It was not a Duke nor Earl, nor yet a Viscount—
It was not a big brass General that came;
But a man in khaki kit who could handle men a bit,
With his bedding labelled Sergeant Whatsisname.
Magdeburg, May 20, 1631
The lieutenant had decided to rape the woman first; his ensign was pinning the woman's arms, the sergeant holding the horses by the open door watching. The woman screamed prayers as her abuser fumbled with his clothing, her children wailing.
The sergeant started to turn just as a blade punched through his throat and withdrew. As the body fell, the ensign looked up, but before he could scream, the attacker stepped forward, the weapon reversing, and the butt of an arquebus slammed into his face, shattering his skull.
The lieutenant rolled off the woman, and for a moment all she could see was a figure in the sunlight through the open door like an angel sent to answer her prayers. The huge weapon came down like the hammer of God, and the man beside her was clutching his throat, gasping. Then the musket reversed again, and a reddened blade flashed down. The gasping stopped abruptly.
The killer dragged the three bodies further back into the dark room, then returned. He looked down at the woman who had curled into a protective ball, still screaming. The weapon that had done so much damage was set aside, and he reached down, clamping his hand over her mouth, then rolled her on her back. She struggled, hands beating at the arm.
“Do you want to die?” he hissed. She looked up at him, hands pulling in vain at the arm. “Do you want your girls to die?” She tried to shake her head, and the minor amount of movement she could make against that grip must have been felt. “If you want to live, if you want them to live, be still, and be silent!” She went limp, then whimpered when the knife appeared in her sight again. But the man released her, took two steps, and began sawing at the ropes that held the twin girls.
“Stay where you are!” someone shouted from outside. The man finished cutting the ropes, then stood, moving between the girls and the entrance. Another soldier stood there, aiming his musket into the room.
“What did you say, Müller?”
“Oh, sergeant.” The weapon lifted away. “Getting a little of your own?”
“What I do is no concern of yours. Go find somewhere else to be.” The man looked at the woman. “No, I am not sharing. Now piss off.” The soldier shrugged, wandering away. The sergeant made a motion as if to say stay, pried the blade out of the muzzle of his weapon, then cleaned and sheathed it. He went back to where the bodies lay. A few moments later he came back. The wheel-locks belonging to the lieutenant and aide were thrust into his belt, and he held a bag about the size of his fist. He motioned for them to follow.
The cavalry mounts were standing near the door, and he walked over. When the women reached him, he set the weapon down, then lifted the woman astride one, and both girls onto another. Taking the reins, he lay the musket across his arm, and led the entourage away.
The otherwise beautiful day was filled with screaming and shouting. Smoke rose from so many places, it looked like the entire city was already ablaze. Men stumbled past him, staggering from drink or groaning under loot they had collected. Some looked at the sergeant and his charges, but the look on his face convinced them to seek elsewhere.
He had intended to take them to the cathedral, but that was before the wind had kicked the flames into a holocaust. Instead he moved toward one of the gates that had been opened after Count Tilly's army had come over the wall.
The air outside was cleaner, but there was still wailing as women were dragged from that hell to be raped yet again. He passed them by, moving through the sprawling camp, past the fires where the camp followers tended the wounded soldiers. One of the camp followers was watching him, nursing her child. He had seen her before. Always there when one of the camp followers needed care. No matter. Finally he reached the outside of the camp, past the sentries, into the fields beyond.
He looked up at the woman, then held out the bag. “Ride slowly unless you are spotted. Everyone is too busy with the sack to pay attention. But if you are seen, ride as if the devil himself were on your heels.”
“Why did you save us?” She looked at the bag, at her children.
He handed her the reins so she could ride and lead the second horse. “Maybe I am just a good Samaritan.” He slapped the rump of the horse, and they rode into the drifting smoke. The sergeant turned to return to the camp.
Magdeburg, January, 1634
Sergeant Richard Hartmann strode down the street through a gentle snow. It had been a long trip from the town of Grantville. By train, by sleigh, now on foot. He was cold, tired, and honestly could use a drink. A sign came into view ahead, a gloved hand holding a bulging purse with the name Zum Barmherzigen Samariter.
He opened the door, stamping his feet to clear snow from his boots, then used the scraper to clear the mud from them. Magdeburg might be the new capital of the United States of Europe, but it was still a city that two years before had been sacked and burned. He ought to know; he'd been here when it happened. Last he took off his cap, slapping it against his sleeve before stuffing it in a pocket. His short hair was blonde, and the left side of his head had what might have been a part, but was actually a scar. His beard and mustache was neatly trimmed, and above them blue, almost white, eyes looked at the world like a wolf.
The common room was sparsely occupied, just half a dozen men busy at eating, and a pair of young girls moving the beer and food to the customers. The innkeeper, a large man bustled over. “Good evening, mein Herr! How may I help you tonight?”
“What do you have for dinner?”
“We have stew, or slices from a freshly roasted boar with vegetables.”
“The stew sounds good. Though a slice of the boar would not go amiss. Both, please.” He set down his duffel, opening his greatcoat. “Do you have mulled ale or cider?”
“Both.”
“Then mulled cider with it. And do you have rooms for rent?”
“Yes.” The innkeeper looked at the coat, then his eyes widened at the clothing below it. His uniform was odd to most who saw it, because it wasn't the feldgrau of the army of the newly renamed USE. Rather it was the Union blue uniform of the NUS. “You have business in town—” He looked at the sleeve. “—Sergeant?”
“Reassignment. I have been assigned to one of the new regiments forming. My wife will be joining me in a few days. The room is for her.”
“I am not sure. I will have to check with my wife.”
“Please do.” The sergeant hung the coat by the door, then took a seat at a table near the fire, stretched out his legs, leaning back. A girl came over, setting down a mug, and he nodded, sipping it. After the weather outside, it was heaven. He hadn't eaten yet today, so when the meal arrived, he patiently sliced the bread, spreading butter over the slices, then alternating bites of the stew and bread. He devoured his meal, occasionally diverting to bites of roast pork and the vegetables. Finally he was wiping the bowl, then the trencher. Sipping a second mug. Now just to relax—
The door slammed open, and four men in Army gray came in like a flood. “Beer!” one shouted. The innkeeper waved and began drawing them. The man who had shouted reached out, dragging one of the serving girls onto his lap. She screamed. The plates she had been carrying shattered on the floor as she began to struggle. He just laughed, pawing at her.
As he leaned in to nuzzle her neck, she clawed his face, her screams redoubling. He stood, spilling her to the floor, then bent, one hand catching at her hair, the other pulled back to slap her.
The blow never fell. A hand reached out, catching the arm, then another closed with crushing force on his other hand. Hartmann stood there, smiling gently. “Let her go.”
“Who the—” The assailant gasped as the hand clamping his wrist closed like a vise.
“Let. Her. Go.” Now the hand moved slightly, his forearm screaming in pain. The soldier let her go. Then the hand came up, joining the other still pinned between their faces. “Enough people have been brutalized by soldiers in this place. There will be no more here.” The sergeant pushed and released at the same time, tumbling the soldier over his chair. The man scrambled to his feet, and judging from the flush of his face, was ready to make some trouble.
The sergeant's hand shot out catching him by his tunic, and drove his face down into the table twice. His buddies started to stand, but froze as the sergeant's head turned. While he still had that smile, his eyes asked, You want some of this? They decided not to intervene. The injured man slumped into unconsciousness. The girl had scurried toward the bar, the other girl holding her and glaring at the men. They looked like twins of around fourteen years old, but the sergeant merely noted it.
“Unit,” he snapped. The soldiers looked at him confused. He sighed. Too much time around the up-timers in the NUS army. “What unit do you belong to?”
“Uh, Third Regiment?” one replied.
Hartmann leaned down, face inches from the soldier. “You did not just wake up. Think before you speak. You have to know this—it is where you will go to bed later! Battalion?”
“Second, Sergeant!”
“Now the hard one. Company?”
“First!”
The sergeant stood back up. “Your answers will always be crisp, clean, and as short as possible. Is that clear?”
“Yes, Sergeant.”
He looked at the other two men. “Do you think you are exempted? Is that clear?”
“Yes, Sergeant!” they chorused.
The sergeant looked down at the man on the floor. “Have your drinks and leave. Do not upset anyone else here tonight or we will not have such a polite discussion the next time. Good evening.”
The two girls moved past the bar into the kitchen, and Hartmann returned to his table. Another mug had arrived, and he took a seat and sipped.
The curtain to the kitchen twitched, and he saw one of the girls looking at him oddly. Then the head popped back. Again it twitched, and it was either the same girl or her twin. Then a moment later, another face, an older woman. Then she pushed through, and strode across the room. She was a few years older than he was and looked vaguely familiar.
“It is you,” she whispered.
“Pardon?”
She smiled softly. “You save our lives and do not even remember us? Almost three years ago, during the sack,” she chided him.
He looked closely. The last time he had seen her, she was bruised, terrified, and being raped. The woman standing before him now was well-dressed, clean, and looked capable. He stood and bowed gently. “You look better.”
She walked slowly forward and then was suddenly hugging him. Behind her the two girls had come out, hand in hand, looking at him in wonder. She moved back, clasping his hand in both of hers, nodding at the girls. “My daughters, Maria and Anna, and my new husband Frederic.” She motioned for the innkeeper to come over. “You did not let us thank you then. Let us thank you now.”
“It was nothing.”
“It was everything to us.” She let go, clasping her arms around Frederic's left arm. “My dear, this is the good Samaritan that saved us that night. The one we named the inn after.”
****
Magdeburg training camp
Hartmann marched in following the orderly to stand before the desk of Colonel Marcus Ludendorf, commander of the Third Regiment. “Hartmann! Of all I might have wanted, you are the best.” He came around the desk, shaking his hand. “I asked for someone who could deal with my First Company.” He snorted. “Actually we need help with every one of the CoC regiments. Grantville said they were sending you to me instead of an up-timer. The telegram said you have a charm for making riflemen from mud.”
“A quote from an up-time poem by a man named Kipling. The Pharaoh and the Sergeant.” The sergeant shrugged. “I am good at training, Sir.”
“As I know! How are you when dealing with the CoC?”
“I have dealt with them, Sir. Half of the NUS Army are CoC.”
Ludendorf sat. “This is all an experiment, Sergeant. The CoC have volunteered in droves to man nine regiments so far and another nine that formed around Grantville. But we have too many here who think talk is going to do the job. They are undisciplined and tend to talk back or question instead of obeying orders. They think they know more of war than we veterans so they challenge every step in training, and the worst of them are in First Company of my Second Battalion. If they get into line, so will the others.” The colonel stood. “Think you can handle it?”
“I can, Sir.”
Ludendorf leaned back, looking up at the man. “We are short of officers, Hartmann. I intend to promote you to second lieutenant and put you over the one the company has. He is too new for me to trust him.”
“I'd rather you not do that, Sir.” Hartmann's tone was calm, but his face adamant. “Officers only oversee training. The pay would be nice, but no.” He shrugged. “Besides, part of an officer's education is learning from his sergeant, Sir. Where are my men?”
“They are at breakfast at the moment. If you wait?”
“Actually sir, I think I would like to see the men before that. Permission to get some breakfast?”
Ludendorf motioned and went back to his work.
Magdeburg training camp, Second Battalion Mess Line
“I am going to kill him the next time I see him,” Dietrich snarled. His buddies merely shook their heads. They were sitting cross-legged in front of the tent at the end of the company street.
“He was right, Fritz.” Luftman sipped his milk before taking a spoon of porridge. “You should not have grabbed that girl. That is what we of the CoC are supposed to stop!”
“Right or not, how dare he strike me! Me! The elected leader of First Squad!”
“Being squad leader doesn't make you right,” Dorfman commented.
“I do not care. He is no doubt one of those mercenaries who fell all over themselves surrendering to the up-timers at Jena or the Crapper. It does not make him better than us!”
“Fritz, I think you will have your chance,” Becker said. The others followed his gaze across the battalion mess area. A recognizable figure now in gray had joined the company and moved down the mess line past the women camp followers serving the food. He took a bowl of porridge, a mug of broth, and a slab of buttered bread. He turned, scanning, and his eyes locked on the three where they sat. Then he walked across the clearing, chose an empty space, and sat.
“That seat is taken,” Dietrich snarled.
Hartmann, sipped his broth. “Yes, it is. By me.”
“Move, or we will move you.” Dietrich's snarl became a growl.
As the man stood, Hartmann looked up. “After I finish my meal.”
Dietrich looked him over. “We saw you in NUS blue last night. Now you are in feldgrau? How many other uniforms do you have in that bag of yours?” Then he gave him a smirk. “Maybe you just wear them to get free meals.”
Hartmann merely ignored him, eating. He finished, polishing the bowl with his last bite of bread, and stood. “Now, if you really want to push this, let us take it somewhere else.”
“Why? Feeling outnumbered?”
Hartmann turned, carrying his dishes.
“Hey, pig! I'm talking to you!”
Hartmann handed the implements to the woman at the cleaning area with a gentle thank you and kept walking. Dietrich roared and ran after him. He stumbled to a halt as Hartmann stopped beside a tree, arms crossed. Dietrich started to move forward, but the others, about two hundred, were forming a crescent.
Hartmann looked at the crowd. “Good. Class is now in session.” He pointed at Dietrich, crooking his finger, and as the man approached, began to unbutton his tunic.
“Enough waiting!” Dietrich charged toward him, arms spread to grapple. Hartmann took two steps away from the tree, ducked under the arms, catching the man's belt and spinning so that his attacker slammed back into the trunk. Then he punched him twice, once in the stomach, then again on his chin. Dietrich sagged down, stunned.
Hartmann turned, surveying the crowd. “I would have preferred a calmer introduction, but those of you from First Company, I am your new training sergeant, Richard Hartmann. You have your own way of doing things, but this is not the CoC, it is the army, and the army has only two ways of doing things, your way and my way.” He looked down at Dietrich, who was starting to move, and set his foot on the man's chest. “I will let you guess which way it will be from this point on.
“You have been slacking through your first months of training, and in my experience, that makes you cattle for us to drive ahead of the real soldiers. Too stubborn to learn what you must to survive. So things will change. You will learn to drill, you will learn to shoot, you will learn it MY way, or you will not survive to face your first battle.
“Those of the other companies, you will learn from their example. If I see you slacking, I will not talk to your sergeants, or your officers, I will deal with YOU just as I have done with this one.” He leaned forward, and Dietrich started gasping at the weight on his chest. “One last thing. I have been a soldier since I was fourteen years old. I have been a pikeman, a file leader, an arquebusier, and a sergeant of arquebusiers. I have killed more men than stand before me now, and have had them try to kill me. Some of those were men like this one—” He pressed down harder. “—who thought they were better or faster than me. But I am still here, and they are dead. So if you really want to kill me, remember one thing: Don't miss.”
He stepped back, scanned the crowd, and looked down at Dietrich. “Get up and stand there.” Dietrich rolled onto his stomach and stood. As he did, he mumbled.
“Say it loud enough for everyone to hear, Recruit.”
Dietrich moved to where he had been told. “We never elected you!”
Hartmann smiled gently. “I know you have been electing your non-commissioned officers in recruit training. That does not bother me in the slightest. We used to choose our sergeants from our own ranks when I was a mercenary.
“But being in charge is not a popularity contest. Once you raised your hand and swore an oath to be a soldier, you gave up the right to pick and choose which orders you will obey, or which men you will follow. I will not replace your choices wholesale, First Company. There might be good men in charge, and they should remain there. But you squad leaders are responsible for the men you command. When they fail, you fail. When they break the rules, you break the rules. If they do, I will not only punish them, I will punish the squad leaders as well.”
“What is going on here?” Everyone turned, and some went to attention. The man walking toward them was young. Hartmann estimated maybe nineteen years old. His uniform was neat and looked tailored, and his boots were not issue. He stopped, glaring around. “Well?”
“Just a lesson in decorum, Lieutenant,” Hartmann replied.
The man looked at Hartmann coolly. “I do not know you, Sergeant. Why are you giving my men this lesson?”
“Richard Hartmann, Sir. Seconded from the NUS Army for training,” Hartmann replied, “and assigned by Regiment to the First Company.”
“Ah, one of the miracle workers.” The officer looked them over, sneering slightly. “Perhaps you can train this gutter scum. I think we should send them back to this CoC after flogging the lot of them! Continue.” He spun on his heel and stalked away.
“What a dummkopf,” someone grumbled. Hartmann walked over and punched the man in the stomach.
“You will not make negative comments about your superiors in public. You may think whatever you wish of him or of me, but if I hear another man say such a thing aloud, I will personally make him wish he had never been born.”
He stepped back, then looked them over pointing to his right. “First Company, form ranks right over there! MOVE!”
The men scrambled over, taking their positions. Hartmann looked at the others. “The rest of you, breakfast is over! Go to your areas, now!” Within less than a minute, there were only the ranks of men. Hartmann looked them over. “There are a hundred men in this company. I count eighty-three. Where are the others?” He was answered by silence. “I expect a reply.” He motioned to Becker. “Where are they, Recruit?”
“Probably still in bed, Sergeant.”
“Oh dear, oh dear.” Then Hartman roared, “Find the missing files. Get them in line. NOW!”
There was a lot of shouting, and if they hadn't been the target, the men of the company would have enjoyed it. Ten minutes later, everyone was in line.
“Now listen up,” Hartmann said calmly, pacing along the line. While he was still smiling, everyone was starting to understand that the smile wasn't amusement. “You have sworn an oath to serve in the army for three years. You leave the rights of a citizen behind you when you do. You give yourselves to the country and are bound by honor and duty.
“I am told you question orders, want to discuss them, even argue them. That is all well and good at the proper time. This regiment is behind in training because you want to talk, rather than do. There will be questions only if I ask for questions. There will be no discussion unless I ask for it. If there is an argument, I will do what I have always done when some green recruit argues with me. I will punch him in the mouth. Your duty is to learn, mine to teach.
“There is no regulation that says I must be nice. My job is not about nice. It is about taking civilians and turning them into soldiers who might survive. If you don't want to learn about being a soldier, you will learn about pain instead. It is how I was trained, it is how you will be, unless you learn very, very fast.” He stopped pacing, standing in the center facing the scowling men. “Now, any questions?”
“Hell, yes!” shouted a soldier. “Brothers, what say you? Shall we vote this dictator out?”
Murmurs of agreement died as Hartmann began clapping ironically. “Oh well done, Recruit. You have gone in your first day with me from a recruit to a mutineer!”
“What?” The soldier sounded confused.
Hartmann began speaking in a pedantic tone. “Any person subject to military discipline who with intent to usurp or override lawful military authority, who alone, or in concert with any other person refuses to obey orders, otherwise do his duty, or creates any violence or disturbance is guilty of mutiny. Any person who fails to do his utmost to prevent and suppress a mutiny being committed in his presence, or fails to take all reasonable means to inform his superior commissioned officer or commanding officer of a mutiny which he knows or has reason to believe is taking place, is guilty of a failure to suppress or report a mutiny.” The silence had spread until everyone was staring at the sergeant in horror.
“A person who is found guilty of mutiny, attempted mutiny, or failure to suppress or report a mutiny shall be punished by death or any lesser punishment a court martial may direct.” Hartmann finished with relish. “Name, Recruit?”
“Michel Hamner.” The voice came out softly, as if afraid of attention.
“You are all recruits, and obviously do not know the cesspit he has led you into. Now let us take the hypothetical case of our good recruit Hamner calling for a vote to remove me. He would be instigating a mutiny. Those who have made comments agreeing with him are guilty of mutiny. Everyone who did not speak against his call is guilty of failing to suppress a mutiny.
“If I reported his statement, and your actions to the General, you could all hang. As you are recruits, he may be merciful, and let you off with ten lashes each. But he can use the old Roman form of decimation in addition to those lashes. Every tenth man can be executed to show you the error of your ways. One of them will definitely be our good Hamner as the one who instigated it.”
He crossed his arms. “So if you are going to go to hell together, this is as good a place to start as any. Hamner, call for your vote, so I can get on with my day.”
Hamner looked around, but everyone was avoiding his eyes. “No, Sergeant.”
“I am sorry, that was not quite clear, Recruit Hamner. No what?”
“I will not call for a vote,” Hamner rasped.
“Good. What squad are you in?”
“Elected Feldwebel, Second Squad, First Platoon.”
“Who is the chosen man for that squad?”
“Me, Sergeant.” A man a couple down raised his hand.
“Does 'me' have a name?”
“Jäger, Sergeant.”
“Good. As of now Jäger is feldwebel for the squad. Hamner, remove those stripes.” Hartmann stood for a long moment. “First Company, right, face! Forward at the quickstep, march!”
****
It was brutal. Hartmann drilled them, screaming when they didn't do it right, giving them no praise when they finally began to do it right in self-defense. On Thursday of that first week, he finally halted them beside the row of tents. “Tomorrow, you will be issued your rifles, and this is where you begin to be real soldiers. Fall out for dinner. Dismissed!”
Luftman walked over, then collapsed on his face before the first squad tent. “I am dying,” he moaned.
“You are not dead yet, Johann.” Becker eased himself down to pull off his boots.
“Only because the bastard told us we needed his permission to die, Linus.”
“Where did he go?” Dietrich asked. No one needed to ask who he meant.
“To report to the lieutenant then to that inn he stays in, as he does every day, Fritz,” Luftman mumbled from where his face lay in the mud.
Dietrich looked in that direction, and slowly began to smile. Becker shook his boot to get some dirt out of it. “That smile is worrying me, Fritz.”
“Remember how he acted when they caught the sneak thief?”
While most of the corporal punishment done in the regiment was carried out by the men of the units, Hartmann had stopped some men of Third Company who were beating a sneak thief caught in the act. Instead, he formed their company into a gauntlet. With his own squad leader in front with a drawn blade, and the junior man of his squad following with another, they had walked the man down the line, each man striking him with a birch branch as he passed. It was a savage punishment, but every man in the company had been able to strike him, rather than the four that had been administering the beating. By the time he reached the end, he was staggering in pain, and bloody. The man had been dropped from the regiment without a word.
“Well picture our dear training sergeant going through that.”
The others looked at each other. Becker shook his head. “Fritz, while it sounds lovely, how are you going to arrange that?”
“You will see.”
****
“They are beginning to shape up, Sir,” Hartmann reported. Lieutenant Reicher's furniture included a small traveling writing desk sitting on a folding table, and the silver inkstand he had brought from home. Where his men slept rolled up in blankets on the ground, and sometimes in pairs when it got cold, the lieutenant had a cot that had been built in the city, and had a small clay stove he had bought. Where his men shivered on guard, the lieutenant had a pot with strong hot broth to sip in the chill. The lieutenant was ignoring him, writing yet another letter.
“Good, Sergeant, good.” The lieutenant finished the letter, putting the pen he'd bought in the stand, then sanded the letter. “As long as they do their bit, I am satisfied. Is there anything else?”
“They will be getting their rifles tomorrow morning. With your permission, I will take them to the butts to learn how to fire them.”
“Whatever you think wise, Sergeant.” The letter was folded. “Post this for me, please.”
Hartmann took the letter. “Yes, Sir.” He saluted and strode across the camp. Behind him, Dietrich watched.
****
The men were finishing their breakfast when the lieutenant along with a dozen men from the MP company stalked into the area. “Hartmann!”
The sergeant handed his bowl to the woman who washed and walked over to stand before the lieutenant. “Sir?”
“One of your men was seen in my tent this last evening. And my inkstand is missing!” He motioned. “Search their baggage!”
“Sir, it is against regulations to merely have men searching their gear without them witnessing it. We can handle this.”
“And what will you do if he is caught?” the lieutenant snarled. “Use harsh language?”
“They have seen the gauntlet in action, Sir. Whoever has done this will face it.” Hartmann turned. “First Company! Bring out your footlockers for inspection!”
Everyone except for the squad leaders leaped to obey. “You are not exempt!” Hartmann shouted. He put his words into action, walking into the barracks and bringing out his own footlocker. Once they were all out, Hartmann saluted. “Inspection can begin, Sir!” He stopped the first man who walked forward. “Start with my gear, Sergeant.”
Becker looked down the rank to Dietrich, who had a wicked gleam in his eyes.
The MP shrugged, went to the solo footlocker, and began removing all of the contents. His associates went to First Squad's footlockers.
“We have you now, you bastard,” Dietrich whispered.
A few moments later, the MP motioned to the luggage, then walked toward Second Squad's gear. Dietrich's grin slipped. The uncomfortable silence lasted for over an hour. But nothing was found. The lieutenant snarled, then stalked off followed by the MPs.
Hartmann turned to the company. “Put your gear back in order. We will march over to collect our rifles once that is done. Oh, and to the one who tried to hide the lieutenant's inkstand in my locker, when he finds it under his cot, he can always ask the police in Grantville to use their fingerprint powder to find out who to blame. Fall out.”
Hartmann filled his pipe, lighting it as he watched the men replacing their gear. Maybe he should mention he had wiped the item down when he returned it to the lieutenant's tent? No. Let them sweat.
Magdeburg training camp, Monday, Week Two
While they had been issued their rifles the previous Friday, Hartmann had his men learning how to march with them, mastering the manual at arms, and learning to load, aim, and fire without flint, punctuated by the occasional scream when a bare serpentine pinched a thumb instead of a flint slicing it.
Now led by a young drummer boy, they slow-marched to the butts. After stacking their arms, Hartmann had them fall out and sit on the ground.
“This is the SRG rifle.” As Hartmann explained, he drew out one of his cartridges. “Watch carefully. First you fill the pan. Do not overfill, because the powder will sometimes flash into the face of the man beside you when it fires.” He bit out the bullet, half-cocked the weapon, laid the powder in, then closed the frizzen. He set the butt on the ground, spitting the ball into his hand. “Now, pour the charge down the barrel, then the wadding.” He stuffed the paper tube into the barrel, setting the Minié ball on top. “Then ram it home.” As he finished, he looked at them. “Always return the ramrod to its sleeve. If you do not, in battle I will send you out with a white flag to get it back.”
He turned, aiming down range. “You will see there are straw targets at one hundred yards. But there are others at two hundred and three hundred. Watch the center one at three hundred carefully.” He shouldered the weapon. For a long moment, nothing happened, then there was a spurt of flame, and the rifle fired, the ball hitting the man-sized target in the chest. He lowered the rifle, turning back to them.
“If for whatever reason your weapon does not fire, keep it pointed downrange. You men have a big advantage over how it was when I first learned about rifles. When you load and fire an arquebus, it is just point and hope, with a much larger flash. It is not rifled, meaning we fired in volleys hoping that maybe we would hit something. But watching Julie Sims with her rifle at Jena, I swore I would learn how to fire one correctly, and you will learn as I did, by doing.
“First Platoon, on the line.” The men stood where he showed them to. Hartmann watched them as he gave them commands. When every rifle was loaded, he walked along behind them. He had them present the weapons, then walked down the line the opposite direction, correcting their grips, assuring their weapons were pressed snug into their shoulders, and giving advice on how to aim.
“At the volley, take aim, fire!” The weapons went off not in a mass, but in a series with several single shots going off before or after. “Do not worry about doing it correctly yet. Reload, slow fire.” He began to troop the line yet again. The men reloaded, weapons aimed down range. On the command, they fired again, closer together. Ahead of Hartmann, Hamner looked at his weapon. The frizzen was up, but the rifle had not fired, though the powder in the pan was smoking. He started to turn, then suddenly found his arms shoved upward the hang fire going off into the air. He gasped as the butt slammed into his shoulder from almost eight inches away.
“What did I say?” Hartmann hissed into his face. “Keep a weapon that has not fired pointing downrange!” He stepped back. “Jäger, Blum, your packs.” The men shrugged out of their field packs, and Hartmann hung one on either side of Hamner's grip on the rifle. “High port!” Hamner raised his arms until they were fully extended. “Now stand that way until I tell you otherwise! Everyone gather in close.”
The sergeant stripped off his tunic, then rolled up his left sleeve, raising his arm above his head. There was what looked like a line of flesh scooped out of the forearm about halfway up. “Can you all see this scar? It was my first battle with an arquebus. All they taught us before we were in the line was how to load and fire! So when the weapon on my right hung fire, which is what happened to Hamner, he turned as Hamner did. When it fired, the bullet broke my arm. The man to my left was struck in the head and killed!”
He glared at them all. “There will be enough of the enemy trying to kill you without killing each other by accident. Now, First Platoon, stand down. Second Platoon, assume the line!”
Except for Hamner, who stood straining, every man fired ten rounds.
Magdeburg training camp, Thursday, Week Two
Dietrich came out of his tent and froze at the sight in the battalion mess area. Hamner was spread-eagled, his hands and feet tied to knives stuck in the ground and gagged.
By Hamner's head, Sergeant Hartmann was sitting on a stool eating his breakfast as more men gathered to see it. Hartmann looked around then back at his bowl. “Dietrich, get the rest of the company out here in formation.”
Behind him on the edge of the mess area, officers sat on their horses. Hartmann walked over and talked to them while the men were gathering. The men recognized the three company officers, who up until now had merely ridden up, watched, maybe talked to Hartmann, and departed. The Captain said, “Carry on, Sergeant.” Then they all rode away.
Once they were standing in their ranks, Hartmann walked across the mess area to deliver his utensils, then walked back over to stand over Hamner, pulling out his pipe and filling it. Once it was drawing properly, he looked to his men. “Up until now, we have left the discipline to you. There have been no real complaints except for some who think you have been either too harsh or lenient.
“However this man decided to attack me last night. Under regulations, he would be hung; waste of my time after I beat some sense into him. As you see, I did discuss it with our officers, and they approved. But he must learn the same lesson you will all need to learn. If you try to do what the up-timers call 'fragging' me, don't fail.” He motioned. “Untie him.” As Hamner stood, Hartmann pointed, and he joined the ranks.
He looked across the silent lines. “The next time someone tries, I will merely kill him. Now, have your breakfast and let's get back to work.” Hartmann turned and strode away.
Magdeburg training camp, February, Week Three
“I do not like the look of that,” Luftman whispered.
“There is no reason you should.”
The recruit jumped. Hartmann walked around the front of the company, motioning across a hundred yards of frozen ground to where one of the pike battalions stood with their weapons presented. While the sharpened steel heads were not attached, the bare poles themselves looked ominous. Hartmann had his men break formation, walk around the pike formation, and return.
As Hartmann paced down the ranks, he watched his men. “The main threat we face is other infantry, and the standard infantry formation for all of the armies has been the tercio.” He waved behind him. “While it has been the queen of battle for almost a century and a half, the tercio has its flaws. The first is the speed of advance. Pikes! Advance at the half-step!” he shouted.
The pikes began marching forward, moving at about one mile per hour. But as they advanced, the pikes thrust in unison with a shout at each step. “Pikes, halt!” He turned to face his men again. “The second is maneuvering. As one of the up-timers commented, they maneuver like a spider on rollerskates, though I had to watch one of their movies to understand what they meant. Last, if that pike line is penetrated, most of those men are unable to defend themselves. That is why they have this formation.” He turned.
“Pikes! Skirmisher front!” The first rank dropped the pikes to waist level, the second to just above stomach, the third to shoulder height. But the fourth and fifth dropped the points while lifting, creating a curtain of points below the first rank's leveled weapons.
“That is where we come in. If it comes to it, we are going to break that line. We have an advantage over arquebusiers. When we needed to defend ourselves, we would jam our knives into the barrel. But until we have time to remove it, we were not shooting, were we? But you can use your bayonets and still shoot. So this is what we do.”
He took one of the rifles, then fixed the bayonet with its sheath tied down. He looked at the pikes. “Now you men aren't going to try to hurt me, are you?”
“We will kill you if you don't move fast enough!” someone in the third row shouted, and the pikemen laughed.
“A budding sergeant if I have ever heard one.” Hartmann shouted “Charge!” as he took off at a run toward the pike line. Just as the leveled ones started to thrust, he dropped suddenly to his hands and knees, and scuttled forward fast, dodging the lowered points as they tried to pin him to the ground. A moment later the man in front of him dropped his pike and was shoved aside as the sergeant stood. “That's the way to do it.”
“That's suicide!”
“Suicide?” Hartmann pushed his way to walk back to stand in front of his company. “It is suicide to stand here and let them kill you. It is dangerous, yes. You can be killed breaking the pikes. But if anyone told you that being a soldier was safe, he was lying. Now, by platoons, fix bayonets! With the damned sheaths on them! Now, charge!”
Magdeburg training camp, March, Week Nine
“This will be five rounds slow fire, aiming every shot. Anyone who does not meet my standards will end up assigned to pikes. Since the army is going to phase pikes out within the year, it means you will end up with every grunt work job until you learn, or go to the artillery, poor bastards. First Platoon! Take the line!”
****
The bullet sliced neatly into the target's chest, and Hamner began reloading smoothly. He'd learned his lessons, even lambasting Krause who stood beside him when the idiot almost duplicated his own mistake from that first day. Reloaded, he lifted the weapon, took aim, and the next ball hit within an inch of the first.
“You are doing well, Hamner.”
He looked back at the sergeant. He still didn't like the son of a bitch, but that didn't mean he didn't know how to shoot.
“Now, try the further target.”
“Yes, sergeant.” Hamner reloaded, then aimed carefully. He had never realized how small a human being would be at a hundred yards, and at two hundred, they were barely the size of his thumbnail. He took a breath, and released it slowly as he squeezed the trigger. The shot was a surprise as it should be. The helmet on the target jumped up and away.
“Don't aim for the head.” He felt the sergeant standing closer. “Aim at center of mass. If you miss high, the ball will probably miss everyone else in the enemy formation, but if you aim lower, even if you miss him, someone else in the tercio will be hit. Again.”
As he reloaded, he heard the sergeant moving further down the line, giving each man instructions. The sergeant had taken more interest in his men than before. He was always there when they were practicing, and he had gone from a brute beating it into their heads to a gentler taskmaster. He even sat with them and discussed politics and the CoC's purposes. He understood them far too well to be just some ogre as they had originally thought.
What he had done with Lieutenant Reicher had been even more amazing. The young man had spent most of his time drinking and playing cards badly in the officer's mess until Hartmann arrived. But soon he had buckled down, learning to lead, rather than languidly pointing and saying, “Do it”.
As the platoon on the line fired their fifth round, Hartmann signaled a pair from the second platoon forward. They walked down the line of targets, touching where the bullets had hit, and made a note on the paper they had been given. Then they ran back to the firing line. Hartmann looked at the notes, then looked at the men. “Becker, Lofton, and Hamner. Fall out over there.” He motioned to the side. Then he read a shorter list, only two names. “Second Platoon, assume the line.”
“Why did he single us out?” Becker hissed as the second platoon took their shots.
“You are asking me?” Hamner hissed. “Perhaps they are sending us to Third Battalion to be pikemen.”
Finally all three platoons had fired. The number of men set aside had grown to ten, with eight standing in another place. “Now the rest of you—congratulations, you have qualified.” He turned to the smaller group. “You men have failed to qualify. You can shoot to qualify again next week. However that will be a pass-fail. If you do not, you will try with the shotgun, but if you fail again you go to the pikes.”
Finally he turned to the last dozen. “You men, I have only two things to say. Well done! All of you hit the targets where it would have killed or seriously wounded the enemy with every shot. Any of you who are not squad leaders will assume a squad leader position. Except for the first name, the following men are as of now the platoon wachtmeister. Step forward when your name is called.” He looked at the list. “Heavy weapons, Dietrich. First platoon, Becker. Second, Frakes. Third, Hamner.” The three men pushed to the front. “Now you three. About, face!”
After all this time, it was automatic. “Look at these three men. They will be marching your platoons from place to place, they have all the authority needed to punish any transgressor in this company. They are the disciples of your savior, who is me, and I sit at the right hand of Saint Sebastian, who is our lieutenant. So that is who you speak to if you wish to complain, in order. Them, me, then the lieutenant.” He saw a tentative hand raised. “Yes, Krause?”
“What about the Captain?”
“I think that is enough theology for one day, lad. We'll discuss such things when needed.”
Dietrich, who had been among the ones who had not qualified waited until they were back at the compound and dismissed before chasing after Hartmann. “Sergeant?” Hartmann stopped, turning. “I did not qualify, yet you made me a feldwebel and put me in charge of the heavy weapons squad?”
Hartmann linked his hands behind his back. “You are arrogant and stupid. Even after all this training, you are a liability to the company. The one thing you are good at, I am told, is you love the up-timer baseball, and can throw well. Since the heavy weapons squad is armed with 'buck and ball' arquebus and grenades, I felt that using what you are good at will help. If I am wrong, all you will get killed is those ten men.” Then he stepped close enough that Dietrich could feel his breath against his face.
“If you get them killed, I will be very upset with you. Dismissed.”
Magdeburg, March, Week Ten
“Come on.” Becker motioned, and the friends he had made in the company followed. Since he was by nature a friendly guy, it was over thirty men. Ahead of him, Sergeant Hartmann was leading the camp followers including the company drummer down the street in the fading twilight.
Some of the regiments had done away with camp followers, replacing them with men from the units now doing the cooking. But there were enough men who had once been mercenaries in the Third that the camp followers were kept for cooking and laundry. But what was the sergeant doing?
They came to an inn, and Becker motioned the men into hiding. He waited until the door of the inn closed, then motioned the men to gather around. “That was the inn where I met the sergeant the first time.”
“So what are we going to do?” Ritterman asked.
Becker cuffed the very young man absently. “I thought I made that clear before. We are off duty, yes? We are allowed to drink when off duty. Therefore we are going to wait for a couple of minutes, walk in, have a drink, and find out what the hell he is doing with our women and drummer. Now come on.”
The mob moved down the street, and Becker pushed the door open, shoving his way in, followed by his men. There was screaming by a dozen women. A minute later they all poured back out, flustered. “What the hell—” someone began.
The door opened, and Hartmann looked out. “Well, we can use some help here. Get inside. Now!”
The men shuffled back in, looking every way but at the women who had stripped to their chemises. Once the door was closed, Hartmann looked the men over, then the women. “Frau Kaufman, you were worried about how long it would take to help the women get dressed again. I am sure I have several volunteers to assist them.” He looked at the men idly. “True?”
“But Sergeant—”
“Ritterman, you should know how she puts them on before you try to get a woman out of her clothes. Though I have found kind words and a gentle manner works a lot of the time. So, two men to each woman. Help them get dressed. Becker, you help Frau Kaufman. There are packages over there with our women's names on them. Pass them out.”
“What are we doing?” Becker grumbled as he came over and took a paper-wrapped package. It had a name on it, and he passed it to that woman. The package contained a new dress in burgundy wool.
“Every regiment that continues to have camp followers are required to get them good clothing for the campaign. Your lieutenant is the son of a cloth merchant, and your sergeant suggested that your regimental camp followers could buy the cloth from his family.” Frau Kaufman told him when he came back.
“So the lieutenant paid for these?”
She handed him another package as she shook her head. “The women have to pay for it?”
“No.” She motioned to Hartmann, who was berating one of the men for paying more attention to the woman's figure than lacing her bodice. “Your sergeant paid for the ones in your battalion. After all of his years, he has saved enough to retire if he wished. So he has it to spend.” She looked at the man fondly. “He saved my daughters and I during the sack and sewing these up for him is little enough to pay him back for that.”
“But why did the sergeant have to pay?”
“Because the lieutenant's family cannot afford it after sending him money to spend.” Becker jumped as Hartmann answered the question. “He also writes his family three times a week because he is an only child and they worry about him. So I am helping them. Speed it up, Becker.” With the women gently teasing the men, the camp followers were soon arrayed in matching clothes. The drummer boy came out of the back, wearing a feldgrau uniform in his size.
“Giving a woman clothes is a courtship offer, is it not?” Ritterman asked. The room fell silent the women looking at each other, then at Hartmann.
He took out his pipe, looking from face to face as he filled and lit it. “My wife would not approve,” he replied mildly. He looked toward the stairs, and for the first time he had an honest gentle smile. He brushed past them, almost running to where an almost waifish blonde was slowly coming down the stairs, her other hand pressed tightly to her grossly swollen belly. He got her down to the floor, arm going around her, then looked up. Seeing all of those faces watching him, that smile was replaced by the one they all knew so well.
“Sergeant, request permission to find something else to do?” Becker asked.
“Be about it.”
Magdeburg training camp, Last Week of April, Deployment
“Attention to orders!” Hartmann held the paper he had been given by the lieutenant. “The Third Regiment will join the regiments preparing to march to Hamburg. We leave in the morning, so pack your backpacks, and transport footlockers to storage. That is all.”
The entire camp exploded into activity. The Third was not the only regiment being deployed, and everyone was running around like mad getting ready. Several wagons were brought, and after picking what they needed to carry, the footlockers were loaded on.
The next morning Hartmann rose, dressing quietly. He had just finished pulling on his boots when a hand ran up his back. He turned, looking into Marta's eyes. “I will miss you, my love,” she whispered.
“I will count the days,” he replied, leaning down and gently kissing her.
He marched into what had been the battalion area. The tents were down, and packed into wagons. The men were gathered around a cauldron, sipping broth. Hartmann pushed through, thanked the girl for his mug, and sipped it. “Finish your drinks, and in formation.”
The men formed into ranks, and Hartmann walked down the line, checking. Behind them the rest of the battalion had also formed, and soon there were men in ranks covering hundreds of yards.
“All ready, recruits?”
“But, aren't we soldiers now?” Frakes asked.
Hartmann gave him a pitying look. “When you have survived your first battle, you are a soldier. Until then, you are still recruits.”
“All ready, Sergeant?”
Hartmann turned, saluting the major.
“Men, the Third Regiment has been assigned to a new organization, the First Division. We march for Hamburg to prepare to break the siege of Lübeck. Eight other regiments are already there awaiting us. Sergeant, march them out.”
“Yes, sir.” Hartmann turned about. “First Company!” As he paused, he heard the other company sergeants bawling out the orders. “Forward at the slow march, March!”
Like a giant snake, the army marched. In the lead was the Third Regiment, followed by the others in First Division and then additional regiments that would join those at Hamburg to form the Second Division. They marched into Magdeburg and toward Hans Richter Square where the general and Princess Kristina watched from the steps of the palace. At the command, they sped up to the quick march, arms swinging, and at the next command, eyes snapped right as they paraded past. As the company passed from the city, Hartmann shouted, “Battle Hymn of the Republic!”
North of Hamburg, May, 1634
The tents went up quickly, and Hartmann watched the men. They had come together as a unit, but there was still that final test, when the iron he had forged met the fire of war. “Sergeant?” A runner saluted him. “The lieutenant wants to see you.”
The very young man Heinrich Reicher had been had changed in the last months. He had found his sergeant knew more about war than he had even read about, and when he had made mistakes as any young officer would, the sergeant had spoken to him later, and helped him. Always there for advice. But right now, he was that young man out of his depth again. “Sergeant, I . . .” He fell silent, then held out a radio message slip.
Hartmann took it and read silently. Then he gently folded it, and stuck it in his pocket. “Anything else, sir?”
“I can arrange for you to go home?”
“Nothing I can do there, Sir. The men need me before their first battle.”
“Oh, of course. Is there anything I can do?”
Hartmann considered. “There is one thing I didn't pack sir.”
****
“Will you look at that?” Dietrich commented. The recruit sergeants were gathered to check that everything was done, and the feldwebel pointed at Hartmann, who was marching back to the company area with what looked like a bottle of brandy in his hand.
“Everything correct, gentlemen?” They snapped to and gave their reports. Hartmann seemed bemused. “Very good. Second Platoon has first watch. Rotate them every two hours. If you need anything, handle it. I'm going to be in my tent until morning.”
“Sergeant—” Hamner began.
“What part of handle it do you have a problem with, Recruit?” He glared at them, then turned on his heel, heading for the tent line.
“Maybe that is what he is. A man who has been in so many battles he has to drink himself into a stupor at the thought of another.” Dietrich said, grinning.
“Shut your mouth,” Becker snapped.
****
Hamner snapped awake at the touch. George Frakes looked at him, then touched his lips for silence. As soon as they were far enough away, Frakes spoke in a whisper. “Dietrich told his squad the sergeant was a drunk, and offered to let them see him passed out. One of my men on guard saw them and called me.”
“I am going to break that idiot's jaw, so help me God!” Hamner snarled.
They reached the single tent at the end of their company line and saw a dozen soldiers. Becker stuck his head out of the tent, saw the other platoon leaders, and motioned.
Hartmann had stripped off his tunic, and was laying sprawled beside his sleeping bag, an empty bottle by his hand. The sergeants looked down at him. Becker held a piece of crumpled paper. “He had this clutched in his fist when the watch checked on the disturbance.”
Hamner took it, opening it so all could see.
From: Magdeburg Training Camp
To: Third Regiment Command
Re: Hartmann, Richard, Sergeant. First Company, Second Battalion
IT IS WITH DEEPEST REGRET THAT WE INFORM YOU THAT MARTA KARCHER DIED THIS EVENING DURING PREMATURE LABOR X BOTH MOTHER AND CHILD DEAD X LEAVE CAN BE AUTHORIZED UPON REQUEST TO BATTALION AND COMPANY
Hamner folded it neatly, and stuck it in the pocket of the discarded tunic. He motioned, and after dousing the lantern, stepped outside. He crooked his finger, and the men with the two guards walked far enough away that it wouldn't disturb the drunken man. “Well, I hope you are all proud of yourselves. Especially you, Dietrich. The man's wife died last night, and he acted as any man might when he hears it from afar.
“So all of you hear me. If I hear a word about this from anyone who is not standing here with us right this minute, I will know someone here decided his pain—” He motioned toward the tent. “—was too good a story not to tell. If any of you ever treat the sergeant as a God-be-damned sideshow attraction, I will see to it you are found with stolen property. And then I will see you whipped half to death and left on the side of the road to finish the job. Do I make myself clear? Then I will find you, Dietrich, and I will beat you until you have to sit down to piss blood.” The men mumbled their agreement. “So all of you, to bed.”
As the men wandered off, Dietrich looked for a sympathetic face and saw none. “Linus?”
Becker stopped, looking at him coldly, then walked away leaving him alone in his misery.
Ahrensbök, May 1634
Only a day after their arrival the word was passed. The USE Navy had smashed the League blockade of Lübeck. The army besieging the town had shattered like a crystal goblet, the Danes fleeing for their own borders, while the token forces of the English and Spanish had broken east, hoping to avoid the army between the French and safety.
The USE forces had marched literally at first light, the cavalry had scouted ahead, and General Torstensson had already chosen his ground. The enemy had sighted them forming and began to form up as well.
Through the march, Hartmann had snapped orders, but beyond that he was silent. Today he had hung four wheel-locks from his belt, and as they stood ready, idly drew his Katzbalger, testing the edge before drawing out a stone to whet it.
Gone was the smile. He looked as if he were death, waiting to reap a few more souls, and the men who knew what had happened watched him with worry.
Reicher rode up, motioning. “A fine day for a battle, is it not?” the lieutenant asked with false cheer.
Hartmann looked up, sheathing the blade. “May I have a word, Lieutenant?”
“Of course.” The lieutenant climbed down. There was at least six hundred yards between the lines, and pacing a few away from the company would not put them in danger.
Facing away from the men, Hartmann spoke. “Sir, this is your first battle. I know what you are feeling here.” Hartmann tapped his own stomach. “You are frightened, and nervous.
“If you would, send someone for some coffee. Sit on your horse, better yet, get down and rest by the tree.” He motioned behind the lines at a small tree. “Sip your coffee, maybe look at a map, or read a book. Hell, if you can do it, lean back and have a snack or a nap while we wait. Because if you are nervous, the men worry.”
Reicher nodded. “I see what you mean.” He looked back toward the line. “Who should I send?”
“Luftman!” Hartmann shouted, turning. “Put your rifle down, run back to the camp, and bring some coffee for the lieutenant. And some sausage!” As the man turned and ran back, Hartmann looked to the lieutenant. “I know how you like your sausages, Sir.”
As the sun rose higher, Hartmann paced the lines, looking over the men. The company was in the first line of the battalion, and they stood watching the enemy across the way. There were pikes to either side of them and cannon just past the pikes to his left. The army spread to the right as far as a small river, with the cavalry massed on that end of the line. He walked to the end of the block, looking back where the lieutenant sat, sipping his coffee, picking up, but he could tell, not eating the sausage. First Lieutenant Brinkman, Captain Nudelmann, and Major Manstein had merely come down, checked the formation, and were now all sitting with Reicher, chatting as if it were just a spring picnic.
The artillery began firing, and one of the first shots went skipping through the ranks less than an arm's length from where Hartmann stood. Some of the men flinched back screaming—the men beside them had been turned into paste and body parts in an instant.
“Stand fast, you bastards! It is like rain. You cannot dodge every drop!” He cursed his luck—mere feet, and he would already be dead. He took out the locket, opening it to look at that beloved face. What was it that had been said in that old movie he had watched at the Christmas party that first year? “Always a delicate creature, whom a breath might have withered, but she had a large heart!” Soon enough my love. He put it away again.
There was a flurry of drum rolls and fifes from the French, and Hartmann looked up. “Not yet, lads. That's the enemy cavalry getting ready for a charge.” He motioned at the tercio facing them. “We are going to be fighting them today.”
There was screaming and firing from the right, then the remnants of the enemy cavalry fled back to their own lines, followed by the USE's cavalry smashing into and through them to hit the pikes on that end.
“Bit of a dust-up over there. Pay attention to your front, lads.”
For almost another hour, the armies just stood facing each other as the artillery dueled. Then again the drums and fifes. The French began marching toward them, tercios forming into blocks as they did, the enemy line compressing.
Reicher came up on his horse. “Here they come, Sergeant.” He leaned down, whispering. “What should I do now?”
“Just shout for me to deal with it, Sir. Flourishing your sword would not be amiss.”
“You know what to do, Sergeant!”
Hartmann saluted him, winking.
Behind the young man Major Manstein grinned, drawing his own sword. “Battalion, on the command, fix bayonets!” he shouted. “Fix bayonets!”
First Company did it as if it were a drill field. Someone back in Third dropped his, and his sergeant screamed at him.
“Sergeant Hartmann!”
“Yes, Major?”
“I hear some of your men are very good with a rifle. Want to make a wager?”
“On what, Sir?”
“Pick your best. Every man who gets one of them at 300 yards I pay you an Imperial Reichsthaler. Every one who misses, you pay me one.”
Hartmann bent, picked up some dirt, and dropped it. The wind was blowing from the enemy toward them. “First Company feldwebeln, form a line!” The men came forward. The major rode forward even with them.
“Single fire, wait for the command. I want to know who has been paying attention, after all.” Hartmann shouted. “Now, number one, fire!” Ten shots later, Hartmann had won eight Reichsthaler with nine of his men hitting one of the men in the approaching formation.
Except for the artillery that was still firing, nothing much was happening here. The tercio in front of them took a pair of balls skipping through the ranks, and as they watched, the men moved like water filling a hole, and they faced a solid rank yet again.
“I think they should see what our heavy weapons can do,” Manstein said. “Hartmann, take the heavy weapons squads forward and give them a volley from one hundred yards.”
“Battalion heavy weapons! Form a line!” Hartmann shouted. The forty men moved to the front, and snapped to attention. “At the quick step, forward!” The men who followed Hartmann were armed with arquebuses with bayonets attached to the muzzle off to the side to replace the shotguns too few in numbers to supply them. “At the command, you will volley fire one round. Take your aim!”
There were almost three hundred yards between the formations, with the thin line of heavy weapons closer. As the enemy reached one hundred yards from the closer line, Hartmann drew his sword. “Heavy weapons! Fire!”
The enemy probably thought they knew what would happen. Forty men firing at extreme range, maybe half a dozen dead or wounded. But the up-timers had showed them how to convert the inaccurate weapons into man-killers by loading not one large ball, but nine smaller thirty-two caliber balls with that same three-quarter inch ball on top, which at this range had a spread of several feet. Four hundred balls smashed into the enemy, and a dozen fell. It was long range for an arquebus.
The men fell back as instructed, reloading rapidly.
“Sling arms! Prepare grenades! I know your man Dietrich has been training them.” The men plucked their slow matches from the weapons then slung them, and fished out one of the round fist-sized balls. “Wait for it, lads. . .” As the enemy reached forty yards he shouted, “Light, throw!”
The grenadiers threw like Dietrich had shown them, gripping the ball like a baseball. The grenades hit the ground, rolling forward.
Now they could hear men screaming over the crump of the grenades. “Run!” They fell back at the command, slotting back in with their companies. As the pikes began coming through the smoke that was blowing from the grenades, they could see ragged holes in the formation, the pikemen trying to dress their ranks.
“At one hundred yards, the battalion will present and give them two volleys!” Major Manstein shouted.
“You heard him!” Hartmann shouted.
“Battalion! Present!” Manstein raised his sword, watching the enemy, then it slashed down. “Fire!”
Three hundred sixty rifles and forty arquebuses fired, seven hundred and sixty balls ripping into the enemy. The pikemen went down in windrows. “Reload!” Hartmann shouted. He took one of his wheel-locks, cocking the hammer.
“Aim! Fire!” This volley tore into the enemy, and the men stood, still aimed. “Low port, bayonet stance! Give them steel!” The points of the bayonets dropped to waist level with a roar from the battalion.
“First Company! Prepare to charge!” Hartmann heard someone in the French ranks shouting and the tercio stopped. They had heard the command, and while marching in skirmisher formation was possible, they wouldn’t do it if they had a choice.
“First Company, charge!” Hartmann took off in a run, moving across the line following him to aim at the center of the enemy formation, pistol in one hand, sword in the other. Here is when it would happen, when he would die. Even if he would not go willingly.
At twenty yards he aimed and fired. A man went down with his face a mass of blood. He dropped the gun, no time to hang it where it had been, instead snatching out another.
Then he was there, dropping before the first pikes, scuttling frantically forward. He heard someone scream behind him, but he didn't pay attention. He was too busy avoiding the pikes that tried to pin him to the ground. Then he slashed, the man in front of him screaming as he folded, and Hartmann was suddenly in his place, the pistol blowing a man from his feet as he slashed into the men to either side. “Kill me, you bastards!”
He smashed forward, more and more men joining him, ripping through the enemy formation like a dull saw. Then it was too confusing, the enemy dropping pikes to grab their own swords, a bayonet passing inches from his face to punch another man off his feet. Somehow Hartmann reached back to who and what he was. “Second Platoon, straight forward! Third, push right! First, push left!”
He came out into the open. Most of the rear five ranks had broken, the enemy running toward the rear having thrown their weapons aside. This tercio was shattered, but others still stood firm to either side. His madness had somehow passed. Hartmann looked around for someone familiar. “Becker, have your men reload and fire into the pikes on the left! Hamner, the same on the right! Keep pushing them! We can roll the line up from here with support!” He looked at the wheel-lock, dropping the bloodied weapon to the ground. He drew his third, cocking it, looking at the men around him who seemed to be confused. “Come on you, men! We have work to do!”
Ahrensbök, The Aftermath
Hartmann bent, picking up the last of the wheel-locks, wiping dirt from it before hanging it on his belt and turning to go back. His men were scattered around, guarding prisoners or gathering abandoned or surrendered weapons.
“Sergeant.”
He looked up at Colonel Ludendorf.
“That was a reckless stunt you pulled today.”
“I know, Sir. Sorry, Sir.”
The officer climbed down. “I did not get a chance to meet your wife. I share your pain.” He looked across the battlefield, at the enemy camp which was being systematically loaded to return to Magdeburg. “My wife died when I was a lieutenant, not much older than your Herr Reicher. Before this bloody war began.” He looked at his subordinate. “I was just as reckless at White Mountain. I wanted so much to die, to merely join her in heaven. I made a name for myself there and enough loot to buy my first command.”
“I remember, Sir.”
“One day, Sergeant—Richard. One day you will hold her in your arms again.”
Hartmann shook his head. “Not much chance of that. She will be in heaven, and I will be like Gunga Din. Squatting on the coals, giving drink to poor damned souls—”
“—And I'll get a swig in Hell from Gunga Din,” Ludendorf finished. “We have no children of our bodies, Richard. But you have some brave lads there who are as much your sons.”
“That I do.” Hartmann looked across the field. “Even if almost thirty of them died or were wounded today.”
“Sergeant, you showed we can break their pikes, either the old way, or standing off and hammering them with volleys.”
Hartmann hadn't even considered doing it that way. Old dogs . . . His back stiffened. “I had best get back to it, Sir.”
****
As the sun set, Hartmann went to his tent, set the wheel-locks in his kit, and went across the camp to the field hospital. He walked down the aisle, taking a moment with each of his men, his boys. Then he went to a smaller tent, where those who were not expected to live had been placed. He walked down to the third bed, sat cross-legged beside it and took the limp hand.
“You could have let me die there, Fritz.” He spoke to Dietrich. “As much as I wanted to die, it would have been a blessing. But you just had to throw yourself in the way.”
Hours later, he quit the tent.
“Angels ride his shoulders” was the whisper in the camp that night. “He made a deal with the Devil” was the opposing argument. No one believed he had done it unaided.
And no one—no one—so much as thought either statement anywhere near his presence.
****