Love is Always Write Anthology Volume 9

apologize for the delay. It turns out that the General is alive." I gave Fairview the rest of the news.
    "Blast." Fairview ran a hand over his forehead. "I just sent a message to the Commander-in-Chief, requesting reinforcements and informing him that his son-in-law was dead."
    I looked over at the signalmen. One of them was sending the message. I knew the color code by heart, of course, and I surmised that the signalmen weren't quite so fearless as they appeared. The message being sent sounded as though it had been reworded by an unnerved signalman; "All is lost" were not words in Fairview's vocabulary, even as a looming possibility.
    "You could send another message," I suggested, and then fell flat on my stomach, shielding my head. The signal station was quite close, and the glass shards from the broken mirror were spraying everywhere.
    "Perhaps not for a while," Fairview replied dryly as he and I and the other men around us picked ourselves up. "Stiles, go see how many of the signalmen were wounded or killed by that shell. Davey appears unhurt, but make sure he gets back here safely."
    "Yes, sir," responded Fairview's soldier-servant, and promptly darted off. Fairview's gaze followed him longer than it needed to. It struck me that Fairview must be aware that there was no one left to countermand his orders, should he make a foolish one.
    His eyes met mine. I was silent. We seemed held in a space of time that lasted an eternity.
    Or perhaps it only seemed that way because of what followed.
    CHAPTER 8
    STREAMS OF WOUNDED
    Account by a Landsteader war correspondent, of his climb up Spy Hill during the battle:
    "Streams of wounded obstructed the path. Men were staggering along alone, or supported by comrades, or crawling on hands and knees, or carried on stretchers. Corpses lay here and there. The splinters and fragments of the shell had torn and mutilated. I passed about two hundred while I was climbing up.
    There was, moreover, a small but steady leakage of unwounded men. Some of these cursed and swore. Others were utterly exhausted and fell on the hillside in stupor. Others again seemed drunk, though they had had no liquor. Scores were sleeping heavily. Fighting was still proceeding, and stray bullets struck all over the ground, while the shell guns scourged the flanks of the hill and the sheltering infantry at regular intervals of a minute.
    One thing was clear – unless good and efficient cover could be made, and unless guns could be dragged to the summit of the hill to match the Mippite artillery, the infantry could not, perhaps would not, endure. The human machine will not stand certain strains for long."
    ****
    "We can't reach the Mippite sharpshooters on the ledge! Our trenches are too far from the eastern crest – most of the sharpshooters are hidden from our view!"
    "I know. Send some of your men forward to dig a new trench."
    Machine-rifle fire sweeping the entire hill, enfilading the trenches, clearing the crest of living men. Sharpshooters killing whatever Landsteaders remained on the crest who weren't killed by the machine-rifle fire.
    "I lost every man I sent."
    "I'm sorry. I'll send the main trench to attack the sharpshooters."
    "You'll send—? Blast it, no, Fairview! Don't lead the attack yourself!"
    Attack. Clash. Struggle. Shouts. Blood. Retreat.
    "Well, that didn't work."
    "Blast it, Fairview, we've already lost one general! We can't afford to lose you too!"
    "I'm short of officers."
    Silence.
    "Yes, half of mine are dead too."
    "Keep yourself safe, Rook."
    "Do I have a choice?"
    Shrapnel, sending a shower of bullets onto the entire hill. Pom-pom shells screaming onto the survivors.
    "We need water – the wounded are parched!"
    "The water-bearers can't reach us; nor the stretcher-bearers."
    "The trenches are beginning to overflow with the dead. And in this heat—"
    "Putrefaction. I know. We'll just have to wait for a let-up in the crossfire."
    "Wait for a miracle, you mean?"
    Screams from the shells. Screams from the men. Hard sobbing. Moans. Prayers. Yipping. Yipping?
    "Doyle, how the bloody blades did that spaniel get here?"
    "She followed me up the hill, Colonel, honest. No need to get testy. . . ."
    Rotting bodies. Sweat. The stink from a young soldier who could not control his bladder. Fresh blood.
    "Where the fuck are the reinforcements?"
    "Watch your language around the men, Rook."
    "Sorry, sorry. But where are they? You asked the Commander-in-Chief for more men two hours ago. And why