Chapter 2

September 1916

I was summoned. Not with the other newly arrived officers but alone. Captain Logan, the company commander, was working in his tented headquarters.

“Lieutenant Pitman, is it? Captain Logan. Welcome to the RCR. Well, Pitman, your name certainly qualifies you for trench work!”

I wore a rather thin smile, aware I showed anxiety. “Yes, sir.”

“Have a laugh, lad. It’s only war. Be worried, but don’t look worried, eh? Play the game, and all that.”

The irony was that Captain Heber Meredith Logan was merely a year older than me, yet his position as a senior officer permitted him to call me “lad.” A Nova Scotian, he was thoroughly military. Just below his rolled-up right sleeve was the tattoo “V.R.I. Royal Canadian Regiment.” His dark complexion, brown hair, and gray eyes highlighted his soft features. Behind the military façade was a kind, understanding person. I felt foolish for allowing my anxiety to show.

Logan reviewed the papers he held, not reading but scanning for the gist, before he raised his eyes to momentarily assess me. “Now listen, word is that you were a little windy at training, a little rattled at times by the war machine. This is your first tour, but you’ve got fifty men in your platoon, all of whom are relying on you. They will be watching your every move. You are their strength; stand in there for them.”

Logan’s words unleashed deep feelings as an unshakeable emotion brought back unsettled thoughts. Death certainly was always a concern, but I was more worried about showing anxiety to my platoon and failing to be a good officer, about how I would react to others being torn apart, dismembered, and even vaporized by high explosives as we had witnessed on the road before. It was concern about caring for and protecting my soldiers.

Logan methodically lit a cigarette, a French Gitane with its notoriously strong odor, allowing me a few seconds to pull myself together. “I’m a little nervous, yes, but you can count on me, sir. I am up for whatever this darn war delivers.”

“Good show. Last week we saw intense field action down at the Somme after taking over from the Aussies—269 casualties across four battalions.”

Against knee-jerk angst, I straightened up, tightening my face in a quizzical look. “That leaves us sorely deficient of experienced men, does it not, sir?”

“We’ll be all right. Over one hundred fresh recruits shipped in from England just ahead of you.”

It struck me that such a large number of replacements was an indication of alarming casualty rates. “May I understand the RCR’s next move?”

Logan stood tall in a thoughtful manner, lips pursed. “We are marching near where the 42nd Battalion and the Princess Pats are engaged, but make no mistake—we will be awaiting our turn to relieve the front line.”

I suppose I didn’t expect a firm answer to such a provocative question. “Yes, sir.”

“All right, tomorrow morning you will lead your A Company to billets at Canaples. In this warm weather, I expect your tents down in double time, ready to be on the move at 0700 hours.”

“Yes, sir.”

I made my way through the hustle and bustle of the army bivouac. The smell of the ever-present campfire smoke amid groups of blustering soldiers presented a perverse scene that made it seem more like a large gathering of outdoor vacationers. However, the booms of cannon fire piercing the dusk in the distant battlefields was a stark reminder of war.

“Sir. Sergeant Sam Hardy at your service. I am to be your NCO assistant.”

I turned to see a bright, eager-looking soldier. “Hello, Sergeant. The pleasure is mine. I understand you served with Lieutenant Lewis at the offensive last week. I’m truly sorry to hear of the loss; I’m told you were close to him. You’re highly recommended. I know we’ll work well together.”

Hardy looked directly at me through eyes that welled up. I saw it as a sign of strong character that he was confident enough to allow his emotions to bleed. “Yes, Lieutenant. I was close to Lieutenant Lewis. We fought alongside each other in ‘01 in the Boer War as well. I guess that is the problem with allowing friends to team in the same platoon.”

“I suppose. However, there is also comfort to be had by serving with close friends. A tough trade-off, perhaps. You’re doing well considering the loss?”

“Oh yes. Count on ole Hardy, sir!”

“Good spirit.”

“Sir, I’ll have my section in tip-top shape for your inspection tomorrow, and I speak on behalf of the other three NCOs in your platoon. Their sections are as well prepared.”

“Thank you for being my eyes and ears, Sergeant. You are aware we are shipping out at 0700 hours, so let’s be fed and packed ahead of schedule. I am retiring early this evening, but you go and get your grub.”

“Very good, sir. Good night.”

“Sam? Thanks for being yourself and for making my arrival as easy as you could. Yes, you are my assistant, but we’ll move together as a team, understood?”

Hardy beamed. “Yes, sir.”

Later, I lay on my cot thinking about the events of the first day in the field and how eventful it was. I felt an immediate closeness to Sam from the way he had welcomed me with instinctive friendliness while maintaining respect for position. I wanted him to know his experience offered me confidence, but hoped he didn’t think me too relaxed when referring to us as a team. As I dozed off, I felt comfortable that he would never lose respect for my position but would remain affable.

. . .

Contrasted against the miles upon miles of brown, churned mud that beset so much of the Somme landscape, our march across the rolling Picardy hills through morning mist was a lovely surprise. In places, late-season wheat remained yet unharvested, the thick, healthy stalks seeming more substantial than those of the Canadian Prairie. Where the golden hue of wheat was not evident, the green grass of farmland contrasted pleasantly. At times, dairy cows looked startled to see a division of the King’s army on the march four abreast across the aged Roman pavé.

We had no sooner encamped in the canvas huts in Canaples than Lieutenant Colonel Hill, Royal Canadian Regiment Commander, summoned all commissioned officers to a briefing in the mess tent. Hill opened the session with a reference to how rested and spirited the RCRs looked, amid quite a few doubtful faces. Only a week before, vast numbers of casualties were shipped out from the trenches, many as corpses. No one dared let their feelings out, dreading the wrong side of Hill’s intimidating nature. His steely eyes combined with his air of British blue blood reinforced his reputation as a harsh leader. Yet he tried to appear sensitive by stating, “Now, this briefing is to be an open forum, officers. All questions will be answered.”

Some exuberant cowboy blurted out, “Can we do something about the rain, sir?”

“The rains are part of the fabric of western France any time of year. And yes, mud and more mud is also part of the fabric.” Muted laughter filled the tent.

Captain Logan, who had been standing beside Hill, interjected in a kindly voice, “Ah, Lieutenant Colonel, many of the officers are curious about the recent events that shaped the RCR’s first fight here at the Somme.”

“Right, well, parts are quite rough, but it’s a story that needs be told.”

Hill recounted that in the prior week, the RCR, the Princess Pats, and the 42nd Royal Highlanders were ordered to secure the strategic trench at the crest of a steep hill leading to the ultimate prize, Regina Trench, in order to help push the Germans out of the Somme and back across the vast Ancre Valley. He also described the first-ever use of tanks to hasten that success, although they failed miserably. In spite of Field Marshall Haig’s promise about being ready for action, most of those armored machines broke down before engaging the enemy. Not only were countless lives lost, but the trench remained in enemy hands.

Hill came across as smug and insensitive about the vast loss of troops. He was known to be intimidating, yet under that façade of an unemotional British commander, surely there must have resided a caring soul, perhaps with sons who were also fighting. Looking at him, I thought the requirement for British military protocol, that image of the stiff upper lip, seemed timeworn. What was certain was that since July, hundreds of thousands of men on both sides had succumbed to the Somme battle with little to show for it but a stalemate. While grieving for those lost souls, we were to step right into that field of action in an attempt to change the course.

“But the good news,” declared Hill, “is that British troops captured Sugar Trench.”

“Hear, hear!” spontaneously erupted.

I glanced at Perce, who returned a doubtful look based on his prior RCR experience on the battlefield.

“Officers, none of that. We are the humble RCR,” Logan chastised. “We do not gloat over victories which cost so many lives.”

As Logan spoke, Hill touched his swagger stick to his cap, capturing the irony between the two men. That stick served as a signal of outdated military authority, not the humbleness that Logan personified. I had a high regard for British military brass, the most powerful in the world, but there seemed to be a few leftovers from an older era that carried a Victorian attitude. In contrast, I believed Logan understood that in modern war, tact and listening to men in the field were required attributes.

Captain Logan continued brightening the tone. “Most of you are young, having earned your commissions through school or family.” I reflected that I was commissioned after only one year in law school, making me eligible to lead fifty men into battle, unthinkable in peacetime. “You were sent here to fight for a free and democratic life, and we know most of you will have never before seen war, let alone this type of war. The only means we have to prepare you for battle is to be blunt about the facts.”

A voice asked, “May we know more of those facts, sir?”

Logan explained the prior battle as an uphill fight against an enemy hidden behind well-fortified defenses. Brave troops were forced over the top of trenches into a steady barrage of rifle and machine-gun fire. In spite of seeing comrades fall, the men continued to attack. When relieved, there was a grim move back to Tara Hill for much-needed rest. “But I’ll tell you what it also means—courage! It is hell out there, officers. I won’t mince about it!”

There was a momentary lull in the tent as the officers reflected quietly with their cigarettes. I was quite sure they were thinking as I was; Captain Logan represented that strategic, caring type of officer who would ultimately lead us to victory.

We were yanked from our thoughts when Issy stood abruptly with a touch of bravado. “Sir, we are keen to get into that hell you speak of. How long will this wait be?”

Murmurs of support could be heard above the pelting rain on the canvas.

Logan took a long drag of his cigarette, carefully considering the directness of Issy’s question. “Officers, the lieutenant colonel and I know you are eager to do your bit. Your time will come sooner than you might expect. Keep your troops keen, well fed, and above all motivated. That will be all for tonight. Dismissed.”

Jumping up and saluting the departure of Hill and Logan, the officers filed out of headquarters in anticipation of supper and a night’s rest.

Through the evening I thought again and again about the scene described by Captain Logan and the results the RCR had experienced. They conjured images of leading my men uphill into a bloodbath, seeing them slaughtered in random fashion by shells which themselves fell randomly. I imagined seeing a repeat of what I saw earlier out on the road, only fiercer—soldiers, many of them boys, being blown to bits, arms and legs ripped off, the screams of terror breaking through the din of battle.

It was my job to lead them into the horror.

. . .

The following morning the sound of the bugle pierced the air, signaling réveille. Percy Sutton and I stood at the edge of a grassy field. The morning dew glistened across the horizon, and the damp smell of turf was actually pleasant after tossing and turning under the musk of mildewed canvas.

Percy seemed on edge. His strong chin jutted out farther than normal from his narrow face as he offered me one of his Gitanes.

“You all right, Perce? You seem distracted this morning.”

“Lack of sleep. Thinking about last night’s briefing kept me way too alert.”

I looked directly at him, absorbing his angst. “Yes, I know Hill and Logan’s description of hell was not exactly a sleep aid.”

He drew smoke deep into his lungs before letting some of it escape through his nose. After exhaling its entirety, he pondered aloud, “I know they felt we needed to understand what we are about to face, needed to be open with us about the atrocities of this war, and that’s scary. Really scary.”

I scanned the dewy field, not sure what I was really looking at, not at all sure about any of this except that his thoughts were similar to mine. There was some comfort in knowing that I was not alone in thinking about the horrors of war. “Mm-hmm.”

“You too?”

“Of course I’m scared. I also lay awake all last night brooding about what we are about to face. Yeah, me as well.”

“What do we do?”

“What we signed up for, I suppose. I don’t have that answer, Perce. Except maybe we just stay focused on what we were instructed to do and our training will guide us safely. Maybe just stick together out there.”

Perce paused in thought before speaking. “You’d think I would be used to this, know what to expect. The problem is that I’ve seen the horror up close, not as a platoon leader, but as a follower, a regular soldier. But I suppose you’re right, stick together. You, Issy, me, and the others. Stay focused.”

“I find that I am able to get through stressful things if I focus on what’s in front of me for the moment. Doesn’t always work, mind you.” Perce became momentarily distant, deep in thought, as he chainlit another cigarette. Diverting his eyes back toward me, he looked troubled. “Bob, uh, I need to tell you something. Wasn’t going to because I didn’t want to add more grief, but perhaps you should know.”

I was startled, not so much by what he said but by the look in his eyes. “What? What is it?”

“You remember hearing about what happened to your fellow Saskatonian Henry Egar?”

“Yes, God bless him. He was one of our divinity students, you know.”

“Yes, well, I served beside a bloke who was with him up at Sanctuary Wood back in June. In the trench, day after day, we talked. He told me about Henry. There was nothing left of him, Bob; he simply disappeared. No inconvenient arms and legs torn off, no mangled body—atomized by a shell.”

“Sweet Jesus, I had no idea!”

Tears clouded Percy’s gray eyes. “You know what they call that?

They call that a clean death. No fuss, eh?”

I felt like being sick. I was thankful I had not eaten, since my mind swirled with memories of Henry. “That is haunting. Bloody awful.”

He snuffed the cigarette out in the mud and stared ahead for a long moment. “And you know what the story is? The Pats were isolated in that wood under an intense German barrage. The brass had no idea their boys were being annihilated.”

Placing my hand on his shoulder, I looked into his eyes. “That why you’re not sleeping?”

“I suppose. It haunts me, you know.”

“You’ve seen the worst; you’ve heard the worst. You’re a good man who will get through this war. We all must believe that.”

“This war is total hell, Bob. Total fucking hell.” He wiped his eyes on his sleeve. “But we signed up, and we will sure as shit do our best, eh?”

I kept my hand on his shoulder as we made our way back to the camp, both of us silently deep in thought. I knew we were good friends and had become close by sharing things—good and bad— that would always remain with us.