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  The section remained silent a few moments more to ensure Bill was done. The silence soon became so obvious that Hal decided to break it. “Keep stirring that stuff. Two more minutes on the cooker.”

  “Okay, Hal. Keep talking guys, I wanna listen.”

  Post became thoughtful, searched for the right words, then spoke. “Whenever I was late for work it didn’t matter. Hell, even if I showed up an hour late, what would they do? Make me stay an extra hour? You’re almost right, Bill; this war, no, this battalion, is more honest and important than anything else. Except family. And you can start one anytime you like. Kate’s waiting for you.”

  Hal stormed back to the group. “Stir, stir! A steady job and you act like a jerk, eh, Lance? If I could get decent work, especially at a place that let me show up late, I sure as hell wouldn’t have left it.”

  Lincoln’s face screwed up in confusion. “Did you join the army for employment?”

  “Food, shelter, and clothing helps, not that I think much of the quality of any,” Hal replied. “But still, the pay is alright. And why’d you join, Linc? King and Empire and stuff? Keep your family safe from the Godless Huns?”

  “Don’t make fun,” Lincoln replied. “This is serious. You think the Germans will stop at France and Belgium? They want the world, and they’ll get it if we don’t bring their dirty empire to an end. Post is right, family should always come first, and for me that meant leaving them, to sit in a filthy ditch with a bunch of kids from Toronto. Don’t get me wrong, you’re pretty good for a second family, but I have a real one back home.”

  Post nodded his approval.

  Hal shrugged apathetically and took the spoon from Bill’s hand. “It’s ready,” he said, dishing it out into Post’s and Lincoln’s mess tins.

  “Come on, Bill, have some.”

  “No thanks, I don’t like HP sauce.”

  “Oh for fuck, Bill. You’ve never even tried it. Will you just try it?”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  5

  Three Section was finishing lunch when a weak cry from over the parapet caught their attention. “Kamerad.”

  Post motioned for silence, stood, and grabbed his rifle.

  “Kamerad,” the cry came again.

  Post trod lightly towards the sound. Was it a lost German expecting to tumble into a friendly trench? Could it be a wounded man seeking mercy? Was it a trick, a prelude to a raid?

  Before he reached the source of the noise, a German soldier, without rifle or equipment, rolled into the trench. He groaned in pain on impact. A soiled bandage was wrapped around his left thigh, while a smaller wound in his right chest soaked his tunic with blood.

  He attempted to raise his arms in capitulation while barely managing to kneel. The fear in his eyes was obvious. Without medical attention he would bleed to death in another hour or so. “Kamerad?”

  German shells were still landing between the battalion’s newly-won positions and their own trenches. It would be suicide to try bringing a prisoner back through that bombardment, especially one in such rough shape. Lance Corporal Post glanced at his section knowingly. There were too many ways a prisoner, even a barely mobile one, could sabotage his captors. Post refused to take any chances with what was left of his section just to help a man who had been shooting at them a few hours earlier.

  “Well I’m not gonna do it,” Lincoln said. “I’ll try to bring him back if you want, but I won’t murder a wounded man.”

  Bill’s mind turned once more to John. If he was alive, it was because of a German soldier observing the rules of war.

  The wounded German shifted nervously as Post steadied himself and clenched his rifle tighter.

  “I’ll do it, Lance,” Hallicks said. “Wouldn’t be the first time. Besides, he’ll take over the whole damn world if we don’t stop him, ain’t that right, Linc? Time for me to do my bit for King and stuff.”

  Post breathed a disgusted sigh of relief. “Thanks, Hal.”

  “Fifty francs.”

  “Fuck you fifty, I’ll just do it. It ain’t worth a week’s pay.”

  “Woah, hold up, Lance. You’re not even trying to negotiate. How about forty?”

  “Ten.”

  “Now where’s that ‘fair play’ you’re always on about? Twenty-five, and that’s final. And I’ll throw in those Hun nails for free,” Hal said, then turned to the German soldier, smiled and motioned for patience.

  “You’re a thief, Hal. But alright, twenty-five. Just don’t botch it.”

  “Botch a Bosche? It’ll be simple. Wir gehen, Kamrad, los, los,” Hal said, smiling and pointing towards the traverse at the end of the trench.

  The German didn’t move and was clearly regretting leaving no-man’s land. The heaped up bodies of his comrades made him wild-eyed.

  Hal lit two of the German cigarettes, handing one to the prisoner. “Here, here, ein zigaretten, taken zee.”

  “Danke,” the German said, then turned his back to Hal, and began to trudge towards the traverse.

  Hallicks didn’t even bother to move. After the German had taken just two steps, he slowly squeezed the trigger of his rifle, and the prisoner tumbled to the ground, face to the sky, cigarette still smoking.

  “Twenty-five francs,” Hal reminded Post, as he went forward to inspect the dead man’s belongings. “I would have done it for fifteen, you should have negotiated more. Blah, these nails taste like garbage, you want it?”

  “Put it out, I’ll have it later. Give me his too,” Post replied.

  “Hey a wristwatch!” Hallicks said, strapping it on triumphantly. “I can get ten francs for this, easy. Plus your twenty-five; this guy was a gold mine.”

  “What’s a Hun identity disc worth?” Post asked.

  “Not much, besides, some things are sacred. Pay up.”

  “I’m short right now, but I’ll pay you once we get back to Albert.”

  “Okay, I won’t even charge you any interest.”

  “Fair play.”

  *

  About an hour later the next wave of Germans was advancing through no-man’s land. They were met with paltry volleys of rifle fire and only a few grenades. The carrying parties hadn’t succeeded in bringing forward much ammunition since the initial attack. It might not have been hopeless, but the odds were certainly against the depleted, exhausted Canadians.

  Working their rifles with a mix of desperate haste and deliberate precision, Three Section did their best to hold back the advance.

  “Forget this,” Post muttered to himself as the grey-clad figures moved cautiously but steadily closer. He was down to a dozen or so bullets and could only assume the others were too. “Hal, Lincoln,” Post yelled pointing right, “fall back, let Burns know.”

  Without a word he grabbed Bill by the arm and began running to the left. Within earshot of McCloud’s section, Post simply called “Retreat!”

  Post stood on the old German firing step, which faced the Canadian lines, and cupped his hands together. “Up, up, now.”

  Bill placed one boot on Post’s hands and shot the other upwards, awkwardly straddling the parados. Outside of the trench, he turned back and offered Post his hands.

  “Just go,” Post said, hauling himself up.

  Every step was like the moment in a nightmare when the terror becomes so unbearable it awakens even the most exhausted man. Bill was sure that at any moment he would be shot from behind, or suddenly realize that the company was surrounded.

  Before long, Post had caught up to him and grabbed his hand, soon overtaking him and tightening his grip, dragging him along. “Faster, keep up!”

  Finally they arrived at the first line of German trenches, and Post let go of Bill’s hand, levelling his rifle to his shoulder. Looking left and right, he saw nothing but empty stretches of trench.

  Bill had slumped to the ground. “Do we keep going? Back to our lines? Maybe they’re all dead. It could just be us.”

  Post turned back the bolt of his rifle and began to shove
in his last few rounds. “Load up,” he said curtly, poking his head over the parapet.

  After a few tense seconds he could see khaki-clad figures coming towards them at full speed; men of B Company. Moments later the mud-stained Canadians had taken up defensive positions, rifles emerging cautiously around each approach. Between sporadic artillery fire, the jeers and shouts of German soldiers were clearly audible. Carefully thrown hand grenades hemmed the Canadians in further with each passing minute.

  Second Lieutenant Carter was pacing quickly down the line, furiously demanding to know who had ordered the retreat. He had stormed by Post before he could even respond.

  “I did, Sir,” Post said, as Carter wheeled on him. “We wouldn’t have stood a chance down there. Odds are the rest of the battalion is pulling back too, I think–”

  Carter laid one hand on his revolver, the other gripped Post’s epaulette and pulled him in close. “I don’t give a damn what you think!”

  For the first time Post could see clearly the deep lines in the young officer’s face, the bloodshot eyes and dirty cheeks. He was still a stupid kid, but Post felt a grudging respect for him.

  “You called a platoon retreat, you! A fucking lance? There’ll be charges. Insubordination, cowardice, conduct un–”

  “And where were you anyway?” Post screamed back at him, placing one hand on top of the officer’s and keeping the revolver holstered, while the other formed a fist and pulled back, the arm taut, like a cord about to snap.

  McCloud stepped between Carter and Post, and shot fierce glances to any private who had turned their attention to the pissing match that was unfolding. His voice was calm and steady. “Sir, the rest of the company has withdrawn as well. We need to reorganize for a defence. Now.”

  Intermittent shots rang out as German advances were broken up with ever-diminishing rifle fire. Ammunition was running short.

  “Post, take a man back towards our lines, fifty yards at most. Scrounge every bullet you can in five minutes or less. Go now.”

  “Sir,” McCloud said, waiting until Post had left, “I need you to speak with the captain. We have to organize an evacuation of the wounded. We need to be resupplied. Ask him to give the order for an SOS barrage. If there are any reserves left; clerks, stretcher-bearers, whoever, we need them here with a rifle. We need to identify the weak spots in our line and reinforce them; I’ll get on that while you see him. If our flanks are turned, it’s all over. If he asks for our platoon strength, we’re at sixteen privates, three NCOs and yourself. Got that, Sir?”

  Carter stared dumbly for a moment, then left in search of Captain Reid.

  Only a handful of Canadians had been killed before reaching the German wire, but they proved to be a treasure trove of ordnance. Bill removed his damaged steel helmet and loaded it with ammunition from a dead soldier who bore a peaceful, but somewhat inquisitive expression on his face. At least it had been clean for him; one round through the heart. Just like the men always lied to the families about whenever a member of the platoon suffered a particularly agonizing death. As a matter of fact, it was the first time Bill had seen such a pristine body. Noticing a dead bomber, Bill crawled towards him. A half-dozen hand grenades, who could ask for more?

  “Bill, let’s get back!” Post yelled from a few yards away.

  It hadn’t been five minutes, but the German artillery fire had died down now, which could only mean another counterattack was coming.

  When Bill re-entered the trench he was met by Lance Corporal Burns, who gruffly demanded to know what ammunition he had recovered. A moment later all but a few rounds had been stripped from him for redistribution.

  “Give me those bombs,” Burns said, noticing Bill’s bulging tunic pockets. “I’ll make sure they don’t get wasted.” It was half-insult, half-promise.

  Post had carefully avoided the other NCOs and made his way directly towards Hallicks and Lincoln, handing out ammunition along the way, his helmet also turned into a basket for bullets. The two men were crouching miserably where a trench ran back towards the second German line, bayonets poised defensively for lack of ammunition, a deathly pallor in their faces. Resolute, but not enthusiastic.

  “Still feeling heroic, I see,” Post said, placing his helmet on the ground between the two men and kneeling, rifle at the ready.

  “Hullo Lance,” Hal said, already cramming rounds into his rifle.

  “I’ve still got two or three,” Lincoln said, not moving. “I’ll load up once he’s full.”

  As Hal’s bolt slammed forward, Lincoln took his turn and began loading his own rifle. “So what’s the word, Lance? We staying or going?”

  “For now we’re staying, but to be honest I don’t think we can for much longer.”

  As if on cue, two German soldiers poked around a traverse in the trench about twenty yards away. Hallicks sent five rounds towards them in as many seconds, dropping one and prompting the other to withdraw without firing a shot.

  “If they get serious,” Post went on, “you’d better make a run for it. Consider that an order, just so you don’t feel bad. Clear as mud?”

  Both men nodded without looking at their section commander.

  “Remember,” Post said, making his way towards another group of Canadians that looked desperate for ammunition, “medals, for the both of you.”

  “How about two weeks leave?” Lincoln asked.

  “Or a few extra days pay?” Hal chimed in.

  “I’d just take the damned medal,” Post called back. “Come on fellas, where’s your sense of pride?”

  *

  Just twenty minutes later the survivors of the battalion had been forced out of the German trenches by a steady flow of rifle fire and grenades. Now they were hunkered down in no-man’s land, unsure whether to attack once more, run, or wait until night to slip away. Another ten minutes went by as officers and sergeants crawled the length of no-man’s land, trying to discern how many soldiers were left and what to do next. Nobody came by the shellhole Bill and Post were sharing.

  “Looks like we’re further back than the rest,” Post said. “Might as well have a moment.” He lit a cigarette, sinking further down into the cover of the shellhole. “Best we sit tight, get going after dark. Unless some idiot decides to have another go at their lines; that’ll end in a rout for sure.”

  Bill held his canteen above his open mouth, shaking out the last drops.

  “Sorry,” Post said, taking a quick, deep drag. “I’m out too. But if you want to put a nail in your coffin, seeing how we’re likely to be killed soon, I’ll share, but this is the last time.”

  “No thanks,” Bill rasped.

  “Probably a good idea. Hal was right, these Hun nails are rotten.”

  A decisive cheer went up suddenly as men began to leave their shellholes. Bill and Post peeked over the lip of the crater cautiously. There was an officer out front, revolver in the air, a handful of soldiers reforming for a counterattack. Mere seconds separated the nearest Canadians from the first line of trenches. As Bill gripped his rifle and prepared to go forward, Post grabbed his shoulder. He could see a glimmer of something in the other man’s eyes, or maybe it was a reflection from his own. Hope.

  “It’s a euchre. They’re as good as dead,” Post said, his mind racing between practicality and principle. “But they’re giving us a chance to live. Ditch your equipment, rifle too.

  Cautious relief and shame washed over Bill. For the first time he saw Post throw a fresh cigarette to the ground, along with his gear and rifle. As the remainder of the battalion surged forward, the two men slipped away.

  It was no easy, or safe proposition. Just two months earlier, two members of the battalion had been executed for two separate incidents of desertion. If a signaller carrying a message or a wounded man returning saw them, it could mean a court martial. As a result, Bill and Post moved slowly, carefully, even though the threat of German artillery and rifle fire was almost nonexistent for the moment. They were only getting a head-st
art on the battalion, waiting until the others finally withdrew before re-entering their own lines along with the survivors.

  “How about a bombproof job now?” Post whispered as the two men played dead, allowing a runner to pass them by.

  “I have to piss,” Bill whispered back. “But if a stretcher-bearer sees me moving around he might mistake me for being wounded.”

  “Well you are. Anyway, just go in your pants.”

  “And ruin my clean underwear?”

  “Jesus, Bill, are you saying you haven’t messed yourself yet today? Even when that bomb almost killed you? You must be too stupid to even know when to be scared, pant-pissing scared. I’m still damp from earlier.”

  “I wasn’t raised in a barn, and I ain’t messed myself for years. Now if we end up in front of a firing squad, that’ll be the day.”

  “Bah. If you get caught you can blame it on that wound of yours. And of course the fact that I ordered our little strategic withdrawal. You’ve got nothing to worry about.”

  “Not for long anyway,” Bill said, unbuttoning his trousers and shifting to one side.

  *

  The Canadian bayonet charge smashed into the recently victorious Germans with such unexpected ferocity it sent them reeling backwards. Not to their last line of trenches, but around the nearest traverses and halfway down the communication lines. German rifles could be seen sticking out from every alcove and around each corner. Even the most optimistic soldier, glancing left and right at the devastated remnants of the battalion could tell it had been a thoughtless, fruitless endeavour. There weren’t enough men left to hold the trench, never mind carry the attack forward. And at least half the men who had reclaimed this tiny stretch of trench were already wounded to varying degrees. It wasn’t long before the Germans reformed and attacked once more.

  Lincoln could see it was hopeless. Hallicks was already scrambling back out of the trench as the remaining Canadians grouped together tighter, either being shot down or abandoning the battle at full speed. Soon Lance Corporal Burns was the only other man in sight, his rifle slung across his back, a hand grenade at the ready.

  “Come on Burns, we’ve–”