Grantville Gazette, Volume IX

by Eric Flint

  Hatfield looked at him for a moment then asked, "Hagen, you lost your family when Hoffmann was in Badenburg didn't you? You know how war can be? Do you want to go to war because of that?"

  "Not to get revenge or anything like that, but to prevent it from happening again. So yes, what happened to my family is one reason I joined the rail company to start with. Mostly, though, it is just wanting to help my friends. To do what I should be doing."

  Hatfield leaned back against the workbench. "Son, if I sent you to school you would still be helping, maybe more than if I make you a brakeman right now. In a couple of years you'd be more valuable to TacRail than as a brakeman. You'd still be doing your part. Hagen, I wanted to send you to school to help you."

  Hagen studied his boots for a moment. "Chief Hatfield, if you send me to school I will work hard, but I am not sure I would ever become a mechanic. But I am a brakeman now. Corporal Schultz has taught me a lot and I'll do a good job."

  "Hagen, tell me the truth. How old are you really? I know you and Jim Cooper lied about your age when you joined up last year. I went along with it and I shouldn't have, but I felt sorry for you. And to be perfectly honest I needed an extra pair of hands. The major jumped me about you a couple of times, and I told her you were small for your age."

  "I was seventeen last month. I was fifteen when I joined."

  Hatfield stood up and walked around the garage. "Hagen, seventeen is too young to be thrown into what we might face. But if I leave you behind I'll feel like I am punishing you. If I take you will you promise to stay close to Wili or Jochen?"

  "Ja. And I will do everything they say." Hagen could feel hope building inside him. Please let it happen, he prayed silently. Please.

  Hatfield took another walk around the room. "Okay. Report to the shop Monday morning; you're going with us, so you might as well help plan the move. The major is going to skin my butt when she sees you, but I'm not leaving you behind." With that, Hatfield walked out the door and headed for the house.

  Hagen watched him go. Then, in a voice only he could hear, he said, "Thank you, Onkel Anse. The rail company is my family. You, Wili, and Jochen are my onkels. Jim Cooper is my brother. Thank you for letting me go with my family."

  Ultralight

  by Sean Massey

  Wismar, Germany

  March, 1635

  Flight had taken hold of Johann Rommel. Since the thirty-something merchant from Wismar first saw the American air force in action last October, he had decided he wanted one of their strange flying beasts, something they called an air craft, for himself. After several months of designing, waiting, and building the machine, he stood on a shallow slope overlooking the Baltic sea, waiting for his rendezvous with destiny.

  The weather wasn't perfect, he thought. It was overcast. The wind had died down, for now, but it could pick up at any second. After making one final check of his craft, he was satisfied and strapped himself in. The crowd that had gathered despite the cold began to clap. His oldest son, who had helped attack this project with an enthusiasm only found in a teenager, waited to start the engine mounted behind him.

  As the engine roared to life, drowning out the crowd's applause, Johann thought back to the beginning of the project. Designing the aircraft had been the easy part. He had used a picture of what the Americans called an "ultralight" to create a similar design with a large triangular wing mounted above a small engine and an open air wicker "saddle" to sit in. He soon learned that most of the materials that the Americans used, like aluminum, nylon, and some material referred to as plastic were no longer available. He would instead have to rely on silk and bamboo, which would have to come through Venice. Those materials hadn't come cheap. Or very quickly. Winter had arrived in full force by the time he had ordered the items, and it took almost six months for the courier to deliver them.

  Then there was the matter of powering the flying machine. He made a contact in Grantville who was willing to part with an engine. He had been told that the engine came from an "All Terrain Vehicle" that had been involved in some accident before the Ring of Fire. Johann had been assured that the engine was in working order, but he didn't know enough about the technology to check it out for himself. He would have to take that on faith.

  Like the Grantville machines he had seen in operation, Johann knew that he would need a propeller. He had carved a simple two-bladed design from wood, and it was now attached to the engine.

  The plane began to inch down the slope, dragging his mind back to the moment. I don't want to be so caught up in day dreaming that I miss this important moment. As he picked up speed, he could feel the plane lifting off the ground.

  I'm flying, he thought. I can soar with the birds.

  Johann attempted to work the simple controls he had rigged up, but nothing happened. He didn't gain altitude. He couldn't turn. Without any experience designing aircraft and no knowledge of Bernoulli's Principle, he had simply guessed, wrongly, at how the thing would maneuver in flight.

  He made one more attempt to gain altitude, pulling back on the simple elevator controls with all his strength. It had some effect, and the elevator swung downward to create more lift. Unfortunately, he hadn't gained enough speed to climb more than a few inches off the ground.

  The back of the aircraft dropped out beneath him, and the propeller blade cut through the snow and caught the ground, shattering as if it had struck rock. Carried by the weight of the engine, the plane continued backwards as it performed a cartwheel and landed on its wing.

  Johann panicked. He hadn't planned for this. The machine was supposed to fly. He could hear the silk tearing, allowing snow to spray up onto his face, as it dragged the plane to a stop. The engine was still running, but the flip had knocked the engine control lose from its mounting, and although he could see it, it was just beyond his reach.

  He recognized the distinctive smell of methanol before he had even come to a stop. He made one last attempt to grab the engine control, but it continued to bounce out of his reach.

  The right edge of the wing struck a rock, shattering the bamboo edge and sending the plane into a spin, disorienting him. He reached for the knife he had brought with him. With a few quick strokes, he cut the straps holding him into the plane.

  Johann landed about five feet from where he had been, face down in the snow. His sense of direction was scrambled, and the only thing he could feel at the moment was a warm dribble in his pants. The knife had somehow remained in his hands, but now that he was stopped, he had let go of it.

  He attempted to stand up, but the world was spinning, and Johann quickly found himself face down in the snow again.

  * * *

  Magda Rommel watched in horror as her husband attempted to rise for a third time. He was a little more successful this time, and she could see that he managed to steady himself enough. If the situation wasn't so serious, she was sure that she would have found his flailing arms very comical.

  She set off in a full-speed run down the hill. She could see that the plane had come to a stop, and black smoke was beginning to pour from the rear of the machine. While the other onlookers might just gape and stare, Magda had to make sure Johann was all right. As her feet carried her towards him, her mind became a blur. All the anger she had directed towards him over the last few months for spending almost all their money on this fool's errand had melted away and was replaced by genuine concern.

  Thoughts of her family's future also filled her head. She had three kids to worry about feeding. Money was now tighter than ever. And her husband would probably require a few months in bed. If he's not injured in the accident, she thought, he'll need more than bed rest when I get through with him. She thought about borrowing some money from her father, but she knew that it wouldn't end her husband's ambition to fly.

  "We're moving to Grantville," were the first words she said to her husband. "If you want to fly, you'll learn to do it the right way."

  Tool or Die

  by Karen Bergstralh


  Late January, 1632

  Martin Schmidt walked briskly down the Tech Center hallway, his mind full of plans. The thread rolling machine was working well and he was eager to take the next step and build a drop forge.

  A drop forge needed a source of power to raise the ram. The thread-rolling machine used a salvaged electric motor and the up-time machinists Martin had consulted all agreed that his drop forge would need another electric motor. Unfortunately, electric motors were very useful—so useful that finding a salvaged one that worked had become nearly impossible. The previous day Herr Don McConnell had given Martin the names of some people at the Tech Center and suggested that they might know of a suitable motor.

  Excited yells and cheers distracted Martin. Under and around the cheers he heard an odd chuffing noise. The Tech Center was full of wonders and Martin couldn't resist looking in to see what this one was.

  On the floor at the front of the classroom a small steam engine cheerfully chugged away. Attached to the little engine was a windlass device and the rope from that stretched across the classroom. At the room's far end sat a little red steel wagon with two large male students shakily perched on top. An elderly man bent over the steam engine and the windlass began to wind up.

  To Martin's amazement the wagon started to move. It didn't move very fast but, once started, it and its load rolled steadily along. The students standing around cheered, clapped, and yelled comments to the two riding the little wagon. Most were begging to be the next to ride. The American steam engine man appeared delighted to show his toy off.

  The thought struck Martin that if such a small engine could pull two men maybe a larger one could raise the ram of a drop forge. He moved forward as eagerly as the students did, questions bubbling in his mind. Neither Martin's English nor the elderly American's German proved up to the discussion that ensued. By appealing to several of the Tech Center's teachers, both sides finally managed to communicate. The steam engine man called in some others and the discussion continued until a second elderly American finally smiled.

  "You're right, a small steam engine should work. I . . . we've . . ." He nodded at the steam engine man. ". . . got a good idea of just the type and size you need. Heck, I've got most of the parts in my basement and I know which of the steamheads have the rest." His eyes twinkling, the elderly man grinned. "It'll be fun job for us old farts, too."

  One of the Tech Center teachers spoke up then, "Can you do the work up here at the Center? We need to capture your knowledge . . ."

  "Sure, we could, son," snorted the old man. "but my basement workshop's set up for steam and the parts are there. Send over anyone you want; just let my wife know how many are coming."

  The Tech Center teachers seemed confident so Martin took a leap of faith and commissioned a steam engine. He didn't know exactly what manner of steam engine he had just commissioned but if he had understood the steamheads correctly there were other machines the engine could power, too. He asked and the steam engine man replied.

  "Son, you can run a whole machine shop off a steam engine. My grandfather's shop ran off steam. My father didn't electrify the shop until 1942."

  Martin was confused until one of those interpreting added, "That was probably a good twenty years after electricity and electric motors were available. Lots of machine shops were powered by a steam engine. Changing to electric motors took money and some people didn't see a reason to change."

  Martin's hopes flared. The biggest problem in replicating up-time machines was how to power them. Here was an answer. Given a steam engine he would be able to build lathes and mills and . . . Martin gave himself a mental shake. There would be time enough for those thoughts once the drop forge was built and running. Machines needed gears and with a drop forge he could produce gears. Lots of gears.

  February, 1632

  The up-timers, Herr Reardon and Herr McConnell, worked with him designing and building the drop forge. It was crude compared to the sleek up-time machines but, as Herr McConnell put it, "You can frigging well pretty up the next frigging one."

  As the parts of the drop forge came together Martin realized that he had a problem. The hardened steel punches and dies the forge needed were costly and there weren't enough funds left after paying for the rest of the drop forge. He knew that Kudzu Werke's blacksmith shop was doing well but he'd been happy to let Herman handle the financial end. Drop forges were useless without proper dies. Packing up drawings and his list he went to Herr Glauber to ask for money.

  Herman Glauber listened carefully while Martin went into detail on which punches and dies were the most important. When Martin was finished speaking, Glauber solemnly asked, "How much will cost to buy all the dies and punches for the parts you intend to make?"

  Swallowing hard, Martin named a sum that equaled two good years' wages.

  "Ah, Martin. " Glauber smiled. "So much? Well, things are going well. Your fiddly little nuts and bolts sell well and the reclining chair is starting to sell, also. I have money here—just a bit of extra cash, mind you." Glauber reached into his pocket and pulled out some bills. He carefully counted them, folded them over and dropped the wad into Martin's hands. "Top quality work—that's what I expect from Herr Reardon. Be certain you get the best set of punches and dies you can from him." Glauber then excused himself and hurried off, leaving a stunned Martin counting out enough American dollars to buy the full set of punches and dies.

  And so, in March, with snow still on the ground, all the parts of the drop forge came together. A group of up-timers, most of them elderly, arrived with the steam engine. For the next two weeks there always seemed to be at least two or three of the 'steamheads' around fussing over the new engine. Several people from the Tech Center floated around, sketching, scribbling, and otherwise recording the steam engine's installation.

  Martin insisted, much to the steamheads' delight, that all of the boys be instructed on the care and feeding of the engine. None of the boys had objected and other shops' apprentices often stood around watching, envy written clearly on their faces.

  Herr McConnell made a point of coming by everyday, commenting, suggesting and helping when the pieces didn't want to fit together. Finally they had produced their first forged parts to the applause of Herr Reardon, Herr McConnell, all the steamheads, and two Tech Center teachers. When the cheering died down everyone headed off to the Gardens for a celebration. Herr Reardon pulled Martin aside.

  "Most of the damned thing looks like it came out of the Middle Ages. It's crude and ugly but it works. " He paused and looked back at the drop forge. "The next one you make will be better."

  April, 1632

  Karl Ritterhof grunted in satisfaction. "Okay, Hans, this is how the firebox should look." Stepping back, Karl let the smaller apprentice peer past him.

  "A picture of perfection, Karl. As usual." Hans Gehrt gestured back toward the Kudzu Werke building. "Too bad we won't need steam much longer. They've only got a couple of more blanks left."

  A heavy thump and a brief shaking of the ground came from the building beside the boys. Kudzu Werke's new drop forge was making its presence known.

  "And you know this because Master Schmidt has taken to confiding in you?"

  "I've got eyes," Hans grinned, "Besides Max and Carl-Maria were yelling about the steel shipment being short as well as late. Master Schmidt's gone up to the steel works to complain."

  "We do have other work. Jakob will be wanting to run more of his rulers."

  "Ha! Jakob's not wanting to do anything but go to the Gardens with Heinrich. Rudy's going with them. Besides, Bertha said they've got a month's supply of blank rulers that need etching and painting."

  "Tsk, tsk!" Karl stood straight, towering a head above the younger boy. He struggled to assume a stern look. "Remember your place, Apprentice Gehrt. Journeymen Ohl and Tausch may allow you familiarity but you must address Fraulein Klepsch properly."

  Hans grinned slyly. "Which Fraulein Klepsch should I be so formal with? Elise who teases
me when I'm cleaning flashing from ruler blanks? Or Bertha who gives me apples and sticky buns because she thinks I'm too skinny?"

  Karl tried to think of a suitable retort on the way back into the shop.

  * * *

  Journeymen Max Ohl stood to one side and watched Jakob Betche direct the other apprentices. The boy had come a long way from the gangly, shy refugee child of six months ago. Frau Kunze's good food and work at the forge had transformed Jakob. Max realized that the boy had put inches on along with muscle and weight.

  Something must have shown on Max's face because Jakob paused.

  "Sir, did I forget something?" Jakob asked.

  "No, Jakob. Everything is in order. Go on," Max replied.