Table of Contents

- Dedication

- Acknowledgments for the original edition

- Chapter 1: The Battle of Alte Veste

- Chapter 2: Going Home

- Chapter 3: Security Consultants

- Chapter 4: Basic

- Chapter 5: Bretagne and Schlinck

- Epilogue

- Cast List

A Matter of Security

A Ring of Fire Novel

Bjorn Hasseler

Baen

A Matter of Security

A Ring of Fire Novel

Bjorn Hasseler

It’s a matter of security. When the Ring of Fire drags Grantville, West Virginia back to seventeenth-century Germany, down-time veteran Edgar Neustatter finds himself among the survivors of a unit devastated by the up-time Americans and their Swedish allies. After wintering in Grantville, they return home to find that while they have changed, their village has not. Having glimpsed the promise of a republic ruled by its people rather than lords and tyrants, Neustatter leads his men and their families back to Grantville to establish a new agency: Neustatter’s European Security Services. The city from the future counts cowboys and detectives among its heroes—and still needs them. Join Neustatter, Astrid Schäubin, and NESS as they face desperate refugees, towns on the edge of revolution, and those who want to preserve the old order at all costs, while juggling basic training, modern education, and the day-to-day challenges of living in a boom town. Does NESS have the flexibility, training, and firepower to survive in the new timeline?

A Matter of Security

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

Copyright © 2021 by Bjorn Hasseler

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form.

Baen Books Edition

eISBN: 978-1-62579-957-9

Cover art by Vladimir Shvachko

Original publication April 2021, 1632, Inc.

Electronic version by Baen Books

www.baen.com

Dedication

To Robert Wagoner, Jr, my Learning Lab II teacher in fourth through sixth grade, who taught me to think outside the box, to limit the scope of projects to something manageable, and who arranged for me to borrow an Apple IIE from General Brown Jr/Sr High School so that I could write stories during the summer after seventh grade.

Acknowledgments for the original edition

Thank you to Eric Flint for creating the 1632 universe and making it a shared universe.

Thank you to Walt Boyes and Joy Ward, editors of Ring of Fire Press, who made sure this novel got better along the way.

Thank you to the 1632 community, especially Grantville Gazette editors Paula Goodlett and Walt Boyes; Virginia DeMarce, who created the grid and found historical characters for me; David Carrico, for his example and encouragement; Kerryn Offord, who keeps track of character claims and posted some of the first feedback I received; Terry Howard, who developed the Anabaptist community in Grantville; Michael Knopp, who answers all my questions about maps and what is where; Rainer Prem, who put together the GridViewer site that let me see family relationships among the characters; and Mike Watson, whose search engine is invaluable to maintaining continuity in the 1632 universe. Thank you to those who have borrowed my characters and let me borrow theirs, who welcomed a newbie to 1632 cons, and to many others who have offered suggestions and posted comments.

Thank you to my family and to David and Jennifer Monath, who have listened to me talk about these characters a lot and offered some really good suggestions.

Additional acknowledgments for this edition

Thank you to Toni Weisskopf and Baen Books for acquiring the NESS books.

Thank you to everyone who asked if you could still get the books and who waited for them to come back.

Chapter 1: The Battle of Alte Veste

Imperial Siege Lines outside Nürnberg

September 1632

“Battle is coming.”

A tall, broad-shouldered man in his late twenties stood atop one of the hills west of Nürnberg, watching the day dawn.

Those hills had been logged bare for firewood by Wallenstein’s massive army and now every reasonably flat area was covered with their tents. Wallenstein’s headquarters was on the next hilltop, by the remains of the old castle. His army had laid siege to the city weeks ago. Beyond the base of the hills lay the actual siege lines themselves. Facing them were the Swedish defensive lines surrounding Nürnberg. But in the last few days, there had been movement in the Swedish lines.

A second man, about the same age but shorter and decidedly scruffier, made his way out of a nearby tent. The two of them looked out over the siege lines for a few minutes.

“I am surprised to see you up early, Lukas.” The tall man never turned his head away from the siege lines.

“I could not sleep. Nothing decent to drink,” the scruffy man said. “Heard you get up, Neustatter.”

A couple more minutes passed. The tall man kept studying the Swedish lines.

“That is a lot of movement in the Swedish lines. More than I have seen before.”

“I heard people from the future are allied to the Swedes.”

“Could be, Lukas. In fact, that much is probably true—that the Swedes have a new ally.”

“A whole heap of Croats attacked their town. Less than half of them came back. Might really be from the future.”

“So I hear.” The way he said it gave no indication whether he was expressing confirmation or doubt.

A third man joined them.

“Stefan.”

The dark-haired man was a decade older than the other two and wore a perpetual frown. “People from the future. Who ever heard of such a thing?”

“They must be,” Lukas insisted. “I heard the Croats took the town by surprise and still lost.”

“So I hear,” the tall man repeated.

“You cannot believe every rumor,” Stefan said. “Why, I heard someone claim that Gustav Adolf personally rode to the town’s defense.”

“Well, maybe that one is not true.” Lukas pointed at the Swedish lines. “He is supposed to be somewhere over there, ja?”

After a few more minutes, Neustatter returned to the tent and shook another man awake. “Ditmar, wake up. Keep your voice down. Wake Hjalmar. Dress and then the two of you cook breakfast.”

Ditmar sat up right away, coming wide awake at Neustatter’s words. “What is happening?”

“I cannot put my finger on it, but something is different in the Swedish lines. I want us to be ready.”

Ditmar shook his cousin.

Neustatter was already waking another man. “Karl, I need you up.”

The big man stuck his head out from under his blanket. “What is it?”

“Something is not right in the Swedish lines. I need you to get Otto’s matchlock working.”

Karl stared at him for a moment, then threw off the blanket. “I am coming.”

Within minutes, Stefan and his buddy Wolfram had gone in search of wood and water. The two blond-haired Schaub cousins collected half a day’s rations from the others and began preparing breakfast in an iron pot.

A short distance away, Karl disassembled a matchlock musket on a blanket. The burly, well-muscled man was the biggest in their group. He fitted something back into place on the matchlock while the other man watched. The observer was of average height, average build, average brown hair, and looked just like half a million other German men.

“You can fix it?” He kept his voice down as Neustatter had instructed.

“Ja.” The big man’s voice was a quiet rumble. He pointed at a part. “This spring here—do not ever break it or even loosen it, Otto. I would need a blacksmith’s shop to fix it, and I do not have one.”

The average-looking man nodded solemnly. “Danke, Karl.”

Soon Stefan and Wolfram were back, Stefan carrying a few sticks, and Wolfram with a bucket of water. They quickly got a fire going.

Once Karl had reassembled Otto’s matchlock, he found Neustatter.

“Neustatter, the matchlocks and slow match are as ready as I can make them. They will all fire, at least several rounds.”

“Danke, Karl. I think we may need at least that many.”

Karl’s eyebrows raised, but he said nothing.

By the time breakfast was ready, the sky was brightening, and men were beginning to emerge from other tents.

“Eating a last meal?”

The callous remark boomed across that section of the line, shattering the quiet. The Schaub cousins looked up from the cookfire at the grizzled veteran who had uttered it. He homed in on the younger one.

“I asked you a question, boy.”

“I plan on surviving, Sergeant Wylich.” The young man stretched out a hand—to restrain his cousin who had risen to his feet in obvious anger. He was taller than the sergeant, but the older man appeared to outweigh him by a good forty pounds.

“Do not talk back to me, boy! I will—”

“Walk away.” Neustatter strode toward the cooking fire.

Sergeant Wylich whirled on him. “Did you just tell me what to do, Neustatter?”

“Nein. I told Ditmar to walk away. I would never tell you where to go . . . Sergeant.”

“You watch your tongue!”

Neustatter just stared him straight in the eyes.

“It is time I was done with you, Neustatter!” The sergeant glanced at the young man still tending breakfast. “But maybe I will have this one whipped instead, to teach you all a lesson.”

Neustatter kept staring him down.

“Your time is coming, Neustatter, but first I am going to take your men away, one by one,” the sergeant promised. He stalked off.

“Might not work out like you plan,” Neustatter muttered once he was out of earshot. He turned. Ditmar barely had himself under control. Neustatter waved the others close.

“Sergeant Wylich is ready to move against us,” Neustatter stated. “But he agrees with me—battle is coming. He cannot afford to injure his own men. Not until afterwards.”

“Now he is out to get all of us,” Stefan said.

“We are from the village. We stick together,” Neustatter said.

The others murmured “the village” in agreement.

“Finish breakfast. Then roll your blankets. Pack everything you have. Leave nothing behind but the tents.” Neustatter frowned. “We will have to leave the pot over the fire.”

“Neustatter?” Ditmar asked. “Are we planning on deserting? Or do you think we will be pursuing the Swedes?”

“That is an excellent question, Ditmar.” For a moment Neustatter looked uncertain. “I do not know. Check your weapons again.” As the group broke up, Neustatter caught Lukas by the arm. “Just in case the need arises—all your weapons.”

They mopped up the last of the broth with stale bread and packed everything they owned. Most of the regiment was still cooking breakfast when an ominous rumble began out beyond the bottom of the Burgstall—somewhere in the Swedish lines. Everyone’s heads came up at once.

“What is that?” Lukas asked.

“Nothing good,” the older Stefan predicted.

“Stefan might be right this time,” Karl rumbled.

“He might,” Neustatter agreed. “Do we have everything? Gut. We may as well fall in.”

The eight men from the village made the short walk to where their regiment assembled. From there, they could look down the hill to the siege lines. Men ran into position along the imperial lines, and blocks of men began forming up into tercios. Battalions were already in formation behind the Swedish lines, and Neustatter couldn’t see more than a token presence in the siege lines themselves.

“Looks like the Swedes are coming out,” Neustatter observed.

“Fall in! Fall in!” The shout was sudden, alarmed. It wasn’t even Sergeant Wylich, but Captain Trehar himself.

Men frantically gathered gear, swallowed what breakfast they could, and scurried around like ants in a hive. But there was order beneath the apparent chaos, and musketeers and pikemen began streaming into position. Neustatter and the other men from his village were already anchoring the front right corner, in two ranks of four, matchlocks at their sides.

Sergeant Wylich arrived and took position to Neustatter’s right and half a step back, then lowered his half-pike with an expression of sadistic glee.

“Dress ranks!” he ordered.

Neustatter, Lukas, Stefan, and Karl had to take an unnecessary step back, pushing against Wolfram, Otto, Hjalmar, and Ditmar. They in turn took a step back, producing grumbles from the third rank as the ranks of the tercio slowly rippled backward.

Captain Trehar strode up, more collected than he’d been a few minutes ago. “Is there a problem in the ranks?”

“These boys”—the sergeant pointed at Ditmar and Hjalmar—“don’t seem to be able to line up straight.”

“They need to be taught a lesson, Sergeant. See to it.”

Sergeant Wylich grinned maliciously. “You four, first rank. Neustatter, step back to second rank. There will be a flogging tonight. If any of you in the first rank survive.”

“Are you going to let them—!” Stefan’s hissed words ended in a gasp as Karl’s elbow found his ribs.

Neustatter simply stared straight ahead.

“You are going to watch,” Wylich promised over his shoulder. Anything else he might have added was cut off by a shout.

“What is that?”

“Quiet in the ranks!” Sergeant Wylich bellowed.

But the front ranks had seen the morning sunlight reflecting off of a . . . great metal box? It was already outside the Swedish lines.

“It is moving!”

“There is more than one!”

“Twelve in the column,” Neustatter told Sergeant Wylich a few moments later. “With men behind each one. They are all wearing mixed brown and green, and those ranks are steady.”

Sergeant Wylich looked concerned for a moment, but then sneered. “Every one of them is carrying a little matchlock! Our pikes will go right through them! No glory for you boys, though, Neustatter.”

A loud rattattattat erupted from the lead box. A brief pause, and the rattattattat sounded again. The third time, Neustatter actually saw men in one of the tercios at the bottom of the hill fall. A cloud of white smoke blossomed forth from that tercio’s matchlocks. But the volley seemed to have no effect on the box.

“It is some sort of arquebus!”

“Quiet, Neustatter!”

Captain Trehar looked over his left shoulder. “Nonsense! No arquebus can fire that quickly! Stop spreading panic!”

At the bottom of the Burgstall, imperial pikemen and arquebusiers scattered as the metal box with the arquebuses rolled right over the siege lines without stopping. The steady rattattattat rang out every few seconds, and as the box crossed the siege line, the trenches off to both sides exploded in flames. Neustatter heard mutters of “hellfire” as the flames continued to rage. He’d heard stories about something called Greek fire. One set of flames had fallen short and was guttering out in the dirt out beyond the imperial siege line. Someone had missed, and that meant it was man-made.

They had a bigger problem.

The green- and brown-clad enemy behind the first metal box fired a great echoing boom of a volley off to their left. Their target, a unit of Wallenstein’s arquebusiers, shattered. But other men in that tercio were falling at the sound of sharp cracks. If the men in green and brown had weapons that made booming noises, the cracking noises meant other arquebusiers were inside the metal boxes. As he watched, pikemen—dozens of them—attempted to charge the box. Neustatter saw whole handfuls go down at once.

“How many arquebuses do they have?” he exclaimed.

Sergeant Wylich whirled and pointed his half-pike at Neustatter. “Silence! I will not tell you again!”

The drums rolled again with the command to march forward. The tercio began to flow downhill.

The second metal box crossed the siege line and angled away from Neustatter’s tercio. He started to breathe a sigh of relief, but then he saw the third metal box was turning in their direction. It turned sharply, rolling along their side of the siege line. Neustatter studied the troops in those odd green and brown uniforms following along behind it. It looked like about a company, all arquebuses, no pikes.

With a shout, the enemy company broke ranks and charged the imperial siege line from behind, the booms of their weapons overlapping like a long roll of thunder. It went on and on, far longer than the hundred or so shots a company should be able to fire. They were firing more than one shot! Neustatter picked out one man and studied him. He saw the man fire, turn slightly, fire again.

The unit holding that part of the line disintegrated in seconds. Some were killed or wounded where they stood. Others must have surrendered, as only a fraction of the men who had been there scattered. Some of those were actually fleeing toward the Swedish lines, where they would be captured soon enough.

“Hauptmann, those men are not reloading between shots!” Neustatter shouted to Trehar. The captain was one rank forward and two men to the right.

“Silence!” Trehar rasped. “Wylich, if he speaks again, kill him.”

Neustatter realized the second and third metal boxes and their accompanying soldiers had widened the initial breach by a hundred paces in either direction by destroying the units Wallenstein stationed there. Unless their tercio and the others now flowing down the hills could plug that gap, the Swedes would funnel through. Only the metal boxes could move fast enough to carry out this maneuver and still shield the men behind them.

Neustatter heard thundering hooves, glanced right, and saw the cavalry attack sweeping down the Burgstall. That was the Fugger Regiment, and they charged for the first metal box.

Then the third metal box made another sharp turn—directly toward their tercio.

Neustatter stifled the warning he had been about to shout. Trehar and Wylich had made their decision. Instead, Neustatter’s left elbow jabbed Lukas Heidenfelder in the ribs.

Lukas looked at him. Neustatter nodded once, very deliberately.

The tercio and the metal box approached each other directly. At two hundred paces, the box swerved to its own left—the tercio’s right—and sharp cracks rang out as the arquebusiers firing through slits in the side peppered the tercio.

The lieutenant colonel guided his horse off to the side.

“Steady, men! Break and I will have you hanged!”

“Make ready!”

Neustatter grimaced at the range, but double-checked his matchlock anyway.

“Present!”

Neustatter spun to his right, bringing the heavy matchlock up to his shoulder. The soldiers who were accompanying this metal box were still too far away for a matchlock volley to be effective, so he pointed his weapon at the metal box.

“Give fire!”

The tercio’s matchlocks thundered. Neustatter heard rounds hit the metal box . . . and they did absolutely nothing to it. They weren’t going to stop it.

“Reload!”

Neustatter grabbed one of the apostles—the twelve wooden cylinders that hung from his bandolier, each with a charge of gunpowder inside. He poured a bit in the pan and closed it. As he set the buttplate on the ground and poured the rest of the gunpowder down the barrel, the fearsome rattattattat rang out over on the slopes of the Burgstall on their right. He dropped the ball down the barrel, extracted the ramrod with one fluid motion, flipped it around, and rammed the musket ball home. All the while the rattattattat on the Burgstall continued, and the men in green and brown were closing in.

“Make ready!” the lieutenant colonel screamed.

BOOMBOOMBOOM.

Neustatter saw the lieutenant colonel pitch from his horse, which immediately bolted.

Captain Trehar ordered, “If I see one man run, I will have him executed!”

Five more men fell while he was making that threat.

“Present!”

“Give—”

“Drop!” Neustatter bellowed.

The men from the village, and many of the other arquebusiers in the front right corner of the tercio, dove to the ground. Neustatter did not. He fired—a .75 caliber musket at a range of four inches—at the back of Captain Trehar’s head.

At Neustatter’s shout, Lukas Heidenfelder threw his matchlock aside and jumped on Sergeant Wylich’s back, sending them both crashing to the ground.

BOOMBOOMBOOMBOOMBOOMBOOM.

The volley sounded like the roll of thunder.

Here and there men fired matchlocks. But most of the front ranks went down in a hail of gunfire. Then the whole tercio buckled and came apart. Some men were killed or wounded. More fled, some of them dropping their pikes or muskets. The metal box sped off to where the Fugger Regiment was closing in on the first metal box. Sharp cracks rang out as the men inside found targets of opportunity. Half the men in green and brown followed after the metal box.

Others approached the spot where the tercio had stood.

“Anyone alive over there, raise your hands in the air!” one of them barked.

“Do it!” Neustatter raised his own hands as he gave the order. Lying on the ground with both arms raised at the elbows, he couldn’t see much. Lukas was right in front of him, on top of Sergeant Wylich, who wasn’t moving. Neustatter turned his head to the left. He counted all seven of the other men from the village holding their hands awkwardly in the air.

“Who is in charge here?” the same soldier bellowed. He strode straight to the front right corner and located the captain’s body. “I have a hauptmann here!” he called to the others.

Neustatter watched him do a double-take.

The man gave a sharp whistle, and several other soldiers in green and brown hurried to his side.

“Musket ball to the back of the head,” he stated. “Where’s the sergeant?”

Neustatter saw Lukas’ hand point downward.

“You! Get off him!” The soldier shouted to his comrades, “Cover me!” Then he rolled Sergeant Wylich over.

Neustatter watched carefully and was impressed. The man’s eyes widened, and he blinked, but his voice was steady. “Carotid, jugular, and the windpipe? Okay, who is in charge?”

“I am now,” Neustatter called out.

“What is your name?”

“Edgar Neustatter.”

“Why did you frag your hauptmann and sergeant?”

“They were arschlöcher who were going to whip my men.” Neustatter pointed a finger in Ditmar and Hjalmar’s general direction. “For no reason other than their own amusement. And they were getting the tercio killed. It was obvious that we could not stop your metal boxes.”

“APCs.” The correction seemed to come automatically.

“Who are you people?” Neustatter asked.

The man laughed. “Sergeant Rudi Keller, New United States Army.” He raised his voice. “Good terms! Enlist in the New United States Army! Good pay! Good food! We will not loot you or touch your people!”

“Truly?” Neustatter asked. “Are you really from the future?”

“Nein. Just Grantville and its people are. I joined them a year ago, after they shattered our tercio at Badenburg,” he affirmed. “We broke the Spanish at Eisenach and the Wartburg last month.” He jerked a thumb at the last of the metal boxes as it rumbled past.

Neustatter studied the huge wheels and decided there probably were not horses on the inside. Later, he told himself. More importantly, he could see the loopholes in the sides. Nothing in Wallenstein’s army was going to stop it.

“May we go home to our village?” he asked.

The soldier laughed again. “Ja, if you want to. But we will take you to Grantville first.” He put more volume and an authoritative tone in his voice. “We are going to move you to our lines. Keep your hands in the air. Does anyone have a loaded weapon?”

“Ja,” Lukas answered. “Somewhere.”

“I got it,” Ditmar said calmly. It was lying on the ground within easy reach, not pointing at Sergeant Keller exactly, but not far off, either.

Keller took a couple prudent steps to one side. Neustatter watched him reason it out.

“Very convenient weapon drop.” Keller’s comment was as dry as dust. “I assume the blond one here is your best shot?”

“Of course,” Neustatter answered.

Keller nodded slowly. “All right. Everyone, slowly stand up. If you reach for a weapon, we will shoot you dead.”

“Stand,” Neustatter ordered. The men in his corner of the tercio struggled awkwardly to their feet.

“Over here!” Keller backed away a few steps, beckoning with one hand while keeping a firm grip on his weapon with the other.

Neustatter took a couple steps, then stopped. He gestured at Sergeant Wylich’s corpse.

“Do you mind?”

“What? Do you mean to loot him?”

Neustatter kicked the corpse in the back of the head. “Nein.”

No one from the tercio gave Sergeant Keller any trouble. They had all seen that this New United States Army—whatever that meant—could fire its weapons without reloading.

“Medics!” Keller ordered. “Go!”

Two-man teams raced forward. Each wore what appeared to be a heavy pack, and they carried a stretcher between them. They sorted through the fallen quickly.

“Neustatter.” Wolfram tipped his head toward where the medics were working. “They have done this before.”

The two of them watched as one stretcher-bearer felt for a man’s pulse and angled his head down near the fallen man’s face. Then he slid the man’s hat over his face and moved on to the next.

The medic slid off his pack, quickly opened it—Neustatter could not describe how he did that—and pulled out a handful of bandages.

“I need hands!” he shouted.

“You.” Keller pointed at an arquebusier. “Go help. Do what he says.” When the man hesitated, Keller roared, “Go!”

The man sped over to the medic.

“Hold this bandage here. Keep pressure on the wound.”

Wolfram looked over at Sergeant Keller. “How many wounded survive?”

“According to the up-timers, not enough. But a lot more than I expected.”

“I can help.”

“Go.”

“What are up-timers?” Hjalmar asked.

“That is what we call the people who came from the future with Grantville.”

Neustatter looked around. He could see a line across the Burgstall. Above it, dead horses and cavalrymen covered the ground. Below it, there were none at all. Wallenstein’s counterattack had been shattered halfway down the hill. The first metal box was atop the Burgstall now. Down below, a solid wave of advancing Swedes extended as far as he could see in either direction. There was a green banner in the forefront. He was just as happy the Swedish Green Brigade was way over there. It was in the thick of the fight and looked to be breaking through.

The battle was far from over, but Neustatter could already see how it would end. The siege lines would crumble as the New United States soldiers and their metal boxes rolled the breach wider in both directions. The Swedes would engage every unit still on the siege line, pinning them in place. The metal boxes would spread destruction wherever they chose to go. There would be no chance for Wallenstein’s army to rally.

It was time to go back home to the village.

Prisoner of war camp, inside New United States lines

Late that afternoon

Thousands of men from Wallenstein’s army had been herded into open fields. Neustatter and the other men from the village sat on the ground fairly close to a line of guards.

“You took a big chance with our lives,” Stefan grumbled at Neustatter.

“I had no choice. Wylich said plainly that he was going to come after us. But I could not do anything as long as the oberstleutnant, Hauptmann Trehar, or Sergeant Wylich were all still on their feet. Any of them would have ordered the rest of the tercio to kill us—and they would have. The oberstleutnant was too far away to be sure of hitting him, so I had to wait until the Swedes’ allies shot him.”

“You could have told us,” Stefan complained.

“Stefan, you hated Trehar and Wylich. If I had told you ahead of time, they would have read it on your face.”

Ditmar had been studying the other prisoners around them. “Neustatter, we are getting some looks.”

“I see them,” Neustatter agreed.

Over the next few minutes, a few nearby men got to their feet. The guards did not object. A few more minutes, and a couple of them began edging closer to Neustatter’s band.

Neustatter stood up and stretched. He watched the men freeze in place. More time passed, and they began edging toward him again. Both of them were about Karl’s size and outweighed Neustatter by a good margin.

“Klaus. Hans. You look like you have a question.”

“You killed Hauptmann Trehar, Neustatter.”

“The bastard was going have Wylich to whip my men.” Neustatter gave them a thin smile. “And he was about to get us all killed.”

Hans shrugged. “He has a point, Klaus.”

Klaus glowered at him. “We could have held, if it had not been for Neustatter!”

“Held? Are you wahnsinnig?” Hans demanded of his cohort. “Did you see the dead men on the other side of the tercio? Or in the other tercios?”

Klaus glared at Neustatter. “You killed our sergeant!”

“He whipped me once,” Neustatter reminded him. “I was not going to let whip any of my men.”

“You crippled one of his men,” Hans reminded him.

“Ja, I did,” Neustatter agreed. “He got men killed because he was a dummkopf. We were on the march, scattering any opposition, and he had to attack the one enemy band that was still intact.”

“Ja, that was stupid,” Hans agreed.

A corner of Neustatter’s mouth quirked. At least Hans was acknowledging points on both sides.

But Klaus was having none of it. He turned and waved to the rest of the prisoners. “Come on, men!”

“Fall in! Open order!” Ditmar barked. Suddenly Neustatter’s men were all on their feet. “Hjalmar, take the left!”

“Halt!” The authoritative shout came from one of the guards. “Hands in the air!”

Neustatter raised his hands and slowly pivoted in place. Every other guard was approaching them and had their weapons at the ready. The other half had backed up and were also at the ready.

“What is going—?”

“Very impressive,” Neustatter told the first guard to reach him. “The men who withdrew can cover you. They would fire, what? Four shots before any of us could reach them? Five?”

The guard gave him a hard look. “Ja.”

“You see, Klaus,” Neustatter continued, “this is why I had to shoot the hauptmann.”

“You shot your hauptmann?” the guard demanded. He leveled his weapon at Neustatter.

“Your Sergeant Rudi Keller was there. Send for him.” Neustatter’s voice was calm.

The guard was professional. “This rank of men with their hands up? Are they yours?”

“Ja.”

“You and your men, go over to that corner of the field.” His head and weapon turned toward Hans and Klaus. “You two, and your men, go down that way, past that next group of prisoners.”

Another of the New United States soldiers came striding toward them. “What is going on, Mildenstein?”

Mildenstein nodded toward Neustatter. “He fragged his hauptmann.” He nodded again at Klaus and Hans. “They object.”

“That is worth reporting,” the new arrival stated.

“Is that your coat of arms?” Neustatter asked. He pointed to the heraldic device of three superimposed peaks on the man’s sleeve.

The man barked a laugh. “That is my rank. Sergeant.”

“Are you in the same regiment as Sergeant Rudi Keller? He was there. He captured us.”

“Ja, I know Keller.” The sergeant jerked his head at his subordinate. “Mildenstein, go find Sergeant Keller.”

Mildenstein hurried off.

“This could take a while,” the sergeant told them. “So . . . as Corporal Mildenstein ordered, take your men to that corner, and the rest of you, get over that way.”

A few hours passed. Once a soldier in green and brown walked through, writing on a small board with an odd quill. He made everyone sit still while he counted them. Then a wagon pulled by four horses came to a stop at the edge of the field, and New United States soldiers began distributing rations.

“This is meat!” Stefan sounded surprised.

“I did not expect this,” Neustatter agreed. He studied the food for a moment. “Sergeant Keller did make that offer for men to join the New United States Army. Good terms. Good food.”

“You think it is a plot to convince us to join?” Stefan sounded suspicious.

Neustatter shrugged. He called out to the nearest guard. “I have a question!”

“Come here! Alone!”

Neustatter did so, carrying his food with him.

“What is your question?”

“What are your usual rations?”

“You are looking at them,” the guard told him. “You are eating the same thing we are. We captured so many of you today it is not practical to feed you anything else. Do not complain about it, because you will see a lot more of it.”

“Complain? Why would we complain about this? We thought it might be extra, to convince us to join your army.”

“Nein. It will be hard enough to keep all of you fed without giving you extra. Standard rations.” The guard sighed. “Look, the up-timers eat a lot of meat. Go sit down. Enjoy it.”

Neustatter ambled back to his men. “He says these are their regular rations, that it would be too much trouble to provide anything else. He said not to bother him with complaints. I think he is telling the truth.”

“It has to be a trick,” Stefan insisted. But he did not let that stop him from eating all of it.

Corporal Mildenstein returned with Sergeant Keller at dusk. They conferred with the other New United States sergeant, and then the two sergeants approached. Keller carried a lantern and another of the writing boards with the strange quill.

“What regiment was this?” Keller asked.

“Colloredo’s Regiment.”

Another soldier held the lantern high while Keller wrote that down.

“Do you men know how to write your names?”

Neustatter blinked. “Of course.”

Keller handed him the board. Neustatter saw that it had a metal clamp at the top that held pages of paper in place. The quill was metal.

“Dip it in the ink and try not to spill it everywhere.”

Neustatter wrote his name and passed the clipboard to Ditmar.

“It is . . . fortunate . . . that your army has these writing boards,” Neustatter observed. “You can keep track of all of us.”

Sergeant Rudi Keller smiled. “Oh, nothing fortunate about it. Sergeant Burroughs insisted on the clipboards. You see, we expected to capture a lot of prisoners. After Badenburg and Jena and the Wartburg, he and the other supply sergeants decided we were ‘finally going to do it right.’”

“You expected this?” Neustatter asked the question carefully.

“Ja. I was in the first tercio to face the up-timers. We outnumbered them three to two, and that includes the Badenburg garrison, which was just about worthless. So, three to one, really. We lasted less than five minutes. They let us join them a few days later. We were in their ranks at Jena, and that battle was over even faster. Last month, we crushed a Spanish army outside Eisenach and then burned them out of the Wartburg.”

“What do you mean by ‘crushed the Spanish’?”

“We drove off six tercios in the open field, routed their cavalry, followed them back to the Wartburg, and burned it down around them.”

Neustatter stared at him for a moment. “Camp rumors say that people from the future are allied to the Swede. To Gustav II Adolf.”

“Ja. One town. Grantville. They said it was the year of our Lord 2000, in West Virginia. It is in the Americas. Then they were in Thuringia, just a few days after the sack of Magdeburg.”

“One town? They gave you arquebuses.” Neustatter gestured toward Keller’s weapon. “That is not from around here.”

“That is true,” Sergeant Keller acknowledged. “But it is not just one town anymore. After they beat us, Badenburg joined them. Then Jena. Then more. Gustav II Adolph gave us the rest of Thuringia and all of Franconia. We will take you there. But a fair warning—their customs are different.”

“How so?”

“They have no adel. The New United States is a republic.”

That sounded . . . odd. Neustatter struggled to relate it to something he knew. After a minute, it came to him. “Like the Dutch?”

“Ja, but everyone votes.” Keller’s wave took in the rest of the guards. “We had lived there for more than three months, so when they held the election, we voted, too.”

Keller waited a moment. “So what is your story, Neustatter? Not just anybody can calmly frag a commanding officer under fire.”

Neustatter studied Sergeant Keller. Then he looked over his men. He made the decision to trust Keller.

“We are all from a village in Holstein-Gottorp. All of us were farmers, except for Karl. He was a blacksmith’s apprentice. The Danes entered the wars, and the Protestant armies were recruiting. Our herr volunteered most of the able-bodied men. We became part of a regiment in Mansfeld’s army. Camp rumor said that we were marching to take a bridge away from a new imperial general who had more money than experience. It was supposed to be easy. The new imperial general was Wallenstein, of course.”

Neustatter’s voice was flat. “Mansfeld ordered an attack on a fortified position. It failed. Then Wallenstein counterattacked and routed Mansfeld’s army. Our regiment was overrun. A number of men from our village were killed or wounded. Some of us were captured. The rest ran.” He gave a grim smile. “Some of them may have made it home.

“We never saw our herr again. I do not know if he survived or not. Fifteen of us were captured. They offered us a chance to join their army. I had ideas of escape, so it seemed like taking the job that came with weapons was the better choice.”

Ditmar interrupted. “Neustatter could have escaped any number of times. He refused to leave without all of us.”

Sergeant Keller stood there, listening attentively, even though it was dark.

“It is my fault we were captured,” Neustatter stated. “I tried to rally the men, to make a stand. We were overwhelmed. We lost Young Hans and Friedrich there. Peder died later. There were fifteen of us captured. We eight are those still alive six years later. Most of the rest died of disease—Old Hans and Niels the first year, Claus and Jan and Dirk the second year, Laurens the third. We did not lose anyone else until Krause decided to attack that intact enemy band earlier this year. They killed Town Hans.”

“Town Hans?”

“His grandparents lived in a town before they came to the village. So, he was Town Hans, to tell him apart from Old Hans and Young Hans and all the other Hanses.”

Keller nodded his understanding.

“We had never really gotten along with Sergeant Wylich, but after that battle, I gave Krause a good beating. The hauptmann had Wylich flog me and demoted me from chosen man. But that was not enough for them. They have been looking for ways to get to me and decided to go through Ditmar and Hjalmar to do it. They put them in the front line instead of me. Once I knew the battle was lost, it was time for them to go.”

“And he waited until you Swedes were firing at our tercio,” Stefan cut in. “We could have been killed.”

“There is always a chance of dying in battle,” Neustatter agreed. “But as long as the metal box—the APC—was pointed toward us, I knew the arquebusiers inside and behind could not see us.”

“But that musket that fired and fired and fired . . . ”

Neustatter cut Stefan off. “Only the first APC had the rapid-firing gun. The one that came at us did not.”

“You noticed they were the only one that had a machine gun?” Sergeant Keller sounded impressed.

“Ja. If that APC had a machine gun, I would have shot the hauptmann in our first volley. I waited for your men to shoot the oberstleutnant first.”

Keller shook his head. “And your hauptmann and sergeant stationed you behind them?” Another shake of the head. “Clearly enough, they died of stupidity.”

Three days later

They did not leave for Grantville right away, however. It took time to organize the columns. A detail was sent up on the hills to collect tents and cooking gear, which were redistributed to the prisoners in the many fields around Nürnberg. Neustatter and his men didn’t get the same tents they’d had before the battle, of course, but what they were given was adequate.

“Are you sure you do not want to join the New United States Army?” Rudi Keller asked Neustatter.

“Nein,” Neustatter told him. “We want to go home.”

“Suit yourself,” Keller told him. “But I have to put you in the column I am taking to Grantville. We will be marching for several days. Someone will figure out what to do with you on the other end.”

Neustatter shrugged. After all they’d heard, he and his men wanted to see Grantville, and it was more or less on the way to the village.

“You might have to work for a while in Grantville,” Keller continued. “But they will pay you.”

Neustatter shrugged again. They would need some money for the journey anyway. If they could get work in Grantville, so much the better.

Neustatter and his men found themselves part of a group of a few hundred men, marching north with a company of New United States troops loosely guarding them. One of the metal boxes that they now knew as APCs rumbled past.

The road was in fairly good shape. September was starting to cool, which made for good marching weather. Perhaps most importantly, the whole area around Nürnberg was crowded with tens of thousands of men. For the last few days, the prisoners of war had been ordered to stay put, simply to minimize congestion and disorder. Walking a few miles down a road was welcome.

As they walked, Neustatter started to relax. He was not letting down his guard, but neither was he hypervigilant every second, watching for who or what might threaten the men from the village next. Until he let some of it go, he hadn’t realized how much stress he’d been under.

By the time they took a break to eat, the column was getting spread out. Sergeant Keller approached, clipboard in hand.

“Neustatter! I see you have all your men still together.”

“Of course, Sergeant.”

“Congratulations. I am putting you in charge of twenty-five men. We do not need them in rank. Just . . . do not lose anyone.”

“Easy enough,” Neustatter agreed.

Keller removed a single sheet of paper from his clipboard. “Here are their names.”

Some of Neustatter’s vigilance came back as he glanced over the names. “Ditmar! You have Stefan and Lukas and the first six men on this list. Hjalmar! You have Karl, Otto, and the next six. Wolfram, you and I have the rest.”

It took a few minutes to locate the men they were now responsible for. Soon they were back on the road, moving in three loose groups totaling twenty-five men.

That evening, Stefan grumbled about how Neustatter had divided them up. “Why did you put the Schaub kids in charge?”

Neustatter chuckled. “Ditmar is the same age I am. If I wanted four pairs, you are right. It would be Ditmar and Hjalmar, you and Wolfram, and split up Karl, Otto, Lukas and I as you please. But I did not want two friends together. I want us paying attention to the rest of our group, the rest of the column, and the NUS soldiers.”

“But what about . . . ?”

“Putting you and Wolfram in charge of the teams?” Neustatter smiled. “Do you really want that?”

“J . . . ” Stefan stopped. “Nein.”

Neustatter gave him half a smile. “Why not?”

Stefan had an incredulous expression on his face. “Neustatter! Do you know how many things they do wrong?”

“Ja, as a matter of fact I do. Lukas spends his time and what money he has on women and drink. Karl would rather build or fix things. Few people pay attention to Otto, and he likes it that way. Wolfram wants to help everyone. You are looking for what could go wrong. Do you remember how Ditmar and Hjalmar used to lead the other boys in the village on adventures?

“Ja.”

“Now that Trehar and Wylich are dead, do you think Ditmar and Hjalmar might start doing the same thing again?”

Stefan thought about that. “Wolfram would say yes.”

Neustatter hid a grin at Stefan’s surly tone. The pessimist didn’t want to agree, so he’d attributed it to his buddy Wolfram, but Stefan’s brand of pessimism was fundamentally honest.

Neustatter was comfortable with this level of vigilance.

Ten days later

The column made ten miles a day. Vehicles called trucks resupplied their provisions. One of the drivers was obviously one of the people from the future, because he spoke of this as “only ten miles a day.” Neustatter and Keller exchanged glances. From the perspective of every other army in Europe, they were making excellent time. On the eighth day, they reached a road that had been leveled and graveled. They made even better time on that.

In the middle of the afternoon on the tenth day, Sergeant Keller halted the column and waited for everyone to catch up. Then he pointed at some cliffs in the distance.

“See those cliffs? That is the Ring Wall. This road goes down into the Ring. We will walk through Grantville, and I will point out some things. You will get to explore it soon enough. First, we are going to housing on the far side of the town. You will get baths, and your clothes will be washed.”

Some of the men grumbled, but Neustatter did not. Walk the length of the town? That sounded like an excellent idea. He moved his men close to Sergeant Keller.

The change at the Ring of Fire was abrupt. Hills just stopped, leaving a sheer vertical rock surface on the other side. Neustatter saw numerous other places where dirt had caved in, spilling into or out of the Ring of Fire. He’d never seen anything like it.

Inside the Ring, everything was different. The houses were not only huge, but also spread out along the road. Inside the Ring, the road wasn’t just graveled. It was flat, made of a smooth grey material, not quite rock, but not like anything else Neustatter had ever seen. There were poles upright in the ground alongside the road. They supported some sort of cables. They certainly were not ropes, but Neustatter couldn’t tell what they were.

Neustatter spotted a column of vehicles turning onto the road.

“Why are those APCs yellow?” he asked.

Rudi Keller blinked. “Those are not APCs. Those are school buses. They carry the kinder to and from school.” He pointed. “That is Grantville High School, where Captain Gars defeated the Croats.”

They had all heard it by now. The Croats hadn’t just lost; the Swedish emperor had personally led the attack that shattered them here.

Neustatter saw a whole field of the smooth gray material. It was not level, but sloped significantly down from the school toward the road.

Sergeant Keller resumed his narration. “Captain Gars and his men rode in this way, then went straight up that slope. The polizei arrived later on one of the buses. They had pistols and shotguns.”

Many of the prisoners winced, having seen up-time shotguns in action firsthand.

“We need to continue down this road,” Keller said.

The column of prisoners moved on. When Buffalo Creek came into view, Sergeant Keller said, “This is where the polizei on the bus caught the Croats retreating from downtown.”

Neustatter looked at the space between the road and Buffalo Creek. Cavalry caught in the open there by men with the quick-firing weapons would have been slaughtered. Over the last ten days, he had learned that those weapons really did need to be reloaded. Most held more than one cartridge at a time, but all of the cartridges could be reloaded very quickly.

Sergeant Keller pointed out the sights, but Neustatter marveled at the houses. Some were practically schlosses, others were run-down. Still others were new, built in the last year and a half.

A lot of people were in the streets. Most of them got out of their way rather quickly, giving the column of prisoners a wide berth.

“They hate us,” Stefan muttered.

“Nein,” Keller told him. “They only fear that you may carry disease. We are going to refugee housing, and you will be kept there a few days to make sure none of you are sick.”

“You said there were only a few thousand of them,” Neustatter reminded the sergeant. “This is a huge city!”

“Three thousand, five hundred up-timers,” Sergeant Keller stated. “Between refugees and those of us captured at Badenburg, the town more than doubled in the first two months. I do not know how many there are now. I heard more than ten thousand, but that was a while ago.”

“A normal town for its time, you said. There is so much glass.”

“Turn left here,” Sergeant Keller directed.

The buildings there were taller and closer together.

“This is as far as the rest of the Croats got.”

Neustatter winced again. They had heard about it on the march, of course. But that was different than seeing it. He had envisioned arquebusiers hiding here and there. Not riflemen pouring fire into the street from every floor of building after building. He could see bullets still lodged in the walls. A few windows were boarded up; a few others were now fitted with a series of small panes that did not match their huge neighbors, shot out in the battle. The Croat unit that had ridden into the center of Grantville must have been half-destroyed even before the polizei trapped them against the river.

“All right, let’s go,” Sergeant Keller ordered.

He marched them down Buffalo Street and eventually right out of Grantville. Neustatter wondered who or what a “buffalo” was. The road followed the curves in the river. Then it cut across one of the bends. Neustatter and the others saw newly built buildings there. Some of the men started toward them.

“Halt!” Keller called. “That is not the right place. We have a way to go yet.”

Another cluster of houses lay beyond the next bend, an afterthought compared to Grantville, but larger than their home village. They kept going until they reached a big red schloss, which Sergeant Keller claimed was a power plant—whatever that was. There was a whole village there, too.

The New United States soldiers split up the column, turning the women and girls among the camp followers over to a women’s religious order. At least, that’s what Neustatter assumed the armbands with red crosses meant. He’d never actually seen a nun, but this certainly wasn’t how he expected they’d dress.

The men and boys were run through the showers, given robes while their clothes were washed, and fed. They sat at long rows of tables that were nothing but planks nailed to a framework. Two more planks, attached halfway down on each side, served as chairs. The eight of them filled up one table. There were dozens of tables.

“Good food.” Wolfram noted that between bites. Even Stefan had nothing bad to say about it. There was plenty of meat, good bread, and vegetables.

After dinner, a man wearing a uniform stood up on one of the benches and called for their attention. Neustatter studied the uniform. Not the same as Sergeant Keller and his men, clearly enough. Perhaps a high-ranking officer?

“Attention!” Sergeant Keller boomed. “This is Chief Dan Frost. He is the chief of the Grantville Polizei, and he is the man who broke the cavalry charge in the middle of Grantville.”

They’d all heard that story and shut up at once.

“I’m Dan Frost,” the man said. “I’m going to go over the rules. . . . ”

Neustatter glanced away only long enough to confirm that all of the men from the village were paying attention.

The rules were simple. No killing, no raping, no stealing. “I haven’t got a copy for each you, so follow the Ten Commandments and clean up after yourselves, and we’ll get along fine,” Frost summarized.

When he was done, Neustatter sought out Sergeant Keller. “What about the first few? Does Grantville have churches?”

“Lots,” Keller told him. “Different kinds. Take your pick.”

“Lutheran?” At Keller’s nod, Neustatter asked, “So I do not have to annoy the Catholics by praying to St. Martin anymore?”

Sergeant Keller burst out laughing.

But later he quietly drew Neustatter away from the others, and they just happened to encounter Chief Frost.

Neustatter immediately recognized that this was no coincidence.

“Neustatter, eh?” Frost held out his hand.

He uses this “handshake” to study you, Neustatter realized. He did the same. He would have enjoyed seeing Trehar and Wylich meet Frost.

“Where are you from, Neustatter?”

Frost drew him out, talking about the village and Dessau Bridge and his time in Wallenstein’s army. Neustatter found himself saying more than he’d planned to.

“Ja, I do like not being in Wallenstein’s army anymore. I spend a lot less time looking over my shoulder.”

“I don’t approve of fragging,” Frost muttered when Neustatter had concluded his story. He snorted. “Another one out of my jurisdiction.”

The chief looked over at Keller. “Are you still planning movie nights?”

“I think so, Herr Chief. Movies that will introduce the new men to up-time ideas.”

“If you’ve got any Westerns in the mix, make sure this wild cowboy”—Frost jerked a thumb toward where Neustatter stood—“sees something with a strong moral code. Maybe John Wayne. Might not be a bad idea if there’s a ‘happily ever after,’ too.”

***

Another column of soldiers captured at the Battle of Alte Veste arrived at least every other day. Once a few days had passed, and a doctor determined they were not sick, the men were allowed to explore the town. New United States soldiers—old Grantville hands—accompanied them, to acclimate them to Grantville and to keep them out of trouble.

The eight men from the village made up about half of a group of men on one such tour. They spent a lot of time just walking down along streets and marveling at houses.

“Are you convinced yet? That it is not a trick?” Wolfram asked Stefan.

Stefan just shook his head. “What kind of people live here? These are the biggest houses I have ever seen.”

Corporal Bornkessel, who was in charge of their escort, answered. “The up-timers say they are just normal people and that Grantville was a poor town.”

Neustatter shook his head, not in disbelief but because he was having a hard time grasping that. “Poor? The schloss our herr lives in is not as big as any of these houses.” Then he pointed. “Well, it is as big as that one.”

“It is true,” Bornkessel said. “They have pictures of other places in their time. Huge cities, planted fields that go on for miles.

“What are they like?”

“We have arranged for you to talk to a few of them at the high school.”

“Gut.”

As they approached the high school, Neustatter noticed several other groups of fifteen or so prisoners moving in the same direction.

“Good planning,” he murmured to Ditmar. “How do you think they made sure everyone would arrive at once?”

The captured soldiers were led to a separate building, off to one side of the high school itself.

“This is the auditorium,” Corporal Bornkessel explained.

Neustatter looked at the rows of seats and then poked at them experimentally. They were made of a hard, painted metal, but the seat and the backrest were covered with a soft, fuzzy material.

“What is this?” Wolfram asked.

“I have no idea,” Neustatter told him. “Maybe it is something they have in palaces.”

“I wonder if there is more. I could buy some and take it home to Anna.”

Stefan laughed. “Whatever it is, we cannot afford it.”

“They are letting us sit in these seats,” Lukas said. “It cannot be that special.”

“Move to the middle!” Corporal Bornkessel called out. “Move to the middle!”

The eight men from the village did so. Other men took the seats on the ends of their row. The room filled up steadily.

“There must be half a regiment in here,” Neustatter said. He looked around and spotted a few men he recognized from Colloredo’s Regiment, as well as a few he’d seen at the refugee housing. Like any mercenary army, the men were a mix of nationalities. He heard scraps of conversation in a few dialects of German, English, Italian, what he thought was French, plus a couple languages he could not identify. There were even a couple Moors in the room, as well as a dark-complexioned man with pronounced cheekbones whom Neustatter couldn’t begin to identify.

The lights began to go out.

“Sit down!” Bornkessel ordered immediately.

Neustatter saw that many men were just beginning to surge to their feet. He did not. Turning off the lights was not a threat. No one was going to kill them in such a nice place, if only because they would have to clean it afterwards. Besides, he believed Dan Frost.

“Neustatter.” Ditmar’s tone was urgent, but under control.

One light snapped on before Neustatter could reply. Just one, and it perfectly illuminated a man standing on a raised platform at the front of the big room.

“Guten Tag. Ich heisse Dwight Thomas. Ich bin Lehrer. I am a schoolteacher.”

“Sure he is,” Stefan whispered. “That is a pistol in the pouch hanging from his belt.”

“That looks a great way to carry a pistol,” Neustatter agreed.

“That is not my point.” Stefan sounded annoyed. “Who ever heard of a schoolteacher carrying a weapon like that?”

Wolfram leaned forward. “Look at his shirt. His arm is bandaged underneath it.”

Neustatter studied the man. “Good eye, Wolfram.”

“I used to teach Driver’s Education,” the man said. He paused for another man to translate that into German. “That means I taught students how to drive cars. Since the Ring of Fire, we have had less use for that, so I have been teaching Introductory Civics.” Another pause. “That is, how our government here in the New United States works.”

Hjalmar leaned across Ditmar. “How is he making his voice so loud?”

“That metal thing in his hand,” Karl answered. “I do not know how, but that is what.”

Neustatter tried to pay attention to what the man was saying. Elected government, a president, and a congress. He paid less attention to the words themselves and more to how the man was saying them.

“He is serious,” Neustatter muttered. “He believes this, like the chaplains who preached in Wallenstein’s army. But he is not a fanatic. He is just saying how it works.”

He thought back to what Sergeant Keller had said about living in Grantville for three months and then being able to vote. He wanted to ask Corporal Bornkessel about that later.

At one point, Thomas took questions.

“How do we know the rulers will let us vote?” one man asked.

Dwight Thomas waited for the translation. “That is how it works,” he answered. “After ninety days’ residency, if you take the loyalty oath, you may vote. We take this very seriously.”

“How seriously?”

The other man stepped forward, coming far enough into the light to give Neustatter a good look at him. “I think you should know that Herr Thomas is very serious. When the Croats attacked the high school, the teachers moved as many students as would fit upstairs. They piled up furniture at the top of the stairs and fought from there. Herr Thomas was shot in the arm. The Croats never got up the stairs.”

Neustatter grimaced. “If that weapon fires more than once like their bigger ones do, a handful of men at the top of a staircase could hold for a very long time.”

A couple other speakers followed Herr Thomas. Neustatter learned a few useful details. But he thought Herr Thomas was the important one. What he said about the Grantville and New United States government was undoubtedly important, but the key fact was that the schoolteachers had stopped the Croats. He knew about Captain Gars’ charge, Julie Sims, and Herr Trout and Herr Higgins’ stand in the gymnasium. But the teachers had held. That was important.

Neustatter blinked as the lights came back on, and they were dismissed to make their way back to the refugee housing. On his way out the door, he heard men talking about a different refugee housing, this one on the hill behind the high school.

Corporal Bornkessel led his group back toward the refugee housing by the power plant. Neustatter studied the town carefully. This time he was not concerned with the glass, electricity, cars, and indoor markets. He was trying to figure out the people. What made them like this?

***

Neustatter and the men from the village found themselves on a work crew. They cleared land for more housing. Sometimes that was moving logs after men with up-time saws cut down trees. Sometimes it was shoveling, although much of that was done by things that seemed to be related to APCS, only smaller, with scoops and other clever devices for moving dirt. Sometimes they worked nearby in the village the Grantvillers called Murphyhausen. Other times they rode in the back of a truck to other places.

It was often hard work, but they got paid good wages—enough to eat well, buy the few things they needed, and save. And they stayed warm at night in the refugee housing. Neustatter and his men had never gotten rich from the war, but they were doing reasonably well from having been captured. Saving money meant they didn’t go out much. But that wasn’t much of a problem. The up-timers continue to provide classes about their ideals. That was often eye-opening, sometimes frustrating, and could eat up a man’s time. But other times they watched movies or TV.

Neustatter adored the up-time movies and television shows. The first movie he’d seen, one Chief Dan Frost had suggested, was She Wore a Yellow Ribbon. Afterwards, he’d told the others, “I think we can understand the up-timers.”

A few movies later, that had become, “I will miss this place when we go back home to the village in the spring.”

Once snow started falling, their jobs changed. Sometimes Neustatter and his men were given heavy clothing and assigned to help carpenters finishing the insides of new buildings. Often enough, they were outside shoveling snow. On one of those days, Karl Recker lifted a snow shovel and examined it closely.

“Neustatter, I could make these,” he stated.

An old Grantville hand overheard him, and by the end of that day, an up-timer had come by and ascertained Karl was once a blacksmith’s apprentice.

“There’s blacksmith work if you want it,” he said. “Higher paying than this. What skills do the rest of you have?”

“The rest of us were farmers,” Neustatter answered. “Wolfram helped keep the sick and wounded alive.”

By the end of the week, Wolfram Kuntz had been assigned to the EMT program. Soon after that, Neustatter was made a foreman.

Foremen were armed, which meant Neustatter got sent to modern weapons training. That was mostly handled by the New United States Army, but Chief Frost did some of the instructing, too.

Some days later, there was a fight. Three or four different groups of men were working the same job, carrying construction materials into new rowhouses in Murphyhausen and assisting skilled workers who were finishing the insides. Most of that was “carry this,” “put that over there,” and “hold this for me.” But much of the work was indoors, which was not a minor consideration in the winter.

“We brought the boards inside! You go get more!” one man roared.

Another man got right up in his face. “We brought these in. Go get your own.”

Neustatter and Karl were holding a board in place for a carpenter. Neustatter’s head came up at the first thunk of a fist hitting flesh.

“Hey! Straighten that board!” the carpenter hollered.

Neustatter slid the board back into place. “Otto! Hjalmar! Hold this!”

Naturally, each man’s team began cheering on their champions, circling up around the combatants.

Otto and Hjalmar grabbed the board. Neustatter headed for the fray. His sense of vigilance, never entirely gone, snapped back into place.

“What’s going on here?” he demanded.

One of the spectators whirled and stepped in his way. “Shut up, you, or—”

Neustatter’s shove sent him sprawling. He stepped through the ring of men and grabbed one of the combatants.

The man swung wildly at him. Neustatter ducked and landed a couple hard blows to the body. The man grabbed Neustatter’s left arm with both hands and twisted.

Neustatter delivered a right cross to his chin. The man crumpled to the floor.

“Get back to work.” Neustatter didn’t bother to raise his voice.

One man started to object. “Suppose—”

His buddy nudged him, and the man shut up immediately.

Neustatter had no idea why, so he slowly turned in place, glaring at each man in succession. Men started to back up. Then Neustatter turned far enough that Karl and the other combatant came into view.

Karl was holding the man by the neck, arm outstretched. The smaller man was flailing at him wildly, occasionally managing to hit him in the bicep. Then Karl simply let go and dropped the man on the floor.

The crowd cleared as if by magic. Nobody was hustling away from the scene, but neither were they lingering.

A lot of the interior got finished that day, and at some point, the two teams involved reached a tacit if unspoken agreement to split the stack of supplies that had already been carried in.

When they were back at the refugee housing enjoying a well-earned dinner, Ditmar’s posture suddenly changed to one of alertness.

“Polizei.”

Neustatter kept eating.

“One heading to each of the other groups.” Ditmar’s words were calm, matter-of-fact. “They are taking the two men who fought out of here. They are not bound.”

“We will not see them again,” Stefan predicted.

But they were not even done eating yet when both men came back into the room. One of the polizei reentered as well and made his way to Neustatter.

“May Chief Frost have a few moments of your time, Neustatter?” he asked.

“Sure.” Neustatter pushed back from the table and made his way to the door. Once outside, the polizei officer directed him to the building next door. Neustatter pulled the door open and found Chief Frost and another officer seated at a table in some sort of office.

“Neustatter.”

“Herr Chief Frost.”

“Chief is fine. So’s ‘Dan.’ Pull up a chair.”

Neustatter sat down but he wasn’t about to call the chief by his first name.

“What happened today?”

“The fight? We had three teams working in the same place. Two men from different teams each claimed their team had moved a stack of supplies inside and came to blows.”

“What did you do?”

“Karl and I broke it up.”

“Why you? Why not their team leaders?”

Neustatter wondered if he had done something wrong according to the Grantvillers’ rules. “I do not remember seeing them just then. They may have been somewhere else. Or they may have been part of the crowd, cheering the men on.” He paused. “Sometimes it is best to let men fight. But brawls between different teams, different units . . . that can become dangerous. Other men can join in. It would not do to damage the new buildings, maybe not be able to work like that.”

“So you broke it up.”

“I took Karl with me. He can handle himself.”

Dan Frost snorted. “He can handle the other guy, too. The way I heard it, he had his guy by the neck, arm straight out.”

Neustatter shrugged. “Karl was going to be a blacksmith. He did not hurt the man. Bruises, of course, but he will be fine in a couple days.”

“And you dropped your man.”

Another shrug. “It seemed the easiest way to stop the fight.” Neustatter started feeling some tension.

“Relax, Neustatter. I got no problem with what you did.” Dan Frost sat back in his chair. “Might not have handled it that way. But then again, I might’ve. Your man Karl—what’s his last name?”

“Recker. He is not in any trouble, is he?”

“No—and I doubt anybody will want to give him any trouble after that. Don’t think anybody’s going to want to annoy Darth Recker.” Frost smiled. “That name even works.”

“I do not understand.”

“Later. I want you to watch some more John Wayne before I let Star Wars mess with your head. But, Neustatter, the important thing is not that there was a fight. So long as no one wants to press charges and it ends here. I don’t want bad blood between two work crews.”

“I do not think that will happen.”

“I don’t, either. The important thing is that you broke it up. Neustatter, you ought to consider expanding your leadership beyond just the eight of you.” Frost studied him. “Still determined to go back home to your village come spring?”

“Ja. We like not being in an army.”

“Well, if that’s what you want to do. You’re always welcome here in Grantville. Finding jobs is not hard, and I know the Reserves would be happy to have you.”

Neustatter gave him a solemn nod. “If we stayed in Grantville, I would have liked to become a cowboy.”

Dan Frost laughed. “I’m not surprised.”

“Or perhaps a detective.”

“On the force?” Chief Frost demanded.

“Nein. A P.I., like Sam Spade.”

Dan laughed again. “Well, if farming doesn’t work out, come back to Grantville, and we’ll see what we can do.”

Chapter 2: Going Home

March 1633

The eight men from the village gathered in an empty space in downtown Grantville, on the far corner of the intersection of Route 250 and Mead Avenue from the polizei station. The parking lot was paved but empty, gray with weathering but still in good shape without much cracking. The day was cool and blustery, but neither snow nor rain was imminent. Dan Frost came out to see them off.

“You’re sure?” Frost asked, one more time.

“Ja,” Ditmar Schaub told him. “Spring is coming, and the eight of us can travel quickly before the ground turns to mud. Neustatter sent Hjalmar and me to the school to find a route. It is about three hundred up-time miles.” He frowned. “We have read about miles, but we do not understand them. At least, I do not.”

“Nor do I,” his cousin Hjalmar agreed.

“I am not used to miles, either,” Neustatter said, “but one mile is about a thousand steps with the same foot. That I can understand. We can do this in a month. Maybe three weeks if the weather is good.

“Danke dir for arranging a ride to Jena.” Neustatter shook Frost’s hand. “That saves two days right at the beginning. Und for the matchlocks.”

“We don’t really need those matchlocks. Just remember you don’t have much powder.”

“Perhaps someday we will return these and buy Colts.” Neustatter sounded a bit wistful.

“Safe travels,” Chief Frost told them.

The eight men from the village piled onto the back of one of the highway trucks, currently pressed into service with the NUS Army. One soldier wearing green, gray, and black camouflage was driving, and another was riding up front with him. Two more were in the back with the men from the village. Neustatter and the others found a place to ground their matchlocks, barrels pointing toward the back gate of the truck, and found places to sit amidst the cargo. They were finally going home.

***

Most of the route was straightforward: follow the Saale River until it flowed into the Elbe River, then follow the Elbe almost to Hamburg. They made excellent time until a late snowstorm cost them four days north of Halle.

Once they resume their walk north, picking their way around the muddiest spots, Lukas grumbled about it. “We could have left sooner.”

Neustatter frowned. He’d explained this before. “We traded our labor for food. That village needed to be dug out, and another day of melt helps us, too.”

“But we have the coin to buy food and lodging,” Lukas protested.

“No one needs to know that,” Neustatter warned. “We want to have as much left as possible when we get home. Who knows what seed costs by now?”

Magdeburg

Late March 1633

They reached Magdeburg toward the end of the month. It was a beehive of activity, from what was going to be a coal gas plant south of the Altstadt to the Navy Yard north of the Neustadt to all the new construction springing up to the west. The sheer number of brand-new and under-construction houses and apartment buildings suggested that Magdeburg was going to dwarf Grantville in size. It certainly didn’t have encircling mountains constraining its size.

“Halt!” A small group of men wearing up-time-style camouflage uniforms stopped them near the Navy Yard. “Identify yourselves.”

“Ich heisse Edgar Neustatter.” Neustatter rattled off his men’s names.

“Why are you armed?”

“We are going home from the war,” Neustatter said. “It is three hundred miles, and this is halfway. Chief Frost thought we should be armed in case we met bandits.”

“You know Dan Frost?” That speaker was an inch taller than Neustatter, a nearly sure sign of an up-timer. Referring to Herr Chief Frost by his first name clinched it.

“Ja.”

“They talk like they’ve been in Grantville,” one of the other men murmured to his fellows.

“Who are you?” Neustatter asked. By now, he was very familiar with the New United States Army. These men were subtly different in both manner and dress.

“USE Marines!”

“Marines . . . Sands of Iwo Jima?” Neustatter asked.

The Marines broke up laughing. “Ja. How do you know that?”

Stefan Kirchenbauer rolled his eyes. “John Wayne. Neustatter is a fan.”

The Marines laughed again. “If you men are looking for work along the way, be outside the Altstadt gate early in the morning. Day laborers can hire onto a building crew.” One gave them a couple names to look for and a couple more to avoid.

Neustatter thanked them. He and his men made their way across Magdeburg.

“This is the largest city I have ever seen,” Hjalmar Schaub declared. “We could hire on for a day.”

“We could,” Wolfram said, “but I would really like to get home to my wife.”

“Me, too,” Stefan agreed.

“I would like to see Annamaria as soon as possible,” Otto said.

“We should go to the hiring place in the morning,” Karl suggested. “We know what a man on a building crew gets paid in Grantville. It will likely be less here, but maybe still enough to be worth working a day or two.”

Ditmar looked down yet another street of half-finished buildings. “Not a bad suggestion.”

“If it is good money . . . ” Lukas trailed off.

“I suppose,” Stefan agreed. “The more money we arrive home with, the better.”

“If it is good pay.” Wolfram was still reluctant.

“We will ask in the morning,” Neustatter said. “If the pay is good enough to stay a day, we can. If it is not, we can leave right away.”

When they found out the next day what day laborers were paid, Wolfram and Stefan changed their minds. Wages in Magdeburg weren’t as high as they were in Grantville, but they were significantly better than anywhere else along the way. The men from the village ended up working the rest of the week, earning enough to replace what they’d spent since leaving Grantville.

Early April 1633

They reached Hamburg in early April. That was the end of the easy navigation. Twice they lost half a day backtracking to a more direct road, but after a few days, they were well into Holstein-Gottorp. They were moving slower, now, too. It simply took longer to avoid the muddy patches. Plus, it seemed like every village wanted to hear about Grantville and the up-timers.

“Another village,” Stefan noted. “If we stop and tell stories, we will not have enough light to go any further today.”

“That is true,” Neustatter acknowledged. “But I think we should stop. Order beers. It has been a long day. If the tavernkeeper wants to talk, let me take the lead. We may be close enough that he has heard news of the village. At least he may know who Herr Augustus is.”

“If I do not have to do the talking, that is fine with me,” Stefan agreed.

The tavern had a blue cow painted above the door. It was empty except for the tavernkeeper himself and a serving girl.

“Guten Abend.” He gave a sharp nod at Neustatter’s weapon. “Why are you coming in here with guns?”

“We are on our way home from the war.” Neustatter leaned his matchlock against the wall in corner of the room and motioned for the others to do likewise. “Are we near Herr Augustus’ village? Have you any news from there?”

“Augustus . . . Augustus . . . I have heard the name. Somewhere north, maybe east of here. I know little enough about the adel. What news have you heard?”

“Gustav II Adolf and his new allies defeated Wallenstein outside Nürnberg last September.”

“We heard that, but with so many fanciful rumors we did not know how much we could believe.”

Neustatter sat down at the corner table. “This may take a while. How about those beers?”

Once the tavernkeeper and the serving girl had set nine beers on the table, he sat down himself. Leaning forward, he asked, “What really happened? Everything we have heard says that Wallenstein outnumbered Gustav Adolf.”

“Three to one,” Neustatter said. “Maybe closer to four to one. We heard the number one hundred thousand troops.”

“How does anyone lose with that many men?”

“Grantville.”

A few men had drifted in, their day’s work done.

“I think everyone should hear this,” the innkeeper said. “Klaus, Martin, find the amtmann and the pastor and whomever else wants to hear.” He turned back to Neustatter. “Now you were saying that Gustav Adolf leads this new Confederated Principalities of Europe? What lands does it include?”

“Thuringia, Franconia, the Oberpfalz, Hesse, Magdeburg, Saxony, and Brandenburg,” Neustatter answered. “Maybe more.”

“I do not know where some of those are.”

Lukas laughed. “Neither do we—and we marched through some of them.”

“The people in Grantville have lots of maps,” Ditmar put in. “The Confederated Principalities of Europe is the center of what was the Holy Roman Empire.”

“I cannot imagine the emperor will stand for that.”

Neustatter shrugged. “Tilly, who was thought to be unbeatable, is dead. Wallenstein is defeated. We heard he was wounded. Who else is the emperor going to send?”

“How will that affect us here?” the tavernkeeper asked.

Neustatter shrugged. “Gustav Adolf and Michael Stearns are hardly in the habit of telling me their plans.”

The tavernkeeper gave a great, booming laugh. “Well, we will just have to wait and see.”

He looked around the tavern. Several more men had entered. The tavernkeeper turned back to Neustatter. “If you sit two men at each table and tell your story, I will give you a good deal on dinner and clean cots.”

Neustatter glanced at the others. Stefan rolled his eyes.

“Und another beer in the bargain,” Lukas suggested.

“Done!”

“Danke,” Neustatter said. “Ditmar and Lukas. Stefan and Wolfram. Hjalmar and Karl. Otto and I.”

Within a few minutes, the tables were filling up, and Neustatter repeated almost everything he’d told the innkeeper. Lukas had considerably more than one more beer. But eventually the villagers went home. In the morning, the eight of them were back on the road. They continued walking from village to village.

Finally, on the evening of April 1 (locally; according to the Gregorian calendar the up-timers used, it was April 12), Neustatter gathered the other men in the sleeping room of their latest inn. It really wasn’t much more than an eating room and a sleeping room added on to one of the houses. The houses in this village were clustered around where two roads met. They were tall and narrow, made of timber and brick. Some had thatched roofs, but the inn had shingles.

“Why are we in here, Neustatter?” Lukas sounded cross. “The beer is out there in the common room.”

Neustatter’s eyes swept the sleeping room. A dozen narrow sleeping pallets jutted out from opposite walls. Its sole virtue was relative cleanliness. While a brick fireplace dominated the far wall, the room was far from warm.

“We are the only ones in here. From what the innkeeper says, it sounds like we are a day and a half, maybe two days, from the village.”

Lukas shook his head. “I recognize that third village he named. There is a shorter way home from there.”

Neustatter looked at him. “Are you sure?”

“Ja. It will be a long march. Maybe twenty of those mile things, maybe a couple more. Und it is not a good road. But if we do not stop, we can be home tomorrow night.”

Neustatter looked around. All of them were nodding.

“All right. We will set out as early as possible.”

Lukas sighed. “We are not going back to the common room, are we?”

Wednesday, April 13, 1633

Hjalmar and Ditmar woke the others at dawn. The men had been keeping a night watch on the march. They’d had no incidents along the way, but they were not going to abandon discipline just because they were not in an army anymore. The room was chilly, and the men lost no time pulling on their clothes. They each had a set of clothes, meant for winter work, from their time in Grantville. All of them reached for those and their buff coats.

Lukas’ information was good. The road and the weather were not. It was muddy in places, and the day was just warm enough that the mud hadn’t frozen. Not even their buff coats fully blocked the stiff wind, and the sky was overcast. But by mid-afternoon, Lukas got them to a village that Stefan, Karl, and Neustatter all remembered well. People from this village and their own occasionally intermarried, and they’d all been to at least one wedding here.

Once they left that village, the eight of them walked along in a loose group. The road here was not much more than a dirt track.

“I have been thinking,” Neustatter announced.

“Uh-oh. That means he has an idea,” Lukas said.

“Oh, we know,” Karl Recker replied. “What is it, Neustatter?”

“I think we ought to arrive home in formation.”

“One of the fancy up-time ones?” Ditmar asked.

“Nein. No one in the village would recognize it. Column of twos.”

Up ahead, Wolfram spoke over his shoulder. “Just as long as you understand I am breaking formation as soon as I see my wife.”

Neustatter laughed. “I expect no less.”

Hjalmar caught up to Neustatter. “That will leave you, Karl, and Lukas. Ditmar and I will go find Astrid. Otto will find Annamaria.”

“I ought to find Master Wilhelm,” Karl spoke up. “I am supposed to be his apprentice.”

“You might be on your own, Neustatter,” Lukas told him.

Neustatter shook his head. “I need to tell the families of the others. And find out who else survived.”

“We will all do that,” Ditmar stated.

Late in the afternoon, Hjalmar declared, “I know this road! Ditmar, do you remember this dip in the road?”

Ditmar laughed. “This is where you fell off the wagon.”

“Only because you ran it off the road!”

Neustatter smirked. “Not far now.”

The sun was setting when they reached their village’s boundary stone.

“Fall in!” Neustatter ordered. “Port arms!”

The men formed into four ranks of two, holding their matchlocks diagonally in front of them, right hand on the small of the stock and left hand partway up the barrel.

The road passed through what they remembered as the forest. Birch, beech, and ash trees stretched from north of the village around to the southwest. Branches extended overhead, blending into the darkening sky. The forest wasn’t very wide. They passed through in no more than two hundred paces.

“This is not really a forest,” Ditmar said. “I thought it was, before we went off to war. But after seeing the Thüringerwald . . . This is just enough of a belt of trees to provide wood and shelter the village from the wind.”

“That it is,” Neustatter agreed. “And I see a lamp in the village.”

The village had been of significant size, about sixty houses, until sickness swept through ten years ago. About one in ten villagers had died.

Eight or nine houses lined each side of the road from just past the forest to the center of the village. About a dozen houses surrounded the central pasture there, with another eight or nine along each side of the road beyond. Another road led north to the schloss, with a handful of houses along it.

“People will be going to bed,” Stefan pointed out. “We should make some noise.”

Neustatter immediately started calling cadence, something they had never used in Wallenstein’s army but learned from the NUS soldiers easily enough.

“Hallo the village!”

***

Astrid Schäubin was twenty-one years old, in service to Herr Augustus and Frau Sophia—helping the cook, helping the laundress, occasionally stitching, and assisting with whatever Frau Sophia needed. But mostly the young tall blonde woman cleaned. Anke the cook, Helga the laundress, Gessel the other maid, and Astrid had just finished cleaning up after the evening meal.

“That is everything, girls,” Anke told them. “Herr Augustus and Frau Sophia have retired for the evening. Melchior and Magdalena will see to anything else they need.”

The girls filed out the door. Astrid made sure to bring up the rear and gently pulled the door closed until she heard the faint click of the latch. The night was brisk, but at least it was no longer the bone-chilling cold of winter.

The main road emerged from the forest to the west of their village and continued on more or less east. Houses lined both sides of the road except a stretch right in the middle where the village pasture on the north side came all the way up to the road itself.

The road to Herr Augustus’ schloss arced away to the north in an approximate semi-circle before rejoining the main road on the other side of the village. The schloss was not centered due north of the center of the village but on a small rise to the northwest. A few houses lined each side of the schloss road near the main road, but none stood near the schloss itself.

The four young women lived in the second house on the western end of the schloss road, on the inside of the arc it made. Some houses stood empty after the sickness that passed through the village nine years ago. Others had lost their menfolk six years ago when Herr Augustus took the militia off to war. In some cases, widows had remarried, and they and their children had left the village. In a couple instances, new husbands had moved in.

The house where the four women lived had stood empty then, but Herr Augustus and Frau Sophia and Pastor Claussen had agreed that the orphans needed somewhere to live. While they worked at the schloss, there was not room for them there. The house was a bit rundown. They kept it neat and clean but major repairs tended to linger until warmer weather.

They had just gotten inside when they heard shouting.

“What is that?” Gessel demanded crossly. She was normally very good-humored, but it had been a long, trying day. Frau Sophia had been more demanding than usual lately, and all four of them were exhausted and on edge.

“It sounds like the village boys shouting,” Anke said.

“Nein,” Helga disagreed. “Those are men’s voices. Singing, almost.”

The four went back outside to see who was making all that noise. Others were coming out of their houses: the whole Badenhoop family—mother, father, and (currently) six children, the Ramckes (who had evidently told their children to remain inside), and Katrine Helmichsen next door.

“There!” Astrid pointed at figures emerging from the forest. They were not hard to spot. She did not know the song they were singing. All she could understand was something about leaving a girl behind.

“They have guns!” Gessel shrieked. She ran back inside.

Astrid was ready to run herself—but not inside where she would trap herself. But before she could move, one of the men shouted an order.

“Ka-deeeeeer . . . halt! Kader, fallen aus!”

The men immediately stopped at the first command and hurried off in individual directions at the second. Astrid heard them calling out names as they broke away from the group.

“Anna! Anna!”

“Ursula!”

“Annamaria!”

Then she heard her own name. “Astrid! Astrid Schäubin!”

She knew that voice! “Hjalmar?” She started forward, but Helga grabbed her arm.

“Those are soldiers! They will—”

“Over here!” Astrid shouted back.

“Astrid!” A face she thought she’d never see again appeared out of the darkness.

“Hjalmar! You’re alive!” Astrid exclaimed.

Her brother ran up and swept her into a huge hug. Their cousin Ditmar was right behind him.

“Mmmpppfff. You are crushing me.”

“Sorry,” Hjalmar said. “Some days I did not think I would ever see you again.” He stepped back. “You look well.”

“I am. Where have you been?” She looked at them both. They were still thin and blond but much taller than she remembered. They were bigger and tougher, too. Six years older, of course. And they looked grimmer, not the carefree teens she remembered.

“It is a long story. But we are finally back from the war.”

“We—we thought you were dead with the others.” Astrid tried not to cry and continued to clutch Hjalmar’s arm.

“Neustatter formed a rear guard and tried to hold off the Imperials,” Ditmar told her. “Fifteen of us were captured. Eight of us survived the war.”

“Ditmar! Almost thirty men did not come back to the village!”

“Thirty?” Hjalmar demanded. He and Ditmar exchanged glances. “We can account for eighteen . . . ”

Astrid jumped when someone started wailing. Then she spotted figures outside one of the houses along the main road.

“That is the Tersmedens!”

“Jan died the second year,” her brother told her quietly. “Sickness.”

“Neustatter is telling the families,” Ditmar said. “I should help.”

“I should, too,” Hjalmar said. “Astrid?”

“I will go with you.” She wasn’t about to let go of him.

Astrid had been fifteen years old when the men went off to war. Herr Augustus called for a levy, and seventy men went off to war with Mansfeld’s army. That was a quarter of the entire village. Late that spring, only forty came home.

Edgar Neustatter was attempting to comfort the Tersmedens. Astrid remembered him. He was several years older than she. He had been a leader among the younger men, the one who would organize them to get work done in the fields. Even some of the older men listened when he spoke.

He went on, three houses away on the south side of the main road. He and Ditmar and Hjalmar told the Sipkes that Young Hans had died in the battle at Dessau Bridge. They had assumed that, but now they knew.

Next, the Helmichsens, further on, across from the pasture. Their son Friedrich had died in the battle, too. Old Joachim Helmichsen came outside and nodded solemnly at Neustatter’s words. Astrid was close enough to hear what he said.

“Some of the men who came back right away told us they saw him fall.”

“He was a brave man,” Neustatter told him.

“What happened to you men?” Old Joachim asked.

“We were captured and taken into Wallenstein’s army,” Neustatter answered. “In September, there was a battle outside Nürnberg. Wallenstein lost. We got captured again and were able to come home.”

Old Joachim’s eyes lit up. “Wallenstein lost? We heard rumors. Who finally beat him?”

“Gustav Adolf of Sweden and his up-time allies.” Seeing Old Joachim’s confusion, Neustatter clarified. “The town from the future.”

“Surely that is only a story!” the white-haired man exclaimed.

“No, it is real. We just came from there.”

Astrid was shocked. “Hjalmar!”

“We will tell everyone about it,” Neustatter promised. “But we must tell the men’s families first.”

“Of course,” Old Joachim agreed. “I will gather the village.”

***

There was a tall, old beech tree in the center of the village, at the edge of the common pasture. A pair of small beeches flanked it, on the grounds that someday the old one would finally topple. One on each side because no one knew which way the old one would finally fall. Any other time it would be amusing that almost all the people were gathered at the pasture while cows and oxen were safely in the stalls that were part of many of the houses.

Astrid stood with everyone else, listening to Neustatter tell what had happened to him, Hjalmar, Ditmar, and the men with them.

“A likely story,” Jørgen Blome scoffed.

Astrid gasped, as did several others. Blome was one of Herr Augustus’ toadies. He never quite called someone a liar. He just managed to leave that impression—every time he disagreed with anyone.

“You were not there, Jørgen. So shut your mouth.” That was Henrik Arents. He was . . . direct. He had even been told to watch his tongue by Herr Augustus. Naturally, he and Blome did not get along at all. “I was. We ran when the line crumbled. We got away. Something held up the pursuit for long enough.”

“But you ran,” Barent Glindemann spoke up. “So how would you know exactly what happened?”

“Exactly my point.” Arents clapped Glindemann on the shoulder. “I ran. You, too. Only time I will admit that you outpaced me.”

Glindemann gave a booming laugh. “I will admit it. When Wallenstein’s army charged, no one could stand against them.”

“Not until last September.” Neustatter instantly had everyone’s attention again. He quickly told of the intervening years, how half the men had died of disease. Then he told them about Alte Veste.

“So, someone finally beat Wallenstein,” Barent Glindemann mused aloud. “People from the future, you say?”

“I never heard of such a thing,” Neustatter stated. “But we have been to Grantville. The up-timers say it was just a small town, but the way it lays in the valley, it takes over an hour to walk from one side to the other. The houses are spread out, often with enough room for another large house between each one. And there are no walls.”

“No walls?” Glindemann repeated in disbelief.

“None. It does not need them. A month before Alte Veste, Wallenstein sent two thousand Croats against Grantville. Their army was elsewhere. Less than half of the Croats came back.”

“What happened?”

“I asked Herr Chief Frost. He is the police chief, the head of their watch. He said, ‘Our Constitution recognizes the right to bear arms. And West Virginians do. Even half the little old ladies on the Ecumenical Relief Committee were packing heat.’”

Astrid noted that it took a very long time to explain everything in those three sentences. Pastor Claussen had many questions, and he was far from the only one.

Finally, though, Pastor Claussen called a halt to the discussion. “We can continue this tomorrow,” he said. “After our work.”

Wolfram Kuntz and Stefan Kirchenbauer were already moving off with their wives, and in Stefan’s case, the son he had not seen since he was a baby. Normally rambunctious, Johann looked a little apprehensive but also a little in awe.

That left Hjalmar and Ditmar, Neustatter, big Karl Recker, Lukas Heidenfelder (whom Astrid had been scared of as a child), and another man who looked upset. She struggled to place him.

“Who is that?” she asked Hjalmar in a whisper.

“Otto Brenner.” He sounded surprised that she had to ask.

“Oh!” Then Astrid lowered her voice. “Hjalmar, is he not the one who betrothed Annamaria?”

“Ja. He thought of her the whole time we were in the armies.”

“Oh, Hjalmar! She married his brother!”

“Oh, no.” Hjalmar immediately stepped away and spoke quietly with Neustatter.

Thursday, April 14, 1633

In the morning Astrid woke and wondered if it had all been a dream. She barely had her feet on the floor when Anke settled that by declaring, “Astrid! Your brother and cousin are so cute!”

Astrid laughed. She, Anke, Gessel, and Helga quickly prepared themselves. While the other three walked to the schloss, Astrid ran across a field to the empty house on the far end of the schloss road to which Pastor Claussen had sent the men. They were already awake and cooking breakfast.

“Fräulein Astrid,” Neustatter greeted her.

She froze. “I am no fräulein! Do not say that around Herr Augustus or Frau Sophia, bitte.”

Neustatter seemed to take a few seconds to think about that. “In Grantville, all young girls are fräulein.”

“Every girl in the town?” she asked. “Surely not.”

“I have seen it at their school. But you are right that Herr Augustus and Frau Sophia would object. I shall have to call you something else.” Neustatter thought for a moment. “Miss Schäubin.”

Astrid shook her head. “What is ‘Miss’?”

“What the up-timers call an unmarried woman. Of any class, so far as I can tell.”

“I will be needed at the schloss.”

Neustatter laughed. “I used to think of it as a schloss as well. But I have seen schlösser now. What Herr Augustus lives in is a hunting lodge.” He paused. “Tell Herr Augustus we have returned, bitte. We will come pay our respects and see about our leases.”

Astrid hurried off to the schloss. She would have her usual tasks, and Frau Sophia would add more soon enough. This morning it was helping Anke with the cooking—or more properly, doing most of the cooking because Frau Sophia wanted fresh bread. Anke was busy kneading the dough while Astrid made breakfast.

They heard “Kader . . . halt!” Hjalmar, Ditmar, and the others had arrived. “Gewehr . . . ab!” They stood their weapons on the ground beside them, holding onto the barrels to keep them upright.

Next, they heard Herr Augustus’ booming voice. “So! So! The prodigals have returned.” Abruptly, his tone changed. He snapped, “Where have you been?”

Astrid could tell that Neustatter was the one who answered, but she could not make out his words.

“A likely story!” Herr Augustus shouted. He was a bigger man, not fat precisely, but he certainly ate better than the average farmer. He was getting angry, and that was not good. Herr Augustus tended to work himself up.

“Lies!” came Herr Augustus’ shout. “All lies! Melchior, arrest them!”

Astrid gasped and ran to the door of the kitchen. Anke was right behind her. They froze in the doorway.

Melchior was Herr Augustus’ personal servant. He was neither tall nor muscular, but carried himself in a way that most people found intimidating. Herr Augustus used him to discipline the rest of the village. Herr Augustus stood next to the door of the schloss, at the top of three steps. Hjalmar, Ditmar, and the others were in an orderly line in front of the schloss.

“I arrest you men! You must submit.”

“Herr Augustus.” Neustatter was speaking, completely ignoring Melchior. “You led us to war. We stood and fought and were overrun and captured. We survived and made our way home. You accuse us? You ran.”

Herr Augustus’ face went white and then red as Neustatter accused him of cowardice. He exploded into words that made Anke and Astrid blush.

“Strike them!” he ordered Melchior.

Melchior reared back and swung his right arm. Astrid never saw Neustatter’s musket move. One instant, it was at his side, its butt resting on the ground. The next, they all heard a meaty thwack as the barrel slammed across Melchior’s forearm. A third instant, and the butt caught Melchior in the stomach, knocking him to the ground. A final instant, and the musket was back at Neustatter’s side.

“You will not touch my men,” Neustatter growled.

“They are not your men!” Herr Augustus roared. “You are my subjects!”

“We have finally been able to return. We wish to rejoin our families and to plant a crop.”

“You owe me six years rent first.” Herr Augustus’ voice was cold and cruel.

Astrid’s heart sank. There was no way Hjalmar and the others had that much money.

Neustatter already had a hand raised to forestall angry comments from the other men. “How much?”

Herr Augustus named an amount that Astrid knew was far too much. In such a small village, everyone knew the rents.

“You ordered us to war, Herr Augustus. We lost six years. I will not pay you for that.”

“You will pay me whatever I order,” Herr Augustus snarled. “Do so or get out!” He whirled and stalked back inside.

Astrid had seen the calculating look on his face. He would wait for the rest of the village to pressure them, and then he would force them to accept even worse terms.

“Melchior.” Neustatter’s voice was conversational. “Get out of my sight.”

To the girls’ amazement, Melchior staggered to his feet and scuttled off.

“They are in so much trouble . . . ” Anke began.

“Well, men?” Neustatter asked.

Lukas Heidenfelder spat. “‘Get out’ sounds good to me,” he declared.

“I am not leaving without my family,” Stefan Kirchenbauer countered.

“Nor will I,” Wolfram added.

“Bring them with us,” Otto suggested. He added bitterly, “There is no reason to stay here.”

“Master Wilhelm died, and Herr Augustus found a new smith,” Karl reported. “No need for me here. If the rest of you want to go, I will, too.”

“If Astrid comes with us,” Hjalmar put in. He looked around and spotted her. “What do you say, Astrid?”

She hurried over, very aware that some of the other villagers were glaring at her for doing so. “I think you will all get in a lot of trouble with Herr Augustus,” she said quietly.

Neustatter looked around. “Jørgen Blome and Claus Sipke will report everything they hear.” At Astrid’s surprised expression he added, “They always have. Has that changed?”

“No, not at all,” she assured him.

The second man he had named wandered over. He was the uncle of Young Hans, whose death Neustatter had reported to the family last night. Claus had a satisfied look on his face. “So, you are under arrest, are you, Neustatter? In for a short drop.”

“Odd sort of arrest,” Neustatter returned. He snapped his musket up to a diagonal position in front of him that Astrid later learned was called port arms. “We seem to have all the guns.”

“That will change,” Sipke predicted.

“How?” Neustatter asked. “The eight of us are good soldiers. Never wanted to be, but we are. The rest of you who have not been to war have what—maybe a dozen muskets between you? You could rush us, but . . . who is going to go first?”

Neustatter’s voice was casual, as though he were asking an everyday question like should the men plant the big field or the field by the creek first. His confident assumption that the eight of them could hold off the rest of the village was far more disconcerting than a menacing tone or actual threats would have been.

“I figure we need to stop only the first five or six,” Neustatter went on. “Ditmar?”

“Ja, they would break,” he agreed.

“Of course, it would not be the whole village,” Neustatter went on. “Somehow I cannot see Henrik Arents or the Helmichsens or the Tersmedens joining in.”

“Herr Augustus placed you under arrest!” Sipke reminded him.

“We have been captured twice,” Neustatter told him. “By professionals. This”—he let go of the musket with his left hand and gestured—“is not under arrest. What are you men doing today? While we work, we will tell you how the up-timers capture people.”

The men who had returned from the war joined the rest of the village men as they prepared one of the fields for planting. Six of them worked at a time, with the other two standing guard in case anyone had thoughts of actually arresting them. And Herr Augustus did. The servants overheard enough to piece together that Herr Augustus intended to send Melchior to some of the nearby adel, requesting the use of their men-at-arms.

***

“Danke,” Neustatter told Astrid when she reported that to him that evening.

The eight men who had returned from the wars were gathered at the empty house further up the eastern end of the schloss road. Stefan Kirchenbauer’s wife Ursula and their son Johann were there, too, as was Anna Kräusin, who was married to Wolfram Kuntz. The twelve of them filled the small house.

From her chair by the table, Ursula looked over at Astrid. “I think you were meant to hear that. That is Herr Augustus’ way.”

“To let the news out, to intimidate,” Neustatter summarized. “I never liked that about him.”

“It works,” Ursula stated. “Last year, he did it to see who would speak out against the rent increases. Henrik Arents did, of course, and Herr Augustus instructed him to watch his words.”

Lukas Heidenfelder laughed.

“There is nothing funny about it!” Ursula snapped. “Henrik had to leave off complaining, or Herr Augustus could have disciplined him.”

“I wonder how Herr Augustus would manage in Grantville,” Karl Recker mused. He was grinning openly at the thought as he leaned against one wall.

“We ought to frag him,” Lukas suggested.

“Nein,” Neustatter stated. When Lukas scowled, Neustatter explained. “I considered it, and, yes, we could frag him. But it would be wrong because he does not realize the world has changed. It would also get us and the entire village in a lot of trouble. Not just the displeasure of the adel, but actual attack. We could not hold out in the long run. We do not have enough gunpowder, and eventually they would have the numbers to overwhelm us. If we were closer to Grantville, perhaps.”

Neustatter held up a hand before anyone else could speak. “Do you men remember how we felt in the army? Always alert, always watching who might be plotting against us.”

Stefan’s face held a sour expression. “Just like now.”

“Nein,” Hjalmar countered. “Oh, I admit we are in some danger. But we are not talking about how much we must put up with to stay alive. We are talking about whether we will put up with it at all.”

“That is exactly what I mean,” Neustatter said. “I find myself watching everyone, everything, again. But differently. Alert but not fearful. Thinking about what we can do instead of what others will do.”

“The world has changed,” Wolfram agreed.

“What do you mean when you say the world has changed?” Anna asked. She and Wolfram were sitting on one of the beds, holding hands. Anna was one of the older girls Astrid had looked up to as a child. Astrid remembered when Anna had been friendly and caring, but ever since Wolfram had gone off to war and not returned, she had grown quieter and quieter. Everyone had feared she was slowly wasting away, sitting quietly in a corner stitching and sewing. Tonight, she was practically glowing and had not let go of Wolfram since the men had returned from the fields.

“The up-timers have set up what they call the New United States,” Neustatter explained. “Grantville elected Michael Stearns as president. They have freedom of speech, so people can criticize Stearns if they want to. They have freedom of assembly, so they can gather together like this, and no one can tell them to disperse, as Herr Augustus will tell us if he realizes what we are talking about. Freedom of religion, so they can join any church they want. Trial by jury, so no one of the adel can hand down justice on his own.”

“But that is far away,” Anna pointed out.

“That used to be far away,” Neustatter corrected. “Soon it will be not so very far. We saw Magdeburg being rebuilt and spoke with men there who have adopted the up-timers’ ideas. They are building a railroad between Grantville and Magdeburg. It has an engine, like the APCs. They hope to finish it by the end of next year. They told us people will be able to go from one city to the other in only one day.”

“How is that possible?”

Several of the men started to answer, but Neustatter stood up and shook his head. “We do not know how it works, and we do not have time to discuss the matter. If Herr Augustus is still the man I remember, he will move against us soon. What we must discuss now is what we will do.”

He grew very serious and looked at each of them in turn. “We can either do things Herr Augustus’ way—he will press and press while we wait and hope that the changes will arrive here soon—or we could leave home again. Go back to Grantville.”

“Herr Augustus will not allow that,” Astrid pointed out. “He would lose your labor.”

“We have money. Maybe enough to buy out . . . ”

“Nein,” Ursula cut in. “Oh, it makes sense. But Herr Augustus’ pride is involved.”

“Then we leave.” Neustatter grimaced. “Sometimes you cannot go back to the home you used to have. Chief Frost tried to tell me that. Even showed me The Searchers.” He shook his head to clear it. “Herr Augustus will be no worse off than he was before.”

“He will claim to have lost my labor and Anna’s and Astrid’s,” Ursula pointed out.

“True,” Neustatter agreed.

“And he will claim you are escaped serfs,” Astrid pointed out.

Neustatter gave a thin smile. “We have lived in Grantville for three months and can become citizens.”

“Herr Augustus will not allow this New Unites States to do that,” Ursula warned.

All of the men laughed, even Hjalmar. Astrid glared at him, because he was usually not mean to anyone.

“It is not a matter of what Herr Augustus will allow,” Hjalmar got out. “It is a matter of what the New United States will not allow. We heard what happened when a ritter tried to have a witch burned in Suhl.”

“Ja,” Ditmar cut in. “They shot the ritter.”

Astrid gasped, and she heard muffled exclamations from both Ursula and Anna.

“That was not even all up-timers,” Ditmar went on. “Hauptmann Schmidt was in command, and he is one of us.”

“The emperor will not allow . . . ” Ursula began.

“The only emperor who matters now is Gustav II Adolf.” Neustatter’s interruption was smooth, but he clearly was not going to debate the matter. “Compared to Wallenstein’s army or to the Croats they smashed or to the Spanish inquisitors they killed at the Wartburg, Herr Augustus matters to them not at all.” His gesture took in the whole group, men and women. “We will be safe enough if we can reach Grantville. Really, if we can reach Magdeburg. The question is how to leave without pursuit.”

“Take the horses,” Lukas suggested.

Astrid saw that Ursula and Anna looked as horrified as she felt.

“Nein,” Neustatter told Lukas. “That would be a crime. Even the up-timers would say so.”

“We need to borrow them, get them out of the way,” Ditmar said.

“If the horses were gone,” Karl mused, “and the oxen tired at the end of the day from working the fields, Herr Augustus would not be able to pursue us until the next day. . . . ”

With that, the planning began in earnest.

Friday, April 15, 1633

On the following day, Herr Augustus continued to alternately fume and make threats. Astrid was now sure he meant for the servants to hear them, especially her. She continued sweeping the schloss, wondering for the first time if somewhere there were bigger and nicer schlösser.

“I heard only three of them are actually working today.” Helga whispered that as she passed Astrid with an armful of laundry. She did not need to explain who “they” were.

Gessel overheard from where she was cleaning. “Are the others standing guard?”

“Nein, only two. The other three did not come out at all.”

That seemed odd to Astrid. She was going to ask about it when Gessel fretted.

“Herr Augustus is going to punish your brother.”

“He certainly means to try.” That was as far as Astrid could agree. She had thought that anyone who struck Melchior would be in for a whipping, but certainly had not expected Melchior to be scared of Neustatter. The world had changed—or, at least, the eight of them had.

She didn’t want to lose her brother and her cousin again. But was she willing to go with them? They would be outlaws, at least in Holstein-Gottorp. If caught . . . But in this Grantville place . . . If she had to choose . . . No, she had to choose.

Astrid did not want to leave the village, abandon her home. But Hjalmar and Ditmar were alive! Back from the dead, for all practical purposes. She wasn’t the last of her family.

She would miss Gisele, Helga, and Anke—and she could not tell them. Herr Augustus would punish them if it slipped out that they knew. No one at all could know ahead of time, lest word get out before they were actually gone.

Astrid hoped the other girls would forgive her.

Ursula had family nearby, although they were fairly distant relatives. She and Johann were leaving with Stefan. But Anna’s parents and sister lived in the village. They were good people, and they had worried about Anna becoming more and more withdrawn. They would miss her terribly, but they would want her to be with Wolfram.

Otto Brenner was the one Astrid worried about. They had all thought the men who did not return were dead. Annamaria had married his brother. Otto had been declared dead. It had happened after only four years, but Herr Augustus and Pastor Claussen said it was entirely legal, and Astrid knew of no one who thought otherwise. There was even something in the Old Testament about marrying a brother’s widow. But . . . they had been wrong. Not all of the missing men were dead.

Oh! Otto was legally dead. She wondered if Neustatter knew that. Even if the rest of them did not get away, Herr Augustus could not tell Otto what to do. She would mention it to Neustatter.

But it would not fix Otto’s situation. It was not anyone’s fault. The whispers already said that Otto was not angry so much as hurt. He should be with family, but that was the source of his pain. No wonder he was eager to leave.

Hjalmar had told Astrid to pack her possessions. She had few. Even so, she would have to leave some behind. She would leave them for Helga, Anke, and Gessel.

As the four girls prepared for bed, Astrid tried not to give herself away. And she tried to hide her fear. When she thought the others were asleep, she rose and gathered her things: a change of clothes, some needlework, her knife and spoon. She had her mother’s shawl and large knife, kept safe in a small wooden box. She took her share of food for the next two days.

She made her way to the door as quietly as she possibly could. It was stuck, of course. Astrid took a deep breath and yanked it open. She heard Anke stir, but she did not fully wake. She pulled the door shut behind her and got it shut firmly enough that there would not be a draft.

Astrid heard Hjalmar call her name quietly.

“Here,” she answered.

“Let us go.”

Astrid patted the wooden wall of the small house. It wasn’t much, but it had been home since the men had gone off to war. Hjalmar led her between the Badenhoops’ and the Ramckes’ houses. Despite her worry about whether they’d actually get away, Astrid smiled to herself as she remembered this was one of Hjalmar and Ditmar’s favorite escape routes when they were children.

Their cousin Ditmar was waiting behind the houses. He led them toward the woods.

“Not the stall for the oxen?”

Hjalmar shook his head. “Nein.”

Lukas Heidenfelder was keeping watch from the edge of the woods. But Astrid did not spot Otto Brenner until he stepped out from behind a tree as they hurried past. She jumped.

“Shh!”

She glared at Hjalmar. That did not affect him a bit, although he did hold a tree branch aside until she passed. None of them were carrying lamps. That would have given them away if anyone in the village had been awake. No one except Herr Augustus and Frau Sophia could afford to burn lamps at odd hours. The sky was clear, and the moon was at the first quarter or perhaps a bit less. It was not really light enough to see in the woods, and Astrid banged into more than one tree.

They finally reached the far edge of the woods. It probably took only a few minutes, but it seemed much longer. A wagon was waiting, and two oxen were hitched to it. Neustatter and Stefan Kirchenbauer were loading the wagon while Wolfram Kuntz steadied two horses. Karl Recker held the reins. They were not Herr Augustus’ horses.

Ursula and Anna were standing off to one side and looked up in alarm as the Schaubs emerged from the woods. Neustatter spared them a quick glance and kept working.

Hjalmar jumped up on the wagon to help Neustatter. Astrid hurried over to Ursula and Anna. Ursula was restraining Johann, who seemed to think this was a big adventure. Astrid could not disagree, although she and Ursula had a much better sense of how dangerous this could be if they were caught. Anna . . . Astrid could not tell. She thought Anna knew, but being with Wolfram again had pushed everything else aside, including knowledge of how badly this could end. If Herr Augustus caught up to them . . .

Then she saw her brother and Neustatter arranging the muskets in the wagon. That made her realized that if Herr Augustus caught up to them, they might not be the only ones facing consequences.

Neustatter finished his preparations, jumped down from the wagon, and hurried over to the women.

“Where did you get these horses?” Ursula hissed.

“We rented them. I will explain later. It is all legal. But now we must mount up.”

Neustatter led them to the back of the wagon. He tossed Johann up to Stefan, then helped Ursula, Anna, and Astrid up one at a time. He pointed to some blankets. “We will travel day and night at first. Families should bed down back here. Miss Schäubin, I assume you will want to stay awake and talk with Hjalmar and Ditmar. The three of you can sleep during the day.”

Astrid almost tripped over something. There were packs for everyone, but—“Neustatter, why did you bring clay bowls?”

“You will see,” he promised.

Hjalmar climbed onto the wooden seat of the wagon and reached back to help Astrid. He sat on the left side and indicated that she should sit in the middle.

“Is everyone ready?” Neustatter asked. “Is anyone unsure about this?”

Astrid blinked. “Of course we are unsure what will happen,” she told him. “How could it be otherwise?”

“Oh—that.” Neustatter waved it away. “But you are coming.”

“I am not losing Hjalmar and Ditmar again. This scares me. But they are leaving. So I am leaving home with them.”

“Do the other girls know you are leaving?”

“Nein. Hjalmar told me not to tell them. I feel bad . . . ”

“You can write them a letter from Grantville,” Neustatter told her. He looked at Anna and Ursula.

“We are going,” Anna told him.

“Did you tell anyone?”

“I did not say it plainly,” she answered. “But my parents know. The same as when Wolfram came through the window. They did not see it, but they knew.”

Neustatter nodded. “Good people. You should write a letter from Grantville, too.” He jumped down from the wagon. “Ditmar, go get Otto and Lukas. You can catch up. Hjalmar.”

Hjalmar flicked the reins lightly, and the oxen started forward. Neustatter and Karl mounted the horses and followed. The wagon rolled down the road, away from their village.

A while later, Ditmar, Otto, and Lukas caught up. Hjalmar slowed the wagon, and Ditmar and Otto clambered up on the back. Otto immediately found his pack and rolled up in his blanket. Ditmar made his way forward and handed something down to Lukas. Then he seated himself next to Astrid.

Lukas strode past the slowly rolling wagon and slid the lantern open.

“He is looking for holes in the road,” Hjalmar told his sister. “We cannot afford to break a wheel or an axle.”

Behind us, she could hear Ursula telling Johann a couple times to settle down and go to sleep. After a while, all she could hear was the oxen’s hooves and wagon wheels.

“I am sorry that Herr Augustus did not welcome you back,” she said after a while.

“Ja,” Hjalmar agreed. “We looked forward to coming home.”

“I think we will get used to Grantville,” Ditmar said.

“If we can get there,” Astrid pointed out. “Herr Augustus will pursue us.”

Even in the dark she could see Ditmar’s grin. She looked to her left, and Hjalmar wore the same expression. She remembered those grins from when they had been children.

“What do you know that I do not?”

“Herr Augustus’ stables are empty,” Ditmar explained. “That is what Karl, Otto, and Lukas were doing today, why they were not in the fields with the rest of us.”

“I thought Neustatter said not to steal the horses.”

“He did,” Hjalmar agreed. “And no one stole any horses. Neustatter hired Herr Augustus’ horses and oxen out to a nearby village. He hired these horses from two other villages. The first village will take Herr Augustus’ horses and their own to the other two villages in turn to do the spring plowing. The plowing itself will go faster in each village. Herr Augustus will make a modest amount of money and look like a reasonable man.”

“And he has Neustatter to thank for it.” Ditmar laughed softly. “If he can control himself, he will accept that and not pursue us. If he is truly wise, he will want to make it look like Neustatter was carrying out Herr Augustus’ own idea. Do you think he is?”

A bump in the road jostled them as Astrid thought about it. “Nein,” she finally admitted. “I think he is likely to retaliate against whomever in the village is helping us.”

“No one is,” Ditmar told her. “That is us alone. All anyone from the other villages knows is that Herr Augustus is being helpful.”

“How will we know if this plan worked?” Astrid asked next.

“If we find a way up the Elbe, it has worked,” Hjalmar answered.

“Will we hear from family and friends in the village ever again?”

This time Ditmar answered. “Perhaps. Certain arrangements have been made. For now, let us say only that if any of us sent a message by post rider to Pastor Claussen, it would probably reach the right people. Do not talk about that where anyone else might hear.”

“Someone in the village is friendly to Neustatter,” Astrid reasoned. After thinking about it a while, she added, “Or owes him a favor.”

Ditmar and Hjalmar exchanged looks past her.

“One or more of the men who came back home because you and Neustatter held up the enemy long enough for them to run,” she decided.

Another look passed between her brother and her cousin. A more respectful one, she thought.

Saturday, April 16, 1633

Astrid stayed awake through first sleep. After the waking hour in the middle of the night, Hjalmar sent her to the back of the wagon for second sleep. She did not protest too much. The servant girls never got as much sleep as they wanted. As tense and worried as she was, Astrid fell asleep almost immediately and didn’t wake up until the wagon came to a stop.

She sat up to see Ditmar, Neustatter, Karl, and Wolfram unhitching the team. It was a little past dawn.

“Are we stopping?” she asked Hjalmar.

“Only long enough to change the oxen for the horses.”

The men unsaddled the horses that Neustatter and Karl had been riding, hitched them up to the wagon, and tied leads from the oxen to the back of the wagon. That made sense. By day, the oxen simply had to follow along at a slow walk.

Everyone switched places. Stefan and Wolfram drove the wagon with Ursula, Johann, and Anna gladly keeping them company. Otto followed along on foot, keeping an eye on the trailing horses. Everyone else found a blanket and lay down in the wagon.

“Satisfied, Miss Schäubin?” Neustatter asked.

“I just like to know where everyone is,” she told him.

He nodded. She got the impression he was filing that fact away.

***

Neustatter woke everyone a few hours later. Wolfram had stopped the wagon outside a village. It was at a crossroads and was large enough to have an inn. Neustatter took half of the group into the village to eat an early dinner at the inn. They brought food back for the others. He’d kept the animals outside the village.

“Less chance of trouble and misunderstandings,” he told everyone. “This village sees only half of us, so if Herr Augustus questions them, he will not know for sure we are all still together.”

“But all of us need to pass through the village . . . ” Astrid began.

Neustatter made those who had remained with the animals lie down in the wagon. Astrid supposed the villagers realized they were there, but they could not count them or identify them.

They kept moving into the night. Lukas walked ahead of the wagon with the lantern again. They came to another village. Even in the dark, it seemed bigger than their own. More importantly, it had a gate. It was really nothing more than a medium-sized tree trunk pegged to a stout stump, but it was enough to stop the wagon.

“Hallo the village!” Neustatter called.

A few minutes of shouting woke someone, and soon several men appeared. They were armed. Astrid spotted two muskets and several farm tools.

“We would like to pass through,” Neustatter called to them. “We can pay you for your trouble.”

“Where are you from?”

“Herr Augustus’ village.”

Astrid was shocked. There was no need to tell them that! Then she realized Hjalmar and Ditmar were grinning again.

“Neustatter has always made plans,” Hjalmar whispered. “But he has started getting even craftier. I think the up-timers inspired him.”

“We could have opened your gate,” Neustatter was saying. “But I think your lord has the right to collect a toll?”

“Ja!”

“How much is it?”

The villagers named a sum that was just short of outrageous.

“Surely not!” Neustatter shouted back. “Those in the next village could not pay that.”

“It goes up at night,” one man shouted back.

Neustatter laughed, and they settled into serious bargaining. As some of the men swung the tree trunk aside, the one who had been doing the bargaining said to Neustatter, “It is plain you are fleeing this Herr Augustus. When he comes this way—and he will—we will tell him which way you went.”

“Of course you will,” Neustatter agreed. “In truth, I am counting on it. Look at our wagon. We have muskets to defend ourselves. More than you have, more than Herr Augustus’ party is likely to have. That is not all. Where is the edge of your village’s land?”

The man was obviously surprised by Neustatter’s abrupt change of subject. He warily described the landmarks in question.

“I will leave something in the road a hundred paces beyond,” Neustatter told him. “Keep away from it. Keep the children away from it.”

Astrid saw the man’s expression and had no doubt he would lead Herr Augustus directly to . . . whatever Neustatter was going to put there.

Once the wagon passed by, the villages swung the tree trunk back across the road. Then they followed the wagon. Once the wagon was a hundred paces beyond their fields, Neustatter called a halt and dismounted. He climbed into the back of the wagon, grabbed one of the clay bowls and a small shovel and proceeded to plant it in the middle of the road. Astrid was just as mystified as the villagers, and when smoke shot up from the bowl she jumped just as much as they did.

Neustatter set out a couple more of the clay bowls at intervals. Then he walked back to his horse as though this were an everyday thing, mounted, and waved to the villagers.

“Wagon, ho!” he ordered.

Hjalmar snickered and flicked the reins. The oxen started ambling forward. The last they saw of the villagers, they were still staring at the bowl half-buried in the road.

“What was that?” Astrid asked after a few minutes.

“A length of slow match and half a cartridge of black powder,” Ditmar told her. “But it looked like a mine, did it not?”

“A mine? What is that?”

Over the next hour, she came to realize there were far too many ways to kill other people—and apparently also ways to make men think you could kill them, even when you probably could not.

Sunday, April 17, 1633

Astrid woke up to someone shaking her.

“Wake up, Miss Schäubin,” came Neustatter’s voice. “Do whatever you need to. I want the wagon rolling as soon as it is light enough to see.”

She opened her eyes. She could not blink against the light because there was none.

“Neustatter, it is still the middle of the night,” Astrid protested.

“Herr Augustus will probably begin the pursuit today,” Neustatter continued. “The closer we can get to Hamburg, the better.”

She was not awake enough to follow Neustatter’s logic, but clearly, he would have them on the road soon. So she did what she could to prepare herself for the day. After a few minutes, she realized that Hjalmar and Ditmar had a small fire burning and were making breakfast. Once Astrid was prepared to face the day, she walked over to see what they were cooking.

“Today is April 17 by the Gregorian calendar,” Neustatter announced.

“What is that?” Astrid asked.

“It is the calendar with the correction that Pope Gregory XIII made. All the up-timers use it, whether Catholic or Protestant or whatever, because it matches the seasons better.”

Astrid was skeptical at first. On the other hand, she was fairly skeptical about Neustatter’s clay bowl mines, too—but Herr Augustus did not catch them that day. They stopped at an inn that evening, and all of them went in.

“Neustatter!” Lukas hissed. “We are losing time.”

“I want everyone to get a good night’s sleep in a bed,” Neustatter returned. “Tomorrow is going to be a long day because we will be on foot.”

“Why? We have a perfectly good wagon.”

“Which we have borrowed for about as long as we can. That is the other reason we are spending time at this inn. I want to get the measure of the innkeeper.”

Astrid had no idea what Neustatter was talking about, so she watched him. Neustatter led them to an inn. The only way she knew it was an inn was the lamplight spilling through a couple small windows.

The innkeeper set a couple beers down on a table and then turned his attention to the group of people who had entered his establishment.

“Welcome to the Blue Cow.” He did a double take. “I know you! What brings you back?”

Neustatter spoke quietly with the innkeeper while Ditmar pointed the others to an empty table over in the corner. “Put your matchlocks against the wall.”

After the serving girl brought them stew, bread, and beer, Astrid tried to listen in on Neustatter’s conversation. She heard the innkeeper reciting a list of villages and names, ending with their own village and Herr Augustus. Neustatter handed the man some coins.

Once the innkeeper moved on to another table, Neustatter joined the rest of them. “The horses, oxen, and wagon need to be returned. I have no doubt that men from their home villages will show up within a couple days. They’ll get them back, the innkeeper gets paid for his trouble, and no one has anything against us except Herr Augustus.”

“How do you know the innkeeper is honest?” Ursula asked.

“Because Neustatter cheated,” Stefan grumbled. “We stopped at this same inn on our way to the village. Neustatter has taken the man’s measure twice now.”

Monday, April 18, 1633

In the morning, armed with reliable directions to Hamburg, they set out on foot. They left the remaining clay bowls in the wagon, but carried everything else in their packs. By midday, Astrid had rolled up her other dress and put it under the straps of her pack so they would not cut into her shoulders quite so much. Still, walking all day was no more tiring than working for Frau Sophia all day. At the end of the day, they camped in a copse of trees near a small creek.

Tuesday, April 19, 1633

On the following day, they reached the Elbe River. It was the largest river in the area, far too wide to hail someone on the far bank. The group turned downstream—west—toward Hamburg. Partway through the afternoon, Otto spotted a boat approaching. It was a squarish wooden barge with a single sail set on a short, stubby mast.

“Hallo the boat!” Neustatter called. “Hallo!”

The boat steered a little closer toward their shore.

“Do you have room for paying passengers?”

A lot of shouting back and forth resulted. Astrid tried to follow the negotiations. She thought she missed some of the details but sensed that the boat’s crew was skittish. Eventually, after Neustatter held up some coins, they brought the boat to the riverbank. A couple crew members used long poles to check the depth, then three more added their own poles to the effort and expertly brought the boat right up to a steep bank a short distance away.

Johann charged straight for the boat.

“Johann, stay out of the water!” Ursula hollered.

Hjalmar caught the boy as he ran past. “We have a long way to go, and it is not a warm day. We cannot have you getting wet.”

“Just a little bit?” Johann asked.

“Nein!” several of the adults answered.

Astrid knew she should try to uphold discipline and order—and normally she did. But when Johann asked, “Can I splash? Just a little?” just a few minutes later, she had to hide a grin.

“We carry food to Magdeburg,” one of the sailors told them. He gestured at bags of grain piled in relatively neat rows. “Find yourself seats. Some in the bow and some in the stern. That way you will be out of the way of the sail.”

Magdeburg

Thursday, April 21, 1633

Everyone spent the next two days looking over their shoulders, until the boat came in sight of Magdeburg on Thursday evening, and Neustatter decided they had made a clean escape. If everything had gone as planned, three villages would soon have all their animals back and their fields plowed. They would even have a positive opinion of Herr Augustus, as long as he did not undercut it by giving voice to his anger in front of them.

It had all taken money, of course, and as Astrid listened to the men, she gathered that it had taken more out of what they had brought home with them than they had hoped.

“We can find an inn here,” Neustatter declared, as they disembarked early Friday morning. “We men will work today and tomorrow, and on Monday we can start toward Grantville.”

Magdeburg seemed huge—and it looked like it was still expanding. On Sunday, they found a church and then walked around the city. Astrid marveled at the huge Dom, the palace and the rest of the government buildings under construction, and the Navy Yard.

Monday, April 25, 1633

They started south from Magdeburg on Monday morning. The men had made enough in two days of work to more than pay for the inn and everyone’s food. They kept up the pace, the men taking turns carrying Johann piggyback in the afternoons. In three days, the twelve of them reached Halle.

Halle produced salt, and Grantville and its surrounding area evidently needed a lot of it. Neustatter and Ditmar quickly found out that there was a shipment leaving in the morning and signed the men on as guards.

Even to Astrid, whose only experience with wagons was the handful of small wagons in the village, these appeared to be purpose-built. The wagons had solid sides, thick axles, and wheels larger than those on farm wagons.

“We get stuck less often,” one of the teamsters explained. “We still cannot overload them. This much salt would fit in two wagons, but it is better to take three.”

That meant Johann got to ride on a wagon some of the time. Only some of the time, though, because while the salt was in heavy bags piled aboard the sturdy wagons, each pulled by four oxen, grains still managed to escape. They seemed to get everywhere, and Astrid thought the wagons would need a thorough sweeping out at the end of the journey.

Monday, May 2, 1633

They lost half a day when one of the wagons broke a wheel. By the time they got to Kösen, it was nearly the Sabbath, so everyone stayed in the town. On Monday, south of Kösen, they found out why salt wagons needed guards.

Ursula, Johann, Anna, and Astrid were walking along behind the third wagon when Astrid realized her brother had directed the teamster driving the wagon to stop and wait for them.

“Up on the wagon, ladies,” Hjalmar instructed. “Neustatter’s orders. You, too, Johann.”

By now Astrid knew that Neustatter did not give orders like that unless they were necessary. She hurried up to the wagon and pulled herself up. Hjalmar tossed Johann up to her, almost knocking her over. Then he was aboard himself.

She was busy helping first Anna and then Ursula up onto the wagon, but Astrid did see Karl Recker, who was the rear guard, charge past. When she had a chance to look up, she was shocked to see that the wagons were rolling through the middle of a brawl.

On the right, Astrid spotted a man dressed in well-kept clothing. He was stout, going gray, and reminded her of Herr Augustus’ servant Melchior. It might have been the way he was lying on the ground. He had the same hit-by-Neustatter look.

A couple of his henchmen, bigger and even stouter, were swinging cudgels wildly at Neustatter and Wolfram, who were parrying with their muskets. Nobody was watching Otto. Except Astrid. She saw him circle the two henchman and slam the butt of his musket into one man’s calf. The man instantly went to his knees, and Wolfram applied just enough force to topple him sideways. The other quickly dropped his cudgel.

Astrid looked around for Ditmar and spotted him jumping off the lead wagon. He ran off to the left, where Karl was helping Lukas limp along. A couple men were down there, too. As the third wagon rolled by, it was apparent that someone—she guessed Karl—had used a lot less finesse than Otto and Wolfram had.

“Mount up!” Neustatter’s voice carried really well. They got Lukas aboard the third wagon with some difficulty. The others split themselves up between the three wagons.

“Is Wolfram all right?” Anna’s question was immediate.

“How should I know?” Lukas grumbled. He slumped against one side of the wagon. “I was all by myself on the other side. Where were you, Hjalmar?”

“Right here where Neustatter told me to be.” He patted the barrel of his musket. “I was about to take the shot, but then I saw Karl coming. He knocked them both flat.”

“What happened?” Astrid asked.

“Not sure how it started.” Hjalmar turned to the front of the wagon and cupped his hands. “Neustatter!”

Neustatter looked back from the second wagon. He said something to the driver, and that wagon slowed enough for him to jump off. He pulled himself aboard the third wagon as it rolled by.

“What happened?” Hjalmar asked.

“Difference of opinion,” Neustatter answered. “They thought there was a toll. The salt merchants disagreed. The nicely dressed one handles these things for the local lord.”

“Oh!”

“The salt merchants say there has not been a toll, but he claimed his master was granted this right by the emperor.” He shrugged. “Almost every member of the adel claims some little privilege. They are all different, and a man simply cannot know whether they speak the truth or not. So things like this happen.”

“So that is why the salt merchants hired you as guards,” Astrid said.

“Of course. If they had no guards, they would have to pay those men. On their next trip, others might ‘remember’ additional tolls.”

***

When they stopped for the night, Lukas was still grumbling.

“I could have gotten killed over on the far side all alone.”

“That is about the third time you have said that, Lukas,” Neustatter noted. “In my hearing, anyway. I suspect you have said it many more times to everyone else. Next time, get up on the wagon when I tell you.”

“Someone had to guard the left,” Lukas argued.

“They had cudgels. You would have had the reach with your musket butt from on top of the wagon.” Neustatter was silent for a couple minutes. When he spoke again, the orders were crisp. “Tomorrow, Ditmar, you take Lukas and Stefan. Hjalmar, you take Karl and Otto. Wolfram, you will be with me. Same as on the march from Nürnberg to Grantville. If we run into another made-up toll, my team and whichever of yours is closer will approach. Whichever is further away, mount up on the wagons.”

“That is a lot of measuring back and forth,” Stefan observed.

“That is one of the reasons Ditmar and Hjalmar are in command of the teams,” Neustatter explained. “I figure you two can figure it out without a lot of fuss. Just like you took turns being a distraction for each other when you were growing up in the village.”

Neustatter did not miss much.

Tuesday, May 3, 1633

The salt wagons did not encounter any more tolls. Neustatter conducted drills instead. By the time they stopped for the night, they had a system worked out. Two men were out in front of the wagons, two were guarding the left, two the right, one behind, and one in the first wagon, able to see everyone.

“Are you still in charge of Karl and Otto?” Astrid asked Hjalmar as they ate dinner. “I noticed that sometimes you are spread far apart.”

“Ja. Neustatter said he wants me to be a leader. That is not something that was encouraged in Wallenstein’s army.” Her brother got a far-away look in his eyes and said, “I think Neustatter has plans.”

Thursday, May 5, 1633

Two days later, just south of Jena, Astrid saw a train for the first time. The wagons had been rolling past twin metal things spiked to wooden beams laid in gravel. Hjalmar had assured her that the up-timers had something similar to wagons that used those as a road.

They heard it first. Then they saw a metal box on wheels. It was taller in the middle so that a man could sit down inside. The front made noise. Hjalmar told his sister that was where the “engine” was. The back was an empty box with a large metal container filling half of it.

“That is the fuel,” Hjalmar explained.

It was pulling two larger things. They were not boxes, just platforms on wheels, and they were piled with crates, barrels, and other things Astrid could recognize.

“Is that what you said can reach Magdeburg from Grantville in a single day?” she asked Neustatter.

“Ja, once they lay the rails all the way there. There are also passenger cars that people can ride inside.”

Astrid wondered what a town with railroads would be like.

Friday, May 6, 1633

On the following day, they turned west at Rudolstadt and left the railroad behind.

“Well, Neustatter, we are almost back to Grantville,” Stefan stated. “What are we going to do? Almost none of the land inside the Ring of Fire is suitable for farming.”

“As a matter of fact, Stefan, I have been giving that a lot of thought,” Neustatter answered. “Right now, though, let us be soldiers. Ditmar, forward guard. Hjalmar, right flank, out thirty paces. Otto, left flank, right along the river. Wolfram, rear guard, thirty paces back. The rest of us men, one rank in front of the women and Johann. When I give an order, make it crisp. That way we will have less trouble with the guards.”

A while later, they passed Schwarza and then spotted guard houses on either side of the road. They were made of new wood, painted brown, and had windows of actual glass. The guards were alert, of course.

“Halt!”

“Kader, halt!” Neustatter ordered.

The men all halted at the same time. One of the four guards approached cautiously. His clothing was odd, all splotches of green and brown and gray, even though it appeared to be all the same cloth.

Neustatter, standing on the right of his very small army of four men, brought his right hand diagonally up to his head. Astrid found out later that was an up-time salute.

“What unit is this?” the guard asked.

“We were captured at Alte Veste and went home this spring to Holstein-Gottorp. If you would call Herr Chief Frost and tell him Neustatter is here, and farming did not work out.”

Astrid thought that seemed a strange thing to say, but it clearly meant something to the guard.

“You know Chief Frost?”

“Ja. He introduced me to John Wayne movies.”

The guard laughed. “Hang on. It might be a while before I can get him on the radio.”

It did take a while, but the guards passed them and the salt wagons through. The men resumed their usual positions around the salt wagons.

Astrid saw the Ring Wall for the first time. It had been almost two years since the Ring of Fire, but she could still see the circle. Hills on one side simply were not there on the other. In places cliffs loomed, some facing outward, others inward. The land simply changed, completely, at the edge of the circle. Astrid had heard the Ring of Fire described as miraculous. Now she understood why people said that. She . . . agreed.

As they came down a shallow slope on the Rudolstadt road, she could even see that the green of the trees and other plants was different inside the Ring. It was no longer a sharp distinction. Darker green up-time grass was spreading along the Rudolstadt road, and as soon as they crossed the boundary, she saw that the lighter green she was accustomed to had spread inside the Ring.

The road was perfectly flat. Astrid stooped down and touched it. It was hard like stone, but it wasn’t stone. To the left of the road was a rocky hill. A river valley lay to the right. Once they passed a line of trees, she could see a small cluster of buildings on the other side of the river. She thought one looked like a schloss, and the others might be granaries. There was a bridge across the river a short distance ahead, and a road from that bridge met the one they were on.

The salt wagons continued along the main road.

“What is that?” Astrid indicated a metal pole set in the ground to the left of the road. A diamond-shaped flat piece of metal was fastened to the top.

“It is a road sign.” Hjalmar showed her the other side. It was yellow with black letters.

“What does it say?”

“Falling rock,” Karl answered. “In English. It is a warning to people who drove cars and trucks along this road.”

Astrid shook her head. The rocky hillside started right next to the road. Or rather, the road had been built into the hillside, although she had no idea how that had been done.

“Of course there are falling rocks,” she pointed out. “Look where the road is.”

Karl shrugged. “There are many signs beside the roads. We will see more.”

A while later, Johann spotted a long metal . . . something, attached to posts a couple feet off the ground.

“Vater, is this another railroad?”

“Nein, that is just a guardrail,” Stefan told his son. “It is to keep cars and trucks from going over the edge of that drop.”

Johann, of course, wanted to go look over the edge. Ursula yanked him back.

“What are those?” Anna had spotted something overhead.

“Wires,” Neustatter answered. “They carry electricity.”

“What is that?”

Neustatter shrugged. “I cannot really explain it. It is what makes up-time machinery work.”

“Sort of like lightning, but trapped in the wires,” Karl added.

That didn’t make any sense to Astrid, but maybe it explained why the wires were kept high on wooden towers. Whatever it was, it sounded dangerous.

A short distance from there, Astrid spotted another road.

“Look! More road signs.”

One of them was a narrow green strip, and the men said it gave the name of the road, although none of them could read it. The other was turned to face the other road. It was red and had eight sides. It read, “Stop.”

“Any cars or trucks on this smaller road must stop to let any on the main road pass by. Then they may go.”

“Why is that a rule?” Astrid asked.

“Because cars and trucks are much faster than wagons, and the people in them must know what they will have to do while they still have time to do it.”

That did not make any sense to Astrid, either. Every time the salt wagons had come to a crossroads, they had seen it minutes away. If there happened to be a wagon on the other road . . . how often did that even happen?

Beyond the crossroad, the main road continued uphill. Neustatter whistled to get the attention of the flanking guards. A gesture sent them up onto the raised ground on either side of the road. Up ahead, the hillsides towered above the road on both sides. Hjalmar and Otto moved steadily along the hilltops.

Another whistle brought Wolfram up from the rear guard.

“I want everyone who is on foot together,” Neustatter explained.

Astrid found out why almost immediately. She heard a rumble and saw . . . something coming toward them.

“Get to the right side of the road!” Neustatter ordered. Stefan grabbed Johann firmly, making sure he got far enough over.

It was metal and glass and made a loud noise. It approached very quickly. Astrid shrank back against the stone hillside, but the metal and glass thing stayed on the left side of the road, rolling down the hill faster than even a galloping horse.

“What was that?” she asked.

“A small truck,” Hjalmar answered. “The flat part at the front holds the engine. Did you see the man inside?”

“Ja. How did he get inside it?”

“Most of each side is really a door. Then the back part is open for cargo.”

“I do not think it carries as much as a wagon,” Astrid ventured.

“That was a small truck. They have much larger ones.”

“Are we safe, here on this road?” Ursula asked.

“Ja,” Neustatter said. “There are rules for trucks and cars. One of them is that they stay to the right of the yellow lines in the middle of the road. If another approaches, we stay over on this side. If one overtakes us from behind, we should get out of its way.”

“How many of those are there?” Anna sounded like she was somewhere between awed and frightened—which Astrid thought was reasonable enough.

“Before the Ring of Fire brought them here, most up-time families had one or two. Sometimes more. The fuel that powers them is scarce in our time, and most people are forbidden from driving them now. Just for military use and emergencies. Come.” Neustatter gestured forward, and the group continued up the hill.

The rocky hillsides dropped away, and Hjalmar and Otto rejoined the main group, although Ditmar remained a short way out ahead.

The landscape widened out. A village! Astrid thought. But the houses were spread out. A small road led off to the right. It wasn’t much more than two trails in the grass, worn down to the dirt. Two houses sat back among the trees to the right of this road. A couple of outbuildings sat to the left.

“That outbuilding looks like it has wheels.” Astrid pointed to it.

“That is a trailer,” Hjalmar told her. “It is a small, traveling house that can be pulled behind one of those trucks.”

Astrid blinked. “Why?”

“I have no idea.”

Astrid shot him a look, but her brother only shrugged. “We were in Grantville for only six months. There was not time to learn everything.”

She looked to the left of the main road and saw schlösser. One of them was an all-brick building.

“Who lives there?” She kept her voice low and polite, as she would when asking which of the other niederadel Herr Augustus and Frau Sophia were going to visit.

Neustatter shrugged. “Regular people.”

“Surely not!”

“Miss Schäubin, Grantville has no adel.”

The men had said that before. But . . .

“They must be at least burghers.”

“That is probably fair,” Neustatter acknowledged. “But they would not consider themselves so. A man might say he is a professional. They say that to mean a doctor or a lawyer or someone else whose work has him sit in an office. But many of the up-timers call themselves working class. Grantville was a mining town.”

They passed more brick almost-schlösser on the left side of the road, including one with an odd appearance.

“Vater, why does that house have a barn door underneath it?” Johann asked.

“That is where the cars and trucks are kept.”

On the other side of the road, the ground was covered with what looked like the same material that made up the road itself, shaped in a long, narrow triangle. At the back was what looked like the ruins of a small building.

The next house on the left was smaller, but looked like the home of someone even richer. A short road led past it, separating it from another brick structure that had several barn doors at ground level. Something that looked like a wooden house made up the second story. The main house was on just a little bit of a hill, held away from its own road by a brick wall. A formal, if oddly shaped, garden lay in front of the house with a brick walkway passing through it. The large open area in front of the door had its own roof and strange but very expensive-looking white railings.

The next house, again on the left, also had its barn underneath it. After that was a very strange structure that Astrid could not identify. Several of the cars and trucks were in a row outside, but they were still and silent. No one was inside them.

Then on the right they passed several more modest houses. Some of them appeared run-down, at least in comparison to those she had assumed were schlösser. But, really, all of them were both nicer and larger than the house where she, Anke, Gessel, and Helga had lived.

They passed a couple more houses on the left, and then caught sight of wide, cleared fields on the right. A deep ditch ran along the side of the road, and an entryway was flanked by half a dozen square columns on either side. Each column along the way was taller than the previous one. A field lay to the right of the entryway. A building that appeared to consist entirely of block shapes was straight ahead. To the left of the entryway was a whole field of the road-stone. Astrid saw a guardhouse there. A huge building occupied the hill beyond it.

“That is the high school,” Neustatter told them.

“That is a school?” Ursula’s tone clearly conveyed that she was sure she’d misheard Neustatter.

“That is one of the schools,” Neustatter said. “This is for the older students. There is one for Johann further ahead. This is the one that the Croats attacked.”

His voice sounded . . . Astrid wondered why reverent was the word that came to mind.

“I talked to a Swede who was there.” Neustatter continued in that same quiet tone. “He said Julie Simms was in one of the second-floor windows, shooting down the Croats who charged Captain Gars and his men. That is what they call Gustav II Adolf here.”

“I heard she never missed,” Lukas added.

“She?” Ursula asked.

“Ja. Julie Simms. She married the Scots colonel, Mackay.”

This was the first time Astrid had heard these details. “One of the soldiers was a woman?”

“When the Croats first attacked—there were over a thousand of them—just Julie Simms, Doctor Nichols, Jeff Higgins, and the teachers were defending the school. Captain Gars arrived a few minutes later with four hundred men, then Chief Frost and Gretchen Richter arrived with a busload of polizei.”

That sounded like something out of legend to Astrid. On the other hand, the Ring of Fire was miraculous. So why should the battle here at the schule have been any different? But a woman shooting Croats away from Captain Gars? She needed time to think about that.

They were passing the school now, and Astrid darted a glance to the other side of the road. A smaller road joined the main road there, and she saw a row of long, narrow buildings along both sides of it.

“What is that?”

“Those are trailers,” Hjalmar told her.

“The moving houses,” she recalled.

“Sort of. We have heard that this kind can be moved, but usually they are moved only once, when they are taken to where someone wants to live in one. Then they stay there.”

Astrid studied the trailers. They were smaller than the houses. Much smaller, in some cases. But she thought a family that lived in one of them would be doing well for itself.

Once beyond the school, hillsides rose up on either side of the road again. These hills were grassy.

“Was that Grantville?” Astrid asked. The school had been huge, and the houses oddly lavish. But she had expected more people.

“Nein,” Neustatter said. “The up-timers call that area a neighborhood, and it doesn’t even have a name. Grantville is still ahead of us.”

They encountered people walking down the road toward them. Everyone kept to their side of the road but waved or called greetings. They passed a few more houses and the first true farmland Astrid had seen within the Ring of Fire.

They kept walking, and the salt wagons rumbled along behind them. They passed more crossroads. Neustatter pointed out one on the right. It was larger than the others and had its own yellow lines.

“That goes to Deborah. The up-timers call it a village, but we have been there. It is actually an upper town and a lower town.”

They passed another of the large open areas with several houses. Wolfram pointed something out to Anna.

“That is Leahy Medical Center. It was a church before the Ring of Fire, but the up-timers made it into a hospital. That is where the finest doctors in the world are.”

They continued for some ways, passing more houses. Some were almost as lavish as those Astrid assumed were schlösser. Others appeared rundown. She could not figure out a pattern.

They came to another crossroads. Just beyond it, the main road went over a bridge.

“Now we are in Grantville,” Neustatter announced.

Astrid immediately saw storehouses and rows of cars and trucks. Ahead were two arches, up on a metal pole. They were gold and looked almost like a letter M.

“What is that?”

“The sign for the Freedom Arches,” Ditmar told her. “That is where the Committees of Correspondence gather. It is a tavern of sorts, what the up-timers call a restaurant.”

Astrid had no idea what her cousin was talking about.

Beyond the arches, all the buildings were strange-looking. She could not tell what any of them were for. Johann was eagerly asking questions, though, so Astrid listened to the answers. More questions came on top of the answers, and she could not keep up. Soon, though, they found more houses.

“I have seen that banner on poles beside at least three houses,” Astrid declared.

“That was the up-timers’ flag, up-time,” Neustatter explained. “They had fifty states. The New United States has fewer states, so there are flags with fewer stars, too.”

They found themselves back in the countryside, with a steep drop-off on the left side of the road with another of the guardrails. At the beginning of a curve in the road, a metal framework supported several of the up-time signs. Astrid started toward them.

“Stay on our side of the road,” Hjalmar cautioned.

Astrid heard a rumble, and another truck came around the curve. It proceeded less quickly than the first one, but still faster than a wagon.

Further along the curve was a sign that read Welcome to Grantville. The English was close enough to German for Astrid to figure it out.

Then they came into Grantville. Houses were close to both sides of the road. There were other buildings, too. They passed a church and a cemetery. People were everywhere. The salt wagons had to slow down.

The sights came so close together now that Astrid was overwhelmed. They walked around more curves and caught sight of buildings packed close together, like a proper town. Astrid saw that some of them were three stories tall. This was a city.

The salt wagons stopped at a big building in Grantville, and the men helped the merchants carry several bags inside. When they returned, the wagons turned around on one of the flat expanses made of the same material as the road and started down another road.

“The rest of the Croats made it this far,” Neustatter told them. “Chief Frost stood right over there, where the road divides. We will cross the right-hand bridge today. The Grantvillers were shooting from every building along here. You can see where some of the windows were broken.”

Astrid looked where Neustatter was pointing. She saw a board where a window should be, judging by the spacing between its neighbors. In another place, big squares of glass had been replaced by many smaller ones. She shuddered. Astrid was no soldier, but the way Grantville was built, the Croats would have been trapped. She could imagine them being shot down all too well.

She looked at the bridge with some concern. The salt wagons were heavy. But the drivers did not wait for each individual wagon to complete its crossing. They just continued on in line, as though crossing a Grantville bridge happened without incident all the time. And it might. Astrid realized that she had seen—and crossed—a great many bridges since they entered the Ring of Fire.

They passed a row of shops on either side of the street. Then there was a box-like structure on the left with many doors. It was too closed-in to be a stable, but she thought it might be a carriage house. That would make sense, because on the right side of the road was an entire row of almost-schlösser. She assumed important people lived here. Then on their left was . . . another bridge. After that came more houses, another curve in the road, and, yes, another bridge on the left.

Here the river was little more than a wide (and presumably deep) ditch full of water. Up ahead on the left was a big rectangular building that she thought was probably brick. She could check once they were closer. In the meantime, her attention was drawn to the right side of the road. They were walking right past one of the trailers. She saw rows of blocks underneath it. Those were fascinating. They looked like stone, but they were all exactly the same size. Centered in front of the trailer was a decorative wooden screen that looked like it might support plants in the summer.

The big building on the left did appear to be made of stone. It had two stories. Open archways in the wall showed that the ground floor was mostly open. The second story was much taller than the first, with high, narrow windows.

“That is the community center,” Neustatter said. “It was used as refugee housing soon after the Ring of Fire happened. We have heard many events are held there during warmer weather. This next area is the fairgrounds.”

Astrid saw lots of fences. Thin metal rods were woven in diamond patterns to make a fence taller than she was that went on and on. A much shorter one made of thicker metal rods was actually a gate across a road that entered the enclosed area. She saw new buildings within.

“Refugee housing,” Hjalmar explained. “People come to Grantville every day, and they need somewhere to stay until they can find a house or an apartment.”

“Is that where we will live?” Astrid asked.

“Nein. There is more refugee housing elsewhere. Each place has advantages and disadvantages. After the wagons deliver the rest of the salt, we will go to one of the other ones. We think it is the furthest away, but the warmest.”

“The warmest? That sounds promising.”

They were passing houses again, now, with lots of space between them. Astrid realized this arrangement matched the other side of town. These Grantvillers began to spread out as they got closer to the countryside.

The road curved to the left again, and they saw trucks clustered by the river.

“What is that?” Johann asked his mother. “Look at that, Mutti!”

Astrid had no idea what it was, but one of the trucks appeared to have a tower on its back. It was lifting a log. Men on the ground were waving and shouting, and the tower-truck swung a big block of . . . something . . . across the river.

“They are making another bridge!” Johann exclaimed.

A short way ahead, a road split off from the main one to the left. It dropped down a steep hill, curving as it did so.

Astrid heard a sharp whistle from behind them. She looked over her shoulder to see the teamster driving the lead wagon motioning down the hill.

“Let us go first!” he shouted. “You can catch up to us when we are on level ground again!”

Astrid thought that sounded like excellent advice. She did not want to be downhill from any of the wagons.

In fact, all the hills within the Ring of Fire were a little bothersome. Some of them seemed like small mountains. It felt like the land was closing up around her.

Once they made it down the hill, the road leveled out, at least to some extent. It was obviously a smaller, less-traveled road. They passed actual farms. Then the trees began to crowd up right next to the road. The road wound on for what seemed like a long time. Then she realized they were approaching the Ring Wall. The road rose up, crossed the Ring, and suddenly the landscape changed. Over to her left, Astrid could see cliffs where the countryside was higher than the Ring of Fire. At their foot was a lake.

But their destination lay further on, south of the Ring of Fire. They passed through a village called Döschnitz. It had a Grantville-style sign proclaiming its name. Not much further on, they came to Rohrbach.

Rohrbach . . . smelled like a barnyard. Then Astrid saw why. Rohrbach was a barnyard. Or at least, it had many fenced areas full of cattle and sheep and pigs.

“These are the stockyards and slaughterhouses,” Neustatter explained. “That truck there is carrying fresh meat back to Grantville.”

“What are those?” Johann pointed to low, round structures poking up out of a hillside.

“Those are ice houses. That is where meat is kept cold and unspoiled until it is sold.”

It was a huge undertaking. But the teamsters knew right where to go. The men helped unload the wagons.

Once the wagons were empty, a man from the slaughterhouses paid the chief teamster, who was a pleasant older man named Gerd. He paid Neustatter the agreed-upon fee.

“Are you going straight back to Halle?” Neustatter asked.

“Ja. We will find an inn tonight, then report to our factor in the morning. Find out what our cargo and escort are and what day we leave.” He considered the group. “I know you are planning to stay, but I would be happy to hire you for future shipments.”

“We will consider that,” Neustatter promised. “We will go back to Buffalo Street with you and then on to the housing at the power plant.”

Once they crossed back inside the Ring of Fire, Astrid realized just how much the hills were starting to block the late afternoon sun. She wanted to reach the main road before dark and not be in this forest, which was so much bigger than the one outside their village.

“Really?” Stefan asked once they were out of earshot. “Guard more shipments of salt?”

“Why not?” Neustatter asked. “As you said, we cannot farm here.”

“That is true,” Wolfram acknowledged. “We could hire onto the work crews.”

“We probably will, at least at first,” Neustatter agreed. “First, though, let us go to the refugee housing.”

Once back at Buffalo Street, they waved goodbye to the teamsters and turned left. Soon they came to a village.

“That big brick building is the power plant,” Neustatter explained. “This is Spring Branch. Almost all of it has been built since the Ring of Fire.”

Astrid nodded. Spring Branch looked crowded. It was about as big as it could get. The steep hillsides limited where buildings could be built. The entire village—town, really—had an unfinished feel to it. The houses were finished, but the area around them was mostly barren with just a few small trees here and there. Other houses were built right next to each other, the first time Astrid had seen that inside the Ring of Fire. Then she realized it was really all one building, sectioned off into separate homes.

“Those are townhouses,” Hjalmar said. “We are going over there.”

He pointed to rows of long, narrow buildings. These were single-story, whereas the townhouses had two stories. Neustatter led them to a small building in one corner of the area.

He knocked on the door. A man and a woman came outside.

“New arrivals?” the man asked.

“Ja, twelve of us. We men worked in Grantville over the winter and have brought families back.”

“Gut, gut. Then you know your way around.”

“Ja. We will do day labor until we find something better, and then a place to live.”

“Und no trouble while you are here.” The man seemed pleasant enough, but Astrid sensed that he could probably back up that “no trouble” if he had to, even though he wasn’t a particularly big man.

“We saw trouble enough in the wars,” Neustatter replied. “We would like to get away from that.”

The man nodded. “You need to be quarantined for a few days to make sure you are not sick. First you have to shower. If you men would follow me, and the women would follow Gisele?”

Gisele led Astrid, Anna, and Ursula to the women’s showers. They “had to” shower. “Got to,” Astrid decided. Warm and clean was very nice. All their clothes would be washed, dried, and returned. Gisele explained it helped prevent disease. As far as Astrid was concerned, if the Grantvillers wanted to inflict luxuries on them, that was fine with her. While they were waiting for their clothes, Gisele gave them robes and told them about Grantville.

It had been a long day, and much of what Gisele said went straight over Astrid’s head. What she did grasp was that those who controlled Grantville wanted everyone educated. There was schule for adults, to improve everyone’s reading. There was a class for citizens, too, because they voted for Grantville’s leaders. The classes were at the high school, which was on the opposite side of the Ring of Fire. On the other hand, having walked from Magdeburg, the width of the Ring of Fire did not seem like much of a challenge. Plus marveling at Grantville each time she walked there did not sound like a bad thing.

It was late by the time they finally got their clothes back and met up with the men.

“Georg is going to assign us quarters,” Neustatter told them.

“The housing is mostly full,” the man who had greeted them said. “But there is a room that will fit all of you over toward the far side.”

He and Gisele led them there. Each row of buildings they passed had a small building on one end and then three of the long buildings.

“This is an outhouse.” Georg pointed to signs. “Men’s and women’s.”

“That is not an outhouse,” Ursula maintained. “It is as big as our entire house back in the village!”

“The up-timers said sanitation is easier for a restroom than for a row of outhouses,” Gisele explained. “We have had no camp sickness or plague here. I do not understand all of sanitation, but I believe that it works.”

“It works,” Neustatter agreed.

“Your room is this way.” Georg led them down the row.

As they walked halfway down the row, to the second of three buildings, Astrid saw evidence that it had been made in haste. Nails were flush with the edges of boards, not pounded in any further, and she saw no filler between the boards. Everything was extremely plain, with no ornamentation of any kind. Each room seemed to have its own entrance, and the doors appeared to be solid. Georg stopped and opened a door.

“This one will be yours until you find something else,” Georg said.

“How long do we have?” Astrid asked.

Georg smiled. “As long as you need.”

He waved them inside. Once inside, Astrid saw that filler between the boards of the outer walls was not needed. The quarters had separate inner walls. The boards were flush with almost no space between them. She could feel no wind. It seemed far more proof against the weather than the girls’ house in their village had been.

“There is wattle and daub between the inner and outer walls.” Karl’s voice came as a surprise. “No great secret, Astrid. You were studying the walls. It is warm and dry.”

“More so than the house we girls lived in in the village,” Astrid agreed. “I feel bad that Anke, Helga, and Gessel still live there. I wish they could have come.”

“We could not bring the whole village,” Ditmar reminded her.

“Maybe someday,” her brother added.

Astrid continued looking around to have something else to think about.

A stove sat in the middle of the far wall with a chimney extending up through the roof. Beds lined each wall. Wooden screens made it possible to divide the room. They were simply wooden panels with crosspieces at the bottom to keep them balanced. The group put Wolfram and Anna in one corner, Stefan and Ursula and Johann across from them, and Hjalmar and Ditmar used the last portable wall to make an alcove for Astrid at the other end of the room.

“You can cook right on that stove,” Gisele told them.

Ursula eyed it warily. “Is that safe? I think we should cook outside.”

“As long as you do not burn something and fill the room with smoke,” Gisele said.

Stefan took one look at his wife’s expression and jumped in. “Ursula does not burn food. We will be fine.”

“Still,” Ursula insisted, “we should cook outside as much as possible.”

“There is a fire ring outside. I will show you.”

Ursula, Anna, Karl, Ditmar, and Hjalmar followed her. Astrid brought up the rear, more because she did not want to leave Hjalmar and Ditmar than out of any desire to see the fire ring. The fire ring was nothing more than a rough circle of stones in the dirt. A set of cooking irons stood over it. They were really nothing more than two metal poles forked at the top, with a third that lay across and could support a pot.

Karl studied them. “Georg, if there is iron available in Grantville, I may be able to improve these.”

“Grantville provides these and enough wood that people can cook and do not freeze,” Georg said. “Anything that we can make better is a blessing.”

“How are you going to do that, Karl?” Stefan sounded skeptical.

“Oh, I do not know. Not yet,” Karl answered. “But it would be good to work some metal.”

They built a fire in the stove, and Ursula cooked some of the food they were carrying.

“Just this once,” she said. “Tomorrow—outside.”

It was very late by the time they went to bed. Astrid fell asleep warm and full.

Saturday, May 7, 1633

On the following day, the men took Ursula, Johann, Anna, and Astrid to see Grantville. Astrid realized that there was only one set of railroad tracks through Grantville. Cars and trucks and tractors were more common. At least they had been up-time. Now the residents mostly walked. Many other people had moved to Grantville, and the city was crowded.

She also realized that Grantville lay in the valley. Hills were visible, but they did not actually loom over the town in most places. Astrid felt much better once that sank in.

What rooms rented for shocked her. By the end of the day, Astrid was so numb from one surprise after another that she almost failed to object when they ate dinner at the Thuringen Gardens.

Astrid looked around at the décor and then at the menu. It listed the price for each dish. “Neustatter,” she whispered, “we cannot afford this. Nor can we afford to rent rooms.”

“We cannot afford to eat here every day,” Neustatter told her. “Once in a while, ja. And ja, we need what the up-timers call cash flow before we can rent rooms. For now, we will live in the refugee housing.”

“It is nicer than the house we girls shared in the village. But will we really be allowed to stay as long as we need to?”

“Miss Schäubin, the Ring of Fire brought three thousand five hundred up-timers to our world. Most of them lived in Grantville. I do not know how many people live in Grantville now, but no one would dispute that it is at least five times as many. For every single up-timer, there are at least four people like us who have found a way to live here. Why should we twelve not do just as well?”

She had to admit that Neustatter had a point. “But what can we do? What can I do?”

Neustatter smiled. “You, Miss Schäubin, can go to schule.”

Monday, May 9, 1633

On Monday, Johann was enrolled in school. Hjalmar, Ditmar, and Astrid were enrolled in adult education evening classes. Stefan, Lukas, and Otto had gotten work as day laborers easily enough, while Wolfram had gone to the medical center and Karl took the opportunity to work for a blacksmith.

The day laborers returned to the room in the Spring Branch refugee housing looking very tired.

Stefan flopped onto his bed. “And what did you do all day, Neustatter?”

“I talked to Dan Frost. He’s the chief of the polizei,” Neustatter explained to Anna, Ursula, and Astrid. “He could use some men doing exactly what we did with the salt wagons. A lot of goods come to Grantville. Others are sent out from Grantville. The local area—Saalfeld, Kamsdorf, Rudolstadt, all the way to Jena, really—is fairly secure, but anything going to Suhl or Erfurt still needs an escort.”

“Mercenaries,” Stefan declared.

“Nein. We would be free to choose our own contracts, and we would not have to join an army.”

“That sounds better than day labor,” Lukas agreed. “But how does it pay?”

“It pays well.” Neustatter named two amounts. “Most of the companies charge somewhere in that range. If each of us saves a little of that, we can move out of refugee housing. We will need better weapons, of course. And horses.”

“That sounds expensive,” Stefan pointed out.

“Ja,” Neustatter agreed.

“How expensive?” Astrid asked.

Neustatter smiled. “Miss Schäubin, you may help find out if we can afford it, bitte.”

“Am I part of this?” she asked.

“You came from the village, ja?”

That was how Astrid found herself in math class.

Chapter 3: Security Consultants

Wednesday, May 11, 1633

For the next two days, the men worked as day laborers, one here or there, occasionally two together. Most of them were assigned to maintenance jobs, providing a strong back and arms to lift as spring repairs and maintenance was conducted on all manner of equipment. The decidedly less-glamorous job was moving rocks out of fields and helping repair fences.

Ursula, Anna, and Astrid cooked the meals and cleaned the room and the restrooms in the refugee housing. They ventured out into Spring Branch and found a market where they bought food for the day. It was open-air, in a cleared area in the middle of Spring Branch, where a row of townhouses built sometime in the last two years blocked the direction of the prevailing wind. They haggled over bread, meat, and root vegetables. Astrid felt it was similar to working for Frau Sophia in the schloss in some ways—but this was for themselves.

Johann came home from school each day and told the adults about his new friends. He liked Grantville school much better than the village school. He was in what the Americans called first grade. The plan was for him to catch up on certain things over the summer and then start second grade in the fall.

On Wednesday afternoon, there was a knock on the door. Astrid rose from her seat at the table in the center of the room and opened the door. A man in one of the mottled green-brown-black uniforms stepped inside. He carried an envelope.

“I am looking for Edgar Neustatter. Chief Frost said I could find him here.”

“The men took day jobs today,” she told him, “but I can give him a message when they return.”

The soldier looked doubtful. “I am supposed to give this to him. It is the contract for the escort to Erfurt tomorrow.”

“I will give it to him.”

“What are you, his secretary?”

Astrid wondered what that meant. But she repeated, “I will give it to him when he returns from work.”

“How do I know you will?”

“Neustatter leads eight men from our village, including my brother and my cousin.” She pointed out the door at the pot over the fire. “We are already preparing dinner for them.”

He frowned. “All right. Make sure you give it to Herr Neustatter. They’d better be there bright and early in the morning. The truck leaves at eight o’clock sharp.”

Astrid did not let the envelope out of her sight. When the men returned, she handed it to Neustatter.

“A soldier brought this, for Herr Neustatter.”

Neustatter grinned. “Thank you, Fräulein Schäubin.”

She rolled her eyes at his form of address. “Neustatter, what is a secretary?”

“Hmm. I do not know.”

Thursday, May 12, 1633

The men left after breakfast. They were the escort for a shipment of goods to Erfurt. Presumably the shipment was military supplies, but nobody said what was in the crates. It would be carried in two pickup trucks, and Neustatter planned to put one man at each corner in the back of the trucks. They intended to reach Erfurt in a single day! And then come back tomorrow.

By mid-afternoon, the women had cleaned everything that could be cleaned. Astrid had nothing to do, so she set out to her class early, intending to ask at the school and find out what a secretary was. Besides, every time she walked through Grantville slowly enough to look around, she noticed some new marvel.

She decided to start at the administrative center. The walls were painted a gleaming white, brown carpet covered the floor, and a wooden counter stood halfway across the room. The arrangement left a lot of open room on the visitors’ side of the counter. Astrid could see why; she waited patiently while several people asked the two women behind the counter various questions. Then one of the women looked at her.

“May I help you, Miss?”

“I hope so. I need to learn what a secretary is.”

The woman laughed. She indicated herself and the other woman behind the counter. “You are in luck. We are secretaries,” she told Astrid in German.

Astrid smiled. “Oh, gut. What do you do?”

“First, who sent you here with that question?”

Astrid related the circumstances.

“We manage all the details. Make sure Herr Saluzzo’s meetings get scheduled, the announcements get made, all the paperwork gets to and from each teacher . . . It sounds like the men in your group might need someone to keep track of their work. When on what day they need to be somewhere, how many, anything they need to bring. Someone also has to handle the money.”

“Danke.”

“How long have you been in Grantville?”

“The men were here during the winter. They came home and got us. We just arrived last Friday.” Astrid wasn’t about to explain that they had fled from Herr Augustus.

“Where are you staying?”

“In the refugee housing in Spring Branch. By the power plant.”

The woman behind the counter—the secretary—nodded. “Has someone from the Ecumenical Relief Committee talked to you?”

Astrid was cautious. “I do not know what that means. But I think those are the people who gave us a room and told us the rules for the refugee housing.”

“Oh, good. They have an office there at the housing, you know. If you need anything or just need to find something in Grantville, just ask.”

Astrid’s face lit up. “Danke. Ursula does not like the market where we bought food.”

“Where was that?”

Astrid described the small outdoor market in Spring Branch.

“You should go to one of the grocery stores in Grantville,” the secretary told her.

“What is that?”

The woman explained briefly.

“Danke! Oh, I must go to class.”

“What is your name?”

“Astrid Schäubin.”

“I am Rosina Herbig.” She indicated the other woman at the counter. “That’s Jenny Lynch.”

Friday, May 13, 1633

In the morning, the women and Johann ate breakfast. Once Ursula had put him aboard one of the buses, she returned to their quarters.

“We need to buy food,” she announced.

“I spoke to a secretary at the high school,” Astrid said. “She said that the people who gave us these quarters would be willing to show us where to buy food in Grantville—at indoor shops. We do not need to buy in the outdoor market here in Spring Branch.”

Ursula looked skeptical.

“All we have to do is go ask Gisele or one of the other nice women to show us a few places in Grantville.”

“Why not?” Anna stood up from the table. “I would like to see some more of Grantville.”

Ursula muttered something about no good coming of this, but joined Astrid and Anna in bundling up the group’s valuables in their packs and then walking over to the office.

That building was wooden, with the same rough look as the refugee housing. Astrid swung the door open, and the three of them stepped into a reception area. A middle-aged woman was seated at a desk. Beyond her, several older women were seated around a table in an open area in the back.

“Guten Morgen. What can I help you with?”

“Is this the . . . ” Astrid trailed off, not remembering the words.

“The Grantville Ecumenical Relief Committee? Ja.”

Astrid smiled her thanks. “One of the secretaries at the high school told me that you could show newcomers where things are in Grantville.”

“Of course. What do you need?”

“We would like to find a place to buy food in Grantville.”

The woman suddenly looked concerned. “Are you out of food?”

“Ja. We would like to buy more. The secretary said there are . . . not markets, but stores that sell food in Grantville.”

“Do you mean a tavern or an inn where you would pay for a meal?”

“Nein. What she described sounded like a market, but inside a building.”

“Oh! A grocery store?”

“Ja, I think that is what she said.”

“If you don’t mind the walk, I can take you to one.” The woman smiled. “Ich heisse ist Mathilde.”

Astrid, Ursula, and Anna introduced themselves. Mathilde waved to those at the table, and one of the younger women took her place at the desk.

The four of them began walking toward Grantville. Mathilde chatted away, telling them about who was who and what was where in Grantville. Astrid hoped she could remember at least some of it.

“This is Garrett’s Super Market,” Mathilde finally said. “There’s Stevenson’s and Johnson’s, too. I just picked the closest one. You can check out the other two on your next trips.”

Astrid noticed that Ursula looked skeptical. She stifled a smile. Ursula was quite confident that her very definite standards were correct. Astrid suspected she meant to see how the up-time “grocery store” measured up before buying anything.

Mathilde held the door open for them. Ursula stepped inside first and stopped just inside the door.

“What is it?” Anna asked.

After a moment, Ursula moved aside, and Astrid could see what had made her stop dead. The store was full of food. Rows and rows of shelves filled the building, taller than any of them were. There was food on all of them.

Between them and the shelves was a row of strange devices. They looked like counters, but as Astrid watched, a woman placed food on the counter, and it moved. The food slid down the counter of its own accord.

“What is that?” Ursula demanded.

“It is a conveyor belt,” Mathilde explained. “The cashier controls it.”

“Oh.”

The clerk behind the counter placed the food in bags that the woman had brought with her. The woman paid and went out the door.

The cashier looked their way and motioned them away from the door. A man hurried in behind them and went straight for the third row of shelves. No one was waiting at the counter, so the clerk approached them.

“You look new here.”

They nodded. “They arrived a few days ago,” Mathilde said.

“Welcome to Grantville. I’m Marilyn Hooper.”

Ursula, Astrid, and Anna introduced themselves.

“I know it’s not much to look at,” Marilyn apologized. “Before the Ring of Fire happened, nearly everything was in packages of plastic or cardboard or metal cans. Nice neat rows. Lots of choices.” Her smile looked a little dreamy. “Back up-time, our country did grocery stores really, really well. We’ve had to make adjustments.”

“I have never seen so much food in one place!” Anna exclaimed.

Marilyn smiled. “We try. Mathilde knows where everything is, almost as well as we do. If you can’t find something, just ask.”

Mathilde walked over to a long row of thin metal rods and pulled a section away from the rest. Astrid realized it was a cart with four small wheels. The front two rotated to face any direction. The rest of it was just the thin metal rods, bent and somehow fastened into the shape of a cart, with a handle and some other complication on one end. Mathilde pushed it with ease.

“Let’s start down there.” She pointed to one end of the store. “Do you have a list?”

“What?”

“A shopping list. We write down what we need, usually in the same order that the store is laid out. Some people plan what they will make for each meal and buy those ingredients. Others just know what they want to have on hand and make meals out of those.”

Seeing that neither Ursula nor Anna were answering, Astrid said, “We thought we would simply eat what was available. We did not expect all these choices. We come from a small village, and we grew or raised almost everything we ate.”

Marilyn nodded. “Like I said, up-time there were a lot more choices. But Grantville’s doing okay.” She shuddered just a bit. “Better than our first winter here.”

“Was there not enough food?” Ursula managed to ask.

“Just barely enough. But the same things day after day after day.”

The three women from the village exchanged glances. Ursula asked the question. “Do you not eat the same foods each day? Prepared differently, of course.”

“Like fish on Friday and taco Tuesday?” Marilyn smiled. “In my family it was meatloaf on Mondays. Matt likes to have burgers at least once a week, but I try to switch the rest up.”

It sounded to Astrid like Grantville clerks were eating like Herr Augustus and Frau Sophia did.

Mathilde thanked Marilyn and led them off to one side of the store. “Vegetables are over here. There are not a lot right now but later in the summer and autumn, this whole area will be full. One reason that people try to move out of the refugee housing as soon as they can is so they can plant their own gardens.”

All three women nodded. That simply made sense. Why buy something you could grow?

Ursula stuck to vegetables they knew. There were a couple others that none of them had seen before.

“What are those?” Anna asked.

“Oh. Carrots.”

Anna blinked. “Carrots are not orange.”

“Ja, up-time.”

Anna and Astrid exchanged glances. Cars and conveyor belts were one thing. But orange carrots?

“Are their other foods different colors, too?” Anna asked carefully.

Mathilde thought about that. “Some of their cabbages are strange. Still green, but bred . . . strangely.”

She turned the cart into the next row, and Astrid saw it was full of bread. And rolls. And so on.

“You may hear an up-time expression,” Mathilde told them. “‘The greatest thing since sliced bread.’ Up-time, the bread they bought was already sliced.”

That seemed strange to Astrid. Why would anyone take the time to do that?

Each shelf had a label: white bread, rye bread, pumpernickel.

“Rugbrød!” Astrid exclaimed.

Ursula, Anna, and Mathilde looked at her.

“My mother used to make this.” Astrid said the words quietly. Her parents and Ditmar’s had died of sickness three years before the men had gone off to war.

“I remember this,” Ursula said. “Your mother was a good baker.”

Ursula added a loaf of rugbrød to the cart. Astrid smiled. That was probably the highest compliment someone could get from Ursula.

Mathilde was smiling, too. “Here you are, new to Grantville, and you already know something I do not. What is this bread?”

“It is Danish bread,” Astrid explained. “It is sourdough made with rye. Sometimes with some wheat.”

Ursula added some more familiar rye bread to the cart as well.

The next row held other baked goods: rolls, something that Astrid had never heard of called strudel that sounded German, various kuchens and torten, and dampfnudeln.

“I could make these,” Ursula said, “if we had a place to do it.”

“There is a community oven at the housing,” Mathilde told them.

“Oh! That changes everything,” Ursula declared. She quickly returned the rye bread to its place on the shelf and began looking for individual ingredients.

Astrid started running through the list of ingredients they’d used when Frau Sophia wanted fresh bread. She quickly decided that Mathilde’s idea of a list for shopping was a good one. They were soon able to find everything and moved on to the meat counter.

It was more than just one counter. One row of shelves along the wall was enclosed behind glass doors.

“These are refrigerated,” Mathilde explained. “So the meat will not spoil.”

Ursula had definite ideas about what kinds of meat she wanted. Astrid let her pick. Whatever Ursula made would be good, and Astrid had a lot less experience cooking meat.

Once they had everything, Astrid wheeled the cart to Marilyn’s moving counter. The food cost most of the money they had.

Marilyn handed Ursula some change. “Have a safe Friday the thirteenth.”

Astrid looked at her curiously. “What is that? A holiday?”

Marilyn laughed. “No. Some up-timers are superstitious and think that when Friday falls on the thirteenth of the month, that day brings bad luck.”

That did not make any sense to Astrid. But she knew that different villages had their own customs. Why not Grantville, too? She had no desire to insult them by mistake, so she said nothing about that. She did have to ask about the other thing, though . . .

“What is an up-timer?”

“Anybody who came through the Ring of Fire from the year 2000,” Marilyn answered. “All of you who were already living here are down-timers.”

“Ja, we are down-timers,” Mathilde confirmed.

On the walk back to the refugee housing with full backpacks, Astrid found herself walking beside Anna. “I did not realize we were calling ourselves that,” she said.

***

The men arrived in time for dinner. They’d been paid well. Some of them wanted to go spend that money right away, but Astrid could see Neustatter had other ideas.

“I would like all of us to discuss it after dinner,” he said.

Dinner was mutton, kale, bread, and small beer. It was good. By the time the women returned from grocery shopping, there had not been enough time to make a stew. But Ursula was a good cook, and they had bought some spices that they’d seldom had access to in the village but which were readily available in Grantville.

“This is good,” Lukas declared.

After dinner, Ditmar and Hjalmar helped clean tableware, cups, and bowls. Once the cooking pot had been carried inside, Neustatter and Karl stoked the fire higher.

“I got a look at some cooking irons today,” Karl stated. “They were not quite what I wanted but gave me ideas. I think with practice I could make clamps to hold more than one pot over the fire.”

Neustatter carefully leaned another piece of wood onto the fire. “That is an interesting thought, Karl. Is that something you could make yourself?”

“I might need some help with the first one, but I think I could find someone at one of the smithies who will show me what to do.”

The outdoor fireplace wasn’t much more than a circle of stones with the ground cleared away for a few feet all the way around it. Previous occupants of the refugee quarters had saved a couple larger logs which served as benches.

“Find a comfortable place,” Neustatter directed after a few minutes. “We need to talk about living and working in Grantville.”

Once everyone was settled, Neustatter looked around the circle. Ursula had brought a chair outside. She sat off to his left, near the fire but not too close, leaning slightly forward. Stefan was sitting on the end of one of the logs, more or less next to her. Their son Johann was beside Stephan. Wolfram and Anna sat on the far end of that log. The other log lay at a shallow angle to the first and was occupied by the Schaubs—Ditmar, Hjalmar, and Astrid. Otto and Lukas sat on the ground next to Karl over to Neustatter’s right.

“This refugee housing is charity from the city of Grantville. I appreciate their good work, but I do not want to depend on it longer than is necessary.”

“Agreed,” Karl said instantly. He was seated on the ground, a bit back from the rest of them, leaning back on his arms, but missing nothing.

“Ja.” Ursula’s agreement was less than a second behind Karl’s.

“We need a plan,” Neustatter said next. “If we control our expenses—what the up-timers call keeping a budget—we can save up enough money to pay for our own housing. There are apartments in several places in Grantville, with more being built all the time, even along the roads outside the Ring of Fire.”

Astrid heard murmurs of agreement from those sitting on the logs.

“In one sense, it does not matter what jobs we take,” Neustatter continued. “We could all work different jobs and pool enough of our funds to afford a place to live. Or we could work together. We might even be able to support ourselves working day jobs. They pay well enough according to what we are used to, but living in Grantville is more expensive than living in the village.”

When he paused, Astrid spoke up from where she was seated. “It feels like that to me, too, Neustatter.” She shrugged. “But I cannot tell how much more.”

By the firelight, she could see Neustatter nodding in agreement. “That is sort of the reason you are in the math class. It may be one way to figure it out.”

“It will take time to learn the math,” she said.

“Of course,” Neustatter agreed. “It will take Wolfram time to learn medicine, too. And Karl the new smithing techniques. But the rest of us . . . I think we could do well guarding goods between towns. There may be work guarding certain locations, too.”

Stefan stood, hands on the back of Ursula’s chair. “Will they not use their army for that?”

“Their army is small, and they do not garrison many locations,” Neustatter explained. “What they had at Alte Veste was most of it. We saw how they fought. They will keep their forces together for decisive battle. They employ mercenary companies for outlying garrisons. I have heard of one in Hof, for instance.”

“I do not want to be in an army.”

Astrid suppressed a smile. Lukas’ grumbling tone and disheveled appearance made her think that if he weren’t part of their group, he wouldn’t be able to be too choosy about his employment.

She saw Otto give Lukas a quick glance and wondered if he were thinking the same thing. She was glad to see it, because Otto had been so quiet since they left the village that he reminded her of what Anna had been like before Wolfram returned.

“I agree with Lukas.” Karl’s words carried easily.

“So do I. And the up-timers are used to private companies doing this sort of thing,” Neustatter said.

“If we can believe the movies,” Stefan put in.

“I talked to Chief Frost,” Neustatter said. “I have another appointment with him next week. But since you mentioned the movies . . . ”

Lukas interrupted before Neustatter could tell them about any movies. “How are we going to decide which jobs to take?”

“We should all have a say,” Stefan asserted.

“My say is that Neustatter decides things like that.” Karl’s voice was a low rumble. He had not bothered to raise it. “It is what we did during the war.”

“That was because he was a chosen man, for a while,” Stefan countered.

“I agree,” Wolfram said. “With Karl.”

Astrid saw from the men’s reactions that this was important. Wolfram wasn’t agreeing with his buddy Stefan. Her brother and cousin looked more intent, Stefan frowned, and Karl stopped leaning back on his hands.

The fire crackled. Karl prompted, “Ditmar? Hjalmar?”

Stefan waived a hand. “Of course they’re going to agree with Neustatter. They are his chosen men, are they not?”

“That is fair, Stefan. Chosen men should speak last. If I spoke first, I might intimidate the rest of you.” Ditmar grinned.

Karl gave a booming laugh. “Intimidate this bunch?”

Most of the men laughed. Even Stefan gave a brief smile.

But then he asked, “What if we do not like the jobs Neustatter picks?”

“What kind of jobs do you not want?” Neustatter asked. “Is guarding wagons acceptable?”

“As long as I am not left out on my own,” Lukas said.

“That is tactics,” Neustatter said. “The problem was not the wagons. Does anyone care what was in the wagons?”

Heads shook all around. “Not as long as we get paid,” Lukas said.

“What about guarding buildings?”

Otto looked up at that. He had been sitting with his legs pulled up and his arms wrapped around his knees. “When it comes to standing guard, a building is just a wagon that does not move. Different shape, so we stand in different places. As long as it is not something for Wallenstein, I do not really care what is inside.”

Hjalmar nodded. “Well said, Otto.”

“I do not want to guard the adel’s riches,” Stefan said.

Neustatter nodded. “I do not think I would take that job if I had another to choose.”

“A good distinction,” Wolfram said. “I would like to not guard anything for the adel, either. But if we needed to, to have food and shelter, I would.”

Stefan frowned. “As long as we charge them extra.”

Neustatter laughed. “I believe we are in agreement.”

Astrid was glad of that. She was tired of sitting on the log and wanted to stretch.

“So what is this?” Ursula asked. “Our own gemeinde, and Neustatter is the head man?”

“Ja,” Karl said.

Wolfram nodded his head. “Ja.”

Lukas sighed. “Oh, all right.”

“Otto?” Neustatter asked.

“Ja.”

“Miss Schäubin?”

“Ja.”

Stefan and Ursula whispered back and forth for a moment. Then Stefan looked up and said, “Ja. At least for now.”

“Me, too!” Johann shouted.

Neustatter laughed. “All right. Team leaders?”

“We are in,” Hjalmar said.

“Gut.” Neustatter smiled. “I will try to find something better than working for the adel or Wallenstein. We will share the profits—after we keep a reserve against hard times. If anyone decides to take his share and go out on his own, I will not hold it against you.”

Lukas spoke up. “I am not sure we need three women to do the cooking and cleaning.”

“You can clean up after yourself,” Astrid shot back. “I am the secretary.”

Monday, May 16, 1633

“Miss Schäubin, is my schedule clear this morning?”

Astrid looked up from her breakfast. She already regretted telling him what a secretary was. “Ja, Neustatter. So far, you do not have a job for the day.”

“Gut. I have an appointment with Chief Frost at ten o’clock.” Neustatter gave her a crooked smile. “Since you are the secretary, you should come along.”

Astrid rolled her eyes and wondered if being the group’s secretary was really a viable job.

The first thing Astrid noticed at the polizei station was that the building itself was little more than a large house. Oh, it might have always been the polizei station, but it was plain and not very big. It had a big porch in front. Inside, a hallway led straight back, but there was a sign on a thin metal post stuck into a heavy metal disc on the floor. It directed everyone who was not a polizei officer to the room on the left.

Astrid saw a couple polizei officers moving from one room to another. They were wearing uniforms. At least one of those uniforms looked down-time-made. The shirts, trousers, and shoes were one thing, but each wore a heavy belt from which hung a holstered pistol and several other items that she could not identify. These men were very different from any town watch she had ever heard of.

Once she and Neustatter entered the room on the left, they saw it was divided in two by a long, tall counter. It looked fairly new and was topped with some substance she could not identify. Another up-time material, like the road-stone. One polizei officer stood in the back of the room, but a woman seated behind the counter seemed to be the one who talked to people.

“Edgar Neustatter and Astrid Schäubin to see Chief Frost, bitte,” Neustatter said. “We have an appointment.”

The woman glanced down at some sort of ledger on her side of the counter. “I’ll let him know you’re here,” she said. She picked up a curved . . . Astrid did not know what it was or what it was made of. The woman talked to it and then told them that Chief Frost would see them now.

Astrid wondered what had just happened. “Excuse me, bitte. What is that?”

“It is a telephone. I can call people in Grantville—or anywhere there are phone wires—and talk to them.”

Astrid’s eyes widened. That was as amazing as trains and cars.

“Danke.” Astrid followed Neustatter to Chief Frost’s office.

Frost immediately stood and shook Neustatter’s hand. “Neustatter.” Then he shook Astrid’s hand. “Miss?”

“Astrid Schäubin.”

“And you are?”

“Neustatter’s secretary.”

Frost’s eyebrows rose. “So, you are forming an agency?”

“That is what we are here to talk to you about,” Neustatter acknowledged. “Astrid is Hjalmar’s sister and Ditmar’s cousin. She claimed the secretary position when Lukas said we didn’t need three women to clean up.”

Dan Frost raised an eyebrow again. “I take it he is one of your single men?”

“Ja.”

“I got your message that farming didn’t work out. What happened?”

Neustatter told him. If he left anything out, it was details that Astrid didn’t know, either. By the end, Chief Frost was grinning.

“How much of a hothead is Herr Augustus?” Frost held up a hand. “I have already had to deal with a couple herren who thought they were going to drag people right out of Grantville.”

Neustatter looked to Astrid, so she answered. “I do not believe Herr Augustus will pursue us this far. He has several servants and great influence in the village, of course, but Neustatter and his men outnumbered Herr Augustus’ men.”

“We outgunned them, too,” Neustatter put in, “with the matchlocks you gave us. Which we will be giving back just as soon as we can.”

Chief Frost nodded. “Let’s talk mission before weapons. I take it guarding the shipment to Erfurt went well?”

“Ja, no problems,” Neustatter told him.

“They’d be happy to work with you again—and they don’t say that to everybody who guards a shipment. Are you looking to stick with that or are you thinking about a detective agency?”

Astrid made a mental note to ask Neustatter what a detective was.

When Neustatter replied, he spoke in a way Astrid had never heard before. Each word was drawn out. “Well, now, I reckon we do not really know how to detective. And you feds do not want us in your way. Better we guard some wagons.”

Dan Frost laughed. “Fair enough. I don’t know what we’d do with a bunch of private eyes, either. Feds, though . . . Where did you pick that up?”

“A television show.” Neustatter frowned. “I do not understand the difference between movies and television shows.”

Dan Frost explained. From what Astrid understood, it had to do with where you watched it and possibly how long it was. Then the chief asked, “Neustatter, has Miss Schäubin here seen either one?”

“Nein, not yet.”

“Security guards might not investigate as much as detectives do,” Frost told him, “but you still need to learn how. Find out when a western or a detective show is playing.”

“I will. It did occur to me that some of those goods that get shipped might need guarding before they left Grantville. Or after they arrived here,” Neustatter added, still speaking in that drawn-out way.

“Now that is a very good observation,” Frost agreed.

They got down to specifics. When Neustatter promised to remember something else, Frost said, “Both of you need to get yourselves notebooks and start writing things down. That reminds me—who will be keeping the books?”

Neustatter pointed at Astrid. “I am sending Miss Schäubin to the math class.”

“You go, too. Always have a backup doesn’t apply just in the field.”

After they left Chief Frost’s office, they walked all the way over to the high school where Neustatter found out that a useful movie would be playing in the high school auditorium on Thursday night.

Thursday, May 19, 1633

This was the first time Astrid had been inside the auditorium.

“This whole building is for movies and plays?” she asked.

“Ja.”

Astrid shook her head. She did not know what to make of that.

“The next building and the fields are for games.”

That made more sense. Astrid had at least heard of ritterakademien. The games themselves seemed strange, and the up-timers did not train warriors here . . . but they had defeated the Croats, so there must be something to how they did things.

Astrid ran her hand over the fuzzy material on the seats. Then the lights dimmed, and she saw her first movie. It was The Untouchables.

Afterwards, Neustatter asked her what she thought.

“Was this typical of up-time?” she asked.

“Nein, I think not. It is from a particular time and place. Other movies and television shows will show other times and places up-time. But it gives me ideas.”

“Oh, gut. I do not think I would like to live in 1930s Chicago. Grantville seems a much nicer place.” After a couple minutes she added, “You should send Wolfram and Anna to see a movie. Anna will like the chairs. Such fine material on a plain metal frame to make a row of chairs that cannot be separated. It is a picture of Grantville, I think. Things fit for the adel but made in large numbers as simply as possible.”

Saturday, May 21, 1633

On the following day, the men again guarded trucks carrying crates of . . . something . . . to Erfurt. Erfurt was becoming Gustav II Adolf’s chief supply depot in the central CPE. This time there would be a return shipment, too, but not until Monday. So, on Saturday, the men explored the base and the city.

“How was the trip?” asked the stocky down-time sergeant who checked in the shipment.

“Fast and quiet,” Neustatter answered.

“Gut.” The man grinned. “Less paperwork.” He held out a clipboard. “Just this much paperwork. Sign here, and Supply will take custody of the shipment.”

Neustatter and the lead driver signed.

“We are interested in guarding more shipments like this,” Neustatter said.

“Heh. I bet you are. Check at the office in the next building. You want Herr Dennis Stull.”

Most of the men headed for an inn. Lukas wandered off on his own.

Neustatter and Ditmar found a smaller building next door to the warehouse. It was a solid down-time building that looked like it had been there for considerably longer than either of them had been alive.

As soon as he stepped inside, Neustatter saw how extensively the inside of the building had been remodeled. A receptionist’s desk was just feet from the door, and a NUS Army corporal sat behind it. A couple wires led down the hall, and Neustatter spotted at least two devices on the desk that probably used them.

“I think I prefer Astrid as secretary,” Ditmar muttered.

“What do you want?” the corporal asked.

“Ich heisse Edgar Neustatter.” Neustatter nodded his head sideways. “Er heisst Ditmar Schaub. We are looking for Herr Stull’s office to ask to guard more shipments.”

The corporal pressed a button on his desk. Neustatter heard a buzz from further back in the building. Within seconds, two more soldiers came down the hall.

“Mercenaries to ask Herr Stull for more convoys,” the corporal said.

“Komm bitte mit.” One of the two soldiers led the way while the other followed Neustatter and Ditmar. The soldier in the lead knocked on the second door on the right.

Neustatter heard a reply in English from inside. The soldier swung the door open.

“Two mercenaries, Herr Adducci. Do you want us to stay?”

A stocky man pushed back from one of the two desks in the office and crossed the small room in just three strides. “No, that’s not necessary.” He held out his hand. “Nick Adducci. What can I help you with?”

“Wir sind Edgar Neustatter und Ditmar Schaub.” They shook hands. “We guarded a couple trucks that came up from Grantville yesterday. We are looking for more assignments like that.”

“You need to see Dennis for that. I handle purchasing, but I don’t have anything to do with how it gets here.” Adducci looked a little frazzled.

Neustatter quickly asked, “Where can we find him?”

“Last I knew, Dennis was around the corner in Records. But if he’s not there, talk to Gordon Kroll. He’s in, straightening out some problem, but his family is up from Grantville this weekend, so try not to take too long, okay?”

Neustatter nodded. “I understand. Danke.”

“And stay away from his daughter. So as you don’t get hurt.”

Another nod. “Mister Kroll is protective of his daughter.”

Adducci laughed. “She’s a martial artist. Last guy who hit on her hit the floor. Pretty hard, I understand.”

“What is that?” Neustatter asked. “I do not know those words.”

“Karate. Kung fu. I don’t know which one. Ways to fight.”

“Danke.”

Neustatter and Ditmar found Records easily enough. It had a sign. Neustatter knocked on the door.

“Come in!”

Neustatter and Ditmar entered the room and found a middle-aged man and a young woman standing before a row of wooden filing cabinets. He was rifling through a stack of papers while she was pulling folders from an open drawer of a filing cabinet.

“Good morning. We are looking for Mister Stull or Mister Kroll.”

The man set his papers on one of the file cabinets. “Gordon Kroll.”

“Edgar Neustatter.”

“Ditmar Schaub.”

After they shook hands, Neustatter said, “Eight of us escorted trucks here from Grantville yesterday. We are looking for more jobs like that.”

Gordon Kroll nodded in understanding. “We have trucks moving almost every day. Some need to be escorted. Some don’t. Will you take assignments on trucks to Suhl, Schleusingen, or Schmalkalden?”

“Ja.”

“What about wagons?”

Neustatter shrugged. “Like trucks, only slower.”

Kroll turned to the girl at the filing cabinet. “Gena, have you seen the paperwork for today’s supply run from Grantville?”

“Right here.”

“Who signed off on the escort?”

“Chief Frost. Edgar Neustatter leading eight men. No problems.”

“All right. You’ve got yourselves an escort mission to Schleusingen. We’re sending a couple wagons from Grantville on Thursday. Report to the fairgrounds at seven a.m. You have weapons, right?”

“Ja. Chief Frost gave us some matchlocks.”

“If you plan to stick with this, I’d start putting money aside to buy some better weapons.”

Neustatter nodded.

“Any questions?”

“Just one, Mister Kroll. It is for your daughter.”

“Oh?” Kroll’s tone was noticeably cooler.

“Fräulein Kroll, what is martial arts?”

Gena Kroll smiled. “It is a way of fighting. Most martial arts that people learned up-time came from Asia.”

“What is it like?”

Gena’s smile got wider. “Do you know how to fall without hurting yourself, Herr Neustatter?”

Neustatter shrugged. “I was in the wars for six years. Carried a pike until I moved up to matchlock.”

“I’ll show you. Take anything out of your pockets that you don’t want to fall on.”

Neustatter laid a couple items on a convenient desk. Then Gena stepped forward with her right foot, crossing her left behind it as she turned. At the same time, with her left hand she grabbed Neustatter’s right sleeve just above the wrist. Her right hand grabbed a handful of lapels. The next thing Neustatter knew, he was sailing over her right hip before landing flat on his back on the floor.

Neustatter came to his feet. “Exzellent! Vorzüglich! How do I learn this martial arts?”

Gena exchanged glances with her father. “I suppose I could teach you.”

Ditmar spoke up. “Neustatter, we have matchlocks.”

“Ja, we do,” Neustatter agreed. “But remember the men who tried to stop the salt wagons? In a situation like that, we do not want to shoot first. What if we had thrown a couple of those men?”

Ditmar thought it through. “The others would have backed down.”

“That is why I want to learn martial arts.”

“Dad?” Gena asked.

“We-e-elll . . . ”

“I can pay for training, of course,” Neustatter put in smoothly.

“We’ll work out some ground rules,” Gordon Kroll said.

“Danke.”

***

The women cleaned their quarters as best they could on Saturday. Johann was supposed to be cleaning, too, but Ursula was struggling to keep him on task.

Someone knocked on the door.

Astrid saw that Anna looked a little apprehensive, and Ursula was still busy with Johann. She crossed the room to the door and opened it.

Mathilde stood there, accompanied by two other women. Astrid did not remember seeing either of them at the meeting in the refugee housing office.

“Guten Morgen, Astrid,” Mathilde said. “These ladies are Minnie Frost and Mary Rose Calafano.”

“Guten Morgen, Frau Frost. Guten Morgen, Frau Calafano.”

“May we come in?”

“Of course.” Astrid stepped back from the door.

“Ich heisse Astrid Schäubin.” She introduced Anna, Ursula, and Johann.

“You’re already cleaning,” Frau Frost noted in passable German. “That’s good. Danny said your group had it together.” The last expression was in English.

Astrid blinked. She had no idea what Frau Frost was talking about.

“My apologies, Frau Frost, but who is Danny?”

Frau Frost shook a finger at her. “You don’t need to call me Frau. I’m just Mrs. Frost. You know my Danny. My son. He’s the police chief.”

“Ja . . . of course . . . I have met Herr Chief Frost.” Astrid couldn’t imagine why the chief’s mother was calling on them. “Would you like to sit down?”

“Oh, no, no, dear,” the other woman explained. “We are on the Sanitation Squad. We go around and talk to new arrivals about health and safety in Grantville.”

The two women from the Sanitation Squad inspected their quarters. “You’re doing it right,” Mrs. Frost pronounced.

“The men were in Grantville during the winter,” Astrid explained. “They are out on a mission right now.”

“Danny said they would be,” Mrs. Frost agreed. “We saw the bathrooms at the end of the row were cleaned. Was that you?”

“Not just us,” Ursula said. “Someone else is cleaning them, too.”

“Good, good. And you know about the showers.” That was a statement, not a question. Nevertheless, four heads nodded. “How often do you shower?”

Astrid was a little surprised at the direct question, but Mrs. Frost explained why it mattered. Other questions followed, and at one point, Johann got sent outside to play.

“All right, ladies,” Mary Rose Calafano continued, “let’s talk about laundry. How many changes of clothes do you own?”

They exchanged glances. “Two,” Anna said. Astrid and Ursula agreed.

“Can you afford a third?”

Another exchange of glances. “Maybe,” Astrid said. “The men saved up money during the winter. They need to put aside some of what they are earning now for better weapons and so on.”

“Changing clothes and washing them frequently keeps you healthy,” Mrs. Frost stated. “If the men are gallivanting around guarding things, they’ll need to do the same thing.”

“I think clothing is like food, ja?” Anna asked. “Mathilde took us to the grocery store, and we found it costs less to buy ingredients than bread. Cloth will cost less than finished clothing, ja?”

“Definitely,” Mrs. Frost agreed.

“I can make clothes,” Anna said. “That would be fun.”

“Let’s talk about some other things, too,” Mary Rose Calafano put in.

In the end, the two ladies from the Sanitation Squad gave them directions to the laundromats. It sounded like it would take most of the day to walk there, wash and dry the clothes, and walk back. Plus, they would need some way of keeping track of everyone’s clothes.

“We will take care of it this week,” Ursula promised the Sanitation Squad ladies.

Monday, May 23, 1633

“You are spending money from what we all earned on this martial arts,” Stefan grumbled.

“Ja, I am. I want to know if this is something we can use. I cannot know that without learning the martial arts. If you have some specialized training you want, ask. If we can do more than other guards, we will get more jobs.”

“Neustatter?” Astrid asked.

Neustatter turned to her and raised an eyebrow.

“Just write it down so that I can keep track of it. What is the English word?” Astrid fumbled for a moment. “Receipt.”

Wednesday, May 25, 1633

A couple days later, the twelve of them from the village attended the observances for the second anniversary of the Ring of Fire. People gathered in the square, not because that was where they had defeated the Croats but because it was just about the largest open space left downtown. There were speeches and prayers. The high school band played.

For those from the village, even though they had not heard about it until long afterward, the Ring of Fire was exciting. It introduced so many new possibilities and, according to the up-timers, had already changed what would have happened. It brought opportunities for many of the up-timers, too, but it took them away from their world. That is not something Astrid had thought a lot about. They had not sought this. It simply happened. Strangely, they did not seem to think that the Lord God caused the Ring of Fire. At least not directly. They were different. It was not just that they had trucks and electricity and glass. They were different.

Thursday, May 26, 1633

The next morning, the men left for Schleusingen. It was two days, each way. The first day went smoothly. On the second day, Otto spoke up. “These villagers are treating us differently. They are less friendly.”

Neustatter considered that. The village they’d just passed through had looked like any other German village: half-timber houses, far enough apart to use thatched roofs. Few signs of specialization had been apparent, aside from a brick oven. It stood to reason that some of the residents would be half-farmers rather than farmers; they’d seen iron here and there, so there was almost certainly a blacksmith.

But it had not felt like any village they’d passed through from Magdeburg to Halle to Grantville, or even any from their mission to Erfurt.

“I think,” Neustatter said, “that this is a good time to explain that we are not mercenary soldiers.”

When they approached the next village, Neustatter spotted a group of men planting a field.

“Wolfram, come with me.”

Neustatter gave a big overhead wave and slung the matchlock over his shoulder before leaving the road.

“Hallo!”

“What do you want?” one of the men called.

“News!”

“We do not like mercenaries!”

Neustatter stopped and called back to them. “That is understandable. We were hired to guard some wagons from Grantville. Have you met any of them?”

“We have talked to one or two. Mostly they go by in wagons without horses or oxen. Last summer we saw a big one they call an APC. It went by with a little army following it. They won a battle over at Suhl.”

Neustatter saw that the rest of the farmers were all watching him. “Suhl joined the New United States.” He looked around. “Are you part of the state of Suhl?”

“So they say. We have not noticed any changes. They did not cut the rents.”

Another of the farmers snorted. “They did not raise them, either, Willi. They just ignore us.”

“What do you need?” Wolfram asked.

An intense but quiet discussion broke out among the farmers. Neustatter could not make out the words. Finally, one man straightened up from leaning on his hoe.

“We hear Grantville has doctors that can really heal the sick. If Grantville wants our support, tell them to send a doctor.”

“I will pass that along,” Neustatter called back.

“Wait!” Wolfram shouted. “May I approach?”

The man with the hoe nodded.

“I am no doctor but I have gotten a little training at Leahy Medical Center. What are your worst cases?”

“Old Johann has a bad cough. Again.”

“Frederick and Maria’s third child is sickly.”

“Wilhelm’s son is lame.”

After a couple minutes, Wolfram held up a hand. “That is as many as I can remember. I will ask at Leahy, if they can send someone.”

When Neustatter and Wolfram returned to the wagons and related the conversation, the senior teamster shook his head. Heinrich was a grizzled man with graying hair. He was still sturdy, though, and very much in charge of the other teamsters. “It helps, some, that we are working for the up-timers, but down here they have not decided if they really trust them.”

Sunday, May 29, 1633

When the men got home on Sunday, Neustatter asked Astrid to schedule another appointment with Dan Frost. Wolfram embraced Anna.

“I need to take a report to Leahy,” he said. “Ask if they can send a doctor to a village we passed through.”

“Hurry back,” Anna told him.

As Wolfram made his way to Leahy, he repeated the list of patients to himself, as he’d done several times a day. “I need a way to write this down,” he muttered. Then he realized, “They are going to make me go to schule.”

Wolfram opened one of the front doors at Leahy and went straight to the admissions desk.

“Guten Tag, Frau Bowers.”

“Wolfram Kuntz, what are you doing here on a Sunday?”

“I should ask you the same thing,” Wolfram responded.

“Magdalena’s kids are sick. Doc Adams took a look and doesn’t think it’s too serious but told Magdalena not to come in for a couple days. It is no good if we spread something to our patients.”

Wolfram nodded. “We just returned from Suhl. We passed through a village out past Ilmenau that needs a doctor.”

“Oh?” Nell Bowers’ voice was now sharper. “What is going on there?”

“Everyday things, I think,” Wolfram said. He started rattling off the list.

“Stop. Start over. Let me write it down,” the admissions clerk requested. When Wolfram was done, she studied the list. “You are requesting a health and wellness visit, right?”

“Ja,” Wolfram agreed.

“I’ll write it up and endorse it, but the final decision is above my pay grade,” Nell Bowers warned. “If they approve it, though, it’d help if you went with them.”

“I will have to check with Neustatter,” Wolfram told her, “and my wife will not like it.”

“Take her along.” Nell held up one hand. “No, listen. I know your group just got back to Grantville. So she’s new here. She can give this village her honest opinion. And we all know that whenever a health and wellness team goes somewhere, they find more sicknesses and injuries than initially reported. It wouldn’t hurt to have someone along who can talk to other women.”

“Send a nurse.”

“Oh, we will. But you know it’s not the same as talking to another down-time civilian.”

Wolfram sighed. Ja, he did know that—or at least, he’d been told that.

“I will ask.”

Tuesday, May 31, 1633

Their appointment time came and went. Neustatter and Astrid sat in the front room of the polizei station and waited.

After a while, Neustatter asked, “Did you talk to Anna about going to that village with Wolfram and the health and wellness team?”

“Ja. She was nervous about it,” Astrid said. “It is safe, is it not?”

“The team took a truck with a radio in it,” Neustatter told her. “I asked. Wolfram and Anna were in favor of spending a few days together. When they return, ask Anna what she thought of it, bitte.”

“You could ask her,” Astrid pointed out.

“The rest of you put me in charge. Danke sehr.”

Astrid grinned. Neustatter’s tone make it clear he wasn’t really thanking any of them.

“If I ask, it is official. Then Anna will wonder if I want her to do this again.” Neustatter shrugged. “Maybe. I just want you to ask Anna, just the two of you, so that if she does not want to, I know that.”

It was close to an hour before Dan Frost could fit them in. The polizei just had days like that.

Dan Frost kicked back in his chair once they were seated in his office. “How is the security guard business working out, Neustatter?”

“Well, I think,” Neustatter answered. “We guarded some wagons to Schleusingen and back. That area feels different than Erfurt.”

“How so?”

Neustatter related the men’s impressions. “That is why we are here. We need a way to convince people that we are not mercenaries. It would help here in Grantville, too.”

“You need an image,” Chief Frost told him. “Start with a name or a symbol, and then live up to it. Just make sure you and your men don’t start believing image over reality.”

“How do we find a name?” Astrid asked.

Frost grinned. “Neustatter, how many movies have you seen? Think through them. Watch some again if you need to. You’ll have to work this out on your own. I’ve got a bunch of drunk-and-disorderlies and a couple serious fights to sort out.”

“Danke, Chief Frost.”

Dan Frost shook hands with both of them. Once they were outside, Neustatter turned left on Route 250, then left again on Market Street. Where the two bridges came together in the town square, instead of continuing straight on Buffalo Street, he angled left and took Clarksburg Street to the Grantville Public Library.

The door opened into a room full of bookshelves arranged in three alcoves down the left side of the room. The three sides of each alcove were each three shelves across and stood about as tall as Neustatter was. At the back of the room, a waist-high barrier surrounded a desk area.

“May I help you?” the librarian at the desk asked.

“I would like to read the television schedule for this week,” Neustatter answered.

“The book is better nearly all the time,” the librarian told Neustatter and Astrid. But she handed over a television schedule.

Neustatter studied it carefully. “No Westerns.”

“There are plenty right over there.” The librarian pointed. “You can check them out. That means we stamp them, and you take them with you, read them, and bring them back.”

“I thought library books were no longer lent out?”

“That’s the non-fiction. They need to be kept here for reference. Fiction books—made-up stories—still circulate.”

“We do not have library cards.” Astrid had learned about those in her adult education classes.

“We can fix that.” The librarian thrust forms at them.

Eventually they escaped the library. Neustatter had a couple westerns, and Astrid had a couple mysteries.

Wednesday, June 1, 1633

The books were short but very clever. The page on the left was in English and then the page on the right was the same part of the story, but in German. This was supposed to help the reader learn the language. Astrid struggled with the English for a few minutes, then got distracted by the plot. She finished the story before she realized what she was doing. She went back and tried to read the English, but it was too much all at once. But Astrid decided she liked mysteries.

She found out that Neustatter had done much the same with the westerns. The men, minus Wolfram, guarded trucks to Erfurt on Wednesday and came back Thursday. Neustatter and Astrid switched books and started reading.

“Neustatter,” Astrid asked later on, “what is a Pinkerton? It is not translated.”

“Pinkerton ran a detective agency,” Neustatter answered. “The up-timers like detectives, but some of them really do not like Pinkerton at all. I do not understand why. We need to find out so that we do not choose a name for ourselves that is disliked.”

Friday, June 3, 1633

Wolfram and Anna returned home on Friday.

“How did it go?” Stefan asked.

“Well,” Wolfram answered. “Our group had two trucks. One of them came back to Grantville with patients each day. We went to four villages. They are very happy with Grantville right now.”

“Ditmar and Hjalmar are watching dinner cook over the outside fire,” Neustatter pointed out. “We can talk about it there.”

The men filed out.

“How much trouble did this trip cause?” Ursula asked Anna.

“Oh, I do not think the men caused any trouble,” Anna answered. “And I hope we did not cause any. The health and wellness team brought some patients to Grantville, and their villages hope that they will be healed. But the medics said they cannot promise that, just that they will take them to doctors. Not even Doctor Nichols and Doctor Abrabanel can cure everything.”

“How was being on the team?” Astrid asked.

“Oh, I was not really on the team. I just rode with them and talked to some of the women. I think it would be better if they sent those women from the Sanitation Squad,” Anna suggested.

“Oh, that is a good idea.” Astrid found her notepad and wrote that down.

Saturday, June 4, 1633

It took two days, multiple trips to the library (the National Library at the high school, not the Grantville Public Library), and some interviews, but by Saturday afternoon, Neustatter, Hjalmar, Ditmar, and Astrid had pieced together enough information.

Allan Pinkerton had been a fairly good detective but had had some serious failures as well. One of them had to do with overstating the size of the enemy forces during the up-timers’ Civil War. Another—and since Grantville was a mining town, this was the one that really angered the up-timers—was that the Pinkerton Agency took jobs as strike-breakers and was on the mining companies’ side in the coal mining wars. One old miner they talked to said, “They oughta burn right alongside those Baldwin-Felts bastards.”

The four of them gathered around the table in their quarters to discuss what they’re learned.

“We need a ‘tchoolee,’” Neustatter began.

“What is that?” Astrid asked.

“A sniper. If Hatfield had a sniper covering him when those Baldwin-Felts so-called detectives approached him, the sniper could have shot them.”

Ditmar spoke up. “You are thinking about a confrontation like the salt wagons.”

“Ja, I am.”

“You would be in close, perhaps using martial arts. You want someone else further back, with an up-time weapon.”

“Why an up-time weapon?” Astrid asked.

“No matchlock is accurate enough to fire into a crowd. You could hit your own man. Flintlocks are no better for that.”

“Could you do it?” Neustatter asked Ditmar.

“Maybe. I need to fire an up-time weapon before I can give you a real answer.”

“That is the first up-time weapon I want,” Neustatter said. “Miss Schäubin, make a note, bitte. We need to find out what sort of weapon would be best—and then probably what would be workable but something we could afford.”

By now, Neustatter and Astrid had notepads. These were not up-time-style spiral-bound notebooks—wire was too precious to use for that. They were stacks of paper between thin pieces of wood. Two curved wooden prongs jutted up from the bottom piece of wood and curved up, around, and back in a half-circle. Each page and the top cover could slide around the prongs, which meant the notepad could be opened flat on a table or a desk. Best of all, the knobs on the ends of the prongs unscrewed. This allowed the removal or replacement of one, some, or all of the pages.

Astrid wrote on her notepad.

5. What is the best weapon for a sniper? What is an acceptable weapon for a sniper that we can afford?

Hjalmar spoke up suddenly. “Alte Veste. Your whole plan was based on what the matchlocks could and could not do. If we had one of the up-time rifles, you would have made a different plan. A shotgun, and it would be yet another plan.”

Neustatter gave a hint of a smile. “Exactly. If we had both of those options, plus one or more reliable pistols . . . Miss Schäubin, bitte?

She obliged and wrote.

6. What is an acceptable and affordable shotgun?

7. What is an acceptable and affordable pistol?

“And one more,” Neustatter added. “Are white cowboy hats available in Grantville?”

“What?”

“You have started reading one of the westerns, ja? The good guys wear white hats.”

Astrid rolled her eyes but it became number eight on the list.

Monday, June 6, 1633

Anna and Astrid began shopping for white hats on Monday morning. They spent nearly the whole day trying to find some. Astrid felt like one of the detectives in the mysteries, searching all day and ending up with nothing to show for it. Genuine up-time cowboy hats were rare and far more expensive than she thought they should spend. Down-time copies were also costly.

That evening, she told Neustatter, “You will have to think of something else.”

He sighed. “Thank you for searching.”

“I think I am beginning to learn my way around Grantville.”

“Now that is very useful, Miss Schäubin.”

Neustatter leaned back and closed his eyes. He stayed like that for a while. Astrid started to help clean up from dinner.

“Aha!” Neustatter sat up suddenly. Startled, Astrid almost dropped the clean bowls.

“We need to see She Wore a Yellow Ribbon again. Or some other western with the cavalry.”

“Why?” Astrid asked.

“I thought of something, but I need to make sure I am remembering correctly.”

“You just want to watch another movie.” Stefan was leaning against a wall in the kitchen area, making sure Johann helped put dishes away.

“That, too.” Neustatter stood. “You should come and see the movie, too. You and Ursula and Johann.”

That will teach you to argue with Neustatter, Astrid thought in amusement. She hadn’t missed how Johann’s eyes had lit up immediately.

“Cowboys?” Johann was already bouncing.

“Ja, cowboys.”

No westerns were scheduled for a few days. Besides, the men had another trip to Erfurt on Tuesday and Wednesday. But on Friday night, Rio Grande was being shown in the high school auditorium.

Thursday, June 9, 1633

On Thursday afternoon, most of the men had returned from work and were outside around the fire when Karl Recker approached with an armload of metal.

“What have you got, Karl?” Lukas asked.

“Clamps. And a couple more arms.” Karl set his burden down next to the fire. “Neustatter and the blacksmith both said I could take some of my pay in iron, and I have been working it. Ursula, may I?”

Ursula frowned but stepped back. Karl picked up a piece of metal that looked like two incomplete loops at right angles to each other. A screw and wingnut served to close and tighten each loop. He loosened one of the clamps and slid it around an upright cooking iron. Then he tightened that one and slid a sturdy iron rod into the other clamp of the pair.

“We tested this at the smithy,” he said. “Ursula, it should take the weight of anything you need to put over the fire. You can loosen the clamp to swing the arm when you want to take a pot out of the fire.”

Ursula tried. “Karl, I could loosen it if I tightened it. But you will have to get it started.”

“Oh.” Karl spun the wingnut with a muscular hand, then spun it back until the arm was steady. This time Ursula was able to loosen it herself.

“Danke,” she said. “Two pots over the fire at once will really help.”

Ditmar came over and peered down at the clamp. “That looks good, Karl. What keeps the two loops from separating from each other?”

“It is all one piece,” Karl said. “It started out as a rod. We put an angle in the middle, with a quarter twist. Then I heated each side, beat them flat, and bent each back on itself. Then I drilled the holes. Making the nuts and bolts was the hard part. Here is the other piece.”

He picked up the second clamp from the ground and attached it to the opposite cooking iron. The rod he slid into place flattened out into a flat surface almost a foot wide and a couple feet long.

Ursula eyed it curiously. “Flatbread?” she asked.

“I was thinking of it as a shelf,” Karl said, “but there is no reason you cannot bake on it.”

“Well, not regular bread,” Ursula said. “But there is a community brick oven for that. This would work for flatbread with no yeast.”

She turned to Astrid. “I can probably figure it out, but I hear stories about all the knowledge at that school. See if you can find out why bread with no yeast bakes differently than regular bread.”

Friday, June 10, 1633

Once Neustatter and the Kirchenbauers returned to the refugee housing Friday night, the movie Rio Grande was a main topic of conversation. Wolfram and Anna even came out of their room to see what all the fuss was about.

Ursula related that the woman who introduced the movie told them it was “black and white.” Once the movie began to play, she had realized what that meant. Unlike the movie Astrid had seen, Rio Grande had no colors. It was reassuring to learn that even up-timers had to make progress in stages. It also helped Astrid understand that time passed in the future. All of the wonderful technology was developed over time. Finally, they would probably succeed in spreading their technology to everyone else. After all, they had done it before.

Astrid thought Neustatter already understood all that. He had found something else in that movie.

“The up-time cavalrymen wore halstücher.”

Neustatter asked Ursula, “Could you make those?”

Ursula shook her head. “They are cloth, but that is all I know. What cut? What color?”

Neustatter stared off into space for a few moments. “In She Wore a Yellow Ribbon, at least some of them were yellow.”

“Yellow cloth will be too expensive to make mistakes,” Ursula stated. “Without seeing it up close, I cannot make it.”

“Describe it, bitte.”

Astrid’s eyes widened in surprise. Anna never gave orders.

“Cloth,” Neustatter began. “Tied in the front, close around the neck. Wider in back, with a point.”

“One moment, bitte.” Anna disappeared into her room and retrieved the pack she had brought from the village. Among her few possessions were some pieces of cloth. She doubled one over, then folded it diagonally. She tied this around her neck.

“Does this look right?”

“Ja,” Neustatter told her. “That is it.”

“I can make these,” Anna declared. “I just need money for the cloth.”

Astrid saw Neustatter looking at her. “Ja, Neustatter, I will go to market with Anna.”

Anna played around with the improvised halstuch, tying it differently on one side rather than in front. Astrid could tell Wolfram approved. It was good to see the playful Anna steadily coming back.

Saturday, June 11, 1633

Anna and Astrid quickly learned that downtown Grantville was very busy on Saturday mornings. Many up-timers were accustomed to working five days each week. They often used Saturdays for going to market. Children did not go to school on Saturdays, either. Or rather, children did not have their regular classes on Saturdays. There were plenty of other reasons they might be at one or another of the schools on a Saturday. Before the Ring of Fire, people drove their cars and trucks in downtown Grantville. Driving vehicles in downtown Grantville was no longer allowed in the central part of the town during the day. It was filled with people.

Anna eventually found what she wanted at Grantville Fabrics and Textiles. Astrid had never seen such fine fabric, some of it of higher quality than Herr Augustus and Frau Sophia’s best garments. And they could afford a modest amount of mid-grade fabric. Astrid was not happy paying that much, but the yellow fabric fell within the limit Neustatter had given them. Because of the way it was cut, they had to buy enough for nine halstücher instead of eight, but Astrid supposed that one would eventually get lost.

They returned to the refugee housing right away. Astrid helped Ursula prepare dinner while Anna got straight to work on the halstücher. She wanted to have them ready for the men’s next mission, which was Tuesday.

Wednesday, June 15, 1633

On Tuesday, wearing their new halstücher, the men escorted a pair of wagons to Schleusingen. One was under contract with the NUS Army, carrying supplies to the town’s gunsmiths and bringing guns back. The other carried goods manufactured in Grantville. It was allowed to form a convoy as long as the merchants paid part of the fee for Neustatter’s men.

The first day’s journey was uneventful. Wednesday began that way, too. When the convoy passed the villages that the health and wellness team had visited, Wolfram reported how their patients in Grantville were doing. Neustatter realized that Wolfram was accumulating a fair amount of good will.

He was just starting to think this might be a pleasantly uneventful trip when shortly after the convoy passed Schmiedefeld, a group of men came out of the woods on the left side of the wagons. Hjalmar was on that side, and he immediately moved toward the back wagon, where he was reinforced by Otto and Karl.

Seven men closed in while two others with matchlocks remained some yards back. Ditmar did the same, while Neustatter jumped down from the front wagon.

“Guten Tag!” Neustatter greeted them.

“Not for you.” The big, tall man brandished a sword. “We will have a look at your cargo.”

“Why?”

“Because we are going to take what we need,” said a grizzled man with a wild look in his eyes.

“We cannot allow that.” Neustatter’s voice projected, but he wasn’t yelling. “This is an NUS Army shipment.”

“Ha! Not likely!” the man with the sword sneered. “They use trucks.”

“Sometimes.”

“And they do not hire mercenaries.” The men attempted to shoulder past Neustatter.

Neustatter’s matchlock fell to the ground as he caught the man by the collar and the sleeve of his sword arm. Neustatter pivoted. The throw was far from textbook. It was more of a sidearm that sent the man around his hip instead of over it. Nevertheless, the man ended up on his back. He had managed to hang onto his sword, but Neustatter quickly pinned that arm against his leg and began to exert pressure, hyperextending the man’s elbow.

The man whimpered and dropped the sword.

Neustatter looked up to see two or three of the others edging back. One of the musketeers was hesitating, but the other hurriedly cocked his matchlock and started to aim—until Lukas came around the front of the first wagon with a leveled matchlock. The musketeer glanced from Lukas to Ditmar and back, then lowered the muzzle of his weapon.

Only the grizzled, wild-eyed man continued to advance, and Karl Recker squared off against him. Karl held his matchlock diagonally across his body at the port arms position, and when the men tried to body him out of the way, Karl thrust all ten pounds of musket into his chest. Karl was a powerful man, and his blow knocked the other back on his heels.

“Stopp!” the man on the ground cried out. “Alle halt!”

All of them did indeed halt.

Neustatter pulled the man to his feet. “What is going on here?” he asked. “You men are not bandits. At least not bandits with any experience at all.”

“We are just villagers. Not even that, anymore. We have been forced out.”

“Why?”

The man studied Neustatter for a while, occasionally glancing to the rest of the men. “Are you really part of the NUS Army?”

Neustatter retrieved his matchlock from the ground. “With these? Nein. They hire us to guard wagons.”

The man stood there for a long moment before he spoke again. “We support the NUS, but the adel do not. The reichsritter can make life very difficult for us.”

“This area is part of the NUS,” Neustatter said.

“Maybe Thuringia, maybe Franconia, maybe something else. Some think the emperor will come back. Ferdinand, I mean.”

Neustatter laughed. “Wallenstein had a hundred thousand men at Alte Veste last September. We were there. Ferdinand is not coming back.”

“Perhaps someone will raise more men . . . ”

“It will have to be a lot of men,” Neustatter told him. “They attacked us. Uphill. Against an army that outnumbered them better than three to one. They went right through us.” It was his turn to think for a while. “If the local lords continue pushing out those who support the NUS, eventually there will be an open clash.”

“On that we agree. But we cannot stay until that happens. Our families are not safe.”

“Are you men farmers?” Neustatter asked.

“Ja, und a couple half-farmers.”

“How many of you are there?”

“Thirty-one.”

Neustatter looked to the teamster driving the second wagon. “Lorenz, do you have a return cargo?”

“Nein.”

“Will you carry the kinder to Grantville?”

“Ja, I can do that.”

Neustatter turned back to the man and held out his hand. “I’m Neustatter.”

“Wilhelm Rummel.” They shook hands.

“We are due in Schleusingen today,” Neustatter said. “We will be back here tomorrow, about midday. Be ready to travel. And do not rob anyone between now and then.”

Thursday, June 16, 1633

Stefan waited until the return cargo was almost loaded before pulling Neustatter and the rest of the men from the village aside. “I cannot believe you are taking them with us. They will turn on us.”

“Those people are desperate,” Neustatter returned, “but not so desperate that they are willing to start a fight they cannot win. A few more days or weeks, perhaps. But by then they will be in Grantville, fed and in refugee housing. That reminds me—Hjalmar, take your team and pick up enough food.”

“We cannot support another thirty-one people,” Lukas protested.

“I will request the NUS repay us. But we will feed them.”

***

Rummel and his men and their families were waiting right where the wagons had encountered them.

“That looks like more than thirty-one.” Stefan wore a very sour expression.

Rummel looked apologetic. “Neustatter, we found another group. Different village, same problem.”

“How many?”

“Eighteen.”

“We are a day and a half from Grantville. Can everyone survive on short rations for that long?” Neustatter described what Hjalmar’s team had purchased.

“We have been surviving on shorter than that. But we have no way to repay you.”

“Our contract is with the NUS Army, not with you. You do not owe us anything. I will tell the NUS Army that it cost two days of food for thirty-one people to make sure there were no bandits on the road to Schleusingen.”

Neustatter did not know if the NUS Army would repay him or not. He would ask, politely. From there, whatever happened, happened. An extra night at an inn and extra day’s food would be understandable enough if a wagon broke down, but he wasn’t sure if refugees would be considered part of the mission.

Regardless, they helped the children and the elderly up onto the second wagon. Without drawing attention to it, Neustatter put Ditmar’s team on the first wagon, right next to the guns. Wolfram circulated among the refugees, checking to see if any were sick or injured.

Periodically one or another refugee would approach Neustatter or one of the others.

“How do I know what jobs they can find in Grantville?” Ditmar asked in frustration. He gestured at his new halstuch. “All they see is this, and they think I am an official.”

Neustatter just smiled. “That is true. All they see is halstücher. It gives me an idea.”

Neustatter casually worked his way along the column of refugees. They were strung out behind the wagons, in no particular order. He collected Hjalmar and Karl along the way.

“Let everyone pass and then be the rear guard,” Neustatter instructed. “I do not want to lose anyone who cannot keep up.”

“We have the rear guard,” Hjalmar confirmed.

Neustatter moved on until he came to Otto.

“Otto, I have noticed that people tend to overlook you.”

Otto grimaced. “I am no one important. I am just another refugee.”

“Nein, you feel like just another refugee, but you look like a wagon guard. Take your halstuch off.”

Otto gave Neustatter a puzzled expression. Then he handed him his matchlock and untied the neckerchief.

“These refugees are from two villages. Now that you do not look like us and have no weapon, do you think each set of villagers might think you come from the other village?”

Otto cocked his head in thought and then gave a rare smile. “Could be.”

“Go find out. Ditmar said all they see is the halstücher and think we are officials. I want to know if that is true.”

“But why?”

“I have an idea,” Neustatter told him. That got Otto’s full attention. “What if some day we are attacked by actual bandits, but some of our guards do not look like guards?”

“I think I like this idea.” Otto stuffed his halstuch inside his shirt and moved off.

Neustatter waited until he saw Otto strike up a conversation, then he drifted back toward the front of the column.

Saturday, June 18, 1633

The men dragged in very late on Friday night. Hjalmar gave Astrid the short version.

“We picked up forty-nine refugees fleeing adel who oppose the New United States. We took them to the office and then got them settled in quarters here.”

In the morning, Anna, Ursula, and Astrid met the women in this new group of refugees. They were in the last row of buildings, which had been nearly empty.

“Ich heisse Astrid Schäubin.”

“Maria Rummel. My brother Wilhelm is the leader of our group.” Astrid judged Maria to be a few years older than herself. “This is my friend Liesl.”

“Welcome to Grantville.”

“What is this place?” Maria’s gesture encompassed all of Spring Branch.

“This is refugee housing,” Astrid answered. “People can stay here when they arrive in Grantville. Then they get jobs and earn money and rent a room somewhere else. There are three refugee housings in the Ring of Fire, but I think this is the largest.”

“I have never seen so many people in one place!” Maria exclaimed.

“Wait until you see Grantville. This is just Spring Branch.”

“Where do you live?”

“On the far side of the next row,” Anna replied. “The middle building.”

Liesl glanced around, almost furtively. “The woman who showed us the showers said we should bathe frequently. Is it safe?”

“Ja,” Anna answered. “And it is so much less trouble than heating water and pouring it into a tub.”

“We have other questions . . . ”

Astrid smiled to herself as Anna launched into the Sanitation Squad speech. Along the way, she offered to show the women from the new group the grocery store and the laundromat.

“We do not have much money,” Maria said. “I do not think we can go to those places yet.”

“You have a much bigger group than we do,” Ursula said. “We need to go anyway. If a couple of you come with us, later you can show the others.”

“I think my brother told me there are forty-nine in your group?” Astrid asked.

“Thirty-one and eighteen,” Maria asked. “Two different villages. We do not know them, but we had the same problems.”

The five women started for Grantville in the late morning. The laundromat was crowded, and they had to wait some time to use a washing machine.

“What are those women selling outside?” Liesl asked.

“Net bags,” Anna replied. “When you throw everyone’s clothes in the washing machine together it becomes difficult to sort out whose is whose later. If each person puts all their clothes in a net, they stay together. Or each family, because we do not have a lot of clothes.” She opened her pack. “Each of the three of us have one net for our family, and then there is one more for the other four men. They will have to sort their clothes out, but Neustatter is tall, Karl is big, so it is not too difficult.”

Anna pointed to the coin slots on one of the washing machines. “They use a coin the up-timers call quarters. That is why we had to change the paper money for coins.”

“The coins are worth more, ja?” Maria asked. “Not the stamped value, but what they are really worth.”

“The up-timers say no, it is all one system,” Astrid answered. “And the down-timers who have lived in Grantville the longest say they are correct.” She shrugged. “I do not understand why. Not yet. But it is important that if you have more than three quarters left when you are done, you change as many back to paper dollars as you can, because the laundromat needs the quarters to work the washers and dryers.”

“Dryers.” Ursula sniffed.

“But they make the clothes so warm.” Anna said it with a smile. She told Maria and Liesl, “Ursula prefers to save money. It is true. If you have a rope or even a good piece of twine, you can hang it inside or outside and drape the clothes over it.”

While they were waiting for the laundry to wash, Maria asked, “What about churches? When are the church services?”

“Nine o’clock and eleven o’clock, but it is all the way on the other side of the Ring of Fire, out on the Rudolstadt road.”

Maria looked puzzled. “We passed two churches, and I saw at least three more in the place you called downtown. What about those?”

“Those are not Lutheran.” Ursula sniffed. “The church across from the fairgrounds is Catholic. The one not far from here is something they had up-time. Downtown the churches are Catholic, Calvinist, and some others from up-time.”

“Oh!” Maria lowered her voice. “I think the people from the other village might be Catholic.”

“You did not ask?”

“They had the same problems we did. We were not trying to find reasons not to work together.”

Once the laundry was done, the women went to the grocery store. It had the same effect on Maria and Liesl that it had had on Ursula, Astrid, and Anna the previous month.

Anna drew Maria aside. “What do you need?”

Maria hung her head. “The Relief Committee gave us enough meat and bread for three days.”

“Then you just need some vegetables today. You can come back and buy more once the men have worked a couple days. You may need several people to carry everything.”

“We can do that,” Maria agreed. She looked curious. “How did you know we did not have anything?”

“We left our village on short notice, too,” Anna said. “But we spent a couple days in Magdeburg, and our men had been in Grantville during the winter, so they knew what to prepare for. There is an outside market in Spring Branch. It is closer, and I think less expensive. You should ask Astrid about that. She paid more attention to the costs.”

“Danke. We will support ourselves as quickly as we can.”

Anna smiled. “You just need a few days. But have you thought about what will happen when your men find permanent jobs, not day labor? Will you all stay together?”

Maria’s eyes widened. “We have not even thought about that.”

“We are going to stay together, but we have a smaller group.”

When the women returned with clean laundry and fresh food, they found that Johann, the children from the Suhl County villages, and some other children in the refugee housing and the larger Spring Branch area were playing together. The game involved a ball, and there seemed to be rules.

Monday, June 20, 1633

On Monday, most of the men took day jobs. Karl worked at a blacksmith’s shop, and Wolfram went to EMT training. But Neustatter came back before midday.

“Miss Schäubin, Chief Frost would like to see us.”

Astrid closed her book and stood up at once. She brought the book with her, expecting they might have to wait at the polizei station. But as soon as they gave their names to the receptionist, she phoned the chief’s office and sent them right in.

“Neustatter, Miss Schäubin. I heard you had some trouble on the way to Schleusingen.”

“It could have turned into trouble, but it did not,” Neustatter clarified.

“The way I heard it, there were no shots fired in the confrontation, and you brought in forty-nine refugees.”

“Ja.”

“Excellent job, Neustatter.” Dan Frost leaned back in his chair. “I mean that. That could have gone badly very quickly.”

Neustatter gave a slight nod.

“I understand your martial arts lessons came in handy.”

“Ja.”

“What if you’d had to fire?”

Neustatter sat still for a minute before answering. “It was short range. Matchlocks on both sides. We had experience and a slightly better position. A couple of us probably would have gotten hit.”

Frost nodded. “I’ve been in positions like that a time or two. We can use someone who can get out of fixes like that with nobody dead.” His pause was obvious enough that Astrid held her breath, waiting for the rest of what he was going to say.

“Neustatter, you need better weapons. Just in case it does go badly sometime.”

“We know.”

“But you need money to buy the weapons. I have a proposal for you.”

Neustatter did not say anything, but Astrid saw that he was paying close attention.

“Join the Reserves. Drill one weekend a month and two weeks a year. You’ll be issued weapons. You could probably carry those when you are on a mission directly for the Army. Plus, it pays. Not much, but some.”

Chief Frost let Neustatter process that, then he added, “Those are not the only refugees coming out of the towns in the Thüringerwald. Anse Hatfield was reporting movement back in January, and it has only increased. We need somebody down there to make contact with them, and there are reasons why it should not be the NUS Army. You did good, and we’ll make sure you get reimbursed for the food.”

“Interesting,” Neustatter declared. “Political reasons.”

Chief Frost nodded. “Exactly.”

Neustatter grimaced. “I have noticed in the movies and television shows that frequently people with political concerns tell the men in the field what they can and cannot do.”

“We believe in civilian control of the military.”

“But not every civilian,” Neustatter stated. He leaned forward slightly in his chair. “If I accepted this assignment, I decide if I have to open fire. Not somebody who is not there.”

“I don’t have a problem with that,” Dan Frost declared. “Neither will President Stearns or General Jackson.” He grimaced. “Some others, maybe, but frankly, Mike and Frank aren’t real likely to listen to them.”

Neustatter looked over at Astrid. “Did you understand that, Miss Schäubin?”

“Some of it,” she replied.

In Plattdeutsch, Neustatter summarized the important points so far. Then he asked, “I know when someone joins the NUS Army, he goes to training before joining a unit. It is a different way than we are used to. How long does it take?”

“Eight weeks.”

“I will talk it over with the men.”

Chief Frost nodded. “The other thing you’re going to need is a name. If you’d like a suggestion?”

“Bitte.”

“There are a number of outfits in the area calling themselves this mercenary company or that mercenary company.”

Neustatter nodded. “One of the times we took day labor jobs, I met a couple men who are in the Albernian Mercenary Company.”

Frost scowled. “Try to follow a few more rules than they do, all right?” He looked over at Astrid. “And, Miss Schäubin, file the occasional piece of paperwork, okay?”

Astrid had no idea what he was talking about. But she would find out, so she nodded.

“You may have noticed that we up-timers don’t really like the idea of mercenaries,” Frost began.

Neustatter grinned. “You don’t say.” Astrid thought he was very proud of himself for replying in American.

Chief Frost laughed. “Seriously, though, do yourself a favor and find some other name.”

Neustatter was grinning again. “Has anyone taken the name Wells Fargo yet?”

Frost laughed again. “Good one. Might get tired of explaining it to every down-timer you meet, though. Try something more . . . self-explanatory.”

“Well, so far we guard wagons and trucks. We would like to add guarding buildings. Perhaps even guarding people. I do not object to investigating, but I already know better than to accept a divorce case.”

“I’m not sure detective noir is the right image,” Chief Frost agreed.

“What we have been doing—do you call it a security service?”

“Yes,” Frost answered. “But not the Security Service. That was a British intelligence service up-time. It’ll make people think of James Bond, although I think the Security Service was MI-5, and Bond was MI-6.”

“I do not mind making people think of James Bond,” Neustatter stated. “However, we would need a Q. No one would take our matchlocks seriously.”

Chief Frost threw up his arms. “Honest to Pete, Neustatter! You’ve been watching James Bond movies, too?”

“Ja. I learn things from all the movies, but I probably learn the most from John Wayne.”

“It’s probably better if you prefer John Wayne,” Chief Frost muttered. “Safer for the rest of us.”

“What if you make it your own security service?” Astrid asked Neustatter.

“That’s a thought,” Chief Frost allowed. “Neustatter’s Security Service.”

“There are eight of us men, plus Miss Schäubin is the secretary,” Neustatter objected. “I am in charge because everyone agreed to it—”

Chief Frost waved him down. “I know, I know. Neustatter, we have already talked about the difference between the image you want to portray and the reality. You can be John Wayne, as long as you realize you don’t actually have the cavalry on call. It’s the same with the name. Make sure your guys understand that the name is part of the image.”

“I understand,” Astrid offered. “Stefan will complain, because that is what Stefan does. Lukas will object, because that is what he does. No one else will care, although Ursula will speak up to support Stefan.”

Neustatter looked at Frost. “That is exactly what will happen,” he agreed.

“You’ve got a good secretary,” Chief Frost acknowledged. “I think Neustatter’s Security Service is on the right track. Um, that means it’s getting closer to what you want. If there is one thing we up-timers like, it’s abbreviations and acronyms. People would call Neustatter’s Security Service NSS. An acronym is an abbreviation you can pronounce. Like the National Aeronautics and Space Administration—everyone up-time called it NASA. The only thing wrong with NSS is that you can’t pronounce it.”

Neustatter was nodding slowly. Astrid had not understood everything Chief Frost said, but grasped this point. He wanted them to have a name that people could make into a word.

“Nass, Nuss . . . no, that won’t work.”

Astrid spoke up. “Neustatter, that sounds like the character in The Untouchables.”

“Eliot Ness?”

“That works,” Frost told us. “Just need a word for the E. Uh, Neustatter, how far away will you take a job?”

“I had not thought about it. I would prefer to stay in the New United States, but I do not object to guarding trucks to Magdeburg or Hesse.”

“It occurs to me that Europe begins with an E.”

Neustatter was nodding slowly again. “Neustatter’s European Security Services.”

“People are going to think G-men and then see you and think cavalry.”

“That will work. Miss Schäubin, find out how much horses would cost, bitte.”

Astrid made a note:

9. NESS needs mounts.

***

“I do not want to go back to an army,” Stefan grumbled. They were seated around the fire again. He, Ursula, and Johann were in the same place as before. This time, they had been joined by Lukas.

“Nor do I,” Ditmar agreed. He, Karl, and Otto were sitting on the ground to Neustatter’s right. “But we are talking about part-time training that will pay us. Plus, sometimes we would have better weapons.”

“Part-time training after the full-time training,” Lukas pointed out. “Several weeks of full-time training with the sergeants yelling at us.”

Hjalmar spoke from where he, Astrid, Anna, and Wolfram sat on the second log. “Ja, yelling. Not plotting against us, not striking us.”

“I cannot say I am eager for that, either,” Stefan grumbled.

Karl leaned back from where he sat and posted his hands on the ground to support himself. “How does this training work, Neustatter?”

Neustatter explained what he knew. “Some of you have seen movies with scenes of up-time military training.”

“Hard to say if they are accurate,” Lukas said.

“There are plenty of up-timers to ask,” Wolfram pointed out. “Something I have heard at Leahy is that many of them were in their army.”

“That is worth following up,” Neustatter agreed. He looked around the circle. “Ursula? Anna? Astrid?”

Ursula shrugged. “This is up to you men. We women are not joining this army.”

“How long will the training last?” Anna asked.

“Eight weeks.”

“Be sure to leave us enough money to buy food,” Ursula requested.

“Definitely.”

“Hjalmar?” Astrid asked.

“Oh, I expect I will hate much of the training at the time,” her brother admitted. “But I think it will be useful to find out how the up-timers do things. Gaining access to better weapons, even some of the time, is worth it all by itself.”

“I cannot disagree with any of that,” Stefan admitted. “Ursula, if you think you women and Johann will be all right on your own . . . ”

“We will be fine,” his wife assured him.

“Is everyone in?” Neustatter asked.

A chorus of “ja” answered him. Then Lukas stretched and sighed. “We are all crazy, but, ja, I am in.”

“Once we are done with basic training, we will have a company to run,” Neustatter said. “We need a name. Chief Frost suggested Neustatter’s European Security Services. He also talked to me about how we present ourselves. I know it is not all about me.”

“That makes us sound like a mercenary company.” Stefan wasn’t quite grumbling.

“Nein,” Lukas declared. “We need something better.”

“It does make you sound like mercenaries,” Ursula said.

Neustatter started laughing.

“What is so funny?” Stefan asked.

Neustatter caught his breath. “I am not telling you what to decide. I simply point out that after Chief Frost started thinking of names, Miss Schäubin correctly predicted how each of you would react. You, Stefan, would complain. You, Lukas, would object. You, Ursula, would agree with Stefan. And here is the best one: that the rest of you would not care about the name.”

“You think we should listen to her. You are telling us what to decide,” Stefan complained.

“It is a good idea,” Hjalmar said. He looked at his sister. “Really? Are we that predictable?”

“Ja,” Astrid answered.

“Well, of course you like your sister’s idea,” Lukas said.

“Do you have a different idea?”

After a minute, Wolfram spoke into the silence. “I do not.”

“I like NESS,” Karl said.

“Just as long as you are not sitting in the office while we do the work, Neustatter,” Stefan said.

Neustatter laughed again. “The best part of being a guard or a detective is being on assignment,” he said.

“Ja, when has Neustatter ever told us to do something and not done it himself?” Otto asked. “Like Astrid said, I do not care about the name. We can be NESS.”

There was a rumble of agreement.

“Good thing,” Hjalmar whispered to Astrid. “The fire is almost out.”

Thursday, June 23, 1633

Everyone was thankful for the refugee housing in Spring Branch, but they wanted to move out as soon as they could. Ditmar and Stefan explored the whole area between Spring Branch and Grantville.

Partway between Grantville and Spring Branch was another village called Murphy’s Junction. That was where Murphy’s Run—which referred to both a stream and the valley it flowed through—joined Buffalo Creek. The valley soon split, and the western branch extended almost to the Ring Wall. Up that branch was yet another village, Murphyhausen.

Murphyhausen was mostly rowhouses. They were long, two-story half-timber buildings divided up into individual homes. People lived there and worked elsewhere—in the coal mine or in Grantville. It had more room to grow than Spring Branch. Everyone looked at the rowhouses and agreed. Their timing was perfect. There was an opening, and Neustatter rented that rowhouse. All twelve of them crowded in, but it was less tightly packed than their room in the refugee housing had been. The first floor was all one room, except for a bathroom in one corner. A stove sat on one side, connected to the chimney. The far end of the room was a kitchen, while the front was a sitting room. Upstairs was another bathroom with a shower and four bedrooms. The Kuntz and the Kirchenbauer families each got a bedroom. Ditmar, Hjalmar, and Astrid were in the third. Neustatter, Otto, Karl, and Lukas had the fourth. It took a couple days to get used to the stairs, but . . . stairs. This rowhouse was almost as nice as Herr Augustus and Frau Sophia’s hunting lodge . . . er, schloss. And it had indoor bathrooms.

Everyone was happy with the rowhouse in Murphyhausen except Johann, who missed his friends from Spring Brook.

Chapter 4: Basic

Friday, July 1, 1633

A basic training class started July 1. Families were allowed to watch from the edge of the parade field as the men reported to the military base on the south side of Saalfeld, called Camp Saale. Astrid knew from school that the seniors—those in twelfth grade, usually seventeen or eighteen years old—graduated in late May. Most of the boys—and a few of the girls—joined the New United States Army after graduation.

Many of the other recruits appeared to be mercenaries. Astrid was no expert, but they seemed to her to vary from individuals who appeared to be down on their luck to confident men who stood like they had a great deal of experience in the world.

Neustatter’s men marched in a column of twos. They carried no weapons or packs, and Neustatter had made sure none of them were wearing halstücher. Instead, the women were. Ursula and Anna wore their husbands’ halstücher, and Astrid wore her brother’s.

“Kader, halt.” Neustatter was not trying to draw attention, but his voice carried even when he was not trying to project it.

The formation dissolved, and the men stepped into the lines of recruits.

Within seconds, two soldiers in those green-brown-black uniforms appeared from . . . somewhere.

“Did I hear a command?” one of them roared. He seemed old to Astrid, but was still a strong man, although he moved with a bit of a limp.

“Did someone give you permission to speak?” the other demanded. This one was younger. Astrid thought he was about Stefan’s age, older than any of the rest of the men from the village. He stood right in front of Neustatter and leaned in. “Did I give you permission to speak?” he roared.

“Do you accept transfer of this detachment, late of Colloredo’s Regiment of Wallenstein’s army?” Neustatter’s voice was equally loud.

The drill sergeant’s face turned interesting colors, rather like Herr Augustus’ when he was about to explode.

The older drill sergeant immediately stepped in. “The New United States Army accepts transfer of this detachment.”

Then he announced he was Drill Sergeant Maxwell Huffman, and the younger was Carl Yost. Then they both hollered at the recruits for a while before marching them off.

Sunday, July 3, 1633

Captain Henderson Coonce hadn’t meant to get trapped at his desk. He’d arrived at the office before dawn with the intention of checking a couple personnel files before heading to sick call. He preferred to supervise it himself. A gym teacher up until the Ring of Fire, he had some experience with athletic training. Much of it was applicable to basic training and helped cut down on “broken private syndrome.”

He looked up in annoyance when a knock sounded at the door.

“Enter!”

To his surprise, Drill Sergeant Yost entered. The drill sergeants knew their business, and they’d all meet up at the mess hall shortly.

“Captain Coonce.”

“Sergeant Yost. What’s come up?”

Yost came to attention in front of Coonce’s desk. “One of the ex-mercenaries. Neustatter. He fragged his previous sergeant. We don’t need anybody like that.”

“No, Neustatter shot his captain in the back of the head after ordering Heidenfelder to cut the sergeant’s throat,” Coonce corrected.

Yost sputtered for a moment.

“You don’t think that’s a problem, sir?”

“Dan Frost tipped me off. Said I should give him a chance. And you know how Dan Frost is.”

“I thought I did.”

“He must think there were extenuating circumstances.” Coonce stood. “That’s what Eagle Pepper is for, right?”

“Roger that, sir.”

Saturday, July 9, 1633

Anna tossed her rag into the bucket and surveyed the ground floor of the rowhouse. She grinned. “It does not take as long to clean with all the men gone.”

“They barely had time to make a mess,” Ursula pointed out.

“Since everything is clean, we should go to the movies tonight,” Astrid said.

“What is tonight’s movie?” Anna asked.

Astrid consulted her notebook. “It is two episodes of a television show called The Dukes of Hazzard.”

“That sounds like it is about some up-time adel,” Ursula said. “I do not know that we need something like that.”

“It will be fun!” Johann declared.

Ursula sighed.

***

A few hours later, she was shaking her head as they left the high school auditorium. “Sheer anarchy!”

Johann was making vroom noises.

“Johann, stop that!”

“That was not about adel at all.” Anna spoke quietly to Astrid. “The woman who introduced the television show said that the up-time was not actually like that. I do not understand why it was so popular?”

Astrid thought about that. “The up-timers approved of the Dukes, their values. I think that is how they wished to be. I think it is the same reason that the John Wayne movies Neustatter likes are so popular.”

She kept thinking about it as they walked through Grantville, back to Murphyhausen. Somewhere along Route 250, Astrid figured out part of the answer.

“Anna, it is like the mysteries and westerns Neustatter and I read. The up-timers value justice and freedom and what is right more than order.”

“But . . . but . . . how does justice exist without order?” Anna asked.

“That is why everyone comes to Grantville, is it not? Even if we do not understand it at the time.”

When they arrived at their rowhouse, Astrid made a note to make sure Neustatter saw The Dukes of Hazzard so that she could talk to him about what it meant.

Friday, July 22, 1633

Three weeks into basic training, the men were worn out. They were cleaning the barracks—again. Hjalmar muttered, “I think the drill sergeants value order above justice.”

“Ja,” Neustatter agreed. His mouth quirked. “I am officially disillusioned.”

He noted which men laughed. Without exception, they were recruits who appeared to be successfully navigating the stress of basic.

“It is a game, you know,” Neustatter said.

“What do you mean, Neustatter?” Recruit Kessel had shadows under his eyes. Neustatter had seen him putting in his full effort consistently.

Neustatter waved his hand, taking in the eight men from the village. “We were in Wallenstein’s army. I saw the same thing there. The official rules were not the same as the actual rules.”

“What do you mean?”

“Hauptmann Trehar and Sergeant Wylich changed the rules all the time to whatever benefitted them. They were arschlöcher. Drill Sergeants Huffman and Yost change the rules on us when it is not in their benefit to do so. They are up to something.”

“Ja, well, Yost does not like you.”

“Drill Sergeant Huffman does not do anything by accident. We just need to figure out what his plan is. Observe, stay busy and do not get your buddies in trouble.”

***

Neustatter’s men and other former mercenaries were in a different basic training company than up-time high school graduates and down-timers who had not been in an army before. In the fourth week, the ex-mercenaries were assigned a field exercise. They fell into formation with matchlock muskets and packs.

“Welcome to Eagle Pepper,” Drill Sergeant Huffman told them. “This is a multiple-day field exercise, meaning we will not be coming back to the barracks for several days. You will use all the skills you have learned in a series of scenarios. Some of these scenarios include civilians. We have designed the scenarios to be similar to what we think you can expect in an actual campaign. You must achieve an overall ‘Go’ in this exercise to advance to phase two of basic training. Enough ‘No Go’s, and you will be recycled to the next basic training class. The cartridges you’ve been issued are black powder only. Black powder is still dangerous. No point-blank fire. Do not fix bayonets in any of these exercises.”

Neustatter immediately noted that Drill Sergeant Huffman did not ask if anyone had questions. Since the drill sergeants usually did that, not asking was deliberate. It suggested lack of information was part of this exercise.

Drill Sergeant Yost reorganized the class of recruits into different squads than they were used to. The eight men from the village all ended up in the same squad. Previously they’d all been in different ones. Neustatter understood why the drill sergeants had put them in separate squads. He did not understand why they were back together.

As they marched east on a dirt road, Ditmar muttered, “How do the up-timers say it? The fix is in.”

“You noticed.” Neustatter spoke quietly enough that only Ditmar heard him.

“You told us to start noticing things like that. The other thing I notice is that we do not have a chain of command, but we are in formation, so we will probably be fighting in line.”

“I understand why we have to be able to, but . . . ” Neustatter raised his voice just a bit so that his squad could hear him. “When we take fire, I will call ‘Teams!’ Ditmar, go right. Hjalmar, go left. Wolfram, hang back.”

They marched almost seven miles east. The road forked just past the village of Oberwellenborn, and the drill sergeants directed the column of recruits to the right. Further on, they turned left toward the village of Birkig. It was even smaller than Neustatter’s own village. There was even less farmland—some of the residents were probably half-farmers. The manor was larger than Herr Augustus’ hunting lodge. Even at this distance it looked well-cared for. The village did have a church, and the structure looked distinctly ancient. It was white with a black roof and looked at least as tall as it was wide. The slope of the roof changed partway down, becoming much steeper and giving the church a boxlike appearance.

As they got closer, Neustatter realized the crossroads did not line up. Nor was the main road straight. It came from Oberwellenborn in the west, arcing gently to the north before continuing on to Lausnitz at not quite the same angle. The road the recruits were marching along came up from the south, pointing directly to the church. It met the east-west road right where it straightened out after its arc. The church itself was on another road that came in from the north. That road curved west at the church and met the east-west road one house west of where the southern road did.

Neustatter counted six houses south of the east-west road, three to either side of the intersection with the southern road. It looked like there were probably three houses north of the main road and east of the church, with the area immediately south of the church between the two intersections forming the village square. Neustatter could not see the northwestern quadrant of the village clearly, but he thought that there were houses both along the main road and along that road from the north.

The recruits were almost to the nearest pair of houses at the intersection when a woman burst out of the brownish house on the left with two men who appeared to be soldiers right behind her. One brandished a sword, while the other held a matchlock.

“Halt!” Neustatter ordered.

Most of the recruits’ formation took that as an order and stopped on the next pace. The woman ran by them, and the two men ran off in the opposite direction.

“Teams! Detail . . . route step . . . pursuit!” Neustatter ordered.

Ditmar, Lukas, and Stefan ran off to the right side of the road in pursuit. Hjalmar, Otto, and Karl ran off to the left. Most of the formation broke ranks and charged straight down the road. Neustatter ran among them, periodically clapping a man on the shoulder and sending him after either Ditmar or Hjalmar’s teams.

They were right in the middle of the road that ran through the Birkig from east to west when a spatter of musket shots crashed out from the houses on the north side of the road.

“Cover!” Neustatter shouted. His men immediately turned back to take cover behind the houses south of the main road.

Ditmar’s group practically ran into an umpire. Umpires were NUS soldiers who controlled exercises like this. They decided who had been shot and what was allowable. The umpires wore bright yellow or orange vests over their camouflage uniforms.

“Dead, dead, and dead.” The umpire pointed at Ditmar, Stefan, and Lukas.

Lukas immediately began arguing and was told to shut up. He finally got on the ground, and the umpire moved out of the way.

Neustatter and Wolfram were no longer there.

At the next exchange of fire, the umpire declared Hjalmar’s team dead. Then two shots sounded inside the second house from the right, north of the road.

The umpire had almost reached the door when it opened, and one of the snipers was propelled out the door. Neustatter’s left arm was firmly around his neck. Wolfram forced another sniper out in the same manner. They marched them directly toward the house full of snipers. Two shots rang out, and the umpire ruled the hostages dead. They immediately slumped.

Neustatter brought up the matchlock in his right hand, grabbed the stock with his left, and told his dead guy, “You might want to cover your ears.” Then he pulled the trigger, and a hundred twenty-five grains of black powder made a suitably impressive noise.

Wolfram fired moments later.

“Cease fire! Cease fire!” the umpire ordered.

He took them back to the starting point, where Yost lectured them about safety violations for a while.

After the inevitable pushups, Drill Sergeant Yost announced, “Heidenfelder, you are in charge this time.”

They marched back down the road, toward the same brown house. Something about the house itself bothered Neustatter. Then the same woman ran out with the same two soldiers in pursuit.

“Fire!” Lukas ordered.

The umpire ruled two down. Lukas then maneuvered the men around the left side of that house, bypassing the house across the side road. That was where the unit that had ambushed Ditmar’s team last time had been.

And then shots crashed out from ahead and from both sides.

An umpire ruled Hjalmar, Ditmar, Wolfram, and Karl dead.

Stefan swore. “Ridiculous accuracy.”

But he complained on the run as he, Lukas, Neustatter, and Otto dashed for cover.

Lukas glanced at Neustatter.

“Break contact,” Neustatter offered.

“Neustatter, Otto, fire and run.”

They edged around a house north of the main road, fired, and ducked back ahead of the return fire. The umpire said nothing, effectively ruling they had not been hit. Neustatter and Otto dashed for the next house. More shots rang out, and these sounded different.

Lukas and Stefan fired and ran in the opposite direction, only to get caught in a similar crossfire.

Lukas was visibly angry on the way back to the starting point.

“Those were up-time weapons,” Neustatter told him.

“Not quite what you expected, was it?” Yost asked.

So the day went.

Saturday, July 23, 1633

Saturday started with more of the same. Neustatter was leading the squad first.

By now, they were not approaching on the road. They advanced across one of the fields at extended order—about six feet apart.

The woman ran out of the same house. This time Neustatter realized what bothered him about that house. It was nothing to do with the scenario. The roof was off-kilter. It wasn’t square to the rest of the house.

“Ditmar’s team! Ready, present!”

The same two soldiers ran out of the house in pursuit.

“Fire!”

The umpire said nothing.

“Hjalmar’s team! Fire!”

The umpire said nothing. Then snipers fired from three different houses. He pointed at Neustatter, Ditmar, and Hjalmar.

The three obligingly collapsed, but then Hjalmar and Ditmar traded looks. Hjalmar waited until the umpire’s back was turned, then pointed at first Otto, then Wolfram. Ditmar nodded in reply.

Sure enough, the umpire made Otto and Wolfram casualties on the next volley, although Karl was easily more exposed.

So the day went.

Sunday, July 24, 1633

Drill Sergeant Maxwell Huffman hitched himself onto a convenient crate in the headquarters tent. He needed a bit of a rest. He wasn’t as young as he had been when he’d been running around the jungles of Vietnam. He snorted. This sure wasn’t the GP medium tent he’d been used to in the up-time U.S. Army, either. This was a rain fly with delusions of grandeur. Blue, no less. It couldn’t possibly stick out more. The screen panels on three sides were rolled down and zipped together. The fourth side was currently open, although if that one annoying housefly didn’t quickly develop a sense it ought to be elsewhere, he was going zip the fourth side panel shut and indulge in a search-and-destroy mission. It felt like it was going to be a hot day . . . for Thuringia. It’d probably hit 80, which down-timers definitely classified as hot. Over the course of his military career, Huffman had spent far too much time at Fort Bragg to be impressed with 80 degrees.

The recruits—or those who wanted to, anyway—were off at church services. They were the only unit in the field this morning, so all three of Camp Saale’s chaplains—Catholic, Lutheran, and Calvinist—had been able to come by and hold services. He didn’t attend church himself, and he didn’t believe in leaving the field while the men were still out there.

This class of recruits was shaping up fairly well, although he had no intention of telling them that. Unlike most of the other instructors, he’d actually served a stint as a drill sergeant up-time. Like Harley Thomas, Archie Mitchell, and Sam Sloan, he’d served in the Vietnam War. He had a pretty good idea what to watch for in recruits. This batch had some men in fairly desperate economic straits, this year’s high school graduates, a few young idealists (overlapping the high school graduates in some cases), and a fair number of former mercenaries. Most of those had enlisted in ones and twos. There was one trio, and then there was Neustatter’s bunch. Huffman flipped through the former mercenaries’ evaluations from the first two days of Eagle Pepper and frowned at what he saw.

Huffman had been running the new recruit company through Eagle Pepper, and they were pretty bad at it. In all fairness, he didn’t expect anything else at this point. Dropping a field exercise on them in week four of basic training was probably a bit much. But the basic training cadre was less interested in properly executed fire and maneuver than they were in how the recruits dealt with the opposition force and the civilians in Birkig.

Most squads were doing about as well as could be expected. Nobody had attempted to massacre the village, rape the women, or plunder everything in sight. There had been a few threats against villagers or captured OPFOR soldiers, trying to obtain information about the enemy force. An umpire had stepped in twice, and Huffman had had a talk with those squads later on. He understood why they were frustrated, and he made sure they understood what they could and couldn’t do. He had no illusion that basic training by itself would be enough to prevent atrocities, but if continually reinforced in the line units, it would take hold.

The first thing he’d noticed about the former mercenaries was that the largest group of eight had received an overwhelming number of No Gos. What’s more, they were operating together as an eight-man squad. Long experience working together should be giving them an advantage, although operating two men short would tend to cancel that out. Their assessments shouldn’t be this bad, though.

He started paying careful attention to the comments. No attempted atrocities. This was all leadership and tactical stuff, and the cadre had already agreed that the recruits were going to be pretty tactically inept in week four.

Drill Sergeant Huffman pushed himself off the crate. It was time for the recruits to have to think on their feet. Services would be about over, but it would take Captain Coonce and Sergeant Yost a while to return from the Presbyterian services in Grantville. Yost faced a certain amount of pressure to show up. His wife Cheryl was a niece of Enoch Wiley, the up-time Presbyterian preacher.

“Attennn-tion!” he hollered as he walked into the camp of the new recruits.

Everyone shot out of tents, dropped cooking gear, and otherwise flew into formation.

“Fragmentary order,” Drill Sergeant Huffman announced. “Opposition forces have occupied a village in unknown strength on the NUS Army’s flank while the main battle occurs south of the Saale River. Continued occupation of the village of Birkig represents a threat to Camp Saale itself and potentially to Saalfeld, Kamsdorf, and even Grantville. Friendly forces consist of one training company reinforced by one company-equivalent of surviving veteran troops.

“Recruit company will advance on Birkig and drive enemy forces out of the village.

“Two platoons will proceed east on the right fork from Oberwellenborn and come in from the south while the other two approach directly on the left fork. The company will be reinforced by survivors of a unit which has been withdrawn from the front after heavy fighting. So rely on their guidance.

“Resupply of ammunition and food will take place in or just south of Birkig. There is no transportation. Standard medical and prisoner of war procedures.

“Challenge is freiheit. Countersign is feuerkraft. Recruit Haggerty, you are in command of the two western platoons. Recruit Carroll, you are in command of the two southern platoons. You have as long as it takes me to walk over to the other recruit company and back to choose your platoon leaders. Squad leaders will join you en route.”

“Company, fall out!”

Drill Sergeant Huffman turned and strode away. He wasn’t taking questions because the point of Eagle Pepper was to drop the recruits in a situation and watch how they responded, not to walk them through it. Plus, he was making up this scenario as he went.

***

“Attennn-tion!”

The former mercenaries-turned-recruits shot into formation with the same speed as the new recruits.

“Fragmentary order,” Drill Sergeant Huffman proclaimed. “Opposition forces have occupied a village in unknown strength on the NUS’ army’s flank while the main battle occurs south of the Saale River. Continued occupation of the village of Birkig represents a threat to Camp Saale itself and potentially to Saalfeld, Kamsdorf, and even Grantville. Friendly forces consist of one training company reinforced by you survivors of a veteran unit pulled off the front after heavy fighting.

“You will add weight to the training company’s attack.

“First, Second, Fourth, and Fifth Squads will reinforce two platoons on the right fork of the Oberwellenborn road. Third Squad, you are squad leaders for the new recruit squads. Sixth, Eighth, Ninth, and Tenth Squads will reinforce two platoons on the left fork of the Oberwellenborn road. Seventh Squad, you are squad leaders for the new recruit squads.

“Resupply of ammunition and food will take place in or just south of Birkig. There is no transportation. Standard medical and prisoner of war procedures.

“Challenge is freiheit. Countersign is feuerkraft. Recruit Haggerty is in command of the two western platoons. Recruit Carroll is in command of the two southern platoons.”

“First through Fifth, move out now!”

Half the training company got underway at once. Drill Sergeant Huffman turned to Sixth through Tenth Squad.

“Go!”

Max Huffman smiled to himself. He didn’t have time to warn the village of Birkig. That ought to create a good amount of confusion, but since the NUS Army literally had the whole village on retainer, he didn’t feel bad about it, either. The umpires and opposition force were camped just north of the village. They were old Grantville hands, mostly men who’d joined up after the Crapper or Jena. They’d fought at Eisenach, Wartburg, and Alte Veste. Any surprise would be brief.

He did, however, want to be in position to see this, so he started down the Oberwellenborn road himself.

On the road from Oberwellenborn to Birkig

The most common question muttered in the ranks was what is going on? It was closely followed by what now? and why?

Stefan Kirchenbauer had his own pessimistic take on it, of course.

“They are out to get us, Neustatter.”

“Could be.”

“Drill Sergeant Huffman is going to No Go us.”

“Could be.”

“I remember the last time you were answering everything like that,” Otto said. “You have a plan, do you not?”

“Nein,” Neustatter answered. “Drill Sergeant Huffman has a plan. We are the squad leaders. We will follow Recruit Carroll’s orders and those of the platoon leaders. Ditmar’s team, you get the platoon on the right. Hjalmar’s team, you get the platoon on the left. Take the first three squads. Wolfram, fourth squad in the right platoon. I’ll take the fourth squad in the left platoon. We’ll lead those squads around the east side of the village.”

They soon caught up to the two platoons of new recruits. Those platoons halted, and the recruit marching on the right flank of the lead platoon came over.

“Recruit Sara Carroll, in command of these platoons for this operation. Where are my squad leaders?”

“Right here,” Neustatter answered. “Third Squad, fall out.”

“Why is your squad two men short?”

“We do not know, Recruit.”

Carroll digested that for a moment. “Assign your recruits as my squad leaders.”

“Ja, Recruit. Squad, as ordered.” Neustatter’s men moved to their assigned squads.

“Our orders are to drive the opposing force out of Birkig. Challenge is freiheit, and countersign is feuerkraft.”

Neustatter nodded.

“Good, they gave us the same orders,” Recruit Carroll noted. “We have been moving straight in, but Recruit Haggerty has two platoons coming in from the west, so there’s a flanking movement. The enemy has been making stands near the church. Sometimes there are a couple snipers in nearby houses. If so, platoon leaders will detail squads to those houses.”

“Sometimes, Recruit Carroll?” Neustatter asked. “We encountered snipers every single time.”

“Hmm. Maybe the drill sergeants are giving you harder scenarios. We won’t know until we get there. If we just had some cavalry to get behind them.”

“We can arrange something similar, Recruit.”

“Go on. No, don’t. We don’t have time. If you have a way to get behind them, do it. Let’s move out.”

***

The two platoons came straight in and were quickly spotted by members of the opposition force. They raised the alarm, but it took over a minute before the OPFOR formation began to march.

Recruit Sara Carroll had long since ordered her two platoons to advance on the double.

“Fourth Squad, Fifth Squad, come with me,” Neustatter ordered. He cut to the right, and they stripped Wolfram and two squads off the back of the other platoon as they passed.

Carroll’s two short platoons should have been outnumbered, except that the opposition force had also spotted Haggerty’s two platoons coming from the west. They were approaching in a double rank, fifty men wide. The lines were bowing extensively and looked more like a snake than anything else.

The opposing force was not watching the east. Neustatter waved Wolfram further east and pointed at the outermost houses in the village.

Carroll’s platoons stopped, reformed, and fired a volley. An umpire tapped a couple men. The opposing force fired back, and a couple of Carroll’s men were ruled casualties. Haggerty’s platoons fired and reloaded black powder. The opposing force did the same. It turned into a slugfest, and the opposing force soon demonstrated their expertise with a superior rate of fire.

Then Neustatter’s squads gave them a volley in the back. The umpire designated no less than five casualties, and Carroll immediately ordered an advance.

A bunch of villagers panicked and ran out of their houses.

“Ceasefire!” Neustatter barked.

A quick-thinking opposing force member ordered his men to fall back alongside the civilians, using them as a screen. Neustatter’s squads had no shot.

“Charge!” Neustatter ordered.

“Fire!”

Wolfram’s squads were not screened. They caught the opposing force in the open, in a fair amount of disorder.

Carroll’s platoons pushed forward, and the “survivors” of that part of the opposing force began raising their hands. One of her platoons wheeled to the left and marched off to pin the rest of the opposing force against Haggerty’s platoons.

***

A few minutes later, Drill Sergeant Huffman had about four hundred soldiers gathered around. He began the after-action review.

“Recruit Carroll! Describe what you did and why.”

“Yes, Drill Sergeant! I sent the designated veterans to the recruit platoons as squad leaders. We approached on the double.”

When Huffman came to the opposing force commander—a first lieutenant in the NUS Army—he stood ruefully. “We got sloppy and were not expecting the attack. We saw them, but not soon enough. We had a higher rate of fire with the matchlocks, but not higher enough to matter. I posted snipers, but they simply ignored them.”

“I forgot,” Carroll confessed.

“Ignoring them turned out to be the right thing to do,” Huffman pointed out. “I don’t know how many of you noticed, but the umpires did designate a few sniper victims. However . . . ”

“Once we were engaged, we were not watching the east,” the lieutenant continued. “That was well done. It was pre-planned, I hope?”

“Ja,” Neustatter told him.

“Gut. I’d hate to think you just improvised the whole thing.”

After a few more minutes, Drill Sergeant Huffman ended the after-action report and sent the recruits back to their camp after designating the leaders for the next scenarios. They ran three more scenarios that day. Each time, the opposing force reacted much more quickly than before and managed to tangle up the advance with civilian hostages, well-placed snipers, and a few other surprises. But the recruits performed reasonably well, all things considered.

On their way back to their camp after the last exercise, Neustatter pulled his men aside in pairs.

“We did well. Enjoy it, but treat it as normal. Because it is what I expect of us.”

Headquarters tent

“What the hell was that?” Carl Yost demanded.

“What was what?” Max Huffman asked. At least Yost had waited until the two of them were in the headquarters tent with no one else around.

“Gift-wrapping Eagle Pepper for the recruits.”

“The first scenario?” Huffman asked. “I didn’t gift-wrap it. I just didn’t tell OPFOR they were coming. The recruits did pretty well, I thought.”

“They overran a line unit. That unit’ll be a mess now. Their snipers are already ineffective.”

Huffman shrugged. “Their snipers seemed okay to me.”

“They were bringing down squad leaders the last two days.”

“It’s not hard to do that when the scenario is one squad at a time. With two companies, there’s somebody ready to step up. And they did get Recruit Padberg on the third run-through.”

“Whaddya do? Tell the umpires to go easy on the recruits?”

“I didn’t speak to the umpires at all. I assume they did what they’ve been doing all along.” Max Huffman waited a beat. “Don’t you?”

“Obviously not.” Carl Yost turned and left.

“Did they have some instructions I didn’t know about?” Drill Sergeant Huffman stared after him for a moment. “Obviously so.” He repeated himself while debating whether he wanted to dime out a fellow drill instructor, “Obviously so.”

***

The Eagle Pepper exercise continued throughout the week, and the new recruits, the ex-mercenaries, and the opposing force all settled into their training. Old and new recruits, sometimes working together and sometimes not, did their best in each scenario. Sometimes it worked. Most times, it did not. Drill Sergeant Huffman didn’t care about that. They were up against veterans who’d broken Wallenstein’s army. He expected the recruits wouldn’t be able to catch them off guard again, and he was right.

The next weeks were spent in physical conditioning and honing skills. Here and there, a recruit recycled. Captain Coonce supervised the treatment of minor injuries and kept most from growing into major injuries. It probably didn’t seem so to the recruits, but they were quickly approaching week eight.

Monday, August 15, 1633

Meanwhile, Astrid had long since found out what Ursula wanted to know: recipes for bread without yeast and why it could be baked differently. But whenever she’d discussed the matter with an up-timer, there had always been a flicker in the up-timer’s eyes. It was as if she were a child again, asking a question that skirted close to the edge of propriety. Or brought up bad memories.

Neither of which made sense. After a few weeks of baking rye bread under Ursula’s supervision or baking flatbread under Ursula’s supervision or occasionally buying rugbrød at the grocery store, the question still nagged at her.

One Monday, she decided to do something about it and left for school early. Astrid went to the administrative center. The up-time secretary, Jenny Lynch, was at the counter.

“I remember you,” Miss Lynch said. “Although you will have to help me with your name.”

“Astrid Schäubin.”

“I do remember you were looking for a grocery store. How was it?”

“It is wonderful!” Astrid exclaimed. “They have the bread my mother used to make and so many different foods. Danke.”

“I’m glad you like it.”

“I have another question. One of our men, Karl, made a tray that fits on the cooking irons. Ursula thought we could use it to bake bread, but only bread without yeast. She sent me to find out why. The Home Ec teacher told me why, but every time I asked that question, any up-timer who heard it got this look in her eye. As if I had said something impolite or wrong.”

Now Jenny Lynch had a careful expression on her face. “What question did you ask?”

“Why bread without yeast can be baked differently.”

Miss Lynch frowned. “I do not see anything wrong with that question. Did you not know how to make unleavened bread?”

Astrid felt her eyes widen. “Every one of you says it that way. ‘Unleavened’ instead of bread without yeast.”

Miss Lynch shrugged. “Sure. It means the same thing. It’s just easier, and most of us know about unleavened bread from the Bible. Oh!” Her expression grew serious. “Astrid, you know that the Jews made unleavened bread for Passover, right?”

“Of course. Pastor Claussen taught us that.” Astrid frowned. “Something about this is a problem. We are not trying to make bread for communion or anything like that. Ursula just thought that we could use Karl’s tray sometimes instead of reserving space at the refugee housing’s brick oven.”

“I think,” Jenny Lynch said slowly, “that since you are here early, and since she’s teaching tonight, you should go talk to Miss Zibarth.” She gave Astrid a room number.

By now Astrid was completely mystified, but she thanked Miss Lynch and set out for the classroom. Astrid knew the classroom numbers were in sequence. She followed the numbers into a section of the high school she had not been in before. These classrooms seemed bigger than the ones her English and math classes were in, with high tables holding devices she had never seen before.

She found the room number Miss Lynch had given her. It was another of the big classrooms, although the tables were empty.

“Hello there!”

The woman who called that greeting to her was one of the most striking women Astrid had ever seen. She was tall, though perhaps not for an up-timer, and had red hair. She was even a little plump, so Astrid immediately pegged her as rich and important.

“Are you in the Introduction to Scientific Concepts class? Miss Hill is sick, and I am your substitute teacher.”

“Nein. I am looking for Miss Zibarth,” Astrid answered.

“That’s me.”

“Ich heisse Astrid Schäubin. A group of us have come to Grantville from our village, and Karl made a tray for the cooking irons that Ursula said we could bake bread on, but only bread without yeast. Whenever I ask an up-timer about bread without yeast, she calls it unleavened bread. I asked Miss Lynch about it, and she sent me to you.”

Astrid saw the other woman roll her eyes. She wondered why, but mostly she noticed that Miss Zibarth had green eyes. Well, sort of brownish-green.

“Jenny—Miss Lynch—means well. She sent you to me to, ah, broaden your cultural horizons.”

Astrid gave her a blank look.

“What do you know about unleavened bread?”

“In the Bible, the Jews made it for Passover.”

Miss Zibarth nodded. “We still do.”

Astrid blinked. Did she mean—?

“We don’t all look like Rebecca Abrabanel, you know.”

Astrid shook her head. “Who is that?”

Miss Zibarth smiled. “You are new to Grantville, aren’t you?”

Astrid was wondering how to respond to that when two young women came into the classroom.

“Guten Abend, Frau Zibarth,” one of them said. The other was hanging back and seemed hesitant. Well, Astrid could identify with that. But the girl darted a look at her as though she were afraid of Astrid.

“It’s okay,” Miss Zibarth said. “Leah, Reyna, this is Astrid Schäubin. Astrid, Leah and Reyna.”

“Guten Abend.”

“Guten Abend,” Astrid replied.

This time the other girl—Leah—glanced at Miss Zibarth, then to Astrid, then back to Miss Zibarth.

“I think you can speak in front of Astrid,” Miss Zibarth told Leah.

The girl gave her one more glance and then words poured out in a rush. “I told Reyna what you said, but she does not believe me.”

The other girl may have blushed. It was hard for Astrid to tell. Both Leah and Reyna had darker complexions than Astrid. She thought that must be nice. Every time she blushed, everyone in the room knew it.

Miss Zibarth lifted a bag with cloth handles from the floor to her desk and pulled out a thick book with a blue cover. Beckoning the girls forward, she opened the book.

Astrid saw it contained pictures. But they were not paintings.

“Have you seen photographs before?” Miss Zibarth asked.

Astrid shook her head and saw that Reyna was doing the same. But Leah was nodding enthusiastically.

“These were taken with a camera and recorded on film. The pictures were then developed with a chemical process. Up-time, we took pictures when our families got together or when we went somewhere that we wanted to remember.”

Miss Zibarth showed them the first page of pictures, and they showed her and some other people in Grantville. Or at least in places that looked very much like Grantville.

She turned the page. Astrid saw . . . something.

“These are airplanes.” Miss Zibarth smiled. “These are much bigger than the one Jesse Wood flew last week. A few hundred people could ride in this one.”

She turned the page. “What do we say at the end of the Passover meal?”

“‘Next year in Jerusalem,’” Leah whispered.

“This is where the airplane I was on landed,” Miss Zibarth told them. “Ben Gurion International Airport. It is—was—will be in Tel Aviv. In Israel.” She pointed to a flag flying in one of the pictures. It was white with a blue, six-pointed star and two blue stripes.

“The nation of Israel was reestablished in 1948. Jews from all over the world moved there.”

The girls’ eyes got very big.

Miss Zibarth flipped pages, showing them pictures of Jerusalem. Most of what she said went right past Astrid, but it obviously meant a lot to Leah and Reyna. Astrid marveled at the pictures of various buildings, but realized she saw people in the same matching shirts in several pictures. They were all young, fit, and alert.

“Adank, Miss Zibarth,” Reyna said. The two girls excused themselves.

“Zay gezunt, girls.” Miss Zibarth watched them go. “They’ll go tell their families.” After a moment, she asked, “What questions do you have, Astrid?”

“What security company is that in your pictures? The one with both men and women. I think those are letters on their shirts, but I cannot read them.”

“That’s Hebrew,” Eve Zibarth stated. “Tsva ha-Haganah le-Yisra’el. The Tzahal. The Israeli Army.”

“They seem important,” Astrid ventured.

“Israel had to fight for its survival. It’s no fun when almost everyone is out to get you and you don’t know whom you can trust. There were four wars in its first twenty-five years, sometimes at long odds.”

“Is that what you were not telling Leah and Reyna?”

Miss Zibarth looked at Astrid in surprise. “What do you mean?”

“The way you talked about the Jews going to Israel. You left something out.” Astrid saw that Miss Zibarth now looked sad.

“What do you know about the Holocaust?” Eve Zibarth asked.

Tuesday, August 16, 1633

Most of Monday night’s English lesson had gone right past Astrid as she thought about what Miss Zibarth had told her. She set out to Grantville High School after lunch on Tuesday, even though she did not have class.

The information she wanted would be in the library. Astrid already knew that; anyone who took a class at the high school was told how the library worked. But to look up information yourself, you had to pass the library class. Astrid was taking English, and the sequence was English-Citizenship-Library Research. If you couldn’t look it up yourself you had to pay a researcher. Astrid wasn’t sure spending money on this was a good idea. She was pretty sure she believed Miss Zibarth. She just wanted more information. Maybe there was already a research paper available for purchase. That would be less expensive than paying for original research.

When Astrid arrived at Grantville High School, she went straight to the library’s front desk.

“What can I do for you?” a librarian asked.

Astrid kept her voice down even more than she usually did in the library. “I am looking for information about the Holocaust. Also information about Israel in the up-time. Are there research papers available?”

“Probably,” the librarian told her. “But why not start with a book first? One of our pages can go get books off the shelf for you, and you can read them at one of the tables. Just leave them on the table when you’re done. Or put them on one of the carts.”

“Oh! Danke.”

Soon Astrid was seated at a reading table with a short stack of books in front of her. She saw other people with much taller stacks of books and assumed they were the researchers.

Astrid began reading. The first book was a history book, and it was at a more advanced level than Astrid’s English was. She could find the section she was looking for, but she couldn’t read enough of it to matter. Astrid switched to one of the other books. This one was about World War II. Again, she found the section about the Holocaust, but lacked the English vocabulary to understand much. She tried each of the remaining books with the same result.

Astrid pushed her chair back and deposited her stack of books on the nearest cart for reshelving, earning a smile from one of the library pages. She went back to the front desk, where a line had developed.

It sounded like the two people ahead of her in line were having trouble finding what they were looking for. Once the librarian had given them some suggestions, it was Astrid’s turn.

“Danke for the books,” she said, “but I cannot read that much English.”

“Oh! My fault,” the librarian said. “We do have a German-language book about World War II. Is Hochdeutsch okay?”

“Ja.” Astrid would prefer Plattdeutsch, but she would have a much easier time figuring out Hochdeutsch than English.

The librarian sent a page for the book.

“Both copies are out on the floor,” the short, bespectacled youth reported. “That happens a lot. I reshelve them almost every day.”

“Thanks.” The librarian turned back to Astrid. “In that case, your best bet is to get here first thing in the morning, certainly by eight o’clock.”

“Danke.” Astrid looked at the clock on the wall behind the desk—those were so convenient to have—and decided she would come back the next day.

Wednesday, August 17, 1633

The rowhouse in Murphyhausen was barely furnished: a table and chairs, enough sleeping pallets for everyone, and not a lot else, yet. They certainly didn’t have a clock. But as lifelong residents of a farming village, Ursula, Anna, Astrid, and Johann were used to waking early.

Astrid was out the door at the same time as Johann. She saw him aboard the school bus and then set out for the high school.

The library was already open when she arrived, of course. It closed for only one hour per night, for cleaning. Some of the researchers were already seated in what Astrid suspected were their customary chairs, with books piled around them. Some of them looked like they had been there straight through the night, finding somewhere to nap during the cleaning hour.

Astrid asked for the German-language book about World War II. A page returned with it, and she found an empty table and began reading. She saw the book had been published since the Ring of Fire and claimed to be a definitive summary of all the information available in the library on Germany in World War II. That seemed like a bold claim.

The book began with a summary of up-time European history from the Thirty Years War through the 1930s. The Thirty Years War had gotten much worse. A huge number of deaths and tremendous damage left the Germanies behind neighboring countries. Astrid read about the rise of Prussia, the Franco-Prussian War, World War I, and the Weimar Republic. Then she read about the Nazis and their policies. Austria. The Sudetenland. Kristallnacht. Poland. France. Russia, which had been controlled by another madman. Concentration camps. The number of people killed was so large that she didn’t have a frame of reference for it. When did she think about millions of anything?

She skipped the battles. She could come back to them if she needed to. The Americans and the English had come. The Russians, too.

The Germanies had been destroyed again. The madman had taken the easy way out and shot himself, a coward at the end.

Six million Jews murdered. Were there even six thousand in the Germanies today? Six thousand—that was a number she could think about.

There was an afterword, noting that President Stearns’ plan was to build a different Germany. Enough had changed that World War II and the Holocaust wouldn’t happen in their timeline—at least not like that. It started with treating people like people. Ending serfdom and slavery and second-class status. The afterword was signed by Rebecca Abrabanel.

Astrid wondered who she was. She was not one of the book’s authors. Compilers. Whatever. But she thought she’d heard the name before. Was that not the name Miss Zibarth had mentioned?

Astrid returned the book to the front desk.

“I have a question, bitte. Who is Rebecca Abrabanel?”

A pair of librarians were standing there, and their answers bombarded her quickly, from two directions. Mike Stearns’ wife. The National Security Advisor. Senator. Jewish.

Astrid blinked. She hadn’t known any of that.

“Is there a book about up-time Israel?” she asked. “In German?”

One of the librarians checked. “No, but there is a research paper available for purchase.”

Astrid grimaced, considering. The research paper might or might not be helpful. She wasn’t sure she ought to spend money on this. Really, she was just researching what Miss Zibarth had told her. Did it matter that up-time Israel had won wars at long odds?

Then she remembered what had happened last month. Wallenstein rebelled against the Holy Roman Empire. While he’d been defeating the Austrians, Holk had attacked Prague and lost to Hussites . . . and Jews.

Astrid counted out enough money for the paper. Then she returned to the same table, sat down, and began reading. Jerusalem. Latrun. The Six-Day War. The Yom Kippur War. Really long odds. Long enough odds that there should be movies about it.

She looked over at the front desk and considered whether she wanted to ask a librarian for a movie. Astrid saw with surprise that it was almost noon. Since Miss Zibarth had been substituting the other night, that probably meant she taught during the day.

Astrid’s next stop was the administrative center.

Jenny Lynch looked surprised to see her.

“Guten Morgen, Miss Lynch.”

“Good morning, Astrid. Did you find Miss Zibarth all right?”

“Ja. I have one more question for her. Where could I find her?”

Jenny Lynch glanced at the clock and gave Astrid a room number. “Be fast. Sixth period ends at noon. That’s in four minutes, and there are only five minutes between classes.”

Miss Zibarth’s classroom was farther away than the one she’d been teaching in the other night. Astrid arrived just as the bell rang, and the hallway immediately filled with students. She waited for the outgoing tide of students to abate and slipped into the physics classroom.

Miss Zibarth looked at her in surprise. “Astrid?”

“Guten Tag, Miss Zibarth. I read a book about World War II and this paper about Israel up-time.” She wasn’t sure whether that was a worried look or a hint of a smile on Miss Zibarth’s face. “Is there a movie about up-time Israel?”

“A movie?”

“Ja.”

“Why a movie?”

Astrid scrambled for the English word. “My boss—Neustatter—likes westerns. They tell him about up-timers.” She held up the paper on up-time Israel. “This . . . is a western.”

Miss Zibarth twitched, as if she were going to shake her head no. “It’s an eastern, actually. The customs are completely different, and that is part . . . ” She stopped. “I’ve never thought about it like that before. Okay, I can see some similarities to a western. But that doesn’t . . . The movie you want is called Entebbe. I don’t know if a copy came through the Ring of Fire or not.”

“Entebbe? Danke, Miss Zibarth.”

The bell rang.

Friday, August 19, 1633

Week eight was the second iteration of Eagle Pepper, and this one counted. The drill sergeants still didn’t expect the recruits to beat the veteran opposing force, but they did expect their efforts to be well-executed and within regulations.

Neustatter listened carefully to the operations order. The basic idea was to get a convoy of supply wagons past the enemy-held village of Birkig, this time coming down the left-hand fork. The Saxon border was just past the next village, so that part did not make much sense, but Neustatter understood that a scenario was a scenario. The recruit in charge, the platoon leaders, and the squad leaders had a plan, and all he had to do was carry out his part.

It had not rained for days, and the ground was fairly hard. The recruit in command opted to send the horse-drawn wagons wide around the village to the south. Sniper fire started at once, and umpires began designating casualties.

Eventually the recruit in command wheeled a platoon to fire volleys back. They immediately took a lot more fire, and the umpires picked out more men. The recruit in command called them back.

Then the opposing force started hauling villagers out of their homes and mimed shooting them. The recruit in command recommitted, sending two platoons this time. It turned into a massacre. Neustatter had fired off half a dozen rounds before an umpire tapped him. He took a dive and lost track of the action.

The recruit in command during the second iteration tried the same thing. He sent the wagons further into the fields, and one bogged down. The recruits still took some losses to snipers, but he refused to close with them, even when the opposing force started shooting villagers.

“You just got the entire village massacred!” Carl Yost roared at the hapless recruit. He swiftly reduced him to a stammering wreck. That recruit had, however, delivered two-thirds of his supplies and ninety percent of his men to units on the front lines.

The third iteration was a complete disaster. The recruit in charge opted to go straight through the village—and quickly discovered that the opposing force was quite willing to shoot at the horses. The horses didn’t like it one bit. That effectively stopped the wagons, even before the umpires started ruling some of the horses down. The recruit who succeeded to command gave the order to withdraw, and it turned into a rout. That led to an extended after-action review during which the drill sergeants expressed their belief that it had been something less than a tactical masterpiece.

“This wasn’t just a SNAB,” Drill Sergeant Huffman stated, referencing the German translation of a well-known up-time military acronym. “This was BIZUB.”

Neustatter hid an inner wince and suspected most of the other recruits were doing the same. Not just the “situation normal” screw-up but the “beyond all recognition” kind. Then he set that aside and started thinking about his own plan. He had a pretty good idea that he was going to be selected as the recruit in command at some point.

“We’re going to do this again,” Yost declared. “Recruit Neustatter, you’re in command. Recruit Beattie, you have First Platoon. Recruit Schneider, you have Second Platoon. Recruit Maurer, Third Platoon. Recruit Luchs, Fourth Platoon.

“Begin.”

“This is fubzubed,” Lukas declared.

Neustatter laughed at the German and English mangled into one acronym. “Fouled up beyond fouling up? Could be.”

He called the platoon leaders aside. Neustatter would not have trusted either Beattie or Schneider with even a squad. Neither was a bad soldier, but he did not see either as a leader. He did not know Maurer at all. Luchs tended to overthink everything.

The up-timers were addicted to operations orders. Neustatter kept it short.

“We have the same units we have had all day. Do not change anything. They have what they have had all day. Half our force will assault the village, while the other half guards the wagons through the fields south of the village. First and Fourth are with me in the assault. Luchs, you are my second. Beattie, you are third in command. Second Platoon, you will start on the left of the wagons and intercept any opposing force which comes out to attack the wagons. Third Platoon, stay with the wagons no matter what. Supply, command, everything else is the same. Any questions?”

“That is complicated,” Maurer said. “It is a good way to lose three-quarters of our force.”

“Could be.”

Neustatter ordered First and Fourth Platoons into columns. The recruits set out with three platoons stacked left of the wagons and only one on the right.

When they neared the village of Birkig, Neustatter ordered, “Attack!”

First and Fourth Platoons marched into line. They were on rough ground. They were excited. They had not done this precise maneuver before. It may have been a bit thin on polish, but the recruits pulled it off. At the same time, the wagons and the other two platoons veered off the road to the right.

The opposing force started firing. They had all the approaches covered but had to decide where to send the bulk of their troops.

“Fire by rank while advancing!” Neustatter ordered. “Platoon leaders!”

Beattie and Luchs took charge. The platoons halted momentarily. The first rank fired. The second rank passed between the men in the first rank, took three more steps, halted, and fired on command. First rank was back up and moving on command.

The opposing force threw its weight against Neustatter’s attack. They had to; Neustatter’s platoons were already less than a hundred yards from the westernmost house in Birkig. Two platoons engaged.

Luchs handled his platoon better than Beattie did. Fourth Platoon got a little ahead, firing faster, advanced a little bit further each time, and finally ended up forty yards from the opposing line. First Platoon was about ten yards to their left rear. The opposing force was all veterans. They were fast, firing three rounds a minute. And their platoon leaders coordinated their fire against Fourth Platoon, where the umpires declared many casualties.

Neustatter knew he would be designated a casualty soon. He looked across the fields to the southeast. Schneider’s Second Platoon was getting sucked into a battle against snipers that they could not win and did not need to fight. If Ditmar were in charge there, Neustatter would have told him to either ignore the snipers or commit to a full assault. Schneider had gotten caught in the middle. Further out, Maurer and the wagons were doing just fine. Unless the opposing force made their move in the next few minutes, the wagons were going to get cleanly away.

Unfortunately, he was going to lose three-quarters of his troops, just as Maurer had predicted.

But he would make sure the opposing force was in no condition to pursue.

“Beattie, left oblique! Bayonets!”

An umpire tapped him on the shoulder. Neustatter decided to forego the dramatic death scenes some of the recruits had begun staging. He sat down quickly so he could watch.

Beattie’s platoon angled left, not as sharply as it probably should have. The line, already at open order, got scrambled. The opposing force brought a fresh platoon up and mauled them.

And now the opposing force had three platoons committed to the western edge of Birkig and a fourth making short work of Schneider. That left absolutely no one engaging the supply wagons or terrorizing civilians. Admittedly, they would have all kinds of time for the latter once they defeated the recruits.

The drill sergeants whistled an end to the scenario. It took some time to gather everyone. Neustatter’s tactics had spread the recruits out a lot more than those of the previous recruit commanders had. Everyone gathered on the road that came into Birkig from the south, next to the house with the misshapen roof. That still annoyed Neustatter.

“Attennn-tion!” Yost ordered. “Recruit Neustatter, that was a disaster. Three quarters of your command is dead. What do you have to say?”

“What was the final casualty count for the opposing force, Drill Sergeant?”

“Forty-two percent,” Drill Sergeant Huffman stated.

“Your platoons were spread out outside supporting range of each other,” Yost went on. “Except for the two on the west side, which were poorly handled . . . ” He went on at length. “In short,” he concluded, “for someone who takes jobs escorting wagons, that was pathetic, Recruit Neustatter.”

Sometime later, after numerous pushups, Drill Sergeant Huffman ordered, “At ease. Take five, then fall in. We’ll march back to your camp and start the next scenario.”

Hjalmar wandered over to Neustatter. “I thought that was much better than our first three attempts.”

“Danke, but the drill sergeants did not think so.”

“Recruit Neustatter!” A path through the milling recruits appeared before Drill Sergeant Huffman as if by magic. “Recruit Schaub, give us a minute.”

“Ja, Drill Sergeant.” Hjalmar made himself useful elsewhere.

Huffman glanced around, ensuring that any recruits within ten yards cleared out. Then he asked, “Neustatter, what did you think of the scenario? Permission to speak freely.”

“Drill Sergeant, I know the mission was to deliver the supplies and the troops to units which had been fighting. It is not possible to achieve the mission. If this really happened, I would withdraw all the way back to Unterwellenborn and find another way to reach the rest of the army.”

Drill Sergeant Huffman gave him a sharp look. “Are you saying the only way to win is not to play?”

“Ja, Drill Sergeant.”

“Some scenarios cannot be won, Neustatter.” Huffman crossed his arms. “We got the idea from Jeff Higgins. Not the specifics, but the concept. He had some fancy Japanese name for it. I think he got it from Star Trek.”

Neustatter cocked his head and pronounced the words carefully. “Star Trek?”

“A television show. Science fiction.”

“I prefer westerns, Drill Sergeant.”

“Why am I not surprised, Recruit Neustatter? Back to my point. Some battles cannot be won, but must be fought anyway.”

“Recruit Neustatter!” came Yost’s voice. “Since you claim to do this professionally, why don’t you try again?”

Neustatter saw something in Huffman’s expression. “I understand, Drill Sergeant. Last week you said if we were not cheating, then we were not fighting properly.”

Huffman nodded. “I did say that.”

“Recruit Neustatter!”

“Ja, Drill Sergeant!”

Carl Yost marched the recruits back to their camp. Neustatter thought about what he was going to do. He could get the wagons past the village. That was easy. Go half a mile south of town, and OPFOR wasn’t going to bother him. The problem was that OPFOR would then kill the villagers. So that was really the primary mission: Drive OPFOR out of Birkig, quickly enough that they didn’t have time for atrocities. But the recruits couldn’t do that. That meant OPFOR had to want to leave.

Neustatter just needed to think of something stupid enough to get OPFOR to chase him.

Back at the camp the recruits refilled their cartridge boxes after the usual warnings about not blowing up themselves and their buddies.

Drill Sergeant Yost assigned Neustatter four platoon commanders. As soon as the five of them huddled up, one of them said, “I do not know what you did to piss off Drill Sergeant Yost, Neustatter, but he does not like you.”

“I wish I knew, too,” Neustatter admitted. “He told me my plan was too complicated. This one will be very simple. Two platoons ahead of the wagons, two behind. We veer into the field to the south of the village just like we have done almost every time. But not far. Not far enough. I want them to come after the wagons.”

“Then what?”

“We break and run south after dropping a slow match in each wagon.”

Another of the platoon leaders whistled. “Drill Sergeant Yost is going to kill you for ignoring the mission.”

“He will have to do it himself, because after the opposing force captures the wagons, they will explode. When you hear the explosion, turn around and charge. We run right over the rest of them. One fire at the minimum safe distance. We eliminate the opposing force.”

“You are wahnsinnig.” The platoon leader’s tone was conversational. “But I do want to see their faces when we do this.”

The recruits set out a few minutes later with the wagons halfway back in the column. Halfway to Birkig, Neustatter dropped back beside them and spoke to the teamsters.

“When the opposing force attacks, I will order a retreat. Jump off and run to the right because I am going to explode the wagons.”

“What?”

“You cannot!”

“Not for real,” Neustatter explained. “We will just drop slow matches in the wagons and all yell ‘Boom!’”

“Oh. All right, then.”

Neustatter found Karl and Ditmar. “Light an extra slow match.” After giving them their assignments, he conferred with each platoon leader.

The column left the road, and the wagons struggled through the field. Neustatter made no attempt to speed them up. He wanted slow targets.

Snipers started firing. Individual squads fired back. As casualties were designated, Neustatter and the platoon leaders began moving men to the other side of the wagons. As they reached the halfway point of their arc through the fields, two platoons of the opposing force marched out against them.

They traded a couple volleys, with Neustatter making sure the recruits were not at their best. When the opposing force advanced just a little, he ordered the retreat.

Platoons disintegrated as the men ran, trampling crops in their haste. The opposing force pursued. Neustatter tossed his slow match in one wagon. Ditmar and Karl did the same to the other two wagons.

When he was a hundred yards beyond the wagons, Neustatter ordered, “Halt!”

Some did. Stopping even a feigned rout was harder than Neustatter expected.

“Halt! Halt! Fall in! Fall in! Right here!” He physically grabbed a recruit and parked him there, then another. “NESS, put people in rank!”

“Hjalmar, hold out your matchlock!” Karl called. When Hjalmar did so, Karl grabbed the barrel. He extended his own barrel, and Ditmar took hold. Several recruits stumbled up against the barrels. Others diverted around them.

“Fall in!” Neustatter ordered. “First rank, dress right! Port arms! Load muskets!”

That did it. After seven weeks of basic, the recruits were conditioned to follow commands. Now those who were one or two orders behind hurried to catch up.

“On my order, you are going to shout BOOM!” Neustatter waited until he saw recognition in at least a few pairs of eyes.

“Sound off!” Neustatter ordered.

All the recruits shouted, “BOOM!”

“Charge bayonets!”

That command was purely notional. The drill sergeants had made it abundantly clear that the recruits were never to fix bayonets in a field exercise. The bayonets came out of their sheath for bayonet drill and to be cleaned. That was it. But simply declaring a bayonet charge was a different thing.

The opposing force veterans were still wondering what was going on when an umpire spotted one of the burning slow matches. He whistled to his fellow umpires, pointed, and started tapping men on the shoulder.

About ten seconds later, over a hundred recruits pounded past the wagons and straight at Birkig. The rest of the opposing force got some shots off. Neustatter lost some men. One of the opposing force platoons was spread out. Neustatter ignored them, sending all four of his platoons at the one intact opposing platoon. They wiped it out by sheer strength of numbers.

Then Neustatter lost what he considered to be far too many men rooting out the snipers. But they had done it.

“No Go!” Carl Yost proclaimed. “You failed to deliver the supplies which is the main point of the mission. The regiment engaged on the line ran out of ammunition, and they are all dead. The entire front is threatened with collapse . . . and It Is All Your Fault, Recruit Neustatter!”

Neustatter dropped into a position of attention and gave Yost the same blank look he had always given Sergeant Wylich.

“What are you going to do about it, Recruit Neustatter? That’s right—there is nothing you can do!”

“Platoon commanders!” Neustatter barked. “Search the bodies. Take their cartridge boxes and detail squads to find their main ammunition supply. Deliver their gunpowder to our troops.”

Carl Yost practically exploded.

***

Sometime later, back at their camp, Recruit Michael Jessup drifted over to Neustatter.

“I don’t know what you think you’re doing, Neustatter, but knock it off. We’ve done enough pushups.”

“I think we just beat the unwinnable scenario,” Neustatter told him. “Do you want to beat it again?”

“That depends.” Recruit Sara Carroll was nearby and answered. “Have you got a plan that doesn’t involve killing the horses?”

Neustatter blinked. “The horses? You are concerned about the horses?”

“Yes, I’m concerned about the horses! After basic, I’m going to train cavalry. You shouldn’t get in the habit of casually blowing up what few horses we have.”

Neustatter just stared at her for a moment. “You are going to join the cavalry?”

“No. We don’t have any cavalry except for Alex Mackay’s regiment and some dragoons Tom Simpson trained. I’m going to teach some of you how to ride so that the NUS has cavalry.”

Neustatter grinned. “I have an idea.”

“Neustatter!” came Yost’s voice. “Do you think you can get it right this time?”

“Ja, Drill Sergeant!”

Five minutes later, Neustatter sent his four new platoon leaders to find out if any of their men could ride bareback. Five minutes after that he had a dozen men—well, ten men and two women—who claimed to be able to.

“Recruit Carroll, take command of Fifth Platoon here, get those horses unhitched. Did you see the woods northwest of Birkig that no one has gone near so far today?”

“Yes I did.” Sara Carroll’s expression was downright devious. “Yes I did. May I assume you are going to start an open-field fight on the western approaches of Birkig?”

“You may indeed.”

“Let’s go, Fifth.”

Neustatter advanced with two platoons forward and one platoon in reserve. He’d sent the fourth arcing through the southern fields again, but much further out than any of them had bothered to go before.

The opposing force met his advance at the westernmost houses of Birkig with two platoons. Neustatter could see other men moving toward the eastern end of the village. They had seen the platoon he had sent out into the field. The opposing force’s fourth platoon was not in sight. Neustatter smiled to himself. They couldn’t see the wagons, so they were holding back a reserve to deal with them when they appeared.

The opposing force tried to fight from within Birkig as much as possible. A few of them took villagers as hostages. Neustatter brought up his third platoon. He needed all three to match the rate of fire of the two veteran platoons he was facing. The situation started to deteriorate, and then Sara Carroll’s cavalry rode out of the woods northwest of Birkig.

They did not have the pistols for a caracole, nor the sabers for a boot-to-boot charge. But they slashed through the village from north to south, behind the two opposing force platoons but still west of the roads that came from the north and the south. The NUS veterans reacted quickly. Their rear ranks about-faced in time and got black powder rounds off. This spooked some of the horses, and a couple threw their riders. Fifth Platoon’s one volley brought down a handful of men, but now half of OPFOR’s firepower was facing away from Neustatter’s platoons. He exploited the fleeting three-to-one advantage ruthlessly, and the umpires counted out a significant percentage of the opponents’ front rank.

The opposing force’s reserve platoon and the platoon on the east side of the village proceeded to wipe out Carroll’s cavalry. They moved up to reinforce the platoons opposing Neustatter, but almost immediately had to divert to counter the recruits’ fourth platoon, now closing rapidly from the south.

Neustatter’s three platoons took more casualties than he wanted facing the remaining opposing force. But then they thinned their line, pulling troops away to face the recruits’ one fresh platoon which was entering Birkig from their left rear. The opposing force commander ordered a withdrawal. He tried to hold the last four houses on the eastern side of Birkig, but Neustatter simply had more men now, and his lines extended far enough beyond the veterans’ that they were in danger of being outflanked. Finally, the opposing forces simply retired from Birkig.

“Neustatter!”

Soon the recruits all understood that they had not accomplished their mission. The supplies had not been delivered. The opposing force had escaped with several hostages. In spite of the desire to not blow up their own horses this time, they had gotten every single one of them shot. They’d lost almost half of their own force. They would have lost far more if the NUS veterans had had their usual weapons instead of the matchlocks they were using in their role as the opposing force. All of this was, of course, Neustatter’s fault.

“Do it again!”

Several recruits looked dubiously at the darkening sky.

“I said, do it again!”

***

“Drill Sergeant Yost is going to kick us out of the NUS Army,” Stefan stated when they got back to camp.

“Could be,” Neustatter acknowledged. “That would cost us the training pay we were counting on, but give us more days to take jobs.”

“You do not seem concerned,” Otto said.

“I am not. We either pass basic training, or we do not. We will get guard jobs either way once word gets around that we beat a veteran NUS unit twice in an unwinnable scenario.”

Some distance away, Yost roared, “Why are you recruits standing around? Get those teams hitched up! Neustatter, front and center!”

Neustatter looked at Stefan. “Three times.”

He quickly decided that Yost had given him the weakest leadership team yet. Well, he could work with that.

“Which one of you can find his way in the dark?” Neustatter asked.

Recruit Helmuth raised his hand.

“Your assignment is to take the wagons and two squads around Birkig to the north. Stay far enough from Birkig that the opposing force will not hear the wheels squeak. Cut east across the fields until you are past Birkig, then make a shallow turn to the right. When you hit the Lausnitz road, take it to the edge of Lausnitz. Then get some sleep. Post guards, of course—and remember that Saxony is right on the other side of Lausnitz.”

Neustatter started rifling through the supplies on the wagons.

“Do I even want to know what you are going to do, Neustatter?”

Neustatter did not look up from what he was doing. “I am not going to blow up the wagons, and I am not going to get the horses killed. Oh—one more thing, Helmuth. We are not going to use these mixed-up squads. Find your regular squad, the men you have trained with all through basic. Then find the squad that stood in front of yours in formation. Those are your two squads. We will start out first. Have a problem with a wheel or something. The drill sergeants will be watching us.

“Here, take this.” Neustatter handed what appeared to be a small strongbox to one of the platoon leaders.

“Why?”

“In case we need to bribe the opposing force’s sentries.”

“Neustatter, it’s empty.”

“So are our muskets.”

***

Several recruits looked dubiously at the darkening sky. “Neustatter, do you have any idea where we are?” one of the recruits demanded. “The drill sergeants gave up and left. They are just going to sit in Birkig and see if we ever arrive.”

“Ja. We are eight hundred yards southeast of Birkig, slowly wandering in circles,” Neustatter answered. “It took forever to get rid of them. Halt!”

It took a couple minutes to get the entire ragged formation stopped.

“Bring it in,” Neustatter ordered. “Reassemble in your regular squads. Then you have five minutes to decide who your squad leaders are and send them to me. NESS, front and center. Do you remember how I wanted to approach that village in Bohemia just before Krause screwed up?”

Otto’s smile was visible by the light of the full moon. “Ja. Sneaky.”

“That is what we are going to do,” Neustatter confirmed.

Two hours later, Neustatter was hoping that the opposing force had given up and gone to bed. He suspected the drill sergeants were going to be really upset with him. He wondered if they assumed the recruits were lost and sent out patrols.

If so, they’d find nothing, because Neustatter and three platoons were approaching Birkig from the east.

Up ahead, he saw Ditmar and Stefan freeze at the corner of the easternmost house south of the main road. They had spotted someone, probably a sentry. Neustatter moved forward slowly but steadily.

Ditmar spoke into his ear. “Two guards. Circle someone behind?”

“Ja. Lukas and Otto.”

Another couple minutes, and the two were on their way.

Ditmar completed his count and tossed a small rock in the general direction of the sentries.

One covered the other while he investigated. Lukas and Otto grabbed the backup man, holding a wooden stick against his throat.

“You are dead,” Otto whispered. “Understand?”

The sentry nodded.

The other sentry returned. He clearly expected trouble. Lukas and Otto let him get close, then he whirled back around at the sound of running feet. A whole squad was racing toward him. Lukas and Otto jumped him before he had time to sound the alarm.

Then Neustatter pointed at both the house Ditmar and Stefan had used for cover and the one the sentries had been near. Recruits entered both.

“Shh!” Neustatter told the family in one house. “We are here to get you out.”

The husband frowned. “That is not the scenario.” Clearly, he was an old hand at Eagle Pepper.

“I do not like the scenario, so I am changing it.” Neustatter grinned. “Do not make me change it further.”

They got four families evacuated before another pair of sentries spotted them.

Two of the recruits held up the strongbox while a third beckoned the sentries forward. They came, clearly bemused.

“Here is the deal,” Neustatter whispered. “Other than taking villagers hostage two or three times, you have been behaving like NUS Army throughout the Eagle Pepper exercise, but you are actually supposed to be mercenaries. Working for the Imperials, French, whoever. Not us.”

The sentries exchanged glances. “True,” one acknowledged.

“Supposed we cut you in. No, better, your army has a payroll, too, does it not?”

“You are wahnsinnig.” He turned to the other sentry.

“We are not supposed to make it easy.”

“Oh, it will not be easy,” Neustatter assured him. “But do you not like the challenge? How many of your men can we get to change sides before fighting breaks out?”

“You mean for us to do the fighting for you.”

“Nein. We need you to get us to each of your units in turn. No sense in any of your buddies getting killed, when everyone can join the NUS Army.”

The two, accompanied by Neustatter and a platoon, led them to where their own platoon was sleeping. Neustatter woke the man they said was the senior sergeant first.

“How would you like a better job, in a better army?”

The man just stared at Neustatter—or more likely, stared at his musket barrel.

“You should join the NUS Army. If you want your buddies to survive, you should convince them to do the same.”

The man laughed softly. “When I have been in the NUS Army for over a year, and you are in basic. Clever approach. We have not seen this one before. My men and I will throw in with you, just to see where this goes.”

The recruits had “eliminated” four sentries and convinced about fifty of the opposing force to change sides when the first musket was fired.

The opposing force and some of the villagers spilled out of houses.

One of the recruits’ platoons fired into a concentration of troops. Confusion reigned until an umpire got there. But though he ruled many of the opposing force down, the delay kept the recruit platoon from advancing.

A volley crashed out from the south fields, where Neustatter had left two squads. They reloaded and fired and sucked opposing force squads into countering them.

Neustatter had been working his way past one house at a time. He had a platoon, most of NESS, and the platoon of opposing force members which changed sides. They got him to opposing force headquarters in the house next to the church.

Neustatter beckoned the platoon leader and his own men near. “We were going to capture their strongbox,” he said, “but the plan is blown. Now we are going to rush their headquarters.”

He waved the opposing force members who had changed sides forward. “You are up front. Two ranks, close order. We will look like one of their platoons. When they fire, all of you hit the ground and leave it to us.”

The platoon got a lot closer than it should have. At twenty yards, someone missed a cue. The opposing force was fully alert now, and a squad outside headquarters fired at them.

Those who had changed sides took a dive. Neustatter’s platoon fired a volley which brought down most of the opposing squad, then they rushed the building.

Inside headquarters, the members of the opposing force refused to go down. So, the recruits began refusing to die, too. An umpire showed up after a few minutes to sort out the situation.

By then Neustatter stepped away from the yelling and pulled Ditmar aside. “Find Hjalmar. Go find our platoons and finish this. Opposing force has lost command and control.”

“So have we. No offense.”

“Go give whatever orders you have to in my name.”

The drill sergeants turned up with the umpires and started yelling. No opposing force reinforcements came to their headquarters. Neustatter found out later that the platoon that had changed sides had intercepted their buddies and cut them in on the deal.

Elsewhere, Ditmar located a recruit platoon and swept across the northeastern quadrant of Birkig.

Hjalmar got trapped at the brown house with the misaligned roof. “You guys want to join up?” he asked the squad that captured him.

“Nein. We control the west side of Birkig. Your platoons are there, there, there, and there.” The soldier pointed at his own headquarters, off to the north, to the east, and to the south.

Hjalmar nodded in acknowledgment. “All but the last are correct. Only two squads are to the south. Where do you think the other two are?”

The NUS soldier swore. “You dropped them on the way in to light up our withdrawal, did you not?”

Hjalmar went with that. “Could be.”

“Corporal,” the man barked. The other soldier turned to him at once. “Take one man with you and find out who is in charge of our men fighting on the east side of the village.”

“Why not start right here?” a voice asked.

The sergeant whirled around. “Am I glad to see you, Sergeant! They have snipers to the south and west.”

“Ja. It’s a good plan.” He gestured behind him. “Do you want in on the payroll?”

“What do you mean?”

A couple dozen muskets were suddenly leveled at his squad.

“We need to talk, Sergeant. Drop your weapons.”

That platoon proceeded to sweep up the remaining opposing force units on the south edge of Birkig. One platoon was trying to fight it out, but losing men steadily.

The umpires began whistling a halt to the battle. It took several minutes to reestablish order.

“First thing after a night battle,” Drill Sergeant Max Huffman intoned. “Accountability. Give me a recruit formation over here and an OPFOR formation over there. Umpires, check each house and make sure all the civilians are okay.”

A couple minutes later he spotted some very big holes in the recruits’ formation.

“Recruit Neustatter!”

“Ja, Drill Sergeant.”

“You seem to be missing four squads.”

“Two are in the fields seventy to one hundred yards south of Birkig, Drill Sergeant!”

“And the other two?”

“Immediately west of Lausnitz with the supply wagons, Drill Sergeant!”

“Are you sure about that, Recruit Neustatter?”

“I told them to get some sleep but post sentries, Drill Sergeant!”

Max Huffman burst out laughing. He grabbed the first umpire to return and sent him off to find them.

“While we are waiting to see if they really are there, let’s start with your approach. . . . ”

Sometime later, Huffman summarized, “You feigned incompetent navigation to the point that the opposing force and everyone else lost interest, reorganized your force, and then proceeded to buy off as many opposing force members as possible?”

“Ja, Drill Sergeant!”

“Apparently you convinced about sixty of them to join you, inflicted about fifty casualties, and captured another fifty. One opposing platoon was still in action and had been reinforced to about forty men, but it was clearly losing the fight.”

“On the other hand, your recruits suffered about forty casualties. Assuming those last two squads are where you think they are. Comments?”

“Nein, Drill Sergeant!”

“OPFOR?”

Their captain, who had been designated a casualty within his own headquarters stood. “This was the worst we have ever been beaten in one of these scenarios. It worked only because we are playing mercenaries.”

“Ja, Hauptmann,” Neustatter acknowledged.

Eventually one of the umpires returned with two squads of recruits and the three supply wagons in tow.

“Report!” Drill Sergeant Huffman ordered.

“They were a bit further north than planned, Drill Sergeant,” the umpire stated. “Sentries were alert, and some of the rest even managed to sleep.”

Drill Sergeant Huffman shook his head. “Recruit Neustatter, take this formation back to camp. A direct approach this time, if you please.”

“Ja, Drill Sergeant!”

Drill Sergeant Huffman joined Drill Sergeant Yost as the recruits marched by. The opposing force went back to their tents, and the villagers to their homes.

“Any idea what time it is?”

“About 0300,” Yost replied. “OPFOR has an hourglass in their camp. It’s probably off by a few minutes, but it’s 0300 or a bit later.”

“Thanks. That feels about right.”

“Might have to rethink Recruit Neustatter.”

“Oh?”

“Wasn’t sure what Dan Frost was doing, sending us someone who fragged his chain of command,” Yost admitted. “Talk about a clear and present danger! Tonight, though . . . He accomplished the mission. With twenty percent losses, to be sure, but he did what we told him to. Got the wagons through, liberated the village, flipped a third of the enemy force, and pretty well destroyed the rest. You know they’d’ve gotten to the front with twenty more men than they started with?”

Yost stared off into the night for a minute before continuing. “I didn’t want a wild card who might frag our chain of command. But I don’t think he will. Neustatter’s a cowboy, not an anarchist.”

“Should fit in pretty well,” Huffman agreed.

“’Spose I ought to leave him in the ranks tomorrow. Got a pretty good idea what he can handle. Need to check out the rest.”

Max Huffman nodded, pleased that Yost had come to this conclusion himself. “I suppose.” He sighed. “I suppose we ought to rack out for a couple hours before we go wake them up.”

Tuesday, August 23, 1633

After a few days of alternately assaulting Birkig or trying to sneak past it, the drill instructors marched the recruits straight into the village.

“Fragmentary order!” Drill Sergeant Huffman proclaimed. “There has been an incident on the Saxon border. Saxon forces in unknown strength have seized the villages of Lausnitz and Bucha and are now marching west toward Saalfeld and Grantville. Your two companies on maneuvers have been ordered to buy time for organized defenses at Camp Saale and Grantville.”

Because it was basic training, Neustatter refrained from rolling his eyes. Ja, this was where a salient of John George’s Saxony came closest to Grantville. Ja, it was only ten or eleven miles from the Saxon border to the Ring of Fire. But it was a very bad approach. Any Saxon army marching the length of the salient would first have to march through the Vogtland. That meant dealing with both rough terrain and a certain amount of civil unrest. Neustatter knew that from having fought through the area before.

It almost meant a virtually non-existent supply line. That meant foraging, and Neustatter had certainly heard what had happened to Tilly’s foragers on the day of the Ring of Fire and for some days afterwards. Any attacking force that bogged down long enough to have to forage within the NUS would rapidly get cut apart. Any attacking force that went straight for Grantville would have to cross the Ring Wall under fire. There were only so many roads, and when the first radio call went out, those passages would be held in force. If the Saxons did not have multiple agents in Grantville sending home exactly that information, then their spies weren’t worth worrying about in the first place.

On the other hand, training was training. Neustatter had learned from westerns that the larger storyline didn’t have to make sense in order for him to learn something from this fight, simulated though it might be.

“Your companies will defend Birkig for three hours and then evacuate the village . . . ”

Neustatter listened to the rest of the order and started thinking about how he would defend the village. Drill Sergeant Huffman called out the names of the platoon and squad leaders.

Unverdrossen was his squad leader this time. He’d struck Neustatter as reliable. Their platoon was one of three on line, covering the road from Lausnitz. They barely had time to get into position when OPFOR came marching down the road.

Well, someone had to go first, Neustatter allowed. But this is a bad plan.

An umpire tapped him on the shoulder after five exchanges of fire. He hit the ground. Nobody had said anything about casualties looking around as long as they stayed down, though, so Neustatter steepled his forearms and rested his chin on his hands.

He’d had fleeting impressions that they were facing more than the usual two companies of OPFOR. Sure enough, as the recruits fell back into Birkig, he saw there were three distinct company formations. And artillery was coming up.

That was . . . ridiculous. Neustatter didn’t know if Saxony was copying Grantville’s light three-pounders. They ought to be. But sending them across the Vogtland and down this salient? He had his doubts as to whether the Saxon army could handle that. The NUS Army could, though, and that’s who OPFOR really was. Neustatter watched carefully to see what they did with the cannons.

OPFOR simply pushed the recruits back, with umpires designating several casualties when the artillery fired. Whoever was in command of the recruits really was holding them together well, but that was all he was doing. No one tried to use any of the houses. Finally, after being pushed past all but three of the houses in Birkig, the recruit companies scattered. They had not lasted anywhere close to three hours.

When the drill sergeants sounded their whistles, Neustatter got up. He took his time, making sure to arrive at the formation in the middle of the pack.

“Recruit, you just lost Birkig! The Saxon army is marching on Camp Saale, and they have no idea the Saxons are coming!” Drill Sergeant Yost hollered.

If they do not know that, they are too dumb to live, Neustatter thought sardonically. Ja, that was very close to a No Go for execution, but this is another unwinnable scenario.

The drill sergeants pointed out some additional problems. Not all the problems, though. No one said anything about how both forces had left their flanks hanging . . . interesting.

“Recruit Leyser!” Drill Sergeant Huffman designated the next recruit commander.

Leyser pulled his company and platoon leaders together for a quick planning session. Neustatter saw that Karl was one of the squad leaders this time. He waved to get his attention, then pointed two fingers toward his eyes. Next, he pointed one index finger left and the other right. Watch the flanks.

Karl made an exaggerated nod in reply, tapped his head, and made an open-clawed gesture with his fist. Neustatter was not sure where that one had come from, but it meant “team”—half a squad.

Neustatter nodded back and made circles with his thumbs and index fingers in front of his eyes. Post lookouts.

“Companies!”

Leyser decided to actually use the buildings in Birkig. Most of them, anyway. The squad Neustatter was part of knocked on a door and was soon barging into the second house in the northeastern quadrant of the village. Neustatter was peripherally aware of a farmer and two teenaged sons. The household was poor, with only the most basic household goods. Something about that bothered him, but he had a “Saxon” army to think about.

When that “army” appeared, its three companies took some casualties before its northern and southern companies began bypassing houses. This was hard on the center company. Neustatter could see more men down each time he stepped in front of a window to fire. But the artillery was unlimbering now, and these houses were not proof against three-pounders.

They ought to be, Neustatter thought. A couple decent fortifications out here, and it would not matter if Saxony did attack.

Halfway through his cartridge box, it occurred to Neustatter that something had to be up. Nothing suggested itself, though, so he loaded (powder only), stepped up to the window, and fired.

Two rounds later, the door suddenly opened, and something smoking furiously was tossed inside. An umpire entered a moment later and counted half the men out. “Saxons” poured in right after that. They had the presence of mind to shout “Bang!” and the umpires ruled everyone else down.

And that is why I had a bad feeling about it, Neustatter realized. Not enough windows. No communication with other houses.

The third iteration of the exercise began early in the afternoon. Neustatter understood the drill sergeants wanted as many repetitions as possible. During the brief lunch break, Neustatter had found Hjalmar and quietly passed along his conclusions. He noticed one of the other recruits listening in, the up-timer Beattie.

Neustatter stared back at Beattie.

“Communications,” Beattie stated.

“Ja.”

“If we had that, we could do Drill Sergeant Willcocks’ interlocking fields of fire,” Beattie stated.

A couple nearby recruits laughed. Drill Sergeant Willcocks wasn’t exactly easygoing, but he could get caught up relating up-time military history with only a little encouragement. Neustatter appreciated the insights into the up-time military mindset, and in all fairness, some of what Willcocks taught them would be very useful in one or two more generations of weapons. Whether it would take one or two more generations of people for that to happen was an interesting question.

“Ja, we could—and we could do other things,” Neustatter added in a slow drawl.

He rose abruptly and spoke to Hjalmar.

“Talk to anyone from NESS. Tell them to talk to the civilians. They are obviously used to recruits and OPFOR bursting into their homes. Ask if we can borrow some clay bowls. Mirrors, polished brass, anything that will reflect light.”

Hjalmar nodded. While Neustatter made his way back to his own squad as unobtrusively as possible, Hjalmar found a need to check one of the tents. He made sure to pass Otto and Wolfram on his way back.

Meanwhile, Neustatter had found Karl. “We need to be able to signal each other.”

A drill sergeant yelled at him to go sit down. Before Neustatter had come up with a complete plan, the drill sergeants called everyone into formation. They named the company, platoon, and squad leaders, who had a brief planning session, and then the recruits marched into Birkig to take up defensive positions.

“Lämmerhirt.” Neustatter quietly got his fellow recruit’s attention. “If we are in a house, drop one or two men at the door as lookouts.”

“We have a plan, Neustatter.”

It was not a bad plan, Neustatter observed a little later. It just was not going to be good enough to hold Birkig. Abandoning shoulder-to-shoulder formation entirely was a bold step to take, especially since the recruits had heard “the conditions do not exist yet to fight like we did up-time” over and over.

This group of recruit leaders had tossed a squad in each house and put the other squads between the houses, lying down, kneeling, and hiding behind outbuildings. In theory, that gave them three hundred sixty-degree coverage. However, the “Saxons” were coming from the east. The squads guarding the west were largely wasted.

Lämmerhirt’s squad was in a house just east of the center of Birkig. They heard the battle start, but could not see anything. Eventually the men could see something: an enemy company marching around the north flank of the village.

“Fire when you have a target. Then step aside for the next man,” Lämmerhirt ordered.

The squad leader had not put a man at the door. Neustatter grabbed Jahn, a slightly older man who had been solid all through basic.

“We should take the door.”

Jahn thought it through. “See what is happening. Take good shots. When they close in, come inside, either side of the door.”

Neustatter smiled. This man understood.

Shooting from outside drew attention, and a “Saxon” platoon started marching toward their house. Neustatter saw a squad in the open pull back into the village square in the middle of Birkig—the open area just south of the church. They actually formed a rank and put a volley into the flank of the “Saxon” platoon.

That platoon’s commander did the right thing and ignored them. He had four men counted out, but the other two platoons in his company were firing volleys at the house. The umpires were starting to assign casualties to the defenders.

Neustatter grabbed the man who actually lived there. “Do you have bowls?”

“I sent the good ones away for the week.” The man handed him one made of clay.

“I will try not to break it.”

Neustatter ran outside, unwrapped a powder charge, and lay the paper in the bowl. He poured two more charges over it and lit a second slow match from the one burning on his matchlock. He tried to contact the next house over with hand and arm signals, but either they did not see him or they could not understand what he meant.

The “Saxon” platoon rushed the house. Jahn dropped back into the house. Neustatter tossed the slow match in the bowl, dove inside, and slammed the door.

About a minute later, the door flew open. Neustatter mimed a butt stroke at the first man through. Jahn did the same to the second. By then, Neustatter had his matchlock leveled and shouted, “Bang!”

The umpire gave them the first four before ruling they had been overwhelmed.

The “Saxons” proceeded house to house. Lämmerhirt’s squad wandered outside to watch. They saw an argument break out a few houses away. Umpires physically separated men.

“Wonder what that’s about?” one of the men asked.

Neustatter spotted Recruit Beattie. He had a pretty good general idea but he would make a point of getting the details—because he had every intention of reusing whatever that squad had just done.

The drill sergeants yelled at the recruits, made them do pushups, and quickly assigned the next group of unit leaders. While they were working out a plan, Neustatter quietly talked to Beattie.

“I simulated a bomb. Got one OPFOR. Jahn and I took down four more at the door.”

“Good work. We got half a dozen. They got mad because we dropped a table on the first two. Wasn’t intentional. They were faster than we thought.”

Neustatter kept a straight face. “A table?”

“Yeah. On one end. We pushed it over when they forced the door and put men behind it.”

“Gut job,” Neustatter told him. “Clay bowl. Two or three charges. Toss a slow match.”

“Beer Keg here reminds me of something,” Beattie stated. “TV shows up-time.”

“TV?” Neustatter prompted.

“There is a whole defend-the-town plot,” Beattie told him. “Lots of people have done it. Magnificent Seven. A-Team. MacGyver. Improvised defenses. Find shovels. There’s not time to use them this time. Maybe tomorrow. Dig traps.”

“Fall in! Fall in!”

Neustatter did not have time to ask about digging traps, but it was not too hard to work out. Dig holes for people to fall into. It was not unknown in sieges. He really did not want anyone to break an ankle out here, but maybe there was a way to dig safely.

This time the defense plan was radically different. One company defended the eastern end of Birkig. The other set up in nearby woods north of the village.

The “Saxons” came straight in, as before. Neustatter’s squad was in one of the houses south of the Oberwellenborn-Lausnitz road, so he did not see exactly what happened on the northern edge of town. The volleys made it easy to guess, though. The enemy’s northern company had probably gotten hit hard, and if the recruits were in the woods, they could probably hold their own against the enemy’s superior rate of fire. The enemy’s central company would be clearing one house at a time. Neustatter hoped the OPFOR commander was switching his companies around each time the exercise was run. Otherwise the men in that center company were going to be exhausted from carrying the weight of the battle every time.

Recruit Hans Frenzel was leading Neustatter’s squad this time. Frenzel generally caught on once he’d seen something once. As soon as they entered the house, he issued a stream of orders.

“Neustatter, Jahn, you have the door. Herr Bauer, do you have any clay bowls? Maurer, take three men and flip that table over.”

When a “Saxon” platoon rushed the house, the squad was ready. Neustatter and Jahn fired, ducked back inside, and reloaded. Other men switched off at the windows. When a group of OPFOR burst in the door, Frenzel had a team behind the upended table, and that went badly for the “Saxons.” Eventually another platoon put enough weight of simulated fire on the windows that the umpire started announcing casualties. And then a couple of the enemy got close enough to lob simulated grenades inside.

Moments after that, the artillery fired. After a few minutes, the umpire ruled that the house had been reduced to rubble.

Frenzel’s squad was jubilant. For the first time, an enemy charge had failed to carry one of the houses. They had forced the artillery to set up.

And then when the drill sergeants whistled the exercise to a close, they found out they had lost badly after all.

“The first OPFOR company is under half strength and needs to reorganize. The second OPFOR company took heavy casualties but eventually drove you out of the woods. But the third OPFOR company bypassed Birkig to the south and marched on Camp Saale unopposed. Right down the road!” Drill Sergeant Yost roared. “No one knows they are coming!”

Privately, Neustatter had his doubts about that. But if the drill sergeants wanted Camp Saale warned . . .

There were pushups, and then the drill sergeants marched the recruits back to their encampment for the night.

Neustatter lay awake thinking.

Communication. That was the key. Communication between their own units and with Camp Saale. If they got a message or a messenger to Camp Saale, they did not have to hold. Weapons that were not obsolete matchlocks would be nice, too. Cannon. OPFOR had brought them up at need, after their infantry was committed.

Neustatter sat bolt upright in the tent. OPFOR was thinking like up-timers. They were using the artillery as their hammer—and why not? But down-time armies put the artillery ahead of the infantry. He’d seen Wallenstein do that often enough. If they did that, they would walk right over the recruits. Plus, it was reasonable to assume that if the Saxons did attack in this direction, given the terrain, their infantry would outpace their artillery.

But the artillery was hanging back with no one else guarding it.

Neustatter thought back. Ja, they unlimbered, and then the horses took the limber to a safe distance. That is how everyone did it. Okay, what did that tell him? Just that the horses and the cannons were separated. If they took one, the other would be less effective, too.

Neustatter wanted both.

He thought about how to get recruits behind the cannon. Three squads, he decided. Any more than that missing from the main defense would be noticed. But with the recruits holding multiple houses, it would be easy to overlook three squads.

Likewise, they could not send an entire company to the woods. If nothing else, they needed some of those men on the south side of Birkig to keep that third “Saxon” company from just marching right by.

Neustatter lay back down, thinking. Two platoons in the woods. Five in and around the houses, with enough men in position to fire south. That OPFOR company would have to engage them. Sure, anyone could march right past men firing just gunpowder and pretend they were not a threat, but the umpires would penalize them. If the recruits fired on them, OPFOR would engage them.

Three squads behind them, taking the cannon and limber. Nein, one cannon and limber. They did not keep the two cannons together. And the recruits would have to come at them unseen. That would be difficult because OPFOR started only a few minutes away. There was nowhere to hide except the houses . . .

Matchlocks at advance arms with the slow matches turned away . . . nein, that was not necessary. If they waited until there was smoke in the air and acted like OPFOR, they could do it—as long as they had a starting point.

Oh! There was that one building no one had used or even bothered to check. Because it was off-limits . . .

Neustatter smiled to himself and went to sleep.

Wednesday, August 24, 1633

As soon as he woke up, Neustatter was out of bed, preparing for the day. While the recruits were cooking breakfast over fires, he pulled a few men aside.

“Maurer, Jahn, Frenzel, do you want to win today?”

“What do you have in mind?” Frenzel asked cautiously.

Neustatter told them. The four split up. Neustatter found the fire watch.

“I need to find these men.” He rattled off a list of names. “Out front.”

The drill sergeants had summoned one or more recruits to the front of the encampment often enough that the fire watch asked no questions. They pointed him to the right cookfires.

As soon as the recruits he wanted were out in front of the encampment, Neustatter walked over.

“At ease. Do you want to win today?”

“Neustatter, this is another of those unwinnable scenarios,” Sara Carroll pointed out.

“Ja, we cannot hold Birkig for three hours,” one of the down-time recruits stated. “Our best effort yesterday was almost one hour.”

“What if we gave Carroll a horse and she rode to Camp Saale?” Neustatter countered. “Who cares about three hours then?”

“How are we going to do that?”

Neustatter knew he had to keep this meeting short and unnoticed. He looked at Recruit Recker. “Karl, I need you to get the lock off the church door.”

Karl laughed. “I see. I cannot do it without smashing the lock. Or pulling the hasp off the door.”

“I can.” All of looked at the man who spoke. Neustatter had decided Recruit Bracht was solid enough to be in on the planning, but he had not expected this.

“Look, I joined the NUS Army to get away from some things.” Bracht shifted his weight uncomfortably.

Neustatter nodded. He’d gotten that impression.

“But in a good cause like this, I can probably pick the lock. I need to go back to my tent.”

“Bracht’s squad, Carroll’s squad, one more, in the church.” Neustatter spoke quickly. “Two platoons in the woods. Everyone else in Birkig, but do not defend the furthest four houses to the east. Get the farmers to help with bowls, tables, whatever. Beattie, those up-time TV shows—do that.”

“Fall in!”

They did not have enough time to explain the plan to the first set of recruit leaders that morning.

“Next time,” Neustatter mouthed. “Talk to the villagers.”

The first attempt fared no better than the previous day’s. The recruits in charge tried to do too much. The first two houses were solid strong points with squads inside and supporting ranks outside. It turned into a set-piece battle on the eastern edge of Birkig. OPFOR used its extra company, greater experience, and the two three-pounders ruthlessly, and soon the recruits’ formations were retreating through the village. They’d inflicted casualties, too, but a force half again as big as their own could trade casualty for casualty and still win. And they weren’t—as the recruits fell back, the casualty ratio turned decisively against them.

Neustatter found himself next to Stefan as the recruits reassembled afterwards.

“That was a disaster,” Stefan proclaimed.

“I have an idea,” Neustatter told him.

“An idea like the other night?”

“Ja. Next time, run up to the four houses closest to the Saxons. Get those villagers out of the houses and bring them west of the church.”

“What if you are not in charge? Are you just going to take over?”

“Could be.”

Neustatter considered Stefan’s question. The plan was going to have some bumps in it. He could minimize that if he were in charge. On the other hand, he understood why the drill sergeants would not like someone from the ranks taking over. It was not something he would be able to do if someday the actual Saxons came across the border, and he and the rest of NESS were activated.

“Stefan, also spread the word that there is a plan in the works. Any leader can use it.”

“It is your plan.”

“Some of it. That does not matter. Needs all of us to pull it off.”

Stefan nodded an acknowledgment. Not agreement, but it would do.

Neustatter spoke with several more recruits.

“Do you want to be in command of the next exercise?” one recruit asked him. Neustatter considered Gottlieb Seidelman a solid recruit. He wore his hair long and was fastidious with his appearance but could definitely hold his own in the field.

“I want to win more,” Neustatter told him.

“Define ‘win.’”

There were reasons most of the other recruits considered Seidelman something of an intellectual, Neustatter reflected.

“You are right. We are not going to hold Birkig. Not long enough. But our real mission is to warn Camp Saale.” Neustatter watched as Seidelman mentally checked that logic.

“Go on,” Seidelman told him.

“We take one cannon and its limber horses.”

A slow smile spread across Seidelman’s face. “I am in.”

The drill sergeants ordered the recruits to fall in, pointed out where the defense of Birkig had gone wrong, and named the next group of recruits to lead companies, platoons, and squads. Beattie was one of the squad leaders.

One of the company commanders, Recruit Mirus, held up a hand as the others gathered around.

“I have heard rumors there is a plan in the ranks. Is it a good plan?”

“I think so,” Beattie stated.

“Brief the plan, Beattie.”

Beattie told them what he knew. “I have not heard the whole thing.”

“Who knows?”

“Neustatter, Carroll, Bracht.”

“Whose squads are they in? Go get them—quickly.”

The three squad leaders quickly returned with Neustatter, Carroll, and Bracht.

“I hear you three have a plan,” Recruit Mirus stated. It wasn’t quite a challenge.

“Ja,” Neustatter acknowledged. “Give up the eastern half of Birkig. Fortify the houses in the west. That sucks the artillery in close. Put three squads in the church—OPFOR will not check. They sortie and take one cannon and limber. We turn the cannon on OPFOR and cause as much chaos as we can. Carroll takes a limber horse and rides for Camp Saale.”

Mirus exchanged glances with the other recruit leading a company. Recruit Kessel made a face. “We need a force in the woods, and we need to fire on any OPFOR who go south.”

One of the platoon leaders spoke up. “If you are thinking about breaking the rules and hiding men in the church, why not put a lookout in the steeple?”

“Keep a platoon in reserve . . . ” Mirus mused.

“If we had cover facing south . . . ”

“Tables.” A squad leader pointed at Neustatter and Beattie. “You were using tables yesterday.”

“Take those from the houses we abandon,” Neustatter suggested.

“Which units are in the church?” Mirus asked.

“Carroll and Bracht’s squads and one more,” Neustatter stated.

“Why Bracht?”

“I have lockpicks.”

That raised some eyebrows, and then there was another exchange of glances between Mirus and the other recruit in charge of a company this time, Kessel.

“Do it,” Kessel said.

A few minutes later, two companies of recruits marched into Birkig under the watchful eyes of drill sergeants and umpires.

“Details, post!” Recruit Mirus ordered.

The companies scattered. Kessel and a few others had questions about what they could and could not do, so neither of the drill sergeants saw Bracht approach the church. Umpires did see two platoons move into the woods. They did not see Stefan, Neustatter, and their squads race to the easternmost houses.

Stefan hammered on a door.

“The Saxons are approaching! Get your family away now!”

The surprised farmer looked at him. Evidently this was not the usual approach.

“Do you have a table and bowls?”

The squad carried off the table. A bemused farmer followed them with several bowls in his arms. They carried the table to the western side of the village, where it joined three others in a loose barricade between two houses. A couple squads set up behind them.

“Church is in session,” a recruit murmured to Neustatter.

“Dank. Look at the steeple every few minutes.”

“Contact!” someone sang out.

Neustatter did not bother to look. The “Saxon” army had always shown up quickly. That was one of the primary reasons this scenario was unwinnable.

“They halted,” someone reported. “Call it seventy yards from the first houses.”

That was about where musket volleys started being truly effective.

Neustatter realized he could cripple their chain of command with one squad of up-time rifles. Well, they did not have any, so he set that thought aside.

“They are advancing.”

Recruit Mirus knew what he was doing. As OPFORs central company passed the second pair of houses, he ordered, “Fire!”

Recruits in between and inside the third pair of houses immediately did so.

At the same time, the other two OPFOR companies were passing north and south of Birkig. A volley of fire told the recruits in the village exactly when the northern company encountered the two platoons of recruits in the woods. The southern company made it a little further, and then the squads behind the tables and in the southernmost houses opened fire.

“Someone is in the steeple!”

“Ja.” Neustatter fired over one of the tables, crouched, and reloaded. “Is he signaling?”

“Ja! Looks like ‘retreat.’”

Mirus already had runners racing toward the third pair of houses in the east. They evacuated in good order. The umpires ruled a few men down, but fewer than the “Saxons” had already lost. The squad that left one house even managed to bring a table with them. They fell back quite a way, past the village square and the church, before flipping the table on its side in the middle of the road.

The recruits held firm at the houses on the west side of Birkig, and it was a relatively hot and humid day, at least by down-time standards. Clouds of gunpowder smoke drifted slowly, obscuring targets for both sides. OPFOR brought up its artillery, just like before. OPFOR was not paying close attention to what they believed to be a “Saxon” platoon outside the church. They were in close order, at advance arms. This put their muskets upright at their right sides, barrels against their shoulders, all supported by thumb and index finger around the trigger guard.

The first cannon set up, fired. A big gout of smoke rolled toward the nearest house.

“Forward march!” a recruit ordered. Two recruit squads approached the OPFOR cannon. It was a simple maneuver to grab the stock of the matchlock with the left hand, flip the right hand around, and level the piece. “Fire!”

“Charge!”

The other squad fired at the limber and charged.

The situation was confused. Protests broke out. Four recruits quickly unharnessed the pair of horses from the limber, leaving the dispute to their comrades. Sara Carroll and another recruit mounted up, bareback, and rode south. They reached the road to Oberwellenborn, turned west, and rode for Camp Saale.

Like all NUS Army troops who trained at Camp Saale, the two squads that took the cannon had received rudimentary artillery training. That is, they could load and fire a cannon slowly, without injuring themselves. In their excitement, they cut a few corners and fired into the back of the center “Saxon” company. There was an umpire there. He quickly ran around to the back of the formation and tapped men as casualties.

The recruits fired the cannon a second time before the other “Saxon” cannon was spun around by its crew and fired at them. An umpire ruled their captured piece out of action and most of them down.

Half the center company was down, though, and the rest was unable to do much besides fix the recruits in place.

The “Saxon” southern company wheeled and approached the line of tables. By great good fortune, a length of slow match in a bowl burned down far enough to ignite several powder charges. About five hundred grains of black powder flashed, sending a puff of smoke into the air. An umpire gave them one casualty, maybe for effort. But the southern company halted. These were veterans. They’d lost Birkig to the recruits a few nights ago, and once they encountered one bowl full of gunpowder, they quickly spotted the rest.

Neustatter fired again. He knew this part was a losing proposition. OPFOR had at least two-to-one odds in their favor here.

To the north, that OPFOR company held back and did not get sucked into the woods. They traded volleys at range, with the veterans in the open field, losing more men than the recruits in the woods. Finally, the OPFOR company commander dispatched one of his platoons to attack Birkig from the north.

There were recruits waiting. Just two squads, each in a house, but they put up an effective defense. The third squad assigned to that area had already reinforced the troops behind the tables.

Recruit Kessel walked that line. “Slow your fire,” he told them. “Slow your fire.”

“Why?” someone asked.

“The Saxons are already firing faster than we are. Let them run out first.”

The OPFOR officers were thinking, too, though. Their remaining cannon repositioned to where it could fire at one corner of the brown house with the funny roof without taking return fire from the windows. Eventually, the recruits had to abandon that house as the umpire ruled there was more and more damage.

OPFOR ruthlessly exploited the new gap in the line and started to roll up the recruits. At the same time, the southern company formed up to charge.

“Rest of the bowls . . . now!” Kessel ordered.

The recruits lit very short lengths of slow match and placed the bowls on the outside of the table barricade.

“Final fire at thirty yards!” Kessel shouted.

Neustatter took a quick look around. He spotted the Birkig farmers clustered behind a house and beckoned them.

“You men must know how to fire a matchlock.”

“Well, ja. We have watched you recruits often enough.”

Neustatter gestured toward the “casualties.” “Pick one up.”

The southern OPFOR company charged. A couple of the bowls flashed over at more or less the right time. Most did not. The volley from recruits and farmers inflicted some casualties, but the veterans overwhelmed them. It took a while longer for the veterans to secure each house and Bracht started picking them off from the steeple.

Finally, the drill sergeants whistled the exercise to a close.

“Fall in!” Drill Sergeant Huffman ordered.

Once the recruits were all in formation, he let them stand there for a couple minutes.

“All right. You broke the rule about the church being off limits. Having said that, you thoroughly exploited that advantage. You did not hold for three hours. Call it one and a half. But you did warn Camp Saale.” He held up a walkie-talkie. “We had to send a truck to intercept Recruit Carroll. She would have reached Camp Saale in time. Eighty percent casualties, not optimal. On the other hand, the enemy’s advance guard is pretty shot-up, too.

“Now, let’s discuss your plan . . . ”

They ran the defense of Birkig twice more that day, neither time as successfully. Part of that was because OPFOR was acting like the NUS Army unit that it was, rather than as Saxons.

When they finally broke for dinner, Ditmar sought out Neustatter.

“I like that plan.”

“Dank.”

“You should get credit for it.”

Neustatter shook his head. “The other day, I told Stefan that it did not matter if Drill Sergeant Yost gave us a No Go, that clients would hire us because we beat an unwinnable scenario.” He waved down whatever Ditmar was about to say. “It is true. But I was thinking of the Army as a means to an end. I still want the clients—we will need the business, ja? But we are defending the New United States. We have to be successful, and it does not matter who gets the credit.” He waved Ditmar down again. “Nein, it does not. Everyone who matters knows. The drill sergeants were so careful not to mention it that they obviously know. Und if Mirus and Kessel had not commanded well, the plan would not have mattered.”

“Warn Camp Saale and Grantville. Before the Saxons get to our families and others,” Ditmar stated.

“Ja.”

Ditmar nodded, slowly. “Next time, we probably ought to get the farmers and the unit out of Birkig.”

“Ja. One of several errors,” Neustatter acknowledged. One corner of his mouth turned up. “Do you know who knows we did well? OPFOR. The next two times they approached slowly and professionally and made sure they did everything right.”

Friday, August 26, 1633

Families were invited to watch the recruits graduate from basic training. Ursula, Johann, Anna, and Astrid walked to Camp Saale with a lot of other families.

Two blocks of recruits marched in wearing those mottled uniforms. Astrid learned that sort of pattern was called “camouflage.” The men marched in step, turned as one, and halted all together. They listened to a couple speeches, then the recruits were promoted to private. Someone gave a command, and with a great shout, the formations broke up. The men immediately sought out their families.

“Hjalmar!”

“Astrid!” Hjalmar threaded his way through the crowd and gave her a big hug.

“You look good,” she told him. “Tired, but good.”

“There is a reason for that. Basic does not let you get enough sleep on purpose, and we had field exercises this past week. Some nights we barely slept at all.”

A soldier standing nearby overheard Hjalmar and laughed. “That is entirely your fault. Well, Neustatter’s and the rest of y’all’s.” He held out a hand. “Private Beattie, Ma’am.”

“Astrid Schäubin.”

“A while ago—I have no idea what day it was—Neustatter was leading an attack at dusk. Does he hurry it up so we can be done? No. We wander around until it’s so dark the other side has given up and gone to bed. Then he attacks.”

Neustatter was close enough to hear that.

“But the defense later was your fault, Beattie.” Neustatter was grinning as he said it.

“You started that, too.”

Hjalmar explained while the others bantered back and forth. “Some of the field exercises are supposed to be unwinnable.”

“Why?”

“So you know how you will react if that ever happens. So the drill sergeants will know if you break under pressure. Neustatter does not like losing.”

Astrid had a notion how Neustatter might respond to an unwinnable scenario. “What happened?”

“We won. Three times straight. That was attacking the village. A couple days later, the drill sergeants made us defend Birkig. Beattie mentioned some television shows. When he explained, Neustatter ran with it. And Beattie here is going to be an engineer. Do you remember what Neustatter did with the clay bowl and gunpowder?”

Astrid nodded.

“Picture an engineer doing that with everything in a village. We lost—the veterans were not going to let us win again—but their casualties were a lot higher than they expected. And everyone who led the defense afterwards did the same sort of thing. We even started getting the villagers to help us.”

“It sounds like basic training was a game,” Astrid observed.

“For Neustatter, yes,” Hjalmar agreed. “With many pushups and much running and a lot of yelling.”

“Drill Sergeant!”

The greeting was loud, intended to warn everyone nearby. The men quickly came to attention.

“At ease.” The drill sergeant was older than Astrid expected. He looked tired, too.

“These your people, Neustatter?” he asked.

Neustatter introduced them to Drill Sergeant Huffman.

“Neustatter, if the active-duty regiment gets deployed, I’d like you and your guys to consider serving your two weeks of annual training as opposing force for Eagle Pepper.”

Neustatter grinned. “That sounds like fun. The villagers might not want me back, though.”

“Are you kidding?” Huffman demanded. “You’re their favorite right now. Look, the NUS Army has the entire village on retainer. That means we pay them to be part of Eagle Pepper, and we pay them for the crops we trample. I don’t know if you noticed, but there were not any babies and toddlers in Birkig.”

“Huh.” Neustatter was lost in thought for a moment. “That does seem strange, now that you point it out.”

“Why do you think we made you clean the barracks right before Eagle Pepper?” Huffman was clearly amused that they had slipped something past the recruits. “As soon as y’all got out in the field, we moved all the mothers and little kids into the barracks for the week.”

Neustatter just blinked. Astrid giggled. They must have all been really short of sleep to miss that.

“Someday, we might need to defend Grantville again. If that happens, Neustatter, I want to turn this whole area into Black Rock. Rose Creek. Matewan.”

“Drill Sergeant, after the Croat Raid, I do not think anyone wants to attack here,” Neustatter pointed out. “But, ja, if that is what you want—The Magnificent Seven Thousand—we can train that plan.”

“Good.” Huffman clapped Neustatter on the shoulder. “Good job, Neustatter. Remember what you’ve learned. I imagine you’ll have a chance to apply it, sooner or later.”

“Ja, Drill Sergeant!”

Another drill sergeant approached a few minutes later. This was Drill Sergeant Carl Yost, and Astrid could tell by how Hjalmar stood that some tension lay between him and NESS.

“Neustatter. Schaub.”

“Drill Sergeant Yost.”

“Keep both eyes on the mission, Neustatter, but keep protecting the villagers, too.” Yost cocked his head. “Something like that have anything to do with your former captain?”

“Protecting my men, Drill Sergeant.”

“Took me a while, but I figured it would be something like that.” He nodded. “Neustatter.”

“Drill Sergeant.”

“What was that all about?” Astrid asked.

“That, Miss Schäubin, was an apology,” Neustatter said. “Or as close to one as is safe for a drill sergeant to give.”

She did not understand, even when Neustatter and Hjalmar tried to explain it to her on the way home. But she did not need to. Hjalmar, Ditmar, and the others were home. It felt like it was time to write to the village. Astrid wrote most of the letter to Pastor Claussen, and over the next couple days everyone added their greetings.

Chapter 5: Bretagne and Schlinck

Monday, August 29, 1633

The men slept most of the weekend. On Monday morning, a messenger in uniform arrived. Neustatter and Astrid were the only two downstairs at that moment. Neustatter indicated the sergeant could talk in front of her.

“We have two missions if you want them. The first is a supply run to Erfurt. The second is to Suhl. There are complications.”

Neustatter didn’t hesitate. “We will take both.”

“Erfurt is tomorrow morning, 0800. It’s a bus.”

“A bus? The yellow APCs that take children to school?”

“Ja, that. The NUS Army is borrowing the bus and driver from the school district. We are sending a mechanic along just in case, but it is gravel roads all the way. The only cargo going to Erfurt is documents. They cannot fall into enemy hands.”

Neustatter nodded. “And the cargo coming back to Grantville?”

“Recruits.”

“Oh. Thursday is September first. They are for the next basic training class, ja?”

“Ja.”

Neustatter’s next question surprised Astrid. “Is there anything you do—or do not—want me to say to them?”

The messenger frowned. “Drill Sergeant Huffman said you would ask. I now owe him a beer.”

Neustatter grinned.

“But he did not say.”

“He wants me to make the decision,” Neustatter realized. “Interesting. Weapons?”

“Your first stop will be Camp Saale where you will be issued up-time rifles and shotguns.”

“Exzellent. Und the second mission?”

“You leave for Suhl on Friday. Two wagons. You will have the same weapons.”

“Danke. We will be there before 0800 tomorrow.”

After the messenger left, Neustatter said, “Miss Schäubin, go get Anna, bitte. We need her expertise.”

Astrid had no idea why, but she was sure it would be fascinating to find out. She and Anna were back downstairs in a couple minutes.

“Anna, we need uniforms,” Neustatter said.

She smiled. “How fancy?”

“Functional. Up-time-like.”

“How soon?”

“Friday’s mission is too soon, correct?”

Anna laughed. “Way too soon. I need a couple weeks for all of them—assuming you men are around to try them on.”

Neustatter jerked a thumb at Astrid. “Start with Miss Schäubin.”

Anna and Astrid went shopping for fabric. Anna looked at types of fabric and how much they cost.

She frowned and stated, “NESS is getting tan uniforms.”

They mailed the letter to Pastor Claussen on their way back. When they arrived at the house, they found the men gathered downstairs.

Ditmar asked, “Are we going to tell the recruits anything?”

“Nein,” came Stefan’s quick answer. “Let them figure it out like we had to.”

“Tell them,” Wolfram urged. “Much of the Eagle Pepper exercise is applying what you know. Give them something to work with.”

“Nein, don’t tell them about Eagle Pepper,” Karl objected. “It is important that they not know the scenarios ahead of time.”

“That is true,” Wolfram acknowledged. “Tell them the sorts of things that will get them thinking the right way. So that they can do something with Eagle Pepper.”

“Like Neustatter and the movies,” Karl agreed. “Although, after Birkig, I want to see the television shows Beattie remembered. The A-Team and MacGyver.”

Neustatter looked around to see if anyone else wanted to speak.

“That seems fair,” Hjalmar said.

Heads nodded, then Neustatter said, “That is about what I figured. Do not scare the recruits, but prepare them without undermining why the drill sergeants do what they do.”

That afternoon, Neustatter, Hjalmar, Ditmar, and Astrid went to the high school well before the evening classes began.

“We need news,” Neustatter explained.

“Why?” Astrid asked.

“We have to know what is happening in Grantville, in the New United States, and in the Confederated Principles of Europe so that we can offer the services people need. If Captain-General Gars establishes a new supply depot or fighting breaks out in a new location.”

“The big news is Wallenstein, of course,” Astrid told them as they walked along Route 250.

Neustatter gave her a sharp look. “What about Wallenstein?”

“Last month,” she prompted. “He took over Bohemia. He crushed the Imperials near White Mountain. Holk tried to take Prague but the Jews and Hussites defeated him. President Stearns even sent APCs to Prague.”

“We were not told any of this in basic training. You said Stearns sent APCs?”

“Wallenstein is allied to the New United States now.”

“Huh. I did not see that coming. That is exactly the sort of information we need. Is there trade between Grantville and Prague? Are the roads safe?”

They went straight to the National Library. Astrid requested a stack of newspapers and found an empty table.

“How does this work?” Ditmar asked.

“A page will bring them to us,” Astrid explained.

“You have been using the library,” Neustatter observed.

“Ja.”

A page appeared with a stack of newspapers before she had a chance to say more.

“Why this newspaper?” Hjalmar asked.

“Because the Freie Presse is in German,” Astrid answered. “Hochdeutsch, but I can read it.”

They divided up the stack. Ditmar found an account of the Battle of the Bridge, and he, Hjalmar, and Neustatter poured over it. Astrid took notes—in pencil. Pens were not allowed in the library. A librarian shushed them a couple times.

“I am not sure how I feel about this,” Hjalmar whispered.

Neustatter grunted. “I know. Suddenly Wallenstein is one of the good guys.”

Astrid went over to the front desk, talked to a librarian for a few minutes, and then came back.

“A research report on Wallenstein is available for purchase,” she whispered.

“How does that work?” Neustatter asked her.

“A researcher compiles a report, trying to include everything the library has on one subject. Usually someone pays them to do the research and gets the first copy. But additional copies are available to whomever wants to buy them. This one is called ‘Wallenstein: Up-Time and Down-Time.’”

“I think the men would like to hear this.” Neustatter went over to the front desk and bought a copy.

They went to class.

On the way home, Ditmar sighed. “We are now behind everyone else.”

“Only in reading,” Astrid said. “Your spoken English is much better than mine.”

“Maybe for military use,” Neustatter said, “but I think you are ahead of us for school use.”

“Remember the new cooking irons Karl made?” Astrid began. “Ursula wanted to know why bread without yeast bakes differently than bread with yeast.”

Hjalmar jerked a thumb over his shoulder, back toward the high school.

“Oh, I found the answer Ursula wanted easily enough,” Astrid agreed. “But first I asked an up-timer, and she thought I was asking about unleavened bread, so she sent me to a Jewish woman.”

“When you say it that way, I can see why,” Neustatter said.

“An up-time Jewish woman. I found out about World War II and the Holocaust.”

She saw Hjalmar grimace. “So did we—in basic. I wish you had not.”

“I needed to know,” Astrid stated. “That is what President Stearns is trying to prevent. But there is more. Afterwards, Israel became an independent nation again.”

All three men looked at her in surprise.

“Israel was attacked and outnumbered a lot. Just like in the Bible. There is a movie, Neustatter. Entebbe.”

***

In the morning, the men left on their mission. Neustatter, Hjalmar, and Ditmar took turns reading sections of the research paper out loud on the bus ride to Erfurt. None of the men were willing to trust Wallenstein. Not yet, anyway.

Astrid did not know exactly what they told the busload of recruits, nor did they ever find out what was in the documents the bus took to Erfurt. Their best guess was supply orders, since Captain-General Gars had made it his main supply depot in the area. The men delivered the documents to Erfurt and the recruits to Camp Saale. They were home Wednesday night and took day labor jobs on Thursday. Early Friday morning, they left again for Suhl.

Friday, September 2, 1633

Once the pair of wagons were a quarter mile past the latest village and out of sight, Neustatter turned to the others. “What did that village feel like?”

“Like before, but even more.” Otto’s answer was prompt. “Tension is building. Something will happen.”

Stefan spoke up. “Otto is right. You know I complain. There is complaining, and then there is complaining, and then people stop. That village has stopped complaining.”

Neustatter grinned. “You are a self-aware pessimist.”

“One more thing,” Wolfram put in. “They are not angry with the NUS.”

“That is true, too,” Neustatter said. “But three towns in the middle of whatever this is make guns, and the NUS wants to buy.”

The next village they came to was flying a flag with an adder on the field with the legend Tritt nicht auf mich.

“‘Do not tread on me’ sounds ominous,” observed Ditmar.

“I think we have time to stop and ask questions,” Neustatter declared. “Wagonmaster?”

Heinrich, the teamster, did not approve but agreed that Neustatter and one of his men could catch up quickly enough. So Neustatter and Otto went into the village, rifle and shotgun respectively slung over their shoulders. It was bigger than Birkig. About thirty houses, Neustatter estimated.

The first thing Neustatter noticed was the man on watch. The second thing he noticed was the metal ladle next to an iron triangle hanging outside one of the houses.

“Hallo!” When he got closer, Neustatter pointed to the triangle. “I like it. I saw that in an up-time movie. The cook used it to call the cowboys to dinner. I think it could be used to alert a village to danger, too.”

The stocky man nodded in agreement. “Sure could.”

“We saw your flag.”

“That is taken from up-time, too. So I am told, anyway. It fits our feelings well enough.”

Neustatter nodded. “If I could take a message to Grantville for you, what would you say?”

“Heh.” The man considered that for a moment, then spat. “I would tell them the niederadel are up to no good. I hear that up north, the adel work with the people instead of against them.”

“If you mean around Grantville, ja, I have heard good things about Count Ludwig Guenther of Schwarzburg-Rudolstadt and about the dukes of Saxe-Weimar. Well, except Bernhard, of course. But I do not travel in those circles.”

The man spat again. “Neither do I. We do not really expect them to send help.”

“You figure you can take care of it yourselves.”

“Not easily.”

“But if you thought you would lose, you would not be flying that flag,” Neustatter pointed out.

The heavy-set man nodded slowly. “Our herr is not a bad man. But the adel are in league together.”

Neustatter nodded in turn. “We are from Holstein-Gottorp, way up north near Denmark. Our herr was like that, too.”

“What did you do?”

“We left. The eight of us who came home from the war were not enough, and we were too far from Grantville and Magdeburg. But you . . . ”

“Ja, our situation is better. Not good, mind.”

“I will speak with someone in the NUS Army.”

“We like their army. It sounds wrong to say that, but those are good men.”

***

When Neustatter and Otto caught up to the others, they shared their information. Throughout the rest of the day, they noticed that some villages flew adder banners while others did not. On the following day, they saw that the banners were more numerous closer to Suhl.

“The villages the health and wellness team went to are all flying the banners,” Wolfram noted. “And they were friendlier to us than most of the other villages were.”

A couple hundred yards from Suhl, Neustatter abruptly ordered, “Stop the wagons! Lukas, Karl, Otto, on the ground with me. Ditmar, Stefan, front wagon. Hjalmar, Wolfram, back wagon. One riding shotgun, rifleman in the back.”

“What do you see?” the teamster asked.

“An occupied town.” Neustatter’s words were clipped. “Two guards at the gate—that I see.” He raised his voice. “Attennn-tion! Shoul-derrr . . . arms! For-warrrd . . . march!”

He and Karl led the way, near the front right and front left corners of the first wagon. When the two guards blocked their way, Neustatter intoned, “De-tail! Ready . . . halt!” He strode up to the men, stopped, and saluted. “NUS Army transport detail and escort, sir!”

“We do not like outside soldiers,” one of the guards said.

“We are here to deliver this shipment, rent rooms for the night, load a return shipment in the morning, and be on our way,” Neustatter explained.

“What unit?”

“NUS Army Reserves.” Neustatter patted the rifle on his shoulder with his right hand. “That is why we have these.”

“You will be reporting to the commander, then?”

“Ja. We were briefed on what happened in January. All NUS forces fall under the local NUS commander when they enter Suhl. Our orders do not specify whether that is still Warrant Officer Hatfield or not.”

One of the guards directed the other, “Go get the watch commander.”

***

Delivery and the following morning’s pickup went smoothly, but Neustatter sighed in relief once they were half a mile outside Suhl the next day.

“That is one tense town.”

“It sure is.” Lukas’ tone was sour. “A man can barely buy a drink without dirty looks.”

“To be fair, half of the dirty looks today were because we loaded wagons and departed on Sunday,” Neustatter pointed out. “I suspect an up-timer set the schedule. I will ask if future missions can be adjusted so that the convoys are not expected to enter or leave one of the gun-making towns on the Sabbath.”

Tuesday, September 6, 1633

The men arrived home Monday night. By then, Anna had recruited Ursula and Astrid to help with the sewing. This was why Astrid had mostly done the cleaning for Frau Sophia—sewing was not her best skill. She hadn’t had anyone to continue teaching her after her mother died. So she was grateful when Neustatter told her on Tuesday that they needed to visit the polizei station. They were sent back to Chief Frost’s office right away.

“Good to see you, Neustatter. How’d basic treat you?”

“It went well, I think,” Neustatter told him. “We just got back from Suhl.”

Frost’s expression darkened. “Have you heard about the Dutch?”

Neustatter and Astrid were both puzzled. “Nein. The Dutch?”

“The English and French double-crossed the Dutch and joined forces with the Spanish. They crushed the Dutch fleet.”

Astrid had no idea what that meant. Neustatter did.

“The Spanish will invade the Netherlands,” he predicted. “What does that mean for the Confederated Principalities of Europe?”

“Ha! If I knew that, I would be over in Mike Stearns’ office right now,” Dan Frost told him. “But nothing good.”

He sighed. “Neustatter, I will not be giving you military missions anymore. Those are going to come directly from the NUS Army. Don’t be a stranger, though, okay? I do hear when civilians are looking for guards.”

Neustatter’s nod was solemn. “Danke, Chief Frost.”

Then he leaned back in his chair. “The westerns were very useful during basic training.” He told Chief Frost a few stories. The chief covered his eyes with his hand only twice.

“Westerns . . . ” Frost muttered when Neustatter was done. “Maybe I should have suggested something else.”

Neustatter grinned. “I like the westerns just fine, Chief Frost. But Astrid received a recommendation a couple weeks ago, and we have not been able to locate it yet.”

Chief Frost looked her way. “What’s that?”

“Entebbe.”

“That’s a great idea!” Frost exclaimed. “I’d like my new officers to see that. I wonder who would have a copy . . . ?” He pressed a button on the intercom. “Mimi? Please give Everett Beasley a call over at the video store and see if he’s got a copy of Entebbe. Entebbe. The Israeli raid to rescue the airline passengers. Thanks, Mimi.”

“Danke, Chief Frost.”

After leaving the polizei station, Neustatter and Astrid walked all the way to Camp Saale. They met various officers whom Astrid could not keep straight. One she did remember was Major Stieff.

“I have heard about you,” the major began. “You are not under my command, but I would appreciate learning what you see and hear on your guard missions.”

“Ja, sir. Suhl and the villages around it are tense right now.”

“Go on.”

Neustatter watched Major Stieff absorb the details as he related what they had seen.

Soon NESS had a mission, one that would take several days.

It was almost dark by the time they returned to Grantville, but Neustatter insisted they stop at a newspaper office. He placed something called a “classified ad” in the Grantville Times. It would be each issue of the newspaper this week:

Neustatter’s European Security Services: Transport escort, facility guard duty, personal guards. Inquire of Edgar Neustatter or Astrid Schäubin, Number 38, Murphyhausen.

And then Astrid went back to sewing.

Wednesday, September 7, 1633

On the following day, Neustatter went back into Grantville when the other men hired on to day labor jobs. He would not tell them what it was about. Anna, Ursula, and Astrid sewed all day. By the time the men began returning, their uniforms were ready to be tried on. They were all up later than they wanted to be making final alterations.

The uniforms were tan-colored shirts and trousers. Anna hadn’t had time to do anything fancy, and Neustatter hadn’t wanted that anyway. But she had included simple epaulets that were simply a strip of cloth on the shoulder that buttoned back on itself. She had, however, included pockets on both the shirts and trousers—and on Astrid’s skorts.

Thursday, September 8, 1633

On Thursday, the men left for Halle. This mission was to escort a large shipment of salt from Halle to the supply depot in Erfurt. NESS was not told why, but it was not hard to put the pieces together. Plainly, the supply depot was preserving a lot of meat. With autumn coming soon, that would be happening anyway, but the Battle of Dunkirk provided added incentive for the NUS Army to be able to feed troops if they needed to be on the move. The men had been issued their Reserve weapons, which all by itself told them how important this mission was.

This was a big enough shipment that a couple other groups were providing guards, too. Older up-timers mostly called them “outfits,” while younger ones preferred “agencies.” Neustatter did not mind either term.

Neustatter took Ditmar and Hjalmar to meet the other two agencies.

“Guten Tag.” He held out a hand. “Ich heisse Edgar Neustatter. Neustatter’s European Security Services.”

“Hans Wolfe. I am with Captain Giulio Bretagne’s Company—in charge of this squad, in fact.” Wolfe and his men were well-dressed. Every one of them wore a long buff vest, well-made boots, and a leather hat with at least one feather in it. More impressive was the aura that they had been there, done that, and could do it again if they needed to.

“I have heard of your company,” Neustatter acknowledged. “These are my team leaders, Ditmar and Hjalmar Schaub.”

“We were with Tilly until Rain,” Wolfe explained. “Captain Bretagne gathered us afterwards. We stayed down south until last summer.”

Neustatter nodded. He understood what was being said. After Eisenach, the Wartburg, Suhl, and Grantville in August and then Alte Veste in September, Captain Bretagne had decided to join the winning side.

Neustatter matched candor with candor. “We started out as village levies under Mansfeld years ago. We got captured at Dessau Bridge, and then the NUS captured us at Alte Veste.”

“We heard there was a seventh mercenary company in the Grantville area. Is that you?”

“All eight of us.”

Wolfe introduced those of his men who were close at hand.

“Come. I will introduce you to Schlinck’s Company,” Wolfe offered. He led Neustatter, Ditmar, and Hjalmar over to a group of men who were indifferently dressed. No one matched, which was not unusual in a mercenary company. But these men were scruffy, their weapons looked worn, and they seemed to radiate more menace than discipline.

“Guten Tag. Edgar Neustatter.”

“Grönloh is over there.” The man jerked a thumb over his shoulder and ignored Neustatter’s outstretched hand.

“Danke.”

Neustatter approached Grönloh.

“Are you the new guys?” the man demanded. He was big and tough-looking, about Karl’s size but without Karl’s easygoing nature.

“Ja. Neustatter’s European Security Services. Ich heisse Edgar Neustatter.”

“Don’t care. I am Sergeant Grönloh, and I am in command of this mission. New unit guards the wagons in back. You eat dust until you have gone on a few trips. The last couple units only made a couple trips each.”

“What happened?” Neustatter’s voice was nonchalant.

“Too many of their men got jobs in Grantville or Erfurt or Magdeburg. The last one, the captain closed down the company. The captain of the one before that is still trying to find men, but he has not taken a contract in weeks.”

Neustatter nodded to show he understood. “If we are attacked, what is the plan?”

Grönloh snorted. “We will not be attacked. But if something happens, stay with your wagons or you will not get paid.”

“Naturally,” Neustatter agreed. “What defensive plan do you use?”

Grönloh laughed. “Shoot like hell and cut them if they get close.”

Neustatter frowned, glanced at Wolfe, and saw the slight shake of his head.

“We can do that,” he agreed.

Once he and Wolfe were on their way back to their own men, Neustatter raised the question again. “I take it Schlinck’s Company does not follow a prearranged formation.”

Wolfe laughed. “Not even close.”

“What do you do?”

“My two best shots with up-time weapons on the wagons, everyone else on the ground. Half on either side with matchlocks and swords.”

“We will have four up, four down. Rifles on the wagons, shotguns on the ground on the four corners,” Neustatter summarized. “Ditmar and Hjalmar each have a three-man team, and our medic is with me.”

Wolfe stared at him open-mouthed. “Rifles, shotguns, and a medic? And uniforms? How have you managed that?”

“We are in the Reserves. The Army issued us weapons for this mission. That does not happen all the time,” Neustatter cautioned.

“Still . . . ” Wolfe’s head suddenly whipped around. “We should tell Grönloh.”

Neustatter shrugged. “Ditmar, Hjalmar, and I are carrying up-time rifles. He must have seen them.”

Hans Wolfe considered that. “And it will not hurt our convoy to have that kind of firepower in the rear.” He took a couple more steps, then asked, “You said you are Reservists. For how long?”

“We just graduated from basic training.”

“And they gave you up-time weapons already,” Wolfe mused. “You must have done well.”

“I think we did,” Neustatter told him. “After six years in a mercenary army, I thought I knew soldiering, but I learned much from the drill sergeants.”

Three pickup trucks drove the men north. Evidently, the Army did not want to wait the three or four days it would take them to walk there. They arrived at Halle in the afternoon and found the salt merchants. Then they found an inn for the night.

The food was good, and the company was loud. At some point, maybe around eight o’clock, Neustatter rose from the table. Most of the other NESS men followed his lead.

Lukas ordered another beer and kept flirting with the serving girl. Stefan was still nursing his drink.

“As long as you are alert in the morning,” Neustatter told them.

Stefan nodded. “I will be.”

***

Most of the men went straight to their beds.

“We need to post a watch,” Neustatter said.

Several groans answered him.

“Ja, we are probably safe enough in this inn. So just one man for an hour at a time. Once the mission starts, it will be two men at a time.”

Heads nodded. That was simply prudent.

“Uh, Neustatter?” Ditmar asked. “Do you want us to guess how long an hour is?”

“Nein. I remember how much trouble that caused in Wallenstein’s army. Here is what I did yesterday.” Neustatter took a small package from his pack and carefully unwrapped it, revealing an hourglass. It was small, well-made, and set in a block of glass.

“These are being made in Grantville. It is not an hourglass. It is only a quarter hour, so you each have to let it run out four times. The hourglasses were too large and expensive. This one cost more than I liked, but I thought not quarreling over the length of a watch was worth the price.”

“It is worth some money not to hear that argument every night.” Wolfram smiled. “Someone will forget to flip it, of course.”

Neustatter shrugged. “Once it runs out four times, wake the next man. If someone forgets, he is awake longer.”

Neustatter named the order they’d stand watch, starting with Ditmar and ending with Hjalmar.

Friday, September 9, 1633

Neustatter awoke before Hjalmar had a chance to rouse him. It was not the mattress, which he found comfortable enough after years of sleeping in tents or even in the open field. Nor was it the temperature. September was starting to cool, but it was hardly the bone-chilling stay-in-bed-for-a-few-more-minutes temperatures of January and February. They had a mission, and Neustatter was ready to go.

Most of the others rolled out of their beds with varying degrees of enthusiasm.

“This is too early,” Stefan muttered. “Could wait for a civilized hour . . . ”

Neustatter’s mouth quirked. He had asked for “alert.” No one was ever going to get “enthusiastic” out of Stefan. Lukas, on the other hand . . .

“Lukas! Lukas!”

“When did he come to the room last night?” Neustatter asked.

“During my watch,” Wolfram said.

Neustatter eventually shook Lukas, who muttered something.

“I think he said it is too bright in here,” Otto offered.

“I can barely see what I am doing,” Neustatter retorted. “Come on, Lukas. If you are hung over, it is your own fault.”

The men from Bretagne’s Company were trickling downstairs in ones and twos about the same time that most of NESS entered the main room of the inn. They were halfway through breakfast before anyone from Schlinck’s Company showed up. Grönloh and his men looked the worse for wear.

Neustatter and Ditmar exchanged knowing looks, but all Neustatter said was, “Wherever we stop tonight will not be a secure area. We will post watch, two men at a time, which means going to bed early if we want something close to a full night’s sleep.”

Ditmar nodded. “By team?”

“Ja. Put Stefan and Otto together on the first watch. You have the dawn watch.”

Neustatter knew that would be enough for Ditmar to understand his intentions. Putting Stefan on the first watch both deprived Lukas of his most likely drinking buddy and rewarded Stefan’s good sense in not being hung over this morning with an uninterrupted night’s sleep. Hjalmar and Karl would be on the second watch, because Neustatter would take the third and least desirable watch himself the first night. Since Wolfram would be with him, that left Ditmar and Lukas on the fourth watch, which meant Lukas would be getting up very early the next day.

When NESS emerged from the inn, the wagons and teamsters were ready and waiting. Neustatter exchanged greetings with Gerd, whom he remembered from the salt convoy they had guarded back in May. Nevertheless, they got off to a late start. At one point, Neustatter glanced over at Wolfe, who simply rolled his eyes. Eventually, the men of Schlinck’s company got themselves sorted out. Grönloh gave the order, and the salt convoy got underway.

Neustatter had NESS start out in the formation he had characterized as “four up, four down,” but soon he and Otto hopped off the wagons. Neustatter spaced three men on each side of the last two wagons. The column of full salt wagons was not fast, and mounted travelers passed with ease. The second time the convoy was overtaken from behind, Neustatter rotated his men and dropped Hjalmar and Karl back as a rear guard.

They kept alert, but saw nothing of concern until the column passed a battered farm wagon that had pulled to the side of the road to let the convoy pass. The man at the reins shot Hjalmar and Karl a dirty look, and they overheard him muttering about high-handedness to the man seated next to him.

Karl looked at Hjalmar, who shrugged. “I have no idea, but I should go tell Neustatter about it.”

Hjalmar ran forward. The first thing he did was send Otto back to Karl. Neustatter did not like leaving one man out on his own. Then Hjalmar found Neustatter and told him about the disgruntled wagoneer.

“Danke. Take charge here while I ask Wolfe what happened.” Neustatter headed forward.

Hans Wolfe was on the left side of the fourth wagon.

“Hallo. What brings you forward, Neustatter?”

“My rear guard says the driver of the wagon we passed seemed upset with the convoy.”

“Hmm.” Wolfe cupped his hands. “Bavarello!”

The man standing on top of the third wagon carefully turned to face him. Wolfe beckoned. The man tapped the teamster driving the wagon on the shoulder and said something. The wagon slowed, and he jumped down.

“Sergeant Wolfe.”

“Bavarello, the wagon we passed—did anything happen? Any reason the driver might be upset?”

Bavarello waggled the hand not holding his musket. “Farm wagon on the way back from a delivery to Halle, I think. Not fast, but they seem to have set out before us.” He delivered that assessment with no expression whatsoever. “Schlinck’s Company told him to pull off the road and let us by. I might have been politer about it.”

“Thanks. It is time to switch positions.”

“I will take care of it.”

“Good outfit,” Neustatter observed. “So, you are a sergeant, too.”

“Grönloh ranks me. I am not sure how, but he is convinced of it.” Wolfe smiled thinly.

Neustatter nodded. “Nevertheless, you are the one who would direct reinforcements, since you are with the middle wagons.”

Wolfe replied without directly acknowledging that. “Like most men, I weight my attack on the right side. Here on the road, that means my men do not get separated from the convoy by approaching wagons.”

Neustatter nodded.

The salt convoy encountered a railroad construction crew partway between Weissenfels and Naumburg. They were adding rail. One man held a metal spike in place, and another man swung a sledgehammer, driving it in. Neustatter watched them long enough to pick out their foreman.

“Impressive. When we came through at the beginning of May, you were not nearly this far.”

“Good of you to say. They want us to reach Merseburg by Christmas. Maybe next year you can ship your goods on the railroad.”

“I would like that. I have heard that someday we will be able to go from Magdeburg to Grantville in a single day.”

“End of next year, we hope,” the foreman said.

“Do you ever have trouble with niederadel trying to collect tolls?”

The foreman laughed. “From trains? Nein. That would be a good way to get hit. That was all covered by the contracts. Why do you ask?”

“Back in May, south of Kösen, some men tried to collect a toll from salt wagons on behalf of one of the adel.”

The foreman laughed. “Oh, them. Ja, they tried to shake us down. Claimed that ‘no tolls’ applied only to the trains.” He pointed to pairs of men laying rail. “There was some pushing and shoving, but . . . you see.”

Neustatter nodded. “I will keep that in mind. Danke.”

NESS had little contact with Schlinck’s Company throughout the rest of the day. They made good time. Lukas seemed to be dragging a bit, but he said nothing. Neither did Neustatter, although he did make sure either he or Ditmar kept an eye on Lukas.

They reached Weissenfels at dark. The town spanned both sides of the Saale River. From what little Neustatter could see in the smaller section on the western bank, Weissenfels seemed to be prospering. The inn was clean and well-kept, but the salt wagons had to be left a short distance away.

“Stefan, Otto, you have the first watch here,” Neustatter told them. “We will bring you dinner.”

Hans Wolfe approached. “It looks like you are posting a watch.”

“We are.”

“What if we each post one man here and one man upstairs at the inn?”

“No more sentries than we would post anyway, but we cover both locations. Danke,” Neustatter told him. He called, “Stefan! New plan. You will be in the inn.”

Grönloh and his men stayed up late again that night. Lukas did not.

“Stefan, wake Hjalmar and Karl for the next watch. Hjalmar, Wolfram and I will take the third watch, and Ditmar and Lukas the fourth.”

Saturday, September 10, 1633

The night passed uneventfully. The men of Schlinck’s Company did not join the watch on the wagons. Saturday was equally quiet, but it was the longest leg of the trip. It was dark when the convoy stopped in the village of Frankenau. The inn there did not have enough space to accommodate all the men, but the village did have plenty of haylofts.

“Same system?” Wolfe asked.

“Ja,” Neustatter agreed.

“You vary your men’s shifts each night, ja?”

“I do. I had a sergeant who kept the same men on the same watch. It works out for the first and last watches, but the men on the middle watches are not combat effective, as the up-timers say.”

Sunday, September 11, 1633

In the morning, Neustatter spoke with Wolfe and Grönloh as the men ate breakfast in shifts in the small inn.

“My men and I came south from Magdeburg this past spring and found work escorting a couple salt wagons to Grantville. South of Kösen, men tried to stop us, claiming their lord held a toll.”

“No one in Halle mentioned a toll.” Grönloh started inhaling his breakfast. “They just made that up to swindle travelers.”

“That is my belief,” Neustatter agreed. “Suppose they try the same today.”

“We will just push through.” Grönloh swallowed another bite. “Break some heads if we have to.”

“It would be better for the New United States if we could avoid a fight,” Wolfe pointed out.

Grönloh spat. “No reason to avoid one.”

“No reason to start unrest here,” Neustatter countered. “There is enough in the Thüringerwald already.”

“Schlinck’s Company will show you how real mercenaries do the job,” Grönloh promised.

Wolfe and Neustatter withdrew. When they reached the salt wagons, Wolfe spoke up. “Maybe no one will try to collect a toll.”

“We should have a plan in case they do,” Neustatter said. “In May, cracking heads is what we did, but we have a couple new options.”

“What are those?”

“First, I have learned new ways to throw a man. Second, I think they will back down if they are outflanked with up-time weapons. You will have to spot them in time for my men to get into position.”

“And extend our coverage to at least one of your wagons.”

“If you would, bitte.”

***

NESS was on high alert as soon as the convoy of salt wagons passed Kösen. At every curve, the men on the inside of the curve and on top of the wagons looked ahead, scanning for anyone near the road. Each time they crested a hill, they did the same.

A couple miles later, one of the men from Bretagne’s Company climbed up on his wagon’s cargo, peered ahead, and began a side-to-side overhand wave.

Neustatter waved back. “NESS! Ditmar! Hjalmar! Otto! Stefan! Run up the right side of the wagons and flank whoever that is! It is just like Eagle Pepper!”

Once the four of them were off, Neustatter put Wolfram on the fifth wagon and Lukas on the last. He and Karl took position on the ground beside each of those wagons.

The Bretagne guard waved again, and Neustatter hurried forward. Wolfe fell in beside him. They arrived at the front of the convoy to see about a dozen men squared off against the wagons. The guards from Schlinck’s Company assembled in a loose rank in front of them. Neustatter saw the locals had lined up beside a large tree. It stood by itself with no other trees around it. Neustatter figured it probably marked the boundary of those men’s lord.

Both sides had been talking when Neustatter and Wolfe arrived. They had reached threats on both sides.

“Clear the road!” Neustatter barked. He recognized one big, stout man as one of those who had tried to stop the earlier salt convoy in May.

That had the desired effect, and both sides turned on him. Neustatter faced them with the rifle in his right hand, pointed down but ready to come up in a hurry. His left hand was in the air.

“This is a shipment to the NUS Army. You have no authority to stop it.”

“Our lord owns the toll by order of the emperor!”

“Which emperor?”

“The Holy Roman emperor!”

“He no longer controls this area. The NUS does. Your lord has never done anything to improve the road. The NUS put down gravel and dug the ditches and built the railroad. Your lord does not deserve the tolls.”

Hans Wolfe just stared at Neustatter.

“And your lord surrendered the tolls as part of the settlement when the railroad right of way was negotiated. I checked with the NUS government before we left Grantville,” Neustatter stated. “Also, I have four men on your flank with up-time weapons.”

“You are bluffing.”

Neustatter’s left arm, still in the air, swept out to the left. A sudden crack made the locals—and a few of Schlinck’s men—jump.

Wolfe spoke up. “You might want to check that tree. I am sure it has a bullet in it.”

A couple of the local lord’s men were fidgeting, and at least half were looking past Neustatter to his rifle-armed men. Neustatter stared at the big guy.

“I remember you!” he exclaimed.

“How did it work out last time?” Neustatter asked.

He glowered.

“I went and got trained by up-timers.” Neustatter brought his left hand down and scratched his chin. “I have been wondering about something. Does your lord send you to collect tolls from all the travelers or just from salt wagons?”

A couple of the locals’ mouths dropped open. Another, somewhat older than the others, sputtered before getting the words out. “How do you know that?”

“The NUS government does not know your lord is a problem. If you were collecting tolls from everyone who passed by, Grantville would have heard about it. Also, you would have tried to stop a truck by now, and the Army would have shown up. It is just the salt, or are there other goods?”

“Herr Johann had an agreement with the salt merchants in Halle . . . ” The older man described an agreement that was, as far as Neustatter could tell, at least a couple generations old. Neustatter received the impression that the parties had been feuding over the details ever since.

“Listen,” Neustatter finally said. “Once the railroad reaches Halle, they will be able to ship the salt by train. Your lord will not be able to collect tolls then. He needs to stop now, before he—and you—get into trouble.”

A couple of the locals took a step back, and the group more or less circled up. Neustatter intended to let them talk themselves into going home.

“Charge!” Grönloh bellowed.

“Nein!” Wolfe shouted.

But all eight men of Schlinck’s Company surged forward, brandishing musket butts. Neustatter saw one dagger. He grabbed that man by the collar and swung him into the tree. Then he buried a right in the man’s midsection and hung onto the man until the dagger had finished falling to the ground.

The big local had learned a couple things since May, too. He neatly sidestepped the man who came after him and landed an economic blow with his cudgel to the outside of the man’s thigh. That dead-legged him, and he lost his balance.

“Halt!” Neustatter ordered.

One of Schlinck’s men swung a musket at him. Neustatter dodged, and it caught him a grazing blow to the left shoulder. Neustatter stepped in and brought the barrel of the .308 up sharply between the men’s legs. He howled and bent over. Neustatter shoved him to the ground.

“Stopp! Break it up!” Wolfe shouted. His men were racing up now, and some of both Schlinck’s Company and the locals turned on Bretagne’s Company. Others were grappling each other and missed the new arrivals.

Neustatter declined to engage one of the locals, dodged another of Schlinck’s men, and came up behind Grönloh. He smashed him just above the left kidney with the butt of the .308. The man staggered, whirled. Neustatter landed his next blow squarely to the face. Then he hit him a couple times in the midsection to put him on the ground.

Neustatter reversed his weapon, aimed at the ground, and fired. Most of the fighting paused for just an instant. He worked the bolt, fired again.

“You are done!” He roared the words in his best imitation of a drill sergeant. “I can shoot all day.”

A local and one of Schlinck’s men were still beating on each other.

“Line up!”

“You do not—”

Wolfe coldcocked Schlinck’s man. The local was instantly seized and dragged back by one of his buddies.

“What . . . The . . . Hell . . . Was . . . That?!” Neustatter stalked past men. “Schlinck’s Company, one rank in front of that wagon . . . NOW!”

“You cannot—”

“Yes he can!” That was Karl, from right behind Schlinck’s men. Lukas and Wolfram flanked him, and all three had shotguns to their shoulders. “Drop your weapons.”

Schlinck’s men shut up. Most of them at least glanced at their weapons. A couple had lost their slow matches. They dropped their matchlocks to the ground. One of the others saw Ditmar, Hjalmar, Otto, and Stefan arriving from the flank and carefully lowered his to the ground. Within seconds, the last one was down.

“This is why is it a bad idea to try to collect illegal tolls,” Neustatter told the locals. “Do you know what happens now? Paperwork. This all gets written down. These are the last salt wagons you will ever try to collect a toll from. Is that understood?”

Heads nodded.

“Wolfram, see to the injured.”

Some of the men had taken hard blows. A couple had lost teeth. The older man looked like he was going to have a black eye.

“Nobody dead, nobody maimed,” Wolfram summarized sometime later. “Grönloh goes to Leahy. A couple of them need their ribs bound.”

“I think we will have to stop in Jena and make some arrangements,” Neustatter told Wolfe.

“Ja. The Army will not be happy.”

Neustatter shrugged. “I suppose we should talk to Schlinck’s Company and see if they are willing to continue the mission.”

“I do not think we can trust them,” Wolfe replied.

Neustatter nodded.

“Some of them will not be able to walk,” Wolfe continued.

“True.”

“I will kill you, Neustatter!” a voice roared. From the ground.

“Ah, Grönloh is awake,” Neustatter observed. He and Wolfe approached.

Grönloh was not standing up yet. He continued to make threats.

“Sergeant Grönloh, why did you charge when they were just about to get out of our way?”

“You cannot let men off like that. They must be disciplined. Once we get back to Grantville, you are dead! Do you hear me? Schlinck’s Company is coming for you—”

Neustatter’s boot slammed into his side, and Grönloh toppled over again.

Neustatter straightened up and looked around. “Do we have any other slow learners here?”

Heads shook vigorously.

***

The salt wagons did not stop. Ditmar, Stefan, and Wolfram spelled three teamsters as they hurriedly ate lunch, then spelled the other three. Neustatter and Wolfe had two men from their companies eat at a time. Schlinck’s men ate whenever they wanted, but they were riding, two each, in the backs of the third, fourth, fifth, and sixth wagons. Their muskets, cartridge boxes, and edged weapons were piled in the back of the first wagon. Pairs of men from NESS and Bretagne’s Company flanked the convoy.

They reached Jena after dark. Neustatter and Wolfe approached the gate.

A pair of watchmen looked down at them from above. “The gate is closed for the night.”

“This is a convoy of salt wagons under contract to the NUS Army. We have guards from three companies. There was a problem with one of them. We need MPs and medics, and we need to get this cargo somewhere it can be guarded for the night.”

“Not in Jena.” The man was adamant.

Neustatter shrugged off his pack and dug something out. He carefully unwrapped a quill and a small up-time glass bottle with a screw-on lid. Then he pulled out his notebook and unscrewed the caps on the metal prongs that held the pages together. He removed a page, screwed the notebook back together, and began writing.

He—and presumably Wolfe and Grönloh—had been told to memorize certain information that would identify the convoy in case of emergency.

CONVOY HE13. SNAFU SNAB FUBAR BIZUB FUZBUB

Brawl with locals. Schlinck’s Company has injuries. Need medics, MPs, and removal from convoy. Bretagne’s Company and NESS all okay. Can continue mission in morning. Need to enter Jena for night. Neustatter. Wolfe agrees.

Neustatter blew on the ink.

“You are supposed to sand it,” one of the watchmen told him.

Neustatter rolled his eyes. “Next time I will bring my secretary. Come take this and deliver it to NUS Military Police, bitte.”

“Are you serious?”

“Ja. As a heart attack, Drill Sergeant Huffman would say.”

The two guards held a whispered conversation, then one of them ambled away. After a short distance, he disappeared. A couple minutes later, the gate opened just a crack.

Neustatter, rifle slung over his shoulder, approached and handed the man the sheet of paper. The watchman shrugged and ambled away. He was not breaking any speed records, but he was moving in the right direction. The gate swung shut, and a bar slid into place. So there was at least one more guard at ground level.

Sometime later, Neustatter heard the bar slide again, and one gate opened. He saw three city watchmen, accompanied by what appeared to be two MPs. One of them had Neustatter’s note in his hand. A sixth man carried a case with a handle. Neustatter tentatively pegged him as a medic.

“I’m Sergeant Stevenson,” one of the MPs said. “What’s going on?”

Neustatter saluted. Stevenson automatically returned it.

“Ich heisse Edgar Neustatter, Neustatter’s European Security Services. Er heisst Hans Wolfe of Bretagne’s Company. On the wagons is a squad from Schlinck’s Company. We are escorting a salt shipment to Erfurt. There was a problem.”

Stevenson waved the other MP and the medic toward the wagons. “Go on,” he directed Neustatter.

Neustatter and Wolfe explained the situation.

“Wonderful,” Stevenson muttered. “I suppose it will be us MPs who pay his lordship a visit.”

Neustatter refrained from offering any advice.

Stevenson turned to the watchmen. “All right, get these guys into Jena.”

The watchmen grumbled but opened the other side of the gate. The first wagon rumbled past. Stevenson put up his hand to stop Neustatter and Wolfe.

“I’ve heard your side. I’m going to hear Schlinck’s side. It’ll be tough to sort out what happened. I suspect the Army isn’t going to be happy.”

“Ask the teamsters,” Neustatter suggested. “Those in front saw everything. If you have to go there anyway, ask the lord’s men. There’s a big, heavy guy, swings a pretty good cudgel. He remembered me from May. There’s an older guy, gray hair but still fit, who claims to know the previous arrangements between his lord and the Halle salt merchants. He will have a black eye.”

Marshall Stevenson nodded slowly. “Someone will probably do that.” He turned his attention to the note Neustatter had sent in with the Jena watchman and tapped one word. “Most of this I understood. What is fuzbub?”

“That is what happens when a FUBAR and a BIZUB collide.”

Stevenson snorted. “I thought at first this might be some sort of up-time/down-time problem.”

“Nein, that’s JUDFU. Joint Up-time Down-time Foul Up.”

The other MP snickered. “You don’t mind if I start using that one on reports, do you, Sergeant Stevenson?” she asked.

“Knock yourself out, Jordan,” Stevenson told her.

Monday, September 12, 1633

In the morning, the salt convoy set out. Both NESS and Bretagne’s Company adopted a “two up, six down” formation. The MPs got the men of Schlinck’s Company back to Grantville.

It was a very quiet day. They reached Erfurt and reported to the supply depot there.

Dennis Stull himself met them. He was flanked by a couple men in NUS Army camouflage. The clipboards they held told Neustatter they were from Supply. A couple squads from the garrison were nearby, not seeming to be doing anything.

Backup, Neustatter decided, in case whatever problem the convoy had had was still there.

“Convoy HE13 reporting!” Neustatter saluted.

One of the supply sergeants returned the salute. That told Neustatter who was senior—always useful to know.

Dennis Stull spoke first. “We got a radio message from Jena that there was trouble.”

Neustatter summarized.

Stull and the senior sergeant exchanged glances.

“Let’s get the cargo checked in,” the soldier recommended. “The MPs will deal with the mercenaries. We just need to make sure this is quality salt and then load some supplies for them to take back to Jena. I’d like to radio Sergeant Burroughs that everything is good to go before the end of the day.”

Dennis Stull nodded his agreement.

A short time later, Supply had opened random containers of salt and verified that it was indeed salty. Everyone pitched in offloading the salt and then refilling a couple of the wagons with cargo for Jena. The supply depot had its own guards, so NESS and Bretagne’s Company did not need to post a watch on the wagons that night. Most of the men took advantage of the opportunity for a full night’s sleep and even went to bed a bit early. Lukas, however, went out and returned very late.

The return convoy set out in the morning. Guards were hardly needed on the Thuringian Backbone these days. The most exciting part of the day was repeatedly drawing in the guards on the left side of the wagons so that traffic could pass in the opposite direction. They reached the MP training site in Jena.

Sergeant Stevenson was waiting for them. The woman soldier was nearby with a squad.

“How’d it go?”

“No problems. We have some supplies for you.”

“Danke. Headquarters is not happy. They want all of you back in Grantville. Jordan here is going to take a squad of MPs north with the wagons. She’ll drop in and have a chat with his lordship.”

Wolfe drew Neustatter aside while the other men were eating at an inn. “I notice the Army did not provide transportation back to Grantville. It is twenty-five miles. I think we need to cover that in one day.”

“I agree. We can have the fourth watch wake us early.” Neustatter turned to his men. “Last beers. We move out at dawn. We need to get back to Grantville to give our side of the story.”

Wednesday, September 14, 1633

Neustatter had a pretty good idea that Lukas was hung over again. Stefan was complaining. Most of the other men were not saying much.

“Do not worry for twenty-five miles,” Neustatter told them. “That would make for a miserable march.”

They were at one of Jena’s gates when it opened. The day was cool, and clouds had moved in overnight.

“Looks like rain,” Wolfe observed.

“We have been fortunate so far this mission,” Neustatter pointed out. “If we could save a few hours . . . ”

They made good time and ate on the move. The skies were steadily darkening when a horn sounded behind them.

“Train!” the last man in the group called.

Neustatter stepped close to the rails, but not too close, and started waving both arms. He was not sure if trains took passengers of opportunity—if the engineer saw sixteen men with long arms, he might go on by.

The train slowed with a squeal of brakes. It was a pickup truck pulling a couple box cars.

The engineer leaned out the window. “You boys in trouble?”

“The sooner we can reach Camp Saale the better,” Neustatter told him. “We need to report in.”

“That second box car is half empty,” the engineer told them. “I reckon you’d fill it up. There’s a rate for unscheduled pickups.”

Neustatter looked at Wolfe and shrugged. Neither group needed that expense, but reporting in quickly really was more important.

“You have a deal,” Neustatter agreed.

When the train approached Schwarza Junction, Neustatter called NESS together and quickly gave orders.

“Hjalmar, take Stefan and Wolfram home to their families. You are in charge. Otto, you are his runner. Take your halstuch off and put on a different colored shirt. If there is any trouble, you run to the polizei station. The rest of us will report in at Camp Saale.”

Hjalmar’s team caught a local train into Grantville.

***

The women had cleaned the house until it was spotless. Johann had done his schoolwork, Ursula was experimenting with a new soup, Anna was sewing, and Astrid had more mystery novels from the library. The most exciting thing that had happened since the men had left on their mission was that Ursula had discovered there was a Lutheran congregation in Grantville itself. They could attend there instead of crossing nearly the entire Ring of Fire to reach St. Martin’s in the Fields.

Astrid was thinking she ought to set her current mystery book aside and prepare for her classes when someone began beating on the door.

Since Ursula was frowning mightily and Anna looked scared, Astrid crossed the room and opened the door. Two men pushed their way in.

“How dare you!” Ursula exclaimed. Astrid did not think those two men were expecting her to advance on them. She had a ladle in one hand, and Astrid suspected she was more than willing to use it.

“Is this Neustatter’s place?” one of them asked. He was tall, dark-haired, and generally unkempt.

“Ja.”

He grabbed Astrid by the arm. “You are coming with us. We are going to teach Neustatter a lesson.”

“I am not going anywhere with you!” she told him. “Let go of me!”

Astrid tried to pull away from him. He backhanded her across the face.

She poked him in the eye. He swung wildly, connecting with her shoulder and losing his grip on her arm. Astrid quickly backed up across the room, out of his reach.

His partner, shorter, stockier, with shorter, lighter brown hair, advanced on Ursula. That was a mistake. She swept a knife up off the table. The idiot went for her knife hand, and Ursula caught him upside the head with the metal ladle. Astrid saw her jab at him with the knife, but that was all she had time to see.

The tall, dark-haired man came after her. She backed around the table and then realized that was a mistake. He lunged. Astrid dove and rolled. She might have gotten away if she had not stumbled coming to her feet. He grabbed her arm and pulled her toward the door, but she wrapped her other arm around one leg of the table.

After he yanked on her arm three or four times, Astrid thought both arms were going to come out of their sockets. She finally lost her grip, and he towed her across the room and out the door.

Once outside, she realized someone was screaming at the top of her lungs. It was not her. The second man came barreling through the door. He grabbed her other arm. This time it was Astrid screaming. She drew a deep breath and sputtered in astonishment as a rock hit the shorter man in the face.

Then the taller man got hit, too. Astrid shut her eyes and turned her head just in case. Sure enough, she got hit. Twice. The first one bruised her leg. The second hit her squarely in the ribs, and it hurt.

The two men, on the other hand, were struck with a barrage. Astrid screamed again and started struggling. The shorter one let go of her. His arm was bleeding. It looked like Ursula had gotten him with the knife. The other one slapped Astrid across the face again.

And then a body hit him at full speed. Astrid got knocked to the ground. She rolled away, scrambled to her feet, and intended to run. Then she saw it was Hjalmar who had slammed into the man. Her brother was currently astride the prone man, battering him with both fists.

“Hjalmar! Hjalmar! I am unhurt! Stop!”

Stefan ran past. Astrid looked around. The shorter man was down, and Wolfram was also running toward their quarters.

Astrid tried a different tactic. “Hjalmar! We need to interrogate him! He has to be alive for that.”

Her brother looked up. “Interrogate? Where have you been learning English words like that?”

“Mysteries.” She remembered something this man had said. “Mysteries like who sent these two ‘to teach Neustatter a lesson.’”

Hjalmar’s expression turned even angrier, but he did not hit the man again. “Check our quarters. See if we have any rope. To tie him up,” he clarified.

Astrid heard something, turned, and saw flashing lights. “Never mind. The polizei are coming.”

A police vehicle approached with its lights flashing and siren blaring. She thought she later heard it called a “Jeep Cherokee,” but when she looked that up, she learned it meant a “general-purpose Indian.” So she must have gotten the name wrong.

Two officers got out and ordered everyone to drop their weapons. They looked confused when they realized no one was holding a weapon. Hjalmar’s was slung across his shoulder, and he had to shrug off the strap. Stefan’s was on the ground a short distance from the shorter man who had attacked Astrid and Ursula. Wolfram’s was neatly propped against the wall of NESS’ quarters, next to the door. Wolfram always took good care of his equipment.

Astrid finally noticed that Stefan and Ursula’s son Johann and several other boys his age were standing nearby and realized where those rocks had come from.

“What is going on here?” one of the polizei officers demanded. He had one hand on his pistol but had not drawn it from the holster yet.

Ursula began explaining—loudly, because she was some distance away. But she was not any less loud as she drew closer. Ursula was angry, and her tongue was as sharp as her knife.

The other officer quietly motioned Hjalmar away from the man he had knocked out. He checked the man, then spoke into a radio on his shoulder. “10-23, Number 38, Murphyhausen. 10-52, two men hurt.”

He quickly checked on the other man, then motioned everyone closer.

Hjalmar helped. “NESS, fall in, open order. Families together.”

The first polizei officer raised an eyebrow at that while the second watched NESS carefully. They lined up: Hjalmar, Astrid, Stefan, Ursula, Johann, Wolfram, Anna, Otto. Astrid had no idea where Otto had come from. The back seat of the police truck, she later found out.

The polizei questioned them, because two men who had attacked them were not going anywhere. The women were describing what happened when a whole column of trucks approached. First was another police truck, then an ambulance, and finally two pickup trucks.

Dan Frost got out of the newly arrived police truck and hurried toward them. Two men in a different uniform ran from the ambulance toward the two men who had attacked them. Neustatter, the rest of NESS, and several men in NUS Army uniforms jumped out of the pickups.

“NESS, give me a rank at a right angle to Hjalmar’s,” Neustatter directed. He, Ditmar, Lukas, and Karl lined up. Their rifles and shotguns were slung over their shoulders.

“Drop your weapons,” one of the polizei officers ordered.

Chief Frost held up a hand. “That’s not necessary.”

“Thanks, Dan,” one of the uniformed soldiers said. Astrid was surprised to recognize Sergeant Huffman. She quickly studied the others and picked out Sergeant Yost. The two of them seemed . . . protective . . . toward them. The other two looked angry.

“Someone, bring me up to speed,” Chief Frost requested.

One of the soldiers Astrid did not recognize spoke first. “There was a fight between mercenary companies guarding supply convoy HE13, and they brought it home with them. I want them arrested. If you don’t do it, I will.”

“Where’d it start?” Frost asked.

“South of Kösen,” Neustatter answered.

“That’s north of Jena,” Frost observed. “Not my jurisdiction, but let’s start at the beginning. Who was there?”

Wolfram raised a hand. “Request permission to fall out and assist the EMTs.”

Chief Frost gave him a quick nod. “Granted.”

“The convoy was six salt wagons, with eight guards each from Bretagne’s Company, Schlinck’s Company, and NESS,” Neustatter began. He told the whole story. When he reached the point where he and Wolfe had sent Grönloh and his men back to Grantville, Chief Frost and Sergeant Huffman exchanged glances. Frost looked at his two officers, too. There was something significant about that act.

“I thought there might be trouble,” Neustatter concluded. “When we arrived at Schwarza Junction, I sent the men with families back here. The rest of us reported in at Camp Saale.”

“Neustatter happened across us,” Sergeant Yost said. His voice grew stern, and Astrid had no trouble imagining him shouting at recruits. “We got the short version. This is exactly why I am so hard on former mercenaries. I want them to understand their job is to protect civilians now. Neustatter friggin’ understands that. It sounds like Bretagne’s guys do, too, but Schlinck’s guys don’t. That’s why we wanted all the mercenaries in the New United States run through basic.”

“If they are fighting among themselves, they are not doing their jobs. I am recommending all of them be removed from guarding convoys,” one of the other soldiers stated. “And I want them arrested.”

“Hold on, Lieutenant Kerns,” Chief Frost directed. “I want to hear what happened right here before anything else. Miss Schäubin, were you here when it started?”

“I certainly was!” Astrid pointed to the two men. One was still on the ground with a polizei officer standing over him. Then one Hjalmar knocked out had been loaded onto a stretcher and placed in the back of the ambulance. “That one said I was coming with them and that they were going to teach Neustatter a lesson.”

Frost turned to his other officer. “Call dispatch and have someone pull the rosters for the mercenary companies in the area. Get IDs on these two. Find out if they’re part of Schlinck’s Company—and make sure there’s an officer on each of them at Leahy.”

“Yes, Chief.”

“Continue, Miss Schäubin.”

Astrid related what had happened, with help from Ursula. When she was finished, Chief Frost turned to the soldiers.

“Thoughts?”

The soldier who had remained silent until now spoke first. “I know you’ll question those two, Dan. But it’s hard to see any other reason they’d be here, and since none of Neustatter’s guys got here until after it started, it’d be pretty hard for the women to make up a story that fits so well with what happened on the road.”

“Good points, Voss.” Frost quickly corrected himself. “Lieutenant Gordon. When did Grönloh’s squad return to Camp Saale?”

“They didn’t.”

“I’ve got a problem with that, too,” Kerns declared.

NESS stood there for a very long time and learned a lot about police procedure. Finally, Chief Frost got the radio call he was waiting for. He spoke for a couple minutes and then started giving orders. The polizei were going in force to question Schlinck. The soldiers left, saying something about finding some MPs. Sergeants Huffman and Yost both nodded to Neustatter. Lieutenant Kerns glowered. Lieutenant Gordon had a good poker face. Chief Frost left one officer to keep an eye on them.

“Is everyone okay?” Neustatter asked.

A chorus of “Ja” answered him.

“Dinner!” Ursula exclaimed. She ran inside.

Neustatter took Johann and his friends aside. “Good work, boys. You were very brave.”

“Danke, Herr Neustatter.”

“What are your names?”

A short, dark-haired boy answered first. “Josef Forster.”

“Hans Reuter.” He was a few inches taller and blond.

The third boy was a bit chunky and wore a baseball cap. “Fritz Dieterlin.”

“Have you boys had dinner?” Neustatter asked.

“Ah, nein, Herr,” Hans answered.

“But we should probably get home,” Josef added.

Neustatter nodded in approval. The boys came over to Astrid.

“We are sorry we missed with some of the rocks and hit you, Miss Schäubin.”

“That is okay. I will be fine. Danke, boys.”

The three said goodbye to Johann and disappeared.

“Officer?” Neustatter asked next. “Would you like some dinner?”

“I had better stay out here, danke.”

Once inside, Hjalmar asked Astrid, “How are you, really?”

“Bruised, I am sure,” she answered. “No more than when I fell out of that apple tree. I will be fine in a couple days.”

“I do not know how this will be,” Ursula warned. “I was not planning to be interrupted by a fight.” She began dishing up dinner, small oblongs of stuffed pastry.

Everyone dug in. Karl had several on his plate. “What are these?” he asked. “They are good!”

“The up-timers have something called pasties. It is like a schnitzel with heavier bread, but with vegetables, too. This is somewhere between them.” Ursula sniffed. “As long as you are going to use forks anyway.”

Despite Ursula’s earlier disclaimer, everyone enjoyed dinner. Afterwards, once they cleaned up, Neustatter called them all back to the table.

“My fault. Sending Schlinck’s men back without any of us along just gave them two days to come up with this. The polizei will keep them away now, but if this Schlinck is the same sort of man that Grönloh is, then he may find a way to continue threatening us.

“In the morning, Miss Schäubin, I would like you to collect information on the mercenary companies in the Grantville area. Chief Frost once told you to ‘file the occasional piece of paperwork.’ Find out what paperwork companies like ours need to file. Karl, you go with her. Hjalmar, trail them. Don’t wear your halstuch or your uniform shirt.”

“Otto, you trail Johann. Out of uniform.”

Johann frowned. “I can take care of myself!”

“Not if Schlinck sends three or four men.” Neustatter’s voice was calm. “Ditmar, you, Stefan, and Lukas guard the house. See if you can find something to put outside the door for a mailbox. Wolfram, your medical training is a priority on days we have no missions.”

“And where are you going, Neustatter?” Ursula asked.

Neustatter looked around, taking in the ground floor of the rowhouse. “I am going to see about new quarters. See what Schlinck’s men have already done. We will not have anyone earning money tomorrow because we must guard ourselves.”

“Can we afford to move?” Ursula’s next question came quickly.

“Maybe. I think finding quarters for twelve people will be hard,” Neustatter acknowledged. “But we could move back to refugee housing. Any of the three, but I think we should consider the one near the high school. That would put us closer to Camp Saale and the road to Jena. Saving an hour’s walk at the beginning and end of most missions is probably worth it all on its own.”

“But, Neustatter, we just got this house like we want it!” Anna protested. “We do not want to start over.”

“True, and I am sorry about that. I want a home, too. But there is only one exit from this valley, and it would be simple enough for Schlinck’s Company to trap us here. The other thing we need is a place of business so that our advertisements in the newspaper do not lead anyone straight to where we live.”

Thursday, September 15, 1633

Astrid started at the polizei station. She stepped into the long narrow hallway and immediately turned left into the reception area. The same woman as before was seated behind the counter. Astrid had seen name plates at the high school, and this time she made sure to look for one. Sure enough . . .

“Frau Rowland—”

“Mimi.”

Astrid gave the woman a blank look.

“Call me Mimi, please. Not Frau Rowland or Miss Rowland, okay?”

That seemed a strange request to Astrid, but if it made her happy . . .

“Mimi,” she said. “Und I am Astrid.”

Mimi smiled. “What can I do for you, Astrid?”

“I understand that security services have to file paperwork. May I have that, bitte? I will fill out what I can and take the rest to Neustatter.”

“Wish I could help, but you have to go over to the New United States Army base for that.”

Astrid gave her a look.

Mimi shrugged. “I don’t claim it makes sense, just that that’s where the forms are.”

Astrid exchanged glances with Karl. He also shrugged. Her interpretation was that walking around all day would not bother Karl in the least.

“Danke, Mimi. Do we bring you the forms, or does the Army bring them to you?”

“Oh, the Army will send them over.”

“Do you know who at Camp Saale has the forms?”

“Sure do. You want Voss Gordon.”

“Oh! I know who that is! Danke, Mimi.”

“See ya.”

Hjalmar was waiting for them outside.

“We have to go to Camp Saale to fill out the forms,” Astrid told him.

He rolled his eyes.

“We need to find Leutnant Voss Gordon.”

“I have no idea where he would be at Camp Saale,” Astrid’s brother told her.

“I will ask at the gate.”

***

As they approached, Astrid saw several soldiers at Camp Saale’s gate.

“Military polizei,” Karl said. “See the armbands?”

Now that he had pointed them out, Astrid saw the cloth armbands with the letters MP in black. “Ah. That is how you can tell?”

“Ja.”

Three of the soldiers watched them approach. One of them nudged the fourth. Astrid realized that none of them were looking at Karl. She thought they should have been. He was the one with an up-time shotgun.

The soldiers were wearing camouflage uniforms and caps. Astrid had trouble telling them apart. One was somewhat taller than the others. Another seemed older than the rest. The other two probably looked different out of uniform, but right now they might as well be twins.

“Halt! This is a military base,” the older one ordered. Now that they were just a few feet away, Astrid could see two chevrons on his uniform.

“Ja, we know, Corporal. Miss Astrid Schäubin, secretary of Neustatter’s European Security Services.” She gestured toward Karl. “Agent Recker. Und that is Team Leader Schaub behind us.”

The soldiers were suddenly all business.

“I need to file security service paperwork with Leutnant Voss Gordon.”

“I can take you there,” volunteered one of the “twins.”

“Danke,” Astrid told him.

“Leave your weapons with us, bitte,” the corporal requested.

“Hjalmar and Karl are in the Reserves,” Astrid told them. “Those are Army weapons.”

“Reserves, eh? Which basic class?”

“33 dash 3,” Karl answered.

“Just last month,” the soldier observed. “Still new.”

“Old enough to have captured Birkig,” Karl returned.

Astrid saw the corporal’s eyes widen. “I heard about that. That was your class?”

“A lot of it was Neustatter.”

“All right.” The soldier’s manner changed. Astrid could not say how, but Hjalmar later told her the soldier’s manner went from politeness to respect. One of the MPs led them straight to a long, wooden building that looked more than a little like their refugee housing. But inside, a central corridor ran the length of the building, which was divided up into offices.

The soldier knocked on the third door on the left.

“Come in!”

He opened the door. “Neustatter’s European Security Services to see you, Leutnant.”

“Thank you.”

Leutnant Gordon came around from behind his desk to shake hands.

“What can I do for you?”

“Neustatter sent me to file our security service paperwork,” Astrid answered.

“Ah, right.” He opened the top drawer of a metal cabinet. Folders with little hooks hung from metal rods. Most of them were full of papers. He began extracting sheets from several different folders.

Astrid looked at his desk. It was in the up-time style, a metal thing as big as a bed. Papers were stacked neatly here and there. A nameplate read “John Voss Gordon.” A few books stood upright at one end of the desk, held by decorative metal . . . somethings. Whatever they were, they had come from up-time. So had the books. She looked more closely. Yes, they were law books. The office did not seem very Army. It felt more like she imagined a bürgermeister’s office would be, except up-time.

Lieutenant Gordon completed the stack of papers he was about to hand Astrid. “I am what passes for a legal officer. Mostly, that means I deal with complaints. Because so many complaints seem to involve mercenaries, the New United States Army has put a few regulations in place.”

“That looks like more than a few, Leutnant Gordon,” Astrid observed.

“The list does seem to keep getting longer. Fill this one out first, then have everyone who works for your company sign this one. The rest of these you and Neustatter need to sign.” He pushed a small stand holding a quill and an inkwell across the desk to Astrid.

She began filling out the paperwork. Hjalmar and Karl seemed content to stay in the background.

“How did things go with Schlinck’s Company?” Lieutenant Gordon asked.

Astrid looked up from a form. “I do not know. How did they go?”

“You don’t know?”

“We are here. Ditmar’s team is at our quarters. One man is trailing Stefan and Ursula’s son to school. Neustatter is looking for new quarters.”

“You and Neustatter need to go talk to Dan Frost,” Gordon told her. “Schlinck claims those two men acted on their own.”

Hjalmar spoke up for the first time. “Sure they did.”

Gordon shrugged. “You know that. I know that. Three out of four village idiots know it. But no one can prove it.” He paused. “Kerns does not want to hire any of you for future convoys.”

“Can he do that?”

“Up to a point. He handles Personnel. He can assign whomever he wants until sets of requirements overlap. Then he is going to have to hire someone he doesn’t want.”

“Our men can work with civilians,” Astrid pointed out.

“Yeah. Dennis Stull likes you guys. Even Suhl says you’re okay. So, you’ll probably be in the rotation some—maybe just not as much as you have been.”

That worried Astrid, but she did not want to acknowledge it in front of Lieutenant Gordon.

“Is there anything else we need to do?” she asked.

“Have Neustatter sign those papers and bring them back,” he said. “And have everyone sign the roster.”

“I will. Danke.”

***

Neustatter was the last one to return to the house. He asked for Astrid’s report first. She gave it to him.

“That is about what I expected,” he said. “I do not think it will matter.”

All of them stared at Neustatter.

“First, if anyone asks any of you why there was a problem with Schlinck’s Company, tell them we protect civilians. I did some asking around, and Schlinck’s Company is becoming known for shoving people out of their way. Second, we need a place of business separate from our quarters. That means we will have a sign. People will be able to see us when they need a security service. Third, I talked to a couple of the women from the Grantville Ecumenical Refugee Relief Committee. We can move our quarters to the refugee housing near the high school.”

“Neustatter, where is this place of business going to be?” Stefan asked.

“I saw a couple possible places today. Tomorrow Miss Schäubin and I will find out who owns the land and buildings I saw today. Wolfram, medical. Karl, I want you with us. When we check possible sites, think about the space needed for horses and horseshoeing. Hjalmar, Otto, you watch our quarters. Stefan, take Johann to school, then take your time on your way back. Look for any open buildings from the Freedom Arches to the sharp turn in Route 250 just before downtown. Ditmar and Lukas, same thing, but in downtown. Start south of Buffalo Creek, but check north of it if you have time.”

Friday, September 16, 1633

In the morning, they all set out together. Grantville was already busy, and the NESS agents threaded their way through everyone going to work downtown. Every so often, one or two more broke off on their assignments. After Wolfram turned down the driveway at Leahy Medical Center, just Neustatter, Astrid, and Karl continued on to Grantville High School.

They went straight to the library and asked how to look up who owned land. They learned that information was actually kept in one of the government offices, back on High Street.

“It will take less time to walk over to the new building I saw and just ask,” Neustatter pointed out.

So they did. The homes along Route 250 out past the high school were the first buildings Astrid had seen when she entered the Ring of Fire. Anywhere else in the Germanies, the neighborhood off Porter Avenue would be its own village. On the other side of Route 250 was a triangular strip of land, mostly covered with gravel. A long wooden building was nearly complete. Three doors were evenly spaced, and workers were constructing a walkway of wooden boards along the entire front of the building. Further out in the gravel were posts supporting wooden beams. The storefront, wooden plank sidewalk, and hitching posts reminded Astrid of the Westerns Neustatter read, and she immediately realized that was what had drawn his eye.

They approached the workmen.

“Guten Morgen!”

A pair of men looked up from where they were fitting boards into place in the sidewalk. “Guten Morgen,” one of them returned.

“Do you know if these places of business are already rented?”

“I do not. You would have to talk to Frau Haun about that.”

“Where may I find her?”

The carpenter made a vague gesture. “The Hauns live over that way on the other side of Buffalo Creek.”

“What is the most direct route?” Neustatter asked.

“There is no direct route,” came the answer. “When the Hauns come here, they come from the high school.”

Neustatter studied the land. “Danke,” he told the carpenter. Quietly, he told Astrid, “We need to go back to the high school. If we are going to stay in the refugee housing there, we should learn our way around the area.”

It took them a while. The refugee housing on the hill behind the high school was easy enough to find. The hillside had been cleared of trees. The housing was almost identical to the building they had lived in in Spring Branch.

Between the high school and refugee housing on one side and Leahy Medical Center in the distance lay Deborah Road, which naturally enough went to the village of Deborah. It ended at Pine Grove Road, which the up-timers also called County Route 91. To the right, just a few tens of yards from Deborah Road, Deborah Street branched off to the right, more or less at right angles to Deborah Road. As if that were not confusing enough, Deborah Road ran through the now-settled area between the high school/tech center complex and Leahy Medical Center while Deborah Street appeared to head off into the woods.

Neustatter, Karl, and Astrid started down Deborah Street and found that it paralleled Buffalo Creek on the south side. Buffalo Creek curved south almost all the way to the site where the western-style storefront office building was being built before curving north again into another loop. Along the way, they found a trail from the road to the refugee housing and another that led to the far end of one of the athletic fields at the high school. Astrid spotted a stone with a plaque on it where the power lines crossed overhead. She walked over to read it and learned it was a memorial for the tree-trimming crew who had been killed in the Croat attack.

The road continued on through the trees and finally opened up into a clearing.

“I think we are almost back where we started.” Neustatter frowned and pointed at a sheer hillside just visible through the trees. “If we could get up that cliff, I believe we would be next to Route 250.”

“Which house do you think is the Hauns’?” Astrid asked.

This area was almost its own village, too. Astrid counted nine buildings and trailers in sight, and it looked like there were probably a few more a bit further on. The first three shared a common driveway that was nothing more than two concrete strips in the grass.

Neustatter shrugged. He walked straight up to the door of the first house. It was a white two-story building with a few steps leading up to the front door and a single gable centered above it.

An older up-time man came to the door. A heavy inner door stood open, and the lighter outer door had no glass. Instead, a fine wire mesh covered where the windows would be.

The man looked annoyed.

“Whaddya want? Ain’t no magazine subscriptions, don’t wanna buy nuthin’, and we already found Jesus.”

Neustatter, Astrid, and Karl exchanged glances. They couldn’t help it.

“We are looking for Frau Haun. We understand she owns the new building across Buffalo Creek on Route 250,” Neustatter managed to get out.

“Oh, shore. It’s Fred and Julia that own the place, but their daughter Leigh Ann manages everything. She’s an Ennis now, you know.”

Neustatter, Karl, and Astrid did not know that. The up-time custom of women taking their husbands’ surnames was strange.

“Would you direct us to the Hauns’ house, bitte?”

“You can’t get there from here.” He chuckled at their expressions. “Look, I’m not puttin’ you on. It’s true. You have to go back to Deborah. Cross the bridge, and Deborah Street ends. You know how there’s that stretch between Deborah Street and Deborah Road?”

They nodded.

“That’s Pine Grove Road. You want to take Pine Grove Road down the other side of Buffalo Creek—almost this far. When it hooks north to go around the bend in the river, look for the first farm on your right.”

Neustatter, Karl, and Astrid were skeptical, but the man’s directions proved completely accurate. Sometime later, Neustatter knocked on a door again.

A little girl opened the door. “I’m Julia,” she announced. “Who are you?”

“My name is Neustatter, and this is Astrid, and this is Karl.”

The child raced off. “Mommy! There’s a Mr. Noisestepper at the door!”

“Julia!” A moment later, a woman came to the door, hurriedly tucking a strand of blonde hair behind her ear as she approached.

She was about Astrid’s height but looked a little older. That probably meant she was about thirty. Up-time adults were almost always older than they appeared to Astrid, while their children are usually younger than she thought.

“I’m sorry about that. We don’t get many visitors out here. Come in, come in.”

Astrid stepped into the Haun house ahead of Neustatter and Karl. The front room had wooden floors and a matched set of furniture—a couch and two chairs. The third chair looked different. Julia pushed on it as she ran by into the next room, and it rocked back and forth. A low table sat in front of the couch, on an area rug that covered the center of the floor.

“I’m Leigh Ann Ennis.”

“Ich heisse Edgar Neustatter. I run Neustatter’s European Security Services. This is our secretary, Miss Astrid Schäubin and one of our agents, Karl Recker. He is also our blacksmith. We are looking for an office for our business and saw the new building on Route 250. One of the carpenters said you own the building and site.”

Frau Haun—Ennis—might be an experienced businesswoman, but Astrid could see the eagerness in her eyes.

“Let’s sit down in the office,” she said. “May I get you something to drink?”

A few minutes later they were seated, sipping small beer, in a small room with a desk, several big comfortable chairs that looked like leather but weren’t, and shelves along one wall. Some of the shelves held books, but others held what Astrid could think of only as up-time treasures. A couple of them had little scenes within a glass sphere. A couple more appeared to be replicas of buildings. A few framed pictures hung on the walls, mostly of the Hauns and Ennises. One especially lifelike one showed them at the edge of the sea.

“My parents own the land right up to Route 250, east of the new building,” she explained, mostly in English. “And they own that narrow triangle the building sits on. We were never able to do anything that lasted with that strip of gravel up-time. Dad spent more time dealing with people leaving their cars there than anything else. But now, every bit of usable land inside the Ring of Fire matters.”

Neustatter and Astrid both nodded. Karl just listened attentively.

“My husband’s mother works in the real estate business.” Frau Ennis repeated that using mostly German words. When Neustatter nodded in understanding, she continued. “That means she helps people buy and sell land and houses. I help with the books, the recordkeeping. So, I talked my folks into putting up the building along Route 250. It will have room for three offices or small businesses.”

“That sounds like what we are looking for,” Neustatter said, mostly in German.

“Please tell me about your business. What facilities do you need?”

The conversation went on from there. Occasionally they had to stop and find different words to explain something.

“We are no longer mercenaries,” Neustatter explained. “NESS is more like your up-time Wells Fargo. We guard convoys. We could guard people or buildings, too.”

Frau Ennis nodded. “So, you’ll need a phone.”

“A phone?”

She explained. Astrid recognized the phone as the device she’d seen at the polizei station.

Frau Ennis continued. “Your phone number is listed in the phonebook, and when someone wants a security service, they look that up in the phonebook, find your number, and call you.”

Neustatter’s eyes lit up.

“How far away do you live?”

Astrid sensed Neustatter was making a judgment.

“Not far. We are moving from Murphyhausen to the high school refugee housing. We will move somewhere else as soon as we can, but the office must come first.”

“I agree.” Frau Ennis’ statement was immediate. “You need the exposure to generate business. Housing in Grantville is expensive unless you can find someone to live with. We are almost at the edge of the Ring of Fire here. Why not look for something outside the actual Ring? It is a lot less expensive.”

Neustatter nodded slowly. “Danke.”

“What else do you need?”

Neustatter and Astrid exchanged glances again. “An office for now. Then a place to live, weapons, and horses.”

Frau Haun nodded as though she were planning to do something about Neustatter’s list. “I may have an idea,” she said. “Let’s discuss the office first.”

By the time Neustatter, Astrid, and Karl made their way home, they had specific rental costs.

“What do you think, Miss Schäubin?” Neustatter asked.

“That is a lot of money every month, Neustatter.” Astrid flushed. Neustatter already knew that.

“Ja, but we have enough money for two months’ rent already. Three, probably, but I want to keep a reserve.”

Astrid nodded in full agreement.

“It is a good location. We will see what everyone else thinks. We have time to stop at the high school refugee housing.”

The refugee housing behind the high school was a smaller affair than the housing at the power plant. It looked very similar, right down to the office in a small building at one corner.

Neustatter knocked on the wooden door.

“Come in!”

Two women, up-timers from how they were dressed, were seated at a simple table covered with ledgers.

“Guten Tag. What can we do for you?”

“Ich heisse Edgar Neustatter. I spoke to someone yesterday about a room in the refugee housing here for twelve people.”

“Right. I saw that,” the younger of the two women said. She looked about Astrid’s age. After rifling through a stack of papers in one corner of the table, she triumphantly produced a note. “Here it is!” She stood and crossed the room to a wooden cabinet hanging on the far wall. She produced a key and unlocked the cabinet. It was full of keys. She took one.

“I’ll show you to your room,” she offered. “Do you understand the rules?”

“Are they the same as at the refugee housing by the power plant?” Neustatter asked. “According to Chief Frost, follow the Ten Commandments and clean up after yourself.”

The woman laughed. “That’s the shortest version I’ve heard yet, but I like it. Do that, and things’ll be fine. I’m Melinda Easterley.”

“Ich heisse Astrid Schäubin.”

“How long ago did you arrive in Grantville?”

The two of them chatted while Neustatter and Karl followed along behind. Astrid looked back once to see Neustatter slowing and turning around as he walked. She started to ask what he was doing, but decided not to draw Melinda’s attention to it.

“Here we are,” Melinda announced.

“I like it,” Neustatter said.

Astrid shot him a quizzical expression. He wasn’t even looking at the quarters but down the hill toward the high school.

Then she understood. They’d left Murphyhausen because there was only one way out. This housing had many ways out, including straight to the high school—and only a very foolish person would attack Grantville High School.

Melinda unlocked the door and showed them in.

“Danke.” Astrid was trying to be polite and properly grateful. The room looked very much like their quarters in the power plant refugee housing had, right down to the movable wooden screens. It might have been just a bit narrower. But the only real difference . . .

“You have keys,” she said.

“Yeah. They’re new. We finally got locks a couple months ago. Didn’t you have a lock at Spring Branch?”

“Nein. But we moved to a rowhouse in Murphyhausen in late June,” Astrid told her.

Melinda gave her a questioning look.

“A couple of men from one of the mercenary companies came after Astrid, Ursula, and Anna,” Neustatter said. “Those two are in jail. Astrid and the others are fine. But there is only one way out of Murphyhausen.”

Melinda nodded slowly. “Do the police know about this?”

“Ja.”

“Is there going to be any more trouble from them?”

Neustatter and Karl both smiled thinly. “Nein. Chief Frost says there will not be.”

“That’s good. Now, if you need anything, you can come to the office or you can talk to Herr Pfuster. Let me show you where he lives.”

Melinda led them most of the way back to the office. She stopped and knocked on a door two spaces from the front end of the building. Astrid could hear someone thump toward the door, then it swung open.

“Guten Tag!” The man was gray-haired and obviously well-fed. His voice was expansive. “Willkommen in Calvert Hill. Ich heisse Hermann Pfuster, mayor of Calvert Hill.”

Astrid frowned. Then she noticed that Neustatter’s expression hadn’t changed at all.

“Danke,” Neustatter said. “Tell me about Calvert Hill, bitte.”

Pfuster immediately launched into an enthusiastic explanation of all of the refugee housing’s features.

Astrid listened at first but Melinda Easterley motioned her away.

“I’m not sure if anybody outside of here calls the refugee housing Calvert Hill,” Melinda said.

“I was not expecting a mayor,” Astrid told her. “We did not have one at the power plant refugee housing.”

Melinda smiled. “He is not officially the mayor. But he has been here almost the longest. He helps us and helps the people who stay here. All he asks in return is, when a long-term family group moves out, that he and his family be allowed to move closer to the front. He knows everyone, and he really will do anything he can to help you.”

“Everyone knows this?” Astrid’s voice was just a bit sharp.

“Just about everyone here who’s been around Grantville long enough to understand.”

Astrid raised an eyebrow. “Why do you allow Herr Pfuster to pretend to be mayor?”

A very hard expression crossed Melinda Easterley’s face. “Do you know about the Croat Raid?”

Astrid nodded. “Ja, but not as much as Neustatter. He has studied it carefully.”

“Then you know that the Croats came right over this hill, and yet no one living in the refugee housing was killed. Herr Pfuster was one of the people who got everyone to safety.” Melinda spoke very seriously. “No, he is not really the mayor. But if he ever gives an order, follow it. He’ll never do it unless it’s an emergency.”

“I understand,” Astrid said. “Danke.”

It took Neustatter and Karl a few more minutes to escape from Herr Pfuster. The three of them thanked Melinda Easterley and started toward Murphyhausen. Astrid made sure they were some distance away before she spoke.

“Frau Easterley said that Herr Pfuster is not really the mayor of the refugee housing.”

“I know,” Neustatter said.

“You addressed him as though he were,” Karl pointed out.

Neustatter shrugged. “It seemed to me that is what a detective would do. He has obviously lived in the housing for a long time and could be a valuable contact.”

Astrid related what Melinda had told her.

Karl looked impressed. Neustatter looked thoughtful. “I did wonder about that. How hundreds of Croats went past the refugee housing and somehow did not kill anyone. So Pfuster is not official, but he is effective. I am sure there is something more. This would be good practice as detectives.” Then he added, “But I do not think any of us should ask Herr Pfuster directly. Besides, the truly important information is that there is an escape route from the refugee housing. That is what we need.”

Epilogue

Over the next few days, NESS got organized, consulted Chief Frost, moved from Murphyhausen to the high school refugee housing, and followed the news closely. Three events seemed significant. A big convoy left Grantville by night, carrying boats north. In Bamberg, the city council had two up-timers flogged and then was overthrown in a revolution. Neustatter and the rest of the men had a fairly good idea that that situation and the tension in Suhl and its surrounding villages were related. The implications of the third event were harder to gauge. The first airplane flight had been amazing, but what was even more shocking was that now the airplane had flown President Stearns to Magdeburg. Neustatter wanted to find some movies about airplanes, but he pointed out one thing it meant right away: President Stearns had gotten from Grantville to Magdeburg in just a few hours, faster than even the goal of the railroads.

The polizei told them that the two men who had attacked the women would be tried, and if found guilty, would be sent to prison. Schlinck had left them to fend for themselves. The polizei told Schlinck and his men to stay away from NESS. None of them expected Schlinck to obey those instructions, but he seemed to do so. Astrid concluded that Chief Frost and someone from the NUS Army were very persuasive.

The polizei also left tickets, one for each of them, for a showing of Entebbe at the movie theater in Grantville.

That Friday night, NESS arrived to find polizei, NUS soldiers, and other security contractors and mercenaries in line.

“Neustatter!”

“Sergeant Wolfe! Good to see you.”

“Do you know what this is all about? Captain Bretagne told me to find some volunteers and come. We do not even know what the title means.”

“It is not English. It was—would be a city in Africa. The movie is about . . . ” Neustatter stopped. Some people didn’t like spoilers, and in this case, the movie would be more effective without them. “ . . . about a hostage situation. A true story.”

Hans Wolfe looked dubious, which was only fair, Neustatter supposed.

“I wonder whose idea this was,” Wolfe muttered.

Neustatter pointed at Astrid. “She found out about it. I think Chief Frost took it from there.”

Astrid was eyeing the building dubiously. It had clearly seen better days. But when the line moved forward and they got inside, she saw that the interior, although nowhere near new, was neat and clean. Each of them handed their ticket to an attendant and pushed past a strange, rotating bar.

The theater itself wasn’t as nice as the Grantville High School auditorium. The fuzzy surface on the chairs was worn, and some of them squeaked. On the other hand, no down-time schloss or even palace had a theater like this, did they?

In a few minutes, once everyone was seated, the lights dimmed, and the movie began. The audience quickly grew very serious.

When the lights came back up, the theater exploded in applause, and then everyone started talking at once.

“Did that really happen up-time?” Johann asked.

Stefan shrugged. “I am not sure how much of it is real.”

“Astrid?” Neustatter asked.

She’d checked into it. “I do not know if they said exactly those words, but that is what really happened.”

“But . . . they’re Jews,” Lukas said.

“Miss Zibarth said, ‘It’s no fun when almost everyone is out to get you, and you don’t know whom you can trust.’”

“Been there.” Astrid wondered where Neustatter had picked up the English slang. “Our kind of cowboys,” he continued. “Grantville is home for them, too, now.”

“Ja,” Ditmar added. “They are all right.”

***

The men were suddenly very busy. Whether Lieutenant Kerns wanted them guarding convoys or not no longer seemed to matter. Wagons and trucks moved back and forth between Grantville, Erfurt, Suhl, and other towns seemingly all the time, and NESS escorted some of them.

Neustatter sent Astrid to the newspaper to change the address in the classified ad from the Murphyhausen address to the new office. On days that the men were in town, either Neustatter, Ditmar, or Hjalmar would be at the office. Whichever of them were not in the office were out looking for permanent quarters. Hjalmar came back one afternoon after speaking with a construction crew building something almost directly across Route 250 from the high school and not that far from the NESS office.

He’d started by exploring Freeman Street, which was the road directly across the intersection from the entrance to the high school complex. Two houses in, it took a left turn and paralleled Route 250 before stopping at a house in the woods. There was another house beyond it, but this one lay on Porter Avenue. Freeman and Porter did not connect. Or at least, they had not before the Ring of Fire. It looked to Hjalmar like they probably would within the next few weeks.

Porter Avenue started off Route 250, just west of and across the road from the building that held NESS’ office. It looked like a single-lane driveway until it got out of sight of Route 250. Then it exploded in several directions, with some branches still called Porter Avenue while other branches had different names. Most of them were little more than gravel or dirt tracks that connected twenty-odd houses that looked like they’d been randomly scattered across a large clearing—although it could be argued that half a dozen of them properly belonged to Sunkist Avenue. Sunkist was another gravel driveway, leading off Route 250 just east of the NESS office.

But Hjalmar could hear the noise of construction, and most of it was coming from further back in the woods. He backtracked to Route 250 and headed west toward Grantville. Just past the entrance to the high school complex, more or less opposite the corner of the tech center, was a single-lane paved road called Kimberly Heights. It curved around the back of the veterinary clinic that was on Route 250. One of the livery stables was on the outside of that arc. Further on, trailers lined both sides of the road, eight on one side and nine on the other. As soon as Kimberly Heights straightened out behind Freeman Street, it ended.

But now it was being extended, apparently all the way to another of those extensions of Porter Avenue. It looked to Hjalmar as though it would form a neighborhood two blocks deep in this area. Those weren’t houses going up, either. The frames were three stories tall.

Hjalmar quickly reported to Neustatter.

Hjalmar and Neustatter found out who owned the land and whom he had put in charge of what looked like yet another growing village. That man was not quite the same thing as a lehenholder, but close enough that Neustatter knew how to approach him. He found the man supervising the construction operation.

The man wearing the white hardhat immediately shook hands with them. “Joel Carstairs. Sommersburg and Carstairs Construction. Although that Carstairs in the firm name is really my brother.”

“Edgar Neustatter.”

“Hjalmar Schaub.”

“What are you building here?” Neustatter asked.

“Apartments,” Carstairs answered. “We need more housing in the Ring of Fire, wherever we can put it.”

“We are looking for housing ourselves,” Neustatter told him. “Twelve of us. Two couples, one with a child. Hjalmar here has a sister and a cousin. I am one of four single men.”

“Where are you living now?”

“In the refugee housing by the high school.”

Carstairs pointed at the framework of a building. “That is going to be four apartments across and three stories tall. We will put another one next to it, and then we are going to build townhouses beyond that.”

“Who do we see about renting an apartment?” Neustatter asked. “Who owns the land, and who is his lehenholder?”

“It doesn’t work quite like that,” Carstairs told him. He flipped pages on the clipboard he was carrying. “I’ve got the list right here, and all twelve apartments in Building One are spoken for. But I’ve got a couple third-floor apartments available in Building Two. With twelve people, you’ll need both, right?”

“Twelve of us fit in one of the rowhouses in Murphyhausen.”

“I know those rowhouses,” Carstairs told Neustatter. “These apartments are not as big. You need both. Six adults is just about as many people as I would want to put in one of them.”

“Astrid is going to have to rework the budget,” Hjalmar warned.

“Still . . . Herr Carstairs is right,” Neustatter said. “Will we be able to cook inside?”

“Absolutely!” Joel Carstairs nodded vigorously enough that his hardhat bounced up and down. “We’ve already upgraded the connections along Kimberly Heights and Porter Avenue, so the apartments and the townhouses will have water, sewer, and electricity. I don’t know if there are enough telephones available to make it worth running phone lines or not.”

Neustatter nodded. “How do we sign up?”

***

On Wednesday, September 28, NESS’ first civilian client appeared. Some goods needed to be shipped to Magdeburg. They could be transferred to a boat at Halle, but would have to reach Halle overland. In light of the news and the value of the goods, guards were required. The shipment was in two days. Neustatter accepted the mission at once.

The men left that Friday. It was four days each way. The trip was entirely uneventful. They did not even see the villagers south of Kösen. But when they returned on Friday, October 7, they had no more than hugged their wives (and sister) than Neustatter directed everyone to the popular tavern, the Thuringen Gardens.

“We need to hear the news,” he stated. “We heard bits and pieces, but I want to know everything.”

The Thuringen Gardens was in an uproar. It had been loud on the few occasions they had eaten there before, but this was different. It was standing room only.

NUS forces had fought a battle against the Danes in Wismar Bay. Someone shouted the crowd down periodically and gave updates.

Hans Richter was dead. His airplane had been shot down. Larry Wild and Eddie Cantrell were dead, too. Their boat had blown up. But they had destroyed much of the Danish fleet.

NESS mostly listened. Everyone in Grantville was heartbroken, proud of the boys, and angry, all at once. And determined.

“This is a new war,” Neustatter stated.

“Do you think you men will be called up?” Ursula asked.

“It is too soon to say,” Neustatter answered. “But there is no sense in trying to outthink President Stearns and Captain-General Gars. This League of Ostend will learn that soon enough. We have a new home, and until we hear otherwise, a lot of convoys to protect.”

Cast List

Anke – Herr Augustus and Frau Sophia’s cook, friend and housemate of Astrid

Augustus – herr of Neustatter’s home village, married to Frau Sophia

Beattie, Shane – an up-timer, a NUS Army recruit, scheduled for the Engineering Corps

Bracht, Jakob – Catholic, a NUS Army recruit looking for another chance, carries lockpicks

Bretagne, Giulio – captain of Bretagne’s Company, one of the seven mercenary outfits in the Grantville area, runs a well-trained and well-supplied organization

Brenner, Otto – born 1603, Lutheran, farmed in a village in Holstein-Gottorp, fought at the Battle of Dessau Bridge as part of the village militia, captured and incorporated into Wallenstein’s army, NESS agent, the invisible man

Carroll, Sara – an up-timer, a NUS Army recruiter, scheduled to teach horsemanship

Claussen – Lutheran (Flacian) pastor in Neustatter’s home village

Ennis, Leigh Ann Haun – married to James Marvin Ennis, daughter of Fred and Julia Haun, mother of Julia, James Frederic, and Carrie

Ennis, James Frederic – married to Leigh Ann Haun, USE Army Engineering Corps

Forster, Josef – a friend of Johann Kirchenbauer, shortstop on his Little League team, lives in Spring Branch

Frost, Dan – up-timer, Grantville Police chief through March 1634

Gessel – one of Herr Augustus and Frau Sophia’s maids, friend and housemate of Astrid

Gordon, John Voss “Voss” – an up-timer, a lieutenant in the NUS Army, legal officer, studying law with Tom Riddle

Goschin, Ursula – Lutheran (committed Flacian), married to Stefan Kirchenbauer, mother of Johann, a very good cook

Grönloh – a sergeant in Schlinck’s Company

Haun, Fred – an up-timer, married to Julia Gunderson, owns land east of Grantville High School on both sides of Buffalo Creek

Haun, Julia Gunderson, an up-timer, married to Fred Haun, from Minnesota. Mother of Johnny F. (Hearts & Minds team in 1634: The Ram Rebellion), Walter, and Leigh Ann Ennis

Heidenfelder, Lukas – born 1602, Lutheran, farmed in a village in Holstein-Gottorp, fought at the Battle of Dessau Bridge as part of the village militia, captured and incorporated into Wallenstein’s army, NESS agent, partier, carries a knife

Heinrich – an older teamster based out of Saalfeld

Helga – Herr Augustus and Frau Sophia’s laundress, friend and housemate of Astrid

Hudson, Eric Glen – up-timer, graduated from Grantville High School in 1631, NUS Army assigned to military procurement in Erfurt, then SoTF National Guard stationed in Halle as a railroad scheduler, member of the dinner and a movie club (“Breaking News,” Jay Robison, Grantville Gazette 5), and occasional 250 Club patron (“The Baptist Basement Bar and Grill,” Terry Howard, Grantville Gazette 32), dating Gena Kroll

Huffman, Maxwell “Max” – up-timer, NUS drill sergeant, see “Greetings!”, Mike Watson, Grantville Gazette 68 for his further adventures as an SoTF Marshal

Keller, Rudi – a sergeant in the NUS Army, see “The Red Lion Regiment” in Grantville Gazettes 58-60 for his later adventures

Kirchenbauer, Johann – son of Stefan Kirchenbauer and Ursula Goschin, born not long before the Battle of Dessau Bridge in 1626, delighted to be in Grantville

Kirchenbauer, Stefan – born 1593, Lutheran, married to Ursula, father of Johann, farmed in a village in Holstein-Gottorp, fought at the Battle of Dessau Bridge as part of the village militia, captured and incorporated into Wallenstein’s army, NESS agent, the pessimist

Kraft, Heinrich “Heinz” – married to Helene Olbrichtin, a farmer in Kleinjena, Saxon County introducing up-time foods and crops, see “Occupied Saxony,” Grantville Gazette 55 and “The Saale Levies,” Grantville Gazette 56 for his further adventures

Kräusin, Anna – married to Wolfram Kuntz, not long before the Battle of Dessau Bridge, Lutheran, several years older than Astrid, a skilled seamstress

Kroll, Gordon – up-timer, married to Maureen, works in military procurement in Erfurt

Kroll, Jennifer “Gena” – up-timer, graduated from Grantville High School in 1634, martial artist—see “American Past Time,” Deann Turner and Mike Turner, Ring of Fire II, dating Eric Glen Hudson

Kuntz, Wolfram – born 1594, married to Anna Kräusin, Lutheran, farmed in a village in Holstein-Gottorp, fought at the Battle of Dessau Bridge as part of the village militia, captured and incorporated into Wallenstein’s army, took care of the sick and wounded, NESS agent

Lorenz – a teamster based out of Saalfeld

Lynch, Jenny – an up-timer, secretary at Grantville High School; In 1632, she was the driver who ran into the Ring Wall

Neustatter, Edgar – born 1604, farmed in a village in Holstein-Gottorp, Lutheran, fought at the Battle of Dessau Bridge (1626) as part of the village militia, captured and incorporated into Wallenstein’s army, leader of Neustatter’s European Security Services

Olbrichtin, Helene – married to Heinz Kraft, see “Occupied Saxony,” Grantville Gazette 55 an “The Saale Levies,” Grantville Gazette 56 for her further adventures

Pfuster, Hermann – unofficial mayor of “Calvert Hill,” the refugee housing on the hill behind the high school

Recker, Karl – born 1600, Lutheran, formerly a blacksmith’s apprentice in a village in Holstein-Gottorp, fought at the Battle of Dessau Bridge as part of the village militia, captured and incorporated into Wallenstein’s army, NESS agent

Richards, Preston “Press” – an up-timer, Grantville Police chief from March 1634 on

Rowland, Mimi – an up-timer, one of the Grantville Police Department dispatchers

Rummel, Maria – Wilhelm’s sister

Rummel, Wilhelm – leader of a group of thirty-one refugees forced out of their Franconian village in 1633 for supporting the NUS

Schaub, Ditmar – born 1604, Hjalmar and Astrid’s cousin, Lutheran, farmed in a village in Holstein-Gottorp, fought at the Battle of Dessau Bridge as part of the village militia, captured and incorporated into Wallenstein’s army, leader of NESS Team One

Schaub, Hjalmar – born 1608, Astrid’s brother and Ditmar’s cousin, Lutheran, farmed in a village in Holstein-Gottorp, fought at the Battle of Dessau Bridge as part of the village militia, captured and incorporated into Wallenstein’s army, leader of NESS Team Two

Schäubin, Astrid – born 1612, Hjalmar’s sister and Ditmar’s cousin, Lutheran, one of Herr Augustus and Frau Sophia’s maids in a village in Holstein-Gottorp, NESS secretary

Schlinck – captain of Schlinck’s Company, one of the seven mercenary companies in the Grantville area, big on brute force

Schrödinger, Herr – a NESS client, manufactures something for the USE military that allows him to stay in really good inns

Seidelman, Gottlieb – a NUS Army recruit, went into the Reserves and is taking classes to go into law or perhaps police work, considered an intellectual in the ranks

Sophia – Frau, married to Herr Augustus

Stull, Dennis – up-timer, works in military procurement in Erfurt, Noelle Murphy Stull’s father

Thomas, Jr., Harley – an SoTF Marshal, formerly a NUS Army drill sergeant, served with Max Huffman and Archie Mitchell in both jobs

Trehar – a captain in Colloredo’s Regiment of Wallenstein’s army

Wesner, Casimir – a library researcher in Grantville on behalf of Saxe-Altenburg and the von Hessler family, see “The Researchers Spiritual and Temporal,” Grantville Gazette 84) for more about him

Wolf, Hans – a sergeant in Bretagne’s Company

Wylich – a sergeant in Colloredo’s Regiment of Wallenstein’s army

Yost, Carl – up-timer, NUS drill sergeant

Zibarth, Eve – an up-timer, one of the physics teachers at Grantville High School, Jewish

Table of Contents

Dedication

Acknowledgments for the original edition

Chapter 1: The Battle of Alte Veste

Chapter 2: Going Home

Chapter 3: Security Consultants

Chapter 4: Basic

Chapter 5: Bretagne and Schlinck

Epilogue

Cast List