South Carolina, Early 1781

Footsore and exhausted, you collapse on the grass beside your comrades. "God damn the eyes of every bastard son of a bitch yankee," moans the serjeant. If you'd had the energy to speak up, your words would have been just as profanity laden.

It all seemed to easy when you first got to the south the year before. After the unending slog of warfare in the North, the easy defeat of the Americans at Charlestown and Camden gave you and your fellow soldiers a confidence that had been lacking. Sure, you had plenty of victories in the North, but you never really felt like you were making any progress. After the defeat of Burgoyne at Saratoga, it was clear you weren't gaining any ground.

Now, less than a year after your resounding victories, you're even worse off than you were in the North. That damnable Nathaniel Greene is racing his army around the backcountry like a rabbit from a hound. Though Cornwallis has made every effort to keep up with Greene, going so far as to burn your tents and abandon your rum, you're back to that old feeling from the Northern campaigns: running about without gaining a damn thing.

Riding high on his horse, the Lieutenant Colonel of your regiment trots along the road beside you. You and your fellow lobsterbacks rise painfully to your feet, doffing your hats in salute. "Rest, men," he says with a quick salute of his own. "We move in the morning," the officer informs your serjeant, who can only nod and croak out "Understood, sir."

The spot is a good one for camp, or at least as good as you can expect. There's some water nearby, which has become virtually the only requirement for a suitable stopping point. Slinging your blanket from its roll over your shoulder, you roll it out across the ground, laying back in the hopes that you can capture a few hours of sleep without another alarm.

Then again, at least an alarm might be a chance for some honest action. This racing about has frustrated the army. Rarely do you see your enemy, who dodge about at ease among the trees. Granted, you won't stand in place and wait to be shot. You and your officers are adept at woodland guerrilla warfare...just not as adept at the Americans. The Hessian rifleman (called "Jaegers") who accompany your army are especially skilled at this woodland fighting, but easily outranged by the superior American longrifles.

What you wouldn't give for a simple stand-and-fight setpiece battle! To smell the acrid smoke, to face the rebellious foe as equals! God damn the eyes of those bastard son of a bitch yankees.

For more reading on the lives of British soldiers in the Revolution, check out Don Hagist's book "British Soldiers, American War," and Sylvia Frey's work "The British Soldier in America." For a good, brief popular history of the Southern backcountry war, check out "Partisans and Redcoats" by Walter B. Edgar. A more narrowly focused work is "A Devil of a Whipping" about the American victory at Cowpens, written by Lawrence E. Babits.

EDIT: Typos and obvious mistakes. Need to stop drinking madeira and port when I write these.