smackenzie (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
smackenzie) wrote2012-11-25 11:56 pm
smackenzie) wrote2012-11-25 11:56 pm
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bradford meets his friend pryce for dinner and realizes he can't talk to civilians any more
Bradford returns several salutes once inside Pryce's building, from people in uniform as well as from the occasional civilian. He even passes a couple of women in military uniforms, although what their function is he can't tell. He's really only familiar with nurses.
Pryce is working in a large studio with tables covered in giant sheets of paper, scattered notes, and half-empty cups of tea. There are several other men in the studio, some of them bent over drawing tables and some leaning against the work tables and some just standing around talking. Bradford isn't quite sure how to proceed, if he should go into the room and find Pryce himself, or if he should call his name, or if he should just collar someone walking past and ask for assistance. This is what he gets for dropping in unannounced. Part of him is surprised that everyone else in this department just let him walk right in. He wouldn't have thought his uniform and his captain's stars would get him such open access in a place crawling with military men of higher rank.
Fortunately Pryce picks that time to look up. "Harry!" he cries, sounding surprised and pleased. "What are you doing here? I heard you were in hospital. I'm sorry I couldn't come see you." He drops the pencil he was holding and trots over to the doorway. He's a bit shorter than Bradford, with a narrow face and straight blond hair. He hasn't changed at all since they were in school together, and Bradford is obscurely relieved that it doesn't cause him any anxiety to find something unchanged.
Pryce is only a second lieutenant – if he were enlisted as a fighting man his rank would be higher – but he looks quite sharp in his uniform.
"My father got them to send me home so I can finish convalescing in my own bed." He takes Pryce's hand to shake and is instead pulled into a hug. "It's good to see you. When are you done here? Would you join me for a drink and dinner?"
"Of course! We'll go to my club." Pryce glances at the clock on the ceiling. "Can you occupy yourself for a couple of hours? I can meet you right in front at six."
"That's fine." Maybe he'll see if there's an interesting film showing nearby, or if Victoria is home he can chat with her for a bit and play with the little Cuthbertsons, and decide whether or not he really wants to go to her father's theater for a play.
He ends up walking around for almost an hour, then sitting at the window in a small café with a cup of tea, just watching the crowds and trying not to think of anything much. He should have brought a book.
At six he meets Pryce at the front door of his building. The club isn’t far, Pryce says, but they could take a taxi if Bradford isn't up to walking.
It turns out that even after his hour of wandering aimlessly, another few minutes isn't a problem. They have aperitifs in the club and catch up on each other's lives and the lives of their families and mutual friends. They are joined by several older men who seem to be Pryce's friends, colleagues of his father, or friends and colleagues of any of his brothers-in-law. Pryce introduces Bradford as "Captain Henry Bradford, 11th Royal Fusiliers, 18th Division", which Bradford thinks is overkill, but the other men shake his hand and thank him effusively for his service, even more so than they might have done if they just knew he was an officer, but not which rank or with which battalion. Perhaps the news is specific about which divisions are involved in which offensives, and they know from reading the papers where he's been and what he's participated in.
He has a hard time concentrating on the dinner conversation, though, because so much of it involves people he doesn't know and things that don't matter to him, and he makes it clear early on that he really doesn't want to discuss the war or any action that he's seen.
"I told him 'This could ruin your name,'" one of the men is saying. "And now his reputation might be destroyed. It's terrible."
"His reputation," Bradford repeats flatly, suddenly paying attention.
"Is he a pacifist?" Pryce asks curiously.
"Goodness, no!" the man protests. "He's staunchly loyal to king and country. It isn't that. It's... personal, and a bit professional. You wouldn't believe the rumors."
"Has he been accused of anything?" Bradford asks. "Is he worried about prison time, hard labor? Is he worried he'll be sent to the front?"
"Harry," Pryce says under his breath, putting a calming hand on Bradford's arm. Bradford forces himself to pick up his wine glass and take a drink, to keep himself from saying anything more.
He realizes he's furious with this man, this middle-aged blowhard with no sense of perspective, no idea what the rest of the world is like. He hopes his fury doesn't show on his face, and from a quick glance sideways at Pryce, he doesn't think it does.
He remembers Armstrong bleeding on his tunic and being left to die in No Man's Land in the Somme. He remembers Dwyer, one of the battalion engineers, half buried by a collapsing funk hole. He remembers a signaller, so new to the battalion he'd never learned the man's name, being brought back from a late-night wire-laying excursion dead from a sniper's bullet in the throat. He remembers slogging through flooded trenches, filthy water almost up to his thighs and his boot nearly lost to the sucking mud. He remembers a shell that fell in the trench and killed two men from D Company who were making tea. He remembers mud and rats and lice, men shaving their heads, boiling their clothes when they could and soaking them in petrol when they couldn't. He remembers men with trench foot and frostbite and fever. He remembers Beauchamp, sixteen years old, lied to get into the army, who was hit by a mortar and screamed in pain and cried for his mother as Bradford helped two orderlies hold him down so Craig could amputate his shattered leg at the knee. He remembers Cuthbertson nearly squeezing his hand off as a corporal picked shrapnel out of his side. He remembers having to practically carry Davies across his shoulders after a shell hit the trench and buried him in mud and burst sandbags.
He remembers fields of the dead and dying, British and Commonwealth and French and German. He remembers a nurse at a casualty clearing station covered in blood to her shoulders, the stuff even in her hair. He remembers sharing trenches with dead men and body parts. And he remembers, because he will never forget it, the first night in Montauban Alley, his first experience of actual battle, of the way this war was being fought, walking up and down the line talking to the men, trying to get an accurate count of how many there still were, and later, sitting on the edge of a bunkbed with Cuthbertson sleeping behind him, writing out a neat list and counting sixty-four men of C Company – his men – missing, wounded, or dead.
(That he could later revise that list is irrelevant.)
These men do not understand. They cannot understand. Even Pryce, as well-intentioned as he is and as hard as he's working on his planes, even he can't understand what it's like to have command of a company of men at the front, to know that it is your responsibility to lead them into battle and then see them safely home. And none of them will ever understand what it's like to inspect rows of men at the ready, their boots muddy with the clay of France, and know in your heart that many of them will never see England again.
"If you will excuse me, gentlemen," Bradford says, remembering his manners as he stands up. He needs to get out of here.
"Are you unwell?" Pryce asks, solicitous as everyone has been.
"I just need some air."
"Let me come with you. You don't look well. We shouldn’t be long," he says to the men around the table, who all nod agreeably. One of them half stands, apparently as another way of showing some respect for their uniforms and Bradford's service.
"I'm sorry, Leslie," Bradford apologizes once they're outside. "I overreacted. I don't know what's wrong with me."
"I think you've been too long at the front."
"I only got there in May."
"Well, you're home now." He peers at Bradford's face. "You really don't look well. You look tired."
"I think I'd like to go home. It was a pleasure seeing you, and I'd love to see you again – and I'll let you know I'm coming – but I don't think I can go back inside and sit with those… old men. They don't know, Leslie, and I can't educate them. I can't make them see what it's really like out there. And I can't sit there and listen to them blather about things that don't matter as if it's the end of the world." I've seen the end of the world. It died in the Somme.
"Well, to some men their reputation is the only thing that matters, and losing it is worse than death. I'm not saying I necessarily agree, but I understand. I'm not unaware, Harry – I work for the war too, you know. But you are in no fit state to go home. You won't sleep. Come back to my place. We'll have a drink, I'll have a pipe, we'll calm you down. I promise not to say anything to get you all worked up."
"Thank you, but – "
"No. No 'but'. Wait here and I'll get our coats. We can walk if you want, or I'll have them get us a taxi." And without another word Pryce goes back inside the club, returning a few minutes later with their coats and Bradford's hat.
They hail a taxi and ride in silence to Pryce's house, a tall and narrow white townhouse in Knightsbridge.
"This is new," Bradford comments as they go inside and Pryce takes his overcoat and hat.
"It was supposed to be Gwennie's house – they thought they would come back to London, but now Albert is managing his father's business they've elected to stay up near Birmingham. She isn't happy but Albert is doing so well that she can't argue."
Pryce is the youngest of four, and his parents' only son after three daughters. The girls are all married – Gwendolyn is the youngest, followed by Octavia and Selena – but only Octavia still lives in London.
"Do you live here alone?" Bradford asks. The house is dark and silent, and half the furniture is covered with dust sheets.
"Myself and a housekeeper. She comes in every day to sweep and press my shirts and keep an eye on me, really. I think she reports back to Tavia. She makes me breakfast every morning because no one thinks I can take care of myself." He rolls his eyes, amused at his family. Bradford grins at him. Pryce is many things, but as the youngest and most coddled of the Pryce children - by his sisters as well as his parents – self-sufficient he is not, and Bradford is surprised he only has a staff of one.
"Come into the study," Pryce says, heading towards the back of the house. Bradford follows.
words: 1946
total words: 42,757
note: actual research for the irrelevant details - where exactly pryce lives, and whether or not he'd be wearing a uniform as an engineer working on fighter planes for the raf but not actually cleared to fight. the mental picture for his studio/working area comes from this photo of the drafting room at the ford motors bomber plant during ww2, showing men lying on top of an immense table drafting on huge sheets of paper.
Pryce is working in a large studio with tables covered in giant sheets of paper, scattered notes, and half-empty cups of tea. There are several other men in the studio, some of them bent over drawing tables and some leaning against the work tables and some just standing around talking. Bradford isn't quite sure how to proceed, if he should go into the room and find Pryce himself, or if he should call his name, or if he should just collar someone walking past and ask for assistance. This is what he gets for dropping in unannounced. Part of him is surprised that everyone else in this department just let him walk right in. He wouldn't have thought his uniform and his captain's stars would get him such open access in a place crawling with military men of higher rank.
Fortunately Pryce picks that time to look up. "Harry!" he cries, sounding surprised and pleased. "What are you doing here? I heard you were in hospital. I'm sorry I couldn't come see you." He drops the pencil he was holding and trots over to the doorway. He's a bit shorter than Bradford, with a narrow face and straight blond hair. He hasn't changed at all since they were in school together, and Bradford is obscurely relieved that it doesn't cause him any anxiety to find something unchanged.
Pryce is only a second lieutenant – if he were enlisted as a fighting man his rank would be higher – but he looks quite sharp in his uniform.
"My father got them to send me home so I can finish convalescing in my own bed." He takes Pryce's hand to shake and is instead pulled into a hug. "It's good to see you. When are you done here? Would you join me for a drink and dinner?"
"Of course! We'll go to my club." Pryce glances at the clock on the ceiling. "Can you occupy yourself for a couple of hours? I can meet you right in front at six."
"That's fine." Maybe he'll see if there's an interesting film showing nearby, or if Victoria is home he can chat with her for a bit and play with the little Cuthbertsons, and decide whether or not he really wants to go to her father's theater for a play.
He ends up walking around for almost an hour, then sitting at the window in a small café with a cup of tea, just watching the crowds and trying not to think of anything much. He should have brought a book.
At six he meets Pryce at the front door of his building. The club isn’t far, Pryce says, but they could take a taxi if Bradford isn't up to walking.
It turns out that even after his hour of wandering aimlessly, another few minutes isn't a problem. They have aperitifs in the club and catch up on each other's lives and the lives of their families and mutual friends. They are joined by several older men who seem to be Pryce's friends, colleagues of his father, or friends and colleagues of any of his brothers-in-law. Pryce introduces Bradford as "Captain Henry Bradford, 11th Royal Fusiliers, 18th Division", which Bradford thinks is overkill, but the other men shake his hand and thank him effusively for his service, even more so than they might have done if they just knew he was an officer, but not which rank or with which battalion. Perhaps the news is specific about which divisions are involved in which offensives, and they know from reading the papers where he's been and what he's participated in.
He has a hard time concentrating on the dinner conversation, though, because so much of it involves people he doesn't know and things that don't matter to him, and he makes it clear early on that he really doesn't want to discuss the war or any action that he's seen.
"I told him 'This could ruin your name,'" one of the men is saying. "And now his reputation might be destroyed. It's terrible."
"His reputation," Bradford repeats flatly, suddenly paying attention.
"Is he a pacifist?" Pryce asks curiously.
"Goodness, no!" the man protests. "He's staunchly loyal to king and country. It isn't that. It's... personal, and a bit professional. You wouldn't believe the rumors."
"Has he been accused of anything?" Bradford asks. "Is he worried about prison time, hard labor? Is he worried he'll be sent to the front?"
"Harry," Pryce says under his breath, putting a calming hand on Bradford's arm. Bradford forces himself to pick up his wine glass and take a drink, to keep himself from saying anything more.
He realizes he's furious with this man, this middle-aged blowhard with no sense of perspective, no idea what the rest of the world is like. He hopes his fury doesn't show on his face, and from a quick glance sideways at Pryce, he doesn't think it does.
He remembers Armstrong bleeding on his tunic and being left to die in No Man's Land in the Somme. He remembers Dwyer, one of the battalion engineers, half buried by a collapsing funk hole. He remembers a signaller, so new to the battalion he'd never learned the man's name, being brought back from a late-night wire-laying excursion dead from a sniper's bullet in the throat. He remembers slogging through flooded trenches, filthy water almost up to his thighs and his boot nearly lost to the sucking mud. He remembers a shell that fell in the trench and killed two men from D Company who were making tea. He remembers mud and rats and lice, men shaving their heads, boiling their clothes when they could and soaking them in petrol when they couldn't. He remembers men with trench foot and frostbite and fever. He remembers Beauchamp, sixteen years old, lied to get into the army, who was hit by a mortar and screamed in pain and cried for his mother as Bradford helped two orderlies hold him down so Craig could amputate his shattered leg at the knee. He remembers Cuthbertson nearly squeezing his hand off as a corporal picked shrapnel out of his side. He remembers having to practically carry Davies across his shoulders after a shell hit the trench and buried him in mud and burst sandbags.
He remembers fields of the dead and dying, British and Commonwealth and French and German. He remembers a nurse at a casualty clearing station covered in blood to her shoulders, the stuff even in her hair. He remembers sharing trenches with dead men and body parts. And he remembers, because he will never forget it, the first night in Montauban Alley, his first experience of actual battle, of the way this war was being fought, walking up and down the line talking to the men, trying to get an accurate count of how many there still were, and later, sitting on the edge of a bunkbed with Cuthbertson sleeping behind him, writing out a neat list and counting sixty-four men of C Company – his men – missing, wounded, or dead.
(That he could later revise that list is irrelevant.)
These men do not understand. They cannot understand. Even Pryce, as well-intentioned as he is and as hard as he's working on his planes, even he can't understand what it's like to have command of a company of men at the front, to know that it is your responsibility to lead them into battle and then see them safely home. And none of them will ever understand what it's like to inspect rows of men at the ready, their boots muddy with the clay of France, and know in your heart that many of them will never see England again.
"If you will excuse me, gentlemen," Bradford says, remembering his manners as he stands up. He needs to get out of here.
"Are you unwell?" Pryce asks, solicitous as everyone has been.
"I just need some air."
"Let me come with you. You don't look well. We shouldn’t be long," he says to the men around the table, who all nod agreeably. One of them half stands, apparently as another way of showing some respect for their uniforms and Bradford's service.
"I'm sorry, Leslie," Bradford apologizes once they're outside. "I overreacted. I don't know what's wrong with me."
"I think you've been too long at the front."
"I only got there in May."
"Well, you're home now." He peers at Bradford's face. "You really don't look well. You look tired."
"I think I'd like to go home. It was a pleasure seeing you, and I'd love to see you again – and I'll let you know I'm coming – but I don't think I can go back inside and sit with those… old men. They don't know, Leslie, and I can't educate them. I can't make them see what it's really like out there. And I can't sit there and listen to them blather about things that don't matter as if it's the end of the world." I've seen the end of the world. It died in the Somme.
"Well, to some men their reputation is the only thing that matters, and losing it is worse than death. I'm not saying I necessarily agree, but I understand. I'm not unaware, Harry – I work for the war too, you know. But you are in no fit state to go home. You won't sleep. Come back to my place. We'll have a drink, I'll have a pipe, we'll calm you down. I promise not to say anything to get you all worked up."
"Thank you, but – "
"No. No 'but'. Wait here and I'll get our coats. We can walk if you want, or I'll have them get us a taxi." And without another word Pryce goes back inside the club, returning a few minutes later with their coats and Bradford's hat.
They hail a taxi and ride in silence to Pryce's house, a tall and narrow white townhouse in Knightsbridge.
"This is new," Bradford comments as they go inside and Pryce takes his overcoat and hat.
"It was supposed to be Gwennie's house – they thought they would come back to London, but now Albert is managing his father's business they've elected to stay up near Birmingham. She isn't happy but Albert is doing so well that she can't argue."
Pryce is the youngest of four, and his parents' only son after three daughters. The girls are all married – Gwendolyn is the youngest, followed by Octavia and Selena – but only Octavia still lives in London.
"Do you live here alone?" Bradford asks. The house is dark and silent, and half the furniture is covered with dust sheets.
"Myself and a housekeeper. She comes in every day to sweep and press my shirts and keep an eye on me, really. I think she reports back to Tavia. She makes me breakfast every morning because no one thinks I can take care of myself." He rolls his eyes, amused at his family. Bradford grins at him. Pryce is many things, but as the youngest and most coddled of the Pryce children - by his sisters as well as his parents – self-sufficient he is not, and Bradford is surprised he only has a staff of one.
"Come into the study," Pryce says, heading towards the back of the house. Bradford follows.
words: 1946
total words: 42,757
note: actual research for the irrelevant details - where exactly pryce lives, and whether or not he'd be wearing a uniform as an engineer working on fighter planes for the raf but not actually cleared to fight. the mental picture for his studio/working area comes from this photo of the drafting room at the ford motors bomber plant during ww2, showing men lying on top of an immense table drafting on huge sheets of paper.