Bombproof Page 20

  “Alright, the walk will be good for you.”

  “Hey, help me remember this: ‘a slew of corpses that keeps the whole thing interesting.’”

  “I better take another look at your head.”

  “I’m fine. It’s for a film review, that’s my job.”

  “Oh, I see. Well I’ll try.”

  “And what’s another word for scintillating?”

  2

  France, 1917

  Early May found the Third Battalion back in the frontlines. A mile east of Arleux, another small village, Fresnoy, was the Canadian Corp’s next target. Fields lay to the east and west of Fresnoy, thick woods to the north and south. The battalion had been assigned the same role as at Vimy, the right flank of the Canadian attack.

  Their first task would be to cross four hundred yards of open country and enter Fresnoy Wood. Once through two hundred yards of fortified woodland, a newly dug trench, the Fresnoy Switch, lay five hundred yards beyond. After taking the switch, the battalion was to dig a new line just beyond. A quick preliminary barrage would smash the woods. A second was timed to lift off the Fresnoy Switch just as the battalion arrived.

  The country here was a far cry from the Crater Line at Vimy. The fields were green still, having been turned into a battlefield only recently. Tall grass swayed and wildflowers bloomed. The Canadian trenches were freshly dug, which meant fewer safe dugouts and observation posts, but also fewer overflowing latrines and frontline burials.

  It was three in the morning. Shallow jumping off trenches were crowded with grim-faced soldiers. While Fresnoy and its environs were far less intimidating than Vimy Ridge, the mood was different. The confidence that came from months of rehearsals, patrols, and briefings was absent. Of course each platoon knew where it was going, and what was expected of it, but it all seemed rushed. Only yesterday Zero Hour had been pushed back twenty minutes to three forty-five. Most felt that such a time was too late for a night operation, and too early for a daytime attack. To make things worse, a full moon had just burst through the clouds and showed no sign of abating before sunrise.

  “Bill, get your men on their feet. Rum,” it was Sergeant McCloud, sounding even more officious than usual.

  “Rum up fellas,” Bill said. “Jimmy, if they don’t want it, please don’t make a whole show of it.”

  McCloud wasn’t a man who approved of alcohol generally, but he knew that a stiff drink could bring out the best in a man. After all, he had seen it for himself plenty of times. The day McCloud won his DCM two years earlier was also the first time he had accepted his rum ration. “Okay, Bill. It’s your section. But if they refuse, just try once to convince them.”

  “Thanks, Jim.”

  Not a man turned down their ration. They had learned at Vimy that despite its fierce taste, the thick, dark liquor was a panacea. Though not quite enough to get a man drunk, it did provide an illusion of intoxication. Shaking hands steadied and melancholy thoughts were vanquished.

  “You can have double, if you’d like,” McCloud murmured to Bill after the privates had their issue.

  “Sure,” Bill said, a little ashamed, but glad that McCloud had offered.

  “There’s been a little change in plans. I’m going to take Blake and Lincoln’s men straight through the wood with the rest of the company. Once we clear their first line, Mister Carter is going to take charge of you and Fyles. Your job will be to quickly mop up, then meet us at the final objective.”

  “Sounds fun.”

  “I know we haven’t had as much preparation as we did for Vimy, but keep your eyes open and a firm grip on your section. We don’t want Fritz shooting us in the back, so think of it like a game of hide and seek. Don’t let them go unnoticed, and don’t bother with prisoners.”

  “Don’t bother with prisoners?”

  “Come on, Bill, don’t act so naive. Sure, if they pull the kamerad act, of course you take them prisoner. Then get a few men to take them aside and plug ‘em. I don’t like it either, but we can’t afford any complications, not today. This thing is already a cock-up in the making.”

  Bill pointed an unhelpful finger upward. “The moonlight.”

  “Yeah. If the brass-hats had any sense they’d call this thing off, push it back a few days. But what do I know? Well I’ve got to get the rest of the rum issue dealt with. I’ll see you later.”

  McCloud made his way towards Four Section as Bill and his men began to feel the warming effects of the rum. Whether it was in their stomachs or in their head, they didn’t know or care. They still had a long wait ahead of them, and while smoking before the attack had been forbidden, Bill screened each man while they took turns enjoying a final cigarette.

  *

  The Canadian artillery barrage was brief, but intense. The treetops of Fresnoy Wood had ignited like kindling from scorching bits of metal and now served as a guiding light for the battalion, as an eastward wind blew flecks of ash towards the advancing Canadians. The whines and blasts of high explosive shells on the German lines made it impossible for hollered orders to travel more than a few yards. Each section commander was keeping his men roughly in line and moving forward. As the battalion approached the edge of the woods, the artillery lifted and began to fall on the next line of enemy trenches. Bill motioned for his section to move in closer, shouted and hoped they would hear. In a moment the men had clustered together just outside the German barbed wire. There didn’t seem to be any movement coming from the enemy positions.

  “Cut us a path through that wire, Roy,” Bill commanded. “Tom, you help him.”

  The remainder of the section strained their eyes in the darkness for signs of Germans. In less than a minute a little path had been cleared, just wide enough for the section to pass through in single file and enter the German trench.

  It was clear that the previous occupants had made good use of their surroundings. Parts of the trench were covered with long branches, tied together with twine acting as little awnings. Big steps were carved into the earth to offer easy access in and out of the trench. Heavy timbers reinforced dugouts. In the distance, there were even wooden outhouses and shacks.

  “Brown, over here,” it was Carter.

  Fyles and his men were standing guard on either side of a dugout entrance.

  “They won’t come out, but we can hear them. Toss a couple of those gas bombs down there.”

  “Stinson, McCreery,” Bill said bluntly. “WP bombs, one per on my mark.”

  Each man stood to a side of the entrance and pulled the pin from a white phosphorus grenade. These were a new addition to the platoon’s armoury, and Bill was interested to see how they would work. Rather than sending metal fragments into the air like a standard bomb, WP grenades created a thick white gas cloud. It was hot as hell, and caused exposed skin to burn and blister. For this reason it was perfect for clearing out deep dugouts, or, providing a smokescreen.

  “Alright, now.”

  As both men extended an arm across the entrance and let a bomb fly, a single shot rang out from the bottom of the dugout. Stinson gasped in silent agony and let out several quick, shallow breaths, as he clutched his left arm.

  “Raus! Raus right fucking now!” Bill called down.

  “If it’s less than ten, we shoot them on the spot,” Carter said matter-of-factly, revolver in hand. “If it’s more, then we’ll have to pen them in someplace first.”

  Fyles was equally blasé. “Don’t worry, we’ll be quick about it.”

  The grenades were doing their work. Already, confused screams, muffled through gas masks, could be heard as the phosphorus began to smoulder. The smell of burnt skin accompanied the desperate cries of ‘kamerad’ as unarmed German soldiers made their way out of the dugout and into the trench.

  Bill pulled Stinson aside as the others checked each prisoner for concealed weapons and began to line them up. Pulling off the little private’s equipment and tunic, he spotted the wound and began applying a field dressing.

  “It’s n
ot that bad,” Bill said. “Looks small; probably an officer’s pistol.”

  “It sure doesn’t feel small,” Stinson said, grimacing. “Am I going back then?”

  Bill turned and saw what looked like thirty prisoners, lining up outside the trench and facing the Canadian lines in three files. “Afraid so. Sorry you’ll have to miss out on all the fun.”

  “Bill, how bad is he?” Carter asked.

  “He’ll make it back alright on his own, Sir.”

  “We don’t have to kill them, Mister Carter. I could take them back,” Stinson said.

  “No. If they figure out you’re wounded and get the better of you, they’ll be back for their rifles and get us from the rear. And we can’t waste able-bodied men for an escort. We’re half a platoon up against who knows how many Huns skulking around these woods.”

  “It isn’t right though.”

  Bill’s mind raced. There was nothing he detested more than the killing of prisoners, and everybody in the platoon knew it. “I’ve got an idea, Sir.”

  Finishing with the bandage, Bill pulled Stinson’s tunic and gear back on. “As far as they know, you’re fine. Can you point with that hand? Pointing can make anyone look like an authority figure, how do you think I keep you fellows in line?”

  Stinson raised his left arm weakly, dropped it after only a second.

  “Alright,” Bill said, tucking the private’s rifle neatly under his right arm like a pheasant hunter. “Keep your rifle just like that, relaxed but ready; you’re in charge.”

  “What about my other arm?” Stinson asked, painfully aware, both literally and figuratively, that it was dangling at his side.

  Bill smiled to himself, tucked the other man’s hand into his trouser pocket, the thumb sticking out. “Now you look calm and cool, hell I wouldn’t mess with you. Just put a scowl on your face and tell them to ‘raus’ every few minutes. And keep an eye on their officer, you’ll recognize him by his fancy shoulder boards. If anyone will try to stir things up, it’ll be him.”

  “The one who shot me?”

  “That’s right. Just look that bastard in the eye as if to say, ‘You missed, but try anything and I sure as hell won’t.’”

  “How do I do that with just a glance?”

  “Not a glance... a glare. Really snarl at him. Try it on Mister Carter.”

  “Raus, you filthy Hun bastard,” Stinson growled.

  Carter shook his head. “It’s good, but get serious, Bill.”

  “I am. Stinson took six prisoners single-handed at Vimy, or had you forgotten?”

  Carter was still sceptical. “‘Single-handed’, that’s what he is now. And no I haven’t forgotten.”

  “Dead Huns aren’t accounted for; prisoners are. I’m sure it would increase your standing with Captain Reid, maybe even the commanding officer. Every officer in the company will be talking about it. ‘Carter’s boys took thirty prisoners.’”

  “If he makes it back. I’m sorry, but it’s too dangerous.”

  “It would be a favour,” Bill said desperately. “I know it’s dangerous, but if anyone can pull it off, it’s Stinson. Please, let him try, Sir.”

  “Is this about your brother?”

  “Yes,” Bill replied without hesitation.

  Carter took a deep breath. “Okay, he can take them back. Now get your men ready, we’ve got a lot of area left to move through.”

  “Better hurry before Fyles plugs them.”

  “Thank you, Sir,” Stinson said to Carter, then sped away.

  “What’ll it be for him?” Bill asked. “A DCM?”

  “I’ll recommend it,” Carter replied. “But I doubt Reid will be keen to encourage such stupidity. I already regret it. Now come on, get the men together, McCloud will be waiting for us.”

  Bill handed off Stinson’s bomb bag to Roy. “Tom, you’re my second thrower now, Roy you’re my mule.”

  Roy was beaming, though obviously a little disappointed that he had not been chosen to replace Stinson as a bomber. “That’s fine. You’ll never guess what I got my hands on. A Luger pistol. And look at this.” Roy showed off a ring with an iron cross emblem on it. “Now that’s something to write home about.”

  *

  Soon Stinson was alone with his captives, and keeping an arrogant, spiteful eye on the German officer, just as Bill had told him to. So far it seemed to be working. With each passing minute, and each grunted ‘raus’, the prisoners were further away from their discarded weapons, and closer to the Canadian line.

  The whistling of artillery sent every man to the ground. But instead of the familiar crash of high explosive, the shattering of glass and enamel resonated. Phosgene gas. The shells had landed on the western edge of Fresnoy Wood, and though colourless, the telltale smell of mouldy hay drifted on the wind.

  Stinson’s breath caught in his throat. He swallowed hard and screamed at the top of his lungs for the German prisoners to keep moving, but they were too busy pulling on their gas masks to listen to him. As the phosgene came closer, Stinson let his rifle fall to the ground and began to tug at his gas mask carrier. With two working hands, donning a respirator could be accomplished in mere seconds; with only one, it was a near-impossible task. He clawed at the canvas bag slung around his neck, barely able to open the two brass snaps that kept it shut.

  The German officer saw his opportunity. Grinning with purpose under his gas mask, he charged at Stinson and tackled him to the ground, knocking the respirator away. Stinson pulled at the man’s mask with his good hand, but German respirators were not as flimsy as Canadian ones, and it remained secure. The officer easily overpowered his captor, using his superior size to pin Stinson to the ground, and wait for the gas to finish the job.

  The stench of phosgene gas was getting stronger as it crept towards him. It was always like that; a man could smell, almost taste the odour for a few moments before it was close enough to start taking effect. Once the concentration was high enough, a minute or so of exposure would be fatal.

  Stinson tried hard to hold his breath, but soon his nose began to burn, and his throat tighten. At last he couldn’t help but take in a lungful of toxic air. Uncontrollable coughing turned to desperate hyperventilation. Soon his vision blurred, turning the officer’s black rubber gas mask into a nightmarish, otherworldly monstrosity. Stinson sputtered a mouthful of vomit onto it, covering the glass eyepieces. It slid down the snout that contained the filter, and dripped back on to Stinson’s face and chest. It was a hell of a final image to take with him to the great beyond.

  Like a guardian angel, a redeemer in hobnailed jackboots, a German soldier tore the officer away from Stinson and pulled the young Canadian’s respirator over his face. It was difficult for Stinson to control his breathing. Between his wounded arm, now worse, and the poisonous gas he had inhaled, it took all of his strength and calm just to breathe. In, out, in, out.

  Stinson scrambled for his rifle as the officer and the man who had just saved him tumbled to the ground a few yards away. Trying to aim with one arm proved just as difficult as he had anticipated. Sitting up, and propping the barrel of the rifle between his boots, Stinson let a single round ring out. Although a trained bomber, any marksman would have applauded, or at least nodded his approval as the bullet passed through the officer’s gas mask, exiting out the top of his helmet, mere inches from his unlikely ally.

  The surviving German stood and ran for Stinson. Hauling the little Canadian to his feet, the other man tucked his Enfield rifle back under his right arm. Mumbling something indiscernible through his gas mask, the German even placed Stinson’s left hand back into his pocket as it had been, and began shouting commands to the other prisoners. Stinson vomited again, and the German carefully readjusted his mask. His vision was still blurred, but to his astonishment, Stinson saw the man who had saved him lining up and reorganizing the prisoners. He didn’t have the strength to call out, ‘raus’, again, so simply began to stumble towards the Canadian lines. Before long he could make out the red a
nd green patches of the Third Battalion headquarters flag.

  *

  The woods soon became too thick to see very far. The canopy had stopped burning and was still intact beyond the first German line, blocking out the moonlight. Not wanting to pass by any German soldiers waiting in ambush, Carter assembled the men in a single line, himself in the middle. Fyles was on the far left, Bill on the far right, with riflemen and bombers interspersed throughout. Each twig that snapped underfoot played havoc with the men’s nerves.

  Fifty yards deeper into the woods, Fyles ordered the men nearest him to halt. Word passed down the line and in a few seconds the entire group came to a standstill.

  Carter made his way towards Fyles. “What is it?”

  “Wooden huts, three or four of them.”

  Carter peered into the woods. A clearing had been formed and a semi-circle of buildings, complete with windows and doors had been constructed. “Any idea what they are? Billets, stores, headquarters?”

  “No clue. They’re marked though. I can read a little Hun, but not from this far. I can go take a quick look, see what they are and if they’re still occupied.”

  “I’ll go with you.”

  Both men moved at a crouch, which was neither quick nor quiet, towards the leftmost building. “Officer’s billets,” Fyles said.

  Carter peeked in through an open door. “Empty.”

  The next building was obviously a quartermaster’s store. Piles of axes, shovels, picks, and sledgehammers lay next to rolls of barbed wire. This was the equipment that was too heavy and inconvenient to move in a hurry. An empty wooden crate marked for grenades, however, was less encouraging.

  The third building was heavily inscribed above the doorway. “It says ‘Battalion Headquarters.’”

  Carter boldly swung the door open, revolver at the ready, but could see that it had been thoroughly cleaned out. “One more to go.”

  The last structure, which sat some distance away from the remainder, revealed its identity before being seen. The stink of a communal latrine, even a well-maintained one, was too obvious to bother exploring further. Carter and Fyles returned to the men and the advance continued.

  Carter’s men were nearly through the woods. Hearing the crack of rifle fire, each man knelt and began scanning the immediate area. Fyles and Bill made their way towards the middle of the line, asking each man as they went if they saw anything.