A Soldier's Life
© Mark Turnbull
Fighting in a regiment during the English Civil War
It was the beginning of 1643 when the drum beat loud in our village, raising men to fight for the King. I was a tenant of a Lord, and he supported the King. That meant I got ordered to serve His Majesty. I march now for Oxford, angry and worried. Never have I left the environs of my village and now I find myself so far away from my family and livelihood.
In the scorching heat, I am clad in a plain white shirt, covered by a thick coat. I wear breeches to my knees, with wool stockings below that, to my shoes. I have no sword, I had no money to buy one and I was not given the full quota of armour. I only have a battered back and breast plate, thirty-years-old, and a helmet. If this isn't enough, I carry a sixteen foot ash wood pole in my gloved hands, with an iron spike on the top. This clumsy weapon, a pike, knocks me off balance when I march, as though I am drunk.
That reminds me of food, my rations are bad. I have not eaten since yesterday dinner, when we lost a skirmish. Now were organised again, I expect my daily rations of 2 pounds of bread, one pound of meat and 2 bottles of beer. I had the choice between meat and cheese, but meat is more filling.
We marched nine or ten miles the other day which is good going, but tiring. It was broken by punishment, for my mate had stolen some more bread from the cart. He had to face the wooden horse, two boards nailed together at right angles, forming a pointed ridge. He was made to sit on this point with his arms bound and three muskets over his shoulders. Yesterday when we faced the enemy, my heart pumped like mad as we stood waiting for the order to engage them. This could be my last battle; I could be killed or worse, wounded. The treatment I see is terrible. If I am stabbed through to the bone, then the surgeon will think nothing of moving the weapon up and down to free it. If it will not budge, then he cuts away my bone before he frees it.
Even if I survive the fighting which we have lost, I have a greater chance of being killed in the retreat. For the entire victorious enemy chase us and slash mercilessly. The more we run and panic, the worse the casualties. If we win, then we face rewards of spoil from the enemy baggage. I may find packs of biscuits and if I'm lucky, some new shoes to replace my holed ones. Of course, there may be some valuables.
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