Коллектив авторов - Grantville Gazette 38

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 did. 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 ?