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Chapter 63

Central battle line


Usan Hussein had grown to—if not love—then at least respect the mighty power of the three fire tanks that rolled slowly in front of his orta. In truth, he despised the Sultan’s up-time-inspired weapons, manned primarily by Jews and Christians, and none of them adhering to the teachings of Islam. Especially these infernal Ifrits that trundled forward, leaving deep grooves in the ground with their large, wide, hard rubber tires, smelling of smoke, steam, and naphtha. But at this moment, there was no better way to greet the enemy than with long, deadly streams of fire, like the mighty Greeks of old.

Hungarian cavalry tried attacking first, a headlong charge right into the snapping tongues of flame. Both horses and their riders were cooked where they fell, while others managed to at least turn back and flee, their haunches burning, their riders screaming. What a foolish move, Usan thought, rash men too inexperienced with up-time weaponry to understand the nature of them. They did not try another frontal assault. Instead, the shocked cavalry regrouped and struck the flanks.

The Wallachian infantry regiment that had followed his orta toward the center took the brunt of the assault, shifting to the right as their ranks buckled under the weight of the charge. For a few deadly moments, it looked as if the Dorobanţi would rout. Usan ordered the Ifrits to halt, turn their turrets, and fire.

The cavalry melted in front of three flaming tongues, reaching out like a frog snagging prey. Dorobanţi fell under the fire as well, but far less than the charging cavalry. Janissaries, too, were doused, and as much as Usan hated seeing his own men burn, the fire, again, forced the cavalry to retreat. This time, for good.

The Dorobanţi regiment collected itself and re-formed its lines. The way toward Gyulafehérvár was now clear, hopefully, of further cavalry attack.

✧ ✧ ✧

Poor radio reception hindered Jeff’s communication with Tuva, but he endured. “Say again, Tuva?”

“Cavalry attacked…burning…retreating before Ifrits and…Janissaries and other…infantry… ”

The mention of the Ifrits scared him less than Janissaries. He’d heard about them even before the Ring of Fire. The elite fighting force of the Sultan, members of his household troops, culled from Christian areas. They were seized as children, circumcised, converted to Islam, and trained to fight and kill. The Janissaries were some of the best soldiers the world had ever seen. Even in this new timeline.

“How many Janissaries, Tuva?” he asked.

There was a pause, a long one, and Jeff wondered if the connection had dropped again. The radio then crackled, and Tuva’s voice boomed, “A thousand, maybe?”

“That’s one orta,” Colonel Makovec said at his side. He raised a finger. “One regiment.”

“Is that all, Tuva?”

Through a weak connection, she provided as much detail as she could before finally signing off. Jeff paused to listen to the sounds of distant battle. Just muffled roar of cannon, the occasional crack of musket fire, the very rare bellow of men and trumpet, staccato drumbeats. The fighting was close and yet not close enough for him to get an idea, purely by sound, of the state of the fight.

“Two infantry regiments and three tanks,” Jeff said with a big sigh. “I think you better fire up your APCs, Colonel, and get them moving.”

Colonel Makovec nodded. “Right away, sir. Will your Silesians join us?”

Jeff shook his head. “Still waiting on word from Colonel Shalit. We need to know what the hell’s going on down south before—”

“Brigadier!” a radio controller shouted. He held up the phone. “It’s General Renz, sir.”

Jeff accepted the phone. “General, glad to hear from you. What’s the good word?”

“No good words, Brigadier,” Renz shouted over a better connection. Jeff could hear battle sounds in the background. How damn close are you to the northern front, General? “The Joshua Corps’ position is wavering. Collapse is imminent, I fear. I’ve discussed the matter with Generals Roth and von Mercy. You need to get a regiment up and moving now to support the southern line.”

“Just one?”

“Yes, sir. Hold the other two in reserve a while longer until we can get a better sense of the situation in the north and center.”

“No problem, General.” Jeff didn’t want to delay, but he couldn’t help but ask, “How is the fight in the north?”

A pause, then through more battle sounds, even closer, “Difficult. Renz out!”

The transmission clicked hard as the connection was severed. Jeff handed the phone back to his radio controller and considered the order.

Only one regiment for the Joshua Corps? Would that be enough?

He wondered. If the situation in the south was as bad as General Renz said, then why not two? Then again, commit both Second and Third Regiments, and what did he have left for the Janissaries but his own Hangmen? And what of the north? Renz had just told him that the northern fight was “difficult.” What the hell did that mean, exactly? If it meant something bad, then Jeff needed to keep a regiment of Silesians in reserve to move in that direction if needed, which was probably why Renz had asked him to commit only one to the south. And yet, the Joshua Corps…

Jeff did not consider himself part of Morris Roth’s Anaconda Project, though he had absolutely no objection to it. In fact, he supported it fully. Hell, here he was, perched on a hill in Transylvania, far from home, risking his own life and the lives of his men, to preserve this cause to secure a future where Jews could live in peace without fear of constant persecution and massacre. It was the right cause, a noble cause. To have the Joshua Corps, then, routed on its first real fight, what message would that send to the Ottomans? To the world? The USE and the Bohemians had enough wolves at their gates already.

He turned to his regimental commanders. “Sirs, get Second and Third Regiments moving, on the quick step, south to the Joshua Corps’ position. We cannot let them break.”


Southern battle line


Men of Third Regiment fell back into a fighting withdrawal as Jason followed Tobias and his medical staff toward the ridgeline where Batteries C and D were standing. The guns had begun firing again, lowering their trajectories to place shot into the advancing enemy forces. A large wall of Wallachian infantry had followed the Serbian cavalry into the heart of Third Regiment’s position. If it wasn’t a total rout, Jason didn’t know what to call it.

Terrified men, boys mostly, ran past him, finding the courage occasionally to pause, load, turn, and fire back toward the advancing enemy line. An imperfect line, for sure, more like a mob of Wallachians, Serbians, and Ashkenazi, firing and stabbing at each other from mere feet away. Jason saw one Serbian drive his saber across the face of one of his own, realizing his mistake, and then falling dead from a ZB-1636 rifle shot into the back.

“Don’t let me die here, Rabbi,” said a Krakow boy who had just taken a musket shot in the chest. “Don’t let me—”

But he did die, right there, in Jason’s arms, looking skyward, his eyes glazed over in terror, confusion. Jason paused to give prayer and then closed the boy’s eyes. Tobias pulled him away.

“Keep moving!” the medic shouted. “We have to get past the cannons!”

“Where are First and Second Regiments?” Jason asked.

Tobias shook his head. “I don’t know. All dead, maybe.”

That was unlikely, and yet, they hadn’t received any radio report from them in a long while, ever since the Serbians had broken Third Regiment’s line. When last they had heard, the rest of the Joshua Corps had fallen back to a line of farmhouses and stone walls and were desperately trying to stave off total defeat. Where were they now? Where was everyone?

It seemed to Jason as if all the world was retreating. There was nothing now but war and smoke and fire and blood, the whimpering cries of dying boys, the deep growls of angry men engaged in hand-to-hand, the whoosh! of smoke and fire from cannon barrels firing shot and shell into as many of their own men as the enemy. What was the old American Civil War saying? This is a universe of battle? He could not remember the quote exactly, nor did it matter. What mattered now was getting beyond the ridgeline and to, hopefully, safety.

Safety…The word lingered in his mind. There is no safety anywhere in all the world for my people.

Tobias fell at his side. Jason looked to his young friend and found a gaping wound in his back. “Tobias! Tobias!” But the medic lay there, saying nothing, a roll of bandages in his left hand, a satchel of medical supplies upended and strewn across the soft ground.

“Move!”

It was Colonel Zelikovich, far to the right, waving Jason forward. “Move, Rabbi! Move!”

Jason forced himself away from Tobias, letting his fingers linger in the young boy’s dark hair a second longer before pulling away completely and continuing toward the cannon line.

By God’s grace, he reached the line and passed beyond it, feeling through the ground the hard discharge of cannon fire as the rest of Third Regiment raced to safety.

Behind the cannons and mortars, men from Third Regiment huddled together, like terrified mice, not knowing where to go, what to do. Should we keep running? He could almost hear them ask the question. Would the enemy stop at the cannon line, or would they overrun that as well and keep driving and driving and driving until they reached the capital? Jason looked down at all the huddled, frightened men and knew the answer to those questions.

No…I cannot let this happen.

He reached down and scooped up a discarded ZB rifle and held it aloft. “Rak Chazak Amats!

He shouted it again and again, until all the men below him quieted and looked up.

Rak Chazak Amats!” he said to the beat of mortar fire. “These are our words, Joshua’s words, given to him by God to lead the Israelites into Canaan, into the promised land, after Moses’ passing. Rak Chazak Amats! Be strong and courageous.”

He stumbled down the ridge. The men parted to let him walk between them. “I am an up-timer. My life as a Jew there was not perfect, but it was nothing like the life all of you have had to endure. But through the Ring of Fire, I found my purpose. I became a Rabbi so that I may know that you, my people, my brothers, never have to endure again the privations of the past, or the holocausts of your future. I say no more!

“Morris Roth has given us this chance, this one chance, to change our lives,” he said, his voice cracking under tears, his throat dry, scratchy, “and we must take it.” He pointed to the cannon. “The enemy that charges here are not Serbians or Wallachians or Turks. They are nothing more than Philistines in different clothing. They want to defeat you, suppress you, kill you, and I say to them no more. We are the Joshua Corps. We are Joshua’s men, and if we are to die, then let us do it fighting for our lives, our wives, our children, our culture. Let us fight for the right to be who we are. We are Ashkenazi. We are Jews, and we are proud of who we are. Let us fight for Morris Roth, for Joshua, for God.

Rak Chazak Amats!

The chant grew and grew and grew until even the cannoneers began to shout it.

“Fix bayonets!” Colonel Zelikovich shouted. The men, who had previously huddled in fear, now gathered in loose ranks behind the cannons, and Jason filed in right beside them, the rifle still in hand, tears of joy and fear lining his face. Somewhere over that ridgeline, he knew, could be his death, and so be it. Young Tobias had given his life for this cause. I can do no less.

The cannons fell silent to allow the rallied men of Third Regiment to take their positions.

Colonel Zelikovich, giddy now with strength and courage, raised his saber, and shouted, “Rak Chazak Amats!

Rabbi Jason Gotkin shouted the war cry until he could no longer speak. He raised his rifle, fixed his bayonet forward, and charged into the wavering line of Philistines.


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