"Ha! Should have stayed in Saxony," Eric grumbled. "I'd be sleeping in a warm bed in Dresden."
Thorsten grunted softly. "Yes. This year. Next year"-he jabbed a thumb at one of the nearby volley guns-"you'd be looking at those from the business end. With that idiot John George for a commander instead of Gustav Adolf or Torstensson."
Krenz shook his head. "Nonsense. I'd desert. Join you fellows." He gave everyone a smile. "A year from now. Maybe in the summer, when it's warmer."
That got another laugh. Everyone liked Krenz personally, and certainly didn't hold the treachery of the Saxon elector against him. Why should they? Another of the many American loan words in Amideutsch-phrase, in this case-was equal opportunity. The joke had long become a staple in the regiments that John George of Saxony was an equal opportunity traitor, since he'd stabbed just about everybody in the back by now.
Like Thorsten-and Krenz himself, for that matter-most of those soldiers expected to be fighting Saxony and Brandenburg next year. Those of them who survived this war, at least. Their term of enlistment ran for three years, and none of them thought the war with the Ostenders was going to last more than a few months.
Thorsten wasn't so sure, himself. Not because he had any less confidence in their army than any of the other soldiers, but simply because his twenty-six years of life thus far had convinced him that the truest and most useful of all the American saws was shit happens. In war, who could say for sure?
In the main room of the tavern in Segeberg, General Torstensson straightened up from the big map spread out over a table in the center, then turned to Frank Jackson. Unlike the other top officers of the army who served Torstensson as his immediate lieutenants, Frank had no clear and definite duties on his staff. As tactfully as possible-with Frank's own cooperation-Torstensson had essentially removed him from any direct authority over large bodies of soldiers. Frank's training and temperament were entirely those of a sergeant, not an officer, and he was really not well-suited to be a commander of any body of soldiers much larger than a squad. He'd only been elevated to a generalship by the now-defunct New United States because no one else in Grantville had been any more qualified.
On the other hand, with his extensive practical knowledge of up-time technology, Frank made an excellent aide for anything that involved the interplay of the new American military equipment with the army. He jokingly referred to himself, in private, as "Lennart's utility infielder."
"Do we have radio contact yet with the emperor?" Torstensson asked.
"Just got it up and running. It's a good link, too, so we don't need to wait for the evening window."
"Good. Ask him what he wants me to do. Keep moving-if so, where?-or remain here until further notice."
"On my way." Frank headed toward the stairs that led up to the second-story room where the army's radio operators had set up their equipment.
Torstensson turned back to the table. "My guess is that the emperor will want us to remain here, until something develops. But, whether we do or not, we need to send a force north to secure the southern shore of the Ploner See." His finger indicated a large lake less than twenty miles north of the Wardersee. "It's most likely the French will come though this corridor once they begin their retreat from Luebeck. The Danes will pass to the east of the Ploner See, looking to reach their defenses at the Danewerk, but not the French. They'll pass south of the lake, trying to reach the headwaters of the Stor at Neumunster, and follow that down to the Elbe north of Hamburg. But they won't ever get there, because we'll have them trapped here."
Frowning, Colonel Bryan Thorpe leaned over the table and placed his finger on a different spot on the map, farther south.
"They might choose to take the more direct route, General. Just follow the Trave to Oldesloe, and then…"
His voice trailed off, as he studied the map.
"And then… what, Bryan?" Torstensson shook his head. "They'd find themselves in a worse trap, and one that ought to be obvious to their commanders even before they decamp. Even to that jackass Charles de Valois. Yes, the Trave would make an easy route at the beginning, but once they pass through Oldesloe"-he began moving his finger around on the map, after Thorpe removed his own-"their choices become dismal. They could reach the headwaters of the Alster easily, of course, but what good does that do them? The Alster would take them to Hamburg, where they'd be caught between our garrison in the city and us following them. Their only other options would be just as bad. They could march directly west, trying to avoid us, but that takes them through heavily wooded terrain with few roads, few villages, and only small streams. For an army the size of theirs, a disaster in the making, even this time of year. Or they march to the northwest, trying to reach the Stor from that direction. But the only route they could take would be to continue following the Trave, which leads them…"
He gave the English colonel a smile. Thorpe nodded. "Yes, I see. Which leads them right to us, here at Segeberg."
Torstensson planted both hands on the table, continuing to study the map. "Still… Given de Valois, such stupidity can't be ruled out. But if it does happen, we can march down the Trave from here faster than the French can come up the river. Meet them somewhere around"-he finger tapped a spot on the map-"Oldesloe, at a guess."
He spent the next few minutes discussing the army's logistical situation. By the time that was done, Frank Jackson had returned.
"The emperor wants you to stay put," he said. "The Ostenders are still in their fieldworks outside of Luebeck. Either they haven't gotten the news that Simpson has passed through the Great Belt, or they don't believe it, or they're just being sluggish and stupid, take your pick. But the emperor figures it doesn't matter. Sooner or later, they'll have to begin their retreat, and he wants you to wait for them here."
"The French, at any rate," said Torstensson. "What about the Danes? They'll take their army back on the eastern side of the Ploner See, I'm sure of that."
Frank shrugged. "Gustav Adolf didn't say anything on that subject. Just-wait here, and trap the enemy when they come. The exact identity of the enemy unspecified. You want me to get in touch with him again?"
Torstensson shook his head. "No, that's not necessary. The orders are quite clear."
He wasn't surprised, in any event. After Mike Stearns had demonstrated in December how easy it was to fly a man into Luebeck, Torstensson himself had been flown in twice-the second occasion, just three weeks earlier-to consult with the emperor. He knew that once the siege was broken, Gustav Adolf wanted to keep Danish casualties as low as possible. Their land forces, at least. He would be quite happy to see most of the Danish navy sunk or ruined, since that would give him the greatest leverage in his negotiations with Christian IV for a new Union of Kalmar. But there was no point in killing or wounding Danish soldiers who, soon enough, would be serving under Gustav's own colors. Let them escape Luebeck and take refuge in the Danewerk. They could be plucked there like ripe fruit, once the Danish king yielded and accepted the inevitable.
It was the French army that Gustav Adolf wanted destroyed. Not simply beaten, but shattered. Defeated so thoroughly that France would be knocked completely out of the war, and wouldn't be able to resume hostilities until the following year. By then, hopefully, they'd either have a peace settlement or Richelieu would be under such pressure from disgruntled elements in the French nobility that he couldn't afford to send any troops out of France even if there was no settlement.
It was a good plan, Torstensson thought. He'd marched so quickly that he was now astride the only good route the French army could take, in their retreat from the siege. His was a better army than theirs to begin with-he was quite sure of that-and the fact that he would be slightly outnumbered didn't bother him in the least. Especially since the French suffered from a serious shortage of cavalry, which was the critical arm in terms of winning battles.