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smackenzieHe eventually has to hand the periscope off to the other private, and is back to listening with the NCO. Everything is quiet. A little tense, because of the darkness and the nature of this particular job, but quiet. Davies guesses he should be thankful they're not being shelled to death, or overrun by Germans. Still, he wouldn't mind a bit more excitement. He'd have thought that being on the front lines would be more... active.
The NCO has gotten the periscope back and the other private seems to be nodding off when a German rocket flare bursts over No Man's Land with the oddly sharp sound of the flare rocket firing. It's like a small, sudden sun hanging over the pockmarked ground. The NCO yanks his face away from the periscope, either startled or temporarily blinded, or both. The light from the flare doesn't hit them directly, hidden as they are by the sap, but if you happen to be looking out at ground level, it might be something of a shock.
"We have any patrols out, sir?" the other private asks, his voice a hush. Davies doesn't think they were ever introduced, but the man's face is familiar from their time being billeted and trained in Amiens. The two of them are in C Company together, he knows that.
"I don't - " the NCO starts to answer, but he's interrupted by an equally sudden burst of machine-gun fire.
"Your answer's yes," Davies says between bursts.
"Or the Germans think we do. Hush."
What do you expect us to hear over the sound of machine guns? Davies wonders, but now there's some noise from their own side – return fire towards (theoretically) the enemy gun turret.
Someone scuttles into the sap, demands a report from the NCO, and scuttles back out. The Germans send up another flare ten minutes later, followed by someone else crawling into the sap to whisper that there are no patrols out and the Germans are apparently shooting at shadows, and Davies and the other private and the NCO need to keep their heads down and their ears open.
But nothing else happens, other than two rats scurrying down the length of the sap. One of them scurries up the wall of the shallow trench and out into the countryside, but the other ends up speared on the end of the other private's bayonet, like a prize or a potential roasted dinner.
"My granddad was a baker," the private whispers to Davies. "Used to sit watch in his cellar where he kept all his flour and yeast and sugar and that. Me and a really sharp stick. Cats were no bloody good. Granddad had a soft spot and spoiled 'em rotten." He crouches in the wet ground and tries to shake his rifle hard enough to fling the dead rat over the side of the sap.
"Both of you shut up or there'll be discipline," the NCO hisses.
They both shut up.
Eventually another listening party arrives to relieve them, and they're told they can probably get an hour or so of sleep before stand to. Davies crawls out of the sap and along the winding length of the front-line trench, looking for an empty funk hole or a stretch of step long enough to slouch on. Men are everywhere, trying to sleep or standing sentry duty or ferrying supplies and what's probably more trench-construction material back and forth. How they manage without making a lot of noise, Davies doesn't know. Their boots squelch a little in the mud, which hasn't dried even though there hasn't been any more rain since the battalion arrived at the trench yesterday. Too many people constantly walking on it, maybe, not giving the ground enough time to dry out, in addition to the fact that it just hasn't been brightly sunny enough.
He finally finds a spot on the step next to a sentry he thinks he recognizes – like the other private in the sap, this guy looks like someone in the same company, but a different platoon, and Davies can't remember his name, if indeed he ever learned it.
Never mind. Davies settles himself on the step, leans back against the wall of the trench, pulls his helmet down over his eyes almost out of habit, and somehow manages to fall asleep.
As he was the night before, he's woken before dawn for stand to, followed by breakfast, followed by cleaning his rifle, followed by another day of shoring up trench walls – this time on the front-line trench – and a spirited discussion among the work party of what they thought they'd be doing when they joined up, what happened last night ("Rocket flare," Davies says, because he was actually awake and saw it happen), and when are they going to get to actually do anything?
They get told off a couple of times, but since they're working hard and still fully kitted-out, helmets and all, and no one has said anything obviously offensive, they're mostly told off in passing. It isn't a crime to talk about the reasons why the Germans seem to have flares at the front and the British don't, anyway.
"Could get some from the Navy," someone suggests, after a lieutenant has just passed them and told them to get back to work. At least they all remembered to stop long enough to salute him.
"Navy needs them," Morehouse says. He doesn't seem particularly excited about having been assigned trench maintenance rather than sentry duty, probably because he's now a lot dirtier and a lot more physically exhausted than he was yesterday.
"But the Army's going to win the war," Powell says, sounding authoritative. "You can't hit the French interior with a ship's cannon."
This is true. The men shovel mud and fill sandbags in contemplative silence.
And it goes on like that for another couple of days – stand to, inspection, physical labor, a few stints at sentry duty, sleep on the ground, eat corned beef from tins and hard biscuits and jam and the occasional bit of bacon with the porridge. Davies gets to know the rest of his platoon better. They rewrite a couple of popular songs with absolutely filthy lyrics as a way to keep themselves entertained, and then get a good talking-to for singing them in front of the company commander. (Captain Bradford seems a little taken aback and a little amused, and the talking-to comes from his second in command, Captain Armstrong.) The guys who have been in the army long enough to be missed at home get mail. They all write letters. The sun comes out and the mud dries, and then it drizzles and everything gets wet again. The Germans take a few potshots at them when someone accidentally presents a target, and there are a few more flare rockets, but otherwise things are relatively quiet.
Davies' platoon moves back to the support trench after a few days and switches places with another platoon, but the main difference seems to be simply that fewer of them have sentry duty and more of them are assigned to fetch and carry supplies from the reserve trench or from behind the line. Because the company HQ dugout is back here, they see slightly more of the captains and platoon commanders and other NCOs, and are at slightly more risk of reprimand for slacking off. Davies likes Lt Fiske, his platoon commander, who isn't overly snobbish and seems to get on pretty well with the rest of the men, and Captain Bradford seems like a decent enough person but hard to know. Probably it's just because he's a captain in command of an entire company, and Davies and his friends are simple privates. Not much fraternizing between ranks.
Davies has no idea if the man will turn out to be a good commander or not. For all he knows, it will be months before they ever get to find out.
* * *
Bradford didn't really know what he was expecting when he and his company arrived at the front-line trench, but these days of inspections and tramping up and down in the mud and dealing with rats were not it. He has yet to go out on patrol – not that he's desperate for the chance, but he's been informed that it's something he will eventually have to do – and the Germans have yet to do anything more exciting than shoot up some flares and occasionally fire on the British.
At least he rates a dugout with actual walls and ceiling and bunkbeds, rather than the holes that his men seem to have to content themselves with. He and the platoon commanders and NCOs and company quartermaster sleep in turns, and there are still rats, and the beds are a little shorter than he is so he can't stretch out, but he's mostly out of the mud and not at risk for being shot or shelled.
He's been trying to get to know all the men under his command, privates and NCOs and all, by sight at least, but there are nearly a hundred and seventy of them and it's taking some time. Armstrong has been with the regiment for two months already, although he was just recently promoted to his current position, and he's some help, although Bradford has gotten the idea that he really wanted to be company commander and resents the fact that he isn't.
After his company shifts back to the support trench, rather than being on the front-line trench, Bradford feels as if he has less to do – the threat of attack is slightly lessened, and with it the need for constant vigilance – and spends some of his free time making his way through the maze of the trench, getting to know the men. He did regular inspections and received regular reports when they were in the front-line trench, so the men are used to seeing him come by, but now he feels as if he has more time to just stop and chat with them, or at least observe them as they work. He knows nothing of the duties of a common army private, and is eager to learn. It's part and parcel of learning to be a good commander, he thinks, along with learning about strategy and what to delegate and what his own responsibilities are expected to be.
"It's a bit strange, you just wandering around like that," Armstrong confides in him one day. "Lt Patterson told me he thinks you're making his men nervous."
"I just want to get to know them a bit," Bradford says. "They're my responsibility and I need to make sure they're well rested and as happy as they can be, given the circumstances. Just telling them to keep their feet dry and guard their rations against rats isn't enough."
He can just imagine Cuthbertson's joking comments about his wanting to fraternize with the common man. He misses Cuthbertson, but his company stayed behind, in reserves, at division headquarters, and Bradford isn't sure when they'll see each other again. He knows that eventually his company will be relieved and sent back to HQ to rest, but whether or not Cuthbertson's company moves up the line out here in exchange, he doesn't know.
words: 1812
total words: 9880
note: i have now made fiske (davies' platoon commander) a lieutenant, because i think they were more likely to be platoon commanders than sergeants, because a lt is a higher rank.
The NCO has gotten the periscope back and the other private seems to be nodding off when a German rocket flare bursts over No Man's Land with the oddly sharp sound of the flare rocket firing. It's like a small, sudden sun hanging over the pockmarked ground. The NCO yanks his face away from the periscope, either startled or temporarily blinded, or both. The light from the flare doesn't hit them directly, hidden as they are by the sap, but if you happen to be looking out at ground level, it might be something of a shock.
"We have any patrols out, sir?" the other private asks, his voice a hush. Davies doesn't think they were ever introduced, but the man's face is familiar from their time being billeted and trained in Amiens. The two of them are in C Company together, he knows that.
"I don't - " the NCO starts to answer, but he's interrupted by an equally sudden burst of machine-gun fire.
"Your answer's yes," Davies says between bursts.
"Or the Germans think we do. Hush."
What do you expect us to hear over the sound of machine guns? Davies wonders, but now there's some noise from their own side – return fire towards (theoretically) the enemy gun turret.
Someone scuttles into the sap, demands a report from the NCO, and scuttles back out. The Germans send up another flare ten minutes later, followed by someone else crawling into the sap to whisper that there are no patrols out and the Germans are apparently shooting at shadows, and Davies and the other private and the NCO need to keep their heads down and their ears open.
But nothing else happens, other than two rats scurrying down the length of the sap. One of them scurries up the wall of the shallow trench and out into the countryside, but the other ends up speared on the end of the other private's bayonet, like a prize or a potential roasted dinner.
"My granddad was a baker," the private whispers to Davies. "Used to sit watch in his cellar where he kept all his flour and yeast and sugar and that. Me and a really sharp stick. Cats were no bloody good. Granddad had a soft spot and spoiled 'em rotten." He crouches in the wet ground and tries to shake his rifle hard enough to fling the dead rat over the side of the sap.
"Both of you shut up or there'll be discipline," the NCO hisses.
They both shut up.
Eventually another listening party arrives to relieve them, and they're told they can probably get an hour or so of sleep before stand to. Davies crawls out of the sap and along the winding length of the front-line trench, looking for an empty funk hole or a stretch of step long enough to slouch on. Men are everywhere, trying to sleep or standing sentry duty or ferrying supplies and what's probably more trench-construction material back and forth. How they manage without making a lot of noise, Davies doesn't know. Their boots squelch a little in the mud, which hasn't dried even though there hasn't been any more rain since the battalion arrived at the trench yesterday. Too many people constantly walking on it, maybe, not giving the ground enough time to dry out, in addition to the fact that it just hasn't been brightly sunny enough.
He finally finds a spot on the step next to a sentry he thinks he recognizes – like the other private in the sap, this guy looks like someone in the same company, but a different platoon, and Davies can't remember his name, if indeed he ever learned it.
Never mind. Davies settles himself on the step, leans back against the wall of the trench, pulls his helmet down over his eyes almost out of habit, and somehow manages to fall asleep.
As he was the night before, he's woken before dawn for stand to, followed by breakfast, followed by cleaning his rifle, followed by another day of shoring up trench walls – this time on the front-line trench – and a spirited discussion among the work party of what they thought they'd be doing when they joined up, what happened last night ("Rocket flare," Davies says, because he was actually awake and saw it happen), and when are they going to get to actually do anything?
They get told off a couple of times, but since they're working hard and still fully kitted-out, helmets and all, and no one has said anything obviously offensive, they're mostly told off in passing. It isn't a crime to talk about the reasons why the Germans seem to have flares at the front and the British don't, anyway.
"Could get some from the Navy," someone suggests, after a lieutenant has just passed them and told them to get back to work. At least they all remembered to stop long enough to salute him.
"Navy needs them," Morehouse says. He doesn't seem particularly excited about having been assigned trench maintenance rather than sentry duty, probably because he's now a lot dirtier and a lot more physically exhausted than he was yesterday.
"But the Army's going to win the war," Powell says, sounding authoritative. "You can't hit the French interior with a ship's cannon."
This is true. The men shovel mud and fill sandbags in contemplative silence.
And it goes on like that for another couple of days – stand to, inspection, physical labor, a few stints at sentry duty, sleep on the ground, eat corned beef from tins and hard biscuits and jam and the occasional bit of bacon with the porridge. Davies gets to know the rest of his platoon better. They rewrite a couple of popular songs with absolutely filthy lyrics as a way to keep themselves entertained, and then get a good talking-to for singing them in front of the company commander. (Captain Bradford seems a little taken aback and a little amused, and the talking-to comes from his second in command, Captain Armstrong.) The guys who have been in the army long enough to be missed at home get mail. They all write letters. The sun comes out and the mud dries, and then it drizzles and everything gets wet again. The Germans take a few potshots at them when someone accidentally presents a target, and there are a few more flare rockets, but otherwise things are relatively quiet.
Davies' platoon moves back to the support trench after a few days and switches places with another platoon, but the main difference seems to be simply that fewer of them have sentry duty and more of them are assigned to fetch and carry supplies from the reserve trench or from behind the line. Because the company HQ dugout is back here, they see slightly more of the captains and platoon commanders and other NCOs, and are at slightly more risk of reprimand for slacking off. Davies likes Lt Fiske, his platoon commander, who isn't overly snobbish and seems to get on pretty well with the rest of the men, and Captain Bradford seems like a decent enough person but hard to know. Probably it's just because he's a captain in command of an entire company, and Davies and his friends are simple privates. Not much fraternizing between ranks.
Davies has no idea if the man will turn out to be a good commander or not. For all he knows, it will be months before they ever get to find out.
Bradford didn't really know what he was expecting when he and his company arrived at the front-line trench, but these days of inspections and tramping up and down in the mud and dealing with rats were not it. He has yet to go out on patrol – not that he's desperate for the chance, but he's been informed that it's something he will eventually have to do – and the Germans have yet to do anything more exciting than shoot up some flares and occasionally fire on the British.
At least he rates a dugout with actual walls and ceiling and bunkbeds, rather than the holes that his men seem to have to content themselves with. He and the platoon commanders and NCOs and company quartermaster sleep in turns, and there are still rats, and the beds are a little shorter than he is so he can't stretch out, but he's mostly out of the mud and not at risk for being shot or shelled.
He's been trying to get to know all the men under his command, privates and NCOs and all, by sight at least, but there are nearly a hundred and seventy of them and it's taking some time. Armstrong has been with the regiment for two months already, although he was just recently promoted to his current position, and he's some help, although Bradford has gotten the idea that he really wanted to be company commander and resents the fact that he isn't.
After his company shifts back to the support trench, rather than being on the front-line trench, Bradford feels as if he has less to do – the threat of attack is slightly lessened, and with it the need for constant vigilance – and spends some of his free time making his way through the maze of the trench, getting to know the men. He did regular inspections and received regular reports when they were in the front-line trench, so the men are used to seeing him come by, but now he feels as if he has more time to just stop and chat with them, or at least observe them as they work. He knows nothing of the duties of a common army private, and is eager to learn. It's part and parcel of learning to be a good commander, he thinks, along with learning about strategy and what to delegate and what his own responsibilities are expected to be.
"It's a bit strange, you just wandering around like that," Armstrong confides in him one day. "Lt Patterson told me he thinks you're making his men nervous."
"I just want to get to know them a bit," Bradford says. "They're my responsibility and I need to make sure they're well rested and as happy as they can be, given the circumstances. Just telling them to keep their feet dry and guard their rations against rats isn't enough."
He can just imagine Cuthbertson's joking comments about his wanting to fraternize with the common man. He misses Cuthbertson, but his company stayed behind, in reserves, at division headquarters, and Bradford isn't sure when they'll see each other again. He knows that eventually his company will be relieved and sent back to HQ to rest, but whether or not Cuthbertson's company moves up the line out here in exchange, he doesn't know.
words: 1812
total words: 9880
note: i have now made fiske (davies' platoon commander) a lieutenant, because i think they were more likely to be platoon commanders than sergeants, because a lt is a higher rank.
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Date: 2012-11-08 05:00 am (UTC)no subject
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