Chapter 6

3 October, 1916

Through the night, the 2nd and 3rd Platoons became entrenched. Heavy rain fell as shelling and constant enemy machine-gun barrages persisted. 4th Platoon, farther from the fire trench but in front of us, monitored the stubborn progress by providing relief for casualties and ensuring the telephone lines to HQ were kept open.

I ventured into the dawn, which revealed the complete devastation of what was once healthy land at Mouquet Farm. Vertical silhouettes of burned-out probes that had once been trees barely contrasted against the horizontal black and brown that had been plowed fields of wheat and wildflowers not so long before.

I was stunned by the mud. I had been told it was unlike anything previously known to any soldier; only the intensity of modern artillery could create such a quagmire. Even prior warnings could not have prepared my senses, as it looked and felt like a dark, sticky caramel. I watched soldiers move in slow motion, their advance paralyzed by boots sucking in and wrenching out. My own hindered progress gave me a sense of their difficulty. The front of my thighs ached as I struggled with a few steps, a violent upward wrenching as each foot brought with it gobs of the sticky substance. How the devil were our soldiers, especially those advancing from the fire trench, expected to capture targeted ground?

Returning to my quarters—a small piece of canvas with wood supports and a duckboard floor—I thought about the here and now, of its urgency. Issy, Blott, and their troops were not afforded the luxury of idle thought, survival being their sole preoccupation, as a machine gun or sniper rifle could bring any of them to an instant death. The grotesque and bleak scene—seas of mud and anxious soldiers squatting in death and decay—was suddenly as lucid as a crystal in sunlight. My thoughts drifted to that grade school memorization made suddenly understandable, Tennyson exhorting, “Ours is but to do and die.”

Sitting in the chair at my small desk, I was jolted from my thoughts with the boom of Hardy’s voice. “Good morning, sir. Coffee?”

Hardy could put a smile on anyone’s face anywhere. I knew we had no coffee but decided to play along. “I’d love a little coffee, Sergeant. A welcome relief from that acorn-infused acid you’ve been feeding me.”

“Ah-ha, this would be the same infusion, sir.”

“Just pulling your leg. Tell me, are the lads keeping up the game all right?”

“As best be expected, sir. Some tension among them, you know, a bit rattled. I’ve seen this before, during this war and at the Boer. Not easy times.”

I thought of my troops squatting or standing in the mud with too much time to think. “Quite so, yes.”

“And if I may say, sir, the lads attending the wounded coming down the hill on their way to the Casualty Clearing Station makes for a sobering outlook, even among the strong willed.”

“Yes, promotes anxiety. We’ll keep them busy, checking phone lines, repairing stretchers, that sort of thing.”

“Agreed. If I may, sir, how are you holding up?”

I sipped the hot liquid as I pondered the question. “It’s rough, rougher than I’d expected. You’re good to ask.”

We looked at each other, holding eye contact. I hoped my expression was not showing sadness or possibly frustration rather than the compassion I truly felt. Sam and I both knew that things had been rougher for those thousands of soldiers before us who now lay buried in the rubble we stood over, some in pieces, unrecognizable. The Australians, then our Canadian brothers had both repeatedly clawed their way up the slopes of this nightmarish landscape only to be beaten back under intense fire. With both sides holding strict orders to give no ground, to fight to the death, high casualties were unavoidable. Our task to minimize them while taking the ridge seemed daunting.

Sam portrayed the grace of an experienced soldier, his usually mischievous blue eyes now showing kindness. “Most of the regulars understand the anxiety and are a good influence on the newer lads.”

“Are they ready for the task ahead, for when we are called up?” “Yes, sir. They are very aware of the need to take this hill. It’s just those casualties coming down are beginning to paint a vivid story.”

I looked up at Sam before turning back to my paperwork, trying to think of something, anything, to say that might help. “Perhaps rotate them away from the casualties every couple of hours. There will be no stand-to this morning. There is little reason to expect an infantry attack this far down.”

“Thank you, sir. The men will be relieved at not having to slog through the mud.”

I worked alongside the platoon for most of the day while we secured telephone lines and muscled cannon through the mud. While explosions and gunfire from up the hill sustained an edgy alert, its continual din became part of a familiar background. Those that might have been jumpy on this first battle day settled in to work seamlessly, if solemnly.

In the brief periods when the clouds parted, I could see our aeroplanes observing, sometimes engaging in scuffles with the enemy. I wondered about that romantic depiction of war, thoughts which kept me occupied. I imagined how exciting it would be flying as one of those knights of the air, gracefully maneuvering or outmaneuvering enemy aircraft. Swooping in and out, to and fro, through nothing but clear air and wispy clouds seemed so exciting. The whimsical feeling that type of warfare invoked played on my imagination as if I could be part of it.

Absorbed in similar thoughts, I had just returned to my tent when suddenly I heard that distinct whistle startlingly close. Hardy was out of breath as he slammed through the canvas door.

“Sir, we are under bombardment! The sky is lit up!”

The next explosion hit behind us, landing just beyond our tents. The shock wave sent me stumbling to the floor as Sam fell to one knee. He was up quicker. I felt my heart racing, my breath quickening, and my gut churning as the intensity built. As I stood, I grabbed my tin hat that Sam held out to me, struggling with the chin strap. We dashed out into the chaos and saw that the whole hill—from the top right down to the Farm—was lit scarlet and yellow, eerily illuminating the bursting shells and the blackness of the cascading mud.

“Sir, your orders?”

“Get the platoon into their defensive positions. The mud is muting the blasts, but oh God, the fury!”

“No direct hits yet, sir.”

“You need to send two runners up to get intel from Lieutenant Sutton. The captain will be on the blower, and I need to determine if mud is making the Hun as immobile as we are. Otherwise, they could fucking well run straight down this hill!”

“Right away, sir!”

“Ensure the NCOs keep on high alert for Hun breakthrough. Meanwhile, I got your section. Get the word out. Make sure everyone keeps their damn heads about them, Sergeant!”

Hardy moved away quickly.

I began to realize the enemy barrage was not accurate since their firing was erratic and misguided. I waited with Hardy’s section until his return, moving among the men who were spread out for safety. My senses were on high alert as familiar cordite wafted through the air, zinging sounds pierced the rain, and mud was flung up dozens of feet. This strengthened my resolve as I barked orders at this soldier to look up, not down, and commanded that soldier to cinch up his chin strap under a tilting tin hat.

I was still thinning the men into wider positions when the shelling ceased. Sam returned in a few minutes.

“Lieutenant Pitman!” Hardy was severely out of breath. “Our runners returned, advised the barrage was intended to harass us into reacting.” He bent over and supported his weight with hands on knees. “Looking to locate our artillery. Lieutenant Sutton sends his regards, sir, feels we’re all representing the regiment with decorum through calmness.” In typical fashion, Perce had the resolve to send compliments.

“I would agree. Now let’s do a roll call. Advise me at once that we are all present.”

“Done that already, sir, and all sections confirm our forty-nine accounted for.”

Of course roll call was done; this was Sam we were dealing with. “Good show. The ration party will be cleared to move in soon. You’ll want to send escort guides to avoid them being lost, then direct them up to the fire trenches. I want our company fed properly.”

“Yes, Lieutenant.”

I knew Hardy would execute my order with full understanding. With oncoming dusk and a Mouquet Farm landscape that was so churned, roadways were obscured. It was difficult for the ration party to find their way, but I was not going to tolerate underfed soldiers.

“You have pickets assigned for the two-hour rotation through the night, Sergeant?”

“Yes.”

We had established a brotherly bond, so when our eyes met, we knew there was nothing further to discuss. “All right. Let’s get some rest.”

Through heavy rain pounding on the canvas, I remained awake under the distant muffle of artillery blasts and machine gun rat-atat from up the hill. The day’s attack was a stark reminder of just how vulnerable war made us. In some ways, it was good to ensure we stayed at the sharp edge. I myself felt better as I was evolving and responding to sudden crises with more determination. Being increasingly aware of fear triggers, I was able to block out anxiety. Such reflections allowed me to understand that the war was shaping me into a different person by thrusting me into confidence.

I lay on my cot in the darkness. Very lights reflected periodically through the canvas, a reminder of each enemy searching for the other. I thought of what the next day would bring when we were called up to the fire trench. I would lead my platoon over the top into no-man’s-land. I would face the onslaught of German machine-gun bullets hurtling forward in rapid succession, intent on mowing down everything and everybody in their sweeping path. Sleep was not possible, but hopefully wakeful rest had some benefit.