“Here mate, this will warm your insides.” Sam, a friendly man in his unit, passed Jim his rum ration. “I heard that we’re waiting for the wind to change direction so we can launch gas canisters at the Boche before our assault.”
Sam sat down near Jim and continued, taking a sip from his own rum. “This is the third postponement, for God’s sake! It’s hard on the nerves. Nice accommodation, though, eh?”
Jim shook his head. “It’s a palace, Sam. There’s nothing but mud in your food, mud in your rum, mud in your rifle, mud for a pillow.”
Sam added, “Pure luxury! They’re saying there’s no plan to build us more permanent defences since the brass thinks the war will be over soon. Of course, they’re miles away, all warm and cozy and dry by a fire sipping single malt!” He shook his head in disgust. “Where’re you from, Jim? You have a bit of an English accent, but you wear the Canadian uniform.”
“I am English, but I moved to New Ontario in 1911.” When Sam removed his helmet, Jim saw that he was freckled and red haired. “You look like you just got off the boat from Ireland, but you sound like a Canadian.”
“Yeah, my family came to Canada half a century ago, after the potato famine. Say, you must have been in that horrible forest fire up north last summer!”
“No, I was at Camp Borden with the army. My wife and five children survived the fire, though, thank God. I came up with the army in a disaster relief train and when I got there, I didn’t know if they were alive. It was a vision of hell, I thought, until I came here.” Jim took another sip of his rum. “I expected that after seeing all that death and destruction up north, I’d be prepared for sights on the battlefield, but there is no comparison. At least those poor souls back home had their bodies treated with dignity.” He tilted his head towards the carnage on the fields around them.
Nodding grimly, Sam said, “It’s a blessing that your family survived the fire, Jim.” He changed the subject to a less sombre one. “Well, we Canadians have the advantage in this colder weather. Winter in France is tropical when you remember how bloody cold our winters can be, though, granted, this wet cold goes right into your bones. I had a job as a lumberjack up north one year. Made good money, too, but I recall many days when the thermometer dipped to forty below. And then it could be hot as hell in the summer while you got eaten alive by bugs.” Sam paused, “Hey, I know how I can make my fortune and win this war. We just need to bombard the Boche with blackflies!” He grinned and took another sip of rum.
Jim chuckled, then spread out his ground cape and sat down on it. “Guess I’ll write a letter to my wife now, before we get the order to go over. Keep safe, Sam.”
He sat down, took out his Bible, removed Annie’s portrait and stared at it for a long time before beginning to write.
Dearest Annie,
I’m looking at your picture as I write this letter. I hope you and the bairns are well. I am unharmed and plan to remain that way. You may have read in the paper of the gas attacks we encountered but dinna fash, we have been issued masks. I heard that they finally handed out underwear for the poor Jocks fighting in kilts. They were getting nasty blisters in some tender areas from the gas attacks. I continue to suffer from headaches, but have all my limbs so I should not complain. The weather is colder now, although I know it’s nothing compared to the winter that you’re having. I dream often of a good hot cup of English tea beside our warm fire at home. The tea here is often cold by the time we get it, and it tastes vile.
Jim stopped writing. He took another sip of his rum ration and then lit a cigarette. He offered a cigarette to Sam and said, “I never smoked before coming here, but smoking calms my nerves and helps me forget my throbbing headache for a minute or two. There is no escape from those constantly exploding shells.”
Jim scratched an itchy spot in his armpit. Like every other soldier on the front, his uniform was infested with lice. As bad as the blackflies and mosquitoes were in New Ontario, at least you could smoke them out or slather your skin with something for protection. There was no escape from the lice here. They lived in the seams of the men’s filthy clothing, especially in the crotch, seeking heat. The only way to exterminate them was to run the flame of a candle along the seams directly.
There was a strange crunching noise nearby and Jim looked towards the sound. Three enormous rats gnawed on the exposed human leg of a corpse that lay half-buried in the wall of the trench. Jim swore, and violently threw an empty tin at the rodents to scatter them.
“My God, we’re living in a graveyard!”
Sam nodded as he inhaled the smoke from his own cigarette. “We keep trying to rebury those poor buggers, but the mud continues to vomit up more bodies!”
Jim sighed, picked up his pencil again and continued writing. He struggled for a minute to think of something positive to say to Annie, but then word came that they should prepare to advance within the hour, once the chlorine gas was released against the enemy. Jim tucked his letter into his Bible and replaced it in his breast pocket.
Finally, the wind had changed direction and was blowing towards the enemy lines. On the order, the men put on their gas masks and climbed out of the trench. They advanced crater to crater, avoiding the bloated bodies in the rust-coloured ice water. There was a loud explosion in front of Jim and he dropped to the ground just as another grenade hit the soldier beside him, blasting the man’s body into a mess of blood, bone and flesh.
Jim heaved and brought up his last meal.
Sam came back to Jim and urged him to get moving, adding, “Man! That was a waste of your rum ration!”
Shells exploded all around as the troops inched towards the enemy, who were firing into the gas clouds. Several unexploded cylinders were penetrated with German bullets, releasing more noxious fumes. Gas crept slowly across the field, no higher than the bottom branches of a jack pine, Jim thought.
The troops’ vision was severely restricted by the gas masks as they advanced, and shells continuously cascaded around and behind them. Suddenly Jim was tossed into the air like a rag doll then punched violently into the ground. He landed on his back near the lip of a water-filled crater. He lay still for several minutes, and then rolled to his side, dizzy with pain. He patted his Bible, and Annie’s photo, in thanks, thenstood and ran to catch up to the other troops.
The enemy snipers were picking off stretcher bearers and runners so they were forced to pull back. When Jim and several other men reached a large shell hole, they scrambled down for protection from enemy fire. The gas had tarnished all the brass buttons on the men’s tunics. Finally the wind redirected the gas clouds and they heard the signal that it was safe to remove their masks. Jim’s face was ashen and his lips blue.
Sam crawled over to Jim and shouted hoarsely, “You okay, mate? I saw you thrown into the air. I thought you’d met your maker.”
“Yeah, I’m okay. My ears are ringing and my head still throbs but I’m alive. I suppose we’re relatively safe here. Let’s hope another shell doesn’t hit the same spot as the one that made this hole.”
They received orders to stay where they were until further notice. Jim’s rifle was mud-caked from his fall and he tried to clean it as he waited. Echoing around them were the groans and wails of wounded men, dying or drowning in water-filled craters. Sam and Jim looked at each other sadly as they listened to men screaming for help, cursing, even calling for their mothers.
A message finally came to them that they were to hold their position overnight, and until further notice. They had not eaten in over twelve hours and Jim had lost that meal at the beginning of the battle. But he had no appetite anyway. They stayed the night in the cold wet crater, but nobody could sleep surrounded by the sounds of dying men. The next morning, the men in the trench were finally relieved by new troops. One of their replacements told them they had lost over forty percent of their men in the battle.
Jim shook his head and said to Sam, “Well that’s not hard to believe. I thought we had lost more. I’m amazed that I�
��m still alive!”
After an improvised meal of cold tea and a hard biscuit, Jim took out his Bible and gazed again at the photo of Annie. His hands were shaking with a new tremor, but he wanted to finish his letter. He took out his pencil.
I received a letter from George and was surprised to hear that he was in the army now. I will write to him soon. I’m sorry about your mother. George told me what happened to her. Don’t fret, we’ll bring her to us after the war. I regret that I have not told you often enough how much I love you. Take good care of yourself.
Love to you and the children,
Jim
Chapter Forty-Three
Spring, 1917
Annie knew Jim was keeping things from her. She worried about his shaky writing. When he wrote about continuing headaches, she imagined that they must be excruciating because it was not his nature to complain about pain. She had read in the newspaper about dead covering the ground as far as the eye could see, and she could only imagine what horrors he might be experiencing. She decided that she must write to him about everyday things so he could at least envision normal life back home with his family.
She wrote to him as if they were chatting over dinner. She told him about Henry’s first tooth, when he first sat up and when he started to crawl. She joked that she hadn’t taught Hal any more bad words and wrote how Spud was a joyful part of the family. She wrote about little purchases she had made for the house and about her dream of having electricity in the house. She told him how well the children were doing at school, and she had the boys write, draw, and scribble messages to him.
She made Jim’s favourite shortbread, and bought him English tea, and she packaged them up with her letter and with the letters and drawings from the children. She knitted several pairs of socks so that he would have dry feet. She didn’t know if he had any relief for his headaches, so she added a large bottle of Aspirin.
Hal slipped quietly into the house, cradling a squirming lump inside his top as he tried to sneak past her. Annie shook her head at his antics. “What are you hiding, Hal?” He sheepishly reached inside his shirt and pulled out a tiny bedraggled kitten. The buff and white ball of fur mewed weakly.
Red-faced, he stammered. “I, I f-found him in the wood shed. Can I keep him?”
Annie placed her hand on the kitten’s head and laughed as it vibrated with a loud purr.
“Oh, I suppose this little scrap won’t eat much, but you have to promise to take good care of it. Here, son, let’s find an old saucer and feed the poor thing.”
Hal beamed and before his mother could change her mind, he hastily blurted, “I’ll take real good care of him. I promise. Thank you, Mummy.”
True to his word, Hal made sure that the kitten was fed and let outside when needed. It followed Hal wherever he went, eventually claiming a spot in bed beside him every evening. Hal named him Lucky. That’s an apt name for the tiny stray, Annie thought.
Two weeks later, while washing up the breakfast dishes, Annie was suddenly interrupted by Hal’s hysterical screams. Spud frantically barked and jumped at the door. She ran out the door and Bobby and Spud followed close behind.
A huge German shepherd had Hal’s kitten in his jaws and was shaking the life out of it. Bobby grabbed a shovel for a weapon and furiously lunged towards the big dog. Spud’s hackles were raised and he growled but he stayed a safe distance from the much-larger animal.
“Get the hell out of here! Go home!” Bobby roared.
Annie ran to Hal and gathered the sobbing little boy into her arms as the dog dropped the lifeless kitten to the ground. It growled at Bobby, aggressively baring its teeth, but then scuttled away. Bobby threw down the shovel and swore under his breath.
“That bloody cur could have bitten Hal! I recognize it, though. It’s Crazy Willy’s dog.”
“Crazy Willy?” asked Annie.
“He’s that old prospector who lives in that shack up the line. Bring Hal inside, Ma. I’ll take care of this.” He gestured towards the dead kitten.
Bobby came into the house an hour later. His face was pale as chalk. He glanced around the kitchen, making sure that his younger brothers were not around.
“That man’s insane! I brought the kitten to show him what his dog had done in our yard, and before I knew what was happening, he snatched what was left of poor Lucky, wrapped wire around his paws, and tied the dead cat around the dog’s neck!” I got out of there as fast as I could. All I wanted was for him to keep his damned animal tied up and off our property!”
Annie was speechless. She had spent the last hour consoling Hal until he finally fell into an exhausted sleep. She couldn’t stop thinking of Lucky’s violent death and of what could have happened to Hal. Now she was visualizing the carcass of a much-loved pet dangling another animal’s neck.
Annie tried to forget the incident as best she could, and hoped the children would too. But a couple of weeks later, there was a knock at the door. When she answered, she was assaulted by the stink of unwashed body, wafting off a skinny bearded man. He was wearing filthy overalls and his hands, clutching a tattered old hat, were black with grime.
“Please ma’am, can you spare me a bit of grub? I ain’t eaten in three days.”
Annie tried to breathe through her mouth as her eyes watered. “Aren’t you Willy, the prospector from up the line?”
“Yes, ma’am. That’s me.”
Ghastly memories of the kitten’s demise and visions of a tortured dog flooded her thoughts. “Well, I have five hungry boys to feed and my husband is in France, fighting. And I do believe it’s against the law to help a deserter.”
“Oh, I ain’t no deserter, ma’am. They wouldn’t have me.”
Small surprise there, Annie thought, but she decided that she could manage to spare a little food for the hungry old coot. “Well, just wait a minute outside, and I’ll see what I can do.”
She found an old pot and filled it with a generous serving of her chicken stew that was simmering on the back of the stove, then grabbed an old flour sack and tossed in two cans of beans and a tin of tomatoes. She placed a day-old loaf of her bread on top and tied the bundle into a knot.
When she opened the door again, the old man sprang up from his seat on the step. He smiled with a mouthful of rot and bowed obsequiously.
“Thank you! That’s grand of you, ma’am. I appreciate it.”
“You’re welcome, but I’m afraid that’s all I can do to help you out.” She hesitated. “Do you still have your dog?’
“Not anymore! The damn thing went crazy and I had to shoot him.”
At least that vicious animal’s miserable, tortured life was over. She momentarily had a wicked thought of what should happen to degenerate old men.
“You know, if you’re having trouble feeding yourself, perhaps you should think twice before getting another dog! You can keep the pot, Willy, but don’t come back here looking for more. I can’t spare it. Good day to you.”
She closed the door on him and then went to the sink to scrub her hands thoroughly. Two strays in one month is more than I can handle, she thought.
Chapter Forty-Four
The Western Front
It was a combination insane asylum and cemetery; the dead and the living sharing the same space. Some coped by growing numb to the death and misery surrounding them. Gallows humour was common. One callous fellow, pushing past his fear of imminent death, irreverently used the exposed bone of a corpse to strike his match. A young man, about seventeen years old, had clearly gone mad - he meticulously brushed the filthy brown hair on a corpse’s head that jutted out of the trench wall.
Jim was sitting on his ground cape, sipping cold tea. His stony gaze passed over the other men. We may be alive with bodies still intact, he thought, but we are all slowly losing our minds. We’ve already lost our humanity. Perhaps the dead are the fortunate ones, he concluded.
Sam eased himself down to the ground beside Jim. “Life is too damn cheap in this war. We all accept the ri
sk that we could die any minute, but that poor kid should be sent home to his mother.”
Jim nodded his head, and closed his eyes.
“You don’t look so good, Jim. I’ll see if I can find us our rum ration.”
Jim was feverish and miserable. His shins were painful and every muscle in his body ached. The trench was cold and damp, but they weren’t allowed to build a fire. Smoke would attract enemy assault. Jim shivered, and his teeth chattered. Mercifully, he finally fell into a deep sleep.
He woke up being roughly jostled, strong arms picking him up from the trench floor and laying him on a stretcher. He closed his eyes, and waited to die.
When Jim became aware of his surroundings, he was on a cot in the field hospital tent. A young orderly saw that he was awake.
“Ah, good, you’re back with the living. Here mate, this should cheer you up a bit.” He tossed Jim a parcel. “You have a bad case of trench fever, but don’t worry, the muscle pain and fever will pass. You should just enjoy your little leave.”
Jim sat up cautiously and regarded the young man. He had broad shoulders, muscular arms and the rosy-cheeked health of a prairie farm boy. Jim slowly opened the parcel. In it were tea, shortbread, warm socks, and letters from Annie and his children. As he read Annie’s letter, tears streamed down his face.
The empathetic orderly came back to talk to him. Jim proudly took out his Bible to show the picture of Annie.
“You are a wealthy man with such a beautiful wife - and five boys! I could make you a nice cup of hot tea if you like. Your tea would taste much better than the sewer water they call tea here.”
Jim sipped his tin mug of Annie’s English tea as he reread her letter, and then took out the letters and drawings from the children. There were even some scribbled pictures from Hal and Henry. He found the bottle of Aspirin at the bottom of the box.
The medic came back and whispered, “Best cover that up, mate. That Aspirin might get stolen. How are you feeling?”
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