En Avant! Vive l'Empereur!

I Corps Advances
(Source)

Soldat Pierre Delaplace couldn't help but wonder just what the higher ups were thinking. He understood tactics as well as the next simple soldier. You wanted to be in line when firing, you wanted to be in column when maneuvering. He was on the left of his battalion, which was in line, behind another battalion from his regiment which was also in line. Every battalion in the division was in line¹, but instead of being deployed side by side, as he considered would be normal, each battalion in the division was lined up one behind the other, in what was, in effect, a massive column formation.

Soldat Roger Brassard was to the left of Delaplace. When Delaplace hissed, "What madness is this?" He looked around, none of the officers or NCOs were nearby so he answered.

"We have firepower, we have depth, if the ranks at each end of the battalion turn outwards, we have a square, a loose one, yes, but still a square. It seems perfect for this attack."

Situation at ~1330 on the Angle-Allied Left Flank
Red dot with arrow marks the position of the view below.
(Source Edited)

(Source)

Delaplace couldn't see much from where he was positioned, his battalion of the 45e Ligne was the second in the column, but from what he could see, the ground sloped down gently into a valley, then back up to the Mont St. Jean ridge. If it wasn't for the damned muddy ground it would be an easy walk on maneuvers, but with cannon firing at them and then up a slope into the teeth of English musketry he still didn't like it.

The fact that the crops were head high didn't help matters, but the lead battalion had trampled enough of them into the mud that he could see a bit farther than the men in the lead unit.

"Roger, if we don't do this right, it could all go straight to hell. I don't like it." Delaplace jumped as Sergent Gilles Duval bellowed into his ear.

"Eyes front, soldier. I'll make sure the Emperor knows of your objections to his plan."

As Duval got to the end of the line, he looked to his left. The alignment was good enough on the uneven ground. He just hoped the men could keep their footing, he had nearly landed on his ass twice just walking the line.

Duval heard the bark of a command to his right front, he could see the division staff out in front of the column. Then the order rippled down the column as each battalion commander repeated the order, "En avant! Vive l'Empereur!"

(Source)

Corporal John MacBain was worried, though they were pretty much out of sight of the French across the valley, protected by a tall hedge to their front, they had cut away parts of that hedge to let them fire to their front.

Private Dickie MacDonald looked over at his friend and said, "What are ye worried for, Corp? That sunken road and this great tall hedge will keep the Frenchies at bay. Dinnae ye see that, man?"

"Ye may be right, Dickie. But have ye noticed, we're a wee bit thin on the ground. The whole brigade wouldn't make but a regiment in the old days."

MacBain was right, the 42nd Highlanders maybe numbered 300, maybe less. They had been roughly handled by the French two days ago at Quatre Bras. The rest of the brigade - the Royal Scots, the East Essex, and the Gordon Highlanders - had all suffered. The East Essex nearly losing their colors to boot.

MacBain's ears perked up, there, that infernal yelling and drumming. "Do the French think tae scare us off the ground?"

Before MacDonald could respond, the pipes of the Scots began to swell and fill the smoky air. MacDonald held his firelock tightly and took a deep breath. He hoped not to make his mother back in Aberdeen sad, but damned if he would run this day, he'd sooner die where he stood!

The storming of La Haye Sainte²
Richard Knötel

Firing broke out as elements of Bourgeois's³ division neared the farm complex of La Haye Sainte. Though the rattle of musketry was barely perceptible above the roar of cannon and the shouting of thousands of men, it was there, just above the level of perception.

Which made Sergent Duval break out in a cold sweat. They were close to engaging the enemy, glimpses of whom could be spotted behind a ragged hedge. He could see their own skirmishers begin firing at their enemy counterparts as the redcoats endeavored to delay and disorganize the oncoming French.

Duval then realized that they were really disorganizing themselves as the men were shouting themselves hoarse. They were also starting to force the pace, not so much to come to grips with the enemy, but to get the thing over with.

"Keep your ranks men! Slow the pace, damn it, Bergeron, stop that useless shouting!"

But it was to no avail. As they covered the remaining ground between them, he saw a number of dead Englishmen, some of whom appeared to be wearing skirts? That thought amused Duval, he knew then that their opponents were Scottish. Crazy they were, every man jack. But apparently they died like any other man.

The last of the Scottish skirmishers, there were English among them as well Duval realized, had gotten through the hedge. Now it was the turn of the French soldiers to get through.

Delaplace got through the hedge, screaming in anger at the enemy, it was no longer "Vive l'Empereur," more a primal scream of rage. The hedge had scratched his face badly and had stripped the shako from his head. But he didn't care, he saw the redcoats to his front, not many of them.

Then he realized he was stumbling, as was the rest of his battalion. There was a damned sunken road behind the hedge!

MacDonald and the other Scots were firing as fast as they could but there were a lot of French coming through the hedge. He heard MacBain shouting, "Hold laddies, dinnae let the bastards pass!"

But step by step, the brigade was being driven back. They were outnumbered and outgunned and more and more Frenchmen were forcing their way through the hedge. Dear God, he thought to himself, we're all dead men!

Delaplace could feel it in his bones, the English were wavering. He screamed an incoherent war cry as he prepared to go after a man to his front with the bayonet, but Brassard got there first.

The Englishman went down with an agonized scream as Brassard drove his bayonet into the man's belly. Delaplace saw a sergeant wielding what looked to be some sort of pike coming at them. Before the sergeant got there, Delaplace fired his musket at the man, who dropped to the ground screaming, his face torn away.

"We have them! We have them! Form up men! Serrez vos rangs!⁴" Sergent Duval and the other officers and NCOs were gradually getting control of their men as the enemy continued to step back. They weren't running, but they were on the very brink of running.

Duval heard one of the officers bellowing, "The victory is ours! Vive l'Empereur! Vive l'Empereur!"

Then Duval's blood ran cold, he heard the sound of trumpets. Cavalry, had to be. He began trying to get the men to form square and was having some success, some of the others had heard the trumpet's call as well. 

Then they all felt the ground trembling at the impact of hundreds of horses' hooves.

Duval stared, open mouthed, for just a moment, moaning softly, "Mon Dieu, nous sommes perdue.⁵"

The British cavalry were on the move.

Scotland Forever!
Elizabeth Lady Butler
(Source)

¹ A French battalion, 400 to perhaps 600 men, depending on the unit, when in line would form three ranks. The battalion frontage could be 140 to 200 men. The men would be at close intervals, shoulder to shoulder. The distance between ranks was minimal, the men would nearly be breathing down the neck of the man in front of him.. The intervals between two battalions in such a column was also minimal, perhaps ten feet, maybe less. While presenting an imposing mass, such a formation would be cumbersome and unwieldy. Some authors claim this was the first time the French used this formation, others claim it had been used in Spain. Regardless of the real story of its supposed use before, many have questioned d'Erlon's choice of this formation. However, those deep formations with the wide frontages nearly carried the day. As we shall see.

² Though this painting depicts the fighting later in the day, well honestly, I just like the painting. It does show how the farm must have looked in 1815.

³ Sorry, it's in French, but you are a clever lot, I'm sure you know how to copy and paste into a translator. Oui?

⁴ Tighten your ranks!

⁵ My God, we are lost.

Nope, Not A Fiction Day, Sorry - It's Someone's Birthday

(Source)

That picture above?

Juvat's birthday cake, needs more candles but the fire marshal vetoed that.

But just in case, we've got this beauty on standby, ready to go.

In other news ...

Brutal day at work Monday, it's almost like I had to earn my pay for once. And I did, but with lots of help from my colleagues. No, they're not getting a cut of my wife's paycheck. I answer to a higher power.

Today would have been my Dad's 95th birthday, he's been gone for 13 years, but he's never far from my mind. Happy Birthday Dad! Miss you!

Dad in his soldiering days.

Lies, Damned Lies, and Statistics ...

Not sure where this lies in the above, but, somethin' ain't quite right ...

I'm used to seeing roughly a 1,000 hits a day, with the occasional spike as can be seen between the 15th and 19th of May. But starting near the end of last month, views skyrocketed to well over 8,000 a day (and climbing!), not sure where this is coming from, but I have three theories:

1. Blogger doesn't really know how to count, or gather statistics if you ain't paying for the "good stuff" - statistics wise.
2. Russian (and probably other, but I suspect Russian) spambots get really active from time to time, then settle down. This is the first time I've seen the stats go through the roof for more than a couple of days. We're at one week and counting ... (Maybe they're fleeing Ukraine?)
3. The blog has become really, really popular and we are attracting thousands of new readers. No, I don't really buy into this one.

But hey, the high numbers help to boost my already inflated ego. However, when each individual post garners maybe 300 views (tops, lately it's 200, if we're lucky), how does the overall hit count get that high? I mean we do one post a day, usually, sometimes two, but normally one.

Hey, I don't mind, but I feel a little undeserving, know what I mean?

Anyhoo, everybody wish juvat a happy birthday, I might be back tomorrow with another episode of Les Cent Jours. Or maybe not, we'll see how the paying gig goes!

Happy Birthday, Methuselah juvat!

And last, and certainly not least, let's not forget what happened 79 years ago today. One of the members of The Chant even wrote a book about it. Maybe it'll get published someday. (If that certain someone ever gets off his arse!)

A LCVP (Landing Craft, Vehicle, Personnel) from the U.S. Coast Guard-manned USS Samuel Chase disembarks troops of Company A, 16th Infantry, 1st Infantry Division (the Big Red One) wading onto the Fox Green section of Omaha Beach (Calvados, Basse-Normandie, France) on the morning of June 6, 1944. American soldiers encountered the newly formed German 352nd Division when landing. During the initial landing two-thirds of Company E became casualties.
(Source)

May their memory be a blessing.

Oh what a ...week or two!*

 Well, Campers, it's been a couple of weeks since I've updated you on my ongoing "retirement" projects.  So...Here goes.

Family Health and Safety 

Miss B and LJW had some good news on multiple fronts over the last few Doctor's Calls.  Weight is slowly going up.  The visit with the Surgeon was a good one.  Miss B is an excellent candidate for the G-Tube (the feeding tube inserted in her tummy rather than down her nose into it).  He also said that the probable cause for her throwing up and thereby not gaining weight was too much food going down for her to digest in one feeding.  Because there's no dial which determines how much to throw up, she wasn't getting enough calories, and because she's not getting enough calories, she wasn't gaining weight.  Less food in more meals with the G-tube should help solve that problem.  

On the breathing front (one of the even more important fronts), Miss B and LJW went to a different pulmonologist for a second opinion on how to get her to progress breathing on her own.  LJW had been slowly reducing the amount of supplemental oxygen she was receiving during the day.  While she did this, she was monitoring the O2 saturation percentage.  If it started going down, she pumped up the O2 supply for the rest of the day.  The first Doc wasn't happy with the process even though Miss B was down to 1/8 supplemental O2 for a few hours from 1/2 supplemental all 24.  Hence the second Doc. 

When LJW told the second Doc about what she was doing, she asked why she hadn't been doing that after the first month or two.  I'm not a Doctor, nor have I played one on TV, but that's been my question (kept in my head solely), for a while.  In any case, Miss B has a new Pulmonologist with the added benefit that she is quite a bit closer to us than the other.  Less time in the car commuting to appointments.

Win/Win.

In addition, not having to carry around O2, periods of no supplemental O2 opens up other life-enhancing opportunities. Like:

 

Taking the big stroller out for a walk with the two of them.  Much MO' bettah.  (Beans, it handles the gravel road better than the combo car seat/stroller they otherwise have.)

This progress is a big deal because in addition to the importance of the relationship between breathing and living, the primary holdup in reuniting LJW and Miss B with Little Juvat is the breathing issue.  So, lotta praying going on at Rancho Juvat.

College Station Doings

Over the past 14 days, I've been to College Station 3 times.  2 with Mrs. J.  Once flying solo.  (Yes, Beans, it's a wonder She approved it)

In ANY case...And as reported a few weeks ago, MBD and The Rev have purchased a house and are in the process of renovating it.  As I'm sure many of you know, being inveterate fixer upper show viewers, it's not what you see that's the problem, it's what's UNDER what you see that's going to be expensive.

That is becoming the case.  It's also apparent, based on several key indicators, that the house's previous role in life was as a rental to college students.  So, a lot of time discussing things with the contractors.  My role in this?

Not as much as I feared, thankfully.  MBD is pretty savvy and way tough.  I just tag along with my best "You better deal with her because you REALLY don't want to deal with me!" look.

Fortunately, no one's called my bluff.  

Oh yeah...I also am in charge of carrying things, painting things, visiting Lowes and picking up things we forgot.  I think that particular title is GoFer!  I've had lots of practice at that.  

As to Painting, when last we spoke, the kitchen looked like this.

The cutting in phase partially completed.

When I returned for the solo trip and walked in, the kitchen looked like this.

Report from the time of writing this is that the lowers are finished.  The doors have been removed and spraying the insides is in progress.  I've asked for a picture, but for some reason The Rev is somewhat busy on Sunday.

But, while he was doing that, MBD and I were adding a bit of interest to the boring walls in the master bedroom.

If you just imaging what that wall looked like with out the molding design on the wall...Mrs. J and I have been requested back sometime next week to begin work on this.

MBD doesn't like the molding around the sides and tops and wants an arch across each of the three columns.  As one might notice, the bookshelves are wider than tall, so some kind of a ellipsis will be needed to make it look right.  We're going to attach a bit wider molding on the two interior braces so it will match the outsides.  Still trying to figure out how to cut it smoothly.  A router probably, but how to control it is being researched.  Suggestions from our brilliant readers would be much appreciated.

Projects at Home

As to the project for my good friend's retirement, it's coming along quite nicely.  The writing implements are finished and in safe storage.

Pencil's on the left, pen on the right.

The latest lesson learned on turning, was that the finish also has thickness.  Both were turned all the way down to the bushings.  The pencil, which I did first, I applied 10 coats of CA glue as the finish.  You can see that the edge on the tip and the edge on the middle band are a bit further away from the metal than on the pen which only had 2 coats of CA glue applied.  The finish on both is about the same glossiness, so...Another important lesson learned.

Next part of the progress is to make the pen & pencil case for them.  Learning from the finish lesson, I decided I'd try turning some of that wood in a separate project. Earlier, I'd made a pen using Olivewood and made a fatal mistake doing that.  So, I'd given it to Mrs. J who likes it very much, but  there was no where to put it.  I've also never worked with Bloodwood before, so I wanted to see how it looked after being worked.  Win/Win,  I made Mrs. J a pen holder and used Bloodwood in it.

Thought it turned out pretty well.

While in College Station, the juvat family's "Birthday Week started.  1, 2 & 6 June are all Birthdays.  MBD & Little Juvat are the 1 &2.  Some Old Fart is the other.  However, this year had a little extra "Specialness" to it, as Little J is in Hong Kong.

 

We decided to celebrate by taking MBD and gang to a Tapas restaurant they'd always wanted to try.  As we were talking, I realized that Hong Kong is 13 hours ahead and that while it was the 1st here, it was the 2nd there.  Gave him a call and wished him a Happy Birthday.  Suffice it to say, it's a good thing long distance overseas cell phone rates are what they are (nothing) as it was a good time.

Oh, by the way, their wine selection was extraordinary.

Yes, they had a $400/oz cognac. No, Beans, I didn't try it. It was MBD's birthday and not mine.  Suffice it to say, my palate isn't refined enough for $800 Brandy.

Mrs. J and I RTB'd Saturday, got up and went to Church Sunday then to our usual Sunday Brunch place.  On exiting, we saw this car parked nearby.  I thought the sticker was hilarious.  YMMV

We're headed back to CStat sometime later in the week.  MBD's a hard taskmaster.  That having been said, I love her very much and am having a pretty good time.  But, Ben-Gay is still my friend.

Peace out, Y'all!

* In homage to Frankie Valli & The Four Seasons

The Eastern Flank

Dutch-Belgian carabiniers at Waterloo
Alphonse Lalauze (PD)

Some of the men around Napoléon had noticed what appeared to be a body of troops off in the distance to the east. De la Bédoyère heard these men chattering among themselves and stepped back to discover what had them all aflutter. The last thing the Emperor needed at the moment was a needless distraction.

"What is going on, gentlemen? The battle is about to commence and here you are, chattering like magpies."

One of the men, Capitaine Delort of the 7th Hussars, handed De la Bédoyère his glass, "There, mon Général, to the east, we think we see a body of troops moving on the hillside. Gauthier here," Delort said, nodding at a man in a Chasseur à Cheval uniform, "thinks it is nothing but the shadow from a cloud."

De la Bédoyère took the proffered glass and raised it in the direction pointed out by Delort. First he found the highest terrain in that direction, then he steadied the glass, there, something ...

Studying it for a few seconds he realized, those were troops. But whose? Grouchy was expected from that direction but it could as well be the Prussians.

Looking at Delort, De la Bédoyère said, "Perhaps it is a herd of cattle? The distance is rather far for me to really discern what it is. But it most certainly is not the shadow of a cloud."

Looking east from near Napoléon's position.
(Source)

The small party of soldiers from the 3rd Battalion of the 2nd Nassau Regiment were busy preparing their position within the farm complex of Papelotte, on the Duke of Wellington's far left flank.

Their sergeant, Fabrice Benoit, had been hurrying them along all morning, to his credit he was pitching in and was as sweaty and dirty as his men. Though it didn't make the work any easier, at least the men weren't complaining.

Korporaal Oliver Van Schepdael turned to his three Soldaats and beckoned them over to the wall which faced to the south. The men, Matthieu Carton, Bram Van Roy, and Daan Goossens, joined him there.

"See out there boys? The French are over there, our old buddies from Spain." For a few of the men had been there, when their unit served with the French.

Papelotte farm viewed from the south, i.e. the direction the French would approach from.
The site has changed a lot since 1815, the fancy tower to the left wasn't there in 1815.
(Source)

"D'ya think they'll come this way, Korporaal?" Soldaat Carton, the youngest of the men, a recent volunteer, asked the question. He sounded very nervous.

"Well, the English are over there," Van Schepdael pointed to the west, "Napoléon needs to beat them, he'll worry about us later. Besides, 1e Luitenant Spruijt told me earlier that the Prussians will be joining the party shortly. Or he hopes they will. For now, we hold this farm."

Some miles off, the Prussians were indeed coming. Though a fire had started in Wavre that morning before they had set off, some suspected French sympathizers of setting it, they had eventually gotten through the town. They could hear the cannonade in front of Hougoumont when the wind was right.

Though General der Infanterie Friedrich Wilhelm Freiherr von Bülow's IV Corps hadn't fought at Ligny, and were near full strength, the men were tired. Many of them were Landwehr¹ and weren't used to all of the marching they had been forced to do over the past week. But nearly every man in those units was anxious to meet the French in battle.

Many of the men had grown up under the French occupation, some had lost fathers and older brothers in the campaign of 1806. These men were green, and they were raw, but all hated the French and loved their field marshal, von Blücher.

A cheer sprang up as the column debouched from a wood into some pasture land. There, sitting his horse, was the old man himself, Generalfeldmarschall Gebhard Leberecht von Blücher, Fürst² von Wahlstatt, he was standing in his stirrups, hat held aloft, yelling ...

"Forward, my children! You would not make me a liar in front of my friend Wellington, would you? Forward, ever forward!"

As the cheering died down, one of the men in the ranks began to sing the old Lutheran hymn, Ein Feste Burg ist unser Gott³.

Those nearest the field marshal would later swear that they had seen a single tear drop down the old soldier's cheek, others said it was a rain drop, for intermittent rain showers were still occurring.

Tear or rain, the old warhorse was feeling very emotional that day. He knew if they could just make it to Wellington's aid in time, they could turn this tide and remove Bonaparte as a threat to European peace forever.

That very same man, Napoléon Bonaparte, was sitting at a small table near Rossomme Farm looking at his maps. He had been informed of the possible sighting of troops to the east. While he hoped it was Grouchy, he had a sneaking suspicion that they were Prussian. Grouchy had made no report that day.

Marbot's 7th Hussars had been sent to the east, along with a battalion of the 13e Régiment d'Infanterie Légère⁴, to be used by Marbot as he saw fit. For the moment, the Emperor had the battle before him to fight.

Maréchal Ney had reported that the grand battery⁵ had been assembled and was ready, d'Erlon's I Corps was in position. He had sent messengers to Reille to remind him that the fighting around Hougoumont was a diversion, nothing more. All seemed to be in place, so he looked at De la Bédoyère and said ...

"Let the attack begin."

As the cannon began to roar along the front of the French army, their commander, the Emperor of the French, went into the farmhouse, he desperately needed to lie down. Surely Ney could handle this fight?

"Wake me only if I am absolutely needed." he had snapped at De la Bédoyère.

"Of course, Sire. Get some rest."

De la Bédoyère wasn't overly concerned. Ney had his orders, as did Reille. They had sent scouts to the east to warn them of the Prussian advance, surely the Emperor could put his head down for a bit.

Couldn't he?

¹ Militia troops, ill-equipped and under-trained, but in Prussia's case, very patriotic and wanting to engage and defeat the French.

² Generally translated as "Prince."

³ The Prussians actually did sing this, we know it in English as "A Mighty Fortress is Our God."

⁴ 13th Regiment of Light Infantry.

⁵ That morning the artillery of I Corps, some from VI Corps, and some from the Guard had been emplaced forward of the main French position, on a small rise. Many sources say that there were 80 cannon in that battery, some give lower numbers, some question that the battery even existed. As it was a favorite tactic of Napoléon's, after all he began his career as a gunner, I have no doubt that the battery was formed and contained a substantial number of guns.

Thirteen!

George Raymond Stevenson
25 May 1964 – 21 May 2023
(Source)

Not feeling the urge to be creative today, but I have also been remiss in forgetting to commemorate the passing of one of my favorite actors, Ray Stevenson. He played Titus Pullo in one of my favorite HBO mini-series, Rome.

You died too young, Pullo.

As for the title of the post ...

(Viewer discretion advised)

Godspeed, Ray.

And So It Begins ...

French Foot Artillery
(Source)

From where he sat on his horse, Général de Brigade Jean-Baptiste, Baron Pelletier¹, commanding the artillery of the II Corps, could see what appeared to be buildings just beyond the trees which seemed to fill the small valley to his front.

But on the slope opposite where his batteries were positioned, he could see infantry, cavalry, and artillery. His gun captains knew their business, he was ready, they were ready. So he nodded to the gun captain of his right-most gun.

"Feu!" that worthy bellowed, which was followed by the report of his 6-pounder gun, followed almost immediately by the gun next to it, then on down the line to the left-most battery commanded by Capitaine Jean-Louis Marie Tacon.

As the cannonade rippled down the line, Pelletier grinned as he heard the deeper roar of the reserve artillery, six 12-pounders and two 5.5 inch² howitzers. The English would feel those, even at a distance of what Pelletier judged to be 1200 paces.

As shot began to fall among the positions of the men deployed behind Hougoumont, some of the battalion commanders had their men lie down. Many had noticed that due to the condition of the ground the artillery weren't able to "bounce" their rounds into the troops.³

The sodden ground was absorbing the shot for the most part. For the explosive rounds fired by the howitzers, many of those had their fuses go out when they landed in the mud.

Though the French gunfire wasn't that effective, it did cause some of the Angl0-Allied troops to pull back just beyond the crest of the ridge, to further shelter the men from the guns.

Pelletier was watching the far ridge through his glass and saw some units falling back out of sight. He took this as a sign that the English might be retreating, he called to his aide.

"Jean-Claude, my compliments to Prince Jérôme,⁴ les Anglais seem to be pulling back from the ridge, now would be a good time to drive their skirmishers from those woods below."

The aide galloped off.

Général de Division Prince Jérôme Bonaparte received the handwritten message himself, rather than waiting for an aide to handle it. He was impatient to get into action.

With the classic impatience of the Bonaparte clan, he gestured at the messenger from Pelletier. "Quickly man, give it here!"

He read the message quickly, "Hhmm, only skirmishers in the valley. Monsieur le Comte," he said to his second-in-command Général de Division Armand-Charles, Comte Guilleminot, "I thought there was a substantial farm complex inside those trees. Pelletier only sees skirmishers."

Guilleminot shook his head, "He can't see much from up there, maybe the roofs of the farm but not what's inside the trees. Maybe he assumes that the units on the ridge only have their skirmishers in there. But I saw more, Nassauers and Hanoverians in the wood, Englishmen occupying the farm complex, which has been prepared for defense."

Jérôme thought for a moment, then called to a waiting aide-de-camp, "Capitaine Jonquil, my compliments to Baron Bauduin, he is to take his brigade into the woods, using a heavy line of skirmishers out front, and drive the enemy from the woods and the farm complex!"

Guilleminot thought the move premature, send skirmishers in to fix the enemy position, then perhaps send a brigade, or more, in to contest the farm and the adjacent wood. But the Prince wasn't known for his patience.

Privates Jürgen Stroop and Wilhelm Kessler, light infantrymen from Nassau, heard the drums of the French and within moments saw a line of French infantry advancing slowly into the wood.

"Hold your fire, Kessler. I shoot, then you wait until I reload, then you shoot. We take turns. Our job is to slow the enemy down, cause casualties if we can, but our job is to delay. When you shoot, look for the men waving their arms around and with the fancier hats, those will be sergeants and officers."

Kessler grinned, he rather liked the idea of shooting the types of men who made his life miserable.

Their green uniforms blended in somewhat with the trees, though there wasn't much in the way of underbrush, there was enough to provide them concealment.

As the French got closer, Stroop saw a man on foot, carrying a sword. Had to be an officer. He brought his musket up slowly.

The captain of light infantry was searching the wood ahead, he knew there were enemy in here. His company's job was to drive them back so that their own supports could move up and drive the enemy from the wood.

"Alors, my boys, don't bunch up, keep your intervals ..." as the last word left his mouth, he saw movement to his front. Then he felt as if he'd been punched in the stomach.

"Slide to the rear, Kessler. I'm sure I hit that officer. Displace to your left a bit. Don't move in a straight line."

Stroop was reloading as he moved, difficult but not impossible. He had removed his bayonet, and had had Kessler do the same, to avoid impaling his own hand as he reloaded.

"Merde! The capitaine is dead, come on lads, I see the bastards who did it!" The junior sergeant let his emotions take him to a place he shouldn't go. "En avant! À la baïonnette!"

At least three Nassauers had their muskets leveled at the young man, as he charged forward, those three muskets all fired, nearly in unison.

The young sergeant from Gascony was thrown back from the impact of the three lead balls, all to his torso. He was dead before he hit the ground.

Stroop was heading back to the rear faster than he wanted to, but the French had their blood up. He had watched aghast as a party of French skirmishers had caught up with two of his countrymen. Both were bayoneted to death without mercy.

"Come on, Kessler, we need to get back to the chateau. There are too many Frenchmen coming at us."

But Kessler had dropped to one knee and was aiming his weapon towards the advancing French. Stroop wanted to run, but his training and his sense of duty overrode his sense of self-preservation. He stopped and prepared to cover Kessler, who, at that moment, fired.

And missed.

Sergent-chef Guy Chalmont felt a ball whistle past, that one had been close.

"Guy, to your left, there is the cochon who fired at you!"

Chalmont turned, indeed, he saw two green-coated men, he knew they were Nassauers. "At them boys! Cut them down!"

The man kneeling stood no chance, Chalmont's bayonet took the young Nassauer in the chest. The man standing thrust the muzzle of his musket at Chalmont's face, which was parried by the man to Chalmont's left.

It was a good thing he did, for Chalmont's bayonet was stuck in the dying soldier's chest. Putting his foot on the dying Nassauer he tried to pull it out, to no avail.

Stroop was screaming with fury, his stroke had been parried, but fortunately it had left that Frenchman overextended. Stroop swung the butt of his musket at the Frenchman and felt it connect with the side of the man's head.

That man dropped like a stone, but at the same time, the French sergeant had managed to free his bayonet from Kessler's corpse. As Stroop prepared to fend off the French sergeant, he took a step backwards. He felt a hot agony pierce his side as a French bayonet found him.

Stroop died under the French bayonets, within just a few feet of Kessler's body.

Chalmont was panting with exertion, they had arrived at the edge of the wood and what he saw filled him with dread. There, across a few paces of open ground, was a tall brick wall, the top of which bristled with English muskets.

He started to order the remnant of his section to fall back, but the roar of an English volley drowned him out.

Chalmont was down on the ground, there seemed to be no sound, he could feel movement around him, he felt someone tugging at his legs, but then that sensation was gone.

He lost all feeling in his legs and he felt a coldness spreading up into his belly and advancing through his body. He knew what it was, Death was coming for him.

He blinked once, then again. His vision was fading, he wondered ...

Then he felt no more.

"My Prince, Baron Bauduin reports that they have driven the skirmishers from the wood in our front. But he also reports that there is a substantial block of buildings occupied by a great many English. He wants to use his entire brigade to assault that place."

Guilleminot shook his head at the aide, then turned to Jérôme, "I would advise sending this information back to the Emperor. I don't think he knows the problem we face here. I would recommend a holding action, put just enough pressure on this place to keep the English fixed in place. We could maneuver the rest of the division around to the left flank ..."

Jérôme interrupted him, "Do you think I don't know what I'm doing Monsieur le Comte? I understand that the order was to clear the wood. I believe that includes this farm complex as well."

"We should at least go forward and see the situation ..."

Turning from Guilleminot, Jérôme told the aide, "My compliments to the Baron. He may use his brigade as he sees fit."

Turning to a second aide, he said, "My compliments to Baron Soye,⁵ he is to prepare his brigade to support Bauduin."

As that man galloped off, Guilleminot scribbled a message on a scrap of paper from his valise. Turning to his own aide-de-camp, he said, "Give this to Reille, let him know what we're doing, see if he approves."

The man galloped off, causing Jérôme to turn to his second-in-command with a question in his eye. "What was that about?"

"Merely informing our Corps commander what we're doing."

"Very well."

Defence of the Chateau de Hougoumont
Denis Dighton
(Source)

The battle for the chateau would rage the entire day.

¹ French orders of battle: here and here. The latter source has the order of battle for the entire campaign, all three armies involved.

² In French this would be referred to as a "obusier de 5.5 pouces." One pouce being roughly one inch. Pouce translates literally as "thumb."

³ The range of a cannon firing solid shot could be nearly doubled by having the shot hit in front of an enemy unit, which would kick up stones and dirt into the enemy, increasing the effectiveness of the ball, which would then plunge through the formation before continuing on, hopefully to bounce again. A 12-pounder gun, with a normal range of 900 meters, could nearly double that.

⁴ The younger brother of Napoléon.

⁵ Général de Brigade Baron Jean-Louis Soye commanded the 2nd Brigade of Jérôme's division, Bauduin commanded the 1st.

Morning, 18 June 1815

Dawn of Waterloo
Lady Butler
(Source)

"Johnnie, wake up!"

Corporal John MacBain, Johnnie to his friends, opened his eyes. He was wet, he ached all over, and he was in no mood to suffer his fellow man.

Glaring at the interrupter of his sleep, he grumbled, "What the Hell do ye want, MacDonald?"

"Can ye no' hear that?" MacDonald said, pointing to his right.

"Ah!" MacBain heard the regiment's trumpeters sounding reveille, he sat up, and groaned. He and most of the regiment had been in the saddle all day yesterday. Half of the day in the rain, which was still coming down. He did note that the sky was lightening in the east.

"Is there anything to eat, Dickie?"

"Aye, Johnnie. stirabout¹, lots of it."

"Yummy." MacBain stood up and looked at the sorry state of his uniform. Without scraping away a layer of mud, one could barely discern that it was a uniform. Going into his valise, he pulled his brush out.

"I guess I'd better scrape some of this mud off before the Sar'nt Major sees me. Have you been down to the horse lines?"

"Aye, they've been fed. Not much mud on 'em, except for their feet."

"I guess if I'd stood up all night I'd be clean too."

"Aye," MacDonald laughed, "and no less wet!"

The Army Awakens
Illustration from L'Epopeé by Job
(Source)

Soldat Pierre Delaplace awakened in a sea of glutinous mud. He was on his back, using his pack as a pillow. He thought for a moment and wondered if he'd ever been this miserable before, yes, in Russia. He sat up.

"I was wondering if you were just going to sleep in today." Soldat Roger Brassard said. He had only awakened moments before and was busy scraping the mud from his trousers. He thought about removing his greatcoat, he knew the back of it had to be caked in mud as the garment felt ten pounds heavier. As it was still raining, he opted to leave it on and hoped that the rain would clean it off.

"Well, as much as I'd like to sleep in, the neighbors are making a terrible racket over there."

Brassard chuckled as he looked over at the battalion's assembled drummers, busy beating Le Diane². Then he said, "I wonder if rations came up during the night?"

"Up those roads? The only thing moving up those roads last night were guns, caissons, and the ammunition wagons. Rations? I suppose the Emperor assumes we'll be eating in Brussels tonight. But I tell you, first corpse I come across, I'll be looking for biscuit."

"What if the dead man is French?"

"Then I'll hope he's an Immortal, those lucky bastards always get fed first. If not, I'll look for a dead Englishman!"

Brassard shook his head, "Like the Guard would go in first. You're  more likely to find a dead pharaoh than a dead Guardsman!"

Both men turned as a flourish of trumpets announced the arrival of the very men they both hated and envied, the Imperial Guard.

The Guard arrives.
(Source)

Sergent Nicolas Guilbert took a deep breath, then let it out. They had finally been called to a halt. Word spread through the ranks that the Emperor was nearby. Some of the men were excited, Guilbert just wanted to get off of his feet for a few minutes and perhaps have a bite to eat.

The Guard had pushed hard throughout the long, stormy night. When the last of the artillery had passed, they climbed up out of the sodden fields and marched on the chaussée itself, though slick with mud, it was better than slogging through the fields beside the road.

Guilbert looked up to see Capitaine Philippe Pierlot making his way back down the column. "Hey Capitaine, what's the plan here?"

Pierlot was somewhat startled to be hailed from the ranks like that, he looked up, ready to have a sharp word with the offender. When he saw who had called to him, he relaxed. He and Guilbert went back a long ways.

"Nicolas, someday you're going to shout at an officer and you'll be lucky to keep your stripes. How are you and the men holding up?"

"Tired, Sir, and hungry."

"We have no idea where the ration carts have got to, foraging parties have gone out, but this area seems to have been stripped clean. We're a little late to la Fête³ but I suspect we'll get a break while the ground dries. Still too wet to move the guns in the fields."

It was only then that Guilbert realized that the rain had stopped and the sun was appearing fitfully through the scudding clouds.

(Source)

"The ground should be dry enough before noon, Sire. The rain has stopped and there is a nice breeze which will help things along."

Napoléon nodded and dismissed his artillery chief with a wave of his hand. He hadn't slept well, his stomach was bothering him and he could feel his piles⁴ acting up. Lack of sleep, many hours in the saddle, Napoléon understood the cause, but why, on this day?

Général de Division Comte Reille leaned over the table as the Emperor's staff began to put food out. "Sire, I beg you, do not underestimate the English. They ..."

The Emperor shifted in his chair, he felt a sharp pain which instantly made him snap at Reille. "I tell you Reille, and you others who fought them in Spain, this Wellington is a bad general and the English are bad troops. Defeating them will be no more taxing than eating breakfast. Now enough of that, gentlemen, please help yourselves," he swept his hand over the table. "We have a long day ahead of us."

Corporal Michael Wareham was back at the garden wall of Hougoumont, he could see green coated men in the woods to the south moving about. It seemed to him that they had finished their breakfast and were seeking good positions.

Wareham couldn't imagine the French attacking this place, it was solidly built. The thatched roofs on a number of the buildings gave him pause though, fire could roar through thatch in an instant. But after the soaking from last night, fire didn't really concern him all that much.

What did concern him was a chat he'd had with a Hanoverian soldier, whose unit was also deployed in the woods to the south. He'd traded the man a bit of tobacco, which he didn't use, for a bit of brandy, which he was fond of. The German spoke some English, though with a heavy accent.

"So English, there are a great many Franzosen beyond this wood. At least, how do you say, zwei Divisionen?"

Wareham knew enough German to understand that. "Two divisions, why that's some eight to ten thousand men. Are you sure?"

"I didn't count them, English. But I served with them in the old days, I know how many I saw. They're preparing their soup now, but when this dries out," he said gesturing at the sodden turf, "I think they will come. Your Vellin'ton intends to fight, ja?"

"I daresay he does, thanks Fritz, good luck today!"

"You as well, English. Danke für den Tabak!"

As the German had gone back into the wood. Wareham realized that they would fight today. From the sounds of it, Boney had brought his entire army this way.

Private Mick Wilcox interrupted his thoughts, "Go back and get some tea, Corp. Rumor has it there's biscuit as well."

Wareham saw the crumbs on Wilcox's tunic, "Brush yourself off before the Sar'nt Major sees you. Are you relieving me here?"

"That I am, Corp, that I am. I hope you'll be back before the festivities begin?"

"Depends on my leftenant, but I'm sure I'll be back here. Keep your head down, Mick."

"Aye, that I will, Corp, that I will."

Across the valley, Wilcox could hear a band start to play, then others joined in. Grumbling, he said to himself, "I'll bet Boney's putting on a show right now, trying to scare us off the ground. But we'll see about that, that we will."

¹ Porridge made by stirring oatmeal in boiling water or milk.

² The French drum call for reveille.

³ The party, French Army slang for war.

⁴ Piles is a common term for hemorrhoids, the Emperor suffered from that problem. As do I.

⁵ Frenchmen.