The Gunner

by Paul Almond

  This time, Edward pressed me, “You’ve got this girlfriend back in Shigawake...”

  “No ‘girlfriend’, Edward. Just a friend. I like her, of course.” I wasn’t about to tell him that once, she meant the world to me.

  “Do you write her?”

  “Not really.” Should I tell him? “Well... you see, Edward, she can’t read.” There, I had said it.

  “The girls up there in Northern Quebec where you come from, do most of them not read or write?”

  “Oh no, we all do. It’s just ... ” How could I explain it? Well, maybe it was time to lay it all out. “You see, she lived with three families back in the woods. They never went to school, that lot.”

  “You must have seen something in her, Eric?”

  “Oh yes sure. She was quite a person. Strong willed, and it wasn’t her fault where she was brought up.”

  “So you’ve not heard from her?”

  “As a matter of fact, one letter. I can’t imagine how long it must have taken her to write.”

  “But I thought you said she couldn’t read or write?”

  “Well, my older sister Lil was living with us. She used to be a teacher, and kind of took pity on Raine: after I left, she taught her to read and write. In a letter to Jack, she said she found Raine smarter than anyone she ever taught.” I lit my pipe.

  “I figured she must have something for you to like her, Eric.” Edward tapped his pipe on his boot. He then took his penknife and scraped out the bowl.

  “Well, right after I got to England, I got this letter from her. She had run off.” I don’t know why, I felt all emotional when I talked. “Well, it was only a few sentences; a struggle for her, I’m sure. But she told me she was fine. Our storekeeper Ernie Hayes had taught her figures, Lillian had taught her reading and writing, and now she was on her own. She’d got as far as Bonaventure, only thirty miles — but for her pretty damn far. She was trying to go further, because she knew her family would be after her. I bet, Edward, she’ll even make it to Montreal.”

  Just saying that made me feel a lot better. Yes sir, Raine was out of their clutches and like me, onto a new life.

  “Seems to me you were a big help in getting her out,” Edward remarked with his usual insight.

  I thought about that for a bit, and took a draw on my pipe. I gave him a look to show we were on the same track.

  Being able to talk about her like that relaxed me. “But still I wonder how I’ll find her, to write back, because she left no address.”

  Edward looked down at his pipe as he folded it into a packet that he stuck in his pocket. “Eric, if she’s smart, and in the big city, and seventeen, she won’t lack for suitors. If I were you, I’d forget about her. The chances of finding her when — and you know we avoid saying IF — when we get back, are not so good. We all may be getting some pretty big surprises on our return, I’m afraid.”

  I shook my head. “Oh no, Edward, from what you told me, Katie will be there waiting. I feel sure of it.”

  He raised his eyes to look into mine, and then back down again. “I sure hope so.”

  But Raine, I had to agree, was probably gone for good. Into a new and far better life, I was sure of that. With her smart brain and her good sense, she’d get along fine. And I had helped in that, just as Edward said. So Edward was right: just let her go. However sad, that had to be the answer. Better turn my thoughts to what lay ahead — plenty of dangers to watch out for, and my detachment needed all my attention.

  Chapter Seven

  July 27, 1916

  A bell rang. I reached out to turn off my trusty alarm clock and found my hand touching cold, damp earth. Where was I? “Corp, wake up!” someone shouted. “Battery action! SOS!” Oh my heavens, we’re at the Front!

  An SOS rocket fired by the Infantry meant a call for help: likely an attack in No Man’s Land, on which we kept our guns registered. It was narrow, often only a couple of hundred feet between our trenches and the Germans’ — a horrible mess of barbed wire, dead bodies, thickets of rubbish and rats. Why would any soldier try to cross that? Well, that’s what our guns were for — to stop any Fritzie fool from trying. I threw on my jacket, shoved my feet into my boots and ran over to the gun in the pitch dark. Our first SOS, two thirty in the morning, the second night after we’d arrived! Our team was in some disarray, to put it mildly. As I neared the gun-pit, Boom! The gun fired. Thank heaven our sentry was awake! “Good for you, Red!” — our nickname for Ralph Rideout, who’d been on sentry duty. He had bright red hair, red eyelashes and flashing brown eyes, and hailed from Sherbrooke, though for some reason never spoke of his family, except that he was the eldest of many children. Fine soldier though, like in one of those enlisting posters.

  I dove into the pit and snapped into the drill I had learned, hoping details would not escape me. Harry Oakes, our Number Two stood ready between the breech and the right wheel. Down he levered the barrel and ejected the smoking cartridge. Ralph moved over to the sights, handing me the paper with our SOS data.

  “Number one gun,” I called out, reading with my flashlight, “azimuth one degree three nul minutes right.”

  Ralph, our Number Three, checked his sight and nodded.

  “HE percussion charge Number Four!” Ed Whitehead, Number Five, tumbled in late, grabbed a high explosive shell from the shelf and handed it to Number Four, Cecil Smith, kneeling beside the ammunition. Ed went on to prepare three more cartridges. You see, the shell itself needed a charge: a separate brass case, about four inches long, containing five cordite packages shaped like doughnuts with holes centred around the brass primer tube. Different charges gave different muzzle velocities chosen by the range to the target and the best trajectory. Right now the Observation Post had called for a range requiring charge four. But Edward was having trouble opening the lid. Finally he managed it and selected the right charge; he chucked the others in a box for destroying later.

  Cecil started messing around with the safety pin in the nose of the HE shell. He was rattled, shaking even. Then didn’t he drop the shell in the mud? More haste less speed. This SOS had called for rapid bombardment and here we were, dropping rounds in the mud. I just couldn’t believe it.

  While Harry checked the clinometer for the right elevation, I knelt to help Cecil clean off the mud from the shell so he could withdraw the safety pin. “Now load!” He pushed the shell into the breech.

  Damn, where was my rammer? I’d put it down somewhere. I flashed my light around, found it, jumped back to my post and rammed the shell home. Cecil held out the cartridge — I checked its charge and nodded. Although his hands were shaking, he got it into the breech.

  At last, Harry slid the breech shut, pushed down the gear lever and reset the barrel back upwards, pretty steep because howitzers shot upwards over high ground and dropped into trenches, whereas the 18-pounders with their smaller charges fired more level.

  I double-checked everything. “Number One fire!”

  Red yanked back on the firing lever and — BOOM!

  The thunder of the charge and the savage recoil shook me, no doubt. I thought for a second that an enemy shell had landed. And I was not alone: everyone’s nerves seemed jangled. This live ammunition carried quite a punch, much more than during training in Salisbury where we had never fired from a gun-pit. I recovered my composure as quickly as I could, and found Harry leaning aside, going to be sick; he hadn’t even levelled the barrel and opened the breech. I touched him on the shoulder. Embarrassed, he struggled back into action.

  Cecil, hands over his ears, crouched and just rocked back and forth. “Up ya get, Gunner Smith!” I reached over to nudge him. He got up, shaking his head, still dazed. But believe it or not, we had been the first of the howitzers to fire. Inexperienced for sure, but could the other three teams have been worse? What a bunch of amateurs!

  Keep going! Ed handed the next shell to Cecil who managed to yank its safety pin and place it in the breech. I rammed it home. Harry went to slide the breech
shut, but it wouldn’t fully close. He turned and looked at me, panic-stricken.

  “It’s okay, Harry, probably the extractor’s got dirt.” I got up, pulled out the cartridge, worked the extractor lever, blew in it, and then manoeuvred the cartridge back in. “Try it now.”

  He shut it with a reassuring click, reset the gun skyward, and I checked everything mentally, and, “Fire!”

  BOOM! The second shot got off, striking our ears with tremendous force.

  The noise really bothered me. “Come on, Eric,” I shouted to myself, “get used to it. You’re in the artillery now!” But such a long way from the smooth Battery drill when we’d trained. The deafening explosions unnerved us: all four howitzers blasting away, and the 18-pounders ahead of us going full blast — a dense ocean of noise that, speaking for myself, almost drove me crazy. No wonder we were making mistakes, no wonder we stood like dazed dummies when we should be cracking like lightning.

  Well after about ten minutes, didn’t we start receiving our own comeuppance? A tremendous explosion struck about fifty yards behind. Another soon ploughed the earth in front, throwing up great chunks and geysers of black smoke in the moonlight. Counter-battery!

  Gunner Smith was frozen with fear; Gunner Oakes not much better.

  “Atta boy, Cecil, keep her going.” I startled him out of his trance, and on he went passing the ammunition. Harry was shivering. “Power of the imagination, Gunner Oakes, forget what’s coming in, concentrate on what’s going out. We’re giving them worse than they’re giving us.”

  “Yes, Corp,” he replied and tried to focus.

  I had decided that our raspy Sergeant’s method of shouting at every mistake hadn’t really paid off. This firing drill should have turned out better.

  After about fifteen minutes of shelling, each explosion coming closer, one finally came very damned close and caught us all by surprise. No one was hurt, but we were all shaken. Thank heaven, the order came to cease firing.

  Before scrambling for the safety of our dugout, we relaid the gun on its SOS target and loaded a round. I made sure the rammer and clinometer were secure; the boys picked up stray brass; Ed and Cecil checked that all ammunition was safe and covered; Red covered the dial sight, put on the muzzle cover, and stayed out on sentry duty.

  Later I found that this counter-battery was almost a pattern: when one side opened up, the other fired on too, as if to say: Hey! That’s enough, take it easy! And gradually both sides would cease their little exercise.

  Little exercise! Even though this was to become a part of my daily existence, I’ll never forget how that first night shook us all, how it overwhelmed us. Working in the semi-dark with that cavern of noise around us, the continual din got into our bones and jangled our nerves, especially mine. I couldn’t stand the violence. But then, I had joined the artillery and for better or for worse, I was stuck.

  As we headed for the dugout, we visited the latrines: one thing for sure, you learned to empty your bladder and intestines before going into the next action, because you couldn’t take off in the middle.

  When I finally sat on my bunk, I realized I needed to do something about Cecil, who was nowhere to be seen. He’d gone white at that last blast, and maybe went to hide. I sighed, got up, and found him hunched against the earthen back of the dugout. He had been crying, knees buckled up in front and head bent over.

  I stood there for a few moments in the darkness, and pondered: if this one simple barrage had done this, what about heavier enemy barrages sure to come? I sat down next to him. After a time, I said, “Don’t worry, Cecil, I’ll see what I can do about getting you a transfer. But you have to promise you’ll be really good the next few days till I get back to the Wagon Lines.” What’s worse, his buckteeth gave him a beaver’s look, but he was so sensitive about that we never used it against him. He wiped away his tears, and slowly got up.

  Later I lay on my bed of chicken wire fastened between boards and reflected on this first experience of being under fire. What could I do to help make our routine go more smoothly? But then, sleep claimed me and I was gone.

  ***

  The problem remained with me the next morning as we set about our regular maintenance. Our gun lines were within range of the German’s, but we were still a good way back. In fact, how things worked was this: on our side of No Man’s Land (say a hundred yards across, sometimes more) lay our front line trenches, the “firing line”, normally with half our infantry battalion. A couple of hundred yards behind that lay a belt of trenches in our “support line” with a quarter of each battalion rotating through the front. The Forward Observers generally worked in and around that. Two hundred yards behind, a reserve line of trenches had been dug as an emergency buffer and the final quarter of each frontline battalion was ready to man them, and often carry supplies forward for the support and firing lines. Our battalion headquarters staff was near the reserve line, with a Gunner Liaison Officer. Other battalions of infantry rested in billets about five thousand yards back, out of range of all but the heavy German guns and ready for anything that might come up. Soldiers exchanged roles from frontline to billets every week or two.

  Our gun line, the Field Artillery, lay about 2,500 yards behind the reserve line. In front, our 18-pounders had a range of about 6,200 yards, and then behind them, our howitzers had a maximum range of about 7,200 yards. Within range of the German guns, of course, because our main job was to blast away at them, and also support our infantry and shell the enemy trenches. Further back, our much heavier guns stayed 4,000 to 5,000 yards behind the trenches. They covered us with counter bombardment fire and thickened up the destructive fire on the enemy trenches.

  After the maintenance, I took a moment to sit and fill my pipe. Gunner Rideout came up, looking weary. He sat down and pulled out a fag. “What do you think about last night, Eric?”

  “Bloody awful. And I don’t mean their shelling.”

  He nodded. “We’re going to have to get a lot better, aren’t we?”

  “Damn right. Any and all ideas welcome.” Red was another soldier I relied on, though his demeanour was never quite as warm as others. Quick temper too, tough but solid. I thought he’d soon get recommended for one hook, meaning he’d become a Bombardier, as Lance-Corporals were called in the Artillery; even officer material.

  “I kinda liked the way you talked to poor Cecil,” he said. “Better that way than our Sergeant — nothing against him, but yelling at us all the time does more harm than good.”

  I had to agree. “Maybe he won’t when he comes back.”

  “I guess he’s like them other regulars — no discussion about methods, for sure.” He paused, and then looked at me. “Eric, that Cecil guy, maybe you should get rid of him. And even Oakes...”

  I shrugged. I didn’t want to discuss it until I’d made up my own mind, which I was in the process of doing. “We’re all in it together, Red. It’s my job, in fact our job, to make good Gunners out of everyone. No good just sending someone away. We should try to find the best in ourselves. At least that’s what my poppa always said about our hired fellas.”

  “Sorry, Eric, I just don’t agree. Where I come from, if you’re no good, you’re out!” With that, he got up and stumped off. I hoped he’d get over it.

  Chapter Eight

  July 31, 1916

  Late that afternoon, our Lieutenant came back from his stint at the Observation Post to find me standing in a trance, staring at our beautiful howitzer, wondering how I could make my detachment work better. “Hello there, Alford. How’s it going?”

  “Well enough, thank you, Mr. Overstreet.”

  “I knew you’d enjoy the Front.” Dick Overstreet was a funny sort of fella. He’d been a mathematics teacher before he’d signed up — had a second degree in mathematics too. Barely thirty, he was almost completely bald, so his head looked like an egg from which two ears protruded. His grey eyes seemed always off on a distant galaxy, or calculating a new formula. He was not much of a people person bu
t pretty smart, which is why I guess they had accepted him into the officer corps.

  We started to walk together back to the dugout, glancing up as a single British reconnaissance plane flew over. I’d heard that British pilots were not permitted parachutes, which I found hard to believe. I asked Overstreet, and he confirmed it. “I suppose they think it’ll encourage them to save their planes...” He shook his head, and I too felt that was a helluva way to run a war. “And so how did the first night’s firing go, Alford?”

  “Pretty terrible, sir.” I didn’t know how much to tell him. “You know, we did have a little problem with one of the Gunners.”

  “Oakes acting up again? Argumentative little bugger.”

  “No sir, Cecil Smith.”

  “Not very bright, I know, but surely had his drill down pat?”

  “Oh yes, sir. Down pat...”

  “Well then, what’s the problem?”

  “I think sir, he may have a difficulty... with the noise —”

  Overstreet gave a snort and a chuckle. “He’d better get used to it.”

  “My idea exactly, sir. But I think it goes beyond that.” We came to a couple of empty ammunition crates, and sat down. I didn’t want to spill the beans, but ended up continuing. “So I think, sir, if we could find another position for him in the Battery, he’d be better off. And then,” I added brightly, “I could start getting this team working the way it should. Pretty darned important, I’d say.”