Bombproof Read online

  2

  Being a lance corporal certainly had its perks. For Bill it meant a lot less heavy lifting; that was reserved for the privates of his section. He didn’t feel bad about letting his men do the manual labour; after all, he had spent over two years as a private himself. He did however, have to be aware of tasks, timings, and locations. Today it was a carrying party, eight in the morning, bringing supplies from the terminus of a light rail track that passed through Cambligneul, to a forward equipment dump. As the immediate vicinity around the frontline was too difficult for trucks or trains, the last stage of the journey always had to be done by men and mules. Almost all of A and B Companies would be along for the fun.

  For every day a man spent in the frontlines he’d spend a dozen carrying forward supplies. The front was a wasteland, devoid of vegetation, firewood, clean water, and imposed a constant strain upon the soldiers who occupied it. Ammunition, fuel, food, water, barbed wire, tools, and weapons all had to be replenished with regularity in order for the line to hold. Even at the quietest of times, the men in the front trenches required never-ending resupply. On top of all this, extra quantities of every variety were needed in preparation for the coming attack.

  Hundreds of miles of light rail honeycombed the fields west of Vimy Ridge, where one hundred thousand Canadian soldiers had spent the winter. These trains had been especially active recently, keeping all calibres of artillery abundant with shells in what was rumoured to be the most intense barrage ever executed; over one million shells were to be fired in a single week.

  The ride down was crowded and slow. Luckily the men had been allowed to leave their rifles and combat equipment back in billets, taking only their canteens, helmets, and gas masks. They would be close enough to the front to encounter some stray shellfire, but not enemy soldiers. The men stood in what few open carts were not loaded with shells, or crouched on the heaps of gear they would be responsible for moving once the ride was over. It took just over an hour to cover the seven miles from the village to the railhead. Even before the train had rocked to a halt, soldiers were already dismounting, desperate to stretch their legs.

  The train’s cargo was hastily unloaded and piled on the ground next to the narrow track. Soon the carts were full again, this time with another work party on their way back to Cambligneul, having spent the night preparing jumping-off trenches for the upcoming attack. Some carried wrecked bits of gear, to be taken back and repaired at the brigade workshops. A few lightly wounded men from a nearby dressing station joined them. Before long the train was moving again, looping around, then switching back to its previous track; the broken equipment and broken men beginning their slow journey.

  Shells were the priority, and each man helped to load them onto the waiting ammunition mules under the direction of an artillery officer. Each mule had a kind of blanket strapped to it with a dozen large pockets on either side for eighteen-pounders. With the officer satisfied, the animals began to make their way down the road, and B Company finally began their task.

  Bill stood aside patiently as his two biggest men, Payne and McCreery, were assisted by his two smallest, Stinson and Roy, in donning a tumpline. A Native American device, it consisted of several leather straps secured to a load, with one wide band running across the bearer’s forehead. The bigger men carried four large tins of water each, totalling just over one hundred pounds. The smaller men, assisted by Bill with their tumplines, carried a dozen picks each, weighing close to eighty pounds. His beasts of burden were ready. “Okay, Three Section, let’s get going,” he said, setting a light pace.

  A few inches of stubborn snow remained on the ground, just enough to make the going a little more difficult and more importantly, slow. B Company’s Quartermaster had established himself in a large dugout two miles down the road.

  “Bill, you forgot your helmet,” McCreery said.

  “Tin hat,” Bill corrected. “And just because I’m not wearing it doesn’t mean I forgot it.”

  Bill’s helmet was slung lazily across his gas mask carrier, which was in turn slung lazily over his right shoulder. An old wool peaked cap, complete with oversized earflaps crowned Bill’s head. The other men each wore a toque underneath their steel helmets.

  McCreery didn’t bother arguing. It was a damned stupid thing not to wear a helmet, and one that greatly diminished his respect for the young lance corporal. That was the strange thing about Bill: he didn’t take the basic precautions. It was as if he was so sure of his own eventual demise, or perhaps continual divine protection, that he rarely wore a helmet. Usually only a hard rain could convince Bill to don his “tin hat.” Still, McCreery was a replacement, and more importantly, just a private. It wasn’t his place to argue with his section commander, even if he was right.

  When Three Section arrived at the Quartermaster’s dugout, Company Sergeant Major Turner was waiting, paper and pencil in hand. “Lance Corporal Brown,” the CSM said monotonously, as if the man had never experienced an emotion in his life. Without another word, he tapped his hand against his own steel helmet. Eyes nearly glazed over, mouth barely closed, and head slightly tilted, he waited for Bill to clue in.

  Bill took his time. “Yes, Sergeant Major?” He asked stupidly, holding back a smirk.

  “Let’s see that steel helmet, alright? Let’s set a good example for the troops, okay?”

  Bill folded up his cap and shoved it into his tunic pocket. “Yes, Sergeant Major,” he said, pulling on his helmet with insincere urgency.

  “And what did I tell you about those old flappy caps, Lance Corporal Brown? Turn it in to the Quartermaster, those aren’t on issue anymore, are they?”

  “No, they are not, Sir,” Bill replied.

  It was the fifth time he had promised to get rid of his cap. Being the only one of eight hundred or so men in the battalion who still wore it, he took rebellious pride in knowing that the CSM would never bother to enforce his own rule. He was a softy, deep down, and must have known how much Bill cherished his ragged, absurd cap. Besides, Bill kept his cap badge shinier than most men, a fact that pleased the CSM.

  “Alright, let’s not hold up the war, okay? Drop that stuff and get a move on, alright? Understand?”

  Bill nodded as his men dropped their loads and headed back down the road. The moment he was out of the CSM’s vision, Bill immediately replaced his helmet with his wool cap.

  “Alright, Lance Corporal Brown, this is the last time. Give me that damned cap!” A voice boomed from behind Bill.

  The privates of Three Section went wide-eyed and stood motionless.

  Bill recognized the speaker without even seeing him. “That’s a pretty poor impression, Corporal Post, alright? You need to remember to ask a lot of questions, okay? Questions you aren’t really expecting an answer to, understand? Don’t you know that’s what being a company sergeant major is all about? Well, don’t you?”

  “You’ve been practicing, I can tell. You oughta’ be CSM with a drone like that.” Post now wore the fleur-de-lys insignia reserved for scouts on his lower right cuff, which neatly complimented the marksman’s badge on his left cuff, and two crooked chevrons further up on each sleeve.

  “Take five,” Bill told his men. “The war can wait for us.” As his privates took a seat at the side of the road, Bill made his way to Post, hand outstretched. “It’s been what, three days? Far too long.”

  Post lit two cigarettes, handing one to Bill. “So how are the new boys treating you?”

  “Great, except they smoke all my damn nails. Now I know what we all put you through.”

  “Well I forgive you, but only since you’re wearing my stripes proper,” Post said, indicating Bill’s crooked and faded lance corporal chevrons. Above the right stripe, a red and brown cloth bomber’s patch was stitched in place. “The bombproof bomber. I like it. I think I’ll spread that around; you should have a nickname.”

  Bill allowed a conceited smirk to cross his lips, and felt instantly embarrassed. Post had seen Bill at his best
and worst for two years, and was the last man he needed to brag to about a qualification badge. “Well the throwers get one too.”

  “Who’re they?”

  “McCreery and Stinson. Payne and Roy carry the extra bombs.”

  “Two throwers and two carriers. Huh. So what do you do, Lance?”

  “I’m the lance! I lance about, lancing things.”

  Both men laughed at that. “Well let’s hope you learned a thing or two from me. The big scrap is going to be on, soon.”

  “Good. I’m getting sick of going through the motions. Turner’s a real bastard when it comes to battle rehearsals.”

  “Maybe if we’d gone through the motions before Regina Trench things would have turned out differently. Anyway, as long as the big guns can do their job when the time comes, we’ll smash ‘em good.”

  “Well they’ve been giving Fritz hell the past few days. It’s murder on my ears.”

  “You’re still having trouble, huh?”

  “Yeah. They bleed when it gets cold or when the guns are real active. Plenty of both recently.”

  “You should see the medical officer, but I know you won’t.”

  “He won’t do anything.”

  “I’d also tell you to put your bucket on, but you won’t. Bad example for the men,” Post said, his own helmet hanging from his belt.

  “Look who’s talking. I should wear my tin hat? Hell, you’re probably not even wearing underwear.”

  “I never wear it, no scout does. Makes it harder to move around.”

  “Helmet or underwear?”

  Post grinned. “Well, it’s been nice talking to you Bill, but I have a working party to guide to the front. Talk to you later. Good luck with the lancing.”

  *

  Two trips later, and with more than half of the equipment yet to be brought forward, a late lunch was being served at the railhead, directly from the open carts of the train. A and B Companies were supposed to have returned to town in time for lunch, but were running late. Wooden crates, large pots of meat and vegetable stew stored within, and packed firm with hay for insulation, were a welcome sight to the exhausted members of the carrying party. And while the men had left their mess tins back at the billets in Cambligneul, they were lucky to have a diligent friend in the rear. Corporal Wells, B Company’s cook, had taken the liberty of gathering up the vital metal dishes from each man’s gear, and bringing them up along with the rations.

  Roy was sorting through the mountain of mess tins, about three hundred, looking for his own.

  “Just grab one,” Bill advised, as soldiers filed by doing just that.

  “I scratched my name on mine. I take care of it, unlike most people. If someone loses their own and steals it, I’ll be able to catch them.”

  “Fine, just don’t hold up the others.”

  While Stinson and McCreery had readily grabbed a tin at random, Payne had tried to find the cleanest one he could, and was now scrubbing it furiously with his handkerchief.

  “Oh come on, Roy, Payne, just eat.”

  “This thing is fucking filthy,” Payne replied, as Roy, oblivious to Bill’s comment, continued searching through the ever-diminishing pile, fearful that another soldier had already taken his mess tin.

  It was only when every other private was seated in the snow and happily slopping down stew, and the NCOs were waiting impatiently for their turn, that Roy and Payne at last abandoned their efforts, and sulked over to the last full pot. Bill stood back as the other corporals and sergeants were served, embarrassed at his men’s obnoxious behaviour, and well aware that he ate faster than most. When at last Bill received his share of stew, he sat on one of the rail carts with Corporal Wells and the other NCOs.

  Wells was an old friend of Bill’s, and a fellow Original. He had been wounded in 1915, and upon his return from hospital, was assigned the job of company cook.

  “I just can’t convince you, can I? There’s nothing wrong with a bombproof job. Company cook is no position for a shirker: three meals a day for almost two hundred men, and with what they give me to work with? I never get any sleep, or help, unlike the quartermaster.”

  “Sounds like you’re trying to steal my section away,” Bill said, already finished eating and now smoking a cigarette. “I don’t think I want to trade jobs.”

  “No, no, I’m still carrying a few pieces of shrapnel in me. I think Reid would give me an assistant though, if I asked nicely.”

  “Thanks, but no thanks. I’ve still got plenty of wisdom to impart.”

  “Well the offer stands. Let me know if you change your mind.”

  *

  “For heaven’s sake, how much longer are we gonna be at this?” Roy asked.

  Night had fallen and the men could barely see each other. Bill had been taking turns giving each man a break since dusk. Darkness had always made him uncomfortable, nervous. It was worse now that he was a section commander and had to at least appear to know what was going on. That was a lot harder to do when he could barely see his own feet.

  “Why, you got some place to be?” Bill replied.

  “Sleeping.”

  “Sleeping isn’t a place,” Stinson said.

  “You know what I mean,” Roy replied.

  “Seriously, Bill,” McCreery said. “Don’t they tell you anything? My old bones aren’t what they used to be. And Roy is too young to be staying up this late.”

  “Oh they tell me plenty. But orders and timings don’t haul gear. We do.”

  “So, uh, you don’t know when we’re going to be done?” Roy asked.

  “I know when we were supposed to be done. But we seem to be running late. If you want you can head back to billets when we’re done this load and we’ll finish up without you. You too, McCreery. But it can’t be too much longer now.”

  “I was just asking,” Roy said. “I’m no shirker.”

  “No need getting upset, Bill,” McCreery added. “The kid’s tired, we all are. Isn’t it our right to grouse a little?”

  Bill said nothing. He was tired too and if he wasn’t the only man holding any rank in the conversation, would have been complaining as well. It went quiet for a few minutes.

  “So how about the United States?” Stinson said, bored with the silence. “Between the Mexico conspiracy and the submarines, it can’t be long until the Yanks get involved in the war. They’re the wildcard the Germans didn’t count on.”

  “If you know anything about the Yanks,” Payne interjected, “you’ll know they make poor soldiers. Couldn’t even chase down a few Mexican bandits. Pathetic.”

  “Nah, Stinson’s right,” Roy said. “America’s huge. And they all know how to shoot. Once they bring the Wild West act out here, Fritz will be running back to Berlin in a week.”

  “But how long will that take?” McCreery joined in. “A month, a year, a decade? It’s been almost two years since the Lusitania went down. Wilson won his re-election based on keeping America out of the war. They’re happy to sit back and profiteer. That’s politics.”

  “Things are different now,” Stinson offered. “The Russian Empire is gone, and the new government won’t last long. We might see the biggest country in the whole world break apart. And if that happens, the Germans won’t only get everything they want in the east, but they’ll be bringing soldiers over here by the millions; German veterans, freed Austrian prisoners, maybe Russian conscripts. We wouldn’t be able to take it. America needs to get involved in this thing, soon. And it will; any day now.”

  With that the conversation went dead again. Bill hadn’t given much thought to whether or when the United States would enter the war. It was the kind of thing he would have kept up to date on and argued about before he became a section commander. Since October though, he had bigger things to worry about, like making sure his men kept their rifles oiled, canteens full, and socks dry. Talking politics seemed like a frivolous luxury.

  Arriving back at the railhead, Three Section was relieved to discover there was no rema
ining gear to be carried forward. Little groups of men were huddled together in tight circles, fending off the wind as best they could. Before long the last members of the carrying party returned. It was nearly another hour, however, before the train appeared again. A and B Companies stood aside as men in full battle equipment dismounted and formed up on the road: a frontline working party that would be making use of the picks, shovels, and barbed wire that had been brought up for them earlier in the day.

  3

  After a day of rest which had brought the news of America’s entry into the war, and won Stinson a prophet’s reputation, the battalion was holding the frontline once again. The western slope of Vimy Ridge was one of the worst spots the men had been in. While below ground, a vast tunnel system safely sheltered thousands of soldiers and large stockpiles of equipment and supplies, the above ground situation was less ideal. A few communication trenches connected the tunnels with the forward positions but there was little cover for the men at the very front, what was known as the Crater Line.

  The previous fighting for Vimy had left the ground pockmarked with cavernous fissures formed by the detonation of underground mines. Being much deeper than shellholes they provided decent cover, but were mostly isolated and only safely accessible under the cover of darkness. During the day, each section was essentially alone.

  As usual, the Germans occupied higher ground, an after-effect of their aggressive 1914 campaign that allowed them plenty of ground to choose from. The Germans could afford to lose a few hundred yards of French soil if it meant giving their soldiers a local tactical advantage. Vimy Ridge was the epitome of this strategy, and after two years of fortification, resembled a citadel of earth and steel. Worse still, owing to the improvised nature of the Canadian lines, there was an uncomfortably small gap between adversaries. No-man’s land was at places a mere fifty yards wide. This meant that the smoke from a cigarette, or even a loud cough could be punished with a sniper’s bullet or well-calculated mortar round.

  While shifts changed every day at midnight, the twenty-four hour periods spent in the crater line were always tense. The line was never held by more than the bare minimum to reduce casualties from shellfire. If the Germans chose to attack, the first line of defence wouldn’t stand a chance. However, the Canadian artillery bombardment, which had been firing without fail for nearly a week now, was enough to keep the men feeling relatively safe from a major attack.