Notwithstanding the naval attack, however, the quality of Grik field artillery had improved disproportionately with their infantry, even though Greg’s heavy guns kept it at arm’s length on the “mainland” beyond the broader area where the peninsula touched. He reasoned that artillery was probably beyond the grasp of your everyday Grik, and there must have been a “regular” battery stationed nearby. It had probably taken a day or two for the “Grik brass” to figure out what was going on down here, and he expected better troops, with possibly different tactics at any time.
“We’ll be fine,” Garrett said. “You’re doing fine. Keep up the good work. I need to talk to Lieutenant Bekiaa.” With an encouraging smile, he hurried on.
Bekiaa-Sab-At was drinking water from a bottle offered by Marine Lieutenant Graana-Fas. Graana (nobody dared call him “Granny” to his face) was one of Greg’s own Marines from Donaghey, and he’d somehow managed to participate in nearly every Allied action against the Grik. He was second to Bekiaa here out of choice, and Greg wasn’t sure why. Bekiaa had seen some sharp fighting with the creepy—and ultimately strangely benign—“toad lizards” north of Tjilatjap, but until now, that was about it. Maybe Graana saw something in her, as Greg admittedly did. She was certainly fearless.
“Cap-i-taan Garrett!” she said, handing the bottle back and saluting.
“Quit that!” Greg said with a smile. “You want some Grik gunner to see, and knock my head off with a cannon ball?”
Bekiaa chuckled. “No, Cap-i-taan.”
“Good. And while we’re on that subject, you need to stop hopping around on top of the breastworks and wearing a target for every Grik crossbowman that says, ‘Shoot me, I’m important!’ Is that perfectly clear?”
“But . . .”
“I have tried to tell her,” Graana confided. “I asked if she thinks I would have lasted this long, making such a spectacle of myself.”
“But you do!” Bekiaa accused.
“I do not. I lead in a press, in a charge, but never single myself out for the enemy’s sole attention!”
“Well . . . but perhaps if I do that, I distract him from another? Maybe many others.”
“Ah, but who will lead them if you are slain?”
“You.”
“Yes,” Graana said, accepting the compliment, “but what of tomorrow? Next week? Next year? If we spend our good commanders a battle at a time, who will lead those future Marines, not yet even under arms, in future battles?”
“Others will rise.”
“Yes, but they’ll start at the beginning, all over again, without the benefit of what you might teach. They’ll be doomed to make the same mistakes you and I already recognize as such!” Bekiaa had no response to that.
“Listen to him,” Greg said. “That’s an order. If you’re going to lead the center, you’re going to take care of yourself. We can’t spare you; either of you.”
“Ay, ay, Cap-i-taan Garrett,” Bekiaa agreed. Suddenly a runner, one of Revenge’s machinist’s mates, rushed to join them.
“Cap-i-taan Garrett!” he gasped, “Cap-i-taan Chaa-pelle’s comp-iments, an’ would you peese joining him on de lef? The Griks is up to some-ting dere!”
Greg nodded and followed the runner through the zigzag of ditches, finally reaching the extreme left where Chapelle peered over some of his lost ship’s timbers at the broad mouth of the river and the land beyond.
“Hi, Greg,” he said, gesturing over the embedded planks. “What do you make of that?”
Garrett raised his binoculars. The morning haze, thick with lingering gun smoke, lay heavy on the calm water in the lee of the peninsula, making it difficult to penetrate to the dense foliage on the other side, maybe half a mile. It looked like large numbers of low, dark shapes were assembling along the distant shore, however.
“Huh. Looks like they may try to cross. Those must be barges.” He rubbed his nose; the dust and grit got into everything, and he felt a sneeze coming on. He shook his head. “Doesn’t make sense. They have to know we see them. Why let us do that? If they’ve got the sense to try a flank attack, you’d think they’d have the sense to hide it.”
“Maybe they meant it to come last night or early this morning, and just didn’t get enough grease on the wheel.”
“Maybe. We’ll see.” Garrett looked to his new left, where the network of trenches extended farther, parallel with this calmer beach. Four of Tolson’s guns were spaced along it, for just such a possibility. “Be ready to secure this flank. Send somebody good to the other end, but stay here yourself. This might become the center when they try again.” He glanced back up the spit of land to the east, then back across the river. “I wonder what they’re up to,” he muttered to himself.
“I wonder what they’ll do now,” General Niwa pondered aloud.
“Indeed,” agreed General Halik. He hissed disgust. “Your instincts were right. You should have come down days ago. Your authority could have prevented this disaster. Never have I seen so many destroyed by so few.”
“We didn’t know,” Niwa interjected.
“We should have. The possibility was there, and you saw it more clearly than I,” Halik snorted. “Still I remain but a sport fighter, a ‘tactical warrior.’ That must change.”
“If you’ll forgive me, you already grasp more than General Esshk ever did.”
“No doubt General Esshk would agree, but when thought replaces—what is that word? Valor! When thought becomes more important than the valor of the hunter, I fear few of my kind are fully prepared for the consequences.”
“That’s what we’re here to change,” Niwa reminded. They’d both arrived the previous day, prodded by reports of contact and battle that grew steadily more reliable and frankly, appalling. Lost was any opportunity to capture prisoners, due to the unexpected number of the enemy, and the futile, unordered attacks by local warriors that encouraged the enemy to construct ever-stronger fortifications. Halik had ordered the naval attack upon hearing one of the enemy ships was still in the fight, but it didn’t have the weight to succeed—he saw that now—and he’d revised his plan accordingly. The flank attack was Niwa’s idea, but Halik quickly grasped the advantage. Unfortunately, few others had, nor had they understood the necessity that it be coordinated with the last frontal attack. Now the enemy doubtless saw the barges and knew what was coming. Another coordinated attempt might be made because the enemy had to shield the riverfront approach now. The flank attack, combined with another frontal assault bolstered by Niwa’s guards and better troops, might find a weakened defense, but it would be costly.
“Perhaps after dark, tonight,” Niwa ventured.
Halik shook his head. “We’ll never keep the troops focused that long. Few yet understand the idea of defense—that remains one reason attacks upon defensive works are so costly. No, when our new troops join the ravaged remnants to their front, we must strike immediately and carry as many of these locals along as possible when our own make their thrust. They should punch through somewhere.”
“They should, but such an attack in broad daylight, without even the river fog as a shield?”
“Many will die,” Halik agreed, “but that can no longer be helped. Perhaps this ‘practice’ will ensure better performance when we meet the enemy’s main attack, wherever it falls.”
“If we have anything left to meet it,” Niwa grumbled.
Halik gargled a laugh. “Whatever we lose will be but a tithe against our reserves . . . and those who survive may learn a lesson. You estimate the enemy numbers at six or seven hundreds, not counting those aboard the ship. I agree. The next attack will go forward with nearly ten times that number, from three directions. They may counter each thrust; in fact, I hope they do, because it will weaken them, not us. They cannot be strong everywhere. But the timing is critical. Losses will be extreme,” Halik acknowledged, “but sometimes, knowledge must be gained with blood. Once gained, perhaps it won’t be forgotten!”
“I hope not,” Niwa said
. “You say we spend but a tithe, but that ‘tithe’ is likely to be shattered. Are a few thoughtful survivors worth that cost?”
“Yes.”
Niwa shrugged. “Then go ahead. If you’ve no objection, I’ll watch the waterborne assault. I’m curious how effective it will be.”
“Very well, but observe only. Do not get swept along. We must not lose you, and I might find myself craving your counsel.”
Niwa saluted in the Japanese way and with a bow went to join a column of Grik squirming through the coastal jungle, toward the barges.
Only Donaghey’s mizzen remained standing, its top crowded with lookouts. A series of signals from there informed Garrett of a number of disconcerting things at once; three more Grik ships were in the offing, a major concentration of Grik was massing just beyond his view to the east, and the barges they’d been told to watch had begun streaming across the river mouth.
“Well. It looks like they’ve finally got all their shit in the sock at once, this time,” he said grimly, using one of General Alden’s favorite terms. It was early afternoon, and he’d just returned to Bekiaa’s position in the center. “Runner!” he shouted. “Get over here! Listen,” he continued when he had the young Lemurian’s attention. “Go to Captain Chapelle. Tell him it’s about to get messy. He’s to send what he can to support the guns on the north coast, but only as much as he thinks he has to, got it? The gunners’ll have to chew those barges up. I think that’s mostly a distraction from a really heavy hit on our front! We got ships coming in again too. They’re hitting us everywhere at once. Got all that?”
“Ay, ay, Cap-i-taan Gaar-rett! Ships, barges, an’ swarms o’ Griks! Support North baa-tery, but only as needed.”
“You got it. Now scram!”
The Grik artillery had been desultory since morning, just a few rounds an hour to harass them. Suddenly, it opened up with a renewed frenzy and frequency that outpaced anything they’d experienced yet. More guns must have arrived, and some were big ones. The distant jungle fairly erupted with smoke, and incoming roundshot competed against the surf with its similar, more insistent sound.
“Take cover!” Garrett yelled, and dropped to the bottom of the trench, pulling his helmet tight. The damp sand convulsed and shuddered, and the air was full of descending clouds of grit. “All guns but those positioned directly to the front, commence counter battery fire!” he yelled, hearing the command passed along. “Those to the front, load case shot and hold!”
Even in the trench, he felt the crack of one of Tolson’s long guns, and heard the squeal of the truck as the gun recoiled back on the wooden deck they’d built in the sand. Moments after the shoosh of the shot was lost in the distance amid the increasing tempo of thunder, he thought he heard the distant clap of the exploding shell raining fragments on the enemy gunners. He crawled to the top of the trench, squeezing past a pair of sailors with muskets, and peered over the breastworks. White puffs nearly a thousand yards away sprayed blackened shards, some large enough to see from here, through the trembling treetops overhanging the unseen enemy guns. The six cannon on this line were joined by Donaghey’s, even as she prepared to defend against the approaching Grik ships on her opposite beam. At some point, they’d lose her support. She didn’t have enough crew to serve both sides at once. A staccato booming came from the far left, as the guns guarding the river approach opened on the barges full of Grik.
“I wish we’d gotten more guns out of Tolson,” he murmured. They were lucky to have the nine they had. The frigate had held out as long as she could, but finally rolled onto her beam ends, submerging more than half her armament. Several ’Cats were killed when that happened. All that remained was to begin the task of breaking her up and floating timbers ashore. Once begun, the sea accelerated their task, and a constant stream of debris, more than enough for their needs, washed onto the beach. Of the noble Tolson, all that remained in view was a shattered skeleton in the surf.
“They’re coming, Skipper,” said Saaran-Gaani, squeezing in beside him, his dark amber eyes wide with excitement. Greg’s exec from Donaghey had found him. Smitty was directing the guns on the stranded ship and Saaran no longer had a purpose aboard. He’d asked permission to join the fight ashore. Greg looked east and saw a malignant mass of Grik forming in the distance across the dazzling white sand and the sea of dark corpses.
“Do you have a weapon, Saaran?” The brown and white ’Cat blinked affirmative, and patted his sword. Garrett sighed. “No!” He looked around. “Lieutenant Bekiaa!”
“Sir?”
“Any muskets lying around, from the wounded and dead?”
“No, sir. Sailors buy it, Marines take ’em back.”
“The ‘Sailing Master’ needs a spear, then. Like you, I’d rather he didn’t get within arm’s length of those bastards!”
“Can you use a musket, sir?” Bekiaa asked Saaran Gaani. He nodded. Like everyone, he’d familiarized himself with the new weapons and fired a few shots. They didn’t use longbows on the Great South Island, and he’d be useless with one. “Will you kill Grik?”
“Until they kill me,” he replied matter-of-factly. Bekiaa blinked approval.
“Take mine,” she said, and tossed it to him, followed by her cartridge box.
“But . . . what will you use?”
“Cap-i-taan Garrett has instructed me to stay back from the fighting. If I need another, one will be available.” She grinned, her tail swaying almost flirtatiously. “I hope that one will not return to me until after the fight!”
“Dern it, Bekiaa,” Greg said, flustered, “I told you to quit risking yourself worse than a private soldier, and now you’re making a pass at a recruit!”
“He’s an officer! There is nothing improper.”
“Nothing improper . . . !” Greg closed his eyes in the face of the onrushing horde. He should probably get back to the right and rejoin Pruit; it was just a hundred yards or so, but Captain Barry would do fine. He was closest to the covering fire of the ship, and the Grik had been veering north of there as they neared the line. He might as well ride it out here. “You just concentrate on killing Grik,” he told Saaran, taking his own advice and sliding back from the breastworks. “Don’t get all aflutter.”
Saaran glanced back. “A most . . . fascinating female,” he remarked.
“Sure.” Greg moved to join Bekiaa. The enemy artillery began to lift, even while Tolson’s old guns redoubled their fire. Explosive case shot would soon become canister again. “It’s very improper to leave poor defenseless male—sailors!—thinking about weird, predatory Marine broads right in the middle of a battle,” he said formally.
“All I said . . .”
“It’s never what gals say that gets a guy killed. It’s what they think she said . . . or did.” He looked appealingly at Lieutenant Graana-Fas. “Is she like this all the time?”
“I don’t know, sir. We’re from different ships.” He lowered his voice. “Perhaps she . . . offsets . . . or compensates? Replaces one risky behavior with another? Don’t ask me; I was a carpenter at Baalkpan. Before this war, there were no ‘Marines’ here. How is it where you are from?”
“Well . . . since there aren’t any female line officers of any kind, battlefield romance is sort of rare.”
The banter was a tonic, helping them keep their minds off what was coming. Judging by what little Greg could see from his perspective, it was going to be bad; by far the strongest push yet. As the hissing roar and weapon-on-shield rumble of the charging wave of Grik built to overwhelm the guns, Garrett took a sip from his “grogged” canteen and passed it to Graana-Fas and Bekiaa. He fiddled nervously with the pattern of 1917 cutlass hanging from his belt, expecting for the first time that he might have to actually use the damn thing. He’d practiced some, with the Marines. Everyone had to. But he’d never pulled it in combat before except to wave it around. Unlike a few of the weapons (most notably Silva’s and the Bosun’s) that had reached this world in an unopened crate aboard Walker, Garr
ett’s cutlass looked brand-new. The oiled wooden grip had a few little dings from carrying it around, but the black oxide finish on the guard and blade was practically unmarred. His fingers almost seemed to heat, touching the thing, and after he retrieved his canteen, he opened the flap of his holster and drew the 1911 Colt.
He looked south, at Donaghey’s standing mizzen, trying to read the signal flags. Only the lookouts there would have a real idea of what they faced. His blood ran chill when he saw the message that essentially said, “Enemy too many to count.” So. This is it, he thought. The mast trembled and a gout of smoke billowed from Donaghey’s seaward side while a few guns tried to keep firing at the mass descending like an avalanche on the breastworks. No one spoke now; the banter was over. Nervous ’Cats tugged at their armor and a few veterans windmilled their arms to ensure their range of motion. Muskets were already loaded and held at the ready, and Marine archer/spearmen cast nervous glances at their NCOs waiting for their own order to prepare. More spearmen arrived from the right to bolster the line, and Greg realized Barry must have seen that the center was going to take a pounding.
He hefted the Colt. Unlike the cutlass, the pistol fit his hand like a glove. Its black-blue oxide finish had evolved into a general bright gray appearance but there was no rust. The checkered walnut grips were warm with memories of other walnut things he’d known from another world, and he wondered if there were any walnut trees here. His eyes and thoughts lingered on the UNITED STATES PROPERTY stamped under the slide on the left side of the frame, and he reeled with a sense of unreality such as he hadn’t felt in a long, long time. I’m a kid from Tennessee who’s about to die on the other side of a different world! Suddenly, he realized how Captain Reddy must have felt at the Battle of Aryaal, with all the Grik in the world swarming down on him. Greg had seen it from the ship. He’d known the captain was dead . . . but he wasn’t. He didn’t give up and he didn’t die.
Firestorm : Destroyermen (9781101544556) Page 19
