Gerrit Thanks! Its good to be back!
Coz1 Well hello good sir! long time no see! its great to see you are still here, and writing more than ever! I'm currently reading your "into the west" aar atm, awesome stuff! Enjoy the ride though
Specialist Thats alright, you really don't need the first one, i intend this to be an AAR standing by itself, so its not necessary.
******
The first Russian grenadiers burst through the entrance to the church cemetary, dislodging the snow that had settled on the iron gates. The flow of Russians was so tremendous that some were even braving the harsh winds and musket balls to climb over the walls, jumping down into the yard to continue the struggle.
"Tirez!" A blond-haired French lieutenant-colonel swept his sword, and to his right, a mix of
Voltigeurs, Chasseurs and line infantry let loose a ragged volley into the walls. A Russian guardsman disappeared as he was knocked back down the wall with three bullets in his chest, another coughed out a red bloody mist as he struggled to breath with a musket ball in his lung.
"Now charge the bastards! Kill them!" The Frenchmen let loose a cheer and broke ranks, plunging into the Russians with bayonets and swords.
The Russians inside the yard instinctively cocked their muskets, and returned the French volley. Several screams were heard through the raging snow before the lines clashed, and the sickening sounds of steel meeting flesh and sinew filled the air, soon followed by more explosions as the Russian artillery smashed the next section of the wall.
"We can't hold for long! sir!" A French captain, his face completely blackened by powder burns, yelled at the French colonel. "We have to withdraw!"
The lt. colonel did not reply to the captain at first. Instead, he watched with disgust as the French
voltigeurs began fleeing from the new surge or Russians that charged through the breach in the wall. He couldn't even hear the screams of the wounded around him, as they were drowned out by the howling winds and the thunder of the cannon. The Colonel himself was wounded in the shoulder, a piece of shrapnel from the massive bombardment his battalion had gone through as they were cut to pieces along with Augereau's corps.
Yet the colonel did not mind the wound, he did not even feel it. He was a veteran, a strongly built man with a hardened face and he had experienced worse before. Coming from a poor noble family, he had joined the ranks at seventeen when the revolution began, and he followed his regiment as he fought through Flanders, Egypt, Germany and Spain. Through his bravery and skill, he earned promotion after promotion, receiving the
legion d'honneur as well as his own battalion. He had seen men torn to into bloody mangled pieces of flesh by cannon. He had fought with pride under the shining eagles of France at Austerlitz. And he had seen his friends, men who marched with him from the sunny valleys of Italy to the barren deserts of Egypt, butchered by children in the streets during the war with the Spanish
Guerilla. Although a large portion of the French armies were now made from conscripts, unwilling men who had been forced into the army from the comfort of their own homes, he was proud of the fact that his regiment, the
45e Regiment d'Infanterie de Ligne, were all professionals, hardened by over ten years of constant warfare.
But now, Lieutenant-Colonel André René watched in frustration as he saw his men being battered by the Russian onslaught, having lost a good number already in Augereau's failed assault. His battalion was scattered all over the field, almost at the point of collapse.
"Sir!" Captain Joubert, a former thief that had enlisted in the battalion before Egypt, shouted at André.
"We can't fall back." André shook his head, ignoring a musket ball that whistled past his head. "If we do, there's nothing stopping the enemy from sweeping our center, we must wait for reinforcements."
"VIVE L'EMPEREUR!"
To Andre's right, he saw that the emperor's personal escort of guardsmen had bursted out of the church doors. They were large strong men, each one sporting a bearskin shako and moustache, a sign of their rank as the elite of the army. There were less than fifty of them, and they were now charging twice their number.
André looked beyond the guardsman, and saw the familiar figure of the emperor leaving the church, with his staff and generals.
"Protect the emperor!"
The ragged line of Frenchmen charged now, joining the crazied melee in the courtyard. André himself led his ragged collection of exhausted
voltigeurs, thrusting his sword into the chest of a nearby Russian guardsman. The green uniformed man was huge, towering over André, and he let out a rancid breath of blood as he crumbled to the ground. The suction of dead man's flesh and the cold air both twisted the sword out of André's hand as the giant Russian fell to the ground and he temporarily found himself without a weapon. Pulling out his pistol, he discharged it into the face of a nearby officer who was in the middle of a killing stroke.
Just as he fired though, the corpse of a frenchmen fell behind him, knocking him off balance, and the ball missed the Russian officer. He looked up in silence and to André it felt as though time was slowed down. He stared into the dark eyes of the Russian and knew that the man was planning on the quickest way to kill him.
Then the officer froze, and the grim eyes suddenly closed as a French Major stabbed a spontoon into the back of the man's head, taking his brains in with the large spear. The man fell face flat into the snow.
André looked up and saw that it was Major Delacroix, the former cook from Lorraine. He quickly nodded at André before continuing the fight.
Two more French soldiers pushed their way beside André, bayonets fixed and yelling like crazed animals, while to his left, a tombstone exploded as a shell struck home, throwing up at least half a dozen men, both French and Russian.
Slowly, but steadily, the Russians, despite their advantage in numbers, were being unnerved by the new ferocity of the French guardsmen and infantry, and within minutes, the attackers retreated from the courtyard.
Then, for the first time all day, there was silence.
***
The French soldiers used their time wisely, and spent the next few minutes clearing the cemetary of corpses, morbidly throwing up a barricade of dead Russians a they prepared for the next wave.
"Jesus christ!" Joubert exclaimed in sheer amazement at the tenacity of the enemy, "It's not enough to just kill them, you have to push their corpse over."
The stoic Delacroix smirked. "At least they make a decent wall." He nodded at the mound of Russian grenadiers. "Which is more than i can say for their meals, it's like they eat nothing but rancid beef and vegetable stew!"
André René, despite all the trials of the day, could not help but roll his eyes in amusement. The cook would always entertain the notion that a man can judge the national character of a country simply through the food that their citizens ate, and he endlessly brought this up in every campaign. Whether it was the alligator stew in Egypt or the goulash in Austria.
"At least its better than the hard tack biscuits you've given us sir." Lieutenant Muiron, one of the
voltigeur company leaders in the battalion, said flatly, to the laughter of the men around him.
"Lieutenant Muiron." Delacroix said with an exaggerated patience. "Either you have your men continue working on the wall or you will personally be providing the mortar for this wall, do I make myself clear?"
"Clear as the rancid shit we had to eat here sir!" The man grinned, then went back to work.
Suddenly, a private shouted from behind the group of officers.
"Horseman approaching sir." A soldier sporting a thick greatcoat pointed to the west, where an imperial dragoon was gallopping for the battalion.
"Colonel Moray." André gave his old friend a slight nod. Moray had been with the cavalry since the little corporal's campaign in Italy, and had even served for a brief period with his older brother before he joined the royalist cause.
"
Chef du battalion René " Moray gave André a polite nod, and as usual, the Gascon man was chewing on a freshly lit cigar.
"So what brings a cavalryman to an infantry's shithole like this sir?" André asked casually.
"You seem to forget, it's the cavalry's job to watch over you little infantryman, and to direct you to the cannon." Moray let out a puff of smoke from his mouth. "Besides, i've got orders straight from our lord and master, General Vivreguard wants the rest of your battalion to mount a withdrawal before he court martials you for destroying what's left of his regiment. And also, congradulations on a fine day's work."
André nodded with a wry smile. The General himself was a good man, and he owed him a great debt for recommending him for a slew of promotions in all the years he had served under him. Although he treated all his officers fairly, André shared a friendship with General Vivreguard that started back in Italy.
Moray shivered in his saddle as another blast of cold whipped through him.
"Horrid country André, sometimes i wonder why Bonaparte even wants to keep this country. The weather's been horrid ever since we set foot here, and the roads are even worse. God did not think of cavalryman when he made this place."
André nodded. "At least you've got a horse to carry you on its back sir."
"That's different André, your branch is the infantry. No one gives a shit about you beggars." Moray smiled. "Of course, I guess the same can apply to our poor dragoons. Have you heard? The Russians are deploying Kalmucks against us. Little men on tiny ponies shooting their bows and arrows. Not that they're much of a threat, but they've been harassing us at every turn. Every one is thinking twice about taking a piss in the woods, lest they get an arrow up their arse."
"The lovely world of the cavalry." André said lightly.
"Today's your lucky day though Colonel." Moray added.
"How so?"
"Because it just so happens that the Emperor cares enough about you miserable infantry to help you, so he asked for us."
André gave an amused look. The cavalry were often regarded by the infantry as girls on horseback, or at least that was the joke running around.
Moray pointed back to the ridge where Augereau's men were retreating to. "When you get back to the lines, just sit back and watch us, because we're about to save your arses." Moray puffed another ring of smoke.
"How so?"
"Let me see," Moray began quite formally. "Our centre is smashed, as well as our counter attack, and on our right, we only have St. Hillaire's infantry holding up against a corps of Russians, so it is only a matter of time before our flank is turned and the Russians can sweep our centre anytime now. So we're going to lend a hand."
Somewhere in the distance, a Russian signal gun sounded, and a shell exploded in the sky with a loud bang.
"Looks like it’s starting again.” The cavalryman said with a slight anticipation.
André looked into the distance, and saw the Russian infantry, moving in three huge columns towards the village of Eylau. Immediately to their front, the Russian infantry were resuming their advance into the cemetery, jumping over the low wall and the gates.
The French opened up with a devastating volley, along with an eight pounder horse battery that swept the walls with canister. Screams of agony were mixed in with the constant roar of gunfire as both sides continued fighting hand to hand in the graveyard.
“I believe its time you and your men go Colonel. I will see you up ahead.” Moray said lightly as he pulled out his carbine, aiming at a nearby Russian officer before discharging it, his target vanishing in the smoke.
“Fall back!” André shouted, and the men needed no second order, they scrambled away, while the gunners spiked their battery and jumped onto their horses, galloping away.
“Reform inside the village!” The colonel shouted at his men, before running with them.
“This is hot work André.” Major Delacroix said as he ran beside his friend.
“I doubt the village is going to be any much better.”
***
Napoleon trained his telescope on the carnage of the field in his center, his heart felt heavy as he saw the last of the ragged formations of infantry scrambled back towards their lines in ragged squares, surrounding on all sides by Cossacks and Russian infantry.
“They died proudly for you sire, with honor.” Marshal Murat, resplendent in his cavalryman’s uniform, commented.
“I would rather have them see a victory.” Napoleon snapped back irritably. “Any word on the progress of Davout and Ney?”
General Rapp shook his head. “The advance elements of Marshal Davout’s infantry have yet to deploy, and there is no word from Marshal Ney.”
Berthier at this moment, stepped up. “Sire, the situation is growing critical. Soult’s corps is at the point of breaking, Augereau’s is destroyed. Marshal Davout has not deployed in adequate force, and our right flank is in danger of being over run any minute. Your commanders are requesting orders.”
Napoleon fought back a burning anger that was building up inside him. Must he do everything himself? The frustrations of the campaign were clear in his mind, the weather, the lack of supply, not to mention the lack of coordination among his marshals. They should not have even given battle until all the army was concentrated! A defeat here, so far from his bases of operation, would mean the end of the army, and give courage to France’s enemies.
The emperor suddenly stopped thinking, it did not matter now.
He then turned calmly to his brother-in-law. “Are your cavalry in formation?”
Murat nodded. “All eighty squadrons sire.”
Napoleon placed a hand on Murat’s shoulder. “Then I have no choice but to send you in. Our centre is lost, our right turned. If we have any hope of saving this army, it rests with you. You are the bravest man I know, I cannot think of any other man to lead this charge. Take your squadrons to the Russian centre. I will deploy all my guard cavalry to assist you.”
“I will not let you down sire.” Murat slapped the riding crop on his thigh, then quickly mounted his horse and galloped to his men.
Napoleon then gestured towards Berthier.
“Prepare orders for a withdrawal. If Ney does not reach the field by tonight, we may well have to retreat or face annihilation.”
Berthier nodded, and quickly scribbled the notes down. While Napoleon turned his spyglass towards his center, where already a gigantic black mass was formed, horsemen of every kind from all over the empire, hussars, dragoons, Cuirassiers and mounted guard grenadiers. The fate of France were in their hands.
***
The streets of Eylau were burning already, bodies, both in blue and green uniforms littered the sides of the road, which meant that the village must have changed hands at least several times. The streets themselves, were covered in a sickening red slush, and the smell of gunpowder and smoke was mixed in with the sweet smell of human flesh. The Russian batteries reopened their fire on the village and within seconds shells landed amongst the sea of humanity that was surging through the streets as the French reformed.
One shot took off the head of a private, exploding less than two yards from his body and taking half a dozen men with him. One French sergeant felt something warm seething through his clothes, then moments later, dropped dead from the bleeding.
Most of the Frenchmen were ragged, their eyes watering and their faces and bodies black with gunpowder and blood. As these exhausted Frenchmen moved out, they saw already, the glittering bayonets of newly formed French columns, their eagles at the center, all ready to charge once more into the hellish inferno that accursed village.
The Russians themselves were suffering from the French batteries. Although they outnumbered the French, they were spread out along a line less than two miles long, and so their formations were tightly packed and dense. French shells and howitzers soon found their mark, and hundreds were killed before they even saw action.
The men of the 45eme moved smartly, negotiating the slushy streets and ignoring the dead and wounded that lay on their path. As they ran, it seemed as though dozens of cannon balls rained from the sky, plowing into the earth and shooting up geysers of snow and blood. The Frenchmen kept together, closing in on the precious eagle as they ran the gauntlet.
Nearby, a French cannon exploded, killing most of its crew as it was hit dead on by a Russian shell. The Russian advantage in artillery was telling. One of the artilleryman, his legs blasted off, gritted his teeth as he pulled himself out of the wreckage and crawled towards the French lines. A French drummer boy walked around half dazed, carrying his entrails in his arms and crying for help. A dozen more of André’s men vanish as a howitzer shell exploded above their heads, sending sharp pieces of shrapnel in every direction.
“That came from our artillery!” Delacroix said angrily. It seemed as though the crews on both sides were just reloading and firing without discrimination, knowing only that the village was their target.
“They can’t see through this snow.” Captain Joubert replied bitterly, as he resented the fact that their regiment was sent into this hellish no-man’s land.
André said nothing, and instead looked up at the sky, and saw that the blizzard was as fierce as ever, mixed in with the thunder of the distant guns.
As the men of the 45eme left the village, they nearly collapsed as they formed back up into column, and watched indifferently as the new French battalions moved in, cheering as they rushed into the insanity that was Eylau.
And so it continued, with the Russians and the French killing each other. An eye for an eye until it seemed to André that it would only end when there would be nothing left but the crippled and blind.
Then he heard the trumpet sound.
***
To the Russians, it appeared as though all the horseman from all four corners of the world had gathered on the plains of Eylau. Ten thousand horsemen in total, formed in one of the largest columns ever seen. Through the driving snowstorm, the carnage and destruction of the battlefield was suddenly replaced by a beautiful and glorious sea of plumes, crests, leopard skins, flags and banners; the color and pageantry of the cavalry.
For a brief second, it seemed like all the men on the field had stopped fighting, taken aback by the awesome display. All eyes were on them, and the thunderous sound of forty thousand hooves momentarily eclipsed the sound of cannon. The huge formation moved rapidly, even as the first Russian shells struck home, killing both men and horses as they trotted.
As they neared the Russian center, the cavalry increased their pace, and to the waiting infantrymen it seemed as though the only sound in the world were the thundering hooves and the ringing of sabers and harnesses. The earth itself, seemed to quake.
Then, the trumpet sounded, and as if they were one, ten thousand cavalrymen drew their swords, and their sabers hissed as they left their steel sheaths.
Men were blasted from their mounts as the Russian guns replied, but this served to make the cavalrymen drive their charge even faster. Sabres, lances and swords were now pointed at the Russian guns, who had done so much killing that day.
Firing one last volley, hundreds of gunners began fleeing to the safety of the Russian lines, fearful of the reprisals, while others stayed and hid by their batteries in hopes of escaping detection.
The thousands of Russian stragglers in the plain were simply swallowed up by the cavalry, ridden down without mercy as skulls were crushed, bones snapped and bodies cut up by lances and swords.
More canister fired as the cavalry neared their home stretch, one French dragoon simply disintegrated into thousands of pieces of flesh as a canister took him completely. While others who were shot were trampled alive by the comrades behind him. The press of the horses was so great, that some riders and their horses were even lifted off the ground, even after they had been shot.
“VIVE L’EMPEREUR!” Murat, at the head of the column, gave the order and at once, the column of French cavalry broke into a huge tidal wave as they thundered towards the Russian infantry, which vanished into a puff of smoke as they let loose their volleys, falling hundreds of horsemen.
The leading squadrons had made contact and with a distinct ‘CRACK’, smashed into the Russian lines like a battering ram.
Hundreds of Russians fell instantly as the infantry melted away from the power of the charge. Screams of mercy were not even heeded as they were trampled, shot, and stabbed. So great was the charge, that even a regiment who had formed squares was completely broken by the impetus. Most of the Russians however, were still in line, and they paid dearly for it.
The cavalry paid no heed to anything now, as if they were infected with a madness that would not stop until every Russian in their path was dead. Russians were falling everywhere, some losing their heads or having their skulls cut open and the French cavalry continued on into the sea of humanity, leaving a trail of broken and battered bodies behind.
***
Napoleon breathed deeply as he saw the carnage and destruction before him. Ten thousand cavalrymen had charged five times their number, and had performed magnificently, in one stroke, the centre and right were saved, and now, it seemed more good news was coming.
“Sire.” Berthier exclaimed as he ran up beside the emperor. “Marshal Davout has given word that he has deployed, he will commence his attack shortly..”
Napoleon nodded to his chief of staff, then he looked back on the battlefield, the village of Eylau burning to the ground. The thousands upon thousands of French and Russian corpses as they littered the snowy plains, and the red and black craters that covered the entire terrain.
The emperor folded his telescope, and rattled off his orders to Berthier, and before long, the chief of staff saluted and galloped away, leaving the emperor alone to survey the field. Already the French cavalry were reforming into column and returning, but not before leaving a gigantic carpet of green-coated bodies in their wake.
“Sometimes, it just comes down to a bit of luck in the end.”