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smackenzie"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."
"Is that what you did while I was in the trenches? Discuss strategy?"
"Not so much, or at least not that I got to be part of. Ellis makes his plans and then lets us know."
Ellis is the division commander. Bradford has only met him once, but he has a reputation among the officers as a stickler for regulations, sometimes to the exclusion of common sense. The company commanders generally get their orders from the battalion commander, Lt Colonel Berridge, and not usually from the divisional CO.
"I did spend some time with the company COs from the 53rd," Cuthbertson goes on. "Good chaps. Don't know any more than I do." He drains his tea. "Come on, inspection awaits."
The men of C Company look reasonably well rested, and more importantly for this inspection, they look clean. They stand to attention and present arms and patiently let Bradford and Armstrong inspect their uniforms and rifles and boots. Lt Colonel Berridge is behind the captains, strolling down the lines of men with his hands in his pockets, giving his soldiers the once-over and nodding encouragingly.
After inspection, the order comes down that they're to break camp and move their billets east, closer to the front. Bradford asks his platoon commanders to let him know how the privates feel about possibly seeing action, if they feel ready or not. He isn't sure what he can do for them if they don't think they're prepared, other than order some drills and training exercises while they're at rest, but he'd like to know the tenor of their conversations, if they're excited or not, and if they grumble, what about.
"You take too much responsibility," Armstrong tells him afterwards. "Let the sergeants handle it if the men complain. You’re not their mother."
Bradford is getting tired of people telling him not to care. They're his men and he was entrusted with their safety and well-being, and if they run from a battle, or if they fail in their objectives because they were badly trained, or not trained at all, it will be his fault.
"You're taking this much too seriously," Cuthbertson says.
"I know, I know, I'm not their mother," Bradford grumbles.
"You might look good in an apron, however." Cuthbertson grins. Bradford can't imagine either of their mothers ever wearing an apron.
The 18 Div moves its billets several miles east, to an abandoned chateau, but even with its outbuildings – some of which have been completely destroyed – there is hardly enough shelter for the commissioned officers, never mind the NCOs or the medical officer's surgery and examination rooms. The MO is a genial Glaswegian with unruly ginger hair, a long nose, and (according to his orderlies) a tendency to swear during surgery. His name is Craig and he got his degree from St Andrew's, and Bradford likes him. Craig has a very good friend from Durham and has been to visit many times, and he and Cuthbertson get into some very enthusiastic conversations about the place in the officer's mess.
Bradford thinks that Cuthbertson's homesickness, if he were to ever feel it, would likely be for Durham and not London. But London is where he lives now, and it is where his wife and children are, and Bradford imagines that a man can easily be homesick for more than one place at a time, for more than one reason.
The battalion is sent up the line again, a bit farther north of their first time in the trenches. This time D Company stays in reserve, and Bradford is more grateful than he thought he would be that this means Cuthbertson will be with him, The Germans shell them the second day, blowing a hole in one of the support trenches and killing an NCO from B Company.
Enemy shelling from about 2.30-4, Bradford writes in his war diary that night. NCO from B Company killed. Support trench damaged. Quiet night.
He feels slightly guilty at his relief that he didn't know the man, which he only admits in his personal diary.
The front-line trench suffers another few shells and several instances of machine-gun fire from across No Man's Land, injuring a couple of Bradford's men and (unfortunately) Cuthbertson's second in command, but thankfully not killing anyone. One of the men is sent back to the billets so the medical officer can take care of him, but the other men aren't wounded seriously enough to leave. Besides, they don't want to. Now that they've seen action of a kind, they want to stay as close to it as possible. And despite the near threat of death or at least injury, Bradford can't blame them. It really is a little bit thrilling.
Then it's back to the support trench, then to reserves, and the order goes out that the 18 Div will be part of the upcoming offensive against the German line, intended to begin around July 1. Bradford organizes drills with practice trenches, to get the men used to going over them. He notes that they seem to be taking better care of their rifles than ever, cleaning them thoroughly and sharpening the bayonets and making sure they have all their ammunition within easy reach.
The officers and NCOs go through their own training and preparations. Bradford writes his parents to tell them that he is about to see action and he finds it all very exciting, and he gets a short note from his sister, just a sheet of paper enclosing a photograph of her dressed as Napoleon and standing next to another girl who looks like she has dressed up as Wellington.
Harry,
Lucie Braithwaite had a fancy dress party to help raise money for the war effort. Mum says you should remember her brother Hamnet from university. As you can see, I went as Napoleon and my friend Chessie Brady from school was Wellington. It was great fun. I don't know how much money was raised, but Chessie seems to think it was a lot.
I am not worried about you and I am not teasing the dog. Dad says to tell you to keep your feet dry. If I could knit, I would make you some socks.
Take care of yourself.
Love,
Amelia
Bradford folds the letter around the photo, puts them both back in the envelope, and tucks it into an inside pocket of his tunic. Amelia looks a bit silly dressed as Napoleon, with a tall plumed hat and her hand inside her jacket, but she's smiling in the photograph and he's pretty sure that looking silly is half the point.
The same post contains a box from Armstrong's mother (containing a white silk scarf like pilots wear, several letters, a postcard of Brighton Pavilion, and a great deal of candy) and three letters for Cuthbertson – one from his wife and each of his children. Bradford offers to take them to him and so gets to see Cuthbertson's fond, sentimental expression as he tries to decipher his children's wobbly handwriting.
"How are they?" Bradford asks.
"Good. Missing me." He folds the letters back up and puts them in a pocket. "They'e staying with my father in the country for a while. Victoria wanted to get out of London, to get away from the summer heat and the bombing. The children seem to think the whole thing is a great adventure." His smile is affectionate but distant. He's probably thinking about his family potentially in danger in their own city. Bradford thinks about his own family, how his father is still in London because he won't leave his hospital and his patients, his mother unwilling to leave his father, and his sister, well, Amelia probably thinks the whole thing is a great adventure too.
"Anyway," Cuthbertson says, coming back from memories of his family with an almost visible jerk. "They should be having fun with Dad. He's probably taken them on three fox hunts so far, if he hasn't taken them duck hunting."
"Amelia sent me a photo of herself in fancy dress." Bradford pulls Amelia's envelope out of his tunic pocket and hands Cuthbertson the picture. "A girl she knows had a fund-raiser for the war effort, and she and a friend from school went as Napoleon and Wellington."
"Did they stage a battle?"
"I don't know. I wouldn't be surprised."
"What an interesting idea, to use generals to raise money for generals." He puts the letters from his family back in his pocket and takes out his cigarettes. He offers one to Bradford, who shakes his head. "Suit yourself." He lights it and takes a drag.
"They say two days until we move up to the front," Bradford says.
"Are you ready? How are your men?"
"Excited. As are yours, I don't doubt. I think it will be good for them to see action. They didn't sign up to sit around a trench for the duration."
"And what did you sign up for, Harry?" Cuthbertson asks, looking at him shrewdly.
"God and country." Bradford shrugs. "My Uncle Henry's legacy. Everyone else was doing it. But I'm an officer, not a common soldier. It's different for us. Why did you do it?"
"God and country." He turns his head to blow a smoke ring away from Bradford's face. "And someone has to lead these boys in the right direction."
Armstrong would say that that's the platoon commander's job. But someone has to lead the platoon commanders too.
Two days later the whole division heads out under cover of darkness, as it does every time the men go up the line. They settle in, stand to, get their orders. Bradford's head is too full of their objective for him to be nervous, and except for the reserves, the entirely of the18 Div is out here in the front lines, waiting. Just to the east is the 30 Div, and in front of them is the German line.
Their objective, as Bradford understands it, is simple – bombard the German line into oblivion, charge across No Man's Land, push the Germans back, if necessary help the 30 Div take a town called Montauban, and advance the British line.
He walks up and down the front-line trench, sometimes with Armstrong and sometimes by himself or with a platoon commander, talking quietly to his men, making sure they know their orders, seeing the excitement on their faces and the anticipation in their voices. He thinks they're as ready as they can possibly be, and he believes that in this case, heart and will should carry them if skill fails.
He is pleased to note that he remembers all of their names, and all of their faces. Once or twice he gets a name wrong, but he apologizes and blames the darkness or the fact that it's sometimes hard to see a man's face under his helmet.
"Mr Gorin, Mr Davies," he says to a couple of men sitting on the step, sharpening their bayonets. He can't imagine the blades can get any sharper, but he guesses the men need to do something. He can almost admire the confidence – or nervousness – necessary to do this kind of thing in the near-dark. "Are you ready?"
"Yes, sir," says Gorin.
"Let me see your rifles, please." He can tell he doesn't need to inspect them, but if these men are going to go to the effort to take care of their rifles, he's going to acknowledge it.
Both men hand their rifles over, Gorin eagerly but Davies with an unreadable expression on his face. Not sullen, not suspicious, not remotely insubordinate, but not a face that Bradford can read. How strange. Maybe it's just the dark that makes his expression look so odd.
He inspects the rifles one at a time, hands them back, and says "You've taken beautiful care of your weapons. Stay sharp, it shouldn't be long now."
He nods his head at them, they salute, and he walks on.
The first wave of the attack is the British guns, hurling shells and mortars across No Man's Land to smash the Germans' barbed wire defenses to pieces so the men can get through, and to destroy in advance as much of the German army and as many of its guns as possible. The noise is deafening, but the sight and sound of so much artillery pounding the German line is exhilarating.
Then the order comes down the line – "Over the hill! Charge!" – Bradford repeats it, imagines he can hear it echo up and down the trench as men scramble up and over the parapet. He is the company commander, so of course he is right in front with them. He charges out of the trench, rifle at the ready, heart pounding, yelling encouragement to his men.
And then all hell breaks loose.
words: 2149
total words: 14,143
note: we have a combination of actual research and a certain amount of making shit up. as per usual. :D i'm pretty sure i have the 18th division in the right place, tho, because they really were involved the first day of the battle of the somme.
"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."
"Is that what you did while I was in the trenches? Discuss strategy?"
"Not so much, or at least not that I got to be part of. Ellis makes his plans and then lets us know."
Ellis is the division commander. Bradford has only met him once, but he has a reputation among the officers as a stickler for regulations, sometimes to the exclusion of common sense. The company commanders generally get their orders from the battalion commander, Lt Colonel Berridge, and not usually from the divisional CO.
"I did spend some time with the company COs from the 53rd," Cuthbertson goes on. "Good chaps. Don't know any more than I do." He drains his tea. "Come on, inspection awaits."
The men of C Company look reasonably well rested, and more importantly for this inspection, they look clean. They stand to attention and present arms and patiently let Bradford and Armstrong inspect their uniforms and rifles and boots. Lt Colonel Berridge is behind the captains, strolling down the lines of men with his hands in his pockets, giving his soldiers the once-over and nodding encouragingly.
After inspection, the order comes down that they're to break camp and move their billets east, closer to the front. Bradford asks his platoon commanders to let him know how the privates feel about possibly seeing action, if they feel ready or not. He isn't sure what he can do for them if they don't think they're prepared, other than order some drills and training exercises while they're at rest, but he'd like to know the tenor of their conversations, if they're excited or not, and if they grumble, what about.
"You take too much responsibility," Armstrong tells him afterwards. "Let the sergeants handle it if the men complain. You’re not their mother."
Bradford is getting tired of people telling him not to care. They're his men and he was entrusted with their safety and well-being, and if they run from a battle, or if they fail in their objectives because they were badly trained, or not trained at all, it will be his fault.
"You're taking this much too seriously," Cuthbertson says.
"I know, I know, I'm not their mother," Bradford grumbles.
"You might look good in an apron, however." Cuthbertson grins. Bradford can't imagine either of their mothers ever wearing an apron.
The 18 Div moves its billets several miles east, to an abandoned chateau, but even with its outbuildings – some of which have been completely destroyed – there is hardly enough shelter for the commissioned officers, never mind the NCOs or the medical officer's surgery and examination rooms. The MO is a genial Glaswegian with unruly ginger hair, a long nose, and (according to his orderlies) a tendency to swear during surgery. His name is Craig and he got his degree from St Andrew's, and Bradford likes him. Craig has a very good friend from Durham and has been to visit many times, and he and Cuthbertson get into some very enthusiastic conversations about the place in the officer's mess.
Bradford thinks that Cuthbertson's homesickness, if he were to ever feel it, would likely be for Durham and not London. But London is where he lives now, and it is where his wife and children are, and Bradford imagines that a man can easily be homesick for more than one place at a time, for more than one reason.
The battalion is sent up the line again, a bit farther north of their first time in the trenches. This time D Company stays in reserve, and Bradford is more grateful than he thought he would be that this means Cuthbertson will be with him, The Germans shell them the second day, blowing a hole in one of the support trenches and killing an NCO from B Company.
Enemy shelling from about 2.30-4, Bradford writes in his war diary that night. NCO from B Company killed. Support trench damaged. Quiet night.
He feels slightly guilty at his relief that he didn't know the man, which he only admits in his personal diary.
The front-line trench suffers another few shells and several instances of machine-gun fire from across No Man's Land, injuring a couple of Bradford's men and (unfortunately) Cuthbertson's second in command, but thankfully not killing anyone. One of the men is sent back to the billets so the medical officer can take care of him, but the other men aren't wounded seriously enough to leave. Besides, they don't want to. Now that they've seen action of a kind, they want to stay as close to it as possible. And despite the near threat of death or at least injury, Bradford can't blame them. It really is a little bit thrilling.
Then it's back to the support trench, then to reserves, and the order goes out that the 18 Div will be part of the upcoming offensive against the German line, intended to begin around July 1. Bradford organizes drills with practice trenches, to get the men used to going over them. He notes that they seem to be taking better care of their rifles than ever, cleaning them thoroughly and sharpening the bayonets and making sure they have all their ammunition within easy reach.
The officers and NCOs go through their own training and preparations. Bradford writes his parents to tell them that he is about to see action and he finds it all very exciting, and he gets a short note from his sister, just a sheet of paper enclosing a photograph of her dressed as Napoleon and standing next to another girl who looks like she has dressed up as Wellington.
Harry,
Lucie Braithwaite had a fancy dress party to help raise money for the war effort. Mum says you should remember her brother Hamnet from university. As you can see, I went as Napoleon and my friend Chessie Brady from school was Wellington. It was great fun. I don't know how much money was raised, but Chessie seems to think it was a lot.
I am not worried about you and I am not teasing the dog. Dad says to tell you to keep your feet dry. If I could knit, I would make you some socks.
Take care of yourself.
Love,
Amelia
Bradford folds the letter around the photo, puts them both back in the envelope, and tucks it into an inside pocket of his tunic. Amelia looks a bit silly dressed as Napoleon, with a tall plumed hat and her hand inside her jacket, but she's smiling in the photograph and he's pretty sure that looking silly is half the point.
The same post contains a box from Armstrong's mother (containing a white silk scarf like pilots wear, several letters, a postcard of Brighton Pavilion, and a great deal of candy) and three letters for Cuthbertson – one from his wife and each of his children. Bradford offers to take them to him and so gets to see Cuthbertson's fond, sentimental expression as he tries to decipher his children's wobbly handwriting.
"How are they?" Bradford asks.
"Good. Missing me." He folds the letters back up and puts them in a pocket. "They'e staying with my father in the country for a while. Victoria wanted to get out of London, to get away from the summer heat and the bombing. The children seem to think the whole thing is a great adventure." His smile is affectionate but distant. He's probably thinking about his family potentially in danger in their own city. Bradford thinks about his own family, how his father is still in London because he won't leave his hospital and his patients, his mother unwilling to leave his father, and his sister, well, Amelia probably thinks the whole thing is a great adventure too.
"Anyway," Cuthbertson says, coming back from memories of his family with an almost visible jerk. "They should be having fun with Dad. He's probably taken them on three fox hunts so far, if he hasn't taken them duck hunting."
"Amelia sent me a photo of herself in fancy dress." Bradford pulls Amelia's envelope out of his tunic pocket and hands Cuthbertson the picture. "A girl she knows had a fund-raiser for the war effort, and she and a friend from school went as Napoleon and Wellington."
"Did they stage a battle?"
"I don't know. I wouldn't be surprised."
"What an interesting idea, to use generals to raise money for generals." He puts the letters from his family back in his pocket and takes out his cigarettes. He offers one to Bradford, who shakes his head. "Suit yourself." He lights it and takes a drag.
"They say two days until we move up to the front," Bradford says.
"Are you ready? How are your men?"
"Excited. As are yours, I don't doubt. I think it will be good for them to see action. They didn't sign up to sit around a trench for the duration."
"And what did you sign up for, Harry?" Cuthbertson asks, looking at him shrewdly.
"God and country." Bradford shrugs. "My Uncle Henry's legacy. Everyone else was doing it. But I'm an officer, not a common soldier. It's different for us. Why did you do it?"
"God and country." He turns his head to blow a smoke ring away from Bradford's face. "And someone has to lead these boys in the right direction."
Armstrong would say that that's the platoon commander's job. But someone has to lead the platoon commanders too.
Two days later the whole division heads out under cover of darkness, as it does every time the men go up the line. They settle in, stand to, get their orders. Bradford's head is too full of their objective for him to be nervous, and except for the reserves, the entirely of the18 Div is out here in the front lines, waiting. Just to the east is the 30 Div, and in front of them is the German line.
Their objective, as Bradford understands it, is simple – bombard the German line into oblivion, charge across No Man's Land, push the Germans back, if necessary help the 30 Div take a town called Montauban, and advance the British line.
He walks up and down the front-line trench, sometimes with Armstrong and sometimes by himself or with a platoon commander, talking quietly to his men, making sure they know their orders, seeing the excitement on their faces and the anticipation in their voices. He thinks they're as ready as they can possibly be, and he believes that in this case, heart and will should carry them if skill fails.
He is pleased to note that he remembers all of their names, and all of their faces. Once or twice he gets a name wrong, but he apologizes and blames the darkness or the fact that it's sometimes hard to see a man's face under his helmet.
"Mr Gorin, Mr Davies," he says to a couple of men sitting on the step, sharpening their bayonets. He can't imagine the blades can get any sharper, but he guesses the men need to do something. He can almost admire the confidence – or nervousness – necessary to do this kind of thing in the near-dark. "Are you ready?"
"Yes, sir," says Gorin.
"Let me see your rifles, please." He can tell he doesn't need to inspect them, but if these men are going to go to the effort to take care of their rifles, he's going to acknowledge it.
Both men hand their rifles over, Gorin eagerly but Davies with an unreadable expression on his face. Not sullen, not suspicious, not remotely insubordinate, but not a face that Bradford can read. How strange. Maybe it's just the dark that makes his expression look so odd.
He inspects the rifles one at a time, hands them back, and says "You've taken beautiful care of your weapons. Stay sharp, it shouldn't be long now."
He nods his head at them, they salute, and he walks on.
The first wave of the attack is the British guns, hurling shells and mortars across No Man's Land to smash the Germans' barbed wire defenses to pieces so the men can get through, and to destroy in advance as much of the German army and as many of its guns as possible. The noise is deafening, but the sight and sound of so much artillery pounding the German line is exhilarating.
Then the order comes down the line – "Over the hill! Charge!" – Bradford repeats it, imagines he can hear it echo up and down the trench as men scramble up and over the parapet. He is the company commander, so of course he is right in front with them. He charges out of the trench, rifle at the ready, heart pounding, yelling encouragement to his men.
And then all hell breaks loose.
words: 2149
total words: 14,143
note: we have a combination of actual research and a certain amount of making shit up. as per usual. :D i'm pretty sure i have the 18th division in the right place, tho, because they really were involved the first day of the battle of the somme.
