by Thomas Hodd
The Black Watch were on the Vimy sector and Red was assigned to a dangerous post known as “Vernon Crater.” With him was Bob Young, a canny veteran of sixteen months’ service.
“Them Heinie snipers know every tear in these sandbags,” said Bob, pointing to their protection. “Don’t ever shove your bean up unless you’re tired of war.”
All night Red watched the Hun flares soaring and falling along the front, ducked instinctively at the crackling of Hun machine guns, shivered and stamped his feet. At the first break of dawn old Bob stepped down from the fire step and arranged a bayonet periscope.
“Don’t pay to chance lookin’ over any longer,” he explained. “Them Heinies has eyes like hawks.”
Up the sap from the main trench came two blurred figures. The one ahead proved to be the sergeant with the rum issue. The second person came slowly, picking his way and scrutinizing everything. He stepped in close and stared at Red.
“Ye gods,” said a low, well-modulated voice, “If we haven’t met again!” It was Lieutenant Murdock Malcolm McLean.
“I came to the base two weeks ago,” he confided to Red as if to an old friend, “and I’ve managed to get in this battalion in charge of fourteen platoon. How’s things?”
“Rotten,” snarled Red, and he did not add “sir.”
He was chilled outwardly, but inwardly a seething fire had rekindled. Was he to be haunted by this “dude soldier”?
The lieutenant inspected the post and asked old Bob many questions. Then he placed a foot on the fire step.
“It’s dark yet,” he whispered, “and I want to see what it looks like.” “Stop!” hissed Bob. “Get down!”
But the officer would have heard him too late had not Red thrown himself in football style in a tackle that brought the lieutenant to earth with a grunt.
“There’s a sniper g-got this place m-marked,” Red rasped into the ear of his superior. “He couldn’t m-miss.”
The sergeant looked back toward the line they had left. He could barely trace the sap in the grey light.
“It’s safe enough if you’re quick, sir,” he said in a low tone. “Just take a glance, like this.”
His foot was on the fire step and as he spoke he straightened. The others felt, rather than heard a snap-like report as if it was alongside them. The sergeant’s steel hat was carried back over the trench and what had been a warm, animated human slithered down to the padded clay at their feet, leaving a ghastly trail as it slid.
For an instant no one spoke, and then the officer thrust out a hand to “Red.” “Thank you, McLean,” he said quietly.
That was all, but in his grip was something that stirred Red oddly, and though he tried to forget the experience, he always remembered the hand-clasp.
In the dugout he had to answer countless queries. Was the new lieutenant his brother? Were they any relation? Did they spell their names the same? His emotions developed a dual personality—a determined self that hated the sight of his platoon commander and a weaker part that he could not wholly subdue which was proud of that handshake, of his quick action in a crisis. So he lived until a sleety morning in April when the Black Watch assisted in the capture of Vimy Ridge.
The battalion leapfrogged one another and fought doggedly until its objective was gained. Rain, blinding snow, and mud churned to a quagmire made the advance extremely difficult, and in places the Hun stuck to his trench and died fighting. Into one such place tumbled Red and three others. Rifles were clubbed and bayonets were used in ways not prescribed by bayonet instructors. In a few terrific seconds the actors were reduced to Red and two opponents, one on each side of him. A quick look revealed to him the helplessness of his position. He could only fight one at a time in that cramped space—the other would get him in the back. Red charged the nearest Hun with a frenzy that hurled them both into the corner of the bay. Too entangled to regain his feet on the instant, he glanced up to see the second German plunging in with ready bayonet. In that split second a catapult in khaki dove from somewhere above, driving the onrushing killer for yards down the trench. The catapult resolved into man-size and clambered upright. Clothing and flesh were torn in many places, the uniform was unrecognizable under mud and slime, but hair and chin could not be mistaken. Red’s life had been saved by Lieutenant Murdock Malcolm McLean!
No one else knew of that incident. The officer had hurried on with the consolidating of the line and Red had rejoined his platoon. After controlling a first impulse to proclaim the lieutenant’s deed, he had settled back into his rut of venomous brooding.
Out again for rest Red began to sense a slight leniency towards him. It was subtle enough; he was missed from obnoxious fatigues, he was never checked for a dirty rifle or shortage of equipment. Such happenings galled him. He wished no favours and he purposely went unshaven until Lieutenant McLean “put him up” for an interview with the Major.
In July the Black Watch were on the Mericourt Front. There, No Man’s Land was six hundred yards in width and while this rare occurrence afforded less danger from snipers and machine guns, it provided constant excitement at night. Patrols roamed about in force and savage combats in the dark became regular events. Fourteen platoon furnished a patrol one night and Red was thrilled by the tense moments out between the wires. Suddenly word was given to “halt” and “down” followed instantly.
Red, crouched in a shell-hole, saw the lieutenant crawl close. “There’s a bunch of Heinies coming,” the officer whispered. “We can pocket them if you’ll take charge of one side.”
“Sure,” Red grunted, pleased in spite of himself by being thus recognized.
He took five men over to the right, so as to leave a lane for the enemy. Soon he could see a file of shadowy figures coming in their direction. The German patrol paused a moment as if listening, and then walked directly into the “pocket.” Like magic, kilted men rose on each side of them and harsh orders of “Hands up!” carried a threat that did not have to be repeated. Eight soldiers of the Kaiser dropped their weapons and reached for the stars.
When the patrol escorted their “bag” into the trench, they created unusual excitement, but when Lieutenant McLean learned from a prisoner who could speak English that a second patrol was to follow in a few minutes, he had a deluge of volunteers. The officer refused them all. He was still on duty and all honours were for his men.
“That’s an officer worth havin’,” breathed a voice in Red’s ear. “He’s a prince.”
“You bet!” came the response before Red could catch back the words. For an instant he hated himself.
The second Hun party was not so easily handled. They were using a fan formation that prevented them from walking into a trap, and they were also full of fight. As the Black Watch men arose, the Hun officer shot down the machine-gun carrier and shouted commands. Lieutenant’s revolver barked twice and there were no more orders. Red snatched up the fallen machine gun and its fierce spitting settled matters. Three of the Black Watch patrol were casualties, but there were ten Huns with more or less lead in them, and two sound ones who held their arms aloft. For days the dugouts and billets knew no other topic, and then battalion orders were posted stating that Lieutenant M.M. McLean had been awarded the Military Cross, and Private M.M. McLean the Military Medal for “conspicuous work on July 11th, when they were responsible for the capture of two enemy patrols in one hour.”
Thereafter, Red knew no peace. “McLean and McLean, the Hun catchers,” “the Ruddy Raiders,” and such quips passed along cookhouse queue and the transport lines. From the descriptions that circulated the other battalions in the brigade were able to pick them out as they marched by. “Look more alike than twins do,” was the usual expression. “Red hair an’ guts to the backbone—oh, mamma!”
Then came a day when a bomber was needed for headquarters company, for the staff that took care of bomb stores and taught newcomers the trick of explosiv
es. Red was an artist at bomb throwing, and here was a chance to leave the lieutenant. He hurried to the sergeant and requested the transfer. It was reluctantly given. Red, as a decorated man, was entitled to the change, but it meant a loss to the platoon.
For five weeks the red-haired private led a happier life, then inexorable fate pushed the officer after him. The old commander of fourteen platoon returned from “Blighty” and Lieutenant M.M. McLean was appointed Bombing Officer.
It was a bleak morning in October. Rations were short and the billets were abominable. Red was nursing an aching tooth.
“Cheerio, old timer,” said the bombing corporal as he came in, wet and chilled from a tramp to brigade bomb stores. “Great news for you! Your twin is to take the bombers.”
“Who?”
“Lieutenant McLean, MC, your better half, Red.”
“Don’t try kiddin’,” said Red slowly, “and don’t mention that guy to me.” A vitriolic note had crept into his voice.
The corporal was a trifle thick headed. “One of the chaps called you his deputy,” he chuckled.
It was the first time that Red had heard that title since leaving Aldershot, and, as then, his heavy fist sped true. When the corporal revived, Red was bending over him, his face livid with passion. “I’ll k-kill you if you s-say that again,” he croaked, as if strangling.
“I won’t, Red, I won’t,” was the hasty answer.
The NCO felt that he was dealing with a maniac. He said nothing of the penalty awarded those who strike a superior in the army.
“That dude has hoodooed me since I enlisted,” Red explained after a few minutes of heavy breathing. “He’s a smart Alec and f-four-flusher. I come to France to g-get rid of him and he c-chased me. I joined the b-bombers and now he’s coming to them. I tell you, Jim,”—all the long-pent rage, the festering brooding of the man was released, and his countenance grew almost inhuman—“either his bones or mine’ll be rotting soon!”
Thoroughly alarmed, the corporal marshalled his slender stock of diplomacy and tried to reason with Red. All he accomplished was a promise that the lieutenant should not be tricked by foul methods.
“But I’ll show him up for what he is,” Red reiterated again and again. “Why didn’t he enlist in ’14?”
Ten days later the battalion left for Passchendaele.
The war affected men in different ways. Some endured trench life and its attendant horrors in a mechanical fashion. They moved as if in a state of intelligent automation. Others lived each hour a hundred times and were mere wrecks in short order. Again there were those like Red, who lived intensely every day in the line, and yet retained, apparently, the individuality with which they left England. Unlimited natural courage bore them through until they gained a control that men differently endowed could not understand. Red was not aware of the need of this control until he found himself at the Ypres Salient.
There was something unspeakable about the Salient, something that gripped men’s souls, that brought to them as nothing else could the awfulness of Death. The wreckage, the stench, the rats, the slime, the never-ceasing shell-fire and carnage, the invisible presence of five hundred thousand dead, undermined those who had left Vimy unshaken.
Four long miles of narrow “duck walks” led to Passchendaele ridge, and all that long route in the clammy dark was intersected with varying frightfulness. Flares and gun flashes revealed gaping black holes, with arms and legs protruding. There were broken trench mats, tangled bits of equipment, foul concrete emplacements, crumpled by high explosives, ends of stretchers upthrust from the mud, human debris beyond description. Near Grafenstrafel Road the battalion passed a party that had just encountered a few minutes “strafing.” Wounded men lay everywhere. Some were being trodden underfoot by frantic comrades, and cries for succor were heard above the drumming of the guns. The Black Watch hurried by, but Red was conscious of pictures painted indelibly on his mind. He began to understand why men in that region attempted almost impossible things, laughed at danger. Their surroundings had overmastered them. And to him came suddenly a tremendous longing for Life; for the first time he sensed a flinching of his flesh, a growing fear.
They relieved the remnants of a Welsh regiment and after much confusion Red found the bombing corporal established by the end of a brick wall that stood shoulder high, and was all that remained of a Belgian village.
“The lieutenant isn’t up yet, and this place looks as good as any,” said the corporal. “We’ll stay here for orders.”
“Where’s McLean?” demanded Red. He was keyed mentally to a pitch that strove with his control.
“He had sore feet, or something, and couldn’t keep up. He’ll be along some time.”
“Sore feet—bah! Cold feet, you mean. I knew it! This place ’ll get his goat all right.”
To beat back his uneasiness, Red summoned all his vindictiveness. He reviled his superior in countless ways and as the hours wore on recalled every grievance he had nurtured. A little past midnight someone dragged wearily into their post.
“All right, Corporal?” came a hoarse whisper. It was Lieutenant McLean.
“I was six hours making the grade,” he explained. “My ‘mules’ have gone back on me.”
“Peeled heels, sir?” queried the corporal.
“No, fallen arches,” came the answer. Red grunted oddly in the gloom.
“They put me out of the ‘Princess Pats’ on account of them in ’14,” the tired voice went on, “just a week before we were to leave Valcartier.”
There was a quick movement as though Red had slipped in the mud, and an incoherent exclamation.
“Did you fall asleep, Red?” asked the corporal. “I have—twice.” There was no answer.
“They say the company’s got to take a pill-box that’s ahead of us before we’re relieved,” said the officer. “I wish it were over.”
At dawn he left them and went down the trench to find headquarters. Red watched his going and then turned to the NCO. “Jim,” he said calmly, “I’m going to show him up this trip, the q-quitter.”
“Steady, Red, remember—”
The rest of the corporal’s speech was drowned by the arrival of a salvo of shells just behind their trench. They were deluged with sloppy mud. The men cowered low in their cover, their faces grey with strain.
For an hour the fusillade lasted. Shrapnel and high explosives traversed the entire front. Parapets were blown in and fresh craters pock-marked the slopes. Reeking shell fumes stifled and sickened them. Then, gradually, the firing slackened until only an occasional big one rumbled overhead.
A sergeant came clambering over the broken-down places.
“Sit tight today,” he wheezed, “we’re goin’ to go after the pill-box when it’s dark.”
Red straightened his cramped muscles and deliberately looked over the wall. Every fibre of his being cried for action.
About one hundred and fifty yards in front a dirty grey monster reared itself like the head of a one-eyed ogre. Its ponderous cement formation had withstood a terrific pounding, but low hits in the boggy terrain had rocked it to a lurching position.
Red attributed the lack of sniping to the misty haze that obscured details, and to the tilt of the pill-box which must hamper its occupants’ observations. He felt that he could crawl out to a new-made crater without drawing fire. As he gazed, the lieutenant returned.
“Keep down,” he ordered crisply, “we’ll have risks enough tonight.”
Red looked at the corporal, turned and looked the officer full in the eyes. “I’m going out n-now,” he announced thickly. “Y-you can do what you like.”
He was over the bricks before they could reach him, and he never looked back. From the new-made shell hole he could see three shell craters, almost linked, ahead of him. A scramble put him in the first, but a whip-like snap in his ears and a spitting thud i
n the mud told that he had been spotted. Keeping low, he broke down the partition he faced, and lying flat, pulled himself into the second cavity. The procedure was repeated and he was in the third hole. From there he risked a glance and saw that a short distance in front of him the surface was so upheaved and torn that a man might squirm in almost any direction without being seen. To reach it he must cross an open space.
His brain cleared suddenly, the crazed impulse that had driven him weakened, and he realized his situation. He had only his revolver and one Mills bomb, was alone, in daylight, part way to the pill-box, and had no definite plan of action or hope but to lie there until night. The desire to make a desperate plunge back to Jim left him sweating. He peered back. Something rose into view on the lip of the first shell hole—a steel hat and then the set features of Lieutenant M. M. McLean!
A madness seized Red. The officer had followed him and was going to out-do him in courage. The corporal and others would be watching. Gathering his strength like a sprinter facing the starter, he leaped up and raced for the torn ground. It was a matter of seconds, and he dove head-long the last bit. But a perfect hail of machine gun fire had greeted him, and a stinging blow on his left shoulder made him dizzy. He thrust his right hand to the spot and it came away sticky. He was wounded!
His helmet had been slipping about and with an angry gesture he hurled it from him. Working on his knees and elbows he wriggled on among the distorted mounds and at length risked a look. He had advanced beyond range of the front vent of the pill-box, and the sniper’s slit in the side of it had been obscured by continuous upheavals from well-aimed shells. Staggering to his feet, he stumbled straight towards the stronghold.
Dimly, as though in a memory, he heard a cheering, but knew that it did not come from the pill-box. In the roof of these concrete “forts” the Huns always left an opening from which to shoot signal flares, and Red’s ambition was to toss his bomb so that it would descend inside. He was strangely weak, but as unhurried as when on training grounds, when he braced himself and made the throw. The bomb looped high—and disappeared. Immediately a dull report reached him, mingled with yells and groans, while smoke eddied from the vent in front. Red reached the rear as a gasping Hun emerged, and he shot the man with great glee. Others crowded the narrow doorway, some shooting. Once-twice-Red fired before something struck him sharply above the knee, crumpling him to earth, still shooting.