The Russian Winter

That's the right instinct to trust. Here's the final clean version:

The Russian Winter

Frigid winds whipped needles of snow into Gulliemont's cheeks. Clutching his bearskin coat, trying to draw whatever warmth the Russian Winter had left him. Each breath frosted on his collar, then vanished into the frozen air. At his side trudged Francois, his lieutenant, musket still warm from the last volley fired at the Cossacks. Demons on horseback that had not spared his men since dawn.

Gulliemont had learnt the phrase for killing a Cossack when it got close.

'Captain,' Francois muttered. 'We're finished.' His voice was low. The enthusiasm had gone. 'The soldiers of Austerlitz are no more.'

Gulliemont looked back at his regiment. A hundred men from Lyon, soldiers of the Grande Armée, once proud to cross the Nieman River. Barely half remained. He smiled grimly. 'It is our Emperor's fault for underestimating them.'

'So, we die here? For peasants?' Francois spat. 'He dragged us to the ends of the earth. Promised us glory; the man fled us, leaving us carrion to those damn demons on horse. The vultures will descend. All of them.'

Gulliemont answered. 'Words like that would mark you a Bourbon sympathiser among us.'

'I don't care,' Francois growled. 'I was wrong to fight for a man who built his entire legacy on a pack of lies.'

Gulliemont clasped his hand in the coldness of Francois's cockade. Withered beyond belief, it's now golden yellow, frozen. And the leather was harsh to touch. 'I was chosen to lead you the day I was assigned this regiment.' Gulliemont patted his back. 'I have not forgotten that. Come.'

Francois stared at the endless ocean of snow stretching for hundreds of miles ahead. 'Can we even escape? It won't be long before Cossacks or more Russians hunt us down. The Grande Armée won't come back.'

The Grande Armée chased a retreating enemy across a thousand miles of open land and mud only to be unmade by winter. The campaign had promised glory, victory and purpose. Plenty of battles were fought, but silence, scorched earth and corpses haunted him at winter's onset. The horses had been slaughtered with rations rotting.

Jacques shivered at his side. The fierce specks of snow stung like a horde of hornets assaulting his face. His shako had once been bright black; now death had sucked the life out of it. He gripped his musket and stared. There was nothing left to say.

A yell reached Gulliemont. Cossacks. They'd found his men again.

'Form square,' he said quietly. Then, turning to what remained of his men. 'Men! Form square!'

Francois smirked. 'If we'll see sunrise next.'

'I made a promise to your wife.' Gulliemont unsheathed his sword. 'I'll make sure of it.'