Chapter 38
Hermannstadt (Sibiu)
Southern Transylvania
Rockets from the two katyusha launchers fired on the mülazım’s command. The walls of Hermannstadt were too thick and strong for the rockets to do any damage, so their trajectories had been set to fly over them and into the city itself. From his position behind the Ottoman tanks, Usan Hussein listened to the rockets whistle madly across the sky, land, and explode inside the city, followed by the shouts and screams of the anxious Saxon citizen defense inside. Whether the rockets were doing much damage, he could not say. That hardly mattered. What mattered was the fear, the terror, that they inflicted, and on that score, Usan knew they were working.
The mülazim awal in command of the tanks stood upright next to Usan, as if he were impervious to the large hackbut muskets being fired from the ramparts. All day, the Saxon defenders had tried killing the cannon and rocket crews with those large muskets. So far, they had been unsuccessful.
“I beg you, Great Effendi,” Usan said, ducking another ricochet of gunfire off the tire rim of the tank. “Please crouch for safety. Spare us the ignominy of your death before our assault on the gate.”
The Turkish lieutenant scoffed and waved off Usan’s concern. “I am perfectly safe here, corbaci. Those are antiquated weapons. Useless muskets from a useless age. They couldn’t so much as hit the broadside of a seraglio than a—”
A hackbut round struck the lieutenant’s chest.
He fell atop Usan, who used his body to absorb another dedicated volley of hackbut fire, then flung him aside with spit curses.
Now what do we do? Who orders the tanks forward?
It had taken a whole regiment of Wallachian infantry to push, pull, drag, and prod the fire tanks through the narrow gaps of the southern Carpathian range, and there had been times when, down to the man, everyone wanted to quit and just leave the smoky hulks to rust in the mud. But they had made it, they were here, and they now needed a commander.
Usan’s Janissary orta waited patiently under the protection of the three tanks arrayed in echelon for the assault, waiting for Usan’s order to attack. Serbian cavalry had swept around the city and now held all roads leading in and out. Wallachian infantry were lined up just behind the ridgeline, and from that ridgeline, cannons barked continually, peppering the burning gate with punishing volleys. But so far, it had held.
Not for long…
As he had seen the lieutenant do numerous times, he went from tank to tank and smacked its iron hull hard with the butt of his musket. Three quick strikes to denote the order to move.
With violent belches of steam, the Sultan’s fire tanks came to life. The steam, combined with the smoke from the flamethrowers, was a blessing and a curse. It was nearly impossible to breathe when in its thick, combined cloud, but it also made it difficult for the enemy to see his advancing Janissaries.
Musket and cannon fire erupted along the city wall. Neither could do much damage to the tanks, but like the arrogant and now dead effendi had proven, men were still men, made of flesh, and could be easily killed with new or old weapons alike. Usan’s men followed slowly, taking care to keep their bodies low to the ground.
Like the katyusha rockets, the tanks’ flamethrowers could not penetrate Hermannstadt’s walls. But the gate was vulnerable, and so were the men defending the ramparts.
For an hour now, it had burned consistently from flamethrower shots from the tanks, despite the defenders’ hurried efforts to douse the fire. Burn, burn, burn! It was a sight that fascinated and terrified Usan in equal measures. It was like witnessing the work of an Ifrit—the tanks were often called such—a swirling dervish of flame, relentless and mad with power. The gate burned, and there seemed to be nothing the defenders of the city could do about it.
Another volley of cannon fire from the ridgeline struck the gate as the tanks halted a mere dozen kulaçs from their target. Saxons along the wall now fired everything they had at the tanks despite their low visibility from the smoke and steam. Usan heard the final death cries of some of his men as hackbut rounds found victims. Most of his men now huddled very close to the rear of the tanks for more protection, waiting for his order to charge, but there were too many for all of them to be well-protected.
With the butt of his musket, he tapped out the order for the tanks to charge the gate. Each tank had a short but strong and heavy battering ram protruding forward. The machines couldn’t move very fast, but their engines were powerful and the gate was badly weakened from the flamethrowers. In succession, each tank rammed the gate. The third time the lead tank did so, the gate on the left came off its hinges. The second tank immediately rammed it and knocked it completely off. It fell, tearing in two, its wrought iron bands twisting in the final cannonball strikes. The rest of the gate fell inward. Some of the wood was still burning.
Usan wasted no time. “Attack!” he shouted through choking smoke.
In a wave of whirling swords and muskets, Usan led his Janissaries out from behind the tanks—a sea of screaming, howling warriors aching for a fight. The small skirmishes that they had encountered along the march had done little to satiate their need for battle. This assault, Usan knew, would cure that malady.
Some of his men were injured by the flames, but within a few minutes the stamping boots of the charging Janissaries extinguished them. The Saxon defenders had hastily assembled additional wooden fortifications behind the gate, hoping to slow the assault. The Janissaries smashed into those, knocking them aside, and giving battle to the Saxon infantry desperately trying to hold the line.
Usan struck the first Saxon in the throat with the butt of his musket. As the man fell choking, he slung the musket behind him and drew his sword.
The rush of his men pushed Usan forward. A Saxon man’s face smashed into his own, their lips nearly touching as the weight of both forces pushed against each other. Usan spit and knocked the Saxon soldier away by smacking him down with the hilt of his sword. He then ducked a spear thrust from his right as a Janissary stepped up and protected his corbaci from a sword slash to his left. Usan fell back a pace, collected himself, and continued the fight.
Hackbuts fired from the ramparts. Small cannonades sent grapeshot into the swarming Janissaries. His men began to fall in handfuls, and Usan was suddenly unsure of his rash charge. He wondered if he should sound the retreat; or, at the least, fall back to the gate and re-form his lines.
Another volley of rockets struck inside the city, spreading its thick, murderous shrapnel through screaming ranks of Saxons. Then, the lead tank pushed its way through the gate and opened fire with its flamethrower.
Some of his Janissaries were caught in the stream of fire, but it was the Saxons who took the brunt of the strike. They ignited like dry kindling, a nice steady line of men turning black in the flame. The sight of it made Usan’s stomach turn. The sight of it routed the Saxons.
“Follow them!” Usan shouted, refreshing his blade by swiping it through the air. “Follow them to the square. Let no one escape!”
✧ ✧ ✧
An hour later, with a third of his city burning and his defenders routed, the burgomaster of Hermannstadt surrendered.
Voivode Basarab found Usan Hussein in the town square, standing with his men. His orta had taken losses. They were battered and bloody, but intact and ready for further orders.
“Congratulations, Usan,” Matei Basarab said, a satisfied smile on his face. “You’ve won the city.”
Usan bowed humbly, though he knew the truth of it. “Thank you, Voivode Basarab. But I will give all the credit to the tanks…and the rockets.”
“You took command of the tanks,” Matei said. “You took the initiative and won the city. This is your victory.”
Usan was pleased with the voivode’s humility, something he often did not get from Ottoman leaders and higher-ranking officers who respected the Janissary corps for their fighting prowess, but who also resented them and saw them as a threat. It was quite refreshing to hear a leader of a country—albeit a vassal state—give humble praise.
“I thank you again, sir.” Usan bowed even lower this time. “I’m sure that once Sultan Murad hears of this, he will be most pleased. With Hermannstadt in your hands, the Saxon Sees will not likely give their men and materiel to Prince Rákóczi, lest they suffer more death and desolation from our tanks and rockets. They are heeled, as is said, and you now have control of southern Transylvania. The part that matters, anyway.”
Matei nodded and looked over the cleanup and regroupment that was going on around him. “The question now becomes: when do we march to Gyulafehérvár?”
“What is the situation with Voivode Lupu?” Usan asked.
“Pushing slowly through the Carpathians, though he has had fewer engagements than we.” Matei chuckled. “Ironically, it is now his army that is the slowest in this affair. We will remain here and regroup, refit, until I’ve sent word to Vasile, and he has responded in kind. By his previous requests, we will march together, in coordination, to Gyulafehérvár.”
A sound decision, though Usan wondered if moving sooner than that might not be the better plan, even if it meant reaching the capital before the Moldavians. According to maps he had seen, Gyulafehérvár was only thirty-five to forty miles away. A three-day march, perhaps four depending upon weather, ground conditions, and the speed, mobility, and health of the tanks.
“Very well,” Usan said. “Then I and my men will gather provisions and conduct a refit for that inevitable march.”
Matei nodded. “That is well.” He stepped up to Usan, his gaze hard. “But I wish to make it clear to you and to your men. Do not harm these people. If I hear of random killings and rapes, I will execute on the spot. And do not vandalize or take more than we absolutely need for our march to Gyulafehérvár. I do not want these Saxons rising up behind us and cutting off our baggage train. We need the roads from Hermannstadt to the capital left open and in good condition to maintain proper supply.”
Another sound decision. Usan nodded. “I will keep my men in line, Voivode Basarab. I cannot speak for anyone else.”
“They’ll stay in line,” Basarab said. “Or they will answer to me.”
Schäßburg (Sighișoara)
With measured impatience, Vasile Lupu looked out the window of his headquarters at the tethered airship. The weather had been foul, the winds strong. He had not had the opportunity to ride the Chaldiran in days. But that would change soon. Very soon.
Those two kafirs, Moshe and Mordechai, were conducting a very thorough check of the ship, ensuring its viability and safety. Despite their religious differences, Vasile approved of them both. They did not speak much to him, but they were courteous and did what they were told. A good quality in servants.
“General Radu,” Vasile said, finally acknowledging the man’s presence. “I thank you for your devotion to Moldavia and to your prince. Your efforts in Déj did not bear the kind of fruit that I had desired. Kolozsvár is no longer obtainable, which is a setback. But you bought us time, time that we can now spend planning our final march to Gyulafehérvár.”
Radu bowed low. “Thank you, My Voivode. I did my best. I attacked them with everything I had. I attacked twice. I breached both of their fortifications. I—”
Vasile put up his hand. “I’m aware of your battle plan and the decisions that you made.” He glanced over at Sergiu Botnari sitting nearby, waiting with arms crossed. “I don’t wish to hear them again. Despite your failings, General, I’ve decided to keep you on my staff. You may bring your army forward and bivouac alongside General Mardare’s force. Then join us tonight for a final discussion about our march to the capital.”
“Yes, My Voivode,” Radu said, bowing lower as he stepped backward toward the door. “I will serve you, this army, and God well.”
General Radu was escorted out as Vasile waved him away.
“That was generous, my lord,” Sergiu Botnari said. “His loss at Déj was far more serious than you let on. I was expecting you to relieve him of duty; or possibly of his head.”
Vasile stared again out the window toward the Chaldiran. “General Radu is the only member of my staff who has actually faced up-time weaponry. That alone is reason enough to keep him active. I need that experience on the field.”
“I faced those weapons as well, my lord.”
Vasile nodded and turned away from the window. “Yes, you have. And you have shown me the kinds of muskets and pistols that they wield. Not all that dissimilar to those Sultan Murad has graciously given us. But I’m not simply interested in the differences or similarities of our weapons versus theirs, Sergiu. I need to know what the strategic and tactical ramifications are as well. I especially want to know more about that aircraft you spoke about.” Vasile leaned over, grunted, and found a seat among his plush pillows. “Tell me more.”
Sergiu cleared his throat. “It’s a fragile machine, my lord. Frankly, I’m surprised it can fly. It’s made of wood and canvas and metal. As I said, the canvas burns well enough, so it’s vulnerable to attack. On the ground, at least. In flight, I can’t see it being vulnerable to much of anything, save for wind and weather.”
“The Chaldiran has capabilities,” Vasile said, thumbing to the window.
“Yes, and perhaps it could strike one of them and bring it down. But they move much faster than your airship. I think it would be difficult to do.”
“Men with rifles can be placed on the airship.”
Sergiu nodded. “Yes, and that would be wise to do. But I’m sure that those who fly the enemy’s planes are experienced enough not to give you an easy target.”
“Speaking of their pilots,” Vasile said, grunting, standing up again. “It’s my understanding that you failed to capture or kill the pilot in the craft that you attacked, even though you had the chance. Why?”
Vasile leaned in close until his nose was mere inches from Sergiu’s dirty face. “You spoke harshly of General Radu’s failures on the battlefield. How do you explain yours?”
Sergiu glanced around at the men standing guard at the door, near the window, and behind him in the far corner. “She surprised me, that’s all. There aren’t many girls—or men—who could have reacted as quickly and cleverly as she did. Plus, I was not familiar with the machine she hid behind. Looking back on it, I think I could have shot right through it, which might possibly have killed her.”
He shrugged. “Or possibly not. She was very quick and it was dark. And don’t forget that this same girl also killed three of us who went for the plane. She’s not someone to be taken lightly.”
Vasile was not altogether satisfied by the answer, but…
The truth was, he needed Sergiu Botnari’s services as much as he did General Radu’s. And there was this much consolation to be taken from the affair—at least the chief of his Impalers now had a much better understanding of the enemy’s planes. And of their pilots.
The door opened, and a messenger begged admittance. Vasile waved him forward.
The man bowed and offered a note. “From the capital, my lord.”
Vasile took the note and read it. He read it again and then a third time. “The birds in Gyulafehérvár are chirping, Sergiu, and they tell me that General von Mercy has arrived. I have need of your services.”
Sergiu nodded. “What can I do for you, my lord?”
Vasile folded the note and tucked it into the pocket of his long, fur-lined dolman.
“For now, just stay in camp and wait. But soon, I may ask you to help me do something I promised Basarab I would not do.”