The Last Lady from Hell (35 page)

Just then Lieutenant Owen McDonnell poked his head into the tent. We all hopped up to attention, Sean dropping the paper onto his cot.

“At ease, men. How’s my band today?” He saw the paper on the cot. “Oh, so that’s the reason for all the laughing – the latest Wipers!”

“What’s with this paper?” I asked. “We’ve never heard of it.”

“Well, about two years ago a couple of limey wisecrackers who were in the infantry in the 1st Battle of Ypres were going through the demolished town of Ypres, which, being cheeky buggers, they pronounced Wipers. They came upon a printing shop that was not totally destroyed,” McDonnell said. “So they put together the first issue of this irreverent rag. They take pot shots at everyone and ev
erything – nothing seems off limits. Even the name ‘Wipers Times’ has a double meaning, since it can also be ripped into strips and used as bum fodder in the latrine.”

Bill and I smiled at the idea that there were such creative trench rats providing entertainment for the troops out there.

“Bum fodder for the bomb fodder!” Bill quipped.

Owen laughed. “Very good, perhaps you should write for them. They do accept articles and poems from almost anyone as long as they’re poking fun at someone or something.”

Sean picked up the paper and leafed through it. “Here’s a series called ‘Herlock Shomes,’” he said.

“One of my favorites,” McDonnell said with a smile. “They were on the case of ‘Napoo Rum’ and I believe they were close to cracking it.”

He saw our puzzled expressions. “Napoo is trench slang, a mispronunciation of the French phrase ‘il n’y a plus,’ or ‘there is no more.’ The B.E.F. tried to shut down the paper, because of negative remarks made by the editors. The men went into near revolt and the muckety-mucks backed off – but then they tried to take over the paper! Of course, the editors would have no part of that. So, the brass turns a blind eye to the paper and tolerates it because it seems to make the men laugh in the midst of this brutal conflict.”

Sean coughed out a laugh.

“Let me read this article to you,” he said. “It’s titled ‘The Lecture.’”

“If at any time you happen to be at all depressed – though of course this is extremely unlikely out here where there is so much to interest and delight one – find out whether there is a lecture on anywhere, given by the G.S.O. first or second of a Division about to be relieved, to the officers of the relieving Division, and go to it at once. It will make you realize that war is worthwhile
.

“Roughly speaking, the show will be as follows: The room is packed with an expectant but nervous conglomeration of officers, of whom certainly not more than the first two rows will hear a word of the glad
tidings. That doesn’t matter, however, there is a screen and a magic lantern which you may be deluded into thinking is going to show you a reasonable clear picture of the trenches – don’t be had by it – it’s only a trap
.

“Well, eventually a Staff Officer mounts the platform, and you gather from his opening remarks that he has been deputed to give the lecture, that he is not much of a hand at the job, and that you must forgive him. This is greeted with sympathetic noises – the audience apparently attempting to ingratiate themselves into his good offices thereby, and hoping that, if they are successful in this, he’ll let ‘em down with a minimum of forgetfulness
.

The Staff Officer is not moved in the least. He proceeds as follows: ‘As a matter of fact I haven’t been up to the front line for – er – some time (the audience appear incredible) but when I was last up, a “ ” had fallen in, and of course most of the communication trenches had been – er – crumped in.’

“The audience seem to appreciate the fact that there are still a few trenches extant. ‘I will now show you some photographs of the craters.’ The operator having woken up, the lantern is lit, and a beautiful bright light, accompanied by a very realistic imitation of the odours encountered at Hooge is given. Unfortunately the lighting effects are poor, but anyway you have a quiet ten minutes in which to give your pal instructions what to do with your corpse
.

“Eventually a picture is shown, which may remind you of your late Uncle Bill, who used to suffer severely from warts. As the lecturer invariably holds his pointer at least one foot from the screen, you will naturally look at the wart indicated by the shadow, but that always adds to the amusement, and you can run a book as to which smudge is the crater
.

The grand finale is always worth paying attention to. ‘The enemy shoot at you from three and a half sides, some officers make it three and three quarters, though personally I incline to the latter view.’ The Staff Officer then tells you that he doesn’t think he has anything more to say, and though everyone seems grieved to hear it, he subsides into a chair next to the G.O.C
.

The best part of the lecture is, of course, that it leaves you with a magnificent thirst. P.B.I. (Poor bloody infantry)”

Sean finished and we all had a good laugh.

“Boys,” McDonnell said finally. “I’m afraid we’ll have to be serious for a moment.” We all settled down and gave him our full attention.

“As you know, our orders have been issued and I know that there are rumors galore about them, so I would like to dispel or confirm these rumors and clarify our objectives for the morning of the morrow next.”

We had all moved to sitting positions on the edge of our cots, leaning forward with our elbows on our knees intently waiting for the Lieutenant’s input. For the first time since leaving Canada, I felt a shot of adrenaline cause my heart to pound hard giving me a light headed feeling. I didn’t think I was afraid, but the realization that the battle was now so close gave me pause.

I looked at Sean. He seemed to be serious – no sign of fear – then Bill, he was cool as a cucumber sandwich. He winked at me and gave me a reassuring but very slight smile then turned his attention back to Lieutenant McDonnell.

“At 07:30 our artillery bombardment will cease and a number of land mines will be detonated. The number of which is classified, but suffice it to say it shall be impressive. After the dust settles, fifteen minutes to be precise, we will commence the attack.”

“Won’t the fifteen-minute delay give time to the enemy to prepare for our attack?” Bill interrupted.

The Lieutenant looked at Bill with a curious expression of impressed appreciation. “Very astute of you Mr. Lewis. This subject was a bone of contention during the planning stages of our attack. Some of our commanders wanted no delay, and others wanted lengthy delay, so, a compromise was met and it was decided that fifteen minutes would be the wait.”

Bill nodded understanding, while McDonnell continued. “Several well-marked paths will have been cut through our own barbed wire defenses, which will lead to No Man’s Land. Multiple lines of the 9th Irish Fusiliers will be at the ready and will be preceded by a team of wire cutters and Grenadiers.”

Lt. McDonnell continued to call them Grenadiers, even though, as I said before, the BEF preferred them to be called Bombers. It was Owen’s little dig.

“Our eventual objective is to capture and hold the Beaucourt Rail Station, but to accomplish that we must fight past the Schwaben Redoubt, a heavily fortified position manned by the battle-tested German 10th Bavarian Division. To add to our difficulty, we are uncertain of the condition of the German entanglement. There is a rumor that a scouting party found it untouched, but that is being down played by Command, hence the cutters will be in position prior to 07:30.

“We will plan on having a great many men across the Ancre River and as close to the Enemy as we dare, the run up the hill toward the Schwaben Redoubt is a long one, especially under fire.”

McDonnell paused, scanning our faces to underscore the gravity of the task ahead.

“Our Divisional Commander, Major General Nugent, is a good fellow and has, in my observation, not underestimated the enemy and their ability to withstand our pummeling barrage,” he continued. “He has given the word to be in position, be ready, and when the time comes attack fully in running waves accompanied by Lewis guns and backed up by Vickers in case the tide should turn.”

The Lewis Gun was a highly portable, lightweight machine gun capable of five hundred to six hundred rounds per minute. The Vickers was a heavier gun similar to the German Maxim requiring a team of three or four to set it up and operate it efficiently. It, however, had longer range and had far more destructive capabilities. At between four hundred-fifty and six hundred rounds per minute, it could decimate advancing Germans at several hundred yards.

“We, of course, will be preceded by one final artillery barrage to keep the Germans, hopefully, in their trenches,” McDonnell concluded. “Then it will be up to us.”

“Where do we fit in sir?” Sean asked.

“I realize that you three can’t do your job at a charge, you will be expected to march forward slow and steady. The sound of your pipes and drums will carry our lads forward inspiring them to do things that no men should ever be asked to do. As long as they hear the pipes, they will keep going so don’t let them down. The weapons that you possess have carried untold generations of Celts into countless battles for centuries. They have a strong and ancient affect that reaches down into a man’s long forgotten past and awakens his warrior spirit.”

We were quietly taken back by the lieutenant’s speech and his almost poetic comments about our instruments of war.

“As the whistle is blown to advance,” McDonnell continued. “You gents will begin playing and follow the troops up and over the top and into hell to piss on the devil. By the way, I have it on very good authority that the German’s despise the pipes and refer to you as The Ladies from Hell, so give them their money’s worth.”

He smiled a friendly, honest smile. “See you in the trenches when you’re kilted and dressed to kill.”

McDonnell turned to leave and we all stood up to attention. “As you were,” he said quietly.

“Quite a speech, eh?” Sean said.

“Kind of scary,” I replied.

Bill grabbed The Wipers Times from Sean’s cot and anxiously flipped through its pages.

“I need a laugh,” he said.

PART SEVEN

THE REVELATION

NOT A BLIGHTY

D
an McKee had been seriously wounded on his return from the reconnaissance mission. After being patched up, somewhat, at the Advanced Field Station, his next stop was the evacuation depot for transport to a hospital. McKee, despite being shot twice and suffering from extensive blood loss, objected strenuously to the doctor’s orders of being sent from the Front insisting that the wounds looked worse than they were. Orders are orders, however, so he resigned himself to the road trip.

He was waiting for the medics to load the ambulance that he had been assigned to and saw, to his relief, that Lieutenant Kelton was one of the passengers to join him on his ride. Kelton was unconscious and heavily sedated, but the doc said his recovery should be complete, although it would take at least six months.

One medic, in a talkative mood, said to Dan, “Well, old boy, looks like you may have your blighty.”

Dan looked puzzled. “Blighty? What’s a blighty?”

“You know. Your ticket back to England” the medic replied.

Blighty was trench slang for a wound serious enough to require time to recover back in Great Britain.

“Not if I can help it,” Dan said. “I’ve got a message I’d like to hand deliver to the bums who shot me and dropped a Minnie on my friends.”

The medic smiled at McKee’s fortitude. “Good Show! You’re a good man. Best of luck to you,” he said, and went off to fetch more wounded to load.

Dan was one of the few who could sit for the ride and had perched himself up near the front of the box near the driver.

A man poked his head into the rear door just before they were about to close the gate and looked over at McKee. “Do you remember me?” he asked.

“Of course,” Dan replied. “You were one of the stretcher bearers, the one who carried Lieutenant Kelton.”

“I hope you don’t mind… and I’m glad I caught you,” the man said hesitantly. “You see, I have a favor to ask of you.”