The matter could have been explained away but no-one seemed to be prepared to listen. Sophia’s betrothed, Ludwig Baumann, had challenged von Bomm. The choice was stark. Either resign his commission and accept full responsibility as being the author of the note or face a duel to give Baumann, a seemingly boorish and snide Guards officer, satisfaction. In the matter of the duel Erich von Bomm had not even fired a shot, outwitting his opponent by positioning him into a strong headwind. The glare of reflected morning sunlight and the fierce wind whipping into Baumann’s face had made any attempt at an accurate shot tricky. The rider flinched a little in the saddle with the memory of the shot fizzing past him and slapping into the bark of a nearby tree. Then von Bomm had slowly raised his pistol in an exaggerated action, a cool calculated response; before the shot could be fired, Baumann had dropped his discharged weapon to the floor and pleaded for clemency.
Then there had been the meeting with Colonel Franke, two days after Rumes, when von Bomm had been allowed to return to his duties, such as they were for an officer facing the prospect of a court martial. The 1st Grenadiers colonel had simply asked him two questions, outside of the small talk about his health.
“Did you disobey a direct order from Captain Baumann in the face of the enemy?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Lieutenant, given time to reflect on the matter, as no doubt you have, do you consider the action of disobeying a senior officer was the correct course of action?”
“I have given the matter a great deal of thought, sir. I have questioned my own decisions and my conscience is clear. Had we given up Apple and Broken Tail house and fallen back across the road, two dozen or more wounded men would have died or been captured and the farm house that Captain Baumann was garrisoning, overrun.
Erich von Bomm paused, then his eyes met that of his colonel. “Yes sir, I firmly believe it was the correct course of action.”
Colonel Franke had listened to the words, his face emotionless.
“Thank you, Lieutenant. I will not show favouritism between my officers. You are innocent until proven otherwise. I wish you to act as an aide to the Duke until a date is set for your court martial or the matter can be resolved within the battalion. For myself, I hope it is the latter but…”
Franke had paused, lost in thought, before standing and offering von Bomm his hand. “Thank you, Erich. I have communications to complete, return here in two hours to collect them.”
In the fitful nights of sleep that had followed, von Bomm had revisited the chaos of Rumes, hearing the flames licking at the walls of the building, feeling the inescapable heat and choking smoke that had caused him to push away the heavy blanket he was wrapped in and gasp for air. Then he was stumbling through the garden of Apple house, white blossom drifting around him on towards the church whose cemetery grounds were filled with redcoat bodies, faces and names that he knew. The last, a young grenadier clutching the lifeless body of the puppy the men had christened Broken Tail. The pair looked as if they were enjoying the lazy slumber of an afternoon amongst the ancient headstones, but it was a sleep from which neither would wake and the moment that always shocked von Bomm awake.
Adjusting the wide brim of his light infantry hat to shield against the glare of the evening sun, he nudged his horse into a trot. Four days had passed since the interview with Franke. The summons to camp had arrived mid-afternoon today. Whatever the outcome of the next hour Erich von Bomm was determined not to give in. He loved his life and career in the army. Redcoats had died but that was the lot of the soldier. He had played his part in delivering victory at Rumes and despite the dreams, could find no fault in his own actions. The fate of battle might rob him of everything he held dear in the blink of an eye, but he would be damned if Captain Leopold Baumann was to be given such powers over him.
Jacob Neuberg, Colonel of the 2nd Battalion of the 10th Hanoverian regiment had arrived early for the meeting and been offered the hospitality of the grenadier colonel’s tent. It never ceased to surprise Neuberg how campaign tents, which looked a uniformly grubby off-white from the outside could have such different interiors, many attempting to ease the rigours of campaign with the luxury of home. However, Neuberg found the spartan tastes of Franke to be like his own. A single bed, a simple folding wooden frame design which had become popular of late, and a small travelling case, marked the bulk of Franke’s possessions at the rear of the tent. An orderly drew a cloth screen to mask these from view, leaving a long folding table, around which an assortment of a dozen chairs and stools were set.
“Very humble for a Guardsman!” Neuberg nodded in appreciation.
“Perhaps they are hiding the real wealth from us in the officer’s tent? I’m sure a visit from their poor relatives is a reason to display the family silverware,” Captain Werner Brandt replied once the orderly was out of earshot. The orderly, a guardsman in a crisp white fatigue jacket, soon returned with a silver tray of coffee and several fine porcelain cups.
“Oh ye of little faith, Brandt,” Neuberg muttered as the orderly set out three cups and filled each on the merest nod from Neuberg.
The Guards and the 10th shared a common bond. Both regiments had released respective grenadier companies to form the 1st Grenadier Battalion. In theory a distinct formation, in a separate brigade from either of its parent regiments. But when additional redcoats were needed to make good the losses from Rumes, the old links were called upon.
And the matter of a court martial where both accuser and accused came from 2nd Battalion, Neuberg’s men, the lines of responsibility became blurred. Colonel Franke initially wanted to handle the matter himself, as was his right, but as replacement soldiers were being drafted in from 2nd Battalion, Neuberg had taken the opportunity to attend, taking Brandt and Regimental surgeon Harris to vouch for the good character of von Bomm. The surgeon had disappeared to talk to his counterpart in the Grenadiers, to enquire on the progress of the casualties from the battle. Most had been dispatched to Tournai. His inspection of the walking wounded over, Harris had joined his colonel and Brandt, slouching in a chair besides the captain. The surgeon sniffed suspiciously at the coffee.
“Wretched drink, is there no tea? Or something a little more medicinal? No doubt the erstwhile Doctor Wexler would be carrying something appropriate. Just for once I actually miss his company. But have the good grace not to mention that to him!” Harris, a man of receding hair and plump ruddy complexion spoke German with the hint of a thick Derbyshire accent. “How are you intending to play this, sir?”
Before Neuberg could reply the frame of the tent billowed with a breeze warmed on the Flanders landscape and transporting the smells and sounds of the camp around them. The three men looked out across the vista in unison and saw the familiar frame of von Bomm striding purposefully towards them. Brandt swept back a fringe of rebellious fine dark-copper hair, amber-brown eyes shone with the joy of seeing his friend. Three months on campaign had reduced the milder excesses of Brandt’s comfortable married life to a lean and well-proportioned frame and the captain was swiftly on his feet to embrace his good friend in a warm bear hug. Harris and the Colonel exchanged looks of mild surprise at the behaviour of the normally reserved Brandt but both knew of the bond of friendship between the men. The pair entered the tent, von Bomm leading. Neuberg offered his hand, Harris likewise and with the merest of formalities completed, the four men sat around the table and exchanged ideas on the meeting ahead.
Four officers came into view ten minutes later. Two wore the dark blue facings of the Guards battalion, the other pair the colours of the 10th. One sported an immaculate bicorne while the Grenadier officers wore the wide-brimmed hat which had replaced the much beloved bearskins and become immediately unpopular. Rumour was that it was a style worn by Corsican peasants. The redcoats had taken to calling it the Korsisch as their only means of registering a complaint about the garment. Guards officers had already taken to decorating the head-dress with white ostrich feathers, a sign of wealth and pomp. Colone
l Franke clearly viewed such affectations to be the domain of younger men and marched ahead of Captain Baumann and another lieutenant who von Bomm did not recognise, deep in conversation with the officer from the 10th.
“Planning my replacement already?” von Bomm whispered at the sight of the grim-faced youth marching behind the senior men.
But Brandt, Harris and Neuberg were looking in stunned silence at the man walking in step with Colonel Franke.
“What in God’s name is he doing here?” The words slipped from Colonel Neuberg’s lips in disbelief.
As the newcomers entered the tent, Major Johann Volgraf touched his bicorne in acknowledgement of Neuberg’s rank and took a chair, fixing his gaze on von Bomm with the air of a judge who had come to administer the full severity of the law.
Camp of 2nd Battalion, Froidmont: 7th May 1793
Sebastian Krombach sat on his haunches and listened sullenly to Sergeant Gauner’s pompous rhetoric about the series of easy victories that were sure to follow in the wake of Rumes. He bristled to challenge the words, Rumes could so easily have been a tragic series of miscalculations; now was not the time for an exchange of views. A glance towards Henry Pinsk, a corporal in Brandt’s Company and loyal friend, confirmed that silence was the best course. Pinsk cleaned thick lensed glasses, replacing them to magnify his eyes to round marbles and gave the slightest shake of his head in Krombach’s direction. It raised the young soldier’s spirits a little. Henry was supposed to be the one with the fiery temper and here he was offering caution to Krombach. Tomas, the elder twin now serving in 1st Grenadiers would have been proud of him.
Both twins shared lank, bean pole frames, towering at six foot four, cropped blonde hair and the same pebbled glasses. Krombach had found them hard to tell apart for the first couple of weeks of his service. But he had soon become firm friends with the brothers. When Tomas had transferred to the Grenadiers, he had asked Krombach to look out for Henry, afraid that Gauner might ensnare his younger sibling into a fight. It would have seemed a comical request, if Tomas hadn’t been sporting a black eye when it was made, the pair having fallen out over the transfer. The Pinsks had not seen one another again until after the fighting at Rumes. They had embraced, that last quarrel long forgotten, and Krombach watched through watery eyes. He told himself it had been caused by the smoke but his heart knew otherwise. So the young redcoat sipped weakly at a mug of wine, his throat still sore from the smoke at Rumes then gnawed at the cake Reifener had baked, letting the proclamations of Gauner wash over him while his mind drifted.
Andreas Reifener had been the other find. A baker who had been forced to join the army to make good to a girl who was expecting his cousin’s child. He might have played the fool but Reifener could make the most delicious meals from the thinnest of ingredients. He spent as much time in the company of the Twenty, the wives who had been selected by lots to follow the battalion, as he did in the ranks. Reifener had also been taken under the wing of Sergeant Winckler. Now that Winckler was gone, promoted to Sergeant-Major and serving on the staff of the Commissary General, Krombach had expected a backlash from Gauner. The cruelty of the man had only been held in check because Gauner had been a corporal and Winckler held the extra stripe. Gauner had somehow been instrumental in the riot that had occurred at Rumes, been complicit in stealing the Colours while Krombach had stood watch and taken the glory in their return. The whole sham had earned Gauner and his henchmen, Krogh and Hartmann, promotions.
The Sergeant’s assessment of the war was complete, the balance of Brandt’s Company broke into a chorus of cheers, toasting their absent Colonel and Captain Brandt, who had been summoned to the grenadiers’ camp earlier that evening, then to the venerable Sergeant Gauner himself and the other non-commissioned officers of Brandt’s Company. There was food, wine and pay; the redcoats were winning.
Deep in the back of Krombach’s mind was the nagging suspicion that one reverse might bring the frictions of the past month to the surface and that sooner, rather than later, Gauner would revert to his vindictive self.
Camp of 1st Grenadiers, Froidmont: 7th May 1793
Colonel Franke had positioned himself at one end of the table and Neuberg sat opposite him. After the briefest of introductions from Franke, Major Volgraf opened proceedings to establish his credentials for being present at the table. Von Bomm, flanked by Baumann and Stumpf, the ensign who had been drafted in to become Baumann’s senior lieutenant, sat either side of the Major. Both men remained impassive as an assiduously prepared speech was delivered in the Major’s acidic voice. Brandt found himself staring at Volgraf in disgust.
“I have been asked to intercede by powers higher than our Brigade Commander. The actions at Rumes have cast an unfortunate shadow between the Duke and his loyal Hanoverian troops. As such, a matter that might normally be swept aside must be dealt with in the fullest severity. Gentlemen of a certain social standing feel that a moral example must be set. The character of this lieutenant is wayward, unscrupulous and unbecoming of an officer. There are senior officers, Colonel, men from the most respected households in Hanover, who have signed this document demanding that you terminate this proceeding, move to a formal prosecution at Brigade level. There, I will press for this…officer…when found guilty… to be stripped of his rank and treated under His Majesty’s Code, as a common soldier and face the lash for disobedience to the commands of a superior in the face of the enemy.”
The Major passed the document to Baumann who in turn handed it to his Colonel. Von Bomm had known Manfred Franke for only a few short weeks. In that time, a brown bushy moustache had become somewhat fuller with the rigours of the campaign, yet heavy set jowls and coal black eyes had never lost a hint of mirth. Whatever the man’s demeanour, it felt that a smile was never far from the Colonel’s face. This was the first time that von Bomm could recall such warmth being absent, as Franke unfolded a pair of round steel-rimmed spectacles and his eyes darted over the names on the note. He let out an exasperated sigh, folded the letter and placed it beside a small pile of papers.
“And you would wish to inflict such a course of events on a brother officer?” Franke spoke directly to Baumann, who gave a curt nod in response.
Franke slumped back in the chair, folded an arm across his chest and stroked the thick moustache, teasing the end bristles for what seemed an age. Then he lent forward, unfolded Volgraf’s note, stared at the signatures and gave a loud snort of indignation, like a bull elephant seal displaying his might.
“This is my table, my tent, my battalion, Major! I will decide if this matter proceeds or if it shall be ‘swept-aside’ as you put it. If any of these ‘gentlemen of honour’ wish to discuss the matter with me, they may do so at a time and place of their choosing.”
There was a cold fury behind the words and von Bomm watched the Colonel’s knuckles tighten.
“Recount the events of the day please, Captain Baumann.”
Von Bomm found himself listening to a version of the battle which felt utterly at odds with his own recollection.
The captain had posted the majority of his forces with von Bomm but the positions on the far side of the road were only ever meant to be a temporary measure. The walled farmhouse was large enough that the entire company could be posted there and that was Baumann’s aim. Von Bomm’s task had been only to slow up the enemy, draw them into the buildings and then withdraw, so that the reinforcements that had been signalled could capture the bulk of the French and complete their defeat in detail.
Colonel Franke thumbed over the sheets of paper while Baumann spoke, his fingers followed the words of a testimony, perhaps even Baumann’s original report but gave little away, other than the occasional grunt of acknowledgement. Throughout all of this, Baumann had looked at Colonel Franke, having failed to acknowledge von Bomm since being seated, despite being sat directly across the table from each other. Only as Captain Leopold Baumann offered his final few words did their eyes finally lock contact.
“The far
mhouse nearly fell due to the rank disobedience of the gentleman opposite,” the words being spat out to question von Bomm’s right to such an acclamation, “I had to man the walls like a common soldier, sword in hand, and keep the enemy from engulfing us because HE refused a direct order. Erich von Bomm’s cowardly action in failing to withdraw his men nearly lost us the battle.”
Despite the anger at the words von Bomm found himself tugging at the sleeve of Brandt who was on his feet in an instant at those words. Neuberg motioned for his captain to sit while Franke peered over the edge of the steel rimmed spectacles that he had put on, to follow the words of the report.
“You have a question that you wish to ask Captain Baumann? Perhaps you might need a moment to compose your thoughts?” Franke’s words were aimed at Brandt.
“I have a question or two Colonel, for Captain Baumann, if I may?” Neuberg spoke.
“Of course, Colonel Neuberg, it is your right,” Franke replied, an open-palmed gesture indicating acquiescence.
Jacob Neuberg turned the weight of his gaze onto Captain Leopold Baumann, an officer who wore the colours of the 10th but who had been given his commission by Major Johann Volgraf, a fierce critic of Neuberg’s who considered the Colonel as an outsider and the man who had usurped the Major’s rightful claim.
The King of Dunkirk Page 2