by Todd Shryock
I looked at Kuhlston, making sure he heard the instructions. “We’ll have to fire individually!”
He shook his head. “No, a volley might scare them off if we drop a few from their saddles.”
“We can’t do that. If they keep coming, they’ll get around us and cut the road!”
Kuhlston was torn. A volley was high risk, but it was closer to how we were trained to fight cavalry. But this wasn’t a typical fight – rolling down the road in a heavy wagon while being pursued by Austrian dragoons. The sergeant looked to me and nodded, opting for my plan.
“I’ll point out the targets,” I said. “We’ll try to take out the leaders first.”
He leaned into the ear of one man, repeating the plan, then moved about the wagon filling in the rest.
“We’ll be the reserve,” I told Niklas. “We won’t shoot until someone makes their way toward the front.”
He heard me, but was too focused on keeping the wagon on the road. The lieutenant and the rest of our foraging party were now visible far down the road. I wondered how they had made it so far. Had they run?
By the time I looked back, the dragoons were almost on us. A man in front motioned with his sword and the group of a dozen horses split into two, one on each side of us.
“Kuhlston!” I yelled, but he already knew what I intended. His musket raised up and he fired, but the wagon hit a bump just as his shot went off, throwing off his aim.
Two troopers swerved in close, swords raised, attempting to get at the men in the back of the wagon. Three shots rang out, knocking one man from his horse and the other doubling over with a wound, his horse pulling up as the others continued on.
“Don’t shoot unless I tell you!” I screamed. The men were trying to reload, but the close quarters and the jostling made it difficult to get the powder into the pan of the musket. We might only get one shot each at this rate.
The four remaining men moved forward, their long mustaches giving them a regal look, their black helmets perched atop their heads making them look bigger than they were, the sabers raised menacingly in the air.
Two more shots rang out. Whether they hit anything or not, I didn’t know, but it was enough for the four horsemen on that side to give up the pursuit.
Niklas nudged my arm, drawing my attention to the other side, where all six men were trying to rush past us along the side of the road to get to our front. Two shots rang out, causing a pair of horses to jerk and pull up, nearly throwing their riders as they fought to regain control, but the other four continued on.
“Take the reins!” Niklas yelled over his shoulder to Kuhlston, who climbed forward to reach over the seat to get them. “Tell the men to be ready to reload!”
“What are you going to do?” Kuhlston asked.
Niklas looked at me. “As soon as the wagon stops, jump off and take good aim at one of them. Use the wagon to shield yourself from any attacks. Got it?”
I barely nodded, still trying to understand the plan, when he grabbed the middle of the reins and pulled hard on the horses, grinding the wagon to a stop.
Both of us were out of the seat and on the ground, muskets raised, as the dragoons turned to face us, eyes wide. Niklas shot first, hitting one man in the forehead, killing him instantly. The body tipped over backwards and landed in the dust.
The leader’s face scrunched up in anger, his spurs digging into the flesh of his mount as he tried to will it forward.
I pulled the trigger. The musket bucked hard against my shoulder as the shot rang out. Two horses skittered by, giving us a wide berth into the field as a smattering of shots began to come from the back of the wagon.
I heard the horse before I saw it, the leader thundering through the smoke, saber held high.
I rolled under the wagon as the blade cut through the air. He continued on, the horse throwing up dirt and dust behind it.
A bright red spot appeared on his white coat as the men in the wagon continued to fire.
He leaned forward as his horse continued toward his own lines, but then it slowed and turned. Was he going to come back? I got back to my feet and rapidly reloaded, ready for another attack.
The man slumped and then slid off his horse into the dirt, his horse standing beside him.
“Let’s go,” Niklas said with urgency. “Before the others get organized.”
I took one last look back and pulled myself back up onto the wagon. Before I was in the seat, the horses were moving down the road, the cavalry too discouraged to follow us further.
As we finally caught up to the lieutenant, I saw several men helping their wounded leader onto his horse.
“Everyone off,” Niklas ordered. “The horses are already winded from the extra weight.”
The men piled off to join the others, who were gasping to catch their breath. The lieutenant had been running!
The lieutenant looked surprised that we had survived.
“Sir, I suggest we put the wagon in the front with the men in a close column behind in case the cavalry decide to have another go at us,” Niklas said.
The officer, his mouth hanging open as he gasped for air, nodded. “Yes, that sounds right.”
Kuhlston and Niklas got the men organized and soon we were trundling down the road. My eyes studied every dip in the land and every place cavalry might hide, but we saw no more dragoons and were soon back in the safety of our camp.
Niklas left the lieutenant behind as he turned for headquarters, driving the wagon all the way back to our men, whistling them in as we approached. Soon, the men had gathered round, each probably hoping for some wine or food. “Who needs a new coat?” he yelled.
Smiles broke out all around, the men shouting and jostling to get to the front as we began smashing open crates and tossing white Austrian coats to all who wanted one. At first, some confused looks greeted us, but the early beneficiaries shrugged and moved on to make room for the others.
By early evening, our unit sported every combination of green and white possible. Some uniforms were so far gone, the men were wearing the whitecoats as if they joined the Austrian army. Others used them as a source of cloth to patch holes in their original green jacket, which now had several white squares on it. A few men replaced entire sleeves from the captured coats.
I sewed a white patch on both elbows and two more on the knees of my breeches, which were wearing thin.
The second battalion certainly wasn’t going to impress anyone on parade, but at least we had decent clothes.
When everyone was done, Niklas distributed the dozen or so untouched coats that were left throughout the battalion, telling the men to hang onto them for later use, and then sent one of the younger recruits off with the wagon and horses to the regimental commander.
“You did well today,” Niklas said after everyone dispersed to their fires. He extended his hand.
I shook it. “As did you, sergeant.”
He sighed and looked across the smattering of orange flames scattered across the fields. “Someone has to look after the children, I guess.” The light that was in his eyes during the action was gone, replaced by a distant stare full of fatigue.
“Yes,” I said, dropping my equipment to the ground. “Otherwise, the officers would get us all killed.”
Chapter 13
Two days after our return from the Austrian raid, the battalion was on the march as part of a show of force against a local town that was thought to be supporting a growing number of partisan raids in the area. We were to force any regular Austrian army units out of the area to show the local populace that we were in charge and could move wherever we wanted.
I severely doubted the locals would be impressed with our battalion, whose veteran members resembled marching green-and-white checkerboards. Somewhere behind us was a French demi-brigade full of raw troops that had been sent to our part of the war to toughen up before being sent to their beloved emperor to continue his conquests elsewhere. We had no idea if there really were any Austrians in
the town, and if there were, how many. We knew there were some small forces in the vicinity, but nothing beyond that.
Lieutenant Idiot, having impressed headquarters with his capture of the enemy wagon train — that’s what the officers were calling our one wagon — was assigned to lead us once more, but at least with the full battalion here, his chances to really get us killed would hopefully be pre-empted by either the captain or someone further up the chain of command.
The approach to the village was a narrow, dusty road. A squadron of some horsemen wearing uniforms I did not recognize — some said they were Poles, others said Westphalians, but I’m not sure they were either — led our column. Their horses were scrawny and looked used up, their heads down as they lumbered down the road. When they were within two hundred yards of the town, they stopped, waiting for the column.
For once, we were not in the lead, so when the order rang out for skirmishers, we became the reserve.
“Aren’t the horses supposed to go see if there are any enemy soldiers in the town?” one of the newer recruits asked me. I could not remember his name, then wondered if I had ever known it.
“I’m sure one of them spotted Austrians in the town, so that’s why we are deploying,” I lied. More than likely, the horsemen were veterans and simply claimed to have seen someone. Let the infantry deploy and sweep through the village rather than getting shot from the saddle by a sniper.
We turned left and moved off the road, forming a battle line across from the little town whose significance was probably measured in the volume of wine that could be liberated from its cellars. To our front, the skirmishers were in a thin line across both sides of the road, and to our right, the French formed a line somewhat even with ours, but with great difficulty. Officers and NCOs alike pushed and berated the boys as they looked bewildered as to what they were supposed to do. Perhaps our training wasn’t the only thing lacking.
The order to load was given and we fixed bayonets. The skirmishers slowed as we watched, fearful of what might suddenly pop up from the windows and doors along the edge of town. Soon, they began to disappear between the buildings.
“We should be moving up,” Niklas said absently as we watched.
He was right, of course, for if the skirmishers got in trouble, we were too far away to be much help.
“Line forward!” some officer shouted. Whether it was Lieutenant Idiot or the captain, I didn’t know nor care.
The drums began a steady thumping to set our pace and we lurched forward, muskets shouldered.
As we closed on the village, I glanced to the right once, but saw no sign of the French. However, I was on the far left and the length of our line made it hard to see in that direction, for even if they were only a pace or two behind, they would be obscured by the rest of our battalion. I didn’t really care whether the French were coming or not. If they couldn’t form a basic line, when the lead started flying, they were more likely to run away than be of any help during the battle.
Scattered shots rang out in the distance, drawing my attention back toward the town. Our men were too far into the town to see, so it was impossible to know who was shooting at who.
Several more shots rang out, answered by a smattering in return.
A mounted officer from somewhere near the road galloped forward to find out what was happening, and the line was ordered to halt. If there was a strong force in the town, we would not want to march right into it, so by stopping, our skirmishers could rally to us and deal with whatever emerged.
The officer moved past the small line of men held in reserve from the skirmish line, then disappeared into the town.
Shots still cracked the air, but with less frequency than before.
We waited.
I sighed. I stared at the green and yellow blades of grass and the random weeds that filled the field under our feet. A light breeze cooled the sweat beading on my forehead, and the smell of horse manure hung on the air.
The mounted officer returned to view, motioning for us to follow.
The order to advance was given and the steady drumbeat returned.
We absorbed the small skirmisher reserve as we passed, the town’s buildings looming larger before us. Small gardens and walls divided up the edge of town, with fruit and nut trees lining the borders of each plot, wisteria vines climbing the walls of the stone houses.
The captain rode down the line behind us. “Sergeant, take us in, in echelon, toward those flowering trees on the left.”
Before Niklas could acknowledge the order, the captain was gone.
We kept moving while the other companies drifted slightly behind us in stages. If any sizable force emerged from the town, we could quickly reform the line with a slight turn and focus all our firepower on the road. The squadron of horsemen trotted across our front toward the left to secure our flank and prevent any surprises.
Our company reached the first low wall and swung across it, continuing forward until we had cover. “Halt!” Niklas shouted as the rest of the battalion came up to our position.
Lieutenant Idiot emerged from someplace, waving his sword. “Sweep the village! Sweep the village! Forward!”
Niklas looked at me and frowned, doubting those were the official orders, but the captain was nowhere to be seen.
“Battalion forward! Skirmish order!”
We broke into pairs and small groups as we made our way through town to the left of the main road. Crossing a series of walls and small side streets, we progressed in fits and starts across the town until we caught up with our original skirmish line, which was hunkered down behind a thick stone wall near an apple orchard and large stone house.
“What’s the holdup?” Niklas asked, staying low as we approached.
The soldiers, two youths and a man wearing corporal stripes, shrugged. “Ran into some stray Austrians and fired at them,” the corporal said. “I think they ran away.”
“You think?” I asked.
The corporal shrugged. “We shot at them and waited here until help could arrive.”
“Well, help has arrived,” Niklas said, motioning for the men to advance. “Let’s move.”
Swinging over the wall, we continued on until we saw the shallow river that formed the far border of the town. A few confused townspeople watched us run through their yards as a pair of dogs barked in the distance.
“Sergeant!” said the lieutenant as he approached.
“Sir?”
“I’ll anchor the men here. Take your company and pivot on this position to the road to finish securing this side of town,” he said.
“What about the other side?”
“Let the French deal with it — that’s their side.”
“But sir, the … ”
“Now!”
“Yes sir.”
Our advance and conquering of small houses, gardens and flower beds continued unabated. When we were near the river, we pushed hard to the right until we were next to the road, where we stayed behind walls and in buildings until we were sure there was no one in the other side of the town.
“I think I see the French,” one of our men said, a newer recruit based on the fact that his uniform had no white patches on it.
I peeked above the wall I was hiding behind to look down the road. I saw blue-coated figures ambling down the middle of the road while others made their way through the gardens like school boys looking for a short cut. “Their muskets are shouldered,” I reported to Niklas. “If there are Austrians on that side, they’ll all be killed before they can get off a shot.”
He frowned but said nothing about their conduct. “I want everyone aiming at a window or door across the street,” he yelled as muskets were brought to the ready and aimed. “If the whitecoats are there, we need to cover the French.”
I used the wall to steady my aim and chose a doorway almost directly across from me.
We waited as the French continued through town. As they got closer, it became apparent that no Austrians were in to
wn.
“Okay, relax,” Niklas said, standing up and waving to the French officer leading his men down the street.
I had just lowered my weapon when shouting and firing broke out, stone splinters cutting my face.
I crouched behind the wall, trying to assess where the attack had come from.
“Where?” I shouted as the men tried to get their bearings as musket balls whizzed overhead and smacked into houses.
“Idiots!” Niklas yelled in frustration. “The French are shooting at us!”
The realization sunk in. I, and several others, began yelling in French for them to stop firing while we tried to wave our hats over the wall, but the hail of bullets continued.
Finally, someone took a piece of white cloth and put it on the end of their bayonet, waving it above the wall. Only then did the firing stop.
“Who’s hurt?” Niklas yelled, still unwilling to stand up.
Someone shouted a name. I moved along the wall as several men tested the cease-fire by carefully raising their heads above the wall. A man lay near the corner of the wall where it butted up against the building. He gasped as he tried to breathe, the wound just below his neck bubbling blood, his head cradled in the lap of his comrade. I knelt down, the youth holding him pleading with his eyes for me to do something, but there was nothing I could do. I was not a surgeon and I knew that a wound of this type was fatal.
A few seconds later, the gasping stopped and the light faded from the man’s eyes. Tears ran down the face of his comrade.
“Idiots,” Niklas whispered from where he had come up behind me. A quiet rage burned in his voice.
We were all standing now, the wide-eyed Frenchmen on the other side of the waist-high wall, realizing their error.
The sergeant swung over the wall, the rest of us right behind him, fists clenched.
The French lieutenant nervously laughed. “Thought you were Austrians,” he said in broken German.
Niklas launched himself at the lieutenant, dropping his musket, as we rushed in behind him. At first, the French were stunned, but as Niklas started punching the lieutenant, they angrily crowded around, trying to pull them apart, but we intervened. Soon, the street turned into a brawl, with flailing fists, angry shoves and wrestling matches as more men joined the fracas. Those late to the fight didn’t know what was happening but could see our battalion was brawling with the French, or for many that were fed up with months of second-class treatment, that was the only excuse they needed to wade in, fists flying.