Read Online Never Sound Retreat by William R. Forstchen - Free Book Online

realized that security in this case came second to morale. Gates had broken the story of what the Bantags had, and it was time for the people to be reassured.
    The piercing shriek of a steam whistle echoed across the plaza, counterpointed by a deep insistent rumbling as the first of the Republic's new land ironclads slowly turned the corner by the White House and started across the plaza. Billows of black coal-fired smoke puffed from the machine's stack, bits of soot swirling about in the sulfurous clouds. White clouds of steam shot out from underneath the machine as its six iron wheels, each of them six feet high and with rims four feet in diameter, crunched over the cobblestone pavement.
    The ironclad's forward gun port was open, the ten-pound breechloading fieldpiece's muzzle protruding. The small turret on top was covered with canvas—that was one weapon Andrew did not yet want discussed—but the upper port atop the turret was open and the commander of the ironclad, Major Gregory Timokin, stood chest high in the opening. His uniform consisted of a heavy steel helmet and chain mail covering his face and upper body to protect them from metal flakes and bolt heads which snapped off inside the machine when it was struck by bullets and artillery rounds. The young major stood with arms crossed, obviously proud of his position, and as the machine rumbled past the reviewing stand he saluted Andrew, then made the sign of the cross as they passed Father Casmar.
    Andrew was pleased and somewhat amused to see the name "Saint Malady" emblazoned on the black armored side of the ironclad. Malady, a hard-drinking, foul-mouthed sergeant if ever there was one, had been elevated to the role of patron saint of all steam engineers after his heroic death at the siege of Suzdal, when he rammed his locomotive into an attacking column.
    As the last of the units passed, Andrew finally relaxed and looked over at President Kalenka, who had Mood next to him throughout the parade.
    "Impressive, Andrew; they look damn good."
    "But not enough."
    "We have twelve corps now, over two hundred thousand men. We beat the Merki with not much more than half of that at Hispania."
    Andrew knew all the figures by heart. Twelve corps active, four more forming. Of the twelve corps two were on permanent duty to the west, for out on the vast steppes beyond Cartha the remnants of the defeated Merki still lingered, raiding, eager to penetrate for a killing attack if they suspected that dedefenses were down. If they ever reunited, they could field fifteen—maybe even twenty—umens. Two more corps were kept as strategic reserves garrisoned at Suzdal and Roum, ready to react either east or west, depending on the threat. That left eight for the Ban-tag front.
    Then there were the eighty batteries of artillery, one corps of cavalry, a fleet of sixteen monitors and two dozen other ships, an air corps unit, various detached units, garrison troops, home guard militia armed with old smoothbores, nearly a third of a million men under arms.
    Bill Webster, head of treasury and finance, was constantly pointing out it was now simply impossible to put one more man into the front line. Nearly every fit man between eighteen and thirty was in the rank or working in the factories. Close to 20 percent of the total population of the Republic was in uniform; not even the Union at the height of the war supportec much more than 5 percent of its total population in: the army at one time. The Confederacy had somehow managed to put fully 20 percent of its total population into uniform, and its economy was in a shambles by the end of the second year of fighting. Crops still had to be planted, harvests brought in, trees felled, coal and iron ore dug, uniforms and accoutrements made, track laid and repaired, telegraph wire strung, and, above all else, the daily routine of living had to go on, the raising and teaching of children, the cooking of meals, the tending to the aged, the sick, anc the