by P. L. Wytka
The tank ceased firing, and the commander reappeared. “Will that be all?”
“Yes, Sir. Thank you,” Post replied, handing back the binoculars. “Those are nice, where did you buy them?”
“Standard issue for land-ships. Thanks for not running off with them. I’d be on the hook for a few days pay. Say, this is the road to Caix, isn’t it?”
“That’s right. Over there,” Post said, pointing, “is Wiencourt and Guillaucourt. You should hit Caix in another two miles or so.”
“Splendid. I must be off, good luck, Corporal.”
Post smiled brightly at the monstrously veiled man. “Thanks again, Sir, and tell your men that the Third Canadian infantry battalion is glad to have made their acquaintance.”
*
Carter was astonished to see how few of his men were advancing; the majority lay dead or wounded in the gully. Looking left and right, his newly-earned company looked more like a bountiful platoon. Upon reaching the crest of the hill, shouts of ‘kamerad’ emanated from several recently dug trenches. Most of the German survivors were badly wounded, while a few with lighter injuries saw to them; those uninjured had abandoned their position and would no doubt be waiting at the next. Conspicuously absent was CSM Turner. And already it was apparent that most of the officers had become casualties as well.
“McCloud, on me,” Carter called out.
McCloud glanced nervously at Bill, who was busy with the usual post-assault routine: rounding up prisoners, assessing the state of the platoon, and getting ready to either settle in or press onwards depending on the order given.
“The Sir is calling you,” Bill said nonchalantly between a swig of water from his canteen. “I’ve got everything under control.”
Bill’s idea of having ‘everything under control’ differed slightly from McCloud’s. Bill liked to let his men do their own thinking and working, while McCloud tended to supervise even hardened veterans carrying out simple tasks. Deciding that Bill couldn’t cause too much damage in the next few minutes, McCloud took his leave.
“Yes Sir?” McCloud asked.
“Three things. First: you’re my new CSM. Second: I want a casualty report from each platoon. Third: I think we’ll be moving straight ahead, so don’t bother breaking ground. I’ll talk to the Big Sir and confirm, but he’ll want to know our current strength.”
“Okay. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
McCloud sped away towards Five Platoon as A and C Companies began to move into the gully, and sweep past the wounded men.
*
“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” It was Fyles, a bullet wound running all along the length of his left shoulder and arm, the round having exited just before his wrist. Had it entered a degree higher and extended another inch, it would have likely cut Fyles’ radial artery. It was an odd wound, but not the oddest that had been received over the past hour.
“It wouldn’t be nearly as bad if you stopped moving about and cursing,” Dawson replied, a fragment from one of the tank’s shells having cut open his right calf.
Both men were repeating a familiar scene: two wounded soldiers bandaging each other. All throughout the gully khaki heaps were sprawled out, sitting upright, or slowly getting to their feet. A few yards away, Fyles caught sight of Turner. He had been hit leading the initially sluggish attack, and lay bleeding with two gunshot wounds in the centre of his massive frame. Dawson and Fyles crawled towards him, and removed the field dressings from his tunic.
Fyles leaned in close to Dawson. “I’ll try to track down a stretcher-bearer. They shouldn’t be too far behind us. Try to keep him alive; I don’t think he’ll last long.”
“Corporal Post,” Turner managed. “Get me Post.”
Dawson didn’t look up from tending to the CSM’s wounds, but called at the top of his voice for Post to come, and that Turner had been hit. Luckily, Post had yet to move forward with the attack. He had returned to the gully to collect his gear, and heard Dawson’s yelling. It was strange to see the CSM helpless, and probably dying.
“What can I do, Sir?” Post asked.
Turner’s voice was stricken but stern. “Tell Mister Carter not to let the attack stall out. Keep the men moving. McCloud replaces me, alright?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“A Company Sergeant Major needs his pace stick, doesn’t he? Bring it to McCloud, please.”
Post tried to shift the giant of a man gently, but Turner winced in silent pain as the pace stick was pulled out from underneath him.
“Now get going. You wouldn’t want the war to pass you by, would you?”
“No, of course not. Goodbye, Sergeant Major. Dave. Good luck,” Post said, then stood and left.
Dawson finished with the bandages, but soon found himself bored. He was bored of being a soldier, bored of lying around with wounded men on either side of him, and bored of being scared and sad. Once his boredom turned to something surreal and disturbing, he decided to engage the CSM in conversation.
“It’s a nice day. If I was picnicking, I’d want a cucumber sandwich and some Earl Grey tea, with sugar and milk.”
Turner, accepting that he would probably die soon, decided to carry on the conversation rather than go out in silence. “Could you be any more British? You probably have a backgammon set in your pack, don’t you? I’d want a roast beef sandwich; my wife makes the best roast beef sandwiches. And I’d wash it down with a bottle of Bass beer.”
“My wife was a temperance woman; she didn’t appreciate it when I drank.”
“Was? What happened?”
“She was killed in a house fire, along with our children.”
Turner’s face softened instantly, he looked like he might even shed a tear. “My condolences.”
“It was years ago. And I’ve plans for the future. Once this war ends I’ll take my discharge in England and go back to Accrington. I’m sure there’s a broken family that I could cement back together.”
Turner realized his breathing was getting heavy, and tried to steady it. “I had a chance to go home. Back in February all of the Originals who were married before the war were given the opportunity to be sent to Canada, for good. Of course there were so few Originals left, and most of them had been bachelors in ’14. Six men went; I should have gone too.”
“But you had your company to look after.”
“I’m aware of that, aren’t I?”
“I suppose so.”
“And now a couple of filthy Hun bullets are going to keep me from ever seeing my family again...no they aren’t. Hell, I was hit twice before, wasn’t I?”
Dawson half-shrugged and half-nodded, glancing down at the CSM’s two brass wound stripes. He hadn’t been in the battalion when Turner was hit at Ypres in 1915, and again at Vimy in 1917.
“I won’t let some Goddamned Germans make my wife a widow, and force my children to grow up without a father, will I?”
Dawson was silent.
“I’m sorry. Forget I said anything,” Turner ended, remembering that the man he was talking to had already lost his family.
A few minutes later Fyles returned, two stretcher-bearers in tow. “Your ride back has arrived, Sir. You’ll have to wait awhile, Dawson; the stretcher men are still doing their triage. These blokes tell me I have to be going back now, so I’ll walk alongside and keep the CSM company.”
“Say ‘hello’ to England for me, Sir,” Dawson said.
“I will. I’m sure you’ll make good cement.”
A few moments later, Dawson was alone, waiting his turn to be carried out. A colony of industrious ants was hard at work a few feet away.
“You there, yes you, get back in ranks,” Dawson ordered a stray ant. “You’ll have to work together to get by. At least that’s what my first platoon sergeant told me. Don’t squabble over trifling matters, but rather work for the greater good. You ants don’t have wars; at least I don’t think you do. But then again you’re missing out on factories, steam engines, and even poison gas. You see, we hav
e this little concept called ‘civilization’, perhaps you’ve heard of it. Well, for those of you who haven’t, it means that we kill each other because we disagree, and the last man left alive has his opinion proven correct. We’re a silly, stupid, selfish lot, us men are. Or maybe too smart. We build empires that rise and fall, we go through bad times and do bad things; and we orchestrate it all ourselves. Of course we do great things too. Any one of our monuments would put your anthill to shame. But you’ve been making anthills for a long time, and I doubt they’ll stop popping up anytime soon. Your little piles of sand and dirt get washed away with rainwater or even a good breeze. We tear our own monuments down, or else our foes bomb them to bits for us. Sometimes we just abandon them. You see, conflict doesn’t create or accomplish anything; it just shifts the focus from progress to destruction. It prevents progress. But I think you’ve been here a lot longer than us, and maybe you’ve already figured this all out. And I think you’ll still be here long after we’re gone. Of course, our rubbish will take a thousand years to rust and rot. If you want to change building materials from sand to metal, I think we’ve left behind enough spent cartridges and shrapnel fragments to keep you well supplied. Just be sure not to build your next hill, or hive, or nest, or whatever you call it, on top of a dud Mills Bomb. I’d hate to see all that hard work wasted.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Toronto, 1938
Payne stuck a fresh cigarette between his lips. “We never did see Dawson ever again. I can only assume he settled down with some new family in England.”
“What happened after you took the hill?” Harold asked.
“We had a few more little fights. Took lots of prisoners. Early in the afternoon B Company was pulled out. We’d taken so many casualties we were barely functioning. A and D settled in on some high ground, C Company sloshed across the river Luce and made an outpost line, and a little later the Tenth Battalion passed through us and carried on the attack. Altogether we lost something like two hundred men that day, mostly wounded, and mostly from B Company. Even D Company was in better shape than us, and they were usually the most unlucky bastards of all.”
“Then what happened?” Harold asked.
Payne gave him a condescending look. “We won the war and went home.”
“Really.”
“Get me another beer and I’ll tell you about Rouvroy, okay? But after that I’ve got nothing to say.”
“Why?”
“I stopped a bullet a few weeks later.”
Soon Harold returned with another beer for Payne, and he went on.
France, 1918
That evening, B Company was resting in a field a mile behind the remainder of the battalion.
“Is this Six Platoon?”
Bill’s eyes went wide, his blood turning to ice. He was face-to-face with a man who so closely resembled George Hallicks, right down to his flipped up tunic collar, that it could only be his younger brother: Edward.
“Hal?” Bill finally managed.
“Yes, Sergeant. Are you Bill Brown?”
Bill nodded, then turned to another man who he hadn’t yet noticed.
“Conacher, Sergeant. We were told to report to Six Platoon by some officer.”
“Three syllables. That’s too long, what’s your first name?”
“William.”
“No good, we can’t have two Bills. You can be Con or Connie. Think it over and let me know. Hal, how did you end up here?”
“I know, my brother told me not to enlist. And I didn’t: I was conscripted. But George always said that if I ever ended up in the army, I should try to make my way to the Third Battalion, and eventually to Six Platoon. I’ve told a lot of lies, ducked out of a lot of reinforcement drafts, and even bribed a few people to get here.”
“Good boy,” Bill said. “Clever just like your brother. And you?”
“I volunteered,” Conacher said. “Most of the men I trained with were conscripts though. Just happened to end up here.”
“The last volunteer and the first conscript,” Bill mused aloud. “Do either of you have any special training?”
Both men shook their heads. They had been in the army for about six months, and most of that time had been spent getting from one place to another, learning to march, conducting physical training, and getting a basic idea of how an infantry battalion works. It had been the same for Bill four years earlier.
“You’ll both be in my section: number two. Well, I’m also acting platoon commander, I guess. Anyhow, follow me; I’ll introduce you to anyone who isn’t sleeping.”
*
Early the next morning the battalion was ordered forward again. Seven miles southeast, through fields, woods, and old overgrown British trenches, the sun was nearly setting when B Company entered the little town of Rouvroy. A, C, and D had pushed through the nearly deserted site and established a new line to the east. Still badly lacking in manpower, B Company had been left in reserve, and now assigned the task of securing Rouvroy.
“It’s barricaded from the inside,” Carter said, indicating a large building that had once been a hotel, government offices, or some prominent citizen’s private residence.
Post stood at the centre of the town square with him. “No fire coming from it. Could be scared civilians.”
“In any case we need to be sure. I want you to take Six Platoon and clear it out; I’ve got my hands full with door-to-door searches. Hell, Eight Platoon is being led by a corporal.”
“Don’t worry, Sir. If we can’t break that door down, I’ll find another way in.”
“Thanks, Gary.”
“Six Platoon, on me!” Post called out with the glee of a corporal saying something normally reserved for much higher ranks.
“What goes on?” Bill asked. “You stealing my platoon?”
“The Sir wants us to clear out that mansion. The front door, which is also the only door, is locked and barricaded from inside. It might just be civilians, but there could be some die-hards lying low and waiting for darkness. If that’s the case, we have about an hour until they jump on us.”
Bill brought the biggest men in the platoon together and lined them up, four abreast to the door, while the remainder of his men looked on. “We’ll do this like parade drill. Goons... knock down...door!”
On the word of command, Payne, Kellowitz, and two large men from One Section slammed their full weight against the door. It barely budged.
“If we can big piece of wood finding, can use like buttering goat,” Kellowitz offered.
“Ram, Czar. B-a-a-attering ram,” Bill corrected.
“No, no, Lance Bill, b-a-a-a is sheep. Get whole platoon behind goat,” Kellowitz went on, making a pendulum motion with his hands. “Like the time we stormed Winter Palace.”
“We could burn down the whole place, whoever’s inside will have to come out and surrender,” Payne added. “And we’ll have a nice fire to brew up with.”
“Can we blow it open with bombs?” Bill asked Post quietly, afraid of sounding like an idiot.
“I have a better idea,” Post replied. “Alright men, come around the side of the house with me.”
Underneath a big window, some fifteen feet above, Post took command. “Ditch your gear, all of it. And you,” he said, pointing to Thompson, “give me that Lewis Gun.”
“It’s got a fresh drum,” Thompson said, handing it over ruefully, and feeling suddenly naked.
“Take these,” Chilvers added, shoving an extra drum of ammunition into each of Post’s lower tunic pockets. The Number Two served the gun just as much as the gunner.
With the Lewis slung across his back, Post began organizing the men into a human pyramid. Owing to the limited number of soldiers remaining, the final entry into the window would have to be done with a little upward jump. Bill removed the trinkets and accessories from his bomb bag. Once the makeshift stairway was complete, Post climbed to the top, Bill close behind.
“Close your eyes,” Post instructed the huddle of so
ldiers, then smashed in the window with his helmet. “This thing is really useful,” he joked to himself.
Climbing in and seeing nobody in the room with him, he turned and tugged Bill through the window. As Bill pulled the pin from a grenade and held the spoon firmly in his palm, Post readjusted the Lewis Gun, ready to fire from the hip.
They were standing in a library, and Bill was frozen in jealous awe. Of course he couldn’t read French, but even the reading chairs and bookshelves were like a fantasy come true. Entire segments had been pilfered over the years since the original occupants had left; no doubt used as fuel for a fire. Still, it was a majestic sight for any bibliophile. A track running along the shelves indicated that a sliding ladder had once been present. It was probably lying over a belt of barbed wire somewhere.
Post left through the only door and entered a long hallway. He quietly opened a door leading to a large bedroom – empty. Making his way towards another door, he heard noises coming from within, and motioned for Bill to come closer. Flinging the door open wide, both men nearly gagged.
An old French woman was bent over a bed, as an even older man was grunting with exertion. Both were stark naked, flabby, and generally unpleasant to look at. The German uniform lying on the floor caused Post to bring the gun to his shoulder for a clearer shot; he didn’t want to hit the old woman. Before he could fire, the woman brought the German in close to her, shouting something which Post didn’t understand.
“What the hell is she going on about?” Post asked.
“I don’t know; she’s talking too fast.”
“Well figure it out, Bill.”
“Something about Germany. They’re lovers. Wait, I know that word: ‘Alsace.’”
“What’s that?”
“It’s a part of France that was taken over by the Germans in the last war. I think he’s a German soldier, but born a Frenchman.”
“So, is he French or German?”
“He’s kind of both, I think.”
“Do I shoot him?”
“Uhhh, no? I don’t think so. I think he’ll surrender; he doesn’t want to fight us. He might even be a deserter or something.” Bill snapped his fingers with his spare hand. “Wait a moment, Gary, I’ll be right back.”
Post lowered the gun slightly and indicated for the two to get dressed. In a few minutes Bill returned from the library, a French-English translation dictionary already flipped open. A few key words confirmed Bill’s theory. A few more, and the Canadians learned of an entire platoon of Alsatian soldiers on the main floor and in the basement. They were, according to the old man, defending a handful of locals from the wrath of the retreating German army, and planning on slipping away in civilian clothes once the fighting moved further east.
