A Band of Brothers

by William R. Forstchen

  Timokin started forward again, aiming straight at them. Hans saw a knot of Bantag infantry, squeezed. Half a dozen shots streamed out and then nothing. The ammunition was gone.

  Slipping out of the turret, he dropped down into the body of the ironclad.

  “Out of ammunition above,” he shouted.

  “Two bolts left here,” the gunner replied. Hans looked over at the driver, lying in the narrow pathway back to the engineer’s compartment. The man was dead.

  Hans crouched down into the assistant gunner’s position and waited.

  The five enemy ironclads halted, gunports opened. Fire slashed out, Hans flinching as one of the bolts struck their forward shield, denting the metal overhead, the hammer blow ringing through the machine.

  “Hundred and fifty yards!” the driver screamed as he pulled the throttle back, bringing them to a halt. The gunner, directly behind his piece, sighted, then scrambled to one side, lanyard pulled taut.

  “Stand clear!”

  A second later the gun recoiled. Not even bothering to see if the bolt had struck, Hans reached back and took off the rack the last shell with a red band painted around the casing, indicating it was an anti-ironclad bolt. He slammed it into the open breech, and the gunner closed the breech and turned the interruption screw tight. Together they worked the tackle, traversing the piece while the gunner shouted for the driver to edge the ironclad slightly to port.

  “Halt. Sir, drop the line.”

  The gunner swung back behind his piece, sighted, touching the elevation screw.

  “Stand clear!”

  The gun recoiled again, followed in almost the same instant by another bolt hitting the turret above. Steam erupted overhead, the line hooked to the gatling gun severed, snaking back and forth, the breech of the gatling slamming down through the hatch to the turret, followed by a rain of shell casings.

  The driver screamed for the engineer to shut the line down, and Hans looked up through the mist, thanking God he had run out of ammunition.

  “Still two left,” the gunner groaned.

  Hans leaned over the hot gun to look out the port. Three of the enemy machines were burning, but two were still coming on, followed by two more that were emerging out of the smoke farther up the hill.

  He saw Bantag infantry moving back down the slope, running, and his heart sank.

  Timokin fired again, and another ironclad exploded, but still they came on.

  The Bantag infantry continued to advance, and then it started to be apparent that something was strange about their movements. They were running, but looking back over their shoulders. A darkness seemed to gather in the shadows, and then it resolved, a black wall of men, staggering, lurching forward, some running, others barely able to walk, thousands of them coming down the slope, mounted infantry mingled in among them.

  The Chin were charging!

  The ragged line of Bantag infantry turned at last to fight, and though each warrior might slay five, six, a dozen in his final moments, still they were swarmed under. Knots of Chin swirled around the ironclad farthest from Hans. What they could do was beyond his comprehension. They beat upon it with bare fists. Dozens climbed atop the machine, and finally several of them slid down the front armor, grabbing hold of the view port, blinding the driver. A body fell away, and another replaced it. Several mounted infantry came up, joining the mob, leaped up onto the front of the machine, poked pistols inside, and fired. One of the machines turned, skidded, and came to a stop. Seconds later a second machine was swarmed under, reminding Hans of ants dragging down an animal a thousand times their strength.

  Mortar rounds detonated in the press, catching Bantag as well as men.

  “Driver, we’ve still got canister. Get the mortars.”

  The ironclad beneath him turned. Clawing up the slope, he waited till they were less than two hundred yards away, the first burst tearing a wagon and the firing crew apart.

  They pressed forward, and the mortar crews started to throw their weapons up into the limber wagons, racing to pull back. The few supporting infantry joined in the rout. Clearing the crest, they fired one more burst at a crew that had tried to hang on too long, wiping out the entire section.

  Suddenly he felt very alone. It was impossible to see anything through the gunport other than the narrow view ahead.

  Looking up at the turret, he grabbed the shattered breech of the gatling, again burning his hands as he tore it free, letting it drop down. Climbing up, he gratefully took a gulp of cool air pouring in through the shattered view port. The inside of the turret was a shambles of torn metal.

  Reaching up, he popped the hatch. It barely gave; the plates were bent. Leaning his shoulder against it, he pushed harder until it popped back, and cautiously he stuck his head out.

  On either side the ridge was all but empty. Down in the valley directly ahead, the Bantag mortar teams and their infantry were still pulling back.

  He heard a rattle of musketry to his left, and fumbling for the field glasses still dangling from his neck, he lifted them up. Yellow-gray smoke rolled across the field, and there were flashes of fire beyond it. Bantag were coming back out. of the smoke, moving quickly, one of them spinning around, dropping. A unit of mounted Bantag forming into line charged into the smoke. A thunder of rifle fire erupted, and less than a minute later the broken charge came back out, chased by a roaring staccato … the sound of a gatling. A lone ironclad emerged, gun still winking.

  The relief force had arrived and was driving the Bantag back.

  Hans sighed, leaning back against his machine, oblivious to the random shots still cutting the air around him. He suddenly realized he was cold, very cold, soaked in sweat, the cold air seeping in through his soaked wool uniform.

  He started to shiver, and fumbling in his haversack, he pulled out a flask of vodka and took a long pull. A bugle sounded, the clarion call was picked up by others, and from out of the smoke a long line of infantry emerged, rifles at the ready, moving at the double time across the field, up over a stone wall, surging around a villa, driving the Bantag before them. Spaced along the line were three ironclads, gatlings sweeping the field ahead.

  He heard shouting, crying, and looking back toward where the ironclad battle had been fought, he saw Chin by the thousands, up, waving their arms, staggering toward the line. Ketswana slowly came up the hill and dismounted by Hans’s side.

  “You should have seen that charge,” Ketswana announced. “Madness. We must have lost a thousand, two thousand, but by God they saw a chance to fight, to get even, and by God they did charge. We’ve captured four ironclads.”

  Hans nodded, flinching as one of the machines exploded in a fireball, half lifting into the air and crashing down on its side.

  “Any idea how many of ours are left?” he asked.

  “I think four, counting you and Timokin.”

  “We started yesterday morning with twenty-two. Hell of a price. Let’s hope it’s worth it.”

  His attention was diverted as Petracci, who had been circling high above the fighting, swept down low over them, wagging his wings and dropping another streamer, which Ketswana retrieved. Hans opened the message.

  “Suggest you get moving. More Bantag coming down from the railroad, at least half an umen. Should I go to Suzdal and report?”

  Jack banked back around, and Hans fetched his guidon and waved it, then pointed it due west. Jack wagged his wings again, nosed up, and started to climb toward the clouds.

  “Strange war, Ketswana. Never dreamed I’d live long enough to see anything like this.”

  “You’re wounded, Hans.”

  He looked down dumbly at the blood soaking through his sleeve, and for the first time the pain registered. It was bad, but there had been worse.

  “We’d better get them moving,” Hans said. “Still a long day’s march back to the pass. See if you can round up some survivors from the other ironclads, get them to take over the captured Bantag machines. We’ve got some mortars here as well
we can take. Let’s move quickly—they’ll reorganize soon enough.”

  “Proud to have served with you today, Hans. This is what we are supposed to be fighting for,” and he pointed back to the Chin. “It’s not to defend what we’ve got, it’s to free those who deserve to be free.”

  “Tell that to the Senate,” Hans sighed. “Now get moving.”

  Just as he started to climb back up, he heard loud cursing from inside and a rush of steam poured up into the turret. His crew came bailing out the side hatch, coughing and gasping, the engineer and assistant driver arguing.

  Both looked at Hans.

  “I tell you he pushed it too hard,” the engineer shouted. “I kept telling you people to slow down. Now the piston head’s cracked wide open.”

  Hans sighed. Sadly he looked at the precious ironclad that had carried him over the mountain, into battle, and safely back out. The old warhorse was finished. Hardly a fleck of white paint was left. The flame-scorched sides were dented from hundreds of rifle balls, a dozen or more artillery shells and bolts, and the rain of debris from the exploding ammunition train.

  “See if you can get in, crack a fuel line, and burn her,” he said wearily.

  The crew looked at the machine, stricken as if he had ordered the death of a beloved pet.

  “Give me a couple of hours, I can pull the piston,” the engineer said. “Replace it from one of the wrecks.”

  Hans pointed back to the northwest.

  “They’ll be back before then, son. Burn her.”

  Not bothering to wait for a reply, he slowly trudged through the slush and back down the valley to where Timokin’s machine was at a stop, crew out, walking around their machine, inspecting the damage. Timokin looked up and smiled.

  “So now you know what it’s like, sir. Join us on our next outing?”

  Hans shook his head. “Just give me a hand up inside, and wake me when we get back to our base.”

  Climbing through the side hatch, he curled up in a corner by the boiler. It was warm and comforting, and within seconds Hans Schuder was fast asleep.

  Chapter Fourteen

  He was at the lake again, early dawn, mists rising, the wonderful time of day when one awoke early to the smell of hot coffee, and eggs and bacon frying. Then slip the boat out, the water so still that the fading stars were mirrored, so that it looked as if one could dive down and by so doing soar into the heavens.

  The only distortion to the water was the expanding ripples of trout surfacing, feeding on the morning hatches. One just had to cast a line, let the fly touch the surface, and silent, rising from the deep, they would come.

  He stood looking out over the lake, knowing they were behind him, watching, waiting. He was afraid to turn, but something beyond his control compelled him to. It was them, dark, silent, all the memories, and all the dreams cut short and now frozen forever. Like phantom battalions they were arrayed. So simple now to drift into the past, to join Johnnie, all the others, and then to stay here forever.

  “Johnnie?”

  His brother smiled. He was a boy again, delighted that his big brother took notice, and he stepped forward, the shy grin.

  “Andrew, why are you here?”

  “I don’t know, Johnnie.”

  “I think you do.”

  Andrew sat down on soft grass, cool dew chilling his hands, both hands. He looked down, noticing that. Curious to have it back again, as if it was never gone.

  Johnnie sat beside him, plucking a stem of grass, chewing on it.

  “You always liked it here, didn’t you?”

  Andrew nodded, gazing off across the lake. Boyhood memories, the summer cottage, the old man and the boys coming here to fish. And then the other memories, a lovely summer of studying for his exams here, alone, writing, studying. The last place of peace, the spring before volunteering, coming here to think, to be alone. Always dreamed of coming back here … but I am here.

  “Is this where you came, Johnnie?”

  His brother smiled.

  “It’s a long way away for you. Yes, I come here now, we can do that, visit where we loved.”

  He giggled, nodding toward the meadow behind the cabin.

  “The only kiss I ever had was out there. It was so wonderful. The night before I left to join you in the army, I came here to say good-bye to her, and she promised to wait.”

  “Did she?”

  He sighed and shook his head. “No, but then she is alive and I am not.”

  Andrew looked back again at his brother. He was dead, is dead.

  “I’m sorry, John. I never should have let you join the regiment.”

  “I wanted to, Andrew. It was my duty.”

  “You were only seventeen.”

  “A lot of the boys back there were younger.” As he spoke he nodded toward the woods, where wisps of smoke drifted in the shadows.

  “Andrew, why are you here?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Do you want to stay?”

  Andrew looked back at the lake again. So peaceful. All of it so peaceful. And my children? They seemed to call from somewhere else, as if they were of the shadow world now and this was real.

  “I’m dead, Andrew,” Johnnie whispered, and his voice was distant, as if receding into the void.

  “I’m sorry. Oh God, I’m sorry.”

  John smiled, hand slipping out, touching his left hand.

  “Don’t be. Not for me, for any of us. It is a thing of shadow and mystery, and our lives were written on burnished steel, our hearts touched with fire. And if it had to be that way, then I am glad I was part of it.”

  “But your life?”

  “A flicker, a shadow of a moment. I would have wanted it to be different. To have a wife as you do, children. But it is not your fault, and Andrew, you have to decide.”

  “I know. But I’m afraid to.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  Andrew smiled. Johnnie always believed in him, never knew about the fear, for Andrew was the older brother, always there to protect, to understand, to defend. Yet I let him die, let so many die, and now he wants me to go back to it.

  He wanted to cry, but strangely he found he couldn’t, not now.

  “You already decided before you came here in your dream one last time. You wanted to see Maine one more time, to forget for a little while, to heal, to be whole within your soul again. But I think the dream has ended, Andrew. I think it’s time to leave.”

  Andrew smiled.

  “Now you sound like the older brother.”

  “I’m dead, Andrew. I’ll forever be seventeen to you. But yes. I’m older now, older than you in so many ways.”

  “I’ll always love you, Johnnie.”

  “Love the dead, Andrew, and love the living, but the living you can still serve.”

  “My children.” He whispered the words softly.

  A breeze stirred. He looked up. “Johnnie?”

  He was gone, the mist, the souls of so many, drifting past, and he felt so many touch him, a parting, a reunion.

  “Goodbye, Johnnie.”

  He looked back at the lake one last time. The breeze had stirred the water, all of it so soft, lovely, as if he had indeed crossed over the river and for a brief moment had rested under the shade of the trees. He felt the hand touch him, his left hand, and then slip away.

  “Johnnie.” Even as he awoke he whispered the name. His eyes were damp with tears.

  He looked down at his left hand. No, of course not, that was gone forever, or at least for now. In his right hand was still clutched the daguerreotype of his children, and as he gazed at them, holding the image close so that he could see it clearly, he sighed.

  He heard voices in the corridor, arguing. Slowly he sat up. There was a strange terrible aching, a desire, a craving. What was it? Yes, the morphine. Morphius, Goddess of Sleep, of Death. Was that the place I was? The mere thought of the bliss, the pain disappearing, the drifting.

  The pain. God, yes, the pain was th
ere. Terrible, twisting through him. His hand started to shake, and a thirst.

  No, dammit, no, not anymore.

  He put his feet on the icy cold flagstones, tentatively stood up. He was naked, and looking down at himself he was frightened. What have I become? Skeletal. Bandages around the ribs, yes, the wound, and the memory flashes, that final second, hearing the shell and knowing that this indeed was the one that would sear and cut and tear.

  He closed his eyes at the flash of light, the falling away and the pain, never such pain, and the panic, drowning, unable to breathe.

  He drew a breath in, tentatively, waiting for the agony. Pain, but bearable now.

  The voices outside were louder. One of them was Emil, the other Kathleen. What was it?

  And then there was some memory. Of her standing by the bed. Startled, he looked at the table. A gun, cocked, rested by the guttering candle.

  God, she gave me that. There was a flash of anger, and with it the realization. And as he looked at the door he felt a terrible fear, a desire to curl up, to hide forever.

  And the anger came again, but now it was directed to something else … himself. He reached over to a robe draped over the end of the bed and struggled to slip his right arm in, then the stump, and drew the robe about his emaciated body. Going to the door, he reached down and touched the handle.

  If I open it, all will come rushing back in. And then he looked back at the night table … the daguerreotype catching the light of the candle. He opened the latch.

  Startled, they both looked up.

  “What the hell is going on?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper.

  Kathleen gazed at him. There was a look in her eyes, almost of fear. She stared at him, unable to move.

  “Andrew?”

  And though it was a struggle, such a long infinite step, he smiled.

  As her arms slipped around him, he felt as if he would dissolve again, that the tears would flow, but he fought against it. Looking over her shoulder, he saw Emil gazing at him, eyes bright, and then the smile came again, this time for real.