The Gunner

by Paul Almond

  “Isn’t that more Sergeant McKillop’s job?”

  “Yes sir, his job.” I fell silent.

  “Of course, you’re his Coverer... You could recommend a course of action.”

  “Well, there must be other things Cecil could do... and still be useful.”

  Lieutenant Overstreet paused as he pulled out his pipe and proceeded to fill it. “Well, when Sergeant McKillop comes to relieve you, why don’t you ask him if you could raise this with the BSM yourself, when you go back to the Wagon Lines?”

  Now we both knew the Battery Sergeant Major was not an easy fellow. He’d begun in the British Regular Army, and saw no reason why every man couldn’t do his duty exactly as the military required.

  “Me, sir? You want me to...”

  The Lieutenant glanced at me and, as his eyes met mine, we shared an unspoken knowledge of that difficulty.

  “Very well, sir,” I said. “I’ll have a go. That way, if I fail —”

  “We don’t talk of failure in the 35th.” He lit his pipe and then got up. “I’m going to get a bite and some sleep. We were up all night at that damn O-Pip.” The Observation Post we called the O-Pip after the signal version of the alphabet. “But you have my best wishes.”

  “Thank you, Sir.” My heart sank as he went off. My spell in the Wagon Lines was not to be as enjoyable as I’d hoped.

  ***

  We reached the Wagon Lines after midnight; half of each detachment alternated every three or four days. I don’t need to tell you that, safely out of range of the field guns, I fell asleep in a flash.

  The next morning, I woke up shocked to hear reveille. No such thing up in the firing lines, I can tell you. I struggled out to look at our encampment with new eyes. The Wagon Lines were made up of three sections: the limbers, parked in a row, the second area where the horses were stabled and third, the shelters, where we stayed. Here I would find the Battery administration, including our Welsh Battery Sergeant Major, Gwyneth Jones.

  For miles around, the whole country was flat. Wagon Lines were often placed near part of a village, or a wood, that would partially hide them, about a mile or two back from the firing line and close enough to resupply it. Because the Front hadn’t really changed for a year and a half, some of these establishments had gotten downright comfortable. But still infested with the usual supply of rats — and lice. I had begun scratching in the firing line. We’d all been warned, so we knew what we were up against. Today I’d make my way to the Brigade Medical Post for a supply of creosote, apparently the only thing that chased the little blighters away.

  Apart from lice, a more severe problem kept irritating me: getting Cecil into another posting, preferably back at these Wagon Lines. No question of him staying at the Front until he got better accustomed to all the noise and danger, which in the end I believed he would do. Sergeant McKillop had agreed only too happily to let me speak to the BSM. But how to make him understand? With his excessively brisk manner, he’d gotten promoted, not through charm, but because apparently he never let things slip by.

  Well, I made an appointment to see him later in the afternoon, and then sat for a pipeful in the sun which had finally come out in force. How on earth would I handle it?

  ***

  I was lining up for my dinner, pretty hungry having missed breakfast, when who should I run into but Gavin from New Carlisle. His father ran a big farm back behind and I saw by his spurs and a whip stuck into the leg guard on his right he was one of the Battery Drivers. Several of our Brigade had gotten sick and he was a replacement.

  “Gavin,” I said, “good to see you! Just join us?”

  “Yep. Couldn’t wait to get into action. But I’m beginning to be sorry already. That there BSM Jones, he’s sure a stickler.”

  Oh dear, I thought. What now?

  “He makes us shine them harnesses all the damn time, and the horses have to be in top shape, groomed every day. He even checks the limbers. We spend all day polishing, removing the damn limber wheels and greasing axles, and then at night we have to go bring ammunition up to the firing line. No rest for the wicked, I suppose.”

  “Too bad. You’d think once we’re in action, he’d relax that.”

  Without waiting, he went on. “Water and feed the horses oats before breakfast, fine, but then after breakfast, we polish our own buttons and buckles and right at nine — you missed it today — inspection, and notices. Okay, now for Pete’s sake, let’s have a bit of rest. No sir. Clean out the manure, more polishing, and at eleven the bugle signals us to proceed to water again, more feeding, hay this time, I dunno, Eric, it’s a mad house. No time to yourself.”

  I’d once thought Drivers had a cushy time back at the Wagon Lines, but no longer. And in the thick of the fighting, their horses came first — the Driver had to hang onto and control both his mount and the horse beside it, so he couldn’t dive for the ditch like the rest of us when he heard them whizbangs.

  “And which detachment are you with?” he asked.

  “Sergeant McKillop’s.”

  “My sister, Nancy, she always had a bit of a shine on you. She keeps writing to ask me about you.”

  I did remember his sister who was in a grade below: pretty, I remember, with the bluest of eyes, red hair and freckles. I was surprised she still remembered me. “Well, give her all my best. Tell her if we see this thing through, she’ll be the first person I’ll ask out.” No harm in sounding pleasant.

  Gavin nodded. I could see from his expression that he knew she wouldn’t be waiting around that long. “I don’t think this here war is gonna end any time soon, I’ll tell you that much, Eric.”

  I had to agree with him. “But I’m sure glad you’re in the 35th. We’re going to make this the best Battery in the whole army.”

  “Well, with you in it, Eric, I bet we do.”

  Heavens, had I made that good an impression? I had never seen myself in any leadership role at school, never thought anyone paid me any mind.

  “Wait till I tell the folks we’re in the same Battery! The Alfords are sure held in high esteem up in New Carlisle, I tell you that much.”

  Well well, that did my heart good. Who would ever have dreamed?

  “Nice to know I’ve got a fellow Gaspesian in the Battery. We’ll have to look out for each other, Gavin.”

  “Aye, that we will.”

  But now, having to face down the BSM made me even more apprehensive.

  ***

  Well, time for the dreaded interview! I walked down past the row of tents to the dumpy Belgian farmhouse where the Battery office was located, only partly hidden by what remained of a wood, most of the leaves and branches having been smashed off. The outbuildings were just piles of rubble, but the farmhouse seemed largely intact.

  I went in. The BSM had set up his office in what used to be a bedroom behind the kitchen. While waiting, I compared it with Gaspesian farm living: more pictures on these whitewashed plaster walls here, so thick and solid, unlike our own wooden structures. In a great open fireplace, black metal arms hung for kettles and cauldrons. The simple dining table, functional, was hand-made like ours and now served as a desk. The Battery Clerk told me that an old woman lived upstairs, and I saw her open armoire held dishes and a wall shelf contained her religious paraphernalia.

  In I went. BSM Jones was reading a letter and looked up, rather surprised. “Corporal Alford! I thought I would be meeting your Sergeant.”

  “He delegated me to come and see you, sir. His turn on the gun.”

  “Quite so.” He put down the letter. “Well, what seems to be the problem?” His eyes narrowed slightly. A handsome Welshman, no doubt, with broad features, clean shaven and no moustache; I could picture him preaching in the church, or singing in a choir. I could even imagine having a drink with him in a pub.

  “Sir, it’s my desire to have the best howitzer detachment, not only in the 35th Battery, but anywhere.”

  “A laudable aim, Corporal. Perhaps a bit elevated for someone in you
r position.”

  “Well sir, whether it befits a Corporal or not, that’s what I want. And in order to achieve this, the Sergeant and I would like to have one of our men temporarily assigned to other duties and replaced with someone better suited. I could spend time with the new man, helping him fit into our team.”

  “Out of the question, Corporal.”

  I looked straight at him. “You see, sir, we have a soldier who, while not exactly ‘foolish’ is not perhaps up to our standards.” Foolish is how we referred to simpletons on the Gaspe.

  “Hmm. And you hadn’t noticed that previously?”

  “We’ve been helping him along, sir, because he’s so very keen, he’s strong, and he did learn the drill.”

  “Corporal, I fail to see where this is leading.”

  “Sir, I don’t want to be forced to say some things I might feel bad about later. But could you take it on my say so, and that of our Sergeant, that Gunner Smith would be better off back at the Wagon Lines, just for a while. At least until we get him accustomed to those, er, difficulties up at the Front?”

  “You don’t mean to tell me the man’s afraid, Corporal?” He looked right back at me. “We’re all of us afraid. He’d better just get used to it.”

  “Sir — ”

  He cut me off. “A fool’s errand, Corporal. The less said the better. Request denied.”

  He must have seen the disappointment because then he went on to ask, “Corporal, have you ever been to an eisteddfod?”

  I was in no mood for a gossip. “No sir. What is that?”

  “It’s a competitive song festival. And verse. You know, my family comes from Glan Conway, a local farming community near Llandudno, which is, as you might have heard, one of the great seaside resorts in North Wales.”

  I could see he was trying to soften the blow. I tried to look appreciative.

  “Some of my family are still there; they didn’t immigrate into Canada when I did with my brother, who is a chaplain by the way. I see here,” he waved the letter, beaming, “that my sister has just won harping at the last eisteddfod in our area.”

  “Well done, sir. You must be proud of her.”

  “I am that. Well, Corporal, that will be all.”

  I turned, and left the farmhouse. What would happen with poor Cecil now?

  Chapter Nine

  August 4, 1916

  Well, being pretty depressed, I went over to where the horses were stabled: I wanted to check if my mount Barry had been well looked after. Men from our gun did that when I was forward, but I made sure to groom him myself while here. I’d brought him from England, where we had gotten used to each other.

  “Here, Barry, munch on this.” I fed him some oats. The names of horses in our Battery all began with B. Amazing when you think of the number of horses we had here, almost a couple of hundred in the 35th Battery alone.

  I grabbed a curry comb and proceeded to give Barry a good brush; soothing for me to work at his fine brown hide. Why did I insist on carrying the cares of our gun all the darn time? Why not just sit and relax. But then, with the quiet munching of the horses around me, just as in our own barn, my thoughts began to wander, and I hit on another idea.

  Guns each had two teams of three Gunners and a Bombardier working in rotation, in addition to the Corporal and Sergeant. Maybe another gun had someone they would trade to us?

  So after giving Barry a going over for half an hour, which I think he enjoyed, I wandered around until I found the Sergeant of another howitzer in our section, whose Coverer was up at the line. I explained about Gunner Smith, though maybe not being fully honest.

  He recommended a tough soldier nicknamed Finn, whose real name was Arto Heiskanen. I gathered that the Sergeant would be happy to get the fellow off his gun, not because he was a jellyfish, quite the reverse, a bit too abrasive, perhaps. Each Battery has “Remounts,” spare Gunners to replace the injured; men were moved around a good bit.

  I girded my loins and went off to find Finn’s tent. I found him lying on his blanket, writing a letter. A small wiry fellow with a high forehead, whose small black eyes gave me warning he’d not be easy.

  I sat on the ground opposite and, without too many preliminaries, told him my mission. “We need a new gun number on our howitzer, Finn, and we’d be honoured if you would volunteer to join us.”

  “Now why would I do that?”

  “Your Sergeant recommends it.”

  “Let him go, then.”

  “Now Finn, if I tell you he’d be most pleased for you to do it — and I’ve heard about your Sergeant... (I was actually lying, assuming he’d be like the others). If you don’t want to volunteer...”

  “If I don’t...?”

  I shook my head. “Finn, I thought you Finnish fellows were noted for your imaginations. (I had no idea if this were true, by the way.) Has yours become temporarily misplaced?”

  Finn nodded wearily. “I get your meaning.” He paused and looked at me. “But why me?”

  “We need someone who is not afraid. The Sarge tells me — ”

  ”He’s right.” He snorted. “I’m not afraid of nothin’!”

  I beamed. “Well then! You’ll be a great favourite on our gun! Most of us are terrified of everything.” I thought overdoing it was justified.

  Did I see a faint hint of a smile? “Whatever you say, Corp.” He went back to his writing, not that well pleased.

  “You’ll enjoy our detachment, Finn. Fine bunch of lads, they’d sure welcome you. With your help, we’ll become the best Sub-Division in the Battery.”

  Another grin appeared and then as quickly disappeared. “Good for you, Corp.” He went back to his writing.

  I left his tent with some misgivings, but at least this might hand us some respite until a better solution could be found.

  And his letter writing had prodded me. As you might guess, our family was not great at corresponding. Any mail to the Front came mainly to Jack, who usually responded. So I returned to my tent and proceeded to get a letter off home.

  Dear Poppa,

  All is well here on the firing line. Since I last wrote, when I was made a Corporal in England, we’ve come across the English Channel and I’ve been seeing a bit of France. Right now we’re in Flanders, Belgium, near a town called Ypres, which we call Wipers. We have a good gun team, though we could do better. That will soon come, for we are firing fairly often now and the more we fire the better we get.

  I shall have lots to tell when I get home. I hope Earle is working hard and young Henry is not yelling his head off any more. Please remember me to Lillian and Momma and tell them all is well over here.

  I hope to see Jack one of these days. As a chaplain he can get around, whereas I am pretty tied up close to my Battery, especially while we’re in action here.

  Your loving son,

  Eric

  I finished the letter, and while I was dozing off, I actually found myself wanting to get back into action on the firing line.

  ***

  I’d been working most of the night, bringing ammunition from the Wagon Lines and unloading it, but still when I heard the call “Breakfast up” I swung out fast, ready for my second stint at the Front. (Up here, you always slept in your clothes.) Luckily, no firing until after breakfast — an unspoken convention that kept us and the Fritzies from stirring up trouble. Convenient, I must say. Allowed us time for a little talking and visiting the latrines. But what would the day bring?

  As we were eating by the gun-pit, I wondered how Cecil had managed under the Sergeant’s eye while I was gone. In the night, we had fired fifteen rounds of High Explosive requested by the infantry. Ralph Rideout was having breakfast; I sat down to join him and brought up the subject.

  “That new Finnish fella you sent up yesterday from the Wagon lines? Seems all right.” He was finishing his porridge and bread fried in fat, our usual fare, and even bacon this morning, though we didn’t often get that. Dinner, which we ate at twelve, could have been more generous: a
potato boiled in its jacket, a little piece of meat, half a slice of bread, and some pudding. “I seen ya took my advice after all.” I noticed a new hint of admiration in his look.

  “Yes, Red, I sure did. Not easy though.” I took a gulp of what they called “tea,” tasting as usual of petrol. “So Cecil stayed then? They didn’t send him back? How did he do?”

  “Got McKillop real mad. The Sarge yelled at him but o’ course that only got Cecil worse. He started falling around, dropping shells, and even throwing up.” His voice dropped. “I heard him moaning for his mommy. Don’t say nothing eh?” I nodded. “Finally, Sarge put Finn in Cecil’s place. Dunno what else he could do.”

  Just as I suspected.

  Then Red voiced my own thoughts. “You get court-martialled for that stuff.”

  I sighed. That’s the last thing we wanted. Poor Cecil shot.

  I headed over to Edward. Apparently, he told me, while enemy planes were overhead and the rest of us took cover, Cecil hadn’t grasped the danger — perhaps because they hadn’t dropped explosives. Only the noise of our guns threw him into a fit, and also those big explosions when we got shelled. Distant rifle fire and aeroplanes overhead had little effect.

  Then I had an idea: why not propose him as a Brigade Signaller and Runner. He had a basic simpleton’s intuition about direction, I had noticed. Like an animal, he always knew it. So maybe I should try that out on the Lieutenant? I still dreaded having Cecil as our Number Four, especially if we were ordered to achieve rapid fire.

  Edward agreed, then added, “You know our Lieutenant is getting all worked up about his new formula for aiming the guns.”

  “No!” I imagined he might, with his mathematical turn of mind. “So he’s all excited then?”

  “Sure is”.

  I soon found out, because after breakfast Lieutenant. Overstreet put us into action, registering the gun afresh. That meant deciding on a target somewhere behind the Heinie lines, and then checking to see if our gun actually hit the target, and what was our error. He kept a little chart and when he’d got reports back from the O-Pip, he’d shake his head and try over. Finally, I thought we’d gotten pretty damn good, but he still wasn’t satisfied. “I’ve got to work on this some more,” he said as he dismissed us. We headed off for our dinners.