„A mortar?” Brigadier General Vuillard was astonished at the Lieutenant’s self-confidence. „You are telling me what I want?”
„What you want,” Pelletieu said confidently, „is a mortar. It’s a question of elevation, sir.”
„It is a question, Lieutenant”-Vuillard put a deal of stress on Pelletieu’s lowly rank-”of pouring death, shit, horror and damnation on those impudent bastards on that goddamned hilltop.” He pointed to the watchtower. He was standing at the edge of the wood where he had invited Lieutenant Pelletieu to unlimber his howitzer and start slaughtering. „Don’t talk to me of elevation! Talk to me of killing.”
„Killing is our business, sir,” the Lieutenant said, quite unmoved by the Brigadier’s anger, „but I do have to get closer to the impudent bastards.” He was a very young man, so young that Vuillard wondered whether Pelletieu had even begun to shave. He was also thin as a whip, so thin that his white breeches, white waistcoat and dark-blue cutaway coat hung on him like discarded garments draped on a scarecrow. A long skinny neck jutted from the stiff blue collar, and his long nose supported a pair of thick-lensed spectacles that gave him the unfortunate appearance of a half-starved fish, but he was a remarkablv self-possessed fish who now turned to his sergeant. „Two pounds at twelve degrees, don’t you think? But only if we can get to within three hundred and fifty toise?”
„Toise?” The Brigadier knew gunners used the old unit of measurement, but it meant nothing to him. „Why the hell don’t you speak French, man?”
„Three hundred and fifty toise? Call that … „ Pelletieu paused and frowned as he did the mathematics.
„Six hundred and eighty meters,” his Sergeant, as thin, pale and young as Pelletieu, broke in.
„Six hundred and eighty-two,” Pelletieu said cheerfully.
„Three fifty toise?” the Sergeant mused aloud. „Two-pound charge? Twelve degrees? I think that will serve, sir.”
„Only just though,” Pelletieu said, then turned back to the Brigadier. „The target’s high, sir,” he explained.
„I know it’s high,” Vuillard said in a dangerous tone, „it is what we call a hill.”
„And everyone believes howitzers can work miracles on elevated targets,” Pelletieu went on, disregarding Vuillard’s sarcasm, „but they’re not really designed to be angled at much more than twelve degrees from the horizontal. Now a mortar, of course, can achieve a much higher angle, but I suspect the nearest mortar is at Oporto.”
„I just want the bastards dead!” Vuillard growled, then turned back as a memory occurred to him. „And why not a three-pound charge? The gunners were using three-pound charges at Austerlitz.” He was tempted to add „before you were born,” but restrained himself.
„Three pounds!” Pelletieu audibly sucked in his breath while his sergeant rolled his eyes at the Brigadier’s display of ignorance. „She’s a Nantes barrel, sir,” Pelletieu added in gnomic explanation as he patted the howitzer. „She was made in the dark ages, sir, before the revolution, and she was horribly cast. Her partner blew up three weeks ago, sir, and killed two of the crew. There was an air bubble in the metal, just horrible casting. She’s not safe beyond two pounds, sir, just not safe.”
Howitzers were usually deployed in pairs, but the explosion three weeks before had left Pelletieu’s the sole howitzer in his battery. It was a strange-looking weapon that resembled a toy gun incongruously perched on a full-scale carriage. The barrel, just twenty-eight inches long, was mounted between wheels that were the height of a man, but the small weapon was capable of doing what other field guns could not achieve: it could fire in a high arc. Field guns were rarely elevated more than a degree or two and their round shot flew in a flat trajectory, but the howitzer tossed its shells up high so that they plunged down onto the enemy. The guns were designed to fire over defensive walls, or above the heads of friendly infantry, and because a lobbed missile came to a swift stop when it landed, the howitzers did not fire solid round shot. An ordinary field gun, firing solid shot, could depend on the missile to bounce and keep on bouncing, and even after the fourth or fifth graze, as the gunners called each bounce, the round shot could still maim or kill, but a round shot tossed into the air was likely to bury itself in the turf and do no subsequent damage. So the howitzers fired shells that were fused to explode when the missile landed.