by P. L. Wytka
“Strange,” McCloud agreed. “Do you think Turner made it?”
“I don’t know. It’s possible, I guess.”
Once Post finished his cigarette and flicked it to the ground, he and McCloud returned to the company. The men were ready for action and covered in battle equipment. However, with nothing to do until Zero Hour, they sat or lay about silently while officers and NCOs kept an eye on their watches, scrutinizing each tick of the second hand. After what seemed like days, the order finally came for the battalion to form up and begin moving forward.
By the time the company arrived at the canal, even more work had been done by the engineers. Dirt walkways aided the crossing, supply dumps had been established on the far end, bridges were nearly complete, and block and tackle pulleys were in use hauling gear and building supplies. Just one hour after sunrise, horse-drawn field artillery and thousands of shells would begin crossing the canal.
Beyond the canal the ground was in rough shape. Shell craters and jumbles of barbed wire were scattered about. In the near distance, the little villages of Marquion and Bourlon were in flames. Seven miles away, some of the taller buildings in Cambrai could be discerned by those with keen eyes.
Just after noon, B Company was collected from their shellholes and trenches, and ordered forward. The remainder of the battalion was already engaged in heavy fighting several hundred yards ahead, and had been stalled near a railway embankment. Every man who had been with the company at the beginning of the month couldn’t help but be overcome by a sense of Déjà Vu.
McCloud was the first man to climb the embankment, and the first to be shot. Bill saw him crumple and ran to him as German machine-gun fire opened up on the company. He had been hit through both legs; not lethal wounds, but he would certainly not be joining in the attack. Bill called for a stretcher-bearer, and in a moment, two corporals wearing the distinctive SB armband were seeing to McCloud.
“I guess this makes you CSM,” McCloud said calmly, as if there was nothing unusual about what had just happened. “You’d better get up there. Here, take this.”
McCloud handed Bill the pace stick that he had inherited from Turner not even two months earlier. Bill only nodded, then went to seek out Carter. With Turner and McCloud both wounded, he wondered how many Originals were left. There was himself and Post, but who else? He knew there were several officers that had left Canada back in 1914, and a few men in the other companies. He went through the faces and names in his mind, scratching off casualties from his invisible list, adding men he had forgotten. Before he knew it, he was standing before Carter.
“Get down here, Bill,” Carter called from a sunken road, seeing the pace stick. “Is McCloud killed or wounded?”
“Just wounded, Sir.”
“Fine. Listen, there’s a crossroads about three hundred yards up, seen?”
Bill poked his head up, not seeing anything, but hearing the rattle of 08/15 machine-guns. “Sure. Too far for rifle grenades. I’ll get the Lewis Guns to focus fire, all at once for let’s say, five minutes straight, then we’ll move the men up.”
“Make it happen.”
The first man Bill sought out wasn’t a Lewis Gunner, but Corporal Post. “Gary, come with me.”
“CSM?” Post asked, moving with Bill towards the far right flank of the company.
“Acting, I suppose. You see those guns at the crossroads?”
“Yep. I count four.”
“Okay. We’ll go along the line and give targets to each of the Lewis crews. I want them all opening up at once, and suppressing all four guns. I want five minutes of covering fire for the company to get up there and clear them out. After that, I reckon our part in this show will be done. What time do you have?”
“Twelve-thirty-six.”
Bill checked his own watch. “Good. I’ll sync watches quickly and tell the Number Twos to open fire at quarter-to-one; you point out the targets to the Number Ones.”
“Sounds like a plan, Sergeant Major.”
With two minutes to go, Bill and Post were only now arriving back at Six Platoon’s position. Suddenly he realized that without an officer, and without him, his platoon was effectively leaderless. But there was no time for that.
“Go tell Five Platoon’s guns the plan,” Bill said, then called together both of Six’s Lewis Gun teams, and explained his proposal.
“We haven’t enough ammunition for five minutes,” Chilvers challenged, while Thompson considered ranges and angles. “I can give you three, all out, and I guarantee we’ll keep their fingers off their triggers.”
The plan was for five minutes, and Bill had already told the other crews that. None of them had complained, but maybe they were intending to lay down lighter cover than Bill had in mind.
“Fine, make it four.”
“Three hundred yards,” Thompson said with an unenthusiastic frown. “That’s a bit far to be sure we even keep ‘em spooked. And we won’t knock them out, that’s for sure.”
“Well at least kick some dirt up in their faces,” Bill replied.
Before Thompson had even set up his gun, the Lewis teams of Seven and Eight Platoon opened fire, followed shortly after by Six and Five.
Bill scrambled forward and held his pace stick high, just now realizing that he had informed only Carter and the Lewis Gunners about his impromptu attack plan, and none of the other officers and NCOs. Bill wasn’t used to giving orders, but to receiving them, and even then, not on the company level. Luckily the more experienced men took the hint, and the company began to move forward, Lewis Gun fire zipping over their heads and flying out from the flanks, German bullets splashing all around them.
All at once, Bill finally caught sight of one of the enemy machine-gun positions. In fact, he was only about fifty yards away from it; a newly-dug trench with five or six men in it. He looked about, and saw that most of the company was still well behind him.
“You getting lonely? Keep moving, Bill, let’s smash this thing.” It was Post, inexplicably cradling a Lewis machine-gun.
Bill might not have known anything about leading a company, but he knew how to throw a bomb. Two dozen more yards and he was in a good position, Post firing from the hip and keeping the enemy gunners from becoming fully effective. It was the last bomb Bill ever threw. And it was perfect. He felt like a star athlete scoring the final point in a well-fought game as the bomb found its target and exploded.
Post rushed forward, a new drum of ammunition on the Lewis Gun, and sprayed the trench with bullets. Slapping on another fresh drum, he pointed to another German machine-gun, this one sitting on level ground about fifty yards away to the right, though barricaded about with sandbags, and covered on three sides by a thick belt of barbed wire.
“Six Platoon is here,” a voice called from a few yards back: Stinson, followed closely by Kellowitz.
“Leaving this to us!” the big Pole announced, then pushed past Bill and Post.
Post knelt and continued firing, as Bill could only watch the insane scene unfolding before him. Stinson was holding a bomb in each hand, when Kellowitz picked up the much smaller man, and tossed him over the barbed wire. He landed a few yards behind the gun, and let both bombs loose, wiping out the entire crew in one twin blast.
To the left and right, the rest of the company was pushing through the German positions. “B Company, hold!” Bill yelled.
Nobody seemed to hear him, so Post repeated the order. “Anything else, CSM?”
“Go get a casualty and ammunition count from Seven and Eight Platoons. Also, tell them to turn these captured guns around and start breaking ground. They can use the dead Huns as sandbags if they want. I’ll talk to Five and Six; meet me back here in five minutes.”
“Yes, CSM.”
“And where did you get that thing from?” Bill asked, indicating the Lewis.
“One of your machine-gun crews. Thompson and Chilvers, is it? They were killed just after you stepped off. Nobody else noticed, so I ran back to get the gun.”
More familiar faces, gone forever.
“Five minutes,” Bill said again.
*
Not long afterwards two fresh battalions, the Fifth and Tenth, moved through B Company’s position and carried on the attack. Carter had returned to report to the commanding officer, and was on his way back to B Company when a desperate, sickening, gurgling noise caught his attention. In the sunken road they had launched the attack from lay Thompson, riddled with bullet holes, but still alive. Next to him was Chilvers; dead but still clutching a fresh drum of Lewis Gun ammunition. They had fought and lost their last machine-gun duel.
Carter leaned over Thompson, who was trying to say something. “My gun.”
“One of the lads took it forward, did good work with it,” Carter said.
Thompson’s voice was quavering. “My Number Two?”
“He did his job.”
Without a gun and a Number Two, Thompson felt as though he had nothing left. “I have to tell you something.”
“What is it?”
“That night when one of your men, Hallicks, was killed by our own gun. That was me. I’m sorry.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because I’ve come to terms with it. These things happen. And I want you to come to terms with something. I want you to put me down.”
Carter could see the pain and fear in Thompson’s face. But he could also see that the man was obviously going to die before the day was out. It might as well be a short day.
Carter pulled the revolver from his holster and held it to Thompson’s chest. “I’ll let your folks know it was quick and painless. One shot through the heart. I’m sorry too.”
Toronto, 1938
“But whatever happened to Hallicks?” Harold asked.
“Ask your father,” Post replied, turning his glance to the framed portrait of Carter that hung, along with his medals, on the wall of the Leaf and Crown. “I think I’ve said enough.”
Bill was sitting with Kate, pleading with her. “Come on, Dear, just one beer. I’ll drink it slowly.”
“Once Missus Hallicks leaves you can drink all you want, William,” Kate replied firmly. “I don’t want you saying anything silly to her.”
“Damn it, Kate, it’s a special night, isn’t it?”
“Too special to ruin by being drunk so early.”
“But it’s nearly seven o’clock!”
“Nearer to eight,” Harold interjected. “Mom, can I borrow Dad for a minute?”
“Of course. Just let me know if someone tries to slip him a drink.”
“I will.”
Once Kate left, Harold sat in her place and produced a neatly hidden glass from inside his sleeve; half whiskey, half beer: Bill’s favourite.
“Here, Dad, this is for you.”
Bill’s eyes lit up, and in a few moments the glass was empty, and he felt warm and comfortable. “Thanks, Hal.”
“I’ve been asking around about the war, Dad.”
Bill wagged his finger disapprovingly. “Hey, hey, what did I tell you about all that?”
“I never knew you were a sergeant major.”
“Was I? Briefly, sure, acting. That was one hell of a day. You see, McCloud was hit through both legs–”
“Sure, I know. But what happened afterwards?”
France, 1918
The battalion’s part in the day’s fighting was over. There was nothing left to do now but wait around and be relieved. The newer men had watched in awe as the attack carried on in front of them; it really was an incredible thing to see. The veterans were more interested in changing their socks.
Bill had stuck Turner’s pace stick into the back of his gear, and slung his helmet over it. With nobody to tell him to put it back on, he was free to saunter about from one platoon to the next with his head exposed. Considering the German bombardment that was now falling amongst his company, intended to isolate the attacking troops from reinforcements and cause casualties to future attacking waves, it was probably a bad idea.
Passing by Six Platoon, Bill stood over where Stinson was dug into a tiny hole in the ground. “How would you like to be an acting corporal?”
“Suits me,” Stinson replied.
“It sort of makes you acting platoon commander as well. I’d make you an acting sergeant, but technically I’m only a sergeant, and can’t really bring you up to my level. I don’t think so anyway; it’d be considered rude. You okay with that?”
“Sure. But might I recommend, CSM, that you take cover? We are being shelled, if you hadn’t noticed.”
“A CSM needs to see what’s going on. Doesn’t he?”
“You could at least put on your helmet.”
“Tin hat, you mean, right?”
“You could at least put on your tin hat,” Stinson fired back without missing a beat, and smiling at Bill’s impression of Turner.
“Bah, I won’t be scared by a little–”
Before Bill could finish his sentence, he had been knocked down from behind, and landed on top of Stinson. The new commander of Six Platoon sat Bill up and began to look him over. He could barely believe what he saw. A jagged piece of shrapnel, still sizzling hot, was imbedded in Bill’s helmet. If he had been wearing it properly, his spine would have been severed, and either a quick death or a long life as a cripple would have followed.
“Are you okay?” Stinson asked.
Bill gulped hard. “I think so. Where did that light?”
Both men climbed up and saw the newly-created shellhole just yards from where Hallicks and Conacher had been dug-in. Conacher was walking about in small circles, dazed and temporarily deaf, while Hallicks was reclined, motionless, against the edge of their little shelter, his tunic collar flipped up in contempt of the barrage.
He appeared untouched, but he didn’t move, or even breathe. It was called ‘Blast-Induced Barotrauma,’ but of course the men didn’t know that. All they knew was that being near a high calibre shell when it exploded was enough to shut down a soldier’s heart, lungs, and brain. The concussive force did something to the internal pressures of the organs and bloodstream. The result was instant death, and a clean, un-marked corpse.
“Get a grip on Conacher,” Bill said quietly.
Once Bill climbed down into the little hole where Hallicks lay, he wasn’t alone for long.
“They’re all the same,” a still-familiar voice said. “Give ‘em a little rank and they go mad with power. Even you.” It was George Hallicks, Edward’s older brother, killed nearly two years earlier.
Bill turned and saw the older Hallicks, pale-skinned and wearing a blood-stained tunic, as he had been the night he died. “But, Hal, I can’t stop shellfire,” Bill protested.
“Look around you. The company could have pulled back a few hundred yards. You could have made sure everybody was properly dug-in, or maybe even picked up a shovel yourself. You were supposed to take care of my brother, just like we all took care of you. Maybe you were too proud, or stupid, to take a bombproof job, but you could have at least tried to get one for my brother.”
“I’m sorry, Hal.”
“I know you are. But that doesn’t stop me from being disappointed. Goodbye, Sergeant Major.”
In a flash, the older Hallicks brother was gone, and Bill cradled the younger, just repeating “Hal, come back, please.”
His best friend hadn’t even called him by name.
Toronto, 1938
“It was all in your head, Dad,” Harold said. “Hal would never be mad at you.”
“I don’t know,” Bill replied. “I’ve seen ghosts, or sometimes just felt them, for a long time now.”
“Maybe you think too much about it,” Harold said, suddenly realizing something sitting behind the bar in between some liquor bottles. Two things actually. “Is that the helmet from the story?”
Bill turned and nodded his head at the two smashed helmets he had once worn. “The one on the right. The one on the left is from 1916. After that got
wrecked, I took old Hal’s helmet, and had it with me the day young Hal was killed. The one on the left is probably the only reason your mother married me.”
“Huh?”
“Nevermind. Where were we in the story?”
“The last big battle was over. Tell me about Armistice Day.”
“There isn’t much to tell. We’d been out of the line for nearly a month. One day we were told that the Kaiser had abdicated, the next, that Germany was in a state of revolution, and the next, that the war would be over in a few hours.”
“Didn’t you know the war was going to end sooner than that?”
“Not really. So that’s it. The war was over. We marched into Belgium, then finally to Germany.”
Harold was disappointed by this lacklustre ending. “If I want to ask someone about Mount Sorrel…”
“Green.”
“And Vimy?”
“Stinson, again.”
Harold left, and Bill looked about the Leaf and Crown. Turner’s pace stick still hung exactly where it had eight years earlier. It was, like most things in the Leaf, coated in a layer of dust. Bill pulled it down from the wall, returned to his seat, pulled out a clean handkerchief, and began to wipe it down.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Belgium, 1918
It was the end of November, and the battalion had spent the last two weeks on the march. Most available trucks and busses were filled with gear and rations, and passed the men by day after day making supply runs. Formerly-occupied Belgium was in shambles, and while welcoming, was completely unable to sustain the victorious battalions that were flowing into it.
What struck the men most was the state of the Belgian civilians. The naval blockade imposed by Britain upon Germany had meant a shortage of everything from metals to chemicals to basic foodstuffs. Of course, those Belgians living under German rule had gotten the worst of it. And the blockade would not be lifted for several weeks.
Mass malnutrition and all the related inflictions had turned the Belgians desperate. Flour was laced with sawdust or pulverized straw; coffee made from roasted acorns was a rare delight. By the end of the war, even turnips and potatoes had grown to be such a rarity that they were traded on the black market for gold and jewellery. Each day when meals were served, or when the men halted to open a tin of corned beef or a packet of biscuits, hungry Belgians were grateful to share in what they considered to be the best meal of their lives.
