Chapter 17
Kassa
Grand Army of the Sunrise headquarters
“It’s utter hyperbole, General Roth,” von Mercy said as he found his seat at the table in the burgomaster’s home. “Murad will not be marching on Transylvania himself.”
“That goes without saying,” Morris said, shutting the door of the room behind him and finding his own chair. “But his hyperbole does reveal a truth: the Ottomans have finally committed forces to Wallachia’s and Moldavia’s assault against Prince Rákóczi. We weren’t expecting anything less in the end, but I think Nasi, Rebecca, and Mike—and hell, even I—were hoping for a slightly different reaction.”
“That they would interpret our move to Kassa as an impending attack on Pressburg.”
Morris nodded. “Indeed. And thus give us time to sit here, strengthen, and then we could jump the march into Transylvania in force on our own timetable, while he balks at moving men off the front line for fear of an end around into Pressburg. That would have put us in the plateau long before he got there, and with weapons and numbers that they couldn’t handle.
“But Murad’s no fool,” Morris said, sighing deeply and running his hand through his thinning, and quickly graying, hair. “The only reason he’s been bested by the USE more often than not is that he hasn’t yet fully adjusted his equipment and tactics to meet nearly four hundred years of up-time military history. But he’s learning…he’s learning.”
Morris leaned back in his chair and stared at the burgomaster’s ceiling. An artist had started crafting a depiction of Jesus rising through storm clouds, but it was only half finished, and quite honestly, looked creepy against the stark discoloration of the exposed wooden frame of the roof. Jesus was a fine figure for the burgomaster to choose for his own home, but at this moment, Morris wished he were staring into the face of Abraham instead. He needed the guidance of someone who had suffered a long journey into foreign lands.
The citizenry of Kassa had been most generous so far with the Sunrise’s stay in their modest city. The burgomaster in particular, a small, portly fellow with an uneven beard, was all too willing to allow Morris and his staff to use his home for their war council. Morris figured that, from the mayor’s perspective, it was either bend to Bohemia, the USE, or the Ottomans. The choice was apparently easy for him to make. So easy, in fact, that he had even suspended the law preventing Jews from entering the city at night.
The question before them now was: how long would they remain in Kassa? They had to fulfill their agreement with the prince of Transylvania. Morris was not about to be a Benedict Arnold. But Kassa was almost the perfect location for a more permanent HQ. There was even a nice, long strip of ground abutting the Hernád that would make for a world-class landing strip. The USE could enter the city in time and, indeed, make its move against Pressburg when and if it so desired.
“Has Francisco Nasi seen any movement of Ottoman forces from Vienna, Pressburg?” von Mercy asked. “Any troops being pulled from the line and potentially diverted to Transylvania?”
Morris shook his head. “No, none, save for one lone airship that our contacts said landed near Vienna and picked up one passenger.”
“In which direction did it fly?”
“South, I think he said.”
Von Mercy stroked his beard. The tip of his tongue darted between his thin lips as his jaw muscles worked overtime. “That passenger could be the one who will lead the Ottoman forces into Transylvania. He could be en route to meet his army.”
“But where, General?” Morris asked, slapping his hand on the table. “Where? That’s the fucking problem with these Turks. They have an unlimited supply of troops that they can run up from Egypt, from Serbia, from the Levant, a constant stream of fresh bodies. It’ll never end, unless someone does an end around and hits Murad in his own rear. If he’s pulling troops from the interior of his empire, they could be coming from anywhere.”
“True,” von Mercy said, “but there are only a few cities along the Serbian-Wallachian line that are practical jumping points for an invasion of Transylvania. I am no expert on the lay of the land, as it were, in that part of the world, General, but I have at least a working knowledge of it. And if Murad is pulling troops from that area, the good news is, they won’t be elite. The bad news is, they may already be on the move.”
“Which means we have to go now.”
Von Mercy nodded. “Yes, General.”
But of course, they couldn’t. It was one thing to move them quickly from Krakow. The ball needed to start rolling on that. Now that they were in Kassa, it was highly impractical for them to strike the tents again so quickly and move into a fighting posture. Supply was still pending. Colonel Makovec’s APCs were on the way, but still out another week or two. Reports from the medical team told of at least a third of the Joshua Corps suffering dehydration and poor foot care. Provost marshals had not been assigned to each regiment yet. There were still companies without adequate officers. There were just too many plates spinning right now, and no immediate indication as to when they would settle.
Von Mercy raised his finger. “May I make a suggestion, General?”
Morris nodded.
“Let me take an advance force into Transylvania. Let me go in first, while the rest of the army stays behind to convalesce and regroup. I can jump Murad’s march and be in the plateau before he gets there. You can then follow me in within a few weeks once you’re ready.”
Morris straightened in his chair, folded his arms across his chest. He curled his brow. “Who would you take with you?”
Von Mercy shrugged. “Those forces ready to move now. Those that are not suffering as much trauma, both physically and supply-wise, as the rest of the army. First Regiment of the Joshua Corps, the men who fought against the Magnates. They’re veterans. Colonel Renz’s Second Cavalry; he’s got a good mixture of both heavy and light horse; shock and reconnaissance. Two additional infantry companies gleaned from the rest of our foot mercenaries: a company or two of Brethren for sure. At least one battery, maybe two. And of course, any and all supply and medical staff as needed.”
Morris rose from his chair and walked over to a closed window, which he could not, unfortunately, open. The glass was thin enough, however, for him to lean his ear toward it and listen to all the myriad camp sounds wafting up from the Hernád.
Hundreds, thousands of tiny fires lit the scattered wood around the river. He could hear horses whinny, men shouting, muskets sounding. Even in the dark of night, some of the men were training by lamplight. All bivouacs active, save for the Joshua Corps, for it was Shabbos. From their place along the river came muffled songs of prayer and tiny candlelight. Morris smiled and wished he were with them right now, amidst the flickering mass of humanity that seemed content in their camps. He could use a good prayer session.
Divide the army? A crazy notion. Such a tiny force against, in essence, three armies. Make the wrong move, and the entire endeavor would collapse. Then again, such bold action had worked well throughout military history. That, and the fact that the Sunrise had an abundance of up-time-inspired weaponry, which made his army fight at least a third, if not a whole half, more effectively than any down-time army in the world. Then again, adding Turks with similar up-time weaponry changed the calculus altogether.
“When can you leave, General?” Morris asked, returning to the table.
“Just give the order, sir, and I can have us on the march in four days.”
Morris nodded. “Very well. Then I so order. Begin your preparations as soon as we are finished here. Now, let us discuss the details of your plan.
“Let’s begin with supply and medical staff.” Morris reached over the table and grabbed a pen and pad of paper. “I know exactly the man I want to assign as your personal surgeon.”
* * *
Isaac ran straight into Rabbi Gotkin as he hurried to his meeting with General Roth.
“Careful, Isaac,” Jason said, catching him before they collided. “Where are you going in such a rush?”
“Apologies, Jason. I’m in a hurry. General Roth has called me to a meeting.”
“Indeed. What for, if I may ask?”
Isaac shook his head. “I do not know, but I am late.”
Jason let him go. “Very well then. I’ll speak to you later. Zikher travalz.”
Isaac nodded, straightened his yarmulke, and continued.
He was rushing from the Joshua Corps campsite, wherein he had delivered a baby from one of the wives who had followed her husband from Krakow to Kassa in the supply train. It had been a successful, but difficult, birth. The mother was sleeping soundly now with a spoonful of sedative while being cared for by Nurse Devorah.
Isaac entered the burgomaster’s home and knocked gently on the door to the war room.
“Come in!”
Isaac opened the door. Inside the room, Morris and Doctor Oberheuser seemed to be wrapping up a heated conversation. “Hello, General Roth, Doctor Oberheuser. Am I intruding?”
“No,” Morris said, waving him forward. “Come in, please. The good doctor and I are just finishing.” Morris picked up some papers from the table, tapped them to straighten them out, then said, “That’ll be all for now, Doctor. I’ll send for you later, and we’ll discuss further details.”
Doctor Oberheuser nodded and turned toward the door. Before leaving, he placed his big, calloused hand on Isaac’s shoulder and flashed a quick smile—or, as close to one as the grumpy old coot was capable of flashing. “Viel Glük, Herr Doctor. You will need it.”
They were now alone, the first time since Morris had returned from Prague. Anxiety rose in Isaac’s chest. Being alone with the commanding general meant only—well, it could mean a lot of things. He might just want to talk, catch up on old times. He might want to know the medical status of the army, an update on the status of supply. Or it might mean—
“How goes the Joshua Corps?” Morris asked, shuffling documents and placing them in a manila folder. He sat and motioned for Isaac to do the same. “What’s its medical status?”
“Tenuous, General,” Isaac said, seeing no reason to lie or shade the truth. Morris didn’t seem to like that sort of thing from his staff anyway. “Men—boys really—who have never walked, much less marched, so much in their lives, suddenly asked to hoof it over a hundred miles, and on the quick step. It stands to reason that their bodies would break down somewhat, even as young as they are. It’s a manageable situation, though. They just need time.”
Morris nodded. “An up-time poet once said: ‘Time is the fire in which we burn.’ A little gloomy, even cynical, I grant you, but nonetheless, accurate. There never seems to be enough time for anything.”
Morris motioned to Isaac’s soiled hands. He had tried to clean up as quickly as possible, but there were still residual traces of blood on his palms. “A surgery?”
“No, General. A birth.”
Morris smiled. “Successful?”
“Yes.”
“A boy?”
“Yes.”
“Mazel Tov!”
“Indeed. The father asked me to ask you if you might honor them by attending the bris.”
Morris considered. “Yes, I might be able to, although it’ll depend upon how the next few days go.”
He said that last part almost under his breath, as if he were afraid that someone might hear it, but before the general had a chance to speak further or explain his comment, Isaac blurted, “I wanted to thank you, General, for a long time. For sending me to medical school in Grantville, Magdeburg—”
“It’s your Aunt Eva who sent you, young man,” Morris said. “She saw in you that spark. I just paid your way. And call me Morris.”
“Very well. Nevertheless, Morris, I wanted to thank you. It changed my life.”
The general seemed to blush, embarrassed, perhaps, at being the object of so much focused appreciation. Isaac could see that Morris was happy with the praise, but so overwhelmed with the tedium of command.
“Thank you, Isaac. You have paid me and the Sunrise back many times over these past few, and critical, months. Your debt has been paid in spades. Now,” he said, again focusing his attention, “let us come to the reason you are here.
“I have spoken with Doctor Oberheuser, and I’ve decided to make some adjustments with the medical staff.” Morris sighed deeply, ran his fingers through his hair, and again, seemed hesitant to continue. “Simply put: I’m sending General von Mercy and an advance force from the Sunrise into Transylvania, ahead of the full army. It’s going to happen soon. I want you to be his personal surgeon and serve as chief medical officer of said advance force.”
Isaac felt honor first, then anger. “Sir, Oberheuser hates me. He has it in for me. He wants me to go to get me out of—”
“Actually,” Morris said, raising his hand, “just the opposite is true. He disagrees with my decision. He thinks you aren’t ready to be a chief medical officer. He insisted that I send him.”
“And he’s right.” Isaac felt his heart pounding. “I’m not ready. Sure, I can poke blisters, wrap wounds, treat infections, do stitchings, remove limbs, but he’s far better at the more detailed work and—”
“On the contrary,” Morris said, again interrupting. “I’ve been told that you have an excellent eye for the details. And you are far cooler under pressure than he is. Now that, you cannot deny.”
Isaac chuckled, nodded. “I can agree with you there, Morris. But honestly, I don’t believe that I’m qualified at this time to be General von Mercy’s surgeon. A man with that responsibility needs to be more senior, have more field experience, than me.”
“I need you to do this.”
“Why?”
“Because we’re sending the First Regiment of the Joshua Corps in with him. The first are the Ashkenazi elite. They’re tested and ready, having fought against the magnates. They’re the best we’ve got. But they are going to be far, far from home, in a foreign country with wolves everywhere. I want them to know that they have a person on the medical staff who represents them. I want to give them at least that much comfort. And that, you will agree with me also, is not Karl Oberheuser.”
Isaac pondered the situation. This certainly was not what he had expected when summoned. He wasn’t sure what to expect, but this? “What other regiments, companies, will be part of this advance force, sir?”
“A few companies from the Zizka Brigade,” Morris said, “a cannon battery or two, the Second Cavalry Regiment, support staff, men and materiel as needed.”
Christian’s regiment.
Isaac nodded. “My medical staff will not have to be as large as it is to accommodate the entire Sunrise, of course, but still substantial. Do I have permission to choose my nurses and medics?”
Morris nodded. “Yes. I’ve asked Oberheuser to work with you to determine those choices.” He smiled. “But don’t take away all of his good people, Isaac. He has the rest of the Sunrise to treat with.”
Devorah Bayer would be his capital demand. If Oberheuser rejected every one of his other choices, she alone, at least, must go with them. And he wouldn’t mind plucking Tobias away from Second Regiment of the Joshua Corps. Young Greta? Well, perhaps she’d stay behind.
Isaac cleared his throat. His heart began to beat normally, the initial shock of the assignment beginning to dissipate. “I assume that you will also be assigning a rabbi? If you haven’t made a decision on that yet, Morris, may I recommend Jason? Spiritual health is just as important as physical health.”
“That is a good idea,” Morris said. “I will speak with him.”
Isaac paused again and gave his mind time to absorb what had just happened.
Being the chief surgeon of a field general was a big deal, especially for one as elite as Franz von Mercy. Despite his apprehension, it was a great honor, and it was what he wanted, right? To be recognized as a “chief” medical officer, not just an assistant with a few meager authorities given to him by the forced generosity of a grumpy old German surgeon who might well be a borderline anti-Semite. To be in command of a medical staff, to be respected, to practice medicine in God’s name, as Isaac knew he needed to do on that deadly bridge years ago in Prague. What more could he have asked for?
And yet…
“Thank you, Morris,” Isaac said, pushing his anxiety deep. “You honor me. I accept the position. When will we depart?”
“In seventy-two hours. But I want you to have your medical staff and supply needs assessed within a day and resolved. I know, I know. It’s a ridiculous request, but I wasn’t kidding when I said time is the fire in which we burn. We are up against the clock here. We must stay ahead of the flames.”
Isaac’s anxiety increased tenfold. He felt it in his chest, his head, on his face. He stood quickly. “Very well. Then if you will permit me, Morris, I must speak with Doctor Oberheuser, then General von Mercy, then—”
“Yes, yes, you must do all of that.” Morris stood and moved around the table to stand beside Isaac. “But there is one important thing we must do first.” He turned to the door. “Jason! Come on in!”
Jason Gotkin entered quietly, carrying three candles and two tallis prayer shawls draped over one arm.
“What’s…going on?” Isaac asked.
“We, my good friend,” Jason said, laying the candles on the table and handing a shawl to each of them, “are going to participate in Shabbos.”
“You see, Isaac,” Morris said, accepting the shawl and placing it over his head and shoulders. “As the commanding general, I rarely get an opportunity to do something like this. But we are about to go our separate ways, and it may be a while before I get an opportunity to see you both again. I want to take a moment—just a moment—to pray with you both before we say our goodbyes.”
Isaac gave Jason a stern expression. “I just ran into you a moment ago and told you I was going to see Morris, and you said nothing about this?”
Jason shrugged. “It is not my place to reveal the decisions of the commanding general. We needed to make sure you were going to be okay with the decision. Now that you are, we should pray.”
“So, you’re coming with us?” Isaac asked.
“Of course I am.”
Isaac placed the shawl over his head. Tears welled in his eyes as he remembered what Rabbi Gotkin had told him when they had met in the Ashkenazi camp at Kazimierz: Be a proud Jew.
He had never felt such pride in being Jewish as he did right now.
As they lit their candles together and stood side by side, basking in the warm glow of the flame, Rabbi Gotkin began to pray:
“Barukh ata Adonai Eloheinu, Melekh ha’olam, asher kid’shanu b’mitzvotav v’tzivanu l’hadlik ner shel Shabbat…”