The first shot fired from an artillery battery on the hill above Dimitry, it whizzed over his head and exploded in the distance. Then the frantic horn for mobilisation sounded as soldiers from all regiments scurried past. Dimitry kicked Mikhail in the shin “get up, get up, it’s started” Mikhail replied, “Alright, alright the war can wait for us”.
Dimitry ignored Mikhail, picked up both their riffles and ran off in search of ammunition.
The French artillery returning fire hastened the chaotic organisation of battle columns. Mikhail ran up the hill and watched the mechanical movement of the French legions bare down on the progressively mounting barricaded front line of his comrades. Dimitry returned with riffles and ammunition, they ran down the hillside to the foot of the battle. By now there are numerous casualties on both sides as each side swaps shells. But the Russians seem to be taking the heavier bombardment from artillery. The generals ensue this as a stalemate they need to bide more time; more and more fresh troops are thrown at the grinders of the French guns.
“You two, I should have you shot for deserting, but I need men, follow me and that’s an order” shouted a passing captain. They both decided they had more chance of living on the battlefield than holding the captain to his word. Dimitry, Mikhail and ten others ran through the billowing grey, red smoke that had incarcerated the whole battle. To Dimitry it seemed as if they were fighting in the fiery inferno of Hell itself. He was running past humans, were they friend or foe? They scrambled into a large shell hole in a wooded area.
As the battle reaches the afternoon, more and more men lay dead, scattered on the fields churned up by the movement of heavy artillery and constant, chivalrous glorious cavalry charges. A solitary horse ambles its way through the carnage and death blissfully unaware of the fatality around it, oblivious of what’s happened to its master. Mikhail believes that “the fighting has stopped on the right flank” because an eerie silence has taken the place of the exploding shells but in fact he has been deafened in his right ear. Dimitry sticks his head out from the safety of a fallen tree peering to the right of their position and then to the left. He could still see heavy fighting from both sides although he could see the willingness of the Russian army to counter attack had faded. The French had taken the initiative, little by little the positions of his comrades were driven back, Mikhail and Dimitry now occupied the most advanced position on the whole of the Russian line.
Napoleon himself ordered the remaining artillery that was not in direct need to aim for that woodland area. Shells rained down like hailstones shattering trees in half and ricocheting into foxholes. Whole foxholes of men lay scarred for life or dead in the shells shallow graves.
It seemed as if the sky was falling in on those soldiers. Dimitry could no longer stand it. Dimitry the glory hungry soldier had now turned into a coward he turned tail and ran. He ran as fast as his spindly legs would take him. Dimitry left his friend all alone to face a certain future, death.
Mikhail is indeed a true warrior who will fight to the last and is always loyal. He turns round seeing the fleeing Dimitry and fires his musket; this Mikhail is loyal, loyal to Napoleon. The bullet hits Dimitry in the kneecap forcing him to collapse in pain. Mikhail then scavenges a nearby French uniform and run’s into the clearing to make sure the deed is done. Mikhail stands in front of his friend struggling to make a choice, he has come to love this friend as a brother, which makes his decision even harder. Standing in front of this friend on the floor deciding whether to let Dimitry live and escape to tell the generals to evacuate the base or whether to kill Dimitry and have the chance to capture the Russian generals. He follows orders and does his duty. Dimitry is no more. Yet Mikhail did not weep and did not cry he was in a state of shock. Mikhail later died leading a bayonet charge on the base camp of the Russian generals. Here he lies forever more holding the tricoleur.
There two men lie, first they seem allies, then just friends and now it seems they cannot make amends for the deed which one man has done and the need for forgiveness, which he needs. A black shape starts to emerge from the grey smog, a lost trapped soul wandering the battlefield after this fateful afternoon.
