Grantville Gazette, Volume VIII Page 7

  "Well, you've got to remember, I wasn't more than eight when I was there, but I guess it must be a couple of hundred yards wide."

  Johann turned back to contemplating the flotilla of small sailing smacks and barges. "It's going to be a mess with all those boats trying to find somewhere to land."

  "Yeah, a right mess."

  "Mind, it's not our problem."

  "No, not our problem," Matthias Delp agreed.

  "We aren't paid to worry. That's what sergeants are for."

  "That's right. Let Sergeant Fels worry."

  Johann glared at his friend. "Matthias, I get the feeling you're not taking me seriously."

  "Oh, I'm taking you very seriously, Johann. Let the sergeant worry about finding us somewhere to land. We can worry about the fact our boat draws over four feet. That means we'll be jumping into water at least that deep."

  "That is something to worry about. How deep will the water be at the back of the boat?"

  Matthias shrugged. "I told you I was only eight when I was last at Sandvig. I don't know. It could be anything up to five or six feet."

  "Matthias, none of us are tall enough to jump into five or six feet of water with a full war load."

  "That's my point. Worry about something you can control. I'm planning on being near the front of the boat."

  The next day, 0530 hrs, Hammeren hills, Bornholm

  On a good day, through a good telescope, a person on the heights of the Hammeren hills could see the fishing boats sailing in and out of the anchorage at Christiansø. Sergeant Knud Lauridsen watched the Swedish fleet set sail for Bornholm. He watched long enough to get an idea of numbers and their probable heading before securing his telescope. Then he grabbed his rifle and ran down the hill to warn his captain.

  1000 hrs, off Sandvig, aboard the Holmsund

  Back in basic training Sergeant Major Hudson had said that battle plans never survived contact with the enemy. Right now Johann wasn't sure he wanted to be around when they finally did make contact. First there had been the layover on Christiansø waiting for the forces to gather. That had gone two days over schedule. And now, in spite of the day having started out in bright sunlight, it had started to rain. Worst of all, the wind had moved around to the south. Instead of a relatively straightforward passage of two hours the fleet of shallow draft boats now had been forced to keep changing tack to make headway. The journey to Sandvig was taking forever, and the constant rolling and pitching of the flat-bottomed Holmsund was taking its toll. Johann had joined the USE Marines to get away from the dull tedium of the army. Right now, with his head hung over the side of the boat and loosing what was left of breakfast, he'd love to have to deal with dull tedium. So far the world was staying faithful to another of the Sergeant Major Hudson's favorite sayings, "if anything can go wrong, it will."

  * * *

  "Fix bayonets. Loosen tampions," Sergeant Fels called.

  Johann jerked his body upright. He felt light-headed and sick. Matthias, seated beside him, looked green. It took several repeats of the order from Sergeant Fels before Johann figured out what was happening. He stared landward. Unfortunately, he had an uninterrupted view of Bornholm. The Holmsund was at the front of the flotilla heading for the beach.

  He licked the rain dripping down his face and ran his tongue around his suddenly dry mouth. The rain reduced visibility, but not enough that he couldn't see the clouds of white smoke that suggested that people on Bornholm were shooting at him.

  He fumbled to fix his bayonet to his rifle and then he loosened the plug that kept rain from running down the barrel. He didn't want to remove the tampion just yet. It was the only thing stopping water getting into the barrel. Loosening it meant it could easily be removed when needed, or in an emergency, shot off.

  * * *

  There was a bump and scrape as the boat hit the beach. Johann was into the water before Sergeant Fels finished his call to start the attack. As he sank into the chest deep water he shuddered. It was cold. Holding his rifle high above his head he started for shore.

  His first step was painful. He'd stepped into some branches under the water and discovered that they'd been deliberately sharpened. He could feel the men behind crowding him, threatening to push him into the obstacle. "Quit pushing. There's something in the water."

  He lifted his right foot high before stepping forward this time. "There're obstacles under the water. You're going to have to step high," he called over his shoulder.

  It was slow and painful, but eventually he made it to shore. He glanced behind to check that he wasn't alone. He wasn't, but there were a lot of bodies floating in the sea.

  The first objective was the Danish position behind a low stone wall about a hundred yards inland. He removed the tampion, lowered his rifle, and joined everyone else advancing on the Danes.

  * * *

  Over to his right Johann could see Swedes fighting to cross the wall. They were opposed by men with pikes and were having trouble. He angled toward them.

  Suddenly a dozen armored Danes stood up behind the wall. They were pointing small handguns at the Swedes. In seconds there were clouds of smoke and over a dozen Swedes lay dead in front of the wall.

  "My god, revolvers. Where did they get those?"

  "The same place everybody else does. Burke's catalog has been selling cap and ball revolvers for nearly two years now," Matthias answered.

  "But the Danes are our enemies. You aren't saying Burkes have been selling to the enemy. The up-timers have laws against that kind of thing."

  "But the Danes weren't our enemy until late last year. That leaves plenty of time for people to have bought them."

  Johann looked back to the Danish lines. The wall was now a mass of Danes all pointing muskets at the approaching Swedes and Marines. "Oh, shit!"

  At less than fifty yards the whole Danish front became a cloud of gunsmoke. The Swedes charged. Immediately Captain Finck led the Marines in their own charge.

  * * *

  "Fuck." The hole was knee deep and Johan pitched forward, wrenching his knee, while the weight of his pack knocked the breath out of him. For a moment he was stunned. He'd stepped into a pit about two feet square with several sharp wooden stakes sticking out of the bottom as well as some stuck into the sides, point down. "Thank God for Calagna and Bauer!" He could even feel the indentation in the metal insole of the C&B combat boots, but it hadn't penetrated. If it had—Johann dry-retched at the thought—his foot would have been speared right through.

  "Hit the deck!" Sergeant Fels yelled.

  When a Marine sergeant told you to do something in that tone of voice your body reacted before the mind realized what was happening. Johann was flat on the ground with his hands on his helmet when there was a massive roar from the Danish lines.

  * * *

  Johann tipped his helmet back into position and looked around. He could see Marines and Swedes lying on the ground whenever the white gunsmoke swirled away. Some men were obviously injured stepping into the same kind of trap as he had, while others had been torn apart by the explosion. To his front there were Marines kneeling behind the stone wall firing at targets in the field beyond. Even as he watched he saw a Marine shot while reloading his musket.

  Johann struggled to his feet and made for the shelter of the wall. He settled beside Matthias, then peeked over it. "What's happening?"

  "The Danes made a run for it."

  "I can't see any bodies. Didn't we hit anybody?"

  "Yes, but they were carried back by their friends."

  Johann looked down at the crater at the base of the wall. "Was that what exploded?"

  Matthias nodded. "The Danes had the whole fence line mined with fougasses. Dig a hole, put in some gunpowder, and then cover it with stones and stuff. Then you wait for people to stand in front of it.""

  Johann looked at the remains that were scattered around. "Yeah. It looks like they've been hit by an enormous shotgun. I don't like this. Traps in the water, concealed pits, sharpene
d stakes, now this. It's like they have an up-time military manual."

  "Not really. The fougasse is so last century, and as for the obstacles in the water and the concealed pits, they go back to the Romans. Rather than a modern military manual, I think we're facing a classical historian."

  "Modern, classical, what does it matter? Someone seems to know what they're doing, and it isn't anybody on our side." Johann looked across the field. Straight to the east a line of trees ran south-east into the distance. That was where the Danes had run. To the south there was open ground for nearly quarter of a mile. Right up until it reached a hill towering above the field. "We're going to have to take that hill."

  Matthias grimaced. "I hope you're wrong. That's Langebjerg. I remember rolling rocks down that hill."

  "You worried about a few rocks?"

  "It's a pretty high and steep hill, Johann. A big enough rock rolling down that slope could kill a man."

  Sandvig

  It'd been nearly three years since Colonel Axel Gustafsson Lillie lost his leg at the siege of Mainz. Since then he'd learned to get around on his artificial leg, but he was slow. He wanted his horse. A man on a horse could be seen by his men. He could also see the battlefield. A man on a horse could also easily keep up with marching soldiers. "Erik, where's my horse? Why hasn't he been landed yet?"

  "It's the obstacles in the water, Axel. I'd detail some men to clear a channel, but the Danes are being difficult," Erik Wachtmeister answered.

  Axel glared. He didn't want to hear excuses, even reasonable ones. He wanted his horse. He needed his horse. He turned his attention to the Danes causing Erik's trouble. They were firing from a redoubt high up on a hill three hundred yards back from the beach. As long as the redoubt remained in Danish hands it wouldn't be safe to remove the obstacles in the anchorage, and as long as the obstacles remained, they couldn't risk bringing in the horses. "I want that redoubt taken."

  "I'll get on it right now."

  Axel cursed his missing leg again. It should be him walking over to lead his men up the hill. He was going to take casualties, but he was already taking casualties every time those cannon fired. He wiped away the rain collecting on his face. That was another problem. The rain meant his muskets were useless. Fully two-thirds of his men were reduced to mere swordsmen. Well, it was something he'd have to live with.

  He returned to his pacing, waiting impatiently for Erik to lead the men up the hill. It was a rocky hill, and the rocks and grass were going to be slick from the rain. He was going to suffer casualties just because of the conditions. He accepted that but he didn't have to like it, just like he didn't like this whole hasty, ill-conceived expedition. He'd been ordered to take Bornholm. It occupied an important strategic location in the Baltic he'd been told. Well, he knew that was true, but what harm could it do with the siege of Luebeck broken by the up-timer admiral and his iron ships? It was all just politics, a chance to grab a little glory for Sweden.

  Axel spat on the ground. So much for glory. He'd lost a leg for glory. And he hoped the rumor he'd heard was just that, a rumor. He hoped the king wasn't really intending to make the American, Sharon Nichols, Baroness of Bornholm. He knew something of Bornholm's history, and after the abuses the islanders suffered when it was mortgaged to the city of Luebeck, he sincerely doubted they would accept even the suggestion of a foreign overlord without a fight.

  The Swedes, led by Erik, flowed up the hill. Axel winced when the Danish cannon fired. It had to be canister. It's what he would have used. The lead balls came out like a shotgun blast, killing and wounding dozens of soldiers. However, it'd been a last gasp from the redoubt. He could already see men running out the back way. It was only a matter of time before his men took the position.

  Axel started toward the hill. When he got to the low stone fence he felt Sergeant Rambo, his bodyguard, hovering, ready to help him over. "I don't need any help, Sergeant. I'm not a cripple."

  Axel sat on the wall and swung his legs over the other side. He searched through the light rain, looking for sign of his second in command.

  "I see the lieutenant, sir. He's coming this way."

  With renewed energy, Axel made his way up the hill.

  * * *

  A Swedish soldier walking around the back of the redoubt tripped over a braided string . . .

  . . . Inside the redoubt the string pulled the trigger of a snap lock. The hammer fell onto a large percussion cap, and twenty-eight pounds of finest quality Danish gunpowder exploded.

  * * *

  Hidden in the heather fifty yards away Sergeant Anders Lauridsen cursed all clumsy Swedes. Another few minutes and he could have had caught another couple of dozen men in the blast. He reeled in the braided string and escaped through the heather to where his men were waiting.

  * * *

  Axel opened his eyes. Fragments of barrel stave gently smoldered a couple of feet in front of his nose.

  The heavy weight of Sergeant Rambo rolled off his back and a helping hand hauled him to his feet. All around debris from the redoubt littered the ground. "What happened?"

  "The redoubt blew up, Colonel."

  Axel glared. He didn't need the obvious stated. Nobody could miss the smoking ruin that had been the redoubt. "What about Lieutenant Wachtmeister?"

  "He's inspecting the damage, Colonel."

  Axel let out a sigh of relief. He'd feared that Erik might have been caught in the blast.

  * * *

  Axel took one look at the carnage around the redoubt and left it to the surgeons. To the north the ground fell gently away right up to the coast, where high cliffs stood over the sea. To the east there was a steeper slope right down to the sea. To the southeast the ground rose maybe fifty feet in a quarter of a mile. Except for the low heather there wasn't a lot of cover. "I don't think we can be surprised here, Erik. Leave a small garrison and get the rest of the men down with the main force. We'll move on the Langebjerg next."

  "Shouldn't we wait for your horse, Axel?" Erik asked.

  "We can't afford to wait. Every minute we delay means another minute the Danes have to raise reinforcements. We strike now."

  "Very well, but what about the Germans?"

  "They wanted their Marines blooded. Well, they'll get their chance, but not in this battle. Their rifles are useless in this rain. At least my musketeers have swords. Order the Germans to clear a safe channel so we can land the horses and guns."

  * * *

  Johann watched the Swedes approach. A third of them had pikes, the rest muskets. Matchlocks, he noted. That meant mostly green troops from Sweden with a few veterans as sergeants. It looked like the Swedes were finished with the redoubt and were going to assault the Langebjerg. Johann wished them luck.

  Then he saw Captain Finck walking with the senior Swede. "Oh, shit. The glory hound is trying to get us killed."

  "He might just be asking what the Swedish commander wants him to do," Matthias said.

  "Five bucks says Captain Finck is volunteering us for something."

  "We'll know in a moment. Here he comes now."

  Captain Finck called to his lieutenants and sergeants. There was a bit of hand waving and pointing. After a few minutes the meeting broke up. Sergeant Fels headed Johann's way, collecting the rest of the section as he passed them.

  "Delp, Fabricius, on your feet. The Swedes have decided they want all the glory. We've been ordered to clear a channel through the beach obstacles."

  Johann struggled to his feet. .

  "What's the problem, Fabricius?" Sergeant Fels called out.

  Johann pointed to the ground in front of the wall. "I stepped into one of those pits and wrenched my knee, Sarge."

  "Medic!" Sergeant Fels called out. "Take care of this man."

  Hans Fleischer hastened to Johann's side and wrapped a support bandage around his knee. "Right. How does that feel?" he asked.

  Johann tried to walk. "That'll do it. Thanks."

  "Get your pack on and get into line, Fabricius. We'
ve wasted enough time already," Sergeant Fels shouted. "Let's get moving."

  1200 hrs, Sandvig

  Johann had a good view of the anchorage. He could see seagulls walking on bodies and pecking at them. Not that they had everything to themselves. There was movement in the water around some of the bodies. The Marines had worried about working in the water, but Sergeant Fels had assured them that is was probably just eels, there being no sharks in the Baltic. As the rain clouds moved on he could hear the sounds of ravens moving in. And then there were the flies. He waved his hand to scare away the flies that were buzzing around his face and injuries. The acid smell and taste of gunpowder was struggling to combat that of blood and death.

  The Marines were rotating the hard work of hauling in the branches the Danes had laid in the water. Johann was exhausted. This was the first real break he'd had since boarding the Holmsund at first light.

  Like a good Marine should, the first thing Johann did was set to cleaning his rifle. Not that he'd actually fired it, but with the rain and everything it was best to reload with fresh powder and priming because you never knew when you might need to fight. Then he turned to the second most important thing a Marine could do during any break and dug something to eat out of his pack. Chewing on some sausage and cheese, he pulled out his first aid kit and turned his attention to his various cuts. His legs were a mess. The cut branches—abatis, Matthias had called them—in the water had cut deep gouges in his flesh. He waved off the flies that had landed on his legs, tipped a bit of water into his tin cup and added a few drops of bleach to make an antiseptic lotion. Then, gritting his teeth, he sponged his injuries before wrapping the worst of them in bandages.

  Hammershus

  Holger Rosenkrantz had started out with three militia companies totaling fewer than three hundred men between them—the regular garrison of just over a hundred men under Niels, and Mads Friis' gunners. The Swedes had already landed over two thousand regulars, including about a hundred strangely garbed men with rifles and bayonets. "Have you heard from Sergeant Knud, Niels?"