I transmigrated as a french soldier during XVIIIth century

The uniforms worn by the French soldiers were barely distinguishable in the winter landscape. The snow was so deep in some places that it reached up to their knees. In the fields, it was like an immense sea of pure, dazzling snow whenever a ray of sunlight broke through, which was quite rare at this time of year. When it did happen, temperatures usually plummeted.

The trees seemed frozen, as if petrified by the Siberian-like climate, with their branches bowed under the weight of fresh snow. Sometimes, the branches even snapped due to the heavy snowfall over the past two days.

There had been a brief period when the temperatures became somewhat milder, causing all the snow accumulated during December to melt. But it didn’t last. The temperatures suddenly dropped again on January 8th, and it started snowing once more—lightly at first, then so heavily that going outside became impossible. The risk of getting lost in the blizzard was too great.

That morning, the sky was still heavily clouded, but patches of bright blue sky were visible in some places. The sun, which had not been seen in a long time, appeared so beautiful and bright that it caught the eyes unaccustomed to the gloom by surprise. Yet, its comforting rays were not enough to warm bodies numb from the cold.

Adam and his fellow soldiers marched in two columns, flanking six large wagons pulled by sturdy horses—smaller and stockier than the ones ridden by cavalry into battle. They regularly cast nervous glances around them.

This convoy was quite special, as each wagon carried six enormous dark wooden barrels bound with iron hoops. Whatever was inside them was bound to attract attention. To escort them, they had come with fifteen men, not including the drivers. Unlike the escort, these men didn’t wear uniforms but thick coats designed to keep the wearers warm. Most of their coats were dark, and they covered their faces with thick scarves to protect against the light but constant icy wind.

The infantry had strict uniforms to adhere to, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t double or even triple the number of layers worn under their uniforms. Even though it was very uncomfortable, as Adam felt much bulkier than he actually was, it was better than freezing to death.

The first wagon carved a deep track in the fresh snow, making things much easier for the following wagons. The same went for the men, who did their best to follow the path created by the first man in the line.

No one complained about the cold or their slow pace, as everyone was focused on the mission.

It was the middle of January. After enduring the relentless assaults of this troublesome invisible enemy—now identified as the men of the Duke of Brunswick-Lüneburg—the soldiers under the Duke of Richelieu had become familiar enough with this disgraceful strategy to respond effectively.

Since the first ambushes, they had figured out how this enemy operated and what they liked to target.

"Captain, do you think it will take much longer?" asked the driver of the lead wagon to Captain Gilbert, who was leading this squad—a rather unusual task for him.

"Who knows?" he replied from his horse, a beautiful creature with a gray coat speckled with white as if someone had splashed paint on it. "Maybe nothing will happen today."

"We’re in their zone, right?" asked the driver, a burly man with hair as black as night and eyes as blue as the sky, with a hint of worry in his voice as he sat uncomfortably with a long rifle at his feet.

"We have been for a while now, yes," replied Captain Armand Gilbert, adjusting the gray wool collar that kept his neck warm. "So they could appear at any moment. But," he noted, "this isn’t the best place."

"Because it’s too open?" asked the driver, who was actually a soldier around his age.

"That’s right."

Adam, who was walking two paces behind the first wagon, listened attentively to the conversation between the two men and reflected on their mission and all the challenges they had faced in recent weeks and months. The Prussians and their local allies had been unbearable, giving them almost no respite. Almost every day, they received news of an attack on one of their units.

They struck almost anywhere and at any time. Every patrol set out with fear in their hearts, not knowing if it would be their last. The number of dead and wounded was growing, which was a major concern for the officers. In enemy territory, every man was precious.

His Majesty had already struggled to recruit men to fill his regiments. Fortunately, it hadn’t yet reached the point where they had to resort to trickery and trapping able-bodied men of the right age into donning a uniform. This was something that often happened in both the infantry and the royal navy when a war dragged on too long.

"Tell me," Corporal Boucher/Adam asked the driver, whose face was partially hidden like a bandit’s, "the road we’re following leads to those trees, right?"

The driver leaned forward slightly to see who was speaking to him, and when he saw a young man walking slowly near his wagon, he nodded.

"Yes, sir!"

Adam looked ahead. Continuing down this path, they would reach a fairly dense wooded area, consisting mainly of tall pine trees as high as a city wall. Snow had settled on them, forming thick white cushions on each branch.

If they weren’t at war and didn’t risk being killed at any moment, he might have found the landscape beautiful, worthy of a postcard or a painting.

"Well, if I were them," Adam continued, "I’d position myself over there. That way, I’d be sheltered while my enemies would be exposed."

"You’re right, Corporal. Tell everyone to be on their guard as we approach the trees ahead."

"Yes, Captain!" the young soldier responded immediately.

Slowly, the column of wagons and men approached the trees. Everything was so silent. The only sounds were the crunching of snow underfoot, the wheels carving their path on the frozen road, the horses working hard, and occasionally the songs of a few birds, some of which sounded more like threats or warnings.

Let’s see if they take the bait, Adam thought, glancing furtively at the barrels.

The immense trees stood like imposing wooden pillars, surrounded by dense bushes. Flanking the road on both sides, they formed an impassable wall.

So, will they attack or not?

The trap devised by the Marshal Duke was simple but had a good chance of succeeding. They had studied and mapped out each attack to estimate where the best place would be to set an ambush for the Prussians, Hanoverians, Hessians, and others. They also knew, thanks to a few prisoners captured during this long period, that these enemies were constantly short of supplies despite help from the British Crown and the locals.

A convoy this impressive could not go unnoticed.

I’m sure they’ll come. Soon.

Adam was not mistaken. As soon as they entered the forest, they found a fallen tree blocking their path. The moment the convoy stopped, gunfire erupted from all around them. It came from the left, the right, and even from behind the fallen tree.

In this situation, the convoy could neither advance nor retreat.

Despite the urgency of the situation, none of the men were caught off guard. They all kept their cool and took up positions. Enemy soldiers wearing colorful uniforms, each different from the other, could be seen among the trees, their eyes burning with hatred and greed. Their figures stood out clearly against the enchanting landscape.

They were certainly already envisioning themselves taking possession of the immense barrels, which must contain powder, weapons, or food. Perhaps it was all of these things, in which case it would be a great haul.

“Now!” Captain Gilbert ordered, his voice echoing among the towering trees.

But suddenly, from each barrel emerged a French soldier who grabbed a weapon from the bottom of the wagon. Six barrels in six wagons. Instead of facing about twenty men, the attackers were now up against more than fifty!

Although they had come in numbers to seize the wagons, they were no match for such a force. They were only about thirty strong.

The Prussians, stunned, didn’t have time to react, and the first volley of musket fire took down several of them who had ventured too far forward. They collapsed where they stood, and soon their bright red blood mixed with the snow, turning it a strange shade of pink.

Adam, who had retreated to the third wagon, shouldered his rifle as soon as he reloaded it and fired at a man whose face, like his own, was hidden by a high woolen collar—black in this case. Despite the thick cloud of smoke that smelled of burnt powder, a now familiar scent, he saw the man clutch his shoulder and take cover behind a tree.

Fuck! I only wounded him! Fucking bastard!

Quickly, he reached into his cartridge box and pulled out another cartridge. It was still full, as it could hold thirty cartridges. In an instant, his weapon was ready again.

I’ll get you, bastard!

His breathing was oddly calm, and his mind was clearer than ever. He carefully watched the tree behind which his enemy had taken cover but saw a second man appear nearby. He turned his barrel slightly and shot this man, who fell backward like a stone.

“You won’t get us this time!” he roared, his voice carrying above the chaos.

Then he shouted in German so the enemy could understand: “You will all die here, filthy dogs!”

The Prussians, initially surprised by the strong counterattack, quickly regained their composure and began to fight back. Bullets whizzed in all directions, occasionally striking a soldier on either side. On the captain’s orders, the French soldiers stopped shooting and skillfully fixed their bayonets to the ends of their barrels. They then began to charge the enemy, who had already started to retreat deeper into the woods.

They spread out, forming a sort of semicircle around the wagons, and charged with extreme violence at the fleeing adversary. To motivate themselves, they only had to think of everything they had endured in recent times. Their frustration was immense, and their anger was ready to explode. Each man was like a barrel of powder, ready to ignite and explode.

“Don’t hold back!” Captain Gilbert shouted. “Show them what it costs to challenge the King of France’s army!”

Adam passed the captain and leaped forward like a hunting dog sent by its master after a terrified prey. Clutching his musket tightly in his frozen hands despite his woolen gloves, he lunged at the wounded man sitting in the snow, his uniform stained with fresh blood.

The man’s face was twisted with fear and pain, and his complexion was pale. His tricorne had fallen off, and he had lowered his collar to breathe more easily. His face resembled Jean’s a little because of his square jaw and crooked nose, but that was all.

“P-please!” the Prussian stammered in his language, raising a trembling, blood-covered hand in a desperate gesture. “I surrender!”

His eyes, wide with fear, searched the young corporal’s, hoping to find a glimmer of humanity. But to Adam, this man was nothing more than an enemy. He had tried to kill him, and in the reverse situation, he wouldn’t hesitate to shoot Adam down like a dog. A deep anger, constantly fueled by the memory of his fallen comrades, burned in his heart. It added to all his frustrations, all those weeks of living in fear and hunting an invisible enemy in an exhausting guerrilla war.

Without averting his gaze, his face impassive, Adam drove the point of his bayonet into the enemy’s abdomen. The blade effortlessly pierced the fabric and then the man’s flesh, reaching his delicate organs. A muffled groan escaped the soldier’s thin lips as he leaned slightly forward under the pressure.

“Hu-Hurgh...”

His eyes, like large marbles, stared in disbelief at the weapon Adam held. Normally, they would try to take prisoners to exchange them for a ransom.

Adam then saw the soldier place his bloodied hands on his musket barrel and use his last strength to try to push the musket back, attempting to withdraw the blade deeply embedded in his intestines. Adam watched him struggle for a long moment, motionless, then took a step back. Very slowly, he withdrew his weapon from the man’s body. A large stream of blood flowed from the wound, as well as from his mouth.

Despite the severity of the injury, the man still managed to plead for mercy one last time. He was barely breathing. Not even God could save him now. Adam plunged the bayonet in a second time, this time aiming for the heart. Only then did the man stop moving. His eyes, wide open, seemed to be staring at something invisible behind Adam.

You damn bastard! This is for Jules, you son of a bitch!

Jules had been wounded during one of these attacks two weeks earlier, near a small village called Körbelitz, only eleven kilometers northeast of Magdeburg. He and his patrol comrades thought they were safe so close to their headquarters, but they stumbled upon a group of soldiers bold enough to challenge the Marshal Duke right under his nose. It was a great provocation. Fortunately, Jules had only been wounded that day.

With his blood still boiling, Adam turned and resumed the chase, following the footprints in the snow. His comrades had already gone far ahead in pursuit of the enemy.

Eventually, they ceased the pursuit since they couldn’t stray too far from the convoy, even though the wagons were technically empty. Gradually, the men returned to the wagons. The horses, although frightened by all the commotion, hadn’t moved. That was mostly because they couldn’t, as there wasn’t enough space here for them to turn around.

“Are we really letting them go, Captain?” Adam asked with some frustration, a sentiment shared by most of the soldiers present.

“No. We’re giving them a five-minute head start so they can regroup and lead us to their camp. Has everyone returned?”

“Not yet,” replied a sergeant named Pierre Maçon.

“Let’s wait a little longer, then. After that, we’ll go after our enemies.”

“At your orders!”

With the snow, it wasn’t difficult to track these men. Captain Gilbert’s company found them as they were hurriedly gathering their belongings to disappear for a while and regroup. There were only seven or eight of them left.

Their camp, which consisted of a few makeshift tents around a campfire that was out but still smoking, was located near a frozen stream from which a few frost-covered reeds protruded.

Captain Gilbert’s men, who had taken the time to clean and reload their weapons, had no trouble eliminating them all. A single volley cut them all down, ending the operation.

It was only then that they felt satisfied. A sense of relief washed over Adam, and there was no doubt his comrades felt the same. Smiling, they decided to return to their headquarters.

Once back in Magdeburg, the captain was congratulated by Colonel de Bréhant and the general. However, it was only a small team they had taken out. There could be twenty or more teams like this one in just that region.

Meanwhile, Adam found his friends, who were also returning from patrol, but in another region.

“Oh, so it was a success?” Charles said with a slight smirk.

“Very good! That’ll teach them!” Jean exclaimed joyfully. “Those dogs only understand force!”

“Yes, but it was just one of their teams,” Louis said, downplaying the achievement. “I think as long as their leader keeps fighting, we’ll keep getting attacked over and over.”

“What we need is to quickly make them understand they’ve lost the war. By the way, do we know how the negotiations are going?” Adam asked.

“Who knows?” Jules sighed, his arm in a sling. “They’re probably haggling over details. I’m sure it’ll all be over soon.”

“I hope so. I can’t wait to go home,” murmured P’tit Pol, looking downcast. “I’m so tired of this country. I miss Corbie.”

All their faces grew sad at the mention of their hometown. The only exception was Adam, who had no attachment to that village he had only briefly seen in a dream. He often had such dreams, which allowed him to learn a little more about François’s life. But they were sometimes difficult to understand. It was like mixing up all the scenes of a movie and watching them as is. Under those conditions, it was very hard to follow the plot.

It was even more challenging because they sometimes got mixed up with his own memories and ordinary dreams with no meaning at all. In one of them, he saw himself participating in a training session in a barracks full of young recruits, then found himself in a modern gymnasium playing sports with his classmates—a handball game—until dinosaurs showed up to eat everyone.

“You know, even if we sign a peace treaty with Prussia, we’ll still be at war, right?” Adam asked seriously. “We’re still at war with England. I think… I think we still have a while to go. I don’t know, maybe a year or two?”

P’tit Pol didn’t reply, because even though he didn’t look it, he was smart enough to understand.