Grantville Gazette, Volume 66 Page 6

  "I can pay."

  With that done, he headed to the Thuringen Gardens. He was in the mood for a beer. He walked in and looked around for a table. The next moment he was hit by a small blonde missile. He put his arm around Marta and used the other to steady himself.

  "You damn fool! What I was to do if you died?" She screamed at him, then buried her head against him. Hartmann patted her gently, then led her to a nearby table. Through it all, the woman hung on him like a limpet.

  He ordered a beer, then sat consoling the woman until she finally stopped crying. "Marta, I am safe. Please, do not cry."

  "The first man who treated me like a person since I fled home." she mumbled against his chest. "When I heard about the army marching I knew you would go and why. You would be a soldier, even though you hate it." She fumbled in the pocket of her up-time lumberjack shirt. "I went to the church, got this for you, but could not find you, bastard."

  He took the necklace from her. On it was a saint, and he looked at her confused. She looked up. "If the man I love is going to be a soldier, he should carry a medallion of St Martin of Tours, the patron saint of soldiers."

  He opened the clasp, and put it on. "Let me finish my beer, then go to the library. I must find out what they know of Dudley Do-Right."

  October 11, 1631

  Grantville

  The bullet punched through the hand-drawn picture of a man from the waist up, and Hartmann cursed. "Low again!"

  "Chill, Richard. You are doing pretty well for someone who learned with an arquebus!"

  "But I am not even close to Julie Sims." Hartmann took the magazine from the Ruger 10/22 and began reloading.

  "Boy, none of us are in her league. But you don't have to be Olympic material to shoot."

  "Bobby! Is that guy Hartmann here?" Cassandra Haymond shouted.

  Bobby looked toward his wife. "Sure he is. Why?"

  "The German Heinrich, the one they made a captain. He wanted to talk to Hartmann."

  Hartmann took off the ear protectors, walking over. "Thank you, Frau Hollering."

  "None of that, Richard. Call me Cassie." She pointed at the phone as her son Robert began crying.

  A few moments later, he was back.

  "What did he want?"

  "I was asked to come down tomorrow to talk with their army. They want me to become a teacher again." Hartmann started to aim, but didn't fire.

  "Something wrong?"

  "These bullets. You call them twenty-twos. How many of them do you up-timers have?"

  Bobby shrugged. "I have about four thousand rounds in my stock. In the town? Maybe thirty, forty thousand. Why?"

  "We learned with matchlocks. But these rifles of yours need a gentler hand, and if these are abundant, it makes sense to use them." The gun fired. "May I buy a thousand of your twenty-two bullets?"

  Bobby snorted. "If you are doing this for the army, you just requisition them from Paul Santee."

  ****

  Santee looked at the form he had been handed, then at Hartmann. "What are you going to do with this?" He tapped it.

  "I am being assigned as one of the new recruit training sergeants," Hartmann replied. "I know how we used to train, but with these bullets, we can use them and learn how to shoot correctly."

  "Makes sense. How many men are you training?"

  "I am not yet sure. I was told between forty and fifty."

  Santee stood, going into the arsenal that for the moment still filled Mrs. Tippett's front room. "If you only have that many, I will issue you five hundred rounds. That's ten rounds each. If you get more, let me know."

  November, 1631

  Grantville

  The most recent recruits for the New United States Army straggled in. A lot of them were still hungover. They stood milling about, looking confused until there was a sharp whistle. Hartmann walked out, looking the men over. Since they didn't have uniforms made yet and there weren't enough of the camouflaged clothes to equip every one, he was dressed as they were. However, his clothes were freshly cleaned—unlike most of the men facing him. "Good day. I am Sergeant Hartmann, what the up-timers call a drill sergeant. For my sins, I am in charge of your training. Now form ranks. Those of you who were soldiers before know what that means. Show your fellows how it is done."

  They formed a ragged series of ranks. "The up-timers have their way of doing things, and from what I have seen, they make sense. One thing they do is have straight rows, not this farmer trying to plow a field without removing the rocks first you have made. Get in straight rows. Move!" They reformed. "They also have commands that make sense, and you will learn them. The first is attention." He demonstrated each stance as he told them. "When I shout attention, you will stand, feet together, hands by your trouser seams, looking straight ahead until you are told to stand at parade rest. You will on that command, move your left foot ten inches from your right clasp your hands behind your back, and keep your eyes to the front. If you are not sure about left or right, do not worry, you will learn or wish to God you had. If given the command at ease, you are now allowed to look around. Attention!

  "I will not call you soldiers. You might think you were, but you are not by their definition," Hartmann walked toward the right-hand end of the line. "Look to your front! I am not an actor on a stage to be followed with your eyes! I am your sergeant, and until told to stand at ease, your eyes will look straight forward!"

  He paced along, looking into every face as he did. "You are here to learn how to be real soldiers. How to fight, and yes, perhaps die for the people you defend. We do not fight for glory, money, or loot any more. If that is your reason to be here, you are in the wrong army, and the wrong place!"

  When he reached the end of the line, he turned. "Parade, rest!" They tried, but Hartmann merely shook his head. "Raise your hand if you were a soldier at Jena." Almost all of them raised their hands. "Then you should know this. When you were told to charge pikes or muskets you moved your left foot forward. Those of you who were will help the new ones learn. If you do not, I will teach you how to help your comrades. Attention! Now, those of you who are new have my permission to look down and watch those to either side. Everyone else, look to your front. Parade, rest!

  "Better. Now, for a moment, we are going to talk as men. So, at ease!" the men's eyes were on him. Hartmann filled his pipe, lit it, and watched them. "I have been a soldier since my fourteenth year. In my time I have held every rank a common soldier can. So I have been where you are now, and where you were at Jena. This is not something hard. Give me an hour and I can teach what you have learned in the last few minutes to any group of children on the street.

  "But from here it will be harder. The people we now fight for have rules, and some of them are about cleanliness. The up-timers know that when you are dirty, your wounds can become bad from what they call infection. So they demand you be clean. You will learn to keep your body and clothes clean. You will learn to take care of your equipment, and when it comes time, how to shoot correctly. My job is to teach, yours is to learn. I can talk as we are now as you learn, or I can scream at you. The faster you learn, the sooner I stop shouting."

  ****

  "He's good." Frank Jackson commented.

  "He is that." Tom Simpson replied. "He was as cool as they come at Jena. Patient, kept his men in hand. They tell me he took upon himself the training of the boys old enough to join the line. Has for years. We could use someone to keep the training going as more people sign up. Maybe you should talk to Mike about giving him a commission."

  "I’d rather not"

  Tom looked aside at the older man as Jackson continued.

  "He obeys orders, leads well, but doesn't really like officers. Too many bad ones, according to Heinrich. In fact, Heinrich thought Hartmann would react badly when he heard we promoted him. But Hartmann just nodded, said, 'not a problem for me' and they were back as friends again—just with the reserve you would expect from a sergeant talking to an officer added." Frank looked at where Hartm
ann was face to face with one of the recruits, screaming. "Can you picture him sitting on a horse lording it over the men he trained?"

  ****

  After two weeks, the recruits marched to the gun range near Bobby Hollering's home. Hartmann stopped them and walked to the front. "The up-timers say none of us can shoot, and there is a reason for that." He stepped to the side and hefted his caliver. "This is what we learned with." He filled the pan, then lit the slow match. He held it across his body in what he had already taught them was port arms, and pulled the trigger. The serpentine slid down, and when the match hit the pan, there was a flash of smoke. He was the only one who didn't flinch. "With that a hand span in front of your face, most of us who fired them usually closed our eyes. The weapons we will be carrying do not do that. So if I see anyone closing their eyes before firing, I will kick your ass and will do so every time I see it until you learn."

  He hefted the Winchester, and turned to face the series of targets thirty yards away. "With these weapons, you have to aim and squeeze the trigger." He aimed, then fired. The center target shuddered. "I have been learning for a month now, and I am only starting to be good with their weapons. Is there any one of you who thinks he can do as well?" The question had been rhetorical, but Hans Greif, a young man raised his hand. "Come forward." The man walked forward, and Hartmann jacked the lever action before handing it to him.

  Greif took a moment to look at the weapon, then threw it to his shoulder, leaning into it, and fired. The same target shuddered. Hartmann looked for a long moment. The boy's shot had been closer to the center of the target than his had been. "Their weapons will also fire much faster. Greif, there are three more rounds. Without losing your aim, as fast as you can." The young man didn't hesitate. Three more bullets thundered down the range in less than five seconds. Hartmann looked at the young man. "Jäger?"

  "My entire family, sergeant."

  "One thing you will learn is what they call policing your brass." Hartmann bent and held up one of the shells. "These can be reloaded, so when you are done firing, you will pick them up for reuse. Greif, police this up, then walk toward the target and pick up the plastic wads too." As the young man did so, Hartmann picked up another weapon and the men chuckled. "You will learn with these. I was not able to get enough for everyone to shoot at the same time, and obviously not all the same design. These are used by the up-timers in training their children how to shoot and in hunting rabbits or other small game. But shooting is the same whether you are using a shotgun or a twenty-two. So first ten to the front. Chosen man Greif will instruct you since he has proven proficient. These cases will also be policed. You each have ten rounds, I expect you to hit the target before you have fired five, and to hit the red five-inch circle at least once before you expend them all."

  ****

  "Today you learn with the real thing." Hartmann looked at the men holding their shotguns. “This is now your weapon. You will learn to clean and oil it. Each of you has been given a box of shells. How many have sixteen gauge? All right, you seven, exchange places so you are gathered on one end of the ranks."

  "Why, sergeant?"

  "Always with the questions, Gruber? All right, for those who must ask questions every time I talk." Hartmann walked over to where Gruber stood near the end of the formation. "You will all carry your own ammunition, but problems occur. Now, move over there." Hartmann moved the man to the center of the formation. "So you have a man to either side, and three behind you." He tapped the man to Gruber's left on the forehead. "Poor Dieter here has just been killed. Lay down like a good corpse, Dieter." The man knelt and lay on his stomach.

  "The battle is hot and heavy, and Gruber fires off all of his shells. What does he do?" The man looked down at the 'corpse.' "Good plan. Now Dieter, hand me one of your shells." He handed it off to Gruber. "Load it."

  The man tried to load it in the feed gate, but it was too large. "It will not fit!"

  "Perhaps a bit of pork fat would help." Hartmann suggested. The men chuckled. "You have a 16 gauge; Dieter has a 12 gauge. The term means how much weight of shot or slug, and like a lot of things, his is larger than yours." They roared with laughter at that. "But it could be worse. Dieter, why are you just lying there? Back on your feet." The man stood.

  Hartmann now tapped Gruber's head. "Bang, you are dead; hand Dieter one of your shells. Do not chamber it, Dieter." The sergeant walked to the side where a double-barreled shotgun sat. He broke it open, and took the 16-gauge shell, dropping it into the bore. "Now look, Gruber. The shell fits the bore; it is caught by the rim which will not slide further. But it will not fire, meaning poor Dieter here has to get it out of the barrel before he can load. I am told we will all have the larger shotguns before we go into battle, but I was told as an arquebusier that we would all have the same caliber weapons when I first picked one up lo those many years ago." He took a dowel, shoving the shell back out, and handed it back to Gruber. "Any other stupid questions? Back in position.

  "Now, load three shells, but do not use the pump slide yet. The way you use these is like the small rifles you were learning with, except these kick much harder. Pull it into your shoulder hard, use the bead at the end of the barrel to aim. Your target should be in the chest of the target about here." He touched himself below the heart. "So, chamber one round. That means move the pump, Gruber. Take your aim, give fire!"

  December, 1631

  Grantville

  Hartmann strode down the hill toward the town. He was considering what he was going to buy for dinner, but his eyes locked on the figure that was cutting across ahead of him. "Marta!" She looked up, clutching her shawl tightly to her. "Why do you have no coat?"

  She looked away. "I needed to pay my rent first. I will buy one next week."

  "Nonsense." Hartmann caught her arm, and led her toward the Value Market. She protested, but was soon swathed in a quilted plastic coat that came almost to her knees. Hartmann paid, nodded, and left her alone.

  ****

  "Sergeant Hartmann!" He turned, smiling as Marta came toward him.

  "Afternoon." He nodded.

  "I brought this for you." She held up a large metal pan. "You bought me the coat, I felt it only right that I make you dinner."

  He opened the pan, sniffing appreciatively. "Enough for two I trust?"

  "Yes." She linked arms with him. “And I brought a fresh loaf to go with it." She motioned. "Lead on, Sergeant."

  "Richard."

  ****

  It became a habit. Three times a week she brought food by, either prepared or fresh. For the first time in years he found enjoyment in something as simple as a meal. At the Christmas party they held at the High School, he learned the provenance of mistletoe and led her over beneath it for a kiss. She gave him a present, a paperback copy of the collected poems of Rudyard Kipling.

  July, 1632

  Grantville

  Hartmann came in, saluting Heinrich. "Sergeant Hartmann reporting as ordered."

  "Stop that, Lehrer." Heinrich returned the salute. "Sit." As soon as Hartmann had done so, his officer leaned forward. "Your first class is in the field now. How is the second doing?"

  Hartmann shrugged. "They are coming along. Not what I would call soldiers yet, unless you want to use the old way of judging."

  "Can they fight?"

  "Open formation or behind fortifications?"

  "We are taking the reserve units down to Suhl. MacKay's Scots say a tercio is marching north from the Alte Veste, Captain Simpson is going to be my second in command, and we will probably have time to set up some hasty fortifications."

  "With those, they should be steady enough."

  "Then you will be in charge of your trainees from both classes. Round them up. We leave in the morning."

  Yes, sir. Best make sure we have enough shovels and axes. The more you sweat, the less you bleed."

  ****

  Hartmann walked into the Gardens, looking around. "Marta!"

  "Richard!" She ran over
and hugged him. When she stepped back, she saw his face and her smile faded. "You are going to war again."

  "Yes." He reached into a pouch and handed her a small package. "It is not much, but this is for you."

  She took it, and unfolded the cloth. It was an up-time plastic rattail comb and a brush. "Oh, Richard."

  "We're leaving in the morning. When I get back, we can talk more."

  ****

  Richard cursed as someone knocked on his door. He had gotten the men into bed so they would sleep after frantically making sure everything was loaded. He stalked over to it, threw it open, then froze. Marta was standing there wearing the heavy winter coat he had bought for her the previous winter. But in August? It must be like an oven in that coat!

  She pushed past him, and he turned. Then his words froze as she dropped it. Except for the coat and a skirt, she was wearing nothing. Then she untied and dropped the skirt as well. She came over to him hesitantly, then wrapped her arms around his neck. "You are overdressed."

  "Marta—"

  "I want you to have a reason to come home." His reply was cut off when she stood on tiptoe to kiss him.

  August, 1632

  Suhl

  "Sheisse," Gruber whispered. All of the men with the exception of the sergeant were now armed with 12 gauges. His hands kept clutching and releasing the shotgun he held as the enemy formed up a distance away. He had thought his time would be spent guarding one of the entries to the Ring of Fire or perhaps marching by in ranks. The youngster had found a lot of the women in the town were attracted to a soldier on duty; at least when they weren't rampaging around like the armies did outside the New US. Now he faced the enemy for the first time, and the only thing that kept him from running was that he couldn't get his knees to bend so he could stand. The pikeheads glistened in the sun, and he expected to feel one ripping him apart as he knelt here too frightened to move.

  "Gruber." His head jerked around at the soft call. The Sergeant was sitting with his back to the abattis they had built, smoking his pipe idly. "Come over here." The man crawled along. It seemed he could move if someone told him to. The sergeant held out his hand. "Your shotgun."