Innocent Soldier (9780545355698) (16 page)

Behind us comes the hungry, demoralized mass of the defeated
Grande Armée.
That’s where chaos is.

From time to time, we find a bit of wood or something eatable off the road.

A calf lies buried in snow next to a well. Konrad Klara notices the hump in the snow. It seems he has a nose for buried treasure. The calf smells clean and innocent. It froze quickly and thoroughly.

Not far off are some priests sitting around a camp-fire. Trustworthy-looking men. At least they seem peaceful enough. A few pieces of wood lying nearby give promise of a warm night. They haven’t anything to eat. At least, I can’t see any evidence that they do. That’s good for us. On account of the calf.

The men aren’t priests at all. They’re from a regiment of Badensers. They’ve stolen the priestly robes from a church. Because of the cold. All’s well in cold and war. Who can blame them? It turns into a wonderful night. Only a pity there’s no salt to put in the broth and on the roast veal.

We sleep into the early morning hours around the hospitable fire. We feel much better. It’s good to know there are decent people, even among the rough, neglected soldiers. The ostensible priests round the campfire are an
example of such. They only steal Konrad’s knife, not our furs or our boots, which we need to live. They even have a present for us. Overnight some of those little creatures that tickle their possessor with bites and suck his blood have crept into our furs.

The days and nights are indistinguishable. They take place on and close to the marching route. With a little luck, there’s some horse meat, warm snow water, and a little fire for the night. And our boots are holding up. So we don’t often suffer from wet feet.

It turns warm again overnight. Snow turns to slush, and our feet move slowly and heavily through it.

More pressure on us from the Russians. Cossacks are now hovering around the broken
Grande Armée,
incessantly and mercilessly setting about its poor remnants. Only the Imperial Guards and a few fresh Polish regiments can still make a stand.

Suddenly, the fugitive stream stops. We hear violent thunder of cannons. A wrecked town. There’s no way through. Impacts from howitzer balls. Terrified crowds of men washing this way and that.

Konrad’s uncle and the Excellency are caught up in the chaos in their sleigh. So they haven’t gotten any farther ahead than we have. There’s no way forward and no way back.

“Thunder and lightning!” curses the colonel. “There
you are again.” Konrad Klara fights his way toward his uncle with knees, elbows, and feet. There’s no way through. The frightened horses are lashing out. Men are shouting and pushing and trying to get through the crush of people. The colonel is just getting up to try to force his way over to his nephew when the ball strikes. It wrecks the sleigh, the horses, and the fur-wrapped Excellency.

We are terrified.

Konrad Klara vaults over corpses and screaming wounded. His uncle is past help. His shattered legs are lying beside him. But he takes his time dying.

“Thunder and lightning!” he says to his nephew. “That had to have been a seven-pounder at least! Well, at this point I’m handing in my commission!”

And that’s it.

Konrad Klara is weeping again. Even though he never particularly liked his uncle.

He was born with a soft heart. It will never be hard.

The fleeing army is stopped again. No getting through.

“Beresina’s in the way!”

“What, a woman?”

“No, of course not.”

“The Beresina’s a wide-ish river. There are apparently no more bridges across it. The Russians have burned them all.”

“We’ll be pretty safe when we’re on the other side.”

“Well then, let’s get across!”

“How do you propose to do that?”

“Over the ice!”

“The ice is too thin. It’s already cracked.”

“Then there’s nothing for it but to build bridges!”

“That’s what they’re trying to do. If the Russians will allow.”

“We’ll have to hold them off that long.”

“Napoleons seeing what he can do. He needs to get across himself. Apparently, he’s leading the Russians a dance. He’s distracting them with a false maneuver and is secretly building a couple of bridges. Right here.”

“He’d better be quick about it, then, before the Russian army gets here. The first of them are already up there, with a couple of cannons. Once they find their range …”

This, more or less, is the conversation of a couple of ragged Saxon officers.

From up on a hilltop, the Russians are shelling us with heavy howitzers.

Konrad Klara and I have crept under a fir tree. We press ourselves against the trunk. Konrad Klara is listening to the Saxons’ conversation. He can’t understand everything they say. French would be easier for him. The officers pull in their heads. A cannonball digs a big hole nearby. The Russians have a good view of everything. They shoot at anything that moves. No one stops them. It’s just as well we’re standing under the shelter of a tree.

We try to make ourselves as small as we can.

“If only we were already on the other side!” repeats one of the Saxons. And he sighs with deep longing.

“I’ve been told by a general,” another fellow pops up self-importantly, “that the Russians are coming up with
fresh troops. They want to cut off Napoleons escape route. They want to trap him here on the Beresina and finish him off. For good.”

Another hole. Very close. The Russians are getting in range of the tree. Perhaps they suspect Napoleon is hiding under it?

We run off. By various detours, we find ourselves down by the river. Things are quieter down here. We’re out of range of the cannons, for a start. Also, the men fleeing from the Russians aren’t milling about down here, but over where the bridges are going up. They want to get across fast, if the bridges hold.

“Beresina’s a nice name.”

“But its water is deep and icy cold.”

A mild spell of weather has softened the ice and made it impassable. There are some who would rather not believe it. A few daredevils keep trying their luck and plunge into the icy cold. They grab hold of beams and boards, and try to swim across. Most don’t even get halfway. There the current grabs them, and they vanish between the blocks of ice.

Upstream, Napoleon’s engineers are working on the bridges. The very last remnants of the
Grande Armée are
backed up nearby. They’re waiting impatiently for the crossings to be finished. They are unable to go forward or back, and fresh arrivals keep coming. The Russians are on
a slope to the east and shelling the mass of men with cannons and howitzers. It’s an unfair, one-sided battle.

And on the other side is safety. Probably.

Where is Napoleon? He and his Guards must still be on this side. Apparently, he’s taken personal charge of the bridge-building. I hope they’ll be finished soon. I’m sure he’ll be the first to safety.

As for the others, I wonder how many of us will make it? The Russians will quickly get in range of the bridges. The earlier you go, the better your chances.

A troop of French rides along the bank. Elegant and proud. As if it were maneuvers in peacetime. I wonder if they’re Imperial Guards? Surely. There aren’t many other such fine-looking troops left. They’re up to something. Aha, they want to mount a flank attack on the hill with the Russian howitzers. To take them from the back.

That’s a daring move. But absolutely necessary. The cannons are disrupting the bridge-building. They pull off their risky maneuver. The Russians are so surprised that they abandon their cannons and run off. But before the French can spike all the guns, a group of Cossacks gallops up and drives them back. Four or five of the Guards are hacked to pieces with sabers. Their riderless horses run with the others for a while. Then they drift off, trot now here, now there, and then come to a stop.

Magnificent horses.

“If we had those!” My heart is beating up into my head. “Look at them.”

The same idea has occurred to Konrad Klara.

“Come on! We’ll catch them.”

Other men have also spotted the horses. They run up to them from several sides.

As if by miracle, we manage. Or is it that horses just like me? Who knows. At any rate, they walk trustingly up to me. We quickly select the two best-looking ones. Then we’re up in the saddle. We ride back and forth a little, to introduce ourselves to the animals.

A triumph.

“And now we’re off!”

“The only thing left to wish for now is that we belonged to the Imperial Guards,” says Konrad. “Then we’d have a good chance of being among the first to cross the bridge with Napoleon.”

“But we’re not in the Guards.”

“Well, you’re almost French. At least you’re wearing a French uniform.”

“But you’re not,” I reflect. “And I’m not going anywhere without you.”

“Here’s a thought!” exclaims Konrad Klara. “There are some dead Frenchmen up by the cannons. With nice uniforms. We just need a cap and a cloak apiece.”

There’s nothing left to think about. We chase up the
hill in a mad gallop. The Russian cannoneers are just returning to their cannons. They don’t pay any attention to two horsemen. They’ve got both hands full with their cannons. They’re so dead set on destroying the bridge, it’s for us to take advantage.

Now to the dead Frenchmen! We can’t bring ourselves to take off their cloaks. But a couple of caps are lying there. We pick them up, and quickly ride off.

The first bridge is completed.

A mob of men is milling around in front of it. Sounds of cornets. The Guards assemble. With their horses and sabers, they clear space for themselves. They bodily push back the other fugitives. Some cannons and a few intact Polish units are all they permit to come up alongside themselves.

Now’s the time.

We force our way through the crowd on horseback, counting on the fear and respect for the Guards. I hope we’re right. Yes, the men shrink back. Our Guards’ caps work wonders.

Konrad is nervous. If we don’t make it through the crowd on time and meet up with the Guards, then we’re done for. Only with Napoleon and his mighty Guards do
we have a chance of getting safely across, with luck. As individuals, we’re powerless. No one would respect us. Maybe we would even fall victim to the rage and resentment of the crowd.

There. The first of the Guards is riding over the bridge. This is it! Just as well that Konrad Klara speaks French. He swears and scolds the men at the top of his voice. I copy him, but while the sounds I make don’t sound German, they don’t sound particularly French, either. Still, they do the trick. A narrow channel clears in front of us. Slowly, we push our way along. The Russians are getting in range of the new bridge. For the moment, the cannonballs are either dropping into the Beresina, or else smashing into the waiting crowds. But for how much longer? Soon, they’ll strike the bridge. Konrad Klara is yelling and swearing. We’re almost there. It’s not much farther. I can already hear the clatter of hooves on the planks. A carriage rattles past, probably with Napoleon in it. Or maybe he’s not, and it’s just a clever decoy. It could be that the emperor’s in an ordinary uniform and riding somewhere in the midst of his Guards. Everything’s possible. The pressure around the bridge gets stronger all the time. The Guards won’t be able to hold the others back for very much longer.

“Attendez! He!”
We wave our Guards’ caps and yell. At last someone notices us. Of course, the French take
us for a couple of tardy fellows from the regiment, who like to cut things fine. They ride up to us with sabers drawn.

So we manage to get to the bridge in time and cross the Beresina with Napoleons Guards.

On the eastern side of the river, there are now the most indescribable scenes. Once the Guards have passed, the military police who were keeping order at the bridgehead are simply thrown into the river. The hemmed-in crowd surges onto the narrow crossing. Everyone wants to be the first to get across. There’s the most ruthless pushing and shoving to get onto the boards. Anyone who loses his footing is lost. He’s simply trampled underfoot and ends up in the river. Whoever’s pushed to the side of the bridge falls in. The screams of the crushed and drowning men mingle with pitiful prayers, with curses, and with the crashes of the Russian artillery. Konrad Klara slumps on his horse in horror. He keeps wiping his eyes with his sleeve. Is he trying to brush away the hateful scenes? We have never seen the like. It’s an absolute hell on earth.

Many thousands are drowning in the icy cold waters. The Russian gunnery is getting closer and closer to the bridge.

We are among the lucky ones who are riding away from the war with Napoleon.

To freedom.

Or so we think.

There are no Russian troops on this side of the Beresina. Not yet. They’re busy surrounding the rest of the fleeing
Grande Armée
on the opposite side and destroying them. We hear the banging of their cannons for a long time to come.

It turns colder again. Arctic cold from Siberia displaces the warm air of the last three days. It’s still only the beginning of December. It’s just as well we didn’t throw away our fur coats.

The Guards are in a tearing rush. They want to be in Vilnius in five days. Vilnius is the only large-sized town with a regular French garrison. A town with every amenity with proper billets and full storehouses.

The first chance we have, we part company with the French. Before the Guards notice the deception. They didn’t notice anything yet. Konrad warns me not to open my mouth. I’m to point to my mouth and mime dumbness. Konrad speaks French. At home, he speaks more French than German. As is the way with the aristocracy. Particularly when there are visitors, the style is French and cultured. I am proud of him.

We slip away into the darkness, without having seen the great Napoleon. A pity, but then again, never mind! The Guards don’t notice our disappearance. They are
distracted by the cold. They are riding out in all directions, looking for bits of wood. They take everything they find. They drag whole houses along after them. They tie the beams to their horses, and drag them across the snow back to their campsite.