The French Imperial Guard was a grand sight to behold. Their march was beautifully coordinated, every man in step with the next. Their uniforms were immaculate and exceedingly ornate. Their countenance was fierce, every moustache waxed and their mascara neatly applied. Yes, they certainly were an imposing spectacle.
The Hanoverian Jager facing their advance was duly impressed. These were, after all, the most elite soldiers that France could field. The very best they had to offer. As he calmly reloaded his rifle, the voice of his Sergeant Major whispered in his mind,
Aim low, fifty percent of the French Guard is simply hats and plumes. Calmly, the young Jager raised his rifle and placed his sights on the center of the chest of the Guard Captain leading the assault. Steadying his hand, he lowered his sights to the knees of his adversary.
Bullets always rise. Holding his breath, he gently squeezed the trigger and patiently waited for the powder to spark. A sudden flash, a recoil and smoke momentarily obscured his vision.
The French grenadier was splattered in the blood of his stricken captain. Stuck squarely in the chest, the wound was instantly fatal. Infuriated, the Grenadier charged the Jager’s position; thrusting his bayonet through the smoke and feeling it bite into something solid on the other side. As the smoke cleared, the Grenadier of the Guard discovered to his great dismay that his bayonet was merely stuck in the trunk of an oak tree. The offending Jager was nowhere to be seen.
Calmly reloading from his new position, the Hanoverian Jager thought to himself,
Yes, Sergeant Major, you were absolutely correct, bigger men do make easier targets after all, as he raised his rifle and placed his sights squarely on the Lieutenant Colonel that was next in line.
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