Never Sound Retreat

by William R. Forstchen

  He whistled softly as he looked across the open prairie.

  "The bastard's been busy," Marcus said.

  Vincent nodded, looking for any sign of a weak point along the triple line of entrenchments facing Kim. He carefully scanned the line, hope fading with the realization that the line of fortifications was cunningly laid, with interlocking fields of fire so that any point of attack would be enfiladed by earthen forts dug in along the distant heights. Raising his glasses, he scanned the far horizon. On a distant ridge he could just barely make out a dark zigzag line of earthworks.

  "Are those the opposite lines facing Colonel Keane?"

  "Yes, sir," the signalman replied. "You can just make out their fortifications along the ridge. The ground drops down from there, so we can't see beyond, but we did see signs of smoke earlier today. We think they were from trains, but we couldn't be sure."

  "Ha'ark's land cruisers?"

  "Seen half a dozen earlier today deploying behind their lines directly ahead, nothing else."

  "Junction City, anything there?"

  The signalman pointed toward the southeast. "Can't see where the town was, sir, the hills block it, but we did see smoke, like from engines."

  The signalman leaned over the railing, squinting, then pointed.

  "There, sir."

  Vincent trained field glasses on where the signalman was pointing, slowly scanning back and forth. A wavery puff of smoke appeared for an instant, then he lost it. He braced his elbows on the wooden railing and found the smoke again. He started to count and after several minutes lowered the binoculars.

  "Twenty, at least twenty of them coming up." He sighed.

  "I counted twenty-four, sir," the signalm added softly.

  Vincent looked to the west, where his own troop were still unloading, realizing that the smoke from the trains must be clearly visible to Ha'ark.

  "Marcus, he knows we're going to attack," Vincent said. "We have to attack, damn it, and he's bringing the cruisers up to meet us."

  He silently scanned the lines, counting the red pennants of Bantag regiments fluttering in the breeze, his attention focusing on the north.

  "I reviewed your plan for the breakout," Vincent said. "It's damn good."

  "Thank you, sir, I know," Marcus said, and Vincent looked over at the Roum general, who was twice his age. A flicker of a smile was on Marcus's features. There had been a time when he had been in terrified awe of this man who seemed like a legend from the time of the Caesars. The fact that Marcus had undoubtedly wanted Vincent's approval of the plan momentarily caught him off guard.

  "Your Tenth Corps, with what's left of Fifth Corps in reserve, should continue to hold the line here. Sixth Corps will spearhead the attack, followed by Fourth Corps."

  "I disagree with that," Marcus replied. "They're rested. Let Roum have the honor of this attack."

  "If we pull them off the line, even after dark, Ha'ark might guess our plans. Please, Marcus, we'll need Tenth Corps to cover this front," he hesitated, "especially if things go wrong. The pride of Roum aside, we both know Sixth Corps is a veteran unit and there are half a dozen Roum regiments serving with it, Marcus."

  Marcus said nothing for a moment.

  "I'll agree to Tenth Corps in reserve and holding the position here, but I lead the attack. I've studied the ground, I know the plan."

  Vincent again shifted his attention to the position in front, and, to Marcus's obvious surprise, nodded in agreement.

  "You lead the flanking attack, I'll command from here," Vincent announced.

  Marcus studied Vincent carefully.

  "Why? I thought you'd put up an argument over that point."

  "There's still one piece to this puzzle," Vincent replied absently, then fell silent as he focused his thoughts.

  One more piece to make it work. The question was, what was Andrew preparing to do? He pondered the possible alternatives. Andrew's men would be exhausted after weeks of unrelenting combat. Their supply of ammunition would be limited. Andrew would most likely go for an attack straight in, there was no hope of a flanking maneuver through the forest; if he tried that, all the wagons loaded with his wounded would be left behind. He'll attack, maybe as early as tonight, and Vincent's attention fixed itself on that thought as he continued to examine the enemy line.

  Our own attack won't be ready until tomorrow morning, Vincent realized. Until then, Ha'ark's attention has to be focused, not only away from our own flanking attack, but from Andrew as well. As he contemplated what had to be done, he felt a dark coldness in his soul at the price that would have to be paid.

  It's just as I suspected, Ha'ark thought as he scanned the opposite line, shading his eyes against the late-afternoon sun. The reports had been coming in for an hour or more that an attack was building. An artillery round fluttered overhead, detonating with a thunderclap roar, spraying the air around him with fragments. Ignoring the screams of pain of one of his staff, whose arm had been torn off, he continued to study the line. Heavy planks were being laid across the top of their breastworks, another battery was moving into position, the crew unlimbering their guns on open ground, and now some troops were. moving out of their trenches, running down the slope with axes, cutting aside the sharpened stakes blocking the way.

  The damn fools were going to attack frontally.

  Grinning, he slipped his field glasses back into their carrying case and waited.

  "Just remember you're the best damn bloody regiments in the whole bloody army!" Vincent roared as he cantered the length of the column.

  Dismounting, he turned his horse over to an orderly. A regimental band was playing "Gary Owen" the sound of it striking him as such a bizarre incongruity, an Irish drinking song, adopted by the cavalry serving in the Army of the Potomac, and somehow transported here, to this time and place, the tune picked up by the pipers recruited from the descendants of Irish who now served in the ranks, such a strange completion of a circle, he thought.

  Drawing his saber he walked up to where the shot-torn standards of Second Division, Fifth Corps stood, the flag bearer looking at him nervously.

  "Scared, son?" Vincent asked softly.

  "Honestly, sir," the young soldier replied. "Scared to death."

  "It'll be over soon enough, just stay with me, that's all I ask."

  A horseman galloped to the front of the column and reined in beside Vincent.

  "Marcus, what the hell are you doing here?" Vincent snapped.

  Marcus motioned for Vincent to step away from the flag bearer and division staff.

  "Damn all, Vincent, don't do this," Marcus asked, a note of pleading in his voice. "It's suicide."

  "We have to fix his attention, convince Ha'ark our attacks will come straight in here."

  "There's got to be a better way than this."

  "Got any suggestions, then?" He motioned to the east.

  "Ha'ark's obviously getting reinforcements in. We have to convince him that the full weight of our attack is coming in right here. That way his reserves will be here, and not waiting for you when you lead Sixth Corps in tomorrow morning."

  Vincent looked at the column behind him . . . veterans of Hispania, and the disaster in front of Junction City. They were eager now for revenge, their blood up to the point that the all-but-certain annihilation that awaited them was not fully registering.

  "We need a diversion, Marcus, and this is it, a diversion to hold Ha'ark's attention here. And, by God, if I'm going to order this attack, I'm going in with it."

  Marcus fell silent and lowered his head.

  "You're holding up the attack. Now get back to your post, damn it. You know what to do later."

  "Don't go in like this, Vincent. Your job is to direct it from the rear. Damn all, you know Andrew would relieve you if he knew what you were doing."

  Vincent slowly shook his head.

  "I'm ordering this division into almost certain annihilation. I'm not going to stand behind the lines and watch it. These boys have to beli
eve this attack is meant to carry the day, and that means I go with them. And Ha'ark—I'm willing to bet he's just on the other side of this hill. I want him to know it as well, that I'm here."

  "You're committing suicide."

  "If you had to order this, would you stay behind?"

  "That's not the point, Vincent."

  "It is the point, damn you, Marcus. Now get the hell back to your post."

  "Let me do it."

  "General Marcus Graca, get back to your damn post!" Vincent barked out the order so that it echoed along the line.

  Startled, Marcus looked at the men drawn up in solid lines before him.

  Raising his hand, he gave the old traditional Roum salute to Vincent, then saluted the colors behind him.

  "May the gods be with you, Hawthorne." Tears in his eyes, he reached down, took Vincent's hand, then, spurring his mount, he galloped down the line, standing in his stirrups, clenched fist raised in salute, a cheer erupting down the line.

  Vincent looked back at the line and held his sword aloft.

  "For the Republic!" he roared, and pointed his sword toward the crest of the ridge. Turning about

  he started forward, massed drummers behind him picking up the beat.

  Second Division, Fifth Corps, in spite of its casualties at the battle of Junction City, presenting a battle front nearly a quarter mile across and six ranks deep, started forward. Along the crest line, a hundred yards ahead, the massed batteries redoubled their effort, eighty guns pouring a near-continual stream of fire against the enemy position fifteen hundred yards away.

  As Vincent reached the crest the guns fell silent, crews by their steaming-hot pieces, many with hats off, standing in reverent silence as the thirty-five hundred men of the division passed through their ranks and scrambled over the wooden footbridges laid down across the trenches. Formation broke down for a moment as men scrambled over the trenches, up over the breastworks, then weaved their way through the abatis. The first shells from the Bantag artillery and mortars started to fall, and Vincent stood silent, drawn sword resting on his shoulder as he waited for the division to dress ranks as if on parade. Skirmishers darted past him, moving at the double time down the slope, pushing several hundred yards ahead of the advance, and already there was a scattering of rifle fire as Bantag in forward positions opened up on them.

  Seeing that the ranks had re-formed, Vincent raised his sword and again pointed toward the enemy position. Turning about, he set the pace, marching at a hundred and ten yards a minute ... fourteen minutes to cross the valley of death.

  As they passed down the slope the artillery behind him opened up again, shells screaming overhead, geysers of dirt erupting along the enemy earthworks.

  Looking to his left and right he saw the line coming steadily on, wavering at points where men had to scramble around a hillock or tangles of brush, but then forming up again.

  Smoke started to obscure the field, most of the Bantag artillery shooting high, but the mortar fire acquired the range and stayed with them as they advanced, the piercing whistle of the shells coming down, explosions crumping, men going down, ranks dressing to the center as holes were punched in the line.

  A shell detonated to his right, spraying him with dirt. His guidon bearer dropped, screaming, clutching the stump where his right leg had been severed at the knee. A corporal burst from the ranks, tossing his rifle aside, and scooped up the colors. Rifle fire erupted, skirmishers darting forward, reloading on the run, following the dark forms of Bantag moving back up the slope, withdrawing into their main lines.

  Reaching the bottom of the valley, he leapt down the muddy bank of the stream which divided the field between Bantag and human lines, the cold water coming up to his thighs. A body of a Bantag bobbed in the middle of the stream; a human skirmisher, clutching his stomach, was curled up on the opposite shore, looking at Vincent, wide-eyed. Scrambling up the muddy bank Vincent paused to look back as the first two ranks plunged into the stream, colors held high, bayonets gleaming red in the late-afternoon sunlight.

  The lines plunged through the stream, geysers of water erupting as a salvo of mortar shells plunged in. Hitting the eastern embankment, men clawed their way up the muddy slope. The ridgeline disappeared in a cloud of yellow-grey smoke as the Bantag infantry opened fire. Dozens of men tumbled backwards into the stream, cursing, screaming.

  "Who's with me?" Vincent screamed. "Who's with me?"

  Holding his sword high, he started forward, moving at the double.

  "They're insane!" Ha'ark cried, watching as the human waves struggled over the stream and, breaking into a slow run, started up the slope.

  His riflemen were firing as fast as they could reload, popping breeches open, slamming in cartridges which many had laid out on the breastworks in front of their positions. Behind him, a mortar team concealed on the reverse slope loaded rounds as fast as they could be brought up from the caissons, the shots whistling overhead to slash down into the advancing lines, the gun commanders, adjusting the barrels higher and yet higher after every three to four shots.

  It was difficult to see the humans as smoke from the explosions bracketing their lines rolled up the slope on the western breeze.

  Ha'ark looked up at an observer positioned atop a tower that was fortified with sandbags.

  "Any land cruisers?"

  The observer, shading his eyes against the sun, scanned the lines.

  "I thought I saw something, my Qarth, by the railroad track pass, but it's not moving forward!" The observer started to raise his field glasses to examine the position once again, then jerked backwards, the glasses shattering, his face exploding as a shell detonated on the tower.

  What are they waiting for? Ha'ark wondered. Suicide to send unsupported infantry in like this.

  The smoke parted for an instant, and he saw a gold-embossed flag moving forward, up the slope, an officer beside the flag, waving his sword, urging the human waves on.

  Was this Hawthorne?

  As he considered the thought the human looked up, as if gazing straight at him, and there was the sense of a cold, deadly hatred that was startling. This one was coming to kill him, he could feel that, an intensity of belief and hatred that felt more Bantag than human.

  Vincent stood still for a moment, focusing his thoughts, driving all else out of his soul.

  "I'm coming for you, you son of a bitch," Vincent snarled. "It's here, it's all here. It's not to save Andrew; it's to kill you."

  The second flag bearer went down by Vincent's side. Scooping up the colors, he held them aloft. The first two ranks of his charge were disintegrating under the blasts of canister and scathing rifle fire. Men staggered past him, bent low, as if advancing into a gale. A drummer boy ran past, tears streaming down his face, mechanically beating his drum, which was shattered and hanging in tatters on his bloody thigh. He saw an old man cradling a young boy, crying, then collapsing as a round struck him in the chest. A sergeant ran past, screaming obscenities, urging the line forward, and disappeared into the smoke.

  Looking back through the smoke he saw the rear ranks of his charge fording the stream; rifle fire, which was passing high over the heads of the front ranks, was plunging into the ranks farther to the rear. The distant slope was covered with blue-clad forms, a carpet of bodies stretching all the way back to where the artillery continued to work, firing in support of the advancing charge.

  Men around him were wavering, slowing down, some of them raising their rifles to return fire.

  "Keep moving!" Vincent roared. "Charge boys, charge!"

  Waving his guidon, he started forward again at the run, holding the colors high.

  A quavering scream rose up from the ranks, bayonets poised forward, all formation breaking down, the division sweeping up the slope at the run. The ground ahead seemed to stretch into an eternity, wisps of smoke swirling around him. A soldier sprinted past, screaming, the sound of his voice lost in the roar of battle. An explosion of blood erupted from his back; mech
anically, the soldier continued for half a dozen more steps before he fell. Vincent leapt over his body, pressing on, no longer even aware if anyone was following. The smoke parted again, a Bantag was kneeling before him, blocking a path through a line of sharpened stakes, raising his rifle. An explosion erupted next to Vincent; the Ban-tag fell over. The soldier who had shot him, screamed in triumph as he rushed up and pinned the Bantag to the ground with his bayonet. The soldier flipped over an instant later as a spray of canister tore across the field.

  Reaching the narrow path through the rows of sharpened stakes, Vincent slowed, turning to look back. A knot of men pushed up around him, beating at the stakes with rifle butts, knocking them aside, pushing through, casualties falling, some of the men tumbling onto the sharp points, shrieking, writhing as they were impaled.

  Vincent could sense the charge disintegrating on the barricade, men piling up, falling, screaming, survivors going to ground, huddled behind bodies, rising up to fire, then ducking back down.

  "Keep going!" Vincent roared. "Come on, keep going!"

  Holding the colors aloft he started to push through the abatis, turning to look back at his men.

  He didn't feel any pain, only a numbing blow as the rifle ball smashed into his right hip and cut crosswise through his body. His knees buckled. He slammed the staff of his guidon down, bracing himself against it, while driving his sword point into the ground with his other hand.

  Locking his arms, he held himself up, looking back at his men. The world about him seemed to shift, everything slowing down, focusing in on details . . . one of his staff, openmouthed, screaming, coming toward him, then collapsing, a soldier standing, firing his rifle, fumbling at his cartridge box, a drummer boy sitting on the ground, hands clasped over a bloody face, an hysterical sergeant clutching the body of a comrade and shrieking, a lone soldier, standing, laughing taking deliberate aim, firing, then reloading, untouched in the storm of steel.