Chapter 66
Southern battle line
“Jason Gotkin,” Colonel Samson Shalit said, keeping his helmeted head low at the stone wall. “I love you, Rabbi, but put a goddamned helmet on!”
Jason couldn’t help but snicker. He’d never heard the man curse, especially in up-time parlance.
“I apologize, Colonel,” Jason said, accepting a loaded rifle from a man nearby who had volunteered to load while others fired. “I can’t find one that fits.”
“Then find one that doesn’t, for if I see you again without one, God forgive me, I’ll drag you off the line myself and court martial you in front of General Roth. You are too important to die!”
The Wallachians were trying to reseize the wall, and in a few places, they had managed to breach it. But Rak Chazak Amats was still being shouted along the line, and the gaps had been filled with zealous men chanting Joshua’s words while firing rifles into the dwindling mass of enemy soldiers.
Jason picked up a helmet at his feet, bloodstained and messy with mud. He slipped it on. It covered his right eye. “Will this do, sir?”
Colonel Shalit slapped the helmet hard, driving it tighter onto Jason’s head. He nodded and smiled. “That’ll do. Now, raise your rifle and fire, Rabbi. Rak Chazak Amats!”
Jason raised up, pressed the butt of the rifle firmly into his shoulder as he had been shown, and fired. He tried to shout the words as well, but his voice was gone. Just a squeaky recitation of the chant escaped his dry lips. He was spent, exhausted, and yet, he fired. Not for himself really, though the fear of death was strong in his mind. He endured his weak body and fired for Tobias, for Colonel Zelikovich, Colonel Shalit, for every man along the stone wall. They were firing and dying still at his side, and he could think of no better place to be but here, at this moment, fighting with them.
“They better break soon, Colonel,” the young man loading rifles said, “or we’re going to be in trouble. We’re running out of ammunition.”
Jason could see Colonel Shalit working out that reality in his mind. What must we do? Another bayonet charge? How many more of those do we have left in us? Tough, tough decisions, for sure. Rise out from behind this wall and attack, and possibly get slaughtered. Stay in place, run out of ammunition, and be overwhelmed. Perhaps I’ve done nothing but rally the men to delay the inevitable.
He was about to state his opinion on the matter when a cadence of drum and flute burst through the morass of killing sounds. Faint at first, then rising, rising, like a tide that could not be overcome. Jason looked back to the tree line, toward the small farmhouses that now lay in burning ash.
A line of soldiers, in tight, steady lines, burst through the fog of smoke. Jason recognized who they were immediately, for there were Jews in their ranks as well.
“The Silesians!” he shouted, letting his tears, and helmet, fall. “The Silesians are here!”
Northern battle line
Captain Gregor Mitzlaff nodded. “Yes, Captain von Jori. I will ride with you.”
A weight lifted from Christian’s chest. “Thank you, Captain.”
“But it will take some time to move my men off the front line and have one of the free companies move in as replacement.”
“How long?” Christian asked.
Mitzlaff considered. “An hour. Maybe two.”
Christian winced. Too long! By then, the entire Székely force could be destroyed. They had yet to hear word or sound of anything serious happening up that deadly road. That gave Christian comfort. Maybe they did have some time to muster.
“Do what you can to assemble your men within the hour, Captain Mitzlaff. We’ll gather left of the center line.”
“This is insubordination, Captain von Jori,” Mitzlaff said. “It’s in conflict with a direct order from Colonel Callenberk and the commanding Székely general.”
“Yes,” Christian admitted, “and I will take full responsibility if it fails.”
Central battle line
Musket fire roared out of the tiny slats along the APC’s side. A clever design, Usan thought, as he, like his men, kept close to the Ifrit to avoid being shot to pieces. The men inside the enemy wagons were fully protected by armored walls slanted slightly so as to force enemy fire to ricochet away harmlessly. Clever, indeed.
But burning naphtha would not ricochet, not in the manner that the occupants of the wagons might hope. Janissaries fired their muskets as practicable, but the Ifrits would win this engagement, Usan knew. If it was winnable at all.
A cannon strike to its front left wheel rim shook the tank and pushed it back a foot. One Janissary, too close to the right rear tire, screamed as he fell under the agonizing weight of the Ifrit. Usan forced himself not to run to the boy’s aid. No stopping now, for any hesitation would bring a quick end to this endeavor.
With a powerful whoosh! the Ifrit opened fire, now only forty yards away from the APC. The crew turned its turret toward the locomotive and coated its wheels with fire. Thick, black smoke erupted from the flames and poured into the sky, giving both sides further protection from musket fire as visibility dropped. But Usan knew the wagons and its men weren’t going anywhere. They had moved into a crossroads, and there, the APC would stand.
The Ifrit crew turned the turret down the length of the armored wagons, painting them with flames like an artist pushing pigment across a canvas. Musket fire from inside the wagons stopped as hot naphtha splattered through the slats and began burning the men inside. Usan could hear their screams. The crew of the Ifrit must have heard them as well, for it stopped its turret and kept pouring fire into the central wagon.
Soldiers inside the burning wagon tumbled out, through the top, the back, falling behind the wagon or in front of it. Those in front were cooked immediately. Those behind fled as other men rushed forward to try to retake the position. Cannon fire erupted once again, and this time, it struck well.
Flame shot straight into the sky as a cannonball struck the turret and bent the barrel upward. Burning naphtha cascaded down like a fountain, and Usan’s heart sank. With all the fumes this tank was emitting, it might—
He beat out a hard staccato pattern with his rifle on the hull of the Ifrit, trying to warn the crew. He struck so hard the stock of his musket cracked and fell away in pieces. But the message was received: the naphtha stopped flowing through the damaged barrel and the battering ram was pushed out further.
The Ifrit lurched forward and slammed into the burning hull of the central wagon.
The weight of the wagon and its attachment to its partner in the rear, and the locomotive in front, kept it from toppling over immediately. It was a strong position, and Usan wondered if he had ordered a mistake. The wheels of the Ifrit churned like a millstone on stubborn grain, as its battering ram struck the chassis of the wagon and cracked wood and iron. But the APC would not go down.
Then Usan saw a miracle. His men, his orta, moved around the sides of the tank, abandoning their protection in the rear. Under heavy gunfire, they slammed into the wagon and pushed and pushed and pushed, rocking it back and forth on its broken chassis. They howled to the glory of Allah and pushed.
The Ifrit’s tires finally found purchase in the muddy road, and its battering ram struck again. This time, the wagon collapsed backwards.
Usan felt like crying. He had given the order to charge, but never in his life could he have imagined men under his command showing such drive, seizing the initiative with both heart and hands as they did now. A sea of red coats and white bork hats, faces smeared with blood, mud, and sweat, taking that extra commitment to ensure victory. He wanted to bow before them all, to present them to the Sultan personally, to shower them with imperial accolades. There was no denying his utter devotion to these men now, and he would die in the honor of their company.
“Attack!” he shouted, climbing over the toppled wagon and pushing forward with his beloved men.
He paused to look back at the Ifrit. It was not moving. Again, its tires turned, kicking up dirt and mud. It reversed, but it could not pull its battering ram out of the wagon’s mangled chassis. It tried all steam ahead, but the crumpled APC, again, would not budge.
It’s gone, Usan thought as he bid the Ifrit a fond farewell and watched as naphtha poured out of its broken turret.
His eyes widened. “Move! Move!” he shouted, raising his arms to his men to drive them forward. “Move!”
He turned and ran up the road, toward the capital and glory. Behind him, naphtha, running the length of the Ifrit’s hull, ignited, engulfing itself and the armored snake in flame.