"The Memoirs of HullzAngel" are a collation of diary entries written by myself in a historically accurate, semi-fictional manner. The process involves taking the experiences I have within the 33rd (including my development from a lowly recruit, battles and the converse I have with my fellow soldiers) and presenting them in an interesting way, with the ultimate goal that people simply enjoy reading them! So sit back, grab a flask, light your pipe, and read on...
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The Evening of October 26th, Year 2013
Spoiler
"It was a muddy and drab English evening, as a sharp voice cut across the air, ordering us over to the briefing area. I made my way over to the recruiting area and sat down on the bench, looking at the other recruits. They all looked nervous, very dapper in their bright red colours, but nervous nonetheless. Some of these recruits were little more than children, but the ranks didn't seem to notice. You could tell the immature ones, they wouldn't stop moving and fidgeting with their muskets and began pushing each other off of the benches. I decided to make a good first impression by standing still, as did most of the others, so I was hardly noticed, just another body to pile up when the day came.
Before I knew it, we were in single file, being ordered across a field in various different directions. I occasionally threw a glance at my musket, wondering when the time would come to actually fight, but the monotonous field marches went on and on. I fell behind on a few of the march steps, as did many others. If the French or the Prussians would have seen us, I'm sure they would have died with laughter, so we were technically doing our jobs, albeit in a very unnatural way.
Then finally, we formed a line near the shooting targets, and were instructed to aim. I knew this of course to mean identify your target, sadly 2 recruits lifted their muskets to their shoulders and were forced to stand in front of the targets and look at the firing line. Again the ranks shouted "Aim!", and nobody moved a muscle, besides the 2 recruits now sweating in front of the targets. Their red coats were about to become a whole lot redder. "Present!". I couldn't choose which one I wanted to kill, I'd barely known them for half an hour. "These are the type of men who will get you killed in battle, men who can't follow, men who can't lead, men who aren't men" I thought to myself. "FIRE!"."
The Evening of October 27th, Year 2013
Spoiler
"Never in my life have I encountered such a troublesome and seemingly one-sided evening. I started the evening as every recruit does, pouncing about the grasslands, turning left and right when instructed, trying not to run into the lowly recruits in front of me. What a sad bunch we are, the lines we formed were disgraceful, shaped like those exotic yellow fruits, only most of us lot have got thinner skin.
Shooting is what I love. My dream is to join the light infantry as a skirmisher. That was up next, and we did learn some new shooting drills. We were given permission to take pot-shots at the ranks by the targets. I managed to hit Corporal Ragnar, and he was none too pleased. The smile on my face couldn't have been any wider, nor could the grimace on his. I cared not, for I was a soldier and I did what I was ordered to do. I just wish we were ordered to hit the ranks more often...
Before I knew it, I was wearing a French uniform. The things stank of garlic and cheap whores, lord almighty knows where the ranks picked these up. We could've been targets in the dark, the smell would have given our position away to any Prussian with a blocked nose. We arranged small firing lines and charged the now opposing British. Some terrible shooting was on show for sure, even from myself. I don't know what it is, but I can't seem to shoot in front of my superiors, not because of nerves, but because I don't enjoy being ordered to shoot at a certain time. I much prefer the freedom to track a target and fire when it takes my fancy. Nevertheless, you have to start at the bottom. I've got to show the ranks that I'm a capable rifleman if I'm to join the light infantry.
Later on that evening, we had line battles. Due to some miscommunication beyond my control, I missed a large portion of the first line battle, which frustrated me greatly. I wanted to put the training into practice, to get into the rhythm of heated battle and beat out the enemy. The battles I participated in, we were heavily outnumbered. Nevertheless, I managed to gun down an opposing soldier, and melee kill another before taking a fatal blow from a bayonet and being downed for the battle.
I must rest from my wound for tonight and recover for some melee practice on the evening of the 29th. The path ahead of me is long, and it's currently filled with recruits just like me, trying to make a name for themselves."
The Evening of October 29th, Year 2013
Spoiler
"I've recovered from my many wounds of the past few days. The scars are deep, and they'll be with me to the grave, which is hopefully a far-off destination. Melee training was cancelled so I wasn't able to learn anything new this evening, so I've got some much needed free time.
I've spent my few recovery days getting to know my troop better. Reading back, I noticed a lack of camaraderie thus far, but I have begun to know who to avoid and who to keep close already. It amazes me that in these few days, I can be no better at running around fields or pointing a sharp stick at people, yet I can learn a person's entire reputation in the same span. My reputation has begun to take flight without me knowing it, whether it's bad or good at the moment is too soon to say, and it of course depends on who you ask. Making sure the right people hold me in high regard is what I will hold onto right now. I could not care less what my equals think of me in terms of reputation, truth be told I could not care what anybody thinks of me, but that's not how you get promoted. Respect before honour would be my epitaph right now, and my soul would stand there and laugh at it. Until I have power to decide for myself, I can't think, I just obey the orders and never ask questions. What a dreary life.
I've been given leave for tomorrow. It will be the first time I miss training, which is never a good thing. Training seems repetitive, pointless, sometimes even a punishment, especially when you're a recruit, but until you can look a man in the eye and know confidently you can shoot him, or stab him, or outmaneuver him, you are not good enough. On the battlefield, nobody waits for you to reload or for you to attach your bayonet, if you're not prepared, that battle will be your last. Besides, everyone started in the same place at one time or another, so if they can better themselves, then anybody else can, and that includes me. Your start will be the most difficult part, but the start might someday prevent your end."
The Evening of November 1st, Year 2013
Spoiler
"I have settled into the 33rd, though I am still just a recruit for now. Focusing on my combat is now priority, that's where I can really make an impression at the moment, standing out above other recruits, showing a willingness to improve and to learn and above all, managing to do it. I've known from the start I'm no melee fighter. I don't want to be able to smell a man before I tear his guts out, nor do I want to witness the fear in his eyes as he charges into death. I have no willingness to watch suffering, but solely to bring it. In that respect I am a coward, able to get his hands dirty, but able to wash them without remorse. Surely how a man dies doesn't matter, but the simple fact that you end his life is sufficient enough. You find soldiers who are the opposite to myself, those who bake themselves in the blood of their enemies, spiral into a whaling frenzy, mouths frothing with tongues, people who ultimately live to die. Their death, while it is usually one of a great epic, is soon forgotten, for there is no honour among men who delight in the downfall of their enemies in such a way. The honour comes when you do your commander's duty and your country's duty, not your own.
Now that my wounds have healed, I spent this evening in the practice area with Private Marruu, focusing on the melee aspects of combat. At first I was unsure what to expect from the man, I had exchanged conversation with him before, but I was yet to charge in a line battle with him. I learned fairly quickly that it's dangerous to try and estimate the skill levels of your companions. Instead of focusing on my combat, I was too busy trying to work him out, and time after time he had me flat on the ground, musket to throat. There are ways to command another man's respect, and then there are ways to not only command his respect but then eat him up for breakfast, luncheon and supper, without firing a shot. Private Marruu had all 3 courses and then spat me out like the recruit I am. It put me through my paces, and it was surprisingly long overdue, I'd never realised before how off-pace I am right now, and it's emphasised how unready I am to apply for a position in the Light Company. This evening had also made me realise how much I had been missing on the field, leading me to question what else I was unaware of. The learning curve is difficult in combat, because your opponent is always going to be different from the last, and the lessons constantly change. I think it's important that I not only take the lessons that he taught me, but to strive forward in accumulating more knowledge, instead of being ignorant as I was before.
Upon returning to the mess, I later spoke to Private Vince. He has returned from long leave from the Centre Company, and has now returned as a Grenadier. I wonder if I'll ever fight alongside him, as the combat the Grenadiers face is glaringly opposite to my skill set. The focus on melee skill alone is obvious enough to steer me away. I wish him the best of luck though as he returns from a tough time. It's these tough times in life that make you realise what your true priorities are and spurs you to pursue them, and I know Private Vince will chase them unto the ends of the earth. If we don't face adversity, both in life and on the field, we don't prosper. We don't grow. We don't learn, and we don't kill."
The Evening of November 3rd, Year 2013
Spoiler
"Line battles. If they were defined in a standard English dictionary, you may find the entry to say "an organised assembly of disciplined men who partake in both melee and ranged combat in ruler-straight lines". Now, rip that page from the spine of the book and wipe your arse with it. My dictionary states that line-battles are an opportunity for you to charge at an enemy that has just re-loaded and is ready to send a metal ball ripping through your cranium.
That's not where my anger stems from this evening though, we all know line battles are very often cannon fodder charging into each other, often in disarray and confusion. No, I am simply angry at myself. In fact, this evening was a successful line battle for our regiment, several soldiers made themselves stand out, but alas, I was not amongst their number. I have no idea how some men can instantly switch to a combat-set mind. I'm not sure whether to be impressed or fearful of such men. Is it not dangerous to be able to switch yourself so quickly to the mindset of a killer? They were the ones who performed instantly though and were recognised, meanwhile I was still warming up before the battle was finished, so I concede I have no sustenance behind my point.
Most of the battle was a blur to my eyes, I managed to kill two men with my bayonet later on, and also take a man down with a shot to the shoulder with my musket, although I truly aimed for his head. I managed to hit something, which by this evening's standards, felt like a battle victory alone. Major Stefan then led us into a charge, and not long after his great booming voice left his lips, there followed a volley of shots, from the enemy, which took down nearly the entire regiment before his shout had finished echoing between the hills. I heard Corporal Ragnar call at my back as I tried to fend off the advancing enemy. I then realised we were both trapped, stranded behind the enemy, and it was not long before I was knocked unconscious by the glance of a bayonet. Corporal Ragnar had apparently regrouped with the regiment and fought to my unconscious body, dragging me back to safety. I currently write from my bed in the medical tent, where I will spend the night to recover. The regiment managed to win the line battle, little thanks to me. I know for certain I must improve in all aspects of soldiery if I am to see my name ever follow the rank "Private"."
The Evening of November 5th, Year 2013
Spoiler
"I was awoken this afternoon by a shout outside the medical tent. It was the voice of Lance Corporal Conte Gravina, announcing the start of his melee training. I shot out of the bed, and began to dress for battle. The nurse tried to stop me, but I pushed her aside, determined to attend the training session. As I walked out of the tent, the old trollop calling after me, I noticed a number of familiar faces, Private Vince and Private Aleks among them. Lance Corporal Conte Gravina assembled us into ranks and we were then ordered to pair off into sparring partners.
I was assigned the Ensign from the Grenadiers. I'd never caught his name around the camp, all I'd heard about him is that he rarely talked and he knew how to use a musket. The rumours were correct, time after time I fell flat on my arse, dressed as a Frenchman nonetheless. These uniforms were even worse than the ones we were forced to wear last week. I know for certain that this Frenchie had pissed himself before he was killed, and this uniform would be his lasting mark on this earth. That's no way to die. The Ensign consistently allowed me to stand up instead of knocking me out or giving me a cut, to remember the lesson. He was beckoning me to concentrate, which is difficult when you're soaked in another man's waste.
I was exhausted by the end of the training, and did not attend the line battle following it. I needed to get out of that uniform and soak away the odour. The last thing I need is to turn up to an official line battle smelling of French wizz. That would damage my promotion prospects more than my melee performances."
The Evening of November 7th, Year 2013
Spoiler
"I woke up this morning, finally without having that medical matron hanging over me. No, instead I woke up with the stench of drunken men fresh in my nostrils. Today felt like any other day, that was until I stepped out of the tent, ready to prepare myself for this evening's training. From across the hilltops, a giant column of red, bayonets blazing in the sun, led by Major Stefan. The grin on his face as he led the poor devils behind him to camp was infuriating. To him and the ranks, these were just more souls to order into the afterlife, but I looked at these recruits for what they were. You could see it in their faces, there were those who had lost hope in life and joined up as a last resort,you would see the paleness of their skin and the fear in their eyes. Their marches were bedraggled, sick to the skin of life, so this was the best place for them. I felt more sorry for the poor buggers full of ambition, the ones with their heads held high, buttons gleaming and boots with less than an inch of mud on them. True, some of them might make it to the ranks, but most would die for the rest of us or try and desert us. Of course, I forget I am still but a recruit myself.
One recruit stood out. I asked him his name when Major Stefan's back was turned, and he replied "Konox". That's all I got from him as he marched off with a wise look on his face, and wise he was too, for if Major Stefan had caught him talking to me, we'd have both been in bother. I asked around about the lad, and gathered from the other men that Recruit Konox had served many a time before, not only that, but he'd brought along with him most of the troop that was on show today. Apparently he was impressive to watch with a bayonet. He'd already commanded my respect, you only need that one recruit who stands out and it somehow justifies the slaughtering of the rest.
This evening's line battle was one I was interested by, but no less dreading. My first few weeks with the 33rd have been steady, but unexceptional. I had thus far made little to no mark in standing out, and as mentioned previously, my intention was to join the Light Company, where only the best rifles go. But at last, I finally performed how I knew I could, and was recognised by the ranks for it. It started with a lone mounted soldier who was harassing our line just as we were forming. The ranks ordered us to take him down, and thankfully, mine was the gun that did it. Once we had organised into a credible battle line, we were suddenly firing far across land, taking shots that would be lucky to reach the enemy. I tried to revert back to how I shot when I used to hunt. Take a steady aim, lift up your musket, and squeeze. Yet again, my bullet had found it's target taking down another man. We moved position to avoid cavalry, and fired again. Yet again I found the target, bringing my total kill count to 3. Then it came, the order to charge, the last thing I wanted to hear as I was finding a rhythm with my trigger finger. We spread wide, but not wide enough. Corporal Ragnar bellowed to take the left, which was barely occupied. I plugged the gap, leading the charge at the front, and caught a man reloading. Before he had a chance to swipe his musket, I gutted him and poured him out onto the earth. We had little trouble winning the battle, and all companies performed exceptionally, and considering the amount of fresh blood on the field this evening, this was nothing short of a miracle.
I believe I am starting to distinguish myself as a recruit, although some troubling news came to my tent before, a note informing me that the Light Company had for now stopped recruiting. It was the only stain on today, as nothing else could have gone any better. Sending 4 souls off to the great beyond is something I get could used to sleeping on."
Date Unknown, Year 2013
Spoiler
"Whenever a fellow soldier offers to spend the night drinking the devil's water with you, I suggest you decline. I currently sit in an old barn, writing from the light of a lamp in the middle of nowhere. The events of this evening are somewhat blurred in my mind, and I will spend tomorrow trying to find my way back to camp, and more importantly, entering quietly. I can't let the men on watch spot me, else I'll be reported immediately to Major Stefan.
It all started when Private Vince entered the tent. He had already had his fair share by the smell of him, and was mumbling about a woman he intended to meet. "Belts-Off Betty they call her... she's the finest whore in all of Christendom." He staggered over to me, and before I knew it, I was holding him up, and we were making our way out of the camp. The men on post were too busy having a drinking session of their own to even notice Vince stumbling past singing God only knows what. We were some way from camp when out of the bush, I saw a shadow crawl out. It was a woman, who I could only presume was Betty. "Hello my lovely" she said to Vince, obviously recognising him from a previous encounter. Betty stumbled over and grabbed Vince by the arm, and started to lead him off to a small hut in the distance. She was covered in dirt and smelt of onions, the best in all of Christendom indeed. I let Betty walk with him, and turned to make my way back to camp, when suddenly she invited me to come to her strange little hut too. I politely declined, although I usually saved my manners for real ladies. However, it only took the mention of a large supply of Whisky before I suddenly found myself walking across the muddy plain behind the odd coupling.
I walked in to be met by several women covered in tattered rags. Betty gave Vince to one of her girls and he was carried into a back room. I took a chair, if you could call it that, and began to drink. A few other recruits were scattered around the place, but I hardly recognised their faces when they were breast deep in dirty flesh. I had no intention of taking one of these creatures for myself, and just sat there looking into the bottom of the bottle all night. The last thing I could remember was taking a sip of Whisky. I'd obviously spent a lot longer in the wretched hive than I thought, and drank myself out of reality. And that is where I find myself now. I can only assume that the party continued and I wandered off. None of my possessions were missing, which was some good news I guess. I will spend the rest of the night in this barn, my only company being a single cow. She was better company than Belts-Off Betty that's for sure, and the cow had a better pair of udders".
The Evening of November 16th, Year 2013
Spoiler
"It took me days to find my way back to camp. I've lost a bit of weight, but at last I heard the sounds of battle cries and musket shots yesterday, which were thankfully from the camp rather than me running into any bandits. My absence wasn't noticed in the camp thankfully. I made my way to my tent, and that was that. Vince had returned several days ago, in fact he was sitting at the fireside on my way to the tent, seemingly soberer than usual.
Then this morning, before I'd barely gotten myself together, a note arrived from Colonel Robert Malog and Adjutant Takashi, informing me that I was to be transferred to the Light Company and thus be promoted to Private. At first I thought the drink was still affecting me, but I washed my face in the water basin, and re-read the note. It was no forgery. Corporal Dasher soon arrived at my tent. I saluted him, and he handed me a green uniform, my new colours. He had no sooner walked away than I began to try it on. It was slightly too big for me, but that was probably because of my recent weight loss in the encounter with Betty. I would soon fill it up.
That evening, I attended promotions for the camp at which most were gathered. I was called out by Colonel Stefan, who handed me my new insignia. I would have to get in touch with one of Betty's bitches to see if any of them had any thread and some sewing skills. I headed over to the Light Company benches, where I was met by some of the cheekiest grins I think I'll ever see. I had heard the lights enjoyed a laugh now and again, and being the fresh blood, I was very wary, just waiting for something to happen. It would come eventually, the camaraderie kicking in. It was to be expected, no matter who you were, you had to become one of the lads.
I go to sleep tonight much expecting my sheets to be covered in cow shit when I wake up or my new uniform to be turned inside out. Since that night in the barn, I've been sleeping lightly, so the bastard, whoever does it, better watch out. My bayonet is just beside my bed."
The Evening of November 21st, Year 2013
Spoiler
"I thought that the worst wake-up call I would ever get in my life would be the lump of a matron hanging over me in the medical tent. I was wrong. This morning, the Light Company decided to welcome me by wrapping me in my cloth sheets and throwing me in the nearby river. They had caught me off-guard by letting my first week go by without a hitch, and it had worked. I rose to the water's surface to see their green uniforms scampering off, while the rest of the camp had come out to see what all disturbance was, some armed with muskets. Safe to say they fell about laughing when they saw my head floating in the middle of the river. I reached across to the land's edge, and pulled myself out. The bastards. At least it was over, at least I hope it is, until some more fresh blood trickles into this company. Upon return to my tent, drenched in dirty water and embarrassment, I received a note from Colonel Stefan, informing me that I still had possession of an infantry musket from my time as a recruit, and that I was to return it immediately. That was when I realised it had gone from my bedside. The lights must have taken it.
I had fought yesterday, and enjoyed some kills, my first as a light. I got a few shots off which reached their marks. I killed a man with the butt of my rifle too, always a messy business, especially if you don't take a wash afterwards. I had his blood all over my green uniform, which had now started transforming into deep brown. Bloody French, quite literally. There are some murmurs among the higher ranks right now, the 33rd is currently traversing shaky ground. There are murmurs of a cavalry regiment, which is both good news and bad news from a Light Company perspective. Presently, we rely on cavalry from other regiment's, in other words, outsiders. I never like to fight alongside a man who holds different allegiances to myself, he has no reason to stay loyal. As a skirmisher, I've already experienced the charge of enemy cavalry, as you look down the sight of your musket, only to see a horses head appear over the horizon, galloping on your position. Unless you can take the rider down, cavalry can be your worst enemy in the Light Company. It would be good to have a dedicated section that would ensure us light's aren't trampled every time we stop for a quick piss. The problem lies in resources for the regiment as well as enough willingness. You always need a man to lead the way and to make the difficult decisions, and right now, nobody is declaring themselves as that man.
I care not though, I don't like to get involved in the chaotic debates that CO's often find themselves on the end of. I like to keep war as simple as possible, no matter how much of an impossibility that seems. Organising men to move around and shoot when they're told is the basic tenant of war. The advanced tenant is keeping the buggers alive."
The Evening of November 29th, Year 2013
Spoiler
"I've been in the lights for a short while now, and I'm settling in. The pranks have stopped now, a new recruit has taken my role as the new bloke in the company. I left the poor sod alone, although I did follow the rest of them through the pitch black night as they led a pig into his tent. He'll sleep with worse before his time is up here.
There have been a few promotions of late, some of my notable comrades such as Marruu and Ragnar received new ranks, and deservedly so. It takes a lot to command a recruit's respect, it takes even more to command the respect of your superiors. Right now, I couldn't be happier with my position, I intended from the start to become a skirmisher, and within weeks of stumbling through mud to getting lost after a visit to a whore house, I'm here. Maybe in the future I'll desire a more commanding or respected role, but that will be some time off. The lights fight how I want to. They take positions over hills, finding decent cover before attacking from a range that not many men in the world can strike from. I don't think it's hit me how lucky I am to have been promoted to this company yet.
There's no word of a cavalry regiment yet, although I have noticed horses being brought into camp of late. It's a pile of gunpowder waiting to ignite in my opinion.
I've also claimed some responsibility at last by organising some bouts between the men. I'm holding a melee tournament with the support of Sergeant Ragnar as well as the silent soldier from the Grenadier company, who's name I still haven't caught around the camp. It will be my first chance to command to an extent, and I cannot wait to rise to the challenge. It's difficult to bite your lip at times being so low down the food chain in this regiment, so the lord help whoever attempts to disrupt the tournament."
The Evening of December 4th, Year 2013
Spoiler
"The amount of horses being brought into the camp is increasing by day. I'm not paid to think in this regiment, but whether you're a low-life whelp or a snotty-nosed bastard from a rich family, you can put two and two together. As I've mentioned before, some regimental cavalry might be a good idea if it means us lights have to worry less about being hacked down, that's if they're commanded properly. I used to think some of the 33rd caused chaos on foot, I quiver to imagine how much would be caused if they were on horseback.
I got a few kills today, a few decent shots and a couple of melee kills. Our company took few casualties. Every skirmisher seemed on his toes tonight, aware of what was around him, which always helps. Even the usually pesky cavalry was kept under wraps. I noticed we instantly grouped together as soon as the great beasts began to charge towards us, which made it easier to slice them down and finish off the man that was sitting atop of them. Howie accidentally hit Conte Gravina in the midst of a cavalry shootout. Howie had explained how he was aiming for one of the horse's legs, before it suddenly turned, and the metal ball shot into the side of Conte's thigh. He went down, but he was soon carried away from the battle and currently lies in the medical tent. That matron's going to make his life hell for the next few weeks. A fellow from the grenadiers also began to jeer at our company while we were passing him. He was shouting nonsensical jibberish at us. Robert Malog took little notice of it, and the grenadier was carried away. I've heard rumours he was suffering from a fever, and he apparently thought we were trees because of our green uniform. The poor sod, although I'm sure I heard him curse at us too, so that may just be a cover-up story.
The melee tournament I've been organising amongst the men has taken off greatly. We've close to 30 men ready to fight for the title of best melee fighter. I'm not able to participate myself as I will be arranging the duels between the men, which is fine with me as I have little confidence in my ability anyway. Wooden sticks will be used of course. I don't want the blood of 29 men on my hands, that's sure to hurt any future promotion prospects. However a successfully run tournament won't do me any harm with regards to my stripes. I've said before, I couldn't care less what rank graces my shoulders, I'm able to fight the way I want to in the lights, and that's all I want."
The Evening of December 7th, Year 2013
Spoiler
"The weeks are getting repetitive. When you kill your first man, it's an accomplishment, or at least it feels like one. When you've killed several, you start to mentally unravel. You remember their faces, and how you killed each one, how his breath left his body, and their eyes flickered as they viewed their last glimpses of their time on earth. You also remember how you stood there, in the glory of battle, watching as they struggled to breath, and how you rifled through his pockets for any coins he might have on him. To be a soldier, you can't feel remorse, you have to kill without feeling, you have to live with the deaths of others.
I saw little action tonight, besides ripping a man's face to shreds with a metal ball. The shot was one I didn't intentionally pull off, the range was tremendous and we were ordered to shoot with the prospect of thinning the approaching lines rather than doing some real damage. I squeezed the trigger and the ball left the barrel. That man must have been wondering what he would do when he returned home this winter, to find out if his sweetheart had been sleeping around in the local tavern to earn some keep while her man was away, maybe even ask permission from his CO to marry, before the metal ball I'd not long ago primed into the musket severed his life line.
Yes, that's right, a musket. We've begun to use muskets on occasion with the incentive of bayonets over the range you get with a rifle. I much prefer having a melee option open for when the pesky cavalry inevitably charge us. Us lights aren't the best with muskets, but we can certainly handle ourselves in a group. When the time comes, our steel will be bloodied. Who's blood it is however is an entirely different matter."
The Evening of December 13th, Year 2013
Spoiler
"Talk of the melee tournament has begun spreading, it really is a chance for me to do something big at last in this regiment besides adjusting the face of several frenchies with my rifle. No, it's not for glory or gunning for a promotion, it's about being recognised, otherwise you're just treated like any soldier, and that certainly isn't great.
Progression in the lights is going well. True, I'm still a private, and that's not going to change any time soon. I'm amongst the regiments elite sharpshooters, some of the men can shoot targets most people couldn't even see, and to be a part of their number is honour enough. I get enough kills to keep me satisfied at least.
I have to rest now, the next few days are going to be spent shooting at targets as usual. You just need to be able to shoot consistently to be a decent skirmisher. I also need to begin arrangements for the tournament."
The Evening of December 17th, Year 2013
Spoiler
"So that's it, the tournament is over and I'm pleased to say it went successfully. A new recruit by the name of Cedric took the title of champion, and deservedly so, he beat some of the best melee fighters around, and he's already making a name for himself. I can hear the saliva dripping from the Grenadier company already.
I had assistance from Sergeant Ragnar as well as the silent grenadier who I now jokingly refer to as Silent, although refer to him or not, he won't speak to you. Ragnar and Silent both participated themselves. It was very strange ordering some of the higher ranks around, but also satisfying. It was a chance for me to order with malice, subtle revenge for making me trek through miles of mud and water.
I am looking to host more tournaments, as I received a note from Silent that declared his intentions to assist with any future tournaments. What has my life become though, spending an evening as a mock officer is the highlight of my week. Maybe I do have aspirations in this regiment to become an officer, despite me reassuring myself I'm in this solely to kill my enemies. Corruption's an easy thing to ignore when you're the one who's corrupt."
The Evening of December 24th, Year 2013
Spoiler
"Call this the eve of Christmas. We haven't seen action for days, for weeks. Here we are in the middle of nowhere, rain pouring while we cower under any rags we can find while the CO's sit in a shelter, celebrating this torrid winter. The goose fat dripping down their lips as they stab at their potatoes, guzzling wine and drowning in merriment. Meanwhile a young lad, with his life before him but a week ago, now lies face down, his cut face soaked in muddied water surrounded by chunks of flesh hanging off his rotting skin, not 4 miles from here, while his bride-to-be spends Christmas against the walls back home.
Drink is always the answer in war. It gives you courage in battle, keeps you warm in the night, and helps you forget about the others. Our commanders enjoy a tipple no matter the time of day. I swear they would lead us into a 4-foot river before they'd use the bridge 10 paces further down, just to sniff the French that much more. I don't know why we're here any more, this land isn't fit to die on, let alone live on. Anyway, I'll finish here, I intend to soak my loins in the liquor of the devil tonight."
The Evening of December 31st, Year 2013
Spoiler
"We're on the cusp of a new year, despite life being the same as always. The men got what they desired this Christmas, action of some sort, although not a battle. A typical batch of new recruits entered the camp, Christmas presents for the Colonel, something else to hang on his tree.These recruits however were a bit rowdier than the standard we get in the 33rd, talking to each other in line, pushing and shoving. Safe to say the CO's kept them in line, although they were a bit heavy handed. Then it happened, from a standard telling off to a outright riot. One of the recruits shot out of the line heading towards the Colonel, his fist pulling back as he reached him.
A few of the NCO's ran forward to restrain the man, before dragging him before the Colonel, who was taken aback. The Colonel ordered the man to be lashed, which happened this afternoon. We didn't hear the screams you might expect from a recruit, if anything, each lash seemed to spur him on, his grunts getting louder as he endured the punishment. This lad had a little fire in him, so much so, he was moved to our company the very second his punishment had finished. I've took a liking to the lad, despite his poor choice of first impression. You need temper in battle, you need somebody who isn't afraid to take anything on, because if you can get them on your side, they're a fearsome ally. For some reason, I don't think any of the lights are even thinking about pulling the somewhat regulatory jokes that every recruit has to endure, not with this one."
The Evening of January 8th, Year 2014
Spoiler
"In this young year, we at last smelt blood and fear. It was good to be back on grass plains this evening, the blood coursing through each man's veins as he patiently waited for permission to engage the enemy. I admittedly was guilty of the same feelings, eager to look down the musket's barrel and pick a man to die. We enjoyed some success tonight as a company, taking down various officers from the enemy ranks, leaving a straddling group of whelps running round like headless chickens. Easy pickings indeed.
I however enjoy it most when they retreat in straight lines, making a taller and therefore easier target to aim at, particularly on hills. Even better when two of these lines are commanded by buffoons that decide to cross each others paths, making a target which no light can resist. Even our commander tonight seemed to delight at the opportunities that were given to us. Perhaps we could have sent a few more souls to the great beyond, but enough blood was shed tonight to fill our cannibalistic desires.
On a personal note, it seems like years have passed since I started as a recruit, as though it were lands and seas away. I began soldiery as a gentleman, looking to do his part with his life, and I've been turned into a thirsty beast by this regiment, with a lust for glory. You soon forget the world when you become part of a group, you only care for that group. The light company have become my group now, I feel at home in this regiment at last, and I am finally beginning to adjust to this life, even enjoy it to some extent. We all look out for our own, so you're best making sure you're not alone."
The Evening of January 15th, Year 2014
Spoiler
So my fellow, who we call Scottish, was promoted to the rank of corporal. I'm thrilled for the bloke, he's one of the best shots the French will ever see. For a lot of them, he's the last shot they will ever see. Another comrade, Vince, who I haven't fought alongside since I joined as a recruit, has moved to the light company too. He's a devil with the musket and bayonet, I've already enjoyed fighting alongside this short time. Us lights are continuing to grow as a company, both in number and in banter. It's almost like a brotherhood.
Lieutenant Goodwin also took charge briefly during our last battle. Captain Malog was shot down, not fatally, he's currently resting in the medical tent with that whore of a matron. He'll soon wish that bullet ended his suffering there. Anyway, me and Goodwin got off to a weird introduction. I've fought alongside him for a few weeks now, but in this past battle, he moved past behind me as I was lining up a shot, and before I knew it, I had instinctively turned and was now pointing a loaded musket to his face. Had he not the typical dog's arse face of an Englishman and smelt more of stout than garlic, I could've easily shot him for a Frenchie. There's currently a bit of a rift between us, he's very unsure of me at the moment. I'll try and use it to my advantage, having a bit of fun with officer's is a private's prerogative right?
The Evening of January 22nd, Year 2014
Spoiler
"I don't think I'll ever be able to process everything has happened in the past week. It all started last week, when Captain Malog was discharged from the medical tent after his wound. We were given orders to set up a scout camp ahead of our main camp, apparently Betty and her bitches of the night had seen some blue coats amongst the trees. We were gathered together and set off in high spirits, too high in some cases. The lads stank of booze as we wandered across the grassy fields. The fences of the local farms proved to be a challenge for some, when ordinarily it was a simple climb over them.
After near on 5 hours of marching, we had reached a large peak in the middle of the grass lands, and we set up camp in amongst some large stones. We had already brought firewood with us to combat the cold winter, but the instant we began to light it, Captain Malog called down from atop one of the rock slabs, ordering us to stop. We all stood silent as he peered back through his spyglass. He had seen something. Before we knew it the roar of hooves could be heard on the night. We couldn't see them, but we could hear the thumps echo throughout the trunks of the trees. "To me" our captain whispered. We made our way to the large rock slab he had been kneeling on. Suddenly a horse appeared out from an opening in the thick woods. "Scottish, take him down" whispered Captain Malog. Before he had even finished speaking, the scotsman had ripped a bullet through the frenchie's head. We hadn't finished congratulating on a shot well taken before more horses appeared, and they were all around us. "Open fire!" shouted the captain as we let our bullets rip out of their barrels. Cries could be heard all around our rocky peak, both from horse and man.
It wasn't long before the horsemen had dismounted and were approaching our vicinity. We had now been seperated across the peak, I was alone but I could still see my Captain. I darted a look across at him. They knew we were here now and they weren't going to let us back down. I'd broken into a daze, and I heard Robert Malog cry my name above the heavy sound of gunfire which was in full swing. I turned, and found a frenchman facing me, his bayonet above his head ready to strike. I knocked his stomach with the butt of my rifle, before bringing the barrel round to knock his teeth out. I turned back to give my captain a grateful glance, but it was too late. Captain Robert Malog had been killed.
The surrounding frenchman circled the rest of the company and we began reloading faster than ever before, but there wasn't enough time. We charged, using our rifles as melee weapons, swinging furiously. Our blood was high and so were our spirits, these bastards had killed the one man we were all loyal to, and we weren't going to let them return to their families telling stories and lies of how Captain Malog had died like a coward. There was french blood everywhere, and before long, we heard a horn. The french were retreating, and they had left horses behind. We tried to fire into their backs, but as quick as they had appeared, they were gone, charging through the trees to report their defeat. We left in a hurry, galloping back to our camp.
We had expected to return as heros, but we did not. An inquiry was launched into the captain's death, each of us asked what had happened. I had little to say, he was there saving my life one second and losing his own the next. The inquiry only finished two days ago. We had lost some good men along with the captain who hadn't made it through the bloody brawl. There were few of us left, and the regiment reported they had no choice but to form a new light company. They also reported that they found the company to be drunk on their arrival back to the camp, and so we were disbanded as a group.
Today, now that it is all over, I find myself back in Center company, a punishment enough for a passionate rifleman, for negligence towards my leader and my friend, though I did manage to retain my rank of private. Others have suffered similar punishment, my friend Scottish being transferred to another regiment, so it is likely I will never fight alongside him again. We have suffered for the severe loss of our captain. The true story of that fateful night, however, will never be told, except in these pages."
The Evening of January 26th, Year 2014
Spoiler
It's been quiet since the company split up. Sitting back in center is too familiar a territory for me. It's as though the past 3 months haven't happened and I'm almost back to being a recruit, it's a truly horrible feeling. There are familiar faces still about, people I haven't fought alongside since my beginning as a soldier, which is small comfort. The only saving grace is that the recruits get treated even worse than me. It still doesn't stop an officer looking at you as though your were a stray dog loose in the camp or that you're infested with some sort of failure that can spread. Well I won't let that get the better of me yet, I've done it once and I can do it again. The new light company has formed, and if it kills me, I'll break back into their ranks. Death is the last thing on my mind right now, so I'm confident.
I sneaked out of the camp early this morning. The old lights have been placed on reduced rations for the time being as punishment, although I'm still not entirely sure what we're being punished for. It's almost as though the need somebody to blame with regards to our deceased Captain, and instead of letting me shoot at the French responsible for it, I have to make do with being hungry, angry and determined. That concoction led me to steal from a local farm this morning. I had little trouble getting over the picket fence, making it look a breeze compared with the old lights who were drunk and falling arse over heel trying to hop it just a week ago. Just a week ago it was, I was content with what I had. Now I steal from the locals. I had a startling encounter in the wheat fields though, making my way to the orchards. I was creeping through the fluffy harvest when suddenly I spotted blue, and heard a mumble of French. I hadn't brought my musket, and only had a small knife. I withdrew it and brushed the wheat aside.
It was a Frenchman. I stared at him for what seemed an eternity. All that was going through my mind was the captain's death and the dismantlement of our beloved light company. This bastard was one of them. "Paix! Paix!" he shouted. I grabbed him and covered his face as he flailed about, obviously thinking I was about to cut his throat. "Parlez-vous anglais?" I asked, the little French I knew. "A little" he responded as I let him stand up. He said his name was Monsieur Supeur. I didn't catch his first name, some froggy rubbish, it's all the same to me. Safe to say, although we couldn't understand each other very well, we could understand our situation. A dead soldier in amongst the wheat fields would do no good to either country's relationship with the locals. I put my knife away and held my hands up backing away. He tilted his hat slightly, which I think was a good sign. I didn't see him again as I made my way back to the camp, nor did I report it. Scouting the enemy is the job of a light or a spy, and I am neither.
The Evening of February 2nd, Year 2014
Spoiler
"Just a few days ago, I received word of the new light company. My old friend Ragnar had been promoted to the position of Adjutant, and was now assisting Lieutenant Greyscale in running this new company. Already, there had been some deserters, cowards who abused their opportunity, using the freedom that is afforded to lights to escape the camp. I was called in temporarily under Colonel Stefan's orders to take a spot with the new company, not because I was particularly wanted, but because I was of the few men available with experience at short notice. Before long, I was walking amongst the new set of lights, ready to head into a battle with them. Most of these men were pulled from the Center company and the Grenadiers, a few of the old lights had managed to keep their spots after the catastrophe a few weeks ago. I was determined to show them I was still a good shot, despite the report from all those weeks ago casting a dark shadow on my image, as well as the other ex-lights. We headed into the battle, peeking over a hill at a long blue line. Skirmish order was executed and we were given permission to engage. Straight away, I began firing, taking down men left, right and center. Every bullet found it's mark, down went another French bastard by my rifle, again and again.
By the end of the night, I was making my way back to the camp with cheers of my name behind me! I had done it. I had that small window of opportunity to redeem my name, and I had taken it. The next morning, I received a note from Adjutant Ragnar, reporting that I had been selected to join the light company. I never even had to trudge through the mud in center, and I was no sooner castigated than I was celebrated. And that's where I find myself now, back where I belong, even if it is amongst a new set of faces. There are a few familiar friends within the ranks, but right now, the company is still finding it's feet. I intend to help it rise as best I can, both on and off the field. The company that Captain Robert Malog left behind deserves to be restored, and improved upon. We'll make our lights feared across all of Europe. The gits won't know what hit them. "
The Evening of February 8th, Year 2014
Spoiler
"Quiet on all fronts right now. The past week, the camp has been as silent as I can remember. Men stumble about from tent to tent, liquor fresh on their breath. A few spend time improving their skills, but that number is few. Myself, I've just settled into a monotonous pattern of waking up, wondering where the hell I am, keeping my rifle clean and sitting around the fire until night takes the day. Nothing else to report. We might be in France, but right now, there are no Frenchmen."
The Evening of February 15th, Year 2014
Spoiler
"At last, the bastards came. We got reports of french cavalry on a distant hill, so this morning we marched out towards them. As expected, they were many, a whole battalion of Frenchies. This was going to be a bloody one. With my first shot of the encounter, I ripped a Frenchman's garlic guzzling mouth right off. Even at this distance, I could see him fall as his arms flew up to his face and he died in a muddy heap.
We spent most of the battle at distance, as good lights should. We've got no need to get rough when we're all skilled with a gun. Some of the men decided to equip themselves with muskets, for the added bonus of a bayonet, and it was a smart decision. The few of us who had rifles, including myself, retreated back. The cavalry were coming.
The horses ripped through our ranks, their riders slicing their blades through the air. I deflected a sword swing off the butt of my rifle, before I heard the shout of Adjutant ragnar. I turned to see where he was, reloading simultaneously, ready to help him out. I turned to find that he was in the middle of a group of Frenchman, but he needed no help. His face was in bloody fury, his bayonet swinging and splicing the frogs open. His uniform changed a mucky purple as the blood soaked into his coat. I had little time to watch the Adjutant, the cavalry were hot on us. I took a few more riders off their horses, before at last, the French began to retreat. The remainder of our cavalry chased them down, while we shot from a distance. We had won."
The Evening of February 19th, Year 2014
Spoiler
"A note was delivered to my tent this morning. I opened it puzzled by it's contents. I broke the seal on the note. Judging the past few weeks, this could easily have been news of a permanent transfer back to center, or even to another regiment. It wasn't. I was delighted to be informed that I had been given the rank of Regular, signed by Adjutant Ragnar and Lieutenant Grey. 4 months had passed since I started on the long road to this moment. Beginning as a Center Company Recruit, and emerging as a Light Company Regular. I have a feeling I will enjoy this war a hell of a lot more from this moment onwards.
Before the reality had struck me, we got word of a French counter strike, a blatant attempt at taking revenge. We marched out to meet them, myself with a new found confidence. Like those few days ago, I shot another Frenchie from distance, this time in his torso, though he did go down, and stayed down more importantly. My first blood drawn as a Regular. I was busy reloading, when I noticed another Frenchman go down in front of us. I turned to see Edward, a fellow regular and a companion I had known since I started this bloody business. He had brought the frog down. We chuckled about the close timing of our kills, likening them to the rapid fire tactic we were both familiar with from Center company. I fired again, missing by a few feet. I heard Edward's rifle rip a shot off, and again, another Frenchman went down. Again and again, his rifle let loose, and it was shortly followed by another frog's soul being sent to the depths of hell. Our position was eventually compromised and we were charged by bayonet wielding bastards. I was knocked out for a moment at one point, regaining consciousness just as a flash of steel was being brought towards my gut. I knocked it aside with the butt of my rifle, bringing the barrel back across to smack the git.
We had all retreated, being overwhelmed by the French numbers. They wanted revenge for our cavalry raid a few days ago, but we weren't stupid enough to stick around. We pulled back to a larger force, at which point the French stopped pursuing us. This evening I have spent celebrating my promotion with my comrades from the lights. Nobody referred to us jokingly as the new lights anymore. We have a formidable skirmishing unit, and I have a new family."
The Evening of March 1st, Year 2014
Spoiler
It has been an interesting couple of days. This morning, I spotted a familiar face amongst the camp. It was the Frenchie I had spotted in the fields a few weeks ago. Before I had a chance to report to a CO, I noticed he was walking alongside our Colonel. I waited until he had finished speaking with him, before I approached the strange fellow. He immediately recognised my face too, pulling me aside behind a tent. He was quick to explain that he was one of our spies, posted in this region to gain information on the French numbers, and our last encounter was just an unfortunate accident. He explained he had been amongst the fields hiding from a French regiment he had just narrowly escaped from, and that he was unable to fully explain the situation at the time on fear of been taken prisoner, or even worse being handed over to the French as a deserter, before he had completed his mission by returning to the Colonel. I introduced myself to him, and we quickly parted ways, not before he reminded me to keep my silence about the situation.
A few days ago, we had a deserter of our own brought in, a new recent recruit by the name of Dick Optimus. Despite being new to the regiment, his name was infamous, particularly amongst the whores. He was a thief, a coward and the definition of a bastard. He was hanged yesterday on several offences, not before soiling his pants and crying to our Colonel, gripping at his uniform, begging for mercy. Adjutant Ragnar ran over and struck him across the face, before throwing him towards the gallows and spitting on the foreign ground he would soon be buried in. Not many attended to watch the git dangle by the thread, although a few of us lights treated it as some light entertainment before we got back to drinking the night away.
The Evening of March 10th, Year 2014
Spoiler
"It's been a quiet few days. Little action, lots of drink, not much memory of it to be honest. Wasn't as bad as the occasion when I escorted Vince to Betty's hut of pleasures, but still enough liqueur in the blood to wipe away the past few days. The French have made a habit of leaving us to our booze. Had they attacked, we would've been slaughtered but remembered as heroes back home, instead of the reality of being butchered as drunks. A death I would have no quarrel with myself.
Lieutenant Greyscale rode over this afternoon, writing on some parchment as he bounced upon his horse's back, before tumbling from the saddle and flicking up a dust storm around him. Surprisingly, his breath didn't stink of brandy, or any alcohol for that matter as we walked over to him to help him up. I grabbed his dusty coat, and pulled upwards, expecting a thank you. Instead he just looked at me, chuckled to himself and walked off back to his horse, which had been halted further down the camp."
The Evening of March 19th, Year 2014
Spoiler
"After a few weeks of no action, we finally got a pop at the garlic munchers again. I took a man down from his horse as he charged us, and shortly after, popped a bullet into a Captain's chest. It was a good haul as I pilfered his coat as the enemy retreated, finding a brand new spyglass and a well crafted pistol. Those will pay for the next few weeks booze. I'll have to start aiming at officers more often.
Speaking of Captains, a few days ago, we were gathered outside our tents. There stood Lieutenant Greyscale and Adjutant Ragnar. The Lieutenant stepped forward and announced to us that Adjutant Ragnar was to be promoted to the rank of Captain, due to his outstanding leadership and his role in developing this new light company. The grin on my face was almost noticeable, before I regained sense and switched back to a dead straight face, masking my delight. I was happy for the man, I'd known him since my time in Center and we'd developed a rapport early on, and since, I've considered us friends. Now he was going to lead the company I loved.
And he did, he led us in the aforementioned battle. Some bad news however regarding our company, Welshy, our old Serjeant, died of dysentery a few days ago. Blake, a paddy bastard, was brought in to the role. Most of the men planned to give him trouble to settle him in, but much to his credit, the Irishman showed he's got guts straight away, keeping order in the ranks, a tough job in the light company. You're not going to cause trouble for a real bastard, and I'm certain, we've got some real bastards in this company, and I couldn't be happier."
The Evening of March 23rd, Year 2014
Spoiler
I woke this morning with a heavy mind, the alcohol from the past few days taking it's toll. It's true, I'd spent more on the devil's water than the average soldier. Serjeant Blake spent the past few nights singing away the hours with me. It's not like an Irishman to pass up the opportunity to inebriate himself. While I was struggling to cope with a few flashbacks of fireside stories and songs with the paddy, I was delivered a note. It was a summons to see Captain Ragnar. At first, I thought Blake might've gotten himself into some trouble and remembered me as one of his acquaintances, but upon reaching the Captain's tent, I noticed all the lights gathered.
Captain Ragnar noted my approach, and called me while arranging the rest of the men into some sort of order, at least by light company standards. He announced that I was to be made Lance Corporal with immediate effect. I stood there just looking at him, then I was tempted to pinch myself, because this must've been an hallucination from the heavy drinking. My gaze was broken by the men's cheers. I promptly thanked the Captain, realising I'd just been standing there, and the men broke up back into their rabble. Serjeant Blake walked past, slapping me on the back, and mumbling "bastard" with a small chuckle hidden in it.
The walk back to my tent was odd, I was still in some shock. I recall shaking hands with Lieutenant Colonel Gurkha from the Grenadiers, what was said, I still don't remember. Writing it down feels like I'm writing a fictional novel. Maybe it'll sink in after a night's celebratory drinking. I think I'll pay Serjeant Blake a visit.