Men of War Read online

  The machine turned one more time, nosed over, a puff of smoke ignited. A second later there was the almost lazy pop, pop, pop, of the slow-firing Bantag machine gun. Between his compound and the next one up the line the rounds hit, half a dozen Chin falling, panic beginning to break out. The machine finally leveled out and flew on toward the city.

  Hans looked over at Ketswana.

  “My God, this will be a massacre,” Hans whispered.

  Ketswana looked at him, eyes narrowed.

  “If they realize they’re all going to die anyhow, they’ll fight. They have to.”

  “Fight? With what.”

  “Their bare hands if need be.”

  “Against rifles and artillery.”

  “Hans, they only have so many bullets, so many shells. They can kill a hundred thousand and still we’ll outnumber them.”

  “My God, what have we become to talk like this?” Hans sighed.

  “What they have made us become in order to survive.”

  A whispering flutter interrupted them. Hans crouched instinctively as the mortar round arced over head, crashed down in the middle of the foundry compound, and detonated, the explosion instantly followed by screams of pain.

  Looking back over the wall he saw where several dozen mortars had been set up on a low rise, a thousand yards ahead. The advancing skirmishers were already past that position, still relentlessly advancing.

  Puffs of smoke ignited all along the low ridge.

  “Here it comes,” Hans announced, his voice filled with resignation.

  Seconds later the factory compound was blanketed with explosions.

  Jurak, sitting uneasily astride his mount, said nothing to the subordinates around him. He could sense their blood-lust. This was no longer war; it was an act of extermination. The advance to the jump-off point had carried them across fields where the previous day pathetic bands of guards, fleeing the rioting, had been swept up and torn apart by the Chin mob. It had stirred him as well, and that thought troubled him. He had almost grown immune to the sight of the humans being slaughtered, devoured, but it was now evident that more than one of the Bantag dead had been mutilated after death, or, perhaps, while still alive. He wondered if the cattle had sunk to eating Bantag flesh, and the thought chilled him. Looking down at three aging guards who were sprawled in a ditch, he saw that the arms had been hacked off one, the limbs missing, and the sight of it set the hair on his back to bristling.

  He wondered if this was indeed what the humans felt at the sight of the slaughter pits. Did it create that same visceral fear? Was that not as well, then, the reason for their fanatical resistance? He suddenly remembered how during the War of the False Pretender he had learned that the two most influential factors in a soldier’s morale had nothing to do with generals, causes, and leadership. The first one was knowledge of how well you would be tended to if wounded. Second, what would happen if you were taken prisoner. On this world there was no such thing as prisoners, and, therefore, though the humans facing him were a disorganized rabble, still each of them might very well fight with the fury of despair.

  He rode forward to join the mortar batteries deployed on the low ridge, their steady coughing thumps echoing across the battlefield. The factory compound on the left flank of the human line was smothered under a steady hail of exploding shells. Far to his own right he could see mounted units swinging wide, advance elements already across the tracks moving to get into the rear.

  He had sent a courier over ordering them to hold and stand in place. The humans had to believe there was an escape route so that the panic might set in. If their line was flanked too soon, it might hem them in and cause further resistance.

  There was a puff of smoke from atop the compound wall and seconds later a hissing roar as an artillery shell streaked past, the round startling him and causing his mount to rear.

  “Disgusting way to die, Jurak.”

  He looked over his shoulder and saw Tamuka behind him, trailed by his small retinue.

  Jurak said nothing. Tamuka reined in beside him, slumping forward, hand resting on the pommel of his mount.

  He knew the Merki was watching, judging, figuring he could do better. Though enraged at him, now was not the time to express it.

  “That is Hans over there,” Tamuka finally announced.

  “What makes you think that?”

  “I can sense it. It would be like him to come back. The greatest mistake I made was turning him over to your Ha’ark. I should have kept him for my own pleasures. I could have made of him a moon feast that would have lasted for days.”

  “No. Your greatest folly was in losing as you did,” Jurak snapped.

  Tamuka turned, eyes filled with cold fury.

  “Repeat that.”

  “You heard it right the first time. If you had done your job correctly as Qar Qarth, you would still have your Horde.”

  “I weakened them for you.”

  Another round screamed past, but they both ignored it. “Weakened them? You aroused them. You murdered the rightful Qar Qarth and seized power for yourself and used the war as an excuse. You let your hate blind you. Now it is my people who must pay for this, perhaps all those of our race.”

  Tamuka reached to his side, scimitar flashing out. The gesture was met with the clicks of half a dozen rifles being raised, cocked, and pointed straight at him by Jurak’s personal guards.

  “You are not of this world,” Tamuka hissed.

  “Exactly! That is why I see more clearly than you. They”—and he pointed to the compound disappearing under the rain of artillery fire—“they are not of this world either. They brought change. Now I must, too. The old ways are dead forever, Tamuka. Even if we win this day, we lose. Can I rebuild all this in a month, even a year?

  “No. I must slaughter every human here for their own folly of believing in freedom. With luck, back at the front their political will shall collapse and we can attack, finishing it. But if so, I fear this is nothing more than a pyre for both our races.”

  Even as he spoke the advancing phalanx of infantry started to pass, breaking formation to maneuver around the wagons and caissons of the mortar batteries.

  The warriors were well-trained veterans, moving with casual ease, rifles poised, bayonet-tipped, but most still carried their traditional scimitars strapped to their hips. When the real killing started that would be the weapon of choice. They seemed lighthearted, eager for the fray, unlike the weary, exhausted warriors he had watched being shoved into the inferno at Roum. This was sport to them, almost like the field exercises Ha’ark would hold when a Chin town would be singled out and stormed just to give the warriors a taste of modern combat.

  The skirmishers far ahead were already engaged, firing, advancing slowly. Several of them were down, a spattering of fire opening from the Chin position. To his left the traditional. signalers of the hordes, the giant nargas trumpets and kettledrums were coming up, the deep rumble of the horns and heartbeat thump of the drums setting his hair on end.

  He looked back over at Tamuka.

  “If you are so eager for the kill, why not ride forward and join in?” Jurak asked.

  Tamuka looked at him angrily.

  “And you shall stay here?”

  “I am the Qar Qarth. This is a modern battle.”

  Tamuka snarled. Nodding to his renegade followers, he viciously spurred his mount and galloped off.

  Jurak, glad to be rid of his presence, dismounted, tossing the reins of his horse to one of his guards. The day was already hot, made worse by the grass fires ignited by bursting shells, the pall of smoke hanging over the entire front.

  After I win here, then what? he wondered.

  The advancing column slowed, reaching the skirmish lines forward. Tearing volleys started to ripple up and down the length of the front as twenty thousand warriors, the elite of two umens, began to fire into the hundreds of thousands of Chin huddled behind the railroad embankment. The day was turning into a slaughter.

>   * * *

  “You’ve got your mission,” Vincent shouted. “I want their ironclads kept back from this square. If they can bring us under fire, they’ll break us up.”

  Gregory, sitting atop his machine, grinned and nodded.

  Saluting, he raised a clenched fist, waved it over his head, and pointed due east, toward the advancing column of Bantag ironclads.

  Slipping down inside the turret, he buttoned the hatch shut, machines lined up to either side of him already lurching forward. Vincent, trying to ignore the pain, mounted a horse held by an orderly and swung it around, galloped back down the sloping hill and into the fortified camp of 3rd Corps.

  The battle was about to explode. After years of fighting the hordes he could sense the building tension. They were the bait, the focal point to divert Jurak. And now the bill was coming due.

  The Horde completely encircled their position, but it was easy enough to see that most of their strength, at least four umens, were poised to the north, though there were more than enough of them ringing the other three sides of the square to keep his forces pinned down. The ironclads held the rise to the east, but he still had to keep troops along that side, in case their infantry or mounted units swarmed in behind Gregory and attacked.

  When it finally hit there were no preliminaries, no softening-up bombardment. They knew that if the ironclad battle should go against them, any hope of exacting vengeance was lost. Even if they did win the ironclad fight, the artillery well dug in at the four comers of the square, and in reserve at the center, would chew the precious machines apart. They were going to try it in one sharp push.

  From a mile out he saw them emerging out of the cloud of dust kicked up by the tens of thousands of horses. It was a solid wall of Bantag, dismounted, advancing with long-legged strides.

  His heart swelled at the sight of them. It was like the old days once again, and to his own amazement he felt a surge of emotion. This is the way they looked before Suzdal, on the Potomac Front, and at Hispania. From all that the older veterans told him, it was the same at Cold Harbor, Gettysburg, Fredericksburg, and Antietam. A full frontal assault, thrown in regardless of loss.

  A murmur swept through the men along the northern flank of the square. Some of them stood up, ignoring the bursting of mortar shells raining down. A ripple of excitement swept up and down the line. Young captains scurried back and forth, carrying teams hurried back to supply wagons, bringing up extra boxes of ammunition. Sergeants paced behind the firing line, a division commander, swept up by the moment, jumped his horse over the sod earthwork embankment and galloped down his line, waving his hat, men breaking into cheers at his display of foolish bravado.

  “Damn if it isn’t like Pickett’s Charge!”

  It was Stan, reining up beside him, his voice shrill with excitement.

  Vincent said nothing, raising his field glasses, studying the enemy advance. Red umen standards were at the fore, a few of their commanders mounted. At regular intervals down the line human-skull totems for regiments of a thousand'were held aloft, surrounded by towering bulky warriors armed with rifles. The rest carried the powerful war bows of two hundred pounds pull, arrows already notched.

  Batteries at the northeastern and northwestern flanks opened up on the advancing enemy, case shot burst over the lines, but that was merely an annoyance. A standard of a thousand went down, caught by a direct burst, then came up again. The range was down to less than a thousand yards, then nine hundred, then eight hundred.

  Sergeants along his own lines were shouting orders, telling the men to lever their sights up to full elevation. There was a scattering of shots, the sniper company armed with Whitworths and the new long-barreled Sharps heavy rifles. Some of the men armed with lighter guns opened and were soundly cursed by their officers.

  Good. Wait until four hundred yards. It was a still morning, the smoke would cling, killing visibility. Better to wait.

  The range was at six hundred, and then they stopped.

  There was an eerie moment of silence, and then he heard the chanting, the weird spine-chilling cries. Harsh, guttural words. He had seen it before, Horde riders who knew they were going to their deaths, and before the charge made this final gesture to their enemies and their gods … the chanting of the names of their clans, their ancestors, and their own names and battle honors.

  The strange rumbling cries rolled across the steppes, joined by the nargas and war drums, a thunderous roar. Bantag stamped their feet to the rhythm of the chant, the ground shaking. The effect was hypnotic, the chant rising to a crescendo, dropping off, rising even higher.

  Again men were standing up, watching, awestruck. For a brief moment all hatred died in Vincent’s heart. There was almost an admiration for such insane raw courage. Individual Bantag began to step out of the line, unsheathing scimitars, many of them drawing the razor-sharp blades across their own forearms, then holding the blood-soaked steel up again, their individual chants drowned out by the thunderous roar.

  Along his own line he could hear the men mustering a response, the surreal sound of the “Battle Hymn of the Republic” sung in Rus. All this was counterpointed by the continual crump of mortar shells exploding, artillery thundering out case shot, and then, off to his right, a mile to the east of the square, the ever-increasing roar of the ironclad battle.

  He looked heavenward. The air machines were up, nearly twenty of them. They were holding back, flying high, waiting most likely for the square to break apart before swooping in. He caught a glimpse of just two Hornets dropping like stooping falcons, tearing into the enemy machines. He wondered where the hell the rest of the Hornets were.

  The roaring chant dropped down to a deep growling bass, and then in a matter of seconds swirled up to a high shrieking crescendo … “Bantag hus!, Bantag hus! Bantag hus!”

  Umen standards held aloft twirled about in tight circles. Mounted commanders rode out ahead of the line, urging their horses into a slow canter, drawing scimitars. As if controlled by a single hand twenty thousand bows were slung over the shoulder, then twenty thousand scimitars were drawn and held heavenward, catching the morning sun. A collective gasp went through his lines.

  “My God, they’re going to charge straight in!” Stan cried.

  Vincent turned to a courier.

  “I want the reserve brigade in the center deployed out now!” Vincent shouted.

  The boy saluted and galloped off. Vincent grabbed another messenger and sent him to the commander on the east flank of the square, telling him to get ready to shift half his men to the north and sent yet another galloping with the same order to the west side.

  Even as the three couriers raced off, the red banners fluttered down, pointing straight at the center of his line. A mad, howling roar erupted. There was no stepping off at a slow steady march, no subtle maneuvering.

  With a mad passionate scream twenty thousand Bantag flung themselves forward at the run, their giant strides consuming the distance between the opposing lines at a frightening pace.

  “At four hundred yards volley fire present!” the cry echoed along his own line.

  Men hunkered down behind the sod breastworks, hammers clicking back, fingers curling around triggers.

  The charge swept across the first hundred yards in less than twenty seconds, Vincent estimated, and they were still picking up speed, the bravest and fleetest moving to the fore. Mounted commanders, carried away by the mad frenzy, were far ahead, some nearly half the distance to the line.

  “Glorious!” Stan cried.

  Startled, Vincent looked over at his old comrade, but something was stirring in him as well. He remembered many a night so long ago back on Earth, hearing the old veterans speak with awe, describing the rebel charges sweeping toward Seminary Ridge and across the Cornfield at Antietam. My God, this is what it must have looked like, sheer insane courage unleashed in a wild, all-consuming explosion.

  “Take aim.” The cry echoed up and down the line from a hundred sergeants and off
icers. “Aim low, boys, aim low!”

  Vincent held his breath.

  “Fire!”

  The volley ignited in the center of the line and within a couple of seconds swept down the flanks.

  A billowing white cloud exploded, temporarily blinding Vincent. There was the collective metallic ring of thousands of breeches levering open, shell casings ejecting, fresh rounds sliding in, breeches slamming shut, officers and sergeants roaring to lever sights down to three hundred yards.

  Vincent felt a swelling of pride. These were veterans. There was no panic, just a steady professional pace.

  Those who were quickest waited, bracing their barrels on the embankment.

  “Take aim!”

  Individual companies and regiments fired, sheets of flame swirling out. Already the dry grass in front of the works was igniting, puffs of thick white flames clinging to the ground. In the brief instant before the smoke from the second volley shut down all vision forward he saw the deadly effect of the volley, scores of Bantag going down, yet it barely stilled the pace of the mad charge, as the wave leapt over the fallen and pressed in.

  A jarring concussion swept the square, a caisson exploding in the center of the position, the mortar round detonating several hundred pounds of shot and shell, sending a fireball a hundred feet into the air.

  He caught a glimpse of the battery anchoring the corner to his right, the crew feverishly cranking 'the elevation screw, even as their companions tore breeches open, swabbed out bores, and slammed in loads of canister.

  “Independent fire at will!”

  The command echoed above the cacophonous thunder, men cheering as they were released from the constraints of waiting and within seconds the measured heavy volleys were replaced by a continual rattle.

  There was just enough of a breeze that the curtains of smoke lifted so that the shadowy wall of the advancing charge was visible. They were down to less than two hundred yards and still coming at a terrifying pace.

  They were going to come straight in.

  Stan broke away from Vincent, spurring his mount forward, drawing his revolver.

  Vincent felt pulled in as well.