Silly alt-hist/place swap BS [CHAPTER 4 up]

[RowanE]

I wonder if they'd be able to build compatible ammunition - how advanced are the chemicals and metallurgy you need for 5.56x45mm rounds?

[Simon_Jester]

I wonder if they'd be able to build compatible ammunition - how advanced are the chemicals and metallurgy you need for 5.56x45mm rounds?

Hopelessly advanced, in this context. You might as well ask the 1815 Britons to make flying saucers.

[Edward Yee]

I'm not sure if even blackpowder (forget "smokeless") 5.56x45mm rounds would be viable; the inherent failure-to-feed/fire rates of the 5.56 mm British small arms aside, blackpowder charges might worsen them.

[Stuart Mackey]

I'm not sure if even blackpowder (forget "smokeless") 5.56x45mm rounds would be viable; the inherent failure-to-feed/fire rates of the 5.56 mm British small arms aside, blackpowder charges might worsen them.

Its not the propellant, although thats bad enough, its the casing: the precursor to the precursor technology to make the machinery (at least) does not exist yet and what they can do, by hand, would be worse than useless if not dangerous.
At best they will be able to bring forward percussion capped rifled muskets by a couple of decades.
Just because these guys are 21st century soldiers, does not make them experts in 19th century machine tooling, nor experts in materials science. They will have good general historical knowledge, in the case of the officers and some of the enlisted, and know how to use what they have, but thats about it.
Their biggest challenge will be adapting to a world that is completely unlike their own, not only technologically but also, most vitally, culturally and socially.

[Edward Yee]

Its not the propellant, although thats bad enough, its the casing: the precursor to the precursor technology to make the machinery (at least) does not exist yet and what they can do, by hand, would be worse than useless if not dangerous.

Hadn't realized that; thanks for pointing that out.

Just because these guys are 21st century soldiers, does not make them experts in 19th century machine tooling, nor experts in materials science.

This is already more sensible than 1632. Eric Flint may have written that more as a tribute to "the people of West Virginia"... but I can sense that we're less sympathetic ourselves, it seems, to the image he tried to evoke. (I'm reminded of the old "salt of the earth" topic back in N&P regarding Palin's rhetoric.)

Their biggest challenge will be adapting to a world that is completely unlike their own, not only technologically but also, most vitally, culturally and socially.

I'm sure that'll come up the instant that any of the 1815ers find out that Rifleman Watters was taking orders from a "mulatto," or that a 2006 officer would give his senior NCO anything approaching non-grudging respect, much less the senior NCO being the trusted advisor and pillar of the unit.

[Stuart Mackey]

I'm sure that'll come up the instant that any of the 1815ers find out that Rifleman Watters was taking orders from a "mulatto," or that a 2006 officer would give his senior NCO anything approaching non-grudging respect, much less the senior NCO being the trusted advisor and pillar of the unit.

With respect to race, sure, as for NCO's, they were in charge back then just as they are now and for the same reasons, officers only command .

[weemadando]

Race will be an issue as at this is at the height of Wilberforce.

[Edward Yee]

Heh, there's that (re: NCOs then)... I'm wondering though whether there'll be resistance to evolving the role more openly towards anything approaching the modern incarnation of the NCO due to the differences in "effective unit size on the field of battle" between then and now (I'm not aware of how the squad and platoon existed pre-WWII).

[Simon_Jester]

Just because these guys are 21st century soldiers, does not make them experts in 19th century machine tooling, nor experts in materials science.

This is already more sensible than 1632. Eric Flint may have written that more as a tribute to "the people of West Virginia"... but I can sense that we're less sympathetic ourselves, it seems, to the image he tried to evoke. (I'm reminded of the old "salt of the earth" topic back in N&P regarding Palin's rhetoric.)

Well, at a stark minimum Flint at least bothered to bring along a few people who would know something about the kind of machine technology they wanted. But yeah, he made it too easy for them.

The obvious counterpoint to 1632 in modern SF is Stirling's Isle in the Sea of Time series; what do people think of that?

[Edward Yee]

Haven't read Stirling's series I'm afraid, whereas 1632 comes off more as "Scots-Irish of West Virginia / good ol' working-class people" wank mixed with Gustavus Adolphus wank, albeit with some nice culture clash (yes I like reading about such)... and yes, I did read the book multiple times.

In the case of Wilberforce, isn't this after the peak of his campaigning, culminating in the Slave Trade Act)? Though, by this time he would have at least moved on to opposing slavery itself as opposed to just the trade.

EDIT: Wilberforce's reaction should be quite interesting, considering that the public record was that his idea of Christian morals was what led him to oppose the slave trade, and then slavery itself, and I'm guessing that The Rifles are of mixed religious identification.

[DrMckay]

I enjoy reading about the Napoleonic Wars, and this story in particular is fascinating. While the implications of the modern soldiers back in time are interesting, (What will this do to British Relations with the USA, will they become friendlier faster or will they be more bitter rivals?) I am very interested in what happens to Wellington's force in the present day. With 1632 and the ISOT books, you have future people dealing with history. I think it'd be very interesting to show historical Figures, Wellington, Uxbridge, etc dealing with the present day, attempting to adapt to fast travel, vast societal change, and new technology. Perhaps it would be interesting if Wellington sees the Different portrayals of himself in media, (in Sharpes, Waterloo, or especially as played by Stephen Fry in Blackadder; "When a man soils a Wellington, he really puts his foot in it.")

This has definitely not been shown before.

[von Neufeld]

The obvious counterpoint to 1632 in modern SF is Stirling's Isle in the Sea of Time series; what do people think of that?

Of the series in general, or as counterpoint?
In general I found the first Sea of Time book OK, but he then screwed up the pacing. The second book and most of the third book seems like they really didn't get somewhere, and finally he did run out of space and had to hastily off the bad guys. The entire ending of the series was a bit let-down.

As a counterpoint, well the hardship in the beginning maybe. Otherwise liked 1632 better, the antagonists in 1632 was more like real people, while in Isle the main bad guys seems like cardboard villains instead of real people.

To get back to to this story, I'm myself also more interested about reading about Wellington in current times.

[Edward Yee]

By the way, a quick realization... what's the fuel situation? "Use it or lose it" on the ammo, and yes they needed to send out Leftenant Hayes and whoever went looking for Blucher's Prussians... but would the scout(s) at least have time to make it back in time to rejoin The Rifles before L'Armee du Nord can advance to contact at Hougoumont, or would they have to hit L'Armee du Nord from the flank or from behind and cut their way through?

[weemadando]

A very quick and dirty chapter (spelling, formatting, grammar etc may not exist).

*edit* Said quick and dirty chapter now spoilerised. A bit further down this page is the nice, shiny new and improved version of this chapter.



Spoiler

Al-Amarah, Iraq, 8 August 2006
Basra – Al-Amarah Road

The situation had been defused more rapidly than she’d expected, the promise of clean water and the reassuringly familiar accents had helped. But Rachel Weathers was also fairly certain that shock had more to do with it than anything other single factor. Right now the Redcoats were being checked over by some of the Mercian’s medics while cool water was being rapidly consumed. Her cameraman leaned against the Mastiff in the shade next to her, their broadcast having been rapidly halted by MoD a few minutes before. Just in earshot, they could see the CO of the Mercian’s trying to explain the situation on the radio.

“Sir, if you don’t believe me, then you’re more than welcome to come along and have a look for yourself – or check out what the embeds broadcast. We’ve got fifty Redcoats here and they’re saying that they’re part of Wellington’s army. I’ve been dealing with their Leftenant and he’s confirmed that the whole damn army is here . . . No Sir, I’m not speculating . . . Respectfully Sir, this needs immediate attention. There’s up to seventy thousand men out here without a logistics train . . . Sir, I will remain in place here until you have received new orders, but I am unable to continue with my original tasking due to this situation . . . Yes Sir. I will be standing by for new orders.” He passes the handset back to his radio man, “Wankers.” He spits the word out, “They think that this is a fucking hoax!”
“It doesn’t smell like a hoax to me Sir.”
“Nor to me.” The CO keys his own radio, “Officers briefing now, on me.”


Al-Amarah, Eastern Outskirts
The battle seemed to be over for the moment. Across the market smoke hung lazily in the hot, still air. The Coldstream tended to their wounded and awaited further orders or support. There hadn’t been many of the enemy – twenty to thirty had been the count that had been reported by most of the officers, but they had wreaked havoc on the unit. “Fall back to the wall and hold there, keep the men in cover and we’ll wait for more orders. We can’t push into this city any further without taking unsustainable losses.”


Basra, Iraq, 8 August 2006
Basra International Airport – Operating Base Basra
It had been a rush job to get it to Al-Amarah but the RQ-1B Predator was now sending it’s feed back to the Joint Intelligence Task Force HQ. The main screen showed the remnants of the battle between the insurgents and the Coldstream. Yet more screens showed stills pulled from the BBC footage and shots from the F-15s Sniper ATP system. The room was full of the usual group of staff, analysts and liaisons, but in the past few minutes had also received an influx of brass. “Do we think that our two companies got hit by this force?”
“Two companies in a fortified base in an urban environment being overrun by this lot? I doubt it.”
“Are we buying the Waterloo angle?”
“Why wouldn’t we? Is anyone honestly thinking that the Iranians would sneak seventy thousand men across the border dressed and equipped as Redcoats? There are many more reliable and less stupid ways that they could have invaded if they wanted.”
“So you’re saying time travel makes the most sense?”
“I think what he’s saying is that time travel makes more sense than Iran, which makes more sense than a mirage or mass hysteria.”
“OK. We assume that it’s legitimate. That means that we’ve got seventy thousand troops from primarily NATO and Coalition nations in the middle of the desert without most of their supplies. What’s our next step?”


Waterloo, 18 June 1815
Hougoumont
For the past ten minutes there had been an intense barrage of fire directed at the chateau. It was not nearly as bad as it could have been – the past few hours work by the snipers had put paid to most of the Grand Batteries experienced gun layers and as such many of the shots failed to strike home. On the second floor of the chateau Leftenant Green peeks towards the orchards again. This kind of barrage could only mean one thing and those orchards were the best line of attack, as had been proven once before. “Romeo Zero, this is Romeo Two, over.” He waits a moment then keys his handset again, “Romeo Zero, this is Romeo Two, over.”
“Romeo Two, send, over.”
“Romeo Zero, request counter battery fire mission.”
“Romeo Two, wait one.”


Wellington’s tent
Captain Dahl looks over his notepad with his order of battle, callsigns and plans. “Time to spend some money folks. Let’s put a Javelin into the powder carts. That should distract them for a while.”
“It looks like Napoleon is going to follow his script after all Sir.”
“I wouldn’t bet a penny on that. But we now know where his attention is. Get C Companies MG section up and moving, have them relocate to the Hougoumont. And check our ranges again for the advances to Hougoumont, I want the mortars ranged in and ready to drop rounds as soon as we get the call.”

Hougoumont
“Romeo Two, fire mission underway.” Leftenant Green’s eyes catch the faint trail of the Javelin arcing across the field. The missile takes a little more than two seconds to complete a fairly flat parabolic flight path, it’s guidance unit predicting the location accurately, the missile tips it’s nose down and attempts to locate it’s intended target. Within a few microseconds it has matched the data uploaded from the Control Launch Unit unit prior to firing with the image it now sees. At a height of two hundred metres above the target the missile initiates it’s submunition and begins it’s terminal guidance. The missile is travelling at just below mach one and continues to accelerate as it’s plunging trajectory brings it ever closer to it’s second target.


Command Tent of Armeé du Nord
Ney waits patiently while the Emperor allowed his wrath to flow, invective flew out in the kind of creative streams that are borne only from immense frustration and anger. It was nearly five minutes since the explosions – the fires had been contained, but the damage was irreparable. Two powdercarts hit, twenty cannon damaged by the blasts a second apart, scores of men dead and wounded to be certain, probably far more. But there had not been any barrage, nor even a sign of British cannon. Those who claimed to have seen anything said that it was only a single rocket. How could a single rocket hit two targets a hundred metres apart? He’d been in the tent with the Emperor when it had happened and both had been nearly bowled from their feet by the blasts. And we’d been a hundred metres away, behind a ridge. The invective seemed to be slowing now, as cold anger replaced heated rage. Ney did not like the direction that this seemed to be going – the British clearly had some plan here, but the Emperor would not listen. But most worrying was the silence. Ney realises suddenly how quiet it has become. My God. The Grand Battery is silent. And the attack is already underway.


Hougoumont
“Infantry in the orchard! Estimate battalion strength formation. One hundred metres from first line of mines.” The SAS spotter sweeps the thermal optics over the orchard again. “Second wave is fifty metres behind the first. Again, estimate battalion strength.” Every man in the chateau is ready now, rifles and machine guns are aimed into the orchard where flashes of uniforms are visible through the dense foliage, becoming more and more evident as the French line encroaches. Leftenant Green watches the approaching forces carefully. They’d been free from cannon fire for a few minutes now and his men had regained their confidence – an artillery barrage like that was far different to a few random mortars being dropped by some insurgents.
“Standby on the claymores.” He gauges the distance, trying to visualise where the mines have been placed. The French skirmishers come ever closer. “Detonate first line.” Across the orchard twelve claymores detonate, each sending seven hundred steel balls towards the French advance at twelve hundred metres per second. Eight thousand four hundred steel balls travelling at nearly mach 4 cross the thirty metre gap between the mines and the enemy in under one three hundredth of a second. As they cross this space many of them strike the trunks and branches of the pine trees of the orchard, sending a new wave of wooden shrapnel behind the first. The skirmishers ranks collapse under the barrage as more than two hundred men are struck down at once. The advance is not slowed by the casualties, the rear ranks of skirmishers come forward and continue moving towards the chateau. Bringing them into the newly defoliated killing ground created by the claymores.


Al-Amarah, Iraq, 8 August 2006
Wellington’s bivouac, Al-Amarah - Al-Halfayah road, outside of Al-Amarah
“For God’s sake men, HOLD YOUR FIRE!” Wellington bellows to be heard above the thudding din of the machines above as a few men take ill-advised shots at the things. “HOLD! YOUR! FIRE!” For all the good it would do you anyway. he thinks, looking at the things which were flitting about. “Find something white and start waving it De Lancey. I think that this might be the visitors whom we are expecting.”
The two giant, thudding dragonflies make a lazy circuit of the area. Wellington gets the uneasy feeling that though they never seem to be close or focused on anything in particular, that they are seeing everything. By now most of the men are waving white cloth of some kind, be it their shirts, handkerchiefs or other items, while others swing their regimental flags and Union Jacks to and fro. The dragonflies keep circling the area, ever vigilant.
“Look at them closely Sir, see how there are two men in there? It’s some sort of flying carriage. And underneath it, it looks like a swivel gun.”
“Do you have the same feeling as I De Lancey, that these things if they so wished could kill most of us from where they are now?”
“Sir, there is an inherent menace to them, that is certain. But I cannot imagine what they are capable of.” More notes can now be heard amongst the thudding and more of the flying beasts become visible from the haze. These ones seem less intimidating and bulkier, but their approach is aggressive, coming in much faster and lower.

The three machines make a tight, rapid orbit of the camp before two quickly descending and alighting next to the road. Before they have even settled to the ground men in confusingly patterned clothes with their faces concealed by masks of glass and cloth under helmets with the same distracting patterns and carrying strangely shaped weapons rush from them and begin shouting. “DROP YOUR WEAPONS! KNEEL DOWN ON THE GROUND AND PLACE YOUR HANDS ON YOUR HEADS!” The deafening thumping of the landed machines as they strain and take flight again, the lesser thudding of the still circling ones and the shouting of the strangely attired men leads to rapid compliance. Wellington kneels and places his hands upon his head, leading by example to his officers who seem to be making ill-considered gestures of defiance to such an order. He gazes around, noting the thousands of men around who are all kneeling, with hands on head, with looks of shock, wonderment and horror evident.

The third large flying machine comes in to land where the last two had just vacated, within a ring of security created by the disembarked men. Wellington absorbs all that he is seeing, trying to understand the tactics and intent of this force. The men who alight from the third craft are different; they seem to wear no discernable uniform, though there are pieces here and there which match those of the other soldiers and the way they carry themselves gives the immediate impression of an elite group. One of them makes a gesture and a from within the craft emerge three more men in the yellowy-brown patterned clothing. These ones were not carrying any weapons, nor wearing helmets. They move with their body guards through the ring of security, straight towards Wellington.
“Sir Arthur Wellesley, the Duke of Wellington I presume?” Calls the lead officer as he draws near.
“Err, yes.” The confusion is apparent on his face and in his voice.
“I am Colonel Arthur Raddley of The Rifles. On behalf of the Armed Forces of Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth the Second, I am here to offer your men aid.”

[Edward Yee]

To quote Michael Schiavello: "yes... Yes.... YES... YES!... YES!!... YES!!!"

I'm guessing that those with "no discernable uniform" are either SOF (i.e. others from the Regiment not transported back) or private security personnel?

Interesting that you took the Javelin's "top attack" out but instead had it 'split' and deploy submunitions. While that may be well be an actual capability, why this change at the expense of top attack? Also, why did the Hougoumont team (2nd Plt, A Co + unspecified SAS) choose claymores as their first attack, instead of opening with rifles/MGs after setting the claymores into the skirmishers' would-be cover?

At this point, Ney the poor bastard needs a fucking HUG.

I admit that I'm not seeing much point to the "eastern outskirts" portion, not only short but with little going on; perhaps it could be amalgamated into one of the other 2006 scenes?

[weemadando]

To quote Michael Schiavello: "yes... Yes.... YES... YES!... YES!!... YES!!!"

I'm guessing that those with "no discernable uniform" are either SOF (i.e. others from the Regiment not transported back) or private security personnel?

Yeah, they're meant to be Regiment. I was trying to find a way to write it so it read like they were wearing pieces of uniforms but not a full uniform.

Interesting that you took the Javelin's "top attack" out but instead had it 'split' and deploy submunitions. While that may be well be an actual capability, why this change at the expense of top attack?

My understanding is that there is a dual munition option with the Javelin where the AP submunition can be used and the shrapnel that the rest of the missile becomes can have been targeted via flight path to hit a soft target as well. I'm tempted to re-write it though as it feels a bit shitty and I'm not 100% about that.

Also, why did the Hougoumont team (2nd Plt, A Co + unspecified SAS) choose claymores as their first attack, instead of opening with rifles/MGs after setting the claymores into the skirmishers' would-be cover?

Using claymores has the dual effect - first it kills off a large chunk of the attacking force but as mentioned it also creates a defoliated area downslope from the chateau that becomes a killing ground for small arms fire. And the fact is that the Hougoumont orchard was pine trees used for turpentine production, so it's pretty dense foliage to shoot through otherwise.

At this point, Ney the poor bastard needs a fucking HUG.

Yeah. He does.

I admit that I'm not seeing much point to the "eastern outskirts" portion, not only short but with little going on; perhaps it could be amalgamated into one of the other 2006 scenes?

That'll probably get cut entirely if I re-write.

[Stuart Mackey]

Nice. It will be interesting to see the logistics side of keeping Wellingtons men fed and watered (to say nothing of the political ramifications)

[Edward Yee]

Yeah, they're meant to be Regiment. I was trying to find a way to write it so it read like they were wearing pieces of uniforms but not a full uniform

Considering that it's the Regiment, maybe Wellesley/Wellington should notice beards? Although the "conventionals" that came from the first two helos were apparently wearing shemaghs, at least nowadays "beard" is associated with SOF on the Internet. (If you don't believe me, just look at the early Medal of Honor 2010 hype, which the game's own blog spent an article on.)

My understanding is that there is a dual munition option with the Javelin where the AP submunition can be used and the shrapnel that the rest of the missile becomes can have been targeted via flight path to hit a soft target as well. I'm tempted to re-write it though as it feels a bit shitty and I'm not 100% about that.

If -- albeit only if -- the Javelin is actually capable of both together in the same launch, I'd think you could write the missile doing both, for further mindfucking of L'Armee du Nord -- the "rocket" not only struck two targets at once, but (as in the original) appeared to overshoot only to suddenly tip over! In one catastrophic blow that should by now most likely be recognized as a non-coincidence, the British have ruined the centerpiece of the Napoleonic army, something that should have taken the best gunners paired with many quality guns.

Using claymores has the dual effect - first it kills off a large chunk of the attacking force but as mentioned it also creates a defoliated area downslope from the chateau that becomes a killing ground for small arms fire. And the fact is that the Hougoumont orchard was pine trees used for turpentine production, so it's pretty dense foliage to shoot through otherwise.

True, true... can't recall where I got the idea of "plant the booby traps not where they're headed, but where they'd dive for cover," but it was mentioned somewhere on the boards. Considering that ammunition is limited even if the QM is saying "use it or lose it," your point is solid; while I would have thought that the primary goal would be to deter further advances (due to the possibility of an overrun if the French don't falter or retreat), the possibility of having to kill two battalions' worth (I assume the SAS trooper is using a modern British Army definition thereof) or more is still very real -- at least that first line of claymores did its grim task, horrendously well. (Btw, didn't see whether Leftenant Green was SAS or Rifles.) I didn't see how many lines of claymores there are (only that there were twelve claymores in the first line),

At this point, Ney the poor bastard needs a fucking HUG.

Yeah. He does.

I don't want to be around that tent if the Brits' new chant is "FUCK YO GRAND BATTERY"... or this one:
"I bet you'll probably get an erection from that!"
"I probably will, but it'll be okay, 'cos it'll be in his mouth!"

I admit that I'm not seeing much point to the "eastern outskirts" portion, not only short but with little going on; perhaps it could be amalgamated into one of the other 2006 scenes?

That'll probably get cut entirely if I re-write.

I say take the essentials -- 20-30 insurgents force the 1815 Coldstream Guards to fall back, an officer or NCO recognizing that their portion of the Army's reached a near-breaking point -- and mention them in one of Wellington's scenes or the scene with the "Mercian"... speaking of which, according to Wiki that regiment was actually formed in 2007.

I just realized... PLEASE tell me someone from The Rifles has a hand-crank electrical generator/charger compatible with their batteries!

[Stuart]

An excellent part Weemando. One thing I would suggest in the 'keep it simple' meme is to use two Javelins to knock out the two ammunition carts or have the second go up from a sympathetic detonation from the first. Oh, and the British spell Lieutenant the same way as the rest of the world, they just pronounce it wrong.

[Edward Yee]

How many Javelins do they have anyway?? (To be "spending" two, even if it's to silence the Grand Battery.)

[weemadando]

Tidied up version of Chapter 3 with some segments expanded.


Al-Amarah, Iraq, 8 August 2006
Basra – Al-Amarah Road

The situation had been defused more rapidly than she’d expected, the promise of clean water and the reassuringly familiar accents had helped. But Rachel Weathers was also fairly certain that shock had more to do with it than anything other single factor. Right now the Redcoats were being checked over by some of the Mercian’s medics while cool water was being rapidly consumed. Her cameraman leaned against the Mastiff in the shade next to her, their broadcast having been rapidly halted by MoD a few minutes before. Just in earshot, they could see the CO of the Mercian’s trying to explain the situation on the radio.

“Sir, if you don’t believe me, then you’re more than welcome to come along and have a look for yourself – or check out what the embeds broadcast. We’ve got fifty Redcoats here and they’re saying that they’re part of Wellington’s army. I’ve been dealing with their Lieutenant and he’s confirmed that the whole damn army is here . . . No Sir, I’m not speculating . . . Respectfully Sir, this needs immediate attention. There’s up to seventy thousand men out here without a logistics train . . . Sir, I will remain in place here until you have received new orders, but I am unable to continue with my original tasking due to this situation . . . Yes Sir. I will be standing by for new orders.” He passes the handset back to his radio man, “Wankers.” He spits the word out, “They think that this is a fucking hoax!”
“It doesn’t smell like a hoax to me Sir.”
“Nor to me.” The CO keys his own radio, “Officers briefing now, on me.”

Rachel watches the huddle that ensues, and slowly grows as some of the red coated officers are brought over to look at maps, all the while there is pointing at the map and surroundings. After several minutes two of the red coats are led back to their horses and rapidly depart while the summit continues in the shade of the massive troop transport.

Al-Amarah, Eastern Outskirts
The battle seemed to be over for the moment. Across the market smoke hung lazily in the hot, still air. The din of gunfire and explosions and shouted orders was now being replaced by screams and moans and the ever growing buzzing of flies. There hadn’t been many of the enemy – twenty to thirty had been the count that had been reported by most of the officers, but they had wreaked havoc on the unit. Fire in unbelievable quantities had raked their lines while men fired rockets or through grenades towards. Finally, when the Coldstream had regrouped and a bayonet charge had been ordered the enemy had collapsed back into the city. Corporal McIntyre had been in the front of the bayonet charge, rushing into one of the buildings and up it’s stairs to confront and finally kill a man on the third floor who had been using some form of repeating rifle with a long chain of sharp balls and jackets of some sort coming from it’s side. With his loot in hand he rejoins the ranks who are pulling back to the far side of the market square. He can feel envious eyes on his new device – who knows what a quartermaster will pay on behalf of the crown for such a weapon to study? His levity is intruded upon by a growling and squealing then shouts of. He turned just in time to see the horseless carriage coming straight into their lines at speed.

The small hatchback bomb detonates it’s payload of thee 155mm artillery shells strapped to the folded down seats as the first rank of men fall under it’s wheels or onto it’s bonnet. The explosion blasts the rear of the car apart, adding to the shrapnel of the shell casings. McIntyre’s brain has time to register the flash of light before the shockwave hits him, blasting him from his feet, rupturing his ear drums and most of the capillaries in his sinus and cracking his head into the compacted dirt and gravel of the market hard enough to cause a hairline fracture in his skull. His brain is rapidly accelerated and decelerated by the events, slamming it back and forth repeatedly against the interior walls of the skull despite the protective insulation of the fluid within. During his fall to the ground a large piece of suspension spring cuts into the meat of his left thigh, embedding itself into his femur. The cumulative shock of the events puts his body into emergency mode – shock sets in immediately to protect the operation of the vital organs by restricting blood flow to the arms and legs, while the brain attempts to recover from the trauma and emerge from unconsciousness into the vague, grey world of the severely concussed.

Basra, Iraq, 8 August 2006
Basra International Airport – Operating Base Basra
It had been a rush job to get it airborne and to Al-Amarah but the RQ-1B Predator was now sending it’s feed back to the Joint Intelligence Task Force HQ. The main screen showed the remnants of the battle between the insurgents and the Coldstream. Yet more screens showed stills pulled from the BBC footage and shots from the F-15s Sniper ATP system. The room was full of the usual group of staff, analysts and liaisons, but in the past few minutes had also received an influx of brass. “Do we think that our two companies got hit by this force?”
“Two companies in a fortified base in an urban environment being overrun by this lot without even getting a signal out? I doubt it.”
“Are we buying the Waterloo angle?”
“Why wouldn’t we? Is anyone honestly thinking that the Iranians would sneak seventy thousand men across the border dressed and equipped as Redcoats? There are many more reliable and less stupid ways that they could have invaded if they wanted.”
“So you’re saying time travel makes the most sense?”
“I think what he’s saying is that time travel makes more sense than Iran, which makes more sense than a mirage or mass hysteria.”
“OK. We assume that it’s legitimate. That means that we’ve got seventy thousand troops from primarily NATO and Coalition nations in the middle of the desert without most of their supplies. And we’ve got many injured and in need of critical aid in Al-Amarah. What’s our next step?”


Waterloo, 18 June 1815
Hougoumont
For the past ten minutes there had been an intense barrage of fire directed at the chateau. It was not nearly as bad as it could have been –work by the snipers throughout the morning had put paid to most of the Grand Batteries experienced gun layers and as such many of the shots failed to strike home. This fact was easy to overlook however when close to a hundred cannon were still firing regularly. Even if only half of these shots were hitting, those that did were still sufficient to rattle the defenders who were unused to this kind of barrage. On the second floor of the chateau Lieutenant Green peeks towards the orchards again. This kind of barrage could only mean one thing and those orchards were the best line of attack, as had been proven once before. “Romeo Zero, this is Romeo Two, over.” He waits a moment then keys his handset again, “Romeo Zero, this is Romeo Two, over.”
“Romeo Two, send, over.”
“Romeo Zero, request counter battery fire mission.”
“Romeo Two, wait one.”

Wellington’s tent
Captain Dahl looks over his notepad with his order of battle, callsigns and plans. “Time to spend some money folks. Let’s put a Javelin into the powder carts. That should distract them for a while.”
“It looks like Napoleon is going to follow his script after all Sir.”
“I wouldn’t bet a penny on that. But we now know where his attention is. Get C Companies MG section up and moving, have them relocate to the Hougoumont. And check our ranges again for the advances to Hougoumont, I want the mortars ranged in and ready to drop rounds as soon as we get the call.”

Hougoumont
“Romeo Two, fire mission underway.” Leftenant Green’s eyes catch the faint trail of the Javelin arcing across the field. The missile takes a little more than two seconds to complete a fairly flat parabolic flight path, it’s guidance unit predicting the location accurately, the missile tips it’s nose down and attempts to locate it’s intended target. Within a few microseconds it has matched the data uploaded from the Control Launch Unit unit prior to firing with the image it now sees. At a height of two hundred metres above the target the missile initiates it’s terminal guidance. The missile is now travelling at just below mach one and continuing to accelerate as it plunges towards it’s target.

Command Tent of Armeé du Nord
Ney waits patiently while the Emperor allowed his wrath to flow, invective flew out in the kind of creative streams that are borne only from immense frustration and anger. It was nearly five minutes since the explosions – the fires had been contained, but the damage was irreparable. A rocket had dropped from the heavens directly into a powder cart with predictable results. They’d counted twenty cannon damaged by that blast, and the sympathetic explosion of a second powder cart. There were scores of men dead and wounded to be certain, probably far more – many of them the remaining experienced gunners of the battery. He’d been in the tent with the Emperor when it had happened and both had been nearly bowled from their feet by the blasts. And we’d been a hundred metres away, behind a ridge. The invective seemed to be slowing now, as cold anger replaced heated rage. Ney did not like the direction that this seemed to be going – the British clearly had some plan here, but the Emperor would not listen. But most worrying was the silence. Ney realises suddenly how quiet it has become. My God. The Grand Battery is totally silent. And the attack is already underway. Ney grabs the nearest officer: “For god’s sake man! Get the battery firing again! The attack depends on it.” The officer seems to hesitate, obviously well aware of the not-so-tender attentions that officers near the cannon have been receiving from those damnable British sharpshooters, “Do you want to be the hero that get’s the battery firing again, or the man who the Emperor sees hiding here like a coward when he realises that the guns have stopped and steps outside his tent to see what is happening?”

Hougoumont
“Infantry in the orchard! Estimate battalion strength formation. One hundred metres from first line of mines.” The SAS spotter sweeps the thermal optics over the dense pine orchard again picking out the vague shapes through the clutter and interference of the trees. “Second wave is fifty metres behind the first. Again, estimate battalion strength.” Every man in the chateau is ready now, rifles and machine guns are aimed into the orchard where flashes of uniforms slowly become visible through the foliage, their numbers more evident as the French line encroaches. Lieutenant Green watches the approaching forces carefully. They’d been free from cannon fire for a few minutes now and his men had regained their confidence – an artillery barrage like that was far different to a few random mortars being dropped by some insurgents. But the sight of the line of cannon being devastated by the Javelin strike had the effect he had hoped for – the perfect demonstration of just how asymmetrical this battle was going to have to be.

“Standby on the claymores.” He gauges the distance, trying to visualise where the mines have been placed. Three lines of them in the orchard – their locations picked for dual purposes. The first, obviously, to kill the immediate targets. The second, and even more important reason: to clear a field of fire by defoliating swathes of the orchard, exposing a thin slice of the orchard to plunging fire from the chateau at the top of the slope. The first line was about to be reached, the second was closer still, while the third and final line lay almost flush against the base of the chateaus walls.

The skirmishers come ever closer, entering the most effective zone of the minefield. “Detonate first line.” A series of explosions sounds, as detcord wound tight around the base of some of the tree trunks detonates. Scant milliseconds later, across the orchard twelve claymores receive the signal to detonate, each sending seven hundred steel balls towards the French advance at twelve hundred metres per second. Eight thousand four hundred steel balls travelling at nearly mach 4 cross the thirty metre gap between the mines and the enemy in under one three hundredth of a second. As they cross this space many of them strike the trunks and branches of the pine trees of the orchard, sending a new wave of wooden shrapnel behind the first. The skirmishers front ranks collapse under the barrage as more than two hundred men are struck down at once. The collapsing trees, felled by a combination of detcord and shrapnel crunch into the mat of splintered wood, two lines of the orchards plantings cut down in an instant, creating an impromptu waist high barrier of splintered, spiky wood across the centre of the defoliated zone. The advance is not slowed by the casualties though – the different psychology of war keeps the rear ranks of skirmishers moving forward onto the carpet of shredded pine branches amidst scarred and barren trunks. “Stand by men. Don’t fire until the first rank is crossing the barrier.”

Al-Amarah, Iraq, 8 August 2006
Wellington’s bivouac, Al-Amarah - Al-Halfayah road, outside of Al-Amarah
“For God’s sake men, HOLD YOUR FIRE!” Wellington bellows to be heard above the thudding din of the machines above as a few men take ill-advised shots at the things. “HOLD! YOUR! FIRE!” For all the good it would do you anyway. he thinks, looking at the angular insectoid things which are menacingly circling the camp. “Find something white and start waving it De Lancey. I think that this might be the visitors whom we have been told to expect.”
As the two giant, thudding dragonflies make a lazy circuit of the area Wellington gets the uneasy feeling that though they are a good distance away, that they are seeing everything. By now most of the men are waving white cloth of some kind, be it their shirts, handkerchiefs or other items, while others swing their regimental flags and Union Jacks to and fro. The mechanical dragonflies keep circling the area, ever vigilant and seemingly untiring. De Lancey lowers his telescope having been studying and sketching the things for a few minutes now.
“Look at them closely Sir, see how there are two men in there? It’s some sort of flying carriage. And underneath it’s nose, it looks like a swivel gun from a ship hanging upside down.”
“Do you have the same feeling as I De Lancey, that these things if they so wished could kill most of us from where they are now?”
“Sir, there is an inherent menace to them, that is certain. But I cannot begin to imagine what they are capable of. Their mere existence raises uncomfortable questions as to our predicament”

More notes can now be heard amongst the thudding as more of the flying beasts become visible from the haze to the South. These ones seem less intimidating and bulkier, but their approach is aggressive, coming in much faster and lower. The three machines make a tight, rapid orbit of the camp, throwing up much dust and detritus. While most of the men are busy recovering from this blast of debris, two of the machines break off and quickly descend and alight next to the road. Before they have even touched the ground men in confusingly patterned clothes with their faces concealed by masks of glass and cloth under similarly patterned helmets rush from them carrying strangely shaped weapons and begin shouting. “DROP YOUR WEAPONS! KNEEL DOWN ON THE GROUND AND PLACE YOUR HANDS ON YOUR HEADS!”

The deafening thumping of the landed machines as they strain and take flight again, the lesser thudding of the still circling ones and the shouting of the strange men leads to rapid compliance from the shocked soldiers. Wellington kneels and places his hands upon his head, leading by example to his officers who seem to be contemplating ill-considered gestures of defiance to such an order. He gazes around, noting the thousands of men around who are all kneeling, with hands on head, with looks of shock, wonderment and horror evident. And so I preside over the greatest surrender in our history, he thinks, Let us hope our captors are benevolent.
The third large flying machine comes in to land where the last two had just vacated, within a ring of security created by the disembarked men. Wellington absorbs all that he is seeing, trying to understand the tactics and intent of this force. The men who alight from the third craft are different; they seem to wear no discernable uniform, though there are pieces here and there which match those of the other soldiers. It is the way they carry themselves that strikes him, and the deference given to them by the uniformed men. It gives the immediate impression of an elite group – definitely respected and possibly feared by the common soldier. Seemingly satisfied with what they see one of them makes a gesture and from within the craft emerge three more men in the yellowy-brown patterned clothing. These ones however are not carrying any weapons, nor wearing helmets. Officers, he thinks, No matter how odd the army, it seems that we officers are always the same. They move with their bodyguards through the ring of security, straight towards Wellington.
“Sir Arthur Wellesley, the Duke of Wellington I presume?” Calls the lead officer in a voice tinged with an home counties accent with an Eton and Oxbridge twist.
“Err, yes.” The confusion is apparent on Wellington’s face and in his voice. A quick glance about reveals that his other men in earshot are similarly dumbfounded by the accent and statement as much as he is.
“I am Colonel Arthur Raddley of The Rifles. On behalf of the Armed Forces of Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth the Second, I am here to offer your men aid.”

[Stuart Mackey]

Nicely done.
Oh, any chance of an honorable mention for a certain Rifle officer called Sharpe? beating up an overly PC individual?

[Stuart Mackey]

Oh, don't forget that Wellington, as a Field Marshall, is now the most senior officer in the British army by both rank and seniority

But I am sure he will follow sensible advice

[spartasman]

I think the first "dirty" draft was better. The perspective on this seems a bit off, and the wording doesn't read well. A few spelling errors in the first few chapters. Otherwise, a good chapter, I look forward to more.

[Edward Yee]

I definitely thought that this chapter was on the overall an improvement. While unfortunate for Cpl. McIntyre, the eastern outskirts scene is an indisputable improvement in writing (but "shouts of" what??), and I'm guessing he's picked up a belt-fed "ComBloc" MG.

That means that we’ve got seventy thousand troops from primarily NATO and Coalition nations in the middle of the desert without most of their supplies. And we’ve got many injured and in need of critical aid in Al-Amarah.

Oh it's worse, some of those nations don't quite exist anymore... the fate of Blucher's Prussians is still unknown, but if they're in 2006 it's not a nation in and of itself anymore, and that's even before they find out that the modern Germans are so disenchanted on state-sanctioned violence, much less why...

Twenty cannons damaged, two powder carts detonated and scores of casualties sounds like a devastating blow indeed, but was it really enough to silence the Grand Battery, were there more cannons in separate sections/areas (with the Grand Battery simply being the most prominent), or was "close to a hundred cannon" a mistaken count on the defenders' part? (Regarding me not looking these up, since it's an AU I recognize that you might have taken further liberties compared to the historical account.)

"Don't fire until the first rank is crossing the barrier" -- what's that barrier, unless Lieutenant (earlier he's "Leftenant Green" still) Green meant the third line of claymores??

As for Wellington and his officers' surprise at the end... I'm guessing that they received reports from the "front lines" that someone "indigenous" (to the time period) was coming for them, did they not realize that it would be Brits, or was the surprise at the unlikely accent combo (well, unlikely by 1815 standards) or the Duke of Wellington already being known as such?