The Long Journey Back

Sitting in the ashes of a ruined city without having received the Russian capitulation, and facing a Russian maneuver forcing him out of Moscow, Napoleon started his long retreat by the middle of October. At the Battle of Maloyaroslavets, Kutuzov was able to force the French army into using the very same Smolensk road on which they had earlier moved East and which had already been stripped of food supplies by both armies. This is often presented as yet another example of scorched-earth tactics. Continuing to block the southern flank to prevent the French from returning by a different route, Kutuzov again deployed partisan tactics to constantly strike at the French train where it was weakest. Light Russian cavalry, including mounted Cossacks, assaulted and broke up isolated French units.

- Wikipedia

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"Retreat"

Dear God, what a word! Sharper than any bayonet, more piercing than any musket ball, my heart limps in wounded woe. Retreat! Maybe if I repeat it long enough it will discharge its devil's mocking laughter. Has the light of Glory led me astray? In Bonaparte I trust. Never let the genius of Austerlitz be forgotten! What a feeling to know the stars have aligned before every battle, that no matter what the enemy's tactics yours shall prevail! This cup I cannot resist. And now to find such bitter poison within...

Defeated by shadows and apparitions, always squinting into the distance. My anger begets a circle of blame slicing my soldier's soul. On whom shall I direct my misery? Give me an enemy I can fight! Dare I to hope the Emperor grasps a truth I do not? Does my mind see truly our station and position? Is our move a sly way to draw out our charlatan opponents at last! So foul is my stomach's pit I fear the bread sitting before me. How will it ever pass through?

Life has changed. Hobgoblins spread confusion on a path once so clear. Are we burning the city to make fire our god? Hesitant are the officers' eyes. When did I ever see that before? Infinite dreams we had, ever upwards without fail. Why descend now and not before if by a lie we live? More than the fickleness of fate is this. I obey the order and turn my face westward, but every step eats at me as doubt dogs me like hounds from hell.

******

It is happening. We are dying. Hope barely flickers, I trudge forward with no certainty of purpose. "Victory belongs to us!" we always claimed, entitled by divine right. Perhaps victory will regain its meaning someday but I shall never cheer it as before. With guilty observance I peruse our struggle for simple survival. No happiness, no mention of satisfaction of any sort, just one foot in front of the other pushed on only by the sight of those who breathe no more, human icicles to rot and spoil in the far off Springtime sun.

No one says a word but we all hear the screams of no reply. Goddam Cossacks trapping us on either side like demonic jailors, ready to slice our brittle bones in glee. The biting wind aided by the breath of countless Russian peasants who join its savage attack. Old friend Time has defected as well, allying with the enemy, waging his war for him. I never knew such a clawing agony could so infect the human condition, rendering my soul to shreds.

A crucifixion of coldness we bear. Roads so glassy horses fall, unable to right themselves, flailing and dying in inescapable terror. My hand is frozen to my musket barrel in unrepentant grip. Am I to return the same person? Strangely, home has changed for me too. It's as if I've misplaced it and may spend the rest of my life searching, its place always slipping away from me, no longer welcoming my warring ways. What will I see in her greeting eyes when I finally present my spiritless self?

******

I've ceased to touch the earth. What does it say of me when I see beauty in the vast Russian sky and my heart embraces this ancient landscape so clearly gifted by God? I yearn to join the peasants in the joy of harvesting crops with labored love. I surrender to the nature of land. I begrudge not the exquisite blue ice as it cracks and justly swallows unwilling bodies. Like wolf packs are the roadside fires, the strong tearing away the weak. Were that God were to rest me on a cloud and prove not all the universe a frozen nightmare.

To whom may I witness? Woman is only gentle as long as man is brutal. War is the wage of winning. Children sing in innocence never discerning our words of woe - yet destined for our mistakes. Do we not brand a fool any who speak of love? Oh to have a world full of fools such as that! Ahead on the road is a pile of gold and silver trophies, dumped in irrelevant splendor. To life I am chained, pulling me from my pride, toasting my truth. And yet tearing me in two.

How do I find myself in such dire circumstance? What a sight I must make to my Maker, hobbling along with over-wrapped feet in a blizzard where no sane man resides. Surely, this was not the intent of my life - or any life ever bore. I've done what's expected: I thought nothing of myself, I valued me not. I accepted victory's bribe - and seduction - and made my pact. Hungering in my quest, I devoured my life in false anger, determined to strip all consequence from my living. I duly wish I'd had a say now.

******

How deep my madness? Did I go too far? Do I have minutes more, or years? I can’t even remember why I’m fighting. A falling star I follow. To struggle a lifetime only to be entombed in freezing torment. Like Judas after the betrayal I feel cut off from all life in this world. My gun is my enemy I realize too late. I must give it up to live yet my will obeys me not. How curious to die with laughter a stranger. Do I have the heartbeats left to thaw my heart? I yearn for a hand a soldier cannot win.