Soldier of the Horse

by Robert W. Mackay

  No wonder he was drenched in blood. René had killed two men, in near-total darkness, hand to hand. Tom didn’t want to think about it. “You okay to travel?” he asked.

  “I’m okay. Bruce hit?”

  “Ricochet.”

  “You boys sure attracted their attention. Have to hand it to you.”

  “Glad to help,” Bruce muttered, his hand still pressed against the dressing.

  Bruce’s helmet wouldn’t fit on his head with the bandage there, so Tom slung it on his own haversack. He shouldered Bruce’s Lee Enfield, carried his own in one hand, and with the other supported his friend, who was wobbly on his feet. René was able to manage by himself. They crawled and walked, bent low, for what seemed like hours before they reached the sunken road where they had been when they heard about the colonel’s death. They rested, then moved again. The sky was lightening when they were challenged as they rejoined their troop.

  Bruce was still groggy and complained of a severe headache, so the troop sergeant sent him away to an aid station. René took off his bloody tunic, sweat-stained shirt, and underwear, despite the cold winter air. His left arm was swollen above the elbow, already showing vivid shades of black, blue, and yellow. He had full movement but his face was pinched with pain.

  Tom sat in the wet trench, forearms on his raised knees, helmet pushed back. He was so tired he could have slept for a week. The troop sergeant came and glared down at him.

  “I don’t know what you sons of bitches got up to, but I’m giving you the benefit of the doubt. I reckon the Germans came out of this little escapade worse than you did. But I’m warning you, Macrae. I covered for you this time, but the next time you take your pals on an unauthorized absence, I’ll make you wish you had never been born. And you can pass that on. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Perfectly clear, Sergeant.”

  The sergeant stomped away. Tom saw René hunkered down, sitting on an ammunition box, carefully easing his shirt back on. Tom thought he smiled, but maybe it was only a grimace.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Three months later, in the spring of 1918, part of the regiment was away with the horses, taking a break from the action, while Tom’s squadron did their regular rotation in the trenches. Tom’s troop sergeant took him aside and told him to be at regimental headquarters at 1000 hours. Now what, Tom wondered. For days, rumours had swirled that there was to be a major raid on the German trenches.

  He’d know soon. The triple chevrons of a sergeant on Tom’s arms had only been there for a week. They spoke of the constant loss of noncommissioned officers to promotion, death, and wounds, and to Tom’s assumption of an understated leadership style. He wouldn’t have any more control over his own life, but he would perhaps be privy to more of what was going on than he had been as a private or corporal.

  The troops were nearing the end of another miserable winter, the Strathconas’ third year of fighting. For once it was not raining. Tom made sure his section was accounted for and usefully employed under the watchful eye of Lance-Corporal Gus Dunnett. Dunnett was a methodical, dependable man from a farm outside Regina, and he was putting three men who had recently joined the regiment through their paces with rifle and bayonet drill, while making sure they became familiar with their section of the trenches.

  Tom knocked out his pipe, ground the ash with his heel, and headed toward regimental headquarters. He joined a group of junior officers and sergeants as Lieutenant-Colonel Macdonald, who now commanded the regiment, emerged from the headquarters hut.

  “We’ve been ordered to conduct a large-scale raid, along with the Dragoons. Those of you who were with the regiment a year ago will remember our last successful show in the same area.”

  Tom remembered that night: a night of sheer terror, when the Straths had overpowered a company of Germans. As a private, he had no idea of the big picture, and had considered himself lucky to be assigned to a rear group that covered the withdrawal of the raiders. This time he would be leading his section, but the chevrons on his arm didn’t make him feel any less vulnerable. He glanced at the clearing sky, wondering pensively if he’d be back here, looking at the sky, after the raid.

  The colonel was still speaking. “The officers have been briefed on the latest intelligence. It is our job to make sure all of you have a clear idea of the objectives and the terrain, and what to do when or if things go wrong. You are to brief your men this afternoon. No one is to leave camp from now until the raid has been completed. Start time is 2200 hours.”

  Twelve hours from now, Tom thought. So that’s why reveille was late this morning: resting up the troops.

  “British intelligence has done a mock-up for our purposes. Follow me.” The colonel turned and led the way to a second hut, in front of which was a table with maps spread across it. A tall captain in a British uniform stood behind the display.

  Tom glanced at the captain. It was Cedric Inkmann.

  “Right, men.” Inkmann paused and looked at the assembled officers and noncoms. Tom saw no flicker of recognition, but the man’s eyes were red-rimmed, his face thinner than Tom remembered it.

  Inkmann pointed at a map with his swagger stick. “Here, we have our trenches. And here, the German front line. Distance between is almost two thousand yards. Your task will be to go in under quiet conditions, get as close as possible, then isolate and neutralize this area,” outlining a length of German front line and reserve trenches, “and capture as many of the enemy as you can. We especially want officers. Now, come this way, and we’ll look at the mock-up.” He directed the men over to a thirty-yard-square area of soil and sand that had been raked and formed to recreate in miniature the Canadian and German trenches with No-Man’s-Land in between.

  Inkmann described the probable formation of the enemy troops they would encounter, the location of machine guns, listening posts, and artillery, and the topographical features. The attackers were to overrun the German fighting trench, the first one they’d encounter, then swarm past it to take prisoners in the reserve trench behind it. It all sounded very impressive to Tom. When Inkmann finished, Tom’s squadron leader, Lieutenant Gordon Flowerdew, asked a couple of questions about challenges and passwords.

  The colonel spoke again. “Artillery. When the signal goes up, our artillery will set up a protective curtain of fire to cut off German reinforcements. The curtain will be only one hundred yards beyond the first German reserve trench. We should have an overpowering number of troops against the Germans, who have been isolated by the artillery, but we have to rely on stealth to get close to their lines before the signal flare goes up. The barrage will last ten minutes, then it will retreat toward us so as to do as much damage to the Boche front-line trenches as possible, as well as protect your rear as you make your way back.” He added dryly, “You won’t want to still be in the enemy trenches when that happens. Questions?”

  There were none.

  “One more thing before we move on. Each man is to load only two rounds. This raid relies on stealth, followed by an overwhelming attack from in close. Our primary aim is to obtain German prisoners, especially officers, as Captain Inkmann said. Bayonets will intimidate and deal with any resistance. Firearms to be used only as a last resort.”

  The next stop was a full-size layout of the German trenches. White tapes staked to the ground represented the dimensions of the trench system to be attacked, while miscellaneous chunks of iron pipe indicated the likely location of heavy machine guns and artillery pieces.

  “Questions at this point?” asked the colonel.

  Tom waved his hand. He felt all eyes turn toward the most junior sergeant in the regiment. “How accurate is all this, sir?”

  “Allow me, sir.” Inkmann glanced at Tom, then addressed the men. “We have reports gleaned from prisoners over the last few weeks. In addition we are able to use the latest in photography from balloons and aircraft. The enemy emplacements can be seen quite clearly.”

  “Don’t they try to hide things, same as we do?�
� Tom and his comrades had spent many hours cutting tree branches and rigging poles, canvas, and netting to obscure horses and equipment from enemy aircraft and ground spotters.

  “Of course they do, Sergeant,” said the colonel. “No doubt the captain has taken that into consideration. It’s our job to drive home the attack, no matter what.”

  “Even in the face of possible inaccuracies,” added Inkmann. He smiled an indulgent smile, and some of the officers chuckled. Tom felt his face burn.

  The colonel laid down the timing and precisely which sections of the regiment were to go where and what each was to do. Challenges and responses—passwords—were reviewed: nobody wanted to be shot by their comrades when they were dashing around No-Man’s-Land.

  The men were dismissed. Tom turned to go.

  “Sergeant Macrae.”

  It was Inkmann. “A word with you, Sergeant.”

  Tom walked back. The colonel had disappeared, and the other officers and sergeants had dispersed. “Sir?”

  “We have unfinished business.”

  Tom had heard from his family that Cedric Inkmann’s brother, Bernie, and Henry Zink were still in jail, but despite the passage of years, legal proceedings still weren’t finished. He looked carefully at Inkmann, who appeared to have lost weight. His swagger stick betrayed a mild tremor.

  “You look fit and healthy, Sergeant. I have followed your progress. I am happy you haven’t been injured or killed. I want you to survive. You are no use to me dead. I intend to somehow get the truth out of you and clear my brother’s name.”

  “I told you before I can’t help you.”

  “We shall see, Sergeant. In the meantime, stay well. We do have a common enemy, after all. Over there,” Inkmann said, and jerked his head in the direction of the German lines.

  Inkmann dismissed him, and Tom hurried back toward his men. Cedric Inkmann’s behaviour was stranger than ever.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  The hands on Tom’s pocket watch seemed to have slowed almost to a stop. Two minutes to go. He could see Lance-Corporal Gus Dunnett going from man to man; if he’s as nervous as I am, he’s hiding it well, Tom thought. Dunnett had a word for each of them, ensuring their bayonets were properly fixed, safeties on, and they had no metal gear that would clank or rattle in the coming raid.

  His second hand showed five ticks to go. “Ready, Gus?”

  “Ready, Sergeant.”

  There was a half moon in the sky with a skim of cloud that all but obscured it. As Tom climbed out of the trench on the dot of 2200 hours and crawled forward, he could see nothing of the enemy lines a mile away. The horizon showed clearly against the lighter sky, but only the general shape of the intervening land was discernible. Strangely absent was any growl or roar of artillery, but behind him came the muffled sounds of the men of his section as they too crept forward. Dunnett would bring up the rear and ensure nobody got left behind or lost.

  Tom’s immediate task was to link up with other sections in the proper order. Flowerdew and many of the officers were out front, farther into No-Man’s-Land, coordinating the multipronged attack. Tom caught glimpses of a group of soldiers advancing on his left. Their orders were to attack the front-line German trench; Tom’s section would be part of the attack on the reserve trench behind it.

  Once they were well away from the lip of their own trench, Tom waited for his men to gather around him. “So far so good, boys,” he whispered. “Now, up on your feet. Watch where you step. Stay in close touch.”

  The ground here was lower than both front lines, which meant they could get off their bellies and move faster. The enemy would have artillery and machine guns zeroed in on the Canadian front-line trench, ready to hammer men who might pour out during an attack. Their current position was already past that killing zone, and it was a common belief that at night, machine gun fire tended to be high.

  But the Canadians also knew there would be other German guns sighted in on the area just in front of their own trench system, ready to rake attackers in a vicious crossfire. A silent approach and a shocking, overpowering attack from close in were keys to a successful raid.

  Tom’s section formed part of a large group that went to ground where the land started to rise. They had reached their first objective, and Tom forced himself to slow his breathing. He looked to the right where a large wood dominated the dark skyline. The plan included an advance group that had infiltrated the wood the day before and with luck were still there, protecting the attackers’ flank.

  Tom waited, every stifled sound reverberating in his mind; surely the Germans must be forewarned. Staying still was torture.

  A party of nine men led by a lieutenant crawled forward, past him, pushing along in front of them a three-inch metal pipe crammed with explosive. Known as a Bangalore torpedo, the device would be thrust under the twenty feet of tangled barbed wire that was strung parallel to the German trenches to stop attackers from rushing the trench. After the torpedo was properly placed and detonated, the Canadians would charge through the resulting gap in the wire and throw themselves on the Germans.

  Tom’s grip on his Lee Enfield tightened. Surely something would happen soon. He forced himself to ease his hands, and at that moment there was a deafening roar as the torpedo exploded. Flares shot up from his right, a signal sent into the sky from one of the officers to the waiting Canadian artillery. Almost instantly came the crashing reports of the howitzers and the whistle of shells headed for the German lines.

  The roar of artillery was drowned out by the shouts and screams of the Canadians as they surged toward the opening in the wire. Tom swung to the left behind an officer who led the way. Flares now shot up from behind the German lines, and enemy howitzers joined the crescendo of shells that hurtled overhead. Near-constant flashes from exploding munitions lit up the sky in a staccato imitation of daylight.

  “Stop!” yelled the lieutenant Tom was following, wheeling toward the men behind him and flinging himself to the ground. “Get down! Send for another torpedo!”

  A runner dashed back. Tom, now face down, peered ahead and saw why—there was another row of wire. That hadn’t been in Inkmann’s briefing, damn him. We’re done, now. All hell was breaking loose and the Canadians were pinned to the ground by enemy machine gun fire. He hugged the ground, trying desperately to stay below the deadly fusillade. Men cursed with frustration as they held their fire, saving their two rounds until they had firm targets.

  A group of men charged up past Tom’s section, carrying another torpedo, two of them cut down by German fire before they got to the wire. The lieutenant grasped the front of the torpedo, guided it under the wire, then hurled himself back and down to the ground. Again the crack of an exploding Bangalore rang out. The lieutenant stood and ran forward, limping, to throw himself on the loose strands of wire that waved in the air like severed blackberry tendrils in a windstorm.

  “Let’s go, boys,” Tom bellowed and leapt to his feet, rushing past the lieutenant where he lay on the barbed wire, clearing their path. Dunnett was right beside him, yelling like a banshee as the two of them charged, their section right on their heels. Tom heard rifle and machine gun rounds zinging around him, and a man next to him went down. Canadian ordinance added to the din, as long-range artillery pounded the area behind the German line.

  Suddenly a dark slot in the earth opened up in front. A forty-yard section of the enemy trench was filled with frantic, indistinct figures spewing fire at the Canadians. “Bombs, bombs,” someone yelled, and hand grenades arced over Tom’s head into the trench. One came sailing right back out, to land somewhere behind. The trench was filled with rapid explosions, and grenade fragments whistled around Tom’s head. He was flung back, knocked off his feet by the concussive force. He struggled to his hands and knees as a wave of Canadians jumped into the trench, stabbing and clubbing, screaming at the Germans to surrender. He was helped up by Private Reg Simpson, the trooper who had done good work in the listening post.

  Tom shook off the
private and took stock. The Germans still standing in the trench were flinging down their weapons, hands raised in the air. Six of his section were still with him, and he waved them on to jump into the trench and climb out the other side. Their target was the reserve trench, fifty yards farther on. Another section had already started in that direction. From the corner of his eye Tom thought he saw Inkmann, down in the captured trench, rooting through German packs and boxes.

  Lieutenant Black, one of the regimental officers, was in charge of the attack on the reserve trench where they hoped to bag more prisoners. Tom saw him a few yards ahead, revolver in hand, as they ran. There was a flash from the lip of the trench; Tom fired at it from the hip and immediately worked his bolt. One round left. Black had fallen, still pointing his revolver.

  Dunnett shouted “Bombs away!” and hurled a grenade into the trench as they ran toward it. There was a muffled explosion and a wall of Germans went swarming out of the far side of the trench and ran. A machine gun to the right of the trench was abruptly silenced as a Canadian lobbed a grenade into its bunker and ducked back out of the way.

  Tom got as far as the front parapet of the trench. A knot of Germans stood in it, hands raised. One of them stepped forward, a revolver in his hand. A shot rang out and he fell, stumbling backward. The Germans were yelling something that Tom couldn’t make out.

  “Hold your fire, hold your fire.” Lieutenant Black, grimacing with pain, had rejoined the attack, his shout barely audible above the racket of the heavy calibre Canadian shells landing only yards past their position.

  Tom slid feet first into the trench and aimed his rifle at the Germans. He waved it, pointing in the direction of the Canadian lines. “Out, out!” The prisoners started up a ladder toward the waiting members of Tom’s section, who had their rifles levelled, fixed bayonets glittering in the brightening moonlight.

  As he watched the Germans climbing out, Tom checked his watch by the flickering light of artillery blasts. Only five minutes to get clear of the German trenches. Then the artillery curtain would start to march backward toward the Canadian lines, and a German counterattack would be right behind it. Not to mention the German artillery, which would be hitting their own trenches as soon as they realized they had been overrun. Already the roar of exploding heavy shells seemed closer.