Last weekend, on a windswept plain about ten miles south of Brussels, 3,000 grown men dressed up as soldiers to re-enact the Battle of Waterloo. Performed every five years, on the original battlefield, this noisy extravaganza attracts more than 50,000 visitors, and on Sunday I was one of them. It was an extraordinary experience, more vivid than any movie. I wouldn’t have missed it for the world. Yet what’s most intriguing about this surreal Belgian spectacle is what it reveals about our muddled idea of Europe — and the people in the biggest muddle are the Belgians themselves.
For British schoolboys of a certain age, Waterloo remains a glorious victory by Britain over France, but after a weekend in Waterloo you soon realise the past (and present) isn’t quite so clear-cut. Wellington’s army included Dutch and German troops, the Prussians saved his bacon, Napoleon’s soldiers were recruited from all over Europe and the Belgians fought on both sides — which may explain why, after all these years, they still seem rather ambivalent about the outcome. Drinking in the local bars with Belgians who’ve come here to watch this epic pageant, you’re not entirely sure whether they’re toasting Wellington’s finest hour, or mourning Napoleon’s demise.
The Battle of Waterloo may have been a British triumph, but for the Belgians it was a mixed blessing. Nearly 200 years later, you still get an inkling they would have been far happier with a nil-nil draw. Napoleon’s reign brought opportunity as well as tyranny. His defeat meant a reversion to the old status quo. As a result of Wellington’s victory, Belgium became part of the United Kingdom of the Netherlands, under an unpopular Dutch king. The Belgians kicked him out in 1830, without any help from Britain, but the enormous monument that looms over the battlefield, erected in 1823, is still crowned by a Dutch lion — a wonderful irony, since current relations between Dutch- and French-speaking Belgians could scarcely be any worse.
Waterloo was a key strategic point on Napoleon’s northward march towards Brussels. Today it’s a key strategic point in the battle of the Belgians, north vs south. During the 19th century, French-speaking southern Belgium (aka Wallonia) was Belgium’s economic powerhouse. Dutch-speaking northern Belgium (aka Flanders) was the poor relation. Now that situation is reversed. Wallonia’s old industries have withered, Flemish cities like Antwerp are thriving, and lots of Flemings crave virtual autonomy or even complete independence from their Wallonian fellow countrymen.
Waterloo is on the front line in this secessionist struggle. It’s in Wallonia, but only just. The Flemish border is only a few miles away, and increasingly, the two halves of this hybrid state feel like two separate countries. Flanders looks towards the Netherlands. Wallonia looks towards France. The souvenir stalls around the battlefield are littered with Napoleonic trinkets, mementos of the Petit Corporal who spoke the local language and gave the Belgians their Code Napoleon. Busts of Wellington are in much shorter supply. Founded in the aftermath of Waterloo, as a buffer between France and Germany, you can’t escape the feeling that Belgium is finally beginning to fall apart.
This sense of impending schism is doubly ironic, since the battlefield itself is a paradigm of European integration. I’d expected to find two rival camps — British re-enacters on one side, French re-enacters on the other — but each army is a rich mix of nationalities, as they were in 1815. Sticklers for authenticity, the two armies spend the night before the battle under canvas, in the same fields where they pitched their tents 195 years ago. Wandering between the campfires of the Allied camp, you hear Dutch and German voices amid the English ones. The French camp is even more diverse. There’s no shortage of indigenous volunteers — the end result clearly hasn’t dampened French enthusiasm for the battle — but lately Napoleon’s Grande Armée has been swelled by new recruits from Eastern Europe, and even a few treacherous Englishmen. Many re-enacters bring their families, dressed as camp followers in period costume.
In Britain, it’s de rigueur to make fun of these harmless fantasists — historical trainspotters who’ve never grown out of dressing up and playing war. Yet talking to re-enacters from several countries, I’m struck by their sincerity. Their mock battles are acts of remembrance. They lay wreaths around the battlefield, and speak with awe and sadness of the dead. These enthusiastic amateurs spend untold time and money researching and recreating the lives of those poor soldiers. They are unpaid and unsupported and you’d imagine they’d be a dying breed, but their numbers keep on growing. This was the largest re-enactment so far, and though Waterloo is the big one, there are smaller Napoleonic battles all over Europe. A cockney redcoat I spoke to — a warehouse manager and a former soldier — is off to Portugal next year to re-enact the Peninsular War. He enjoys the camaraderie, but a far bigger factor is his veneration of the men who died here. In an era when British schoolchildren struggle to recall the most basic dates, these nostalgic eccentrics are keeping history alive. The crowd around the battle is full of children. This will fire their love of history far more than any computer shoot-’em-up.
So what’s the particular appeal of Waterloo, I ask a French Hussar with a splendid moustache, as he dismounts after the battle. ‘It’s a milestone of European history,’ he says, stroking his horse’s head. ‘It’s the start of the modern world.’ What if Napoleon had won? I ask him, trying to provoke a cri de coeur of ‘Vive L’Empereur!’ ‘We take no interest in politics,’ he says, diplomatically. But could Napoleon have won here? ‘He would have lost eventually,’ he tells me, with a rueful smile.
Yet the true star of Waterloo isn’t Napoleon or Wellington, it’s the battlefield — a vast natural amphitheatre virtually unmarked by modern building, despite its proximity to Brussels. The three farmhouses that became the focus of the battle are still here, and so are the two roadside inns — only a few miles apart — where Napoleon and Wellington spent the night before the battle. Today they’re atmospheric museums, full of original furniture and bric-a-brac. If Napoleon could take Brussels and then Antwerp, he had a fighting chance. If he failed, he was finished. It’s easy to picture them in their respective headquarters, planning the biggest battle of their lives.
Which brings us back to Belgium. Belgium will split down the middle sooner or later — that much seems certain — and Waterloo will become a border town, a frontier between two separate countries. But will it really matter all that much if — or rather when — Flanders and Wallonia go their separate ways? It’ll be a bitter pill for Britain to swallow, having shed so much blood to create this hotchpotch nation 200 years ago — and so much more to defend it, during the first world war. But the Belgians are used to living in a land whose boundaries are elastic, where other people fight their battles and redraw the borders every time. This absurd, enchanting country will always have a strategic importance quite out of keeping with its modest size, but whatever happens here the Belgians will simply smile politely, serve both sides with the same courtesy and carry on, just like they did at Waterloo.
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