On July 8th, 1302, a Flemish army, led by William of Julich, consisting of nine thousand inexperienced militia soldiers would face against a French army led by Count Robert of Artois, eight thousand five hundred strong, outside of the town of Kortrijk, Flanders. Three days later, a battle would ensue which would decide the fate of Flemish sovereignty.

“Form a strong line! Go! Get into position! Pikes in the front, everything else behind them!”

My heart raced. My stomach churned. Unease passed from my head to my toes. Across the field, less than two furlongs away, stood thousands of French footsoldiers. I knew this day would be one marked by blood, there was no avoiding it now. I stood there, amidst the thick line of men, waiting anxiously.

An order came from behind me, “Crossbows! To the front! Now!”

Men squeezed their way through the crowd to the front, crossbows and bolts in hand. All at once, a mostly silent air was cut by the sound of thousands of armored foot soldiers marching towards our lines, slowly and steadily.

Usually, the French would begin with a cavalry charge, but today it would not come, we had made sure of it. For the past three days, we had been digging trenches, rerouting streams, and placing spiked wooden stakes all over the field, and the rain from a few nights before made sure the ground was muddy. The heavy armor their cavalry wore would weigh them down, and make them easy targets for our footmen. 

As they marched the sun glinted off of their pristine armor and swords. We had their numbers, but not their equipment. I was barely able to grab my chainmail, bascinet, and goedendag from my home before the volunteers had left. Other men were not so lucky, wearing only the clothes in which they butchered meat, made fine pottery, and worked the fields.

“Nokk...”

The line was so thick that I could barely see our crossbowmen, but I could hear them load their bolts into their devices.

“Draw...”

“Loose!”

The first volley sailed into the air, unlikely to damage the French lines, but our barrage did not go unchallenged. If it were quiet we would have heard their bolts whistle through the air, but it was drowned out by the ominous sound of thousands of men marching towards us. I instinctively ducked , as did others around me. But we had not been their targets. Our crossbows were. Two or three volleys passed before our men came scrambling back through the lines. The enemy had won the opening skirmish. Another volley came, this time aimed at our pikes in the front, but only a few groans and screams came from the crowd in front of me.

By this time the French footman had reached the stream in front of our lines. They were a mere one hundred paces away. Their heavy armor weighed them down, and they struggled through the water, but it did not stop their relentless advance. As soon as they cleared the stream, they rushed towards us, swords in hand, ready to strike.

“Brace men!”

The pikes lowered, but that would not be enough. Nothing would be enough. We were peasants, craftsmen, and butchers, not trained soldiers. We were no match for such a military force. My throat felt dry, my palms were perspiring. What was I doing here? What was I fighting for? Were thousands of dead men worth independence from French rule? A month ago I would have thought so. But now? It was too late to question my decision, for a mighty crash sounded up and down our lines. The crash of armor and swords meeting pikes. Chaos erupted, men of both countries were struggling everywhere. There was no longer a neat Flemish battle line, but a jumble of men packed tightly together. The space around me shrunk abruptly, and I was pressed against the bodies of men engaged in an intense melee. A smelly ordeal, one of blood, mud, and death. Knocked off balance, I fell below the crowd.

I was gasping for air, and it was right there. Right above me glimpses of blue sky, but none would enter my lungs, with the crush of feet on my chest I felt my heartbeat slow, darkness overtaking my eyes. Was this how I would die? Not struck down fighting by a French blade? Not impaled by an arrow? But crushed by my allies beside me? I fought to climb above the others, or to at least to stand up. Suddenly, the tightly packed tangle of bodies released its hold, air rushed back into my lungs, and I returned to my feet. Just as I had caught my breath, a Crismon covered sword swung my way, and I quickly ducked. When I came back up I swung my goedendag, and it connected with my foes knee, buckling it, and he fell. His sword falling in the mud. I brought my weapon down upon him again, but he caught its long wooden handle. I pressed down with all my might, but it was not enough to escape this melee I had entered. I let go of my weapon, and he fell forward face first into the wet mud. I jumped on top of him and put my elbow on the back of his helmet, and pressed down with all my weight. I could hear as mud entered his helmet and he started suffocating. He struggled, thrashing about, but it was not enough. The weight of his armor and the wet, sloppy mud made sure I didn’t have to hold him for long. A few desperate gasps for air was quickly answered by mud, and then silence. I had killed him. I had killed this foe. Just minutes ago, I had been struggling for the same air he had, but where I found it, he only found mud. 

I heard cheers and looked up, and there were Flemish men standing around me, not French. Had we won the day? Why were the French retreating? Around me, men were celebrating. But when I looked at the ground, the dead consisted of only a few men in armor, and mostly peasants. One of those peasants could easily have been me. A week ago, war had seemed like just another adventure, but now I realized that war meant death, random death. A peasant craftsman, or a trained soldier, it mattered little. Death was indiscriminate in war. This was not right, I had to get away.

But in the distance, I could see them. The footsoldiers were retreating, but a new line had formed, one of mounted knights atop armored horses.

Others around me noticed it as well, and a shout came from rear, “Reform the line, men! Reform the line!”

Men rushed around me, going to take up their previous positions. I looked for away to escape, but our lines were to tightly packed, there was no escaping. Once again, we would have to endure another charge, a horn blared across the torn up field, and the French army advanced.