Three minutes later the old front line was populated by a skeleton crew of men and rats. And Fitz was wrestling with the guns. SmallMac and Ewen were assisting. Fitz’s heart had fallen still lower when he’d seen the faces of his old squad mates. But . . . the lots had been drawn. Someone had to get the short straws. Some of those who retreated had families too. But he wished like hell he could have sent SmallMac back too.
Ewen, a man who could lift half an ox carcass back when he’d been a meat packer, strained with Fitz to turn barrels. They could tilt the entire structure but not turn it. There were no wheels, just flat metal platforms.
SmallMac nearly knocked them both flying, as the barrel began to rotate under its own steam. “What the hell are you fiddling with, Mac!”
The ex-horse-breaker gave a wry grin. “There must be electronic locks holding them, Fitz. Damned if I’m going to call you ‘Captain’ when we’re all going to die. This disc here looked likely, and we need to learn to work them before the Maggots arrive.”
“Hell’s teeth. You’re right and I’m an idiot. Each of you to a gun. Fiddle. I just hope we don’t shoot at our own men or blow these things up.”
Three minutes later they had rotation and elevation licked. They had reloading done too. Firing . . . well it was only when Fitz thought of the flat-scorpion shape of the gunners that Ariel discovered where the firing lever was. Tailgunners! Still, the shots they managed to direct toward the enemy were probably ineffectual, especially as the guns could not be elevated beyond a certain point.
“Bugger this for a joke!” yelled Ewen as the first Magh’ came over the top. He cranked the gun barrel down furiously. Instead of using it as the howitzer it was designed as, he directed the barrel straight at the oncoming mass. It couldn’t be elevated enough, but it could be depressed.
For the next few moments it rained slowshielded Maggots and earth.
“Yes!” The other two also hauled their gun barrels down.
The Maggot shells couldn’t actually blow the enemy apart, not inside slowshields. But their weapons had been intended to fling a shell at high trajectory for a few miles. At this close a range it could physically remove anything. Blow them away if not apart. And the flying debris hardened slowshields and stopped the Magh’ advance.
“Gather around the guns!” yelled Fitz. As long as they could keep them off the guns, as long as the shells lasted, they could hold back the bulk of the Maggot tide. With more luck than judgement he managed a skimming, plowing shot along the ground nearly parallel to the trench. Not only did it blow away the bulk of the wave of Magh’ who had been pressing forward, but it also hardened the slowshields behind them. “Retreat on the guns,” he yelled again, desperately reloading, knowing that his lucky shot had bought them the time to do so. Ariel bit down on something and a claw cut Fitz’s face. He was in pain, but this was no time to stop and think about it. He must fire again! The rear guard surged back toward the gun pod, fighting their way through the few Maggots who had reached the trench. Soon, he had a reloader. And as the humans and rats fended off close attackers, the curiously silent alien howitzers were used in the fashion of the siege cannon of the fourteenth century.
Despite this, the Magh’ seemed endless. Even the light of a flare behind them was of no help. There was no retreat now. The Magh’ had surrounded them. And the shells were getting few.
Fitz saw Ewen abandon his gun and attempt to wade though the swirl of Magh’ fighter bodies, using his huge strength to pick them up and fling them away . . . And then he went down under the tide. The rat that had been on his shoulder ran across Magh’ backs. It nearly made it, too. SmallMac also was plainly out of shells—and defenders. There were still some fifteen men and an equal number of rats around Fitz’s gun.