by Will R Bird
Freddy was gone, he had predicted truly. A big shell had landed beside him, killing him and burying him. Charley had fallen in the first rush, riddled with bullets. Joe, the ex-policeman, had fought through to the objective, and had been killed by a sniper on the flank. One shell had wiped out Stevenson, Theriault and Roy, as they grouped by a captured gun. MacMillan had been shot in the stomach, and had died after waiting hours in a trench. Billy, the complainer, had fallen as he charged a machine gun, keeping on until he was almost within reach of the gunners. Little Gilroy had been killed, and Westcott, and Smaillie had been wounded. Hughie, and the sergeant he had defied, had been wounded at the same time, and had been taken away together. Big Herman was missing. They located his body a month later. That morning he had shaken hands with Freddy, said goodbye to him, and then when he had got going had run amuck. He was found almost at the bottom of the Ridge, near a battery position, with eight dead Germans about him, four of them killed by bayonet.
In the other platoons, besides Tommy, Slim and Joe had survived, and Ira and Sam, and big Glenn and Eddie, and Mickey and Jerry. They sat in the dugout that night, after a hard day of re-building roads, each man suffering from bodily fatigue, and crawling vermin, and the clammy chill of mud-caked clothing, their faces brooding, enigmatic, even Mickey’s curiously odd, only their eyes moving. They would not talk about the fighting and seemed utterly worn. Six months ago we had marched to Mount St. Eloi, eagerly, bravely, our tin hats askew and with a cheeky retort for every comment, hiding whatever secret apprehensions we had, not knowing the heavy ominous silence that follows the burst of big shells – and the cries of the wounded; not knowing what it is to scrape a hasty grave at night and there bury a man who has worked with you and slept with you since you enlisted.
CHAPTER III
The German Officer
We left the top of the Ridge and went to Vimy village, relieving the C.M.R.’s there, and doing working parties, digging trenches near the front line. I came back alone the first night and two of the new men asked me to go with them to a shelter that they had made in the railway embankment. It was a snug bivvy and there was plenty of room for the three of us. We were soon asleep, but about midnight I was wakened by a tug at my arm. I looked up quickly, throwing back my ground sheet, and there stood Steve!
I could see him plainly, see the mud on his puttees and knees. He jerked a thumb towards the ruined houses and motioned for me to go to them. I did not speak. I thought that if I could do exactly as he said, and not wake the others, perhaps he would actually speak to me. He started to walk away as I gathered up my equipment and rifle and greatcoat, and when I hurried he simply faded from view. I was disappointed. For at least ten minutes I stood by a path, waiting, watching, listening, hoping he might speak or whisper. Nothing happened, and I grew cold, so I kept on to the nearest ruin and there lay on a rough earth floor and went to sleep.
In the morning I heard fellows talking about a big shell that had killed two men. I jumped up and looked. They were digging from the shelter I had left the mangled bodies of the two lads who had invited me to join them. The shell had exploded just above their heads. All that day I thought of how I had been saved, and I resolved that if ever again I saw Steve I would do exactly as he motioned; he had saved my life.
Earle had transferred to the Brigade Trench Mortars, and so I did not see him, but McDonald and I slept together. After two more days we were warned to fall in at dark to march back over the Ridge. The officer in charge was the supernumerary who had been with us at Divion, and he seemed very unused to his work. When the time came to fall in, the Germans began shelling, using gas shells. We put on our respirators and waited in the ruins until there was a lull, as the gas shells could penetrate the walls. Finally the officer called us out, and at that moment the shelling increased. I had been told to act as guide and was with the officer, and I shouted that everyone was to follow me.
The platoon started after me on the road that led over the Ridge, but the officer called us back, reprimanded me, and made us fall in in two ranks. Shells were dropping everywhere and we had to put on our masks again. Yet he yelled for us to NUMBER, and to FORM FOURS. It was a ghastly business but we made a semblance of obeying. He would not hurry and turned to see if we were properly in line, then gave the order to move in single file. McDonald was next to him. I had slipped in third and Melville behind me. A shell came over the officer’s shoulder and struck McDonald full on the chest, breaking in pieces as it did so. The impact killed him instantly and drove him back with such force that Melville and I were knocked off our feet and sprawled into the ditch. The liquid in the shell splashed over the legs of the officer, burning him badly. He lay on the road and called for assistance.
Melville and I jumped up and examined McDonald, but could do nothing. We laid him to one side, on the bank, and left him, then hurried to the nearest ruin for shelter. The others had run there as McDonald fell. A sergeant of the 73rd, Oron, had taken charge of the platoon, Davies being with company headquarters, and he came shouting at us to go and get the officer. Not a man would volunteer, and he had to give stern orders and name his men to get them to move. We all knew that McDonald had lost his life through the arrogant stupidity of that major.
We left the ruins at the first lull, and I led the platoon as quickly as possible. I had my own mask off and saw a short lad, Hayward, pitch head-first into a water-filled hole. I yanked him out and then helped old Sam up the hill, as he was sick from the effects of the gas. Finally we reached Grange Tunnel and there a lad, Kennedy, of the 73rd, shared with me a tin of beans. They were delicious and he and I were friends at once.
Next day we got out into the sunlight. It was perfect weather, clear and warm, and the grass was yellowed with dandelions. Larks sang overhead and in that same sunny blue aeroplanes wheeled like great hawks, the early sunlight glinting on white wings as a deadly duel was fought. The sergeant-major came to me and told me that I was to go back to Cave as a scout, and that I would be transferred as soon as a re-organization was effected. I went to see Earle and was told that he had been wounded in the arm by shrapnel and had made “Blighty.” Another of the old crowd gone. We had one more trip in the line before my transfer was made, relieving the Fifth C.M.R.’s and doing several working parties. I was out one night on covering party, and then was warned for patrol.
Sergeant Oron was in charge and we worked our way out too rapidly. The flares had stopped and it was dark. He got mixed, and then, after we had been out longer than we intended, he whispered to me, asking directions. I started to crawl the way I judged we should go and when I veered I felt a touch on the arm, so swung around. On we went. A heavy dew had fallen and wet weeds brushed my face like dead fingers. The guns had stopped firing and every tiny sound was magnified by the gloom. Again and again as I crawled I felt that guiding touch and wondered why Oron, if he knew the way, had made me crawl ahead. All at once wire loomed before us and a very Canadian challenge was given. I felt thankful to slide into our trench, almost where we had left, but I turned to the sergeant. “What,” I asked, “was your idea? Why did you have me go ahead when only you knew the way?”
He stared at me. “What do you mean?” he snapped. “I just followed you, I didn’t know where we were.”
“Didn’t you keep tapping me on the shoulder to go right or left?” I was completely bewildered.
“I never touched you,” he said. “I was behind you all the time. What are you trying to put over?” He could not understand me, but all at once I knew it had been Steve again. I said no more, but got away from him, and later heard that he had regarded me as “queer.”
The last night in we were to put up wire in front of a “jump-off” trench some yards ahead of the main line. Our officer had come from the 73rd, was in poor health, and did not seem very capable. Twice our party of twelve men were led out into no man’s land and we had the wire and screw stakes ready when flares went up and machine gun fire flattened us to the mud. Each time we were brought back i
nto the trench and told that we had made too much noise and to wait an hour. It was the truth all right, there had been considerable clamour, but it was made by new men and we could not help it. We talked among ourselves as we waited, and when a drizzling rain began Tommy and Melville and Mickey and I told the officer that we would put up the wire without a covering party or any one else out there. He agreed eagerly and we went out. We worked swiftly but carefully, making a good “fence” and came in again without being disturbed. The rain came heavier then and our relief was a long time coming.
When it did arrive the officer ordered us out over the back of the trench to let the relieving party file in. As we stood there in the rain flares went up and our wet ground sheets glistened. The Germans saw us and we had to flop in the soft mud with all our equipment of haversacks and mess-tins. We were soaked, chilled, mud-plastered, when we got up, and the officer led us out by an overland route. He got mixed, would not wait for a guide, and we wandered away over on the left. It was pitch black and the rain poured in torrents. There had been casualties among the Lewis gunners and the extra “pans” of ammunition were passed back among the platoon men. We carried them in turn. Just in front of me “Old Bill,” a night blind veteran, stumbled along with a pair of the “drums.” The connecting strap was over one shoulder. We came to a wide, shallow trench crossed by a plank. The farther end of the plank had sunk down the opposite bank until it had quite an incline, and successive feet had muddied it until it was slippery. The officer flashed his electric torch and showed “Old Bill” the way. Two steps – and his feet shot from under him. His kilt flew up and he sat down hard on the plank and shot, as if it were greased, to the far end, bringing up so heavily that the “drums” of ammunition crossed and the strap nearly strangled him, while his steel hat dropped over his face. As soon as “Old Bill” got air he gave voice and in fiery language denounced all wars, the Great War in particular, all battalions, the 42nd especially, all officers, his present company NOT excepted.
The officer tried to subdue him, but “Old Bill” only subdued when his breath gave out. We went on, and got more lost than we were. Finally we halted by another trench, so soaked with rain that we cared not what happened. “Try to make yourselves comfortable,” said the officer. “Wait here and I’ll find where we are.” And he was gone.
The trench had a foot of water in it, and there were no shelters. Melville and I explored, then, at a narrow part, pulled in the sides with our entrenching tools until we had soft earth heaped high above the water. We spread a ground sheet on it and lay down. It was a very tight squeeze but we lay there side by side, lengthwise to the trench, with the other ground sheet over our heads, and the rain poured down. We slept in spite of everything as we were utterly worn, and an icy touch roused me. I woke to find that all one shoulder was under water and that I could not move. I soon understood. The sides of the trench, loosened by our work, had slid in more, and had almost buried us, while the water in the trench, dammed by our block, had risen until it was ready to drown me.
Never will I forget those few minutes. We could not move an arm or leg, were absolutely helpless, and the rubber sheet over our heads smothered our calls. But we yelled and yelled for help and at last, just as my ear had filled and my nose was blowing bubbles, Tommy found us. He ripped up the sheet and dragged us out, and for a time we could hardly speak. Then we moved off, trailing two miles back to where we should have gone. Old Bill had stayed up all night, sitting on a firestep with a rubber sheet pinned across the corner above him, dozing. He heard a moaning, shuddering sound, he said, and went to investigate. One of the men of the other section was sitting in soft mud, had been there all night, shaking so that his teeth chattered, and making an awful moaning. Back near the Ridge we found the officer, a desperate-looking figure, and then, as we went up the hill, we had to pass a large crater. It was slippery and there were loose wires. “Old Bill” tripped on one and went head over heels, slithering and clutching at things, clear to the bottom. The officer hurried back and stood peering down in the gloom. “You poor fellow,” he called. “Did you fall down there?”
“Old Bill” removed a lump of mud from one eye, shook old wire from his ears, and looked up. The air was brittle. “No,” he blared. “I was here WHEN THE BLEEDIN’ HOLE WENT UP.”
The morning cleared the skies and we went back to Villers Au Bois. The weather continued perfect, and Tommy, who had been rather quiet, began to be his usual self again. A draft of new men had come to us and I made several new friends. One was Tom Mills, a pale-faced youth, and rather reserved, another was Dykes, a very heavy built man, who liked to talk about the French. I also got better acquainted with “Old Bill,” a cockney, ten years older than any of us, and a regular old timer. He had joined the battalion at Ypres, had fought all through the Somme and its terrors, and yet was night blind. After dark he could not see any distance or with clearness. He did odd jobs about the company, kept the billets clean when we were out of the line, and looked after the dugouts and trenches when we were up front. But always when there was a “scrap” on, “Old Bill” was there. He was a man of very clean habits, careful of his personal appearance, and had a nice tenor voice. All the boys thought the world of him but I had not got to know him well before that time.
The scouts and snipers were re-organized, and five new men joined them, Hill, a short, thick-set man; Jimmy, a tall, observant, quick-tempered lad; Bulmer, a big husky hockey player, and myself, all from our draft. The other was an easy-going, mild-mannered “pipe-puller,” Brown, one of the “originals.”
Before he could make a trip with them Bulmer had some leg disease that crippled him and sent him back to Canada. The rest of us were initiated into the mysteries of night work, shown how to crawl around the German lines without making a noise, how to make a report, to read a compass. McLeod, a fine-looking man, as big as Herman, was friendly with us and Cave was just the same as he had been. Wilson, a 73rd man, came in Bulmer’s place and he and I were teamed together. He had had considerable experience.
I got a day’s leave before we went back to the trenches and had extraordinary luck. As I left my billet a big car slowed down and the driver asked me for a light. He was an officer’s chauffeur, his “boss” being one of the head signallers stationed at Houdain, and he asked me where I was going. I said I had the day. We went to Bruay and then he took me all around the country, to Ferfay where the divisional school was, and to Olhain Chateau, surrounded by a moat and of 15th century construction. It was a wonderful treat to me. The sky was summer blue and sunshine made whiter the cottages with their red-tiled roofs. The hedges were in bloom and fruit trees were white with blossom. We had a real dinner at Houdain and he brought me back to my billet.
We went back over the Ridge and relieved the Fifth C.M.R.’s at the railway dugouts. Everyone was excited with talk about a brigade raid. It was to be on the night of the 8th of June, and the German front line trench was to be taken and held for a time, and then vacated. Just why this was to be done we did not know. All details were gone over in the companies, but we at headquarters were left severely alone. Cave told us that there would not be anything for us to do.
At dark we left the embankment and moved over to another dugout. I went with the company and had a chat with Tommy as I looked over the few left of the old crowd. We were moving along through a trench, talking and calling to each other, when – crash – crash – crash – three shells landed close by. We hurried for a distance, then eased our pace, and as we did another salvo came and one shell struck directly in the corner of the trench. I saw men go down and heard the shout for “stretcher bearers.” There was no need of them. Poor Slim and Joe had been together, lagging a little behind the others, and both had been instantly killed. As I looked at them I thought of the way Slim had dug on his hands and knees his first night in at Vimy.
Tapes were laid to the front line, white lines that led to the first aid station, and guides for bringing back prisoners overland. They looked,
in the dusk, like a pathway for ghosts. The barrage was sharp and heavy and we got out of our shelter to watch it. No orders had come for us and so after a time Jimmy and I quietly left the place and went up to the boys. We had our rifles and equipment. The objective had been taken when we reached it. Several dead Germans lay around, but there had been few casualties among our men. Just where we got in the trench a stout-looking “Heinie” lay huddled in one corner. One of the last draft looked at him. “It can’t hurt a dead man to stick him,” he said roughly. “I’m going to try my bayonet on that chap. I want to know what it feels like.”
He poised his steel, ready to make his thrust – when the German yelled and leaped to his feet. The “sticker” jumped back in amazement, and Jimmy took charge of the prisoner. In a moment we had tested all the other dead men, but no more “live corpses” were found. The Germans were sending up orange sprays, red rockets, green flares, golden chains, all the varieties they had, but there was little retaliation. None of our old crowd had been hit and they were all feeling good. The raid had been a grand success. Over thirty prisoners were taken.
As Jimmy and I went back we found an officer in our front trench. He was helplessly drunk and had never left the post he was in. We said nothing about it to anyone as the others had not mentioned him. Before we could get back to our dugout we met two signallers. One of them told me that I was to go back up to the front with him, and to observe there all the next day. His companion had a reel of wire and they were running a line to the front trench.
I went with him and found that he was correct. We were to get between the lines, if possible, any good spot, and report all that the Germans did as they returned to their trench. Luck favoured us. We found a well-like hole not many yards in front of the enemy line, almost in reach of the wire. It had not been used for a long time as weeds were thick on the rim and we were careful not to disturb them. We got in the hole, made sure that the phone was in working order, and waited. I had a revolver, two Mills bombs and field glasses. The company had returned to their own trench.