Grantville Gazette 38 gg-38

by Коллектив Авторов

  Mendoza nodded and Gremminger could spot a tiny wink in the Spaniard's right eye. "Of course, senor. My associates in Tarasp just feel that, in these troubled times, it's best to show support for a fellow Catholic who has expressed his el amor que no se muere . . . oh how do you say it? His . . . undying love for God and for the Valtellina."

  "Of course." Gremminger nodded. Then he noticed the gun strapped to Captain Mendoza's back. He pointed to it. "What's that?"

  Mendoza's face spread in a mighty grin and he swung the gun off his shoulder and presented it to Gremminger. "Ah! This is what I wanted to show you. New weapon, fresh out of manufacture. There aren't many of them, understand, but enough to make quite an impressive showing."

  "What is it?"

  Mendoza turned it round and round in his hands. "It's what the Americans call an 1853 Enfield muzzleloader, used with minie ball, housing a flintlock ignition system. It has an engagement range of nearly four hundred yards, and an effective range of two hundred fifty yards. A good man can fire two, perhaps three, rounds per minute."

  Gremminger took the rifle and studied it. "How did you get it?"

  "The Americans aren't the only ones who can make weapons, senor. This particular piece was made in Suhl, you see. They are difficult to produce, but not impossible."

  "How many do you have?"

  "Twenty." Mendoza turned to his men and said, "Presenten!"

  Twenty among the ranks held up their rifles. Gremminger looked at them, delight covering his face. Not only had his army swelled to just over a thousand men with the Spanish arrival, but its firepower had grown precipitously as well. Spread out over so many ranks, however, did not make sense; their effectiveness would be diminished in the din of battle. But together . . .

  He tossed the rifle back to Mendoza and said, "Captain, please extend my thanks to your associates for this pleasant gift you have offered. We accept Spain's support, and we welcome you to Zernez. I think you will find the air and the fighting here most agreeable to your warrior sensibilities. My spies tell me that our opponent, Thomas von Allmen, sits day and night in his tent, toiling over what we do not know, but I suspect he's pulling out his fair hair over what to do. He's young, inexperienced, and has never led men into battle. Let him rot in that tent for all I care! With your arrival, victory is all but assured, and with your new guns, it's simply a matter of time. But if I may, I would like to take your Enfield riflemen and put them into one unit. And, Captain, can your men ride horses?"

  Mendoza nodded. "Certainly, General. The Spanish are born in the saddle. What do you intend?"

  Gremminger turned and looked over the horizon, toward the wall of snow-capped mountains. He smiled.

  "I have an idea."

  ****

  "That's the most ridiculous idea I've ever heard!"

  Captain Lukas Goepfert was never one to restrain his opinion, and as Thomas moved his blocks in the manner most objectionable to his older confidant, he smiled. "You forget, Herr Goepfert, that I know what I'm doing."

  Goepfert huffed. "That's debatable. Captain Elsinger's cavalry will cut you to pieces."

  Thomas smiled again and moved his smaller, less-effective pike block into an adjacent hex. The unit had already suffered losses and was marked with a tiny flag that indicated its "shaken" status, which meant that if it took additional casualties or was forced to retreat in the face of an unshaken cavalry unit, it might "rout" out of existence.

  Elsinger, who was in command of Gremminger's army (seventeen blocks strong), smiled and moved his fresh cavalry block into the space with the shaken pikemen. "Don't forget, Elsinger, that you must first take a morale check before moving your cavalry into my space."

  "What?"

  Thomas nodded. "That's right. Entering the frontal arch of a hex occupied by a pike block, regardless of its status, requires a check."

  Elsinger picked up his dice, shook them rudely, and tossed them into a wooden box near the tabletop. He rolled a five and a one. "Let's check the chart."

  Thomas grabbed the morale chart which he had carefully scripted onto a piece of paper, cross-referenced the numbers rolled and got the result. "Your unit is hesitant, which means that it can still perform the charge, but its strength is reduced by one to a four."

  "Ridiculous!" barked Elsinger.

  Thomas shook his head. "Not at all. My men may be weakened but they still hold eighteen-foot poles that will tear your horses to shreds. Your cavalry follow orders, Elsinger, but remember that they do maintain a certain amount of self-preservation. We're not dealing with Huscarls or Japanese samurai here. Thank God you didn't roll snake-eyes! Your charge would have been over before it began."

  "And if I had rolled boxcars?"

  "Then my men would have routed away and you would have been able to pursue and conduct an overrun attack," Thomas said, growing impatient with his captains' lack of memory of the rules. They had played this scenario many times, and he had not created a rule set that was overly complicated. He'd only incorporated basic, simple principles of war. They should be old-hats at this by now, as the Americans might say. And he had made it even easier by allowing them to play on an open tabletop.

  The most ideal situation, of course, would have been to establish a double-blind environment, where the opposing forces and commanders were in separate tents, thus creating a proper "fog of war." Such a setting, however, was not possible. Thomas had neither the time nor the resources to construct and train for such play. Perhaps someday he could, but Gremminger was on the move, and real men would be dying soon. They needed to get this right, and quickly.

  "Your cavalry is under the command of Captain Murner," Thomas said, pointing to the command block, "one of Gremminger's best. I have him rated as steady so you will not suffer any further strength loss due to commander unreliability, but my pike will receive a defense bonus of one because they are within range of Goepfert's command block, plus they have fresh snaplock skirmishers stacked with them in the hex, which helps to strengthen their resolve."

  "Why won't your skirmishers have to take a morale check?" Elsinger asked.

  "Because that's what skirmishers are for," Thomas said, "screening pike blocks and reducing the effectiveness of cavalry charges. If they fail in that by breaking before a charge, their officers should be shot!"

  "And why aren't we working in tercios? You've got all the blocks sorted out into their respective weapon types. They should be combined."

  Thomas shook his head. "Tercios is a Spanish formation."

  "Not exclusively. Other nations use it at as well."

  "It's a fine formation, Elsinger, but we don't have enough men for tercios." Thomas' frustration was growing again. "That only works well with thousands. We've less than eight hundred. If we start mixing our unit types, they'll be less effective. We need concentrated firepower for narrow passes. Besides, we are in effect working in tercios anyway, since I allow stacking, so pike blocks can stack with cavalry, with guns, and so on. Now, let's proceed."

  Thomas picked up two ten-sided dice and handed one to Elsinger. "You're going to get destroyed," Goepfert whispered into Thomas' ear. Thomas nodded. "Perhaps."

  They rolled off in the wooden box. "Okay," Thomas said, "you rolled six and I rolled three. Now we add our respective combat strengths to our rolls to get a total of six and ten. Let's check the combat result table."

  Thomas had opted for ten-sided dice for combat because it gave more result gradation as opposed to a single six-sided die, or even two sixes. Being able to roll a natural zero also gave you the option of using it as a zero or a ten depending upon your combat model, and allowed for critical success or failure. The numbers that they rolled were pretty average.

  Thomas checked the chart and said, "Your roll of four greater than me gives us a result number of two with asterisk, which means that I can either take two damage points, stand my ground and roll another round of combat as a melee engagement, or I can take one damage point and retreat one hex and allow you a f
ree pursuit. I would only take that option, however, if I could retreat to terrain which would give me a better defensive bonus." Thomas pointed to the map. "As you can see, there are no such terrain elements in that area."

  "Ah!" Elsinger said, almost giddy. "Then you'll take your two points of damage and be destroyed."

  "Not yet. Remember, I have skirmishers in the hex, which allows me the option of trying a screened retreat."

  "It'll never work."

  Thomas ignored the comment and rolled his die. "I add my skirmisher unit's screen value of three to my seven and I get a ten, which is twice the value of your cavalry unit's current movement value. So this allows me to retreat my wounded pike unit one hex. I still take a point of damage, which will prompt another morale check, but my successful screen prevents you from pursuing. And . . ."

  "Now it's our turn," Goepfert said, leaning over the map, "and his cavalry is stuck in position, fighting off stubborn gunmen, while my cavalry can sweep around there . . . and charge from the rear arch."

  Thomas smiled. Finally, they were understanding things, seeing how the rules affected movement, how their combat and skirmish values (which they had helped to formulate in the dead of winter last December) affected enemy cavalry movement. They were seeing how each commander's psychological profile (steady, rash, cautious, bold) altered the overall combat effectiveness of their units. They were getting it, and he was relieved.

  "Yes," Elsinger said, tossing his die down and tipping his cavalry block over, "but if you had rolled poorly at any time during this exchange, you would have-"

  "I might have routed or exploded in place, which would have given your cavalry an overrun bonus and you would have been able to reposition yourself for a counter attack. Yes, I know the rules."

  Thomas put down his die. "This is not about winning and losing, gentlemen. If I had rolled poorly, I would be as satisfied in defeat as I am in victory. Kriegspiel is not about victory. It's about practice-being able to put our men through their paces without actually expending them in the field, without forcing them to slog their way through passes choked in snow, at altitudes that make the most stalwart soldier lose consciousness. We can keep from expending materiel that we cannot afford to lose. We can practice tactics, like we have been doing, again and again and again, and see what works, what doesn't, and then adjust our numbers, our variables, until we're satisfied that we've got it right. Each time we win here, we try it again and employ a different tactic. We see what works, what doesn't, and hopefully on the battlefield, you will employ the lessons we've learned.

  "Gentlemen, I know what's said of me. I know I'm kalbfleisch, and I know losing Dettwiler was a serious blow to the morale of our men. Even my father contemplated striking a deal with Gremminger. But what's done is done. All I can do is use the gifts I've been given by God. I'm the lowly third son of a powerful father who's nearing death. My oldest brother awaits this event with eager humility. My other brother worships our Lord in Lucerne. I have this," Thomas pointed to his head, "and mathematics. Mathematics is the universal language, and it is possible, with careful and diligent manipulation, to use it to model war. That is what we do here. That is what I learned in Grantville."

  "But sir," Goepfert said, quietly, "there may come a time when you will have to put the dice down and lead your men."

  Thomas nodded but felt the tears of fear well in his eyes. God help us all.

  They were silent for a long moment. Thomas blinked, shook his head, and said, "I think you're right, Elsinger. I think our skirmish values are too high. We'll reduce them to a five and try again."

  Before they finished setting up for another go, a messenger entered the tent.

  "Yes, what is it?"

  The boy nodded and said, "My Lord, Captain Buss says that Gremminger has received Spanish mercenaries."

  "Bastard Hapsburgs!" growled Elsinger.

  Thomas's heart sank. "How many?"

  The messenger shook his head. "Could not get close enough for an accurate count, but he suspects one hundred, one hundred fifty . . . maybe more. And, My Lord, some of them have up-time rifles."

  "What kind?" Goepfert said.

  "We do not know, sir. But they're rifles for sure. Our man watched them drill. They're powerful. At least twice the effectiveness of our own guns."

  "How are they positioned in the ranks?"

  "They aren't in the ranks, my Lord. They comprise one unit of twenty. And they're being fitted as riders."

  "Cavalry?" Goepfert seemed shocked.

  Thomas grit his teeth and backed away from the table. A unit of twenty Spanish riflemen on horseback, firing at twice the effectiveness of his own snaplocks. They'd probably field at three times effectiveness in practice, though, for just having those weapons in hand would embolden them beyond their normal strength. They certainly could not fire effectively on horseback, especially in this rocky terrain, so they will likely dismount and take a defensive position like cavalry did in the American Civil War, or like Irish hobilars. But they would be fast, mounting and moving out of harm's way and appearing somewhere else to harry his men. Thomas shook his head.

  Gremminger, you sneaky son of a bitch.

  He turned back to the tables. "Okay, the die is cast. Gentlemen, return to your commands and get your men ready. It's time to face the Catholics." He leaned over the map and began resetting the blocks into their starting positions. "I want continual reports, by the hour. Understand?"

  "Yes, my Lord," Elsinger said. "What will you be doing?"

  Thomas looked up and smiled. "I'll be here . . . running the numbers."

  ****

  "Dismount!"

  Captain Mendoza gave the order as his cavalry cleared the tiny creek running down the center of the pass. Men came off their horses even before they slowed and some tumbled into the water, breaking their fall by dropping their Enfields and catching themselves before impaling their bodies on the sharp rocks below the melting ice. Mendoza cursed and helped a man to his feet, gave him back his rifle and pushed him to the bank. "Get ready to fire!"

  About a hundred yards ahead of their position stood a thin line of pike, taking cover behind piles of rocks and fence rails. Mendoza knelt down, loaded his weapon, and set the barrel carefully in the crook of a tree. He cocked the hammer and waited until every man was ready.

  "Fire!"

  Down the line the Enfields fired, plumes of smoke following the minie balls as they rifled out of the long barrels and struck the breastworks in front of von Allmen's pikemen. The sheer force of those powerful bullets tore the railings apart, and men behind them wailed as their legs and arms were shattered by low muzzle velocity wounds.

  "Reload!"

  They loaded their guns and fired again, and another round of fearful screams filled the cold Alpine air. Those still alive after the second volley began to retreat and Mendoza ordered his men back in the saddle to pursue.

  On and on it went for the next several miles. Where are their guns? Mendoza wondered. Where are their cavalry? Just one pitiful little screen after the next, ten to fifteen men each. Mendoza considered charging the fifth screen line but reconsidered at the last moment. He only had twenty men, whose purpose was to move up this pass quickly and outflank von Allmen's army. Gremminger had assured him that this route was easily traversable and that Mendoza should not worry. "Von Allmen doesn't know war from waste," he said. "You'll move fast and hit him from the rear while I move my army down the Fluelaand strike like a hammer. Once in position behind his lines, find good ground and kill them on the retreat."

  But the pass was too narrow to maneuver around the pike screens, and if he tried, he'd lose men. He couldn't afford to lose a single one.

  On the seventh screen, he ordered a retreat. "Gremminger be damned," he said and kicked the sides of his horse.

  Three miles back, guns began to fire along the ridgelines.

  Not cannon, for it would have been impossible to put such heavy barrels among the thick spruce, but snaplock,
flintlock, and the occasional wheellock. Two or three men in each team, spread thin among the trees, taking single shots at Mendoza's men as they tried to gallop out of harm's way. But the creek split his force, and their retreat was slowed by bullets hitting their horses. When the third horse went down, Mendoza realized that they were not trying to shoot his men; they were purposefully targeting the horses. It made sense in a way, Mendoza admitted. Trying to hit a moving target with inaccurate weapons was difficult at best, so why not target the biggest piece of flesh on the field? Another horse went down, and suddenly his men stopped, turned in the saddle or pulled themselves out of the water, and began shooting wildly up the ridgeline.

  "Bastante!" Mendoza said, pulling his saber and whipping it into the air. "Enough. Don't waste shots. Remount the fallen men and move! Muevan!"

  For the next three miles, Mendoza's impromptu hobilars fought for their lives. By the time they cleared the pass, they had lost twelve horses, five men, and Mendoza himself had been shot in the right arm.

  ****

  "Gremminger disrespects me," Thomas said as he removed the wooden sticks from the map that had represented the entrenched infantry screens. "But damn him, he won't anymore. That bloodied his nose."

  Goepfert nodded. "Yes, but we lost seventy-two good pikemen. We can't afford losses like that for such little gain."

  "Little gain?" Thomas leaned over his chair and picked up an Enfield rifle that had been rescued from the creek during the Spanish retreat. He hefted it, set the butt against his shoulder, and looked down its long barrel. "Nonsense. The Spanish are back on their heels, and that pass is closed for good."

  Goepfert shrugged. "Gremminger will simply refit what remains and try something else."

  Thomas set down the rifle and pointed to the map. "And so will I. Are the men ready?"

  "Yes, My Lord, but I wish to advise against your plan. It's too risky."

  Thomas furrowed his brow. "How so?"