This Is All Your Fault
"This is all your fault."
The French army attacked the anti-French forces whenever they encountered plains or ridges, steadily grinding down their numbers. The sight of those men marching forward arm-in-arm with their dead, serenely embracing death, struck the French troops like a thunderbolt. Even as they mowed them down, the French felt a burning shame—and the gnawing certainty that something was terribly, fundamentally wrong.
"What in God's name is happening here? Why do they just keep advancing without resisting? It's terrifying. The way they're coming at us terrifies me, and shooting them down terrifies me even more. Have I done something wrong? Is it my fault? Do I seem like a monster? Am I a devil?"
French officers watched their unnatural advance with bitten tongues and heavy hearts as they unleashed volleys on the Italian mercenaries.
"No more chatter. The enemy seems close enough—fall back to Pfelsberg Fortress."
"Captain, this doesn't feel right at all."
As they retreated toward the Saar River and Pfelsberg Fortress, a lieutenant posed the question to his superior.
"Lieutenant Raymond, is it? I feel the same way. But orders are orders, no matter how unjust. That's what it means to be a soldier."
The captain forced down his own misgivings. But the lieutenant pressed on, undeterred by his commander's silence.
"Does our high command know nothing of honor? How can they order us to trample the wounded...?"
"Lieutenant, I know exactly what you're feeling. I feel it too—and so does the major, judging by his face. The colonel, the division commander, even the general—they're all thinking the same."
"Then why the hell are we under orders to attack them?"
"They had no choice."
The captain quoted Lafayette's mutterings to persuade him.
"Don't go looking for romance on the battlefield. Blame their commanders' incompetence. Those men have no choice but to obey—mocking the victims only stains your own honor."
"...Understood."
The lieutenant read his captain's expression and returned to his platoon.
No soldier on either side marched with an easy heart—French or anti-French alike.
After countless skirmishes—unilateral slaughters—the anti-French army finally reached Pfelsberg near the Saar River. Pressing east from there would lead to Saarlouis; north, to Trier. But the gateway was blocked by a massive fortress, its walls deliberately breached in places to create embrasures—recent reinforcements, no doubt. Bypassing it was impossible; dense forests hemmed in every side path. By the time they arrived, they'd hemorrhaged another 60,000 men. Shot down by bullets, torn apart by shells, or feigning death to escape it all—they were all Empire troops, Italian mercenaries. The anti-French forces advanced not on roads, but on carpets of corpses.
"Field Marshal, this is beyond salvaging. I misjudged. Throwing everything at you was my mistake too. But regrets won't change a thing now. History will judge us harshly."
Prince Heinrich felt profound disillusionment with this style of warfare. Even in an age where notions of war had evolved, grinding through lives like chaff struck him as inhuman.
"Mistake? This is the best option. Better the Austrians die? Or the Prussians? Far better foreigners than our own. They came to the field ready to die from the start."
"The best? Even a piglet at the slaughterhouse stirs pity! You're a human butcher! This war's ruin is all your doing—all of it!"
"You're getting too worked up. Calm yourself."
"Calm? How can I be calm now? Sixty thousand dead in this advance—sixty thousand! You dragged in 700,000 to squabble over glory, let 100,000 Dutch desert, paid 300,000 mercenaries with worthless scrip to scatter them, handed 20,000 over as prisoners, killed another 10,000 to save on shells—and now you've fed 60,000 to the bullets! In my fifty-five years, I've never met anyone as heartless as you. I've held my tongue for the age gap, but no more. Is war child's play?! Even kids don't play soldiers like this!"
Prince Heinrich finally erupted. His blunt accusations drew no ire from Loudon.
"In the end, I'm complicit in this slaughter too. But at least I'm better than you—blinking not an eye after sixty thousand deaths. You're the true dishonor, betraying allies, abandoning humanity, then dodging responsibility without a care."
No matter how fiercely Prince Heinrich railed, the dead Italian mercenaries wouldn't rise again.
"Putting a man long absent from the field in charge of vengeance was a personnel blunder from the start. I can't fathom why Austria named a man like you field marshal!"
"That's harsh. I felt unease sending the mercenaries to the meat grinder too."
"Lies. A man like that would have attached artillery to the 70,000. Did you enjoy your war games? You made a name at Kunersdorf, sure—but that was Prussia's blunder, not your brilliance."
Prince Heinrich invoked the Battle of Kunersdorf, fought in 1759 amid the Seven Years' War—twenty-two years past. He jabbed a finger at the Maria Theresa Grand Cross on Loudon's chest.
"Been in any real fights since the Seven Years' War ended? Peaceful eighteen years since 1763, eh? You're just a has-been clinging to past glories, spouting outdated tactics like the incompetent hack you are. I held back since Metz, but no longer. Isn't that right, Baron Loudon?"
"I acknowledge my errors."
Loudon seemed stunned by Heinrich's unbridled tirade, but he couldn't undo his past choices.
"Hah... Anyway, survival comes first. So, Field Marshal—what's your plan for that sturdy fortress? Looks like their full 20,000 are already hunkered inside."
Regaining composure, Prince Heinrich set aside recriminations and demanded a strategy.
"No plans to breach it. We'll go through."
"Still fixated on the Rhine? Even with glory and all in ruins, you're playing politics?"
"Better to withdraw without achieving our goal than in outright rout, no?"
Prince Heinrich despaired at Loudon's stubbornness.
"Baron Loudon, as a prince, here's my advice: Head to Trier or Saarlouis. Palatinate, wherever—just get off French soil as fast as possible."
"Palatinate means fording the river. Pursuit mid-crossing spells annihilation."
"Then Saarlouis it is. Hate that too? Mixing politics with war, yet you can't calculate that? Loudon, baron—I yielded Prussian command to you as field marshal, but this time, heed me. Whatever battle or retreat scheme you've cooked up, scrap it. Retreat to Saarlouis at once. Weverhern will end us all."
To prevent more pointless deaths, Prince Heinrich proposed the path of least blood.
"Like at Metz, we'll probe the fortress once, then pull back. Retreating to Saarlouis sounds wise. We'll do that, Your Highness."
July 25, 1781. The anti-French army moved to assault the fortress on the west bank of the Saar south of Saarlouis. Adolph, one of the few remaining captains and commander of the engineers, set up a simple redoubt while appraising the enemy stronghold opposite.
"Suffocating."
The fortress stood at Pfelsberg. Even bypassing the upper redoubt meant facing France's fortress-city of Saarlouis—so Pfelsberg was their sole viable retreat route. And France had corked it tight.
"Embrasures—120 visible at least, height just shy of a man's. Damn. How the hell do we crack this...?"
Ordinarily, you'd pound it with cannon. But recalling Metz's stout walls, this one likely wouldn't budge either.
"Metallurgy'll advance soon enough. Without bulletproof plate armor, we'll never breach those walls."
"Captain, reconnaissance report. Enemy latrines are outside the fortress to the southeast, toward Nassau-Saarbrücken. Dual-purpose with a manure heap—looks like fertilizer too. Heap size suggests about 20,000 troops, ample supplies. As we approached, outdoor use dropped sharply; they're using internal facilities now. And those unnatural stone structures around the latrines? Probably traps."
"Figures. Two months on French soil—they weren't twiddling thumbs. Fine, skirt north then. North looks iffy too... but better than stepping into the obvious ones."
"Agreed."
Captain Adolph stared blankly at Pfelsberg through his glass. Even magnified, nothing showed but the glint of guns in the embrasures.
"Maybe rig a watchtower..."
As he killed time, orders came down from above.
"Captain Adolph—night withdrawal again. Cease fortification."
"Night retreat once more? Metz worked because the garrison commander lacked siege experience. Won't fly against battle-hardened veterans."
"Orders are orders."
"Right. Do it we must. France won't bite, but we try anyway."