smackenzie (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
smackenzie) wrote2012-11-03 04:00 am
smackenzie) wrote2012-11-03 04:00 am
Entry tags:
i have now determined that it's may 1916, yay
The weather holds for a couple of days, making for a fairly easy trek. The men sleep where they can – in fields, by the side of the road, in commandeered houses and barns. Bradford doesn't particularly like sleeping on the ground, but as an officer he rates an actual bed whenever possible.
He learns that the second lieutenant's name is Charlie Wellbridge and that he's from York and speaks fluent French, which comes in handy. Bradford wasn't exactly expecting every Frenchman they met to speak English, but he was hoping to require a little less translating. Fortunately Wellbridge doesn't mind, although after a while Bradford wonders if it's just that he likes showing off.
At Rouen, as expected, they get the rest of their kit – helmets, gas masks – and receive a little more training. Cuthbertson runs into Dix, of all people, who invites him and Bradford out for dinner the night before they're all scheduled to leave again.
"Can't turn him down," Cuthbertson says.
"Why not?" Bradford asks him. "I don't want to spend my last night here listening to him bloviate, even if his scotch is good."
"We're in France, Harry. I imagine we'll be drinking wine."
They do in fact drink wine, although not very much of it, and have to listen to one of Dix's friends, a medical officer at one of the base hospitals in Rouen, expound at length on past and future campaigns, what went wrong at Gallipoli, why the use of gas on both sides was going to go down in history as a terrible thing to do to one's own men, how the war could be won in three months if Haig would only see sense, and why they should all be home for Christmas and why they wouldn't be.
"Well, that was certainly a miserable dinner," Bradford remarks on the way back to their barracks. "Good wine, depressing conversation. I told you that you should have said no."
Cuthbertson shrugs. "We should be thankful that Duffy didn't spend the entire meal telling us about the various injuries he's seen and all the surgeries he's performed."
"Small mercies."
"Tomorrow we meet up wth the Division – are you worried?" Cuthbertson pauses to fish a pack of cigarettes out of his jacket pocket, tap one out, light it, and take a drag. He offers the pack to Bradford, who shakes his head.
"No. Should I be?"
"You were in a mood the whole way here."
"That was a week ago. I feel better about our chances now that we're here and kitted out and drilled some more. And the weather's good." He waves his arm in a wide circle. The sky is in fact clouding over, obscuring the stars and the moon, but it isn't raining and it isn't brutally hot and he's seen some of the privates and met some more officers and he isn't worried.
Cuthberson chuckles.
"What's so funny?" Bradford asks.
"You are. Too attuned to the weather, Harry. Just wait until it gets cold enough to snow."
Cuthbertson is from Durham, although he was living in London working for his father-in-law when he volunteered for the army, and he's more familiar with cold and snowy winters than Bradford is.
"Oh, I think I can handle a little snow." He nods in acknowledgment as they pass a group of privates who stop to salute. "Amelia promised to knit me mittens and a scarf." He smiles to himself. Amelia has never been a particularly good knitter, but he gives her points for trying. He also expects that any knitted goods he receives from her will be either commercially-made or knitted by someone she knows. Or by the housekeeper, or her daughter.
"She did, did she." Cuthbertson blows a smoke ring, and then another. He picks a shred of tobacco off his tongue, makes a face at it, and flicks it away.
"She did. I'll take a cigarette now, if you don't mind."
Cuthbertson shakes one out of the pack, lights it off his, and hands it over. Bradford takes a deep drag and blows the smoke out in a slow meditative stream. He wonders if he should have found a map of northern France and started plotting the various offensives on it. He feels as if he should at least know where the French and British troops are, and where the German line is. But there's always tomorrow.
He and Cuthbertson walk the rest of the way in silence. There's noise all around them – men moving around, horses, carts, the occasional truck. Talking and yelling and laughter. They're comforting, the sounds of the mobilization and organization of the great engine that is the British military. He was not much interested in recent British history at university, but he knows that his empire is great and his people are enlightened and civilized, and the war they fight now is a good one, for a good cause.
A war to end war, they said at home. It will be the triumph of civilized men over barbarians. He believes it. And he knows that Cuthbertson does too.
Bradford is suddenly overcome by a great wave of affection and love for Bertie Cuthbertson. He wants to grab the man and kiss him. But he doesn’t know how that might be received, so he doesn't.
"Why are you smiling?" Cuthbertson asks. They've reached the barracks by now.
"I was just thinking. And no, I did not hurt myself."
Cuthbertson grins at him. "Dare I ask what you're thinking about that makes you look so happy? Does she have a name?"
"Bertie." Bradford looks him in the face and smiles toothily. Cuthbertson just looks confused for a minute, and then bursts out laughing.
"Terrible name for a sweetheart," he says.
"I'm just glad you're here with me."
"I am too. Someone has to keep you in good spirits."
This time Bradford does grab Cuthbertson's face and kiss him. Cuthbertson is shocked into silence, but Bradford only laughs at him and goes inside.
In the morning, Cuthbertson catches his eye over breakfast and winks at him. Bradford is surprised to discover that he's relieved Cuthbertson doesn't seem to care – he's surprised to realize he actually thought the kiss might be a problem. Well. Cuthbertson is very happily married, and even if he wasn't, he wouldn't be interested in Bradford.
Now he'll just bat his eyes and tease me, Bradford thinks, as Cuthbertson proceeds to do exactly that. Wellbridge the second lieutenant has sought them out and is now looking from one to the other, confused. Bradford shakes his head slightly, as if to say It's nothing, don't worry about it. Wellbridge looks only slightly appeased.
Wellbridge, it turns out, is headed for the 18th (Eastern) Divison with Bradford and Cuthbertson and an assortment of privates and NCOs. Bradford is to replace another captain who was promoted, and Cuthbertson is to replace someone who was hurt badly enough to be sent home for good.
"I heard he lost his arm," Wellbridge confides. "Shot clean off, right at the shoulder."
"How horrifying," Bradford says. He resists the urge to shudder. Wellbridge just nods.
"I hope that kind of thing isn't catching," Cuthbertson says. "I'll just have to keep my arms close to my sides."
The trek to Amiens, where they'll meet the rest of the Division, is twice as long and not nearly as nice as the march from Le Havre to Rouen, partly because it starts to rain. Bradford can hear his mother in his head, telling him to keep his hat on because if his head gets wet he'll catch cold. He can also hear Amelia suggesting that he should have smuggled an umbrella from home.
The road turns wet and muddy but the marching men still seem to be in fairly high spirits. Excited to fight, Bradford thinks. Eager for glory. He can't blame them. His boots squelch along the road in step with Cuthbertson and Wellbridge and the ranks of men in front and behind and he's not sure but he thinks he can hear singing.
He sent a letter home from Rouen to tell his parents and Amelia that he made it to France in one piece, and that he was confident he would be home soon, Kaiser defeated and peace achieved. He mentioned that Cuthbertson was trying to keep his spirits up but it really wasn't that difficult. He said he had faith in himself and the men he would soon command, and he told his family not to worry about him, because he wasn't worried himself.
He doesn't mind the rain but he never liked the mud, but he still isn't worried. If the men all around him can sing as they march, he can too. He always did have a nice singing voice.
Next to him, Cuthbertson just whistles. But Cuthbertson can't sing.
words: 1484
total words: 3429
He learns that the second lieutenant's name is Charlie Wellbridge and that he's from York and speaks fluent French, which comes in handy. Bradford wasn't exactly expecting every Frenchman they met to speak English, but he was hoping to require a little less translating. Fortunately Wellbridge doesn't mind, although after a while Bradford wonders if it's just that he likes showing off.
At Rouen, as expected, they get the rest of their kit – helmets, gas masks – and receive a little more training. Cuthbertson runs into Dix, of all people, who invites him and Bradford out for dinner the night before they're all scheduled to leave again.
"Can't turn him down," Cuthbertson says.
"Why not?" Bradford asks him. "I don't want to spend my last night here listening to him bloviate, even if his scotch is good."
"We're in France, Harry. I imagine we'll be drinking wine."
They do in fact drink wine, although not very much of it, and have to listen to one of Dix's friends, a medical officer at one of the base hospitals in Rouen, expound at length on past and future campaigns, what went wrong at Gallipoli, why the use of gas on both sides was going to go down in history as a terrible thing to do to one's own men, how the war could be won in three months if Haig would only see sense, and why they should all be home for Christmas and why they wouldn't be.
"Well, that was certainly a miserable dinner," Bradford remarks on the way back to their barracks. "Good wine, depressing conversation. I told you that you should have said no."
Cuthbertson shrugs. "We should be thankful that Duffy didn't spend the entire meal telling us about the various injuries he's seen and all the surgeries he's performed."
"Small mercies."
"Tomorrow we meet up wth the Division – are you worried?" Cuthbertson pauses to fish a pack of cigarettes out of his jacket pocket, tap one out, light it, and take a drag. He offers the pack to Bradford, who shakes his head.
"No. Should I be?"
"You were in a mood the whole way here."
"That was a week ago. I feel better about our chances now that we're here and kitted out and drilled some more. And the weather's good." He waves his arm in a wide circle. The sky is in fact clouding over, obscuring the stars and the moon, but it isn't raining and it isn't brutally hot and he's seen some of the privates and met some more officers and he isn't worried.
Cuthberson chuckles.
"What's so funny?" Bradford asks.
"You are. Too attuned to the weather, Harry. Just wait until it gets cold enough to snow."
Cuthbertson is from Durham, although he was living in London working for his father-in-law when he volunteered for the army, and he's more familiar with cold and snowy winters than Bradford is.
"Oh, I think I can handle a little snow." He nods in acknowledgment as they pass a group of privates who stop to salute. "Amelia promised to knit me mittens and a scarf." He smiles to himself. Amelia has never been a particularly good knitter, but he gives her points for trying. He also expects that any knitted goods he receives from her will be either commercially-made or knitted by someone she knows. Or by the housekeeper, or her daughter.
"She did, did she." Cuthbertson blows a smoke ring, and then another. He picks a shred of tobacco off his tongue, makes a face at it, and flicks it away.
"She did. I'll take a cigarette now, if you don't mind."
Cuthbertson shakes one out of the pack, lights it off his, and hands it over. Bradford takes a deep drag and blows the smoke out in a slow meditative stream. He wonders if he should have found a map of northern France and started plotting the various offensives on it. He feels as if he should at least know where the French and British troops are, and where the German line is. But there's always tomorrow.
He and Cuthbertson walk the rest of the way in silence. There's noise all around them – men moving around, horses, carts, the occasional truck. Talking and yelling and laughter. They're comforting, the sounds of the mobilization and organization of the great engine that is the British military. He was not much interested in recent British history at university, but he knows that his empire is great and his people are enlightened and civilized, and the war they fight now is a good one, for a good cause.
A war to end war, they said at home. It will be the triumph of civilized men over barbarians. He believes it. And he knows that Cuthbertson does too.
Bradford is suddenly overcome by a great wave of affection and love for Bertie Cuthbertson. He wants to grab the man and kiss him. But he doesn’t know how that might be received, so he doesn't.
"Why are you smiling?" Cuthbertson asks. They've reached the barracks by now.
"I was just thinking. And no, I did not hurt myself."
Cuthbertson grins at him. "Dare I ask what you're thinking about that makes you look so happy? Does she have a name?"
"Bertie." Bradford looks him in the face and smiles toothily. Cuthbertson just looks confused for a minute, and then bursts out laughing.
"Terrible name for a sweetheart," he says.
"I'm just glad you're here with me."
"I am too. Someone has to keep you in good spirits."
This time Bradford does grab Cuthbertson's face and kiss him. Cuthbertson is shocked into silence, but Bradford only laughs at him and goes inside.
In the morning, Cuthbertson catches his eye over breakfast and winks at him. Bradford is surprised to discover that he's relieved Cuthbertson doesn't seem to care – he's surprised to realize he actually thought the kiss might be a problem. Well. Cuthbertson is very happily married, and even if he wasn't, he wouldn't be interested in Bradford.
Now he'll just bat his eyes and tease me, Bradford thinks, as Cuthbertson proceeds to do exactly that. Wellbridge the second lieutenant has sought them out and is now looking from one to the other, confused. Bradford shakes his head slightly, as if to say It's nothing, don't worry about it. Wellbridge looks only slightly appeased.
Wellbridge, it turns out, is headed for the 18th (Eastern) Divison with Bradford and Cuthbertson and an assortment of privates and NCOs. Bradford is to replace another captain who was promoted, and Cuthbertson is to replace someone who was hurt badly enough to be sent home for good.
"I heard he lost his arm," Wellbridge confides. "Shot clean off, right at the shoulder."
"How horrifying," Bradford says. He resists the urge to shudder. Wellbridge just nods.
"I hope that kind of thing isn't catching," Cuthbertson says. "I'll just have to keep my arms close to my sides."
The trek to Amiens, where they'll meet the rest of the Division, is twice as long and not nearly as nice as the march from Le Havre to Rouen, partly because it starts to rain. Bradford can hear his mother in his head, telling him to keep his hat on because if his head gets wet he'll catch cold. He can also hear Amelia suggesting that he should have smuggled an umbrella from home.
The road turns wet and muddy but the marching men still seem to be in fairly high spirits. Excited to fight, Bradford thinks. Eager for glory. He can't blame them. His boots squelch along the road in step with Cuthbertson and Wellbridge and the ranks of men in front and behind and he's not sure but he thinks he can hear singing.
He sent a letter home from Rouen to tell his parents and Amelia that he made it to France in one piece, and that he was confident he would be home soon, Kaiser defeated and peace achieved. He mentioned that Cuthbertson was trying to keep his spirits up but it really wasn't that difficult. He said he had faith in himself and the men he would soon command, and he told his family not to worry about him, because he wasn't worried himself.
He doesn't mind the rain but he never liked the mud, but he still isn't worried. If the men all around him can sing as they march, he can too. He always did have a nice singing voice.
Next to him, Cuthbertson just whistles. But Cuthbertson can't sing.
words: 1484
total words: 3429
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(And hey, can I ask, who am I supposed to be visualizing as whom?)
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of course in a couple months they'll get to fight the beginning of the battle of the somme, which had A METRIC TON of casualties - like, there were entire regiments that were completely wiped out - so we'll see.
(i was going to make a little cast reference page, for the three guys who have faces, and... i haven't. >.< bradford looks like a cross between war horse tom hiddleston and the hollow crown tom hiddleston - i really wanted the ginger-brown kind of curly hair - and cuthbertson looks like a knight's tale paul bettany but slightly more kempt. and davies, who you haven't met yet, looks like tom hardy when he was younger and less, er, thuggish looking. i have photo reference i just haven't shared yet.)
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(the bit about maps reminded me of reading Death's men - Soldiers of the Great War by Denis Winter earlier this year - apparently almost none of the non-officers had any idea where they were or what the plan was was, and many officers weren't much better off) .
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(i am SCRAMBLING to do research. i never heard of that book! useful bit of information, tho.)