smackenzie (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
smackenzie) wrote2012-11-09 04:29 am
smackenzie) wrote2012-11-09 04:29 am
Entry tags:
there's a shell! but this is still the slowest-moving plot ever
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 Cuthberson's company moves up the line out here in exchange, he doesn't know.
Until then he fills in his war diary with a lot of "Enemy quiet" or "Quiet day" entries and makes more detailed entries in his personal diary. The war diary has no space – and is not intended – for personal remarks about the men or their work or how Armstrong feels about them, but that's why he has another outlet. It's just a small notebook that Amelia gave him before he left London, but especially now that he doesn't have Cuthbertson to talk to, it's very helpful as a place to put his thoughts. He likes Armstrong well enough, but the man is kind of his subordinate, and as grateful as Bradford is for his assistance the first couple of days they were in Amiens and especially their first day in the front-line trench, he doesn't want to let the guy in on the fact that he's still a little worried about commanding a hundred and seventy men. Every so often Bradford still looks at them and thinks They're just boys.
And if nothing else, writing in his diary helps pass the time. A few of the other officers keep their own diaries as well, and every so often Bradford will walk into the dugout that serves as battalion HQ to see someone or other sitting at the desk or on a bed and scribbling away. Lt Patterson, the platoon commander who worried that Bradford was making his men nervous, is something of an artist, and instead of a diary he's keeping a sketchbook of little pencil drawings. Bradford asks Patterson to make a little sketch of him wearing his helmet to send Amelia, under the theory that she might be interested to know what he looks like all kittted out, and a letter will reach her much faster than a photograph. He doesn't have a camera, anyway.
My darlingest and onlyest sister,
This is a sketch one of the platoon commanders made of me in my helmet. Do I look ready to charge over the hill and assault an enemy position? I think I look more dashing in my hat, to be honest, but while at the front we must wear our helmets at all times, just to be safe. And you have already seen me in my hat.
We have been at the front now for several days, and aside from the Germans shooting up a few flares, it has been fairly quiet. I have a hundred and seventy men under my command, and this gives me a chance to meet them all and try to get to know them. Besides, I am not in a great hurry to see action.
If you wish to know what a normal day is like in the trenches, it involves inspections, chatting with the other officers, making sure my men are getting enough rest and enough food, giving orders, and something called "stand to", which happens during dawn and dusk. This is when every man in the front-line trench stands along the wall with his bayonet fixed to his rifle, in readiness for an attack. Officers do this as well, and it is both nerve-wracking and boring to stand there and simply wait for the Germans to decide whether they will charge or not. There is also a not inconsiderable amount of sitting around writing letters, as you can see. This will change when we are in a more active part of the front, but for now I am not complaining.
This is not to share with Mum and Dad, but I am only just now becoming secure in my ability to lead a company. I think I have been faking it pretty well, though. There are a lot of regulations to learn – I would have thought my training at home would have covered it, but it turns out that the best training is actually being here – and a great many people to meet, and you know that I enjoy that kind of thing, but I don't want to be caught unprepared when we finally see action. But I believe I have things under control now. It helps that we have had so many quiet days, and my second in command, Captain Armstrong, has been a lot of help bringing me up to speed.
Armstrong has been with the regiment for two months, and I have the impression he wishes he were promoted company commander in my place. He read economics at Cambridge, Pembroke College, but our paths didn't cross and we don’t seem to have known the same people. Which isn't surprising, really.
There are four companies in the regiment, from A to D. I am in charge of C Company, while Bertie Cuthbertson, who I hope you remember from my training, is captain of A Company. He is currently back at headquarters, in reserve – some men always stay behind when the regiment goes to the front, which is also known as being "in the line".
Each company is further divided into four platoons – my sketch artist is Lt Patterson, who is a platoon commander – and the platoon is then divided into four sections. Each of these has a commander, although they are all a lower rank than I am, so there are several layers that orders must pass through to reach the common fighting men.
Are you bored yet? Imagine me grinning at you as I ask that. I find some of life on the front to be interesting, to be honest, when it isn't quite boring. You might even enjoy the way the trenches meander and twist across the countryside, rather than running in straight lines. It makes for some sudden discoveries, as when one is walking down the line and turns a corner and trips over three men having a card game. I have been told the winding trench is a security measure. It must look odd from the sky. I am not in a hurry to get in an observation balloon to see it, however.
The weather alternates between fair and rainy. The trenches we are in tend to be muddy, but I can manage. The officers sleep in a dugout, which is an underground room, sometimes even with a small entranceway, with bunkbeds and a desk and chair and pegs for our tunics and hats. It is better than what most of the men have, but of course an officer's quarters would be. We are fairly well supplied, but if you wish to send me a care package, I would not dissuade you.
I have told you something of my life, so now it is your turn. Tell me about school, and London, and how you are holding up now that I have gone to the front and you need to find someone else to tease. Do not torment the dog in my absence. Tell Mum and Dad I will write them a proper long letter soon. Be good, and be happy.
All my love,
Harry
Bradford has been informed that one of the duties of the platoon commanders is to read any outgoing mail to make sure their men don't mention where specifically the regiment is or where it's going, and he himself has been told to keep a close eye on his own correspondence. He trusts his junior officers to censor what needs to be censored in their own letters and in the letters of their men. He wants to get to know his men, but reading their letters home is not the way to do it.
But he hasn't said anything in his letter to his sister that would give away the regiment's position, and he hasn't been at the front long enough to need to indulge in the kind of angry, anti-government rants that censoring is theoretically supposed to avoid.
The letter to Amelia goes out with the post the next day, and a few days after that they're relieved by another battalion and head back to Amiens to rest. Bradford's company moves out under cover of darkness, the same as they did when they first arrived to take up position in the front-line trench, and are just passing the reserve trench when the platoon commander marching in front of him stops, looks around, and Bradford doesn't know what he hears but two seconds later there's a thump and an explosion ahead of them and off to the right.
There's a flash, just enough to see dirt go flying everywhere, followed by the noises of panic and their own machine guns going off behind them, no doubt firing back towards the front line. Bradford is momentarily too stunned to move, even though the platoon commander hustles forward and a lot of the men either start running or drop to the ground. Bradford thinks he can hear someone yell "Stretcher bearers!" and that snaps him out of his trance.
A shell, he thinks. That must have been a German shell. They waited until we were on the move. He realizes that he's dusted with dirt and bits of debris that the shell must have thrown up from the ground when it hit. He hopes his men are all ok.
His men. His company. They're all bunched up behind him somewhere – as company commander of course he's at the head of the line – although they seem to be pressing forward around and past him. In the dark it's hard to tell which men are his and which aren't, and which of them are privates and which are officers. This is not something he can delegate, this finding and getting control of his own company. This is also not something he has trained for. No one ever lobbed shells at him at the training camp back home.
He grabs the nearest arm, which is thankfully attached to a face he recognizes – Patterson, the platoon commander and sketch artist.
"Control yourself!" Bradford snaps, because Patterson looks panicked and tries to yank his arm back. "Quick march back to billets, as quiet as possible. Send the order down."
Patterson nods and turns back to relay the order, and Bradford stays where he is, a little out of the way of the stream of men, calling "Back to billets! Quietly! Keep order!" as they pass him. He falls in with them when he sees the captain of B Company, assuming that by this point all his men have gone on.
In the dark he can barely see the giant crater that the shell must have made. He doesn't know who was hit, or how badly. He doesn't know if the churned-up earth is hiding dead bodies, or if the lumpy landscape features are men or mules or just mounds of dirt. The men seem slightly calmer as they hurry on, probably because they're moving farther and farther from the front and closer and closer to perceived safety.
Bradford never does find out who needed the stretcher. All he does know is that it wasn't anyone from his company.
Dawn is breaking when they finally reach Amiens, and Bradford and the other company commanders report in to brigade HQ (the brigadier general is asleep, so they have to make their report to one of his adjutants) before going back to their billets and crashing for a few hours.
"So how was it?" Cuthberson asks Bradford at breakfast.
"We were shelled last night, on the way back here," Bradford says.
"Shelled!" Cuthbertson looks impressed. "Was anyone hurt?"
"I heard someone call for a stretcher bearer, so I assume so. None of my men, though, or not that I've been told. I'll know at inspection."
"I'm almost sorry I missed it."
"Don't be. It was all dark and chaos. Not something to envy."
Cuthbertson shrugs. "All was quiet here, except for some of the 53rd Brigade getting into it with some men of the 110th. It started with a friendly game of football and went downhill. Other than that, a lot of drilling and some leisure time. You didn't miss much. Sounds like the front was more exciting."
"It was pretty boring, in fact." Bradford picks at his bacon. It's nice and hot, not too fatty, but he really wants to go back to bed. Too much sudden excitement last night and too little sleep to follow it. "My war diary has a lot of entries reading 'Quiet day', 'Enemy quiet', 'One rocket flare tonight but otherwise quiet.' I made a lot of inspections and wrote some letters."
"Well, we should see some action soon. I hear we may be part of a major offensive in the next month or so. Push the German line back."
words: 2114
total words: 11,994
note: i apologize for the giant chunk of italicized text that is bradford's letter to his sister. and it's entirely possible that a regiment on its way anywhere in the middle of the night might have some lights with it. possibly.
Until then he fills in his war diary with a lot of "Enemy quiet" or "Quiet day" entries and makes more detailed entries in his personal diary. The war diary has no space – and is not intended – for personal remarks about the men or their work or how Armstrong feels about them, but that's why he has another outlet. It's just a small notebook that Amelia gave him before he left London, but especially now that he doesn't have Cuthbertson to talk to, it's very helpful as a place to put his thoughts. He likes Armstrong well enough, but the man is kind of his subordinate, and as grateful as Bradford is for his assistance the first couple of days they were in Amiens and especially their first day in the front-line trench, he doesn't want to let the guy in on the fact that he's still a little worried about commanding a hundred and seventy men. Every so often Bradford still looks at them and thinks They're just boys.
And if nothing else, writing in his diary helps pass the time. A few of the other officers keep their own diaries as well, and every so often Bradford will walk into the dugout that serves as battalion HQ to see someone or other sitting at the desk or on a bed and scribbling away. Lt Patterson, the platoon commander who worried that Bradford was making his men nervous, is something of an artist, and instead of a diary he's keeping a sketchbook of little pencil drawings. Bradford asks Patterson to make a little sketch of him wearing his helmet to send Amelia, under the theory that she might be interested to know what he looks like all kittted out, and a letter will reach her much faster than a photograph. He doesn't have a camera, anyway.
My darlingest and onlyest sister,
This is a sketch one of the platoon commanders made of me in my helmet. Do I look ready to charge over the hill and assault an enemy position? I think I look more dashing in my hat, to be honest, but while at the front we must wear our helmets at all times, just to be safe. And you have already seen me in my hat.
We have been at the front now for several days, and aside from the Germans shooting up a few flares, it has been fairly quiet. I have a hundred and seventy men under my command, and this gives me a chance to meet them all and try to get to know them. Besides, I am not in a great hurry to see action.
If you wish to know what a normal day is like in the trenches, it involves inspections, chatting with the other officers, making sure my men are getting enough rest and enough food, giving orders, and something called "stand to", which happens during dawn and dusk. This is when every man in the front-line trench stands along the wall with his bayonet fixed to his rifle, in readiness for an attack. Officers do this as well, and it is both nerve-wracking and boring to stand there and simply wait for the Germans to decide whether they will charge or not. There is also a not inconsiderable amount of sitting around writing letters, as you can see. This will change when we are in a more active part of the front, but for now I am not complaining.
This is not to share with Mum and Dad, but I am only just now becoming secure in my ability to lead a company. I think I have been faking it pretty well, though. There are a lot of regulations to learn – I would have thought my training at home would have covered it, but it turns out that the best training is actually being here – and a great many people to meet, and you know that I enjoy that kind of thing, but I don't want to be caught unprepared when we finally see action. But I believe I have things under control now. It helps that we have had so many quiet days, and my second in command, Captain Armstrong, has been a lot of help bringing me up to speed.
Armstrong has been with the regiment for two months, and I have the impression he wishes he were promoted company commander in my place. He read economics at Cambridge, Pembroke College, but our paths didn't cross and we don’t seem to have known the same people. Which isn't surprising, really.
There are four companies in the regiment, from A to D. I am in charge of C Company, while Bertie Cuthbertson, who I hope you remember from my training, is captain of A Company. He is currently back at headquarters, in reserve – some men always stay behind when the regiment goes to the front, which is also known as being "in the line".
Each company is further divided into four platoons – my sketch artist is Lt Patterson, who is a platoon commander – and the platoon is then divided into four sections. Each of these has a commander, although they are all a lower rank than I am, so there are several layers that orders must pass through to reach the common fighting men.
Are you bored yet? Imagine me grinning at you as I ask that. I find some of life on the front to be interesting, to be honest, when it isn't quite boring. You might even enjoy the way the trenches meander and twist across the countryside, rather than running in straight lines. It makes for some sudden discoveries, as when one is walking down the line and turns a corner and trips over three men having a card game. I have been told the winding trench is a security measure. It must look odd from the sky. I am not in a hurry to get in an observation balloon to see it, however.
The weather alternates between fair and rainy. The trenches we are in tend to be muddy, but I can manage. The officers sleep in a dugout, which is an underground room, sometimes even with a small entranceway, with bunkbeds and a desk and chair and pegs for our tunics and hats. It is better than what most of the men have, but of course an officer's quarters would be. We are fairly well supplied, but if you wish to send me a care package, I would not dissuade you.
I have told you something of my life, so now it is your turn. Tell me about school, and London, and how you are holding up now that I have gone to the front and you need to find someone else to tease. Do not torment the dog in my absence. Tell Mum and Dad I will write them a proper long letter soon. Be good, and be happy.
All my love,
Harry
Bradford has been informed that one of the duties of the platoon commanders is to read any outgoing mail to make sure their men don't mention where specifically the regiment is or where it's going, and he himself has been told to keep a close eye on his own correspondence. He trusts his junior officers to censor what needs to be censored in their own letters and in the letters of their men. He wants to get to know his men, but reading their letters home is not the way to do it.
But he hasn't said anything in his letter to his sister that would give away the regiment's position, and he hasn't been at the front long enough to need to indulge in the kind of angry, anti-government rants that censoring is theoretically supposed to avoid.
The letter to Amelia goes out with the post the next day, and a few days after that they're relieved by another battalion and head back to Amiens to rest. Bradford's company moves out under cover of darkness, the same as they did when they first arrived to take up position in the front-line trench, and are just passing the reserve trench when the platoon commander marching in front of him stops, looks around, and Bradford doesn't know what he hears but two seconds later there's a thump and an explosion ahead of them and off to the right.
There's a flash, just enough to see dirt go flying everywhere, followed by the noises of panic and their own machine guns going off behind them, no doubt firing back towards the front line. Bradford is momentarily too stunned to move, even though the platoon commander hustles forward and a lot of the men either start running or drop to the ground. Bradford thinks he can hear someone yell "Stretcher bearers!" and that snaps him out of his trance.
A shell, he thinks. That must have been a German shell. They waited until we were on the move. He realizes that he's dusted with dirt and bits of debris that the shell must have thrown up from the ground when it hit. He hopes his men are all ok.
His men. His company. They're all bunched up behind him somewhere – as company commander of course he's at the head of the line – although they seem to be pressing forward around and past him. In the dark it's hard to tell which men are his and which aren't, and which of them are privates and which are officers. This is not something he can delegate, this finding and getting control of his own company. This is also not something he has trained for. No one ever lobbed shells at him at the training camp back home.
He grabs the nearest arm, which is thankfully attached to a face he recognizes – Patterson, the platoon commander and sketch artist.
"Control yourself!" Bradford snaps, because Patterson looks panicked and tries to yank his arm back. "Quick march back to billets, as quiet as possible. Send the order down."
Patterson nods and turns back to relay the order, and Bradford stays where he is, a little out of the way of the stream of men, calling "Back to billets! Quietly! Keep order!" as they pass him. He falls in with them when he sees the captain of B Company, assuming that by this point all his men have gone on.
In the dark he can barely see the giant crater that the shell must have made. He doesn't know who was hit, or how badly. He doesn't know if the churned-up earth is hiding dead bodies, or if the lumpy landscape features are men or mules or just mounds of dirt. The men seem slightly calmer as they hurry on, probably because they're moving farther and farther from the front and closer and closer to perceived safety.
Bradford never does find out who needed the stretcher. All he does know is that it wasn't anyone from his company.
Dawn is breaking when they finally reach Amiens, and Bradford and the other company commanders report in to brigade HQ (the brigadier general is asleep, so they have to make their report to one of his adjutants) before going back to their billets and crashing for a few hours.
"So how was it?" Cuthberson asks Bradford at breakfast.
"We were shelled last night, on the way back here," Bradford says.
"Shelled!" Cuthbertson looks impressed. "Was anyone hurt?"
"I heard someone call for a stretcher bearer, so I assume so. None of my men, though, or not that I've been told. I'll know at inspection."
"I'm almost sorry I missed it."
"Don't be. It was all dark and chaos. Not something to envy."
Cuthbertson shrugs. "All was quiet here, except for some of the 53rd Brigade getting into it with some men of the 110th. It started with a friendly game of football and went downhill. Other than that, a lot of drilling and some leisure time. You didn't miss much. Sounds like the front was more exciting."
"It was pretty boring, in fact." Bradford picks at his bacon. It's nice and hot, not too fatty, but he really wants to go back to bed. Too much sudden excitement last night and too little sleep to follow it. "My war diary has a lot of entries reading 'Quiet day', 'Enemy quiet', 'One rocket flare tonight but otherwise quiet.' I made a lot of inspections and wrote some letters."
"Well, we should see some action soon. I hear we may be part of a major offensive in the next month or so. Push the German line back."
words: 2114
total words: 11,994
note: i apologize for the giant chunk of italicized text that is bradford's letter to his sister. and it's entirely possible that a regiment on its way anywhere in the middle of the night might have some lights with it. possibly.