Men of War Read Free

Hans smiled.
    “We’re two worn-out old warhorses Andrew. But hell, what’s the alternative, go to the old soldiers’ home and sit in a rocking chair on the porch? Not I. Down deep, I kind of hope I get shot by the last bullet of the last war.”
    “Don’t^even joke about that.”
    “Superstitious?” Hans chuckled.
    “No, it’s just something you don’t joke about. But you’re right, we’re both wearing down. Everyone is.”
    In the dust-choked column a passing regiment raised their caps in salute. Andrew let go of Mercury’s reins and took off his hat to return the gesture.
    “You know, there is part of me that would actually miss this,” Hans drawled as he leaded over and spat. “Nothing in peacetime can equal this, full corps of infantry drawn up to march off to war.”
    Andrew nodded. It wasn’t just the sight of them, it was the sounds, the smells … the rhythmic clatter of tin cups banging on canteens, the tramping of feet on the dusty road, the snatches of conversations wafting past, the scent of leather, sweat, horses, oil, even the staticlike feel of the powdery dust. It was something eternal, and it was one of the few things the gods of war gave back in exchange for all the blood offered up on their altars.
    After so many years he could close his eyes, and it could be anywhere, here on this mad world, or back in Virginia. And he could sense as well the differences, the grimness of purpose, the quiet resignation, the feeling that this was some sort of final effort. He wondered, if, at this very moment, his rival less than a hundred miles away was engaging in the same exercise, towering eight-foot Bantag warriors marching past. Was he judging his troops as well, knowing that a final cataclysmic battle was coming?
    “And what about them? What does he have? What is he feeling at this moment?” Andrew whispered.
    “Who, this Jurak?”
    Andrew nodded again.
    “I rarely saw him, can’t recall if I ever even talked to him. He’s changed the war though, that’s certain. Almost makes me wish we still had Ha’ark.”
    Escaped Chin slaves confirmed the rumors that Ha’ark had died in front of Roum, most likely murdered by his own followers. For a brief moment Andrew had hoped beyond hope that with the death of the so-called Redeemer, the war would be over, and the Bantags would simply retreat. They had indeed retreated, but it had been to dig in and go on the defensive throughout the waning days of winter and into the spring.
    For the first month he was glad of the breathing space, giving them a chance to do repairs, especially to the railroads, evacuate Roum civilians westward to Suzdal, bring up supplies, and get ready.
    By the second month he was actually hoping they’d come out of their defensive positions at Capua … and by the third month he knew this new leader, Jurak, had changed the nature of the war.
    He could sense a difference, a more methodical mind, calculating, not given to rash moves.
    “I hate the fact we have to dig him out,” Andrew said, Hans nodding in agreement. “It’s as if the bastard is sitting there, just begging us to come in.”
    “Could always count on them attacking up till now,” Hans replied, “but you’re right, he’s waiting for us to kick off the ball.”
    Andrew grunted. Though Hans had taught him how to chew, he had never really mastered it and was embarrassed as he tried to spit and half choked instead.
    Damn, the hordes could always be counted on to attack. The trick then was to find a narrow front, dig in, and tear them up. Jurak had reversed the tables. Capua was a damn fine defensive position, flanked by marshes and heavy forests to the north, more marshes and sharp jagged hills to the south. It was a front fifteen miles wide and fortified to the teeth.
    Yet it seemed there was no other way. All indicators were that during the spring Jurak had invested a massive effort on building up his infrastructure, and his factories were churning out guns,