Innocent Heroes

by Sigmund Brouwer

  By sawing nearly a foot off a rifle barrel to solve the problem, he technically committed a war crime: destroying government property. But he also discovered that the grenades went twice as far.

  General Byng’s response was to encourage this and other ingenuity. When Byng saw how much further the grenades went with the shorter rifles, he did not discipline Johnston but instead approved that all rifle grenade sections had sawed-off weapons.

  It was no different with the tumpline. In an article in Canadian Military History magazine, F.R. Phelan describes how he helped save hundreds of man hours by introducing the tumpline, something he learned on camping trips in Quebec from watching First Nations men carry loads easily through the woods. Of equal importance is that one of his superior officers was open to trying this new method.

  Lieutenant-Colonel Andrew McNaughton had a similarly open mind when it came to the new science of triangulation to identify the location of enemy artillery. This meant pinpointing the source of a sound by marking it from three locations. Traditional British gunners considered this to be “radical nonsense” and even laughed at the common sense suggestion that wind and weather might affect accuracy, but McNaughton encouraged the three scientists who believed in the idea, and they developed a system capable of locating a gun down to a range of a small circle and also taught gunners how wind and humidity affected the aiming points of artillery.

  Credit 34

  EARLY FEBRUARY, 1917

  COURCELETTE, FRANCE

  This was not a drill. This was not practice. This was a real trench raid. At night.

  The Storming Normans were one of the three platoons sent to cross the three hundred yards from their trenches to the enemy’s trenches on the other side of No Man’s Land.

  No one would ever say there was a perfect night to attack. Not in war. It wasn’t a game.

  But conditions were as good as possible to reduce the danger.

  There was no moon out, and the sky was clouded. There would be no light to betray the slow movements of the soldiers.

  No sound either.

  It had not rained in a week, and the shell-torn ground was soft but not sticky. The soldiers had fanned out to crawl across the ground in clumps of two or three. Each had been given a specific location to either throw mats on the barbed wire that guarded the enemy’s trenches or crawl beneath it.

  Jake knew part of the reason for tonight’s trench raid was to take prisoners. Each new raid brought more prisoners, and those prisoners were valuable because they could share information.

  For a successful attack on Vimy Ridge, General Byng and Major McNaughton needed to know as much as possible. Where were all the machine gun nests? How many enemy soldiers waited in which trenches? When were soldiers rotated from the front to the reserves?

  Jake knew there was a new reason, however. And it had made every soldier in the platoon even more determined to succeed on this raid.

  The day before, enemy prisoners had taunted the Canadians.

  “Wait and see,” they said. “The Prussians have joined us. They’ll show you what real soldiers are like.”

  Because of that, rumors had flown up and down the trenches.

  Prussians! Professional soldiers, with centuries of tradition. Their presence was a tremendous boost to the morale of the enemy.

  So the Canadian platoons—formed by farmers and ranchers and accountants and bankers and schoolteachers and carpenters—had decided nobody was going to intimidate them.

  Tonight was going to prove to the enemy that the ones to be feared were the Canadians.

  —

  On some evenings, the raiders had a simple job. They sneaked across No Man’s Land and then crawled to the edge of the enemy trenches and spied on the activities. They would report back to the officers on what they had learned.

  On other evenings, like this one, the raid would take them down into the enemy trenches. With all raids, the planning was precise. Not down to the minute. But down to the second.

  Tonight—exactly forty-five minutes after leaving their own trenches—shelling would start to protect their retreat. Any soldier still in the enemy trenches would be in danger of being hit by those shells.

  As he pushed himself along the ground on his elbows, Jake mentally rehearsed his own role in the raid. He was supposed to crawl under barbed wire at a location near the enemy’s central machine gun nest, with Thomas and Charlie beside him. Once in position, they were to wait until Lieutenant Norman fired three quick shots. That would be the signal for the dozens and dozens of Canadian soldiers to rush into the enemy trenches. Jake, Charlie and Thomas each had sticks of dynamite to throw at the machine guns. They needed to time it perfectly so that those machine guns would not stop the other Canadian soldiers.

  No Man’s Land was like what Jake imagined the surface of the moon to be. The ground was barren, with deep craters. There was no sign of any vegetation, except remainders of trees long since blasted to small jagged stumps. The difference, he thought, was that the moon would have no water. Here, the deeper craters held stinking ponds of greenish slime.

  He thought about the sticks of dynamite strapped on his back, in a place that would keep them dry from any mud as he crawled. He’d have to light the fuse, hold it until he knew the fuse would not sputter out, then throw it and duck his head as he waited for the explosion.

  He gave it more thought, planning how he would—

  An intense, bright red streak blossomed above him.

  Flare!

  Three more followed, lighting the dark sky.

  Then star shells. These were fired straight up by the enemy, and once high enough, a white magnesium flare would burn from the shell. The shells would drift slowly down by parachute as the flare burned itself out, as dazzling as the sun.

  Jake did not panic.

  Nor did the soldiers around him.

  Each simply froze in position. The slightest movement would betray a soldier’s position. It would draw fire not only to that soldier, but to those around him.

  When a soldier managed to fight the panic and not flinch or tremble, the soldier would simply become part of the cratered landscape, impossible to see among the tree stumps, no matter how bright the sky.

  Jake had been caught in an awkward position. He had his left elbow on the ground and his right elbow raised. He had no choice but to hold that position until the red flares faded and the final white of the magnesium star shell had drifted onto the ground.

  Safe.

  He resumed his crawl forward, nearly blind. His eyes needed to adjust to the darkness again, but he couldn’t stop. The time had been set for exactly when Lieutenant Norman would fire the shots to begin the raid and for when the raid would end.

  No matter the price that Jake needed to pay, he would not fail his fellow soldiers. This was not bravery. It was dedication. He took comfort knowing that every other soldier in the platoon had the same determination.

  —

  As Jake, Charlie and Thomas reached the far side of No Man’s Land, they split apart to jump into the enemy trench in different places. As Jake crawled beneath the first rolls of barbed wire, his uniform snagged at the shoulder.

  Jake tried to inch backward, but another strand snagged his pants.

  It was a horrible feeling, to be stuck. No way forward. No way back.

  Worse, each second of delay was dangerous. Not only to him, but to the other soldiers of the platoon. If he was stuck, they’d have to come back to rescue him.

  Jake told himself to be smart. He took a deep breath and did nothing. That was smart. It forced him not to panic.

  He took another deep breath.

  With his free arm, he reached down to his belt for a pair of wire clippers. He wanted to snip the wire right away. But he was so close to the enemy trench that the sound would carry and warn the soldiers in the trenches that an attack was about to happen.

  He took another deep breath.

  Wait, he told himself. Just wait.

/>   Then it came. The three shots from Lieutenant Norman to send all of the Canadians into the enemy trenches.

  Jake wished he could be there with his friends. But the best thing he could do was free himself so that he wouldn’t put them in danger.

  There was shouting and the sounds of explosions. No one would hear him clip the wire now. A minute later, he had freed himself.

  He resumed crawling forward. When he reached the edge of the trench, he remained on his belly. He found the sticks of dynamite and lit the fuses. He tossed the sticks of dynamite toward the machine gun nest.

  Seconds after the dynamite exploded, another flare went off. This was from behind Jake. At their own trenches. It was a signal for all the Canadians to scramble back from the raid.

  Jake moved backward, hugging the ground.

  Other soldiers swarmed up and over the trenches, running in a crouch toward the Canadian side.

  Halfway across No Man’s Land, above the crack-crack-crack of rifle shots, came a shout. “Jake!”

  It was Thomas.

  “Thomas!” Jake shouted.

  “Help!” Thomas said. “I’ve been hit.”

  Jake didn’t hesitate. He stopped and turned in the dark. He couldn’t see his friend.

  In the night, in the quiet, it was foolish to betray your location with any noise. But now, with rifles firing, it didn’t matter.

  “Where?” Jake shouted.

  “Here!”

  Jake crawled toward the sound. It didn’t take him long to find his friend.

  “Not good,” Thomas said. “My leg. I can’t move.”

  “I’ll drag you,” Jake said.

  “No,” Thomas said above the shots coming from the enemy trench. “Then they might hit you too. Help me find a way to stop the bleeding, then run and save yourself.”

  Jake was about to say something, but then it felt like his leg had been hit by a baseball bat.

  He toppled. As he landed, he realized that he had also been shot.

  —

  In twos and threes, the soldiers of the Storming Normans dropped safely back into their trench on the other side of No Man’s Land.

  As Charlie looked up and down the trench, he felt the satisfaction of accomplishing a difficult task.

  He also felt the satisfaction of belonging to a team. He’d never had that kind of satisfaction before, and he knew why. Before the war, he had depended on his family name and his family money to get respect. Now he realized it was a hollow respect.

  Lance Wesley had been right all those months ago. Here was a place where a person was judged only on his merits. Charlie had earned respect, and it felt great. It also felt great to be Canadian, among the soldiers who were revered up and down the trenches among the British and French because of their boldness and toughness.

  Yes, sir, Charlie thought, with rumors flying that the Prussians would show the Canadians a thing or two about fighting, just the opposite had happened.

  The light from lanterns showed that at least six of the Prussians had been captured from the enemy trenches.

  This would show who ruled No Man’s Land!

  The captured Prussians would have valuable information for the Canadian commanders. Every new bit of knowledge made it that much easier for the Canadians when they attacked Vimy Ridge.

  Every soldier knew it would happen. Every soldier knew how it would happen. That had been the purpose of months of training.

  But only the high commanders knew when it would happen. That was too important to risk leaking to the enemy.

  Along with pride and satisfaction, Charlie felt triumph. While he was reluctant to admit to Jake and Thomas how much he liked them, he wanted to be with them to share the triumph.

  Except, as he walked up and down the trenches, he couldn’t find them. He only found Colonel Scruffington, who gave an anxious whine.

  His stomach began to fill with dread.

  Charlie made his way to Lieutenant Norman, followed by Colonel Scruffington.

  “Jake and Thomas,” Charlie said to Lieutenant Norman. “Have you seen them?”

  Lieutenant Norman shook his head. “I’ve been searching for them too. Everyone is back except for them.”

  “Let me volunteer,” Charlie said. “I want to go back out there and look for them.”

  “Not tonight,” Lieutenant Norman said. “It’s too dangerous. The enemy is smarting from what we just did and they will want to get revenge by stopping any rescue attempts out there. With lights to help you search, they’ll shoot you in seconds. Without lights, you will be wandering like a blind person with no chance of finding them.”

  “Then, with all respect,” Charlie said, “I’ll sneak out and look for them without your permission. Little chance of finding them is better than no chance staying here in the trenches.”

  “I appreciate your loyalty to your fellow soldiers,” Lieutenant Norman said. “But tonight, we have help from the French. They’ve sent out their mercy dogs. If Jake and Thomas are alive, those dogs will find them long before you could. So stay with me, and let’s trust in those animals.”

  —

  Biscotte was a Belgian shepherd. She was a medium-sized dog, with perky ears and silky black fur.

  She leaped over the top of the trench and began a zigzag pattern across the open ground. She wore small saddlebags of canvas. These contained bandages and other first aid remedies.

  Biscotte did not flinch as the occasional bullet whizzed over her head. She froze when a flare lit the sky.

  Then the slightest of breezes brought her the scent of human blood. She was accustomed to the smell. But there was a difference in the scent between a wounded soldier and one that was beyond all help.

  Biscotte drew another breath through her nostrils.

  Alive!

  This blood came from a human that needed her.

  Biscotte leaped forward, sure-footed on the treacherous ground. Her vision showed the outlines of stumps and the deep craters. She avoided all the dangers and pushed forward.

  Nearer and nearer. The scent grew stronger and filled her with excitement that made her quiver.

  She did not bark. That was part of her training. A barking noise would draw enemy attention, and with it the bullets of snipers.

  Instead, Biscotte swallowed a whimper of that excitement and pushed forward.

  As the scent of the blood grew stronger, she realized it was not one human soldier. But two.

  And both were alive!

  —

  “Don’t worry,” Jake told Thomas. “I don’t think anyone has died from a bullet through the butt cheeks.”

  Maybe later, if they had a chance to tell their stories, it would be funny. But stuck in No Man’s Land, with Thomas barely able to crawl, there was nothing funny about the situation.

  “Not bullet,” Thomas said. “Bullets. You told me you counted two. And it feels like twenty.”

  Jake had tied his belt tight on his thigh to slow the bleeding from a bullet that had torn through muscle just above his knee. There wasn’t much he could do for Thomas without some bandages. Or for himself.

  “One bullet. Two,” Jake said, trying to be cheerful. “Not much difference once you’ve been hit.”

  Jake had tried to stand on his wounded leg. He had toppled over after trying one step.

  “It’s not the bullets that worry me,” Thomas said. “It is the infection.”

  Jake was silent at that. More often than not, a bullet drove small pieces of uniform into the wound, and the dirtiness of the fabric was what started the infection.

  What they both needed, as much as any kind of help, was disinfectant to pour into their wounds. That would help in the crucial few hours right after being shot.

  Jake was silent thinking about that too. The darkness protected the two of them from being seen by the enemy. But it also prevented a nighttime search by any of the Storming Normans. Candle flames and flashlights would draw gunfire from the enemy.

  “You need to
go,” Thomas said. “At least you can crawl.”

  “If enemy soldiers find us, I’ll be here to fight with you,” Jake said. “So shut up about me leaving you, okay? We’ll tell each other stories to pass time. I want to know if you ever played one of the priests at your school in chess.”

  Thomas didn’t reply at first. Then Thomas said, “Some stories are best not told. And some stories are hard to understand if you did not grow up where I did.”

  Jake heard a lot of pain in that statement. Not shot-with-a-bullet pain. But long-carried pain.

  “Thomas,” he said, “by now, you and I are brothers. Even if we don’t make it through the night, I want you to know that.”

  Thomas again did not reply. Distant shots and distant shouts broke the silence.

  Then Thomas spoke in a quiet voice. “The only reason I studied chess was because someday, if I had the chance, I wanted to beat them at their game. The priests treated us like animals, and I wanted to show them we are not.”

  “And?”

  “I beat all three of them. Then all three of them beat me.”

  “I don’t understand,” Jake said.

  “One by one, I put each of them into checkmate. So I beat them, just as I had dreamed.”

  “Then you played again and they won?”

  “No. They refused to play me again. But they beat me. They told me I needed to learn my place. So they used sticks and beat me.”

  Jake felt his fury grow. It made him forget about the deep throbbing pain in his thigh. “When this is over, let me go back there with you.”

  “What would it prove?” Thomas asked. “That someone like me needs a white person to protect me? That I can’t protect myself?”

  Jake said, “I would not be going there as a white person. I would be going as your friend.”

  “They would not see it that way,” Thomas said. “It is not just the priests at the school, you know. The land agents and bankers are against us too. That’s why I need citizenship. As a citizen, I would be equal to those who do not let my people farm and raise cattle like any other farmer and rancher in the country. I have one medal already, and if I can, I will fight to get as many more as possible. Then how can anyone in my country deny me citizenship?”