Posts Tagged ‘1854’

Modern Marines in Combat Dress

The soldiers and Marines we see on the television today in Iraq and Afghanistan are the best equipped in history.  They carry all the paraphernalia necessary to fight a modern war.  Even in WWII, Marines landing on Pacific islands from Navy ships were pretty well equipped for their mission, and that was over sixty years ago.

WWII Navy Corpsman and wounded Marine.

Did you ever wonder what a soldier might have carried on landing from a ship in 1854, during the Crimean War?  Why I’ll bet that’s been a burning mystery for you for many years, or perhaps not.  Well, we folks obsessed with such military history minutia, we inquiring minds, want to know.  I know there’s at least one of you out there.

The British soldiers about to land in the Crimea and face “the Russian Hordes” were not in the best of shape.  Cholera and other illness had taken a toll.  Lord Raglan wanted his men to land with as light a load as possible.  A noble thought, to look out for his troops, but not a well thought out one.

He ordered that the men and officers were to carry specific items in their landing kit.  The rest was to be left behind and would catch up to them later.  Few of these professional soldiers believed that chestnut.  They were even to leave behind their knapsacks, the one place they could secret away personal items to enhance their standard of living on campaign.

They had the uniform on their backs, a spare pair of boots, a pair of socks, a cotton shirt, and a forage cap.  These things were to be rolled into a single blanket, and along with their greatcoats, they were kitted up for the fight.  This blanket roll was to be carried in their knapsack straps.  Any personal items went in their pockets, in their small haversack (which also carried rations), in the blanket roll itself, or fastened creatively to one of the above or their canteen strap.  That included their cup, mess tin and eating utensils.

Off they went.  Landing from wooden ships in long boats and barges, only to be confronted by rain and foul weather.  They had no tents, and were to sleep under the stars, which weren’t there because of the severe rain.

These gross miscalculations were only the beginning of a long, cruel, series of mistakes in judgement and conspicuous incompetence surrounding arguably the most mismanaged war in history.

Private soldier in the Crimea. Apparently a replacement later in the war, since he's wearing his knapsack

Crimean War soldiers as winter set in, heading for a cold night in the trenches before Sevastopol.

House in first real snowfall of 2009

This is the first real snow in Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, in 2009, and just before Christmas.  It is so clean, so beautiful.  makes you think of crackling log fires, snuggling warm.

Watching the snow twirl lazily down is mesmerizing, alluring, bewitching, exquisite.  Robbie, my Shelty, absolutely loves it … romping about, tossing it in the air, actually lying in it as though it was a soft white blanket. This is always my first impression.  I almost hate to walk through the first snowfall because my footprints will mar its tranquility.

Inevitably, the darker side appears, in spite of our good thoughts –  slippery streets, accidents, freezing – biting – numbing cold, airports locked in, stores out of food and a snow mound away.  As the wonderland abates, I am reminded of a studies of the Crimean War for my novel, Follow Me to Glory. The winter of 1854, and a British army totally unprepared for winter. I described it this way:

No matter how many times he’d been warned, Ian was ill prepared for what he saw when he cleared the connecting trench and moved into the much wider main trench, which formed a “T” with the zigzag leading up to it.

The men were lounging about along the trench, one man up on the fire step every eight to ten yards, his mate resting below.  Many of these soldiers had fought next to him at Inkerman, but as he passed among them, he hardly recognized anyone, either by name or that they were members of the elite Scots Fusilier Guards.

Ian’s frock coat was a bit shabby after months of service, and certainly his cloak was a wreck.  The only new item he wore was a field service cap given him by Nigel Kingscote upon his arrival back from hospital.  However, his worn and threadbare garments were nothing compared to these guardsmen.

Due to the scarcity of water, they were authorized to grow beards, and they were growing thick, long and ungroomed.  Their once bright scarlet coatees were faded and torn, with visible patches of every kind.  Some cut their high collars off for more freedom.  Many cut the swallowtails off to make patches of at least a similar colour for the upper coat.  It mattered little, because the coats had faded, turning many an odd brown-purple colour.

Trousers were patched, mud-caked and badly frayed at the bottoms, some with open holes worn through the knees.  Ankle boots were in tatters, wrapped in bits of cloth, or strips torn from haversacks, tied with rope just to hold them together.  Their wool stockings were either in bits showing above the boots or none-existent.

There were still a few bearskin caps visible.  One odd-looking bearskin had been cut open and pulled down well over the ears.  The men wore a variety of other homemade headgear, some from pieces of blanket, they ranged from turbans to haversacks pulled down.  Others had hand-knit wool caps or stockings over their heads, cutting a hole for their faces.  There were forage caps and field service caps, and a very few sealskin caps worn by the newer draft recruits.

Among some of the new recruits he also saw sealskin coats, but most of the company wore their shabby greatcoats over their tunics, wrapped in as many blankets as they possessed.  A few had lost their greatcoats and wore only blankets with holes cut in the top for their heads or wrapped round their necks and tucked into belts.  The seriously unlucky ones had lost both their blankets and greatcoats.  These were merely standing along the trench, shivering in their discoloured coatees around meagre fires glowing from holes dug into the trench side.  There was barely enough wood in the trenches to keep the tiny fires alive.

They even found a useful purpose for discarded news journals sent from home or bought or stolen locally, but not as fuel for the fires, as Ian might have suspected.  They stuffed the paper as a layer of insulation down their trousers, inside their coats.

For gloves, they wore mittens made from woollen stockings, or wrapped blanket wool around their hands, tied with string.  A resourceful few, the company quartermaster having no doubt overlooked them, even cut open the top of their bearskin caps and were using them as muffs to warm their hands.

Ian’s initial impression was that they were drugged or drunk.  They looked filthy, vermin-ridden, and were staring into empty space, leaning against the trench walls, weaving slightly, or sitting in the filth at the bottom, not caring.  Their scraggly beards were surrounded by long hair poking unceremoniously out of whatever head covering they wore.

Ian was struck by their stone-like, stoicism.  They weren’t joking or grumbling.  There was none of the expected soldierly banter as he passed through the trench.

Ian’s nostrils cringed at the putrid stench of filth and decay.  He saw, with sadness, their sunken hollow eyes, the grey pallor of their skin, chapped and cut lips.  Their blank stares reminded him of Peter’s look after the incident at Eton.  There was no light in their eyes.  The deplorable conditions were sapping them of their energy, their dignity, their pride. They looked like stooped old men, twice – three times their age.

There was only one item of equipment that was spotless and bright.  Ian had seen it with Goodlake’s lads, and he saw it again now.  In the hands of each soldier was his Minie´ rifle musket, clean, ready and fit for killing.  Ian credited this, without asking, to the vigilance of MacGregor.  No matter how hard the system beats men like these down, they will still rise up fighting given the right incentive, Ian thought.

Punch Magazine summed it up in one cartoon:

Crimean War Cartoon - Appeared in Punch Magazine

Other Ranks, 47th Regt, prepared for the tenches before Sevastopol

Other Ranks, 68th Regt, winter clothing