Battles of Luzhinsky- Extract 8- Robert Fullarton- Copyright 2016

Battles of Luzhinsky- Extract 8
-Robert Fullarton

Taken from the Diary of Luzhinksy 1685

So we waited by the wayside of the changing continent, my peers and I. Training continued, we maneuvered at the local garrisons, learning the arts of governing the lives of soldiers, making decisions through skirmishes and various drills. But I had made my requests to the Austrian Landwehr to be commissioned as a Captain under the ascendancy of the 12th Cavalry division. Colonel Von Goetze had written his recommendations, signed and sealed as if it were his parting gift to my ambitions as an officer. Although I was a foreigner, now camped with the Austrian Heavy cavalry, I was received with warmth, when I proved myself in action, with my abilities to duel and box, my sheer physical prowess impressed them and made the local men look like boys by comparison. Though we were stationed outside the city of Graz, the borders of Hungary- being in close proximity- were always the hinterlands of our war games, where the Turkish curtains needed to be parted back and we had further plans to smoke the foxes out from their dens in haste.

I stayed in Graz lodging with a young family, who in humility offered me meals and boards by the recommendations of the local Garrison commander. Word went round too that I had taken part in the relief- though in a very minor way- of the capital and warm greetings went to all who had taken part in the infamous victory of that hour! Warm presents of food and hot drinks, alcohol and sweet delicacies were given to me by the boundless gifts of my hosts. I had stabled my horse on their local stud farm, where they specifically bred horses for the Royal family’s estates. The conquests of Hungary and the push to the cities of Buda and Pest are the newfound battle zones between a temporary peace and a lasting war between the Occidental and the Asiatic. In peacetime-or the time between one’s central participation in battle- there is the tedium of army life, the invitations to dinner, the formal occasions, the pursuits of a soldier’s bachelordom followed by more boredom. I am awaiting a new assignment, along with the announcement of my new commanding officer.

One day in a tavern in Graz, the Black Crow, I overheard the conversations of several officers, some from the 2nd Styrian Guards, one from the 10th Carinthian Artillery battalion and with wayward mercenaries standing over like specters in the shadows, over these uniformed gamblers.

The first man participating the conversation was called Maximilian, who was a dark haired mustachioed gentleman who bore the appearance of a buccaneer and a drinker, the second man known as Louis the “long” wore a green overcoat, with fine linen bandages wrapped around his chest, no doubt to cover a wound from a recent engagement, with hair like straw, he listened, with eyes fixed to the buccaneer with avid attention. The third main participant to the conversation had the eyes of a madman, bore a pallid complexion-looked dead as it was to begin with- I thought he was dead at first and that he was a corpse of a veteran, abandoned on the tavern stool, until he suddenly came to life and spoke in favor of the first man’s position.

“You see gentlemen, this wager of making money off the war, it has a sort of Frenchman’s criminality to it. Only a Frenchman could be such a scoundrel, as to place bets on the progress of the war, through subterfuge, through looting, through manipulation and going beyond the ordinary conduct of a soldiers’ duty. Frenchmen make money off war, don’t they? Or make war through money was’nt that what Richelieu did with the Swedes?”
The buccaneer had since folded his hand and called it a day with regards to the cards, and now gave the “living corpse” his full attention.

“So says you! I’m not French, I’m a Tyrolean mountain man, however I have followed the latest scientific developments of Paris with enthusiasm and I believe that more money could be made off the French, we would be milking the richest cows in all of Europe!”
“Why are we talking about cows?” Added the man with the straw like mane.

“Cows”, replied the living corpse “are easily frightened by an initial scare, all we have to do is make a loud bang and then we will make the robbery, but the fanciest cows, I mean the one’s that are most adored and looked after make the richest cream, the finest cheese and yogurt, I must admit!”

The Bucanner became enraged with his two conversationalists and slammed his right fist down on the table in the little courtyard.
“What in the name of God’s mercy are you talking about! I never mentioned steeling cattle! I don’t care about Bovine philosophy’s or the lives of French cows, I’m talking about a possible future war with France, and how much money we could possibly make both legally and illegally, both as officers and from the houses of the French leadership, should it all go well. Turkey is the bounty of the Habsburgs, whose fleshy layers and bones will be cut in time, but France is the fat and proud Cockerel waiting to be taken! In the meantime we can organise the transfer of certain persons to the Styrian Guards to be ready for an immediate engagement into Hungary!”

“All this talk of Turkey and Cockerel is making me Hungry” said a lone voice in the background of the shadowy mob of Mercenaries.
These men knew me, were familiar with my men and were even unperturbed by my presence and my knowledge of their unlawful acts, they even enquired as to whether or not I would like to help them, as a strongman in the operation.

It seemed to me as if these men had turned into brigands and wandered from one occupation in life to another, and as if soldiering were only a front to the dishonest and wicked nature that they harboured within them.

Fallow Souls by Robert Fullarton

Fallow Souls

by Robert Fullarton

Copyright Robert Fullarton

In the past they torched the land
Presently they feast upon the tree of knowledge
They feast until the fields are fallow
The lords of misrule shout
From their fallow souls
Not reaping, not singing, bare of love
Giving the little and the big
Their fill of sweets, for all that is in vain
The trees weeping into the limpid river
Poisoned, loveless, like a cold heart
Stilled, unmoved and ready
The days of feasting make way
For the days of famine.

A pure man killed
For the criminals
Leads the way
To say what is wrong
What is right
And is not alright
Atonement for men
Of this time, all time and times to come