by Todd Shryock
Step, step, step.
The row of bayonets leveled, belching smoke and fire, filling the air around me with angry lead bees. A few men fell along our line, replaced by those behind them.
Step, step, step.
The browncoats were furiously working to reload.
“Halt!” came the order and we all stopped.
“Level!”
I pointed my musket at the brown mass to my front, careful to keep it away from the man in front of me.
I never heard the order to fire, but pulled the trigger when the deafening roar of my comrades’ guns filled my ears, shooting a cloud of choking smoke in front of us. I instinctively began to reload, hesitating when I realized I had never heard the order, but continued after I assured myself everyone else was doing the same. My ears were ringing and I wondered if I would ever hear again.
We started forward -- I didn’t hear the command, but felt the drums vibrating in my chest -- the browncoats leveling their muskets once more. The bees buzzed, stinging more men.
Someone to my right went down, two men stopping to assist him. Zorn was soon shoving men into the gap, yelling something that I could not hear.
The drums sounded a rapid beat and we broke into a run, screaming as we went.
The line of browncoats wavered and then dissolved into a headlong flight, scattering into the woods. We stopped at the edge of the trees, watching them run.
I saw a man bolt from behind a tree, his back to me. I leveled my musket and fired, cursing myself for not taking better aim, but the smoke obscured whether my endeavor had been successful or not.
The drums beat the recall, and Zorn and the other sergeants were grabbing men and shoving them back toward the slowly reforming line.
I looked down, realizing I was almost standing on a wounded browncoat. I pointed my bayonet at him, but the boy -- and that’s all he really was -- looked up at me with dark eyes that pleaded for help. I moved my bayonet away and gave him a better look.
His hand was over a bloody patch on his jacket, his breath raspy, bubbles of blood on his lips. He couldn’t be more than fifteen, and looked as if he left his mother’s lap that morning. I knew the boy would die there, never having shaved or experienced life and I felt sad for him, even though moments before he was trying to kill me.
He mouthed some words, but between my ears ringing and his lack of energy in his voice, I could not hear him.
“Back in line!” Zorn shouted in my ear, pulling me away from the boy and shoving me toward our battalion.
I left the dying soldier where he fell, his hand clawing half-heartedly at the air as I walked away, and I hoped his demise would be quick.
“Who’s your friend?” Simon asked as I fell in beside him.
I followed his gaze to the now motionless body across from us. “Ah, some Austrian lad that’s on his way out.”
Before Simon could say anything else, the drums beat and orders were shouted to wheel left. The entire line slowly swung around with the left flank anchored in place until the right end of the line cleared the woods. I saw the first battalion slightly ahead of us and to our left in the smoke. We started to move forward, closing the distance between our units. A ragged line of Austrians was forming across from us with survivors from the village and other engagements running across the field between us in ones and twos, some clutching wounds or sporting bandages, their muskets tossed aside. Far to our left, musketry rang out in continuous volleys, but I could not tell who was firing, only that white-coated refugees were making their way from us, which I took as a good sign that things were going well elsewhere.
“Load!” someone shouted, as we stopped in line next to the first battalion, the woods anchoring our right. The entire mass of men pulled a cartridge and rammed it home, hundreds of steel rods hissing down the barrels of muskets until we were ready once more.
The whitecoats across from us were a disorganized mob, with clumps of men broken up by gaps in the line. Mounted officers moved about, trying to usher them back into a line, but most of the men had had their fill of fighting and either stayed where they were or ran off as soon as the officer turned his mount away.
“One good volley should finish them,” Simon said, a smile on his face.
My gaze followed the men as they ran up the slight hill behind the line. Horses and men were scurrying about on top of the hill.
“Forward!” the order came, drums beating as we marched in step, our sister battalion following along. The line infantry was behind us, their bayonets glistening in the sun, but that was of little assurance, for they would just replace us once we fell.
We continued our steady march, muskets shouldered, as the Austrians fired a smattering of shots that did nothing to our ranks, at least from what I could see. In the distance, Austrian cavalry retreated across the field toward us, but their ranks were disordered and their focus hell bent on getting up the hill where the road disappeared and they had little interest in us. The flow of refugees from our left continued to increase, as did the constant roar of muskets and guns. Small groups of whitecoats formed into larger groups as they met and merged, and then became larger still as groups joined until they became a stream of white heading up and over the hill.
“What’s going on up the hill?” I asked, the horses moving off as men scurried about, ignoring the retreating masses about them.
Either Simon did not hear or chose not to respond, and before I could ask again, the order was given to level muskets.
We were a hundred paces from what was left of the Austrian line, and just aiming at them caused many more whitecoats to break ranks and run.
“Fire!”
I pulled the trigger, the musket bucking back into my shoulder as plumes of smoke spewed from every barrel, fire and bits of burning paper expelled into the air with the volley.
We reloaded and fired, again and again, until I was an automaton neither thinking nor reacting, just contributing to the buzz of lead we sent toward the enemy. I could not see the Austrians across from us, but when I paused to sip water from my canteen, I caught a glimpse of the men on the hill and the guns they were pushing into position -- guns whose black maws were pointed directly at us.
I quickly swung my canteen out of the way and reloaded as the others around me continued to fire.
“There are guns on the hill aiming at us!” I shouted to Simon, but his eyes were focused on reloading his musket and my voice was lost in the steady roar of war.
I saw the effects of the first cannonade before I heard the dull booms. Men up and down the line were knocked over and knocked to pieces -- arms torn off and legs shredded as hundreds of grape-sized balls ripped through the air, each cannon spewing the same mass of lead as our entire battalion. The impact brought many men from their reverie of loading and firing, wondering what had happened, but only long enough for them to redouble their efforts, thinking the Austrian infantry was hitting our ranks.
Orange flame shots from the cannon and more men died, ripped to bits among screams of agony and spatters of blood and gore.
Men in the back started to waver and edge away from the line as the sergeants and officers pushed them back. “Hold the line! Hold the line!” they shouted as we continued a ragged fire to our front. I fired my musket and reloaded, trying to ignore the carnage that was being rendered around me as the screams started to rise above the roar of battle.
I reloaded and looked to my left and noticed Simon was gone. Had he fled? I looked back, but only the worried faces of men in the third rank greeted my gaze.
Blood ran down my left arm. I was hit!
Frantic, I checked to see that all my limbs were still attached. With my arms and legs secured, I looked down my sleeve, looking for a hole. That’s when I saw Simon lying on the ground beside me.
At first, I wasn’t sure what I was looking at. A crumpled body in a green uniform was there, but where the head should have been was nothing but a jumble of bone and pink flecks, a collarbone sticking
through the top of the coat.
“Simon?” I asked, still in disbelief that the lump beside me was my friend.
Glancing back, the man directly behind him met my gaze, his left arm gone at the elbow, blood pouring out onto the grass, forming a small pool. He stood there, staring at me, unmoving, as if standing at attention on a village green. Without warning, he fell forward atop the remains of Simon and died.
Some of the men around me turned and ran as the balls hissed by, some skipping in the dirt in front of us before bouncing up seeking legs and groins.
“Cavalry! Cavalry! Square! Square!” someone yelled.
I saw nothing and just stood, unsure of what to do or where to go.
“Stand your ground!” a familiar voice yelled. “Stay in line! That’s our cavalry!”
It was Niklas! He would know what to do; he always did.
The hissing stopped as the guns ceased their rain of death upon us for reasons unknown.
“Dress ranks!” Niklas called out. “Dress ranks! Move to the front to fill the gaps!” He made his point by shoving bewildered men forward until they were in the front line.
The man beside me looked at the two dead men on the ground and the gore around them and promptly threw up.
Simon was gone. I stood there, looking at the dead man atop him, expecting him to push him off and for my friend to emerge unscathed.
“Move up!” someone yelled. Was that Niklas? Men moved up several steps to clear the dead so we could reform our lines. Niklas needed to know that Simon was dead. Maybe he could fix it. Niklas was good at fixing things.
Because I was standing sideways, Niklas saw me as he worked up and down the line, attempting to keep order. He made his way through the ranks and grabbed me by both shoulders.
“Henri!” he yelled as if he couldn’t see me. “Henri!” He shook me.
“Simon,” I muttered, wanting Niklas to do something about it.
Niklas looked down at the bodies and then quickly back to me. “Henri! Simon is dead! I need you to focus, or you’ll be dead, too.” He spun me around to face front -- to face the enemy and their deadly guns. “Can you do that? Can you follow commands and show the others what to do?”
I nodded. Of course I could do that. But what about Simon? “Simon … ”
“Dead,” Niklas said, this time a little softer. “Follow the orders. Stay alive. We will mourn Simon later.” He moved away, shouting, pushing, consoling as necessary to get the battalion back in order.
I looked to the front, not wanting to glimpse the remains behind me. The smoke was starting to clear as the firing slackened. Austrians continued to stream up the hill, and as far as I could see across the open fields to my left, whitecoats were running away. Wagons and caissons bounced wildly across the ground as their panicked drivers whipped the horses to get away from the advancing French sweeping in from our left, pushing the remnants of the Austrian army down the road and over the hill or into the wooded ridge near the center of the battlefield.
Our ranks had suffered horribly. Bodies and pieces of bodies were strewn across the ground behind us; those of us still alive looked blankly at each other, wondering how so many had been lost in such a short time. It was good the battle was over, for none of us still had the will to fight.
A hollow drum beat, and the order was given to form column and move to one side to allow the line infantry to advance toward the hill.
The blue-coated battalion marched by, giving us sympathetic glances, but worry filled their eyes as they moved forward.
“Don’t worry,” I said to one young lad in the ranks, “we did all the work today. The butcher’s bill has been paid.”
The lad quickly looked away as the battalion tromped on.
Chapter 11
We stood in our column, the roar of distant guns slowly dying away as more troops marched past us: infantry, cavalry and our artillery, the latter marching with long faces and many bandages earned in the morning’s opening exchange.
A few men from the first battalion drifted over, talking to some of our men they knew, swapping tales. The last thing I wanted to do was talk to anybody. I couldn’t get the picture of Simon’s mutilated body out of my head. The officers from both battalions gathered near the head of the columns, the surviving sergeants and corporals around them, discussing some important military stratagem, no doubt, such as which battalion would get the most credit for today’s victory.
Fools. We would be lucky to garner a mention in the emperor’s report, for the French would be given credit for routing the whitecoats, not his German allies.
The talk around me turned to how many men we had lost and who was unaccounted for. I tried to tune it all out, but heard a man say, “It figures that those two lived.”
I followed his gaze to see two men searching the line of dead along our previous position. “The Kuhn brothers,” I said, disgusted. They were running their hands along coat seams, fishing into pockets and checking boot sizes against their own to see if they could find a better fit.
“Where are you going?” the man asked me as I walked past, checking the powder in my pan -- there was some in there, so my musket was loaded.
I didn’t answer, my focus solely on the two brothers who continued to loot our dead. The eyes of the battalion followed me as I marched purposely toward the two men, who were oblivious to my approach.
Jonas moved toward Simon’s remains, reaching for the body lying atop him.
“Enough,” I said, quickening my pace.
Jonas looked at me, stood back up, looking puzzled. Leon, off to one side, glanced up, but kept searching another body.
I lowered my musket, the bayonet point aimed directly at Jonas’ heart.
“You better put that down before you get hurt,” he threatened, his own gun still slung across his shoulder.
I kept walking.
The look on my face must have alarmed him, for he suddenly slipped the gun off his shoulder and attempted to bring it to bear, but I was too quick, swinging the butt of my musket around, striking him across the head, sending him sprawling.
“What the?” Leon exclaimed as he saw his brother fall, blood rushing from a gash on his forehead. A knife appeared in his hand. Baring his teeth, he growled something and rushed toward me.
I pointed the barrel of my gun at him and pulled the trigger. The flint snapped down, but the powder just hissed and nothing happened. Misfire.
Leon lunged with the knife.
I stepped to the side, driving the bayonet into his shoulder.
He screamed, pulling himself free by rolling to one side. “I’m going to kill you! I’m going to kill you! I’m going to kill you!” he raved as he grasped his shoulder, peering down at the triangular hole that leaked blood.
Jonas stumbled to his feet and roared in anger. “Bastard! Who do you think you are?”
He rushed forward, mouth open, his gun forgotten on the ground, fists in balls waving wildly before him.
I hit him with the butt again, dropping him with a sickening crack.
Flipping my musket around, I aimed the bayonet at his heart and coiled for the strike.
“Don’t!” came a stern command.
Niklas was standing a few feet away, dozens of men from the battalion behind him, mounted officers trying to push their way forward through the crowd.
I looked at Jonas, his eyes glassy and unfocused. I wanted more than anything to ram the bayonet into the scoundrel, to drive his pathetic existence away from this place, to make him pay for the uncountable crimes he had committed.
“Henri,” Niklas said, consoling me. “Put the gun down.”
I looked at the man beneath me, lamented the fact that my gun didn’t fire to kill his brother and now I was being stopped from killing Jonas. I was standing in a field filled with dead bodies, most of them of men far better than the man before me, yet I was supposed to show mercy.
“Henri, please,” Niklas pleaded.
I relented, dropping the
gun.
The anger drained from my body like water leaking out of a broken pot. I began to sob.
Niklas embraced me.
“Corporal, what’s going on here?” the captain demanded from atop his horse.
Niklas patted me on the back, then turned to the captain. “These two men were robbing our dead. Private Muller tried to stop them and they attacked him, so he defended himself.”
It wasn’t exactly the truth, but men like the Kuhn brothers didn’t deserve the truth.
“Arrest those two,” he said to no one in particular among the men gathered around us. The Kuhn brothers were not well liked, and several volunteers immediately moved forward to drag the two men away.
“The rest of you, get back to the ranks and form up.” He spun his horse around and moved off, the group of men breaking up around us.
“Get your musket,” Niklas said. “Those two will get what they deserve.”
I gathered up my gun, removed the bayonet from the end, wiped it on the grass and trudged back to the reforming battalion.
Men and horses continued to move past us as the tide of death slowly receded from our position, leaving us in possession of the dead and destruction. Guns boomed in the distance, but it was now like the rumble of a fading storm, leaving us to pick up the pieces of its devastation. The order came to move back to the village, so we filed off in silence back to the partially destroyed hamlet, passing supply and ammunition wagons headed in the opposite direction.
Normally, we would have been happy to be sent to a village, but this one was filled with the ghosts of Austrians, their shattered bodies lying all about as reminders of the frailty of human life. There was no avoiding it – the morning’s fighting deposited the dead in every direction, so no matter which way you looked, a macabre scene greeted you; two men with holes in their back lying on the street one way, a dismembered corpse another way and a body with its guts lying half out in yet another direction.
The officers gave us permission to fall out, happy to talk among themselves regarding the battle. Someone threw a ratty blanket over the man missing most of his guts so that some of the battalion’s men could lean against a long building without having to look at him.