Grantville Gazette, Volume 66 Page 7

  The gun was passed over, and Hartmann sighed. "You have the safety off again." He turned the weapon, and jacked the pump several times, looking at the four shells laying there. "And you loaded the chamber without permission again." Hartmann jacked it one more time to assure it was empty. "Pick those up and wipe them off. You do not want to load a filthy shell. It could jam." Then he began to load the weapon again. "Do you know why I am doing this for you?" Gruber shook his head silently. "Because as nervous as you are acting, you could kill one of our own." He handed the weapon back. "The young recruit is silly—'e thinks o' suicide./'E's lost 'is gutter-devil; 'e 'asn't got 'is pride;/ But day by day they kicks 'im, which 'elps 'im on a bit,/ Till 'e finds 'isself one mornin' with a full an' proper kit," Hartmann quoted. "Now, put this shell in your pouch. Put on the safety, and do NOT play with the trigger. When I shout take your aim, you can rack the slide. But not until then. Now back in position."

  Gruber crawled back to his assigned position, and Hartmann turned, kneeling, then lifted his head. About a hundred yards. "All right, lads, wait for the order-" He stopped talking as he heard a weapon dry-firing. "Gruber, I want you to look to your left, and tell me who would have just died because you were stupid."

  "Uh, Schrader."

  "Meaning him and Bauer right beyond him. After the battle, I want you both to have a discussion with our good friend and make sure he remembers what a safety is for." Hartmann looked toward where Tom Simpson and Heinrich stood. Both had their own shotguns, not like most officers he had dealt with in his time. Good people. Heinrich lifted the whistle. "All right, men. Just like I taught you. Face the wall, on the signal, bring on hell." The whistle blew. "Take your aim, fire!"

  His shotgun bucked as he swept it from right to left. His men were on the right flank, and they had an excellent shot into the side of the tercio. He reloaded. "Gruber, take the safety off NOW!" He jacked the lever, and began unloading his second magazine. The enemy were stumbling out there, his own 10 gauge slugs were going through two and sometimes three of them. Even the smaller 12gauges were doing as well.

  He reloaded a third time. The enemy were starting to buckle, but were still trying to attack—no, they were beginning to flee. "Cease fire!" The men who were still loading slowed their pace, watching as the enemy came apart like a dandelion in a high wind. "Those of you that are out, dig more shells out of your packs. Remember, safeties on."

  He looked down the line, then set his shotgun down. Gruber was still mindlessly jacking the slide and dry firing. From the look of it, he had not even bothered to reload after the first three. Hartmann grabbed the gun, and the trigger finger stopped moving. The boy was sobbing in terror, eyes tightly closed. He motioned to the two he had assigned to talk to Gruber, and both nodded, turning back toward the enemy. Hartmann pulled the weapon from his grip, then held the boy as he shivered in reaction. "You are not going into battle again, boy. My word on it."

  August, 1632

  Suhl

  It had all been deception, Suhl and Eisenach; all to get the Up-timers away from the real target.

  Grantville.

  It had been two days since the report had come in, Croat cavalry had struck not only the town itself but also at the school. There had been no mention of casualties beyond light or even which school. But even light casualties could include six children he had saved from death before. He was looking at what he had built in the last year, the children and Marta all dead while he was away.

  His men watched him, and never made a complaint. Not even Gruber. It was like seeing your father worrying about his other children, and they knew he would move heaven and earth if he must to avenge even one of them.

  He heard a horse come up beside him where his men worked on the wall. "Hartmann." He ignored it. He could picture Lisle, Dieter, the others, all torn apart, Marta dead at his feet, lifting her shattered body, screaming his fury at God for yet again taking everything from him. "Richard!" He looked up into Heinrich's face.

  "Yes, sir?"

  "Look at your men!"

  He looked back. Their faces were gaunt with fatigue in the fading sunlight. They had stopped working, watching him. "Those slacking bastards-"

  "That is quite enough." Hartmann looked at Heinrich in shock. The officer reined in his mount. "You have driven them beyond reason. It is an hour after we should have stopped for the day. Pushing them and yourself to death will not change the outcome!"

  Suddenly Hartmann could feel his own fatigue. He wiped his face. The thought of them dead was a flail driving him on. His men deserved better. "Head for the barn, men." There were no cheers, but it was because they were too tired to care.

  Heinrich reached back into his saddle bag, handing a bottle to his friend. "Get your men settled, fed, and let them get some sleep. That is to help you sleep."

  Hartmann pulled the cork, and flinched back at the raw alcohol smell. "Where did you get this?"

  "From the worst tavern in Suhl. I told the man I sent to find the strongest drink this town has to offer. So you will listen and obey orders. You will settle your men in, then you will drink two mouthfuls of that. If you still cannot sleep drink two more, and keep adding to it until you do sleep or pass out. That is an order, Sergeant." Heinrich saw his doubts surfacing. "Damn it, Richard, do not picture them in the ground until you see the graves!"

  Hartmann nodded, then began to walk along after his men. The raw spirit ripped his throat on the first swallow. By the fifth he no longer cared.

  August, 1632

  Grantville

  Hartmann looked around, but there was no sign that a battle had even occurred. The driver pulled in at headquarters, and Hartmann climbed out, followed by Gruber. "Report inside." The young man looked distressed, and Hartmann clapped him on the back. "Up-timers aren't like we have been for years, Hans. They understand that war is not for everyone, and there is no shame in it. They will find some duties for you for the rest of your enlistment. Just be glad you found out when you did."

  He climbed back in the truck which dropped him at the armory. "I'm going to get some chow and fuel up. Be back to pick you up in two hours." Hartmann nodded, climbing out and hefted the bundle from the back onto his shoulder before walking into the building.

  Paul Santee looked up from his desk, then turned. "You brought a shotgun back?"

  "Yes, Herr Santee. And a requisition for more ammunition."

  "Don't call me Herr, Hartmann. I'm a sergeant like you are, and we both work for a living." Santee took the weapon, opening and inspecting the cleanliness, then took it back to the rack. "The guy get killed?"

  "Gruber has been sent home for noncombat duties. He does not have the stomach for war. There are no more shells for my Winchester until they are reloaded, so I am going to use his." Hartmann said.

  "Not everyone does." Santee filled out the form, and passed it to Hartmann for his signature. "Where's your ride?"

  "He went for fuel and food. He will be back in two hours."

  "Then we have time for a burger and a brew." Santee waved for him to follow, and led the way the short distance to the Garden.

  Hartmann looked around, and his heart eased when he saw Marta. She looked up, then was running across the floor to hug him.

  "I checked on the children after the attack, Richard. They are all safe."

  "Thank you."

  "When are you coming home?"

  "We are still assigned to Suhl. But I wanted to do something."

  Santee snickered. "On that note, I will leave you to find a room."

  Marta blushed. Hartmann chuckled. "Not that, just yet."

  August, 1632

  Suhl

  Heinrich walked out to welcome the truck returning from Grantville. "You are late!"

  "Sorry, sir. I had something else I had to do before returning." Hartmann said. "I got married."

  "You bastard!" Heinrich shook his hand. "That means you owe me a drink. Hell, you owe everyone a drink."

  Hartmann pulled a tarp o
ff the barrel of beer in the back of the truck.

  Early September, 1632

  Alte Veste

  Hartmann walked along behind the line of men who had been in battle with him before. The less steady trainees had been assigned to the APCs to his right and left. "Right lads, you know the drill. I've beaten them into you often enough."

  He saluted Heinrich as the officer rode up. "How are they doing, Sergeant?" Hartmann looked down the line of them. A cannon ball bounced, to the side, and the men flinched down as it whickered past. "When first under fire an' you're wishful to duck,/ Don't look nor take 'eed at the man that is struck, / Be thankful you're livin', and trust to your luck / And march to your front like a soldier. / Front, front, front like a soldier…"

  "That damn Kipling." Heinrich snorted. "Just a few minutes."

  "Yes, Sir. Good luck." Hartmann turned to the men again as Heinrich rode off. "Now listen up! When I say advance you will do exactly what I taught you! This is why you came. I should be home with my new wife, but they just had to give us a battle as a wedding present! So as a present to my wife, you are going to get me home!"

  "Jawohl, Lehrer!" They roared.

  The bugle and drums sounded. There was the stutter of the machine gun, a cavalry charge coming apart under fire. The APCs came to roaring life, and with a blast of air horns they moved down toward the weakened section of the line. He drew his sword and blew the whistle at the next command. "At them!"

  The Ghosts of the Blauschloss by Margo Ryor

  August 1635

  Mikayla Barnes squinted against the late morning sun bringing the town of Plötzkau into focus. Set well back from the lazy loops of the Saale, it looked exactly like an illustration out of Grimm's Fairy Tales—just like all the other German towns Mikayla had seen since she and the rest of Grantville accidently landed in the seventeenth century. Then she spotted something not at all fairytale but distinctly twentieth-century; a crowd of protesters on the docks waving signs.

  "Johanna," Mikayla said, "come look at this."

  Her pen-pal, Princess Johanna of Anhalt, turned from giving some instructions to one of the barge crew. She looked first at Mikayla, then towards the docks, frowned, and came to the railing for a better look.

  "Do you know what's going on?" Mikayla asked looking up at the tall princess. She was still getting used to the real Johanna, as opposed to the imaginary one she'd been writing to for over a year. Even though she'd known better she'd still somehow imagined her pen-pal as thirteen like herself, and shorter and, well, more American because they seemed to have so much in common.

  Johanna shook her head. "No idea. Can you make out those signs?"

  Mikayla squinted harder trying to force the distant lettering into focus. "UMWA. What's the Mine Workers' Union doing in Plötzkau?"

  "There's a potash mine on the other side of the river," Johanna answered absently, gesturing vaguely behind herself.

  "A what mine?" Mikayla asked blankly.

  "It's a kind of mineral salt," Johanna explained. "It's good for fertilizer and the chemical company in Stassfurt buys it, too. Papa says we're doing very well from the profits."

  Mikayla was a coal miner's granddaughter and great-granddaughter. She instinctively sided with the protesters and frowned darkly at her friend. "Why is the UMWA upset with you?"

  "I didn't know they were," Johanna answered, eyes still on the shore.

  As the barge got closer it became clear there were two different and entirely separate groups waiting to greet it. A cluster of portly men in formal seventeenth-century dress constituted one and a number of much younger men and women dressed in homemade knockoffs of up-time clothes the other. Guess which one was waving the signs. A fairly large crowd stood well back in the fields between the docks and the town proper watching avidly but at a safe distance from ground zero.

  By now the rest of the girls making up the Anke Treuer Mysteries writers' circle had gathered round, all of them eyeing the reception committee with some unease. Mikayla joined her Grantville friends, Sherri Hinson and Jessica Samuels, at the back of the group. They weren't exactly cowering behind their older down-timer friends but they definitely intended to let the princesses deal with the problem—whatever it was.

  "Maybe they've got nothing to do with us," Sherri said, clearly dreaming.

  "I bet it's got to do with Johanna and Lies," Jessica answered.

  "I fear Jessie is right," Lies, aka Princess Elisabeth of Anhalt-Zerbst, agreed a little grimly. She was the eldest of the four down-timer girls, a full eighteen years old like their heroine Anke Treuer. She was also Johanna's cousin.

  The other two down-timers were just seventeen, like Johanna. Julia Felicitas was yet another of Johanna's many cousins and Anna Sophia wasn't. Like the Americans they seemed more than willing to hold back and let the Anhaltiners face the music. Both halves of the welcome committee surged forward as the barge docked, leaving the girls with barely enough room to disembark.

  "Your Grace," the senior of the official detachment, marked as such by his heavy gold chain, began, "Welcome back to your loyal town of—"

  There was probably more to the speech but the girls didn't get to hear it as it was drowned out by the sign wavers howling union mottos. The local dignitaries turned on them and both sides forgot all about the girls yelling insults at each other. Mikayla saw a punch land on chain guy's nose followed by a gush of blood and a howl of fury as he dove into the protesters, fists swinging.

  She tugged nervously at the back of Johanna's jacket. "Maybe we should get back on the boat."

  "That's a good idea," Anna Sophia agreed with considerable feeling.

  The whole clump of girls edged back towards the gangway which luckily was still down but then the free-for-all in front of them heaved and split right down the middle the combatants shoved apart by men wielding long poles topped with wickedly pointy axeheads.

  Lies heaved a sigh of relief. The other princesses relaxed too. "What?" Mikayla asked, still nervous, "Who are those guys?"

  "Guards from the castle," Johanna replied.

  "So, on our side. Good."

  The guards got the girls through the crowd and into a capacious carriage painted with the Anhalt arms.

  "What was that all about?" Mikayla asked her pen-pal breathlessly as they rattled off.

  "I don't know and I can't say I care," Johanna snapped, looking thoroughly put out.

  "We're here to write, not to settle local quarrels," Julia added staring pointedly at Lies.

  The eldest princess nodded agreement. "Johanna and I weren't sent as envoys from Uncle Augustus. We should definitely not get involved."

  "Yeah, politics. Not our problem," Sherri chimed in on behalf of the up-timers.

  Mikayla didn't disagree. She just wondered if they could ignore riots practically on their doorstep. Of course having a wall and a mile or so of park around them should help.

  ****

  Schloss Plötzkau looked more like a mansion on steroids than Cinderella's Castle but at least it had a wall, if not a very high one, lined with two-story buildings and enclosing a courtyard that was mostly dirt with scattered patches of grass and weeds. Directly ahead was the castle proper, three or four stories high, with rows of rounded gables and a tall, thin tower topped with yet more gables rising over all.

  The carriage rattled through a sort of tunnel into a cobbled inner yard and came to a jerking halt in front of an open door flanked by rows of men in the yellow and black Anhalt livery standing at attention. Mikayla nudged Jessie who nudged Sherri. The princesses were clearly unimpressed, taking it totally for granted.

  The coach door opened. Johanna went first, then Lies, then Julia indicated it was Mikayla's turn. One footman held the heavy door open, and a second offered his hand to steady her as she gingerly descended a pair of rickety wooden steps to the cobbled ground.

  The two princesses were accepting the bows of an important-looking fellow in furred gown and gold chain. Johanna answered him in a
friendly tone meaning he was somebody important. The princesses were kind of abrupt when talking to servants, not mean exactly but not nice, either. Mikayla reminded herself that it wasn't their fault they'd grown up in the seventeenth century.

  The man with the furs and chain was introduced to Mikayla and the other guests as Burgmann Schenk, the castellan in charge of the castle now that the prince had moved away. He bowed a good deal as he escorted the girls into a hall made darker by lots of carved paneling. But they left him behind as Johanna and Lies led the way up a massive staircase to an upper hall where they were greeted by a row of capped and aproned maids dropping deep curtsies.

  Jessie nudged Sherri who nudged Mikayla who nudged sharply back. "Don't gape!"

  A lady in formal dress wearing an order's decoration turned out to be Frau Schenk who would act as their chaperon or in twentieth-century terms their babysitter. "We have prepared the Princess's apartments for your Grace and your guests," she said to Johanna, curtsying but not as deeply as the maids.

  "Not the guest quarters?" Johanna asked, surprised, then shrugged like it didn't really matter. "Very well."

  The first room of the apartment had deep-set windows overlooking the park and gilt on the elaborately carved paneling. Mikayla saw it was furnished as a dining room, dominated by a big table surrounded by brocade-covered chairs and wasn't at all surprised when Johanna said, "We'll take our meals here."

  "Nice," said Sherri, fingering the heavy silk covering the chair nearest to her.

  Frau Schenk opened another door. This room was brightened by a thickly gilt wallpaper. Mikayla joined Sherri and Jessie in oohing and aahing over the heavily carved sofas and chairs upholstered in blue and red silk. A mechanical typewriter stood on a long table under the windows, clashing with the rest of the decor. Seven gilt inkwells and fountain pens stood in a row ending in a carved box. Mikayla opened it and found it full of neatly cut eight by eleven sheets of paper.