With just a little word change to our masthead, THE GREAT
REDOUBT hereby expands its coverage with this issue to both sides
of the great Borodino battle to be fought in September 2002 at
JodieCon! That's right, we will now continue to cover the good
green Russian army and expound on the slimy, er, glorious French
forces as well. To celebrate and highlight this change, we offer
exclusive interviews with our own Napoleon Bonaparte (played by
that stalwart gamer Norbert Brunhuber) and Russian Commander
Kutuzov (impersonated by yours truly). We therefore invite all
French as well as Russian players to send us any contributions
you would like to share on the battle and campaign, Napoleonic
history, culture, politics, military and militaria, Napoleonic
wargaming, etc.
I had a chance to see Norbert last August up here in Brooklyn
for the first big celebration/reenactment of The Battle of
Brooklyn 1776, the largest engagement of the American Revolution,
in beautiful Prospect Park (designed by Olmstead, the same guy
who did Manhattan's Central Park). During a break in the action,
as we spectators retreated down to The Old Stone House with the
Continental Army--automobiles on cross streets were warned off by
our pursuers with "Make way for the King's Troops!"--I conducted
him and his family on a quick detour to Metropolitan Wargamers'
new Park Slope clubhouse. Norbert and his party then ended their
day with a dinner at that venerable Brooklyn institution Gage &
Tollner's restaurant. Now there's a man who knows how to have a
good time in the Borough of Kings County! Now, it's not like New
York City is the center of the world. Heck, we all know that's
not true. BROOKLYN is in fact the true center of the world!
So bienvenue, mes amis, to Norbert and his French gang, even
though you are in fact all either seriously deluded or just plain
evil. EVIL! You can look forward to totally even handed and
impartial coverage here.
Charley
TGR Interview: His Imperial Majesty Napoleon Bonaparte,
Emperor of France
(We were granted an interview with the Emperor Napoleon in
his large headquarters tent, pitched somewhere on the road
between Smolensk and Moscow. As we spoke, colorfully uniformed
members of his "household" establishment went to and fro on the
many errands required to direct his Grand Armee. Outside, a squad
of bearskinned Imperial Guards went through a manual of arms
which included the commands "Ready...Aim...Fire!" And they were
actually practicing their marksmanship, not far away. His Majesty
was generous with his time and refreshments, and we thank him for
this intimate visit during his busy 1812 campaign. Note:
the transcript of this interview has been approved by the
Departmente des Documents, Ministere de L'Interieur
Francais)
TGR: Do you feel you have been misunderstood by the
rulers of other European nations? NB: It is difficult to be an innovator; a political
pioneer. Consider how every dusty European state continues to try
and emulate the grandeur of the Roman Empire by aping its
traditions, trappings, and foundations. Clearly they wish to see
the glory of a united Europe again, but are too small-minded to
understand how to make it happen. I am trying to enlighten them.
Ultimately everyone will be happy again in another Golden
Age.
TGR: To what degree do you support the principles of
the French Revolution? Or do you wish to be seen as just another
European Head of State? NB: I take umbrage with your phrase "just another." Watch
your manners and station in life, lowly town cryer! I support the
French Revolution because it displays again the leading influence
of France throughout the world. We understand fine food and wine.
Our language is melodic and the standard of European
communication. Fashion, cheese--must I go on? In the balance of
things, the Revolution is part of the greater mystique of
France.
TGR: Is it true that you proposed to marry the
Czar's sister, but were not accepted? NB: It is ugly when there are casualties during the
fighting of the propaganda war. I suppose the Czar's sister
represents something to the common Russian fief, and so her
status has some significance. But really, I can come by my gains
in far easier ways than to consent to marry the Grand Duchess
Anna.
TGR: Your Majesty has been both an ally and an enemy
of Russia during the many years of your reign. Why did you decide
to invade Russia now, in 1812? NB: This brings us back to your original question. It is
time to bring a great glory to all of Europe by uniting it,
providing it with decent laws and infrastructure, and raising its
overall level of culture. The dusty monarchy in Russia, I have
decided, will never be able to change its ways. I had hoped for
an easier solution, but an invasion works as well. Perhaps better
in the case of your typical, base Russian.
TGR: Are there any political conditions the Czar
could meet in order to have you call off this expedition? NB: No, I am afraid this has become a necessary evil.
Nevertheless, I welcome the Czar's cooperation at any time.
Certainly once we establish control and begin the incredible
transformation of Russia into another glorious vassal of France,
his place in history could be firmly shown in a positive light
for all time thereafter. It's just a matter of accepting the
inevitable and bearing up to the moment.
TGR: There are many Polish soldiers in your army.
And your supply lines stretch back to the Polish territories now.
Can the Polish people look forward to getting their own kingdom
or republic, if you are successful? NB: And why shouldn't they, I say, why shouldn't they
indeed! France's graces extend to all oppressed peoples! How
often has this rich and dignified country been repressed by its
bullying neighbor? Doesn't this perfectly illustrate the
necessity of my work, my vision? Please spread the word,
throughout the European community, that they can all expect this
help. Especially those pesky British.
TGR: So far, the Russian army has refused to stand
and fight a decisive battle. Why do you suppose that is? NB: I must lay that squarely on the shoulder of the Old
Woman, Kutuzov. He is really doing a disservice to himself, the
Czar, and Mother Russia. Look what he does to his own people and
their fields. Dragging this war on delays the inevitable, and
will only make things harder on his people. One wonders if he
even cares about them. The Old Woman has forgotten the principles
of war, and now merely plays at it--like some flabby middle-aged
wargamer pushing around lead toys.
TGR: The Grand Armee of France has marched many
miles into Russian territory so far. Your supply lines must be
very long by now. What kind of shape is your army in, after this
long journey to the east? NB: Eager! Very clearly they are eager to please me and
win this campaign for France! Some of the army wenches trailing
the army are a bit worn, though. With every day further along,
they are called on to do more and more to satisfy the men. I
think their complaints are encouraging me more than anything
else. (That is a joke, of course).
TGR: Certainly not even your enemies can deny your
past greatness on the battlefield. What are the secrets of your
military success? NB: Interesting hats. While the Russian makes do with
rough peasant caps of uninteresting shapes and colors, we have
incredibly ornate headgear. We have colors tastefully transposed
with one another, with amazingly intricate ornamentation and
detail work. With this superb system, we accomplish two things.
We increase the élan of our troops, because each regiment
can boast its own importance, expressed by its hat. Second, we
can have very good communication on the battlefield and specify,
without confusion, what orders are meant for any particular
regiment. I suspect that in the far future, many studies of
military history will marvel and discuss often, and with great
vigor, the details of our headgear; and those of our uniforms
too, for that matter.
TGR: When will we finally have peace in
Europe? NB: We will have peace in Europe when Europe finally wants
peace. I am here to provide it, just for the asking.
TGR: C'est bien,Votre Majeste, et Bon Chance! NB: My pleasure. Now be gone from my sight--you reek like a
barnyard animal. Insulting!
TGR Interview: General Prince Mikhail Golenshev-Kutusov,
Commanding for His Imperial Majesty Alexander Czar of all the
Russias
(We visited The Grand Old Man at his sumptuous headquarters,
in a house located in a village somewhere east of the town of
Borodino. After dismissing both bemedalled aides and a group of
pretty young female admirers, he sat down to talk. We threw the
tough questions at him--because YOU want to know!)
TGR: Once again, you have been called up to be the
commander in time of crisis. Often during your career you seem to
serve in some obscure post, almost in exile, and then you return.
Why is this? MK: It has always been this way in Russia. Look at the
career of the great Suvarov himself! There are many noble
factions, all of which have their own ideas of how to serve our
nation. Our Little Father, Czar Alexander, brings us out like a
stable of thoroughbred race horses, running different ones in
different races, always trying to find the right formula for
victory. And to share the great honor of commanding our brave and
faithful troops, among his many loyal officers who are qualified
for such an important position.
TGR: The last time you clashed with Napoleon, he
defeated you badly at Austerlitz. What have you learned that will
make the outcome different next time? MK: On the Austerlitz battlefield, His Imperial Majesty
The Czar chose to take personal command. His presence so dazzled
our soldiers, that they sometimes had difficulty following the
simplest commands! I blame it on the pressure of performing
directly under the gaze of our sainted ruler. My good friend his
grandmother, Empress Catherine, sometimes causes this same
condition to occur. And so, this time around our Czar has chosen
to support us instead by performing absolutely vital work on the
political and diplomatic front back in Saint Petersburg, which is
the natural sphere of so august an imperial and royal
personage.
TGR: You have refused to engage Napoleon since he
invaded Russia from the Polish territories. When are you going to
stand and fight? MK: Hah! Wouldn't you like to know? Napoleon would too,
and he might read this. Let's just say I have my plans, and what
you saw outside of town here is a part of them. Napoleon has his
own plans, I'm sure.
TGR: Now that you mention it, when we passed through
Borodino, we could see lots of (CENSORED) going on. The entire Moscow militia
seemed to be carrying shovels! Is this where you plan to fight a
battle? MK: This is one of a number of places where, because of
the terrain, we might fight an action in the future. The actual
development of a major battle depends on many things. Timing.
Concentration of forces. Critical intelligence about the enemy.
Opportunity.
TGR: The (CENSORED) we saw
are far away from this site. Aren't you a little far to the rear
back here? MK: People often misunderstand the role of the commander
in such a large army. Most of my decisions are made before the
battle begins. Once the shooting starts, it's pretty much a
clockwork affair. However, I can best keep in touch with the many
elements of my force from back here. In this way, I keep my hand
on the pulse of the army, and can direct the critical movements
which occur during the action itself, such as the final
commitment of reserves.
TGR: Your main forces are composed of the First and
Second Armies. There are rumors that their commanders don't get
along. Can you make them work together? MK: Young man, in this world many people don't like each
other. With proud and capable nobles, there is much competition,
especially in the military. But we all love the Motherland, and
we all hate The Corsican Ogre. That should be enough.
TGR: Are you worried about what is about to
happen? MK: Here, let me fill up your glass, my friend. Have some
of the Polish sausage too; its excellent today! By the end of the
week, we may all be dead. But those French gentlemen will know
they've been in a fight, eh? (Yawn). I think its time for a
little nap. I...zzzzzzzzzzz!
TGR: Uh, General? (I tap him awake). Do you think
you could introduce me to that redhead I saw earlier? MK: Aha! Now you're starting to ask truly wise questions.
As my Italian friend Londo used to say: "If your shoes are too
tight to dance--take them off!" Drink up. Nastrovya!
Calgary Communique
JodieCon veteran Bruce Fiolek, that fighting Canadian, sent
the following advice based on his experience with the
computerized Carnage & Glory rules system used at
JodieCon Austerlitz last year. As a follow up to our interview
with C&G author Nigel Marsh in a past issue, here are three
of Bruce's tactical tips:
1. Keep a screen of skirmishers out in front of your units
whenever possible.
2. Try to site your artillery correctly. The first time.
3. As I remember, once a unit begins to become fatigued/worn, it
quickly slides down the hill of effectiveness. Therefore, don't
dally in the open; subordinates should have a plan when
attacking. Move in quickly; do the job. When unfamiliar with a
set of rules, many players tend to "drift" around the tabletop
longer than they should.
Finally, I'll recommend to you Brucie's own personal method of
unnerving his opponents, with which I've often been on the
receiving end: Look them in the eye and warn in a mock friendly
tone of voice: "Careful Charley--don't screw it up! Heh,
heh."
RAMBLINGS IN THE TAVERN: ON JOYOUS SOUNDS OF OLDEN TIMES
Welcome once again to our virtual tavern, where the beer is
always cold, and the women are always warm. I'd like to share
with you this long, beautiful passage about the Eastern
steppes:
"The year 1647 abounded with omens. Strange signs and
portents of terrible disasters appeared on earth and in the
skies. A plague of locusts spilled out of the Wild Lands in the
Spring; a sure sign of Tartar incursions, possibly even a great
war. In early Summer the sun disappeared under an eclipse. Soon
afterwards a comet trailed fire through the sky. In Warsaw,
people saw tombs and fiery crosses in the clouds, and so gave
alms and fasted, reading in these signs a terrible calamity that
would fall on the land and ravage all mankind. When Winter came
it was so mild that the oldest people couldn't remember anything
to match it. No ice gripped the rivers of the south; swollen with
rain and melting snows they burst from their courses, and flooded
the Steppe. Rain streamed down in torrents of silver. The open
Steppes became one vast, quaking swamp; and in the Bratzlav
Territory at the eastern boundary, and all across the unpopulated
Wild Lands, the noon sun burned with such intense Summer
brightness that a green blanket of new grasses sprung up in
December. Beehives hummed in the border settlements and herds of
cattle bellowed in the restless calls of Spring.
With all these signs and warnings, and with the natural order of
the seasons so unnaturally reversed, all eyes in the eastern
territories turned fearfully to the Wild Lands since peril of
every kind could come from those untamed spaces quicker than from
any other quarter. But nothing unusual seemed to be happening
there in that extraordinary year. There were no battles, wars,
raids, or killings other than those that were as common to that
savage landscape as the immense seas of blowing, head-high grass
where only eagles, hawks and vultures, and the fleeting gray
wolves running in the night, could serve at witnesses and
possible accusers.
Such were these Wild Lands: a continent of grass stamped with
savage beauty. Billowing pastures where a mounted man could
vanish like a diver in a lake. Violent chasms torn out of the
earth, gaunt breastworks of crumbling clay and limestone that
opened without warning under a horse's hooves. A wilderness of
forest, fallen timber, sudden glittering lakes and rivers
exploding into cataracts.
The last traces of human settlement ended at Tchehryn on the
Dneiper River and in the Uman territory along the unpopulated
borders. Beyond them lay the rolling emptiness of the Steppe that
flowed like an uncharted, multicolored ocean all the way to the
Black Sea, the Caspian and the Sea of Azov. Cossack life swarmed
like turbulent wild bees in the distant Nijh and along the
streams and pastures hidden in the coils of the Dneiper beyond
the cataracts, but nothing human lived in the Wild Lands
themselves. It was a land as vast as all of Western Europe,
subject in name to the dominion of the Crown of Poland but, in
effect, belonging only to those who lived by claw, fleet foot,
and arrows shot out of ambush in the night. The Tartars grazed
their horseherds there by treaty permission; and Cossack
horsetheives turned these pastures into battlefields where the
sounds of slaughter, the screams of dying men, the drumming of
hooves galloping out of ambush, the clash of steel, and the hiss
of the Tartar arrow and the whirling lariat seemed to hang
forever on the wind, carried from unknown beginnings into an
endless future like the Steppe itself.
No one knew how many battles were fought there in the years gone
by, nor how many men left their bones scattered in the Steppe for
the wolves and vultures. Armed travelers who heard the whirring
of great wings, or saw the black swarms of carrion birds wheeling
in the sky, knew at once that corpses or bleached bones lay
somewhere ahead and looked to their weapons. Men hunted each
other in this menacing green sea with no more feeling than they'd
have in running down a hare; everyone there was both the hunter
and the prey. This was the immemorial home of outlaws hiding from
the law and the hangman's rope. Armed shepherds--as savage as
their untamed flocks and herds--guarded lean sheep, fierce
stallions and wild cattle. Bandits sought loot. Cossacks trailed
Tartars and Tartars hunted Cossacks. It was common practice for
entire vatahas of light cavalry to guard the immense
horseherds while raiding marauders came a thousand strong; and
all of them, no matter whom they served, were men for whom words
like gentleness and mercy had never held a meaning.
The Steppes were wholly desolate and unpeopled yet filled with
living menace. Silent and still yet seething with hidden
violence, peaceful in their immensity yet infinitely dangerous,
these boundless spaces were a masterless, untamed country created
for ruthless men who acknowledged no one as their overlord.
At times real wars would fill these territories, and then the sea
of grass seemed to become a real ocean in which lesser tides of
crimson Cossack caps flowed between horizons. The gray Tartar
tchambuls spread there in crescent waves, and the winged
regiments of Polish horsemen rode in their leopard and wolfskin
cloaks draped over glittering armor, and then a forest of spears
and lances and horsetail standards and a blazing rainbow of
many-colored banners rose above the Steppe. At night the neighing
of the warriors' horses and the howl of wolves echoed in grim
prophecy through this wilderness, and the booming of the
kettledrums and the blare of copper horns and bugles flowed all
the way to the misty Lakes of Ovidov and to the shores of the
Turkish Sultan's seas. At such times the desolate Black Trail and
the Kutchmansky Track became human rivers engulfing everything
before them, and terror flew on birds' wings before this flood of
animals and riders.
But that winter no birds came cawing to the southern lands with
their raucous warnings. The immemorial routes of Tartar invasions
were quiet and still. The Steppes crouched waiting, still as
death in their shrouds of mist. And on this day, the day of a
particularly breathless silence, the red light of late afternoon
lit up a gaunt and skeletal land. Nothing moved on the tall banks
of the Omelnitchek in the southernmost reaches of the darkening
Steppe. The day was ending. The sun showed only the top half of
its scarlet shield above the horizon and each passing moment
sheathed the landscape in a deeper shadow.
On the high left bank of the river, gleaming in the reds and
yellows of the sinking sun, lay the heaped and tumbled rubble of
a walled stannitza, one of those lonely outposts that
guarded these borders. It was built years ago, perhaps as long as
a generation earlier, but whole decades of raids, assaults and
tidal waves of war had swept over it since then; the hot winds of
the Steppe eroded the fortress into bleached timbers and
crumbling white stone, rounding it out as smoothly as a burial
mound; and now a long, symmetrical shadow fell from this height
of land and sunk in the broad waters of the Omelnitchek which
turned towards the Dniester River at this point.
The sun set rapidly, as if anxious to get out of sight. Light
fled from the Steppe and seeped out of the sky where mournful
flights of cranes were beating their way heavily to the sea.
Night came, and with it came the Hour of the Spirits.
The soldiers of the Steppe stannitzas told stories about
murdered men who rose from their graves and stalked through the
Wild Lands after the sun went down, and muttered prayers for lost
souls when the tallow candles burned down in the guardhouse to
show the midnight hour. They spoke of ghostly riders who'd block
the path of travelers and beg for the sign of the cross that
might give them rest, or of vampires and werewolves leaping from
their lairs. It took an experienced ear to tell the difference
between the ordinary baying of the wolves and the howl of
vampires. Sometimes entire regiments of tormented souls were seen
to drift across the moonlit Steppe so that sentries sounded the
alarm and the garrisons stood to arms. But such ghostly armies
were only seen before a great war. Lone shades were met more
often. They brought no good fortune, to be sure, but they didn't
necessarily forecast a disaster since living men, as secretive
about their business as the restless spirits, were just as likely
to appear and vanish in that spectral country as genuine
apparitions."
That's the opening of WITH FIRE AND SWORD, by Henryk
Sienkiewicz, written in 1884. Brrr! Hoo, kids--this is scary!
Tolkeinesque, eh? These are the steppes that Napoleon's army
entered for the 1812 campaign, little changed since that earlier
era. Good luck, fellahs!
Being very low tech, I started buying my first CDs this year
since my last turntable died. It was quite a challenge to create
an expansion of my music in only about 50 disc's covering rock,
jazz, blues, classical, soundtracks, comedy, etc. One thing I
picked up which you might enjoy if you've had enough of the 1812
overture already, is a French offering called THE BEST OF
RUSSIAN MUSIC ("Les Plus Belles Pages de la Musique Russe" in the
Le Chant De Monde collection--'Songs of the World'). This
double CD collection features such names as Tchaikovski,
Rimski-Korsakov, Rachmaninov, Prokofiev, Khatchaturian, Borodine,
Glinka, Chostakovitch, Moussorgski, Stravinsky, and others.
Soothingly come also the low tones of Russian church music, grand
and sad, from the themes of an older time. This music, as in
touch with nature as our literary passage above, also helps to
evoke the land on which the Borodino battle took place, and the
emotions of those who defended it. Don't forget to make music
part of your meditations on our great conflict, which we will
both memorialize and celebrate in the months to come.
So dim the lights, turn up the music, and enjoy some quiet
time for reflection. I'll see you next time here in the
tavern.
