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smackenzieThey reach Amiens without incident, other than the rain and once when an ambulance passes them traveling the other way. The men all step off the road and watch it as it goes by. Bradford unconsciously crosses himself, and shrugs when he catches Cuthbertson looking at him oddly.
"Superstition," Cuthbertson says. He's not exactly an atheist – and even if he was, he wouldn't say so for fear of being court-martialed or something – but he doesn't practice a lot of the outward trappings of the C of E faithful. He says religion and faith are full of superstition more than anything else, and he isn't a particularly superstitious man. No signs and portents for him. He still attends services, though, and is careful not to talk about religion in front of clergymen or the diehard faithful.
But he has no problem sharing his views with Bradford. Bradford won't think any less of him, or argue with him.
"It can't hurt."
"It won't help, either. Do you not think the Germans are praying to god too? Do you think god cares who wins?"
"Are you playing Devil's Advocate just for something to do?" Bradford asks, curiously.
"Perhaps." Cuthbertson pats his jacket pockets. "Damn. My cigarettes are probably all wet."
"I can't believe you have any left."
"Bought a fresh pack before we left Rouen."
"Smart."
"I thought so." He finally retrieves them from a wet pocket, shakes one out, and sticks it in his mouth. It droops damply and Cuthbertson grimaces around the end in his mouth. Bradford laughs. "Go on, laugh," Cuthbertson says around the cigarette. "See if I offer you any."
"They're wet, why would I want one?" Bradford chuckles. Cuthbertson looks ridiculous with his unlit, soggy cigarette and his hangdog expression, now clearly exagerrated for effect. "When we get to Amiens I'll buy you a new dry pack, how's that?"
"It's the least you should do for laughing at me." Cuthbertson pretends to look injured. Bradford is pretty sure Wellbridge is snickering at them, which just makes him smile. Bad weather, good spirits. A good sign.
Cuthbertson flicks his wet cigarette into the wet grass on the side of the road. "When we get to Amiens I'd rather have a hot bath."
"We'll probably just meet up with the Division and go out again," Bradford says. "No bath for you. Or me, really."
"Pity. You stink." He grins at Bradford, who rolls his eyes.
"How far do you think we are from the front now?"
"Close enough for ambulances. I didn't think we were that close."
"It was probably going to a base hospital in Amiens," Wellbridge volunteers. "You don't have to be on the line to get hurt. Anything could have happened to the man inside it."
"Tripped, fell, accidentally shot himself with his own rifle." Cuthbertson's tone is casual, but the fact is, shooting yourself on purpose to get out of the fighting and to get sent home is a case for court martial. If that is indeed what happened to the man in the ambulance – and Bradford hopes it isn't – he'll most likely end up in prison or doing hard labor, if he isn't discovered to have tried to desert as well, in which case he'll be shot.
That seems to be the end of that conversation, much to Bradford's relief. After a while Cuthbertson starts whistling again, and by the time they reach Amiens Bradford is in a better mood. Wet, but reasonably hopeful again.
Some of the men who marched with them from Rouen have other assignments besides the 18th (Eastern) Division, but Bradford, Cuthbertson, Wellbridge, and the men intended as 18 Div reinforcements eventually find where they're camped and split off for their various brigades. Bradford and Cuthbertson are with the 54th, and Wellbridge with the 53rd. They shake hands and wish each other well when they part, and Wellbridge gives Cuthbertson his cigarettes.
"They're dry," he says. "Smoke them in good health."
Someone rustles up the brigade commander, a General Vaughan, so Bradford and Cuthbertson can meet him, but it's late and everyone is tired, and the general suggests the men get some rest and they can continue introductions and inspections in the morning. He has one of his adjutants show them to their billets, where Bradford just manages to divest himself of his pack and belt and all his equipment and to undo his boots and puttees before falling into bed fully clothed.
It occurs to him right before he falls asleep that in the morning he is going to regret sleeping in his trousers with the mud drying on them, but he's really too tired to care.
* * *
While the officers are billeted in dry buildings, the privates have to sleep in tents. There's some grumbling – they just marched from Rouen in the rain, and now they have to put up tents before they can sleep? – but the NCOs among them remind them of who they are and where they are and why, and essentially scold them for bitching. It does seem to help, as there is a lot less complaining afterwards.
Thomas Davies – Tommy to his friends – lies on his back among his fellow soldiers and stares at the tent peak and tries to ignore all the snoring. He's as tired as any of them, as desperate for a good night's sleep, and instead he's lying here writing letters home in his head.
Dear Ada and Caro,
In Amiens. Walked from Rouen in the rain. Look them up on a good map. Met some decent boys. Still stuck with Dickon Powell, tell his mum he's doing fine. Hope to see action soon.
Love to you and Mum and Dad. Be good.
Tommy
He doesn't have much to say, but he hasn't been in France that long and hasn't done anything worth writing home about. He's been walking distances – sometimes in the rain – his entire life. Maybe not as far as Le Havre to Rouen and Rouen to Amiens – he doesn't know how far that is, but it felt like a long way to his feet – but far enough and wet enough.
Thomas Davies is twenty-two, a little above average height, brown haired and baby faced. Like Bradford, he is from London, but unlike Bradford, he was not born there, nor did he attend a posh public school, nor did he go to university. He was working as a bricklayer when he volunteered for the army.
He has two half-sisters, Ada and Caroline, who are six and eight years younger. Like Amelia Bradford, they are sometimes pests, and like Henry Bradford, he loves them dearly. They promised to write to him and he made them promise to stop fighting with each other. Ada is gainfully employed but Caroline isn't yet, and it's a bone of contention between them, as is the fact that the local boys seem to think Caroline is prettier.
Thomas was born in Brighton, but when he was three his father ran off and he and his mother moved to London to live with her sister and brother-in-law. There she met a Mr Davies, who didn't mind that she was an abandoned woman with a child. He married her, gave her son his name, and then gave her two daughters.
Thomas Davies is as patriotic as anyone, but the urge to enlist did not seize him right away as it seized so many of his countrymen, and in fact he enlisted as a volunteer so that he would not be conscripted. His mum wasn't in a hurry for him to ship out, but she would be embarrassed if he joined the army only because he was forced to.
He shipped out to France with several local boys, only one of whom is not in the same regiment. Gareth Hickman managed to get himself attached to the 1st Newfoundland to be with his cousins, whose parents emigrated to Canada many years ago. Gareth is his mum's only son, and she selfishly kept him from enlisting so as not to lose him to a German bullet, letting him go without argument only when he announced he was going to be joining his Canadian cousins in France and would thus have family to guard his back.
Davies and Hickman parted at Rouen. They promised to write each other, but so far Davies hasn't figured out exactly how he's supposed to send letters to his fellow enlistees. He'll have to ask someone later. Writing home he can handle. He's working class and as such hasn't had the same education as Bradford or any of the other officers, but he doesn't think of himself as stupid. And he can compose a letter. Letters are easy.
"The fuck are you awake for?" mumbles Powell, who is lying next to him.
"I can't sleep," Davies admits.
"You're fuckin' mental." Powell rolls over and in a minute starts to snore. Davies shoves on his shoulder until he stops.
He wouldn't call himself mental either. Crazy men don't get sent overseas with rifles and training in how to use them. He's heard about soldiers and officers who end up back home diagnosed with neurasthenia, who get psychiatric treatment before (usually) being sent back overseas. But those are men of nervous disposition anyway. Cowards, some of them. That isn't Davies. Or Powell, or Hickman, or any of the other boys from home. They're London boys. They're tough. A boy down the street from the Davies house lied about his age so he could volunteer at sixteen. His mum said he'd been sent to Palestine. Do posh men do that? No, they do not. For all Davies knows, if you're wealthy enough, you can hire someone to fight for you.
For some reason this comforts him, that he is doing his duty – if two years delayed – while richer men do not. He doesn't need to add that to his theoretical letters home, however. It isn't important to anyone else. He doesn't even think it's worth repeating to Powell or any of his fellow privates. His thoughts are his own and he doesn't need to share them.
words: 1700
total words: 5129
note: a couple things in here are logistically improbable and/or historically impossible. please forgive a. my ignorance, and b. my poetic license. also, the 1st newfoundland regiment that davies' friend joins was attached to the 29th division at the battle of the somme, and the first day of the battle, over five hundred of the 801 men in the regiment were killed. only sixty-eight escaped unharmed, and the regiment was effectively destroyed. (thank you wikipedia.) also apparently anglicans don't cross themselves.
"Superstition," Cuthbertson says. He's not exactly an atheist – and even if he was, he wouldn't say so for fear of being court-martialed or something – but he doesn't practice a lot of the outward trappings of the C of E faithful. He says religion and faith are full of superstition more than anything else, and he isn't a particularly superstitious man. No signs and portents for him. He still attends services, though, and is careful not to talk about religion in front of clergymen or the diehard faithful.
But he has no problem sharing his views with Bradford. Bradford won't think any less of him, or argue with him.
"It can't hurt."
"It won't help, either. Do you not think the Germans are praying to god too? Do you think god cares who wins?"
"Are you playing Devil's Advocate just for something to do?" Bradford asks, curiously.
"Perhaps." Cuthbertson pats his jacket pockets. "Damn. My cigarettes are probably all wet."
"I can't believe you have any left."
"Bought a fresh pack before we left Rouen."
"Smart."
"I thought so." He finally retrieves them from a wet pocket, shakes one out, and sticks it in his mouth. It droops damply and Cuthbertson grimaces around the end in his mouth. Bradford laughs. "Go on, laugh," Cuthbertson says around the cigarette. "See if I offer you any."
"They're wet, why would I want one?" Bradford chuckles. Cuthbertson looks ridiculous with his unlit, soggy cigarette and his hangdog expression, now clearly exagerrated for effect. "When we get to Amiens I'll buy you a new dry pack, how's that?"
"It's the least you should do for laughing at me." Cuthbertson pretends to look injured. Bradford is pretty sure Wellbridge is snickering at them, which just makes him smile. Bad weather, good spirits. A good sign.
Cuthbertson flicks his wet cigarette into the wet grass on the side of the road. "When we get to Amiens I'd rather have a hot bath."
"We'll probably just meet up with the Division and go out again," Bradford says. "No bath for you. Or me, really."
"Pity. You stink." He grins at Bradford, who rolls his eyes.
"How far do you think we are from the front now?"
"Close enough for ambulances. I didn't think we were that close."
"It was probably going to a base hospital in Amiens," Wellbridge volunteers. "You don't have to be on the line to get hurt. Anything could have happened to the man inside it."
"Tripped, fell, accidentally shot himself with his own rifle." Cuthbertson's tone is casual, but the fact is, shooting yourself on purpose to get out of the fighting and to get sent home is a case for court martial. If that is indeed what happened to the man in the ambulance – and Bradford hopes it isn't – he'll most likely end up in prison or doing hard labor, if he isn't discovered to have tried to desert as well, in which case he'll be shot.
That seems to be the end of that conversation, much to Bradford's relief. After a while Cuthbertson starts whistling again, and by the time they reach Amiens Bradford is in a better mood. Wet, but reasonably hopeful again.
Some of the men who marched with them from Rouen have other assignments besides the 18th (Eastern) Division, but Bradford, Cuthbertson, Wellbridge, and the men intended as 18 Div reinforcements eventually find where they're camped and split off for their various brigades. Bradford and Cuthbertson are with the 54th, and Wellbridge with the 53rd. They shake hands and wish each other well when they part, and Wellbridge gives Cuthbertson his cigarettes.
"They're dry," he says. "Smoke them in good health."
Someone rustles up the brigade commander, a General Vaughan, so Bradford and Cuthbertson can meet him, but it's late and everyone is tired, and the general suggests the men get some rest and they can continue introductions and inspections in the morning. He has one of his adjutants show them to their billets, where Bradford just manages to divest himself of his pack and belt and all his equipment and to undo his boots and puttees before falling into bed fully clothed.
It occurs to him right before he falls asleep that in the morning he is going to regret sleeping in his trousers with the mud drying on them, but he's really too tired to care.
While the officers are billeted in dry buildings, the privates have to sleep in tents. There's some grumbling – they just marched from Rouen in the rain, and now they have to put up tents before they can sleep? – but the NCOs among them remind them of who they are and where they are and why, and essentially scold them for bitching. It does seem to help, as there is a lot less complaining afterwards.
Thomas Davies – Tommy to his friends – lies on his back among his fellow soldiers and stares at the tent peak and tries to ignore all the snoring. He's as tired as any of them, as desperate for a good night's sleep, and instead he's lying here writing letters home in his head.
Dear Ada and Caro,
In Amiens. Walked from Rouen in the rain. Look them up on a good map. Met some decent boys. Still stuck with Dickon Powell, tell his mum he's doing fine. Hope to see action soon.
Love to you and Mum and Dad. Be good.
Tommy
He doesn't have much to say, but he hasn't been in France that long and hasn't done anything worth writing home about. He's been walking distances – sometimes in the rain – his entire life. Maybe not as far as Le Havre to Rouen and Rouen to Amiens – he doesn't know how far that is, but it felt like a long way to his feet – but far enough and wet enough.
Thomas Davies is twenty-two, a little above average height, brown haired and baby faced. Like Bradford, he is from London, but unlike Bradford, he was not born there, nor did he attend a posh public school, nor did he go to university. He was working as a bricklayer when he volunteered for the army.
He has two half-sisters, Ada and Caroline, who are six and eight years younger. Like Amelia Bradford, they are sometimes pests, and like Henry Bradford, he loves them dearly. They promised to write to him and he made them promise to stop fighting with each other. Ada is gainfully employed but Caroline isn't yet, and it's a bone of contention between them, as is the fact that the local boys seem to think Caroline is prettier.
Thomas was born in Brighton, but when he was three his father ran off and he and his mother moved to London to live with her sister and brother-in-law. There she met a Mr Davies, who didn't mind that she was an abandoned woman with a child. He married her, gave her son his name, and then gave her two daughters.
Thomas Davies is as patriotic as anyone, but the urge to enlist did not seize him right away as it seized so many of his countrymen, and in fact he enlisted as a volunteer so that he would not be conscripted. His mum wasn't in a hurry for him to ship out, but she would be embarrassed if he joined the army only because he was forced to.
He shipped out to France with several local boys, only one of whom is not in the same regiment. Gareth Hickman managed to get himself attached to the 1st Newfoundland to be with his cousins, whose parents emigrated to Canada many years ago. Gareth is his mum's only son, and she selfishly kept him from enlisting so as not to lose him to a German bullet, letting him go without argument only when he announced he was going to be joining his Canadian cousins in France and would thus have family to guard his back.
Davies and Hickman parted at Rouen. They promised to write each other, but so far Davies hasn't figured out exactly how he's supposed to send letters to his fellow enlistees. He'll have to ask someone later. Writing home he can handle. He's working class and as such hasn't had the same education as Bradford or any of the other officers, but he doesn't think of himself as stupid. And he can compose a letter. Letters are easy.
"The fuck are you awake for?" mumbles Powell, who is lying next to him.
"I can't sleep," Davies admits.
"You're fuckin' mental." Powell rolls over and in a minute starts to snore. Davies shoves on his shoulder until he stops.
He wouldn't call himself mental either. Crazy men don't get sent overseas with rifles and training in how to use them. He's heard about soldiers and officers who end up back home diagnosed with neurasthenia, who get psychiatric treatment before (usually) being sent back overseas. But those are men of nervous disposition anyway. Cowards, some of them. That isn't Davies. Or Powell, or Hickman, or any of the other boys from home. They're London boys. They're tough. A boy down the street from the Davies house lied about his age so he could volunteer at sixteen. His mum said he'd been sent to Palestine. Do posh men do that? No, they do not. For all Davies knows, if you're wealthy enough, you can hire someone to fight for you.
For some reason this comforts him, that he is doing his duty – if two years delayed – while richer men do not. He doesn't need to add that to his theoretical letters home, however. It isn't important to anyone else. He doesn't even think it's worth repeating to Powell or any of his fellow privates. His thoughts are his own and he doesn't need to share them.
words: 1700
total words: 5129
note: a couple things in here are logistically improbable and/or historically impossible. please forgive a. my ignorance, and b. my poetic license. also, the 1st newfoundland regiment that davies' friend joins was attached to the 29th division at the battle of the somme, and the first day of the battle, over five hundred of the 801 men in the regiment were killed. only sixty-eight escaped unharmed, and the regiment was effectively destroyed. (thank you wikipedia.) also apparently anglicans don't cross themselves.
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