Chapter 10 Orders Under Fire
Chapter ten
Orders Under Fire
The swamp burned. Rockets and cannonballs screamed overhead, detonating across the sprawling battlefield, the concussions thudding through mud and bone alike.
Roderic crouched in a clump of cattails with Rushing and Foley tight on his flanks, the air choking with smoke, oil, and scorched reeds.
Corporal James Foley—young, tan face smeared black and red—clutched the bugle to his chest like a priceless relic, his singed hair sticking up in ragged clumps.
Automatic weapons peppered the swamp, bullets zipping in all directions, ripping blindly through foliage and flesh with equal indifference.
Thousands of enemy soldiers already lay dead in the blazing, oil-slicked mire, yet they kept coming—two, three, four more for every one that fell.
Everything had begun as planned. The bombed-out bridge halted the Iron Army’s march.
Not willing to risk his trucks, jeeps, and armored vehicles, General Garcia had sent them on an arcing detour in search of another route south.
Roderic took some comfort in the belief that Garcia didn’t possess an accurate, detailed map.
The mounted and foot soldiers were driven into the creek to cross to the other side.
However, rather than spreading out to cross as quickly as possible, they moved in a narrow column, only four abreast.
Roderic had waited until the last possible moment to signal the flaming arrows, which had proven far less effective than he’d planned.
The artillery under Colonel Pickering’s command had not waited for his signal.
They opened fire the moment the first arrow lit the swamp ablaze.
It took four volleys to correct the cannons’ angle and range before they did any significant damage.
By then, enemy howitzers and rocket launchers had started picking them off.
Ten minutes after their first shot, Verdancia’s big guns had been silenced.
Roderic didn’t know whether Pickering had been blown to smithereens along with his artillery.
Corporal Foley’s wide eyes searched the general’s. “Should I sound the call now?”
To his left, an enemy shell roared into a machine gun nest, blowing half a dozen of his men into the air.
He prayed they were unconscious or dead when their bodies landed in the mucky, burning water.
To his right, a brave sergeant mounted an attack on enemy forces who’d made it to the south side of Cyprus Creek.
A hundred pikemen charged into Republic gunfire, managing to impale fifty or sixty in seconds.
It didn’t seem to matter, as more appeared behind them, cutting down his infantry.
Smoke ruled the sky, blotting out the sun, while the stench of blood and burning oil rose from the marsh.
From his position, Roderic couldn’t tell where the Iron Army’s ranks ended.
There is no end, he registered. If he deployed the cavalry too soon, they’d be cut down in short order; if he waited too late, there’d be no army left for them to save.
“Not yet.”
Foley nodded, squeezing the brass horn tightly to his chest. From behind them, Major Williams’ archers continued to rain fire on the north side of the broken bridge, igniting the bank, now soaked in oil. Roderic couldn’t make out individual words as he zeroed in on enemy voices shouting commands.
The general had deployed his troops in a wide arc, a bowl in which to catch the enemy.
Now the center of that bowl had a hole punched through it, the broad flanks ineffective.
“Signal our flanks to wheel in behind us, scoop up those who made it across. And I want grenades and bazooka fire focused on the central column to the north.”
With shaking hands, Foley brought the mouthpiece to his lips, sucked in a big breath, and blasted the practiced call, repeating it three times. Roderic hoped they could hear it above the din of battle.
“Sir, we should get you out of here,” Rushing suggested. “Our position won’t be defensive once the firewall fizzles out. The cannon ridge. They’ve already blasted that to the void. They won’t waste more ammo on it.”
“I’m not a ‘lead from the rear’ kind of general, Rushing.”
“I know, sir, but …” His wide eyes scanned the area, and Roderic followed his gaze.
The far reaches of their line raced to fold in on Iron Army troops, pikes, swords, axes, and halberds raised and ready.
Behind them, riflemen lay down cover fire.
It occurred to the general that his army was equipped for hand-to-hand combat, while tens of thousands of enemies fired guns at them from across the flaming mire.
Only the obscuring smoke and general chaos saved them from imminent annihilation.
“We’ll crush that battalion, but, when the fire dies, and the primary field army moves this way, we’ll be overrun.
We need to move the sharpshooters and archers back to higher ground.
They’ll be slow in the mud and muck, and we’ll take as many of them out as we can.
Then—only then—” he ordered, pivoting to Foley, “will you sound the call for the cavalry.”
“Yes, sir,” both replied.
“On my mark, we make a dash for Williams, get his archers to high ground and sharpshooters into trees. This is our terrain; let’s take command of it.” Holding up his hand, he shot out fingers. “One, two, three, run!”
Leaving their meager cover, Roderic and his aides sprinted through tall reeds, dodging cannonball craters, trees, and sections of the destroyed bridge, until they reached the bulk of their fellow Verdancians.
The infantry was holding its own against the enemies who’d penetrated their ranks, whittling them down.
Roderic ran through the chaos, whizzing bullets and shrieking artillery until he reached Major Williams. Pointing to a small ridge, he ordered, “Up there.”
“But that will be out of range of the longbows, not to mention the crossbows.” With blood streaking his forehead and splattered on his uniform shirt, Williams gaped at Roderic in disbelief.
“Not for long. The firewall won’t last all day, and that horde, that legion of soldiers, will swarm across like flesh-eating locusts. But they’ll have no choice but to crawl. That will give us time to pick off as many as we can before we initiate maneuver Xenophon.”
“Yes, sir.” Now, with the coppery sting of blood thick in the smoky air, bombs discharging randomly, demolishing desolate buildings and splitting two-hundred-year-old oaks into kindling, Major Williams didn’t argue. He barked orders to junior officers and immediately led the way to the small ridge.
Rifles discharging nearby drew Roderic’s attention, and he jogged around and behind his battery of marksmen. “Captain Cooley!”
A grenade exploded ten meters away. Three riflemen lay dead in the tall grass, two more moaning from wounds received. A soldier scrambled to check the guns, collecting one still in working order. The casualties would have to wait; a functioning rifle couldn’t.
“General Calder.” Cooley adjusted his helmet, ducking as he ran to meet Roderic and his two escorts.
Forgoing formalities, Roderic gestured to a wooded area near the hill where their cannons had been silenced. “Get your sharpshooters into the trees. When the fires die down, and the Iron Army mires itself in the mud crossing the creek, I want them picking them off by the thousands.”
“They’ll be like fish in a barrel, sir. I’ll give the word.” Wasting no time, the captain rushed to obey. Row after row of marksmen and women peeled away, hustling to the trees.
“Sir, look!” Rushing tugged on Roderic’s sleeve, his eyes widening beneath a furrowed brow.
Enemy firefighters stood on the far bank, spraying layers of foam over the oiled water’s burning surface, snuffing out flames like matchsticks.
“Lieutenant, run over there and tell Major Dawkins I said to hide his pikemen in the reeds along the bank. They are to stay under cover until the enemy infantry reaches this side, then strike like vipers from their holes. I know they’ve taken heavy losses, but they’ve just about mopped up that batch of Republic soldiers.
As long as they can remain hidden, they can do a lot of damage. ”
“Yes, sir. I’ll tell him at once.” Rushing hurried off to comply, leaving the skinny corporal and his bugle to serve as Roderic’s bodyguard. Had circumstances been less dire, he would have found it laughable.
Hawk-Eye waited. He drummed his fingers on his saddle horn, his bay steed’s head drooping as it let out a sigh.
Sweat soaked his shirt beneath his light jacket and rolled down his temples in slow, counted drops, salt stinging his eyes.
The bombardment thundered outside, rumbling the earth and sending dust sifting down on them from the roof.
Motorcycles, jeeps mounted with machine guns, and pickup trucks fitted with steel shields and light artillery sat in silence, as did every man and woman of Fort Calder’s 3rd Cav.
Occasionally, when a round crashed near the musty old warehouses, some horses would shy nervously, rear, or try to bolt.
Their riders took them in hand, settling them.
“Major McKinley, sir,” said the young captain on the paint pony beside him. “What if we can’t hear the bugle when it sounds?”
He ground his jaw and shifted in his saddle, but didn’t reply, staring stoically ahead.
He’d been wondering the same. The fighting had gone on for some time, and they couldn’t even see what transpired.
A shell whistled overhead, followed by a boom.
The rapid rat-a-tat-tat of machine guns filled the spaces between detonations.
Hawk-Eye’s thoughts kept returning home, the faces of his wife and children, mother and brother.
Each explosion accentuated his heartbeats, ringing in his ears along with the rush of blood.
What if they couldn’t sound the signal? What if General Calder was in dire straits and needed them now? But if they charged too soon, he’d lose the whole brigade.
Turning to the worried officer, he ordered, “Pick three men and dismount. Go outside and survey the scene, but keep your heads down. Then report back.”
“Yes, sir.” He motioned to the closest enlisted riders and slid out of his saddle.
“And Captain?” Hawk-Eye waited to catch his gaze. “Don’t be seen.”
“Yes, sir.” The captain, two other men, and a woman rushed to the warehouse door, stopped, and cautiously slipped outside.
Inside the large, open chamber, fear, anticipation, and impatience hung in the stale air like suspended wheat chaff on a threshing floor.
What Hawk-Eye wouldn’t have given for a brisk wind to blow them all away.
Sensing his troops’ unease, he nudged his mount, rode out a few meters ahead of the lines, and turned to face them.
An inspirational speech would help. He wasn’t good at speeches.
Still, the waiting, the unknown, was getting to them all.
“Listen up!” Every rider, driver, and gunner fixed searching eyes on him, their tension as tight as drawn wire.
“Shortly, the bugle will sound, and we’ll charge through those roll-up doors—full speed, no punches pulled.
Give each other room and don’t shoot until you have a target in your sights.
Lancers, make straight for the rows of troops and be the spearhead that cuts them down.
Grenadiers, throw your explosives as soon as you’re in range, aiming for vehicles or clumps of soldiers.
Then draw your swords. Speed on horseback is your advantage.
Keep it. The same holds true for the cycle squads.
Jeeps, Humvees, and trucks, wreak havoc.
Keep hitting the outer bands and don’t let yourselves be surrounded. ”
A distant boom vibrated through the building, but all remained quiet, focused on their commander. A horse snorted. Another pawed the ground.
“You are the finest, bravest souls I’ve ever known, and it has been the greatest privilege of my life to serve with you.
Remember this—we don’t fight for a queen, for gain, or for glory.
This day, we muster all our grit to defend our homes, our families, and our freedom.
Will we stand idly by and let Luther Irons and his army take what is ours? ”
“No, sir!” thundered the soldiers’ reply.
Raising his voice even louder, Hawk-Eye shouted, “Will we let them burn our fields, slaughter our cattle, and kidnap our loved ones?”
“No, sir!”
“Will we let them enslave our nation, rip away our freedom, and divide our citizens by race and religion?”
“No, sir!”
“Then let’s bloody them, cavalry! With the ferocity our ancestors mustered in past generations, with the conviction that our cause is noble, let’s stop the Iron Army in its tracks—right here, right now!”
“Yes, sir!” they all cheered.
Hawk-Eye felt the energy shift and smiled. They were probably all going to die, but at least they’d go down fighting, not fleeing in terror.
The young captain and his scouts rushed back into the warehouse, wide-eyed. “They didn’t see us, I swear!” He yanked off his helmet and pointed toward the doors. “Garcia must have sent a patrol. They’re heading straight for us, and we’ll lose the element of surprise.”
“Mount up, troops,” commanded Major McKinley. “I think we just got our signal to attack.”