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  Bill pulled a bar of toffee from his pocket and broke off a small piece, began to chew loudly. “Would you two do me a favour and run off with each other? Take my kids too.”

  “Quiet,” Kate said, “it’s about to begin.”

  France, 1917

  The morning had started off cold, and although unusual for April in northern France, a snowstorm was in progress. There was little accumulation on the ground, but the air was filled with white flecks that coated the uniforms, gear, and helmets of the waiting men. A strong wind was blowing eastward. Most men took the weather as a good omen, preferring snow to rain, and happy to know that it was at their backs. The Germans would be taking it head-on.

  Few men wore a greatcoat into an attack; it was too heavy and bulky. If it hadn’t been for all the extra equipment the men carried, they might have at least considered it, but shovels, sandbags, flares, bombs, and other sundry items added up. Instead, most men opted for a leather jerkin. Bill had also decided to leave behind his beloved winter cap for the same reason. Instead, he wore his hated tin hat, Hal’s red and yellow scarf wrapped awkwardly around his head and ears, babushka style.

  Bill and his two throwers had a sort of baling hook tied to their left wrists. Pulling split-pins from hand grenades got tiring under the best conditions. Sweat, mud, exhaustion, or in this case, thick gloves, made gripping and extracting the pin a strain. The bombs themselves were contained in a canvas bag the men slung over one shoulder. Carriers had fifteen bombs, throwers five; the idea being that the carriers would instantly replenish the throwers, at the same time relieving them of the extra burden. Bill carried four only, the standard for all men in this attack.

  The jumping off trenches were shallow but surprisingly comfortable. Only recently dug, they lacked the debris and stench of the more established positions. Just thirty yards ahead of the Crater Line, they were certainly less safe, but once the time came to advance, every second and every yard would count. The first wave had gone over at five-thirty in the morning. Their advance had been signalled by the detonation of two giant underground mines on the German frontline. It had taken months for the men of the Canadian Engineers to tunnel forward and lay the explosives, but judging by the noise of the blast, it had blown a massive gap in the German lines. It had also come close to driving Bill to tears, and left two bloody spots on the scarf wrapped over his ears. Also at five-thirty, the Canadian artillery began to smash their way across no-man’s land, chewing up the ground over which the attack would move.

  The sky was streaked with green, red, and yellow lights as German flares called for artillery support. Little came, for the bulk of the German guns had been dealt with by the Canadian artillery, located through meticulous observation and mathematical calculations.

  As dawn broke the lines of khaki-clad soldiers became clear. The Third Battalion was near the southern end of the line and could see the battle unfold as Canadians climbed the ridge for miles to the north and east. If his eyes were as good as Post’s, Bill thought, he could probably see the entire attack in one glance.

  The men had a less than typical breakfast; it was always like that before a scrap. Bulky pots of porridge and huge urns of tea weren’t the priority that morning. Leftovers and tins of corned beef had filled the stomachs of the few who had an appetite.

  Mostly, the men crouched low and smoked, cigarette embers covered by hands or nearly buried in the earth. Those who could sleep did so fitfully, waking every few minutes only to look at their watch and realize with disappointment how little time had passed.

  “Rum up, cups out, pass it down,” came the call from Corporal Blake.

  “Lincoln, rum up,” Bill called to his right, then roused his men.

  Bill had waited until the last possible moment to change his socks, and “rum up” was it. It was going to be a long day, that much was obvious, and a few less minutes of sweat before stepping off would make a big difference thirty or forty hours later, when he anticipated he would have a chance to get his boots off again. Or at least Bill hoped it would. The past few days of carrying parties had played hell with his feet. As Bill peeled off his stinking and soaking socks, a thin layer of skin came off the bottom of his feet along with them. It happened from time to time, but happening just before a big show was an annoyance. Bill balled up the flaps of skin, still slimy with whale oil, and rubbed it against his tender new skin in hopes of transferring the balm. Good enough. Then there were the blisters. The half-dozen big familiar ones that never seemed to go away didn’t cause much discomfort; it was the odd little new one that drove Bill crazy.

  As Bill pulled on his new pair of socks, Sergeant Bailey emerged from down the line, a yellow and white stoneware rum jar tucked under his right arm. He was one of the few soldiers wearing his heavy wool greatcoat, the older men tended to.

  “Good morning, Sarnt’,” Bill said, still seated and working on his boots. “A little taste of heaven before we all go to hell, eh?”

  Bailey ignored Bill entirely and made his way to the first man, Roy. Privates were always given food and rum first.

  “Oh, no thanks, Sergeant,” Roy said. “I want a clear head for this show. Besides, I promised my mother I wouldn’t imbibe.”

  Before Sergeant Bailey could respond, McCreery joined in. “Don’t worry about me either, Sergeant. I promised my wife a long time ago I wouldn’t drink spirits anymore.”

  “And it’s too early for me,” Stinson said. “After it’s all said and done I wouldn’t mind a big drink, though.”

  “I’m with Stinson,” Payne added. “I only drink to celebrate, and now seems a bit soon.”

  As Bill was still struggling with his boots, Sergeant Bailey knelt down next to him and whispered. “You know I usually don’t mind if the men don’t want a drink. I understand. But today is going to be their first time going over the top, and it’s a damned cold morning. I don’t want them freezing up.”

  “Well what the hell can I do? Take their rum ration for them? I wouldn’t mind but I know a certain sergeant who would. They’ll be okay, Bailey.”

  “I’m not asking you, Brown. I’m telling you,” Bailey said, raising his voice. “They’re going to have their rum ration, all of them. It’s for their own good. The only question is, do I need to order them to take it, or are you going to convince them?”

  “If they don’t want rum, that’s their decision. Sorry, Sergeant, but I won’t force them to do anything they don’t absolutely have to do.”

  A strange scowl came over Bailey’s face. It wasn’t an expression of anger or hatred, but of frustration. Bailey respected Bill for doing what he thought was best, but he had more important things to do than argue with a kid lance corporal. Bill averted his eyes and busied himself with winding his puttees around his boots and legs. Bailey stood and laid his thumb and forefinger on the jar’s cork.

  “Excuse me, Sergeant,” Payne began, holding out his white and blue enamel mug, the kind all soldiers were issued. “But it is getting a little cold; maybe I could have that rum after all.”

  “Yes,” McCreery joined, before Bailey could answer. “The wind is starting to get to my joints, I’m sure my wife would forgive me if I drink medicinally.”

  Stinson and Roy stood too, cups out, a phony look of longing plastered on their faces.

  Bailey said nothing as he distributed the rum. Roy, the youngest, and Stinson, the shortest, were given a slightly smaller dose. Payne, being the tallest, McCreery being the oldest, and lastly Bill, having grown accustomed to rum, were all given a little extra.

  The section crouched down miserably again, all still cold and scared; now with a bitter taste in their mouths and a burning in their stomachs. Bill couldn’t help but smile as he observed his little section. As much as he admired his sergeant, he had stood up to Bailey for his men’s sake, and his men had stood up for him. After a few minutes each man agreed that the rum had done a great deal to warm them up and put their nerves at ease. Bailey had been right after all.
/>   *

  “One minute,” Captain Reid announced, standing in no-man’s land ten yards ahead of the company.

  The attack was two hours old, and although the battalion’s first mile or two would be through already captured territory, every man knew the moment would come when they were suddenly in true combat.

  Bill lit a cigarette, undid his trouser buttons and relieved himself. “This might be the last smoke and piss you get. I hate to pull rank, so I won’t, but if you get shot in the guts, you’ll be glad to get it all out beforehand.”

  Each man in the section followed suit, letting a stream flow, or shaking out droplets, as the cigarette made its way down the line.

  Captain Reid had one hand raised in the air, the other held a whistle to his lips as his wristwatch ticked towards seven-thirty. He had no final words or thoughts, but rather a checklist of times, locations, formations, and objectives laid out firmly in his mind.

  Bill could see his breath hanging in the air. Roy was biting his thumb and envisioning his first bayonet fight. Payne had his hands clasped together for warmth, his rifle tucked between his thighs. McCreery, in mid-yawn, seemed unfazed by what was about to unfold. Stinson wiped a runny nose against the left cuff of his tunic, a thoughtful, out of place gaze occupying his features.

  The second hand on Captain Reid’s watch finally reached sixty. The blast from his whistle snapped each man back into reality as B Company’s four platoon commanders each blew their own whistles, forming a screeching harmony. Zero Hour.

  *

  Corporal Post found himself on the far right flank of the battalion’s first wave. He had been kneeling just beyond the jumping off trench waiting for the whistle. A flag tied to the end of his bayonet bearing the red rectangle and green triangle that signified the Third Battalion fluttered stiffly, half-frozen from frost. Across his pack, normally scrawled with an upper-case “P,” lower-case “o,” backwards “S,” and slanted “T,” a similar patch was stitched, concealing the middle letters. Now he stood, laid his rifle over one shoulder and began to move forward, counting his paces and comparing the distance covered to the second hand on his watch. A few yards to his right, a scout of the First Battalion caught his glance and nodded collegially. “Good luck,” Post called to the other man.

  “Same to you.”

  Usually scouts worked invisibly. They guided large bodies of men to and from the front line, often at night and only interacting with the senior officer, or other scouts. They patrolled no-man’s land and sometimes raided enemy trenches. On such occasions they removed the colourful battalion patches that adorned their shoulders. Now they were literally flag-waving, for it would be their job to keep the rest of the company perfectly in step with the creeping artillery barrage; no easy task over broken ground. The artillery was still pounding some unfortunate bit of German trench in the distance, but keeping in step would be easier if the men already had a feel for it, so immediately the scouts set the pace of one hundred yards every three minutes, a pace the battalion had practiced endlessly over the previous month.

  It took a few moments for B Company to shamble forward and adjust their pace, but before they reached the first line of German trenches, captured two hours earlier, they were in step. Now out of their trenches and with a full view of the ground, most men gawped at the number of German prisoners making their way towards the Canadian lines. A few wounded Canadians passed by as well with huge grins and words of encouragement. Looking north and east, khaki-coloured lumps could be seen sprawled along the western slope of Vimy Ridge. Bill thought he could even see a company somewhere in the distance being cut to pieces by a German machine-gun. He wondered how those men would possibly be able to fight to the top of Vimy, and whether if the assault failed, he and the others at the southern tip of the line would end up surrounded, or forced to retreat in disarray.

  Not far from their jumping off positions, B Company easily leapt across the old German frontline. Another eight hundred yards and the company arrived at the “Black Line,” the first of four German strong-points. The Black Line was nearly deserted now, the Canadians who had taken it consolidating the Red Line, another few hundred yards forward, and the German defenders either dead or prisoners.

  The Black Line was a neat series of three firing trenches, separated by about thirty yards each, and connected by communication trenches. The trenches were too badly mangled, full of dead soldiers and wrecked gear to pass through, so the battalion began to pass overtop the positions. It meant a leap of three or four feet in full battle equipment. By the time Bill arrived at the third and final trench of the Black Line, he wasn’t sure he could make it across the last gap. Holding his breath and taking a running start, he barely landed on the far side and continued forward instinctively.

  If it wasn’t for the scarf crammed under his helmet and over his ears, bleeding again from the cold and the not-too-distant artillery barrage, he might have heard the calls for help from behind him. Instead, he advanced obliviously as his entire section turned back.

  Stinson was lying on the bottom of the final trench of the Black Line, pulling himself to his feet when McCreery, Payne, and Roy peered down. “Give me a hand, lads,” Stinson said cheerfully, despite the pain in his legs and back from the fall. He knew that if he had been an inch taller he probably would have just barely cleared the far side of the trench.

  All three men extended their arms downwards and grabbed hold of Stinson’s hands, shoulders, and equipment straps. Being so short, it was difficult for the others to reach down and get a good grip on him; all three were unable to lift the lightest man in the battalion.

  “Fuck, Stins, you put on weight or what?” Payne asked.

  “Here, let me try,” Roy said, shooing the other two away and grabbing hold of Stinson’s hands, unaware that he was standing on a little patch of ice, concealed by a thin dusting of snow. Without raising Stinson an inch, Roy slipped and was flat on his back, watching the upside-down battalion carry on without them.

  “Help Roy up,” McCreery said to Payne, climbing down into the trench. “I’ll sort this out.”

  It was easy to see why the three men had been unable to lift Stinson. He was loaded with as much equipment as any other man. Full battle gear plus a shovel, wire-cutters, and bomb bag.

  McCreery stood behind Stinson and grabbed him around the hips, lifting him up. Roy and Payne were barely managing to pull Stinson out of the trench, and as McCreery adjusted his grip to shove Stinson’s legs upwards, he caught a hobnailed boot directly on his nose, eliciting a grunted “Fuck.”

  “You okay?” Stinson asked, now on his hands and knees just outside the trench.

  “Yeah, fine,” McCreery muttered, placing one hand on the sandbag parados and extending the other upwards.

  As McCreery heaved himself out of the trench, it was Payne’s turn to slip on the same patch of ice. Once Payne’s grip was lost and McCreery’s weight transferred to Stinson and Roy, all three tumbled to the ground, joining Payne. Now all the men were struggling to their feet and barely managing to keep their footing; leaning and pulling on each other. The whole scene resembled an amateur music hall tumbling act.

  One hundred yards ahead, Bill suddenly felt a hand clamp him on the shoulder and pull him to a halt. It was Sergeant Bailey, looking mortified. “Where is your section?”

  Bill glanced left and right, finally realizing that his men were gone. At once, both looked rearward.

  “Go get them,” Bailey said with an odd mix of anger and sympathy.

  Bill ran at full speed to within shouting range of where his men were; only now continuing to advance. “Get up here!” he screamed, but could barely even hear himself.

  Bill removed his helmet, folded up his scarf and tucked it into his waistbelt. At once the cold wind seemed to blow directly into his ears. The helmet he placed back on his head in hopes of keeping the snow and sleet at bay. “Come on boys, get up here!”

  By the time Three Section caught up with the rest o
f Six Platoon, they were rubbing elbows with men of the Seventh and Tenth battalions, both from western Canada. The Red Line had been their last objective and now it was flooded with soldiers. For the Third Battalion, it was a temporary shelter; the barrage on their first objective, the Blue Line, wasn’t scheduled to end for another forty minutes.

  Bill lit a cigarette, shaking a little with embarrassment. Nobody in Three Section was feeling bold enough to ask for one after what had just happened. He had lost control of his section, without even realizing it, and without even coming under fire. If he couldn’t properly get his men over a few deserted trenches, how could he possibly get them through the next few hours unscathed?

  A corporal of the Tenth Battalion nudged Bill from his contemplation. “Hey pal, spare a nail?”

  “Spare, not really,” Bill said. “But I’ll share this one.”

  The other man nodded his thanks and took a few quick puffs.

  “You know, looks like you need it more than me, keep it.”

  “Thanks. Don’t look so nervous, it was nearly a walkover, at least compared to what we’ve gone through before.”

  “I should hope so.”

  “The Third?” The man said, glancing at Bill’s collar badges and shoulder patches. “You fellas’ had it pretty bad in October, yeah?”

  “Could have been worse, can always be worse.”

  “Well it won’t be today. Fritz is scared and tired. As long as the big guns keep it up you should have a pretty easy go of it.”

  “I hope you’re right. I better look over my kittens, make sure they haven’t lost their mittens.”

  The corporal nearly choked with laughter. “It’s true,” he managed to gasp out, “it’s true. Good luck to you, Lance.”

  Bill was glad to see that his section was in good shape. His men were fussing with their equipment, making minor adjustments and double-checking that nothing had been lost in the debacle on the Black Line. For the first time, he saw McCreery’s bloodied nose.

  “You hit?” Bill asked.

  “Yeah, by Stinson’s boot,” Roy replied.