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smackenzie"Yelled at us to do something," the orderly continues. Davies can see his sleeve. He's a corporal. Must be with the Royal Army Medical Corps. "You were covered with mud. We couldn't even tell if you were hurt or not."
"Was I?"
"Not as bad as you'd think, for being dug out of a trench. A lot of bruising, no broken bones." He finishes his inspection and pulls the blanket back up. "Good thing you were wearing your helmet. You're a lucky man, Private Davies."
Davies guesses he is.
He's a bit scratched up and now he has an impressive dent in his helmet where the corporal tells him he was hit by a large and fairly solid clod of mud, but nothing's broken or barely even strained, although he's stiff and sore. And they need the bed, so they kick him out of the first aid station with the suggestion that if he feels genuinely injured, he can go on to the dressing station.
"They're likely full up with wounded, though," the corporal says, "so you're probably better off just staying here."
Captain Bradford comes by one more time before Davies is released, and stands next to the cot to ask how he is.
"Doing ok, Captain," Davies says. His back hurts, but Dr Craig, the battalion medical officer, told him it was just back strain, nothing serious, and he'd be fine. "Nothing's broken and I have a hard head."
"Good. That's what Corporal Morris told me but I wanted to hear it from you. I took the liberty of telling Lt Fiske and the rest of your platoon what happened, and that you weren't seriously injured. They were worried."
"Ah, Captain Bradford," says Dr Craig, appearing suddenly. "A word, if I may? And Mr Davies, I hate to boot you out but we do need the bed." He gestures to Captain Bradford and the two of them actually walk out of the room. Davies is mildly curious what they have to talk about – he hopes it isn't him – but now the corporal is helping him sit up and put his boots on so he can leave, and he realizes he'll never know.
"Naylor's been telling people you suffocated," Powell tells him when he gets back to his platoon.
"What, to death?" Davies asks. He turns to Naylor, who was wounded back in July, like Lt Fiske, but has been patched up and returned to the front. "Do I look like I suffocated?"
"Half the trench fell on you," Naylor says defensively. "What were we supposed to think?"
"Captain Bradford dug me out and hauled me to the first aid station. As you can see, I'm fine." He doesn't feel a need to tell them about how his back and shoulders are strained and that his neck is sore. Compared to Naylor, who took a bullet in the calf, he's in pretty perfect shape.
"And we're glad," Powell says, slapping him on the back. "The lieutenant didn't want to write to your parents that you'd been killed by a wall. Pretty ironic, that, for a bricklayer."
A shell coincidentally whines overhead and lands on the ground closer to the reserve trench. The men hunch down as it goes over, staying down until they hear it hit dirt. Davies realizes that he has unconsciously moved into the middle of the trench, rather than seeking unreliable shelter against the wall. He notices Powell looking at him with understanding.
"Any word on how long we're going to be out here?" Davies asks, to stave off any questions or any more comments about his close brush with death by mudslide.
"Until General Haig gets his head out of his ass," Naylor mutters.
"No, to answer your question," Powell says. "Germans haven't left, we haven't moved, the only thing going anywhere is lots of artillery."
Which of course brings another shell, this one actually falling into the trench off to their left. Davies can swear he feels the ground shake. They hear someone call for stretcher bearers.
"That our company?" Powell asks, but no one knows.
Later they find out that it was, and a couple of men from another platoon were wounded, probably badly enough to get them sent home.
"Lucky devils," Naylor mumbles.
Davies would like to argue that point – there's being sent home with an injury and then there's being sent home without a limb – but Captain Harris comes down the line to make sure they're all wearing their helmets and have their rifles to hand, and he loses his chance.
It is now cold enough at night that the men sleep two to a funk hole, or crowded into dugouts to make the best of their body heat. Lt Fiske warns them about frostbite. Captain Bradford warns them about frostbite. One of the RAMC orderlies even makes a quick tour of the line to warn the men about frostbite. And with good reason – the trenches are still wet and muddy and parts of them are still quite flooded, and the army has not seen fit to issue the men with the most waterproof kit possible, and frostbite (on the legs and feet especially) is a very real possibility.
Ada and Caro and Davies' mum send him a muffler and some socks, as well as a knit hat and a pair of very ugly mittens which are so ungainly that he only wears them to sleep in, or if he's sure he won't have to hold anything. Powell laughs at them, but Powell's sister knows how to knit.
The battalion spends what seems like a long time at the front line, still trying to dislodge the Germans and hold their own hard-fought-for position. Davies' platoon is shelled and mortared by the enemy and drenched by Mother Nature, but even though the men bitch and complain to each other, they write non-committal (and occasionally cheery) letters home so as not to worry their families. There is sometimes conflict when someone is wounded – poor Beauchamp loses his leg to a mortar – and someone else wants a little love and sympathy from family. There's some comfort to be gained from a confessional letter home. But all the same, Davies does not tell his parents or his half-sisters about being buried by a fallen trench wall, nor does he tell them that his company commander most likely saved his life.
Which is probably fair, come to think of it, because Davies saved his company commander's life when they were on patrol – the patrol that ended with Morehouse shot in the arm and shoulder – by pushing him into a shell crater to avoid being machine-gunned or sniped.
Davies no longer knows what to think about his company commander, though, other than the fact that he has never felt quite as close to a man from such different circumstances. Not that Davies has known many posh people in his life, because he hasn't, and not that he feels inordinately close to the captain, because he doesn't, but still, there's an odd connection now that he can't explain and doesn't entirely trust.
But he does think he can trust Captain Bradford to look out for his physical safety, because the captain seems determined to look after everyone.
Towards the end of October they go over the top again, to try and take a trench north of Thiepval. The weather is cold and wet and miserable, and the ground is a soaking wet mess, and the British shellling of the German line isn't as successful as was hoped. The Germans beat them back, and it's not until November that the battalion helps take the trench.
And by now they've seen snow, which Davies shares in his letters home. It doesn't snow in London all that often, and the first time they're snowed on at the front, he's actually a bit excited. His excitement soon fades, though, when he realizes that the platoon will have to fight in it, and even if they're not sent over the parapet onto slippery, icy, snow-covered No Man's Land, they'll have to live in it in the trenches.
He does not write home about that. But he does ask for some gloves.
The battalion is part of one last push in the middle of November, moving north towards a river in a last attempt to get the Germans out. They attack in the snow and sleet, slipping and falling all over the place, some of the men unable to even fire their rifles because their hands are so stiff with cold. Lt Fiske leads the platoon charge but Captain Bradford isn't far from him, and for a while it seems as if both of them intend to lead the platoon. Davies can't keep them both in his sights, but he has charged up closer to the captain with Powell right behind him when a shell falls not that far away, peppering Davies with little fragments (painful but nowhere near fatal).
This is of course followed by gunfire from the German line. Davies can see men falling – some hit, some dropping to the ground for safety – and is about to yell for Powell to make sure he's ok when he sees Captain Bradford go down. Davies crawls over to him. The captain looks surprised, mostly, and a little determined, as if the hole in his side and the one in his arm are not enough to keep him from the charge.
"Mr Davies," he says, sounding as surprised as he looks, his breath coming in little puffs of smoke. "Help me up."
"You're shot," Davies tells him.
"I know, I – what?"
"Shot. In the side and the arm. Captain."
Captain Bradford goes white. He takes a deep breath, tries to move, and blood wells out of the wound in his side. Davies slaps both hands down on it, trying to stop the bleeding just enough that he can maybe dress it with the captain's field dressing.
"Mr Davies. Go. We need to push the Germans north. I can wait for – " His face scrunches up in pain. "Stretcher bearers. I can wait." He grabs Davies' wrist with the hand on his uninjured arm. His grip is strong for someone who's just been shot twice.
Davies looks up and around. Men are charging past them, now that the German gunfire has stopped, but he can't see what exactly they're charging at. Are they winning their objective? Pushing the Germans back? Taking another trench?
"You'll be disciplined," Captain Bradford goes on. "Come back for me if you have to." He squeezes Davies' wrist. "Can't stay here."
Davies remembers suddenly before their first offensive back in July, before almost half his battalion was killed or injured, being told not to stop for anyone who fell. Stretcher bearers would bring up the rear to collected the wounded.
But he knows men died in No Man's Land because the stretcher bearers couldn't get to them, and they couldn't get back to the line on their own.
Captain Bradford releases his wrist. "Get my first aid kit and then go."
Davies fumbles with the pocket of the captain's tunic that contains the packet of gauze dressings, gets one out, and presses it against the bleeding wound. Captain Bradford covers it with his hand.
"Hope no one saw you do that," he says, and winks. "Go on."
Davies finally shoves himself to his feet and follows his platoon.
words: 1830
total words: 35,879
note: i kind of conflated two attacks at the end here, but whatever, in real life they happened all of four days apart. there really was snow and sleet, tho. and men in the british army really were told not to stop for the wounded during an advance.
"Was I?"
"Not as bad as you'd think, for being dug out of a trench. A lot of bruising, no broken bones." He finishes his inspection and pulls the blanket back up. "Good thing you were wearing your helmet. You're a lucky man, Private Davies."
Davies guesses he is.
He's a bit scratched up and now he has an impressive dent in his helmet where the corporal tells him he was hit by a large and fairly solid clod of mud, but nothing's broken or barely even strained, although he's stiff and sore. And they need the bed, so they kick him out of the first aid station with the suggestion that if he feels genuinely injured, he can go on to the dressing station.
"They're likely full up with wounded, though," the corporal says, "so you're probably better off just staying here."
Captain Bradford comes by one more time before Davies is released, and stands next to the cot to ask how he is.
"Doing ok, Captain," Davies says. His back hurts, but Dr Craig, the battalion medical officer, told him it was just back strain, nothing serious, and he'd be fine. "Nothing's broken and I have a hard head."
"Good. That's what Corporal Morris told me but I wanted to hear it from you. I took the liberty of telling Lt Fiske and the rest of your platoon what happened, and that you weren't seriously injured. They were worried."
"Ah, Captain Bradford," says Dr Craig, appearing suddenly. "A word, if I may? And Mr Davies, I hate to boot you out but we do need the bed." He gestures to Captain Bradford and the two of them actually walk out of the room. Davies is mildly curious what they have to talk about – he hopes it isn't him – but now the corporal is helping him sit up and put his boots on so he can leave, and he realizes he'll never know.
"Naylor's been telling people you suffocated," Powell tells him when he gets back to his platoon.
"What, to death?" Davies asks. He turns to Naylor, who was wounded back in July, like Lt Fiske, but has been patched up and returned to the front. "Do I look like I suffocated?"
"Half the trench fell on you," Naylor says defensively. "What were we supposed to think?"
"Captain Bradford dug me out and hauled me to the first aid station. As you can see, I'm fine." He doesn't feel a need to tell them about how his back and shoulders are strained and that his neck is sore. Compared to Naylor, who took a bullet in the calf, he's in pretty perfect shape.
"And we're glad," Powell says, slapping him on the back. "The lieutenant didn't want to write to your parents that you'd been killed by a wall. Pretty ironic, that, for a bricklayer."
A shell coincidentally whines overhead and lands on the ground closer to the reserve trench. The men hunch down as it goes over, staying down until they hear it hit dirt. Davies realizes that he has unconsciously moved into the middle of the trench, rather than seeking unreliable shelter against the wall. He notices Powell looking at him with understanding.
"Any word on how long we're going to be out here?" Davies asks, to stave off any questions or any more comments about his close brush with death by mudslide.
"Until General Haig gets his head out of his ass," Naylor mutters.
"No, to answer your question," Powell says. "Germans haven't left, we haven't moved, the only thing going anywhere is lots of artillery."
Which of course brings another shell, this one actually falling into the trench off to their left. Davies can swear he feels the ground shake. They hear someone call for stretcher bearers.
"That our company?" Powell asks, but no one knows.
Later they find out that it was, and a couple of men from another platoon were wounded, probably badly enough to get them sent home.
"Lucky devils," Naylor mumbles.
Davies would like to argue that point – there's being sent home with an injury and then there's being sent home without a limb – but Captain Harris comes down the line to make sure they're all wearing their helmets and have their rifles to hand, and he loses his chance.
It is now cold enough at night that the men sleep two to a funk hole, or crowded into dugouts to make the best of their body heat. Lt Fiske warns them about frostbite. Captain Bradford warns them about frostbite. One of the RAMC orderlies even makes a quick tour of the line to warn the men about frostbite. And with good reason – the trenches are still wet and muddy and parts of them are still quite flooded, and the army has not seen fit to issue the men with the most waterproof kit possible, and frostbite (on the legs and feet especially) is a very real possibility.
Ada and Caro and Davies' mum send him a muffler and some socks, as well as a knit hat and a pair of very ugly mittens which are so ungainly that he only wears them to sleep in, or if he's sure he won't have to hold anything. Powell laughs at them, but Powell's sister knows how to knit.
The battalion spends what seems like a long time at the front line, still trying to dislodge the Germans and hold their own hard-fought-for position. Davies' platoon is shelled and mortared by the enemy and drenched by Mother Nature, but even though the men bitch and complain to each other, they write non-committal (and occasionally cheery) letters home so as not to worry their families. There is sometimes conflict when someone is wounded – poor Beauchamp loses his leg to a mortar – and someone else wants a little love and sympathy from family. There's some comfort to be gained from a confessional letter home. But all the same, Davies does not tell his parents or his half-sisters about being buried by a fallen trench wall, nor does he tell them that his company commander most likely saved his life.
Which is probably fair, come to think of it, because Davies saved his company commander's life when they were on patrol – the patrol that ended with Morehouse shot in the arm and shoulder – by pushing him into a shell crater to avoid being machine-gunned or sniped.
Davies no longer knows what to think about his company commander, though, other than the fact that he has never felt quite as close to a man from such different circumstances. Not that Davies has known many posh people in his life, because he hasn't, and not that he feels inordinately close to the captain, because he doesn't, but still, there's an odd connection now that he can't explain and doesn't entirely trust.
But he does think he can trust Captain Bradford to look out for his physical safety, because the captain seems determined to look after everyone.
Towards the end of October they go over the top again, to try and take a trench north of Thiepval. The weather is cold and wet and miserable, and the ground is a soaking wet mess, and the British shellling of the German line isn't as successful as was hoped. The Germans beat them back, and it's not until November that the battalion helps take the trench.
And by now they've seen snow, which Davies shares in his letters home. It doesn't snow in London all that often, and the first time they're snowed on at the front, he's actually a bit excited. His excitement soon fades, though, when he realizes that the platoon will have to fight in it, and even if they're not sent over the parapet onto slippery, icy, snow-covered No Man's Land, they'll have to live in it in the trenches.
He does not write home about that. But he does ask for some gloves.
The battalion is part of one last push in the middle of November, moving north towards a river in a last attempt to get the Germans out. They attack in the snow and sleet, slipping and falling all over the place, some of the men unable to even fire their rifles because their hands are so stiff with cold. Lt Fiske leads the platoon charge but Captain Bradford isn't far from him, and for a while it seems as if both of them intend to lead the platoon. Davies can't keep them both in his sights, but he has charged up closer to the captain with Powell right behind him when a shell falls not that far away, peppering Davies with little fragments (painful but nowhere near fatal).
This is of course followed by gunfire from the German line. Davies can see men falling – some hit, some dropping to the ground for safety – and is about to yell for Powell to make sure he's ok when he sees Captain Bradford go down. Davies crawls over to him. The captain looks surprised, mostly, and a little determined, as if the hole in his side and the one in his arm are not enough to keep him from the charge.
"Mr Davies," he says, sounding as surprised as he looks, his breath coming in little puffs of smoke. "Help me up."
"You're shot," Davies tells him.
"I know, I – what?"
"Shot. In the side and the arm. Captain."
Captain Bradford goes white. He takes a deep breath, tries to move, and blood wells out of the wound in his side. Davies slaps both hands down on it, trying to stop the bleeding just enough that he can maybe dress it with the captain's field dressing.
"Mr Davies. Go. We need to push the Germans north. I can wait for – " His face scrunches up in pain. "Stretcher bearers. I can wait." He grabs Davies' wrist with the hand on his uninjured arm. His grip is strong for someone who's just been shot twice.
Davies looks up and around. Men are charging past them, now that the German gunfire has stopped, but he can't see what exactly they're charging at. Are they winning their objective? Pushing the Germans back? Taking another trench?
"You'll be disciplined," Captain Bradford goes on. "Come back for me if you have to." He squeezes Davies' wrist. "Can't stay here."
Davies remembers suddenly before their first offensive back in July, before almost half his battalion was killed or injured, being told not to stop for anyone who fell. Stretcher bearers would bring up the rear to collected the wounded.
But he knows men died in No Man's Land because the stretcher bearers couldn't get to them, and they couldn't get back to the line on their own.
Captain Bradford releases his wrist. "Get my first aid kit and then go."
Davies fumbles with the pocket of the captain's tunic that contains the packet of gauze dressings, gets one out, and presses it against the bleeding wound. Captain Bradford covers it with his hand.
"Hope no one saw you do that," he says, and winks. "Go on."
Davies finally shoves himself to his feet and follows his platoon.
words: 1830
total words: 35,879
note: i kind of conflated two attacks at the end here, but whatever, in real life they happened all of four days apart. there really was snow and sleet, tho. and men in the british army really were told not to stop for the wounded during an advance.
