Mentioned In Dispatches

by P. L. Wytka

  “Whiskey, now,” Bill said once Missus Hallicks was gone. “And don’t argue.”

  Post didn’t argue, and once Bill had gulped down another shot he simply whispered, “It’s Jim.”

  “Jesus Christ! First Missus Hal, now Jim. Fuck. Fuck.”

  A minute later James McCloud sat on a stool next to Bill, placing a hand on his shoulder. Bill was surprised to see him sporting a thick beard. While it certainly covered the metal plate, skin grafts, and extensive scarring around his lower right cheek, his mouth was a different story. His gums had continued their necrotic course, and a big gap in his teeth marked where repeated dental surgeries had failed. McCloud’s tongue had avoided the infection, but was constantly drenched in saliva, and occasionally pus, causing his speech to slur.

  “Gary, let’s have a drink for me and Bill. Whiskey, right?”

  Bill nodded his head slowly. He didn’t feel the hate that had driven him away from McCloud since the last days of spring 1917. And something about that made him feel uncomfortable. “Sergeant Major,” he said formally.

  “Forget the rank, Bill. I figured twenty years since the big peace would be enough for us to sit and have a drink together. What do you say to a little personal armistice?”

  “Okay, Jim.”

  McCloud raised his glass and touched it to Bill’s. “To peace.”

  “To John,” Bill offered.

  McCloud nodded his head solemnly and both men emptied their glasses.

  “Where’s your boy John?”

  “Waiting tables.”

  “And Harold?”

  “Hunting for war stories. There he is,” Bill replied, pointing.

  Sure enough, Harold was chatting with his uncle, Tom Payne. Payne had joined the battalion in late 1916, the same day Bill had been made a section commander.

  “Tell me about the big battle at the end of the war,” Harold implored Payne. “The Hundred Days when we broke the back of the German army.”

  Payne let a false sneer come over his face. “‘We?’ I don’t remember seeing you there.”

  “The Canadian Corps I mean. Please, nobody tells me anything.”

  “Okay. First of all, it wasn’t one big battle. It was a couple big ones and a couple little ones. We started out in August with maybe seven hundred men. Maybe closer to six-fifty. In two and a half months we took over nine hundred casualties. You do the math. The battalion was taking in new men faster than we could learn their fuckin’ names,” Payne paused and took a long pull off his cigarette, finishing it. “I’ll tell you about the first battle. Woods and fields all Goddamned day! This wasn’t trench warfare like we were used to. We must have gone five miles on the first day alone.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  France, 1918

  August. And the battalion was getting ready for the largest counter-attack of the war. In late March the Germans had pushed the line back and enjoyed their biggest gains since the autumn of 1914. Now, with the Germans’ last frantic attack stalled, and the Canadian Corps untouched by it, it was once again time for the Colonials to deliver a decisive blow.

  The last few days had been a blur: secret orders delivered at the last minute were often rescinded moments later, then altered and reissued shortly after. Complicated transportation schemes had the men moving mostly at night, and whenever possible through thick woods. Above all, the constant rumours kept everybody, even commanding officers, guessing.

  In anticipation for the big offensive, the platoons of the Canadian Corps had been reorganized once again. The four section layout was replaced by two much larger ones. A second Lewis Gun was added to each platoon, allowing each section to have a machine-gun of their own, along with a small rifle-grenade team. Bombers had become obsolete, as every rifleman now carried grenades and possessed basic training concerning all weapons. Bill and the other men who had earned their bomber’s patch were allowed to keep it, but officially they were riflemen again; unofficially, they carried a few more bombs than the others. Bill retained his bomb bag, as did Stinson and Payne, but it was more of a valise for personal items.

  By mid-summer, Bill had found himself a sergeant in command of one half of the platoon, while McCloud retained control over the other half. He had spent the last several weeks headhunting men from McCloud’s group, one by one. Promotions, demotions, and trades had brought all the best men to Bill’s half of the platoon. He thought it was due to his shrewd leadership style, but in fact owed more to Carter and McCloud wanting to stack the deck in his favour.

  Corporal Lincoln served as Bill’s right-hand man, in charge of the rifle-grenadiers: Privates Cameron and O’Sullivan, two men who had belonged to his now-defunct section since Vimy. McCreery, demoted to Lance Corporal for formality’s sake, was responsible for the Lewis Gun, still manned by Thompson and Chilvers. Stinson, Payne, Czar, and Dawson, along with a demoted Fyles, formed Bill’s group of riflemen-bombers. Altogether, Bill was in charge of eleven men, including two NCOs.

  “Is it the sixth, or the seventh?” Payne asked, huddled low in a trench.

  Zero Hour, four-twenty in the morning, had passed fifty minutes ago, and soon the Third would be thrown into action.

  “Eighth,” Stinson replied, almost to himself. “The eighth of the eighth.”

  “More importantly,” Dawson chimed in, “ten minutes ‘til we go over.”

  The Third Battalion had been held in reserve. Their job would be to follow behind the Fourteenth Battalion on their right, and the Eighteenth on their left; men from Montreal and south-western Ontario respectively. B Company was on the battalion’s left flank, much to Lincoln’s distress. His eldest son, Carlyle, had arrived in the Fourteenth a few months earlier. He had hoped to see him before the battle began, but it had proved impossible. Bill could easily read the apprehension on his older friend’s face.

  “He’ll be fine, Linc,” Bill said. “If his old man can come through three and a half years without so much as a scratch, the worst he’ll get will be a stomach ache.”

  “Thanks, but that doesn’t help. We’ve both seen plenty of men who were never hit until they were killed,” Lincoln replied blandly.

  “You been praying for him?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then you’re doing all you can.”

  “Yeah. Just doesn’t seem like enough.”

  “I know. He’s your son and you have an obligation to protect him. I feel the same about you and the boys. But I know that there’ll be casualties; there always are. So as long as I do everything I can to keep the section safe, that blood won’t be on my hands. I have enough of that already: Roy, Blake, McNeil.”

  “That blood is on Hun hands, Bill. But that’s beside the point. If Carlyle is killed it won’t matter why. I’ll have lost him forever.”

  “Hey, pearly gates, remember?”

  Lincoln forced a smile. “Thanks.”

  “Alright, enough of that. We’re stepping off in about five minutes; remind your men to take a final piss.”

  *

  The sun wouldn’t be up for another hour. Added to the darkness was a thick blanket of fog that limited visibility to about twenty yards. The Company moved forward in single file by platoons. After plodding through eerily empty fields for a mile, the advance continued through a wooded area, each soldier keeping a hand on the back of the man in front of him as the moonlight was overpowered by the overhead canopy, and the persistent fog. Getting lost was their biggest concern, and officers kept their compasses in hand.

  Corporal Post, pacing along the edges of the slow-moving platoons, was the first to realize that B Company was entirely out of touch with the remainder of the battalion. An educated guess would suggest that the battalion, in turn, was not in contact with any other unit. They were, in fact, marching blindly through a gap left by the Fourteenth and Eighteenth. A gap, as it happened, that was inundated with hastily constructed defensive positions in woods and high ground.

  The obscene cracking of a German 08/15 machine-gun sent the
men scrambling to the ground. At least the fog was an equal opportunity obstacle; the gun wasn’t far off, but would have difficulty scoring many hits.

  “Seven Platoon will take the gun!” Company Sergeant Major Turner boomed. “All others stay put, and hold fire!”

  In the fog, it would have been dangerous for the entire company to open up. There was too big a risk of friendly fire.

  Six Platoon laid flat and waited. Every man was wide-eyed and waiting for orders, glancing nervously from the man in front of them to the man behind them. Whatever was happening, barely more than a stone’s throw away, was a complete mystery. The sounds of the German machine-gun and rifle fire were quickly joined by the crack-crack-crack of two Lewis Guns, and the determined rhythm of Lee Enfield fire. After a minute or two the firing stopped. Shouts of ‘kamerad’ filled the air, followed by hideous screams; the job had been finished with bayonets. Mercy was rarely afforded to machine-gun crews that surrendered at the last possible moment.

  “Seven Platoon has the trench!” A voice called out.

  “Casualties?” Turner asked.

  “Seven wounded, including the Mister, two killed.”

  “Prisoners?”

  “Not anymore. Two machine-guns, about a dozen dead Huns.”

  “Eight Platoon has four wounded,” another voice called through the mist.

  “Five and Six Platoons?” Turner yelled.

  “No casualties,” Five Platoon’s commander called.

  “One wounded,” Carter replied.

  “Mister Reid was hit!” came another voice.

  “Fuck,” Turner muttered to himself. “B Company, still! Platoon commanders, on me. Platoon sergeants, see to the wounded.” Turner soon became red with embarrassment, as through the fog, he had to keep speaking in order to indicate his own position. “I am here. Hello, hello, hello. This is Company Sergeant Major Turner. Hello, hello. For God’s sake, Sirs, hurry up; I feel ridiculous.”

  Once the three platoon commanders, and Seven Platoon’s senior sergeant arrived, Turner brought them in close. “Mister Carter is taking over command of the company. You’ll stick close to me, okay Sir?”

  “Yes, CSM,” Carter replied, certain that McCloud could handle Six Platoon.

  “This ground was supposed to be clear until the Green Line, but it isn’t, is it?” Turner asked rhetorically.

  “Sure as hell isn’t,” Captain Reid replied, arriving with the help of another wounded soldier. Reid had a bandage applied to his left leg, the other man, his right arm. They had been hit by the same initial burst of gunfire and patched each other up. “Turner, bring the men forward at once, we’re already late. I’ll take over the wounded and bring them back. Mister Carter, take care of my company.”

  “I will, Sir,” Carter replied with a salute that turned into a handshake. “Gentlemen, return to your platoons, we move in one minute. Corporal Post!”

  Post was far on the right flank, but ran at full speed. “Yes, Sir?”

  “Please inform Sergeant McCloud that he is in temporary command of Six Platoon, then return to your position. We’re moving momentarily.”

  “Sir,” Post replied, then sped away.

  “CSM, would you give the order to advance, please?” Carter asked, knowing that Turner was as much in command as he was.

  “B Company!” Turner boomed. “Carry on!”

  *

  It was nearly nine in the morning before B Company finally arrived at the Green Line: an old British trench system captured by the Germans months earlier, and in a state of disrepair. The familiar barren fields, trenches, and barbed wire were almost a comforting sight. According to a lightly wounded and very lonely, bored man left behind as a guide, only five platoons of the total sixteen that belonged to the battalion had reached the line before them, and they had all gone forward with limited support. Time was more important than strength; the attack had to continue immediately in order to catch the Germans off-guard.

  By now the fog had lifted, and while that made organization and movement easier, it also meant that the battalion would present an easy target in the open fields and more sparse woods that now dotted the landscape. The men had barely caught their breath before moving on. The sound of heavy fighting a half mile away was enough to reinvigorate them; they weren’t eager for another scrap, but were more than keen to assist their comrades.

  Passing through another wooded area, B Company caught sight of a few platoons of khaki-clad soldiers in a gully: the ever-luckless D Company. Several hundred yards beyond, a forested hill was littered with German machine-gun crews. D Company had walked right into an ambush, and now B would have to join them in their predicament, or leave them to be annihilated.

  “Five Platoon, push left one hundred yards,” Carter called. “Remainder, fall in line with them.”

  The men already in the gully were relieved when B Company opened into extended line and joined up with them. But even with the extra fire support, the attack was failing. For every few yards gained, another man or two was hit; by the time they arrived there would be nobody left alive and unwounded. Staying put just meant a slower demise.

  “Our only hope is a bayonet charge,” Turner advised Carter as both men hugged the earth. “They’ll cut us up pretty badly, but they’ll break and run at one hundred yards. Huns don’t like Canadian bayonets, do they?”

  Carter didn’t agree. “I’m not willing to wreck the company for some hill; what will we do when we come across the next one, Sergeant Major? We need help.”

  “That’ll take time, Sir. Who knows where the rest of the battalion is?”

  Carter stood and raised his voice: “Hold here! Smoke grenades everywhere!”

  “You heard the man,” Lincoln called to his bombers. “Smoke bombs, one hundred and fifty yards.” This was more than any rifle-bomb could go, but Lincoln liked to challenge his men.

  “How many?” Cameron asked, firing off his first.

  “Two each, and make it a good even spread. I want all of Six Platoon covered.”

  “Too easy,” O’Sullivan replied, as his second bomb went flying.

  Some riflemen who had been designated to carry smoke bombs added to the cover, and soon the gully was enveloped. The German rifle and machine-gun fire carried on, but it wasn’t nearly as accurate. A few minutes later it slackened; the defenders only had so many bullets.

  The attack remained stalled out for nearly another hour, until at last, like a heavenly choir, a dozen Lewis machine-guns began chattering from a hundred yards to the rear. The bulk of A and C Companies had met up and arrived altogether. Cheers went up along the line, and the advance continued. But it wasn’t long before the covering fire from the Lewis Guns was ignored, and the Germans on the hilltop once again forced the battalion to a stand-still.

  Corporal Post didn’t wait for orders, or bother to inform anyone of what he saw. Sixty-six tons of beauty: two tanks rumbling down a road several hundred yards away. He dropped his rifle and equipment in a little pile and ran full-speed towards them.

  Arriving at the nearest one, he pounded on the side hatch. “I’m Canadian, open up!” He screamed above the roar of the engine.

  The tank stopped, hatch opened wide, and a grease-stained Captain stuck his head out, accompanied by an awful smelling cloud of black smoke. He looked like a futuristic machine-man and nearly caused Post to shudder. The tank commander wore a rubber headpiece which Post couldn’t identify for certain as a helmet or a hat, and clumsy leather goggles with horizontal slits in them which hid his eyes, and no doubt greatly limited his vision. An eight inch length of chainmail jangled below his goggles, covering his nose, mouth, and neck. Tanker’s helmets weren’t designed for protection from bullets or shellfire, but from the many harmful things inside the tank itself. Without their special protection, a crash or sudden stop could hurl the crew against the floor, walls, or even the ceiling, rendering them unconscious. And while generally protected by thick armour, even a machine-gun could send sparks and bits
of metal flying all about the interior of the tank. The eight-man crew operated in their own filthy, murky, and noisy little world. At least the Mark Five Star, a newer design, had an exhaust port.

  “What can I do for you?” the tank commander asked.

  “I need you to put some fire on a target,” Post replied.

  The tank commander blinked, adjusting his eyes to the sunlight. “Where?”

  Post pointed to the hill. “Range about seven hundred yards north-north-east. Elevation maybe, uh, twenty yards or more.”

  “Tell you what,” the commander said. “You hop on top and spot for me. If my men are firing short, pound once on the roof. If we’re firing too far, twice. If you want me to shift fire left, it’ll be three. And to shift fire right, knock four times. Distance and elevation will work themselves out in the same arc. Direction, then distance. Got that?”

  Post nodded and yelled above the engine, “Got it, Sir. Thank you.”

  The commander handed Post a pair of binoculars, then shut the side hatch. Climbing on top of the metal beast was no easy task, but one that the experienced scout managed. Once perched on top, he removed his helmet, ready to smash away his make-do Morse Code. The tank shifted, presented its six-pounder guns towards the hill, and opened fire.

  Post saw the first shell land in the midst of the slowly advancing Canadians, and pounded hard four times. The next shell went too far right, and missed the Germans entirely. Three knocks shifted the fire left again, this time in line with the fortified hilltop, but well short. One more solid knock with his helmet, and the next shell landed right on target. A drum-roll with his fists followed, and Post watched with joy as the fire steadied up; the bracketing was over, now it was time to do some damage.

  Within a minute the advance began making good progress, and the Germans, facing a Lewis Gun barrage, fire from the tanks, and a two company bayonet charge, began to break. Once the Canadians were within one hundred yards, Post climbed down and smashed the hatch with his helmet. It was now dented so badly that anyone would think he had a close call with a shrapnel shell, or a hailstorm from hell.