Posted in Posted by Ted DeKker

Hi Everyone! Ted Here. I've decided to post a battle scene from my book "The Silesian Chronicles - Book 4: Civil Unrest" I hope you all like it, and I would really appreciate it if y'all could comment. Please, Please, Pretty Please? I'm dying for comments to know how I'm doing with this stuff.

Battle for Cabras

            The smoke settled over the plain before them. Citizens of the town of Cabras had burned the wheat and corn fields around them to prevent the usage by the armies of Imperial Ruhr. Mitt surveyed the landscape, looking for the familiar columns of troops he was trained to spot. They had seen the enemies’ colors flying over the ridge not a night before, and they had also spotted fires that weren’t the cause of the citizens of Sardinia. The Fourth Vorsage Dragoon’s Battalion was laying in wait in the houses of the town and behind barricades of furniture from the houses and sandbags filled in haste. Thankfully they were not the Cavalry. The Cavalry thrived off of mounted combat.

            The Dragoons could dismount and occupy a town, riverbed or natural obstacle and not have to worry about having to ride all the time. Mitt had ordered that all the horses for the battalion be kept on the other side of the town, so in case of a heavy attack on the front of the town or in the case they needed to withdraw. Mitt truly didn’t know what to expect. The predawn light was casting eerie shadows through the wisps of smoke that left the burning chaff. Suddenly he spotted it. A column of soldiers was advancing up the road.

‘Not just one’ he noted.

            Advancing up the road he could see column after column of soldiers coming closer and closer.

Mitt signaled his runner over to his side, “Go back to the battalion’s heavy guns and tell them to fire at grid mark seventeen, longitude forty-four!”

            With a pat on the back his runner was off down the center of the street, past the battalion banner they had erected on the town flagpole and all the way down to where the horses were being kept. Mitt could see him hop on the fastest horse the battalion possessed and kick it to go as fast as it could go. A cloud of dust could be seen behind him as he road to the guns. As soon as he could no longer see the runner he turned his attention back to the advancing enemy.

“KEEP THOSE RIFLES STEADY!” he shouted as he walked up and down the line, “WHEN THEY GET CLOSE, LET ‘EM HAVE IT!”

            Sweat glistened on his face. The advancing enemy looked formidable. But soon it would be a fair fight, unless they slipped around them and intercepted their runner. Then they would be doomed to fail, slaughtered on the third day of the invasion. Silence rained over the battlefield. The thump, thump, thump of soldiers’ feet on the road became louder as they came up the road. Officers shouting commands could be heard throughout the ranks of the approaching foot soldiers.

            Mitt got the pistol out of the holster on his side and held it in the air as he went up and down the line encouraging the soldiers in their positions.

“Hold the line boys! If we don’t, heaven knows what they’ll do to the rest of our men!” he said.

            They could hear the command being given to form battle ranks. Sections of the column began to break off to the right and the left, forming lines of men, four deep and goodness knows how many long.

‘This is going to get ugly,’ Mitt said to himself.

            Battle flags were brandished all along the front of men marching towards them. From the flags he could tell they were up against a formidable foe. He called over 2^nd Lieutenant Otis Mannheim, Battalion logistics coordinator and his personal second in command.

He pointed to the flag closest to them and asked him, “Do you see that flag?”

Otis nodded and asked in return, “What does it mean?”

“It means,” Mitt said, “That we are up against one of the best Divisions in the entirety of Sardinia. If we beat them, this could change the whole outlook of the war, if we don’t, we could be up against them for years to come. They, are apart of the 18^th Sardinian National Defense Division.”

“But,” Otis began, astonished that his commander would seem so pessimistic, “we can fight them! We will win! You’ve seen how we fight and train! You trained us yourself!”

“You do not understand Otis!” Mitt said in a strained, hushed voice so as not to scare the men, “These men have been trained longer than us! They have live fire training. They’re commanders are more skilled in tactics. We’ve done only one maneuver, and in that one we came out second. Second! Our fire discipline is a bit lacking Otis. The key factor, though, is that they number ten times what we number. There is little chance we will all get out of this alive.”

            The blood dropped from Otis’ face. He didn’t know what to say. All he could do was salute Mitt and then go back to his position on the line. Otis picked up the trusty Manwehr 33 he had always kept by his side and aimed for the first officer he saw. Whistling could be heard overhead, and Mitt smiled and knew; it was the artillery he had called for. The runner had gotten through.

“OPEN FIRE!” he yelled, pointing his pistol at the first Sardinian he saw.

            The crash of the artillery could be seen in the distance, slowly coming forward. The ranks of the Sardinians began to waver as the shells and shrapnel began to make gaps and holes in their lines. Mitt squeezed the trigger and the pistol bucked in his hand. Down went the soldier he’d aimed at, a bullet in his chest. The resounding fire of muskets came from every gun in the town. Ranks of the enemy plunged as the bullets tore through them. Yells and the screams of the wounded could be heard throughout the ranks on the other side of the field. With a clear line of sight like this, it was impossible to miss. Mitt wondered why they hadn’t chosen one of the more concealed routes into the town.

            He fired the rest of the shots in his pistol and then began to reload it. All along the lines the men of the 4^th reloaded their rifles for a second volley. Despite the massive amount of casualties, the Sardinians pressed on across the charred ground. Closer and closer they came.

“FIRE!” Mitt shouted again, firing his pistol as last time.

            The rounds tore through the ranks again, and still they came. They picked up the pace.

“FIX BAYONETS!” a Sardinian officer shouted, pointing a sword towards the line of houses ahead.

“FALL BACK!” Mitt yelled to the men.

            At first they weren’t sure why he was ordering them back, and they hesitated. This would prove disaster. When the Sardinians fixed bayonets, the same officer gave the order to charge. They streamed through the lines of Dragoons. Men began falling left and right, yet they fought back and didn’t give in. Artillery began dropping in closer, but Mitt knew this wasn’t their own artillery now. He could see several Sardinian Artillery batteries setting up. Mitt began directing the men back to their secondary defenses. Almost all at once the men surged for the defenses, which almost made him happy, but he knew this was not what they had practiced. His fears became real, for he knew that when the men had turned their backs, the Sardinians would fire several volleys into the pack. The hot lead ripped through the ranks of men heading for the safety of the barricades.

            Mitt’s heart sank as men fell to the ground dead. The men he had worked so hard to train; the men disciplined as hard fighters were being cut down like the chaff for the fire. The remnants jumped over the barricades and took aim at the Sardinians still advancing. Thundering rounds poured forth into the advancing ranks. This finally turned the Sardinians, but not for long.