Cogs and Wheels and the Midday Sun.

Cogs and Wheels and the Midday Sun.

The enemy definitely were not supposed to be here was the only thought occupying Lance-Corporal Penworthy's mind as the 1st Eden rapidly formed up its ranks. Way out in front a few brave souls were hammering range markers into the dry and dusty ground, even as the huge enemy mobs streamed out of the Elephant grass towards them. Impis one Oxford cad had named the mobs the natives fought in taking the word from the Zulu's of the Natal and the name had stuck. Penworthy noted that there seemed to be a lot of them, and each Impi was usually at least 200 warriors strong.

Next to him Private Cartwright was fiddling with his Martini-Henry again, one of the new models with the 6 round magazine, the rifle was very temperamental. The dust that pervaded the Sea of Grass seemed to clog up the workings something awful and the troopers were kept busy cleaning their weapons after every march, something they would have been doing in about two hours without the appearance of so many of the enemy.

"Stop messing about with the bloody thing" hissed Penworthy.

"The return valve is caked and the returning rod won't engage with the upload cam because of the dust!" was Cartwright's panicked reply.

"Give it here!" Penworthy said.

Penworthy took the rifle off the Private and rapped it down hard on a stone in front of him, the metal shoulder plate making a hard cracking sound. Dust rained out of the workings and he gave the rifle a shake for good luck before handing it back to the stunned Private. The Private might know everything about the mechanisms of the new guns thought Penworthy, but he didn't know the old campaigners tricks.

"That cleared it! Thanks Penny, err sorry Lance Corporal Penworthy" said Cartwright earning a glare from Penworthy.

"Quiet in the Lines There!" roared the Sergeant from his position at the end of the Line before continuing, "Don't make me come down there and sew your lips shut for you Cartwright. I don't have time for seamstress work right now as you might have noticed there are a few Beakies just over there that require our attention."

This raised a laugh from the men of the first platoon, but only until Sergeant Henders glared at them in mock anger. Penworthy glanced around again noting the old hands and the new fish. It was easy to tell them apart, the new fish were staring at the approaching forces and fidgeting. The old hands meanwhile were occupied loosening straps and making sure their magazine pouches were unbuckled. The few extra seconds that job took during the fight could be the difference between life or death on the end of a Beaky spear. Cartwright had at least taken that piece of information on and was busy opening his already, although his nervous fingers were fumbling the catches. Penworthy took a moment to glance up and down the line and was pleased with what he saw. Although the first clashes with the Beakies had not gone very well the British Army was more than able to learn from it's mistakes.

Positioned between the three platoons of rifle men were mechanised rifle teams with the new Webley 46's. Difficult to use, and wildly inaccurate, the 46's did throw out a frankly horrifying amount of fire and it was only the need to carry heavy lead Darkwall Batteries around with them that kept General Summers from loading all the men down with them. That and the limited supplies available. Men were busy piling up sandbags around the teams to protect them from any hurled spears or resin shots the Beakies might try, while the team themselves worked through the check-list to get the weapon properly set up. Penworthy had been offered a position on one of the 46 teams but had turned them down, he'd seen what happened to one of the teams when a Beaky spear pierced the Lead side of the battery. The memory of that stretched and squealing mound of flesh was more than enough incentive to make him refuse the extra shilling a week, and he'd refused the new issue of side arms as well for good measure. The revolver might jam 2 shots out of six, but unlike the new mechanised pistols it didn't have a darkwall battery, liable to melt you into something horrific if it got pierced.

Glancing right, past Sergeant Henders Penworthy spotted another of the alterations to British Military doctrine since the war with the Beakies had got going. The men of the Dismembering Squad looked out of place with their massive two handed cleavers and their butchers mail. General Innis was often saying to the men that having to kill a Beaky twice was a waste of good ammunition, so the Chopping Boys had an important job to do. If of course they actually got a chance to do it, due to the vulnerable nature of their job. Looking at the oncoming swarm of Impis Penworthy didn't think there would be much chance for them to get out into the killing field to chop the dead up, at least not until the action was over.

A ragged cheer went up as a group of men rode out in front of the lines. General Innis led the way wearing his full uniform and his medals, hard won from a number of campaigns all over the true globe. The General's horse was well lathered, and the group must have ridden hard to catch up with the vanguard from the main column after the Alarm flare was sent. Behind him were a full troop of the 17th Lancers, resplendent in their blue uniforms, the Red pennants of the Lances snapping in the wind. Penworthy snorted to himself, only the British army would have added those pennants, remembering the Bravery of the Charge rather than the blunder that brought it about. He was glad to see them though, the Beakies didn't know what to make of Cavalry yet and tended to panic when charged by them. Almost all of the Cavalry had joined General Innis when the political nature of Lord Chelmsford's successor had become obvious, something for which Penworthy was glad. General Summers could bemoan Innis as a mutineer all he liked, Innis was at least taking the fight to the Beakies, rather than sitting back and trying to make peace through native negotiators. It was a shame that most of the Horses hadn't survived the trip to Eden, the more cavalry the better in Penworthy's opinion.

General Innis was not a big man for a military leader, small and quick, with a tremendous animation about him. His temper though was well known to all the men, as was his bulldog like tenacity and willingness to take the fight to the enemy. The retreat from the remains of Chelmsford's camp so many months before had scarred the man however and the face above the enormous mutton-chop whiskers was red with drink. This early in the afternoon that was a bad sign, and meant that some servant would almost certainly be sporting a black eye tomorrow. The Men of the First Eden fell silent as the General reined in, turning the horse to survey the approaching enemy, then dragged the horses head round to speak to his men.

“Now Men,” Innis said in his incongruously deep voice, “the enemy was not supposed to be here, but as it turns out it seems they are! You should thank them for that as it means the blackguards won't be ambushing us in the long grass. Why you ask? Because we are going to kill the bally lot of 'em right here that's why!”

The Generals comment raised a ragged cheer from the men which he acknowledged with a wave of his hand, and a sip of his hip flask.

“Right Lads. All you have to do is hold out for a little while and the Beakies will get a damn surprise. I Know you can do it Lads!”

With that he wheeled his horse around and rode back the way he had come with three of the Lancers as the others formed up on the right of the formation.

Penworthy turned and looked at the 'damn surprise' Innis spoke of. The huge machine was swarming with riggers and engineers trying to ready it for action, dragging off tarpaulins and shovelling coke into the boiler. Their frantic pace however told him everything he needed to know,  they had not been expecting to get the machine going until the next day when it would have been used to lead the way into the elephant grass. Penworthy watched as crates of ammunition were hoisted up to the fighting platform and the engineers began to load them into the hoppers. Given the Engineers had only started to stoke the fires of the huge mechanism when the first of the Native forces began to appear it did not seem likely that it would make its presence known for a goodly long while. The engineers were good men who Penworthy had shared many a drink with, but even they couldn't get two hundred gallons of water to boil in five minutes or even fifty five. The Machine stood some twenty or thirty feet high on six mighty piston filled legs. They had learned a lot from General Chelmsford's fateful march into the Beaky home lands, the ground was so uneven that wagons and traction engines were unable to make headway. Although the legged monstrosity looked impressive it wasn't really. It took two steam engines to run the machine, one to run the motive power through the hydraulics, and another of equal power to keep the thought mill on it's back running so it could keep it's balance. A Forced Feedback system the engineers had called it, they'd tried to explain but Penworthy had been so drunk by that point most of it had washed right over him. It also had a bank of darkwall batteries but their purpose had dissolved in the haze of gin.

The Machine was also painfully slow moving when it came to it, plodding along at about a mile an hour. Indeed up until this point it had actually been faster to drag the thing on a huge wagon using one of the traction engines it was supposed to replace. What it did have however was a number of very heavy guns, a better view of the battlefield, and at least in the cabin a quarter inch of steel between you and the enemy. Despite the fact that the engines were not going to reach steam very quickly the weapon crews were still strapping themselves into the mounts of the machines weapons, two Webley 72's, the more recent and reliable version of the 46's Penworthy hated so much, and what the crew had started calling a 'St George' a horrible stubby nozzle from which spewed lit kerosene. Glancing higher he noted that there were crew scrambling around the upper gun deck as well, so the 1^st Eden could probably expect some artillery support at least. The two great saws it carried however, with which it would have scythed a path through the elephant grass ran directly from the motive power steam engine and that was still cold. Penworthy didn't know if they could be brought to bear against the native troops, or even if he wanted to see them brought to bear, but by the looks of things they wouldn't get the chance. The machine was sadly out of position, able to bring its weaponry to bear on the far left of the enemy line, without the steam it couldn't reposition to threaten their centre.

With a sigh he turned back to the approaching enemy, and watched as the Natives continued to stream out of the elephant grass. The Impis had begun to form into a great line, easily twice as long as the British line, but where the British was only two men deep the Impis were ten times that deep. Even with the guns of the infantry the likelihood of survival seemed low, without the reinforcements of the main column or the weapons of the machine. After all this time Penworthy had become adept at reading the signs of the Natives attack formations. This one meant that they intended to try and encircle the British lines, and attack from all directions. The Natives had used this method  of attack before however and the British were not unwilling to learn from their mistakes. The sections on the outside of the lines were all veteran men, drilled at firing with their bayonets fixed, and when the Impis tried to encircle those men would turn and fire into their flank as they passed.

“There's so many of them” Cartwright whispered from his left.

Penworthy only grunted, he was far too busy looking at the enemy facing them. Although too far away to actually smell them Penworthy could imagine the cinnamon and wet leather stench of the Natives, and from here he could hear their beaks clacking together in what was most likely their war cry. Line upon line of the thin bodied natives now stood facing the British, but the teak coloured bodies were not frail by any means. The natives were covered in thick shells almost like a leather covered crab shell, not impervious to bullets thank god, but making them highly resistant to slashes. You could kill a Beaky with a bayonet but only with a good strong thrust, preferably into one of their eyes if you could manage it.

“At least you get a choice of three” Penworthy muttered to himself .

“What?” Cartwright asked but Penworthy glared at him until he faced forward again.

The battle was almost started now, the Natives were all in position and so were the British such as they were. Three hundred riflemen, six or so 46 teams, a unit of Chopping Boys, and the Lancers General Innis had brought with him. Plus of course the machine behind them if it ever got up to steam.

“Mark your targets boys” shouted Henders, “I expect you to fire low and I expect you not to waste the Queens own ammunition. Those of you who can manage it, try and shoot them in the head so the chopping boys have less work to do. Those that can't feel free to shoot them any damn where, I knows you are going to anyway!”

The men laughed again, but it was not as certain a laugh as earlier, not now they could see the full native force. Already the various heroes of the Natives had walked forward out of their lines to taunt the British and get the rest of their troops blood up by shrieking boasts at their enemies. The fact that their enemies could not understand a word they were saying, in their native tongue made entirely of chirrups and trills, did nothing to lessen the effect on their troops. Great gales of chirrups answered each Heroes statements, making Penworthy almost wish he could tell what they were saying. Probably something insulting about their manhoods no doubt, although he wasn't sure if the natives even had such things.

Suddenly there was a single shot and one of the Heroes staggered as a bright fountain of blood exploded from its pierced neck. As it slumped to the ground clawing at the wound the Native Impis fell silent. At the head of the Lancer squadron the Captain returned his hunting rifle to it's holster and raised a hand to the infantry, who responded with a cheer of their own.

“Our own sort of hero” Penworthy thought to himself and it was true, the native hero had been well over 300 yards away and the captain had hit the weak point in the armour almost dead on.

“Did you see that Penny? It was amazing! What a shot! That must be one of the hunting pieces that X and X are making. Fine weapons!” Cartwright almost seemed to have forgotten the impending battle in his appreciation of the shot, and Penworthy realised that this had probably been the Captains intention. The natives might take heart from their Heroes but the British could do the same.

“Maybe they'll run now, what do you think? That must have been one of their Generals surely?” Cartwright continued.

“Hardly, the Xorolunda don't have generals” Penworthy gave the natives their real name for a change, “The Heroes are more like mascots than anything, shooting one won't stop them none.”

It was true as well, although it had cheered the British the shot had also enraged the Natives. The other Heroes had converged on their stricken fellow and had dismembered the body in short order, and were now carrying the pieces back to the lines. The Impi the Hero had emerged from had now started towards the British line, any semblance of a battle plan gone. A few of what Penworthy assumed where the actual Native Generals tried to screech them back into line, but with their hero dead they did not seem inclined to listen, forging ahead first at a jog and then rising to a full blown charge. Realising that the Impi would not stop, the generals let loose another shriek and the whole native force began forging forward.

“Here the Buggers come Lads, Fuck 'em for me Lads Fuck 'em for me but Good!” a Voice shouted from down the line.

That was Corporal Tinnes Penworthy knew, Pious and god fearing Tinnes refused to even take the lords name in vain outside of battle, but the moment battle began he punctuated every shot with a different curse. He always apologised afterwards though.

“READY!” Shouted Henders and 300 rifles rose to 300 shoulders almost in unison. The 46 teams pulled the pins on the darkwall batteries, and a low hum and a sickly nauseous feeling passed over the platoons as the energy in them woke and began to power the flywheels. One team seemed to have a problem with their battery, but they quickly dropped it into a lead lined bin and started to connect another one.

“Remember, Aim Low, and Decide which one you are shooting before you shoot!” shouted Henders.

“At 200 yards Volley fire!” the old Major was standing with first platoon off to the left but could still make his voice heard. Penworthy waited as the first Impi, the enraged Hero less Impi charged towards them.

“FIRE” yelled the Major, echoed by Henders and the other Sergeants. Penworthy's rifle smashed back into his shoulder and the Native he had aimed at staggered and fell face down.

“FIRE” yelled the Major again, and the second rank fired as the first took aim.

“FIRE” he yelled again and Penworthy shot down another of the Natives. The ground between the rest of the Native army and the British was now covered in the corpses of the Hero less Impi, one native was still standing clutching at the shattered stump of an arm amongst the dead.

“CHANGE MAGAZINES” roared Henders, and the Veterans who had expected this order dropped the rifle magazines into their left hands and reached for a fresh one from their belt pouches. The green troops began to fumble, which is exactly why Henders had shouted for it now even though they had only fired one short volley. The Line was most vulnerable when they were changing magazines, far better to do it now and end up with a short volley later, than hold onto the four or five shots now. Penworthy cocked his rife and brought it back to his shoulder, and was gratified to see that Cartwright had also completed the reloading as fast as he.

“What the Shit-fuck are you doing? Take mine Give me that!” Penworthy heard Tinnes growling at one of the green troops as he tore the half reloaded rifle from his hands and handed his one over.

The main line of the Natives was now approaching range. Unlike the enraged Impi these units were sticking to the battle plan, the left and right ends of the army running faster than the middle to flow round the ends of the British Line. Penworthy really didn't know why they were bothering, looking into the sea of approaching natives they could most likely just sweep over the British by simple numbers. Behind him he heard a savage triple detonation as the Heavy guns on the top deck of the Machine behind him opened fire on the left of the Native force. The huge explosive shells, guided by the Artillery mills were deadly accurate, exploding amongst the packed bodies of the sprinting flanking force. Native bodies, and parts of bodies were flung twenty foot into the air by the detonations, scattering the units and breaking their formation. On the right of Penworthy the Lancers spurred forward in an arcing line, sharp tipped lances dipped and glittering in the hot sun.

The Main Native force had broken into a run now and were approaching the range markers, and as the Major began to shout the Volleys, Penworthy realised that most likely, he and Cartwright, and Tinnes, and all the rest would die today. There were just too many Natives, and although the Volleys killed the first rank, and the second rank, and the third, each rank was slightly closer, and there were always more ranks behind them.

Penworthy almost missed the order to change magazines, he hadn't even realised he'd fired six shots, but his hands began to move through the motions before he became conscious of it. The Major was calling for fire at will and Penworthy was more than happy to oblige. The front of the Xorolunda force had now passed the 125 yard marker, and they were closing fast. Behind him and to either side he heard the Webleys open up, the chattering roar of the 46's and the lower growl of the 72's. The teams slewed the weapons back and forth across the front of the approaching army, scything down entire lines of the natives as they came. Penworthy marked one native larger than the others and bearing dyed quills around his upper arms, took aim, and shot it in the chest. It stopped, looked down at the hole it it's carapace spewing bright red blood in gouts, then kept on coming. Off in the distance he heard a crash as if a hundred trees had fallen all at once, but he was too busy choosing another target and blowing a hole clean through it's head. This one at least fell, but was trampled underfoot by the others coming behind it.

“Bayonets!” he heard Henders shout, and stabbed his finger into the stud ahead of the trigger. At the end of the rifle the spring loaded bayonet shot forward and locked with a solid 'chunk' sound. It made it harder to aim his next shot, but he still hit the charging native in the stomach shattering the belly plate of it's armour leaving shards of it poking through the skin and bleeding.

Behind him the machine was still firing it's heavy guns and 72's and he could hear the sound of the St George being brought up to pressure as well. 'Surely it must nearly be up to steam' he thought before realising the battle had only been going at most a minute. He aimed again and pulled the trigger, but the gun clicked empty and he scrambled for another magazine.

He didn't get chance to load it though as the first rank of the enemy charged toward the British line through the fire of the 46's and raised their left arms, Penworthy threw himself down as the Natives forearms bulged in strange and unpleasant fashions and a storm of resin plugs erupted from special glands there. The man behind him took one in the through and fell to his knees choking, while another tipped with a sharp flint, sliced through Cartwright's tunic arm. Penworthy slammed his fresh magazine home, as Cartwright clutched at the wound. The Natives were on them now,  and Penworthy had to bring his rifle up to block a wicked looking stone tipped pick.  The impact of it jarred his arms, but he smashed the rifle butt into the face of the native and regained his feet. For a second he and the native looked at each other, two human eyes meeting three Xorolunda ones, then the native gave a chittering roar and stamped forward bringing it's pick round in an arc. Penworthy ducked under it, and then brought his bayonet up under it's chin piercing it just beneath its wickedly sharp beak. The native collapsed instantly dragging his rifle with it, and he had to smash his boot into it's face twice to free it. Before he could bring it up however another native dealt him a crushing blow in the shoulder with a stone studded club, driving him back to his knees. It felt like his entire arm had gone numb, but he forced it to work as the Native raised the club two handed to dash his brains out. Pulling up the rifle he shot it in the face blowing half it's head away, and then used the rifle to bring himself to his feet.

Confusion reigned, all around him red coated figures were contending with natives. Cartwright was himself hard pressed by two, jabbing at them with his bayonet to keep them back, so Penworthy shot one, and when the other turned Cartwright bayoneted it in the throat. The crazed native didn't go down however, instead it scrabbled at the rifle, eventually knocking it from Cartwright's hand. The thing dragged a full 8 inches of bloody steel from it's throat and made as if to stab Cartwright with it, so Penworthy dragged his pistol from the holster and shot it in the face. Blood and shell fragments flew from the shot and covered Cartwright, causing the younger man to splutter and scrub a sleeve across his face.

“Your alright lad,” Penworthy told him as Cartwright nodded and dragged his own pistol from the holster. Before Eden the pistols would have been an officers weapon, but they all had the automatics now as did some of the men, automatics with a darkwall battery along the top. The old revolvers were not massively reliable now they were mass produced but in the melee they were useful. For a moment Penworthy and Cartwright found themselves in a area of calm as fighting continued all around them. Penworthy holstered the pistol and reloaded the rifle.

“Where has the Section gone?” asked Cartwright through his grisly blood mask

Penworthy looked about him. The first Impi to reach the line had swept clean over it, here and there small groups of red coats could be seen fighting in a a sea of teak coloured bodies. The area around them however was littered with corpses, both red coated and shelled, Tinnes was down slumped across the ammo crates of the 46 team with three bone tipped spears jutting from a chest but the 46 team themselves seemed to have gone although where Cartwright didn't know where.

“Come on Lad!” he shouted over the din of the battle and ran towards the emplacement without checking the younger man was following.

They gained the emplacement easily and found Tinnes was still alive and muttering and endless litany of curses mixed with the Lords Prayer.  Tinnes reached for his leg as he stepped over him, but Penworthy gently lifted the man's hand off and continued into the emplacement. Cartwright stopped though.

“Penny, Shouldn't we do something for him? Dress his wounds or something?”

“Cartwright”, Penworthy snarled, “ Get your arse into this emplacement. Tinnes is stuck through and on the way out, we've got to get this 46 going. Look at that lot!”

He pointed out beyond the area of calm they were in, towards another native Impi charging down towards the already engaged British line. Rank upon rank of shrieking and chattering Xorolunda were bearing down on them, and without thinning them out there was no way the line could stop them.

Cartwright shoved the grasping hands of Tinnes off him as he dived into the emplacement, coming face to face with the corpse of one of the crews, head mashed in with some native club, with his loader in the bottom of their emplacement. He gave a little whimper but Penworthy grabbed him, slapped him once, and set him to handling the ammo chains.

Penworthy prayed that nothing would damage the heavy lead lined battery right next to him as he held down the firing stirrup and the massive guns engines clattered to life. The vibrations of the gun tickled the backs of his hands as he played the spitting fire backwards and forwards over the front of the oncoming native force. The effect was terrible, some of the natives were struck and just fell, but some were struck in limbs or faces, these were dumped screaming their knife on glass screams onto the mud. Worse Penworthy  could not afford to pass over them again to put them out of their misery, as the natives behind them dashed seemingly without noticing through their own dead. He had to leave them to scream, as he dumped more and more of their fellows down around them. Cartwright was shouting things, but to Penworthy the words were far away, lost amongst the screaming. Everywhere he looked his hands turned the gun to, and everywhere the gun turned to Xorolunda died, but he knew if he didn't keep firing they would crash into the British line, and serve him and Cartwright exactly the same way as they had served Tinnes, so he kept going.

Suddenly it was done. The gun was clacking still as he released the stirrup but there was no more chain to feed through.

“Look! We did it Penny! We did it!”

The younger man was right Penworthy saw, the Impi that had been descending on them had been destroyed by their withering fire. Here and there the survivors were fleeing away, and the ground seemed to be moving from all the wounded.

“That's it! We're the First Eden!” Cartwright stood and shouted after the fleeing survivors, “Don't think you'll get past us so easy! Keep on coming Me and Penny have got plenty more ammo here you Savages!”

“Load another bloody chain you idiot” Penworthy shouted up to him has he continued his blood drunk tirade.

“Sorry Penny” Cartwright said and then gave a sickly grunting sound, as the front of his tunic bulged then split to reveal a flint tipped spear. Cartwright turned as if to try and see the native who had killed him but it jerked him sideways, throwing him to the ground with a torrent of blood pouring from his mouth.

“Cartwright!” Penworthy shouted as he clawed for his pistol, but the native smashed a club into his hand as soon as he drew it sending it flying out of the emplacement. 'I know you' he thought as he realised that the native was the one who wore the painted quills he'd shot earlier. The chest wound was covered by a crust of blood but still oozed some blood as the warrior whirled his huge stone ended mace in huge arcs driving Penworthy scrambling back in the bottom of the emplacement. It chittered at him constantly, and endless stream of native curses or prayers he couldn't understand. The native stamped forward, stepping over the half dead Tinnes and advancing on Penworthy who was still unable to gain his feet as he kept having to skitter away from the head of the club. Suddenly the hand he was using to push himself backwards slipped on the remains of the 46's last crew. He went down hard jarring his shoulder against one of the ammo crates, which numbed most of his arm. The native let out a shriek that could only be triumph, and raised it's club far above it's head. Penworthy looked up into the three eyes of the Xorolunda warrior, and wondered how many of it's friends he'd killed that day, when the club fell that would be the end of Lance Corporal Eric Penworthy, formally of the 24^th foot and now the 1^st Eden. However the shriek of triumph turned into a pained glass knife scream, as Tinnes grabbed it's leg and pounded his forage knife down into the back of it's knee.

“Kill me you Buggering Beakies!,  I'll do for you! God's witness I will” were his last words before the club smashed his face to a ruin.

Penworthy tried to make his arm work, he was fumbling at the pistol holster of one of the crew, but with one numb arm he couldn't work the catch. In frustration he grabbed the leather and jerked it and was rewarded as the dry cracked leather parted and dumped the pistol into his lap. The Native was busy dragging Tinnes knife from the back of it's knee as he brought the gun up and shot it four times in the chest. It shrieked again, the piercing sound drilling into his head, and took one step forward, so he emptied the rest of the bullets into the things face, as the hammer clicked on an empty chamber the Native finally stopped advancing. The club dropped from it's hand with a thud, scattering dust and droplets of blood. Slowly it raised a bloody hand to it's face, and then almost gently toppled over on it's side and lay still.

Tinnes was gone, and Cartwright had finished dying during the fight, even so Penworthy took the time to turn the younger soldier over and close his eyes. Then he dragged himself back towards the 46. All the strength seemed to have gone out of him, he certainly didn't think he could stand. He dragged an ammo crate over, fumbling for the catches, and then pulled himself up to the gun to try and load. As he did though he saw how close the next Impi was to him, a bare 60 or so yards from him and accelerating. There was no way he would be able to load the gun and thin them before they reached him. He was too tired now anyway, so he just watched as they came towards him, as the edges of his vision got darker and darker. 'Is this what its like to die then?' he thought, before the sun was finally eclipsed and a huge hydraulic leg slammed into the ground in front of him. The Machine was walking! It had stepped clean over the emplacement and already it's 72's were reaping the crop of Xorolunda before them. Then there was a roar, as if some giant lion had seized an eagle in it's claws, but the Eagles scream was a brittle knife on glass scream. A whole section of the Impi where on fire where the St George had hit them, filling the air with screams and a burned spice smell. Penworthy didn't want to look, but forced himself to, just as he'd forced himself to kill the previous Impi with the 46.

Faced with the Machine though the Natives started to break, and the Lancers harried them all the way back to the Elephant grass. Penworthy didn't do any more fighting though, He just slumped over the gun and watched, as they streamed away into the grass pursued by the same men who'd charged a Russian gun battery. The Chopping boys started their work, ensuring all the Xorolunda wounded and dead wouldn't cause them any trouble, dismembering them before they could start rising as feeders. Penworthy sat in the emplacement with the the corpses of Tinnes and Cartwright, and watched as the Lancers and the huge machine drove the surviving natives away. He was still there when the main column reached the eighty or so survivors of the battle, watching the cleavers rise and fall in the no mans land as the machine lead the way into the elephant grass. Even when General Innis returned to praise their sacrifice, the words just flowed over him, lost in the thought that he might have been part of something he really should be ashamed of.