The tone of the horns abruptly changed to a deeper, ominous, brapping drone, and the Grik attackers roared in response. Soli couldn’t see that far in the hazy darkness but knew the Grik were swarming out of their own defenses now, starting across the space between them like a great black tide of death.
“Mortars, commence firing! Three rounds each at four hundred meters, then drop fifty for each set of three after that!” Mortars started firing immediately; the three-inch “drop and pop” design they’d also been gifted by their Union allies. They were shorter-ranged than the ones they copied, intended for very close support. With the Republic’s superior long-range artillery, the adaptation had made sense at the time. Tracers already arced out from Maxims down the line and mortars exploded along the leading edge of the oncoming swarm. The lurid glimpses the flashing mortars gave Soli of the enemy was enough to chill her blood, even in this climate.
Grik were terrifying enemies, taller than Lemurians and as heavy as a human man. They carried vicious claws on their hands and feet and nightmare teeth in long, narrow jaws. Adults had impressive tail plumage and bristly crests on their heads, (under helmets, now), but all were covered by downy, feathery fur, generally dull brown with black highlights and washed-out stripes. Lethal as they were, Grik didn’t rely on their natural weapons. They’d recovered and copied smoothbore muskets with socket bayonets like the Union used early in the war, and primitive as they remained compared to what most of the Allies now had, they were deadlier at a distance and fired much faster than traditional Grik crossbows ever had. They wore armor, too; gray leather covered with rectangular iron plates. That wouldn’t save them from the 7th Legion’s bullets, but it made things tougher when fighting got intimate.
Details such as those were only clear in Soli’s mind, at present, since all she could see in the rippling flashes was a seething wall of ravenous monsters rushing directly at her. Just for an instant, she froze.
“Machine guns and rifles, set your sights at three hundred! Commence independent fire!” Fannius bellowed.
A lot more troops than Soli thought survived the artillery had risen from the bottom of the trench to cover its forward slope, and the front erupted in stabbing muzzle-flashes and choking smoke. Bright tracers from a Maxim crew to the right swept back and forth, disappearing in the growing fogbank of gunsmoke that quickly hid the enemy again. Soldiers, Soli’s soldiers, frantically worked their bolts, inserting single cartridges, firing into the growing thunder of the invisible horde.
We should’ve had repeating, magazine rifles by now, Soli railed inwardly. They were supposed to send conversion stocks already cut for box magazines…She shook her head angrily, furious at herself, blinking quick appreciation at Fannius. He only shrugged, and now that he saw she was present again, trotted to the left, around one of the zigzag curves.
Soli looked up and down the line. More than I thought I had, she conceded, but still far too few in the face of what’s coming. “Adjust your sights,” she called in that curious way Lemurians have of making their voices carry. “I know you can’t see anything, but I’d rather you miss low and bounce a bullet into the bastards. Mortars will cease dropping the range at two hundred meters and expend all remaining rounds at that distance.” Theoretically, the small three-inch mortars could drop their bombs much closer, but dull flashes in the smoke only gave the slightest hint of where they were falling now. They’d keep killing Grik, but any closer and they might accidentally drop one on themselves. “All mortar crews will destroy their weapons when they’re out of ammunition and join the firing line,” she concluded grimly. Turning to one of her Lemurian messengers, she spoke directly in her ear. “Have the communications section send to…” She shrugged. “Anyone still on the other end of the line, that whatever they’re doing they better get on with it. They won’t hear any more from this position. Not without a wireless set,” she added a little bitterly. “Then have the comm section pack their equipment and retire through the communications trenches. Set up and tie back into the line at the corps—former corps HQ—if they can.”
The messenger regarded her with wide, amber eyes. “Are we going to be overrun?”
“Of course we are,” Soli told her, then blinked reassurance. “At least this position will be, and there’s nothing we can do but make it cost the Grik more than they’ll wish they paid. But I don’t intend for the Seventh Legion to be in the trench when the Grik roll over it. Go.” Soli suddenly, finally, began to relax and feel more like the soldier she’d been before her promotion. Any part of the legion beyond her view would soon be past her control. She’d be lucky to keep a pair of centuries under her direct command when everything fell apart.
The mortar fire was beginning to slack but the machine gun and rifle fire intensified when blocks of running shapes began emerging from the haze.
“Pour it into them!” Soli roared, pacing behind the firing line in spite of the growing crackle of Grik musketry and the rising storm of musket balls whizzing past. “Kill them!” she shouted. “Tear them apart! Bugler, walk with me, but keep low. I’m going to need you.” All buglers were human since Lemurian lips didn’t do bugles well, and humans were almost always taller than Lemurians. This very dark-skinned man was even taller than most, and he responded wryly. “I appreciate your concern, but perhaps the prefect might heed her own advice. We might need her before this is done as well.”
Soli looked at him, then laughed. She couldn’t help it. And it wasn’t a hysterical laugh, but one of genuine, tension-shattering amusement. Even while men and Lemurians fired their rifles and died around her, and countless Grik rampaged down on them, Prefect Soli laughed—and it was probably her most important contribution to the battle to that point. Troops around her seemed to take heart and fight even harder, and those who were shaky firmed up a bit. The mood spread outward from there. Everyone was desperate and afraid—no normal person wouldn’t be—but just as Soli had doubted herself, her troops had doubted her too. Now, simply because she’d laughed at a private soldier’s wisecrack, she was deemed fit to command.
The Grik were clearly visible now, slowing in the face of withering fire as entire layers of them were ground away, but they had the weight of an avalanche behind them and though they slowed, they didn’t stop. Worse, Soli should’ve received orders of some sort by now, regarding how to pull the 7th Legion out when the time came, as it surely must very soon. They couldn’t get caught in the trench under that wave of Grik.
For just an instant, Soli considered sending another messenger to seek guidance from Colonel Zhao. But if he’s still with the 31st Legion—and alive—he could be half a kilometer to the right. The messenger will never get there and back before the Grik are in the trench. She tore her eyes from the enemy, muskets flashing, teeth gnashing, and glanced to the right. Maybe orders will come from the 19th Legion? Colonel Mbili is certainly senior to me. She gauged the approaching Grik. But there’s been no word from Mbili either, and there isn’t even time to send a messenger to him.
“All right,” Soli shouted, “pass the word; all machine gun crews close enough to a communication trench will pull their weapons out of line and take positions to the rear. The rest will wreck their guns in place and retreat with the rest of us. Listen for the bugle calls. They’ll tell you what to do. Hopefully they’ll help other legions coordinate with us,” she added.
“We’re pulling out?” Senior Centurion Fannius asked, trotting up to her. There was blood all over his tunic and his left arm flapped loosely at his side.
“That’s right. I see no choice.”
“No.” Fannius gestured to their front. “And you better make it quick. We’re murdering them, but they smell blood. They’re going to make a rush.”
“Especially when they see us climb out of here—and it’ll be rough in the open.”
“Better than in this hole with them firing down on us.”
Soli once more gauged the distance between her trench and the leading edge of Grik. The enem
y line was ragged, made more so as warriors died and others started to sprint, rapidly closing the gap. She had to time this exactly right—it wasn’t something they’d trained for—and some of the enemy would get in the trench with her people no matter what she did. “It’s time—and may the Maker help me,” she told Fannius. “Bugler,” she cried, and the tall man poised his instrument. “Sound, ‘back ten paces and resume firing’ until I tell you to stop!’”
There was no bugle call for bailing out of a ditch into the open, reforming, and continuing to fight. The one she specified would have to do. It wasn’t even a long call, consisting of only five notes, ordinarily preceded by other calls preparing troops for a fighting advance or retirement. Soli hoped it would be self-explanatory now, since her soldiers had to climb out the back of the trench to retreat the required ten paces.
The bugler blew, loud and sharp, over and over. To Soli’s gratification, most of her troops responded at once. The need was obvious. Actually doing it was a slightly other matter, however. Though it wouldn’t much longer, the trench still afforded some protection from musket fire. It wasn’t as heavy as it might’ve been since most of the closest Grik had already fired their weapons, and it was particularly difficult for them to load muskets on the run. Still, enough Republic troops were struck in the back as they turned to claw their way out of the trench that a discouraging number hesitated, still frantically shooting.
“Come on!” Soli shouted. “Pull back, damn you! Form up to the rear. We’re not finished yet!”
More finally heeded her words and made it out. Others might have, with a few more seconds, and maybe a few even deliberately stayed to cover the rest, but far too many were caught when the Grik spilled over the edge. For a few tragic, precious moments, the firing directed at the erratically coalescing formation mere meters away dwindled to nearly nothing as the leading Grik leaped in the trench and slaughtered the remaining defenders in a gleeful orgy of blood. Furious, Soli joined the ragged line, splitting into two ranks, as NCOs shoved troops where they wanted them and packed the gaps with people.
“Stand your ground!” Fannius yelled, echoed by five or six centurions and optios. Gazing around her, Soli feared—yet should probably be grateful—she might have as many as four hundred troops. Granted, many were wounded, but all could stand. None who couldn’t had made it out. Soli looked at the abattoir directly in front of her, practically all firing having ceased while triumphant Grik paused to gorge themselves on the fallen. Those behind them pressed tightly forward, blocked from shooting—or eating.
“Look!” Fannius cried, gesturing to the right. The 19th Legion was falling back too, exactly as they had. Not that Soli had left them a choice. Part of the 19th where it touched the 7th had probably pulled out with them.
“We better get back in the fight,” Soli growled, blinking at the Grik in front of them. “Keep them disorganized and hesitant to cross the trench. Besides, our friends on the right might need a little encouragement.”
“And an example,” Fannius agreed. “With your permission?”
“By all means,” Soli told him, but she was gazing farther to the right where the 31st Legion—and Colonel Zhao—should be. The moon was rising, painting the dark land a hazy, sickly gray, and she saw figures streaming to the rear but no formation assembling behind the line. Her heart collapsed within her as she realized Colonel Zhao must be dead. He never would’ve allowed the entire legion to be overrun and slaughtered. Never would’ve left the other two legions to essentially fend for themselves. He must’ve died in the bombardment and nobody even bothered to tell us, Soli now realized.
“Let’s give them some volleys! They’ll like that!” Fannius roared. “First rank, present! Fire! Crash! A swathe of Grik, some starting to look at them now, preparing to pursue, tumbled back into the trench. “Five paces to the rear and reload!” Fannius continued. “Second rank, present! Fire!” Crash!
“Messenger!” Soli called.
“Prefect?”
Soli pointed about two hundred meters beyond the 7th’s battered right where the 19th was spitting fitful volleys of its own while doing its best to sort itself out. “Run over there as fast as you can. Find out who’s in charge and tell…” Soli paused. “Suggest that we quickly join our lines and eliminate the gap between us. They also need to be ready to refuse their right flank, as it seems the 31st Legion has collapsed. The Maker knows what’s become of the Second Division beyond. Go!”
Somehow, the remains of the 11th Division managed to coalesce into a creditable line as it withdrew, even accumulating half a hundred stragglers from the 31st while the Grik milled about in the corpse-choked trench, feasting on their enemies as well as their own. They’d taken their objective, probably beyond expectations, and likely fulfilled the extent of their orders. Without further instruction which would only come when their leaders came up to join them, they seemed hesitant to advance into the increasingly crisp volleys of their receding foes. If the defenders had simply broken and fled, it would’ve triggered a “chase” instinct even if these Grik were no longer the mindless Uul that had composed all Grik armies, (led by “elevated” Hij generals), since the beginning of time. This war had shown that Grik warriors must be permitted to live long enough for their minds to mature sufficiently to operate sophisticated weapons and obey more complicated commands. Along with that blossoming intelligence however, came unprecedented and irrepressible notions among even the lowliest Grik, such as a vague conception that life is good, and this prey they hunted deserved respect because they were very good at ending Grik lives.
Battered as it was, Soli’s remnant of the 11th Division didn’t run, and its painful, deadly mode of retreat appealed more to the “leave it alone” instinct often refined in more sensible predators. Follow-on waves of Grik kept stacking up behind the first ones, resulting in more confusion, even violence in the ranks. This gave the survivors of the 11th, now all apparently under Soli’s command, precious time to gain distance from the enemy.
“We’re getting low on ammunition. We have to stop firing,” gasped the human Centurion Hanno, limping up to Soli supported by a Lemurian trooper. Hanno was the 19th’s senior surviving officer. Like Fannius, he’d been painfully wounded, but obviously wasn’t ready to quit.
“We’re astride one of our communications trenches and are recovering ammunition from it,” Sori told him. “I’ll see that it’s distributed.” She gazed off in the darkness, but blinded by the firing of her own troops, couldn’t see much. There was still a loud commotion in the vicinity of the trench, now a kilometer away, but the Grik weren’t firing back and the enemy artillery remained silent. “But you’re right,” Soli told Hanno. “We’ve been shooting to discourage pursuit, but I doubt we’re hitting much anymore and we’re only marking our position.” She snorted. “It may not seem so at the moment, but we’ve been very lucky on this campaign, often winning battles we shouldn’t. And the fact remains, every time we face the Grik we’re a little more experienced and they’re always new, untried troops. Their leaders don’t have much practice at exploiting ‘victories’ such as they achieved tonight, and might be as disarrayed as if we’d repulsed them. But they will reorganize, and they will charge into our concentrated fire in the same old way once they do.” She took a breath. “Senior Centurion Fannius! Cease firing and continue our retreat—in line, and at the quickstep,” she stressed, knowing how hard that would be in the dark, “back in the direction of General Kim’s former HQ.”
“Yes, Prefect Soli!” Fannius barked, calling on the bugler to sound ‘cease firing.’ “Skirmishers to the rear,” he added.
The shooting stopped after a final volley, and officers and NCOs directed the troops to turn about and advance to the rear at a brisk walk. “How far to Kim’s HQ, do you suppose?” Hanno asked. Sori blinked concern at his labored gait. He was having trouble, even with assistance. A few small ammunition carts were being hauled up out of the comm trench and some of their machine guns on their awkw
ard little two-wheeled carriages had joined them now, but there was nothing but stretchers for the wounded. Sori was suddenly horrified by the realization that stretcher bearers couldn’t fight. If they were pressed, they’d have to leave their wounded. For the first time, Sori’s sadness over Colonel Zhao’s death transformed into a sharp resentment that the man had left her to make such dreadful decisions.
“Only about five kilometers,” Sori assured the wounded senior centurion. “Perhaps less. I’ve never been there, you know. We moved directly into position from the southeast, and General Kim hasn’t gotten around to inviting me to dine.”
Hanno chuckled at her attempt at a joke, then paused, staring intently ahead. “I believe it must be less than that,” he told her, nodding forward. “But you tell me. Your eyes are better.”
A great fire was rapidly growing just a little south of east, and there was no doubt it was General Kim’s HQ. The communications trench angled directly toward it, and even this far away Soli could see a virtual city of tents and huge mounds of supplies the main army would never be able to pack along, all going up in flames. Most disconcerting, since the ground in that direction was unusually flat, Sori didn’t see any formations of friendly troops silhouetted between them and their burning objective. She’d half suspected Kim’s redeployment would still be underway, still lagging, with several divisions strung out on the march as they crossed from east to west behind the lines. Kim would be furious, of course, but such foul-ups were normal. She supposed she should be proud the army she was a part of had managed such a professional movement, but it wasn’t much consolation.
“Yes, much closer,” she told Hanno absently, “though it doesn’t look like it will help.”
A pair of signalers from the communications section scampered to intercept them. “Prefect Sori!” one called.
Trouble in the Wind Page 31