Seeking Courage

by Gregory P. Smith

  Spencer had no such outlet. Like thousands of others, he needed to toughen up if he was to survive.

  Corporal Clancy saluted as he led him back to his platoon.

  . . .

  As I stepped out of the mess after supper with Issy and Perce, I found Sergeant Hardy spinning a tale with a few of the platoon regulars. He was older than most at thirty-eight, a veteran of the Boer War. He wasn’t fond of his nickname, Hardknocks, but he earned that brand for his known willingness to stand in front of a bullet to save another man. Indeed, he had reputedly done so. Although never married, I was told Sam dazzled the ladies with his keen sense of humor and rough good looks that were complemented by rich blond hair and deep blue eyes.

  “Sergeant Hardy. A word, please?”

  “Yes, Lieutenant. And word has it you did good work with that young lad. You’ve a way about you.”

  I felt awkward at the recognition. It was something any junior officer would do. “Thank you, Sam. Perhaps I ought to have used more of your tougher approach.” I looked at him smartly, turning the conversation more official. “Orders are imminent that the regiment is to relieve the 5th CMRs in the trenches tomorrow.”

  Sam beamed. “If I may say, sir, that’s good news.” My tightened face caused him to reflect. “Well, in the sense that at least we finally have orders.”

  I remained pensive. “Yes, I suppose.”

  Still, in his excitement at the prospect of getting down to the business of war, he continued with a lilting voice, “Might we know which part of the trenches our A Company will occupy?”

  “Not yet. Captain Logan is still working out the details of relief and reserve, and determining which platoons will move to the fire trenches straightaway.”

  “Good, sir.”

  While not sharing as much exuberance as Hardy, I knew Logan was the most capable and uplifting of any senior officer. “This will be the toughest four-mile march yet, and this rain is making things quite sloppy.”

  “Yes, but we are prepared. Sir, may I inquire as to your progress on the letter?”

  My mind shot back to the earlier news that Private Brown had succumbed to his injuries. “Ah, the letter.”

  “I realize it’s a first for you, having to inform the family and all.

  It would be no bother for me to do a revision if you wish.”

  Hardy was right to bring this up, for I had stalled, pondering what words would be appropriate. There was the British Army standard letter of regret, but I wanted the missive to be personal. How would my folks feel about a standard-issue regret letter?

  I pulled the letter from my tunic, glad to hand it over for an experienced review. “Yes, that would be most helpful.”

  Mr. Alan Moore

  Athalmere, B.C.

  Dominion of Canada

  1 October, 1916

  Mr. Moore,

  I regret very much to inform you that your nephew, Private Nels Brown, No. 477114 of this regiment, was killed in action on the evening of 30 September, 1916. Death was instantaneous and without any suffering.

  The Regiment was suddenly under attack and your nephew’s platoon, my platoon, was one of the two which received most of an enemy artillery barrage. For peace of mind, please be comforted in the knowledge that the defense of a strategic asset was successful; your nephew’s death was not at all in vain.

  On behalf of all the Regiment, I deeply sympathize with you in your loss.

  Your nephew always did his duty and now has given his life for his new country. I do trust you will be able to locate his parents in his native Denmark to advise this sad news.

  We all honor him; hopefully you will feel some consolation in remembering this.

  His effects will reach you via the base in due course.

  In true sympathy,

  Robert Courtenay Pitman

  Lieutenant, Royal Canadian Regiment

  “It’s a good letter, Lieutenant. Well said.”

  “Crap, Sam, I’m bloody concerned. You and I know that Private Brown suffered under injury, dying slowly and painfully at the Casualty Clearing Station.”

  Sam extended his hands from his side, palms facing out, in mild exasperation. “But it’s your job to make the next of kin feel all right about their sacrifice.”

  “I understand that, but a lack of honesty does not feel right. We were not directly protecting that train, so how can we say the defense was successful?”

  Hardy paused, pondered his next words before speaking. “What would you say, sir? ‘Your boy suffered such a great deal that I’m sorrier than if he hadn’t’?”

  I expelled the breath I wasn’t aware of holding. “Point taken. Let’s put this bloody well behind us and hope I don’t do this too many more times.”

  Hardy lingered, his demeanor slightly changed and awkwardness apparent.

  “Is something else on your mind, Sergeant?”

  “Sir, will you be on mount or on foot? I ask because it was Lieutenant Lewis’s practice to walk the final bit to the front lines.”

  I was caught off guard, stumbling, yet it was such an innocuous question. “Of course I will travel on foot, Sergeant.”

  I didn’t know what was expected, but I was sure that if the lads were used to their lieutenant walking with them, that would be my practice. Perhaps being on foot in front of my charges would signal a higher level of support for my platoon.

  Chapter 5

  2 October, 1916

  Captain Logan entered the HQ tent amid muffled sounds of artillery shells and bursts of machine-gun fire. Adjutants and staff officers were moving here and there in their busy responses to field telephones, scrambled messages from aeroplane reconnaissance, and trench map updates.

  Under instruction from the adjutant, his platoon leaders were assembled. “Officers, this evening A Company marches into battle to continue the assault on Regina Trench. The enemy positions are being defended by multiple belts of wire and by a determined German enemy.”

  “Will we be taking over the 5th CMR position, sir?” asked Perce. “Affirmative. Lieutenant Sutton, you will lead your men into that battle with more determination than the most vicious Hun can muster. We must stop our losses, and we must take that trench.”

  A heavy silence fell among the officers present, but Logan looked alert, the eve of battle bringing ruddiness to his face. With a confident voice, he declared, “You are fresh, and the Hun is tired. You will do well for your king and your troops. Now, let’s look at this trench map.”

  We crowded around the table as he pointed to Mouquet Farm, which would be used as the jumping-off point by all four companies of the RCR. It would also serve as our A Company’s reserve location. “Lieutenants Isbester and Blott, your 2nd and 3rd Platoons will make your way to the communication trench under cover of darkness. From there, a guide will take you on up the fifteen hundred yards to the fire trench. And 4th Platoon—Lieutenant Sutton, you will advance the nine hundred yards to the support trench. Lieutenant Pitman, your 1st Platoon will stay in reserve at Mouquet. Clear?”

  A collective “Yes, sir” sounded buoyant, but an uncertain shuffling and coughing indicated ubiquitous discomfort. Issy and Blott knew their orders were to take them over the top, straight into enemy machine guns. Many would not make it. I had no idea how Logan made his decisions, and although I was selfishly relieved to be entering my first action in a reserve capacity, I was anguished about my friends who were ordered directly into the fray.

  “Now, we will move out at 1500 hours for the four-hour march to Mouquet, allowing for the heavy rain, mud, and transport clogging the roads.”

  I forced a cough, muttering a low-key ahem. “Sir, I’ve heard that Mouquet might still be hot, what with the Huns able to pop out of underground cellars. Could that be so?” I had heard that the Germans held the Farm up until the previous week. The rumor was that, although the Canadians thought it was cleared, surprise bursts of machine-gun fire erupted as the enemy emerged from rubble heaps and cellar entrances, creat
ing terror.

  Logan held his confident appearance. “I assure you, the Huns were ultimately smoked out and eliminated. The cellars have been routed and sealed. Little credence ought to be given to that intel, Lieutenant.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Logan looked at the circle of officers standing at the table, assessing our demeanor, and then ordered, “Company dismissed.”

  Outside, a shimmering orange-and-red glow reflected off the heavy, rain-filled clouds hovering over the Somme battlefield. All of us were in a wistful mood as we gathered in my cramped hut. I offered Issy my chair, while Blott and Perce sat on the cot. Leaning against my folding desk, I broke our contemplative silence by reflecting, “I guess this is it, eh? We’re on the cusp.”

  Perce was twisting one of his brass tunic buttons between his thumb and forefinger while looking from one of us to another. “Yeah, this is surely the beginning of a new chapter.”

  I forced a smile as I reached deep into my duffel bag and felt for the narrow neck of the bottle, my hand emerging with the scotch I knew Hardy had stowed there while we were in our briefing. The liquid glistened in the candlelight, symbolizing a beacon of our friendship.

  “Oh yes, just so,” Perce said with a snicker. “Your timing is impeccable!”

  “Now, that’s the spirit,” said Billy Blott, the 3rd Platoon leader.

  I held up the bottle in an improvised toast, then took a long pull. With a guttural expiration, I passed it to Issy while wiping my mouth against the back of my sleeve. As it moved around our tight circle, each made a quiet salute with “cheers,”

  “hurrah,” and even “amen,” before tilting it back.

  With a second gulp and smack of his lips, Issy said, “Don’t know how you got this, Bobby, but it’s a godsend.”

  “The usually resourceful Sam Hardy at our service. Don’t know how the devil he does it—”

  “And you’re not asking,” interrupted Perce with a chortle.

  Blott chuckled knowingly. “Well, don’tcha think any good NCO can turn water to wine?”

  We managed a laugh before the enveloping silence once again took hold. Billy filled the gap with, “I dunno if you’re the lucky one, Pitman, or if you and your platoon face agonizing worry waiting for your turn to jump in.” His unsureness showed in his nervous grin.

  I directed my glassy eyes in his direction. “You have a point. Stuck below you for days might be more troubling than being in it.”

  Issy chuckled. “Don’t get too stuck in the mud; we may need you sooner than you think!”

  I tried to put myself into Issy and Blott’s shoes. They were going straight to the fire trenches in a few short hours. It was difficult to imagine. I was glad the scotch was allowing a little breeziness in the moment.

  Our attention was diverted by Sam Hardy rapping on a wood support. “Excuse me. We’re folding tent, sirs.”

  “Thank you, Sergeant Hardy,” I said. “Oh, and Sam?”

  He turned to look back into the tent. “Yes, sir?”

  I held up the now almost empty scotch bottle. “Thanks for this.”

  Hardy winked at me and showed a mile-wide grin as the others murmured, “Hear, hear!”

  I turned back to my fellow officers. “This is it, gents. I’ll see you on the other side.”

  While extending a tight grip, Issy gave me a slap on my back with his free hand. “Good luck to you, Bob.”

  “And you, Issy. Let’s whack the fucking Germans to kingdom come!”

  Chapter 6

  3 October, 1916

  Through the night, the 2nd and 3rd Platoons became entrenched. Heavy rain fell as shelling and constant enemy machine-gun barrages persisted. 4th Platoon, farther from the fire trench but in front of us, monitored the stubborn progress by providing relief for casualties and ensuring the telephone lines to HQ were kept open.

  I ventured into the dawn, which revealed the complete devastation of what was once healthy land at Mouquet Farm. Vertical silhouettes of burned-out probes that had once been trees barely contrasted against the horizontal black and brown that had been plowed fields of wheat and wildflowers not so long before.

  I was stunned by the mud. I had been told it was unlike anything previously known to any soldier; only the intensity of modern artillery could create such a quagmire. Even prior warnings could not have prepared my senses, as it looked and felt like a dark, sticky caramel. I watched soldiers move in slow motion, their advance paralyzed by boots sucking in and wrenching out. My own hindered progress gave me a sense of their difficulty. The front of my thighs ached as I struggled with a few steps, a violent upward wrenching as each foot brought with it gobs of the sticky substance. How the devil were our soldiers, especially those advancing from the fire trench, expected to capture targeted ground?

  Returning to my quarters—a small piece of canvas with wood supports and a duckboard floor—I thought about the here and now, of its urgency. Issy, Blott, and their troops were not afforded the luxury of idle thought, survival being their sole preoccupation, as a machine gun or sniper rifle could bring any of them to an instant death. The grotesque and bleak scene—seas of mud and anxious soldiers squatting in death and decay—was suddenly as lucid as a crystal in sunlight. My thoughts drifted to that grade school memorization made suddenly understandable, Tennyson exhorting, “Ours is but to do and die.”

  Sitting in the chair at my small desk, I was jolted from my thoughts with the boom of Hardy’s voice. “Good morning, sir. Coffee?”

  Hardy could put a smile on anyone’s face anywhere. I knew we had no coffee but decided to play along. “I’d love a little coffee, Sergeant. A welcome relief from that acorn-infused acid you’ve been feeding me.”

  “Ah-ha, this would be the same infusion, sir.”

  “Just pulling your leg. Tell me, are the lads keeping up the game all right?”

  “As best be expected, sir. Some tension among them, you know, a bit rattled. I’ve seen this before, during this war and at the Boer. Not easy times.”

  I thought of my troops squatting or standing in the mud with too much time to think. “Quite so, yes.”

  “And if I may say, sir, the lads attending the wounded coming down the hill on their way to the Casualty Clearing Station makes for a sobering outlook, even among the strong willed.”

  “Yes, promotes anxiety. We’ll keep them busy, checking phone lines, repairing stretchers, that sort of thing.”

  “Agreed. If I may, sir, how are you holding up?”

  I sipped the hot liquid as I pondered the question. “It’s rough, rougher than I’d expected. You’re good to ask.”

  We looked at each other, holding eye contact. I hoped my expression was not showing sadness or possibly frustration rather than the compassion I truly felt. Sam and I both knew that things had been rougher for those thousands of soldiers before us who now lay buried in the rubble we stood over, some in pieces, unrecognizable. The Australians, then our Canadian brothers had both repeatedly clawed their way up the slopes of this nightmarish landscape only to be beaten back under intense fire. With both sides holding strict orders to give no ground, to fight to the death, high casualties were unavoidable. Our task to minimize them while taking the ridge seemed daunting.

  Sam portrayed the grace of an experienced soldier, his usually mischievous blue eyes now showing kindness. “Most of the regulars understand the anxiety and are a good influence on the newer lads.”

  “Are they ready for the task ahead, for when we are called up?” “Yes, sir. They are very aware of the need to take this hill. It’s just those casualties coming down are beginning to paint a vivid story.”

  I looked up at Sam before turning back to my paperwork, trying to think of something, anything, to say that might help. “Perhaps rotate them away from the casualties every couple of hours. There will be no stand-to this morning. There is little reason to expect an infantry attack this far down.”

  “Thank you, sir. The men will be relieved at not having t
o slog through the mud.”

  I worked alongside the platoon for most of the day while we secured telephone lines and muscled cannon through the mud. While explosions and gunfire from up the hill sustained an edgy alert, its continual din became part of a familiar background. Those that might have been jumpy on this first battle day settled in to work seamlessly, if solemnly.

  In the brief periods when the clouds parted, I could see our aeroplanes observing, sometimes engaging in scuffles with the enemy. I wondered about that romantic depiction of war, thoughts which kept me occupied. I imagined how exciting it would be flying as one of those knights of the air, gracefully maneuvering or outmaneuvering enemy aircraft. Swooping in and out, to and fro, through nothing but clear air and wispy clouds seemed so exciting. The whimsical feeling that type of warfare invoked played on my imagination as if I could be part of it.

  Absorbed in similar thoughts, I had just returned to my tent when suddenly I heard that distinct whistle startlingly close. Hardy was out of breath as he slammed through the canvas door.

  “Sir, we are under bombardment! The sky is lit up!”

  The next explosion hit behind us, landing just beyond our tents. The shock wave sent me stumbling to the floor as Sam fell to one knee. He was up quicker. I felt my heart racing, my breath quickening, and my gut churning as the intensity built. As I stood, I grabbed my tin hat that Sam held out to me, struggling with the chin strap. We dashed out into the chaos and saw that the whole hill—from the top right down to the Farm—was lit scarlet and yellow, eerily illuminating the bursting shells and the blackness of the cascading mud.

  “Sir, your orders?”

  “Get the platoon into their defensive positions. The mud is muting the blasts, but oh God, the fury!”

  “No direct hits yet, sir.”

  “You need to send two runners up to get intel from Lieutenant Sutton. The captain will be on the blower, and I need to determine if mud is making the Hun as immobile as we are. Otherwise, they could fucking well run straight down this hill!”