“We shouldn’t really be talking on outpost duty anyway,” Payne added in a low voice; the kind of voice a married man ought to use on outpost duty.
Bill and Post ignored that. Of course he was right, but neither man cared enough to do things exactly by the book. As long as reasonable precautions were taken, there wasn’t a great deal any soldier could do to guarantee his safety. And the Originals didn’t consider going all day without some degree of mindless banter reasonable.
Still, Bill was glad when Post drifted off to sleep and Payne remained quiet. While he would have enjoyed a light conversation, he knew the inevitable questions that would be raised. About England, about Kate. His brother-in-law of all people could bring up a variety of sensible questions and propositions to which Bill’s only answer would be to shrug them off.
*
It happened at noon, sharp. The German shellfire ceased entirely. Bill shook Post awake, while Payne pulled on a pair of gloves and grabbed a hand grenade, still sticky with mustard gas residue. After a few moments of silence, the shelling picked up again. But instead of the familiar overhead explosion of shrapnel shells, the quieter crash of gas shells began to perforate the still air. To some men it smelled like garlic, to others onion, but most agreed the gas smelled like mustard, which is how Bis(2-chloroethyl) Sulfide got its common name.
Calls of “Gas, gas, gas!” went up along the line as men struggled not only to pull on their respirators, but also to ensure they were not exposing any skin. Yellow-brown clouds were forming all across the Canadian line, filling the air with the thick gas. Before long, a familiar voice, CSM Turner, could be heard: “Stand-to! Night conditions!”
The order “Night conditions” was normally issued when a heavy fog rolled in during the day, limiting visibility. It meant that all ordinary precautions taken during the night would be taken during the day as well. Issued along with a “Stand-to” it was essentially superfluous, but Turner could tell already that this gas attack was intended to obscure the men’s vision, and wanted them to keep that in mind throughout. If the Germans were only trying to hassle the Canadians, they would have been dropping gas shells over the past several days. This was deliberate, meant to throw the men off-balance, and probably the precursor to a raid, or even a full attack. Those who were not yet enveloped in the clouds of gas repeated the orders before donning their masks.
Normally stand-to was a time for light conversation with old friends, or a few words of advice for newer ones. Now, nobody could distinguish if their neighbour was a member of the same section, or a man from an entirely different company. But it didn’t matter; if the Germans wanted a fight, they would get one, and each soldier in the battalion would do their part.
Bill, Post, and Payne knocked their helmets backwards to the ground as they pulled on their masks; the reason why soldiers in the frontline always wore their chinstraps reversed, curving from ear-to-ear via the back of the neck. Usually the helmets were immediately recovered and worn again, but taking heed from what the men of the Second Battalion had told them, they decided that covering their skin was more important, especially if the rumours of instantaneous and permanent balding were true. Post and Payne carefully fitted standard-issue wool caps and scarves around their masks. Bill tugged on his winter cap, pulled down the ear flaps, then wrapped Hallicks’ scarf around the whole mess. They looked more like hobos on a winter night than soldiers.
For several minutes they waited in silence, Post with his rifle to his shoulder, Bill and Payne with bombs at the ready. They could only see a few yards into no-man’s land, and for once were able to freely stand in their little hole without fear of enemy sniper fire.
The men knew they were in trouble only when the ominous click of a Luger pistol being cocked sounded from within the gas cloud. It was followed by another, and another, until they knew that German raiders, probably seven or eight of them, were intending on making them their prisoners. It was an “identification raid,” designed to bring back live enemies for interrogation. Raiders always preferred handguns over rifles; the limited range seldom mattered much, but the increased rate of fire and ease of manoeuvrability always did.
With their threat made, the raiding party edged closer until their shapes could be distinguished. They too were clad in gloves, scarves, and caps; only the snout of their gas masks protruding. One even wore a burlap sandbag with eyeholes cut into it, cinched up around the collar of his tunic. None wore helmets. There was nothing for the Canadians to do but slowly lay down their weapons and climb from their outpost, stunned and dismayed. Each man felt the pang of failure more than fear; they had let the entire battalion down. A German soldier grabbed each man by the arm and began to lead them away into no-man’s land, toward captivity.
When he saw that the outpost had been abandoned, it was obvious that the gas attack was merely a diversion for a raid. Seeing nothing through the blanket of dark yellow, he had no choice but to remove his gas mask. “Toronto! McCloud! Toronto!”
The Germans without prisoners to escort froze and turned their attention towards the sound, while the others buried the muzzles of their pistols in the Canadians’ backs, ensuring they would not try to overpower them. They knew where McCloud was, but McCloud still had no idea where they were. Payne tried in vain to snap his fingers through his gloves, while Bill’s screams were too badly muffled through his mask and scarf.
Post knew a riskier play was needed. He swung himself around as quickly as he could, the dull click of a hammer falling greeting him. Post had been too slow, but the repeated jerks of his enemy’s trigger could only mean a misfire. Lugers were light, quick-firing, and easy to reload, but had never been the most reliable of handguns; the eight-round magazine often caused problems.
Post disregarded the jammed weapon, instead grabbing the other man’s forearm with both hands and breaking his wrist. While the German’s cry of pain was inaudible to his comrades, the cracking of bone resounded in the otherwise still air.
It was loud enough for McCloud to move forward in the right direction and catch sight of the nearest raider through the gas cloud, fire off two shots, and see him tumble to the ground. The distinctive crash of the Webley .455 revolver, twice as loud as a German Luger, made the still-invisible Canadian sergeant an inviting target. Luger fire filled the air as German rounds flitted past McCloud, who worked his way further into no-man’s land. With four rounds remaining in the cylinder’s rotating chambers, and the impossibility of fumbling to reload bullets in the middle of a firefight, McCloud couldn’t afford to shoot at anything he was unsure of hitting.
Payne’s guard raised his pistol and joined in, firing three shots at where the Webley’s report still hung in the air. It was easy for the big Canadian to break free, take hold of the other man’s hand, and shove the barrel of the gun towards the earth. With his free hand, he punched the German in the throat, then again in the right kidney; dirty fighting at its finest. In a flash the gun was in Payne’s hand, and his opponent was on the ground.
With McCloud now invisible once more, the raiders turned their attention back to their prisoners. One German turned his pistol toward Payne, demanding his surrender. Now with a fraction of a fighting chance, Payne decided not to repeat the humiliation of being captured. He steadied his grip on the unfamiliar pistol, firing as his arm swept upwards. The German opened fire before Payne even managed his first shot. Remarkably, both men emptied their magazines entirely without hitting each other, though only yards away.
Post fumbled with the slide of his jammed Luger, finally managing to eject two dented bullets, and chamber a third. Through the gas cloud, he fired off the remaining five rounds at where he supposed the other raiders to be, all the while stiffening with dreadful anticipation; he would rather be facing down a machine-gun that he could see, than a few handguns which he couldn’t.
The familiar bang of a .303 rifle was a welcome sound. Company Sergeant Major Turner had heard the commotion and arrived with four men; a rescue party just
large enough to be effective, and just small enough to keep control of through the confusion. Soon every German was either on the ground or retreating, except for one man. The raider who had grabbed hold of Bill was taking careful steps backwards, his pistol shoved into the temple of his human shield. He wasn’t trying to make off with a prisoner, but to avoid becoming one himself.
Turner signalled for his escorts to stay with the muddle of Canadians and Germans, and raised his rifle to his shoulder. The man who had Bill hostage was just within sight, but the CSM had to continue to move forward to keep it that way; preventing him from standing still and getting a clear line of fire. If this went on much longer, he would have to risk taking an unsteady shot, or allowing one of his boys to be taken prisoner.
McCloud’s revolver rang out once more, just inches away from the last German’s head. Skull splinters, flesh, and brain spewed out the exit wound just above his left ear. Bill fell to the ground at the same time, dragged down by the weight of the dead man. McCloud tugged him back to his feet, and pulled him towards the Canadian lines.
*
It was eight o’clock before the gas dispersed enough for the men to remove their respirators and have a late dinner: corned beef and biscuits. There had been no opportunity to bring forward fresh rations through the gas, and the men were far too hungry after so many hours in their masks to bother brewing tea. The overpowering stink of mustard still hung in the air and even tainted their food.
The bombing post had been taken over by Stinson, Kellowitz, and Dawson, who would hold it until relief came a few hours after midnight. Post and Payne were being interviewed by Captain Reid regarding the techniques of the German raiders, and congratulated for the enemy soldiers that they had managed to bring back alive.
The battalion’s intelligence officer, half-fluent in German, was already interrogating the prisoners before sending them rearwards. Whiskey, coffee, cigarettes, and sweets had done much to make the Germans more talkative. And while military matters were initially avoided, useful information could still be gleaned through casual conversation. Lance Corporal Fyles, and any other Canadian who could manage “a few words of Hun” had been brought along to help make light conversation with those awaiting the IO’s examination.
Bill and McCloud had been brought to the battalion’s medical officer; Bill for his bleeding ears, aggravated by McCloud’s final gunshot, and McCloud for his wounded jaw. Donning his gas mask had required the sergeant to remove his bandage, and doffing it in order to delay the German raiders’ escape had exposed his wound to the mustard gas.
Now, what had been a not-too-deep cut was a burnt, blistered, and bubbling open sore. But McCloud was nothing if not a stoic, and resisted the urge to cry out in agony, as others with less invasive gas burns were doing. An anti-inflammatory salve had been applied lightly, but the wound had not yet been re-bandaged, in order to allow it to air out. The MO himself admitted that he wasn’t really sure how best to deal with the new German gas, especially in a complicated case such as McCloud’s.
Bill ignored his saviour as best he could, trying constantly to convince the MO that he was ready to depart his makeshift aid station and return to Three Section. At last he was permitted to leave, and returned to the bombing post to await the men of the Fifth Canadian Mounted Rifles, long-since dismounted and converted to infantry, who would be relieving them shortly.
CHAPTER THREE
Toronto, 1921
“William, can I speak to you for a moment?” Kate asked, already nodding politely to McCloud and Post, while taking a few steps away from them.
“Good luck,” both men muttered as Bill sulked towards his wife.
“I want you to apologize to Mister McCloud,” Kate said in a quiet, stern tone.
“What? Why?” Bill whispered back.
“You said something awful to him; I could see it in his eyes. He was hurt.”
“I’ve told you before; he’s no friend of mine.”
“I want you to apologize to him. Now.”
“Absolutely not.”
Kate raised her voice. “William Richard Brown–”
“Hey,” Gary called over with a smirk. “He’s gone...Dick.”
“For Christ, Kate, now everyone’s gonna know my middle name. Don’t you dare tell anyone Gary.”
Post had already made his retreat, returned to the bar, and began re-filling empty glasses.
“Do you know why Mister McCloud left?” Kate demanded, without waiting for an answer. “He knew I would ask you to apologize, and wanted to spare your vanity.”
“You don’t know him like I do,” Bill pleaded. “He’s a manipulative, vindictive, evil man. He’s rotten to the core.”
“He saved your life.”
“Bah, he kept me from being taken prisoner; that doesn’t mean he saved my life.”
“Well if you had been taken prisoner, you wouldn’t have been there the first time,” Kate said, rubbing her stomach unconsciously.
France, 1917
When the battalion returned to Mazingarbe, a hot breakfast awaited them. Corporal Wells, B Company’s cook, stood to one side of his bulky field kitchen, ladling out tea. Sergeant McCloud stood at the other end, serving up brown beans mixed with chopped bacon to grateful and exhausted soldiers. Privates were served first, then NCOs, then officers.
“I’m not sure anyone has thanked you yet, but the hot meals were really appreciated by the men. I know you must have moved the cook wagon awfully close to the front; I burned my mouth over your stew,” McCloud said. He didn’t really care about hot meals, but he knew that everyone else did.
“I didn’t know food could be too hot in trenches,” Wells said with a smile. “I’ll throw some ice in next time.”
“Just look what it did to my face!” McCloud replied, pulling down his loosely wrapped bandage to reveal his gas-infected wound.
“Jesus. Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m just kidding you.”
Wells was taken aback to hear McCloud making a joke; it had been a long time. “Shot or shrapnel?”
“Shrapnel, then gas.”
“And they didn’t evacuate you?”
“They offered. I hate hospitals though; you pick up more germs in there than you would at the front.”
“Still, that looks serious.”
“If it gets worse I’ll go. But they won’t do anything other than smear Vaseline all over it.”
*
Immediately after breakfast the men were allowed to disperse and see to their filthy equipment and clothing. The shower-house, currently allotted to men of another battalion, would have to wait. If there had been a river, or even a tiny stream, hundreds of fully-clothed men would have been sloshing about in it, turning it yellow with gas residue.
Every man in the battalion was exhibiting some kind of symptom, from violent coughing and sneezing, to rashes and blisters, to burns of varying degrees. Armpits and groins were scratched or rubbed in vain desperation: sweaty pores could easily absorb the gas even through thick wool uniforms. Even those who had managed to keep the gas off their skin during their time in the trenches were experiencing the side-effects of secondary exposure from their comrades, and their own clothing and gear.
Old Jack had distributed a supply of collapsible canvas buckets, insisting on recording the name and service number of each man who received one. Bill had been called to the front of the line and given two; a perk of being a friend of the company quartermaster.
Long queues formed around tiny fountains and wells, the men already in various states of undress. Bill had made his way to the front of one line-up consisting mostly of soldiers from B Company, loudly flaunting his status as an Original. The waiting men parted as Bill called for members of Six Platoon to join him; the scene would have made Moses proud. Kellowitz and Payne took turns on the hand-pump, quickly filling both buckets.
It was an abandoned clothesline that caught Bill’s attention. He set the buckets down near it, and the two-dozen m
en with him, all privates, began to strip down. The water wasn’t for washing their clothes, but their bodies. At least the uniforms could be hung out on the line and allowed to air out slightly. Besides, they could wait, or hopefully be replaced altogether. No quartermaster could issue out a fresh set of skin.
“Why are you wearing three identity discs?” Dawson asked Bill, both men entirely naked. “Afraid of ending up in a sandbag or something? I thought you were bombproof.”
Bill wasn’t paying attention. He was in mourning over the condition of his brass cap badge. It had been turned a dull greenish-black, like mould. The proud “Toronto Regiment” and Roman numeral “III” were barely discernible, while the wreath of maple leaves looked more like a hollowed out cold sore. The “C/3” collar badges were in no better shape.
Stinson could see the expression of pain on Bill’s face and placed an arm around him. “At least you’ve got something to keep you busy. They’ll shine up again with time.”
“Yeah. Thanks, Stins.”
“And your ring got through alright.”
Bill dared not touch his wedding ring, still tied to his identity discs, for fear he would damage it. If the cap and collar badges didn’t shine up perfectly, so be it, but the ring was far more precious. Or at least that’s how he felt ever since returning to the battalion; in England it had been a different story.
The buckets of water turned yellow and slimy before any of the men were even somewhat clean. Every few minutes a man would wriggle into his uniform and go for a refill, leaving the remainder to rub at themselves with damp facecloths that would certainly be discarded before the day was over.
*
After an hour a sergeant wearing the badge of the Canadian Army Service Corps approached the group. “You lot. Get dressed; I need a work party.”
Bill fetched his underwear and boots, but motioned for the other men to remain as they were. “Sergeant, can we have a private chat?”