1636: The Ottoman Onslaught: Chapter Twelve

Mainburg, Bavaria

    “We could parachute in,” said Captain Wilhelm Finck. He leaned over and pointed to a spot on the big map spread across the table in Mike Stearns’ HQ tent. “I think this location would be possible, although we’d have to overfly it first to make sure it isn’t too heavily wooded.”

    Mike thought about it, for a moment. The idea was tempting. The location Captain Finck suggested was close enough to the Amper River for his team to make the reconnaissance before a Bavarian cavalry unit could find them. Unless they had bad luck, at least — but that was always a given in war.

    “You need a Jupiter, am I right?”

    The Marine captain shook his head. “Not necessarily, sir. A Jupiter is the only airplane big enough for a parachute drop by more than one or two men. But we could do it from the Pelican as well.”

    Mike frowned. “That thing would be visible for miles. There’s no way to use it for a mission that needs to be surreptitious.”

    “It depends on the time of day, sir. If we make the drop very early in the morning, there will be enough light for us to see but the airships won’t be very visible from the ground — and we certainly won’t be, falling over the side. If any Bavarian soldier does spot the airship they’ll simply think it’s on a reconnaissance mission.”

    Mike grimaced. The captain was right, probably. But it was still one hell of a risk.

    Looking at Finck’s face, as the captain continued to gaze intently at the map, it was obvious that he wasn’t concerned about the danger involved. Although it was part of the USE’s marine forces, Finck’s unit — officially the 1^st Reconnaissance Company, First Marines — was more closely analogous to what the up-time US military would have called special forces. The unit had been formed in response to the disastrous attempt to invade the Danish island of Bornholm two years earlier during the Baltic War.

    Like all such special forces — Mike had met a few during his stint in the US Army up-time — the men who joined them were adrenaline junkies. They simply didn’t have what Mike considered a normal and sane level of caution and risk assessment — which was something, given that he himself was a former prizefighter and had never lost any sleep over mining coal for a living.

    “All right, Captain. We’ll make the drop. How soon can you be ready?”

    Finck shrugged. “That really depends more on when the Pelican can be placed at our disposal than it does on us, sir. Me and my men can be ready by tomorrow morning.”

    “Tell Franchetti — no, tell Major Simpson to tell Franchetti — to give you top priority.”

    Mike grimaced again, this time from contemplating weirdness rather than peril. The up-time military he’d known — for sure and certain some of the tight-ass commanders he’d suffered under — would have had conniptions if they’d been dealing with the Third Division’s realities of life. Mike had what amounted to his own tiny little air force consisting of one airship, the Pelican, and on occasion — nowhere nearly often enough, as far as he was concerned — he also had one of the USE Air Force’s warplanes at his disposal for a few days. Always one of the two Belles, never the newer and more advanced Gustavs. Those were reserved for General Torstensson’s use in the Polish theater.

    Mostly Mike was dependent on the Pelican for what he whimsically thought of as his “air operations” — and never mind the fact that the Pelican was a civilian airship being leased by the State of Thuringia-Franconia rather that the USE government. And never mind the fact that it was operationally commanded by Major Tom Simpson, who was an USE artillery officer with no formal ties of any kind to the air force or the SoTF’s National Guard.

    What the hell, the set-up worked. If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.

    “When we find a good place to cross the river, sir, what do you want us to do?” Finck asked. “Return or stay in place?”

    “Stay in place — if you can do so without being spotted. But don’t take any unnecessary risks, Captain. There’ll only be a handful of you and even allowing for your weaponry” — Finck’s unit was armed with lever-action .40-72 carbines — “you’ll be overwhelmed by any sizeable enemy force.”

    “Yes, sir. Shall I be off, then?”

    “Yes. Good luck, Captain.”

 

---

 

    After Captain Finck left the tent, Mike turned toward Lt. Colonel Thorsten Engler. “When the time comes for us to cross the river, even if we have the element of surprise — and if we don’t we probably won’t try it at all — you can be sure and certain the Bavarians will throw every cavalry unit they have available at us. We’ll be depending on you to hold them off.”

    Thorsten nodded. His flying artillery unit could be used against infantry — and had been, on several battlefields — but they were specifically designed to counter cavalry. They were not as mobile as a cavalry unit but had much greater firepower at their disposal.

    They were useless against fortifications, however, which was their great drawback. Any infantry unit which had the time to build good fieldworks could drive them off as well.

    “How wide is the Amper, General?” asked Leoš Hlavacek, the colonel in command of the Teutoberg Regiment.

    Mike turned toward Tom Simpson, who’d come back the day before from a reconnaissance mission over the terrain between Ingolstadt and Freising. He’d taken the risk of having the Pelican fly no more than a hundred yards above the ground so he’d gotten a good view of everything. He’d particularly concentrated on the Amper, since that tributary of the Isar was the main geographical obstacle the Third Division was going to face in their march on Munich.

    Tom made a waggling motion with his hand. “It varies. In a lot of places it’s not even a ‘river’ so much as it is a braided network of little streams.”

    “How little?” asked Georg Derfflinger. He commanded the division’s 3^rd Brigade and, at twenty-nine, was the youngest of the Third Division’s brigadiers. “If they’re narrow enough and shallow enough, we might be able to cross without having to put up a bridge. Maybe just a corduroy road to keep the men’s boots from getting soaked.”

    Simpson looked skeptical. “It’s possible, but I wouldn’t count on it. I was up in the air, not down on the ground, so I can’t be sure. But from the way it looked, those places where the Amper divides into a network of streams are swamps. We could wind up getting mired down. I think we’d do better to cross someplace where there are solid banks we can anchor a bridge on. Keep in mind that’s a pretty small river. I didn’t see any place where it was wider than maybe ten yards.”

    He started to add something and then closed his mouth. Mike suspected that Tom had been about to make a comment that might have struck the down-timers as American chauvinism. By Tom’s standards as well as Mike’s #8212; any American’s — the rivers in Europe seemed pretty dinky. Mike hadn’t seen the Rhine yet, so he couldn’t judge if it lived up to its world-famous reputation. But neither the Elbe nor the Danube did, for North Americans accustomed to such rivers as the Mississippi, Missouri and Ohio, although Mike had been told that the Danube was a lot more impressive further east than he’d seen it.

    In the United States he’d come from, a body of running water the size of the Amper would probably have been called a creek rather than a river. But Mike had enough military experience by now to understand that it didn’t take much of a body of running water — call it a river, a creek or whatever you chose — to pose a serious obstacle to an army more than ten thousand strong which was operating with the sort of equipment available in the early seventeenth century.

    The march on Munich from Regensburg posed one major geographical problem for the Third Division. They could easily cross over to the Isar’s south bank somewhere between Dingolfing and Landshut, where the Bavarians had no sizeable forces to oppose them, and then follow the river all the way down to Munich.

    The problem was that in the year 1636, Bavaria’s capital was a far cry from the metropolis it would eventually become. In the time period Mike had come from, Munich straddled the Isar. But today, the city was located entirely north of the river. So arriving at Munich on the south bank would do them no good at all. To be sure, the Isar was narrow enough that they could bombard the city’s walls from the south bank. But sooner or later, once a breach was made, they’d have to cross it — right in the face of the enemy, entrenched in the city’s fortifications.

    No, they had to stay on the Isar’s north bank all the way down — but that posed the problem that they’d first have to cross the river’s main tributary, the Amper. Hopefully, Captain Finck and his men would find a good spot to do it. They needed someplace the Third Division could reach easily — while the Bavarians could be held at bay long enough — and which had solid enough footing and enough forest in the area — groves, at least — to build the bridges they’d need for the purpose.

 

---

 

    He’d have given a lot to have just one or two APCs with him. The vehicles weren’t amphibious but they’d do splendidly to drive off enemy cavalry while his engineers threw up the bridges. But in his infinite wisdom — being fair about it, the damn Polish king was being just as pigheaded about keeping the war going — Gustav Adolf insisted that all the functioning APCs had to remain with Torstensson’s forces around Poznan.

    “Might as well wish for one or two M1 Abrams main battle tanks, while I’m at it,” Mike muttered.

    “I didn’t catch that, sir,” said his adjutant, Christopher Long.

    “Nothing. Just dreaming the impossible dream.”

 

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    USE naval base
Luebeck

    Admiral John Chandler Simpson believed very firmly — as you’d expect from someone raised in the high church Episcopalian tradition — that a man who used profanity thereby demonstrated his inferior intellect and primitive grasp of the glorious English language. But, as he lowered the message from Veleda Riddle he’d just finished reading — the parsimonious old lady had even paid to have it sent by radio transmission, which indicated how agitated she was — he couldn’t help himself.

    “Well, fuck me,” he said.

 

---

 

Grantville

    It was hearing someone else express her own deepest qualms that finally settled Veleda Riddle’s mind.

    “But she’s not one of us!” exclaimed Christie Kemp.

    The statement stuck in Veleda’s craw, as the saying went — all the more so because she completely agreed with it. The woman was not only “not one of us” she was so far removed from “us” that she might as well have been living on Mars.

    That was to say, one of the many planets He had created.

    “Christie,” she said, trying to keep her tone from being too disapproving, “we are a church, not a country club. I think we need to keep that in mind.”

    “I agree with Veleda,” said Marshall Kitt.

    “So do I,” added his wife Vanessa.

    Christie threw up her hands. “Fine! But you need to face some facts, people. We are not — not, not, not — prepared to deal with this. We have exactly one priest — well, that we’re compatible with — and he’s not leaving Grantville. We have no bishop who could ordain more priests, leaving aside that snot Robert Herrick whom Laud saw fit to make the bishop in Magdeburg. Herrick’s a goof-off anyway and we all know it. That means we’re still completely dependent on Archbishop Laud, who is — pardon my Baptist — an asshole who won’t give us the time of day. Even if he weren’t, he’s in the Netherlands.”

    She had a point, as crudely expressed as it might be.

    “I will write to him again,” Veleda said.

 

---

 

Amsterdam, the Netherlands

    “That pestiferous woman!” Laud exclaimed. He held the radio missive clutched in his fist and waved it under Thomas Wentworth’s nose. “She’s at it again!”

    “I just came in the door, William,” Wentworth said mildly. “On what I intended to be a simple personal visit. What has you so agitated?”

    Politely, he didn’t add this time, as he so easily could have. Exile was a wearing state of affairs for anyone, but his friend the archbishop of Canterbury handled it with particularly poor grace. Perhaps that was due to his age. Laud was now sixty-three and was likely to be feeling his mortality pressing down on him. So much still to do — and now, so little time left in which to do it.

    Laud heaved a sigh and sank back into his chair. “It’s the American woman, Veleda Riddle. I’ve told you about her. She keeps pestering me to give the Americans their own bishop. I’ve already sent them some priests! Well. Two priests — and I made one of them the bishop in Magdeburg. And there are only a very small number of American so-called ‘Episcopalians’ anyway. What do they need a bishop of their own for?”

    Without waiting for Thomas to reply to that — clearly rhetorical — question, Laud raised his message-clutching fist again and waved it about.

    “I’ll tell you! I’ll tell you! They intend to break away from the authority of the true Anglican Church, that’s what! I’m not a fool, you know. I’ve read the history books. In their world the archbishop of Canterbury was just a so-called ‘first among equals.'”

    He broke off for a moment, glaring at the inoffensive wall opposite from him. “They called it the ‘Anglican Communion.’ Each national church having its own separate identity and authority, with only token acknowledgement given to the English fountainhead of the church.”

    Wentworth had heard this all before — more than once. “Oh, leave off, William!” he said impatiently. “Why do you even care, other than as a matter of personal pride?”

    “You don’t understand, Thomas. They’re not part of us.”

    Wentworth took a seat on the small divan under the window. “No, they’re not. I have met some Americans, you might recall. But the way I see it, that’s all the more reason to let them go their own way.”

    He leaned forward, planting elbows on his knees. “William, we have more than enough problems to deal with. One of them — do I need to remind you, of all people? — being to place you back in Canterbury where you belong. Why in the world would you want to pile onto your shoulders this additional distraction?”

    Without moving his arms, he spread his hands wide. “So let them have their bishop, why don’t you? Then, hopefully, they’ll go on their way and that woman who aggravates you so mightily won’t bother you any further.”

    Laud said nothing for a minute or so, he just continued to glare at the wall. Then, he sighed again.

    “I suppose you’re right.” He rose to his feet and moved toward his writing desk. “There’s this much of a blessing, at least. The ancient harridan made a specific recommendation once. If I can find it…”

    He rummaged among the papers piled around the desk.

    “Ah, here it is.” He handed the letter over to Wentworth. “This will spare me the nuisance of having to send someone to investigate the possibilities.”

    Wentworth scanned the letter quickly. When he got to the name of the man whom the Riddle woman had recommended, his eyebrows rose.

    “Well, he certainly has the pedigree,” he said.

    “In that case, I’ll send the appointment by radio transmission.” The expression on Laud’s face was mischievous; indeed, it bordered on being malicious. “They call it a ‘collect call,’ you know.”

    He reached for the bell on a side table and rang for his secretary. “I can’t actually ordain him over the radio, of course. That requires a laying on of hands. But I can appoint him bishop-elect and make the appointment widely known.”

 

---

 

Regensburg

    Tom Simpson wouldn’t have paid for the radio message, except for the name of the sender. What would the archbishop of Canterbury want with him?

    It took no more than a few seconds to read the message. A few more seconds to re-read it. At least a minute, though, for the meaning to finally register.

    “Well, fuck me,” he said.

 

---

 

    As he headed toward the entrance, the radio operator called him back. “There’s another message coming in for you, Major Simpson.”

    Tom turned around. “From who?”

    “Your father, it says.”

    After Tom read that message, the situation became much clearer.

    “I swear to God,” he muttered, as he emerged back onto the street, “if you planted that woman in the middle of the Gobi desert — oh, hell no, plant her in the middle of Antarctica — she’d find an apple cart to upset. Take her maybe two minutes, tops.”

 

---

 

    His wife’s reaction when she read the message from Laud was a variation on the theme.

    “Oh, fuck no! Tom, you can’t accept!”

    He made a face. “I’ll have to check with Veleda or somebody else who’d know the protocol. But I’m not actually sure I can refuse. Legally speaking — well, ecclesiastically legally speaking — I think this is more like being conscripted than volunteering. You know how it is in this day and age — half of your top clergymen are political appointees.”

    “I don’t give a damn! I don’t want my husband to be a fucking bishop! I’m just a trashy country girl hillbilly! I want to get laid once in a while!”

    Tom laughed. “Episcopalian clergy aren’t Catholics, honey. They — we — don’t take vows of celibacy.”

    “Doesn’t matter! How can I possibly screw a goddam bishop?”

    His grin widened. “Come here and I’ll show you.”

 

---

 

    An hour or so later, Rita was much calmer. Not quite mollified, but close.

    “Well, I guess there’s one upside to the whole thing,” she said, her head nestled on his shoulder.

    “Hmm?” Tom’s eyes were closed. He’d have been purring, if humans were equipped to do so.

    “You can get Ursula out of our hair. Send her to Dresden to do her proselytizing. Let her drive Gretchen Richer nuts. It’d serve her right since this is all her fault in the first place.”

    His eyes opened. “I’m not sure I have the authority to do that. Ursula is just laity, not clergy.”

    “Says who?” Rita levered herself up on an elbow and looked down on him. “Your church ordains female priests. I know it does.”

    “Well, yeah — up-time. But here…”

    His eyes were wide open, now.

    Rita laughed and slapped his chest. Which was like slapping a side of beef. “Oh, Laud will have a shit fit! Welcome to the seventeenth century, way-too-smart-for-his-own-good husband of mine. What should we call it? Hey, I know — the Bishop Wars.”