Memoir of the Duke of Lécuyer. The Algerian Expedition. February, 1836.
Excerpt from Part III: Two types of people; Artillerymen and their target.
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"First cannon fire!" The awesome sound and shockwaves followed just as I uttered the words. By drill I continued, called for the second and the third. My ears was deafened, and my body barely managed to be up straight. It always baffled me the sheer shock of the cannons when they fired. The first time had taken me completly off guard. I still remember it we were two lines facing two cannons from their opposite sides. I was first to the cannon to the left. The instructors smiled at us and laughed among themself. By that time I was more absorbed into actually seeing a piece of artillery fire for the first time. But it was the shock who would absorb me instead. It really can't be explained, one how to feel, see and listen to it themself. But yet here in Algeria, in the outskirts of Oran, I had to keep up my posture and focus on the target ahead. Our target was clustered in front of us and advancing toward us. My men had made their calculations to the firing orders I had given them, which again had been provided by my battery. For the sake of my men, and for the sake of our mission I had to be calm. "Short, front!" the observer yelled out, yelled loud enough to break the ringing in our ears and the sounds of war. He then made calculations on how short it really was to the target, all the while he observed the target who turned around. Reports came in the target was turning around, fleeing from the cannonballs. Such was expected. Animals follow their elemental insticts in the face of death. Facing the devil you don't invite him to a dance, you turn around.
And our artillery is just that. The devil. Inflicting carnage on a scale mere generations prior to us could never imagine. I made my calculations and in reflection of that I gav my men the new firing order. They adjusted their aim, they changed the angle of the cannon and the amount of gunpowder. It all happened in a smooth fashion. We all had a part to play and we knew it. We all did what we trained to do, what we were born to do. To unleash hell. I ordered each cannon to prepare, when they gave the signal they were ready I again ordered them to fire. "Long, center!" the observer shouted. The shells overpassed our retreating enemy. Did we miss? In a way, but it was intentional. We were bifurcating our enemy. Its a marvelous tool. Demoralizing our target. Where are they to escape? If they go forward their advance is cutt off by a barrage, and so is if they retreat? What are they to do. They stay put. And so did our target. We were a cat, and our target was rats trapped. We were merely playing with our victim before finishing it. I gave my new orders and calculations.
The first cannon was ordered to fire. So it did. Then the second one, but the anticipated thunder and shock did not appear. They gave out their immidiate action to call out the malfunction and then sough to improve it. I didn't give them any time, for we had none to spare. It is all a question of life and death. I ordered the third cannon to fire. It did. The second one was now at the ready, and recieved their order. The observer reported it was a direct hit. Sparing no time for thought or reflection I ordered "Repeat!" Hoping the enemy could not reorganize out of our killing zone. They didn't. And what followed was much more disturbing. A sister platoon in our battery fired out their ordinance. However this was much more brutal. A shrapnel based high explosive shell of some sort. Instead of simply lobbing a ball into the target like our cannons did, they exploded in the air above the enemy. Death, literally, rained upon them. Each tiny metal bit travelling at immense spead, shredding whatever piece of meat happening to be in way of their course apart. We could not listen to the screams and agony of our target due to our ears being all deafened by the firing.
We were ordered by the battery to move forward. Some calvarists who joined us moved ahead and secured the area. Some infantrists secured the perimeter aorund our cannons. W moved forward to our designated target. It was deafeated, but not killed. We killed off the stragglers. By muskets, pistols, bayonets or sabers. With whatever means we had at our disposal. It was a bloodfest, and I felt ashamed of what we had done. But it was our job. We killed off those in agony. I looked on what we had done. It was not a pretty sights. Bountiful of sheep being ripped apart. Bloodied. Who had suffered for our training. Blood was everywhere, and in the warmth of the Algerian desert they had already started to rot, to amass inscts of all types. The stench was horrible. Little did I know at the time that was perhaps the worst part, of war, for us artillery men. Not the firing itself. But the aftermarth. And to take in the horrible smell of rotten flesh. Fortunately this was only sheep. Our battery commander made a debriefing with all of us. Said what could be improved, what was good and so on. Our Captain then said some words I would never forget. As we had out down the last of sheep, ending their lives in ways I would envy none, as they layed there torn apart and bloodied our Captain told us this was the reality of war. This was what did to our enemies. He then said a phrase I am never to forget "Artillerymen believe the world consist of two types of people; other Artillerymen and targets". It haunts me to this day, with pride and with disgust.
It was a day of great learning. January and February, and my days at the academy and training before being sent off to Algers, consisted of much practical and theoretical training in the art of artillery. However we always had them under controlled events. Static targets. But our unit had decided they needed to groom their newest batch of officers in a more.. practical direction. They had bought sheep for this deed. Whether it was legal or not I didn't know - and I didn't ask. But it gave me a training oppurtunity I had never had before. It would help me to prepare.. for what was about to come.
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The war had so far been disappointing. I am ashamed to say so, but so were the young me. The me who were frsh from the academy and France and romantic in nature. I had grown up with great tales of heroism and glory from the wars. I believed I was too to be showered in eternal glory. But so far it had all been.. boredom. We spent most of our time training in the heat. If we did not we were out on patrols. We had orders that we were to give away treats and foodstuff we did not consume to the locals. I passed the time by reading. But when I finished the work of Tocqueville, instead of reading politics and philosophy I read the works of others. I read about Napoleon, I read what Clausewitz had written and about Frederick the Great of Prussia. One of his passages stuck by me “Artillery adds dignity, to what would otherwise be an ugly brawl”. I had seen what kind of damage artillery inflicted, I wondered about how war and battle was without artillery, to what supposedly added dignity. If what we had done to those poor sheep were not an ugly brawl, I shuddered at the mere thought of how wars were conducted without artillery. All the reading of war and romantic deciptions of war made me alll the more restless. I longed for battle, I longed to finally test and prove myself. How naiive we all were.
