Another MicroHorror Winner. The voice of one of Napoleon's 'Grande Armee'
Smolensk–The Second Time
Rather my mother had not borne me than that this grim remembrance be the price of life! I blame myself for horrors seen, my friend–for horrors merely endured. Such endurance was a sin itself. Had I had the courage of my brother Yves to end it, the first time at Smolensk, I ought. I recall the very musket shot that rang out in the woods. I see his tear-stained and beloved face beg for the mercy I could bestow, and I did, and stripped him there on the field and took his clothing for my sorry rags. His feet came away in his boots. I thought I would bring up my very lungs, so great was the stench. My heart I left there with him in the mud and blood and promised I would tell our mother only that he loved her.
We were an army of the living dead. Our glorious songs, long silenced in our parched throats, had been choked in heat and dust. Our eyes, painful and encrusted, saw only death, not battle. Columns before us foraged all they could take. Cattle behind us died of stroke and dearth. Then came the rains and wagons of supplies were swallowed, horses-whole in claggy mud.
Our enemy led us on a-dance. They stood to fight one day, then disappeared like spirits into the night, deeper beyond Smolensk, until we stood depleted in the midst of ruin in Moscow. Nothing of value was there. Great works of art, silver and fine goods there were a-plenty but what are those to hunger? I saw many a wagon laden with suchlike trinkets, abandoned soon upon the road. I took a Russian coat and some good cloth to wrap my feet against the coming cold. I ate a dog that was half starved like me–remembered how we’d thought ourselves so poor, back in my mother’s house where there was bread and beer. Now I wished only to see her face once more and feel her gentle hand upon my head and the warmth of her tears for my brother. That would have been sustenance enough.
We left Moscow burning and turned back along that desolated path whence we had come. Southern lands were full of plenteous harvest but our number was now small. We were forced to follow the Baltic Route west. The bloated corpses of those who had perished on the assault became pillows to bivouac. Discarded weapons littered the way. Men too weak to fight need no weapons. Many I saw drop and never rise again for lack of will. I saw them stripped naked before they’d exhaled their final breath, nor did they curse their looters. We did not smell or taste or feel or weep for we had no saliva or tears. Alas! I would cry yet if I could.
Smolensk the second time was execrable. I have not told you of the freezing cold; minus thirty on November 11th. My feet no longer hurt for want of feeling but remembering my dear brother, I did not remove my bindings; such was my fear. That night I wished to die but I chose to survive. I will never forget that night. I crawled towards a faint snorting noise in the dark and suddenly my body came upon the great bulk of a fallen horse. I felt its breath warm but uneven and knew neither of us might live out the night. So, I took my knife and slit its belly open and it screeched so that I cannot forget the sound. I put my mouth to its warm blood that oozed. I took its entrails in my hands and dragged them from it, living, and inside I crawled for warmth, curled up as it were my mother’s womb.
Ah, God forgive me! I cannot look her in the face again. After that date, I dined on human flesh. So tell me, of those 600,000 souls, can I truly say this soul survived?
Copyright: © 2009 Oonah V Joslin
