nearby for protection from the hailstorm of bullets that pass by me. A man called to me. "Do you hold ammunition, friend?"
I shook my head, and the man's once hopeful face become dreary. I peeked round the corner to see the brigade officer and two other men being surrounded by five Frenchmen with bayonets. I looked at the man across from me, who seemed to pray. I gained my courage, and rounded the corner. Bullets flew by me. I felt as if I were a bee in a thunderstorm. I picked up a French arming sword off of a bleeding Frenchman, who reached towards me with anger. Everything seemed to move in slow motion. I felt my heart pounding as my feet pounded, my breathing heavy. I felt sweat dripping down my temple and running down to my chin. I ran forth, in front of the brigade officer, and gave a powerful slash into the neck of the man in front of him. The reactions on the soldiers faces were of disbelief. I turned to look at the brigade officer, who looked back at me with thanks.
"Connard!" was called by a Frenchman, who thrust his bayonet forth, stabbing me in the lower back. I screamed in agony, slashing at the coward with my sword. I continued to slash and thrust madly, until my blade hit home, in the side of the coward's gut. The man fell to his knees and onto his side, screaming through it all. I turned to see one of the remaining two men, for one, who had killed one of the three men I came to rescue, had been cut down by the brigade officer. These men were followed by the rest of the French attackers, as they retreated back to their lines.
"Klaus, are you mad?" called the brigade officer, chuckling as he did so.
I sighed in return, dropped the sword and falling to my knees. I felt a sharp pain in my back as I fell. The man accompanying the brigade officer hoisted me to his shoulders, and carried me back to the farmhouse.
"Does anyone hold ammunition?" bellowed our brigade officer.
The reply from the men was all the same. Not a single round of ammunition was left. We hadn't a choice but to leave the farmhouse and to return to our lines. As we retreat, I being supported on the shoulder of my comrade, we passed the British man who had fallen out of the tower. He was dead now, yet I did see what I hoped to be joy in his eyes, for his last moments must have been the French falling back.
The French captured La Haye Sainte that day, yet our great army fought them off and defeated Napoleon once and for all. I had gained the ability to return home, and that I did so proudly. I moved into a small house in a neighboring village from the one I had lived in, for the cowardly French had burnt mine down. I was known there for the great actions of bravery I had committed during the eighteenth of December. I was called nothing but my name, for my name was the people's fire.