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  “So, any ideas?” Carter asked.

  “Nobody saw anything, but my man Payne insists the sound came from directly ahead of him,” Bill said.

  “I can’t get any straight answers. Better go with what Payne says,” Fyles added.

  “Alright, we’ll reform the men. Bill, your section will be up front, centred off your man Payne. Fyles, your section will be just behind, bayonets ready. We’ll move forward until we make contact. Bill’s boys will bomb them, then yours will pass through and mop up. Let’s be quick about it.”

  Before long the sections were forced to a halt. An ancient oak tree, long since felled, blocked their path and formed a low wall. The crack of rifle fire was closer now, somewhere on the other side; but it was hard to tell exactly as the reports reverberated off the trees and boulders of Fresnoy Wood.

  Peeking over the top, Carter could see beyond the edge of the woods, just twenty yards away. “That firing we heard must have come from out there. They’re harrying the battalion from the tree line, I’d suppose. Bill, get your section on the other side first and wait for us.”

  As Three Section climbed over the fallen oak, McCreery lost his footing and fell to the ground. It would have been hard for him to make more noise if he had been trying. His helmet, rifle, shovel, and mess tin all clattered against each other. There was no mistaking it for anything other than a soldier’s gear. For a moment the woods were silent, and Bill’s men stood perfectly still. German rifle fire sent them diving to the ground, as Fyles’ section propped their rifles against the tree and began shooting at the muzzle flashes that betrayed the enemy’s position; ahead on the right.

  “Who’s on the right?” Bill screamed through the gunfire.

  “Roy!”

  “Can you get a few bombs on them?”

  “I’ll need to get closer, the trees are too thick!”

  “Do it!”

  Roy chose his route carefully, caring less about cover from fire, and more about approaching the enemy from a good angle. Each yard seemed more like a mile as he made his way closer to the muzzle flashes, and the situation became clearer. About a half-dozen Germans were occupying a hastily dug trench at the edge of the woods. They were focusing on Carter’s group, and were entirely unaware of the lone Canadian inching his way towards them. He would need to be close: in the darkness and thick brush, it was the only way to ensure his bombs would be on target.

  At last Roy pulled the pins from two hand grenades and stood. Tossing the first at a low arc, he watched in dismay as it landed inches shy. Another split second and it rolled down the lip of the trench. Roy took two steps forward as a German soldier swung his rifle towards him. A shot rang out, the round passing between Roy’s legs. As the German began to chamber another bullet, Roy hurled the second bomb directly at him, breaking his shoulder and sending him to the ground.

  Roy was still standing when the first bomb exploded. The shooting from Fyles’ men stopped as Germans voices began to scream frantically. Roy flopped to the ground as the second bomb detonated, silencing the trench. Once the echo died away, the woods were quiet, peaceful even.

  Payne ran to the trench and jumped in, his bayonet ready to finish off any survivors. There were none. “Jesus Christ, that was amazing. Eight Huns with two bombs.”

  Roy stood and casually readjusted his gear, trying to hide his shaking hands. “About damned time. Think I can still notch my rifle?”

  “Fuck yeah.”

  “Okay, reform, there’s a still a battle waiting for us,” Carter said loudly.

  At last the men had made their way through Fresnoy Wood, but the fighting had progressed some four hundred yards forward. Breaking out at a fast run, the group made their way towards the sounds of rifle and machine-gun fire.

  3

  “Cutters! I need wire-cutters up here now!” Corporal Blake called frantically in all directions, his voice hoarse but still audible.

  Private McNeil, Number Two on the Lewis Gun was caught fast in a tangle of barbed wire. In the darkness he had stumbled through a gap and suddenly found himself trapped in a web of razor-sharp twisted metal. It happened occasionally in these pre-dawn attacks. McNeil’s thrashing efforts to extricate himself had only made his situation worse. Now, he was face down in the wire, uniform and skin badly cut. It would have been smarter to leave him behind, carry on the attack, and hope he survived to be cut free later. But McNeil had a Number One.

  Thompson had laid his gun on McNeil’s back and was using his ensnared partner like a tripod. As soon as his drum of ammunition ran out, he let it drop to the ground and snatched another from McNeil’s gear, the last one.

  “I’m almost out!” Thompson yelled over his machine-gun.

  “Finish that drum and get to cover; McNeil isn’t the only one we need to worry about,” Blake replied.

  Blake knew he had already spent too much time worrying about the trapped Number Two. The platoon’s only Lewis Gun had been firing defensively for the past four minutes. Four minutes too long. Stalling out an attack on the enemy wire could be disastrous. Blake was working desperately with his boots and bayonet to free McNeil without joining the man in his predicament.

  Thompson finished his magazine and ran off to find another member of his section; each would be carrying an additional four drums of ammunition.

  “Cutters!” Blake called out again, knowing that he could no more separate Thompson from his Number Two than he could leave one of his own men on the wire.

  “Roy, you see that?” Bill asked.

  “Someone on the wire,” Roy replied, unhitching his wire-cutters. “Maybe twenty yards up and to the left, yeah?”

  “Yeah,” Bill replied, sounding more sure than he really was. In the smoke and now-failing moonlight, it was hard to tell exactly. “Can you go cut them free? We’ll move up and try to cover you.”

  “Okay, Lance,” Roy replied confidently, and went forward calling, “cutters here!”

  Blake was bunching up strands of wire with his bare hands to make the job go faster as Roy began to free McNeil.

  “Just don’t take my finger, boy,” Blake said. “I want to be buried in one piece.”

  “Sure, Corp. Don’t worry; I’m the best with cutters.”

  McNeil was balancing himself with one foot on the ground and a hand on Corporal Blake’s thigh, his other arm and leg still stuck. Each strand that was cut away meant another chance of falling into yet more wire.

  With the Lewis Gun silent for an uncomfortably long time, German rifle and machine-gun fire redoubled. Six Platoon began to press the attack. If the Lewis Gun was out of action, the situation could only become worse, and a quick victory was the lone alternative to a prolonged struggle.

  “Tom, Stan, get into the first trench and wait for me,” Bill shouted, deciding to pull Roy away from his task.

  He was just steps away from Roy when a deafening explosion brought him to his knees. It felt like a fencing blade was being driven through his head, in one ear, straight out the other. Bill covered his ears as tears of agony streamed down his face, and blood leaked down either side his neck. Slowly, he opened his eyes.

  Name: Bomb, Mills, Number Five. Weight: one pound, eleven ounces. Length: three and seven-eighth inches. Diameter: two and three-eighth inches. Throwing range: up to forty yards for a trained bomber. Danger radius: one hundred yards. Explosive: Baratol, two and a half ounces. Detonation velocity: five thousand yards per second. Mechanism: striking lever, time-delayed fuse – or a stray German bullet.

  Bill knew at once that Blake and McNeil were dead. McNeil, reduced to a pair of legs and half a torso, cut diagonally, was still entangled. Blake, whose face had been sheered away and resembled that of a giant apple doll, formed a pulpy heap ten yards from where he had been, most of his extremities missing. Roy was lying face-down on the wire.

  The storm of steel had passed in an instant. Now, white phosphorous was beginning to crackle and hiss. The eastward wind was carrying the deadly smoke away from the C
anadian attack. Each man in the attack had been issued with two flares; these too ignited, glowing through packs and uniform pockets, creating a ghostly aura around the dead men. When Bill saw Roy’s chest heave, he knew a miracle had taken place, and ran to him. “See, it rubs off on the whole section. You’re bombproof for good now.”

  As Bill turned Roy over, his mouth dropped open in horror. Roy’s left arm was gone, leaving a gaping hole through which Bill could see the other man’s frenetically beating heart. It wasn’t the image he was so used to from playing cards: pure red, symmetrical, pretty. Roy’s heart was a clump of meat; blackened and yellowed at parts, tubes running in all directions, slimy.

  “Stretcher-bearer!” Bill screamed, his voice cracking, and barely audible to his own ears. “Stretcher! Stretcher!” He called again hysterically.

  Roy opened his mouth and Bill leaned in close to listen. Roy’s voice was sad but mature, he knew he was dying, and accepted it. “Don’t waste a stretcher. The bastards killed me. At least I finally got some of them. I did good, didn’t I?”

  “Yeah, you were great, Roy. Can I do anything?” Bill asked frantically. “A nail? Something to tell your parents? Water? A nail?”

  “Put some notches in your rifle, okay? For me. Get back to the others.” Roy’s heart lurched one final time, then stopped. “Goodbye, Lance.”

  Bill was a fool. A fool for loading up Roy with so many bombs. A fool for not telling him to leave them behind before going to the wire. A fool for caring more about survival than killing. A fool for ever letting a German prisoner live.

  The phosphorous was smouldering, bits of uniform and equipment igniting, accompanied by the cracking of overheated ammunition. The smell of burning flesh, mingled with gunpowder, didn’t take long to overcome Bill. He had to get away, but seemed to be bolted to the ground.

  After a few tiny backward steps, Bill felt a hand on his shoulder.

  “What the hell happened?” It was Thompson, Lewis Gun hanging by the sling from his right shoulder, several drums of ammunition tucked under his left arm.

  “They’re broken,” Bill mouthed the words, staring at the ground, but no sound came. “Just pieces. We could try, we could try to put them back together. I’ll need help.”

  Thompson pushed past Bill, quickly inspected the bodies, then returned. “Look at me, Lance. Look at me.”

  Bill slowly turned his face upwards until both men locked eyes. The machine-gunner’s expression was a terrible combination of sorrow and malevolence. In a moment the gaze took hold of Bill, and the two shared an unmistakable glance with one clear meaning: revenge. Bill snatched the drums from Thompson and began to lead him to where he had left his men. “You’ll need both hands for that thing. I’m your Number Two. Come on, let’s get back into it.”

  Payne was tucked against a traverse leading towards the next line of German trenches, rifle to his shoulder. McCreery was pitching bombs over into the next portion of the trench. As Bill and Thompson made their way forward, a German grenade exploded on the ground above them, showering them with dirt.

  “You guys alright?” Bill asked.

  “Section of Hun bombers have been trying to send us west,” McCreery replied.

  “Just about out of bombs too,” Payne added. “Unless I lost count, we’ve only got three left.”

  “Where’s Roy?” McCreery asked.

  “Gone.”

  “Did you get his bombs?”

  “No. How far away are they?”

  Payne answered. “There’s a stretch of trench about twenty yards long, they’re around the next traverse. They aren’t exactly inviting; we tried to force ‘em out but they’ve got plenty of bombs, and they ain’t afraid to use ‘em.”

  “Okay, you two stay here; toss a bomb every thirty seconds. Keep them where they are, make it seem like you can’t get through. Take these,” he concluded, handing off his own tiny stash of bombs.

  “Whatever you say, Bill,” Payne replied.

  “Thompson, you come with me.”

  “Where are you going?” McCreery asked.

  “Overland.”

  “But I can’t be sure all my bombs will land in the trench, they might get you.”

  “Just do it,” Bill replied. “But first help us out.”

  Bill and Thompson crouched along the parapet and made their way forward. The first bomb McCreery threw exploded just before the traverse the Germans were defending. The response was swift; four grenades sailed through the air towards Payne and McCreery.

  “I’ll throw a flare in amongst them, blind them for a moment. All you have to do is finish them off, and don’t let any of them get away. When the third bomb explodes, close your eyes and wait until you hear the flare ignite. Do you understand?”

  “Yeah,” Thompson replied. “Let’s get on with it.”

  By the time the second bomb was thrown, they were halfway between the two groups. Again, several grenades replied; their blasts seemed more like the distant clap of thunder to Bill. Thompson managed to ignore them altogether, his index finger stretched anxiously along the trigger guard, impatient to feel the shuddering of the gun. Soon they could hear voices speaking in German; obviously trying to decide whether to stay, advance, or retreat. Bill pulled out a flare from his tunic pocket and prepared to strike it, counting down to McCreery’s next bomb. It exploded on the other side of the trench, just yards from Bill and Thompson, but was made harmless by the sandbag parapet that absorbed the metal fragments. Bill lit the flare and tossed it into the trench.

  Shouts of confusion and the sounds of jangling equipment could be heard for a moment. Thompson placed his right foot on the parapet, the butt of the machine-gun shoved into his armpit. His left hand was perched just beyond the drum magazine, while the barrel, enclosed in its large tubular jacket, pointed almost straight down into the trench. The crack-crack-crack of the Lewis machine-gun filled the air as the illuminated figures and shadows of the German soldiers moved in all directions; some turning their rifles on him, others starting to run, others diving for cover.

  In a few seconds forty-seven rounds had cut the German section to pieces, and forty-seven smoking empty cartridges littered the ground at Thompson’s feet. Both men leapt into the trench, the flare still hissing and shedding light on the bodies of their fallen enemies, the desperate phantasmagoria of a few seconds before replaced with motionless dark blots.

  “Come on up, boys,” Bill called, handing Thompson a drum of ammunition.

  Bill fixed the bayonet on his rifle and began prodding the bodies; none moved. “I guess these are all yours. I get, let’s see, four, five, six assists.”

  Payne and McCreery were terrified when they entered this stretch of the trench. Bill and Thompson had wild, vicious grins. Murderous fury mingled with sadistic satisfaction as they proudly surveyed the scene.

  Thompson had finished reloading and was ready to move forward.

  “Bombs, get anything they have,” Bill said. “Quick.”

  Without waiting, Bill and Thompson moved forward, leaving Payne and McCreery to catch up with them. They knew Bill was delusional; anyone claiming to be bombproof had to be, but they had never seen him like this. Before long, the group was clear through the trenches and was looking out over open ground to the east. They were just ahead of the other Canadians.

  Bill pulled himself out of the final trench and knelt. German soldiers were streaming eastward. He picked his target, just thirty yards away. Left eye shut, right eye focused on the rifle’s iron sights, breath perfectly still, he squeezed his trigger. It was so easy. One Hun down, a couple million to go.

  *

  The dawn was already breaking as, twenty yards beyond their final objective, the Third Battalion was digging in. Occupying old trenches would have been convenient, but not very smart. The enemy artillery would know every traverse, dugout, and strongpoint. It was better to create a new line which the Germans knew nothing about.

  This amounted to basic slit trenches, six feet across
, two feet wide, never quite deep enough, and dug independently. Of course they would be connected later, but for now the focus was on getting each little group of three or four men some half-decent protection from the inevitable German shelling and possible counterattack. Each man couldn’t help but think that he might be digging his own shallow grave.

  Distant machine-gun fire had proved an annoyance for the first hour or so, but as the sun came out it became deadly. The men now had to kneel, or even lay prone in their trenches as they deepened them. Bits of dirt, kicked up by enemy machine-gun fire, peppered what was left of Three Section.

  “They’re dialled in pretty damn good,” Payne said.

  He was the only man digging at the moment. There wasn’t enough room for all three men to be shifting about in the tiny trench. It was still shallow enough for Bill to catch sight of the red-roofed houses of Fresnoy.

  “So what happened to Roy?” McCreery asked. “I mean I can assume, but, you know.”

  Bill turned his sight from Fresnoy to McCreery. All his bloodlust was gone, he was his old self: thoughtful and cheerless, but concerned for his boys. “His bomb bag got hit, killed Blake and McNeil too.”

  “Jesus.”

  Payne didn’t stop digging.

  “It wasn’t bad. I mean for them, they were all dead before they knew what happened.” Bill was so used to that lie he almost believed it himself, though in his mind he could still see Roy’s heart pulsing for the last time.

  “So what’ll happen to them?”

  “They’re still stuck on the wire, but there isn’t much left of them. Groundsheets or blankets for the big chunks, sandbags for the bits and pieces.”

  “So they’ll be buried altogether?”

  “Probably. We’ll have to wait until we can get a proper look.”

  “Better than the corpse factories,” Payne commented.

  “That’s a myth,” McCreery replied dismissively.

  “Nuh uh, I read it in the newspaper. The Germans round up all the dead bodies and parts they can find, even their own. They have these big factories just behind the lines that they bring them to, then melt it all down for soap, grease, oil... and other things.”