THE NIGHTMARES OF WAR
"Captain, the sap works were destroyed again last night," d'Artagnan reported to Captain Athos. "Four men were killed in another sortie attack on the southern side."
"Dammit," Athos pounded his fists on the small table in his command tent. "I'll survey the damage first then decide on further defensive measures. Show me where last night's attack happened," the captain asked as he turned the map toward d'Artagnan.
"The Spaniard's artillery arced over the southern fortifications here," the Gascon tapped his finger on the map. "They destroyed our sap works at the southern gate and, at the same time, they coordinated the sortie attack killing the four soldiers."
The captain sighed deeply but said nothing as he studied the map of the walled city of Leuven.
"Captain, if I may," d'Artagnan hesitated briefly. "Sir, we're running low on food, supplies and ammunition. Frankly, I don't know how much longer we can hold out here."
"We need to rebuild our sap works on the southern side; we should also reinforce the works on each side in case of another attack." Athos murmured to himself as he studied the map, ignoring the Gascon's previous statement.
Aramis and d'Artagnan exchanged puzzled glances.
"Captain, the sickness is spreading rapidly through the camp and the low supply of food only exacerbates the weakness of our troops," Aramis added morosely. "This army won't be in fighting condition much longer at this rate."
"One more attack by the enemy could be our last as we currently stand, Aramis," Athos retorted angrily. "We lack the means to fight back without ammunition and supplies."
"Even if we had all the necessary supplies, Captain, the ammunition and weapons won't save the men from dying of starvation and disease," Aramis countered.
"I know that…"
"Captain, our army is dying!" Aramis reiterated.
"I know that, dammit!" Athos slammed both hands on the desk. He stood rapidly, knocking his chair backward against the tent wall. "But the king ordered us to besiege this godforsaken city and there is little that I can do about it!"
"Maybe you both need t' take a step back," Porthos squeezed the shoulders of his two friends. "It doesn't help matters none if we're fightin' among ourselves."
Athos sighed as he gently squeezed Porthos's shoulder then turned to retrieve his chair. The captain plopped down, slumping over the small desk in defeat, and covered his face with his hands. The captain's demeanor was awash with resignation to their hopeless situation.
"Athos…?" Aramis began.
Athos held up his hand to stop the medic. "It would be wise to start formulating a plan," he paused. "We should organize a plan for…"
"Athos?" the three men echoed with concern.
"Porthos and d'Artagnan, I am sending you both out on an errand of utmost urgency." Athos determined as he feverishly began to scribble away on a piece of paper at his desk. "You will leave under the cover of darkness from our western trenches," he said without pause to his writing. "I'll order a diversionary attack on the eastern wall as a decoy; it should distract the enemy long enough for the two of you to get to headquarters."
"Captain, if we're going to be risking our lives for that piece of paper there," d'Artagnan pointed to the desk, "might we be informed of what the message entails?"
"Gentlemen," Athos sighed as he folded the paper, "this message must be delivered to Minister Tréville at headquarters by tonight."
"Cap'n, please…" Porthos pleaded.
"This message," Athos interrupted, "is a request for our retreat."
"Retreat?" the men chimed together, exchanging stunned glances.
"If we stay entrenched here we all die," Athos clenched his jaw tightly. "If we retreat, we can save what's left of our army," he sighed. "If we retreat, we live to fight another day."
"Will Minister Tréville have the authority to call for retreat, even without the king's approval?" Aramis asked in a concerned whisper.
"If France is going to win this war, we must plan our strategies of attack more thoroughly than we did here in the Spanish Netherlands, gentlemen," Athos pounded his fist on the map. "His Majesty cannot afford to make such a grave mistake again… or we most certainly will lose this war."
"Captain, you didn't answer my question…"
"We must retreat," Athos interjected, "with or without His Majesty's permission."
Athos busily studied the map of the fortified city's eastern wall, leaving his meager lunch untouched.
"Aren't you goin' to eat?" Porthos motioned to the tray of food in front of the captain.
"No, give this to someone else needing it more than I." Athos pushed the tray toward Porthos then went back to studying his map.
"Captain, you need to eat," Aramis paused, "if you are to keep up your strength."
"I'm fine," Athos said absently.
Aramis sighed heavily as he shook his head. "Go on, give it to one of the men," the medic told Porthos.
Minutes later, Porthos hastily followed d'Artagnan, running wide-eyed and out of breath, back into the command tent. "Captain, we just saw something you need to know about up on the western gate tower!" d'Artagnan announced.
"What is it?"
"Cap'n, we saw a flash of light off of a large weapon, as though the enemy had…" Porthos's thoughts were cut off with a loud explosion.
"Mortars!" the men yelled in unison.
Athos ran outside to assess where the attack happened and to check on the condition of his men. "Move back!" the captain yelled. "Take position in the rear trenches—all of you—move! Get away from the forward sap works! Move, now!" he ordered.
Athos ducked low as a mortar shell landed directly in the sap work just abandoned by his men only moments before. The shell exploded in the deep confines of the dirt walls, though the force of energy was still powerful enough to knock the captain to his knees.
"Dammit, we need to get our artillery trained on that damned watchtower!" Athos ordered, staring at the tall structure high above their exposed position. The Musketeer captain watched in horror as the enemy prepared to fire another mortar round and yelled out a warning for the men to take cover.
"Mon Dieu, we're completely naked out here!" Athos sputtered after the near-miss.
"How in the hell is the enemy so accurate with that artillery?" Aramis yelled over the noise of the battlefield.
"They have mortars on the watchtower, dammit! The enemy has supremacy of the battlefield so long as they have that vantage point up there," he yelled with contempt. "They also have cannon positioned in the battlements all along that wall," Athos pointed along the parapet of the stone wall. "I don't think I need to mention what is also coming at us from behind that wall."
"This is unheard of," Aramis expressed with outrage. "This has to be the first time in history in which a besieged city actually had the upper hand with artillery attacks and battle tactics! There's certainly no question whether they have more ammunition and supplies than we do."
"How is that even possible?" d'Artagnan was incredulous.
"It's not just the Spaniards in there," Athos angrily kicked debris out of his way. "Leuven also has the Walloons and the Irish; they're obviously well-defended and well-supplied. I would guess that we outnumber their troops by the thousands but their logistics are far superior than our own, as is their weaponry."
Another mortar blast sent a shock wave through the camp, spraying everyone with dirt and sending rock flying like miniature missiles hurtling through the air.
"Get down!" Athos yelled to the men. "Keep your heads down but keep moving toward the rear!"
"Cap'n, we can't wait until nightfall for 'at message to go to Tréville," Porthos yelled over the nearby explosion. "Request permission for the whelp 'n me to ride to Leefdaal Castle now, sir."
"Yes," the captain clapped Porthos on the shoulder, giving his consent. "Both of you make haste; I cannot stress how critically important and urgent this message is." Athos handed the folded paper to the large Musketeer but then was suddenly reluctant to let his men go. Unmistakable worry for his brothers marked the captain's features.
"We won't let you down, Captain," d'Artagnan quickly reassured.
"I know…"
"Both of you be careful," Aramis ordered while hugging his friends goodbye. "Come back to us safely and quickly."
"Make haste," Athos hurried the men along. "It's not that far of a ride to the castle so I expect you back before nightfall."
"Yes sir," d'Artagnan called over his shoulder as he ran to catch up with Porthos.
Athos watched his two friends until they disappeared around a corner of their trenchworks. Overwhelming concern for his two departing brothers, the Musketeer regiment, and the French soldiers entrenched around the enemy's fortification, clearly made itself known in the deep lines etched on the captain's face.
"They're going to get through to the Minister, Athos." Aramis gave a reassuring squeeze to his friend's shoulder. "There hasn't been any reports of enemy activity between Leuven and Leefdaal, as of yet, so they should be safe."
Suddenly, an explosion thundered to the north, immediately followed by the pained and horrified screams of the soldiers caught in the blast.
"Merde," Aramis grimaced at the screams. "I've got to get out there and help where I can, Captain. We're going to have wounded scattered from the sap works all the way back to the rear positions if this keeps up."
"Yes, see what you can do for the men," Athos agreed. "Aramis, please be careful."
"You know I will," Aramis grabbed his medical kit then ran through the trenches to where the screams rose above the bombarded landscape.
Over the next several hours, intermittent explosions rocked the ground. Dirt and rock, mixed with shards of burning metal, zipped through the air like a swarm of angry bees. The men were pinned down in their trenches, unable to safely move in any direction. Screams of the wounded was a constant eerie companion to the thunderous sounds of the mortar explosions.
"Porthos and d'Artagnan, please hurry back," Athos whispered to himself. The captain shivered as the incessant screams made his blood run suddenly cold.
Hours Later:
"Where are they, dammit?" Athos growled to himself, though surrounded by his men.
"Sir, try not to worry," Musketeer Bissette encouraged. "It's possible that they just got delayed."
"Sir, I just came from the northern redoubt," announced Musketeer Joubert. "I heard quite a bit of raucous up there regarding a pair of captured Spaniards."
"Go ahead, Joubert," the captain pressed.
"Rumor is that the Spaniards are expecting reinforcements from the west and, if that is true…" Joubert paused.
"If it's true, then Porthos and d'Artagnan may be riding directly into enemy lines," Athos's heart sank at the possibility. "Mon Dieu, this can't be happening," he muttered angrily.
"Sir, the rumor may not be true," Joubert tried to soothe the captain.
"Or it could very well be true," Athos snapped. "Everyone keep your heads down and stay alert. I want everyone to keep their eyes open for possible enemy approaching from the west," he ordered tersely. "There's something I need to do," he stated, more to himself than to the men.
"Yes sir!" the men echoed as an explosion roared from somewhere on the right.
"Where are you, Aramis?" Athos whispered as he crouched low, moving through the trenches in search of his missing friend.
Near Dusk:
"Has anyone seen my medic, Aramis?" Athos asked a group of wounded Musketeers and French soldiers.
"Sir, he came through here several hours ago," said one soldier. "He bandaged my leg and Pierre's head."
"Where did he go from here, which direction?"
"Sir, the last I saw him," said Musketeer Gavreau, "he was headed toward the northern redoubts. "I'm sorry, sir."
"Merde!" Athos murmured with clenched fists.
"Sir, I have a looking glass, if you would like to see in that direction," offered Gavreau. "If I may be so bold, I wouldn't recommend you go over there, sir; the bombardment has been especially heavy in the north. Anytime we try sending aid that way they get picked off by well-trained snipers up in the battlements," the Musketeer pointed at the wall where enemy snipers laid in wait.
"Damn," Athos growled as he panned over the terrain. The French camp—now turned battlefield—was riddled with smashed cannon and broken trees, scattered between craters dotting the landscape. The captain gasped in horror at the bodies, all the broken bodies now littering the ground among the debris.
"Diable!" Athos zeroed in on a group of French soldiers, their bodies were splayed on the ground while others were piled on top of one another in disarray, making for a horrific and grisly scene.
The once-pristine French uniforms were torn and stained red with blood; the soldier's faces streaked with lines of crimson. But a more ghastly sight was that of the headless body here; an arm there; a leg still tucked inside a boot on the right; a body twisted at an odd angle to the left.
"Oh God…!" the captain's stomach rolled violently. He fell to his knees as he retched again and again, though nothing came up but bile. Athos rose upright to pan the landscape once more, searching desperately for signs of Aramis. He scanned for the familiar Musketeer uniform, searching for the medic's pauldron or soft grey hat, but the captain found only evidence of gore and death.
Athos took the looking glass and moved toward the destroyed northern redoubts, stopping behind a sap work to pan the field still in search of his friend and brother.
The Musketeer captain watched as a French soldier limped alongside a friend with a missing arm, both seeking the safety and shelter of the nearby trees. Bodies were stacked in front of a group of soldiers like cordwood, providing gruesome cover from the enemy's relentless gunfire.
"Where are you, Aramis?" Athos searched fruitlessly as long as he had the benefit of light but as the sun dipped in the western horizon, the captain had to reluctantly abandon his search.
Arriving back at his command tent, it was nearly pitch black without the light of the moon to illuminate the darkened and eerie landscape.
"Captain, why don't you get some rest," suggested Joubert. "We'll stand guard outside the perimeter of your tent; I guarantee no one will get close enough to cause you to miss a wink of sleep, sir."
"Thank you, Joubert," Captain Athos nodded tiredly. "Think I'll lie down and rest my back. Ah," he winced in pain as he stood tall then bent slightly backward to stretch out his back. The long hours he spent crouched low moving through the trenches caused his back to stiffen and ache.
The captain sat on the edge of his cot staring into complete darkness. His eyes eventually adjusted so he could see shadows in the familiar setting of his tent. He made his way to his footlocker, opened the lid then felt around inside until his hand bumped into the bottle of brandy hidden in the corner.
Athos pulled out the brandy, opened the bottle and took a long swallow. "Damn," he muttered, clenching his teeth tightly together; his jaw muscles rippled under his skin as he fought to control his anxious thoughts. He took another long swallow, then another… and another before corking the bottle and returning it to its hiding place.
He returned to his cot then laid himself out on top of the thin blanket. Athos released a long sigh which soon morphed into a sob as he thought of his three missing brothers.
"Where could they be?" Athos whispered into the darkness. "Why did they not return when they promised to come back?" he wrung his hands anxiously where they rested on his stomach. "Did I send my brothers right into the enemy's hands?"
"What if they're…?" Athos's breath hitched. "Mon Dieu, what will I do if they're gone? How will I continue if they've all been taken from me? What… what will I do without them?"
Athos silently cried as the loneliness suddenly pressed in on him, suffocating him in the darkness. Hideous visions flashed through his mind—grotesque memories of the battlefield fed the despair—as he lay anguishing for his missing friends until he drifted off to sleep. The last teardrop finally dripped from the captain's face onto the dampened pillow, soaking into the cotton and fading like his consciousness as he began to dream.
The bright morning sun cast long shadows over the littered landscape. Glints of sunlight gleamed off of swords lying bloodied in the grass. Barrels of cannon shimmered brightly, as though pointing the way, directing Captain Athos to the macabre scene just ahead.
The captain spotted a pool of blood which tapered into droplets leading him, guiding him as though on a bloody trail. He steeled himself, clenching his fists, allowing his nails to bite into his palms just so he could feel something—anything.
He suddenly stopped, frozen in place, paralyzed at the scene before him.
Athos's eyes rested on a form with dark, curly hair and familiar moustached face; his new shorter brown doublet was smeared red with blood.
"Merde!" Athos ran to the unmoving form of his brother then dropped to his knees, his pants sliding on the blood-soaked dirt. "No, Aramis… no! Oh God, no!"
Athos pushed his shaking fingers on the neck—hoping—but knowing it was a fool's hope. Aramis's eyes were open, staring at the heavens but seeing nothing; the windows to his soul were cold and lifeless… vacant and empty.
"No, not my friend… not my brother," he shook the medic's shoulders. "Aramis, please look at me!"
"Look at me…!"
"Captain Athos, look over here," a sinister voice called.
Athos looked over his shoulder and gasped as he saw his two brothers, Porthos and d'Artagnan, staring at him in horror; their hands were tied behind their back as they kneeled in front of a Spanish captain. The Spaniard laughed wickedly as held up a piece of paper for the Musketeer to see. "Did you really think you could get away from us this easily, Captain of the King's Musketeers?"
"Your foolishness has cost your friends their lives," the man laughed. "Now, you have to live with their deaths on your conscience! How you cope, is entirely up to you."
The sound of a pistol cocking as the hammer was pulled back rang in Athos's ears. "No, don't… NOOOOOOO!" Athos screamed as the Spaniard shot Porthos and then d'Artagnan, execution-style, in the back of the head. The wicked man laughed as the limp bodies fell forward into the dirt, their fresh blood pooling underneath their mangled heads.
"NOOOOO!" Athos screamed and tried to sit up, fighting against the strong arms holding him down. "No, let me go, dammit!" he cried. "They're dead… they're all dead!"
"Who is dead, Athos?" A familiar voice wafted through the fog.
"Athos, wake up! Stop fightin' us, dammit, no one is dead!"
"Porthos?" Athos's voice quivered. The captain choked on the sob escaping from his lips before he could even stop it.
"Aw, Athos," Aramis groaned softly. "What… what's the matter?" the medic grabbed his friend by the shoulders and pulled him into a hug. "No one is dead, Athos, we're here. You were just dreaming—we're all here," he whispered near his friend's ear. "You just had a bad dream; it was only a dream… we're here."
"But…" the captain pulled back as though he couldn't believe his own eyes. Athos rubbed a hand over his face then pressed his fingers over his eyes. "But when you didn't come back last night I thought you were all… I dreamed you were all dead." The last word was barely heard as the whisper swept away on a sob.
"Athos, we got caught behind enemy lines as a band of Spaniards moved in our direction," d'Artagnan explained. "We couldn't move from our hiding place until they cleared out and moved on. By some miracle, the army marched south rather coming east toward Leuven—I have no idea why."
"The letter…?"
"Oi, we made it to the castle, Captain," Porthos smiled as he pulled out a piece of paper. "Minister Tréville is sending reinforcement guards to help us retreat back west. We're to head toward the village of Corbie, on the Somme River."
"Athos, we're going home, we're going back to France," d'Artagnan squeezed Athos's arm gently.
The captain could only nod silently.
"We all lived to fight another day, Captain," Aramis reminded, still sitting on the edge of the cot. Tears welled in the medic's eyes as he looked at each of his three brothers. "Many men did not survive this siege but we did… we survived!"
"The regiment will catch its breath and our army will regroup; we will regain our strength to fight another day. Though we must retreat, I've never felt more grateful because we're leaving together." The captain asserted himself, trying to regain his composure, but sighed as he let his head dip.
"When I thought you had all died, I wondered how I could possibly go on without you," Athos admitted softly. The captain slowly raised his head; his eyes were bright with tears yet filled with joy. "This isn't the end, it's the beginning… I have my brothers back," he nodded.
"We made it… we lived to fight another day."
A/N:
The actual siege of Leuven happened in late June to early July 1635 in Leuven, Belgium (Spanish Netherlands). The French army surrounded the fortified city and laid siege with strength of troops numbering over 50,000. Inside the walled city were the Spanish, Irish and Walloons (native Belgian peoples) numbering just 4,000.
The siege was poorly organized and poorly supplied; the spread of disease decimated the troops, along with brilliant artillery attacks by the Spanish and constant sortie attacks, with nightly destruction to the French sap works, all combined to cause eventual failure of the siege.
The French retreated north, while many other soldiers deserted. Casualties incredibly numbered just 700 for the Spanish but over 12,000 for the French. The siege at Leuven was an utter failure for King and France!