The Last Lady from Hell (45 page)

He was ready to transport for further attention and we were carrying him out of the shell hole when another star shell lit the sky. Not more than ten meters away stood a German bearer team and we all froze.

I was the first to move. I pointed to our passenger and called out to them, “Hey, this guy is a comrade of yours!” The Germans looked at one another, the white of their eyes in brilliant contrast to the dirt and filth covering their faces.

They spoke softly to each other and then began to cautiously move toward us. Their eyes never left our eyes as they came closer. Bill comforted the wounded German as his comrades moved closer to our team. We set the stretcher down and stepped back.

The lead man from their team abandoned any caution he had been exercising and proceeded to inspect the injured soldier. He soon concluded that we had dressed the lad’s wounds and had cared for him as if he were one of our own.

He looked up at us searchingly from his kneeling position. He saw no anger or malice in our eyes; we were all pawns in this mess. He motioned his crew to approach and they transferred the young man onto their stretcher. The lead then stood and came face to face with us. He was tired and worn looking, and he smelled awful.

“Danke,” he whispered looking deeply into our eyes with an emotionless expression. Bill put his hand on the man’s arm.

“You’re welcome,” he said. As he held the German’s arm, he pulled out of his tunic pocket a flask of rum and gave it to him.

The German was momentarily puzzled, but then realized what Bill was offering. He took the flask, uncorked it, smelled it, and then held it up to the injured man’s lips.

The soldier took two large gulps and sighed, “Ja, das ist gut.”

The German stretcher team helped themselves to the rum and handed it back to Bill empty. It should be noted that the Germans were not given rations of rum as the B.E.F. were, so it was an invitation they wouldn’t refuse.

The men picked up their injured comrade and began walking back toward their lines, but then stopped after several steps. There was a brief discussion between them as we watched curiously. The lead came walking back to us, he pointed at my kilt and blood soaked sleeve then pointed at his injured man and then in the direction of their lines.

“Comrade,” he said and pointed again toward their line. It was clear to us that he was telling us of the location of one of our own wounded.

My heart pounded – could it be Sean? “Let’s go,” Bill said. “Ja, kommen sie hier,” the German replied. We followed him into the muddy darkness. Twenty meters later, he pointed to his right with his free hand. In the darkness, we could make out a figure curled up in a crump hole.

The Germans stood motionless as we scurried to the aid of the khaki figure who was laying as still as dead. In the blackness, he had no way of knowing whether we were friend or foe, so he lay unmoving until I asked, “Are you alive, man?”

The man began to sob. “Thank the Lord, oh Lord, thank you, I am alive.” I recognized the voice. The figure slowly rolled over; he was clutching something. In the darkness I could now see that it was his set of pipes. Sean was alive.

We looked up out of the small crater at the German team. The lead stiffened up, snapped his muddy hobnailed boots together and tilted his head forward in a salute to us. I stood up and returned the honor. Then they moved quickly into the night with their cargo. Bill had been busy inspecting and bandaging Sean and I noticed he was now administering a heavy dose of morphine. I looked at him curiously to see why he was drugging our friend so heavily. Bill looked up into my eyes. His face pale and hard. He shook his head almost imperceptibly. I had seen that look too many times before.

I turned back to Sean. My throat was tightening up but I choked out, “You’ll be okay old chum.”

I couldn’t hold back my tears as our friend quietly drifted off to sleep. We loaded our gravely injured comrade on to our stretcher along with his pipes and carried him back to the aid station, where he died of his wounds twenty minutes later.

The eastern sky was beginning to show signs of dawn. There had been little killing for six or seven hours.

“Perhaps both sides have had enough of this,” I said to no one, but I knew that would not be the case. Like two exhausted prize fighters late in the tenth round, both sides were resting on each other’s shoulders, almost hugging, trying to regain enough strength to continue to pummel their opponent into submission, it was just a matter of time.

Nonetheless, the brief expression of humanity we had just experienced, in a place where inhumanity seemed the rule, was an event we would remember for the rest of our lives along with the loss of our good friend.

When we returned to our trenches, the Lancasters and the Yorks had joined us to relieve what was left of the 39th. When roll call was taken that morning it became clear that no one had realized the magnitude of our losses.

The 9th Irish fusiliers lost all of its officers and had five hundred-twenty casualties out of six hundred-thirty men. The Royal Irish Rifles had five hundred ninety-five injured or killed.

Sadly, Lieutenant McDonnell, for whom we had great regard, was also gravely injured and died in the field with his beloved Irishmen. The 36th Ulster had suffered more than five thousand casual
ties on the first day of the battle. Somme was a fight that would continue for another five months.

Bill and I had somehow survived the worst catastrophe in British military history with minor injuries. My shoulder wound was not enough to get me sent home, but it was enough to require some time away from the Front. We were given a week to recuperate and ordered to billet in a small town by the name of Albert about five miles west southwest of the Beaumont-Hamel and the Front and about three miles from Auchonvillers, where George and Terry had been billeted.

Before we left for Albert, Bill and I made sure that Sean was given a proper burial and that his family was notified of his heroism. His funeral was an emotional event. I piped one of the best bagpipers I had ever known into the grave to the tune of
Flowers of the forest
. We buried him along with his pipes.

FINDING AN OLD FRIEND

T
he main road to Albert was a mess. With so many ambulances coming and going, and an endless train of supply lorries in transit, things were almost at a standstill. We decided to walk. Though we were exhausted and had some distance to cover, it didn’t matter. The fighting had churned up again and every step away from that hell was a step in the right direction. As we distanced ourselves from the Somme battle, the landscape began to transform from a wasteland back into a French countryside. The color green was so beautiful to see, it almost overwhelmed me. Bill and I lazily walked the five miles as if we were on a summer stroll on Wolf Island. Neither of us spoke much. I think we were just trying to avoid thinking at all. We were accompanied by the distant but ever-present noise of the war, which we chose to ignore. When we arrived at the square of Albert, we went straight to the hotel, checked in, had our clothes cleaned of lice, deloused ourselves and took very long, very hot baths. That night we joined up with some jocks from the London Scottish and found a pub that was happy to exchange our money for far too much beer. We all got roaring drunk and laughed and cried, and then went our separate ways. Bill and I somehow found our way back to our hotel and slept for a day and a half. After a week, we received orders that we were to rejoin our countrymen to the north in a city
called Arras. We were being attached to the Canadian 42nd highlanders, and they needed pipes and drums.

The distance from Albert to Arras is about twenty-five miles and parallels the western front rather closely. It is a well-traveled route. The orders gave us three days to make the one-day trip so we were in no big hurry.

But, as always, it seems that when you are in a hurry you can’t find a lift, and when you have all the time in the world everyone wants to give you a ride.

We hopped a lorry and were in Arras by that afternoon. When we got to the city it was evident that the war had arrived before us. This beautiful and ancient city had been laid waste by German artillery. Some of the most magnificent churches and buildings in France had been reduced to rubble, but the city was still very much alive.

The British Command firmly held the city now and had moved the fight further to the east by several miles to Vimy Ridge, a location that provided the Germans with high ground. It gave them a tactical superiority which they took full advantage of.

Despite the severe damage inflicted on the city, we were able to secure lodging at the Hotel de L’Universe, which remained fully open.

This particular afternoon Bill and I had just purchased a baguette and a half-wheel of brie near the center of the city and were dividing it up with a small bottle of red wine when we heard a familiar sound – bagpipes.

“I can’t seem to get away from that confounded sound,” Bill joked. After a few mouthfuls of bread, cheese, and wine we agreed to go in search of the piper. We walked down several very narrow, winding streets but couldn’t get a fix on the location of the unknown piper.

Finally, in front of us was a huge cathedral that had been badly damaged on one side. We were getting closer to the sound. At the end of the block we could see that the other side of the cathedral was still fully intact. There was a huge assembly of men in a large
courtyard that were gathered around a stage, a kilted regiment. On the stage were four Scotts preforming the Scottish sword dance and a lone piper.

The piper was playing a familiar tune, “The Rakes of Mallow.” The song is normally a two-four march, and it’s a peppy tune, but this fellow was ripping through it. The dancers were having a terrible time keeping up and the crowd was howling with laughter at their difficulty.

The faster he played, the faster they danced, and the louder the crowd laughed. It was just the medicine these lads needed after a week-and-a-half on the Somme.

“No one can play ‘Rakes’ that fast, eh?” I said to Bill.

“I know someone who can,” Bill said in feigned annoyance, “and I’ll bet my 6 pence a day pay it’s Manning.” He wasn’t fooling me – I knew he was as happy to see our old friend as I was. We rushed over.

Terry hadn’t noticed our arrival yet. He was poised in a classic piper stance and fighting off a laugh as he put the dancers through the paces.

Bill yelled, “Hey pal, what you need up there is a good drummer.” Terry turned to see who the rude heckler was. His mouth piece fell out when he realized who had yelled.

“Bill! Ian! Am I ever glad to see you fellows.” He hopped off the stage as his drones groaned to a stop from lack of air and the crowd protested his departure. We all embraced and exchanged greetings.

“Where is that big lug McKee?” Bill asked.

“He was wounded the night before day one so he is loafing in the 5th Canadian hospital. George and I billeted with some muckety-muck from the Royal Army Medical corps just prior to the big show. He pulled some strings and the Doc is working for the RAMC now. It seems he’s worth more as a medic than as a piper,” Terry said.