This being the campaign diary of Ian Barstow, conscript in the 21eme de Ligne, and veteran of other campaigns in other uniforms.
Initially, I had set out to record all relevant times, and notes of what occurred to make them so. As the days progressed, I found myself either too busy or too alcoholically impaired. The gentle reader will have to judge for himself.
The 14th June 1995
23.10hrs. The Inebriate, Robert Jones, and myself are eventually deposited on Waltham Cross railway station, by what we are informed is the last train. Desperate to save £10 beer money, we decide to camp out on the platform, savouring the atmosphere. Mercifully it isn't locked.
The 15th June
00.05hrs. The last train comes through, and we curse British Rail, or whoever they are now, for letting us spend an extra hour in their very comfy shelter.
01.25hrs. Having whipped the despicable Jones at cards, we are turning in when a local security man (God love'em) turns up demanding to know what we are doing. Jones greets him with the legendary retort: "Going to bed". He is satisfied.
04.29hrs. I am awakened by a goods train. The whisky-sodden Jones is not similarly affected, so I decide to take a photograph as evidence. I see from my notes that the delinquent earlier claimed that he would be unable to sleep. I for one am freezing, and damned grateful that I had the foresight to bring my blanket roll. I am never leaving home without it again.
05.18hrs. Received an initially cool (who the bloody hell are they?) welcome from three members of the 21ème. I remember thinking that I hope they're not all like this. However, they soon loosen up when Jones produces his on-line Whisky jar. Then Iain Dickie arrives and we all have something to laugh at.
06.06hrs. The coach is now six minutes late, and I am nearly sick on an excess of whisky.
07.20hrs. A miracle appears before us. No, it's not Paul on the road to Damascus (it's not even Hope and Crosby) but it is the coach. The Inebriate and I manage to grab a double seat, and are befriended by the couple in front, and their appalling child who kept confusing my dashing Flashman look for a Mexican bandit. Just to our rear the glorious editor is zonked out across two seats and threatening to tip over the bus.
09.29hrs. We are on the boat, drinking crap coffee. Luckily I don't think I paid. Or did I?
17.19hrs. Something of a jump, as I recover from snatching snippets of sleep. There is complete bedlam at the Formula 1 hotel (we get the Sterling Moss Memorial Suite) and I hear for the first time what is to become my most favourite order - not: Form Human Chain. This consists of us moving a pile of equipment twenty yards and putting it down again. Lovely!
The 16th June
09.20hrs. We form a human chain to load the bus.
09.40hrs. On board the bus we get a rollocking from the adjutant, Chris Durkin, on behalf of those of us who can't hold their booze. This of course doesn't apply to the Magnificent Three, who are holding enough booze to float Malta. I see a note reminding myself never to share a bed with Jones (excessive cuddling) and Chris the Fanion Man (excessive snoring). I gain revenge with excessive breaking of wind.
10.45hrs. Le Caillou, Napoleon's HQ. We wander around a bit, theorising on how you can tell if a skeleton is a hussar. Jones suggests bandy legs and is shot, but regrettably gets better. We are passed by a unit of Austrians in those old piss-pot helmets. We are, of course, exceedingly polite.
11.25hrs. Near La Haie Sainte. The regular members of the unit prepare to carry out a ceremony in memory of one of their number, who is buried on the field.
11.44hrs. Near the scene. The unit presents arms, and Chris Durkin claims he can see a single poppy standing in the field. Most agree, but I nominate him for a drugs test anyway.
12.06hrs. La Haie Sainte. The unit poses around, being photographed in every conceivable position. I nearly break my spine falling over a roller. Jones, of course, had been expected to tell me what was behind, but had slunk away. I make arrangements with a passing Prussian hussar to have him sabred. I do manage to get off one shot legs-akimbo, now residing in the Chris Durkin collection. I do at least discover that I am a natural big-stage photographer, in the mould of Lichfield and Snowdon: "Come on now, luvvies, give me hate..."
13.10hrs. Waterloo. The editor gets ripped off by some North African barmen to the tune of £2.20 per glass for three cokes. To compound matters, Jones is incapable of finishing his, due to a lack of alcohol.
14.30hrs. Cell Block H. Also comically known as a billet. It appears to be a home for distressed Belgian children, so Jones should fit in well. The editor cunningly feigns sleep as we Form Human Chain.
15.45hrs. We eventually get a shot at the depot, where those of us without kit are supplied with our bits. There is little left, Jonesy's and Dave's squads having nicked the good stuff. I am left in a pair of overalls and a tight, East German Border Guard greatcoat. Along with gaiters, a pokalem (forage hat) and a giberne (ammo bag, dunce) I am finished. The depot man, and coincidentally our corporal, Mark Page, leads the laughing at my expense. I decide to wait for revenge, by now revealing to all that his middle name is Alfred. I am also issued with a percussion musket, firing mechanism suitably covered. As a non-firer, I only need it for drill, so I'm actually quite satisfied. Even more so, when I see Jonesy's wooden replica and the editor's cut down carbine!
17.00hrs. Drill. No, stop. Before you say 'here he goes, again' I'm not going to. Actually, I really enjoyed it. Fitted out in our 'uniforms', it seemed just like a proper depot. Various NCOs and senior privates were instructing small groups on things like walking, and I felt transported back in time. My thanks go to the senior soldat who trained us. I don't know his name, but he knows who he is. It is now that we meet Sal, the Last American Gypsy. He is an ACW reenactor from New York who has sadly never been taught left and right.
18.30hrs. Drill is disappointingly stopped for a meal, and we troop off to a burger joint. We are beginning to get friendly with the drivers, Bruce and Anthea (that second one is a nomme de guerre) so I take the opportunity to insult them. They point out that I'm overweight and I add them to the list of people to be sabred. Sal decides that to fit in with all the Brits, he'll call everybody 'bloke'.
20.30hrs. Back at barracks, we have a full unit drill, learning to form square and wheeling. That sort of thing. Third Squad, under Alfie Page are splendid, if cosmopolitan. Dirk is a Dutchman from New Zealand, Mike and Jean Freeman and yours truly from England, Alex from New Zealand, and the dreaded Sal. We have become partners, and he proceeds to assault me with his musket at every opportunity.
21.30hrs. A booze up (sorry - party) is arranged for people to get to know each other. By and large this doesn't work, as people are already in various cliques. We get revenge on Sal by letting him try cider. Then he tries red wine, white wine, rose wine, Czechoslovakian beer, etc. Generously we do nothing to stop him. He admits under cross-examination that his "Asphalt Maintenance" business is really tarmacking drives. We tell him that he really is a gypsy, and that his parents lied about his Italian blood. To his credit, Sal bravely argues against all of us. And loses. We also make the acquaintance of Steve Lloyd, North England's Bring and Buy King (or Queen) and Brian Holland of Bicorne Miniatures, who somehow gets christened Benny the Ball. Not that he's short and chubby, or anything...
The 17th June 1995
01.30hrs. Nick Dawson, the Drum Major, comes in and starts banging away (more on him, later) and we all get sent to bed.
06.15hrs. Woke up. My notes are not too clear, but I think it says 'washed'.
06.30hrs. Nick and his gang of delinquent musicians turn up to greet everybody good morning. Very thoughtful.
07.30hrs. We find Sal's body. It is interesting to note that red wine comes back red again. He looks like his throat has been cut, and we leave him to suffer. I kindly give him paracetomols in the hope that mixing it with alcohol may have an amusing effect.
10.00hrs. Marched around the town of Waterloo, patting children and kissing dogs. The weather is coolly pleasant, particularly in the borrowed greatcoat leant to me by Mike Freeman's son, Swampy (no, I don't think that's what they originally christened him) which is far lighter and more comfortable than my East German number. I try my best to swagger, not realising what a prat I look. The editor, too, I notice is in an oversized sack, and appears to be wearing a Gino Ginelli salesman's hat. I envy him, as it has great potential, of which he makes tragic little use. The regulars start belting out a few French numbers, led by Alfredo, whose bottom is becoming something of a recurring view. Dirk suggests we might try something ourselves, and plumps for 'Play That Funky Music White Boy.'
12,10hrs. Stop in some gigantic sports hall for lunch, which consists of a three thousand man queue for a beefburger. The editor and I desert, heading off to look for grub in town. We find a nice cafe, and are soon overrun by American Highlanders. We miss Sal, who would have been able to translate.
13.00hrs. Back at the sports hall, Dave (the editor) introduces me to Tim Pickles, guest starring as the Duke of Wellington. We are continuously interrupted by people wanting to get their photo taken, and I get a new career as a press corps photographer. "Could you take just one more, with my arm around him..."
13.25hrs. In company with Steve Lloyd, Benny the Ball and the World's Ugliest Editor, Jonesy and I raid the back entrance of the food hall and make off with excessive amounts of food. I believe this is called foraging.
14.15hrs. More marching around Waterloo, and environs. We take a hairy coach ride escorted by a demented Belgian traffic cop, who's technique for moving vehicles is to ride straight at them. Congratulations go to Richard Ransome, navigating sergeant, who claimed at least four times to know exactly where he was. That was why we needed police help, of course.
15.00hrs. Marched a bit through some country. I pull at least three geriatrics who I kindly offer to share with Jonesy and Dave.
17.45hrs. Back at barracks. Disappointingly we don't do any extra drill. Obviously Chris Perko (el Capitano) and Chris Durkin (el Adjutanto) are more than satisfied with our drilling.
18.00hrs. Sal is still alive. Clearly the paracetomol cocktail has failed and we are obliged to accept him back for the battle.
19.00hrs. The evening is spent in the town, drinking. Steve and Benny the Ball go to some jamboree at the sports hall, where Steve is offered a pair of Russian boots and Olga for half an hour in return for £35. Wisely he declines, accepting my deal of £20 for the Russian boots I have lent to Jonesy, without having him for half an hour. Both parties appear relieved.
The 18th June
??.??hrs. Bed-time. We met a French bloke sent back for blankets by the nutters described below.
06.15hrs. Superhumanly, I am out of bed again before the drummers turn out. Nick is not with them this time, as he, along with Chris Perko and eight other raving loonies have decided to camp on the battlefield in heavy rain - without blankets and tents! We start a sweep to guess the number of survivors.
10.00hrs. On the battlefield. The atmosphere is odd, with various Belgian officials running around amongst the thousands of uniforms. We mock a ridiculously dressed Italian Marching Band (probably all relatives of Sal) and I nearly have a fight with some Belgian who rollocks me for having a camera. We quickly bury him and carry on shooting. Time from this point takes something of a back-seat, and I have only snippets of what happened around me. These are signified numerically in order of occurrence.
- 1. I discover that all REAL Napoleonic flags were protected by plastic bags.
2. We march onto the field, amidst heaps of mud and horse dung. The weather has cleared up right on time, and is perfect.
3. We deploy behind the Guard Artillery, and get gob-fulls of smoke and pang when they start firing.
4. Chris Perko is seen to embrace every other French officer he can set his eyes on, and I begin to wonder if he's been using Chris Durkin's poppy powder.
5. We are ordered to move towards the mock-up of Hougoumont (a very dodgy number). It is manned by some filthy British, but we only get close enough to fire a few volleys, before heading off to our real target - La Haie Sainte.
6. Outside La Haie Sainte (a splendid mock-up) we engage the KGL in friendly banter ("Oi! Get stuffed Herman!") and exchange some shots. Alex and I have a fastest loader contest, which as we aren't actually firing makes us exceedingly quick. I just pip him in a photo finish.
7. We receive a rather sporting prior warning that we will be attacked by cavalry. Equally sportingly we decide to ignore it. Said cavalry turn up and ride over the 112ème Ligne, nearly capturing their eagle. Some of our lot get stuck in and a splendid little scrap takes place under the walls of La Haie Sainte. The cavalry retire suitably chastised.
8. Unfortunately, as soon as we form line, they turn up again behind us. The first we know about it is when some lame voice shouts out "Behind You!" We await the order to form square, but it doesn't come. We look for the consoling sight of an officer, with the same result. Eventually, Mark Evans, the excellent sergeant major, takes matters into his own hands and the NCOs turn about the second rank. At this moment my revenge on Jonesy is complete as the bribed Prussian Hussar gallops up and sabres him an inch from the top of his boot. I suggest to Steve that this must increase the value of the boots, but he won't have it. The important thing is that Jonesy isn't going to harp on about it, ad infinitum, is he?
9. We see off the cavalry who have decided that they don't want to kill us.
10. We actually do form square as some Russian Hussars (front rank with lance, remember) approach. The man who said "They must be ours if they've got lances" will remain nameless. What were Russians doing there anyway? Actually its just like wargaming. You use whatever figures come to hand.
11. Manfully, we storm La Haie Sainte. Getting fed up with hanging around abusing the sapper for axe-leniency, The Magnificent Four (Lloyd now being a paid up member) follow in an Irish corporal (one of ours, I hasten to add) and set amongst the Germans, one of whom is a chap called John Lander, known to the editor, and pointed out as a specific target to chuck in the mud. Unfortunately our corporal gets smacked between the lamps by an over-zealous German and is set upon. Heroically I kicked the German in the nuts and hauled the corporal to safety. I was then awarded the Grass Crown and hailed Imperator on the field... Sorry, wrong period.
12. The melee with the Germans was truly excellent, with real blood being spilt (always a winner). We ejected them and threw much abuse at Rifleman Moore and his cronies outside.
13. For a while, we manned the walls, taking an opportunity to exchange opinions. The main two were that drummers were absolutely essential (even ugly Scottish ones) to maintaining your step, as was the most important battlecry of all. You can keep you Vive l'Empereur and all that. For my money, we were at our nastiest when the whole unit were shouting out "Gauche, gauche, gauche, droit gauche" at the top of their voices. Overall, I think that was my favourite bit.
14. The NCOs finally got round to understanding that swearing at the top of your voice is the best way to control troops, and we were made ready for an attack by British redcoats. I think they had yellow facings, but I can't be sure. It's amazing how much you DON'T see. Some of us, led by Mark Evans ("Who fancies a fight then?") went out to form a firing line. Following the editor, I went out. As the British got closer somebody shouted "Charge!" so we did, and the two of us had the singular honour of breaking a British line, along with Alfie, my beloved corporal. We all went flying, but luckily my fall was blocked by an English drummer, whose lovely yellow uniform soon went turd brown. I rolled him about for good measure, before being accosted by three cowardly Brits, who I held off until one sneaked behind me and bayonetted me up the bum. Feigning death, I fell...
15. Seconds later, realising that I had been saved by my lucky postcard of the Emperor, I was back on my feet, but with the British between me and the chaps in the farm. I was cut off! Cunningly I adopted my best Eton accent, shouting: "Excuse me there, let me through!" This cunning ruse worked and I was back inside hurling abuse before you could say "You cheeky *?@!*=!"
16. We then had a bit of a brawl with the rifles, attempting to haul in Rifleman Moore. Instead we got a young bugler, and wondered what we could do with him. Eventually it was decided to sell him to Sal as an assistant tarmacker.
17. The Old Guard advanced, and I remember shouting something inane at the bloke dressed as Ney. He saluted as we shouted "Vive le brave des braves!" Then he ran off!
18. The Guard duly broke, looking just as clean as before, and streamed past us. There was some suggestion that we should tell the Brits to get stuffed, but eventually our officers forced us to retreat. Not before I had dumped a beautifully-clad British officer in the mud, though! Lovely!
19. The battle ended, and we streamed off for lunch. This bit had obviously not been planned, however, and we were soon in single file. it was a good half hour before we could tuck into a much appreciated baguette and a soft drink.
20. We lay along the lower slopes of the hideous Lion Mound, which as all you keen readers will know was erected in honour of the man who arranged for the most deaths on his own side during that fight and Quatre Bras before. Nevertheless, it made a good seat from which to throw abuse at all those less dirty than ourselves. For indeed, we were now veterans, and looked the part as well, plastered in mud. I sat patiently, knowing it was only a matter of time before I was called before the Emperor to receive my Legion of Honour.
21. But what was this! The Emperor was dead? Rumours abounded that the sexagenarian employed as Boney had snuffed it prior to the battle. Later we were to hear that he had suffered a critical heart attack, a minor heart attack, no heart attack at all, and that he was appearing at Great Yarmouth with the Nolan Sisters. Let's face it, you can't trust rumours.
22. The march back began enjoyably enough, and I am certain that our battle-stained unit got by far the most cheers. Certainly I had to fight off women desperate to get inside my greatcoat, but you have to expect these things, you know. As the march began to stop and start, my battered blisters began to become more apparent. At one point on three consecutive halts I was the only one standing ankle-deep in horse dung. It's true, you can ask.
23. Eventually, hours later, we got back to barracks, only to find that the local sprogs had returned home early and we were all being squashed into one room. By now tired legs felt like they were ensconced in concrete, and I could have done without the promotion and awards ceremony which then took place - particularly when I failed to get my Legion of Honour! Jackie, the pretty little fusilier next to me (yes, there are girlies in the ranks - most of them attached to husbands, I might add) put it into words well, but I can't repeat them. Her husband, Tim, did tell me that she had Irish blood, so that explains a lot.
24. No rest, as we had twenty minutes to evacuate our rooms. I snarled nastily at a local child who said something, I expect, friendly in return.
19.30hrs. We went into Waterloo in search of Jonesy's favourite liquid. We found it, and kept on finding it until four in the morning. Oddly, at no time was I even close to being drunk, despite helping to empty the EEC wine lake. That's adrenalin for you. Dave bets me twenty francs that he can convince Sal that saying 'bloke' to another man means that you want him to do something extremely disgusting. I take him up on it, knowing that not even Sal could be that gullible. He is, and I'm down twenty. We were kept amused by Swampy's antics. At eighteen he's a natural lady-killer, even more than Adrian Proudfoot, and that's saying something. We eventually departed, leaving him with his latest conquest, this one from Finland.
The 19th June 1995
08.00hrs. Woke up, and prepared to head home. Frankly, I was disappointed that it was over. Our little group had gotten very tight, and the atmosphere was akin to the good old days on riot duty with the Old Bill.
18.30hrs. I'd been involved in my last human chain - a mini one to unload our kit back at Waltham Cross. Jonesy and I bade a fond farewell to our new-found friends, and Dave. He looked truly upset as he sprawled out across two seats and fell asleep.
What was it like? I hear you ask. My answer is in the title. It was just like cubs, only with guns. Dressing up, shedding your age. It was wonderful. Rarely have I had such fun, and one thing is certain; in five years time, some of us are going back to Belgium.
And what of the future? Have we caught the reenactment bug? Will we be seen again in a bright uniform? Only time will tell...
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