The main reason Congreve Rockets had never made a name for themselves on nineteenth-century battlefields was their terrible inaccuracy. But when the target was a fortress, that weakness no longer mattered.
Hundreds of rockets shot into the sky at once, leaving gray trails behind them. Their piercing whistles sounded like the call of the Grim Reaper. Some French Army soldiers had already given up hope, staring blankly at the sky.
One rocket after another rose like an enraged dragon, then, after exhausting its last strength, transformed into a fiery meteor and crashed toward Sarrebourg.
A rocket struck the ruined watchtower. First came the flash and heat of the explosion, lighting up the whole sky. Then came the rubble, dust, and smoke swept up by the blast.
Then a second rocket, then a third. Rockets fell and exploded without pause, flames soared into the sky, and bricks and stones pattered down like rain, leaving nowhere to hide.
As time passed, the raindrops fell faster and faster, each one shaking the heart.
Aside from the French Army soldiers who had already resigned themselves to death, most were in a panic. They ran around like headless flies, their screams, cries for help, and wails mingling with the explosions.
The French soldiers searched for anywhere they could take shelter. Yet most of the places that seemed safe had long since been packed with explosives.
Explosions erupted everywhere, quickly reducing the entire fortress to rubble. For the first time, the French Army experienced true cruelty and helplessness.
Ever since the First Alsace-Lorraine Crisis in 1844, Franz had been sending war materiel to Alsace, sometimes openly, sometimes in secret.
As for why he hadn't sent it to Lorraine and tried to hold every inch of ground, the answer was simple: the defensive line was too long