The French courier was confused. Although he had read the delivery orders half a dozen times now, he checked them once again. Deliver the package to GdB M. C. Jones in the Rhine Tavern. The order seemed simple enough when he departed from camp this morning. His consternation started when he laid eyes on the intended recipient. He had expected to find an officer wearing the azure coat associated with the loyal service to the Emperor of France. The coat worn by the officer that he had positively identified and GdB Jones was distinctly scarlet, and the man was a Hanoverian.
“Mon General”, said the French courier, “there must be some mistake.”
“No mistake, mein Herr”, replied the Hanoverian officer, “I am indeed the Jones to which you were instructed to make your delivery. May I have my package now? Your dalliance is keeping me from my duties.”
“Yes, mon General, by all means”, says the courier as he hands over the large box. “It’s just that….well, sir…..I mean I really expected….”
“There, there, Lieutenant”, says the Hanoverian Brigadier, “you have followed your orders to the letter and delivered the package as instructed. No shame in that, sir. Now if you will excuse me….”
“Yes, sir. Certainly, sir. Er, congratulations…..sir.”
The Hanoverian officer returns the salute of the French courier who then turns and exits the Rhine Tavern, seriously worried that he might actually be court martialed for simply following orders.
Captain Phillips grins and asks, “So what do you suppose is in that big box, sir? That French Lieutenant seemed awfully nervous about giving it to you.”
“No doubt it is a lovely bouquet of flowers sent to our beloved commander by Old Boney himself”, quips Captain Clawson. “I’ll bet there is even a love note tucked inside.”
The group of Hanoverian officers chuckle at Die Ratte’s humor.
“Or ze bomb”, says Captain Peccolo. The laughter abruptly stops as all of the officers imperceptibly move a little further away from the Brigadier.
“Actually, it is neither one”, says the Hanoverian Commander as he removes the object from the box. The assembled officers grow wide eyed when they realize that their commander is holding an Old Guard Bearskin in his hands. “Very odd”, says the Hanoverian Brigadier. “Oh, wait, there is a note after all.”
Reaching into the bearskin, the Brigadier retrieves a rolled up piece of parchment. “Ah, of course it is written in French!”
“Allow me”, says Die Ratte as he takes the parchment and begins to read. “Honorable and Esteemed General of France, by order of the Emperor of France, ruler of all countries large and small, deliverer from monarchal tyranny, military genius of all ages, fashionable dresser, master of the manicure…blah, blah, blah….in recognition of your 45 Victory Points earned in glorious combat against our hated enemies and your unswerving devotion in the accumulation of 800 Officer Battle Dossier points, you have hereby been granted……”, Captain Clawson’s voice trails off in silence as he reads the next line. He looks up at his commanding officer with a stunned look on his face.
“Well, what is the rest of the message”, asks Der Falke.
Die Ratte creases his brow and says, “…you have hereby been granted a commission in the Vieille Garde. Congratulations, General Jones. Vive le France! It is signed by Marechal Jensen, Commanding Officer of La Grande Armee.”
“Huh, looks like that French Lieutenant might have been right after all”, says Captain Phillips. “There certainly must be some mistake.”
“Unless there is something he is not telling us”, says Die Ratte.
“I mean you no disrespect, Herr General”, says Der Wurger, “but if you ever find ze notion to place dat fancy rug upon your brow, I vill be required to shooten sie.”
“Ah, that would be most unfortunate, Captain Peccolo”, replies the Hanoverian Brigadier. “Because I, more than any other officer here, fully realize that the odds of a Hanoverian Jager missing his intended target are not very good.”
“Jawohl, mein General”, says Der Wurger, “I vill not miss.”
“So how could this have possibly happened, sir”, asks Die Ratte.
“Well, there is only one explanation that comes to mind”, says the Brigadier. “Remember when Marechal Bardon forged my signature on those French enlistment papers? I’ll bet that information got entered into their system and, with bureaucracy being as it is, the error was never corrected. Next thing you know, I am inducted into the French Old Guard.”
“But what about the letter from Marechal Jensen, sir”, asks Die Falke.
“Obviously a form letter”, replies the Brigadier. “They simply fill in the name. Probably a necessary measure as the turnover rate in their Guard is so high. You understand, bigger targets, easier to hit, and every French officer I know commits the Guard as if they were mere Conscripts.”
“So vhat vill ze do mit the hat, herr General”, asks Der Wurger. “Stand it in a corner and let it collect dust?”
“Hmm, that would certainly not be a very good use for this French trophy”, muses the Brigadier, “but you have given me an idea. I am going to talk to the Brigade’s Smith and see if he can build me something special….”
Six hours later in the Rhine Tavern…..
“Sir, I must say that you are a genius”, says Die Ratte as he removes the cork from a frosty, cold Beer.
“Ja, sehr gut, mein General”, says Der Wurger, “a good idea for sure.”
“A most excellent use of a French implement, I must agree”, says Die Falke.
The Brigadier props his feet up in the adjacent chair, takes a long swig of his ice cold beer, and breaks into a wide grin as Der Wurger begins to sing.
Ah, it’s good to be a Hanoverian, he thinks to himself as he raises his own voice in song with the rest of his officers.
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but he quickly assumed a more serious look and removed his Colpack carefully avoiding damaging it's colourful and prominent plumage.
I'll tell you what's true eh, the greater the braggadocio 
