Bombproof Page 5

“We’ve got sentry from two to four, Bloor through College,” Lance Corporal Post said. “That’ll be the last shift of the night. We’re jumping off at five o’clock, so try to eat and get yourselves ready during sentry; we’re standing-to at four.”

  Almost every trench and ditch had names and street signs. To the newer men it seemed like a bad joke. After a few days in the winding maze of trenches, some newly dug, some long ago abandoned, the system made sense for the same reason it did in a big city. For the Third Battalion, imposing Toronto city streets and boundaries over a stretch of frontline trenches made perfect sense. Yonge was the frontline trench, facing east and running generally north-south. Bloor, College, and others ran back towards the support and reserve lines: University and Spadina.

  “Other than that, all I have to tell you is that it’ll be a big day tomorrow. Is there any questions?” Post glanced from one soldier to another, hoping that Jack or Green wouldn’t waste time with a pointless story, or snide comment, but giving them the opportunity nevertheless. Bill even refrained from correcting his grammar.

  Green flossed his teeth with a piece of khaki thread, at least there would be no smart remarks, Post thought. Hallicks sighed audibly. Old Jack’s eyelids were finally beginning to droop. Bill and Lincoln were whispering something: apparently Green and Hal had pulled off a euchre.

  “Good,” Post said. “Try to get some sleep, and I’ll wake you when it’s time for sentry.”

  *

  When the final orders group wrapped up, Second Lieutenant Carter was in no mood to receive the friendly advice and veiled criticisms the other platoon commanders had been dishing out since he joined the battalion. Stories about the man he had replaced, Lieutenant Hudson, were spoken as tactical parables. While the other officers of the company inspected their platoons or went over maps and reconnaissance sketches one last time, Carter balled himself up on a wire bunk and waited, stomach grumbling and mouth dry, for the morning.

  4

  Toronto, 1927

  “I don’t think I’ve seen you here before, I’m Bill,” he said, taking a seat next to the young woman and sliding some fancy cocktail towards her.

  In a moment her glass was empty and she shot him a coy, seductive glance. The girl looked him over approvingly and offered her hand. “Clare.”

  “Hey Gary, how about another drink over here?”

  A more genuine interest came over her features. “So that’s him, huh?”

  “Yeah, that’s Gary Post. He owns the place, you know.”

  “I’ve heard a lot about him from a friend of mine.”

  Bill smiled; it was an easy opening. “So maybe you’ve heard that Gary and I were in the big war together?”

  “I seem to remember a fellow named Bill. Aren’t you a little young to be a war hero?” Clare asked, all coquettish charm.

  Bill tried not to blush. “I was young then, I suppose. I was an Original though, same as Gary.”

  Post arrived with a second drink for Clare.

  “Hey, Gary, why don’t you tell this young lady about that time I saved your life?” Bill said with an open smile and a quick wink.

  “Oh jeez, which one? You know Bill must have saved me a dozen times.”

  “Is that true?” The girl asked, biting her lip and sliding her chair a little closer to Bill.

  Bill breathed deeply and tried to keep his cool. “I’ll tell you all about it.”

  France, 1916

  Somehow in the darkness it all seemed so much less terrifying. Six Platoon was about one hundred yards behind the first wave. A sick sense of relief was palpable as two waves of D Company men absorbed the initial German response; light rifle fire for the most part. In the darkness the men groped their way through wire obstacles, shellholes, broken equipment, and the occasional corpse left behind from the previous fighting. No-man’s land was part trash heap, part boneyard. Friendly voices called out, indicating breaks in the German barbed wire as the remaining waves of Canadians began to pour into the first trench. It was as if the battle had not yet begun.

  Rum helped. In the frontlines it was usually issued out just after breakfast and the morning stand-to. Before an attack it was critical in soothing the men’s nerves. Each section commander had their own view on the two ounce, one hundred and eighty-six proof rum issue. Too many soldiers had gotten drunk and carelessly stumbled to their deaths; others had taken stupid risks that ended well and earned them medals. Sergeant Bailey, whose job it was to distribute the stuff had his own ideas and gave each man as much as he thought necessary based on the soldier’s age, size, lineage, time in the frontline, and consumption of alcohol behind the lines. As a middle-aged, well-built, Irish Original, the sergeant allowed himself a double ration. Of course the men had the right to refuse rum, which they seldom did. The morning of an attack, however, Bailey informally revoked that right.

  The German frontline had been abandoned hastily. A few dead sentries lay strewn about, but for the most part the occupants had fallen back in order to reorganize.

  “I think I saw Jack get hit,” Lincoln whispered to Post. There was no need for lowered voices, but instinct dictated subtlety. “Back near our own lines.”

  “Too bad. Anyone else?” Post asked, raising his voice slightly.

  “Not that I could see. I know for sure Bill and Green are around here somewhere. I just heard them.”

  Post squeezed up against the side of the trench allowing other soldiers to pass through while he rounded up his own section. “Six Platoon, Three Section,” he called repeatedly into the darkness.

  “Here,” a voice replied: Green.

  Bill had always had trouble seeing in the dark. He kept one hand firmly on Green’s shoulder as they tumbled into the trench and made their way towards Post’s voice. “I’m here too.”

  “Hal, you around here?” Post called out.

  “Here, Lance, I’m with ya’,” Hallicks hollered back.

  “Alright, Three Section, stick close we’re gonna move. Follow me single file, fingers off your triggers. Our boys might be mixed in with Fritz,” Post commanded.

  The little group collectively took a deep breath, and pushed down a German communication trench towards the sounds of rifle and more distant machine-gun fire. Hobnailed boots clattered on wooden floor mats as the sounds of fighting grew louder. Flares were going up a few hundred yards forward in the German support lines. The Hun artillery would soon be active.

  “Third Battalion here, B Company,” an authoritative voice made itself known: Company Sergeant Major Flynn. Flynn had positioned himself, along with a Lewis machine-gun team, just ahead of a four-way junction that marked the boundary of the main advance. “Welcome to the final objective lads, second line of Hun trenches. Start digging in; firing steps are top priority, then parapet and parados. Who’s in charge here?”

  “Me, Sir, Lance Post.”

  “God help us,” Flynn said with a laugh. “The rest of your platoon is on your left, about forty yards down, just call for Six and I’m sure they’ll hear. Now get going, you’re late.”

  Post was surprised to see that the CSM had gone forward ahead of his own company, rather than following behind. He also wondered how much longer Flynn would be around for.

  *

  Bill had stuck close to Green all through the early hours of the day. Once he realized the sun had been out for nearly an hour, he appraised the situation. Post had organized the men into groups of two, ranged out over about twenty yards of trench, a traverse at either end blinding the section to the goings on of the remainder of the platoon. Both British and German trenches were built that way in order to isolate an enemy breakthrough. Hal and Lincoln were on the far right, Post the far left, alone, while Bill and Green were in-between.

  It was the old German game: the counterattack. The battalion had such an easy time taking two lines of well-fortified positions that the less experienced men were in a celebratory mood. Post’s section was too knowledgeable to be under any such illusion. The G
erman artillery was falling well behind them, but it was no accident. No orders, no reinforcements, no additional ammunition had been brought forward. The battalion was trapped in their newly-gained positions. Birds in a not-so-gilded cage.

  “So, won’t be long now I guess,” Bill said.

  “’Til what?” Green asked, playing dumb.

  “Fritz’s counterattack.”

  Green let out a false chuckle. “Oh, that.”

  Bill’s voice cracked a little with frustration. “What the hell did you think I meant?”

  “Your wedding. Heard a rumour your girl is getting impatient. You better marry her while you still can.”

  “Oh fuck, not this morbid shit again.”

  “No, no, I just mean that there are a lot of wealthy profiteers and handsome shirkers back home. A woman can only wait so long for her soldier boy.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “I also heard she wants to meet you in England. Better get yourself bombproof fast. If you want, I can ask Fritz to turn off the shellfire for a few minutes. You can desert real quick.”

  Bill pulled a cigarette from his pocket and shot Green a fierce glance that made it clear he wasn’t sharing. He fumbled to light it and burnt himself on the match, letting out a little curse.

  “Careful,” Green grinned, “that’ll be hot.”

  “Fuck sake, Green,” Bill replied. “Hey, Linc, you wanna switch up? I’ll trade you Green for Hal. You prefer Green, don’t you, all his little jokes and things? Linc?”

  “You’re stuck with him,” Hallicks said. “Sorry, Bill, but Lincoln’s talking to God, and hopefully a little divine some-such will rub off on me. Maybe even a free billet in heaven.”

  Bill stared at the ground while he finished his cigarette. He was thinking of Kate. He usually did a pretty good job of shutting her out of his thoughts whenever he was in the frontline, but now she was all he could think of. Maybe Post, Green, and all the others were right about getting a safe position in England.

  Before long the bombardment had shifted. High Explosive shells smashed into the ground around Six Platoon, creating blasts of concussive force that knocked the men to the ground and sent vibrations through their entire bodies. Sandbags and revetments flew about the trench, as each man found what little cover he could. All the noise was giving Bill another headache, just as his two-day hangover had finally passed.

  Lance Corporal Post was growing weary of waiting; bombardments didn’t faze him anymore. He steadied himself against the side of the trench and peered over, hoping to catch a glimpse of the coming attack before it bore down on them. It wasn’t an awfully dangerous thing to do, after all a man was just as likely to be killed hugging the ground as standing in the open. It all came down to dumb luck.

  Post laughed and murmured to himself. “A game of chance.” He even ventured slightly into no-man’s land, but a few well-aimed shots from the next line of German positions sent him scurrying back into the trench. “And skill,” he reminded himself.

  Suddenly the shellfire slackened, a few seconds more and the German guns were silent altogether, only to begin again a hundred yards behind the front trench. Again, the battalion would be cut off from reinforcements and supplies. The call of “Stand-to!” went out across the line, although it was entirely unnecessary. Having spent the last hour or so being helplessly torn to pieces by shellfire, the battalion was eager for a chance to fight back, and mounted their hastily built firing steps.

  The first few lines of advancing German soldiers were cut down in short order, Lee Enfield rifles burning through ammunition, as NCOs reminded their men to aim each shot carefully. The remaining Germans went to ground, abandoning the charge. Soon they were clawing forward towards their old trench. Before long the Canadians were once again taking shelter under an impressive base of German rifle and machine-gun fire.

  Post stuck his head up once more; bullets instantly greeted him and struck the parados behind him. Bill mumbled gibberish to himself and glanced at Green, whose jaw was set with anticipation, his trademark grin disquietingly absent. Hallicks scowled as his entire body shook. Lincoln stood calmly, rifle and bayonet poised upwards.

  A flurry of grenades sent the section scrambling as bombs detonated all around them. Metal fragments, some the size of peas, others like clenched fists, whizzed around the men or embedded themselves in the trench wall.

  Bill looked skywards, as if in slow motion, a German bomb sailed through the air towards him. Green stuck his right hand out, deftly catching it by the wooden handle most Hun grenades had; the head of the bomb resting mere inches from Bill’s steel helmet. With a flick of the wrist the grenade went flying back towards the advancing Germans.

  He didn’t scream, didn’t even move, as the bomb exploded just beyond his hand. Exposed bone extended well past the elbow, one side of the forearm still nearly intact, while the other was an indiscernible muddle of bone, flesh, muscle, and dark blood. The hand was gone altogether. Green looked down at what was left of his arm, mouth open and quivering, eyes wide and incredulous.

  A piece of shrapnel from the bomb had sheared the side of Bill’s helmet, tearing a thin stretch of scalp from just above his left temple to the back of his head. The jagged piece of metal had ricocheted inside his helmet, shredding the leather liner, before dropping to the ground. Bill blinked and the world turned to darkness for what seemed like an eternity as the first wave of German soldiers, bayonets fixed and screaming wildly, entered the trench.

  Before Post understood what was happening he had an enemy soldier impaled on the end of his bayonet. Three clean punctures through the stomach, just like he’d trained for a hundred times before. It didn’t require any thought. He didn’t even take notice of the man’s death rattle as he glanced to his right, seeing Bill and Green standing helplessly as if entranced. Three German soldiers were in the trench near them. The jumble of bodies blocked Post’s view of Hallicks and Lincoln. Post withdrew his bloodied blade and quickly closed the short gap between him and the enemy. In his loudest parade ground voice he shouted, “Hey, look here you Hun bastards!”

  The nearest German turned to face Post, bayonet held up cautiously. It was almost too easy. When it came to bayonet fighting, Post had been taught, and had seen for himself that a defensive opponent always lost. He ran forward at full speed, parried the other man’s bayonet to the ground, quickly pulled his own upwards, and rammed it into his opponent’s chest. It wasn’t the proper technique, and his blade became jammed in the man’s ribs, but Post was too enraged at the prospect of losing his men to bother with technique. Brute force proved to be enough as he twisted the blade, loudly cracking several ribs and sending splinters of bone into the German’s heart and lungs. Blood poured forth from the man’s mouth as he convulsed and fell to the ground.

  As a second German stepped forward, Post regained his composure. His latest opponent stumbled clumsily over the body of his previous one, crashing into Post and sending both men to the ground, too close for rifles and bayonets. Huge fists smashed into Post’s face, breaking his nose for the third, or maybe fourth time in his life, he wasn’t sure, though the first time since the war began.

  Post responded by clutching his hands tightly around the German’s neck, and sinking his teeth deeply into his cheek. The pain proved to be too much as Post’s opponent, yelping and gasping for air, ceased his attack and pulled at Post’s hands. It was the moment he needed to turn the other man’s body over and come out on top.

  Post let go altogether, grabbed the German’s steel helmet and wrenched it from his head. Using it like a club on the now unprotected face and skull, he swung it high above his own head by the leather chinstrap and brought the helmet down with devastating force. The German tried to shield himself, but only ended up with broken fingers and wrists as Post continued his assault. His hands were thick and sticky with blood; his opponent’s face a pulpy mess, the skull caved in. As Post struck the fifth blow, he knew the other man was dead and let the helmet fall to the gr
ound. His face was still contorted with primitive rage when at last he got a full view of his section.

  The third German had disregarded Green, at once seeing the destroyed limb. Bill was instinctively pulled from his daze and dodged an approaching bayonet. The Mauser rifle turned, the wooden stock slamming into Bill’s throat and cutting off his airway as an old, ugly face grimaced with purpose. Bill could smell the Erbswurst on the other man’s breath. His eyes closed as he prepared for oblivion.

  An infinite, inconceivable nothingness overwhelmed him. No bright light, no pearly gates, no heavenly choir or booming voice of God. He was floating in inexplicable emptiness, thinking only that he must be dead, and unable to carry on believing in his own existence. Just as the darkness became too terrible to bear any longer, an image of Kate emerged before his eyes. Little details filled themselves in, defying the awful void. A white dress, the Eaton’s label still attached. Two golden rings, one simple, one adorned with a small but perfect diamond. St. James Cathedral in Toronto. A Sunday morning sky. His eyes were locked on hers, as she smiled with such innocent joy, whispering “I love you.”

  A sickening sound forced Bill’s eyes, full of shock and terror, wide open. A moment later the pressure on his throat lifted and he gasped in a lungful of air, eyes watering as he sank to his knees and began coughing.

  Green stood above him, breathing deeply and steadily, a step behind Bill’s assailant, his trench knife through the German’s face. Green withdrew the blade with a quick pull and forced it into the side of the dead man’s neck. Bill squinted in horror as his would-be killer sank to the ground next to him and entered the same void he had barely escaped.

  Bill’s head was pounding now, much worse than before, as if his skull would crack and fall to pieces at any moment. Vomiting, he struggled to catch his breath and come to his feet.

  “What’s a’ matter, Bill? Weak stomach?” Green said. Dropping his bloody knife and retrieving a field dressing from his tunic pocket, he motioned calmly to what was left of his arm. “Give me a hand. I’d bind it up myself, but you know, I’m a little shorthanded.”

  Bill began to fumble with the dressing, trying vainly to wrap it around the shattered limb.