Short Story: Marching Against Time (written in 2008)
Sergeant Colbert slowly raised his aching head and strained his bloodshot eyes to peer, once more, through the icy white
curtain swirling around him. He silently cursed as he tore a few more strands of his stiffened beard that stubbornly
stuck to the lapel of his tattered blue greatcoat. The relentless snow had been falling all day, cruelly adding to the
misery of his men’s ordeal. Shivering, he tried once more, in vain, to button his coat with his half-frozen fingers but
it was no use. The wool-covered lead buttons had long ago crumbled to dust in the numbing cold.
Who would have thought that nature, alone, could cause such a disaster?
The once-proud battalions of Napoleon’s Grand Armee had perished by the tens of thousands in the stifling summer
heat as they marched across the trackless Russian steppes. Now what remained of them were succumbing to the bitter cold;
transformed into a forgotten, huddled rabble – the survivors no longer soldiers, but a band of plodding scarecrows on the
brink of death; driven, like the snowflakes that tormented them, toward the west and home.
How did we ever think we could defeat Mother Nature? We were barely able to beat the Russians.
Just three months ago Jacques would have given a week’s brandy ration for a brief respite from the choking dust of the endless
Russian roads that stretched to the horizon and beyond. They were no more than crude rutted tracks, really; not even fit
for the sinewy dray animals that the Russians used to haul their goods across the treeless steppes.
The fire and fury Smolensk and Borodino were little more than a fading memory now. It seemed like years, not months, ago
that he had tasted the terror of battle; seen the mangled and burned bodies lying bloated in the sun. Weeks of snow and relentless
cold had jumbled his brain, entwining the present with the past and blocking any thought of the future. He was incapable of
thinking about tomorrow or even ten steps from the one he painfully took at that instant. His senses were deadened. There were
no smells save for the occasional stench of a rotting horse carcass, stripped clean of its meat or the nauseating stink of a bloated
soldier’s corpse. The only sound was the wind moving across the land obscuring the muffled footfalls of the men as they silently
broke the icy surface and sunk to the powdery snow hidden beneath. It was as though he was already dead but no one had told him so.
We are forgotten – truly Godforsaken.
He was just a fugitive now; along with his pathetic comrades, hiding from the marauding Cossacks, driven on only by his primeval
instinct to survive. Not to live; only to not die.
Suddenly, he tripped over a half-buried log and fell heavily to the crusty surface, scraping the palms of his bare hands on the icy shards.
He blinked in disbelief as the bark on the log seemed to flutter in the gusts of wind.
That's the first tree I've seen in three days.
Slowly understanding, he laughed again at the thought of some silly girl from Flanders who had probably spent days painstakingly making
the now-shredded uniform that adorned the log. He thought about how the once proud grenadier, whose frozen leg he now contemplated,
had worn it as he marched half way across Europe, only to end up like this. He glanced down at his own uniform – what was left of it.
Only his greatcoat betrayed that he was a veteran grenadier of Napoleon's Imperial Guard.
He painfully rose to his throbbing feet, using his musket to slowly push himself up, erect as he took a last look at his nameless fallen comrade.
As he turned away, feeling guilty that his only eulogy would be howled by the pack of wolves that had pursued the survivors, at a safe distance,
for days. Up ahead, he thought he spied a small cluster of ragged greatcoats, barely visible through the falling snow. He trudged on a little faster
as he strove to catch up to them.
Ten minutes passed as he plunged through the shin-deep snow. Now he was close enough to hear their voices but the snow flurries had thickened
into an impenetrable swirling wall. Gradually, he discerned the unmistakable commands of a Prussian officer.
Germans! Some allies they proved to be. Most of them missed the summer’s hard marching and harder fighting. Like cowards, they instead
cooled their feet in the Baltic while we sweltered on the road to Moscow. Now they’ve been warming their toes by their campfires while we’ve
been losing ours to the frost in this damnable country. And, after all that, finally they come now to join us?
He couldn’t believe it. He twisted his neck from left to right as he strained to find the source of the barking commands. Still, there was no one in sight.
His heart began to beat harder as he squeezed his musket tighter. Suddenly, he couldn’t remember if it was loaded. He stopped and fumbled
with the clasp on his cartridge case. At first, his frozen fingers would not respond. Finally, with great difficulty, he felt inside.
Only four or five left.
He carefully raised a cartridge to his mouth and bit into the paper wrapper and ripped it with his teeth, staining it with his bloody lips and gums.
As he slowly poured the black powder down the barrel and carefully dropped in the heavy lead ball on top of it, his eyes strained against the whiteness. Ramming home the wadded paper, he lifted the musket and cocked the hammer back and primed it.
“Ready”, his mouth spit as he croaked his first word in hours. For the first time that day he felt like a soldier again.
He momentarily glimpsed some greatcoats through the snowy curtain before they disappeared again.
“What company are you?” he called into the emptiness, sure they would hear him.
Suddenly, some ghostlike figures loomed in the distance. He hurried the last few steps to join them as their black and white forms turned to color.
Seeing him, the men spun around to face him.
Who are they? They are not grognards. But praise God, they aren’t Cossacks either.
Their plain gray overcoats and spoken words confirmed that they were indeed Germans, lowly Landwehr, probably. Little more than militia,
they were good for nothing but guarding depots and consuming precious food and drink while the more deserving front-line troops were reduced
to eating horseflesh and shoe leather or starve.
“To what regiment do you belong?”replied a man, who was obviously an officer.
He spoke in familiar, ridiculously long words but not with the Prussian accent the sergeant had come to know when he had marched through
Brandenburg in 1806 after Jena. He had become conversant in the language while he was billeted in Prussia for two years.
“I am Sergeant Jacques Colbert, first battalion, second grenadiers of the Chausseurs of the Guard,” he replied proudly in his best high German. “And you?”
As he waited for the man’s response, the sergeant studied his new comrades. Their coats looked new, as he would have expected, but their shakos were made of metal. He guessed they were pioneers.
No bridges to build here, he laughed to himself. We could have used you when we crossed the Beresina.
Their jaeger rifles looked like those he had seen carried by the green-clad Prussian light infantry at Friedland. They were too short – useless for the bayonet. He noticed that one man carried what looked like an ancient, large caliber wall gun from the time of Frederick the Great.
“Where are your men, Sergeant,” inquired the officer curtly, his voice dripping with disdain.
“Most of them are dead … the lucky ones are anyway. Did you pass by any of our poor fellows?"
“What are your orders?” inquired the officer, impatiently, ignoring the sergeant’s question.
"Orders?” laughed the sergeant loudly. “Nobody has any orders. There are no officers to give any orders. There is no one left to hear any orders.”
I’ve heard enough from this imbecile.
Jacques began to depart but the officer suddenly thrust out his arm, blocking his way.
“You are not German. You are French,” said the officer. “We don’t see many Frenchmen who want to fight Russians.”
He must be crazy. How can he be joking at a time like this, hundreds of kilometers from home, standing in the middle of this wasteland with
no one to laugh at his idiocy?
“What are your orders?” asked Jacques.
The officer replied, “We are to move down the road to Moscow.”
“Moscow? Impossible!” laughed Jacques. “Thousands of men are putting as much distance as they can between themselves
and that burned out dung heap and you tell me that your orders are to march there? Who gave that insane order?”
The six men with the officer started to grumble and stumbled past the Jacques toward the east. The officer called to them that
he would be along in a minute, as they disappeared into the whiteness.
Alone, the two men stared intently at each other, neither saying a word. The Prussian’s face was twisted with contempt; the sergeant shook his head in disbelief. Then the German leaned his face in close to the sergeant’s and whispered, “You, mon ami, are a deserter, a cowardly French bastard of a deserter.” He pulled back and spit, “I will have to shoot you.”
Jacques continued to stare at him, eyes wide open.
Shoot me? With what? The man has no weapon.
The Prussian slowly pulled back his greatcoat and reached for his belt. Suddenly, he produced a pistol, black and menacing as it protruded from his fist. The sergeant stared at it, wild-eyed. Something was wrong. He froze.
“I’ll show you how we deal with deserters.”
What is this madman doing?
The officer laughed as he raised the stubby barrel level with the Jacques' exposed chest, freezing him. The lapels of his tattered greatcoat fell wide apart as the last button, securing them, dropped to the ground.
“Did you really think you could fool me? Now, I am going to put you out of your misery,” he sneered as he slowly squeezed the trigger.
A muffled thud, followed by a sharp crack, shattered the silence. The officer stood transfixed, his expression confused. His unshaven face seemed to split in two as his mouth flew open – not a sound emerged from his twisted lips. Startled, Jacques fell backwards down onto the snow as the officer suddenly dropped his pistol, reached up with both hands and clutched the back of his neck. Finally, his knees buckled and he fell forward, toppling onto the sergeant.
As he regained to his senses, Jacques heard a shout – not in German – but in French. He struggled to push the officer's body off him, when he felt the unmistakable wet warmth of blood gushing from a fist-sized hole where the man's neck had once been. Repulsed, Jacques summoned all of his strength to roll the officer’s body away. Now, lying beside him, he could see a dark crimson stain spreading and soaking into the glistening white icy surface between them. The Prussian officer was dead.
Someone approached him from behind.
“They shot LeDoux and Broussard,” said a familiar voice.
Jacques could hardly focus on what the corporal was saying. His eyes were riveted on the medal that dangled from a black, white and red ribbon fastened around the corpse’s shattered neck. He had seen medals like it before on dead Prussian officers after Jena. It was the kampfkreuz
– the war cross. Made of iron, it was the highest honor a Prussian soldier could earn for bravery.
“Who are they?” asked the corporal as he came up, panting heavily, his breath steaming hot from his frost-encrusted face.
“Prussians,” Jacques replied, as he reached for the medal. His frozen fingers closed around the sharp points as he held it close to examine it in the
fading light.
Pour La Merit was emblazoned on the steel surface. He slowly turned it over and read the inscription on the reverse side out loud.
"1939."
He slowly raised his eyes and looked at the corporal, then back at the medal.
“Listen” whispered the corporal. He abruptly turned in the direction of a distant noise.
A low rumble, like nothing he had ever heard before, penetrated Jacques’s ears. It sounded like thunder
but not as loud – more like the grinding noise of a mill.
“Whatever it is, it is coming our way,” observed the corporal as he raised his musket to his shoulder and
aimed into the falling snow at their invisible assailant. The weary sergeant stood beside him and leveled his musket in the same direction. He bit his
bloodied lip as the noise grew to a roar. His heart began to pound.
What is it?
The commander looked through his view finder as he swept the turret to the left again. There, just ahead, he saw two muzzle flashes and then two dark forms standing over a fallen infantryman, lying in the snow. He clenched his teeth tight as he heard their bullets ricochet harmlessly off the tank’s armor plate and squeezed the trigger of the Mk IV's 7.92 mm machine gun.
“Russians.” he turned to his radioman as the two targets fell. “The fools thought they could stop us with mere rifles.”
He laughed as he swept right, searching for more targets. “At this rate, we’ll be in Moscow in a week.”
Venice: Longest Lasting Republic
Venice Was an Independent State for 1100 Years
Venice combined business prowess, backed by naval power, with her
unique form of republican government to create the most enduring independent
state in history.
Did you know that The Most Serene Republic of Venice was the world’s longest
enduring independent state? The Dutch Republic has existed for 214 years. The
United States has endured for 231 years. The much-admired Roman Republic
survived 565 years. Most historians agree that Venice was founded in 697and
endured for an amazing 1100 years before Napoleon dissolved her government
during his First Italian Campaign in 1797, when Venice violated her proclaimed
neutrality by permitting the Austrian army he recently defeated to retreat through
her sovereign territory. By then once-powerful Venice was little more than a decadent
stop on the European "Grand Tour". However, this was not always so.
Venice as a World Power
In her glorious past, Venice led the conquest of Constantinople in the Fourth
Crusade (1204) pillaging the great city’s fabulous wealth, supplanting it as the
greatest city in Europe. Later, Venice defeated attempts, by jealous leagues of
rival Italian city-states, to conquer her. In the Battle of Lepanto (1571)
Venice joined with Pope Pius V and Don Juan of Austria to defeat the numerically
superior Ottoman Turk’s fleet, halting their expansion for nearly 100 years.
Though her terra firma lands were always vulnerable, the city of Venice occupied
a small impregnable group of islands, secure from land invasion in their lagoon,
protected by her vaunted navy.
The Venetians led in the development of many modern business concepts, enabling her
to reap great wealth from trade. They invented modern banking and her ducat was
the standard coin of Europe. Venice had the first public water, government
pensions, and the largest factory (Arsenal) in Europe. Her extensive scuolior guild
system enabled Venice to lead the way in many arts and crafts, most important, glass-making.
This, combined with her naval superiority enabled her to control lucrative Mediterranean
trade routes to the spice-rich East.
Venice’s Decline
Venice’s long decline started when she sent troops to help defend Byzantine
Constantinople against the besieging Turks (1453). After the city fell to Sultan
Mehmet II he declared war on Venice. It lasted thirty years and cost Venice much
of her eastern Mediterranean possessions. Next, Spain discovered the New
World. Then Portugal found a sea route to India, destroying Venice’s land route monopoly.
France, England and Holland followed them. Venice’s oared galleys could not traverse
the open seas. She was left behind in the race for colonies.
Venice’s Key to Longevity
All through her decline Venice retained her strong and unifying political
institutions. Unlike the Athenian and Roman Republics which both ended in civil
wars and dictatorships, Venice’s ruling oligarchy was usually aligned and her
leaders were loyally subordinate to the rule of law.
Venice Was an Independent State for 1100 Years
Venice combined business prowess, backed by naval power, with her
unique form of republican government to create the most enduring independent
state in history.
Did you know that The Most Serene Republic of Venice was the world’s longest
enduring independent state? The Dutch Republic has existed for 214 years. The
United States has endured for 231 years. The much-admired Roman Republic
survived 565 years. Most historians agree that Venice was founded in 697and
endured for an amazing 1100 years before Napoleon dissolved her government
during his First Italian Campaign in 1797, when Venice violated her proclaimed
neutrality by permitting the Austrian army he recently defeated to retreat through
her sovereign territory. By then once-powerful Venice was little more than a decadent
stop on the European "Grand Tour". However, this was not always so.
Venice as a World Power
In her glorious past, Venice led the conquest of Constantinople in the Fourth
Crusade (1204) pillaging the great city’s fabulous wealth, supplanting it as the
greatest city in Europe. Later, Venice defeated attempts, by jealous leagues of
rival Italian city-states, to conquer her. In the Battle of Lepanto (1571)
Venice joined with Pope Pius V and Don Juan of Austria to defeat the numerically
superior Ottoman Turk’s fleet, halting their expansion for nearly 100 years.
Though her terra firma lands were always vulnerable, the city of Venice occupied
a small impregnable group of islands, secure from land invasion in their lagoon,
protected by her vaunted navy.
The Venetians led in the development of many modern business concepts, enabling her
to reap great wealth from trade. They invented modern banking and her ducat was
the standard coin of Europe. Venice had the first public water, government
pensions, and the largest factory (Arsenal) in Europe. Her extensive scuolior guild
system enabled Venice to lead the way in many arts and crafts, most important, glass-making.
This, combined with her naval superiority enabled her to control lucrative Mediterranean
trade routes to the spice-rich East.
Venice’s Decline
Venice’s long decline started when she sent troops to help defend Byzantine
Constantinople against the besieging Turks (1453). After the city fell to Sultan
Mehmet II he declared war on Venice. It lasted thirty years and cost Venice much
of her eastern Mediterranean possessions. Next, Spain discovered the New
World. Then Portugal found a sea route to India, destroying Venice’s land route monopoly.
France, England and Holland followed them. Venice’s oared galleys could not traverse
the open seas. She was left behind in the race for colonies.
Venice’s Key to Longevity
All through her decline Venice retained her strong and unifying political
institutions. Unlike the Athenian and Roman Republics which both ended in civil
wars and dictatorships, Venice’s ruling oligarchy was usually aligned and her
leaders were loyally subordinate to the rule of law.
A poem tribute to the beloved Dr. Larry Snow on his retirement.
The End of the Pastor's Day - By Thomas Quinn
Nine o’clock and the pastor’s work
Was done for another day!
He heaved a sort of a tired sigh
And put his collar away.
Then sat for a moment and bowed his head
Over the big worn wooden desk –
“I wonder,” he said to himself, “after all,
Have I really done my best?”
“Perhaps I should have begun the day
With a more beseeching prayer
And answered the phone with a ‘right away’
Instead of ‘when I can get there.’”
“And I might have listened with more compassion
To that sobbing young mother’s woes!
She may be suffering more perhaps,
More than anyone else knows.”
“And I might have withheld that impatient shake
(Although I was frustrated then)
When I said I thought I couldn’t make
The meeting I knew would never end.”
“And I might have spoken a kindlier phrase
To the heart of that feeble old man,
As he lay there clutching his few last days
When I finally let go of his hand.”
“Or perhaps the sermon I’ve been working on
Just needed a more thoughtful touch,
There are lots of things I might have done
And it wouldn’t have taken much.”
He sighed, rubbed his brow, and then began to pray,
Speaking majestically – soft and low,
“Oh God, how can you accept this day
When it has been lacking so?”
Then God looked down and felt his heart
And took away his fear
He sent the angel messenger, to
Whisper in his ear, --
“Perhaps you could have done better today,
But oh! The Omnipotent One,
Seeing your faults does not forget
The many noble things you’ve done.”
“He knows, good pastor, that you loved your work
In this big world of joy and sorrow
So he gladly forgives the lack of today
For you will do better tomorrow,”
Then the pastor looked up with a saintly smile
And said, “thank you, Lord, for the desire
To serve you and your sheep a while
But, now, I must retire.”
“It pains me so to leave this place – before my work is done,
How can I go now – before my race is run?”
“But pastor, don’t you see, my son,
Your work has just begun.”
“He still needs your firm and resonant voice
To tell of His love and grace,
But His flock in Simsbury has been well fed
Now you’re needed more – in another place.”
“He knows your heart and knows your mind
That’s why, long ago, you were chosen,
As this door closes, another you will find,
Knock, and it will open!”