For those who love History but hate the War

 

For those who love History but hate the War

 

"Lucky are those who have learnt history", is a saying I remember from my school years. I thought it was attributed to Plutarch but the internet search brings the name of Euripides on top. Well, I was a very negligent pupil so I wouldn't know. And because I was so negligent, today I regret not having learnt history. Or maybe I was like Jane Austen who wrote in Northanger Abbey: "I read it [history] a little as a duty, but it tells me nothing that does not either vex or weary me. The quarrels of popes and kings, with wars or pestilences, in every page; the men all so good for nothing, and hardly any women at all — it is very tiresome: and yet I often think it odd that it should be so dull, for a great deal of it must be invention.”

How can one disagree with Jane Austen, even if one is not a woman? Men wrote history. Accustomed by nature to hunting and fighting, they have maintained through the centuries their often violent and expansive character, even today when they do not have to kill wildlife to secure their daily food. The book and the poem presented here, though not at all boring, will make us think again about why so much pain, so much destruction, so many dead, so many wounded, so many prisoners? How can one disagree with Plutarch or Euripides? The lucky ones who have learnt history, will probably be wise enough not to repeat it. The peaceful nature of such wise people will be appalled when they read the true story of Sergeant Bourgogne and the poem "Leipzig" by Thomas Hardy about the Battle of the Nations which took place in Leipzig in 1813. For those of us living in this city, there will also be familiar names of places and people like Lindenau and Poniatowski.

The Memoirs of Sergeant Bourgogne, is the diary of a Napoleon soldier during and after the 1812 campaign in Russia. It is a unique document of an eye witness who narrates the capture of Moscow, the retreat and the many battles which followed and finally the return of the decimated army to the homeland after an Odyssey beyond imagination.

Courage, ingenuity and incredible amounts of luck, these are the main elements of Bourgogne's memoirs. Lots of horse meat, many corpses or dying on every page. It doesn't sound appealing and yet it is a very interesting read written by a human being about the most inhumane moments.

"I cannot possibly describe all the sufferings, anguish, and scenes of desolation I had seen and passed through, nor those which I was fated still to see and endure; they left deep and terrible memories, which I have never forgotten".

"For the honour of humanity, perhaps, I ought not to describe all these scenes of horror, but I have determined to write down all I saw. I cannot do otherwise, and, besides, all these things have taken such possession of my mind that I think if I write them down they will cease to trouble me. And if in this disastrous campaign acts of infamy were committed, there were noble actions, too, which do honour to our humanity; amongst others, I have seen men carry a wounded officer on their shoulders for many days."

Napoleon's soldiers were driven mad by fatigue, by exhaustion. Their comrades would tell when their end was near when some were seized by "the laughter of death." In the midst of all the hardships, however, there was a terrible self-sacrifice towards their weakest companions. Most of these men had followed Napoleon in all his campaigns, and they nurtured for their leader an incredible adoration. One of these men was M.Mellé, a Dragoon of the Guards, whom Bourgogne had often met during the retreat, leading his horse by the bridle, and making holes in the ice of the lakes to give him drink. He was from Condé, the place Bourgogne himself came from. According to Bourgogne, "before entering the Guard, M. Mellé had already gone through the Italian campaign. With the same weapons and the same horse he went through the campaigns of 1806 and 1807 in Prussia and Poland, 1808 in Spain, 1809 in Germany, 1810 and 1811 in Spain, 1812 in Russia, 1813 in Saxony, and 1814 in France."

These were tough eternal soldiers who died shouting "Long live Napoleon!", military professionals who later, looking for employment, fought on the side of the Greeks for the liberation from the Ottoman rule, but also on the side of the Ottoman oppressor, some as mercenaries.

In the cold, in the snow, amidst hunger and disease, full of fear, as  described so brilliant by Adrien Jean-Baptiste François Bourgogne, the son of a cloth merchant from Condé-sur-Escaut, there are some moving stories, such as that of Mouton, the dog following the regiment.

"Mouton had been with us since 1808. We found him in Spain, near the Bonaventura, on the banks of a river where the English had cut the bridge. He came with us to Germany. In 1809 he assisted at the battles of Essling and Wagram; afterwards he returned to Spain in 1810-11. He left with the Regiment for Russia; but in Saxony he was lost, or perhaps stolen, for Mouton was a handsome poodle. Ten days after our arrival in Moscow we were immensely surprised at seeing him again. A detachment composed of fifteen men had left Paris some days after our departure to rejoin the regiment, and as they passed through the place where he had disappeared, the dog had recognised the regimental uniform, and followed the detachment."

But not all stories in the book are so pleasant nor do they have such a happy end.

"After day-break, while we were all talking together, Adjutant-Major Delaitre came up. He was the worst man I've ever known and the cruellest, doing wrong for the mere pleasure of doing it. He began to talk, and, greatly to our surprise, seemed much troubled by Béloque's tragic death. "Poor Béloque!" he said; 'I am very sorry I ever behaved badly to him.' Just then a voice in my ear (what voice I never knew) said: 'He will die very soon". Others heard it also. He seemed sincerely sorry for all his bad behaviour to those under him, especially to us non-commissioned officers. I do not think there was a man in the regiment who wouldn't have rejoiced to see him carried off by a bullet. We called him Peter the Cruel."

Delaitre died the next day from enemy fire in the presence of Bourgogne and other comrades. His last words were: "For God's sake take my pistols and blow my brains out!"

"No one dared do this service for him", continues Bourgogne, "and without answering we went on our way -most luckily as it happened, for before we had gone six yards a second discharge carried off three of our men behind us, killing the Adjutant-Major."

The book is invaluable for scholars but also for those who just love history. And one can't help thinking that history repeats itself. Greed, the desire for power and glory, is always there. But also some pure feelings, "from war to love, and from love to war!" as Bourgogne says.