Waterloo

Spurred by Spliffs talk of trees in Belgium, I share my favourite Belgium story for all. And Paris, I guess.

My favourite battle, which came into my heart w/ the reading of John Keegan's Face of Battle in 1994, is Waterloo. Longbred on the history of the glorious military of the United States of America, I always loved Midway and D- day and Wake and Coral Sea and the Bulge (En Belgique aussi): but that summer of long remember gave me both Face of Battle and Ulysses.

This is not the time to go into Waterloo ( A Rolling Stones Week type of endless memories and etc's of that battle. of my life, etc... not up to it rite now), but that battlefield was fer certain one of my 'tourist destinations' destinations. Summer of 1999 I spent the second longest time in Europe ever - 1972 it was 3m, 1999 it was 6w. 55% of the time was spent in Ireland, took the boat to London for a bit, then to Amsterdam, Waterloo, and Paris. Then back to England for my Manchester relatives. It was such a glorious trip, but there was a disaster.

My wee little cousin O. was the chicken pox when I was in Belcoo. Took about two weeks to turn into shingles . London was fine, Amsterdam was fine, but when I got to Belgium....well, lets do the battle usa today style first.

I got off the Holland bus and into a hostel, but was restless- I wanted to go to the battlefield that day, then return the next. Wanted to walk it all. And guess what?? Walking that field really helped me understand the battle a billion times more than if I hadn't gone. It's funny- when I got back to the States and looked into one of my Waterloo books, my coup d'oeil upon looking @ a map was stunning towards my understanding of what happened.

The distance between the French and English lines was slite- fuck, Juan Uribe would be able to gun a runner out from one side of the valley to the next if it was the last out of the World Series. And until I actually SAW how close the lines were, I really didn't fully appreciate that Napoleon really was fucked from the morning on- unless something crazy would happen. The English led army was there, and coming up on the side of Napoleon was Blucher and the Prussian army. This important= history books, except for the last 20y or so, always tell us the English won the day and they bore the full brunt of napoleons army. A Prussian army under Blucher approached on napoleon's right and eventually was the deal breaker for Napoleon's comeback: but they have never received much acclaim (again, revising history these last 20y, there is a much new emphasis on the Germans)

Instantly I realised that the Prussans had much more influence in this battle than the English writers ever gave them credit for. The distances on the map were not that big a difference, although the approaches to the battle field were famously muddy and extractable from the German position near Wavre. I got it, and if I wasn't there, I wouldn't've. One of the greatest writers on the Napoleon Wars, Jac Wellar, is really big into visiting the fields to fully understand battles. Things change a lot over time- even Wellington , visiting Waterloo in 1816, remarked on how changed 'his battlefield' had become, in one year. This is the starting point in this post= Spliffe had things about Belgium trees in her today's post, and this is what I add: The most famous tree on the battlefield was one near the center of the English(Allied) Line. Ellington is said to have spent parts of the battlefield there. Tourists, however, cut and cut and cut pieces of the tree until it was lumberjacked into nothing. But, changes or not; it's important to visit these places.

1815== meet 1999 again. Sorry...my mind, y'know. I was walking the battle field (Let me put it this way= there==THERE= was the Hougemont. There= THERE was la Hay Sainte. There= THERE= was La Belle Alliance plateau. Heaven.) and getting.........tired........a little more tired.....sweaty.....scrztchy................shit, I feel like shit. I was on the field for a longtime, but soon I was just too sick to carry on. Fuck did I get sick. I still had to battle my way to the train, take it back into Brussels, get to my hostel, and collapse. I remember walking into a 'cornershop' 'cause I was just so thirsty= and it was fucking Perrier or shit like that with bubbles.

Heaven? It was now Hell.

I got back, collapsed, and sweated the whole next day. Stumbled outta bed, called Mom, and she said "calamine lotion". Sister.3 (the very responsible one, a former nurse) was told of my condition, and she got real worried. By myself, loaded down, sick as hell- read the thing on shingles and see what danger I was in.

Slept that day, and awoke early the next day to catch the bus to Paris. What a horrid ride- crossing the Styx, just not as serious. I'd broken out ( I have a fofo that should be scanned and included in this post, but Spliffe didn't give me any warning, so I'm not that prepared) all over- suddenly I got 200-300 pimples or whatever all over my body. I spent the whole trip dabbing calamine lotion onto my sores. I felt bad for the other riders- I'd dab some onto my fingers, then dab it onto a sore under my shirt, repeat, repeat, repeat.

Got into Paris late and metro'd my way to my hotel (Hotel esmerelda, rite near Norte Dame. This was not my room, but looks like it without the door to the toliet - none in my room). Got in, like 11pm, and the guy @ the desk took one look @ me and allowed me to stay that nite, but he said there was some difficulties w/ the rest of the days (Yeah, rite... he knew how sick I was). I crawled into the room, but wanted drink. I crippled myself down les rues de Paris, finding beautiful Coca Cola in one of Spliffs tin cans (which was kept because it was to be used as a tool later) and.....went back in.

My room was a cheap solo room w/ no toilet or shower but......a bidet. Quickly it reverted to its use as a urinal. Dusty room, old furnishings, and a very sick boy. With a can. And supplies from Holland. Life saving fucking supplies brought from Holland. God Bless Holland*.

Oh, wait- now my favourite Paris story. So there I was, itchy and scratchy and sweaty and Godfully jenky, lying in bed, but below there were the singing soccer supporters. Through my opened window and past the heavy dusty drapes (from 1815 prob.) came the singing joyous sounds of whatever soccer team they supported (not in English). For forty five seconds they would full blood the song, which would then dissolve into their cheers for their song well sung.....and then before the cheers and clapping died down, they next 45s snippet heralding whoever popped up...again and again and again. One of my favourite memories.

I cleaned myself up the next day, showerd, and went to the receptionist to book for the rest of the week. I was clean enough and their was a new person, so i got my room. Thank God.

Now, what was the point of this post again? Oh, yes, the tree in Belgium. My favourite belgium story. And my favourite Paris story. Now, what of my 2d favourite belgium story? That girl? The circling of La Hay Sainte? Maybe later...

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*= Webster, one of the Band of Brothers, said upon parachuting into Holland in 1944 how much he loved Holland- "They all love us, and they all speak English"