The Gunner

by Paul Almond

  “Did I ever tell you boys about the Black Cat, OP?” All right, here goes:

  Our infantry had dug in the old German lines in front of Arras. The trenches were fairly close together — about forty yards of No Man’s Land. The First Canadian Brigade Artillery were supporting the Third Divisional Infantry and I was shooting officer for the Fourth Battery and Forward Observing Officer for the First Brigade.

  I had gone up the trenches this night with the full outfit — you fellows know — two Signallers, two Linesmen, two pigeons, rifles for the Signallers, my own revolver, field glasses, telescope and SOS rockets.

  The OP overlooked No Man’s Land and the German country, just behind our old front line — one sheet of corrugated iron over our heads and just below was an old forty-foot German dugout.

  Everything in the Front was absolutely quiet. The Infantry Intelligence Officer had no news for me worth anything. All there was for me to do was to watch and wait. That everlasting watch, how many nights have we stood looking over No Man’s Land, the eyes of the Artillery waiting for dawn? It seemed selfish to keep my Signallers up in the OP for everything was almighty quiet, so I sent them down into the dugout directly below, with the kind order to try to get a little sleep. You fellows know that it is a court-martial offence punishable by death to leave an OP when there is an attack or under any other circumstances. And I suppose you know that I’m not usually “yellow” or shirk my duty.

  All Roman Catholics have Guardian Angels, so they tell me. Well, my Guardian Angel was with me in that observation post, or something like it. Yes, everything so very quiet not a single shell. Away on the left a machine gun rattled once or twice. The Germans were not sending up any planes for a wonder. It was such a perfect moonlight evening.

  Poor old Colonel Dorothy — he is pushing daisies now, God rest his soul — called me up about 11 o’clock to enquire about the Front.

  “Everything quiet, Sir.” I said.

  “All right, Eric, I will turn into my sleeping bag. Goodnight!” answered the old Colonel.

  About 12 o’clock I was dreaming wide awake when suddenly, boys, I felt somebody in the Observation Post beside me. No, don’t laugh, I am in deadly earnest. My flesh started to creep — it was not a view of physical death, because I have been scared blue often before. I know what it is to face rifle and machine-gun fire and dodge whiz-bangs. It was a supernatural fear, as if all the ghosts in creation were beside me. My hair stood straight on end. Then somebody seemed to throw me headfirst down into that forty-foot dugout.

  I picked myself up at the bottom after frightening my Signallers to death, and started to climb back, when suddenly the whole earth seemed to shake above me, mud, clay, and stones came down on my head with the fumes of the gas of an exploding shell. I pushed my way to the top through the debris to find — where my OP had formerly stood — only a shell hole about six foot deep. It was a direct hit of a German 5.9. The only shell the Huns fired that night. I was thrown out of the OP by my Guardian Angel while the shell that should have killed me was coming on his mission of destruction through the air. The rest of the night I watched our front from the shell hole.

  The next day, I was up before Colonel Dorothy. “Well, Eric, my lad, I see Black Cat OP has been destroyed by an enemy shell. Why ever were you not blown up also? You know, my boy, this is a court-martial offence. What have you got to say?”

  So, fellows, I told the old Colonel this story that I am now telling you. He smiled and said, “There are strange experiences nowadays. Have a drink my boy and forget about it.”

  But this is the mystery, old-timers. I never breathed about the experience to a solitary soul, but three weeks afterwards — you know, Harry had been invalided back to the States, on account of his smash-up at Vimy. Well, I had a letter from the old swamp adder in New York, congratulating me on my sudden dive into the dugout from Black Cat OP. Now how in thunder did that man of mystery know about this, I ask you?

  A Dugout in Flanders

  “No, it is no use to carry him back to the dressing station for he would die on the way,” the field doctor said. “He has been terrible hit by an exploding shell in the stomach and legs, so he will pass out in a few hours. Let his friends stay here with him and see him across in peace.”

  “Are you afraid to die, Billy?” his friend asked.

  “No, old man, this war is over for me. And if it wasn’t for mother I would be happy to go, but you know, I am her only son, and she is old. There is a girlfriend, too, but strange to say, I don’t feel so badly about her. My one thought is mother.”

  “Never mind, old man, God will help her,” his friend replied.

  “Yes, I know. Could you say the Lord’s Prayer with me? And tell mother, for it would please her so. My legs feel funny, they are so numb and there is an awful blackness before my eyes”.

  “You are all right, Billy boy, I have my arms right around you. Trust in God, and go to sleep.”

  And this was death.

  The Hero

  After we took Vimy Ridge from the Huns, I was ordered in charge of some of our battery drivers, with about fifty men from the Divisional Ammunition Corps to carry shells on the horse’s backs up to the guns. It was impossible to get wagons over that hell-accursed ground, just one sea of shell holes after the terrific battle, where all the big guns on the Western Front had been massed for the attack. We overcame the difficulty by tying ammunition on the saddles, riding one horse and leading the other.

  The Germans put over a gas barrage so I ordered the drivers to wear their gas masks, which made the going very difficult, as a matter of fact. The divisional men, not being accustomed to gas shells, dumped their ammunition in the mud and galloped back. However, my own battery men stayed with me — true soldier hero hearts, God bless them! We were forced to go through a huge railway culvert under a big embankment to get forward to the guns. And we were ordered to make about four trips so our artillery would have lots of ammunition in case of a German counter attack. All at once the Boche artillery registered on that culvert with 5.9 shells and fast 4.2s, at the same time putting over bursts of shrapnel. They kept firing all night at intervals to prevent the passage of our troops through the embankment. It was one hell of an obstacle for you did not know what moment that quiet culvert would turn into a wall of fire with exploding shells.

  The first time through, they caught us nicely. Three of my drivers were killed, two wounded, with their horses only mangled heaps piled up on the side of the road.

  We were all loaded up with shells to go through that culvert a second time when a young boy, one of my drivers, with white face and shaking limbs, rode up to me. He looked about sixteen, God only knows how he ever got into the army, I suppose he lied about his age. This was his first time in action.

  A hell of a baptism of fire from that mere child.

  Sir!” he said, saluting me. “I am frightened, I don’t think I can go through that culvert again.”

  I said, “Tommy my lad. You must not show cowardice in action: it is punishable by death. It is better to die, than be a coward. However, the greatest hero of the lot is the man who will face the enemy when his legs want to run back. I expect you to go through that culvert even though you’re frightened to death.”

  He replied, “All right, Sir! But will you go through by my side?”

  We went through together four times that night. It was surely nerve-wracking business, even for old soldiers, that was one rough passage: twice the Boche shelled us again, one caught the front of our column killing one man, then the rear of our party wounding two others, eight casualties in all, almost half our original outfit. The boy was trembling all over, but he did his duty like a veteran. Tommy never went into action after that but what he was still yellow with fear. However he stuck it just the same and did his duty with trembling knees.

  I tell you shell fire is no picnic! When you can hear them come whistling down on top of you! — even the bravest will duck and take cover. I would still rath
er be under shellfire than face rifle fire in the open — it takes all your nerve to stand up to those droning bees: zip zip.

  We buried this young lad at Hill 70 where he fell under rifle fire but with his face to the foe — Thank God.

  I had to write his mother. That was one hard letter.

  Yes — a real hero scared to death but too brave to run away.

  I have no fear. What is in store for me shall find me ready for it, undismayed. God grant my only cowardice may be: afraid — to be afraid!

  The Monument

  At the present moment I am thinking of monument in Sherbrooke Que which represents the Canadian Infantry in the trenches, looking up to the figure of Victory on top of the parapet. To me, where the sculptor carved in granite the essential truth — God’s own truth, was this:

  That in spite of the lice, mud, hunger, cold, wet, gas and shelling, those Canadian boys are still looking up. Not down, mark you, but with eyes forgetting the misery of soul and body, were looking up straight through the blue.

  And we who are living in the Paths of Peace, when sickness or suffering with disaster almost overwhelms us, may we seek an inspiration and catch the vision from that soldiers Memorial in Sherbrooke and “look up!”

  Notes on Organization, Ranks, Guns and Ammunition in the Artillery

  Gun Detachment: consisted of a gun, three limbers, two ammunition wagons, twenty horses, ten Gunners and nine Drivers commanded by a Sergeant. Two guns (a Section) commanded by a Lieutenant.

  Battery: two or three sections (three for most of the war) with a large headquarters and support component commanded by a Major (approx 6 guns, 195 men and 165 horses).

  Brigade: two or more batteries (generally four) with a small headquarters commanded by a Lieutenant-Colonel.

  Ammunition Column: (to which Cecil was assigned) approx 590 Artillerymen and 666 horses commanded by a Lieutenant-Colonel.

  Division: two or more field brigades, three heavy mortar batteries, an ammunition column and a small headquarters commanded by a Brigadier-General.

  Canadian Corps Artillery: five division artilleries plus units from Army Artillery commanded initially by a Brigadier and later a Major-General (approx 240 field guns, 84 heavy guns, 80 heavy mortars, 14,400 men and 10,000 horses).

  THE WOUNDED: Eric was evacuated after being wounded via the:

  CCS: Casualty Clearing Station; and the

  ADS: Advanced Dressing Station

  ON RANKS

  Commissioned Officers (Second Lieutenants to Field Marshals) held a King’s Commission, a personal contract between the officer and the Sovereign. On being given/granted a Commission, a soldier was recognized as being His Majesty’s “good and trusty friend”. Commissioned officers were referred to as “Sir” by subordinates and were saluted as a mark of respect for the Commission.

  Immediately below the Commissioned Officers were the Non-Commissioned Officers (NCOs) (Warrant Officers and Sergeants). Warrant Officers (for example “Battery Sergeant Major” or “BSM”) also held a King’s Warrant and were addressed as “Sir” by subordinates. Sergeants were addressed as “Sergeant”. NCOs were not saluted. NCOs and officers formed a “command team” although final authority and responsibility rested with the officers.

  Below the NCOs were the ORs, Other Ranks (“rankers” because they stood in ranks on parades). Most were Gunners and Drivers. Next came “Bombardiers” (Lance Corporals), and above them, Corporals.

  Thus, each small group of soldiers was led by a Corporal or Sergeant who supervised, trained and disciplined them. Daily life, meals, washing, and pay all happened at this level. This was the soldier’s “family”. His extended family was the battery and the field brigade. Levels of command above this were quite remote from the soldier’s experience, except as sources of tasks and orders. To most soldiers, the ways of the higher levels of organization would always seem rather distant and foreign. They would tend to be forgiving of their unit leaders while often complaining of being “buggered-about” by commanders higher up.

  ON GUNS AND AMMUNITION

  The Canadian Field Artillery was equipped with the 18-pounder, a flat-trajectory gun (mostly shrapnel and smoke rounds), and the 4.5” howitzer, (mainly High Explosive and gas) which fired a larger projectile on a much higher trajectory in order to reach beyond obstacles and into trenches.

  Shrapnel rounds expelled hundreds of small lead “balls” in a lethal cone which extended up to 200 yards in front of the projectile, making a greyish-white cloud of smoke. A soldier was safe as little as 25-yards behind the burst. High Explosive rounds caused the projectile to disintegrate in a black cloud of smoke, sending out a lethal shower of metal fragments, dangerous within a radius of 150 yards. Smoke rounds simply hid our troops or blinded the enemy.

  A vast array of heavier guns lay further behind our lines, but they figure little in our story. Eric and his comrades were regularly on the receiving end of the whole gamut of German artillery, and they, like all the front-line soldiers, came to know — and name — the different German shells by the sounds they made in the air and on arrival. Those nicknames are:

  “Jack Johnson” the High Explosive rounds fired by German heavy Howitzers. Jack Johnson (1878-1946) was a popular black American who was world heavyweight boxing champion from 1908-15 and renowned for being a hard hitter. Large caliber HE Howitzer rounds (including the often referred to 5.9s) rumbled through the air and on impact made black smoke, hence the nickname “Coal Box,” which reminded soldiers of dropping a coal box.

  “Whizbangs” were shrapnel shells fired from high-velocity relatively flat trajectory guns such as the German 7.7 cm. They made a whizzing noise followed by a loud “bang” when the shrapnel was expelled. Shrapnel often gave off sparks which reminded one of fireworks. “Whizbangs” put on a better visual show, so the nickname was more light-hearted.

  ON CANADIAN GUNNERS

  Few people know that of all battle casualties in WWI, the artillery killed and wounded about 60% — a crucial element in the war. Our guns became more accurate, more technically reliable and much more lethal throughout the conflict. Canadian Gunners were leaders in technical and tactical innovation, and this was perhaps attributable to some curious social reasoning.

  The 3% or so of British society that ruled the empire, and who were in charge of the war, looked down on tradesmen. As an example, they would want to own a watch, but they would never want to know how to repair it: that was a tradesman’s job. Gentlemen were not tradesmen. Officers, especially the most senior ones, were, above all else, dyed-in-the-wool gentlemen. They resisted, and thus delayed, many innovations during the Great War because delving into that level of detail smacked of being reduced to tradesmen — beneath their station in life. Certainly not all British officers had this crippling social viewpoint, but enough did to cause real delays in improving things.

  The Canadians, not having this hangup, were able to think creatively about ways to improve artillery fire and so they embraced change. When General A.G.L. (then Lieut-Col) McNaughton devised new ways to increase the accuracy of counter bombardment (CB) fire, as outlined in this book, many British officers frowned on that; in fact, he had a hard time of it at first. But statistics show that during the Battle of the Somme in 1916, CB fire (the greatest test of accuracy) was only about 30% effective. However, only six months later during the Battle of Vimy Ridge, after Andrew had made his improvements that were adopted across the Canadian Artillery, Canadian-directed CB fire had become 83% effective. Thus Canadian Gunners lead the way among the artillery of the Commonwealth forces.

  Book Six Acknowledgements

  The battles, equipment, daily weather and actions of the men who served in our distinguished armed forces during the First World War (and more particularly, the battalions mentioned herein) are accurate. My military friends and historians have checked and rechecked the manuscript. My characters, however, are entirely fictitious. Out of respect to the brave soldiers who actually served with the battalio
ns, other than my father (Eric), my uncle (Father John as he was known) and other specific historical figures, I have described no real personages.

  Ted Wright, my cousin, being a formidable student of history, knows something of army ways. He helped me cull through a hundred plus books amassed on WWI: novels, histories, diaries of batteries (see list on my own and the Red Deer Press website). There is no room to acknowledge all the authors here, but they certainly gave me a feel for the Front. I have chosen their spelling and nomenclature in most cases. All of the books are accessible through libraries and from that great internet resource, Abebooks. Ted found time between building fences for our two goats, Fran and Marie, and overseeing the making of crab-traps at La Fine Mouche in St. Godfrey, to do all my research on Internet and guide me through the war, enlightening me on the historical background and helping with scenes.

  Now, as for the splendid Major (ret’d) Marc George who runs Canada’s National Artillery Museum in Shilo, Manitoba, words can not fully express my admiration for his unique knowledge: no one in Canada, I can confidently say, knows more about a howitzer and the gun batteries in the First World War than does Marc. He has been beside me, metaphorically, every step of the way, contributing to the manuscript himself by adding superb descriptions. If I diverged from his advice from time to time, then the errors are all mine. He tells me his staff looked up material we needed and covered for him while he worked on my book, so I thank them too. I’m most grateful to both General Christian Barrabé, whom I met at the BCS Cadet Corps Review, and to his Lieut.-Col. Dany Fortin, for finding Marc for me.

  My wife Joan and I were fortunate enough to be invited by His Excellency Jeremy Kinsman, then Canadian High Commissioner to the European Economic Commission, and his wife Hana, to their impressive ambassadorial residence in Brussels. Jeremy gave me his knowledgeable driver, Jean Saint-Pierre, for a tour of the battlefields. Rather than visit cemeteries, we focussed on the actual museums: the In Flanders Fields Museum with its realistic muddy trenches, then on to the Passchendaele Museum in Zonnebeke, followed by the Hooge Museum and its trenches, the Albert tunnels, and some really good trenches at Sanctuary Wood and a local museum there. Then we went to Essex Farm, where John McCrae wrote his poem, In Flanders Fields.