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Praetorium Honoris

Tuesday, October 17, 2023

Retrograde March

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"Sarge ..."

"Sarge!"

The medic had to grab the Sergeant's shoulder to get his attention. The man was sitting on a dead log, staring in the direction of where the last militia attack had come from, not ten paces to his front was the body of the Captain.

The Sergeant seemed to snap back into the present and turned to look at the medic. "Yeah, what is it, Doc?"

"You okay, Sarge?" Many of the troops were experiencing the adrenalin let down of what he liked to call the "after battle fog."

"Yeah, just, well, you know ..." The Sergeant was still trying to gather his thoughts, to get his act together. Staring at his dead Captain was delaying that. So he got up.

"Sarge?"

The Sergeant held up one finger, as he walked over to the body. He knelt down, stared for a long moment at the Captain's ruined features, then tugged the man's poncho over his head. He placed a hand on the body's shoulder, closed his eyes for a moment, then got up and walked back to the medic.

"So Doc, I take it this ain't a social call."

"No, the Major is dead, the Sergeant Major is a mess, complete breakdown, your Captain is dead, and the Senior Lieutenant is badly wounded."

"What about the Ensign, he was in the middle, right?" The Sergeant had a look of concern on his face, he was not looking forward to what Doc had to say.

"The kid's missing, Sarge. The fighting in the middle was confused and pretty intense, there's a lotta bodies all over the place. One of his guys thinks he saw the Ensign leading a charge down the hill. He's probably out there, somewhere." Doc gestured vaguely towards where the militia's first attack had hit their lines.

"So I guess that makes me the man ... Shit. All right Doc, I need a list of what we've got left and ..."

Doc handed the Sergeant a piece of paper. "That's the bill for this mess, Sarge."


As the militia straggled into camp, the elderly and the children were ready to go. Everyone who could fight had been up on the hill. Everything was packed on the wagons, everyone who could was ready to head into the mountains. The commander was looking for his leaders, without any luck.

"Commander, where are the others?" Moses' wife asked him. "Where is my husband?"

He thought of that moment when Moses was trying to convince him to leave the field.

"Sir, ain't nothin' for it, we got our asses kicked, but we bought time for the families to pack up. Now we need to get the heck out of here. We hurt the regulars, real bad, I've seen the bodies. They ain't gonna chase us, that's for sure."

An instant later, a stray bullet had hit the man he had known his entire life. He had sat with Moses as he died, the medic tried to save him, but to no avail,

"Sir, in my left breast pocket is an etching of my dear wife, I have carried it for years. Please see that she gets it."

"Now look old friend, you can give it to her yourself ..."

He had felt Moses' grip go slack, he took a deep breath, then he had looked up to see one of his sergeants standing there.

"He's gone, Sir. You need to git too."

He had found the etching, tucked it into a pocket, then headed down to where he stood now, with Moses' wife.

"He's gone, Sarah. A stray bullet took him. He's still up there, with the others we lost. There is no time to mourn, we must be away. Those people up there won't follow, we hurt them too bad, but others will come. Now let's be on our way."

The commander waved his hat in the air and the long column began to move out. Deeper into the mountains, hopefully before any more snow fell. The peaks were already white, he hoped the passes were still clear.


The Sergeant was organizing what was left of the battalion. The 297 they'd started with now numbered less than a hundred and fifty. From what the medic had reported, of the survivors at least half were wounded, some critically.

"Can they be moved?" he had asked.

"No Sir, and with the weather being the way it is, most of them will be dead by nightfall."

The snow had stopped, but the temperature was dropping. Off in the direction of the plains, a long line of dark cloud was on the horizon. The Sergeant knew the battalion was finished, they would be withdrawn and perhaps built back up to strength, or perhaps be disbanded, the soldiers going to other units.

"Corporal."

"Sarge?"

"Find any surviving non-coms, have them report here. Looks like I'm the head guy for now."

"Roger that, Sarge."

As she hustled off, the Sergeant watched her. She moved like a deer and fought like a panther. He wouldn't want to make her angry. Perhaps, someday ...

"Sarge?"

He turned, it was one of his men, a lance corporal, he had fought well. "What's up, Solomon?"

"Found this amongst the dead militia ..." he handed over a cloth bundle.

The Sergeant's senses tingled as he unwrapped it.

"It's the colors. What sort of fool takes that into battle?"

"Probably the guy who took it. But I figured you'd want that."

"Keep it Solomon, keep it safe. We'll give it to the regimental commander if we get out of here."

"If?"

The Sergeant nodded, "Okay, when we get out of here."

They had recovered their regimental colors, as the senior surviving battalion, it was their right to carry it. For whatever it was worth, it would at least cheer the survivors.


The regulars found Nemo's body as they checked the dead and wounded. The wounded militia they killed, no one had ordered them to do it, it just seemed logical. After all, they didn't have enough to treat their own wounded ...

"Why worry about these damned rebels?" one of the men had said upon finding a wounded militiaman. So he had bayoneted the man.

The regulars stripped Nemo of his possessions. The improvised camouflage suit they discarded. The bow and the arrows they snapped into many pieces. When they had found the rifle underneath the corpse, they dug into the man's rucksack and found the scout/sniper's camo suit.

The three men and one woman then headed back down towards the fighting positions. The remnants of the battalion were gathering, it was time to move off.


One other sergeant had survived, along with seven corporals, and twelve lance corporals. The medic volunteered to stay with the wounded. The Sergeant had shaken his head. No healthy soldier would stay behind, other than those wounded who could still march, the rest would stay.

The Sergeant looked around, "Where's the Sergeant Major?"

A lance corporal answered, "He's burying the Major, says he's making a hole big enough for two."

"What ...?"

A shot rang out up the hill, where the battalion command post had been.

"Damn it."

The Sergeant Major had elected to stay with his commanding officer.


As the column moved off, the farm buildings behind them blazed in the gathering gloom. The storm would be here soon.

A number of surviving militia joined the column, those who were wounded were loaded onto the carts, if there was room. Many fell out and were left on the trail.

Of the eight hundred and eighty five militiamen who had gone up the hill, five hundred and twelve had come back down. Of those, fifty six were wounded, of them, thirteen would survive to see the spring.

Into the mountains they went, leaving their dead, and their hopes, behind.


Six weeks later ...

The Sergeant stood to attention as the regimental commander presented him with the colors.

"Major, I trust you will guard there colors with your life. Your predecessors all failed. I am assured that should you come through the spring campaign with honor, the regiment will be allowed to return home. Until then, you stay in the field."

It was taking some time to get used to being called Major. There had been a captain at headquarters who had desperately wanted command of this battalion, until his father-in-law, a general, had pointed out that the battalion was disgraced.

"Not a good career move, son," the old man had said.

So the Sergeant had been jumped up to Major, a temporary promotion he was assured. It was expected that he would take the battalion into the field in the spring. They had been reinforced with over three hundred raw recruits, most of them only semi-trained.

The Sergeant - now the Major, he had to remind himself again - figured that most of the recruits had been offered a trip to prison, or a trip to the front. He doubted that any of them had the stomach for what was to come.

Time would tell.

He looked out the window of the small building at the edge of the encampment, the snow was falling fiercely now. He would have to get the troops out to clear the parade ground and all the pathways around the encampment. The battalion was in semi-disgrace, they would get all the shit jobs this winter.

Come spring, we'll go back out, the Major thought.

Come spring.




48 comments:

  1. Sarge, once again you do a great job of addressing the sadness and honour involved in serving. Thank you.

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  2. The Regulars have interesting issues alluded to. That its "not a good career move" for a Capt. to get command of a "Disgraced Regiment" so a Surviving Sergent become the "Major". The Regiment says in the field until they earn honor AND are getting raw recruits, probably prisoners as recruits. Getting the shit jobs indeed.

    Shades of the French Foreign Legion and brings up a social question. What is the difference between using illegal immigrants or prisoners as shock troops? Who will give quarter or follow the rules of war against "Rebels"?

    The French Foreign Legion was non-French with questionable criminal histories who could "Earn" French Citizenship by serving in various colonial shithole wars. Their loyalty to the Legion was from often savage discipline and the facts their enemies would happily slit their throats if they thought to flee the Legion.

    Foreshadowing interesting times AF Sarg? Your Muse is harsh indeed.

    Excellent both sides story. Looking forward to next installments.

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    1. Thanks, Michael. You raise some good points.

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    2. For a French officer, it was considered an honor to lead them. The Legion troops were intensely loyal to the Legion itself, and to its honor.

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    3. The Legion has its own officers, I assume you mean it was an honor to have the Legion under one's command. They wouldn't necessarily be "leading" them.

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  3. The butchers bill for both sides, oh man. Going to be a tough winter for the militia in the mountains while the regulars are suffering more friction in their routine. Excellent post Sarge.

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  4. "They had recovered their regimental colors, as the senior surviving battalion, it was their right to carry it. For whatever it was worth, it would at least cheer the survivors."

    It's amazing the loyalty troops have to "The Colors." Romans sacrificing themselves to protect the Aquila and Signa, in our War of 1861 men rushing towards what they knew was death to save their regimental banners, a disproportionate number of Medals of Honor were given to flag bearers, and those who captured Confederate colors, in that war.

    Men may not like their officers or NCOs, their mess mates, but will die before allowing The Colors to be disgraced.

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    1. The rally point in battle, the history and tradition behind those colors, they are an important symbol of the regiment.

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  5. Disgraced? I must have missed something...

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    1. They did poorly against the militia in the mountains, according to those in command. How the regiment lost their colors will be covered shortly. I plan on doing a "back to the beginning" post on this series.

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    2. Whoever is leading the militia should've given tactical command to somebody with military experience. At (almost) three to one odds on their home turf...the Regulars should've been destroyed, their uniforms, weapons, ammunition and protective gear confiscated (for use in infiltration guerilla attacks "wearing their colours")--and a very minimal amount of survivors (one or two to go back and tell the story--puts the scare into the troops sent out to find the rebels).

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    3. The company left behind at Rorke's Drift should have been destroyed as well, but they weren't. Circumstance, terrain, and training all get a vote.

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    4. Ah, "should've."

      One of the greatest problems with militias is that their leadership is/was more often than not, based on factors other than military knowledge, military experience or performance. Political or social prominence were the usual winning factors. Personal friendships played a huge role. Militias were usually from a tight knight community both geographically and social, and even some sort of patriarchial leadership role could prevail. It was not uncommon for officers to be elected, and for elections (at their semi-annual militia muster days) to be preceded by "campaigning" at the local tavern with the eventual victors providing refreshments.

      Sometimes such selections of officers worked out okay, given the undisiciplined nature of the militia. The guys in charge were often the same guys everyone was used to obeying in other aspects of their life, so they had that going for them, giving some semblance of good order.

      With the notable exception of an orphaned, overweight Boston bookseller, military knowledge was scant, except for men who had previously served in war with a militia unit, or even as a regular, more often in the ranks than as an officer. But, some men are just naturally good leaders, and have good instincts from hunting or exploring or fighting people whose ancestors roamed the land being claimed by people "from away." In colonial days, warfare was primarily a male occupation but on the frontier (which was the vast western portions of virtually every state) it was every man AND woman's necessity to be a combatant. The survivors got pretty good at fighting.

      Military leadership then was mostly a matter of physical presence and decisiveness, and the ability to get others to execute a plan. Militia had no grand strategy, nothing in the way of logistics to manage or deliver, no means of coordination beyond what a foot messenger might convey slightly beyond visual range. It was warfare at the squad or company level, rarely at the regimental level.

      Despite all the inherent problems, militia did have the great advantage of personal initiative and habits of questioning orders, which fortuitously compensated for the ignorance of military doctrine, much to the chagrin of professional soldiers who expected the other side to fight according to the book rules.

      I am enjoying Sarge's tale. Double rum ration for the Muse has been earned.
      John Blackshoe

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    5. Well, in the American Civil War, the militia suffered such losses until the winter of Valley Forge and von Steuben came over and taught the militia how to be regular troops.

      Militia, even with veterans, tend not to stand well against regular troops in a field battle. Militia are great at being irregulars, at sniping, small unit action, harassment and harrying.

      Think, oh, how US forces in Vietnam stood up against overwhelming odds against basically militia. Or the movie "Patriot" with Mel Gibson and how his troops were great at raids and picking off small units but could not stand against the British regulars. Or how even regular US troops fared against Jihadis in Iraq and Afghanistan.

      It's a problem with militia the world around. No matter how well trained the militia are, against a regular unit of troops with better training and equipment and supplies, the militia fails.

      Now, if the militia had used home-field advantage, not raced into a fight but set up ambushes and traps, denied the regulars the ability to hit a number of militia at once, and, well, acted like irregulars should, they would have done much better. Stalking, firing from hides, being unseen and unheard, you know, like hunters, that's how militia stand up against regulars.

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    6. That's on point, pretty much the only way the militia can win in a stand up battle. They can win the war just by continuing to exist, hoping the enemy tires of the game, or another major power throws in with them. (American Revolution, Vietnam, Afghanistan, I'm sure there are other examples.)

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    7. Beans, perhaps you mean the Revolutionary War?....

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    8. Don - I'm sure he does, but to many, the Revolution was indeed a Civil War.

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    9. That's what I meant by giving tactical command to somebody with military experience. He would've known that irregular militia usually takes a beating from professional troops in a straight up battle. One thing that is sacrosanct for irregular militia is morale. By setting up hides in terrain they know and sniping, setting up lethal and/or wounding traps along the route of march...casualties in the regulars would've mounted and their morale would've plummeted. The militia scout-tracker could've even caused more havoc by harassing them at night--killing or wounding guys taking a bathroom break, etc--instead of getting killed in an ineffectual firefight. Imagine you're a regular grunt marching through unknown woods, getting very little sleep, being paranoid to take a step off the trail to take a dump/leak, paranoid that putting your foot in the wrong place may get a toe or heel blown off with an IED built from a mousetrap and a shotgun shell (then possibly being left behind), watching your buddies wearing body armor being skewered by an arrow. More damage would've been done to the regulars for a lot less cost than the high number of irreplaceable militia men killed for no real good reason.

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    10. Thanks for mentioning the "overweight Boston bookseller" JB! One of my favorite characters in pur history.
      BG

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    11. I am thinking that the overweight bookseller would be Henry Knox?

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    12. favill - You're thinking in 20th Century terms. The commander of the militia does have military experience, 20 years in fact. But there's a lot more going on here which I haven't touched upon yet. You make good points, but this hasn't evolved into that sort of warfare yet, if it even does.

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    13. OAFSarge - Thanks...I'll just sit back and enjoy your story, which is great by the way. Thanks to you and your muse for penning a story that I can get sucked right into. Cheers.

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    14. Glad you're enjoying the story! (Your comments do make me think.)

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  6. These are really good Sarge. They are also really hard to read.

    When the Spring comes - and it will come - neither side will have any interest in backing things down. Both sides have suffered and both sides now have grudges to bear. And even should the government forces prevail, there will be a smoldering hatred that will rear itself again and again.

    Wars are terrible, civil wars are worse. No one in the right mind ever thinks it is an option.

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    1. And yet we humans never seem to learn that. Well, to be fair, the so-called "leaders" never seem to learn that.

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    2. Beg to differ, THB. Civil Wars are awful, but they ARE an "option" when the other choice is slavery. As VDH has so safely pointed out; there are no "good" and "bad" choices in war, only selecting "bad" from"worse". It's not a question of being in the "right mind" to fight for survival of Kith and Kin.
      Boat Guy

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    3. Meant to refer to VDH as "sagely". Damn gulag.
      BG

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    4. BG #1 - it's always an option.

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    5. BG #2 - Spellcheck is not your friend. Ever.

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    6. Well, VDH did safely point it out, as he's not injured or anything. Damned hangnails on the keyboard hurts bigly, you know.

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    7. BG - Legitimately you are correct; civil war is "an" option. Just not really an option from where I sit I suppose. History at best has very little good to say about the outcome.

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    8. Sorry to say THB as it's increasingly becoming an "option"; NOT an option I want but an option I am daily being forced into.
      BG

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  7. I've heard it said (or read, maybe): "Sometimes in war, only the dead are winners; the survivors have lost everything, even their lives." I had thought that a strange thing to say, but yes. They will go on, the living, into new lives. The lives they'd had are left on the battlefield. That's part of why I felt like I did when I was discharged: old life, gone; here's a new one!

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    1. After I retired from the Air Force I felt rather adrift for a while. But coming through a battle, losing friends, seeing folks die, maybe having to kill people, damn, that's gotta be tough.

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  8. It's telling that the militia "dependents" were packed and ready; speaks to discipline and acceptance of reality. They too are doing their part.
    BG

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  9. Good but sad story. Melancholy. Nobody wins in the short-term. Maybe the country will win against the government.

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  10. OAFS, I am enjoying this story in some ways but as Beans stated "good but sad story."

    I am getting the feeling that the setting of this story is a similar, alternate history. Rods, leagues, carts and other indicators point me that way.

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  11. It's called "autocorrupt" for a reason.

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