Sergent Maurice Leduc lit his pipe, took a deep lungful of smoke, then sat back against the side of the horse stall, casting a gimlet eye at Kossakowski. He hadn't spoken since the meeting around the campfire had begun. Occasionally one of the men would cast a gaze in his direction, nervous about saying anything which would draw their noncom's anger. But the old veteran had sat quietly, letting the men get their first experiences of war off their chests.
Leduc had been surprised when the journalist had followed him into the barn.
"What makes you think I wish to speak with you, newspaperman?" That last word coming out of the sergeant's mouth with all of the disdain he could muster.
The Pole paused for a moment, then spoke, "I don't assume you wish to speak with me, but the men all talk of their first battle as something wonderful to remember. It was a victory, but that was thrown away when your army withdraw from Saarbrücken. What do you, as a veteran, feel about that?"
Leduc looked hard at the journalist, he had to wonder if the man knew anything of his record in the army. Leduc was indeed a long serving soldier. He had seen his first action in the Crimea, nearly eighteen years ago. Since then he had fought in the Italian War¹, had taken a slight wound at the Battle of Solferino, his unit was preparing to be transported to Mexico when he had been transferred to a new unit requiring seasoned non-commissioned officers. Otherwise he probably would have died in the New World, as many of his old unit had.
All he said to the journalist was, "Yes, I've been around. I've seen my share of soldiering. But it isn't the fighting you should learn about, it's what preceded it."
"And what was that?" Kossakowski drew his own pipe out, he decided not to take notes, but simply listen. Some men were annoyed when he took notes, one officer had referred to him as "an infernal scribbler." Which, in truth, he was. But he was here to learn, then to tell the stories to others.
"When mobilization occurred, it was utter chaos. Men reporting to their depots to find no one there to receive them. Once someone showed up, often there was nothing to issue the troops. No weapons, no ammunition, no rations, some men marched off to war still wearing their civilian clothes. Eventually it got sorted out, but many units were understrength when they went into battle."
"Was your unit one of those, were you at full strength at Saarbrücken?"
"No, not even close. Our company strength was on average ninety men, it should have been one hundred and twenty. Our regiment went into Saarbrücken with two battalions, instead of the prescribed three. A battalion is supposed to have eight companies, two remaining at the depot, six in the field, many battalions had to strip their depot companies in order to get enough men to serve with the field companies."
"And yet, you still managed to hurt the Prussians at Saarbrücken and then later at Spicheren, yes?"
Leduc stood up, tapping his pipe bowl out on the heel of his boot, he then ground the embers into the dirt floor of the barn. He cast a look at Kossakowski, then he looked out through the barn door at the snow falling on the rugged Swiss countryside.
He removed his kepi, and with one hand smoothed his hair back, his hairline was receding, and if one looked closely the hair atop his head was sparse. Leduc set his kepi back on his head then turned to the journalist.
"Spicheren, bravest thing I've ever seen ..."
"How so?"
"Those Prussian boys just kept coming, do you know that our Chassepots outrange their rifles by quite a bit. We can start firing on them long before we are in range of their fire. But they just kept coming on, regardless of casualties."
Leduc spat out the door and continued, "We had nearly expended our ammunition, the hillside, more like a cliff really, was carpeted with dead men. Many of them had removed their boots to get better footing on the rocky slope ..."
"Removed their boots, why?"
Leduc lifted his left foot, showing the sole of his boot, "See those hobnails?"
"Yes, of course, but ..." suddenly a light dawned in the Pole's eyes.
"Good on almost any sort of ground except rock. The nails tend to make your feet slip out from under you." Leduc explained.
"So they took their boots off?"
"Many of them, yes. And while they were struggling up that steep slope, we were firing on them. You could hardly miss they were so packed together. They died in rows, piled one atop the other. But they still kept coming."
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Sturm auf den Spicherer Berg
Anton von Werner
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"Yes, that is brave, I suppose one cannot fault the German soldier for his bravery." Kossakowski nodded.
"Their officers suffered horribly. Our Chassepots are very accurate, even at longer ranges. We'd see a fellow waving his sword about and BANG, down he'd go. We also sought out drummers and buglers ..."
"Doesn't seem very sporting ..." Kossakowski began.
"Sporting?" Leduc shook his head in amazement.
"This is war we're talking about, not tennis or croquet. Men killing each other for reasons we barely understand. We do it because someone says we must. So we kill. We killed many Germans that day."
"And then?"
"Why we withdrew of course. Our generals are seemingly very good at getting us in good positions, then withdrawing because they worry about their flanks. But the Germans, they press on regardless. War is nothing but chaos my dear Kossakowski. Chaos drenched in blood. Only a fool cries for war."
"Only a fool." Leduc repeated himself, then fell into a sullen silence.
Kossakowski quickly left the barn. He wanted to get back to his hotel and write all of this down while it was still fresh in his mind. He wondered if any soldier could ever drive such scenes from his own mind. He doubted it.
¹ This would have been the Second Italian War of Independence in 1859.
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