Chapter 65
Central battle line
Accepting the command of Usan Hussein, the Dorobanţi colonel—half dead with bleeding wounds and a broken arm—ordered his men to re-form the lines, wheel, and advance against the armored APC to turn the damaged Ifrit’s flank. He was not successful.
The damaged Ifrit, the one on the far edge of the left flank, was overwhelmed by enemy soldiers coming up behind the parked armored wagons and swarming its hull. The crew inside, and those Dorobanţi brave enough to respond, tried keeping the beleaguered tank from capture, but a swarm of musket fire from the wagons themselves sent many Dorobanţi to the ground and the grave.
The second Ifrit and the one closest to Usan’s position, had an even worse problem to treat with.
The steam locomotive from the APC whose occupants were giving the third Ifrit so much trouble detached itself from its lead wagon. Belching steam as it picked up speed, it bounded over a small hill like a sloop cresting a wave. The crew of the second Ifrit tried adjusting its turret to respond, but before it could get the proper firing arch, the V-shaped iron grate on the front of the locomotive slammed into the tank, rocking it backward and sending Dorobanţi soldiers flying.
Usan could almost feel the impact of the strike as he tried keeping his focus on the evolving matter in front of him. But the struck Ifrit, its tires churning against the relentless push of the enemy locomotive, fell back through the breach in the wall. Usan tried rallying the Dorobanţi around it, but their injured commander was now dead. The struck Ifrit managed to douse the locomotive with a tongue of naphtha, but it did little damage, burning more Dorobanţi than enemy soldiers.
The struck Ifrit and the Dorobanţi charged with its protection were now in full retreat.
Enemy cannoneers on the hillock in front of Usan’s regiment fired again, several desperate shots that passed harmlessly overhead as his Ifrit, scorched, dented, but otherwise intact, moved to silence those guns forever.
Behind the protection of the back left tire, Usan raised his musket, aimed carefully, and put a round into the belly of a cannoneer trying to prime his gun. Someone tried taking his place, but he too was shot down. The remaining cannoneers fled. The Ifrit responded by moving forward, adjusting its turret, and sending an arching stream of fire into their wake, engulfing the last man in the retreat.
“Forward!” Usan shouted despite the fate of the Dorobanţi and their two Ifrits, reloading his musket as his orta and the remaining fire tank pushed ahead.
How much naphtha did the Ifrit have left? Usan wondered. He tapped the tank with the butt of his rifle. The mülazim awal who had foolishly exposed himself to gunfire outside the Hermannstadt gate had done so on occasion to measure, by sound, the amount remaining. He couldn’t tell, though he figured that there was far less than half. Was there enough to handle what was coming? That was the question.
And one he could not answer, nor did he have time to contemplate. The Ifrit pushed up the hillock where the cannons lay, and there, its battering ram struck the closest gun and crushed its limber and caisson. Like a crunch of bone, and for a moment, Usan was afraid that the cannon itself would ignite. Instead, it sank into the ground as its steel-banded wheels buckled. The fire tank rolled over it like a bump in the road.
The cannons were silent, now, forever. Praise Allah!
Up and over the hill. Now, Gyulafehérvár lay even closer. Usan imagined that he could smell the wood fires burning in its quiet homes. He imagined then his men running through those homes, burning them to cinder, burning and killing everything.
The APC he had seen in the distance had halted. It blocked a crossroads where his Ifrit had to travel to reach the capital in good order. Usan paused to see if there was any other way forward, any other path that they could take and thus avoid those armored wagons altogether.
There were certainly paths his men could take, but not the Ifrit. The ground was too hilly, too cluttered with rocks and bits of stone wall. The only way to glory was through those wagons.
Do we need the tank anymore? Its protection was really the only reason the orta had gotten so far. As strong as the Janissaries were, they would not have survived so long a march under such withering gunfire. No. It was the Ifrit that had provided the needed protection, had forced the enemy to retreat, men terrified of its demon breath, terrified of losing their souls to its tongues of fire. Usan would come to terms with his own fear and hatred for such a weapon later, would beg Allah forgiveness, when victory was secured. For now, there was no doubt: despite what had happened to the other two, the Janissary needed its Ifrit.
“To the wagons!” he shouted.
The Dixie Chick
Denise looked at her fuel gauge and winced. Near empty, and not enough to take another full pass over the battle line. Damn! Damn! Damn!
“We’ve got to return to the airfield,” she said to her passenger, “or we’ll end up a broken husk in those woods down there.”
Her passenger wasn’t listening. He was looking intently at those woods. Something was going on underneath the canopy. He took a shot.
“What did you see, buddy?” she asked.
“Can’t say for sure,” he replied. “A puff of smoke, a discharged rifle. Hard to know.”
“Shall I drop lower?”
“No,” he replied. “Don’t do that. Let me try something else.”
Despite his statement, she took the Dvorak down another one hundred feet to a comfortable cruising altitude of four hundred. Still out of range of anything the enemy might try to shoot her way, and it gave her passenger a better shot.
He fired again, and this time, even Denise saw it. “Return fire!”
“Bingo!”
Where the man had heard the up-time expression, Denise did not know. But he was right. There were a bunch of musketmen under that colorful canopy; most likely those that had pulled back from the airfield.
The fuel gauge on her dashboard flickered. Damn again! She couldn’t delay the return any longer, but she couldn’t leave without first alerting them of the danger.
Before banking left and heading back to the airfield, Denise took up her radio and shouted, “Enkefort, Enkefort! Do you read?”
Northern battle line
Lieutenant Enkefort signed off and dropped the phone into the radio box. “Sir, Denise reports musket fire from a tree line about two miles or so up the road.”
Christian frowned. “Right where Hatmanu’s men are being led.”
Enkefort nodded. “Yes, sir.”
Fuck! If he had been the regimental commander in that tent, he’d have refused Hatmanu’s request for cavalry support. The argument would have gotten heated and perhaps even dangerous, but three cavalry companies, plus a good portion of the Székely trabants, would not be heading to their deaths. Fuck, fuck, fuck!
“What do we do, Captain?” Enkefort asked.
“We have our orders, Lieutenant,” Christian said with a big sigh. “We protect the right flank.”
“Against useless Hansari light cavalry? They’re nothing.”
As was part of the Moldavian plan, Christian was certain. Provide just enough aggravation on the right flank to keep the Sunrise in place there, while pulling the Transylvanian forces into a no-win situation. And they picked the right general to fool: Marius Hatmanu. He wasn’t leading the charge—he wasn’t so bold—but he was following his men to their deaths. Stupid man!
“Radio Captain Kinsky,” Christian said. “I have an idea.”
✧ ✧ ✧
“You’re a fool, Christian,” Kinsky said. “Hatmanu’s a fool. Let him fall on his own sword.”
They were a mere hundred yards from the front line. Kinsky’s dragoons were holding a small cluster of farmhouses against a relatively modest frontal assault of light Moldavian infantry. Keller’s and Ulfsparre’s companies were in the saddle and aggravating attempts by the Hansari light cavalry to infiltrate the rear. Christian and Kinsky stood amidst a growing sea of wounded men who had fallen out of the line and were huddled near medical staff. Christian looked at the wounded and was thankful that Isaac was safely miles away, in the capital.
“Hatmanu’s men are up there now,” Christian said, pointing up the road. “They’re going to get slaughtered.”
“Yes,” Kinsky said, “but I can’t pull my dragoons out of the line now. The right would fall, and we’d have two catastrophes on our hands.”
“Then give me Mitzlaff’s men,” Christian implored. “You’re using them as dragoons, and they aren’t dragoons. They’re heavy horsemen. They need to be in the saddle and riding with me to save that son of a bitch.” Christian paused, took a deep breath, then said, “You know what’s up there, Josef. The whole goddamned Tatar cavalry corps, just waiting.”
Kinsky pulled back. “Why are you even considering this, Christian? You despise Hatmanu.”
“It’s not about him.” It’s about Andreea. “It’s about not allowing this Sunrise, that we serve, to fall. It’s clear to me now that General Renz isn’t going to send us Silesian reserves. Why, I don’t know. So, it’s just us. We’ve got to go and save our arrogant colonel, who is only interested in covering himself in glory, and General Hatmanu. If they fall, the whole battle line collapses. You know this.”
Christian could see that his friend knew the truth of it, but was struggling with what to do. Kinsky removed his helmet, ran his hand through his sweat-matted hair.
“I’m sorry, Christian,” Kinsky said, putting his helmet back on. “As much as I want to follow you in the charge, I can’t pull my men from the line. That would be suicidal.”
“Then give me Mitzlaff’s men,” he repeated with added urgency.
Kinsky shook his head. “I’ve no authority to do that.”
“Fine!” Christian threw his hands into the air, his frustration on full display. “I’ll ask him myself.”