The Bridge at Waterloo
The morning of the eighteenth of June, 1815, broke clear and bright over the rolling hills of Belgium, and the air carried the scent of gunpowder and damp earth. Lieutenant Edmund Blackwood stood at attention beside his platoon, his breathing steady, his hands steady, his mind already three paces ahead of where his feet would be. He was twenty-two years old, and he had been a soldier since he...
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