“Commence firing!” Bekiaa screeched.
A hundred and fifty-odd Baalkpan Armory “Springfields” rattled independently, the dull slapp of heavy balls striking flesh distinct and gratifying. Arrows thwanged and whooshed over the breastworks, the impacts less dramatic, but the resultant wails of agony just as real. Six of Tolson ’s eighteen-pounders, so laboriously retrieved and emplaced, shook the earth and vomited fire, choking smoke, and almost two thousand three-quarter-inch copper balls. The big guns were the primary killers. Firing into the dense, narrow press, they could not possibly miss, and each ball not absorbed by the sand often accounted for multiple Grik. A great, collective moan reached the defenders through the smoke, bu only about five hundred of the enemy did.
“Shields!” Bekiaa cried.
Shields came up, many hastily built from Tolson ’s now-shattered corpse, and the remaining Grik slammed into them with unabated ferocity. Though outnumbered now, they still might have broken the line if they’d had the sense to concentrate their blow against a single point. As it was, they simply charged straight at whatever opposed them in whatever direction they were pointed when visibility returned. Bayonets and polished barrels flashed under the relentless sun, and spear- men advanced behind the shields and the grisly, personal slaughter began.
Greg and Pruit stayed out of it. Both held. 45s in their hands, and Barry had an ’03 Springfield slung on his shoulder. Somewhere on the left, where the sandy spit bordered the river mouth, Russ was supposed to be doing the same; commanding his “section” of the line, but leaving the fighting to his sailors-bolstered by Marines with the proper training for it. Bekiaa had the center, seconded by Graana-Fas, and Greg determined to have a word with her regarding her “proper” place as well. Slowly, the killing subsided, and another hoarse, thirsty cheer began to build, punctuated by the squeals of the last Grik to be slain.
“Stay here, won’t you, Pruit? I need to have a word with our intrepid young Marine commander,” Greg said.
“Sure,” said Barry. “Somebody better, or we won’t have her much longer.” The Grik artillery resumed, a shot skating through the sand nearby. “Keep your head down! Their guns aren’t very big, and we drive ’em off every time they try to deploy in front of us, but they’ve got a lot of ’em, and they’re getting better with ’em too.”
“You bet,” Garrett replied, crouching lower in the trench behind the works and cinching his helmet tighter. He took off at a trot, his right arm extended so he could pat each defender as he passed, saying, “Good job! Good job! We’ll lick ’em yet!” Most glanced back, blinking thanks or encouragement of their own, but he came across far too many who couldn’t hear him anymore.
Short of Bekiaa’s position he found Jamie Miller, Walker ’s young pharmacist’s mate on another world, and now an able surgeon in his own right. He was working on a Lemurian sailor, one of Tolson ’s, by the name stitched on the Dixie cup lying nearby in the watery bottom of the trench. Two of Miller’s assistants held the ’Cat down while the kid tried to stop the bleeding from a bad neck wound. Greg could tell it was hopeless.
“When are we going to get some help here?” Miller seethed when the bleeding stopped on its own.
Greg squatted beside him. “I wish I knew, Jamie. The fleet’s coming as fast as it can. The last position we got would still put them about two days out.” He paused. “You know Clancy’s dead, right?”
Jamie nodded. The night before, three Grik ships approached under cover of darkness and attacked Donaghey from the sea. It shouldn’t have, but it came as a complete surprise. Only the enemy’s crummy gunnery saved the stranded ship, and her seaward guns, once alerted, cut them apart. One Grik ship sank, another beached a couple miles to the east, and the third drifted ashore, afire from stem to stern. Even now, her blackened bones were breaking up in the surf. But Donaghey was badly mauled herself. One early, lucky shot, crashed through her comm shack and killed the young radioman while he was sending the evening report. Another of their dwindling “original” destroyermen was lost.
“Yeah, well, he ain’t the only one,” Jamie snapped. “Counting ‘walking wounded’ still fighting, our casualties are past twenty percent. Not as many from that last attack,” he allowed, “since our protection’s improved, but sooner or later the Grik are going to get their act together.”
Greg nodded. He had plenty of “combat” experience now, but this was only his second “shore action.” Already he could tell it was a lot different from his last. These Grik were better fed and far more motivated. Even so, he got the distinct impression they were just “locals,” thrown at them because they were closest-militia, basically. If anything, the first “attacks,” while violent and costly, had been even more disorganized and, well, amateurish, than anything he’d heard of before. If they’d thrown better troops at him then, it would probably be all over by now. In the meantime, the Allied defenses had been strengthened considerably.
Notwithstanding the naval attack, however, the quality of Grik field artillery had improved disproportionately with their infantry, even though Greg’s heavy guns kept it at arm’s length on the “mainland” beyond the broader area where the peninsula touched. He reasoned that artillery was probably beyond the grasp of your everyday Grik, and there must have been a “regular” battery stationed nearby. It had probably taken a day or two for the “Grik brass” to figure out what was going on down here, and he expected better troops, with possibly different tactics at any time.
“We’ll be fine,” Garrett said. “You’re doing fine. Keep up the good work. I need to talk to Lieutenant Bekiaa.” With an encouraging smile, he hurried on.
Bekiaa-Sab-At was drinking water from a bottle offered by Marine Lieutenant Graana-Fas. Graana (nobody dared call him “Granny” to his face) was one of Greg’s own Marines from Donaghey, and he’d somehow managed to participate in nearly every Allied action against the Grik. He was second to Bekiaa here out of choice, and Greg wasn’t sure why. Bekiaa had seen some sharp fighting with the creepy-and ultimately strangely benign-“toad lizards” north of Tjilatjap, but until now, that was about it. Maybe Graana saw something in her, as Greg admittedly did. She was certainly fearless.
“Cap-i-taan Garrett!” she said, handing the bottle back and saluting.
“Quit that!” Greg said with a smile. “You want some Grik gunner to see, and knock my head off with a cannon ball?”
Bekiaa chuckled. “No, Cap-i-taan.”
“Good. And while we’re on that subject, you need to stop hopping around on top of the breastworks and wearing a target for every Grik crossbowman that says, ‘Shoot me, I’m important!’ Is that perfectly clear?”