Guest Post: The Battle of Hastings

(Published: 2019/06/23)

Written by a fwend of mine who wished to remain anonymous..

September 3, 1066

We have been camping around the Isle of Wight for nearly a month now. The commander has tried to silence the rumour of us soon being disassembled due to a shortage of food. Yet it was evident that food was running short. Weeks ago, when we had first arrived, each of us soldiers had a piece of bread and two pieces of dried, salted beef for dinner. Occasionally, we even had a fraction of fresh fish. Now, the only food that was available was a small piece of stale bread, and secretly, I suspected that it was getting smaller each day. September, I sighed, the most important time of the year. I thought of my family, forced to harvest almost fifty acres of crops without me. Poor Cadby, I thought. I forced my mind to settle and not wander further off into the distance. No need to feel sorry for other people, I smiled bitterly at nothing in particular. I have survived another day. As I was drifting into the blessed land of sleep, I felt a single tear trickle down my cheek, so I turned my face towards the starry night sky.

September 25, 1066

Everyone was cheering when the Hardrada was killed, and his armies, along with the will to win the war dissipated. For the first time in a month, we had something that was pleasant to eat for dinner. Our league even got to share a little cup of wine. I wondered if anyone was secretly mourning the death of the few soldiers that were killed: all of us who survived were given the title of conquerers, but the dead? They were forgotten. Their death was overshadowed by our victory and forgotten. I took a few seconds to recall the already blurred faces of the few soldiers that became the casualties of war, and downed the cup of wine, hoping that it would somehow drown my sorrows. I have survived another day. But I couldn’t stop myself from reminding myself that my fate will not be much different from those who died today.

“My lord! The Normans! They have landed!” Although faint as a whisper, it was enough to drown out all the hopes I had from defeating Hardrada earlier today and refill me with a sinister sense of uneasiness. I will survive, I tried to tell myself. We will defeat that William just like how we destroyed Hardrada. A week later, we will be sitting here, celebrating our victory again with wine and laughter. A year later, I will be returning to my beloved wife and son. I am going to survive this.

Dawn, October 14, 1066

The uneasiness was suffocating me as we approached Hastings. The uneasiness grew when the silhouette of a hill came into view. Suddenly feeling extremely vulnerable, I hastened my pace. Urgent orders were given. My heart sank when I heard the word “shield wall”. A shield wall was the most defensive position an army can make: literally held by soldiers standing close together. Although extremely impervious, it was often considered as a last resort, for it left little room for manoeuvre, and the soldiers often suffered greatly.

It was going to be a bloodbath. I could almost see the enemy rushing down the hilltop furiously, with their well-armoured horses and the intimidating-looking two-way axes that have taken the lives of countless soldiers. Judging by the desperation of the order, the enemy must have already arrived. I suddenly found myself cherishing the feeling of a gentle breeze brushing past; the rapid thumping of my heart; air rushing through my nostrils; my cramped feet in the rigid boots. The metal of the spear was slightly warmed because I have been holding it so firmly. The feeling of being alive. I gripped my spear even tighter. With effort, I stopped myself from generating the image of Cadby in my mind.

It had become much easier with each passing battle, but this time I couldn’t help myself from staring lingeringly at the brilliant rising sun.

Morning, October 14, 1066

Despite the supposedly encouraging shouts of the commander, I knew that we were losing. It was like one of the sports games I played as a child: the subliminal knowledge that winning would be extremely difficult. I was no gullible man. The arrows of the Normans were raining down at us, barely missing us by about fifty metres. Judging by the speed of the arrows, the Normans were totally capable of shooting a lot further. Our archers were shooting upwards, and the arrows fell short a few hundred metres, having little effect. In a few seconds, the rain of arrows would be raining down at the shield wall.

After a gruelling minute, I was still alive. The Normans had run out of arrows. Yet, I knew this was just the beginning. Dragging the wounded and the dead aside, we reformed the shield wall. Wiping away the blood on my face, where it was scratched by an arrow, I obeyed the order of staying in the shield wall formation, knowing that whatever the cost, the shield wall must be maintained. Our only hope in surviving this was the shield wall. If the shield wall was destroyed, I, along with thousands of other soldiers will all be doomed.

After what seemed like hours later, I was surprised that I was still alive. The normans rushed at us with their finest horses with the best armour. The situation became so dire I thought everything was going to end when a fleet of Normans suddenly drew back. At the sudden ray of hope helped me to my feet, and I quickly finished off the Norman that was tearing at me with his axe. He fell off with a thud, his blood staining my armour. Impatiently kicking his body aside, I caught what the fleeing Normans were shouting to each other: “The duke has been killed!” Suddenly, all the Normans drew back in panic. Knowing better than to pursue the fleeing Normans and break the shield wall formation, I suppressed my excitement and relief and held my guard. Yet some of our soldiers disobeyed the orders and rushed after the fleeing Normans. They are probably going to get themselves killed, I thought pityingly. I didn’t even have the time to fully take in the fact that victory might be ours when in the distance, the Normans seem to be coming back.

It wasn’t going to end that easily.

Afternoon, October 14, 1066

I wouldn’t be surprised if a spear went through my body at any second, or an axe suddenly fell onto my head and destroyed my world. At this point, everyone was numbly stabbing and tearing at any animating thing. A spear flew past me, and I didn’t even know who thrust out the spear, the Normans or one of our people. I threw my own spear forward, someone fell dead, yet I had no way of knowing whether I have killed the enemy or one of my dearest friends. The hill was littered with hundreds, if not thousands of bodies, and the blood of thousands of soldiers had soaked into the soil. It was almost impossible not to be stepping over the bodies. Hastily dodging a spear thrust at me at a particularly dangerous angle, I slipped and fell. My left hand sank into a slightly warm pool of softness. I didn’t have the chance to consider what my hand was covered with, and I didn’t want to know either. Amid all the chaos, all human emotion had been stripped away: my spear sank into countless bodies, but the only thing I felt was numbness; spears were thrust at me, and my body mechanically dodged them. I stopped feeling anything at all; my face was smeared with blood, my hands were slick with blood, but I could scarcely feel any pain. I knew I was going to die on that very day.

Dusk, October 14, 1066

A spear sank into me, and I gladly fell. It felt almost welcoming, the soft earth beneath me, holding me up. And up. I was finally relieved of my duties, and I willingly took the hand of death. I saw my wife and children, smiling at me as if they understood. With a smile on my charred lips, I was gone.

Featured image credit: Annamachtart