The Last Lady from Hell (41 page)

Bill held his sticks up. Sean shouted out over the chaos. “By the right! Quick, march!”

We blew up and marched up the grade playing “The Minstrel Boy” into No Man’s Land. Men ran past us yelling and screaming like banshees toward the pre-cut paths through British barbed wire and on to the German lines. The maxims started to bark out their deadly spew and Irishmen began to fall in droves, but an amazing number pressed forward toward the enemy.

My head was spinning as the long awaited moment was upon us. I fought to concentrate on my tune, but with the confusion of the battle going on around me, it became almost impossible. I had to try to shut it out, focus my attention on the ground six to eight feet ahead of me. I struggled to block out my surroundings. I had to step around a fallen rifleman, his unseeing eyes staring up at me. I looked away trying to hold onto my Piper’s trance.

Shells were now coming from the German guns adding to the confusion, but I didn’t really notice. I was becoming detached. I knew that I was as good as dead and it didn’t matter now. The only thing that mattered was my duty – my bag-piping. “I didn’t piss myself,” I thought.

THE 1ST NEWFOUNDLAND REGIMENT, 07:20 HOURS

“Lions led by donkeys”

T
he 29th Division was made up of the 86th, 87th and 88th brigades. The 29th was positioned about three kilometers north of the 36th Ulster Division and had the unenviable task of attacking the gauntlet protecting Beaumont-Hamel. To advance through the area of triangulation of firepower known as the danger tree was suicide, but to be given the orders to push five thousand meters to Beaumont-Hamel seemed madness. Nonetheless, this was the objective of the 29th division on day one of the Somme.

The 86th and 87th brigades were to be in position for the initial advance and the 88th brigade, made up of the Essex and the 1st Newfoundland Regiments, were to reinforce their efforts. At 07:20, the Hawthorn Ridge mine exploded and because the 29th was less than two kilometers away, the effects of the blast were even more intense. The 86th and 87th were shoulder to shoulder in the trenches awaiting the whistle and weathered the shock of the blast relatively well except for several partial trench collapses which were quickly repaired by the sappers of the Royal Engineering Unit.

The 88th, however, stood ready in the St. John’s supply trench. A large, more open trench several hundred meters to the back of the
most forward lines. As the blast of the mine rolled past, it knocked many men down, including both Terry and George.

“Holy, Crap!” George said as he scrambled to his feet.

“Check your pipes,” Terry said as he gathered his senses and stood up. Fortunately, their pipes were made of tough African black-wood and came through the encounter unscathed.

Terry looked at his watch. “What gives?” he asked out loud.

The same perplexed expression was plainly visible on the face of Major Henry Winsted, the Commander of the 1st Newfies. Ten long minutes later, the entire valley erupted into explosions and gunfire. The Germans were ready and had obviously survived the week long pounding almost unimpeded.

Major Winsted was a nervous man by nature and was pacing back and forth in the St. John’s trench, looking at his watch and then toward the Front. Winsted, a tall, willowy man with a sallow complexion, came from a well-to-do British family. Having attended the finest military schools and then being rapidly promoted through the ranks, he thought that being given command of such a small regiment of colonials could only be considered an insult and he resented the whole situation. What’s more, instead of the glory of being the 1st to charge over the beaten German Army, he and these outsiders were to mop up!

“It’s a disgrace!” he yelled in frustration.

He had a proclivity for impeccable uniforms and could always be seen with a riding crop, which he used to wave around while giving orders, otherwise it was tucked tightly under his right arm. Today, however, the crop was absent. “The battlefield is no place for such bobbles unless you are cavalry,” his commander told him, and being a good soldier, he had left it behind this morning. In a move he had performed many times with his crop, he slapped his right leg with his imaginary whip.

“Damn it, why are they not moving?” he blurted out. He kept looking at the entry trench, which was blocked by the Essex. They hadn’t budged in 20 minutes. “What the devil!” he yelled.

His sallow face turning an odd shade of reddish yellow – not quite orange. He strode over to a passing private and barked an
order. “Private! You there! Go and find out some information as to what is the difficulty!”

“Yes sir, straight away sir,” the private responded while snapping a crisp salute.

This was supposed to be a walk in the park through German ruins with the enemy either throwing up their hands or dead, he thought. “Bloody idiots! Could they not have foreseen this?”

The private soon returned to the pacing Major. “Sir, I was told that the trenches are jammed with wounded men being brought back from the advanced attack. It would seem things are not going well,” he reported.

“Fools!” Winsted howled, waving his imaginary crop around. “That will be all private – dismissed!”

“Yes sir, thank you, sir,” the private said as he spun around and ran off to continue his original task. Both Terry and George had been watching intently as Winsted lost the composure he never really had.

“Our leader seems to be somewhat anxious,” George said.

“Maybe unhinged,” Terry replied. “I hope he doesn’t do something stupid.”

“Me either, this is very unsettling.”

Both knew the condition of the German entanglement trench from their reconnaissance mission and it was clear to them why the troops were being held up.

Winsted glanced over at both men, they had provided him with information two days ago regarding the barbed wire and he had dismissed it. Could they have been correct in their observations?

He quickly looked away when their eyes met and slapped his leg again with his nonexistent crop. The fight was obviously under way in good order. From the St. John’s you could see the exploding earth rising up above the parapet, hear the whiz bangs and the rattling of the Maxim 08s being answered by the snarl of the Vickers guns. Even the battle screams of the men charging and dying were audible.

The men of the B.E.F. were being mowed down at an unimaginable rate. A blunder of epic proportions was unfolding and no one seemed to be interested in stopping it – except perhaps those dying.

More than an hour had passed and the men of the 88th had only moved about four meters. The Essex still stood at the entrance of the trenches while the 1st Newfoundland stood at the ready.

“This is preposterous!” Winsted snarled, looking at the trench wall toward the battlefield. From the German lines inexplicably came a series of flares, shot high over the battlefield. It may have been a signal to artillery or to ground the troops, we will never know. Perhaps it was a mistake, the real reason is not of great consequence. The outcome, however, is.

Several teams of horses came racing up the St. John’s at a full gallop. Behind each team of six horses was a driver and three thirteen pound field artillery guns secured in tandem. They were part of the Royal horse artillery and their mission was to move artillery rapidly in the field of battle so as to maximize the effectiveness of the field cannon.

The drivers hollered and yelled as they drove through the trench, there were men and equipment everywhere and they had to clear the way. To add to the danger of having six, twelve hundred pound beasts charging at more than thirty miles an hour, the last cannon in each team would whip back and forth wildly, often flipping over in the process.

The cannons were designed to be towed right side up or upside down with equal ease and without damaging the weapon. Of course, anyone within fifteen feet either side of the whipsaw was in real danger of being killed so proper respect was shown by all.

The three teams flew wildly past Major Winsted slinging mud in all directions with no regard for rank or status. Consequently, he was showered with a considerable amount of dirt and mud spattering his meticulously neat uniform with brown blotches. In an unex
pected display of self-control, he brushed the large clumps of dirt off of his tunic and trousers, turning his gaze back toward the Front.

Terry and George witnessed the entire event.

“I think he took that rather well,” George said.

“Indeed my dear Doctor,” Terry replied in a false British accent. “Smashingly well”.

The flares that were arching across the eastern sky eventually caught the Major’s eye and he stiffened at the sight.

“Flares? They are too close to have been sent up by the enemy, so they must be ours. What does it mean?” He continued to watch the torches fizzle across the horizon. Could this be a signal? Perhaps a breakthrough – or the possibility that aid is needed?

He desperately searched his memory, could he have missed something during briefing the day earlier? His eyes darted back and forth for another officer with whom he could consult, but there were none in sight. He spun around looking for anyone to confirm the meaning of the flares, but there was no one to consult.

The flares could only mean one thing. After all, one wouldn’t use a flare normally in the battlefield. It had to be a signal to advance! He looked at the trench, which leads to the system, still jammed with Essex unable to advance. Of course, it has to be a request to advance.

But this could be his moment for military glory. If he could lead these Colonials straight to the front and save the day, he would go down in military history! As there were no other officers to be found Winsted had to make the command decision.

“Form up,” he said in an almost inaudible voice. He cleared his throat. “Form up!” he hollered this time.

The men around him turned in disbelief. Terry and George rushed over to him. “What are you saying, sir?” Terry asked in shock.

“I want my men to assemble in wave formation,” he said. There was a sense of desperation in his voice. He was near hysteria, knowing the enormity of giving such an order.

“Sir, with all due respect, the Essex haven’t budged in an hour,” George said calmly, hoping to settle this overly anxious officer down.