Innocent Heroes

by Sigmund Brouwer

  —

  It took Lance a few minutes to stop his dizziness, and then he became fully aware that the lower part of his body was in water, the water at the bottom of the crater.

  Ignoring the pain in his leg, Lance tried to crawl up the slope. It was too slick. He slid back, deeper in the water after than he had been before. If he tried it again, he might fall all the way into the water and drown.

  If he could stand, perhaps…

  He gasped as he placed the slightest of weight on his knees. His left leg. Broken. Maybe in one or two places.

  It was an eerie fog of silence for Lance.

  He tried to stay calm as he assessed his situation. It was a thirty-foot climb up a slope of greasy mud. If he had a rifle or even a bayonet, he could use it to stab deep into the mud and try to pull his body up. But even with two good legs, without a tool of any kind, it was hopeless.

  He began to realize it had not been good fortune that stopped him from rolling all the way into the water to drown, and instead, it had only delayed what was ahead. Long hours, waiting for the end.

  In came another shell. Because the pressure wave of air from the first one had instantly shattered his eardrums, Lance didn’t hear the thunder of the next exploding shell. But he felt the vibrations in his ribs. If any of the other cavalry had survived, they would be long gone. Even if one of the soldiers had decided to stay to search for Lance, they wouldn’t have seen him at the bottom of the crater. They’d assume his fate had been the worst. Missing in action.

  Lance groaned. His sorrow was for the family he’d leave behind. And for Coal Dust. Such a noble animal had not deserved to die.

  Then he wondered.

  What if…

  No. He told himself he shouldn’t fool himself with hope. Even if Coal Dust had survived, the shell would have sent him running in panic. He would have stayed with the herd and galloped away with any surviving cavalry.

  Yet…

  Would there be any harm trying the only thing that could save him, even if it was a one-in-a-thousand chance?

  Lance licked the mud from his fingers, and spit the mud back onto the slope of the crater.

  When his fingers were clean, he stuck them in his mouth and whistled as loud as he could.

  He couldn’t even tell if it made noise, but he did it again and again. He craned his head upward, and then blinked in disbelief.

  There, outlined against the lip of the crater above him, was Coal Dust.

  —

  Lance waited for the men who would carry him on a stretcher through the miles of trenches back to a hospital. He sat against the barn wall, his broken leg splinted in front of him. His hearing had still not returned. Doctors had promised it might come back in a day or two.

  Beside him, with a pencil, Lieutenant Norman scratched out words on a notepad and held it front of Lance Wesley’s face.

  Keep going. What happened next?

  Lance felt like he was still in a dream, partly because he’d been given morphine to take away the worst of his pain. Medics knew it was a dangerous painkiller because it could become addictive, and they had given him only a small dosage. So Lance was capable of conversation, even if it was writing and listening on one side by Lieutenant Norman and reading and speaking on Lance’s side.

  “That magnificent animal slowly stepped toward me,” Lance told Lieutenant Norman. Lance’s own words were a dull hum because he couldn’t even hear what he was saying. Lance had to stop because tears began to flow down his cheeks and his throat was choked with gratitude. What courage that had taken for Coal Dust to return.

  The other cavalrymen had reported that Coal Dust had been thrown onto his side but scrambled to his feet and bolted. But then Coal Dust had stopped as they goaded their own horses away from the danger.

  “Even when a third shell landed, he didn’t leave me.” With four legs instead of two, Coal Dust could navigate the slope, even though the horse’s feet went a full foot into the mud with each step. “And when he was close enough, he dropped his head so I could grab the reins.”

  Lance grinned through his tears. “Then he dragged me out, stepping backward slowly until we were clear of the crater. He let me pull myself up into the saddle and then we were off and back here. I can’t remember much of the ride, to be honest, because my leg hurt so bad. He knew exactly how to bring me home. He’s fine, right? Coal Dust?”

  Lieutenant Norman scratched again on the pad. Jake is taking good care of him. Every single man in the platoon has spent time with Coal Dust telling him what a hero he is.

  “Thanks, sir.” Lance had to trust that the words were coming out in the way he intended to say them because of his damaged eardrums.

  You’ll be headed back to Canada, Lieutenant Norman wrote. Soldiers come back after a leg has healed, but if you’re permanently deaf, you have a ticket out of the war.

  “You’re wrong, sir,” Lance said. “I’m not deaf. My hearing is perfect. Please tell them that at headquarters.”

  Lieutenant Norman didn’t need to scratch out his question. It was obvious on his face as he stared at Lance. Why was Lance telling a lie?

  “I can’t leave Coal Dust, sir,” Lance explained. “I hope you understand that.”

  Lieutenant Norman lifted the pad and wrote. He showed it to Lance, with a sad shake of his head. A deaf soldier in a war zone puts all the other soldiers in danger. I can’t let you return to the platoon.

  “I know that, sir,” Lance said. “But can you make sure I’m able to stay behind the lines and take care of Coal Dust? Someone has to shovel, and I’ll be happy to do it for the rest of the war.”

  The Victoria Cross is one of the highest medals of honor to be awarded to a soldier, and in the animal world, an equivalent award is called the Dickin Medal, recognized as the ultimate award an animal can achieve while serving in war.

  A horse named Warrior received that medal for his bravery during World War One. Warrior served for the entire war, surviving machine gun attacks, falling shells and twice being trapped under burning beams in his stables.

  Despite a horse’s natural instinct to shy away from noise and explosions, Warrior never failed in charges against the enemy, and his presence was an inspiration to all the soldiers who fought alongside this magnificent animal.

  FIRST NATIONS INVOLVEMENT IN WORLD WAR ONE

  In the annual 1919 report from the Department of Indian Affairs, it was revealed that more than four thousand Aboriginals enlisted for service during the war. This is a staggering percentage—it means that more than one out of every three First Nations men of military age volunteered for service, and according to the report, “the percentage of enlistments among the Indians is fully equal to that among other sections of the community, and indeed far above the average in a number of instances.” In one community, for example, the Head of the Lake Band in British Columbia, every male member between the ages of twenty and twenty-five enlisted.

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  This number did not include those who identified as Aboriginals but were not registered as such, nor did it include Métis or Inuit, so the statistics do not account for an even greater number of volunteers from First Nations communities across Canada. Many of these soldiers did not speak English but were determined to help the war effort despite the added difficulties of a language barrier. Often their communities rallied behind them, raising money and sending supplies to help the war effort.

  CAVALRY HORSES

  At the beginning of World War One, cavalry units were used to attack enemy soldiers. However, the same reasons that led to trench warfare led to a more limited use of the cavalry—the modern machine gun and artillery fire, and the rolls of barbed wire meant to slow down soldiers.

  While the British continued with some horseback charges on the enemy throughout the entire war, horses mostly served the soldiers in scouting and pulling artillery, supply and ambulance wagons.

  Horses faced difficult conditions during the war
. Like soldiers, they could be killed by artillery fire and poison gas. Because of the weather and lack of shelter, they also faced skin diseases and malnutrition.

  It is estimated that on both sides of the war, over 8 million horses died during battles. Horses were so important to the war effort that in 1917, some officers considered the loss of a horse in battle to be as devastating as the loss of a soldier.

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  On March 30, 1918, the Germans began their final major battle, and the Canadian Cavalry Brigade played a vital role in halting the German attack. Although the larger German force was supported by machine gun fire, the Canadian cavalry charged. This brave action led to surrender by the German soldiers, but at great cost: only a quarter of the soldiers and horses survived the battle.

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  LATE SEPTEMBER, 1916

  COURCELETTE, FRANCE

  Jake watched Thomas Northstar sprinkle water over some slugs on his empty breakfast plate.

  “Back on our farm,” Jake said, “my mother hated what slugs did in her garden. She sprinkled salt on them.”

  “She did not need them to someday save her life,” Thomas said. “Do I have to make mention of this each morning?”

  “I think the two of you are crazy,” Charlie said. His eyes were closed and he was leaning against the sandbags of the trench wall. “Seriously crazy. I hate listening to your conversations. And I’m tired of watching you collect slugs, like it’s some kind of medicine man thing. Crazy Indian.”

  “Kiwitinohk achakos,” Jake said. “Thomas, did I get that right?”

  “Not bad,” Thomas said.

  Charlie frowned as he looked back and forth between the two. “Itchy aching what?”

  Thomas laughed.

  “Kiwitinohk achakos,” Jake said again. “It’s his name. That’s Cree for Northstar. Jake calls himself Cree, Charlie. Not Indian.”

  “Then he should call himself Crazy Cree,” Charlie said. “Translate that, why don’t you.”

  “No,” Jake said. “He is North Star. A guiding light for all of us in times of darkness.”

  Jake looked at Thomas. “I’m proud I managed to say that with a straight face. Did I sound wise when I said it?”

  “Keep trying,” Thomas said. “Almost as wise as when I say it.”

  Charlie buried his head and groaned. “Why me? Isn’t trench duty enough punishment?”

  “It is my sincere advice that you consider fighting in a different war,” Thomas said. “Until then, you are stuck with me. And with Jake. And our wonderful little friends here. Did you know that each morning I pull these slugs from my nose? That makes it very strong medicine, white man.”

  “Enough!” Charlie said. “Enough! You guys are not funny!”

  “Yes we are.” Jake snorted with laughter, but stopped when he saw Thomas lose his smile and focus on the slugs.

  “After all these mornings, it may be time,” Thomas said in a calm voice. “Look. They are beginning to curl. No need to cause alarm, but perhaps you should go to the periscope and warn Justin.”

  Thomas was correct. The slugs had begun to wriggle, no differently than if salt had been poured on them.

  Jake moved along the trench. It was lined with walls of sandbags. Without sandbags, the dirt would collapse. In some places, tin sheets offered scant protection against rain. But the trenches were horrible places to live, and soldiers would sometimes sleep standing up.

  He’d heard that the Germans had fancy trenches, some with underground rooms big enough to hold a piano, where officers were served fancy dinners by waiters. He didn’t want to believe that. Not when he might go for days without a chance to eat anything hot.

  Jake could walk without ducking, because the trench was deep enough to hide his helmet from enemy snipers on the other side of No Man’s Land. Jake kept his rifle and his backpack with him. Those were orders. A soldier caught without his rifle or backpack faced severe punishment.

  Jake reached the part of the trench where Justin Biggs stood in front of a tall and skinny square box that reached above the top edge of the trench. Biggs was looking at the mirror on the bottom of the box. It was angled at forty-five degrees. At the top of the box was another mirror with the opposite forty-five degree angle. It was the periscope that let them survey the enemy without exposing themselves to bullets.

  “You have that special mask for Boomer, right?” Jake asked Justin. “If so, it may be time.”

  “I don’t see anything,” Justin said. “Check it out for yourself.”

  Justin moved over so that Jake could peek into the periscope.

  Jake paused before looking into the periscope and said, “You know how much Boomer hates the mask. You’ll need as much warning as possible to get it over his head. Why don’t you find Boomer just in case. If Thomas Northstar says there’s danger, chances are there is danger.”

  Justin went to find Boomer, and for the next few minutes, Jake stared into the mirrors of the periscope. He saw coils and coils of barbed wire in front of their own trench. He saw the flat surface of No Man’s Land, the vegetation long since shredded by artillery.

  Then he saw a low, greenish-yellow fog sliding toward their own trench.

  Jake didn’t hesitate. He pulled his bayonet from his rifle. He and all the platoon had been drilled on this again and again. Hanging from a sandbag near the periscope was a large empty brass shell case, about the size of his forearm. He began to clang the brass shell.

  Up and down the trenches, other soldiers echoed that alarm on their own empty brass shells. The threat was silent and even deadlier than the huge explosives lobbed by the enemy. Alarm gongs began to ring, and it was official. Orders for every soldier to get into gas masks.

  Jake scrambled to get into his backpack as he raced back to Thomas.

  That fog was made of two deadly chemicals, phosgene and chlorine. The first time it had been used against the Allied forces, there had been little defense. Now, each soldier carried two gas masks in their backpacks.

  A little ways down the trench, a solider named Robert Carter shouted, “Tomato! Tomato!”

  In that instant, Jake’s world tilted. A shell had made an almost direct hit on the trench, sending shock waves of air that knocked him onto his back.

  He shook his head, trying to keep his senses.

  The gas was approaching! Thomas struggled to his knees, right beside Jake.

  “Thomas,” Jake groaned. “Smoke helmet.”

  Both managed to get to their knees and pull their gas masks loose from backpacks. At best, it still took eighteen seconds to get everything in place. They knew this because Lieutenant Norman drilled them again and again, using a watch to time them.

  Gas mask in hand, Jake saw that Robert Carter was completely still, with a huge gash in his arm that streamed blood.

  How much time before the gas hit?

  “Charlie!” Jake yelled. “Thomas! We need help!”

  Jake didn’t have to explain more than that. The unconscious man needed a gas mask on his face. That made it all the more urgent: eighteen seconds to secure their own masks, then another eighteen or more seconds for the unconscious man’s.

  Jake forced himself not to panic. He took a deep breath, knowing if he rushed, he’d probably make a mistake and waste time. When everything was in place, he found himself peering through the two glass eyes of his mask and heard the sound of his breathing.

  He turned his head to the unconscious man. That’s when Jake saw Charlie run past him down the trenches. Away from the man who needed help.

  Coward, Jake thought. But this wasn’t the time to deal with it. The men who were down needed the gas masks. One deep breath of the poison and Robert Carter would not survive.

  Jake stumbled toward the fallen man. Thomas joined him.

  “You get his arm,” Jake said. His voice echoed in his own ears. The mask muffled him and he had to yell to be heard. “I’ll get the mask.”

  Jake slid Robert’s gas mask over the man’s he
ad and put the flaps in place. Thomas took a short piece of rope and wrapped it around Robert’s arm, above the wound. He tightened it with the tourniquet technique and the bleeding slowed. Then Thomas slapped a bandage over it, just as Robert started to come around.

  Five seconds later, the green cloud rolled down into the trench.

  Jake heard a yell from the platoon’s telephone operator, William Kane. The yell was muffled by William’s gas mask, but Jake still clearly heard the man’s words.

  “Our lines have been cut!”

  No telephone communication with the rear trenches. It could only mean one thing.

  The enemy was preparing to attack over the top of the trenches.

  Jake was still on his knees in the mud, beside Robert Carter.

  Robert groaned and clutched at Jake. “You have to find Tomato. He needs his gas mask. Look in my pack.”

  Jake pawed through Robert’s backpack, but the only other gas mask was Robert’s spare.

  “Not here,” Jake said.

  Robert groaned from inside his mask. “Without him, we won’t be able to warn rear quarters about the situation. You have to find him alive or all of us are done when the attack comes.”

  —

  Most of the platoon soldiers were busy bringing up extra ammunition to the machine guns to prepare for the attack. In the chaos, Jake couldn’t find Lieutenant Norman. If he had been a British soldier, leaving his position without permission might have led to punishment.

  But Lieutenant Norman, like all the Canadian officers, had been given orders from the very top and told to pass it down to his men. In battle situations, all the soldiers were told to think for themselves. Follow the battle plan if possible, but when situations changed, react accordingly.

  Jake hurried down the trench to find the border collie named Tomato. With the greenish gas sinking to the bottom of the trenches, Jake had little hope that Tomato was still alive, but he had promised Robert he would search.