Alright listen up you bunch of Johnny Raw shavetails, I’m gonna tell you how it fookin’ is! Nobody gets to paint a single cartridge box on their widdle 20mm “Napoleonics” til you read this fookin’ book, hear what I’m saying?! Not a single horse, either? Know why?
No you fookin’ don’t. What color is the leather equipment of your miniature re-enactment Corsican tirailleur, eh? [Buff] Do you know that, shavetail? You know, the Corsican light infantryman, fed on the feud, who shot French revenuers for dessert? No? How about the color of their uniform coats [brown], much less the facings, originally [red] and later [green]? Still no? OK then tell me what color were the actual horses of the first, second, third, and fourth cavalry squadrons in the Grande Armée? Sing with me: black, bay, chestnut, gray, with piebald for the kettledrummer.
This book will drill you down so far you’ll think you'll hear Ulysses' sirens, but they'll be the saw-edged voices of washerwomen with vocabularies that make even a topkick like me wince! Holy unshirted hell for the whole crowd of us, I tell you. Not to mention the horses: three of them dead for every man killed wounded or captured. And you still with teeth in your ass, the whole stinking hippodromatic lot of you! May you earn the services of your own surgeons, those espèces de pacotille — untranslateable cheapjack, is what I mean! Understand? No! Of course not! But deadlier than the Russian artillery!
Tell you what then, let’s move out to the thudding drums against a waiting line of leveled muskets and listen for that dry Scots voice! Still echoing: “For what we are about to receive, Lord make us truly thankful.” Oh, you miserable, helpless yardbirds, dreaming of life as the drum major of the 2d Foreign Regiment, looking like a Chinese paint factory in a sunset. Better dream of a disabling wound! So you can be invalided out to some provincial hospital and read fookin’ books like this one: incredible detail, fascinating anecdotage, and regular doses of military argot as impenetrable as a dromedary’s hump [e.g.].
And now about face! Loopdeloop! Shovels out! Dig your bed then report for mess and better graissez la marmite, all you nouveaux bitches! What do you mean, what do I mean? Likker for the pot/what’s the new guy got? And you better thank me for keeping you entertained, because it’s a long way to Dieppe, O’Reary, much less to the other side of the Berezina. What do you think this is, the Irish Regiment? Is Notre Dame football team really the Fighting Irish? [spoiler alert: p. 359]
One foot after another. Follow your topkick. Leave the editors out of this. If I want to “comparison” the elephant that was the semi-uniformed Louis XVIII, I will, and if I want his Minister of War Dupont to be a “crowning bobble,” then fookin’ give me a Boney Head for the dashboard of my char. Because “unfortunately” the British stood at Quatre Bras. Holy unshirted hell.