1636: The Ottoman Onslaught by Eric Flint
Or there could be nothing there at all, beyond some frightened civilians trying to hide in root cellars and basements.
The Pelican had arrived shortly after dawn, but it had only been able to stay in the area for a short time. The airship was operating at the very edge of its range, this far from its base in Regensburg. By tomorrow or the day after, the SoTF National Guard should have an airship base in operation in Ingolstadt, which would cut perhaps twenty miles from the distance. Better yet, if the Third Division could cross the Amper and secure a beachhead, they could establish an airship base almost right next to their field of operations.
Just before the Pelican left—actually, after it was already on its way back to Regensburg and several miles away—it reported what seemed to be significant cavalry movement near Moosburg. General Stearns had immediately ordered the flying artillery squadron to deploy west of the town. He was sending the Dietrich and White Horse regiments from the 3rd Brigade to support them, with Brigadier Derfflinger in command, while keeping the brigade’s third regiment in reserve. That was the Yellow Marten Regiment, commanded by Colonel Jan Svoboda.
All well and good—once they got here. But Derfflinger’s infantry was still a good three-quarters of a mile away, and the artillery units attached to his brigade would be lagging still farther behind. And in the meantime, Thorsten and his flying artillery were on their own.
If they’d been operating in open country, Thorsten would have been less concerned. By now, he had a great deal of confidence in his men, especially the veterans of Ahrensbök. Given enough open space to fire several volleys, he was sure he could drive off any but the largest cavalry force.
Unfortunately, the terrain west of Moosburg was wooded. Not a forest, exactly, but there was enough in the way of scattered groves and treelines to allow an enemy cavalry force to move up unseen until the last few hundred yards—not more than two hundred, in some directions.
If only the Pelican were still here…
Bavaria, Third Division field headquarters
Village of Haag an der Amper
The first indication Mike Stearns had that his campaign plans were flying south for the winter was the eruption of gunfire to the west. From the sound of it, a real battle was getting underway.
By the time his units had entered Haag an der Amper early that morning, the little village located a short distance north of the river had already been deserted by its inhabitants. From the looks of things, they’d left several days earlier. Bavaria had been relatively unravaged by the Thirty Years War, especially this close to Munich, but by now people living anywhere in the Germanies—anywhere in central Europe—were hyper-alert to military threats. Every city and town and most villages had their own militias, but except for those of walled cities the volunteer units were only suited for fending off bandits and small groups of plundering soldiers and deserters. As soon as they realized that major armies were coming into the area, the inhabitants would flee elsewhere. To a nearby walled city, if they had privileges there. To anywhere away from the fighting, if they didn’t.
In the larger villages, Mike’s command unit would seize the best and biggest tavern in which to set up a field headquarters. In smaller villages like Haag an der Amper, there would be no tavern as such. Typically, one of the more prosperous villagers would use one of the rooms on the ground floor of his house as a substitute.
By the time the army was done with such a temporary field headquarters and moved on, the place was fairly well trashed. The structure would usually remain intact, but the interior would be a ruin. Partly that was from carelessness and occasionally it was from deliberate vandalism—although not often if the troops were part of the Third Division. Ever since the atrocities committed by some of his units in the Polish town of Świebodzin, Mike had maintained a harsh discipline when it came to the way civilians were treated.
Mostly, though, the destruction was simply the inevitable side-effect of having far too many men wearing boots and carrying weapons tromping in and out of a building that had never been designed for the purpose. Mike had been bothered by the wreckage in his first weeks as a general, but by now he’d gotten accustomed to it. War was what it was.
When the gunfire erupted, Mike’s first instinct was to rush to the door in order to look for himself. But he suppressed that almost instantly and turned instead to the radio operator positioned at a small table in a corner.
“Any reports?” he demanded.
The radio operator shook his head. “Not yet, General.”
That was a bad sign. Probably a very bad sign. Mike had stationed Jeff Higgins and his Hangman regiment on the division’s right flank—and he’d done that partly because that was the flank that was more-or-less hanging out there and blowing in the wind. Jeff was his only up-time regimental commander and he had the only up-time radio operator, his old friend Jimmy Andersen. Mike was confident that, between them, they’d use the radio to warn him of any trouble almost instantly. He still had down-time commanders, no matter how many times he snarled at them, whose immediate instinct was to send a courier instead of using their regimental radio.
And now…
“Damnation,” Mike muttered. He looked at one of his junior adjutants, who’d also serve him as a courier. “Get over there, Lieutenant Fertig, and see what’s happening.”
Bavaria, on the Amper river
Two miles east of Zolling
Jeff Higgins wasn’t worried about the radio because he assumed Jimmy Andersen would have already sent the warning. His attention was entirely concentrated on trying to keep his formations from disintegrating under the impact of the Bavarian cavalry charge.
They probably would have, despite all his efforts, except that the same partially wooded terrain that was causing Thorsten Engler so much anxiety a few miles to the east was working in favor of the Hangman regiment here. There were just enough small groves, just enough fallen logs, and just enough brush to give his men a bit of cover and impede the Bavarian horsemen.
It was clear very soon, however, that there was no way the Hangman was going to be able to hold this position. Against cavalry… maybe. But Jeff was quite sure this charge wasn’t the product of an accidental encounter with a passing cavalry unit. There were too many of them and they’d come on too quickly and in too good a formation. This had been planned.
The Bavarians had outmaneuvered them, it was as simple as that. Jeff was sure of it—and that meant there were infantry units coming up right behind. Probably some light artillery, too. They’d sweep right over them. He needed to fall back, anchor his regiment on the river and just hope that the commander of the 1st Brigade, von Taupadel, was moving his regiments up in support.
* * *
Von Taupadel was doing just that, and at that very moment. But moving several thousand men in unfamiliar terrain in response to gunfire coming from a still-unseen enemy is the sort of thing that only happens neatly and instantly in war games.
Unfortunately, von Taupadel did not think of using his brigade radio until several minutes had gone by—perhaps as much as a quarter of an hour. In fairness to him, that was partly because he also knew that both the commander and the radio operator of the Hangman regiment were up-timers, and he assumed they’d already sent a radio message to General Stearns.
Bavaria, near Moosburg
Five miles east of Zolling
Thorsten Engler could hear the gunfire to the west. Each individual gunshot was faint, because of the distance, but that much gunfire can be heard for many miles, especially when it is continuous and never lets up.
Half an hour had gone by since the flying artillery squadron had come into position outside Moosburg—thirty-three minutes, to be exact; Thorsten had a good pocket watch and used it regularly—and there had been no sign of movement in the town. Nothing. Not a dog had stirred.
By now, Engler was almost certain that the cavalry movement the Pelican had reported had been a ruse. A feint, to draw the Third Division’s attention t
He was tempted to send a patrol into the town to find out what was there, but he wasn’t quite ready yet. If he was wrong, they’d get slaughtered.
He’d wait five more minutes. In the meantime…
Thorsten turned to his radio operator, who was in place right behind him. Whether because he was betrothed to an up-timer or simply because—this would have been his own explanation, had anyone asked—he wasn’t a dumb fuck mired in military traditions and attitudes which he didn’t have because he was a sensible farmer—Engler never forgot to use the radio in an appropriate and timely manner.
“Send a message to General Stearns,” he commanded. “Tell him I think the report of cavalry movement in Moosburg was a feint.”
Bavaria, Third Division field headquarters
Village of Haag an der Amper
Mike read the message through once, quickly. He didn’t need to read it again because he’d already come to the same conclusion himself.
He’d have cursed himself for a blithering overconfident reckless fool except he didn’t have the time. He still didn’t have a report from the Hangman regiment. It was too soon for a report to be brought by a courier and the fact that no radio report had come in meant that Higgins had either been overrun or something had happened to the radio.
Either way, that meant Higgins—at best—had been driven away from the spot on the Amper which Captain Finck had recommended for a river crossing. Which meant…
The Amper could be crossed there from either direction. Which meant…
Piccolomini had feinted on the right—his right; Mike’s left—to draw his attention that way. He’d then taken advantage of the Pelican’s departure to launch a surprise attack on the Hangman.
Mike tried to visualize the terrain. The area along both sides of the river was wooded. If the Bavarian commander had moved the troops up either the night before or very early that morning—probably the night before, while the Third Division had been setting up camp—then they could have been in position and hidden when the Pelican arrived. The airship had only been able to stay in position for half an hour before it had to return to Regensburg.
As soon as it left, Piccolomini had launched the flank attack. But he couldn’t have gotten enough men onto the north bank to have any hope of rolling up the whole Third Division. No, he’d use the same ford that Finck had found to move most of his army across, now that his cavalry had driven back the regiment guarding Mike’s right flank.
Which meant…
Ulbrecht Duerr summarized the situation. “They’ll try to get enough men north of the Amper to roll us up. We need to fall back and anchor ourselves on Moosburg. Which means we need to take Moosburg now.”
Long shook his head. “That’s asking the flying artillery to take a terrible risk. The volley guns are all but useless in close quarter street fighting. All Piccolomini has to have done is left a few companies in the town to bleed them white.”
Mike had already reached that conclusion himself. And, for the first time since the gunfire erupted, found his footing again.
“I think we’ve got a bit of time, gentlemen,” he said. “We’re going to rope-a-dope. That’s if the Hangman’s still on its feet. Damn it, why haven’t they gotten in touch?”
Chapter 19
Bavaria, on the Amper river
Two and a half miles east of Zolling
Lt. Colonel Jeff Higgins was staring down at the reason his regiment had not gotten in radio contact with divisional headquarters.
His radio specialist, Jimmy Andersen, still had his hands clutched around his throat. Lying on his back just outside the entrance to the radio tent, in a huge pool of drying blood. His eyes looked like a frog’s, they were bulging so badly.
“Jesus wept,” Jeff whispered. Some part of his mind knew that—if he survived this day himself—Jeff would be weeping too, come nightfall. Jimmy Andersen had been one of his best friends since…
He tried to remember how far back. First grade. They’d met in first grade. They’d both been six years old.
It was obvious what had happened. Jimmy had heard the gunfire, come out of the tent to investigate—not even a radio nut like Jimmy Andersen would have sent a message before doing that much—and a stray bullet—dear God, it had to been almost spent, at that distance—had ruptured his throat. The last two or three minutes of his life would have been a horror, as he bled out while choking to death. The only slight mercy was that he’d probably fainted from the blood loss fairly soon. From the looks of it, the bullet had nicked the carotid as well as severing his windpipe.
A freak death. But they were always a feature of battles. It would have probably happened right at the beginning, when the initial Bavarian charge allowed them to come within a hundred yards of the radio tent. Right now, the enemy cavalry had pulled back a ways and the front line—such as the ragged thing was—wasn’t close enough any more for a bullet to have carried this far.
What had happened to the assistant radio operator? Jeff looked around but didn’t see him. He’d probably just run off, panicked by the surprise attack and the still greater surprise of seeing his immediate superior slain like that.
“Should I contact HQ, Colonel?” asked one of Jeff’s adjutants. That was…
Jeff’s mind was foggy and this was one of the new recruits to the regiment. It took him two or three seconds to pull up the fellow’s name.
Zilberschlag. Lieutenant Jacob Zilberschlag. He’d been commissioned just two months earlier, and was the first Jewish officer in the division. Probably the first Jewish officer in the whole USE army, for that matter. Mike would have made a place for him.
More to the point, Zilberschlag was one of the few officers who knew how to use a radio.
“Yes, please, lieutenant. Get General Stearns. I need to speak to him—and quickly.”
While he waited for Zilberschlag to make contact, Jeff shook his head in order to clear his brain. He had no time right now to let Jimmy’s death fog up his thoughts.
The situation was… stable, sort of, but that wouldn’t last long. The Hangman regiment had been caught by surprise and battered bloody, but they’d held together long enough to survive the initial clash. Their one bit of good fortune was that they’d only been fighting cavalry and they’d never broken and run. Routed infantry got slaughtered by cavalry, but if they could stand their ground it would be the cavalry that eventually broke off first.
Yes, the fighting had been one-sided but not that one-sided, especially after the first five minutes passed and the regiment was still hanging together. The Bavarian cavalry had taken something of a beating too. A bruising, at least.
Jeff could see the river, not more than twenty yards away. The enemy cavalry had pulled back a few minutes ago. That almost certainly meant that they’d been ordered to cover the infantry who’d now be crossing over the from the south bank—right where Captain Finck, bless his miserable special forces black heart—had suggested would make a good place for an army to do that.
Which meant the Hangman regiment had to retreat. Now. Fall back a third of a mile or so, however far they had to in order to link up with the 1st Brigade.
He looked back down at his old friend’s corpse. He’d have to leave it here. There was no time for a burial party. Hopefully, they’d be able to retrieve Jimmy’s body later. Or if the Bavarians wound up in possession of the field, maybe they’d bury him.
But Jeff didn’t think they’d be in possession, when everything was said and done. Tonight, maybe. Not tomorrow, though.
The Bavarians had caught them flat-footed, sure enough. The Third Division’s commander had screwed up, no doubt about it. But that was all over and done with—and the battle was just getting started.
Jeff’s money was on Mike Stearns. Fuck Piccolomini and Duke Maximilian and the horses they rode in on.
“General Stearns wants to talk to you, Colonel.” Zilberschlag now had the radio case mounte
“Yes, sir,” Jeff said.
“What kind of shape are you in, Colonel?”
“We’re pretty beat up. I figure we’ve lost…” Jeff tried to estimate what the regiment’s casualties had been. That was bound to be guesswork at this stage. He also knew from experience that casualties usually seemed worse than they were until all the dust had settled and a hard count could be made of those who were actually dead, those who were wounded—and, of those, how many were mortally injured, how many would recover fully and how many would have to return to civilian life. It always surprised Jeff a little how many people came through what seemed like a holocaust completely uninjured. He’d done it himself in several battles now.
But wild-ass guess or not, the general needed an answer. “I figure we’ve lost maybe twenty percent of our guys, all told. Most of those are wounded, not killed, but they’re out of the fight now.”
“Not good, but better than I feared. How’s your morale? Your men’s, I mean. I know yours is solid. It always is.”
Jeff felt a little better, hearing that. He had a tremendous amount of respect for Mike Stearns. It was nice to know that the man had a high regard for him as well.
“We’re solid, General. We held ‘em off and now the guys are mostly pissed.”
“All right. Here’s what I want you to do…”
After Stearns finished the quick sketch of his plans, he asked: “Any questions?”
Jeff’s answer came immediately. “No, sir. Our part’s about as simple as it gets. Hook up with von Taupadel, hunker down along the river, and hold the bastards in place while you do all the complicated stuff.”
“That’s pretty much it. Is there anything else?”
Jeff hesitated. This wasn’t really part of military protocol since the commanding general of a whole division didn’t need to be told every detail of the casualties they’d suffered, but…