*
On a chilly November morning the battalion was roused well before dawn. Breakfast had been served at three in the morning. A four mile march to Bavinchove station followed. By six-thirty in the morning they were on board a long series of pre-war coach cars. A few minutes later the train began to move, still enveloped in darkness.
“I’m looking for Bill Brown, Six Platoon,” Corporal Post called out.
“B Company is up ahead,” a voice replied. “This is C.”
“Thanks.”
Post made his way into the next car and repeated his query.
“Over here,” someone answered.
Post arrived and crouched in the aisle next to Stinson. “You mind giving me a moment with Bill?”
“He’s sleeping,” Stinson replied.
“Nah, just trying to,” Bill grumbled without looking up, leaning against a foggy window. “What goes on, Lance? I mean, Corp, er, Post.”
Stinson shrugged and slid out of the seat, crouching on the ground a few feet away. He wasn’t in the mood to stretch his legs or start up a conversation. Like the rest of the men, he only wanted to recapture a few hours of lost rest. But that would have to wait until Post was done talking to his section commander.
“When’d you get back?” Post asked.
“Day before yesterday,” Bill replied curtly, barely looking at him, shifting his glance to the window, looking out at the darkness.
Normally when Bill and Post reunited, even after a short while, both men were eager to chat. But Post could tell that Bill wasn’t feeling cheerful. Still, he had to ask the inevitable questions. “How’s Kate?”
“She’s fine.”
“Did you get started on another little Bill?”
“The doctor said we can’t have another go at things until next year.”
“But she will be able to; that’s good.”
“It might not work though. We’ll have to see.”
“Nail?”
Bill straightened up and turned fully to face Post. “Why not?”
In a moment both men were smoking, and Bill’s demeanour turned pensive.
“It’s being back in Ypres, isn’t it?” Post asked.
“Yeah.”
“I know. I’m feeling nervous too.”
“It’s not nerves,” Bill replied. “There’s something, I can’t explain it, but I can feel it. Fucking Ypres.”
“Fucking Ypres,” Post concurred.
It was all either man could say. Of course what they really meant to say was “Fucking Ypres Salient.” The villages, fields, woods, and hills around Ypres had been surrounded by the German army on three sides since the early days of the war. Each name meant something to someone.
The Third’s first bloody nose had been at Saint Julien, a hamlet four miles north of the city where half the men of the battalion, including Bill’s brother, had been sacrificed in a desperate defence two and a half years earlier. Two miles east of Ypres lay Mount Sorrel, where, over a year later, more regimental blood had been shed. The Salient was not a place for easy victories or fond memories. As fuel for recurring nightmares, emotional scarring, and psychological breakdowns however, it was perfect.
“There’s something in the air here. Ghosts maybe,” Bill said without thinking.
“Good ones?” Post asked seriously. “Protectors?”
“I don’t know. I think some are.”
“Our battalion?”
“Some.”
“But Germans too?”
“I think so.”
Post felt a shiver go down his spine. The Salient had taken too many lives to count; hundreds of thousands, maybe even a million. And it wasn’t done.
“Nothing to worry about; you’re bombproof.”
“But my men aren’t. You said it yourself, remember?”
“Yeah.”
“Everyone tells me the same damn thing.”
“It’s been months since we were on the offensive, Bill. And you’ve spent almost the entire time in England. Everyone just wants to help.”
“You can help me with something later, once we get bivouacked. I have a favour to ask.”
Post already knew what Bill’s favour would be.
*
Two hours and twenty miles later, the battalion detrained at Ypres Station, on the western outskirts of the city. The men formed up and began their march into the city itself. Immediately the destruction was obvious; half-standing walls and cellars filled with wreckage from collapsed upper floors were the norm. Several spots had been cleared of debris and served as little storage lots for crates of ammunition, piles of canned goods, and all manner of equipment in various states. Soldiers milled about everywhere: marching in formation, stumbling aimlessly, or resting amongst niches in the rubble. Trucks, motorcycles, and even the odd staff car whizzed about with purpose. No shells were falling now, but a bombardment could be forthcoming at any moment.
None of Bill’s section had ever been to Belgium before, so he decided to play tour guide. It was eight hundred yards from the station to the centre of town. “Ypres was a textile centre in the High and Late Middle Ages–” he began.
“When’s that?” Payne interrupted.
“About one thousand to four hundred years ago. Ypres itself is even older, possibly before the time of Christ.”
“Huh,” Payne muttered, somewhat impressed.
“In a few minutes we’ll get to the Cloth Hall, where the merchants used to buy and sell wools, cottons, dyes, tools, that sort of stuff. Belgian lace was a specialty. It’s over six hundred years old, and recently it was more of a common market with fresh vegetables and the like. Fun fact: hundreds of years ago, people used to throw black cats off the top of the tower to ward off evil spirits.”
“Sounds more like a cull,” Stinson offered.
“What do you mean?”
“Mice and rats would chew the hell out of all that cloth, so I bet they brought in cats to kill the rodents. But after a while you’d have so many damn cats everywhere that you’d need to kill them too.”
“Could be. In any case, there aren’t any mice, or cats, or cloth now; even the vegetables are gone. The Germans took Ypres early in the war, and anyone with any sense left. In April of ’15 the city was mostly levelled, and what wasn’t destroyed was burned all to hell. The last civilians left around that time.”
“And why we make big fight for Yeepers?” Kellowitz asked.
“It’s the last big city in Belgium that the Germans haven’t captured,” Dawson noted. “It’s symbolic.”
“Spend millions troops and shells to keep dead, broken town for symbol. Must a British thing.”
“I didn’t say I approved. That’s just the way it is.”
“Forget the philosophical stuff,” Bill said. “We’re coming up on the Cloth Hall.”
One hundred and fifty yards across, three cavernous stories high, and topped with a belfry that reached seventy-five yards into the air, the Cloth Hall had once been among the most impressive buildings in Europe. Irreplaceable Medieval paintings, luxurious tapestries, brilliant works of stained glass, and artisanal sculptures of the Lords of Flanders had all been reduced to burnt masonry and ash. In Bill’s mind the details were putting themselves together: spires topped with flags rose proudly, un-shattered windows were lined with purple drapes, and happy civilians were about their business. To the others it looked much like any other smashed building.
“One day you’ll have to see a photograph from before the war. It really was beautiful. Two years ago I found a shard of stained glass and sent it home. Everyone was doing that; I doubt there are any left.”
Beyond the Cloth Hall, the column left-wheeled and turned towards one of the many roads that ran through Ypres. It had always been a hub, and whether in south-western Belgium or north-eastern France, all roads led to Ypres. The Gravenstafel Road was one of many that ran to the countryside; it was also one that the Originals were far too familiar with.
In 1915
villages and woods were evident. In 1916 ruins and stumps were the norm. Now, the countryside around Ypres resembled a great muddy field, pockmarked with bogged down artillery pieces, abandoned shelters, makeshift depots, and cemeteries. Months of fighting and millions of artillery shells had destroyed the centuries old delicate system of rivers and drainage ditches. The low ground of western Flanders had only made the situation worse. Every inch of solid ground that vainly defied the ever-encroaching quagmire was overburdened with men and material in search of temporary sanctuary.
Two miles northeast of Ypres the battalion came to a halt. Wieltje had been a tiny farming community before the war. No buildings remained and the grimy fields were crowded with makeshift shelters. Before the men were even settled, Corporal Post arrived, and pulled Bill aside.
“Okay, favour time,” he said shortly. “Saint Julien, right?”
“Saint Julien,” Bill confirmed.
“A mile and a half from here. I need to be back in two hours, and there’s no way I’m leaving you out there to wander around and get lost, so let’s be quick about it.”
“What happens in two hours?”
“Lunch.”
Bill ignored that, and both men began the short walk towards Saint Julien, where, in April 1915, Bill’s brother John had been killed. The salient was littered with cemeteries, some consisting of a few plots, others containing hundreds of men in mass graves. Bill and Post had been through this routine before, but there was still hope of finding John’s remains. Bodies and body parts were always emerging from the soil. The dead of the early years were mostly without identity discs, but sometimes an engraved watch or ring, or a miraculously preserved scrap of paper allowed for recognition. Newer casualties had no guarantees either; identity discs weren’t always forthcoming.
Even wooden crosses that bore recent dates were in nearly as rough shape as those that commemorated the fallen of the early days of the war. All were weather-worn and knocked about. Bill and Post paused at each one, poring over the disparate inscriptions. In the Ypres Salient soldiers who had died a few days ago were in good company with men who had been killed three years earlier.
In Memory Of
Sjt. Bill McKenzie
Aged 22 South Staffs
10.27.14
MATTOX 8864
SEAFORTH HIGHLANDERS
26.04.15
“Cuidich’n Righ”
WG Kelley
8 CAN INF
June 14, 1916
RIP
Three Unknown Australians
September 1917
Here Lies
Gnr. BRINDLEY
R.F.A.
Oct-30-17
R. Cleland
37
Irish Guards
Nov 1 14
C Powell
4/S. Afr. Inf.
10 22 17
William P Nunn
Third Canadians
April 27th 1915
“The last time we checked there were more Canadians,” Bill said.
Post lit two cigarettes and handed one to Bill. Both men knew that burials in the salient were subject to the same dumb luck that probably got the interned man killed in the first place. Shellfire, weather, soldiers stumbling in the dark, or stray mules could knock down, break, or fade away wooden crosses or their inscriptions. Some stood the test of time quite well; others slowly melted away into the landscape or were smashed in an instant. The whole salient was one big graveyard.
“We tried, Bill. Ready to go back?”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Early the next day a group of scouts arrived in Wieltje. They were men of the Fifteenth Battalion, Highlanders from Toronto, loaned out for the day to introduce the officers and scouts of the Third Battalion to the immediate area. They had been in the vicinity for just a few days, but had been taught the local landmarks and routes by a previous group of scouts. Since the Passchendaele campaign had begun in late July, the line had been pushed forward roughly four miles. In the desolate landscape, however, it was difficult for the men to know where exactly they were, or even in what direction they were heading. Rumour had it that entire platoons had stumbled into the desolated fields, never to be heard of again.
In little groups of four or five, scouts of the Fifteenth began to escort their newly-arrived comrades. It would be too dangerous for the each bunch to stick close together; a single shell might kill or wound a large number of men. Post’s group consisted of Captain Reid, Company Sergeant Major Turner, and a Highlander scout.
“Good morning Sirs. I’m Corporal McLaren; we’ll be stepping off in five minutes.”
Turner nodded silently and returned to a hushed conversation with Captain Reid.
“Puttees, pal. Tighten ‘em up, trust me,” the scout said, leaning close to Post.
Post glanced at his superiors. Turner, like all company sergeant majors, wore his puttees so tight it was amazing his blood was able to circulate past them. Reid, like most officers, wore expensive knee-high trench boots purchased in England. Post, like most privates and corporals, wore his puttees as loosely as possible without being called out for it.
“Why?”
“When we go across country there’re a few muddy spots that’ll suck the boots right off your feet. I’m not kidding. Tighter puttees will help, a little. Just re-wrap ‘em real quick; we’ve got five minutes to make up for.”
As Post worked away at his leg bindings, McLaren crouched next to him and went on. “I don’t know if your Sirs are any good, but they sure aren’t scouts. So I’m gonna tell you exactly what the last guy told me, plus a few opinions of my own. And you’re going to tell the next guy exactly what I tell you, plus your own ideas. I’ll try to ignore them and maybe they won’t confuse things with stupid questions.”
As both men stood, McLaren began to lead the group away. “Now, let me give you the twenty-five franc tour. The first few miles are pretty simple; just follow the Gravenstafel Road until it crosses the Ravebeek.”
“I thought the Ravebeek was a valley,” Post said.
“Aren’t you clever? Yeah, but also a river, well, more like swamp. The whole valley is flooded now, and most of the time when someone says Ravebeek they mean the river, not the valley.”
“Clear as mud,” Post replied sarcastically, and lighting a cigarette.
“It used to be a little stream but when all the other little streams were smashed up by artillery, the Ravebeek got dammed, then filled with rain water. That is, the river got dammed, and the whole valley eventually flooded. It divides the battlefield into two parts. I’ll be showing you around the northern half. You don’t need to know anything about the southern half.”
The Gravenstafel Road was getting busier towards the frontline. Work parties of hundreds of men, whether engineers, pioneers, or plain infantry, laboured to maintain the road in a state of mere existence. Gaping shellholes had to be painstakingly shovelled full. Sandbags filled with muck lined either side of the road in a half-successful attempt to keep the groundwater at bay. Heavy plank roads provided a narrow walkway through the swampier areas.
These jobs became more difficult closer to the more recently captured positions; rear areas had been under construction for months, but newly-won ground still resembled a near-featureless wasteland. And what features could be seen didn’t help the road crews. Abandoned field artillery pieces, bogged down in mud, dotted former bits of high ground; islands since submerged in sludge. Captured pillboxes and fortified farmhouses were converted to depots and aid stations. Towards the very front, they served as firing positions, shelters, or advanced headquarters.
“This is Waterloo Farm,” the scout said at last.
Like so many of the pre-war farmhouses in this area, Waterloo had been retrofitted. It was really more of an elongated pillbox now. While the old outer brickwork was dull grey and patchy, the interior was reinforced with eighteen inches of concrete walls, visible only at close range. From where the men stood, it didn’t look like a recen
tly captured strongpoint, apart from the cluster of wooden crosses. The crosses, which had obviously formed part of a white picket fence before the war, were already in various states of disrepair.
“Often used as a battalion headquarters, also a dressing station,” McLaren went on. “Pretty much bombproof from what I’ve heard. Taken by the New Zealanders about four weeks ago. Umm, I think it was the Second Auckland and the Third Wellington. Credit where credit is due, as they say. Remember it, because people will use it as a reference point.”
Another seven hundred yards down the road the group reached the flooded Ravebeek stream. The duckboard bridge shifted and bobbed under their feet like a rickety dock. The unlevel boards also provided ample opportunity for a man to trip.
“Gentlemen, your gateway to the northern battlefield: The General Sir Arthur Currie Causeway. Falling off here would be bad,” McLaren advised. “It’s real deep, couldn’t tell you just how deep, but you’d probably sink to the bottom. Tell your men to be extra careful at night, especially here.”
Beyond the bridge, the Ravebeek turned sharply and began to parallel the Gravenstafel Road. This was the divide the scout had mentioned earlier; the First Division was preparing to carry forward the attack on the north side, while the Second took up battle positions on the south. It was also beyond the bridge that the ground began to rise slightly, rolling gently upwards towards Passchendaele Ridge. Five hundred yards beyond the bridge, the group arrived at a cluster of pillboxes.
“This area is called Bellevue. Again, note the pillboxes, and et cetera. Also, be glad the boys of the Third Division brought us onto higher ground,” McLaren said. “Now, this is where I take you towards the front, so let’s quicken the pace.”
“Where exactly is the front?” Post asked.
McLaren gestured vaguely to the east. “Somewhere over there. Only the boys in the very front know for sure. Don’t worry though; I know the back area as well as anyone else.”
“Which is to say you’ve been led through it once before?”
“Yep. But I’m sure someone else will tell you more when you take over the line. Oh, before I forget, if we were to continue down the road another seven hundred yards, we’d come to a place called Meetcheele. More pillboxes, captured just a few days ago. Not a very friendly place to tour through. But if someone mentions the name, you’ll know what they’re talking about.”