The Grass Did Not Cut Itself ...

Battle of Mars-La-Tour, August 16,1870
Emil Hünten
Source

Okay Sarge, wait, what? What does grass cutting have to do with the Franco-Prussian War?

Nothing, nada, nichts, it's just that I had to finish up mowing my yard Wednesday and the thickness of the grass made that task take a bit longer than I cared for. At the end of which I ate my supper, then decided that I didn't much feel like writing. So ...

I did find a cool video on the rifles used in the Franco-Prussian War, the French Chassepot and the Prussian Dreyse. Here it is ...

After finding that, I decided to look for other cool videos on the war. I found one that covers the entire war, start to finish. I started watching it, which is reason #2 I didn't do a full-blown historical fiction post today.

The video is six plus hours long, and I watched quite a bit of it, so ...

You don't have to watch all of it, but if you watch the first ten minutes or so, you'll see how the war started. Much like World War I, everyone was itching for the chance to start shooting.

Well, everyone except the poor shmucks who had to do the actual fighting.

The more things change ...

Back tomorrow with, hopefully, another tale of the Franco-Prussian War.

Ciao!

Junot's Tale, as Told to M. Kossakowski - On to Prussia!

Le Rêve¹
Édouard Detaille (PD)

Pierre Junot, a newly assigned conscript, slept on the ground with the other members of his battalion. He was exhausted, though his training had included a lot of marching, this advance into the Prussian Rhine Province was far more strenuous than anything they had done in training. Of course, that the enemy was firing upon them with live ammunition was one big difference.

Their orders were to seize the town of Saarbrücken. Though many of the army's generals wanted to stay on the defensive and bleed Prussia's armies on their field works, the French public hungered for an attack. So the Emperor, Napoléon III, ordered the Army of the Rhine to attack.

On the first day, Junot had seen his first action, a minor skirmish against elements of the Prussian 40th Infantry Regiment. The enemy seemed content to fall back, as if waiting for events elsewhere before committing any strength to halt the French advance.

His officers had hailed the advance as a great victory, "Worthy of your grandfathers!" one of the battalion staff had shouted when they had halted for the night. Junot didn't know whether or not his grandfather had been in the army, he doubted it. His family weren't all that patriotic.

But the man who commanded his platoon, Lieutenant Jean de Caumont, had had a grandfather who had marched and fought for the great Napoléon himself. He had scoffed at the staff officer's shout.

"Yes, a short advance into the Saarland, that's just like Austerlitz, or Wagram, or any of a hundred of the victories of the First Empire."

In response to Junot's stunned look at one officer mocking another, de Caumont had slapped the young Soldat on the back and said, "Some of the staff have overblown images of themselves. You and I, Soldat, we shall do our duty. That's all that matters."

In the soft glow of the firelight, Junot watched the journalist scribbling on his note pad. He hadn't even gotten to the most interesting part of his story yet. He had been somewhat nervous at relating the story about his lieutenant, who sat across the fire from him, but had relaxed once more when the lieutenant had nodded and lifted his glass of wine to him.

"We did our duty, didn't we, Junot?" the man had said as he lifted his glass.

Junot hoped that he had done his duty, wished that others had done so as well. Then maybe they wouldn't be sitting in this drafty Swiss barn telling tales to a foreign newspaperman.

His battalion had advanced in loose skirmish order, two companies in the rear staying formed up in column while the other companies advanced by twos. One man holding his fire while the other picked a target and fired. The two would then swap positions, steadily moving forward.

The Prussians facing them had been a little surprised to discover that the French Chassepot rifles outranged their own Dreyse rifles. The first volleys had seen the Prussian bullets fall short, whereas a number of French bullets had found homes in Prussian flesh.

After that the Prussians began skirmishing more effectively, using cover as they slowly fell back towards Saarbrücken.

Junot and his partner, a man named Fresnel, had been near the rear of the cloud of skirmishers. But the officers were wisely moving fresher men to the front, cycling the men up and then back so that no one was exposed to enemy fire for very long. As he and Fresnel got closer to the main firing line, Junot's nervousness increased.

His palms were sweaty and he was rather jumpy. He supposed that yes, he was scared, but no more so than any other man. After all, it was all rather like a big game. One side would move forward while the other drew back, both sides firing their rifles to little effect, or so it seemed.

Fresnel was holding back, it was Junot's turn to advance and fire. As he dropped to one knee, he saw another pair of skirmishers cycling back to the rear. As they came past him, the man nearest him grunted, then fell to the ground with a sharp cry of anguish.

Junot turned, the man was on his belly, squirming like a fish out of water. That's when Junot saw the blood soaking through the back of the man's coat. He had been shot!

"Pierre, fire! What are you waiting for?" Fresnel yelled at him, he hadn't seen the man fall next to Junot.

Shaking himself, Junot aimed his rifle to the front. He aimed at a man on horseback, a man, no doubt an officer, directing the Prussian skirmishers opposing them. He aimed carefully then pulled his trigger, gently as he'd been taught.

When the smoke from his round had cleared, he saw the horse, but the man was no longer on the horse.

"My God," he moaned, "did I just kill someone?"

Fresnel passed him, moving forward to pick his own target. "Come on, boy, load up and follow me. We need to kill more of these Boches!"

Pierre felt sick to his stomach.

Kossakowski looked up from his scribbling, Junot had gone silent, as had the other men around the fire.

"Was that the first man you ever shot?" he asked Junot, who was staring intently into the fire.

Sergent Leduc answered for Junot, "You never forget the first one, other faces, other circumstances may fade over time, but the first time you discharge your weapon and see a fellow human fall to your bullet, that is something you never forget."

"But how do you know that Junot killed him? Maybe the man simply fell from his horse, maybe someone else shot him."

"He was still alive when Fresnel and I reached his position," Junot spoke up, then fell silent again, holding his cup out for more wine.

"But still ..." Kossakowski interjected.

"My bullet did not kill him. He had been hit low in the belly, he was in immense pain. His eyes pleaded with me, for what I don't know. To heal him? To absolve him of his sins? I don't know, I think it was to relieve him from the pain of his wound. I don't know ..."

Junot's voice trailed off and he gulped down the wine in his cup, extended his hand for more. When his cup was again full, he continued.

"My bullet didn't kill him, my bayonet did. I killed this wounded Prussian officer as an act of mercy. That's what I tell myself now. But at the time I stabbed him I did it out of hatred. I hated the man for making me go to war, even though I know now that he was just a soldier, like me, doing what he was told."

"No one could blame you ..."

"May God forgive me, I cannot forgive myself." Junot stated then stood up as if to go.

Lieutenant de Caumont also stood, "I think that is enough for one night, gentlemen. Monsieur Kossakowski, perhaps we can continue this on the morrow, subject to circumstances of course."

Kossakowski nodded, "Of course, Lieutenant. Here?"

"Yes, we will sleep here tonight. Perhaps dream of past glories. There is little else to succor us now. Goodnight. Sergent Leduc, post a sentry, the rest of you try and get some sleep."

"A sentry, Sir?"

"Did I stutter, Leduc?"

"Very good, Sir. Four hour watches?"

"Yes, wake me at midnight."

"Sir."

As Kossakowski returned to the small inn where he was staying, he wondered how he was going to write this tale. Perhaps he should wait until he'd heard it all before proceeding. This was turning out to be far more emotional than he'd anticipated.

War is certainly a horrible thing, he thought as he crawled into bed. I wonder how, or if, I could handle it?

¹ The Dream. Soldiers of the French Army in 1870 dream of the glories of the armies of the first French Empire. Allegorical no doubt.

The End, and a Beginning

A section of the Bourbaki-Panorama in Lucerne, Switzerland
Edouard Castres

Soldat Pierre Junot shuffled along the track, the snow had been compacted by the hundreds of men, horses, and wagons which had passed this way. It was slippery in spots and a number of men had fallen already. At first it had been amusing, then one old soldier had lost his mind.

"This is funny to you?" he had screamed at a young lieutenant.

"Now see here old fellow ..." the lieutenant had tried to pass it off, but the old soldier wasn't having any of it.

"The honor of France has been compromised. Our banners once swept Europe from the plains of Spain to the spires of Moscow. We crushed all who stood in our way, now we are letting ourselves be disarmed by the bloody Swiss! This day I am ashamed to be French!"

A senior sergeant had stepped forward from the shuffling column. "That's enough grand-père, everyone is on edge. Besides which, you wouldn't remember the time of the great Napoléon. What are you, fifty-something? The Emperor died before you were born."

Turning from the lieutenant he had been berating, the old soldier got in the sergeant's face.

"My father marched with the Emperor, he was old when I was born. But I remember his stories, once upon a time all of Europe trembled at the approach of French soldiers. AND NOW THIS!"

The old man turned quickly and pulled the lieutenant's pistol from its holster. Unfortunately for him, the lanyard which secured the weapon to its owner got entangled and the old fellow was unable to do anything with the weapon. As he turned to again scream at someone over his fate, the sergeant used the butt of his rifle to knock the old soldier down.

After the man fell, his blood bright on the snow, the lieutenant managed to compose himself. "Sergent, get the men back in order. Give me two men to bind this man," he gestured at the old man lying at his feet, "then we must move on. We are causing a pile up here on the track."

Indeed, the column had halted when the altercation had begun, an officer on horseback was shouting at the men to get moving and a lot of pushing and shoving was going on. Discipline was rapidly deteriorating.

"ENOUGH!"

Sergent Leduc had fired his rifle at the same time he had bellowed at the men.

"Fall in and march you bastards. The Prussians embarrassed us, we outnumbered them by two to one at the Lisaine, now you wish to show the damned Swiss what a laughingstock the French Army has become? Fall in and march or I will shoot you all, one by one."

As Junot's battalion shuffled on, Pierre looked back once, he saw the sergeant who had struck down the old man kneeling next to the still form lying in the snow, he was looking at his lieutenant, shaking his head. No doubt the old man was dead.

They had piled their weapons in great heaps, the Swiss soldiers had simply pointed where to drop their rifles and where to move to. Junot and his comrades were sitting near a barn on the outskirts of the town they had marched to, Pierre had no idea what the name of the place was, nor did he particularly care.

Captivity was strange, he supposed that this was better than being taken captive by the Prussians, word had spread through the army that the Prussians were not exactly "correct" when dealing with surrendered soldiers. One man claimed that near the village of Dornach, the Prussians had murdered over two hundred prisoners of war.

"What happened?"

Pierre looked up, a civilian was standing in front of him, the man was well-dressed and his French was very good, though the accent was odd.

"Who are you?"

"My name is Kossakowski, I'm a journalist."

"You're not French." Caporal Thionville, sitting next to Junot, noted.

"No, I'm Polish, well more Lithuanian than Polish, but that doesn't matter. I work for a newspaper in America. I was sent here to cover this war."

"Why should we tell you anything?" Pierre sneered.

"Oh I have a story, 'French armies destroyed by Prussian military might, grandsons of the great Napoléon's soldiers run like children when faced with Krupp steel,' or, I could listen to your experiences and write the truth."

"Ah, the truth, what is that?" Thionville shook his head. "Very few people want to hear the truth."

Kossakowski shook his head, "Believe me, the people who read my newspaper hunger for the truth. Americans have become very curious of the world since their own great Civil War."

"So you say." Pierre said, still not believing what was happening to them.

"Yes, so I say. What else do you men have to do? Tell your story, tell me how this tragedy came to pass. For I fear it is a tragedy, as a Pole, I have hated the Prussians my entire life. This defeat of your country is a tragedy for all of Europe, not just France. Soon you too will learn how difficult life can be under the Prussian boot heel."

Caporal Thionville looked up, their lieutenant was approaching.

"If my Lieutenant will give us permission, we'll tell you our story. If you're ready to listen."

"And what story is that, Caporal?" Lieutenant Jean de Caumont asked as he strolled up. "And who is this fellow?" He asked, nodding at the Polish civilian.

"He's a newspaper man, he hates Prussians and he's looking for a story." Thionville said, nodding at the Pole.

"Well, I don't see the harm in that. We will be here a few days."

Turning to the Pole, de Caumont said, "I hope you brought something to take notes with."

"Of course, Lieutenant ..."

"And perhaps some money for a bottle or two of the local wine, story-telling can be a thirsty business."

Kossakowski smiled, "I think we can arrange something. Where do we begin?"

"First the wine, my dear fellow. Then we'll tell you our story, from the beginning of this war up to the events of the last few days. Did you know our general committed suicide?"

Kossakowski shook his head, "Ah, he tried to commit suicide, but he failed."

De Caumont shook his head, "Can the poor fellow do anything right?"

Pierre Junot felt something on his cheek, he looked up and noted that snow was falling once more. So he stood up and said, "Perhaps we should find someplace more comfortable, out of this weather."

"A very good idea, Junot. Do you know of any place, Mr. Journalist?"

Kossakowski nodded, "Yes, I believe I do. Then we can start."

"At the beginning?" de Caumont asked.

"Yes, of course."

England then homeward bound

Ok, campers, by the time you read this, Mrs J and I will be somewhere over the North Atlantic en-route to Houston. (Which means replying to comments will be spotty if even possible and  even then delayed.) We’ll change planes then a hop, skip and a jump to Austin. Pick up the car and RTB College Station.

Our betting on reception at the house is the dogs will be excited to see us and a “Where have you been, my servants?” from the cat!

C’est la Vie!

A good trip, we made quite a few new friends on the  river cruise, drank some excellent Texas wine from Untamed Wine Estate winery on board, and also spent a couple of days getting reacquainted with Little J, LJW and Miss B in England. More info on the cruise can be found Here.

That latter person has made leaps and bounds of progress. Still a bit small, but smart as a whip. Not quite 4, she speaks in complete sentences and is able to participate and contribute in conversations. A well deserved “Well done” to her and her parents.

Did a bit of touring in France.

 

This was a bullfighting arena built in the Roman times in Arles France.  No bulls in it now, just a cat!

We also visited RAF Crouton, a WWII Fighter base.

 

Gave me a bit of the willies.  Lots of brave men took off from here, some didn't make it back.

 

Visited Blenhiem Castle, home of Winston Churchill.  Very cool, very British, very Large!

 

I don't remember exactly where this was, but Miss B seemed to like it. ;-)

 

Final visit was to Bletchley Park , home to the Code Crackers.This was one of the machines they developed.  Very, very interesting.

All in all, a very fun and interesting trip.  Mrs. J did a great job setting it up and handling "things".  Thanks, Dear!

See y'all next week! 

The Outpost

In the Trenches
Alphonse de Neuville
Source

Pierre Junot finished the letter he had been working on for over a week. He wondered if he'd ever have the chance to post it to his fiancée, Jeanne, in far off Paris. The Army of the Loire had been shattered by the Prussians and he, along with other survivors of his regiment, had moved eastwards to join up with the Army of the East.

Their commander, Bourbaki, was a Greek according to the sergeant. He'd commanded the Imperial Guard at the beginning of the war, but with his refusal to commit the Guard at Gravelotte he was in semi-disgrace. With the capture of the Emperor at Sedan, there was no  longer any need for the Guard. Bourbaki had thrown his lot in with the politician Gambetta, who had proclaimed the foundation of the Third Republic back in September.

Now they were somewhere near the Swiss border, rumors were rife that the army would march into Switzerland and lay down their arms. All Junot knew was that he was freezing and the shallow trench he and his comrades occupied barely sheltered them from the wind, let alone Prussian bullets.

Thing was, the Prussians were nowhere to be found. Scouts had gone out and made contact with the Swiss, they had reported back that the Prussians were absent.

"Probably living it up in Paris, everyone knows that the war is over." Junot muttered, half out loud, half to himself.

"What's that, Junot? You have something to offer?" Sergent Maurice Leduc snarled in his direction.

"No, Sergent, just complaining about the cold."

"Keep it to yourself, Soldat."

"Oui, mon Sergent."

Junot shook his head as he gazed out into the mist. The night was frigid and the fog had rolled in shortly after sundown. You could barely see ten meters from the trench. He remembered back to the early days of this war. Bright sunshine, warm weather, they had swept forth, intending to drive the hated Prussians back across the Rhine.

Instead they had been badly cut up, the Prussians were far more motivated and seemingly better equipped. They were certainly better led. No doubt Napoléon III's uncle the Napoléon was spinning in his grave at Les Invalides. France had seen better days, now the Prussians were getting their revenge for Jena and Auerstädt, the twin battles which had destroyed Prussia in 1806.

"Anything out there, Pierre?" Caporal Ernest Thionville asked as he handed Junot a piece of ration bread.

"Nothing that I can see. But it's quiet out there."

"Too quiet?"

Both men chuckled at the old joke. Junot chewed his bread, it was stale and was probably made partly of sawdust. They were reduced to the most basic necessities these days.

"Think we'll surrender to the Swiss, Caporal?"

"Yes, I do. We're not much of an army now, better to be interned in Switzerland than to become Prussian prisoners." Thionville, as was his habit, spat into the snow when he mentioned the Prussians. They had sacked his village and had murdered members of his family. He hated the Prussians with his entire soul.

Lieutenant Jean de Caumont cleared his throat as he approached the two soldiers chatting and eating bread. He was a polite man, he didn't want the men to be either startled by his appearance or to have them think that he was eavesdropping on them. But he had heard the mention of the surrender.

"Sir!" Both men came to attention when they saw their lieutenant.

"I think we will be going into Switzerland tomorrow. The battalion chief wants us mustered at dawn, ready to march. Apparently the Swiss have agreed to take us in until the government in Paris can decide what is to be done regarding the war."

Thionville scoffed, "What is to be done, Sir? Well, you either fight, or you surrender. Are there other options I'm not aware of? Begging your pardon, Sir, but this living in the open is getting tiresome."

De Caumont grinned, "Tell me how you really feel, Caporal. But you're right, we're accomplishing nothing here and Paris has sent no new orders."

"I've heard Swiss chocolate is good." Junot offered.

"No doubt we shall see. You two go ahead and rest, I'll take the watch for now. I can't sleep anyway."

As the two soldiers shuffled off down the trench, De Caumont sighed. What would his grandfather think of all this? His father's father had fallen in the 1815 campaign. Though he'd seen the enemy occupy Paris in 1814, he had died thinking that the Emperor would set things right. After all, his grandfather had died at Ligny, near the end of that victory, he had seen the Prussians retreating before a last cannon shot had taken his legs.

The old man had died the night before the defeat at Mont St. Jean¹, he didn't live to see the Prussians occupy Paris once more. No doubt he would be ashamed of his youngest grandson, De Caumont brushed a tear from his cheek. Of course, his grandfather would be ashamed of him, he was ashamed of himself.

Oh well, at least he had survived this debacle.

¹ Mont St Jean is what the French call the Battle of Waterloo.

The World and Other Thoughts

Source

Flying over the western United States, between the Rockies and the Sierra Nevada, makes me feel as if I was flying over the surface of Mars. I can't believe how sere and barren it looks from 30,000 feet.

The mountains look like bones protruding from a withered husk. Here and there you can see what have to be water courses, whether ancient or recent you can't tell.

There are few roads out there as there appear to be few settlements. Every now and then there will be a town, it stands out as there are green fields (often in the shape of a circle) no doubt irrigated by water pumped up from far below the surface.

It's an alien world out there, from the air at least.

The Sierra Nevada are still snow covered, as you lift off from Fresno (where I saw the Air National Guard's F-15 fighters under their overhead shelters near the end of runway 29R) you are over green fields. Soon you pass the foothills and then you're over the Sierra Nevada. Pretty rough country, but magnificent.

I've traveled all over the world, seen many a magnificent sight, from the Rockies to the Alps. Flown over both the Atlantic and the Pacific (truly miles and miles of nothing, though I did see the wake of a ship far below while flying to Japan once upon a time) and there are a lot of sights out there to marvel the eye. Some made by man, most of the better ones made by God.

The Mississippi Valley is very interesting, the many twists and turns of that river are amazing from the air. It marks the boundary between the very green eastern U.S. and the rather pale and stark (from the air) Great Plains. It's green, but paler than what is east of the river.

Once across the Rockies (I've flown over those mountains at twilight during the winter, saw a lone dwelling with a single light showing, surrounded by miles and miles of snow, pretty impressive really, in a haunting sort of way) you're in the desert. Not many towns, not many people, there is life down there, but you have to be on the ground to see it.

I guess what I'm trying to say is that the good old U.S. of A. is a pretty magnificent patch of ground. It annoys me that there are those who want to destroy it, unwittingly or intentionally, on both sides of the political spectrum. Why is it that politics attracts so many assholes?

Indeed, why can't we all just get along? I tire of Facebook, too many idiots pontificating on things they're not qualified to pontificate about. I keep a low profile, I have friends, good ones, across the political spectrum, not on the boundaries mind you, closer to the middle, but still of differing opinions.

It's a beautiful world, let's try not to eff it up.

Sarge, out.

I'm Excited Again ...

The Foo Fighters, l to r: Dave Grohl, Ilan Rubin, Rami Jaffee, Nate Mendel, Pat Smear, Chris Shiflet
Source

Okay, so a couple of weeks ago I was feeling somewhat out of sorts, I posted about that here. That was the 29th of March, the very next day blog sister Zendo Deb posted this. I guess you might call that "exactly what I needed."

Now the trip to California helped boost my morale quite a bit (always good to see the kids) but musically the Foo Fighters new album has me pumped up about music again, specifically their music. While out in California I made a couple of new friends who are also big Foo fans. We talked a lot about their music.

I went ahead and preordered the new album from Amazon pre-California. Based on two songs, just two. Both of which are outstanding. The band has released two more songs off that album, both are superb.

Note that in the video Pat Smear is not present, he broke his leg and will be out of the game for a bit. Dave Grohl says he'll be back with the band when they start touring. Hope so. When I first saw the video I saw Pat's face on the kick drum and panicked, then I noticed he wasn't with the band. Prayers up for a quick recovery, Pat!

Anyhoo.

I'm loving the new drummer, Ilan Rubin. While listening to what there is of the new album I caught myself thinking that Taylor Hawkins was still alive. While Josh Freese is a superb drummer, there was something "off" about the band's energy when I saw them live a couple of summers ago. One of the reasons, as I understand it, as to why Dave let Josh go was that his energy didn't match the band's. You can watch a podcast about that here.

Listening to Ilan on the kit in this new album all I can say is, the guy is incredible. It feels to me that the band has their energy back.

Can't wait to see them in concert again.

Yeah, I'm excited.