Personal Account 3

From the 4th Shock Army

General Alexandre rushed from his tent, hatless, his pistol and sabre in hand. Soldiers ran about, though their officers were quickly restoring order.

"What's going, Major?" he asked, snagging the passing officer by the arm.

"The 1st Battalion of the 9th Foot just got the hell beaten out of it," the Major wild-eyed, reported. "They gave as good as they got, but these Northern bastards are going to be here real soon, sir."

Alexandre let the man go, and turned to find his aide staggering from another tent, yawning as he buttoned his coat. "Lieutenant!" the young General roared, all fears and doubts put aside in the rush of impending battle. "Ride to the Akaeian headquarters and see if they're under attack as well. If not, tell them to march at once. This is the opportunity of a lifetime to surround these bastards before morning!"

"What about you sir?"

"I'll organize the defense. Go!" The lieutenant raced for his horse. Alexandre meanwhile rushed from the tents of his headquarters and out towards where the flash and crackle of battle could be seen. The 12th Guards regiment, the crack unit of the 3rd Shock Army that had been put under his command, was already there and ready, its colors snapping in the light sea breeze. The sergeants, seeing their commander rushing towards them, bellowed out commands and the men came to attention. The Guards' Colonel met the General and could not help grinning as he saluted.

"Right sticky situation sir," said the man cheerfully. Alexandre smiled, then said, "Let those bastards get close before you fire. Spread out into two lines so that all the men can fire."

"Yes sir."

A fire had broken out in the woods ahead, and the light from the flickering flames revealed silhouettes rushing towards them. Their shakoes marked them as Sicinian, a fragment of the 9th Foot that raced for the safety of the line. The men were not routing, but were close to it. On reaching the Guards, however, their officers were able to restore order and the men took up places next to a battery of six pounders that creaked as they were wheeled up.

"We're the last ones heading this way," a captain of the 9th Foot informed the General, "So if anyone comes through those trees shoot the buggers."

They did not have long to wait, for clearly outlined by the raging fire was the shape of a horde of moving men, all order lost in the thrill of the chase. With a scream they charged toward the Sicinian line, waving swords, spears, and muskets. Some emptied their weapons but the range, a little over a hundred yards, was too great and only a handful of redcoated men fell. Alexandre raised his sword, the blade turned a bloody red by the flames. The mass charged closer and closer: at sixty yards, then fifty, then forty. And still Alexandre did not give the command. Some of the officers looked nervously at each other; a few more yards and they would be upon the line, with its two ranks looking thin and weak compared with the seeming flood of men coming towards them.

The first runners were twenty yards away, and in a shining arc Alexandre lowered his blade. The cannons fired, discharging thousands of lead balls into the crowd and causing a virtual explosion of blood. At the same instant the redcoats made a quarter turn and presented their weapons.

"First rank, fire!"

The Sicinian line disappeared in a mass of smoke and flame. The entire front of the mass of men were cut down as if by a scythe, the survivors sturggling over the sudden pile of bodies.

"Second rank, fire!"

The cannons and the second rank fired together, the roar deafening..The dead were piling up knee deap now before the Sicinian lines. The Zagorlad soldiers flindered to reach the enemy through the mass of the dead and dying but even as they got closer, the click of a thousand hammers being pulled back in unison sounded through the night.

"First rank, fire!"

General Alexandre smiled in satisfaction. Three shots a minute. It was at moments like this that the Sicinian soldier showed his true skill. Three shots a minute.

All through the night battalions stood beneath the Stripes and Sword of Sicinia and poured death upon an enemy whose small victory was so suddenly replaced by thousands of stony-faced redcoats who would not yield. Sicinia had been bloodied, but it had triumphed.

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