FIC: Roses of Picardy [1/?]
May. 28th, 2012 09:34 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
splixTitle: Roses of Picardy
Author: Alex
Fandom: War Horse
Rating: Varies, G to NC-17
Pairing: Jamie Stewart/Jim Nicholls
Disclaimer: No money made, no harm intended. Michael Morpurgo owns War Horse and its characters.
Summary: Captured in battle, Major Jamie Stewart faces an uncertain fate.
Warnings: Violence, explicit sexual content.
Notes: A short prologue. I'm finding my feet. :)
Additional notes: Canon divergent [see pairing]
Can also be read on AO3
*
So, soon they topped the hill, and raced together
Over an open stretch of herb and heather
Exposed. And instantly the whole sky burned
With fury against them; and soft sudden cups
Opened in thousands for their blood; and the green slopes
Chasmed and steepened sheer to infinite space.
---Wilfred Owen, Spring Offensive
Death.
Only hours before the field had been golden-green, brimming with tranquil beauty, glowing sweet and pure beneath the August sunshine. Now it was a wasteland, an abattoir, littered with the dead and the dying, echoing with the screams of men and horses, reeking with the ripe, hot stench of blood and entrails, gunpowder and smoke and the recently churned raw earth.
Through this nightmare Jamie walked quietly, straight-backed, his nose tilted at an arrogant angle so that his captors would not detect the violent cacophony of rage and guilt and horror that lay behind the calm façade. His hands, hot in their tight leather gloves, clenched helplessly as the infantryman behind him gave him a vicious shove, but he scorned to even glare at the man, instead moving at quick-march. He understood enough German to realise that they were taunting him, insulting his parentage, his intelligence, his battle prowess, but he gave no sign of recognition. His gaze never rested; he scanned the field ceaselessly, searching for a familiar figure, a familiar head of bright hair, hoping against hope that he might see a reason for rejoicing amidst the carnage.
Something struck his boot, and he halted in his tracks. A young subaltern sprawled on the ground raised a hand in desperation. “Major…please….”
Jamie knelt beside the young man and took his hand, wishing he could remember his name. The boy wasn’t a day over eighteen, his cheeks still rounded with youth. Red stained his blond hair; Jamie looked at the boy’s legs, torn off below the knee, and quickly looked away again. “Courage, lad,” he said softly.
“It hurts – oh, God –“
The barrel of a weapon prodded roughly between Jamie’s shoulder blades. “Up, Tommy,” the German soldier behind him growled. “Up.”
Jamie rounded on him. “Give me a moment, for Christ’s sake,” he snarled, and turned back to the boy. “The ambulances should be along in short order, lad. Don’t lose heart.”
The boy, who was almost certainly dying, nodded tremulously. “Rotten luck, sir.”
“The worst,” Jamie agreed, and touched the boy’s cheek.
“Can you get a message to my mother and dad, sir?”
“I shall try. What is it?”
The young man’s hand scrabbled at his chest pocket. “Tell them I –“ He coughed weakly, and a reddish froth appeared at the corner of his mouth. He gave a gurgling moan, still clutching at his chest.
“Hang on, lad. Hang on.” Jamie reached into the young man’s breast pocket and withdrew a pay book, crisp and new-looking. “Is this what you wanted me to give them?”
Tears clouded the young man’s eyes. He moaned again.
Jamie clasped the book in his free hand. “Lad, listen –“ He grunted in surprise as two sets of hands grasped his arms and hauled him backward. He struggled briefly, but froze as he saw a young German officer approach the dying subaltern, pistol cocked. “No. No!” He fought to free himself from the grip of his captors, but their combined grip was steel, and his body, mind, and soul were exhausted. Nevertheless, he strained against them, trembling and enraged, writhing at the humiliation of his own impotence and knowing full well what was about to happen. “For God’s sake, no –“
The officer took aim and fired. The echoing crack of the pistol reverberated in Jamie’s ears, unnaturally loud in a sudden pocket of silence, as if the field of dying men and the ghosts of the dead had all paused for a moment to note the passing, the squandering of another young life.
Tears burned in Jamie’s eyes and throat, but he would not let them fall. He shook himself free of the soldiers’ grasp – or they simply let him go – and he glared at the young German officer, longing to wrap his hands round the man’s throat and squeeze the life from him, but he knew even the attempt would avail him nothing. Shame at his own cowardice choked him; he clenched his teeth and held the boy’s pay book in his hands.
The young officer took his cap off, revealing blond, curling hair. He met Jamie’s gaze evenly; his eyes held no malice or glee, only fatigue and sorrow. They were blue, those eyes, and superficially, he looked a bit –
Stop, Jamie commanded himself.
“Er starb als held,” the young officer said. He died a hero.
Jamie was in no mood for camaraderie, for fence-mending, for solemn tributes. “I shall be certain,” he replied icily, “to inform his parents of such.” He slipped the pay book into his pocket and knelt again, heedless of the red pool spreading in the dirt, to close the young man’s eyes. He wanted to say a brief prayer, but no words came to mind. Instead, he rose to his feet and walked on.
*
They reached the garrison town by nightfall, a woefully small group of prisoners guarded by German soldiers many times their number. Jamie moved toward the men herding what remained of his battalion toward a long brick building, but a soldier caught his arm and gestured toward another building in what looked to be the town’s public square. Angrily, Jamie shook the man’s hand off. “If my men are to be imprisoned, I wish to share their accommodations.”
“Nein,” the soldier replied, and drew his pistol. Several other men surrounded them, and one pushed Jamie in the chest. Enraged, Jamie pushed back, shoving as hard as he could and knocking the man to the ground. It was a tactical error; the brief scuffle gave the German soldiers a good reason to begin abusing him. Fists battered at his body, and he kicked out to defend himself. Someone took his cap and stepped on it. That contemptuous gesture, small as it was, undid him. He let out a howl of fury and swung in any and every direction, biting and kicking and punching with abandon. There were six or seven Germans, though, and in no time they converged upon him with fists and feet and the butts of rifles, driving him to his knees, sending his breath gusting out in huge, agonised gasps. Good. Good. Have at it, damn you.
“Hör auf damit!”
The hands holding Jamie let go, and he slumped to the ground. Through ringing ears he heard a German voice raised in anger.
“You God-damned fools! Who gave you permission to assault an officer? Get him up. Get him up!”
Jamie offered no resistance as the soldiers dragged him to his feet. Blearily, he attempted to regard the shouting officer with contempt, but it seemed too much effort. His ribs ached, a back tooth was bleeding, possibly broken, and one eye was beginning to swell shut with astonishing rapidity.
“Get him to the courthouse. Now, you fucking dogs, or I’ll have you whipped from head to toe.”
With an alacrity that would have been amusing if Jamie had had the presence of mind to register it, the soldiers quickly frog-marched him to a building of white stone and forced him into a tiny windowless room, scarcely more than a closet. They flung him toward the wall, snorting with laughter when he crashed into it and landed in a graceless heap, and closed the door, enclosing him in darkness. Jamie heard the scrape of a key in a lock, then more muttered laughter and the retreating scrape and thud of booted feet.
Jamie flung himself at the door, hammering on it with all his strength, hurling curses at his captors. He felt for the knob; there was none on this side of the door, only a smooth metal plate. Seething, he pounded at the unyielding door and roared until his fists ached and his voice was raw and cracked, and there was no reply to his banging and shouting. They’d abandoned him, at least temporarily.
Disoriented, the last of his resources exhausted, Jamie slid to his knees, his forehead resting against the heavy wood. Heavy silence filled the little windowless cell, forcing him to confront truths that the frenzy of the day’s battle had heretofore concealed. He felt his helplessness keenly, his youth, the shocking ingenuousness of the strategy he had only this very morning thought so clever, the loss of so many of his comrades.
Bitter tears at last trickled down his cheeks.
Jim. Oh, God, Jim.
*
TBC.....
Author: Alex
Fandom: War Horse
Rating: Varies, G to NC-17
Pairing: Jamie Stewart/Jim Nicholls
Disclaimer: No money made, no harm intended. Michael Morpurgo owns War Horse and its characters.
Summary: Captured in battle, Major Jamie Stewart faces an uncertain fate.
Warnings: Violence, explicit sexual content.
Notes: A short prologue. I'm finding my feet. :)
Additional notes: Canon divergent [see pairing]
Can also be read on AO3
*
So, soon they topped the hill, and raced together
Over an open stretch of herb and heather
Exposed. And instantly the whole sky burned
With fury against them; and soft sudden cups
Opened in thousands for their blood; and the green slopes
Chasmed and steepened sheer to infinite space.
---Wilfred Owen, Spring Offensive
Death.
Only hours before the field had been golden-green, brimming with tranquil beauty, glowing sweet and pure beneath the August sunshine. Now it was a wasteland, an abattoir, littered with the dead and the dying, echoing with the screams of men and horses, reeking with the ripe, hot stench of blood and entrails, gunpowder and smoke and the recently churned raw earth.
Through this nightmare Jamie walked quietly, straight-backed, his nose tilted at an arrogant angle so that his captors would not detect the violent cacophony of rage and guilt and horror that lay behind the calm façade. His hands, hot in their tight leather gloves, clenched helplessly as the infantryman behind him gave him a vicious shove, but he scorned to even glare at the man, instead moving at quick-march. He understood enough German to realise that they were taunting him, insulting his parentage, his intelligence, his battle prowess, but he gave no sign of recognition. His gaze never rested; he scanned the field ceaselessly, searching for a familiar figure, a familiar head of bright hair, hoping against hope that he might see a reason for rejoicing amidst the carnage.
Something struck his boot, and he halted in his tracks. A young subaltern sprawled on the ground raised a hand in desperation. “Major…please….”
Jamie knelt beside the young man and took his hand, wishing he could remember his name. The boy wasn’t a day over eighteen, his cheeks still rounded with youth. Red stained his blond hair; Jamie looked at the boy’s legs, torn off below the knee, and quickly looked away again. “Courage, lad,” he said softly.
“It hurts – oh, God –“
The barrel of a weapon prodded roughly between Jamie’s shoulder blades. “Up, Tommy,” the German soldier behind him growled. “Up.”
Jamie rounded on him. “Give me a moment, for Christ’s sake,” he snarled, and turned back to the boy. “The ambulances should be along in short order, lad. Don’t lose heart.”
The boy, who was almost certainly dying, nodded tremulously. “Rotten luck, sir.”
“The worst,” Jamie agreed, and touched the boy’s cheek.
“Can you get a message to my mother and dad, sir?”
“I shall try. What is it?”
The young man’s hand scrabbled at his chest pocket. “Tell them I –“ He coughed weakly, and a reddish froth appeared at the corner of his mouth. He gave a gurgling moan, still clutching at his chest.
“Hang on, lad. Hang on.” Jamie reached into the young man’s breast pocket and withdrew a pay book, crisp and new-looking. “Is this what you wanted me to give them?”
Tears clouded the young man’s eyes. He moaned again.
Jamie clasped the book in his free hand. “Lad, listen –“ He grunted in surprise as two sets of hands grasped his arms and hauled him backward. He struggled briefly, but froze as he saw a young German officer approach the dying subaltern, pistol cocked. “No. No!” He fought to free himself from the grip of his captors, but their combined grip was steel, and his body, mind, and soul were exhausted. Nevertheless, he strained against them, trembling and enraged, writhing at the humiliation of his own impotence and knowing full well what was about to happen. “For God’s sake, no –“
The officer took aim and fired. The echoing crack of the pistol reverberated in Jamie’s ears, unnaturally loud in a sudden pocket of silence, as if the field of dying men and the ghosts of the dead had all paused for a moment to note the passing, the squandering of another young life.
Tears burned in Jamie’s eyes and throat, but he would not let them fall. He shook himself free of the soldiers’ grasp – or they simply let him go – and he glared at the young German officer, longing to wrap his hands round the man’s throat and squeeze the life from him, but he knew even the attempt would avail him nothing. Shame at his own cowardice choked him; he clenched his teeth and held the boy’s pay book in his hands.
The young officer took his cap off, revealing blond, curling hair. He met Jamie’s gaze evenly; his eyes held no malice or glee, only fatigue and sorrow. They were blue, those eyes, and superficially, he looked a bit –
Stop, Jamie commanded himself.
“Er starb als held,” the young officer said. He died a hero.
Jamie was in no mood for camaraderie, for fence-mending, for solemn tributes. “I shall be certain,” he replied icily, “to inform his parents of such.” He slipped the pay book into his pocket and knelt again, heedless of the red pool spreading in the dirt, to close the young man’s eyes. He wanted to say a brief prayer, but no words came to mind. Instead, he rose to his feet and walked on.
*
They reached the garrison town by nightfall, a woefully small group of prisoners guarded by German soldiers many times their number. Jamie moved toward the men herding what remained of his battalion toward a long brick building, but a soldier caught his arm and gestured toward another building in what looked to be the town’s public square. Angrily, Jamie shook the man’s hand off. “If my men are to be imprisoned, I wish to share their accommodations.”
“Nein,” the soldier replied, and drew his pistol. Several other men surrounded them, and one pushed Jamie in the chest. Enraged, Jamie pushed back, shoving as hard as he could and knocking the man to the ground. It was a tactical error; the brief scuffle gave the German soldiers a good reason to begin abusing him. Fists battered at his body, and he kicked out to defend himself. Someone took his cap and stepped on it. That contemptuous gesture, small as it was, undid him. He let out a howl of fury and swung in any and every direction, biting and kicking and punching with abandon. There were six or seven Germans, though, and in no time they converged upon him with fists and feet and the butts of rifles, driving him to his knees, sending his breath gusting out in huge, agonised gasps. Good. Good. Have at it, damn you.
“Hör auf damit!”
The hands holding Jamie let go, and he slumped to the ground. Through ringing ears he heard a German voice raised in anger.
“You God-damned fools! Who gave you permission to assault an officer? Get him up. Get him up!”
Jamie offered no resistance as the soldiers dragged him to his feet. Blearily, he attempted to regard the shouting officer with contempt, but it seemed too much effort. His ribs ached, a back tooth was bleeding, possibly broken, and one eye was beginning to swell shut with astonishing rapidity.
“Get him to the courthouse. Now, you fucking dogs, or I’ll have you whipped from head to toe.”
With an alacrity that would have been amusing if Jamie had had the presence of mind to register it, the soldiers quickly frog-marched him to a building of white stone and forced him into a tiny windowless room, scarcely more than a closet. They flung him toward the wall, snorting with laughter when he crashed into it and landed in a graceless heap, and closed the door, enclosing him in darkness. Jamie heard the scrape of a key in a lock, then more muttered laughter and the retreating scrape and thud of booted feet.
Jamie flung himself at the door, hammering on it with all his strength, hurling curses at his captors. He felt for the knob; there was none on this side of the door, only a smooth metal plate. Seething, he pounded at the unyielding door and roared until his fists ached and his voice was raw and cracked, and there was no reply to his banging and shouting. They’d abandoned him, at least temporarily.
Disoriented, the last of his resources exhausted, Jamie slid to his knees, his forehead resting against the heavy wood. Heavy silence filled the little windowless cell, forcing him to confront truths that the frenzy of the day’s battle had heretofore concealed. He felt his helplessness keenly, his youth, the shocking ingenuousness of the strategy he had only this very morning thought so clever, the loss of so many of his comrades.
Bitter tears at last trickled down his cheeks.
Jim. Oh, God, Jim.
*
TBC.....
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2012-05-29 04:12 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-05-29 04:16 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-05-29 04:23 am (UTC)I only watched War Horse for the first time last week, and the look on Jim’s face as he’s riding, slow mo, into hell undid me quite early on.
I have exactly the same reaction to the last two minutes of Blackadder Goes Forth, as it happens. Grief for all those poor boys.
Beautifully written, but I have to go away and sit quietly for a while now.
no subject
Date: 2012-05-29 04:27 am (UTC)And I know what you mean...I've been reading WW1 poetry all day and I feel more than a little upset. But it will get better.
no subject
Date: 2012-05-29 04:39 am (UTC)It's the utter pointlessness of that war that gets to me. Again, Blackadder, for a comedy, made some salient points, incuding the comment taht the war happened because it was easier to let it happen than to stop it. And the absolute, vile horror of 19th century tactics with 20th century weaponry, and so many people died in so short a time for so little reason.
My great grandfather, who I never knew terribly well, was gassed on the fields of France in that war. Mainly I remember he had one of those tubes in his throat so he could breathe and talk, a consequence of the mustard gas. My grandfather fought in New Guinea in WWII. My dad was in the RAAF and was sent to Vietnam for one tour. My brothers are the first in four generations who were not *required* to go to war. I am profoundly and unspeakably grateful for this fact.
See. I said I should go away and sit quietly for a while. Your story is excellent so far, and I'm looking forward to more, even if it makes me existentially sad.
no subject
Date: 2012-05-29 04:46 am (UTC)We have something in common - my maternal grandfather, who was only a kid of seventeen in WWI, was also gassed in France. While he didn't have a tube in his throat, he had lung problems for the rest of his life, and frequent bouts of pneumonia as well. I remember seeing him bedridden more than once because of it. Three of my maternal uncles fought in WWII, and several first cousins in Vietnam. Two died there.
War is filthy, and rarely in the end is anyone or anything bettered for it.
I do hope you continue to read. Thank you for your kindness.
no subject
Date: 2012-05-29 04:53 am (UTC)But actually, also because you are handling the subject with skill, respect and sensitivity. :)
no subject
Date: 2012-05-29 04:57 am (UTC)And he does have the sweetest face, doesn't he? Love him. :D
no subject
Date: 2012-05-29 08:25 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-05-29 02:13 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-05-29 02:23 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-05-29 04:58 am (UTC)[Sigh, and I know it's a wip. BUT I WANTED TO *g*]
no subject
Date: 2012-05-29 02:15 pm (UTC)Also, I thought it was entirely right that Jamie had that moment of feeling like he 'deserved' to get beaten up for surviving.
*nod* Probably not half as much penance as he thinks he deserves, either.
Thank you again!
no subject
Date: 2012-05-29 07:32 am (UTC)Oh God, you had me blurring up at the title! I told you before about my Grandad, who was wounded in WWI and had the Military Medal and that was his favourite song.
I have always found this war particularly distressing and poignant and the last couple of minutes of Blackadder Goes Forth break my heart every time. We studied the First World war poets at school also. I haven't seen the movie, mainly because of the way I feel about the War, but I am along for the ride too. This is a sad, but promising beginning, beautifully written as always and I am looking forward to reading more.
no subject
Date: 2012-05-29 02:20 pm (UTC)I gave
no subject
Date: 2012-05-29 07:46 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-05-29 08:39 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-05-30 03:28 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-05-30 03:30 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-05-30 03:42 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-05-30 03:43 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-05-30 03:37 pm (UTC)I'm amazed that so many of us had grandfathers who were gassed in that war. Yes, I had one too. He died an old man when I was eleven, but I remember the comfortable chair that he slept in at night. He could not sleep lying down because of lung damage from that long ago war.
no subject
Date: 2012-05-30 03:53 pm (UTC)Considering the decimation that took place, I'm sort of amazed that our grandfathers survived, aren't you? I can't imagine having to live with the aftereffects of that brutality for the rest of one's life.
Thank you so much for reading and commenting! I appreciate it. :)
no subject
Date: 2012-05-30 08:24 pm (UTC)I remember watching WH and being frustrated at all the stories I would just start to get into and then have a scene change and we would never find out what happened. BC's role was all of 10 minutes, but I could sense a history of his character from the brief time he was on screen and the fact that we never got to find out his fate was so frustrating! So thank you for this!
no subject
Date: 2012-05-30 09:28 pm (UTC)I know what you mean about the film. I've read books like that too - drives me nuts. I'm really, really looking forward to exploring him, because BC really imbued the character with a lot of life and texture, as did TH with Jim. Thanks so much for reading! :)