1635: The Eastern Front by Eric Flint Page A

the major generals in charge of the army's three divisions was being held in an actual castle.
    Well . . . what the Germans called a "schloss," at any rate. The word was usually translated in up-time dictionaries as "castle," but they didn't resemble the medieval stone fortresses that Americans thought of when they used that term. Most of them, including this one, had been built during or since the Renaissance and they reminded Mike of pocket palaces more than anything else.
    The derisive term "chateau generals" came from World War I, and it really wasn't fair applied to these men. They might be meeting in a castle and enjoying for the moment its little luxuries. The chairs in this particular salon were very nicely upholstered, and the walls seemed to be plastered with portraits. But all of these men would soon enough be on a battlefield and placing themselves in harm's way.
    That included Mike, he reminded himself, lest his amusement get out of hand.
    The four chairs in the room were not positioned evenly. The chair that Torstensson sat in faced the three chairs of his subordinates, which were arranged in a shallow arc. Torstensson's chair seemed slightly more luxurious, too. A large, low table was positioned in the center. Americans would have called it a coffee table.
    After he took his seat, Torstensson was silent for a moment. He was giving Mike a look that he couldn't interpret. Slightly embarrassed, perhaps, although that would be quite out of character for the man.
    Brunswick-Lüneburg smiled again, even more cheerfully than before. "Poor Lennart! A rustic Swede, he does not really have the aptitude for Machiavellian maneuvers."
    The duke transferred the smile onto Mike. "He wants to use you as bait for a trap. I'd urge you to refuse, except it really is quite a delightful scheme."
    Torstensson gave him an exasperated look. "Stop clowning, would you? Michael, if we eliminate the buffoonery, what George says is true enough."
    Mike spread his hands a little, inviting the Swedish general to continue. But before he could say anything, Knyphausen spoke up.
    "The thing is, General Stearns, you are a neophyte and the Saxon commander von Arnim is certainly feeling desperate by now."
    The professional soldier had a lean and very long-nosed face that naturally lent itself to lugubrious expressions. He had such an expression now. "Poor bastard, with John George for an employer."
    He seemed genuinely aggrieved at the plight faced by the Saxon general. Mike had to fight down another grin. Professional soldiers in the Thirty Years' War tended to have a thoroughly guildlike mindset, when it came to their attitudes toward other officers. There were some exceptions like Heinrich Holk, who were generally despised. But for the most part generals on opposite sides of the battlefield were more likely to feel a closer kinship to their opponent than either one of them felt for their employers.
    Knyphausen leaned back, apparently satisfied that his cryptic references to Mike's inexperience and von Arnim's difficulties had made everything clear.
    Mike looked back at Torstensson. "Could you perhaps be a bit more precise?"
    Torstensson now tugged at his ear. "Well . . . The thing is, Michael, I would like you to behave recklessly in the coming battle. Pretend to behave recklessly, rather."
    Brunswick-Lüneburg's smile seemed fixed in place. "What he'd really prefer would be for you to act the poltroon at the coming battle. Flee at the first sign of a Saxon attack."
    "Much as the Saxons did themselves at Breitenfeld," chimed in Knyphausen.
    Torstensson gave them both an exasperated glance. "Actually, no. As a theoretical exercise, that would be indeed ideal. But battlefields don't lend themselves well to abstractions. A rout, once started—whether in fakery or not—is extraordinarily hard to stop. And I don't actually want your division to leave the field."
    Mike settled back in his seat and once again had to suppress an expression. A sigh,