In the eyes of an engineer, Tortosa was an unusual city indeed. It had long been a strategically important spot, a military boundary, which meant there were a great many different fortification styles superimposed, from the Arabic rampart all the way to the very modern bastions. It sat on either side of the River Ebro, not far from where it met the sea — hence its strategic importance. In fact, the city was on the west bank, and a bastion stood protecting the east side. As a whole, it was thoroughly fortified. The Austrians had had their best engineers working on the defenses, preparing for a siege they rightly judged inevitable after Almansa. Most of the walls were modern, coming down at a sharp angle. Churches stood at the ends of certain parts of the cities, and then engineers had no qualms about turning these into makeshift bastions.
It made sense that Orléans would come up against such well-prepared defenses. Whoever controlled Tortosa would have the most important river route in Catalonia, and with it all routes south.
We struck the trench on July 20. As I explained in the opening chapters, “striking the trench” was the founding act for attacking any stronghold. Once your point of attack has been chosen, there’s no going back. Total defeat for the besieged, or disgrace for the attacking army.
I heard only on the nineteenth that the order had been given. “And the geological report?” I asked the Forgotten.
“Report? What report might that be, dear aide?”
Troops had been posted in the area where the trench was to begin, but no engineer had reconnoitered it. Really, the whole engineers’ brigade was full of dimwits, and most of them hardly knew what I meant. At first I thought they must be joking.
“We are going to strike the trench without doing a geological survey?” I asked.
“My, you’re meticulous!”
The grand event would happen, I was informed, the next day at eight in the evening. I put my hands to my head and straightaway went to entreat Monsieur Forgotten to hold off. “Sir, I have been told we are to strike the trench tomorrow.”
As ever, he was sitting in his tent, trying on a yellow wig in the mirror. He answered without looking at me. “Your information is correct. Which will give us the whole night ahead to dig under cover of darkness.”
“It’s not advisable, sir.”
“Oh?”
“It’s June, sir. It’s still light at eight in the evening.”
“You, sir, are a pessimist, not to mention a panicmonger.”
What Monsieur Forgotten did not mention was that he was oblivious, not to mention a wanton killer! I’ll explain why.
Striking a trench is always a highly delicate operation. Thousands of soldiers are gathered together, converted into peons, and made to line up at certain predetermined points under the cover of dark: rows of stakes joined together by a trail of lime on the ground. (I’ve participated in setting up the stakes at times, scrabbling along on your knees and in fear of your life.) The closer to the stronghold the trench can begin, the fewer days will be needed for digging. Counter to this, the closer to the ramparts it begins, the more likely it will be noticed. At this point the troops still cannot take refuge beneath ground — it was quite usual for the trench to begin within range of the defenders’ cannons — since the digging has only just begun.
Each of the men would have a pick or shovel, and thousands of the fajina wicker baskets would already have been lined up. The signal would be given and, as quietly as possible, digging begun all along the line. Each man would work behind the fajina, which the first shovelfuls would fill up, creating the first parapet in a matter of minutes, however precarious the situation.
Only a very disciplined troop, or one working at a very safe distance, would be able to move about undetected and at absolutely no risk. Predictably enough, the enemy sentries saw us, heard us, or, I’d say, possibly smelled us, given Monsieur Forgotten’s pungent patchouli. And what was bound to happen, happened.
Twilight in the west of Catalonia has an intensity and forcefulness all its own; the throes of the day come erupting into the sky in oceanic blues and reddish ambers. As cannon fire commenced, a strip of maroon lit up the horizon.
There were fifty or so Allied cannons at Tortosa, of all calibers, and they began to pound our positions immediately: 2,200 excavators turned to 2,100, and in no time at all, 2,000. A chronicle I read subsequently referred to that night of horrors with the following lovely phrase: “The cannonade that night was a delight to hear.” Those historians might save “delight” for describing royal weddings, I say!
It couldn’t have gone any worse. Everything that Vauban foretold, all the possible things that can go wrong in a siege, came about. Another example: As a rule, commanders in the artillery tend to love blowing things up. At the first chance, with a childlike joy, they will commence firing. As happened in Tortosa. The first parallel had not even been dug, and our chief of artillery was already there, ordering fifteen cannons and six mortars be installed — at positions we had not even touched with pick or shovel. The problem being that the first parallel is at such a distance, nearly a mile from the ramparts, that cannonfire won’t land anywhere near. If the guns are accurate enough to land any shots on a rampart or bastion, that is. A great many hundredweights of gunpowder and ammunition for nothing. I objected; Monsieur Forgotten didn’t even hear. What did it matter to him? The artillery chief was one of his revelers par excellence, and in any case, neither of them would have to cough up for the powder.
The trench a little way advanced, we ran into some monumental rocks under the surface. It was almost as though some had been placed there by the enemy expressly to obstruct the trench. For the largest ones, we had to resort to explosives. But the blasting would also take out a large section of the trench, including the fajina parapets protecting us from enemy fire, which would then have to be reformed. And to think my superiors had laughed off a geological survey!
It was also in Tortosa that I had confirmation of another of Vauban’s teachings, one he’d told me about in person: Sappers are heavy drinkers; they become drunk before going and getting themselves killed. The front end of the trench moves forward by dint of the work of a small crew — eight or, at most, ten men. However grandiose the overall works, that is the most that can fit into the confines of a trench. The enemy knows this very well and concentrates fire on just that point.
Sappers suffer a disproportionately high number of casualties and deaths. However well they are paid, and though the crews are relieved every three or four hours, the tension will end up destroying their nerves. In order to bear it, they drink, and drink, then they drink some more.
For a young engineer such as myself, Tortosa brought home the gap between lessons and reality. Take the Mantelletta, for instance. If you look at any images of a siege, beside a sapper there will always be a barrow, a contraption with two wheels and a panel of wood. The sapper farthest forward uses this as a shield. Fine, well, you can forget about that — I can assure you the nitwit who drew those pictures has never been present at a siege in all his life. I can remember only one siege where a Mantelletta was used, and that was because some recently graduated dunderhead forced the sappers to take it. Sapper crews hated the Mantelletta — why? Because they enrage the enemy, who sees the head of the dragon and proceeds to rain down upon it all the fire they can.