What A Good Soldier Does
May. 25th, 2016 03:30 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
barefoot_bardTitle: What A Good Soldier Does
Rating: K+ (Suitable for ages 13 and above)
Disclaimers: Names given in this story are fictional and any relation to actual persons, living or dead, is purely incidental. No profit is being made from this story.
Summary: A soldier reflects as he cleans his musket after a day's fighting. Fuentes de Oñoro, 1811.
Author's Note: Any factual errors that occur within are my own.
After the blistering heat of the day, it was a relief to get rid of his wool jacket and sit in his shirtsleeves. A mug of cold tea sat on the ground by his left knee and, by his right, the remnants of his meagre dinner lay on his pattered tin plate. Between his outstretched legs lay the various small parts of his musket lock, safely laid out on a large blue square of linen. The stripped-down musket itself lay across his knees but, for the moment, was forgotten. The lock itself was in one hand and held all of his attention. A few yards away from the worn soles of his leather shoes, the small fire somebody had so painstakingly built flickered and crackled, giving off just enough heat to ward off the worst of the deeping chill of the advancing twilight. The subdued chatter of the men of his mess, huddled around the fire, provided a a low hum of background noise to help ease the persistent echoes of battle from his ears.
What a day. It was not the worst he had ever known but neither was it the easiest. He picked carefully at a small hard edge of powder in the base of the pan, the sharp point of his folding knife gently scraping against metal. Powder seemed to have a way of of sticking to the toughest of places. That was the funniest thing about powder. Well. That and the fact that there was never enough powder - or cartridges, anyway - to make it through a complete battle. He'd burned through all of his cartridges around midday and had been obliged to filch them from the boxes of the dead and wounded in order to keep firing. It had made for a long, long day. And he was slowing scraping away the memories of those hours of hard fighting that had consumed the day with each careful flick of his knife. A deuced long, bloody day. He ran a calloused thumb over the pan, grimaced briefly, and applied the tip of the knife blade again.
"You gonna drink that, Sarge?"
"How many times I got to tell you, I ain't a sergeant no more," he grunted, not looking up.
"Oh aye, right. Sorry. I always forget," saild Michael Oakes, slinging himself carelessly down nearby. "S'good to see you're still with us, y'know, Tobbs."
Joe Tobbin twitched his shoulders in a shrug, his gaze flicking upward for a moment. "Weren't me day to go."
"Sure. Nor mine. Been a coupla near misses though."
"S'pose so. Put the mug down, cock."
Oakes grinned, setting the mug down again. "If you ain't gonna drink it..."
"I will, when I'm gaggin' for it. You seen Ted anywhere?"
"Everett? No. He ha'ant been 'round since Mister Rudkin fell. You need him?"
"Nah. Just ponderin'." It was hardly Oakes' business why he was asking, anyway. Tobbin laid his knife aside so he could rescue the tea mug from any further attempts on it by Oakes. A half-interested sip told him that Bill Tavers had made the tea that evening. The stingy bastard just didn't understand the importance of a strong cuppa after the sort of day they'd all had. With a grimace, Tobbin scooped up the crusty bits of burnt powder and dumped them into the mug. It was no replacement for more leaves but... it was not as bad, at least.
"D'you reckon tomorrer'll be bad too?"
"Prolly. Ain't like the Frogs to not gi' us as much mither's they can." He set the mug down by his plate, safely out of Oakes' reach, and set about changing his flint.
"I s'pose. They know how to a fight of it, that's sure."
Tobbin grunted, holding up the old flint to inspect it. Beginning to chip. He'd figured as much. He set it aside onto the linen square and fished around in his breadbag for a new one. Oakes' comment about the French was no revelation. Not to him. He'd fought them enough to know very well how tough a foe they could be. And were. They had shown their toughness yet again today and they'd do the same again tomorrow, and the day after, if a third day of battle was offered. There was no way to know how long it might go on on this particular ground. The only thing to do was clean your musket, change your flint, and sharpen your bayonet. The three things any good soldier attended to at the first opportunity.
"You's not very jawsy tonight," Oakes observed after a lengthy pause.
"Nope." What was the point in wasting breath on idle chatter? If there was anything to say, he'd say it. Otherwise, Tobbin saw no need to flap his gums.
The younger soldier grinned. "Shame! Reckoned you'd wanna crow a bit, really. I heard you was in top form today. Better-most'n old Jack, even, the lads was sayin'."
A tickle of heat went up the back of Tobbin's neck. That was a complete load of bollocks. Jack Farris was by far the most experienced soldier in the battalion. To be rated as better than old Jack... it was laughable. Completely.
"Gi' yer head a wobble," Tobbin told him, tightening down the doghead screw. Youngsters like Oakes simply did not know their own impertinence. Or the insult they offered to the reputation of a lad like old Jack. A man could not be elevated by being likened to that old sweat without there being a slur cast against the name of that same old sweat. Slander. That was the word an officer would use to describe it. It fit, beyond a doubt.
Unsurprisingly, Oakes laughed. But he wouldn't be bothered, would he? "It's a fair comment, me ol' northern-bred mate. Everybody in the line today wud - "
For God's sake. "Ain't you got picquet duty or summat?"
"Oh aye, s'pose I do. In a bit."
"So whyn't you piss off an' do yer duty, then?"
"Well sure. Get the sand outta yer drawers." Sounding annoyed, Oakes heaved himself to his feet. Tobbin ignored his departure, his attention more properly fixed on his musket lock as he reassembled it. One piece at atime. The way it should be done. He could not quite keep the memories of the day from swirling around his head, though. Not after Oakes had so thoughtlessly poked at them. To be fair to the lad, he was not wholly wrong. Tobbin had always been fast but it was rare for him to touch four rounds a minute. Today, he had done it consistently for the best part of the battle. But things had been desperate once or twice, especially after they'd been pushed back to the upper part of the village. To fire as fast as possible for as long as possible was the only sure way to survive. They all knew that. Even the young fool Oakes.
Tobbin fitted the reassembled lock into place in the musket stock, gently tapping the rounded end of his screwdriver against the plate to help seat the lock properly. As he tightened each screw, he thought about the half-hour scrap in the heart of the village, fought with the sheer ferocity of men determined to give not one more inch of ground than they could humanly avoid. That was when he'd run out of cartridges for good and had had to rely on his bayonet. Like any good soldier did when he found himself in such a situation. Oakes talked about near misses but what did he know about it? Tobbin's gaze drifted down to his jacket, lying with reach and distinctive for the patch of unfaded red on the sleeve where his chevrons had once been, and for the matching pair of holes through his left coat-tail, made by a French musket ball. Near misses. That shot certainly counted as one. He pulled the doghead back to full cock, settled the musket butt firmly into the ground between his legs so the muzzle pointed safely skyward, and pulled the trigger. The flint struck well and sparked nicely. Good. Better perhaps was the smoothness of the trigger. Everything, then, was back in top working order.
Satisfied, Tobbin allowed himself to shift his weight off the slight bulge of bandages which were concealed beneath the patched and stained white fabric of his trousers. That French ball had also grazed the back of his left thigh as it pierced his coat-tail. A near miss indeed. The pain of the wound had been, up to this moment, something he'd quietly ignored but now... well, now his musket was clean and ready to fight again, so he could get up from this hard bit of dirt. He picked up his mug and emptied with a quick sideways flick of his wrist. If nothing else, he wanted a fresh, decently made cup of tea. Squashing a grimace as he used his musket as a proper so he could get his feet under him, Tobbin thought again about the day. Near misses. Not enough cartridges. Bayonets that were, fortunately, kept sharp. Powder smoke choking throats and blinding eyes. The nerve-trembling beat of drums. And the ceaseless dry crackling of musketry from literally everywhere around. The stuff of life for any true-blooded swaddy. Before making his way toward the fire, Tobbin picked up his cartridge box, slinging its belt over his head. The box's reassuring weight settled immediately against his hip as though it belonged there. Then, with his musket in one hand and his tin mug in the other, Tobbin set off, the barest limp detectable in his gait. A young rip like Oakes might scoff at keeping his firelock to hand, since they were in bivouac, but Tobbin knew better.
After all, going anywhere without his arms was not something a good soldier did.
Rating: K+ (Suitable for ages 13 and above)
Disclaimers: Names given in this story are fictional and any relation to actual persons, living or dead, is purely incidental. No profit is being made from this story.
Summary: A soldier reflects as he cleans his musket after a day's fighting. Fuentes de Oñoro, 1811.
Author's Note: Any factual errors that occur within are my own.
After the blistering heat of the day, it was a relief to get rid of his wool jacket and sit in his shirtsleeves. A mug of cold tea sat on the ground by his left knee and, by his right, the remnants of his meagre dinner lay on his pattered tin plate. Between his outstretched legs lay the various small parts of his musket lock, safely laid out on a large blue square of linen. The stripped-down musket itself lay across his knees but, for the moment, was forgotten. The lock itself was in one hand and held all of his attention. A few yards away from the worn soles of his leather shoes, the small fire somebody had so painstakingly built flickered and crackled, giving off just enough heat to ward off the worst of the deeping chill of the advancing twilight. The subdued chatter of the men of his mess, huddled around the fire, provided a a low hum of background noise to help ease the persistent echoes of battle from his ears.
What a day. It was not the worst he had ever known but neither was it the easiest. He picked carefully at a small hard edge of powder in the base of the pan, the sharp point of his folding knife gently scraping against metal. Powder seemed to have a way of of sticking to the toughest of places. That was the funniest thing about powder. Well. That and the fact that there was never enough powder - or cartridges, anyway - to make it through a complete battle. He'd burned through all of his cartridges around midday and had been obliged to filch them from the boxes of the dead and wounded in order to keep firing. It had made for a long, long day. And he was slowing scraping away the memories of those hours of hard fighting that had consumed the day with each careful flick of his knife. A deuced long, bloody day. He ran a calloused thumb over the pan, grimaced briefly, and applied the tip of the knife blade again.
"You gonna drink that, Sarge?"
"How many times I got to tell you, I ain't a sergeant no more," he grunted, not looking up.
"Oh aye, right. Sorry. I always forget," saild Michael Oakes, slinging himself carelessly down nearby. "S'good to see you're still with us, y'know, Tobbs."
Joe Tobbin twitched his shoulders in a shrug, his gaze flicking upward for a moment. "Weren't me day to go."
"Sure. Nor mine. Been a coupla near misses though."
"S'pose so. Put the mug down, cock."
Oakes grinned, setting the mug down again. "If you ain't gonna drink it..."
"I will, when I'm gaggin' for it. You seen Ted anywhere?"
"Everett? No. He ha'ant been 'round since Mister Rudkin fell. You need him?"
"Nah. Just ponderin'." It was hardly Oakes' business why he was asking, anyway. Tobbin laid his knife aside so he could rescue the tea mug from any further attempts on it by Oakes. A half-interested sip told him that Bill Tavers had made the tea that evening. The stingy bastard just didn't understand the importance of a strong cuppa after the sort of day they'd all had. With a grimace, Tobbin scooped up the crusty bits of burnt powder and dumped them into the mug. It was no replacement for more leaves but... it was not as bad, at least.
"D'you reckon tomorrer'll be bad too?"
"Prolly. Ain't like the Frogs to not gi' us as much mither's they can." He set the mug down by his plate, safely out of Oakes' reach, and set about changing his flint.
"I s'pose. They know how to a fight of it, that's sure."
Tobbin grunted, holding up the old flint to inspect it. Beginning to chip. He'd figured as much. He set it aside onto the linen square and fished around in his breadbag for a new one. Oakes' comment about the French was no revelation. Not to him. He'd fought them enough to know very well how tough a foe they could be. And were. They had shown their toughness yet again today and they'd do the same again tomorrow, and the day after, if a third day of battle was offered. There was no way to know how long it might go on on this particular ground. The only thing to do was clean your musket, change your flint, and sharpen your bayonet. The three things any good soldier attended to at the first opportunity.
"You's not very jawsy tonight," Oakes observed after a lengthy pause.
"Nope." What was the point in wasting breath on idle chatter? If there was anything to say, he'd say it. Otherwise, Tobbin saw no need to flap his gums.
The younger soldier grinned. "Shame! Reckoned you'd wanna crow a bit, really. I heard you was in top form today. Better-most'n old Jack, even, the lads was sayin'."
A tickle of heat went up the back of Tobbin's neck. That was a complete load of bollocks. Jack Farris was by far the most experienced soldier in the battalion. To be rated as better than old Jack... it was laughable. Completely.
"Gi' yer head a wobble," Tobbin told him, tightening down the doghead screw. Youngsters like Oakes simply did not know their own impertinence. Or the insult they offered to the reputation of a lad like old Jack. A man could not be elevated by being likened to that old sweat without there being a slur cast against the name of that same old sweat. Slander. That was the word an officer would use to describe it. It fit, beyond a doubt.
Unsurprisingly, Oakes laughed. But he wouldn't be bothered, would he? "It's a fair comment, me ol' northern-bred mate. Everybody in the line today wud - "
For God's sake. "Ain't you got picquet duty or summat?"
"Oh aye, s'pose I do. In a bit."
"So whyn't you piss off an' do yer duty, then?"
"Well sure. Get the sand outta yer drawers." Sounding annoyed, Oakes heaved himself to his feet. Tobbin ignored his departure, his attention more properly fixed on his musket lock as he reassembled it. One piece at atime. The way it should be done. He could not quite keep the memories of the day from swirling around his head, though. Not after Oakes had so thoughtlessly poked at them. To be fair to the lad, he was not wholly wrong. Tobbin had always been fast but it was rare for him to touch four rounds a minute. Today, he had done it consistently for the best part of the battle. But things had been desperate once or twice, especially after they'd been pushed back to the upper part of the village. To fire as fast as possible for as long as possible was the only sure way to survive. They all knew that. Even the young fool Oakes.
Tobbin fitted the reassembled lock into place in the musket stock, gently tapping the rounded end of his screwdriver against the plate to help seat the lock properly. As he tightened each screw, he thought about the half-hour scrap in the heart of the village, fought with the sheer ferocity of men determined to give not one more inch of ground than they could humanly avoid. That was when he'd run out of cartridges for good and had had to rely on his bayonet. Like any good soldier did when he found himself in such a situation. Oakes talked about near misses but what did he know about it? Tobbin's gaze drifted down to his jacket, lying with reach and distinctive for the patch of unfaded red on the sleeve where his chevrons had once been, and for the matching pair of holes through his left coat-tail, made by a French musket ball. Near misses. That shot certainly counted as one. He pulled the doghead back to full cock, settled the musket butt firmly into the ground between his legs so the muzzle pointed safely skyward, and pulled the trigger. The flint struck well and sparked nicely. Good. Better perhaps was the smoothness of the trigger. Everything, then, was back in top working order.
Satisfied, Tobbin allowed himself to shift his weight off the slight bulge of bandages which were concealed beneath the patched and stained white fabric of his trousers. That French ball had also grazed the back of his left thigh as it pierced his coat-tail. A near miss indeed. The pain of the wound had been, up to this moment, something he'd quietly ignored but now... well, now his musket was clean and ready to fight again, so he could get up from this hard bit of dirt. He picked up his mug and emptied with a quick sideways flick of his wrist. If nothing else, he wanted a fresh, decently made cup of tea. Squashing a grimace as he used his musket as a proper so he could get his feet under him, Tobbin thought again about the day. Near misses. Not enough cartridges. Bayonets that were, fortunately, kept sharp. Powder smoke choking throats and blinding eyes. The nerve-trembling beat of drums. And the ceaseless dry crackling of musketry from literally everywhere around. The stuff of life for any true-blooded swaddy. Before making his way toward the fire, Tobbin picked up his cartridge box, slinging its belt over his head. The box's reassuring weight settled immediately against his hip as though it belonged there. Then, with his musket in one hand and his tin mug in the other, Tobbin set off, the barest limp detectable in his gait. A young rip like Oakes might scoff at keeping his firelock to hand, since they were in bivouac, but Tobbin knew better.
After all, going anywhere without his arms was not something a good soldier did.