Battle Hymn
THE LOST REGIMENT #5
William R. Forstchen
www.onesecondafter.com
www.dayofwrathbook.com
www.spectrumliteraryagency.com/forstchen.htm
Copyright © 1997 by William R. Forstchen
for two friends
who helped keep me on track—
Bill Fawcett & Maury Hurt
Preface
In recording the history of the Human-Horde Wars on Valennia, confusion often arises over military, technical, and political terminology. The difficulty of this issue is compounded by the multiplicity of languages involved, both Human and Horde.
To simplify this issue the author has taken the liberty of applying a common terminology for both sides, based upon definitions used in America at the time of the Civil War.
The reader will therefore note that in this and subsequent works members of the Horde will refer to units as regiments, to steam-driven machines on iron track as railroads, and to ships sheathed in armor as ironclads. The use of the actual Horde words for these items—kagthumen, vagga ca qugarmak, and vagga ca x'qiere—would only result in confusion.
Regarding the organization of the Army of the Republic, it was structured along lines similar to the Union Army during the Civil War. Two key exceptions are the field strengths of regiments and batteries. American Civil War regiments in the Union Army had a paper strength of one thousand enlisted men and thirty-five officers, and batteries almost always had six guns. Regiments in the Army of the Republic had a paper strength of five hundred enlisted men and twenty-six officers, while batteries were organized into four-gun units.
During the Tugar and Merki Wars, infantry regiments of the Republic also had two four-pound artillery pieces, an idea borrowed by the architect of this army, Andrew Lawrence Keane, from the European armies of the seventeenth and early eighteenth centuries. This system was abolished two years after the end of the Merki War because of the increased firepower available to infantry regiments with the standardized issuing of rifled muskets and the introduction of breechloaders. Four-pound artillery pieces were in general phased out of the army at this time.
Units in the Army of the Republic were recruited locally and designated in the official rolls by the community they came from—i.e., First Murom, Third Capri, Eighth Suzdal. During peacetime two to four companies of the unit became the "active battalion," and the remaining companies were the "reserve battalion." The active battalion served as the training unit for new recruits, who after two years of service were transferred to the reserve.
By the end of the Merki War the vast majority of units had suffered casualty rates as high as 50 to 60 percent, and three to four years later were still attempting to rebuild their strength; thus in reality most regiments could field only three hundred fifty to four hundred men.
Five regiments were organized into a brigade, two brigades formed a division, and three divisions formed a corps, which on paper should have a strength of fifteen thousand men, along with a battalion of artillery and a regiment of cavalry.
First through Fifth Corps were in general made up of units from Rus, and Sixth through Eleventh Corps were made up of units from Roum. These separate formations were designated as the First and Second Armies.
A note should be made here as well of the interesting political structure created in the year after the end of the Merki War. Rus and Roum joined together as a single political unit called the Republic. A general election was held, and the president of the Republic of Rus, Kalencka, took office for six years, with Pro Consul Marcus Licinius Graca as vice president. Congress was of two houses, with representatives elected based upon population and senators based upon states. As a concession to Rus's position as the founding state, the Second Constitution of Valennia declared that it was entitled to fifteen senators and Roum to ten senators. This inequity was balanced in part by the fact that Roum, with nearly double the population, dominated the lower house. Any new states that joined the Republic, coming in with a population of more than one million, would be entitled to five senators. Again, the terminology applied here is based upon English usage, although Rus was the official language of the government.
The issue of dates has caused significant confusion at times. Thus this note of clarification: Rus, Roum, Bantag, Merki, and Tugar each used different calendars based upon the 340-day year of Valennia. The Republic of Rus, upon its founding after the Rebellion against the Boyars, declared that its calendar would start at year 1 beginning with the next midwinter day. It should be noted that the rebellion occurred six months after the arrival of the Thirty-fifth Infantry and the Forty-fourth New York Artillery. Thus the first day of year 1 roughly coincided with late summer of 1865 a.d.
Upon the drafting of the Second Constitution, incorporating the Republics of Rus and Roum into a single political entity, the Rus calendar was adopted. Therefore the Battle of Hispania was fought in the fifth year of the Republic and the Second Constitution was signed in the sixth year.
Regarding Horde organization, the term "umen," which applies to a unit of ten thousand warriors, will continue to be used, since it has found general acceptance, even among the humans living on Valennia.
Horde military organization was based on the umen, which generally was organized from a given subclan within a horde and commanded by a subclan Qarth. Umens were divided into ten subunits, and the American concept of a regiment is most applicable to this formation and will thus be used, but it should be kept in mind that Horde regiments tended to have twice the numbers of a human regiment.
Ha'ark the Redeemer found that the umen organization was so ingrained into Horde society that it could not be changed, though he did move to create a corps system, with three umens to a corps and then three corps to an army.
A final note regarding language: Human captives of the Hordes tended to adopt the dialect of their captors as a common language, thus enabling people from a wide variety of nationalities to communicate.
In closing, I again wish to thank John Keane, president of the Thirty-fifth Maine Historical Society for valuable insights and a most generous access to the society's magnificent archival resources. Additional thanks must go to Professor Dennis Showalter, who had an ancestor serving with the Thirty-fifth, for the opportunity to examine his yet to be published work "The Impact of Rifles and Railroads on Bantag Military-Political Reform" and to Professor Gunther Rothenberg for the guidance provided by his noted study, The Military Border of the Republic and the Bantag Empire.
Prologue
Fifth Year of the Republic of Rus—
Summer of the Battle of Hispania
Long he fell through the fire, until he believed that this was, indeed, the punishment for his sins. That thought alone was nearly beyond his ability to accept. A life of war, of struggle and annihilation, had inured him to such philosophical concerns. There was life and there was nothingness. He had sent more than his share into the nothingness, watching the life drain out of their eyes… and now it was his turn.
Funny, he could not remember being hit. Even now he could yet sense his body. No wounds. I'm still whole. Strange.
My uxar, my command of ten? What of them? And as he wondered he could hear screams. Are they with me in this torment now as well?
Four were dead. That he knew. Falling in the first moments of the ambush, torn apart by the fusillade that erupted from the jungle. Are their spirits now around me? Am I a spirit as well?
"Kasar!"
He turned. It was Ha'ark, the new recruit, but he could not see him. The idiot. It would be my fate to have him as my companion in the afterworld. The new recruit, a book reader, a fool who was useless except to be beaten to relieve the boredom. Absurd that he had survived th
e ambush. No, Ha'ark was still with me, running through the jungle, heading into the ruins of the temple.
But what next? We clawed our way into the bowels of the temple, slithering through weed-choked jumbles of rock, the damned forces of the Traitor behind us. They had stopped, though; he could remember their fearful voices outside the ruins. And then there was the flash of light, the tunnel of fire, and now this.
How long have I fallen thus? he wondered. Is this eternity?
The growing fear of it threatened mastery, and he spat out an angry curse at the gods whom he had never believed in. "If this is your punishment, then the hell with you!"
"Kasar. Don't!"
Ha'ark again. So the weakling, the pious one, is with me as well. The thought of it made him throw back his head and roar with laughter. So it was all meaningless—good or evil, warrior or philosopher, we are all doomed to torment.
Even as he laughed he slammed into the ground, a grunt of surprise escaping him. He rolled, still clutching his rifle, and came to his feet.
The fire still swirled around him, but there was no heat, only a pulsing glow. From out of the fire a form appeared… it was Ha'ark, dropping his gun. Eyes wide with terror, Ha'ark scurried back from the cold flames until Kasar grabbed him by the collar and pulled him to his feet.
"Get your gun, you damned idiot!" Kasar roared.
Ha'ark looked up at him, terrified.
"Your gun, damn you!" He kicked Ha'ark toward the pillar of light. Stiff with fear, Ha'ark staggered forward, snatched the weapon from the ground, and scurried back. An instant later four more appeared—Jamul the radio operator, Uthak the heavy weapons man, doggedly clinging to his Vark 32 machine gun, Bakkth, and Machka, the last two both draftees like Ha'ark and both just about as useless.
Kasar stood mesmerized, but only for an instant, until the old instincts again took hold. He quickly scanned the ground around him, which was lit now by the light of what appeared to be either dawn or sunset.
“Check your weapons," Kasar hissed, even as he ran his fingers along the side of the gun, checking to make sure that the muzzle was clear. Just holding the rifle made him feel somehow secure, and he worked the bolt, which clicked reassuringly as a round chambered out and a new round slapped in. If we're in the afterlife, he thought, at least we've come armed.
He looked at Jamul, who was speaking hurriedly into his radio microphone and reaching around to his back, turning dials arrayed along the side panel.
Jamul shook his head. "Where are we? Either the set's shot or all radio traffic, theirs and ours, is simply gone."
Kasar said nothing. Where were they? There was no telling. The air was different, and his nostrils were distended as he breathed in short pants. Dry, desert dry…what in the name of the gods, we were in the jungle?
"Huk Varani ga!"
Kasar swung around, crouching low.
In the shadows he could see someone standing silhouetted by the moonlight. Then the hair down his back rose on edge. There were two moons!
"Huk! Huk! Varani ga!"
Others came out of the shadows, moving cautiously, but he kept his rifle aimed at the first one, even as he struggled with his terror.
"Uthak, cover right. The rest of you, left."
Soldiers of the Traitor? No, and the realization of it, rather than comforting him, redoubled his fear.
They were armed with bows and lances, their weapons poised.
I can drop one, maybe two, he realized, but then I'm dead. At least it's better than falling into the hands of the Traitors and having your ribs cracked open while you are still alive and watching as your heart is drawn out to be devoured. Even though he had practiced the ritual a hundred times on those he had taken, still it had a certain barbarity to it when it was you on whom it was about to be practiced. I thought I was dead, and now I am.
"Don't move, sir."
It was Ha'ark, and the order, coming from the draftee, startled him.
"Aim at the one on the left," Kasar hissed. "When I give the word, drop him. Maybe we can still get out of here."
"Out of where?" Ha'ark replied, and there was the edge of a taunt in his reply. "Look at the sky. Two moons, not one, like home."
"Just get ready."
"We're somewhere else," Ha'ark replied coolly. "They're telling us to drop our weapons. I understand them, they're speaking the ancient tongue."
Kasar snorted with disdain. The recruit had always thought himself better than the rest of them. He was educated, coming from a family that could wear the red cloak of middle rank, drafted into the army only because of a minor offense that gave him the choice of jail or the ranks. And now he thought he could give orders. Like hell.
"On three, get ready," Kasar growled.
"Umaga vikaria. Bantag vu!”
Kasar spared a quick glance to his side. It was Ha'ark speaking. What the hell was the fool doing?
"On three," Kasar snapped. "One, two…"
The impact of the bullet doubled him over. As he spun around, Kasar saw the swirl of smoke cloaking Ha'ark. He struggled to raise his gun toward the recruit. Smiling, Ha'ark chambered another round and squeezed the trigger, knocking Kasar to the ground.
“The rest of you! Don't move!"
“Ha'ark?" It was Jamul. “Why?"
"He was about to get us killed! Let me handle this if you want to live… Umaga vikaria, Bantag vu!"
Kasar looked up at the stars overhead. Not of home. A great wheel of stars dimming now in the twilight… or was it his vision that was fading?
"Where am I?"
“The home of the ancients, that's where."
Ha'ark was standing over him, looking down, his eyes pitiless.
“Legends," Kasar sighed.
Ha'ark shook his head.
“You thought me an idiot, a fool," Ha'ark hissed, the anger so long suppressed now boiling out. "I wanted to stay with my mentors, but I was forced into your hands instead. But you taught me well, Kasar." And as he spoke, Ha'ark chambered another round.
The world, whichever world it was, was growing distant. Kasar lay his head back, watching the others. His command stood silent, watching the drama play out.
“Kill him." At least he thought he said the words, but no one moved.
Ha'ark looked away from him, shouted something, and the others went down on their knees, murmuring in a strange tongue.
“I was nothing to you, but here"—and his smile turned to a wolfish grin—“here I can be a king."
Ha'ark touched the muzzle of his gun to Kasar's forehead, and in that instant Kasar discovered whether his musings about nothingness were right after all.
~
Sixth Year of the Republic of Rus
Poking tentatively at his meal, Sergeant Major Hans Schuder of the Thirty-fifth Maine Volunteer Infantry sat in silence. He looked carefully at the bowl of gruel, studying it intently in the dim light that filtered into the yurt. The meal looked clean. A memory of serving out on the Plains against the Comanche came to mind, and he shook his head sadly. Didn't care what the meat looked like back then, just damn grateful to get it, maggots and all. But now…
The bastards had tried to force him to eat "cattle" flesh. They viewed it as part of the ritual of breaking a pet. Get you to eat of your own kind, and the ultimate taboo is broken. Even if you escape, you are never the same, a pariah among your own. He had fought against it, even when they held him down and jammed the cooked flesh into his mouth. When they left he forced himself to vomit it back up.
They had tricked him, to be sure. Shortly after his capture, the contents of a tasty soup had been revealed to him the following morning—a dead Cartha, part of a haul of prisoners as the remnants of the Merki Horde swept southwest after their defeat. That was the first time he tried to kill himself. There had been other attempts afterward. He had desperately wanted to succeed, at least at first. But now, after a year of captivity, the wish to die had flickered away. He had been tricked, but in the back of his mind he knew he
would remain unbroken, as long as he did not knowingly eat of his own kind. There was something else as well now that held him. It was all so curious, this strange new emotion.
At the other side of the yurt, she was asleep, curled up in a dirty blanket, almost childlike. Strange, she is almost a child, not more than twenty or twenty-two years, and me in my fifties, he thought. He sat down by her side. She stirred in her sleep, murmured something, a troubled look wrinkling her brow. He watched her intently. She sighed, her brow unknitting, her features relaxing into untroubled sleep.
He kissed her lightly on the forehead and stood up.
How did I allow this to happen, he wondered. Never before… why now? Was it the constant fear, the dread, a wish for some spark, some tenderness, the touch of another by your side as you stand at the edge of the abyss? He looked at her again, wondering. No, no matter where I met her—here, Rus, the States—it would have been the same, something in her pale brown features, gold almond eyes. Where were her people from, back on Earth? Now if Andrew or that damnable Emil was here, he could tell me. India, or maybe one of the heathen isles of the Pacific.
He smiled, remembering sailor stories about the tropical isles and the native girls and jumping ship never to come home. Looking at Tamira, he could understand why. And why me? Was it the fear? After all, I'm old enough to be her father. But no, it wasn't that. There was something instinctive between them, an unspoken word that could communicate volumes.
If I had met her back home, back in the States, or further back, in Germany, would I have become a soldier? Ridiculous thought. It is what I am—Hans Schuder, Sergeant Major, bei Gott.
So she's the one who keeps me alive now, a desire to live in hell.
She stirred again, curling up and covering her face with a nervous gesture, a whimper escaping her lips. He was tempted to kiss her lightly on the brow, to awaken her. But no, let her sleep.
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