A Band of Brothers

by William R. Forstchen

  “Defeat,” Pat whispered. “It looks like I’ve managed to lead us straight into a defeat.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Turning toward the railroad track, Hans ordered the driver to stop and scrambled down from the side of the machine. The few pathetic Bantag who had attempted to offer resistance lay sprawled on the ground behind the gun emplacement. The seven machines still with him were strung out on the road, the closest coming on fast, while the mounted infantry were already fanning out.

  Half a hundred Chin were huddled in a ditch on the far side of the track, looking up at him wide-eyed with terror.

  He moved slowly, hands extended, trying to remember the words he had learned in the labor camp.

  “Friend, Yankee.”

  One of them stood up and tentatively approached. Hans silently cursed himself for not remembering to bring along a few of the Chin refugees from his headquarters company. Ketswana, who had mastered some of the language, came reining in, dismounted, and started to talk.

  The Chin looked at Ketswana, then pointed at Schuder and said one word: “Hans?”

  Hans quickly nodded, and the others in the ditch started to talk excitedly, crawling up out of the slush and mud. One of them pointed at himself, then back to Hans.

  “He says he remembers you, Hans. He was moved from our camp before the breakout. His name is Jong See.”

  Hans looked at the emaciated slave, dressed in stinking rags, blackened feet poking out from torn strips of burlap. The man looked up at Hans expectantly. Hans stepped forward, making a show of grasping the Chin’s hand.

  “Tell him I remember,” Hans said.

  “Do you?” Ketswana asked, incredulous.

  “Of course not, but the poor bastard needs to believe.”

  Ketswana started to talk, and the Chin dissolved into shuddering tears, flinging his arms around Hans, who towered over him. All the memory of it came back, the tens of thousands of faceless slaves left behind, the stench and squalor and unrelenting fear. He put his hands on the man’s shoulders, patting him like a father soothing a child, struggling to control his own emotions.

  He wanted to pull back, he had to, every second was precious, but he let the moment last a few seconds more. Finally the Chin released his hold and stepped back, saying something excitedly, pointing at the ironclad.

  “He’s asking if you are here to free them.”

  “Huh?” All focus had been on the mission, to get in, smash the bridge, tear up track, then get the hell out He looked at the shivering slaves, many of them weeping, eyes fixed on his. How many did I leave behind knowing they would die because of my desire for freedom? he thought. I balmed my soul with the ideal of the Republic, I had to escape to save the Republic, but still, I condemned how many to death?

  “Yes, we’re here to free them,” Hans announced.

  “Hans? How? With what?” Ketswana asked.

  Hans turned to his friend.

  “These are our people, Ketswana. They’re more ours than the Rus and Roum. They’re our blood, for we were slaves with them.”

  “It’s twenty-five miles back to the mountains. I thought we’d smash things up and get the hell back before tomorrow. The Bantag will be here in swarms.”

  “Ask him how many prisoners are here, between us and the bridge.”

  Ketswana asked, and there were excited answers.

  “They say there are thousands at the bridge. They only finished rebuilding it a couple of weeks ago. Rumor is they were to be moved up to feed the army. Before that they were used to haul supplies across the river.”

  “How many Bantag?”

  “A regiment at the bridge.”

  A Bantag regiment of a thousand. Damn, they must know by now.

  “Jong here rides with me.”

  Hans looked down at the track. It was a wretched affair, with unevenly spaced stringers. Here and there the ballast of the road laid by Rus and Roum was visible through the snow. Twisted rails, torn up and bent during the retreat, lay to either side. The new rails brought up by the Bantag were uneven, laid down haphazardly, the line weaving back and forth. It had taken years to train the Rus how to do the job professionally and with skill; the Bantag had used gangs of slaves and had been working in haste. Gazing at the track, Hans realized just how weak Ha’ark was in this area. He might have knowledge of the technology, but translating that into a skill mastered by thousands was another story. Looking over at the slaves, he saw even more clearly the major flaw: they were men who should have been trained, fed, and well maintained rather than simply used up.

  One of the mounted infantrymen, an old railroad hand, rode slowly past Hans, shaking his head. “If they try to make more than fifteen miles an hour on this road, they’ll wreck.”

  Hans nodded. Still, fifteen miles an hour was all they would need, if they could keep the road open.

  He looked up at the mounted infantryman.

  “Son, you worked on the railroad?”

  “Yes sir. Helped you lay the first line from Suzdal up to the Ford before I got drafted into the army.”

  “You’re section hand now. Dismount, pick two or three men from your unit who know railroads. Get those Chin over there working, start tearing up track, get a fire going, and turn them into Sherman’s hairpins, wrap ’em around those telegraph poles.”

  Telegraph poles. He looked up at the line. “And for God’s sake start by cutting that.”

  “And when the Bantag show up?” the infantryman asked, nodding to the Chin, obviously wondering what he would then do with fifty half-starved skeletons.

  Hans held up his hand and walked up to the second ironclad in line, motioning for the machine’s commander to dismount.

  “Igor, isn’t it?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Fine, Igor. We’re heading east toward the bridge. You go west straight up this line. Ketswana, detail off twenty or so men to go with him.”

  Hans shaded his eyes and looked to the west. The open prairie undulated off to the horizon, the landscape a brilliant white, vineyards dotting the landscape, open meadows, orderly fields, all of it empty, the ruins of buildings sticking out of the ground like blackened, rotting teeth.

  “Be careful. The sun’s in your eyes. Don’t get surprised by an artillery piece up close. Now, any Chin you find, point them back east to us. Try and pick a spot farther up where you can, if possible, ambush a train and smash the locomotive. Then get the hell out.”

  “To where, sir?”

  Hans looked at the eager young ironclad commander. It was a simple calculation. If he could get five miles farther west before running into something, that bought an extra hour of time. If he could ambush a train, it would be worth a dozen ironclads, for chances were if there was one thing Ha’ark could not spare in this war it was locomotives. One ironclad would surely be worth it. A calculation that meant almost certain death for this man and his crew.

  “Just try and get out. We’ll pile up a stack of rails here, right on this battery position. If it’s night, just follow the track to here, turn right, pick up the road, and it will take you straight back to the pass.”

  The ironclad commander nodded.

  Hans shook the boy’s hand. “Good luck, son.”

  “Sir, it sounds like I’ll need it.”

  “I think you will. Signal a supply wagon over to you— they’ll be along in a couple of minutes—and be sure you have enough fuel, and take some extra ammunition.”

  Not wanting to draw it out, Hans turned and walked back to his machine.

  “I should go with him,” Ketswana said.

  “I need you to translate,” Hans lied. There was simply no way he was going to send his friend to certain death. Hans climbed back up onto his machine, motioning for the terrified Jong to climb up and sit atop the turret behind him. Spotting the mounted infantryman handling the remaining Chin, he passed the order for a signal pile to be made and for them to start moving east, and to move quick if they heard gunfire behind them.
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  Looking back, Hans saw that the remaining machines had finally caught up, the momentary pause allowing them to pull a few more tins of kerosene from the wagons.

  “When the wagons are emptied,” Hans shouted, “pull in any Chin who are too weak to move.”

  Raising a clenched fist high, he jerked it up and down and pointed forward.

  His driver tried to run the machine directly atop the rails, but it kept skidding and rattling, and after a couple of hundred yards he edged it off the track to run alongside the roadbed. With the shallow grade and the ballast underneath, the driver pushed his throttle forward, their speed picking up to what Hans estimated was a good six miles an hour.

  The track ahead ran as straight as an arrow for several miles, dipping down into broad open valleys and up gentle slopes, then down again. At the top of the second low ridge a thin line of Bantag mounted warriors were deployed, dismounted. A light skirmish broke out between them and his own mounted troops riding to either flank. After several volleys and a loss of one of his own, they mounted and disappeared. Reaching the crest, he saw the Bantag riding ahead of him. A village of ugly shacks, made from the salvaged rubble of nearby farms, lined the track. Dozens of Chin lay in the snow, obviously slaughtered by their departing masters, but half a hundred more had scattered, staggering through the snow to either side of the line.

  “Ketswana, detail a few more men. Round those people up, point ’em east, and get them smashing the rails.”

  The drive continued. As the Bantag fell back, their numbers increased. Obviously troops were being moved up from the bridge.' On the next ridgeline ahead he could see a low earthen fort, the glint of rifle barrels catching the afternoon sun. Trying to steady himself, he raised his glasses. He could see the dark snouts of two fieldpieces projecting from the walls of the fort.

  Hans looked back at the ironclad commanders behind him in column. He spread his arms wide, signaling they were to deploy from column into line, then pointed at the fort.

  “Ketswana! Mounted infantry to the flanks, and stay behind us!”

  A whispered cry fluttered overhead, a mortar round detonating to his left, catching a mounted infantryman.

  “Jong, inside!”

  Hans pulled himself out of the turret with just his legs dangling inside and pointed down.

  Jong looked at him, terrified.

  “Inside!” Hans snapped, and grabbing the man by the shoulders he half lifted him, and reluctantly the Chin went down into the bowels of the steam dragon. Hans followed him down, pulled the hatch shut, and locked it.

  Sitting down behind the gatling, he opened the steam cock, raised the barrel, and waited. A puff of smoke ignited from the fort, and a geyser of dirt erupted a hundred yards ahead.

  They were nervous—most likely hadn’t seen action since the opening moves and had never faced ironclads.

  He waited as the range closed through a thousand yards, eight hundred, six hundred. Turning the turret, he could see the other ironclads, deployed out as ordered. One of them fired a short burst of gatling fire at the fort, and the others joined in. Damn, not yet, save it.

  The range closed to two hundred and fifty, extreme range if they had anti-ironclad bolts. The two guns continued to fire. He heard more gatling fire. Looking out the narrow view slit to his right, he saw that two of his flanking ironclads had angled off. A heavy skirmish line of Bantag were deploying out, mounted. Gatling bursts tore into the line, and within seconds it disintegrated. The two machines charged.

  Watch it, he thought, they might be a lure into a rocket unit.

  A thunderclap bang shook his machine, and he heard a high-pitched wail.

  “All right down there?” Hans asked.

  “Nothing, sir. It bounced—just scared the crap out of the Chin.”

  The gun below him recoiled, the gunner calling for shell.

  Damn, every shot had to count. He watched as clumps of dirt erupted on the front of the battlement. They fired back, and again there was another clang … and still no breach.

  “Take us to a hundred yards!” Hans shouted.

  The ironclad lurched forward, and he held his breath. They fired again, and he heard the shot scream past his turret. Carefully aiming the gatling, he squeezed a short burst, the tracers arcing over the gun position. He tapped the barrel down slightly and squeezed again, a bit low and to the right. It was hard to aim while they were moving, and he waited.

  The machine stopped. Another shot slammed into them, the blow knocking him half off his seat. Cursing, he grabbed hold of the gatling, aimed, and squeezed, the stream of fire slashing through the gunport, tearing into the crew. He released the trigger, cranked the turret, and lined up on the second gun, but it was already out of action.

  “Forward!”

  The ironclad crept up the snow-clad hill. Rifle fire pinged against the turret, one round ricocheting through the gatling’s gunport, bouncing around past Hans like an angry bee, and landing on his neck, stinging him with its heat.

  Cursing, he jerked his collar, looked back out, and saw several Bantag at the fieldpiece’s gunport … a rocket crew. The gun below him recoiled, most of the canister slamming into the slope forward, but several balls sliced into the crew just as they were firing. The rocket soared up into the sky and disappeared.

  His ironclad surged up, then slammed back down. They were inside the fort, dozens of Bantag running back and forth, obviously panicked, and his gatling fire tore into them, shredding bodies. They stormed for the rear sally port, piling up around it. If they were human he would have ceased fire out of pity, but he continued to fire, the ironclad crushing up over them and out onto the slope behind the fort.

  The sight that greeted Hans filled him with awe. The valley of the Ebro River was below. Hundreds of Bantag swarmed down the slope, running in every direction. A small city, now nothing but burned-out ruins, was directly ahead. The train track went straight through it and onto a roughly made log bridge spanning the two-hundred-yard breadth of the river.

  A dark swarming mass, looking like a hive of ants, undulated in the city, surging back and forth … the Chin laborers. He saw puffs of smoke around the periphery of the mob. The Bantag were slaughtering them. In the town he saw something else: three trains lined up, one behind the other.

  “Forward, for God’s sake, forward!” Hans screamed.

  The ironclad started down the slope, far too slowly, and he reached down with his foot, kicking the back of the driver.

  “Faster, full speed!”

  “Sir, we’ll skid out of control.”

  “They’re murdering them, damn you! Full speed!”

  The ironclad surged forward, and within seconds he could sense that the wheels were slipping, the machine sliding down the slope like a sled out of control.

  He hung on, the driver screaming and cursing, as they skied down the slope and smashed through a low stone wall. It was impossible to shoot the Bantag doing the slaughter; they were outside the stockade, firing blindly through the plank walls into the seething mob on the other side. So intent were they on murder they were not even aware of the death charging them from behind.

  The ironclad slowed, the wheels grabbing, and the driver turned the machine until they were parallel to the wall. Hans pivoted his turret and poured in a long stream of fire, walking it up the length of the wall, dropping the guards. Finally realizing what was happening, they broke and started to flee. The driver smashed the ironclad straight into the stockade wall, which collapsed. Turning, he drove down the length of the barrier, tearing it to shreds.

  Wild screams of madness, terror, ecstasy rose up. Turning his turret to the rear, Hans saw the Chin, hundreds of them, pouring out and in spite of their feeble condition staggering in pursuit of the fleeing guards. The Bantag who were wounded and trying to crawl away were swarmed, disappearing under a seething mass of bodies. Ahead, their way was finally blocked by the mob.

  “The trains! We’ve got to get the trains!”

  T
he ironclad turned, cutting straight through the slave compound, smashing down shacks, shelters made of bits of rags, Hans praying that those too weak to move would be dragged out of the way in time. Another stockade wall loomed ahead, and they drove through it and back up onto the tracks.

  The damn trains were backing up, already on the bridge.

  He fired his gatling at the locomotive, now several, hundred yards away. Sparks splashed off its forward boiler plate.

  The train farthest east was already climbing the slope on the opposite bank of the river, an artillery round detonating beside it.

  “Gunner, fire on that damn thing!”

  “Shell casing’s jammed! I’m trying!”

  “Goddamm it, they’re getting away!”

  Hans kicked the driver again, shouting for him to drive onto the bridge.

  Obeying the order, the driver guided the ironclad onto the bridge, and Hans instantly regretted it as they edged out and he looked over the side. His stomach knotted at the sight of the swirling ice-choked river thirty feet below. The old road bridge to his right, blown in the retreat, had been repaired, the destroyed central span covered with logs. One of his ironclads was already on it, carefully moving forward, several dozen mounted Bantag fleeing before it, then going down in a burst of gatling fire.

  But there were no side railings on the rail bridge, only the tracks, and he could feel the machine skidding, rocking back and forth, ready to slip off at any moment. He wanted to scream for the driver to stop but was afraid that the slightest diverting of his attention would send them over the side and into the river and straight to the bottom.

  Terror he had not known since the days of his imprisonment overwhelmed him, and he closed his eyes, feeling every jolt, bump, and lurch.

  The machine suddenly shifted, and he stifled a cry. They were on the other side and the driver was skidding to a halt, the ironclad still half on the track.

  Straight ahead, the last train was cresting the hill, disappearing, wrapped in smoke. He didn’t know whether to curse or weep with relief. He stared at the opposite ridge, bitter that the quarry had escaped, and then the entire horizon seemed to light up in a sheet of fire, debris soaring up from the other side of the ridge.