The Last Lady from Hell (43 page)

As the trickle of survivors made it back to St. John’s trench dragging or carrying wounded comrades, an officer who had survived stopped the men from returning to the field for more wounded. His decision to resume the retrieval of wounded under cover of darkness was met with protest by those brave survivors. The orders were firm and the men had to wait for darkness.

It was only 10:15 in the morning. Both Terry and George went to the commanding officer -– a sergeant –and implored him to let them go and continue the retrieval, inasmuch as they were trained to be bearers – and George was almost a doctor. The sergeant insisted that there be no retrieval.

“No more Newfoundlanders will needlessly die today,” he said solemnly. But the pipers were quick to remind him that they were not from Newfoundland and that to leave the men wounded on the field could, in fact, needlessly allow those who could be saved to die. They badgered him like teenage girls trying to get their father to allow them to go to a dance and, as is usually the case, he broke down and allowed them to go.

“I want no more death in this regiment today!” he commanded. “I will permit you two to go out and field-dress the wounded now, and our parties will go out and retrieve them after dark.”

Terry and George ran to get some medical supplies and deposit their pipes in a safe place. They knew that they had to leave quickly before the sergeant could change his mind.

Back above the trenches, the two crawled around the sloping field, moving from body to body until they found a wounded man. Then they would stop the loss of blood as best they could and move on. They dispersed morphine and allowed those that were beyond hope to slip away peacefully and painlessly.

This slow process of crawling from man to man went on for several hours until they had run low on supplies. Terry volunteered to run back for more medical provisions and George stayed to tend to his current patient. The two of them tirelessly toiled throughout the afternoon, patching up the wounded and retrieving supplies.

By dusk they felt they had located and stabilized those that could be saved. The wounded soldiers who were to be picked up were fixed with a long streamer of gauze to identify their location.

Back in the St. John’s trenches, George informed the sergeant that they had found nearly four hundred wounded men who were ready for pick up and the man broke down.

“We owe you two men more than we can ever repay,” the sergeant said. “Because of your heroism, many lives have been saved today. You will be remembered for your bravery.” He hugged them both.

As darkness fell, the parties of eager survivors formed up and brought back hundreds of wounded men. In all three hundred eighty-five men were counted as wounded.

The next day, after a tireless group of volunteers had worked throughout the night, the sergeant took roll call for the 1st Newfoundland Regiment. Only sixty-eight men answered the call. More than over 700 were dead, wounded, or missing.

The young sergeant looked old now, with a pale color and dark rings deeply encircling his eyes. He had been laboring all night with his men and was completely spent. His uniform was covered with both mud and blood. He and his men had borne more than any young men should ever be asked to bear, and they were drained and devoid of emotion. He held out the roster with the sixty-eight checks and turned to his men and the two pipers and gave thanks for their safe return.

Terry and George had recovered their pipes and played “Amazing Grace” for all the fallen men. They played the tune three times and stopped. There was neither clapping nor cheering this time, just a sad and tired “Thank you.”

“OLD CHUM”

TO MY CHUM

No more we’ll share the same old barn
,

The same old dugout the same old yarn
,

No more a tin of bully share
,

Nor split our rum by star shell’s flare
,

So long old lad
.

What times we had both good and bad
,

We’ve shared what shelter could be had
,

The same crump hole when the whizz-bangs shrieked
,

The same old billet that always leaked
,

And now – you’ve “stopped one.”

We’d weathered the storm two winters long
,

We’d managed to grin when all went wrong
,

Because together we fought and fed
,

Our hearts were light; but now you’re dead
.

I am mateless

Well, old lad, here’s peace to you
,

And for me, well there’s a job to do
,

For you and the others that lie at rest
,

Assured may be that we’ll do our best
,

In vengeance

Just one more cross by strafed roadside
,

With it’s G.R.C., and a name for guide
,

But, it’s only myself who has lost a friend
,

And though I may fight through to the end
,

No dug out or billet will be the same
,

All pals can only be pals in name
,

But we’ll all carry on to the end of the game
,

Because you lie there

—Wipers Times, unknown author

B
y 08:30, the 1st German trench had been reached and breached. The objective of the 36th was to take the three main enemy trenches and move south of Beaumont-Hamel to capture the Beaucourt Station. It was a tall order considering how well the Germans had fortified this area. The St. Pierre Redoubt and the infamous Schwaben Redoubt were protecting the ground between them and their objective, and neither stronghold seemed to be weakened by the week long bombardment.

Hundreds of Irish had fallen in an effort to reach the first trench and now even more were charging into the onslaught running past the bodies of their dead comrades.

Bill, Sean, and I had marched across No Man’s Land, playing around craters and dead men. The stink of death and smoke from exploding shells was so profound that I had to breathe exclusively through my mouth to avoid gagging and retching. Puking and piping does not work well together.

Sean was leading our small band through the muck and we played “Wearing of the Green” as we crested the first German
trench. Waves of Irishmen continued past us and down the bank of the barbed wire trench.

We couldn’t believe what we saw, other than the paths cut by the 36th, the entanglement trench seemed almost entirely intact. The large paths through the treacherous wire were a testimony to the sacrifices required of being the first to reach and cut through such a barrier.

The sides of each path were strewn with the bodies of brave young men, now being used to weigh down the wire and keep it back so the still-living could charge through in an effort to kill their enemy and avenge their comrade’s deaths. The amount of dead was appalling especially at the eastern end of the entanglement paths. The German gunners focused their guns at the openings and simply mowed down the men as they ran through.

Thankfully, by the time Sean, Bill, and I arrived and marched through the entanglement trench, the bombers had taken out many of the machine guns. The heaviest fighting had moved into the second trench, but over the fifty meter stretch of land between the trenches there was still plenty of hand-to-hand action.

A German aeroplane flew over us, very low. It seemed to be moving slowly and I could see very plainly the faces of the pilot and his gunner/bomber behind him. The man in the back seat leaned over the edge of the aircraft and dropped a hand bomb on a group of advancing Irishmen.

The young men were focusing on their objective and never saw the threat looming overhead. As I watched the event, I instinctively shrugged up my shoulders and winced my face in anticipation of the impending explosion. In a flash, the explosion sent dirt, debris and men flying in all directions. Out of the fifteen or so men that had been advancing, just one remained. He stood stunned, unsteady, and looking around trying to comprehend what had just happened to him and his fellow mates.

His helmet had been blown off of his head and some of his tunic and webbing was torn, but all in all, he seemed unharmed. The cloud
of confusion was lifting as he saw all his friends dead and dying all around him. The unmuffled noise of the low-flying aeroplane finally caught his attention and he looked in its direction now realizing what had just happened.

I watched curiously as the young soldier leaned over and retrieved a rifle from the body of one of his comrades. He calmly pulled the bolt back and ejected the spent shell from the chamber replacing it with a new bullet, raised the gun to his shoulder and fired it at the retreating aircraft.

I could still clearly see the bomber in the back seat of the aeroplane smiling as they flew farther from the destruction of his attack. The young Irishman fired only one shot and I knew that it was ridiculous to think that he could actually hit the plane, but I looked at the aircraft to see if he might possibly have gotten lucky. The bomber still looking back at his handy work suddenly snapped back, a brief puff of pink spatter blew by and his head rolling back, then forward. He hung limply over the edge of the cockpit with his arms flapping in the slipstream as the pilot sharply banked the aircraft away from the battle and toward his home field. It was a remarkable shot, either highly skilled or extremely lucky.