The dragoons came thundering back into the camp with alarming
news that the enemy were close at hand! We were ordered to arms,
sergeants screaming orders at us. I had only been away from home
once before when I was a lad, but now twenty years later I again had
left familiar surroundings for a far more exciting life as a
soldier. That's what they told me when I was duped into signing on
for the Parliament cause. I was living a different life back then,
the son of a carpenter, learning a trade and all. But one fine day
two months back an officer of the musket marched into Whitwick in
all his finery summoning all the young blood of the village forth
and told us dark times were ahead and we should rally to Parliaments
cause. A huge flagon of beer later and here I am, in a strange
place, where people talk differently and where life is cheap.
A scuff around the ear from the sergeant brought me out of my
daydream. "Get your bloody arse moving and form up over there!" "Yes
sergeant!" is all we ever say. Anything else and you are sure of a
flogging. He is worse than having two fathers, but I respect him as
he is a grizzled veteran of campaigns abroad and he is afraid of
no-one. Eventually we are ready to march off and as we pass through
the village the inhabitants watch with a mixture of resentment and
curiosity. As we trudge up the steep hill outside of the village the
sound of cannon shot is rumbling in the vicinity.
The army is formed into three lines; we are in the second line.
The enemy horse thunders over the crest of the hill and smash into
our left flank, who scatter in sheer panic. The second line holds
and the broken flank rallies. We are now in cannon range and huge
gaps appear in our formations. We are ordered to load our muskets
and make ready. The man next to me falls backwards with a gaping
whole in his face, blood splatters up onto my coat. All that drill
we have been learning over the last few weeks is now being put into
practice. I barely fumble through the motions; nerves are getting
the better of me. My intentions are obviously clear to the sergeant
as he glares at me and bellows "Not thinking of leaving us are you?"
"No sergeant!" I reply. I'm more afraid of him than ever now as he
can read my mind!
The enemy are so close now that we can see their glaring faces.
We fire one volley and many of them are struck down, then they
return the volley, I grimace and brace myself for the worst. I feel
nothing - I live! I look up to the sky and give thanks to God. I
look down and to my horror the sergeant lies twitching, his nose has
been blown completely off. He just lies with blinking eyes and then
his expression is fixed to the sky; he lives no more. We quickly
reload and again we are ready first. A corporal gives the order to
fire, a loud crack is heard as we fire in unison, and again many of
them are struck. We attempt to reload quickly, but to my horror I
have fired my scouring stick! But before I am reprimanded the enemy
falls on with club musket. We receive them and a bitter struggle
takes place. I thrust my musket butt into a man's skull, which caves
in easily spreading bits of brain over a wide area. All I can see is
the man in front of me who falls at my feet, with his belly gashed
open. I ram my musket butt down on his head to make sure! The
carnage is chaotic, but soon over. They've had enough and they begin
to melt away.
The day is ours and they fall back onto Garstang. I again give
thanks to God for my survival. I am amazed that I came through; they
say the chances of surviving your first battle are very slim indeed.
The scene of death sickens me. The old veterans claim it's always
bad the first time, but you get use to it. I look down at a
whimpering wretch that used to be human. He's close to death now,
but he's the lucky one!
Yours maimingly,
Greg King
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