“Advanced dressing Station,” the man replied as he rushed by.
The two pipers entered one of the trenches and followed it into a bunker. It was lit by several bare light bulbs hanging from the ceiling that did a nice job of illuminating the room. The bunker was brick and had a curved or arched ceiling that gave about seven feet of headroom at the apex. It had two chambers. The first, which the boys entered, had several wounded men on bunk beds along the far left wall. Some of the men were unconscious but, others were awake and busily scratching their names into the brick wall. They stopped momentarily to see who had come in and then returned to their tasks. This was too well built to have been simply a bunker and in fact it turned out to be the basement of the demolished farm house.
To the right was a door into the second room in which several doctors had just finished working on a wounded man. They looked tired as they wiped the blood from their hands.
One of the doctors noticed the boys. “Bringing more in boys or are you just here to watch?” the taller of the two doctors asked.
George moved closer and almost tripped over a pile of bloody rags as he thrust out his hand. “George Cohen, third year med, Mcgill.” The doctor raised his eyebrows and he smiled.
“We have a fellow professional, Kranston,” he said to his colleague.
Kranston was a short, broad man with very dark hair and one large eyebrow. “Humph, I’ll be outside having a smoke,” he said as he brushed past George and Terry, never making eye contact.
“My apologies for my partner’s lack of social graces,” the doctor said. “We’ve been on post for over two weeks and now things are starting to pick up so he would appear to have lost his sense of humor. I am Doctor Nichols, Mark Nichols. Welcome to our humble post Ocean Villa.”
Terry joined in on the introductions but was not doing well with the combined smell of the blood soaked floor, old buckets of God knows what and ether, not to mention the odor of filthy men.
“I believe I’ll join your friend outside for some air,” he said and quickly exited the basement.
“Does your friend always have that odd yellow-green color?” Doctor Nichols asked jokingly.
“I think he may have been nauseated by the sight of blood and the stale smell down here,” George said seriously, failing to recognize Nichols’ biting humor.
Nichols looked at George for a moment and said, “Yes, I was kidding my young friend. So, to what do we owe this visit?”
“Well, we were told that this area is a good place to find a billet and we were drawn in by the activity. Just plain curiousity I guess.”
“Good show. We happen to be housed in the adjacent barn and there is plenty of room. You and your friend are welcome to billet there if you like,” Nichols said. “What division are you two with?”
“We’re 86th division, 1st Newfoundland regiment,” George explained. “We’re bagpipers.”
“Good people, the Newfies. Very strong, and thoroughly honest. And a piper you say? I hope you’ll play for us later, I love the pipes,” the Doctor said. “But why aren’t we taking advantage of your medical talents?”
“Military intelligence,” George said.
Nichols laughed loudly. “Quite so – the oxymoron. You do have a sense of humor after all. Perhaps I can rectify the military’s over sight, I am not without influence.”
George smiled at the off er. “I still have an obligation and a responsibility to The 1st now, but I would love to explore the idea further with you at a later date if that suits you.”
“Very admirable,” Nichols responded.
That night the four men talked about the war, politics and family, all over several scotches. The brusque Kranston turned out to be a very friendly and likeable fellow after a couple of drinks and he, too, was a great fan of the pipes.
Terry spent most of the evening entertaining Kranston while George and Nichols talked medicine. Doctor Nichols was so impressed with George that he would later make good on his off er to have the piper moved to the Medical Corps, but not in time.
36TH ULSTER DIVISION
109th Brigade, 9th, 10th, & 11th Royal Iniskilling Fusiliers, 14th Irish Rifles “G” Company
I hadn’t slept at all. I just lay there all night waiting for the sound of the bugle and looking at my wristwatch from time to time. In the darkness, I could hear the rhythmic breathing of Sean and Bill. How could they sleep? I cupped my right hand over the dial to make it easier to read the illuminated hands – 0200 hours. One more hour to go before we had to get up and move out.
A bugle startled me – I must have finally nodded off. Bill and Sean hopped up and struck a match to light the oil lamp. They were up too quickly to have been asleep.
“Up we go sleeping beauty,” Bill called to me.
“You must be a pretty cool customer to have been so soundly asleep,” Sean said. I just smiled and yawned. The yellow flame from the lamp’s wick cast a dim light, but we fumbled around the tent getting dressed as best we could.
We had taken to putting our kilts under our bedding and then sleeping on them. It helped to press our pleats and keep them sharp. It normally took ten to fifteen minutes to dress properly. Kilt, hose, puttees, hobnail boots under shirt and tunic all took time.
The bugle blew again for assembly, so Sean and I tuned our pipes quickly and popped on our glengarry bonnets.
“How do I look?” Sean asked with a smile.
“Like the girl of my friggin’ dreams, come true,” Bill joked as we exited the tent.
“Maybe Fritz will think I’m a girl and not shoot me.” Sean continued to joke.
“If Fritz thinks you’re a women and doesn’t shoot you, he has terrible taste in women,” Bill laughed.
The tents were staying put this time. The intention was that we would only spend three days in the trenches and then be relieved, so the tents stayed. Assembly was held in a large area at the center of the camp. There were lamps everywhere to light the area.
At the east end of the assembly area was a platform with some electric lights shining on it. A sea of men had come together and, as a whistle blew, we all turned our attention toward the platform.
Owen McDonnell stood on the platform with a whistle in one hand and a blowhorn in the other. After several moments, the throng fell silent, the cool night air blew lightly across us giving me a chill. Lt. McDonnell lifted the blow horn to his mouth and began to speak, broadcasting across the mass of men.
“Men, my fellow Irishmen, today we have the unenviable task of meeting our enemy on the field of battle,” he began.
I could hear the breathing of the men around me. I thought I could almost hear their hearts pounding.
“I will not try to make you believe that this day will show you the glories of war,” McDonnell continued. “To the contrary, you will see the enemy kill your comrades and you will avenge their deaths by killing the enemy. This is not about glory. It is about duty. Duty to Ireland, duty to Great Britain and the King, and duty to each other. We did not start this awful war, but we are given only one of two choices by our foes. Surrender to them or beat them. We will not surrender, rather we will vanquish them, we will drive them back to their homeland and we will make them regret their evil assault on our allies. We will leave them powerless and broken to ponder their mad aggression and grieve over their dead...”
The crowd was still quiet and hanging on the powerful message that had been delivered.
“I would like to have Father Patrick Maguire bless us and pray for us now.” McDonnell stepped aside and a tall lean man took the bullhorn. He was in uniform except for the very visible white collar signifying his position as a priest. “Let us all bow our heads my sons of Ireland.” He began with a soothing Irish lilt to his voice.
“Our Holy Father, hear thee I pray the prayer of thy children who call upon thee in their time of danger and difficulty. Forgive me, I pray thee, for all my sins which I so often committed against thee in thought, word, and deed. Make me ready t
o endure hardness as a good soldier of Jesus Christ. Fill me with thy holy spirit that I may know thee more clearly, love thee more dearly, and follow thee more nearly.”
I thought of the hymn that we used to sing at church back on Wolfe Island from which he borrowed the line.
“Strengthen me and uphold me in all difficulties and dangers, keep me faithful unto death, patient in suffering, calm in thy service and confident in the assurance that thou lord wilt direct all things to the glory of thy name and the welfare of thy church and country. Bless the King, whom we serve, and all the royal family,” he said, his tone sounding more obligatory than heartfelt. “O Lord, grant me the grace that no word or act of mine may be spoken or done rashly, hastily, or with anger toward those who differ from me.”
Bill Lewis, out of the side of his mouth with his head down said “I thought they wanted us to kill these guys.” I shushed him.
The priest continued. “Bless all my comrades in the Ulster Volunteer force and make me forgiving and gentle, obedient to my leaders, and faithful to my beliefs. And in thine own good time bring peace to Ireland. For Jesus Christ’s sake. Amen.”
A rumble of Amen passed through the newly religious gathering. It seems that the prospect of imminent death brings many men to the Lord. I poked Bill in the ribs for his sacrilegious wisecracking.
“Ouch!” he said, looking at me apologetically. “Look, my only hope is that God is really, really forgiving.”
I shook my head. The man was incorrigible. Father Maguire looked up to the crowd and yelled into the blow horn. “I would have liked to see this large a crowd last Sunday.” He lowered the horn to show that he was smiling. The gathering laughed at this joke more out of nerves perhaps than genuine comedic value. “Boys, fight hard, take care of each other, and come back safely! Walk with the Lord today and everyday. Dismissed!”
A cut and dry military ending to his prayer! Not very inspirational, I thought. I looked around at the men near me. They were strangers who, in the poor light, had a ghostly look about them. Their faces were drawn, and their expressions looked like what I would imagine a man would have on the morning of his execution. An expression of resolution to one’s fate. A chill ran up my spine.
My dour thoughts were broken by Lieutenant McDonnell. “I’ve been looking for you boys,” he said. “Are you ready to lead our troops over the top?”
“As ready as we ever will be,” Sean said confidently.
“I may piss myself,” I said half-jokingly.
McDonnell turned to me with warm, fatherly eyes. “Son, I’ve seen better men than you piss themselves prior to a battle, but when the fighting began, not a one faltered.”
My face flushed. “I was kidding,” I said defensively, but he ignored my excuse. “Not a one,” he repeated, looking at me.
“Now then,” he continued in a business-like manner. “You three will be up in the advancement trench with me. As you will remember, we will have a team of cutters and bombers out in No Man’s Land lying in wait, backed up by Lewis gunners. They will be over one hundred yards advanced of our position, but will be moving slowly so it won’t take long for our rifles and fusiliers to reach them. I will lead the charge along with you men. But, because you must march and we will be charging, we will outdistance you quickly. Not to worry though. The subsequent waves of men will come at one hundred pace intervals so you’ll have plenty of men to inspire as you march headlong.”
He paused to see if we understood. We nodded. Sean told him that we had selected the tunes and rehearsed them well. We’d be playing “Minstrel Boy,” “Men of the West,” and “Gary Owen.”
“They’re lively tunes,” McDonnell said. “They’ll do just fine. I know you men will make me proud.”
With the coordination of the officers, the mass of men began to transform into an orderly army ready for battle. I looked at the lighted hands on my wristwatch. It was 03:40.
The mile march was quiet and took less than forty minutes. The trenches were cold and muddy, but with so many men jammed into them in full battle dress, the cold morning air was replaced by the heat, smell and sweat of thousands of anxious men.
We had stayed by Lieutenant McDonnell’s side, and at 04:30 we were in the most advanced trench of the B.E.F. There was nowhere else to safely traverse under the cover of the trench.
McDonnell lit up a cigarette and offered us one, but we declined. The eastern sky was starting to show signs of light as the moments passed. I saw the stars in the cloudless night fade until only the brightest remained. The curtain was being lifted on the theater of death and we had a front row seat.
The endless work of the sappers was done hours before, shoring up the trenches and repairing the duckboards. I could now see the men, standing three abreast. They stretched off through the trench systems leading up to the assault trench where they lined up in rows of forty, ready to run up the shallow bank into No Man’s Land.
The 14th Royal Irish Rifles stood ready to rush into the unknown. It was 05:30. Our artillery had slacked off and things were relatively quiet when the still morning air was ripped to pieces by a massive German artillery response to our own.
I believe, in anticipation of our attack, the Germans were attempting to block our advance. Those of our men that had been ordered out into No Man’s land were now exposed to this hellish maelstrom with nowhere to go for refuge. Crump holes were their only escape from the attack. We had more than fifty casualties brought back before 06:30. Each injured man carried past those waiting for the whistle was an omen of things to come.
The German attack ended abruptly at 06:30, and for a few moments all was quiet again except for the ringing in our ears.
My expression must have given away my reluctance in wanting to walk out into that hell. It just didn’t seem like the prudent thing to do.
Bill reached over and put his hand on my arm. “We have a job to do,” he said. “We’ll just do it.” He made it sound so simple.
Then, the horizon behind us lit up as the British Royal Artillery delivered our response to the German bombardment. For a solid half-hour, the German trenches were pummeled and we were cloaked in smoke from the big guns. There was a slight westerly breeze. Good news for us as far as German gas attacks went, but not good news as our smokeless gunpowder from the artillery was not altogether smokeless.
At 07:10 all was quiet again except for the cries of the injured and, of course, that ringing. Like two exhausted boxers, both the German and British artilleries took a short break.
The men around us were fidgeting and restless. Lieutenant McDonnell was like a rock, square jaw set and looking up at the edge of the trench, focused. It was quite quiet now, the men keeping their Enfields up at a forty-five degree angle out of the mud, when suddenly – and quite clearly – a young man directly behind us let out with a royal fart.
We all turned to see who had popped off Gabriel’s horn so magnificently. Even Lieutenant McDonnell’s trance was broken by the sound and he turned to look. A young, ginger haired, freckle-faced lad turned beet red.
“Pardon me, sir,” he said sheepishly.
“Not at all,” McDonnell said, with one eyebrow raised and a slight smile. “That was, in fact, quite a brave move my boy, maybe even bold.” The front line broke out in spontaneous laughter, it was just the relief we all needed. The laughter was infectious and spread quickly as the incident was passed on.
But the laughing was silenced as the ground shook again as if convulsing. Dirt fell from the soft trench walls and many stumbled to catch their footing as the earth trembled. Our vision blurred like an out-of-focus picture and then the ground rose up to our northeast about two kilometers away. It seemed as if it were giving birth to the devil himself.
This mountainous boil exploded hundreds of feet into the air carrying acres of land and thousands of tons of dirt with it. Hundreds of unsuspecting German soldiers were instantly killed when the Hawthorn Ridge mine blew ten minutes ahead of schedule. The shockwave blew past us li
ke a tsunami of wind followed by the most enormous sound I had ever heard. It was not a sharp sound like that of a cannon or bomb, but it was low and deep and grew to a point where it shook your body from within. Like rolling thunder, it passed over us and left the area.
“Jesus help us!” Bill blurted out. I just looked at my friends, wide-eyed and frightened.
McDonnell glanced at his watch and shook his head. “Fools,” he cursed, as he returned his gaze toward the parapet. “Steady! Lads, Steady! There’s more to come!” he yelled.
Indeed at 07:30 a series of mines exploded to the north and south of us. The massive Lochnagar mine was closest to us and had a similar effect, although its impact was diminished by the mass of other mines exploding simultaneously.
McDonnell called to Sean. “Pipes up!” he shouted.
Sean looked at him with surprise. “I thought we were to wait fifteen minutes?”
Owen looked at Sean with a sly grin. “I believe it has been fifteen minutes after the first mine!” The whistle went to his mouth and his arm went straight up. With a long blow on the whistle, his arm came down. Similar whistles blew all down the front line and the men charged up the trench and over the top.
Bill held his sticks up. Sean shouted out over the chaos. “By the right! Quick, march!”
We blew up and marched up the grade playing “The Minstrel Boy” into No Man’s Land. Men ran past us yelling and screaming like banshees toward the pre-cut paths through British barbed wire and on to the German lines. The maxims started to bark out their deadly spew and Irishmen began to fall in droves, but an amazing number pressed forward toward the enemy.
My head was spinning as the long awaited moment was upon us. I fought to concentrate on my tune, but with the confusion of the battle going on around me, it became almost impossible. I had to try to shut it out, focus my attention on the ground six to eight feet ahead of me. I struggled to block out my surroundings. I had to step around a fallen rifleman, his unseeing eyes staring up at me. I looked away trying to hold onto my Piper’s trance.
The Last Lady from Hell Page 24
