by Todd Shryock
I grabbed the collar of a Frenchman, his baby face not registering what was happening as my fist slammed into his face and he dropped to the street. A man grabbed my arm, and I punched at him with my left fist in rapid succession as he punched me in the shoulder before getting knocked down by another of our men.
Everything turned into a blur of punches, kicks and takedowns as I lashed out at any blue uniform I saw.
Officers began shouting and riding their horses into the fray, attempting to break up the fight. I was locked in on trying to pummel the face of a Frenchman with sagging blue eyes, when someone pulled me off from behind.
I struggled to break free as I saw my quarry roll away and crawl through the tangle of legs and discarded equipment.
“Henri!” the man shouted to get my attention.
I blinked, recognizing his face. It was the man who had come begging Niklas for uniforms.
“Henri!” he repeated. “Help me find Niklas and get him away from here! The officers have come, and if the French lieutenant identifies him, he’ll be shot.”
I nodded, the realization somehow breaking through my battle lust.
We weaved through the fighting until we spotted him punching a French sergeant near a building.
I took several quick steps and bowled into the Frenchman, knocking him to the ground, and then grabbed Niklas by the arm. “We have to get out of here!”
A shot rang out as an officer on a horse approached, his pistol in the air, the barrel hissing smoke. Some of the men stopped and moved aside, but the bulk of the melee continued. Several other officers approached, swinging the backs of their swords into anyone who wouldn’t stop.
“Let’s go!” I said, pulling him down a side street, escorted by the other man.
We moved on a safe distance, stopping near the river and entering a small two-story stone house. As soon as the door shut behind us, Niklas leaned against the wall and slid to the floor. His lower lip was swollen and his fists were bloody, but he looked otherwise unharmed.
I had several sore spots where I had absorbed punches, including a large welt on the top of my head.
“Crazy man,” our companion said with a laugh. “Who attacks a French officer?”
“They killed one of our men,” he said. “And laughed about it.” His eyes were unfocused.
The other man moved off to look for wine or food.
“They’ll shoot you if they find out it was you,” I said. “We’ll have to circle back through town. We’ll tell the captain we were late to the fight and tried to break it up but got punched, so fought back.”
Niklas stared into the distance. “We should just go.”
“No, not yet,” I said. “Let things cool down. Let them forget the faces.”
“We should go,” he repeated.
“They’re still sorting things out, now wouldn’t be … ”
“No. We should go. We should leave. Get away from this madness.”
I knelt beside him. “You mean desert.”
His eyes drifted to me and he nodded once.
“We can’t.”
“Why?”
“They’ll have us shot.”
“Only if they catch us.”
“We’re too far from home. If our patrols don’t catch us, the Austrians would. Either way, we get shot.”
Niklas smiled, his eyes going distant again. The other man returned with a bottle of wine, his eyes meeting mine.
“You aren’t talking sense, old friend,” he said, pulling the cork out with his teeth. “Here, take some of this.”
I stood and pondered what he had said. Desertion had never crossed my mind.
“Where’s your musket?” the man asked.
I cursed, realizing I had dropped it in the melee. “I’ll go back and get it — and his, too,” I said. “Stay here with him and don’t let him go anyplace.”
“Don’t let that lieutenant see you,” the man warned.
“The lieutenant was out cold,” Niklas snorted, his voice barely audible. “You won’t have to worry about him.”
I frowned and nodded to the other man, leaving them behind as I made my way back toward the scene.
Most of the men were gone now, with only a few sergeants from each side left to sort things out with our captain and theirs. Lieutenant Idiot stood at the captain’s elbow, nodding at whatever it was he was saying. The street was strewn with equipment — muskets, blankets, canteens, bayonets all decorated the ground. A few wounded men sat in a row, backs to a building, as regimental surgeons worked their way down the line inspecting the injuries. I spotted the lieutenant at the far end, looking only long enough to realize his eyes were glassy and one of them was swollen shut. No, he probably wouldn’t remember much of anything.
I grabbed a couple of muskets from the ground and slung them over my shoulder, turning to disappear back down the side street.
“Corporal!” a voice lashed out across the street.
I slowly turned to see Lieutenant Idiot striding my way. What was his name? I couldn’t remember. Idiot would have to do. “Lieutenant?”
“Where’s Sergeant Weber?”
“Last I saw him, he was pulling men out of the fight and trying to restore order, sir.”
The lieutenant studied me. “Who is the other musket for?”
“Private Lange, sir,” I answered without hesitation. Simon was dead, but this idiot wouldn’t know him or that he had his head torn off in the last battle.
He eyed me suspiciously, his face twitching. “Where are you going, corporal?”
“To the building where the sergeant left some of the wounded men while he went back to get more,” I said in a tone of voice that indicated everyone in the world knew this fact except for the lieutenant.
“Oh, of course,” he said, acting as if he already knew that. “Carry on.”
I tipped my head. “Sir,” I said as I walked away, breathing a sigh of relief.
“Corporal?”
I paused.
“Have the sergeant rally the battalion along this side of the river near the bridge immediately.”
“Yes, sir.”
The lieutenant walked back toward the captain.
“Idiot,” I muttered under my breath.
By late afternoon, our battalion was assembled on the bank of the shallow river on the far side of town. Niklas was subdued, and while the officers had tried to piece together what happened, the melee broke out so quickly that no one really got a good look at him or knew that it was him who started the whole thing. I considered us all very fortunate. If Niklas had been identified, he most likely would have been shot. And because there were so many men from both sides involved and because of our shortage of soldiers, no one was punished, just put on half rations – a meaningless act since we rarely received rations anyway.
Across the river, which was probably better described as a deep, wide stream, were reeds and patches of small trees and tangled thickets before it opened up to fields of freshly planted grains. Our company moved out in the lead, assuming skirmish order, as the rest of the battalion marched across in line as a support. The water was cold. It felt good on my sore feet and ankles, although probably didn’t do anything to lengthen the life of my battered boots. At its deepest point, the water crested just above my knees, and the rocky bottom did its best to trip me on several occasions as we forded.
We pushed on through the reeds, trampling several paths in the mud as we emerged on the other side and fanned out, wary of the thick greenery of the thickets where anyone could hide.
“Spread out, fools,” Niklas snapped at the younger men as they clustered together.
The men spread out by a few feet, but were still too close together. “Skirmish order!” I barked. “It’s not line! Spread out!”
They moved apart a few more feet and we continued on. They were still too close together, but there was no more time to devote to them. The battalion took up position along the river behind us, providing us with shel
ter if we needed to fall back to a stronger formation. As we approached one of the thickets, I saw movement in the shadows and branches.
“There’s someone in there,” I warned Niklas, who was just to my left.
“I saw him,” he said. “Could just be a civilian hiding.”
“Or half the Austrian army.”
I knew we couldn’t just open fire. There were many civilians in the village and it was just as likely Niklas was right. The last thing we wanted was to kill some peasant boy who happened to be playing in the woods.
“Be ready,” Niklas said calmly to steady the men.
I now saw multiple people shifting about in the woods. This was more than just some boy in the woods.
A plume of smoke spit forth, followed by the crack of a musket. Several others followed, but they were too far away to have much hope of hitting anything.
Several of our men fired back, including a few pairs that both fired. “Cease fire!” Niklas yelled. “Do not fire until we get the order!” Somewhere down the line, the lieutenant was working on the same problem. As I looked to see where he was, I watched in shock as several men dropped their muskets and ran away toward the river.
“Where are they going?” Niklas asked me.
I had no idea. There were minimal shots being fired at us and the only place to run was directly into the arms of the captain, who was more likely to have them shot at a much shorter range.
“Advance!” Niklas said, trying to put the pressure on the men, most likely partisans by their haphazard fire. If they lost their nerve, they would bolt from the woods where we might catch them in the open. I looked around, hoping our cavalry escort was someplace near, but there was no sign of them.
When we closed to about fifty yards, the order came to fire and advance. I took aim at what was either a man next to a tree or a shadow and pulled the trigger, bucking the gun back into my shoulder. Reloading in less than a minute, I continued at a walk until Niklas, several steps to my left, found a target, halted and fired. Pausing for him to reload, I checked our lines.
The men were ragged, with some lagging far behind, obviously afraid to get too close to the men in the woods. “Close up!” I yelled, motioning with my arm for the men to come more into line with our advanced position. A few men saw me, and I motioned more vigorously. They moved up a few steps but still lagged behind. The situation on the other side was similar – the veteran pairs were close, but the younger recruits were either lagging behind or not moving at all, choosing to shoot at long range.
Deprived of the support of the rest of our men, we could not advance any further, leaving us to fire blindly into the woods at the plumes of smoke that were starting to merge together into a foggy mass floating in front of the trees.
Lieutenant Idiot trotted down the line toward us. “Sergeant,” he yelled, gasping for air. “Sergeant?”
“Sir?”
“Lead an attack and oust the enemy from the woods.”
Niklas looked at the lieutenant. “Shouldn’t we draw the rest of the company together? Or perhaps move up the rest of the battalion, sir?”
The lieutenant vigorously shook his head. “Those are just partisans. No support is needed. Now get moving.” He turned and trotted back down the line, leaving Niklas looking at me.
I shrugged. With the men spread out and many of them skulking, we would maybe muster a couple dozen men for the attack. If there were more than a few men in the woods, it could get ugly. Niklas put two fingers in his mouth and whistled once in each direction, drawing the attention of the men. He motioned for them to close up and advance toward the woods.
“Here we go,” he said apprehensively.
I checked my musket to make sure it was loaded and began the slow walk over the last fifty yards of the field, wishing there were a lot more of us advancing.
The firing from the woods continued, but as we got closer, the shooting slowed. I thought I could make out men pulling back from the trees bordering the field and disappearing into the deep shade of the trees.
“Forward!” Niklas yelled, encouraging the few who were with us to keep moving. Our line was starting to come together, with only fifty yards separating us from the trees.
“The sooner we get there, the sooner they run,” I said.
“Assuming they are actually partisans,” Niklas countered.
I couldn’t argue. If these were grenz or other experienced soldiers, they could easily draw us into the woods and spring an ambush on us.
“Drive them out!” Niklas shouted. “Drive them out! With me!” He took off at a steady trot, and I followed closely behind, making sure the rest of the men were moving with us.
The shooting from the woods stopped and I clearly saw men leaping logs and running full speed away from us.
We burst through the foliage at the edge of the trees and took cover behind trunks. There were no signs of the partisans or whoever had been shooting at us other than a few pieces of paper cartridge scattered among the leaves.
“Do we follow them?” I asked, peering cautiously into the shadows broken by dappled sunlight, the smell of damp earth mixing with gunpowder.
“No,” Niklas said, his eyes adjusting to the shadows. “Too risky with as few men as we have. We drove them off. That’s good enough.”
We held our position along the edge of the woods for a half hour, but saw no sign of the enemy and fired no more shots. Recalled by the sound of the drums, we withdrew and formed up in a column next to the river, where we waited another half hour. Waiting for what, I did not know, but the officers kept looking anxiously at the woods, so perhaps they were expecting an attack.
At last, the decision was made to withdraw back across the river and into the protection -- and comfort -- of the town. As the rear companies about-faced and began to march off, the captain approached.
“Sergeant, your men performed poorly today,” he said from atop a cinnamon-colored horse. “You disappoint me.”
“Sir?” Niklas said, confused. “We took the woods with a handful of men.”
“Apparently your idea of discipline is when half your command runs away at the first sign of trouble. Didn’t you train these men? Didn’t you instruct them on how to fight?”
“Yes, sir, but they are new recruits … ”
“They are Wurttembergers! They fight for our king! They raise their muskets to fight for his honor, and honor must be maintained! Are we clear on that?”
Niklas was crestfallen. “Yes sir.”
“Choose twelve men and meet me in the town square.” He nudged his horse forward and left us standing there.
A buzz was already going through the ranks -- some of the soldiers who ran were going to be shot. The dozen men would be the firing squad.
“I should shoot the captain,” Niklas spat. “I would hang, but it would be worth it.”
“The men need you,” I said.
“The men need nothing from me. If they had listened to what I told them, we wouldn’t have to execute some of them.”
We followed the tail of the column back into town, where it had snaked around the town center on three sides like a giant green snake with white speckles. On the open side, three soldiers were standing with their hands tied behind their backs.
Niklas disgustingly grabbed random men to be part of the firing squad. He was at eleven and trying not to pick on any new recruits.
“I’ll do it,” I said.
He looked at me, holding my gaze for several long seconds, then nodded once.
I moved through the ranks of men and joined the other eleven who were formed up along a line marked in the dirt and faced the center of the square, away from the victims.
The captain rode his horse to the center, stared at the men and stilled his mount.
As the captain puffed out his chest, the anger seeping from his face, I pushed the firing squad into a semblance of order and quietly told them to load their muskets. As the captain began to speak, they hesitated, some with look
s of fear, others with defiance. “Do it!” I hissed. “Or you’ll join them.” The men pulled their ramrods free and angrily went about loading their weapons as the captain’s voice rang out across the square.
“These men are a shameful bunch,” he said, one hand resting on his hip, elbow out, the other on the pommel, reins in hand. “These men ran from the enemy, an enemy that wasn’t even an army, but little more than an armed rabble.” He paused, letting the words sink in. The assembled men shuffled nervously from one foot to the other. “Their cowardice is a disgrace to this battalion, to our army, to our country and to our king!” he said, his voice growing in volume with each word. “They fled while others carried the attack. Their cowardice,” he motioned toward the condemned with a sweeping gesture, “threatens everything we value in this army. I cannot let such shameful behavior go unpunished, lest our army devolve into a mob like that of our enemies. These three are not the only three who ran, but they must bear the punishment for all and serve as an example of what happens to those who do not uphold their commitment to their king.”
The captain looked at Niklas and nodded, giving the signal the execution should commence.
“Are the men ready?” he asked me, his voice uneven.
“Yes. We are loaded and ready to fire on your command.” The response was formal, but it’s what seemed appropriate, if there is such a thing when you are about to murder one of your own countrymen whose only crime was something you had considered doing many times.
“Very well,” Niklas said. He looked at the line of muskets and the faces behind them. Most of their hands were shaking, and one looked like he might be sick. “Each four men will shoot at one target.”
Target, I thought. These were living, breathing comrades, not some rotten log we were practicing marksmanship on.
