DP Tool Club 26/CD_ASCQ_26_1295.iso/vrac/df9511g.zip/5R

Text File | 1995-11-01 | 11KB | 250 lines

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 THE CHARGE
   by J.D. Beatty
 =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-


   They wait. Officers, adjutants, aides and couriers at the top
 of the rise, watching; the squadrons just behind the hill mass,
 listening. The horses snort and snuff, shake their heads at acrid
 wisps of smoke wafting on the wind. The men steady the beasts with
 caresses and soothing words. Flags and guidons roll and snap crisply
 in the breeze.

   The Cavalry Reserve has moved three times this day, from early
 morning on the green near the tavern, to mid-morning near the little
 church and graveyard, to midday here, behind the long ridge. The boom
 of cannon and crack of muskets marks the battle between infantry and
 guns, skirmishers and screens. A stray cannon ball bounces over the
 hills, ricochets on the firm ground and rolls, smoldering, innocent
 and spent, to rest.

   Couriers race to and from the officers watching the battle in the
 valley, their mounts frothing, riders urgently passing letters, maps,
 orders.

   His Lordship's compliments to the Officer Commanding the Cavalry
 Reserve: The enemy is expected to break on the right flank. The
 Officer Commanding is asked to act accordingly and pursue,
 supplementing the advance of the main army by cutting off retreat of
 the enemy center. Very well. The Officer Commanding accepts and will
 comply with his Lordship's request. Duty will be done by direct
 movement of the Cavalry Reserve.

   Instructions are muttered by the Officer Commanding; colonels
 ask favor of majors; majors suggest to captains; captains instruct
 lieutenants; lieutenants order sergeants; sergeants threaten men.
 Scouts take out at the gallop.

   Splice the main brace.

   The cooks break out the watery rum, gin and wine. The men grumble
 at it. Corporals shout at privates to take their rations or be
 damned. They share their tots with brief salutes. The light infantry
 nearby curse the horsemen; the horse gunners curse their burdens; the
 cavalry curse all but each other.

   It shall be soon, after all the marching and riding. The breeze
 shifts, the stench of the fight in the valley and woods stronger
 than ever.

   The smiths and farriers finish their work, the harness-makers
 help them to load the forge-wagons and workshop carts. The musicians
 and surgeons quietly discuss their duties. The chaplains say prayers.
 The men pray. The horses scuff the ground. And perhaps they pray.

   Bugles. Drums. Mount. Packs on. Fall in; an orgy of restrained,
 nervous, trained, instinctive, frenzied movement and the body
 becomes a unit, lined up on the dirt track called a road in these
 parts. NCOs curse their slovenly soldiers. Horses bray and snort,
 stagger and rear.

   They line up on the road as if for parade, cuirassiers and
 dragoons, hussars and lancers, light foot and horse artillery.
 Baggage and shop wagons hastily move to the rear. Surgeons don
 aprons. Musicians roll litters, drums and bandages. Pipes and fifes
 trill through the noise.

   COLUMNS of four, BY the right, TURN! BATTERY order! MARCH!

   Infantry drums beat, cavalry bugles blare. Horses and men move
 up the slope to the ridge top, across and down into the valley, to
 the battle, to the enemy. Those ahead raise clinging dust that packs
 the sinus, that coats uniforms of green and blue, scarlet and yellow,
 black and gold. The men strike up simple songs of marching and
 hardship. The sound of the battle grows.

   They glimpse the battle in the distance as they top the rise. What
 had been marked by sound and smell for most of the day grows form,
 shape. His Lordship's infantry is pushing into the woods with the
 enemy falling back before them in order, but with tentative ribbons
 and spots of panic on the far ridgeline to the right, on the other
 side of the valley.

   A small farm is on fire in the middle of the valley, dots and
 piles of bodies and wreckage strewn about the blazing barn and
 demolished cottage as if cast away by a willful child, toys broken
 and no longer amusing. The guns grow louder. The woods are dense
 with the smoke. A battery rides up hastily, gunners rush to serve
 their piece, touch off the howitzer before the horses are away. The
 horses bolt, grooms run after.

   Down the road the cavalry rides in parade-ground order, one
 squadron after the other alongside the battlefield, around the
 woods, up a small knoll splitting the valley in two shallow bowls.

   Soldiers huddle along the knoll, exhausted, decimated, dirty,
 wracked with pain and sickness from smoke, fear and battle. They
 stare at the clean men and horses, disbelieving, spiteful.

   A vidette, his tiny pony nearly ridden dead, scuffles to the
 head of the column. They are there, he points, they are over there,
 down that track and along the edge of the wood. They are in disorder
 and are retreating on the right, yes, but the center falls back well.
 No, I must find his Lordship and make a full report. No, I pray sir,
 I cannot stay. Good hunting to you.

   A small party of hussars is detached to make a reconnaissance,
 find, fix and return. Dragoons dismount and deploy on foot, unsling
 muskets, their horse-holders behind a copse. Lancers and cuirassiers
 dismount, adjust bridles and cinches. Light foot catch up to the
 horsemen, deploy alongside the dragoons. Horse guns follow, rattle
 and clatter.

   In moments a hussar rides back. Found them, he shouts. Up and
 at them, the order is passed. The column again snaps up smartly,
 breastplates gleam in the half-sun, lance pennons lazy, hussar
 helmets sway. Down the road.

   A dispatch rider rushes forward, new orders. His center has
 withdrawn more swiftly than hoped. You are at the flank of his
 center, not his right. Careful you do not overreach.

   Before them the enemy. Ahead another road crosses the valley
 protected here and there by trees and thickets, stone fences and
 walls. He retreats down the road 2E. Scattered along the road
 exhausted remnants of his army guards the refugees of shattered
 units and baggage wagons, duels with his Lordship's skirmishers
 from the center, with hussars from the Cavalry Reserve. Small
 bands of his horsemen form ragged lines, wait.

   Form line.

   They haven't enough infantry for square, not here, the officers
 decide. His horse cannot countercharge, not nearly enough to matter.
 There is room behind for us to regroup if we avoid the obstacles.
 Inform the rear we have found him and to hurry or miss the fight.

   They form a wide line, four horsemen deep, quickly. The horses
 smell fear. They prance, shiver, twitch ears.

   Forward at the walk.

   The length of them is as long as the road through the valley.
 Lancers strip pennons, dragoons check muskets, hussars wave and
 flex sabers, cuirassiers charge pistols, musicians move back,
 colors in the center, guidons at the flanks.

   The enemy sees them and there seems to be some panic. Stay in
 the ranks, you, go when you're told. You'll die on my order and not
 before, blaggard.

   Trot.

   Cannon line up before a wall, their officers shouting in their
 frightening foreign tongue, horses white-flecked with foam. The
 cavalry's long gleaming line is approaching, only moments before
 the crush.

   Gallop.

   Horses faster, knees grip flanks, leather slaps, gauntleted
 hands twist bridles, better grips. The long lines become ragged,
 bend around the slightest contour of ground. Cannons boom before
 them, balls whistle and sigh through the ranks, bowl over an
 occasional horseman.

   Gunners reload with iron scrap from the forge floors, sponges
 forgotten, powder measures cast aside. Infantry wheels -- form
 square, more guns draw up -- "Hurry lads before they . . ."

   CHARGE!

   Spurs to flanks. Break through here and the day is ours. Sabers
 point, form square, lances crouch. "Steady on boys!" Pistols draw
 and cock. "Hold here, or we are undone!" Reins in teeth, unlimber
 that gun, chests down on horse's necks . . . "Hold your fire (swords
 slap flanks), mark your targets . . . aim low boys . . . on them
 before they--"

   FIRE!

   Massed muskets erupt in sheets of flame and smoke. They are upon
 us, saddles empty. Kneel down, pistols crack! "UP! boys." Horses fall.
 "Reload!" Men scream. "Now lads (sabers flash) . . . Here they come!"
 Infantry volley again, form four ranks -- clubbed muskets swing --
 bayonets slash, guns roar . . . "Hold them lads."  Grapeshot shrills
 . . . "Oh God where is everyone . . . ."

   Lances strike home -- they are through. Horses shy . . . recall
 sounds, wool burns-- "Give them canister!" Horse guns blast at
 infantry squares. "I am dead sir . . ." Cold steel cleaves flesh.
 "Hit them again boys!" Hot lead sears bone . . . "We are lost . . ."
 Flailing hooves meet bayonet walls--

   "Back here you motherless cowards!"

   Ball passes through horse and rider, "Rally here I say . . ."
 Horses screech in panic, "Infinite mercy, have pity on us." Light
 infantry thunders into the fray, "Oh, I am shot." Muskets crash,
 "Have we won sir . . . have we won?"

   The valley is still, field and trees shrouded in evening mist
 and smoke. The battle continues, rattles and roars dimly, somewhere
 else. The dead and dying horses and men, friend and foe together,
 a ghastly carpet on the valley floor. Dragoons chase away scavenger
 birds, villagers and dogs, kick away rooting pigs. Chaplains with
 lanterns give water and comfort to the dying, blessings to the dead.
 Musicians carry away those that may live to the surgeons, their
 aprons already black with blood.

   A cuirassier, back broken, unmoving limbs, screams for relief. A
 hussar nearby, both legs crushed, obliges his mate with a pistol and
 dies himself.

   "Is our battle won?" someone asks.

   A young officer, quite ill, streaked with dust, mud and blood,
 powder and foam, dispatches another lame animal with a stab of a
 shattered lance.

   What battle, BATTLE? I do not know battle. I only know this horror
 This cannot be the "battle" that I have waited for -- trained for all
 my life. Battle is GLORY, or so I was told . . . this is . . .

                            {DREAM}

 Copyright 1995 J.D. Beatty, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
 -------------------------------------------------------------------
 J.D. is a historian and writer of fiction/nonfiction from suburban
 Milwaukee, Wisconsin, and a US Army veteran of over 20 years. He's
 the author of CROP DUSTER, a novel of air warfare in Europe in
 1942-43, and THE SWORD OF PROMETHEUS, a history of military flame
 weapons. Email: [e-mail] or [e-mail]
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