Posted in Posted by Ted DeKker

            All Mitt wanted to do was lie down and just rest in remorse for just a few moments. But he knew that should he do that, the lines would break. How he even kept on his feet was a mystery. For any commander it was hard to loose men you trained with, fought side by side with. The runner came back with the information that the batteries were sending a signalman to direct fire better. They’d set up a signal relay system, but hadn’t gotten one out their way yet.

“Good man!” he said, patting him on the back, “Now this is important, go to each of the companies and see if you can find out how many casualties they have. Then report back to me; you got it?”

            The runner nodded and he was sent off again. He disappeared behind the many houses that were interlocking the positions they held. It seemed like hours passed before the runner returned. Thankfully, the enemy had not; not yet anyways.

“Well?” Mitt questioned, “What are our losses?”

The runner shook his head, “Things are not good. The fall back caused many casualties. Company A is down fifty-seven men; twenty killed, sixteen wounded and forty-one captured. Company B was hit just as hard, but they didn’t loose as many; only ten killed, twenty wounded and four missing. D Company suffered the worst sir; sixty-four men dead. Including Lt. Paulus, he was shot as he covered the withdrawal of first platoon through some of the houses. C Company was the only one that actually held until the withdrawal, only twelve men wounded.”

            Mitt pondered these facts in his head. He’d served with Paulus since the formation of the original Vorsage Battalion in May 1865. He would never forget the camaraderie or the patriotism he lead with. Never would he have thought a Sardinian bullet would have cut short his life. Shells from the newly arrived Sardinian batteries interrupted his thoughts. They were hitting the edge of town.

“They must still think we are in the front of the town,” Mitt said to Otis, “We’ll sit tight. See how things develop. Remember Otis, this is the last line. We have no third line of defense. If things get too hot, we have the strongest companies mount a short-term assault to cover the other weaker companies and then under smoke shells we withdraw back to the main line of resistance with the Division.”

            Otis nodded and went to spread the word to the rest of the company commanders, who would in turn inform the men. Of course the propaganda had filled their minds that they were invincible, that the enemy wouldn’t be able to handle the skill with which they fought. Unfortunately for the young men of the 4^th, those propaganda posters had failed to note that the enemy had Divisions that twice outweighed anything that could be thrown by the Ruhr, especially the Sardinian National Defense Divisions. These were tough, battle-trained soldiers of the Sardinian Population only called upon in times when the safety of the nation was at risk. These Divisions were thirty-thousand men strong, comprised of a Dragoon’s Brigade, an Artillery Brigade and a Fifteen-thousand man strong Division of infantry. Any strategist of the day could have seen that the little battalion of Vorsage Dragoons had not a chance in the world to hold. But that propaganda came into play this time around.

            The men were shocked they had to withdraw, but they knew that the enemy had had to withdraw as well to stop from getting beaten up too badly. Mitt had seen the colors flying behind the main line of infantry that had marched towards them before the attack. It looked like two full regiments had been committed to throw them out of Cabras. Mitt hadn’t shown any emotion, but his heart dropped when he saw he was up against the 23^rd and 29^th Sassari Regiments. When he had stayed in Sardinia to view some military parades and exercises, he had met the commander of these regiments, the brigade commander. His name was Col. Antonio Rizzo. He hated to fight such a valiant outfit, but it was his duty.

            Both regiments began to make the onslaught again, and both times they were thrown back, with heavy losses. The barricade seemed to be holding up nicely. Very few men had been hit or killed in the last few engagements. The dragoons put to practice the technique they had learned in training. One man fires, the other waits until he has ducked down behind the barricade. Once he is down, that man raises to fire while the other loads. They take turns firing so that way it is a continuous fire, and it doesn’t let the enemy get closer to take the position.

            Soon mid-day had crept upon them. The artillery observer from the batteries back on the line finally arrived. Mitt almost screamed at him, but he held his cool, for he knew the man had to run down to the down and he couldn’t ride a horse down; none could be spared.

“What news do you bring?” Mitt asked him, hoping that the other battalions had captured their objectives and were holding on.

“Well,” the observer said, catching his breath, “the other four Battalions of Dragoons have reached their objectives, but they are being hit as you are. The rest of the division is holding on, but by its fingernails. These Sardinians keep coming out of nowhere!”

“Well, we’ll give ‘em something to think about, won’t we?!” Mitt said with a grin.

            The young man nodded and took out the field glasses that were in his pack. He glassed the surrounding terrain and the batteries firing on the bluffs in the distance. He put the glasses around his neck and he ran to the church tower that was almost in the middle of town. Mitt saw him re-appear at the top, waving his flags like there was no tomorrow. Soon artillery shells began falling all over the place, most of it landing on the Sardinian Batteries. The results were phenomenal; the guns of the Sardinians almost seemed to cease firing.

            Then the shells from their own artillery ceased. Mitt looked back up to see what was wrong. Then his heart dropped again. The young man who had been so brave to race to get them artillery support was hanging over one of the railings in the tower, and what looked like a bullet hole in his forehead.

Mitt shook his head and said, “Now, we wait.”

            Something then happened that shocked everyone who witnessed it. A young sergeant from A Company ran to the tower and ran up the stairs to the position where the young observer lay, draped unceremoniously over the railing. Grabbing the flags he began directing an artillery barrage on the enemy just as the enemy began advancing close to the secondary position. The shells began exploding in the town, disrupting the attack, throwing men in the air, shrapnel flying. Survivors of the attack began retreating slowly, dragging comrades behind them that had been wounded. The young sergeant continued directing artillery for the Dragoons, calling in scores of hits.

            The day pressed on, attacks by the Sicilians being thwarted time after time by the many coordinated volleys of the Dragoons. Losses continued to be minimal, only a man here or there had been wounded. The brave young sergeant in the tower was directing the gunfire not only on the advancing infantry, but also on the new batteries continually setting up on the bluffs to the east. Mitt was proud of the Battalion, but he was remorseful that he had let his own Battalion be chopped up by the fire of the enemy in such a disorganized state. Many commanders might have let the defense go to pieces, but somehow the Dragoons held.

            Mitt went from man to man, encouraging them and congratulating them on holding the enemy back. In his mind he knew it wouldn’t last. They were running low on ammunition and the enemy’s resistance was mounting. Mitt realized that the two regiments were receiving some support from the rear, possibly more regiments or battalions were joining in the battle.

“STAY LOW BOYS!” Mitt shouted as the enemy began another advance.

            The ranks of soldiers in grey and white uniforms could be seen marching down the streets, converging on their position. Mitt could here the command being given to halt and then prepare arms.

At the premium moment, Mitt rose up and gave the command, “FIRE!”

            An explosion of sound erupted from the line of Dragoons as they poured murderous fire on the open ranks. In coordination the artillery began to rain a hail of shell and shrapnel upon the hapless men of Sardinia. This time they did not retreat or fall back. They held firm and then poured their own fire back into the Dragoons.  Men began to fall this time, not many, but it was critical indeed. One more volley from the Dragoons turned back the enemy in a hail of lead and confusion.

            Mitt looked up at the town clock, and it seemed to continue functioning as if none of the confusion of battle were going on. It read 1:50, and Mitt seemed perplexed by this.

“We’ve held out for seven hours?” he said in almost a whisper.

“What’s that?” Otis questioned.

“Nothing, nothing Otis; go and get the runner, tell him to meet me by the clock.”  Mitt ordered.

            Otis saluted and ran to go and get the runner who was on the line in the B Company sector. The runner came up to the clock in a dash and saluted Mitt and queried as to what he wished of him.

“I need you to go and tell A and D Companies to pull off the line, B Company to Stretch out and E Company to move Up to the line. Do you have all that?”

The runner looked like he might faint after Mitt finished speaking, but he answered, “Yes sir, does that mean we’re all withdrawing? There won’t be any re-enforcements?”

“I’m afraid so son,” Mitt said in a hollow tone, “Now get going.”

            The runner saluted again and ran off. Slowly the lines of Dragoons began flowing back towards the rear. It was executed brilliantly, and the line looked almost as though none had gone. But seeing his Dragoons having to withdraw nearly broke his heart. Never in his life had he thought that any soldier under his command would have to withdraw or retreat in the face of the enemy; never.

            By 2:15 the withdrawal of A and D Companies was complete. When E Company moved up it might have scared the enemy, for when they came up to the line the Sardinians moved back, thinking it was re-enforcements. Of course the respite wouldn’t last, but it was a relief to those still on the line. Mitt had gone up into the tower before the withdrawal and spoke to the young Sergeant manning the flags for the entire battalion.

“Son,” he asked, “I’m ordering the withdrawals of both your Company, A Company, and D Company, do you want to go with them. If you do, I will man the flags for you.”

The response of this young Sergeant was astounding, but showed the values instilled into him, “I’d rather stay here sir; I seem to be doing more good than back with my company.”

            Mitt patted him on the back and went back down to inform 2^nd Lt. Gahlegehr, acting commander of A Company; Lt. Price, he learned later, had been captured during the withdrawal. The enemy began a rush at the position, causing Mitt to take cover in the alcove before the entrance to the clock tower. He watched as the enemy came within five feet of the barricades, and then turned back because of the volume of fire being put upon them.

“All of this stress could cause a heart attack!” he said to himself as he went to inform Gahlegehr.

            His talk was short, as the men were pulling out. Gahlegehr wasn’t too unhappy that the sergeant wanted to stay. In fact he was somewhat glad.

“He could do more here, he made the right choice,” Gahlegehr told Mitt. 

            Mitt shook Gahlegehr’s hand and then saluted him, watching as he led his men in a crouch away from the line. Of course Mitt knew that their strength would be sorely missed on the line, but he knew if they didn’t withdraw, he wouldn’t have a battalion to command. If he didn’t make it, there wouldn’t be a battalion to be commanded. Ammunition began running dangerously low, and he knew the time to withdraw the remnants of his proud battalion was nigh. The clock showed three, only an hour before had A and D Companies mounted up and rode out.

“Courage, we must have courage!” he muttered to himself as he mounted the steps to the tower again.

            The Sergeant was continuing to call fire on the enemy, but he looked weary. Mitt handed him a flask of water and watched as he downed it, sweat pouring down his face.

“Now, do you know how to call for the smoke?” Mitt asked him.

“I’ve got an idea sir,” the Sergeant said, “but I’m not entirely positive.”

“Okay, I can help with that. This one,” he said, picking up a grey and black checkered flag, “is the one you’ll use. Now, what I want you to do, is wave it erratically, that will signal that the entire front needs to be bombarded, and hopefully, the guns will bombard the entire area of the town to the front, and a quarter of a mile north and south, that should give us enough time to clear out. Once the smoke is thick enough, you grab those flags and run like the entire Sardinian Army is after you to the horses, you got it?”

            The Sergeant nodded, and then Mitt encouraged him again and left to go to the line. Turning back to the young man he paused.

“Thank you,” he said, “You’ve done us a great service, now don’t forget. On my signal, you wave that flag like it’s the Great Flag Day!”

            He thanked Mitt and then saluted. Mitt went back to the line, hoping, praying that they would survive to withdraw and that they would not be slaughtered. Time dragged on, wearying the men after each Sardinian counter-attack. It seemed like the countless waves of men would never end! The dead of the enemy began to pile, and each attack led to greater piles, and greater pushes to get through the piles. Time began to toll from the Great Clock, or so Mitt called it, and he thought that maybe it had been the time for some special occasion.

“Quitting time maybe,” he remarked to himself.

            Tipping his cap to the Sergeant he began to order the withdrawal. The Sergeant waved the flag of checkered grey and black, and the rounds began pouring in.

“ALRIGHT MEN; PICK UP YOU’RE WEAPONS AND HEAD FOR THE HORSES! WE’RE MOVIN’ OUT! OFFICERS LAST! I DON’T WANT A DRAGOON LEFT BEHIND!”

            Thick, bellowing smoke shells crashed into the town and areas around it, providing a cover perfect for withdrawal. Flames could be seen lurching from the buildings in the surrounding area, and one could reasonably guess that the shells had landed in or near the houses and they caught like the dry timber during a drought.

“WHEN WE REACH THE HORSES,” Mitt bellowed to the men running to the horses, “SQUADS AND COMPANIES MOUNT UP AND RIDE OUT! B COMPANY FIRST, THEN C COMPANY AND E COMPANY! IS THAT CLEAR?!”

            A resounding “EEYAAH!” sounded from the men. Mitt smiled as he walked the line up and down, making sure that no man was left behind. When he looked up into the tower, the flags and the young Sergeant were gone. Mitt and the rest of the officers ran to catch up with their men, who were waiting for them in parade fashion.

“ALRIGHT BOYS,” Mitt shouted, “LET’S RIDE!”

            The remnants of the battalion kicked their horses into full stride and rode out over the hill, leaving the destruction and chaos behind them. It took four hours for them to reach the Division’s lines; D and A Companies were waiting to give them a warm reception. The grizzled faces of the men of the 4^th Dragoons broke forth into wide grins as they met their companions. Mitt rode off to find the runner to find out the total casualty count. When he finally found him he could barely keep his composure.

“How’d we finally make out?” Mitt asked, viciously trying to hold a straight face, barely winning.

“Well,” the runner began, “I don’t think it’s as bad as we first thought, but we got pretty badly mauled. A Company suffered a total of sixty-three casualties, including Lt. Price sir, no one’s seen or heard from him since he was seen defending a house with two other men. B Company suffered forty casualties total, I believe Lt. Mann was one of the casualties, but he’s not badly wounded. C Company, as you know, sustained the lightest casualties, and I think held out at only thirteen casualties. D Company lost seventy-six men total, the worst of the entire Companies sir, also with losing Lt. Paulus. E Company lost sixteen, also losing the second in command, 2^nd Lt. Fritz von Maulein. All in total I have to say we lost two-hundred and eight men out of our original six-hundred and twenty-five. We have four-hundred and seventeen men left.”

            Mitt thanked the runner and went off to find the Regimental Commander, Lt. Col. Maxwell von Schneider. Mitt had always enjoyed serving under their commander, but he had always dreaded when he would have to bring in the first casualty count. He knew that with two-hundred and eight casualties, they were down one third of their original strength. Mitt found the Regimental banner flying out front of Maxwell’s tent, and he came to the front, hoping that Maxwell would call him in.

“Ah, Mitt, I’ve been expecting you!” Maxwell said, waving him inside, “What news do you bring?”

            A great smile was plastered across the Col.’s face, and Mitt knew he expected great news from him, as all the other battalions were fairing much better. Being that he had sent word of capturing Cabras without resistance being encountered, Mitt could tell that Maxwell thought he would be personally telling him that the Battalion held and Cabras remained firmly in their grasp.

“Sir, I have bad news; very, bad news.” Mitt’s somber tone and the look of seriousness on his face dampened the mood of the Col. “The 18^th Sardinian National Defense Division hit us. We had a stagnant delaying action that led to serious casualties during the morning, but we held them to a fault, and then were forced to withdraw at four o’clock this afternoon. A third of my men are gone; killed, captured or wounded. The artillery observer sent to us had the unfortunate incident of being shot by one of the many snipers sent out by the enemy. It was a wonder that one of our Sergeants from A Company didn’t buy it while he was directing the artillery for us! Sir, before you criticize me on my leadership or tactics, let me defend my…”

            Mitt was cut off, “Mitt, I know it wasn’t your fault. Yes, the losses were hard. And there are very few replacements so far; none, actually. But I tell you, you did good work. Holding them up at Cabras and then confusing and destroying as many of them as you could before having to withdraw was marvelous work. That should buy us some time to regroup and dig in. It doesn’t seem like we’ll be able to advance very far very fast, very soon. However, some among us seem to think that since you did say that you captured Cabras, and couldn’t hold it, you should make spectacles of some of the heroes of the fight.”

“Who says such things?!” Mitt demanded angrily, and rightfully so.

“Me,” said a voice from the shadows in the tent, stepping forward revealing Baron Tech von Aminger, one of the new members of the Order of the Knights of the Ruhr, “if a unit cannot hold, the men who were most valiant should pay, their sufferings could only hinder the success of the unit.”

“I will do no such thing!” Mitt nearly shouted at him, “Those men are the reason we live today! Now you get one thing straight! I, nor will anyone I know, follow these orders! And should you or any of your friends order us, I would shoot you before any of my own men! Good day!”

             With that he stormed out of the tent. He went to go look after his troops, so tired from the battle that had raged only hours before. Once he found them he went amongst them, encouraging them and congratulating them on their well fit defense. Finding the runner again, he asked if he could do him one more favor before the day was done.

“Anything sir,” the runner said.

“Find the officers and tell them to meet me over in that glade over there,” Mitt said, pointing to the spot he wished them to meet in.

            The runner nodded and headed off to find the officers. While he was gone, Mitt found the Sergeant who had so bravely continued directing the artillery for them.

“How are you son?” he asked.

“Oh, I’m doing fine now sir. I gave the flags back to one of the gunners in the artillery section we passed through. Was that okay sir?” he asked.

“That was fine; just fine!” Mitt said, “Now, I have something to ask of you, and I wish you not refuse me.”

“How could I sir?!”

“I am going to recommend you for a promotion to 2^nd Lieutenant. And I am going to recommend you for the Cross of the Ruhr, for your valor and courage today. What do you think of that?” Mitt said, smile spreading wide across his face.

The Sergeant was dumbstruck with awe, and finally said, “Thank you sir!”