Eric Flint: Ring of Fire III

Heinz would have been a disaster as a politician. Glad-handing, back-slapping-the thought of him kissing babies was downright hysterical-these were not his skills, to put it mildly. But he was conscientious and he listened to people. So, with few exceptions, his decisions were accepted with good grace, even by people who had wanted a different one.

Those were usually people who just wanted to rest for a while, something that Heinz never allowed them to do until the army itself halted the march and began making camp. Then, Heinz chivvied his charges relentlessly, insisting that they had to help the soldiers set up the camp. Not until that was done-yes, that included digging latrines; of course it did! — would he allow the civilians to finally rest.

But he’d been chivvying the cooks and sutlers just as relentlessly, so when the time finally came when labors could cease, there was food ready-and he saw to it that it was fairly distributed. He did not eat himself until he was sure that everyone else had been fed.

He was quite a guy, actually, in his own sort of way. Bonnie realized he was growing on her. And was surprised again.

Captain von Haslang was in a much fouler mood than the American woman two miles downstream, whom he’d never met and whose name he didn’t even know. The day’s pursuit-by now he was using the term derisively-had been a disaster from daybreak to sundown.

The retreating force was doing a very good job of destroying everything behind them. (So much, if further evidence was needed, for the absurd notion that Major Simpson was a fumbling novice.) In some places, where the conditions were suitable, they’d felled trees across the road. And not one bridge spanning the occasional smaller streams that entered the Danube was left intact.

Worst of all, the enemy hadn’t simply destroyed the bridges. The first one that Colonel von Schnetter’s soldiers had come across had seemed in fine shape-until they crossed over it and discovered it had been mined. Eight men were killed in the explosion and twice as many badly wounded.

Thereafter, the enemy had simply brought down the bridges, figuring that the surprise wouldn’t work twice. But they left other mines hidden alongside the road. Given the hurried manner in which the mines had been designed and laid, the Bavarian troops spotted and disarmed all but one of them before any damage was done. The single mine they missed had been set well to the side and only injured one man when it went off, and him not badly.

But that didn’t really matter, because the mines were doing the critical task for the enemy-they were drastically slowing down the pursuers.

The pursuing infantry, that was to say. If the cavalry had been doing their job properly, they’d have been constantly harassing the enemy-which would have accomplished the same task of delaying the opponent’s movements. All other things being equal, a mostly-infantry force should be able to overtake an enemy that was primarily made up of artillery units.

And why wasn’t the cavalry doing its job? Because its donkey of a commander, Colonel Johann von Troiberz, had sent his men all over the countryside-everywhere, it seemed, except in the vicinity of the retreating Danube Regiment.

“Foraging,” he claimed. And stubbornly kept claiming, no matter how angrily Colonel von Schnetter demanded that he bring the cavalry units back into the pursuit. The claim was either a lie-nothing but a fig leaf for looting-or, which might even be worse, an attempt to cover up gross negligence or outright corruption.

It was true enough that cavalry-infantry too, for that matter-needed to forage from the countryside if they undertook a long march that outstripped the ability of the supply train to keep up. But that should not be necessary on the very first day. Any experienced cavalry unit with even half-competent officers had enough sense to load their mounts with ten to fifteen pounds of hay and a bit of oats or bran.

It was conceivable that von Troiberz was that much of a bungler. The officers he surrounded himself with were not much if any better. But von Haslang was almost certain that the real reason von Troiberz’s cavalry had set out with no supplies for their horses was because their commander-probably in cabal with his top subordinates-had sold those supplies on the black market.

Whatever the explanation, von Schnetter and von Haslang were pursuing a well-led enemy with nothing more than infantry companies. Even if they did manage to catch up with them, the ensuing battle would be ferocious. Without cavalry to threaten and tear at the enemy’s flanks, they’d be forced to launch frontal assaults in the face of field guns that would certainly be loaded with canister.

Von Haslang had even considered-it was quite possible his commander had done the same-that it might be wisest to simply slack off a bit in the pursuit. Stay on the heels of the Danube Regiment but let them make their escape into Regensburg. A siege of Regensburg was going to be necessary, in any event. While there was no doubt the addition of Simpson’s forces would strengthen the defense, that was a problem for a later day.

A sound from above distracted him. The enemy airship had returned and was again passing over the Bavarian column. It was no more than five hundred feet from the ground, but that was enough to put them out of range of infantry firearms. Effective fire, at any rate. It was conceivable that if a volley were fired at it, one or two bullets might strike the thing. But at that height, even if it struck the small boatlike appendage that held the passengers, it would hardly do much damage.

The contraption made a surprising racket. Von Haslang hadn’t expected that. From a distance, the dirigible’s flight seemed serene and effortless. But up close, the engines that drove the fans that propelled it forward were extraordinarily loud.

The distraction was brief. Captain von Haslang went back to his grim thoughts and prognostications, now made all the worse for the irritating noise yammering at his ears.

That very moment, as it happened, Rita was looking down on Captain von Haslang-or rather, at the small group of mounted officers at the front of the Bavarian column, among whom he was riding. At that height, even with up-turned faces not hidden by hats, it was impossible to distinguish individual persons. And it wouldn’t have mattered if she could. She’d never met the captain, or, indeed, any of the Bavarian officers.

She’d never met Duke Maximilian either, for that matter. But she could probably have recognized him at close range, because she’d seen a good likeness of him in a portrait.

Not that she’d want to be in close range of the man. By all accounts she’d ever heard, Bavaria’s ruler was as cold and deadly as a viper.

The Pelican had just returned from its first refueling stop at Regensburg. That had gone quite smoothly, much more so than Rita had expected and certainly more smoothly than she’d feared. Not only had there been no quarrels, but the city’s authorities had already had barrels of fuel brought out to the airfield. It seemed that the administrator of the Oberpfalz and the president of the SoTF had both sent radio messages to Regensburg instructing the city’s officials to do everything possible to aid Major Simpson and his one-craft air force.

Even that might not have done the trick, by itself. German city officials could set the world standard for narrow-minded parochialism, in Rita’s experience. But General Schmidt had also gotten on the radio and explained that:

A. If Regensburg did not provide Major Simpson with sufficient aid and assistance-in a timely and efficient manner-then Major Simpson would almost certainly run into severe difficulties and setbacks in his attempt to save his regiment from the depredations of the Bavarians. Who set the world standard for wickedness, in the general’s professional military opinion.