One evening on leave, Bill Lewis and I were on our fourth pint of ale at the local pub, when I asked him about that day. The beer had loosened the lock of secrecy and he explained how Dan, Sean and he had grabbed Balls, flipped over the cover to the latrine pit and held him by his ankles over the hole. Dan then calmly explained that he was going to be in deep shit if he didn’t lay off George Cohen. He was held aloft over the stinking pit until he agreed to all the conditions required by Dan. I was mid-swallow and spit out a full gulp of beer when Bill revealed the truth about that day. He pounded me on my back as I coughed uncontrollably and said, “You didn’t hear that from me.”
As I slowly regained my ability to breath, I glanced up toward the bar and noticed Dan McKee giving us a sideways look, with a knowing smirk on his face.
LEAVING EAST SANDLING
We Canadians had somehow been mistakenly thought of by our British counterparts as an unruly lot of rascals with an overly developed affection for alcohol and an inability to follow orders well. We had, however, proven on the field of battle that we were ruthless, fearless fighters who the British were quite happy to have on their side. Because of our proven battlefield merits, our shortcomings were overlooked or, at least, tolerated.
Terry Manning was still very enthusiastic about putting the training behind us and getting down to the business of war and he let Commander Hicks know it regularly. Hicks, after some consideration, had decided to accommodate Terry’s request. After all, we were already accomplished pipers and drummers, and we quickly mastered the requirements of stretcher bearing and field dressing.
The British Expeditionary Forces were hungry for men and the pipers and drummers continued to be of special interest. It appeared that our small group was going to see the Western Front. Hicks had made clear to us that we were going to be split into two groups consisting of two pipers and one drummer. Our orders would direct us to the regiments that required our services on the Front.
It was mid-June 1916 and the weather had been more hospitable than normal. East Sandling and, in fact, all of England was lush and green and for the last several weeks had been enjoying what could only be described as delightful conditions.
The drummers were grumbling about Terry’s insistence on an early departure as they were enjoying the fine weather, but I could tell that they were every bit as ready to serve and were simply grumbling because they thought it was their obligation to maintain the drummer image.
When the orders were received Terry, George and Dan were assigned to the 1st Newfoundland regiment, part of the 29th Division of the British 4th Army. Bill, Sean, and I were going to join the 36th Ulster Division and be attached to a regiment upon arriving in France.
On 24 June we joined a Battalion that was being sent to the coastal town of Seaford, England, where we were to board a troop transport to France to connect with our respective regiments.
It took the better part of a day to reach Seaford where we were billeted overnight in a large barn commandeered for just such a purpose. It was moderately comfortable but still smelled of livestock which bothered several of the men. To me it was a comforting smell that brought about a feeling of homesickness that I had not experienced up till then.
The next morning we marched to the docks, which was a thirty-minute undertaking. There, we were called by regiment for our ship assignments. Because we were not really attached to a regiment in Seaford we were assigned to the smallest group, which was in turn assigned to the smallest vessel. Out on a smaller dock sat our transport, The David Richard, a sixty-five-foot, single-engine steam freighter that was in dire need of a paint job and perhaps a good bottom scraping.
We made our way through the crowded front street and out to our ride along with the 140 other men, most of whom were either Scottish or Welsh and belonged to the British engineering division.
“Not quite The Olympic, eh?” Dan remarked as we neared the boat.
Terry looked warily at the old vessel and, with misgivings, simply responded, “Indeed not”.
“Doc” George had gone on ahead of us all and was bombarding the boat’s salty crew with a barrage of questions faster than they could answer.
“How long is the boat? When was she built? How many hours to cross the Channel? How many miles across is it?”
In an effort to save the crew from George’s unending questions, Terry produced his pipes and interrupted. “I don’t suppose you fellows would like to hear the pipes?” he called out.
“Hey, that would be grand!” one fellow replied, eager to get away from this inquisitive passenger and get back to work. One weather-worn crewman asked, “Do ya know The Black Bear, lad?”
“I do,” Terry responded, “and it always sounds better when played after Scotland the Brave.” The crusty old Scotsman cracked a smile on his leathery face exposing the fact that most of his teeth were missing and winked with a nod of appreciation at Terry’s choice of tunes.
The crew seemed to liven up the pace as Terry played tune after tune and thirty minutes later we were shoving off. As lines were cast off, Terry played “The Skye Boat Song” and “The Highland Cathedral.” Lovely, haunting lullabies that drifted across the entire harbor. For the short span of time that the tunes lasted, everyone, from crewman to passenger, seemed to stop and listen reflecting on the moment. The pipes carry well over water and have an almost mystical effect when combined with that element.
The David Richard steamed slowly out of the harbor and faded into the morning fog, ushered by two tunes that, sadly, would be played by Terry at the graves of hundreds of young men over the next several years.
The straight-line distance from Seaford, England to Le Havre, France is approximately seventy-five nautical miles and with a smooth sea, the David Richard could maintain a modest ten knots making the “milk run” in a little over eight hours. Even though the weather was ideal, the Channel had continuous chop adding some time and discomfort to the crossing. The English Channel is very different from the Saint Lawrence River, which is all I had to measure it against. So I was somewhat surprised to find that you cannot see the French coastline from the shores of England at least not from Seaford. The narrowest part of the Channel is twenty-one miles across up in Dover and on a clear day it is possible to see France! The Saint Lawrence, being my only reference as a waterway, has a modest current, but again, I was surprised to find that the Channel has no current.
“It’s simply a body of water between Europe and England,” one crewmember responded when George Cohen continued his incessant questions.
“Why don’t we cross at Dover? This route is four times longer,” I asked.
“Too close to the sub bases in occupied Belgium and we would be too easy a target up there,” the crewman said. I think he was getting tired of the questions because he took a deep draw on a dirty old clay pipe and blew large a cloud of smoke at George and me sending us into coughing fits. When we caught our breath, he had moved up to the bow and was trying to look busy.
Terry, Sean, George, and I stood along the bow rail and let the cool breeze and light salt spray mesmerize us for quite some time. The morning sun was drying the salt spray quickly on our faces leaving an odd crispiness to our skin. It somehow felt natural.
“I should have joined the Navy,” I said.
“Does Canada even have a Navy?” George asked.
I thought for a moment, but did not know the answer.
“I wonder how deep it is here?” George asked not waiting for an answer to his previous question.
Dan wandered up just in time to hear George’s question and said, “Doc, if it’s over your head, what does it matter?”
The drummers had been staying to the stern of the boat, and I believe a flask may have been keeping them occupied, but now the warmth of the mid-morning sun drew them forward.
We were headed south-southeast into choppy two- to three-foot swells created mostly by passing vessels. In fact, the number of ships that were coming or going was astounding.
Troop and supply ships of every conceivable size, Hospital ships marked with a large red cross and, of course, the patrolling British Navy, mostly Eclipse Class and Astraea Class cruisers.
Every few miles we would pass a Naval Ship slowly cruising with a large tethered observation blimp in tow. Men stationed in the blimps, which were several hundred feet in the air, could see the dark shadow of a sub a mile away and then the Destroyers would be alerted and a quick response would follow. The measures that the British Navy took were not excessive considering the remarkable success the German’s were enjoying with their U-Boat attacks. The English Channel was, indeed, a target-rich environment for the enemy.
“Looks like a lonely job,” Dan said as The David Richard slowly passed a ship with a blimp high above it.
“I’ll bet he has a million dollar view,” Terry said.
“How high do you think that thing is?” George asked.
“Always with the questions, eh Doc? Let’s just say it’s over your head,” Dan said with a friendly smile.
It was a slow crossing, but not a boring one and the time passed relatively quickly. About an hour and a half out of Le Havre we started to see the vague image of the French coast. As we drew nearer and the coast became clearer we could plainly see the beautiful bluffs and white beaches with no sign of the war anywhere. The pristine coastline was in stark contrast to the port city of Le Havre.
Like most points of commercial transfer, Le Havre was well used and had long ago lost any quaintness that it might have once possessed. The necessity of moving goods required a utilitarian environment and as a result the port had nothing more than that which was required. The waterfront buildings, which seemed far too close to the docks and harbor, were brick and stone and wore the soot of centuries of coal and wood smoke. The inner harbor was a madhouse of activity with local fishing boats motoring or sailing in and around the constant flow of transports.
I couldn’t help but wonder why there weren’t wrecks everywhere but, somehow through a maritime mutual respect, the vessels avoided collision. The larger ships moved to the southern end of the harbor for the deep water and the smaller ships, those with relatively shallow draft, went to the northern and older part of port.
The David Richard moved to the northern docks and the captain adeptly turned the boat hard to starboard in a turn into the dock. Then he reversed the engine of the single screw ship at just the right time, about three-quarters of the way through the turn, and the vessel snugged into the dock as pretty as you please.
The crew had moved into position on the bow and stern and cast out lines that the dockhands tied off. The David Richard was a well-oiled machine and we were duly impressed. We had not been invited by the commanding officer to disembark yet, so we waited and chit-chatted, watching the hustle and bustle of activity ashore.
A British officer stood on the dock with a large clipboard. He seemed to be of some importance because our commanding officer jumped ship and, after exchanging salutes, seemed to be getting a full briefing.
The officer was a rather tall man, around six feet, lean and fit with a strong jaw and a kind face. He was obviously all business, but seemed to carry out his orders without being officious to his fellow officer.
Our commanding officer returned to the ship with the officer and gave new orders to all men on board.
“Lieutenant Owen McDonnell will be directing deployment,” he said. “You will follow his orders. Thank you.”
“Short and sweet,” Terry said under his breath.
“A man of few words,” Bill agreed.
“Gentlemen, my name is Lieutenant McDonnell,” the officer said. “Please listen carefully as I am not inclined to repeat myself. We should have one hundred-forty men from the British engineering division. You will please disembark the ship and follow Sergeant Kelly to my right.”
A tall dark haired man had joined Lieutenant McDonnell and we assumed this was Sergeant Kelly. The Scots and Welshmen filed off in an orderly manner and disappeared as they followed Kelly.
“That leaves you six,” McDonnell said looking at us. “Manning, Lyons, Macdonald, Cohen, Lewis and McKee, correct?” We nodded.
“Front and center men! Follow me!” McDonnell turned and walked down the dock. We grabbed our kits and instruments and clambered down the narrow gangplank to follow the lieutenant like a bunch of ducklings after the mother duck. He had a long stride and covered ground far more quickly than we could with our gear.
He turned and waited for us at the side of a four-story brick hotel. “How many pipers and drummers have we?” he asked.
“Four pipes and two drums, sir” Terry responded.
“Good. Two pipes and one drum will go the First Newfoundland Regiment, and the same to the 36th Ulster Division, of which I am a part.”
It had been agreed upon sometime earlier that Terry, George and Dan would make up one group and Sean, myself and Bill would make up the other.
“I must say as an aside that we have needed some inspiration up front,” McDonnell said, his voice betraying an Irish lilt that he had thus far done a good job of stifling. “It’s been too long since the pipes have led us into battle. Ypres, last year, if my memory serves me. We had a total of five pipers, of which two were killed…”
I interrupted him. “You say you were at Ypres last April?”
“Yes, son, Hellfire Corner we called it. Why?”
“Did you happen to come across a runner by the name of Alan McDonald? He was with the Canadian First Division. He’s my brother.”
The lieutenant’s expression turned into one of sympathy. “If you have not heard from him or received word about him, then I fear the worst. After all, we suffered three thousand casualties on 24 April alone and a total of six thousand by 3 May, mostly Canadian.”
I deflated instantly. Bill drew near and put his hand on my shoulder, “We’ll find him. Don’t worry.” I understood that Bill meant we’d find him alive, but he didn’t say that exactly, and I didn’t believe it exactly anyway.
McDonnell stiffened up and brought his clipboard around in front of him. “Manning, Cohen, and McKee. You will be going to the Newfoundland Division. There’s a lorry waiting for you.”
Sergeant Kelly had returned from directing the miners and was now available to insure that the lads found their way to the Newfoundland Regiment.
“Kelly, if you would be so kind as to show these men to their transportation,” McDonnell said. “You other three will be staying with me.”
Our eyes all met as the reality hit that our small group was being split up. I knew, as did the others, that this could be the last time that we see each other, but no one seemed to want to be the first one to say good bye.
Finally, Dan stepped up to the plate and grabbed Bill by the arm. They embraced each other in a handshake that required both hands. I think that both men would have felt uncomfortable had they hugged, so their handshake seemed to become almost an embrace. We all followed suit with double-handed handshakes and exchanged quiet words of encouragement and promises of being reunited soon, a promise that we could only hope to fulfill. Then off they went following Sergeant Kelly. Only George looked back and waved.
“Off we go lads,” called McDonnell, interrupting the moment. He began to walk away briskly. Sean, Bill, and I followed him down the busy dock and up a narrow street off the waterfront.
“You fellows drink coffee?” McDonnell asked. We all nodded in an affirmative manor. “Good, you’re in for a real treat, I know just the place.”
Bill made some comment about the possibility of beer instead, which the lieutenant chose to ignore. We turned down a small alleyway where several tables and stools were parked on the sidewalk in no particular order. McDonnell turned into a little shop that smelled of sweet pastries and strong coffee.
“Bonjour, mademoiselle. Je voudrais quatre cafés, s’il vous plaît,” McDonnell said, in what seemed to us to be quite good French. The young lady behind the counter seemed to understand his r
equest. We were duly impressed.
The lady, thirty to thirty-five years old, was very attractive and flashed a broad smile directed at the Lieutenant, then she looked at us and raised her eyebrows while staring at our kilts with a slight smile. She soon produced four of the smallest cups of coffee I had ever seen, about a quarter of the size of a normal cup. The dark liquid in the cups seemed to be thicker than most coffee and had a strong roasted aroma that you could almost taste. “Merci,” McDonnell said, tossing two francs on the counter.
“How much is that in Canadian money” I asked.
“I think that’s equal to a little over one dollar,” he said.
“Holy smokes!” Sean blurted. “How can anyone afford to drink coffee at those prices, especially when the cups are so tiny?”
“This is espresso–very strong. I think you’ll find it’s all the coffee you’ll need. Take my word for it,” McDonnell said.
Bill dropped a couple of cubes of sugar into his small cup, added some cream, and took a sip. “Wow! That’s strong!” he announced. He smiled showing as many teeth as possible. “Have any of my teeth rotted off?”
We all laughed at his joke and cautiously sipped our coffee. It was indeed the strongest cup of coffee I’d ever had and it packed a good punch, too. The smooth, rich coffee kicked in right away and I felt that everyone, including myself, was talking and moving faster as the caffeine sped into our bodies, increasing our metabolism instantly.
Lieutenant McDonnell began to explain what was in store for us in the near future. “Gentlemen, you are going to be welcomed into the 36th Ulster Division and, although you are not Irish, I know my men will treat you all as part of our group.”
“Why are we not with the Canadians or the Scots? Why the Irish?” Sean asked, not because he had a problem with the Irish, but because he was curious.
The Last Lady from Hell Page 11
