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| Part of the Canadian Vimy Memorial, copyright Melanie Wills |
If you were a young Canadian man in 1917, you might well
have been involved in the Battle of Vimy Ridge on April 9. Here’s an excerpt
from my novel, Elusive Dawn, from the point of view of one of the Canadian
officers. Some of the women working as nurses and ambulance drivers were
waiting behind the lines to pick up the pieces. This has been abridged, leaving
out some military details and mention of other characters.
Justin
Carrington was thankful to be out of the deep subway and cave where the slimy
chalk walls had begun to close in on him, reminding him of the suffocating mud
of the Somme, making him ashamed of the panic that he had to force back into
the pit of his belly. By now he should have been used to the sweat and latrine
stench of war, but with men packed so tightly together in these underground
tunnels grey with cigarette and candle smoke, the oxygen seemed to have been
used up. So he breathed deeply of the cold, pre-dawn air.
Like most
of the men, he hadn’t been able to sleep, even if it had been physically
possible to find a comfortable place to rest. For months the entire Canadian
Corps had been training for this day. Over and over they had practiced behind
the lines – their objectives carefully laid out, the timing of their advance
coordinated to the split-second – so that every last man knew exactly what to
do….
The men had
had their rum ration, and boxes of Canadian Lowney chocolate bars had
miraculously appeared. Justin savoured every bite of his, while relishing the
reminder of home.
So now they
all stood silently in the trenches, in the rain that was turning to sleet, many
up to their knees in icy sludge. 30,000 Canadian infantry strung along the four
miles of Vimy Ridge. With another 70,000 soldiers in support roles behind – the
gunners, engineers, medics, cooks, and so forth – it meant that the entire
Canadian Corps was here, together for the first time….
Justin
checked his watch yet again. 5:15. Almost Zero Hour.
His company
of four platoons would go over in the second wave, leap-frogging those leading
the assault at a predetermined line. The first battalions were already in the
shallow jumping-off trenches and craters in no-man’s-land.
After a
week of constant shelling that had pummeled the German trenches and defences
with a million shells, the silence now was eerie. And taut. Every one of them
knew only too well that the Allies had tried and failed to take this strongly
fortified and tactically important ridge during the past two years…. Despite
some trepidation, Justin felt confident that their intense preparation and
unprecedented bombardment would surprise and overwhelm the Germans.
And he felt
buoyed by the latest letter from Antonia Upton. She had written, “We have been
evacuating the wounded from the base hospitals in large numbers recently,”
which, in the parlance of censorship, insinuated that she realized space was
being made for an onslaught of new casualties. She went on to say:
We often hear the remorseless guns, and I
wonder how you can stand the diabolical noise that surely threatens the very
sanity of civilization. When we have air raids here, I sometimes find it
difficult to muster the courage to keep going, cherishing the sanctity and
preciousness of life too much to lose it. There is so much yet to experience,
so much promise to fulfill. It seems almost treasonous to admit that I don’t
want to sacrifice myself or any of my friends to the dubious glory of the
Empire. Forgive my womanly heart, for I do not mean to diminish what you men
are trying and dying to achieve.
I expect you will soon be
preoccupied, and trust you will be careful as well as lucky. I enjoyed our
perambulations about the Hampshire countryside, and hope we can repeat those
when the wildflowers are in bloom and the trees, lushly green. And perhaps you
will take me sailing and canoeing when I come to visit your magical Muskoka. I
have presumptuously included a photograph of myself in the event that you may
wish to recall your correspondent.
Fondly, Toni
He had
chuckled at the formality of that last sentence, which was no doubt intended to
make the gesture appear less intimate. But he was delighted by the photograph
and studied it frequently as if he could delve better into her psyche. To him
it was evident that she was transparent, her inner beauty reflected in her
outer attractiveness. From her perceptive, forthright gaze shone humour and a
joie de vivre that captivated him. He had the picture tucked into his breast
pocket, and felt the intoxicating stirrings of love.
Joyfully he
had replied to her:
Your photo has brought me much cheer, but I
hope that I may see the real you before long. Not in your capacity as an
ambulance driver, however!
I applaud your womanly heart, and
agree with your sentiments. I have done much soul-searching over the past two
years, caught between my civilized conscience and the dictates of war. I have
seen both the best and the worst that human beings can do, the many and ever
more mechanized ways we can slaughter one another, although we are more alike
than dissimilar.
Your friendship has revived in me
the determination to survive this war and to make a difference in a world
changed forever, but open to new possibilities. Our generation must try to
right the wrongs that brought us here and for which so many, as Rupert Brooke
so aptly said, ‘poured out the red sweet wine of youth’.
Be assured that your thoughts and
words comfort and sustain me, Toni. I long to sit in the sunshine with you,
listening to the birds, but without the guns which now disturb their songs. The
larks here seem forever hopeful. So shall I be.
Affectionately, Justin
It was
snowing now, the wind whipping up a blizzard.
5:28. Two
minutes to go. After a passing whisper, the tiny clinks of bayonets being fixed
to rifles coalesced and tinkled down the line.
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