Gandhi Kahn the Wise

[bassman]

From the Big Book of Indian War Stories, Volume Five

Off the coast of Satsuma
Normally, the gun crew found riding in the wagon behind the artillery piece boring, but there was no sleeping or gambling today. All eyes were on the surrounding fields, where shell holes left little reminder that this area had once been cultivated.

The sight reminded Xiao of the broken surface of the moon he had once seen through a telescope. Save for the recently cut road they were using, all signs of human civilization had been blown into oblivion. Fields, farmhouses, side roads, mining operations, village stores - all smashed by Persian sea-borne guns.

India had neglected its navy to concentrate on land borne threats. This had allowed the enemy ironclad boats to ply long stretches of the coast, darting in to blast away with their terrible cannons, then clanking back out to sea to avoid repercussions. Today, India hoped to give back some of that pounding.

The wagons and their towed pieces arrived at the hilltop and work immediately began to unlimber the guns. The crews quickly wrestled the battery into place. Soon, all eight guns were prepared, with shells stacked at the ready.

Before long, the ker-thank, ker-thank of the Persian ironclads filled the air. The section chiefs called out coordinates to each gun crew.

Xiao had risen in the crew to become Assistant Gunner. He grabbed some primers from the pouch at his belt and took his place by the breechblock while the Gunner and Shell man dragged the trails to adjust the azimuth of the gun. The Gunner fine-tuned the aim while the Shell man and the Rammer jacked the gun to its proper elevation, and the Powder man cut out a couple of the powder charges. The Shell man ran back, grabbed a smoke round, fused it, and pushed it into the breech. The Rammer man rammed home the shell, then the Powder man inserted the charges. Xiao closed the breech lock and twisted in the primer in one smooth motion, while the Gunner read back the elevation and deflection to the section chief.

"Fire One!" called the chief.

Xiao slapped the fire hammer and the big gun roared. The round whistled off towards the Persian warships.

Xiao opened the breech and the Swabber cleaned it out, damping any smoldering bits of cloth from the powder bags. Only a minute had passed.

"Left 50; Up 100," called the chief.

Xiao and his crew went through the process again, and another smoke shell whistled into the sky.

"Down 50," called the chief.

Again the gun roared. The other seven guns in the battery were zeroing in on their own targets.

"Repeat your last," yelled the chief. "Fire for effect!"

The Shell man switched to High Explosive shells and the gun roared six times.

The Chief gave a little cheer. "He's done for!"

A short pause, then the Chief called, "Next coordinates."

The guns of the battery coughed their deadly projectiles into the sea until the Persian fleet of ironclads was decimated. It would be a long time before Persia could threaten this coast again.

As the last of the surviving boats limped out to sea, all eight crews broke into cheers.

"What are you cheering for?" growled the Section Chief. "You're only doing your jobs."

But even as he said it, he grinned.

Next: Grenoble...

[ChrisiusMaximus]

Nice way of including what most people consider to be a boring element of civ, theres some good threads on their use on the general pages.

I always use Artillery in offensive wars in the game, a nice stack of 20 or so does the job nicely. Does make wars a longer part of the game but thats good IMO.

Anyways keep writing

[unscratchedfoot]

Getting caught up on my reading today. So bassman, have you read about Hannibal at all? It's quite ironic the way you used whistles to scare the dogs away from the elephants. Did you know Hannibal's legendary elephant army was defeated in Africa in that exact way?

Scipio, the genius Roman commander, arranged his men in lines with a couple of metres space between the lines and each legionary was given a whistle. When they all blew the whistles, the approaching elephants went mad, and following their natural instincts, ran down the spaces between the rows of legionaries who slashed away at them until they were killed. Kinduv like a series of gauntlets. Some of the elephants turned around and trampled the Carthaginian soldiers. Very sad story. The legionaries then went on to have a very closely contested fight with Hannibal's veteran troops.

[bassman]

I was unaware of the use of whistles to defeat Hannibal's elephants. I did check to be sure that dog whistles would NOT effect Gandhi's elephants - the range of hearing for elephants is much lower than that of dogs. Men, dogs, and elephants cover much of the same range, but dogs can hear high pitches inaudible to man, just as elephants can hear ultra low pitches.

Even though the war elephants were prone to stampeding, their use was adopted by many ancient cultures, including the Romans. The shock value to ground troops, and especially to horse troops, was worth the risk.

Mahouts were equipped with an iron wedge that they were supposed to use to kill their elephant if it went berserk, driving it through the soft eye socket into the brain! I didn't want to describe that in the story.

(But now I guess I have)

[unscratchedfoot]

Hmmm I seem to be making everyone unhappy with my commentation so I better refrain.

[vovan]

On the contrary, unscratchedfoot! I am sure every bit of feedback is useful for the authors of stories.

[bassman]

Originally posted by unscratchedfoot
Hmmm I seem to be making everyone unhappy with my commentation so I better refrain.

Sorry, I gave the wrong impression. Guess I should have used an eek! smiley instead of the other one.

I welcome all comments, especially informative comments about an aspect I hadn't considered or discovered. That's been part of my problem keeping up with my self-imposed publishing deadline - researching this stuff is so fascinating that I get caught up trying to incorporate it. You should see all the text I delete before posting!

In short, keep commenting...

[ChrisiusMaximus]

Well Bassman Ive got a comment for you,

GIVE US MORE!! please pretty please!

[bassman]

From the Big Book of Indian War Stories, Volume Five

Grenoble
The horses pawed nervously at the ground, eager to run free on the attack. Mahavir held tight to the reins of his horse. His company had been held in reserve. He had fruitlessly called in every obligation he had, trying to be transferred to Company H to join Prajeet and Narhari, but they had gone out on the attack while he sat and watched. During their last dinner together, Narhari had joked that, without Mahavir to rescue, Prajeet would be free to earn honors for himself.

With the rest of his company, he had laughed on seeing the boulders catapulted out of Grenoble in a vain attempt to disrupt the Indian attackers. It was hard to believe in this modern age that armies still relied on such obsolete technology. On the other hand, scouts had reported seeing companies of riflemen in the city. Mahavir had seen what fortified riflemen could do to charging cavalry riders, their own rifle troops having earlier decimated the foolhardy charge of the Persians.

The Indian cavalry attack pressed in tighter and tighter around Grenoble and then into the city proper. Finally, the reserves were ordered into the fray.

Mahavir looked about the field of battle as they trotted into Grenoble. Many of the initial attackers were unhorsed and injured. Mahavir strained to catch sight of Prajeet and his ridiculous hat, flamboyantly pinned up on one side with an enormous ostrich feather, but neither hat nor friend could be seen. Soon the reserve company reached the edge of the city and the charge was ordered.

Mahavir's company of cavalrymen smashed into the remaining Persian defenders that huddled in the city's center. Mahavir fired the clip from his carbine, emptied both revolvers as he charged the bayoneted rifles, and then hacked with his saber as his horse jumped the line of defense. Several others in the company also made the hurdle and they set to with a will, slashing at the defenders from behind. Unnerved by a battle from two directions, the Persian riflemen milled about in confusion and were quickly dispatched.

As the Indian flag was raised over the city center, the rifle and artillery companies were quickly marched from the mountainous beachhead into the city and defenses erected in preparation for the inevitable Persian counterattack. Workmen quickly readied the docks for the galleons of replacements already on their way from Ergili. Medics worked to bring in as many of the wounded cavalrymen as they could.

Everywhere, throngs of rejoicing French people delayed progress. The overjoyed reaction of the French people, former subjects of the Persians, interrupted all attempts at preparing the city for the counter-siege. Young women spontaneously kissed Indian soldiers, men stopped workers to shake their hands or kiss them on both cheeks in the French manner, and older women pressed French pastries into the hands of astonished Indians regardless of office or occupation. The scene was chaotic, at best, and dangerous, at worst, since the remainder of the Persian army would surely arrive soon.

Mahavir tried to press through this bedlam, seeking Prajeet and Narhari, or at least, word of them. He haunted the medical stations, and tried in vain to join the medics carrying in the wounded from the field, but the invasion commander had ordered all able-bodied soldiers to remain in the city to suppress revolt from within. Armed Military Police were strictly enforcing the order.

At last, the counterattack began. The Persian cavalry thundered in from the road, at least thirty companies. A massive howl went up from the conquered city as the Persians detoured their attack to slash any Indian wounded still in the field. Every downed cavalryman that moved or moaned was hacked until the body parts were separated. Some of the injured men were able to fight back with bullet or sword, but they were no match for the massed might of the Persians. Every man that remained on the field remained as a corpse.

Only when the Persians had finished their butchery did they turn to the conquered city. Nineteen successive attacks were repelled by shell and bullet.

After the attacks had failed, the Persians retreated to await reinforcements. As they did, fresh Indian troops fell upon them to repay the massacre. During the prolonged defense, the long awaited relief galleons had entered the harbor and debarked their troops. As the Persians had dealt death to the Indian horse troops, so the Indians cut down the murderers to the last man.

Released from city defense, Mahavir wandered the battlefields like a wraith, without food or sleep, searching for sign of his dear comrades. Finally, he came upon the broken body of Prajeet, who's battered and muddied hat was barely recognizable in the mire. Mounds of Persian bodies surrounded the corpse, attesting to the price paid in killing the brave cavalryman. Buried under one of the mounds was Narhari, or what was left of him. An arm, a hand, and a leg, to the knee, were all missing.

Mahavir flew into an intense rage, hacking at the dead Persians that surrounded the bodies of his friends. Left and right his saber flew, dicing the Persian corpses.

Hours later the medics found him carefully tending the bodies of his two friends, quietly weeping.

"Namaskar, my friends," he said, over and over, "Namaskar."

They fed him some medication and dragged him back to the city. As he was taken away, his eyes burned with a white-hot anger and he stared continually in the direction of Bactra and the rest of Persia.

There would be many opportunities for retribution and Persians aplenty to feed his vengeance.

Next: Nuremberg...

[ChrisiusMaximus]

Another quality installment of this epic tale of yours bassman Keep up the good work.

[bassman]

From the Big Book of Indian War Stories, Volume Five

Nuremberg

Vidyacharan was disappointed. After the reception in Grenoble, he had been looking forward to liberating another Persian-occupied city. But the Germans were merely lining the streets and cheering the marching column of Indian infantry. Granted, the struggle to take the city of Nuremberg had not been nearly as great as that for the former French city - the small detachment of musket-equipped militia had been quickly defeated by the rapid-firing weapons of the Indians - but surely the German's were as happy to be free of Persian oppression as the French had been.

He was not the only soldier to have such thoughts. After Grenoble, many had discretely added bags to their kit in hopes of taking in another haul of booty. The Germans weren't pressing foodstuffs or spirits on the incoming troops, and worse, in Vidyacharan's eyes, the young women weren't being free with their kisses. Perhaps, he thought, this town did not suffer much under the Persians.

But he continually saw signs that they had. There were many shops and eateries that were marked "Persians Only," or "No Germans." He had also seen "Help Wanted" signs paired with "No Germans Need Apply." There were even separate water fountains marked for Persian use and German use. Yet the Germans were not overjoyed with their deliverance.

Maybe the Germans thought they were exchanging one conqueror for another, he thought. He hoped they would realize how much better their treatment would be under Indian rule. He had seen first-hand how the Indians had treated the Chinese, Egyptians, and Japanese, allowing them limited citizenship rights until they could apply for full citizenship. His family had many friends of all four extractions currently contained in the Greater Indian Empire. Everywhere he went, he heard how cooperation between peoples had led to greater prosperity for all.

In time, he knew, the Germans would realize how fortunate they were to be under Gandhi's beneficent reign rather than Xerxes cruel oppression. Unfortunately, by the time the Germans wished to express their joy, he and his comrades would have moved on to other exploits, and they would not be inclined to show their gratitude as the French had.

He caught sight of a young German woman looking at him. She was young enough to be bold, but old enough to be wary. Her face was pretty, though not astonishingly so. What caught his eyes were the penetrating blue eyes under the dark cap of hair. The effect was startling. The only women he had ever met had always had dark hair and dark eyes. Even the French girls, with their strangely fair skin, had not had such piercing blue eyes.

He smiled at the girl and grinned wider when she turned round to see if it was indeed her on whom he was lavishing his attention. When she turned back, she caught the grin, smiled sheepishly, and dropped her gaze. After a moment, she returned his look, dead level, and raised her hand to flip her long, dark hair over her shoulder. She gave a toss to her head, as if to say 'do you propose to back that look with action?'

He grinned wider, and straightened the cravat at his throat. He gave a wink, and hoped it meant the same in German as in Indian. Her returning wink told him that it did.

The platoon lieutenant cleared his throat and Vidycharan snapped his head back to parade position. He had to adjust his marching step twice to restore his cadence to that of the platoon, which brought a few snickers from his mates. He felt his face redden, and knew he would be teased unmercifully tonight at mess.

On the other hand, perhaps he could wrangle an early pass tonight and find better ways to pass the occupation than in gaming.

Next: Bactra...

[ChrisiusMaximus]

No fighting description at all. No dont get me wrong its not a complaint, its my observation of yet another style to this story and your writing.

I think the way you personalise this and allow us into the characters minds is great.
Another to you bassman, keep up the good work.

[bassman]

Make Love, Not War!

There're only so many ways you can describe carnage and mayhem. Besides, there will be carnage a-plenty when Mahavir leads his revenge attack on Bactra!

Thanks for the comment, Chrisius Maximus. You are my faithful reader!

[bassman]

From the Big Book of Indian War Stories, Volume Five

Bactra
The squadrons of cavalry trotted out of Grenoble, heading down the road towards the morning sun and Persia's only saltpeter works. Moving with his company, Mahavir thought about the death of his friends.

Prajeet had saved his life twice. At the first battle of Lisht, an archer had tracked Mahavir's path through the city, finally felling him with a well-placed shaft to the shoulder. Had Prajeet not personally dispatched the Egyptian, the next bolt would surely have been through his heart. When another archer had laid Mahavir low during the bloody battle to retake that rebellious city, it was Prajeet and Narhari who had dragged him to the medical station for aid.

The two friends had followed Mahavir into the cavalry when war elephants were phased out in favor of the agile, more reliable horse. He had been delighted to be reunited with his companions in function, although he had been unable to have them assigned to his company. In a way, he blamed himself for their deaths. If they had not transferred to follow him, they could have retrained as riflemen and nearly all the riflemen in the invasion force had survived. Many had been bloodied, it's true, and some had been maimed, but they had survived.

Now, this fine morning, he was tired, but grimly happy. He had worked hard to lay the groundwork for his revenge.

It had taken weeks to convince the medics he was fit for duty. During his convalescence, he had visited shrines constructed for his deceased friends, but only so much as was considered appropriate by his doctors, especially Dr. Navara, the battalion psychiatrist. Every visit, he had quietly renewed his vow to retaliate for their massacre. He had banked his anger, feeding it slowly to keep the fire concealed. At last, he had been returned to his company.

The night before, he had lost nearly a years salary visiting all the gaming in the various company camps. In each camp, he had casually planted the rumor that the mission tomorrow to destroy the saltpeter works at Bactra was just a feint, that the actual target was Bactra itself. Most of the cavalrymen were already primed for the story; merely raiding a mine and mill was not thought to be much of a soldering job.

The saltpeter mill and its accompanying mine soon rose on the horizon. It appeared unguarded. So much the better for Mahavir's plan, for there were others than he who sought revenge on the Persians. The more frustrated soldiers there were, the better his plan would work.

Bugles had sounded the advance, and Mahavir grinned to see his own company bugler shaking his horn. In the still, dark hours between night and morning, he had visited the bivouac of each company's bugler, seeding their instruments with a mixture of lime and powdered clay. It had taken many trials to develop the correct proportions that, when mixed with saliva, would form a slowly hardening clay stopper in the bends of the bugle, rendering it useless for sounding the recall. While convalescing, it had amused him greatly to impress Dr. Navara with his interest in pottery.

The squadrons of cavalry rode into the mill compound and set up a defensive perimeter. The sun had cleared the horizon and was well along its path, lighting the mill and mine. In the near distance, the outlaying buildings of Bactra began to sparkle. A detail was assigned to begin destroying the mill building. Another crew began tearing up the road connecting the mill to Bactra and the Persian transportation network. Their supply of saltpeter would soon be unavailable.

For Mahavir, this wasn't enough. He knew the generals expected Persia to sue for peace once their capability for modern warfare was diminished. He was afraid that they would, denying him revenge. He hungered for the opportunity to kill more Persians before that happened.
Those cavalrymen not on patrol, or working to disrupt the mill and its roads were pacing their horses about expectantly. Many were looking out over the short ride to Bactra. Mahavir hoped they were waiting for the order to charge. He pulled a bugle from his saddlebag - one of many back-up instruments he had stolen during the night - and blew a decent rendition of "Charge." Thrusting his sword into the air, he hollered "Charge!" with all his might and galloped towards Bactra. Nearly two companies worth of cavalrymen followed.

At the mill, the company commanders ordered their buglers to sound "Recall," but only a few managed to even coax rude squawks from their horns. The commanders tried calling to the men by voice, or even physically diverting the men from their spurious charge, but by then it was too late. Nearly all the remaining soldiers had joined in on the attack. Only a few were stopped. Indeed, a few commanders, recognizing the futility, decided to join the assault themselves.

Mahavir knew none of this. His focus was completely upon killing Persians. The distance to the city quickly fell beneath his horse's hooves, as he spearheaded the charge into the city. He had quickly tossed away the bugle, and now cradled an automatic rifle in his arms. The two rapid-firing guns he had bartered for from the Infantry had remained hidden in his rifle scabbards during the ride to the saltpeter mill. Now he proposed to put them to deadly use. From his greatcoat pocket, he fished one of the many magazines and assembled the gun.

The first bullets from Bactra's defenders were beginning to crack around him. A mixed line of musketmen and riflemen blocked the road into Bactra. He emptied the entire 30 rounds of the magazine into the defenders and watched the stream of lead mow down the entire line. The rifle was quick, accurate to long range, and had less recoil than his standard-issue carbine. He grinned, an evil deaths-head sort of grin, and slammed home another magazine. Bloodlust pounded in his brain and hazed his vision slightly red.

He continued his deadly gallop through Bactra. Defenders were firing from windows and doors, but he cared not. Let those following take the stragglers. Two buildings further up the road lay a hastily erected barrier of wagons, barrels and furniture. Now an unthinking, killing machine, he controlled the horse with his knees, fired the automatic with the right hand, and pulled a grenade from another pocket of his greatcoat. Grabbing the arming pin in his teeth, he wheeled the horse to the right and flung the grenade at the barrier. Racing away from the barrier, he had only time to replace the spent magazine with another clip of death before the explosion buffeted his back. He wheeled his mount again, and plunged back up the street, firing at any defender who moved in the rubble. Up and over the splintered, smoking wood went rider and horse.

Ahead, a rifleman scurried for the cover of a doorway. The line of bullets from Mahavir's gun stitched its way up the man's body, exploding the head in a crimson-gray cloud of blood and brains. Mahavir dropped the empty magazine and slammed another home. He had over 100 magazines hidden in his coat and he intended to use them all.

Further ahead lay the town barracks. A double line of soldiers stood and kneeled in disciplined ranks. Centering the line was an old-style cannon, where a cannoneer struggled to finish ramming home the charge. Mahavir spurred his horse faster, and fired on the line, raking it with deadly effect. Bullets whizzed by him, some ricocheting off the nearby buildings. One struck his shoulder; he cared not. He did not intend to live out the day, expecting to join his friends shortly in death.

His left arm ached as he drew out a revolver and fired at the cannon crew. The rammer's knee buckled and he went down in a heap. Another sprang to take up the ram, but it was too late. Mahavir was among the remnants of the line, squeezing off short bursts from the rifle, and single shots from the revolver. One survivor tried to drag him from the horse. Mahavir slammed the empty pistol into his face and the soldier fell back.

He drove on past the shattered line. The shouts and clanking behind told him that the renegade cavalry was still behind him, mopping up the surviving Persians. This would be a massacre Persia would long remember.

The killing and death blurred into one continuous stream of bloody gore. Mahavir's mind was not involved to the slightest degree. He fired, bombed, attacked, wheeled, kicked, hacked, clubbed and bashed until his anger was spent.

At last, conscious thought struggled through the miasma that had clutched his brain from the first shot fired at the outskirts of the city. I'm alive, he thought, startled.

A cavalryman rode up, but Mahavir had no weapons left. Even his sword was gone, scabbard empty.

"Here he is, sir," called the officer - Indian. Another horse and rider swam into view, a view becoming increasingly unstable.

"Dammit, Mahavir" - his company commander - "what were you thinking? I'll have to court-martial you, for sure."

Mahavir looked down sheepishly, and attempted to brush some of the clinging viscera off his grimed and bloddy uniform. His or others, he wasn't sure.

"Bust me to wagon-loader, for all I care," he said. "Prajeet and Narhari are avenged."

The captain's face began to swing in wider and wider circles, then jumped away to be replaced by a blue sky tinged with smoky clouds. In the clouds, Mahavir could see Prajeet and Narhari grinning down on him. He grinned back, until the darkness swallowed them.

Next: more Gandhi Kahn Memoirs

[vovan]

Well, it's gret that you are continuing the story, bassman, the breaks were getting a little lengthy Then again, There're only so many ways you can praise a story, and encourage the writer And Chrisius says it all. Once again, I say: don't mind the lack of feedback sometimes - you have more faithful readers than you might think. Therefore, to quote Chrisius:

Originally posted by ChrisiusMaximus: