Axis & Allies - damowords

Death of Picton
Below the ridge in nervous ribaldry,
Gin rations allaying real human fear,
Ready to die the Highlander stands steady,
As on the crest appears the Grenadier;
Their genʹralʹs roar
Defies the glide of France,
The tartan & claymore piped into the advance.
Whilst driving on those men he led,
ʺAt ʹem you drunken rascals!ʺ
A lucky shot piercʹd Pictonʹs head,
With force from his horse he falls,
But still that regiment in red
Sent forward musketballs,
Screamʹd on now by their rough & foul‐mouthʹd sarge
The bayonets are thrust into the charge.
Little do we know of courage
Til battleʹs lust takes oer,
With fearful rage the fight we rage
Althoʹ we know not for,
To kill or to be killʹd is the grim sacrament of war.
The Fields of Waterloo
13:45
Scots Greys
Lord Uxbridge watchʹd the battleʹs lethal course,
Observʹd the gravitas of the melee,
Spurrʹd to face his fine phalanx of grey horse,
Orderʹd their sabers from rest to ready;
The bugleʹs peel
Cancels all distraction,
Performʹd a perfect wheel, forth into the action
The earth‐thumping hoofbeats propel
Centaurs of derring & dash,
Bloodstirring the Britisherʹs yell
As into the Gaul they crash,
How many a gallant foe fell
Neath scything sabre slash
& the hooves of the stamping stallion ‐
Grave panic grips the forces of DʹErlon.
With the capture of their standard
Brave Frenchmen fled like sheep,
Fully routed or led founderʹd,
Dead or feigning Deathʹs sleep,
While nigh three thousand prisoners lament the lives they
keep.
The Fields of Waterloo
14:00