“You don’t have to be a meteorologist to watch my smoke float away!” Gunter said indignantly.
“They say they will begin the artillery barrage in twenty minutes if there is no change in conditions,” the operator said. “Please give a condition report in ten minutes and in twenty minutes.”
Gunter wished he had kept his mouth shut. He quietly cursed the sick meteorologist. He didn’t need this extra stress. After all he had a 2.5 km. section of the gas line to tend to and he needed to ensure that the continuity of the release mechanisms were good.
“Get the damn meteorologist out of the crapper!” Gunter barked. “I have my own work to do!” He stormed off.
YPRES SALIENT, 24 APRIL, 1915. TIME: 12:00
In flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch;be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In flanders fields.
Lt. Colonel John McCrae MD C.E.F.
Alan kept trying to run, but it was pointless. He stomped his boots on an area of duck board that for some reason had no mud on it in an attempt to loosen the stubborn sludge from his hob nails. It wasn’t that he needed to get back with any urgent news.
“This horse is heading for the barn” he told himself. Even though he had traveled the same path less than an hour ago, he pulled out his route directions and made sure of his position.
He recalled a chum who had gotten disoriented and wound up in an area of the front trenches that were so close to the German lines that he heard the German troops talking to each other.
“No friggin’ way,” Alan said out loud, determined not to have the same fate befall him.
He began to trot along the main trench then turned right into a shallow mud-filled communications trench, it seemed familiar. The short trench was slow going but it soon plopped him out into the main trench where he saw the two dead soldiers in the funk-hole. He looked down as he walked by them, he wasn’t really interested in renewing the mental image of those poor souls.
“I’ll send someone,” he quietly said to the lifeless men. He picked up his pace again. He rounded a bend in the trench and was momentarily startled as he came face to face with a detachment of replacements clanging, talking, and smoking as they marched through the muck toward the Front.
“How is it up front today, mate?” one cockney fellow asked.
“Quiet so far!” Alan said, relieved to find he was not alone. He stood aside to let the men through. With all of the junk that was attached to them it’s a wonder they fit down some of these narrow trenches Alan thought. As the voices and clanging faded behind him he felt alone again. Looking up at the sound of a passing reconnaissance aeroplane high above, he noted that the sky was a clear blue backdrop to his dismal surroundings. The sun was now high enough in the sky where it shone over the edge of the trenches. It felt warm and welcome on the back of Alan’s wool tunic.
Alan knew this area of trench well and was feeling more at ease to the point where he allowed his mind to wander back to Wolfe Island. The warmth somehow triggered thoughts of springtime back on the farm with brother Ian. That was a good time of year. The cold winter was behind, the summer ahead, crocuses were up, and robins were bouncing across greening lawns. The world was coming back to life. Alan looked around at this bleak trench hoping to find some sign of spring, of life. He knew that if he were to look over the parapet all he would see was a country side gutted by countless artillery bombardments, snapped and limbless tree trunks, remnants of farm houses or churches and countless bodies strewn everywhere. All signs of normal life had been obliterated and the landscape had been reduced to a lifeless, unrecognizable scar. A small tuft of sod that was clinging to the upper edge of the trench caught Alan’s eye and he stopped to look at its few blades of grass. The small patch of green invoked a slight smile as he marveled at its tenacity in hanging on to life. Alan’s moment of reflection was interrupted by the buzzing sound of bullets overhead, like angry hornets. In the distance a German Maxim 08 rattled and growled as it delivered its deadly message. Alan picked up his pace.
Alan knew the main trench he was now in very well. Approximately 100 meters ahead of his position, the trench connected with the Yser canal where an advanced dressing station had been established some time ago. He would often stop there on the return run if his mission was not urgent. Even if it was a time sensitive mission there was a field phone located in the station and he could pass on information to his superiors more quickly from there.
There was a mildly selfish reason he looked forward to stopping in upon his return trips and that was because of a friendship that had developed with the chief surgeon, Major John McCrae. McCrae was from Guelph just outside of Toronto and the two men would kid each other with a good-natured rivalry between Queens and Toronto University. Major McCrae was always quick with a cup of hot tea, if there were no wounded to attend to, and he would sit with Alan for long periods of time discussing matters of art, politics and religion. Their conversations were always civil and good-natured, McCrae not being one to make display of rank.
Dr. John McCrae was twenty years Alan’s elder and looked at Alan almost as a son. He feared that this bright and energetic young man would become victim to this mad war that had devoured so many young men before him. It was a weight that became increasingly heavy day after day in McCrae’s mind. He needed a break badly, but the wounded needed him more.
Alan was looking forward to a nice visit. Perhaps John would have some good news from back home. A hot cup of tea and some good company was a welcome thought. A slight breeze kissed the hair on the nape of Alan’s neck, which along with the warmth of the sun on his back made for a comfortable combination.
Suddenly he stopped in his tracks, and tuned toward the front. The mild breeze was now blowing directly in his face at what he estimated was about four kilometers an hour. A chill ran down his back. It was an ideal wind for the delivery of gas. Alan spun and began to run toward the dressing station as quickly as was possible. This change in conditions was information that was of extreme importance, he had to get to that field phone. As he ran the last fifty meters through the muddy trench, he listened for the clanging of shell casing behind him, none so far.
YPRES, BELGIUM, 24 APRIL, 1915 TIME: 14:00
The French, Algerian colonials and the Canadians had learned some valuable lessons from the gas attack two days prior. For example, the Germans would begin a large-scale bombardment of the rear of the area being attacked. This would, of course, trap the troops on the front between a death by gas and a death by artillery bombardment. The deadly trap also provided protection for the Germans against any troops moving up to reinforce those being slaughtered.
With this knowledge in hand, the French and British commanders decided that if a subsequent gas attack was to again be unleashed, the immediate response would be to have the heavy British sixty-pound guns return a counter attack on German artillery positions, and for the smaller French 75 mm field cannons, with their superior accuracy and rapid fire capability, unleash a concentrated attack on the areas suspected of being the gas release points. It was hoped that the plan would reduce the deadly firepower of the German heavy guns and disrupt the even-blanket dispersal of the poisonous gas by forcing it to dissipate more rapidly.
Alan had made it to the field dressing station and, via field phone, had informed his superiors of the changing conditions and the possibility of another gas attack.
Prepara
tions were being made rapidly to respond to any German offensive. French, British, and Canadian commands were notified and Sir Douglas Haige ordered their plan into action.
All guns were properly positioned and ranges set to coincide with the most recent reconnaissance. When the time came, they would be ready to respond.
Alan was well away from No Man’s Land, but far from out of danger. The dressing station was about 600 yards from the front, which he knew reduced the danger of small arms fire to the point of being little to none. The heavy guns were, however, another matter.
Alan leaned outside the station against some timbers and lit a cigarette. Though the B.E.F. provided every man with twenty ounces of tobacco each week, sometimes it didn’t seem to be adequate.
Major McCrae, a lifelong asthma sufferer, insisted that all smoking be done outside the station, and Alan was happy to respect his friend’s wishes. He really didn’t know why he started the bad habit anyway, perhaps it was a grown up pacifier. He snorted at the mental image of himself with a sucker in his mouth.
A group of infantrymen trudged past, down the main trench toward the front. They ignored him as they passed and disappeared down the long trench. Alan turned away and looked at the rows of crosses tightly bunched together in the Essex farm fields. This is where the dead were buried. Alan knew why there were so many crosses packed in such a small area. He had helped dig several V-shaped burial trenches. They were designed to accommodate a single soldier at the bottom, over whom two more soldiers would be laid and then three, and finally four across, stacked like cord wood. It was the most efficient use of burial ground, but it seemed less than dignified or respectful for these soon to be forgotten young men.
The sun was high in the cloudless sky. Alan looked at his wristwatch. Though it was encrusted with mud he could still see the face, which read two o’clock.
“It’s too nice a day for a war,” he said to Major McCrae who had come outside and was jotting down some thoughts on a pad of paper.
“I hope you didn’t just jinx us. Better knock on wood,” McCrae said.
Alan smiled knowing that John McCrae was a deeply religious man and didn’t believe in such superstitious nonsense. Nonetheless, he rapped his knuckles three times on one of the support timbers of the dressing station, just in case.
McCrae went back to his writing. One of the ways that he dealt with the stress and madness of his duties was to write poetry. It was like taking a shower and washing off some of the filth of the war. Perhaps, this was his pacifier.
Several birds flew by chirping in a spring mating ritual. It was amazing to see the resiliency of nature. McCrae momentarily looked up from his pad in admiration and appreciation of this small event, then began to write again.
His pencil stopped. Alan stiffened. They had both heard it. Three or four distant thuds. The big guns were firing. The guns fired with a high trajectory and, because of this, the sound would reach the target area before the shell. The delay gave the soldiers several moments to take cover, but this was often futile because the big shells made big holes and cover wouldn’t help except maybe for debris protection.
It was the lighter field guns that would scare the hell out of you. Whizz-Bang! That was their nickname for obvious reasons. Because of their lower trajectory, the round would show before the report.
Toward the front, the sound of clanging could now be heard. Alan threw down his cigarette and darted inside to the field phone to pass on these developments. McCrae joined Alan in the station ordering his team to make ready for the eventual flood of casualties.
The men sprang into action, setting up clean dressing and rolled bandages in the most accessible and efficient order. Morphine and ether were readied for the quick and dirty job of patching and passing along the wounded. Instruments were immersed in an alcohol bath.
In the midst of this flurry of activity, Alan realized that the group of soldiers that had marched by moments before were heading into a death trap. He had to try to warn them.
“I’ll be back!” he yelled to Major McCrae, and ran outside and toward the front. Alan estimated that they hadn’t gone too far at their slow and unenthusiastic pace, so he hoped it wouldn’t take too long to catch up to them.
The first of the big shells hit about 100 yards south of Alan as he ran toward the men. Debris and mud rained down on him as he ran with his head down in a crouched trot. He knew that this area was about to become a madhouse of confusion when the main bank hit so he picked up his pace.
He saw them just ahead. “Turn back!” he yelled as a shell whistled down and hit to the north of him. “There’s gas ahead! Turn back, now!”
The men needed no more explanation and began to run back at a far more enthusiastic pace, but it was too late. The area was being destroyed and only luck could see them through safely at this point.
Though Alan’s ears rang from the explosions, he could still hear a massive volley of distant thuds. Many more were on their way. As he ran down the wide trench toward the Yser canal and the dressing station, the entire horizon to the west erupted with thunderous noise and huge muzzle flashes. The French, Canadian, and Algerian artillery were answering the German assault. Being close down range of the assault, the impact of these brutal weapons had a staggering affect. Even though these guns were hundreds of yards away, the reports of the cannons felt like someone was kicking Alan in the chest with each flash.
More German shells were landing all around. This was not a battle. It was simply survival. A low ”woof” came from deep behind the German lines like a bark from some huge dog. It was a distinctive noise that Alan had heard before.
“Big Bertha,” he said.
Big Bertha was the name given to a massive howitzer built by Gustav Krupp, and named after his wife. At seventy tons, the weapon was so heavy that it could only be moved by rail, and couldn’t be brought very close to the front. But with the ability to deliver a 2,200-pound shell some twenty-five miles at a maximum elevation of eighty degrees, it didn’t have to get too close.
Big Bertha’s drawback was that it required a team of more than ten men to operate it, and it could be loaded and fired only about three times per hour.
From the ally’s side, the French 75s were rapid-fire for field artillery. They had been designed in 1891 and were so successful as a close support weapon that they would remain the mainstay of the French military for the next several decades.
The 75 was capable of delivering sixteen-pound shrapnel shells at the rate of fifteen rounds per minute. Because the gun was designed to absorb most of its own recoil, it seldom had to be repositioned to remain on target. Its trajectory was shallow, unlike Bertha’s, and it would skip a shrapnel shell up to chest height before it exploded and sent shrapnel in all directions.
This skip and explode property made it ideal for trench warfare because it would explode down as well as up and shower the Germans in the trenches with deadly shrapnel balls of metal.
Today, the French were using the 75s to try and hit the chlorine delivery canisters and disrupt and disperse the wall of deadly gas. The Germans were using Big Bertha to pass up the trenches and pound the artillery positions, and end the French and Canadian counter attack.
In the middle of this barrage, Alan and a large number of retreating troops were desperate to stay alive. They were in the thick of it, safely down range of the gas for the moment, but right in the area of maximum bombardment by the Germans.
There was no longer any real reason for Alan to run. After all he could be simply running into an exploding shell. He decided to hunker down. There were several dugouts in the walls of the trench where he could take cover. The dugouts not only provided relief from the mud and protection from the rain, they provided shelter from shrapnel shells. Alan crawled into a deep funk-hole keeping his head down. The wide brim of his helmet provided modest protection against any shrapnel coming down.
Nothing much to look at anyway, so keep your head down and hope for the best, he thought.
A number of the retreating soldiers ran through the system past Alan, apparently believing that a moving target was harder to hit. Alan knew better.
The explosions were so frequent and relentless that Alan could barely hear the men shouting and screaming. All he could hear was a loud ringing, occasionally interrupted by the yelling of men who still believed that they still had some control over their destiny.
A gut-wrenching explosion went off so close to Alan that it sucked the air right out of him. As he gasped for air, he flashed back to the two dead men in the funk-hole earlier that day. He began to lose consciousness, and a wave of fear came over him.
“Oh God, no,” he whispered. “Not like them!”
Any semblance of daylight was blotted out and replaced by a gray cloud of dust and smoke. He fought hard to hang on, gulping for what little oxygen was still available, only to find that it had been completely replaced by sulphur, burnt gunpowder, and the stink of death, so thick he could taste it.
A high-pitched squeal in Alan’s head began to replace the screams and crying of men. His peripheral vision was beginning to close in as he strained to look around. What little he saw through a closing gray tunnel vision was a confused scene of men and parts of men in various states of death and dying.
Then, for some reason, the images faded and were replaced with the vision of a robin hopping along a lush green lawn. Alan felt soft warm breezes caressing his face as they were blowing off the end of Lake Ontario and up the foot of Wolfe Island.
Shock was setting in and his mind was defending itself against the horrors of the moment. The pleasant recollection of spring was now replaced by a white light of increasing intensity. The squeal in Alan’s ears was now a soft buzz. It was the last thing Alan was aware of.
YPRES, 24 APRIL, 1915.
The Carnage
The fuzzy image of a man’s face was coming into focus. He was trying to say something, but nothing was coming out of his mouth. It was like watching a silent movie. His face was dark and smeared with dirt and soot, and he looked to Alan like a coal miner or a chimney sweep. The haze behind him was being interrupted by what seemed to be men running in all directions. The man’s mouth was asking a question, his teeth seemed so white in contrast to his blackened face.
The Last Lady from Hell Page 6
