Even in this hell the Chin did not forget their humanity. Food was shared, the few precious spaces on wagons or horses given to those who needed them the most, and Hans had witnessed more than one case of someone surrendering that spot to save another, thereby condemning himself to this death march to safety.
Ketswana reined in beside Hans’s ironclad and paused to watch the column.
“Brings back too many memories,” Ketswana said.
“How far back are we?”
“Still strung out several miles behind us. A few stragglers back by the city. We tried to round them up, get them going, but it’s hard work, Hans. I think we were wrong on our earlier estimate—there must be at least ten thousand Chin moving with us.”
“This is how the Bantag managed it, not just the factories but here. They must have had a hundred thousand or more along the rail line to ensure the supplies moved. Well, this will cut a hole fifty miles across. It’ll choke the bastard.”
“Flyer, one of ours,” Ketswana announced, pointing to the west.
The aerosteamer was coming in low, dipping down slightly as it crossed over the valley of the Ebro a half mile to the south. The flyer arced up, skimming just beneath the low-hanging clouds, circled south, and disappeared. Hans knew the flyer was looking, and several minutes later it emerged back out of the mists to the south.
Hans pulled his shot-torn guidon out of its mount behind the turret, held it up, and started to wave it back and forth. The flyer came straight toward him, skimming over his head so low he could clearly see Jack in the pilot’s seat looking down. The flyer turned and came back around at a right angle to its first approach. A red streamer fell from the cockpit and slapped into the snow less than fifty feet away.
The Chin, initially terrified at the sight of the machine, quickly came to realize that it was on their side and in spite of their exhaustion cheered wildly. One of them brought the streamer and the attached message cylinder up to Hans. He took a deep breath before opening it. In this situation no news was good news.
He quickly scanned the message, Ketswana watching him anxiously.
“Our infantry out of the pass, with three ironclads. Thirty Bantag ironclads, four miles to west,” Hans read, “closing at full speed. Supported by umen or more mounted. Will check east.”
Hans lowered the message and looked across the river. As if wishing to confirm the note, a dispersed column of mounted Bantag came into view, reining in their mounts. Word spread through the swarm of refugees, and shouts erupted, a few even staggering out of the column and trying to run off to the east even though they were still protected by the river.
Petracci continued east and disappeared, and Hans shouted down below for his driver to keep moving.
“We’ll see what happens down at the bridge,” Hans announced. “Let’s hope Timokin can hold. Then we have to hang on.”
“For what? The infantry?”
Hans smiled and said nothing, slipping halfway back into the turret. As the ironclad eased back on the road, the engineer gave several blasts on his whistle, warning the Chin to clear the way, and they edged forward. When they slipped down into a narrow hollow he saw several hundred Chin sprawled under a grove of trees, shivering around a smoky fire.
“Keep moving! Bantag coming!”
They struggled up, but more than one remained prone, unable to continue. The toll was heavy going up the next hill; scores of exhausted stragglers were sprawled to either side of the road, and Hans forced himself to look straight ahead, to not let their eyes meet.
He looked up, startled, as Petracci winged over low, skimming the trees lining the road. He banked up and swept back again, crossing, dropping another streamer. Hans motioned to it, and several Chin staggered through the mushy snow, recovered the streamer, came up to the side of the ironclad, and tossed it up.
“Hans. Two regiments of Bantag advancing on road behind you, already out of city. Light screen of skirmishers five miles to your east. What are your orders?”
Hans shouted down for his driver to stop. Damn all. He crawled up out of the turret, unclipped his guidon, and slipped down to the ground. He walked clear of the ironclad and out beyond the trees lining the road.
What to do? he thought. Timokin with six ironclads will be down by the bridge where the second column is coming in. I have six left, and they’re needed there. Can’t wait to delay the attack from behind.
He waited, watching as Jack circled around, coming in low. Raising the guidon, he waved it, then pointed it straight back up the road they had been retreating down all morning. As Jack soared past, wingtip racing over Hans’s head, Jack leaned out of the cockpit, pointing up the road, and Hans saluted.
The aerosteamer, staying low, continued on. Seconds later a second airship, the Hornet, swept past on the other side of the road and disappeared into the mist.
It would be interesting to watch, Hans thought, but his battle was ahead. Climbing back into his machine, he shouted again for the column to keep moving. The Bantag were closing in; he had to calculate how to deploy, how to shepherd his flock and keep the wolves at bay. Cresting the hill, he uttered a curse: yet another ironclad was by the side of the road, steam pouring out of the open hatch, the crew standing dejectedly behind it. The gatling gun had already been stripped out, along with the cases of ammunition and the breechblock for the cannon.
His driver slowed as Hans, shaking his head, shouted for the men to climb atop his machine. Now I’m down to five, he thought glumly.
Streaking low, Jack hugged the ground, dipping down, rising back up. The column of refugees was thinning out. The dark litter of bodies to either side of the road was heartbreaking, some of them still crawling, desperate to escape. Approaching the next rise he saw a small knot of stragglers running. The Bantag must be ahead.
“Julius, remember, short bursts and only at thick clusters. Same for you, Feyodor. Oleg, keep an eye topside for their flyers. Hang on!”
He pushed the throttles all the way up, climbing the hill, the road directly beneath him. Clearing the crest, they saw the Bantag straight ahead, a long column crowding the road and advancing at a canter, outriders to either side in the fields, chasing down the few pathetic Chin who had risen up in a final desperate bid for life and staggered off. Slaughtered bodies hung from saddles, and the sight filled Jack with a bitter rage.
Feyodor, roaring a curse, grasped the trigger of his gatling. A stream of fire erupted, the cockpit filling with steam and the smell of powder as five hundred rounds a minute snapped out, slashing straight into the head of the column, the first burst dropping the standard-bearer.
He continued straight up the road, the surprise so complete that in the first seconds not a single shot was returned. Bantag by the dozens tumbled from the saddle, horses rearing in agony, pitching over, tangling with each other and crushing their riders. Through the speaking tube he could hear Julius shouting, the chatter of his gatling erupting as the aerosteamer passed over the head of the column less than thirty feet below.
Jack reveled in the screams of the Bantag echoing up in spite of the roar of the engines as he raced down the length of the road at nearly sixty miles an hour, guns blaziiig fore and aft. The column, several miles in length and laid out straight as an arrow, finally started to split apart. Horde riders turning their mounts, plunging off the road, desperate to escape. A knot of riders trapped on a narrow bridge twenty yards in length had no place to go, and some of the Bantag leaped off their mounts to crash through the ice below and drown in the turbulent stream.
Finally he could see Bantag dismounting on either side of the road, raising their rifles. A bullet cracked through the forward windscreen, the glass shattering, spraying him with splintered shards. More rifle fire erupted.
“Pulling up!” Jack shouted, and he yanked the elevator full back. Turning the wheel to the right, he broke into a spiraling climb. Another bullet came up through the floor, and he felt a tug on his boot but no pain.
Climbing t
hrough five hundred, then six hundred feet, he eased the elevator forward as airspeed dropped below thirty miles an hour. He had yet to experiment much with the machine but, when it dropped down below twenty, he knew it would begin to shake and the nose would drop. Used to the older aerosteamers, which relied exclusively on hydrogen for their lift, he nevertheless sensed that losing airspeed would cause his machine to go into a fatal fall.
He heard the topside gun fire, sweeping the road, as he continued to climb away and turned to run parallel to the enemy a quarter mile to their starboard side.
“Everyone all right?”
“Great here!” Julius cried. “Killed hundreds of them!”
“Oleg?”
“Wished I could’ve shot more.”
“See any damage?”
“Looks like a few bullet holes punched through topside.”
“Get the patches on. I’ll hold steady for a couple of minutes.”
There was a pause before the boy replied that he was going out. Jack looked over at Feyodor. The patches had been another of Chuck’s ideas—a sticky glue patch of canvas with a small handle on one side. All one had to do was slap it over a bullet hole and the leak was temporarily sealed. The only problem was that it meant someone had to crawl atop the airbags to do it.
Jack eased back on the throttles and felt the weight shifting as Oleg crawled along the top of the ship. Rising up in his seat. Jack looked out to his right. They had dropped maybe two or three hundred feet, and the column was a tangled confusion. But already, up at the front of the formation, the Bantag were reorganizing, this time spreading out from the road, pressing forward, urging their mounts on through the snow. The rain was all but finished, and far off on the horizon he could see the smudges of smoke of Hans’s ironclads, while to the west he could see the Bantag ironclads closing in as well.
Jack waited, and just as he drew parallel to the head of the column he heard Oleg hooking back into his speaking tube.
“Got five holes covered. Saw a few more down on the sides, though.”
“Well, hang on, we’re going to pick up a few more! Julius, where’s our escort?”
“Still behind us, sir.”
Jack wagged his wing, wanting to signal the Hornet to stay up and away. No sense in getting the smaller aerosteamer chewed up by ground fire, especially when the Bantag flyers would show up sooner or later.
Jack pushed the starboard wing down, edged the elevator forward, and went into a shallow dive, cutting across the head of the column but this time leveling off at six hundred feet. Feyodor let loose with short burst, columns of wet snow spraying up. Knots of riders broke apart, scattering. Riders dismounted again, raising rifles, firing back. As they passed over the road, Feyodor let loose with long bursts of fire, Julius joining in, streaks of fire stitching up the road, knocking down any who had thought they could stay on the open path. Farther back, the enemy formation, though out of range, broke off the road and spread out into a vast wave. Jack jerked the aerosteamer back up higher, turning south again as if leaving the scene of battle.
“He’s going down!”
As he turned. Jack looked back and saw the Hornet, one wing collapsed, spinning in a tight circle, spiraling down, slamming into die mow and bursting into flames.
Diminutive figures on the ground danced about in obvious ecstasy.
“Julius, what happened?”
“He was diving, started to pull out, and I saw the wing snap up.”
“Goddam,” he whispered and then said nothing, the death of their escort damping the joy of only seconds before. Surely a rifle ball wouldn’t cause a wing to fold up. The Hornet was a deathtrap if a wing simply folded up like that. The Hornets would have to be grounded.
He flew on for several miles, deciding to feign leaving. The converging lines of action were spread out before him. Down by the bridge he could see a flash of light, a gun firing, a line of toylike ironclads deployed on a hill to the west of the river, the Bantag they were firing on, a long line of mounted warriors deploying out into open formation and dismounting. Directly ahead and below there was a mass of movement, reminding him of an ant heap that had been stirred up. Thousands upon thousands were on the road and to either side, struggling toward the bridge, the head of the column already pouring over and scrambling down along the riverbank in a desperate search for shelter.
If they were stopped at the bridge, the enemy from the rear would circle in for the slaughter. He had to keep them at bay.
“How’s ammunition?”
“Half gone here,” Feyodor replied.
“One case left,” came the reply from the rear, and Jack struggled not to curse the boy for being too enthusiastic in his firing.
“Well, hang on. We’re going back in.”
He nosed over, dropping down, and once sure he was well clear of observers from the column to the rear he pushed the wheel hard over, skidding through a turn and lining back up on the road, and started back in for another pass.
The road raced by underneath. The Chin were moving faster, the sound of gunfire behind them urging the mob onward. Dropping down into a valley, he started back up, and then saw advanced riders of the Horde halfway down the slope, scattering, firing their guns, obviously deployed as a warning. Cresting up over the ridge, he saw a wall of them, some still struggling to dismount, but at least several dozen deployed across the road and to either side with rifles raised. Feyodor sprayed a burst at them, and a score or more dropped, but the return fire was heavier now. All down the length of the road they were deploying. Cursing, Jack pulled back hard, then, changing his mind, he nosed over, diving into a shallow ravine that curved down toward the river, Julius and Oleg firing nonstop as they retreated.
“Damn close,” Feyodor announced. “Good move, dropping like that.”
“Flyers!”
It was Oleg, his voice pitched high with excitement.
“Where?”
“South! Two of them!”
Jack looked to his left and up, and dropping out of the clouds he saw the two Bantag machines racing down.
“Hans, how the hell are we going to manage this?” Ketswana roared, trying to be heard above the terrified shouting of the Chin and the shriek of shells raining into the mob from the other side of the river.
The Chin surged back and forth in an agony of terror and frustration. With the appearance of the Bantag on the far side, the movement over the bridge had stopped, and all was confusion. On the other side of the river, Timokin had his six remaining ironclads deployed on a low hill, firing on a long dark wall of dismounted Bantag swarming out across the open fields beyond. The Bantag ironclads were coming down the same road he had advanced up the day before, and already the lead unit had stopped, guns raised high to toss shells across the river into the swarm of refugees, while the rest of the ironclads came up and started to deploy.
“We need every machine over there,” Hans shouted. “The guns in the supply wagons—pass them out to any Chin who thinks he can use one. Have the mines been set on this bridge by Timokin?”
“Two hundred pounds of powder under the center span.”
“Fine. Once we get the rest of the ironclads across, open the bridge and push these people across, then get them down onto the slope by the river on the other shore. That should offer a little protection. If you can get everyone across, then blow it, but not before. Let’s hope Jack can keep that rear column delayed a bit longer.” ’
“Not with the fight he’s got now.”
Hans looked up and saw the two Bantag airships that had passed over the bridge only minutes before heading north, and then caught a glimpse of Jack’s aerosteamer, low in the river valley, rising up to meet them.
“Ketswana, just get them across. But no one gets left behind, understand me.”
“Great orders, Hans,” but then he smiled, understanding.
“That’s all I got left.”
Ketswana snapped off a formal salute, called his comrades around him, and urge
d his mount through the mob of Chin, shouting for their attention.
Hans’s driver, with long blasts on his steam whistle, edged his machine up to the approach to the bridge, the remaining five machines following. The mounted infantry, standing nervously with bayonets poised to keep the mob back from blocking the bridge while the ironclads crossed, parted at the last second to let them through.
Crossing the bridge, Hans directed his unit of five up the slope to fall in on Timokin’s right to anchor the line down toward the river.
In the damp rain-soaked air the smoke from Timokin’s gunfire wreathed the hill in a heavy yellow-gray fog. Cresting the hill and coming to a stop, Hans stood up in the turret, raising his field glasses.
The valley below was aswarm with Bantag, thousands of them dismounted, advancing in open formation, while units still mounted moved to the left, swinging out to envelop the other flank and the road down which salvation, if it was to come, would arrive. He could see knots of Bantag advancing, carrying heavy pipes, the damn rocket launchers, while up on the opposite slope wagons bearing mortars were being unloaded.
The opposing ironclads, deployed into a line thirty across, lurched forward and started down the slope, coming straight at them. Hans looked over at Timokin, who was up like him in the turret. Climbing out, in spite of the spatter of rifle fire, Timokin came up to the side of Hans’s machine.
A Band of Brothers Page 28
