Chapter 4

October 1916

The next morning was a sunny and warm Sunday, the first day of October, and a fine church service was held in the cinema tent. Shortly after, Perce, Issy, and I were summoned to Captain Logan’s desk. He sat there, displaying a Cheshire cat grin while we stood in a row at attention. “I trust you gentlemen are recovered enough to properly absorb this briefing after, shall I say, absorbing a sufficient amount of alcohol last night.”

Perce risked a sideways look at me that required no interpretation. How in blazes did Logan know? Since we couldn’t check our grins, we examined the floor. Issy chortled. “We officers thank you for allowing a little discretion in our routine, sir.”

“Very well, overlooked. I suppose you lads needed an outlet. Now listen, I’m pleased to advise that as of late yesterday, we’ve had some progress,” Logan declared as he laid out the previous day’s success in the field.

Although Regina remained in enemy hands, the trenches leading to the ridge had been captured. It was made clear that the cost to the Canadian Corps was enormous. The 5th and 8th Canadian infantries were still battling fiercely.

Issy raised his hands in delight. “Sir, this is great news to tell the lads. With blessings to the poor souls who perished, we are almost at our Somme objective. Forward, the Light Brigade! Charge for the guns!”

Logan delivered a poker stare as he reprimanded, “I will remind you, Lieutenant Isbester, that Tennyson’s very next verse is ‘Into the valley of death.’”

Issy looked at the captain, his lips pressed together in an apologetic straight line. “Yes, sorry. That is indeed the case, sir.”

“Look, all your lads out there need to be buoyed by this news. The Hun continue to be very stubborn about defending what they believe to be theirs.” His look was stern, strongly conveying his meaning. “We must take Regina Trench.”

The tone in the room was upbeat. Being supportive, I broke in, “We do understand that, sir, and we are daily, hourly, assuring the lads that success is—”

The sound was unmistakable as an artillery shell whacked into the mud nearby, a whistle followed by an explosion. We ran from the captain’s tent to find out if this was friendly fire or Hun fury.

Chaos was erupting. Men were running, some directionless and some with purpose. In panic, others had tripped into the mud. Within a moment we knew the deafening sound and stinging smell of burned cordite was from enemy artillery raining shells across, beside, and over us. I looked around, seeking the location of my platoon while fighting the urge to be sick. Yet I held it together, summoning inner strength.

Long, shrill whistles pierced the air overhead as heavy artillery shells dropped around us, sending tremendous amounts of earth as high as the tallest of grain silos. Alarmingly close, one landed some twenty yards behind us. Shrapnel burst overhead, immediately followed by kicked-up earth as its rocketing pellets hit everything in their way. The Huns were throwing everything at us.

My survival instinct kicked in as I focused on getting to the work area where I knew my platoon was. I thought perhaps the prior bombardment had better prepared me, but my pounding chest told me one never got used to this. “Platoon, spread yourselves thin! Now!”

I heard a triple bang as three shells landed in succession, or did I feel them? My senses became muddled as terror brought confusion. Shell upon shell roared overhead, but as I focused, I realized most were rocketing beyond us. I felt hopeful they might be seeking a distant target, but I couldn’t be sure since my sight was blotted out by thick smoke and exploding earth. Still, my trembling body moved forward, propelled by an instinctive need to protect my platoon and all the troops in camp. Overcoming my physical reaction, I felt different, stronger than at Amiens.

Others yelled similar orders based on our rote practiced training. Spread yourselves thin. Yet there was so little ground to scatter across with so many platoons close by. Soldiers continued to run in every possible direction, but some now stood still in a daze. So many new ones had thus far not experienced shelling, not experienced battle of any kind.

“You all right, sir?” Hardy yelled as he emerged through the smoky veil. I smiled at him, soothed by his experienced, calm demeanor while under fire.

Logan was out of breath as he emerged through the fog and smoke. Through mud-splattered lips, he muttered something unintelligible.

“What’s that, sir?” I asked.

The captain glanced at Hardy before looking back at me.

I confirmed, “It’s fine, sir. The sergeant is as trusted a soldier as any.”

“Well, gents, the heavies are mainly being directed over toward C Company, but how the devil would the Hun know our twelveinch howitzers are on the railcars they are protecting?”

I stared at Logan for an instant, assessing whether he was remorseful or annoyed about the secret cargo now being disclosed, but was not able to perceive either. “Twelve-inch . . . protecting . . . C Company? Captain, I—we had no idea.”

Logan was now deep in thought. Again, it was difficult to read his mien. He muttered, “How could the Hun have known? And with such accuracy.”

No response was expected as the captain was talking his way through the crisis. He was restrained as he assessed the situation. I admired his poise under attack. I felt safe to be beside him at that moment, could see his innate skills at work. None of us in the junior ranks had been aware we were protecting a trainload of heavy guns, but at that point, it didn’t matter. “There is devilish little we can do about this, Pitman. Ah, a moment please.” Logan turned to a runner who handed him a note; the scribble was in Morse code.

Hardy and I stood before him, waiting for the news, as he dismissed the runner. “Aeroplane reconnaissance has picked up the location of the Hun battery. Our large guns will be retaliating, putting their lights out as it were.”

Amid shells still raining down, I wondered at the logic. “Will that not confirm to the Hun that his hits are good ones, and won’t that put our men more at risk?”

“Yes, Lieutenant, exactly. So when the barrage lifts, when their guns are silenced, assemble your men and be ready for a march to Tara Hill. Get that message to the other officers, but await my final orders before heading out. Things are moving fast.”

As an afterthought, Logan glanced at me before locking on Hardy. “And soldiers, no need to discuss the howitzer affair beyond this circle.”

“Yes, sir.”

As our guns put down the attack and we got our platoon organized, I found myself thinking about Logan and how he was so naturally effective. While maintaining the necessary level of authority and poise, he validated his team by involving us in some of his thoughts and actions. He was definitely not the Victorian officer that had fought prior wars.

. . .

The RCRs double marched as horse ambulance wagons swept past with the injured. The air was filled with the acrid smell of smoke, penetrating taste buds and stinging eyes. We arrived at the Tara Hill bivouacs near dark.

Only a few miles from the Somme front, the din of artillery was constant, confirmed by yellow flashes flickering in the distance. The battle hung over us like a cloud as thick cannon smoke was carried by air currents for miles. Chores were attended to with murmured talk as tents were pitched and mess prepared. I asked Hardy for an accounting of our A Company and found we had suffered three wounded, with Private Brown of my platoon in critical condition. I was distraught but not surprised that C Company had taken the worst of the shelling, with eight wounded and four killed. It was not easy to value the cost of those lives against the prized howitzers and undamaged train, which all remained safe. Gloom set itself down across the whole regiment after a Sunday that had begun so beautifully.

As Hardy and I reviewed the state of our platoon, a muffled whimpering came from somewhere in the darkness behind my tent, strange since the soldiers were in mess for dinner. We moved toward the sound, shining an electric torch in the direction of the sobs.

“Private, what’s wrong?” demanded Hardy.

The young soldier was sitting upright in the mud, holding his knees to his chest, and rhythmically rocking back and forth, shaking violently. My sergeant looked stern, tougher than I’d seen before. “Speak to us when spoken to. That’s an order.”

There was still no reply. In the torchlight I could see the fear in this young man’s eyes, staring blankly up at us as we knelt beside him. Without notice, Hardy swiftly raised the back of his hand and whacked the lad across the face, immediately drawing blood from his upper lip.

I stood up. “Sergeant Hardy!” I hissed through clenched teeth. “That’s just about enough. Can’t you see this soldier is in shock?”

“Yes, I can, which is exactly why I need to knock some sense into him. I’ve seen this in battle many times, particularly among new recruits.”

I intuitively understood Hardy’s action, the need for military order. Yet it was a shock. The young soldier’s raw emotion invoked in me a sudden urge to also sit and rock back and forth, to make things feel better by curling up into a ball. As such thoughts coursed through me, my anger subsided. “I understand. Now leave me with this soldier. Dismissed.”

He saluted and left.

The soldier’s rocking and whimpering had stopped. I knelt down again, searching his eyes for recognition of any sort. I had no idea what I should say, but I wanted to sound empathetic and also take control.

“Now, Private, you will need to speak to me,” I warned, “either by order or by your own will. Is that clear?”

He looked at me with scared eyes and nodded. “What is your name, lad?”

“S-Spencer, sir.”

“That’s Private Spencer?”

He nodded yes. Hardy was correct. The lad needed discipline if he was to survive the trenches. Yet I continued to allow emotion to restrict my ability to direct this soldier to stand, to immediately order him back to his platoon. “All right, Spencer. Are you able to tell me why you are back here?”

Spencer was frozen but needed to pull himself together. “Nno, sir . . . I mean, yes, sir. I don’t know.”

“How long have you been part of the RCR, Private?”

“Six months, sir.”

“And how long have you been in the field?”

“One week, s-sir.”

“Ah,” I said. “And today was your first artillery action, was it?”

“Y-yes . . . er, yes, sir.”

“That was a big scare. Every soldier on that field back at Albert felt the way you do now, only they were somehow able to take things in stride. You need to buck up.” I felt for him, but my responsibility was to get him back to his platoon.

He stammered between sobs. “Yes, sir, but they didn’t have a village f-friend who was s-sent out a week ago, who was my best friend, shot between the eyes as he peered over a parapet. We took our O-Levels together, then p-pipefitting, aw . . . now he’s just gone!”

I’m sure the soldier saw the empathy in my eyes. I wanted him to. “No, they did not. You must always remember that friend. Never forget him, but you must stand up and move forward.”

“How can I, when it will be me next? Or another friend? Or maybe—”

“Yes, Spencer, maybe me. It could be any of us next time, but that is why you must go back to your platoon, have the will to fight. You have no choice, soldier.”

I felt a need to grab this lad, to give him the hug that I knew he was wanting, and to tell him everything was going to be all right, but this was war.

We locked eyes and held them for a fleeting moment before he averted his gaze, unsure of himself. “Are you afraid, sir?”

“You bet I am. I’m just like you, coming to this war from a cozy life in a cozy home. I tell myself every day to be brave. Try to build some courage as if it were an angel sitting on your shoulder.”

Spencer remained defensively curled but forced a response. “Yes, sir.” The conversation was slipping away from the direction I intended, not bringing strength to his character. I couldn’t do any more for him.

I emulated Hardy’s stern look. “Now, look at me. Who is your platoon commander?”

“Lieutenant Isbester, sir.”

“Yes, a good man.”

There was a rustling a few steps away as a figure emerged through the darkness. I recognized Corporal Clancy but couldn’t recall whose platoon he was from. “Lieutenant Pitman, sir,” he said. “Sergeant Hardy indicated your whereabouts. All well here?”

“Yes, Corporal, everything will be just fine. Just chatting to young Spencer here, one of Lieutenant Isbester’s men. Perhaps you could guide him to his platoon, show him the way.”

The corporal looked from Spencer to me and back again. He seemed to instinctively understand the situation but respectfully said nothing. “Of course. And a message from Captain Logan, sir. The entire regiment is standing ready to relieve the 5th CMRs in the trenches tomorrow. We will be advised of company assignments during the march.”

Spencer glanced up at me, forcing a smile, yet he was not going to speak for fear of crying. I could see in his eyes that he appreciated our talk. I felt good about being able to help a young soldier, the experience reminding me of calming my little sister Hilda, who was so scared of boarding that big ship sailing for Canada a number of years before. In that case, though, I could wrap my arms around her and whisper comforting words.

Spencer had no such outlet. Like thousands of others, he needed to toughen up if he was to survive.

Corporal Clancy saluted as he led him back to his platoon.

. . .

As I stepped out of the mess after supper with Issy and Perce, I found Sergeant Hardy spinning a tale with a few of the platoon regulars. He was older than most at thirty-eight, a veteran of the Boer War. He wasn’t fond of his nickname, Hardknocks, but he earned that brand for his known willingness to stand in front of a bullet to save another man. Indeed, he had reputedly done so. Although never married, I was told Sam dazzled the ladies with his keen sense of humor and rough good looks that were complemented by rich blond hair and deep blue eyes.

“Sergeant Hardy. A word, please?”

“Yes, Lieutenant. And word has it you did good work with that young lad. You’ve a way about you.”

I felt awkward at the recognition. It was something any junior officer would do. “Thank you, Sam. Perhaps I ought to have used more of your tougher approach.” I looked at him smartly, turning the conversation more official. “Orders are imminent that the regiment is to relieve the 5th CMRs in the trenches tomorrow.”

Sam beamed. “If I may say, sir, that’s good news.” My tightened face caused him to reflect. “Well, in the sense that at least we finally have orders.”

I remained pensive. “Yes, I suppose.”

Still, in his excitement at the prospect of getting down to the business of war, he continued with a lilting voice, “Might we know which part of the trenches our A Company will occupy?”

“Not yet. Captain Logan is still working out the details of relief and reserve, and determining which platoons will move to the fire trenches straightaway.”

“Good, sir.”

While not sharing as much exuberance as Hardy, I knew Logan was the most capable and uplifting of any senior officer. “This will be the toughest four-mile march yet, and this rain is making things quite sloppy.”

“Yes, but we are prepared. Sir, may I inquire as to your progress on the letter?”

My mind shot back to the earlier news that Private Brown had succumbed to his injuries. “Ah, the letter.”

“I realize it’s a first for you, having to inform the family and all.

It would be no bother for me to do a revision if you wish.”

Hardy was right to bring this up, for I had stalled, pondering what words would be appropriate. There was the British Army standard letter of regret, but I wanted the missive to be personal. How would my folks feel about a standard-issue regret letter?

I pulled the letter from my tunic, glad to hand it over for an experienced review. “Yes, that would be most helpful.”

Mr. Alan Moore

Athalmere, B.C.

Dominion of Canada

1 October, 1916

Mr. Moore,

I regret very much to inform you that your nephew, Private Nels Brown, No. 477114 of this regiment, was killed in action on the evening of 30 September, 1916. Death was instantaneous and without any suffering.

The Regiment was suddenly under attack and your nephew’s platoon, my platoon, was one of the two which received most of an enemy artillery barrage. For peace of mind, please be comforted in the knowledge that the defense of a strategic asset was successful; your nephew’s death was not at all in vain.

On behalf of all the Regiment, I deeply sympathize with you in your loss.

Your nephew always did his duty and now has given his life for his new country. I do trust you will be able to locate his parents in his native Denmark to advise this sad news.

We all honor him; hopefully you will feel some consolation in remembering this.

His effects will reach you via the base in due course.

In true sympathy,

Robert Courtenay Pitman

Lieutenant, Royal Canadian Regiment

“It’s a good letter, Lieutenant. Well said.”

“Crap, Sam, I’m bloody concerned. You and I know that Private Brown suffered under injury, dying slowly and painfully at the Casualty Clearing Station.”

Sam extended his hands from his side, palms facing out, in mild exasperation. “But it’s your job to make the next of kin feel all right about their sacrifice.”

“I understand that, but a lack of honesty does not feel right. We were not directly protecting that train, so how can we say the defense was successful?”

Hardy paused, pondered his next words before speaking. “What would you say, sir? ‘Your boy suffered such a great deal that I’m sorrier than if he hadn’t’?”

I expelled the breath I wasn’t aware of holding. “Point taken. Let’s put this bloody well behind us and hope I don’t do this too many more times.”

Hardy lingered, his demeanor slightly changed and awkwardness apparent.

“Is something else on your mind, Sergeant?”

“Sir, will you be on mount or on foot? I ask because it was Lieutenant Lewis’s practice to walk the final bit to the front lines.”

I was caught off guard, stumbling, yet it was such an innocuous question. “Of course I will travel on foot, Sergeant.”

I didn’t know what was expected, but I was sure that if the lads were used to their lieutenant walking with them, that would be my practice. Perhaps being on foot in front of my charges would signal a higher level of support for my platoon.