December 17th 1914 - Flanders - The men of the second battalion the Leicestershire regiment trudge from the reserve trench towards the front line. Every footstep a struggle in the mix of clay and chalk that sticks to their feet and legs. Scattered amongst them are the small wiry Gurkha, their faces a sullen white where the cold has sapped their strength. Where they can the men from the Midlands have handed over mittens, balaclavas, mostly way too big, and, socks, which they wear on the their hands. Each man has a blanket, it is already wet. They are a sorry looking group that is expected to hold the line for a week. On reaching the forward positions they relieve the men from Manchester, six days is too long to spend in the literally shitty holes cut in the banks of the trench, most of these unfortunates have black fingernails and are shivering uncontrollably. It will take them three hours to get back to a rest area and some warmth, many will be shipped home with trench foot or even frostbite. They cannot wait to go, they all start the trek even before those relieving them have emptied the communications trench, their officers amongst them. They push past those oncoming without a word, anxious to get away. Last to join the troops in the forward company position is Lieutenant Colonel Blackader, a pragmatic, he has news for the officers that most are not going to like. He sends a runner to assemble them as he pushes his way into the command centre, surveys it for a minute or so, throws his map pouch on the valise at the back, so that his man knows his choice, then lights his pipe, sucking a great cloud of smoke deep inside. Small packets of grease proof paper are handed out to the men, it contains a sandwich made up of doorsteps of bread cut from great french loaves, salty butter and jam, quite delicious in the right place but not nearly enough for lunch when you are cold and wet. The incoming men break off into small groups, friends forged by three months fighting, they search for clean places to snuggle together, mostly each of the holes left by the men from the north west is disgusting, the northerners, unable or unwilling to trudge back to the latrines have defecated where they lay. With cries of anguish the new force has to clean the trenches before they can begin to find comfort. The smartest newcomers have filled sacks with coke, and carried these between them, it is not long before new dugouts are created in the side wall of the near end of the communications trench, here they will light a small fire, hanging a piece of tarpaulin over the doorway, men will go there to warm up and dry socks and mittens. For the next week they will not change their clothes. Blackader has assembled the officers in the small but rather neat command dugout. “Some news, tomorrow, we will attack from this position two companies, plus the Gurkha and some sappers, its not a major push but our turn to distract the enemy from attacking the French near Arras.” In the now already smoke filled dirt room there are two types of reaction, those that have done this before, a company probe can be expensive, hang their heads, whilst the newcomers, some straight from Sandhurst, look up with a sparkle in their eye – time to show the Hun, they cannot wait to get at them. .
Posted on: Thu, 18 Dec 2014 15:29:33 +0000
Trending Topics
Recently Viewed Topics
© 2015