A lump formed in Richard’s stomach. “You’re going to shoot them?” he asked. “Why?”
“Don’t need a reason to kill vermin,” Ted replied as Richard skidded and scrambled behind him in the dark. “Good chance for a bit of target practice.” He aimed the gun and fired off a magazine along the bank.
Richard’s ears filled with the tumult of squealing sounds. When the clouds in front of the moon passed, he looked on in horror at the panting bodies of matted fur oozing blood from backs, thighs, and heads. His nose filled with the smell of blood, making his stomach lurch. He staggered sideways and vomited into the grass.
“Looks like you could use some more Canadian courage,” Ted said, reaching inside his breast pocket. “What’ll you do when we face the Krauts?”
Richard just waved him away.
He tried to keep his stomach in check on the way back. Every time the truck lurched around a corner, the world went for a little spin.
That night Richard tossed and turned on his cot, not able to make sense of the useless massacre. He tried to calm his mind by remembering the smell of pastry and burnt sugar tarts from Mr. Black’s bakery. He thought of his mother’s ice box and how you had to keep a close eye on the drip tray. He thought about cutting the front lawn and using the bamboo rake.
When the sun finally rose, it shone right through the first hole in Richard’s infatuation with army life.
Chapter 21
McNaughton’s Flying Circus
Dear Mr. and Mrs. Black
I met a guy I hadn’t seen in a long time. Vince Butler, who everyone calls Ape, was with me at Camp Niagara. No one understands why he keeps on calling me Chester. He told me Albert Kennedy, another guy from Camp Niagara, is home. He had something the matter with his eyes.
I was good enough to pass the tests set by the gunnery instructors. Rumour has it the Germans have got better, faster tanks. I hope Superman is keeping an eye on things.
Your war correspondent,
Richard
He wanted to tell Mr. Black all about the weapons he was learning to use, but the army officials warned against it. One weapon looked like a giant piece of plumbing pipe. They learned how to put a bomb in from the mouth end and let it slide into place. When he held it perpendicular and pressed a button, the bomb shot out, crashing down, one hoped, on the enemy position. The hand grenade was like a metal baseball that had to be thrown in a big arc. When it landed, it blew up, sending an eruption of earth into the sky.
Richard didn’t dare tell anyone he was afraid of the sector’s submachine gun with the half moon ammunition magazine. He didn’t mind his standard British-issue revolver, however. He wore it in a shaped pouch at his waist, like a cowboy with a holster.
Every now and again Richard had to drive the Bren gun carrier, but wasn’t happy with the brakes. Once he jammed them hard and the soldier sitting in the back shot out of the carrier. The man wasn’t injured, but it gave Richard a shock to turn around and find him gone.
As they prepared to return to Leipzig Barracks, they heard that the German army had invaded Holland.
“France as well,” Ted said, throwing his gear onto the van. “You mark my words.”
Richard could only think of Mr. Vogel’s family.
—
Richard was promoted to the rank of sergeant. “Your deferred pay,” the paymaster told him, “is increased to twenty-five dollars a month. It’s all in your book.”
New orders came. The Canadian troops were moving into billets at Addington near the city of Croydon, just south of London.
“Divisional headquarters are going to be in Redhill,” Swipes told them at breakfast. “The other units of artillery will be scattered about the same area.” He took a drink of tea.
“As I figure it,” Ted said, “fighting troops have to have easy access to the roads leading to the south coast. That’s where invasion troops will land.”
“And we are the fighting troops,” Richard murmured.
“Fighting troops in civilian houses,” Jack said, as he joined them with a notice in his hand. “We’ll be at this address for the next fourteen months.”
“You got to be kidding,” Richard said looking at the paper. “Featherbed Lane?
—
“It is time to get down to serious business,” Major McNaughton barked out the next morning. “We are to train for any task we might be called upon to carry out. Dismissed.”
Richard shivered in the late morning air. Riding dispatch had not been all he thought it would be. The weather in this country was not predictable. In a matter of minutes a mass of black clouds would obliterate the beautiful blue morning sky. Huge drops of rain lashed down and the road would be awash with brown rivulets. Even though he had rain gear, the water bounced off his helmet and down his neck. It splashed into his boots and was forever battering his face. The eighteen-pounders were on wooden carriers that seemed to have come from a museum. Machine guns were from the First World War. Personal weapons were still in short supply.
—
Dear Mr. and Mrs. Black,
The entire British Isles seems to be one big target for enemy bombers, by day as well as night. We have all been on anti-invasion schemes over several days. The whole Canadian army spends time trying to move somewhere or other, take up position, attack, and withdraw. Each exercise has a code name. Swipes says he thinks it is just to fool all the German spies that are running about Britain with wireless sets strapped on their backs.
I receive the odd bundle of papers every once in a while, thanks to Mr. McLaughlin. No one has to look for my name on them because someone on mail duty got so tired of me asking for my socks from home they tie an old one around it. The guys think it is a great joke.
Signal school came to an end. I now wear my crossed flags ABOVE my stripes. I guess I don’t have to tell you what it means, but I will. I’m a qualified signal instructor. WHOOPEE!!
Several men left our regiment. Some went home for discharge because they were not fit for further active service. A whole bunch transferred to the Canadian Provost Corps. We got our first batch of reinforcements everyone calls “Meatheads,” because they are actually Royal Canadian Mounted Police, and wear their RCMP cap badge as well as their shoulder title.
Most of the new guys are from St. Catharines. We gave them a warm welcome, not only because we need them, but because they are fresh from home and can bring us up to date.
Tell Mrs. Black thanks for the box of maple sugar. I hope she got the parcel I mailed to her from Plumstead. I thought she’d like to taste some of that chutney stuff.
Your war correspondent,
Richard
P.S. Next time you see my mother please say hello.
What he didn’t tell Mrs. Black was the box of maple sugar was crumbs by the time it got to him, but it lasted longer eating it that way. He also left out the part when their British instructor described their first exercise, called Fox, as a “right screw-up.” It was supposed to be an anti-invasion exercise in moving the entire division to a concentration area, and then advancing against a hostile force. It began in the early morning hours, and by noon every road in the area was hopelessly jammed with vehicles and guns. When the major general arrived at a crossroads, he found his division approaching from all directions. The signallers had to take over traffic control and order everyone back to their tents without completing the exercise.
For exercise Cat, things went more smoothly, in spite of the wet and muddy conditions.
Bulldog in June took place at night. They camouflaged the equipment during the daylight hours and ended with a mock street fight, eight kilometers from where they’d started.
—
Richard had been riding his Norton motorcycle since they’d left billets that morning. He was not only tired, but once again drenched by a sudden rain storm.
At one of the many halts on the way to the rendezvous area, Jack leaned out of the back of the truck that Ted was driving. “Do you want me to
spell you on the bike?”
Richard climbed into Jack’s seat in the quad and before he knew it, he’d drifted off.
“Thud,” went one of the wheels, throwing him on to the floor of the vehicle. There was a boom and a shudder. For a few seconds there was silence as they all shared the same thought. A bomb!
The roar of the motorcycle brought Richard to his senses. He stuck his head out the back.
“Who the hell is driving this thing?” someone called out.
Ted had just deposited eight tons of artillery in a four-foot ditch.
The main convoy and the division moved past. At the very end of the convoy was the light aid detachment of the Royal Canadian Ordnance Corps. A huge truck with derrick and block and tackle chains swung into position. They hooked chains to the quad and lifted it back onto the road like a toy.
For three hours the stray quad, with Richard following on his Norton, wheeled through traffic to catch up with its battery. Shortly after nightfall they located the other guns a few kilometers from the sea.
—
Dear Amy,
I had been riding my motorbike since we left camp. At one of the halts on the way Jack Gill asked if he could spell me on the bike. Lots of guys offer to spell me when the weather is good, but Jack is the only one who gives me a break from the rain. I took his seat in the quad. Just as I was drying out, we went into a ditch. It scared the heck out of me.
I have an idea about the socks. Don’t write the word socks on the parcel. Think of something that no one would want to steal.
Richard
—
The Roft exercise in August was very successful. The traffic control problems had been solved, as they finally had enough Provost Corps people to keep the vehicles running at an even pace, despite the wet muddy conditions. Cascara in August was primarily for the medical services, as they practiced the evacuation of casualties.
Bumper in September was the first time they fired blank ammunition. Richard took the message that their pretend enemy tank occupied the church yard behind the village. They detailed one of the guns to clear the route for advance. It was tricky business, as the streets were narrow. Visibility wasn’t more than a hundred feet because of twists in the road, and camouflage covered the spire of the church. The battalion managed to detach one gun from its quad, load it with a blank shell, and push it to a spot off the main street into a side lane. Their plan was to use the gun carrier as bait, to draw the tank out of hiding. The gun would be pushed into the road and blast the tank when it appeared. All gunners hid from view as the carrier rolled along the street. Just as they planned, the tank spotted the front end of the carrier and came out of hiding. Their twenty-five pounder moved into the street and fired.
Every window in town shattered.
TANK DEAD, Richard signalled back, while the officers hid their faces in embarrassment.
—
Dear Mother,
Things have been busier than I expected, which is why I haven’t written earlier.
You once asked me if it would be a privilege to eat off a tin tray. It isn’t. I eat sitting on the hard or wet ground, in the back of trucks and sometimes on my motorcycle.
I went to a signal instructors’ course. They have the habit of calling us “colonials,” so we started to call them “chirpers and limeys.” When they complained, the sergeant told them to lay off the colonial stuff and we would be happy to call them anything they wanted.
The course was the usual stuff, and the instructors were very good. Believe it or not, they were still teaching the use of heliographs. They were amazed that I could set up and operate them, while only the instructor and one sergeant from a field battery could do it.
Here, everything stops for tea, no matter where you are or what you are doing. We dig a hole in the ground and fill it with petrol (that’s what they call gas over here) and light it. On top of the flames we put a tin can. Everyone adds water from their canteen and Swipes adds the tea. (He always has it on him.) Even though it has bits of wood and sometimes small drops of petrol it tastes good when you’ve been outside all day crawling around in ditches.
Your son,
Richard
P.S. I hope you are receiving the pay I am sending.
Chapter 22
Dick
Richard opened his much-awaited letter from Mr. Black, glad it had come before his leave. The baker’s letters never were more than a short note, but Richard knew it wasn’t a reflection of his mood. Mr. Black preferred to “chew the fat,” his expression for talking, instead of writing. They would have so much to talk about when he got back.
Inside a page of blue, almost transparent, air mail paper were four identical newspaper clippings.
“Hey guys,” Richard called as he handed them out. “Looks like we made the paper.”
“Which one?” Ted asked.
“The Toronto Star.”
“It says,” Jack read out the headline, “‘Gunners Prove Quality in Invasion Manoeuvres.’”
“That has to be us,” Swipes said. “They used the word quality.” He peered at the clipping and read out loud, “Training month after month over ground where they will fight if invaders land in England, field gunners of the Royal Canadian Artillery have tested and retested battle plans. Proud of their new twenty-five-pounder guns and their gunnery traditions, they have won a reputation in Britain for excellent artillery work.”
“Yup,” Ted said. “That’s definitely us, both quality and excellence.”
“Listen to this,” Richard said. “The 1st Canadian Division moved to the invasion coast in a three day mock battle against 2nd Division and the British Units. A field regiment from Central Canada and the Maritimes shared in the main attack. After nightfall on the first day, the regiment rolled its guns from the regular gun parks and the convoy sped to a rendezvous twenty miles away where the division collected for the night push.”
“They forget to mention that the headquarters for the whole operation was in the local pub,” Ted said with a grin.
“In the final quad was the Niagara Peninsula group, Gunner Jack Gill, Gunner Charlie McAllister, and Gunner Ted Billington, all of St. Catharines. They assisted signaller Sergeant Dick Fuller of Niagara Falls, Ont.” Richard scratched his head. “Why did he call me Dick?”
“No mention of our accident,” Swipes said, “when Ted fell asleep at the wheel.”
“The motorized division and several thousand corps troops drummed forward with traffic control soldiers waving hundreds of vehicles along these narrow roads as if it were a four lane highway,” Jack said, finishing the article. “Good thing he wasn’t around for Fox, eh?”
But Richard didn’t answer. He was thinking about this second new name.
“How about coming with me to Oxford,” Jack suggested, folding the clipping and putting it in his pocket. “They said they’d welcome any of my army pals.”
“I think I’ll head to Plumstead,” Richard answered. He promised his Uncle Will he’d visit as often as he could. “They’d like to see the clipping.”
“Check in at the Beaver Club before you catch your train,” Swipes told them.
“That’s right,” Jack said. “The CBC has a studio there. We can send a message home.”
“You’ve been there, right?” Jack asked Ted.
“Yeah,” he said. “But I never mention any names. I just use the word sweetheart and say that she knows who I mean.”
—
The studio was nothing more than a battered table and chair at the bottom of a stage. Richard watched the men in uniform sign up at the table and move into line. Some pulled cardboard messages from their breast pockets while others moved their lips in rehearsal. When the chime for the top of the hour rang, the room fell silent.
“Canadian soldiers on leave in London feel right at home at the Beaver Club,” the CBC radio announcer said into the thick rectangular microphone perched atop a metal pole. He flicked the switch at the side of the mike. “Ready
boys?” he asked and flicked it on again. “We bring you very good wishes as usual from the heart of London, England.”
The announcer gestured to the line to move forward as he said, “It is time for us to pay our regular weekly visit to those at home to bring messages and greetings.”
The line of men moved to the podium.
“Some of these boys have trains to catch,” the announcer said, “so we will hurry them along. Let’s start with this rush of Alberta boys.”
A cheer rose from the crowd as Jack pulled Richard over to the table.
Army, navy, and air force personnel approached the microphone to tell the listeners at home their name and that all was fine, then thank the family and friends for parcels. Some would claim: “Victory will be ours.”
“Where are you boys from?” The man at the table asked Jack and Richard.
“Ontario,” Jack replied. “I’m from St. Kitts and my little buddy is from The Falls.”
The man at the table looked at Richard. “You old enough to fight?” he asked.
“He’s wearing the uniform,” Jack said, “isn’t he?”
The man shook his head as he wrote down their names. Then he handed each of them a red card. “Go to the front of the line.”
Seeing the red card, the announcer signalled for Jack and Richard to move up on stage ahead of the line. “Seems we just had some Ontario boys join us,” he said, beckoning them forward. “This is Gunner Jack Gill from St. Catharines, Ontario,” he said, reading the card.
Jack cleared his throat and smiled. “I want to say hello to my mother and father on the farm, and my little brother Dave. Let me tell you, Davey, being a farmer is just as important as being a soldier. I’ll be home to help you out just as soon as the war is over.”
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