Mentioned In Dispatches

by P. L. Wytka

  “Tell him to come with us,” Post said. “Both of them actually. They could be lying, so I want to take anyone else in this house by surprise before we start making friends or announcing ourselves.”

  Stairways were tactical nightmares, and not one that the men had received any training on. The old couple made a good human shield, although the intent was for them to quietly inform the others to surrender and assemble by the barricaded double door. One by one civilians and soldiers put their hands on their heads and moved to the front foyer. If the house had been filled with hostile soldiers and panicked civilians, it would have been a bloodbath.

  With the upper and main floor cleared, Bill and Post eyed the entrance to the basement. “I don’t want to risk it,” Post said. “We’ve made it this far, and they’ve got nowhere to run. I say we holler down to them, see who’ll come peaceably, then drop a phosphorus bomb down just to be safe.”

  “Plan,” Bill agreed, and shouted down the stairwell: “Soldats et civils, vous prisonniers de l’armme Canadienne. Allez en... paix?”

  It was quiet, and Bill shrugged. “We can go get Lincoln; he speaks far better French than me.”

  “Wait, someone is coming,” Post said.

  “Do not shoot,” an accented woman’s voice called. “We are coming up.”

  More German soldiers and French civilians climbed the stairs, and Bill pointed towards those already assembled by the door. Bill stopped the last civilian, a young boy, pulled out a white phosphorus bomb, and motioned as if to throw it down the stairs.

  “If there’s anyone else down there, better let me know now. Eh? Plus des civils? Plus des soldats?”

  The boy stayed Bill’s hand. “Oui. Isabelle et Oskar.”

  “Why didn’t they come up with the others? Umm, quelle pas ascendez-vous?” Bill asked, aware that his attempt at French was barely comprehensible.

  The boy decided to try giving speaking English a chance. “Oskar was prison camp, not want go jail. Isabelle love him, does not want taken.”

  Bill nodded, pretending to understand perfectly, but once again relying more on deduction. “Go join the others. Well, Gary, I think we’ve got another pair of star-crossed lovers down there. A German who was captured once before, but escaped, and a stupid girl who doesn’t want to lose him.”

  “Bomb them,” Post said. “It won’t kill them; just force them to come up, right?”

  “Yeah. Hell I don’t mind bombing Huns, I’d enjoy it really. But I can’t hurt some silly French girl. And what if they didn’t come up? Rather die in each other’s arms than part? With the WP smoke we wouldn’t be able to get to them until it was too late. I’ll go down and talk to them.”

  “Romantic. What about Lincoln?” Post reminded him.

  “Too dangerous. If the Hun, well, French Hun, whatever he is, if he wants to make a fight of it, that’s my responsibility. I’m in charge of Six Platoon, and Six Platoon is taking this house. If anyone gets ambushed it’ll be me. Fuck, I wish it was just plain old Huns.”

  “I’ll go with you,” Post offered. “If you promise to stop saying ‘Hun’ so much.”

  “No,” Bill replied. “Keep an eye on the folks at the door. Better yet, have them start tearing down that barricade. And take my bomb bag; I wouldn’t want it falling into the wrong hands. Besides, I like saying ‘Hun.’”

  Bill took each step slowly, moving further into the dark basement. “Hello. Bonjour. Guten tag.”

  A few tough words in French greeted him, as did the sound of a rifle bolt being worked.

  “Ah, put that thing down, you idiots,” Bill said into the darkness. “Get your foolish French heads out of your asses and follow me. Comez vous, ausgang... shnell. Fuckin’... come here.”

  Without speaking any more, Bill turned and walked back to the staircase. He waited at the bottom for another minute, his back turned away from the two holdouts. His parents had done that to him as a child, and it had worked every time. Sure enough, the couple approached Bill, who turned to greet them, then followed him upstairs.

  “One French-Hun, and one young French woman with very large apples,” Bill called up to Post.

  “I like apples,” Post called back. “Think she likes Canadians?”

  “Everyone likes Canadians. She might want to ménage-a-trois though.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You’ll know if it happens.”

  Sadly for Post, the woman was too busy sobbing. Soon the barricade by the front door – chairs, tables, and a few boards nailed to the frame – had been dismantled.

  “We’re coming out with prisoners and civilians,” Post called.

  “Is Bill okay?” Lincoln asked.

  “Fine, thanks,” Bill replied.

  The civilians were let loose, while the prisoners were rounded up and forced into the town square. Bill explained the situation, then headed towards Carter to give his report.

  “So, these are really Frenchmen?” Hal asked Kellowitz.

  “Like I am really Belgian,” he replied.

  Hal was taken aback by the other man’s accent, but tried not to show it. “So, they were forced into the German army?”

  “Supposing me.”

  “So, they’re conscripts?”

  “Likely most.”

  Kellowitz began to babble in a language Hal didn’t understand. The prisoners didn’t respond. When the big Pole raised his voice and made threatening gestures, various replies in French and German were forthcoming.

  “Ah yes, as suspecting.”

  “What?”

  “These are veterans. Fighting in Russia, brought back after old empire collapse. They say the only soldiers fiercer than the Polish is the Canadian.”

  “What are Polish?”

  Kellowitz shrugged indifferently. “No idea, coming from Belgium; don’t know these barbarian easterners.”

  *

  Once an escort had been detailed to bring the prisoners rearwards, the remainder of B Company began to settle into Rouvroy. They were met with low quality coffee and brown bread from the locals, offered beds and baths, and generally made welcome. Captured German rations did not prove popular, except with the malnourished citizens. Anything alcoholic, however, was soon consumed.

  Lincoln took advantage of the lull to seek out the Fourteenth Battalion. Not a moment had passed since Zero Hour that he hadn’t thought about his son. When he wandered into Warvillers, just one mile northwest, he had only intended to ask for directions. Seeing Canadian soldiers milling about was a good start. But once he realized that each man wore a red rectangle and blue semi-circle on his upper sleeve, he knew he had gotten lucky: the Fourteenth Battalion was right here.

  “Kevin?” a voice asked.

  “Brian!” Lincoln replied, recognizing a man he had trained with back in the Twenty-Third Battalion.

  Both the Fourteenth and Twenty-Third had been raised in Montreal. But after the disastrous battles of early 1915, the Twenty-Third had been disbanded to provide reinforcements to the battered battalions of the First Contingent. Most of the Twenty-Third ended up in the Fourteenth to maintain the identity of the Montreal unit. A few, however, had been sent elsewhere. Lincoln had only been sent to the Third by chance.

  Brian didn’t look relieved, or happy to see Lincoln.

  “My boy,” Lincoln said. “Where is he?”

  There was nothing to do but get it over with. “He was killed yesterday. I’m sorry.”

  Lincoln felt like he had been hit in the chest with a sledgehammer. He slowly sat down in the middle of the street, and Brian sat next to him.

  “How did it happen?”

  “We were clearing out a pocket of resistance. The firing quieted down, a white flag went up. We started moving towards them, then all at once the fire opened up again. That’s were Carl got hit. A few minutes later we worked our way up to them, and the white flag went up again. Don’t worry; we avenged your boy, Kevin. We didn’t take any prisoners.”

  Lincoln’s dirty cheeks
were streaked with tears. Nobody had any right to take a boy away from his father. It wasn’t supposed to happen that way. It was more than any parent could bear, and it had been happening all over Europe for the past four years.

  “Did he hurt?”

  “No, Kevin. He was hit through the heart. He died instantly.”

  Lincoln flung himself into Brian’s arms and sobbed on his shoulder.

  “He was a brave soldier, Kevin, and a fine man. We gave him a proper burial, along with his mates, a few miles back. I can show you where, if you’d like, and you can say goodbye to your boy.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Toronto, 1938

  “You paying attention?” Payne asked.

  Harold was still facing him, but his head was tilted at an odd angle in order to observe Missus Hallicks. He turned his head back around to face the veteran once again. “Every word. Whatever happened to Mister Lincoln?”

  “Ask someone else. See that short fellow over there?” Payne said, pointing a finger towards Stinson. “He knows. I was shot, remember? Just as we were stepping off towards Orix Trench. That was at the end of August.”

  “Thank you, Uncle Tom,” Harold said.

  Stinson was arguing with a man too young to be a veteran; probably somebody’s brother or son.

  “There’ll be another Great War before the decade’s out,” Stinson insisted. “And don’t tell me otherwise. Peacetime conscription, re-armament, military rhetoric, occupation of smaller countries; it was the same way when my war started. Kaiser, Fuhrer, I don’t care what you call it; it means the same damn thing.”

  The younger man nodded politely, although he was clearly not convinced by Stinson’s logic, then turned to join a different conversation.

  “Mister Stinson?” Harold asked.

  “Wade,” Stinson responded with a friendly smile. “You must be Bill’s younger boy, yeah?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “Not Sir; Wade. I haven’t seen you in years, how’ve you been?”

  “Good...Wade. And how have you been?”

  “Well. Thank you. I know, you’re here for a war story, aren’t you? Even though I fear you’ll have your own soon enough. Which one do you want?”

  “I want to know about Mister Lincoln, and what happened to him after his son, Carlyle, was killed.”

  “I remember it all,” Stinson replied. “Linc wasn’t an Original, like your dad, but he was one of the first replacements the battalion ever received. Your father took it pretty hard.”

  “Mister Lincoln was killed too?”

  Stinson nodded. “Linc and Bill were very close. Are you sure you want to hear about him?”

  “Yes, please.”

  France, 1918

  Bill was no longer acting as Six Platoon commander. He had reverted to leading his half of the platoon, while Lincoln, the next most senior man, had taken over McCloud’s half. Their new platoon commander, Second Lieutenant Harrison, was a typical new Mister: skittery, nervous, uptight, and eager to prove himself. Not generally very helpful qualities for the man who was supposed to be in charge.

  So many soldiers had become casualties in early August, and so few had arrived as reinforcements, that the platoon structure was beginning to collapse. At times, whichever NCO happened to be around would take over, other times, confident privates found themselves barking orders to corporals or even sergeants. The month was almost over, and the Third Battalion was being thrown back into the frontline for another big attack.

  Lincoln looked exhausted. Ever since hearing of his son’s death, he seemed too tired to do anything beyond exist. That is, to exist in an infantry battalion. He didn’t give up on the other men: he still took good enough care of himself to avoid becoming a burden, still made sure the soldiers under his command had everything they needed. He was still a good NCO. And he was still a good man: he wrote letters home frequently, pretended to laugh at jokes, and gave others comforting words. But he was empty and broken inside. Bill had seen this happen before; in fact, during his darkest days, he had seen it in the mirror.

  Even on the Western Front, a man needed time to grieve in his own way. Maybe it was prayer, or being alone, or keeping busy. Lincoln still hadn’t figured out what he needed as he looked over his half of the platoon one last time before Zero Hour.

  Ahead of them lay the Fresnes-Rouvroy Line; a more recent addition to what some men murmured was the greatest obstacle ever constructed. The Hindenburg Line had been devised as a contingency in late 1916. Since that time it had been fortified in accordance with all the lessons learned from the height of trench warfare on the Somme battlefields. Woods had been stripped of trees, villages ruined, and roads destroyed, all to make the Allied advance more difficult and dangerous. What cover remained was intentional: seemingly harmless places to hide, or clear pathways, were often safe-looking deathtraps covered at far distances by waiting machine-guns. And now the recent advances of early August had brought the Canadians to within striking distance.

  The Hindenburg Line itself had no shortage of concrete bunkers, barbed wire entanglements, and well-sighted machine-gun positions. There would be no more quick victories and rapid advances. But none of that mattered now. All that mattered were a thousand square yards, and a half-dozen trenches.

  B Company, still understrength, was designated as the battalion reserve. While this meant avoiding the worst of the fighting, it also meant carrying extra gear. Consequently, every man in the company carried either a pick or a shovel, beyond the basic battle equipment that all men carried. At last Zero Hour – four-forty in the morning – arrived, and the men of A, C, and D Companies advanced, leaving B Company to peer apprehensively into the darkness. Four hours later, B Company was abandoning their picks and shovels in the recently captured Union Trench, and preparing to exploit the early morning’s gains.

  The attack had been unusual in that while the Third Battalion had conducted a frontal assault, the First and Second had punched through to the south, far beyond the Third’s initial objectives, then moved northwards. As a result, the German defenders had been caught entirely off-guard on their flank. And while the first wave of Third Battalion men had acted in a somewhat sacrificial capacity in order to achieve the surprise, B Company’s objectives were already in Canadian hands.

  When Carter returned from a meeting with the commanding officer, it was with a look of relief. There were too many new faces amongst his platoon commanders to be overly confident in the company’s ability.

  “Gentlemen, here’s the story,” he addressed his officers. “It looks like the work has been done already. The company will advance overland to Opal Trench. Sergeant Major McCloud will remain there with Seven and Eight Platoons. I will bring Five and Six forward to Orix Trench. Our job is just to strengthen the positions already captured by the First and Second Battalions. Any questions?”

  “Sir, perhaps I could accompany Five and Six Platoons?” McCloud asked.

  “I’d prefer if you kept a grip on Seven and Eight; there are plenty of inexperienced NCOs who could benefit from your knowledge, CSM. Mister Harrison, Mister Renfrew: please have your men ready to move in five minutes.”

  *

  As Carter’s half of the company advanced towards Orix Trench, loud shouts greeted them: warnings from the men of the First Battalion who dared not raise their heads for more than a moment or two. It was one word repeated over and over again: “sniper.” There were no bodies in the field, but as Orix had been taken with the unusual flanking manoeuvre, the telltale khaki heaps were absent as the first shot rang out, and Payne crashed to the ground.

  No orders were necessary; the men simply began to run at full speed, piling into Orix Trench in a jumble.

  “Did anyone see who was hit?” Carter asked.

  Heads shook as NCOs looked around, trying to account for their men. Bill went white when he realized there were indeed two missing men, both his. “Payne, Kellowitz,” he called, “are you here?”

  Everybody remain
ed silent, waiting for a response. None came.

  “Fuck,” Bill said, beginning to climb back out of the trench.

  Carter caught him by the shoulder, and leaned in close. “Forget it, Bill. You still have a platoon to look after. How much faith do you have in Mister Harrison?”

  Bill thought it over. Payne and Kellowitz were both big men. If one had been wounded, the other would probably be capable of bringing him to safety on his own. Another shot rang out, and Bill wanted nothing more than to peek out over the parados.

  “Where do you want Six Platoon, Sir?”

  Toronto, 1938

  “Wait a moment; are you saying that my dad just left Uncle Tom?” Harold asked.

  Stinson shrugged. “He was in charge of an entire platoon. Losing a man or two happens. And it happened a lot in those last months of the war. You wanted to hear about Lincoln, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Okay, but I’ll put your mind at ease first. It turns out that the sniper was either having a bad day, or not particularly good. Payne was hit in the leg, nothing too bad, Kellowitz dragged him out, and he ended up in a hospital in England. They were being shot at all the while, but neither one was hit again. Kellowitz even came back to the platoon less than an hour later. And he was shot at, the whole way back, but never hit.”

  Harold caught himself smiling, and evened out his lips.

  “But, back to Lincoln.”

  France, 1918

  Six Platoon had pushed out towards the northern end of Orix Trench; it was only fair as they were the latest addition, and the northern end terminated in a likely spot for an enemy attack. Stinson leaned against a traverse and peered down a shallow bit of the line, barely three feet deep. Odd shots and occasional bursts of machine-gun fire kept the men under cover. No counter-attack was forthcoming; a hopeful sign that the German army was no longer the force to be reckoned with that it once was. Then again, there could always be an attack brewing.