“Bombs, fifteen yards, eleven o’clock,” Bill ordered, still being manhandled by his boys.
Instantly, McCreery and Stinson tossed a grenade each over the lip of the trench towards where they supposed the Germans to be.
“One more each,” Bill said, composing himself.
Another two grenades sailed through the air and detonated. Bill approached the traverse once more and began to stick his head around the corner.
“The mirror,” Roy reminded him, holding it out. “They already know we’re here.”
“Fine, what do you see?”
“Nothing. I’ll stick my head around and be sure though.”
“Don’t be stupid,” Bill said, poking his own head around again. “You’d get it shot off. Looks clear.”
“Just wait,” Stinson told the others as he began to strip off his equipment, helmet, gloves, and tunic. “Could be a ruse. I’ll go overland, look down on them and see if it’s okay to move.”
“It’s too dangerous,” Bill said. “Good idea though. I’ll go.”
“I’m the smallest man here, if anyone can slip through without being seen, it’s me.”
“Just don’t ask me for a boost,” McCreery said, touching his nose.
Bill nodded his approval. “Alright. We’ll wait two minutes. Either you holler for help, or let us know it’s clear. Try to see what the rest of the platoon is up to as well, eh?”
Stinson, shoved a hand grenade into each of his cardigan’s pockets and clambered over the top with the help of Payne and Roy. He stuck close to the parapet, crawling along the frozen ground and barely raising his head. Making his way under a belt of smashed barbed wire, Stinson caught his sweater and found himself discarding it, salvaging the grenades and holding one in each hand. Now only in an undershirt and shaking from the cold, he could hear the sound of hushed German voices as he approached the second line of trenches. Slowly he pulled the pins from his grenades. The pins each had a ring, which he hung on his smallest finger. The grenades’ spoons, spring-loaded and ready to strike the fuse once they were set free, were tucked safely into Stinson’s palms. He had no intention of wasting two grenades if he could take these Germans prisoner. Besides, they were people too; miserable misguided people, but probably deserving of a little mercy.
At once Stinson stood and outstretched both hands above the group of enemy soldiers. “Halt! Du bist mein prisoner!”
All six German soldiers turned and pointed their rifles at Stinson, but seeing the precarious position of his bombs, laid down their rifles and raised their hands.
Stinson didn’t turn his head, but kept his gaze on his captives. “Bill, bring everyone up, they’ve surrendered!”
The words had just escaped his mouth when a German machine-gun, somewhere in the distance opened up on him and forced him to take cover in the trench. Two of the Germans immediately moved towards Stinson, hoping to seize the grenades and continue the fight. Stinson knew the rest of the section would be an easy target moving down the trench, especially if his own grenades ended up being used against them.
He was cold, angry, and deeply offended that the men he had just spared would be so ungrateful. Although a small man, Stinson was confident: being small meant learning to fight at a young age, and sometimes fighting a little bit dirty. He caught the first German with a powerful left cross, the added weight of the hand grenade clenched in his fist, resulting in a broken jaw. As the second man drew close, Stinson threw an uppercut to his chin. The man shrieked in horror as a chunk of his tongue, cut in two by his teeth meeting with such force, dropped to the ground. Both men crumpled and collapsed.
“Handen hoch!” Stinson snarled.
The remaining Germans, who had been scrambling for their rifles, now reconsidered and threw their hands higher than ever. Another few seconds, which felt like hours to Stinson, and the remainder of Three Section was with him. “The bombs,” he said desperately. “I can’t hold them.”
McCreery snatched the grenades from his hands, being careful to keep the spoons from coming loose. Bill removed the rings with their pins from Stinson’s fingers and replaced them, disarming the bombs. Stinson’s knuckles were bruised and swollen black and blue, streaked red with blood.
“Roy, take this lot back, double-quick time, hand them over to the first person who can take them,” Bill said, indicating the prisoners. “Then come right back. Payne, go with him and get Stinson’s gear and things.”
McCreery couldn’t help but comment on Stinson’s busted knuckles. “Poetic justice, eh?” He said, still clutching a grenade in each hand and tapping his nose again.
“You going to be okay to carry on?” Bill asked.
“Yeah, I just need a second,” Stinson replied, flexing his fingers and rubbing his knuckles.
“Is this the last trench?” McCreery asked.
“Looks that way. You two stay here, keep an eye out for McCloud’s boys,” Bill said. “They’ll be coming from the left.”
Bill made his way towards the other end of the trench. He could hear Canadian voices around the bend, but decided to be certain. “Toronto! Is that Seven?”
“Toronto!” Came the reply. “Yeah, is that Six?”
“Sure as shit it’s Six,” Bill rhymed off. “Everything okay?”
“We’re good. You?”
“Rosy.”
Off to the left, one of McCloud’s men stuck his head around a corner. “Toronto! Six?”
“Toronto, Six,” Bill replied.
The man entered the trench along with about half of McCloud’s section. “You all okay?”
“Yeah, you?”
“Fine. The Sir says to stay put for a few minutes, McCloud and him will catch you up soon. Exciting eh?”
Bill lit a cigarette. “Better than a fireworks show.”
Soon Roy and Payne returned, and Bill dispersed his men in teams, one thrower and one carrier. A counterattack didn’t seem likely, but preparing to repel one was the first order of business. Bill placed himself between both teams and began counting up how many bombs his section had gone through.
*
“Bill, you’re okay?” McCloud asked.
“Yes, mother. Jeez.”
“You make contact with Seven Platoon yet?”
“First thing I did.”
Carter, having heard that it was safe, shuffled past both men without a word to make formal contact with Seven Platoon’s commander.
McCloud carried on with the administrative details. “Good. How about your men, casualties? Bombs? Ammunition?”
“No casualties, we used seven bombs. I don’t think we fired a single shot. Oh, I guess when we were held up by that gun. I’ll have to ask. And we sent back six prisoners. How’s the rest of the platoon?”
McCloud was adding Bill’s numbers to the tally in his head. “One killed, one stretcher case, three walking wounded.”
“It’s too good to be true. Three miles in a few hours.”
“And guns. C and D Companies captured a whole battery of artillery in the woods on our left. Story goes they’re the first ones captured by any Canadian battalion.”
“Hey, check that out!” Payne called over. “I’ll be damned.”
The men of Six Platoon mounted the firing steps of the captured trench and looked on in amazement. Three hundred yards north a squadron of Canadian cavalry was picking its way through the Brown Line and the remains of Farbus Wood. Once in the open, they reformed and drew their sabres. There were about seventy men and horses, sheltered from enemy fire by a railway embankment five hundred yards east of the Brown Line.
“Sweet Jesus, it’s a charge!”
“Reconnaissance, more likely,” McCloud said to himself. “Either way, they’re about to get themselves killed. The Germans will butcher them the moment they crest that embankment.”
“Heads down everywhere,” a voice called sternly: CSM Turner, a bloody bandage poking out from the hem of his tunic. “This isn’t a penny peep show, alright? Take thi
s time to get some water in you and give your weapons a once over, not gawk at a bunch of ponies, okay? Corporal McCloud, where is Mister Carter?”
“Making contact with Seven Platoon, Sir.”
“And how is Six Platoon?”
“One killed, four wounded, twelve hand bombs used, another fifteen rifle bombs, about eight hundred rounds fired, mostly from the Lewis Gun.
“About eight hundred? Do we want an exact figure, or a guess, Corporal McCloud?”
“I’m working on an exact figure.”
“Well get back to work. And don’t get too comfortable here; we might not be staying very long. Some mistake with the battalion on our right flank. Focus on the weapons, equipment, and men; don’t bother digging in or rearranging this trench.”
Turner focused his attention on Bill. “How is your section doing, Lance Corporal Brown?”
Bill hadn’t quit smoking since they’d arrived in the trench. “Great, Sergeant Major. Can I offer you a cigarette?”
“No thank you, Lance Corporal.”
Once Turner was gone, the men immediately remounted the firing steps and returned to observing the scene unfolding around them. The cavalry were climbing the embankment at a gallop, and disappearing on the far side. Machine-gun and rifle fire followed seconds later.
“Well that’s a stupid waste,” McCloud said.
“Euchre,” Bill said. “Ah well, nothing we can do. Don’t you have bullets to count?”
McCloud was frustrated at seeing such a useless attack being made, and at being given such a pointless task. “I just did. Eight hundred and seventy-three. Don’t care.”
Bill made a strange sound that blended approval with amusement. It was nice to see McCloud lighten up. “What if the CSM counts?”
“What if he actually makes you throw away that stupid cap of yours?”
“Touche. I guess he won’t count, not that it would really matter anyway. I mean, nobody is going to bring up a crate of ammunition, plus or minus one hundred rounds.”
McCloud nodded and hopped down from the firing step. “I’ve got a few things to look after. Keep your eyes out for a counterattack.”
Bill looked to the northwest, the opposite direction an attack was likely to come from; he just couldn’t resist the view. All along the line men were adjusting old positions, digging into new ones, and pushing out small patrols. The nearer ones could be distinguished somewhat, but those further down the line looked like ants milling about, building a hive or carrying honeydew back to their queen.
Shouts of excitement shifted Bill’s vision to the east again. The survivors of the cavalry advance, about half as many as had gone over, were rushing back towards the Canadians lines at full speed. Once there was nothing left to see, the men settled and returned their attention to eating, cleaning weapons, and compulsive smoking.
5
In the middle of B Company’s frontage, Captain Reid had assembled the officers of Five, Six and Seven Platoons. “First of all,” he announced, “great job. Every man in the company has performed with the kind of skill, determination, and bravery that I’ve come to expect, but there will be time for speeches later. Here’s the situation: we were supposed to meet up with a battalion of Scots in the Blue Line; they didn’t show, barely even made it out of their own trenches. Since then we’ve been the right flank. As it stands, Eight Platoon is on the far end of the entire corps. They are getting set up in a sunken road that crosses the Brown Line just south of our original boundary. We will be joining them shortly to firm up the flank. A and C Companies are taking over this portion of the line, so each time a platoon is relieved, I’ll bring it to where it needs to be.”
A half hour later, Lieutenant Carter was kneeling behind the sunken road. Six Platoon was ranged out over seventy yards or so, each man digging in and turning the little cowpath, or perhaps it had been a drainage ditch, or a medieval estate’s border marker, into a fortified, functional trench. Cutting into the half-frozen ground quickly became tiresome. Bill put down his shovel and lit a cigarette. He saw Carter’s glance fall on him, so decided to turn his smoke break into a cursory inspection of his section’s new positions.
He came to Stinson first. “How’re your hands?”
“Fine,” Stinson replied, still digging.
“Quit that,” Bill said, lighting another cigarette. “Here, have a nail.”
“Thanks, Lance.”
“You sure you’re okay?”
Stinson nodded. “Well I’m still here.”
Bill pretended to point out flaws in the other man’s defensive position. “See here,” he said, gesticulating, “this is perfect. But Carter’s watching, so nod, like I’m correcting a mistake.”
Stinson complied, as if taking mental notes.
“You did good today. But why didn’t you just bomb those Huns?”
“Well you’re always telling us not to waste bombs.”
“And it had nothing to do with not wanting to kill them?”
“I guess there’s that. Don’t worry though; I can do it, if I need to.”
“Good boy.”
Next, Bill visited McCreery, dropping what was left of his cigarette on the way and lighting another. “Nail?”
McCreery laid down his shovel. “Thanks.”
“How’s your nose?”
“Broken I think, but I can still breathe out of it.”
“Do you want to head back?”
“No, but once we’re relieved, maybe I could see someone about it.”
Bill smiled. “Thanks, I appreciate it.”
“I’ve seen a few fellows in worse shape than me still here.”
“Yeah. But sometimes you don’t even notice how bad someone’s got it until it’s too late, so I just wanted to make sure.”
“Well you’ve made sure.”
“Good, then douse that nail and keep digging.”
A few yards down, and Bill came to Roy. He was digging furiously and had already constructed a very impressive one-man fortress.
“Take a break, Roy, have a nail with me,” Bill said lighting yet another cigarette.
“No thanks, Lance,” Roy replied, still digging. “You think Fritz’ll counterattack? I still haven’t got to put any notches on my rifle.”
“Oh, sorry,” Bill said with a smirk. “But don’t worry, Fritz always counterattacks.”
“Now that we’ve been in a real fight together, tell me.”
“What?”
“How many Huns have you sent west?”
“Well technically it would be east for them. But none. At least none that I know of.”
Roy let his spade land in a piece of earth and left it there. “None?”
“Again, my apologies.”
“Oh I didn’t mean it like that, Lance. I just figured, being an Original and all, that you’d plugged more than your fair share.”
“There’s a reason I’m an Original and still here. This war is different. It isn’t about killing; it’s about not getting killed.”
Roy contemplated that for a moment, then returned to digging. “Say, I told my dad I’d send home one of those spiked helmets, but every Hun we’ve seen today is wearing those stupid coal scuttles. Aren’t there any of those nice ones still around?”
“Well sometimes the officers still wear them, on parade though. You don’t really see them in the frontlines anymore.”
Roy pouted, but didn’t stop his work. “I told my dad,” he grumbled to himself.
“Well I’ll make you a deal. You keep doing what you’re doing, you’re a damned good soldier you know, and I’ll ask around and try to find one.”
“Thanks, Lance, that’d be fine of you.”
Finally Bill arrived where Payne was shaping his little segment of the sunken road. “Take a break. Nails.”
Without a word Payne swapped his shovel for a cigarette.
“So, how’d you like your first battle?”
“It was alright,” Payne mumbled through his cigarette, t
ook it out and exhaled smoke. “Kinda boring though.”
“You and Roy are real bloodspitters, eh? I’ll warn you right now: if you’re too eager to get in the middle of the action, you might end up regretting it. Today was good; slow and steady wins the war.”
“Hey Bill!” A voice called from behind them.
Bill turned to see Corporal Post. He was wet and dirty from head to toe, like he had just crawled through a swamp.
“Gary!”
Payne leaned on his shovel and smoked while Post and Bill crouched a few yards away, tittering like schoolgirls. He was in full view of Carter, but decided that if the officer really wanted this trench dug, he could take a turn with a pick or spade.
“You’re alive, good for you,” Bill said.
“Took some effort; we ain’t all bombproof,” Post replied. “How did the Lancing go? Any questions?”
“Well all my men are okay, sans a broken nose and some busted knuckles.”
Post suddenly became serious. “Close fighting, huh?”
“At times. Oh, where are my manners; nail, Corp?”
In a flash Bill was smoking his fifth cigarette. Post accepted, but noticed the nearly empty pack.
“You’ll run out soon, better slow it down after this one. Thanks though.”
“I have a little favour to ask.”
Post rolled his eyes and made as if to give back the cigarette. “Oh fuck, okay,” he said playfully, lighting it. “What?”
“One of my boys wants a souvenir. A spiked helmet.”
Post turned contemplative. “There’s a chance. Dave, I mean, Turner and me, captured an entire platoon. Their officer had one in his kit bag. I let Dave have it. I could ask him for it, I did save his neck after all.”
Bill was more surprised by the apparent familiarity between Post and Turner than their extraordinary triumph. “Did you just call the CSM Dave?”
Post smiled. “I’ve known him longer than you have.”
“Buddies with Turner; I don’t believe it.”
“There’s photographic evidence. The same vain prick had a camera. The film was all used up, but we had a prisoner take a snap of us both. Double exposure it’s called? Anyway, he’s gonna send it home and have the wife develop it. He even had a nail with me.”