The Gunner

by Paul Almond

  “Well, Sergeant,” I asked, “are you going to join us in the Howitzers?”

  He shook his head. “I’m not with any Battery. I’m with Brigade.”

  “So what are you doing here?”

  He looked at us with wary eyes.

  What is it with some fellas? Don’t they trust you?

  “I’ve been assigned the 10th Brigade,” he said.

  “Don’t tell me you’re taking over from one of our Sergeants, like Quinn McKillop?”

  “I’m not taking over from anybody.”

  Snooty sort, I decided. And not very forthcoming. So we ate in silence, me and Phil exchanging a couple of looks, until I guess Sergeant Charles felt more comfortable. “I’ve just attended the new Canadian gas training in an old mining building in northern France,” he said. “Their first course, beginning of August.”

  “A gas school?” I frowned. “What are they teaching, for heaven’s sake?”

  “Yeah, we all know how to avoid the damn stuff,” Phil chimed in.

  The Sergeant looked askance at Phil. “Chlorine? Phosgene, diphosgene, mustard? And that lacrimatory stuff so you sneeze and cry? You know it all, do you?” Phil readily backed down.

  I thought a bit. “That General Currie, he sure must be smart. They’re using gas, we’re using gas, he must think we should know something about it.”

  Phil sighed. “Don’t we have enough to do just firing shells?”

  “I didn’t ask to go to the school: I was sent. But let me tell you, Corporal, I’m damned glad. Though to my way of thinking, I got handed the worst job in the Brigade, even though it’ll help save lives.” He shook his head. “When any bombardment starts, we’re the fellas to stay in the open because we’re trained to know which shells are gas.”

  “We can always tell a gas shell,” Phil insisted. “The way it lands. You hear a sort of a phut, instead of a bloody great explosion.”

  The Sergeant shrugged. “But now they’re sending gas in with the high explosives. Bloody hard to tell. Phosgene usually comes that way, so it sounds no different when it lands. But our casualties should lessen once us graduates are out working.”

  Oh my God, I thought. “And what’s the difference between phosgene and mustard?”

  “Phosgene attacks the ability of your blood to carry oxygen. Mainly colourless, and often takes up to forty-eight hours to show symptoms. Then...” he paused, “you suffocate and die.”

  How awful! I shook my head. “So how can we tell?”

  He shrugged. “Smells like new mown hay, that’s the problem… not unpleasant, like mustard or chlorine. That’s why we’ve been trained,” the Sarge explained. “Shout: “Gas, gas, gas,” and ring a bell or bang away on some cartridge case, to let everyone know.”

  “Didn’t they try chlorine first at Wipers Two?” Phil wondered.

  Charles nodded. “But that damn Fritz keeps getting better and better ideas.” He snorted. “Invention of the devil, if you ask me. Couldn’t believe my ears when I heard it all.”

  Well, at least he’s opening up, which is all to the good. “They don’t use chlorine any more?”

  “Not so much. We do. But they use mainly mustard, and we use mainly phosgene.”

  “Worse and worse,” muttered Phil.

  “You don’t know how much worse,” the Sergeant went on. “They mix ’em up. And that’s what we’re doing, too. Listen to this! They send over lacrimatory gas to make you cry, so when your eyes hurt like hell and you can’t see, you vomit. When you vomit in your gas mask, you tear it off, and then comes the phosgene. That kills you.”

  “My God, don’t take off your gas mask, even if you’re sick in it?” I asked

  “Well, you can of course,” he said. “If you want to end up dead.”

  A nice set of alternatives, I thought to myself. Phil blanched and mumbled, “I’m not too sure I want to go back to the gun line tonight.” Well, gas had been used before, but this brought it home all the more.

  The Sergeant eyed him. “Well, you can always face a court- martial, I suppose. They don’t execute everyone, I’ve heard. Better think up some damned good excuse, though. Your chances of getting away with it are almost nil.”

  “Look Phil,” I added quickly, “we may be okay; they haven’t found our position yet. They may not send over any gas shells. If they do, we’ll just put on our masks. So don’t worry.” But in fact, myself, I wasn’t looking forward to going up there tonight. I just prayed there’d be no more gas.

  ***

  We set off that night for the firing line with our ammunition strapped to mules, the road being impassable for limbers. The Sergeant walked; we had lost quite a few horses, but I was riding my horse, Barry. The track curved a lot to throw Heinie off target. But before long, didn’t they start a counter-battery? I could tell by where the shells were striking, none of them too close, that this wasn’t directed at the plank road but formed a general harassment to make sure we weren’t bringing up ammunition.

  We were still a good way from the firing lines when we heard the terrible words shouted: “Gas, gas, gas!”

  In a flash, we all put on our respirators and closed up our shirt buttons; I even put on gloves. But Barry... I dismounted and tried to rig up some sort of nosebag. Quickly I peed into a cloth and put it around — not much good, I knew, but what else to do? Turn and run? Out of the question.

  Soon, though I kept stroking Barry, he started kicking his heels and I couldn’t hold him. He broke away, galloping on ahead with a terrified whinny. The others started screaming and rolling their heads, snorting, such a frightful noise as ever I’ve heard. The other Drivers kept pulling at them to get the ammunition forward. A couple of mules went galloping ahead only to fall over sideways, foaming — their agonies were just awful to hear. I tried to run after Barry, but there wasn’t enough oxygen coming in through the mask to let me go fast enough. I lost him in the darkness.

  All dozen animals ended up dying in terrible contortions, kicking legs in the air and emitting those awful cries, heaving, screaming. By the time I reached Barry in a crater, mercifully he was already gone. My flashlight revealed the mud around him chewed up by his thrashing. I stood there, absolutely broken. How could we do this to our horses? Why had I ridden him up this time? Mightn’t I have known there’d be another instance of gas? No good chastising myself, though, I had a job, up ahead. But being from a farm, I hated all this. I just never wanted to go through it again. Couldn’t they just find some way to protect our animals?

  And as I found out later, no. Eventually, they did try nosebag masks, but then, of course, the horses and mules wouldn’t travel with these because it made it so hard to breathe. Effective way to shut down all transport, I’ll tell you. What a day to go through! When I got to the firing line, I felt a changed man.

  Chapter Twenty

  Hill 70

  August 13th, 1917: 35th Battery fired harassing fire during morning and late afternoon.

  14th: Busy day preparing for attack tomorrow.

  War diaries, 10th Brigade CFA

  Today, I got up well before the cook’s breakfast call and Zero Hour. My sleep, although long enough, had been uneasy. I walked over to the gun using my flashlight. I felt both excited and anxious. This was our first big battle since Vimy Ridge four months ago. Yes, we had taken the Ridge, and yes, our Battery had been exceptional and so remarked on by all levels of command. But still, in war, you just never know.

  Maybe I felt jittery because the incessant noise of a major assault wreaked havoc on us all. This was General Currie’s first big fight as our new Corps Commander. But more likely, the experience of seeing all that horrible pain from enemy gas — well, that too had unsettled me. Taking time in peace and quiet to go over our great gun might steady my nerves. I stepped down into the pit, rested against the sandbags, and breathed deeply as I stared at our magnificent weapon, and smelled the grease and oil. Was there anything we had forgotten?

  Yesterday, our preparations had
been extra careful. In a way, I was pleased that I would be running the gun. Our Sergeant had been seconded to another howitzer whose NCO had come down with one of the many diseases affecting everyone — germs from the rotting corpses, the filth everywhere, and the rats that never left us alone. You just could not get used to the little bastards, squeaking and scrambling, attacking every food parcel, even diving in coat pockets hung on pegs; you’d think they’d have enough to eat with all the corpses around. But no, they were into everything.

  What a mighty gun! No wonder it took five of us to operate it. How many tons of explosive had this one gun thrown at the Germans! I suppose I should be proud of that. Well, I’d been on the front line for over a year, and in spite of the noise, explosions, danger, I never stopped marvelling at its power.

  I moved off the sandbags to check the ammunition stacked on shelves at the rear. As I shone my flashlight, I stopped.

  Gas shells.

  Our very own phosgene rounds. Now, we had fired gas shells before, no doubt about it, but I hadn’t really absorbed the idea. After that experience back at the Wagon Lines, and then, watching what happened to Barry, this really hit home. I was going to fire a gun that was going to do to the enemy what I had seen done to us.

  Well, it was only right in one way. But for some reason now, and I don’t know what possessed me, I just couldn’t stomach it. In the distance, I heard the call for breakfast. But I didn’t go — I just stood looking at all the gas shells. Oh yes, lots of high explosive, some shrapnel, but those gas shells... did I really want to blast them off towards the enemy lines?

  From what I’d seen, these devilish Boche, as the preachers call them, these hounds from Hell, these debauched monsters — well, I’d looked in their faces, especially at Vimy, as they trudged past us. No different than us — just doing their jobs. I know we’re not supposed to think that way, but your eyes don’t lie. These young kids were no different. Confused as hell, most of them. Terrified. “Kamarad! Kamarad!” they’d call. They’d offer us watches, anything to save their lives. Wouldn’t I have done the same? I bet some of them even came from farms, though how could you tell?

  Then for us to scorch their human bodies with the searing white hot pain of gas? Have them die a slow choking death over days, unable to breathe? My thoughts were whirling. What was my mind doing to me? I could see that in my excitement for the coming attack, another voice was saying, No! You cannot do this. You’ve got to draw the line somewhere. You’ve got to stop.

  I shook my head. What was I doing? Refusing to fight? Shirking my command? Just step up out of the gun-pit and start walking towards the Wagon Lines?

  Without prompting from my brain, I did just that — step out. In the distance, I heard our boys chatting as they lined up for breakfast. Was I heading for them? No. My body seemed to be taking me back — away from the firing line. I rounded the gun-pit, but before heading off, I paused. Something allowed me to sink down. With my back to the sandbags, I had to think this over.

  The one thing sure in my mind: I’d be a deserter, likely lined up and shot. But, I told myself, surely some stuff I should not bring myself to do? Wasn’t it about time to make my own statement? I pressed my head down on bent knees, huddled up as I remembered Cecil had been. I didn’t know what was happening to my brain: revolt! Be a man, say No More To This War! And just walk out of here.

  On the other hand, another voice said, my team needs me, so stand by them.

  I stayed that way without moving for what seemed an age, though maybe only a few minutes, until I heard the men coming back, talking and laughing among themselves, pretty excited on this morning before the big attack on Hill 70. And then they went kind of quiet. Because they couldn’t see me? Where was their Corporal? What had happened?

  I heard footsteps and a beam of flashlight caught me. I looked up. Edward.

  He stood looking at me for a time, and then came and sat. We said nothing for the longest while. Then he spoke. “Zero hour in about eight minutes, Eric.” Kindly, as a simple reminder.

  “I can’t. I can’t do it. I just can’t send over gas shells.” I shook my head dumbly.

  To no one else would I have admitted that. I rejected the impulse to jump up and run. I liked Edward: he had a warmth, a steadiness, that I needed.

  “You saw those fellows wounded by chlorine a couple of days ago?”

  I nodded.

  “Pretty terrible,” he agreed.

  We didn’t have to do a lot of talking. What could he say? Good going, Eric, just leave and we’ll follow. That wouldn’t happen, I knew. Or would he say, More power to you, Eric, we’re not following, but you do what you have to do?

  But he said neither.

  “Eric, you must have seen fellows with their stomachs ripped out?”

  I nodded.

  “You must have seen fellows with an arm hanging by a tendon. Or fellows bleeding from stumps of legs?”

  “Of course.”

  “Now, are you trying to tell me that although we’re doing that every day, yes, tearing Germans to pieces with our HE, that’s okay? But putting over gas is completely different?”

  Well, no, I had to agree, there wasn’t a lot of difference. For the first time, I lifted my head and turned to look at him.

  “Eric, I know what you’re going through. I went through it myself after Vimy. I wanted to quit this whole business. Get shot as a deserter, who knows? I had seen too many guys on both sides, ordinary people like you and me, their lives ruined, even if they did stay alive. Imagine surviving with half a face shot away, or no right arm or one leg. Eric, this is a war that we’ve got to win.”

  I nodded.

  “And you’ve got to help us. We’re a team. If we start thinking about the effects of our barrages, we’ll never do anything. We’ve got to keep going, all of us, until this war finally ends.” He paused, then added, “Think how many of our own infantry will get slaughtered if we don’t cover them, if we don’t silence those Fritz machine guns. Up ahead, our Canadian boys need us. And we have to stick by them.”

  He stayed beside me as the seconds ticked on to Zero hour. Slowly his words sunk in.

  I got up. “Thanks, Edward.” We both went around the gun-pit. The men were standing, looking at me, uncertain.

  “Well, two minutes to Zero,” I said brightly. They looked at me. “Number Two gun, Battery action, take posts!” Funny, giving that familiar order made me feel a lot better. Their muted cheer greeted my remark. We sprung into position for the great attack.

  Aug 15th, 1917: 4:25 a.m. the attack on Hill 70 was begun. We are covering the 15th Brigade on the extreme left of the attack. Lieutenant Youell F.O.O. [Forward Observation Officer] of the 35th Battery goes forward with the attack.

  6 a.m. F.O.O. of the 35th Battery telephones in that he is sitting in the final objective. The Boche lose no time in beginning counter attacks which go on all day until 11 p.m. From Zero hour our batteries fired without cessation for 12 hours 7 minutes, when there was a lull. Ammunition began to run short in the afternoon so it was brought up on the trot in full view of the enemy, who diverted some fire to stop them without success.

  Aug 16th: The enemy made repeated counter attacks on our new front line. Over 30,000 rounds of ammunition have been spent these last two days.

  War Diaries: 10th Battalion

  What long days! The first chance to catch our breath was when we lined up to grab a bite of supper. I couldn’t believe the number of shells we poured over the enemy: high explosive, shrapnel, even phosgene, we threw the works at them. But we’d achieved another success. Just like Vimy Ridge. Quicker, this time, getting to the objectives. But afterwards, an awful lot of counter attacks had battered away at us. And of course, in our Battery by now we were all completely deaf.

  Being deafened after a day’s shooting was nothing new, but this was the worst yet. I feared this time we would just not recover. We spoke to each other only in sign language. Over the months we had become pretty good at expressi
ng our ideas through our hands. You weren’t allowed to plug your ears. And you know? It was also against military law to cover your ears with your hands! Supposedly, you wouldn’t hear commands if you did. Anyway, such a useless regulation because you had no time, shot following shot. And all the other howitzers and 18-pounders around were blasting, too. It was just an absolutely thunderously thick din, no matter what you did.

  And then, before we got to our supper rations, back we went for another SOS and twenty minutes more of hard firing. But we knew we were helping our boys hold Hill 70.

  Late in the day, I thought surely to God we’d get time for tea with a bit of bread and jam; I’d gotten to like one called “Ticklers”. We were all so exhausted, we could hardly move. I don’t know how we did it, lifting those 35-pound shells all day long. We changed positions to share the work; I even loaded for a while. Sure over the last year we’d gotten used to it but all the same, eighteen hours hard at it? Enough to break even the hardest man.

  I wiped the blood from my nose, bleeding from the constant concussion. My head was spinning, I was completely deaf, utterly worn out, and I just sat staring off in the distance towards Hill 70, our target. Just a bald tuft, hardly a hill by Canadian standards. And now that I looked, I could see smashed cottages sprawled up the hillside: those half-cellars and broken stone walkways had given lots of cover to the Germans counter attacking, for sure.

  Everything was so muffled, even in this enforced silence. I sipped my tea and absently studied the clouds of gas hovering above the hill like the mist that used to drift about the wharf or back in the Hollow early in the morning. My God, how far away was all that? But where was I now? Everything seemed so unreal, in this world without sound.

  And then, like a wind-stripped spruce, Jim bent and tapped me. I glanced up. He wore an odd look, and motioned. I turned back to the hill. Then I got up.

  The setting sun had illuminated and coloured some weird configurations of gas or cloud, so that they seemed to glow. Was that a cross I saw? I felt another tap. Jim held out his diary. We all communicated by written words in times like this. I looked at the diary. “Angel” it said. I looked back again at the hill. Some of us had previously heard talk of another vision, the Angel of Mons.