Marching Through Georgia

by S. M. Stirling

  And—he had been holding his hands over his ears against the grinding rattle of automatic-weapons fire. The rocket gun fired again; the whole frontage along the row of windows was shedding sparks and dust and stone fragments.

  He must have tripped, was the American's first thought. So quickly, in a single instant that slipped by before his attention could focus, the center Draka was down.

  Dreiser could see him stop, as if his headlong dash had run into a stone wall; he could even see the exit wound, red and ragged-edged in his back. Two more shots struck him, and the trooper fell bonelessly, twitched once and lay still.

  No dramatic spinning around, he thought dazedly. Just… dead.

  Beside him, the machine gunner grunted as if struck in the stomach; the American remembered she had been the fallen trooper's lover. Her hand went out to grip the bipod and her legs tensed to charge, until the decurion's voice cracked out.

  "None of that-there shit, he dead." He nodded grimly at her white-mouthed obedience, then added: "Cease fire. Tee-Hee 'n McThing there by now."

  Dreiser jerked his head back up; the other two Draka had vanished. The sudden silence rang impossibly loud in his ears, along with the beat of blood; there was a distant chatter of fire from elsewhere in the village. It had been so quick—alive one second, dead the next. And it was only the second time in his life he had seen violent death; the first had been… yes, 1934, the rioting outside the Chamber of Deputies in Paris, when the Camelots du Rot had tried to storm the government buildings. A bystander had been hit in the head by a police bullet and fallen dead at his feet, and he had looked down and thought that could have been me. Less random here, but the same sense of inconsequentialness. You never really imagined death could happen to you; something like this made you realize it could, not in some comfortably distant future, but right now, right here, at any moment. That no amount of skill or precaution could prevent it…

  Beside him, the decurion was muttering. "If that-there snipah knows his business, he outa there by now. Maybe not; maybe he just sharp-eyed and don't scare easy. Then he stay, try fo' anothah…"

  Seconds crawled. Dreiser mopped at the sweat soaking into his mustache, and started to relax; it was less than an hour since the attack began, and already he felt bone-weary. Fumes of cordite and rocket propellant clawed at the lining of his nose and throat. Adrenaline exhaustion, he thought. Draka claimed to be able to control it, with breathing exercises and meditation and such-like; it had all sounded too Yoga-like, too much a product of the warrior-mystic syndrome for his taste. Maybe I should have—

  There was a grenade blast; dust puflied out of the narrow windows of the house from which the sniper had fired. Almost instantly two blasts of assault-rifle fire stuttered within; the Draka tensed. A trapdoor flipped open on the roof and one of the troopers vaulted out, doing a quick four-way scan-and-cover. Then she crawled to the edge and called:

  "Got the snipah! What about Bill-boy?"

  The decurion cupped a hand around his mouth, rising to one knee. "Bill-boy is expended," he shouted. "Hold and cover."

  Expended. Dreiser's mind translated automatically: dead. More precisely, killed in action; if you died by accident or sickness you skipped.

  Jenny, the machine gunner, rolled over the wall and crouched, covering the roofs behind them. The other Draka rose and scrambled forward, moving at a fast trot, well spread out; at the body two of them stooped, grabbed the straps of the dead man's harness and half-carried, half-dragged him to the shelter of the wall. Dreiser noted with half-queasy fascination how the body moved, head and limbs and torso still following the pathways of muscle and sinew with a disgusting naturalness. The back of his uniform glistened dark and wet; when they turned him over and removed the helmet, Dreiser noted for the first time how loss of blood and the relaxation of sudden death seemed to take off years of age. Alive, he had seemed an adult, a man—a hard and dangerous man at that, a killer. Dead, there was only a sudden vast surprise in the drying eyes; his head rolled into his shoulder, as a child nuzzles into the pillow.

  The others of the stick were stripping his weapons and ammunition with quick efficiency. Jenny paused to close his eyes and mouth and kiss his lips, then touched her fingers to his blood and drew a line between her brows with an abrupt, savage gesture.

  This was not a good man, Dreiser thought. And he had been fighting for a bad cause; not the worst, but the Domination was horror enough in its own right. Yet someone had carried him nine months below her heart; others had spent years diapering him, telling him bedtime stories, teaching him the alphabet… He remembered an evening two months ago in Mosul; they had just come in from a field problem, out of the cold mud and the rain and back to the barracks. There had been an impromptu party—coffee and brandy and astonishingly fine singing. Dreiser had sat with his back in a corner, nursing a hot cup and his blisters and staying out of the way, forgotten and fascinated.

  This one, the one they called Bill-boy, had started a dance—a folk dance of sorts. It looked vaguely Afro-Celtic to Dreiser, done with a bush-knife in each hand, two-foot chopping blades, heavy and razor sharp. He had danced naked to the waist, the steel glittering in the harsh, bare-bulb lights; the others had formed a circle around him, clapping and cheering while the fiddler scraped his bow across the strings and another slapped palms on a zebra-hide drum held between his knees. The dancer had whirled, the edges cutting closer and closer to his body; had started to improvise to the applause, a series of pirouettes and handsprings, backflips and cartwheels, laughing as sweat spun off his glistening skin in jewelled drops. Laughing with pleasure in strength and skill and… well, it was a Draka way of looking at it, but yes, beauty.

  How am I supposed to make "human interest" out of this? ran through him. How the fuck am I supposed to do that? How am I supposed to make this real to the newspaper readers in their bungalows? Should I? If there was some way of showing them war directly, unfiltered, right in their living rooms, they'd never support a war. And it is necessary. They must support the war, or afterwards we'll be left alone on a planet run by Nazis or the Domination, and nothing to fight them with…

  Shaking his head wearily, he followed the Draka into the building.

  * * * *

  The sniper lay beside his weapon, a clumsy-looking, long-barreled automatic rifle with a scope sight. He was still alive, which was astonishing; a burst had caught him across the lower pelvis, and the light, high-velocity bullets of the Holbars had tumbled on impact, chewing and ripping their way through bone and meat. By some miracle none of the major veins and arteries had been cut, although the German was lying in a slowly widening pool of red, trickling away between the loosely fitted floorboards. The bowel had not been cut either. The smells were the salt of blood, and a sickeningly familiar odor Dreiser recognized from his Iowa childhood, from hog-butchering time. His mouth flooded with gummy saliva, and the skin of his forehead went cold and tight.

  The big room was dark, its back to the east and the morning sun. There were cots and crates, tumbled equipment; a fire was burning in one corner, adding a reddish-orange tinge to the trickles of light from the slit windows and the hole knocked by a rocket-gun shell. The SS sniper's face twitched, young and regular with close-cropped fair hair, much like the folk who had killed him—a comeliness unbearable next to the grey and pink hideousness of the wound. Forcing down his gorge the American correspondent knelt, turning his head aside to present his ear and catch the words that trickled out, and also to avoid the sight.

  The Draka had paused for a moment around the body, except for the lookouts, and even so they were positioned to cover the entrances.

  "What's he sayin'?" the decurion asked, idly curious. "That's not German."

  Dreiser looked up, swallowing again. "It's Latin. He's praying."

  The man snorted, pushed a toe under the sniper's rifle and flicked it upright. "Tokarev," he said, examining it. Louder: "Sa, yo' people, we gotta war't' fight. Police it up, don't leave anythin' fo'
the ragheads, let's get goin'."

  Dreiser surged to his feet and grabbed the Draka by the shoulder. A second later he stood nursing a wrist, his hand slapped aside hard enough to numb it. Fingers like steel clamps spread, inches from his throat. He looked into a face like a mask, met eyes filled with frustration-borne anger, and spoke.

  "You can't just leave him like that—for the love of Christ, he's a human being!"

  "He was a soldier, too!"

  The paratrooper spat on the dying German. "There's only two types of 'human being' in the world, shithead—Draka an' serfs—so shut the fuck up. Bill-hoy was a friend of mine. I'm in command, and I say leave the Fritz fo' the fuckin' ragheads."

  "Ya," the machine gunner, Jenny, said. She kicked the fallen German in the thigh. The nerves must have been severed, for there was only a dull wet sound and the gasping rasp of the Paternoster.

  "Hey, dec, he's raht." The American looked around, blinking in amazement. It was the redhead, McAlistair. She snapped the selector on her assault rifle to single shot and continued. "So he's not of the Race; not a dawg, neithah. Hell, if n his granpap had emigrated, maybe-so he'd be raht heah with us'n. Won't take a second. Pa always did say yo' should finish off game yo' wounded."

  “No.”

  "Ah, c'mon, dec, don't be such a fuckin' hardass—"

  "I said no, McAlistair: better a hardass than a randyass. Now haul it."

  The fox-faced trooper's easy grin turned to a snarl as she stepped closer, slapped aside the NCO's pointing finger, curled her own black-gloved hand into a fingers-and-thumb gesture beneath his chin. The American was not surprised; rank in the Citizen force was a purely functional matter. There was no mystique to it, unless won by personal example; a commander was someone who directed the business of fighting or unit movement, not a social superior. This was an army where officers ate from the same field kitchens as the troops, where KP and guard duty were settled by votes or flipping a coin. Wouldn't work with Americans, he reflected. Too individualistic. But Draka soaked up the concept of teamwork from infancy…

  "Look, Dhalgren, yo' lettin' a field promotion go't' yo' head. This isn't the fuckin' Janissaries, my man. All that rank badge on yo' sleeve means is yo' gets't' call the shots in combat. This isn't combat, unless we waste mo' time on it, and that cheap stripe don't mean shit t' me. Got it?"

  Silence stretched for an instant. The decurion's eyes slitted, flicked down to the SS man, back to his subordinate. The tip of his tongue came out to touch his upper lip.

  "All raaht," he said in an even, conversational tone. "You wants't' expend him so bad, do it. Expend him." His hand caught the sling of her Holbars for a moment as she began to turn. "Didn't say yo' could shoot him. That'd be wastin' ammunition and it would just purely break my heart."

  "Fuck yo', Dhalgren!" the trooper said with an unwilling smile. That was neatly within the letter of regulations.

  "Any time, Tee-Hee; any time."

  "Not until we run outta goats," she muttered, going to one knee and gripping the German's hair. The other hand was clenched into a fist behind her ear; she exhaled in a sharp huff of breath and brought it down with a snapping whipcrack motion, putting the flexing twist of hip and back behind it. The metal inset of the warsap thudded into his temple; the German jerked once and went still. She rose, opening and closing her hand.

  "Hope that gets yo' hard, dec," she said with ironic graciousness, walking to the rear exit and beginning her scan. It always paid to be careful when you were on point.

  "Cock like a rock, Tee-Hee; that bettah 'n the girl-and-pony show at the Legion who'house," the decurion said with a grin. That turned colder as his eyes passed over Dreiser. "Welcome't' the real world, Yank. All raaht, Draka, ready… move."

  Chapter Nine

  Holbars T-6 Assault Rifle, Model 1936

  Caliber: 5mm (5x45mm. aluminum case) gas.

  Operating System: Selective fire (optional 3-round burst)

  Weight: 9.7 Ibs.. loaded

  Length, overall: 42 inches, stock extended 30 inches, stock folded

  Feed device: 75 round drum (disintegrating link, factory-packed)

  Sights: x4, optical (plus post & aperture emergency fallback)

  Muzzle velocity: 3300 f.ps.

  Cyclic rate: Approximately 650 r.p.m. (variable by adjusting gas port)

  Notes: Folding bipod; barrel and all parts exposed to gas-wash are chrome-plated. Drum is ridged glass-reinforced plastic with transparent rear face.

  Design history: The Small Arms Study Project (1926 -28. Alexandria Institute) determined that the T-5 semiautomatic rifle used in the Great War "overkilled" at the usual battle ranges, and that a small-calibre, selective-fire alternative was preferable. Chief Engineer Sven Holbars and his design team produced the prototype T-6 in 1932; field trials followed and series production commenced in 1935 at the Alexandria. Archona. Alma Ata. and Constantinople Armories. Re-equipment of the last reserve. Janissary and Security Directorate/ Police units was completed in 1940. A squad automatic-weapon version with heavy quick-change barrel and larger magazine was produced concurrently.

  ―Weapons of the Eurasian War, By Colonel Carlos Fueterrez, U.S. Army (ret), Defense Institute Press, Mexico City

  Village One, Ossetian Military Highway April 14, 1942: 0615 Hours

  The impromptu war council met by an undamaged section of the town hall's outer wall; the cobbles there were a welcome contrast to the mud, dung, and scattered rocks of the main square. It was a mild spring day, sunny, the sky clear save for a scattering (if high, wispy cloud; the air was a silky benediction on the skin. Clear weather was doubly welcome: it promised to dry the soil which heavy movement was burning into a glutinous mass the color and consistency of porridge, and it gave the troopers a ringside view of the events above, now that there was a moment to spare. Contrails covered the sky in a huge arc from east to west, stark against the pale blue all along the northern front of the Caucasus; it was only when you counted the tiny moving dots that the numbers struck home.

  "Christ," the field-promoted Senior Decurion of the late Lisa Telford's tetrarchy said, swiveling his binoculars along the front. "There must be hundreds of them. Thousands… That's the biggest air battle in history, right over our heads." He recognized the shapes from familiarization lectures: Draka Falcons and twin-engine Eagles, Fritz Bf 109's and Eocke-Wulf 190's—even a few lumbering Bf 110's, wheeling and diving and firing. As they watched, one dot shed a long trail of black that ended in an orange globe; they heard the boom, saw a parachute blossom.

  "So much for 'uncontested air superiority,' " said Marie Kaine dryly as she shaded her eyes with a palm. A Messerschmidt dove, rolled, and drove down the valley overhead with two Draka Eagles on its tail, jinking and weaving, trying to use its superior agility to shake the heavier, faster interceptors. The Eagles were staying well-spaced, and the inevitable happened—the German fighter strayed into the fire-cone of one while avoiding the other. A brief hammering of the Eagle's nose-battery of 25mm cannon sent it in burning tatters to explode on the mountainside; the Eagle victory-rolled, and both turned to climb back to the melee above. The air was full of the whining snarl of turbocharged engines, and spent brass from the guns glittered and tinkled as it fell to the rocky slopes.

  The officers of Century A were considerably less spruce than they had been that morning: the black streak-paint had run with sweat; their mottled uniforms were smeared with the liquid grey clay of the village streets; most had superficial wounds at least.

  So much for the glory of war, Eric thought wryly. Once the nations had sent out their champions dressed in finery of scarlet and feathers and polished brass.

  Now slaughter had been industrialized, and all the uniforms were the color of mud.

  A stretcher party was bearing the last of the Draka hurt into the building. Eric had made the rounds inside—a commander's obligation, and one he did not relish. In action, you could ignore the wounded, the pain and sudden ugly wrecking of bodies, but not in
an aid station. There was a medical section, with all the latest field gear—plasma and antibiotics and morphine; most of the wounded still conscious were making pathetic attempts at cheerfulness. One trooper who had lost an eye told him she was applying for a job with the Navy as soon as a patch was fitted, "to fit in with the decor, and they'll assign me a parrot." And they all wanted to hear the words, that they had done well, that their parents and lovers could know their honor was safe.

  Children, Eric thought, shaking his head slightly as he finished his charcoal sketch map of the village on a section of plastered stone. I'm surrounded by homicidal children who believe in fairy stories, even with their legs ripped off and their faces ground to sausage meat.

  The commanders lounged, resting, smoking, gnawing on soya-meal crackers or raisins from their iron rations, swigging down tepid water from their canteens. There was little sound—an occasional grunt of pain from the aid station within, shouts and boot-tramp from the victors, the eternal background of the mountain winds. The town's civilians had gone to ground.

  The Circassian patriarch stood to one side, McWhirter near him, leaning back with his shoulders and one foot against the building, casually stropping his bush knife on a pocket hone. The native glanced about at pale-eyed deadliness and seemed to shrink a little into himself; they were predator and prey.

  "Nice of the Air Corps to provide the show," Eric began. "But business calls. As I see it—"