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Yancy
"Tarts’ Corner, Sandbag City
Dawn: November 11, 1918; River Somme
T
HEY all knew. More than anyone else the diehards of ‘Tarts’ Corner’ at the north-western end of the labyrinthine complex of trenches, nicknamed ‘Sandbag City’, outside Péronne on the north bank of the river, knew it was nearly over.
Artillery shells whined and exploded over the heads of Drillman’s Dogs. Named after B Company’s fearless sergeant major, Bill Drillman, convalescing after a shrapnel wound, out of instinct born of too much killing, superstition, rumour spawned from illusion, lies, mischief and blind optimism, every Drillman Dog knew ‘the bloody end’ was close. None wanted to get his ‘arse shot off’ before the final whistle brought to an end the deadliest game known to modern Man.
In fact, considered old men – no Drillman Dog had reached the primeval age of thirty—Privates Yancy Broadbent, ‘Olli’ Bradshaw, Corker ‘Corky’ Cuddlington, ‘Taffy’ Morgan and a queer party known as ‘The Whistler’, were all certain of it. So were Lance Corporal ‘Moley’ Christopher Wellington Mole, Sergeant Jed Harrison and Sergeant Major Bill Drillman himself at present lying in the filed hospital with shrapnel wounds to his shoulder and abdomen.
Adding to the confusion of war, none of the present incumbents of B Company – so heavy had casualties been – had ever seen their illustrious, wounded sergeant major.
Never having known, believed in, or ever would, nevertheless they prayed to a hundred gods who, likewise, did not know or believe in them and never would. Colonel Harold Heathcoate-Whyte on the other hand, did not know what to make of things and had given up all hope of realising the aspirations of his domineering father, General Sir Barrington Sopwithe Heathcoate-Whyte VC, KCMG.
He was not a Drillman Dog.
Yes, Drillman’s Dogs knew all right that the supposed Great War or Generals’ War was nearly over.
Absurd, miraculous almost, until now they had survived the bloodiest, most vicious and wasteful war known to mankind: from over 6 million, in a few hours Britain’s horrific casualty statistics would read ¾ million killed and over twice that like a disease.
Of course, nothing official would be said and no comment given, about thousands of mentally killed survivors: no longer required by country, armed forces or government, swept under the bureaucratic carpet they would be delivered by the War Office to an unfulfilled life of torment, loneliness and penury; some 300 shell-shocked men, many of whom were patriotic, underage volunteers, in fact mere boys, were crassly and inhumanely executed for ‘cowardice’.
‘Okay you lucky lads,’ yelled the fourth new young subaltern that week. O-o-o-ver the top!’
One of two remaining officers in B Company, Liverpools, the nineteen year-old’s trembling girlish high-pitched voice failed to enhance morale as German machineguns proceeded to mow down the company from a thousand yards across the muddy field. By mutual consent, working side-by-side, British and German retrieved yesterday’s corpses after the last round of the day had found or lost its target. Of the original 185 officers and men, 60 remained in a week when barely six yards had been gained, lost, retaken and lost again. In all, over 20,000 British and 15,000 Germans had perished throughout France the previous day as the slaughter continued; it was stupid, wasteful and evil – regardless of one’s point of view – pointless even to the most dedicated warmonger.
‘Jesus, Yance,’ croaked a pimply-faced butcher’s boy from Bootle.
Dawn: November 11, 1918; River Somme
T
HEY all knew. More than anyone else the diehards of ‘Tarts’ Corner’ at the north-western end of the labyrinthine complex of trenches, nicknamed ‘Sandbag City’, outside Péronne on the north bank of the river, knew it was nearly over.
Artillery shells whined and exploded over the heads of Drillman’s Dogs. Named after B Company’s fearless sergeant major, Bill Drillman, convalescing after a shrapnel wound, out of instinct born of too much killing, superstition, rumour spawned from illusion, lies, mischief and blind optimism, every Drillman Dog knew ‘the bloody end’ was close. None wanted to get his ‘arse shot off’ before the final whistle brought to an end the deadliest game known to modern Man.
In fact, considered old men – no Drillman Dog had reached the primeval age of thirty—Privates Yancy Broadbent, ‘Olli’ Bradshaw, Corker ‘Corky’ Cuddlington, ‘Taffy’ Morgan and a queer party known as ‘The Whistler’, were all certain of it. So were Lance Corporal ‘Moley’ Christopher Wellington Mole, Sergeant Jed Harrison and Sergeant Major Bill Drillman himself at present lying in the filed hospital with shrapnel wounds to his shoulder and abdomen.
Adding to the confusion of war, none of the present incumbents of B Company – so heavy had casualties been – had ever seen their illustrious, wounded sergeant major.
Never having known, believed in, or ever would, nevertheless they prayed to a hundred gods who, likewise, did not know or believe in them and never would. Colonel Harold Heathcoate-Whyte on the other hand, did not know what to make of things and had given up all hope of realising the aspirations of his domineering father, General Sir Barrington Sopwithe Heathcoate-Whyte VC, KCMG.
He was not a Drillman Dog.
Yes, Drillman’s Dogs knew all right that the supposed Great War or Generals’ War was nearly over.
Absurd, miraculous almost, until now they had survived the bloodiest, most vicious and wasteful war known to mankind: from over 6 million, in a few hours Britain’s horrific casualty statistics would read ¾ million killed and over twice that like a disease.
Of course, nothing official would be said and no comment given, about thousands of mentally killed survivors: no longer required by country, armed forces or government, swept under the bureaucratic carpet they would be delivered by the War Office to an unfulfilled life of torment, loneliness and penury; some 300 shell-shocked men, many of whom were patriotic, underage volunteers, in fact mere boys, were crassly and inhumanely executed for ‘cowardice’.
‘Okay you lucky lads,’ yelled the fourth new young subaltern that week. O-o-o-ver the top!’
One of two remaining officers in B Company, Liverpools, the nineteen year-old’s trembling girlish high-pitched voice failed to enhance morale as German machineguns proceeded to mow down the company from a thousand yards across the muddy field. By mutual consent, working side-by-side, British and German retrieved yesterday’s corpses after the last round of the day had found or lost its target. Of the original 185 officers and men, 60 remained in a week when barely six yards had been gained, lost, retaken and lost again. In all, over 20,000 British and 15,000 Germans had perished throughout France the previous day as the slaughter continued; it was stupid, wasteful and evil – regardless of one’s point of view – pointless even to the most dedicated warmonger.
‘Jesus, Yance,’ croaked a pimply-faced butcher’s boy from Bootle.
110 pages, Kindle Edition
First published January 31, 2012
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