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King of the Road

Written by John Zeek

Spring 1635

Johan Frey enjoyed the breeze coming through the open window. The cool evening air seemed to wash away his cares. The city watch office was overly warm and Watch Captain Rolf Nestmann tended to mutter when he read; Johan found that annoying. Since the captain had a full week's correspondence to plow through, Johan was looking for any excuse to get out of the office. None had presented itself, so he stood and looked out the window.

The sounds from the parade ground in front of the headquarters drew his attention. Ensign Andreas Guenther and Feldwebel Buettner were trying to train a half company of the Suhl Militia in field maneuvers. In Johan's opinion this was a waste of time. The militia was by definition a defense force for fighting from a city and Guenther and Buettner were barely trained themselves. Take the militia out of their city and they would melt like snow in the heat of battle. He had seen trained professional companies melt in battle too many times. But Captain Nestmann had dreams of reviving his glory and was in charge of militia training, so the militia trained in field maneuvers. Trained with pike and musket tactics, not the tactics offered by their new bayoneted rifles loaded with minié balls—a total waste of time.

His attention was drawn to the other side of the square where a party of the SoTF mounted constabulary was forming up to leave on patrol. Now there was a really professional force. He sometimes wished he had taken the offered commission in the constabulary, instead of following Nestmann back to Suhl.

"Damn," Nestmann commented. "Do you believe the amount of paper they expect me to read?" Johan turned to see the captain scowling at the stack on his desk. Since he had Johan's attention the captain continued, "Johan, think back to when we were first starting out in the army business. Did Mansfeld ever use this much paper? He did not. I can remember whole battle plans scratched out on the ground in front of his tent. And Hoffmann—did he ever send any written orders? Bah! Now look at the mass of paper they send me, and most of it is about militia—not even real troops."

While he nodded in commiseration, Johan thought back. Yes, Graf Ernst von Mansfeld had rarely issued written orders but his commands had been basically simple, "Charge" being his favorite, and in the end he had lost.

Johan found it hard to think of Hoffmann as an example of an adequate commander. The man had lacked military knowledge, was lazy, and, more importantly, he was unlucky.

Luck was, in Johan's opinion, more important than skill. Of course, in the end even Graf Mansfeld's remarkable luck hadn't been enough; he had died from a simple cold left untreated.

Johan fingered the lump on his leg, the result of the wound he had received at the "Battle of the Crapper." Even his own luck hadn't saved him. Two inches to the left and it would have missed. Of course, an inch to the right and he would have lost the leg, so maybe his luck was still there. But now he was a city watchman, tax collector and only a part-time soldier. Ah, luck.

"Look at this." The captain was holding a paper out. "You know him better than I do, so I want you to find him. Take young Guenther with you. I want to see him here first thing in the morning. Oh, and do not tell him why I want him. Let him sweat."

Johan quickly read the order. The first thought to go through his mind was: He isn't going to like this.

****

The Waffengasse at midnight wasn't as dark as the inside of a black cat, but in Anse Hatfield's opinion it came close. The style of building with the upper stories larger than the first meant there was only a narrow patch of sky visible between the shops. This late at night most of the lamps and torches in front of the few open taverns had gone out or been snuffed. Besides the Waffengasse—Weapon Alley, Anse translated in his mind—was just a passageway for delivering parts to the three gun shops that bordered it, so no taverns and no lights.

Normally Anse would have avoided the alley and used the inside stairs in the gun shop he managed for Ruben Blumroder, but it was late and he hated to wake Horst Guenther and his family who had taken over Ruben's residence in the back of the shop. So he had to use the alley to get to the outside stairs to his third floor room. Anse's plans were suddenly changed when he saw a suggestion of movement in the mouth of the alley. His instincts and the slight scraping he heard told him that there were men waiting in the alley.

Anse's hand slid under the tail of his jacket to the automatic pistol in the small of his back. Suhl generally had less street crime than most German cities, probably because of the number of gunsmiths who carried their own products, but there were always some fools swimming in the gene pool. Anse was silently cursing Gaylynn Reardon; she had convinced him that his .45 spoiled the hang of his clothing, so he was only carrying that damn toy he had borrowed from Pat.

A familiar voice from the alley caused him to relax. "Herr Hatfield, your neighbors are going to be upset if you wake them with gunfire."

"I'll just tell them I shot at a tax collector. Hello, Johan."

"Oh a hit, a solid hit, Make a light, Guenther. Let the man see who he is jesting with."

As soon as the lamp was un-hooded, Anse saw that Johan Frey had another watchman with him. Both were wearing the yellow and red armbands that were the only uniform of the watch when on duty.

Johan walked over and peered at Anse. "You did have your hand on a pistol, didn't you? I had a bet with young Guenther that you were not unarmed."

With some reluctance Anse displayed the Walther PPK that was his only firearm. "It's only a .32. Frau Reardon thought a larger gun spoiled my clothing. And since I was having dinner with them tonight, well . . ."

"Just so, one must keep the hostess happy, especially if you want to be invited back," Johan said with a smile, then turned to his companion. "And, Guenther, you will note it is an up-time pistol, more than one shot. You owe me a beer."

"Herr Frey, it is only a toy," Guenther muttered.

Privately Anse agreed, but it was his toy. "Eight shots, Guenther. I'd like to see a wheel-lock match that."

"A beer, Guenther," Frey insisted. "But since it is just a small pistol, I'll buy the sausages." Guenther looked far from satisfied, but knew better than to argue with his superior.

In the flickering light Anse recognized him as Andreas Guenther, a journeyman gunsmith who worked for Pat Johnson when he wasn't a watchman or serving in the militia. He was a busy young man, and he was the son of Oswald Guenther, another gun maker. Besides he was a cousin of Horst, who was hopefully sleeping peacefully inside the gun shop.

"Come by when we're testing barrels tomorrow and I'll let you try out this toy, Andreas." It would be worth a few cartridges to impress the boy's father.

"Stand there, Guenther. I want a word with Herr Hatfield in private," Johan said as he put his hand on Anse's shoulder to lead him away from the alley.

When the two were out of earshot, Johan asked, "Anse, do you know a man named Anton Cronenburger?"

Anse's response was quick. "Yes, I know him; I doubt there are two men with that name. He is the chief hunter for Arnstadt."

"Actually there are three Anton Cronenburgers. The chief hunter, his father who was chief hunter before him and his son. But the man I am talking about is the current chief hunter. He presented an interesting idea to the city council. And your name was mentioned."

"Positively I hope? I am petitioning for Suhl citizenship."

"Very positive. The council wants you to manage a project for the city. And citizenship should come with it, but you have to join the militia."

Anse didn't have a happy look on his face, "I really don't want to go back into the army, not that I could with the wounds I took at Ahrensbök, but the militia might be all right, depending on exactly how the town council defines 'able-bodied.' Just what is the project?"

"Captain Nestmann has given me a direct order not to tell you. He wants to be mysterious."

Anse smiled. Nestmann was an overly officious clown and Anse knew Johan agreed with him. But he had to admit that Nestmann was a brave clown. He had been one of the few officers in Hoffman's mercenary company at the Battle of the Crapper who hadn't panicked.

"Well, I won't ask you to disobey a direct order, Johan. So when does he want to see me?"

"First thing in the morning and I can tell you it is a mechanical project involving trucks." Then he raised his voice and called to Guenther, "Andreas, use your light and escort Herr Hatfield to his quarters. It is dark in that alley."

****

When Anse arrived at the watch headquarters the next morning, it looked like a miniature truck parade had just arrived. There were five old Chevy S-10s or their GMC equivalent, three Blazers, and a lone Chevy Monza sedan. It was a little hard to tell the make and model of the trucks since all had been stripped of chrome trim and painted primer gray. All but two of the trucks had trailers hitched behind and one of those was towing the Monza. The sedan was the only vehicle still sporting its original paint, but it was spotted with primer and one front fender was clearly a replacement.

Anse watched as the drivers of the trucks gathered near the front of the Monza. Then he recognized the driver of the first truck. Anse thought of ducking into a nearby shop and being late for his appointment, but the familiar and unwanted figure of G.C. Cooper turned and saw him. "Hi, Hatfield," Cooper called. "I made it earlier than planned. Here's your trucks."

What the hell? was the first thing that went through Anse's mind? His trucks?

Cooper continued. "I got your mail in my truck. Let me get the guys organized and I'll get it."

Anse decided to wait for answers.

"Yes, Hatfield, they are your trucks." Anse turned and found Rolf Nestmann standing beside him. "And you are late."

"The parade got in the way. And what do you mean, 'my trucks'?"

Nestmann had a smile on his face as he answered. "Ach, the city council has decided, after a suggestion by a number of the villages' and towns' heads, to provide a better transportation service for the foodstuff and raw materials purchased from the villages and the materials Suhl ships out."

He waved at the trucks. "Only the most modern means will be good enough. So the council purchased these trucks in Grantville. Since you are an experienced transportation officer, they also asked for you."

"But . . ."

"You are going to say that you are too busy," Nestmann interrupted. "But we both know that is not true. Your work for Blumroder is just to let you get citizenship in Suhl. Oh, and to let you play at finding gunrunners. I do read my mail."

Anse was amazed. If Nestmann was onto his plans, who else knew? Who had told Nestmann?

Nestmann turned toward the headquarters. "Come inside. It is noisy out here; and there are too many ears." Anse followed the captain to his office. Only then did Nestmann continue. "How much easier would your job of hunting spys be if you had the official backing of the Suhl city watch commander?" The captain pointed to himself.

Anse could only nod in agreement.

"So this is a godsend to both of us. You get to do your hunting, and I get an experienced man to run the new trucking company for the city. Why they want the trucks to be under the watch, I don't understand. But it is official. As you up-timers would say a 'done deal.'"

"But . . ."

"Official I said and official I meant. Here are your orders, signed by General Jackson no less. And General Jackson included a personal letter."

Nestmann handed over the orders and a sealed envelope. Not a twice folded sealed with wax sheet as was usual but a real up-time envelope. The return address of the mining company had been marked out, but it was still noticeable. Anse tore open the letter first. Inside was a note scrawled in Jackson's handwriting.

Hatfield, your request for disability retirement just crossed my desk. In a one word answer: Denied. But you're out of TacRail.

I could throw out a bunch of words about you being too valuable to lose, but you and I would both know it's bullshit. The fact is, we need you. So, like a willing horse you get to run another mile. Besides they like you in Suhl; I don't like you. You cut too many corners and you run your mouth too much, but I can trust you to get a job done. And this job is important.

The government, read Ed and Becky, want to spread Grantville's technology around to all of Thuringia-Franconia, so Suhl is getting a fleet of trucks to ship their products.

We both know that trucks, even little trucks like these, could be used as a weapon and a force multiplier, so watch those trucks. I don't want some idiot putting armor on them. Don't let Nestmann get any ideas. They are for transport only.

I am sending you G.C. Cooper as a mechanic. Keep him sober. He has some good men with him to help you train drivers and set up a repair garage. They should be there in a couple of days with the trucks.

I threw you a bone to keep you happy; you are now a lieutenant, in mechanical support.

The repair garage is the key to this project, so do a good job on it. I might want a way to send the APCs down into Franconia in an emergency and they need some support in place.

Have fun in Suhl, and watch those trucks. I don't want them used to do any empire building.

Frank Jackson

Putting the letter aside, Anse quickly read the orders; it looked like Jackson had covered all the bases. He was denied disability retirement, removed from TacRail, commissioned a second lieutenant, transferred to Suhl, promoted to first lieutenant and loaned to the Suhl city council as a technical expert. All in one set of confusing orders, signed by Frank Jackson personally. He had even been denied travel expenses. The asshole.

Nestmann had been waiting impatiently while Anse read, "So, Lieutenant Hatfield, you are now under my command and my orders are to build a transport company."

Anse could almost see the wheels in Nestmann's head turning. He was planning something.

What could Anse do? He responded, "Yes, sir." All the while thinking, What an asshole. He makes a pair with Jackson.

****

Johan Frey was enjoying himself. This was the most satisfying thing he had seen since he came back to Suhl. G.C. Cooper, who appeared to be in charge of the up-time trucks, was trying to direct their drivers to park the trucks closer to the headquarters and relieve the blockage in the street. But his German was so poor that they could pretend to misunderstand him. Cooper was yelling and clearly getting more frustrated by the minute. The many Suhl merchants in the crowd were helping the situation by loud comments about the blocked street that Cooper, from the look on his face, had to understand. Frey knew he should step in, but no, not to help Cooper.

Just then his dilemma was solved by the arrival of a squad of watchmen reporting for the day duty. With a smile Frey ordered, "Wachtmeister Meusser, clear this mess." Frey walked into the headquarters with an even broader smile; Hans Meusser spoke no English, was dumb as a rock and had a rather short temper. That should make Cooper's day even worse.

Just as he entered the outer office he saw Captain Nestmann and Anse Hatfield coming out of the captain's office. Nestmann looked happy and Hatfield looked like a man going to his execution.

"Ah, Johan, just in time," Nestmann called. "I want you to take our newest addition, Lieutenant Hatfield here, over to the stable that the city has picked for a garage. And make sure that mess in the street is cleared. I could hear it in my office."

Nestmann turned to Hatfield. "Lieutenant, I will want a copy of your new unit's roster in my office as soon as possible. The city council wants to start transporting materials within the month."

The look Anse gave the captain's back as he walked away was worth the trouble Johan knew he was going to have with this project. Being Nestmann's second-in-command meant he did most of the captain's dirty jobs.

He waved Anse to a stop near the door but out of hearing distance of the watchman at the desk. "Careful, my friend. You are not one of Nestmann's favorite people. Since you were once the garrison commander here, he blames you for the fact that there are no troops other than militia for him to command."

"Old news, Johan. Where is this stable, and what mess in the street?"

Johan just waved through the open door. In the street the trucks were neatly parked, opening up one third of the street to traffic. But in the middle of the street, G.C. Cooper and Hans Meusser were standing nose to nose, and each was yelling in his own language. This was entertaining to the passing merchants and to the truck drivers who were leaning against the trucks. "Your man Cooper and my Wachtmeister seem to be having a difference of opinion."

Johan and Anse yelled almost at the same time.

"Hans, back to work, you're setting a poor example for your men."

"Cooper, step back and apologize to the watchman. He's a local cop."

****

Two hours later Johan was quietly amazed. Anse had been all business and had gotten G.C. Cooper and the seven men with him settled in the sleeping rooms over the stable. The four truck drivers who were going back to Grantville were already on their way home in the little car called a Monza, odd name. The stable itself had been swept and now housed the eight trucks and six trailers. Now they were sitting in Blumroder's gun shop where Hatfield was quietly reading his mail.

When Anse smiled at the letter he was reading, Johan had to ask, "Good news?"

"Yes, it's from Leonore. I told you about her. Her assignment to the school at Magdeburg has been continued, so she's not going to be in a combat posting."

"Just out of curiosity, what was in the long box you got?"

"Ah," Anse's smile got even wider, "it's a replacement for the rifle I lost at Ahrensbök. Hank worries about me, so he sent me a new toy."

Anse suddenly looked serious. "You're full of questions today, Johan. How about answering one of mine. What's the problem between you and G.C. Cooper? I know why I don't like him, but what is it with you?"

Johan was slightly embarrassed; this was too close to getting personal. "You remember where and when we first met?"

"Sure, just after the Battle of the Crapper. I was picking up wounded and loaded you in my truck; took you to the medical center."

"That is correct, and do you remember who was with you?"

Comprehension showed on Anse's face. "I was stuck with G.C. Cooper. But you didn't understand English then."

Johan laughed. "It is not hard to understand when a man sticks a gun in your face. He wanted me to walk to the Medical Center. You ...