smackenzie (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
smackenzie) wrote2012-11-12 11:56 pm
smackenzie) wrote2012-11-12 11:56 pm
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i don't think i'm doing the battle of the somme justice...
It takes a long time, what with the shelling and the exhausted men and the darkness and the confusion, but after a while he's pretty sure he has as accurate a count as he's going to get right now. He can only add one name, and that's Armstrong. He takes his notes back to battalion HQ to write them up more coherently and to take some comfort from the fact that Cuthbertson has stretched out on one of the beds, or at least as much as he can, and has gone to sleep.
Bradford started out with a hundred and seventy men, all in fighting condition. Tonight, in Montauban Alley, he has a hundred and six.
He needs to lie down. He needs a drink. He knows that in a few hours he'll have to order the men to stand to and wait for a German counterattack. He knows that he'll need someone to (hopefully temporarily) replace Armstrong. He knows he needs direction for the next attack, because he also knows there will be a next attack, because he realizes that even if the 18 Div has achieved its objective – and the 30 Div to the east – that doesn't mean the rest of the army has, and high command will no doubt order them to advance even farther.
The quartermaster appears in front of him and offers him a flask. Bradford takes it gratefully. The brandy inside it is not very good brandy, but it's the best he's going to get and he'll take it. He rips a page out of his personal diary, copies his casualty list onto it, and takes it to Berridge. The battalion commander should know how many men are left. There are already several sheets of paper on the table Berridge is using as a desk, and Bradford can tell that at least two of them are also lists of names.
Berridge takes it without a word.
"Two platoon commanders and my second in command are among the missing, sir," Bradford says quietly. "Another platoon commander is wounded." Some of the men he talked to were adamant that Patterson had fallen early enough in the attack and close enough to the starting trench to crawl to safety. But as for Fiske and Putnam, no one knew for sure. And Armstrong, well, Bradford wants to think he's ok, but it seems dishonest to mark him as anything other than "missing" until they know for sure.
"We lost a lot of men," Berridge says. He sounds tired and unhappy. "Stand to in a few hours. Get some rest. We'll sort out command when it's light."
He sounds like Bradford does talking to the men of C Company - Get some rest. There are only four beds in battalion HQ and now all of them are taken. He would wake Cuthbertson up just enough to tell him to shove over so they can share, but neither of them are short men, and the beds aren't quite wide enough for two to sleep. Besides, Bradford still has blood on his tunic, and he's muddy as well from his crawling back and forth under the barbed wire on his rescue excursion. He wouldn't want to sleep next to himself.
He does somehow manage to get some shut-eye, but Cuthbertson wakes him in time for stand to, which he is now told will be followed by inspection (but unfortunately not breakfast, as the German shelling has made it exceptionally difficult to resupply the battalion) and possibly an attempt to consolidate forces with the 30 Div to the east.
So passes another day in Montauban Alley, with the trench being shelled by Germans and Bradford trying to keep his men in good spirits. He gets permission from Berridge to recommend a couple of men for promotion to platoon commander, to replace the missing. He also gets permission to recommend someone for promotion to company second in command. The men seem to be holding up pretty well, all things considered – they've collected themselves into their separate platoons on their own and even though they're all tired and muddy and hungry, and no small number of them are wounded, none of them seem afraid. Bradford doesn't think he should be impressed at their mental fortitude, but he is.
"Well," Cuthbertson says, "are you afraid?"
"I don't know."
"Then you probably aren't."
They do try to consolidate with the 30 Div, which has been holding the ruined town of Montauban since yesterday. They still can't really send anyone out to gather the dead and wounded in any numbers, but they can at least send runners and small patrols. Messages trickle through, from battalion to battalion and back and forth between brigade and divisional HQ. The battalion sergeant who was wounded last night and left with the 2nd Bedfordshire is brought back. Bradford is able to revise his casualty list to more accurately account for some missing men who turn up that afternoon.
And when he can, he continues walking up and down the line, talking to his men, occasionally giving orders, inspecting their rifles and the rest of their kit, getting reports from the few sentries, encouraging them to rest or eat or work as appropriate, telling them they're doing a good job.
Two days after taking the Alley, they climb back out of it in the early dark hours of morning and take the woods to the north without incident.
By now the German shelling has more or less stopped, and a relief division can come through, and the 18th Div can make its exhausted way back to the reserve trenches for a quick rest and better medical attention than can be given on the front line.
They cross ground cratered with shell holes and littered with bodies and body parts. Bradford tries not to look, and tries to keep his men from stopping. One of the privates collapses and has to be carried, but whether he is suffering from physical wounds or a mental breakdown, no one is sure.
Bradford never does find Armstrong. Berridge suggests he write to Armstrong's family to let them know, so they don't have to see his name in the casualty lists in the papers. It's a tricky thing, writing to a man's family to tell them he might be dead, or he might still be alive, you don't know. But this is part of job too, and his responsibility for his men extends to their families back home.
"It's not a letter I ever want to write again," he admits to Cuthbertson in the battalion HQ in the reserve trench back behind the front line. This dugout isn't quite as solid as the dugout they used for HQ in Montauban Alley, but it will suffice, and at least it's reasonably dry. Scattered rain has turned this trench, like so many others, into a muddy slide. "I know, I know," he adds at Cuthbertson's look, "chances are I'll have to write many more of them before the war's over."
"I didn't want to say it," Cuthbertson says. "Are you at all comforted by the fact that we were one of the few divisions that actually achieved our objective?"
"Was that due to luck or skill?"
Cuthbertson shrugs. "The grace of god, maybe."
"Do you think he'll see us through this offensive?"
Another shrug. Cuthbertson digs through his pockets until he finds his cigarettes. The pack is a bit muddy from being dropped in the trench earlier, but at least it's dry and so are his matches. He holds the pack out to Bradford, who shakes his head.
"The grace of god and Major General Maxse," Cuthbertson answers, lighting his cigarette. He takes a few puffs and asks "How's your mood?"
Now it's Bradford's turn to shrug. "Buoyed up by my men, if you can believe that."
"And here I thought it was your job to cheer them up." Cuthbertson grins.
"No, that's your job." Bradford grins back. His mood isn't bad, considering, as long as he doesn't think about the missing and the dead. He's heard about some of the other divisions, what they did and didn't achieve and how many they lost, and he's been kept up to date as Berridge gets new orders and makes new plans, and based on his own experiences and some of the stories he's heard, he doesn't believe the Somme offensive will be as quick and decisive as Haig seems to think. They're looking at months of this – trenches and shells and machine guns and many men dead for little ground gained.
And yet. His men give him hope. They saw the same things he did, experienced the same horror, are less philosophically equipped to handle it, and are still a tight fighting unit, still ready to defend their ground and push for more.
words: 1360
total words: 20,814
note: major general ivor maxse was the actual commander of the 18th division during the battle of the somme. (and probably later, but i haven't read that much farther up the timeline.)
Bradford started out with a hundred and seventy men, all in fighting condition. Tonight, in Montauban Alley, he has a hundred and six.
He needs to lie down. He needs a drink. He knows that in a few hours he'll have to order the men to stand to and wait for a German counterattack. He knows that he'll need someone to (hopefully temporarily) replace Armstrong. He knows he needs direction for the next attack, because he also knows there will be a next attack, because he realizes that even if the 18 Div has achieved its objective – and the 30 Div to the east – that doesn't mean the rest of the army has, and high command will no doubt order them to advance even farther.
The quartermaster appears in front of him and offers him a flask. Bradford takes it gratefully. The brandy inside it is not very good brandy, but it's the best he's going to get and he'll take it. He rips a page out of his personal diary, copies his casualty list onto it, and takes it to Berridge. The battalion commander should know how many men are left. There are already several sheets of paper on the table Berridge is using as a desk, and Bradford can tell that at least two of them are also lists of names.
Berridge takes it without a word.
"Two platoon commanders and my second in command are among the missing, sir," Bradford says quietly. "Another platoon commander is wounded." Some of the men he talked to were adamant that Patterson had fallen early enough in the attack and close enough to the starting trench to crawl to safety. But as for Fiske and Putnam, no one knew for sure. And Armstrong, well, Bradford wants to think he's ok, but it seems dishonest to mark him as anything other than "missing" until they know for sure.
"We lost a lot of men," Berridge says. He sounds tired and unhappy. "Stand to in a few hours. Get some rest. We'll sort out command when it's light."
He sounds like Bradford does talking to the men of C Company - Get some rest. There are only four beds in battalion HQ and now all of them are taken. He would wake Cuthbertson up just enough to tell him to shove over so they can share, but neither of them are short men, and the beds aren't quite wide enough for two to sleep. Besides, Bradford still has blood on his tunic, and he's muddy as well from his crawling back and forth under the barbed wire on his rescue excursion. He wouldn't want to sleep next to himself.
He does somehow manage to get some shut-eye, but Cuthbertson wakes him in time for stand to, which he is now told will be followed by inspection (but unfortunately not breakfast, as the German shelling has made it exceptionally difficult to resupply the battalion) and possibly an attempt to consolidate forces with the 30 Div to the east.
So passes another day in Montauban Alley, with the trench being shelled by Germans and Bradford trying to keep his men in good spirits. He gets permission from Berridge to recommend a couple of men for promotion to platoon commander, to replace the missing. He also gets permission to recommend someone for promotion to company second in command. The men seem to be holding up pretty well, all things considered – they've collected themselves into their separate platoons on their own and even though they're all tired and muddy and hungry, and no small number of them are wounded, none of them seem afraid. Bradford doesn't think he should be impressed at their mental fortitude, but he is.
"Well," Cuthbertson says, "are you afraid?"
"I don't know."
"Then you probably aren't."
They do try to consolidate with the 30 Div, which has been holding the ruined town of Montauban since yesterday. They still can't really send anyone out to gather the dead and wounded in any numbers, but they can at least send runners and small patrols. Messages trickle through, from battalion to battalion and back and forth between brigade and divisional HQ. The battalion sergeant who was wounded last night and left with the 2nd Bedfordshire is brought back. Bradford is able to revise his casualty list to more accurately account for some missing men who turn up that afternoon.
And when he can, he continues walking up and down the line, talking to his men, occasionally giving orders, inspecting their rifles and the rest of their kit, getting reports from the few sentries, encouraging them to rest or eat or work as appropriate, telling them they're doing a good job.
Two days after taking the Alley, they climb back out of it in the early dark hours of morning and take the woods to the north without incident.
By now the German shelling has more or less stopped, and a relief division can come through, and the 18th Div can make its exhausted way back to the reserve trenches for a quick rest and better medical attention than can be given on the front line.
They cross ground cratered with shell holes and littered with bodies and body parts. Bradford tries not to look, and tries to keep his men from stopping. One of the privates collapses and has to be carried, but whether he is suffering from physical wounds or a mental breakdown, no one is sure.
Bradford never does find Armstrong. Berridge suggests he write to Armstrong's family to let them know, so they don't have to see his name in the casualty lists in the papers. It's a tricky thing, writing to a man's family to tell them he might be dead, or he might still be alive, you don't know. But this is part of job too, and his responsibility for his men extends to their families back home.
"It's not a letter I ever want to write again," he admits to Cuthbertson in the battalion HQ in the reserve trench back behind the front line. This dugout isn't quite as solid as the dugout they used for HQ in Montauban Alley, but it will suffice, and at least it's reasonably dry. Scattered rain has turned this trench, like so many others, into a muddy slide. "I know, I know," he adds at Cuthbertson's look, "chances are I'll have to write many more of them before the war's over."
"I didn't want to say it," Cuthbertson says. "Are you at all comforted by the fact that we were one of the few divisions that actually achieved our objective?"
"Was that due to luck or skill?"
Cuthbertson shrugs. "The grace of god, maybe."
"Do you think he'll see us through this offensive?"
Another shrug. Cuthbertson digs through his pockets until he finds his cigarettes. The pack is a bit muddy from being dropped in the trench earlier, but at least it's dry and so are his matches. He holds the pack out to Bradford, who shakes his head.
"The grace of god and Major General Maxse," Cuthbertson answers, lighting his cigarette. He takes a few puffs and asks "How's your mood?"
Now it's Bradford's turn to shrug. "Buoyed up by my men, if you can believe that."
"And here I thought it was your job to cheer them up." Cuthbertson grins.
"No, that's your job." Bradford grins back. His mood isn't bad, considering, as long as he doesn't think about the missing and the dead. He's heard about some of the other divisions, what they did and didn't achieve and how many they lost, and he's been kept up to date as Berridge gets new orders and makes new plans, and based on his own experiences and some of the stories he's heard, he doesn't believe the Somme offensive will be as quick and decisive as Haig seems to think. They're looking at months of this – trenches and shells and machine guns and many men dead for little ground gained.
And yet. His men give him hope. They saw the same things he did, experienced the same horror, are less philosophically equipped to handle it, and are still a tight fighting unit, still ready to defend their ground and push for more.
words: 1360
total words: 20,814
note: major general ivor maxse was the actual commander of the 18th division during the battle of the somme. (and probably later, but i haven't read that much farther up the timeline.)