"Coward!" Gremminger said as he and his staff moved through the town carefully to get a better view of the battlefield.
****
Thomas' hand shook as he read the message. Captain Goepfert has fallen. You must come at once.You must lead the men.
It was signed by Elsinger. He read the message again, the words mixing with memories from his dreams. His hand would not stop shaking, like those soldiers from Vietnam who had suffered shell-shock, or what was called by American clinicians post-traumatic stress. But they had actually fought; pulled a trigger, thrown a grenade, put their hand in the chest wound of a fallen friend. What had Thomas done? Nothing . . . nothing . . .
He had been Dettwiler's aide de camp for only eight months, and he had never even fired a gun. He would never admit that to his staff, for they'd believe it certainly, and that would make him even less of a man in their eyes than he was now. But in the last few months he had found some courage. He had found a confidence that was lacking. Being the son of a Swiss lord gave him title and claim, but nothing else. Until now. These dice, these maps, these tiny wooden blocks he pushed from hex to hex had told him that he was smart enough to lead men into battle. Lead men? He was smart enough for strategic and tactical decision-making, but was he brave enough to lead?
Thomas grabbed the Enfield with shaking hands and bow-slung it across his back. It lay heavy against his cuirass. He was afraid the half-cocked trigger might fire, but of course it would not. Not until he pulled it.
He breathed deeply and stepped out of the tent. The sun was high and hot. He rubbed his eyes until he could see. In the distance, he heard cannon fire. Mine or his? Both probably. Numbers swirled in his mind, blocks moved, dice rolled.
He climbed his horse. "I'm going to the front," he said to the young boy holding the reins. "If I don't return, tell my mother, my father that . . . I tried."
He turned, spurred his horse, and galloped toward the sound of the guns.
****
Gremminger watched his infantry hit the center. The Spanish had come back strong, smashing into Geopfert's porous line and leaving large gaps, despite the man's efforts to put everything he had into the field. Parts of Susch were on fire, and Gremminger was truly sorry for that, but if it meant that von Allmen's army would finally be defeated and routed from the field, he was willing to take the political hit, regardless of the outcome.
"Get me a horse!" he yelled to a staff member.
He peered through his field glass. Remnants of Murner's cavalry coupled with the Spanish Enfielders slammed into one of Geopfert's small infantry blocks. They tried holding their ground, but one after the other, men were picked off by errant up-time shots ringing through the smoky air. Pikes cut through horses' necks, swords slashed down, faces exploded in a burst of sweat and red blood. The smaller enemy units were mobile enough to fill gaps in the line, but ultimately could not stand against Gremminger's larger units.
There was, however, something useful in smaller ranks, Gremminger had to admit. They did not possess the punch and potency of larger formations, but their size allowed greater mobility and allowed exploitation of open flanks. It was as if von Allmen was trying to fight a guerilla war. But you fight a guerrilla war by attacking, withdrawing, attacking, withdrawing, and you certainly did not do it with pike. Goepfert was not withdrawing. He was trying to maintain interior lines by pushing a superior force back. Clearly, the wishes of his young commander and his own practical field experience were at odds.
Gremminger nodded. It was time to exploit this rift in command.
His horse appeared at his side. He climbed into the saddle, unsheathed his saber, and said, "Let's get into this fight. No leading from behind. One more push and they'll crack. With me!"
The small cavalry unit that had formed up behind their commander followed him down the smooth slope of the road that split Susch in two.
At the edge of town, Gremminger raised his saber, leaned into his horse, and shouted, "Charge!"
****
The sounds of battle grew confused as Thomas drew near. The guns were louder but they were not his guns. He did not know how he knew this, but he knew. It was in the way that they fired. Two rounds and no response. No counter-battery. One side was firing, the other was not, and screams of pain erupted on the valley road that wound down from the Fluelapass, through the battle lines, and into Susch.
Thomas turned the corner and the fight came into view, lines of ragged infantry spread across the field like skins from a shedding snake. Red and white and blue shirts, grey coats, ibex, lion, and shield banners, coat-of-arms of smaller houses whose children and subjects lay in heaps on the bloody ground. It was difficult to tell the opposing sides for these were all Swiss boys save for the small detachment of Spanish that Thomas could barely discern through the bleak smoke. So many men dead on the field and yet they kept on, re-forming lines and going at it again. He couldn't help but feel a certain pride as he watched it all. It did not matter who was friend or foe. They were Swiss, and they never retreated.
But that was not true, was it? At Marignano, Swiss pike had been decimated and forced to retreat. At Bicocca as well. Two old battles, barely remembered by the Swiss people but now ringing clearly in Thomas' mind like church bells. And just a few short weeks ago near Zernez, another retreat had occurred, and so here he was, just a boy, looking down on carnage that he had never seen in his life. You must lead the men. But how? Around him, the dead and dying lined the pass, the small wagon train of his force choked with civilians from Susch that he had yanked from their homes to make room for death and desolation. As he brought his horse to a slow trot, they looked at him, paid their proper respects, and reached up as if he were the American president, Abraham Lincoln, come to Richmond to free the slaves. He reached down and touched their hands and tried to offer them some reassurance, some hope in the stench of the billowing smoke and fire that ran through their homes.
He'd made a mistake. He realized that now. He had saved the civilians by moving them out, but not their town. Putting gunmen into the empty homes was a way to slow the enemy advance, force them to stack up in the streets and perhaps convince Gremminger to pull back and reconsider a different route. Then counter-attack. Gremminger, however, had surprised him. The duke had been bolder than first thought, more ruthless, a bigger risk-taker. Thomas had run the numbers, had calculated Gremminger's skills and had built in variation for his psychological profile. Not enough variation apparently. Thomas had made a mistake . . . yet he'd been right as well.
It was clear that Gremminger's superior force was having trouble finding complete purchase of the field. He could not push through Susch with all of his men at once, and thus, he could not attack in force. It was a natural choke-point that slowed his advance and allowed Elsinger's cavalry time to function as hobilars, like the Spanish had tried to do. Their guns were inferior weapons to the Spanish, but it appeared that Gremminger had committed his remaining up-time weapons to the full battle, in desperation no doubt, trying to whip the kalbfleisch here and now.
You must lead the men.
Thomas scowled. It was a damn fool thing for Goepfert to do: getting himself killed at such an important moment. He pulled out his field glass and focused on the battle in the center of the haggard line, hoping to see an opportunity to order his men off the field, or to pull them back enough to re-form strong, tight blocks and keep holding. But that was not going to happen. Too many men had died and even in Thomas' short experience, it was obvious that Gremminger's superior numbers would, in time, push through the town and take the field. So what to do? What do I do?