“Did you lose many men?”
“More than I'd like.” General Ngongo tossed the chart on a rickety table and bent over it with a scowl. “I'm sorry, Sirdar. I will re-form my men and go out again tomorrow. There is another possible candidate farther to the south.”
Greyfriar noted, “If the vampires keep attacking every day, which they will, you won't have enough ammunition or food to support a retreat.”
Anhalt strode to the makeshift stove whose coals were long unlit and cold and, therefore, so was the coffee. Fingers stiff with bitter chill brushed the tin pot aside in annoyance. He tipped his khaki helmet back. “We can't retreat. We can't wait. We have only one choice now. If we are going to die, let's take the fight to them.”
Greyfriar said, “It will be a bloodbath to storm the city as weak as we are.”
“An attack on Grenoble is a desperate gamble, but we are quite desperate.”
“If I may, Sirdar,” Ngongo offered without waiting for permission, “I agree with you. I'd prefer to move forward. I'm frankly tired of wading through the hip-deep snow. Better to be killed with a loaded gun in your hand than crawling on the frozen ground.”
Anhalt regarded his colleague before turning to Greyfriar. “You spend a great deal of time among the enlisted men. What would you say is their general feeling? Wait for relief or fight?” The general waited with his back rigid for the answer he knew was coming.
“They would choose to fight. I sense there is little they won't do for Adele, but the conditions are draining their enthusiasm for the war.”
“Well, that's surprising,” the sirdar grunted. “Very well. Our path is clear. Victory or death.”
SIRDAR GENERAL ANHALT convened a meeting of his General Staff in a freezing dirt-walled room. Present were the commanding officers of the various units of the Second Division of the Imperial Expeditionary Force: Colonel Mobius of the artillery brigade; Generals Khalifa and Dikkha, both recently elevated to the command of the two regiments of foot; General Ngongo of the Katanga Volunteer Regiment; Greyfriar; and General Anhalt himself. They were a somber group, but resolved. All knew they were likely facing the issuance of copious death certificates.
The sirdar surveyed his officers. “Gentlemen, we know the situation. We are out of time and will not survive long languishing here. Therefore, we must take Grenoble now. General Dikkha, General Khalifa, feed the men as well as possible. Then form your regiments in their entirety for the assault. All weapons and ammunition are to be served out.” He looked at Colonel Mobius. “Shortly before dawn tomorrow, your artillery will bombard the perimeter of the city and demolish the old walls, taking care to avoid as much of the core of the city as possible. Our eighteen-pounders are not optimal for taking down fortifications, but I trust you will do your best. Once complete, all infantry forces will go over the top and move into Grenoble to engage the enemy. I have unit orders to pass out later.”
Anhalt paced in front of the several mediocre maps of the area. He pointed at the Bastille high above Grenoble. “General Ngongo, your Mountaineers will depart today and move into position above the fort. Take the Dyula mercenaries with you for skirmishers. We have a small store of shoulder rockets, which are yours. When operations commence in the valley, you will storm the Bastille, where the clan lords tend to reside.”
The Katangan officer nodded in grim agreement.
“Gentlemen, we have reached the point where there are no options. We have no air cover. We are laboring to get some shriekers into operation. The combustion flak is far too dangerous to our own men. There is little gain to be had from devising clever tactics. We cannot succeed through stealth or misdirection; the creatures are over us, spying at all times. Our only advantage is brute strength. Sheer firepower. We must bring firearms to bear at a distance. And, if that fails, steel at close quarters. We must simply come to grips with the enemy in a set battle, and kill more of them than they do of us. That is the end of it, gentlemen. It is us or them.”
The officers sat mute. They all understood.
General Ngongo regarded Greyfriar, who leaned in the frigid corner, long legs stretched out in front of him. “And you, my friend, what of you? You are the mysterious ranger. Battles and armies are not your usual place. What mysterious role will you be playing in this maneuver?”
Greyfriar chuckled. “I'll find something to keep me busy. If your Mountaineers manage to reach the king of Grenoble, you will find me there waiting for you.”
A commotion outside made them pause in their strategizing. The door opened and a red-faced lieutenant ran in, saluting quickly, and then blurted out, “We are under attack, sir. The Highlanders of the Fifth report they are hard-pressed from the south.” General Khalifa, commander of Constantine's Fifth Regiment of Foot, stood in alarm.