The Flanders Despatch - June. 

The First Foot Guards Expeditionary Force made a further sortie against the maladjusted followers of the Corsican Ogre this mid-July. At the express invitation of an undercover agent and former Foot Guard who had, he claimed, convincing evidence that the people of the fortified town of Le Quesnoy were ready to rise against the republican tyranny at present being spread like a suffocating blanket over the population of France. In the event it turned out that Marc (Demi-Frog) Middleton’s intelligence was defective – in fact there remains serious concern over whether he has any at all – and the promised royalist forces paraded for the Thief of Europe and not His Britannic Majesty. We were left with a loyal group of four local imbeciles who had gathered for an annual village idiot competition and, having arrived, could not find their way home again (all being from different villages they failed to agree the route).

Erring on the side of caution Captain Bamford sent a vanguard ahead in the form of Privates Hastings and Chapman whose express duty was to secure an appropriate camping ground for the ‘Gold’ when it arrived some two hours later. As one would expect of unsupervised other rankers they did their very best in completing this task, and lined us along the dried up bank of an obvious flood plain at the base of an unassailable wall in the killing zone of this impregnable fortress. We were not alone however, as the rest of the mongrel battalion comprising Saxons, Germans, Prussians, Hollanders and a peculiar breed of French-Belgian Scots decided to pitch up in our vicinity thereby offering at least some form of protection from the French musketry. Quite why they should all set up camp in such an obviously inappropriate spot was difficult to fathom until Quarter-Master-Sgt. Gardner pointed out that one of their number (later to be entrusted with the colours) appeared to be an uncomfortably close relative of our very own Private Horan (what a shame that Kevin was unable to attend due to the expedition clashing with the annual English Horan family bath and hair-wash).

How refreshing it was to be received by our vanguard, tents already pitched, and it filled us all with joy to be re-united with them and offer them the opportunity to help us erect our tents. Typically of the British soldier this kind offer to them was thrown back in our faces and all those holding rank were left to complete the camp construction as Hastings and Chapman promptly recruited the mad, bad and dangerous Private Allen and made off into town to sample the delights of a particularly well endowed, but sadly hideously ugly, landlady of the Cambridge Pub. It is believed this unfortunate woman was in fact some form of sorceress who had laced our brave soldiers’ drinks with a form of love potion; it seemingly having the effect of making her appear more beautiful as the evening wore on. Apparently it has been subsequently reported that on a last sighting she resembled a series of minor road works.

Returning to camp our rough other ranks then proceeded to upset our noble allies by hurling all sorts of loud and unnecessary insults against the manhood of their nations; fortunately this was only overheard by most of them who then spent the rest of the time smiling and offering us curious forms of local salutation made by forming their hands into various shapes.

The following morning saw us forming up for battalion drill under the watchful eye of Captain Marc (Demi-Frog) Middleton, a Euro-Mulatto with confused loyalties but none the less a representative of The Staff. It was his intention to parade us in an open column of companies. Three companies were made. Viz: First Company 1st Foot Guards (Splendid fellows, one and all) 41st Regiment of Foot (Taffs) French/Belgian Scots Commanded by Captain Bamford – 1st Foot Guards Second Company Some Foreigners (Saxons) Some More Foreigners (Germans) Commanded by a Foreigner Third Company Some Hollanders Commanded by a Hollander

It is easy to ascertain the finest, leading company which managed to set the standard for the campaign. So the march began to the town band stand where, it was rumoured, some Frenchmen intended to enter and take the town by force. 1st Company was deployed alone to hold the top of a slope up which the French were advancing. Continuous volley fire from the two ranks (operating as separate bodies) managed to hold off the Gallic advance but despite a superior rate of fire the enemy kept on coming. Eventually we were bayonet point to bayonet point; and it was then that the ‘rules’ were explained:- if the enemy had more bayonets than us we had to give ground. As one might expect we had the fewer bayonets. Such a fine body as this was not going to give up just because of the rules, however. Working on the Brute Strength and Ignorance theory we held our position only giving way to reveal a Dutch gun loaded and ready to fire point blank into the French. This being the land of no H&S – it fired. We still had to give ground.

This war-gaming with real people continued until a general ceasefire was declared to allow a group of dog walkers to promenade their beasts on their constitutional and for us to take part in our campaign lunch. French loaves were supplied but Private Hastings (obviously nervous of damaging his replacement wooden teeth) chose not to take up the challenge of chewing this pseudo-anvil but instead finished off his packed lunch so lovingly prepared for him prior to embarkation.

During the afternoon session the French tried to turn our flank and appear behind us. We spotted their movement and 1st Company sprinted off to hold them at the other entry point to the town across a substantial bridge. We formed out of sight and as the French came across the bridge our brave boys wheeled into line and fired a volley into them at a range of less than 25 feet. They were obviously shaken, out manoeuvred and, in reality, defeated. A bayonet charge would have finished them off all together when their officer presented himself to Captain Bamford saying: “We ‘ave fiff tin bayoynits, I count you ‘ave unlee twelff. The town, Ah theenk is arse.” As you might imagine we were to a man spitting feathers at this infernal application of the ‘rules’ but when we called upon Demi-Frog for support he gave his half Gallic shrug – and surrendered.

The French saluted us as we marched away back to camp still smarting at how victory had been so cruelly snatched from us. Later that afternoon it rained. It continued to rain all evening. It carried on raining into the night. Even the spit roast sheep had to be served wearing snorkels. The dried up river bed became decidedly moist and filled up as everyone remained in their tents playing various manly games, either alone or with their camp mates, until they fell asleep. It stopped raining early the following morning allowing us to take breakfast. The hosts did us proud with another breaded anvil together with ox-cart axle grease and a splendid conserve in either strawberry or apricot flavour. Private Chapman once again pronounced that he should have been provided with a Full English but to no avail.

Brigade drill commenced at 10:00 on the Sabbath with a blessing of the colours. This required the troops to remove headdress and kneel. As the order was given it began to rain. Colour Sgt. Jackson reminded us that we had fought with mud on our boots before and so could drill like it. What a splendid, morale booster that was. Drill continued until it stopped raining when all hands were stood down until 14:30. Prior to this the French attempted to invade the allies’ camp but were seen off by potato hurling Welshmen. The most frantic part of this action was when a canon was fired into a covered way following which the French, led by a huge pistol wielding Zouave named Abdulla the Munge, charged in. All went well until he became wedged in the tunnel – as you might imagine it all ended in tears and handfuls of lubricant.

The final clash between the sworn enemies was scheduled for 15:30 but was brought forward to 15:00 due to the ferry timings. We marched proudly through the town to the field of glory where much powder was burned by both sides. At one point 1st Company found itself supporting 2nd Company as it tried to take a bridge. A huge, hairy, hideous Frenchman (whom we later christened the Wookie) was becoming frantic and had to be subdued by his CO. Once on the bridge a series of obliquely fired volleys weakened the French resolve and we marched across to face them head on. They exposed a canon to our front and were most annoyed when we obliqued to the left to avoid its blast then reformed to finish off the French before us, we laid flat when they fired their gun again, then charged and captured it as the remaining infantry fled the field, the sound of Private Allen’s abusive sonnets ringing in their ears.

As we acknowledged the cheers of the crowd (yes, they cheered despite it being an away win on a Sunday) it began to rain again so that as we returned to break camp not only was all our tentage wet but so were our uniforms and equipment – great fun.

We left the town of Le Quesnoy in the hands of the vanguard (now the rearguard) and returned without incident to Old Albion. Well, without incident if you discount the altercation with both passport control and the ferry loading staff enjoyed by the QM who was last heard to be saying ‘Don’t you tell me to shut up, I’m the customer here’, as he was marched off to the control building. At which point the rest of us made our excuses and left.

An excellent event – Nous retournerons!

Anon

The Peninsular Despatch - May. 

To Spain with the First Footguards. A long and irksome journey crammed into a bullock cart with eight soldiers for company. I am not one to complain, but I shall have words with our Regimental Surgeon when next I see him. (He remains in Folkestone struck-down with yet another bout of Walcheren fever).I was promised by him, as due to my rank, my own equipage, a room to myself in billets and a soldier servant. I do not want to appear in any way churlish, but the indignities heaped upon me of late have been legion. Viz: Having to share a Flanders tent with a Colour Sergeant, suffering a boneshaking journey from Hell alongside a flatulent Drummer and not being paid the 7/6d per diem as promised by Horse Guards. Captain Barnford will hear of this and no doubt with a sympathetic ear. (He had to remain in his quarters at Deal and bring to a conclusion the outstanding with the Belgian gentlemens’ outfitter who measured him for those trousers, which incidentally have now been accepted as the sealed pattern for the future).

My Colour Sergeant companion, notwithstanding his unsavoury nocturnal habits, turned out to be entertaining if not eccentric in his ways. He seemed to have acquired the woollen sock issue for the Regiment, and spent many happy hours sorting them into pairs and counting them ad infinitum. Strange how the sun affects people.

Our two drivers, seconded from the Royal Waggon Train (Newgate Blues), thrashed the poor ration bullocks overthe Pyrenees and deep into Spain itself. They then slaughtered the hapless beasts which lifted our spirits no end. Very tough meat but palatable, I must give Mrs. Witham the recipe.

We camped finally at Albuera, a fly-blown place but perfect for halting the French advance, or so my veteran travelling companions informed me. The young ladies of the town showed promise, one of which, a racing certainty, sported jet-black hair but with teeth to match unfortunately.

I had the misfortune to lose my way and blundered into the French lines. I struck up conversation with an intriguing fellow, stocky, with piercing eyes and wearing a drab grey overcoat and an enormous bicorne worn en battaille. He was most interested in our dispositions, and asked me about the calibre of our guns, the number of bayonets that we could field and did I have the name of a good London tailor? I helped him to the best of my ability and he noted everything down. Curious. On hearing that I was a medical man he asked for a second opinion regarding a malaise he had borne for many years. Before I could refuse I was ushered into a tent by a Mameluke servant who handed me a quizzing glass. I was then invited to inspect my new companion’s nether regions. In all my years practice I have neverencountered the like. Haemorrhoids the size of grape-shot, a veritable hanging-gardens of Babylon. The extreme heat must have tormented the poor soul. His Surgeon, Larrey, was a firm advocate of leeches. I suggested ice and possibly a long sojourn in a cold climate, a few weeks in Smolensk with the family perhaps.

My friend said he was considering taking the children to Russia next year, and that my advice had now made up his mind. I was pleased to be of help. I asked him where I should take my good lady next year, and he said that Corsica was very nice in the Spring. We parted company on the best of terms.

I returned to our camp only to find a scene of chaos. We had been ordered to march and all appeared at a loss. The common soldier, in the absence of an officer, soon becomes a rabble. Kit was thrown everywhere pell-mell, our Quartermaster would have suffered one of his seizures had he not been trapped on a Rhine barge with a brace of Rhine-maidens (details to follow).

The battle itself was bloody but a foregone conclusion. We managed to decimate a Portuguese regiment which crossed our front. They turned out to be our allies but I find it’s always best to trust one’s instincts in these matters, they looked damn’d foreign any We came close to blowing one of our staff officers to pieces, sillyfellow exposing himself like that, a moment of madness on Clapham Common came to mind. The Rifles spent the whole time, it seemed to me, skulking behind bushes and not standing proud to be shot at like everyone else, but I speak as a layman. The day was saved by our resolute discipline and the timely charge of our heavy cavalry.

It transpired that the fire that swept through the Polish Lancers camp was started by a carelessly dropped cheroot, I really must be more careful.

God bless the King, and all those that love him.

Ned West-Sherring, Assistant Surgeon, First Footguards.