February MGWAT

[Michael Johnson]

Basically anything or anyone who is not "at the sharp end", in the sense of having fighting as their primary task. Obviously this excludes infantry, artillery (an exception for ammunition columns) and cavalry. Other than that there are no exclusions.

Animals qualify.

Let the games begin!

[ypres1418]

Ok, will have to think on this one, nothing coming to mind at the moment.

oh yes there is, now off to word to start writing it!!!!!!

mandy

[Guest soren1916]

What about spies?

[Landsturm]

From "Blackadder Goes Forth":

Captain Darling: "So you see, Blackadder, Field Marshal Haig is most anxious to eliminate all these German spies."

General Melchett: "Filthy Hun weasels fighting their dirty underhand war!"

Captain Darling: "And, fortunately, one of our spies--"

General Melchett: "Splendid fellows, brave heroes, risking life and limb for Blighty!"

[Landsturm]

I needed some practice in drawing animals After several sketches of "ammunition/artillery columns in the mud", I decided to focus on something smaller, instead of making a huge landscape. After all, the poor animals had to go through the same conditions as the men.

"Dunn worry, ol' lass. We're in this together".

So, here's mine:

[Guest soren1916]

Love it Lands, gotta be a winner!

[Ozzie]

Landsturm, your best entry yet.

Fantastic!

Kim

[ypres1418]

Landstrum, if you need practise with animals there is no hope for me! LOL

Excellent

Mandy

[susanhemmings]

I LOVE that sketch. It is top class......

well done Landsturm.....

[squirrel]

Landsturm, excellent!

I was thinking of doing something about a mule............perhaps I'll have a rethink.

[Gunboat]

I agree with the other Lands....that is one of your very best. Again I love you choice of media...kinds of adds to the melancholy of the thought of a poor innocent animal dragged into war.

[Landsturm]

Thanks for kind words... and Squirrel, rethink your rethinking, go ahead with a mule if you had a good idea.

[Michael Johnson]

Alright, here's mine. Dedicated to my grandfather, Pte. John Johnson, 3rd Divisional Supply Column, C.A.S.C. (True, he didn't get overseas, but his mates did).

How was my leave? Anything away from here's heaven. Well, there was one thing that burned me some. Last night there I decide to attend a dance. Lots of girls waiting to be asked (say what you like about the War, it's cut out a lot of the competition for the girls). So I check my hair and go up to a real looker. "Would you like to dance?" I said, smiling. She looks up, and her eyes light on my shoulder title. "Service Corps." she says, like she smells something bad, "I only dance with real soldiers."

And I thought of Jones, crushed when a load shifted in the back of the lorry he was riding in. I thought of the day near Bapaume when our convoy of GS wagons was caught by artillery fire in a sunken road, with no place to take shelter, and the horses rearing and neighing in fear and pain. I thought of my muscles screaming as we shifted yet another load at the railhead – 48 hours without sleep - for the third time in a month.

Stupid cow, I thought to myself. And I turned to go.

Then a Fusilier sitting at the next table walked over. He looked at the girl and shook his head . "Have you ever sat in mud, trying to save your water bottle, and wondering whether to eat that last biscuit in your haversack? Then you see Ally Sloper's Cavalry arriving with dixies of food and tea. They've got angels' wings, as far as I'm concerned. No, they don't get the glory, but they die just as easily as we do. Lady, you've just been asked by a real soldier, but you're not worth it." Then he turned to me, and said: "Let me buy you a pint."

[Ozzie]

Oh, Micheal, fanatastic!

Made me teary.

Kim

[Landsturm]

Very good!

[ypres1418]

Michael,

that brings it home to you doesn't it.

Still trying to put something together but it isnt happening,

Mandy

[Ozzie]

The sand whips around us, into our eyes and ears. No matter how hard we try to turn our rumps to the wind, our riders turn us back. My soldier mutters obscenities but our soldiers are like us, they must do as they are told.

My hooves sink into the deep sand, sometimes past my fetlocks, and I stumble. My soldier reaches forward, running his hand up and down my neck, “C’mon old boy, nearly there, not much further.”

He tries to kid me, but from past experience, we horses know that it is always further, always longer. Our last water was a day ago, when the sun rose. But the sun has set, and risen again, and still we have not had water. At the last ten minute rest, my soldier tipped the last of his water from his bottle, and wiped it over my eyes and muzzle. It felt so good. I put my head on his shoulder, looking for more, but he gently stroked my forelock, mumbling words I could not understand.

Two nights ago, on the piquet line, Blue and Lizzy got loose, and cantered off into the desert. I don’t know what they thought they might find. There is no water, no grass out here. The Lt's voice sounded very angry, we could hear him shouting, and some soldiers saddled up, to go and look for them.

Blue and Lizzy came back by themselves, very tired, and told us that there was nothing but sand, everywhere.

The Lt. yelled again, because the soldiers were late in getting back, and Blue and Lizzy were already returned.

There is a feeling running through the troop.

The soldiers are talking quietly, seriously. There is no laughter. Their bodies are tense when they touch us.

Something is about to happen.

It runs up and down the piquet line. It starts as a shuffle of hooves, then whinnying, and the pawing of the ground. The soldiers move amongst us, words of comfort on their lips.

“Steady there, whoa.”

But we know. We have been through this before.

Before the sun rises, our soldiers are at our sides, grooming the sand from our coats, picking our hooves. Our nose bags are fastened about our ears. Dry grain again. No water, we don’t feel like eating.

The blanket goes on, then the saddle. The girth tightened, and the word to mount is bellowed out. My soldier settles his weight into the saddle. My tired muscles are sore, but the pain soon settles down to a dull ache as we form up, and move out.

Rosy is horsing, and just my luck, is number two beside me. Squealing, and cow kicking whenever we get close. Her soldier gives her a jab with the spurs, but a few minutes later, she is at it again.

The order comes to spread out. We know that sound, the drone of a man made bird overhead. Not one of ours, but one who sends thunder and lightening down about our ears.

After a few minutes, the sound has gone, and we reform, continuing our way through the desert sand.

A halt is called, beneath the tall thin trees of an oasis. The water smells wrong, but we are thirsty, trying to get a drink; our soldiers hold us firm. We stand, our heads down, trying to brush each other with our tails, to keep away the flies.

Our soldiers talk quietly amongst themselves; we, we just wait.

Again, tenseness ripples through the ranks. Some of the nervy horses start to dance up and down on the spot. Charlie just snorts, and closes his eyes against the sun’s glare.

My soldier strokes my neck. He tells me, “It’s on, old boy. We’re going in.”

Tightening the reins, he steps into the stirrup, and settles into the saddle.

I can feel the expectation in him, the excitement. It is in the extra pressure of his legs on my girth, the tighter rein. We hear the command, and form into troops. We follow those ahead of us, first at the trot, then the canter, at last we are in a flat out gallop.

The noise starts. The whistles overhead, the crashing, the banging. The screams of men and horses, as metal flies into them. The dry acrid smoke that chokes us. Men are yelling, bullets whizzing past.

I stumble as a pain shoots up my leg. Then I feel a thump against my chest. I gallop on, all my mates around me. I toss my head, trying to see the way. It is smoky, and the noise! The sweat is streaming down my sides, and my breath is coming in great gulps. My soldier sits as still as he can, giving me every chance. I veer to the right as I feel the familiar fearful whizzing above me. Sharp hot pain rips through my rump. I am frightened now. I hear a dull thump, and my soldiers hands loosen on my reins. His legs flap about my ribs. My companions are still racing forward, their nostrils red, their mouths foaming.

But I am lost. There is no help from my soldier.

My pace slows as my body weakens; warm fluid runs down my sides. I smell the sickly tang of blood. It confuses me. It is harder for me to breath, my legs feel weak, and I stumble, crashing to the ground. My soldier lies beside me, moaning, his hand gripping the reins. I try to get my forelegs under me, but they will not move. The sand beneath me becomes dark and slimy. My soldier’s hand stretches towards my muzzle, and I hear his voice faintly among the noise.

“We did good, old mate. We did good.”

[ypres1418]

Kim, very moving, thanks,

Mandy

[squirrel]

Good stuff here!

I've given up on the mule thing after a couple of hours it just woudln't flow and seemed to be a rehash of something else. I'll have another think.

[Guest soren1916]

scrap the last one, this one is more fitting!:

Airedale and RAMC

http://picasaweb.google.co.uk/passchendael...799108117639618

[ypres1418]

a lovely one soren,

Mandy

[Gunboat]

Michael, another excellent entry I really enjoyed it and a really good take on the theme.

Kim, you have such an understanding of horses and this really comes out in this, I am not normally a fan of anthropomorphism but you do it so well. I have said before that your skill at this and your background being so immersed with horses and other animals just calls out for you to write a childrens book.

Soren, I like this as well your use of colour is just wonderful and again another good take on the theme.

Squirrell stop being as stubborn as your intended subject matter and get on with it

[Michael Johnson]

Welland Canal Force - November 1915

It's cold on the canal bank tonight; the wind is northerly off the lake, and cuts right through my greatcoat. But the moon is bright, reflecting off the snow. I try to stamp my feet to get the blood flowing, but I have to be careful, as there is ice all along the lock edge. One slip, and there's no getting back up the steep lock walls. We've already lost several men that way. The Ross is heavy on my shoulder. I check again to see that I have my one charger tucked into my belt. Five rounds to protect this vital water route, and we're not allowed to load them unless we're in trouble.

There are advantages to being in the Canal Force: off duty you can go into town for a drink. And family's nearby for most of us. But balance that with the utter boredom of guarding this canal. There's a lot of drinking goes on as a result. Some men have deserted and gone to Toronto to enlist in the C.E.F.

I turn at the end of the lock and march south, the wind at my back.

It's cold on the canal bank tonight.

44th Regiment

[Michael Johnson]

For my first piece I had originally thought of having my A.S.C. man being given a white feather by an officious type who couldn't find a young man out of uniform, so s/he tried another angle. I think the woman at the dance works better.

The second rises out of my research into the Welland Canal Force, made up of local Militia units, especially the 19th Lincoln Regiment and the 44th Lincoln and Welland Regiment. I have a Canadian Memorial Cross to Pte. Leonard Bellamy, 44th Regiment, who drowned in the Canal. More information on the WCF here: Bellamy

Michael

[Ozzie]

Mandy, Gunboat, thankyou for your comments.

Micheal I liked the one at the dance, but the second one has got my curiousity. Off to have a look at WCF.

Cheers

Kim