“Put them in Lorry #107 men,” the maestro ordered.
“Hey!” Dan yelled above the noise of the depot. “What lorry do you want us in?”
The load maestro looked puzzled for a moment. He glanced at his clipboard, then back at Dan. “Who are you and why would I want you in one of my lorries?”
“We’re attached to the 1st Newfoundland Regiment and have orders to hop your convoy in order to catch them in Bolbec before they move out tonight,” Terry volunteered.
“I have room in the rear two lorries of the first convoy. I must warn you, however, these vehicles are designed to carry boxes, not men, so it will not be a comfortable ride.”
The Maestro then looked at his clipboard, made some notes with his pencil, and turned his attention back to directing the loading of his convoys.
The three friends fetched their equipment and made their way to the second convoy in search of their ride. A total of ten trucks were lined up, the last two were spaced about 100 feet back from the rest with the same distance between them. Each lorry had two eight-pound field cannons, in tandem, between them. They approached the fully loaded Lorry #112, the next to the last in the line, and noticed that no one was aboard.
“Let’s make ourselves at home,” Dan suggested. They threw their things in the back on top of stacks of crates and proceeded to build a more comfortable riding environment by laying out bedrolls and backpacks.
Then a voice came from the driver side of the lorry. “Ello? Wot ’ave we ’ere?” An unshaven, scruffy-haired head was peering over the boxes at the lads. The driver. He smiled at them and exposed a mouth full of crooked yellow teeth.
“Makin’ comfy, eh?” His cockney accent was almost undecipherable. “Make ’er comfy, bumpy, not too lumpy.” The driver continued to expose his snaggly smile.
The cockney often speak in rhymes and often the rhymes are abbreviated to just the last words in the rhyme. This makes it almost impossible to understand the meaning unless you’re cockney. For example, “Make ’er cumfy, bumpy, not too lumpy” could eventually be abbreviated to “not too lumpy,” meaning make yourselves comfortable.
Doc smiled back, shrugged his shoulders and said, “Thanks.” The other two asked what the driver said.
“I have no idea, but he seemed happy, so I just said thanks,” Doc confided.
The driver diverted his attention to a large man in coveralls that was standing in the front of the truck.
“Neutral!” he yelled to the large man, confirming the truck was not in gear.
“Crank ’er” the driver yelled as he pulled the choke to the full on position. The large crank-man grabbed the engine crank and with one mighty yank, spun the Renault six cylinder engine to life. The driver eased off on the choke and the engine clattered and ticked at a comfortable idle RPM, while producing a faint cloud of blue smoke rising up between the floorboards. The driver then squeezed the large rubber ball on the end of the air horn, signaling to the cranker that all was well. The large man moved on to the next truck.
The driver was diligently checking his equipment, first the oil pressure gauge, then he pulled back on a large emergency brake lever located outside the cab on his left side and ratcheted back to the full on position. He then shifted the truck into first gear with a noticeable amount of grinding and gently let up on the clutch, the engine began to bog down as the lorry tried to move with the brake holding fast. Satisfied that the emergency brake was functioning as well as could be expected, he was ready to move out with the rest of the convoy.
“Ang on, lads,” he yelled. “’iss ain’t no breed’n Rolls.”
“We’re ready,” Terry responded. The driver popped a half chewed unlit cigar into his mouth, ground the Renault into first gear and let out the clutch. The lorry lurched forward. The cockney double-clutched the truck into second gear with far less grinding and the lorry picked up speed in order to keep up with the convoy that was already well ahead.
The Renault, like many trucks of its time had almost solid rubber tires and no shock absorbers, so when run over the cobblestones of Front Street, it provided a ride that could only have been rougher had steel wagon wheels been used instead of the rubber.
The crates hopped with every large bump and shifted unsteadily as the lorry moved through town. The three passengers eyed the stacks of crates waiting for the poorly secured cargo to tumble.
“What’s in the crates?” Terry asked as he steadied one crate.
“Flyin’ pigs, mostly,” the driver called back over his shoulder. Terry assumed it was more cockney jibberish.
“What is it again?” he asked, hoping for a different, more recognizable answer.
“Rum jars, toffee apples ’n flyin’ pigs,” the driver reiterated flatly.
“Did you say, rum? Mind if we crack a jar for the road?” Dan asked.
The driver craned his neck around with his eyes wide open – “If you wanta blow us all to ’ell! Bloody ’ell, do I look like a bleedin’ wet nurse? Toc, Emma, flyin’ Pigs–trench mortars!” he accentuated the trench mortar part.
It was common on the western front to employ trench slang for everything from toilet paper to ammunition. Soldiers often used the alpha numeric system in reference to items, for example, Able, Baker, Charlie stood for A, B, C, and so on. The trench mortar was abbreviated to TM, or Toc Emma.
The three immediately tensed and considered jumping off, even at 25 miles per hour. The driver glanced back and saw the concerned looks on their faces.
“No need to fret, gents. I bin transportin pigs for o’r a year and I kin say wifout reservation, none ’ave blown yet,” he said. “In fact, it’s almost unnerd of – it’s bloody ’ard ’nuf to get ’em to pop off when we lob ’em at Fritz.”
He broke into a roaring laugh at his attempt at humor. The fellows weren’t terribly amused with or comforted by his joke.
“Well,” Doc said, “I suppose if he’s made it this long without blowing up, the odds are he and we will probably make it this time too.”
It was the sort of statement that was meant to be reassuring, and the others nodded unconvincingly. Then the lorry hopped over a rut sending the crates of ammunition up and down with a crash, fraying the nerves of the three passengers and dashing whatever meager confidence had been building.
The Convoy was passing a division of foot soldiers ahead and swerved to the side of the road honking their horns to alert the columns of men of their passing.
“Wha?” the driver cried out, “A bleedin’ pipe band, I’ll be flogged!”
Terry peered over the crates and out the front windscreen, and saw that it was Sean, Ian and Bill Lewis leading the 36th Ulster Division.
“I’ll be a friggin’ farmer,” Terry said. “It’s our classmates! Let’s give them the business as we pass.”
As the lorry passed the front of the division, the three sat on the back crates saluting. That in itself wouldn’t have been much of a razzing, but they sat with one leg propped up on a crate and because they were all regimental, their family jewels were there for full inspection by their comrades. As they moved away, they began to laugh uproariously until they were almost pitched out the rear of the lorry as the Renault’s hard tires found yet another rock on the road to Somme.
After what seemed like an eternity, the truck followed its convoy off the road and into a large encampment near the railyard of the town of Bolbec. The boys jumped out at the earliest possible opportunity, leaving the caisson without so much as a word to the driver.
“I hate long drawn out goodbyes,” Doc chuckled as he put some distance between him and the ammunition truck.
“I need a stiff drink,” Terry volunteered.
“Me too,” Dan agreed, “but let’s find home first.” He spotted a military police officer nearby, easily recognizable by his red cap. “We’ll see if carrot top knows anything.”
The MP did know and helpfully pointed them in the direction of the 29th Division. “Look for The Blue Puttees,” he said.<
br />
Although they had no idea what he meant by that statement, the three walked off in the direction he indicated. The encampment consisted of several large fields filled with hundreds of tents lined up in neat rows. It was obviously a well-organized and disciplined division, evidenced by the precision with which the entire camp was constructed.
Unknown to the three men was the fact that the year before this division had seen some of the hardest action against the Turks in Gallipolli. This battle-hardened group had sustained over thirty thousand casualties in that one fight alone and the mettle of the men in this encampment had been tempered by the flames of hell.
Before long, the boys located the 88th Brigade and the 1st Newfoundland regiment. The head of the regiment was Colonel J. P. Kelton, a tall, handsome man with dark hair and a full mustache. Because he was a head taller than most, he was easy to pick out of the throng of men. What made him and his regiment unique, however, was that they all wore legwraps, or puttees, fashioned from blue broadcloth instead of the standard issue khaki, hence the nickname The Blue Puttees.
“Not as bold as your kilt, but yes, it does stand out,” Kelton said, noting the interest the men had in the puttees. “I’m Colonel J. P. Kelton and I’d bet you three are our pipes and drums.” He had an easy confidence about him which translated into a natural leader.
“We are your band, albeit a small one,” Terry said, saluting, along with Doc and Dan.
“Looks like I have some competition” Kelton said, sizing up big Dan.
“Dan McKee, sir! May I introduce Terry Manning and Dr. George Cohen!” The three snapped to attention.
“At ease, gentlemen. You will be just what the doctor ordered. The men have needed a morale booster since the Battle of Gallipolli, and your presence is most welcome,” Kelton said. Then turning to George, he asked, “So you are a doctor?”
“Just a nick name sir,” Doc said. I’m in med school back home.”
“Ah, I see. I’ll have some sappers pitch a tent next to mine. I plan on using your talents to the maximum and I know you will enjoy working for this regiment. A better group of men you’ll be hard-pressed to find.”
Kelton began to walk and the trio followed. “These are my quarters,” he said stopping before a large tent. “Yours will be here and should be erected within the next twenty minutes. I would like you to play prior to evening mess at 1700 hours. After mess, we will prepare to move out at 2000 hours. We are expected to board a transport train bound for the Somme Valley Region.”
“We’re here to serve the regiment,” Terry said.
“Very good. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have several meetings I must attend, so I’ll see you three before mess. It is a pleasure to have met you.” The three snapped to attention and saluted as Kelton went off to his meeting at a brisk gait.
A tent was erected in minutes for the pipers. It seemed odd to them to go to the bother of putting it up only to have to take it back down a few hours later, but such are the ways of the military. The accommodations were meager: cots and a small table with a wash basin.
They all washed up, cleaning the grime and dust from their rough trip earlier. Although their cots were calling for a nap, there wasn’t much time to tend to the pipes before mess, so Terry and Doc pulled out their pipes and moved outside to check out their equipment. Dan lay down, however, and was snoring before the others left the tent.
The drones needed some hemping to tighten them up, so Terry ran the thin string through a wad of beeswax to insure the best seal and to protect the hemp from rotting. He then wrapped the loose stocks and tuning pins as necessary to provide the best performance for their pipes. Both men knew the routine well and they quietly went through the necessary steps for proper maintenance of the bagpipes.
The chanter reeds were not in tune so they corked off their drones and tuned up their chanters to match each other. Satisfied with the tuning, Terry moved behind George and tuned his drones and then tuned his own.
They played a couple of tunes to hear how they sounded together and, with the pipes warmed up and in tune, they were ready to perform for the mess.
Colonel Kelton heard the playing and had arrived in front of their tent smiling. “It sounds like our regiment won a fine band, indeed!” he said. “Let me introduce you to my fellow Newfoundlanders.”
Dan appeared from his nap holding his drum and the three followed Kelton to the mess area. The men were milling about waiting for the mess call when Kelton called for the attention of his Regiment.
“Men, I know you have all heard of our good fortune in a friendly game of cards,” he said. “Now, let me introduce you to our fine pipe and drum band! Privates Terry Manning, George Cohen and Dan McKee.”
Terry, always one for reading the moment and a man of excellent timing, called out as if he were ordering a band of one hundred, instead of just three.
“Band Ready! Set One! By the center, quick March!”
Dan buzzed out the rolls, Doc and Terry struck in the drones playing an “E” and began to play the set. Terry was poised in a classic piper pose keeping time by lifting his left leg up and down and touching his toe on the ground to the down beat. It looked like it might have been a ballet move, but it was, in fact, the traditional way a pipe major telegraphs a song’s tempo to his band when in a circle.
The reaction was both stunning and expected. The crowd went wild, cheering and yelling as the small band played “Minstrel Boy,” “Scotland the Brave,” “42nds,” and “Maries Wedding.” The men seemed to have completely forgotten about dinner and were calling for more entertainment when Col. Kelton stepped in and stopped the music.
“Men, we’ll not keep the cooks waiting. I’m sure your pipe band will be available after mess.” The good natured style of command that Kelton employed was one reason his men respected him and would follow him into hell if commanded. They noisily clambered over to the mobile kitchen to get their meal. All were in a better mood than they had been twenty minutes earlier.
Kelton smiled at the trio. “Well done, men. We have a new band and you have a new home.” His face changed to a serious look “You’ll be their inspiration. On the road to war you will be the beat and the tune that will keep the march at a good pace and the men in a good humor. On the battlefield, you will give them the nerve to go over the top and charge into certain death. If the pipes and drums play on, the men push on. You have a pivotal responsibility that can affect the outcome of a battle.
“And after all is said and done and the battle is over, you will play as we lay down those that have fallen,” Kelton continued, staring sternly into the eyes of the three men. “You will play to honor their ultimate sacrifice and to provide solace to their comrades who remain to carry on. You will see happy faces and laughter as you entertain them, scared and unsure faces as you pipe them over and hard, tear soaked faces as you pipe their comrades under. Yours is not a task to be taken lightly, for it is an ancient honor that has seen countless wars for untold generations.”
The trio stood silently for a moment taken aback by Keltons’ words. Terry swallowed a dry gulp and said quietly, “We won’t let you or the men down, sir.”
Kelton smiled at the men. It was evident that these were good and brave volunteers who would do that which was asked of them. “By the way,” he said in a lighter tone. “Even though the 1st Newfoundland Regiment is not a kilted regiment, I have always been fond of the kilt. I believe it adds an air of distinction and frankly, if you were to play in pants, it simply wouldn’t look right. Now, let’s eat!”
FIFTH CANADIAN GENERAL STATIONARY HOSPITAL AT AMIENS
Sheila Lougheed was changing the bandages on a young soldier in Recovery Ward 51. Ward 51 was one of many quickly constructed buildings that made up the 5th and at about one hundred feet it was twice as long as it was wide. It provided a modest amount of protection from the elements during inclement weather and had ample screened windows to allow cross ventilation in warm weather conditions. There were several fre
e standing coal stoves with their smoke stacks going up through the roof. They could take the chill out of the air and keep the crowded building survivable in winter weather.
Ward 51 was close to the operating rooms, and in cold weather the surgeons and nurses would regularly visit to warm up between operations. Ether was commonly used in the OR as an anesthetic, and because of its explosive nature no stoves or flames of any sort were allowed in the vicinity. Fortunately spring was on its way now and on this day, the stoves were not needed.
The patient Sheila was tending to was a 23 year old man from Wales. His patient charts were hanging on a hook mounted at the foot of his bed and Sheila had made herself thoroughly familiar with the information.
“Douglas Patrick Waren,” she read. “Protestant. Multiple lacerations to the legs, numerous burns on lower body.”
She unwrapped the soiled bandages and replaced them with new ones. The wounds were improving each day. She took great care to swab the surrounding areas with alcohol and iodine, if the patient’s wounds became infected, it would not be because of her poor attention. His condition was not grave and with the care of Sheila and the grace of God, he was expected to recover fully, at least physically.
Waren’s wounds were fully due to a German mortar round nicknamed “Minnie,” short for Minnenwarfer, the name of the manufacturer. The bomb landed in his trench killing five of his fellow infantrymen and injuring him and two others. The fragments that ripped through his legs had thankfully missed all major arteries and due to the quick actions of a field medic his loss of blood had been kept to a minimum. In fact, he lost far more blood on the operating table with the surgeons digging out the shards of metal than he did on the battlefield.
Young Douglas Patrick was awake and, despite his wounds and the pain from the removal of the dressings, his attention was focused on his attractive young nurse.
Sheila smiled as she worked on his wounds, she knew he was watching her and she marveled at the innate flirtatious nature of young men. It was actually a good sign and indicated that the patient was mentally and physically recuperating well.
The Last Lady from Hell Page 13