by Eric Flint
Why? No one Thorsten had asked really knew—and those of them who'd met Polish hussars in peacetime said that even the hussars themselves had no clear answer. Some claimed they wore the wings to foil the lassos of Tatars seeking to capture slaves. Others claimed the distinctive sound made by the wings frightened the enemy. Still others claimed the sound deafened their own horses so they wouldn't be frightened by the wooden noise-makers used by Tatars and some Ottoman units.
Thorsten's own tentative opinion was that the reason was entirely psychological. From what he knew of Polish hussars, they were the sort of flamboyant people—up-time terms like "narcissist" and "arrested development" would seem to apply here also—who just couldn't resist making a spectacle of themselves.
"I want those silly feathered bastards dead!" he shrieked, in the high-pitched tone of voice he'd learned to use on a battlefield.
From their shouts of surprise and anger, Lukasz Opalinski knew the Saxon cavalrymen hadn't expected to be fired on by volley guns right at the beginning of the battle. They must have poor intelligence. He'd been expecting the phenomenon, himself, and had warned his hussars to be ready for it. His friend Jozef Wojtowicz had given him a full and detailed report on the battle of Ahrensbök before he left for Saxony.
Still, he was a bit shaken by the effectiveness of those volleys. Wojtowicz had warned him, but Lukasz had not taken him seriously enough. Perhaps the problem was that Jozef had shown him images of the USE army's volley guns. Woodcuts, mostly, although one of them had been what Jozef called a "photograph." Looking at the images, Lukasz had immediately categorized the weapons as organ guns, which were sometimes used in sieges. Clumsy things, although you didn't want to be caught in front of one when it was firing.
But these volley guns were quite different. First of all, the barrels were rifled, not smoothbore. Lukasz had known that, but dismissed it as unimportant. You couldn't really aim such a weapon on a battlefield anyway, beyond pointing it in the general direction of the enemy, so what difference did it make if it was rifled?
What he hadn't considered was the added range the rifling would give the rounds—especially since they were these new conical so-called "Minié balls" rather than the round balls he was accustomed to. Lukasz had even seen one, since some of the Saxon infantrymen—far too few, unfortunately—had been equipped with the new rifles that John George had purchased. But he hadn't seen them fired, so he hadn't paid much attention to the stories of their range.
Today, he was learning the hard way that the accounts had not been exaggerations. The USE flying artillery fired their first volley when the Saxon cavalry and Polish hussars were about two hundred and fifty yards away. At that range, a musket volley would have been completely ineffective. Few of the rounds would have hit anything, and many of the ones that did would have lost too much velocity to do much damage.
But these rounds were quite effective. Three of his hussars were struck off their saddles and two more were reeling from wounds. Four other hussars were spilled when their horses were struck. Worse than the casualties was the effect of the damage on the charge itself. Inevitably, the downed and disoriented horses impeded the rest. Instead of picking up speed as it should have at that range, the charge was actually slowing down. By the time they were within two hundred yards of the foe, a cavalry horse should be moving at the pace of a fast canter—say, fifteen miles per hour, for heavily laden warhorses. At that speed, they could cross the intervening distance in less than half a minute. Which in turn meant that they'd have to face only one volley before getting in among the enemy with their lances and sabers.
Here . . . They were probably only moving ten miles per hour, and the enemy's rate of fire was astonishing. A second volley came before they'd travelled more than fifty yards. The third volley came when they were still almost one hundred and fifty yards away—and the combined effect of the deadly fire was to keep horses falling and stumbling and impeding the charge.
They still weren't moving any faster than twelve miles per hour. At that distance, they should have been approaching a full gallop—which, for horses like these, was around thirty miles per hour. They'd cross the last hundred yards in six or seven seconds—a speed that often panicked enemy infantry or artillery; and, even if they didn't panic, allowed them no time to fire more than one volley, at most.
Instead, they'd been hit by three powerful volleys. At least forty—no, probably fifty—of his hussars were now out of action, dead or wounded or spilled by falling horses. And they were still so far away and moving so slowly that . . .
Sure enough. Lukasz could see the volley guns being hitched up while infantry units moved up to cover their retreat. The infantrymen fired a volley as soon as the artillerymen were clear.
That volley was just as brutal as the preceding ones. The musket balls were lighter than those fired by the flying artillery, but they were also more accurate. As Josef had warned him, most of the USE army's infantry units had been armed with rifled muskets. Quite obviously, these were.
Out of the corners of his eyes, Opalinski could see that the Saxon cavalry was peeling away. They were reeling from the carnage.
His own men had been hammered just as badly. At a quick glance, he didn't think he had more than half of his unit still in action.
But that still left him a hundred men, and these were Polish hussars, not be-damned Saxon shirkers—and the enemy was finally within reach. He could see the nearest USE infantry officer not more than thirty yards away. A big fellow who'd made the mistake of leading his men a bit too far in the fore.
Lukasz lowered his lance and set his aim on the bastard.
"Well, fuck me," Jeff muttered. He'd been so intent on getting his battalion in position to cover the artillery that he hadn't noticed how far ahead of them he'd gotten. The nearest squad of his infantry was a good ten yards behind.
And, at a rough estimate, the Polish hussar bearing down on him was ten feet tall and riding a horse the size of an elephant—and, to make things perfect, was carrying the same lance that Saint George must have used to kill the dragon. Had to be. How many other lances in the world were fifty feet long and had a razor-sharp blade the size of a sword?
Those no-longer-silly-looking wings were making one hell of a scary sound, too.
* * *
"Watch out, Jeff!" yelled Eric Krenz. The lieutenant frantically hollered at the nearest squads, waving his sword at the oncoming hussar. "Shoot that Polish fuck!"
But there was too much noise, too much smoke, too much confusion. The infantrymen and their sergeants had shut out everything else in order to do what they'd been trained to do: level their muskets at the enemy in front of them; fire; reload as fast as possible. They weren't even thinking of aiming at specific targets.
Only one of them heard Eric's shouts. That was a nineteen-year-old corporal in charge of a squad who, being a veteran, gave Krenz no more than a dismissive glance. Stupid officers. Getting in the way, like they usually did in a battle.
Eric gave up the attempt and charged forward himself. He might get there just in time to cut the hussar's leg with his sword. No chance of cutting anything higher up. The hussar was at least twenty feet tall, on top of that horse. Still, even a leg wound might distract him enough to save the captain's life.
Jeff dropped the sword he'd been using to encourage his men. Against a charging hussar's lance, that was about as useful as a butter knife. He clawed at the wheel-lock pistol he kept in a holster, bitterly regretting the fact that he'd run out of ammunition for his automatic pistol.
He managed to get it out and cock it just in time to fire a shot at the hussar. Not in time to save his life, though. The lance blade—it was actually fifteen feet long, amazingly enough—was within five yards and was about to split him open.
Opalinski never even thought of ducking. You simply didn't, in the final moments of a charge. If you were struck by a bullet, so be it. The honor of a hussar was concentrated entirely on killing the enemy.
&nb
sp; Hussar or not, honorable or not, none of it mattered if a bullet hit your helmet. Lukasz's head was slapped back. The round glanced off his helmet and didn't even scratch his skin. Still, the impact was enough to daze him for a moment.
* * *
The lance swung wide of the target. Jeff ducked the blade—but got bowled off his feet by the horse's shoulder.
Eric Krenz squawked and frantically swung his sword. It hit the lance's blade and deflected it just enough to hit him instead of missing him entirely.
The hussar passed by. He was shouting something. Another volley of gunfire drowned out the sound of everything else. Eric stared at Jeff, who was just starting to roll up onto his knees. Then, stared down at the lance lying on the ground some ten feet away. The blade was covered in blood.
Then, stared at his side. The uniform was soaked with blood and there seemed to be more coming. Nothing seemed to be spurting, though, so maybe he'd gotten lucky and no artery had been cut.
"Lucky," of course, only by certain values of luck. Jeff was getting to his feet now, shaking his head as if he was a little confused. He'd lost his helmet in the fall.
"This really sucks," said Eric. He collapsed to the ground.
By the time Lukasz got his senses back, his horse—being no hussar himself, and thus no damn fool—had turned around and was galloping toward the rear. A full-bore gallop, too. A dumb beast he might be, but he wasn't dumb enough to stay in this area any longer than he had to.
In all likelihood, if Opalinski hadn't had the by-now almost instinctive horsemanship of a hussar, he'd have been spilled on the ground. As it was, he needed to use both hands to stay in the saddle. That was easy enough, though, since he'd lost his lance somewhere along the way.
He couldn't remember exactly what had happened. Had he killed that big infantry officer? Or perhaps the little big-eared one who'd come racing up waving his sword?
He simply couldn't remember. He hoped he'd killed at least one of them. Not because he had any personal animus against either of those officers but simply because it was already obvious that this battle was turning into a disaster and he liked to think he'd accomplished something in the process.
He looked around, but he simply couldn't tell how many of his hussars had survived. They were too mingled with the Saxon cavalrymen and all of them were racing off. This was not a retreat, this was a pure and simple rout.
Lukasz felt bitterly shamed. This was the first time in his life either he or any hussars he'd fought alongside had been routed in a battle. The worst of it was that he couldn't understand how it had happened.
Opalinski couldn't understand it because he hadn't seen it. He'd been so preoccupied with his personal duel with the two USE officers that he hadn't noticed the effect of the volleys fired by the infantry. Coming on top of the damage already inflicted by the volley guns, that had been enough to bring the charge to a complete halt.
At which point the APCs had arrived. Five of the monstrous machines, charging in from the side and raking the confused cavalrymen with rifle fire from the gunports along the sides of the vehicles. All the while, making the most hideous piercing shrieks from some sort of horns.
The horses had panicked then, and it had all been over.
"That's it," said Torstensson. "Send in Dodo and George's divisions. Nothing fancy. Just straight ahead, firing volleys as they go."
Two of his aides raced off. Colonel Schönbeck and three others remained at his side. After a moment, Schönbeck said: "You were right, General. Stearns did quite well."
Torstensson glanced at the Third Division. They were starting to move forward again. He could see that Stearns—or his staff, more likely—had already organized measures to take care of the wounded.
Stearns had done well. To all intents and purposes, in fact, his division had won the battle on its own. Allowing, of course, for the critical assistance of the flying artillery and the APCs. Still, he'd kept his men solid, confident, and fully in the fight from beginning to end—and now had them back in action.
"This could get interesting," he said softly.
"Excuse me, sir?"
"Never mind, Colonel Schönbeck." Torstensson saw no point in explaining to a capable but stolid military aide that he really hoped the new prime minister of the USE wouldn't allow himself to be rushed into doing anything rash. Or things could get . . . interesting.
Besides, there were other matters to attend to. He glanced back to make sure the observation balloon was still in place. As an observation balloon, the device had been only minimally useful in this battle. But as a radio platform, it would now prove most useful indeed.
"Colonel Schönbeck—" Torstensson broke off and turned to a different aide. "Major Ziegler, rather. See to it that our cavalry units get word immediately that the Saxon army has been defeated. John George will try to escape now, and I want him intercepted before he can reach the Polish border."
Ziegler was a young man, attuned to the new technological possibilities. He'd use the radios immediately where Schönbeck would probably waste time sending out couriers first.
"Sound the retreat," von Arnim said grimly. "We'll withdraw into Leipzig."
Colonel Carl Bose looked skeptical. "We may not be able to make it, General. They'll be pushing the pursuit hard, from the looks of things."
Von Arnim shook his head. "No, they won't, once they're sure we're retiring from the field. I am quite certain that Torstensson has orders to take Dresden as fast as possible. He won't waste time with us"—now that he's beaten us out of his way, but von Arnim left that unspoken—"when he has a chance to catch the elector."
Von Arnim tightened his lips. His military career might be over, as of today. There was no chance he could move his troops into Poland, which was a pity since he was sure King Wladyslaw would hire him. But Torstensson would immediately pursue if the Saxon army—what was left of it—made any move in that direction. If need be, he'd postpone taking Dresden.
The French wouldn't hire him, not given his reputation as a staunch Lutheran. Richelieu wouldn't care himself, but with the political situation as tense as it was in France he couldn't afford to give Monsieur Gaston any more political ammunition. The Bavarians wouldn't even consider the possibility. Not with Duke Maximilian's Catholic fanaticism at the fever pitch it was today.
That left the Austrians. Which . . . might actually be possible. Von Arnim felt his spirits lifting a bit. Even under Ferdinand II, the Austrians had been willing to employ Protestant soldiers. Now with his son on the throne—Ferdinand III had a reputation for being far more tolerant—and with the tensions with Bohemia . . .
A detail intruded.
"Oh, yes." He had promised the man, after all. "Colonel Bose, see to it that a courier gets off to Dresden immediately. Warn the elector that we've lost the battle and Torstensson will be moving on Dresden. And . . ."
He studied the distant enemy observation balloon. He wasn't sure of this, but . . .
"Also warn the elector that Torstensson has probably got cavalry units watching the Polish border. I'd advise the elector to seek exile in Bavaria instead."
He went back to contemplating more important things. There did, of course, remain the awkwardness that he'd once resigned from Austrian service in something of a high dudgeon and not so long ago at that. Still . . .
Chapter 19
Eric Krenz never remembered much of what happened after he collapsed from his wound until he woke up in an army hospital tent. All that remained were inchoate images of being moved on a litter and people staring down at him. The clearest of those images was that of a harried surgeon impatiently saying: "This one'll live if he doesn't bleed out. Put him over there."
He had no idea where "over there" was, but some part of his brain understood that he'd just gotten a reprieve from a death sentence. It was probably that same part of his brain which enabled his eyes to observe a line of wounded men lying in a different part of the surgeon's tent who quite obviously had not met the
surgeon's criteria for survival. The only attention being paid to them was by a single orderly, and all he was doing was giving them water. Or, more often, giving them cups of a brownish liquid that Eric couldn't identify but which that more-or-less sentient part of his brain figured was probably laudanum. The mixture of opium and liquor had been around for at least a century. Its only real medical use was to comfort the afflicted and serve as a crude anesthetic during surgery.
But these men, clearly enough, weren't going to be operated on. They were just going to die.
Some time later, Eric was given some of the liquid himself. In his case, as an anesthetic. The surgeon was replacing the jury-rigged bandages the medics had used with stitches.
The process hurt. A lot. As far as Krenz was concerned, if that bad-tasting liquor was laudanum, it had a grossly inflated reputation.
When Eric woke up, he was no longer in the surgeon's tent. He was still in a tent, but this one was larger and much cleaner. More precisely, since the surgeons in the USE army did use sterilization and kept their tents washed with antiseptic, this tent had a lot less blood and gore. The cots in a double line on either side of a central aisle were filled with soldiers who, though most of them were heavily bandaged, seemed in far better condition than the ones Krenz had seen in the surgeon's care.
Apparently, then, he'd survive. Eric was quite cheered by the thought. He enjoyed life.
He didn't even lose much of his cheer when Jeff Higgins came to visit and gave him the bad news.