

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
THE CHARGE
  by J.D. Beatty
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  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, smouldering, 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 ridge line 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.
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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: jdbeatty@earth.execpc.com or jdbeatty@aol.com
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