Colonel Zhao’s expression hardened. “So General Kim is shifting our army west to support Legate Bekiaa and smash the Grik deploying there. After that?” Zhao shrugged. “Ideally, Kim might take the force across from us in the flank in turn, or even bypass it and leave it floundering behind us.” He snorted. “The Grik aren’t known for quick and decisive responses to the unexpected.”
Neither were we, not long ago, Prefect Soli conceded.
“But what does that mean for us?” she asked. “We can’t simply form up and march away.” She pointed across the dry river again. “Those Grik still represent a significant percentage of their army and will attack at once whether they know what we’re doing or not. Without some sort of discouraging entanglement to slow them, we’d be destroyed and General Kim’s entire redeployment…” She stopped and blinked rapidly, dread creeping into her Lemurian equivalent to human facial expressions. “We’re the rear guard, the sacrificial ‘entanglement,” she hissed lowly so troops around them couldn’t hear.
Zhao nodded uncomfortably. “All three legions of the Eleventh will remain in these works, along with the Second Division to the east. Their right flank should be secured by the closest elements of General Taal-Gaak’s cavalry. But we must continue to seem to be the entire army for as long as we can.”
“And then die,” Prefect Soli murmured.
“Possibly,” Zhao agreed. He waited until Soli’s large yellow eyes met his smaller brown ones. “As acting legate for the Eleventh Division, I may not be with the Seventh Legion as much as I’d like in the…difficult time to come, but I’m confident you’ll hold the line as long as anyone possibly could…” He paused and frowned. “And when the time comes,” he continued darkly, “as I’m morally certain it will, you’ll ensure that the Seventh Legion performs an orderly withdrawal from these works and rejoins the rest of the army intact. If it can be done, you’ll do it, Prefect Soli.”
Soli gulped involuntarily. She believed she was a good soldier and knew she’d been a better than average optio, then centurion. But casualties had mounted quickly in the battles that brought them here, and she’d become senior centurion, then prefect, in the space of a single day at the Battle of Soala. Despite going through the motions and emulating senior officers she respected, Soli considered herself utterly unqualified to be Zhao’s XO, much less to command the 7th Legion.
I’ll have no idea when to pull out, much less how, she thought.
Zhao abruptly turned to move along, but stopped and spoke over his shoulder. “Now I must pass the word to the other legion commanders.” He waited while more heavy shot pounded the breastworks, showering him with a small landslide of gravel. “I’ll be back as soon as I can,” he assured. “If I can. Until then, you’re in charge.” He grinned. “And who knows? Maybe the Grik won’t attack, and we can simply leave this position under cover of darkness.”
We both know better, she thought.
The dark-bearded Senior Centurion Fannius, now Prefect Soli’s acting XO, crept closer as Zhao disappeared around a corner of the zigzag trench. Soli wasn’t surprised to see the canvas cover securely fastened over the bolt action of the human’s 11mm rifle and suspected every weapon in his entire 1st Century would be similarly protected.
“So that’s how it is?” Fannius almost shouted, making it clear he’d heard the exchange. He was just as conscious as Soli how Zhao’s news might affect morale, but the renewed thunder of heavy guns made whispering unnecessary. Besides, word would spread regardless, sweeping back from the 19th and 31st Legions as Zhao apprised their leaders. Fannius had proven that people always overheard, and it was better to get ahead of things before rumor made them worse.
“Go to the other centurions,” Soli told him. “Explain what’s happening, but stress to them and their troops that we’ll still have plenty of support. All we have to do is delay the Grik long enough for Kim to get out from in front of them—and smash their friends before they know he’s coming.”
“Support, eh?” Fannius asked dubiously.
“That’s right,” Soli snapped back, surprised as much by her sudden spike of anger as by Fannius’s tone. She’d always thought he was as steady as a rock, ever since their training days.
Maybe the familiarity has bred contempt? she thought, then continued in a still forceful tone.
“Artillery, air, and General Taal’s cavalry. The cavalry, at least, will support our withdrawal when the time comes.”
“If you say so.”
Soli bared her sharp canines. “I do, and so will you if you don’t want to be broken to the ranks.”
Taken aback by Soli’s intensity, Fannius must’ve done some quick thinking of his own and readily accepted the rebuke. He might’ve even saluted if such gestures weren’t forbidden on the front lines. “Aye, Prefect, at once.”
Soli squinted around, catching furtive, dusty glances from nearby troops. “And hurry back,” she called after Fannius. “I’ll be here with your First Century when you return.”
Fannius wasn’t gone for long, as there wasn’t much “word” to spread. And under steady bombardment, there was little else the legion could do other than deepen their trenches and add to the berm protecting them. Occasional volleys of Grik musket fire pattered loose soil in the vicinity of anyone who showed themselves, however briefly. A Republic soldier would have to be amazingly unlucky, however, for even one out of a hundred balls fired from smoothbore muskets to strike him or her at this distance. The much improved Grik field artillery had a better chance, and even if it seemed excessive to send a nine-pound ball at a single soldier, the Grik were willing. They were going to shoot it anyway.
They might not have exploding shells, but apparently they do not want for powder and roundshot, Soli thought.
The same couldn’t be said for the 7th Legion. Plenty of small arms ammunition—and water!—was still coming up through hastily dug communication trenches, but Soli had been wrong about continued artillery and air support. Occasional barrages still fell on the enemy, churning well-known positions and doubtless slaughtering Grik. Far less often, a little Cantet—swift but fragile-looking biplanes that were the Republic’s only land-based aircraft so far—swooped over the enemy lines and dropped a couple of small incendiaries. Combined, it wasn’t much at all, as the Republic’s precious aircraft and most of their long-range artillery was obviously busy to the west.
I hope the lack of support here means things are going well for the 5th Division, Soli thought. The possibility that Kim’s redeployment had perhaps run into more than it could handle was too grim to consider for long.
“It’s all that bloody foreign female’s fault we’re in this mess. That ‘Legate Bekiaa,’” Senior Centurion Fannius grumped, risking a quick glance over the berm to convince himself the enemy wasn’t already sprinting down on them from across the dried-up river.
“How do you mean?” Soli asked.
Fannius glanced at her a little sheepishly as if wondering how Soli would react to criticism of another female infantry officer, regardless of origin. Like virtually every culture entirely or partially composed of Lemurians (or what the rest of the Grand Alliance simply referred to as “Cats”), there was absolute equality of the sexes in the Republic of Real People. They might be a little more…genteel about it than most, but the very idea of discrimination based on sex was preposterous to them—with a couple of exceptions. Human and Lemurian females had never been prohibited from serving in the navy or cavalry, and even female Gentaa occasionally went in the navy. But harkening back millennia to various inter-species conflicts, wars, the unification wars, and the numerous civil wars that followed, females weren’t allowed in the infantry or, for that matter, artillery when it first became available.
This was considered sensible for a variety of entirely practical reasons, from the simple necessity to populate the Republic to the nature of infantry warfare and its requisite heavy armor, shields, and weapons. Few females in the Republic could compete with the major
ity of males in that kind of combat. The earliest large and cumbersome field artillery had posed the same problem. Prohibitions against females in those branches began to dwindle over the last couple of generations, however, as gunpowder weapons became lighter and equally lethal in anyone’s hands.
Still, Soli thought, it took the current war to really start sweeping that old thinking away, and even now I’m likely one of a handful of females my rank. Which only took a lot of misfortune and dead people.
She looked sharply at Fannius but not for the reason he expected.
“I don’t care where she’s from, Legate Bekiaa-Sab-At—and Ambassador Bradford—saved this army at Gaughala when everything was falling apart. You don’t remember that? How scared we all were? They probably saved it again at Soala by helping us build it into what it is!” Blinking thoughtfully, Soli stared off to the west. There was little to burn in this desolate, rocky waste, so only the smoke of battle and bursting artillery shells could so thickly smudge the heat-shimmered sky a dozen kilometers away. Ironically, probably only the smoke of the immediate, ongoing Grik cannonade kept the enemy from seeing it too, and learning the real battle was shifting elsewhere.
“I’ll wager that ‘foreign female’ is saving our army yet again,” Soli said, glaring back at Fannius as she nodded in the direction of the rising smoke. “Whether we live to know it or not.”
The hot, dry, choking day went on with little change as the glaring sun seared its way inexorably overhead and scorching iron spheres pummeled their position without pause. The barrage caused relatively few physical casualties but the psychological toll was mounting on the helpless troops, unable to respond. Colonel Zhao requested periodic updates via one of the ingenious battery-powered field telephones their allies in the United Homes had provided, checking on them and ensuring they knew he hadn’t forgotten them, Soli was sure. He only returned once, however, in mid-afternoon, bearing news from a runner that the battle in the west was in the balance, and General Kim had joined it but a number of units were lagging badly. More immediate from their perspective, aerial reconnaissance had confirmed the Grik in front of them were massing for an attack. Zhao then apologetically explained that he felt compelled to return to the 19th Legion to help steady its wobbly commander. Soli understood, and was actually a little flattered, but would’ve preferred that he stay and “steady” her. It never occurred to her that Zhao’s absence did more to bolster her confidence than his presence ever could.
Surprisingly, the Grik never attacked that day. Perhaps they heard about the battle in the west themselves, or maybe they were just waiting for the heat of the day to pass. In any event, they seemed content merely to maintain the daylong, galling bombardment that jarred the berm above the trench and showered troops with dust, grit, and the occasional wounding stone. Troops that were exhausted, afraid, but also now somewhat complacent, hunkered beneath their helmets with scarfs around their faces. That all changed shortly before dark when the Grik on the north side of the desiccated river bed finally revealed they possessed exploding shells for their artillery after all.
A brief lull teased the shattered, breathless air in the open space between the armies, during which Soli, Fannius, and quite a few others raised their heads to watch the last rays of the dying sun flare red-gold across the top of the gunsmoke cloud before winking out entirely. Then flashes erupted deep in the cloud as the cannonade resumed, redoubled, and the curious spectators quickly ducked. A thunderous rumble of what seemed like a hundred guns reached them just as sputtering shells cracked and flashed amid dirty rags of smoke almost directly overhead. Jagged iron slashed up irregular ovals of dust and sparking, shattering stones. Shrieks of pain and terror rose, mainly to the rear in the communication trenches, but the next salvo would probably burst right into them. The Grik had finally begun to learn the art of artillery from their enemies, and if their cannon were still exclusively muzzle-loaders, (most of the Republic’s allies would have to say the same), and their ammunition remained somewhat crude, the skill of their gunners had improved disconcertingly.
“Get down! Everyone against the north side of the trench!” Soli roared, her warning repeated by officers and NCOs up and down the line. Grik guns began firing independently, about half the fuses on their shells set for best effect, and hot iron churned the trench itself. It seemed everyone was yelling and screaming now, and Soli wasn’t sure she wasn’t one of them. A shell dropped directly in the trench barely thirty meters to the left, blasting men and Lemurians up and out, to lie dead or moaning in the open. Only the zigzag nature of the trench protected Soli and those around her. Stunned or terrified, a trooper tried to bolt to the rear and Centurion Fannius tackled him and slapped him on the back of the head when his helmet rolled away. “You idiot!” he roared over the stunning cacophony of explosions and whirling fragments. “Are you trying to get yourself killed? Your only chance is to see this through!” Yanking the man up, he flung him back against the north side of the trench. A shell snapped just to the front, most of its force flailing the berm, but a single shard slashed down and through the top of the frightened trooper’s unprotected head. He collapsed to the bottom of the trench and writhed as soundless and senseless as a worm. “Well, shit!” Fannius seethed.
“You tried,” Soli consoled him.
Fannius blinked at her in the way of her people, conveying disgust. “I tried to save him so he could fight, and maybe keep me alive!” He glared at the corpse. “Useless bastard!”
The savage barrage continued unabated for forty minutes or so, until it was completely dark, and the bright yellow-red flashes blinded, deafened, and filled the air with sharp, lethal shapes. Soli and the Seventh Legion had no artillery on the line, and even if their light mortar crews could ply their weapons without being slaughtered, the Republic variety barely had the range, and they needed to save their ammunition for the inevitable assault. At present all they could do was lay as flat as they could and take it.
Some cracked, like the first man, and simply disappeared. Most of those were probably cut down by slashing iron in the open. More vanished in a welter of gore with handfuls of comrades when the trench confined and concentrated a direct hit, proving it mattered little what they did at that point and survival was as much a result of luck—or divine providence—as anything. Many a voice was loudly raised in frantic prayer to various deities reflecting the diverse origins of Republic citizens.
Then, when the shelling finally—suddenly—stopped, there came an almost silence. Most had been sufficiently deafened by the constant blasts they could hardly hear the high-pitched shrieks of the wounded. Only low-frequency sound could reach them now, and that’s why they clearly heard the rumbling, thrumming roar of the bellows-driven war horns of the Grik.
“That’s it!” Soli shouted. “Up! Up and make ready! They’ll be coming now!”
“Action covers off! Fix bayonets!” Fannius shouted, tearing the canvas cover off his own weapon and wiping at the dust that had filtered past it. Long-bladed bayonets clacked and clattered as they were latched in place. Repeated orders spread swiftly, buglers in the communication sections blowing ‘stand-to, action front.’ Men and Lemurians readied themselves on the forward slope of the trench. Even a few Gentaa, who’d been carrying crates of ammunition, snatched up weapons no longer of use to the dead and prepared to fight as well. Soli was surprised by that. Gentaa resembled both Lemurians and humans—with their fur and tails, but otherwise more human features and bearing—closely enough to inspire legends (uncomfortable to all concerned) that they were hybrids. Most knew that was ridiculous, and Gentaa were an entirely different species, yet the…delicacy with which they’d always been treated allowed them to establish a clannish, lucrative, and somewhat separate culture within the Republic, and they were very particular about the roles they played in its society. Fighting wasn’t generally one of them. Under the circumstances, these Gentaa seemed ready to make an exception.
Half a kilometer away, fierce Grik voice
s, rising in anticipation, smothered the strident moan of the horns.
“Runner!” Soli shouted, voice a little higher than usual, “have the comm section ask the corps artillery reserve to resume firing in our support.”
“Yes, Prefect!” cried a frightened young Lemurian, bolting to the right.
Fannius leaned over and spoke in her ear. “If the communication lines haven’t been chopped up by the barrage, and if…” The young soldier was already back, led by a signaler with an optio’s rank device.
“There is no corps artillery reserve, Prefect Soli!” the optio cried, desperately trying to keep the terror from his voice.
“They already pulled it out and started moving it west,” Fannius guessed. “There’s nothing left?” he demanded.
The optio shook his head. “Even our own few batteries close behind have pulled back, out from under the barrage.” His voice rose. “They know we’re going to be overrun and want to save the guns!”
“Silence, fool. Get hold of yourself!” Fannius scolded, but Soli figured the optio was right.
What does that leave us? Soli wondered. During the army’s reformation after the Battle of Gaughala, legions had been standardized at ten centuries—roughly a thousand troops. The 7th has been whittled down to half that number, and so has the 19th. The 31st has seen little action, so it’s probably close to strength. The Maker knows how badly the enemy artillery hurt us, but I doubt the entire 11th Division has two thousand effectives left. The 2nd Division in line to our right probably suffered similar losses in the current offensive. So, figure four thousand effectives with breechloading rifles, probably a couple of hundred close range mortars, and forty or fifty Maxim-style machine guns—with limited ammunition. (The Maxims had been made to fire the same 7.93x57mm cartridge as the weapon that inspired them, and though the factories were now turning out more of them than even the 11x60mm standard infantry round, Maxims really gobbled them up. Not much against…how many thousands of Grik? Way too many.
Trouble in the Wind Page 30
