Mentioned In Dispatches

by P. L. Wytka

  “Mustard gas?” Bill asked. He had read about it in the newspapers in England, but it had only been in use over the last month.

  Post nodded. “It’s more like hot oil floating all around you. That’s what I’ve heard anyway. It can’t get through the mask, but it burns exposed skin, causes big ugly blisters the size of your fuckin’ fist. Makes you hair fall out too, and all sorts of other scary shit. It’s worst on what they call ‘moist orifices.’ That’s your mouth, nose, pisshole, and arse. Apparently it can burn your ears and fingers right off, or melt them. Not sure if that’s true though. Smells like mustard, obviously.”

  “I’d prefer HP sauce. So what do you do when it hits you?”

  “Cover yourself up. Gloves, scarves, groundsheets; anything and everything. The problem is, like I say, it’s more like oil than gas, so it sticks to your clothes, sticks to everything. Given a cold night and a warm morning, it can freeze, thaw out, and turn to gas again. Worse still, the whole frontline is soaked in the stuff.”

  “Well I sure picked a nice time to come back. What else can you tell me about this new gas?”

  Post pointed to a pile of used gas blankets that were spread out on the parapet. “Only a good, heavy rain will really get you clean. I’ve been up to the front, and the fellows I talked to said that they’ve started using their drinking water just to rinse off any skin the gas has touched. Sometimes Fritz uses it in such small doses you can’t even tell you’ve been hit by it, ‘til a few days later. Then it starts; bloody cough, delusions, and all the other stuff I told you about already.”

  “Jesus. Well, cheaters never win, not in the end anyway.”

  Post smiled at Bill’s optimism. “‘Fair play’; I’ve taught you well. One more thing about the gas: if enough of it is used, it creates a yellow cloud, you won’t be able to see through it. So make sure you always know your surroundings and can find your way blind.”

  “Fuck, I’m blind with both my eyes wide open.”

  “I wouldn’t want you getting lost around here, Bill. The Huns have been counterattacking like crazed beasts. And both sides have been ripping the place apart with artillery. It’s worse than anything I’ve seen in a long time, and we’re going into it tomorrow.”

  Post led Bill to where Six Platoon was holding their part of the line. The men had already eaten breakfast and were engaged in various repairs and working parties. The first man they saw was Private Kellowitz.

  “I brought you a gift, Kelly. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a little meeting with some scouts from the Second. We’ll be taking over their part of the line.”

  As Post slipped away, Kellowitz embraced his old section commander. “Lance Bill, greetings!” His accent seemed thicker than Bill remembered, as if he was intentionally trying to keep it despite his exposure to Canadian and British ones.

  “Hey, Czar. How’ve you been?”

  “Good, better now you here. Love to stay and talk but I have to sandbags fill. Need to fix nest for machine-gun birds. They make do all alone.”

  “I’ll give you a hand.”

  “But you busy lancing.”

  “Not quite yet. I’ve got some spare time.”

  Soon both men were repairing a position that had been smashed by artillery, both Canadian and German. It had evidently once faced the old Canadian lines, been partly rearranged once captured, then neglected as the attack moved forward. If the frontline broke, however, such strongpoints would be vital to stem the flow of advancing Germans.

  “You be over taking Three Section again?”

  “That’s the plan; it will take a bit of time though.”

  “The sooner is better. Mageery too strict.”

  Bill exploded with laughter at the other man’s pronunciation of ‘McCreery’. Kellowitz could do better, but chose to be lazy if it meant getting Bill to smile.

  “Is true. He memorize all the books and orders, he quote to you rules about how wide is this trench, when sentry time, don’t piss in trench, go all the way to latrine, even for just piss. Piss in trench, I say. Very glad have you back, Lance Bill.”

  “Thanks, Czar, I’m glad to be back. I assume we’ve got a new man since McCreery usurped me?”

  “Yes, Dawson. Good man, knows how it works, but Macgurgy bad influence on him. I try to get him relax. He was born Britain; very sad story, but you should hear from him.”

  “And how are Payne and Stinson?”

  “Both good. Stinson walk around proud with medal. Payne not shut up about wife and kid, but happy for him.”

  “Do they ever talk about me?”

  Kellowitz stalled for time, fumbled for his elaborate cigarette case, lit two, and handed one to Bill, for once wishing he could speak better English. “Oh yes. Sometimes they say, ‘I miss Lance Bill’, other time they say, ‘Oh, if only Lance Bill are here.’ They will be happy to see again, I know this. They like you lot.”

  Bill faked a smile. It was clear that only Kellowitz was glad to have him back. Everyone else preferred to have him tucked away in a meaningless bombproof job. They didn’t understand what he had to offer. They would soon.

  *

  The scout from the Second Battalion looked his anxiousness. He would be glad when it was somebody else’s job to hold the line. “Over one hundred casualties in two and a half days.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Post whispered to himself.

  ‘Wastage’ was a known feature of trench warfare, but normally casualties inflicted while holding the line amounted to two or three men a day.

  “And it wasn’t pretty either. You’ve heard of the new gas, yeah?”

  “Sure, mustard gas.”

  “You’ll want to pass this along: keep yourself covered all the time, no matter how hot it is. Cut up whatever spare material you’ve got and make some wrist-overs. Do your puttees up tight. Cut open your stocking caps and make them into balaclavas. Sew on extra buttons and tabs around your tunic cuffs and collar. Anything, just keep that fucking stuff off you. And for the love of God, don’t dare try to wash yourself or change your clothes. If you got caught with your pants down–”

  “Thanks for the advice.”

  “I’d give you my own gear if it would help, but I’ve had to get rid of almost everything I have. And what I’ve got left is soaked in the gas.”

  “We’ll manage. It won’t be the first time we’ve had to improvise.”

  The other man snapped a finger at Post. “Aeroplanes. Watch out for them too; they strafed us once, but no one was hit. And liquid fire. A raiding party took a section of our lines for a few hours, but we bombed them out. The trick is to hit the petrol tank on the operator’s back; he and whoever is near him will go up like kindling in an instant.”

  “Flamethrowers? I never saw one in person before.”

  “Let’s hope you never do. Fuckin’ frightening they are.”

  Post didn’t scare easily, but right now he was wishing he had a bombproof job. Poison gas, aeroplanes, liquid fire; it was all so industrial and cruel. Post understood the rigours of combat better than most, but this was too much. Still, he wanted to know more.

  “Have you seen much of the fighting down south?”

  “No, but I’ve heard plenty of stories passed up the line. They’re fighting in the cellars and houses around Lens; that’s three miles south. Both sides are attacking and counterattacking like madmen; there were even two attacks that went off at the same time. Our boys and Fritz met in no-man’s land and got to work with the bayonets; they were just too damn close together for anything else. It’s bad up here, you’ll see for yourself soon enough, but I’m glad we ain’t down near Lens.”

  *

  By the following evening everything was settled, and Bill was once again in charge of Three Section. When Bill and McCreery shook hands it was more formal than friendly. Bill didn’t have anything against him personally, but he hated that anyone other than an Original had taken command of the section that he had belonged to since the beginning of the war. McCreery,
who now outranked Bill, was upset about being forced out of the section that he had belonged to for over ten months.

  “I hope you kept the men in good form while I was away,” Bill said without feeling.

  “I did my best. Stinson’s still a thrower. Payne did his bombing course six weeks ago. Kellowitz and the new man, Dawson, are carriers,” McCreery replied, giving only the most basic information.

  “Congratulations on your promotion.”

  “Thank you. Will you do me a favour, Bill?”

  “Depends.”

  “Wear your damn helmet. I’ve taught these men to play it safe over the past two months, and we’ve come through alright. I’m not trying to tell you how it is, but I’d hate to see any of them get hurt by being careless.”

  It was becoming more clear that Bill had been sent away to England not only for his own safety, but also for the safety of his men. Ever since Roy had been killed, Bill had his own feelings that perhaps he was indeed a dark cloud for those around him.

  Just after midnight the battalion moved forward. One platoon at a time was brought up to replace the exhausted men of the Second Battalion. The plan was to bring as many soldiers as possible into the deep dugouts and leave the frontline to be held by machine-gunners, bombers, and patrols. In light of the new German gas, raids, aircraft, increased artillery fire, and the possibility of a full-out attack, placing the men defensively was vital. Too many soldiers in the front trenches would make for easy targets, too few would be overtaken before the remainder could react. A collection of experts would be needed to ensure the security of the remainder of the men.

  Bill and his section were guided to a narrow trench that ran out into no-man’s land. Here, a bomber of the Second Battalion was waiting for them. “You’ll be taking over my bombing post thirty yards up. Pick one of your men and I’ll bring you to it. There’s a spot around the corner, not very deep, but practically bombproof, I’ll bring the rest of your boys there later and pick my own up. I recommended day and night shifts, it’s too stressful for a twenty-four hour go, but that’s your business.”

  It was a pretty standard setup. “Okay, thanks.”

  “I come, Lance Bill,” Kellowitz volunteered.

  “No thanks, Czar. Dawson, you’re up, let’s get to know each other.”

  “Yes, Lance Corporal,” Dawson replied in a slightly-diluted British accent.

  Bill and Dawson followed the Second Battalion bomber down the trench to a little pit at the far end. Another soldier was gathering up his gear and getting ready to move.

  “Tell them what we’ve got.”

  “Twenty bombs, four of them phosphorus. The P bombs are more for smoke cover than anything else, but it’s also the closest thing we’ve got to match their new gas. A flare pistol; ten white cartridges, three red. We try not to use either. Two hundred rounds of .303, but we try not to use that too. In case you get stuck for the long-term, eight tins of corned beef and a gallon of water, but we try not to, well, you know.”

  Bill nodded his head in the darkness, then realizing the futility of the gesture, whispered. “Sounds good, thanks.”

  White flares were for illuminating no-man’s land. They could stop an enemy patrol in its tracks, but only for a minute or two. Once the light died out, there was a good chance that the man who fired it off would too. Red flares were used to signal an enemy attack and request artillery fire.

  “Okay, that’s it. Any questions?” The Second Battalion man asked.

  “No,” Bill replied, happy to have such a well-equipped outpost to call his home for the next few days.

  “Oh, and the pins on those bombs have been straightened for fast pulling, so be gentle with ‘em. Good luck.”

  “You too.”

  Once the two men were gone, Bill settled in, dropping his equipment in a pile, and digging through his pack for Hal’s scarf. Next, he unfolded his groundsheet and pulled it over himself. “You can take the first shift sleeping, Dawson. We’ll have our talk in the morning.”

  Dawson held back a yawn and leaned forward. “Shouldn’t we both stay awake, Lance? At least until a little after dawn?”

  “Don’t worry; it’s been a long time since I fell asleep on sentry.”

  Dawson wasn’t comforted by that. “Well I’m not really tired anyway.”

  “Okay, we can have our little get-to-know-each-other-chat then.”

  “Shouldn’t we be listening for Huns?”

  “Of course. But we have to listen in the background. If it’s too quiet, you won’t hear anything at all. Besides, it’s good if they hear us just a little.”

  Dawson wasn’t sure if his new section commander was imparting some rare wisdom, or completely insane. “Alright, well, what do we talk about?”

  “Army stuff first, it’s always like that. Then personal stuff. When did you enlist?”

  “December 1915.”

  “How long you been at the front?”

  “Six months. The first four were with the divisional entrenching battalion. I’ve been with the Third for two months.”

  “Is that usual these days?”

  “Oh, sure. Nobody spends more than six months in an entrenching battalion, except the fat sergeants and immature officers. It’s sort of a forward reserve.”

  “And I bet you dig your ass off.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Enough army chat. Where are you from?”

  “Accrington.”

  “I mean in Canada.”

  “Perth.”

  “Where the hell is that?”

  “Just next door to Smith’s Falls.”

  “Christ, boy, this is the Toronto Regiment. I don’t know your little towns.”

  “It’s not too far from Ottawa.”

  “Well at least it’s in Ontario. We’ve gotten reinforcements from as far away as Alberta, and that was before we even came to France.”

  “Why would you need reinforcements before you came to France?”

  “Oh, stuff happened. People got sick; our first chaplain died of meningitis back then. A few got transferred to new units: training depots, military police detachments, brigade and divisional headquarters. Others stayed behind to help train the Second Contingent. Some got sent home. All sorts of things.”

  “You’re only the third or fourth Original I’ve met. Bombproof Bill they call you. I’ve heard quite a few stories.”

  He was hoping the stories Dawson had heard were of the old days, when Green had saved his life. But Dawson was too new, and so were the other men in the section, to know about that. He had probably heard about Fresnoy, when Roy, Blake, and McNeil had been killed.

  “Just ‘Bill’ will do fine. Unless someone fancy is around, then it’s lance, and if someone really fancy is around, better be official and make it lance corporal. But I thought I said enough army chat; how old are you?”

  “Thirty-eight.”

  “Family?”

  Dawson sighed. He was tired of telling this story, but this was his new section commander, and he might as well know it sooner rather than later. His tone was to-the-point; he just wanted to get it over with.

  “I’m a widower. My wife and children were killed in a fire almost four years ago. I was working a few miles away, and spending the night with a friend. I tried to enlist right when the war began, but there were too many volunteers, they didn’t need me then. Once the recruiters got desperate, I was glad to get a free trip across the pond. Once this thing is over I’ll go home and try to start again. Canada was good to me for a long time, but I’ve got no reason to ever return.”

  Bill could feel the blood drain from his face. Even after the deaths of John, Hal, and Bailey, he couldn’t imagine suffering such a devastating loss. He thought of Kate, wondered if she might be pregnant. “I’m sorry to hear that. With any luck you can get a nice Blighty wound and be discharged. Or I can try to get you a bombproof job.”

  “No thanks, Lance. I owe it to Canada to do my bit in the line. If anyone deserves a safe
job or an early discharge, it’s men like you.”

  Bill ignored that. “So what’ll you do once you get back to, uh, Accrington, was it?”

  Dawson nodded. “Settle into a new family. You’ve heard of the Accrington Pals?”

  “There’re too many Brit units to keep up with.”

  “Well, they were nearly annihilated at the Somme. I imagine there will be plenty of widows and orphans still waiting by the time I get there. Getting back to Accy was always the goal after the fire. But with the funeral expenses and all, I had no money left, so a free ticket overseas with the One Hundred and Thirtieth seemed like a good idea.”

  “How did you figure on getting back home, exactly?”

  “Once we landed in England, I put in all manner of requests for transfers. And once I got into one British regiment or another I could go from there. But the One Thirtieth disbanded; we all got sent to some Canadian reserve regiment or another. Then it was depots and base camps, little groups of us being sent hither and thither. Each time I tried to explain my situation I got the same empty promises from clerks, sergeants, and officers, then got sent off somewhere else before anything happened. So, here I am. One thing I can say about the Canadian army: it has the market cornered on bollocks bureaucracy.”

  *

  The rest of the night passed quietly. Occasionally one of the men would perk up and tap the other on the shoulder. After a few moments they would either be satisfied that the sound was imagined, or hear the call of friendly voices: “Toronto, patrol passing by, Toronto.”

  Neither man slept that night, both unsure if they could trust the other to stay awake on their own, both wanting to make a good first impression. Around three in the morning Bill caught his teeth chattering. He laid his helmet on the ground, pulled out his winter cap, and rolled down the flaps. He huddled close to Dawson and both men readjusted their groundsheets and lay next to each other, breathing silently and listening.

  Towards dawn the patrols ceased, and the call of “Stand-to” resounded throughout the frontlines. Stand-to was the pre-breakfast ritual in the trenches; every man in the battalion would line up along the parapet ready to fight off an early morning attack. Stand-to would also be called at dusk, again as a defensive precaution against a major attack. In both cases, it lasted one full hour. Stand-to could also be called in anticipation of a threat, and would remain in force until no longer necessary when “Stand-down” would be called.