Krombach turned and prepared to kick at the door. To his relief, he heard the door’s latch turn, creaking open to reveal a small scruff of a boy, a terrier pup dancing around his feet. Beyond him, in a dim room with rough plaster walls and a wooden beamed ceiling, half a dozen children worked around an ancient wooden-framed Dutch loom, beating, spinning and shaping cloth. A girl, wearing a stained smock, no more than ten years old, turned from her work to look at the soldiers before rattling out instructions to her siblings to return to their work. A staircase led to the floor above and from there screams could be heard. Krombach paused on the doorstep and listened; a woman’s voice offering soothing instruction.
“What is going on?”
Animalistic grunts and screams pierced the sounds of the children’s labour.
“Is that your mama?”
The boy nodded, “Baby coming.”
He looked oddly serious, the gravity of the words suggested he knew that two lives were in the balance; the boy could not have been more than five years old.
Krombach smiled and patted the boy’s head, “Where is your Papa, is he here?”
The boy shook his head and tugged at Krombach’s uniform and the redcoat understood. A blue-coat; the enemy. Except this was their homeland, the King’s Germans were now the enemy.
Are you the man of the house now?”
A solemn nod was the only reply. Fuchs chomped impatiently at Krombach’s shoulder.
“What are you waiting for, you mollycoddlin’ dunderhead? Get in there and let’s see what there is to find.”
Krombach turned again to face Fuchs, feeling a rage building within him.
“Why don’t you just bugger off, you worm, leave this house alone.”
Fuchs squared up to Krombach, staring into his eyes.
“Move your arse, fish boy!”
“No!”
Fuchs smiled; a mouth full of yellow teeth and fetid breath.
“Stupid prick,” he spat the words at Krombach and then raised his voice.
“Beggin’ your pardon Sergeant Gauner but Private Krombach is preventin’ my search of this French scum’s house.”
Krombach could see Gauner from the corner of his eye; the sergeant had been dealing summary justice to a villager whose house had been ransacked. Roner and Richter were overseeing redcoats elsewhere; neither man would be permitting this kind of behaviour. Gauner aimed another heavy hammer blow at the head of an elderly man, already cowering in the dirt and dust of the street. Satisfied that his point had been fully made, he stepped over the body and walked towards the house where the two redcoats stood, pausing only to retrieve his Prussian ‘pace stick’ from a redcoat who had been ordered to hold the three-foot long hinged poles, a sign of a sergeant’s rank in the Prussian army.
“Krombach, you piece of filth. Get your sorry backside over here now. Private Fuchs carry on and do your duty!”
“Yes Sergeant; at once, Sergeant!” Fuchs grinned in Krombach’s face at the words.
Krombach stood in the door defiantly for a few seconds then pushed passed Fuchs, deliberately barging his shoulder into his accuser. Gauner gestured for Krombach to hurry over, a gentle beckoning motion and a smile which looked decidedly insincere. Krombach stepped within two paces of the thick-set sergeant, standing to attention but Gauner stepped forward and, pace stick under his left arm, wrapped a powerful arm tight around Krombach’s neck in a painful lock, turning him away from the view of the other redcoats. Thick fingers tugging at his ear-lobe as the grip increased in severity.
“What are you playing at, boy? I thought you was learnin’? Keep your head low; don’t make yourself important; stay out of my way; Not too difficult, is it?” Gauner’s harsh tone muted so that no-one else was aware of the conversation.
“No, sergeant…” Krombach spoke through gritted teeth
“Good…good,” Gauner sounded absentminded, then twisted the ear further in his thick fingers.
“Now the lads have a tricky job to do, no one likes it, least of all me. The Frenchies are hiding what we need, see; go and find the tools; find any cloth and that is a bonus and good Sergeant Gauner will see you right…understood?”
“Y...yes, Sergeant,” the pain in Krombach’s ear was now excruciating.
“Good boy…now get back to work.”
Gauner let go and turned on his heels. Krombach raised his hand to rub the sore left ear and failed to notice that Gauner turned sharply to deliver an open-handed slap. The blow caught Krombach on the right side of the face, lifting him off his feet and depositing him into the mud and cobbles of the street. Metallic-tasting blood dribbled across his lips from his nose; tears stung his eyes; both sides of his face now ached with throbbing pain. Slowly, the young redcoat hauled himself to his feet and felt his fists clench with frustration.
All eyes were fixed on the two men.
Villagers watched in traumatised silence; redcoats stood stock-still waiting to see if the young soldier would retaliate. Raised voices then screaming from the house that Fuchs had entered broke the spell. Krombach stumbled back in the direction of the door when a voice made every soldier around him snap to attention.
Company Sergeant Roner following one pace behind Lieutenant Schafer had walked into a street resembling bedlam.
“What in God’s name is going on here? Picks, shovels, digging implements only. Nothing more!” Roner screamed. “Who ordered the removal of these people’s property?”
In all of Brandt’s Company’s inglorious moments, from days of appalling drill to soldiers implicated in the Halle riot, Krombach had never seen Roner look so apoplectic with rage. Schafer looked from the piles of belongings in the street to the Company Sergeant in open mouthed shock before realising that he needed to act.
“Sergeant Gauner, a word please.”
Gauner drew up to his full height, placed his pace stick under his arm and marched to the officer with parade ground precision, under Roner’s withering gaze.
The sergeant halted and stiffly jabbed a nodded bow in recognition of the officer, “Sir!”
“Sergeant, can you explain what is going on?”
Krombach watched the Lieutenant, drained of colour, and looking like a child caught between two feuding parents.
“Following orders, sir.”
“Whose man, whose?”
“Yours sir; goods to aid the war effort, sir.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Entrenching tools, this side; material for bandages and bedding for the wounded, that side.”
Schafer turned to Roner for help, as if to validate whether Gauner could be telling the truth. The disapproval on the Company Sergeant’s face was evident by the violent twitching of his moustache as Roner clearly fought to restrain himself with the eyes of the Company on him.
Schafer turned to face Gauner, “A misunderstanding perhaps? Digging tools only were our orders. I’m sure these other items might be needed at some point and I dare say we will be asked to gather them then. But for now, just the tools, if you would be so kind?”
“Yes, sir. Understood, sir”
“Return these belongings to their rightful owners, now!” Roner yelled, before Schafer had a chance to speak again.
At that moment a series of dull thuds came from within the open doorway where Krombach stood; Fuchs spilled out, holding a heavily blood-stained bed sheet above his head and skipped into the street, unaware of either Schafer or Roner.
“What do you think fellas? Can’t say this one’s a virgin anymore. But give her a few minutes and she’ll be back on heat again, no doubt.”
Krombach watched the redcoat dance a jig and then pause as he realised that none of the men around him had reacted. In fact, all were stood stock still at attention. Fuchs lowered the sheet that he had been in the process of sniffing and peered to Gauner and then saw the officer and his Company Sergeant. Roner took quick paces towards Fuchs and threw a pile driving punch into the man’s stomach. Fuchs doubled over in ag
ony and the Company Sergeant stood ready to throw another recovering himself. Fuchs cowered under the bloodied sheet; Roner, wide-eyed with rage, drew himself up, adjusting his tunic. He turned to Krombach.
“Return that sheet to the inhabitants of this building. Whatever money this …soldier…” Roner hissed the words vehemently, “has on him, give to that family. Understood?”
“Yes, Sergeant,” Krombach replied.
“Clean your face up, boy.” Roner had spotted the trickle of drying blood but made nothing of it.
“Shall I oversee this, sir, while you return to the rest of the company?” Roner made the request sound the least like an order as he could. Schafer nodded and turned swiftly away, clearly relieved to be freed from the situation.
“Sergeant Gauner, a word if you please?” Roner’s voice growled with barely-controlled rage. Gauner mustered his best martial step and brought himself to a halt before his senior.
“Yes, Company Sergeant!” Gauner’s words echoed for the redcoats around him to hear even though their faces were no more than six inches apart.
Krombach and every man around him stopped what they were doing.
“What are you doing to my men, Sergeant?” Roner’s voice had returned to a measure of control, his tone lower.
“Following orders, Company Sergeant.”
“If I find you are on the make Gauner, God help me. You will lose those stripes on your arm and I will personally add sixty stripes to your back! Do you understand me?”
Gauner did not speak. The two men fixed one another in a look of deadly hatred.
“Not in this company, Gauner. Not now and not ever.” Roner broke the stare of Gauner and looked at the pace stick tucked under his arm.
“And who gave you permission to carry that. Get rid of it, at once.”
“Gift from Major Volgraf, Colour Sergeant, for my efforts in saving the colour; the Major doesn’t forget those who serve his battalion loyally.”
Gauner spoke again, in a raised voice for the men around him to hear then lowered it. Krombach strained to hear.
“And this won’t be your company forever, Company Sergeant Roner.”
Second Company had piled the best of its haul into an open wagon and fell into a ragged column, in preparation to march off. Krombach watched Gauner stalk between the men, pushing them into formation. He shoved Krombach, standing heavily on his toes for good measure. Gauner would be back. He had a buyer for the cambric and no-one, not even Roner, would stand in his way.
Valenciennes: 29th May 1793
“You can’t, Andreas.”
“But, why not, it’s how things work, ‘Bastion.”
“Because we aren’t here to steal from these people.”
Nearby a salvo from an Austrian gun battery broke into the thread of conversation. The four men, redcoats discarded, slouched in the long grass at the edge of a wheat field, perched at the edge of scarp which led, in gentle declination, towards Valenciennes. To their right a rough track had become a busy thoroughfare as mule-led caissons moved ammunition to service the Austrian guns, battering the town by day and night. Beyond that, a dark brown tear had appeared across the scarp which marked the position of the main trench. Gangs of soldiers worked to hack out the zig-zagging approach to where a new gun position would eventually be posted.
The four watched proceedings with indifference. Second Company had already worked there in the morning shift; tomorrow they would be back again. Krombach, Reifener and Henry Pinsk all had blistered hands as a testament to their morning’s work. Tomas had fared much better; the 1st Grenadiers had drawn piquet duty. Two others were being constructed on either flank and 1st Grenadiers had drawn the duty of guarding the southern one, ready to repel any surprise French attacks on soldiers armed only with picks and shovels. But the distance the French would have to cover, some thousand yards, made such an activity highly unlikely during daylight. Tomas, tasked with the duty of writing a letter to their parents, remained largely silent. Henry did his best to referee the dispute between his two friends.
When Krombach had come back from Estreux yesterday, he had been in a foul mood. He had told Henry and Andreas Reifener about Gauner’s intentions to steal cambric from the citizens, partly to warn the two that Gauner’s mood would be predictably set on vengeance and partly to clear his own head of the worry that Reifener was bound into the whole sorry episode. Reifener had gurgled a denial that sounded so unconvincing, Krombach’s heart sank but Gauner had stuck his head through the entrance of their tatty canvas tent before the matter could be resolved. In the long grass, the heat of the afternoon sun had brought the matter back to the fore and Krombach’s temper had flared as he shouted down Reifener’s attempts to explain away his involvement in a deal between Gauner and Winckler, made more improbable as both men loathed one another. But money was a strong motivator. Away from the Battalion, Winckler’s skills at finding ways to make money seemed prolific if the schemes that Reifener had been involved in were anything to go by.
After a long pause, Reifener tried again to make his point, but couched within a form of apology.
“Anyway, what Gauner did was wrong. Winckler wanted to pay for each yard of cambric. And a fair price too; fair under the current circumstances. I’m sorry you got caught up in it. Truly, I am. Gauner is worse than rotten meat in a stew!”
“Of course he is, you idiot. He is also our sergeant and Winckler isn’t here to protect any of us anymore. If Roner finds out that you were involved in that mess yesterday, we are all up to our necks in it. He threatened to flog Gauner and Gauner stood there and told him his time would soon be up. It was like two stags fighting for control of their harem. On the day that Gauner wins, we will all get royally shafted.”
“That is an unpleasant image,” Henry chimed, itching a scalp newly shorn and glistening with sweat as the heat of the day built.
“We need Roner and Richter. If Gauner takes control it’s going to be hell. And Roner has his eye on us I’m sure.” Krombach added, thinking of the days before Valenciennes and the cart full of Flanders clogs.
“Oh, that does remind me. I’m so stupid…” Reifener clambered up and crawled over to his pack, pulling at the leather straps and poking around inside. “’Bastion, this is for you; compliments of the Sergeant-Major and me of course.”
“I’m not sure I’m going to like this.” Krombach glanced sideways at his two friends, shaking in his head in mock disbelief.
“Oh no, you will.” Reifener pulled a series of contorted expressions as he ferreted around and then a look of triumph, poking his tongue out of the side of his mouth and rolling his eyes like a spaniel desperate to be thrown a stick to chase.
“Writing paper; I know you wanted some...” Reifener grinned shrewdly, happy to have found the peace offering.
Krombach hesitated. If the gift was accepted, it was a tacit acceptance of Reifener’s actions as the thickly rolled sheaves of paper could only have come through Winckler’s operation. He was overdue in completing letters to his parents and Maren, half a dozen other soldiers were waiting for Krombach to write on their behalf too; he took the gift. “Thank you. You still need to be careful. Get caught and you drag the rest of us in with you. You’re playing a dangerous game!”
Reifener held up both hands, in mock surrender, grinning from ear to ear and Krombach let the matter pass with little more to be gained. Instead he crawled over to his own pack, rummaged inside and found a pencil, thick and blunted. A few careful shavings and the point was fine, too fine to write with. Besides, the two letters he was working on were partially completed and both were in the pocket sewn into his jacket. Instead Krombach found a spot to wedge himself upright, and using the reverse of his backpack, began to sketch a series of lines. After a few minutes of quiet, where little was said, Henry waded over on his knees and looked at the paper which was being worked on.
“Hmm, it’s not bad…” Pinsk paused before a barely concealed chuckle added. “I give up. What is it? I can
see stick people…”
Krombach gave his friend a sideways look.
“Thank you for your advice. I can’t draw people but I’m fine with shapes. I used to sit and draw the ships coming in when I was a bit younger. Thought I would give it a go, I was going to send it to my father.” Krombach paused “On second thoughts. My parents think soldiering foolhardy and dangerous enough. I doubt that this will help.”
Still Krombach sketched. The backdrop showed the walls of Valenciennes; the hornworks and a timber palisade that acted as a barrier and allowed defenders to move reinforcements there at will; around this a glacis, an earthen slope used to reduce the effect of artillery at the base of the walls and provide the defenders with a killing ground when an attack eventually came. In front of these, the contours of the land rose up and the careful notches of black lead marked the path that was being cut by the gangs of men in the glare of the afternoon sun; In the foreground, a group of officers stood deep in discussion. Krombach grunted a chuckle, having rested the pencil, a satisfied look on his face with the task completed.
“What’s amused the artist now?” Tomas chimed.
“It’s nothing...well nothing out of the ordinary…our men are slogging their guts out and the officers are stood around taking in the view and no doubt, the credit.” Krombach muttered, following the action of the cluster of men perhaps a hundred yards away.
He recognised one, a man in a British light dragoon’s uniform, as the officer who had ridden with Lieutenant von Bomm on the day of the battle to break the French lines at Artres. The officer was clearly acting as a translator between a thick-set man in a blue jacket and a thinner man, in an exquisite cornflower blue uniform of an Austrian engineer; the friction was clear from the body language. The British officer removed his jacket, throwing it aside in disgust, before proceeding to roll up his sleeves in a rather menacing fashion. For a second, Krombach thought that the officer was preparing to take a swipe at his Austrian counterpart. Instead he mopped a tanned forehead, pushed his hand through a black mop of hair and having grabbed a pick axe, knelt on the ground to carve out something into the hard soil, perhaps to better explain his point. The four redcoats followed the action with interest, hoping still that the scene might descend into a scuffle.
The King of Dunkirk Page 10