I transmigrated as a french soldier during XVIIIth century

This August 23rd had been damp long before dawn. While the vegetation might have welcomed this change in the weather, it was far less pleasant for the French officers. The rain turned the dirt roads into quagmires, slowing down the armies.

Fortunately, neither army had been moving much for some time. It was as if two dogs were facing off, each waiting for the other to make a wrong move before lunging forward.

The decisive battle everyone was eagerly anticipating had yet to occur, and because the Duke of Richelieu didn’t want to face it at Nienburg—fearing that the town's inhabitants might attack them from behind, which was entirely plausible while they were busy repelling an enemy assault—he decided to set up his headquarters in Mariensee.

This insignificant village was located not far from Nienburg, only about twenty kilometers away. It consisted of just a few houses, surrounded by empty fields and pastures, and was crossed by a stream that flowed into a small river peacefully running east of the village, about thirty meters wide at that point.

Accessible only from the north, south, and west, this position seemed easily defensible to him.

But what is he waiting for? the marshal grumbled inwardly, tired of this ridiculous game. The Duke of Cumberland should have gone on the offensive by now! He’s missed so many opportunities! Instead, he’s done nothing but retreat!

The old man leaned over his maps and the reports he had received from his scouts once more. Every minor skirmish was marked on his map, along with the slightest enemy movement.

According to the reports, a strong enemy detachment is stationed at Rethen… That’s only six or seven leagues from here…

With his fingertip, he tapped the spot on the map where the village of Rethen was located.

Hmm, according to this report, there’s a sturdy bridge there that spans the Aller River. This bridge is important; it will allow me to move north without having to make a detour. There are no other bridges along the way. That’s unfortunate…

The marshal let out a deep sigh before making his decision.

He decided to send part of his men to Rethen. It couldn’t be a weak force, as the enemy might corner and eliminate them. He chose from his army units that were both mobile and powerful, and from his staff, very competent men to lead them.

Adam/François, like the rest of his regiment, was not allowed to leave the camp. The possibility that the much-anticipated battle might occur soon was now too great for them to disperse in search of food.

There was a certain tension around the tents and fires. The air had grown heavy, exacerbating frustrations. The slightest tension could turn into conflict.

In fact, discipline had to be enforced several times. Fortunately, the fights quickly ended without crossing the line. A few young soldiers, for displaying unacceptable behavior in the camp—shouting and swearing, and expressing their desire to go back home—had been sentenced to wear women’s clothing.

Covered in shame, they had come to understand their duties as men and as soldiers of His Majesty.

Around noon, the sky cleared, which slightly improved the men's spirits. However, the air around Mariensee hadn’t become any lighter. On the contrary, the morning’s humidity combined with the heat of the sun made the air almost unbearable.

"I’m sure there’ll be a storm tonight," Adam said to Charles, who was behind him in the queue.

"Maybe. If it could relieve this pressure, I wouldn’t mind," Charles replied.

Charles hadn’t shaved that morning or the day before. A dark shadow was beginning to appear on his pale face, which was drawn from fatigue. Large bags had also formed under his dark eyes.

In front of them, the line was still long, but it was much worse behind them. Their other friends were ahead, having arrived a few minutes earlier. Each held a small container, just big enough to receive a portion of food.

The menu was no mystery, as the delicious smell could be detected from afar.

A fat adult pig had been slaughtered that morning and placed on a long spit before being set over a fire large enough to cook the whole beast. It had been roasting since early morning, making everyone’s mouth water.

There wasn’t much left of the pig, as it had been thoroughly carved up for serving. The meat had been mixed with a thick, sticky cereal porridge to give it flavor. Without that, it would have been just a tasteless, formless mass meant solely to fill the soldiers’ stomachs. Of course, the officers weren’t eating the same thing. They were treated to good food, prepared by a team of women in one of the stone houses. They even got good wine!

Ah, if only I were noble… I’d be eating good food too! And because we couldn’t go out this morning, we didn’t get our hands on any fresh produce!

When he finally reached the steaming pots, the porridge was ladled into his bowl without a word, and he was motioned to move aside to make way for the next soldier.

Since his journey through time, he had grown used to this scene. No complaints were tolerated, and no requests for extra helpings were granted. Every soldier was treated the same way by the cooks.

What had surprised him more, however, were the women. In the armies of this time, they were called 'suiveuses' (camp followers), but this term encompassed different categories of women, some fulfilling more than one role.

There were a few in the old duke’s army, mostly wives and lovers of soldiers. Although this was apparently heavily criticized by the officers, some of them hadn’t hesitated to bring their own. These women didn’t go unnoticed, as they were often much better dressed, sometimes like princesses, and held practically official positions in the army with responsibilities.

There were those who cooked or helped with the cooking, those who traded with the locals, the prostitutes, and the laundresses.

Adam had gone to see one of them that morning, a woman in her late thirties named Anne-Marie Louvain. She was accompanying her husband, unable to afford to stay at home waiting for his pay to arrive. Naturally, she had come here with her two children, aged eight and twelve. Even they were not idle, contributing to camp life despite their young age in exchange for a few coins.

He had entrusted his dirty laundry right after finishing his workout. Unlike the day before, this time he hadn’t been joined by his friends and had run alone for nearly two hours around the camp.

The laundresses, along with the vivandières who were in charge of provisions, were among the most important members of any army because, despite all the criticism officers might express in their memoirs, they wanted their soldiers to be presentable. This meant clean uniforms, as they reflected the image of the commander and those accompanying him in operations and decision-making.

No officer wanted to command an army of filthy men covered in mud and excrement, stinking for miles around. It would be a disgrace!

Soldiers mostly entrusted their shirts, each having about a dozen in total. Generally, only the items in contact with the skin were washed, as if the rest were protected from stench. This had shocked Adam, who was used to having clean, laundered, and ironed clothes every day. He went above and beyond, even though it was costly.

He even roughly shaved every morning, rinsed with water from nearby rivers, and shaved regularly.

Unlike his original body, this one was about twenty years old. If he did nothing, a beard would start to grow within a few days, which was not well-regarded at that time. The fashion was for a clean-shaven face, and there were rules regarding this for soldiers.

Because here he was no longer Adam but François, he had to make some sacrifices regarding hygiene. But even by washing occasionally and doing laundry as often as possible, he could be considered among the most meticulous about hygiene within his troop.

Fuck, Adam grumbled inwardly as he smelled a powerful odor coming from his own body, I stink! I so badly want a good shower! I want to wash properly; this is horrible!

A subtle mix of sweat, stable, smoke, and roasted pig odors emanated from him. Despite all the time spent in this army, he couldn’t get used to this smell.

Not having a cell phone, I can handle; not being able to listen to music as I want, I can handle; but I need a shower! My God, what do I need to do to get home faster?!

He settled down with Charles near his friends, who had already started eating, and let out a deep sigh as he looked at his food. Although better than on other days, it didn’t seem particularly good. From his perspective, it could barely be considered a meal.

It was another of his great regrets in his situation, being used to eating whatever he wanted, including burgers, kebabs, and pizzas.

If I get the chance, I’ll introduce them to modern food! It’s not hard to make, either!

“Hmm? It looks like something’s happening,” P’tit Pol remarked, his mouth full, giving him a little hamster or squirrel look.

“What’s going on?”

“Are we being attacked? Are we attacking?”

“The men are finishing their bowls quickly. We should do the same,” Jules advised, putting a large amount of pork-flavored cereal porridge in his mouth.

A few minutes later, orders thundered throughout the camp, and preparations began to pack up.

A messenger had come to inform the marshal about the situation at Rethem, and it was not good. When the enemy holding the village and the bridge over the Aller River saw forty companies of grenadiers, the Marine and Dauphin brigades, as well as six hundred cavalry under the command of Monsieur de Broglie, they decided to abandon their position and burn the bridge.

With Messieurs de Maupeou and de Ségur, his maréchaux de camp, they had tried to prevent this, but in vain. There had been some exchanges of fire with very few losses. Now it was essential to act quickly to prevent the enemy army from creating distance between itself and the marshal-duc’s forces.

“Why?! It’s so frustrating! For almost a month, we’ve been promised a great battle! But all we’re doing is marching!”

This outburst from Jean echoed what many French soldiers in this army were feeling. Even Adam had experienced anger and disappointment, as if he shared the same ambitions as François.

Cumberland’s retreat was incomprehensible to them, since the forces were roughly equal, with only a few thousand men making the difference. In reality, it was the artillery that the enemy commander lacked. The French had more than twice as many cannons, not to mention the pieces captured from the enemy cities they had passed through.

Throughout this long month, Duke Cumberland had only retreated without ever seeking battle, he, the son of King George II known for crushing the Jacobite rebellion in Scotland with no hesitation or mercy!

He was always moving further north towards the North Sea and the neutral kingdom of Denmark-Norway in this conflict. However, this little game seemed to be coming to an end, as it appeared that the duke had finally decided to confront the French at Rottembourg, or Rotenburg.

According to his scouts, Cumberland and his army had taken a very good position there. This long retreat could mean three things: the first, the least likely of these options, was that Duke Cumberland was a coward who did not want to fight; the second was that he intended to fight, but only where he chose; and the third option was that he was seeking to get closer to the North Sea to receive reinforcements from his father, the King of Great Britain.

The Duke de Richelieu knew from a note coming from Paris that a fleet assembled in Chatham, a highly strategic arsenal in England, with nearly nine thousand men, was ready to depart, though no one knew its destination. Reinforcement in this part of Europe would greatly change the situation for Cumberland’s army. However, it was possible that his goal was elsewhere.

At the same time he was retreating, Duke Cumberland was also seeking a way out through diplomacy. Duke Richelieu received late in the day, as his army finished packing up the tents, a letter from Cumberland dated the 21st, proposing a truce.

This letter renewed the duke’s confidence. If the enemy commander was seeking to negotiate, it could mean he was not certain of his victory and thus there was no reason to fear an English landing at Stade.

Cumberland is therefore alone and outnumbered, the old marshal rejoiced.

Richelieu then took a pen and, in just a few lines, replied that there would be no truce.

The duke also received a man from Hanover named Hardenberg. He sought to obtain a pass to go to Duke Cumberland’s camp. It was a great disappointment for the private advisor. Duke Richelieu showed him the ridiculous letter from the enemy commander and openly mocked him, saying that he had been practically insulted by this peace attempt. He added that such attempts would not succeed in sowing doubt and confusion between France and its allies.

He will not escape me! His army will be defeated, and I will capture him before he can flee back to his damned island!

The French army arrived near Bremen in a seemingly endless column of men, practically marching at forced pace. Nerves were on edge, and some were so exhausted that they collapsed during their march. Such was the fate of poor P’tit Pol, who had been unable to keep up for the last two days. The nights offered no respite, making it impossible for the men to rest enough to continue their march.

They all resembled soldiers in retreat after a military disaster. They were filthy, their coats had lost all their sheen, and their shoes seemed to have endured all kinds of torture. Morale was at its lowest, and no promise seemed capable of raising it.

The worst was certainly the marshes: each step Adam/François and his companions took was a torment. The heat had given way to showers, which did nothing to improve the situation. It was under these circumstances that Adam silently and alone marked his first month in this century.

Meanwhile, a sizable force was sent to Brême (Bremen for the locals), a fairly significant and fortified city, to capture it. More than the city itself, what interested Marshal Richelieu were its stores, known for their substantial size. For their army, which was lacking everything, it would be like giving water to a wretched soul lost in a desert.

Duke Cumberland was so close that everyone was forbidden from sleeping in anything other than combat gear. Indeed, his army was positioned at Ottersberg and Rotenbourg, just about twenty kilometers away. This distance could be covered very quickly.

On August 31, the army set up camp practically in a swamp. A foul odor, inescapable and clinging like a vengeful spirit, pervaded everything around them. However, the headquarters had the privilege of taking residence in a tiny hamlet consisting of a dozen thatched-roof houses. That day, there had been a small skirmish in which Adam did not participate, much to his disappointment.

The next day, he learned that the enemy had once again retreated to Giheim, a miserable hamlet lost in the marshes, accessible only via a narrow causeway severely damaged by the Hanoverians.

Despite the terrain, the climate, indiscipline, lack of equipment, disease, low wages turning soldiers into bandits, and exhaustion, the French army had managed to corner Duke Cumberland at the mouth of the Elbe River, with Stade being his only weakly fortified stronghold.

Duke Cumberland, having been granted full powers in this war in Hanover by his father, was able to negotiate with the French and was encouraged in this by the kingdom of Denmark-Norway.

Negotiations began on September 5 through this kingdom, and as a good strategist, Duke Richelieu refused any arrangement that did not clearly stipulate the withdrawal of the Hanoverians beyond the Elbe River and the handing over of Stade to a Danish garrison. A fierce showdown then ensued between the two dukes, each representing very powerful kings in Europe and the world.

Meanwhile, Adam had no other mission than to be in his place like the fifty thousand men composing the army. Their sole role at the moment was to impress the opponent and persuade him to sign whatever terms were dictated. If they refused, they would have no choice but to take up arms and risk everything.

It seemed to Adam that the eyes of the world were fixed on this marshy piece of land, this monastery, and these few houses known as Closter Seven or Kloster Zeven.