the brush beside the trail. He caught it from the corner of one eye, but he didn’t really have time to react. He was, however, more fortunate than Sergeant Swarez had been; the rifle butt simply clubbed him to the ground, unconscious, with a concussion which would leave him seeing double for a five-day.
* * *
“What the fuck d’you think he was doing, wanderin’ around out here by himself?” Private Hynryk Ahzwald muttered as he and Tahdayus Gahsett dragged the unconscious Klymynty off the trail.
“Damned if I know.” Gahsett shrugged. “Looks of things, he’s prob’ly a sergeant. Might be he had it in mind to make sure his outposts were doin’ their jobs.”
“Kinda late fer that,” Ahzwald said with profound satisfaction.
“Oh, yeah?” Gahsett snorted. “S’pose he’d come along five minutes earlier an’ caught the engineers goin’ in. Think Sergeant Ohflynn’d be just happy as a Temple Boy at a bonfire if we’d’a let that happen?”
“Pro’bly not,” Ahzwald conceded after a moment.
He rolled the unconscious Dohlaran over and began tying him up securely, although that was probably unnecessary, given how hard he’d hit the poor bastard. The odds were at least even he’d never be waking up again, and if he did, it wouldn’t be anytime soon.
If the other fellow had been a genuine Temple Boy, Ahzwald would have been inclined to simply slit his throat as the easiest way to make sure he wouldn’t be posing any problems in the future. Regulations—and Major Mahklymorh—frowned on that sort of problem-solving. Still, Ahswald was a practical man … and the major wasn’t here. But he’d developed a grudging respect for the Dohlarans. They seemed a lot less inclined towards “making examples” than the Temple Boys or the frigging Desnairians, and they were tough bastards. They’d given ground quickly when the Army of Thesmar first launched its counterattack, but surprise had never turned into panic. If there was an ounce of give-up in them he hadn’t seen it, and there’d been nothing easy about the long advance from Evyrtyn. True, the Army of Thesmar had advanced better than two hundred miles since then, but the Army of the Seridahn had fought hard for every inch of that advance, and there’d been precious few atrocities on either side.
Under the circumstances, he was prepared to give a fellow veteran of that campaign at least the possibility of survival.
* * *
“Last man, Sir,” Platoon Sergeant Gyffry Tyllytsyn, 2nd Platoon, 115th Combat Engineer Company, 19th Combat Engineers Battalion, said quietly into Lieutenant Klymynt Hahrlys’ ear.
“Confirmed the head count?” Hahrlys asked. Not that he doubted Tyllytsyn’s assurance; the platoon sergeant didn’t make that sort of mistake. But it never hurt to be doubly certain.
“Yes, Sir.” Tyllytsyn smiled crookedly. “Double-checked it twice.”
“Good enough for me.” Hahrlys patted the sergeant’s shoulder. “Now let’s just make sure we don’t trip over the fuse hoses, shall we?”
“Suits me right down to the ground, Sir. How’re we doing for time?”
“That’s a good question.”
Hahrlys turned to face east, raising his arms to spread his poncho, and gestured to the private with the closed bull’s-eye lantern. Raindrops hissed into steam on the lantern’s hot case as the private leaned close and opened the tiny circular port set into the lantern’s slide. The light spilling through it seemed almost blinding to their darkness-accustomed vision, but Hahrlys’ body and poncho blocked its brilliance from any Dohlaran eyes as he held his opened watch in the small pool of brightness.
“Fifteen minutes ahead of schedule,” he said with profound satisfaction.
* * *
“Sure would feel better usin’ signal rockets, Sir,” Sergeant Pynhyrst muttered. “This doin’ it all on a watch an’ hopin’ ever’one’s where he’s s’posed t’ be.…”
He shook his head dolefully, and Haarahld Hytchkahk snorted. Pynhyrst was as reliable as the rocks of his native Snake Mountains, but he did have a talent for finding things to worry about. Which, Hytchkahk had to admit, was one of the things which made him so valuable as 3rd Section’s senior noncom.
“If you have any concerns you want to discuss with Major Stefyns or General Sumyrs, I’m sure they’ll be happy to relay them to Earl Hanth,” he said very quietly in the sergeant’s ear.
“Just saying’ I’d like a little more … control, maybe, Sir,” Pynhyrst replied. “Waitin’ around fer someone else t’ open the ball’s the sort of thing gets on a man’s nerves.”
“Now, there I can’t argue with you, Adym,” Hytchkahk conceded and thumped the sergeant lightly on the sho
ulder. “On the other hand, I’d rather be us than the engineers, wouldn’t you?”
“Got a point there, Sir,” Pynhyrst admitted. “Scout snipers’ve earned their pay tonight, too, come to that.”
“That they have.”
The two Siddarmarkians sheltered under the stretched canvas Ohmahr Swarez’s picket no longer required. Its protection was purely temporary, and both of them were already so saturated that it was more symbolic than useful, but at least the rain which had already soaked them to the bone wasn’t being constantly replenished by even colder reinforcements.
In most ways, Hytchkahk actually agreed with Pynhyrst. He would have preferred something more positive than “we’re all supposed to be in position by now” himself. But he understood the logic, and the attack plan hinged on achieving surprise. In theory, the Temple Boys—although he supposed calling the Royal Dohlaran Army Temple Boys might be a tad unfair; they’d certainly massacred fewer prisoners than the “Sword of Schueler” or the Army of God’s regulars had—weren’t supposed to have a clue the 3rd Alyksberg Volunteers were anywhere close to them. Hopefully, they still thought they were dealing solely with patrols of the indefatigable Charisian scout snipers, and Earl Hanth had gone to some lengths to keep them thinking that way.
The Army of Thesmar had maintained the tempo of its patrols all across the Army of the Seridahn’s front but those patrols continued to focus their main effort on the line of the canal, both as genuine probes of the Dohlaran positions and to create uncertainty about precisely what Earl Hanth had in mind for his next move. The Dohlarans had gotten much better at both offensive and defensive patrolling of their own, but when it came to that game, “better” was nowhere remotely close to “as good as” the Imperial Charisian Army. The Republic of Siddarmark had never been what anyone would have called incompetent when it came to scouting and reconnaissance, but Hytchkahk would have been the first to admit that even the RSA had learned an enormous amount from its Charisian allies.
At the moment, however, it was to be hoped Sir Fahstyr Rychtyr’s attention was firmly focused on his main defensive line forty miles west of Fyrayth, where those patrols were doing their best to keep it fixed. The last place they wanted him worrying about was the security screen far out on his right flank in these miserable, rain-soaked woods.
No, Haarahld, he corrected himself. In these beautiful, absolutely gorgeous rain-soaked woods! Langhorne, I love a good rainstorm!
His lips twitched, but at the moment it was absolutely true. And—the nascent smile disappeared—he’d had entirely too much experience with Dohlaran defenders who knew he was coming. Surprise was a beautiful thing, which was why he was perfectly prepared to rely on runners and planned timetables until the moment came. Yes, he’d prefer to positively confirm everyone was in position with the addictive, convenient, far more visible signal rockets the Imperial Charisian Army had introduced to mainland warfare. But there’d be rockets and flares enough when the moment came, and if anyone screwed up and fired one of those off prematurely, where the wrong someone could see it, surprise would go out the damned window. And if that happened …
“I think the Colonel will get the word to us when he wants us to attack, Adym,” he said out loud. “Should be pretty clear, really.”
“Aye, Sir, that it will,” Pynhyrst agreed in tones of grim satisfaction. “Can’t come a minute too soon, either.”
“That it can’t,” Hytchkahk agreed.
The Royal Dohlaran Army might not be the Army of God, but it still owed the Republic of Siddarmark—and especially the Alyksberg Volunteers—an enormous debt, and Haarahld Hytchkahk looked forward to collecting the next installment.
* * *
“Runner from Major Ahtwatyr, Sir. All of the assault teams have reported in.”
“Anything from the engineers?” Colonel Sedryk Maiyrs, CO, 3rd Alyksberg Volunteers, asked.
“No, Sir.” His aide shook his head vigorously.
“Good!”
Maiyrs nodded in sharp satisfaction. Charisian combat engineers had a tendency to be where they were supposed to be when they were supposed to be there, and they damned well told someone if they weren’t. It would never have done for Maiyrs to admit that he was almost as unhappy as Sergeant Pynhyrst about relying on timing and runners rather than more reliable signals, but he was confident the engineers would have informed him if they were running behind schedule.
He stood a moment longer, running over his mental checklist one last time. Then he drew a deep breath and turned to the youthful signalman at his elbow. Unlike Captain Hytchkahk, Maiyrs had all the signal rockets a man could want, and he was specifically authorized to use them when he was satisfied everyone was ready.
“Light the fuse,” he said.
* * *
“There’s the signal, Sir!”
In addition to a last name which had forced him to endure an enormous number of so-called witticisms over the last several months, Private Zhames Dohlar possessed extraordinarily sharp eyes. That was why he was 1st Platoon’s signalman. Not that particularly acute vision had been required to spot the signal rocket’s brilliant green burst; it lit the clouds’ underbelly like a fuming eye, touching the heavy rain with an eerie emerald glow.
“So I see,” Lieutenant Zhaksyn, 1st Platoon’s CO, replied in a tone whose mildness fooled no one.
Grygory Zhaksyn was a native Old Charisian who’d been a schoolteacher before his sister, her Siddarmarkian husband, and all three of their children were massacred by the Sword of Schueler. He’d embraced a new career, then, and he’d been a natural fit for the artillery. He’d commanded 1st Platoon for the past seven months, and if his men hadn’t known at first quite what to make of his careful grammar and enormous trunk of books, they damned well did now. Dohlar smiled coldly at what he heard hidden in the depths of that calm response, and then Zhaksyn turned to Tymythy Hustyngs, 1st Platoon’s senior noncom.
“I believe we can begin, Sergeant,” he remarked.
“Yes, Sir!” Hustyngs slapped his chest in salute and wheeled to the twelve M97 mortars dug into their carefully leveled firing pits.
“Fire!” he barked.
* * *
Captain Wyllys Rynshaw watched the rocket burst, then the mortars behind him coughed up enormous tongues of lurid fire, and he hoped like hell his crews had laid them in properly.
Surprise is great, he thought grimly, but getting the artillery on target’s even greater. Damn but I wish General Sumyrs had let me try at least a few ranging shots!
* * *
General Clyftyn Sumyrs watched the single signal rocket burst, vivid against the clouds. An instant later, lightning flickered along the horizon as the Charisian mortars opened fire.
“I hope we didn’t get too clever for our own good,” he said quietly, standing in the rain beside Captain Wylsynn. “By which, of course, I mean I hope I didn’t get too clever for our own good, of course.”
“Only one way to find out, Sir,” the scout sniper replied. “To be honest, I think the bombardment’s going to be less useful in the end than the illuminating rounds, but I could be wrong. And—” he bared his teeth “—I doubt like hell that it’s going to hurt anything. On our side, anyway.”
* * *
Although Earl Hanth had received two complete batteries of mobile 6-inch heavy angle-guns, improved field guns remained a hope for the future. In the meantime, he had a campaign to fight while he waited, and he and Lywys Sympsyn had invested quite a bit of thought in ways to make the best possible use of the artillery—and especially the mortars—they had.
Captain Rynshaw’s 2nd Support Company was the fruit of that thought. Sympsyn had combined two-thirds of the Army of Thesmar’s total support platoons into support companies, each three platoons strong, that could be moved around and concentrated into “grand batteries” where they were needed. They had to get a lot closer to their targets than the angles did, but they were also one hell of a lot more mobile. That meant Rynshaw “ow
ned” thirty-six mortars—in his case, all M97 4-inch weapons—and all of them had been carefully dug in and prepared for the night’s fire mission. The only thing they hadn’t been able to do was actually range the weapons in.
Be lucky to put half the rounds within five hundred yards of the target, Rynshaw thought grumpily.
In fact, however, he was grossly unfair to his gunners.
* * *
“Stand to! Stand to!”
Captain Zhames Tyrnyr rolled out of his blankets as the urgent shout jerked him awake. He shot to his feet, as close to fully upright as the confines of his small tent permitted, automatically reaching for his boots even before his eyes were fully open.
“Stand to!”
He recognized Company Sergeant Wylsynn Stahdmaiyr’s voice. Then the bugle started sounding, and he hoped like hell Stahdmaiyr was jumping at a false alarm. If the company sergeant was, it would be the first time Tyrnyr could remember, however, and he sat on the edge of his cot while he stamped his right foot into its boot.
He’d just reached for the left boot when confirmation that Stahdmaiyr still hadn’t jumped at a false alarm arrived.
The first Charisian star shells exploded overhead with soft, almost innocuous popping sounds, and Tyrnyr swore vilely as the sodden canvas of his tent glowed under their furious incandescence.
Five seconds later, the first shrapnel bombs detonated.
* * *
“Short!” Corporal Aizak Ohkailee shouted from his tree-branch perch thirty feet above the trail.
“You sure you’re spotting First Platoon’s fire?” Sergeant Yorak shouted back.
“Langhorne, Sarge!” Ohkailee shook his head. “Course I’m not! Got a red star shell at the right time, though.”
“Well, I figure we’ll find out if you know your arse from your elbow. How short?”
“Call it two hundred yards!”
“Two hundred,” Yorak confirmed, and slapped Dynnys Bailahchyo on the shoulder. “You heard the man, Dynnys. Say it back, then send it.”
“Two hundred yards short,” Bailahchyo repeated, and reached for the sidemounted lever on his heavy, tripod-mounted signal lamp.