by John Wilson
“The Russians have been shooting their officers and going home all summer. Now the French are doing the same.”
“How d’you know? I ain’t heard nothin’ ’bout them Frenchies stoppin’ fightin’,” a man shouted.
It was Sunday afternoon, the only time we had to ourselves. About thirty Canadians and Australians were gathered outside a tent listening to the short man rant on. I hadn’t wanted to hear him, but it was my tent and I had got caught up in the crowd on my way to lie down and rest.
“You’ve not heard because the High Command’s keeping it a secret from you. Three French comrades told me that most of their army mutinied this past summer. They refused to fight, some shot their officers and one regiment even marched on Paris. They didn’t make it, though. The cavalry was sent in against them. My sources said that one in every ten men in the regiment was picked by lot and shot.”
I listened open-mouthed. Frenchmen shooting Frenchmen! It had to be a lie. I couldn’t imagine French cavalry battling their own troops, or a regiment standing on parade while every tenth man was selected for execution.
“That’s why we’re being slaughtered at Ypres,” the man went on. “As long as the Germans are busy killing us, they won’t realize that the French army’s good for nothing and that the kaiser could walk into Paris if he wanted. We should follow the Russian example, shoot a few officers and end the war. Then we can all go home.”
I was horrified to hear a murmur of agreement run through the crowd. Who was this lying, foul-mouthed man who was suggesting rebellion, murder and desertion? Ken was an officer. The idea that this man wanted to shoot him made me furious. I pushed forward.
“Who do you think you are?” I shouted. “You’re afraid to fight. You’d let the Germans win. You’re not even a Canadian. You’re just some stinking, lying coward. I bet you’ve never even been in battle.”
I stopped ranting, suddenly scared that the rough man was going to hit me. He didn’t. Instead, his coarse face broke into a broad smile and he laughed.
“Quite the little patriotic firebrand,” he said. “I didn’t think there were any of you left.”
A few of the men laughed and I became conscious that everyone was looking at me. I tried to push past the man into my tent but he placed a strong hand on my chest and stopped me.
“Now hold up. You accused me of a lot of things. Some are true and some aren’t, but I should have a chance to answer, shouldn’t I?”
I nodded reluctantly.
“First, let me introduce myself. The name’s Harry Sommerfield.” He held out a hand. I ignored it, but stayed where I was.
Sommerfield shrugged and continued. “It’s true I wasn’t born in Canada, but I went over there in ’06 and that makes me as Canadian as most of the boys here.” There were nods from some in the crowd.
“As for being afraid to fight, of course I am. Any sane man would be, the instant he got a glimpse of what this war is really like.” Again nods from some of the older soldiers in the crowd.
“I don’t want the Germans to win and I don’t think they will. The German boys on the other side of no man’s land are just as scared and tired as we are. If we go home, I believe they will, too. And even if I’m wrong, the Germans winning would be better than what we have now — a huge, insatiable meat grinder that’s been running for three years, sucking in millions of young men and spitting out corpses. Or the shadows of men so broken in body and mind that they will never be the same again.”
Now I was confused. Harry Sommerfield talked calmly and rationally and, even though I violently disagreed with what he was saying, his eyes held me — like a helpless mouse mesmerized by a snake. “Now, as to the more personal accusations.” Sommerfied’s smile broadened. “I admit that I do stink somewhat — ” a few men laughed “ — but no more than most and less than a lot, I dare say. But a short while back you also called me a coward. Now that’s a serious thing.
“I’ve seen ‘brave’ men with chests full of medals reduced to gibbering wrecks by days of shelling or the sight of their best friend’s brains smeared along the wall of a trench. Are they cowards?”
I stayed silent.
“Of course they’re not. They’ve just been pushed beyond what any sane man can stand.
“I’ve been down the coal mines at Cumberland and Extension on Vancouver Island, where it’s so gassy that a careless spark can create a wall of fire that’ll incinerate fifty men before they even have a chance to run. By the Somme River I’ve seen sixteen-year-old boys walk forward until machine-gun bullets stitched a neat line of holes across their chests. I’ve heard wounded men in no man’s land scream insanely for two days before they died. I’ve seen men drown in mud holes at Arras when six of their friends weren’t strong enough to pull them out. I’ve felt the last breath of a young German soldier on my cheek while I struggled to pull my bayonet out of his chest.” Sommerfield paused for a long minute, still holding me with his stare. Around us the other men stood in a silence I had only ever heard in church. Eventually, Sommerfield continued.
“I’ve felt fear so intense that I was paralyzed and I’ve wept uncontrollably at some of the things I’ve seen and done, but have I run away? No. After every horror I buried my comrades, picked up my rifle and fought on like a good soldier. So, yes, I am a coward. I’m a coward because through all of that I went on doing what the stupid generals wanted. I never stood up and said, ‘No!’ I never screamed, ‘Enough!’ I never shot the officer who ordered another thousand young men to go over the top, knowing that half of them would be dead an hour later.”
Confusion overwhelmed me now. What was this man talking about? His list of horrors had nothing to do with bravery, honour and fighting for your country. Did it?
Before I could think of anything to say, an Australian in the crowd shouted, “But you did run away, Harry.”
Sommerfield turned his stare on the man who had spoken, releasing me.
“Some would say that,” he murmured. “Others might say I’m simply fighting a different war. I’m taking as much of a chance coming here as any I took in the front lines. Only difference is, if I’m caught now, it’s my own side that’ll shoot me, not the Germans.”
“You’re a deserter,” I said with sudden realization.
“That’s what some would call me.” Sommerfield turned back to look at me. “I’ve also been called a Socialist, a traitor, a conspirator and a rabble-rouser. I prefer to think of myself as a sheep who has seen the light and no longer wants to be led unprotesting to the slaughterhouse.”
Sommerfield gave me his winning smile, but this time it didn’t work. My anger had returned with full force. This man was a traitor. Whatever he wanted to call it, he had failed in his duty. While courageous men like Ken were sticking it out to the end, he had run off to skulk away from the fighting. What’s more, he was trying to persuade other men to follow him. Every time a brave soldier died at the front, Sommerfield and his kind were as much to blame as the Germans. He would be shot by his own side if he were caught, but it was no more than he deserved.
“You are a traitor!” I yelled, shoving Sommerfield so hard in the chest that he staggered back into the group of men behind him. “You’re not a real Canadian. You deserve to be shot.”
I forced my way through the crowd into the tent and threw myself down on my cot. Tears of frustration stung my eyes and I balled my fists and beat the bed frame until my knuckles bled. I felt completely alone, away from home and in a dreadful place where I had nothing and no one that I could relate to. I prayed that I would be sent to the Front, where I would be with Ken and life would be a simple matter of fighting Germans.
Chapter 3
The Storm
Etaples, September 1917
I lay on my cot feeling sorry for myself for quite some time. It was hot and I must have drifted off to sleep, because I woke suddenly to the sounds of running feet and yelling outside. I strained to hear what men were shouting, but it was all gibberish as far
as I could tell. Gradually I realized that a distant popping sound was gunfire. The Germans are attacking, I thought, sitting bolt upright, but before I could do anything, Bob Macready burst into the tent.
“They shot someone on the bridge into town, McBride,” he said, breathlessly. “All hell’s breaking loose out there.”
“What are you talking about?” I asked. “What do you mean ‘shot someone’? Who shot someone?”
Bob’s round, cheerful face was flushed and he was gulping air in as fast as he could as he sat on the cot beside mine. He was a new recruit like myself, a farm boy from Saskatchewan with a natural optimism that allowed him to smile through the worst that Etaples could throw at him. He’d told me that his reason for joining up was so that he could travel beyond the boundaries of his father’s quarter section. Already, in only a few months, the army had taken him to Calgary, England and France and shown him more of the world than he had ever dreamed of seeing.
“There was a Scottish corporal on the bridge meeting his girl,” Bob hurried on. “That Red Cap that everyone hates, Reeve, comes along and tells the soldier that talking to women is not allowed and orders him to move along. No one seems to know exactly what happened, but there was a fight and Reeve shot the man dead.
“The Scots went wild when they heard, and now the Australians and New Zealanders have joined them. Hundreds of men are storming over the bridge into Etaples and tearing up the town. The rest are hunting Red Caps all over the camp. When they find them they beat them and throw them off the bridge into the river.”
I could hardly credit what Bob was telling me. Was this the beginning of revolution and mutiny that Sommerfield had said were sweeping through the Russian and French armies?
“It’s … it’s mutiny,” I said.
“I reckon it is,” Bob agreed.
“What should we do?”
“Anything we like,” Bob said with an ironic smile. “There’s no one to stop us. The Red Caps are all beat up or hiding and the officers have run away.”
“That’s what we can do,” I said, slightly annoyed at Bob’s attitude. “What should we do?”
“I guess we could go out there and try and find an officer.” Bob sounded uncertain and I must admit the thought of heading out into the camp if there was a full-blown riot going on didn’t appeal, but we had joined the army. It was our duty to find an officer and get orders.
“Right,” I said, standing up. “Let’s go, then.”
The view outside looked ten times worse than I had imagined from the sounds. It reminded me of a picture of Hell in the illustrated Bible we had at home. Dusk was falling and dark clouds were building high in the eastern sky. A couple of buildings — the camp prison and a supply shed, I supposed — were ablaze. Deep red flames leaped into the air.
Men were running everywhere, to no obvious purpose. Many were carrying rifles with bayonets attached and several were firing aimlessly into the sky. Over to my left, a group of obviously drunk men had linked arms and were singing a song whose words were drowned out by the general cacophony. There wasn’t an officer in sight.
A man barged around the corner of the tent and cannoned into me, knocking me hard against Bob and almost taking all three of us to the ground.
“Hey!” Bob shouted. “Be careful.”
The man laughed. “No time to be careful, mate,” he said in a broad Australian accent. “The camp’s ours. So’s the town. Better ’urry over afore all the women’re taken and the drink gone.”
I watched him disappear into the mad crowd, thinking that at least it didn’t sound as if he was part of a revolution to overthrow the army and end the war.
“Let’s go to the bridge and see what’s happening there,” Bob suggested.
As we pushed our way through the chaos, I noticed that several large groups of men stood still, not taking any part in the upheaval. Others stared nervously out from their tents.
As we neared the bridge, I noticed a group of soldiers surrounding the small wooden guard hut at the near end. They were beating on the walls and door with fists and rifle butts. As I stared, the crowd pulled back and a man with a huge axe stepped forward. He only needed to work on the door for a few minutes before it was reduced to splinters.
He threw the axe down and stepped inside the hut. He emerged moments later dragging a terrified Red Cap. The man had his hands clenched and was obviously pleading for his life. The soldier who had broken down the door ignored his pleas, dragged the man to his feet and punched him in the face, sending a spray of blood from his nose. The Red Cap collapsed and disappeared in a forest of feet and fists as the crowd surged forward.
“We should help him,” I said.
I was relieved when Bob grabbed my arm and said, “Don’t be crazy. They’ll tear us apart. Besides, it’s probably too late.”
For an instant the side of the crowd closest to us parted and I caught a glimpse of the Red Cap. He was huddled on the ground, his usually smart uniform filthy and torn. His face was a bloody mask and his head jerked spastically as a boot connected with the back of his neck. Then the legs closed in around him again.
I felt nauseous. Yes, the Red Caps were brutes and one of them might have murdered the Scottish soldier on the bridge, but did the man in the guard hut deserve to be beaten to death by a drunken mob? His battered face stayed with me as we worked our way around to one side of the bridge.
“You men. Get over here.” An authoritative voice cut through the noise.
I looked over to see a solitary officer down the bank beside the oily water of the inlet. There was a line of about twenty armed soldiers behind him. I felt an immense sense of relief. Here was some sanity in the midst of madness. Someone was here to tell me what to do. Bob and I scrambled down the bank.
“There’s some spare rifles at the back,” the officer said. “Grab one each and join the line. We’re going to clear the bridge.”
The effect of the officer’s calm orders was immense and Bob and I obeyed him without thought. It was only when we had our weapons and began climbing the bank that the lunacy of what we were trying to do sank in. A disturbance among the crowd on the bridge caught my eye and I turned my head just in time to see the limp body of a Red Cap splash into the shallow water below. I had no idea whether it was the one we had seen beaten earlier, but the sight made me and several others in the line, hesitate.
There were hundreds of men packed onto the bridge, many leaning over and jeering at the body of the Red Cap. They were angry, armed, and a good number of them were drunk. We didn’t stand a chance.
“Stay together and keep moving,” the officer ordered. We obeyed. Surprisingly, despite some jeers and shouts, the men on the bank moved back and allowed us to form our line on the flat ground beside the bridge. The sun had set, but the sky was still light behind the men on the bridge.
“I order you men to disperse,” the officer said in a loud, clear voice. He had unholstered his pistol but was holding it by his side. “You will clear the bridge and return to your tents.”
For a moment the men hesitated. The habit of obeying orders was strong. They’re going to do it, I thought. Then the large man who had wielded the axe against the guard hut stepped forward.
“We ain’t goin’ nowhere,” he roared. Behind him a rumble of agreement ran through the crowd. “We got rid of them damned Red Caps. We can get rid of an officer an’ a few of his lily-livered flunkeys.”
“This doesn’t look good,” Bob muttered.
“This is mutiny,” the officer replied. “The penalty for mutiny is death.”
He turned to face us. “Ready,” he said, loudly enough for the crowd to hear. We held our rifles across our chests.
“Aim!” We lifted our weapons to our shoulders and pointed them at the crowd.
I stared along my rifle at the packed mass of men before me. Could I shoot? Could I kill another man? My rifle barrel was shaking and, however hard I tried, I couldn’t keep it steady. Then I realized that I hadn’t ev
en checked to see if the weapon was loaded.
“Mutiny, is it?” the big man said. “There’ll be deaths if you want, right enough. I daresay you’ll get a few of us, but the only certain deaths’ll be yours. Go ahead, shoot your own men.”
Several of the rifle barrels were wavering now.
“Steady,” the officer shouted. He slowly raised his pistol and pointed it at the big man. “The only certainty is that your death will be the first.”
For what seemed like an age, all possible futures hung in the balance. One wrong step and all hell would break loose, and Bob and I would be very unlikely to survive it. Then Harry Sommerfield pushed his way through the crowd.
“Now, boys,” he said almost conversationally. “There’s no need for all this talk of death.”
The officer hesitated for a moment and then swung his pistol over to cover Sommerfield, who continued talking.
“I’ll die. You’ll die and, I daresay, several others will, too.” Sommerfield looked directly at me and smiled. “And what good will it do? Nothing will change.
“The boys are a little out of control tonight, but who can blame them after what they’ve had to put up with in this place. You and a couple of dozen scared boys can’t stop them. We are in the situation we are, and nothing can change that. We can only look for a way out at the other end, and I have a suggestion that’ll save a lot of bloodshed.”
The officer was uncertain. His pistol wavered. Sommerfield undoubtedly had charm, but I was confused. This was not the firebrand who had incited the men to revolution earlier.
“All these boys want,” Sommerfield went on, “is a chance to have their grievances heard and improve the conditions in this place. They want to be treated like human beings, like men who are fighting for their country, and not donkeys who have to be beaten and degraded by Red Caps whose only contact with Germans was with waiters in London before the war. We want to meet the camp commander and discuss things.”
“This is the army,” the officer responded, “not one of your damned labour unions. Soldiers obey orders. They don’t negotiate and discuss the best thing to do.”
