The Last Lady from Hell

by Richard G Morley

  “It was dark and the ink is still wet on you chaps. I suspect your inexperience and apprehension are clouding your recollection of the entanglement.” Winsted continued.

  “Sir, Colonel Kelton said himself that it would be a wholesale slaughter if we advance on that trench in its current condition! I implore you! Please consider what we are telling you.” Terry insisted.

  Winsted paused several moments with one aristocratic eyebrow perched high and simply replied “Quite, well then you’re dismissed.”

  1ST NEWFOUNDLAND REGIMENT

  “Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.” – John 15:13

  Leslie Greenhow was a conscientious objector. Born in England in 1895, Greenhow’s family left Great Britain in 1910 and moved to Windsor, Ontario, Canada when he was fifteen years old. Four years later, when the Great War broke out, there was an expectation that all British men between the ages of 18 and 20 would answer Britain’s call. This presented a real dilemma for Leslie who, as a devout Anglican, firmly believed in the Lord’s commandment “Thou shalt not kill” but, still held a strong loyalty toward his country of birth. Several of his friends at church had refused to join the armed forces and had been harassed and chastised by their peers, some even receiving letters with a white feather, a sign of cowardice and an unspeakable insult.

  Leslie was no coward, so he joined the British Armed Forces as a conscientious objector requesting a non-combatant position. The British Armed Forces were happy to oblige and awarded Greenhow with a position as a stretcher bearer. They weren’t doing him any favors by this assignment. The simple fact was that the degree of danger involved in the job was greater than that associated with a standard foot soldier. The likeliness of your being mowed down by machine gun fire or being picked off by a sniper was excellent because a bearer needed to stand erect and walk slowly carrying the stretcher along the crater rims. You became an easy target for the enemy. An infantryman could run serpentine and dive into crump holes to avoid being shot.

  Now, two years later, Leslie had been in countless battlefields, retrieving hundreds of wounded B.E.F., French and even the occasional German soldier. Red or yellow, black or white, he’d say. He had been on the Somme for two months and had already been out into No Man’s Land several times to retrieve the wounded.

  Now the cat was out of the bag and everyone knew of Haige’s plan for the “big push.” This meant countless wounded were going to depend upon his services.

  Greenhow often recited the 23rd Psalm as he walked through the muddy uneven real estate of No Man’s Land. “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for thou art with me.” Having a deep firm faith allowed him to venture into the most horrific raging battle fields with a calm that was admired and respected by his colleagues.

  Because Leslie had been in and out of so many vicious fights with not so much as a scratch, many of his fellow bearers believed he was protected by the grace of God. It was not unusual for there to be a scramble to be on his stretcher team.

  Leslie knew that when God wanted to take him, he would take him. He was confident in his belief that heaven awaited him after this life. “What greater love hath a man than he lay down his life for another?” he often quoted. He knew that if he were to be killed while retrieving his wounded fellow man he would be blessed for his sacrifice in heaven.

  This day he sat on a rock jutting from a berm, a short distance from the St. John’s supply trench. This position put him several hundred yards away from No Man’s Land. He sat casually smoking a pipe. It was a bad habit, but certainly less vulgar than that of cigarette smoking. He drew a heavy toke on the ornate pipe and let out with a cloud of smoke. Smoking was frowned upon by most Christians, but pipe smoking seemed to be more easily tolerated by believers on the Front.

  Occasionally his guilt would get the better of him and he would wonder what his mother would say should she ever find out.

  “Your body is a temple unto the Lord,” he could hear her scold. He tried not to think about it as he took another puff.

  The shelling by the B.E.F. had moved further to the east in an attempt to pulverize the German’s pill boxes and bunkers, and from Leslie’s perch the panorama of the Front toward Beaumont Hamel was fully visible. Word was that a reconnaissance party had gone out last night and come back minus a couple of men who had fallen victim to German fire. The missing men were Pvt. McKee and Lieutenant Kelton. Leslie was mentally prepared for the orders that he knew would eventually be issued.

  The reconnaissance party knew where the two men were. They were trapped – wounded or dead – in the worst possible position in a shell hole near the danger tree, the point at which you were in the sights of at least five German machine gunners.

  “Tough spot,” Leslie whispered as he surveyed the landscape. The continuous rattle of the Maxim 08s told him that the men were not yet satisfactorily dead in the German’s minds. That meant there was hope. The Germans were expending an inordinate amount of energy on these two men. The “thunk” of a Minnie lobbed a shell high into the air and it came down near the danger tree with an explosion.

  The Minnie was the nickname for the German trench mortar, the Minenwerfer. It was a portable cannon that could fire a small, but deadly shell at between forty-five and seventy degrees trajectory, dropping the shell almost straight down onto the enemy. Perfect for trench warfare, it inflicted maximum damage when it landed on its mark. The Germans were now trying to fire the Minnie into the shell hole to finish off McKee and Kelton.

  “Things are not looking up for you lads,” Greenhow mumbled trying to spot the men. As he sat quietly praying for the men trapped in the crossfire, he was startled by a massive volley of eighteen-pounders several hundred yards behind him. These guns were a favorite of the B.E.F. being portable field cannons of medium range, and usually horse drawn. These weapons, along with an expert team, were capable of delivering twenty to thirty rounds per minute, but lacked the accuracy of the French 75s.

  Greenhow jumped to his feet as the ground between the danger tree and the German front lines exploded into a huge wall of earth and debris. Something caught his eye as the cloud of dirt fanned out.

  Through the dusty veil, he could make out a large figure lumbering ungainly forward. The uneven terrain made it tough going but the figure pressed on with the Maxims firing wildly from the other side in hopes of a lucky strike. As the figure got closer Leslie could clearly see that it was not one man, but two – one being carried on the back of the other.

  He took his pipe out of his mouth and craned his neck to get a better look at this remarkable drama unfolding. People often seem to stand and crane their necks or stop smoking when watching some life and death drama. Perhaps it’s a reaction that suggests that you want to do something to help but there isn’t really anything you can do. Just the act of standing is at least something.

  A fellow stretcher bearer came running over to him excitedly. “Leslie do you see what’s going on out there?” he yelled. “Have you been watching?”

  “Yes, those men are in serious trouble,” Leslie replied.

  “What do you think? Should we contact our superiors to see whether we should help?”

  Greenhow was never one for military chain of command. He felt that if a bearer waited for an order to get the wounded, there would be no wounded, only dead bodies. Leslie emptied the tobacco out of the bowl of his pipe by tapping it gently on the heel of his boot, wrapped it in a handkerchief and put it snugly in his tunic pocket. He had made his own decision.

  “Let’s get our field packs and stretcher.”

  The two men grabbed their gear. Leslie carried the canvas stretcher, while the other man held the pack of first aid supplies.

  Leslie and his colleague had charged fearlessly out into melees far worse than this, but this time was different. They had never seen such a concentration of firepower directed so intensely on just two men. The team members raced thr
ough the trench system, yelling to clear the way as they made their way toward No Man’s Land.

  Dan McKee had seized the opportunity as soon as the barrage began and hoisted the wounded Kelton up onto his back. He climbed out of the crump hole and began to make his escape as quickly as he could. But the going was painfully slow with Kelton’s dead weight and the muddy, pocked earth between him and safety. Dan knew that the diversion and debris screen couldn’t last forever, so he began to trot in a half-run, which caused Kelton to groan from the pain of being jostled around.

  “Sorry about the rough ride Lieutenant, we haven’t the time to look for the smooth paths,” Dan called over his shoulder.

  The ground around them was exploding with little pops as the Maxim 08s swept the cloudy wall behind Dan. The big man continued his jolting progress past the danger tree. Bullets whizzed past him like angry bees, but he was more hopeful with each step.

  Then he felt two burning stings on his right thigh. McKee stumbled, but did not fall, as the searing pain from the two 7.7mm bullets was transmitted up his leg and to his brain. It was intense at first, but quickly became numb as the nerves in his leg went into shock.

  “You Okay?” Dan asked Lieutenant Kelton, as he steadied himself.

  “Couldn’t be better,” Kelton cracked, as he faded in and out of consciousness.

  Dan smiled through the pain and tried to keep going. His right leg was not doing what he wanted it to do. He had to compensate by hopping with his left leg and dragging his right, trying to use it to steady himself. Sweat poured from Dan’s matted hair and his breathing became labored as he struggled with his injured colleague. If he had been alone he could have kept up a steady pace, but with the weight of Kelton and a bad leg, the journey was becoming impossible.

  Greenhow was trotting through the forward trenches and did something even a neophyte to the trenches would never do: he popped his head above the parapet to see if the two men were still alive.

  He saw that Dan was staggering and that there was a crimson flow running down his right leg. He was impressed by the big man’s perseverance, but knew that it was just a matter of time before he went down under their combined weight. The good news was that they were beyond the danger tree and every inch they moved closer improved their chances for survival.

  Greenhow and his partner had raced through the zig-zag maze leading to the advanced trenches and scurried up the gentle grade over the top into No Man’s Land, running straight toward McKee some twenty yards away. The two covered the distance at a sprint and reached the wounded men just as Dan collapsed and rolled into a shallow shell hole. The rescuers slid down the walls of the same crump hole and intercepted the wounded men with remarkable speed.

  McKee looked up in total amazement as he realized that he and Kelton were not alone.

  “What the hell?” he said, dumbfounded.

  “Don’t swear,” Greenhow said and stretched out his hand. “Leslie Greenhow is the name. We’re here to help.”

  “I could use some and am I ever glad to see you,” Dan said. They shook hands as if meeting at a social function.

  “Let’s see about that leg,” Leslie said, getting to work. “How’s your friend?”

  “He’s lost a lot of blood. We stopped him up as well as we could, but that was some time ago,” Dan said.

  Greenhow applied a tourniquet to Dan’s leg and dressed the wounds temporarily while his partner inspected Kelton.

  “This looks like an expert applied this pressure wrap!” Green-how’s partner said.

  “One of our party was a med student before he joined up.” Dan said.

  “Nice job,” Greenhow said, nodding. “Now, let’s get you out of here. Can you walk?”

  “I’ll keep up,” Dan grunted. “Don’t worry.”

  The two bearers grabbed the semi-conscious Kelton and slung him neatly onto the stretcher.

  “Ready?” Greenhow yelled taking up the aft and the most dangerous position on the stretcher. “Let’s go home, shall we?”

  They lifted Kelton smoothly up and began to walk up the rim of the shell hole. Dan hobbled along grimacing with the pain, but true to form, kept up with the stretcher team. Artillery shells continued to explode nearby and the machine gun bullets relentlessly whizzed past them in search of a target.

  “Only fifteen yards to go,” Leslie said as they ran, stumbling around the rim of a large shell crater.

  Gunther Bayer was struggling with his Minenwerfer, along with his fellow artillery men, through the forward trenches. With four ten-pound bombs strapped to each man’s waist belt and the 250 pound trench mortar on a two wheeled trolley, it took two strong men to make the weapon even modestly portable over the rough trench floor.

  “Is this thing getting heavier or am I just getting old?” he asked his comrade with a smile.

  “Yes,” was the reply.

  “Ha!” Gunther laughed. The men had covered about two hundred yards of trench and their legs and arms were beginning to burn as one pushed and one pulled.

  “Break,” Gunther said, and the two men stopped and put down the small cannon. Both men put their hands on their lower backs just above their rumps and stretched backward trying to loosen their taut muscles.

  “Dummkopfs!” Gunther barked.

  “Who? Our side or theirs?” his partner joked.

  “Both!” he shot back. Both men roared with laughter this time. Their orders had arrived less than one hour ago stating that they were to go to the most forward trench and deliver their bombs so as to reach a target between the danger tree and the British trenches. They were given an approximate grid position, but no further information.

  Gunther took his trench periscope, a three-foot tube with an angled mirror on the bottom and another on the top which allowed one to safely peer over the trenches, and took a look toward his target. All he saw was a wall of dust, dirt, and debris being created by the barrage.

  What could his commander possibly be thinking about? It couldn’t be a major assault or they would be sending up troops and using their own artillery. This made no sense.

  “Fifty more yards,” Gunther said. “Then we lighten our load and drag this little beast home.” The men took their positions and continued their arduous trek.

  Gunther had been on the Somme for several months, he knew the trenches like the back of his hand and they hadn’t changed position the whole time of his deployment.

  Nothing has changed but the men keep dying, he thought. They finally arrived at the spot that he knew would give him the best position for firing his gun. They removed the weapon, anchored it with spikes to the dirt, and pointed her in the direction of the target. The distance would be around three hundred yards to the 1st British trench, so he set the Minenwerfer’s trajectory angle at forty three degrees. That would give the small shell nearly two hundred eighty yards of throw, give or take ten yards for possible differing conditions. He would then increase the trajectory by two degrees each round and walk the explosions back toward them.

  His partner took the periscope and looked over the parapet. “Nothing but a cloud. What is it we are shooting at?”

  “A grid box,” Gunther shouted over the noise. His partner grabbed one of his bombs and held it ready at the mouth of the mortar awaiting the command.

  “Fire!” Gunther yelled.

  His comrade let go of the bomb and turned away from the gun, covering his ears, as did Gunther. The load slid down the barrel and hit the firing pin igniting the charge that would propel it toward the enemy.

  Thunk! The shell was sent high over No Man’s Land to its final destination. They loaded the next round.

  Just ten yards to go now, Leslie could see the parapet of the most forward trench plainly. With each step closer came an ever increasing feeling of safety. He knew he could go no faster than the man at the lead and Leslie knew him to be one of the most capable men he had ever worked with. The muddy, rough terrain made for painfully slow going nonetheless.

  Throu
gh the explosions of the eighteen-pounders and the rattle of the Maxims came a familiar sound – and not a good one. Thunk! It was the distinct sound of a Minnie. He hated that sound.

  Leslie had been doing his job long enough to know that to run for cover was pointless. It was better to simply continue what you were doing and try to complete the save. He recited the 23rd Psalm again to himself.

  The lead had also heard the Minnie and picked up his pace as fast as he dared. Leslie felt the tug of the increased step and followed suit. The shell exploded about ten yards ahead of them sending a shower of dirt over all four men but miraculously they were not hit.

  Thunk! Another round was on the way but it appeared that they had made it. The lead man stepped carefully over the edge of the wall of the trench when the ground behind Leslie exploded, heaving another shower of dirt over them and knocking Dan McKee over the edge to the trench bottom.

  The force of the explosion threw Leslie forward down to his knees but he got up and carried Kelton over the edge and into the safety of the trench. At the bottom of the trench the lead began to set the stretcher down as he felt the rear also being gently set down.

  He turned to see Leslie drop to his knees and fall forward with a low groan.

  “Get off of me!” Kelton howled as Greenhow landed on him. He had no way of knowing that the back of Greenhow’s uniform was tattered and scorched and covered with blood.

  “No! Leslie No!” the lead cried out, and scrambled around Kelton to assist his fallen friend. Dan hoisted himself up off the trench floor and limped over to help the leadman with this fallen hero. They rolled Leslie off of Kelton, but Greenhow’s partner turned away, knowing by the extent of the injuries the man was dead.

  Somehow Leslie Greenhow had summoned enough determination to carry Kelton down the trench, despite the fact that by all rights he was dead at the trenches edge.

  Dan was left cradling Greenhow’s lifeless body as his partner groaned.