A Band of Brothers

by William R. Forstchen

  The ride had been damn uncomfortable, every jolt of the road banging through the machine and up his spine. How anyone lived in these damn things was beyond him, but he had to admit it was better than riding a horse through the storm.

  “How many machines we got?”

  “There are five behind you, and the others are strung out back across ten miles.”

  “Infantry?”

  “Just the boys riding on top. Not more than fifty.”

  Hans looked out the hatch. The sky was darkening. Wait for more machines to come up? No. They might get worried about the missing patrol, come up this way looking. Besides, if the boy’s report was right, there were still civilians down there … and it was getting close to dinnertime.

  “We move. Dismount the infantry and have them flank out to either side of the road. Tell them to be careful and be sure who they are shooting at. That mounted unit’s on the other side of the town.”

  He looked back at Timokin.

  “How you want to handle this?”

  “Well sir, not knowing the village but guessing it’s like the rest of them Roum towns, it’ll maybe have a wall, a gate. Be laid out nice and square. We crash the gate. I’ll go right up the middle, next two machines behind me turn right, other two left. With luck we trigger a panic, get them running.”

  “And if they have rockets, artillery?”

  Timokin shrugged. “We’ll see when we get there, I guess.”

  Hans liked the boy’s spirit, and he nodded, looking back at Ketswana. “You get that?”

  “Yes sir. You riding in with them?”

  Hans smiled. “Might as well see what it’s like. Now get the boys off. We start in two minutes.”

  Timokin slammed the hatch shut and bolted it.

  “Sir, I have to ask you, just stay out of the way. If one of my crew goes down, you replace him. If we get hit, there are two ways out—unbolt that door, or up through the turret. Got that?”

  “Care for a chew, son?” Hans asked, offering a plug.

  “Makes me sick, sir,” and Hans laughed. “Sir, get behind the driver. You’ll be able to see a little something from there.”

  Hans followed Timokin forward around the boiler. Directly ahead, the driver was back in his seat, gunner and assistant gunner to his left. A round was already chambered, and as the ironclad lurched forward the assistant gunner pulled the gunport shield aside. The two men then pulled on the tackle running the gun barrel out. Squatting down behind the driver, Hans felt claustrophobic with the narrow view, less than a foot square, that the driver had. The road ahead sloped down, canopied by fir trees covered with heavy snow. The scene was soft, the light diffused, quiet and peaceful, and there was a flash memory of boyhood, winter, going into the woods with his father to pick up the deadfall for firewood.

  The road turned, sloped down to the left, and straightened out The road was wider here, and he saw stone markers jutting out of the snow, the Roum ever efficient, curbing the side of the road even here at a remote quarry. A few low stone buildings were to one side, mausoleums, all of them ornately carved, miniature temples to departed ancestors.

  The trees started to thin out, and there was an open field to the right, the grape arbors looking like humpbacked white giants. Something moved straight ahead, a lone Bantag, standing in the middle of the road, staring straight at them.

  He turned, started to run.

  “Full speed,” Timokin roared from his position up in the turret.

  The driver reached down, grabbing hold of the throttle, notching it forward. The ironclad lurched, and behind him Hans could hear the driveshaft turning over, speed increasing. The machine skidded on the road, sliding down the final slope, the driver frantically turning the steering wheel, the heavy iron studded wheels digging in.

  They hit a bump, and Hans was knocked off his feet and slammed against the bulkhead.

  There was a thump against the front armor, and two more an instant later. The driver reached forward, dropping his forward armor shield down so that his viewing area was reduced to a slit only two inches wide and nine inches across.

  Hans caught a momentary glimpse of a gate, and the gun beside him recoiled with a cracking roar. The assistant gunner unscrewed the breech and pulled it open, the three-inch brass shell casing ejecting out, the stench of black powder filling the chamber, mixing with the smell of hot kerosene and oil.

  The assistant gunner grabbed another cartridge off the holding rack lining the wall, slammed the shell in, and closed the breech. The two then ran the gun back out. Looking through the gunport, Hans saw the shattered gate ahead, another shell impacting on it, exploding.

  They lurched forward, firing another round into the gate at near-point-blank range, the gunner screaming for a load of canister. The ironclad slammed into the gate, knocking Hans off his feet, flinging him up against the forward armor. Cursing, he rolled back, feeling like useless baggage as the assistant gunner screamed at him to get out of the way.

  Hans came back up to his knees. They were inside the village. Bantag were swarming out of the buildings lining the street. A roaring staccato erupted above him. Looking up into the turret, he saw Timokin at the gatling gun wreathed in steam and gun smoke and roaring with delight. Looking back out the gunport, he saw Bantag writhing, crumpling in the snow, turning to run. The gun roared beside him, slamming back, canister shrieking down the street, picking up Bantag like broken dolls, tearing them apart.

  The driver guided the ironclad straight down the street, laughing. The machine bumped, rode up, came down, rode up again, and Hans realized they were crushing bodies beneath them.

  Rattling ignited along the sides of the machine, bits of paint and metal flecking off on the inside, pinging about. Swearing, Hans looked around, spotted the helmet he had taken off earlier, and put it back on, pulling down the goggles and the chain-mail face protection.

  The gunner beside him started to say something, then seemed to leap backward, his face exploding from a bullet that had been fired straight through the open gunport.

  The assistant gunner looked at his fallen comrade in stunned disbelief.

  Hans crawled over, dragging the body aside.

  “Load canister!” Hans shouted, kicking an ejected shell casing out of the way. The assistant leaped to work, sliding the cartridge in, slamming the breech shut. Together they pulled the tackle on either side, inched the gun forward so that the muzzle cleared the port. Hans knelt behind the barrel, sighting down it. Targets were everywhere, and he leaned to one side.

  “Clear!”

  He jerked the trigger lanyard. The gun kicked back, snagging on the recoil ropes, coming to a stop. The assistant was already at the breech, popping it open, then turning to pull down another cartridge.

  Moving down the street, they swept it clear, and when they reached the opposite wall, Hans could see that the gate was open, Bantag streaming out, some of them mounted.

  “Block the gate!” Timokin shouted.

  “No! We trap them in the city, we have to dig them out house by house. Let ’em run—the pass is blocked.”

  The driver looked at him.

  “Back away from the gate. Timokin, fire an occasional burst to keep them moving!”

  In response, the gatling above Hans began to fire short three-second salvos, counterpointed by blasts of canister from his gun. The Bantag seemed to learn the rhythm and timed their rushes to get past the ironclad.

  Suddenly a dark hand appeared in the gunport, holding something that hissed and sputtered. The grenade rolled into the ironclad, clattering on the floor.

  Hans looked down, saw it rolling, saw just how short the fuse was. He started to go for it, but the assistant gunner went over him, pushing him aside, and then leaped on the grenade as if to sweep it up and throw it out the hatch. As if changing his mind at the last instant, he curled up, clutching the grenade tight against his body, and went down.

  “No!” Hans screamed even as the dull concussive blast knocked him
backward against the gun. The assistant gunner seemed to bounce into the air, and Hans felt something wet and warm splatter on his face.

  Stunned, ears ringing, choking on the smoke, Hans crawled up to the gunner, who amazingly was still alive. He looked up at Hans, tried to whisper something, and then mercifully died.

  “What the hell happened?” Timokin cried.

  “Just keep shooting!” Hans shouted. “Where the hell is our infantry support?”

  Timokin turned the turret about. “Coming up behind.”

  “Well, I wish to hell they’d get here. Driver, keep us moving.”

  Cursing, the driver engaged the driveshaft and they lurched forward again. Tracers snapped across the road ahead. One of the ironclads must be driving the rout from behind, Hans realized. A solid wall of Bantag came rushing past, half of them stumbling, falling. Unable to operate the gun alone, Hans loaded it just in case there was a rush straight at them, but at the sight of the ironclad on their flank the Bantag wailed with terror and redoubled their rush to escape.

  Something emerged around the side of their ironclad, and with drawn revolver Hans prepared to fire, but it was a blue-clad infantryman, who went down on one knee to fire into the press, levered his breech open, reloaded, then moved forward. More infantry passed, and there was a banging on the side access hatch.

  “Hans!”

  Unbolting the side door, Hans gasped at the rush of cold air. Ketswana stood with rifle poised, grinning, his. bayonet glistening red.

  “Never seen the bastards run like this!” Ketswana shouted.

  Hans stuck his head out, looking back down the street. Infantry were moving cautiously house to house, checking for any who had remained hidden inside. The entire street was carpeted with dead, dozens of bodies crushed and ground through the snow onto the hard paving stones.

  “Timokin, I’m getting out. Follow them through the gate. The road leads toward the pass. Keep them running.”

  Bailing out of the machine, he ignored Ketswana’s laughter over the helmet and goggles. Tearing them off, he looked around. The air was thick with the smell of powder and crushed Bantag.

  A low wall was to his right, nothing more than a simple barrier to keep out an occasional bandit, made of upright logs. Climbing up a ladder, Hans looked out across the quarry. He could hear a roar of musketry ahead. Good, they were blocking the pass. The Bantag were screaming, and it was not their battle chants, it was panic, and Hans grinned. Only once before had he heard those screams of terror and panic—when the Tugars had broken at Suzdal and were being driven into the flooding river. After so many battles of facing them coming on in unrelenting waves, it was good to have this moment.

  Gatling fire rattled beyond the gate, and he could catch occasional glimpses of tracers arcing across the quarry. Another ironclad chugged by behind him, turned, and went out the open gate to join the melee.

  Turning, he looked back into the village, and he felt a wave of anger. In the tiny forum there was a smoldering fire. Piled up beside it was a pyramid of human skulls. The survivors had been freed and were pouring into the streets. Some were in shock, wandering aimlessly. A few had approached the ghastly pyramid and were shrieking in grief, while others were venting their rage on the Bantag wounded. Scattered rifle shots echoed where the infantry were finishing off the last survivors, though some of his men were being turned away from their task by outraged survivors who wanted to draw out the death agonies of the prisoners. A dark column of fire was boiling up from an ironclad, flames pouring out the gunport and turret like a blowtorch. The shells inside started to erupt, the ironclad shaking and rocking from the explosions. Damn, another machine down.

  “Ketswana. Round up the survivors, see what you can learn from them. And tell our men to dispatch the Bantag wounded quickly—I don’t want us sinking to the level of those hairy bastards.”

  “Can’t blame them, though,” Ketswana observed darkly.

  “We’re human, Ketswana, not animals like them.”

  “All right, Hans.”

  The rifle fire out beyond the gate was dropping off. The snow was still coming down hard, and darkness was closing in. A lone rider came toward the gate, moving slowly, holding a mounted infantry guidon aloft and waving it so that he wouldn’t be mistaken for a Horde rider. Reaching the gate, he spotted Hans and rode up, dismounting.

  “Colonel Vasily, good job,” Hans announced.

  “Not good enough. I’m afraid.”

  “How’s that?”

  “We deployed on either side of the pass. As soon as we heard the attack, I positioned a company right across the road, shoulder to shoulder, and kept a dozen men mounted behind them just in case there was a breakthrough.”

  Vasily breathed out noisily.

  “They came on hard, at the run. Seemed to materialize out of nowhere, hundreds of them. We slaughtered them in that pass,, cut them to ribbons. But a few broke through.”

  “Your mounted troopers—did they get them?”

  “I can’t promise it, sir. They ran down four of ’em, but we’re not sure if it was four, five, or six that broke through. I got my men riding hard, but sir, I can’t promise that no one got out. Some might’ve broke down the side of the mountain before the pass—we could hear something floundering around in the forest below us. I got men out there too.”

  Hans sighed. Damn. Too good to hope for. If only one gets back with a report of ironclads, that gives them time to move, to block us.

  The surprise was blown. If he moved his force out in the middle of the steppe with ironclads already worn down and near to breaking, it’d be a slaughter.

  Pull back or at least hold here?

  No, dammit, no.

  “You did the best you could. Throw a company as far down the road as you can, then report here. Officers meeting in one hour.”

  Vasily saluted and departed. Hans stepped down from the battlement and, spotting Ketswana, motioned him over.

  “Good fight, Hans. Did we bag all of them?”

  Hans shook his head and explained.

  “So now what?”

  “How long would it take to get the remaining ironclads up?”

  “I don’t know. Most of them, in another hour or two. I’d imagine, though, it’ll be hard moving with night setting in.”

  Hans looked up. The snow was coming down, but there was a dull shimmer of light through the clouds to the south. One of the two moons was briefly visible, slipped behind the racing clouds, then appeared again.

  “We have to move tonight,” Hans said. “We have to assume the Bantag know we’re coming. We can’t waste any more time.”

  “Are you crazy, Hans? Most of the infantry won’t be up till midnight.”

  “I know. They stay behind. Tomorrow, after they’ve rested, they can deploy down the pass, set up a blocking position. But as soon as we get the ironclads up, feed the crews. I’ll give them four hours rest. Those ironclads that Timokin decides won’t make the final run, their crews can service the machines that will. We transfer off the fuel and ammunition, load what infantry we can on the tops of the machines and in the wagons, and move at midnight.”

  “You’re a madman, Hans.”

  “I know.”

  Chapter Eleven

  “It’s warmed considerably,” Emil announced as Pat opened the door, yawning and rubbing his eyes.

  “What time is it?”

  “Four in the morning,” Emil said as he handed over a steaming cup of tea and a plate with a slab of salt pork sandwiched between two pieces of hardtack. Pat gratefully accepted the meal, and sitting down on the edge of his cot, he sipped the tea.

  “How is he?” Pat asked.

  “I’m sending him back to Suzdal. Bullfinch is supposed to be in this morning. He’ll go back on the monitor.”

  “Damn all,” Pat sighed. “If word of that gets out, it’ll break morale for certain.”

  “I’ll make sure no one knows. He’ll be mixed in with some serious cases I want to get o
ut. I’ll make sure he’s hidden.”

  “Hidden. Andrew Lawrence Keane hidden. Never thought I’d see it.”

  “Physically he’s turned the corner. Kathleen managed to get him up and walking in his room. But he’s like a piece of gauze, transparent almost, as if he were a ghost.”

  “He is a ghost, Emil. If that’s what Andrew’s become, a frightened ghost, I for one wish the shell had killed him.”

  The crashing blow of Emil’s hand across his face so shocked Pat that he dropped his mug of tea, which shattered on the floor. With a wild curse he rose to his feet, fists balled up, ready to strike.

  “Go on, you goddam mick, go on, hit me!”

  Pat stood balanced on the balls of his feet, arm half cocked back.

  “My whole life,” Pat hissed, “I’ve never let a man lay a hand on me and walk away from it.”

  Emil stood before him unflinching.

  “If you weren’t such a used-up old man …” His voice trailed off.

  The words seemed to strike as hard as a fist. Emil turned away and started for the door.

  Pat stood still, waiting. “Emil?” The one word escaped him, barely a whisper.

  Emil turned and looked back, tears in his eyes.

  “Emil, don’t go.”

  “You said it, damn you, and you’re right. I’m a used- up old man. Used up trying to put life back into you damn killers. And Andrew’s used up, we’re all used up. After all that, how dare you wish Andrew dead?”

  “It’s what he would have wanted, the old Andrew, to die clean, not this long lingering. You let him run from this battle, he’ll never come back.”

  “There’s nothing more I can do for him. Get him back to Suzdal. We’ve got a hospital for consumption patients, up at the edge of the Northern Forest. That’s where I’m sending him. The air there’s clean, not filled with the stench of death like this damn place. Besides, this city is lousy, typhoid’s increasing, so is typhus, and I can’t stop it, not with the water from the aqueducts cut off.”