Bombproof Page 22

  McCreery ignored that. “Here, I’ll take a turn digging.”

  Bill turned his attention back to Fresnoy. It was a funny thing to see a peaceful village, practically unscathed until recently, in the frontlines; a side-effect of the recent successful Canadian attacks at Vimy and Arleux that had brought the line forward so quickly. Bill could only wish that the Second Battalion had done their job and not left behind any snipers or artillery spotters waiting in the attics or church steeple. So far everything on the left flank was fine. The battalion’s right flank, however, was entirely in the air. A British battalion was supposed to provide support, but failed to show. Bill had a sickening sense of déjà vu, made worse by the fact that the German machine-gun fire had shifted towards the open ground east of Fresnoy Wood, isolating the Third.

  *

  At battalion headquarters, astonishment and handshakes had soon turned to inquiries about the platoon’s current disposition. Stinson didn’t have much to say on that; all he knew was that the first line of German trenches had been taken. After a few minutes of questioning and a fresh bandage, he was allowed to make his way towards the nearest dressing station, nearly two miles away.

  Once out of the trenches and on the road, Stinson breathed a deep sigh of relief. While not out of range of the German guns, they had no interest in shelling the deep rear areas when there were so many targets, so much closer. The fresh air provided a simple and honest revivification. It was a privilege to be alive.

  The walking wounded were a mixed lot. Stinson passed one group of men who, in no hurry to get to the aid station, had stopped to rest at the side of the road. Another group consisted of three men abreast, the soldier in the middle had both arms around his two comrades as he hobbled along on one good leg. Even those with leg wounds were often denied a stretcher; there were too many more seriously damaged bodies to attend to.

  The dressing station was packed with wounded men. They were mostly members of D Company, caught in a whirlwind of German artillery fire before the battle had even begun. An ambulance was being loaded with stretcher cases when a corporal of the medical corps greeted Stinson and led him to what appeared to be a picnic table. He wondered if the men of the medical corps ate on the same surfaces they treated patients on. A cursory inspection confirmed that all he needed was a quick cleaning and another fresh bandage.

  “I was hit with gas, too,” Stinson said. “Phosgene.”

  “And you walked all the way here?”

  “Yeah.”

  The man seemed dubious. “Well, let me see you spit. Just work up whatever is in your throat and toss it up on the ground.”

  What came out of Stinson’s mouth was enough to make the corporal gag a little. “Okay, okay. See that line over there? It’s for gas patients, go wait your turn.”

  *

  Out in front of the platoon about fifteen yards, Thompson and his Lewis Gun were positioned in a little hole. If a machine-gun were to be effective, it had to be able to traverse left and right. It couldn’t do that in a crowded trench with friendly soldiers on each flank. McCloud had picked the spot and helped dig the position. With Blake gone, Thompson was the senior man in his section, but McCloud decided to stick close to the gun until he was really needed elsewhere. A new Number Two, Private Chilvers, was burdened with every remaining drum of ammunition in the platoon, and lay by Thompson’s side.

  From away on the left and passing down the line came the familiar call of “Gas, gas, gas!”

  There was no sign of gas in the immediate area. For all they knew, the call was being passed down from miles away and nobody had bothered to bring it to a stop. In any case, all three men pulled on their respirators.

  “If they make a charge, don’t open up until two hundred yards,” McCloud said through his mask. “We want to catch them in the open and make them pay, not send them scurrying back to cover. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  “Gas, gas, gas,” Bill repeated lazily to the men on his right. “You heard ‘em, masks on.”

  Waiting for his two remaining men to pull on their masks, he double-checked each before donning his own. There was no real need for them just yet, but gas shells could land anywhere and create a cloud in just a few seconds. Besides, not wearing a helmet might get a man killed quickly; not wearing a gas mask might get a man killed very slowly. It wasn’t unheard of for gas casualties to go on for a few weeks in hospital before finally dying.

  “Nevermind digging it any deeper,” Bill said. “I don’t want you too tired to lift your arms when they come.”

  McCreery nodded, slumped down at one end of the trench and sat quietly, knees together and hands folded. Payne knelt, tall enough to rest his elbows comfortably on the lip of the half-dug trench, head in his hands, and watched for enemy movement. Bill instinctively lit a cigarette, pulling his mask aside every few moments for another puff.

  “Here, let me help you with that,” Payne said, motioning for the cigarette, his own mask now also askew.

  Bill handed it over as McCreery removed his mask altogether. Once Payne finished his puff, McCreery stuck his hand out.

  “You don’t smoke,” Payne said.

  “Yeah, well, it’s an excuse to get some fresh air.”

  “Damn, masks,” Bill muttered quickly, pulling his on again, the others following suit.

  Sergeant McCloud leaned over the trench, his unimpressed scowl not visible through his gas mask. He moved close to Bill and leaned in so the privates couldn’t hear. “You’re setting a shit example. We’re in the middle of a gas alarm and you know damn well there’s a counterattack brewing. I don’t mind how shallow the trench is, but masks on at all times until the alarm is cancelled.”

  “Okay, Sarnt’.”

  “Honestly, Bill, you have the smallest section in the whole platoon, even before you lost half of it. Get a grip on your men, and try not to lose the other half.”

  Before Bill could respond McCloud stood and made his way towards Four Section.

  “Sergeant McCloud just wanted to let us know that he’s got a message through from company headquarters,” Bill announced to Payne and McCreery. “Stinson made it back just fine, with all the prisoners too. Not bad for a half-pint eh?”

  A few minutes later the gas alarm was cancelled.

  *

  The counterattack began at noon. There were four hundred yards of open ground between the new Canadian line and the nearest German positions. Waves of grey-clad soldiers were moving at high speed towards the Canadians. Lieutenant Carter dug through his tunic pockets for a flare gun and red cartridge: the signal for an emergency artillery barrage. Other red flares were already in the air, but in the daylight it was difficult to distinguish them. The dull, heavy thud of the flare gun discharging left Carter without purpose. Each trench was working independently of the others. There was nothing for him to do but wait until an emergency occurred, or the Germans came within range of his revolver. Considering the revolver’s effective range of about thirty yards, these were one and the same.

  Lewis machine-guns chattered away busily, cutting down the leading edge of the attack. Before they even began to really smoke, Canadian artillery had joined in and was crashing down on the Germans. Cheers went up all along the line.

  “Range one hundred yards, three-quarters left,” McCloud yelled over the gun.

  A cluster of Germans, though not endangering Six Platoon, had come too close for comfort to the men of Five Platoon. Thompson swung his gun around and fired off two drums of ammunition, dispersing the group. More soldiers were making themselves visible at every moment, taking cover the next, and moving ever-closer. Thompson remained steady as he chose his targets, fired quick bursts, then moved on. The gun was getting hot now, and he had lost count of how many rounds he had fired, how many lives he had snuffed out with a jerk of the trigger.

  “Three drums left!” Chilvers shouted as the gun was reloaded.

  “The gun is yours, happy shooting,” McCloud said, then ran across the
field to where some of Fyles’ men were entrenched. “Ammunition, now,” he said with arms outstretched.

  Each man handed over a cloth bandolier containing fifty rounds; enough to keep a rifle going for several minutes, the Lewis Gun for several seconds. McCloud arrived back as Chilvers was slapping on the final magazine. A pile of empty drums sat neatly stacked and upside down, waiting to be reloaded.

  McCloud knocked his helmet to the ground, open end up, and began tearing apart the bandoliers. Clipped together in five round chargers intended for use with Enfield rifles, each bullet had to be ripped free by hand. McCloud tossed these loose rounds into his helmet. Chilvers had dug out Thompson’s reloading tool from his gear, Blake and McNeil had the other two, and began frantically cramming in rounds. It was a tedious process, the tool requiring a turn to pull back the magazine follower before each round was inserted. Each twist of the tool increased the tension on the follower, making a full complement of forty-seven rounds more difficult to achieve. Thompson was barely firing now. McCloud added his Lee Enfield to the volleys of rifle fire coming from B Company’s main positions.

  “How long is that going to take?” McCloud asked.

  “Uh, three or four minutes,” Chilvers replied.

  “Are you kidding me?”

  “I wish I was; it takes time.”

  After what seemed like forever, Chilvers placed a reloaded drum next to the gun. Once Thompson fired off his last burst, and the ominous click sounded, he deftly slapped away the empty magazine and replaced it. Only a few rounds had been fired off when the weapon jammed. Thompson placed his boots against the gun’s bipod legs and cranked back on the cocking handle several times, but it remained obstinate, stuck halfway between the forward and rearward position. “Fuck you, you cheap whore.”

  It might have been the accumulation of carbon and brass flecks after over a thousand rounds passing through the gun in a few hours. It might have been the intense heat that turned the gun’s working parts hot and dry as a desert. Most likely, it was a result of Chilvers’ hasty reloading. In any case, the gun would require a special trick to continue functioning.

  Thompson unclipped the far end of the sling from its mount and looped it around the handle, the closer end still attached to the gun’s butt. One hard pull brought the cocking handle suddenly backwards. Three unspent bullets, dented and scratched from a rare triple-feed clattered against each other and fell to the ground. With the obstruction clear, Thompson let the handle fly forward, chambering a fresh cartridge.

  *

  The remainder of Six Platoon was picking up the slack as their Lewis Gun became quieter. “That makes three,” Bill announced, having felled two German soldiers since the counterattack began. He was taking his time, choosing only good targets. The last thing he wanted was to be stuck without ammunition if the Germans came close enough for bayonets. “Come on, keep count and call it out. Let’s see who can get the most.”

  “Well I’m already at five, so you’ve got some catching up to do,” Payne said brightly, firing a few rounds into the oncoming Germans.

  “I’m a little busy to be keeping count,” McCreery replied, sickened that the others were making sport out of war.

  Payne slammed another five round clip into his magazine. “I think I got two with one shot, what should I count that as?”

  Bill wasn’t listening, wasn’t even firing his rifle. Something was wrong; he could hear it. “Get down, both of you,” he said, crouching low in the shallow trench.

  Neither man made a move.

  “The others can handle whoever gets through that racket. Get your asses down, now!”

  “What is it?” McCreery asked, as he and Payne took cover.

  As if in answer to his question, a large-calibre shell shook the ground around them, dirt spraying in all directions.

  “Counter-bombardment,” Payne said spitefully.

  “No,” Bill replied indignantly. “I know a nine-two when I hear one. Some of our own guns are dropping short. Must be Old Jack’s kid. I wonder if they’re born senile or if they get it from filling those catalogue orders all day long.”

  “Who?” McCreery asked.

  “Nevermind. Just keep low.”

  As all three men hugged the ground, a massive explosion caved in the right half of the trench. Bill blinked through the dust and smoke to see Payne, blown out of the trench and lying on his back outside of it. McCreery was nowhere in sight, a mound of dirt where he had been. Bill’s ears began to bleed again.

  “Fuck, fuck,” Bill muttered automatically. “Tom, are you okay?”

  “What?” Payne asked stupidly; stunned by the blast, though not harmed. Useless at the moment.

  Digging out a buried man was difficult enough with a group of men. No shovels or tools could be used; they were too likely to cause more harm than good. The job had to be done with bare hands. On his own, Bill wouldn’t stand much chance of pulling McCreery free, but he also knew he had only seconds to make it happen. He wasn’t going to lose another man today.

  Bill began to claw at where McCreery had been. Nothing but dirt. At last he felt a patch of wool; not enough to determine where McCreery’s head was. As he dug around it, an arm suddenly shot up out of the dirt, scratching desperately at the mountain of earth. Two more hands appeared, these from next to Bill: Payne.

  Both men grabbed McCreery’s free arm and began pulling. Bill was half-expecting it to come right off in their hands. Payne was expecting to pull out a corpse, if indeed they could even pull him free with so much of his body still submerged. They didn’t have time to dig him out anymore though, it had to be now.

  Bill and Payne stumbled and collapsed backwards onto each other as a final tug brought McCreery’s head and shoulder above ground. He was spitting dirt and struggling to breathe, but he was alive.

  “Dig him out,” Bill huffed, as Payne got back to work. “Congratulations; you’ve just been buried for the first time. It’s good luck for six months. How do you feel?”

  “Water,” McCreery gasped, sludge falling from his mouth.

  Payne handed the still half-buried man his canteen and continued to dig him out. McCreery rinsed his mouth, spat and took a long drink. The machine-gun and rifle fire was dying down; the German counterattack had been defeated.

  “Nail,” McCreery rasped.

  Again, Payne ceased his digging and reached for his cigarettes.

  “Better make it three,” Bill said, crawling towards Payne and beginning to assist. “I have to tell you, Tom, being blown out of a trench is only three months good luck.”

  Each man smiled widely as they worked, occasionally emitting little snorts and squeals of laughter. By the time McCreery was free altogether, all three men were rolling on the bottom of the trench laughing hysterically. It was the happiest moment any of them had known in a long time. McCreery had been buried alive, but his friends had brought him back from the dead.

  *

  By five-thirty that evening things had died down. Three Section was enjoying a break from expanding the network of slit trenches, now almost entirely connected. Tins of corned beef were the preferred meal for most of the men when in the frontline, not for the taste, but because they were easy to store, open, and eat, and probably tasted better cold than hot. Except, of course, when Hal had made his famous stew.

  “That’s enough for now,” Bill said, indicating the three entrenching tools piled at the bottom of the trench. “Put that gear away and let’s settle in for the night.”

  *

  “Bill, wake up.” It was Sergeant McCloud again. Bill glanced at his watch; it was five after nine. The sun was beginning to set.

  “Jimmy,” Bill replied with a yawn. “We under attack or something?”

  “Don’t call me Jimmy, Billy. See, how do you like it? We’re pulling out tonight, gonna dig a new line halfway between here and the jumping off positions,” McCloud said bitterly.

  “Why?”

  “The Brits on our right barely made
it out of their own trenches. The battalion’s right flank has a gap about eight hundred yards long. Same fuck-up we had at Vimy.”

  “I didn’t know leaving Canadian battalions stranded was such a popular sport in the British army. Around what time are we moving?”

  “I’ll let you know when I know. Oh, one more thing, you were near McNeil when he got hit, right? Well once it gets dark I need you to go back there and find his spare parts bag for the Lewis Gun. Thompson won’t shut up about it. When the order to move is passed, hand your men off to Lincoln, then get that bag.”

  “How about the wire-cutters?” Bill asked sarcastically.

  “Get them if you can,” McCloud said seriously. “But that bag is the priority.”

  Bill frowned and squinted at McCloud, furrowing his forehead.

  “What is it?”

  “Roy. Blake. McNeil.”

  “What about them? I’ve already listed them as killed.”

  “Nevermind. I’ll get the bag and see about the cutters too.”

  4

  There was a full moon again when the battalion began to slink away from their newly-won positions. The crooked roads that ran through unplowed fields and shattered woods to ruined farms and tiny wrecked villages provided a quick escape route. By the moonlight, Bill had no difficulty finding the spot where Roy, Blake, and McNeil had been killed. The stench of the remains made it even harder to miss.

  The phosphorous must have smouldered for some time after Bill left, for the charred corpses were fused together with gear, barbed wire, and each other. The spare parts bag for the Lewis Gun, though burnt and blackened, stood out amongst the standard-issue equipment every soldier wore. Bill held his breath and removed the bag from what was left of McNeil’s body. He could still just barely see and hear each platoon as it filed by about fifty yards off to his right towards their new positions.

  Bill took a few steps away, turned to catch up with the company.

  “Where do you think you’re going?”

  Bill stopped. He knew that voice, but it couldn’t be. Slowly, he turned around. He barely managed to choke out the name. “Hal?”

  Hallicks was leaning easily on the wire, a big grin plastered on his face. “Hey, Bill, how’ve you been?”

  “No, no this is impossible.”