A Band of Brothers Read online

  A Band of Brothers

  THE LOST REGIMENT #7

  William R. Forstchen

  www.onesecondafter.com

  www.dayofwrathbook.com

  www.spectrumliteraryagency.com/forstchen.htm

  Copyright © 1999 by William R. Forstchen

  For Professor Dave Flory, who years ago translated few paragraphs from Rally Cry into Spanish, thereby encouraging me to stick it out in his class. I never thought I could make it through a language course and that the dream of a Ph.D. was attainable. Dave, your simple gesture helped to push me on, so this little dedication is for you.

  Chapter One

  Cold. It’s so damn cold.

  Eddies of snow swirled around Lieutenant General Patrick O’Donald, commander of the Army of the East. The world disappeared around him so that for a moment he felt as if he had fallen into a frigid eternity, a blanket of white that would suck the last pulse of warmth from his soul.

  “General, over there.”

  The voice was muffled, hollow, a snatch of sound that swirled off into the white and darkness.

  The snow squall passed, rolling northeastward, the horizon pulling back like a ruffling curtain.

  Pat raised his field glasses to where his adjutant was pointing. Nothing. He lowered his glasses and looked over at the boy.

  “They’re there, sir, believe me. You can almost smell ’em.”

  Pat nodded; the boy was young, better eyes, trust to his judgment.

  “We’re waiting for your orders, sir.”

  Pat said nothing, raising his glasses again. For a moment the tree line on the crest of the hill stood out sharply, dark trunks of soaring pines etched against the backdrop of the storm. Was that a puff of smoke on the far side? Hard to tell. Dirty white smudges against the dark trees … campfires, maybe the smoke of a land ironclad as well.

  Movement. A shifting shadow under the trees, arms flailing, standing up, stamping. Someone as cold as he. Tall, eight, maybe nine feet … Bantag!

  The figure raised something to his face—field glasses. The Bantag was looking this way. Pat waited, motionless. The Bantag lowered the glasses and said something to someone behind him, invisible below the crest. Their watch had to be numbed by the long night, thinking of relief, a fire, something warm to eat.

  What they were eating he didn’t want to think about. Yesterday the 6th Rus Mounted Rifles had been ambushed over in that next valley. A massacre, a bloody massacre. The bastards were most likely gorging themselves.

  Another eddy of snow swirled around him, decreasing visibility, obscuring the ridge. Taking off the white blanket he had slipped over his shoulders as camouflage, he slipped down from the edge of the ridge. Standing, he staggered through the knee-deep snow to the grove where his staff waited for him.

  Through the scattered grove of trees he could see them again, troopers on horses, a guidon fluttering as another gust of wind swirled around them, a golden regimental flag waving, threatening to tangle in the branches of a stunted pine bent over with the weight of snow. The troopers and horses looked like half-formed snowmen, black slouch caps blanketed in white, heavy sky-blue greatcoats white on the shoulders, steam rising from horses, all of it shadowy, surreal.

  Even in the frigid cold the familiar smells came through: horse sweat, the rank smell of saddle sores, wet leather and wool, a faint whiff of liquor as several men passed a canteen back and forth. He wondered if the stench was strong enough for the Bantag to sniff it out on the next ridge. No, they would have sent a patrol this way if they suspected trouble. But still, damn incautious of them. The bastards were usually more careful, especially a raiding force moving behind our lines. Simple damn arrogance, that must be it. Wipe out a regiment, then gorge, figure no one else was about. The bastards would soon learn different.

  If this is just a raid we’ll cut their guts out before breakfast. But if it’s more, an umen, or worse yet, a force with ironclads, our Capua Line is lost. They’re ten miles behind our left flank. Then what? Fall back on Roum? We were supposed to hold this position right through till spring.

  Don’t worry about it now, he thought. Don’t let the boys see you’re worried. Just get this job done, get vengeance for the loss of a regiment, and worry about the rest later.

  At his approach, the brigade commander, a young Rus boy, son of an old boyar and a natural on horseback, snapped to attention and saluted. The lad was thirsting for revenge; he had lost a regiment yesterday, nearly a third of his entire command, and he wanted to redeem himself; redemption in the eyes of the army and of family, for his brother had commanded the regiment surprised just after sunset.

  Pat motioned for the brigadier, the two regimental commanders from what was left of his command, and their staff to gather round.

  “They’re up there, lads. Might have an ironclad with them. Not sure on their strength—might be a regiment out here raiding our flank or it might be half their damn army. We go in quick, slaughter the bastards. If there are any of our men still alive, we get them, then get the hell out. Don’t blow your horses—we might be in for a long chase.”

  The youngsters looked at him, heads bobbing excitedly.

  “Sir, your place is not in this charge,” the brigadier protested.

  Pat chuckled. “Son, a slam-bang charge with cavalry— wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

  “Sir, Colonel Keane’s standing order regarding you was that you were to stay to the rear. If you don’t, we’re to report any violations directly to him.”

  Pat stepped forward and looked down at the young officer.

  “Would you do that, son?” he asked coldly.

  “Yes sir, I would.”

  Pat laughed softly and shook his head. “All right, I’ll come up with the guns. Will that satisfy you?”

  “Not really, sir, but all right.”

  There was a momentary lightening of the forest, a break in the storm. Pat looked up, cursing softly. Not now, don’t break now … A brief glimpse of a pink swirling cloud catching the dawning light far above the storm, a faint patch of blue, then the darkening clouds closed in again, gray racing shadows as the storm closed back in. Looking back to the southwest he caught a glimpse of the next ridge half a mile away, and then it disappeared, another wall of swirling snow racing toward them.

  “Go in when the next squall hits!” Pat.barked excitedly, the feverish anticipation of battle taking hold. “Remember the rendezvous point if you get cut off. Now move!”'

  The officers saluted, spurred their horses around, snow kicking up around them. The brigadier leaned over and extended his hand.

  “Sir, thank you, sir, for this chance.”

  “Just don’t get caught with your pants down the way your brother did,” Pat said harshly. The boy visibly flinched. Good, it’d make him more alert.

  Softening, Pat extended his hand. “God go with you, son.”

  The boy spurred his mount and galloped off.

  Pat trotted down the line, passing troopers deploying into attack formation. The excitement was shaking off the numbed lethargy of the long night’s watch. Carbines were drawn, men checking loads, pulling hats down tight and securing the chin straps. Most were taking off their gloves, willing to brave the bitter cold for a better grip on bridle and weapon.

  The edge of the next snow squall swirled around them, the slope up ahead disappearing. Muffled, distant, a bugle sounded … Charge!

  Troopers around him spurred their mounts, kicked up snow in high plumes of powder; horses screamed, and men howled with the release of tension.

  “Good luck, me hearties!” Pat roared.

  The charge swept forward and within seconds disappeared into the storm. Pat spurred his mount, dodging around a line of troop
ers weaving through the trees. He heard the jingle of chains, the unmistakable clatter of a fully loaded caisson and fieldpiece ahead. Urging his mount forward, he saw the moving shadows, gunners riding three of the six horses pulling the piece, two more clinging for dear life atop the caisson, the rest of the crew riding beside the gun.

  God, it’s like the old days again, Pat thought with a wild exuberance. In the shadows, the piece almost looked like his beloved bronze Napoleons of the old 44th New York. When he swung in alongside, the illusion faded; a different gun for a different war on a different world, it was a breechloading ten-pounder.

  He fell in with the crew as they crested over the ridge. Reaching the top, he caught glimpses of lines going forward, heard the high shrill cries of troopers, the queer rebel-yell-like scream adopted by the cavalry on this world. The bugles picking up the call of the charge, the crack of a carbine, and the low bone-shaking rumble of a narga, the Bantag war horn, sounding the alarm.

  “Forward boys, forward!” Pat cried. The fever was upon him now. Ignoring the shouted protests of his staff, he lashed his mount forward, the horse bounding like a gazelle through the snowdrifts. For an instant he caught sight of a regimental flag silhouetted on the crest of the next ridge, the flag-bearer reeling in his saddle, a Bantag reaching up to pull him down. Another rider surged up, horse knocking the Bantag back. They disappeared as the storm closed back in.

  Crossing through the shallow ravine, Pat started up the slope into the Bantag position. A splash of pink ahead and a dark form in the snow marked where a trooper had gone down. By his side a Bantag thrashed in the snow, clutching his face, blood pouring out between his fingers, a high keening wail bubbling out of him. Pat ignored him, pushing on. The snow was churned up, more blood, three Bantag sprawled by a still-smoldering fire, one of the bodies in the flames, its leggings smoking. Their uniforms were black, tunics and hats made of heavy furs, roughly made cartridge boxes, bayonet scabbard, haversack and water skin hanging from cross belts. The snow squall was racing ahead, the curtain again pulling back. The crackling of carbines thundered ahead, commingling with wild shouts, screams, hysterical cries of triumph and terror.

  He caught glimpses of the left-flanking regiment, the Roum Mounted, sweeping down into the valley ahead, crashing into a dark mass of Bantag who were crawling out from under snow-covered shelter halves, racing to get to their mounts. Letting go of their carbines, which dropped and hung to their sides on leather slings, men were drawing their heavy .45 dragoon revolvers and firing at near-point-blank range.

  Directly ahead the 4th Roum was wading into the mass of Bantag, some of them already up into their saddles. Pat reined in hard. Hundreds of Bantag were springing up from the snow, racing in every direction. On the next ridgeline he saw dark shadows shifting through the trees, a flash of light from a rifle erupting, snow on the branches above the Bantag cascading down from the shock of the gun going off.

  My God, Pat thought, this isn’t a raiding force out here—there must be two or three regiments at least, maybe more. As long as we keep them running we’ve got the edge, but if they turn we’ll get torn to shreds.

  Turning, he looked back and saw the two guns of the light battery struggling up the slope. Standing in his stirrups, he waved the guns toward him.

  The first weapon reached the crest, skidding around, crews leaping from the caisson and unhitching the trail of the fieldpiece. Pat dismounted and joined them, swinging the gun around, the rest of the crew scrambling to his side to help.

  “Case shot, two-second fuse!” Pat shouted. “Put it down on that next ridge!” .

  Without even waiting for the gun commander to take over, Pat squatted down by the breech of the gun, studied the target, judging the range, spun the elevation screw up and dropped the barrel to aim directly across the valley. Behind him the gunnery sergeant popped the breech open. Loaders came up bearing the shell with its powder bag strapped behind it. The charge was slammed in, and the loader stepped back, raising his hands to show they were clear. The sergeant slammed the breech shut and turned the handle to the interrupted screw breech, locking it in place.

  Eyeing the sights one last time, Pat nodded, then held up both hands over his head, signaling that the gun was properly laid, and stepped out of the way.

  The gunnery sergeant slipped a primer into the breech vent and, stepping back, uncoiled the lanyard. With a grin he offered the lanyard to Pat. Smiling, Pat took hold of the lanyard.

  “Stand clear!” he roared.

  The crew stepped away from the gun. With a sharp jerking pull, Pat popped the lanyard. The gun lifted up and back, a ten-foot gout of flame snapping from the muzzle, a swirl of snow kicking up from the concussion, mixing with the dirty-yellow-gray smoke. A dull flash ignited in the trees on the next ridge, the sound of the explosion lost in the wind and the roar of battle. The second gun was already wheeling into place as Pat stepped back, tossing the lanyard to the gunnery sergeant.

  “Pour it on ’em!”

  “Any land cruisers down there?” the sergeant asked, shouting to be heard above the exuberant whoops of a cavalry troop clearing the crest to their right at a lopping gallop.

  “Going down to find out!”

  Pat swung back up into the saddle, motioning for his staff to follow. Weaving down the slope, he passed several wounded, two of them on one horse, making for the rear.

  “Driving ’em hard, sir!” one of the boys cried as if drunk, blood pouring from a saber slash across his brow.

  Pat nodded and pressed on, the battle disappearing for a moment as another squall of snow swept around them. The snow cleared, and looking around he realized he was in the middle of what had been the Bantag encampment area. At the sight of it, he closed his eyes for a moment, wishing that the nightmare would disappear. It didn’t.

  Wearily he got off his mount and walked up to where the brigade commander knelt in the snow, weeping. One of the brigadier’s aides had removed the battered head of his brother from the impaling spike and stood there with it, not sure what to do with the remains. Pat motioned for the boy to lay it in the snow out of sight of the brigadier.

  Parts of bodies were scattered in the snow like remnants of broken dolls; heads, half-devoured limbs, charred torsos that had been sliced open, entrails looped and coiled, hideous gray serpents in the pink slushy snow. Men wandered about, crying, weeping, some knelt over, sobbing over the remains of a brother, father, son, or comrade.

  Pat knelt by the brigadier’s side.

  “Andre, you have a battle to fight,” Pat whispered.

  The boy looked over at him, eyes wide with shock, mad grief, and outrage. He was gone, Pat realized, drifting into the nightmare lands.

  Pat stood back up, beckoned for one of the staff.

  “I’ll take command here. Get him to the rear.”

  The aide gestured toward the head as Andre started to turn, crawling to pick it up. Pat put a restraining hand out, grabbing him by the shoulder.

  “Leave him,” Pat whispered. “We don’t have time. Leave him.”

  He didn’t want to add that there was really nothing left to bury now.

  At that Andre started to scream, reaching out helplessly. Several aides surrounded him, pulling him back. Pat walked away, but the stench of death, charred flesh, spilled entrails was so thick and cloying that he soon leaned forward and vomited, the bile causing him to gag and choke. Spitting, he pulled his canteen around and washed his mouth out with the mixture of vodka and water, then took a deep swallow.

  A pile of heads were raised like a pyramid before him, the skulls cracked open so that the brains could be devoured.

  “Jesus wept,” he gasped. “This world is hell.”

  There was a flurry of action in the snow to his right. Turning, he saw a wounded Bantag rising up, having hidden under a collapsed shelter half, only to be flushed out by several troopers. The Bantag tried to run, but his legs were broken. Howling, he crawled through the snow. The troopers circled around him,
taunting, using their carbines as clubs. Pat watched, dispassionate, as one of the men finally broke the Bantag’s back and then just left him there, howling in pain.

  Are we becoming like them? Pat wondered. If we ever finally win, will they have changed us forever, destroying our humanity?

  Half a dozen troopers came riding in, leading nearly a score of men, all of them naked, staggering. Pat went up to the group while the troopers dismounted around them, pulling blanket rolls from the backs of saddles, several of the men offering their own greatcoats. Two of the men were missing arms, and with a sickening realization Pat knew the Bantag had been butchering them alive.

  One of the men saw Pat and staggered toward him. Shivering, he held a blanket around his shoulders. Fingers black with frostbite, he struggled to raise a hand to salute. Pat motioned for him to be still.

  “Captain Petrov Petronovich, B troop, 6th Rus, sir.”

  “What happened, captain?”

  “We were just bedding down when they caught us, sir, came in from both flanks, just as it was getting dark. Almost all the boys died fighting, sir. Some of us got overpowered. They stripped us then and made us watch …” His voice trailed off and a shuttering sob overpowered him.

  “Just before dawn they started butchering us who were left, did it while we were alive. Sergeant Kerov there”—he motioned to one of the men missing an arm—“they cut it off and made him watch while they put it in the fire to cook.”

  Pat nodded and, taking off his canteen, he handed it to the captain.

  “You’ll be all right, captain. Get to the rear where the ambulances are.”

  “Sir, they’ve got ironclads ahead.”

  Pat, already starting to turn away, looked back, startled.

  “What?”

  “Yes, sir, I seen them.”

  “How many?”

  “Hard to tell. Just over the next ridge. The snow was coming down hard, but I seen them coming up during the night just before the snow started. You could see the sparks, hear them iron devils wheezing away. They hid ’em just below the ridge. I think they were waiting for you, sir.”