Free Conflagration by Mick Farren Page A

had already made the ascent. While the infantry and fighting machines advanced down the valley, they were going to make one more attempt to dislodge the Mosul from the high ground. Cordelia shared Jesamine’s frustration. She had friends in that desperate bid to clear the heights, but venting didn’t help. She was about point that out when Argo did it for her.
    “We’re doing what we have to do, and, right now, we have to wait until we’re needed. Ask any of the poor fucking grunts. Waiting is what war’s all about.”
    Behind him, Raphael nodded in agreement. “It’ll be our turn soon enough. No need to rush.”
    The Four had come to war and found that they had nothing to do, a situation that failed to improve their already shaky cohesion. The guns had stopped some fifteen minutes previously, and the fighting machines had finally ground down into the valley, lurching forward on their steel tracks and iron treads, while the exposed infantry, advancing with fixed bayonets, stayed as close as possible to their armored sides, taking advantage of all the cover offered by the rumbling juggernauts. Some regiments had even gone into the valley singing.
Oh, Annie gal, I must away
On and on and on and on
But I’ll fuck you come the break of day
On and on and on and on
Then the captain calls and I obey
Over the hills and far away.
    The assault force had been advancing for maybe three minutes, when the Mosul guns on the ridge opened up, breaking the infantry formations with sudden spurting geysers of flame, dirt, and black smoke. With at least a mile to go to the Mosul’s forward trenches, the Albany boys would have to endure shelling from the ridge all of the way, unless the cavalry and the Ohio could take that western high ground and silence the enemy cannon. There would be no more singing. This first crash of the Mosul artillery had been like a clap of massed thunder, and thrown Cordelia into a sudden if momentary panic. She didn’t want to play any more. War was no place for her. She was born for soft pretty things, not the implacable ugliness of combat. She wanted to run away from the smoke and the flame and death-dealing explosions. She wanted to hide. She didn’t want to die. But then she found her strength and reestablished control, sternly reprimanding herself. “We all have to die sometime, darling.”
    “What?”
    She thought that no one had heard her over the guns, but Argo, Jesamine, and Raphael were all staring at her curiously. “Are you alright, Cordelia?”
    She looked from face to face. They all seemed genuinely concerned, but Cordelia tried to laugh it off. They didn’t need to see her weakness. “I was finding encouragement in a well-worn platitude. We lived through the Potomac, and we’ll live through this.”
    Right at that moment, the first Albany fighting machine was hit. A triple explosion shook the ground; the exploding shell, then the machine’s magazine detonating and boiler blowing in quick succession. Hot metal, dirt, and smoking debris rained from the sky. Cordelia ducked, as did everyone around her. A chunk of twisted steel buried itself in the ground just a few feet from her.
    “Fuck!”
    Crouching on one knee, she glanced in the direction of Dunbar, to see if he had reacted like everyone else. Apparently the Field Marshal was made of sterner stuff than his underlings. Virgil Dunbar stood straight and still while all around him sought cover. Either he believed that he would never be touched, or he didn’t care if he was. Whatever the source of his strength, he ignored the danger and stared unflinching down the length of the fateful valley where hundreds of his men were going to their deaths. Cordelia knew this was probably the only way to deal with war and command, and wondered if, one day, she would be able to do the same.
    Cordelia straightened up, and looked round for the others. “Is everyone okay?”
    Jesamine and Argo nodded, but Raphael was tentatively touching his forehead,