Corporal Blake stooped at the bottom of a crater with the rest of Two Section as the men took time for lunch: cans of corned beef, hard biscuits, chewing tobacco. “Well this is just a pleasant picnic, huh, boys?”
“Can’t remember a nicer day,” Private Thompson replied dreamily. “The shells are buzzing so romantically, my feet are all cozy and frostbitten, with a little luck the Germans will send over my favourite perfume: chlorine gas. Truly God’s country.”
Thompson had only been with the battalion since the previous June, but was known for his dark sense of humour. It was a trait usually reserved for battle-hardened veterans, but one which all machine-gunners also seemed to acquire. Thompson was “Number One” on the Lewis Gun, which meant that he carried and fired it. Keeping the gun supplied with ammunition and clean was a job that each man in the section had a hand in, especially Private McNeil, the “Number Two.” It was McNeil who knew the gun better than anyone, except Thompson, whose side he never left. It was also McNeil who carried the precious canvas bag that contained the gun’s spare parts and cleaning kit. Among the Lewis Gun section it was said that Thompson and McNeil were the most important men in the platoon; never mind Mister Carter and Sergeant Bailey. And while the remainder of the section functioned as riflemen, albeit with an extra load of Lewis drum magazines to feed the ever-hungry gun, they still proudly considered themselves members of the most important section in the platoon. They were.
“Sounds like we’ll be getting into it in another day or two,” Blake said, glancing at the Lewis Gun. “Or at least that’s the chatter from Three Section.”
“Once it gets dark we should break the gun down and give her a once over, inside and out,” Thompson replied.
“Well, I was about to order that, but since you volunteered I needn’t feel like a taskmaster.”
“Taskmaster? We love cleaning the lady. Right fellas?”
Two Section responded with mixed grumbles. Caring for the gun was important and each man helped disassemble, clean, and reassemble the over one hundred and thirty intricate pieces, but it was a long, tedious job.
“At any rate we’ll oil her a little tonight,” Blake said. “It’s good practice to do it in the dark; you get a real feel for her. You have to get her just wet enough without making a mess.”
Thompson couldn’t help but let out a little chuckle. “Are you still talking about the gun?”
*
As night fell, Sergeant Bailey prepared to make his rounds. He had spent most of the day with One Section, Corporal McCloud’s men. Not that McCloud needed the help, but Bailey had been overcome with an obsession to be certain that Six Platoon fell into good hands once he was gone, as he had a feeling he would be soon. While there was little left he could teach the young corporal, it gave Bailey great satisfaction to observe him at work. Whether ensuring his men’s equipment was in good shape, or keeping a watchful eye on the German lines without being seen by enemy snipers in broad daylight, McCloud was proving every moment that he had what it took to be a platoon sergeant. Bailey, blissfully ignorant, thought he was angling for a promotion.
“Make sure Bill’s wearing his helmet,” McCloud whispered as Bailey prepared to leave. “And tell Blake not to let Thompson clean that gun when it’s dark out, he’s liable to lose a piece.”
“What about Lincoln?” Bailey asked.
“Tell him I said a prayer for him. All that man needs is faith.”
Sure enough when the sergeant arrived at Two Section’s crater, the knocks and clicks of a machine-gun being broken down were audible. Bailey pulled close to Blake so the privates couldn’t hear; no competent sergeant berated a corporal in front of his men.
“Blake, have them put that damned gun back together.”
“But they’re just about to start oiling her. They haven’t even got their fingers in her yet.”
Bailey wasn’t amused, though was somehow happy that one of his men had been so careless, and required correction. “Why didn’t you do that during the day?”
“The Huns won’t make a move at night; they’re scared, they know our scouts and patrols are out for blood. Besides, we’ll be moving back in a few hours right? Might as well let the oil do its job, it’ll be easier on her later.”
“Just get it together. If it doesn’t absolutely require cleaning I want it ready for firing.”
“Sorry, fellas,” Blake began once Bailey had gone, “make her whole again.”
“But we just broke her down,” Thompson said.
“Relief is supposed to come a little early,” Blake lied, trying to save face. “So we need to be ready to move when it does.”
In the moonlight, Bailey could easily tell that of Bill’s section, only McCreery and Roy were wearing their helmets. Bill approached Bailey, knowing a lecture was in his near future and that his superior wouldn’t deliver it with his entire section listening in.
“Lovely night, huh, Sergeant?” Bill said, shivering in the cold, the earflaps of his out-of-style cap deployed around his cheeks and chin.
“I can’t believe Turner lets you keep that thing,” Bailey said with genuine astonishment. Of course, while a company sergeant major cared about such things as obsolete headgear, a platoon sergeant was more interested in keeping his men happy. And safe. “Put your helmet on, Bill, that goes for the rest of your section too.”
Bill wanted to argue the point that, as an NCO, he had to remain extra aware at all times and that a steel helmet only lessened his vision and hearing. Considering his excessive wool cap, however, he knew such an argument would gain no traction. “Alright, sorry, Sarnt’.”
“No problem, Bill, just remember that you’re setting an example to these men, especially the newer ones. Set a good one. Stay bombproof,” Bailey concluded cheerfully.
“Payne, Stinson, tin hats on,” Bill said once Bailey had left, pulling on his own helmet awkwardly over the massive cap. “The Sergeant’s Almanac is forecasting a high chance of mortar fire tonight. Let’s be prepared.”
Finally Bailey arrived at Four Section’s position. Three privates were grouped together sleeping, the other two, and Lance Corporal Lincoln were lying quietly, listening for movement coming from no-man’s land. The entire section, including the sleeping men, were wearing their steel helmets and had their gas masks in the “ready” position, slung like feedbags around their necks. Lincoln heard Bailey coming and shuffled silently towards him.
“Good evening,” Lincoln whispered.
“A sergeant’s blessing upon thee, my faithful lance corporal,” Bailey replied.
Lincoln smiled in the darkness and decided to humour Bailey. “Praise be to the Lord my rock, who trains my hands for war, and my fingers for battle. And praise be to my platoon sergeant too, just not as much, but for pretty much the same thing.”
“So you reckon the Lord a higher authority than a three-striper?”
“Absolutely. Especially a Catholic three-striper,” Lincoln said lightly so as to ensure his sergeant knew he meant no offense.
In the Canadian Corps, Anglican was the prevailing denomination, followed by Catholic, Presbyterian, and Methodist; any other religion was considered an oddity.
“You know my wife wanted to raise our girls Protestant.”
“Anglican I hope, it’s the only way to go.”
“Wesleyan, or Methodist, whatever they call themselves, but I suppose she didn’t take it too seriously. I guess she realized there was no point fussing over fakes when she could have the real thing.”
Lincoln ignored that. He was certain that under less trying circumstances he could sway Bailey’s faith with practical theological arguments. But with a big battle on the horizon, he decided to tactfully change the subject. “How old are your children now?”
“Mary is fourteen, Margaret is twelve.”
“Very traditional.”
“You mean very Catholic?”
“Irish.”
Bailey summoned up what little was left of his Irish ac
cent after three decades in Canada. “Don’t you know laddy, Irish and Catholic, ‘tis the same ‘ting.”
Lincoln allowed himself a suppressed laugh. It was good to hear Bailey joking. “Fourteen and twelve, that’s nice.”
“Yours?”
“Carlyle’s the oldest, seventeen now. Allan is fifteen, and Linda is thirteen.”
“I’m glad I’ve only got girls. They’ll never have to be soldiers.”
“Well hopefully my boys won’t either, isn’t that the whole point of all this? As long as we can get the job done within, oh I don’t know, another year or so. Think we can pull it off?”
“I don’t know. But I don’t think I’ll be around to see it.”
Lincoln knew the feeling, and knew that nothing he could say would comfort Bailey. “At the worst we’ll be looking down on it.”
“At the worst we’ll be looking up,” Bailey corrected. “Don’t worry though; I’ll put in a good word for you with Saint Pete. I’m sure a handful of Protties are let in.”
*
Just after midnight the platoon was relieved and returned to the tunnels and caves beneath the foot of Vimy Ridge. Vacant corners and lesser-used passageways soon filled up with sleeping soldiers. The “subways” had become a second home to the men of the Third Battalion. Not a very comfortable second home, having been built with the utmost expediency, but compared to the Crater Line, a welcome one nevertheless.
Lieutenant Carter was there to meet the platoon on its arrival. He and Bailey took turns taking the men on their shifts in the frontline.
“Evening, Sir.”
“Evening, Sergeant. How was it?”
“Fine. Any news?”
“Plenty. Lots of little changes to the routes, timings, kit lists, and all that. If you’re not too tired we should go over them. If you want to catch a few winks you can, but we have a meeting at Company Headquarters in forty minutes.”
Bailey motioned for McCloud to take over with a wave of his hand. “Sounds fun.”
B Company Headquarters was located in a storage room for Stokes bombs. Mortarmen regularly interrupted meetings to remove a box or two of rounds, or rummage around for a spare part. Early on, permission had been asked and salutes exchanged, now such formalities were long defunct. Mortars, as with hand grenades, were stored with the fuses separate. This allowed for the wooden crates that held them to be used as makeshift benches, footstools, tables, and cots. It could have been worse: D Company, ever-luckless, was headquartered in a room designated for the storage of kerosene. Not only did the officers need to skulk away for a cigarette, but the stench prohibited them from sleeping or even meeting for very long in the room.
Platoon commanders and sergeants were trickling in as Captain Reid pored over maps, sketches, schedules, reports, orders, and lists. Company Sergeant Major Turner sat next to Bailey. Bailey could easily restrain his contempt, but also knew how to let just enough of it show so that everyone but Turner was clear on his feelings towards the CSM. Bailey didn’t hate Turner, but hated that he had been chosen for CSM over him. Bailey had been a sergeant when the battalion formed in 1914, Turner a mere corporal. There was no question that Turner’s pre-war service with the Queen’s Own Rifles, an experience he shared with most of the Third Battalion’s officers, was the reason for Bailey being snubbed. At least, that was the belief Bailey held.
“Up the line yesterday?” Turner droned, trying to be friendly.
“Sure was,” Bailey replied. “Just got back a few minutes ago.” Bailey lit a cigarette. He knew Turner was disgusted by them, but being one of the few men in the battalion who didn’t smoke, he was hardly in a position to say anything. Lieutenant Carter, not caring much for CSM Turner either, though because of his bland personality, lit one in solidarity.
“How are things there? Everything alright?”
“It’s sunny enough, a little cold though.”
“I mean the enemy.”
“Oh, Fritzy, of course. I reckon he’s enjoying the sun too, and is also a little cold. Nail?”
Turner half-opened his mouth to clarify, but deciding Bailey had nothing useful to say anyway, simply fixed his gaze on Captain Reid and waited patiently. Bailey couldn’t help but feel a little mean, but anyone as dense as Turner deserved to be wound up just a little. He was the only CSM in the battalion, and probably the entire division that carried a pace stick into the frontlines. The stick, which resembled an oversized architect’s compass, was used on parades to determine the correct distance between ranks of soldiers. In the frontlines it was useless other than as a symbol of Turner’s position as CSM, and his vanity.
What Bailey didn’t know was that the CSM’s mind was running like clockwork, going through the objectives and timings of the plan, figuring out what to do if something went wrong, trying to guess what changes might be made before Zero Hour and how he would react to them. Turner coughed lightly as smoke filled the little room but said nothing. When at last, Five Platoon’s officer and sergeant arrived, Reid stood and the room went quiet. Carter flipped over his map and prepared to take notes on the back of it; standard practice among Canadian officers.
“I know we’re all tired so I’m going to keep this short. Zero Hour is still set for five-thirty, and we are still jumping off at seven-thirty. Significant changes: for us Sirs, no Sam Brown belts, either dress like an enlisted man or shove your revolver in your pocket and sling your other gear. Wire-cutters are being issued out six per platoon and each carrier will be marked with white tape on the rear right shoulder strap. Battalion flags will be carried by scouts only, so that’s one less thing on your plate. Apparently brigade found a stash of flare guns, we’ll have four per platoon instead of one, and each carrier will draw a dozen cartridges. I want each officer and sergeant to carry a flare gun; the other two are up to you: either a good NCO or a mule.”
The officers and sergeants snickered at that. A “mule” was a big private who, on top of his own rifle and equipment, and the additional gear that every man carried into battle such as sandbags, picks, and shovels, also carried the odd bits of extra kit that ranged from hammers and nails to telephone wire and carrier pigeons.
“Plan is the word,” Captain Reid announced dramatically. “We haven’t spent the last four months getting ready just to muddle it all up now. I don’t want any arbitrary decisions or foolhardy heroics. Every move your platoons make will be by the schedule and by the map. Most importantly, this will mean keeping a firm grip on your men. They’ll be excited, curious, and scared. Don’t let their instincts or feelings foul up the works. The First Battalion will be on the right flank until the Blue Line. After that it’s us, so expect counterattacks. That means don’t waste grenades and ammunition, and keep your eyes open. Keep each other and myself informed of all things at all times; communication is going to be the key. That’s all.”
“Platoon sergeants, on me,” Turner said as the officers dispersed and the sergeants groaned collectively. “Now I’m not going to name platoons, okay? But I have seen some privates and even corporals walking around without puttees, with unbuttoned jackets, and dirty caps, alright? I want to see proud soldiers, not ragamuffin vagabonds, understand?”
The platoon sergeants nodded silently.
“One last thing, whale oil on the men’s feet. I know the officer’s normally look after that but I want you all to take a little initiative, okay?”
Since the beginning of winter all men in the frontlines had undergone daily applications of whale oil to their feet. The idea was to prevent infection and trench foot in the constant damp and cold, and it seemed to be working.
“I’ll be by each of your platoons in about a half hour to make sure it’s done, okay? Nobody goes to sleep until I’ve seen their feet, alright? Now go.”
4
Toronto, 1930
That Sunday Bill had inexplicably brought along his old winter cap. The church was crowded with veterans wearing medals, ribbons, and association pins. Bill thought he recognized
a few faces, but couldn’t be sure. Aside from Post and Payne, he hadn’t seen most of his old friends in over a decade.
The militiamen who formed the honour guard made Bill smirk a little. They were men of the Toronto Regiment, the post-war reincarnation of the wartime Third Battalion. Few of them wore medals, and for this special occasion, all wore scarlet tunics, blue pants, and white pith helmets. They looked about ready to embark on a route march down the Nile, or fight it out with a tribe of Zulu warriors. Other than the absurd uniforms, they looked much like Bill and the other Originals would have looked leaving Toronto in 1914; eager, proud, slightly stupid. Put them in the trenches for a few weeks, Bill thought, and they’d smarten up.
Gary Post was sitting in a pew near the front of the church. He motioned to Bill and Kate to come and sit with him. “Mademoiselle Bill,” he said with a huge grin, standing and taking Kate’s hand. “Still beautiful I see. And still married to that bum, huh? Well good for you, a woman needs determination. If you ever run out though, you know I’m a divorced man now, yes?”
Kate blushed, Gary always had that effect on her; on almost all women really. “Oh, Mister Post, you flatter me.”
“He’s just trying to get on your good side,” Bill said. “He wants you to let me come out and play. You know I’m broke, Gary, the Leaf will just have to go bankrupt without my business.”
The charming smile turned to a keep-your-head-up grimace. “Still no luck with a job eh, Bill? Well if you want a little part-time work maybe I could find some for you. Mopping up vomit, hawking beer, keeping the pimps and whores out.”
Kate blushed again, differently this time.
“No thanks. I can’t get too close to the good stuff. I’ve been dry what, eight months now? Good thing too; I saved up a few dollars during my sobriety, boring as it was.”
“Boring, am I?” Kate said.
The slick grin returned and Gary’s eyes turned playfully wolfish. “You must be doing something wrong, Bill. Kate sure doesn’t look boring to me.”