The Last Lady from Hell (24 page)

Terry stopped shouting and just looked at Doc with puzzlement. He realized now, it had begun as a low rumble barely audible above the noise of the boxcar. He had almost felt it before it was really heard. A tickle in his chest that he ignored at first, but it was now undeniable.

“It sounds like a motorcar race,” Dan yelled. “It’s deafening.”

One of the Newfoundlanders who had been through Gallipoli yelled over, “That’s the Front lad!”

“What? What did you say?” Doc yelled.

“The Front, the artillery!” he shouted. “Those flashes of lightening are, in fact, muzzle flashes from hundreds of canons and that overpowering noise is the reports of those guns.”

They went to the door to look out. The sky was still dark, but the horizon over the gently rolling hills was alive with an unending series of strobe-like flashes.

Colonel Kelton, who had been riding with his men in the car, came over. “That’s Haige’s Big Push!” he shouted. “His plan is to bombard the German lines for about a week, night and day. They say he plans to deliver over a million and a half shells!”

Doc, who was a whiz with mathematics, looked contemplative. “Let’s see… Seven times twenty-four is one hundred sixty-eight hours in a week. That divides into fifteen hundred about nine times… move the decimal point three places and you have approximately nine thousand shells per hour. Divide that by sixty, and that’s one hundred-fifty per minute, or two point five shells per second. That’s a lot of noise.”

Dan, Terry and the colonel were staring at George with their mouths hanging slightly open, none of them knowing quite what to say.

“It sure as hell is,” Dan finally said.

“Does he always do that?” Kelton asked Terry.

“Fortunately, no,” Terry said.

The artillery barrage had been under way for three days now. As the train came to a halt a scant ten miles from the Front, the fresh troops could plainly see that the troops who worked the deployment camp were drawn and tired; the exposure to so much noise for so long had taken its toll.

Dan had been right, the sound of so many guns going off at the same time sounded like a giant engine with no muffler. The guns firing were so large, so frequent, and were fired over such a large area, that no single report could be heard, only a constant roar. The three friends were taken aback by the sound and the enormity of the war machine that was unleashing its lethal power just over the hill. One thing that the men all agreed upon immediately was that they were glad not to be in those German trenches.

The morning sun was just rising in the east, there was an ugly reddish-orange hue to the sky. There was little wind at the time and the air hung heavy with the acrid smell of spent cordite, making the men cough and causing their eyes to water.

In the late 1800’s, black powder had been replaced with an almost smokeless charge called pyrocellulose, invented by the Frenchman Paul Vielle. The next year an improved version was introduced by Swede Alfred Nobel called ballistite. The year after that an Englishman and Scot, Sir Frederick Able and Sir James Dewar invented cordite.

Cordite provided more power and was almost smoke free. The smoke produced by black powder was so great that in the Civil War of the United States entire battlefields would be engulfed in an acrid cloud within which the men could actually become lost. Troops on both sides would have to discontinue the battle until the smoke cleared. It was a problem that begged to be solved. Another shortfall of black powder smoke was that it gave away the position of artillery guns, even a sniper could be detected by his guns’ puff of smoke.

That being said, when an assembly of artillery fires nine thousand shells per hour, twenty-four hours a day, it produces so much pollution that a dull layer of acrid smog hangs over the area, most noticeably downwind.

The men that were assembling at the base camp of the 29th division were now getting their first taste of the battle Somme.

36TH ULSTER TO THE SOMME

[Transcribed from Ian MacDonald’s recording]

O
ne day behind the movement of the 29th Division and the 1st Newfoundland Regiment, Sean, Bill and I were making our way toward the Somme Valley attached to the 36th Ulster Division. Like the 29th Division, the movement of the Ulster Division was an immense and arduous undertaking. So many men and so much equipment had to be moved that often it seemed like pure chaos.

The means by which each part accomplished its job may not have been completely clear. In fact, to me it seemed like a symphony tuning up before a performance. Out of the confusion emerged a remarkable result: intentional Divisional troop movement in a common direction. The sum of the parts, indeed, created a whole.

The 36th Ulster Division was made up of three main regiments: The Royal Inniskilling Fusiliers, The Irish Fusiliers, and the Royal Irish Rifles. Sean, Bill, and I were assigned to the Rifles.

Although we were warmly welcomed into their group, it soon became painfully evident to us that Ireland was suffering from some deep-seated problems of which Canadians–at least we three–were mostly unaware.

It soon became apparent that the 36th–to all outward appearances a strong, tightly knit unit–struggled with real internal tensions. This fine group of men held a deep animosity toward some of their fellow Irishmen. Although the 36th had more Protestants than Catholics, and more Northern than Southern Irish, there was a large enough mix to cause problems within the group.

We were curious about this obvious rift and knowing that Lieutenant McDonnell was a man of sensibilities and reason, we approached him on the subject that afternoon.

“Come to my tent boys and I’ll do my best to clear some of the mud from the water,” he said.

We followed him into his quarters and were invited to sit as he poured us each a glass of Bushmills Whiskey.

“The story of my country is a sad and tragic one,” he began. “My Ireland is an island of passionate people. We’re fine fighters, good poets, good drinkers and good workers.”

He sipped from his glass. “However, we’re also very stubborn and unable to compromise our opinions, and this hampers our progress toward peace and unity. There are zealots on both sides–the Ribbon-men on the Catholic side and Orange-men on the Protestant side. Each organization stirs up the passions of its people to create discord for their own political purposes.” He held his glass of Bushmills to the light and peered through it for a moment before continuing.

“The Northern part of Ireland is predominantly protestant and pro-British rule. The southern part of Ireland is predominantly Catholic and favors self-rule. The battle between Protestant and Catholic is not really one of religion but one of politics that is propagated by both religious groups in order to maintain control of their people.

“The British who still rule Ireland feel obligated to maintain their presence and, therefore, protect the Protestants while quelling the Catholic unrest with strong military pressure. It doesn’t help that most upper-crust British regard the Irish as nothing more than an unruly, uneducated, drunken lot of ne’er-do-wells.”

“But, sir,” Bill interrupted, “You’re a well-spoken man of obvious education and you have risen to a rank of leadership in the B.E.F.”

“That’s true,” McDonnell said, “but I had to work harder than most of my British counterparts just to reach this rank. And, unfortunately, any promotion in rank will remain confined to that required within the 36th Ulster and not beyond.”

The dark amber liquid in my glass burned as I swallowed it. The warm sensation sat for a minute in my stomach as the colonel tried to explain his country’s problems.

“The sad truth is that both sides believe that they are right and they are willing to kill and die for their respective beliefs. If you took fifty Protestant and fifty Catholic Irishmen, stripped them naked and put them in a room ordering them not to speak, you wouldn’t know one from the other. But, allow them to open their mouths and in ten minutes you’d have two angry gangs of fifty naked fools ready to fight.”

We smiled at each other with the ridiculous image, but McDonnell didn’t return the smile. This was a subject that obviously tore at his soul.

“I fear my country is its own worst enemy,” he said. “The real irony is that after years of fighting for home rule and appealing to the British government for that right, the House of Commons overrode a veto by the House of Lords concerning the Government of Ireland Act. The move by the House of Commons opened the door for Ireland and the prospect for home rule seemed within reach. That was early 1914–the whole subject was shelved because of the outbreak of this damn war.”

“You were so close to achieving independence and fate stole it away,” Sean said in disbelief.

“Indeed. The Luck of the bloody Irish, eh?” McDonnell quipped. “Despite the set-back, the majority of Irish men put aside the strife of our homeland and answered Britain’s call for help.”

“That speaks volumes about the character of your people,” I said. “I hope someday that all the hatred will be put aside and that your country will be united.”

“A united Ireland is now just a dream, and a fading one at that. It gets worse,” Owen said knocking back the rest of his glass, his voice lowered into almost a growl. “This year while we were over here fighting for England, some at home couldn’t–or wouldn’t–wait for a peaceful resolution to our problems. Rather they saw an opportunity in England’s involvement in the war. Sinn Fein planned an Easter rebellion starting in Dublin and even accepted guns and ammunition from the Huns for their army. The Germans, of course, were happy to supply the boys knowing that England would now be fighting on two fronts, a distraction the Germans would take full advantage of.”

We glanced at each other and nodded. It was a brilliant yet dastardly move.

“On Good Friday last, a German ship came to port in Ireland and off-loaded its deadly and deceptive cargo for our self-proclaimed patriots. The filthy Huns were using the Irish Citizens Army to deliver a blow into England. The I.C.A., in consorting with the Germans disgraced those Irishmen who have died in the war, a slap in the face to those of us that are still here fighting.”

Owen poured another whiskey and topped us off. His face was drawn and his brow was furrowed. “The week of Easter was a bloody one for Ireland on two fronts. The British poured twenty thousand men into Dublin. They fired upon our city, and after the rebellion was put to rest, two hundred fifty-four innocent civilians–men, women, and children–had been killed along with one hundred-sixteen British soldiers and sixty-four of the Irish Citizens Army. Now fifty thousand British soldiers occupy my country, and the prospect of home rule has been all but lost. And all this has done is to fan the flames of hate and feed the bellies of the Orange men and the Ribbon men. Do you see what’s been happening to my island?” Owen asked.

We all nodded. This was a puzzle to which there seemed to be no answer. I felt sad for these brave men.

“I would like to have a moment alone, if you would be so kind,” Owen said.