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Started By
Message
A French soldier at Waterloo
Posted on 5/5/16 at 10:27 am
Posted on 5/5/16 at 10:27 am
Does anyone here remember a thread from about about a month ago where someone posted a story from reddit about what it was like to be a French soldier in the battle of Waterloo?
The original thread was something about wars fought using outdated tactics I think. I forgot to bookmark and now I can't find it.
The original thread was something about wars fought using outdated tactics I think. I forgot to bookmark and now I can't find it.
4
Posted on 5/5/16 at 10:38 am to johnnydrama
I remember it.
Posted on 5/5/16 at 10:38 am to johnnydrama
from the reddit thread. This is incredible writing.
quote:
It is the early 1800's and you are a veteran soldier in the French Army. You were trained to march in the giant column formations that Napoleon used to smash through every army in the European mainland. The enemy soldiers were decently trained and fired at the French columns from a line formation two or three men deep, but the columns could be up to twenty men wide and hundreds deep. When a man in the front line went down, the man behind him would step over his body and when the musket smoke cleared - from the enemy's perspective - no damage was done at all. The column was a human battering ram, fearsome with its promise of inevitable death to the human walls of the line formation.
The enemy was free to shoot volley after volley. Their hands and faces burned from the flash of their muskets. Their throats became parched from the gunpowder that got in their mouths when they ripped open a new packet to reload their muskets. All their struggles and pain were worthless. Despite losing men, the column would seem to grow as it moved ever closer to the scorched and thirsty enemy. This illusion destroyed the enemy's morale, weakened their already tired arms, and withered their resolve to ashes. If the enemy soldiers didn't break and run before the French column (which they did more often than not), the column broke through the thin line, divided the enemy line in half (or thirds, or fourths, depending on how many columns there were), and destroyed them piece by piece. Napoleon's columns were his juggernauts.
Now, you are standing in a field of trampled grass, the first rays of sunlight slowly warming the sky from black to orange as if god was stirring the coals of a heavenly camp fire. As the officers shout orders to the sergeants and the sergeants echo the orders, adding shoves and kicks for those still groggy from a cold night's sleep, you know it is time to smash the British. They are the only enemy left. Before you are shoved into your spot in the column, you spot the enemy up at the top of a gently sloping hill in their line formation, two rows deep. You take your place and your world shrinks to the men around you, but even then you can sometimes glimpse the British officers on their horses behind the Infantry. The British line is long, but you know it is as thin and feeble as rotten wood. You also know that you are in the third row of the column and that is a very dangerous place to be. You pray that this battle is over quickly and you tell yourself that your prayers are not needed. The British will break just like every other army the French have faced.
The drums start pounding and the column lurches to life. The soldiers around you fall into step. The constant motion of so many men packed so closely together can be disorienting, but this isn't your first battle. You hear someone vomit, not everyone is a veteran like you. Your bayonet is already attached to your musket according to the orders given before the march began. That is a reassuring sign, this should be an easy victory. Muskets are twice as hard to reload with a fixed bayonet, so it means your officers aren't expecting to have to reload. One volley, a charge before the slaughter, and the day is yours. You keep walking, then you hear something odd.
It's a gunshot, but it has a distinct crack to it you haven't heard before. The man to your left mutters, "The damn Riflemen are here." Your heart starts beating a bit faster, the riflemen use a new type of gun that is far more accurate than a musket, the British are the only ones using them in war. You're not sure why it's more accurate, but it is. You've heard that a well aimed rifle in the hands of someone who knows how to use it can shoot the nose off a poor bastard's face at two hundred yards. The British have been using them to kill French officers from a distance, creating chaos in the midst of battle and giving it over wholly to uncivilized and ignoble men like you and your friends. Officers like to think they are there to bring honor to battle and glory to death, but they aren't the ones marching in the column. As far as you are concerned, the British would do well to take them down a notch or two with their rifles. At least that keeps them from aiming at you. However, the problem with the rifle is that is takes twice as long to reload as it does to reload a musket, if not longer. Any soldier worth his spit knows that rifles are a fad and will never be a real threat. They are useful for hunting and killing over-embellished officers, but not for actually turning the tide of battles.
As the column creeps closer to the British line, your attention snaps back to the battle as you hear the British officers shouting orders. You don't speak much English, but you know the words "Ready!", "Present!" and "FIRE!" A peal of crackling thunder rolls across the battle field. You heard it many times before, hundreds of muskets shooting at once. This time however, it sounds more cohesive. You've heard rumors that the British are much better trained and much more disciplined than any other army you've faced. It is said that they drill with live rounds instead of simply going through the motions with an unloaded musket.
You hear a soft pattering sound, like the beginning of a storm; musket balls finding their targets. The lead rain does not find you, in fact, without the thunder you wouldn't have known that the storm had begun. A heartbeat later and you hear the first screams as the shots register to their owners.You keep marching. Two drum beats later, you step over a dead Frenchman and look down to see if you knew him. He is a stranger, so you march on and leave him staring blankly at the sky.
You can see more of the battle now since you have become part of the second row instead of the third. A smear of dirty gray smoke masks the British line, but you know they are reloading. You count the seconds in your head while you picture the enemy soldiers dropping the butts of their muskets, grabbing a packet out of their ammo pouches, gripping it in their teeth and tearing it in half. The packets are full of gun powder and they pour the bigger half down the barrel of the musket while they grip the smaller half between their teeth. Then, they shove the paper into the barrel, followed by the musket ball. Out comes the ramrod and down goes the wadding and musket ball to rejoin the powder at the bottom of the barrel. They slide the ramrod back into it's slot below the barrel of the musket. They raise the musket back to their shoulder and pour the smaller half of the packet into the flash pan. They cock the musket and wait for the order to fire.
Another volley rolls across the field and you instinctively realize you hadn't counted as high as you do when you practice your firing drills. The British reload faster than the French. Your thoughts are interrupted as the entire row in front of you jerks and falls, either dead or clutching at wounds. Several men in your row fall as well. You are now part of the front row and you can see the British line, still at least fifty paces away. You start counting again, and it takes every ounce of discipline in your mind to stay in step with the drums.
quote:
It is the early 1800's and you are a veteran soldier in the French Army. You were trained to march in the giant column formations that Napoleon used to smash through every army in the European mainland. The enemy soldiers were decently trained and fired at the French columns from a line formation two or three men deep, but the columns could be up to twenty men wide and hundreds deep. When a man in the front line went down, the man behind him would step over his body and when the musket smoke cleared - from the enemy's perspective - no damage was done at all. The column was a human battering ram, fearsome with its promise of inevitable death to the human walls of the line formation.
The enemy was free to shoot volley after volley. Their hands and faces burned from the flash of their muskets. Their throats became parched from the gunpowder that got in their mouths when they ripped open a new packet to reload their muskets. All their struggles and pain were worthless. Despite losing men, the column would seem to grow as it moved ever closer to the scorched and thirsty enemy. This illusion destroyed the enemy's morale, weakened their already tired arms, and withered their resolve to ashes. If the enemy soldiers didn't break and run before the French column (which they did more often than not), the column broke through the thin line, divided the enemy line in half (or thirds, or fourths, depending on how many columns there were), and destroyed them piece by piece. Napoleon's columns were his juggernauts.
Now, you are standing in a field of trampled grass, the first rays of sunlight slowly warming the sky from black to orange as if god was stirring the coals of a heavenly camp fire. As the officers shout orders to the sergeants and the sergeants echo the orders, adding shoves and kicks for those still groggy from a cold night's sleep, you know it is time to smash the British. They are the only enemy left. Before you are shoved into your spot in the column, you spot the enemy up at the top of a gently sloping hill in their line formation, two rows deep. You take your place and your world shrinks to the men around you, but even then you can sometimes glimpse the British officers on their horses behind the Infantry. The British line is long, but you know it is as thin and feeble as rotten wood. You also know that you are in the third row of the column and that is a very dangerous place to be. You pray that this battle is over quickly and you tell yourself that your prayers are not needed. The British will break just like every other army the French have faced.
The drums start pounding and the column lurches to life. The soldiers around you fall into step. The constant motion of so many men packed so closely together can be disorienting, but this isn't your first battle. You hear someone vomit, not everyone is a veteran like you. Your bayonet is already attached to your musket according to the orders given before the march began. That is a reassuring sign, this should be an easy victory. Muskets are twice as hard to reload with a fixed bayonet, so it means your officers aren't expecting to have to reload. One volley, a charge before the slaughter, and the day is yours. You keep walking, then you hear something odd.
It's a gunshot, but it has a distinct crack to it you haven't heard before. The man to your left mutters, "The damn Riflemen are here." Your heart starts beating a bit faster, the riflemen use a new type of gun that is far more accurate than a musket, the British are the only ones using them in war. You're not sure why it's more accurate, but it is. You've heard that a well aimed rifle in the hands of someone who knows how to use it can shoot the nose off a poor bastard's face at two hundred yards. The British have been using them to kill French officers from a distance, creating chaos in the midst of battle and giving it over wholly to uncivilized and ignoble men like you and your friends. Officers like to think they are there to bring honor to battle and glory to death, but they aren't the ones marching in the column. As far as you are concerned, the British would do well to take them down a notch or two with their rifles. At least that keeps them from aiming at you. However, the problem with the rifle is that is takes twice as long to reload as it does to reload a musket, if not longer. Any soldier worth his spit knows that rifles are a fad and will never be a real threat. They are useful for hunting and killing over-embellished officers, but not for actually turning the tide of battles.
As the column creeps closer to the British line, your attention snaps back to the battle as you hear the British officers shouting orders. You don't speak much English, but you know the words "Ready!", "Present!" and "FIRE!" A peal of crackling thunder rolls across the battle field. You heard it many times before, hundreds of muskets shooting at once. This time however, it sounds more cohesive. You've heard rumors that the British are much better trained and much more disciplined than any other army you've faced. It is said that they drill with live rounds instead of simply going through the motions with an unloaded musket.
You hear a soft pattering sound, like the beginning of a storm; musket balls finding their targets. The lead rain does not find you, in fact, without the thunder you wouldn't have known that the storm had begun. A heartbeat later and you hear the first screams as the shots register to their owners.You keep marching. Two drum beats later, you step over a dead Frenchman and look down to see if you knew him. He is a stranger, so you march on and leave him staring blankly at the sky.
You can see more of the battle now since you have become part of the second row instead of the third. A smear of dirty gray smoke masks the British line, but you know they are reloading. You count the seconds in your head while you picture the enemy soldiers dropping the butts of their muskets, grabbing a packet out of their ammo pouches, gripping it in their teeth and tearing it in half. The packets are full of gun powder and they pour the bigger half down the barrel of the musket while they grip the smaller half between their teeth. Then, they shove the paper into the barrel, followed by the musket ball. Out comes the ramrod and down goes the wadding and musket ball to rejoin the powder at the bottom of the barrel. They slide the ramrod back into it's slot below the barrel of the musket. They raise the musket back to their shoulder and pour the smaller half of the packet into the flash pan. They cock the musket and wait for the order to fire.
Another volley rolls across the field and you instinctively realize you hadn't counted as high as you do when you practice your firing drills. The British reload faster than the French. Your thoughts are interrupted as the entire row in front of you jerks and falls, either dead or clutching at wounds. Several men in your row fall as well. You are now part of the front row and you can see the British line, still at least fifty paces away. You start counting again, and it takes every ounce of discipline in your mind to stay in step with the drums.
This post was edited on 5/5/16 at 10:44 am
Posted on 5/5/16 at 10:39 am to johnnydrama
Damn a frech soldier from waterloo is still alive?
Posted on 5/5/16 at 10:39 am to cattus
witnessed
Posted on 5/5/16 at 10:42 am to Cosmo
quote:If so, I seriously doubt he's "frech".
Damn a frech soldier from waterloo is still alive?
Posted on 5/5/16 at 10:43 am to fr33manator
2
quote:
You see the smoke lingering in front of the British line. A stray gust of wind blows from the north and the smoke dissipates. Your line of sight is clear and you watch the second line of British soldiers present their muskets. You are shocked that only one line of enemy soldiers managed to drop the entire front row of French troops, you had assumed they had fired both ranks again as they did for the first volley. The enemy is well trained indeed. That does not bode well for you. You watch the officer's sword rise into the air and time seems to slow down. As the sword falls, your heart drops with it. You watch the smoke pour out of the barrels and the contents of your bladder pour out into your pants. Something smashes into your thigh and you hear a bone snap, either yours or the man next to you who suddenly is turning the sky from orange to red as the top half of his head explodes. You don't really notice the blood on your face or the bits of brain clinging to your jacket because the musket ball hits you harder than any punch. The force of the shot knocks you back and your leg gives out as a jagged piece of your femur stabs through your leg from the inside out. You fall to the ground and someone steps on your back as the column marches on. Your instincts take over and even though you are in shock, somehow you crawl out of the column. You drag yourself away and realize that you have just become a spectator in this battle.
Through the pain, you watch as the British fire and reload faster than any army you've seen in countless battles. The French column continues to march forward, but in the time it takes them to advance five paces, they lose a rank. Overall, it is not a very big net gain, but they are making progress. The British line is just as thin and frail as any other line formation. There is hope for victory. Victory brings doctors and fresh water.
The drums keep beating, the rifles crack sporadically, and the muskets thunder rhythmically for what seems like hours but could only be minutes. The pain in your leg is your constant companion but it's starting to fade. The column seems to be walking on a carpet of dead bodies, you think you recognize a few of them.
Then, you come to a horrific realization: the British are winning. They are killing the men in the column faster than the column is advancing. The rifles are taking their toll on the officers. The men are tripping over bodies that are stacked two or three men high. The column is losing momentum in the front while the men in the back continue to push forward.
The order is given to retreat. You start dragging yourself backwards, the pain in your leg is almost gone. The retreat is in full swing and the British are moving. At first you think they are advancing to press the retreat on the French. You realize they will get to you before you get to safety and someone will most likely slit your throat to get at the coins in your pockets or the boots on your feet. Panic starts to set in, but then you realize the British are not advancing, they are actually moving backwards.
You hear cannon fire from behind you, the French must be guarding their retreat. You see two men in the British line become a red smear on the ground as a cannonball plows through them. You smile at their deaths although you know it is no victory, the thin line formation does not suffer much from cannon fire. Then, you hear a horse behind you and a line of French cavalry race past. One of the horses almost tramples you. Your spirits soar, the British might be able to shoot faster than the columns can advance, but not faster than a horse can gallop! The cavalry will surely break the line with hoof and pistol and saber. Then, what's left of the columns can fill the gaps, widen them, and turn retreat into victory.
Your cheer dies in your throat however, when you look back and see that the movement in the British line was them reforming into a square formation and fixing their bayonets. The thin human wall has transformed into a solid human fortress. They fell back past the crest of the hill so the cannons wouldn't be able to hit them. You don't understand how you can see them if they backed up over the hill, but then you realize you are floating above your body. A long red smear connects the spot where you were shot to the spot where you died. Your blood glistens brightly in the sunlight and you find the rich red color oddly beautiful when paired with the pale white of your dead face. You do not, however, like the deep black of the flies that are already crawling across your lifeless eyes. As your death sinks in, you try to shrug but you don't have shoulders. You decide you knew you would probably die in battle and you might as well enjoy what's left of the show. You feel oddly detached to the outcome of the battle now that you are dead and not part of the French army anymore.
You watch the battle from a bird's point of view.
The cavalry crash onto the squares like waves onto a rocky shore. Every time they wash past, they leave dead French men and dead French horses behind which the British use as crude obstacles to obstruct the next charge. The cannonballs drop from the sky to ricochet off the crest of the hill and over the heads of the British soldiers, doing no damage at all. Eventually, the French column reforms, bolstered by the reserve troops and new officers, and it advances over the crest of the hill. The British Riflemen fell back too, but they see new targets and begin picking off easy targets once again. The squares are creeping backwards inch by inch and you remember from practice drills how very difficult and time consuming it is to maneuver in that formation. You can only imagine the discipline it takes to move while fending off cavalry charges time and again. As the French column moves over the hill, British cannon hidden in the treeline at the other edge of the field open fire, shooting over the heads of their own troops and carving bloody paths through the thick French column. As ineffective as cannon fire is to a line formation, it is terrifyingly effective against a column formation. The British cannon can't miss, and each cannonball is killing a score of men and leaving gaps so large the soldiers don't even try to fill them. The French column is shred to pieces within minutes.
The French call it quits, retreat back over the hilltop, and run. The British line and square have outmaneuvered the column and the cavalry, inflicting horrible casualties upon the French while suffering very few casualties themselves. You see a white light and decide to see where it leads. - The End.
So as you can see, it's not just the line formation itself that wins the day. The discipline of the soldiers and the overall battle plan add a lot to the end result. The French were able to use the column against the line to great effect in the beginning of the war, but then the British would defeat them over and over again using the same line formation the men of the column had come to think of as a joke.
Once rifles caught on though, warfare changed to flanking and maneuvering a lot more. With rifles, it was much easier to hit your target and since you WERE a target, you needed to hide most of the time and only move in short bursts from cover to cover. I hope that helps.
TL;DR - It's not the size of the formation, it's the technique you use to advance your formation and penetrate the enemy's defenses. Oh yeah baby.
This post was edited on 5/5/16 at 10:46 am
Posted on 5/5/16 at 10:43 am to fr33manator
Here's the thread
This post was edited on 5/5/16 at 10:47 am
Posted on 5/5/16 at 10:44 am to cattus
quote:
I remember it.
OK, I guess I should have asked if anyone could provide a link to it.
Posted on 5/5/16 at 10:47 am to johnnydrama
Posted on 5/5/16 at 10:47 am to fr33manator
Only a third of Wellington's army were British though. The writer only talks about the British.
Posted on 5/5/16 at 10:48 am to johnnydrama
Posted on 5/5/16 at 11:35 am to Binx
quote:Thanks! I tip my cap to both you and fr33!
LINK
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