Zhadovich edged up to the shattered outer wall of what had been a wheelwright’s shop, spoke with a lieutenant commanding the section, and slipped back to Pat and Rick.
“Think this is the end of the road,” he hissed. “All hell’s breaking loose in the next block.”
Pat didn’t need to be told. The way ahead was obscured not just by the light snow but by billowing clouds of dirty smoke. Small-arms fire was snapping overhead, mortar rounds crumping on the street.
Pat looked over at Rick, who was hunched by his side.
“Like Spotsylvania.”
“Cold Harbor, but worse,” Rick replied.
“Look, no sense two of us getting killed. Let’s make it easy on the old sergeant there. You’ve seen this, I haven’t.”
“No problem, general. I was in the infantry back home, while you had it easy in the artillery. Be my guest—I’ll wait here.”
Pat grinned, then looked over at Zhadovich, who shook his head.
“Your funeral, sir.”
Sliding back from the edge of the wall, Zhadovich and his men crawled to a side chamber. Pat followed and saw that the room was a privy, the seats torn off. A narrow opening dropped down into the sewer. A lieutenant with three men, spotting Zhadovich, prevailed on him to carry over a box of hardtack, a box of a thousand rounds of ammunition, and some canteens of fresh water.
Burdened down with the extra equipment, Pat slinging half a dozen canteens over his shoulder, they dropped down to the bottom of the privy. It had once been a pipe weaving its way through the block, water flushing out the waste. The pipe itself had been far too small to crawl through. Over the last week a team of men had used the pipe as a guide and cut their way down to the sewer under the street, and another tunnel had been carved up into the next block. Crawling on hands and knees, Pat followed his guides under the street, their exit yet another privy. He saw a rifle, tipped with a bayonet, point down at Zhadovich, who was leading the party. Hands then reached down, grabbing hold of the ammunition box and hardtack. Pat crawled up through the hole. Men started to come to attention in the dusty room until he motioned for them to stand at ease.
He looked around. The ceiling was gone in the barrel- vaulted room, which apparently had been a warehouse for amphorae of wine. Whatever had been stored here, however, had long ago been consumed; hundreds of shattered amphorae were strewn about. To provide overhead protection, broken ceiling beams had been laid out across the racks used to hold the amphorae. Broken tiles, bricks, doors, anything to stop a mortar round were piled on top.
The cavelike room they had crawled into was a regimental headquarters and casualty clearing area. Spotting a captain who was obviously in command by the way he passed orders to men crawling in, Pat scurried over to him.
The captain, squatting on the floor, looked up hollow- eyed at Pat and without rising offered a weary salute.
“Captain Petrov Petronovich, sir, 8th Murom, in command of the regiment.”
“Relax, captain.” Pat unslung one of the canteens he had hung on to and offered it over. He was pleased when the captain nodded his thanks but then passed the canteen over to a sergeant major and a couple of lieutenants gathered around him. Only after they had drunk did the captain accept it back and take a short gulp.
“Tell me what’s going on here, captain. How’s your regiment?”
“We’ve been up here since the breakthrough, sir. Can’t we get any relief? My boys have been fighting nonstop for ten days.”
“How’s the regiment?”
“Had three hundred twenty-eight the morning they broke through, down to ninety-one.”
Pat nodded, saying nothing while pulling a handful of cigars from his pocket and passing them around to the captain and his makeshift staff.
“We hold half this block, sir,” and even as they spoke a mortar round crumpled on the roof of the bombproof. “They want to take the east wall. We can look down on the battlements, the field beyond, and into the next block. That’s where most of the fighting was. This morning they hit from the west side, overran what was left of the 2nd Kev, broke across the street. Got them damn rockets and artillery firing on us from the battlement—can’t pick the gunners off, can’t see ’em.”
“How are the men?”
“Finished,” the captain whispered.
“And if I tell you you have to stay?”
The captain exchanged looks with his staff. “Dammit, that’s what I figured.”
“I’ll see what I can do when I get back.”
“What about them damn bastards with the 12th Corps sir?” one of the sergeants asked. “They ain’t seen no fighting except for a couple of lousy regiments.”
Pat nodded. How could he explain the need for a fresh reserve, either to hold if the Bantag launched another full-scale assault somewhere else, or as replacements when all of 1st Corps was pulled out? Sending them in piecemeal would drain off what strength he had left.
“I can’t promise, sergeant. It’s not just here, it’s all around the city. I’m trying the best I can to see no one carries too much. What I’m asking you is, can you still kill Bantag?”
“Kill ’em, sir? Shit, all the livelong day. Just want my friends with the 12th to share the fun, that’s all.”
Pat reached over and clapped the man on the shoulder.
“Captain, take me around the perimeter.”
The captain sighed, and looked over at Sergeant Zhadovich, who finally nodded. “He wants to see it—let him see it.”
The captain crawled out of the bombproof, motioning for Zhadovich to come next. “Don’t need the others,” the captain announced. “Might draw attention.”
The men gratefully remained, instantly sprawling out to catch a little rest.
Heading east along a narrow trench cut into the floor of the building and piled high on either side with rubble, they went under a hole in a wall. Looking up, Pat could see the stark ruins of a burned-out temple, its exterior walls made of limestone. All that was left was the shell, the interior having burned and collapsed. A flame-scorched rag doll lay against the wall of the trench, obviously placed there by a sentimental soldier.
Even as he looked up at the wall a rocket shrieked overhead, from the west and crashed into the wall, rubble and shards of stone raining down.
Pat pressed on, crawling along the trench, which sliced into the interior of the temple, and worming his way up through the rubble to the center of the building. It was difficult to spot any men. Rubble had been piled up around window slits on all four sides of the building.
Zhadovich pointed up, and tucked into an overhanging eave Pat spotted a lone soldier swaddled in white blankets. All that was visible was a rifle barrel, poised at a crack in the wall. The gun recoiled, the man ducked back and away, and a second later stone fragments kicked up from return fire through the slit.
“Good sniper,” the captain announced proudly. “Eight kills for certain.”
The interior of the building rocked as half a dozen artillery rounds slammed into the outside wall on the east side, a section of stone raining down into the inside. Rifle fire erupted along the south wall, return fire cracking through breaks in the wall. Piercing taunts echoed from across the street. The men remained silent, one of them sliding down to a box of ammunition placed under a broken statue, then crawling back up, passing out handfuls to his comrades.
“Grenade!”
Pat barely saw the sputtering fuse as a grenade arced up over the wall and banged down into the center of the temple. The explosion snapped, and he was surprised—it didn’t seem to have much punch.
“Only dangerous if it lands in a hole with you,” Zhadovich announced. Motioning for Pat to follow, the captain crawled up to the east wall.
“You see a flash from where the battlement is, you duck,” the captain announced.
Pat nodded. The captain tapped a rifleman on the shoulder, and the man rolled back and away, giving his spot to O’Donald, who slithered into the hollow depression
and cautiously raised his head to peek out.
The next block over was smashed to ruins, not a single wall more than a couple of feet high. He thought he saw something move, and a rifleman several feet away fired, the shot nicking a brick, shattering it just inches from the dark form, which ducked down.
Instinct told him to duck down, and he did. A second later a rifle ball hummed overhead. Peeking back out, he was surprised to actually see the outline of the battlement walls, less than seventy yards away. As the storm briefly abated and visibility lifted, rifle fire exploded all around him, puffs of smoke billowing all along the battlement wall. Sharp flashes of light ignited, and he ducked back down when at nearly the same instant solid shot slammed into the temple. One ball passed straight through an opening and slammed into the opposite wall.
A narga sounded, and rockets fired from the battlement, some slamming into the temple, others shrieking overhead. Pat looked back out again. A ragged line of Bantag were up, charging through the rubble of the adjoining block.
There was no need to shout a warning. Everyone inside the temple opened up with a fusillade. Rather than give up his spot, Pat yanked the rifle from the infantryman by his side, took aim, fired, and had the satisfaction of seeing a Bantag clutch his leg and go down into the debris.
Still they came on, now screaming, shouting their battle cries. When the first wave reached the edge of the street, less than ten yards away, they went to ground, seeking what cover they could, continuing to fire. More artillery cut loose, and then a second wave of attackers seemed to emerge out of nowhere, charging forward.
Half dropped within seconds, but the survivors surged on, coming up to the wall of the temple and disappearing from view, directly under Pat. He was tempted to stand up, lean out the window, and see what he could hit with his revolver but knew he’d get cut to ribbons by the supporting fire. Another grenade arced up, slammed against the side of his rifle pit, and fell back down.
Zhadovich shouldered Pat aside and tore the cigar from the general’s mouth. Taking one of the canteen grenades, he lit the fuse, then calmly watched as it sputtered down until it had nearly disappeared into the spout. Pat watched him, wide-eyed, admiring his nerve. Zhadovich simply extended his hand and dropped it out the firing slit. A second later there was a concussive roar, followed instantly by screams.
An explosion tore through the temple, stunning Pat. Looking over his shoulder, he saw the debris piled up around the temple doors on the north side of the building soaring skyward, the massive explosion shaking the building.
“Mine! The bastards have part of the sewer here!” the captain gasped.
Rubble rained down, and out of the boiling cloud a swarm of Bantag emerged, charging from across the street. Another narga sounded, and from out of the rubble field directly in front of Pat more Bantag swarmed forward.
“You wanted to see a fight,” Zhadovich snarled. “You got it, sir!”
The sergeant lit a second canteen, and using the carrying strap he whirled it over his head, then let go, the canteen sailing through the temple doors and exploding.
Within seconds the interior of the temple was a bedlam of noise, men screaming, Bantag roaring their battle chants, rifles firing, while another rocket slammed straight through the melee, fired by three Bantag standing in the doorway.
Drawing his revolver, Pat took careful aim, dropping one of the rocket crew as they struggled to reload, the rocket igniting and soared straight up into the air.
There were no lines, all was confusion inside the ruined temple, individual Bantag and men fighting out their own bitter war of hatred with rifles, bayonets, knives, rocks, and bare fists. Half a dozen Bantag came scrambling up through the rubble at Pat, Zhadovich, the captain, and the rifleman who was with them. The rifleman stood, dropping the first, then went down, shot in the face at near-point-blank range. Zhadovich, drawing a revolver from his belt, set to with a passion, screaming for Pat to guard the firing slit. Crouching low, he weaved through the Bantag like a ferret, dodging, falling, rolling, each shot slamming into an opponent, the captain followed him, emptying his revolver, then sweeping up a dropped Bantag rifle and using it as a club.
Pat, tempted to join the melee, started to turn, then from the corner of his eye saw a giant dark form appear in the window slit, hand grabbing for a hold. He smashed the butt of his pistol down on the Bantag’s knuckles, laughing as the warrior screamed and fell back. Another appeared, and he pressed his gun into the warrior’s face and fired. No more came through his slit, but to his right, at the next slit, a Bantag appeared, shooting the infantryman who had been guarding it in the back when the man turned to face the attack from the inside. Pat dropped him. Figuring no one would try his slot for a moment, he crawled over the rubble, arriving just as another warrior started to crawl through. Saving his last couple of shots, Pat picked up a brick and flung it, and the Bantag fell backward. Seconds later a grenade bounced in. Snatching it up the way he had seen the sergeant in the tunnel do it, Pat dropped it back outside, where it exploded.
“General, behind you!”
Pat emptied the last two rounds in his revolver at a Bantag scrambling up with bayonet poised.
More forms swirled into the fight, emerging from the tunnel he had used to enter the temple—Sergeant Zhadovich’s men. They attacked with a wild fury, firing at point-blank range, grappling hand to hand with their foes.
Gasping for breath, Pat fumbled with his revolver, unlatching the pin, the barrel levering forward, letting the chamber fall out onto the ground. He plucked a loaded chamber out of his jacket pocket and tried to slide it down on the cylinder shaft. As he struggled to lever the barrel back up and lock it in place, two more Bantag broke through the melee, coming toward him. Other Bantag were pointing at him and trying to break through as well.
Pat locked the barrel in place, cocked the revolver, and emptied it in seconds, one of the dead Bantag falling on top of him. Crawling out from under, he saw two more. Both of them spun around and fell atop him as well.
The thick stench of warm blood and entrails engulfed him, and at the thought of what the bastards might have eaten for breakfast he gagged, cursing, trying to move.
The roar of battle continued. Another explosion rocked the temple, and someone screamed that an airship was overhead. Clawing at the bodies, he tried to squirm out from under the hundreds of pounds of dead flesh.
He felt a hand grab him by the shoulder, and for a second there was a shiver of terror—was it a Bantag?
“He’s still alive.”
It was the captain.
One of the Bantag bodies lifted slightly, and another hand grabbed him. Kicking and cursing, he was dragged out from under the pile.
The battle still raged. Swirling streamers of thick yellow-gray smoke clung inside the temple, and the snow had picked up again so that everything seemed like ghostly shadows.
“Where are they?” Pat roared.
“Back outside.” It was Zhadovich, his voice calm, wiping a cut on his right cheek with the back of his hand. His face was bruised, bloodied. Reaching into his mouth, he wiggled a broken tooth and plucked it out.
Stunned, Pat looked around. More troops were coming up through the access tunnel, crawling, fanning out, several of them using knives to slice the throats of wounded Bantag. The battle was an inferno, the wall above him shaking from repeated artillery hits.
“Christ, this is madness,” Pat gasped.
For the first time he saw Zhadovich grin.
“Care to see anything else, general, sir?”
Pat shook his head. The captain was already gone, down by the shattered barricade of the temple door, directing men to pile up pieces of limestone. Scanning the ruins, he could see that at least a dozen men were dead, another dozen wounded. The ratio of so few wounded to dead attested to the ferocity of the close-in fighting.
Reaching the tunnel, Pat stopped and motioned toward a man who had taken a bayonet in the shoulder. Zhadovich hesitated, then grab
bed hold and helped Pat drag the cursing soldier down into the narrow tunnel and into the adjoining courtyard. The headquarters area was empty except for several seriously wounded. Pat left the soldier he was dragging when the boy insisted on staying with one of his friends. A carrying party came up out of the tunnel under the street, dragging cans of kerosene. Following them was a company of fifteen men moving up to reinforce the line. Just as the last man cleared the tunnel down into the sewer, a thunderous whoosh echoed, followed instantly by a boiling cloud of smoke.
Zhadovich stopped.
“On your own back, sir. My boys are up in the temple—won’t leave them.”
“Thanks, sergeant. I think I can manage.” He extended his hand.
“This can’t go on forever,” the sergeant said. “We’re becomin’ like them. Some of the boys are saying we should eat their dead to get even.”
Pat, horrified, said nothing.
“Ain’t there yet, sir, but it’s how we feel. Reserves or not, sir, you better get the 12th up here on the line. Feelings are getting kind of bad that it seems like Rus is carrying the fight. 9th Corps was Roum, and they pretty well broke—it was the old 1st that saved the day.”
Pat nodded.
Zhadovich finally took his hand, then, crouching low, returned up the trench.
Getting down on all fours, Pat slipped down the tunnel leading into the sewer and instantly started to choke. The air was thick with the stench of burning kerosene. As he slipped into the main sewer line he landed on a flame-scorched body, the uniform still smoldering. Another man, lying in the slime, hearing Pat, looked back, his face barely visible in the gloom.
“Get down!”
Pat sprawled down next to him. There was a flash, the crack of a rifle, ahead, and the man fired back. Flames still flickered in the muck around them, and the air was choking.
“Dammit, get out of here, sir!”
Pat, surprised at how grateful he felt to be ordered out by a private, scrambled up the tunnel into the next block. Schneid was peering down at him, reaching out a hand to pull him up. Rifle fire erupted from behind. Seconds later there was a dark guttural roar. Bantag had just cut the line.
A Band of Brothers Page 17
