Episode 113: What Do We Fight For? (2)
Episode 113: What Do We Fight For? (2)
“……”
“Second Lieutenant, it’s eerily quiet. My gut feeling’s bad.”
“……If you say so, Sergeant, we need to be cautious. Pick two from each squad and send them to scout. Sergeant Habert will lead them personally.”
“Yes, Second Lieutenant.”
The non-commissioned officer nodded and moved toward the soldiers hiding along the back side of the low earthen ridge the French had piled up to mark their fields—the bocage.
Most Frenchmen used muskets, but in case of a stray shot, Sergeant Habert bent almost double as he hurried along, holding his cap in his left hand and the clattering rifle in his right.
“Sergeant Habert, what did the Second Lieutenant say?”
“Two from each squad—forward scouting. You and you, come with me.”
“……Damn it, why me?”
“Sergeant, I dug drainage ditches last time too, you know.”
“Isn’t that what you get paid for? Both of you, shut it and follow me. Execute.”
The two soldiers Habert picked out with his finger grumbled as they stood, taking back the rifles they had been leaning against the bocage.
After making the rounds of four more squads and pulling ten more men, Sergeant Habert brought them all to the platoon leader.
“Sergeant, if you’re ready, begin opening the way up to that village—Legionville.”
“Yes, Second Lieutenant.”
Before dawn, in the pre-dawn darkness, a dozen-plus figures slipped out from behind the bocage and started moving with rifles clenched in their hands.
Over one bocage, then across the fields ahead a few times—at last, a small mill entered the scouting party’s sight.
“The windmill’s turning—looks like a mill. Past this is the village called Legionville. Everyone check your weapons and grenades one more time, then move.”
“““Yes, Sergeant!”””
After a brief spell of metallic clacking, the scouts used the cover of night and moved again.
In the dark, twenty eyes kept flashing nonstop in every direction.
Sergeant Habert—one of the owners of those eyes—could feel his mouth drying out from tension in real time.
If it were a desperate battle, he could focus without caring about anything else, but a situation this unpleasantly quiet was the worst.
Still, maybe because of that tension, the soldiers Habert led managed to reach the fence in front of the mill without anyone getting hurt.
Sure, to the high-and-mighty people sitting at the temporary headquarters in Metz with stars on their shoulders or black bars on their uniforms, it would look like nothing more than a dot on the map creeping forward by a speck. But Habert had no reason to think that far.
“Sergeant, do we go into the mill?”
“We do. I’m in front. Everyone pull out grenades.”
“Yes, Sergeant.”
Habert and the ten soldiers took out the grenades and fuses hanging at their waists and gripped them tight in their left hands.
Ten meters.
Nine meters.
Eight meters.
With every step of their boots toward the silent mill, his heart squeezed blood through his whole body.
And the instant the scouts reached seven meters—
Several long sticks protruding from the mill’s windows flashed in the moonlight as the clouds covering the moon drifted away.
“Scheiße!! Everyone down!!”
“Huh?”
Habert shouted as he threw himself flat to the left in an instant, making sure the barrel in his right hand would not snap.
Tatatatang!!
With thunderous noise, the acrid stench of gunpowder swept across the front of the mill in a heartbeat.
“Aaagh!! Agh!!”
“Ku… ku…”
“Grrrk…”
A soldier right behind Habert rolled on the ground as if he had been shot in the arm. A soldier in the middle ranks had been hit in the lung and could no longer breathe out. A soldier in the rear, unlucky enough to take it in the neck, collapsed with a boiling sound of blood in his throat.
But even with three down, the scouting party still had eight, including Sergeant Habert.
Habert yelled to the soldiers who, like him, had dropped to the ground to avoid the bullets.
“Light grenades!! Throw them all inside!!”
With a crackle, the ignition flint sparked, and the grenade fuses began to burn.
“Fuses lit!! Throw!!”
“Throw!!”
Eight grenades flew in high arcs toward the mill’s windows.
“Merde!! Grenade!”
Kwa-bang!!
French voices shouting in panic from inside lasted only a moment before the blast rumbled and shook the ground.
“Prepare for bayonet fighting!!”
“Bayonet fighting!!”
Habert and the soldiers pulled out bayonets from their waists and hurriedly fitted them onto the fronts of their rifles.
Soon, the mill door burst open, and the French came charging out with rifles raised, staggering with their heads ringing from the grenades.
“Viva la nation! Viva la peuple!”
“Shoot! Blow the faces off those French frog bastards!”
The French had fired first, so this had to be their reload time. At this distance, every shot could be a sure hit.
Tatata-tang!
“Aagh!”
“Kuh!”
“Ugh!”
Just like the Prussians had fallen earlier, this time the French fell.
“Charge! Show them the strength of Prussian grenadier jägers!”
“Waaaah!!”
“I’ll gut these frog bastards!”
“Casse-toi connard!!”
“Mourir!”
“Viva la Révolution!”
Late May, 1791.
Kingdom of France, Metz.
Prussian Army Temporary Headquarters.
“We’ve received word that our grenadier jäger regiment engaged in battle at Legionville, in front of Verdun. Losses are forty lightly wounded, ten seriously wounded, and fifteen dead.”
“……Major, should we move it?”
“We have to.”
“Yes. Understood.”
The youngest second lieutenant at headquarters, with the least seniority, hurriedly shifted the pieces around the map again.
Clack.
Once again, a French piece was placed in front of a Prussian piece on the map.
How many times had it been now?
On every approach to Verdun, in every village, even in every tiny hut, the French sprang out holding muskets and bayonets.
Whenever the main Prussian force moved to open the road, as if they had known every time, the French troops stationed in Nancy launched scattered attacks from south of Metz.
Of course, calling it an “attack” was generous—it was more like harassment. But if they ignored the French at Nancy and kept moving, there was always the possibility of getting smashed in the back of the head at any time.
Like someone grabbing your trouser leg and whining, Hehe, you can’t go! the French at Nancy kept getting under the Prussian officers’ skin.
And attacking Nancy was out of the question. It had been a long time since the French had poured money and materials into fortifying the entire city to an absurd degree.
No—it was not just “pouring money.” It was more like they had slit the bellies of wealthy men and spent every last coin. Trenches everywhere, gun emplacements as a baseline, and earthworks dug out until the city had defenses on par with a star fort. That was Nancy.
If they shoved plain infantry straight into that, would that be a person—or an idiot?
Tap. Tap. Tap.
In the Prussian headquarters, chilled to the bone, the only sound was the commander-in-chief, the Duke of Brunswick, tapping the table with his index finger.
“This is driving me insane.”
“““……”””
At the commander-in-chief’s single line, the Prussian officers swallowed in silence.
“Right. What was the name of the commander at Nancy? That revolutionary lackey.”
“Yes. Brigadier General Charles-François Dumouriez.”
“Dumouriez.”
The Duke of Brunswick’s face twitched for a moment, irritation showing.
“I can’t watch this anymore. We’re being held up by a mere five thousand—do you know how much?”
“The enemy is conducting guerrilla warfare and tying down our movement…”
“The more time we lose to those bastards at Nancy, the more French troops gather at Verdun and Reims. Isn’t that right?”
“Yes, Commander-in-Chief.”
“Then the conclusion is obvious.”
The Duke of Brunswick rose and began moving the pieces himself with his baton.
“The decisive battlefield is already set. Verdun is most likely, but if they try to buy more time by drawing us in, we’ll clash at that village called Valmy.”
Lafayette—did catching a few British pirate bastards make him arrogant? There is no army that can beat Prussia in a straight, honest fight.
A veteran who had cracked heads all over Central Europe alongside Frederick the Great, the Duke of Brunswick moved pieces so fast that ordinary officers could not even keep up—shifting, removing, then snapping new pieces onto the map again and again.
“General Möllendorf.”
After manipulating the map alone for a while, the Duke of Brunswick called his deputy without taking his eyes off it, still moving pieces as he spoke.
“Yes, Duke of Brunswick.”
“I’ll give you three thousand. Can you defend Metz and our rear from the enemy at Nancy?”
“Of course, Duke.”
“Good.”
The commander-in-chief, who had not shown a single smile since entering Metz, finally bared a grin.
“Notify the entire army. Feed them well, pack their gear, and prepare for a forced march. Target: Paris. Purpose: a sea of fire.”
Kingdom of France, Reims.
National Guard Temporary Headquarters.
“Commander! Why aren’t you taking me?!”
“Colonel Napoleon Bonaparte, you are a good officer.”
“Then all the more you should take me and my unit!”
Napoleon spoke to Marquis de Lafayette, his face trembling.
If a subordinate acted like this, you would expect anger on the surface—but Marquis de Lafayette only shook his head and spoke.
“Colonel Napoleon Bonaparte. It’s fine if you have no combat record. You’re already general material.”
“But still…!”
“Colonel. You are the commander of the Volunteer Training Regiment. The soldiers under you are only newly enlisted—young, very young. Be aware of that.”
“……”
Napoleon’s hand shook violently.
As a child, he had been mocked as a backwater Corsican—now, at last, he had been given the chance to make his name across all of France, and he could only watch it slip by with his eyes open.
Marquis de Lafayette watched him for a moment, then spoke.
“Colonel.”
“……Yes.”
“Colonel Napoleon Bonaparte.”
“Yes, Commander.”
“I am Lafayette, Commander of the National Guard, who protects the people. I cannot shove clueless new recruits into a death trap.”
“……Understood.”
He understood. He understood, but… Napoleon still could not erase the regret left in his chest.
“Until I return, I entrust you with the safety of Paris and Reims, Colonel Napoleon Bonaparte.”
“Yes, Commander.”
Marquis de Lafayette nodded, put his cap on, and left the commander’s office.
“Is Colonel Napoleon Bonaparte very disappointed, Commander?”
“It can’t be helped. I can’t drive new recruits into a death trap. General Kellermann, make preparations.”
“Understood, Marquis de Lafayette.”
General Kellermann nodded and drew his sword.
“All forces, march for Valmy. Viva la nation! Viva la peuple!”