Image courtesy of Stockvault.
Author’s Note: Here is a bit of a rewrite I accomplished earlier this week amid all the other stuff keeping me busy.
This excerpt is a memory of the Battle of Waterloo by a soldier named Manfred. It starts off just as he remembers, but then things begin to change.
Waterloo
The Prussian Army’s I Korps had been marching all morning. Just before noon, the army had crested a small rise and looked down on the morning and early afternoon’s butchery. Manfred’s breath seized in his throat. Between the French and British positions, thousands of horses and men lay dead and dying. Shot from both sides made an entire field a killing zone. Next to Manfred, Klaus emptied his stomach. “Easy there,” said Manfred. “Take heart. Most of the ones lying down are French.”
Cannon fire from French positions slammed into the heights held by the British, interrupting Manfred. The British allies were in square formations, bayonets out, screaming at nearby French cavalry to charge them. The horses had more sense than their riders, keeping close enough to threaten but far enough to not cause any real harm.
They didn’t have to. A French cannonball skipped off the height and plummeted down into a square. It carved a neat path through the men. Their screaming could be heard all the way from where Manfred stood. British soldiers kicked out the dead and wounded, reforming in enough time to meet a French cavalry squadron’s charge. Body parts, broken men, and broken equipment told a more gruesome tale than the screaming did. A few of Manfred’s Catholic troops crossed themselves.
The regiment leader, a colonel by the name of von Prinz, rode up to the head of the column. He surveyed the battlefield, nodded, and turned to address the men. “Men of Prussia! Our regiment is the first to come to help our British friends in their struggle against Napoleon! You can see the battle is hard fought, the outcome dire. Lose here today, men, and we might as well lose all of Europe! I have orders from von Bulow himself! The honor and glory of drawing first blood from the French is ours!” Drawing a sword, von Prinz gestured to a small village to the left of the field. French colors stood between the stone houses and low walls. “The French threaten us there! We shall take that village for the king and the Fatherland!”
Men shouted orders, and the 16th Regiment, I Korps, broke into several columns. Manfred issued his own orders, but stopped to salute when the colonel approached. “You there, Adler is it?”
“Yes, Herr Colonel,” said Manfred.
“I understand you lost your captain on the way in,” said von Prinz.
“Yes. His foot slipped on a mud track and he twisted his ankle,” said Manfred.
“As the senior officer in your company, I’m promoting you to Hauptmann. You may select and promote a sergeant to serve as your aide. Try to pick someone with wits. Do well, and you might get to keep your rank after the battle’s done.” Von Prinz kicked his horse and rode off.
“Huzzah, Herr Hauptmann,” said Theodore, breaking his usual dour demeanor with a faint smile of appreciation. “Where you lead, we all shall follow.”
“I feel better, knowing you’ll lead us,” said Gottfried, without the usual tremble of nerves in his voice.
Manfred had known the corporal the longest, and quiet fear always seemed to be his companion. He nodded in reply. It would not do to let the man down right before battle.
Lothar, the unit’s third corporal chimed in with a booming voice. “Going from sergeant to lieutenant, and now this? Keep this up, and they’ll make you a general,” he said. The other men chuckled.
Manfred grinned. “Then you’ll be coming with me, Sergeant Lothar,” said Manfred. “I remember someone telling me on the march over that a good joke requires a quick and steady wit.”
“Sir, you can’t be serious,” said Lothar. He grumbled. “Theodore was right, my own words have done me in.” The other men laughed harder.
Manfred spoke in his commanding voice, sharp, and quick. “You heard the colonel. Get the company into columns, and let’s get to that village before the French retreat.” Lothar shook his head, frowned, but gave in and started barking orders.
Rain had settled into a light drizzle, buffeted by short gusts of cold wind. Manfred prayed his feet would stay dry. The company – his company now– went into three short columns behind the rest of their battalion. They marched through soggy terrain, not enough to lose a boot, but enough to soak their feet. Their battle was just beginning. Wet feet would make all the formation marching unbearable.
A cannonball buzzed over the column, close enough to make a few men duck. It landed on the ground and skipped along like a stone across a lake. Lother said, “Only the blind are allowed to join the French artillery.” Some of the men caught the joke and laughed. They stopped shaking as much, stayed in formation, and kept their advance. Manfred caught his sergeant’s eye, and nodded his approval.
After a few minutes, the Prussians halted. They were a hundred paces from the village. Manfred gave the order, and his company moved from columns into two long lines. Every man waited, musket at his shoulder, for more orders. In the village, French troops shouted at each other, running to kneel behind a low wall. “Fix bayonets,” said Manfred.
Lothar arched an eyebrow. “Could we load first, to have a shot ready just in case?”
“Not enough time,” said Manfred. “We can’t shoot through that wall, and we need to get over it before the French fully deploy.”
“You heard him, we’re serving up steel before lead!” Lothar shouted. “Last one to fix his bayonet gets to sit on it!” Bayonets clicked into their sockets just below the barrel, and the men returned the muskets to their shoulders.
“Bayonet march,” said Manfred, finished with his own bayonet. Lothar relayed the order, and the drummer and fife players kicked up a tune. The Prussians leveled their guns in front of them, points towards the enemy, and walked forward.
By now, Manfred’s heart threatened to jump out of his chest or climb through his throat. The French cannons had realized what was going on, and more shots buzzed by. They were at end of cannon range, and most shots went wide or low. Up ahead, a few French soldiers took shots at them. Bullets whizzed by like angry bees, and more than a few men shouted in terror. “Steady,” Manfred shouted. Some of his men had shaking weapons. If they broke now, the charge wouldn’t work.
At twenty paces, most of the French had unloaded their weapons. All were in the process of reloading. Only a few had their bayonets out. Manfred licked his lips, lowering his musket towards the enemy. He bellowed the order: “Charge!” Every man answered his call, and the Prussians stormed forward with cold steel. The lead line ran up to the wall, raising their muskets high. They stabbed down at the French, creating holes for the following line to exploit.
In moments the Prussians had scaled the wall and were headed into the village itself. French forces bolted from their positions, running as fast as their legs would take them. All of the fear bled away, turning into pure adrenaline and ecstasy at seeing a running enemy. Manfred looked around. There were few Prussian casualties.
Manfred pursued the French to the wall opposite the other side of the village. The French were in full flight, their threat to turn the British flank was over. His men let out a cheer. “Honor for the Fatherland! Glory to the king!” Manfred blushed, and gave the order for the company to set up defensive positions behind the wall.
The sound of groaning timber stopped Manfred cold. Behind the French position, two monstrous trees rose from the ground, unfurling gnarled limbs with heavy cracks that shook the air like gunfire. Leaves of pallid green, of jaundiced yellow, of sick lavender, burst from the branches and rustled independently of any wind. Near the top of the trunks, the leaves parted to reveal two pairs of knots on each, as if they were unblinking eyes.
Both trunks shuddered and heaved, splitting open. Instead of the monstrous plants falling over, shards of wood and bark formed jagged lines, resembling a gaping maw. The cracks flexed wide and then shut, wide and then shut, and the leaves and branches rustled as if both trees were eager to receive the retreating French.
The mouths opened wide, and the French ran into them. Arboreal jaws chewed and opened for new victims. French screams turned Manfred’s stomach. Nobody avoided the trees. Many of the French changed direction to fling themselves towards the fiendish plants.
And all the while, as the trees devoured men whole, the leaves grew darker, more lush, and drooped heavier on the branches.
Singular Fiction 