Battle Hymn by Forstchen William R

Author:Forstchen, William R. [Forstchen, William R.]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
ISBN: 9780451452863
Publisher: Roc
Published: 1997-01-01T05:00:00+00:00

“How you feeling, laddie?”

Jack Petracci, chief pilot of the Republic’s air corps, looked wanly at Pat. “The usual, ready to throw up.”

Pat laughed and slapped Petracci on the shoulder. “Hero of the Merki War, holder of the Congressional Medal, and him afraid.”

“You dumb mick, you think it’s so easy, why don’t you come up on the test flight then?”

Pat gazed wide-eyed at the airship hanging at the mooring mast and shook his head.

“Go up in that?” He laughed softly and shook his head. “Madness.”

“So shut the hell up,” Jack snapped.

Pat put an affectionate arm around Jack’s shoulder and whispered, “I think I’d pee meself.”

Jack swallowed hard, trying to ignore Pat as he started to ramble on about the old days with the Forty-fourth New York Light Artillery.

How did I get myself into this? Jack wondered. If only I’d kept my mouth shut about helping old Professor Wiggins and his Traveling Aerial Circus back on Earth before the war, I never would have been drafted as the Republic’s first balloonist. But then again, would we be here now? He knew that in war there are any number of critical moments, when the actions of a single person can decide the fate of a nation. Dozens of his comrades had had those moments, and most of them were now dead.

And me? He was seen by many as one of the great heroes of the war. Gates’s Illustrated Weekly had run three front-page etchings of him, the new lithograph series Heroes of the Great Wars, had two drawings of him in action, and as far as his love life went—well, that at least was a reason to smile.

Andrew had given him something of a free hand in designing the uniform of the air corps, and Ferguson’s wife had come up with a design that made him and his comrades stand out. Trousers and jacket were sky blue, with white piping on the sides of the pants, around the wrists, and down the front of the nine-button blouse. The army slouch cap had been abandoned for a leather helmet and goggles pushed up onto the forehead. What he really liked, though, was his flying coat, a fleece-lined leather jacket with a high collar to ward off the chill that was found at ten thousand feet. He knew the uniform was the envy of the services, and wherever he went there was always an unending stream of young men begging to join the elite corps of forty trained pilots and engineers.

At the moment, he would trade it all for a safe berth on the ground, even down in the belly of a monitor on patrol in the Inland Sea.

“I think we’re ready to cast off,” he whispered, swallowing hard.

“Don’t you think you should be a little less adventurous on this first trip?” Pat asked.

Jack shook his head.

“We’ve had three shakedown runs. She flies well enough. We built her for the long runs; it’s time we did one. The weather’s perfect, wind out of the west, northwest at fifteen knots, might be higher aloft, and we’ve got her headed southeast.

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