"Commander sir!" Carl halted his ragtag unit and turned to see General Donner. Carl, an man of 56 who spotted a salt-and-pepper beard, saluted.
"General sir! It appears we missed the battle!" Donner smiled grimly. Carl saw he sabre, still in his hand, was bloody.
"What should we do then, sir? Disperse, and return home to help with the harvest?" Donner shook his head.
"No, Commander, I want you and your men to put the wounded out of their misery." Carl nodded gravely, then started his men towards the field where the shoot-out took place.
The night was coming on by the time they reached the end of the field. There was an eerie stillness, except for the occasional burst of musketry or shout as a Swiss regiment found some retreating Frenchmen. Carl and his men picked their way, first encountering a ruined artillery battery. The horses, mercifully, were dead. Same with the calvary that lay near them. But now, they reached what was the French line.
Men, some wounded, some alive, lay in straight rows as they fell. They screamed for mercy as Carl's men approached, but recieved only a cold look and a shot to the head. Some were quite alive, just with flesh wounds. It did not matter to the Citizens of Stuttgart- all were killed. Finally, reaching the other end of the battlefield, Carl and his men scaled Rochamp Hill, and looked down at the carnage.
Swiss stretcher bearers still carried away Swiss wounded, but on the French side, no one moved. Bodies were everywhere- one was in a wagon that was abandoned, still in the attitude of reloading. The Guards charge had left dense formations of corpses on the small field seperating the two main bodies. They still had grim looks of determination on their faces.
Carl, not a sentimental man, heard his soldiers being to snuffle. He even felt a tear coming on. What came next from his mouth was immortilized forever in the Swiss play Stuttgart.
"My heart saddens to see this sight. So many young men, who were brought here by the strings of honor, duty, and adventure are now lying dead on the field. They all had mothers, sweethearts, wives, some even children. They served there nations without question, and died for their causes. Old philosophers and Roman's said that this was the most glorious of deaths. I disagree, and say they can boil their heads. The most glorious of deaths is to be in bed at a good old age, surrounded by your family, knowing you have accomplished all you could. These boys, however, these boys could have accomplished much more in life. I commend their souls to heaven, and pray that, in time, all the world shall now peace, and no one shall ever again see what I see today."