RES DIG, HERR LÖJTNANT!

RES DIG, HERR LÖJTNANT!

I.

'Twas the seventh of September in 1631,
'twere the lowlands of old Saxony,
and on the Gallows Hill of Leipzig stood the Count of Tilly,
on his dapple-gray Croatian pony,
with his great cannons, the Twelve Apostles,
watching the great fight on the plains below,
near the estate of Breitenfeld,
and firing the cannons at the clashing hosts.

And the fight was contested for both Leaguer and Swede,
and the bluish gunsmoke veiled the lowlands.
Once more clashed against the tercios the Blue Brigade,
once, twice, thrice, into the long and sharp pikes.
And cobalt blue flags with the golden cross
fluttered on, worn and torn.
Gott mit uns!
Jesus and Mary!
Thus, as gun after gun was fired,
ran the officers' commands.

Still, old Jean 't Serclaës stood on the hill
with the twelve guns and their gunners,
and what he beheld was no good at all.
For seven times the Pappenheimians had struck,
as passionately as they could,
for seven times they had retreated,
overcome by Swedish heretics,
and Count Pappenheim himself lay unconscious on the fields.
And thus, taking the rosary out of his breastplate,
he prayed three Hail Marys in a row (in Latin),
crossed himself,
and galloped off into the fray.

At the same time, that very fray
closed in on Gallows Hill itself,
and up to the cannon-crowned height
galloped the boldest of the Swedes,
led by Gustavus Adolphus himself
in a sooty yellow doublet
with no breastplate at all.
And he led the whole right wing of his ranks,
the one which just had knocked Pappenheim out.

The youngest and prettiest of those bold warriors
was the ensign who carried the flag,
that blue flag that fluttered above their heads.
He was young, very young, nearly a boy,
around sixteen or seventeen,
and he was tall and slender,
with a shade of fair hair on his upper lip,
eyes green as linden leaves,
and locks like brandy or rosemary honey,
cropped short below his officer's hat.
An armour inlaid with flowers
shielded his vitals, and he wore
a doublet as cobalt blue as the flag.

For weeks, the ensign had followed the king
and carried the flag of Sweden,
always hoping to receive approval
and to be named a lieutenant.
Every young person has got similar dreams
and follows them with the same passion.
Thus, he was riding with the rest of his unit
uphill, now that Tilly was gone,
to fulfil the Swedish strategy.

In less time than it took to say "Gott mit uns!",
the daring Swedes reached the height
to capture the cannons of the League.
Yet there were Croats guarding the Twelve Apostles,
with loaded guns and long sharp pikes,
and once more shots rang and rattled on the slope.

The ensign suddenly felt like a flame
entering his right shoulder,
after which he grew pale and his flag arm hung limp.
So he tried to raise his right arm, but in vain,
as a rose of blood, crimson on cobalt, bloomed
on his shoulder, where he had been shot.

Yet the ensign was clever.
So he took the flag in his left hand
and tied it, with a knot, to the gunshot wound.
Now he was so pale that his veins could be seen,
and had started to grow weary,
yet he kept on riding after all.

When the Swedes had captured the hill,
they turned the twelve great cannons against their owner.
That was the strategy Gustavus was after!
And the cannons were fired at fleeing, disbanded tercios,
as the Swedes on the lowlands tried to capture Tilly:
the old commander was saved, yet so close to dying...

And, on the height, the King and his men cheered,
as the ensign, shot with a red wound,
shut his bright eyes and fell off his steed.

II.

'Twas the day after the great victory,
the eighth of September of 1631,
and the church-bells in the towers of Leipzig
were merrily pealing for the Swedes.
There were revels throughout the Saxon lands,
and the ringing of bells could be heard as far as Naumburg.

Yet, at the estate of Breitenfeld,
where all the Swedish wounded had been laid to rest,
there was one for whom life and death still struggled
even fiercer than Gustavus and Tilly.
For he was young and healthy, and thus, strong,
yet the shot which the surgeon had drawn out
had laced, with a lethal poison, his veins.
And there lay the ensign we have learned to know before,
as pale as the shirt he wore,
tossing feverishly on his bed.
Shallow was his breathing, throbbing was his heart,
restless were his eyes, bright as flames.
Yet a deeper flame seared his half-living form,
his thoughts clouded, half-conscious as he was.

That gunshot hurt still, more than just before,
yet the pain was soon eased and he sank back
into a state of soft reverie...
for the surgeon had given the thirsty ensign
a draught of schnapps, every now and then,
to quench his thirst and free him from suffering.
Thus, twofold was his poisoning: by gunfire and by liquor,
and deeper was the reverie and thicker were the clouds
that completely obscured his reason.
Every now and then, he spoke, like he'd fought before,
a "Gott mit uns!", ringing and clear,
curses on Leaguers, and he'd sink exhausted
on his soft pillow once again.
The spark of life in his bosom was fading,
as the blood-poison closed in on his heart.

Thus came his liege lord, for this lad enquiring,
who'd tied the flag of Sweden 'round his wounds,
and, looking at the darling young officer,
Gustavus now drew steel and reached out his sword:
"Arise, Lieutenant!", cheerfully.
A blade of light now cleared his clouded thoughts,
and the officer rose at that rousing call,
yet, suddenly, sank back on the pillow,
as he ceased to breathe.
The flower had withered, the flame had been quenched in the storm.

There he lay, smiling, eyes still shut,
and soft pale hands like fading lilies,
as if he were sweetly dreaming.
That heart which had throbbed for love and for hope
was now silent and cold for evermore.
His life had been short, yet reached the best end.
Now all to do was bid farewell.

They earthed the lieutenant fair and pale
in the gardens of Breitenfeld,
his fellow officers,
and another one took his place,
his bride, lovely as a summer day,
and the flag with the crimson rose,
that Wallenstein at Lützen seized
the next year, so they say.