Malcolm MacPhail's Great War Page 3

  Smith was along to translate. He spoke very good German having learned it from his parents, the Schmidts, who long ago had immigrated to Canada. German speakers were few and far between – at least on our side of the line.

  ‘Fine, sir,’ he curtly replied. He was in no mood for a chat: nerves maybe. Neither was I. Our trip to the line would take no more than an hour and I had a lot to mull over.

  After my encounter with Haig I’d done a lot of thinking, and I can’t say I liked my conclusions. Officers are a tight-lipped bunch by nature, and anyone at a headquarters – in other words, those most likely to know anything worth knowing – were the least likely to tell. Still, you didn’t have to be a genius, or even an intelligence officer, to see the overall direction.

  The Ypres Salient was a meat grinder and Haig’s latest offensive was chewing up men like I’d once seen a bear devour a hare. The field-marshal had sixty odd divisions at his disposal, and the bulk of them were already active in the Salient, or had been. If he needed fresh troops there were only so many places to look. In six months, the Corps had taken two of the toughest positions on the Western Front, and my guess was the generals weren’t going to let us rest on our laurels. Haig had virtually said as much. His visit with Currie was no coincidence. It couldn’t be, could it? I’d have to pray the job in the Salient got done before we were needed. I was not looking forward to revisiting “Wipers”.

  As a young fresh-eyed lieutenant, I’d once plucked up my courage enough to chance the ridicule and ask a sergeant – a grizzled, stocky man by the name of Higgins – why they all called it Wipers. Like any smart-ass lawyer, I probably thought I already knew the answer. For the typical Anglo, Ypres doesn’t exactly roll effortlessly off the tongue. But the sergeant paused for a long while – so long I thought he was going to ignore me, drew on his cigarette, and then finally raised his weary blood-streaked eyes to mine. ‘Well, sir, that’s because it’s where we all get wiped out.’ I was convinced he’d hit the nail on the head.

  Morosely, I turned my head and gazed out the window at the dark countryside, catching fleeting monochrome images as the car jolted its way along the small country roads.

  CHAPTER 3

  7th of October, 1917

  Méricourt sector, Lens, France

  It was very dark. By the reckoning of my battered but trustworthy Borgel wristwatch, it was a few minutes past twelve o’clock. The raiding party was preparing to leave.

  There was an officer, two non-commissioned officers (NCOs) and ten men – thirteen souls. I’m not superstitious, but I was glad for the weather. The night was ideal for a foray into enemy lines; the wind was picking up, and it was drizzling and overcast. There was no danger that a shard of moonlight would spill off a rifle barrel or bayonet.

  The weather was one of the reasons why we were pressing ahead. Only days earlier, 2nd Division had replaced us in the line and that should have made it their raid, but General Lipsett said that was far too risky. We had a detailed plan, and we were ready, while they weren’t. It was a principled stand and I admired him for it.

  ‘So, you’re Andrews?’ I said to the lieutenant.

  ‘Yes, sir. I’m leading the patrol tonight.’

  I’d heard good things about him. He was from the scouts and surprisingly young, younger than most of the wiry types who were standing around waiting for him. They were all scouts and the elite fleur-de-lys scout patches were readily visible on their sleeves. They were loaded down under what seemed like a dizzying assortment of weaponry.

  ‘Are you sure you need so many weapons, Lieutenant? It’s only a reconnaissance. What are you carrying, exactly?’

  ‘It’s best to be prepared, sir,’ he replied. ‘Oh, we have rifles – naturally – also pistols, bombs, knives, cudgels, and probably a half-dozen other things tucked away, even I don’t know about. And these.’ He held up the palms of both hands, fingers extended, in front of my face. In his eyes I saw a cold seriousness.

  It took a special breed of soldier to be a successful scout. It was one thing to master the skills. It was quite another to launch oneself over the parapet into No-Man’s-Land in the dark of night, on a patrol that would land you deep in the enemy trenches.

  ‘Look, you know the bunker from studying the maps and the photos. We need to gather information and hopefully a prisoner or two, preferably officers. If it turns out to be better defended than you expect, forget about it. The last thing I want is to lose half of you in a skirmish, and for nothing. Remember, it’s a red Very flare if you need the artillery.’

  He nodded. ‘Yes, sir, I think we should be able to manage that. Give us an hour or two. I’m not sure how long it’ll take to get through all the wire, but usually it’s a quiet stretch, this.’

  I felt like an over-protective mother, admonishing her children to be careful before they went out for a night on the town. Only these men might not be coming home at all. A patrol into the enemy line was about as dangerous as it comes.

  Usually, we let off an artillery barrage when a raid went out, just to keep Fritz’s head down. But so as not to frighten away anyone of importance, we dispensed with it tonight. The weather was with us.

  ‘Good luck, Andrews,’ I said, and I gave each man a nod, and a fleeting pat on the shoulder, as they filed by.

  Smith and I followed the party out of the bunker and down the trench 30 yards. We turned right into a communication trench, a sap, linking the front and second-line trenches, and emerged a minute later in Totnes trench. It was wet going. There were trench mats, a rough flooring of sorts that look a lot like wide-planked ladders lain end-to-end. However, this makeshift floor was shin-deep in water, and mud was oozing up through the parts that weren’t.

  We walked past a bulky sentry who stood forlornly under a small overhang. He was peering sideways out into the darkness, his greatcoat stained black from the rain and his collar upturned to catch the worst of the wind. His helmet was tilted rakishly forward with the brim low over the eyes, a look that had become a virtual trademark in the Corps in the last six months. It lent a visible toughness to his appearance that surely would have enticed some of the girls back home. More practically, it allowed the water to pour off somewhere other than down the back of his neck. Soldiers were nothing if not practical.

  I saw the blue rectangular patch of the 2nd Division on his arm. When he turned briefly to glance at us, as we trundled by, the insignia of the 24th Battalion was visible. They were the Victoria Rifles from Montreal.

  The drizzle was turning into a downpour and the wind was blowing hard. While I felt for the lads’ discomfort this was very welcome. The German sentries would find the weather equally foul.

  The first of the scouts scampered up the trench wall and slid over, a dark shadow that disappeared from sight almost immediately. He was promptly followed by the next. Lieutenant Andrews raised an arm to bid us farewell, glanced briefly at me, and then disappeared after the others into the sheets of rain that were now pelting No-Man’s-Land.

  I climbed up a step or two and peered cautiously over the parapet – more than one soldier, in a moment of carelessness, had lost his life to a sniper this way – but seeing nothing but darkness, we quickly retreated to the warmth of the dug-out.

  As dug-outs go it wasn’t bad. It was almost entirely underground. Despite that, I had to bow my head only slightly to pass under the heavy wooden beams that reinforced the ceiling. It was unmistakeably not a French design. Above ground, sandbags were piled high to protect against the artillery, although they wouldn’t have held a direct hit from a 5.9 howitzer or, even worse, one of the heavy trench mortars. Short of that, it was the safest place in the line.

  Coming in from the cold and the rain, I immediately felt the warm air from the coal stove that was burning in the centre of the room. A stove-pipe led up, and to the rear, where the smoke was funnelled away so as not to reveal the dug-out’s location. There was nothing the Germans relished more than shelling anything that might be a headquarters.
/>
  Despite the warmth, the air was heavy: a mixture of damp earth, smoke, food and the smells of men who’d gone unwashed for far longer than those at home would consider civilized. With the departure of the raiding party, the main chamber was empty, save for the duty lieutenant and two privates, one of whom was talking on the field telephone. Away from the entrance and the main chamber, four small rooms – cubicles really – had been built with rough wooden planking separating them from each other. There were two on each side with a corridor down the middle. Two were filled with bunks and another with a table, some cabinets, and a few chairs. The last was a small medical post. It had a couple of beds and was manned by two orderlies. I popped my head through the doorway and greeted them with a quick wave.

  I returned to the main room and plonked myself down at a table in the corner. Smith was engaged in conversation with the lieutenant; something to do with artillery codes. Sergeant Adam Smith. I couldn’t help but laugh – what parent would name their child after an economist, famous or not? They must have had some inkling of his character, for watching him now, he was obviously buoyed by this dull material. Then, the reddish-brown earthenware bottle occupying a prominent place on the table caught my attention.

  It was jenever, or what the English referred to as Dutch gin. It wasn’t bad stuff and a nip of it might do me a world of good. I was nervous. I picked it up, and it seemed full. That was a stroke of luck: Bols, it read. That was the real stuff from neutral Holland. How it got here was beyond me; liberated from the Germans probably, who themselves had pinched it somewhere in Belgium – their gentlemanly behaviour early in the war had deteriorated. If truth be told, so had mine.

  After more than two and a half years on the continent, I was well acquainted with the local tipples, and a little Bols would have hit the spot quite nicely. Reluctantly, I set it aside and went over to one of the privates to rustle up a cup of tea. If things went well with Andrews and his patrol, I might need that bottle before the night was out – and a lot more than I needed it now.

  I yawned. My short nap earlier this afternoon was wearing off. I sipped at the strong dark tea and glanced over at Smith. He had rejoined me; proving you can discuss artillery codes for only so long. A year ago, I wouldn’t have even known what they were. It was a sign of the times, the army was changing.

  It was a fine thing, too. While no one ever accused us of lacking in spirit, the short-comings of an over-reliance on bravery in trench warfare became woefully apparent not long after arriving in Belgium. I’d seen the sorry results. Fortunately, we had a few good leaders and an eager, almost boyish, willingness to learn. Naturally, change came easier when you weren’t tied down by centuries of tradition. Not everyone in the Imperial army saw that as an advantage.

  I still recall a starch-encrusted officer sniffily describe us as, “that shabby lot”, and I couldn’t blame him. We’d come a long way from the early years, though, even if the average Canadian soldier’s deference to authority, or lack thereof, remained a festering sore for some in the army hierarchy. That was why it was so nice to have the Australians around, they made us shine. Lightning, I was taught, tends to strike the most exposed object and, as lightning rods, our raucous Aussie friends performed their role brilliantly. It was a shame Colonel Whatley-Wigham couldn’t find some Aussie to harass.

  ‘It’s a strange job, ours,’ I said to Smith, making a stab at conversation. ‘We struggle to bring some order to all the information flooding in, yet we’re running around like idiots trying to garner even more.’

  Smith bobbed his head as if my ramblings were perfectly understandable. ‘It’s a real juggling act, sir.’

  ‘What do you think of this work, Smith? In intelligence, I mean?’

  He considered the question. ‘I like it. The army is much more professional these days. There’s so much detailed planning and it all relies on intelligence. I feel like I’m in the centre of the war, sir; that what I’m doing makes a difference. More than if I was simply holding a rifle in a trench, at any rate.’

  It was true. The bumbling amateurism of a year or two ago was disappearing and intelligence had become critical to the entire war effort.

  Smith continued. ‘Surely, you must feel the same, sir? After all, when you were in operations it was mainly about logistics. And now you’re in a position to make a real difference. There are not many captains that can say that.’

  Thoughtfully, I rubbed my chin. ‘You know I hadn’t thought about it like that, Smith, but you have a point. I was simply going to say I was surprised by all the paperwork.’

  ‘You were a lawyer, sir. I wouldn’t expect you to be afraid of a little paper?’ It was an amusing and perilously saucy rejoinder from Sergeant Smith. A month with me and he was already sarcastic.

  I let it pass and I sighed. ‘No. It’s not the paper I’m afraid of, Smith. What terrifies me is what’s on that paper. That, and the fuming generals; not to mention the bullets, bayonets and shells I still have to contend with. And to think, in civilian life, I considered a day in court to be a perilous undertaking. What a difference a war makes.’

  Smith smiled.

  KABOOM. The shell went off with a deafening crash outside the dug-out wall beside me.

  I was propelled head-first into one of the rough wall timbers that supported the whole structure. Thinking back on it later, I felt the shock waves before the sound even registered. I was a little tense, I guess.

  Stunned, I lay crippled on the moist dirt floor for a long moment. Then I realized where I was and what had happened. My forehead was wet. I raised my hand, and turned it reflexively to my backhand, as if to wipe the sweat from my brow. When I glanced down, I was shocked to see it smeared in blood.

  ‘Sir!’ cried one of the medical orderlies I’d seen earlier. He’d materialised seemingly out of nowhere. ‘You’re wounded.’ Smith stood, with a concerned expression, looking down at me.

  ‘And here I thought, sitting in a dug-out, I might return without a scratch,’ I replied. My heart was racing. I felt a mite queasy at the sight of so much blood – my blood.

  ‘Don’t you worry about that, sir, we’ll have you fixed up in no time,’ the orderly said, helping me into a chair. ‘Every so often Fritz lobs one over to see if we’re awake.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I mumbled. ‘Good of him to think of us so. I hope we can return the bloody favour.’

  As the orderly cleaned and bandaged my left temple, I thought back to my last real wound, a souvenir from the Somme. That one eventually got me out of the trenches and into the château, and it was tempting to think what my latest scratch might lead to. No, no matter the twist I put on it, the context of this particular mishap wouldn’t do anything for my reputation. Ridicule was most likely. I put my head back, and my feet out, and tried to relax.

  It was 1.27 a.m. I’d just glanced at my watch again. With a start I heard a machine gun start up. I was more than a little jumpy. TUF-TUF-TUF rang out. It sounded like a German standard issue MG08. A Maxim. I prayed it didn’t mean bad news.

  I rushed out of the dug-out, through the communication sap and down Totnes trench heading towards the lookout post. A flare shot up in the distance. It began its relentless, slow descent to earth, wobbling uncertainly, much as my boyhood spinning top did on a table when it ran out of energy. The flare’s white light was pure, and yet harsh at the same time; not unlike how a snow bank, covered the night before in a fresh blanket of bluish white snow, could gleam so very brightly in the midday sun that you had to avert your eyes. As the flare wobbled to and fro on its descent, its glare mercilessly lit up No-Man’s-Land in front of me.

  In my haste, I nearly toppled a soldier as I ran up the few steps into the lookout post. I thrust my face up to the sheet iron plate fastened at the top. In it a long slit gave an excellent view of the terrain in front of us. ‘Smith!’ I bellowed.

  ‘Sir?’ came the baffled response from behind me. He’d been quicker than I expected. With irritation I noted his voice was calm a
nd steady and, most infuriatingly of all, not out of breath.

  ‘Ah, good, you’re awake,’ I bluffed. ‘Get the artillery to let off a few salvoes. And hurry!’

  As I peered through the slit, I could make out very little despite the illumination from the flare. In the distance, a line of wire was visible; it was ours. There seemed to be nothing moving. The rain was driving down with such force that the ground was a dancing tapestry of splashes, as if the water-soaked earth was literally spitting out the deluge that was coming down upon it.

  Our artillery started up. I felt the concussion of the shells being fired and saw the bright flashes almost immediately as they dropped in and around the German trenches, not more than 500 yards away. The rain dimmed the effect from where I stood. That was misleading I knew, the effect on anybody caught unawares in that trench would be devastating.

  ‘They’re here, Captain,’ said Sergeant Smith. Smith had returned, but amidst the din of the weather and the field guns I’d heard nothing.

  Emerging from the look-out post, I spotted Andrews and his party trudging through the trench. A couple of sorry-looking Germans were drooping along in front. They must have entered the trench further along. I followed them to the dug-out where I made my way to a drenched but grinning lieutenant. ‘Well sir, it went like clockwork. I think they were all trying to keep their heads dry,’ he said. ‘We didn’t have any problems until the bunker; a young lieutenant there was a bit over-zealous… it’s funny how the young ones are always the most unpredictable,’ said our twenty-two-year-old firebrand.

  I didn’t bother to ask what happened to the German lieutenant – I had a sneaking suspicion I already knew. I couldn’t blame them.

  ‘I have no casualties to report and we have three prisoners. One is a captain. He appears to speak decent English. I also have this,’ he said. With the adrenaline dissipating, his tone became noticeably more formal, as he remembered he was in the army. He handed over a black leather map case and I opened it immediately. There was a thick sheaf of papers in the middle pocket. I quickly rifled through them.