Chapter 8
Grand Army of the Sunrise Encampment
Kazimierz
South of Krakow
Morris could barely hear Denise Beasley over the roar of wind in his ears as they descended. “You need a better landing strip, Morris!” she said from the seat in front of him, speaking loudly over her shoulder. “This one sucks! Get your men to build a better one!”
He nodded, though she couldn’t see the gesture from her vantage point. “Don’t worry,” he tried to say, white-knuckle-clutching the side of the cockpit. His voice sounded like it was blowing through a fan—which, with the pusher propeller behind him, it effectively was. “Wee…won’t…be here…fooor long.”
Unfortunately. He was finding this flight just short of terrifying and wasn’t eager to do a return flight any time soon.
Part of the problem was his pilot. Morris had known that Francisco Nasi’s regular pilot, Eddie Junker, had been training his girlfriend Denise to fly. But he hadn’t realized until this morning that the training had proceeded far enough that she would be flying him to Krakow.
Morris had great confidence in Denise’s coordination, athleticism, eyesight—if it was physical, the girl was in great condition. Mentally…Well, she was very smart. And very bold. And he couldn’t help but think of the well-known quip: There are old pilots, and there are bold pilots, but there are no old bold pilots.
Mostly, though, his anxiety wasn’t caused by the pilot but by the aircraft he was in. This was the very first of the new Dvorak planes, created by the almost-as-new Zizka Aeronautics Company. It was described as a “light aircraft” and was promoted as a plane that was “superb for reconnaissance.”
Put the two descriptions together…
Light plane superb for reconnaissance was a salesman’s way of saying cockleshell way up in the air. And just in case he hadn’t figured that out on his own, Denise had enthusiastically filled him in on all the specific details.
The dry weight—some might have called it curb weight—of the aircraft was only five hundred pounds. It was a high-wing, tandem two-seater with a pusher propeller driven by a fifty-five horsepower, two-stroke two-cylinder engine.
Cruising speed, fifty to seventy-five miles per hour; maximum speed, ninety-five mph; stall speed, twenty-eight mph. The stall speed was twice as fast as he wished she were flying. He figured he could probably survive a crash going fifteen miles per hour or less.
And two five-gallon gas tanks, one on each side.
Ten measly, pitiful gallons. God help them if Denise got lost at any point. Fog of doom, coming up.
Last but not least, the girl had named her plane Dixie Chick, after the very popular country music band the Dixie Chicks. Morris was okay with that, except that Denise was currently singing their song “Wide Open Spaces.”
Loudly. He could hear every word.
“She needs wide open spaces—”
The crappy little landing strip—she was right about that; it did suck—was approaching at what seemed NASCAR race speed.
“To make her big mistakes—”
✧ ✧ ✧
The plane touched down and taxied to a bumpy halt. Thank you, God! Morris was never so happy in his life. They had survived, he was finally back in Poland, and the sun was shining.
General Franz von Mercy and his security retinue were waiting for him.
Morris stepped down from the plane. He thought about kneeling and kissing the ground like he had seen Vietnam veterans do on their return home. It was tempting, but he refrained and instead accepted a hug from Denise.
“You going to be okay, General?” Denise asked.
Morris nodded and pulled away. “Yes, I will, now that I’m on solid ground. And call me Morris, please.”
Denise nodded and put her fancy leather flight helmet back on. “Anything you say…General.” She winked and then added, “And don’t worry about your air force. It’ll be waiting when you need it again.”
O frabjous day!
But he didn’t say it out loud. That would have just been mean. Denise was at that age when her cocky self-confidence was only matched by easily bruised feelings.
General Mercy saluted. “Welcome back, General Roth.”
Morris returned the salute. “Glad to be back, General von Mercy.” He accepted the reins of a horse, and with some assistance, climbed into the saddle. He was no expert horseman, for sure, but anything was better than a screaming death trap with wings. “I trust things are in proper order here?”
“Yes, sir,” von Mercy said, pulling on his reins and leading them off the crude airstrip and back toward Kazimierz. “There is much to discuss.”
Morris nodded. “Yes, there is.”
✧ ✧ ✧
They crossed the Vistula into Kazimierz. The narrow streets were lined with young Ashkenazi men shouting, clapping, and giving their full-throated thanks. Don’t praise me, Morris thought as he acknowledged their appreciation with salutes, smiles, and short, efficient tips of the hat. Praise your field general. But von Mercy was not a Jew, and these men were not so much cheering for Morris, he knew, as for what he represented: one of their own, at the head of a real, honest-to-God, ass-kicking army, leading them to a better life, a better future.
I sure hope so…
Von Mercy had selected a modest home for the Sunrise’s HQ. The home lay just inside the wall surrounding the Jewish quarter, a separate section of Kazimierz known as the Oppidum Judaeorum. Morris was pleased with the selection. Modest, yes, but with a large enough dining room to serve as a comfortable place to conduct their war councils. Morris figured at least a dozen, and possibly as many as fifteen, officers could be in attendance at once.
“You travel light, General,” von Mercy said, setting his hat, sword, and belt on the table.
“My personal provisions and military accoutrements will be arriving with Ellie Anderson and Len Tanner,” Morris said, laying his own hat aside and taking the big chair at the head of the table. “They managed to acquire a couple of wagonloads of radios and much needed communication equipment. They’re moving with a wagon train of men and materiel that left Prague several days ago. Should be arriving any day now.”
“Then you’ve made a decision on where we are headed.”
Morris nodded and patted the sweat away from his brow. He was still suffering a bit of light-headedness and air sickness from the turbulent flight. “Yes, and we will speak about that in good time. But now, I need a full briefing.” He cleared his throat. “What is the state of the Sunrise?”
Von Mercy collected papers from a pile at the end of the table and took a moment to get them organized. He handed batches, one by one, to Morris. “These are preliminary muster rolls for each regiment, sir. Each regiment down to each man by company.”
Morris nodded and sifted through the pages, one after another of names, dates, unit assignments, etc. Impressive. “We’ve gone through quite an expansion, haven’t we?”
Von Mercy nodded. “We’ve nearly doubled our numbers since reaching Krakow. Many Jews, of course, from the Oppidum and towns and villages in the region. We’ve also gathered additional mercenaries, both foot and horse. Mostly horse. Even more Brethren. By end of June, we may be near ten thousand men…give or take a thousand.”
“That would be a good number to achieve.”
“Yes, sir. But with your permission, I’d like to cap that number. Make it official so that the stream of new recruits slows down.”
Morris finished accepting the last batch of musters, thumbed through them quickly, and set them aside. He leaned back and motioned to a chair behind von Mercy. “Please, General. Have a seat.”
Von Mercy sat. Morris continued. “What’s troubling you about the numbers, General? Is it their pay? Supply?”
“I’m troubled by a number of things,” von Mercy said, letting his breath out slowly, as if to collect his thoughts and his tongue before speaking out of turn. Morris could see the man figuring out what to say first. “Pay, indeed. Mercenaries shed blood for a commander only if their pay is equal to their sacrifice. I’m very pleased with our cavalry corps, sir. We have some of the finest cavalry soldiers and officers available. Their pay will have to increase, sir, and soon, if we wish to keep them under our command. There are many other armies in the field today—the USE, Pappenheim’s, the Ottomans, to name a few—and men who fight by the coin will drift away if they aren’t paid adequately—and perhaps just as importantly, in a timely manner. Some will turn their swords and pistols against you if they find another employer.”
“I understand that well, General,” Morris said. “Pay will increase soon, now that I have returned, and a decision has been made as to our next move.”
“Where are we going, sir?”
Morris shook his head. “Let us delay that discussion. Proceed with your concerns.”
Von Mercy moved as if he were going to protest such a delay. The muscles in his jaw worked rapidly. “I—my next concern is, indeed, supply. So far, we have been fortunate. As you ordered prior to your return to Prague, new weapons and ammunition have been arriving. Many of the men, especially the cavalry and Brethren, have their own firearms. Not as efficient as our up-time ZB-1636 rifles or ZB-2 Santee pistols, but assuming we will be marshaling against forces that do not possess similar weaponry, we should be in fine shape when, and if, we do engage.
“Our stores of medical supplies are increasing at pace. The citizenry of the Oppidum have been most generous in offering whatever they can along those lines, and young Doctor Kohen, who is in charge of that endeavor, per your orders, has been mustering as much supply as he can by soliciting the aid of some officers during their convalescence.” Von Mercy huffed. “He’s denuded the tails and manes of many of our horses to make suture material.”
Morris smiled, nodded. “Remind me later to speak with him. To both of you, in fact. I have some adjustments I’d like to make to our medical team. Continue, please.”
“My biggest concern about supply, sir, is food. We have been collecting as much nonperishable foodstuffs as we can, but as you have told me a number of times, ‘Battles are fought once in a while, but an army must eat every day.’ I know you do not like the idea of excessive foraging on the march. You do not wish to deprive the citizenry of its ability to simply survive, to feed itself, its families. Doing so leaves a disgruntled countryside in our wake, which may be a serious detriment to us further down the road. I understand that.
“The Brethren have volunteered drovers to handle a small herd of cattle, but that will not be enough. We must forage as we march, or that concern I have about mercenaries leaving in droves—excuse the pun—will consume the entire army.”
Morris sighed, loudly. “I understand that, General. I don’t like it, but I understand it. We need to be as respectful as possible as we move. I can’t claim to be the head of an army whose chief purpose is liberation and then have that army abuse the citizenry. We need to make sure that we take great care in treating the people along our march with respect and kindness. We pay for what we can, and we take what we need as kindly as possible.”
What does that mean, actually? Morris heard himself saying those last few words, and didn’t really understand them himself. How does one take something kindly from someone? He didn’t know the answer to that, but perhaps they’d discover ways to do so on their march to Kassa.
“Finally, my biggest concern… ” Von Mercy took a deep breath, clasped his hands together before him, paused, then said, “… is the state of the army itself. Our new recruits are the most unprepared men I’ve ever seen. The mercenaries and the men who fought with us against the magnates, they are skilled and ready to go. The rest, all the Ashkenazim, who have volunteered in the past month…well, I’ve never seen any group of people so ill-prepared for war. I mean no disrespect, sir, but they are not ready to fight.”
Morris put up his hands as if to protest, and snapped, “What do you expect, General? These are people who have never had the opportunity to own firearms themselves, at least in no great numbers. Have never had the chance to defend themselves against men with said firearms. They’ve spent their whole lives looking down barrels, not pointing them at anyone. Most of them have probably never even touched a musket. What do you expect?”
An awkward pause filled the room. Morris was immediately sorry for his outburst. He chalked it up to fatigue, exhaustion, and a headache that was slowly building behind his forehead. He closed his eyes, took a moment, and then put up his hands in surrender. “Peace, General. Peace. I understand your concern. We’ll discuss readiness later. Let’s move forward. Tell me your TOO/OOB.”
“My what, General?”
Morris almost laughed, remembering where he was. Go light on the up-time lingo, Morris. “The organizational structure of the Sunrise. I can infer it through your muster sheets, but from top to bottom, what’s our new chain of command?”
A light went off in von Mercy’s brain. He stood and gathered up additional pages. He motioned Morris forward. “If you please, General.”
Morris went to his side. Von Mercy then proceeded to lay out the pages on the table like a puzzle, with a page dedicated at the top of the pattern with the names of all the generals and regimental commanders. He then placed additional pages below them like cue cards that one might use to fit together the pieces of a crime scene or errant branches of a family tree. It was all very efficient, very orderly.
Morris leaned over the display and focused on the names of his top commanders. He pointed to von Mercy’s name. “I see question marks alongside officer positions unfilled. But why is there a question mark next to your name, General?”
Von Mercy cleared his throat. “Well, General Morris, I thought that perhaps you’d like to discuss the possibility of, and perhaps the necessity of—”
Morris put up his hand. “I know where this is leading, sir. You are wondering if it’d be prudent to assign field command to an Ashkenazi, given the fact that nearly half, if not over half, of the army, when it’s all said and done, will be Jewish. My answer to that question is no, sir, a resounding, unequivocal fucking no. If you’re looking for the top Jew in this army, that’s me. But I’m a jeweler, a contractor, a supply guy. I am no tactician, no skilled field commander. You’re the field general of the Grand Army of the Sunrise. Put any concerns about that out of your mind. That’s an order.”
Von Mercy nodded. “Very well, sir.”
Morris leaned over the display again. He worked carefully through each page, taking mental notes of various details. “Interesting,” he said. “I see that the Ashkenazi have decided to collectively call themselves the Joshua Corps.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good choice. I like it. And they have no problems with my directive that their companies be differentiated by letter designation?”
“No, sir. Unlike our mercenaries, they have no particular affiliation with one officer or another. They really don’t seem to care what company they belong to, so long as they are a part of the experience.”
Morris nodded. “And I assume our mercenaries refused the same directive.”
Von Mercy gave a regretful sigh. “I’m afraid so, sir. Most mercenary units are mustered, and function, on the company level, and their unit name is most often the name of their captain, although it can vary from time to time. I think we’re just going to have to deal with a designation split to keep the peace among our mercenaries. We can’t afford to lose the cavalry.”
Morris pointed again to the top page. “I see that you have assigned a major general as provost marshal of the army. Very good. Is security a big concern right now?”
“It’s becoming one. Restless men, low pay. Fights have broken out. A Brethren was shot and killed the other day in a dispute over a goat. Each regiment will have its own provost marshal and a small cadre of—what did you call them—military police? They will all answer to Major General Luther Lange. He’s a good officer. Stern, but fair. He’ll take care of it.”
Morris was about to ask if there had been any expressions of anti-Semitism among the rank and file, but decided against it. Not now, at least. Tomorrow, he’d meet with this General Lange and discuss all of that in full. For now, it was time to move on to the question that von Mercy desperately wanted answered.
Morris returned to his chair. “I’m impressed with your care and attention to detail. You’ve done great work to expand this army in my absence. I’m truly grateful that you’re on our side.”
Von Mercy nodded. “Thank you, sir.”
Without question, Franz von Mercy was one of the best field commanders in service today. His best qualities revolved around his skill as a cavalry officer, but there was no army in the world who would pass up making him their own. Even Mike Stearns would snatch him away in a heartbeat.
“Now,” Morris said, feeling the pangs of hunger. “Given everything that you have told me, taking into consideration all of your concerns, give me a frank assessment as to how long it will take to put this army into the field as a viable fighting force. In your honest opinion, General von Mercy, how long will it take to whip this ragtag army of Jews and Gentiles into a reasonably effective army?”
Von Mercy considered. He leaned forward in his chair, placed his elbows on the table, chewed on the bottom of his lip. His jaw muscles worked overtime. Finally, he said, “End of July, sir. Maybe early August. By then, everything should be in place.”
Morris smiled and nodded. “Good. That’s what I wanted to hear.”
Von Mercy ruffled his brow. “Forgive me, sir, but I’m confused. Are we going to stay here for that long? I thought your return meant—”
Morris chuckled. “Our friends Rebecca and Uriel Abrabanel, along with Francisco Nasi, have begun a misinformation campaign saying the very same thing you just confessed to me. It’s good to know that that is, indeed, the truth of it. Sometimes, the truth is the best misinformation. If everyone knows it and believes it, and sees that it is true, then perhaps the Ottomans will as well.
“But you’re absolutely right, General. I did not come back to waste our time standing still. We’ll be leaving, and soon, in spite of what you just said. Within days, Krakow will be in the rearview mirror.”
Morris could see that his up-time expression confused the general, but von Mercy shook it off and said, “Then, sir, at the risk of repeating myself, I ask again: where are we going?”
“Clear the table, General,” Morris said, standing and finding his energy. “Collect your maps, and have your aide-de-camp call in some food and wine. We’ve a long night ahead of us.”