The True Weight of National Defense
Napoleon pushed to break through despite being surrounded because the Venice army looked like a pushover.
"A herald from the besieging forces has arrived. They say if everyone immediately disarms and surrenders, they'll treat us as prisoners of war."
"Besieging forces?"
In truth, they were an easy army.
"Ah, self-proclaimed."
"How can fewer than ten thousand ragtag militiamen surround twenty-three thousand? It feels like my common sense is being overturned."
The French army consisted of elite soldiers, officers trained at military academies, and a majority of NCOs with battlefield experience, while Venice's was militia-level at best. To put it in perspective, a French private was equal to—or better than—a Venetian lieutenant.
"Tell the herald this: You surrender, and we'll treat you as prisoners of war."
Napoleon, of course, ignored their urging.
"How can he be so arrogant? When the Austrians arrive, they're all dead meat!"
Pietro Morosini, general of the Venetian Republic, was stunned by Napoleon's refusal.
"Fine, die then. I'll let you die as the king's general, not some republic's captive."
He mistook Napoleon's refusal for a pledge of desperate resistance.
"All troops! Fight with everything you've got. Don't cower to survive—give the French their final moments as true Frenchman."
Morosini, moved by what he saw as Napoleon's resolve, decided to grant them an honorable death.
"Vice-Commander Provveditore, we're a delaying force. HQ's orders are to hold them until the Austrians arrive. No matter how narrow the battlefield limits our firepower, a full-on battle is impossible."
"Vice-Commander, I must remonstrate. Frankly, I can't understand your orders. We're just supposed to block the French advance—why seek a decisive battle? Simply holding this position is achievement enough."
Even if they were only city guards and road patrols, these men with decades in security roles saw Morosini's demands as utterly unrealistic.
"It's not about chasing glory. I'm merely responding to their resolve."
But Pietro Morosini, the 19-year-old scion of a noble house, brushed off his field commanders.
This was somewhat predictable. Venice was an oligarchy; command positions like his were stuffed with blood ties and cronies.
"Hah, makes me wanna quit."
"What was that?"
"Nothing, sir."
The practical mid-level officers could only grovel before a general seated by nepotism. He was a noble's son; they were commoners.
"Your Excellency, do you remember what Admiral Morosini said?"
"Ah, his father's herald? Yes. Troops gathering at Gorizia and Monfalcone."
So the commoner officers had no choice but to invoke higher authority.
"Yes. The admiral expects you to carry out the homeland's orders."
"That's your assumption. Don't you know that defeatist attitude brings real defeat?"
But they couldn't overcome the young noble's hot blood.
"Think of the Punic Wars—our formation here is just like Hannibal's. When the French cross the bridge, we form an arc, and no matter how many they have, they'll melt away."
With field commanders like that, the actual battle was a foregone conclusion.
"Incoming artillery fire!"
"Impossible! Over six hundred yards, and this accuracy?!"
Of course, ranks weren't invented just to hand out pay. Generals had their roles, field-grade officers theirs, company officers theirs, and soldiers theirs.
"Counterfire! Don't stand there like targets—counterfire!"
"Counterfire? You expect us to hit that?!"
And in Venice, those roles were all jumbled up.
"Don't run! Don't scatter! Artillery, hold your positions!"
The unstable chain of command plunged the Venice forces into chaos.
"Tch, this is why you can't trust small nations. Fourth Company! Fend for yourselves! Find cover and evade the shells!"
Yet the Venice army didn't disintegrate.
"Hey! Snap out of it. What's your name?"
"Giuseppe... Giuseppe..."
"You're out of it. Can you walk? Listen up—if you stay here, a shell takes you out. Want to live? Grab my hand."
A Swiss mercenary, here for one last score before retirement, hid the panicked infantry behind rocks regardless of rank.
"Enemy fire slacking! Battalion commander! Now's the time! Concentrate counterfire on one point to end this engagement!"
"Eh? Oh, right! Artillery! Fire across the river!"
"Tch, out of the way! Artillery! Back to stations! Load on the gunner's signal! From ready guns, due north eighty-six degrees! Fire!"
"Fire!"
An Italian mercenary survivor of the Hundred Days War took command of the artillery, defying memories of being crushed by incompetence.
"Mother! I'm sorry!"
A commoner who'd come up from Piombino seeking work in Venice hugged a dropped timed shell and leaped into the river.
"Battle's winding down! Stay alive!"
After the one-sided shelling ended, most of the Venice conscripts carried memories of aid from the mercenaries.
"Damage report. Left flank infantry regiment, 2nd Battalion, 4th Company. Total 65, non-present 18: minor wounds 12, serious 5, dead 1. Deceased: Giovanni of Veneto. End report."
"Damage report. Central artillery battalion, 1st Battalion, 2nd Battery. Total 42, non-present 38: serious 26, dead 11, missing 1. Deceased unidentified. Missing: Mario of Piombino. End report."
The mercenaries left the shell-shocked conscripts and ex-policemen officers behind to report results to Vice-Commander Morosini.
"Few KIA. Lucky."
"..."
"Evac serious wounds to the rear. Minors assemble by company and head to field hospital. Execute."
"Execute!"
The first clash between France and Venice on September 16, 1789, ended in a one-sided French barrage.
"Form three ranks. Wounded! Sing the march en route. March: San Marco."
"San Marco March!"
"Begin march!"
The Venice counterfire lightly damaged three of the French's forty-six guns and wrecked one pontoon bridge under construction by engineers.
"San Marco! Don't mind if we die—San Teodoro protects us!"
The battle on one of the hundreds of San Marco islets in the Tagliamento River handed Venice 91 dead, 113 serious wounded, and 668 minor.
"From Rome to Rome! From Appian Way to Byzantium!"
The survivors gained trauma.
"Our place to die is right here! On Rome's shore!"
But they didn't resent the French.
"God! I thought I'd go to heaven!"
"Cease march. At ease. Two by two. Rest wait at tents."
"Wait."
They didn't hate the French shells either.
*
October 21, 1789. The Austrian Republican Army was marching toward the isolated French position.
"What the hell is this?"
The republicans saw bridges over the Soča, Natisone, Torre—deep rivers to nameless shallows—all packed with at least twenty kilos of explosives.
"Gunpowder. Looks like French work. Venice allies say they foiled French sabotage—probably this."
"Useful."
Call it gunpowder, but it was soaked through.
"Dry it out for grenade charges."
"Will do."
The Austrian Southern Expeditionary Force split three ways: 100,000 rear reserves and landing defenders to Trieste; main attack forces of 100,000 each—one legion to Udine, one to Monfalcone.
"Monfalcone side?"
"Empty. Venice held the line."
The Austrians occupied cities bloodlessly and pressed toward the Tagliamento where French boots were stuck.
"Commander! Scout report!"
"Report."
But upon reaching the main battlefield, the Austrians heard unexpected news.
"Venice forces gone! Battle traces, but no Venice army. Seems like..."
"The anvil's shattered."
Venice army annihilated.
"Expected it, but worst case happened."
But Southern Army Commander Joseph Schmidt didn't panic.
"We have a way. Lay pontoons, widen advance. Battles are always decided by infantry bayonet charges."
He was a bayonet genius who'd risen to general in three years on infantry command alone in classless Austria.
"Advance through the guns! Hold the line! Hesitate and the man behind dies! Retreat and we all die! Advance to live!"
He'd survived Austria's Night of Chaos and the anti-noble wars, making him unmatched in infantry clashes.
"Hoh, coming at us? Good. Tired of slugging with heavy artillery anyway. Cavalry! Form on the right and wait!"
But the opponent was Napoleon.
"Enemy laying pontoons! Left flank skirmishers, charge! Engineers, pontoons on the right! Cavalry, charge as soon as ready—smash their flimsy rear artillery!"
No mere infantry genius could beat him.