Junot's Tale, as Told to M. Kossakowski - On to Prussia!

Le Rêve¹
Édouard Detaille (PD)

Pierre Junot, a newly assigned conscript, slept on the ground with the other members of his battalion. He was exhausted, though his training had included a lot of marching, this advance into the Prussian Rhine Province was far more strenuous than anything they had done in training. Of course, that the enemy was firing upon them with live ammunition was one big difference.

Their orders were to seize the town of Saarbrücken. Though many of the army's generals wanted to stay on the defensive and bleed Prussia's armies on their field works, the French public hungered for an attack. So the Emperor, Napoléon III, ordered the Army of the Rhine to attack.

On the first day, Junot had seen his first action, a minor skirmish against elements of the Prussian 40th Infantry Regiment. The enemy seemed content to fall back, as if waiting for events elsewhere before committing any strength to halt the French advance.

His officers had hailed the advance as a great victory, "Worthy of your grandfathers!" one of the battalion staff had shouted when they had halted for the night. Junot didn't know whether or not his grandfather had been in the army, he doubted it. His family weren't all that patriotic.

But the man who commanded his platoon, Lieutenant Jean de Caumont, had had a grandfather who had marched and fought for the great Napoléon himself. He had scoffed at the staff officer's shout.

"Yes, a short advance into the Saarland, that's just like Austerlitz, or Wagram, or any of a hundred of the victories of the First Empire."

In response to Junot's stunned look at one officer mocking another, de Caumont had slapped the young Soldat on the back and said, "Some of the staff have overblown images of themselves. You and I, Soldat, we shall do our duty. That's all that matters."

In the soft glow of the firelight, Junot watched the journalist scribbling on his note pad. He hadn't even gotten to the most interesting part of his story yet. He had been somewhat nervous at relating the story about his lieutenant, who sat across the fire from him, but had relaxed once more when the lieutenant had nodded and lifted his glass of wine to him.

"We did our duty, didn't we, Junot?" the man had said as he lifted his glass.

Junot hoped that he had done his duty, wished that others had done so as well. Then maybe they wouldn't be sitting in this drafty Swiss barn telling tales to a foreign newspaperman.

His battalion had advanced in loose skirmish order, two companies in the rear staying formed up in column while the other companies advanced by twos. One man holding his fire while the other picked a target and fired. The two would then swap positions, steadily moving forward.

The Prussians facing them had been a little surprised to discover that the French Chassepot rifles outranged their own Dreyse rifles. The first volleys had seen the Prussian bullets fall short, whereas a number of French bullets had found homes in Prussian flesh.

After that the Prussians began skirmishing more effectively, using cover as they slowly fell back towards Saarbrücken.

Junot and his partner, a man named Fresnel, had been near the rear of the cloud of skirmishers. But the officers were wisely moving fresher men to the front, cycling the men up and then back so that no one was exposed to enemy fire for very long. As he and Fresnel got closer to the main firing line, Junot's nervousness increased.

His palms were sweaty and he was rather jumpy. He supposed that yes, he was scared, but no more so than any other man. After all, it was all rather like a big game. One side would move forward while the other drew back, both sides firing their rifles to little effect, or so it seemed.

Fresnel was holding back, it was Junot's turn to advance and fire. As he dropped to one knee, he saw another pair of skirmishers cycling back to the rear. As they came past him, the man nearest him grunted, then fell to the ground with a sharp cry of anguish.

Junot turned, the man was on his belly, squirming like a fish out of water. That's when Junot saw the blood soaking through the back of the man's coat. He had been shot!

"Pierre, fire! What are you waiting for?" Fresnel yelled at him, he hadn't seen the man fall next to Junot.

Shaking himself, Junot aimed his rifle to the front. He aimed at a man on horseback, a man, no doubt an officer, directing the Prussian skirmishers opposing them. He aimed carefully then pulled his trigger, gently as he'd been taught.

When the smoke from his round had cleared, he saw the horse, but the man was no longer on the horse.

"My God," he moaned, "did I just kill someone?"

Fresnel passed him, moving forward to pick his own target. "Come on, boy, load up and follow me. We need to kill more of these Boches!"

Pierre felt sick to his stomach.

Kossakowski looked up from his scribbling, Junot had gone silent, as had the other men around the fire.

"Was that the first man you ever shot?" he asked Junot, who was staring intently into the fire.

Sergent Leduc answered for Junot, "You never forget the first one, other faces, other circumstances may fade over time, but the first time you discharge your weapon and see a fellow human fall to your bullet, that is something you never forget."

"But how do you know that Junot killed him? Maybe the man simply fell from his horse, maybe someone else shot him."

"He was still alive when Fresnel and I reached his position," Junot spoke up, then fell silent again, holding his cup out for more wine.

"But still ..." Kossakowski interjected.

"My bullet did not kill him. He had been hit low in the belly, he was in immense pain. His eyes pleaded with me, for what I don't know. To heal him? To absolve him of his sins? I don't know, I think it was to relieve him from the pain of his wound. I don't know ..."

Junot's voice trailed off and he gulped down the wine in his cup, extended his hand for more. When his cup was again full, he continued.

"My bullet didn't kill him, my bayonet did. I killed this wounded Prussian officer as an act of mercy. That's what I tell myself now. But at the time I stabbed him I did it out of hatred. I hated the man for making me go to war, even though I know now that he was just a soldier, like me, doing what he was told."

"No one could blame you ..."

"May God forgive me, I cannot forgive myself." Junot stated then stood up as if to go.

Lieutenant de Caumont also stood, "I think that is enough for one night, gentlemen. Monsieur Kossakowski, perhaps we can continue this on the morrow, subject to circumstances of course."

Kossakowski nodded, "Of course, Lieutenant. Here?"

"Yes, we will sleep here tonight. Perhaps dream of past glories. There is little else to succor us now. Goodnight. Sergent Leduc, post a sentry, the rest of you try and get some sleep."

"A sentry, Sir?"

"Did I stutter, Leduc?"

"Very good, Sir. Four hour watches?"

"Yes, wake me at midnight."

"Sir."

As Kossakowski returned to the small inn where he was staying, he wondered how he was going to write this tale. Perhaps he should wait until he'd heard it all before proceeding. This was turning out to be far more emotional than he'd anticipated.

War is certainly a horrible thing, he thought as he crawled into bed. I wonder how, or if, I could handle it?

¹ The Dream. Soldiers of the French Army in 1870 dream of the glories of the armies of the first French Empire. Allegorical no doubt.