The Prussian Cavalry

Heinrich XVII, Prinz Reuß, an der Seite der fünften Eskadron I Garde-Dragoner-Regiments bei Mars-la-Tour, den 16 August 1870¹
Emil Hünten (PD)

The wind was picking up, Kossakowski pulled the lapels of his coat together and looked for a place to get out of the wind. The moving air seemed to slice right through his clothing. As he rounded a corner, he saw the young conscript, what was his name? Ah, yes, Junot, Soldat Junot.

The young man was sitting on a crate up against the wall of a shed. He was drinking something out of a bottle, Kossakowski couldn't tell what it was. He stood in front of the young soldier.

"Mind if I join you?"

Junot looked up, his eyes were bloodshot and he hadn't shaved in a few days, he looked rather scruffy for a soldier.

"Suit yourself, newspaperman." Junot said that with a certain amount of scorn.

Kossakowski didn't say anything, he just sat down next to the man, glad to be out of the wind. He didn't say a word, reaching into his coat, he pulled out a cheroot.

"Got any more of those?" Junot asked.

Kossakowski remained quiet, he simply handed the cheroot over, then reached for another. He lit Junot's for him, then lit his own up. After that the two men sat in companionable silence for quite a while.

Junot pulled his bottle out, the Pole thought it was beer, and Junot took a long pull on it, then set it beside the crate. He sighed as he did so. Kossakowski knew that sound, the sound of a man, who had perhaps drank too much, realizing that he was all out of whatever it was he'd been imbibing.

Junot took a long pull on his cheroot, coughed loudly, then tossed the cheroot aside.

"I'm more of a pipe man myself, but haven't found any tobacco worth smoking here." Junot offered. Kossakowski grunted as if in agreement.

After a few more long moments of silence, Junot slumped back against the barn, then wrapped his arms around himself. The young soldier shook his head, then spat into the snow.

"Horses."

Kossakowski looked at Junot and asked, "What about them?"

"They're big animals."

Kossakowski nodded, "Yes, they can be."

"Those Prussians ride some pretty big horses. Scary animals when there's a lot of them together. Scarier still when the men on their backs want to kill you."

Junot watched as the French cavalry charged. He had been surprised to see the horsemen advance at first a walk, then gradually increase their speed until they were almost upon the enemy. As the trumpet sounded the charge, a volley had crashed out. Powder smoke quickly obscured the field.

"Form up, form ranks you bastards!" It seemed as if all of the sergeants and not a few officers were yelling the same thing. Junot felt someone push him forward into a rough line.

A horse, without a rider, came out of the powder smoke, its eyes were open and rolling wildly, the animal was clearly in distress. Junot saw that the horse's chest and saddle were drenched in blood. He wondered whether it was from the rider, or from he animal itself. Perhaps both.

That single horse was followed by more, most with riders, all fleeing as if their lives depended on it, which they surely did as a mass of Prussian cavalry burst from the slowly dissipating smoke, pursuing the disordered French heavy cavalry.

Junot felt the ranks waiver, he had an enormous urge to urinate. He didn't know what to do and no one was giving any orders at the moment. That's when a Prussian lancer, they called them uhlans, dashed at Junot and the men to either side of him. That's when he realized that the other men in his company had fled. It was just him and two others.

The lancer thrust his weapon at Junot, who remembered his training and used his rifle to parry the blow. The lance impaled the arm of the man to his right, who screamed in pain and fury. Junot watched as the wounded man drove his bayonet into the horse's belly.

The animal reared, screaming in pain, unseating its rider. The lancer fell heavily, grunting in pain as he hit the ground. Then he too was screaming as Junot and the man to his left drove their bayonets into the young Prussian. The cavalryman arched his back, then tried to wriggle out from under the blades piercing him.

"Cochon!²" Junot bellowed as he pulled his bayonet back and then thrust it again, this time into the Prussian's throat, pinning him to the earth.

"Jesus, Pierre, I think you killed him good, we need to get out of here."

The wounded man, a fellow named Henri, shouted, "That gully, to our left rear, make for that."

Junot followed the two men, looking back to see if there were any more cavalrymen about, yes, there was another. An officer from the look of him, the Prussian spurred his mount and headed directly for the fleeing Frenchmen.

"Pierre! Watch out!"

Henri's warning was unnecessary, Junot took aim and fired. The Prussian officer jerked back in his saddle as Junot's round hit him in the chest. The man's sword dropped from his lifeless grip and the officer's face went blank. But the horse continued on, nearly bowling Junot over as it passed.

"Here, get down!"

Junot scrambled into the depression in the earth as Adolphe Lambert pulled Junot down beside him.

"Henri, are you alright?" Junot saw that Henri Coulomb's injured arm was bleeding profusely.

"It hurts, Pierre."

Lambert was digging through his pack and pulled out his spare shirt. He handed it to Junot and said, "Bind that up, I'll watch for Prussians."

He did so.

"We were there for only a short time before the counterattack swept over us, driving those Prussians away. We fell back and found our unit, Henri went back to the surgeons." Junot sat on slumped upon crate, he shuddered at the memory of that day. "The surgeons took his arm, he died three days later."

"At least the weather was warm," he added as he looked at the snowy street.

Kossakowski simply nodded, then asked, "What was that you were drinking?"

"Drinking? Oh, beer, it was beer. I'm not much of a beer man, I prefer wine, or a good applejack." Junot shook his head again, as if to drive the memory of Mars-la-Tour from his brain.

Kossakowski stood and reached his hand out to Junot, "Are you hungry?"

"Hungry? Sure, I guess."

"Come along, let's get you a meal, perhaps a nice bottle of wine." Kossakowski helped Junot to his feet.

"Will you write about that?"

"About ..."

"What I just told you."

"Maybe. Do you want me to?"

"No. Well, yes ... I don't know. Would your readers like it?"

Kossakowski didn't answer the question. "Do you know that those Prussians were cut to pieces after they overran your unit?"

"No, I did not."

"They were, destroyed a number of regiments, your guns and infantry did."

"Really?"

"Yes, and your little stand allowed Bazaine the time to send up those reinforcements you saw."

Junot heard the name of the French general, then spat in the snow.

"Bazaine, that bastard threw away our victory. We were gaining on our right, the Prussians were falling back in disorder, then we were ordered to halt and defend."

"You don't say?"

Junot nodded, "I do, ask Lieutenant de Caumont. Hell, ask anyone."

Kossakowski nodded, "I will. Now let's get you that meal. I know a place."

¹ Heinrich XVII, Prince Reuss, alongside the 5th Squadron of the 1st Guard Dragoon Regiment at Mars-la-Tour, August 16, 1870.

² Pig!

Mars-la-Tour, Late Morning

La ligne de feu, 16 août 1870
Pierre-Georges Jeanniot (PD)

"Were you there, Sergent?"

Maurice Leduc looked up from where he was sitting at the side of the old barn which his platoon was living in. "Was I where?"

Leduc seemed annoyed at being interrupted, Kossakowski had the impression that the sergeant didn't like him all that much.

"Mars-la-Tour. With Lieutenant de Caumont."

Leduc's face went blank for a moment, then he shuddered involuntarily. "Yes, I was."

Leduc stood up and looked at the newspaperman, "Walk with me."

Kossakowski said not a word, he simply fell in beside the Frenchman as he began to stroll away from the barn. Not towards the town, but towards the open fields nearby which in summer would yield fodder for the Swiss cows, but now lay underneath a blanket of snow.

When they were some distance from the barn, Leduc stopped. He quickly ran the cuff of his greatcoat over his face. Turning away from Kossakowski, he began to speak.

"I was a fairly new sergent then. Oh, I'd been in the Army for quite a few years, but a fondness for drink and a lack of motivation kept me from getting promoted and staying at whatever rank I held. I was a good enough soldier to not get shown the door, but I was lazy. Made corporel in Crimea, almost lost it after coming back to France, I was in a brawl. But at Solferino I fought well enough to be reinstated as a corporel. At some point between Crimea and this war starting, I think I grew up. At least I became a better soldier."

"You see, I had joined the Army to get away from the family farm in Normandy. That farm had been in my family for generations, my younger brother was keen to be a farmer, I was not. It would have been my inheritance if I had stayed, but I didn't stay. As soon as I was old enough, I joined the Army. Haven't been home since."

"Do you write your family?" Kossakowski asked.

Leduc shook his head, "No, I do not. What is there to say? What is there to ask? I went home once, after the Crimea, I had nothing in common with my father, my brother, or anyone else in the nearby village. I had no desire to stay, they had no desire to hear my stories. So I left, never to return."

"Were none of your family soldiers? Most of France seems to have ancestors who marched with the Emperor, and I mean the first one, not his nephew."

"My grandmother had an uncle who marched with Napoléon, went all the way to Moscow, came all the way back. Lost two fingers on his left hand at Leipzig and was invalided out. But when the Emperor returned from Elba, apparently the old fool rejoined the colors and marched into Belgium."

"He didn't return from that one."

"You never met him?"

"No, but I would have liked to, my old granny was rather fond of him. She told me stories of him and his campaigns. Made it all sound like an adventure. Now that I'm older, I realize old Uncle Pierre didn't tell her the things all soldiers want to forget."

Kossakowski stayed silent, figuring it best to let Leduc set the pace. He'd either talk, or he'd walk away.

Leduc's eyes went blank, he was looking towards the horizon, which with the Swiss mountains wasn't that far away, but wasn't really seeing anything. In his mind's eye he could picture those young Germans advancing, and dying by the dozen. Then he started talking.

"We were going through our ammunition very quickly. I swear that my rifle barrel was hot enough to glow red. We had to rummage through the cartridge boxes of the dead and the wounded to replenish our bullets."

"I remember tearing open young Anton's cartridge box, he protested loudly but he couldn't stop me, his hands were busy trying to stuff his guts back into his belly. But the kid wanted to fight, refused to believe he was dying. He was tugging at my trouser leg as I reloaded and fired, over and over I fired."

"When I was nearly out again, I realized that Anton was no longer tugging at my pants, when I looked down, I saw that he had died. He was only seventeen I think."

"Young." Kossakowski offered.

"Yes, too young to be out there on that field, but he was there. A good kid, a good soldier, he went down at the first volley. Some German kid probably didn't even know he'd killed Anton. Odds are, that German kid died that day. We killed hundreds of the bastards. But then their damned artillery came up once more."

"We fell back, had to, we were getting slaughtered by those Krupp guns. But we had come so close to driving the Prussians back across the Moselle. We destroyed an entire battalion, though our colonel sent message after message begging for reinforcements to roll up the entire German army, nothing. We had them, we could have ended the war then and there, but our generals were either too stupid or too timid to do anything."

"So we withdrew towards Rezonville. As we did so, the cavalry came up to cover the withdrawal. The guard cuirassiers charged the Prussian infantry, and were cut to pieces. More of our lads came up and held the Prussians back long enough for us to get clear. But it was obvious, we'd been licked."

"Is that when the Prussians launched their cavalry attack?" Kossakowski asked.

"Yes, but ..." Leduc broke off and turned abruptly on his heel, heading back towards his bivouac.

Kossakowski watched him go, realizing that Leduc was done talking for now.

Le Village

Contre-attaque d'infanterie dans un village, 1870
Paul-Louis-Narcisse Grolleron
Source

Lieutenant de Caumont was awake still, the sun was just coming up and the men were preparing breakfast.

"Are you going to eat, Sir?"

De Caumont turned, "No, but thank you Sergent Leduc. I'm going down to the town to speak with the journalist. But keep that to yourself for now."

"Oui, monsieur, certainement."

As de Caumont walked down the farm track to the village, it was only a few hundred meters, it gave him time to think. The events at the Battle of Mars-la-Tour had haunted him for months now. Perhaps telling someone who had not been involved with it might prove cathartic. He couldn't speak with the men about it, it might damage his authority, or so he thought. If he lost the men's confidence, he would be useless as an officer.

He pushed the door open to the small café, and there was Kossakowski waiting for him. On the table were some Gipfeli, which he still insisted on calling croissants though they were smaller and denser than a typical French croissant. There were two coffee cups as well, one the journalist was drinking from, the other sat empty, waiting for his arrival no doubt.

"How could you be so sure I would come?" he asked the Pole.

"A hunch, I sensed last night that you wanted to talk. That you needed to talk."

"Perhaps." de Caumont signaled to the man waiting tables to bring the coffee pot.

The first attack had been driven back, leaving numerous Prussians lying on the field, victims of the concentrated fire of his men's Chassepots. Then the Prussian artillery arrived.

The Krupp C64 guns were breechloaders, capable of a faster rate of fire than the muzzleloading cannon available to the French that day. The Prussian fuses were also superior, their shells would explode on impact, unlike the French fuses which were timed to explode at a certain point after leaving the barrel. A good gunner could set the fuse to explode at just the right time, based on his estimate of range. But not every battery had such a gunner.

As the Prussian cannon fire began impacting all around them, the men were getting reluctant to expose themselves. Many of them would poke their rifles over the walls they were sheltering behind and fire blindly. Under the cover of this cannon fire the Prussians managed to drive the French back.

De Caumont looked for his sergeant, one Maxwell Bénard, the man seemed to be everywhere at once, rallying the men, trying to get them to fire accurately, and was having some success. It was time to pull back, out of the village, it would take the Prussians time to consolidate their forces after taking the town, time in which they could either counterattack or withdraw. Based on his experiences so far in this war, de Caumont fully expected an order to fall back.

"Monsieur! The Prussians are milling about in the town, I don't think their generals realize that they've taken the place. Do we go back in?" Sergent Bénard had shown up with the remnants of the 3rd Platoon, which was down to just fourteen men.

De Caumont looked around, he saw another company to his left, the men seemed confused and unsure of what to do. He didn't see any officers with them and a single corporal seemed to be in charge.

"Bénard, good to see you, I thought you had fallen. Get the men ready, we're going back in." Then he turned and went to the corporal of the other company.

"Corporel! Where are your sergeants, your officers?"

The man turned and snapped to attention, "I don't know, Sir. I last saw my Lieutenant just as he was decapitated by an enemy shell. Our Sergent was hit as well. The men ran at that point, but I think they are willing to go forward again."

De Caumont drew his sword and shouted at the men behind the corporal, "Will you men follow me? Will you help my company drive those bastards from the town? For the honor of our regiment, for the honor of France!"

At first the men looked at each other with uncertainty, then an older man stepped forward and bellowed, "I will go! Who will follow?"

With a roar, the men of the other company aligned themselves and looked to de Caumont.

He pointed his sword at the village and bellowed, "En avant! Vive la France! Vive l'Empereur!"

Kossakowski set his cup down and looked at de Caumont, "Did they follow?"

"Yes, yes they did. We retook the village, but the cost was too high. Bénard fell, as did many of the soldiers. The Corporel, whose name I never did get, was killed as well, just as the last Prussian fled. Other regiments were attacking and the Prussian guns fell back, but not before killing my Sergent and the Corporel." de Caumont's gaze drifted to the window, his face went blank for a moment, then a shadow seemed to sweep over him and he looked down at the table.

"Are you all right, Monsieur?"

"Yes, no, I don't know Kossakowski, I ... What is your given name?"

"Tadeusz, my friends in the United States call me Ted. Feel free to address me as that."

"Very well, Ted, I am Jean. I must return to my company. Can we meet later? There is more to tell of Mars-la-Tour, where I saw the death ride of the Prussian cavalry."

"Dinner perhaps, here?"

"Very good, I will see you at sunset?"

"That will be excellent."

As de Caumont donned his greatcoat and left the café, Kossakowski watched the man, his eyes following him outside, where he noticed that it was snowing again. He shook his head.

His glance fell on a small pile of Swiss coins on the table which he hadn't noticed before, "Hhmm, decent of de Caumont to pay, he didn't eat anything and barely drank his coffee."

He returned to his hotel room and consulted his notes, then added to them. He needed to ask the lieutenant if he could be introduced to someone higher up, perhaps even a brigadier. It would be interesting to get their view of Mars-la-Tour.

He knew what had happened, but did the reality match the view at headquarters?

Dreams of Battle

Attaque d'une voie ferrée
Édouard Detaille
Source

Lieutenant Jean de Caumont sat up abruptly and shivered, his dreams had always been vivid, even as a youth he had remembered many of them. But these dreams were horrible and far too real for his liking. He shivered again as he took in his surroundings. A barn? Why was in a barn? Then it came to him, Switzerland, the internment. The Emperor, gone, the Army, lost. He shook his head, as if to clear it, which the man on sentry duty noticed.

"Are you all right, mon Lieutenant?"

De Caumont squinted, it was hard to make out who it was on duty, he had let his sergeant make out the roster. The voice sounded familiar, but the smoky room prevented him from clearly seeing the man.

"Junot?"

"Yes Sir, it's me, Soldat Junot. Again I ask you, are you all right, Sir?"

"Yes, Soldat, I'm fine, a bad dream, nothing more. I'm going outside to get some air."

"Yes Sir."

Stepping out into the cold air, de Caumont was startled to see the journalist, Kossakowski, outside as well, smoking a cheroot, staring off into the distance. When the door behind de Caumont closed, the noise seemed to startle the Pole.

"My apologies, Monsieur, I didn't mean to startle you like that."

"It is nothing Lieutenant, I couldn't sleep, so I came here to smoke and to have a word with the men who were still awake."

As de Caumont pulled on his gloves, the air was a bit colder than he liked, he looked harshly at the newspaperman, "You weren't talking to my sentries were you?"

"No, of course not, I know better than to interrupt a man while he is on duty. I was once a soldier myself. I marched with Colonel Miniewski during the January Uprising of 1863. I hadn't been a soldier for very long when we met up with Garibaldi's Legion and fought, and defeated, the Russians at Podłęże. When the uprising eventually failed, I fled Poland. I went at first to England, then to the United States."

De Caumont had listened to the Pole's brief story as he packed his pipe, lighting it, he drew on it to make sure it was going well, then asked the Pole, "Why haven't you mentioned this before?"

"I didn't wish to give the men the impression that I might understand their situation. I was only a soldier for a brief time, less than three months. The men might leave out details in their stories, perhaps assuming that I might understand what would go unspoken between soldiers."

De Caumont drew hard on his pipe, the wind kept interfering with its draw, then he grunted in disgust and tapped the bowl out onto the ground, grinding the smoldering ashes into the hard ground, frozen as it was.

"I gather you're not out here to inspect the sentries, otherwise you wouldn't be talking to me. Couldn't sleep?"

De Caumont stepped closer to the Pole and said, "For one of those cheroots, I'll tell you why I'm out here. I'll tell you why I haven't had a good night's sleep since Mars-la-Tour."

Kossakowski reached inside of his coat and produced a cheroot, handing it to the Frenchman. When the cheroot was well-lit, he looked at the officer, "Well?"

The day had started badly, de Caumont explained to the newspaperman. "The cavalry to our front, a brigade of dragoons, hadn't bothered to send out patrols. The Prussians came upon them and drove them back under artillery fire. The first we knew of the enemy's presence was a horde of panicked horsemen fleeing through our bivouac."

"And then?"

De Caumont related how he had his men stand to and then form a skirmish line near Rezonville. They drove off a strong push by Prussian cavalry but soon received orders to fall back.

"So far in this war, I have seen my men fight bravely, only to be told to withdraw. Our leaders seem to have no concept of how to fight a war. I have this recurring dream, my men are on line, firing, killing the enemy, who just keep coming. In the dream I see my men fall, I see that the Prussians are being led by a French general."

De Caumont paused, shaking himself, he continued, "That French traitor is telling the Prussians exactly where to attack, all the while calling upon us, his own soldiers, to throw down our arms and surrender. I wake up at the same moment in this dream, I look up to see a shell from a Krupp gun heading directly at me. I awaken just as it explodes."

Kossakowski said nothing, then he nodded and tossed his cheroot into the snow. "Your country seems to go from one misstep to another. The Emperor gets himself defeated and captured at Sedan, while Bazaine struggles to hold Metz. To what purpose I wonder? Then a new republic is proclaimed in Paris, Bonapartists are relieved of their positions, new men, inexperienced men, take over. It was, and remains, a mess."

"Indeed, it is. Now if you will excuse me, I do need to make my rounds. We are far from any enemy but the men expect the routine to continue. So I post sentries to defend against a non-existent threat, then I inspect the posts to ensure everyone is taking the game seriously."

"A game, mon Lieutenant?"

"At this point, yes. But come and see me later, I will tell you my story, not just the nightmare from that time which haunts me still. Get some sleep, Monsieur, there will be plenty of time for story telling on the morrow. Goodnight."

"Bon nuit, mon Lieutenant, à bientôt¹."

¹ Good night, Lieutenant, see you soon.

Sergent Leduc - Tales of Chaos

Source

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."

Sturm auf den Spicherer Berg
Anton von Werner
Source

"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.

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.

The End, and a Beginning

A section of the Bourbaki-Panorama in Lucerne, Switzerland
Edouard Castres

Soldat Pierre Junot shuffled along the track, the snow had been compacted by the hundreds of men, horses, and wagons which had passed this way. It was slippery in spots and a number of men had fallen already. At first it had been amusing, then one old soldier had lost his mind.

"This is funny to you?" he had screamed at a young lieutenant.

"Now see here old fellow ..." the lieutenant had tried to pass it off, but the old soldier wasn't having any of it.

"The honor of France has been compromised. Our banners once swept Europe from the plains of Spain to the spires of Moscow. We crushed all who stood in our way, now we are letting ourselves be disarmed by the bloody Swiss! This day I am ashamed to be French!"

A senior sergeant had stepped forward from the shuffling column. "That's enough grand-père, everyone is on edge. Besides which, you wouldn't remember the time of the great Napoléon. What are you, fifty-something? The Emperor died before you were born."

Turning from the lieutenant he had been berating, the old soldier got in the sergeant's face.

"My father marched with the Emperor, he was old when I was born. But I remember his stories, once upon a time all of Europe trembled at the approach of French soldiers. AND NOW THIS!"

The old man turned quickly and pulled the lieutenant's pistol from its holster. Unfortunately for him, the lanyard which secured the weapon to its owner got entangled and the old fellow was unable to do anything with the weapon. As he turned to again scream at someone over his fate, the sergeant used the butt of his rifle to knock the old soldier down.

After the man fell, his blood bright on the snow, the lieutenant managed to compose himself. "Sergent, get the men back in order. Give me two men to bind this man," he gestured at the old man lying at his feet, "then we must move on. We are causing a pile up here on the track."

Indeed, the column had halted when the altercation had begun, an officer on horseback was shouting at the men to get moving and a lot of pushing and shoving was going on. Discipline was rapidly deteriorating.

"ENOUGH!"

Sergent Leduc had fired his rifle at the same time he had bellowed at the men.

"Fall in and march you bastards. The Prussians embarrassed us, we outnumbered them by two to one at the Lisaine, now you wish to show the damned Swiss what a laughingstock the French Army has become? Fall in and march or I will shoot you all, one by one."

As Junot's battalion shuffled on, Pierre looked back once, he saw the sergeant who had struck down the old man kneeling next to the still form lying in the snow, he was looking at his lieutenant, shaking his head. No doubt the old man was dead.

They had piled their weapons in great heaps, the Swiss soldiers had simply pointed where to drop their rifles and where to move to. Junot and his comrades were sitting near a barn on the outskirts of the town they had marched to, Pierre had no idea what the name of the place was, nor did he particularly care.

Captivity was strange, he supposed that this was better than being taken captive by the Prussians, word had spread through the army that the Prussians were not exactly "correct" when dealing with surrendered soldiers. One man claimed that near the village of Dornach, the Prussians had murdered over two hundred prisoners of war.

"What happened?"

Pierre looked up, a civilian was standing in front of him, the man was well-dressed and his French was very good, though the accent was odd.

"Who are you?"

"My name is Kossakowski, I'm a journalist."

"You're not French." Caporal Thionville, sitting next to Junot, noted.

"No, I'm Polish, well more Lithuanian than Polish, but that doesn't matter. I work for a newspaper in America. I was sent here to cover this war."

"Why should we tell you anything?" Pierre sneered.

"Oh I have a story, 'French armies destroyed by Prussian military might, grandsons of the great Napoléon's soldiers run like children when faced with Krupp steel,' or, I could listen to your experiences and write the truth."

"Ah, the truth, what is that?" Thionville shook his head. "Very few people want to hear the truth."

Kossakowski shook his head, "Believe me, the people who read my newspaper hunger for the truth. Americans have become very curious of the world since their own great Civil War."

"So you say." Pierre said, still not believing what was happening to them.

"Yes, so I say. What else do you men have to do? Tell your story, tell me how this tragedy came to pass. For I fear it is a tragedy, as a Pole, I have hated the Prussians my entire life. This defeat of your country is a tragedy for all of Europe, not just France. Soon you too will learn how difficult life can be under the Prussian boot heel."

Caporal Thionville looked up, their lieutenant was approaching.

"If my Lieutenant will give us permission, we'll tell you our story. If you're ready to listen."

"And what story is that, Caporal?" Lieutenant Jean de Caumont asked as he strolled up. "And who is this fellow?" He asked, nodding at the Polish civilian.

"He's a newspaper man, he hates Prussians and he's looking for a story." Thionville said, nodding at the Pole.

"Well, I don't see the harm in that. We will be here a few days."

Turning to the Pole, de Caumont said, "I hope you brought something to take notes with."

"Of course, Lieutenant ..."

"And perhaps some money for a bottle or two of the local wine, story-telling can be a thirsty business."

Kossakowski smiled, "I think we can arrange something. Where do we begin?"

"First the wine, my dear fellow. Then we'll tell you our story, from the beginning of this war up to the events of the last few days. Did you know our general committed suicide?"

Kossakowski shook his head, "Ah, he tried to commit suicide, but he failed."

De Caumont shook his head, "Can the poor fellow do anything right?"

Pierre Junot felt something on his cheek, he looked up and noted that snow was falling once more. So he stood up and said, "Perhaps we should find someplace more comfortable, out of this weather."

"A very good idea, Junot. Do you know of any place, Mr. Journalist?"

Kossakowski nodded, "Yes, I believe I do. Then we can start."

"At the beginning?" de Caumont asked.

"Yes, of course."