Talavera

Drums thud, rhythmically. Voices chant, “Vive l’empereur.” Screams sound, mercilessly. Terrifying noises broken only by roaring cannons; spitting death and destruction from black gaping maws. Smoke, hanging thick, blinds everyone.

“First rank, fire.” Officers bellow.

Muskets crash, battering already bruised shoulders.

“Reload, second…”

Training takes over. Automatically collect fresh cartridge, bite, prime, pour, spit, ram, reset rod, aim, await orders, shoot, repeat. Block out those behind adding their own carnage into French columns. Endure parched throat, bury fear. Listen for commands.

“Close up.” Sergeants yell. Friends have fallen.

Maintain your three shots per minute, be grateful you are still alive.