There was only one chance: he crouched, then thrust himself face down into the ditch and lay still.
The thunder turned into an avalanche of noise—in the next few seconds he would either live or die. The terrible hoofbeats grew louder, overwhelming—then strangely cut off as the cavalrymen launched themselves over the hedge to crash down beyond the ditch and away.
He kept deathly motionless, his back crawling as he tensed for a casual brutal hacking with a sabre as they passed over him. It went on and on until the last stragglers had gone.
It had worked: he was grateful for his concealing dark blue uniform, its frogging and ornamentation out of sight under him. If he’d been seen it was likely he’d been taken for a stale corpse not worth the sticking.
He knew better than to make any move just yet for they’d penetrated deeply and must now regroup and return. Sure enough, they milled about in the field for a space and then, with hoarse shouts and a blare of trumpets, made off in a body to the south.
Still not daring to stir he waited until the jingling tumult had died away and carefully raised his head.
They were nearly out of sight and he got to his feet slowly, surveying the trampled hedge and field. His horse was lost, of course, and he faced the prospect of a long tramp in his heavy riding boots until he saw the beast about a quarter of a mile away, calmly cropping the nettles.
Heart still thudding he mounted and rode off at desperate speed back whence he’d come.
He burst in on von Hohenlau, who was surrounded by excited staff officers; obviously his news was not unexpected. He told a distracted Scharnhorst the details, then withdrew to change his filthy uniform.
When he returned there was a different atmosphere: a grave and serious quiet.
“Sir?” he enquired, of a despondent artillery hauptfach.
“They’re through—Soult threw five squadrons of heavy cavalry at our left and he’s pouring a column of his finest through after them. Klaus, it means we’re cut off from Bennigsen—and we’ll have to shorten our lines to face the bastards.”
Always it was the same: a restless probing of the front, and at any weakness, Bonaparte would pounce, sending instant marching orders to a tried and trusted marshal and supporting orders to others. It took masterly staff-work but Bonaparte’s veterans could be relied on.
Later in the evening, when lamps threw soft gold on tired faces, and supper lay uneaten, worse news came.
“Sir. Soult is deep into our lines. We’ve now reports that he’s wheeling left—sir, he intends to cut us off, isolate us. We must pull back, retire on Kreuznicke.”
Scharnhorst nodded slowly. “It must be done quickly.”
Von Hohenlau shook his head. “No.”
“Sir?”
“My last orders were to stand and that is what I will do.”
“Sir, if we don’t retire we’ll be cut off, encircled! We must—”
“Silence! Have I not a staff officer with a shred of honour? We’ve lost communication with our field commander, whose orders to us were to stand fast. He’s in the belief that we’ve obeyed his last order and therefore remain in post to halt any advance in this sector. Do we now as Prussians betray that trust?”
“If we are surrounded we will be put to the siege and—”
“Sir! This is of no account. Recollect, if you will, that Pomeranian Kolberg still defies the tyrant under siege, near two hundred miles behind Bonaparte’s lines. Are we so craven that we fear to do the same?”
Scharnhorst pulled himself erect. “There is a difference, sir, which it would be folly to overlook.”
“Yes?” von Hohenlau snapped, his expression flinty.
“At Kolberg they are two, three thousand. Here we are sixteen thousand. Without we have supply and—”
“Noted. And dismissed. We do not move. I shall want plans to safeguard our perimeter and take all necessary steps by daybreak.”
“Very well, Generalleutnant.”
By mid-morning it was clear that the French had achieved their objective—the Prussians were now isolated from the rest of the line and were left to their own resources for rations, ammunition and stores.
An entire division and more—how long could it last?
Gürsten received a summons to Headquarters. Von Hohenlau and Scharnhorst were together conferring and looked up to regard him gravely.
“Flügelleutnant Gürsten, I know your father and your uncle. It is because of them I feel able to make the request I do.”
“Sir?”
“Our situation must be made known to the higher authorities, in detail, that decisions may be made.”
“I understand, sir.”
“This is a mission of the utmost importance and of extreme peril.”
“Sir.”
“You will pass through the enemy lines and make your way to Königsberg.”
“Not to Feldmarschall Bennigsen, sir?”
“To Königsberg—to His Majesty and his ministers. There you will lay before him our entire disposition. If he gives leave for me to retire I shall do so but, on my honour, will obey no other.”
“I will do it willingly, sir.” The odds of his slipping through an alerted besieging force were slim but the stakes could not be higher.
“How you will achieve this must be left to you, Herr Gürsten. If there’s anything we can do to assist …”
Outside he set out to find his friend.
“I honour you for it, Klaus, with all my heart,” Engelhardt murmured, shaking him by the hand. The two sat down and began to plot.
Towards evening, a shabby figure and another in a junior officer’s uniform made their way to the last outposts before the enemy.
Near a pig-sty there was an old out-of-use wooden barrel. Gürsten was helped into it and after it was upended his friend left.
In the suffocating black airlessness Gürsten crouched and waited. Voices rose and fell. He heard muffled commands and the rumbling of a wagon or two—then quiet.
Hours came and went. His cramped body was a torture but there was no alternative.
Longer. It must be getting close to daybreak by now.
Then … voices.
He couldn’t make them out and strained to hear. Hoarse, peasant muttering. Polish—no, some other … If he chose wrongly, it could be a vile death from some looting band.
It wasn’t meant to be like this!
The plan had seemed a good one: this spot was contained within a salient of the Prussian perimeter that was scheduled to be drawn in as lines were shortened, leaving him concealed in his barrel. As the French pressed in it would be overtaken and he’d find himself behind their line, at which he’d safely give himself up, a Prussian deserter.
He froze in shock as someone casually kicked against his hideaway, then heard a distant impatient order—in French.
With a convulsive heave he capsized the barrel and scrambled out before a goggling soldier in a French uniform. He lifted up his hands and gave a twisted smile as the man shouted, bringing at the run a French poilu, a sergeant.
“Who the fuck are you?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” Gürsten drawled, in deliberately bad French. “I’ve had enough of being on the wrong side. I’m giving it away.”
“Ha! You left it a bit late, fripouille Prussien. We’re going to wipe the floor with you lot before long. Still, if you’re coming over we’ll find some use for you. Take him to the adjutant.”
With a pair of soldiers on each side he was marched to the rear. He knew he would be interrogated but was prepared.
“I’m Corporal Baker Höpfner of the third Potsdamers—but precious little could I bake!”
They quickly lost interest in one who could have no knowledge of the larger picture and he was handed on to others to process.
“Can’t take you on here, m’ friend,” a jolly staff sergeant told him. “It’s a tidy trot to Headquarters for you.”
“Kind sir, have you a crust and a taste of wine first? It’s
cruel hard times I’ve had and …”
The corporal was sent to get some small victuals and Gürsten wolfed them.
When he had finished, he looked up with gratitude. “What corps should I join, do you think?” he asked eagerly. “I’m rare skilled on breads—pumpernickel, Bauernbrot, Zwieback and similar.”
It caused spirited discussion between the two, and by the time they’d concluded, Gürsten had a considerable appreciation of the quality and reliability of Bonaparte’s troops, quite unmatchable by the most meticulous observations.
A paper was made out: a pass for one Höpfner to travel to Saaldenz, Marshal Ney’s headquarters, to join up as an auxiliary. He was given a simple knapsack with basic rations and a blanket, and two discontented soldiers were told to escort him there.
Against all the odds it was working!
They set off on the march: thirty-five miles along badly rutted roads and bare tracks over marshy, directionless moorland and heath.
Gürsten had no intention of completing it for he had what he wanted: a legitimate paper accounting for his presence. He slipped away at the first opportunity and made off at a sharp angle to the north—towards the Russians.
He skirted one village and unexpectedly found himself in an apple orchard. So close to the front line it was doing service as an under-cover artillery park. He turned to go but found his way blocked by a fiercely grinning gunner who held a heavy sword to his throat. Others approached to see the fun.
“A poxy spy!” he growled, flicking the tip of the sword under Gürsten’s throat. “As will be strung up when we find a tree!”
An officer in a gold-laced shako came up, knocking aside the man’s sword. “Who are you and what are you doing here?” he demanded.
“Oh, s-sir,” Gürsten stammered, “I—I think I’m lost.” He rummaged about in his undeniably French-issue knapsack and produced his paper. “It says here I’m t-to join Marshal Ney’s German auxiliary.”
The officer took it suspiciously. “Where’s your escort?”
Gürsten looked down, shamefaced. “We were at an inn and, er, they didn’t wake up in the morning, and I thought I’d better—”
“They got drunk,” the officer sneered. “Not your fault. You did right—but Ney’s over there, not here. You go any further in this direction and the Russkies will have your hide on a fence.”
The gunners about him chortled.
“Get going.” He thrust the paper at him. “It’s not safe to be so near the fighting. On your way, little man!”
With profuse thanks, Gürsten scuttled off.
He had to think—and quickly. No carefully laid plan could get him through the terrible danger of the opposing lines this time.
At some distance from the village there were the shattered ruins of a farmyard. It would give shelter until night fell when he could move under cover of darkness. But before he could slip away from his hideout there was the flash of guns and horses galloping past, other noises. It would be lunacy to go out but he would not get a second chance—and the value of his information was fading with every hour he was delayed.
The confusion and disorder had still not settled as the cold light of a new day appeared. He was now in very considerable danger and had to make a move.
He peered through the splintered timbers of the barn into the meadow. All the farm animals had been carried off for food but a stolid, hairy-footed old plough-horse remained, calmly snatching at tufts of overgrown grass.
For some reason his heart went out to the loyal creature in a world of madness caused by men—and he was struck by a thought equally as crazy.
In the strengthening light he scrabbled around in the rubbish of the barn until he found what he was looking for: a dusty grey farming smock and hat, even trousers still hanging on the hook where their owner had left them.
With rising hope he pulled aside the fallen beams and saw in the dark end of the barn a wondrous sight: a cart with a load of hay. It was rank-smelling but it was all he needed.
He drew on the ancient clothing and trudged out to the horse, lumbering, head down and with the pain of age.
The beast looked up at him mildly, tossing its head as he secured the straps but obediently followed him to the barn. Gürsten used it to haul away an exit for the cart, then backed it into the shafts and finished the job with bumping heart, expecting a sharp challenge at any moment.
He heaved himself into the rickety seat and clicked the horse into motion. A scene from earlier times drew into the daylight—an old farmer taking hay out to his animals as he’d done every new morning of his life. No war was going to stop him. That he was bent and his head drooping, his track an aimless meander, clearly pointed to the loss of his wits in this murderous war: he was piteously taking refuge in doing what he had always done for his creatures.
Gürsten’s hands on the traces were slack, letting the horse choose his way. A subtle tug every now and then pointed the nodding head resolutely towards the lines and they continued on, the wobbling wheels complaining loudly.
There was no challenge, even as he could see the emplacements with their troops lying at the ready, some staring at him as if at a ghost.
There was now a spectral quiet as he rattled on; no musket fired on him, no shouts or warnings. A tranquil vision of another age had entered their existence of blood and struggle and nobody had the heart to disturb it by harming the old man.
Steadily they progressed over the gently undulating hillocks, the horse knowing to avoid the muddy hollows, patiently plodding on.
Incredibly this must be the open country between the lines—and still nothing.
His flesh crawled with anticipation of a suspicious volley but in the unnatural quiet he shambled on and on. There were other men now, staring out at him but in a different dress, which he recognised—Uvarov’s Smolensk Grenadiers.
Keeping up his pretence he let the horse amble on until a kindly Jaeger sergeant took the bridle. “You can rest now, old man, you’re safe with us,” he said, holding out an arm to help him.
Briskly, he threw aside his smock and slid down.
“Take me to your officer,” he demanded in perfect Russian.
He had done it.
“His Majesty is dining and may not be disturbed on any account,” the haughty major-domo said icily.
The politesse of the Hohenzollern court-in-exile was not about to be put aside for an unannounced arrival, no matter the gravity of his news, and Gürsten was taken to a reception room. He fumed. It had already taken three hours to find and borrow the required dress uniform, and now this!
He had reported to Bennigsen, his headquarters lying on the way to Königsberg, and then with a courier’s warrant had galloped madly to the Pregel river and the city. Blücher, the military aide-de-camp, had been grateful for his report but all decisions lay with His Imperial Majesty King Friedrich Wilhelm, Elector of Brandenburg, and nothing could be done until his pleasure was known.
“Flügelleutnant Klaus Gürsten,” the equerry intoned at last.
He entered with every expression of respect—whatever his faults, his sovereign was heir to Frederick the Great.
“Your Majesty,” he murmured, from the depths of an elaborate bow. He straightened and made an elegant but lesser bow to the Queen, the much-admired Luise of Mecklenburg-Strelitz.
Friedrich frowned, but then his noble brow cleared. “We are always minded to hear from our loyal officers, Leutnant. Do you have news for us at all?”
“Majesty, I’m to report from Generalleutnant von Hohenlau with much urgency. He is at present under siege from the French and—”
“Siege? How can this be?”
“Sire, we were ordered to extend our lines to the sea and while so extended Marshal Soult pierced our flank and, with superior forces, continued on to encircle us. We are now beleaguered.”
“And you crossed the lines to tell us so?”
“Sire.”
“A brave and entirely meritorious act. B
e assured I shall remember this at the next levée, which I believe shall be no later than—”
“Majesty, the Generalleutnant is desiring to know your wishes in respect of his position. Should he fall back on Heilungen or stand as ordered?”
“Ah, Leutnant Gürsten, I know von Hohenlau well, the stubborn old fellow, and if it is a question of orders he would as soon die as yield. He will stand and I honour him for it.”
“Sire, it’s an entire division and more he has with him that—”
“Leutnant! You have done your duty in reporting. Leave us to the strategicals. Right, Blücher?”
“Your Majesty, the leutnant is no doubt alluding to the parlous situation of any army left to its own devices. If it’s not supplied it must fall, no matter what heights of courage are shown.
“I put it to you, sire, that if we cannot supply he must necessarily break out, and at immeasurable cost. I cannot at all see how it is possible to divert a sizeable portion of our remaining troops to force a corridor through to von Hohenlau.”
“Good God, Blücher! First you say that he cannot retire without ruinous loss, now you say he cannot be supplied! Are you seriously demanding I order a capitulation?” The King’s pale face reddened.
The bluff general stood erect, splendid in his dark blue full-dress uniform and silver epaulettes, his eyes fierce, and said nothing.
“Sire, there may be an alternative,” dared Gürsten.
“What did you say?”
“Sire, Generalleutnant von Hohenlau has extended to the sea. Cannot we make supply with boats?”
“Ha!” spat Blücher. “You’ve forgotten something. The Prussian Navy in Rostock was trapped when Bernadotte took Pomerania. We’ve nothing left will protect your boats, sir!”
“We have nothing, but our allies have, sir.”
“Who?”
“The English are masters of the seas. Cannot we ask them to—”
“It’ll be too late. By the time we get word to London …”
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