Angels at Mons

by Carl Leckey

  The clerk reaches under his desk and brings out a large box of Belgian chocolates. “Here.” He says. “Give these to your sweetie.”

  What a nice gesture. When I thank him he replies.

  “It will salve my conscience a bit, for sending you up front so late in the game.”

  I leave the office and make my way towards the shed with the box tucked under my arm, and my kit bag over my shoulder. The chocolates are an unexpected bonus, and a great bartering asset. I have a large bowl of stew plus a hunk of bread followed by a big bowl of sloppy rice pudding a steaming mug of tea at the canteen that satisfies my hunger.

  Feeling in a happier frame of mind I collect the haversack rations and make my way to number three shed. There tucked away in a corner is a brand new truck awaiting me. On checking I find the covered rear tightly packed with an assortment of hospital stores and cans of petrol. I learnt a valuable lesson the hard way last time I took over someone else’s truck.

  I am determined not going to be caught out again by neglecting the training I received from Toot. I declare to myself after checking everything twice the vehicle is in perfect condition all

  After more paperwork to complete in the small office located in the shed I note the date of the tenth of November nineteen eighteen on the wall calendar. On my humble signature they release the truck and contents to my loving care. Extracting my vehicle from the mass of traffic surrounding the docks, I eventually join the queue of trucks heading for the front line.

  As I trundle along I pass trucks pulled over to the side of the road with the driver’s obviously ill and unable drive any further. MPs keep us moving, and nobody appears to be helping the poor souls. Slowly, the column moves forward sometimes at walking pace often coming to a halt for ages.

  At last I arrive at the turning to the Chateau and signal my intention of crossing the traffic to head up the side road, until an MP signals me to stop my move across. He pokes his head into the cab and orders me to keep rolling unless I have an emergency. It is beginning to get dark and I want to be off the road before I have to light my lamps. Slightly confused I show him the papers giving me permission to overnight at the Chateau.

  “Sorry mate, you have to keep going, no one is allowed to enter the Chateau. They have a major epidemic there the whole place is in isolation. If you have stores for the place you still wouldn’t be allowed in. The drivers unload and leave the stuff in a field close by and the hospital staff pick them up from there. There’s a refuel dump about an hour down the road, you can top up get a feed and have a rest there.”

  He leans closer and says in a very hushed voice.

  “You come from the port I see? Got any news of the cease fire mate?”

  Who could possibly overhear him over the traffic noise and tooting of horns I don’t know why he whispers?

  The MPs appear certainly more friendly and communicative these days. “Only rumours.” I confess. “They reckon this flu is hitting both sides so hard, eventually there will only be a hand full of soldiers left to carry on fighting.”

  He remarks. “The sooner the better its over eh? We could be home for Christmas after all? Thank God for the flu if it stops this bloody war eh? Off you go mate, and look after yourself.”

  Haven’t things changed as the prospect of peace grows nearer? I recall some of my past encounters with MPs and the rough unreasonable treatment I have suffered at their hands. Maybe they are feared of retribution for some of their past actions come the end of the war.

  I arrive at the fuel dump top up park and retrieve my mess tin cutlery and mug, and go over to the field kitchen. About twenty other trucks and horse drawn carts occupy the parking area. The drivers sit about on boxes, barrels and crates eating and gossiping.

  Taking my food and drink I join them, the whole topic of conversation centres on the armistice, and the influenza epidemic.

  A definitely feeling of anticipation and excitement runs through the men’s conversation. I toss in my three penny worth to add to the rumour machine.

  A Staff car arrives. A senior Officer emerges, we leap to attention he salutes and enters the office tent. When his driver comes over for a meal, the other drivers pounce on him trying unsuccessfully to pry some information from the poor man. Although he refuses to talk as he turns to face the office he shows us his crossed fingers a good sign if ever there is one.

  After an hour resting I carry out my ablutions, light my lamps, check my oil and water and rejoin the convoy once more.

  At four thirty I turn the truck off the main highway and make my way to the casualty station. After nearly eighteen hours solid driving I have arrived at what I consider my home absolutely dog-tired.

  The noise of cannon fire from the direction of the front line still continues, maybe not as concentrated as previously but it still continues. Through my tired mind passes the thought maybe someone should tell the artillery it’s nearly all over. Does the artillery think the war is going to continue forever?

  I hope against hope all the rumours about a cease-fire are genuine and not just another false alarm?

  Sod it. I dismiss the idea I am too tired to consider these possibilities at the moment

  There were only a few odds and sods knocking about, reveille for the main body of the station isn’t until 0600 hrs.

  I drive to the motor pool to find the place is in complete darkness. Frost covers the ground, I extinguish the lights and throw the insulated blanket over the radiator, there’s no point in draining the system as at six o’clock the truck will be on the move again. Grabbing my kit bag I head for my tent.

  The cold strikes me when I move away from the warmth of the engine it sends a shiver through my body. The frost covered tent appears very inviting as I stagger towards it. Pulling back the flap I enter the snug dark interior.

  The sound of snoring greets me like a warm welcome home. I know exactly where my bed is located having arrived in darkness on many occasions before. Dropping gratefully onto it I immediately leap up as it moves beneath me. A startled yell emits from the bed waking the entire occupants of the tent. I stand in the darkness grasping the centre pole, until someone strikes a match and lights the hurricane lamp. It is my mate Billy. “You old sod Scouse, where have you been, we thought something had happened to you?” He greets me affectionately. A stranger occupies my bed before I can reply a bugle sounds assembly. I look at Oscars watch 0510, this is not the usual reveille time.

  A mad scramble ensues, as the men hurriedly dress. We race to the parade ground and form up in ranks. An unusual sight greets us lamps of all descriptions illuminate the area. The whispered conversation ceases when the NCO orders the parade to attention. The CO arrives flanked by the Adjutant. The CO addresses the assembled personnel.

  “Soldiers, er, um, and ladies, at 0500 hrs this day an armistice has been agreed and signed.” A cheer from the ranks burst forth, the Officer held up his hand for silence. “It will take effect from 1100 o’clock this day. From that time onward it is to last for thirty-six days then hopefully the war is well and truly ended.” There is no hushing the assembled personnel after he made this announcement. Caps are thrown into the air men hug men, and some dance jigs of pure delight. I find myself hugging Billy and Toot, Sam, Dave and Jake. Mates I have gone through so much with. The tears flow freely this day I can tell you.

  It isn’t finally over for the drivers. All vehicles able to carry sick and wounded are ordered to the front line at daybreak. Toot told me to go and have a sleep after my long trip but I am having none of it. This is certainly not a day to waste asleep. I ask him to deliver the stores I have brought to the underground station. I will take my old ambulance Girty to the pickup point. He finally agreed as we eat breakfast, as long as I go as second man with Billy, I jump at his suggestion. Poor Toot is most upset when I tell him what has happened to Pompey Lill, his beloved charabanc. I tell him that I have written to Fred’s brother explaining where and how we have buried him. The lads are astounded when I reveal
the circumstances of Fred’s death due to the dastardly action of a British deserter.

  We set off in convoy at first light, two ambulances and three trucks. The traffic heading towards the front has considerably eased since my last trip. In fact the lightest I have seen it. We fairly bowl along as the crisp air freezes our scarf-covered faces. We find conversation impossible through the muffled masks. Desperately I fight sleep for a few miles until my fatigue finally beats me. I sleep like a log until the engine stopping wakes me up. We have arrived at the pick up to be greeted by a line of soldiers coughing their lungs up. Billy sees I am awake and remarks.

  “Bloody good job we’ve had this stinking flu eh Scouse? Look at the state of these poor buggers.” Random crashes of shellfire and an occasional rifle shot still disturb the peace. I look at Oscar’s watch, ten minutes to go until the cease-fire. I drew Billy’s attention to the time.

  “Wouldn’t you think the silly bastards would give up and get on with their lives?” Billy says with disgust. Sam loads his ambulance two ahead of ours and pulls away, allowing the ambulance ahead to begin loading. Three minutes to go. Billy edges forward as the other vehicle moves out of the way. Thirty seconds and counting down. Five, four, three, two, one we count together. Billy begins tooting his horn joined by all the other trucks. Rockets usually used at night to detect patrols, burst into the sky. Cheering could be heard even above the sound of the horns, the war is over, definitely over. Four years, fourteen weeks, and two days of Hell on earth. I touch the Saint Christopher hanging around my neck and say a silent prayer of thanks to my guardian Angel for getting me through, relatively unscathed.

  We are just about loaded with the sick soldiers when a stretcher party appears at the run.

  Their leader requests urgently. “Take him please.” The casualty is a young man of about eighteen shot through the jaw. “Silly bugger jumped up on the parapet when he thought it was eleven o’clock, poor sod was ten minutes early. Would you believe a shit of a sniper got him? Do your best for the lad.” The bearer pleads. One of the men suffering with serious trench foot opted to get out and give his place to the casualty. I invite him to occupy my seat while I sit in the back with the lad, doing my best to comfort him. He couldn’t take the usual rum to kill the pain and he suffered every bump and pot hole we hit. Billy drives like a mad thing and arrives at the station in record time, owing to the lack of traffic on the once congested road. I find it difficult to stem the flow of blood seeping out of the poor lad shot through the face. It’s awful in the back of the ambulance the men suffering from influenza cough, vomit and rave, in their high fevers. I have my hands full until at last the medics take them off my hands. The poor lad with the smashed face squeezes my hand in thanks as I pass him over. Is he the last casualty of this gruesome war? I wonder. Billy drove the ambulance to the motor pool to refuel and clean the vehicle. Toot meet us, and orders me immediately to a tent, after feeding me a ration of rum. I collapse on the bed and sleep for nine hours solid.

  From then on our duties consist of bringing sick troops for treatment for a few weeks until the thirty-six days are over and the armistice is verified. Gradually the front line trenches are abandoned as the troops relocate when the German Army pulls back. The drivers take it in turns to carry out the gruesome task of bringing recovered Corpses to an area designated as an official war cemetery. The Labour Corp lads and stretcher-bearers carry out the soul destroying and backbreaking work of recovering, identifying and burying the remains. Toot informs the Officer in charge of the location of poor Fred the charabanc driver’s grave.

  “Sorry.” He answers sympathetically “I only deal with military personnel he doesn’t come under that category.”

  The casualty station shut down finally five weeks after the war ended, the remainder of the sick and wounded are evacuated to blighty or the Chateau which have reopened after the period of isolation. The German compound closes the prisoners and MPs are relocated to a central point ready for release.

  I feel no sympathy when one of the lads tells me the horrible MP Sergeant has succumbed to the influenza. With a bit of luck he will be judged guilty of cruelty, misuse of his authority and punished accordingly by the higher authority.

  The French farmer and his family return to their land to find themselves homeless, the sight of him and his family searching amongst the wreckage of his house for treasured possessions or anything useful is heart breaking.

  The Army in their gratitude for the use of his property leave him a team of horses a wagon and a couple of tents. He also has the underground casualty station with many of the facilities intact.

  Our cooks make sure they have enough Army rations to carry the family through the winter. His two daughters are with him I wonder which one Oscar is betrothed to. There is no way I can bring myself to reveal Oscars address at the house of love. Instead I decide to write to him with the news.

  The entire station receives orders to relocate all of our vehicles, workshops and stores to the Chateau. Toot is sent home on compassionate leave, one of his children has died from the dreaded flu. Sam gains his lance Corporals stripe and takes over Toot’s duties until he returns, I found myself the unofficial second in command of the motor pool. There is a great deal of stores to shift in one go, with the Adjutants permission I attach the horse trailer to Girty. The lads load the two vehicles to maximum capacity and I set off on the back road to the Chateau.

  Another Christmas in a few days time, this will be my second in France but this time in during peace. As I ride along my mind wanders back to the last Christmas, when I was so close to death. Did I really have a guardian Angel looking after me? I nearly died when the shells blew the ambulance on its side. I nearly died when the German plane bombed me. I nearly died when our Sergeant got killed on the road that day. And last but not least I nearly died from influenza.

  I’m no believer in organised religion I’ve witnessed too much hypocrisy heartache and double-dealings in the name of God.

  However I do believe we are all travelling on a predetermined path. If you are meant to die at a particular time in a particular way, then that is how and when it will be. But as I touch it for the thousandth time I am very glad that old soldier gave me the Saint Christopher just the same.

  We pass the convent with no opportunity to stop as I am second in the convoy, Denise fills my thoughts. I cringe a bit when I remember my encounters with the ladies in the House of Love, have I deceived Denise?

  I ponder on this for a while until a stirring in my loins indicates I will partake again if and when the opportunity arises, after all who wants to die a virgin?

  During my entire time in the Army I have not received a letter from my home because my adopted parents themselves are uneducated it was pointless for me to write either.

  What have I gained from my time in the Army? Although a hard and sometimes gruesome life, I have enjoyed myself much more than I did in that no good job in civvy-street. Should I sign on if the opportunity arises? I shall have to consider that option.

  I am thinking about the good things that have happened to me.

  I have learned to read and write.

  I am now a qualified experienced driver with mechanical knowledge.

  I have a basic knowledge of nursing and grave digging.

  I have met and enjoyed the company and companionship of some wonderful men. Not forgetting a so-called enemy Oscar and a branded coward Sandy.

  I have travelled to a foreign country.

  I enjoy drinking rum.

  I have developed my taste buds so I can enjoy almost anything to eat.

  Ha, ha, but the most memorable incident in my short military career is the few hours I spent in the arms of Christina.

  Chapter thirty-seven

  Demob

  The drivers draw lots I enjoyed Christmas at the Chateau but I am on the road again heading towards Le Havre at first light on Boxing Day. Sam informs me before I leave this could be the last run with the vehicles. The
rail network now has surplus capacity and the casualties will be transported that way in future. My eighteenth birthday has been and gone with no time to celebrate during the busy spell after the armistice was ratified.

  The Colonel leads the Christmas celebrations dressed as Santa Claus presenting Xmas gifts from the Royal Family. I received two gold-painted tins. One of them contained a couple of packs of cigarettes and a picture of Princess Mary. The other when I opened it gave me a bit of a start it contained a 303 cartridge. I sat looking at the tin wondering why the Royal Family would choose to send a bullet to a soldier serving on the front line.

  One of the patients noticed my dilemma he laughed extracted the bullet from the tin and pulled it apart, a handy pencil was revealed. Some small pages of notepaper lay on the bottom of the tin ideal for sending letters. Other lads received tins of chocolate. After the welcome issue of the gifts is completed a great deal of bargaining takes place as the smokers swapped their chocolates for tobacco and cigarettes.

  The Colonel appeared his usual self now that the war was over. He has selected another two senior NCO’s as replacements for his lost comrades.

  He has chosen well, they appear to be cast in the same mould as their predecessors, very approachable and considerate men.

  But best of all as far as most of the soldiers are concerned they have seen a great deal of front line action and appreciate how the real soldiers felt about the war.

  I managed to have a word with the Colonel about the need to send a letter to Tommy’s mother. Good man that he is, he took the responsibility off my shoulders. While we chatted he asked me a specific question.

  “What are your intentions for the future now that it’s all over?”

  I shrugged my shoulders before replying. “I don’t want to think that far ahead yet Sir. I must admit I enjoy the roll I have now in the Army, but regular soldiers warn me it’s not the same in peacetime. There will be lots of drills, inspections, and bullshit.” He smiled at my response to his question. “I have decided to leave the Army myself as soon as this place closes down. I have seen enough heartache and misery to last me for rest of my life.