The Last Lady from Hell

by Richard G Morley

  McDonnell’s eyebrow lifted “You were won in a game of cards,” he said frankly.

  “To the victor goes the spoils,” Bill said idly.

  “Exactly” McDonnell said. “You fellows are a scarce commodity. Most of your fellow Canadians are still defending the Ypres salient and you are bound for Haig’s big push. There was a question as to who would get the pipes and drums, so it was settled that a friendly game of chance would determine who was the lucky regiment. Perhaps you’ve heard of the Luck of the Irish? Well, much to the chagrin of several pompous British officers, the Irish luck prevailed.”

  “You said something about a big push? What’s that?” Sean asked.

  “Douglas Haig, Commander of the British Expeditionary Forces, has come up with a plan for a major offensive in the Somme Valley. Word has it that there will be thirteen British and eleven French divisions arriving within the week. The intention is to push the Germans back and break through the Western Front,” McDonnell explained. “The Germans have been pounding Verdun with a vengeance for weeks and Haig believes that because of the resistance by the French, the Huns will be forced to draw troops away from the Somme area in an effort to fulfill their threat to ‘bleed France white.’”

  We had all finished our espresso and knew that any more than one would have been too much, so we all stood after McDonnell had briefed us and left the shop. We were lucky enough to be billeted in a small hotel called “de Hotel Vert”. The hotel had ten small rooms and all three of us bunked in one of them. There was one large bed and a cot. Sean and I took the bed and Bill happily snored away on the cot.

  I was sleeping remarkably well when there came a rap on the door. “0600 hours men! Rise and shine, in fifteen minutes, we march.”

  We all jumped out of our bed things and strapped on our kilts that had been hanging neatly on the door to keep the pleats crisp. On went our hose, the hobnail boots, our puttee wraps and flashes. We tucked in our shirts, clipped up the sporran and chain, plopped our glengarry hats on our heads, used the chamber pot, and we were ready. We grabbed our gear and hustled down a narrow set of stairs into a crowded lobby.

  The place was alive with uniformed men all moving toward the small front door and filtering out into the street. We had come to somewhat of a logjam at the bottom of the stairs and were unable to move due to the large volume of men.

  In the midst of the crowd, we could see Lieutenant McDonnell barking out directions and trying to keep the masses moving. He spotted us and waved.

  “Make way for the pipes and drums on the stairs,” he shouted, and the sea of soldiers parted slightly allowing us to pass. McDonnell ushered us outside.

  “I need you lads to help me assemble the men outside. If they hear the pipes, they will move faster into the street,” he said. “How about ‘Wearin’ o’ the Green?’ That should awaken their Irish souls.” Then he turned and marched back into the Hotel Vert to resume his directing duties.

  Sean, who was still waking up, shrugged and said, “Let’s tune up and play then.”

  Our hobnail boots were not well suited for the rounded tops of the cobblestone streets and we had to be somewhat careful not to slip and fall as we formed a three-man circle. We tuned quickly and began playing “Wearin’ o’ the Green” and “Wrap the Green Flag Around Me,” and before you knew it the narrow street was teaming with Irishmen from the 36th Ulster.

  The air outside was still cool from the night before, but the late spring sun had risen and was warming up the small city rapidly. Because the buildings crowded the sides of the narrow streets, there was a natural amplification of our small band which not only brought the men out for assembly, but also caused many of the local residents to throw open their window shutters and lean out to investigate the commotion.

  After playing the set three times through, Sean stepped in and we stopped playing cleanly. After a second of quiet, the crowd erupted into appreciative cheering and hooting. We were all taken back slightly by the energetic response we received.

  Bill leaned in and said, “Very passionate fellows, these Irish! Let’s not play ‘Scotland the Brave.’”

  We smiled at each other realizing that the passion could be easily reversed to produce an angry mob. Sean suggested instead that we play “God Save the Queen,” which made us burst out with laughter.

  Lieutenant McDonnell strode over to us “Nice job boys! I do believe you’ve awakened the entire town. By the way it would be wise to avoid ‘Scotland the Brave’ and ‘God Save the Queen’ for this lot.”

  We were unnerved by the remarkable coincidence of his suggestion. He laughed and admitted that he had been trained to read lips as an operative in MI-6, the military branch of the Secret Service.

  Getting serious once again, he said, “Men, we will be marching these new members of the 36th Ulster twenty-five miles today. Every half-hour you’ll be expected to play some tunes, about ten minutes worth. Lewis, you will be expected to keep a street beat the entire time. Single taps to the left foot will suffice when you tire. Every two hours, we will take a fifteen minute break for water and personal needs, after which we will form up and continue, understood?”

  “Yes, sir” we replied in unison.

  “You will be responsible for calling cadence and setting the pace, a steady three-mile per hour march will do. You are their band and they know it, they have been trained well and will follow your lead, so let’s form up!” McDonnell saluted, then turned and walked over to speak with some fellow officers.

  There were over five hundred men in the street forming up behind us. My heart was pounding heavily in my chest as I looked at this mass of men forming up behind us to follow our command. It was a huge responsibility, but Sean showed no sign of trepidation.

  Then I realized something very important that was missing, something we needed to know. I called over to Sean. “Where the heck are we supposed to be going?” I asked. “Shouldn’t we know that?”

  Sean looked at me slightly stunned at the realization. “I have no friggin’ idea,” he said. “I’ll ask.”

  McDonnell laughed openly when Sean asked about directions. “Not to worry lad I’ll be marching off to the right of you when we come to an intersection. I’ll un-shoulder my Lee Enfield and hold it horizontally, waist level, pointing it in the direction that I want you to go, I’ll keep us on track. I’ve marched this route many times.” Sean returned and shared the comforting information with us.

  Soon it was time to go. McDonnell’s face went stern and he began to bark out commands at the top of his lungs.

  “Form up, troops! Form up! Five to a Line! Behind the pipes and drum! Three pace separation! Step to it!”

  To be heard above the chatter and bustle of five-hundred men was quite a feat, but remarkably his voice carried above all the other noise. The men responded quickly and quieted down immediately, it was clear that they respected this man and were willing to follow his command without reservation.

  In less than a minute, the troops were lined up five abreast and spaced properly one hundred lines deep. McDonnell returned to the front of the formation, off to the right of Sean. Sean was on my right, which was proper for the Pipe Major.

  “Well, then, they’re ready Pipe Major. Make your commands loud and clear,” McDonnell said.

  Sean suddenly took on a serious air. He took a deep breath and loudly hollered. “Mark time by the rolls! Step off to the street beat! By the right, quick, march!”

  Bill performed three rolls on his snare drum. As he did, the whole formation began to march in place, marking time. Then another three rolls, followed by the street beat, and the entire group stepped off in unison, left foot first, to begin a march from which many would never return.

  With McDonnell to our right holding his Enfield forward at a forty-five degree angle, we began to play a set consisting of “The Minstrel Boy,” “Wearin’ o’ the Green,” and “Kelly, the Boy from Kellan.” Five hundred men in a thousand hobnailed boots pounded the cobblestone street
s, echoing throughout Le Havre as we exited the port town. It was a spectacular moment. We felt invincible.

  As we left the city and entered the countryside of France, we got down to the mundane business of marching. Between our playing every half hour, there was not much to do except admire the lush beauty of rural France and think. Out in the open countryside on dirt roads, the noise of the marching men was diminished and I could hear the chirping of sparrows and the laughing of farm children as they chased each other in a game of tag.

  I looked around at the rolling hills, no smoke, no sound of artillery. No sign of war. An old man stood aside a stone wall with a cane steadying himself. He came to attention as best he could, holding a long salute as we passed. I wondered what war he had been in that gave him his obvious appreciation for the sacrifices yet to come by our passing group.

  I was thinking far too much. Perhaps if the war was closer, the marching would be lessened and I wouldn’t have as much time for pondering.

  My thoughts were interrupted by the sound of engines coming up from behind.

  The honking of an air horn from the first lorry sounded like the warning of an angry goose, as the driver came up on our left. It was a convoy of lorries filled with crates and provisions bound for the Front. Most of the trucks had field cannons in tow, that looked to me to be perhaps thirteen or eighteen pounders. I could never tell the difference.

  Several lorries in the rear of the convoy were ammunition caissons and were kept about fifty yards apart from the convoy and each other. I noticed that most of the ammunition drivers seemed tense. The last one, however, seemed nonchalant and relaxed. As he drove by, I saw Dan, Terry, and Doc with stupid grins, saluting us as they sat on boxes of explosives. Sean and I looked at each other to verify that we hadn’t just imagined the scene. Bill continued to pound out the street beat. He looked straight ahead and simply said, “Idiots!”

  McDonnell had also seen them. “You know those fellows?” he asked

  “Yes, sir,” Sean said. “They’re also pipes and drum players. They are friends of ours.”

  “Oh, yes,” McDonnell said. “I do remember them from the dock. They should have chosen a less hazardous ride and someone should have taught them how to properly sit when wearing the kilt.”

  “I believe that was intentional, sir,” Sean said.

  Another convoy was approaching from the rear. They came dangerously close to our marching men, but somehow avoided hitting anyone. Again they had field cannons in tow, but this time two or three guns were attached to one another.

  These guns, when being used in battle were generally pulled by teams of horses. The animals were far better suited for the rough terrain of the battlefield and were more versatile than a lorry or tractor under those conditions. Horses were taken to the front mostly by rail, so as to insure that they would be in top condition when needed.

  We had been told at East Sandling that the outer trenches were large and could accommodate a team pulling field guns at a full gallop. They would regularly drill the artillery units in training trenches and I must say that it was thrilling to watch them pounding through the gullies flailing mud and dirt in every direction at break neck speed.

  Our drill instructor had told us the ability to shift field artillery from one position to another was critical and could alter the outcome of any battle. “They’re always good for a show,” the D.I. would say with a snaggle-toothed grin.

  “Good for a show,” I repeated as my thoughts popped out of my mouth.

  “That’s right” McDonnell said. “They’re headed for the big show.”

  PART FIVE

  TOWARD THE SOMME

  The 1st Newfoundland Regiment

  [Transcribed From Ian MacDonald’s recording]

  Terry, Dan, and Doc had been assigned to the 1st Newfoundland Regiment. However, “The First” had started the 25-mile march a day earlier. So, the three men were put up in a small hotel for the night and had orders to report the next morning to the transportation coordinator to get a lift to the 1st Newfoundlanders.

  Left on their own for the evening, the lads felt that some exploration was in order. It was not so much their desire for local knowledge as it was their thirst for beer that motivated them. At 1800 hours (6 p.m.), they set out on this quest for beer. It didn’t take very long before they stumbled upon a sidewalk café where people were chatting and drinking. They decided to make this their first stop. It was a small café with flower pots hanging outside and wrought iron chairs and tables on the sidewalk.

  The three men grabbed an empty table and sat down carefully so as not to wrinkle the pleats on the back of their kilts. A garçon quickly appeared and took their order, having no problem with the English language.

  When the beer came, the garcon asked for payment. “Six francs, s’il vous plait,” he said.

  “That’s about a buck-and-a-half,” Doc said. They were shocked at the price of beer. Saddened by the realization that, at these prices, a soldier could never afford to become inebriated, they resolved themselves to a short night.

  The waiter saw the long looks on their faces and suggested they try the house wine at one franc for three glasses. Canadians are instinctively good with math and can smell a deal a mile away, so they switched to wine and the evening was snatched from the clutches of defeat.

  As the three went from café to café and countless conversations with locals they learned more about their host city. They were informed that a cliff separates the city into two halves, the upper and lower city. The city was founded in 1510 and became a major port of trade. The literal translation of Le Havre is “the harbor”. It is situated at the mouth of the Seine River and opens into the English Channel.

  Because it was built in the 16th century, the streets were narrow and not well suited for modern motor lorries, so the front street of the harbor, being wider than most, became the road that was most heavily traveled. All of this information and more was being accumulated along with plentiful amounts of wine and food. Sadly, what none of them could know at that time was that 28 years later Le Havre would be completely destroyed in the assault on Normandy in 1944, leaving nothing standing of the ancient city.

  A corporal rapped on their door at 0700 hours announcing the time and that a mess would be provided between 0730 and 0830 at the Front Street military depot. Doc sat up and groaned, lying gently back down holding his head. Terry had the same sort of reaction, but big Dan McKee seemed to be impervious to the morning after effects of copious amounts of wine.

  “Let’s go Eh, it’ll do you some good to get some coffee and chow into your gullets,” he said.

  “I bought the wine yesterday, so why am I paying for it again today?” Terry complained as he carefully climbed out of his cot. He found the washbasin and poured a large portion of the water pitcher over his head. The Doc produced some aspirin and the three men tossed back two pills each and set off to breakfast.

  The B.E.F. had set up a large tent with rows of tables and benches. At one side of the tent was a long table with the cooks on one side and the soldiers on the other side being served breakfast. The order of the day was scrambled eggs, a side of bacon, toast and porridge. There were also several large pots of coffee and tea.

  Just the smell of cooking bacon seemed to make one hungry, so they quickly moved into the queue and loaded up with food. After a good breakfast, they were indeed feeling better and all agreed that the next move was to find the transportation depot before they were listed as AWOL.

  Dan took the lead in asking directions and before too long they were at the supply depot. A very officious corporal, who seemed to be in charge, or at least in the know, studied their orders and informed them that there were two convoys leaving in one hour. He said they should hop on one of the motor lorries carrying provisions bound for Bolbec, a city about 25 miles northeast.

  “How do we find the 1st Newfoundland Regiment?” Terry asked, feeling much better than he did two hours earlier.

  “My
paperwork indicates that they are attached to the 88th brigade of the 29th Division, and that they will be moving out by rail this evening. Simply ask someone when you get to Bolbec for the 88th Brigade of the 29th Division,” the corporal said dismissively.

  Dan McKee leaned across the desk of the corporal and said in a low growl, “Write it down on a piece of paper.”

  The corporal looked up at the big figure hovering over his desk and took a dry gulp, his Adam’s apple slid conspicuously up and then down. He quickly grabbed a piece of paper and a fountain pen and scribbled out the necessary information handing it briskly to McKee.

  Next Dan, who had not moved, said, “Point in the direction of the convoy.”

  The corporal rapidly raised his arm and pointed in the general direction. Dan smiled a broad grin beneath his full mustache and patted the corporal on the head as he would a good dog. Then the three all turned and left the silent corporal allowing him to regain his composure.

  Down near the docks the convoys were being loaded by hand which required hundreds of men armed with hand trucks and strong backs. There was one fellow standing in the middle of loading the area with a clipboard in his hand yelling out orders to men as they wheeled crates past directing them to deliver their load to the correct lorry. It was a chaotic scene that was somehow being organized by this supply depot maestro.

  Terry decided that they should stay out of the way until the activity subsided a bit so as not to disrupt the work in progress. For half an hour the men sat on three crates that were being ignored until the maestro, after craning his neck around and standing on a small box suddenly stared right at the three kilted soldiers.

  “There they are! Bloody hell! I’ve been looking for those crates for 20 minutes.” He quickly verified his statement by checking the numbers on the crates with the numbers on the clipboard. The trio hopped off the boxes as a swarm of men with hand trucks charged toward them.