The Last Lady from Hell (20 page)

PART FIVE

TOWARD THE SOMME

The 1st Newfoundland Regiment

[Transcribed From Ian MacDonald’s recording]

T
erry, Dan, and Doc had been assigned to the 1st Newfoundland Regiment. However, “The First” had started the 25-mile march a day earlier. So, the three men were put up in a small hotel for the night and had orders to report the next morning to the transportation coordinator to get a lift to the 1st Newfoundlanders.

Left on their own for the evening, the lads felt that some exploration was in order. It was not so much their desire for local knowledge as it was their thirst for beer that motivated them. At 1800 hours (6 p.m.), they set out on this quest for beer. It didn’t take very long before they stumbled upon a sidewalk café where people were chatting and drinking. They decided to make this their first stop. It was a small café with flower pots hanging outside and wrought iron chairs and tables on the sidewalk.

The three men grabbed an empty table and sat down carefully so as not to wrinkle the pleats on the back of their kilts. A garçon
quickly appeared and took their order, having no problem with the English language.

When the beer came, the garcon asked for payment. “Six francs, s’il vous plait,” he said.

“That’s about a buck-and-a-half,” Doc said. They were shocked at the price of beer. Saddened by the realization that, at these prices, a soldier could never afford to become inebriated, they resolved themselves to a short night.

The waiter saw the long looks on their faces and suggested they try the house wine at one franc for three glasses. Canadians are instinctively good with math and can smell a deal a mile away, so they switched to wine and the evening was snatched from the clutches of defeat.

As the three went from café to café and countless conversations with locals they learned more about their host city. They were informed that a cliff separates the city into two halves, the upper and lower city. The city was founded in 1510 and became a major port of trade. The literal translation of Le Havre is “the harbor”. It is situated at the mouth of the Seine River and opens into the English Channel.

Because it was built in the 16th century, the streets were narrow and not well suited for modern motor lorries, so the front street of the harbor, being wider than most, became the road that was most heavily traveled. All of this information and more was being accumulated along with plentiful amounts of wine and food. Sadly, what none of them could know at that time was that 28 years later Le Havre would be completely destroyed in the assault on Normandy in 1944, leaving nothing standing of the ancient city.

A corporal rapped on their door at 0700 hours announcing the time and that a mess would be provided between 0730 and 0830 at the Front Street military depot. Doc sat up and groaned, lying gently back down holding his head. Terry had the same sort of reaction, but big Dan McKee seemed to be impervious to the morning after effects of copious amounts of wine.

“Let’s go Eh, it’ll do you some good to get some coffee and chow into your gullets,” he said.

“I bought the wine yesterday, so why am I paying for it again today?” Terry complained as he carefully climbed out of his cot. He found the washbasin and poured a large portion of the water pitcher over his head. The Doc produced some aspirin and the three men tossed back two pills each and set off to breakfast.

The B.E.F. had set up a large tent with rows of tables and benches. At one side of the tent was a long table with the cooks on one side and the soldiers on the other side being served breakfast. The order of the day was scrambled eggs, a side of bacon, toast and porridge. There were also several large pots of coffee and tea.

Just the smell of cooking bacon seemed to make one hungry, so they quickly moved into the queue and loaded up with food. After a good breakfast, they were indeed feeling better and all agreed that the next move was to find the transportation depot before they were listed as AWOL.

Dan took the lead in asking directions and before too long they were at the supply depot. A very officious corporal, who seemed to be in charge, or at least in the know, studied their orders and informed them that there were two convoys leaving in one hour. He said they should hop on one of the motor lorries carrying provisions bound for Bolbec, a city about 25 miles northeast.

“How do we find the 1st Newfoundland Regiment?” Terry asked, feeling much better than he did two hours earlier.

“My paperwork indicates that they are attached to the 88th brigade of the 29th Division, and that they will be moving out by rail this evening. Simply ask someone when you get to Bolbec for the 88th Brigade of the 29th Division,” the corporal said dismissively.

Dan McKee leaned across the desk of the corporal and said in a low growl, “Write it down on a piece of paper.”

The corporal looked up at the big figure hovering over his desk and took a dry gulp, his Adam’s apple slid conspicuously up and then down. He quickly grabbed a piece of paper and a fountain pen and scribbled out the necessary information handing it briskly to McKee.

Next Dan, who had not moved, said, “Point in the direction of the convoy.”

The corporal rapidly raised his arm and pointed in the general direction. Dan smiled a broad grin beneath his full mustache and patted the corporal on the head as he would a good dog. Then the three all turned and left the silent corporal allowing him to regain his composure.

Down near the docks the convoys were being loaded by hand which required hundreds of men armed with hand trucks and strong backs. There was one fellow standing in the middle of loading the area with a clipboard in his hand yelling out orders to men as they wheeled crates past directing them to deliver their load to the correct lorry. It was a chaotic scene that was somehow being organized by this supply depot maestro.

Terry decided that they should stay out of the way until the activity subsided a bit so as not to disrupt the work in progress. For half an hour the men sat on three crates that were being ignored until the maestro, after craning his neck around and standing on a small box suddenly stared right at the three kilted soldiers.

“There they are! Bloody hell! I’ve been looking for those crates for 20 minutes.” He quickly verified his statement by checking the numbers on the crates with the numbers on the clipboard. The trio hopped off the boxes as a swarm of men with hand trucks charged toward them.

“Put them in Lorry #107 men,” the maestro ordered.

“Hey!” Dan yelled above the noise of the depot. “What lorry do you want us in?”

The load maestro looked puzzled for a moment. He glanced at his clipboard, then back at Dan. “Who are you and why would I want you in one of my lorries?”

“We’re attached to the 1st Newfoundland Regiment and have orders to hop your convoy in order to catch them in Bolbec before they move out tonight,” Terry volunteered.

“I have room in the rear two lorries of the first convoy. I must warn you, however, these vehicles are designed to carry boxes, not men, so it will not be a comfortable ride.”

The Maestro then looked at his clipboard, made some notes with his pencil, and turned his attention back to directing the loading of his convoys.

The three friends fetched their equipment and made their way to the second convoy in search of their ride. A total of ten trucks were lined up, the last two were spaced about 100 feet back from the rest with the same distance between them. Each lorry had two eight-pound field cannons, in tandem, between them. They approached the fully loaded Lorry #112, the next to the last in the line, and noticed that no one was aboard.

“Let’s make ourselves at home,” Dan suggested. They threw their things in the back on top of stacks of crates and proceeded to build a more comfortable riding environment by laying out bedrolls and backpacks.

Then a voice came from the driver side of the lorry. “Ello? Wot ’ave we ’ere?” An unshaven, scruffy-haired head was peering over the boxes at the lads. The driver. He smiled at them and exposed a mouth full of crooked yellow teeth.

“Makin’ comfy, eh?” His cockney accent was almost undecipherable. “Make ’er comfy, bumpy, not too lumpy.” The driver continued to expose his snaggly smile.

The cockney often speak in rhymes and often the rhymes are abbreviated to just the last words in the rhyme. This makes it almost impossible to understand the meaning unless you’re cockney. For example, “Make ’er cumfy, bumpy, not too lumpy” could eventually
be abbreviated to “not too lumpy,” meaning make yourselves comfortable.

Doc smiled back, shrugged his shoulders and said, “Thanks.” The other two asked what the driver said.

“I have no idea, but he seemed happy, so I just said thanks,” Doc confided.

The driver diverted his attention to a large man in coveralls that was standing in the front of the truck.

“Neutral!” he yelled to the large man, confirming the truck was not in gear.

“Crank ’er” the driver yelled as he pulled the choke to the full on position. The large crank-man grabbed the engine crank and with one mighty yank, spun the Renault six cylinder engine to life. The driver eased off on the choke and the engine clattered and ticked at a comfortable idle RPM, while producing a faint cloud of blue smoke rising up between the floorboards. The driver then squeezed the large rubber ball on the end of the air horn, signaling to the cranker that all was well. The large man moved on to the next truck.

The driver was diligently checking his equipment, first the oil pressure gauge, then he pulled back on a large emergency brake lever located outside the cab on his left side and ratcheted back to the full on position. He then shifted the truck into first gear with a noticeable amount of grinding and gently let up on the clutch, the engine began to bog down as the lorry tried to move with the brake holding fast. Satisfied that the emergency brake was functioning as well as could be expected, he was ready to move out with the rest of the convoy.

“Ang on, lads,” he yelled. “’iss ain’t no breed’n Rolls.”

“We’re ready,” Terry responded. The driver popped a half chewed unlit cigar into his mouth, ground the Renault into first gear and let out the clutch. The lorry lurched forward. The cockney double-clutched the truck into second gear with far less grinding and the lorry picked up speed in order to keep up with the convoy that was already well ahead.

The Renault, like many trucks of its time had almost solid rubber tires and no shock absorbers, so when run over the cobblestones of Front Street, it provided a ride that could only have been rougher had steel wagon wheels been used instead of the rubber.

The crates hopped with every large bump and shifted unsteadily as the lorry moved through town. The three passengers eyed the stacks of crates waiting for the poorly secured cargo to tumble.

“What’s in the crates?” Terry asked as he steadied one crate.

“Flyin’ pigs, mostly,” the driver called back over his shoulder. Terry assumed it was more cockney jibberish.

“What is it again?” he asked, hoping for a different, more recognizable answer.

“Rum jars, toffee apples ’n flyin’ pigs,” the driver reiterated flatly.

“Did you say, rum? Mind if we crack a jar for the road?” Dan asked.

The driver craned his neck around with his eyes wide open – “If you wanta blow us all to ’ell! Bloody ’ell, do I look like a bleedin’ wet nurse? Toc, Emma, flyin’ Pigs–trench mortars!” he accentuated the trench mortar part.

It was common on the western front to employ trench slang for everything from toilet paper to ammunition. Soldiers often used the alpha numeric system in reference to items, for example, Able, Baker, Charlie stood for A, B, C, and so on. The trench mortar was abbreviated to TM, or Toc Emma.

The three immediately tensed and considered jumping off, even at 25 miles per hour. The driver glanced back and saw the concerned looks on their faces.

“No need to fret, gents. I bin transportin pigs for o’r a year and I kin say wifout reservation, none ’ave blown yet,” he said. “In fact, it’s almost unnerd of – it’s bloody ’ard ’nuf to get ’em to pop off when we lob ’em at Fritz.”