[ETW AAR] SATIRE: Dear Bess
Summer, 1705
Dear Bess,
My regiment is moving south to the ports, and I am afraid that I must go with them. I shall hope to see you soon my dear.
Love Richard.
Winter, 1705
Dear Bess,
I am sorry for not writing to you sooner, but in all fairness, nothing has happened at all in this half-year. More to the point, I haven't been phyically able to. How odd, eh? Also forgive me, my dear Bess, for not adding the exact date, but it seems like the army is kept out of the loop. Again, how odd?
Love Richard.
Summer, 1706
Dear Bess,
I hope you are well my love. The port we are stationed in has finished its ship, a Sloop I do believe. We go to France, it is assumed, but with our leader we can never be too sure. There is a slight problem though. Our army numbers a thousand, yet the sloop can hold a few hundred if that. Oh well, its always worked before, and its not my place to question how are leader intends to transport us.
Love Richard.
Winter, 1706
Dear Bess,
We have set sail for France, but we are to head round the western coast. It is also a funny thing that the ship's captain knew exactly how far his ship could travel. At about mid-day with France in sight, the sails unfurled. "This is as far as we go" he said. "Exactly this far?" replied our leader, "No further? The absolute point. Not even an inch?" Our leader was quite annoyed.
Love Richard.
Summer, 1707
Dear Bess,
It feels good to be back on solid land again. For six months we waited stationary, France only a couple of miles away. That captain was a queer sort of bloke. "Just a few bloody miles" muttered our leader. One day the captain hoisted the sails again, and we landed along the coast. When we landed, we suddenly found ourselves unable to move. Despite us all feeling able to go on, we were told to make camp. I keep telling myself that this is because of the time spent on that accursed boat, but I can't shake the feeling that there's something illogical about it.
Love Richard.
Winter, 1707
Dear Bess,
We marched for Paris. As we marched, we came to an abrupt halt. The brigadier just ordered us to stop. "We phyically cannot move one inch further" were his exact words. I knew I could, but it was better not to say anything. It was also odd that as we came to rest, we could quite clearly see a French army, and they could see us. They were aware of us, yet they did nothing. They just stood by and waited for us to finish. It seemed almost as if they were waiting to take their turn. How odd, yet chivalrous.
Love Richard.
Summer, 1708
Dear Bess,
Our first battle! The French army moved towards us and we prepared ourselves. My regiment was ordered specifically to guard the Brigadier. From his vantage point on the hill, we watched the battle progress. The French cavalry, each regiment numbering few, charged one-by-one into our thousand-strong force. It may not have been the wisest of moves on the French army's part, but if they believe this is a viable tactic, then we must observe it as it may be useful. It was also strange that one regiment of line infantry went forwards, to lure the French out, and as they did so, came under intensive fire. They walked straight into range of the French, yet they did not fire back. They dared not to even raise their guns until a soldier who had tripped up, caught up and fell into position. Only then did they fire a salvo. Well, a salvo if you could call it that. They were so unco-ordinated that it felt as if these men hadn't been trained. Forgive me Bess, for this may seem delusional, but its as these people have been spawned, created, given a gun and told which end the smoke came out of. The French forces then mounted a flank attack against said regiment, but instead of the side of the regiment breaking off, the entire formation wheeled in a graceful manner, again only firing once everyone was firmly in place. There's nothing wrong with fighting in an orderly, prim fashion I can tell you, but this was unnecessary. It was also unsettling to note that the brigadier was firmly in control. Every action of every regiment was carried out instantly after the general merely said aloud his orders. Not a drummer, fifer or messenger in sight. We won the battle, but it keeps replaying over in my mind.
Love Richard.
Winter, 1708
Dear Bess,
Socket bayonets arrived. We have no clue how. No trace of a convoy, not a scent. It was as if they had been given to us by magic. No Bess, these past few years have turned me quite superstitious and paranoid, that I can tell you. I remember dear Isaac Newton announcing his intention to make socket bayonets, but why has it taken him two years to design it? I mean, how hard can it be to add a spike to a ring and fit that around a muzzle? More to the point, if he knew what it was he was inventing, does that not defy the entire point? I suppose though its not my place to decide. We fitted them to our own rifles and marched for Paris. We encircled the city, and decided to lay siege. The people inside did nothing. We demanded that they surrender, and despite us outnumbering them by three-to-one, they still refused. Are all French people naturally slow of mind, or is there something deeper going on at hand?
Love Richard.
Summer, 1709
Dear Bess,
We decided to finally break our siege. How they lasted six months without food we do not know, but survive they did. There was no cavalry of theirs, just plain infantry. We marched into the city. As we came closer, we could not believe our eyes. From afar, it looked like Paris was a thriving, gigantic beast of a city, yet as we came closer, we saw a few scattered houses here and there. Not even a town square. A population numbering into the hundreds of thousands, nowhere to be seen. I concluded that they must all have been living underground. We rushed into battle, the French garrisoning buildings. As we ran, our cavalry overtook us, but the French fired upon them, and the horses fell, and their riders curiously found themselves launched into the sky. Very curious. we rushed the houses with our bayonets, and soon Paris was ours. No sign of underground buildings.
Love Richard.
Winter, 1709
Dear Bess,
We march for Spain, my love. I shall bring back something lovely for you, for while we may find many treasures in Spain, none are as beautiful as you.
Love Richard.
Summer, 1710
Dear Bess,
We are near the Spanish border, but just not quite there yet. Hope to write to you soon my dear.
Love Richard.
Winter, 1710
Dear Bess,
Our entrance to Spain has been blocked by some accursed gentleman! He's set himself on the bridge leading to Spain and will not retreat. Here we are, a thousand-strong army and yet we cannot move one blasted dandy! It just strikes me as some sort of impossibility. I think about you Bess all the time.
Love Richard.
Summer, 1712
Dear Bess,
I apologise for not sending you a letter sooner, but in all truth my dear, nothing has happened. Literally nothing, save the comings of snow and sun. That gentlman only now has decided to walk away, finally allowing us to conquer his country. Here though, I also realised that it seems all Europeans are such mannerly people. Once again did we come to an abrupt halt and see an enemy army, watching us, waiting for us to settle down. A day later and they took their turn, so to speak, and we found ourselves in battle. I found myself on the front lines. Scary I can tell you, my love, but once again, like with the French, we saw the cavalry come at us one-by-one. I think we must look into this, as it obviously must hold some sort of tactical merit. The rest of the battle passed without too much.
Love Richard.
Winter 1712
Miss "Bess",
We regret to inform you that your beloved husband Richard was killed by what we can assume is a deadly new type of cannon, causing people to die around the cannonball, instead of from being hit by it. I saw, with horror, a cannon fire, and its payload hit the man next to Richard, who was physically unharmed, save for a nasty bruise,but Richard, and a good many other men around him were all blown back by this new weapon. I offer my condolences to you, miss "Bess".
Regards, Brigadier Roger Hewlett.
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Originally Posted by Marcus Aurelius
