Pahad drew himself up. “How are we supposed to establish authority under those conditions, Captain?”
Fitz noticed that the other youngster had said nothing. For his sake, and the sake of the men this young idiot would command, he continued. “Lieutenant Pahad. Does the term ‘frag’ mean anything to you?”
“No, Captain, it does not,” the man said stiffly.
“It’s an old combat word. One my father told me about. From a long-ago war on old Earth. Unpopular officers who went into combat usually had a fragmentation grenade dropped into their pockets—a few seconds before it exploded. Our troops are combat veterans. They’ll take orders or they wouldn’t have survived. What they won’t take is crap from wet-behind-the-ears ignoramuses who know nothing about real fighting. The average life of a soldier on the front is about forty days. The average life of a second lieutenant is half that. If you’re stupid enough to think that that is coincidental . . . then you’re a dead man walking. Now, I don’t personally give a shit if you get killed. But if the NCOs in your unit tell me you wasted a single troop’s life through your arrogance . . . you’d better be dead. Because I’ll kill you before my troops do. Is that clear?”
The lieutenant gaped at him. But Fitz noticed that the other one nodded.
“Ahem.” The sergeant major cleared his throat. “What you may not know, sir, is that the captain here has the best Maggot-kill rate we know of. He’s also known to be an absolute bastard—pardon my saying so, sir—” he nodded at Fitz— “at weapons and fitness drill. He’s also got the best troop survival rate on the front. Most of his men are veterans. And we get volunteers wanting to serve under him. That’s a first for the hottest sector on the front. You’re privileged to serve here, son.” Which, as the sergeant major was perhaps two years older than Pahad, was not unamusing.
Fitz stopped the incipient reply with a finger. “Right. Enough of this. If you have any problems with me, Lieutenant, see me afterward. If we live through this, you can go and complain to the colonel. In the meanwhile, you will spend the next eight weeks on the front lines.”
“If you survive that long,” muttered SmallMac.
Fitz pretended he hadn’t heard him. The white-lipped lieutenant certainly had. “Now, I’ve told Ariel to get the rats to work as the rats in my old command did. Two rats per human. The rest will be split into three groups, Sergeant Major, two cover groups and a backup. For each cover group I want two strong, fit, experienced soldiers. They’ll be carrying heavy loads of rations and sugar for the rats. I want fast packhorses with brains. For the third group I want light, fast troops, twenty of them. They’re our backup and, if we get a chance, our spearhead group. I want troops who can run.”
“Sah! I’ll confer with the platoon sergeants and have them assembled.”
“Do that. And tell the troops the first one to cause trouble or bad feeling with the rats is going to answer to me, personally. Now, medics . . .”
* * *
At three that afternoon, the Magh’ guns fell silent. And the fighting began. They came in waves over the top. They came in columns out of tunnels. And they seemed to be only hitting Fitz’s patch of the line. It was obvious that they intended to push the weakened front into a beachhead. The Magh’, it appeared, did not know the meaning of “retreat” or “fear.”
They learned the meaning of “die.”
Fitz nearly learned it himself. Lieutenant Pahad did. As Sergeant Anderson said, the Maggots had merely saved the captain trouble. But toward dusk the attack began to slow down. The last wave was more of a splash than a wave. As the Magh’ artillery began to cut loose again, the rats and troops in Fitz’s third group, with him at their head, went over the top. Moving as fast as a slowshield would allow, taking advantage of the Magh’s weaker eyesight, they pushed into the human-abandoned old second line. The Magh’ here were few and far between. Obviously the creatures had thrown everything at the human line. How fast they could move more troops up to fill the gap was an unknown. But the old line two was not under artillery bombardment. Fitz began to move men and rats forward. He rested them in the relative tranquillity of the comparatively easily recaptured line. The Magh’ had moved their artillery forward in anticipation of the human line falling. Now, rather like Drake and the Spanish Armada, Fitz realized his men were too close to be fired on. If he had reinforcements now, he could keep pushing, maybe even to the Magh’ force field edge. Only one massive human assault had managed that in the past, at vast cost in lives and materiel.