I transmigrated as a french soldier during XVIIIth century

The two armies did not immediately leap at each other’s throats, for although both were eager to annihilate their adversary, they had preparations to make.

On Wednesday, March 8, 1758, everyone was in position. It was only six in the morning, and it was still dark. The sky was just beginning to lighten timidly in the east, but it would be at least another hour before the sun rose on the horizon.

Marshal Duke of Richelieu had formed a series of lines between the village of Altenwahlingen, partially protected by a dense forest, difficult for an army to cross, and the Aller River, on the left flank of the army. The Prussian army, positioned only four or five kilometers from the French lines, stretched from the Aller River to the first houses of the village of Häuslingen.

Both sides had used the terrain to their advantage, which could be challenging in places due to the woods and water points. Just as General von Zieten had positioned his troops on the heights behind Häuslingen, the Duke of Richelieu had done the same behind Altenwahlingen. In both cases, this gave them no significant advantage, as these heights rose no more than ten meters above the lowest point between the two armies.

Despite the very early hour, no one in the French army was yawning. Everyone was too tense to feel tired. Some couldn’t eat anything before taking their positions following the orders of their officers.

By battalions, the soldiers were placed on the battlefield like pieces on a chessboard.

Adam found himself on the right wing of the very long formation, swallowed up by the mass of soldiers, standing perfectly still as if he had been petrified. Holding his musket firmly with both hands, he awaited the next order like a perfect little soldier.

The army at that time, more than ever before, was a place where there was no room for heroes. They were trained to form a single block, a solid line that neither retreated nor advanced without orders. Charging alone, taking out a few enemies, and returning as if nothing had happened was unthinkable. They were expected to display the utmost discipline and act together as one to exert the greatest force. In short, individuals were completely erased in favor of the group.

Adam was a soldier, but before that, he was one of the many links making up the battalion in the front line.

Damn it, why did I have to end up in the front line?!

All around him were soldiers with tense faces. Their hands shook slightly on their weapons, and he could even hear some of them praying. In these circumstances, he didn’t find it ridiculous, quite the opposite.

Though he had never been religious or superstitious, he too had prayed to make it out of this hell alive.

A small group of French officers advanced and met a few Prussian officers in the middle of the fields. From where he stood, Adam could barely make them out. Quickly, the two groups parted.

What the hell are they doing?! What are they saying?!

Adam could only wonder, for he didn’t yet understand the traditions of this time. Indeed, it was customary to send one or more representatives to seek a non-violent resolution to the battle by asking for the enemy’s withdrawal. This was usually just a formality and rarely resulted in the troops actually withdrawing.

As expected on both sides, it was a failure, and soon the cannons began firing at the enemy lines. Despite the distance, the noise was deafening.

The Duke of Richelieu hadn’t concentrated all his artillery in one place, as he needed to cover a wide area. He had therefore built redoubts, small earth fortresses, to place a few pieces. Fortunately, he had many.

Where Adam stood, there were two redoubts. One was in front of him to his right, and the other a little farther away on his right.

The presence of woods between the French and Prussian armies posed a challenge for troop movement. It forced the two commanders to send their men into the open spaces, which acted like corridors. It was these spaces the artillery aimed to cover first.

There were no words to describe the sound of so many cannons firing all at once. The air shook, white smoke, heavy with that familiar smell of burnt gunpowder, drifted on the wind and enveloped the soldiers. Cannonballs whistled through the air before digging up vast quantities of earth when they struck the ground. His ears rang as if a large gong had been struck near him, and a lump of fear grew in his throat.

Ah… Ah… My God!

Faced with such an eruption of violence, Adam felt his eyes grow moist. He so desperately wanted to run away, yet all this was merely another form of greeting. The sun was rising, and the battle was about to begin.

He couldn’t say how long the cannonade lasted, but it had caused almost no damage to the enemy, at least visibly. The same was true in reverse, as all the enemy’s cannonballs had struck the ground, hitting nothing but grass and trees barely waking from their winter slumber.

At some point, he couldn’t say when, they were ordered to advance. Like a robot, Adam obeyed.

One step after another, he marched toward the explosions like a suicidal man walking toward the edge of a rooftop overlooking a busy street. He couldn’t see his comrades, as he had to look straight ahead. He couldn’t see his friends either, who were in another battalion. He simply followed his sergeant, who followed his captain, who followed his colonel. The entire right wing was commanded by Lieutenant General de Conflans, Marquis d’Armentières.

He commanded several regiments, not just the Picardie regiment. His role was simple: to ensure that the right wing held firm and crushed the enemy’s left. He had to move between regiments to communicate his orders and those of the commander of this vast army, modest in reality compared to the huge battles of the last war. At Fontenoy, in May 1745, the French had around fifty thousand men on their side! That was twenty thousand more than Richelieu currently commanded! The size of an army!

My God! There are so many of us! And them too! Damn, I don’t want to die!

Then he heard a long whistle and reflexively ducked. Fortunately, a few seconds later, he was still breathing. He looked to his right and saw that the soldier who had been there just moments earlier was no longer there.

Adam felt a powerful shiver run through him. It started in the small of his back, slithered like a slimy snake up his spine, and gripped his throat. His muscles were so tense it felt like he had a cramp.

His thoughts froze, and he looked behind him. Several shredded bodies lay in the damp grass, soaked with blood. The soldiers who were directly hit no longer resembled human beings. They were nothing more than pieces of warm flesh wrapped in torn cloth.

If the soldier behind him hadn't bumped into him, he would have remained frozen in place, staring at this horrific sight, miles away from anything he'd ever seen on the internet, in video games, or the most violent movie.

"Don’t look back," a sergeant beside him said softly. "You need to hold the formation."

Adam swallowed and obeyed in silence.

That single cannonball had killed five men and severely injured two others.

Thanks to repeated drills, the troop continued to advance. Ahead, the Prussians didn’t seem willing to abandon their position, mainly at Häuslingen. Seeing this, the Duke of Richelieu ordered the artillery to be repositioned to support the infantry. He only kept his mortars near him, which could hit distant targets.

Moving heavy cannons wasn’t an easy task, and it took an enormous amount of time. In the meantime, the infantry had to keep pushing forward, gritting their teeth.

Finally, the French soldiers were close enough to fire at their enemies, well-entrenched ahead. The advantage of their musket model was its long range, thanks to the extra length of the barrel. The Prussians fired back, but with little effect!

In reality, Adam and his comrades weren’t causing much more damage either, as the enemy was well protected. However, the Prussian artillery had a clear line of fire on them.

Damn it! Where the hell are our cannons?!

The enemy cannons had never stopped firing, and the French were suffering heavy losses, especially in the center.

Then, Colonel Bréhant received new orders.

"About-turn, right!"

Adam complied and left the enemy behind, not knowing if he had been of any use at all. Much time and many men had been lost, seemingly for nothing.

From the enemy’s point of view, this large group of soldiers seemed to be retreating from the fight. But, of course, it wasn’t that simple.

Are we going into that forest? Ah? That’s the Poitou regiment! They’re joining us?

"Gentlemen," said the colonel after exchanging a word with Colonel de Choiseul, who commanded the Poitou regiment, "our mission is to flank the enemy. Stay together!"

The young corporal nodded softly and followed his officer, his mind clouded with emotion. The trees, often covered with dark thorns, provided good cover. They were so densely packed that it was difficult to move through some areas. Fortunately, the terrain in this region was relatively flat.

In complete silence, Adam advanced, carefully avoiding the large roots that spread across the damp ground. A soft scent of wood and wet earth surrounded him. When he wasn’t stepping on the roots, he had the unpleasant feeling of walking on an old, moldy sponge.

Behind him, the French and Prussian cannons roared. You could clearly hear them from here, but it was impossible to tell if they were hitting their targets or not.

Damn, I hope we’re going to win! If only I’d paid attention in class! At least then I’d know in advance if we win or lose this battle!

Adam glanced nervously around him. Everyone seemed focused, with serious expressions on their faces. Far ahead, the colonel’s back looked broad and solid like a mountain. He held a long, curved saber with a golden hilt in his right hand, like a brave warrior. It was far from the image Adam had of modern officers, good only for giving orders from behind a computer.

Finally, after thirty or forty minutes, the two regiments reached the other side of the forest, east of the enemy army. They could have gone further following the forest, but it was very likely that the enemy army had positioned some companies to prevent them from slipping past and hitting them from behind.

"Fix bayonets," the colonel ordered in the most authoritative voice. "Be ready for orders," he said before leaving the woods.

As quietly as possible, they followed a small path but soon, despite all their precautions, came across a large group of lightly armed soldiers, placed here by von Zieten as reserves for his left wing. Immediately, a sharp skirmish broke out.

"Fire!"

An impressive volley struck the enemy, killing and wounding many of them. Quickly, Gilbert’s company got into position and stretched out to form a curved line. It worked perfectly with the other companies, and at a staggering speed, they managed to reload their weapons. Another volley cracked, cutting down about fifteen more lives.

The enemy's morale, already low, plummeted further, and the unit retreated.

Adam didn’t have time to celebrate as they were quickly replaced by another group, also seemingly in poor shape. It was as if they’d just been handed a weapon and a uniform the day before and told to die for the glory of Prussia. Their eyes searched desperately for a way out, and as soon as the losses grew too high, they began to flee.

Adam, having just reloaded his weapon, took aim and, without hesitation, pulled the trigger, targeting a man running in the opposite direction. When the smoke finally cleared, he saw he had hit his target, and the man lay motionless on the waterlogged ground.

Damn, at least I got one!

"Very good! Regroup quickly, form ranks, and reload your weapons! —Colonel! Many enemies approaching! They’re Hessians! —Prepare for combat!"

Without thinking, Adam reached into his pouch and grabbed a new cartridge. His hands no longer trembled as much.

***

Away from the danger, the highest-ranking officers in this army observed the situation with a surprising calm, considering the violence of the battle unfolding before them. It was as if they were watching an ordinary play. From their perspective, this battle was neither going well nor poorly. A kind of balance was being established. Each commander was testing his opponent. There was a cost, of course, but the soldiers were there for that. The outcome was what mattered. If objectives could be achieved quickly at a low cost, all the better, but if heavy sacrifices had to be made, Marshal Duke of Richelieu would not hesitate.

Before him stretched his army. It was large but tired after such a long march. Fortunately, the enemy didn’t seem to be in top form either.

"My lord, our cannons are in position. They've begun firing," said a tall, lean man in his forties, with a nose and cheeks so red one might think he was drunk.

"Good, Monsieur de Vallière. Intensify the fire on the village. What’s its name again?"

"Häuslingen, my general."

"Häuslingen…" the old man repeated softly, as if it were a woman’s name. "Flatten that village. I don’t want the enemy using it as a shelter."

"Understood!" he replied before limping off on his left leg toward his subordinates.

Richelieu turned to another officer, the exact opposite of Vallière. He was rather short, broad-shouldered, and so fat that his uniform seemed to be crying for help.

"Move the regiments under Contades' command toward those redoubts. Send a few squadrons to support them. Tell our mortars to target that area until they arrive."

Richelieu's orders flowed with the ease of a stream. In recent days, he had given much thought to an attack plan with his officers. He could have waited for the enemy to come, but he didn't want to risk their commander receiving reinforcements. Moreover, he wanted to defeat them before Prince de Soubise arrived and claimed part of the glory.

The enemy had the advantage of terrain, but my men are more numerous and, visibly, in better condition. Most importantly, we have far more cannons!

In the distance, the ground was churned up wherever his cannonballs hit. Though they seldom struck anyone directly, almost every time, one or two soldiers were indirectly wounded. Their cries of pain could do significant damage to the enemy’s morale.

I’d much rather see my comrade turned to pulp by a clean hit than watch him suffer for hours with a severed arm or leg.

Using his spyglass, he carefully observed the situation, from the river to the village of Häuslingen. The enemy held their position firmly and seemed unwilling to retreat. This was especially true near Häuslingen.

Let’s see how long they can hold out under my artillery.

The village was quickly targeted and subjected to heavy fire. The buildings began to collapse and catch fire under the impassive gaze of the French officers. At the same time, a barrage of fire rained down on the redoubts held by the Prussians. He saw his brave soldiers advancing, attempting to take the position, supported by dragoons and a few hussars.

The Prussian infantry, reinforced by soldiers from Hanover, Hesse-Kassel, and Brunswick, did not give in easily and advanced to counter the assault. Having left their shelters, they now made excellent targets for the regular infantry nearby.

He watched as a battalion of the Navarre regiment pivoted and aimed at them.

Richelieu turned his spyglass eastward.

"Hm?"

"A problem, General?" asked the Marquis of Vogüé, standing nearby, also equipped with a spyglass.

"No, I don’t think so. But look east," he said simply, as if he had noticed something curious.

"What are they doing?" the marquis wondered, pulling his eye away from the lens. "Are they trying to flank us?"

"My lord," interrupted another officer, closer to fifty than forty, "that’s where Marquis d'Armentières is with his brigade. He has with him the regiments of Picardy and Poitou."

"Ah! That’s right! So he managed to get through?"

"It seems so, my lord!" said Chevreuse with a small satisfied smile. "In any case, he seems to have drawn the enemy's attention."

"In that case, let’s not waste this opportunity. Intensify our assaults in the east!"

"Yes, General!"

Although five hours had passed since the battle began, relatively little had been achieved. It had been a strange balancing act between the various forces, like an arm-wrestling match where one tries to establish rhythm before surprising with one final, decisive blow.

That decisive blow came around one in the afternoon when the Prussians, under immense pressure, sought to turn the tide with a powerful cavalry charge.

Skillfully led by the brave and formidable von Seydlitz, who had arrived in time for the battle—unlike Ferdinand of Brunswick-Lüneburg, who had to delay and, if possible, distract Prince de Soubise—his charge broke through several lines of French infantry. It was almost miraculous to see so many horses charging on such difficult terrain. His mighty horse struck down three men, and his saber killed one of them. His brave comrades did just as well, creating a gaping breach to strike elsewhere behind the French.

But there was a second line of soldiers, and soon he found himself surrounded by enemies. Slashing left and right with his saber, he searched for a way out for himself and his men. Finding none, he tried to carve one out with his blade.

However, it wasn’t enough. He was targeted by the relentless French soldiers and riddled with bullets. After the battle, no fewer than fifteen bullet wounds were counted, all in his chest.

Later, around two in the afternoon, the left flank of the Prussian army collapsed. As the center retreated in haste, part of the Prussian army became trapped near the Aller River, where it formed a wide bend. Many soldiers, trying to cross, ended up falling into the water and were swept away by the strong current.

By five o’clock, the toll was four thousand dead on the French side, three thousand on the Prussian side. Yet, due to the large number of prisoners taken that day, the capture of their artillery, and the enemy commander’s flight, the battle was considered a victory.

That same evening, von Zieten, defeated, humiliated, rejected by his own kingdom, and without an army—most of his troops having fled—took his own life in Verden.