The Gunner

by Paul Almond

  Indeed we had, but getting back here through that mud and rain last night had been hell. Dark and rainy, ammunition carried on mules. Lorries, limbers, transports, horses and men were crowding along that plank road in the dark — so many guns to resupply — no flashlights of course, though those muzzle flashes lighting the night sky made quite a spectacle. So often traffic blocked; you just waited in the cold rain. Hard to avoid being run over, because if you stepped off the boards, you sank right up to your knees in mud.

  I felt my ears redden. “We are in shape. But I’ve never seen so many guns lined up this way before.” By now, I was pretty experienced: nine months since I’d arrived, and another four months since I’d been in the firing line at the Somme. But the last thing I’d admit was that now again, I was darn scared.

  “Look, Sarge,” Edward said, “you never know what’s going to happen with a big attack. Look at that first day of the Somme.”

  “You fellows weren’t there,” baited McKillop.

  “Thank God!” I exclaimed. I looked down: another seam loaded with lice — or “chats” as we called them. Like most soldiers, we were chatting as often as we could. I scraped out the little grey devils with my fingernails, dipped my fingers into the can of creoline and flicked some along the seams. Such hell to wear a shirt after creoline before it dries. But then, we were going to sleep soon.

  “No matter what happens in the assault, I never worry.” McKillop finished his last gulp of that dreadful tea. He’d apparently gone through a tot of rum before he’d arrived, which made him gossipy.

  “Just think how many got wiped out back then.” Edward flicked a couple of grey-backed critters into the creoline can. “If the Hun does it again, no telling, he could just come sweeping down and finish us all off.”

  “You wouldn’t believe the numbers of Canadian troops I’ve seen coming up to the Front.” McKillop sounded impressed. “Have to be a pretty big Hun counter attack to get through that many.”

  “You can’t be sure,” I said. “Fritz can get up to some powerful tricks.”

  “It’s the first time all four Canadian divisions are massed together on one front, isn’t it?” Edward asked. “First time we’re fighting as a complete corps.”

  McKillop nodded.

  “But then,” Ed went on, “how many of us might get wiped out by Boche machine guns, like at the Somme?”

  “Surely the brass have learned something since then?” My little devils were really leaping away from that creoline, fleeing for their lives. Would I soon be doing the same?

  “Don’t be too sure of that,” said McKillop. “Damned British generals, you can’t tell them nothin’. Bunch of stiff-assed bastards if you ask me.”

  Edward looked up from his shirt. “But this time we’re led by Canadians.”

  “You think General Sir Julian Byng is a Canadian?” the Sarge asked.

  “Well no. But he’s near enough like us. Regular fella,” Edward affirmed. “Breaks the mould. And that General Arthur Currie, I’d stand by him any day.”

  “He’s not hidebound, like those British,” I agreed. “He’s a real Canadian. But he’s over running the First Division. Under Byng. Nothing to do with us right now.”

  “Oh God,” McKillop said suddenly, “when the bloody hell are they going to get me to England. I’ve been a Sergeant far too long. It gets to a man, it really does. Why can’t they put me up to Lieutenant?”

  I wondered if Edward would have the courage to tell him he’d never make an officer. I certainly didn’t.

  He did, without thinking. “You’ll never make it.” I saw McKillop stiffen and turn to the ladder. Edward never noticed, focussed on his chats. Just in time, he said, “Though you never know... If you were British I’d say impossible. Tommies never get promoted — but sometimes we Canadians do.”

  “Well, my turn will come.” With that, McKillop mounted a few steps, then turned. “Oh, I forgot to ask. How’s your precious Katie doing?”

  Had he heard Edward’s dream love had fled?

  Edward got up and I thought he’d smash the Sergeant in the face. Tall enough to do damage — and get himself court-martialled! I grabbed him by the hand and pulled him back down.

  McKillop grinned smugly and disappeared up the dozen stairs.

  “One thing I will say, Edward,” I blurted out fast to change the subject, “this clay and chalk at Vimy Ridge sure makes for good bivouacs. You seen them tunnels up near the front?”

  “No, I’ve not been.”

  “They’re just everywhere, and big, too. Great rooms for hundreds of men. And damn long tunnels, right up to the front.”

  “What amazes me,” Edward went on, absently, “are those bloody long railways I’ve heard they built over the ground, for the ammunition!”

  I agreed. “The amount of planning here, it’s unbelievable.”

  Edward nodded, his mind far away.

  I could see he was thinking about McKillop’s remark. I thought it might do him good to talk about it again, so I gave him an opening. “Myself, I gave up long ago thinking about Raine. She’s gonna be fine back there. I just made myself put her out of my mind.”

  He looked at the floor without saying anything, and then he picked up his shirt, got a couple more lice out and shook on some creoline before hanging it up.

  We soon turned in. After I’d blown out the lantern, we lay on our bunks and I thought about the lights mounted in tunnels up front. If you looked out from your gun position here across the plain to Vimy Ridge two miles away, you couldn’t see a soul — all underground: men, command posts, very deep. Just as well, with this harsh spring weather, still biting cold.

  Well, no wonder I was a bit cheerless. We’d been at it since the Somme. Actually, we’d had some rest over Christmas and January, trucking up to Vandelicourt briefly, then stopping at Acq. But then, lots of action at Comblain l’Abbé (or Complain Abbey as we called it), more moving about at Bully Grenay in February, and finally plenty here, softening up the Ridge — in such nasty weather, coldest winter in a long time. Not so cold as Gaspe, of course, but there you had your snug house and winter woollies.

  “I guess, Edward, I’d have to say, we’re lucky to be alive. Damn lucky not to be missing a leg, or an arm.”

  “I know.” He sighed. “I’ve got to stop thinking about Katie. I guess being in the biggest Canadian offensive ever should make me forget. Should even make me proud.”

  I yawned. “I just can’t take that constant din, those everlasting blasts from all our guns.”

  “Someone said there are practically a thousand of our guns, all lined up. Think of the tons of shells we must be sending over.”

  We both lapsed into our own thoughts, and I started to drift off. But I couldn’t get rid of a dark feeling about the coming assault. So much had been talked about all those waves of British troops slaughtered on the Somme. I mean, sixty thousand casualties the first day. Would that happen to us?

  Chapter Seventeen

  Vimy Ridge

  Berthonval Farm, April 5th, 1917: At 7:25 a.m. Vimy received the general bombardments ordered. At 8 a.m., a feint bombardment in accordance with Operation Order #9.

  War Diaries: 8th Brigade CFA

  We were sitting around finishing our suppers in our gun-pit out of the wind. Dazed, of course, after yet another long day of firing. So many batteries both near and far had rendered me deaf from the noise and unable to think. So far our own gun had fired several tons. The continual battering, the unholy din piercing our brains made them, like the omnipresent mud, into a mush of Momma’s porridge, no sharp or clear ideas. I prayed for a bit of respite.

  Perhaps that’s why I looked up and saw riding towards us an officer on a horse. When he got to our Battery, Lieutenant Overstreet went forward to greet him, and I saw them point in our direction. The officer dismounted and came over. Who it could be?

  “Is Corporal Alford anywhere about?” The nose of the tall, gaunt man forged forward like the prow of a ship, gr
ey hair indicating he should be nowhere near all this activity. Was he one of our generals?

  I leapt up and saluted. “Corporal Alford, at your service, sir.”

  The clergyman, for now I saw his collar and insignia of the Chaplaincy Corps, returned the salute and then came to join us. “Your brother told me you were in the 35th and asked me to look in on you.” He held out his hand. “Canon Scott.”

  I had heard him spoken of before. In fact, we all had: a senior chaplain and bit of a legend, for he never shirked a battle. “Oh yes sir, it’s an honour to meet you. I’ve heard about you visiting the Front.”

  “Yes sir,” Harry added — trust him to add his two cents, “when most others stay back in Wagon Lines, or in the dressing stations and base hospitals, nowhere near any real danger.”

  Canon Scott looked pleased, offered some rather good cigarettes around and sat down. We exchanged news of my brother. “You know, he’s now been appointed Head of the Chaplaincy Service? In February, finally. Pleased us all. Doing a good job of reorganization, too.”

  Well, that was news indeed! “Thank you sir!” I replied. “Old Poppa taught us to work hard.”

  “You know, Father John and I met in Quebec City before the Boer War. Kept in touch ever since. Our views may diverge from time to time, but we are united in devotion to Our Lord’s commandments. Did you know that your brother’s been mentioned in dispatches three times?”

  “News to me, sir. But from what I hear, you’ve been doing terrific work, too.” I hoped I was not being too impertinent.

  “Well, in 1899 I preached to the First Canadian Contingent as they were leaving for South Africa. But I never got there. So now I’m doing my best to make up for that. Oh, have you heard the great good news?” I shook my head. “A couple of days ago, President Wilson spoke to a joint session of Congress, and the expectation is that America will declare war on Germany tomorrow, the sixth!” His bright blue eyes gleamed with delight.

  “That is news indeed, sir!” He seemed to have an underlying warmth, but not enough to encourage me to unburden my soul to him. What I mainly saw was a resolute soldier, a patriotic preacher, here to do his duty no matter what.

  “Here we are in Holy Week. I presume you had no Palm Sunday service here on the gun line?”

  “No sir. In fact, I don’t think any of us really had time. We just feed those shells into the gun, fire them off and reload, till we’re dizzy.”

  He shook his head, not well pleased, and rose. “Well, Corporal, I’m glad to see you’re still doing well. If I talk to your brother, I’ll tell him I saw you, but of course he’s back in England now, at Headquarters: Cavendish House I believe, in Mayfair.” So that’s why we hadn’t seen him. I frowned, I couldn’t keep up with his goings and comings. “Well, I trust you’ll carry on this great fight for civilization with the requisite bravery you have displayed up to now.”

  I wonder how he knew what bravery I had displayed.

  He must have seen my puzzled look, and went on, “In the Somme, where Father John told me you served, the Germans have withdrawn, just last month I believe.” I raised my eyebrows. “Oh yes, they fell back some distance and established another bulwark, the Hindenberg line. Thanks to the glorious courage and bravery of our troops.”

  “That’s tremendously good, sir.”

  “I expect it has something to do with Asquith getting booted out. That Lloyd George, the new British prime minister, he’s a real fighter. You know he’s brought in conscription?”

  “No, I didn’t.” Funny, usually Harry and Jim kept up on that sort of news. But then, neither of them seemed keen on Brits, or their officers.

  “It’ll be coming to Canada soon, I have no doubt. Too many shirkers back there, not stepping up to do their duty.”

  I hoped that wasn’t true. But I wondered how the notion of conscription would sit with my province of Quebec.

  “No shirkers around here, that’s for sure,” Red said.

  “And if there are,” Scott added, “a terrifying justice is speedily meted out!”

  “How do you mean, sir?” I asked. “Executions?”

  “Sure,” Harry burst out. “Like Reynolds and Laliberté, last year?

  “You’d think they’d want to keep that stuff secret,” Jim blurted, “but they paraded the whole battalion to watch. Disgusting.”

  “Yeah, they want us all to know,” Harry went on. “I heard some other fellow from Prince Edward Island was executed for desertion just last December.”

  “And what about Private Henry Kerr,” Jim added, “shot on November 21, even after having actually braved the Somme. Can you imagine?”

  Scott sighed, and sat down. “You know, boys, nothing brings home so forcefully the iron discipline of war as does the execution of men who desert. It was my painful duty on one occasion to watch a death sentence carried out.”

  We were all surprised. I leaned forward. Why didn’t our Canadian Parliament veto all that?

  “I was asked to visit him. Poor fellow was sitting back in his chair with a dazed expression. He rose and shook hands and we began to talk. He was steeling himself, trying to fortify his mind at the great injustice.”

  “I bet he was!” Jim folded his long body into a protective corner.

  “Well of course, I tried to get his sentence commuted. You see, the poor lad mentioned that on both sides of his family, there had been cases of mental weakness. I spent the whole of that night galloping hither and yon, even got to wake up the Commanding Officer at Divisional Headquarters, but to no avail.” He shook his head.

  “Well, when I got back with the dismal news,” he continued, “I urged him to go out and meet death bravely.”

  I shook my head. “I’m shocked, sir.”

  “So am I,” Harry added forcefully. “The Aussies don’t execute fellows. Why can’t we follow their example?”

  “I sure agree,” said Jim.

  Scott shrugged. “But the failure of one man to do his duty might spoil the morale of his Platoon, and spread the contagion of fear from the Platoon to the Company and from the Company to the Battalion, endangering the fate of the whole line.”

  We listened, but not a man among us agreed. “Look what happened to Cecil,” I burst out. “We had a man here, Canon, who was terrified. He refused to pass the ammunition. He refused orders. But we found him another position. He turned out to be fine.”

  “I agree,” Edward sounded shocked himself. “He didn’t ‘spread contagion’, poor Cecil. And no one else would, either!”

  “No,” Jim agreed. “That’s just balderdash, sir, if you’ll excuse my saying so.”

  Canon Scott looked uncomfortable.

  “But do go on, Canon,” I urged. “Did you stay with the man?”

  “I did. When we finally went together, he was blindfolded and led to a box behind which a post had been driven into the ground. A drizzling rain was falling, so chilly and drear. He sat, hands handcuffed behind the post. A target was pinned to his shirt. And then... the firing squad did its work.”

  An awful silence fell on us. How we hated that whole idea! Especially as the poor fellow obviously needed care and attention, not execution. And so I said.

  Scott shook his head. “Well, when we marched back and drew up in the courtyard, I saw how deeply all ranks felt the occasion. Nothing but the dire necessity of guarding the lives of the men in the front line from the panic and rout that might result through one individual’s failure would compel such measures of punishment.”

  “Panic and rout,” Harry snorted. “What rot!”

  “I agree,” Jim chimed in. “Begging your pardon, sir.”

  “And indeed you should, Gunner. For I myself felt the whole episode keenly. I have often seen what men suffer here at the Front, but nothing brought it home to me so deeply as did that lonely death on that hillside in the early morning.”

  I confess it sure made me wonder, how does the Good Lord countenance the killing of our own men? Lots going on here that made
no sense, for sure.

  “But I believe that among all the men found guilty of desertion from the Front, only a small percentage were executed.” And then he got up, changing the subject. “You know the beastly Hun declared unrestricted submarine warfare in February. Already they’ve gone and sunk hospital ships in the Med. Hospital ships! The world needs be rid of such a people, and you fine soldiers are contributing.” He paused before going off. “Shall I pronounce a blessing on you?”

  “I’d be most grateful, sir. I’m sure we all would.”

  He stood and pronounced a short blessing and made the sign of the cross over our bowed heads.

  He saluted again as we leapt to our feet, and off he went on his horse. A big weekend ahead for him, with Good Friday, Easter Sunday. But he had opened the debate. Debate? No one I knew took his side. We all agreed that shooting your own soldier just because the horrors of trench warfare proved too much — well, it was a travesty just too dreadful and not suited to our nation of pioneers.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Vimy Ridge

  April 9th. [Easter Monday, 1917]: At 5:30 a.m. our attack on Vimy Ridge commenced.

  5:57 a.m. L.O. [Liaison Officer] 8th C.I.B. reports our Infantry passed Flapper Trench. Barrage very good. Their barrage very weak.

  6:12 a.m. One of our planes seen. Weather conditions very bad for flying. Snowstorms and heavy weather soon turning into rain [and driving sleet].

  6:21 a.m. 38th Battery reports 5.9s falling close to Battery position.

  6:35 a.m. 35th Battery reports all okay now. No shrapnel close to Battery.

  6:44 a.m. L.O. reports all Infantry into Swischen Stellung [trench]. 100 prisoners taken.

  6:55 a.m. 30th Battery reports 100 prisoners coming over crater with their hands up.

  7:04 a.m. O.C. 40th Battery reports situation good on our front. Our Infantry pass Swischen Stellung. It can be seen on the skyline.

  7:22 a.m. 30th, 31st, 35th, 38th and 40th Batteries report all guns okay.

  7:29 a.m. 1,000 prisoners going down in batches of 10 and 20.