Le Village

Contre-attaque d'infanterie dans un village, 1870
Paul-Louis-Narcisse Grolleron
Source

Lieutenant de Caumont was awake still, the sun was just coming up and the men were preparing breakfast.

"Are you going to eat, Sir?"

De Caumont turned, "No, but thank you Sergent Leduc. I'm going down to the town to speak with the journalist. But keep that to yourself for now."

"Oui, monsieur, certainement."

As de Caumont walked down the farm track to the village, it was only a few hundred meters, it gave him time to think. The events at the Battle of Mars-la-Tour had haunted him for months now. Perhaps telling someone who had not been involved with it might prove cathartic. He couldn't speak with the men about it, it might damage his authority, or so he thought. If he lost the men's confidence, he would be useless as an officer.

He pushed the door open to the small café, and there was Kossakowski waiting for him. On the table were some Gipfeli, which he still insisted on calling croissants though they were smaller and denser than a typical French croissant. There were two coffee cups as well, one the journalist was drinking from, the other sat empty, waiting for his arrival no doubt.

"How could you be so sure I would come?" he asked the Pole.

"A hunch, I sensed last night that you wanted to talk. That you needed to talk."

"Perhaps." de Caumont signaled to the man waiting tables to bring the coffee pot.

The first attack had been driven back, leaving numerous Prussians lying on the field, victims of the concentrated fire of his men's Chassepots. Then the Prussian artillery arrived.

The Krupp C64 guns were breechloaders, capable of a faster rate of fire than the muzzleloading cannon available to the French that day. The Prussian fuses were also superior, their shells would explode on impact, unlike the French fuses which were timed to explode at a certain point after leaving the barrel. A good gunner could set the fuse to explode at just the right time, based on his estimate of range. But not every battery had such a gunner.

As the Prussian cannon fire began impacting all around them, the men were getting reluctant to expose themselves. Many of them would poke their rifles over the walls they were sheltering behind and fire blindly. Under the cover of this cannon fire the Prussians managed to drive the French back.

De Caumont looked for his sergeant, one Maxwell Bénard, the man seemed to be everywhere at once, rallying the men, trying to get them to fire accurately, and was having some success. It was time to pull back, out of the village, it would take the Prussians time to consolidate their forces after taking the town, time in which they could either counterattack or withdraw. Based on his experiences so far in this war, de Caumont fully expected an order to fall back.

"Monsieur! The Prussians are milling about in the town, I don't think their generals realize that they've taken the place. Do we go back in?" Sergent Bénard had shown up with the remnants of the 3rd Platoon, which was down to just fourteen men.

De Caumont looked around, he saw another company to his left, the men seemed confused and unsure of what to do. He didn't see any officers with them and a single corporal seemed to be in charge.

"Bénard, good to see you, I thought you had fallen. Get the men ready, we're going back in." Then he turned and went to the corporal of the other company.

"Corporel! Where are your sergeants, your officers?"

The man turned and snapped to attention, "I don't know, Sir. I last saw my Lieutenant just as he was decapitated by an enemy shell. Our Sergent was hit as well. The men ran at that point, but I think they are willing to go forward again."

De Caumont drew his sword and shouted at the men behind the corporal, "Will you men follow me? Will you help my company drive those bastards from the town? For the honor of our regiment, for the honor of France!"

At first the men looked at each other with uncertainty, then an older man stepped forward and bellowed, "I will go! Who will follow?"

With a roar, the men of the other company aligned themselves and looked to de Caumont.

He pointed his sword at the village and bellowed, "En avant! Vive la France! Vive l'Empereur!"

Kossakowski set his cup down and looked at de Caumont, "Did they follow?"

"Yes, yes they did. We retook the village, but the cost was too high. Bénard fell, as did many of the soldiers. The Corporel, whose name I never did get, was killed as well, just as the last Prussian fled. Other regiments were attacking and the Prussian guns fell back, but not before killing my Sergent and the Corporel." de Caumont's gaze drifted to the window, his face went blank for a moment, then a shadow seemed to sweep over him and he looked down at the table.

"Are you all right, Monsieur?"

"Yes, no, I don't know Kossakowski, I ... What is your given name?"

"Tadeusz, my friends in the United States call me Ted. Feel free to address me as that."

"Very well, Ted, I am Jean. I must return to my company. Can we meet later? There is more to tell of Mars-la-Tour, where I saw the death ride of the Prussian cavalry."

"Dinner perhaps, here?"

"Very good, I will see you at sunset?"

"That will be excellent."

As de Caumont donned his greatcoat and left the café, Kossakowski watched the man, his eyes following him outside, where he noticed that it was snowing again. He shook his head.

His glance fell on a small pile of Swiss coins on the table which he hadn't noticed before, "Hhmm, decent of de Caumont to pay, he didn't eat anything and barely drank his coffee."

He returned to his hotel room and consulted his notes, then added to them. He needed to ask the lieutenant if he could be introduced to someone higher up, perhaps even a brigadier. It would be interesting to get their view of Mars-la-Tour.

He knew what had happened, but did the reality match the view at headquarters?

Dreams of Battle

Attaque d'une voie ferrée
Édouard Detaille
Source

Lieutenant Jean de Caumont sat up abruptly and shivered, his dreams had always been vivid, even as a youth he had remembered many of them. But these dreams were horrible and far too real for his liking. He shivered again as he took in his surroundings. A barn? Why was in a barn? Then it came to him, Switzerland, the internment. The Emperor, gone, the Army, lost. He shook his head, as if to clear it, which the man on sentry duty noticed.

"Are you all right, mon Lieutenant?"

De Caumont squinted, it was hard to make out who it was on duty, he had let his sergeant make out the roster. The voice sounded familiar, but the smoky room prevented him from clearly seeing the man.

"Junot?"

"Yes Sir, it's me, Soldat Junot. Again I ask you, are you all right, Sir?"

"Yes, Soldat, I'm fine, a bad dream, nothing more. I'm going outside to get some air."

"Yes Sir."

Stepping out into the cold air, de Caumont was startled to see the journalist, Kossakowski, outside as well, smoking a cheroot, staring off into the distance. When the door behind de Caumont closed, the noise seemed to startle the Pole.

"My apologies, Monsieur, I didn't mean to startle you like that."

"It is nothing Lieutenant, I couldn't sleep, so I came here to smoke and to have a word with the men who were still awake."

As de Caumont pulled on his gloves, the air was a bit colder than he liked, he looked harshly at the newspaperman, "You weren't talking to my sentries were you?"

"No, of course not, I know better than to interrupt a man while he is on duty. I was once a soldier myself. I marched with Colonel Miniewski during the January Uprising of 1863. I hadn't been a soldier for very long when we met up with Garibaldi's Legion and fought, and defeated, the Russians at Podłęże. When the uprising eventually failed, I fled Poland. I went at first to England, then to the United States."

De Caumont had listened to the Pole's brief story as he packed his pipe, lighting it, he drew on it to make sure it was going well, then asked the Pole, "Why haven't you mentioned this before?"

"I didn't wish to give the men the impression that I might understand their situation. I was only a soldier for a brief time, less than three months. The men might leave out details in their stories, perhaps assuming that I might understand what would go unspoken between soldiers."

De Caumont drew hard on his pipe, the wind kept interfering with its draw, then he grunted in disgust and tapped the bowl out onto the ground, grinding the smoldering ashes into the hard ground, frozen as it was.

"I gather you're not out here to inspect the sentries, otherwise you wouldn't be talking to me. Couldn't sleep?"

De Caumont stepped closer to the Pole and said, "For one of those cheroots, I'll tell you why I'm out here. I'll tell you why I haven't had a good night's sleep since Mars-la-Tour."

Kossakowski reached inside of his coat and produced a cheroot, handing it to the Frenchman. When the cheroot was well-lit, he looked at the officer, "Well?"

The day had started badly, de Caumont explained to the newspaperman. "The cavalry to our front, a brigade of dragoons, hadn't bothered to send out patrols. The Prussians came upon them and drove them back under artillery fire. The first we knew of the enemy's presence was a horde of panicked horsemen fleeing through our bivouac."

"And then?"

De Caumont related how he had his men stand to and then form a skirmish line near Rezonville. They drove off a strong push by Prussian cavalry but soon received orders to fall back.

"So far in this war, I have seen my men fight bravely, only to be told to withdraw. Our leaders seem to have no concept of how to fight a war. I have this recurring dream, my men are on line, firing, killing the enemy, who just keep coming. In the dream I see my men fall, I see that the Prussians are being led by a French general."

De Caumont paused, shaking himself, he continued, "That French traitor is telling the Prussians exactly where to attack, all the while calling upon us, his own soldiers, to throw down our arms and surrender. I wake up at the same moment in this dream, I look up to see a shell from a Krupp gun heading directly at me. I awaken just as it explodes."

Kossakowski said nothing, then he nodded and tossed his cheroot into the snow. "Your country seems to go from one misstep to another. The Emperor gets himself defeated and captured at Sedan, while Bazaine struggles to hold Metz. To what purpose I wonder? Then a new republic is proclaimed in Paris, Bonapartists are relieved of their positions, new men, inexperienced men, take over. It was, and remains, a mess."

"Indeed, it is. Now if you will excuse me, I do need to make my rounds. We are far from any enemy but the men expect the routine to continue. So I post sentries to defend against a non-existent threat, then I inspect the posts to ensure everyone is taking the game seriously."

"A game, mon Lieutenant?"

"At this point, yes. But come and see me later, I will tell you my story, not just the nightmare from that time which haunts me still. Get some sleep, Monsieur, there will be plenty of time for story telling on the morrow. Goodnight."

"Bon nuit, mon Lieutenant, à bientôt¹."

¹ Good night, Lieutenant, see you soon.

Navigating American Highways

Source

The trip home on Sunday last was, for the most part, uneventful. For us at any rate, we did see a traffic mishap on the southbound side of I-95 in Connecticut which had traffic backed up for at least three miles by my estimate. So the day was eventful for the two vehicles involved. No ambulances were in evidence nor was there any rushing around in panic as sometimes can be seen at accident sites. So hopefully no one was badly hurt.

Once again though, I found myself missing the solid confidence and well-executed operation of motor vehicles which I got used to in Germany. When I lived there the standards were set very high to allow one to travel upon the highways and byways of the Vaterland.

People will tap their brakes in this country rather than simply let up on the accelerator. Of course, the "brake tappers" are typically following far too closely for comfort's sake. But a couple of brake tappers in heavy traffic brings the whole business to a crawl. I saw this Sunday in Connecticut. (Honestly, what do you need to do to get a license in that state, be able to count the fingers on the examiner's hand?)

Traffic in the western part of that state can be an absolute nightmare. Stretches where you might be able to get to the speed limit for a mile or so before slowing back down to walking speed. No, I'm not exaggerating.

And it will nearly always happen that two young men (always men, I've never seen a female of the species act this stupidly) will roar past at speeds in excess of a hundred miles an hour, weaving from lane to lane and obviously racing each other. That nonsense is nerve wracking at best, terrifying at worst, especially when one of the young misfits misses your vehicle by mere inches. Yup, I've had that happen.

Then there are the morons who travel in the far left lane as a matter of habit, not because they're passing anyone, they just like that lane I guess. Then when their exit comes up, it's across all two to three lanes, at high rates of speed, trying to make the exit at the very last nanosecond.

When we were coming down I-287 (see the map below for the standard route we take to get to Annapolis) traffic was backed up a) because there was ongoing construction, and b) because there was a "lady" in the far left lane going well-below the speed limit. While texting.

There are people on the roads who should not be allowed to be there. They don't know what they are doing and they are, in many cases, terrified of being on the highway. You can see it in their glazed eyes, the blank stare out the front which understands nothing and takes in nothing of what's going on around them.

Yeah, it can be scary out there, but we survived, again. No close calls because I'm starting to believe that the incompetent drivers are culling their own ranks. If you can avoid them, you'll arrive alive. If not somewhat the worse for wear.

Source

That big yellow circle is the object of avoidance on every trip south. Crossing the Hudson River at the Tappen Zee adds twenty miles to the trip, but helps keep my blood pressure down. Besides which, one avoids that whole Mad Max looking part of northern New Jersey. Which is nice.

Anyhoo, have a nice week.

Reaper*

OK, so most of you readers know what a callsign is. Right? 

For those who don’t, it started as and still is, the name used to identify a flight of jets and the individual members of the flight. It would identify the flight to the various controllers and the flight would know that the controller was talking to THEM!  For example, “Juvat flight, you are cleared for Takeoff” 

“Juvat, roger”

Later: “Juvat 2, commit right target” ( My wingman now locks on to the target on the right side on his radar)

Even later: “Juvat flight of two on initial”

“Roger Juvat, you are cleared to land”

In this particular case, "Juvat" is the traditional name for the 80th Tactical Fighter Squadron Kunsan AB, ROK.  My first operational assignment.  Taught me a lot about a lot of things, many of which I've already discussed, others are best left unsaid.

So…callsigns were official! But…Later on it became a custom to address pilots by a call sign even on the ground. While a pilot could try and "influence" the call sign selection, that didn’t always work. Especially if they had done something foolish. After a while, virtually all the Pilots had "call signs" Then the WSO’s (Weapons System Officers AKA Back Seaters) wanted "call signs" of their own. So it is written so it shall be. 

Not many knew about the 80th when I got back to the states and on Friday evening, at the O Club Bar, pilot call signs started getting assigned to any newly assigned Pilots/WSOs  I said I wanted "juvat" as mine and it got accepted.  

Then the support folks, then the Navy, then the Marines got on the tactical call sign boat…Heck even the Sea Bees have them now. Seems it’s only a matter of time before every American in the country has a call sign.

The difference is the official call sign is capitalized, personal call signs are not.  Hence "juvat" instead of "Juvat". 

After I retired from the USAF, I took up the name in lower case even though I am no longer a part of that prestigious organization but have fond memories thereof.

“Where are you going with this post, juvat?”

Well.. On with the story! 

My beloved daughter and the mother of two fabulous children**, is also the "HR Manager for Employee Relations" for the city of College Station, which impresses me. I still have fond memories of the small little girl who is now a full-grown woman, both as a boss, a mother and a wife.  Love her!

 Daughter's workplace

Source

Recently (it actually was yesterday as related to the writing of this post)*, she went into the City Manager’s office, AKA "Her Boss" to discuss a  problem with one of the city employees. The City Manager happens to also be a Naval Reserve Officer in a Construction Battalion . Construction Battalions are unanimously referred to as a “Sea Bees”.

Source

Yes, Beans, he is one. I shall refer to him thusly.

Anyhow…she and Sea Bee discussed the problem and her recommendations for dealing with him. Upon hearing the story, he sat back and said “I think I’m going to have to give you a call sign. You've earned it.  From now on you’ll be called “Reaper” after seeing the look of confusion on her face, he added “As in Grim”

She now has a Call Sign!  I'll have to change my memory on what to call MBD (My Beautiful Daughter) on this blog.  I guess, Reaper has been decided.

I got quite a chuckle when she told me about this at breakfast Saturday.  So it is written so it shall be.

*Yes, I thought it was hilarious and thought all y'all might also. So got it published "most skosh!"

**(In total I have 3 grand kids, Little J’s daughter, my middle grandchild, is also fabulous. Just saying! 

Home Again, Home Again ...

OAFS Photo

Welp ...

My time in Maryland has ended once again and it's time to head back north. Home.

It's hard to leave here, it gets harder to go with every trip. But the grass back home ain't gonna cut itself, the koi can't feed themselves, and then there are the gardens.

Without The Missus Herself's careful touch, those gardens wouldn't last. Well, they might but they wouldn't be the same.

So it's time to head home.

I love it down here, but we don't live here.

I doubt I could ever leave New England for any length of time. I know I did when I was in the Air Force, but I missed the old homeland. Not every day, but many days.

Ah well, we shall wait and see what life has in store.

There's always something to look forward to, or so I hope.

There but for the Grace of God ...

Kronprinz Friedrich Wilhelm an der Leiche des Generals Abel Douay, Weißenburg am 4. August 1870
Anton von Werner
Source

There are a number of superb paintings with the Franco-Prussian War of 1870 as their subject. (You can see some of them at the source above.)

While reading about the war I came across the story of Général de Division Charles Abel Douay, who at the age of 61 was recalled to active duty from his post as president of the French military academy at Saint-Cyr and given command of a division under Maréchal Patrice de Mac-Mahon.

At the Battle of Wissembourg, the first battle of the war, Douay's division, some 6,000 men, holding positions in and around the town of Wissembourg was attacked by elements of the German 3rd Army, which consisted of two Prussian and one Bavarian corps, (25,000 men) the III Corps of that army being commanded by the Prussian Crown Prince, Friedrich Wilhelm Nikolaus Karl, the son of the Prussian king (soon to be Kaiser) Wilhelm I. (Note, Wilhelm I had fought at Waterloo, 55 years earlier.)

The French fought bravely, their Chassepot rifles causing lots of German casualties, also their positions in and around the town gave them excellent positions from which to defend. However, the Germans, though their attacks were uncoordinated and somewhat sloppy, eventually used the weight of their superior numbers to drive the French from the town, street by street, in bitter house to house fighting.

The French cause was not helped by the death of Douay who was hit by shell fragments when a Prussian shell hit a nearby mitrailleuse¹ battery. The general's death not only demoralized his own troops but the French army in general. 

The painting depicts the Crown Prince of Prussia observing the body of his dead opponent sometime after the battle. A scene I found touching and immensely sad. Especially when you notice the presence of the small dog lying across the general's feet at the foot of his improvised bier.

It's worth noting that the artist, Anton von Werner was actually traveling with the staff of the III Corps during this battle. After action paintings are often glorified looks at otherwise horrific scenes. I wonder how accurate this painting is as to what the scene was actually like.

In truth, I don't care. It depicts well the sadness of loss, even as experienced by an opponent. The Crown Prince of Prussia succeeded his father, Wilhelm, as Kaiser (Friedrich III) for only a short while before dying from cancer, an illness he'd been diagnosed as having just before his father's death.

His son succeeded him, Wilhelm II. The man who fired Bismarck and plunged Germany into the First World War and all the horrors which followed. He doesn't bear sole blame but he does share that with other short-sighted European leaders.

Sounds familiar, doesn't it?

¹ A multi-barrel early machine gun. Effective but nearly as effective as the Gatling gun.

Proportionality

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When I saw this article, over at Zendo Deb's place, it got me to thinking.

Proportionality, to me at any rate, is a lawyer's exercise in determining what is "fair."

I don't know about you, but if someone comes at me, with the intent to do me bodily harm, I sure hope that I have an effective weapon at hand. Fair has nothing to do with it.

Source

Which pretty much summarizes my outlook on this sort of thing.

Don't want none, don't start none.

And of course, the ever popular FAFO¹.

Fair is for sporting events, not life and death situations.

'Nuff said.

¹ F**k Around and Find Out.