Mad King Ruprecht: Disquiet on the Western Front.
Created | Updated Jan 22, 2003
France, 1915.
Just when I believed that I could confidently hang up my rifle and enjoy the civilian life once more, tensions in Europe conspired to throw the entire world into open hostilities.
The assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand in Sarajevo swiftly precipitated the deadly attritional stalemate of trench warfare between Germany, Austro-Hungary and Turkey on one side and Britain, France, Italy and Russia on the other.
As a man of invaluable military experience I was immediately dispatched to France where it would be my unpleasent duty to spend a twenty four hour day in rat infested tunnels, up to my knees in water and trading shots with the Central Powers.
It was during the miraculous Christmas ceasefire that my problems began in earnest as the Germans emerged from their trenches and invited us to join them for a seasonal game of football. I took it upon myself to oversee the affair for the benefit of all involved and proclaimed myself referee to ensure that events remained civilised and fair.
Unfortunately I was forced to send off six thousand men in the first half alone, owing to some vindictive tackling and inexcusable bayonet related fouls. I had no option but to disallow a wonderfully executed German goal in the eighty ninth minute as the entire 17th Wanderkampfgruppe Gebirgsjager Regiment were clearly offside. The final straw came after my calamitous choice of an unmarked minefield as a suitable pitch and following the fifth week of injury time I was handed over bodily to the opposition by treacherous elements within my own command.
I had lived in quiet terror of being made a prisoner of war, the legendary reputation of Germanic barbarity ever present in the worst of my nightmares.
In truth, my captors were the perfect hosts. They showed an uncanny sense of camaraderie and indeed pressed upon my person a rather splendid cigar that was dutifully ignited for me by an enthusiastic corporal. My accommodating hosts then led me to the shade of a nearby tree where I could enjoy a reflective smoke free from the glare of the early morning sun, and even I was forced to admit that we had misjudged this proud and noble race.
In fact, were it not for the blindfold, I would be having the time of my life.
Just when I believed that I could confidently hang up my rifle and enjoy the civilian life once more, tensions in Europe conspired to throw the entire world into open hostilities.
The assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand in Sarajevo swiftly precipitated the deadly attritional stalemate of trench warfare between Germany, Austro-Hungary and Turkey on one side and Britain, France, Italy and Russia on the other.
As a man of invaluable military experience I was immediately dispatched to France where it would be my unpleasent duty to spend a twenty four hour day in rat infested tunnels, up to my knees in water and trading shots with the Central Powers.
It was during the miraculous Christmas ceasefire that my problems began in earnest as the Germans emerged from their trenches and invited us to join them for a seasonal game of football. I took it upon myself to oversee the affair for the benefit of all involved and proclaimed myself referee to ensure that events remained civilised and fair.
Unfortunately I was forced to send off six thousand men in the first half alone, owing to some vindictive tackling and inexcusable bayonet related fouls. I had no option but to disallow a wonderfully executed German goal in the eighty ninth minute as the entire 17th Wanderkampfgruppe Gebirgsjager Regiment were clearly offside. The final straw came after my calamitous choice of an unmarked minefield as a suitable pitch and following the fifth week of injury time I was handed over bodily to the opposition by treacherous elements within my own command.
I had lived in quiet terror of being made a prisoner of war, the legendary reputation of Germanic barbarity ever present in the worst of my nightmares.
In truth, my captors were the perfect hosts. They showed an uncanny sense of camaraderie and indeed pressed upon my person a rather splendid cigar that was dutifully ignited for me by an enthusiastic corporal. My accommodating hosts then led me to the shade of a nearby tree where I could enjoy a reflective smoke free from the glare of the early morning sun, and even I was forced to admit that we had misjudged this proud and noble race.
In fact, were it not for the blindfold, I would be having the time of my life.
