S. Stirling - Against the Tide of Years

Muzzle-loaders, twelve-pounder smoothbores, he thought, watching the swab-ram-fire loading drill. Firing shrapnel, time-fused shells. They were getting off more then two rounds a minute. Good practice.

Somewhere his soul winced; he'd put Paddy's unit out there as bait, and they were going to pay again, the way they had this morning. The rifle fire dropped off as the Scouts hugged the bottoms of their holes; the area around their position was turning into a haze of dust and smoke as the enemy fell into a regular rhythm of load-run-up-swab-ram-fire, rounds coming forward from the limbers like a bucket chain at a blaze.

Price of doing business, he told himself, as the cry of "corpsman!" went up and the stretcher teams went forward. He'd authorized enlisting local volunteers to carry wounded, to free his own troops for the fighting, and they were going in as bravely as men could be asked to do.

"Captain Lautens," he said into the radio. He wished Chong were here-he knew the man's work-but Lautens hadn't screwed up so far. The artillery commander's voice replied crisply:

"When you unmask, go for those whatever-they-ares brought forward with the infantry; they're your first priority."

"Sir, yessir. We're ready."

"Good man."

Closer, closer… One of the mystery weapons stopped, turned. The shield hid whatever it was the crew did at the breech, but he could see rifle rounds sparking off it in snapping white flicks of light, leaving lead smears across the metal. Has to be steel for that, he thought; a wrought-iron shield would be too soft. Then the muzzle flashes, and a distant braaaaapp of sound. The bullets struck sparks all around the Scout company's mortar position, off rocks and the barrel of the weapon. The crew had gone to earth in their slit trench, as he'd ordered in advance-they were there to lure the enemy, not hurt him.

"Take a note of that shield," he said to the lieutenant who was in charge of Intel. "Multiple barrels, I'd say." Hadn't there been some French weapon? "Rate of fire's not as high as a Gatling, but it's definitely useful."

Fairly close now, the long line of men jogging forward, their artillery firing over their heads. Those heads went up, an apprehensive movement-valuable clue to the reliability of their fuses. Now they went down on one knee, bringing their rifles to their shoulders…

"Paddy, your people are out of it-have them cease fire and take cover. All company commanders," he said into the radio. "Now! "

Canvas covers flew off, and the whole of the Islander position erupted in smoke and red strobing flashes. The Marine riflemen were firing at maximum speed, mad-minute snatch-and-shoot; the Gatling gunners turning the cranks and grinding out a storm of lead like water from a high-pressure hose. An endless string of firecrackers might have sounded something like that, if they'd been thrown by the hundreds. The steady, heavy thuds of the artillery came through it, and he saw one of the enemy rapid-fire weapons disintegrate, wheel and barrel and shield flying in separate directions… probably with pieces of the crew mixed in.

"Clamp! Clamp and tie off."

Clemens hated spouting wounds. Azzu-ena's hand came down into the cavity with the long scissorslike instrument; the blunt tips found the vein and pinched it closed. An assistant slid her fingers in with the loop of catgut ready. They stayed out of his way with practiced skill.

"Number four!" he called, and someone put it into his hand. It was a small silvered mirror on the end of a thin curved handle. He slid it in carefully…

"Got it! Extractor."

The number four went into his left hand, and he used the tiny smeared picture to guide the needle-nosed instrument in his right. Ease it closed, and the feel of metal under the heads. Jiggle. Yes! A surge of triumph as he eased it out, brought the bent, distorted lump of metal up before his eyes. Good. Didn't break up. He examined the track of the wound again, checking for bits of cloth and killed tissue that would rot if left in.

"Irrigate and swab," he said when he was sure. "Close him up."

The final running stitch, the assistants painting with disinfectant and bandaging. He checked the blood pressure; no real need for a transfusion, although he'd have ordered one back on the Island, just in case. Here there were too many who really needed it, and no refrigerated whole blood on hand-you had to do it live.

"Next!"

"That's it, Doctor," the orderly said.

Clemens staggered slightly, like a man who'd run down stairs in the dark and expected a few more at the bottom than there were. He looked around; four of the other surgeons were busy, but no fresh cases were coming in-nothing but routine bandaging, at least.

"Take a break," he said, then walked out of the tent and into an area shaded by an awning, scrubbed and dried off, and collapsed onto a bench and pulled down his mask. Azzu-ena sat beside him and handed him an enameled mug of water. He took it, relishing the slightly chlorine-tasting lukewarmness of it.

"You're getting good," he said.

She blushed slightly and rubbed at her big hooked nose. "I've had a good teacher."

He hesitated and opened his mouth to speak. Instead he froze, looking up. There was a screaming in the air, and an arching trail of smoke from the north, where the burble of small-arms fire continued. The screaming grew louder, and he found himself acting without making a decision at all, sweeping the Babylonian into his arms and diving for the ground, his body covering hers.

"Damn," Kenneth Hollard said mildly. "Moral courage."

"Sir?" one of the staff officers said. She had a slight Fiernan accent, so he amplified.

"The enemy commander has moral courage. He's not afraid to admit he got suckered and cut his losses and retreat."

The smoke obscured his view, but through the gaps the wind made he could see the enemy infantry pulling back-one line lying prone and firing, the other turning and dashing to the rear for fifty yards, then falling to the earth and giving covering fire while their comrades did the same, or dragged back the not-too-badly wounded. The rapid-fire weapons did the same, the three that were left; the field guns were still firing, the crews snatching up the trails as they recoiled and running them back with the momentum, stopping and firing again, repeating the process. And the enemy commander had uncommitted reserves.

"Order our people forward, sir?" the staffer asked. Hollard shook his head again.

"We'd take a heavy butcher's bill doing that," he said. "And they can move backward just as fast as we can move forward." He looked up; it was well past noon. "They'd break contact in the dark; we don't have the numbers to overrun them."

He looked over to his left, to the range of rocky hills. A little further away than he'd like, but ground was ground-you couldn't rearrange it to suit. He might not have the numbers required to simply overwhelm the enemy, but he did have a card up his sleeve.

That was your one really bad mistake, he thought at the enemy commander. Too eager. Too convinced that he had to move forward with maximum speed to snap up the tempting target of an isolated Nantucketer force. You should have scouted the whole area thoroughly- used your Hittites for it.

Kenneth Hollard reached for the radio; the Babylonian New Troops had only one, their commander's. Just then a moaning whistle brought his head up sharply. A trail of fire and smoke rose up from the rear of the enemy position. It moaned across the sky; he turned to watch it overshoot his command post, heading for the rear area.

I'm not the only one who had a surprise up his sleeve, he knew with angry self-reproach.

"All units, go to ground and take cover," he barked into the handset. "Rocket bombardment incoming!"