West of Honor c-2

by Jerry Pournelle

  "Mortarmen, hold up on that stuff," Sergeant Ardwain's voice said. "We're inside the fort now and the chopper's going in."

  Something else I forgot! One hell of a commander I've made. I can't even remember the most elementary things.

  The chopper dropped low and even before it vanished behind the walls it was spewing men.

  I ran up to the gate, staying to one side to avoid the tracers still coming out. Corporal Roff was there ahead of me. "Careful here, sir." He ducked around the gatepost and vanished. I followed him into the smoke, running around to my right where other troopers had gone over the wall.

  The scene inside was chaotic. There were unarmored bodies everywhere, probably cut down by the mortars. Men were-running and firing in all directions. I didn't think any of the defenders had helmets. "Anybody without a helmet is a hostile " I said into the command set. Stupid. They know that. "Give ‘em hell, lads!" That was another silly thing to say, but at least it was a better reason for shouting in their ears than telling them something they already knew.

  A satchel charge went off at one of the bunkers. A squad rushed the entrance and threw grenades into it. That was all I could see from where I stood, but the sounds of firing filled the enclosure.

  Now what? Even as I wondered, the firing died out until there were only a few rifle shots now and then, and the futile fire of the machine gun in the bunker covering the gate.

  "Lieutenant?" It was Ardwain's voice.

  "Yes, Sergeant."

  'There's some people in that main bunker, sir. You can hear 'em talking in there. Sound like women. We didn't want to blow it in, not just yet, anyway."

  'What about the rest of the fort?"

  “Cleared out, sir. Bunkers and barracks too. We got about 20 prisoners."

  That quick. Like automatic magic. "Sergeant, make sure there's nothing that can fire onto the area northwest of the fort. I want to bring the Skyhook in there."

  “Aye aye, sir."

  I thumbed my command set to the chopper frequency. “We've got the place, all except one bunker, and it'll be no problem. Bring number two in to land in the area northwest of the fort, about 300 meters out from the wall. I want you to stay up there and cover number two. Anything that might hit it, you take care of. Keep scanning. I can't believe somebody won't come up here to see what's happening."

  "Aye aye, sir," Louis said. "Sounds like you've done some good work down there."

  "We've got the place," I told him. I switched off and looked for Sergeant Ardwain. There was a lot to do, but he'd undoubtedly be doing it. I'd never felt so useless in all my life. There'd been good work done here tonight, no question about it, but I hadn't done any of it.

  CHAPTER 7

  That was my first fire fight. I wasn't too proud of my part in it. I hadn't given a single order once the rush started, and I was very nearly the last man into the fort. Some leader.

  But there was no time to brood. Dawn was a bright smear off in the east. The first thing was to check on the butcher's bill. Four men killed, two of them recruits. Eleven wounded. After a quick conference with our paramedic I sent three to the helicopters. The others could fight, or said they could. Then I sent the two choppers east toward Harmony, while we ferried the rest of our gear into the fort. We were on our own.

  Sergeant Doc Crisp had another dozen patients, defenders who'd been wounded in the assault. We had 30 prisoners, 37 wounded, and over 50 dead. One of the wounded was the former commander of the fort.

  "Got bashed with a rifle butt outside his quarters," Ardwain told me. "He's able to talk now."

  "I'll see him."

  "Sir." Ardwain went into the hospital bunker and brought out a man of about 50, his dark hair in a ring around a bald head. He had thin watery eyes. He didn't look like a soldier or an outlaw.

  "He says his name's Flawn, sir," Ardwain told me.

  "Marines," Flawn said. "CoDominium marines. Didn't know there were any on the planet. Just why the hell is this place worth the Grand Senate's attention again?"

  “Shut up," Ardwain said.

  “I've got a problem, Flawn," I said. We were standing in the open area in the center of the fort. "That bunker over there's still got some of your people in it. It'd be no problem to blast it open, but the troopers think they heard women talking in there."

  "They did," Flawn said. "Our wives."

  "Can you talk them into coming out, or do we set fire to it?"

  "What happens to us now?"

  "Machts nichts to me," I told him. "My orders are to disarm you people. You're free to go anywhere you want to, without weapons. Northwest if you like."

  "Without weapons. You know what'll happen to us out there without weapons?"

  "No, and I don't really care."

  "I know," Flawn said. "You bastards never have cared-"

  "Mind how you talk to the lieutenant," Ardwain said. He grounded his rifle on the man's instep. Flawn gasped in pain.

  "Enough of that, Sergeant," I said. "Flawn, you outlaws-"

  "Outlaws. Crap," Flawn said. "Excuse me. Sir, you are mistaken." He eyed Ardwain warily, his lip curled in contempt. "You brought me here as a convict for no reason other than my opposition to the CoDominium. You turned me loose with nothing. Nothing at all, Lieutenant. So we try to build something. Politics here aren't like home. Or maybe they are, same thing really, but here it's all out in the open. I managed something, now you've come to take it away and send me off unarmed, with no more than the clothes on my back, and you expect me to be respectful." He glanced up at the CoDominium banner that flew high above the fort. "You'll excuse me if I don't show more enthusiasm."

  "My orders are to disarm you," I repeated. "Now will you talk your friends out of that bunker, or do we blow it in?"

  "You'll let us go?"

  "Yes."

  "Your word of honor, Lieutenant?"

  I nodded. "Certainly."

  "I guess I can't ask for any other guarantees." Flawn looked at Sergeant Ardwain and grimaced. "I wish I dared. All right, let me talk to them."

  By noon we had Fort Beersheeba to ourselves. Flawn and the others had left. They insisted on carrying their wounded with them, even when Doc Crisp told them most would probably die on the road. The women had been a varied assortment, from teenagers to older women. All had gone with Flawn, to my relief and the troopers' disappointment.

  Centurion Lieberman organized the defenses. He put men into the bunkers, set up revetments for the mortars, found material to repair the destroyed gates, stationed more men on the walls, got the mess tents put up, put the liquor we'd found into a strong room and posted guards over it.

  I was feeling useless again.

  In another hour there were parties coming up the road. I sent Sergeant Ardwain and a squad down there to set up a road block. We could cover them from the fort, and the mortars were set up to spray the road. The river was about 300 meters away and 100 meters below us, and the fort had a good field of fire all along the road for a klick in either direction. It was easy to see why this bluff had been chosen for a stronghold.

  As parties of refugees came through Ardwain disarmed them. At first they went through anyway, but after a while they began to turn back rather than surrender their weapons. None of them caused any problems, and I wouldn't let Ardwain pursue any that turned away. We had far too few men to risk any in senseless action.

  "Good work," Falkenberg told me when I made the afternoon report. "We've made 40 kilometers so far, and we've got a couple of hours of daylight left. It's a bit hard to estimate how fast we'll be able to march."

  "Yes, sir. The first party we disarmed had three Skyhawk missiles. There were five here at the fort, but nobody got them out in time to use them. Couple of guys who tried were killed by the mortars. It doesn't look good for helicopters in this area, though, now that they're warned."

  "Yes," Falkenberg replied. "I suspected as much. We'll retire the choppers for a while. You've done well, Slater. I caution you not to relax, though.
At the moment we've had no opposition worth mentioning, but that will change soon enough, and after that there may be an effort to break past your position. They don't seem to want to give up their weapons."

  "No, sir." And who could blame them? Eric Flawn had worried me. He hadn't seemed like an outlaw. I don't know what I'd expected here at Beersheeba. Kidnapped girls. Scenes of rape and debauchery, I suppose. I'd never seen a thieves' government in operation. Certainly I hadn't expected what I'd found, a group of middle-aged men in control of troops who looked a lot like ours, only theirs weren't very well equipped.

  "I understand you liberated some wine," Falkenberg said.

  "Yes, sir."

  "That'll help. Daily ration of no more than half a liter per man, though."

  "Sir? I wasn't planning on giving them any of it until you got here-"

  "It's theirs, Slater," Falkenberg insisted. "You could get away with holding on to it, but it wouldn't be best. It's your command. Do as you think you should, but if you want advice, give the troops half a liter each."

  "Yes, sir." There's no regulation against drinking in the Line marines. Not even on duty. There are severe penalties for rendering yourself unfit for duty. Men have even been shot for it. "Half a liter with supper, then."

  "I think it's wise," Falkenberg said. "Wall, sounds as if you're doing well. We'll be along in a few days. Out."

  There were a million other details. At noon I'd been startled by the trumpet sounding mess call and went out to see who it was. A corporal I didn't recognize held a polished brass trumpet.

  "Take me a few days to get everyone's name straight, Corporal," I said. "Yours?"

  "Corporal Brady, sir."

  "You play that well."

  "Thank you, sir."

  I looked at him again. I was sure his face was familiar. I thought I remembered that he'd been on Tri-V. Had his own band and singing group. Night club performances, at least one Tri-V special. I wondered what he was doing as an enlisted man in the Line marines, but I couldn't ask. I tried to remember his real name, but that escaped me too. It hadn't been Brady, I was sure of that. "You'll be sounding all calls here?"

  "Yes, sir, Centurion says I'm to do it."

  "Right. Carry on, Brady."

  All through the afternoon the trumpet calls sent men to other duties. An hour before the evening meal there was a formal retreat. The CoDominium banner was hauled down by a color guard while all the men not on sentry watch stood in formation and Brady played Colors. As they folded the banner I remembered a lecture in leadership class back at the academy.

  The instructor had been a dried-up marine major with one real and one artificial arm. We were supposed to guess which was which, but we never did. That particular lecture had been on ceremonials. "Always remember," he'd said, "the difference between an army and a mob is tradition and discipline. You cannot enforce discipline on troops who do not feel that they are being justly treated. Even the man who is wrongly punished must feel that what he is accused of deserves punishment. You cannot enforce discipline on a mob, and so your men must be reminded that they are soldiers. Ceremonial is one of your most powerful tools for doing that. It is true that we are perpetually accused of wasting money. The Grand Senate annually wishes to take away our dress uniforms, our badges and colors, and all the so-called non-functional items we employ. They are fortunate, because they have never been able to do that. The day that they do, they will find themselves with an army that cannot defend them.

  "Soldiers will complain about ceremonials and spit-and-polish, and such like, but they cannot live as an army without them. Men fight for pride, not for money, and no service that does not give them pride will last very long."

  Maybe, I thought. But with 1000 things to do I could have passed up a formal retreat on our first day at Fort Beersheeba. I hadn't been asked about it. By the time I knew it was to happen, Lieberman had made all the arrangements and given the orders.

  By suppertime we were organized for the night. Ardwain had collected about 100 weapons, mostly obsolete rifles-there were even muzzle-loaders, hand made here on Arrarat-and passed nearly 300 people through the roadblock.

  We closed the road at dusk. Searchlights played along it, and we had a series of roadblocks made of log stacks. Ardwain and his troops were dug in where they could cover the whole road area, and we could cover them from the fort. It looked pretty good.

  Tattoo sounded, and Fort Beersheeba began to settle in for the night.

  I made my rounds, looking into everything. The body-capacitance system the previous occupants had relied on was smashed when we blew open their bunker, but we'd brought our own surveillance gear. I didn't really trust passive systems, but I needn't have worried. Lieberman had guards in each of the towers. They were equipped with light-amplifying binoculars. There were more men to watch the IRr screens.

  ''We're safe enough," Lieberman reported. "If the lieutenant would care to turn in, I'll see the guard's changed properly."

  He followed me back to my quarters. Hartz had already fixed the place up. There were fresh adobe patches over the bullet holes in the walls. My gear was laid out where I could get it quickly. Hartz had his cloak and pack spread out in the anteroom.

  There was even coffee, A pot was kept warm over an alcohol lamp.

  "You can leave it to us," Lieberman said.

  Hartz grinned. "Sure. Lieutenants come out of the academy without any calluses, and we make generals out of them."

  "That may take some doing," I sighed. I invited Lieberman into my sitting room. There was a table there, with a scale model of the fort on it. Flawn had made it, but it hadn't done him much good. "Have a seat, Centurion. Coffee?"

  "Just a little, sir. I'd best get back to my duties."

  "Call me for the next watch, Centurion."

  "If the lieutenant orders it."

  "I just-what the hell, Lieberman, why don't you want me to take my turn on guard?"

  "No need, sir. May I make a suggestion?"

  "Sure."

  "Leave it to us, sir. We know what we're doing."

  I nodded and stared into my coffee cup. I didn't feel I was really in command here. They tell you everything in the academy. Leadership, communications, the precise form of a regimental parade, laser rangefinding systems, placement of patches on uniforms, how to compute firing patterns for mortars, wine rations for the troops, how to polish a pair of boots, servicing recoilless rifles, delivery of calling cards to all senior officers within 24 hours of reporting to a new post, assembly and maintenance of helicopters, survival on rocks with poisonous atmosphere or no atmosphere at all, shipboard routines, and a million other details. You have to learn them all, and they get mixed up until you don't know what's trivial and what's important. They're just things you have to know to pass examinations. "You know what you're doing, Centurion, but I'm not sure I do."

  "Sir, I've noticed something about young officers," Lieberman said. "They all take things too serious."

  "Command's a serious business." Damn, I thought. That's pompous. Especially from a young kid to an older soldier-

  He didn't take it that way. "Yes, sir. Too damned serious to let details get in the way. Lieutenant, if it was just things like posting the guard and organizing the defense of this place, the service wouldn't need officers. We can take care of all that. What we need is somebody to tell us what the hell to do. Once that's done, we know how."

  I didn't say anything. He looked at me closely, probably trying to figure out if I was angry. He didn't seem very worried.

  "Take me, for instance," he said. "I don't know why the hell we came to this place, and I don't care. Everybody's got his reasons for joining up. Me, I don't know what else to do. I've found something I'm good at, and I can do it. Officers tell me where to fight, and that's one less damn thing to worry about."

  The trumpet sounded outside. Last Post. It was the second time we'd heard it today. The first was when we'd buried our dead.

  "Got my rounds to m
ake," Lieberman said. "By your leave, sir."

  "Carry on, Centurion." A few minutes later Hartz came in to help me get my boots off. He wouldn't hear of letting me turn in wearing them.

  "We’ll hold 'em off long enough to get your boots on, zur. Nobody's going to catch a marine officer in the sack."

  He'd sleep with his boots on so that I could take mine off. It didn't make a lot of sense, but I wasn't going to win any arguments with him about it. I rolled into the sack and stared at the ceiling. My first day of command. I was still thinking about that when I went to sleep.

  The attacks started the next day. At first small parties tried to force the road block, and they never came close to doing that. We could put too much fire onto them from the fort.

  That night they tried the fort itself. There were a dozen mortars out there. They weren't very accurate, and our radar system worked fine. They would get off a couple of rounds, and then we'd have them backtracked to the point of origin and our whole battery would drop in on them. We couldn't silence them completely, but we could make it unhealthy for the crews servicing their mortars, and after a while the fire slackened off. There were rifle attacks all through the night, but nothing in strength.

  "Just testing you," Falkenberg said in the morning when I reported to him. "We're pressing hard from this end. They'll make a serious try before long."

  "Yes, sir. How are things at your end?"

  "We're moving," Falkenberg replied. "There's more fighting than the colonel expected, of course. With you stopping up their bolt hole they've got no route to retreat through. Fight or give up, that's all the choice we left them. You can look for their real effort to break past you in a couple of days. By then we'll be close enough to really worry them."

  He was right. By the fourth day we were under continuous attack from more than 1000 hostiles.

  It was a strange situation. No one was really worried. We were holding them off. Our ammunition stocks were running low, but Lieberman's answer to that was to order the recruits to stop using their weapons. They were put to serving mortars and recoilless rifles, with an experienced MCO in charge to make sure there was a target worth the effort before they fired. The riflemen waited for good shots and made each one count.