Napoleonic Wargame Club (NWC)

The snow fell softly, wrapping the countryside in a pristine blanket perfectly crafted for the serenity of this Christmas Day. A lone horse was tethered outside the tavern, occasionally shaking the snow from his mane and patiently waiting for his master to return from his deliberations.

Inside the tavern, the fire crackled brightly in the fireplace, its light merrily dancing over the scarlet coat of the young Hanoverian officer seated in the corner of the room. Seemingly oblivious to his surroundings as he pensively toyed with the short, blue staff which he was holding, he did not hear the quiet approach of beloved Helga as she drew near his table.

“A penny for your thoughts”, she said.

Startled from his reverie, he looked up to meet the gaze of the beautiful, blue eyes to which he had grown so accustomed these past few months.

“Sorry”, he replied, “I guess I have not been such good company tonight. Please accept my apologies for the rudeness of your only guest.”

“Apology accepted”, she said as she dazzled him with a smile that would warm the heart of the most hardened veteran, “so long as you share with me those deep thoughts that confine you to such solitude. By the way, you seem to be wearing a red coat tonight. I don’t believe I have seen you in here in any color other than green before.”

“Oh, this”, he replied glancing at his coat, “Lt. Generaal Marco saw fit to promote me to the rank of Major. He was also fairly insistent that I assume the command of the Hanoverian brigade. I could do nothing other than honor his wishes and accept the role. He is, after all, my commanding officer and sacrifices so much for our cause. As a part of the exchange, however, I was obliged to trade my Jager green for this coat of scarlet red.”

“Well, whatever the reason,” she said, “it looks very becoming on you. “

“Why thank you Helga,” he replied, “that is most kind of you to say.”

“And now, about those thoughts of yours,” she said.

“Yes, my thoughts,” he replied. “I was simply reflecting upon all of the good men, and women, who have passed in this wretched conflict. Here I sit, safe and sound, and they have all perished to satisfy the hubris of a self centered man who will not cease in his quest for personal glory until the whole human race is embroiled in the conflagration. How many more must die before the one simpering fool is brought to justice and this whole terrible war is ended? If I could somehow manage to draw him into the sights of my rifle, just once, I could end this war with one well placed ball.”

“Such is the nature of war,” she said, “but these burdensome things lie beyond our control. We can only influence the lives of those we meet, doing the best that we can under the circumstances and honoring in our hearts that which we know to be right and true. Turn your thoughts away from such weighty matters and rejoice in the fact that we are alive and well to enjoy this Christmas Day. What is this thing that you hold in your hands? It does look familiar to me.”

“In all honesty, my dear Helga,” he replied, “I must admit that I do not know. I have never come across an item such as this before. It was taken in a recent battle I fought near the Austrian town of Austerlitz. Generaal Moss and I were counterattacking the French invaders on that hallowed plain. As our men emerged from the morning fog, the young French Leutenant facing my lines fled the field, taking his men along with him. As the fog continued to lift, it became readily apparent that the entire French army had followed suit, choosing discretion as the better part of valor, and sweeping a French Marshall up in their rout. As we advanced into the position previously occupied by our enemy, my Sergeant Major spotted this interesting object lying on the ground and brought it to me. Since I have already collected the sword of the valiant French Leutenant, I thought I might pass this device along as a Christmas gift to Generaal Moss to place in his collection of French artwork. I must admit it is intricately wrought and even contains some writing. Unfortunately it is rendered in a language which I do not speak. Have you any idea what “Terror Belli, Decus Pacis” means?”

“I am not certain of the inscription,” she said, “but this object does bear a striking resemblance to those that Sir Muddy is so fond of collecting.”