Never Sound Retreat Part 26

"Just do the drop right. We're only going to get one pa.s.s."

Looking down from ten thousand feet, Jack Petracci watched as the line of Bantag land cruisers deployed in open line for the attack up the hill.

"Hang on and keep an eye open for their airships."

Pushing the stick forward, he started the airship into a dive, cutting throttles back and pulling the release valve to drain off a couple of hundred cubic feet of hydrogen.

Within seconds the airspeed climbed up to sixty, then seventy miles an hour. The stick felt taut in his hands, and a shudder ran through the airship as they were buffeted by the warm midday thermals rising from the open prairie.

Watching the smoke, he tried to gauge the wind speed near the surface, running calculations in his mind for drift, then nosed over even steeper. The height-indicator gauge continued to spin lower, dropping through five thousand feet, then four.

The enemy line was directly below; he could see the upturned faces of the Bantag, a quick glimpse of a rider on a white horse. A spray of splinters kicked up next to his feet, the rifle bullet pa.s.sing between his legs and crashing through the top of the c.o.c.kpit.

"d.a.m.n, they're hitting us!" Feyodor cried.

"Just hang on and get ready."

The smoke-wreathed hill was directly ahead, and he continued the dive, crossing through three thousand, then two, trying to remember that the hill most likely stood five hundred feet high.

"Get ready, get ready . . . now!"

He felt the weight drop away, and an instant later he yanked the stick back hard into his stomach. The nose of his ship started to rise, splinters kicking around him as first one, then half a dozen bullets crashed through the cab. Skimming low over the trees, the airship raced over the top of the hill, the ground finally dropping away as he pulled up and away. Focusing at last on the ground southwest of Rocky Hill, he saw where block formations of Bantag riders, tens of thousands of them, were steadily moving up, and a sense of futility tore into his soul, that all that he had risked to drop the three packages would be meaningless when the a.s.sault finally came in.

Andrew stepped out from the protection of the rough breastworks to watch as Petracci pulled up, skimming low over the top of the hill, while, behind him, three multicolored umbrellas opened, a red-lacquered box swinging under each of them.

The breeze carried the umbrellas across the face of the hill, both sides pausing in their desperate struggle to watch as the packages floated to earth, landing in a line two hundred yards in front of the humans' position.

Schneid was already past Andrew, shouting, pointing at the boxes, screaming for several companies to get up and rush forward to retrieve the drop. More than a hundred men spread out, racing down the hill, and within seconds the advancing Bantag resumed their fire, men dropping as they raced toward the boxes. As the first men reached a package a cheer went up as the rope attaching the box to the umbrella was cut loose. Four men grabbed the box and started back up the hill. A sh.e.l.l detonated above them, sweeping all four down. Others leapt forward, grabbed the box, and continued up the slope while a surge of Bantag skirmishers charged forward, racing for the third box, which had landed closest to their lines. A desperate battle flared around the red-painted crate as half a dozen Bantag reached the container and a vicious hand-to-hand struggle ensued. Humans and Bantag slashed at each other with bayonets; an officer leapt atop the crate and fired his revolver straight into the face of a Horde warrior, dropping him before being bayoneted in the back.

Another company dashed forward, charging through the high gra.s.s, the flag of the Third Suzdal in the lead. The flag bearer raced to the box and planted the colors next to it while his comrades swarmed around the container, hoisted it, and started to run back up the slope. A charge of Bantag leapt out of the gra.s.s, this time going for the colors, the flag bearer crumpling when struck by half a dozen bullets. A groan went up from the line, and the men of the Third Suzdal turned about, charging down the slope to retrieve their precious colors.

Schneid, screaming encouragement, started after them. Andrew found himself caught up in the pa.s.sion of the moment as well. Drawing his revolver, he pressed down the hill toward the fight. A Bantag hoisted the colors high in triumph, just as a color guard sergeant leapt upon the Bantag's back and, grabbing his head, bared his opponent's throat and cut it.

Now a wild cry went up from the Bantag side as their champion fell, and, by the hundreds, skirmishers rose from the gra.s.s and began to rush forward. The sergeant tried to pick up the colors and was. .h.i.t, dropping to the ground, the colors clutched in his hands.

Andrew could sense that the fight for the colors was out of control, that regimental and corps pride would bring on a hand-to-hand struggle forward of his position, and in such a fight humans were bound to lose against their eight- and nine-foot foes.

"Sound recall, d.a.m.n it!" he roared, turning to a bugler. "Sound recall!"

The bugler began the call, but the pa.s.sion of the Third and its brother regiments was up as men surged down the hill, colliding in the open field with the advanced lines of Bantag warriors. Bantag artillery now turned on the struggle, pouring in sh.e.l.ls regardless of losses to their own side.

A drummer boy, casting aside his instrument, leapt forward, darting low through the gra.s.s, weaving his way through the struggle. Falling atop the sergeant who was lying atop the colors, the boy pulled out a knife and slashed the flag free from its staff. Turning, he sprinted back through the melee, stumbling as a rifle ball spun him around. Coming back up, the boy limped up the slope, holding the flag high over his head. At the sight of his triumph the troops in the melee broke off the struggle and streamed back up the slope, cheering the drummer boy as he paused atop the breastworks and defiantly waved the flag.

Pat, still in command of the battery, had already ordered his guns swung about, and, as the last of the troops withdrew, he sprayed the gra.s.s with canister. With the barrels of the guns depressed, the rounds cut through at knee height, so that it looked like a giant scythe had swept half an acre in an instant, the gra.s.s blown high in the air to swirl about, bodies of Horde warriors and the few Republic soldiers caught in the whirlwind, disintegrating under the spray of iron.

"It's nothing but d.a.m.n artillery ammunition!" someone shouted, and, turning, Andrew saw a panting crowd of soldiers kneeling by one of the three boxes, a sergeant, using his bayonet like a crowbar, had torn the lid off.

Andrew went over and looked in the box and saw twenty wooden containers stacked inside, the standard shipping sheath for fixed rounds of powder charge and a ten-pound sh.e.l.l.

"We got cut to ribbons for this s.h.i.t?" the sergeant roared with disgust.

Andrew started to turn away in confusion, wondering what madness drove Petracci to risk a precious airship simply to drop three boxes of sh.e.l.ls when one of the soldiers stood up, holding a sheet of paper.

"This was inside the box, sir. Better look at it."

Andrew s.n.a.t.c.hed the sheet of paper from the soldier, ducking as a mortar run crumped nearby. He scanned its contents-it was a handwritten note from Chuck Ferguson. Grinning, he stood again.

"Get that box up by those caissons. One of you men pull out a sh.e.l.l and come with me. Sergeant, find the other two boxes and get them over here. Now!"

Andrew darted across the slope to where Pat was still working his three guns. Andrew grabbed him by the shoulder and motioned for him to follow him into the boulders. Pat reluctantly followed. Reaching the boulders, Andrew ducked and showed Pat the sheet of paper.

"It's from Ferguson. He's had three boxes of artillery ammunition dropped in on us."

"What the h.e.l.l for?" Pat roared. "Three boxes aren't worth ant p.i.s.s to us compared to what we need."

"Look at this," Andrew shouted, and as he handed the paper to Pat, he motioned for him to uncase the sh.e.l.l.

Pat pulled off the lid of the sh.e.l.l container and let the round slide out. "d.a.m.n thing feels light; what the h.e.l.l is this?" Then his voice trailed away as he held the round and looked back at the sheet of paper explaining its use.

"Son of a b.i.t.c.h! This will give us something to play with now!"

"You're going to have to wait," Andrew shouted. "It says three hundred yards is maximum range. Make it a 150. Let them get up in a group. I want this to hit all at once!"

Grinning, Pat nodded.

"How many rounds do we have?"

"Three boxes-I guess sixty-so you have to make them count."

"I'll pick out my best crews. It's going to be tough, Andrew. They'll be right on top of us."

"I know, but at least we have something."

A thunderclap ignited to their right as another caisson blew, the blast slashing through the woods, knocking down dozens of men.

Andrew looked over the boulder and saw the enemy land cruisers relentlessly pushing up the slope, now less than eight hundred yards away, swarms of infantry moving with them. The thirty land cruisers had stopped and were now bombarding the hill, while farther back on the plains and in the ruins of the village mortar crews were relentlessly at work.

The bombardment was beyond anything Andrew had ever endured, surpa.s.sing even Hispania for its intensity. These were not Merki firing cannons they barely understood; the enemy before him were disciplined and well trained, their fire coming in with frightful accuracy.

The tearing sound of a volley erupted behind Andrew, and he looked up the slope into the forest.

"Sounds like things are opening on the other side. Pat, you're in charge here. Get a messenger to me once those d.a.m.n land cruisers start moving again. I'll be on the other side."

Andrew scrambled out of the boulder field, calling for his staff. Mounting, he started up the steep slope, weaving through the forest, flinching as sh.e.l.ls crashed through the trees. Smoke was billowing where part of the woods, in spite of the driving rain of the previous days, had caught on fire. Wounded men were crawling up the slope, trying to get to the reverse side, and he could sense a growing demoralization. Reaching the pinnacle of the hill, he reined in for a moment, moving around an artillery crew who were busy felling trees to open up a field of fire, one of the guns already in play. Someone had ordered the lightly wounded and a reserve regiment to build breastworks around the pinnacle and they staggered about, ducking whenever a sh.e.l.l screamed in.

A medical officer came up to Andrew and saluted.

"Their cavalry is pressing in, units armed with rifles; they're dismounting and pushing up the slope."

"Any artillery?"

"We saw a couple of batteries, but I don't think they're in play yet."

As if in challenge to the major's words a sh.e.l.l thundered in from the southeast and exploded in the treetops. The major looked up at Andrew and shrugged.

"Where's Emil?"

"Down there, sir. There's a ravine running down the east slope. That's where's he's putting the wounded."

Andrew saluted and rode off, picking his way through the forest, pa.s.sing hundreds of wounded men who were hunkered low against the barrage.

The ground suddenly sloped off sharply, ma.s.sive boulders blocking his way. He spotted the green-cross flag of the hospital corps and rode toward it. A makeshift operating theater had been erected under a canvas awning, and Andrew saw Emil at work. Unable to ride farther since every foot of ground was occupied by a wounded man, Andrew dismounted, making his way through the forlorn wreckage of battle. Orderlies moved through the press, pa.s.sing out water, one crew operating on an anesthetized patient right on the ground. Horrified, Andrew realized they were cutting off the man's arm and he saw a pile of b.l.o.o.d.y limbs lying in a shallow pit.

Feeling light-headed, Andrew turned away, a sharp memory coming back of waking up in a barn, Emil sitting by his side, breaking the news that he had just taken off his arm. Again there was the strange sensation, the ghost arm, as Emil put it, that he could still feel his left arm, his hand. A blood-splattered stretcher bearer b.u.mped against Andrew, not even bothering to look up, cursing as he shouldered Andrew out of the way.

"Andrew."

Emil, stepping away from the operating table, taking his surgical mask off, motioned for him to come over. Andrew hesitated until Emil stepped out from under the awning. Another sh.e.l.l rumbled overhead, smashing into the trees, exploding, screams erupting in the woods as a severed trunk crashed down into the hospital area.

"d.a.m.n it, Andrew. If we were fighting the Rebs, I'd tell you to surrender."

Andrew said nothing, looking around at the chaos, wondering how many of these men still might be able to fire a weapon. More sh.e.l.ls arced overhead, most of them coming from the opposite side of the hill, the reverse slope and ravine at least offering some protection. But the batteries on the south side were starting to fire straight in.

"Can't you get some counterbattery down on those b.a.s.t.a.r.ds?" Emil snapped.

"Pat threw nearly all our guns on the north and west sides-that's where the main attack is coming in. You're going to have to hang on."

"Colonel Keane!"

Andrew looked back to see one of Pat's orderlies at the edge of the ravine, standing next to his guidon bearer.

"General O'Donald said they're moving up!"

"I've got to go."

Emil nodded wearily.

"Last war I said I'd never touch a knife again; I can't take much more of this Andrew."

"None of us can take much more." Andrew sighed.

Patting Emil on the shoulder he scurried out of the ravine and, mounting, made his way back to the pinnacle. The artillery battery on top of the hill was now fully engaged. The slope directly below was blocked by the trees, but the open ground beyond was visible, and the crew was pouring its fire down on a mortar battery, which was shooting back at them, blanketing the top of the hill with fire.

A thunderous roar erupted below, smoke swirling up from the concentrated volleys of thousands of rifles firing at once. Andrew pressed down the slope, the woods around him alive with the hum of bullets, sh.e.l.ls, and shot. As the trees began to thin out, he could see the embattled line, masked by smoke, men standing, kneeling, crouching behind shattered trees, casualties streaming back up the hill.

Dismounting, Andrew tossed Mercury's reins to Pat's messenger, ordering the boy to find a safe spot, and, drawing his revolver, he went down the slope, his guidon bearer dismounting and following in his wake.

Angling down to the field of boulders he pressed to the front of the line, dodging between the rocks, cursing when a bullet smacked into a boulder to spray his face with stinging splinters.

A high, piercing whistle sounded from the field below, picked up and echoed all along the line by dozens more. A deep booming roar, the death chants of the Bantag, reverberated, and from out of the shadows he saw the charge press in.

Ha'ark watched in silence as the bombardment smothered Rocky Hill, wondering if there would be any organized resistance left by the time his land cruisers reached the edge of the woods. A constant stream of couriers galloped up with dispatches and replies to orders.

Jurak was closing from the south. Lead elements of his mounted rifle units were already deploying, and within another hour thirty thousand more warriors would be up.

Looking down at the map he could see the crisis building. The dozen land cruisers of the humans were but three miles away, moving with an estimated twenty thousand men. Looking to the northwest he could see their columns advancing, land cruisers, puffing smoke, crawling down the distant slope.

He looked again at Rocky Hill. It would be best to let Jurak bring up more of his troops, yet to ease off on the pressure now would give Keane time to recover. In an hour he could strengthen his position, dig in. Already the Horde had expended more than ten thousand sh.e.l.ls in the bombardment, more than half of all his artillery reserves.

No, the attack had to go forward. If there was a chance to annihilate Keane, it was now.

Chapter Thirteen.

"They're at 250 yards!" Pat roared. "d.a.m.n it, Andrew, we can't stand out here like this any longer! Let me open fire!"

Crouched behind an upended fieldpiece, Andrew felt as if he would go mad if the barrage did not lift. The land cruisers had stopped, tantalizingly out of range. Lined twenty-five across on the slope, they poured in sprays of canister and explosive sh.e.l.l, sweeping the edge of the forest, while Bantag warriors lying in the gra.s.s poured in a devastating rifle fire. Andrew could sense his own rifle fire breaking down, men remaining crouched behind whatever protection they could find, no longer shooting back.

The roar of battle had swept around to the western slope of the hill, and in momentary lulls he could hear thunderous volleys from the south.

The number four gun in the battery collapsed in on itself as a mortar sh.e.l.l detonated directly on top of the weapon, the entire crew going down.

"Pat, put some solid-shot rounds on the ironclads. But hold the special shot."

"Andrew, it's a waste of powder. We know that."

"Do it. We've got to lure them in closer!"

Pat motioned for a messenger to pa.s.s the word to the other batteries. The boy had barely made half a dozen yards when he went down. Two more messengers went out, only one making it to the trees.

Pat pa.s.sed the word to the two remaining gun crews, who trained their weapons on the nearest cruiser. Seconds later there was a spray of sparks from the front of the ironclad, and, along the line, Andrew heard the bell-like ring of shot hitting and ricocheting off.

With the change from sh.e.l.l and canister to solid shot on the part of the batteries, the Bantag infantry, which had been kept low by the artillery blasts, started to push in closer, some of them sweeping to where the brutal fight for the colors of the Third Suzdal had been fought out.

This time they controlled the field. No troops would dare to stand and oppose them now. A charge erupted from the Bantag line, a knot of warriors following a red standard, half a hundred of them reaching the woods and storming up over a battery before they were finally swept away by a battered regiment deployed around the guns.

Smoke from the intense rifle fire again obscured the field, and reports started to come in from brigade and division commanders, claiming that ammunition was fast running out.

"Pa.s.s the word to cease fire," Andrew shouted. "Hold fire until they're right on top of us. Hold fire!"

Fire started to drop off, and after several minutes, the rifle fire of the Bantag slackened as well.