Chapter 3

September 1916

After holding at Canaples for a few days, the order finally came through to march to the Somme in relief of the CMR, Canada’s mounted rifle battalion. “Sir, will you carry your pack while mounted, or do you wish it put on the lorry with the others?”

Sergeant Hardy asked.

“In the lorry, please.” I was trying to learn not to say please to my NCOs, to observe more of the military discipline I was so recently taught. This reminded me of how quickly I had been expected to change from a civilian to a military leader. It seemed implausible that less than a year before I was a law student and now I was about to command soldiers in an active battlefield. “And Hardy, keep alongside my horse. I need you to relay orders to the platoon, and in these rain-clogged roads, the lads won’t hear well.”

“Yes, Lieutenant.”

Reaching the staging area, the atmosphere was tense with the anticipation of battle, amplified by the rumbling of artillery alongside regular flashes that reflected off the low cloud cover. Through rain-muffled conversation, the RCRs spoke of spirited decorum, knowing their time for advancing to the front trenches had drawn near.

In these waning days of September, the Somme battle had been waging for months with no decisive winner. Now with the fall rains, the battlefield would surely be a quagmire. I wondered if there would soon be a winter withdrawal, more of the dreaded stalemate we continued to hear about. Checking my Webley revolver, I heard the sucking sound of boots in mud, footsteps slogging their way toward me.

With his trademark smile, Issy crooned, “I say, you’re lost in thought.”

“Can’t keep down an active mind, you know, what with that constant rumble over at Thiepval,” I retorted with a building grin.

We had both attended the officers’ briefing that morning for the Canadian Corps’ update and the overall strategy for this section of the war. “It looks like the brass smells some sort of success. Think we’ll be going in soon?”

I searched Issy for signs of concern, but he was his same upbeat self, which was reassuring.

“The battalions in the field have been out there for over a week, so we know they will need rest soon. That’s when we will probably move. You think?”

“Thinking the same, old chap! Say, I’ve some news—thought you would want to know.”

My mind whirled back to my discussion with Perce a few days before about Henry Egar. “What is it? What’s happened?”

“I was just in seeing Logan, peeking at the casualties. It seems your Minnie went down during the intense battle last week, just after leaving us at Worloy.”

I tensed, not wanting to hear about another Saskatoon friend gone down but needing to know. “No, Iss, fucking hell! Not Minnie—”

“It’s rather all right, only a minor one, a Blighty. No limbs lost, nothing permanent.”

I livened, relieved of a building agony. “He’s alive?”

“That’s what I’ve heard. Bomb wound to the arm. To be transferred to Bristol, they say.”

“Godspeed to him. Thanks for the update.”

Issy regained that influential, infectious smile. “Let’s get our lads onto the parade ground in time for review, shall we?”

. . .

Logan’s strong voice pierced the heavy rain, clear to anyone within one hundred yards. “Lieutenants Pitman, Sutton, Isbester—good work getting your platoons through bad roads. At 1200 hours we will be marching to billets east of Albert.”

I instinctively tensed at the announced march to Albert and felt a compulsion to yell through the rain. “Sir, that is the jumping-off location up the Bapaume Road to the trenches. Do I alert my lads that we are going straight into the fight?”

Perce shot me a look that suggested I sounded naive. I watched the captain’s brow furrow. Logan was an understanding soul, but the situation was tense. “Lieutenant, the platoon will be issued orders when orders are issued. Understood?”

I felt stupid about losing my composure to ask that question. In the atmosphere of pending battle, I knew it took courage to remain quiet, to accept orders when they were issued, and not to probe my senior command. That is what I was seeking, and that is what I needed to practice. I saluted as I barked, “Yes, sir!”

. . .

The warm drizzle that unleashed a powerful earthy scent seemed the appropriate background to reflect the somber mood of the troops.

Some would be thinking the worst, that they would not return. Others thought they might get lucky and only lose a limb. None would return unscathed. C’est la guerre!

I sat astride my mare on the road to Albert as my men, four abreast, marched behind. Issy and Perce were ahead, leading their platoons in the same fashion. The lively teasing about the state of the horses just a few days before seemed distant memory.

Feeling a need to connect, I called to Hardy, “Sergeant, the landscape change is startling. Just a few miles south of Picardy, and we’re in mud and mire.”

“Yes, sir. Many times blown to pieces, repaired, blown away, then repaired again. Rain makes moving forward tougher.”

I reflected on our surroundings. The once-productive farmland had been ravaged by shellfire, the churned mud composing a monochrome, barren landscape. The trees had become mere splinters pointing to the sky, their threadbare branches seemingly reaching up to the heavens for help. The shell craters contrasted with the flat horizon, creating a lunar appearance. Even the city that loomed ahead seemed barren with no more color than the landscape surrounding it.

“What the devil is atop the church ahead?” I asked Sam. “That’s Albert’s most prominent icon, the Basilica of Notre Dame.”

“Yes, I have read about it, but what is hanging from its steeple?”

“Was going to say, sir. That is the leaning statue of the Virgin with infant Jesus. It toppled over from German shelling but didn’t fall completely off. Many French and British soldiers believe the war would be lost if the statue fell completely.”

I leaned over for Hardy to better hear my lowered voice. “By God, that is daunting. Superstitions can be dreadful.”

Whether Hardy agreed, I’m not sure, for as we rounded the corner of a sunken road, I heard a commotion. Turning in my saddle, I saw an excited lad a few rows back. He looked too young to even be there. “Hey,” he yelled, “look at the sign! ‘Road No. 1 to Crucifix Corner and the Trenches.’ We’re bloody marching in the right direction! Action at last!”

“Sure, but look here,” whimpered another.

Off the opposite side of the road lay a makeshift cemetery formed after prior battles. Rather than leaving the distorted and crippled bodies scattered across the field and in water-filled craters, surviving troops had carefully placed the corpses in rows of aboveground graves. The marching troops stared in silence at the claylike mud that had been hastily shoveled over each mound with a wooden cross inserted as a headstone. The effect was amplified by the absence of vegetation; it was just rows and rows of crosses on rain-slick burial mounds.

The reticence was suddenly broken by a yell from a soldier marching in the immediate-forward platoon. “Ah, you sod! The bastard puked on my boots. It’s just a bunch of dirt and crosses, you shit—”

“Eyes ahead, B Section. Keep marching,” bellowed their NCO. “This is war. With war, there are casualties. Get used to it.”

They didn’t listen as ranks broke. The one soldier’s physical reaction to an overwhelming reminder of death caused disarray among the others. Their frightened looks risked becoming infectious, which could not be tolerated. “Sergeant Hardy, we require order!”

“Yes, sir!” He ran forward, working with the other NCO to physically turn a few of the soldiers to resume marching order while he barked at the others to form up smartly.

They obeyed. They were trained to follow orders and quickly did so. This was a reminder of how things could fall apart, how important it was to maintain order on the battlefield. Even so, I understood the natural feeling of trepidation.

Sergeant Hardy continued with his stern command. “Forward march, eyes ahead.”

. . .

Over the next few days, we settled into our Albert billets against the close backdrop of artillery and gunfire. To keep the soldiers fit, each platoon lieutenant organized working parties to repair roads and scout the forward areas. Armies did not survive idleness.

One evening I joined a small contingent of officers who took the liberty to visit a nearby estaminet. We were free to travel into Albert as long as someone knew where to locate us in short order. In that regard, Hardy proved a good friend.

Issy was balanced on a bar stool, waving his glass back and forth as he spoke. “Hell, Bob, ‘ow many pints of this French Pils, wot?”

“I’ve had a few, but I’m sure you’ve had a few more, eh?”

He puffed out his chest, almost toppling over. “Yabut, ise a bigger body, I have!”

Perce laughed. “You two sisters at it again, are ye?”

I held up my glass in a toast, stumbling forward as I put my arm around his waist. “Hugs to you, my brother, but sisters don’t fight. Just ask my two.”

“Bet sey do,” slurred Issy. “Tell me about them.” He closed his eyes in an attempt to better focus.

“Ah, Ethel and Hilda. They are darlings. Sometimes naughty when they were growing up, but they didn’t fight, no sir. Beautiful girls! The elder, Ethel, moved out to the Canadian West before the war and married just about a year ago.”

Perce cut in. “That leaves the younger one at home, then?”

“Hilda. What a sweetie. She was so scared when I brought her and Ethel over to Canada. She was only seven. No idea what we were chasing or why we were moving from England. Papa saw a brighter future, that’s all we knew.”

“And you did well, I’d say . . . university and all,” said Perce. “Oh yes, no doubt. I worked hard, though, law clerking while attending classes. Had to focus, if you know what I mean! Ha ha!”

I glanced to my right, where Issy was seated. In the short time Perce and I had talked about my family, Issy’s head had slumped into his folded arms on the bar top, the corpulent barmaid laughing jovially. “Ah, will ya look at him! Blast, how do we get such a bulk off the bar stool and back to billets?”

“I got this.” In an instant, Perce obtained a couple of mixing canisters from the bartender and clanged them straight over Issy’s head.

Issy sat bolt upright, almost falling backward except for Perce pushing up against his back. “Argghh! Are we at war, boys?”

“No, we’re at peace, wot?” Perce groaned.

I couldn’t help but laugh quite loudly. Percy laughed too, almost letting Issy’s bulk slip free. “All right, time we clamber back to billets before the MPs are sent to hunt us down.”

We stumbled down the back road leading to camp, Perce and I alternately supporting Issy as he wavered from side to side between us. Luckily, we made it without incident.

The few hours at the tavern were selfishly good for us. The exchange of friendly banter and at times ribald humor was a rare privilege for junior officers, and the diversion allowed us to bury the angst brought on by the coming battle for a small time.

Well, one of us buried it thoroughly.