Re: The life of a soldier
Thuringen, west of the Werra, February 1626
Peter took a deep breath and held it for a second, and then he kicked the door in. He rushed into the house and stopped dead about two steps from the door to listen for sounds. He did not hear much though because of the screams and noises from outside.
"Diiiiiee!"
He turned just in time to run his sword through the man who had been hiding behind the door, before he ran his dagger through Peter. The man stopped with half of Peter's sword sticking out his back. He looked in surprise at Peter and opened his mouth as if to speak, but all that came out of it was blood.
For a moment Peter looked into the eyes of a man in his late forties. A nice and pleasant-looking man who seemed as if he would never hurt a fly. His eyes were distinctly green and his brown hair had turned grey by the temples. In many ways he remembered Peter of his father. He thought of this for a moment, but then the man gargled and the light in the his eyes faded and Peter pulled his sword out. He briefly scanned the room for something to take, but found nothing and rushed ahead to the next room. He had to be quick.
The next room, which was slightly bigger than the previous, turned out to be the last of two rooms in the little house. Another soldier had broken in by the back door. In the middle of the room, on the floor, sat a women about the same age as the man Peter had just killed. Her dress was already in pieces and the soldier was shouting at her as she cried and begged him to stop. As the soldier realised he was not alone he looked up and yelled at Peter.
"Piss off! She is mine and so is everything else in this house! Get lost!"
Peter did not stay to argue. He recognized the soldier's face although he did not know his name. He was a bit older than Peter and apparently a veteran of the Bohemian uprising and had been at White Mountain. He knew that it was best to stay away from trouble, especially with everyone who knew this brutal profession better than him.
He hurried out of the house, but did stop to strip the dead man and husband of his little purse. It contained only three groschen, but it was worth taking anyway. He left the house and returned to the chaos that was the looting of the little village.
As he stepped out into the grey daylight he stopped – almost as if in shock – to watch the chaos. Just across the little street two soldiers left a house, heavily burdened by fine clothes, linen and even some jewellery. The pockets of their vests and jackets were stuffed with food, mostly bread. It must have been a wealthy family that lived there.
Just to the left of him another two soldiers had already settled with what they had taken and were sitting on a bench that stood against the wall of the house had just left, laughing as they compared their loot despite the chaos and butchery around them. One of them still had his hands soaked in blood.
Another soldier came dragging a man, probably a farmer, by his hair up the muddy street while threatening him with his rapier. The man shouted, kicked and struggled but to no avail.
Peter turned his head to the right, just in time to see a man running away with something tightly pressed to his chest being shot in the back. The soldiers nearby laughed and complimented the shot for his accuracy.
It was not until now that Peter fully realised what was going on and that he had just killed a man. He took a few staggering steps backwards and sat down with his back to the wall. He let go of his sword as he more or less collapsed and it fell to the ground, the blood on it mixing with the mud. He felt as if he was having a fever. He was not used to this.
"Peter! What have you got?" one of the men on the bench next to him suddenly asked. Peter did not recognize any of them but apparently they knew his name.
"Nothing...just three groschen" he answered sincerely but thickly.
"Haha! No worries, you will get used to it" the man said with an almost cheerful voice as he noticed Peter's condition. Peter nodded but did not answer.
"He needs a drink" the other of the two soldiers noted after a few moments of silence.
"Indeed he does, and so do I” answered the first one. “Come on, there is probably plenty of wine down by the marketplace. If not, we will find some. We will be here over the night anyway, so there is plenty of time. But then again, the faster we find the wine the more time we can spend drinking it, haha".
The two soldiers got up, walked over to Peter and pulled him up. They even picked up his sword and handed it to him. He took a quick look at it. He had stolen it back in Leipzig, just as with the rest of his weapons.
They walked off, but he paused for second to stop and clean his sword off on a dead man's shirt. He was still in a feverish condition of shock, and even horror, but figured a drink might do him well. The other two only laughed as the killing and plundering went on all around them.
"It is going to get cold tonight" Peter commented without any certain expression, but to himself he thought, “If that bloody recruiter would have told me about this I would have spit him in the face and told him to piss off”.
The others did not listen, they were too busy with a discussion regarding who was the best shot of the two.
Re: The life of a soldier
Interesting. I like it that you don't shy the darker side of war. Please continue ~:thumb: .
Re: The life of a soldier
Near Bernburg, Sachsen-Anhalt, April 1626
The sun was setting. He was dead tired. They had been on the march for four days now and they had many miles to march yet. They were heading for Schleisen, hoping to beat Ernst von Mansfeld to it. If he succeeded in crossing the Elbe it spelled disaster - or at least a huge setback - for the Catholic League, that was all that he knew. In all honesty, Peter did not care all too much about why they were marching and where, he was just tired.
It was unusually warm for the season, and it had not rained for a few days. This meant no mud and a generally pleasant weather to march in, not that it was not unpleasant nonetheless. Most of the soldiers, including Peter, were cheery however as the sun shone and there was plenty of good wine in these lands. Although marching the dusty roads, passing countless villages without names was dull and tiring, it was not enough to lower the spirit of the men.
Looting was strictly prohibited for the time being and the officers and nobles of the army seamed generally nervous and stressed. Despite this, thievery was as common as always and some soldiers always left the army at each village to supply themselves with wine, beer, a little extra food and perhaps even some money. This money was usually spent on one of the hundreds of prostitutes that followed the army, or lost gambling.
Peter himself did not gamble too much, at least not anymore. He had gotten hold of a purse containing no less than 26 gulden, enough to by a horse! during the looting of a village back in Thüringen, but had lost it all on a single night's drinking and gambling. The night had also nearly cost him his eye, as when he lost for the sixth time in a row in a game of dice against the same opponent, he became violent, accused the man of cheating and was about to beat him up when the man suddenly produced a knife, seemingly out of nowhere, and cut Peter dangerously close to the eye. Since that night, he did not risk his money on such things.
He touched the little scar the knife had left with his left hand and thought about it. "A few months in the army and I am already scarred for life, and not even from a foe! How will it not be when we face this Mansfeld?". Such philosophic thoughts never bothered him for long though, and he soon almost forgot about the scar, the march and the fact that there was a battle ahead. He started thinking about the weather, and briefly broke formation to pick a blade of grass to chew on from the field next to the road. He was however soon woken from his dreams by a man on horse coming riding down the lines, shouting orders.
"We camp here! Organise a field-camp and secure vital provisions and funds from the village! Nothing is to be taken for personal use! All is to be delivered to a commanding officer who will then distribute the goods and sell them at reasonable prices! Come on! Get to it!"
Peter did not even bother to look at the man, instead he took the opportunity to sit down next to the road and rest a bit. He took a brief look at the rather large village a few hundred meters up the road, and then looked down the road, watching the endless line of men.
* * *
It was quite late now and he was getting increasingly drunk. Cristoph and Dachs, the men who helped Peter on his feet in that village back in Thüringen, had secured a few bottles of wine for themselves. Of course without paying for it. Peter had, together with a few soldiers, bought a cask of beer.
They sat in a little company of six around the little fire, only one of thousands and thousands throughout the vast camp. It was an odd collection of men. Cristoph and Dachs were both veterans of the Bohemian uprising and had campaigned and fought against Mansfeld before. They were two nice fellows, as far as soldiers go. Then there was Klaus, Emil, Sigmund and Peter. Out of these men, Klaus, or Klaus with the Hat, was probably the most interesting. They were all soldiers, ordinary, rather scruffy men. All of them quite young, apart from Klaus who was in his mid-forties.
Klaus with the Hat was a knecht since as long ago he could remember, which he laughingly claimed was not all too long. He had been involved in many theatres in many wars, but this long warrior's life seemed to affect or bother him little. He was nearly always laughing, without being mad, and always wore a silly hat; a sugar-sack hat of a kind that had gone out of fashion more than a hundred years ago. Even though people laughed at him he refused to buy himself a new hat, insisting on that this particular hat was superior to all other hats.
Emil and Sigmund knew each other since before the war and were somewhere from the countryside, just like Peter. Why they had left home they never said, and no one asked. Just like Peter they too had enlisted in Leipzig, joining for the money.
Beer and wine was in the plenty and the fire kept them warm, for even though the weather was unusually warm the nights were still freezing cold. And so they sat, laughing and drinking around the little campfire. These few odd men, murderers and rapists, from all across Germany with different pasts. These few men, always in the company of death.
_________________________________
Sorry if this was a bit of a dull read, but I felt I needed a slight build-up before the Battle of Dessau, which is next.
Re: The life of a soldier
Dessau, April 25 1626
Peter turned his head as he felt someone was watching him. It was the boy next to him, a young boy, still in his teens. His brown eyes expressed great anxiety as the cannons rumbled not very far away. Peter wondered what the boy was doing here, and what he was doing here, for that matter.
The boy, who's name he didn't know, continued to stare at him as if asking Why? Peter, who did not know why and felt just as insecure as the poor boy only shook his head but did not take his eyes from the of the boy. Although he had very little in common with him in terms of physical traits, he reminded him of his so quickly and abruptly lost youth. He was only a few years older than the boy, but felt as an old man next to him. That had put him here, and he wondered what had put this young, innocent boy here.
Then suddenly a cannon ball, not a very big one Peter recalled afterwards, ripped the young boy's head off and continued through the ranks, mutilating and killing as it passed and ultimately buried its burning body deep into the ground, covered in the blood of many men. The young boy never knew what hit him and his limp body fell to the ground, the sound of the thud drowned in the shrieks of agony and the roaring of the cannons. Peter, unharmed but covered in blood and brain substance stared in shock at the corpse of the boy. The cries of pain further down the formation did not bother him.
"Ready your guns!" some officer shouted, and so it began...
* * *
In the afternoon, Peter was quietly roaming the battlefield alone. Of course, there were a lot of men around him, and just as after any looting they were talking cheerfully and laughing, at least the older among them. The younger stayed away from the battlefield or went about it quiet, almost stunned, shock just like Peter. With his musket on his shoulder he just walked from body to body, not to loot - the thought never appeared in his mind for some reason - but to look at the faces of the dead. He didn't bother to cross the bridge and remained on the eastern shore however.
The faces of the dead horrified him, but interested him in an odd way too. It was impossible to tell the difference from Mansfeld's army and his own. They were all dressed the same way, men - mostly German - in their prime years or perhaps slightly above. A few were way too young. He stopped to look at the face of one of these young men. He was about the same age as the boy who had his head ripped off right next to Peter early in the battle, and had been a pikeman, still desperately clutching his pike with both hands. His knuckles were white. What surprised Peter was that despite the spasmodic position of the boy, lying as he did on top of another dead man, he had the most peaceful expression on his face. His face, young and round with an equally round yet rather elegant nose expressed ultimate peace, his eyelids closed as if merely asleep. He could not be described as beautiful and he still had a very childish look to him, but as he laid down there on the battlefield there was something almost divine about his appearance. That someone, who had suffered such a terrible and violent death could look so peaceful fascinated Peter in a somewhat morbid way. The little wound were the fatal bullet had entered the boy's body was encircled by a wide area of dark, almost black, blood. Peter crossed himself over the boy.
But then the boy opened his eyes and within the blink of an eye threw his pike away and put both his hands to his wound and started screaming. No one except for Peter heard him, there were too many still alive but fatally wounded on the battlefield to notice another voice - a sopran - joining the horrible chorus of a slow and painful death.
The boy attempted to get up to get a better look on his wound, but did not manage to. Only then, after several seconds, did he notice Peter and looked at him as if pleading to him. He took his right arm from his wound and reached for Peter, without saying anything, just writhing in pain. Peter reacted instantly, dropped his musket, drew his sword, rushed up to the boy and ran his blade through the chest of the boy who did not scream but just threw his head back with a sigh - as of relief. And then he died. Peter pulled his sword out and cleaned it off on the coat of the boy, he then crossed himself over the boy a second time and went on.
* * *
A great feast was held in the camp of the victorious side that night. A long mass was held and the soldiers thanked God for his mercy this day, but if they were truly thankful to God was all but certain. The men were then allowed to celebrate as they wished, which meant more alcohol than any man could handle, and plenty of prostitutes.
Peter did not take part in the celebration, he was in no mood. He sat by himself staring into a lonely campfire. The few others in the army who he could consider his friends were busy, with the exception of Emil and Sigmund, who had drowned their impressions of the day in wine even before the mass began and were steady asleep, probably suffering from terrible nightmares. Peter knew he would also suffer from nightmares tonight and he had no wish to sleep. It was dark and cold, and he had nothing to drink and no girl to warm him. The fireplace was small and did not provide much warmth, yet despite his terrible condition – cold, hungry and sleepless, he refused to drink, refused to sleep refused to do anything but sit there and stare into the fire.
Many thoughts passed through his mind, none of them left him any peace and none of them stayed for more than a few seconds. The impressions of the day, the men who had died around him, the men he had killed, left him no rest. They circled around in his head in an endless torment, but made no sense. Nothing made any sense. He threw another piece of wood onto the fire, and continued to stare. Suddenly, he became aware of his own stench. His clothes were old and more than well-worn, and had not been washed since he joined the army and became a knecht. Today they had been soaked in blood, sweat, dust and gunpowder. A few bullets who has missed his body only by an inch or less had left burn marks on his coat, but he was unharmed. A sudden impulse to throw his clothes off and burn them, and with them the stench, arose in his mind, but he controlled himself and abstained from doing so. But a sudden hatred towards his clothes and his stench followed him through the entire night and only added to his already miserable state.
He was then interrupted in his thoughts by Klaus. Klaus, rather drunk greeted him with an overly ambitious bow and a derisive grin. He sat down beside Peter and offered him a bottle of wine, Peter only shook his head.
”Haha!” Klaus shouted in an unnaturally high voice considering he was only a foot away from Peter. “What bothers you my lad? Do not tell me you are so petrified by today’s play that you won’t drink with us!”
Peter did not answer him and focused on the fire, hoping that Klaus would realise he wished to be alone. After a few moments of awkward silence, he did.
”I see” Klaus said and rose to his feet. “You are in that mood. Well, in that case suit yourself; more wine for me then, haha! I am off!”
Klaus began to walk off, back to the larger campfires were music was playing and the loud curses of the losers in the gambling were heard, but Peter stopped him.
”Klaus!” he shouted in almost commanding voice.
”Yes, what now, my lad? Changed your mind to the better have you?”
”Klaus… There is no God” Peter said in a low, determined voice, well aware of what he was saying.
“Maybe so” was all that Klaus answered and again walked away, but suddenly stopped and turned around. “But if there is not any God, I shall have to trust in someone else for my gambling. By the Devil, haha!”. And then he finally returned to the feast. Peter remained silent.
__________________________________________________________________
There, a few months since last time but I've had my doubts if I was really interested in the story. I'll try to continue it however, we'll see.
Also, CC level 5 for this one please:yes:
Re: The life of a soldier
I am still reading, and I am glad you continued. The story is good, the description also. However, I think we could do with more background on the characters, particularly Peter. It seems a bit devoid of feeling. I suppose that is your intension, but in a narrative one does expect an arc of tension.
Please carry on :book: .
Re: The life of a soldier
Schleisen, June 1626
Peter rammed his fist into the table.
"You rotten bastard! You are cheating! Give me my money back! Now!"
The man opposite him stood up and took a couple of steps backwards, a malicious grin was playing on his lips, but his eyes remained calm and seemingly unaffected by Peter's reaction. He eyed him pensively.
"So, so, do not blame your bad luck on me" he said in a calm voice, although the threat in his words was obvious. He was not a man of great stature, more of the small and quick kind. He was probably hiding a weapon somewhere on him. "I heard you do not believe in God, maybe that is why your luck has abandoned you?"
Peter could barely restrain himself from rushing around the table and attack the man; with his bare hands against the imagined knife of his opponent if so needed.
"Calm down, Peter" Dachs said, putting his hand on Peter's shoulder. "Remember what happened last time?"
"Yes..." Peter said slowly, remembering the scar he had acquired a few months ago in a similar situation, but still clenched his fists and glared at his opponent. He had given up gambling since then, but had fallen back into it after Dessau. After all, there were not many other ways to entertain oneself in a situation like his. Besides, the gambling and the drinking kept the memories away. At first he had opposed himself to drowning his own misery, but in the end the temptation was too big. It was more pleasant not to think, he had learnt. Since about a month ago he had been a heavy drinker, and even now he was slightly drunk, despite that the night was only young.
"So..." the skinny soldier on the opposite side of the table began in a smooth voice, "shall we finish this or have you had enough?"
"I... I have had enough for tonight" Peter answered and turned his gaze to the grass that made the floor of the pavilion. He turned to Dachs. "Dachs, are you coming with me?"
"Depends on where you are off to".
"Beer... I need some beer".
"Same with me, you show the way".
Peter left the tent and Dachs followed right behind him, giving the other gambler a brief stare.
Dachs was a man in his late twenties, although he could probably have been mistaken for thirty-five or more, had a robust face with a broken nose in the middle of it and green, alert, eyes. He wore his brown hair short and covered with a plain hat mostly, and only had a short beard. His clothes were as simple as those of most soldiers, but apparently he had a thing for blue as all of his clothes were in that colour, although they were by now so stained and filthy the appeared as more black than blue. He had signed up just as the war began and had fought in the Bohemian uprising and at White Mountain along with Cristoph and the two had been companions ever since.
Cristoph on the other hand had a much more pleasant look than Dachs. He was of the same age and he too served as a pikeman (which meant that both he and Dachs had a more professional training than Peter, of course they still carried muskets with them for personal use). He only wore a slight moustache and kept his dark hair quite long, almost to his shoulders. He had brown eyes and surprisingly fine teeth. On top of his - under the circumstances - good looks he also wore quite elegant clothes which he had attained after looting a tailor’s shop just after Dessau.
Peter and Dachs reached a muddy tent were beer was served. They paid an extortionate 2 groschen for their pints and decided to steal if they needed more later on. A dead drunk Cristoph joined them, along with a girl who he introduced as Maria, but soon left them and went off with Maria, childishly laughing - at his own jokes mostly.
"Cristoph, eh? What a bastard!" Dachs exclaimed, grinned broadly and emptied his pint. For the first time in a week Peter smiled, he had been in a dark mood lately, and not even the company of men such as Dachs and Klaus could cheer him up.
"To him" Peter said and emptied his own pint.
As the night went on Peter and Dachs could increasingly drunk on stolen beer, sneaking a small cask out of a tent filled with drunk, singing, soldiers was not a very difficult task. For the first night in a long time, as far as he could recall since Dessau, Peter had a really good time. He laughed and sang for once, and forgot about his troubles in a merrier way than he was used to. He only briefly became silent as one of the soldiers with which he and Dachs had joined started singing a psalm, but he soon forgot about his worries. The summer night was warm, the sky was bright and the stars were in the plenty.
Late that night - the sun had already begun its voyage across the sky - he stumbled around the camp trying to find his own tent. He had lost Dachs somewhere in the middle of it all and had instead stumbled off with a prostitute, whose name he had already forgotten. Finding his way back from the train, where the prostitute had her tent, was not an easy task and only after stopping to throw up did his head clear enough for him to remember the way. The camp was silent now, only faint voices were heard in the distant, probably from the officers' camp, they feasted like there was no tomorrow and were worse than the soldiers in their drinking, only their wine as much more expensive.
At long last he found his tent: a small tent for one person only, he had made it himself out of broken pikes and the remnants of a larger, discarded, pavilion, simply because he preferred to sleep alone. He took a piss outside and hit the canvas of his neighbouring pavilion on purpose. He crawled into his tent and fell dead asleep as soon as he was inside.
* * *
South of Magdeburg
"See, my boy? The finest horse in Germany, I told you! And cheap too, I just saved us a fortune... What is it, boy? Do you not like her?"
"She is fine..." the boy answered but showed no real interest for the horse.
"Is it your sister?"
"Yes, she has begun coughing again".
"Oh, God have mercy on us" the man crossed himself. "Come, let us go see her. Hermann, take the horse to the stable!" The farm-hand nodded and did as he was told to.
The man and the boy hurried to the house, as the father opened the door warm and stuffy air came rushing towards them. Along with the smell of a hundred years of poor living and cooking was the smell of death and disease. The father and the soon took of their shoes and left them in the passage and continued into the chamber. The mother was sitting on a simple chair next to a young girl, deeply buried under covers in her bed despite the summer heat.
"How is she?" the father asked, although he already knew the answer. The little girl was only seven years old and very short for her age. She was thin and pale and had not been able to walk for months. The little girl turned here gentle, unusually large, eyes to her father and brother.
"Papa, am I going to die?" she asked in her weak voice. The father did not know what to answer...
"Waaaaake uuuup!" Cristoph shouted into Peter's ear. He sat up in shock and sounded a muffled gasp combined with a shout as the canvas of the low tent covered his face. Then he suddenly pushed Cristoph, who somehow had squeezed himself into the tiny tent, aside, rushed out and threw up.
________________________________________________________________
Thanks for your comments, Ludens:yes:A little more background than has been hinted above will probably show up in later episodes, but don't expect too much. As you guessed, it's my intention to keep the characters' past in the shadows, partly to leave it open to the reader to come up with a background him/herself. I for one, have no idea where the characters are from and exactly what they did before they signed up, and what drove them to do so.
All comments are very much appreciated!
Re: The life of a soldier
Lutter am Barenberge, August 28 1626
It had been two busy months. von Wallenstein had decided a force of some 8 000 men to be sent to Brunswick to assist the Count of Tilly in his struggle with the Danish King Christian IV. A few weeks of tiresome manoeuvring had ensued, and yesterday they had clashed with the Danes - that was about as much as Peter and every other soldier in Wallenstein's army knew of the situation.
The battle the previous day had been intense, yet they had gone off with the victory, and the Danes had left the field in disarray. Just like after any other major fighting however, Peter was still a bit shaky, and he had a horrible hangover from last night's drinking. The camp was still quiet, and the sun was just rising, its read beams giving the bloody mess that was the battlefield an almost surreal look of redness - the smell of gunpowder and rotting flesh was in the air.
Crows were still flocking to the battlefield, and the black clouds they formed were easily visible even from the camp, their caws easily extinguishable in the almost complete, and somewhat discomforting, silence. Peter gasped and as he was stretching his legs, he had some water from a bucket someone had left outside a tent. For some reason unknown to him, he had grown fond of walking around the camp in the early mornings, especially after some severe fighting. Not only did it help rid him of his hangover, but it also cleared his mind, and strange as he found it, there was something beautiful in it all. The soldiers, the tortured souls of ghastly criminals, all sound asleep, just like children - except for the snoring - in the warm, welcoming rays of the sun. The sun shone as beautifully upon every man, and that was a comforting thought to men like Peter.
He paid Klaus' pavilion a visit, but he was still asleep, clutching his hat in his sleep as a child clutches its rag or doll. Peter chuckled at the sight, he had been in a much easier mood since that night in Schleisen. The summer had passed by quickly, and mostly he had been to tired to contemplate on his situation and problems. Dachs, Cristoph and Klaus kept his mood up and in the company of beer and wine, it was easy to forget ones troubles, even if only for a few hours. Peter was getting the fear though, as he could notice himself falling deeper and deeper into the lifestyle that he had once loathed so intensely. He drank and cursed, yes, he even cursed God. He stole and spent his nights with prostitutes, he gambled and drank heavily. Not even That bothered him anymore. Once in a while, he would fight and kill men whom he had never even met, but he was less and less shocked after each time - right now he was even able to chuckle, although he had almost hoped that the terrifying experiences from the previous day would haunt his mind. Suddenly, he felt uncomfortable staring at Klaus as he slept, so he left the pavilion in a hurry. He strolled the camp for a little while, and considered having something to eat, but then judged his stomach incapable of handling any food just yet. Eventually, he sat down on an emptied cask near a burnt down fireplace. He stared into the ashes but thought of nothing, his mind was entirely blank.
Then, his gaze was taken away from the ashes by a glimpse of something unusually colourful in the corner of his view. Some sort of officer, probably a nobleman, was walking through the camp, only a few meters away from Peter. He seemed to be rather confused and disorientated, he certainly did not belong in this part of the camp. He noticed Peter, but only gave him a brief look and then turned his head away, as if in disgust. He quickened his pace and left. Peter was still looking at the tents between which the nobleman had left, when suddenly he felt someone was watching him. He turned around to realise that it was Emil. He looked nervous.
"Good morning" Peter said without revealing any emotions. Emil only nodded for an answer, but came over to him and sat down on the ground next to Peter's cask. Neither of them said anything, everything was silent. A few minutes passed by, and the camp began to show signs of awakening. Unhappy mumbling could be heard from many of the tents and pavillions, and the snoring was slowly being replaced with grunting and cursing.
Peter glanced at Emil, who remained silent, staring into the campfire at which Peter had glared previously. He seemed nervous and shaken, probably from yesterday's battle and in a way, Peter envied him. Emil had as much fighting experience as he had, yet he still remained that innocent boy who Peter also wished he would remain. His wishes were not granted however, as he piece by piece was being changed into something different. Then, Emil took a deep breath and finally turned to Peter to speak.
"Peter, I--" he began, but then he was interrupted by Cristoph, who had learnt that sneaking up on people, especially when they were hung over, was highly entertaining.
"Good morning!" he shouted and slammed Peter and Emil in the back. Cristoph had this amazing talent of never getting a hangover, which made him a royal pain to those who did. "My good friends!" he continued after the initial shock had settled somewhat. "It is a wonderful morning! Come, let us have our morning beer... and some bread, if your stomachs are fit for it, haha!"
Emil seemed disappointed at the arrival of Cristoph and he had obviously wanted to speak to Peter, but neither him nor Peter protested or objected to Cristoph's proposal. After all, they were thirsty, and yet another day of heavy work was ahead of them. They had bodies to bury.
__________________________________________________
I should write on this more often, people might think I've given it up. Anyway, I haven't:2thumbsup:
I've decided only to make random, minor drops into the experiences of Peter for a short while until he reaches a more critical period in his life (I've planned quite far ahead on the story now). In other words, there will be longer periods of time between the episodes, possibly years at some occasions. I will try to give a farily accurate report on how Peter is travelling through Germany, and stick to historical events (like the Battle of Lutter am Barenberge) as much as possible, although this story is of course far from entirely accurate - the story is fiction, the setting and the major events are historical.
Comment as much as you like:yes:
Re: The life of a soldier
Quote:
I should write on this more often, people might think I've given it up. Anyway, I haven't
Good to know! I can only comment this way: :thumbsup:
Re: The life of a soldier
The town of Lutter am Barenberge, Niedersachsen, October 1626
The marketplace was crowded and one could barely hear the drums beating over the constant murmur. The crowd was excited, and they demanded blood.
Peter and Klaus had arrived too late to get a good view, and they could not find Cristoph and Dachs anywhere. Rather than missing out on the show, Klaus decided it was better to risk attracting the anger of some monger or vendor by taking two barrels from a nearby stall, standing on top of them to see over the heads of the crowd of burghers and other soldiers that had gathered. Once Peter had climbed his barrel, he gazed out over the sea of people for a brief second. To his surprise, he found that apparently the burghers considered this as not just a business for the older amongst the population, for quite a few fathers stood with their little ones on their shoulders, or had placed them on barrels just like him and Klaus. Why someone would ever want their children to watch something like this was beyond Peter.
He had only stood atop his barrel for a few seconds before the murmur began to fade out and die, as the magistrate and the hangman entered the small, wooden, platform with the gallows in the middle of the marketplace. Usually, this kind of events would take place outside town, but in this case it had been decided that it was in the public's interest to witness.
The drums were beating, but now that they were clearly distinguishable from the other - now non-existent - noises, their effect was much grimmer. The crowd stood silent as it watched, or tried to get a glimpse of, the small party walking down the narrow passage in the crowd, made clear by the drummers and guards. A group of a dozen guards were escorting a man in their midst, Peter was not able to get a clear view of him due to the distance, and behind them followed the priest, his head bowed. The small party climbed the few stairs to the platform, the magistrate made a few gestures to the drummers in order to silence them, and then turned to the crowd once the last drum-beat had died out.
The magistrate, a fat and wealthy-looking man in fashionable clothes and a perfect beard, still brown despite his age, smiled at the burghers and opened his arms as if to embrace them, he then made gesture as if to silence them, even though they were already silent, and then turned to the man who now stood exposed and highly visible to everyone; the magistrate was not smiling anymore. He took a few steps back and forth, all the while looking at the man, and then again turned to crowd, this time to speak:
"Here, before you, stand a man who has committed the most ghastly crimes known to man. This man, Fritz Stumpp, is a murderer of the worst kind".
The magistrate made an artistic pause, and stepped aside to let everyone see the man. Even with the distance, Peter could tell a thing or two about the appearance of this Fritz. First of all, he was not a very remarkable man by any standards; he was of average height, had a rather slim body figure and had short, brown, hair. He could not see the eyes of the man, but did notice that the man was unshaven, probably because his abilities to shave himself were rather limited while in the dungeon, where he, according to Klaus who new more about the man than he did, had spent the last four days. Fritz wore plain, rugged, clothes and a pair of dark brown leather boots, other than that there was not much to say about his appearance. He was probably best described with one word: scruffy.
"This man is a hardened criminal: a murderer, burglar and a thief!" the magistrate continued in a dramatic voice, now walking back and forth while looking at his audience as he spoke. "For a year he has evaded justice, but today he shall be punished for his sins. In Köln, where this creep was born, he broke into the home of an old lady to steal her possessions. Upon discovery, he brutally murdered the poor old woman and fled with his loot. Afraid of what punishment awaited him at home, he fled, and God alone knows what hideous activities he has practised during his year on the run. But this man's vicious lust for gold and blood would not be settled so easily, and like the ghoul that he is, he came here, to Lutter, with the sole intention to steal and murder. On the day one week ago now, he burglarised the home of an elderly couple in the outskirts of this town, hacking them both to death with an axe before leaving with whatever valuables he could find. He was, however, seen leaving the house; in a hurry and all bloody.
"The very next day, he went to a Jewish pawnbroker and sold him what he had stolen the night before. He then went on to buy himself wine and whores for the money, but was recognized by some burghers a few days later, and this culprit was captured! He testified to all his crimes, and is now to die and go to Hell for these horrible acts. He has been sentenced to die by hanging, as is the common practise when dealing with scum like him! Do you have any last words, fiend?"
The magistrate had really been taken by his own speech, and possibly from the effort of walking, an activity he seemed rather unused to, and was all red and sweaty by the end of his speech. The "fiend" however, smiled at him.
"You judge me all you want, fat man" Fritz said in very melodic and elegant voice that did in no way resemble his physical appearance. He spat. "I die with a clear conscience, and I regret nothing I have ever done".
"Very well, then" was all the magistrate answered to this, and he signalled to the priest to step forward, but Fritz interrupted him.
"Step back, priest! I do not want your blessing, just give me the noose!"
No one protested. The hangman was then waived forth. The procedure that followed was brief, and hardly a sound was heard. All was silent as the murderer climbed the casket the hangman had placed under the gallows. The noose was tightened around his neck, and the casket kicked away under his feet. Fritz grunted for a while, but did not kick and struggle like most men did. Then it was all over and he was taken down - by this time, people had already begun leaving the marketplace.
Klaus jumped off his barrel and was already heading with the flow of people leaving the square when he noticed Peter was not following him. He turned around to call for him, but noticed how he was staring blankly at the gallows. He walked back to him.
"You look pale, Peter. Surely, by now you have seen worse than that? By the Devil, both you and I have done a lot worse than that".
Peter only nodded for an answer, but jumped off his barrel and went with Klaus. He was indeed pale and seemed to be very tired.
"What is wrong with you, boy?" Klaus said in an almost concerned voice. "I thought you had that emotional part behind you by now, was it something that this remembered you of?"
Peter did not answer. He kept his thoughts to himself.
______________________________________________________________
In all honesty, I have no idea what the 8,000 men Wallenstein sent north were doing betweem the Battle of Lutter am Barenberge and July 1627 when they advanced into Denmark, so the setting of this chapter is very much fictional. As I have no idea what they did anyway, I'll basically let them stay in Niedersachsen/Lower Saxony over the winter and from there on I will be able to track them a lot better. If anyone knows of their real whereabouts, please let me know.
Re: The life of a soldier
Lutter am Barenberge, January 1627
He froze for a moment, but then launched at his opponent with the raw strength of an animal. The other man, unprepared for such ferocity could not do much, and was brought to the ground. Peter jumped at him, straddled him, and delivered several blows to his face. Caught in a fury, he soon lost count, and only after Dachs dragged him away did he stop.
"Come on now!" Dachs said as he pulled Peter off the man. "It is not worth going to the gallows for that man".
Peter settled, and Dachs let him go. The other man still lay on his back, motionless and his face covered in blood, yet still alive. The crowd was a bit disappointed, they had wished for more of a fight, but in their minds, anything that involved fighting was interesting enough. Snow fell silently on the ill lit street, and although the crowd that had gathered to see the fight was silent, the night was all but silent as the songs and murmur from many inns filled the cold winter night. Peter gave the crowd a look before briefly turning his gaze to the man he had beaten up. He shrugged.
"It is getting cold" he said without hinting any emotions. "Will you join me to drink some more?"
Cristoph and Dachs, who understood the question was directed at them of course accepted and the three left the scene, only after Peter had left did the crows help the man back to his feet. He groaned.
"What did you do?" asked a rather young man who had been to late to see what triggered the fight, if you could call it that. The man did not answer.
"They had an argument over something, I do not remember what, and he got upset and insulted him for being a non-believer. Then that other man went furious and attacked him. He probably drank a little too much" another man answered in his place. After assuring them that he was fine, the beaten man left them, and the crowd soon scattered.
Meanwhile, Peter, Cristoph and Dachs had entered another inn further down the same little street. The inn was located in a cellar and had a low roof, it was filthy and badly lit with it's single fireplace, but at least it was warm - and crowded. There were other soldiers in there, but most of the customers were scruffy-looking men, whose only apparent aim was to drown their own sorrows. At a table in a corner, a group of prostitutes sat, they were the only female customers.
They sat down at a vacant table, ordered in wine and some bread for Dachs from a maid, waited for their order and then started drinking and eating. The bread was rather bad and looked mouldy, even in the dusky light, so Dachs tossed it away after only a few bites. They remained silent for a long while, all of them seemingly unwilling to speak of anything, but as they got drunker they went back to describing the fight, and all had a laugh at the shocked face of the other man has Peter lunched at him. This went on for a couple of hours, but when Cristoph fell asleep for the third time they decided to call it a day, and to return to their lodgings. Dachs slapped Cristoph to wake him up, but they still had to more or less drag him from the inn. By the time they left, the inn was almost empty, and by now the streets were finally silent.
The bitter cold of the night awoke Cristoph somewhat, and he and Dachs stumbled off in the direction where their temporal home was while Peter went in the opposite direction. It only took him a few minutes of staggering to get home, and as the maid finally opened the door after quite some time of knocking he actually hugged and thanked her. She did not really appreciate his act of gratification and sent him up to his chamber. He lived in a small, filthy, chamber in the attic of a house owned by Mester Heinrich Schumacher, a nice old man who lived alone with his maid after his wife had passed away. Different from the other burghers he actually seemed to welcome the soldiers to stay at his home, he probably appreciated all the company he could get as his children had all left Lutter for other places. Peter lived alone in his little chamber, but there were five other men who slept in the house as well.
He opened the door to his chamber, and found that it was as cold as the streets outside. The fire had gone out. Apart from the small fireplace the only furniture in the little room was a bed and a small desk out of decayed tree with a simple chair next to it. He relit the fire and threw in a few pieces of wood. Dead drunk as he was, he could not keep himself awake waiting for the heat to come, so he threw off his boots and went to bed with all his clothes on. He fell asleep at once.
***
He was awoken by the maid’s knocking on the door. Through the shutters of the little hole that was the chamber’s excuse for a window, a little grey daylight forced its way into the otherwise dark room – the fire had gone out again. He only grunted for an answer, but the maid opened the door, which he had not locked, anyway and entered the room. She brought with her a bowl of porridge and some bread. She placed it next to his bed and went over to the window and opened the shutters, she then skilfully lit the fire and put some more wood on it – all the while she was speaking to him in her tutoring voice, she acted like she was his mother. She very well could be. Her name was Eva, a woman somewhere in her late fifties, her husband, who had also been a servant to Mester Heinrich, had passed away a couple of years ago, but she remained in the household that had become her life. They were used to accommodating several guests, and were not particularly bothered by the presence of so many soldiers.
“Oh, yes” Eva said right as she was leaving the room “A friend of yours is here to see you. Shall I permit him entrance?” Peter, who still had not gotten out of bed nodded and mumbled something vaguely reminiscent of a “Yes”.
“Now, you eat your food and I shall bring up some beer for you and your friend” Eva said in an almost nursing voice before she left.
Peter sat up in his bed with great effort, and then threw his blanket off. He moved closer to the fireplace, but remained sitting in bed. He took the bowl of porridge from the floor and began eating with the simple wooden spoon in it. It did not taste very well, but it was warm and almost revitalizing, he had only dim memories of the night before. Footsteps were heard from the stairs, and to his surprise, it was Emil who entered. With his mouth full of porridge, he pointed with the spoon at the little chair, and Emil dragged it closer to the fireplace and sat down, taking his coat off. They sat silent for about a minute while Peter was eating, and Eva entered with two wooden pints of beer. She closed the door as she left. When Peter had finally finished his bowl, he took out his knife, cut the bread in half and threw one piece to Emil, immediately taking a bite of his own.
“So…” Peter finally said “What is it? You would not come to me for nothing”.
“No…” Emil said, staring at the floor, touching neither his bread or beer. Peter however drank greedily from his own pint. “Peter, I have wanted to say this to you for a long time now, but I have not had the courage to do so”. Emil was now looking into Peter’s eyes, and his face expressed great torment and anxiety.
“Say it, do not be shy” Peter said in a surprised voice, while he tried to keep merry as he saw that Emil was greatly troubled. “I promise not to laugh or be angry, or anything like that, in fact”.
“Do not promise that in advance” Emil said, now with subtle hint of anger in his voice. “I think… I think I know you from before the war. You grew up near Magdeburg, right?”
“Yes”. Now it was Peter who was getting anxious.
“It was you who did it, was it not? I saw you”.
For a brief moment, Peter stared in utter horror at Emil. He then reacted with the speed of an animal. He reached for his knife which he had placed on the bed and lunged at Emil, thrusting the blade into his chest. Emil sighed as he lost his breath and Peter then went on to stab him several times in the stomach. Emil fell silently from the chair. Peter dropped the knife and staggered backwards until his back was against the door. He then rushed over to his boots, put them on and took Emil’s coat and put that on also. Wherever he was going, he was sure he was going to need two outer coats. He then left the room, closing the door behind him. He rushed down the stairs and hurried out on street. He was on the run again.
Re: The life of a soldier
Any comments? I'd rather have you say "It sucks" than nothing:thumbsdown:
Re: The life of a soldier
I have been following this, it is quite entertaining. Please keep up the good work!
Quote:
Originally Posted by Innocentius
Any comments? I'd rather have you say "It sucks" than nothing:thumbsdown:
Re: The life of a soldier
A village near Magdeburg, March 1631
The foraging soldiers had arrived the same morning. They had been pretty rough at first, but as soon as they were sure that the villagers would cooperate, they relaxed and went on to take everything they wanted, be it against the will of the villagers, as everyday business. They stole everything these people had as if they were working on the farm at home - wherever their homes were, if they had any at all.
Little Berthold was, of course, curious. He had heard of soldiers, but these men did not look anything at all like the bloodthirsty beasts he had been told of. They were scruffy, to say the least, but they were ordinary men, only armed and with well worn clothes. He stood and watched as a handful of them, exactly how many he could not count, at least not yet, loaded sacks of flour onto their cart. They seemed pretty happy in the sun and early spring warmth, and laughed uncontrolably as one of them dropped a sack, sprilling its entire content on the dirty road. He clutched his mother's hand and tried to catch a glimpse of her eyes. Her face was pale, yet emotionless. His father, however, was still inside, crying. Springs were always harsh and food stocks were always at a low point at this time of the year, furthest afar from last year's harvest, but this year they were going to starve. He again turned his eyes to the looting soldiers and noticed one of the soldiers sitting with his back against the wall of a house across the little road that ran through the village. He appeared to be asleep, with his hat covering his face, his musket resting against the wall next to him. Berthold let go of his mother's hand and slowly walked over to the sleeping soldier - his mother made no efforts to stop him.
He carefully approached the sleeping man, not wanting to wake him up, yet his curiosity almost dragged him closer and closer. Standing right next to the man he could now feel the foul smell of sweat and dirt from him and his clothes. There was also another smell, which he could not name or recognize, but it remembered him of smoke. His thin, pale white fingers reached out and touched the metal pipe of the musket. It was warm from standing in the sun. But then the soldier woke up, removed the hat from his face and quickly reached for his gun, snatching it from Berthold, who gasped with shock and took a few frightened, staggering, steps backwards. The soldier did not rise to his feet however, and as he realised the person sneaking up on him was only a child he came at ease, put his hat on and smiled uncertainly at the little boy. He waved the boy back to him, signaling that he meant no threat. He placed the musket in his lap. Berthold, now feeling confident immediately followed his gesture and went over to the man.
The soldier wore no moustache nor beard, but was unshaven and had a stubble growth. His short, brown, hair was ill-cut, but the hat covered most of it anyway. His face was rather unpleasant, with several scars and a broken nose, but his brown eyes had an unusual kindness to them. However, whatever kindness his eyes possessed, was well hidden beneath - or perhaps rather barricaded behind - a much more frightening appearance. The smile on his face went badly with the rest of his looks. Berthold then took a deep breath.
"Have you ever killed anyone?" he asked, shaking with nervosity as he waited for the man to answer.
"Once..." the soldier began with a voice that seemed almost happy, and patted the sword sheated in his belt "I ran this fine friend of mine through a sweet little boy, just about your age. I think it was in Jutland... In some town anyway, he hid in a chest, and I thought it was... someone else, so I thrust the blade... I... I must have... I think his guts spilled out inside that chest. I did not remain to see what became... of... of him". He then threw his head back and laughed hysterically. Berthold turned on the spot and ran crying to his mother.
The other soldiers had seen what had happened, and all but one of them laughed. The one who was not laughing was the youngest of them, a boy still in his teenage years, who had just recently enlisted.
"Who is that man?" he asked, upset by what he had just witnessed.
"That is Peter Schwarz" an older man replied, "Or at least that is what he says his name is. We found him drifting around while in Denmark... a few years ago now, and he has fought with us ever since. A good man, a brave man. A little odd at times, that is all... I would stay friends with him, if I were you".
The young soldier nodded at the advice from the older.
"All right, we are finished here, let us move along! Peter! Get up!" someone shouted, and so the cart rolled away with the soldiers on and around it. Singing and laughing as they left behind them devastaded families. Singing and laughing as they left behind them people doomed to starve to their deaths.
Re: The life of a soldier
Outside Magdeburg, March 1631
"Shut up! Shut up, verdammt!"
"Please, no..."
"Shut uuup!!"
"Let him live, Jakob".
"Why? Why should I? I know he was one of them!"
"Please..."
"Let him go".
But Jakob did not listen; he had had enough. He ran his sword right through the throat of the man crawling at his feet. The poor man, an ordinary farmer in his forties, grabbed his throat, his eyes rolling, and then collapsed on the wooden floor of the house; kicking, twisting and gargling as he pointlessly fought for his life. The pool of blood beneath him grew steadily. Jakob, grinning broadly, bent over and wiped his sword clean on the tunic of the still alive man. He sheathed it and said to the man:
"Got you good, you bastard. Hehehehe!"
"That was unnecessary. He was innocent" said Rainer.
"Only God knows, hehehe!"
Rainer shrugged, and they left. Peter remained inside for a few moments, but once he was certain the man was dead, he left also. Outside, the sun was shining and after the gloomy dark of the house, if you could call it that, it stung his eyes. The small, shabby, farm was empty now, all the animals had been taken away a few days ago, and where the rest of the family that once lived here had gone, they did not know. Only the father of the family had remained, but for what reasons, they also did not know. All they knew was that a group of farmers had assaulted and beaten Jakob and another soldier yesterday, and had thereafter taken everything they had except for their clothes, and now they were bringing "justice" upon the culprits, or at least on the suspects. A few dead farmers was no big deal - Jakob had threatened a by passer on the way there, and shot him with Peter's musket as he tried to run away. The shot had not killed him, but they had left him to rot, and Jakob seemed to be greatly amused by the agonized screams they heard from the man as they left him there on the road.
Jakob. Peter hated the man the moment he met him, but had put up with his company ever since he joined count Tilly's army in Denmark, years ago. Jakob was in his early thirties, of course, no one bothered to guess his precise age, and was probably best described as a madman. He wore no beard nor moustache, and always manically shaved himself, something no other soldier would ever bother to do, yet his blonde hair was worn half-long and in complete disarray, with its greasy wisps of hair pointing in every direction imaginable. His face was unpleasant to say the least. It was long, seemingly stretched out, with hollow cheeks and slim, yet amazingly enough yet unbroken, nose. His lips were nothing more than two thin stripes of pale flesh, that, when separated, exposed a set of yellow teeth with wide spaces in between. In the midst of the dark pit that was his mouth lived the oxblood red creature that was his tongue, always moving back and forth, in and out of his mouth even when he was not speaking. His body overall was long and slim, looking ramshackle, but he was very strong despite this, which Peter had experienced in a fight or two with him.
But if his looks were not enough reason to hate him, Jakob was also a cruel man, even by soldier standards. He seemed to enjoy his profession, and was amused by killing as if was it a joke. Most men who got used to killing ceased to treat death as something horrible, and would sometimes even laugh at another's pain and misery, but Jakob downright enjoyed taking a life, the more powerful it made him feel, the better. And then there was his laughter, that hoarse, yet noisy, laughter that could turn a man's stomach inside out.
Rainer on the other hand, was the only reason Peter had joined the execution party. Rainer knew Jakob well, and they had served for years together, although Rainer was some ten years older than Jakob. He was an ordinary man, who had lost everything in the war: home, family, everything. To survive he became one of those he hated the most, but served dutifully and never complained about anything. Not even in Denmark during the winter, when they starved and were cold, did he say anything to hint his dissatisfaction. Jakob had forced him along, and as the closest to a friend a man like Jakob would ever get, he followed, taking Peter along for the company.
"It is getting late. We had better head back to the camp before we are missed" said Rainer, staring blankly up into the sky.
"Fine, there is plenty of time tomorrow" Jakob answered reluctantly.
No more words were wasted, and they left.
***
The sun was setting that same day. Peter had managed to get away from Jakob and Rainer and sat in a crowd of soldiers unknown to him. They had benches, one of the positive aspects of remaining in the same camp for weeks, months, and a fire was being started. A travelling musician, only one among the hundreds who flocked to the armies, was playing the lute and singing, while the soldiers, some already pretty drunk, tried to keep up with him as best as they could, it was an unfamiliar song to them, and it contained a lot of foreign words.
Another group of soldiers approached the little crowd.
"Hey! Hey, who are you people? You are not from the League Army, are you? I would have recognized you if you were!" one soldier yelled.
"No... we are from von Wallenstein's army" another soldier replied. "Reinforcements".
"Pah! We need no such thing as reinforcements! You little ladies do not seem to be able to put up much of a fight, what?"
The soldier who had answered him the first time did not give him the time to apologize, and lunged at him. They wrestled for a while, with the other men cheering and laughing at them. They got tired pretty quick however, and even shook hands. The reinforcements from von Wallenstein's army settled down along the campfire, and the troubadour, who had stopped playing during the fight, began on a new tune. An elderly soldier carrying a casket of wine, joined the group, only improving the already good mood. Soon, the usual talk about all the women, wine and treasures stashed away in Magdeburg began. Then a soldier who had just been over by the wine casket sat down next to Peter.
"Peter", Klaus said and nodded, taking his phoney hat off. Peter nearly screamed, but Klaus only smiled and took a zip of his wine.
"K-Klaus? What are you doing here?"
"Ah, do not be so foolish, you just heard why I am here. What are you doing here? You left in a hurry".
"So... So you know, then?"
"Ha! Everyone knows! Now, now, do not be frightened, I do not blame you. Men come and men go. I do not know why you did it, but you did the right thing in running off, the noose would have awaited you otherwise".
"You... are not mad at me then?" Peter was shocked.
"Mad? Hahaha! Why would I? You seem to still be badly shaken by what you did, but you had both done and seen worse already back then, despite how green you was. Mind to tell me why you did it, just of curiosity?"
"I... No, I wish not to speak of it".
"Fine! I am not interrogating you. Then I decide that the most likely event is what happened: You were drunk and got into an argument. You got angry and pulled your knife - simple as that!"
"What... what of the others?"
"Who?"
"Dachs, Christoph... Sigmund?"
"Ah, them. You know, I am surprised you still remember them. As I said, men come and men go... Dachs... hmm... Dachs died in Jutland, that I remember.. or at least I think I do. A siege. Got his body ripped in two by a cannon, shame. Sigmund I think got ill and died, in Jutland also, but I am not sure. Maybe he just ran off. Christoph I remember clearly however, he was shot only some months ago. It was snowy, wintertime, some skirmish with the Swedes, I think. He got hit in the chest and died a few days later. Left his wife to take care of their two children. Two sweet little girls..."
"Wife?"
"Oh, yes, he married that Maria when they realized she was pregnant. Interesting, is it not? A man who kills for a living does not want his child to be born a bastard! Haha! Now, let us not waste our time on remembering those who are gone. We are still here, and we could be gone tomorrow. Have a drink!"
And they drank.
Re: The life of a soldier
I'll just steal Rodion Romanovich's concept of asking the readers more precise questions, since there's no spontaneous comments on the story:
1. Is there something with my language that bothers you/makes the story unreadable? I'm not a native speaker, so any help is appreciated.
2. Is the lack of continuity and plot a good or a bad thing? Why/why not?
3. Is the lack of morality among the characters (especially Peter) something bothersome?
4. Do you feel that you can sympathize with any character? Who and why?
5. Would you like more focus on actual fighting?
6. I try to include the horrible reality of war in the story, is this a good thing or a bad thing? Too graphic? Too repetative?
All help is, of course, appreciated:yes:
Re: The life of a soldier
Quote:
Originally Posted by Innocentius
I'll just steal Rodion Romanovich's concept of asking the readers more precise questions, since there's no spontaneous comments on the story:
Focus on views.
1. Is there something with my language that bothers you/makes the story unreadable? I'm not a native speaker, so any help is appreciated.
:laugh4: Ja, occasionally you use the wrong tense and a couple other things. I'm a bit of a language geek and enjoy it though.
2. Is the lack of continuity and plot a good or a bad thing? Why/why not?
It's annoying but if it's a part of your style, stay consistent with your, err, inconsistencies. Each writer should have their preferred style.
3. Is the lack of morality among the characters (especially Peter) something bothersome?
Sweden you say? There are no atheists in foxholes because war is hell (therefore heaven must exist, right?). It's not uncommon for men to loose their faith when fighting a war (especially one like the 30 years war).
4. Do you feel that you can sympathize with any character? Who and why?
I hope not, but fear I can.
5. Would you like more focus on actual fighting?
Focus on your strengths. Ask yourself that question.
6. I try to include the horrible reality of war in the story, is this a good thing or a bad thing? Too graphic? Too repetative?
Refer to 5.
Re: The life of a soldier
Magdeburg, May 20 1631
Jakob rushed forward. Cannons and muskets were roaring, and the shrieks of men, women and children were heard all around. Masses of soldiers were rushing down the streets, occasionally one would fall victim to a well-aimed shot fired by the few remaining defenders. They had received the order to storm the city early that morning. The storming itself had went easily; the defenders were too fatigued by starvation and disease to put up much of a resistance, but there was still sporadic fire fights, and small groups of burghers, armed with swords and whatever home-made weapons they had crafted blocked the way at places, ready to die in a last, desperate, defence of their homes. To the plundering soldiers however, this was another kind of fight. This was not their last stand, not their vain attempt to protect everything they knew and had - this was the reward of months and months of fatiguing siege, with only minor skirmishes to interrupt the boring everyday camp life. Now, finally, they had the chance to take revenge on the city that had caused them so much pain, irritation and distress. This was their chance to claim loot, to burn and destroy, to kill and rape. A chance they would not miss, no matter what orders they had received.
Jakob was delighted to finally do something. He pressed his back against the wall of the house, and carefully peeked around the corner. Then a large cannon ball ripped the corner to pieces, sending shrapnel and a cloud of dust down on Jakob and the others. He leaped back from the corner, shook the dust off and took a look at the others; they all seemed unharmed, albeit a bit shocked. He laughed at their facial expressions.
Along with him was Rainer, a friend of Rainer named Karl, and two younger soldiers, who had enlisted just last week, during the siege - this was their first experience of warfare. Jakob was good with names, and although he had never spoken to the two of them, he knew them by their names: Mikael and Helfried. Helfried was a short man - or rather a boy, neither of the two had yet celebrated their twentieth birthday - with a round, gentle, face. His clear blue eyes were mild, something this trade would probably take away from them. Mikael was rather the opposite: he was long, almost as long as Jakob, and with a face seemingly carved out of rock. His hollow green eyes told nothing about him as a person, but still Jakob had his worries with the boy; for such a young and inexperienced person, he seemed not to take the shock of being so near death very badly. Jakob would have to watch out for him.
He spent no time contemplating over this, and proceeded with his dirty work. He jumped around the corner, only to find two men - apparently burghers judging from their fine and fashionable clothes - armed with halberds waiting for them.
***
Klaus followed the herd of black sheep. The man running next to him, waving his rapier wildly in the air and shouting, almost howling like a wolf that tasted blood for the first time after days of cold and starvation, was struck by a bullet fired from a window somewhere, and was immediately silenced. He fell to the ground without a sound. Klaus continued as if nothing, this was not the first time he took part in plundering a city - far from it. Street fighting was always bad business, and he preferred to stay with the crowd and avoid the small alleys where there would certainly be townspeople waiting to ambush whoever dared venture there. It was actually better just to run with the blind, and hope to grab at least some loot once the worst was over.
Soldiers were pouring into the houses and streets, killing or raping anyone they found, and taking whatever they found. A man, armed with nothing but a knife jumped out of a doorway just as Klaus passed it, and they collided. Klaus of course had his sword already drawn, but the poor man, whose cheeks were hollow after weeks of starvation, still lunged at him. Klaus easily dodged the clumsy move, turned, and delivered a perfect cut into the man's neck. His head was nearly severed, and he fell dead to ground. It was always a shame having to kill innocent people, but given the choice between killing and being killed, he obviously chose killing.
He shed a thought, but no prayers and no tears, for the dead man and returned to the current of soldiers. He took a few quick steps in the general direction of the herd, but then got hit by a bullet in the head. His head lashed backwards and he fell to the ground. Klaus was dead.
***
Jakob grinned broadly, ducking a wide slash from the first man. The second made a forceful thrust, but missed him by almost a foot. Before Jakob got the chance, the first man, who was apparently no great warrior, was penetrated by Rainer's sword, his unwieldy halberd could not save him in this form of close combat.
The other one, who obviously had some fighting experience, backed up, never letting Jakob, whom he probably considered the most dangerous of the five, go with his eyes. Jakob took a quick step forward, as if to attack head on, and then a quick one to the left, but the man was faster than he had expected, and managed to cut him pretty badly in his unprotected left arm. Jakob made a brief retreat, now mad with rage. His coat was ruined, and his arm hurt. Then Helfried made a foolish attempt to approach the man, possibly to show his bravery in front of the others, but all he earned was the spearhead of the halberd embedded deep into his leg. He fell over, rolling around, crying in pain. Jakob and Rainer acted simultaneously, seeing their opportunity as the man raised his halberd to finish Helfried off. The action was so swift that not even Jakob had full knowledge of what happened, but within a second or less, the halberdier lay on the ground. Jakob had run his sword right through his chest. The man gargled and gasped for air, kicking and twisting even more than the wounded Helfried just next to him. Jakob laughed, and attacked the defenceless man, extracting all his rage upon him.
Rainer, Karl and Mikael got Helfried on his feet and hurriedly helped him away. None of them wanted to stay and watch what Jakob did to the man.
***
Peter stabbed the soldier a final time, to put him out of his misery. He, and a few other soldiers whom he did not know, had encountered a rather large group of defending soldiers, some of the few that remained. It had been a pretty big struggle, with some thirty men on each side. He himself had killed two, and got away with only a flesh wound in the abdomen. He did not bother to clean his sword, chances were good there would be more killing before he could finally begin to take loot. The soldiers gathered up, half a dozen had fallen during the fight. They went on, no care was given to the wounded. There was no time for that.
They proceeded slower than before, they were in the filthy back alleys of the city now; the perfect place for an ambush. Thery were all silent, and the high buildings muffled the horrible noise of the massacre taking place on the main streets and squared. The men glanced nervously at one another, but mostly kept their eyes on the narrow street ahead of them, or on the windows of the houses they passed. The group entered an alley so narrow only one man could walk it, and unfortunately for him, Peter ended up being the first in line.
The other men followed just behind him. Right here, it was almost silent. The cannons had all ceased firing by now, and whatever fighting that still took place was with swords and rapiers, not with guns. By now, so few of the burghers were still alive that one could actually distinguish one cry of pain and anguish from the other. Peter was not giving that much thought, however. He was caught in the moment, he could not bother with the lives of others when his was at risk. He hardly ever asked himself Why anymore, all he cared for these days was How. How would he survive the day? Maybe he would not. Seeing, and talking to Klaus, one of the few soldiers he had ever met that he would ever dream to call a friend, had got him back to life, in a way. He no longer spent much time thinking, now it was all about survival. It scared him of course, he had always feared becoming this, a killing machine, but once he let go of all feelings of guilt, he never ever wanted them back. He reached the corner, and rounded it.
"Fire!"
A sharp pain in the abdomen, just where his little mark from the skirmish was. He dropped his sword. Took a few staggering steps. Sat down right in the middle of the street. It was a much bigger street. Everything was as if through a mist. He could hardly see as the other soldiers rushed out of the alley to kill the little group of musketeers that had waited in the street. He looked up into the sky. Then everything went black.
***
Magdeburg was on fire. The city, loved by so many and hated by so many others, was being consumed by the flames. It was not dark yet, but most of the looting was over. They day had been a massacre, and now the soldiers were burning the evidence. Hardly a burgher remained alive, and not a single house remained unplundered. Jakob and the others were leaving before the fire caught up with them. The streets were covered in bodies, and blood filled the gutters. They had all secured sacks and had duly loaded them with whatever they could grab. Rainer had found some fine jewellery, himself he had had to beat up another soldier to secure him a magnificent bishop's shroud, and a silver crucifix. The others has taken various things, mostly silver.
Mikael and Karl were helping Helfried jump along with them. They had bandaged his wounds and left him were he was, and returned to him only after they had finished properly. Then Rainer spotted something and rushed up ahead.
"What is it?" asked Karl.
"Klaus. It is Klaus" Rainer replied, looking at the body of the man.
"Klaus who?"
"Him with the hat. You know him. Peter's friend".
"Ah, yes. He got it, eh?"
The others had caught up with him and now formed a half circle around Klaus. His eyes and mouth were open. He looked slightly surprised, but otherwise peaceful. Rainer knelt down besides him, closed his eyes and crossed himself over him.
"Right in the head! Bang! Hehe!" Jakob howled.
"Never knew what hit him" said Rainer silently.
"Quick end, good end" said Mikael coldly, who opened his mouth for the first time during the fight. "Now, let us leave before we are caught in the flames".
The others nodded, and they went on, somewhat faster than before. Jakob however could not enjoy his victory that day. He had killed many, and that halberdier that cut him had been reduced to pieces of flesh, and he had gotten away with a fine loot, but he was still troubled. It was that boy, Mikael. Usually, he never really thought of things like this; everything simply was what it was to him, but in Mikael he saw something that almost frightened him, perhaps it was a streak of himself. They boy had killed indiscriminately during the day, and had proven himself an able soldier and swordsman. They had run into organized resistance on a couple of occasions after the two halberdiers, and Mikael had put himself at the front every time, hacking, cutting and slashing his enemies in cold blood, apparently unaffected by this horrible business. Indeed, Jakob would have to watch out for him.
They left the city to burn. And it did.
_______________________________________________________
Long entry, I know. 666th post, how ironic.
And thanks for taking your time to answer the questions, Vladimir! Just a note though: with question #3, I meant "lack of morality" as "lack of remorse/feelings/guilt" rather than lack of faith.
Re: The life of a soldier
1) I am not a native speaker either, and I understand it perfectly.
2) What exactly do you mean with this? Do you refer to the fact that you jump from highlight to highlight? That need not be a bad thing, as there probably isn't anything important happening in between.
3) No, I actually like the realism of the story. Others might not agree though.
4) I sympathize with Peter because he is the main character, but not the others. If this was a book and I read it in one go, I probably would, but as it is there is too much time between the chapters to really get to know them. Not that I mean to hurry you (please take as much time as you need); it's simply a limitation of this way of publishing.
5) No. I think there is a bit too much emphasis on fighting and a bit too little on the characters as it is.
6) Definitely good, see 3). It's not repetitive, and not too graphic. Perhaps it could be improved a bit by giving it a more emotional undertone, but this rather hard to do without it getting very cliché. All I can say is: show, don't tell. That doesn't mean you should make it more graphic (it's pretty clear as it is), but try to make it more like how a soldier would experience it.
As you probably can tell, I like this story very much and I look forward to further instalments.
Re: The life of a soldier
South of Magdeburg
The church bells rang with a sinister sound. The little boy cried silently as the tiny coffin, made out of plain oak, unfurnished and undecorated, was lowered into the grave. He clutched his mother's hand. His father was on his knees, crying like a child.
***
"Are you really going to it, Peter?"
"I have no other choice. It must be done".
?????????, ??? ?? ????
"Is this one awake?"
"I think not, sir".
"How bad is it?"
"The wound is nothing, sir, the surgeon can probably remove the bullet, but it took a good piece of the shirt into the wound. The risk for infection is very high, sir".
"Very well, call for th..."
***
"Gloria Patri, et Filio, et Spiritui Sancto, Sicut erat in principio, et nunc, et semper, et in saecula saeculorum. Amen."
"Thank you, fath..."
***
"Horaaay!"
"Hahaha!"
"Ssssh! Go away! Let the sick and wounded have their sleep".
"Aah, come on, father! Let us see our friend, we know he is in there!"
"No, no, no! Now, please leave!"
***
Peter opened his eyes. He felt surprisingly good - the fever was gone and he could see and hear things clearly. Without even trying to figure out where he was and how he got there, he attempted to sit up in the improvised bed, which was really nothing more than a stretcher on stilts. He failed miserably however, and the effort caused him a terrible pain in his stomach. He fell back and laid staring up into the canvas ceiling of the tent, while trying to figure things out.
Magdeburg, yes, that was it. He was so close to home. Those musketeers waiting for him in the street, and then everything went black. From thereon, he had only fragmented memories, and they were blended with so many nightmares that he could not separate dream from reality. He then wondered how the others had fared - or if they had even survived, he had lost his own unit and the people he knew almost immediately in the unorganised rush into the city. He spent a few seconds pitying himself for not grabbing any loot, but found it hard to remain focused, and soon his thoughts were elsewhere. He suddenly felt a great thirst, and looked around for anything drinkable, but found nothing. He tried to call for someone, but was unable to use his voice - his tongue was so dry it was like a thick piece of leather in his mouth. He cleared his throat and managed to produce a hoarse "Water!". Someone apparently noticed him, and he was soon approached by a monk dressed in grey, carrying a cup of water. Peter took the cup without asking, and drank greedily. Once had finished, he handed the cup back to monk and thanked him. The monk did not answer however but took the cup, crossed himself over Peter and then left. Another man then approached Peter.
The man was somewhere in his thirties, a little fat, and dressed in rather fine clothes, but wore a filthy apron with blood stains on it over them, and had no hat. His short moustache was not waxed, and his brown hair uncombed. His appearance overall was very strange as he clearly was a man who could afford the right kind of clothes, but wore them at the wrong occasions and did not care very much for them. What caught Peter's attention the most however was that the man wore glasses. The brown, lively, eyes of the man looked at Peter from behind their glass barriers for a fair while, seemingly scrutinizing him, until he finally spoke.
"And how are we today?" he asked in a very formal and somewhat snotty voice.
"I... Much better" Peter answered in a thin voice. "Who ar..."
"I am the surgeon", the man interrupted, "and the one who, with the help of the Lord, saved your life so that you may fight for Him another day. Can you sit?"
"I tried, but I could not. What day is it?".
"The twenty-fourth of May... Hmm, that will not do. Here, let me aid you". The surgeon grabbed Peter by his shoulders and dragged him out of bed, but the swift movement and the sharp pain in his stomach made Peter sick, and he only just managed to turn his head away and throw up on the earth floor of the tent, rather than on the surgeon. The surgeon let go of him, and Peter almost fell back into bed, everything was spinning in a blurry haze in front of him.
"You must remain in bed for a few days" the surgeon stated, "but you should be fine. Oh, and would someone clean up this mess? You! Yes, you, come here! Go get some water and have this removed... and bring some bread for the patient!" With those words he moved on to man lying next to Peter.
***
He spent another three days in the sickbed, but was eventually allowed to go. His wound still pained him, but at least being out in the air and away from the coughing of the sick and the moans of the wounded felt good. The weather was warm and the sun was shining. They had remained camped outside of Magdeburg, and would probably remain here for a few days, until everything had been taken care of. There were dead to bury, and loot to administer, also, the commanders of the armies had to decide where to go next, and how.
Peter did not care much for where he went and how, that was for others to decide. He only followed, and did what he was supposed to do. Right now however, he felt optimistic for the first time in a long while, and had his aim set at finding Klaus, and to see what he had gained during the sack.
_____________
Thanks, Ludens, for taking your time to answer the questions. You are right about question #2, I was wondering if the fact that I jump from scene to scene, without any special plot, was something negative.
Overall, I'm thinking of starting to wrap this thing up. This is more a collection of short stories anyway, and I'd like to follow my characters more closely. Also, there are other interesting historical periods than the 17th century, but there will be at least five or so more installments before this one is finished.
