Never Sound Retreat Part 11

Vincent said nothing, bracing himself. "Take aim!"

Those men still forward started to fling themselvesto ground. "Fire!"

The brilliant glare of rifle fire slashed down the half mile of front. More than one member of First Division, too slow to get down, was swept away by the fire. The forward line of Bantag skirmishers disappeared in the smoke.

"At one hundred yards volley fire present!"

Survivors forward got up and continued to race toward the line. Vincent knew the division commander was deliberately holding to volley fire to try to give them a chance to get in between rounds. The Bantag seemed to know it as well; the charging wave raced forward, and, as the rifles lining the ridge were raised, then pointed downhill, they hit the ground, hugging the earth.

Vincent cursed. The b.a.s.t.a.r.ds were trained, in fact trained too well in modern tactics. The Merki and Tugars, screaming like maniacs, would have simply continued to swarm in. The volley exploded and the Bantag were up again running full out.

"Independent fire at will!"

The battery deployed to Vincent's right, which had been deliberately aiming high, engaging a Bantag battery which was deploying on the next ridge a mile away, was now cranking down its barrels, the commander screaming for double canister.

The first scattering of shots erupted when the charge was less than fifty yards away. The fastest of the Bantag crashed into the lines, slas.h.i.+ng left and right with their bayonet-tipped rifles.

An explosive roar erupted along the line, those few survivors forward crushed under by the rifle fire or the charge closing in behind them. The four guns of the battery fired with some of the Bantag almost to the very muzzles of the guns, fragments of bodies sweeping back twenty yards or more. Riflemen from a supporting company stood up, charging in around the guns, driving back the last of the attackers.

The Bantag charge disintegrated, falling back. Vincent watched the withdrawal, saying nothing. It had been an impetuous attack, pushed in with the hope that they could break through on the coattails of the retreating survivors of First Division. Second Division held its fire as the Bantag pulled back down the hill, and the few men who had escaped them stood up and staggered the last few yards to safety.

The division commander came up to Vincent's side.

"That wasn't too rough, sir."

"It's only started." He motioned toward the next ridgeline. Several batteries were already deploying, and the dark silhouettes of the first of the land cruisers came into view.

Fortunately the d.a.m.ned things only move at little better than two miles an hour, Vincent thought. Any faster and they would have bagged us all. But they were monstrous, relentless, coming forward with a blind mechanical will that mere flesh and courage could not resist.

The battery commander was ordering his guns laid to engage the first of the cruisers, but Vincent shouted for him to aim at their batteries instead.

The men of Second Division, seeing the cruisers for the first time, looked nervously back and forth at each other, while survivors of First Division, who had formed up on the line to continue the fight, cursed, telling their comrades that nothing would stop them.

The forward wave of Bantag skirmishers had retreated to the bottom of the shallow valley which separated the two ridges, ducking behind the embankment of a meandering stream for cover. Puffs of smoke erupted, one of the gunners with the battery doubling over and collapsing.

Fire reopened along the line as some of the men concentrated on keeping the Bantag skirmishers in the valley suppressed, while others raised their sights on the advancing waves coming down from the opposite slopes. Mortar fire rained down along the line, the Bantag gunners quickly bracketing the trench, driving the men to ground. The line of land cruisers continued its relentless advance, sparks flying from the armor as rifle fire bounced off.

"So that's their new weapon."

Vincent turned, amazed, as he stiffened to attention and saluted.

"You look like you've had a rough day, Hawthorne."

"Nearly 50 percent lost from First Division, sir. I never should have pushed them that far forward."

"You didn't know what they had. I'd have done the same to try and relieve the fort."

Bullets fluttered past the two as Andrew raised his field gla.s.ses and studied the line of land cruisers.

"Just like Hans described them. How'd the twenty-pounders do against them?"

"We let them close to two hundred yards, and the rounds still bounced off," Vincent announced sadly. "I'm sorry, sir, we lost the entire battery I ordered up. One in the first skirmish, the other three when I tried to make a stand."

Andrew nodded, saying nothing. It was a gamble Vincent had to take.

"So we won't stop them here."

"No, sir, just slow things down a bit."

Andrew looked back to the northwest, toward Junction City. In the dim light of evening he could see a railroad crew working to off-load the two heavy thirty-pound and one fifty-pound muzzle loaders he had brought from Port Lincoln. A team of horses was already hooked to one of the guns and moving through the main street of the depot, heading east, to position the gun in the earthen fortress outside of town. He looked back at the land cruisers, judging their speed.

It'd be dark by the time the cruisers reached town. Would Ha'ark press the attack? Undoubtedly. Ha'ark must realize that in twelve hours he might be able to bring up thousands of reinforcements from three different directions.

Vincent had bought enough time to bring the heavy guns up; there was no sense in risking the men in their current position any longer.

"That's him!" Vincent announced.

On the next ridgeline Andrew could see a white horse standing out in the twilight. Raising his field gla.s.ses, he studied the rider intently. Ha'ark slowed, turning his mount, and raised his field gla.s.ses as well.

Curious, Andrew thought. Same as the Merki Qar Qarth Tamuka, the projection of thought. He felt as if this one, as well, was looking into his mind, a vague sense of presence which had troubled him a number of times over the last few months becoming crystal clear at last. This one was different, lacking the primitive rage of Tamuka. There was, instead, a clear, calculating coldness, as if, in some ways, he was looking at a mirror of himself.

He felt as if he were on a stage, that he had to act, to project something. But what? And he knew even as he cast through his thoughts that this one was probing, sensing all. Show nothing, he realized, reveal nothing at all, neither rage nor fear. Strange how different this was. With Tamuka it was a matching of rage, of primal hatreds; here it was a matching of thought, of intellect, as if all that was happening was like moves on a chessboard, point and counterpoint, a planning of moves, a grasping of the s.h.i.+fting plans of the other, and then a recasting of coldly calculated plans yet again.

You won this opening move, Andrew thought. There was no sense in trying to conceal that.

Andrew lowered his field gla.s.ses, and the bond snapped.

"Come on, Vincent," he said calmly. "Let's get the boys back into the fortress line. It's going to be a long night."

The more complex the plan, the quicker it will fail, Jurak thought yet again as he rode through the smoke-choked forest, his horse gingerly stepping around the piles of dead, shying nervously as a human, gasping with pain, rolled over and started to raise a revolver. Half a dozen shots from his staff flung the man back down. Pa.s.sing a casualty station, he tried to ignore the piles of limbs, the low moans of the wounded, and the stench of the funeral pyres.

It had cost too much, far too much already, fifty thousand dead and wounded and today was supposed to be the end of it, the closing of the door behind the humans. But the Qarth commander of his flanking attack could not resist the fight. He had to attack where the reserves were, rather than swing but half a day's march farther out. Rather than crash through to the road, sever all retreat, then fight a defensive holding action, he had attacked the enemy reserves instead. Granted, he had hurt them, but the claims that their entire corps had been destroyed was foolishness, a lie to cover his mistake.

Ha'ark would have had him executed for his stupidity and most likely would have when the time came, but he had resolved that problem by getting himself killed leading a final desperate charge.

Farther up the road the roar of battle continued, even though night had fallen and most of the warriors had stopped advancing, fearing the night spirits of the forest more than Yankee weapons. But the Yankees did not fear such things and were fighting to squeeze the last of their men out of the trap that should have been so firmly shut.

They were bloodied though, crippled and in retreat. But it was not total victory, and he was not pleased.

"Sir, we've lost all touch with Junction City; the telegraph line was cut this morning by an airs.h.i.+p. As fast as we'd repair a break, a new one was cut."

Unable to suppress a groan, Hans Schuder eased out of the saddle and slipped to the ground next to the table where the field telegraph was set up. The captain in charge was tracing out the cuts on the map, talking excitedly, his features ghostlike in the glare of the kerosene lamp.

"When was the last report and from where?"

"A train taking our wounded to Junction City stopped ten miles short of the town just before dusk. The crew reported a large number of Bantag infantry moving toward the track and clearly visible fighting around the town. The engineer backed the train out. The report just came in."

Sighing, Hans settled down stiffly onto a stool next to the table. Cursing, he rubbed his backside, wondering why anyone would be fool enough to like horses. The captain looked at him, then reached into his haversack and pulled out a flask. Grateful, Hans took a long sip and pa.s.sed it back.

"Any word from Colonel Keane?"

"Only this, sir. The line was up for a few minutes just before four o'clock, then went down again for good."

The captain pa.s.sed Hans the telegram, and he held it close to the light, squinting to read the roughly printed Cyrillic lettering. d.a.m.n, we should have taught these people English or German, he thought, rather than the other way around. The language problem was proving to be difficult now that more than half the troops were from Roum and insisted on using Latin. He finally pa.s.sed it over to the captain to read.

"Hans. Am moving to Junction City. First reports indicate heavy force landing at Fort Hanc.o.c.k with a dozen or more land cruisers. I believe . . ." The captain looked up from the sheet of paper. "The line went dead there, sir."

Believe, believe what? Hans thought. So now what? Sighing, he leaned back, rubbing his eyes. From the south he could hear a scattering of rifle fire, punctuated by the occasional boom of a fieldpiece. We're twenty miles forward of our defensive line. Nearly forty miles from there back to the railhead, then two hundred miles up to Junction City. By this time tomorrow the Bantag could be twenty, thirty miles up that line, tearing up track.

"How many trains do we have at the railhead?" Hans asked.

The captain shuffled through some papers. "Ten, sir."

Ten trains for three corps. It was starting to look like the Third Corps debacle all over again. Eight, maybe ten umens pus.h.i.+ng us from the south. Ha'ark between us and the other forces at Junction City. Even if Andrew holds the town, Ha'ark could push south, tearing up track, then close in on me from behind blocking the pa.s.ses through the Green Mountains. But if I close in on him, he can always withdraw to the coast, maybe even leapfrog and land somewhere else.

It didn't look good, not good at all.

"Well, Captain," Hans said wearily, "we've got our heads in the noose and a bare a.r.s.e sticking up waiting to get kicked."

The captain said nothing.

Ha'ark will expect me to fall back, Hans realized. In fact, he's begging me to. So do what he doesn't expect and do it now.

Hans finally looked at the captain and smiled. "Come on, son, you've got a busy night ahead of you.", "We press the attack," Ha'ark snarled. "We press it."

Angrily he paced back and forth in front of his commanders, pointing toward the city, which was clearly illuminated in the valley below. Even as he spoke the shriek of a distant train whistle echoed across the valley.

"I know the warriors are tired, they have fought superbly, but the plan was to seize that junction by nightfall. It is now two hours past the sun setting, and they still own it!"

"My Qar Qarth, it is night," a voice whispered in the dark.

"Of course it is night!"

"We have never fought at night, my Qar Qarth."

"d.a.m.n all," Ha'ark roared. He turned, his gaze fixing on the commander of the land cruisers.

"You, at least, will lead the land cruisers into the attack, will you not?"

The commander of the cruisers looked around sardonically at the others. "Of course, my Qar Qarth," he replied formally, the flicker of a smile creasing his features. "My warriors are not cowards."

Ha'ark whirled back on the others, some of them gazing with outright hatred at the cruiser commander for uttering the foulest of insults.

"We trained to fight at night, though you did not believe we would. These spirits you fear will scoff at you, the same way they now scoff at the Merki and the Tugars for losing to the human sc.u.m."

He stopped, staring at each in turn.

"We move at once. Those of you who do not follow are cowards!"

Chapter Seven.

The high, shrill cry of the steam whistles sent a s.h.i.+ver down Andrew's spine, the cry echoing from where plumes of sparks marked the advance of the land cruisers moving toward Junction City.

He could sense the edge of panic from the troops deployed along the wall of the earthen fort guarding the eastern approach into town. A volley erupted from the two bastions flanking the tracks heading south out of town, sparkles of light snapped from the fields beyond, marking where Bantag skirmishers were advancing.

"Get some flares up," Andrew announced. The rocket-launching team deployed in the middle of the fort sent the first flare aloft. Bursting, the flare slowly began to descend, suspended beneath a small parachute. Rifle fire crackled along the line as men started to pick off the line of Bantag skirmishers caught in the glare. Flares erupted all along the line, showing that the Horde was attacking in force, coming in from the east, southeast, and south. An attacking column was already across the rail line farther south, moving at the double to envelop the town from the west.

"I'm going to make a try at it, sir!"

Andrew looked back to the ensign and his s.h.i.+p's crew that had come up with the fifty-pounder taken from Petersburg. Petersburg. Seconds later the gun ignited with a roar, kicking back half a dozen yards, the gout of flame blinding Andrew. The crew swarmed around its gun, a score of infantrymen joining in to help manhandle it back into position. The sh.e.l.l detonated directly in front of the land cruiser that was bearing down on the fort. One of the thirty-pounders deployed into the next bastion fired, its round striking the front armor of a cruiser. A hot white glare of sparks erupted, a ragged cheer going up from the men around Andrew, until the next flare revealed the machine was still lumbering forward. Seconds later the gun ignited with a roar, kicking back half a dozen yards, the gout of flame blinding Andrew. The crew swarmed around its gun, a score of infantrymen joining in to help manhandle it back into position. The sh.e.l.l detonated directly in front of the land cruiser that was bearing down on the fort. One of the thirty-pounders deployed into the next bastion fired, its round striking the front armor of a cruiser. A hot white glare of sparks erupted, a ragged cheer going up from the men around Andrew, until the next flare revealed the machine was still lumbering forward.

Pacing nervously back and forth, Vincent at his side, he watched as the row of machines slowly closed in. The land cruisers started to return fire, sh.e.l.ls detonating along the battlement walls. At six hundred yards the third shot fired by the fifty-pounder struck squarely on the front armor of the machine coming straight at them. Again there was the explosive flare of light as the sh.e.l.l detonated . . . and still the machine came on.

"Sir, let's try to enfilade the one farther down the line!" Vincent shouted, pointing to one of the machines that was inexorably closing in on the southern bastion. "Maybe the side armor isn't as thick."

Andrew nodded, and Vincent sprinted over to the gun crew, pointing out their new target. Cursing and shouting the crew heaved its gun around, the ensign looking over at Andrew.

"More than double the range again, sir." "Try it!"

The first sh.e.l.l plowed a furrow just forward of the cruiser. Rifle fire was crackling all along the battlement line, Bantag skirmishers pressing in close, picking off two of the rammers working to reload theheavy gun.

Andrew stood beside the piece, watching, taking all in. The four land cruisers approaching straight toward the fort were now less than three hundred yards away, switching from sh.e.l.l to canister, the shrieking rounds swirling over the fortress wall while rifle bullets crackled past.

The fifty-pounder kicked back yet again, followed an instant later by a flash of sparks on the side of the land cruiser. A plume of steam and smoke erupted from the machine which seemed to lift into the air as a series of explosions detonated inside the cruiser, tearing it apart.

Wild cheering swept the battlement walls, the ensign urging his men to train their gun on the next cruiser. Andrew turned to Vincent. "Sound the retreat. Send up the signal." Vincent nodded, disappearing into the shadows, and as the first notes of the bugle call sounded, the ensign turned in surprise toward his commander. "We got one of the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds," he shouted. "Why retreat now?" Andrew pointed to where four advancing land cruisers were down to less than two hundred yards.

"You'll get off one more shot before they're over us!" Andrew shouted, trying to be heard above the cacophonous roar of rifle fire, the detonation of sh.e.l.ls, and the crumping thump of mortar sh.e.l.ls that were beginning to rain down into the fort. "Spike your gun, and let's get out of here." Four rockets soared straight up, green flares igniting, the prearranged signal to begin the retreat.

Vincent came up to Andrew's side, leading a horse, and Andrew clumsily swung into the saddle, heading for the fortress sally port.