A Band of Brothers

by William R. Forstchen

  Turning his turret to either side, he saw that his line of ironclads were advancing, spreading out, the two on the left angling off to advance up the slope to catch their flanking column.

  As he started to turn his turret to the right, he caught a glimpse of a signal flare rising up from the enemy-held ridge … most likely ordering the infantry to pull back. Good, they’re sitting ducks.

  Hundreds of Bantag now rose up, but rather than retreat, they broke into a loping charge, leaping through the knee-high snow.

  Well, if they want to die, let them, he thought grimly, and held down with a long burst on his gatling, bowling over dozens. The three other ironclads armed with gatlings joined in, so that long stitching lines of machine gun fire laced back and forth across the field.

  More Bantag rose out the snow, and he noticed that many of them were grouped in teams of three, carrying long pipes that were painted white.

  “What the hell?” he whispered, turning his gun to wipe one of the teams out.

  But before he could swing his gun around, the team stopped, two of them hoisting the long pipe onto their shoulders and aiming it straight at him. The third Bantag appeared to strike a spark and hold it to the back end of the pipe, then ducked to one side.

  An instant later a flash of light erupted. He barely saw the rocket as it streaked out, coming straight at him, roaring past his turret.

  Startled, he held fire for a second, not sure what had just happened. The third warrior reached around to his back, pulled a mushroom-shaped projectile off a harness on his back, and slapped it into the front of the pipe, the mushroom head of the rocket on the outside of the launching tube. Gregory aimed and squeezed off a long burst, riddling the team.

  Fighting down a growing sense of panic, he pivoted his turret and saw dozens of teams armed with the rocket launchers running toward his ironclads, fanning out, moving into firing positions on the flanks.

  Frantically he opened fire, holding the trigger down while screaming for Basil to switch to canister and to aim for the rocket teams.

  A fireball erupted, and swinging his turret, he saw one of his machines blow apart, and then another.

  “Yuri! Full reverse! Signal retreat!”

  A long sustained blast of the whistle nearly deafened him as St. Malady lurched to a stop and then started to crawl backward. He saw a wide swath of snow swirling upward by his flank, the battery on the hill behind him firing canister straight into the melee.

  “They’re on our left!” Basil screamed.

  Gregory swung his turret and saw, less than twenty yards away, a rocket team already in position, raising their rocket launcher. He sprayed them, the close fire tearing the three Bantag to shreds. He saw another team kneeling down in the snow, aiming on St. Katrina, the machine to his left. He bowled them over, and then there was an ominous click … the ammunition hopper was empty.

  Another Bantag team, as if sensing his dilemma, stood up from their concealed position in the snow and charged forward, racing toward his left flank.

  “Back us around to the right!” Gregory roared. “Basil, get them, dammit, get them!”

  St. Malady slowly started to pivot. The Bantag continued to run, dodging around the side of St. Katrina. They wanted the command machine—they could have turned around and hit St. Katrina from twenty feet away, but they wanted him. Raging, he fumbled at the holster on his hip, trying to pull out his revolver. The rocket launcher was lowered, aimed straight at him. He felt as if the universe were going down. He saw the loader slide a friction primer into the back of the tube, duck down, and then jerk the lanyard.

  At almost the same instant an explosion of steam erupted below him, swirling up into the turret. As if from an eternity away he heard Yuri shrieking hysterically. Panic-stricken, he clawed at the turret hatch, heaved it open, and pulled himself out, expecting the ammunition lockers below to detonate at any second. A humming roar snapped around him, canister going downrange, and the team that had destroyed his machine went down in the blast. Rolling out of the open hatch, he slammed down onto the top deck of the ironclad and fell off into the snow. Gasping, terrified, he got up, staggering, falling, then getting up to run. Looking back, he saw the side hatch opening, Basil, screaming, clutching his face, falling out.

  For a terror-filled instant he struggled with the desire to run away, then turned to go back. Billowing clouds of steam poured out the open hatch. Grabbing Basil under the shoulder, he hoisted him up.

  “The others?”

  “Dead,” Basil gasped. “All dead.”

  Gregory looked around wildly. Half a dozen of his machines were on fire, the others pulling slowly back up the hill, pursued by the rocket launcher teams. Across the valley the enemy ironclads had stopped their feigned retreat and were lurching forward again.

  Staggering through the snow, he saw one of the Bantags who had destroyed his machine, sitting in the snow, which was going slushy pink beneath him. The Bantag stared at him blankly and then to his surprise lowered his head, as if awaiting the killing blow.

  More Bantag infantry were moving up, and looking back up to the ridgeline he saw a solid wall of mounted warriors deploying out. The bastards weren’t flanking, they were coming straight in.

  It was a good kill, he thought grimly, a damn good kill, you bastards. Ignoring the warrior, he started up the slope, dragging Basil along with him. St. Katrina slowed for a moment, its turret swinging back and forth, spraying out a long sustained burst, and then came to a stop, its side hatch opening up.

  “Keep going, keep going!” Gregory roared, but the engineer was already out the door, staggering through the snow, helping to grab Basil. Together they raced to the machine and piled inside while St. Katrina's gunner held the rocket teams at bay. A round streaked past with a loud shriek, corkscrewing through the air in a wild erratic flight.

  Close range, Gregory realized, like the one that got us, real close range. How does it work? The mushroom-shaped shell must be all explosive, steel plate wrapped around it to focus the blast against the armor. Damn.

  Collapsing against an ammunition locker, he looked up numbly as the engineer threw his machine into reverse and they continued to lurch up the hill. A loud tearing shriek ran through the ironclad, and, terrified, Gregory looked up and saw the bulge in the side armor, flakes of paint and sheared-off metal clanking about inside the machine so that he ducked low, covering his head.

  “The bastards are charging!” he heard the forward gunner scream. “By Kesus, there’s thousands of ’em!”

  The battery was pouring out shot in thundering salvos, Pat roaring encouragement, moving from piece to piece to make sure the aim was low. Andrew looked back down at the trains.

  The last of the troop trains were pulling out, men standing on the open flatcars, looking anxiously, up toward the hill. All that was left was the train waiting for the ironclads and batteries. But given what was happening below, he doubted if they could get equipment out.

  The first of the retreating ironclads clattered by to his right, a hole neatly drilled into its port side. The six ironclads held in reserve crested up to the top of the ridge to provide cover for the retreat, their blasts of gatling fire momentarily holding back the onrush of the triumphal Bantags. Miraculously the boiler and ammunition aboard the damaged ironclad had not detonated and someone inside was still driving it.

  “Those rockets,” Pat said, “they shouldn’t have the power to punch armor like that.”

  Andrew nodded. Damn all. Again Ha’ark must know something that we don’t.

  “We better get out of here,” Pat said.

  Dammit, mobile rocket launchers, shoulder-mounted. We should have thought of that, we should have thought of that, Andrew muttered to himself. With Chuck Ferguson gone, they seemed to have lost the edge on such things.

  “Spike the guns!” Pat shouted. “Let’s go!”

  Andrew followed Pat out through the back of the villa, where their nervous staff waited with the horses. Mortar rou
nds fluttered down, columns of snow erupted. Looking off to the west, he saw where one wing of the Bantag advance was already over the crest. The gatlings on the rear car of the armored train were arcing long blasts of fire, the tracer rounds soaring high in the still morning air, then arcing over and plummeting down, keeping the advance back.

  Andrew’s mount shied nervously as a mortar detonated nearby. He swayed precariously, sawing on the reins. He heard another mortar round fluttering in. It was close, too close, barely an instant to realize it, to feel his heart seize up with fear … and then there was nothing but blue sky overhead.

  It was strange, everything was silent. He could see his guidon bearer, slumped over in his saddle, horse going over, the distant shrieking of the dying animal finally penetrating. He tried to sit up. He knew he was hit. The question, the all-consuming question now, was where? Pat was by his side, mouth open, shouting, looking up, furiously waving his arm.

  As if his body were somehow detached he realized he should breathe, he had to tell his body to breathe. He drew air in, and then the pain hit, an exploding wave of red-hot fire in his chest. He started to cough, and the agony doubled. It was worse, far worse than the arm; he had never imagined such pain was possible. Curling into a ball, he rolled on his side, another cough seizing him. Somehow the air wasn’t going in, and he struggled with the panic of suffocation. He felt a heavy arm embracing him, someone shouting to him.

  “Don’t die on me, Andrew! Don’t die!” The voice was terrified. It was Pat.

  Another spasm of coughing, and something salty filled his mouth, and he spat it out onto snow that instantly turned pink.

  Pat was still shouting, something about Emil, and an orderly viciously kicked his mount to a gallop and started down the hill.

  He felt arms around him, lifting him up, two orderlies both wide-eyed with fear.

  Breathe, I have to breathe! I’m drowning in my own blood. With a shuddering gasp he drew the air in, an obscenity escaping him as he exhaled.

  Pat was up on a horse reaching out to him.

  “God no,” he gasped. “I can’t, I can’t.”

  “Goddammit, Andrew, you have to!”

  The orderlies, as if cradling a baby, lifted him up, and Pat reached out, sweeping him into his arms. He could hear another shell whistling in, and he felt terror at the sound of it, burying his face into Pat’s chest as the round detonated, spraying them with snow.

  Pat spurred his mount into a gallop, an orderly riding alongside reaching over to take the reins and guide him. Every step sent a searing wave of agony shooting through his chest. He anticipated each jarring blow, each step of the horse, bracing for the knifelike stab, struggling to breathe, coughing, half vomiting out the blood clogging his lungs.

  He opened his eyes again. Everything was blurry. He felt naked and even more afraid now that he couldn’t see.

  “My glasses,” he groaned. “Lost my glasses.”

  “It’s all right, Andrew darlin’, you’ll make it, you’ll make it.”

  Pat kept repeating the same words over and over, as if reassuring a child. Andrew felt the horse sliding, almost losing its footing. There was a warm blast of heat, steam from the train. Suddenly he realized just how cold he was, and he started to shiver. More hands were reaching up, and there was a stretcher.

  He looked up. Someone was swearing, the sea of frightened faces withdrawing. Andrew felt as if he would break down in tears at the sight of Emil Weiss, looking like a guardian angel gazing down at him.

  There was a memory of before … Gettysburg, that same fatherly look as they carried him into the field hospital behind Cemetery Hill.

  Emil disappeared from view, and Andrew called his name.

  He felt a hand slip into his. “Right here, son, right here.”

  They lifted him up into the car. The inside was dark, sulfurous, the roar of gatlings filling the iron-cased chamber.

  The stretcher was down on the floor, Emil kneeling by his side. Pat came in, standing behind Emil, looking down while the doctor unbuttoned his greatcoat, folding it back.

  “This will hurt, Andrew. I’ve got to get your jacket off.

  Andrew nodded as Emil braced him from behind, leaning him up. Another spasm of coughing hit, more pink foam bubbling up.

  He felt the greatcoat come off, then his uniform jacket, a hospital orderly slicing the uniform and shirt with heavy scissors, then Emil laid him back down. He felt the train lurch, and wild-eyed, he looked up at Pat.

  “Everyone out?”

  Pat nodded.

  “The ironclads?”

  “The crews are out.”

  Andrew closed his eyes. They’d lost their ironclads, all of them, and then another wave of pain washed over him, and struggle as he would, it was impossible to focus.

  “Andrew, stay with me! Don’t close your eyes. Don’t go to sleep!”

  The voice was insistent, edged with panic.

  He opened his eyes. Emil was leaning close, face only inches away.

  “Andrew, you’re bleeding inside. You’ve got a shell fragment in your right lung. I’ve got to go in and get it out.”

  “Pat, Roum,” Andrew whispered.

  Pat leaned forward.

  “Hold Roum at all cost. I stay there. Don’t move me to Suzdal. I stay there.”

  “Now, Andrew,” Emil interjected.

  “I stay in Roum. That’s where we stand.”

  He reached up, grabbing Emil by the shoulder. “Emil?”

  “Here, son.”

  “Not a cripple, don’t leave me a cripple, let me go."

  The doctor finally nodded.

  He saw the cone of white paper come down. “Just breathe deep, Andrew.”

  The sickly sweet smell of ether engulfed him.

  Chapter Five

  General Patrick O’Donald, shoulders slumped with weariness, walked into the office and paused. Somehow it seemed like a sacrilege to go behind the desk and sit down. He hesitated, looking over at Kal, who had been sitting in the room waiting for him.

  “How is he?”

  Pat shook his head. “Lost a lot of blood. Emil stopped the bleeding, but chest wounds, they’re tricky. Seen some you thought would die pull through, but most, well, the infection gets in their lungs …” His voice trailed off.

  “Kesus save us,” Kal whispered. “Of all of us I never thought he’d get hit. First Ferguson, Hawthorne’s barely able to walk, now Andrew.”

  “He always seemed to have that light about him,” Pat sighed. “You know? There’s some that you just know will never get hit. That was Andrew. It’s like a charm has broken for our army.”

  He was afraid to even say the words. He had seen it in the eyes of the men as word spread that Andrew had been wounded, perhaps fatally. Somehow it seemed to leap ahead of the train. At the station a mob, and there was no better word for it, of troops swarmed about the train, some of them openly crying. At that moment Pat could sense that the very fiber of the army was beginning to disintegrate.

  Pat nodded in reluctant agreement when Kal motioned for him to sit down in Andrew’s chair. As he settled in behind the desk, all the weight of Andrew’s responsibility bore down upon him.

  “I think this changes things,” Kal finally ventured after a long moment of silence.

  Pat looked up.

  “How so?”

  “This defense of Roum. It was Andrew’s idea. Maybe with his skill we could have held it.” Kal fell silent, embarrassed. “No offense, Pat, I didn’t mean it to sound like that.”

  Pat shook his head. “I’m not Andrew. Point to where you want me to fight and I’ll do it. I’m not Andrew.”

  “That’s why I think we should pull out now.”

  Pat jerked his head up in surprise.

  “Sir?”

  “You heard me, Pat. Andrew’s wounded. Kesus willing, he’ll be back, good as new in a month. But Pat, Kesus forbid, suppose he doesn’t,” and as he uttered the dreaded words the president lowered his head.
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  “If Andrew dies, by God we still fight. That’s what he wanted. Sir, just before Emil put him under, his last words were to hold Roum.”

  “You know I was against our making our stand here,” Kal replied as if not hearing what Pat had just said.

  “That decision was made more than a week ago.”

  “Pat, Andrew is no longer in command.”

  Pat sighed and closed his eyes. Of all the things he wanted most right now, foremost was a good drink of vodka. He knew where the bottle was in Andrew’s desk, but he fought the temptation down. Not now. After this, after the next battle, after the war, or good God willing after Andrew came back to sit behind this desk.

  “No, sir, but I am.”

  “Are you? You were in command of First Army, Hans the Second, and Vincent the reserves and western front. I would think Hans would be senior, and he is not here.”

  “Sir, Hans is two hundred and fifty miles away. Vincent can barely walk. Andrew said in front of Emil that I was in command, and by all that’s holy, I’ll follow his orders, even if it’s his last one.”

  “Pat, listen to me, please. Roum is a trap. They could sweep right past us here, cutting off our army and taking the rail line, then move straight on to Suzdal. All we have there are Home Guard units and what’s left of 5th Corps. Nearly seven corps are bottled up here. Get them out while we still can.”

  “How? In three days’ time the Bantag will be north of us and will cut the rail. You’re talking about moving nearly a hundred thousand men.”

  “Then by sea.”

  “And what about the civilians here? We’re hoping they won’t move any major forces down the east coast of the sea, and there are nearly a million civilians down there and one corps to cover them. There’ll be nearly half a million more in this city and the rest of them moving westward to get out of the way. If we pull out, sir, the pressure will be off Ha’ark. He could take his time, fan out, and slaughter everyone, then in the spring come for us.”

  “I think they will be slaughtered anyhow.”

  “Let me get this straight, Kal. You’re talking about abandoning not just this city but all the people of this state, aren’t you?”