La Chanson de la Victoire (The Song of Victory): La Petite Arpenteuse (Non, SV, you are a General of France in the Napoleonic War!)

[AvidFicReader]

Iron Discipline and Paperwork

Denis Martin Severin was not a happy general. The former sergeant was under house arrest in his commandeered quarters, a Milanese hotel serving as the temporary headquarters of Severin's Imperial Guard corps. The order came from the head surgeon of the Army of Naples, countersigned by General Davout.

'Dear Lord, Nick can get creative and mean when he wants to. Sure, there was no way I was going to sit out the last battle of the campaign, but to make a personalized punishment just for me? I hate it. Confined to quarters with extra paperwork on top of my normal administration as a nominal corps commander.'

Davout had been incensed that Severin had disobeyed orders and went into the thick of the fighting not long after his near-brush with death at Genoa. Knowing his friend well enough that Severin would welcome most of the typical punishments, Davout tailored the discipline to be nigh intolerable for the hyperactive man-child.

With Severin in time-out, the general was also made to do additional paperwork: a report on his training program and method of war.

'According to Nick, just about every infantryman who served in the Army of Naples underwent my training. That was one of the reasons he gave for how well we did throughout our campaigns. I just had to argue that there was more to it than that, more fool me. Nick had the damned smuggest grin I've ever seen as he told me to "write it up into a formal report, since I had the time." I really walked into that one.'

"General Baguette, Ensign Minci reporting."

"Good, you're here. Since Nick saddled me with all this work, you can help me while practicing reading and writing in French."

"Bit I thought you had real work for me!"

"I'll let you in on a little secret, Julian. Any organization big enough runs on paperwork. And few are bigger than the army. You need to keep track of what you have, what you need, and you need to let your superiors and subordinates know all of that to get what you need to win battles and wars. You won't get far without food and boots for the men, you can't win battles without bayonets and bullets, and you can't treat your wounded without medicine and bandages. And that's just on campaign! You need moths worth of the same to drill the men into fighting shape, otherwise they won't be worth taking into a fight at all."

"That sounded almost wise, coming from you. Are you all right?"

"Pah, you brat! You don't know how good you've got it. No hoity-toity officer of the Ancien Regime would allow one word of your lip! In my infinite generosity, I let it slide, but if you're serious about being an officer, then you'd best learn to watch your mouth."

"Understood... Sir."

"Enough of that, nose to the grindstone. Let's get those home truths and folksy
wisdom committed to paper. Wouldn't want Charlotte know you've been lax in your reading and writing, would you?"

"Gah, General! Shut uuuppp!"

"Right, where were we? Ahem: "The most cunning and intricate strategems are worth less than dirt if the men under your command are unable to carry them out. Over the last for years I have endeavored to extensively drill the men of the Army of the Rhine, the Army of the Orient, and it's offshoot Army of Naples. Firing drills with live ammunition is essential, as it inures the men to a sliver of the stress and noise of combat. In this way, extensive drilling ingrains the motions of loading, ramming and firing into muscle memory, allowing soldiers to execute under duress and without conscious thought. The other half of fundamental drill is marching. Soldiers must become accustomed to long route marches, to allow them to march at speed for long distances. An evolution of this drill is formations and maneuvers. The use of line and column formations are the bare essentials of combat. The ability to shift from one to the other at speed can mean the difference between victory and defeat. In all aspects of march and maneuver, cohesion of formation is paramount. Recommended exercises include-"

"Papa, hey, papa! Look at this!"

"Charlie, what are you doing here? Julian and I are working-"

"But papa, this paper has you on it!"

Charlie hands him a broadsheet newspaper. A local printing, written in Italian, it features a cartoon print that Severin can't help but chuckle at. The first panel portrays a a French grenadier kneeling before a bushel of onions, a broad smile on his face, arms spread and raised in exultation. The second panel featured a panicked Austrian soldier fleeing in terror, pursued by a caricature of Severin angrily brandishing a spade.

"Okay, that's pretty funny Charlie. Gave me a good laugh. Julian, tell me what this damnable pasta writing says!"

"The first panel is captioned: "Sometimes, you find motivation." The second says, "Sometimes motivation finds you." How appropriate."

"Severin, you mud slogger, get out here! I'm trying to run patrols to look for the Austrian garrison, so release your frog-boys to me so we can cover more ground. Your line troops will be too slow to keep up!"

"Hold your horses, you damned prancing pony! Like Hell I'll let you command my chasseurs! I'm going with you! After all, the first word in the slogan of the revolution is 'Liberte!' I'm out of here. Julian, Charlie, don't tell Nick."

Spoiler: A/N

Severin gets put in time-out and is made to write lines. Davout can be a cruel, cruel friend. The inspiration for the cartoon was hearing the phrase itself, and I went "wouldn't it be funny if..." Also, Praise the Onions Sun!

Severin's style of warfare is to stack the deck beforehand with training, supply, letting trained reflexes and iron morale carry the day. If his men are well fed, well supplied, and can march fast and take good ground, he'll trust his men to hold. If he has to attack, a hot meal bursting with (onion) flavor will motivate them. With competent cavalry and artillery commanders/subordinates, he can employ his infantry to best effect. Severin's tactics may be simplistic (fix them from the front, overwhelm a flank if possible, otherwise push their face in), but they are well executed, and he knows exactly what his men are capable of and how far he can push them.

Edit: Posted before I saw the army report.

Edit 2: An attempt to make it canon-compliant.

 

[Alexander Sturnn]

Espoir désespéré


Somewhere in the French Countryside, on the road to Paris...

The hooves of their horses thundered across the road, as the small Band of Riders spurred them to go ever faster. After crossing the Spanish-French Border, they rode hard towards Paris, only stopping when it was absolutely necessary. Even as Rain poured down on them and wind blew through their ears, they drove on, only stopping to sleep for a few hours. Their skin under their pants was red from the hour-long riding and every muscle in their body hurt.

But they did not dare stop to truly rest for long. Time was of the essence. And their ride was fueled by both hope and desperation.

Tomas Vivar, Count of Mouromorto, kept his eyes on the road ahead as his Horse rode at the head of their band. He and his small Group of Servants and Soldiers had made good time. If everything went alright, they would reach Paris within the next two days.

He could only hope that even that would not be too late.

It was strange to return to France like this. He had been here before, in his youth, preferring to study abroad rather then in the Schools of Spain. Despite being the eldest Son of a Spanish Noble Family, he had never held much love for the Conservatism running through his country. Maybe it had started as spite, as his Father had tried to beat the love of God and the old Values into him. Literally. But while his younger Brother had eagerly embraced these Values, Tomas had grown to reject them. The more modern Schools he visited and Theories he studied in both France and German Lands had spoken to him much more. And as he returned home to assume the Title of Count after his Fathers passing, he found it almost backwards and superstitious compared to the Societies he had seen before.

But it was still Spain. Still his home. Still the Nation he loved and where he wanted to spend his life. A Nation that had such potential if only it wasn't so shackled by and rigid in it's Traditions.

And a Nation that soon may be wiped from the face of this Earth forever.

It had been utter foolishness from the start to join this second War against France. Their country was unstable, teetering on the verge of utter catastrophe. And then, when a French Army crossed the Pyrenees and took Barcelona...everything just fell apart. Spain unraveled much like their Colonies had done.

And instead of stepping up and saving the Kingdom and it's People from destruction, as was supposed to be their duty...the Royal Family took the Treasury, most of the Army and the Navy, and abandoned them all to their fate, sailing for the new World.

This act of cowardice, this unimaginable betrayal, was the last straw. Spain collapsed and erupted into Civil War.

Tomas had tried to find a way to defend his small County, but his few Soldiers, loyal as they were, could only delay the tide of Chaos sweeping over Spain. And so, finally, he had decided to evacuate Mouromorto, heading for safer parts of the country.

Only...there were not many of those left.

Their Trail had been arduous and difficult, Bandits and Brigands ambushing them. With each attack, they lost at least a few People. As they marched through the countryside, Tomas' heart wept at the sight of his Nation writhing in agony. Villages and Towns where sacked and plundered, unless they were lucky enough to be defended by someone with Troops under his Command, Warlords carved up the Land and began to assault each other, squabbling over bits of land all the while crushing the Populace between them. Famine and Sickness wiped out Villages spared by Weapons. Even much of the remaining Spanish Troops disintegrated, their Soldiers joining the Chaos in an Orgy of Violence and bloodshed. And as much as he held disdain for the Church at times, it still broke his heart to see so many Churches and Monasteries smashed and looted, the Priests and Nuns massacred without quarter. Wherever they went, black smoke rose into the sky from some place that was being burned, it's People put to the sword.

He watched as Spain itself, the very IDEA of Spain as a Nation, was dying in front of him.

When they finally reached Madrid under the Rule of Don Carlos and got some rest however, an Idea began to form in Tomas' head.

He had read the Reports. Instead of trying to make use of the Chaos and advance further into Spain, the French Army in Barcelona had stayed put...and made the Area a safe haven for Refugees fleeing the Chaos.
While many mistrusted the French and their motives, seeing them as one of the Reasons for the current disaster, Tomas Vivar thought differently.

The French may prove to be the very saviors their Nation so desperately needed.

Despite being a Nobleman, Tomas had sympathized with the French Revolution. In fact, thanks to his more liberal education, he had embraced many of it's Ideals at heart. And with France now on the rise, currently defeating all of Europe a second time in one decade and under the strong rule of two of it's greatest Heroes...perhaps it's might and resources could bring about their salvation.

Now, Tomas knew that it would be nigh impossible to convince Don Carlos to accept this possibility. To him, France was a meddling outside force, more interested in making gains then helping Spain.

And, fair enough, he probably had a point. But if Tomas Vivar had to choose between joining Spain to the French cause or it dying forever...then he would gladly choose the French.

He had begun to come together with a group of like-minded Nobles, Scholars and even Merchants in Madrid to form a new political Faction. They had soon earned themselves the Name "La Anfrancesados", the French-like, among their Peers. But despite the mocking intent of that description, they decided to instead wear it with pride.

Gathering information on the current Situation in Spain, be it geographical or whatever could be found out about the most powerful Warlords, Tomas and his like-minded compatriots prepared to draft a treatise that would convince Don Carlos just how dire the Situation was, that Spain needed help and that France may be willing and able to give that. Then, they would send a diplomatic Mission to Paris, asking for aid.

And then...the Madrid fell to attackers, Soldiers of one of the Warlord-States. The City was burned, the People slaughtered. Their Plans to convince the only real Spanish Authority left to ally with the French went up in smoke.

Tomas and many of the Members of his Faction managed to escape, thankfully with the documented Information they had about the current Situation in Spain. It was incomplete and sparse in places, but at least it was SOMETHING. And they desperately needed just about anything right now.

Don Carlos was on the run, whatever authority he had left shattered. That meant any hope of Spain stabilizing itself without aid, flimsy and fleeting as it had been, was dead. And with this, there was only one Option left for Tomas Vivar and his fellow Anfrancesados.

Technically, they also could've begged the English and Portugese for aid, who had established a safe zone similar to the French one in Barcelona in North-Western Spain. But if the French could not really be trusted, then perfidious Albion could even less. They would rob the Spanish People blind and put them in Chains, all the while claiming to "save" them.

The way Tomas saw it, there was only one hope left for his Nation: Fully throwing their lot in with the French and convince them to step in.

It was still a long shot, sure. The French may not agree to help at all...or not treat them any better then the British would even if they did. But there was some hope that they might. And with the Situation in Spain growing more desperate by the day, Tomas Vivar and his Companions knew they had to grasp after every single bit of hope they could find.

So, they had made their way to French-occupied Barcelona, one of the few safe places left in Spain, where one of Tomas Friends owned an Estate that the Anfrancesados made their impromptu Headquarters. Then, they decided to send a diplomatic Mission to Paris, pleading their case to the Emperor and Empress and ask them to step in, promising whatever Information about Spain's current Situation and popular support they could muster.

Both was not exactly in good supply, of course. Tomas carried all Records about the Warlords and political Factions tearing his country apart with him and they were very much incomplete. And as for popular Support...well, hopefully his Compatriots would be able to convince Refugees settling in Barcelona that supporting the French was their best bet.

So, here they were now, riding their Horses hard toward Paris over muddy and neglected roads. On a desperate diplomatic Mission, the success of which was not guaranteed in the slightest.

For a second, Tomas imagined his younger Brother berating him. Calling him a Traitor for "selling his ancestral Homeland to the French". Angrily, he pushed those thoughts aside. As far as he was concerned, Blas Vivar was the true Traitor here. When the People of Spain needed them most, he followed the Royal Family with slavish loyalty to the New World, abandoning his Nation and it's People to die. He would have no right to criticize him for doing this.

France was their last hope. But even then, it was a slim one. If they failed...or if the Situation in Spain became even worse before French Aid could arrive...

Then his Nation, whom he loved dearly despite all it's faults...would sink into darkness and ruin, never to rise again.

And so, Tomas Vivar, Count of Mouromorto, rode on, crushing despair and desperate hope warring in his heart, as he and his Companions came closer and closer to Paris, the very fate of Spain weighing down on their shoulders...



A.N.: Tomas Vivar is another Minor-Character from the Sharpe-Novels/TV-Series. He only appeared in one Episode/Book, Sharpe's Rifles, because he also dies in that.
In the Story, he was an Anfrancesado, which is the Term for the small Minority of Spanish and Portugese that, for various Reasons, sided with France in OTL even as Napoleon invaded the Peninsular. Some of them, like Tomas, were believers in the Ideals of the French Revolution and hoped to modernize and most importantly secularize Iberia. Others preferred the rule of the "enlightened Dictator" Napoleon and his Brother Joseph over that of the Spanish and Portugese Royal Families. And some just thought that siding with them was the best bet, not believing that Spain and Portugal, even with British Support, stood any Chance against the most powerful Military in Europe at the time.

In this Universe, the Anfrancesados are a political Faction founded within the collapsing Spain, who believe that getting France to intervene and stabilize the Nation is it's best Chance for survival, again for a Variety of Reasons. However, they are mostly fueled by Desperation. They know just how close Spain is to effectively dying as a Nation and never recover...and that they do not have much to offer to France. Most importantly, they know that they do not really represent the Majority of Spain's People with this. Sure, they are building up popular Support, especially in Barcelona and surroundings, but with how traditionally conservative Spain is and with the mistrust it's People currently have against most outsiders, they know this will be an uphill battle, though they will certainly fight hard to win it.
Their greatest hope is the Information they have gathered about the strongest Warlords and political Factions currently warring within the Spanish Collapse. They hope that by presenting them to France, they may be persuaded to help Spain, now that they have a somewhat clearer Picture of the Situation there.

However, their Information is VERY much incomplete and does not offer a comprehensive look at Collapse!Spain. Still, at this Point, they are desperate enough to try anything.

And if they do not succeed...then Spain may die. Forever. And it's People may fall into a Dark Age of Barbarism, Warlordism and Terror, while their land turns into a festering wound upon Europe.

So, they will hold onto their last desperate hope that they can convince France with this diplomatic Mission to intervene in Spain. For it is all they have left now.

I hope you enjoyed this Omake.

 

[AvidFicReader]

The Falcon's Rescue

The ambush had taken them completely by surprise, especially since a squadron of dragoons had taken this very same route not ten minutes prior. The Army of Naples had marched into Milan unopposed, it's Austrian garrison having fled at the sight of the victorious French army. Murat had been chomping at the bit to hunt them down, looking for one last opportunity to upstage Severin after the decisive battle of Marengo. Murat's cavalry had been widely dispersed to comb the countryside. Divided into squadrons to deter small ambushes, they cast a wide net to catch out the last Austrian holdouts in northern Italy.

Thus, the groups that was now ambushing the two generals and their escort must have held their fire on the previous group of dragoons so as not to give away their position. That could only mean...

"Damn your fancy pants, Murat! Your need to be the best dressed man on the battlefield singled you out as a a giant target! I knew fancy hats were cursed!"

"Now is not the time, you muddy lout! Keep killing the bastards before they get us!"

The two generals had the questionable fortune to merely be wounded by the opening blast of canister shot that reduced their escort to ribbons of meat and gore, now beset on all sides by vengeful Austrians. The first Austrian volley swept both generals from their mounts. Murat had been struck by half a dozen rounds, one of which tore a wicked gash in his cheek. His first reflex was to cover the wound and bemoan the marring of his good looks. Severin, in his much less eye-catching infantry uniform, only received three bullets, one of which struck at an angle and deflected off his armored vest.

"Damn your eyes! My face is ruined!"

"Screw your face, you handsome idiot, stand and fight! With any luck, that scar will make you look even more dashing!"

Matching words to action, the former sergeant struck down the first Austrian that attempted to charge him. Slowed by his wounds, his second attacker managed to stab him before being cut down. Rather than a fatal sucking gut wound, the bayonet glanced off an armor plate and became merely an agonizing wound with the bayonet jammed between two ribs.

Seeing the date of the first two, the Austrians backed off, content to stab at the wounded officer with their superior reach. Some still received slashes and lost fingers when they grew careless, and one unfortunate soldier was grappled and used as a human shield as Severin strangled him with his wounded arm. The Austrians backed up to well out of arm's reach as the second rank reloaded. Rather than risk more casualties in melee, a veritable firing squad volleyed at the two French generals at twenty paces. Even with his corpse shield, Severin threw himself over the unconscious Murat to protect him. A dozen rounds struck Severin and his impromptu cover, some punching through the corpse to be absorbed by the general's vest, while other struck his exposed limbs, breaking both his arms and lodging into one of his legs.

Now pinned under literal dead weight, the helpless Severin could only glare impotently at his attackers and spew vile profanities in German. The Austrians replied with jeers and mockery, but none closed within five paces. The jeering was interrupted by an officer's head erupting into a shower of gore. A dozen other men fell, including the crew of the cannon that opened the ambush. The Austrians turned to face the incoming fire, only to spot a bare handful of figures charging up the road, well out of musket range. Every so often, the flash and crack of powder erupted from the trees on either side of the road, creeping closer and closer as the figures continued their headlong sprint. Each shot felled a man, mere bug bites to the full might of their detachment, but still beyond reprisal. As the harassment continued, the handful of figures maintained their charge. The Austrians, in their battle line, began to grow nervous. With how confident those sprinters were, there must be hundreds of riflemen in those woods. They had heard from deserters from the Battle of Genoa tell of a contingent of riflemen that shattered an entire division. What could a mere thousand men do against a force that had broken a division? Still, the enemy continued to close. 150 meters. 125. 100. As they reached the extreme edge of musket range, they picked up speed. Muttering broke out among the Austrian ranks. "They must have us vastly outnumbered!" "Can't you hear, the trees are speaking French!" "Their whole army must be descending on us as we speak!"

The remaining officers attempted to restore order, and commanded the soldiers to unleash a volley. When the smoke began to clear, all of the charging figures were still rushing them, without any sign of a hit. Nothing shook a man's confidence like their best efforts amounting to nothing. Even worse, they could hear the pounding of hoofbeats to their rear. The squadron they had let pass was descending on them! The final nail in the coffin was the sight of an infantry column appearing at the bend in the road, playing Pas de Charge. Panic spread like wildfire.

"Dear God, we're surrounded!"

"We don't stand a chance!"

Meanwhile, Severin was heckling the Austrians: "You fuckers are screwed! You can die where you stand, or you can run and die tired! C'mon get over here so I can bite you kneecaps off!"

The Austrians had had enough. Their perfect ambush had cost them dozens of casualties and climbing by the second, they were trapped ahead and behind, and the man they had at their mercy was still threatening to attack them. Forget king and country, maybe they might yet live if they fled into the woods. They broke and ran. They had no way of knowing that the first rescue force that reached them was a mere twenty men lead by boys.

Spoiler: A/N

Austrians: Oh, you're approaching me?
Louis: I can't beat the shit out of you otherwise.

Memes and Jojo references aside, I was trying to figure out a way for two competent generals to get so thoroughly ambushed and bodied according to the rolls. I hope the explanation near the start is plausible enough. My post facto justification for Severin doing so well (survival roll of 94) is that he wears (some) armor in an era where hardly anyone (specialist heavy cavalry like cuirassiers, named for their armor) uses it. He only kills three dudes, and as much as we meme about it, the Austrians aren't complete idiots, stay away from that guy who killed your pals. Murat went down early, got shot a bunch, no armor, head wounds bleed like crazy. The Austrians went after Murat because his super fancy uniform marked him out as a big fish. That and I can have Severin say "damn your fancy pants, Murat!" and have it make sense in context.

As for Louis' rescue, he and his bros charged like madlads while had his men provide covering fire while executing a bounding advance. Same as at Genoa. Firing from cover, dark uniforms in shadows and woodland, outside of return fire. Also, the Austrian volley was early and high, they thought they were shooting man-sized targets, not kids.

Also, of course Severin knows German, that's the language of his ancestral enemies, the Prussians. You need to be able to understand their insults and make sure your own insults are heard.