The Glorious Cause - Jeff Shaara [195]
“The enemy is defeated! He has retired from the field! He could not stand up to your discipline!”
He realized he was exhausted, felt his breathing, sweat in his clothes, saw now embarrassment on the faces of his aides. Across the field, he heard the sound of cheering, saw that he had an audience, a thin line of men ringing the field. Now the cheering was close by, the men in his formation joining in, some bending over with laughter, men dropping to their knees. He looked down for a moment, thought, Yes, a comical sight, certainly. The only man on this field who knows what a soldier must do. He handed the musket to Walker, moved to the horse, North holding the reins. He climbed up, the laughter now growing quiet.
“This amuses you, gentlemen. Enjoy your moment of levity. But you will perform this drill a hundred times . . . a thousand times. When you leave this field, you will perform it in your dreams, you will march these steps in your mind while you eat, while you perform your toilet. When I release you from this field, you will return to your regiments, and you will perform this for your men, you will be the teacher. If you do not think of this as important, then you will not survive against your enemy. I assure you, General Howe’s soldiers have performed this exact drill, they can perform it in the darkest night, in a driving rain, and they can perform it perfectly as they die from your musket fire.” He paused, looked out over the faces, saw all eyes watching him. “Without drill, an army is nothing more than a mob. Without drill, a soldier is a musket with one ball. When that ball is discharged, there is nothing remaining. That is when you die by the bayonet. Have any of you ever participated in fisticuffs?”
There were low laughs, and several hands were raised.
“Yes, well, this very method of drill will assure your victory in a one-man war as well. Two men, shouting angrily at each other, then the blows come, a rapid uncontrolled flailing of arms and fists. Is that familiar?”
There were nods, small comments, mostly agreement.
“I would offer you an advantage. If you ever find yourself in the unfortunate circumstance of such combat, remember this drill. Why? When your opponent begins his wild assault, you take one step back, you wait for the moment, you might even endure his blows, the ridiculous meaningless pummeling, but you are skilled, you are disciplined, you will wait. You focus on your target, and you make one solid punch, you launch your disciplined assault right at his vulnerable point. With one sharp precise blow, you will defeat him. It is no different than facing a thousand men. It is the difference between a mob and an army. Discipline, patience, the carefully aimed maneuver, the perfectly placed blow. I assure you. General Howe knows this. King Frederick the Great knows this. Now . . . you know it. It is my duty to prevent you from forgetting it.”
HE GAVE THE HUNDRED MEN THE TITLE OF INSPECTORS, AND WITHIN days, the continuous drill had shaped them into the teachers he required them to be. It was not always smooth, and he was not always as controlled with his temper as he hoped to be, but even his fury was endearing. More, the inspectors were impressed by von Steuben’s willingness to embarrass himself, the prestigious officer who would soil his boots, shoulder a musket, kneel and crawl and march in their lines. As the first inspectors gained their skill, others began to line up, volunteering to become his next company of students, and thus, teachers themselves.
Though his focus remained tightly on the men close at hand, he could not avoid being distracted by the one blue-coated horseman who would appear occasionally among his audience. Washington did not come often, but come he did, and von Steuben would snap his men into line, the volume of his words just a bit louder, a discreet glance toward the big man on the white horse who would observe only awhile, then move away to other duties. After so many days von Steuben had come