Seeking Courage

by Gregory P. Smith

  I sighed, feeling responsible for John’s nickname. “Minnie is Mr. Omer’s little girl in Dickens’s book David Copperfield, who was described as ‘a pretty little girl with long, flaxen hair.’ I’m so sorry if this has brought you grief.”

  Perce and Issy were laughing openly, kindly but loudly.

  “Oh no, quite the contrary! When I explain the story to the jeunes f illes in the local drinking estaminets, I attract all sorts of attention.”

  I grinned but believed it was really Minnie’s blond locks and deep blue eyes the girls were interested in. Although he was a serious science student at the University of Saskatchewan, he had a way about him that women loved. Perhaps it was the rugged looks inherited from his native Nova Scotian ancestry or his easygoing ways, but oh yes, the girls liked him. His acceptance of the unusual nickname pointed to the breezy side of his demeanor. With thick skin, he made the best of things.

  I beamed. “You know, sometimes the most innocuous utterings get unintentionally sticky. I’m glad you’re wearing it well.”

  Remembering the reason he was at the station, Minnie suddenly snapped to a more formal stance. “Welcome to France, Lieutenants. It’s still early morning, so we have time on our side to reach the regiment by midday meal. If you will follow me to the stables.”

  Outside the station, we heard whinnying and snorting, and smelled the rank stench of urine in the temporary stables that held hundreds of horses hitched to various posts. Grooms were scurrying around with the busywork of tending their officer’s mounts: ensuring shoes were nailed fast, no lameness, no saddle sores. Most were work and farm horses, but some were retired show or police horses. It didn’t matter; all were army conscripts now, war horses learning equine calmness amid daily strife.

  As the horses frisked about with heads waving to and fro, a groom with a distinctive Scots accent approached Minnie. “Yer steeds are all sound as a wee Aberdeen colt, Corporal.”

  “Thank you, Private. The officers will mount straightaway,” said Minnie.

  Issy was crooning over an unusually tall and muscular horse. “This thoroughbred is surely assigned to me since it matches my height, wot?”

  Malcolm Isbester, known since a toddler as Issy, was born with the stuff leaders are made of. Composed and always pleasant, he was a very determined fellow with a sense of humor born from an abundance of confidence. He stood proud with dark hair, brown eyes and, of course, a thick, iron-like mustache. At thirty, Issy was recently married and older than Percy and me. His being Scottish and we English brought much laughter and jibing in training camp and the public houses in the surrounding villages.

  “Er, I suppose, sir,” said Minnie. “I had rather a plan for the assignment, but if you officers prefer to sort things—”

  Perce lunged forward to an equally tall horse standing neck to neck with Issy’s new mount. “Then I’ll take this fellow.”

  Stroking his horse’s snout, Issy laughed. “Well done, Perce. ‘Take the initiative’ is my motto. Show how things get done.”

  In this manner, horses got assigned to each officer. Mine was not as handsome as the thoroughbreds, but she wasn’t as delicate and was full of jaunty spirit. My time spent on the Canadian Prairie gave me an understanding of what separates a good horse from a struggling jenny. I knew my mare was solid.

  Minnie yelled above the din of neighing horses and bellowing soldiers. “Officers, your attention. We are to rendezvous with the regiment in Warloy, eighteen miles northeast. The roads are thankfully solid, but they are congested with the mobilization of troops and transport both entering and leaving the front. The odd stray shell does, of course, play havoc.”

  “Stray shells?” I asked.

  The look between the three of us was accompanied by an uncertain silence, finally broken by Issy with a purposely benign question. “Our kit, Lieutenant? We are burdened with His Majesty’s best this and that, not to mention our Lee-Enfields and Webleys.”

  “I’m afraid you will have to look after your own packs, rifles, and revolvers as you won’t meet your platoon sergeants until rendezvous, where you and your troops will push on to La Vicogne, another ten miles to the northwest.”

  We secured our kit and mounted. I reflected that Canada did not entertain the idea of assigning a personal servant to junior officers, rather smartly following the British trend; one out of the four sergeants in each platoon—the noncommissioned officers, or NCOs—was assigned as an officer’s assistant while also serving as an active fighting soldier. While I would have been overjoyed with Minnie as assistant, his rank of corporal did not qualify him.

  . . .

  Riding out from the paddocks at the canter, the four of us were quickly on our way amid evidence of previous rain. The roads remained hard packed, but the fields on either side were a muddy quag. The smell was stale, not the pleasant earthy aroma after a fresh downpour. In the few places where farms still operated, their green crops showed just how beautiful the rolling hills must have been. Otherwise, the landscape was a slick, brown moonscape.

  I thought back to the vast, rolling farmlands of southern Saskatchewan. About the hot summer days under the clearest blue skies that were enhanced by field upon field of thick, fully grown wheat sheaves. At sixteen I learned to ride there during the summer of my emigration from England. The worry of being thrown was always softened by the belief that landing upon a gentle blanket of wheat would mute any pain.

  We rode hard east of Amiens for an hour, then slowed to a walk as the roads became congested. A large convoy dominated the road as they traveled west. Our horses swung their heads from side to side, neighing in concert, as the thundering trucks and horsedrawn cannon spooked them. I had to rein in my little mount more harshly than I wanted, but it was important to keep her on course. I thought of dismounting to lead her before I realized that her footing in the quagmire on the side of the road would be surer than mine.

  Since we were intermingled with the convoy, we stopped for a water break. I caught Issy eyeing me with that mischievous grin. “Say, Pitman! Do you remember anything from army riding school at Bedfordshire? You’re not sitting erect on that wobbly mare.”

  I straightened my back and puffed out my chest. “You’ve no idea about riding like we of the Canadian Prairie,” I said. “Ha! You grew up lake fishing in northern Ontario. Horses and tin boats are different. What d’you think, Percy?”

  “Looks no worse than the plugs I grew up riding. Perhaps she’s tired today, eh? Or maybe this is the state of horses at war.”

  I loved that Perce—born Percy Villiers Sutton just two months before I was, in 1892—spoke with a northeastern English accent, its Geordie inflection close to the authoritative Scottish brogue. The bluster from his native speech masked his more subdued, cautious nature.

  With Percy’s sort-of support, I looked back at Issy. “By Jove, it takes experience and skill unknown to navigate a mare as wobbly as this little girl! Besides, I’m sure she’s missin’ her farm, where she undoubtedly lived a grand life. Look at you two up there on your muscular steeds—”

  A loud crack barely preceded the thrump of a shell landing, sending a sky-high explosion of earth, mud, and debris a small distance away, startling soldiers and horses alike. I immediately felt sweat drip from under my cap, then run down my forehead. Damn! I had been determined to remain calm in front of others, but anxiety presented itself. My heart pounded like a fist inside my chest as the next shells came in with high-pitched whistles, louder and louder, closer and closer. Chaos erupted as men from the convoy impulsively scattered with little place to hide. The air overhead filled with the whining and screaming of shells, while heaves of earth moved and moaned, the ground trembling as heavy artillery assaulted the landscape. Horses neighed and snorted amid the bedlam. Some were still hitched to overturned wagons. Eventually our small pack stopped under a grove of barren trees—sticks, really—mirroring the deathlike mud surrounding us.

  Minnie’s breathing was erratic as he reminded us of bas
ic protection. “Tin hats on, Lieutenants! Protection from concussion and shrapnel pellets!” He guessed that the convoy had been spotted by enemy surveillance balloons perhaps as far as seven miles away, and we were caught in the middle. Time became irrelevant as the attack stole any sense of order, driving home its intended effect as lorries full of soldiers scattered off the road and into the mud in terror.

  Fear took over my being, for what else could one feel? Mounted officers attempted to bring order, yet the chaos was unstoppable. Senses were heightened by the cordite that hung in the air, the universal smell of terror and death. The whining and whistling of shells smacking into the mud brought an impulsive desire to cover one’s ears, but that was forbidden by decorum and the need to keep our hands on the reins. A man rising sky-high like a rag doll seemed dreamlike. At first I didn’t register the reality of a life blotted out, his body in bits and pieces.

  While each of us managed to remain mounted under the trees, my trembling and ooze of sweat consumed me as my body reacted to what my senses were witnessing. My thoughts were racing as I remembered training for this, but death was never then as present as it was in the current reality. I struggled to keep my little mare steady as my nerves contracted and neck muscles bulged. The thought punched at me that this could be it; this could be where I was to lie at rest. Just one well-directed shell could take us down. The Germans were easily exploiting our vulnerability out on that road.

  The horses remained panicked. With my boots firmly placed in the stirrups, I leaned forward to stay mounted as my little mare reared. This caused the other horses in our group to become agitated, aggressively snorting the air, flinging gobs of saliva as their heads swung back and forth.

  As the spooked horses sensed the attack intensifying, we scattered out of our saddles and huddled under the remnants of a tree, though there was nothing to hide behind, nothing to protect us. It just felt safer being close to the ground. I was panic stricken and sick to my stomach, very much wanting to get away, get elsewhere, anywhere, as a shell landed with a dull thud one hundred yards behind us, tearing up the mud.

  As suddenly as the shelling began, it mysteriously ceased, but the terror remained. Was this a lull or a cessation? Did we dare allow ourselves some semblance of relief ? We stood there under that burned-out trunk in a fog of uncertainty.

  Creating an invisible hitch by hanging the reins at his horse’s hooves, Minnie collected our horses together, soothing the giant creatures with soft whispers. That emboldened us to sheepishly move toward him as we finally accepted that no further bombardment was coming.

  I knew I looked scared in spite of working so hard during training to practice various facial expressions that would mask my feelings. I could tell it wasn’t working this time since Perce was looking straight at me with a look of alarm. Thank goodness Issy broke the tension.

  “What did I say?” Issy kidded.

  “Officers,” said Minnie, “those were long-range heavy explosives—heavies—being lobbed in from miles away. The Hun are ranging, attempting to lure us into identifying any artillery positions of our own, and trying for the ammunition convoy as part of the bargain.”

  That simple explanation allowed me to somewhat manage my senses. Nervous, I attempted humor. “Damn, that is not very sporting.”

  “Quite some welcome just for us newly deployed,” said Issy. “I rather think the kaiser’s spies had eyes on our detraining at Amiens for the purpose of laying on those fireworks. I can’t wait to put some sparks up his ass, by Jove!”

  . . .

  We remained with the convoy for a while, helping to right the turned-over vehicles and ease equipment out of the mud and onto the hard pack. While the four of us were fine, the ammunition convoy was shaken with three deaths and injuries of varying degrees. Ambulance wagons and lorries rushed the worst to Amiens, while the rest were attended to on-site.

  It was distressful seeing the vacant look in some of the soldiers’ eyes, many with no physical injuries. While I helped where I could, it took a gallant effort to swallow my own angst.

  Was it commonplace in war for survivors to adapt to horror, to accept it as inevitable? What I saw on that road were those who didn’t seem to connect with reality at all, at least for that moment. I felt sick to my stomach and fought down the impulse to heave as I wondered if I could ever become such a disconnected soul. Yet in spite of those thoughts, I toiled on. Under some guiding hand, I kept busy with assistance for the suffering.

  When the wounded were bandaged, I took the initiative to suggest we move on to our regiment. Minnie jumped at the opportunity, but first we would drink some water and have a smoke.

  Issy pulled out a rumpled packet of Wild Woodbines, the cigarettes miraculously preserved.”At this point, I don’t care about decorum. I’m smoking one of these piss-tasting gaspers. And you, Pitman—look at you lighting your pipe! The officers’ calming implement, is it?”

  “I stand behind the pipe being the distinguishing and calming implement. Perhaps you might earn its respect some time?” I blustered. “Officers, time to move out,” Minnie yelled. “We still have a few miles to travel, and you’ll see that the roads become congested again as we close in on the Warloy junction.”

  At a gallop, we closed out the morning before slowing to a walk on the approach. We could see the iconic Moulin de Rolmont windmill just ahead, the wartime symbol of protection for resting troops. We dismounted nearby.

  “It is now half twelve. The RCR camp is just beyond the rise ahead. Your horses will be watered while you eat before you move out for La Vicogne.”

  “Corporal, are we to meet our platoons before or after dinner?” Perce asked.

  “After, Lieutenant. Your entire company—four platoons—will be assembled on the roadside.” Atop his mount, Minnie saluted and smiled my way, a knowing look that acknowledged our common Saskatoon roots. “I myself will leave you at this juncture, as I am reassigned to the Princess Pats engaged east of Albert. Nice riding with you, officers!”

  Chapter 2

  September 1916

  I was summoned. Not with the other newly arrived officers but alone. Captain Logan, the company commander, was working in his tented headquarters.

  “Lieutenant Pitman, is it? Captain Logan. Welcome to the RCR. Well, Pitman, your name certainly qualifies you for trench work!”

  I wore a rather thin smile, aware I showed anxiety. “Yes, sir.”

  “Have a laugh, lad. It’s only war. Be worried, but don’t look worried, eh? Play the game, and all that.”

  The irony was that Captain Heber Meredith Logan was merely a year older than me, yet his position as a senior officer permitted him to call me “lad.” A Nova Scotian, he was thoroughly military. Just below his rolled-up right sleeve was the tattoo “V.R.I. Royal Canadian Regiment.” His dark complexion, brown hair, and gray eyes highlighted his soft features. Behind the military façade was a kind, understanding person. I felt foolish for allowing my anxiety to show.

  Logan reviewed the papers he held, not reading but scanning for the gist, before he raised his eyes to momentarily assess me. “Now listen, word is that you were a little windy at training, a little rattled at times by the war machine. This is your first tour, but you’ve got fifty men in your platoon, all of whom are relying on you. They will be watching your every move. You are their strength; stand in there for them.”

  Logan’s words unleashed deep feelings as an unshakeable emotion brought back unsettled thoughts. Death certainly was always a concern, but I was more worried about showing anxiety to my platoon and failing to be a good officer, about how I would react to others being torn apart, dismembered, and even vaporized by high explosives as we had witnessed on the road before. It was concern about caring for and protecting my soldiers.

  Logan methodically lit a cigarette, a French Gitane with its notoriously strong odor, allowing me a few seconds to pull myself together. “I’m a little nervous, yes, but you can count on me, sir. I am up for whatever this darn
war delivers.”

  “Good show. Last week we saw intense field action down at the Somme after taking over from the Aussies—269 casualties across four battalions.”

  Against knee-jerk angst, I straightened up, tightening my face in a quizzical look. “That leaves us sorely deficient of experienced men, does it not, sir?”

  “We’ll be all right. Over one hundred fresh recruits shipped in from England just ahead of you.”

  It struck me that such a large number of replacements was an indication of alarming casualty rates. “May I understand the RCR’s next move?”

  Logan stood tall in a thoughtful manner, lips pursed. “We are marching near where the 42nd Battalion and the Princess Pats are engaged, but make no mistake—we will be awaiting our turn to relieve the front line.”

  I suppose I didn’t expect a firm answer to such a provocative question. “Yes, sir.”

  “All right, tomorrow morning you will lead your A Company to billets at Canaples. In this warm weather, I expect your tents down in double time, ready to be on the move at 0700 hours.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I made my way through the hustle and bustle of the army bivouac. The smell of the ever-present campfire smoke amid groups of blustering soldiers presented a perverse scene that made it seem more like a large gathering of outdoor vacationers. However, the booms of cannon fire piercing the dusk in the distant battlefields was a stark reminder of war.

  “Sir. Sergeant Sam Hardy at your service. I am to be your NCO assistant.”

  I turned to see a bright, eager-looking soldier. “Hello, Sergeant. The pleasure is mine. I understand you served with Lieutenant Lewis at the offensive last week. I’m truly sorry to hear of the loss; I’m told you were close to him. You’re highly recommended. I know we’ll work well together.”

  Hardy looked directly at me through eyes that welled up. I saw it as a sign of strong character that he was confident enough to allow his emotions to bleed. “Yes, Lieutenant. I was close to Lieutenant Lewis. We fought alongside each other in ‘01 in the Boer War as well. I guess that is the problem with allowing friends to team in the same platoon.”