[NTW British Story/AAR] The Recollections Of Rifleman Boid [ON HOLD, for the moment.]

[McScottish]

Please, see below, and be enlightened!



Mod: Napoleonic Total War III

Faction: Britain

Campaign/Battle difficulty: Normal/Normal

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.

This has changed only slightly, as now I have a machine powerful enough to play NTW 'proper', and so here I am.

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 Americansfor 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", "sexist" and so forth 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 or any other prejudice. Any complaints can be debated over by PM. Thank you.

[McScottish]

These being the recollections of Rifleman Boid... - Early March, 1805

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.

[McScottish]

This Is My Rifle, This Is My Gun... - Late March, 1805

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.”

**********



Throughout the spring 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.