Medieval Battles

  Pictures on this page from Graham Turner http://www.studio88.co.uk/

The battles of The Wars of The Roses saw the end of the chivalric ideal of the knightly and noble classes. Political (and local enemies) were now done to death on the field or executed as quickly as possible, soon after, no quarter given or asked by friend or foe alike - no ransom here either. Fighting on the Wars of The Roses battlefield is vicious, incredibly fast, hot as hell, horrifying, numbing to the senses and utterly shocking - sights, smells and sounds remain with you, locked in your mind, ready at any time, to trigger terrible nightmares or vivid flash backs for the rest of your life. For those who have never had the undoubted pleasure of fighting other men and no or little experience of using weapons, the minutes before going forward can be unnerving; self doubt, terror, hatred, resignation, confusion and sheer excitement can all fill the mind.  

You think there is still hope? The only hope you have is to accept that you are already dead. And the sooner you accept that the sooner you  will be able to function as a soldier IS supposed to function; without compassion, without remorse. All war depends on it'.

  Sobering words of stark reality, spoken, not by a medieval soldier, but by an American paratroop officer in 1944 - words that are harsh but sadly true.    

And now, when the archers have launched their fierce volleys and the artillery is lobbing shot after shot overhead, then the foot will move forward to come to 'hand strokes' with the enemy, as the chroniclers quaintly call bloody hand-to-hand combat.   In the melee it is hard enough just keeping on your feet in the heavy push and shove, let alone see anything that is aimed at you through the narrow vision slits of your sallet, so the massive, full bodied blow to your head with a war hammer is never even sensed let alone seen.  You don't even feel the blow as the 'parrots beak' penetrates the steel shell of your helmet. In a split second you lose consciousness and slump straight to the churned up mud and snow covering the ground, the weapon has punched into your skull, the bone whilst fracturing, compressing onto the brain.  The splintering bone combined with the compression causes a massive brain haemorrage which floods the wound with copious amounts of blood, spilling out of your shattered skull into the wreck of your helmet.

The frozen snowy ground has become churned up and stained with blood and gore, it is slippery and the stink of fresh blood and guts is almost overwhelming, the sleet is turning to snow and you sense it is getting dark. Some yards away you spot a fully harnessed knight struggling to get to his feet but his legs are trapped by the weight of corpses, you swiftly pick your way to him and raise your heavy falchion to strike rushing the last few yards, dozens of fellow archers all around are dealing with other enemy wounded and stragglers, rushing in you seize the knights helmet with your left hand and start to swing the falchion down, completely missing the lightening fast lunge into the lower part of your body with the needle pointed, razor sharp sword, pushed with all Viscount  William Beaumonts desperate might and remaining strength. The wicked blade penetrates your abdominal wall, muscular wall and God only knows what number of organs within.  .

Because of the high level of adrenalin present in your body the pain caused by the wound is not as bad, initially, as normal, but as the adrenalin wears off the worse the pain will become.  As the sword is whipped out you collapse on the ground, very much aware of what is going on around you and you notice that the knight has passed out and that your friends have passed by, you are quite alone amongst the carnage and slaughter. It hurts more now and you press your hands to your stomach, calling out for help as loud as the pain allows. Unless an artery is severed the blood loss will be slow but steady, oozing from the wound, through your chilled fingers, the pain becoming more and more intense as the adrenalin wears off. Filthy clothing and the stuffing from your padded-jack will have been pushed into the wound and this will cause blood poisoning. Even if tended by your comrades you will certainly die due to blood loss, shock and infection, perhaps more quickly if a vital organ is damaged.

By three or four in the morning you will have joined some twenty-eight thousand others lying frozen in death and covered with a white shroud of snow on the bloody Palm Sunday field.