67. Tear-Soaked Bread (With Cheese Added)
June 8, 1781, near Metz.
The anti-French alliance had seized Lorraine at the outset of the war and pressed westward. Spirits had soared at the thought of a swift march through Metz and Reims straight to Paris, but a month-long siege before the fortress walls had dampened that enthusiasm. Still, there was no real despair. Expectations had simply been tempered; sieges were inherently tedious affairs that dragged on for months. Overhyping the capture of a few villages was the folly of green mercenaries.
"Your Excellency, the Dutch contingent says they intend to cross the northern Moselle independently and strike Reims."
"Rejected. Our army's cohesion isn't that strong."
"Understood."
As Laudon said, the anti-French alliance suffered from abysmal unity. For all their lofty pretexts, once on French soil, their only accomplishment had been plundering civilians. Even that they managed without conscience, flooding the area with promissory notes, and rumors swirled of unrest along the rear supply lines.
"Field Marshal, how can you refuse my request?"
"Aren't you the Governor-General? What brings you here...?"
"Exactly! Are we just going to keep devouring supplies like this? A quick victory would ease everyone's suffering!"
The Dutch legion's commander, Governor-General William V of the Netherlands, berated him in frustration.
"That's a clear misjudgment. To bolster our army's cohesion, we need victories—and fast. We should storm Metz outright, accepting some losses for a swift capture!"
Laudon politely rebuffed William V's nagging.
"That would only disadvantage us further. The flour requisitioned from Lorraine peasants has doubled our campaign's sustainability. A methodical siege, securing villages around Metz for more provisions—that's to our benefit. We mustn't shed blood needlessly."
"Nonsense! A single farmer hoarded ninety sacks of flour—surely that massive fortress is stuffed with food?"
"He's still just a farmer."
Indeed, one peasant stockpiling ninety sacks was suspicious. But a bumper crop in the fields didn't mean the fortress city brimmed with supplies. Storing flour in a damp, enclosed stronghold cost money, and amid Europe's economic woes, no nation could afford such extravagance. Laudon figured France was no exception; a few weeks of encirclement would force the enemy to abandon the fort. The current artillery duel was prolonging the stalemate, but starvation would claim the defenders first.
"And Your Excellency, I am the field marshal here. Trust my judgment. I know the Netherlands' plight well enough, but we can't throw the allied army into peril for it."
Laudon pegged William V's push for reckless assault on his homeland's politics. The Netherlands were riven by Patriots versus Orangists, plunging into chaos. This wasn't unique; post-franc adoption, many European states clamored for more francs and faster recovery, championing pro-French fiscal reforms. William V, Orangist leader, fretted over the pro-French Patriots at home—but he had no choice. Of the 700,000-strong coalition, none were immune.
"So please, Your Excellency, refrain from unilateral actions. Our army's morale may be low, but is it worse than the Sardinians'?"
As Laudon noted, the Sardinian troops were a disaster. Soldiers barely grasped why or against whom they fought—essentially armed bandits. Without allies intervening, they'd have massacred compliant civilians or terrorized them at gunpoint into compliance, sparking bloodbaths. Even Sardinian officers were no better.
"That's their problem. Metz has more food than we do! Field commander-in-chief—do I displease you?"
"...? No, sir."
"Then why ignore me?"
"It's not that, Your Excellency. I pursue the most efficient path to victory. Outdated sieges consume too many lives."
Faced with Laudon's iron wall, William V retreated in defeat.
"No wonder he's anxious. The Orangists aren't what they used to be. But Marshal, how much longer for the encirclement? Deserters are mounting. Our forces are strained—whips are scarce, so floggings are suspended."
"Fortresses typically hold a month's rations for troops, so perhaps a week. When food runs out, civilian morale crumbles."
The same day, Metz.
"Today's rations! Rations for today!"
Under siege, Metz rationed to endure as long as possible. With widespread public works experience, distribution centers and systems were efficient, doling out precise allotments hourly. Criers rang bells beforehand, announcing mealtime; people queued early for their simple meal. Free eaters were dragooned to fortress repairs or, if weak women or children, laundry, medical aid, or cooking support—but in wartime, jobs were a blessing.
From the Lorraine steelworks, they'd hastily hauled iron ore, clay, gravel, sand, lime—anything buildable—mixing haphazardly for strength alone. No rebar like Louis XVI's grand designs, since the steelworks were lost, but timber frames, stone rods—anything mimicking reinforced concrete served as makeshift. Ignorant of principles, they aped the king's "sturdy build" tales, erecting tall walls and outer barriers.
"Is this... right?"
"Heh. Jacques, sloppy framing collapses the wall! Want shells burying you?!"
"Then teach me, damn it..."
"Hey, no fighting—come here. I'll show you."
Mishaps aside, Metz's walls thickened daily: high, thick concrete barriers backed by taller ones. Gaps between layers prevented chain collapses from single hits—but coalition shells barely dented the first.
"Out of the way! Stakes coming through!"
Beyond walls, during lulls in bombardment, man-portable tetrapods—steel rods wrapped in concrete stakes—dotted the approaches. Weighing just over a hundred kilos for handling, they still stymied cavalry. Six burly men hurling them outside walls let rain embed them as sturdy obstacles.
Thus, the coalition couldn't take Metz. Shells failed against reinforced concrete; cavalry couldn't disrupt builders amid tetrapods; infantry lacked siege polish. A determined push might breach, but no commander dared feed tens of thousands into the grinder.
"Mealtime! Dinner! Finish up and come eat!"
Provisions were ample too. Contrary to expectations, France shunned archaic fortress granaries, storing in city depots and offices. Stale but unrotted, stocks outlasted predictions. Unlike old limits of a month's troops-only, Metz could feed soldiers and civilians for months.
Meant for Spanish shipment, but Lorraine's steel hub mattered little against Paris or Aquitaine basins' output—a drop in the bucket. Contracts held sans Metz; Calais overflowed with unsailed grain anyway.
"Too much bread?"
"Free food—no reason to complain."
"Don't you gotta work for it?"
"Still free."
Civilians took their "free" bread, fortifying Moselle defenses. Grumbles existed, but for a besieged city, it was peaceful. Laborers got work amid shortages; officials cheap fortifications; troops solid walls.
"I took cheese over bread—who's got potatoes?"
"Potatoes overflow at home. Whatcha making?"
"Cheese on bread with potatoes mixed in. My hometown dish—aligot. Heard of it?"
"Sounds tasty. Make some."
"Garlic and butter'd be nice."
"This?"
"Perfect!"
Against expectations, Metz teemed with food.
"Ugh, too much garlic. Spicy—tears streaming."
"Yeah? Peppers instead tomorrow?"
"No."
They ate their tear-soaked bread, awaiting war's end.