. . . And life is colour and warmth and light,
And a striving evermore for these;
And he is dead who will not fight;
And who dies fighting has increase."Into Battle"
Julian Grenfell
Melville's troops were in a line, facing downhill. The grassy stubble made the slope a golden brown, ending abruptly when it hit the gray boles and emerald leaves of the forest. Many habitable worlds in the galaxy had been seeded by a mysterious ancient civilization, but this was a world with its own, independently evolved ecology. Flitting across the slope were splendid, beautiful, red and blue things that looked a bit like dragonflies that glistened in the sun like rubies and sapphires, unlike anything they'd ever seen before.
Every warrior in that thin line had a clean shot at the approaching foe. When speed was required their muskets were loaded with paper cartridges and minié balls, but now every double-barreled musket in the line was carefully and lovingly prepared with precise loads of powder, and carefully selected minié balls and percussion caps. The first shot would be at 250 yards. Precision and care was required at this range. As the enemy drew closer, less care and more speed would become the order of the day.
The center of the line was anchored in the southern, downslope edge of the little copse of trees. The wings extended straight out to the left and right, prepared to wheel back and defend the trees and the bones of their cutter, which was immediately adjacent and upslope of the trees. Twenty-four redcoated marines formed the center of the line. Six bluejacketed sailors were on each wing.
Lieutenant Melville and Sergeant Broadax stood in front of the line.
Melville was a man of Westerness. He was tall and slender in a blue jacket and sailcloth trousers, with nut brown hair tussled by the light breeze.
Broadax was a Dwarrowdelf in sworn service to the Crown of Westerness. She was short, squat and wide, dressed in marine red, with long dark hair jutting out from under a round iron helmet. She looked like the stump of a mighty tree, painted red. Except this stump had the stub of a cigar clenched in her teeth, and a thin little beard on the point of her chin.
Other than Broadax, and a few sailors with a kerchief tied to protect a bald head from the sun, the rest of the company were bare headed. Everything about them was a product of their endless years sailing the seas of Flatland. Their hair was generally short, since water was a scarce and precious commodity in two-space and long hair was almost impossible to keep free of fleas and other exotic vermin. They were also barefooted, having built up thick calluses from a lifetime aboard ships where the floorboards and spars were coated with Elbereth Moss. When their bare feet were in contact with the smooth white Moss they were in contact with their Ship, and they didn't want to scar or scuff the precious Moss with rough boots or shoes.
Both Melville and Broadax knew that anything they had to say to their men was best said in front. Throughout history military leaders knew that they needed to get out in front if they wanted to influence the behavior of their troops. They also knew that the one in front usually died first. They weren't out front because they wanted to. They were in front of their men because they had to.
Over the centuries military leaders had succeeded in convincing themselves that it was bad for morale for leaders to die. A little blood was okay, even good for the troops' morale, but death was definitely out. So they tried hard to find a balance between necessity and stupidity. In this case Broadax and Melville had worked out a plan. A tried and tested plan. One leader led from the front to direct and exhort, and one stayed behind to direct, push and prod.
Private Jarvis' heart was pounding in his chest. He'd been taught the breathing exercise to prevent this from happening, but his training failed him. He was already experiencing a loss of peripheral vision, like looking through a "toilet paper tube." And he was experiencing "auditory exclusion," in which his sense of hearing "tuned out" as his brain focused all attention toward his vision, the primary sense bringing in survival data.
The marines here on the left flank were commanded by the huge Corporal Kobbsven. Sergeant Broadax was striding down the front of the line just as Kobbsven was passing on some of his old soldier wisdom. "Yah, yew betcha," said Kobbsven, "I svare it's true. If ya put a coat of olife oil on yar bayonet blade unter a full moon, then the blade von't schtick in the enemy. Olifes represent peace, and under the full moon there's power to resist stickin' to the enemy. 'Course, it vouldn't vork on an ordinary vorld, but once that blade comes out into Flatland the Elder King makes it so."
"Really, Corp'rl?" squeaked Jarvis.
"Kobbsven," said Broadax, stopping abruptly and scowling up at the towering corporal, rolling her glowing stub of a cigar to the corner of her mouth. Red veins in her eyes, set between a repeatedly broken nose, made the map of two small neighboring villages separated by a vast mountain chain. "We ain't got no olerv earl, an' this wurld ain't got no moon. So it looks like we's scruwd, blued and tattooed. So how 'bout if ye jist remember to twist the blade as ye pull it out! Ye think 'at might wurk too?!"
There was only one thing in all the world that Kobbsven feared, and she was standing in front of him, looking him squarely in the belt buckle. "Uhh, yeah, Sarge, I reckon that'd wurk. . . ." Kobbsven was a giant of a man with a huge, scraggly, handlebar mustache. He was standing at rigid attention, but despite all efforts his belly was at ease. If Broadax's eyes were the maps of two mountain villages, then the pink lines in Kobbs' two cheeks were the map of a thriving metropolis being savagely mauled by a ferret.
"All right yew lot, listen up! Look at me! Look at me, Jarvis!" roared Broadax, glaring at him as she strode in front of the marine private and caught his eye. Her glare was particularly effective. A veritable concentrated essence of NCO glare flowed out from the small space between her helmet and beard, and her voice echoed in the hot stillness as she clenched her cigar in the corner of her mouth. "Don't let yer mind wander, son. It's too small to be out on its own!" A ripple of nervous laughter went through the ranks, easing the tension.
"By the Lord, all of ye'd better pay attention to me. I'll make yer life a hell of a lot more miserable than they will if ye don't listen up!" She scanned the line and made sure every set of eyes was on her. As they looked at her they began to listen. As they looked and listened they were able to shake off the spell of tunnel vision and auditory exclusion. Jarvis' training began to kick in and he started taking slow, deep breaths.
Broadax stood with her stubby legs planted as if the 1.5 gees of her homeworld's gravity held her down. Her twenty pound, double-bladed battle-ax hung lightly in her left fist, carried at the balance point, right up near the business end. "Lads, in this heat yer powder is gonna perform extra well an' ye'll shoot flatter, so ye can aim a little lower than usual. The heat shimmer is also gonna distort their image an' make it look a little higher than it really is. And some of ye sorry bastards will tend to overshoot when ye shoot downhill."
Everyone nodded as she continued. "We're gonna get a lot of cheap shots at 'em as they come up this hill. By God I almost feel sorry for 'em. By God I do! But it's no damn good if ye waste it! We will fire our first volley when they pass the two-hundred- and-fifty-yard stake, but I want ye to treat it like two hundred yards. Then we'll adjust from there. When we've loaded our last volley we'll fix bayonets an' see if the bastards can digest cold steel!"
There was a lot of drop in the trajectory of black powder projectiles at 250 yards. You had to aim well above your target. But Broadax's marines trained extensively for this kind of combat. The key was using the ramrod with great precision, so that you "seated" the bullet down with consistent pressure, every time.
The weird twisting of Flatland wouldn't tolerate anything more complex than a rifled musket, and that only with daily maintenance, so their sights were a crude but effective set of posts that weren't even placed on the sailors' muskets. "Ye damned blueboys," she added, looking first left and then right to catch the eye of the two groups of sailors on the wings. "Jist fire right at 'em, like they was on a ship right next ta ye. By the time all the factors balance out, that's as good as ye'll ever do. If ye undershoot, yer bullets will likely hit this dry ground and bounce up into 'em."
Then she concluded, reversing her ax by twirling it in her fingers like a baton and waving the wooden haft in the air with the steel in her big palm, "An' if I sees any of ye firing too high ye'll feel the smack o' me ax hilt on ye, damn me if ye don't! The lieutenant will be walking the line, an' he'll be doing the same with the flat o' his sword. So don't shame me boys, put them minié balls right where they'll do the most good." Here her voice dropped, but it still carried clearly in the hot air. "Make me proud boys, do like I trained ye." Melville could almost swear he saw a tear well up in her eye. But it was hard to be sure, what with all the gristle and hair.
Melville stood beside Broadax, anxiously anticipating his first major battle, and his first command of troops in combat. He thought he was ready, and now found himself frustrated and bemused by the way his mind kept slipping off into inconsequential distractions.
Right now he couldn't help himself from asking, not for the first time, just why did they call it a mini ball? There was nothing "mini" about the .50 caliber "ball," which was bullet-shaped and not ball-shaped at all. The bullet was smaller than the bore, which made it easy to ram down the barrel. A cavity in the back of the soft lead bullet expanded when it was fired, digging in to the rifling of the barrel and giving the bullet a spin that made the muskets deadly accurate. So why a mini ball? Oh well, just another mystery lost in antiquity and the Crash.
The two rangers continued to fire, "Ch-BANG! Ch-BANG!, Ch-BANG! Ch-BANG!" roughly every fifteen seconds, as they trotted across the golden stubble, bringing their newfound friends along behind them. The foe had to be tired by the long chase but they plodded along doggedly, not able to close the distance and obviously not willing to stop.
Broadax had said her piece and now Melville had a few seconds to say his bit before the foe hit the 250 yard aiming stake. The troops expected him to say something appropriate, and he reached deep into their heritage for Words that would lift their hearts. Something that could reach down through a frightened man's brain, and pull him up by the short-and-curlies.
"Stout servants of Westerness!" he started, as he drew his sword with a flourish. The flash of the sword caught the attention of eyes that were primed and alert to detect motion and danger. Since he was standing beside Broadax, they were already looking that way, and were psychologically primed to shift their attention to the young lieutenant and listen to his words.
He was pleased that his voice was calm and steady. Unlike his traitorous heart, pounding in his chest. He reached out for his training and breathed deeply. Just as his weapons master, old Lieutenant Ed Stack, taught him back at the academy. He could hear that gravelly voice. "In through the nose, two, three, four. Hold, two, three, four. Out through the lips, two, three, four. Hold, two, three, four."
Elite warriors have known for centuries that the autonomic nervous system, or ANS, controls your heart rate, perspiration, and adrenal flow. Your ANS can't be consciously controlled. But your breathing is one ANS mechanism that can be brought under conscious control. As you pull your breathing down, your whole autonomic nervous system, including your heart rate and adrenal flow, come with it.
There's a tendency in humans to place their breathing in sync with the person they're watching. As Melville took his deep breath, consciously and unconsciously many of his men did too. His calm was contagious.
Now the words, those words, those ancient, sacred words began to flow like old wine. "Warriors of Westerness. Foes are before you, and your homes far behind. Yet though you fight on an alien field, the glory that you reap here shall be your own forever. Oaths ye have taken, now fulfill them all. To lord and land and league of friendship!"
Now Melville was sure he could see a tear escape the gristle and hair around the old Dwarrowdelf's eye. She looked with pride on her young lieutenant. So far, so good. The men nodded their heads calmly and smiled fell, fey smiles. Many of them were chewing tobacco, or smoking hand-rolled cigarettes. No great cheers came from these men. They radiated an icy calm that would keep their heart rates low and their trigger fingers steady.
Melville fell back behind the line now. His purser, Theo Petreckski, stood immediately behind the line, in command of their three midshipmen, Crater, Archer, and little Aquinar. Together they formed his reserve. Farther behind them, in the cutter, was their Sylvan surgeon, Lady Elphinstone, with the ship's cat and their one wounded sailor. Three ship's dogs sat in various relaxed positions in the shade of the trees, along the center of the firing line.
The fighting man shall take from the sun
Take warmth, and life from the glowing earth;
Speed with the light-foot winds to run,
And with the trees to newer birth;
And find, when fighting shall be done,
Great rest, and fullness after dearth.
Broadax was a master at controlling an infantry firing line. She stood in front of the line, dead center, two paces out. She held her twenty pound ax out horizontally before her in one hand, parallel to the firing line, in the same way that Melville would hold his sword out in front of him, and with no more difficulty. Her best marksmen were here in the center. Her oldest and truest marines. She paced the line while they loaded, but she would stand in the center when she gave the command to fire. That way she'd be as safe as any leader could ever be, standing in front of the firing line in battle.
Melville was stunned by the alien beauty of it all. A vast sea of emerald forest, as far as the eye could see, beneath a pure, powder blue sky. From the green forest came a dirty white wave of exotic beasts, flowing up a golden hillside, dotted with the flashing rubies and sapphires of insects glistening in the sun. Add in the scarlet tunics and royal blue jackets of the firing line. At this moment there was a flavor, a spice to his life that he'd never known. For a few seconds he savored it, and felt more . . . alive than ever before in his life.
The white tide finally showed its full measure. They weren't endless. There was a limit to their number. The enemy was now a discernible mob, roughly 150 yards long, 25 yards wide at the front, and 50 yards wide at the rear.
The rangers were still 100 yards in front of the apes, spinning and firing like clockwork, four times a minute. Ch-BANG!Ch-BANG!, Ch-BANG!Ch-BANG! Every time they each fired both barrels, turned, and loaded on the run.
Broadax was making one last, calm inspection of the line. She turned to old Chief Hans, in charge of the sailors on the right wing as he spit a stream of tobacco at a blue dragonfly. The hapless creature was picked cleanly out of the air and glued to the ground. Thinking it was raining, the bewildered insect began to burrow into the ground. "Well Chief, 'ave ye inspected yer boys?" she asked.
Chief Petty Officer Bronson Hans was a grizzled, bearded old salt who was the senior NCO in charge of their detachment of sailors. "Aye. Next y'll be teaching me 'ow to suck eggs?" he replied with a nicotine-stained grin and a stream of tobacco juice.
"Well, ye know Chief," she said, blowing a stream of cigar smoke into the general region south of his belt buckle. "They say yer memory is the second thing to go." The warriors around them laughed and old Hans smiled admiringly as she moved back to the center.
Broadax's ax lifted slowly and gently into the sky, moving from the vertical, as the lead element reached the 250 yard mark. These stakes were tree branches with bits of cloth tied to them. The distance had been carefully paced off and marked in all directions, as the first step in the defensive plan. They couldn't defend the entire perimeter, so breastworks or trenches would work against them if occupied by the enemy. Besides, there were no trees of manageable size to build fortifications with, and what deadwood was available was needed for cooking fires. Nor did the dry, powdery earth lend itself to entrenchments. With their small force they were counting on mobility and firepower against any attacker, and range stakes carefully placed out from all the planned defensive lines were key to the accurate and effective marksmanship.
"Remember, treat it like two hundred yards. Ready boys, readyyyy! Wait for it." They'd loaded from a standing position, but now most of the line was kneeling, some even sitting to get a more stable position as they fired. "Squeeeeze it off on my command!" Broadax inhaled deeply on her cigar. The coal glowed deep red as she gently, almost lovingly let her ax head fall, soft as a floating leaf. Her calm voice carried clearly, as she gave the command, "Firrre."
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.
The blackbirds sing to him, "Brother, brother,
If this be the last song you shall sing,
Sing well, for you may not sing another;
Brother, sing."
Melville felt a surge of joy and elation. He knew in his heart that this could well be his "last song," and he was determined to sing well indeed.
The leading wave was barely five yards out. Melville saw that they stood approximately man high as they reared up like this. Broadax now slipped in behind the line, joining the reserve. This was the point where bravery turned into stupidity if you stayed out front, to be caught between a seemingly irresistible force and a hopefully immovable object.
"FIRE!!!"
"Ch-BLAM! Ch-BLAM!" At point-blank range seventy-six minié balls cut through the enemy mass. Some of those in the lead were each hit several times, but that wasteful redundancy was balanced out by the fact that many bullets punched straight through the upraised chest of the first target and dropped yet another immediately behind.
Now that they were reared up on their hind legs, the apes died differently. In death all six legs still splayed out, but their torso, head and gaping mouth lunged up and out in an arc that landed many of them, teeth first, with a thump at the marines' feet, gouging out a divot of parched sod with their mouths. In two cases they sunk their teeth into trees marines were using for cover. The carcasses hung there in death, imbedded into the thick gray bark by their fangs. In many cases they landed close enough that men had to scramble out of their way, creating breaks and disruptions in what should have been a solid fence of gleaming bayonets.
The roaring, raging foe paused for a split second in response to the noise and shock of the final volley, and then they lunged into the center of the line. Suddenly they were in the line, swirling and twisting in flashes of white fur, red jackets, lunging yellow teeth and gleaming bayonets.
Here a marine's mouth and jaw disappears in a smear of white bone and red blood as an ape's claw connects. There another marine is disemboweled by a blow, viscera and blood coming out and up in an arc of gray, brown and red.
Now it's the reserve's turn to contribute to the battle. Melville held a double-barreled pistol in each hand. So did his purser, Petreckski, and the three midshipmen.
An ape loomed before him. Melville snapped into "slow-motion time" and hunter vision. Every event happened slowly and with incredible clarity. It seemed to take forever to swing the weapon up to eye level. "____!" He fired the pistol in his right hand. It flashed and created a puff of smoke, but he didn't hear a sound or feel the recoil. The ape spasmed forward in its death dive, but it seemed like there was all the time in the world to step aside.
As early as the twenty-first century, Dr. Alexis Artwohl's research found that eight out of ten of all law enforcement officers in gunfights experienced this diminished sound effect. Seven out of ten had heightened visual clarity, and six out of ten experienced slow-motion time. In the five centuries since, every warrior has been taught about this, and these powerful survival responses have been nurtured and encouraged. Melville had wondered if it would happen to him, and now here it was.
On his left a marine went down and a dog placed itself over the body. Again it seemed to take forever to swing and aim. "____!," Melville fired the second barrel of his right pistol, dropping the ape and giving the marine a split second gap to recover. Again, he saw the flash and smoke, but didn't hear the sound or feel the gun buck in his hand.
Like a predator in nature, he didn't hear his own "roar," he tuned out the distracting sounds of the "herd," and saw everything his "prey" and his "pack" did with vivid clarity.
Directly in front a marine went down with an ape on his back. "____!," "____!," Melville fired both barrels of his left pistol. In the turmoil he missed the first time, but the other ball went true. The beast on the marine's back suddenly went limp, giving the man a few seconds to scramble out of the melee and then stagger back into the line.
His midshipmen were still boys in every sense of the word, but they were very well trained boys. They were products of state-of-the-art training and the finest combat simulators that high-tech worlds could provide. In this melee they were definitely holding their own. Melville caught a flash of little Aquinar standing on tiptoes to shove his pistol into the mouth of an ape that had all four upper limbs wrapped around a marine. The thrust of the pistol was all that stopped the ape from biting off the marine's face. "Ch-blam!, ch-blam!" The sound was muffled by the ape's mouth as a spray of gray brains and red blood fountained out the back of the beast's head.
Funny, he'd heard these shots. He knew that the diminished sound or "auditory exclusion" worked like that sometimes. You shut out your own "roar" but not others'.
In a few seconds the reserve fired twenty shots. But the real bulwark, the seawall on which the filthy white tide raged futilely, was Sergeant Broadax and her twenty pounds of double-bladed battle-ax, and the two rangers with their dogs. She's singing, thought Melville in wonder as he watched the Dwarrowdelf. She is actually singing. Lo! She sang as she slew, for the joy of battle was on her, and the sound of her singing was fair and terrible. I wonder how she does it with that cigar in her mouth?
Her ax flashed in arcs of red, fountains of red, as she planted her mighty thews and hacked the heads from lunging apes, as a master swordsman might flick the buds from a rosebush in idle practice in his garden. She scorned to even notice the arms and claws of her foes, striking every time for the head. Her iron helm and splaying locks were splashed with red. Her red jacket was soon torn to shreds, displaying her lingerie of finest Dwarrowdelf mail underneath.
Hers was a race of delvers, mining deep into the hearts of high-gee worlds for heavy metals. Even after long years of service to the Crown of Westerness her face wasn't well suited to endure direct sunlight. She was already red with sunburn and now her face glowed as bright as her cigar tip with exertion as the battle fury of her forefathers ran like fire in her veins.
This is what she'd hoped for when she abandoned her people to be the first Dwarrowdelf to enlist in the Marine Corps of Westerness. As a female, her own society wouldn't allow her to be a warrior. They wanted to deny her the glory of battle, but now she was in her element. There was no regret for turning her back on her people and her culture to fight as a mercenary for some distant kingdom. This is what she was born for.
The two rangers and their dogs worked as a team, like the four fingers of a hand, reinforcing, supporting, assisting, and always, always attacking. These fell-handed warriors were indeed the "glory of the race of rangers." Truly "matchless" in every endeavor.
Valandil worked high, his height and reach giving the Sylvan an unmatched ability to deflect all blows from the beasts' upper limbs. He thrust his blade into the necks and open mouths of the approaching beasts with uncanny accuracy. Josiah took the center, deflecting blows from the middle limbs, and thrusting with great strength and power to the chest and gut. The dogs went low, biting and snapping at feet and knees. These dogs were larger and stronger than the ship's dogs and with one chomp they could hamstring any ape they caught from the rear, to bring them crashing down with limbs flailing.
For one brief moment Melville had a chance to observe this masterful team at work. Three apes came at them simultaneously. Valandil blocked an ape's overhand blow with his sword edge. The ape's "hand" flew off. The ranger's sword swept forward and down in a red blur, cleaving the head off at the neck. Josiah blocked a reaching claw with the flat of his blade. He used the impact to bounce his sword point over and in, to punch into the beast's chest. One dog feigned at an ape's knee. The beast turned to face this danger and exposed the hamstring at the back of its opposite leg to the rangers' other dog. With an audible "Crunch!" of jaws the hamstring was ripped out in a mass of white tendons and red blood. The ape plunged to the ground. In the blink of an eye, three foes were down.
The team of Dwarrowdelf, rangers and dogs held the center, forming a living barricade, a reef of steel, flesh and fang that the stinking white wave of apes smashed into in futile fury. Around them, others also helped to stem the tide.
. . . And when the burning moment breaks,
And all things else are out of mind,
And only joy of battle takes
Him by the throat, and makes him blind.
Melville held his sword in his right hand. The swords of those who sail in Flatland were all straight, since the corrosive influence of that strange realm played the devil with curved surfaces. The influence of two-space also helped to keep their weapons deadly sharp. Melville didn't remember drawing his sword. He'd tossed his pistols to the midshipmen for reloading, but he didn't remember doing that either.
He was in the thick of battle now. Countless years of practice made every thrust and stroke go true without thought. Pistolcraft is a conscious skill, even at close range. Selecting, aiming and dropping a target takes careful control. But swordcraft is an unconscious skill. The hand has to move before the mind even thinks. Here again slow motion time and visual clarity kick in at odd moments.
Danger! Parry, thrust! His sword blade magically appears in a beast's mouth. Without conscious thought it flicks back. With exquisite clarity he watches the sword tip slowly draw back a viscous strand of red. Danger! Parry, thrust. Again his blade magically impales an ape's exposed chest and flicks back. Stimulus, response. Stimulus, response.
Here Petreckski, the purser, also made his mark. In the ordinary course of duty his job was to find whatever was of value as potential cargo at every stop. He was expected to be a master of many fields. Passengers, gems, creatures (and parts thereof), plants (and parts thereof), technology, writings, music, exotic food and spices, artwork, alien archeology and many others were all his responsibility.
His job was to survive and thrive anywhere, in the markets or wilds of any world. He was seminary trained, a monk, complete with brown robe and bad haircut. He was virtually useless with a rifle, but for personal defense he'd been trained extensively in mid- and high-tech close-range weapons, to include pistol- and sword-craft.
Petreckski wasn't a strong man. Most of his development was in his mind, and he carried a few too many pounds on him. His sword slashes held little power, but his thrusts were precise and deadly. He was surprisingly nimble on his feet, and he danced in and out on the edge of the fray, placing a fusillade, a blur of sword thrusts into exactly the right spot while others held their opponents' attention. Like a huge sewing machine needle, his sword flicked out, deep into an ape's eye, and then back so quickly it seemed to pull back a strand of red with it. The red sword tip flashed back out again while the old strand still hung in the air, seeming to form a red cobweb of death.
The three ship's dogs also served with distinction. Distracting, snarling, ripping, biting. In and out with lightning speed, they were as good as any man in the melee. Several marines went down in the midst of the swirling fight in the center. All three ship's dogs went repeatedly into their primary combat mode, standing over a fallen warrior and defending him with their lives.
Their efforts made it possible for several marines to get on their feet and back into battle. Still others limped or crawled back to medical support after a dog's assistance. The price they paid was two dogs who died instantly with tragic yelps of pain. One of the rangers' dogs also went down with a heart piercing yelp, battling at his master's side, his teeth clamped deep into the fish-belly white limb that pierced his lung.
The strangest event in the battle for the center was when unexpected allies appeared from above. The apes seemed naturally inclined to climb up the tree trunks and attack their opponents from above. They could launch themselves down with devastating fury upon the opponents below. This appeared to be their natural and preferred method of fighting.
One ape succeeded in reaching a tree and climbing with amazing speed five yards up the trunk to where the branches began. He leaped out on a limb and hurled himself down. The marine he landed on died instantly as all six limbs and a mouth simultaneously pierced and assailed his abused body. Several other marines were wounded before the ape could be dispatched with a bayonet thrust.
It's possible that the little company would have died to a man except that, after the first one, every ape who climbed a tree was instantly beset by a throng of little, brown, eight-legged "spider monkeys." From the very beginning of their stay in this world they'd seen these tiny creatures up in the trees of this little grove. They didn't seem to dwell anywhere else.
The servants of Westerness tried to treat them with dignity and respect, as they treated all living creatures. They gained a newfound respect for their upstairs neighbors when the little brown monkeys literally tore the large white invaders into tiny, bloody shreds. Shreds which showered down from above. Nearly a score of the apes died in this grisly manner. Many of the little spider monkeys also came down, hitting the ground with a crunch and a thump of dust.
In the center, where the final volley caused dying opponents to lunge into the line, there were gaps in the hedge of bayonets. Gaps which the enemy exploited. With deployment of the small reserve, at great cost of life and limb, and with a little help from above, the center of the line was stabilized.
Throughout history a hedge of spears or bayonets could generally be counted on to stop a cavalry charge. It's widely believed that no horse ever intentionally charged into a hedge of sharp objects, no matter how badly their riders might desire otherwise. Upon occasion a wounded or dying horse might crash into a line, creating a gap that could be exploited, but it is likely that no healthy horse ever willingly flung itself on a bayonet. The warriors of Westerness hoped the attacking apes would react the same, and they did.
Other than the fluke of creating a gap in the line with a dying horse, the primary way cavalry can defeat infantry is to use their superior mobility to swing around the line. This is what happened on the left flank.
The wings swung back according to plan, precisely as they'd rehearsed it. All battle movements were best rehearsed ahead of time. Even if you had only a short time to prepare, the one thing you always tried to find time for was rehearsing "actions on the objective." And Broadax had days to prepare the defense of this hill.
A navy petty officer and a marine corporal fell back behind each wing to control the movement. On the right, the west wing, Chief Hans kept everything perfectly under control. However, on the left end the line of warriors hesitated for an instant as it pulled back, and a swarm of reeking white apes poured around them. The apes swirled around the flank and over the Pier, like a flurry of snow around the end of a fence.
Private Jarvis was the last marine on the left flank. After him, the line was held by sailors. He had rehearsed this in simulators, but this was no simulation. Simulations could do a lot, but if he lived through this he'd be a real veteran.
His training failed him as the apes began to swirl around the left wing. He forgot to control his breathing. His heart pounded in his chest. He was "ham fisted" and clumsy as he tried to load his musket. Then the battle became a swirling maelstrom of white fur, and red and blue jackets.
Jarvis' tunnel vision was focused down to a "soda straw" as he thrust his bayonet at the ape in front of him. He didn't hear a sound. Cut off, he and the sailors to his left fought back-to-back. He didn't feel the ape's claws rake his shoulder, and he wasn't even aware of it when he wet himself and messed himself.
The only thing that saved Jarvis, and most of his comrades, was the fact that fewer apes were out on the flanks. Once a gap was created most of them ignored the warriors of Westerness and charged straight into the center of the perimeter. Some climbed the trees, where they died at the hands of their tiny cousins. A large group swung all the way around and reached the Pier, where the cutter, Lady Elphinstone and her helpless patient waited.
In the bowels of the beached cutter was Lady Elphinstone, their aid station, and their remaining water. Petreckski became aware of the threat when he heard Elphinstone's two small, single-barreled pistols fire to their rear. In a flash Petreckski turned, sheathed his blade, and picked up two freshly loaded pistols. The midshipmen had just finished ramming a paper cartridge down each barrel, cocking the two hammers and putting two percussion caps in place. He shouted to the middies, "Grab all the pistols! Follow me!"
Cutting through the woods he quickly got a line of fire to the cutter. From here it was still a fairly long pistol shot, perhaps twenty yards. At the east entrance to the cutter two apes had already been dropped by Elphinstone, but at least one other was inside the cutter where Petreckski couldn't get a clear shot at it.
Inside the cutter Lady Elphinstone knelt beside her only patient. He was Glyn Ramano, an unlucky sailor whose chest was crushed in their initial crash landing into this world. Fortunately, none of the wounded on the battle line had been brought back to the aid station yet. Elphinstone's two small pistols dropped the first two apes as they approached the eastern entrance, but now she held only a dagger as yet another came at her.
The ship's cat, perched on a beam above the intruder, launched himself at the ape. Landing on the beast's back, the cat scrambled around the neck to the left, beneath the slavering jaws on top of the head, sinking claws and fangs into the left eye as it peered out from behind the breast bone. Each facet of the compound eye burst wherever claw or fang pierced it, spraying a milky white fluid.
With a howl of rage the beast reached up with its two topmost arms and one additional left arm to impale the cat. "Mwrrarw!!" The cat squalled in pain and death.
Elphinstone lunged. Quick as lightning her right hand sunk the dagger under the creature's lower left armpit and she felt fetid air escape from its lung. "That should let some of the wind out of ye!" she shouted. She was slammed backward by the impact as the beast came forward to stand over her helpless patient. Almost casually, each of the two limbs on the ground pierced Ramano as he lay helpless.
Two legs were imbedded in the dying sailor, three were impaled in the cat. The beast's remaining arm slashed at her, but the Sylvan healer ducked under the blow and crouched back. There was escape available out the other side but she wouldn't take it, not while there was any hope that her patient might be saved.
She held her bloody dagger as the beast swayed, then the head lunged forward in a last, spasmodic death dive, jaws open wide. She leapt to the side and the ape's teeth sank into the cutter's timber. Outside a mass of other apes fought to enter the narrow way.
Petreckski stands holding a pistol in a two-handed grip. The monk's left foot and left shoulder are slightly forward. The enemy is clustered around the narrow east entry to the cutter, literally fighting to get in. He permits tunnel vision to set in. All that matters in all the world is the entrance to the cutter, the ape closest to it, and the sights of his pistol.
"____!," "____!," both barrels fire, the lead two apes drop, but he hears nothing. Vision is the only sense required here, and his mind tunes out all other sensory input. Without forward momentum the apes die with a sudden splay of all six limbs, then collapse into a heap of stinking white fur.
Both of Petreckski's hands reach back. He drops the empty pistol from the left hand. A clever middy slaps a fresh pistol into his empty right hand.
Roughly twenty yards range. Each shot has to be carefully aimed from this distance. At very close ranges most modern warriors were taught to use "point" shooting. Look through the weapon, point and shoot. The physiological arousal of close combat often makes the eye incapable of focusing on any close-in objects, like pistol sights. This loss of near vision makes point shooting a viable alternative at very close ranges, if it is practiced long and hard enough.
But bullets are not magic. They don't hit their targets by themselves. The inverse square law applies, and the odds of missing your opponent increase exponentially as you move away from the target. At twenty yards the chance of making a kill with a hasty, unaimed shot is tiny. Remote. Miniscule. At this range it was vital that he take his time and . . . aiiimmm.
The key is to focus the eye on the front sight. Whatever the eye focuses on, consciously and unconsciously that is what your fine motor muscles will work to stabilize. Everyone has baited hooks, threaded needles, and cut with steak knives. Each time we focused our eyes on the end of the tool, and that was what we held steady. On a pistol the vital thing is to hold the front sight steady and on the target. If you do that, everything else will follow.
Petreckski was firing a SIG pistol, which was standard issue for the Westerness Navy. He'd been lucky enough to actually train at the SIGArms Monastery, under the supervision of Father "Bang" Miller and Brother Johan Pederson. Petreckski was a faithful servant of his God. As faithful as any flawed, fallen human can be. But Father Miller taught him that God would forgive him if, just for a moment, he worshipped at the Holy Church of the Front Sight. The alternative was the Discount House of Worship: pull, point, and pray. Petreckski was certain that God could do anything He chooses, but He most often chooses to bless those who practice and prepare.
The other part of the combat marksmanship equation was even older than the Church of the Front Sight. It was, "aim small, miss small." You must pick the smallest aim point you can discern. You don't aim for the ape, you aim for a specific spot on the ape, like the yellowish patch of fur under his armpit. That way even if you miss your mark by a little, you'll still hit your foe.
The front sight, a simple blade placed on the end of the barrel, comes into focus, superimposed over the white ape's armpit, which is out of focus. Every scratch, every mark on the little sight is in perfect focus. Two-handed grip. Breathe . . . front sight . . . squeeeeze . . . "____!" Don't wait for the target to drop, don't look at the falling foe, go on to the next. Pick your mark, front sight . . . squeeze . . . "____!" The middies look on in wonder as two more apes splay and drop.
Hand the empty pistol back with the left hand where it is snatched away to reload. Breathe. Simultaneously reach back with the right and a middy slaps a new pistol, cocked and ready, into his hand. Front sight . . . "____!" Front sight . . . "____!" Each time the lead ape falls. And again. And again. "Front sight, front sight," is his mantra. If he loses concentration and focuses on his target, he'll miss, and Elphinstone surely will die. The middies reload feverishly. Finally there are no loaded pistols left to slap into his hand.
Petreckski has fired twenty-four shots in as many seconds, and twenty-four apes join the two already outside the cutter. A swirl of red and blue jackets swarm over white fur. A flash of bayonets and swords, and the few remaining apes fall. Petreckski stands confused and dazed. He has been concentrating with superhuman intensity and when all his targets are gone he isn't sure what to do.
Suddenly, there is silence. No foe is left alive. The battle is over.
Lieutenant Melville looked out at the carnage. Heaps of reeking white fur were everywhere. He was stunned to realize that the battle didn't end until the last ape died. In real life no enemy ever fought to the end. A few always turned and ran, or surrendered, or committed mass suicide when defeat was imminent. Here was something truly different.
In the silence, Private Jarvis stood, dazed and staggering, clutching a bleeding shoulder with his hand. He looked with wide-eyed wonder at Sergeant Broadax and said, "Dear God, Sarge, they was brave."
"Aye, maybe they was, lad," answered Broadax. "Maybe. But as the great Dwarrowdelf general, Gzagk Pazton once said, 'Untutored courage is useless in the face of educated bullets.'"
Their victory was bitter bought. Six dead, eleven seriously wounded. He'd begun the battle with forty warriors, forty-four counting Elphinstone and the midshipmen. Now over a third of his men were dead or disabled. Not to mention over half his dogs and his one cat! And it had been so close, so very close.
Uninvited, a little ditty came to mind:
I never shall forget the way
That Blood upon this awful day
Preserved us all from death.
He stood upon a little mound,
Cast his lethargic eyes around,
And said beneath his breath:
"Whatever happens we have got
The Maxim Gun, and they have not."
Well, they didn't have Mr. Maxim's machine gun of yore. Its complex mechanisms wouldn't last an hour in two-space. But they did have "educated bullets," Westerness' finest double-barreled rifled muskets, and a company of stalwart hearts with steady hands that could load and fire four volleys a minute as they "stood upon their little mound." And that was sufficient unto the day.