The Gunner

by Paul Almond

  No doubt about it, with Harry Oakes overcoming his initial fears and Finn replacing Cecil, our gun crew had developed a speed and accuracy that might well be the envy of other Batteries. So it was a pretty self-satisfied bunch that came to reinforce the Front here at the Somme — a battle that had been going on since July.

  Self-satisfied, yes, when we started out, but after four rain-soaked days — more like worn out, depressed, exhausted, caring only for a warm bed, a wash and a good meal, though none of those would be ours for a long time.

  I don’t know who was more tired, Barry or me. Poor horse, he’d carried me faithfully, head down, following the gun. I don’t know how the walking men did it, though most rode on limbers. But coming to any slight rise, BSM Jones made them get off. I wondered why; surely our energy was more important than our horses, much as we admired our animals. Anyway, on we went hoping that the coming dawn would hold off long enough to get us to our gun-pit safely.

  The British had pushed Fritz back so we were slithering over mush in the former No Man’s Land, the actual Front being a couple of miles further, though less to our gun lines. I wanted to hurry — with Heinie binoculars beaming in our direction, their 5.9s might shatter our somnolence at any second, automatons that we were, unable to respond. I was half asleep myself.

  As Barry carried me into this cratered land of horrors, I found myself propelled into a new awareness — that my preoccupation with making us the best howitzer team anywhere had been overly simple, like wanting a fine haymaking team. As our strung-out caravan of death-dealing guns moved into an awakening day, another awakening was shaking me inside. A new battleground, one of the spirit as well as muck and flesh, would somehow lift me onto another profound level. Forced into this offensive stew of death and decay — the lost and dying breaths of thousands of souls and spirits created an almost palpable desolation of spirit to match the devastation of body and mind.

  In my half-waking state after twenty-six hours of continuous travel, I grappled with new concepts. Was this horrible slaughter a contest where one side won and one side lost? No, we were being swept into a kind of ultimate cataclysm — no victors and no vanquished — only an entwining of so many fine souls, ground into one great grave of the spirit.

  The horse bobbed forward, my body throbbing in rhythm — just as we were all, every one of us, in rhythm with each other. How many human beings would we kill, released from their earthly bondage into a heaven that would surely embrace each and every one of us: German, French, Australian and Canadian, too. How many would return home? Would I myself join this legion of souls drifting forever the forlorn landscape? The thought made me sit up and take notice of my surroundings, no matter how fearful. Day was coming fast. And with it, danger.

  Surely this long caterpillar of men, limbers and guns, would soon be seen by the enemy. Any devastation we had up our sleeve would be returned upon us, as we persevered, squelching our way over the awful Somme clay. Get there fast, I prayed.

  Before sunrise, still happily hidden by ground mist and light rain, we were directed to a new position, previously fortified for a Hun machine-gun nest or trench mortar. A broken barn wall on one side gave us protection and the gun-pit, cement at the bottom, made a secure footing. The Germans had been dug in on the Somme front for two years and had built their positions well, another reason for the enormous British losses on that first day of the Somme battle, July 1st.

  After we stopped, the Drivers went off with their horses while the rest of us ached for a sleep. But we had to get our ton-and-a-half howitzer properly placed — the barrage had been called for at 4:40 a.m., hard to believe. Of course the pit faced in the opposite direction so I set two men to shovel a ramp down. Others laboured to right the gun so it would roll into position. The Somme clay was so wet and clingy, even the Sergeant lost one of his boots: he was peering around to see where it had disappeared into the ooze.

  And believe me, moving a heavy howitzer after no sleep for two long days was almost impossible for even the best of us. Any minute, a shrapnel burst could take us all out of the war forever. But with a pile of grunting and complaining, we got the gun into position and the ammunition unloaded for the pre-dawn barrage.

  And then right away, we had to begin registration. Hard in the mist to even set a proper zero line: we did it, as they say, by guess and by God. In the meantime, the Sergeant found his boot and Harry had located an old German dugout for us; his slight frame and skinny body had been no use moving the gun. Finally, McKillop broke us off and told us to get our heads down for a few minutes while he headed for the telephone pit to confirm the barrage orders. We had done it!

  Twenty-six hours on the march and straight into action — and now time to spare. I was due to head back to the Wagon Lines, but was far too tired to struggle in daylight back over that mud. Besides, extra hands were always welcome during a barrage.

  Now we’d all been warned about dugouts being booby-trapped. But this one, with its corrugated iron thrown against the entrance, looked as though it hadn’t been touched since Heinie left. I figured as Corporal I had to lead the way and check for anything that might trigger an explosion and send us all to kingdom come.

  Cautiously, pointing my flashlight, I slowly clambered down, all of fifteen feet. Vile water covered the mud floor and even the duckboards, bath-mats as we called them.

  So far so good. Long, roomy, and well built: the corrugated iron ceiling had been reinforced with stout beams, so it looked safe. The enemy had been here for two years with nothing much else to do but fix it up, apparently, having taken a decidedly defensive posture. I moved forward, and then stopped.

  There at my feet lay a dead German in his grey uniform (ours being khaki), and beyond, another on his back. What a stench! How long had they been here? Long enough, obviously!

  Well sir, no use calling for a burial party.

  “Whitehead! Rideout!” I knelt and checked closely around the body with my flashlight. No sign of wires, so safe. I guessed he’d been shot while coming towards the ladder.

  Red came down with his flashlight and took in the grisly scene. Then he grabbed the corpse by one arm and dragged it to the ladder.

  “Wait, Red!” I remembered a cow that had broken out of her pasture one spring and died near the brook. When I tried to pull her to one side, the leg had come off.

  Well sir, Red, always impulsive, didn’t listen — he wanted the stench out fast. Up the stairs he climbed, hauling the dead German by one arm. But half way up, didn’t the arm pull out? So the corpse flopped back down on the slats with a loud pouf! The stomach bust open and maggots squirmed over the duckboard slats. Gas got released and when it hit me, I had to lean back against the wall and, I’m sorry to report, threw up.

  Just great, I thought, now we have the stink of my vomit added to the dead German.

  Red threw the arm to Edward, who chucked it to one side, pulling back quickly as the odour hit him. Red came down again. “Sorry. Never handled a dead body before... So what now?”

  How should we gather up these remains of flesh and maggots? And my vomit: it was all just so disgusting.

  “Is there something we could ladle him into?” I was still gasping.

  Red called up, “Ed, throw down a shovel.”

  Not often you shovel a dead body onto something. I cast my flashlight around and saw a greatcoat. I grabbed it and threw it beside the body while Edward handed down the shovel. Red shovelled on it the severed head and what remained of the body, heavy enough, though eaten by rats. I picked up the booted legs and threw them up over the edge of the pit.

  We climbed the ladder, each holding the greatcoat: him the collar and me gripping two coattails. We got about six feet up when didn’t one of my ends drop? The remains fell out with another ghastly splattering thud.

  In spite of myself, I began to laugh. So did Red.

  Down we climbed and this time only shovelled half the remains onto the greatcoat. Then Red, holding both ends in one hand, climbe
d up himself and handed the bundle to Edward, who made such a face, I had to laugh again. He and Finn grabbed the greatcoat, threw the remains off to one side, and handed back the filthy coat.

  While I held the flashlight, Ralph shovelled the rest of the remains onto it and also scraped up my vomit. He wiped the shovel on the greatcoat, and looked at me.

  I sighed. “Okay, Red, my turn.”

  Hardly able to breathe in the dreadful stench, I gave him the light and grabbed the ends of the greatcoat and collar and managed to climb the steep ladder with one hand. Carefully, I handed up the remains so Edward could throw them aside, too.

  “Corp,” Red called, “There’s another one.”

  “Oh no! Edward, you’ll have to come down.”

  “Do I have to?” he asked plaintively.

  “Afraid so.” Then we both grinned. Back down I went, and Edward followed.

  “Okay,” I said, “let’s not mess this one up. Edward, you take hold of the two legs and I’ll grab the coat around the shoulders. You go first with the legs, but step-by-step, and gently. Let’s keep him intact.”

  Edward climbed with the two legs under one arm while I kept saying, “Slowly Edward, slowly!”

  Well, Edward got halfway up the ladder, me hefting the corpse’s shoulders, until Edward got the legs up and Finn took them. “Take it easy!” I said.

  Finn started to pull it all up while I lifted the shoulders, one arm hooked around the ladder. Well, didn’t the face come past, six inches away, skin pulled tight over the bones, all ghastly, and then flopping to one side, it looked straight at me. And I swear to God, out of the nose crawled a maggot.

  I let out a screech and heaved on the corpse. With the other lads, we threw it out of the dugout for disposal later.

  I got out quick and sat on a bunk, holding my head. Not an experience I wanted to repeat. Then didn’t the familiar cry of “Battery Action” rouse us, and we all had to sprint back to the gun? Only the dead get any rest in this war, I thought, as our barrage lit the grey light of dawn.

  Chapter Five

  July 24, 1916

  The 35th Howitzer Brigade’s march to our Wagon Lines at Zillebeke in Flanders began with great anticipation — at last we were on our way to the Front. In the distance, we could even hear the guns, a muffled roar like when you approach the falls back of Hopetown. Everything was jake; all those months of training in Canada and England were about to pay off. As we swung along through the dusk, me riding Barry, we sang songs: “Mademoiselle from Armentières,” “It’s a Long Way to Tipperary,” changed to “It’s the Wrong Way to Tickle Mary,” and so on. Farmers were still gathering their cows in for milking while women bent over vegetable gardens. Farm life, so far as I could see, was carrying on and hell, you could even hear birds singing; I saw a couple of hawks, and a kestrel hovering.

  But you couldn’t help noticing the landscape changing: trees ripped to shreds and the odd shell crater. When I arrived in France ten days ago at Le Havre and took the train eastward, I had pressed my face against the window absorbing all I could. The houses looked different from in Quebec, but the countryside was similar: greener, though, and flowers were blooming. Exciting for me to be at last in a foreign country.

  I thought back to my first train ride from Port Daniel when I was saying goodbye to the Old Homestead, and waving to Raine at the Iron Bridge. Sitting, feeling pretty sorry for myself, I heard at the other end of my carriage some fellas from New Carlisle Academy celebrating. They motioned me over and what camaraderie! I hadn’t known the like, even at school. We hung onto every story about trench life and the hated Hun. They were off to join up, and I sure felt like going with them. So I let them think I was enlisting too and we had quite a party; I didn’t get much sleep.

  The next morning I arrived in Montreal, caught the train to Sherbrooke, and then a bus to Lennoxville. It let me off at a crossroads and I saw young men heading out of town. I followed them across railway tracks and started down a slight incline when I saw ahead the red-brick walls and towers of the famous college that my brother Jack had attended some twenty-five years before. I swelled with pride. Soon, I’d be as educated as him. What an experience this would be!

  I had decided to take general courses and specialize later, once I had gotten my bearings. But these thoughts were interrupted by a pack of girls, giggling and talking among themselves. One of them, a cute brunette with laughing eyes and a smart hat, came over. Between her finger and thumb, she held a white feather.

  She handed it to me and I took it, wondering what it signified — some prize for being good-looking? I hardly thought so, although I had washed my face well on that Sherbrooke train, brushed my hair, and I was wearing a nice new cloth cap. I was conscious of being shorter than her, though. Anyway, I thanked her and stuck it through my shirt buttonhole.

  When they saw me do that, they laughed. Real pretty they were, gossiping together. But when they went on ahead, I saw they gave another fella a feather, too, so maybe I wasn’t too special.

  Wearing my feather, I started up the gravelled roadway towards Bishop’s University. Already fellas my age were milling around, gossiping with each other, laughing loudly, generally having a good time, though some looked nervous. Today was admission day for new students.

  I passed a desk stuck out alone with three soldiers behind. The officer hailed me with a smile. “Well,” he indicated my white feather, “I see you’ve already been accepted!”

  “Pretty nice, eh?” I replied. “Bunch o’ girls gave it to me.”

  “You know what they were saying?”

  I almost blushed. Had they singled me out because I was smart or something?

  “You’re a member of the Cowards’ Club.”

  “Me a coward? No one’s ever dared say that!” I felt my hands curl into fists. Not one soul in Shigawake would dare call me coward, no sir.

  “I’m sure you have a good reason for not joining up,” the officer said, putting his hand on my shoulder, “but they wouldn’t know that, of course.”

  “Oh.” I thought a bit. “Well, I’d sure like to go and serve my king and country, but Poppa wants me to go to university first.”

  The two soldiers looked at each other and smiled. The officer said, “Let’s take a walk together.” Other girls had gathered about the entrance and were giving out more white feathers.

  Well sir, by the end of that walk, he had me convinced. I had to admit that I’d not been able to make up my mind since that day I’d heard war started. And that officer was terble smart, he had an answer to every one of my doubts. Why not take all my courses after we’d won the war? I’d have more money then, and I’d only be putting it off for a year, anyway. He was an officer in the Artillery, a fine branch of the service. So instead of going to university, I joined the Canadian Field Artillery.

  Those faraway thoughts of Canada were jolted right out of my mind on this French roadway when the soldiers’ singing stopped — well, kind of petered out. I soon saw why. The crossroad had been blasted by some long-range high explosive shell. The huge crater was a shock, but what stunned everyone into silence were the bodies, well, parts of bodies, and chunks of flesh sticking to the bushes. The wounded had been taken off, and a work party now was collecting these remains of the dead.

  Men like me, soldiers — torn apart! Some still sat frozen upright, splayed like my sisters’ dolls, others blown into the hedge with such force they stuck there, staring with blackened eyes as if alive, but covered in dark, sticky molasses — blood? Some had no mark, killed by the concussion, as we knew from our lectures. Had they been singing like us? Their tunes were gone forever. Not a lot of glory here, more like waste, I’d say.

  This poison crept through my veins, numbing every limb and shutting my brain right down. Butchery in the blink of an eye! Barry snorted a couple of times and shied as he passed; I steadied him. So now the jangle of harnesses and clatter of hooves sounded extra loud as our six-horse team pulled a limber (two- wheeled wagon) t
hat towed the 4.5-inch howitzer with another team ahead. Damned heavy gun, for sure. Took five men to fire it. Weighed almost a ton and a half, ten feet from tip of barrel to end of trail. Some gun! We made a long train stretching about a mile and a half, the three other howitzers and their ammunition wagons separated by a hundred feet or more.

  Our Sergeant, Quinn McKillop, riding ahead, called back, “Cheer up lads! We’ll see a lot more before the week is out!” He coughed hard, then went on. “Jonas, let’s have another song.” But even Jonas had difficulty starting up.

  As I rode on in silence, I knew I was headed into war.

  ***

  After about a month of training in Valcartier north of Quebec City, I had been drawn up with my Battery in a hollow square on the parade ground for the usual service on Sunday morning when who should step up to deliver the sermon but my brother Jack, who’d last written home from the Front. I was so pleased.

  Afterwards, I caught up to him as he was walking in surplice and cassock back to change at the officers’ mess. Well sir, he looked at me as if he’d seen a ghost. “Eric! What on earth are you doing? I thought you were at Bishop’s.”

  “And you — how come you’re here, Jack? We all thought you was in France.”

  “I was, but my parish insisted I come back. I had to arrange a special leave to sort it out. You see,” we walked on together, “I had only signed up for a year, thinking the war would be over soon.” He laughed. “Not a hope.”

  “So you didn’t get my letter? I really needed to talk to you.” Being in uniform as he was gave me quite a boost.

  “No, no letter. Well, here we are, so let’s have a bite together.”

  What a lucky happening! We didn’t see each other all that much, even in peace time. “Good sermon you gave, Jack. Very stirring. Made us all want to go and fight them Germans, for sure.” Leaving the parade ground, we followed a side track to the officer’s mess. The Camp had only been built last year by Sam Hughes, hacked out of the wilderness.