Reading the narratives of Napoleonic campaigns, one is struck by the endurance of the soldiers. Sleeping what can only be a fitful sleep on soddened ground with only a dirty coat as warmth, with little or no food in the belly, only to woken before dawn to march another long march burdened by musket, pack and equipment. Then to be thrown into a maelstrom of cannon and fire and slashing swords; of immediate death and panic, only to survive to see the horribly wounded and dying. Yet to march off again wet and tired to fight the next day and go through the horror once again.
As I muse these thoughts to my wife early this Wednesday workday morning, her only comment:
"So it's like 9 to 5...."