1635_ The Eastern Front - Eric Flint [79]
His own men had been hammered just as badly. At a quick glance, he didn't think he had more than half of his unit still in action.
But that still left him a hundred men, and these were Polish hussars, not be-damned Saxon shirkers—and the enemy was finally within reach. He could see the nearest USE infantry officer not more than thirty yards away. A big fellow who'd made the mistake of leading his men a bit too far in the fore.
Lukasz lowered his lance and set his aim on the bastard.
"Well, fuck me," Jeff muttered. He'd been so intent on getting his battalion in position to cover the artillery that he hadn't noticed how far ahead of them he'd gotten. The nearest squad of his infantry was a good ten yards behind.
And, at a rough estimate, the Polish hussar bearing down on him was ten feet tall and riding a horse the size of an elephant—and, to make things perfect, was carrying the same lance that Saint George must have used to kill the dragon. Had to be. How many other lances in the world were fifty feet long and had a razor-sharp blade the size of a sword?
Those no-longer-silly-looking wings were making one hell of a scary sound, too.
* * *
"Watch out, Jeff!" yelled Eric Krenz. The lieutenant frantically hollered at the nearest squads, waving his sword at the oncoming hussar. "Shoot that Polish fuck!"
But there was too much noise, too much smoke, too much confusion. The infantrymen and their sergeants had shut out everything else in order to do what they'd been trained to do: level their muskets at the enemy in front of them; fire; reload as fast as possible. They weren't even thinking of aiming at specific targets.
Only one of them heard Eric's shouts. That was a nineteen-year-old corporal in charge of a squad who, being a veteran, gave Krenz no more than a dismissive glance. Stupid officers. Getting in the way, like they usually did in a battle.
Eric gave up the attempt and charged forward himself. He might get there just in time to cut the hussar's leg with his sword. No chance of cutting anything higher up. The hussar was at least twenty feet tall, on top of that horse. Still, even a leg wound might distract him enough to save the captain's life.
Jeff dropped the sword he'd been using to encourage his men. Against a charging hussar's lance, that was about as useful as a butter knife. He clawed at the wheel-lock pistol he kept in a holster, bitterly regretting the fact that he'd run out of ammunition for his automatic pistol.
He managed to get it out and cock it just in time to fire a shot at the hussar. Not in time to save his life, though. The lance blade—it was actually fifteen feet long, amazingly enough—was within five yards and was about to split him open.
Opalinski never even thought of ducking. You simply didn't, in the final moments of a charge. If you were struck by a bullet, so be it. The honor of a hussar was concentrated entirely on killing the enemy.
Hussar or not, honorable or not, none of it mattered if a bullet hit your helmet. Lukasz's head was slapped back. The round glanced off his helmet and didn't even scratch his skin. Still, the impact was enough to daze him for a moment.
* * *
The lance swung wide of the target. Jeff ducked the blade—but got bowled off his feet by the horse's shoulder.
Eric Krenz squawked and frantically swung his sword. It hit the lance's blade and deflected it just enough to hit him instead of missing him entirely.
The hussar passed by. He was shouting something. Another volley of gunfire drowned out the sound of everything else. Eric stared at Jeff, who was just starting to roll up onto his knees. Then, stared down at the lance lying on the ground some ten feet away. The blade was covered in blood.
Then, stared at his side. The uniform was soaked with blood and there seemed to be more coming. Nothing seemed to be spurting, though, so maybe he'd gotten lucky and no artery had been cut.
"Lucky," of course, only by certain values of luck. Jeff was getting to his feet now, shaking his head as if he was a little confused.