The falling ax was the signal for the rangers to hit the dirt, pulling their dogs down with them. With a thunderous ch-BANG!, thirty-six muskets spoke and a cloud of smoke appeared. Ch-BANG! and the second barrels roared, adding to the smoke at the top of the hill. Adding even more to the carnage at the bottom. The rangers leaped up and continued their trot uphill.
The furry, white mass of aliens obstinately followed the rangers. They scuttled along on all six legs like insects. When the volley rang out they seemed to stagger, stunned by the noise as much as the bullets. A full score of the foe in the front ranks fell to the first volley, perhaps less at the second, since the smoke of the first shot partially obscured the view. Several aliens in the rear ranks also dropped from sight, caught by shots aimed too high.
The men of the firing line avoided firing at the center, where the rangers were in the line of fire. They could be relatively sure of their accuracy to the left and right, but not up and down, and none of them wanted to risk a shot directly over the rangers’ heads. After a brief, stunned pause the attackers continued uphill. There was no stumbling or hesitating as they crawled over the dead and dying.
The creatures of this world seemed to have a sensitive nervous system. Happily, one hit seemed to drop their opponents most of the time, but Melville was saddened to see that the concussion of their volley dropped most of the glistening ruby and sapphire fireflies between the firing line and their opponents. If the insects weren’t already dead, they were certain to be trampled by the approaching mob. In the midst of battle he was a little embarrassed to feel a twinge of sorrow at the deaths of these innocent, beautiful creatures.
Broadax walked across the front of the line, moving to the left. Melville worked his way along the back, moving right. The marine sergeant talked quietly as she moved in front of each man. The young lieutenant did the same, placing a hand on their shoulders and calling each man by name, just as he’d done many times on the firing line in training. By the time the second volley was loaded, Broadax had worked her way back to the center.
The light breeze was blowing in their faces, clearing the smoke of their first volley. It also began to bring with it the stench of their approaching foe, like a vast, rolling manure pile, replacing the warm, dusty scent of the dried grass. “All right lads, set yer sights for a hundred and fifty yards this time.” Again her voice carried clearly. There was no need to shout yet. “Readddy, fire.”
In the fifteen seconds since the last volley, the foe had swarmed over the two hundred yard stake. Running uphill, tired, over broken ground, they were covering about fifty yards every fifteen seconds. The rangers were now at the hundred-yard mark, still maintaining a hundred-yard lead. As Broadax’s ax fell, the rangers dropped, and an instant later roughly twenty-five of the foe staggered and fell. A second later the second barrels fired and claimed another twenty or more.
The rangers were no longer firing themselves. Their goal was to get to the firing line as quickly as possible. It was likely they were very low on ammo. “Aquinar!” shouted Melville to the young midshipman behind him. “Have ammo ready for the rangers as soon as they hit the firing line.”
“Aye, sir!”
One hundred fifty yards. “All right lads, treat this one like a hundred yards. Watch fer the rangers now. Yer making yer old sarge proud lads, yer shooting good. Readyyy, fire!” Fifty yards out the rangers hit the dirt again as her ax fell and the third volley swept the enemy ranks. Well over thirty fell, and at least another twenty-five were claimed by the second barrel. Still they came on clambering over their dead without hesitation.
This close they could see the foe’s six legs splay out as their bellies thumped the ground, raising a puff of dust. Their heads, with the mouths on top, slammed teeth-first into the ground with a small explosion of dirt. Legs (splay!), belly (thump! dust), mouth (slam! dirt).
“Ha!” shouted old Chief Hans from the right wing. “At’s the way ta make ’em eat dirt!” A roar of laughter ran down the line and an appreciative grin split Broadax’s face.
“All right, lads,” Broadax said, with an admiring, gap-toothed, cigar-filled grin at her fellow NCO, “silence in the line now. Concentrate on yer loading and listen fer yer commands.”
. . . The thundering line of battle stands,
And in the air death moans and sings;
But Day shall clasp him with strong hands,
And Night shall fold him in soft wings.
The rangers put on a burst of speed and come into the line with grins on their faces. The firing line cheers. Their two dogs, grinning with doggy glee, are greeted by the three smaller ship’s dogs with eager barks and rump sniffing. Aquinar hands fistfuls of paper cartridges to the rangers.
Josiah drops to one knee, patting his dog and panting as he puts the cartridges into his ammo pouch. He looks up at the lieutenant with a feral grin strikingly similar to his dog’s. “They followed me home, sir. Can ah keep ’em?” Another cheer broke from the raw throats of the firing line.
One hundred yards. “Treat it like seventy-five yards, lads. Readyyyyyy, fire.” Again, over thirty apes dropped. Legs, belly, teeth. Splay, thump, thump. Then another thirty with the second shot. Splay, thump, thump.
These were the warriors of Westerness. They’d drilled for a lifetime for this day. In their training on high-tech worlds, they’d done this in virtual reality simulators hundreds of times. By his count their company had dropped almost two hundred of the aliens by now. By God, Melville almost did feel sorry for the poor bastards. Almost.
At this range their attackers look like big, dingy white, six-legged versions of the little brown, eight-legged spider monkeys they’d seen high up in the branches of their own little grove of trees. Broadax bellows, “All right boys, load fast now, we’re gonna get two more volleys in before we feed the bastards our bayonets!”
Valandil calls out in his clear, ringing voice. He too is down on one knee, one arm around his dog, checking the load in his musket. From now on the two rangers will add their fire to the battle line. “Up close they will stand up on their back two legs. They are as tall as a man then. The top half of their head is all mouth, a bullet there is wasted. A bullet in the lower part of the head or the center of the chest will drop them instantly.” Many in the line nod in understanding as they load their weapons.
Sixty yards. The howling and roaring of the foe is now loud enough that Broadax has to shout to be heard out at the far ends of the line. The troops in the line are intentionally using their breathing exercises to remain calm, just as they’d been trained. They need their fine motor skill to load their weapons this last time. It took calm, steady nerves to ensure that the ramrod hit true, and to be certain they didn’t fumble the little percussion caps.
The enemy’s stench would be overwhelming if sensory gating didn’t shut out everything but the vital input needed to survive. The only sensory input that comes in is the sight of their enemy and, if they concentrate, the sounds of their leader’s commands. Previously many took time to drop to a knee or sit as they fired. Now everyone stands. “Readyyyy, lads! Fire!” Ch-BLAM! Ch-BLAM! The foe is visibly rocked this time. Well over thirty fall to the first barrel, nearly as many to the second. Legs, belly, teeth. Splay, thump, thump. Still they came obstinately on.
“All right now! Load quickly, lads!” The apes rear up on their back two legs, their front four legs reaching out. Three claws as long as a man’s finger extend out from the end of each limb. Four equally long fangs protrude from each mouth, two top and two bottom, with lots of little teeth in between.
A bayonet on the end of the barrel interferes with rapid loading, so Broadax had intentionally waited until now to command, “FIX BAYONETS!” She has to bellow to be heard over the foe’s eerie roars, her cigar in one hand and her ax in the other. Earlier the line had concentrated their fire at the enemy formation’s flanks in order to avoid the rangers. This gave the center slightly less attention. Now the enemy formation, if you could grant that term to this mob, is in a loose wedge shape, aimed straight at the center of the line. Melville and his tiny reserve stand behind the line, ready to reinforce the center.