The Last Lady from Hell (31 page)

Bert had helped develop a system to expedite the removal of the earth from the Hawthorn Ridge tunnel. Every one hundred yards, his engineers elevated the floor two-and-a-half feet to compensate for the rise in floor elevation. The ore car held about four yards of earth and would roll easily along the gentle decline from the dig to the end of its rail, where it would tip up and dump its load into the next cart waiting two-and-a-half feet below it.

This relay system cut the removal time to a fraction of what it would have been had one cart been used to travel the entire length of the tunnel, and reduced the manpower needed for the movement of debris.

With the advent of every new weapon comes the necessity for counter measures and the land mine was no exception. The British had developed listening devices to detect the sounds of mining below the surface. One was called a Geo phone, an Australian had invented another he called “The Wombat,” and of course, the Germans had their own mining detection inventions.

To counter the counter measure and reduce the possibility of detection, rubber wheels had been installed on the ore carts to muffle the noise caused by steel wheels clanking over steel rails. The earth was relatively rock free so the shovel and pick ax made minimal noise. When a rock was hit, all digging would stop, in fact, all movement would stop, everyone would wait ten minutes to prevent detection and triangulation by those listening up top or in nearby enemy tunnels. The rock would gently be pried out of its resting place and placed in a dug out in the tunnel wall. Every effort was made to avoid transporting rocks because of the noise created when being transferred from one steel cart to another.

Bert had been ordered to build a vault capable of housing twenty tons of explosives. He quickly set out to calculate what would be required to house such a charge and was stunned by his findings. Each crate of explosives weighed one hundred pounds and was three feet long, two feet wide, and one foot high. Twenty tons was equal to four hundred boxes, and would require a vault eight feet high, thirty feet wide, and forty feet long-– an enormous room. This room allowed for the stacking of crates two feet above the floor to prevent water damage due to constant seepage and left room around the stacks for proper bracing and movement.

One of the major problems in any mine is lack of breathable air, so a large bellows was operated at the mouth of the tunnel that pumped a constant supply of fresh air through a pipe to the furthest
point of the mine. The fresh air would then travel from farthest point back to the mouth pushing the foul air back out of the opening.

The miners had small cages set up every fifty feet or so with canaries in them. A light was placed next to the cage to illuminate the small bird, and if the bird fell from its perch, the men would take immediate note suspecting either gas or lack of oxygen.

Bert had designed the mine to have a gradual grade at the mouth rather than a vertical drop like many other engineers preferred. The slope made the removal of dirt faster and easier employing a mule to pull the cart up the incline. The progress on his tunnel was right on schedule and, in fact, with the artillery bombardment commencing, the bombing allowed his diggers to pretty much disregard the caution they had been exercising concerning noise. No one was going to detect their digging with an artillery barrage going on around them.

The vault was near ready and had passed Bert’s initial inspection and approval on the morning of 26 June. He was making the hike back alone and whistling “My Lodgings in the Cold, Cold Ground” a Scottish funeral favorite. Walking up the shallow incline at the end of the tunnel, the muffled and muted noises of cannon fire was becoming louder with each step. He had made the trek along the entire length of the tunnel many times and despite the cool air underground he had beads of sweat forming across his brow. His headlamp cast a dim beam of light illuminating the well-worn dirt path that paralleled the rails for the coal carts. Several hundred feet ahead the midday sun was providing an ever increasing amount of light that over powered the dim head lamp, but caused a glare that actually made seeing the path more difficult.

Bert put his left hand out and ran it along the rough tunnel wall to keep a steady bearing and to avoid vertigo, a trick miners learned to rely on in poorly lit areas. Up ahead, Bert could make out two figures near the entrance of the mine. The silhouetted figures seemed
to be arguing over something but the brilliant sunlight made it impossible to make out who they were.

The timbers and earth shook as the Germans delivered the first shell in a return barrage. Loose dirt fell from the cross beams, but the mine held fast. The men ahead stopped talking for a moment, the taller of the two looked around nervously, the other shorter man, remained unflinchingly fixed on the tall one. The tall man started to lecture again and his voice was becoming more audible as Bert drew closer. From behind him, the clip, clop of a mule pulling a cart up the rail was catching up, accompanied by the sound of the gentle coaxing of the mule driver.

“See here, ol’ boy,” the tall man said. “I am going to have to take something substantial to my superiors about this matter and I am going to hold you personally responsible if I don’t get any resolution soon.”

Bert could just begin to make out the figure of one of his lead engineers, Mel Bohlig. The taller man an officer, was pointing his finger at Mel and doing all the talking. Bert stepped up his gait, someone was chewing on one of his men and he was not about to tolerate it. Bohlig was a broad powerful man who could have snapped the spindly British officer like a toothpick but, like most of Bert’s team, he was quiet and unemotional with an overall good nature.

“Sir, the gentleman you want to talk to is coming up the ramp, perhaps you should address him for your resolution,” Bohlig said with a steady voice.

“Very well then,” the pompous officer said turning toward Bert. “With whom am I speaking?” he demanded walking toward Bert with a purposeful strut.

The short Welshman who normally had an even temper could feel his face flush as the officer approached. Bert ignored the question and instead growled his own. “Who are you?”

“Lieutenant Hollings. And I repeat–to whom am I speaking?” Bert’s muscles on the sides of his jaw were beginning to knot up as he clenched his teeth.

“Chief Engineer Bert Carol,” he said. “What is it you want?”

“What is your rank, Carol?” Hollings asked condescendingly.

“What is it you want?” Bert repeated through clenched teeth, his jaw set and head stretched forward.

Hollings, for the first time, backed down a bit. “Well then, I need some progress information on this mine for my superiors. This other chap couldn’t have been less helpful.”

Bohlig moved uncomfortably close to Hollings causing him to take a step toward the tunnel wall. Hollings nervously looked at Bohlig, then back at Bert.

“See here! My superiors ... your commanders have sent me here to check on your progress,” he stammered. “This mine is vital to our assault and must be finished on schedule.”

An artillery round pounded the trenches nearby sending a shower of dirt down on all three men. Hollings covered his head and instinctively crouched looking nervously at the thick timbers holding up the mine. Both miners stood over him ignoring the mine’s protest to the shelling. Hollings slowly stood up dusting off his formally clean tunic.

“Look here! My job is to see that all is being done that can be done.”

The mule cart and driver had made it up the ramp and paused next to the three men. The mule driver, an old miner, tied off the reins and set the hand brake. He came over and stood next to Bert sensing that something was amiss. He looked at his fellow miners and then fixed a hard stare at Hollings letting go with a spew of chewing tobacco.

The Lieutenant began to perspire, seeing that he was outnumbered by men who couldn’t care less for rank and standing.

“I don’t need any monkey business here! I simply need to report that all is being done...” His voice cracked and faded away into a mumble.

Bert leaned in toward the man, his substantial eyebrows fixed in a deep frown. “Until I see this tunnel’s dirt caked under your and
your superior’s fingernails and until I see bleeding blisters on your and their hands,” Bert said slowly and evenly, “all that can be done is not being done. Until that moment arrives, don’t bother me or my men again. This tunnel will be completed on schedule with no thanks to you or your superiors.”

Hollings moved around Bohlig, who had been standing motionless and expressionless throughout the entire encounter, and moved up the tunnel looking back and saying “You are borderline insubordinate”.

The mule driver looked at Bert and Mel. “I’m glad he left, there’s only need for one ass in this mine and that would be Bessie here.” He gave the mule an affectionate slap on its rump.

They all broke into loud laughter. Seconds later a whizz-bang hit directly over the entrance causing a partial collapse of the mine sending the three miners running to try to shore up the fallen timbers. Outside miners ran into the dust cloud belching out of the mouth of the tunnel with picks and shovels not knowing the danger below. They only knew that there had been a collapse and that men were down there, fellow miners.

RECONNAISSANCE OF THE SOMME

T
he artillery had been constant night and day for almost a week and the word had gone out that it was soon coming to an end. There wasn’t much piping going on by Terry or Doc, no point, it was impossible to hear. Terry Manning was sitting on his cot with cotton stuffed in both ears. He had read his letters from home so many times that he could recite them by heart. So, while he and Doc (George) were tending to their pipes – rehemping the tuning pins for the drones, the chanter, and the blow pipe, Dan Mckee was drumming on a German helmet he had won in a card game. All were just nervously waiting for the word. The knots in their stomachs were tightening as the zero hour, which had not yet been announced, drew inevitably closer. The tension within the division was as thick as no man’s land mud. The normally calm and even keeled Newfoundlanders were agitated and nervous, it didn’t help that a British Commander had come in to oversee the regiment.

Colonel Harold Winsted came from what would have been considered a blue blood family, so regardless of his ability he had been given a command. He was a gangly, Ichabod Crane sort of fellow who was insensitive to his own inabilities. He rather believed that he was a shining example of superior command ability and would bark out pointless orders in an effort to convince himself of this.
Colonel Kelton, who the men trusted and looked up to, would follow Winsted around and try to temper the poor command of this inept fellow. Kelton often stood in the background giving the men an understanding nod and they would in turn follow the orders of Winsted no matter how ridiculous and nonsensical they were.

The men had been well trained and were battle ready. The Regiment had seen action in the Gallipoli campaign in Turkey and many were battle tested, they didn’t need to be needlessly ordered about to bolster the ego of an incompetent buffoon. So, Kelton suggested to Winsted that he pick several men to form a reconnaissance party to survey the forward trenches and reconnoiter the area, as the British bombardment was supposed to have destroyed the massive barbwire entanglements laid down by the Germans.