The Gunner

by Paul Almond

  Jack gave me a look. “Well, our cause is just, I’m sure of that.” We walked for a moment in silence. “But no matter how just the cause, I’m not sure how I feel about you going.” I could see the concern in his eyes. When we arrived, he asked me to wait and joined other officers going in. “Other Ranks” like me were not allowed inside.

  “Success!” he beamed, coming out with a hamper. “They fixed me up a picnic! Like the good old days at the cove.” We’d swim there next to Shigawake wharf. We headed to some benches in a small park. “So what did you write me about?” He began to lay out the food — and pretty good plates he’d snaffled for us, I must say.

  I sure tucked into those cold ham pies, sausages and vegetables, much better than we enlisted men got. “Jack,” I said, mouth full, “Old Poppa’s gonna be upset I didn’t go to college.” I explained what had happened in Lennoxville: how I’d come to join up. “So if you think the cause is just and all that, could you talk to him for me?”

  “Oh, count on me, Eric. I see you got yourself into the Artillery. Exactly what I joined when I signed on.”

  “Yes sir, I can hardly wait to get at them big guns. No sign of any new ones around here, though. They say we’re going to have to train on old Boer War pieces.” I sighed.

  “Eric,” he sat across from me on the rough table and looked in my eyes, “you know I’m proud to have a brother fighting for civilization. But... it’s pretty bloody over there, sometimes.” He dropped his eyes and continued eating. “Nothing like my other war in South Africa. Not at all.” He shook his head sadly, then went on brightly. “Well, if there’s anything I can do within the bounds of decorum, I shall.”

  I could tell he was moved by what he had seen. After all, he’d been in France for six months before getting this leave. Although he’d been attached to the Divisional Headquarters, he had visited the actual Front on a number of occasions, helping the lads, writing letters, burying the dead, he told me. And now his kid brother was in for all that. No need to spell out how he felt.

  So that was my problem with Old Poppa solved. I wished I could feel as easy about Raine.

  Chapter Twelve

  The Somme, Oct 10th 1916: The Brigade had a successful day shooting, so the Infantry supported were able to carry out their operation to good effect.

  Oct 11th: The Brigade carried out a normal bombardment of the enemy’s trenches. The 30th Battery, while moving ammunition, had four men wounded and four horses killed.

  War Diaries: 8th Brigade CFA

  The night after that everlasting march and our barrage at 4:50 a.m., we still got almost no sleep. All day we answered calls for fire so that finally, I was so tired I could hardly work the gun, but our drills stayed pretty sharp. Over the next two days firing away, the already god-awful weather got colder and foggier. But at least we’d made headway with our dugout, all of us pitching in to clean the place up. Fritz had left behind a table, some chairs, and even cots. The smell made us sick, so Red got quicklime from the sanitary fellas and sprinkled that. Someone else had the bright idea of a can of creoline, a trade name for creosote, which came in large drums and is doled out liberally to kill lice. It smelt bad, but better than vomit and corpses.

  Yesterday, our 30th Battery had the bad luck to be struggling up from the Wagon Lines through all that mud, Drivers hauling away on the wheels to move their limbers up to our firing line with ammunition, when flares revealed them and Heinie shrapnel wounded four Drivers and killed four horses. We knew everyone in the Brigade pretty well so it came as a big shock. That mud was just so restricting, if you went out you were a sitting duck. We took extra care, but what can you do when a shell has your name on it?

  But this morning, Jonas, a renowned scavenger, had managed to find eggs, so Jason, our cook, and his assistant, served them up with our bacon. I tell you, that raised our spirits!

  The rain let up a bit, so after maintenance on our precious gun we were having a quiet smoke by the pit when who did we see through the mist but Battery Sergeant Major Jones. A surprise inspection! We jumped up.

  At his command of “Stand easy men,” we relaxed. He offered us all a decent cigarette that we accepted gratefully. “Well, Corporal Alford, I hear you got the team you wanted. How is it going?”

  “Very well, sir, thank you.” The others nodded agreement.

  “As it turns out, you were right about Gunner Smith. Apparently, he’s doing fine in the D.A.C. Just so long as he steers clear of the guns.”

  “So we’ve heard, sir,” Edward responded. “A fine chap. Just not quite right on our gun, but good he’s a help elsewhere.”

  Jones nodded. We lapsed into silence as the BSM looked around our gun-pit. As the Major’s senior adviser on gunnery and discipline, the BSM checked us out fairly often, but now, he came to relax against sandbags we’d rebuilt and we saw that this was to be a casual chat — most unusual. “Corporal Alford, I have noted there is a Colonel Alford in the Chaplaincy Service. Any relation?”

  “My brother, sir.”

  “Is he now? You see him much?”

  “Not really, he’s quite busy, and the chaplaincy headquarters are up at Neue Chappelle.”

  “Oh? I think now they’ve moved down near Albert, not too far. He does visit, I gather, the Front from time to time.”

  I wondered if Jack would make an effort to find me. “One thing I know about my brother, sir, is that he is a hard worker. Our father drilled that into both of us.”

  Jones nodded again. “You know, my brother is a chaplain.”

  Aha! I thought, maybe I’ll get a few points.

  “So there are two Joneses serving on the Front?” Ed asked. “I have a brother too, but he’s an officer in the Infantry.”

  “Three, actually — one with HQ,” Jones went on. “Yes, my younger brother went to Sandhurst, stayed in England and now, being on the General Staff, he seems to get the skinny on what’s going on.” He smiled. I guess he felt he could relax with us, which made me think that maybe we were, after all, his ace howitzer.

  “So tell us, sir,” Harry spoke up, “are those reports of horrendous casualties on this Somme front true?” The little bastard, I could see he was going to get us all into hot water.

  “Well, yes, they have been pretty bad.”

  Harry went on, “They say a hundred thousand men since July.”

  Jones nodded. “I’m afraid those figures probably do approach the truth, Gunner Oakes.”

  I thought I’d step in: “Don’t listen to Harry Oakes, sir. He thinks he’s a bit of a military historian, but we all take him with a grain of salt.”

  Harry gave me a dirty look, but I could see I had not deterred him.

  “Well then,” continued the BSM, “he should know that General Haig attacked in July against his better judgment.” We all believed, though, that every time Haig ordered a new battle across the Western Front, the tears of widows and daughters would fill a bucket.

  “Are you just trying to excuse that disaster, sir?” Such a cheeky response, I thought.

  “You know, Gunner Oakes, we must give him his due. He’s a fine general, but from what I hear, he’d had his feet put to the fire by the French. They’d been under tremendous pressure at Verdun. The Empire was forced to come to the rescue, and did so by opening a new offensive on another front. That’s why we’re here on the Somme.”

  “Sir,” Red butted in, “Harry here told me this ‘Somme’ is actually Picardy. I’ve heard of “Roses Are Blooming in Picardy” and all that, but is he right? No roses I can see hereabouts!”

  We laughed, but Harry let out an exasperated snort.

  “Gunner Oakes is in fact quite right,” Jones said. “Lots of battles fought over this Somme, it’s a Department, like a province.”

  “Created a hundred years ago?” chimed in Harry.

  “Well well, a real historian!” How easygoing of our BSM, I thought; by now I’d have had the little rascal’s guts for garters. “Yes, around 1790. You’d know, then, that
Julius Caesar fought here; in the fourteenth century, Edward III took on the French, then Henry V engaged them again on his way to Agincourt.”

  “Don’t forget the Franco-Prussian War —” Harry added.

  “— when the Germans and French went at it again, only forty years ago.” Jones sighed and shook his head. “We never learn, it seems.”

  “So you mean to say, sir,” Harry pressed, “because of some pressure from those French buggers, Haig went and threw away thousands of British lives?”

  Aha! I thought, now he’ll get it for sure. “I wouldn’t put it quite that way.” Jones’s demeanour darkened. “The French are our allies. He’s a smart general.”

  Harry soldiered on, regardless. “I’ve heard that on the first day, we had over fifty thousand casualties, and Haig still kept on throwing more troops across No Man’s Land to get killed, day after day, week after week. I don’t call that very smart myself.” Now he’d get his real comeuppance, I thought

  “You are talking about General Sir Douglas Haig, our Commander-in-chief, Gunner. Shouldn’t you be a bit more respectful?”

  “All very well, sir, pull his rank on us if you want.” Harry was turning red, becoming pretty agitated. “But that’s no way to conduct a war, in my view.”

  Jones took up his challenge, rather too calmly, I thought. “Listen, Gunner Oakes, if Verdun had fallen, as it was bound to the way things were going, the Germans would have marched right into Paris!” He paused for emphasis, then said slowly, “The end of France. We’d have had to turn tail and run for the Channel. So although the Somme might have been a bit of a disaster in terms of achieving any real breakthrough — ”

  “And in terms of lives lost!” Harry interrupted.

  “On the other hand,” Jones pressed on, “my brother at HQ tells me that, in fact, we did give the Boche a beating: we made him pull men and supplies from Verdun so that the French could hold on satisfactorily.” He stared off into the mist, as the rain began to sprinkle. “The tactics of war, of this war especially, won’t really be known until it is all over and we’ve beaten the Boche properly.”

  BSM Jones did have a few points, I’ll admit. He went on, “You do have to give our generals some credit, Gunner. Not always possessed of the best judgments, but just think of the pressures they are under. The war cabinet in England — they also give General Haig instructions. He has a lot to consider.”

  “Maybe it’s about time he considered the thousands of lives — ”

  I saw Red and Edward stunned by Harry’s vehemence, but Jones changed the subject. “Well, Gunner Oakes, history will tell us both the truth — if we live to see that day.” He gave a perfunctory smile and turning, took me aside. “Alford,” he dropped his voice, “I didn’t really come up to the firing line to debate strategy with Oakes... I rather wanted to find out if you’d be agreeable to putting in a word with your brother?”

  Aha, so that’s why he was so calm with Oakes: he wanted to corner me. But it did take me back a bit. “Of course, sir. But in what way?”

  “You see, my brother, Chaplain Llewellyn Jones, wants to be with the Welsh Fusiliers. But because he signed up in Canada, he’s been put with some Saskatchewan Regiment.” I let him go on. “Well, that Chaplain Steacy — not that I want to say anything against a man of the cloth — but as your brother’s immediate superior, he’s known as rather a miserable so-and-so, not well suited for the job. Now,” he glanced behind him, “this is all just between you and me, Alford, right?

  I nodded. He went on louder to include the others as if we had been discussing this appointment: “From all accounts, Corporal Alford, your brother would be a much better head of that Service himself.”

  I was pleased. No one had told me how well he was doing. “Well, if I ever get a moment I’ll write to him and of course I’ll put in a word. We are all, in fact, part of the 35th!” And here I went perhaps beyond decorum, “As the best Battery in our Brigade, can we not ask a few favours from those in charge of spiritual matters?” I grinned. I thought I had said that rather well.

  Our usually strict BSM smiled, and nodded. Then, he waved to the others. “As you were, men. It’s been a fine conversation. One I’d like to continue, Gunner Oakes, when we next have time.”

  And off he went into the slowly thickening mist.

  ***

  The Infantry stayed on the attack, and we supported them with firepower, though the weather itself defeated any decent counter-battery. It depressed us, for we liked to maintain our accuracy, something we were especially proud of. To make matters worse, on the third night as we were eating supper, Harry Oakes came steaming up out of the dugout. “Cats!”

  I frowned. “What do you mean, Harry?”

  The others put down their mess tins and got up. “Really?” Red asked. “Kitties?”

  “No, I mean great big cats, scampering around; I just caught sight of a couple.”

  We ambled over to investigate as Red pronounced, “I’d love to adopt a cat. We have three at home. You know, the Infantry often have pet dogs, to carry messages. A cat might be fun.”

  Well sir, no cats at all. These were RATS— the biggest bloody rats I’ve ever seen. And from then on, when we were trying to go to sleep, we heard them rustling around, even jumping on our beds and waking us with their cold noses. Harry cried out in his sleep: he was scared, but as we’d been told the next morning, they don’t usually take a bite out of you — far too many dead bodies lying around to feed on. With all this rain and muck, they preferred a warm deep dugout, I guess. But you had to watch your food, or any parcel from home, because they’d soon tear into it, even in daylight.

  Rats, rain, damage, and death: not such an enjoyable adventure, I decided. I rolled over, tried to ignore the situation, and grab some sleep.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Regina Trench

  The Somme, Oct 21st 1916: Zero time fixed for barrage at 12:06 p.m., with Batteries registered on new zones.

  22-23rd The Brigade moved forward to new positions during the night. The whole move was carried out in good order in spite of the very difficult conditions of the routes available.

  War Diaries: 8th Brigade CFA

  Six minutes past noon. Another tremendous explosion and recoil joined the opening roar of the barrage. Acrid white smoke drifted around us as we began the sequence, firing again in less than a minute. The battle had begun.

  We went through the motions like automatons. Well, I tell a lie. Although the rain of the past few days had stopped, today was the coldest so far — that wind must have blasted down from Siberia; even the ground was frozen. Our fingers felt like ice and the ammunition was wet. After our first four days here, we had been back at the Wagon Lines on rotation but right now we were tired, hungry and cold. Had we not developed into a smooth firing machine, chaos would have reigned.

  The day before yesterday, we had registered our gun on new zones to support another attack on what we now knew was Regina Trench. Another big Allied push was on and we felt a growing excitement. This was not just one of your counter-batteries, no simple SOS called for by Infantry; this was another wide frontal bombardment, and we were part of it.

  This barrage had been called for yesterday but incessant rain and poor visibility caused High Command to postpone the attack. So here we were, cramming shell after shell into the breech — unbelievable noise! Not only us four howitzers, but all the 18-pounders in our Brigade and some six hundred other guns, all joined in a general mayhem.

  I blessed our automatic reflexes and training because that kept us all from going crazy with the noise. Two shells from our gun every minute and from every gun in our Battery, and remember, each shell weighed thirty-five pounds — handled three times: once to unload it from the limber, once to prepare and stack it, and once again into the breech. In the continuous roar, nothing could be heard. We were all going deaf, I was sure. I had to write new gun data down, no amount of yelling even close to an ear would be heard. The cacophony was gettin
g to all of us — not often have we joined in such a massive barrage and overhead, shells from our heavier guns kept whistling past. Who’d want to be a German this afternoon?

  As shell after shell screamed towards Fritz, all I could think about was Old Momma’s beef stew. Visions of my Old Homestead flashed across my mind until I put them aside. Never think of home here or you’ll go crazy.

  I checked the others: Finn, working cheerfully, seemed the least concerned, for he hated the Germans. Edward was not enjoying himself but moving his tall elegant body well, stopping every few seconds to blow on his fingers. Harry Oakes worried me: no fat on his bones to shield him from the cold; shuddering hard, the brave little fella kept at it, elevating and lowering the gun, slamming the breech shut, doing everything he had to do. And of course Red, so strong, continued as a bastion of strength.

  Forty minutes past zero hour we stopped, which allowed the gun to cool, but only for a while. The left portion of bloody Regina Trench had been taken. The cook’s helper, who seldom got any thanks, handed hot tea around while we waited in silence for that dreaded call back into action. Our infantry would need continued support if they were to hold the ground.

  I don’t know how we did it, but we kept going for hours, punishing the Boche as they pushed hard to take back their Trench. Thank heaven we had been stockpiling rounds and, God knows how, another ammunition limber arrived before dawn — we were going through ammunition like blazes.

  With all the rain, our dugout had begun to fill with water, maybe a foot deep. Rubbish under the slats rose to the surface; no fun slogging through it to get to your cot, happily still above water. And by gosh, when we copped our chance for sleep, we just forgot food and clambered down the ladder to stretch out — blink! Fast asleep.