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“First casualty of the platoon I reckon,” Payne said.

  Bill took McCreery’s face in his hands, examining the man’s head. “You okay?”

  “Fine, Lance,” McCreery said.

  Bill took a step back and addressed his entire section. “Alright, we’re stepping off again in about forty minutes, so if you’re hungry now’s the time to get something into you.”

  His men looked sheepishly from one to another. Finally Stinson spoke. “Got any nails, Lance?”

  *

  The Blue Line was almost a disappointment. Once the barrage lifted, B Company had rushed forward with such perfect timing that they arrived in the German trenches before the defenders could even exit the deep dugouts that had sheltered them during the barrage. Prisoners were quickly rounded up and lightly wounded Canadians, mostly victims of their own barrage, assigned to escort them rearwards.

  Once it was obvious to the Germans that their third line of defence had fallen, a counter-barrage opened up on the men in the Blue Line. With the Canadian bombardment on the Brown Line, the final objective, not scheduled to end for another ninety minutes, B Company was stuck.

  Captain Reid had walked down the line, assembling his platoon commanders until all four were gathered. He also brought along Company Sergeant Major Turner.

  Reid’s face was pale and his steel helmet sat on his head at an odd slant. He spoke quickly. “I’ve decided to move forward, wait out the barrage in no-man’s land. We can position the company between the two barrages and once ours lifts, move in on the Brown Line. Are the men all ready to go?”

  The platoon commanders nodded their heads grimly.

  “Sir,” Turner said, “a word?”

  “Get your platoons ready to move and wait for my order,” Reid said.

  Once the officers had dispersed, Turner allowed a superior smirk to cross his lips as his eyes seemed to turn suddenly crystal clear. “Hide between two barrages, Sir?”

  “I’m in no mood, Dave, what is it?”

  “Nevermind our own drop-shorts, okay? What do you think will happen once we move out into no-man’s land? You think the Germans will keep shelling an empty trench? No. They’ll rip us apart in the open. Just listen to the whistle of those shells, alright, Sir? You can even see their arc, see it? Those guns are very close to us, less than a mile. They’re firing over open sights, and they’ll see us the moment we leave this line.”

  “Well what are we supposed to do, just sit here and get pounded for the next ninety minutes?”

  Just before Turner opened his mouth, the obvious truth washed over Reid. Between the map coordinates and barrage timings, it hadn’t even occurred to him: the dugouts. So deep that the defenders, though exhausted and demoralized, had survived the weeklong barrage only to surrender at the first sign of Canadians.

  “The dugouts,” both men said at once.

  “Okay, Sergeant Major. You take five and six platoons and get them into cover, I’ll get seven and eight. We’ll bring them up again twenty-five minutes before our barrage lifts and head straight for the Brown Line. The Germans won’t have time to range in on us, and we should be hitting the final objective right on schedule.”

  Turner’s expression turned dull and vacant again. “Good thinking, Sir.”

  Climbing down into the dugouts, it was easy to see how the German defenders had failed to meet the attack in time. Forty or fifty feet deep, and only a few feet wide, the entrances didn’t allow for much alacrity. The first men to reach the bottom lit candles and flicked on electric torches. The dugouts themselves were each large enough to fit a platoon, though not very comfortably. Abandoned equipment, rifles, and blankets were scattered on the ground. The defenders had planned to make a fight of it, but upon realizing the proximity of the Canadians, decided against it. Their only other options were filing out one at a time, or being bombed into submission from above. From the smell alone it was apparent that the Germans had not spent much time above ground in the past week. Body odour hung thickly in the air, but the most offensive smell came from a rusted tin bucket in a corner.

  Carter and Bailey called together their section commanders. Aside from McCreery’s broken nose and a few men with scratches from barbed wire or grazing shrapnel, there had been no casualties.

  “Alright, good job so far,” Carter said. “But our next objective, the Brown Line, isn’t going to be so easy.”

  Bailey and McCloud nodded. Bill, Blake, and Lincoln shot each other confident glances. Even if the Germans did mount a respectable defence, a certain amount of arrogance was required for an attack to succeed. Besides, what worried the three NCOs much more was the threat of a counterattack later in the day.

  Bailey and McCloud knew better. The First Battalion would not be joining them in the next phase, but preparing a defensive position in the Blue Line. This meant that upon reaching the Brown Line, the Third Battalion would be holding the southern flank of the entire Canadian Corps and would be further east than any other battalion.

  It was eleven-twenty. The barrage on the Brown Line would last another seventy minutes, which meant that in order to cross the eight hundred yard gap on time, the battalion would be leaving the Blue Line in forty-five minutes. Carter and his NCOs discussed timings, formations, and what-ifs. One and Three Sections, McCloud’s and Bill’s men, would lead while Two and Four, under the command of Blake and Lincoln, would keep thirty yards back – the Lewis machine-gun and rifle grenades ready to crack open a strongpoint if the riflemen and bombers couldn’t. Carter would go forward with McCloud and Bill; Bailey would stay back with Blake and Lincoln.

  When the time came B Company was back in the German trenches. The artillery had slackened slightly but was still sure to cause a few casualties once the men stepped off. Rifles were laid across bent knees, forming steps for the shorter men, who were ready to lead off. The taller men would have to pull themselves out. Captain Reid stood at the centre of the company, blasting his whistle, each platoon commander following suit. In moments the men were streaming out of the Blue Line, getting back into their formations and setting the correct pace again.

  “Keep a few yards back,” Turner said to Reid. “In case this falls to pieces. I’ll bring the men to the next line.”

  Reid nodded and shook the sergeant major’s hand. “Okay. Good luck, Sergeant Major.”

  B Company wasn’t even halfway across no-man’s land when the German barrage shifted eastward to catch the battalion in the open. As the first shells crashed to the ground around them, in the middle of Six Platoon’s frontage, the stutter of German machine-gun fire joined in.

  The barrage on the Brown Line wasn’t scheduled to end for another ten minutes, but that hadn’t deterred the German defenders. They had been losing ground all morning waiting for a better time to make a proper stand. It hadn’t come, and evidently they were now ready to make a fight of it, even if they were being thrashed by the Canadian barrage. As the volume of German fire increased, soldiers slowed their pace, crawled forward, then finally sought what cover could be had.

  CSM Turner ran out in front of the company. He knew that if his men didn’t reach the Brown Line before the barrage lifted, it would mean a more organized German defence. That could make the difference between a successful attack, and a bloody debacle.

  Turning his back to the enemy, he slung his rifle and tugged his pace stick free from his combat gear. During inspections or parades, Turner would let the stick pass over each man, stopping to point out boots that weren’t shiny enough for his liking, or to correct a man’s spacing.

  Now, he waved it across the men of Five and Six Platoon, and held it horizontally. Every rifle and machine-gun picked up their rate of fire. Indicating Seven and Eight Platoon, the sergeant major held the stick vertically. As half the company began to advance, Turner did too. He jogged forward with surprising speed, stopped after twenty yards and made the signal for them to hold still and provide cover fire. Pointing the stick straight back at Five and Six Platoons, he raised it a
gain, giving the order for them to advance and catch up with the rest of the company.

  Confidence shot through the men as Turner conducted them forward, like the maestro of a world-class orchestra during the crescendo of a great opera. Through the smoke and blowing snow, as bullets whizzed past him, Turner’s performance couldn’t do anything but inspire his men to action. Fear motivated them too, for if the attack failed and Turner survived, he would certainly subject them to weeks of practice attacks.

  As the assault resumed and the platoon commanders took over again, Turner set his sights on Eight Platoon. They were on the far right flank, before them, thirty-five thousand Canadian soldiers, beyond them, only open ground. Waiting for his company to pass him by, as to stay out of their line of fire, he set off quickly towards Eight Platoon. Captain Reid would take over if the company hit another snag.

  Corporal Post was surprised to see the huge figure of the CSM appear suddenly next to him. Turner tucked away his pace stick and unslung his rifle, fixing the bayonet. “Gary,” he said, adjusting his pacing to the scout’s, and sounding almost human. “Good to see you. How’s the flank?”

  Post was dumbfounded. After six years together in the militia, and another two and a half since the war broke out, the sergeant major had never called Post by his first name; even when both men were lowly privates, nearly a decade ago. “Uh, good?”

  “Any sign of those fucking Scots?”

  “A few of them were on our right earlier, but they’ve shifted south... Dave.”

  “All they had to do was cover our asses. Well, looks like it’s you and me.”

  “And Eight Platoon.”

  “Let them worry about the Brown Line. We’ll look after the flank. Hell, we’re Queen’s Own.”

  “Third Battalion,” Post corrected.

  Turner’s face became profound and angelic as a smile conquered his lips. “Canadian.”

  *

  The Brown Line ran through the western edge of Farbus Wood; now mostly smashed trees. As the battalion came within two hundred yards the reason for the accurate artillery fire became apparent; a battery of German field guns, concealed in the woods and too bulky to withdraw on short notice, were rapid-firing over open sights. It was a final desperate defence, and would require a quick, determined attack to overcome it. But that would be a job for C and D Companies.

  One hundred yards out, the Canadian barrage ceased and moved forward; B Company was late. The Brown Line was flickering with rifle flashes, while the machine-gun that had stopped the advance earlier was burning through rounds at an even greater rate. Bailey called his half of the platoon to a halt, and shouted for Carter to do the same.

  Without another order, Blake’s machine-gun began to crack. The gun was spotless and well-oiled on the inside, while the outside was covered with a thin layer of ice and snow. As the gun spat .303 rounds, frozen crystals sizzled and turned to steam, mingling with the smoke of burnt gunpowder. Thompson grimaced while McNeil held a fresh magazine above the gun, ready to reload the moment the current one ran dry. Their target was the German machine-gun, and the enemy crew responded zealously.

  “Our first duel!” McNeil yelled with excitement over the barking of the Lewis Gun.

  “Keep an eye on Blake,” Thompson responded coolly. He was firing short bursts, more intent on keeping the enemy gun suppressed than causing casualties. “Let me know if he gives us a signal or something.”

  McNeil glanced left and right. It was as if everyone had stopped moving once again and the attack had failed. Of course the rest of the platoon was merely giving the Lewis Gun a wide berth. Since October, Six Platoon had learned to give machine-guns, even friendly ones, plenty of space. A dull click sounded, and Thompson slapped the bottom of the magazine, flipping it over in the air several times and sending it to the ground. A moment later McNeil had placed a fresh drum on top of the gun, and it continued firing. The Number Two recovered the empty magazine and swapped it for a fresh one, once again ready to feed the gun.

  Lincoln’s section was nearby. On his order, the men knelt and placed the butts of their rifles to the ground, loading a grenade into their awkward cup dischargers. “Range for ninety-five yards,” Lincoln said, knowing full well that the inaccurate vent, which allowed for more or less pressure from the blank rounds that propelled the grenades, was impossible to gauge so accurately. Still, he thought, it was good to set high expectations for his men, especially when kneeling in the open such a short distance from an enemy machine-gun. “Two each!”

  Lincoln’s men launched the clumsy projectiles with great effort but little effect. The distinctive whistle-crash of rifle grenades rent the air, and his section laid flat again.

  “Alright, one more each, good ones, then we can quit mucking around and get in there with bayonets, sound fun?”

  Once more the men knelt, reloaded their dischargers and sent another volley towards the gun. Lincoln craned his neck forward and looked skyward as the telltale thud sounded, and the bombs arced, landed, and exploded. Maybe it was luck, or the prospect of matching their bayonets to an 08/15 Maxim machine-gun, but the volley was right on target. The gun, which had already been kept fairly quiet by Thompson’s fire, fell silent altogether.

  At once the platoon began to move forward. “Forget the bayonets,” Lincoln called to his men as they joined in the advance, “just load some real bullets.”

  Lincoln’s section worked their bolts, chambering and ejecting the blank rounds that propelled their rifle grenades, and reloaded with proper .303 rounds. The cup dischargers attached to the end of their rifles took longer to unscrew and stow away, and so remained.

  The loss of their machine-gun had disheartened the defenders, who were retreating further into the Brown Line as the platoon pushed past the battered remains of the German barbed wire and entered the first trench.

  *

  What Carter’s half of the platoon lacked in firepower, it made up for with speed and manoeuvrability. They had reached the trench well before Bailey’s two sections and were already preparing to advance. Two communication trenches, separated by less than thirty yards, ran parallel to each other and towards the German support lines.

  Before Bill knew what was happening, McCloud’s section had disappeared down one of the trenches. Gunfire followed. “Check that one out, meet us up there,” Carter called to Bill, then rushed off, revolver in hand to catch up with McCloud.

  “Payne, Roy, give me a high-low ‘round that bend,” Bill said, indicating the corner of the second communication trench.

  Stinson and McCreery were each clutching a hand grenade, their rifles slung across their backs. Roy moved forward at a crouch and ducked even lower at one side of the traverse. Payne edged as close as possible, his knee touching Roy’s shoulder.

  “Ready?” Bill asked. Both men nodded. “Go.”

  At once the pair flung themselves around the corner.

  “Empty,” Payne said, without relaxing the grip on his rifle.

  Roy shifted to the other side of the trench, stood and peered forward. “Dugout up ahead, twenty yards. T-junction another ten beyond.”

  Now the section advanced wordlessly. It was just like they had practiced dozens of times in the past few months. Roy and Payne moved past the dugout entrance, keeping an eye on the far end of the trench. Bill, Stinson, and McCreery each ripped the pin from a hand grenade.

  “Anyone in there? Raus!” Bill called into the darkness. “Last chance!”

  After waiting a moment without hearing a response, all three pitched their bombs into the dugout and moved forward.

  “What do we do now?” Payne asked. “Bomb both alleys?”

  “No, it’s probably full of our men,” Bill replied. “Besides, that’s kind of wasteful isn’t it?”

  Roy laid the butt of his rifle on the ground and fumbled in his pocket for a small mirror. “Bought this in England. Finally I’m gonna get my money’s worth.” The mirror slipped onto the end of his bayonet via a small slot
designed for that purpose, and he angled the end of the rifle past the T-junction. “Canadians to the right.” With a flick of the wrist, his rifle spun around. “Nobody’s home on the left. Wonder where McCloud is.”

  Bill glanced towards the other group of Canadians; Seven Platoon. They looked like they were doing alright, and there were no communication trenches between them and Three Section. No need to get in touch with them. “Well, let’s go.”

  *

  Blake’s men rushed past Thompson, heading for the enemy machine-gun to ensure it did not come back into action. Bailey hung back with the Lewis Gun, not wanting to risk his most valuable asset until Lincoln and Blake had confirmed the way was clear. Thompson and his gun would move with Bailey.

  Blake was the first man to reach the knocked out machine-gun. A mix of Lewis Gun fire and rifle grenades had killed every man in the gun’s crew. A dead German sergeant seemed to stare at Blake with grudging approval. His right arm had been hit and a bandage hastily applied. His left hand firmly gripped a Luger pistol. His chest had a hole the size of a fist in it; a victim first of the Lewis Gun, then of the rifle grenades.

  Blake blinked and forced his attention to the gun. It was too heavy to bring forward, weighing almost as much as he did if the tripod was counted. And considering the risk of a counterattack, he couldn’t leave it functional. Blake flung open the feed cover and brushed aside the belt of ammunition. Knowing little about the gun and tearing at anything that would come loose, he managed to remove what appeared to be a breech block, and shoved it into his tunic pocket. Not only would the gun be useless, but if someone else claimed to have captured it, Blake would have the proof that his section had done the job. With that, he called for Bailey to bring up the Lewis Gun.

  *

  Bill led his men down the empty side of the trench, which bent and met up with another communication line. Roy offered up his mirror again.

  “Forget that,” Bill whispered. “It’s takes too long to be certain. They may get the jump on us.”

  Bill poked his head around the corner. The trench angled off to the left as it ran. A block had been established halfway down; a pile of sandbags hauled down from the parapets, and whatever debris could be found were heaped into a wall about three feet high. He didn’t see the six rifle barrels that were waiting for him, but heard the crack of rounds and instinctively fell backwards. He tumbled into Payne and Roy, who caught and dragged him a few feet back behind the bend in the trench.