man from such a distance. A song began to be sung amongst my brigade, a song of our home back in Austria. This song was once our anthem. This brought back hope.
After minute after dreaded minute passed while we waited for the French to attack again, I turned to the small grove of trees just in front of the entrance to the farm house. A large cavalry right raged nearby us, bringing fear to a lot of the men. Yet another attack came by the French. I loaded my rifle, and fired towards the French. I watched as a man fell, as if he were a doll, onto his face before my bullet. I grinned at this, and ducked once more beneath the wall to reload my rifle. I felt bullets pounding into the wall as I reloaded. I turned to aim once more, and fired, yet missed. Another three misses followed after until the French left.
More shouts of glory came from our side.
Hours later, a massive French assault, led by Marshal Ney himself, led a charge of infantry. A massive amount compared to the small garrison we had. Our guns on the walls fired madly, yet sharpshooters picked them off before they could do much damage. I watched as a man bravely ran to one of the guns, yet was nearly blown to pieces from the hail of sharpshooters watching the guns diligently. I grimaced at this gore. Artillery began to pound into the farmhouse, one of the turrets on the opposite side of me collapsed. I watched a British man fall to the ground and land with a broken leg, unable to support his army any more. I turned, firing into the fray. I shot and killed two men, to my count, before I ran out of ammunition. I looked frantically round for a sapper, or in general a man who carried ammunition, yet none were near. None even in the farmhouse, to my knowledge. I called out to the brigade officer, "Sir, my bullets have left me as God may have left us!"
A foul look shot my way from the officer. "End this distasteful speech at once, and find yourself in front of the farmhouse!
I became frightful at this, and began to jog down to the front door. I saw men lying round the farmhouse. Many of these men were not dead, yet were soon to be from blood loss. I looked out the great wooden doors as the veteran soldier I had seen was overcome by three French soldiers and stabbed nine times in the stomach by bayonet. My stomach rolled at this, and I slammed into a wall nearby for protection from the hailstorm of bullets that pass by me. A man called to me. "Do you hold ammunition, friend?"