Thomas grabbed the Enfield with shaking hands and bow-slung it across his back. It lay heavy against his cuirass. He was afraid the half-cocked trigger might fire, but of course it would not. Not until he pulled it.
He breathed deeply and stepped out of the tent. The sun was high and hot. He rubbed his eyes until he could see. In the distance, he heard cannon fire. Mine or his? Both probably. Numbers swirled in his mind, blocks moved, dice rolled.
He climbed his horse. "I'm going to the front," he said to the young boy holding the reins. "If I don't return, tell my mother, my father that . . . I tried."
He turned, spurred his horse, and galloped toward the sound of the guns.
****
Gremminger watched his infantry hit the center. The Spanish had come back strong, smashing into Geopfert's porous line and leaving large gaps, despite the man's efforts to put everything he had into the field. Parts of Susch were on fire, and Gremminger was truly sorry for that, but if it meant that von Allmen's army would finally be defeated and routed from the field, he was willing to take the political hit, regardless of the outcome.
"Get me a horse!" he yelled to a staff member.
He peered through his field glass. Remnants of Murner's cavalry coupled with the Spanish Enfielders slammed into one of Geopfert's small infantry blocks. They tried holding their ground, but one after the other, men were picked off by errant up-time shots ringing through the smoky air. Pikes cut through horses' necks, swords slashed down, faces exploded in a burst of sweat and red blood. The smaller enemy units were mobile enough to fill gaps in the line, but ultimately could not stand against Gremminger's larger units.
There was, however, something useful in smaller ranks, Gremminger had to admit. They did not possess the punch and potency of larger formations, but their size allowed greater mobility and allowed exploitation of open flanks. It was as if von Allmen was trying to fight a guerilla war. But you fight a guerrilla war by attacking, withdrawing, attacking, withdrawing, and you certainly did not do it with pike. Goepfert was not withdrawing. He was trying to maintain interior lines by pushing a superior force back. Clearly, the wishes of his young commander and his own practical field experience were at odds.
Gremminger nodded. It was time to exploit this rift in command.
His horse appeared at his side. He climbed into the saddle, unsheathed his saber, and said, "Let's get into this fight. No leading from behind. One more push and they'll crack. With me!"
The small cavalry unit that had formed up behind their commander followed him down the smooth slope of the road that split Susch in two.
At the edge of town, Gremminger raised his saber, leaned into his horse, and shouted, "Charge!"
****
The sounds of battle grew confused as Thomas drew near. The guns were louder but they were not his guns. He did not know how he knew this, but he knew. It was in the way that they fired. Two rounds and no response. No counter-battery. One side was firing, the other was not, and screams of pain erupted on the valley road that wound down from the Fluelapass, through the battle lines, and into Susch.
Thomas turned the corner and the fight came into view, lines of ragged infantry spread across the field like skins from a shedding snake. Red and white and blue shirts, grey coats, ibex, lion, and shield banners, coat-of-arms of smaller houses whose children and subjects lay in heaps on the bloody ground. It was difficult to tell the opposing sides for these were all Swiss boys save for the small detachment of Spanish that Thomas could barely discern through the bleak smoke. So many men dead on the field and yet they kept on, re-forming lines and going at it again. He couldn't help but feel a certain pride as he watched it all. It did not matter who was friend or foe. They were Swiss, and they never retreated.
But that was not true, was it? At Marignano, Swiss pike had been decimated and forced to retreat. At Bicocca as well. Two old battles, barely remembered by the Swiss people but now ringing clearly in Thomas' mind like church bells. And just a few short weeks ago near Zernez, another retreat had occurred, and so here he was, just a boy, looking down on carnage that he had never seen in his life. You must lead the men. But how? Around him, the dead and dying lined the pass, the small wagon train of his force choked with civilians from Susch that he had yanked from their homes to make room for death and desolation. As he brought his horse to a slow trot, they looked at him, paid their proper respects, and reached up as if he were the American president, Abraham Lincoln, come to Richmond to free the slaves. He reached down and touched their hands and tried to offer them some reassurance, some hope in the stench of the billowing smoke and fire that ran through their homes.
He'd made a mistake. He realized that now. He had saved the civilians by moving them out, but not their town. Putting gunmen into the empty homes was a way to slow the enemy advance, force them to stack up in the streets and perhaps convince Gremminger to pull back and reconsider a different route. Then counter-attack. Gremminger, however, had surprised him. The duke had been bolder than first thought, more ruthless, a bigger risk-taker. Thomas had run the numbers, had calculated Gremminger's skills and had built in variation for his psychological profile. Not enough variation apparently. Thomas had made a mistake . . . yet he'd been right as well.
It was clear that Gremminger's superior force was having trouble finding complete purchase of the field. He could not push through Susch with all of his men at once, and thus, he could not attack in force. It was a natural choke-point that slowed his advance and allowed Elsinger's cavalry time to function as hobilars, like the Spanish had tried to do. Their guns were inferior weapons to the Spanish, but it appeared that Gremminger had committed his remaining up-time weapons to the full battle, in desperation no doubt, trying to whip the kalbfleisch here and now.
You must lead the men.
Thomas scowled. It was a damn fool thing for Goepfert to do: getting himself killed at such an important moment. He pulled out his field glass and focused on the battle in the center of the haggard line, hoping to see an opportunity to order his men off the field, or to pull them back enough to re-form strong, tight blocks and keep holding. But that was not going to happen. Too many men had died and even in Thomas' short experience, it was obvious that Gremminger's superior numbers would, in time, push through the town and take the field. So what to do? What do I do?
Then he saw a ghost coming down the ridgeline, Captain Goepfert, his banner of a golden shield on a red-and-white field waving carelessly in the air. Thomas blinked, wiped sweat from his face, and looked again. It was no ghost. It was the man in flesh, holding his saber high, mouth open and teeth bared although his battle cry could not be heard from this distance. He was alive and leading a charge. Alive . . .
"Goepfert, you son of a bitch, I'm going to kill you myself."
Without thought, Thomas spurred his horse onto the battlefield. He could not take his eyes off his commander, holding his field glass like a club. If Goepfert were near, he'd knock the lying bastard off his horse with a crack across his skull.
Thomas found himself surrounded by his men, some crawling out of the battle, some falling back with exhaustion, some dumbfounded by the fact that he was among them. He held up his glass like a sword and said, "Don't look at me, you fools. Get in and fight!"
His eyes, however, were fixed on Goepfert, who had turned his charge toward a clump of Spanish halberdiers stubbornly holding the center of the line.
"Goepfert!" Thomas yelled, but his captain did not respond. He either did not hear or did not care to answer.
Thomas' horse stopped abruptly as a pike was thrust into its face. It missed the horse by inches and Thomas grabbed the spear tip to keep it from plunging into the beast's neck. He twisted in the saddle, holding the pike and kicking at the man who tried desperately to knock him from the horse. Thomas, his mind wild with fear, dropped his field glass, drew the Enfield, and aimed it at the head of the enemy pikeman. He pulled the trigger back and was about to fire, when the man's shoulder blew ap
art, struck by a shot that hit him square in the back. He dropped the pike and fell forward dead into the bloody mud.
The young boy who had fired the musket from behind was shaking violently, clearly terrified by what was going on around him. Thomas was about to say something, but the boy ran off and disappeared into the smoke.
Thomas dropped from his horse and continued on foot, toward the block of Spanish halberdiers. Sweat poured from his face. His heart beat so fast he could barely hear anything around him but the coursing of his own blood through his sweat-soaked body. Everything was like a dream, moving slowly, a shadowy echo of battle in his mind. But it was real, all too real, as he watched Goepfert's charge hit the Spanish block and tear it to pieces. Goepfert was tossed from his horse. Thomas stopped and suddenly he could hear everything, every cry, every crack of bone, every plea for mother, every whinny of a horse, every clash of steel.
"Goepfert!" He ran to his fallen commander. He found him there behind the carcass of a skewered horse, wrestling with a Spaniard. They rolled in the mud, scraping with mad fingers at each other's throats, their eyes dark and furious. Thomas had never seen two people so intent on killing each other. What should I do? He didn't know. But he had a gun in his hands. He held it up and swung it like a club and hit the Spaniard square in the temple. The man went limp and Goepfert pushed him aside.
"Thank you, Thomas," he said, rising and rubbing red, gooey mud off his face. "But you can fire one of those, you know."
"I thought you were dead!"
"Yes, but I'm not."
"I should kill you my-"
Goepfert pushed Thomas aside. "No time for argument. Look!"
He pointed to the town. Thomas turned to look and there, at the edge of Susch, a line of cavalry was charging down the road, thirty strong, led by Gremminger.
The duke's personal guard followed him closely, spread in a wedge that struck the first line of infantry. It did not seem to matter to Gremminger whether he hit his own men or not. It was clear to Thomas that the duke intended to pierce the infantry line and make for the center, where he and Goepfert now stood.
"What do we do?" Goepfert asked.
Thomas shook his head. "I-I don't know. What should we do?"
"You're in command. Lead! Make a decision."
His throat was paralyzed. No thought he could conceive measured up to what needed to be said. The men gathered around him, some on horse, some on foot, a mixture of pike, sword, and gun. All of them with their eyes upon him, waiting for his decision. He felt a mere foot tall, a tiny bauble, shiny and important, but shallow and without substance. In his tent, with dice and maps and blocks, there was substance. Here, there was . . .
"Hold the line!" he yelled, not believing the words that came out of his quivering mouth. "Refuse the field!"
Goepfert barked the order up the line and men hastily fell in place. But Thomas did not hear. He was not a part of it anymore.
He stepped away from his men. Goepfert reached for him but Thomas shrugged him off and moved into Gremminger's path. He held the rifle forward and steady with both hands. The ground shook with the weight of the charge, but Thomas did not move. In his mind, he saw the faces of the two bright and capable young men from Grantville, heard their playful competitive banter and watched them roll their dice. War was just a game to them, something to play on a lazy afternoon to bide time until they reached adulthood and set aside their toys. They did not carry the burden of responsibility like he did, day after day. They did not carry the weight of blood on their hands like he did.
Gremminger drew closer as Thomas waited with gun held forward. The rattle of machine gun fire filled his mind. He was an American soldier again, chopping his way through the jungle, throwing grenades down a tunnel, diving for cover as mortar rounds struck his foxhole. The ground shook. Gremminger drew closer, closer. He could see the duke's large, impetuous grin.
At this short distance, the accuracy and power of the weapon increased dramatically. He'd never fired it before, but he knew. The math was so obvious in his mind.
Thomas raised the gun higher, aimed carefully, and fired.
****
Thomas knelt beside Gremminger's body. The shot had torn through the duke's chest and neck. He'd hit the ground, breaking his back. Tiny bits of clavicle stuck out of his ruined shoulder, and Thomas turned the body over and looked into the man's face. It was bloody and wet, part of it torn away as his body, thrown from his horse, had slid over the hard ground. Thomas closed his eyes. What a mess.
With their leader dead, Gremminger's army had fallen back. The Spanish retreated first, what was left of them, followed by the cavalry and then the remaining pike blocks. One entire unit of Gremminger's infantry had not even made the field. Thank God for that, Thomas thought, as he stood and looked over the broken ground. Bodies lay everywhere, and the citizens of Susch picked their way back home, moving through the carnage, looking for loved ones, lost boys. Mothers cried, daughters and young sons wept. Thomas felt like crying too. He had not anticipated the civilian cost of the battle, hadn't factored it into his combat model. He would do better next time.
"You lied to me, Goepfert," Thomas said, drawing dice from his pocket. "You dictated that note, didn't you? You knew I would have no choice but to come on word of your death. You led me here, and I could have been killed."
Goepfert nodded, his injured arm held tightly at his side, his swollen jaw bandaged. He sounded like he had cloth in his mouth, but he spoke as clearly as he could. "Yes, My Lord, and I apologize for that. If you wish to reprimand me, I'm prepared to face your father. But I hope you understand why I did it. You're a brilliant young man, Thomas, but war is more than mathematics. Those numbers on your blocks represent real flesh and blood. In your heart, I know that you know this, but you must experience it, not as an assistant, but as a man and a commander. Do you understand?"
Thomas rubbed the dice in his hand. He nodded. "Yes, I do." He opened his hand and counted the pips. "I'm not cut out for field command, am I?"
Goepfert sighed and shook his head. "No, you are not. But in time, you could be. You showed great bravery today, if not a little impetuousness there at the end. But you stood your ground and made a decision. You just need to set down those dice and apply yourself."
"Are you nuts?" Thomas said, remembering a famous line from an American general during World War II. He gripped the dice and blew into his fist. "I'm more convinced now than ever that I'm right. My plan worked. It was costly, yes, and I made some mistakes. I didn't put enough emphasis on how a superior force, just by its sheer presence, impacts the overall psychology of the battlefield. I'll do better next time. But we won today. We own the field."
Goepfert nodded. "We own it today, my lord, but tomorrow? I'm not so sure. The Gremminger family will not take this lightly. His daughter will seek vengeance, and what of the Hapsburgs? I dare say we've not heard the last of them."
Numbers passed through Thomas' mind, blocks moved, and dice rolled. "We'll worry about all that tomorrow." He stepped over Gremminger's body and placed his hand on Goepfert's shoulder. "For now, let's regroup and pull back to the security of the Fluelapass. Oh, and find Elsinger and Arnet. I want you all in my tent by sundown."
The captain nodded. "What for?"
Thomas opened his hand and revealed his dice. Box-cars.
He smiled. "I have a plan."
The Play's the Thing
Bradley H. Sinor and Tracy S. Morris
Mirari Semsa looked up with a start when the front door of her chocolate shop slammed open so hard that she feared it would come off the hinges.
Elizabeth "Betsy" Springer's familiar, lanky redheaded form made a beeline across the room, weaving in and out of patrons to get to Mirari's personal table in the far corner. Two recently hired waitresses dodged out of the way as she passed, barely keeping a hold on the plates they were carrying. A few of the customers looked up, the expressions on several of their faces showed that they recognized the newcomer
.
"Hello Betsy," Mirari said.
The young girl leaned across the table and looked down at the Basque woman.
"If I see him again, I'll kill him and I will do it slowly, very, very slowly." She raised one hand, finger pointed skyward for emphasis. "I'll cut his heart out with a fork. No! I'll use spoon!"
Mirari took a sip of her chocolate, set the glass down and smiled at her guest. "Why a spoon?"
"It'll hurt more!"
"Why don't you sit down and tell me what my dear cousin Denis has done?" Mirari waved to an empty chair in invitation.
Betsy dropped into the chair on the opposite side of the table and glanced back toward the front door as if expecting the devil himself to be standing there. Mirari thought she could hear her friend counting backwards, first in English then in Latin, which surprised her, since she hadn't been aware that the young redhead knew any Latin.
In the few months since they had met, the reporter had become one of her favorite people in Grantville. Betsy was a little quirky, definitely not like the young women that Mirari had grown up around. That was something she liked about these American women; they were not inclined to follow the path expected of a seventeenth-century woman, which suited Mirari quite well.
"It's not Denis! He's one of my best friends," said Betsy finally. "It's that supreme idiot Albert!"
"Albert?" Mirari blinked in confusion. "I'm not really sure who you are talking about. Personally, I know four Alberts, so you need to be a wee bit more specific."
Betsy leaned back in her chair and covered her face with one hand. "There can be only one! Albert Haleman! His family lives southeast of here. For some damn reason that I don't understand he's decided that he and I are soul mates and that we should get married and have eight or twelve or twenty kids."
"Big families can be a good thing," Mirari said cautiously. She had five brothers and three sisters-at least those were the ones that her father would admit to. Things did get a bit crowded at the dinner table, but there was always someone to talk with and to take your side in an argument.
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