by P. L. Wytka
Second Lieutenant Harrison didn’t announce himself, or lay a hand on Stinson’s shoulder: he simply walked in front of the private’s rifle and made an inspection of the next bit of trench. “What are you looking at, anyway?”
Stinson adjusted his grip on the rifle, as to point the barrel away from his new platoon commander. “An empty trench, Sir.”
“Well, where are the Germans?”
“Oh, they’re around. It looks like the trench gets more shallow further on; probably disappears into level ground. Either an entrance point when the Huns held this line, or a trap designed to lure us into the open.”
“So we can advance up it?”
“We could. But we shouldn’t.”
Harrison finished his inspection, then sought out Bill. His platoon sergeant was graciously shaking hands with Kellowitz, and thanking the god he didn’t believe in that Payne had survived his encounter with the sniper. Bill sent the big Russian away and lit a cigarette.
“Sergeant Brown, I want the platoon to push north. There’s plenty of open trench for us to take. Get them ready.”
Bill’s heart sunk. He had heard plenty of stories of new officers getting their men killed, but he had previously been blessed with Hudson and Carter: men who knew better. There was a chance he could talk Harrison down.
“Did Stinson report anything unusual?”
“Who’s Stinson?”
“The short one who knows what he’s talking about.”
“The sentry?”
“Yes, Sir, Stinson is on sentry. In a way we all are.”
“He said the trench was empty.”
“That’s a good thing, Sir; it gives us a buffer between us and Fritz.”
“A buffer? We want a fight.”
“No, Sir, we don’t. We’re the reserve company, and our battalion’s part in this thing is over. We’ll be relieved in a day or two and somebody else will make the next push.”
Harrison was incensed, but having nothing intelligent to say against Bill, decided to try condescension. “How long have you been in the army, Sergeant? In fact, how old are you?”
Bill tried hard not to sneer. “I’m an Original.”
“A what?”
“A 1914 man. I joined when I was seventeen, and I’m turning twenty-two in November.” Bill could hardly believe the words himself, and wondered if Harrison did.
“Then you should know that keeping the offensive initiative is the key to victory.”
“I know that this war isn’t about killing; it’s about not getting killed. And I know that a platoon commander should seek the advice of his company commander before taking matters into his own hands, Sir.”
“Are you insinuating something about me?”
“No, Sir. But I will not lead my platoon into harm’s way unless Mister Carter approves of it.”
“Your platoon?”
Bill tossed his cigarette to the ground and squared up against Second Lieutenant Harrison. “Yes, Sir. Six Platoon is mine.”
“This is insubordination, Sergeant.”
“It sure is,” Bill replied with a big, stupid grin that would have made Francis Green proud. “But the fact remains: no order from Bob, no advance.”
Harrison stormed away, then returned a few minutes later with Carter.
“I understand there’s been some confusion,” Carter said. “Bill, would you please push Six Platoon north. One hundred yards should do.”
Now Bill certainly couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Sir, the trench disappears into nothing. In one hundred yards we’ll be out in the open.”
Carter knew that what he was asking of Six Platoon was insane. But he also knew that officers came and went; that much had been proven especially true recently. If Mister Harrison was ever going to be a competent officer and keep his men safe, he would need to learn for himself what it meant to put his men in danger. Even to get some of them killed. After that had happened, he would be more likely to listen to Bill and willing to act as part of a leadership team. Hell, Harrison might even end up a damned general one day.
“Your platoon commander has given you orders, and I approve of them,” Carter said. “Five Platoon will lay down covering fire if you get into a tight spot.”
Bill silently pleaded with Carter. But his company commander turned and left.
“Get the men together, Sergeant,” Harrison ordered, then moved back towards Stinson.
“I’ll bring the platoon up,” Lincoln offered.
“No chance,” Bill replied. “I won’t lead from the rear. Get a grip on your half of the platoon and don’t let the men react to anything that Mister Idiot says. I’m in charge of this cock-up.”
“We’re pushing north. I want ten yard intervals between each man,” Bill called to his platoon. “Nice and slow. Keep your heads down.”
Bill paced the length of the trench, crouching low and counting every step. Once he reached a point eighty yards from where he started, he turned and knelt.
“Tell Mister Retard this is one hundred yards out,” Bill told the man behind him, Conacher.
A few minutes later a reply was passed forward. “The Mister wants another fifty yards.”
In another fifty yards the trench would only be a foot or so deep. Bill pushed out twenty more yards, then sat down. “Tell Mister Stupid that the trench ends. We can’t advance any further.”
A few minutes later, Conacher relayed another message. “Are you sure?”
“Tell him to come take a look for himself if he wants.”
Fifteen minutes passed before Mister Harrison could be seen approaching. He was stooped over and had obviously taken his time getting forward.
“Sergeant,” he stage-whispered from behind Conacher, Kellowitz, and Stinson, some 40 yards away. “Sergeant.”
“What’s that Sir? I can’t hear you,” Bill replied. “You’ll have to come closer. Don’t worry; Fritz knows to focus on NCOs before officers. Once I stop a bullet, you’ll know it’s time to turn tail.”
Harrison approached, steadied a shaking hand on Conacher. “Advance the platoon.”
“Why?”
The new officer ran through a few textbook responses in his head before deciding on one. “We have to secure the flank.”
“It is, Sir. There’s plenty of open ground between us and the next Hun trench.”
“The initiative must be maintained,” Harrison said mindlessly.
“Well, why the fuck not? I’d be glad to maintain your initiative, Sir. Conacher, you and Hal stay here and keep your eyes open. Tell the rest of the men to follow me twenty yards apart each.”
The increased spacing was intended to allow Bill to draw enemy fire, and order a retreat, well before the entire platoon had exposed themselves. Bill stood tall in the trench, exposing his upper body, then began to walk forward very slowly. Either the German sentries and snipers were taking a break, or they were waiting for the entire platoon to move into the open. Nobody opened fire.
“Twenty yard intervals,” Bill reminded the platoon. “Stop bunching up – keep it wide.”
He was through the open ground and about to enter the next stretch of trench, and still the Germans kept quiet. Looking back, he saw that half of his platoon was safe and waiting to advance. The other half was standing in the open, ready to be cut down at any moment. He hadn’t thought that the situation would develop this way. He was too busy focusing on how to prevent Harrison from putting the platoon in harm’s way, that he had now done it himself. He could order his men to withdraw, but Harrison would only prevent that. He could order them to move forward at once and find cover in the new trench, but that would leave them isolated. And Bill had no idea if this trench was empty, thick with Germans around the first traverse, or sparse with plucky Canadians of the First and Second Battalions.
Before Bill could come to a decision, two or three German machine-guns opened up on them from a half mile away, followed quickly by rifle fire. So, it had been an ambush. The Germans had no
intention of letting this trench be taken, but also hadn’t the men to defend it properly.
“Linc, smoke bombs! Lewis Guns give cover! Remainder stay in place!” Bill called.
“Advance!” Harrison countered from the far end of the line.
“Hold here! This is Bill, hold here!” He repeated through the flurry of gunfire both near and far.
This time Harrison was silent.
“Cam, Sully, smoke! Maximum range,” Lincoln ordered, joining in and sending his bomb a record-breaking one hundred and fifty yards away.
Ideally a smoke bomb would drop closer to the men it was intended to blind, rather than those it was intended to conceal. But with the Germans keeping such a safe distance, this was impossible. For a minute the platoon laid flat, Lewis Guns chattering away, as the smoke began to disperse.
“Six Platoon fall back!” Bill ordered once the screen was fulsome.
Kellowitz and Stinson had been crawling towards him; they weren’t about to abandon their platoon sergeant. Bill already felt awful for leaving Payne and Kellowitz behind earlier, but now he felt even worse. This time it was his fault.
“Extended line on me,” Bill said, feeling like he had to re-earn his sergeant’s stripes. “Look for wounded and call it out if you see anyone.”
“Soon see we’ll one,” Kellowitz guaranteed.
“How do you know?” Stinson asked, scanning through the smoke for wounded comrades.
“Mister New want bring us to doom. Sometimes Mister is shot by an accident, just to keep him from all getting killed.”
“I’m pretending I didn’t hear that, Czar,” Bill said. “Is he going to live?”
“Of course! Just have sore leg for a while. Not even cripple limp.”
Sure enough, the trio soon came across Second Lieutenant Harrison. He was cursing and crawling towards the smoke screen and German trenches beyond.
“Filthy Hun bastards,” he muttered, revolver in hand. “Sergeant, reform the men, we’ll use the smoke cover to advance. Help me up.”
Bill ignored every word. “Czar, bring the Mister in.”
Kellowitz easily hoisted the officer above his shoulders and carried him, kicking and screaming, towards Orix Trench. Another figure was curled up on the ground just ahead, being dragged out by two other men.
“Stins, you give them a hand, I’ll take my time and make sure we didn’t miss anyone.”
“Okay, Bill. Don’t take too long,” Stinson said, then made his way to the wounded man.
Stray rounds were still splashing around the platoon, but through the smoke screen they were barely a threat. Without a clear field of view, it was surprisingly easy for a soldier to miss their target, even if it had been in his sight just a moment before. This was especially true at long distances.
Bill didn’t see any more wounded men. Neither had he spotted any dead. If Kellowitz hadn’t plugged Harrison, it might have ended much worse. Czar deserved a medal for his act of treason. When Bill returned to the trench, Conacher and Hallicks were still standing sentry.
“I’ve been keeping count,” Conacher said. “Everyone came back. The Mister and one of the NCOs, didn’t see who, were wounded.”
“Bill, come quick,” Stinson yelled. “Linc’s hit.”
Lincoln had been dragged just far enough into the trench so that the others could kneel over him without getting shot. His tunic and undershirt had been cut away, and four or five field dressings put in place. Bill could tell with one glance that it was no use. He had seen enough dying men to know one when he saw one. The only thing left to do was comfort him. Bill tried to sound optimistic.
“How are you feeling, Linc?”
“I’m done, Bill.”
Bill couldn’t stand to watch helplessly, and retrieved another field dressing. “It’s not that bad. I’ll patch you up and we’ll bring a stretcher for you.”
Lincoln waved him off. “I’m tired, Bill. I want to sleep.”
“What can I do?”
“Nothing; it’s alright. I think I’ve left already.”
Bill wasn’t the religious type, but even he could feel something strange happening. “Everybody leave. Stinson, you’re back on sentry at the same point as before. McCreery, let Carter know what’s happened, then take charge of the men.”
Six Platoon left in silence. It was hard to see their sergeant losing an old friend. If a thousand mile route march could change what had just happened, every man would gladly go. And if a thousand hours doing the most challenging of ceremonial drill could at least ease the pain Bill and Lincoln were feeling, no man would complain.
“It doesn’t hurt,” Lincoln reassured him, lying. “When your soul leaves your body. It’s a kind of relief. I can see them all. My boy is with his friends; I won’t interrupt him just yet. Hallicks is here. He says ‘thanks’ for looking after Edward. He wants to talk to you, but he can’t right now. He saved us some fine billets though. Bailey, they let you in?”
Bill blinked and the awful truth came upon him. This wasn’t a nightmare or a dreadful thought. His friend was dying before his eyes. Both men were weeping lightly.
“Is it nice up there?” Bill asked.
“Heavenly.”
With a smile and one final breath, Lincoln was gone.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Toronto, 1938
“Well, that’s how Linc went out,” Stinson said. “We put up one big cross and buried most of the men killed at Orix altogether. Sometime after the war they were put into private plots, of course. And that cross was sent back to Toronto a dozen years ago. You can see it at The Church of the Messiah on Avenue Road. It has Lincoln’s name on it. You should go and visit one day. The battalion colours are there, too.”
Harold couldn’t manage words.
“So, what story do you want to hear next?”
“I...I don’t,” Harold replied, biting his lips and trying hard not to cry.
“Hey, don’t get upset. This was a long time ago,” Stinson said amiably. “It’s nice that you’re interested. Some veterans don’t ever talk about the war. Either it makes them sad so they ignore or avoid it, or their families are afraid they’ll offend them by asking too many questions. It’s better to talk about it, I think. Hell, look at Green, he goes to more reunions and meetings than anyone. They tell me he was a real joker during the war, and he still is.”
Harold glanced over to where Green was now sitting with McCreery and Kate.
“Go chat with them. By the way, McCreery is the man to give you the next part of the story. Just tell him that I left off at Orix Trench, he’ll tell you what happened afterwards.”
Harold steadied himself up. “Thanks, Stins.”
Bill had just delivered drinks to a nearby table when he saw Harold take a seat with Kate, Green, and McCreery.
“No Hallicks,” Bill mouthed silently as he passed by.
“Harold, come join us,” Kate said. “We were just telling Mister McCreery about a big mix-up at the store a few months ago, you’ll remember. We got an order of hats that were all men’s, scarves that were all children’s, and gloves that were of all variety...except they were all right-handed!”
McCreery wasn’t interested in hearing the fine details of this particular story. And Harold clearly wasn’t interested in hearing it once again.
“She’s the manager of hats, scarves, and gloves,” Green said, by way of a polite explanation.
“And Mister Green is the general manager of the entire store. The biggest department store in all of Canada.”
“But let’s not bore the young man with these stories,” McCreery suggested. “I know you boys want to hear about the war, don’t you?”
“Yes, Sir,” Harold replied at once.
“Good,” McCreery said. “What do you want to know about?”
“Whatever happened after the battalion fought at Orix Trench?”
Before Kate could admonish Harold, McCreery replied.
“I lost both of my legs, see?”
Harold hadn’t noticed until now, but glanced downwards to see that McCreery was indeed legless.
“And your mother saved my life.”
“Saved your life?”
“Well, what story do you want? The battle, or the bit about your mother?”
Harold was sick of hearing about the same battles over and over again, but he was concerned for the men of Six Platoon. “Did anyone else get hit in the platoon, or just you?”
“Maybe some scratches, maybe some of the new men.”
Kate and Green didn’t care for any more war stories, and returned to their conversation about the Eaton’s store.
“Tell me about my mom.”
France, 1918
The second morning of September was met unenthusiastically. It had been just days since the fighting at Orix Trench, and now, a few hundred yards forward, the battalion was advancing upon another line of German defensive works. B Company was held in reserve once more, but by three in the afternoon was being ordered forward. The rest of the battalion, having achieved their objectives, was digging in on the reverse slope of a railway embankment. B Company’s job was to establish an outpost line six hundred yards beyond.
That’s where McCreery was hit. He had left his Lewis Gun team and gone forward a few yards to look for an ideal location to place them. Before he knew what was happening, Bill and Thompson had rushed forward and were over him. He blinked, and a stretcher-bearer was there too. He blinked again, and he was being carried down a road. It was like waking from a dream within a dream when he finally realized what was going on. He had been hit by shellfire, obviously, and both of his legs were gone. A blood transfusion helped to steady him, but he still needed more professional care if he were to live through the next few hours.
He had already passed through a dressing station, where cords had been wrapped tightly around his stumps, and several yards of gauze stretched over his wounds. Next, he had been taken to a casualty clearing station, where, after men more likely to survive had been taken away, his turn came at last to be loaded into an ambulance.
Kate had never seen a photograph of McCreery, but recognized his Third Battalion shoulder patches: a red rectangle beneath a green triangle. Two other men, low priority wounded from other battalions, were also loaded into the back of her ambulance. The severity of McCreery’s wounds, and the fact that he had been among the last to be brought rearwards, were sure indications that he was not expected to live. The time it took to bring him to a field hospital and have his legs properly amputated would be the deciding factor.