The answer was: not well. The rats were there . . . but several of them were sitting down, leaving the fight to the human troops. And those that were still fighting were going to die. It was not that the Magh’ were overwhelming. It was just that the rats seemed to be behaving like clockwork toys . . . in need of rewinding. “What’s wrong?” yelled Fitz to Ariel as he ran forward to the fray.
“Methinks they’re faint with hunger.”
Of course! He’d been told the elephant-shrew genes gave the rats phenomenal appetites. They must have fast metabolisms and little stamina. “Feed the rats! Give them any food you’ve got, especially sugar, or we’re dead!”
He hauled out the tin of sucking candy and flung it at a sergeant, before running into the fight. “Get someone across the west side and tell them,” he yelled, bangstick stabbing through pseudochitin.
He had no idea how fast the rats would recover. He was relieved to discover that it was really quick, and that the average grunt, when faced with death or parting with precious little luxuries he kept next to his skin, would reluctantly part with the luxuries. The east side trenches of the late Lieutenant Zuma soon would be free of Magh’.
As he set off across to the west side, he was met by a panting private. “Sir. Colonel Brown on the line. He’s insisting we retreat.”
Fitz stopped. “Did you give him your name, Private?”
“I couldn’t get a fucking word in edgeways, sir. Sorry, pardon language, sir.”
“This is a war, not a kindergarten, Private. A pity Private Johnstone was killed before he could give me the message. He is dead, isn’t he?”
The private grinned. “Yes, sir. I saw him die. Poor fellow.”
“Stick to that story,” said Fitz. “And see that the field telephone has a convincing accident. Cave part of the bunker in. The fight’s all over on the east side. If we can lick them on the west, I’m not running.”
Ten minutes later Fitz called in from the west side’s field telephone. “Yes, sir. My apologies, sir. I was called away from our field telephone to deal with an immediate crisis. Unfortunately the instrument was destroyed and the man I had instructed to remain with it was killed.”
He waited for the volcano to subside and then answered the last question.
“Where am I calling from, sir? Why Section B3, sir. On our west side. We’ve already secured the east side. We’d like some relief, Colonel. We’re pretty thin spread holding three pieces of the line.”
There was a long silence from the other side. Then: “You’re making your fellow officers look bad, Lieutenant. Hum. I’ll get some men up to you at once. They’re waiting in trench line two.”
7
In the seven weeks that followed, Fitz’s section survived a sequence of small probes and one more direct assault. This was somewhat worse than the first one. But Fitz’s new system of buddying two rats to each human soldier worked remarkably well. The rest of the rats he used as a free-range strike force. And this attack seemed almost like a spearpoint aimed at his piece of the line. Once they’d stopped it, they didn’t even have to deal with the other sections. And then even artillery bombardment slacked off.
They eventually had to retreat after three weeks of near idleness and weapons drill, because the line had folded to the west of them. “It’s almost as if they won’t hit here, because we’re strongest here,” grumbled Fitz. He never thought he’d miss Magh’ attacks, but the boredom made keeping the troops in readiness hell. There was drunkenness, gambling, and several fights about women . . . and fights about men among the women. Only the rats seemed content.
Sergeant Ellis nodded. “It’s always like that, sir. The Maggots always attack where we’re weakest.”
“Suggests good intelligence, doesn’t it, Sarge?”
“Can’t be military intelligence then, sir,” said the sergeant, handing him a couple of sealed dispatches.
Fitz cracked the first open. “Well, glory be! This’ll cheer the troops up. We’ve done our two-month frontline stint and we’re being pulled back to third line for a month to rest the men.”