1634: The Baltic War: Chapter Twenty Eight

Magdeburg

    “I’d recommend we include Nils Krak’s men, too,” said Frank Jackson. “They’re all dragoons as well as sharpshooters, and with their rifled muskets they should give the Thuringian Rifles whatever extra support they might need. We can only send one squad of the Rifles with the combat team.”

    John Chandler Simpson was half-amused and half-irritated at Jackson’s stubborn insistence on using the up-time phrase “combat team” to refer to the special combined arms force they’d be sending as an escort for the ironclads, as they made their way downriver to Hamburg. They’d all agreed that sending the ironclads without a land escort would be foolish. As powerful as the war machines were, there were just too many ways in the narrow confines of a river for the enemy to set traps. It could be something as simple as obstructions in the river bed that required the ironclads’ accompanying service craft to pause for a bit, while the crews removed the obstacle—easy targets for snipers firing from the river banks. In much the same way that a main battle tank working its way through the narrow streets of a city needed infantry support, so long as they were on the river the ironclads did as well.

    The problem—tiny, tiny problem—was that the down-timers had no fixed terminology to use for most such military purposes, just as they tended to use terms like “lieutenant” and “captain” in a very loose and fluid manner. That didn’t bother Simpson much, but it drove a former sergeant like Frank Jackson half-crazy. So, once he got on Torstensson’s staff, Jackson had insisted on developing precise terminology.

    The Swedish general had been willing enough to accommodate him, in principle. But, alas for Jackson, Torstensson insisted on picking the actual terms. And after Simpson had casually mentioned that the sort of combined arms land force they were putting together, as a temporary unit for a specific task, had a different term in the up-time German tradition than the American “combat team” appellation Jackson proposed, Torstensson had chosen it instead. He thought it sounded better.

    So, “battle group” it was to be—but Jackson wouldn’t budge from using combat team instead. Granted, no one who knew the man could accuse Frank Jackson of being xenophobic, especially after they met his Vietnamese wife Diane. But in many ways, the former coal miner’s American chauvinism was so unthinking and deeply ingrained that it was impossible to uproot. In that respect, very unlike his long-time close friend and former union associate Mike Stearns, who was generally quite cosmopolitan.

    Fortunately, the Swedish general whom Gustav Adolf had placed in overall command of the USE’s military seemed more amused than anything else by his American adjutant’s recalcitrance.

    “Of the two other squads,” Jackson continued, “one of them is in Luebeck and I’m assuming”—he cocked his head toward General Torstensson—“that you’ll want to keep the third squad in reserve, for whatever you might need them for.”

    “Whatever Gustav Adolf might need them for,” Torstensson grunted. He smiled thinly. “Or are you foolish enough to think the king will let me remain in command after he’s broken the siege?”

    Admiral Simpson half-scowled. “He certainly should.”

    The young Swedish general shrugged. “Yes, perhaps. But there is not much chance of it, John, as you well know. I will do my best to restrain him from personally leading any cavalry charges. Even there, I can make no promises.”

    Simpson was tempted to pursue the matter, but it would be pointless. For good or ill—and it was sheer irresponsibility on his part, as far as John was concerned—Gustav Adolf was one of those monarchs who insisted on leading his men on the battlefield. Perhaps the only such monarch left, in this day and age, although there were several princes who’d do the same. Quite capably, in some cases, as the Spanish cardinal-infante had so graphically demonstrated in the Low Countries over the past six months.

    He decided he’d do better to save whatever few bargaining points he had left—he’d already used up most of them, he figured—to try to get Colonel Christopher Fey’s force beefed up a little.

    “Frank,” he said, clearing his throat, “please don’t take this as any sort of implied criticism of either Krak’s people or the Thuringian Rifles. But the fact remains that I don’t think they’re enough, by themselves.”

    Jackson frowned. “They aren’t by themselves. I’m assigning two volley gun batteries to the combat team.”

    “Yes, I know. But that’s still not enough, if they run into a large cavalry force that’s willing to accept some casualties. Don’t forget that the only unit that’ll have repeating breechloaders will be the one Thuringian Rifles squad commanded by Sergeant Wilson. That’s not more than—what?—a dozen men?”

    “Ten men and two women, to be precise,” said Jackson. His expression made it clear that he wasn’t too happy about the last part of that equation.

    Neither was Simpson, for that matter. On this subject, if not many others, he and Frank Jackson were generally in agreement. Fortunately, it was not a problem Simpson had to deal with much himself. Since the Navy had been formed later than the army and drew most of its personnel from the Magdeburg area, John had been able to resist—sidestep, at least—letting any women into the combat units. The pressure for that had come almost entirely from up-time women in Grantville, and had naturally focused on the army and the air force.

    Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Colonel Wood smiling a little. There was just a hint of derision in that expression. Oddly, given that he was such a dinosaur in so many other ways, Jesse Wood didn’t seem to have any reservations about including females in combat positions in the Air Force.

    The smile was a bit irritating, but Simpson didn’t rise to it. He was certain that if Wood had to command people who’d spend months at sea together instead of a few hours in a plane, he’d change his tune quickly enough. John’s reservations about having women in combat units didn’t stem from the same simple paternalistic traditionalism—call it male chauvinism, if you insisted—that lay behind Jackson’s opposition. Nor did it result from Simpson’s assessment of the martial capabilities of women. Except for units—mostly infantry—whose job required a considerable degree of muscular strength, he thought women were just as capable of killing as men were. More capable, in some instances. If he’d had any doubts, all he had to do was examine Julie Sims’ track record.

    No, the problem was that they got pregnant. Something that couldn’t be managed without incredible acrobatics in the two-seat cockpit of a small airplane could be managed quite easily on a ship. And a state of pregnancy that posed nothing more than a minor nuisance on an army or air force base could be a real headache on a ship that couldn’t return to port for months on end. True, that wasn’t a problem he’d face in his ironclads, since the things were only marginally seaworthy. But Simpson was already looking ahead to the next generation of warships for the USE Navy. Those ships would be faster than any sailing ship of the time, but they would still wind up spending a year or more away from their home ports. Months at a time, at sea.

 

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    One of Torstensson’s colonels spoke up. Bryan Thorpe, that was, one of the many mercenaries from the British Isles who served under Swedish colors. A bit unusually, an Englishman instead of a Scotsman.

    “Frank, that will not be enough,” he said, “if they run into real opposition.” He spread in hands in a vaguely apologetic gesture. “Unfortunately, we do not have time to put the matter to a test in field exercises. But I can assure you that if they run into a regiment of good cavalry they are likely to get ripped to pieces unless they have some units who can defend them.”

    Jackson was starting to get exasperated. Enough so that he lapsed into the sort of casual blasphemy that Americans took for granted but rubbed seventeenth century people the wrong way. “For God’s sake, Bryan! We’re only talking about an expedition from here to Hamburg—almost all of it in our own territory. Where the hell is a whole regiment of enemy cavalry going to come from in the first place?”

    Perhaps because the blasphemy annoyed him—he was something of a Puritan—Thorpe’s rejoinder was even sharper in its tone. “Where would they come from? I have no idea, Colonel Jackson. The enemy is not in the habit of confiding his plans to me. That’s why he’s called the enemy, you understand?”

    Torstensson intervened, to keep the issue from escalating into an outright quarrel. “I have to say I agree with Bryan, Frank,” he said mildly. “USE ‘territory’ is a bland phrase, you know. Very mushy, like oatmeal. Let us be more precise. We are not talking about the vastnesses of the Russian forests or the great steppes. We are talking about a stretch of land between here and Hamburg that is not more than two hundred and fifty miles following the river. None of which beyond the bend of the Elbe is patrolled by anything other than local militias, except in the vicinity of Lauenburg and Dömitz. And those are garrison troops, not likely to react swiftly and sally out to deal with a passing cavalry raid.”

    He raised his voice a little, over-riding Jackson’s beginning of a protest. “More to the point, as the ironclads and their accompanying land escort approach Hamburg, they are not more than fifty miles from the French and Danish lines around Luebeck—and the emperor’s forces are hemmed in the city, on the other side of those lines. They certainly won’t be available to come to the admiral’s rescue, will they?”

    Fortunately, Jackson had enough sense to yield the point, seeing that the army’s top commander had come down on the other side. Simpson was sure that Frank’s opposition hadn’t been all that deeply-rooted, anyway. He had no specific objections, he was simply reacting automatically. Guarding his pieces against the plundering damn squids.

    Still, when he wanted to be, the man could be more mulish than a mule. “Fine. But I don’t see how you expect pikemen to keep up with dragoons. They’re certainly not going to be able to handle those eighteen-foot spears on horseback. Assuming they could ride a horse in the first place, which a good half of them can’t.”

    Torstensson took a deep breath, settling his temper. “Frank, please do not be more pig-headed than necessary, would you? We have hardly any pike units left in the USE’s army, in any event. Obviously I do not propose to send pikemen. We will simply use”—he turned his head and cocked an eye at Thorpe. “Bryan?”

    Thorpe was the adjutant Torstensson generally used for such matters. What, in the U.S. army back up-time would have been called the G-1, assistant chief of staff, personnel. The English colonel mused for a moment, then said:

    “Mavrinac’s company, I think. Erik has them trained to serve as dragoons, if need be. They won’t ride as well as the Thuringians and Krak’s people, but well enough to keep up with the ironclads. We’ve already agreed that the volley guns can’t make better than thirty miles a day. Mavrinac and his men can certainly manage that. We’ll have to provide them with the horses, though. They won’t have enough of their own, not for a company of two hundred men.”

    Torstensson nodded and looked around at the other officers in the conference room. “Gentlemen? Any further objections or considerations you wish to raise?”

    Frank was still looking skeptical, but didn’t say anything. For his part, Simpson went over the matter in his head, to see if he agreed with Thorpe’s assessment.

    He didn’t know the unit in question, and to the best of his recollection had never met the commanding officer. But Thorpe wouldn’t have picked a green unit, and by now most of the volunteer regiments had gone through enough training that just about any of their companies could handle the relatively straight-forward task of forming a line or square to defend against a cavalry charge. Two hundred well-disciplined men armed with rifled muskets and bayonets would provide enough of a shield for the volley guns and the sharpshooters to defeat any cavalry force no bigger than a regiment. The likelihood of encountering anything larger than that was remote.

    John was more concerned about the ability of Mavrinac’s company to keep up on the march, actually, than he was with their fighting capabilities. The problem was their horsemanship, not their marksmanship. Strip away Thorpe’s politesse and the gist of what he’d said was that Mavrinac’s men were half-assed dragoons. Men who could ride a horse, but most of them not particularly well.

    He looked out of the window onto the training ground below. From the second story vantage point, he could see one of the volley gun batteries going through some exercises. Quite nicely, so much was obvious even at a distance. But most of the men in those batteries had been selected, in part, because they were experienced riders.

    John brought his gaze back into the conference room, still gauging. He’d only reluctantly agreed to the thirty-mile-a-day estimate in the first place. Unless they had mechanical trouble, he thought his ironclads would manage quite a bit better than that, at least forty and perhaps fifty miles in a day. He hadn’t pressed the point too far, however, because he’d also been confident that the volley guns could match whatever his ironclads would do. Certainly the Thuringians and Krak’s men could. They were officially dragoons, but all of them were excellent horsemen. As good if not better than most cavalry units.

    After a moment, he decided Mavrinac’s people could probably manage well enough. The Elbe was flanked by roads all the way down to Hamburg, so it wasn’t a matter of riding cross-country. And the whole force simply wasn’t big enough to pose the usual problem of a march, which was simply that no one road could possibly handle a sizeable army. More often than not, the real problem wasn’t the ability of the grunts to stay on their feet or in the saddle. It was the ability of their officers to co-ordinate a march that required using multiple roads.

    That simply wouldn’t be an issue here. John did the arithmetic quickly. Two hundred dragoons added to a dozen Thuringians and Krak’s three dozen sharpshooters, then figure two heavy weapons batteries with a total of…

    He searched his memory, and found the figures easily. That briefing had been recent. There were six volley guns in a battery, and each gun was served by a three-man crew. The crews themselves handled the six horses who drew the limber. They’d ride the three near horses unless one or more of the horses fell by the wayside, at which point some of them would either walk or ride the limber. Add an ammunition wagon for each battery, each with two men, and a battery wagon carrying the repair equipment and gear needed for the whole force. Another two men. Add a sergeant in command of each battery and a captain and a lieutenant in command of the whole unit…

    Twenty-eight men. Added to the others, a total force of less than three hundred. Even with all of them on horseback, the roads along the river were sufficient to handle the traffic without having to break up into separate columns, which was where the grief usually came in.

    Unless they ran into a lot of mud. And things would get muddy, the farther they got into April. Leaving at the beginning of the month, the way they were, they were catching the spring flood just as it started really rolling. Within a week… on the other hand, the roads were mostly at least fifty yards from the river itself, usually farther…

 

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    “Admiral?” Torstensson’s voice snapped John out of his brown study. He saw that everyone was peering at him. A bit embarrassed, he realized that they’d all been waiting for him to finish whatever he was pondering over.

    He still had some reservations, but none of them were really that severe. And, in any event, he was pretty sure he’d just used up all his bargaining leverage. Torstensson was looking a bit impatient.

    “Yes, fine,” he said. “That should do nicely.”

    “Excellent,” said the Swedish commander. “Now I propose to move on to the issue of re-fueling. John tells me that there is now sufficient diesel stocked at Lauenberg to provide enough fuel to get the ironclads through Hamburg—patience, patience, Bryan, I’ll get to the political situation in a moment—and well into the Frisian islands. But that still leaves the problem of bringing enough diesel down the river so that the ironclads can get the rest of the way.” He smiled around the room. “Which is essential, of course. I’ve seen the Frisian islands. I wouldn’t wish my worst enemy stranded on those miserable things, much less our splendid navy.”

    That got a little laugh.

    They spent a few minutes resolving the fuel issue. That really didn’t take long, because the key problem was the political one of getting passage through Hamburg, not supplying the ironclads once they did.

    Torstensson cleared his throat. “Now. As for the politics involved—”

    That seemed to take forever. John was puzzled by the fact that Torstensson was giving such a detailed recitation of the political situation involving Hamburg. There was nothing new in what he was saying. It was almost as if he were deliberately using up the time left for the meeting.

    The gist of the problem was quite simple, and could be easily summarized in two or three short paragraphs.

    There was no way to get the ironclads into the North Sea except by using the Elbe, and Hamburg stood astride the Elbe and Hamburg was an independent imperial city. Alas, the Hamburg authorities were still dancing about, unwilling to make any commitment. They wouldn’t say yes, they wouldn’t say no.

    Alas again, with the emperor locked into Luebeck, there was no real possibility of bringing military pressure to bear. Needless to say, once the emperor broke out and began his counter-attack, his ability to snarl at the Hamburgers would escalate with incredible speed—and he snarled very nicely, thank you. But the delay involved would be enough to scramble the timing needed to get the ironclads in place for the breakout itself.

    It was all very tangled. A thorny problem, indeed.

    Jackson and Thorpe began to speak simultaneously, but Torstensson raised his hand. “Gentlemen, please.” He consulted his up-time wristwatch. “I’m afraid I used up too much time. Admiral Simpson still has a great deal of work ahead of him, if the ironclads are to—slip their moorings, I believe is the correct nautical expression?—the day after tomorrow.”

    “At dawn, day after tomorrow,” Simpson half-growled.

    “Yes. And most of the rest of you will need what’s left of the afternoon to get Mavrinac and his men ready to go. And all the rest of the preparations. So let’s not waste any more time.”

    He shrugged heavily. “And a waste of time is what it would be. We’ve thrashed out the mess in Hamburg half a dozen times already. In the end, it’s a political problem, not a military one. That’ll be the emperor’s business—and decision—not ours.”

    Torstensson clapped his hands on his knees. “So that it’s, then. Let’s all get about our business. Admiral, I’d appreciate it if you would remain behind.”

    The cue being obvious, everyone else rose and filed out of the conference room. When they were gone, and the door had closed behind the last officer to leave, Torstensson rose and went over to the same window John had looked through before.

    “The situation in Hamburg hasn’t changed a bit in months, John. And we can’t postpone deciding on a policy any longer. So—it is his decision to make—I had a long radio exchange on the matter with the emperor last night. As it happens, he’s been reading a history of the United States—the one you used to have, I mean, the one up-time—in his spare moments. He instructed me to tell you one thing and ask you two questions.”

    “Yes, sir?”

    “What he wanted me to tell you is that he is prepared to make the decision himself. But, for a variety of reasons, would much prefer it if he did not have to. The diplomatic repercussions, you understand.”

    Simpson nodded. “Yes, I understand. And the questions were?”

    “The first question. Are you familiar with the history of your country? Especially its military history.”

    Simpson nodded again. “Fairly well, to the first. Very well, to the second.”

    “Good. The emperor told me that you needed to be able to answer ‘yes’ to that question, or the next one would be meaningless.”

    By now, John was intrigued. It was quite unlike Gustav Adolf to play games like this. The fact that he was doing so made it clear just how severe the “diplomatic repercussions” might be. He was not a man to shilly-shally and dance around a subject.

    “And that question?”

    Torstensson turned his head to look John. “The question makes no sense at all to me. But it’s quite simple. The emperor wanted me to ask you if you were willing to take Florida for him?”

    After a couple of seconds, Simpson began laughing softly. He even slipped into informality. “I have to tell you, Lennart, that’s got to be the first time anyone ever compared me to that no-good class-baiting rabble-rousing bank-busting son-of-a-bitch. But, yes. You can tell Gustav Adolf that I will be his Andy Jackson. I’ll give him Florida on a plate, and if he needs to he can wash his hands of the whole thing and swear up and down he had no idea I was going to do it. Of course, just like Monroe did, he’ll keep Florida. A fait accompli is what it is.”

    “Oh, splendid. No, no, please!” Torstensson held up both hands, and then brought them together as if in prayer. “Do not explain the specifics.”

    “I wasn’t about to. You might very well be called upon to do some public hand-washing yourself.”

    “So I might. It’s shocking, really, the sort of outrages that headstrong subordinate officers can commit when they take it upon themselves to act on their own initiative instead of remaining within the limits of sober official policy.”

    He lowered his hands, and then gave Simpson a quick, stiff nod. Not quite a bow, but close.

    “Should I not have the chance again, John, let me say that it has been a great pleasure to work with you.”

    Simpson rose and returned the nod. “Thank you, sir. One favor, though.”

    “Yes?”

    “Whatever happens, please don’t tell my wife about this conversation. My opinion of Andy Jackson is pallid compared to Mary’s. On this subject, her blood runs as blue as the Danube is supposed to and doesn’t.”

    “Ah. This Andy Jackson fellow was not favored by proper folk, I take it?”

    “To put it mildly.”

    Quizzically, Torstensson cocked his head. “Yet… your own opinion of him is not so severe. Why is that?”

    Simpson smiled. “The son-of-a-bitch got us Florida, didn’t he?”