(Please Don't Go) – July 26, 1781
"Your Excellency. All preparations are complete. Whether it's 200,000 or two million coming, this fortress alone will never be breached."
The French field commanders reported. The French forces at Pfelsberg Fortress had set up latrines and traps to the south, luring the anti-French army northward. But Lafayette didn't even acknowledge the report; he was absorbed in the urgent telegram.
"Never use the word 'never' lightly. We need to change the defense plan. His Majesty has issued orders. We must let them go somehow and send them back to their homeland."
"Let them go? You mean don't resist and just send them on their way?"
"It's not surrender. If they attack, we resist. If they don't, we let them pass."
"But Your Excellency, Pfelsberg Fortress blocks the pass. They have to come through here."
The field commanders couldn't comprehend the order to let a sure victory slip away. From the moment they'd been deployed to Nancy on Louis XVI's instructions, Pfelsberg had been the key stronghold. While the anti-French forces wasted time at Metz, the French planned to build a fortress on their only escape route and defend it siege-style. Junior officers to senior commanders alike had been waiting for the decisive battle at Pfelsberg—now this, scrapping the entire plan.
"Your Excellency, this is a won war. The moment they try to bypass north, our cavalry hits their rear, and 200,000 or whatever—they're shattered. Victory is right there. Why call it off?"
"His Majesty said too great a victory can turn into a disaster you can't handle. The Lorraine Ambush was too successful."
The field commanders bristled for a moment, but the dishonorable incident from the last battle came to mind.
"His Majesty's words ring true. Even a cornered rat will bite a cat—and those wounded charging in the last battle were just that."
"Exactly. If we try to annihilate them as planned here, things could spiral out of control. They might refuse capture. After that unethical treaty, they're in no state to admit defeat. So we yield."
"Your Excellency, if they leave French soil, may we go up their retreat path to recover the wounded and dead? I'm worried about our mercenaries and the soldiers we haven't found."
"I'll seek His Majesty's guidance."
* Late afternoon, July 26, 1781. Versailles Palace, Council Chamber.
News from the front arrived via semaphore telegraph.
"So the enemy left is how many? 200,000? 210,000?"
The anti-French army of 700,000 had shrunk to 200,000. The absurdity of it: infighting split off 100,000, 300,000 deserted over IOUs for pay, 20,000 captured, and the remaining 80,000 used as meat shields and discarded. After two months watching this farce, my resolve was evaporating.
"This is the pure Prussian and Austrian army strength. Maybe 10,000 mercenaries linger, but it's beyond annihilation—virtual dissolution."
War is waged by the old, blood spilled by the young. General Loudon of the anti-French forces—I didn't know the details, but this level of madness was new. Every move was a gem of incompetence, a textbook on how not to wage war, every choice a fatal blunder.
"Approve the request for recovering wounded and dead. Any other issues?"
"One complaint common among field commanders: uniform color."
"Uniform color? Weren't we set on gray-white patterned natural camouflage?"
"Yes. That's exactly the problem."
Too early for camo uniforms? If field commanders complain, adopt immediately. I lived in an era where camo had only upsides; I didn't know this time's downsides.
"Hard to recover bodies."
Ah.
"Soldiers shot often fall forward. Those falling back are easy to spot in white jackets, but forward ones blend into the gray-white coats—extremely hard to find. Post-battle recovery drags, damage reports take forever. Some go missing; extreme commanders call it desertion."
My clear mistake. Too little respect for the troops. Desk-bound, I never considered field realities.
"May the Deputy Finance Minister speak? Uniform report here."
"I must've buried the issue. Should've asked sooner. Go on, Deputy. What's wrong?"
"First, gray-white wool coats have two upsides. No dye needed—blue requires indigo, but gray-white is near wool's natural shade: bleach, wash, simple charcoal dye. Second, defective ones supplied cheap or free to civilians. No pricey indigo means severe defects given free to poor for winter, lesser ones sold cheap to lower clothing prices."
Unexpected perks. But leading with upsides meant downsides coming.
"Noted. Downsides?"
"Plenty. Even upsides have shadows. No indigo slashed uniform costs but vaporized global indigo demand—indigo industry collapsed. Central American colonies are rioting."
"Can't they use it for paint, building dye?"
"Limits. Indigo paint is weak; artists prefer lapis or cobalt—minerals, expensive. No military indigo use piles it up in colonies; homeland prices crash, users avoid it. Britain's too."
Snob effect?
"Civilian supply issues too. Defects or not, uniforms are tough, wool—stack for blankets. Thugs steal from poor, sell to quilt workshops. And not just..."
"Enough. I get it. What does Treasury propose?"
"Make them blue. Gray-white wool is common, easy thug target—cops can't prove origin. Blue dye? Thugs won't touch; cheap blue fabric isn't that cheap. Indigo industry rebounds on our demand."
Foolish meddling, now costly cleanup.
"New uniforms dyed blue, issue to troops. Recall existing, redye blue, redistribute. Gray-whites in civilian hands... police earn their keep."
"Yes, sir."
Costs money, but unavoidable. Fixing bad policy costs too.
"Your Majesty. General Lafayette wires: field commanders grumble over no decisive battle."
"War is politics extended. Better release than annihilate. Post-war, I'll meet them personally. For now, order release."
Clausewitz unborn doesn't change war's nature. Even defensive, grinding too many troops breeds uncontrollables. One uniform color wrecks livelihoods, shifts consumption; imagine flipping the Holy Roman Empire...
That's why conservatives.
July 27, 1781. Dawn.
Loudon had dumped every shell at Pfelsberg at dusk yesterday. Naturally, it held. Shells rolled in, wrecked some facilities, but no big issue.
Lafayette used the attack to fake a fortress fire, aiding enemy escape.
"Please escape to Weverhern in the chaos."
Inside, French troops would let them per Louis XVI's will.
"Chance! Attack south flank..!"
"Marshal, please retreat. This is our chance."
Unable to see inside, Loudon hunted opportunity to the end but yielded to Prince Heinrich's pleas.
At sunrise, French doused the massive signal fire. Lafayette confirmed west clear, then relaxed.
"The suicidal maniacs are gone. Return to Paris. Check Lorraine steelworks, recover abandoned wounded and dead."
The army's time ended. Now politics' turn.