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Thread: [(R:TW Mod) Napoleonic Total War II Story/AAR] The Recollections Of Rifleman Boid [Updated: 24/03/12]

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    McScottish's Avatar The Scribbling Scotsman
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    Default [(R:TW Mod) Napoleonic Total War II Story/AAR] The Recollections Of Rifleman Boid [Updated: 24/03/12]





    Please, see below, and be enlightened!



    Mod: Napoleonic Total War II, Campaign Sub-Mod

    Faction: Britain

    Campaign/Battle difficulty: Very Hard/Very Hard

    Unit size: Large

    Graphics settings: High

    AAR name: The Recollections Of Rifleman Boid

    Short description: This AAR will mainly focus on the journey and life of the AAR's "narrator" as he moves about and participates in all manner of things. More like a story/novel rather than an AAR. This will be a mainly narrative story influenced by the in-game campaign, few pictures will be included (if any), so if you dislike reading then this AAR won't be for you.

    The low-down: Since I was a very young man I have been fascinated by the time period known as the Napoleonic war, after that great man, the Emperor Napoleon Bonaparte. So much so, that when I discovered a mod using RTW (Search Napoleonic Total War 2) that happened to also have a campaign sub-mod (thanks go to hannibalcaesar for that) then I could just not say no to writing an AAR from a British point of view.

    Why choose a Rifleman, I hear you ask? Why not a Highlander or a simple soldier of the line? A Hussar or a man of the Horseguard?

    Simply put, riflemen were an elite of the British army, serving in all of Wellington's major campaigns after their inception in the 1700's, where they had been formed primarily because the British, as a naturally adaptive people, decided it might be a good idea to imitate the Americans for once. To this end they stole a good idea, the idea of using irregular soldiers who fought ahead of the main line, in rough terrain and with their own initiative to back them, rather than constant drilling and fire practice.

    “The Grasshoppers”, as the French came to know them, may have produced a slower rate of fire than their red-coated cousins, or even their French counterparts in the light-infantry, but they more than made up for it when officers and NCO's began disappearing or dropping dead.

    So, in the tradition set down by Rifleman Harris and Costello, this is to be a story and tale of daring do through the eyes of a young man forced into war, to choke on the acrid tang and scent of black powder, and to lay down his life for his King and Country if it came to it.

    God Save The King.


    Disclaimer: Any language or turns of phrase, which could be construed in today's society as "racist" are used for purely contextual purposes, that of a nineteenth century setting. The writer of this AAR, me, does not condone racism or segregation due to race or creed. Any complaints can be debated over by PM. Thank you.

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    Ybbon's Avatar The Way of the Buffalo
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    Default Re: [Napoleonic Total War II Story/AAR] The Recollections Of Rifleman Boid [Update: -]

    Do we need to read this with a broad Sean Bean style Sheffield accent then

    edit - does it belong in the NTW AAR's too?

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    McScottish's Avatar The Scribbling Scotsman
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    Default Re: [Napoleonic Total War II Story/AAR] The Recollections Of Rifleman Boid [Update: -]

    Quote Originally Posted by ybbon66 View Post
    Do we need to read this with a broad Sean Bean style Sheffield accent then

    edit - does it belong in the NTW AAR's too?

    Firstly, no. Rifleman Boid is from Devon, so, if anything, read it like someone from the Westcountry (funnily enough, in the books Sharpe was a black-haired cockney anyway...go figure! ).

    Secondly, it's a Rome Total War mod, built and played on RTW, so I wouldn't consider it an NTW AAR as it has nothing to do with NTW except for the time period. No game mechanics, no models, nothing. Hence why it is here and not there, but I'm willing to hear otherwise.

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    Ybbon's Avatar The Way of the Buffalo
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    Default Re: [(R:TW Mod) Napoleonic Total War II Story/AAR] The Recollections Of Rifleman Boid [Update: -]

    Oh sorry, my mistake I just assumed it was an NTW games being an Napoleon mod. RTFM as they say in my profession - well I am in tech support I ought to occasionally take my own advice I guess.

    I'll go for Hollywood Cockney then - should sound like a suitably mangled amalgam of Sheffield/Black Country and West Country then
    Last edited by Ybbon; February 28, 2012 at 10:47 AM.

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    SeniorBatavianHorse's Avatar Tribunus Vacans
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    Default Re: [(R:TW Mod) Napoleonic Total War II Story/AAR] The Recollections Of Rifleman Boid [Update: -]

    Subbed! I used to play this online before all that ETW/NTW came out. Good times!

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    Ganbarenippon's Avatar Protector Domesticus
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    Default Re: [(R:TW Mod) Napoleonic Total War II Story/AAR] The Recollections Of Rifleman Boid [Update: -]

    I'm in!

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    McScottish's Avatar The Scribbling Scotsman
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    Default Re: [(R:TW Mod) Napoleonic Total War II Story/AAR] The Recollections Of Rifleman Boid [Update: -]

    Quote Originally Posted by SeniorBatavianHorse View Post
    Subbed! I used to play this online before all that ETW/NTW came out. Good times!


    Let those good times roll, and I intend to. Here's forty shillings on the drum, for those who volunteer to come...


    Quote Originally Posted by Ganbarenippon View Post
    I'm in!

    In for a penny...in for...a pound? I am glad I have your bow, and your sword, and your axe. Always a welcome guest in my AAR threads.


    Quote Originally Posted by ybbon66 View Post
    Oh sorry, my mistake I just assumed it was an NTW games being an Napoleon mod. RTFM as they say in my profession - well I am in tech support I ought to occasionally take my own advice I guess.

    I'll go for Hollywood Cockney then - should sound like a suitably mangled amalgam of Sheffield/Black Country and West Country then

    Dick Van Dyke would be so proud of you... *Wipes a single tear from his eye*

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    McScottish's Avatar The Scribbling Scotsman
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    Default Re: [(R:TW Mod) Napoleonic Total War II Story/AAR] The Recollections Of Rifleman Boid [Update: -]





    These being the recollections of Rifleman Boid...


    Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 
    These being the recollections of Rifleman William S. Boid Esquire, as recorded and transcribed by Sergeant-Major Jory F. Growden. All words here are those of my esteemed colleague and personal friend, unadulterated and inclusive of all mistakes in his speech, whether of repetition, forgetfulness or what have you. I have included nothing of myself and amended nothing of his narrative, nor taken anything away from his yarn that he would have me do.

    The words from this point shall be his own, God save the King.


    **********


    I was born the eldest son of two Scottish expatriates, a mother and father of Highland life that had decided fleeing to the farthest place from their home would be the answer to their problems, my younger brother coming after I was already on my way to foreign lands. It occurred to me only as I was growing that they might have chosen to live on the heaths an amongst the bracken of Dartmoor because it reminded them just that little bit of what they had lost after two unsuccessful rebellions and after fleeing from poverty to, what they thought, would be the more prosperous counties of the West Country. So it was that I were born, a little pink-headed babe, amongst the cruel winds and craggy tors of the moorlands, and from then onwards I often felt a flutter in me heart when I looked on places that me recall what I had left behind.

    Growing up, I were a rough and ready sort of laddie, always preparing myself for sorts of mischief an the like, playing tricks on friends, family, an the teacher of the Princetown primary school, what tried to teach us little bastards to read and write for no charge to mothers nor fathers, but out of the goodness of her heart. As you shall well mark by now, if you had not already, I can read an speak better 'an most of my comrades, but I was never one for writing, probably why I never became an officer, for I do not lack the spit and courage it would take to lead men to battle, I tell thee that now.

    Anyway, I spent most of my youth tussling with other boys, frolicking across the greenest lands you would ever see and getting up to all the roguishness and devilries that can be expected of a snotty little boy. I say not that it was an easy life, for it 'twas not, having to heard the tough and stubborn breed of moorland pony from place to place that they may graze down the shrubs an bracken, as well as tilling my fathers sparse patch of, what he likes to call 'farmland', in truth nothing but a slightly more fertile patch of earth than the rest, suitable for growing not much if truth be told.

    One time in me life when I was truly happy was when I would go to hunt some game with my father, a stubborn and red-headed giant of a man, built like a wall and sturdy as a baggage donkey. From him I learnt most of the things which were to serve me so well in my future employment, such as how to track an animal (for if you can track an animal then you can track a man), how to set traps for the little blighter's and how to place a lead ball between the eyes of a deer or into the body of a rabbit or hare at over one-hundred yards. All of these would play some part as I grew into a soldier of His Majesty, but I do get ahead of myself does I.

    It was exactly on my eighteenth birthday that, some could say, I sold my soul to the Devil for a shiny shilling, having been given a sum from my mother an father and taken leave of them to visit Plymouth.

    Though a port mostly, shipping in prisoners an goods from about the place, the dockyards always active an ships drifting in an out an never stopping, there was also much for a young man looking for a good time. What I had in mind, perhaps on account of my fathers liking for the otherwise wretched stuff, was enough alcohol to stupefy me for a good few hours, if not the entire night long.

    This I set about to doing as soon as I arrived in the bustling place, seeing that others had already arrived 'afore me and were taken of the same idea as myself. There were crimson-coated marines, on shore leave from their vessels, drunken sailors reeling hither and thither and both often coming to blows amongst themselves, such circumstances eagerly watched by onlookers. Amongst the rabble of town-folk and soldiers, some very hard to tell apart, moved recruiting parties with the overbearing purpose of snatching up light-headed souls, such as myself, to rally to their standards and march off over the hill and into the sunset.

    Thrice I was accosted by the boisterous recruiting sergeants of our local regiments, regiments such as the 11th, 20th and 32nd Regiments of Foot. “Join us,” they says to me, “an your shall become a glorious war hero, with the ladies and riches that come with such a lofty post,” but “no” says I to them, “I would rather die a farmers son than live as the King of England.”

    In the late hours of the afternoon I came upon those who I was to join, dressed in jackets of green, and carrying odd looking muskets that I had never seen 'afore that. Eight of them there was, and with them a goodly lot of raw volunteers and recruits, men from across the counties of the south, from Dorset, Cornwall, Somerset and Devon and further.

    When I inquired of the recruiting officer, a dashing fellow in a smart uniform and carrying a curved sabre, as to who they were and where they were going, “boy,” he says, “I am Lieutenant Johns of the 105h Regiment of Foot, 1st Battalion, known outside of high society as the 1st West Devonshire. We fight hard, boy, but we are a regiment requiring only the best shots and the keenest instincts of our volunteers. Tell me, would you take the Kings shilling and sign your mark upon the book?”

    “Lieutenant,” said I to him, my head already twisted by the uniform and enough ale to set a sailor to snoring, “I shall sign your book and you can thank the King for his shilling, for I shall be having that too.”


    **********


    Might be that a few would question my decision, asking about my family, how could I do such a heinous thing to them and leave them without a word and northing 'cept the clothes on my back?

    There cannot be an easy answer to that, an you shan't be hearing one from me, but, as I stood at attention to the best of my abilities, shoulders back and chest out, amongst a number of other men of every age and place, I could only think of being part of something bigger and making something of myself. Though I never spoke to my father before I left, I knew he would have told me to go, my mother would like as not have sodden me with her tears and torn at the hem of my clothing so as to keep me safe with her and not let me wander off to God knew where.

    After inspection by a doctor, claimed fit for duty, we each walked forth and signed our name or mark into the regimental books. There were few names, and it was then that I realised the South Devonshire must have been a regiment of some recent decision by those what I had no understanding of, higher up folk with their blue blood, fancy names and even fancier places of residence.

    Each signing was met with a smile by Lieutenant Johns and, after all was concluded, he stood from his chair which had been set outside a local tavern, along with a roughly made table, and opened his arms wide to us, as if he were a parents embracing his children.

    “New recruits you may be, but you are also the lifeblood of this regiment. All who remain shall get their allotted bounty and I promise shall become soldiers and fighting men, those who intend to run should do so now, that we may dispense of them all the quicker. You have all signed, gentlemen, under true names or false, it matters not to me or His Majesty, but if you run then you shall surely be killed. Get some rest, for tomorrow we march across a number of other counties, returning to our barracks outside Plymouth at the end of our jolly route march.”

    This, though I had been groomed for it all my life, if I say so myself, was how my life truly began.

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    Ybbon's Avatar The Way of the Buffalo
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    Default Re: [(R:TW Mod) Napoleonic Total War II Story/AAR] The Recollections Of Rifleman Boid [Updated: 29/02/12]

    God Save the King Sir! Excellent start and very different to your others - mind you if Marcus Laenas makes an appearance I wouldn't be overly surprised as he seem sto be one tough old bugger to kill off anyway

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    McScottish's Avatar The Scribbling Scotsman
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    Default Re: [(R:TW Mod) Napoleonic Total War II Story/AAR] The Recollections Of Rifleman Boid [Updated: 29/02/12]

    Quote Originally Posted by ybbon66 View Post
    God Save the King Sir! Excellent start and very different to your others - mind you if Marcus Laenas makes an appearance I wouldn't be overly surprised as he seem sto be one tough old bugger to kill off anyway

    Thankee, it should be different, I'd be surprised if it wasn't! As for Marcus the Eternal, well, never say never.

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    McScottish's Avatar The Scribbling Scotsman
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    Default Re: [(R:TW Mod) Napoleonic Total War II Story/AAR] The Recollections Of Rifleman Boid [Updated: 29/02/12]





    This Is My Rifle, This Is My Gun... - Summer, 1806


    Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 
    We made route from Plymouth at a double-quick pace, the march of the rifle regiment becoming drilled into us as we went, quick time already being a part of us by the time we had crossed through several counties and gathered a substantial number of volunteers from across the south west.

    There were miners from Cornwall, men who chose to die in the open air by a bullet or sabre than down in the mines, in the dark and dirt, never to see the light again, farmers and shepherds from Devonshire and Dorset, mostly young men like myself, seeking adventure and riches in far-off lands before, God willing, returning to England a rich man, next came growers of apples and field-workers from Somerset, then more northern cousins of ours from Wiltshire and Gloucestershire.

    The last of these counties already had their own regiments, these men probably either deserters from other recruiting parties or, just as probable, were in the right place at the time when the recruiting officers caught them.

    Amongst this rabble that had been strung together, a mass of men marching and grumbling in a hundred different dialects, cursing in them too, there were also a number of Scots, a few Welshmen and even a small group of Paddies that saw fit to keep to themselves. This was probably a good idea, distrusted as they were by most upstanding Englishmen, though us rural folk could hold a grudge against few people, and the Irishman was not a natural enemy of mine, even if national feeling would have had it so.

    It took nearly five weeks before, exhausted and with our officer nearly out of his loaned amount of coin, for tempting offers of drink and such, we turned about and headed back toward the southern districts of Devonshire and what we had been told was the location of our 'barracks'.

    Barracks was a misleading word for it, there were no true buildings of brick and mortar except for a large central one, what were where they kept all the documents, the officers quarters and the armoury attached to the right side of it. Everything else, or at least all other buildings, were made from wood although they looked stout enough that a strong breeze would not blow them out from under us as we slept. In truth, it was overall more of a camp, a camp large enough for a battalion, surrounded by a wooden palisade of sorts, dense woodland, and with only one entrance where there were positioned two sentry boxes which were filled at all times.

    Eventually I realised that I knew this countryside, or at least the area in which the camp was placed, with the village of Burtonberry being only a few miles to the south-west and Plymouth away to the south-east. It was in both these places that we would take our leave in between periods of training, though that is a different tale altogether.

    On our first day in the camp we were issued with simple training fatigues; dull grey trousers, tunics, bonnets and the customary black boots of the British infantryman. Of course the payment, even for this, came out of our bounty and, if all bounty had already been spent, was written down so that it could be taken from future payments.

    From that day onward, as the months lead into summer, we were drilled every day in marching in step and in rank and file close order. It was not how I had imagined a light infantry regiment would have fought, after I discovered that the 105th were indeed of the lights, but I was an inexperienced and green young recruit and therefore had no say in such matters as how the camp was ran or how I was to go into battle.

    All I know is that, after some time, every day began to blend into one long one, consisting of awakening, getting dressed, breakfast, parade, then each activity for the day. Generally this meant marching drill, bayonet drill, and all done with the uniform Brown Bess musket of the regular infantry regiments, not the gun I had seen our eight recruiters carrying.

    Then one day a man presented himself to us, each man standing to attention as best he could on the parade and drill ground and facing his eyes forward, the gentleman who addressed us being a rather dashing individual of middle age and middling weight. His face was the proud owner of a rather long moustache, curled at the tips, and his head slightly balding atop it, the green uniform of a rifle regiment fitting quite snugly about him and his buttons, shako badge, sabre hilt and various other such things all shined to a fine gleam in the rays of the summer sunlight.

    “My name is Colonel Percy Hillman, but you can all address me as Colonel or sir. Welcome is in order, for you are all now marked men and part of this newly formed regiment of the line. Over the next months we shall be training you to act as individuals, the drilling so far has simply been to put you through your paces, and I am impressed with a great number of you...Major.”

    A second officer stepped forward, this one being leaner though more broad in the shoulders, his face quite gaunt and his cheeks thin and sallow, but his skin showing the radiance of health, his shako was placed under one arm and he cleared his throat before speaking to us.

    “Men,” he said in a voice like a rolling storm, a Scottish brogue tinting his words, “I am Major Douglas McInnes, and I shall be leading this battalion in the field. From now on you may forget everything you have been trained to do, you will not need it. All expect for the march of quick time and the camaraderie you share with your brothers. This a regiment for marksmen, crack shots, able to kill from a distance, outpace your enemy and blend into cover in a way which our enemies cannot. We here are not the faceless masses of the ranks, we are not going to fire volley after volley into them, but fight a duel of death with our adversaries on the field man-to-man. In short, we are riflemen.”



    **********



    I shall digress for the briefest of moments to remember, what I believe, was the situation in the broader expanse of England and her domains at the time I began genuine basic training in the West Devonshire, as far as I know everything I say here is true and correct.

    Almost every nation in Europe at the time, so I was lead to believe by my father and others, had been harmed by constant decades of war with one another. Armies had shrunk and men had died in their thousands, states such as Denmark and Norway becoming rather worth nothing as Sweden swallowed them, the Netherlands occupied and working for the French and the Ottomans possessing much land but on the other side of the world, for all we cared.

    Though we had been at war with France for quite some time, it all ceased two years before I took the Kings shilling, a diplomat from England reaching a peace accord with Emperor Napoleon and all our attention now available to be concentrated on our own island nation.

    Our navy was as powerful as any other, if not more so, Britannia ruling the waves, though our land strength was not so great. It was this that drove recruitment of men into the military to become more widespread and more frequent, King George, God bless him, seeking to expand our army. It was well known that Napoleon possessed the largest force in Europe, and if we was to meet him on land at this time then we would have been defeated with great speed.

    It was unfortunate, however, that we were engaged in hostilities with the rulers of Sweden, for only a year earlier they had landed a battalion of Swedish regulars north of Hull. The reasons for this, or why they did not flee when Lord Wellesley the Duke of Wellington engaged them with a superior force, can only be fathomed by the Swedes themselves. All I know, from different accounts, is that our soldiers walked away with many stiff Swedish hats that day.

    Now that all is known, I shall return to my first line of thought, and recollections therein.



    **********



    Throughout the summer we were put through our paces in an almost constant flow of exercises, whether they were runs through the forest, battlefield manoeuvres or firing drill.

    We were each issued with the customary rifleman's uniform, though during training we had but one of each item, on campaign we would be expected to wear or carry all of it. I shall list all items of equipment, so that the reader may appreciate what we had to endure. It was required that we carry large items, but small items such as razors and brushes were, of course, left in camp when the battalion was on exercise.

    All-in-all we carried on us, like human mules; two shirts, one pair of shoes, a pair of trousers, two pairs of stockings, soles and heels for our boots, a mess tin, centre tin and lid, three different brushes, a razor, a soap tin and strap and a box of blacking. Along with our haversack, usually attached to it or inside it, we carried our greatcoat and blanket and, dangling from a belt or slung across our bodies, were our canteen, belt and ammunition pouch which held about fifty rounds of shot, a powder flask, a wooden mallet for forcing balls into our rifles, a sword belt as well as the clothing on our person, the shako, trousers, jacket and shoes.

    It was remarked that we carried eighty pounds of equipment, all said, and I cannot fault this guess, for it seemed to me that every other day we were bleeding from strap cuts or breaking our backs carrying all forms of unnecessary baggage.

    There is no surprise to know, as there ought not to be, that the greatest possession we had were our rifles themselves. Smooth, polished, beauties of a gun, certainly better to look at than the Bess although a Devil harder to keep in good condition. Our rifle was our life, our soul, it was everything, and it was often commented upon that I seemed more than close to my own.

    We were told, one hot day, after firing off thirty shots each, that, along with our sword-bayonets, these weapons were what made the regiment and kept us alive. For we were not regular soldiers, and certainly not made to take on large formations, we were each of us a single man who could kill at a distance and act as the eyes and ears of our countries army, the first into the field and the last out of it. Only a select few, such as the 95th and a few German regiments, were armed with Baker rifles and able to use them to their fullness.

    I made a vow on that day, laying on my back with my haversack still on, looking up into the cloudless sky and resting my rifle over my knees, that I would excel and become one of the finest marksmen in the regiment. I would fight harder than all before, risk more than any who tried, and hone my craft until I could shoot an enemy officer from eight-hundred yards.

  12. #12
    Knonfoda's Avatar I came, I read, I wrote
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    Default Re: [(R:TW Mod) Napoleonic Total War II Story/AAR] The Recollections Of Rifleman Boid [Updated: 1/03/12]

    "Warning, do not hotlink images and steal bandwith" ... er, okay lol

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    McScottish's Avatar The Scribbling Scotsman
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    Default Re: [(R:TW Mod) Napoleonic Total War II Story/AAR] The Recollections Of Rifleman Boid [Updated: 1/03/12]

    Quote Originally Posted by Knonfoda View Post
    "Warning, do not hotlink images and steal bandwith" ... er, okay lol

    Indeed. So, did you actually read what I've written and, if so, would you reconsider following the tale?

  14. #14
    Knonfoda's Avatar I came, I read, I wrote
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    Default Re: [(R:TW Mod) Napoleonic Total War II Story/AAR] The Recollections Of Rifleman Boid [Updated: 1/03/12]

    No, for some reason I like seeing what updates you put forth even though I may not read them lol, I don't know why I do it. I suppose in this case I did spot something, ie the image problem lol. I may give it a read at some point, I just have to bring myself round to it!

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    SeniorBatavianHorse's Avatar Tribunus Vacans
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    Default Re: [(R:TW Mod) Napoleonic Total War II Story/AAR] The Recollections Of Rifleman Boid [Updated: 1/03/12]

    This is shaping up excellently - I love your use of language here. It really captures the period and makes me itch to read the next update. My only regret is the lack of screenshots as I miss playing that wonderful mod online. Please continue and I shall raise a glass of port on each update!

  16. #16
    McScottish's Avatar The Scribbling Scotsman
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    Default Re: [(R:TW Mod) Napoleonic Total War II Story/AAR] The Recollections Of Rifleman Boid [Updated: 1/03/12]





    Haul away! - Summer, 1806 to Winter, 1806


    Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 
    Things advanced fast in Britain, my training amongst them, but also issues at home and abroad what would bring my regiment into a campaign much faster than I knew or wanted. We'd no idea who it was we'd be fighting nor why, some said we were going to have another crack at the Frogs, whilst another man, a corporal of the 2nd company, swore it would be the Prussians, who seemed to be expanding over their own borders and would, very soon, attract the attention of other powers in Europe.

    Our endearing and adventurous diplomat meanwhile, an example to us all of the bravery of Englishmen, known to all as a certain gentleman named Pack, had bought about an alliance between our own nation and that of the Russians, along with all the trades advantages that such a binding contract could bring. It was also on this account that Prussia and Russia saw fit to cease aggression between one another, each an ally of our nation and each wasting the lives of their young men needlessly.

    It could not have been later than the month of July when we were called to parade in the camp, the colonel looking distinguished in all his finery an Major McInnes stepping forward to address us in a voice which could carry across an entire parade ground as well as over the noise of gunfire on a battlefield.

    “Men of the West Devonshire,” he said to us, “Sir John Moore has been ordered to form a brigade of regiments to counter the threat which the Kingdom of Sweden clearly presents to us. For whilst France and their Emperor Bonaparte may have the largest army on the continent, Sweden has a greater navy and the better advantage to attack us.”

    There it was then, our newest enemy were the Swedes, a commonly quite peaceable people under their king Gustav. It seemed our own King George, God save him, had decided that we could not allow such a threatening nation to remain under the rule of a king who had already attacked us in the past, an would likely do so again.

    “We are to join with others for this campaign,” went on the Major, “these being the 18th Dragoons, two of Hussars and Dragoons of the Kings German Legion, as well as light battalions from the German Legion, battalions of the 51st and 68th lights and our sister regiment of the 95th. There'll be a number of line battalions and even one of the 1st Guards. Mind your manners, fight like the Devils you are, and I have no doubt that we shall have victory.”

    As can be imagined, there was much talk amongst us in the camp that night and for many days after, this campaign being of some importance if Moore was to be gifted with a battalion of the Guards. It was also the first time we would be going into combat, and alongside our comrades of the 95th no less, the excitement of most of us barely able to be ignored, 'cept for one or two of us who were quite certain that they would never see England again once we left its windswept shores.



    **********



    When we finally did leave, each man laden down with his whole kit and weapon, it was at a double-quick march and heading toward the city of Kingston upon Hull. From there we would be taking ships to the southern coast of Norway and marching east by north-east, taking major cities as we went and hoping to break the back of the Swedish army, so I heard.

    I cannot say it was an altogether unpleasant journey, the countryside beautiful as we marched through it, all green jackets and gleaming buttons and shako badges, while the warm weather made it possible to sleep beneath the stars without so much as a slight chill in the deepest hours of the night.

    It also gave me many opportunities to speak with our battalion Major in his native tongue, he by right of birth and myself by my upbringing in a mainly Gaidhlig speaking household, many were the funny looks at us as we jabbered on happily but, by the time we reached the outskirts of Hull, I like to think that a better understanding had been achieved 'tween the two of us.

    The sight that did greet us as we marched rather leisurely to where we was supposed to be, talking to one another and joking uproariously, a load of ill-dressed scoundrels in the eyes of the other battalions I can only imagine, upon my soul I can, was one of scarlet red coats, grey trousers and regimental colours arrayed ever-so-precisely in a number of fields round about the more urbane city itself.

    Alone I did clap eyes on the colours of the 20th regiment, my own counties boys of the East Devonshire, as well as men of the 39th Dorsets chasing what looked like a pig and the bonneted and kilted forms of a Highland battalion. These latter men being of the 79th, or Camerons, if I were not mistaken. Each was a large man, craggy like the rocks and glens of their homes, ferocious behind a bayonet and as solid as those same rocks in battle.

    On this occasion I caught no sight of those fine Guardsmen, who I assume were billeted within the city itself, such is their honour and privilege amongst inferiors such as ourselves.

    I did, however, glimpse sight of those Germans, infantry and horse, that we would be fighting alongside and must say that, even then, with their well-ranked tents and ever-alert sentries, made a fine impression on me. Like us, they too were dressed in uniforms of a dull green, with leather cross-belts instead of the white ones of our comrades-in-the-line. Both battalions which were present of the Germans were armed greatly with rifles, rifles of their own homelands used for hunting and such, our own Baker rifles not having yet infiltrated their ranks, some still retaining the musket but these being few.



    **********



    It was three days until all our forces had gathered in one place, Sir Moore riding back and forth like a man possessed, his staff trailing behind him like so many furies at a mans backside, a small trail of bright red amongst rows of tents and fields of wheat and barley.

    Once so gathered, we were ordered to the docks, the people of Kingston upon Hull lining the roadsides and cheering us on. Some young boys eagerly asked to be enlisted, and most were accepted, while others were dragged away by shrieking mothers or destitute lovers who could bare to be parted so early in life from their young companions. Such scenes reminded me of both my age and my lack of experience with anything female, and such filled my head as we marched.

    When we got to the docks we were immediately guided onto our vessels by rough-looking marines, the line infantry of the sea, men who knew their duty and did it to the best of their ability. One of my comrades made a comment on their appearance and suggested that they were nothing but sailors in red coats with muskets. I ignored him, his ignorance being none of my concern.

    A few hours passed before, finally, all aboard their transports, we hauled away from the docks to the cheering of gathered citizens and into the North Sea and north-east toward the Swedish occupied lands of southern Norway.

    “Where to now?” I said to the Major, the back of my head banging gently against the ships wooden frame as our vessel rocked across the water, “to Norway, my lad, and the port of Stavanger.”

  17. #17
    Ybbon's Avatar The Way of the Buffalo
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    Default Re: [(R:TW Mod) Napoleonic Total War II Story/AAR] The Recollections Of Rifleman Boid [Updated: 06/03/12]

    An alternative history so I like how this starts, onto the Land of the Midnight Sun and Trolls.

  18. #18

    Default Re: [(R:TW Mod) Napoleonic Total War II Story/AAR] The Recollections Of Rifleman Boid [Updated: 06/03/12]

    Too many good McScottish AARs...

  19. #19
    McScottish's Avatar The Scribbling Scotsman
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    Default Re: [(R:TW Mod) Napoleonic Total War II Story/AAR] The Recollections Of Rifleman Boid [Updated: 06/03/12]





    A Small Skirmish - Winter, 1806


    Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 
    The people of Stavanger welcomed us as we waded ashore, our feet knee-deep in water as we disembarked from our naval row-boats and struggled through the calm water and toward the town itself.

    Leaving the naval vessels out at sea, Moore telling them to sail around the coast and that we would meet them near the town of Fredrikstad, we had, with the help of burly sailors and tar-necked marines, began a large scale amphibious operation which relied ultimately on the strength of a mans arms and how much he could row. As we did so, our paddles disturbing the unstirred water of the Norwegian fjord, the eyes of many of us kept a watch for any dangers we might encounter along the way or once we reached our destination.

    What we found was not what we had expected, fishermen and fisher-wives from the settlement coming into the water to grip our arms softly and guide us onto dry land, people looking down at us from the bustling dockside and reaching over to help us up and onto solid ground, young girls waiting for us with warm cups of fresh milk and blankets. It was truly as if they had been expecting us, waiting for us to land, which I found out later was exactly what they had been doing.

    When the Swedish garrison, alerted to their plight by a fishing vessel that had been out at sea, one full of Swedish sympathisers no less, had heard of our strength and discovered that they would never be able to hold us they had fled instead, taking news of our arrival to the King himself, so it was rumoured.

    My stiff legs weighed on me, along with my knapsack, as I struggled onto dry land with my rifle clutched in one hand and my other held onto by a rough and ready women with a face which had certainly seen its fair share of hardship, from what I could tell. Soaked from my feet to my waist, my ammunition pouch thankfully dry but my socks and boots full of water, I reached the dockside and turned about to help my own from the water. A small man, named Jonathan Nathaniel, a paddy from County Mayo, tripped and fell head first into the water, causing no small amount of mirth amongst us.

    We spent only as long in Stavanger as we had to, seeking out and paying for any supplies that could be had, requesting a few citizens capable of acting as local guides. With winter quickly setting in we were also ordered to find any extra blankets or warm clothing that the Norwegians would give to us. At the conclusion of all this, we now had our own army as well as a fair few wagons, dragged by oxen train, needing to be guarded at the rear of our column.

    It took over a weeks hard marching, barely stopping for rest and food as we went, through a landscape that was beautiful and yet treacherous. Covered in snow and ice, the Norwegian winter was setting in, making all terrain just as likely to kill you as to leave you alone. I saw a few men, from every regiment, falling from the column and having to be put into the wagons with the surgeons, their feet black and rotting and their socks useless against the cold.

    A man named Crosskey, a Somerset boy by birth, I remember being one such unfortunate and although I had suffered not such a fate as of yet, he slipped and fell on a forest track one day and was lifted into a wagon. It was a few days later that I heard how his foot, in which he had no sensation at all, had to be amputated and left for the forest scavengers by the way. I never did see him again, but I hear that when the campaign ended he retired to England and became an undertaker for the gentry.



    **********



    Orders came that the brigade was to make camp a few miles north-west of the port and settlement of Fredrikstad, named after King Fredrick II of Denmark, but such was not to be so for myself and my brothers-in-arms.

    We riflemen, along with the light troops of the Germans and the regular line battalions, were formed into a light division and ordered to advance upon and hold Fredrikstad until our ships arrived. Once the settlement was under British control we were to send a messenger back to General Moore with a report. According to intelligence from Norwegian patriots, there was a small garrison in the town of a squadron of Swedish Hussars, a battery of twelve-pounder guns and a Swedish Jäger battalion.

    This last battalion was of particular note, the Jäger being a skirmisher used in many of the armies of Europe, skirmisher battalions formed by major powers and experienced in irregular warfare which, in terms of the British, we had developed much later. It was these men that we rifles were most eager to face, my comrades and I of the West Devonshire being inexperienced and green in comparison.



    **********



    The 'battle' of Fredrikstad, if it can be called a battle, for it was a skirmish in every other factor of import, did transpire to be a rather simple affair in the long term. The battalions of the Kings German Legion and British light companies going to assail the settlement, absent entirely of a defensive wall, in a most direct fashion and in a hope to draw out the enemies strength, whilst we and the men of the 95th circled about the rear of the enemy, located the artillery, and made sure the guns could fire no more upon us.

    As an aside at this point, I can only mention here what I saw personally in this or any battle I may mention, for I am not God and cannot be everywhere at once. From time-to-time I may include reports from others who saw important events, but on the whole what comes shall be my personal recollections only.

    Anyway, we of the Rifles made our way through the thick undergrowth of a tree line that encircled the settlement on its side that faced the land, making sure not to become entangled in the brush and that our weapons remained dry of any melting snow. I shivered in my uniform as we did this, my shako tight about my head and my pack feeling heavier than it had before, snow melting on my legs and seeping to the skin as we jogged toward where we were required to be.

    Drifting on the wind we could hear gunshots, smell the stench of gunpowder and listen to the sharp crack of musket fire. Quickening our pace, officers shouting and men following, we drifted toward the edge of the trees as quietly as possible but, it was soon made known, we had not been silent nor swift enough in our enterprise.

    A thunderous roar from the throat of a cannon was the first annunciation of our discovery, a cannonball tearing the head from a 95th Greenjacket, who I did not know, and spouting a crimson shower from the headless trunk of a body. Just as quickly the calls were raised from the buglers, brass sounds calling for us to advance on the enemy position and silence them with all the vigour we could muster.

    Another ball skidded through the turf, shot by a twelve-pounder, tearing through three men before it was stopped by the thick trunk of a sturdy old tree, my legs already carrying me to where I could get a clear shot at the Swedish gunners.

    Throwing myself to the ground, making sure my shako was untroubled upon my head, I loaded my rifle exactly as I had been taught. Pouring the powder into the pan, checking the flint, ramming the ball down the barrel and more, the process of loading a Baker rifle far more arduous than that of a musket but also worth it, for the range of a rifle is greater and so is the accuracy, as I observed from my next and first shot in combat.

    Squinting down the sight of the rifle, resting it on a rock in front of me and laying on my belly, I aimed for a rather important looking individual dressed up like a Swedish peacock. Taking a deep breath in, my finger going to the trigger, I breathed out as I fired, the weapon butt kicking back into my shoulder and bitter smoke filling my senses for a moment.

    My eyes watered and my mouth tasted the, by now familiar, tang of black powder, but once the smoke had cleared I was already in the act of reloading my weapon, my eyes unable to make out the overdressed Swede any more.

    I saw other gunners fall, taken off of their feet and spun about by unseen sharpshooters off to my left and right and rear, the front of my uniform sodden through with melted snow and my hands numbing because of the cold. Nonetheless I, like my comrades, took aim once more, sighting the weapon toward a younger man and feeling the slightly comforting buck of my rifle once more.

    “Rifles,” called the voice of Major McInnes from somewhere to my front, “follow me lads, to glory!”

    Soon we were all of us running up a hill toward the settlement, the gunners falling back from their weapons and leaving them to us, running toward a central square of the city where they intended to gather and make a final stand. On getting closer, it was clear that there were also a number of Hussars and Jägers amongst them, greatly whittled in number but still able to kill a man.

    “Rifles,” came that voice like thunder again, “fix bayonets and advance to the attack.”

    A bugle call accompanied this command and, with my brothers beside me, I slotted my sword-bayonet into place at the head of my rifle and jogged toward the enemy, on the other side of which could just be espied figures dressed in green and red, white cross-belts showing clearly even through smoke.

    What came next was a simple case of in-fighting, bayonets flashing and stabbing and my guts churning in my stomach as I both watched and participated, by own bayonet being so useless that I was forced to cave in the skull of a young Jäger with the brass-plated butt of my weapon.

    I am not ashamed to admit that I retched, heaving against a wall once the battle was done, nothing coming out but my throat and stomach moving nonetheless.

  20. #20
    McScottish's Avatar The Scribbling Scotsman
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    Default Re: [(R:TW Mod) Napoleonic Total War II Story/AAR] The Recollections Of Rifleman Boid [Updated: 07/03/12]





    The March To Battle - Winter, 1806


    Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 
    Fredrikstad, being under the ownership of a neutral nation, was left just as we had found it. The cannon were spiked and the bides of the Swedish garrison were properly buried, British and Norwegians both coming to see their coffins interred into the ground as the last rites were read over them.

    In this town we remained for only a few days, awaiting the arrival of our fleet and gathering what supplies and rations we could buy or pilfer without reprimand or discovery. It was in the doing of the latter that a couple of men from my company, found in possession of three stolen pigs, were immediately given a court-martial for plundering and sentenced both to 300 lashes.

    On the seventh day of our stay, the Sabbath day in fact, we watched silently as the two men were tied to stout frames made of recently cut timber and the drummer boy, requisitioned to deliver the lash, took a few practice blows into empty air. The cracking snap of its tip in that cold air was almost, yet not quite, as terrible to listen to as when the leather instrument finally turned to its purpose and tore flesh from the backs of the condemned. Both men took their flogging without so much as a whimper, the pair of them known as stubborn lads by the rest of us, though both it were who nearly fell face-first to the earth once they were untied.

    It seems fitting to recount at this point in my tale, how the very night before we were to away, the ships ready to follow and support us along the coast and our wagons full to the brim with supplies and our wounded to be left in the care of the Norwegians, I came upon a very pretty girl indeed and spent my final night in Fredrikstad beneath a quilt of foreign make and alongside a warm body of foreign birth.

    How it was I caught her eye I cannot say, for I am but of average height, 5' 9” if I be an inch, with brown curly hair an eyes of a sea-blue, my face not particularly handsome and my skin often commented upon as being paler than most, so much so that sometimes others took me for ill.

    Yet I did catch her eye, and apparently alighted her loins too, as we crept quietly into the home of her parents and made a quite tender sort of love throughout the night. When morning crept over us, waking me and I waking her, I kissed her sweet lips once more and hurled myself through a window to the back of her home before making my way toward our camp and my waiting regiment.

    Sad as it may seem, I cannot for the life of me remember her name nor even her face, now anyway, but I do remember that it was my first time feeling the intimate touch of a woman and, unlike what all others may say, the very act came as naturally as breathing when urged to it.

    From Fredrikstad, after falling in with the of the Rifles, we marched I a south-easterly direction at the very head of the advancing column. Behind us trotted the Camerons, all kilts swinging and pipes screeching, singing jauntily in deep voices and keeping Major McInnes entertained, though whether he wished to be back their with them or not I could not say.

    When we crossed into Sweden proper, going overland and now without doubt of it being the winter season, men wrapped tightly in grey greatcoats and wearing both pairs of their issued socks inside their boots, it turned out to be a very empty land. As in Norway, both similarly uninhabited it seemed, we met no resistance as we forged southward and directly toward the capital of the nation and foremost Swedish naval base, Karlskrona.



    **********



    Karlskrona, an odd place most of the time to be used as a nations capital, were actually quite a perfect place to make your seat of government. It was nearly an island, impenetrable more-or-less without naval assistance, but also a refuge for King Gustav Adolphus IV of Sweden and his closest cronies.

    Sweden, as I have said before, was deserted of a military presence, and although the Swedes were not known for their modern and formidable army it seemed odd to everyone from the cooks to the generals that we had faced no open opposition yet. We discovered why when we commenced taking a route that would, from the city of Gothenburg, take us some distance down the coast and then south-east across the southern provinces of Sweden.

    Our accompanying flotilla was ordered away and around to blockade Karlskrona, as well as being charged with clearing any Swedish ships brave enough to stand in their path.

    Meanwhile, on reaching Gothenburg, or Göteborg as the Swedish call it in their native tongue, we were opposed by nothing more than a few citizens with pieces of wood and stone to hurl at us. General Moore and his aide-de-camp rode forward beneath a white flag and calmly told them in their own language that no harm would befall them, we were simply passing by and wished for information.

    I can conceive that their shock must have matched that which would have gripped me, had the Swedish managed to reach London or Devonshire some years previous.

    A delegation was sent from the protection of the city, meeting with our leader and, eventually, giving us the answer as to why the country seemed so deserted.

    It transpired that the King had been at war with both Prussia, Brunswick and Denmark for some time before arrived in Norway, occupying Denmark and a region of mainland Europe previously outside Scandinavian influence, and as such his army was positioned in the very southern regions of Sweden and the northern ones of Denmark.

    The forces at hand to Gustav comprised, we were told, mostly of Jäger battalions from Sweden and Finland intermingled with units of the Swedish Royal Guard Regiments, the so-called Lifdrabantcorps, or Life Guard. What regulars that Gustav had had apparently been moved south as garrison forces, leaving Sweden mostly destitute of garrisons and the like.

    It should be noted, as a last thought, that even the man who came out to meet with our General, a man with some military experience himself, claimed that his King was truly the worst military commander he had ever had the displeasure to serve under, and that we should have no trouble defeating him in open battle.



    **********



    Continuing the march for nearly two weeks more, our Norwegian guide as familiar with this part of the world as his own homeland it seemed, and a fresh draft of light-company recruits having joined us in Fredrikstad, our tracks were rudely interrupted by a German dragoon.

    This man came bearing news that the enemy had decided to meet us before we reached Karlskrona and, upon hearing this, I shall never forget Moore, who was riding close by the Rifles at the time, proclaiming, “by God, but this is the last mistake that these rascals shall ever make.”

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