Jonathan Maberry - SNAFU - An Anthology of Military Horror

The sergeant whirled to give the private a hide tearing, but I stopped Stuart short. “It’s okay for him to speak freely in this case, Sergeant.” I turned to the private. “When did he leave?”

“Soon as they was spotted, sir. Took a look over the wall and was off on the first ‘orse ‘e came to,” the private said.

I shook my head.

“Bloody yellow bastard,” muttered a nearby private..

I gave the man a sharp look then pulled Sergeant Stuart aside. “Is this true? He deserted?”

“Aye, sor .”

“Is there anyone else? Any senior officers?”

“Just Captain McKee, with the dragoons, sor .”

“Christ,” I said. Stuart nodded. I looked over the wall again; the men stumbled into the ditch and piled up, shuffling about and wandering aimlessly. “What the hell are they doing?”

Just as I spoke, there was a rush of small bodies that moved with eerie rapidity. I drew my sword and pistol as the first wave rushed over the top of the wall.

The creatures were monkeys of all shapes and description, and rotten to a one. Their bodies were disgusting bags of dripping fluids, clotted blood, and matted hair. Their eyes, when they were present, either bulged grotesquely or were a creamy, blind white. Their dirty-yellow teeth were bared in a hateful grimace. They swarmed up and over and attacked the men, leaping onto backs and chests. They pulled hair, bit at throats and exposed skin, tried to gouge out eyes, and tore at the men with jagged nails.

One of the stinking beasts leapt onto my back. I tried to cut at the bastard with my saber but couldn’t get a good angle on him. Crazy scenes of carnage whirled past my vision as I tried to get the shrieking monster off. Men grabbed monkeys from their friends and crushed those heinous heads beneath hobnailed boots.

Sergeant Stuart whirled his halberd in a cyclone of steel and crushed bodies. Monkeys stuffed my men’s eyeballs, nerves and all, into their gaping mouths and leaped about like madness manifest. Men unlucky enough to lose eyes and limbs rolled on the ground, screaming in puddles of blood as the beasts feasted on their flesh.

I dropped my saber and reached over my shoulder and grabbed the monkey. Small bones snapped beneath my fingers, and the flesh came away in a stinking patch, releasing a horrible stench that burned down my throat. I dragged the monkey free. The rotten simian shrieked in my face and raked my cheeks with its nails. Pistol now in hand, I shoved the barrel into its midsection and pulled the trigger. The hammer snapped forward and a fountain of gore blasted out the back of the devil. I threw the corpse over the wall, grabbed my saber from the floor, and laid about myself. I slashed at the beasts attacking my men, chopping off little heads and furry limbs in a pattering rainfall of ripe organs and decayed bones.

After what seemed an eternity, the monkeys were beaten back — little backs snapped and heads burst under musket butts. Men who had lost their weapons during the melee literally tore the monsters apart with their bare hands. When the last beast was thrown back over the wall, the men cheered their victory.

I was soaked in black, clotted blood and bits of offal. Sergeant Stuart was the vision of Death himself. The only bit of him that didn’t drip with blood or gore was his eyes, which were wide, red, and angry. At that moment I think he could have killed a man or tiger with a mere look. He raised his bloody halberd above his head and roared:

“Take more than monkeys to put our lads in the ground!”

A cheer rose around him.

I wiped my saber clean and sheathed it at my side. When the cheering died down, I motioned to Stuart. “Good fighting, Sergeant. Get the men ready for another assault. Muskets primed, bayonets set.”

Stuart nodded and yelled orders.

The sound of the bayonets snapping into their locks as one thrilled me. I had never before been in a battle such as this — a desperate fight in close quarters. I found I rather liked it, but I had my doubts about command. Captain Griffin was a veteran, had regaled us many nights in the officers’ mess with tales of his combat prowess. To make such a man flee… I shook my head.

I walked the parapets to take stock of the wounded and killed. We’d lost several men to blindness — their eyes punctured or even torn out. Many more had severe bites that left bloody crescents oozing languid blood. The dead were taken to the fort chapel until we could give them a proper ceremony.

As I walked the wall, the enemy shambled into view. My God, there’s thousands. We were completely surrounded. A cold chill stabbed through me. How would we ever defend against such a numerous enemy?

I schooled my face, showed no outward sign of my fear as that would only serve to panic the men — they were worried enough by the attack and the desertion of our captain. I made light talk with the ensigns, to let everyone know I was in command. I inspected muskets and personal weapons; made sure each bayonet was sharp and well-attached. These men were ready for a fight. I came to the last little stretch of wall and found the big Scottish captain of the dragoons.

Captain McKee was a huge, handsome man. He wore a full, black beard, despite the tradition and regulations that dragoons be clean-shaven. His eyes sparkled with deadly mirth, and the carbine he was aiming over the wall as I approached looked like a toy in his hands. The carbine roared, spat fire, and one of the enemies in the ditch fell, pierced right through the head. A small mound of bodies testified to his accuracy.

“Ha! I haven’t had this much fun since Assaye!” The big man laughed as he reloaded his carbine.

“Captain McKee, sir!”

He turned to me. “You can call me Robert. I think the circumstances rather allow it.”

“Yes sir… er, Robert. I want to formally offer you command of the infantry, being the most senior commander, and in light of your—”

McKee held up a hand to cut me off. “Nay, Nick. Keep your infantry. I’m a cavalryman and would nay know what to do with your men. Not properly.”

“Thank you, Robert.” I stepped close. “May I come to you for advice? I’ve never… that is, never had the command, to…”

“Never led men in combat. Aye, I know. Yes, of course you can ask for my help. Given the situation,” he said, with a wave of his hand towards the walls, “I think you may end up relying on yourself more than you think anyway.” He turned back to the wall and fired off another shot. A body fell into the ditch. He grinned. “If we’ve got enough shot and they decide to keep up the ducks in a pond act, I think we’ll do rather well.”

“I estimate they number in the thousands. We have plenty of shot and powder, but not enough to kill every man in an army.”

McKee turned a critical eye to the men piling into the ditch. “Every side about the same?”

“Yes, sir. Robert.”

He nodded. “Aye, I agree, then. Probably a few thousand so far.” He looked thoughtful. “I’ll take me lads out and have a look. Get the full scope of the enemy’s disposition.”

“We’ll make sure the gate is clear. Which do you want to use?”

“The south gate. I gather the enemy is mostly coming from the north?”

I nodded.

“Good, then the south it is. They’ll be lightest there.” McKee hurried down the ladder and into the parade ground. “Dragoons! Form up, lads! We’re ridin’!”

I pulled more men towards the southern side of the redoubt — two hundred in all. Sergeant Stuart joined me.

“Infantry, form line!”

They ordered themselves into two rigid lines.

“Shoulder arms!”

Two hundred muskets came up.

“Fire!”

Two hundred muskets spoke, roaring with voices of fire. A line of men outside the walls shook and fell apart. Musket balls blasted off limbs, gore showered into the air, and as the powder-smoke cleared, only a few crawled along the ground or clawed at the air. Two hundred men reloaded and prepared another volley.