The Gunner

by Paul Almond

  “You brought that on yourself Eric — no more cracking jokes while I’m around. Otherwise we’ll both be laughing ourselves silly, and you’ll need another operation on that jaw!” Then he reached into his pocket and handed me an envelope with Rene’s writing. “Well, I brought this.”

  I looked at it and then put it away. “Now Jack, please make sure she doesn’t come down.” I didn’t know quite how to tell him, because he was such a fighter himself. “You see, Jack, it’s not just the face and the jaw.”

  A look of alarm crossed his features.

  “No no, it’s not, you see, physical. It’s just that you never know when these terrors are gonna grab a-hold. When they do, I could shout, scream, dive under tables, I get shaking. I’m not really well enough to see anyone. And I have these Satanic nightmares. They call it shell-shock.”

  He nodded. “It’s something we’re all struggling to understand.”

  “Jack, they say I’ll get over it. I haven’t yet, that’s for sure. And there’s nothing I can do about it. They give me warm baths. I’ve seen a doctor fellow who specializes in this sort of thing. Lots of cases are worse than mine.” I leaned forward. “Fellows who can’t actually stand, although there’s nothing wrong with their legs. Some can’t even speak — they try hard, but they just cannot.”

  He shook his head. “I haven’t been visiting the hospitals as much as I should. You wouldn’t believe the officialdom I deal with every day.” He sighed. “I do believe faith and prayer can somehow help our soldiers deal with their terrors. But listen, here’s what one Major of the Royal Medical Corps does in treating men who cannot speak: he lashes them to an operating table, puts a constrictive gas mask on them, and lets them suffer in near suffocation. Then he comes back and asks in a soothing voice, ‘If you speak the words, Take it away I shall do so.’ Can you believe it?”

  I shook my head and sighed. No doctor here like that, I thought.

  “Oh yes, other experts,” Jack went on, disgusted, “employ electric shock therapy. They’ll electrocute tongues, eyelids, even genitals, to brutally shock these poor fellows out of their catatonic states, brought on as you know by the horrors of constant bombardment, so they can send them back into the same hell.”

  “Well here, I’m told by this doctor I’ll get over it. I’m soon off to a convalescent hospital for Canadian Officers.”

  Jack nodded. “Yes, at Matlock Bath, in Derbyshire, I know of it, and have been up there, visiting.”

  “I’m told that with rest, with peace and quiet such as I shall get, these terrors will disappear. I earnestly pray that is so.”

  “I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” said Jack. “I tried it once in the Labrador. In fact, I did it several times. A form of exorcism. Not really sanctioned by the church. But if you will allow me, we’ll do a little ceremony together, and it might help. Needless to say, no one knows how the Holy Spirit works, whether He can be summoned at will, or whether He takes His own sweet time. But why don’t we give it a try?”

  We walked down the steps of the hospital off into the grounds and found a sunny bench. I closed my eyes while Jack said a few prayers. Then, didn’t he smack me on the forehead with the flat of his hand? I was never so surprised all my life.

  “Well,” I said opening my eyes, “maybe that will knock some sense into me, even if it doesn’t get rid of the terrors.” And then in spite of myself, I started to laugh. And dammit, that jaw hurt like hell all over again. But it was worth it, to have my spirits raised.

  ***

  I soon found my physical ailments healing and off I was shipped to Matlock Bath. Our convoy of ambulances arrived at St. Pancras Rail Station for the trip north and the wounded were wheeled, assisted, or carried across to the station. A group of little boys surrounded us with cries of delight.

  “Coo, look, here’s one with no arm!”

  “This one here, he’s got no legs, come quick, look!”

  “There’s a man coming out with only one eye! Look, lost an eye.”

  “What’s that one on the stretcher like? Sister, let us look at him, I bet he’s real bad.”

  Of course, the orderlies were quick to chase the urchins away and bundle the more severely wounded into the station. I was trying to suppress my annoyance when one of the lads came up and said, “Excuse me, sir, can you bring us some more to see tomorrow? We’ve been waiting all week.”

  I turned, without giving the lad the cuffing he deserved and, suppressing my natural anger, went off to the train.

  When we arrived, I found the Officers’ Convalescent Hospital nestled in a rather wide, flat hollow surrounded by interesting hills, one of which rises abruptly out of the town, called High Tor. I was told these hills made for wonderful hikes and, in a way, the scenery reminded me of parts of the Gaspe Coast. Exactly what I needed; I really felt at home. If anything was going to cure me of disabling visions, this might be it. But then, inevitably, night would fall and I would be wracked by horrors once again.

  I joined several walking parties on trails that led out into the countryside so that I could familiarize myself before attempting any on my own. Then one morning I awoke after a particularly distressing night. I had once again found myself on that icy plain, facing the dreadful fearsome barrier of the devilish Angel of War. But the sun, not known for its regular appearance here in the Old Country, came out in all its Gaspesian glory, if you will forgive the analogy. Today, I determined, I would go off on my own.

  At the base of the tor I found some inviting pastureland, with sheep nibbling the verdant April grass. So like the Gaspe in many ways. I sat on a rock, and then I moved off and just lay back, gazing up at the wisps of high cirrus strung out across the cavern of sky. And then, I slipped into sleep.

  ***

  I should never have allowed myself to do that. Because once again I had slipped into another electrifying dream. I was on an ice field, facing the same War Devil.

  I stood wondering what to do when I saw the figure make a gesture of judgment. He didn’t speak, he just grinned and pointed downwards. Oh no! Was I now, with the rest of humanity, being condemned to an everlasting nightmare?

  But you know? His grin seemed a bit uncertain — like a trickster, as if he were not in a position of spiritual authority and, in a way, had no real power behind his gesture. Was he only trying to persuade me to accept this hell of icy petrification? That hint of uncertainty was all I needed. Summoning up all my strength, I kept on walking straight at him.

  And do you know, the image began to shimmer. I walked still closer and then didn’t the figure begin to dissolve into a ghastly clammy mist, like the ones from a gas attack? Was I now seeing that image atop Hill 70 — the Angel of Mons, the Angel of Mercy, shaping itself? I braced myself, and ended up walking right through that mist.

  I staggered forward, still shuddering from the effects of the deadly chill, and headed towards a dark opening in a precipice wall. Within this cave I glimpsed what seemed to be a stairway cut into the rock. I started to climb it and found myself mounting circular stone steps with no railing. I kept my body pressed against the dank wall. I had to keep looking up, for above I caught sight of a tiny spot of light. No longer hindered by these supernatural terrors, I continued round and round, step after step, always looking up. If I slipped, I would hurtle to my death.

  The higher I went, the more certain I became. Something was calling, softly out of a dreadful void. A faint hymn wafting across the waters of death below? Or the loving whispers of my mother at my bedside when I was a little lad? Or somehow, as Jack once explained it to me, the words of One who had himself gone down into the void, into the maw of Hell itself and in three days wrested a victory from Death?

  But it was none of those celestial sounds, no, it sounded rather like a female voice, but whose? I listened, and yes, possibly Rene’s, or rather her laughter, bubbling and tingling the air, and beckoning. Whatever it was, I calmed slightly and developed a regular rhythm in my progress. After an age of exertion,
I did reach the top.

  I opened my eyes. Here I was, collapsed, once again on this verdant pastureland, at the foot of High Tor. There above, the cirrus still drifted gently across the blue sky. I lay, exhausted, knowing I’d been given a kind of blessing.

  I rose up after this vision, or still in it, and moved across to a rivulet running down from on high. I knelt and splashed the cool water on my face. Was I not washing off the grime of the Underworld? And of my frightening ascent? My terrors melted in this cleansing, living stream.

  Follow the rivulet upwards, I thought, let the breezes dry your skin. And so I began again, this time an altogether different ascent. I hiked upward and this lovely little stream became somehow energizing, splashing from rock to rock. I found the pastureland giving way to a steeper and rockier terrain, working in me a unique spiritual abrasion.

  It had begun softly and gently, but as I climbed higher, I felt the challenge intensify. I knew somehow I had to shed those deeply imbued fears and anxieties from my wartime experiences. Oh yes, this curative process was stripping away at my mental or spiritual states and replacing them with Higher Virtues. And as I climbed, I felt lighter, my step more purposeful, more secure, even as the hill became more challenging.

  Reaching the top of High Tor, I stood in the strong winds and breathed deeply. Yes, now having achieved this conquest of the hill, I realized I was in fine shape to leave the war behind and encounter the world once again. And I’d make sure that world included Rene, for her call had awakened me on the grassy pasture: she had been beckoning me up the hill. Now I could meet her when I got back to London, and be at her side in a way that was not possible before — had I not gone through these visionary and physical experiences.

  As someone who has passed through the hell of the battlefield, both real and spiritual, I could confront anything. This Aristocracy of the Warrior, so much more than just written a phrase, enveloped me like a mantle. As an ancient knight and ready for anyone or anything, I had somehow been crowned monarch over myself.

  THE RETURN 1919

  I stood looking down at the white wooden cross I had made as a younger man. Fifty years ago, maybe a bit more, James Alford, 1778-1863, and his wife, Catherine Garrett had been put to rest in this New Carlisle cemetery. I don’t know how long I was lost in my gaze, but suddenly I fell on my knees and grabbed a-hold of the cross in both arms.

  You’d understand it all, James, I thought, my fighting forerunner, my sailor ancestor. You’d know what I went through. You’d know what war was like. And Catherine, did you understand it, too? Did James tell you about it? Because now, you see, I know him better. I know what he went through on that there great big ship-of-the-line. We both fought, yes, and know that nothing, nothing we can say or do, will ever make others understand. No one ever understands. I see that now. But why was I crying?

  Three weeks ago, when Poppa and me in the buggy reached Momma’s large English flower garden and turned up our steep driveway, I could feel my heart just bursting. There, unbelievably, was the Old Homestead, with its black tarred shingled roof, its whitewashed walls and its wrap-around veranda, where we had spent so many Sunday evenings looking out across the bay, and over to the new wharf. Lillian waved from the window and came rushing out, calling Momma who burst out the back door in her apron, Earle came on the trot from the barn, my cousins, playing on the grass by the shed — they all gathered round as Poppa pulled Lively to a halt after our fast trot from St. Godfrey station. I was home at last.

  But they all just stood there, looking. What did they see? Had I changed so much? I started to get down, and at last Momma ran forward. I grabbed hold of her and the tears poured down my face. I hung onto her so tight I nearly killed her. I couldn’t let go. But when I did look up, the others were watching me, kinda strange. Well, I don’t blame them.

  I wiped my eyes, tried a smile or two, and then shook hands with everyone. But I could not get their look out of my head. I was like some guy from Africa or Zambesiland. Hey! I’m your brother, your relative, your son, I felt like yelling. But they still looked on me as someone they’d never known.

  Earle told me later, he’d gotten such a shock. He’d never seen no one age that fast. And that look in my eyes. Another fella, Will Wiley, he’d come back earlier, Earle saw it in his eyes, too.

  I guess Jack had written. He’d warned them to watch out. I had been through so much, maybe I wasn’t going to be what they expected. The army doctors told me I’d better rest for a good long time. But since I arrived back, I feel a bit better: nothing like sleeping in my own feather bed and Momma making me breakfast, maybe going to sit on the veranda for a smoke, a bit of a read, and the war followup in the Family Herald. A couple of times I even walked back over the hill. Didn’t get back as far as the Hollow yet. Though they told me no one had heard of Raine for a couple of years. Last anyone knew, she was in Montreal and doing pretty good.

  Matlock Bath had sort of cured me, and I’d gotten thrown back into action at Arras. Then after only two weeks I was invalided again to Blighty, ten days before the end of the war. First I’d recuperated at a French hospital and then in England stayed at different hospitals. That’s when I got to see a fair bit of Rene. Finally, they put me on a ship that reached Halifax on the 14th of May, a month ago now. I’m real glad I didn’t persuade Rene to try and make it here, or follow me soon. I mean, after London — the Old Homestead? Oh no. And she knew it. When we said goodbye, we knew it was for good.

  Well maybe not. I’m going to write to her by and by. She said she’s going to keep training as a dancer, even though it annoys the Mater. Jack wrote that he’d had a lunch with her after I left. So nice of him. We’d gotten to know each other real good in the three or four months before I left. Listen to me, I no sooner get home than I talk like a Shigawaker. I’ll have to smarten up again. Specially if I intend to get to University, though the doctor warned it might take a year or two before I’m ready to do anything much. Funny, Earle don’t — I mean doesn’t — make me do anything round the farm. They just sort of leave me be. Which is just as well. I guess the shell-shock never leaves, though I sure was hoping it would.

  In New Carlisle, I let go the cross and got up off the grass, wet from yesterday’s rain. Today, Sunday, they didn’t need Lively, so Poppa let him bring me to the cemetery. I walked over, untied him, and got into the buggy. I paused a while, looking around. I guess I’d better make myself shape up, drive back to the Old Homestead, and take another go at this different life in Shigawake, after that Great War for Civilization, the war to end all wars.

  AFTERWORD

  After Amiens, when Lieutenant Eric Almond (on whom this story is based) was wounded, the Imperial forces, in what became known as the Hundred Days, pushed the Germans back some eighty miles up and down the Western Front. They put up stern resistance, but the morale and social order within Germany began to crumble. Their fleet was ordered out to sea but the sailors mutinied, and armed groups began to spread throughout Germany in open revolt. Fearing another Communist revolution, the Allies were happy to sign — with an extemporized German government (the Kaiser having been sent into exile) — an Armistice at the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month of 1918.

  The Guardian newspaper recounts that between 8.5 and 9 million soldiers perished. Indeed, some 10.5 million soldiers were killed and wounded on the Western Front alone. Tim Cook of the Canadian War Museum writes, “The statistics are staggering in their horror.” In all, some 50 percent of mobilized soldiers were either killed, wounded, captured, or declared missing. At least 80,000 British soldiers were shell-shocked, though some experts think this estimate far too low.

  In spite of intensive research by historians, there is not now — and never will be — a definitive list of casualties. Soldiers were wholly obliterated or instantly buried, and casualty records were often inaccurately kept, distorted for propaganda, or destroyed by the war.

  Canada and Newfoundland enlisted more than 645,000 people
, two thirds of whom served overseas. Of these, Canada and Newfoundland suffered over 68,000 dead and some 140,000 wounded — a casualty rate of approximately one half. By comparison, in the Second World War the casualty rate was roughly 9 percent of total enlistments, yet that too was a terrible and costly conflict. What is more, civilian deaths in all countries during the Great War are estimated at ten million, a significant proportion due to the terrible famine and disease that war brought in its wake.

  APPENDICES

  Original Writing

  My father, Lieut. Eric Almond, left no specific writings on his war experiences. I was guided in my fictional account only by the fierce but understated reality of his battalions’ diaries. He did leave a looseleaf with some stories that I finally read fifty years after his death. I have chosen from among them some excerpts to illustrate here his involvement in that mighty conflict.

  Major Eric Almond, Shigawake, Bonaventure County, Quebec

  I wish to state that I wrote these stories in the autumn of 1926 during the time I was attending lectures and carrying on with all my work as a university student in Third Year Arts. They are rough and ready like the scenes I have depicted for I have made no attempt to polish them. But they are human true, because all these events actually happened, although I have changed a few names and places.

  Reminiscences of the Great War

  Six old soldiers were gathered together in a large upper room in the Windsor Hotel, December 31, 1921. They had assembled to watch the old year out and the New Year in — a solemn time. It was a typical reunion of old soldiers, a bottle of Scotch, pipes, cigars, and cigarettes were soon sending up a gas cloud like the Germans put over Ypres but such friendly gas. It was more like an incense rising to heaven.

  There was quiet in the room for a while, when someone proposed “The Silent Lost,” everybody busy with memories of friends who had gone west out in Flanders. But the Scotch whisky did its work... They pointed a finger at me and I seemed to be back in France...