The Dom holy man snapped at Nerino, but the general waved him away.
Shinya turned back. “In that case, we shall remain. But what shall we talk about?”
* * *
“That guy is one weird duck,” Blas said as they rode back to the Allied lines.
“He is an amateur.” Blair snorted, then looked apologetically at Blas. “Even more so than my people once were.”
“You are right,” Shinya agreed. “An amateur playing a role. He moves his troops well enough, to prepare for a set-piece battle, but only against an army such as he himself commands.” He chuckled. “Anyone can learn to do that with the years he said he’s had to practice! He seems most excited by the prospect of a ‘real’ battle, but doesn’t have any idea what he’s gotten himself into. That’s largely what I hoped to confirm.”
“It will be interesting to see how quickly he adapts, or if he even can,” Blair mused.
Suares was watching them, his face still pale. “How . . . How can you all remain so calm, so confident, after what that terrible beast said?” He’d been wrong. After an interesting and bizarrely courteous conversation that lasted nearly half an hour, Nerino did indeed offer “terms.” He gave his word that if the Allied forces at Guayak agreed to surrender, they would all be honorably and mercifully shot, despite the great expense in powder and shot (he’d likely have to pay for himself), that such a benevolent act would entail. If they chose to resist, however—something he fully expected and even encouraged them to do—sadly, all survivors would have to be impaled. He had no discretion there. The Holy Decrees of His Holiness himself clearly prescribed such punishment for enemies who spilled the Sacred Blood of His noble soldiers within the Dominion itself. Apparently there was some leeway for expeditionary commanders during foreign conquest, to facilitate occupation, but he had none here. All the people of Guayak, however, every man, woman, and child, must be impaled regardless. They’d broken far more terrible commandments by succoring enemies of God.
Shinya looked at Suares. He had no doubt now that the people of Guayak would be firmly bound to the cause. “Because we’re not going to lose,” he said simply. “Some of your people will die in battle, but none will be impaled.”
CHAPTER 5
////// Battle of Guayak
June 18, 1944
A hundred Dom guns, many quite large, commenced firing one after another at almost exactly noon. A great, rolling billow of white smoke eventually obscured the entire enemy line, and the deep-throated roar was tremendous. Heavy roundshot crashed into the soil and stone earthworks around the city, but many shrieked overhead to impact the buildings beyond with the clattering crash of shattered masonry. Only six batteries of “light” Allied guns, thirty-six in all, plus a few heavy Dom guns taken from the harbor fort opposed them, but they replied immediately, snarling defiance from prepared embrasures in the works. Mostly twelve-pounders, and Imperial eight-pounders, the Allied guns were light, highly mobile field artillery pieces, but they possessed several key advantages. All of them, even the “Impie” guns, were provided with more than just solid roundshot now. At this range, and with the enemy in the open, exploding spherical case shot snapped above and among the Doms, spraying them with musket balls and hot shards of iron. The Allied gunners didn’t even have to aim particularly well—impossible through all the smoke at any rate—they just had to keep firing at the same elevation, with fuses set for the same time of flight for the well-observed range.
Shinya was on top of one of the taller buildings near the eastern line with a relatively small staff, observing with his binoculars. They didn’t have any of the new field telephones in the East yet, but they’d had plenty of time to string telegraph wires to numerous command posts around the city. If lines were cut by the bombardment, a number of locals stood by to act as runners. Besides the runners, however, the only locals present were Suares and the alcalde in his robes and goofy headdress. Both looked nervous, and they hadn’t spoken since having arrived together. The rest of the city’s population, those not on the line and armed with Dom muskets from the fort armory, had taken shelter in cellars beneath the more-imposing structures. That was good, Shinya realized, because no matter how destructive his own fire must be to the enemy, the Doms’ heavy shot would ultimately pulverize the city.
A big ball struck the building he was standing on, near street level, and the dust swirled up to engulf them four stories up.
“Damn,” he said. “I can see nothing from here!”
“You won’t see better anywhere else,” said Fred Reynolds. He and Kari-Faask remained weak from their ordeal, and Orrin still hadn’t cleared them to fly. But they knew more about the Doms on the continent than anyone else—or at least that was the excuse they used to get Shinya to let them “tag along” with him. They hadn’t needed an excuse. Shinya remembered Fred as the youngest member of Walker’s crew, and the kid had always been friendly to him when almost no one else was. His carefree, California attitude had also aroused nostalgic memories of Shinya’s own college days at Berkeley, which may have even facilitated his “Americanization” on this world. He liked Fred—and Kari—and was glad for their company.
“I suspect you’re right,” Shinya grudged. “This artillery duel may go on for some time, so you may as well elaborate on some of the points you began to make earlier. You still believe they will strike first at the center?”
“Yessir.” Fred nodded. “I’m no infantryman, and I’m sure no strategy or tactics guy, but those people”—he waved toward the enemy—“they’re really arrogant, y’know? And I don’t mean the kind of arrogant some folks get when they’ve done a lot of stuff they’re good at. It isn’t earned arrogance, if you know what I mean. I’m not saying that kind of arrogance is any prettier, and that it won’t bite you on the ass, but folks can kind of understand it.” He shrugged. “Their kind isn’t based on anything other than they know they’re right because they’ve been told they’re right—commanded to accept they’re right—so long that they don’t dare question it. They think God’s on their side, period.”
“But they have built formidable armies and navies, and they handle them quite professionally,” Shinya objected.
“Sure, they move ’em around just fine, but that’s all drill. Rote training. From what I’ve heard, they don’t fight ’em very well once they lock horns. I mean, the troops fight hard, sure. They won’t hardly quit. But you guys marched rings around ’em on New Ireland, and the Skipper and Walker stomped their whole fleet with just a few other ships to help. They’re not . . . flexible.”
Shinya didn’t entirely agree that things had been quite so one-sided on New Ireland. The Doms had devised a good and dangerous plan—based on inside information, it turned out—and they’d executed it very creditably. But they hadn’t reacted well when the Allies changed their tactics in response, had they? As for Captain Reddy’s victory off Saint Francis, that was more complicated as well—but maybe it really wasn’t when all was said and done.
“Straight at us, you say, right up the middle,” Shinya mused.
“Keep it simple,” Fred agreed. “I’m not saying they won’t give us a shove here and there in other places; that would be expected by all the brass over there. Let everybody have their little part in the big dance.”
Shinya looked sharply at Fred, remembering Nerino’s flowery speech at the end of their parlay in which he said something to the effect of “Let the glorious dance of battle commence!” He nodded at where Suares and his alcalde had stepped away to view the panorama from a different position. “Would you ask Mr. Suares—or his alcalde—if they agree with your assessment?”
“I’ll try.” A few moments later, he returned to Shinya. “They don’t know, sir. I guess they’re even less ‘tactical’ than I am. Even more edgy too. But I think I’m right.”
“Signalman,” Shinya snapped. “Send: each regiment, but particularly those along the
southern line, will stand ready to shift one company in three to the center at my command.”
Moments passed while the bombardment continued, amid a continuous thunder of guns and crash of shot. Most of the Dom shot was falling in front of the earthworks now, striking the soft earth and skating upward to fall almost harmlessly behind the defensive lines and their reserve detachments as well. The Allied gunners had laid timbers beneath their guns to keep their elevations consistent, but the Doms hadn’t taken time for such, so their wheels would be digging deeper in the earth with every shot and recoil; if their gunners couldn’t see what they were shooting at, most were probably not compensating for lost elevation. As if the enemy realized this, and even expected it, his guns slowly stopped firing, allowing the battlefield to clear a bit. The Allied guns didn’t stop, however, and for the first time, Shinya saw the carnage they’d been wreaking. Mangled bodies writhed and crawled or lay completely still on the hazy ground among and beyond the enemy guns, some of which had been dismounted. Ragged gaps had been slashed in the ranks of the infantry, and it appeared stunned, for a moment, by what the clearing smoke revealed. Distant shouts erupted, and the lines started closing up. Even as he watched, a case shot exploded above the Dom ranks, mowing down half a dozen men.
“The artillery will cease firing and replenish ammunition!” Shinya ordered.
“But we killin’ hell outa them!” Kari-Faask protested, her keen eyes needing no binoculars.
Shinya looked at her and spoke gently. Few people had suffered worse than she had at the hands of the Doms. “We are, but we will do far more when they advance, I promise. And I do not want to discourage them from doing so.”
“I get replies from all but Sixth Impie Maa-rines!” the signals ’Cat announced. “We must’a lost that line.”
“Send a runner. Inform Mr. Reddy that his squadrons may lift off now, but they must wait for my order to attack.
“Ay, ay. What about Maaka-Kakja’s planes?”
“Not yet. I don’t want the Doms to know we have anything at our disposal beyond what they see here.”
* * *
Captain Blas-Ma-Ar was coughing dust. “Daamn,” she finally managed. “That last one was close.”
“Right on the other side o’ the heap,” Spook agreed. He’d taken off his helmet and was shaking out his near-white fur. A few of the Imperial militiamen from the Saint Francis region, leaning on their long guns, watched him with amusement. “You think they comin’ now?”
Blas peered over the earthwork, blinking, her eyes wet. “Yeah. C’mere, First Sergeant. You gotta see this.” The rumble of drums had replaced the artillery fire, and now a loud, strange, martial tune began to play. With hundreds of red flags streaming above them, perhaps ten thousand Doms, across a half-mile front, stepped off. Above them, now that the smoke was clearing, Grikbirds—more than she’d ever seen—swooped and swirled. She doubted the things would be much of a menace on a battlefield, particularly once the smoke returned. Everyone now knew they didn’t like smoke at all. But the scary-looking things, so obviously in the power of the Doms, were an intimidating sight.
“Can we start shootin’ now?” demanded a militiaman. He was taller than most Impies and had a long dark beard. Imperial Marine regulations allowed just about any form of mustache a man could imagine or achieve, but no beards. The militia from the continental colonies generally obeyed “sensible” orders but paid little attention to that sort. They wore no uniform either, unless a kind of apparently universal hunting frock might be considered such, and didn’t participate in close-order drill. Their large rifled weapons that would’ve even impressed Dennis Silva were well designed to kill some very large continental monsters, but had no provision for a bayonet. For close-up work, they carried two-handed “hunting swords,” longer and heavier than any military sword Blas had ever seen. Blas already knew their rifles were accurate enough to kill a specific man at the roughly three hundred tails to the enemy.
She looked back at the advancing Doms. Hell, our aar-tillery canister would even be effective at this range! Baalkpan and Maa-ni-la Arsenal smoothbore muskets were still the standard infantry arm in the East and would probably remain so for a while longer. They had tight enough tolerances to be effective at two hundred yards, and fairly accurate at a hundred. Impie flintlocks weren’t quite as good, but all of them could already be taking some toll. These particular Doms had never fought the Allied armies before, however, and had clearly formed to fight an enemy equipped just as they were. Blas wondered if they’d be foolish enough to do so again after today. Apparently, Shinya wanted to reinforce their misconceptions a little longer, and had something other than just a slugging match in mind—at least she hoped he did. In any event, she hadn’t yet received orders to open fire.
“Soon,” she promised the militiaman. “When we get started, though, I want you Saint Francis-aans killin’ officers, savvy?”
“An’ them damn Blood Priests too, I hope?” the man asked. Blas nodded. “My pleasure, Cap’n,” the man said. “They’re easy enough ta spot!” It was true. Lemurian troops had always dressed the same, first by clans, then regiments, and now almost universally. Lemurian Marines still wore their blue kilts in battle, and Safir Maraan’s personal guard regiment, her “600,” retained their house colors as well, but with the exception of stripes and other rank devices—much smaller now on combat dress—officers were indistinguishable from privates. Even the Imperial Marines, once given to a degree of pomp, had adopted the practice, even if their tunics remained red, at least here in the East. But Dom officers, like General Nerino, were easily distinguishable—as were the bloodred-robed priests that accompanied them.
“Captain Blas!” came a cry from behind, and again Blair appeared atop his horse, followed by a larger staff than before.
“Sur?”
“That music they play is most disagreeable,” Blair announced loudly enough to be heard by hundreds. “Their notion of melody is quite grating on my ears. Pray, is there anything you can do about it?”
“May I?”
“By all means, Captain.”
Blas hurried to a ’Cat commanding a section of guns to her left. She remembered him from the fighting on New Ireland and knew he was good. “Can you silence that screeching band, Lieuten-aant?” she demanded, just as loudly as Blair.
“Wit much happy!” Most Lemurian-Americans spoke passable English now, or the near-universal patois that had sprung up. Some still relied on a kind of pidgin. “Action front!” The ’Cat roared memorized commands to his two grinning gun’s crews, their embrasures about twenty-five yards apart. “Load case, target dat skeechy band!”
“Two fifty!” chorused the chiefs of each piece sending the appropriate ammunition forward. The gunners pierced their fuses for one second, fudging them a bit shorter still. Lemurian cannoneers rammed the fixed charges down the barrels and then stepped back, leaving the gunners and one other to quickly aim each piece. When the gunners were satisfied, others pierced the charges through the vents and primed them. It all took mere seconds before each gun was ready and waiting. The section chief was still watching the stately, plodding advance of the enemy, and when the target neared the estimated range, he took a breath and roared, “Fire!”
Linstocks slapped down, and both guns roared as one, rumbling and jangling back across the planked overlays. An instant later, two gray and white clouds burst nearly amid the enemy band, and the musicians were swept to the ground, either by fragments of metal or the concussion of the twin blasts. Cheers erupted up and down the earthworks, and somewhere far to the left, where several entire companies of continental militia were gathered, strange, yowelly music such as Blas had never heard squawked to life.
“Oh dear,” Colonel Blair said with a false frown. “We’ve awakened the bagpipes! Pity we can’t silence them so easily!” Another cheer rose, but Blas listened to the pipes. Whatever they looked like—she had
no idea—they didn’t sound that different from some of her own people’s instruments. Maybe louder. She decided she rather liked them.
They may have slain much of the enemy’s main band, but the drums still thundered, and the Doms continued inexorably forward.
* * *
“They’re gettin’ awful close!” Fred Reynolds murmured to Kari.
“Indeed,” Shinya agreed sourly. “I did not expect so many Grikbirds. Look at them all! I wanted COFO Reddy’s planes to have a clear view of their targets, to avoid hitting any of our own people, but his planes may collide with Grikbirds if they remain so thick and low!” Decisively, he lowered his binoculars. “This to all commands,” he said tersely to the signal-’Cat. “Commence firing, but do not, repeat, do not employ mortars!” He looked at Fred. “We don’t want Reddy’s aircraft to collide with them either!” He stepped to the ’Cat, already tapping out the message. “The Grikbirds should rise with the smoke and the bombing squadrons will strike low, beneath most of them, I should think. Mr. Reddy’s machine-gun-armed craft will drive through first, hopefully scattering any Grikbirds that remain.” He paused. “My desire is that the attacking division or corps, or however the enemy designates such things, should be annihilated, but no plane will drop without a visible target. We can afford no accidental gaps in our defenses! Pilots without such targets may drop on the enemy reserves, but they must clear the airspace above the battlefield as soon as possible so I may use my mortars. Subsequent air strikes will focus on the enemy reserves and rear areas.”
“What about those parts of the line the Doms aren’t coming at yet?” Kari asked.
Shinya’s brow rose. “All commands may shoot at whatever they think they can hit! The more smoke the better, I suppose.”
* * *
“Hold yer mortars, but commence firing! Commence firing, but hold yer mortars!” shouted an Imperial Marine on Blair’s staff, galloping down the road behind, and parallel to the works. Blas nodded. The word about the mortars had already arrived via messenger from her comm shack. The final word had awaited only this runner, and guns north of her position, closer to the bay, had been pounding for several moments already. A crackle of musketry was growing to a roar. She glanced at Lieutenant Finny, who’d remained nearby with his adjoining company, and blinked an irony Finny caught with a swish of his tail. Neither was anxious for what was to come; they’d seen it often enough. But the waiting only intensified the dread, and they were glad it was over. “Mortar sections, hold,” Blas trilled. “Aar-tillery sections will load caanister!” She stared down the line of expectant faces turned to hers, “gun ’Cats” and Marines poised by and with their weapons. “Commence independent fire!” At this range, careful aim was more important than the stunning effect of a volley—and the approaching Doms ought to be sufficiently stunned by something else directly.
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