Men of War

Chapter Three

General Gregory Timokin never even saw the shot that took him out of the fight. One second he had been watching the retreat of the Bantag infantry and mounted units, eager finally to get in range of the rail line, the next instant an explosion of steam blew up into his turret. He could hear the screams of his crew down below, men being scalded alive from the burst boiler.

Clawing at the turret hatch, he pulled himself up and out, gasping for breath. Just as he rolled clear of the turret and hit the ground his ironclad blowtorched as nearly a hundred gallons of kerosene poured from the ruptured fuel tanks into the boiler and ignited. Horrified, he could hear the dying screams of his men inside, one of them fumbling at the latch on the starboard entry port.

He stood up, staggering to the machine. Grabbed the handle to try to turn it, screaming with pain-it was already scalding hot. He felt someone jiggling the handle spasmodically, but the door wouldn’t give. Damn, they were turning the latch but hadn’t unbolted the locks inside.

“Open the locks, God damn it, open the locks!” he screamed.

He felt as if he was trapped in a cursed nightmare, the door wouldn’t open, the screaming inside wouldn’t stop … and he was terrified of what he would see if the door did open.

He heard the screams inside and then he was down, someone pushing him to the ground.

“Stay down, you damn fool!”

Bullets snapped past, machine-gun fire, slower than a Gatling but a machine gun nevertheless, the bullets tattooing against the side of his ironclad where he had been standing only seconds before.

A rocket snapped overhead. Turning, he saw it slam into another ironclad, the St. Yuri, which had been on his right flank. The round struck a glancing blow and detonated, scoring the armor.

“My men!” Gregory screamed. “I’ve got to get ’em out!”

“They’re dead already.” Then he was being dragged back, another soldier coming up out of a shallow ditch behind the burning machine to help pull him in.

As the three rolled into the ditch the ammunition in the St. Malady burned off, ten-pound shells bursting, the top turret tearing loose, tumbling skyward and then crashing down, a pile of twisted wreckage. Tracer rounds soared upward, oily black smoke blowing out from the turret mount as if the ironclad had been turned into a blast furnace.

Numbed, he stared at his beloved machine, still not believing that his comrades inside were dead.

“What hit us?” he asked vacantly.

Even as he asked the question he saw a flash of light straight ahead, the muzzle blast of a gun, and a split second later the St. Yuri went up, the turret blowing clear off from the shot.

Stunned, ignoring the danger, he stood up. Only seconds before he had been leading nearly forty ironclads, advancing in line abreast, supporting a full division of infantry. Half of them were now burning. Impossible; the ground ahead, all the way to the railroad track, was open, the enemy on the run. He saw more flashes, as if the guns were firing from out of the ground … a concealed line, camouflaged, invisible from the ground and from the air. God damn, how did they do this? How did they learn it?

“Sir, if you want to get killed, damn it, do it someplace else. I’m not going to risk my ass again to save you.”

He turned and saw a colonel by his side, crouching low. At nearly the same instant something plucked at his shoulder, his epaulette snapping off, tearing his uniform. He squatted back down and stared at the officer, saying nothing.

The colonel uncorked his canteen and offered it over. Gregory took a drink, grimacing. It was vodka laced with just a hint of muddy water.

“Your hands; you better get back to the aid station; I’ll send a man with you.”

He saw that his hands were already puffy, bright pink. The flesh of his right hand was blistering, and the sight of it made him realize just how damn much it hurt. Looking down he noticed that his trousers were scorched black, the leather cf his boots burned. Not as much pain there at least. “In a minute,” he gasped, handing the canteen back. “Out of nowhere,” the colonel announced, obviously shaken. “Thought we had a clear run, then the ground ahead just exploded.”

He paused, looking back over the edge of the ditch. Timokin followed his gaze and saw dozens of men down on the ground, in a line so neat it was as if they had been ordered to drop together. Some of them were still alive, trying to crawl back, puffs of dirt kicking up around them, and above the roar of battle he could hear the barking laughter of the Bantags who were picking them off. A desire to do something, anything, urged him to climb out and try to help, but instinct told him it was now a deadly killing ground, and he was amazed that someone would be so insane as to pull him away from the St. Malady, which was a dozen yards forward and still burning.

“It just exploded with fire,” the colonel continued. “It looked like your ironclad rolled over some sort of infernal machine, the back end just lifted right up from the blast. Then you got hit from the front a second later.”

The dirt on the lip of the ditch sprayed up as machine-gun fire swept them. Seconds later the mortar rounds started, whistling in, bracketing the depression that was rapidly filling with men who were crawling back from the inferno ahead. He caught a glimpse of a lone ironclad driving back in reverse, a rocket flaring up from ahead, streaking past the machine’s turret.

Puffs of smoke were igniting along the Bantag train track which was so tantalizingly close, less than a quarter mile ahead. Motioning for the colonel’s field glasses, Gregory took them, grimacing with pain as he cupped them in his hands and clumsily focused them on the rail line. Rhythmic lights were snapping from the armored cars, the rate of fire was slow, maybe a hundred rounds a minute, but it was a machine gun, and he cursed silently.

What was far more startling, though, was the sight of ironclads emerging, as if rising up from out of the ground on the far side of the track and from a peach-orchard-covered knoll. The bastards had dug them in, the saints only knew how long ago, and covered them over and waited. Now they were stirring to life, rising up out of concealment. They looked heavier, a newer model, with turrets just like his own machine. Along the rail track, farther back, he could see several dozen small specks, apparently hovering in the air, but gradually taking form. Bantag airships, coming in to support. Several Hornets harried the edge of the formation; a Bantag machine went down in flames, but a Hornet plunged to earth as well.

“My God,” he whispered. “We’re losing.”

“Andrew, I think we better get the hell out of here!” Pat roared, leaning over to grab the reins of Andrew’s horse.

Andrew shook his head, motioning for Pat to let go, but his friend refused.

Sitting upright in the saddle, Andrew raised his field glasses, fixing his attention to the north. Less than a quarter mile away he could see them coming, a wall of Bantag ironclads, forty or more advancing nearly side to side.

Jack, who only minutes before had dropped a message warning of the breakthrough was circling above them, oblivious of the ground fire, all three of his gunners firing their Gatlings.

Surviving ironclads that had been supporting the left flank of 9th Corps were backing up, engaging the enemy machines, but it was apparent the armor on the Bantag machines had been reinforced, bolts that had once so easily sliced through at two hundred yards were now careening off the enemy machines in a shower of sparks.

Four ironclads stopped after backing into a shallow depression, and Andrew watched intently as they waited for the Bantag to close in. Knots of infantry fell in around the ironclad behemoths, and Andrew nudged his mount, wanting to ride up to join them.

“Are you crazy!” Pat roared. “A mounted man won’t last three seconds up there.”

“Well, damn it. I’ve got to do something!” Andrew shouted.

Pat looked over at the half dozen staff and couriers who still trailed them. Most of them were wide-eyed with fright, ' but they knew what to do, moving up to surround Andrew and shield him.

“Back away, damn you!” Andrew shouted, but they ignored his protests.

The battle erupted straight ahead as the four ironclads opened up at less than a hundred yards. Two of the enemy machines exploded. A hail of fire slashed back. Deployed as they were directly behind the action, solid shot bolts, machine-gun fire, and shell fragments screamed past Andrew and his companions. Pat visibly flinched as a solid bolt sucked the air between them, the round screaming past like a demented banshee.

The turret was torn off one of the ironclads, steam and flame blew out the back of another. The two survivors fired back, destroying two more of the enemy machines. The Bantag continued to press in, yet another machine exploding as a rocket crew fired into its flank at point-blank range. And then they were through the line, followed by hundreds of Bantag infantry swarming forward. Several of the enemy machines were towing wagons, which were now unhitched. Mortars were already set up inside the wagons and within seconds their crews were sending dozens of shells aloft.

“We’ve got to get back!” Pat shouted, and he pointed to the left.

Down by the riverbank a solid wall of Bantag infantry were racing forward at the double, oblivious of losses; the thin line of blue trying to contain them cracking apart.

“They must have had five umens or more concealed on our flank,” Pat shouted. “They’re going to cut the pontoons and our crossing point. Andrew, you’re getting out of here now.”

Andrew wanted to knock Pat’s hand away, as his friend again grasped the reins of his horse, turned, and broke into a canter, dragging Andrew along.

“Give me the reins, damn it,” Andrew shouted.

Pat looked back at him.

“I’m not doing anything stupid.”

Pat nodded and finally let go.

Andrew gathered up the reins and followed as Pat weaved his way down a farm lane, that in a different age had connected a villa to the road running parallel to the river. As they reached the river road Andrew was stunned by the chaos.

Some officers still had control of their units, ordering men to dig in. A battery of ten-pounders was pushing its way up through the ever-increasing mob of refugees heading to the rear. Pat broke away, rode over, and ordered them to unlimber alongside the ruins of a small temple, the toppled-over columns of limestone offering some protection.

Andrew turned to watch, surveying the ground, wondering if this could be a breakwater to stop the unrelenting assault. A regiment, still in semblance of order and falling back down the road, slowed as Pat galloped up to them, ordering the men to fall in on the flanks of the guns.

The enemy ironclad assault was clearly visible, less than a quarter mile away, coming across the open plain, hundreds of men running in front of it, trying to escape.

Terrified soldiers crashed through the line Pat was trying to form up. With drawn sword Pat rode back and forth, screaming for the men to rally. Some slowed, falling in; others dodged around and kept on going, crying that it was impossible.

The advancing line of Bantag ironclads slowed and ground to a halt two hundred yards away.

“God damn them,” Pat cried. “They know the range we can kill them at and are sitting just beyond it!”

Andrew nodded, saying nothing.

A ragged volley erupted from the line of enemy machines, and a gale of canister swept the position. Gunners dropped at their pieces, two of Andrew’s staff collapsed, one of them shrieking in agony, clutching a shattered arm.

The gunners opened up, six pieces recoiling back with sharp cracks, but the bolts simply ricocheted off the front armor of the enemy machines.

The one-sided duel lasted for several minutes, the slow-firing machine guns of the enemy ironclads stitching back and forth along the line.

Conceding that a suicidal gesture was meaningless, Andrew urged his mount behind the wall of the temple, Pat and the surviving staff joining him.

Mortar rounds began to rain down, bracketing the position, and Andrew struggled to control his own fear as the deadly messengers whispered overhead and detonated with loud cracks.

“Why don’t they charge, damn it?” one of the staff cried. “They don’t have to,” Pat snarled. “Not until they’re damn good and ready.”

A ragged cheer erupted from the battery, and, looking up over the wall, Andrew saw a lone enemy machine exploding, most likely a lucky shot through an open gun port. Three of the six guns of his battery were out of action, and more than half the crew was down.

Andrew was startled as a flyer, skimming overhead, engines roaring, blocked out the sun for an instant.

A message streamer dropped less than a dozen feet away. He looked up, saw smoke pouring from one of the Eagle’s engines-another engine had been shut down.

An orderly handed the message up.

Sir, get the hell out! Entire front collapsing. Ten umens and hundred ironclads attacking you. South flank gone, Bantag about to take pontoon bridge. Must pull out. My ship is finished…. Jack.

“Here they come!”

Andrew nudged his mount around and came out from behind the temple. The enemy ironclads were advancing — again. Their tactics were changing; they smelled victory. Bantag infantry, thousands of them, were swarming forward, all of them heavily armed with rifles, rocket launchers, mortars. Ignoring the losses, they broke into a swarming charge. The regiment Pat had deployed fired a single ragged volley, then simply melted away, officers shouting for the men to fall back. There was no semblance of order to the pullout; men simply turned and started to run.

Andrew rode up to the battery commander, who had miraculously survived the enemy barrage.

“Major, abandon your guns, get your men the hell out of here!”

“Sir?”

“You heard me, son. Get your wounded on the limber wagons and save yourself. Now move!”

The gunners, hearing Andrew’s command, needed no persuasion. Turning, they started to run, though discipline held long enough for them to help the wounded onto the limber wagons. Drivers lashed their teams, swinging the wagons out onto the road.

A blast of canister dropped the entire lead team of six horses into a tangled heap, blocking the road. Chaos erupted as the other limber teams tried to maneuver around the pileup.

Pat, hat gone, saber dropped, was waving a pistol, standing in his stirrups, bawling orders. Andrew looked back, saw Bantag infantry less than a dozen yards away, piling up over the guns, catching those who had not moved quickly enough, bayoneting the wounded on the ground.

Andrew rode up to Pat.

“Come on!”

“The guns. God damn them, I’ve never lost a gun!”

“Come on!”

Pat suddenly turned, lowering his pistol, apparently aiming it right at Andrew. He fired, dropping a Bantag who was between them, clubbed rifle poised to knock Andrew from the saddle.

Pat spurred his mount forward, Andrew following, his mount staggering, nearly falling, as it was shot in the haunch. It regained its footing and in a panic broke into a lopsided gallop.

Andrew looked back, horrified. The Bantag were into the traffic jam of limber wagons, tearing the wounded down off of the caissons, bayoneting drivers. He saw a man being flung into the air, shrieking, falling back down on upturned bayonets. The Bantags seemed to have reverted, caught up in the blood frenzy, some of them literally tearing men apart with their bare hands.

Behind the insane swarm the ironclads pressed in, not hesitating, one of them rising up and over a twisted tangle of men and horses, crushing them under.

Ahead the road was packed with thousands heading to the rear. And there was nothing for Andrew to now do but ride with them into defeat.

Gregory could sense the rising panic in the troops packed in around him. Minutes before the men had advanced jauntily, feeling the worst of the assault was over, the trench lines cleared, and they were into the open ground beyond. ' He was beginning to feel the panic in his own heart as well, the easterly breeze blowing back into his face the stench of his machine burning, a mixture of kerosene, hot iron, and human flesh.

He started to shake. He had seen it often in others, after getting hit, no pain at first, then the shaking, the feeling that all the blood had drained out of you. Suddenly, with no warning, he leaned over and vomited, “Sergeant, get the general the hell out of here.”

He didn’t want to accept the offer of help but was grateful when he felt strong hands grabbing him by the shoulder.

“This way, sir.”

He looked into the eyes of the infantryman. About his own age, early twenties, but harder, muscles like whipcords, a scar creasing his jaw, an ugly red slash that seemed to double the size of his mouth lopsidedly to one side.

The sergeant led him down along the ditch, head bobbing up occasionally, scanning the land.

“Defile there, sir, about a hundred yards farther back. We’ll have to move quick to get to it … Ready?”

He found he couldn’t speak, his entire body was trembling. Fear, exhaustion, the pain, he wasn’t sure which. Another convulsion hit him, and he vomited again. The sergeant held him by the shoulders until the spasm passed.

“Ready to make a run for it?”

Gregory nodded weakly.

“Now sir!”

Together they went up out of the ditch, Gregory still gagging, the sergeant half-dragging him along. Bullets whip-cracked overhead, they reached the next ditch, rolling in amongst the packed tangle of men who were cowering there for cover, several of them cursing the pair, ignoring the star that was still on one epaulette.

A mortar round thudded into the packed crowd less than twenty feet away, and Gregory winced as a fine mist of blood sprayed into his face. He started to cry, not exactly sure why, sick with himself that he was breaking down in front of the men, but the sight of a lieutenant who the shell had landed on caused him to think of his crew. By now, they were blackened charred bits of greasy dirt, not blown apart like the body in front of him.

“It’s all right, sir, let’s keep going.”

The sergeant fell in with a carrying party using the shallow ravine to move the wounded back. It was a procession of tears, some of the men moved along easily on their own, clutching a blood-soaked arm, obviously glad to be out of it with, at worst, the loss of an arm. Others moved along silently, features a ghastly green-tinged pale. No stretcher party would carry them-they were the dying and time could not be wasted-but by some herculean effort they dragged themselves back, believing that by doing so, by staying with this river of half-torn bodies that they could somehow remain in the ranks of the living.

Medical orderlies with green armbands to identify them to the provost guards, struggled to carry the rest, some on stretchers, others bundled into a ground cloth or blanket.

He was a veteran of half a dozen hard-fought engagements, but until this moment, locked up in his iron machine, he had never really looked closely at what could be done to men, or to himself. Some were burned, faces, hands blackened, others parboiled by steam like him, features puffing up, eyes swelling shut. Others clutched at holes torn in the chest, mangled faces, or shattered limbs.

The procession was strangely silent, and he staggered along with it, feeling as if he was a fraud, not really wounded, a coward who was allowing himself to be led away, hiding under the protection of a sergeant ordered to take him to the rear.

He would rise from his inner woe occasionally to realize that there was a mad battle swirling about him. Hundreds of shells were arcing overhead, the worst mortar barrage he had seen, far worse than the Battle of Rocky Hill. Nothing was moving forward. Men were bunched up in ditches, sprawled flat behind the ruins of abandoned villas, barns, sheds, or behind burning ironclads, some digging frantically with bayonets, scratching holes to hide in. The rifle and machine-gun fire was continuous, but increasingly he noticed the men were not firing back, but instead were hunkering down, unable to go forward and too frightened to get up and sprint for the rear.

He looked back toward the front and gasped. A dozen enemy ironclads were moving up, the lead one within spitting distance of his own destroyed machine. Machine-gun fire erupted, stitching the shallow ravine he had been dragged into. Men were bursting out of the cover, running, collapsing. A rocket crew to one flank stood up, fired off a round. It slammed into the side of the enemy machine and skidded off. Seconds later the men were dead.

He spotted one of his machines pivoting, a lone David fighting a dozen Goliaths. It slammed a shot into the rear of a Bantag machine, blowing it apart, and then was torn to shreds in turn, half a dozen bolts slicing it apart. The entire front was breaking apart, falling back. Dark forms were emerging out of the ground, Bantag infantry, bent double, moving quickly, sprinting forward, dropping, then rising and racing forward again. Their movements were different, not the upright charges of the past. He sensed that these warriors were different, trained in a different type of combat, and the sight of them was terrifying.

His sergeant pulled him away and pushed on down the ravine, heading back to the rear. Several times officers started to close in on the sergeant, but when they saw he was helping a general to the rear they backed off, yet again redoubling Gregory’s shame. Without the star on his shoulder he would have had to make it back on his own, and at the moment the terror was so great that he knew he couldn’t walk, let alone crawl, without the strong arms of the sergeant around him.

The ravine finally played out, but they were now a good six hundred yards from the front and the sergeant ventured up the side and out onto the open ground. Gregory looked around and saw a green flag fluttering behind the ruins of a plantation house with a white rectangle in the middle, the insignia of the field hospital for 2nd Division, 11th Corps. The low stone walls provided some protection from the incoming fire, and several times the sergeant pulled him down as mortar rounds crumped in the open field they were traversing, their progress hindered by the torn-up tangle of untended grapevines and arbors.

Well over a hundred men were lying behind the building, most of them from 11th Corps but a sprinkling of 9th Corps and even a few wearing the distinctive black jackets of the ironclad Corps, the men looking up at him expectantly as he came in.

The sergeant eased him down, announcing that he was going to fetch the doctor. The soldier to his right was unconscious, a bandage covering most of his face, blood seeping out; to his left was one of his ironclad men, hands and face blackened, the flesh cracked and peeling. He could see the boy was blinded and didn’t have the heart, or the courage, to speak to him.

A hospital orderly came up, led by the sergeant, and squatted down.

“How you doing, sir?”

Gregory looked at him, unable to form the words, to tell him to go away and tend someone else who needed him more.

The orderly held up his hand moving it slowly back and forth in front of Gregory’s face, watching intently.

“Can you see my hand, sir?”

Next he took Gregory’s hands, turning them over, pressing gently, watching Gregory’s reaction.

“You’ll do all right, sir. You got scalded. From the sound of your voice you might have taken some steam in. I’ll get some ointment, then the sergeant here can take you back to the river.”

Even as he spoke a courier came galloping up, crouched low in the saddle, reining in hard, a bloodstained doctor turning to face him. Words were exchanged. The courier saluted, reined about, then started forward, heading up to the front.

The doctor stepped back, shouting for his staff to form up. Gregory watched silently, sensing something as orders were given with hushed voices. The orderly never came back with the ointment as the men raced off. The doctor seemed to shrink visibly as he looked at his charges.

“Everyone listen up,” he shouted in Latin, trying to be heard above the incessant roar of battle. Gregory listened intently, unsure if he was hearing the words correctly. The doctor paused, crouching low as a flyer passed low overhead, smoke trailing from an engine, then stood back up.

“We have to evacuate this position now! Anyone who can move on his own, start heading for the rear immediately. If you have the strength to help a comrade do so. Let’s get going.”

He turned away. Gregory struggled to his feet, looking around. Men staggered up, others tried, then slipped back down. Far too many didn’t move at all and he could see there were nowhere near enough orderlies to move them all. He looked over at his sergeant.

“Give a hand with someone else; I can make it from here.”

“You certain, sir?” and he could sense a genuine concern that touched him deeply.

“Certain, Sergeant. Kesus be with you.”

“And the gods with you too, sir,” the sergeant hesitated, then looked back. “Sir, I’m sorry about your crew. My younger brother’s on one of them machines. Do you think he’s all right?”

“I pray so.”

The sergeant nodded, looked down at an unconscious man with a bandaged face, and, reaching down, he hoisted him, cradling him in his arms like a child, and started for the rear. Gregory went up to the doctor. At his approach the doctor’s eyes shifted to the star on his shoulder.

“Why are you pulling out?” Gregory asked.

“Didn’t you hear?”

“Hear what?”

“We’re being flanked, cut off.”

“What?”

The doctor pointed to the north, and for the first time Gregory was aware of the roiling columns of smoke, punctuated by fires, and dull flashes of light. It was like a curtain stretching from horizon to horizon. He caught a momentary glimpse of a dark machine slowly moving up over a distant hill, dozens of dark towering forms behind it … Bantag; above them an aerosteamer was spiraling down in flames. The image reminded Gregory of a painting that terrified him as a child, in the great cathedral of Suzdal, The Day of Judgment, the world was in flames, the damned consigned into the hands of demons, who, of course, were of the Horde. It looked the same now. Turning to look back from where he had come, he could see the survivors of the assault pulling back, some of the men running headlong for the rear, others turning, trying to fight, going down under the hail of fire.

“Better get the hell out of here now,” the doctor said, turning to the operating table to scoop his instruments into a carrying bag. A lone ambulance was being loaded up with wounded.

“These men?” Gregory asked.

“Those who can’t walk are left,” the doctor announced grimly, and to his horror he saw an orderly drawing out a revolver. It was never spoken of, but all knew that orders were never to leave wounded behind for the Bantag if they couldn’t be evacuated.

Horrified Gregory stepped around the doctor and struggled to pull a man up.

“Leave him, he’s dying anyhow,” the doctor announced calmly.

“Like hell.”

Tears of pain and frustration streaming down his face Gregory grabbed a corporal who had lost a leg and was still unconscious, hoisted him, and started for the rear.