by Eric Flint
"Dammit, Lennart. An army of Joe Buckley's won't defeat our enemies. I can just see Richelieu wetting his robes at the idea! Besides, I'd've thought you'd hate the idea of a bunch of press flacks," Frank said.
Torstensson laughed. "You up-timers have a habit of thinking that nothing from the world you knew exists in this time. Actually, His Majesty has been employing 'press flacks' for over four years now. I'm surprised you're so resistant to the idea after your experiences in combat and the divisions which arose in your society over that military adventure in Asia."
"Since when have you been studying about Vietnam?"
"Admiral Simpson was kind enough to recommend some books, and I had editions printed up for myself and a team of translators. I think His Majesty, as well as Horn and Banér, will be interested in the history of that conflict. Especially since so many of you up-timers gained combat experience there."
Frank grunted. "Well, if Gustavus had been running that show, it might have turned out differently."
"Perhaps. In any event, I was struck by the comment of your head of state during that war, Lyndon Johnson. Remember what he said after the news presenter, Cronkite, came out publicly against this conflict?"
"I remember," said Frank sourly. "He said, 'If I've lost Cronkite, I've lost America.'"
"Just so. Without support from the people that matter, the best generals in the world will go down in defeat no matter how they fare in the field. It's a very old story," Torstensson said. "And in this brave, new world our emperor and his prime minister are making, the masses are people who matter. Should we not make ourselves look as good as possible to them? Make certain our side of the story is presented in these newspapers that seem to be sprouting like weeds?"
"I still say it's a waste of personnel," Frank grumbled.
Torstensson was ready for him. "I am confident we can find suitable people who wish to serve but are not fit for combat. You yourself have admitted that many of the soldiers in essential noncombat positions wouldn't have been considered physically fit to serve if they'd had to have an exam."
Frank backed off. There was no way he was going to win this argument. His CO had obviously made up his mind. "So is this my headache now?" he asked.
"Not entirely. I have in mind a candidate to command this mad enterprise. But we'll need a balance of personnel who are fluent in German, English and Swedish. I expect you to submit a list of candidates as soon as possible."
Frank knew an order when he heard one. "Of course, sir. If you want this, that's good enough for me."
"You've proven once again, General Jackson, just how much better you are than almost every German 'officer' I've come across. You will, no doubt, come up with some excellent candidates." Torstensson's eyes went to the oil painting hanging behind Frank's desk. Frank could tell what his superior was thinking: It showed surprisingly sophisticated taste for a man who, until relatively recently, had been a laborer. That boyish, mischievous smile returned to Torstensson's face.
"I like that painting, Frank. I am surprised. I would have thought you'd have preferred a fanciful scene with animals. Perhaps animals playing cards."
Frank eyed his CO beadily. "Permission to speak freely, General?"
"Of course."
"Shaddap. Sir." With a laugh, Torstensson left.
Once alone, Frank started a list. Unfortunately, it was very short. Most of the people he could think of were needed in more essential posts, either civilian or military. Perhaps, Frank thought, it was time to grab a bite at the Freedom Arches.
* * *
When he put out the call for citizen-soldiers, Mike Stearns had expected the Committees of Correspondence to flood the new USE militaries' ranks with volunteers. He hadn't been disappointed. In fact, thought Joachim von Thierbach—not a little smugly—the CoC had exceeded even the prime minister's considerable expectations. Which made conversations like the one Joachim was having now all the more difficult.
Kurt von Kessel was much like Joachim. He was the son of a minor Reichsritter from somewhere near Frankfurt am Main. And, like Joachim, Kurt had been a student at the University of Jena who had thrown himself into work with the Committees of Correspondence. Joachim knew for a fact that Kurt was a former client of Inga, a prostitute in Jena and cousin of Joachim's fiancée, Mathilde. Kurt had been encouraged by Inga to embrace the radical notions the Americans espoused.
In the heady days after the Battle of Wismar, Kurt von Kessel, like so many others, volunteered himself to the service of his country. Unfortunately, he was thin, had a weak constitution and a hip that frequently became dislocated because of a childhood injury. The wonder was not that Kurt had flunked the army physical; the wonder was that he even thought he would pass it.
"Four-F, whatever that means," Kurt said to Joachim, nearly in tears. "I can shoot a gun just fine. I don't see what physical fitness has to do with that!"
"It has everything to do with it. On a long march or in a charge, especially. What if your hip dislocated at such a time? You would surely be killed, and you might also cause the death of soldiers trying to protect you. I'm sorry, Kurt, but this is a sound doctrine. You would be a liability."
The look that Kurt gave Joachim was full of anger and bitterness. The man known as Spartacus sighed. As Joachim saw it, he was being cruel to be kind.
And it wasn't as if Kurt couldn't be of service to the USE. It was true that, when writing under his preferred nom de plume of "Silence Dogood," Kurt couldn't match Joachim and some of the other CoC writers in passion. But Kurt had a gift for writing clear, concise, easily understandable prose that Joachim envied.
It was then that Joachim von Thierbach realized he'd had what some of his up-time friends referred to as a "brain fart." There was a way for Kurt von Kessel to serve his country—in uniform.
"What are you smiling about, Spartacus?" asked Kurt angrily. "This is hardly a laughing matter."
"Kurt, my friend, I am smiling because I am a complete dummkopf." Joachim found a scrap of paper, pulled out his fountain pen and scribbled a note. He handed the note to Kurt. "Here. Give this to General Jackson or his adjutant. They won't be putting a gun in your hands, but you'll be in the army."
Joachim barely had time to finish his sentence before his friend had snatched the note and made a beeline out the front door of the Freedom Arches. Kurt didn't seem to care so much that he wasn't going to be on the front lines. He was getting a chance to serve, and that was enough.
* * *
Frank's adjutant, John Sterling, stuck his head into Frank's office. "Private McDougal is here as you requested, sir."
"Send him in, John."
Private James Byron McDougal, better known to most as "Jabe," walked into the office. Frank looked at the young man. Physically, Jabe bore great resemblance to his father, Pete McDougal, a fellow UMWA man with whom Frank had been friends for years. But young McDougal had a serious, thoughtful manner that didn't come from Pete or, as far as Frank could tell, from Jabe's mother, Zula. Maybe Jabe got this from Zula's side of the family. She'd come from Pennsylvania, so Frank really didn't know her people.
Jabe saw the painting hanging above General Jackson's desk and smiled. Frank noticed the look and looked at the painting again himself, nodding approvingly.
"That young lady of yours can paint, Private, and that's a fact. It was bad enough that Mary Simpson was on my case about decorating the office, but she threatened to pick the paintings herself if I didn't do it. And Diane agreed with her!" Frank still couldn't believe this act of spousal treason. Though, in truth, he got along with Admiral Simpson and his wife reasonably well these days. Frank knew next to nothing about art. He'd been content to let Diane decorate their house with works from her native Vietnam, which he rather liked—even if he was loath to admit it. As he was fond of saying, he didn't know much about art, but he knew what he liked.
And he'd liked Ripper's Repose when Diane and Mary had shown it to him. Taken from a scene of the movie Dr. Strangelove, the pain
ting wasn't dogs playing poker, but it was art Frank could live with. It was a simple study of General Jack D. Ripper sitting at his desk, pensively studying his lit cigar. Prudentia Gentileschi, the painter of the piece, had infused General Ripper with a humanity that he lacked in the film. That Prudentia was the daughter of famed Artemisia Gentileschi—painter to royalty—and was becoming a renowned artist in her own right, bothered him not at all. Frank Jackson was not ashamed of being a hillbilly, and he liked confounding people's expectations. In this case, specifically, Lennart Torstensson's expectations. Plus, Mary Simpson said the work was a fine example of "chiaroscuro," whatever the hell that was.
"I don't know if she's 'my lady' or not, sir," said Jabe, coloring with embarrassment. "I guess we do spend a lot of time together."
"So I hear," said Frank. "But I didn't ask you here to talk about your love life. I have a question to ask you, and for the moment I want you to forget I'm a general and you're a private. I want your honest answer. What do you think about being in the Signal Corps?"
"It's okay, I guess," said Jabe. He shrugged a noncommittal shrug.
Frank flipped through the pages in Jabe's service jacket. "You must not like it all that well, son. Your commanding officers like you, but they all say the same thing—you aren't performing to your potential."
A mix of emotions showed on Jabe's face: guilt, shame and a little anger. "I'm sorry, sir. I do try. I'll try harder, I guess."
Frank smiled what he hoped was a reassuring smile. "Jabe, if you break a knife because you were using it as a crowbar, is that the knife's fault?"
"No, sir. You shouldn't use it like that. It wasn't made for it."
"Exactly. I think we're not using you the best way we can. I know you can do great things. People who know more than I do told me that making that documentary a few months ago in the time you had was the next thing to impossible. But you went ahead and did it. And did a hell of a job besides."
"Thank you, sir."
"You're welcome. Now I'm a general again. Private McDougal, General Torstensson has decided to set up a small press corps and asked me to think of some candidates for it. I think you'd do well serving the USE in that role. Is there any reason why I might be wrong?"
"No sir."
"Good." Jackson slid the official orders across his desk to Jabe. "You'll be adjutant to Lieutenant Kurt von Kessel, who'll be in charge of the press division office in Grantville. Congratulations, Sergeant McDougal." Frank stuck out his hand.
"Sergeant?" Jabe shook his superior's hand dazedly.
Frank grinned. "Yup. Forgot to tell you—the job comes with a promotion. Report to the map room at the imperial palace tomorrow morning at nine. Dismissed."
Still in a daze, Sergeant Jabe McDougal saluted and left. Frank chuckled. Jabe was a good kid, as he expected from the son of Pete and Zula. He was also transparent as hell. Frank knew his newest sergeant was thinking of his girlfriend.
Grantville, Early winter, 1634
The object of Jabe McDougal's affections was, at that moment, in Grantville staring at a half-empty canvas. Prudentia Gentileschi sighed. She seemed to be lacking inspiration and concentration in equal measure today.
Jabe had been called to Magdeburg on military matters, and Prudentia missed him. It was their custom to meet at the recently opened Sternbock Coffee House in the afternoon, and Jabe treated Prudentia to dinner at the Thuringen Gardens when his modest Army pay allowed. She felt tense in an odd sort of way, as if she'd been going without something essential—even though they never went beyond holding hands and relatively chaste kissing.
Their relationship had deepened and grown since October of last year when Prudentia had spent the night watching Jabe edit a documentary about the heroes of the Battle of Wismar. Even before that night, before they knew each other well, Prudentia had appreciated Jabe's thoughtful nature. In her experience it was a very rare trait among the male of the species, up-time or down-time.
On the night of October 10, 1633, Prudentia had seen in Jabe the soul of a true artist, working in a medium that was about to disappear from the world for a good many years. She hadn't thought that possible from the son of a laborer.
Her first real meeting with Jabe's parents hadn't gone particularly well. Not long after the Battle of Wismar, Zula decided to move to Magdeburg with her two younger children to be with her husband. Pete had been granted a brief leave in early November to help Zula pack up the house. Mrs. McDougal had only briefly met Prudentia, so she more or less insisted that Jabe bring his new girlfriend to dinner.
The first problem had been with the food. Zula prided herself on being able to set out a good spread when she had the time. But the traditional West Virginia fare, with an emphasis on lots of gravy, was not to Prudentia's taste. Try as she might, Prudentia couldn't quite hide her dislike of it. Zula was not too pleased at this, but had this been Prudentia's only mistake, it would have soon been forgiven and forgotten.
The critical misstep came later in the evening. Pete McDougal was still nursing wounds from John Simpson's initial visit to Magdeburg, shortly after Mike Stearns had prevailed upon Simpson to resume his naval career. Pete, at the time, was representing the New United States' interests in Magdeburg. Simpson had been critical of Pete's operation from the start. That events had validated Simpson's criticisms was bad enough. Jabe had told Prudentia that, for Pete, it seemed there was a cloud over him. In his father's mind, Jabe had said, the fact that he hadn't been appointed to one of the administrator positions in Thuringia was all Simpson's fault.
Despite this warning, Prudentia made the mistake of agreeing with John Simpson and saying so out loud to Pete. After all, hadn't the admiral been proven correct? It seemed to her that Pete was being rather prideful. What Prudentia hadn't counted on was how deeply that wound still ran. Attempts to repair the damage from that faux pas were ongoing.
Hard on the heels of the disastrous dinner with the McDougals was the premiere of the Grantville Ballet Company's production of The Nutcracker, not long before Jabe had been called to Magdeburg. It was the hottest ticket in town, and the only reason they'd even managed tickets for the cheap seats was because Prudentia had painted the large oil painting that hung in the lobby of the auditorium. It depicted Carl Shockley and Staci Matowski in their featured roles. She'd had a half-finished painting on hand that was suitable and could be modified, and she was grateful enough to have her work seen by area notables who might become potential patrons.
The night had gone quite well. The performance was extremely well received, and as part of her payment for the promotional painting Prudentia had been invited to the reception following the ballet. The reception was attended by the performers and the area VIPs who wanted to meet them. She made several useful contacts.
On the walk to the Nobilis' house, she asked Jabe what he thought about the performance.
"It was okay, I guess. Ballet and that kind of stuff has never been my thing. But it wasn't bad."
"You seemed to spend most of your time eyeing Staci Matowski." Prudentia had meant for that to be teasing; it came out brittle, challenging. Prudentia reflected on her own appearance: long, black, wavy hair; olive complexion; and dark, intense eyes. She didn't consider herself unattractive, but she never had and never would have a ballet dancer's physique. She wasn't terribly pleased to have Jabe ogling the dancers. She wasn't entirely sure why Jabe liked her and so was not completely confident about her attractive qualities.
Jabe couldn't hide his irritation. "I can't help looking, Prudentia. Those women are in great shape. I'll bet your mother would use them for models if she were here. You should think about it yourself."
She didn't answer. Jabe continued, "It's not like you weren't eyeing Carl Shockley's butt, yourself." It was a well-aimed thrust. Prudentia flushed and dropped the matter.
At least her career seemed to be taking off. In spite of the fact that she was not a master painter, Prudentia had received far more offers of work than she could poss
ibly say yes to. She'd painted a study of Jabe at work on his computer, which she'd titled Sculptor of Reality, and had given the finished work to Jabe as a gift. It hung in a place of honor at Jabe's house. When his mother and younger brother and sister joined Pete McDougal in Magdeburg, Jabe had insisted that the painting remain in Grantville with him. Boarders now lived with Jabe in the McDougal home. It was through them that word of the painting had gotten out. The commission for the ballet created even more "buzz," as her up-time friends would say.
The offers started coming fast and furious after that. Princess Kristina, or at least people on her behalf, had commissioned a painting in honor of Hans Richter and approved the concept sketch Prudentia had submitted. It was tentatively entitled Falcon Astride the World and was still very much a work in progress. Prudentia was working on several modelli, what some might call "oil sketches," showing possible designs. It was one of many works commissioned in honor of the fallen hero, if not nearly so grand as the planned statue that was to dominate Hans Richter Square in Magdeburg. Prudentia's painting would show, in some fashion, Hans astride the imperial palace in the manner of the Colossus of Rhodes. The style she was using was influenced by a comic book Prudentia had seen. Unusually for an up-time comic, it was painted rather than inked, and she quite liked the style. Jabe called it "photorealistic."
Her other ongoing project was frontispieces for three of Albrecht von Wallenstein's favorite Agatha Christie novels: The Murder of Roger Ackroyd, And Then There Were None and Murder On the Orient Express. Wallenstein's nurse, Edith Wild, had complained that the recently crowned king of Bohemia had read her paperback copies of those particular books to tatters. New editions were being printed and would be presented as a gift from the Jews of Prague to their new sovereign to mark the first anniversary of his glorious reign. The money for the commission came from Don Morris Roth. It was said that Don Morris was founding a university in Prague that would admit women as well as men. Prudentia was pleased he'd remembered her now that he was one of Europe's richest and most important people. Life, on the whole, was good.
