But the city's population had fled and the surrounding countryside was Polish, not German. As far as the szlachta were concerned, Gustav Adolf had renewed his longstanding aggression against the Polish lands. And if Poland's aristocracy was notorious for its political fecklessness, nobody in their right mind had ever thought they couldn't fight—assuming they could unite behind a leader.
There were times in Polish history where such a leader had been absent, and the resultant political disunity had left Poland's armies weakened or even largely on the sidelines. But unfortunately for Mrs. Higgins' son Jeffrey, this was not one of them. With his new-found money, Jeff had been able to buy down-time copies of three books on Polish history that had been in Grantville. It turned out—oh, joy—that the Ring of Fire had planted Mrs. Higgins' son Jeffrey right smack in the period of Polish history that had produced some of its most capable military leaders. Grand Hetman Stanislaw Koniecpolski was one of them. He'd been mentioned in all three books.
"Sir?"
Jeff suddenly realized that Linn had now shouted that question three times.
"Tell Engler to wait until I give the signal." That would have to be a bugle signal, now, thanks to Murphy. "Then come in from the north—but whatever he does, don't let himself get trapped in any side streets or alleys."
Because of its specific peculiar purpose, the Hangman Regiment was the only one in the division that didn't have regular artillery attached to it. Jeff was bitterly regretting that absence, now. Volley guns were splendid on an open field, but they weren't much use against the improvised fortifications you ran into in street fighting. Jeff would gladly swap Engler's entire unit right now for just one culverin and half a dozen mortars.
He'd even more gladly swap them for the support of another regiment or three. Where was the rest of the division? Since the fighting started this morning, Jeff hadn't seen any USE units except his own.
Linn nodded and raced off, still in a crouch. He'd have a horse nearby, tethered where it couldn't get hit except by a freak shot. Once he was on the horse, he should be able to reach Engler within fifteen minutes or so. The flying artillery company had been moving around the northern outskirts of Zielona Góra. If Jeff's map was accurate—always a chancy proposition—there should be a fairly wide avenue that led directly into the city's central square. Insofar as there was any city terrain that favored volley guns, that would be it.
Jeff didn't really expect Engler could do much except create a diversion. But he hoped that might be enough to enable him to get his infantry battalions moving again. They'd been completely stalled within ten minutes of the battle's start.
Street fighting sucked.
War sucked.
Murphy really sucked.
Where the hell was Mike Stearns?
Chapter 28
That very moment, Mike Stearns was wondering if Jeff Higgins was still alive. He might very well not be—and if he was dead, Mike would be the one who killed him.
He'd deliberately left Jeff's regiment twisting in the wind, and he'd done it for two reasons. The second of those reasons left Mike feeling a little sick to his stomach.
The first reason was straightforward: Higgins and his men had kept the Poles in Zielona Góra preoccupied while Mike moved the rest of the division around the city to the south. Once he launched his attack, he thought he could overwhelm the defenders pretty quickly. He'd be attacking from a direction they wouldn't expect and with overwhelming force.
The maneuver was tough on the Hangman Regiment, of course, but that was just the chances of war.
Hard-boiled, yes. But Mike's other motive had been a lot colder and more ruthless. He was utterly determined that no army under his command would ever again behave the way some of its units had at Świebodzin. That, of course, was the reason he'd formed the Hangman in the first place.
But if Mike was a neophyte at organized warfare, he was no stranger to conflict. He knew perfectly well what would happen if his new regiment simply had a reputation for being hard on soldiers in its own division. They might be feared, but they wouldn't be respected—and fear without respect only took you so far. Over time, they'd be looked on as the boss' toadies. The damage to Mike's reputation would be just as bad as the damage to their own. Nobody respected toadies. Most people didn't think much of a boss who surrounded himself with toadies, either.
The solution had been obvious. At the very first battle, shove the Hangman into the worst of it. If they acquitted themselves well, they'd start developing a very different reputation. People might not like hardasses, but they respected them as long as the hardass led from the front.
And if the inexperienced young colonel whom Mike had known since he was a kid and had forced into command wound up getting killed, so be it.