The life of a soldier

[Innocentius]

Leipzig, September 1625

"Haha! Again?"
"Again...Damn you..."
The cheery noises from the gamblers hardly bothered Peter as he again buried his face in his pint. He had been i Leipzig for two weeks now and he couldn’t remember just how many different inns, bars and pubs he had visited. Ever since he had left the farm, ever since that he had travelled around, spending the little money he got from begging on beer and wine. How long had it been now? A month? Two? He has lost count.
Suddenly a man took the seat opposite to his. No one had seated themselves next to - or even near - him since he ran off. He looked suspiciously at the man across the little wooden table. He was a little drunk but noted that the man wore a fancy hat.
"Hey, son" the man said with a cheerful voice as if they had known each other for a lifetime. "Why the sad face?"
Peter did not answer so the man continued in the same manner: "Well, son, I know your kind. Better than most actually...hmm...yes; what business brings you to Leipzig, son? I can tell you're from the countryside".
"I ran off" Peter mumbled in a thick voice.
"Yes, yes, I understand that much!" No answer. "Well, none of my business I see. Listen, son; I reckon you're short on money, or soon will be at least. Am I right?"
"Yes" Peter answered reluctantly.
"Well then, my name is Traugott. I'm a recruiter for the duke of Friedland, von Wallenstein, you see, and he is looking for young men just like you! Young, adventurous and in need of a little money. He has offered the Emperor to recruit an army of no less than 24 000 men and I tell you; it will be the finest army to be seen in Europe! Come by the market tomorrow - any time! - and enlist. You hear that, son?"
"Yes...A little money could be useful" said Peter who really could use some money. The little he had stolen before he left was all spent.
"Good! Fine, then!" exclaimed Traugott sounding surprisingly happy. "I'll see you tomorrow at the market then I guess. See you, lad". And with that said, Traugott stood up, left Peter - without ever asking for his name - and moved onto the next table where a bunch of young men were having a drinking contest.
Peter finished his pint in all loneliness and then got up. He left the little pub and began to roam the streets looking for somewhere to sleep. Usually by this time of the day he would be so drunk he'd sleep anywhere, but he had only been able to by himself a few pints of beer tonight since he was completely broke and Traugott's monologue had sobered him up. Becoming a soldier? A knecht? Perhaps that was the solution. Regardless of how, he needed to get away from this kind of life.
He went down to the Elster and sat down on the ground. It was all dark but not too cold, the summer heat was still in the air. He wished he had bought something to eat instead. He fell asleep on the ground, hungry and without anything to use as a quilt. He slept uneasily that night.

"Hey you, you drunkard! Get up, get up!"
Peter was brutally woken up by someone kicking his legs. He slowly opened his eyes, gasped, and turned his head to see who was kicking him. It was a well-dressed man and behind him stood a fine carriage, with the coachman glaring impatiently at him.
"You can't sleep in the middle of the bloody road! Get up or I'll whip you! Verdammt!"
Slowly, intentionally a lot slower than possible, Peter got to his feet and stepped out of the road. He hadn't realised it was a road he had slept on. They could have just rolled me aside without waking me up, he thought. The man who had been kicking him only snorted at him and returned to the carriage. The coachman whipped the horses and shouted at them, and the carriage was off, leaving a cloud of dust behind it. Peter did not spend any time thinking about the carriage or its passengers. Instead he went down to Elster and washed himself, if that was possible in such water. He didn't drink anything anyway.
He sat by the river for a while, doing absolutely nothing. The sun shone and the weather was nice and warm. Even though he had no money, nowhere to live, no place to go and no employment life seamed just fine as he sat there with his feet in the muddy water. He kept a close eye on his boots however, he had got his hat stolen when he left it out of sight for about five seconds in a pub the other week.
No employment... The thought struck a chord in his mind. Yes, yes...the market. He could enlist as a knecht! He immediately got up and nearly forgot his boots. He stopped to put them on and then hurried to the market, only stopping briefly to sneak into a backyard where he drank some water from a well.
The market was full of life, as always. People from all around Germany, and other countries as well, competed in a verbal battle to attract the most visitors to their particular stall. Minstrels and musicians strode the market playing their music, hoping to get paid. Men with newspapers regarding the war did the same. Atop podiums stood speakers and heralds, many of them enlisters, shouting themselves hoarse about this and that.
He was a bit worried at first that someone might recognize him; he had been pick-pocketing quite a lot during his stay here, and it was from the market that he got most of his food. Money was harder to get the hold of though. He soon relaxed however as he realised nobody noticed him. He was just a ragamuffin among the others.
It wasn't long before the found the tents and tables were von Wallenstein's enlisters were seated. They had a big, colourful, sign above them, but since he could not read it was the long line to the enlisters that suggested this army was something special. He took his place in line and waited, he had all day.
More than an hour passed, although it seemed like nothing, and he couldn't recall thinking about anything during this time, and then he stood in front of an enlister who turned out to be Traugott from yesterday. Now Peter could see that Traugott was a rather fat man with a healthy look, although he was in no way good looking. His clothes were nothing out of the ordinary, but he did have a fancy hat, just as he had noted yesterday.
His hair was brown and long and his moustache was dark brown from all the wax. His brown, pig like, eyes stared at Peter with an almost unnaturally enthusiastic look.
"Ah! It's you. I remember you. Otto, was it?"
"No...Peter" Peter said without commenting that Traugott never asked him for his name.
"Yes, yes of course! Peter...Peter. And your entire name?"
"Peter Ackermann".
"Pe...ter...Ackermann, was it?" Peter nodded. "A...cker...mann" Traugott mumbled as he slowly wrote it down, although with an excellent handwriting. "Year of birth?"
"1605"
"16...05...Good, good! You are now a soldier under command of Albrecht von Wallenstein. Do you have any arms or equipment?"
"No"
"Hmm...That won't do. Better get yourself some. Plenty being sold today...Now, that's all I believe. Good luck to you, son. Next!" With that said, Traugott gave Peter a dismissal nod and turned to the next man in line. Peter walked off.

He was now a soldier under Albrecht von Wallenstein.



Argh...Sorry for the crappy title, but it fits (I hope). More will follow sometime.

Edit: Fixed the year now, of course it should be the autumn of 1625.

[Innocentius]

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.

[Ludens]

Interesting. I like it that you don't shy the darker side of war. Please continue .

[Innocentius]

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.

[Innocentius]

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.
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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

[Ludens]

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 .