Rotation must have been fairly steady in this fight, Pete thought, looking at the blood-spattered troops. “Okay, fellas,” he shouted, his words echoed by NCOs down the length of the line. He always used the term “fellas” inclusively, whether his troops were male or female. Here, with B’mbaadans and Aryaalans predominating, there were still few females in their ranks, although that was changing. It was impossible to ignore the fact that Pete Alden’s Marine Corps ran about half and half, and it was composed of volunteers from every “nation” in the Alliance. It was equally clear that even the best-trained, most-conservative Aryaalan regiment would never want to tangle with the Marines. Queen Maraan’s Six Hundred were on a par with them, but it also accepted females now. Nobody was really happy with that arrangement, least of all Pete and the human destroyermen, but the Baalkpans, Manilos, and various sea folk insisted on it. It was their way. It also worked.
“You’ve had a tough fight and killed the bastards like proper devils,” Pete continued over the growing tumult of the Grik horns as the enemy prepared for its next attack, “but this time we’re going to play something new. At my command, the first and second ranks will remain in place. Third and fourth ranks will step to the rear, behind the First Marines!” He waited while the order was relayed. “Execute!”
The two rearward ranks, gore-streaked spears on their shoulders, about-faced and marched through the waiting ranks of Marines. “First Marines! Take positions… March!”
The two ranks of Marines that stretched the entire length of the line, except for the most extreme right, stepped forward in near unison, their blue kilts and largely unblemished white leather armor a stark contrast to the troops they’d replaced.
“Load!” Pete roared.
Eight hundred of the new muzzle-loading Baalkpan Arsenal muskets were removed from shoulders and placed butt down on the ground. Almost in unison, each Marine shifted his or her black leather cartridge box around, closer to their front, and proceeded to load their weapons by silent but endlessly practiced detail. Finely woven, almost silk cartridges made from the webs of some kind of long-bodied spider were handled and torn open with sharp teeth-the Alliance still didn’t have any real paper-and the gunpowder within was poured down eight hundred 36-inch barrels. The remaining silky stuff at the base of the “service load”-consisting of a. 60-caliber lead ball with three roughly quarter-inch balls stacked atop it-was wadded up and the whole thing was seated on top of the charge with a glittering flourish of eight hundred bright ramrods. The weapons were then brought up to an almost precise forty-five degrees, hammers placed on half-cock, and tiny copper caps were pushed onto the nipple-shaped cones at their breeches. Again, with a simultaneity achievable only after long, repetitive drill, nearly every musket landed back on its owner’s shoulder.
Pete climbed to the top of the breastworks, looking back at his creation. The Marines were his, of course, but even the various national regiments were “his” in a way. The tactics were Captain Reddy’s, but he was the one who, with-now Colonel-Tamatsu Shinya’s help, had formed the Armies of the Alliance. Currently, Shinya was still doing the same job in Maa-ni-la. For a moment, oblivious to the growing tide that prepared to thunder down upon it, he took time to admire what he’d achieved. Ostentatiously, he unslung his own M-1903 Springfield, with “S.A. 1-21” stamped prominently near the muzzle, and pulled his sixteen-inch bayonet from its scabbard. The bayonet was dated 1917. Strangely, it suddenly occurred to him that he’d been nine then. Thirteen when his beloved rifle was made. Odd, The sort of Things that go Through your mind at Times like This. He shook his head. The Grik tide had been released.
“First Marines! Fix… bayonets!”
Weapons came back off the shoulders they’d been resting on, and the twenty-inch, triangular-bladed socket bayonets were jerked from their scabbards. Adding an historical flourish that Captain Reddy had thought of and Pete just loved, every Marine brandished his bayonet with a roar, as if showing it to the enemy. Then, with a satisfying clatter, the wicked weapons were affixed to the muzzles of eight hundred muskets.
There was no Grik-fire this time. It had all apparently been destroyed by the earlier bombardment, but swarms of crossbow bolts filled the air. Pete stepped down, grinning, from the breastworks, and rejoined Rolak, who’d been watching him with interest.
“You are a most unusual creature, General Aal-den,” Rolak said. “In some ways you remind me of Cap-i-taan Reddy. Even as I grow to dislike this war, I believe you are learning to enjoy it!”
“God help me, Rolak, I think I do-but not the way you think. I purely do enjoy killin’ the literal hell outta those nasty Grik bastards, and I’m proud of the tools we’ve put together to do it. But you got the Skipper wrong if you think he likes all this. He doesn’t, really.” Pete paused a moment, thoughtful, while the Grik horde swept down upon them. “Not usually, anyway,” he said at last. “It does bring out the best in him, though, doesn’t it?” He glanced quickly over the breastworks. It was time. “You may employ your artillery now, General Rolak!”
Firing off the muzzle blast of the next gun in line, one after another, two batteries of five light six-pounders each sprayed canister into the face of the charging mass of Grik. Again the distinctive yellowish-white smoke accompanied the thunderclaps, and through the smoke the roar became mixed with the wails and shrieks of countless wounded. The guns pulled back and the shield wall closed before them once more. With a momentous crash of bodies, weapons, and shields against shields, the Grik slammed into the wall. Again, the wall bowed, but with all the might of the first two ranks, doing nothing but pushing against the enemy, the wall regained its place.
“First rank, First Marines, pre-sent!” Pete bellowed. Youngling Marine drummers, ranged behind the line, relayed the command with a staccato tattoo.
“Fire!”
Four hundred loads of buck and ball slashed into the gaping jaws of the Grik warriors. Through the smoke, a perceptible cloud of downy fuzz from the feathery-furry bodies mingled with the misty red spray from so many simultaneous impacts. The shield wall almost collapsed forward into thin air when the pressure against it abruptly lifted.
“Second rank, First Marines, pre-sent!” Pete called, even as that rank stepped forward to the right and the first rank stepped back to the left and began reloading. Pete waited a few moments to let the first rank get well underway with their task and allow the enemy to press forward once again.
“Fire!” Horizontal jets of flame lit the lingering, choking smoke of the first volley, and again the pressure against the wall fell away. A collective loud, keening moan had replaced the anticipatory roar.
“First rank!” Pete yelled relentlessly. “Present! Independent, fire at will.” The drummers altered their cadence. “Commence firing!”
The ensuing shots were almost desultory. A volley would have been wasted, since there was little left to shoot at. A few Marines got to practice their new combined drill, skewering Grik from behind the protection of the shield wall with their bayonets, just like spearmen would do, but then being free to shoot other enemies when none were directly in front of them or within reach. That was the real test Pete had hoped for: the bayonet as a primary weapon and the musket fire just the music before the dance-as well as an added “killer of opportunity” that spearmen could never indulge in with their bows. He’d hoped the initial volleys would provide a psychological effect, but they’d been unable to really evaluate that. The Grik hadn’t had time to “break” into Courtney’s Grik Rout. A lot did run, but most of the Grik force in front of the shield wall had been eviscerated before it had a chance to make up its mind what to do.