A Band of Brothers

by William R. Forstchen

  “How many, half an umen? The line hasn’t been touched, and supplies are moving.”

  “Barely,” Ha’ark announced. “We only have twelve engines still running. We’re getting three trains a day of supplies. I need five trains a day to properly equip this army and keep it fighting.”

  Ha’ark leaned back on his stool and stared at the flickering kerosene lamp suspended from the ceiling. A shell landed nearby, a clump of frozen earth shaking loose from the roof of the bunker and splattering on his map table.

  Food wasn’t the problem. They had tens of thousands of horses to provide meat, drink, and that could last till spring. It was the damn ammunition, and all the other things. He sensed it was getting difficult for the humans, with the port all but cut off except for ironclads, and his mortars could rain down shot on the dockside. They were undoubtedly digging deep into their reserves. They must break first, they had to, he could sense it.

  But Ha’ark’s forces were strung out two hundred leagues from the Great Sea. And from there dozens of galleys and his precious steamships were moving supplies across three hundred leagues of ocean all the way back to Xi’an. It was a rope stretched taut. One storm had taken more than twenty galleys and one of the steamships. Another loss like that would put him at the breaking point.

  The few factories seized at Capua and in the countryside beyond Roum were useless, the machinery gone or smashed beyond repair. But the main concern was still the damn rail line, laid out on the frozen steppe, a hundred thousand cattle slaves laboring constantly to straighten track, repair the destroyed bridges, haul up the precious replacement rails stockpiled for over a year in preparation for this campaign. One thin ribbon, and again he wondered if arming his warriors with rifles and cannons had indeed been the wisest choice, for without such weapons there were no supply lines, the army feeding on wherever they were. If it wasn’t for that he would abandon this siege now, ride on to Rus, leaving a devastated countryside, and then starve them out over the next spring and summer.

  He knew he had to break them now, before the next moon feast, for the next one after that was the Feast of the Warming Moon, the first harbinger of the approaching thaw. With the thaw his supply system would break down and continuing a siege operation would be impossible.

  “Five umens to be moved up from the rail line to be used in the next assault,” he finally announced. “You select them, but do it wisely. I want airship patrols doubled along the flanks, the great forest to the north, the mountains to the south. Spot where there are centers of resistance and send raiding parties up to ferret them out. Take as many prisoners as possible, anything that can be eaten.”

  Jurak nodded in agreement.

  “And our planned surprise?”

  “I had hoped we’d take the sewer all the way up to the wall. If we had, we could spring it tomorrow. We’re two blocks short. There’s some small drain pipes, but far too small for one of our warriors to crawl through. I’ve ordered the digging of a passageway big enough. Once that’s done we’ll pack it with gunpowder.”

  Jurak nodded wearily. “I’ve reserved one entire train car load. We’ll also pack in all our remaining oil.”

  “How long?”

  “Five days at most.”

  “Make it four.”

  “Why?”

  “Just a feeling, perhaps the hidden sight the shamans talk about. But something is wrong, I can sense it, and I want to strike quickly and finish this.”

  “Damn all to hell, what happened?” Hans roared, reining his mount in and looking down into the ravine. The ironclad was down on its side, flames licking out. Getting off his horse, he slid on the icy road, nearly losing his footing. Ketswana, who had arrived ahead of him, came up.

  “It skidded and went over the side.”

  Hans could see that, and he turned to look at the engineers who had been guiding the column over the washed-out ravine that had been piled with timber and rocks to make a path for the ironclads.

  He glared at them coldly, their captain saluting nervously.

  “Sir, one of the logs snapped, the bedding gave way, and the machine fell.”

  “Damn it all, son, I can see that. I want to know why you didn’t make this crossing stronger.”

  “Sir, we were told by you to have it ready in an hour, and we did the best we could.”

  Hans glared at him coldly. The boy was right, he had given him an hour, and now another of his precious machines was lost, the crew inside dead, burned alive.

  “Get down here and douse that fire. Their flying machines could spot this smoke twenty miles away. And captain, next time when I say an hour, get it done right. Do you understand?”

  “Yes sir.” There was the slightest edge of bitterness in the captain’s voice, but Hans let it pass.

  Snapping off a salute, Hans remounted, motioning for Ketswana to mount and follow along.

  His horse almost lost its footing as they pushed up the road and then struggled to edge around an ironclad that was pulling two wagons behind it. The machine labored, smoke billowing, and he thanked God the design had been changed to burning kerosene. If it had been coal they would have left columns of black soot that a blind pilot could see from thirty miles away.

  The infantry, strung out in two lines to either side of the road, moved slowly, the men stepping carefully on the icy path. In a narrow clearing he passed an aid station that was filled to capacity with men down with frostbite, exhaustion, and broken wrists, arms, and legs from falling.

  “It’s taking a terrible toll,” Ketswana said, finally catching up to Hans’s side, sitting uncomfortably on his mount.

  “We have to keep pushing. Chances are there are no flyers up today—too much wind. Have you spotted ours?”

  Ketswana shook his head.

  “Well, if Petracci isn’t flying, they sure as hell aren’t. It’s less than ten miles to the quarry, according to that Tigranius. Our forward patrols should be reporting in. I want to make the quarry by nightfall.”

  Ketswana looked over at him and shook his head. “We’ve lost six machines so far, maybe three hundred or more men. You try and push them ten or more miles in this cold and you’ll lose half of them before the day is out. They need time to rest, build shelters against the cold for the night.”

  “We push on. Hawthorne said we should be able to do the march to the quarry in two days from the end of the rail line. Well, it’s three days now. I don’t like being late.”

  “Hans, this damn road is nothing but ice. It’s a miracle we got this far.”

  Hans fell silent as he was forced to rein in. The infantry was backed up, and cursing, he edged his way through the column. Another ironclad was stuck. Its front wheels had slid off the road and were dangling precariously over the side; the rear wheels were in reverse, spinning uselessly.

  The engineer for the ironclad was standing atop the turret, oblivious to his precarious situation, shouting orders as the wagons hauling kerosene were disconnected and dragged back by the troops. Heavy ropes were already secured to the aft end. An entire company of men grabbed hold of the ropes, and they started to pull.

  Men went down in tangled heaps, slipping on the icy surface, cursing and yelling. Finally the ironclad started to budge, and with a roar of steam it lurched back up onto the road. The ropes were dropped, and Hans moved through the crowd and pressed on.

  As they rounded a curve in the road the path finally leveled out. Turning to look back, he could see the long serpentine column struggling up through the forest, puffs of smoke marking the progress of the ironclads, one dark plume showing where the lost machine had fallen into the ravine. A wall of dark clouds was riding in on the wind, and even as he watched the reddish sun, low in the south, was obscured. In that instant it seemed as if the temperature had dropped another ten degrees and the air felt as if it was no longer dry, but laden with the first hint of yet another storm.

  The road widened out along the summit. An ironclad was pulled to one side, the crew ou
tside, emptying tins of fuel taken from the wagon they were towing, pouring the precious fluid into the fuel tank on the stem. Some infantry, pressed into service and none too pleased with the duty, were hauling buckets of water from a spring that bubbled even in the bitter cold and were pouring the contents into the water tanks mounted on either flank of the ironclad, trying to avoid getting wet in the process.

  Colonel Timokin was atop the machine, hoisting up the buckets and pouring them into the open water tank, and at Hans’s approach he snapped off a salute.

  “Damn water’s freezing in the outside tanks. We should have thought of that,” he announced as he poured one more bucket in, then jumped off the machine.

  “We lost one back at the washed-out ravine.”

  “Damn. Who?”

  Hans looked over at Ketswana.

  “The St. Basil of Murom."

  Timokin shook his head. “The crew?”

  “Sorry, they’re gone.”

  Timokin sighed. “Most of my men just haven’t had the training. We figured on at least a couple of months, maybe until after spring thaw, before we’d be committed. They barely know how to drive these newer ironclads, let alone fight. My old veterans from the 1st Regiment are managing, but the newer lads, well, you can see what happened.”

  “How are the machines holding up?” Hans asked.

  “Well, with St. Basil that’s six down now. Number twenty-two, the Spirit of Hispania, cracked a piston head, and it’s leaking steam like crazy.”

  “Do you have any spare piston heads?” Hans asked.

  “I could send some men back to St. Basil, strip it of parts.”

  “Then do it.”

  “Hans, most of these machines went straight from the factory to the wharf for this mission. They haven’t been broken in proper, and remember, this is a new design. All the machines will need to have the pistons repacked. Some of the pipe fittings are leaking, and they’ll need to be resoldered. We got loose bearings on nearly half the driveshafts, and we’re using more fuel than expected.”

  “So what are you telling me?” Hans said.

  “A third of the machines won’t be fit for the final move down into the flatlands.”

  Hans swore silently, while slapping his hands together to drive out the numbness.

  “A third?”

  “And that’s for the start down the mountains. Remember, it’s more dangerous going downslope than up. Going up, if something goes wrong you just stop. Going down, well, you keep on going until you either make it or run into something.”

  “Tell me, when Hawthorne first approached you with this mad scheme, what did you say?”

  “I told him we could do it, sir.”

  Hans glared at him angrily.

  “And now?”

  Timokin hesitated for a moment. “Well, sir, I still think we can do it.”

  “Think or know?”

  “Sir, what other alternative is there? I heard it was real bad at Roum. If we didn’t try, then what?”

  Hans nodded. “All right, son. It’s supposed to be fairly level from here on out. Get every machine you can up to the quarry. You should be able to make fairly good time. Once there, sort out those you think are in the best shape, and we’ll leave the rest behind. Hopefully the marines coming up behind will have a few more machines and maybe some spare parts and fuel.”

  “That was the plan, sir. The factory was supposed to skip assembling the next couple of ironclads. All the key parts we figured might break were to be crated up and shipped with us.”

  “Why the hell didn’t you do that in the first place?”

  “Sir, if we’d done that, that would be three or four less machines. I kind of figured we’d get as many as possible on the road, and when they started to break we’d salvage the good parts that were left and press on with the rest.”

  “I think there’s some sort of logic there,” Hans replied, “but frankly, son, I don’t see it at the moment.”

  Timokin smiled and shrugged.

  “Fine. Press on.”

  “Courier coming,” Ketswana announced.

  Hans saw the man coming around a bend in the road, riding hard. As he reined in, the rear of his horse went down, sliding, the mount nearly going completely over.

  “What’s the all-fired hurry?” Hans asked, finding that everything was annoying him today.

  “Sir, the quarry. Colonel Vasily begs to report that it’s occupied by the Bantag.”

  “What?”

  “Just that, sir.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Sir, I was up with the head of the scouting column.

  We had stopped for a break. We had pickets out, and then, sir, before we knew it, four Bantag riders trotted right into the middle of us. We all kind of stared at each other—I think they was as shocked as we were. We dropped them, before they could get away.”

  “How far from the quarry?”

  “Couple of miles. In fact, we could see part of the mountain where miners had cut it away.”

  “Did word get back to the Bantag?”

  “No sir. We dismounted, moved up slowly through the woods. They were camped down in the quarry and in the village. Terrible sight, sir, parts of bodies. It looked like they just took it. Some folks were still alive. We could see them being driven like slaves, cutting wood.”

  The messenger’s features were grim.

  “Bastards—they killed a girl while we were watching. It was hard for the boys not to go right in.”

  “You did the right thing. How many?”

  “We counted over five hundred horses, sir.”

  Damn.

  “Where’s Tigranius?”

  “Up with the scouting party, sir.”

  Hans clumsily fumbled with the map case, finally tearing off his gloves to undo the latch. Dismounting, he pulled a map out, went over to Timokin’s ironclad, and spread it against the ice-cold metal. Instantly his hand stuck to the side, and cursing, he pulled back, losing a bit of flesh from his palm.

  “This map here. It shows the road into the quarry. The one leading down to the north goes through a narrow cut in the side of the mountain. Did you see that pass?”

  “Yes sir. Kind of narrow, like a railroad cut.”

  “Good. Take my horse, ride back, order the mounted unit to concentrate, but to dismount and leave their horses back a good mile or two. Then try and flank around and secure that pass. With luck that scouting party that blundered into you won’t be expected back much before dark. Tell Vasily to wait, and for God’s sake don’t get seen or drawn into a fight. Snow’s coming on, and if we’re lucky them bastards will think they’re safe and keep indoors. I’ll try and hit them just before dark and drive them into you. You understand that, son?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Repeat what I said.”

  The courier repeated Hans’s order, and tossing over the reins to his horse, Hans sent him on his way.

  As he watched the boy ride off, the first snowflake drifted down, followed within seconds by heavy wet flakes that danced on the breeze.

  “Snow’s going to make moving worse,” Ketswana said.

  “Hell, it might be heaven-sent.”

  “Want my horse? That nag the boy rode in is blown.”

  “No, my piles are killing me,” Hans announced. “It’s time to try something different,” and he headed over to Timokin’s ironclad.

  Ignoring the stench, Ha’ark crouched low, squatting to peer down the length of the tunnel that had been carved out over the last four days.

  He nodded his approval.

  “You sure it’s under the wall?”

  “I think the only surveyors we could find on this damn world would be on the other side,” Jurak replied. “The best we could do was run some warriors up to the wall with a string during the night. We lost twenty-three doing that, but we got a fairly accurate measure. If not directly under the wall it’s within ten to fifteen paces either way. I’ve nearly doubled the amount of powder we f
irst talked about just to make sure.”

  “Do they know?”

  “I think so. We could hear them digging as well.”

  “How close?”

  “We’ll be safe till tomorrow morning. I’ve placed guards in with the charge just to be certain. They have orders to fire the short fuse if the Yankees break in.”

  “Fine. Make sure all umen commanders are alerted to that. Once it gets dark I’ll start moving the troops in for the assault.”

  Leaving Jurak, Ha’ark scrambled up the ladder and out into the covered trench which led to the mine’s entrance. Moving back to the rear, his guards moving cautiously ahead and behind, he finally breathed a sigh of relief as they emerged into the ruins of a bathhouse. The sky overhead was clearing; the clouds scudding by were streaked with the brilliant red of sunset. The air seemed surprisingly warm. Warriors gathered in the bathhouse and lined up to receive their ration of dried bread and horseflesh were exclaiming about the weather, and many of them had loosened their heavy coats.

  Dressed in the uniform of a common warrior so as not to draw attention, he passed them, only the more observant noticing the guards and wondering who deserved such an escort.

  If this is an early thaw, how long do I have? he wondered. But if all goes as planned, thaw or not, it will be over in another day.

  Glad for the burst of cold air, Hans went up to the open side hatch. Timokin edged past him and leaned out. Thick flakes of snow swirled into the machine, disappearing as they danced about the steaming boiler.

  “Sergeant Major Schuder?”

  “Here,” and Hans poked his head out the hatch. It was Ketswana, heavy snow stuck in his woolly black hair, the shoulders of his greatcoat blanketed white.

  “Think they’re all down there. The storm’s driven them inside.”

  “Think they’re expecting us?”

  “Hard to see. A couple of pickets down there. No, they didn’t hear us. Wind’s in our favor.”

  “The mounted unit?”

  “I don’t know. We have to hope they’re covering the pass.”

  Hans nodded and shifted the chew in his mouth. To pass the long tedious hours of the ride he had taken a seat next to the boiler, chatting with the engineer, who was not at all pleased when he directed streams of tobacco juice against the side of the boiler.