“Hmph. I’ll put you onto the gunnery officer for tonight. Out.”
The gunnery officer at least was simply cooperative. And his gunners, despite the fact that HAR industrial technology was still battling along in the nineteenth and early twentieth century and their fieldpieces were to match, were more than cooperative. Their rate of fire increased, which, as Fitz had heard, took nothing short of a miracle. At least somebody back there wanted them to succeed.
Then he and Ariel were fully engaged again, in the first hard fighting in this trench. They’d reached the gun emplacements. The Magh’der, the kind that tended the fieldpieces, were there in numbers and it was obvious that they felt about their strange weapons the way ants do about their grubs. But they appeared to be genetically designed to tend guns . . . not fight rats and men.
Looking at the pod of captured alien weapons in the infrared torchlight, Fitz allowed himself a brief moment of triumph in front of his cheering troops. Even the rats were caught up in it. “Methinks these should be worth a good few claws, eh, Captain,” chittered one, cheerfully, kicking the wheelless platform, with its long stabilizers.
Ariel licked a slash on her shoulder. She pointed at the barrels. “Long muddy congers aren’t they? Fair give you envy, Gobbo.”
She stuck her long nose into the air. Sniffed. Twitched her ears. Fitz noticed several of the other rats doing the same.
“Methinks, it is the cat,” said Pooh-Bah.
“‘Tis time to cut and run,” Ariel announced. “The Maggots are coming thick and fast from back there.”
“We should be getting backup soon. We’d better dig in. Issue rations all round,” said Fitz. “Radio. Let’s get the Colonel and find out why they aren’t here yet.”
* * *
Minutes later Fitz knew fear. “We’ve taken their gun pod. Three fieldpieces, sir. But we need reinforcements if we’re to hold them.”
The colonel paused. “Er. I consulted General Blucher, and he refused to countenance moving troops until morning.”
“Morning will be too late, Colonel,” snapped Fitz. “The Magh’ are just about solid out there. They want to retake their guns and they’re not counting costs. If you want these guns, if you want this trench, if you want my men to survive, I need reinforcements now.”
“Well, I’m sorry, Captain Fitzhugh,” said the colonel huffily. “but there is nothing I can do, now.”
“Useless asshole.”
There was a splutter of outrage from the radio. But Fitz was too busy to care.
“If we try to pull back now, we’ll be exposed to the faster Magh’. So. We’ll need a rear guard.”
“What about these guns, sir?” asked the surviving lieutenant.
“We’ll do our best to destroy them, Lieutenant Cavanagh. You’ve done well today. You’ll be leading the retreat back to trench two. We’ll hold them as long as we can here. It’ll be over to you to hold them there. Bring up as many men as possible from trench three. Sergeant. Drawing straws time. I want one man in three staying here.”
The young lieutenant was pale. “With respect, sir. I’ll stay here. You lead them back. You’re worth a lot more than I am to the troops. I’m going to try and turn these guns on them.”
A good kid, thought Fitz. I wonder why he got sent to “Fort Despair?” Probably too good, just as the other one had been too obnoxious. In the midst of mediocrity and incompetence, “good” was unpopular. He shook his head. “Lieutenant, thank you. But what I’m asking you to do is no lesser task. It’s a tough one. You must keep the retreat orderly, keep it disciplined or it’ll turn into a rout, and then we’re lost. If the troops are panicked and half-dead with exhaustion when they get to trench two, they won’t hold that. And I’m relying on you to do that, rather, because the rats will stay for me. They won’t for you. And without them we have no rear guard. But it is a good idea about the guns. Now, move out. Go. Give us a flare when you have less than fifty yards to go.”
The lieutenant saluted crisply. “Damn that lily-livered colonel and his stupid general to hell, sir. I’ll hold that trench, come hell or high water.” He turned. “Sergeant. Move them out in an orderly fashion. The first man to run or panic had better keep running because he’d be better off if the Maggots killed him than if I caught him.” His voice cracked slightly. But the troops obeyed him, as if he were a veteran.