Battle Scars: A Collection of Short Stories Volume I

Battle Scars: A collection of short stories

Volume 1

By David Cook

Other works by the author:

The Soldier Chronicles series

Liberty or Death

Heart of Oak

Blood on the Snow

Marksman

Battle Scars: A Collection of Short Stories Volume 1

Copyright © David Cook 2015

Contents

Contents

Outpost

The Emerald Graves

Pipe and Drum

The Plains Wolf

Summer is Coming

The Diabolical Circumstance of Captain Bartholomew Chivers

Flowers of Toulouse

Lamentation

Enemy at the Gates

The Bravest of the Brave

Outpost

The officer clambered up the side of the bank, the snow reaching the top of his knee-high boots. It was a land of cold beneath a wind-driven sky. A silvery mist hung above the flat landscape where, in the dawn light, it resembled roving sea fog creeping across a shoreline.

Lieutenant Jack Hallam of the 28th Regiment of Foot, a British regiment raised in North Gloucestershire, pulled out his telescope and peered north to where there was a dark smudge amongst the dusted crop fields and pewter-coloured dykes that were so abundant in Holland.

‘Is it there, sir?’ said a quiet voice to his right.

‘Of course it damned well is,’ Hallam said gruffly while still holding the glass to his eye. A flurry of soft snow drifted across the flat land with only the occasional hollow, hedgerow or patch of winter-bare woodland to offer some respite against the cruel wind that nipped at his exposed flesh. Bloody Holland.

The 28th Regiment of Foot, part of the Expeditionary Force under the Duke of York, had been sent to the Netherlands a year ago to join with the Austrian and Prussian armies to eject the French army that had been fuelled with a revolutionary zeal to expand their territories. Once victory was secured, it was said that they would march to Paris and the war would be over by Christmas. The campaign was approaching its third year. What had turned from a patriotic march to liberate Flanders with promised easy victories became a shambling retreat. The French were not easy to trample over and had consolidated with verve to stun and shatter the allies advance. The Austrians and Prussians were falling back to their borders, the British and German army were now obliged to retreat. The safest ports were miles away in Hanover and, in the harshest winter most people had ever known, the army trudged wretchedly north.

Today, as the wind jabbed like a Lancer’s long spear, Hallam stared at a series of enemy-held defences that protected a stone bridge where swollen waters hugged the shoulders of the banks. It was that bridge over a wide stream that the British needed to cross. The land ahead was interspersed with the occasional tree and hedgerows made dark by the damp. He glanced at the men behind him, a company of red-coated soldiers shrouded in filthy greatcoats and other nondescript garments, and musket muzzles plugged with corks or bits of leather to stop the damp from getting down into the barrels.

Hallam shivered. The bridge, he knew, was half a-mile away. The defences: a ring of earth and timber thrown up, was likely to contain a French demi-brigade perhaps of over fifteen hundred men. And yet, could not see any flags or anyone, for that matter.

‘Sir?’ said the voice again.

Hallam turned to the junior officer at his side, his flint-grey eyes, hard and suspicious. ‘What is it?’ A plume of white-steam jetted from his mouth.

Ensign Julian Stubbington cleared his throat. ‘Are we going to advance, sir?’

‘Leave that for me to decide,’ Hallam growled. He had become exasperated with Stubbington’s questions, which had intensified over the last couple of weeks. Now a week into December, the boy’s constant demands was shredding his temper. It wasn’t as if the boy was stupid, because most of the time the questions were justified, and Hallam knew that a good ensign always asked questions. It was how they learned and Hallam was glad Stubbington appeared to be keen. Except that the campaign changed even the most normal quiet men into snarling beasts. Quarrels were daily. The officers seemed to be governed by grudges, jealousy and indifference. Hallam rubbed his half-frozen face, knowing that the ensign didn’t deserve the rebuke. ‘Where’s Captain Clements?’ he said in a more genial tone.

‘He’s still in his billet, sir.’

Hallam’s expression darkened again. Captain Andrew Clements was the forty-year-old commander of Number Eight Company and an indolent drunk. He despised the men and was extremely jealous of Hallam. He saw a better officer and a better man in his twenty-nine-year old lieutenant and instead of allowing him to flourish and teaching him as a good captain should, he supressed his ability and blamed him for any misgivings.

‘We’ll advance to the hedgerows where I can take a better look at the bastards. We’ll bloody well do this without the captain.’

‘Are you sure that’s wise, sir?’

Hallam glared at the eighteen-year-old. ‘Bugger him,’ he snorted. ‘If he can’t do his job, then to hell with him.’ He thrust his eye-glass back in his haversack and strode down to the company that stood shivering in silence. His eyes negotiated over faces that were chapped and hollow-cheeked. Bearded faces, whitened with frost, and eyes hidden deep within homespun cloaks, scarves and nondescript caps. One man was grimacing as though standing was proving to be painful while another wore filthy bandages that gave off a foul odour. A roar of empty bellies clashed with the flurry of wind as Hallam cast one final look at the squalid village where Clements had his quarters. It was silent and a place of dead winter fields. The sun to the east was nothing more than an orange patch of luminescence in the grey sky and the west was as dark as nightfall. He ordered the company; his men, forward towards the bridge over yet more lifeless fields.

The retreat had brought misery, but instances of relief came in different forms. Battling the French was one. The redcoats might look like frozen tramps, but as soon as they scented a fight, they could be relied on to perform their duties. Fighting allowed a man to vent his anger and frustration at an unfair world, and of course the added bonus was the loot. The rich pickings left on a battlefield. Men dreamed of battles, riches and women, but now it was always food and drink. The army had suffered horrendous supply problems from the start of the campaign. Provisions were often delivered late, but now the commissariat had completely disintegrated, because the army was fast retreating and the soldiers were left hungry.

A gust of wind slapped the fields as the men advanced, sending clouds of stinging snow into their faces. Hallam squinted up at the dull-grey sky and wished the weather would end and that the sun would break out from behind the dense clouds to warm the land. Even a weak sun was better than no sun in this freezing version of Hell.

‘Do you think the Crapauds are likely to have any artillery at the bridge, sir?’ Stubbington said.

‘I bloody well would if I were them,’ Hallam replied, ‘but I didn’t see any. They’ve probably got a battery hidden there, though. They’re crafty buggers. You can’t defend with just infantry.’

A nerve shot across the ensign’s belly. He pulled his greatcoat closer to his thin frame and adjusted his cocked hat as though that would comfort him with the news. He had a sudden vision of roaring flame and death – his death, and he tried to cast away the horrific image from his mind with thoughts of home and family.

‘Perhaps the damp weather will ruin their defence?’ he said pensively as Hallam continued to look ahead.

‘Which means some of our firelocks won’t spark too,’ Hallam countered with a wry grunt.

The boy flushed, chastened by the emphasis Hallam had placed on the word ‘our’. He was about to mention that the men had their bayonet’s but bit it off in time.

It had rained all of November; a cold stinging rain that came in heavy sheets to saturate the land. When it had come down in the night, the canvass tents sagged under the pressure, and so by dawn, it was if a river had flooded the fields. Banks frothed white and even pontoon bridges had been swept downstream. Many animals had drowned in the torrent and camp fires often contained the roasting carcasses, rather than let them go to waste. Now, winter’s touch had turned it into a frozen wasteland.

The company advanced steadily and Hallam halted them at the hedge unmolested by enemy gunfire. They were less than five hundred yards away. He brought out his telescope and trained it on the bridge. The defences were clearer to the eye now. There was a mound of snow-covered earth, but it was empty of cannon and looked partially completed. Hallam could see discarded engineering equipment propped up against the snow-covered bank. There were a half-dozen barrels and a strange half-built timber construction. The glass moved again. Snow had fallen across a large pit and Hallam wondered what had been its use, then he saw the top rung of a ladder and he knew the pit was part of a trench of sorts.

Stubbington hesitated and then enquired speculatively. ‘I take it that you can’t see any Crapauds, sir?’

‘None,’ Hallam confirmed curtly. ‘It’s deserted.’ He sighed heavily, thinking that today was going to be another bastard of a day, but the bridge was clear and he would send Stubbington back to the battalion waiting a mile away with the good news. He was about to put the scope away when something caught his attention to the west. It was dark over there with snowfall, but something glinted. He held his breath as he tried to steady the glass against the wind. He centred it and then spat out an expletive.

‘What is it, sir?’

‘French bastards, that’s what.’ There were dozens of shapes; enemy shapes in the gloom. He could see steel-tipped muskets and long campaign coats.

‘French,’ Stubbington echoed warily, a shiver of apprehension surging down his spine. ‘How many are there, sir?’

‘Enough.’

Stubbington gulped. ‘What are they doing?’

‘They’re heading straight towards the bridge. Jesus, but we shan’t let them. If they reach the outpost before us, then we’ve a bastard of a fight on our hands.’ Hallam shut the glass and turned around. ‘Sergeant Fox! Company will advance at the double!’

A burly man with a dark, menacing stare stepped forward and gave Hallam a smart salute. ‘Yes, sir!’ He swivelled on his heels barking out the order to the men. One private seemed unable to move. Fox was on him like a terrier on a rat. ‘Don’t just stand there, Private Berridge! Move your stinking arse, or I’ll put you on a charge!’

Berridge, whose sunken, bearded face was partly obscured by a length of common sacking, let out a groan. ‘I’m hungry, Sergeant. I haven’t the will to continue.’

Fox grabbed the man by his coat, thrusting him forward. ‘I’ll not have a man of the Slashers declare such a thing!’ The sergeant used the regiment’s nickname from a time they were stationed in Canada. A bullying lawyer picked on some of the men and their families, and so a few broke into his home and slashed his ear off in revenge. The lawyer never spoke another hostile word to them again. ‘We’re all Goddamn hungry. So get in line.’

Berridge, clutching his empty belly, let out a long irksome whine.

‘‘‘If music be the food of love, play on’’,’ Private Hulse said grandly, causing a ripple of laughter. He was tall and bony, with thinning hair and quick intelligent eyes. He had been caught stealing liquor, and offered by the magistrate: the army or the gallows.

‘Shut your mouths, the pair of you,’ Fox growled.

Galvanized at the prospect of fighting the enemy, the redcoats, cold limbs now pounding the iron-hard ground, pressed on towards the defences. Hallam kept his eyes on the enemy. More were coming. His gaze flickered back to the bridge. Three hundred yards to go. Sweat sheeted his back. Everything depended on their success. He had orders to take the bridge and that’s what he would. Actually, Clements had been given the orders from the colonel, but as he was not present, Hallam was in command. Goddamn Clements. Hallam would not suffer dishonour because of Clements’ incompetence. Besides, he wanted to prove himself the best officer at the colonel’s disposal and as senior lieutenant, he would be looked at for the next available captaincy.

The French, seeing the redcoats, called out and suddenly both forces seemed to hesitate. Hallam reacted first.

‘Run, you buggers!’ he bellowed, legs and arms pumping. ‘Slashers! To me! To me!’

The French sprinted on the roadside, muskets and equipment banged on their bodies. As the redcoats sprinted the last hundred yards, the French still had at least three to go and Hallam shouted exultingly. He ran aside to let his men past. The first few