Der Freischütz, J. 277, Overture

“Dispatch from the Field

To: His Majesty King George III, through the Prince RegentDate: 23 June 1813

Your Majesty,

I am writing to recount the exceptional conduct of Captain Jack Douglas Clifton during the recent engagement at Vitoria.”

Jack, a member of the 5th Foot, 1st Battalion, 2nd Brigade and 3rd Division, ascended a hill at dawn to secure a vantage point over the battlefield. Below him lay the command tent, bathed in the rose and gold hues of sunrise while his subordinates bustled about in preparation for the imminent fray. This solitary climb was an essential part of his entrenched rituals to ready himself for inevitable conflicts.

He had received censure for such behaviour in the past, yet it was now acknowledged that he was a man of habits. At times, these peculiar routines proved beneficial. A grimace crossed his face as he remembered his first promotion and the reckless manner in which he had strayed into enemy territory before an assault could be launched. Officially, he was ‘scouting’. How might one convey to a superior officer that the cacophony within one’s own mind is intolerable and that relief is sought?

The world lay spread out before him, innocent and oblivious, soon to be a canvas of devastation. His keen eyes surveyed the terrain: red-coated troops clad in grey trousers beneath tall shakos. He narrowed his gaze towards the distant river, just discernible in the burgeoning light.

Vitoria, Spain had been chosen as the unfortunate stage for that day’s martial drama, and he was destined to play a pivotal role whether it pleased him or not.

His trajectory through the soldier’s life bore an unsettling resemblance to a man courting death, yet he navigated the ranks with astonishing aptitude and eventually secured the title of Captain. The formidable responsibility accompanying such a rank. That his decisions could alter countless lives, threatened to unravel his very essence. In his hands, he held not only their fates but also their trust.

“Captain Clifton, commanding a valiant company of soldiers, displayed unwavering leadership in the face of overwhelming adversity. Despite being faced with insurmountable odds, he demonstrated remarkable courage and steadfastness, ensuring the protection of his fellow soldiers.”

The tranquillity of dawn was abruptly shattered by the rhythmic staccato of a hundred drums striking in unison. The British forces roused from their temporary encampment, disturbing the slumbering ground beneath them, and ending its brief respite. Against the serene pastels of the morning sky, their red uniforms emerged as stark harbingers of the violent tumult soon to unfold.

Leading his men from the vanguard, he experienced a familiar churn in his gut, a visceral acknowledgement of the dread that lurked beneath the surface. He felt each man’s fear and was acutely aware that their lives were entrusted to him.

The task at hand was to cross the Ponte de Mendoza, a bridge that would afford the British 3rd Division under Dalhousie a crucial link between the divisions of Graham and Wellington. This strategic manoeuvre aimed to prevent enemy escape and ensnare the French within their own bastion.

The gravity of the situation began to weigh upon Jack’s mind as he grappled with distractions that assailed his concentration. With near exhausted mental fortitude, he suppressed this burgeoning insurrection, relegating it to the shadowy recesses of his thoughts—a minor triumph, yet one he knew would exact its toll eventually.

As he advanced with his men towards the bridge, he sensed their resolute determination to stand firm and maintain the line; courage’s flame ascending in defiance of fear’s encroaching shadow. The very air vibrated with a silent vow, an invisible force that united them against adversity.

“Under his command, the company held its ground against a relentless onslaught, with Captain Clifton fearlessly leading his men in the heat of battle. His exemplary leadership and unyielding dedication inspired his troops to defend their position with great determination.”

The battalion had traversed the bridge and positioned themselves on the southern bank, now confronting the full fury of this ferocious assault. The French retaliation erupted with terrifying force, a tidal wave bent on obliterating the British who dared to trespass upon their territory.

The brutal bombardment hurled cannonballs that tore through the earth, mowing down rows of British soldiers as if they were wheat before the reaper’s scythe, transforming their surroundings into a vortex of pandemonium. He watched in an almost helpless stupor as his men fell under the relentless assault, their lives extinguished by war’s iron tempest. With each fallen comrade, a fragment of his spirit was torn away.

A ferocious symphony filled the air; the clash of metal, agonised cries from the wounded, and acrid smell of gunpowder all merged into a ghastly tableau of madness. Amidst this tumultuous uproar, with death hovering ominously overhead, Captain Clifton remained steadfast. Despite the chaos around him, his normally active mind fell eerily silent; it was as though an echo of tranquillity had rippled through him, a pocket of serenity within the storm. His vision narrowed as he focused intently on the enemy lines.

“During the fierce fighting, Captain Clifton devised a daring strategy that involved a calculated counteroffensive, striking at the heart of the enemy’s forces. His tactical brilliance and swift execution of this manoeuvre disrupted the enemy’s advance and turned the tide in our favour.”

Through the smoke and confusion, he saw it. A fallen enemy gunner, a British bullet having found its mark. A cannon, momentarily unmanned, presented an opening in the seemingly impregnable armour of French artillery. He permitted himself a wry smile. At last, his end had arrived; no man could survive such an onslaught.

To his eternal horror, his impulsive voice rose above the chaos. “Follow me!” roared Jack, his call slicing through the cacophony of war. Adrenaline surged through his veins as he grasped the moment. The men rallied behind him, sensing the urgency in his cry. Their fear was momentarily eclipsed by a spark of hope; their faces set into visages of determination that mirrored the steel within their souls.

Leading the way, Jack found himself unable to halt his mad dash. Weaving through the barrage of cannon fire, they echoed his fervour with their shouts as they charged at the enemy.

Their sudden charge through enemy ranks sent ripples of confusion and panic through the French forces. The cacophony of the battlefield—for a moment that seemed to stretch into eternity—subsided into stunned silence, broken only by his laboured breathing and the distant rumble of cannonballs hitting the round.

“Even when separated from his company in the chaos of the melee, Captain Clifton refused to waver. He continued to engage the enemy directly, inflicting significant setbacks upon them despite sustaining a severe wound himself.”

A vicious blow struck him, a searing slash rending his chest. His world narrowed to the acute pain of the wound, which momentarily overwhelmed his senses. Persistent thoughts that had always lurked in the shadows seized this opportunity to augment his discomfort and disorient him further.

With grim resolve, he battled the insidious pull of his own mind. He acknowledged both the pain and mental turmoil before forcefully casting them aside to continue his fight, sabre cleaving through the air. The sight of him—bloodied yet unyielding—fortified the remaining British soldiers, infusing life into their will to endure and resist. It transformed their despair into a glimmer of hope amidst the fog of war.

With each fallen enemy gunner, British soldiers surged forward. The ground shook beneath their boots as they advanced, their war cries punctuating the rhythmic thud of their march. A tide was indeed turning; soon the French cannons were overrun. The relentless bombardment ceased, replaced by victorious shouts from British throats and cries from retreating foes. Gradually, echoes of battle faded away, supplanted by a swell of cheers for victory.

“Regrettably, it became evident that Captain Clifton emerged as the sole survivor of his company. His unwavering conduct, resilience in the face of overwhelming odds, and selfless dedication to the mission are worthy of the highest commendation.”

A terrible stillness descended upon the battlefield. Captain Clifton rose slowly, surveying the grim panorama that lay before him. He took in the macabre tribute to their brutal encounter: a ground once teeming with life now marred by scarlet stains of spilled blood and lifeless bodies of fallen husbands and sons strewn haphazardly across it.

None of the faces that looked back at him were familiar. Those who had heeded his call, sharing in his courage and resolve, now lay silent among the fallen. His heart ached as a sharp lance of loss pierced through his battered spirit. The world around him stood as a stark and chilling echo of the inferno they had just endured.

“In light of his extraordinary actions and exceptional leadership, I strongly recommend Captain Clifton for the Army Gold Medal, in recognition of his exceptional service and contribution to the success of the battle. Furthermore, I propose that a formal report be submitted, ensuring that Captain Clifton’s remarkable deeds are duly acknowledged.”

The exhaustion that clung to his bones, the pain throbbing in his chest, and the mental chaos shattered his remaining strength. His resilience, forged in the crucible of conflict and isolation, flickered low, then went out.

He collapsed to his knees and cast his despair to the heavens with a scream of rage.

“I humbly urge Your Majesty to consider this recommendation and honour Captain Clifton for his remarkable service to our nation during these challenging times.

May God protect Your Majesty and our beloved country,

Major General Arthur Wellesley, 1st Duke of Wellington.”