Line Battle Day at the Lorraine Ironworks
The French army's handling of their prisoners had been discovered by the Austrians. The sentry, intending to report it, entered the room being used as the command post—but
"Political judgments are mine to make. You're mercenaries. I understand your concern for your men, but that doesn't mean you can challenge me. Consider your station and rank."
It wasn't the atmosphere for a report. The sentry left it to his junior and continued his watch. From the watchtower, he saw what looked like a French general finish his speech, linger briefly in the command post, then vanish over the hill with a large entourage.
"Sergeant Mario? I made the report."
"Oh? Yeah. What'd they say?"
"He chewed me out, saying of course they're managing the prisoners—what, leave 'em in the street? But it seems like it lightened the mood in the command post..."
"No tact. Bet you said something vague like, 'The French are managing their prisoners,' huh?"
"How'd you know?"
"I've been in the army long enough. The key to military life is making things sound plausible. Armies aren't perfect. Package up the mediocre stuff to look impressive, and suddenly it feels like you've got something real."
Just then, some 20,000 French troops marched from beyond the hill toward the northwestern plain. Hauling bricks and lime in wagons—the classic prelude to field fortifications.
"Look over there. The French are heading right across from us. How would you report that?"
"Uh, 'French forces are moving to the plain opposite us'?"
"That's the kind of report that gets neither praise nor blame. You gotta add a little flair. 'French forces have moved to the plain northeast of our position. Scale is about a tenth of ours. Seems they're aiming for a fair fight on open ground, avoiding the villages.' Something like that."
The junior soldier looked puzzled. "Isn't that just reporting it straight and well?"
"Huh? You think so?"
"From what I hear, it's not just sounding good—it's actual intel."
"Hmm... But a lowly grunt critiquing his superior's report? Cheeky. Keep watch on the enemy till I get back."
"Yes, sir..."
The sergeant left the soldier behind and knocked on the command post door. Granted entry, he found the atmosphere icy. No incidents in the lull, but it felt like violence could erupt any moment.
"Why are you just standing there? Didn't you come to report?"
"Yes, sir. French main force has appeared. About 20,000 strong. They've taken position on the northeastern plain."
"I see." Laudon paused. "What does the Barony of Saarbrücken think? We've blocked the route to the barony from here."
Laudon addressed the commander from the smallest state among the generals present. But he couldn't stand up to him boldly. Beyond national prestige and rank, the barony's army was pure mercenaries.
"I'm not in a position to comment on that."
"So be it. Do the other imperial fiefs agree?"
The other fiefdoms felt the insult but stayed silent.
"The nearest force, the Barony of Saarbrücken, falls silent. What can we do with such passive generals? So, may I assume command of this entire army?"
Using the mercenaries' politically motivated silence as pretext, Laudon seized command of all the imperial fiefdom forces. Some duchy commanders stormed out after handing over authority—a breach of etiquette—but Laudon paid it no mind. For the minor offense to alliance morale, he'd gained 70,000 troops to wield freely.
"...Field Marshal, this isn't right. Do we need to fight like this?"
Prince Henry, Frederick the Great's brother, objected to Laudon's reign of terror.
"I've held my tongue out of respect for Austrian sovereignty till now, but this was too far. Whipping allied officers without trial, then seizing command. As a prince myself, I know what your actions imply. But can you truly bear the responsibility?"
"I can. A successful retreat makes this neither victory nor defeat—just war."
"Can you win?"
"Must we?"
"The path ahead looks grim, Field Marshal. You can have Prussian command too. Prove yourself. Don't call on me unless it's surrender talks."
Disgusted by Laudon's dishonorable tactics, Prince Henry washed his hands of it all. Thus, Laudon became the de facto dictator of the 280,000-strong anti-French coalition.
"Sergeant. Still standing there?"
"Yes, sir. No further orders, so I waited."
"Right. Continue your report."
"Yes, sir. The French on the northeastern plain are preparing for decisive battle. Building field forts with bricks, lime, and timber. Estimated completion before late afternoon."
"No need to wait. Attack right after lunch. The imperial fiefdom armies—70,000—will do."
Laudon issued orders to the fiefdom legion commanders. "Assemble on the northeastern plain after lunch."
"Understood."
The fiefdom generals had no choice but to obey.
* Early afternoon, northeastern plain of the Lorraine Ironworks.
Lethargic from post-meal drowsiness, Italian mercenaries and a handful of imperial fief regulars formed ranks. Their personal gear varied—padded gambesons here, archaic breastplates there—but all carried the unified 1777 Austrian infantry musket.
Under officers' guidance, they learned to form lines of three ranks by tens, corrected sloppy drill, and marched in step.
"Step off with your left on the drumbeat. Listen to your NCOs and officers. Hesitate one step too long, and a sharpshooter blows your head off. Got it?"
"Yes, sir! Understood!"
"Good. See our regimental flag? Follow it. You're a mess, so we're advancing in formation, but normally platoons just keep pace till the flag halts. Survive this, and it'll serve you next time. Remember it."
Franz, a former sergeant now lieutenant by wartime promotion, walked alongside the Italian mercenaries' line toward the battlefield.
Minutes later, their regimental flag halted.
"Flag's stopped, right? Look ahead—the front lines have too. We halt at proper distance following our company. Regiment commander will order alignment soon; then we tighten the line."
-Align!
As he said, they aligned, and the vanguard mercenaries formed a loose line.
"Lieutenant, sir..."
"Quiet. War's on. Left foot on the drum, adjust speed to the bugle."
Franz's platoon kept the long line, following the others.
-Boom!
"Argh!"
"Calm down! Canister shot! Fleeing or marching, odds are the same from that range!"
As lines closed, canister rounds sporadically hit even the rear ranks.
-Clang! Ting!
Musket fire echoed from afar. Franz's men froze at each crack.
"Stop and you're dead! Don't want your head taken by cannon? Keep moving!"
-Crack-crack!
Other platoons faltered too, lines breaking or halting at the din.
"Ugh... Aaaah!"
Terror-struck, an Italian from the next platoon broke ranks to flee—but
-Slash
"Pathetic. And you want pay?"
The company commander's single stroke ended him.
"Advance! Keep advancing! Double time!"
As battle neared, platoons sped up.
"Align!"
Thus advancing, Franz's platoon reached the front. But on the line, Franz sensed wrongness. Too far.
"Prepare!"
Per orders, they tore paper cartridges, poured powder to pans and barrels, rammed cloth-wrapped balls. The small balls rolled in easily.
"Aim!"
Aiming—muzzles toward foe—confirmed it. At musket range, the front sight should barely cover enemy torsos; now it engulfed whole bodies.
"Fire!"
-Bang-bang-bang!
As Franz feared, the first rank's volley missed. Most plowed earth or sailed high. From 500+ shots in open formation, only two grazed the enemy line—one man limped off with a shoulder wound. If he recovered, French casualties: zero.
"Reload!"
Franz reloaded in 30 seconds and glanced over. The enemy, now fully aligned, aimed forward.
-Clang!
-Whish!
Acrid smoke rose as something whistled into the dirt nearby.
"Argh..."
-Thud