“Yes, sir,” Ferguson said.
And lets pray that I did it in time, Mark thought.
***
Ryan gritted his teeth as the first wave of enemy attackers came into view, darting forward as quickly as they could while using the remains of countless Landsharks and other vehicles for cover. They had much more cover than the Wolves, he noted, as he fired on the first man to come into view; the remains of the battlefield provided all the cover they could possibly want. And they were well-trained too, one force providing covering fire while the other leapfrogged forward and then covered the other.
“Message from command,” Rove shouted. “We’re to fall back to the jump-off points!”
A hail of shells crashed down in front of the bunker, providing a limited amount of cover. It slowed the enemy offensive for a few seconds, then the enemy started their advance again, throwing grenades and missiles forward to push the Wolves back. Ryan thought fast, trying to decide how best to retreat. There was no way to avoid the fact that they’d be exposed the second they left the bunker, their backs to the enemy. He’d been a soldier too long to believe that shooting someone in the back was anything other than a honourable approach and he rather suspected the enemy would agree.
He glanced at the sergeant, then made up his mind. “Leave four men with me,” he snapped, finally. “And then get the others back to safety!”
Rove gave him a sharp look. “I should stay with you.”
“Don’t argue, just go,” Ryan snapped. He took aim at an advancing enemy soldier and fired, twice. The man dropped, but Ryan wasn't sure if he was dead or if he was merely taking cover. “You need to get them back to safety! We’ll be along in five minutes.”
He watched the advancing enemy for a long moment, firing rapidly towards prospective targets. They seemed more inclined to advance carefully now, perhaps wary of another hail of shellfire; Ryan wished, bitterly, that he had a FFC under his command. But he didn't and he’d just have to live with the missed opportunity. Carefully, he unhooked his belt of grenades and prepared to throw them towards the enemy. The explosions would provide cover for the retreat.
“That’s five minutes,” he said. He hurled the grenades, then ducked low. “Go!”
They turned and ran through the maze of corridors; behind them, the grenades went off in a single blast. Ryan prayed to a god he wasn't sure he believed in that the enemy would be delayed, just long enough for them to escape. They reached the other side of the giant blockhouse; he stared in surprise as he realised Sergeant Rove had sent the others on ahead and waited for him. There was surprisingly little enemy shellfire, although he could hear the sound of mortars being fired in the distance. And ahead of him ...
He retched, violently, as he saw the bodies. He’d known, intellectually, that there had been thousands of casualties, but the sight of thousands of bodies strewn all over the field made him sick to his stomach. He didn't recognise any of them, yet he knew some of them had to be men he’d commanded, or men he’d served with during his career. They’d had good service records - on Thule, on Wolfbane, on countless other worlds - and yet they’d just been thrown away, attacking defences that might as well be impregnable. Cold anger burned within his gut, mixed with fear. What would happen when the offensive was resumed?
“Sir,” Sergeant Rove said. “We have to move now!”
Ryan nodded. He could hear the sound of enemy soldiers behind him, making their careful way through the abandoned blockhouse. It was a pity there had been no time to rig a few booby traps, but if they were lucky the enemy would be delayed anyway, looking for traps that weren't there. And if they weren't lucky ...
“Come on,” he said.
He took a grenade from one of the soldiers and threw it into the blockhouse, then started to run as it exploded. The sound of gunfire was growing louder; he cursed as he saw a missile streak off the ground and strike a helicopter, blowing it out of the sky. It had to be a friendly helicopter, judging by its position. The defenders seemed to have an unlimited supply of HVMs ...
Something slammed into his back, hard enough to throw him to the ground. The world spun around him as he landed hard, his stomach twisting brutally as violent pain seared through his body. He'd been shot, he realised; he'd actually been shot! He tried to cry out, as the world started to fade around him, but the words refused to form. Someone was talking very close to him ...
... But he couldn't make out a single word.
***
“We’ve got most of our men out,” Ferguson reported. “The enemy has reoccupied their blockhouses, what’s left of them, but they’re not launching a pursuit.”
Mark nodded, curtly. The enemy had played it smart, so far; they wouldn't hurl themselves into the teeth of his firepower. Why throw away their greatest advantage? All they had to do was hold their position, knowing the battle wouldn't be settled until Mark had occupied their city or alternatively ground it into dust.
“Get the wounded up here as quickly as possible,” he ordered. “And convert a number of local buildings into hospitals.”
“Yes, sir,” Ferguson said. “But it’s not going to be enough.”
Mark couldn't disagree. So far, the field medics reported that there were over seven thousand wounded, ranging from minor injuries to wounds that would be lethal, in time, if they weren't treated. But they couldn’t be treated! Their medical supplies were grossly inadequate to handle so many casualties, forcing the medics to concentrate on the men who could be saved with what they had on hand. Mark silently promised himself that he would have the medical officers rebuked for their failure, even though he knew the root of the problem lay with him - and Admiral Singh. Pushing the offensive had been a mistake.
“Once the shooting dies down, send a messenger to the enemy,” he said, pushing his concerns aside. “Tell them we want to collect the dead bodies and give them a proper burial.”
“I don’t know if the Admiral would approve,” Ferguson said.
Mark rounded on him, feeling his temper snap. “Right now, you are under my command and you will do as I tell you,” he snarled. Where was the competent Ferguson? Where was the man who had commanded the first troops to land on the surface? “You can complain to the Admiral later, if you wish, but you will do as I command or” - he put a hand on the holster at his belt - “you will be executed on the spot for disobeying orders in the face of the enemy!”
Ferguson paled. “I’ll send the message now,” he said. “Sir ...”
“Go do it,” Mark growled.
He glared at the display, forcing himself to calm down. He’d kept Ferguson in the FOB for too long, rather than allowing him to go back to the troops. And now Ferguson had become political, taking steps because he was afraid for his own prospects rather than because they were necessary. He was probably right to worry about his career, Mark admitted privately, but there were worse problems on hand. There were almost certainly wounded men on the ground, bleeding to death. They had to be recovered before it was too late.
Gritting his teeth, he sat back on his chair and watched as the reports came in. The death toll continued to rise as wounded soldiers passed away, despite the best efforts of the medical teams. He made a note to check the POWs for any doctors - he would be willing to pay, or offer parole, to anyone who was willing to help - but he suspected it would be futile. The enemy would probably have withdrawn any doctors before they could be pressed into service.
“The local CO reports that the enemy have accepted the message,” Ferguson reported. “But they’re insisting that the recovery parties be unarmed.”
“Accept, then tell him to get organised,” Mark ordered, curtly. “And make sure he knows the recovery parties are to behave themselves. They’re not being sent on a spying mission.”
“Yes, sir,” Ferguson said.
“I mean it,” Mark said. It wouldn't be the first time some mid-ranking officer had tried to be clever. “We do not want our teams kicked out for spying.”
“Yes, sir,” Ferguson repeated.
Mark nodded, then returned to his thoughts. It was maddening - and frustrating. There was no way to spin the battle as anything other than a defeat. They hadn't even captured enough room to bury their dead! The only real consolation was that the enemy had taken losses too, although far fewer than his forces. They still held the city, they still held their defence lines and they still held their damnable shield. His attempts to bombard the shield generator’s prospective location had all failed.
He skimmed through the reports, one by one. If nothing else, they had learned a great deal about the enemy’s defences. Their blockhouses were clever, but they were really very simple constructions. And they did have weaknesses ... a thought occurred to him and he started to work, looking for possible alternatives. Maybe there were other ways to break through the defence line and get into the city itself.
It’ll take time, he thought, grimly. It was workable, yet would the Admiral give him the time to make it work? He’d have to work hard to convince her to let him try. And if it doesn't work, I can kiss my career goodbye.
He shook his head, slowly. After so many lives had been lost, the Admiral would be desperate for a success. And yet, what if it failed a second time?
She’ll be desperate for a scapegoat, he thought, with gallows humour. And I would fit the bill perfectly.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
The first type of officer would lose control of his unit very quickly, leaving his men a leaderless rabble scattered over the battlefield. This would naturally allow a competent enemy to wipe them out before they could reform (if indeed they did; a number of stragglers were wiped out by lower-caste bandits before they could return to safety.)
- Professor Leo Caesius. The Role of Randomness In War.
“Hell,” Ed said, quietly.
The scene before him was a nightmare. Hundreds of dead bodies were clearly visible, enemy recovery teams working hard to collect them, bag them up and carry them back to their lines for a decent burial. Dozens of destroyed or disabled vehicles lay within view, blown apart by missile hits or badly damaged by mines. Their blackened remains mocked him, even as he forced himself to remember that the battle was won. It was no consolation. He’d slaughtered thousands upon thousands of enemy soldiers, but their commanding officers were out of reach.
Poor bastard, he thought, looking at the remains of an enemy soldier. He seemed to be sitting upright, but his skull was broken and his brains were oozing down to the torn and broken ground. What did you do to have such a commanding officer?
He shook his head slowly. People would argue, in days and months to come, that the slaughter was his fault. He’d been the one who baited the trap, he’d been the one who’d lured the enemy into a killing zone. And yet, he hadn't started the war. He would have been happy to come to terms with Governor Brown, to recognise Wolfbane as a successor state equal to the Commonwealth. But Governor Brown, either out of an desire for power or a cool awareness of how technological advances would change the universe forever, had started the war. The men below him had paid the price for their master’s misdeeds.
And now their mistress, he thought, looking up at the shield. It was nothing more than a faint shimmer in the air, barely visible to the naked eye, but it was there. The simple fact they were still alive proved it was there. She couldn't begin to understand the horror she’d inflicted on her own people.
The thought gave him no pleasure. Historically, the marines had enjoyed a considerable degree of freedom when it came to planning their operations. Ed would not have authorised a headlong charge into enemy fire, even if he’d had the entire Marine Corps behind him; he would have chosen to wear the enemy down piecemeal, while preparing a force to take advantage of any sudden weakness. But Admiral Singh, used to seeing planets fall quickly, had ordered an immediate attack. It would probably not have amused her, Ed reflected, to know that she had more in common with her former superiors than she cared to think.
At least we took some prisoners, he thought, sourly. We’ll learn something from them.
He turned and strode back towards the inner layer of blockhouses. They were blackened by missile strikes and intensive shellfire, but remained largely intact. The wounded had already been shipped to hospitals within the city, placed well away from any defensive installations that might draw fire. There was still the risk of an accident, or Admiral Singh deciding to fire shells into the city at random, but there was no other choice. Admiral Singh was unlikely to accept any proposal to ship the wounded out of the city.
She’s far too used to seeing men being healed overnight and springing back to work, Ed thought. So was he, but the medics were overwhelmed. Corinthian was an advanced world, yet it had already run short of medical technology and supplies. There were too many wounded who would bear the scars for the rest of their lives, unless they paid to have them removed in later life. She doesn't comprehend what she’s done to her men and ours.
He nodded to the guard outside the blockhouse, who checked his ID before allowing him into the complex. Inside, the air stank of piss and sweat and human fear; soldiers manned the ramparts while others sat against the concrete walls, trying hard to catch a few moments of sleep before they were called back to duty. A lieutenant started, his face flickering though a dizzying series of emotions as he saw Ed. Ed waved him down before he could do anything stupid like waking his men to greet their ultimate superior. He’d always hated the officers who showed up for photographs, after the battle was won. He was damned if he was turning into one of those bastards himself.
A stab of guilt ran through him as he kept walking, reprimanding him for not sharing the dangers with his men. Marine officers were meant to lead from the front, to be first in the charge and the last in the retreat, but he’d been in the bunker during the battle. Cold logic told him that there had been no choice; emotion told him he should have been on the front lines, commanding the defence of a blockhouse and calling down fire on the advancing enemy soldiers. It had been far too long, he reflected as he clambered down a ladder into the lower levels, since he’d been in real danger. The ill-fated assassination attempt on Gaby, just before the war began, didn't really count.
You were on Lakshmibai, he reminded himself. Does that not count?
He sighed inwardly as he stepped into the command room. It wasn't much, merely a handful of terminals on tables and a pair of chairs. General Mathis was sitting on one of the chairs, issuing a calm series of orders to a pair of junior officers. Ed nodded to him as he looked up, then motioned for him to finish talking to his officers. He’d always hated it when a higher-up dropped in without advance notification, particularly when it was one of the officers who expected everyone to genuflect and prostrate themselves in front of him. Mathis could finish his essential work before talking to Ed.
“Colonel,” Mathis said, when he had dismissed the officers. “Thank you for coming.”
Ed nodded. If Mathis meant that, he’d eat his Rifleman’s Tab. “I won't be staying long,” he said, feeling another twinge of guilt. If he couldn't be on the front lines when the shit hit the fan, he owed it to himself to view the remains of men and women under his command. “I just wanted to see the repair work in person.”
“We’re holding back until the enemy have finished removing their dead,” Mathis said, his tone flat. It was easy to tell that he expected Ed to overrule him. “I know they pledged not to send any spies, but I’d be surprised if the recovery crews aren’t interrogated once the task is done.”
“Almost certainly,” Ed agreed. “Do we have a rough idea of just how many enemy died in the fighting?”
“We think around ten thousand, sir,” Mathis said. Ed sucked in his breath sharply. He knew that thousands of people died each day on Earth - or had died on Earth - but he just wasn't used to such staggering losses. Enemy morale had to be in the crapper. Even the most fanatical of religious zealots had problems coping with immense casualty rates. “But there’s no way to
be sure.”
Ed nodded, curtly. There were so many mangled bodies between the defence lines that it would be hard, if not impossible, for a WARCAT team to isolate just how many people had actually died. They’d have to use DNA testing, he thought, and even then it would be hard to give a definite answer. And that figure didn't include the wounded, the men and women who had been badly injured and died before receiving medical treatment; hell, it was quite possible that a number of enemy soldiers had deserted, once they realised just how little their superiors cared for their lives. He might never know for sure just how many Wolves had died in the fighting.
We’ll have to compare notes after the war, he thought, grimly. And the Wolves themselves might not know just how many people they’ve lost.
He shook his head. “How quickly can you repair the defence lines?”
“The inner lines can be repaired fairly quickly, within a week at most,” Mathis said. He snorted, rudely. “Repairing the outermost defence line is likely to be impossible, particularly if the enemy seeks to interfere with our operations. Sir ... a single volley of shellfire per day would be enough to slow us down. We simply don’t have enough equipment to soak up the losses.”
They Shall Not Pass (The Empire's Corps Book 12) Page 29
