Never Sound Retreat Part 10

A final volley was fired and the even-numbered men stood up and started for the rear. A strange whistling sound hummed overhead. An explosion erupted twenty yards behind Vincent, followed seconds later by three more. In less than ten seconds another four more explosions detonated along the ridge, catching several men of the Seventh as they pulled back.

Vincent fixed his attention back on the Bantag with the pipes. Mortars . . . the d.a.m.n things were some new kind of mortar, he realized. He watched as one of the crew held what looked to be a sh.e.l.l over the barrel, dropped it in, then s.n.a.t.c.hed his hand away. A second later a jet of flame erupted from the barrel. Seconds later the loader repeated it again. How the h.e.l.l did the d.a.m.n thing work?

"d.a.m.n it, sir! Let's go!"

One of his staff, leaning over, was grabbing hold of his reins, pulling his horse around. Vincent wanted to explode at him, but realized he was doing his job. He had killed one of his staff already by foolishly exposing himself.

He spared one final glance at the land cruiser. Its forward shield was scored from half a dozen hits, but still it came on. Bursts of smoke boiled out of its low smokestack; Bantag infantry to either side were moving along at a walk. The d.a.m.n thing was slow-moving, but it seemed invincible.

Mortar rounds bracketed Vincent, and he could not help but flinch as pieces of shrapnel shrieked past him. As he turned his mount away he sensed something, and, looking over his shoulder, he again saw the white horse, Ha'ark was standing tall in the stirrups, rifle held high in a sardonic salute. Vincent was tempted to reply with a rude gesture. No, not that, he realized. Act professional. Standing in his stirrups, he snapped off a salute, then spurred his mount down the slope, smarting with humiliation at the jeering cries of the Bantag warriors behind him.

Furious, Andrew turned on his staff.

"d.a.m.n all to h.e.l.l! I want to know what the h.e.l.l is going on!"

The completely unnerved major who was in charge of the headquarters signals company stood before Andrew, barely able to conceal his fear.

"Sir. Telegraph lines are down in both directions. Like I told you before, sir, we have repair crews out, but as quick as we fix one break, their d.a.m.n airships swoop down and cut the line somewhere else."

Andrew wanted to tear into the officer with frustrated rage. Everything had descended into chaos; he could sense the mounting panic on the part of his staff. From the window which looked out on the rail yard he could see the madness setting in, men racing back and forth, officers shouting, cursing, rushing to load two batteries on board a train which had just backed into the siding while an infantry officer, gestating wildly, was obviously arguing that his unit should have the train instead.

The major stood before him, waiting for the explosion. From the corner of his eye he saw Emil leaning against the doorsill, and to Andrew's utter amazement, the old doctor had a cigar in his mouth. The mere sight of Emil acting in a way he had always preached against startled Andrew. Emil gave a subtle nod for Andrew to join him.

"Just get the d.a.m.n thing fixed!" Andrew snapped, and he stormed out of the office, joining Emil on the front porch.

"You're losing control," Emil said calmly.

"I don't need to hear this now, doctor," Andrew snapped. "I've got three different armies out there, and I've lost touch with all of them!"

"And three d.a.m.n good generals running them," Emil replied softly, putting his hand on Andrew's shoulder, leading him off the porch and out of earshot of the staff inside the building.

Taking the cigar from his mouth he offered it to Andrew, and struck a light for him. Andrew puffed it to life.

"And your gla.s.ses are dirty," Emil announced, shaking his head. Reaching up, he took the gla.s.ses off. It was one of those annoying little things Andrew found a one-armed man simply had a hard time doing, and at home he usually relied on Kathleen to clean his gla.s.ses for him.

Emil pulled out a handkerchief, rubbed the lenses clean and, in a fatherly fashion, helped Andrew put them back on.

"There, that's better."

Andrew took a deep drag on the cigar, inhaled the smoke, and blew it out noisily.

"Pat and Hans both got the message that something was up before the lines went dead."

"But it's not knowing what they're doing that's driving me insane," Andrew replied, taking another deep pull on the cigar so that for a moment he felt light-headed, his heart racing.

"They'll do the right thing."

"I've never commanded like this before," Andrew said. "Before I was almost always there; I could see what was happening; I could sense the battle, the feel of how the men were taking it, what the other side was doing and, more importantly, about to do. They only caught me off guard once, when I lost Hans and Third Corps on the Potomac. It's like that now, only worse."

"That was four years ago, Andrew. It's all different now. A different war, and you'll have to get used to it. Things will play out the same at this moment whether you're there or not. Right now, you're just going to have to wait."

Andrew muttered a curse under his breath.

"Something you were never really all that good at," Emil said with a smile.

He blocked Emil out for a moment, his attention fixed on the harbor.Fredericksburg had come limping in shortly before noon, listing heavily, with a report of having fought a duel with one of the Bantag ironclads covering the fleet. They had sunk the enemy ship but were forced to pull back when three more ironclads came about and started to close in. The ship's crews on had come limping in shortly before noon, listing heavily, with a report of having fought a duel with one of the Bantag ironclads covering the fleet. They had sunk the enemy ship but were forced to pull back when three more ironclads came about and started to close in. The ship's crews on Petersburg Petersburg and and Fredericksburg Fredericksburg were hard at work, hoisting the guns out, and one of the fifty-pounders was already being dragged up the hill by a team of twenty horses, its firepower to be added to the earthen fortress guarding the harbor entrance. Out on the horizon a thin plume of smoke marked where one of the enemy ships had already taken up station. were hard at work, hoisting the guns out, and one of the fifty-pounders was already being dragged up the hill by a team of twenty horses, its firepower to be added to the earthen fortress guarding the harbor entrance. Out on the horizon a thin plume of smoke marked where one of the enemy ships had already taken up station.

Amazingly, everything was now reversed. Our port blockaded, what was going on just over the horizon a blank slate. He had never quite realized until now just how crucial sea power was in all of this. Bullfinch had talked incessantly about it, that it would be sea power that decided this war, but it had never fully registered until this moment. Ha'ark could strike anywhere, at will, with the additional advantage of controlling the air. He thought of the new monitor taking shape down in the shipyard. It might have matched the enemy but was now simply a hunk of worthless iron which they would most likely have to blow up.

"Feeling better?"

"d.a.m.n it, Emil, don't talk to me like I'm a child."

"I'm your doctor, Andrew. I have a license that allows me to get away with it."

Andrew looked over at his friend and sighed.

"I don't know what to do next, Emil. I'm blinded, cut off. I simply don't know what to do."

"First off, it's chaos back there." Emil nodded toward the rail yard.

"Take command right there for starters, Andrew. Ship up what you can and trust that Marcus will bring up Tenth Corps from Roum. One of two things will happen in the next day-either we hold at Hanc.o.c.k or we lose it and lose Junction City and the rail line is cut. If that happens, then what?"

Andrew nodded. The enormity of losing the main junction was frightening. Hans would have to pull back over the Green Mountains. If the Bantag gained the pa.s.ses ahead of him, Hans would be trapped in the mountains with no hope of escape. Pat was a little better off-there were more than enough trains to move him back quickly. But to what? At best a fighting withdrawal to retake Junction City. Even if we retake it, they'll have jumped the front hundreds of miles closer to home. They'll have the logistical advantage of a port at their backs and wide-open terrain to maneuver in. We'll most likely have to fall back all the way to Roum, and if that happens, they'll eventually outproduce us and win.

One thing at a time, he realized. Get the support up to Vincent and trust that Hans and Pat know what to do.

The thought almost made him smile. h.e.l.l, it was Hans who had taught him the business, and it was Pat who pulled off the masterful retreat from the Neiper and then held the center at Hispania.

"All right, Emil, point made," Andrew conceded.

Emil nodded, and then, reaching up, he took the cigar and tossed it on the ground.

"Bad for your health, Andrew."

Andrew smiled.

"Emil, I'm going up to Junction City. Perhaps the line is still open from there to Hans and back to Roum. Stay here, get the wounded ready to ship out. If we get contact back with Pat, order him to abandon the front, get his men across the Shenandoah, and be ready to pull all the way back to here."

"Yes, sir."

Without another word Andrew turned and walked back into his headquarters, quietly calling for his staff to get ready to move.

Emil watched him go. When he knew that Andrew was no longer in view he fished another cigar out of his pocket, lit it, and strolled way.

A volley of rifle fire slashed through the trees, a hail of small branches and leaves dropping around Pat as he reined in his horse and leaned over to shout at the sergeant who was leading a knot of men off the firing line.

"Sergeant, where the h.e.l.l are you going!" Pat roared.

"Sir, I'm taking my regiment back for a rest, sir!"

Pat looked at the weary, powder-blackened face.

"Sean McDougal?"

"That it is, Pat."

Pat studied him warily, getting set to roar into a good chewing out. He looked at the weary men, less than a score, standing around their sergeant, who had a shot-torn standard over his shoulder.

"Regiment you say?"

"d.a.m.n Thirty-third Roum, Pattie."

"You've been drinking again, McDougal."

"You're d.a.m.n right, you son of a b.i.t.c.h. Do ya have a problem with it?" McDougal announced defiantly.

"Where's the rest of your men?"

McDougal shook his head. "Them's it, Pattie, them's it."

Another volley crashed through the forest and Pat could not help but flinch as a rifle bullet slapped into a tree less than a foot away, spraying him with sap and splinters of bark.

McDougal grinned.

Pat looked over at one of his staff.

"Thirty-third Roum was supposed to be on the extreme left of the line, sir."

The deep, booming roar of a Bantag charge erupted from the forest. The volley line forward, less than fifty yards away, redoubled its fire. Part of the line sagged back, a knot of Bantag breaking clean through. A reserve company sprinted forward, bayonets lowered, and a vicious hand-to-hand struggle ensued.

McDougal watched the fight with the exhausted disinterest of someone who was completely fought out.

"McDougal, what the h.e.l.l happened back there?" Pat nodded to the north.

"We was caught with our pants down, we was. They came roaring in on the flank. I sez to the colonel, I sez, it was just like Chancellorsville, and then he bought it. None of the lads who were dressed up like officers knew what to do, so I figured Sean, me boy, it's a good day to take command of a regiment."

Without even bothering to look for approval he slipped a bottle out of his haversack, uncorked it, drained the last drop, then threw the bottle against a tree.

"We held the fort for an hour, ran out of ammunition for the four guns. Them hairy b.a.s.t.a.r.ds had these queer weapons they did, pipes that fired sh.e.l.ls, like a cohorn mortar it was. They brought up several of them and started tearing the inside of the fort apart. A charge finally broke over the west wall of the fort-the west wall mind you-behind us. So I gathered what boys that were left and fought me way through."

Behind them the last of the breakthrough was sealed off while at the same time the line began to fall back. To the west Pat could sense that the attack was lapping over the line yet again. It was time to retreat. The problem was there wasn't much room left to go, another mile and they'd be back on the rail line, with First and Ninth Corps still strung out on the road behind them with at least twenty umens of the Horde pressing in from the east.

"A tight spot we're in, Pattie! A tight spot it is!"

Pat could not help but grin as the realization came to him of what McDougal had just pulled off. He had already heard that the fort on the northern edge of Eleventh Corps line had taken the full brunt of the flanking attack and stopped it cold for nearly an hour, allowing the rest of Eleventh Corps to shift its deployment in time to avoid getting rolled up. Some of the regiments farther down the line had broken, but the Thirty-third held its post d.a.m.n near to the last man. Maybe it was because they had no other place to go, or maybe it was McDougal. He sensed it was a bit of both, and he could only wonder how the old drunk had managed to get his men through three miles of forest teeming with battle-crazed Bantag.

"Get to the rear, Sean. You've done enough for today."

"Right I have, d.a.m.n it," McDougal growled. Turning to his men, he bellowed out a command, and the young Roum soldiers shouldered their rifles and, forming up, marched to the rear, Pat falling behind them as the last of the skirmishers pulling back from the Bantag onslaught fell in around him.

"b.a.s.t.a.r.d should get the Medal of Honor," Pat announced to his staff. "Problem is he'd p.a.w.n it for a bottle later on."

A bullet zipped past so close that Pat felt the air stir near his cheek. Turning in his saddle, he saw a Bantag skirmisher coming out of the smoke-choked forest, loading his rifle on the run. Pat drew his revolver, fired three rounds, and finally dropped him. More shadows came out of the forest, and, spurring his mount, while ducking to avoid the low-hanging branches, he dodged around the trees and pa.s.sed through the line where the retreating ranks had reformed. It was good ground, sloping down to the north, the trees thick enough that two men could hide behind them. Seconds after he pa.s.sed through the line a volley erupted, the explosive roar sending a shiver down his spine.

From out of the forest he could hear the Bantag charge coming in. Turning his mount about he started riding slowly down the line, shouting encouragement as the boys poured it on. A battery of ten-pounders, which had been worked up through a narrow forest path, deployed out, the infantry in front of the guns scattering to either side as the commander shouted for them to clear a lane. Pat reined in behind the gun and roared with delight as the four pieces slammed a load of double canister into the woods, tearing the bark from trees, knocking down branches, and breaking the enemy charge.

"General!"

Pat saw Schneid, whom he had left in command of the withdrawal, coming through the forest.

"How is it going?" Pat shouted.

"They smell victory and are closing in fast. Lost a couple of batteries in the tangle on the road. I ordered my men to stop short of the station and hold. We've started loading the wounded on the trains, but a lot of the boys are going to have to walk out."

Another charge was beginning to build, and Pat's horse kicked up when a rifle ball clipped its left ear.

"Sir, it's rather hot here!" Rick shouted. "Shouldn't you get back where you belong?"

Pat ignored him as a renewed charge surged out of the woods. Kicking his horse into a canter, he trotted down the line, waving his hat and shouting for his men to hold.

"Keep moving, keep moving!" Vincent roared. "If you drop behind, you're dinner for those b.a.s.t.a.r.ds!"

Edging his horse up against a knot of soldiers who were staggering across the open steppe, he used the flat of his sword, slapping several of them across the back. They looked up at him angrily.

"d.a.m.n it, they're closing in! Keep moving!"

In the gathering twilight he looked to the south, where a column of Bantag infantry was moving at the double, racing to outflank them yet again. Themen around him staggered on, barely increasing their pace.

An artillery round thundered past, detonating on the slope ahead, dropping several men. Less than a half mile behind, Bantag land cruisers crept forward at a slow yet relentless pace, the infantry moving with them, dashing forward a few paces, kneeling to fire, then pausing to reload as the next wave of skirmishers swept past them.

On the slope ahead he knew that fresh troops were waiting, Second Division, Fifth Corps, which had come up in the late afternoon and deployed just in front of Junction City. One of the men he had been urging on silently collapsed to his hands and knees, gasping, blood pouring out of his mouth. His comrades paused to try and pick him up.

"He's finished," Vincent shouted. "You'll have to leave him."

A sergeant looked up angrily at Vincent.

"d.a.m.n it, sir, the Seventh doesn't leave its dead or wounded behind."

"Give him to me," Vincent snapped, and they pa.s.sed the dying soldier up. Holding him tight, Vincent spurred his horse up the slope, and felt the body he was carrying go limp. Reaching the crest he pa.s.sed through the line and let the body slip to the ground.

The men of Second Division had been digging in since arriving at the position so that a shallow trench, a foot or so deep, was cut into the steppe, sod and dirt piled up forward. The exhausted survivors of First Division, which had fought a running ten-mile retreat throughout the afternoon, were lying on the reverse slope, draining canteens of water which theircomrades from Second Division had pa.s.sed over to them.

Sensing what was coming, Vincent pa.s.sed orders for the division to continue its retreat toward the fortifications surrounding the town. Watching the men stand up to continue their retreat, he saw a train coming into town from the northeast, its whistle echoing in the distance, flatcars loaded with infantryand a battery of guns.

Vincent dismounted, handed his trembling horse off to an orderly, and walked up to the crest of the ridge. All along the forward slope exhausted stragglers of First Division were staggering up the slope. The Bantag farther down broke into a charge, their long-legged stride taking them up the hill at a frightening speed. The men of Second Division were screaming at their comrades to clear the way.

The charge pushed some of the men from First Division forward in a final desperate run to safety, others simply collapsed, or turned about, ready totrade their lives. "At two hundred yards volley fire present!" Thecry, issued by the division commander, raced down the line.