Lawrence was very happy to be on the ground, in one piece.
“Okay… burn the wreck. Don’t want the Doms getting a good loot it!”
“Ay, ay, General Sil’a!” Lawrence retorted.
“Our little lizard is growing up,” Chack said fondly. He was surprised how glad he was to see them both. He stooped. “This is the ‘Reddy Cousin’ the reports mentioned?” he asked, looking down at the unconscious man. “Doesn’t look like him… to me.”
“Me neither,” Silva said. “Not much. But he’s a good’un-in different ways. We need to take care of him.”
“Of course. The area behind us is mostly secure now. Take these troops and escort him back to the harbor. You will meet Imperial Marines and possibly shore parties from Salaama-Na. ”
“Nope,” Silva said as the ruined “Nancy” began to burn and Lawrence limp-trotted back with weapons on his shoulders-and a long object in his hands.
“Send these other fellas. I done all I can in the Air Corps. I ain’t been in a real fight in a while. I’m with you.” He suddenly noticed what Lawrence had. “Oh nooooo!”
“What?” Chack asked.
“The war’s lost! My be-loved ‘Doom Whomper’ is busted!” The giant flintlock rifled musket he’d made from a turned-down 25-mm antiaircraft gun barrel from sunken Amagi had broken at the wrist in the crash. He shouldn’t have brought it, not for this fight, but it had saved him so many times in such a variety of ways, he never knew when he’d need it. It was his lucky charm.
“You can ’ix it,” Lawrence said. He seemed equally affected.
“Yeah… well, bring it with us,” Silva said. “You can still sling the big part, an’ stick the buttstock in the shootin’ pouch!”
“Why I gotta carry it?” Lawrence demanded, suddenly less concerned.
“I gotta wag this Thompson an’ this heavy bag o’ magazines,” Dennis retorted. “Not to mention my cutlass, bayonet, an’ pistol. You don’t even need a sword-you got them claws.”
“I broke one!” Lawrence complained.
“Woop-te-do. We get in a fight, you can set my poor rifle down-gently-an’ pitch in. Till then, you wag it… or I won’t let you go huntin’ with me no more!”
Lawrence fumed but slung the broken weapon and heavy pouch that went with it.
“This reunion is swell,” Chack said, “but we must get out of here.” He motioned toward the now furiously burning “Nancy.” “Besides, we still have a battle. We must finish it before the enemy comes over the mountains behind us.”
“I agree on all counts,” Silva said, “but don’t worry about the last. Shinya’s comin’ ashore at Cork, an’ maybe Easky in the mornin’, with four nice, fresh, well-trained regiments, chompin’ at the bit. He’ll have more air too. There ain’t nothin’ on this whole shitty island he’ll even notice bustin’ through. An’ as for the bad guys attackin’ that Waterford burg”-he shrugged-“me an’ the lieutenant, an’ a few other planes pretty much took care o’ that, I figger.”
“What did you do?”
Dennis chuckled. “Wasn’t my fault… mostly. Wasn’t even my idea.” He nodded at the motionless man and looked at the squad that would carry him out. “You take good care o’ him. Like I said, he’s a good’un!”
CHAPTER 19
Central Highlands Grik Ceylon
C olonel “Billy” Flynn was riding one of six paalkas, drawing a battery of light six-pounders on split-trail “galloper” carriages near the front of the column of his 1st Amalgamated. He still liked “Flynn’s Rangers” better, and through persistent repetition, he had enough people using the term that he was confident the moniker would stick. He had two more batteries of light guns along, one in the middle and another at the rear of the column. Looking back at the winding snake of Lemurians, he was proud of what he’d accomplished and what they’d achieved. They might not be Marines, or the Six Hundred, but he’d put his thousand-’Cat regiment up against any Army unit anywhere, especially with their new rifled muskets. Soon, they’d even have breechloaders, and he couldn’t wait. Since they’d been among the first to get rifles, they’d probably be the last to get the “Allin-Silva” conversions, however.
He guessed it was inevitable that he’d wound up “back” in the Army. He had good leadership skills and remembered by heart the infantry drill manual he’d been taught. For a while, Captain Reddy used him to help create a new manual that was applicable here. He’d modified and simplified the original in his head and unconsciously substituted a number of nautical terms and commands here and there, but it seemed to work okay. The new book- the first printed on this world with movable type-was titled Flynn’s Tactics. He wouldn’t admit it, but that “honor” actually embarrassed him. Ultimately, his manual set the stage for his getting his own regiment, and the irony of his command wasn’t lost on him. He’d made corporal in the 77th “Melting Pot” Division during the Great War, and now he had the “Amalgamated,” another “melting pot” of people from every Lemurian Home they were known to inhabit, mostly uniformed alike now, and many from places still trying to stay out of the war.
A good example of that was the nominal commander of his newest-if possibly temporary-company: Lieutenant Commander Saaran-Gaani, the brown-and-white-furred former exec of USS Donaghey. He was one of a few, but growing number of troops recruited from the Great South Island that really needed to be in the war. Not only was it a vast land with many resources, it was fairly well populated in the warmer north. He hoped ’Cats like Saaran could take their stories home and get their various Homes, or “city-states” on board. The allies needed the Great South Island much like the Brits and French needed the U.S. in the “last” war.
Billy’s contemplations were disturbed by a more immediate concern-his ass. He hated riding palkas. With their broad backs, it was probably about as comfortable as riding an elephant. He tried to sit as he’d seen folks do in movies, riding camels and such, but the damn pal-ka’s rolling gait and this unpredictable terrain made that almost suicidal. Therefore, whenever he was “aboard” one, he was perpetually doing the splits. He’d ride only a little while more, he decided; just long enough to give his knees and ankles a rest. He’d been a submariner too long, and honestly, he had some joint issues. Some of that likely stemmed from the near-scurvy he and the others experienced on Talaud Island while marooned for the better part of a year. He’d heard the island had blown itself apart, and though he was saddened by the loss of life and the damage to their Fil-pin allies, he was glad the island was gone.
“Somebody stop this goddamn thing,” he finally growled. “I’ve h all the ‘rest’ I can stand.” The Lemurian mahout stopped the beast by a means Billy didn’t see, and he slid gingerly down the animal’s flank, to be assisted to the ground by Captain Bekiaa-Sab-At. “Lemme go,” Flynn protested.
“Very well, Colonel, but if you break a leg or ankle in these rocks, you’ll have to ride a paalka all the time.”
“Yeah? Well, sorry, Captain. I didn’t mean to snap. Just mad at my own worn-out carcass. Walk with me a little, wilya?”
“Of course.”
It was beautiful here; the mountains rising on either side of the valley, the heavy timber composed of something like ferny pines. It was cool, and for once the mosquitoes weren’t that bad except at dawn and dusk. Even the “Griklets,” the feral youngling Grik that dogged the column all the way up from the southern coast, screeching at them, throwing sticks, rocks, and feces, and occasionally even attacking, had finally laid off.
It did stink, though.
The valley they advanced through had been packed with Grik just a few days before, but after Alden’s breakthrough on the coastal plain, recon had reported the enemy abandoning the rough terrain to reinforce the southern approaches to the industrial heart of Ceylon; the area between “Colombo” and the natural low-tide causeway connecting the big island to the “Indian” subcontinent. The stench left by the departed Grik “Army” still lingered heavy in the valley, however. Grik didn’t use slit trenches, and the reek of their dung was all-pervasive. Billy wondered how on earth they avoided epidemics. Maybe they didn’t and just ate their dead. The stench of rotting flesh was strong as well.
Saaran joined them, wearing a bandanna over his face. “If this is what it smells like when the Grik leave, I’d
