A French soldier at Waterloo

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.