Ghost March

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The troops were as ready as they would ever be. The battalion had been re-oriented to face the expected direction of the assault and a skirmish line had been pushed into the woods. Their orders were to snipe and fall back, slow the enemy's movements and force them to deal with the threat.

The Major was in the center of the position and slightly to the rear of the main line of resistance. He had a platoon in reserve, only thirty troops but it was better than nothing.

The far left flank was under a senior lieutenant, the right under the Captain who had his own company there. A quick tally revealed that his estimate of four hundred was exceedingly optimistic, the battalion actually numbered less than three hundred, two-hundred and ninety seven to be precise.

The Sergeant Major went along the line telling the troops to wait until commanded to open fire.

"Aim low, troopers. Aim low."

The Sergeant looked at his officer, "I think we're f**ked, Sir. We'll take quite a few with us, but damn, there's more of them than there are of us."

He had spoken quietly he didn't want the troopers to hear him, but some did, his Corporal hissed at him, "What, you want to live forever?"

One private soldier, not far away, looked at his buddy and whispered, "Yeah, I kinda do."

Halfway up the open slope, the militia went to ground. They had expected to be taking fire by now, but the edge of the forest was silent.

The commander looked to his two aides, "Isaac, head out to the left and gather up two hundred, then go out that way maybe twenty rods, then hook back up the hill. Their numbers aren't very large, I think we can overwhelm them. Simon, you do the same on the right."

The two men went on their way, the commander watched, then turned to Moses, his bodyguard, "Chin up, old man."

"What? And get my damned head blown off?" Moses grinned as he said that.

"Nathaniel, take 'em in, I'll be right behind you with the reserves."

They came out of the night and the lightly falling snow like wraiths. Years of country living had toughened them, years of hunting had made them as silent as their prey, but the first of them died when they stumbled into a pair of regulars.

The two regulars fired their weapons as fast as they could, but there were just too many militia. They died where they had made their stand and the militia flowed over and around their position. The two men had sold their lives dearly, at least seven militia lay dead or dying around their position.

The skirmishers fell back to the main position, flitting from cover to cover in pairs, one firing, the other moving. Many of them fell but they left the forest floor covered in bodies, mostly militia.

"Here they come, Sir." the Sergeant aimed and fired, aimed and fired. He kept an eye on the Company, the troopers were doing well, aiming carefully, trying to make every shot count.

The Captain was watching, the numbers of the militia didn't seem as great as they'd been told. Then he had a thought.

"Runner, take a message to the Major, we need to reinforce our flanks, the militia aren't coming at us in force to our front. You got that?"

The runner nodded then headed to the center, he'd gone about forty paces when a militiaman fired from the tree line and took him down.

The Sergeant Major reported back to the Major, "Sir, something doesn't smell right here. We're not getting hit by a thousand troops, there's a lot of 'em, but not a thousand."

The Major thought, "Send to the commanders on either flank, refuse the flanks. You got that? Refuse the flanks. These guys hitting us may not be professionals, but they're not stupid either."

Four runners were dispatched, two to either flank, when the message was received, the companies on either flank shifted their positions. They were now perpendicular, more or less, to the main line.

Isaac's two hundred moved carefully through the forest, along the way they picked up the scout, Nemo.

"Sir, they're ready for you. They swung their righthand company back just like a door. Probably did the same on the other side."

Isaac nodded, turning to one of his men he said, "Take word to the commander, and to Simon, they've refused their flanks. We need to go deeper, then pinch in."

"Nemo, think you could get behind them? Maybe with that fancy new rifle you could pick off anyone that looks important."

Nemo nodded, "Don't need the rifle, chief. I'll use my bow. But the rifle might come in handy later. If they hear rifle fire in their rear ..."

"Yeah, they might panic. Go, good hunting."

Nemo vanished into the night.

The word didn't make it to Simon in time, his two hundred charged into the face of the senior lieutenant's company. Though numbering only forty seven men, their rifle fire decimated Simon's company. Simon himself was shot through the head in the first moments of the assault.

The rest of Simon's men, the survivors, melted back into the trees. They didn't run but kept up a desultory fire, pinning the senior lieutenant's company in place. A stalemate settled in on the regular's left.

"Damn it, Sarn't Major. We're holding them, but ..."

"Yes Sir, ammo is running low. If they come at us full bore, we'll be overrun."

"Spread the word, only fire at close range, and, one more thing ..."

The Sergeant Major stopped and looked at his commander.

"Have the troops fix bayonets."

"Sir."

The Sergeant Major headed out to spread the word up and down the line.

Nemo had gone deep into the forest, slipping well behind the firing. He was moving quickly and as quietly as he knew how. He had a thought, "Hope that damned bear ain't around."

After a good hour, he heard the firing dying down. Was it over? He kept going, only one way to find out.

"We've redistributed the remaining ammunition, we can withstand one more big attack. We can pick off the singles one by one, each platoon has a trooper designated to snipe at the enemy officers, as if you can tell who they are, none of 'em are wearing anything like a uniform." The Sergeant Major seemed put out by that, as if the militia wasn't playing by the rules.

The Major looked at the man, "They all know each other, they know who's in charge, they know who ain't. If anything, anyone waving their hands around and pointing ..."

"Yes Sir, I told the troops just that, shoot the folks who look like they're in charge."

"I'm sure they'll relish that task."

Nemo had moved forward, the firing was picking up, but slowly. He wondered where the heck Isaac and his folks were. How deep were they planning on going?

He settled in, the snow had stopped but had left a light coating of white on the ground. Sometime after midnight, the moon had risen high enough to give a modicum of visibility. He could see the enemy positions, spots where the snow hadn't stuck because people were there.

Now to find the fellow in charge, he thought.

The Captain died shortly after two in the morning. He had been looking down the slope, to his left, wondering if the militia had given up. A bullet had taken him in the side of the head and blew him back down into the hollow where the Company command post had been established.

The Sergeant was stunned, the Captain's blood had spattered the small command party. What the hell was happening? Who shot the Captain? Then he realized what was going on, the militia were up the slope now, on the company's right flank.

"Pour it on, boys!" Isaac was shouting over the roar of gunfire. He had seen what looked like an officer go down hard, the man's head snapping to one side, when his company had opened fire. Then he had led the charge into the enemy's midst. It was time to end this.

Isaac stumbled as a soldier rose up in front of him. Damn where had he come from, he thought. Then he realized that it was a woman.

The Corporal plunged her bayonet into the belly of the man barking orders. He had come damned near to stepping on her as she reloaded her weapon.

Jerking the blade free, she put a bullet into another militiaman nearby, he went down hard. Then she heard someone screaming, headed towards her.

She turned to see a female militiaman swinging her rifle like a club. The Corporal had no time to bring her weapon up and aim, so she fired from the hip. The woman fell, still screaming, into the Corporal's position.

The screaming stopped when the Corporal used her bayonet once more.

"Damn it! Hold them, hold them!" The Sergeant was bellowing as he fired the Captain's pistol at the militia swirling around him. He had broken his rifle over the head of a very big militiaman shortly after the Captain had gone down.

He sensed a hesitation among the militia, he fired the pistol once more, then it clicked on empty. Looking about he saw a rifle, intact. Grabbing it up, he checked the action. Jammed. But the bayonet was still affixed.

Jumping out of his hole, he screamed, "Charge! Give 'em cold steel!"

There were only seventeen troopers left, but they came up out of the ground as if resurrected from the dead and charged into the middle of the militia.

The militia broke and fled back into the forest.

Most of them made it.

The Sergeant Major came back from leading part of the reserve down into the fight on the right flank. He was bloody and his cap was gone.

"Rough night, Sarn't Major?" the battalion commander quipped.

"Yes Sir, but damme, I think we've got 'em on the run."

Though the rifle was familiar to him, he'd trained on one just like it when he had been in the Reserve, he hesitated to use it. It was dark and he hadn't been able to check it thoroughly.

By feel he had checked the action. It seemed free of debris and the action moved smoothly.

Settling into position, some twelve rods upslope from the regulars, he welded his cheek to the butt of the rifle. He found his target then took a breath, then let some of it out.

Hell, he thought, even if I miss those bastards will panic.

He squeezed the trigger.

The Major stood up and clapped the Sergeant Major on the back, "Nice work tonight, Noah, now ..."

The Sergeant Major was confused for a moment, then he realized what had happened when he heard the crack of a rifle shot. As he ducked down into the shallow hole he and the Major had scraped out, he bellowed, "SNIPER, TO THE REAR!"

The Major was still alive, "They got me, Noah. Low in the back, hurts, can't feel my legs ..."

"Just hold still, Sir, hold still ... MEDIC!"

The medic arrived too late. He jumped into the hole and stared at the tough old Sergeant Major, sobbing incoherently, cradling the body of the dead Major.

Nemo realized that his war was over. The mad spate of rifle fire which had come towards him after he had fired surprised him. The regulars hadn't panicked, they'd followed their training.

One round had clipped his left ear, knocking him silly for a long moment. He had raised his hand to that wound and it had come away drenched in blood. He wondered that he could see it so clearly, then it struck him, it was dawn.

As he lay in the small depression formed by nature, he assessed his wound. Then he noticed a pain in his right side, down low. He checked, pulling his camouflage suit to one side and lifting his shirt.

It was a bad wound, he could already feel his legs going numb. He was hit in the belly, low, the wound was oozing blood steadily. He thought, heck, even if I had a doctor right here, I'd probably bleed out anyway.

He sighed and lay back.

It wasn't so bad, he'd done his job. Looks like their attack had failed, but no matter. His war was over.

As the sun came up over the mountains and shone brightly on the new fallen snow, Peter (called Nemo) had died, quietly, with a slight smile on his face.

His life had been good.