Eric Flint - 1636:The Saxon Uprising

Mike chewed on the problem, trying to sort out how much of the advice he was getting came from his staff's unhappiness with the whole idea of launching an attack in the middle of a snowstorm. They'd been almost aghast at the notion when he first raised it, although by now they'd reconciled themselves to the inevitable. Their commanding general usually took their advice, but not always-and there was nothing indecisive about him. If, after listening to their objections, he said he was still going to do something, then it was going to be done.

Christopher Long, the third of Mike's regular trio of staff officers, was marginally less pessimistic than his two fellows. He was usually the more aggressively-inclined of the three. But even Long was dubious about fighting in a storm. He said nothing now, but his expression made it clear that he fully agreed with Leebrick and Duerr on the subject of launching a night attack.

In the end, Mike decided that his own instincts were probably not reliable in this situation and he'd do better to listen to his staff. His eagerness to start fighting was likely to be his emotional reaction to days of tension and anxiety. As a boxer, his biggest weakness had been a tendency to start swinging too quickly, too furiously, more as way of settling his nerves than anything else.

"At first light, then," he said. "And I mean at first light. We're not waiting for the sun to come up. We'll just be waiting long enough for a man to be able to see ten yards ahead of him. Is that understood?"

As soon as he finished, he regretted the statements. That was just his nerves acting up again. He sometimes thought his staff officers were a bit too inclined toward caution, but he had no reservations at all about either their courage or their willingness to obey orders. There was no reason to have piled on that unnecessary verbiage.

Was that a slight smile on Duerr's face?

Colonel Ulbrecht Duerr was fighting down a grin, as it happened. He'd added his own words of caution to those of Leebrick and Long, because he agreed with them as a pure matter of tactics. Fighting at night in the middle of a snowstorm was just piling on too many uncertainties.

Still, he'd been pleased to see the general's combative spirit. A commander who wanted to launch an assault even in the dark was a commander who would press through an assault in daylight. And that's what this mad little scheme of Stearns' was going to require-pressing on, pressing on, pressing on. Damn the cost, fuck the Swede bastards, just keep shooting and throwing grenades and firing everything you've got and keep at them and keep at them and keep at them.

Baner's army was going to break. Ulbrecht Duerr was as sure of that as he had been of anything in his life, on the eve of a battle. There was a flow to these things, a sort of tide summoned by Mars rather than the sun or the moon.

People, including the division itself, thought of the Third Division as "inexperienced" compared to most other military units. And so they were, by the standards of mercenary soldiers. But Duerr knew those standards, and how hollow they really were. He should, after all, being a mercenary himself. Very few armies of his day fought major pitched battles in the open field. Gustav II Adolf's great victory at Breitenfeld four years earlier had been the exception, not the rule. It was quite possible for a man to spend his entire life as a soldier-even in the middle of great wars such as the one that had wracked central Europe since 1618-and never participate in a single battle.

War in the seventeenth century was a thing of marches and counter-marches and, most of all, sieges. Sieges big and small. Sieges of cities, sieges of towns. Sometimes, sieges of villages or even hamlets.

A furious assault launched across open fields? At any time, much less February in the middle of a snowstorm?

It just wasn't done. Too imprudent-and being prudent was in the nature of a mercenary. There was nothing at stake except pay, after all.

But the soldiers in the ranks of the Third Division didn't think that way, and they had a commander who didn't think that way either. Stearns' inexperience was now actually working in his favor, just as it was working in favor of his entire division.

Because they were veterans, by now, even if they still didn't think of themselves that way. Many of them-more than half, probably-had fought at Ahrensbok. The greatest battle on the continent since Breitenfeld.

Stearns himself hadn't been on the field that day. But even in the time since he'd taken command of the division, the Third had fought the battles of Zwenkau and Zielona Gora. And while they hadn't fought at Lake Bledno, that was only because the Poles had withdrawn from the field before they arrived. They would have fought-and not one man in the division doubted for a moment that they would have whipped them, too. Piss on the famous Grand Hetman Stanislaw Koniecpolski. Just another bum to be beaten senseless.

Just as, tomorrow, they were going to piss on the famous Johan Baner and beat his army senseless.

The soldiers of the Third Division were full of confidence. Confidence in themselves, confidence in their weapons and equipment, confidence in their officers; perhaps most of all, confidence in their commander. They'd been in more battles than most soldiers of the day, and they'd won every one of them. They knew everything they needed to know in order to win a battle-and hadn't been soldiers long enough to learn all of the ways an army could fail and usually did fail.

Colonel Duerr was in a splendid mood, actually. If he survived another day-no way to be sure of that, of course-he'd be looking back on it fondly for the rest of his life. Great victories came rarely to a soldier, even one like him whose career had now spanned three decades.

After night fell, Mike spent the better part of three hours moving among his men, visiting each unit around its campfires. He had nothing particularly intelligent to say, but the soldiers didn't need a speech, much less a lecture. They just needed to see their commander, see that he knew what they would all be doing come dawn-most of all, see that he was completely confident that they could do it.

Jeff Higgins spent less than two hours at the same task. First, because he only had a regiment's worth of men to deal with. Secondly, because unlike Mike Stearns he wasn't comfortable striding around the stage. Any stage.

He didn't really need to do it anyway. No regiment in the division had higher morale this night than the Hangman. They were ready to go at Baner's throat. Many of the standard bearers weren't even planning to carry the regiment's colors into battle the next day. They'd made jury-rigged substitutes, straw figures supposed to be Baner hanging from a gibbet. They'd carry the gibbets themselves into the fight, with their straw Swedish generals blowing in the wind along with the snow.

Thorsten Engler spent even less time at the task. No more than forty-five minutes. First, because he only had two hundred men under his command instead of a thousand. Secondly, because the morale of flying artillery units was a bit eccentric. The volley gun crews considered themselves an elite force. So, unlike common garden variety soldiers, they needed no artificial stimulants like silly speeches from officers to get them ready for battle. No, no, no. They were the cold-eyed killers, the deadly ones, the men who broke cavalry charges.

They needed nothing, thank you. Beyond a commander who passed through their ranks, from campfire to campfire, quietly checking to make sure no one lacked anything in the way of equipment or supplies.

A commander like Engler, in short. Detached, intellectual, reasoned. They all knew his ambition to become a psychologist after the war. Once the meaning of the term was explained to them, each and every man in the company agreed that he would make a superb psychologist.