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It was a clear, cool morning as the soldier strode toward the Rhine Tavern. The wind blew in sharp gusts, scattering the leaves that had accumulated on the ground, and making them dance in random circles. The old veteran smiled as the confused course, and flight, of the leaves briefly reminded him of the actions of most French troops in battle.
Hefted upon his right shoulder was a French ammunition chest, trailing what appeared to be horse hairs that had been caught in the closure of its lid. These danced and swayed in the breeze in compliment to the ones that were attached to the Dragoon’s helmet that the man himself was wearing. Passing near a lemon tree, his eye was drawn to the movement of a small bird as it forcibly impaled a cockroach upon one of the tree’s many thorns, before quickly flitting away to locate another victim. Ah, the ironies of life, he thought to himself as he opened the door to the tavern and entered, while whistling a jaunty tune that Der Würger had taught him.
As he had expected, the French officers in the tavern were all roaring drunk as usual. For several months now, they had been celebrating everything they could in order to have an excuse to uncork and consume case after case of wine. All good business for Helga, thought the Hanoverian officer as he caught the eye of the beautiful barmaid, causing her to burst into a radiant smile.
Locating his immediate target, he could not help but notice from the corner of his eye, a young, French Captain who visibly blanched at the sight of the chest he carried, and the horse hairs tailing from it. Striding confidently up to the person he sought, the Commander of the Hanoverian Brigade solidly placed the chest on the table before him and said, “General Schmidgall, I believe this belongs to you.”
The French officer looked back at his adversary with a complicated mix of confusion, amusement, and surprise. “Well, it is not actually yours per se”, continued the Hanoverian General, “but it does belong to one of your men. It seems he left it on the field in an effort to expedite his escape from one of mine.” The French officer’s eyes narrowed at the implication. “The contents, however,” continued the Hanoverian General, “belong to someone else.”
Opening the chest, the Hanoverian removed a tri-color cockade, and a Dragoon’s helmet covered in a leopard skin pattern. To the horror of all, the helmet was still in place on a severed head! The French Cavalry General instinctively reached for his sword, while three French Lieutenants who were near enough to see the contents, fainted dead away from shock.
“Relax,” said the Hanoverian General, “it is not a real head. It is only that of a dress maker’s dummy. I knew the propensity you French have for making your uniforms out of felt and cardboard, and did not want the helmet to lose its shape in transit.”
The Hanoverian officer then walked to the table occupied by Marechal Purcell. “This cockade was cut from the shako of one of your Lt. Colonels I believe.” Continuing on, he placed the helmet on the table in front of Marechal Bardon. “And this was most certainly taken from one of your dragoons. I know of no others that adorn their heads with such a pattern. Please give my best regards to your Empress, and let her know that her General is still safe, despite the loss of his headgear.”
Striding to the bar, the Hanoverian Commander poured a glass of Jagermeister and turned to the assembled officers. “Gentlemen, a toast to Lieutenant Mike Friedman, the Commanding Officer of the Duke of York’s 1st Field Battalion. As an Ensign, he defeated a French Lieutenant; as a 2nd Lieutenant, he defeated a French Lieutenant Colonel; and as a Lieutenant himself, he defeated a General of the Imperial Guard. By the gods of war, I am proud of this man. He achieved three victories over three different French officers, on three different fields of conflict, in less than six months from the time of his commission in the Hanoverian Brigade of the mighty, and irrepressible, Anglo-Allied Army. This is a feat of legend, gentlemen, and one which earns him one of the most respected medals that the Anglo-Allied Army has to offer. Lieutenant Freidman has earned the RMA Medal today, entering into the ranks of the very few officers in our army who proudly wear this fine award. It is a most notable achievement, and one of which I am particularly proud. To Lieutenant Freidman, gentlemen! Your drinks are all on me today,” he says as he downs the shot in one practiced gulp. “Goodness knows at the rate we capture your treasures in combat, the Hanoverians will never run short of the funds with which to pay.”
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