Never Sound Retreat Part 28

The gunner looked up at him and, fumbling, staggered back to the ammunition locker, pulling a round out.

Climbing back into his turret, Timokin again stuck his head out, gasping for breath, afraid he would vomit from the sight of Nikolai and the hot sticky stench of blood.

Regimental flags were cresting over the ridge and, for a brief instant, he saw Marcus, on horseback, galloping along the ridge, waving his sword, urging the attack forward.

A battery galloped pastSaint Malady,reaching the crest, which was now less than fifty yards ahead, the drivers swinging the pieces around.

The ground ahead was covered with wounded and dead. Shouting, he motioned for men moving past him to clear a path. Soldiers, racing in front of his machine, dragged their fallen comrades out of the way, leaving the wounded Bantag to their fate. He blocked out the shrieks of agony as his machine rolled over more than one who was still alive.

The top of Rocky Hill was now in sight, covered in smoke and flame.

"Timokin, push in!"

Marcus was up by the side of his machine, hammering against it with the hilt of his sword.

"We're going as fast as we can, sir."

"Push it, d.a.m.n it, push it!"

Lurching up over the crest, Timokin drew in his breath at the sight of the chaos ahead.

Swarms of Bantag were fighting at the edge of the woods, a dark column moving across the field to his right, storming up the west slope of the beleaguered hill. Dark burning ma.s.ses littered the side of the hill, but he could see where at least ten of the Bantag machines were still in the fight, coming about, creeping back down the hill. Batteries from Sixth Corps were deploying along the ridge, taking up the positions occupied only minutes before by the Bantag. The surviving guns of the enemy and the wagons with the mortar crews were pulling back to the southwest, some of the guns already swinging around to protect the flank of the a.s.saulting column. It was obvious Ha'ark was trying one final desperate rush, hoping to overrun the hill and then hold it. If he could gain the position, not only would it mean Andrew and his men were dead, but the relief column would be out in the open as well, with the full fury of Ha'ark's forces turning to smash them.

"Send your couriers to my other machines!" Timokin shouted, struggling with the Latin, trying to be heard above the roar of battle and the blasts of steam slas.h.i.+ng out of his machine. "Tell first squadron to engage the surviving ironclads, second and third squadrons to follow me. Have Third Division on our right pivot and follow me, but make sure they don't get ahead!"

Startled at being ordered by a mere major, Marcus hesitated.

"I know what I'm doing, sir! First squadron has ten bolts per machine. They'll stay out of range and tear them apart. We need to break up that attack!" He gestured toward the column which was relentlessly pus.h.i.+ng across the open field.

Marcus hesitated, then, pointing to his staff, he started to bark out orders. He looked back up at Timokin and nodded.

Sliding down into his turret, Timokin put his foot down on the sergeant's right shoulder, then slid down into the interior of the machine and looked at Andrei.

"Can you give us any more steam?"

"She's running red-hot," Andrei gasped, the fireman having stripped off his chain-mail s.h.i.+rt and ap.r.o.n, standing bare-chested next to his boiler.

Timokin felt a gradual increase in speed as his machine started to angle down the slope, momentum picking up so that his gunnery sergeant, now in the driver's seat, looked back nervously.

"Brakes?"

"Let her roll!" Timokin roared.

Saint Maladybounced and lurched down the slope, going faster than Timokin had ever dared attempt in the practice trials. Slapping one of the gun layers on the shoulder, he motioned to his turret.

"You remember how to do this?"

Grinning, the a.s.sistant gunner scrambled up the ladder and squeezed into the turret.

"Sergeant, just steer us straight at the nearest battery, go through it, then head for their attacking column."

Timokin climbed back up into his turret, finding the narrow confines impossibly crowded with the a.s.sistant gunner curled up beside him.

"Just remember to keep it flowing, that's all!"

The boy grinned.

"Can I shoot it, sir?"

There was no way Timokin was going to surrender that privilege, and he didn't even bother to reply.

Saint Maladylurched, bounced, and clattered through the high gra.s.s, Andrei giving long blasts on the whistle since there was no steam being wasted. Gravity alone was driving the heavy ironclad down the slope at breakneck speed.

Bracing himself, Timokin poked his head out of the turret. The infantry was deploying behind him, running, falling behind. Third squadron, on his right, was coming down in echelon formation, while the three surviving ironclads of second squadron, on his left, were lagging behind, moving in echelon behind him. One of the machines. .h.i.t an outcropping of rock, surged up, seemed to hang suspended, then rolled over on its side, an explosion of steam blowing out through the top turret. He caught a brief glimpse of the ironclad commander struggling to get out as the machine continued to roll and then crushed him underneath.

The Bantag batteries forward, deployed in the open field, were firing, sh.e.l.ls screaming in, explosions erupting on either side of Timokin. He realized it was time.

Slipping back into the turret, he pulled the canvas cover off his weapon, motioning for his a.s.sistant to pop the firing slit open. Reaching to his right, Timokin checked the steam-pipe gauge, turning the valve which opened the line into his gun. A swirl of steam erupted around him. Checking the traverse on his gun, he sighted it in on the battery which was less than two hundred yards away.

The Bantag guns kicked back. Another clanging boom echoed through his machine, screams and curses following as bolt heads, sheared off by the strike, bounced around the interior. A searing pain sliced through his leg, and, looking down, he saw where his right calf had been torn open.

Ignoring the pain, he looked back through his sights. The gun crews were frantically reloading; the next volley would be delivered at less than fifty yards, most likely close enough to punch through. He saw several gunners drop from rifle fire, but still the Bantag worked to reload.

"Get ready," Timokin cried.

He waited forSaint Maladyto level out from its wild charge down the hill. Bracing himself, he wrapped his finger around the trigger, said a silent prayer to the blessed Saint Malady, and squeezed the trigger.

The steam-powered Gatling gun sprang to life, barrel spinning. Fifty-eight caliber rim-fired cartridges from the side hopper dumped into the breech and tore out at the rate of eight hundred rounds a minute.

The first spray went high. Timokin released the trigger for an instant, correcting his sights as they went up over a small hillock. A Bantag gun crew was centered in his sights, and he squeezed again. The one-ounce bullets shredded the crew, and, traversing his gun, he tore a stream of bullets down the line. Every sixth round had a powder charge drilled through its core and Timokin watched, amazed as the tracer rounds seemed like a near-continual stream of fire guiding him in. Two more gun crews went down, and, raising his sights, he st.i.tched a caisson, which detonated in a thunderclap explosion that shook the ironclad.

Panic erupted on the gun line, Bantag turning about, running, as one of the ironclads from third squadron opened fire as well. Two of the enemy guns were still fighting, though, and Timokin could feel the concussion of one of the ironclads from second squadron exploding.

Cras.h.i.+ng right through the wreckage of the guns,Saint Maladycharged forward, Bantag artillery crews scattering, running in panic. Ceasing fire, he stuck his head out of the turret, gasping for breath. The cloud of smoke and steam inside was absolutely blinding. Coughing, he looked back and saw that only one machine of second squadron was left. Behind them, several hundred yards away, the dark blue lines of infantry were racing down the hill, a battery following in their wake.

Saint Maladys.h.i.+fted, and looking forward again, Timokin saw a mortar crew, set up in the open, looking up in wide-mouthed amazement as the ironclad s.h.i.+fted in its course, and came straight at them. The crew broke and ran, abandoning their weapon and ammunition limber.

The charging column going up the slope of Rocky Hill was now less than four hundred yards away and halfway to the tree line, while to his left, on the northern slope, he saw where the Bantag were already up over the boulders and into the trees.

Standing up in the turret, hoping to catch the attention of the ironclad commanders in third squadron, he pointed straight ahead, toward the column, then slipped back into the turret.

"Half-empty, sir."

Timokin, cursing, slapped the ammunition box strapped to the rear of the turret.

"d.a.m.n it, scoop some rounds out and reload the hopper, but don't get any in backwards!"

The boy pried the lid open and, reaching in, started to pull out handfuls of cartridges, laying them into the feed hopper.

Saint Maladyslowed as they started to angle up the slope, the machine laboring and Timokin cursed as the battle on his flank continued to press into the woods. But straight ahead the attack column was beginning to waver as the Bantag, seeing the ironclads approaching out of the smoke, realized that they were flanked. Mounted riders rode about them, waving battle standards, pointing up the slope, and for an instant he saw one mounted on a white horse.

"Ha'ark?" Timokin hissed.

The range was down to less than three hundred yards. Still a bit too far for his liking, but swinging his gun around he aimed at the rider and squeezed the trigger.

Stunned, Ha'ark saw the tracers walking up through the gra.s.s, coming toward him, as the enemy gunner raised his sights. The attacking host, who but moments before were surging forward to victory, slowed, looking in wide-eyed amazement at the machines closing in on their flank, many of them, at first, mistaking them for their own.

The staccato chatter of the Gatling gun reached Ha'ark, and he cursed, something that he had troubled over for so long and not been able to make, the humans had created. They had machine guns.

The tracers closed in, and, kicking his left foot out of the stirrup, he flung himself off his mount. Just as he hit the ground the horse reared up, shrieking in agony, and fell over, Ha'ark scrambling to get away from the dying animal's thras.h.i.+ng hooves.

"The Redeemer!"

The cry went up, an agonized wail, and looking up he saw his pennant falling, its bearer cut nearly in half.

He tried to struggle to his feet, but ducked back down as the bullets tore up the ground around him.

Timokin held the trigger down, sensing that keeping Ha'ark down was perhaps even more important than killing Bantag. A machine gun from third squadron joined in, followed within seconds by the other three, along with the one gun on his left from second squadron. It looked to Timokin like six hoses of fire spraying into the packed ma.s.s, and in that instant he sensed that what they were doing was yet again changing how war was to be fought upon this world.

His gun suddenly ceased firing and he looked over at his a.s.sistant who was struggling to reload, unable to keep up with the demand. Steam was venting out from the water casing that encircled the barrel mount, and he realized that he had come close to melting down the barrels. The gun would have to cool for a moment.

"Fill the hopper and get some more water into the barrel casing!" Timokin shouted. Letting go of the trigger, he stuck his head out of the turret.

The entire column was breaking apart, surging back to the south, running in mad panic, while the arcing lines of tracers pursued them. He could hear cheering and, looking back, saw where Third Division, Sixth Corps was finally catching up, the swiftest pus.h.i.+ng ahead, leaping through the high gra.s.s past his machine. One of the ironclads from third squadron was already turning, swinging its Gatling fire up onto the northern slope of Rocky Hill, sweeping the Bantag advance clambering up through the boulders, tearing it apart.

He could hear artillery fire to the northeast, and through the smoke he saw flashes of light as first squadron, sitting at the bottom of the hill, fought it out with the surviving enemy ironclads, which were racing down the hill. Two of his machines were going into reverse, backing up to keep the range open. Explosions detonated along the open slope as several of the enemy machines exploded.

Turning his attention forward, Timokin slid down into the turret.

"Loaded, and the barrels are cooling!" his a.s.sistant shouted, pointing to the temperature gauge, which had drifted down out of the red.

Aiming high to avoid striking the charging line which was now ahead of him, Timokin arced a burst of fire into the retreating mob of Bantag, spurring the panic along. Remembering to pace his fire, Timokin fired a burst, waited a few seconds, then fired again.

Slowly they crept around the western side of the hill, catching a glimpse of the broad open plain to the south. Columns of horse riders were deployed nearly a mile away, but they were stopped already, drawing back. Raising his gun to maximum elevation, he squeezed off a hundred rounds, the shots arcing up high, then plunging down, the demonstration of fire more than enough to check any riders who were still considering pressing the attack.

Timokin looked over at his loader and finally nodded.

"Just tap it. Hold it for just a heartbeat or two, and aim high!"

Grinning, the boy slipped behind the gun, as Timokin dropped back down below. In the excitement he was unaware of the fact that his main gun had been pouring in fire as well, now firing shot at long range.

"Sergeant, steer her around so that we're guarding the southern approach."

"Major, we're d.a.m.n near out of coal!" Andrei shouted. "You've been blowing steam like mad up there!"

"Just another minute or two, Andrei."

Watching through the open gun port, he guided the sergeant to a spur of land projecting off the side of Rocky Hill. Cresting it, he signaled Andrei to disengage the engine.

Blue-clad infantry, deployed in open order, were already several hundred yards ahead, the Bantag infantry streaming southward, the mounted warriors retreating out of range as well.

A hammering echoed on the side of his machine and, going aft Timokin pulled the hatch open, Andrei moaning with delight as the outside air, which seemed as cold as a January blizzard, swirled in. As he stepped out of his ironclad, the cold air caused Timokin to reel, feeling as if he would faint, and he leaned wearily against the side of his machine, looking up at Marcus.

"h.e.l.l of a fight!" Marcus roared.

Unable to speak, Timokin could only nod. Behind Marcus he saw two of his ironclads deploying farther down the slope, a battery of twenty-pounders swinging in beside them, the lead gun already tossing sh.e.l.ls at long range.

"We're d.a.m.n near out of fuel, water, and ammunition, sir," Timokin finally was able to gasp.

"I'll have them brought up. Hold here. You picked a good spot, but I think the fight's knocked out of those b.a.s.t.a.r.ds for today."

Taking off his helmet, Timokin let it fall to the ground as he looked across the field. Hundreds of bodies, nearly all of them Bantag, littered the slope. The roar of battle still sounded from the north side of the hill.

"Marcus!"

Timokin was startled to see Colonel Keane coming around the side of his cruiser. Marcus, grinning, snapped off a salute.

"d.a.m.n good to see you, Marcus," Andrew said, leaning over in the saddle to shake hands. Timokin looked up wide-eyed at the legendary commander. The attention of the entire Republic had been focused on getting Keane and his lost units out. Now that it was accomplished, Timokin stared at the two generals. He sensed there would most likely be a print of this scene in Gates's paper; perhaps he would even be in it as well, but at the moment he'd trade all of it for an ice-cold bottle of vodka.

"Andrew, you're wounded," Marcus cried, pointing at Andrew's b.l.o.o.d.y sleeve.

"Well, like Pat said, lucky the arm was already cut off. I'll live."

Andrew looked down at Timonkin and extended his hand.

"Your leg, son, it needs attention."

Timokin nodded, touched that his commander had noticed.

"Once things calm down, sir, I'll have someone see to it."

"Never really thought these d.a.m.n things would work, Major. You charged like cavalry with them. d.a.m.ndest thing. You could hear the Bantag howling in panic."

"Thank you, sir," Timokin whispered.

"How is it over there?" Marcus asked, pointing toward the north slope.

"They're breaking, streaming off to the east. You got here just in time. We're d.a.m.n near pushed back to the summit; there was no place left to go."

Andrew, shading his eyes, looked southward.

"Can you keep those warriors back, Marcus?"

"The fight's out of them, sir."

"We've got ten thousand or more casualties to get out," Andrew announced, and to Timokin it seemed like all life had suddenly drained from his commander. "We've lost nearly all our wagons and horses when they pushed us back up the slope."

Marcus nodded toward the field.