Goepfert leaned over the table and motioned to the twelve blocks arrayed along the Fluelapass. "You're ordering an attack, and it has always been the policy of this army, and of your father, I might add, to defend ground, thus off-setting the numerical superiority that Gremminger has always had. You are asking us to attack, and that, by definition, escalates this engagement beyond our purview, our political scope. If you attack Gremminger, My Lord, you are giving ammunition to his supporters in Tarasp. You are giving ammunition to the Hapsburgs and their desire to ally the Grisons with the League of Ostend. Your father is against the League, of course, but if he's seen as being the aggressor in this engagement, then the Zehngerichtebund will have to move quicker than it intends, and they may well cut their ties with your family and let us burn."
Thomas pointed at the Enfield. "The Hapsburgs have already escalated this by giving Gremminger Spanish troops with up-time weapons. The die is cast. Let us not suddenly lose our wits on this truth. No, sir. The God's House has made its decision, Goepfert, and we are fools if we do not act in kind. My father is dying and my brother, Lord save him, doesn't have the skills to skin a cat. He is weak and our house will fall whether we defend or attack. If we hold, we die slowly. If we attack, we may still die, but we will die with honor. This plan will work. You know it will."
Goepfert leaned against the table. He smiled, but Thomas could sense the man's growing impatience with his young commander. "This isn't a game, Thomas. This is real."
For a long moment, Thomas stared at his captain. Perhaps he's right, Thomas thought, as his hand found some dice and scooped them up. How dare I speak of honor when I'm afraid to leave this tent? I'm a coward, hiding behind blocks and maps and charts. What do I know about war? Perhaps he's right. Perhaps . . .
Thomas opened his fist and looked at the dice. He counted the pips. He closed his hand and said, "This conversation is over, Goepfert. I've made my decision. I want you to lead the men."
Goepfert sagged, defeated. He nodded. "Yes, my Lord. But . . . perhaps Elsinger would be a better candidate for command? He's younger and-"
Thomas shook his head. "No. Elsinger is rash. You're steady, and your excellent tactics on-map correspond perfectly to your past performance and reputation in the field. Dettwiler placed his faith in you, and so shall I. You can lead the men, and you will."
Goepfert sighed and nodded. "Yes, My Lord."
As Goepfert left the tent, Thomas placed the dice carefully on the table. He counted the pips again.
Snake-eyes.
Failure . . .
****
He's crazy. The boy has lost his mind.
He would never say this to the boy's face, but Lukas Goepfert feared for Thomas' soul. Not in the traditional sense, with brimstone and lightning bolts from the clouds, nor did he think the young von Allmen would burn in Hell. But his soul, his essence-and in Thomas' case, the seat of the soul was the mind-had fallen hard under the American spell. They weren't wizards, as many detractors liked to say, but they were dangerous, and they had poisoned Thomas into thinking that he could learn war from a game. What folly!
And yet, Goepfert admitted, there was some practicality to it. Their tabletop exercises had ferreted out some weaknesses on both sides, and it was easier to "try things out" as Thomas might say, without having to put the men through rigorous drill that might, in the end, prove fruitless. And, it was kind of fun. So maybe the kalbfleisch had something in this wargaming business after all. But to declare Elsinger "rash" was silly. Elsinger might be young, and yes he was impatient at times (and wasn't very good at playing the game), but no one could question his resolve, his loyalty, or his fighting spirit. In Goepfert's experience, such individual elan had turned many defeats into victories. No wargame could anticipate the minute by minute changes on the battlefield, nor the stresses that could turn a stalwart into a crying baby, or a coward into a hero. Only through experience could a commander know and anticipate these things. And what of direct leadership? A good commander cannot lead from a tent. Being visible to your men and sharing their sacrifice could turn the strength of fifty into a hundred. Mathematics mattered, yes, but heart was just as important.
"Captain Goepfert!"
Behind him, behind the long ranks of pike and musket that moved up the narrow pass, Elsinger arrived with his cavalry. The pike moved aside and gave the road to him and his men. He came alongside Goepfert, saluted, and said, "We must make Susch within the hour . . . if we are to follow Thomas' plan and remove its citizens."
It seemed to Goepfert that the young cavalry officer was trying to solicit a negative response to the order, but he ignored the intent and said, "Yes. Move your men along quickly and keep me informed of Gremminger's dispositions. You're supposed to act like Jeb Stuart, our beloved commander has said. I don't know who the hell that is, but you are going to be the eyes and ears of this affair."
Elsinger shook his head and spat onto the ground. He growled. "We should fight in tercios. You know that."
"No. On this, I agree with the boy. Our supplies were sacked when Dettwiler fell. We do not have the ammunition or the runners to distribute it among the units. We have to keep them in three separate blocks, snaplocks, calivers, and muskets alike, until such a time as they are needed and can be moved accordingly. Besides, these passes are narrow enough that there is little concern of being outflanked, and that's where you come in. You have to keep Gremminger's cavalry off my infantry until I can move into town and position our men."
"We shouldn't be attacking at all."
"I know."
"Then why are we?"
"Because we've been ordered to!"
Goepfert looked down. The army was moving forward, slowly but deliberately, their pikes, guns, halberds, and swords glistening in the sunlight. If they noticed his agitation, they did not show it on their faces. He sighed, put up his hand, and whispered, "I know you're concerned, Elsinger. So am I. But we follow our commander's orders. We follow them . . . until I say otherwise. And then, we will do what we have to do to preserve the army. Understand?"
Elsinger nodded.
"Now get going," Goepfert said, patting him on the shoulder. "Be our eyes and ears."
The cavalry moved down the road, and Goepfert led his horse to the embankment to let the infantry continue its march. He studied them with admiration. They were good men, some mercenaries, many farm boys, most dirt poor, but they were willing to fight and die for the von Allmens. They didn't want Gremminger on their lands any more than they wanted a pope telling them how to pray. But Goepfert felt like a butcher leading lambs to slaughter. Oh, Thomas, my dear boy. What do you see in your mathematics that makes you think we can win?
Goepfert looked into the bright sky toward heaven, but the answer was not there.
****
Gremminger watched as his men moved toward Susch en echelon, their frontage protected with musket skirmishers. It was the traditional formation for Swiss infantry, and it had held his country in good stead across scores of European battlefields. It would serve its purpose here too, he knew, as they moved forward quickly and took up their positions on the edge of town to the cadence to martial drums. Two solid blocks of one hundred pikes each, with the middle block comprised of Spanish halberdiers for up-close fighting. Looking at the Spanish formation, Gremminger was relieved that he had managed to calm Mendoza down and convince him to stay. The poor bastard was ready to quit the field after his cavalry was routed. Gremminger had never heard so many Spanish curse words in all his life, and he couldn't help but chuckle a little. But only a little. The kalbfleisch had surprised him. It was a clever move, and one that Gremminger would not fall for again.
He was disappointed that von Allmen had arrived in Susch before him. Murner's cavalry, usually very good at holding the enemy at bay, had not moved as quickly as advised. At least the good townsfolk were gone, it seemed, as Gremminger peered through his glass. They'd left in a hurry. That's good, he thought. Sometimes it was difficult to k
now which side these small towns were on, so close to the border and so readily influenced by outside events. He smiled. At least he wouldn't have to worry about killing innocent people.
On the other side of town, ten small blocks of infantry lay with a smattering of musket support. Gremminger looked through his field glass and sneered at the banners waving in the breeze. Most of them were displaying the traditional God's House Ibex on mixed white-and-red fields, and some with smaller coat-of-arms at the top of a white shield. Von Allmen had no business waving such flags. He and his supporters had cast their lot in with the Ten Jurisdictions and the USE; God would punish them in good time. As I will punish them today, he thought as Captain Murner arrived with his cavalry. I will bring those banners down, and we will walk across Ibex bones all the way to Davos.
"You're late!"
The cavalry officer saluted quickly and said, "My apologies, General. Elsinger has been harassing our approach all morning. We drove them off finally, but . . ." He hesitated. ". . . they took out one of our guns."
"Destroyed the carriage?"
Murner shook his head. "No. They spiked it. Hammered a nail down the touchhole and broke it off."
Gremminger grit his teeth. Von Allmen had at most two cannon. Now there was parity. Damn! He shook his head. "Get the other two up here quickly and place them where I have directed. And I want you to split your men; thirty to the right, thirty left. There's just enough gap on either side of the town to infiltrate. Once behind their blocks, reform and charge. Do you hear me?"
Murner nodded.
"And get those Spanish Enfielders back in the saddle. There aren't many left, but by God's Grace, we'll use them."
"Yes, sir!" Murner kicked his horse and rode off.
Gremminger looked through his field glass. On the ridgeline far to the rear of the enemy position, he saw the command banner of Captain Goepfert. He nodded. A good soldier and the right choice. "But, Goepfert," he whispered as he watched his cavalry form up and move towards the flanks, "are you going to follow your own judgment, or are you going to follow the boy like a good servant?"
He prayed for the latter.
****
From the ridgeline, Goepfert watched as Gremminger's cavalry tried outflanking his small blocks of pike. But as the cavalry advanced, the flanks pivoted and reformed en echelon. Murner's men were peppered by musket fire and some fell dead into the front block on the right side, scattering the men and forcing a gap in the line. Murner exploited it and flooded through, his horse scattering out and swiping terrified faces with sabers and taking shots with wheel-locks. "I have provided the strategy," Thomas had said, "you provide the tactics."
His instincts told him to reform his infantry into larger blocks to thwart the enemy troops now moving through Susch. When they hit, his tiny blocks would not hold. It would be a rout worse than the Dettwiler debacle. Goepfert looked down at the raging battle. He sighed. Give the kid a chance.
He looked at his bannerman and nodded. The young boy waved the banner as designated and one after the other, the small blocks turned their ranks and formed hedgehogs or what Thomas called "French Squares" as employed at Waterloo. Geopfert had never heard of that battle but it seemed to be working. The cavalry flowed through the blocks like water, poking and prodding as they went, trying to find weaknesses in the tight squares. But the pikes and halberds were holding well, and the snaplocks that had squeezed into their centers fired, protected by the forest of polearms, reloaded and fired again, taking horse and mount down and spreading the cavalry even thinner. Goepfert nodded. It was working.
Time to launch the second part of Thomas' plan. He looked to the center of the town. As the boy predicted, Gremminger's pike and halberdier blocks were too large to move through unimpeded. They divided around the buildings. The Spanish halberdiers were spread even thinner, taking the tack of stretching their line down the center street nearly in column. But there were so many of them. Three hundred total, including skirmish support. Even if the plan worked . . .
Goepfert gave the nod, and the bannerman waved his flag again. Nothing happened at first, then one after another, small popping sounds spread across Susch as windows opened, loft doors sprang free, and lines of smoke filled the sky as small-arms opened fire on the confused enemy infantry. A mighty roar went up through the ranks as men fell bleeding from head and chest wounds. Thomas had specifically ordered that officers be shot. It was an unprecedented move in the Grisons. Unthinkable, in fact, to shoot an officer. Not that it never happened in battle, but to order it, to specifically call for the assassination of the sons of important Swiss families, would have ramifications far beyond the border of this small Alpine village. "War is hell," Thomas had said, quoting some American general from a book he had read in Grantville. Indeed it was, and now von Allmen was bringing that hell to Switzerland, killing boys like himself by the bushels. But he wasn't killing anyone, was he? He was sitting in a tent, rolling dice, running the numbers, while his men were being encircled.
And so it was. The initial shock of the plan had killed many of Gremminger's unsuspecting soldiers, and had held up their advance. The Spanish even fell back out of the town. But the skirmish lines in front of Gremminger's infantry fired back at the buildings and pinned the ambush. This gave the infantry time to reorganize and storm the buildings, smashing the doors open and racing up the steps to kill the surrounded gunners. One after another, the buildings fell silent.
The small pike squares had done their job against the cavalry. Murner had ordered a retreat, and Elsinger's cavalry would make sure they did not return. But there were two other cavalry units out there in reserve, plus another four hundred men awaiting orders. "We're fighting a war of time," Thomas had said. "We need time for the politics to evolve, for Davos to make good on its promise. Time is what we fight for."
Goepfert spit onto the ground. It's all just a game to you, isn't it, boy? We're all just numbers. You've supplied the strategy, indeed, but it's time you got your nose bloodied. Here's a tactic for you!
He motioned for a runner. The boy appeared beside his horse. Goepfert took a piece of paper and one of Thomas’ Grantville pencils out of his coat pocket and handed it over. "Write this down, word for word, and deliver it personally to Lord Thomas von Allmen."
As he spoke the message, the boy's eyes grew large. When he finished, the boy folded up the paper, put it in his pocket, and handed the pencil back to his commander. "Sir, I don't understand this message. You're not-"
"Hand it to him personally, Karl," Goepfert interrupted. "Do not speak a word to him, and do not look into his eyes. If he sees your eyes, he'll know you're lying. He's too damned smart for his own good. Go!"
Karl saluted and was gone.
Goepfert looked through his field glass at the battle below. His infantry were out of their squares and back into normal formation, waiting Gremminger's infantry as it fought through the streets of Susch. From this vantage point, it was easy to see how even two cannon, carefully trained right down the center of the town, would . . .
The boy is too damned smart for his own good.
Goepfert lowered his field glass, put up his left hand, and said, "Fire the guns!"
****
"I swear to the Almighty, Mendoza!" Gremminger screeched above the roar of battle. "If your men retreat one more time, I'll kill them myself. No quarter!"
The Spanish captain sneered and turned away. Gremminger watched him disappear among the confusion of Spanish infantry trying to re-form in the center of the town. The Swiss pike, at least, were doing well, but it had become a massive, confused infantry squabble, as Geopfert ordered cannon fire from his ridgeline. The first few shots had torn through Gremminger's men like butter, and the Spanish had lost a dozen in the first shot. Bits of brain matter and bone had even spattered Gremminger's legs one hundred yards away. He got off his horse quickly. Either that, or retreat back to the protection of his own guns. But why haven't they fired? Why?
And then they di
d. Gremminger had never heard anything so wonderful in his life. Finally, his guns were ripping long bloody lines through von Allmen's infantry. Or were they? It was difficult to tell from this position, with the blocks all pushed together and with so much smoke floating above the town. He needed to get closer and see for himself.
He whistled for a runner. "Tell Captain Rauber to bring everything forward. No delay!"
"Yes, sir!" The boy saluted and ran off.
Goepfert had already ordered the rest of his men to engage. He'd thrown everything in, and so clearly this was where they intended to finish the job. But was it his decision or von Allmen's? And where was the boy? Why wasn't he here at least observing the battle? What the hell was he doing in that tent?
"Coward!" Gremminger said as he and his staff moved through the town carefully to get a better view of the battlefield.
****
Thomas' hand shook as he read the message. Captain Goepfert has fallen. You must come at once.You must lead the men.
It was signed by Elsinger. He read the message again, the words mixing with memories from his dreams. His hand would not stop shaking, like those soldiers from Vietnam who had suffered shell-shock, or what was called by American clinicians post-traumatic stress. But they had actually fought; pulled a trigger, thrown a grenade, put their hand in the chest wound of a fallen friend. What had Thomas done? Nothing . . . nothing . . .
He had been Dettwiler's aide de camp for only eight months, and he had never even fired a gun. He would never admit that to his staff, for they'd believe it certainly, and that would make him even less of a man in their eyes than he was now. But in the last few months he had found some courage. He had found a confidence that was lacking. Being the son of a Swiss lord gave him title and claim, but nothing else. Until now. These dice, these maps, these tiny wooden blocks he pushed from hex to hex had told him that he was smart enough to lead men into battle. Lead men? He was smart enough for strategic and tactical decision-making, but was he brave enough to lead?
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