Napoleonic Wargame Club (NWC)

Monsieur did you call the Emperor's gallant Soldat's piss- ants ,I never got down that low to look at a ant piss . I guess you who wear dress do Oh by the way how does it feel being 2nd class English hireling after the German's if you bag piping

You misunderstand good sir. I wouldn't call any of the soldiers of France that as they are brave misled chaps. I called that vertically challenged opportunist of an emperor you have a piss-ant.

Here is the definition I had in mind; a person or thing of no value or consequence; a despicable person or thing.

_________________
Field Marshal Mark Nelms

"You misunderstand good sir. I wouldn't call any of the soldiers of France that as they are brave misled chaps. I called that vertically challenged opportunist of an emperor you have a piss-ant.

Here is the definition I had in mind; a person or thing of no value or consequence; a despicable person or thing." So you are calling the Emperor that and you feel that fat mad King of yours is ok ?????

This is France and France is me LJEF!

{Two years ago, I sat down at my keyboard and wrote a tribute to one of the finest companions that I have ever had the privilege to have known. He and I travelled together for two years in this club, and twenty-three years more before that. It is my duty to him to enter my final post in this thread tonight, after which I will lock it for however long I may remain an active member of this club. I would request that those who may follow after me as the leaders of the NWC will keep this post locked in perpetuity out of respect for my dear friend and companion.}


The Hanoverian Guardsman was nearly exhausted as he trudged the last few miles to the Rhine Tavern. It had been a very long walk in the summer heat, and his sweat stained uniform was covered in several layers of dust. A large, heavy saddle, bridle, and blanket were slung over his right shoulder. Leaving them behind would have substantially reduced his burden, but that was never an option that he even briefly considered. If he died in the heat from the weight of his burden, then so be it. That was just what was meant to be.

The young stable boy perked up when he spied the approach of his favorite Hanoverian General, but quickly blanched at the sight of him as he realized the significance of the load which he was carrying. No! No! he cried to himself. This cannot be! Tears quickly formed in the corners of his eyes, and began to roll down his cheeks as the visage of the Hanoverian officer clearly revealed the truth. The dust on the Guardsman’s cheeks betrayed him, for it was evident that the Hanoverian “Hunter” who had bravely vanquished so many opponents on the honorable fields of battle, had been crying himself.

The Hanoverian officer stopped short as his eyes met those of the young boy who had so often and so lovingly tended to his beloved mount. Tears again began to pool in the corners of the veteran warrior’s eyes before he mastered his composure. Realizing that the dust on his cheeks must have given him away, he wiped them clean with back of his left, gloved hand, never letting go of the sheathed, French sword that he held in his grasp. He even managed a small smile for the lad, as if to reassure him that everything would be alright. It was a hollow gesture to be sure, because he certainly did not embrace that sentiment in his own heart.

Resuming his pace, he walked the final yards to his intended destination, pushed open the door, and entered the all too familiar tavern. Striding directly to the bar, he laid the captured French weapon on the counter and let Helga know that a former French Imperial Guard’s Colonel by the name of Rizo would one day come making inquiries about his missing blade. Picking up a bottle of Jagermeister and a shot glass, he proceeded directly to his usual spot and gently placed the horse tack upon the top of his table. Retrieving his fine, crystal shot glass, he set it beside the saddle, uncorked the bottle of Jagermeister, and filled the glass to the rim. He paused for a moment, before filling the ordinary glass with another shot of Jagermeister. Raising the latter glass to his lips, he whispered to the unhearing equipage, “Auf Wiedersehen, Mein Freunde.” Downing the libation in one practiced gulp, his eyes once again began to water.

If anyone asked, he would claim it was the hellish liquid that caused the reaction.

Only those who truly knew “Der Jager” would know the difference.

Teddy’s Little Prancer (Ted)
March 18, 1989 – April 12, 2014