Grantville Gazette 38

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?

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