Fifteen Hours(科幻战争)-第23章

按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！


served　as　propellant　for　the　cannons。　Grunting　under　the　weight；　taking　even　more　care　with　the
volatile　cordite　than　they　had　with　the　shells；　the　loading　teams　lifted　the　sacks　into　the　guns’
breeches；　then　retreated　to　their　positions　beside　the　ammunition　stacks　once　more。
“Close　breeches。　Set　firing　trajectories　as　follows。　Horizontal　traverse：　five　degrees　twenty…six
minutes。　Repeat：　zero　five　degrees　two　six　minutes。　Vertical　elevation：　seventy…eight　degrees　thirtyone
minutes。　Repeat：　seven　eight　degrees　three　one　minutes。　Windage：　zero　point　five　degrees。
Repeat：　zero　point　five　degrees。”
And　so　the　sergeant’s　voice　went　on；　repeating　the　bearings　again　as　the　gun　crews　worked　the
wheels　and　gearings　of　their　guns’　aiming　systems　to　adjust　the　Hellbreakers　to　the　proper
trajectories。　Until；　their　preparations　at　last　completed；　the　gun　crews　stepped　back　from　their　guns
and　awaited　the　firing　instruction。
Yes；　Captain　Meran　thought。　Just　like　a　machine。　Really；　that　was　a　most　excellent　display　of
gunmanship。　It　is　a　shame　no　one　from　Battery　Command　was　here　to　see　it。　If　they　had　been；　they
would　have　been　sure　to　have　given　me　a　commendation。
63
Briefly；　he　wondered　whether　he　should　order　an　extra　ration　of　recaf　for　the　gun　crews　by　way
of　a　reward。　Just　as　swiftly　he　abandoned　the　idea。　It　might　set　a　dangerous　precedent　to　give　the
men　any　additional　reward　for　simply　doing　their　duty。　No；　it　would　be　pleasure　enough　that　they
could　all　go　to　their　beds　tonight　knowing　they　had　performed　their　duties　with　admirable　dispatch。
Then；　noticing　his　men　looking　towards　him　with　expectant　faces　as　they　awaited　the　order　to　fire；
Meran　made　an　elaborate　show　of　taking　his　pocket　chronometer　from　its　chain　and　opening　it　to
check　the　time。　16：30　hours　exactly；　he　thought　with　a　smile；　hand　going　to　the　comm…stud　at　the
collar　of　his　uniform　as　he　make　ready　to　vox　the　command　to　Sergeant　Dumat　to　give　the　order　to
let　loose　the　guns。
Time　to　give　the　orks　their　daily　dose　of　hell。
Perhaps　half　an　hour　had　passed　since　they　had　killed　the　sniper。　Half　an　hour。　Yet　still；　having
returned　to　the　trench　in　the　wake　of　acting　as　bait；　Zeebers　sat　sullenly　in　a　corner　glaring
murderously　at　Davir　and　the　others。　Most　of　all；　he　glared　at　Larn：　his　eyes　full　to　the　brim　with
hatred　and　loathing。　Not　for　the　first　time；　Larn　found　himself　wondering　how　it　was　the　man　had
taken　so　badly　against　him　for　no　apparent　reason。　Though；　given　Zeebers’　current　demeanour；　he
thought　better　of　asking　him　outright　why　he　hated　him。
Elsewhere　in　the　trench；　the　others　had　resumed　the　same　positions　they　had　occupied　before　the
sniper’s　opening　shot。　Davir　had　his　back　against　the　spare　flamer　canisters　and　was　wrapped　dozing
in　an　extra　greatcoat　once　more。　Scholar　had　returned　to　his　book。　Bulaven　was　still　on　the　firing
step；　gazing　out　into　no…man’s　land　on　watch　with　Larn　beside　him。　Now；　with　the　passing　of　the
brief　excitement　caused　by　the　sniper；　the　big　man　had　fallen　as　quiet　as　the　others。
So　much　has　changed；　Larn　thought；　finding　the　brooding　silence　of　the　past　half…hour　had　at
least　given　him　time　to　think。　A　few　hours　ago　I　was　with　Jenks　and　the　others；　getting　ready　to
make　our　first　planetary　drop　and　wondering　what　to　expect。　Even　in　our　worst　nightmares　none　of
us　could　have　thought　of　this。　Certainly；　Jenks　wouldn’t　have　expected　to　die　in　his　chair　without
even　leaving　the　lander。　Any　more　than　Sergeant　Ferres　would　have　expected　to　he　killed　by　a
misfiring　explosive　bolt。　The　same　goes　for　Hallan；　Vorrans　and　Leden。　It　is　like　I　remember　that
old　preacher　saying　one　time。　You　never　know　what　the　shape　of　your　death　is　going　to　be　until　it
has　got　you。　And；　by　then；　it　is　already　too　late　to　do　anything　about　it。
Sobered　by　the　thought；　shivering　against　the　cold；　Larn　looked　out　into　no…man’s　land　and　tried
to　make　some　sense　of　how　it　was　he　had　come　to　be　there。　Try　as　he　might　he　could　see　no　sense　in
it。　No　sense　in　the　mistake　that　had　brought　him　to　this　place。　No　sense　in　the　deaths　of　his　friends
and　comrades。　No　sense　to　the　fact　that　it　seemed　his　life　was　now　under　a　fifteen…hour　sentence　of
death。　He　could　see　no　sense　in　it。　No　sense　at　all。
Turning　to　glance　down　at　the　others　from　his　position　on　the　firing　step；　Larn　noticed　he　could
just　about　see　the　faded　gold　leaf　lettering　of　the　title　on　the　cracked　leather　cover　of　the　timeworn
and　battered　book　that　Scholar　was　reading。　Under　The　Eagle；　the　book’s　title　read。　Glorious
Accounts　of　Valour　from　the　Annals　of　the　Imperial　Guard。　Larn　had　heard　the　book　mentioned　in
basic　training。　It　was　a　compilation　of　stirring　accounts　of　the　brave　actions　and　past　successes　of
just　a　few　of　the　many　millions　of　different　regiments　of　the　Emperor’s　armies。
Watching　Scholar　as　he　read　the　book；　Larn　saw　the　man’s　face　break　into　an　occasional　smile
from　time　to　time　as　though　in　sarcastic　amusement　at　some　passage　he　had　seen　there。　Again；　Larn
found　himself　wondering　about　Scholar’s　background。　Davir　had　mentioned　something　about　him
no　longer　being　in　the　scholarium。　Could　it　be　that　Scholar　had　once　been　a　student　in　some　place　of
higher　learning！　He　certainly　had　the　disposition　for　it；　and　he　seemed　better　informed　than　any　of
the　other　men　in　the　trench。　If　he　really　was　a　scholar；　what　was　he　doing　serving　in　a　forward　firing
position　on　the　frontlines？　It　was　a　mystery。　As　much　of　a　mystery　as　everything　else　about　the
behaviour　and　motivations　of　the　men　around　him。
64
With　a　sudden　sadness　born　of　isolation；　Larn　realised　he　understood　nothing　about　the　men　who
shared　the　trench　with　him。　Nor　for　that　matter　did　he　understand　any　of　the　other　men　he　had　met
so　far　in　Broucheroc。　Corporal　Vladek；　Medical　Officer　Svenk；　Sergeant　Chelkar；　Vidmir；　Davir；
Zeebers；　poor　dead　Repzik　—　none　of　them　seemed　remotely　like　any　of　the　people　he　had　known
before　he　had　come　to　this　planet。　By　turns　they　were　gruff；　sardonic；　cynical；　world…weary；
intimidating；　not　to　say　largely　contemptuous　of　all　the　institutions　and　traditions　Larn　had　been
raised　to　cherish。　Even　with　Bulaven；　the　most　sympathetic　and　friendly　of　the　Vardans；　Larn　could
sense　a　certain　reserve　as　though　the　big　man　was　wary　of　getting　to　know　him　too　well。　It　was　more
than　that。　More　than　any　remoteness　of　manner　or　lack　of　empathy。　These　men　seemed　entirely
unknowable　to　him：　almost　as　alien　in　their　own　way　as　the　orks。　It　was　as　though　some　strange　and
entirely　new　species　of　Man；　far　removed　from　Larn’s　understanding；　had　been　given　life　by　this
place。
A　new　species；　he　thought　with　a　shiver　that　owed　nothing　whatsoever　to　the　coldness　of　the　air。
A　new　species；　forged　in　hell　and　nurtured　on　the　fields　of　slaughter。
“You　seem　caught　up　in　your　troubles；　new　fish。”　Bulaven　said　beside　him；　the　sound　of　his
voice　after　so　much　silence　making　Larn　jump。　“As　though　the　weight　of　this　entire　world　was　on
your　shoulders。　It　cannot　be　so　bad　as　that；　though。　A　centi…credit　for　your　thoughts？”
For　a　moment；　wondering　if　it　was　possible　to　give　words　to　all　the　confused　welter　of　thoughts
and　emotions　whirling　inside　him；　Larn　was　silent。　Then；　just　as　he　was　about　to　speak　in　answer　to
Bulaven’s　question；　they　heard　the　forboding　thunder　of　artillery　fire　in　the　distance　behind　them。
“Hmm。　Sounds　like　they’re　firing　the　HeeBees。”　Bulaven　said；　turning　to　look　toward　the　sound
of　firing。
“HeeBees？”　Larn　asked。
“Hellbreakers；”　said　Bulaven　distractedly。　“A　local　variant　on　the　Earthshaker；　just　bigger。　Now
please　be　quiet；　new　fish。　We　need　to　listen。”
From　far　away　Larn　began　to　hear　the　high…pitched　scream　of　artillery　shells　in　flight。　Moving
ever　closer；　the　sound　of　the　shells’　passage　high　in　the　air　above　them　grew　louder　by　the　instant。
Until；　by　the　time　the　noise　was　directly　overhead；　the　character　of　the　shells’　screaming　abruptly
changed；　reaching　a　terrifyingly　shrill　and　strident　crescendo　as　the　shells　began　their　final　deathdive
shriek。
“Incoming！”　Bulaven　yelled；　grabbing　Larn　by　the　collar　and　pulling　him　down　with　him　as　he
suddenly　leapt　towards　the　bottom　of　the　trench。
His　stomach　rebounding　hard　against　an　ammunition　box　as　he　landed　on　the　trench　floor；　Larn
found　he　was　not　alone　there。　Roused　by　Bulaven’s　warning　shout；　Davir　and　the　others　had　already
thrown　themselves　prostrate　at　the　trench　bottom；　hugging　the　ground　with　all　the　fervour　of　lovers
reunited　after　a　long　separation。　Finding　himself　face　down　among　a　heap　of　bodies　with　someone
else’s　boot　heel　jabbing　painfully　against　his　ear；　Larn　tried　to　rise；　only　to　find　it　was　impossible　to
even　move　so　long　as　Bulaven’s　not…inconsiderable　bulk　was　lying　on　top　of　him。　Though　any
questions　Larn　might　have　had　as　to　the　reasons　behind　his　comrades’　strange　behaviour　were
quickly　answered　as　the　screaming　of　shells　in　the　air　above　them　abruptly　ended；　replaced　by　the
roar　of　explosions　as　the　shells　began　to　fall　to　earth　all　around　their　trench。
“The　stupid　sons　of　bitches！”　Davir　yelled；　his　shouting　voice　barely　loud　enough　to　be　heard
above　the　din。　“That’s　the　third　time　this　month。”
His　body　shaking　as　the　ground　quaked　from　multiple　detonations；　Larn　closed　his　eyes　and
buried　his　face　in　the　mud；　his　lips　mumbling　a　litany　of　choked　and　terrified　devotions　as　he　prayed
for　salvation。　As　he　prayed；　his　mind　raced　with　desperate　and　outraged　questions。　How　can　this　be；
he　thought。　Bulaven　said　they　were　our　guns。　Why　is　our　own　side　shooting　at　us？　But　there　was　no
answer。　Only　more　explosions　and　flying　soil　as　the　bombardment　continued。
Then；　abruptly；　thankfully；　the　explosions　stopped。
65
“Move！　Move！　Move！　Out　of　the　trench！”　Davir　shouted。　“Quickly。　Before　the　bastards　finish
reloading！”
Scrambling　to　his　feet　as　the　others　leaped　up　and　over　the　rear　trench　wall；　Larn　followed　them。
Clearing　the　wall；　he　saw　they　had　already　sprinted　halfway　down　the　rise　towards　the　line　of
dugouts。　Running　desperately　to　catch　up；　for　a　moment　Larn　was　aware　of　nothing　more　than　the
rush　of　blood　in　his　ears　and　the　pounding　of　his　heart。　Then；　as　though　with　a　slow　dawnin