The plan called for a three-mile march to transport that would take them to their quarters. All Tom could think about was the promise of hot food and dry bedding. Packs and rifles seemed lighter with every step away from the front line, in spite of an ongoing drizzle.
Tom felt rather than heard a high-pitched whine. “Down,” yelled Planck from behind. At that instant there was a tremendous explosion and something banged off Tom’s head. Clumps of earth pelted him as he crashed down. He lay as small as he could on the ground, a ringing in his ears the only sound in the otherwise sudden, aching stillness. He raised his head and saw the men behind him all face-down, partly covered with earth.
Ferguson looked up, his mouth moving, but Tom heard nothing. He felt as if he were buried under a layer of blankets, his movements slow and difficult. He got up on his elbows, then his knees. Now he could hear men’s voices, muffled but real.
Ferguson came closer. “Are ye hit?”
“No—don’t think so. You okay?”
Fergie nodded.
Tom retrieved his cap from where it lay, feet away. He clapped it back on, and turned to look for Planck, who lay on his back beside a raw shell hole, wisps of smoke rising from the ground around him. Tom stumbled over to the sergeant, his feet slipping and catching in the mushy clods of dirt. Planck’s cap was missing and his uniform was black and charred. He was conscious, and his eyes fastened on Tom. He struggled to raise his head, enough to look down to where his left flank and hip should be. They were gone, and a great mass of blood and guts flowed from his side.
The sergeant’s eyes rolled back in his head, then refocussed. He looked up at the sky, as if there were something there to see. “I’m going, boys,” he said, as his eyes glazed over. He never moved again.
Tom collected the sergeant’s cap. Planck, you son of a bitch, how could this happen to you? You, as tough as they come, a survivor of the Boer War, for God’s sake. We couldn’t stand you back in Winnipeg, but you brought us through. Who will watch over us now?
Johanson and Ferguson marked the spot by jamming the shattered limb from a nearby tree into the muck, and Tom wedged Planck’s cap into a split in the branch. Lieutenant Tilley crossed himself, and the troop marched on. They’d send a party back for the body.
Tom held back as the rest of his troop slogged past him. Their route was through a blasted landscape recently torn up by enemy artillery. Two of the youngest members of the troop trailed behind. They were in bad shape, having suffered more than most with the short rations and lack of sleep during the nightly bombardments. Sergeant Quartermain had taken Planck’s place and urged them on like a collie herding sheep. Quartermain was carrying one man’s rifle for him, and Tom took Liam Fogarty’s. In spite of that Fogarty bogged down in the mud; Tom shouldered his pack and helped him along. Anything to avoid thinking about Planck. This war could get any of them, at any time. There was no way out.
♦ ♦ ♦
“I need a rest,” Ellen gasped, and Harry led her toward their table. An evening of square dancing and Scottish reels was pleasantly tiring. Ellen’s normal physical exertions involved walking to work at the hospital in good weather and climbing up and down stairs when necessary, so she was relieved to sit and fan herself with the printed dance program.
Three times over the past few weeks she had gone out with Harry and his friends, and this was the most active evening of all. Harry sat close beside her. She leaned back in her chair while she caught her breath. Swirling dancers swooped by, the men in everything from dress trousers and shirts to kilts and jackets. The women wore long, colourful, loose dresses and skirts, with practical, low-heeled shoes.
“Back in a minute. I’ll get you something to drink.” Harry picked up their glasses and made his way around the dancers toward the bar.
Ellen watched him go, a lithe figure, assured and confident as he greeted acquaintances. He had been in Winnipeg only a few months but already was an accepted part of the social set. Come to think of it, a part of her social set.
The war dragged on, and Tom’s letters were still coming, as regular as the weeks that rolled by. They were unfailingly cheerful, in a superficial way. He hoped to go on leave to Paris but would not be allowed to cross the Atlantic. She understood that the men’s correspondence was censored by the officers, but couldn’t he say something to help keep the home fires burning? Yes, he loved her, she knew that, or least so she told herself. Time was intruding, though, on her precious memories of Tom, of their trip in the cutter with Belle, of the heat of their bodies under the buffalo robe.
She wrote back, at least twice a week, but she found she had less and less to tell him. The work at the hospital was depressing. She certainly couldn’t tell him any details; it would be too mournful. He had enough on his mind dodging bullets and God knew what. She couldn’t write about her social life: no need to upset him. Not that they meant anything, these outings with Harry.
Harry returned with freshened drinks, and they were soon joined at their table by the Bergers and Hugh and Sandra Jenkins. Hugh worked with Harry at the Hudson’s Bay store. John Berger was in the grain business.
Ellen enjoyed the company of the other young women, who were only two or three years older than she was. She laughed at Sandra’s story about her children’s latest escapades, although what was funny about changing diapers and sweeping up food spilled on the floor she didn’t know. I think I’d better slow down with the punch, she cautioned herself.
“Well, I’ve just about danced myself out,” said Harry, looking from John to Hugh.
“I think the time has come,” John responded. “Come on, ladies. Let’s collect our coats.”
“John Berger,” said his wife, Cecile. “It’s far too early to go home. What are you up to?”
“You’ll just have to wait and see,” and Harry took Ellen by the hand toward the cloakroom, where they recovered their coats. John Berger directed them to a waiting taxi, and they all squeezed in.
The vehicle moved south along Sherbrook to Cornish Avenue, then turned down Assiniboine to pass between immaculate homes to the very end of the street. Harry steadied Ellen as she alighted from the taxi and it glided away.
“This way, everybody.” Berger spoke quietly in deference to the sleeping neighbourhood. He and his wife walked toward the Assiniboine River, where the water lapped at a float tied to the bank. The men gallantly aided the women down the ramp to a motor launch, its engine purring. A man stepped off the boat onto the float and saluted Berger.
“Over to you, captain,” he said cheerfully.
Berger got in behind the wheel, Cecile beside him. Hugh helped Sandra and Ellen on board while Harry loosened the ropes that secured the boat to the float.
“Let go the lines, mate,” ordered Berger.
“Aye, aye, sir.” Harry threw the ropes aboard and jumped after them.
The little vessel chugged downstream toward the Red River, the low banks sliding by in the moonlight. Harry produced chilled wine from a locker and poured generous glasses for each of them.
“To further adventures,” John said, turning in his seat. They clinked glasses all round.
Ellen and Harry sat side by side, watching the silent ripples on the dark river. Occasional lights in houses along the bank winked from behind a screen of willows and elms. Ellen wasn’t really listening to the casual conversation around her as she gazed out at the water. Harry draped his arm over the back of the seat, his hand on her shoulder. She turned and glanced up at his face, hidden in the shadow cast by the boat’s canvas canopy. He pulled her toward him and kissed her full on the lips.
Ellen’s heart raced as she broke off the kiss. What was she to do now? She had promised herself to Tom, but Tom wasn’t here, and Harry was very desirable.
♦ ♦ ♦
It had not been a dream, then. Tom had woken to the trumpet, clear and sharp in the chilly air. He stumbled from his tent, snapped his suspenders up over his shirt, and was greeted by a blue sky, scudding white c
louds, and the neighing of horses looking for their morning feed. The rain had stopped, the regiment was out of the trenches, and they had their horses. Life was good.
Tom, up on Ranger, his new ride, went off on a morning exercise with the other members of his section under the relaxed leadership of Lance-Corporal Hicks. The eight horses and riders meandered down the road toward the nearest French village, a couple of miles away. After a fifteen-minute warm-up they broke into a trot.
It was March 1916, and change was in the air. Not only had the brigade finally become mounted, they now wore British army helmets for the first time, replacing their cloth caps. Artillery shells exploding overhead had caused a high percentage of wounds among the Allies, even more than bullets. The helmets took some getting used to, but Tom felt safer with the extra protection.
Their formation was now known as the Canadian Cavalry Brigade, made up of three Canadian regiments: the Strathconas, the Dragoons, and the Fort Garry Horse, which had replaced the 2nd King Edward’s Horse. They were more “Canadian” than ever, but ironically, the brigade was now part of the British army command structure, serving separately from the rest of the Canadian Expeditionary Force.
They were well back from the immediate area of the front, and Tom, as always, was astounded at the peaceful countryside that showed no sign of the carnage a few short miles away. Rolling hills with scattered woods and fields, golden brown with last year’s stubble or lying fallow, stretched one after another to the distant horizons. Hedges with new, bright green foliage snaked along shallow waterways. Villages were tucked into folds in the landscape, seeming none the worse for wear considering the total devastation just over the horizon. He was amazed to see no fences—it was countryside suited to horsemen, or an invading army. There were no natural obstacles; they could have galloped for miles without hindrance but for occasional streams and gullies. Just like the prairies, Tom thought.
The blue sky and clear air, combined with the thrill and exercise of a morning ride, lifted the men’s spirits. Tossed aside were the memories of the brutal times in the trenches. They were young and healthy, and they were alive. They had survived the hell and uncertainty of two-week rotations in the front lines for most of a year.
“Beat you to the bridge,” shouted Bruce Johanson, and kicked his horse into a gallop.
Hicks didn’t hesitate a moment. “Like hell,” he said, and spurred after him.
Tom and the others gave chase. The mass of men and horses thundered the half mile to a small bridge, clattered across, then slowed their mounts to a walk on the far side to cool them off.
Tom rode beside René Carbonnier, the wiry, half-breed veteran and career soldier who had boxed him to a draw on the Cape Wrath. Tom had heard that René had twice made it to the dizzy height of corporal, but brushes with authority and regulations, usually related to excessive consumption of alcohol, had propelled him back to the ranks as a private.
“What do you think, René? Are we going to hang on to our horses?” asked Tom, as the men followed a circular route back to their camp.
“You never know what the damn army’s going to do next.” René thought a while. “Those trenches are no place for a cavalryman. Let the infantry and the artillery blast a hole in the lines, then we’ll gallop through and put the sword to the bastards.”
It wasn’t the first time Tom had heard that sentiment. “If our last months are anything to go by, blasting a hole in the lines is going to be the tough part.”
“I figure we’ll get our chance. Sooner or later we’ll have a crack at them in the open, then watch out. The cavalry has always been special. We do the cleanup.”
“Those poor guys in the infantry look pretty beaten up.”
“Yeah—and they were trained for the trenches. We weren’t. Doesn’t matter. The cavalry is the cream on the top of the milk jar. We can fight in the trenches if we have to, or we can fight on our horses.”
Since he found himself in the army anyway, Tom had happily accepted the fact that he was on horseback, at least part of the time, not constantly marching and slogging around in the mud. He was impressed by his fellow Strathconas; they were tough, elite horsemen—professionals. From the commanding officer to the lowest-ranking shoveller of horse manure, they saw themselves as heirs of a glorious tradition of mounted warriors. The exploits of the regiment in the Boer War and the élan of their brigade’s leader, the aristocratic Brigadier-General Jack Seely, only added to the mystique.
Some of the villages they encountered were in valleys along rambling streams; some were on hilltops or ridges, where they commanded views all around. Tom was reminded of fairy-tale picture books that he had read as a child. The villages typically were made up of houses and shops built right to the edge of the streets. The buildings abutted one another, presenting a solid front to passersby. Many streets were cobbled; others simply earth and stone packed by centuries of use.
Few inhabitants were to be seen when the mounted men passed through the villages. Occasional housewives or shopkeepers would appear in a doorway, shielding their eyes from the sun, watching the riders, as if they had seen it all before.
Back in England, an officer had given the men a lecture. He explained that in 1914, most Frenchmen had been only too happy to be at war with Germany once more, but the stalemate on the front and heavy losses had cooled their ardour considerably. The French wanted to reverse the results of the War of 1870, when Germany had wrested Alsace-Lorraine from France. And that was just the most recent war. For centuries, invaders had swept across the low hills of Picardy, plundering and killing, only to be beaten back until the next time. Like their ancestors before them, these villagers and farmers waited stoically for the outcome of the present conflict so their lives could be restored to normal.
♦ ♦ ♦
Sometimes Tom didn’t know which was worse—living in a trench with half the regiment for two weeks or slogging it out in reserve, looking after the horses for the whole regiment. After a week away from the trenches, spending eighteen hours a day training, exercising, feeding, watering, and otherwise caring for horses, the front lines could look pretty good. At least in those spells when nothing was going on.
Life in a cavalry regiment, like any other part of the army, often meant waiting for something to happen. As the order said so many times, “Stand to your horses,” and the men, fully kitted and spurred, would stand by their saddled mounts, ready for action. For most of the war so far, the cavalry had waited in vain for the infantry and artillery to crack open a fissure in the German lines so they could charge through. Now, in the fall of 1916, the inactivity, combined with the constant, routine attention to their horses, was too much for many of them. Some of Tom’s friends requested duty elsewhere.
Just a week before, George Windell brought news that Eddie Hicks—recently promoted to sergeant—had been reassigned to a Highland infantry regiment in the 1st Division.
“Guess Hicks never did get over having to bite that horse’s ear on the way over,” Bruce Johanson laughed. Tom wondered if Clark, the infantry soldier he had met his first night in the trenches, was still alive.
Tom was confident in the saddle and comfortable with the regiment. His first loyalty was to his section, the small group of men with whom he fought, trained, bivouacked, and drank. They were his new family, his closest friends. If a sergeant was wounded or departed for promotion or training, a corporal could take over and perhaps be promoted into his new role. Tom had now been in the same section for two years and had been promoted, as gaps in leadership opened up, from private to lance-corporal.
♦ ♦ ♦
Tom’s section was in a forward trench when Lieutenant Flowerdew located them. Flowerdew, who had risen rapidly in rank and been granted a commission, was now the lieutenant in command of C Squadron. He took Tom aside. “The Brits in the listening post out front are due for relief. Draw enough ammunition from stores for an extended stay, plus extra rations and a radio. You and your men will take over from th
em tonight.”
Tom was well aware of the listening post. It had once been a German dugout, a deep, elaborate underground shelter in a former trench, both of which were now abandoned and all but obliterated by shellfire. A communication trench—just a ditch, really—so shallow that it would allow German snipers on their high ground to fire on any occupants during daylight, had been dug to the post by the Straths under cover of darkness the previous night.
Tom duly drew the stores and equipment, then after midnight he and his men crawled forward on their bellies from their own front lines via the communication trench and slid into the sandbagged post. Happy to withdraw for their two weeks in reserve, the Brits did a turnover and headed back the way the Canadians had arrived. Tom’s section was on its own, eight men two hundred yards in front of the rest of the Canadian troops. Eight hundred yards away across No-Man’s-Land were the Germans.
The dugout, originally twenty feet deep, now measured only ten. It had been filled in partly by earth flung up by exploding shells, partly by heavy rains that had pelted down over the previous weeks. Firing steps, platforms set into the side walls, were five feet from the top. There Tom crouched and peered into the shadows, senses stretched like banjo strings. Below, in the total darkness, were the other seven men of his section. Private Walter Reynolds, a newly arrived replacement, manned a telephone connected to regimental headquarters.
Tom climbed as quietly as he could down to the floor. He still wasn’t used to the steel helmet that was now standard issue, and he banged it against a wooden post set in the wall. “Simpson,” he whispered.
Private Reg Simpson was squatting right at Tom’s feet. “Here, Lance.”
Tom touched Simpson on the shoulder and bent close. “Up you go, Simps. Keep your head down and your eyes open. We’re expecting a German patrol. If they see you first, we’re all dead.”
Soldier of the Horse Page 12
