Chapter 8 - The Night Before the Battle
Years later, people asked me what soldiers talked about before Waterloo.
They expected politics.
Napoleon.
Wellington.
Britain.
France.
Honor.
Destiny.
Mostly they talked about food.
The night of June 17, beneath constant rain, William Carter spoke for fifteen minutes about an apple pie his mother made.
“You’ve described it three times.”
“You’re not listening.”
“I know the pie better than your mother does.”
“No you don’t.”
“What color is the plate?”
He paused.
“Blue.”
“Exactly.”
He stared.
“You’re irritating.”
“I’m preserving history.”
Around us men lay beneath coats and blankets.
Some had no shelter.
Water collected in shallow depressions.
Boots filled.
Powder had to be protected carefully.
A soldier nearby tried to light a pipe for the fifth time.
The rain defeated him again.
He cursed France.
William laughed.
“What has France got to do with rain?”
“Bonaparte brought it.”
That explanation satisfied everyone.
We shared a piece of hard bread.
Someone produced a little brandy.
Mercer passed, saw the bottle, and took a drink without asking.
“Doctor’s orders,” he said.
No one argued.
A young soldier named Edward Lane sat beside us writing a letter.
“Mother?” William asked.
Edward nodded.
“What are you telling her?”
“That Belgium is pleasant.”
We all looked around at the mud.
“Cruel,” I said.
He smiled.
“She worries.”
He folded the letter carefully.
“If anything happens—”
William immediately interrupted.
“Nothing’s happening.”
Edward looked at him.
“Carter.”
“Nothing.”
I understood.
Nobody wanted unfinished sentences.
Around midnight, rain weakened.
The darkness felt enormous.
Across the valley, French fires burned.
Somewhere out there thousands of men were doing what we were doing.
Eating.
Drying clothing.
Writing letters.
Thinking of home.
Perhaps complaining about boots.
That troubled me.
Enemies are easier to imagine when they do not have mothers.
I asked William whether he hated the French.
“No.”
“Napoleon?”
“Never met him.”
“Then why fight?”
He gave me a strange look.
“Because they tell us to.”
Then, after a pause:
“And because they’d do the same.”
Not a glorious answer.
Probably an honest one.
Later, I walked toward the medical station.
Mercer was awake.
“You should sleep.”
“So should you.”
“I’m old.”
“You’re forty-two.”
“Ancient.”
He was arranging supplies for morning.
“How bad will it be?”
He stopped.
“Thomas.”
“Yes?”
“Tomorrow, when wounded start coming, you will want to help everyone.”
“Yes.”
“You cannot.”
I disliked that immediately.
“You decide who can be helped. You do what is possible. Then you move to the next man.”
“That sounds cruel.”
“It is medicine in battle.”
I sat beside him.
For a while we listened to rain.
“If things go badly,” Mercer said, “go north.”
“And you?”
“I stay.”
“That violates your advice about being unnecessary.”
“My death would be professionally relevant.”
I laughed despite myself.
He smiled.
“Sleep.”
I returned to William.
He had finally removed his wet boots.
“Still full of water?” I asked.
“Always.”
He closed his eyes.
I looked across the dark field.
Tomorrow men would fight over every rise, wall, orchard, and road.
May you like
But that night the countryside still belonged partly to rain.
I wish I had appreciated that silence more.
