Seeking Courage

by Gregory P. Smith

  “Right away, sir!”

  “Ensure the NCOs keep on high alert for Hun breakthrough. Meanwhile, I got your section. Get the word out. Make sure everyone keeps their damn heads about them, Sergeant!”

  Hardy moved away quickly.

  I began to realize the enemy barrage was not accurate since their firing was erratic and misguided. I waited with Hardy’s section until his return, moving among the men who were spread out for safety. My senses were on high alert as familiar cordite wafted through the air, zinging sounds pierced the rain, and mud was flung up dozens of feet. This strengthened my resolve as I barked orders at this soldier to look up, not down, and commanded that soldier to cinch up his chin strap under a tilting tin hat.

  I was still thinning the men into wider positions when the shelling ceased. Sam returned in a few minutes.

  “Lieutenant Pitman!” Hardy was severely out of breath. “Our runners returned, advised the barrage was intended to harass us into reacting.” He bent over and supported his weight with hands on knees. “Looking to locate our artillery. Lieutenant Sutton sends his regards, sir, feels we’re all representing the regiment with decorum through calmness.” In typical fashion, Perce had the resolve to send compliments.

  “I would agree. Now let’s do a roll call. Advise me at once that we are all present.”

  “Done that already, sir, and all sections confirm our forty-nine accounted for.”

  Of course roll call was done; this was Sam we were dealing with. “Good show. The ration party will be cleared to move in soon. You’ll want to send escort guides to avoid them being lost, then direct them up to the fire trenches. I want our company fed properly.”

  “Yes, Lieutenant.”

  I knew Hardy would execute my order with full understanding. With oncoming dusk and a Mouquet Farm landscape that was so churned, roadways were obscured. It was difficult for the ration party to find their way, but I was not going to tolerate underfed soldiers.

  “You have pickets assigned for the two-hour rotation through the night, Sergeant?”

  “Yes.”

  We had established a brotherly bond, so when our eyes met, we knew there was nothing further to discuss. “All right. Let’s get some rest.”

  Through heavy rain pounding on the canvas, I remained awake under the distant muffle of artillery blasts and machine gun rat-atat from up the hill. The day’s attack was a stark reminder of just how vulnerable war made us. In some ways, it was good to ensure we stayed at the sharp edge. I myself felt better as I was evolving and responding to sudden crises with more determination. Being increasingly aware of fear triggers, I was able to block out anxiety. Such reflections allowed me to understand that the war was shaping me into a different person by thrusting me into confidence.

  I lay on my cot in the darkness. Very lights reflected periodically through the canvas, a reminder of each enemy searching for the other. I thought of what the next day would bring when we were called up to the fire trench. I would lead my platoon over the top into no-man’s-land. I would face the onslaught of German machine-gun bullets hurtling forward in rapid succession, intent on mowing down everything and everybody in their sweeping path. Sleep was not possible, but hopefully wakeful rest had some benefit.

  Chapter 7

  4 October, 1916

  "Good morning, Hardy. What news from the wire this morning?”

  “The lads up the hill stood their ground last night, sir. But they’re exhausted. And they’re frustrated since yesterday’s attempts to push forward into Regina Trench were again repelled. Casualties were coming down the hill all night, walking wounded and such. Our platoon is helping as much as we can.”

  The steady casualties meant we were to be called up soon. I thought of how many times over the previous few days I had thought this is it. Well, that day was it. I wanted to get busy, to get at it, to bury my angst in work. A few deep-seated breaths increased my confidence as I remembered the sermon delivered by our regimental Sky Pilot. Let your faith be bigger than your fear.

  Sam glanced at my heaving chest, knowing I was seeking calm. “Good work, Sam. Let’s be at the ready for the order.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  “Other news?”

  “Sir, 2nd Platoon was tunneling to establish a post in advance of Regina Trench. That tunnel has simply gone, disintegrated from bombardment. Men with it, I’m afraid.”

  It was not difficult to visualize just how many soldiers had perished in such disintegration. Knowing that would have spread among the troops. “God bless those poor souls. Our lads—are they bearing with that news?”

  “Usual grumblings and cursing, but overall, good. One private who was previously popular for his cocky bravado has become very quiet. Reality checks attitude, I suppose.”

  “Quite. I’ll speak to all the NCOs and their sections this morning to bring everyone up to date. Make sure rifles are clean, bayonets fixed, gas masks secure, grenades primed, and packs ready for advance.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  The morning progressed under the din coming down from the front trenches, again muffled by cloud and rain. At times Royal Flying Corps biplanes swooped below the cloud cover to observe the enemy. Their flying in bad weather turned my mind to the risk they took flying through clouds with no sight, only instinct. The thought of those flyers being aloft in mere wood and fabric propelled by a single engine both intrigued and scared me. Yet, if there was anything at all exciting for me about the damn war, it was those flying machines.

  “Sergeant Hardy?” I yelled. Hearing anything in the driving rain was near impossible. A random shell whistled off to the left, ripping through the air before landing, harmless. The shelling had again increased that morning, albeit erratically. “Where the devil is he?” I mumbled to no one in particular.

  After a few moments, Hardy came slogging through the sticky mud. “You called for me?”

  “I’ve received word that the telephone wires are broken somewhere between us and the 4th Platoon. It’s taking runners way too long to deliver messages through the muck. Send three of our best to get that break located and the lines repaired.”

  Sergeant Hardy dispersed the orders and returned to advise that while he and his fellow NCOs were doing everything they could to reassure the troops, the extended battle was beginning to affect morale. “The increased shelling this far down is unnerving the men,” he advised. “And with no telephone, we don’t have eyes from up top.”

  “Suggestions?” I thought about the impromptu scotch meeting a few nights past when Billy Blott wondered whether waiting at the Farm would be worse than being directly in the action.

  Sam surveyed the field in front of us, assessing the situation. “I’ll work with the other NCOs to reinforce activity. I find that cleaning and re-cleaning equipment brings grumbles but keeps the lads alert. God knows we have enough mud to remove!”

  Sam was the veteran, and I was thankful for his indispensable guidance. Although my rank placed me at the head of the platoon, I lacked experience, lacked that hardened mastery learned from years of training. That didn’t so much matter on the parade ground, but sure as hell did at a time when we all faced death.

  As the artillery intensified, a private trying to catch his breath approached with news that communication was repaired and that the captain requested a word. I ran over to the field telephone with the runner.

  Through the crackling wire, I heard a familiar voice. “Pitman?”

  With artillery banging louder and louder, I yelled into the mouthpiece, “Captain Logan, Pitman here.”

  “What’s the situation at Mouquet just now? Quite noisy, is it?” Instinctively looking up toward the hill, I bellowed, “Yes, Captain, the bombardments have been putting a strain on all of us.” Thwack! “What was periodic for much of this morning appears to be increasing.”

  “Yes. Look here, be ready to relieve the lads in the fire trenches.

  The 2nd and 3rd Platoons are taking measurable losses. We canno
t make changes under this bombardment. As soon as it lifts, be prepared to move. On my orders.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  I took a moment to reflect, a split second of thought. All the training, all the preparation over the past year, came down to this. I was to lead my soldiers up the hill and into the line of fire. Every sense in my being was working overtime with keen hearing, smell, and sight. My mind was racing back over my life with thoughts of school, Saskatoon summers, childhood, and the births of my sisters—my dear, darling sisters.

  Well, the time is now!

  With wet palms, I emerged from the communications hut and moved toward Hardy, who was crouched under the pelting rain having a much-earned Woodbine with a few of the troops. “Sergeant Hardy, we prepare to move up once this parade of shells subsides; 2nd and 3rd are to be relieved.” I paused and looked at him with intensity. “We’re up.”

  Sam managed a smile. “Understood, sir.”

  “Let’s gather the platoon and muster near my tent. We need to move instantly on Captain’s orders.”

  As I spoke, artillery shells rained down faster and louder. As the platoon gathered, it occurred to me that the Hun must be aware that our forward troops needed relief. They seemed determined to stop them, to keep a tired enemy prone to mistakes in front of them. They knew the landscape—after all, they had occupied it for much of the war—and seemed to be purposely targeting us, the fresh relief at Mouquet. The earth around us increasingly moved and moaned. The air whistled with shells, landing in the Somme mud. Geysers were thrown skyward, smoke and flame in the midst.

  The blasts rendered speech impossible. We were muted by the shriek of missiles coming on with rushes of sound and at speeds that made escape futile. Moving one way could save one’s life; the other, immediate death. Through it, I choked on the oppressive smoke, gagging on its corrosiveness.

  Still, I yelled, “Sergeant!”

  I must have looked animated to Hardy, making all the facial expressions of speech without sound. He seemed momentarily mesmerized before making his way toward me.

  “Sergeant, the platoon needs to—”

  Shells whizzed and cracked, then screamed into the earth, throwing up mud in blinding flashes. I stood inert and watched some of the troops scatter across the countryside, thinking they could somehow outrun the raging hate that crashed around us. Shrapnel exploded above, rocketing pellets to tear through anything or anyone in their way. That persistent stench of burned cordite reflected a ground blackened under fire.

  The landscape exploded, more showers of mud thrown sky-high, cratering the earth. Shells came in fast and thick everywhere we stood. Can’t think. Must think! Must speak, must lead, but who will hear me?

  I yelled orders, any orders, realizing they were more for my own duty of command than actually being heard.

  Crash! Crash! Explosions caused soldiers to stumble, either from the piercing sound or being hit, I wasn’t sure.

  It was deafening. It was hard to see with mud covering my face, but I struggled toward a group of men. Must lead them to safety!

  Suddenly, the ground in front of me erupted. Men and mud were thrown vertical. Some of the shells exploded underneath the thick mud, yet one shell after another burst on the surface, making the sky and earth come together in a ball of fire.

  Were those soldiers hurt, injured? Must get to them, must survive this.

  I gasped for air as I moved forward against a massive concussion of force before falling over in a tumble. A great heap of mud, heavy as concrete, slammed me face down. Breathing was impossible as mud clogged my nose and my mouth. Struggling to exhale, I spat.

  Somehow lifting myself up, I could see Hardy moving toward me. He helped me up. Shells were driving into the mud all around us, whining louder and louder as they got closer. I wanted to scream but couldn’t.

  Thump! We were both thrown into the slime. Again facedown, I suddenly remembered the pub room braggarts who boasted about surviving being buried alive.

  I am buried and alive! I struggled and fought. I couldn’t breathe.

  Must get my head up!

  My next awareness was of choking, but thankfully breathing. I looked up to see a lad, but only the whites of his eyes were showing through a darkened face. I wondered why the silly boy had covered it in black mud.

  Memories emerged of my face being buried in the mud on the rugby pitch back in grade school, the bigger lads gleefully putting their boots to my head to drive my face deeper. I remember being scared, very scared, thinking that life ends when breathing ceases. I remember not being able to get up, their boots keeping me submerged. I struggled, raged with the need for breath. Suddenly yanked up by my shirt collar, I heard Mr. Rafferty scolding the bullies at the same time. Where is Mr. Rafferty now?

  Somehow breaking free of the mud and stumbling to get up, I saw Hardy beside me and troops all around trying to help amid the continued barrage.

  There, almost standing.

  Thwack! Down again, this time with the sting of shrapnel pellets on my back as I saw Hardy thrown behind me. Again, my face was submerged, and I couldn’t breathe. My hands were clawing, digging, fighting, and scratching at the earth. Push up, yes, that’s it! Push! Surely Mr. Rafferty will grab my collar soon. My arms are weak! Spit out the filth; ignore the stinging pellets in my back. Clear the blockage in my throat. That’s better—air, breath, pulse.

  I could barely hear the shells continuing to rain down; then a sudden silence overcame me. I need to get up, need to lead. I was weak but standing now. I twisted my head around as Hardy yelled, kneeling in deep mud. I can see him, must get to him and the lads . . .

  Crash! Down again. Suffocation, deafness, and stinking smells were my only sensations. My will to live was fierce, without knowing if I was hit or bleeding. Was I buried, buried alive?

  Push! Dig! Dig sideways, my survival instinct spoke to me, my will to live strong. I’m OK, aren’t I? Yet I lay there, suddenly weak, strength seeping from me. I struggled to take in air through my mouth. I was aware my nose was covered, but couldn’t lift my hand to it. Weakness enveloped me.

  Can’t give up.

  I was aware of explosions, voices, mud flying, death hovering, then blackness as I escaped into nothingness.

  Chapter 8

  October 1916

  “Lieutenant? Lieutenant, please state your full name.” I remembered waking up lying in a medical tent, hearing the sounds of nurses and the cries of injured soldiers. The stench of burned flesh and chemicals was overwhelming. I must have dozed— for a minute, an hour, I didn’t know. Awake again, the room seemed alive, but I still had little focus.

  I jerked my head sideways, listening, not seeing.

  “Lieutenant, are you able to state your name?”

  I felt weak, so weak, and lay there trying to make sense of the voice. Suddenly, I felt an urge to confirm that I was alive. “Pitman, yes. R-Robert Pitman.” I said.

  “Lieutenant Pitman, I’m McAskill, captain with the RCR and doctor in charge of the dressing station. If you can hear me, please nod.”

  I lifted my left hand to my face, feeling softness. Cotton, perhaps. Confused, I lost the ability to speak.

  “Lieutenant Pitman, do you hear me?”

  Somewhere between a dream state and wakefulness, I nodded weakly.

  “Do you know where you are?”

  I shook my head as I again moved my fingers across the covering on my face. Yes, it was cotton, perhaps a bandage.

  “You are at the Albert dressing station. You have no physical wounds other than back sores, probably shrapnel pellets. Thank goodness for the steel helmet, as yours certainly took a beating. We don’t know yet if any of the blasts you were near concussed your head.”

  I lay on the stretcher, wanting nothing but sleep.

  “Are you following me, Lieutenant? Please nod if you are.” I nodded.

  “That is some good news. Now, you have lost vision, especially in your left eye. You are trembling, but I’m sure yo
u’re not aware.”

  I forced myself to focus on the doctor’s words, which brought attention to the blackness before me. Was I blind? I could not see, but was that because of the bandage or was it forever? Fighting panic, I thought back to the childhood game of hide-and-seek. Even with eyes covered, I remembered lightness. I could feel the fear rising from my gut to my throat, instinctively retching but with no result. Could I go through life without ever seeing again? I shivered in spite of the blankets that covered me, secured me.

  “I’m going to ask you a series of questions. Do you understand?

  Please nod or shake your head accordingly.”

  I was overwhelmed, wanted escape, but I nodded.

  “How is your hearing?”

  I shook my head.

  “Are you able to explain your answer, Pitman?”

  “I-I seem t-to be s-sensitive to noise.”

  “All right, thank you. I know this is difficult. Make note of the stammering as well, nurse.”

  I was not aware of the presence of a nursing sister or anyone else. Of course there were others; I was in a medical station. I forced myself to listen as he explained that my symptoms were caused by experiencing intense bombardment.

  “W-will I be able to see, Captain?”

  I felt the doctor lean in closer, seeming to ensure he was heard over the background noise. “There is no physical damage to your retinas. We find that this is nature’s way of protecting vital organs, and it typically clears up with rest. I know you’re very tired, but in case of concussion, you will be woken every two hours.”

  I was buoyed by the news of my sight, better able to listen as McAskill explained I would be sent to a general hospital, but there was a long wait for transport. I drifted in and out of sleep. With each waking moment I became increasingly fitful trying to recall events. The noises in the background—the groans, shrieks, protests—all put me back on the battlefield. As my emotions welled up, my grief bubbled to the surface, and I had sudden visions of men falling around me, mud and flame rising up as high as a building. Where were those men now? Still at war, or did they die? Where is Hardy—