Bombproof

BOMBPROOF

  P.L. WYTKA

  Copyright 2015 by P.L. Wytka

  This novel is respectfully

  dedicated to the soldiers of the

  Third Battalion (Toronto Regiment),

  Canadian Expeditionary Force

  1914-1919

  The Canadian Corps, and the characters’ place within it

  1st Division 2nd Division 3rd Division 4th Division

  1st Brigade 2nd Brigade 3rd Brigade

  1st Battalion 2nd Battalion 3rd Battalion 4th Battalion

  A Company B Company C Company D Company

  Five Platoon Six Platoon Seven Platoon Eight Platoon

  One Section Two Section Three Section Four Section

  Ranks (simplified) of the Canadian Expeditionary Force

  Commissioned Ranks (Officers)

  General

  Colonel

  Lieutenant Colonel

  Major

  Captain

  Lieutenant

  Second Lieutenant

  Enlisted Ranks (Men)

  Regimental Sergeant Major

  Company Sergeant Major

  Sergeant

  Corporal

  Lance Corporal

  Private

  Thanks Dad

  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  PART I: BOMBPROOF

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  PART II: ZERO HOUR

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  PART III: WALKING, STRETCHER

  SANDBAG

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  EPILOGUE

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  HISTORICAL NOTE

  PROLOGUE

  Belgium, 1916

  The air after an attack was always thick and unpleasant. Even at the top of Mount Sorrel with a cool June breeze blowing, tonight was no exception. Sweat, burnt gunpowder, the lingering vapour of poison gas, and the dead in their early state of decay all vied for preeminence. Private Bill Brown was enjoying the starlit sky and waiting for his shift on watch to end. It had been a long day and, while the casualty lists were still being double checked, everybody knew that the battalion was in rough shape.

  Anyone who had made it through the past twenty-four hours unscathed owed it less to skill or determination, and more to luck or divine intervention. Bill didn’t believe in the last two. Over a year in Europe had taught him that anything could happen to anyone. A man could never guarantee his safety, though he could tip the odds in his favour, a little.

  Through the darkness, he could hear someone coming towards him. A wounded man returning? A patrol nobody bothered to tell him about? A German raiding party? Bill slowly pushed the safety catch on his rifle forward with his left thumb, raised the butt to his shoulder, and peered out into the darkness. He had never had the best night vision, and aside from the vague shapes and shadows of the mostly destroyed barbed wire entanglements, he saw nothing. The noise persisted.

  “Halt!”

  Private Hallicks climbed down into the trench. “Relax, Bill; it’s me.”

  Bill let his rifle fall from his shoulder and breathed a sigh of relief. “You’re supposed to announce yourself before you tumble into a trench, Hal. We’re being relieved in a few hours; you want to get yourself killed after all we came through today?”

  “First of all, I was coming from our own lines; you’re looking the wrong way, sentry.”

  “Sentry is about listening, not seeing. I heard you, didn’t I?”

  “Well I wasn’t sneaking up on you. If I had been I could have skewered you easy.”

  “Sure, Hal. What were you doing out there anyway?”

  Hallicks rummaged through his pockets and held out a little package tied in brown paper. “You weren’t feeling up to eating anything earlier, so I brought you a little something I knew you couldn’t resist.”

  As Bill unwrapped the package his eyes went wide and his mouth began to water: toffee. Bite marks were still present on the half-eaten bar, but he didn’t care. “It’s good, real good. Must be homemade.”

  “And I got a few packs of cigarettes for the Lance.”

  “Free of charge?”

  “This time.”

  Bill stopped chewing, focused his eyes on Hal’s. They seemed to glimmer roguishly in the moonlight. “I know you didn’t go out there just to thieve a few nails and some candy. So, how much money did the company go into action with?”

  Hallicks sighed dismissively. “They weren’t using it. I can.”

  “Cigarettes are one thing, but don’t you think their families–”

  “Could use the money? No. They’ll get a nice little pension. Besides, you think the burial companies don’t check for wallets? That is, if those poor bastards aren’t blown to hell by shellfire or heaped up and burned by Fritz in the meantime. I did them a favour.”

  “A favour?”

  “Jesus, Bill, you don’t think much of me, do you?” Hallicks reached into another pocket and pulled out a long twine cord with identity discs, wedding rings, lucky pendants, and even a pair of medals from the South African War tied to it. “You got the toffee, the Lance will get the cigarettes, and the families will get the personal stuff. Better than going through the whole ‘missing in action’ drama.”

  Bill said nothing. Hallicks knew he had accidently touched a nerve. His brother, John, had been reported missing over a year earlier. While Bill clung to the hope that he was still alive somewhere in a German prisoner of war camp, most others struggled to even humour him. The battalion had lost about five hundred men over a weekend, and most of those listed as ‘missing’ had either been confirmed killed or taken prisoner long since. John was a rare exception; nobody seemed to know for sure what had happened to him.

  “Sorry. But we know these guys aren’t missing, I’ve got the cold meat tickets to prove it. Anyway, you know how it is, Bill, I’m sending the money home.”

  “Who’ve you got there?” Bill asked timidly, afraid but curious.

  “Bracknell, HG. Rogers, G. Fisher, DW. Eastman, GL. Maultby, R,” Hallicks paused a moment. “Hudson, AP.”

  Bill went pale. “I heard he was hit. He’s really dead then?”

  “‘Fraid so. It’s gonna be hell for Sergeant Bailey to break in a new platoon commander,” Hal said, putting the identity discs and trinkets back into his pocket.

  “What’ll you do with those?”

  “Dump ‘em at company headquarters when no one is looking; let an officer or a clerk deal with it. Less questions, less attention that way. I guess you and I are the only two who don’t carry a lucky piece, eh? What’s it been, sixteen months? And the Germans still can’t get us.”

  Bill wasn’t interested in reminiscing. “Have you done this before? The money?”

  Hallicks put a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Why don’t you get a few winks, I’ll finish up your shift. And, Bill, you won’t tell anyone about this, will you?”

  “Our little secret, Hal.”

  Gentle raindrops began to ding off the men’s helmets. Hallicks flipped up the collar of his khaki wool tunic; his classic defence against all varieties of weather. “Goddamn.”

  Bill removed his steel helmet. Rain streaked the dirt on his face as he rubbed his head with his hand. The
stench of battle was slowly being washed out of the air. He was thinking of Kate; how to tell her about everything that had happened. The fury of the German artillery, the screaming of wounded men, the sight of dead friends. He decided against it. His next letter to her would be the usual: nice weather and fresh air, card games and good food; fun.

  “It’s almost a nice night.”

  “Put your tin hat back on, Bill. Don’t you know? All these things are good for is keeping the rain off you.”

  PART I

  BOMBPROOF

  But let my death be memoried on this disc.

  Wear it, sweet friend. Inscribe no date nor deed.

  But let thy heart-beat kiss it night and day,

  Until the name grow vague and wear away.

  - Wilfred Owen, MC†

  1

  Toronto, 1927

  Bill bolted upright, his eyes snapping open, lungs desperately pulling in air in short gasps. He switched on the little reading lamp on the nightstand and glanced at the clock; it was two eighteen. His side of the bed was drenched in cold sweat. Kate was still asleep.

  Bill’s head was pounding, like it always did after that dream. Somehow the explosion that shot him back into consciousness was getting louder every time. It was certainly louder in his dreams than it had been in 1916. He stood and walked to the bookshelf in the corner and crouched low. Grabbing the little glass and the bottle of whiskey he kept on the bottom shelf for such emergencies, he poured himself a few ounces. Next, he opened the window a little and gathered a handful of snow from the outside sill, clumped it into a ball and dropped it into his glass.

  Kate sat up in bed, awakened by a blast of cold air. “Are you alright, William?”

  Bill took a deep breath and closed the window. He looked down at his glass. “I was there, again.”

  “Regina Trench?” Kate asked, already trying to ascertain just how big of a glass he had poured for himself.

  He nodded, still not looking at her.

  She knew all of Bill’s recurring dreams by now. Mount Sorrel was suspicion, secrecy; he would pretend he was only getting up for a glass of water and insist that she go back to bed. Vimy Ridge started with euphoria and ended with a profound feeling of loss; normally that meant staring out the window for a few minutes, then crying himself back to sleep. Fresnoy was stress, then relief; half-finished projects were often completed in the middle of the night, or new projects half-started. Regina Trench was the worst for both of them. First came fear, raw and incomprehensible, that rocked him into consciousness. Next was guilt and self-doubt that he would try to wash away with whiskey. Once that failed, he would turn to Kate for intimate comfort.

  Bill brought his free hand to his head, just above the left temple, and felt the little strip of scarred scalp where no hair would grow.

  Kate was already changing the bed sheets. “Was it bad?”

  Bill emptied his glass in one big gulp and chewed on what was left of the snowball. “Just get ready. Please.”

  Kate removed her nightgown.

  Bill threw his nightshirt onto the reading chair and climbed back into bed. “I’m tired, so let’s be quick about this, okay?”

  *

  Although originally intended as a veteran’s club, the Leaf and Crown had always been open to civilians. It didn’t seem right to turn away a relative, or even a friend of an ex-soldier. And while Third Battalion veterans were given a special rate on their drinks, Gary Post, the owner and a former member of the Third himself, was happy to serve any customer.

  The Leaf and Crown had become a popular spot for the young people of the city. Prohibition, though waning, was still in effect; but in seven years Post’s club had never been targeted for a raid. Too many veterans filled the ranks of the Toronto Police Department. Too many politicians feared offending the thousands of former Third Battalion members. And too many social reformers had bigger fish to fry. Besides, Gary Post kept a clean, quiet establishment.

  The odd veteran could still be recognized by a blazer patch, lapel pin, or missing limb. Wartime photographs and newspaper clippings adorned the walls, as did an assortment of war souvenirs, rifles, and pennants. The cherry oak bar top, names and regiments scratched onto it, was considered something of a holy relic.

  Saturday nights, Gary sent his two sons to an old family friend, Missus Hallicks. He was expected to pick them up before one o’clock, but could already tell he would be late, for Saturday night was also when Bill Brown came to visit. Bill and Gary were both Originals; two of the few men who had left Canada in 1914 and had spent the entire war with the Third Battalion. Each Saturday Bill would stumble in sober but already looking drunk. He would complain that the music was too loud, that it was giving him a headache. After a few beers, he would pretend he was young again; sing and dance, turn the radio up, but mostly smoke and drink. For the past seven years, Bill’s diet on Saturdays consisted almost entirely of beer and cigarettes. Tonight was no different.

  Bill held an empty glass to his mouth. “Gary, send up the SOS; my beer supply has been depleted!”

  It was the ninth such SOS call in three hours. When it came to beer, Bill was determined and predictable. Gary took the empty glass and refilled it, while the younger man began scanning the club.

  Soon Bill’s eyes settled on a young woman sitting alone. She was the flapper type; hair cut short, dress barely meeting her knees, arms bare. Gaudy necklaces overlapped each other while even gaudier rings adorned her long fingers. A cigarette dangled in her right hand.

  “She reminds me of someone. I can’t figure out who,” Bill said.

  Gary’s eyes, sharp as ever, had already made the connection the moment she had walked in. “I don’t know,” he lied.

  Bill snapped his fingers and stuttered excitedly. “La Fille! The girl from Albert! Back in Sixteen!”

  “Oh, I guess she looks a little like her,” Gary said, desperate to change the conversation. “But you know what I remember most about Albert? That letter Green wrote to the King.”

  Bill nearly spit his beer out as he broke into unrestrained laughter. Once he settled, a nostalgic smile came over his face. “Oh Green, damn he was funny, eh? How did that letter go again?”

  France, 1916

  Two years of shellfire had destroyed most of Albert. During the past several months, British, Australian, and Canadian advances in the area had turned the city into a relatively safe place. The German artillery was more concerned with the new frontline positions, four miles northeast of the city. Albert was now a site where battalions performed the final preparations before going into the trenches, then licked their wounds afterwards before moving on to the rear areas. It was a place for cleaning rifles, bandaging sore feet, and having a hot meal from a cook wagon.

  The nicer buildings in Albert had been used as temporary headquarters, quartermaster’s stores and officer’s billets nearly since the war began, passing hands from one battalion to another every few days. The old brickfields on the outskirts were home to the enlisted men. The quality of the living quarters varied depending on how long they had been standing and how much effort each group of occupants was willing or able to put in to their upkeep. How adept the temporary tenants were at thieving lumber, broken gear, and abandoned furniture certainly factored in as well.

  Lance Corporal Post’s section was proud of its hovel: “The Slag Heap Hotel.” Four feet high, fifteen feet across and eight feet deep, its three walls were cobbled together with sandbags, sheet metal, and empty wooden crates. Across the top, waterproof tarps provided shelter from sun and rain with only a few cracks. The front end was completely open, allowing all six men of the section easy access. It would have been comfortable if it weren’t for the constant snoring, coughing, and flatulence that all soldiers seemed to suffer from; a symptom of the busy days, unsanitary conditions, and what the army misleadingly called “food.”

  While most non-commissioned officers preferred to distance themselves slightly from the rabble, Post and the pri
vates of Three Section ate, slept, and drank together. He was one of the few NCOs in the battalion who preferred the company of his own men to that of the other corporals and sergeants. Post wasn’t a bad or unpopular NCO, but he didn’t care for any of the pomp that came with rank. This was readily evinced by the single crooked, faded lance corporal stripe sewn onto either sleeve of his tunic.

  Presently, Post was helping Private Green draft a letter. Post himself could barely write, but pitched in the odd idea as Green scribbled away. Both men sat on the outside of the long sandbag wall, while the rest of the section lazed in the afternoon sun experimenting with a form of three-player euchre.

  “It’s done, Lance,” Green said with a grin, looking over the gridded notepad one last time and clearing his throat.

  October 6th, 1916

  Albert, France

  My dear majesty fellow king chap,

  As a member of the 1st Canadian Division, and veteran of over a year’s fighting, I wish to bring to your attention a few details that require most urgent action.

  The fighting soldier’s battle equipment or “webbing” is dreadfully heavy and ugly. I recommend the ammunition pouches, packs, belt, straps, etc. be replaced at once with a stylish handbag, no more than eight by six by four inches, weighing no more than one pound when fully packed. The Lee Enfield rifle has proved most inefficient in the rough conditions of the trenches; I recommend a Derringer single shot pocket pistol, as this is all that is required for self-defence purposes. The bayonet ought to be ground down and re-issued as a nail file, as the condition of the men’s cuticles is simply deplorable. Entrenching tools are a redundancy in trench warfare, and should be melted down to form a cast statue of your majesty.

  Many “old soldiers” have tired of the same iron rations of bully beef and hard biscuits; apple cores and bones would be a welcome replacement. Lastly, I recommend that half of the enlisted men’s pay should be donated to a special Armenian refugee relief fund. Officer’s pay need not be deducted, as the cost of moustache wax and boot black have increased greatly in the past two years, and only on rare occasions can a suitable product be found that does both jobs. I remain your humble servant,