1635: The Eastern Front

Chapter 36

Lake Bledno, Poland

The Polish sakers should not have been a match for the Swedish artillery. True, they were more powerful than most of the guns Gustav Adolf had on the field today. He had fourteen of the so-called "regimental" guns and only two twelve-pounders. The regimental guns were three-pounder light artillery, made of cast bronze and with short barrels, and using reduced powder charges to keep from overheating. The Polish sakers had longer barrels and fired shot that was about five and a quarter pounds.

Koniecpolski had managed to get a full dozen of the things onto the battlefield, too. Considering the terrain he'd had to bring them through and the speed at which he'd done it, that was in itself a tremendous feat of generalship.

But the difference wasn't the guns, it was the gunners. The Swedish artillery corps was the best in world, bar none. Gustav Adolf had always emphasized artillery-light artillery, in particular-and in young Lennart Torstensson he'd found a superb commanding general and trainer for his artillery.

Torstensson was gone now, having been put in charge of the USE's army. But his training methods and attitudes had become ingrained in Sweden's artillerymen.

So, lighter though the shot of their regimental guns might be, they fired two or three for every one coming across the field from the saker barrels. Even the two Swedish twelve-pounders were almost able to match the Polish rate of fire.

The Swedish fire was more accurate, too. Where the Poles simply fired in the direction of the enemy, the Swedish gunners were skilled enough to fire the sort of grazing shots that caused the most damage on a battlefield. These were not exploding shells that were being fired, but round shot. The only way to use round shot against infantry or cavalry on a open battlefield effectively was to aim for the ground ahead of the oncoming foe. The balls would hit the ground and bounce off, sailing into the enemy's ranks at a low trajectory-waist-high was what gunners tried for-and sometimes destroying a dozen men at a time.

All well and good. But on this field today, by the shores of Lake Bledno just south of the Polish town of Zbaszyn, that same Swedish skill was actually working against them. Grazing shots presuppose ground that is reasonably hard. After days of heavy rain, this soil was very far from that. It wasn't what you could call mud, exactly, but it was certainly soggy. A lot of the Swedish artillery rounds simply buried themselves, especially those fired by the big twelve-pounders. The regimental guns could still manage grazing shots perhaps half of the time, but the effectiveness of those shots was drastically reduced. The second bounce would usually end their trajectories; the third invariably would.

The Poles faced the same problem, of course, but the very imprecision of their fire probably worked to their advantage. They weren't trying for grazing shots anyway.

An hour into the battle, Gustav Adolf's artillery commanders realized the problem and adjusted their fire as best they could. But all that meant was that they were now achieving mediocre results instead of poor ones.

For years, Gustav Adolf had been able to rely on his artillery to offset whatever advantages his opponent might have. The greatest victory of his career, at Breitenfeld, had been due to artillery. Today, at Lake Bledno, he was finding that advantage gone.

He almost regretted now his decision the day before not to take Zbaszyn. When he reached the town, he'd discovered that Koniecpolski had managed to get some of his troops into it already. Not very many, true-perhaps two thousand hussars. They had no artillery and hussars were cavalry, not really trained and equipped to defend a town under siege.

On the other hand, they were hussars. That meant that, trained or not, equipped or not, they'd still fight valiantly and ferociously. Gustav Adolf's forces outnumbered them by four-to-one and did have artillery. He didn't doubt that he could take the town within a day; two at the outside.

But Koniecpolski would be here on the morrow. There was no doubt of it. Once again, the USE Air Force was able to give the king of Sweden superb reconnaissance. The last thing Gustav Adolf wanted was for Koniecpolski to catch him in mid-siege. That could be disastrous.

Instead, he'd chosen to move south and take a stand against the lake. He thought he could at the very least fight the Pole to a standstill on open ground. And a standstill was all he needed. Within a day or two, the USE divisions would begin to arrive-Stearns' Third being the first, surprisingly-and the preponderance of forces would shift drastically against Koniecpolski. He'd probably choose to withdraw, in fact, before Stearns even got here. That would mean a siege of Poznan, soon enough, because that was certainly where Koniecpolski would withdraw his forces.

This was not what Gustav Adolf had hoped for, when he began this campaign. The reason he'd driven so hard and taken the risk of separating into six columns was precisely to circumvent the Poles' ability to tie him up in a succession of sieges.

But, war was what it was-above all else, no respecter of persons. There was still enough time before winter came to seize Poznan and possibly Wroclaw. Breslau, rather, as it should be called. The majority of the population in the territory Gustav Adolf had taken so far-in the cities and bigger towns, at any rate-were German Lutherans, not Catholic Poles. If worse came to worst and Gustav Adolf was forced to halt the campaign once winter arrived, at least he would have reclaimed all the territory that his despised cousin Wladyslaw had stolen while Sweden's back was turned.

So. All he had to do today was simply hold the field. And by now, two hours into the battle, Gustav Adolf was confident he could. The artillery barrages that began most battles-this one had been no exception-had been inconclusive. The Poles would now try to break his ranks with cavalry charges. No one did that better than hussars, either. They were without a doubt Europe's premier heavy cavalry, almost a throwback to the knights of the late middle ages.

Still, Gustav Adolf was sure he could withstand them. He'd placed himself against the lake because he'd been confident he could do so. Normally, he wouldn't cut himself off from a route of retreat that way. If the Poles did break his ranks, the result would probably be disastrous. On the other hand, the Poles could no longer use one of the sweeping flank attacks their hussars employed so well, either. They had no choice but to come at him straight on, and he was sure his veteran soldiers could stand against that.

Without talking his eyes off the enemy across the field, Gustav Adolf swiveled his head to speak to Anders Jonsson. The huge Swede and the dozen Scotsmen under his command served Gustav Adolf as his personal bodyguard-on a battlefield, as everywhere else.

"It's going well, I think. Well enough, at least."

He felt a drop of rain strike his hand. Then two, then three. A little patter of raindrops hit his helmet.

"Fuck!"

Jonsson had been afraid the king hadn't spotted the storm clouds coming. As it always was in a battle, Gustav Adolf's attention had been riveted on the enemy across the field. Some part of his mind had probably noticed that it was getting darker, despite the sun still rising. They hadn't reached noon yet. But that same part of his mind would have discounted the fact. Things often got darker in a battle, from the gunsmoke pouring out everywhere. Especially if there wasn't much in the way of a breeze, which there wasn't today.

Or hadn't been. Anders felt a sudden gust strike his cheek.

This was going to be another bitch of a storm, watch and see.

"Fuck!" repeated the king of Sweden, emperor of the United States of Europe, and high king of the Union of Kalmar.

Once again, war was respecting no person.

"Praise the Lord," murmured Stanislaw Koniecpolski. Technically, that might be blasphemy. But Koniecpolski was a Catholic, not a superstitious Protestant prone to seeing fussy rules and regulations in the way a man put on a button. He was also the grand hetman of Poland and Lithuania and one of its greatest magnates-a class of men who took a very expansive view of their rights and privileges. Much of the reason for Poland's tradition of religious toleration was because no great magnate was about to tolerate anyone-neither king nor pope nor sniveling Jesuit nor even the Sejm itself-telling him what he could or could not believe. He might be a Catholic himself, as most of Poland and Lithuania's magnates were, but he damn well had the right to convert to any brand of Protestantism that took his fancy, if he chose to do so.

So, "Praise the Lord," repeated Koniecpolski. Secure in the knowledge that what might be blasphemy for a peasant or a butcher was not for a grand hetman.

The storm clouds were coming fast. The Poles would start charging furiously now, while the soil was still firm enough that their horses could move across it. The condition of the ground was already bad-terribly so for cannon balls-but it wasn't bad enough that Polish warhorses would disobey their masters. A horse could handle such terrain, even if they didn't like it. They wouldn't be galloping, of course. But even a hussar charge at the speed of a canter could hammer down an opponent if they failed to stand their ground.

That was Gustav Adolf's great concern. Modern infantry could withstand cavalry if they were trained and seasoned, which these troops were-provided they retained their confidence. And there was nothing that would faster erode a unit's morale than the feeling they were alone, isolated, with their commanders nowhere to be seen.

The feeling, in short, that a heavy rain would bring.

The king of Sweden knew exactly what Koniecpolski would do now. The grand hetman would push his hussars to the utmost in order to take advantage of whatever period existed between the arrival of the rain and the subsequent obscuring of the battlefield and the point at which the rain turned the ground so muddy that cavalry were effectively unusable.

The morale of his troops. That was everything, now. He had to do whatever was necessary to keep them from faltering.

Without even realizing he was doing so, Gustav Adolf eased his sword in and out of its scabbard in order to make sure it would come forth easily if he needed it. Then he did the same with his pistols in their saddle holsters.

Anders Jonsson knew how to read the signs. He swiveled in the saddle and gave his little unit of Scotsmen a fierce and commanding look.

You know what's probably coming. Be ready!

Then he faced forward again. Were it not completely inappropriate in the presence of his monarch, Anders would have shouted his sentiments aloud-and been echoed by a dozen Scot throats.

Fuck!