Catching the Current

by Jenny Pattrick

  Conrad laughs. ‘We got all those speeches too. Along with a measure of rum!’

  ‘And then,’ says Napoleon, still bitter at the memory, ‘this order comes to retreat. Not a shot fired! I was ready enough to get out, I suppose — not my war — but some of the Danish soldiers were furious. They wanted to stay anyway and questioned the order. Later, an officer told me that General de Meza had two sets of orders — one to hold the Dannevirke line but another to keep his army whole, to be ready to fight in the spring. The story was that the crumbling old Dannevirke fortifications were impossible to hold, so de Meza chose to save his army. Well, no one explained all that to us.’

  ‘Was he a good general to you?’

  Napoleon laughs. ‘Good enough, I suppose. The older soldiers liked him, thought it a shame he was removed. But a dandy! Fuss fuss about his uniform. I saw him once tear strips off a man who splashed mud on his white gloves. But for all that, a brave man. Every morning without fail he’d ride out to inspect the lines. Right in front of the enemy sometimes. You’d think he was daring them to shoot. But after the retreat they recalled him. Had to have a scapegoat, I suppose.’

  Conrad growls. ‘Isn’t it the same always? Who would want to be an officer?’

  ‘Surely,’ says Napoleon stoutly, ‘you would be officer material? You are born to lead people, Enok.’

  ‘I am not born for anything but to blunder around like a bat in the daylight. Knocking all hell out of my friends. Look at tonight! But the story, Nap, the retreat.’

  ‘God in heaven, that terrible retreat. You can’t imagine the blizzard. We never had anything like it in the Faroes, Enok. The ground hard as iron, no purchase for your boots. We had to drag the great field-guns uphill and down again in the dark, wind and hail cutting into our faces. Once I tore the skin off the palm of my hand when it froze onto some metal part I was pushing.

  ‘Two days and two nights we marched. I saw grown men just lie down and die, Enok. That’s how Müller went, they say. Never had a chance to fight for his beloved land. Just too cold to go on. But you couldn’t stop to help or you’d be the same. That was the worst time. Dybbøl and Als were awful too, but that retreat … no one understood. That broke our spirit, I reckon — not understanding. Feeling that our officers didn’t understand either. I still don’t really know why we were fighting at all.’

  ‘Ask the bishop. He’ll have his reasons.’

  ‘That’s what father says. There were important reasons, he says, and not to blame the bishop. He says Monrad believed it was the only way. That the ancient fortifications at Dannevirke were broken down, not able to be held. Father says the English are to blame — that those traitors let the Danes down, promising an alliance and then going back on it.’

  ‘Don’t talk to me about the English,’ says Conrad.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘That’s another story, friend, and a good one — happier than yours, at any rate. Let’s hear about Dybbøl, then. We heard you fought well but it was hopeless.’

  Napoleon is silent for a moment. ‘Hope? I suppose you had to feel hope of some sort — that help would come, or that the enemy might be called off, or at worst you yourself might survive while others died. Mostly we didn’t think about hope. Just kept going day after day, doing what we were told, going where the officers said, eating when we could, loading and firing our rifles. It’s only looking back you can see it was hopeless.’

  2.

  Napoleon Haraldsen’s story of the Battle at Dybbøl

  NAPOLEON HARALDSEN, FAROEMAN, lying next to his friend in a hut on the bank of the Manawatu River in New Zealand, tells of his part in the battle of Dybbøl. Not far away, Bishop Monrad, once prime minister of Denmark, the man who could not agree to a compromise position and who, with King Christian IX, gave the orders and made the decisions during that terrible time, only four years ago, writes in his study while his daughter plays the piano in the quiet house.

  STRUGGLING back through snow and icy mud, Napoleon had never felt so miserably alone. Men tramped next to him but the easy talk and banter of the training days had been eclipsed by the bitter taste of defeat. Older soldiers were resentful, the young recruits frightened and discouraged. No one felt like sharing a joke or even smiling a greeting. Every man retreated into a silent monotony of hauling, slogging, snatching odd moments of sleep, and always, always giving ground — the sacred Danish territory of Slesvig — to the enemy.

  At Sankelmark the Austrian cavalry caught up with them and the Danish rearguard turned to engage with them. Napoleon, near the tail of the long, straggling line of the retreating army, heard the sounds of the guns. For an hour they were cheered at the news that their soldiers had turned the Austrians back, but the order was still to retreat, endlessly, through that bleak winter landscape. The Prussians and Austrians followed them at a distance, occupying Slesvig as they came, mile after precious mile.

  Once, when the blizzard cleared enough to see a few yards on either side, Napoleon realised they were walking close to a newly laid railroad. The lines ran in the direction they were tramping. But where was a train to carry them and these damned field-guns to safety? The boy cursed all stupid officers and politicians and vowed at that moment that if he survived he would never again volunteer to serve in any war.

  Finally at Dybbøl they halted, their backs to the sea, the strategic island of Als behind them across a narrow neck of water. Here was the only high land for miles, overlooking the flat fields to west and north. Here were fortifications. To the south, the wide bay of Vemmingbund gave them some protection. A fitting place, the leaders decided, to make a stand against the superior force of the advancing Prussians. There they waited, behind the fortifications at Dybbøl, all of Holsten, much of Slesvig gone, the Prussians now free to move into Jutland.

  The order came to cease fire: a conference was to be held in London. Surely now the big powers would see sense. That wily Prussian Bismark with his massive army should not be allowed to run loose on sovereign Danish land. That’s what the officers said, and it brought a little hope, but the sickening shame of retreat — the proud Danish army! — cast a pall over the following weeks.

  The weather warmed. Napoleon’s heavy greatcoat, saturated most of the time, began to smell; everything about him smelled. They all had fleas. Everyone was sick of it. Some soldiers slipped away, crossing the bridge to Sønderborg, ostensibly to attend church, and then made their way through the trees to find a boat or a friend — some way back to normal life again. A few took the risky route overland to farms and families in Jutland. The cavalry were sent deep into the swamps and wilds of Jutland and told to keep out of the way of Prussian soldiers. Most of the soldiers stayed, though. Prime Minister Monrad sent stirring messages to the troops about fighting to the last drop of Danish blood. But Napoleon, who felt his blood to be Faroese, longed desperately to go home. He dreamed of rocking gently in a fishing boat on a clear, windswept morning, and woke to an officer’s boot kicking him awake where he lay on the hard earth of their entrenchment.

  At Dybbøl, Napoleon became friendly with Nils Amundsen, a Norwegian volunteer. Nils had been a fervent advocate of the Scandinavian Movement in his own country — had published a student broadsheet arguing the advantages of a strong union of Scandinavian countries. When Norwegian politicians refused to join Denmark in the battle for Slesvig, Nils had been outraged. He and a group of young friends came south to join the battle. Nils was a fiery young man, red-headed and freckled, and given to argument, a habit that earned him disfavour with some of the more stolid soldiers. But Napoleon liked him; their mutual foreignness was a bond, perhaps. Napoleon found himself digging trenches and adding to the meagre fortifications alongside the talkative Norwegian. Nils was interested in the Faroes, its government and its affiliation with Denmark. He was interested in everything, in fact. How better to keep their gunpowder dry, the best height for the new fortifications, what Napoleon’s sister looked like (and did she have a sweetheart?). Nothing seemed to
get Nils down. He whistled as he built the walls, and earned a cuff from their officer, who thought the enemy might hear.

  ‘No, but,’ argued Nils, unwisely, ‘the wind is from the south — can’t you see? We may hear them but not the reverse. Besides, a high sound carries less far.’

  Napoleon kept his head down so the officer wouldn’t see his grin.

  ‘Keep your breath for the work, loudmouth!’ shouted the officer, aiming another cuff.

  Nils looked up earnestly. ‘Now, that sound might well carry, Sergeant. The lower register, you see. I would be careful if I were you.’ Then he staggered off with a shovel full of dirt before he attracted worse than blows.

  Napoleon loved to stay near the cheerful fellow (He reminded me a little of you, Enok) and would take care to sit near him when they ate their rations or settled for the night.

  ‘We’ll win out here, young Nap,’ he would say. ‘The man who fights for his own land will always win over the invader, who cannot help but lack passion.’

  ‘But it’s not our land exactly, is it? Not yours and mine?’

  Nils made a pretence of outrage. ‘None of that talk, Faroeman! We are all Scandinavians, are we not? We are all bred of Vikings and Norsemen? This soil,’ and here he would stamp his boots one-two-one in a patriotic dance and give an exaggerated salute, ‘belongs to the north, not to those guttural lowlanders!’

  BUT then the news came that the conference in London had failed; that Prime Minister Monrad had refused to agree to the terms of a treaty. Immediately, as if they had known all along that war was the only answer, the Prussian army attacked.

  When the bombardment began, Nils realised at once the failings of the Danish artillery. His ruddy, freckled face paled. ‘Here’s trouble,’ he muttered. ‘Big trouble. Come over here, Nap, and keep your head down.’

  From across Vemmingbund Bay, from a direction in which the whole Danish army had felt secure, protected by the stretch of water, Prussian guns began to fire on Dybbøl. Incredibly, the cannonballs travelled clear over the water to thud into the fortifications. Round after round smashed at the walls, shattering the army’s newly built protection. Then the heavy shot began to fall behind the entrenchment.

  Even then, Nils was intrigued. ‘That would be half again as far as our guns can reach! How is it possible? I’ve seen their field-guns — no bigger than ours, I’d guess.’

  Napoleon had no such interest — only dread. They were stuck here behind crumbling walls with no ability to retaliate. Surely they would all die.

  And so they did — many of them. After that first appalling bombardment the Prussian soldiers attacked fiercely on foot from their trenches below the hill, and the Danes retaliated. Nils and Napoleon were not in the advance guard; their orders were to hold the redoubts to the north. He and Nils loaded and fired, loaded and fired, ramming powder and shot down the barrel of their field-gun time after time, heads ringing from the percussion, muscles aching with the heavy work. They aimed over the heads of their own men, with no idea whether their shot reached the enemy. Beside them, two young gunners lay moaning, a leg and an arm smashed, bleeding to death and no one to care for them. Napoleon shat himself without even realising it. Afterwards, when the Prussians retreated and they could rest, Nils took him gently down to the sea and washed him off, the air all around ringing with silence. The boy was shaking so hard Nils had to pull up his wet trousers for him.

  ‘I’m not much better myself,’ said Nils ruefully, holding up his own shaking hands. ‘This will not be a pretty time, my friend. They have the better of us. A stronger desire is the only weapon in our favour. We will do what we must, but also try to survive. Agreed?’

  Napoleon tried to smile and nod, but his legs suddenly gave way and he slumped to the ground.

  Nils managed a wavering laugh. ‘Ah, now, soldier, up with you. Surely we have earned a hot meal and a measure of beer! Let us march in search of sustenance.’

  Later that night, Nils came back to the refuge they had found for themselves in a hollow, well behind the fortifications. He had been sent out to bring in Danish wounded, and found as well a Prussian rifle. The two young men examined it. Napoleon was puzzled — couldn’t make head or tail of the bolts and slides — but Nils groaned.

  ‘No wonder. This is how they do it. Look.’ He slid back the bolt, pushed one of his own shot into the open slot, closed the bolt again. ‘You can do it fast as lightning. You and I, Nap, would be still ramming our second shot down the muzzle while these fellows are firing off eight or ten more. Bet you my lucky stone against yours their big guns are loaded the same. God almighty, this is too clever for us.’

  It was the first time either had seen a breech-loader, but not the last. Days turned to weeks and the pounding continued as the Prussian army dug in. In hand-to-hand fighting their superior weapons gave them no advantage, so they concentrated on the barrage, with occasional sorties. Gradually their trenches crept towards the Dybbøl fortifications. Soon almost all the Danish soldiers were doing the same as Nils and Napoleon: at night they sneaked out of the trenches and back down into the fields, out of range of those big guns. There they could hope to sleep in some kind of peace. In the morning the fields were full of the dark coats of Danish soldiers, doubled over, running back to the noisy chaos of their lines.

  That’s how they were caught, the last terrible day. Nils started by laughing at the sight, but soon wore a different expression. He and Nap were woken by the shouts and curses of their officers, more urgent than usual. The Prussians were advancing from their positions very early in the morning. The blue-capped heads of Danish soldiers popped up from hollows and dug-outs, like rabbits scenting danger. Suddenly everyone was running back to the lines, pulling on coats, dragging rifles and powder-horns. The Prussians were running too. It was more a race than a war, those first few minutes. Who would reach the Danish lines first?

  For a while the Danish army held its position. Then it was a rout.

  Napoleon lost Nils. He had no idea where he should be or what he should be doing. He had lost his powder so his rifle was useless. Shot whistled this way and that over his head. In his fear he stood still, screaming for Nils as if for his mother. Suddenly the big Norwegian was beside him, arm around his shoulder, driving him forward.

  ‘We are to retreat! Down you go, Nap, down to the bridge.’ He pointed to the two bridges over Als Sound, connecting the mainland to the town of Sønderborg. Napoleon could see the tide of soldiers pounding down the hill; already the bridges were dark with moving bodies and guns. He started down the hill but then realised Nils was not following and ran back to drag at his friend’s sleeve.

  ‘I’ll follow soon,’ shouted Nils. ‘I am ordered to counter-attack for a short while. Some of our men are cut off and need time.’

  Napoleon cried out at this. ‘You’ll be killed, Nils. What’s the point?’

  But Nils was gone, running back into the fierce fire.

  Slowly Napoleon joined the retreat. He let others pass him, hoping Nils would join the column. Tears ran down his cheeks but he felt no shame: half the soldiers were in the same state. On a rise, General du Plat himself was standing, watching the retreat, taking no cover. Napoleon saw an officer run up to him, clearly urging him to join the column, but the general shook his head. The next time Napoleon looked back the general was on his knees, his tunic gashed, blood staining the fabric.

  Napoleon kept his head down as he staggered across the heaving pontoon bridge and into Sønderborg. On either side of the street townspeople watched in silence. None of the soldiers could meet their gaze. The church doors were open but no bell rang to welcome them. The army had failed to protect this ancient town. Napoleon thought of his teacher, Herr Müller, how he had died on that cold march, the stories he had told of his beloved Sønderborg. And now the proud Danish army — what was left of it — could only delay the inevitable invasion by blowing up the bridges.

  Exhausted and hungry, he wandered among the dispirited soldiers a
sking for news of Nils. Finally he found his friend, laid out with the rows and rows of crying, dying soldiers in the grim Sønderborg castle. They said a king of Denmark had once been imprisoned here and certainly it felt more like a prison than a castle. Its tiny slits of windows looked out across the sound to Dybbøl hill, where the Prussians now camped in triumph. Nils had been carried down with a bullet in his chest, one of the last to cross the bridge. Napoleon sat among the wounded and dead, a cold stone wall at his back. For hours he held Nils’s icy hand, watching his friend’s face turn blue-grey and the freckles stand out almost black as he fought for each breath.

  ‘Take my lucky stone, Nap,’ he wheezed. ‘Then you will have two pieces of free Scandinavia to help you out of this mess.’

  Later he whispered, ‘Damn all politicians.’ And died.

  NAPOLEON couldn’t eat, spoke to no one. He realised now that if Nils had been ordered to counter-attack, then surely the order was for him too. Nils had protected him and probably saved his life. Dazed and exhausted, he lived through the final, mercifully brief defeat and retreat from Als. Monrad was forced to resign, and a new Danish Cabinet was formed which accepted disastrous peace terms, losing all of Slesvig and Holsten to the Germans. Denmark had lost thousands of soldiers and over a third of its kingdom; Napoleon cared about none of it. All he thought of was getting out of the army and home to the Faroes.

  A year later his mother cried out to see the silent scarecrow walk down the fields from Tórshavn, his sister Clara bringing him home to the farm. That night he sat by a peat fire listening to the long drumroll of waves breaking against the stony shore. He ate barley porridge and dried mutton and, in time, began to smile again.