Through his field glasses, the approaching Imperial force looked professional too, in its way. The cavalry were maintaining their alignment neatly, despite the losses they’d had in the last few engagements, in blocks a hundred wide and three ranks deep, with a pennant at the center of each, advancing at a trot. Light field guns and gatlings bounced and rattled forward between each regiment of horse; the whole Imperial line covered better than two kilometers, and infantry were deployed behind it, coming forward at the double in a loose swarm.
“How many would you say?” Jeffrey asked.
“Oh, four thousand mounted,” Heinrich said. “The foot—”
He turned to another officer, one stooping to look through a tripod-mounted optical instrument.
“Better part of two brigades, from the standards, sir,” she said. “Say seven to nine thousand, depending on whether they were part of the bunch that tried to force the line of the Volturno.”
Jeffrey looked left and right; three battalions, less losses; say fifteen hundred rifles, with one machine gun to a company and a dozen mortars.
“Rather long odds, wouldn’t you say?” he said.
“Oh, it’ll do,” Heinrich replied. He began stuffing tobacco into a long curved pipe with a flared lip and a hinged pewter cover. “Mind you”—he struck a match with his thumbnail and puffed the pipe alight, speaking around the stem—”I wouldn’t mind if the rest of the brigade came up, or at least that ferdammt artillery we’re supposed to have, but it’ll do.”
The Chosen colonel turned his head slightly. “Fahnrich Klinghoffer; mortars to concentrate on enemy crew-served weapons, commencing at two thousand meters. Automatic weapons at fifteen hundred, infantry at eight hundred; flank companies to be ready to swing back. Runner to General Summelworden, and we’re engaged to our front; attempted enemy break-out. Dispositions as follows—”
Messengers trotted off on foot; one stamped a motorcycle into braying life and went rearward in a spray of dust and gravel. That would be the message to rear HQ—there were only three of the little machines attached to the regiment and they were saved for the most important communications.
“Wouldn’t a wireless set be useful?” Jeffrey asked.
Heinrich gestured with his pipe. “Not really. Too heavy and temperamental to be worth the trouble; telegraphs are bad enough—the last thing any competent field commander wants is to have an electric wire from Supreme HQ stuck up his arse. Let them do their jobs, and we’ll do ours.”
I wouldn’t have minded having this fellow working for me, Raj thought.
chosen staff training ensures uniformity of method, Center noted. this reduces the need for communications.
“Twenty-two hundred,” the officer at the optical said. “Picking up the pace.”
“Still, twelve thousand to two . . .” Jeffrey said.
Heinrich grinned disarmingly. “We’re holding the neck of the bag. All we have to do is delay them long enough for the rest of the corps to come up, and they’ve lost better than two hundred thousand men. Worth a risk.”
Jeffrey nodded. Down below the riflemen finished digging and were snuggling the stocks of their weapons into their shoulders; a few pessimists were setting out grenades close to hand. The machine gunners sat behind their weapons, elbows on knees, bending to look through the sights: all Chosen, he noticed—one Chosen NCO as gunner, five Protégé privates to fetch and carry and keep the weapon supplied with ammunition and water.
The Imperial field gunners halted their teams, wheeling the guns and running them off the limbers. The clang of the breechblocks was lost under the growing, drumming thunder of thousands of hooves. Elevating wheels spun. The Imperial guns were simple black-powder models with no recoil gear; they’d have to be pushed back into battery after every shot, but there were a lot of them.
Behind Jeffrey, hands poised mortar bombs over the muzzles. The Chosen officer at the optical raised her hand, then chopped it downward.
Schoonk. Schoonk. Schoonk. Twelve times repeated.
The mortar shells began dropping. Each threw up a minor shower of dirt, like a gigantic raindrop hitting silt. The first rounds dropped all across the axis of the Imperial advance, some ahead of it, some behind; four or five plowed into the mass of cantering horsemen, sending animals and men to the ground. The ranks expanded around the casualties, then closed up again with a long ripple.