The Last Lady from Hell (34 page)

McKee looked up in total amazement as he realized that he and Kelton were not alone.

“What the hell?” he said, dumbfounded.

“Don’t swear,” Greenhow said and stretched out his hand. “Leslie Greenhow is the name. We’re here to help.”

“I could use some and am I ever glad to see you,” Dan said. They shook hands as if meeting at a social function.

“Let’s see about that leg,” Leslie said, getting to work. “How’s your friend?”

“He’s lost a lot of blood. We stopped him up as well as we could, but that was some time ago,” Dan said.

Greenhow applied a tourniquet to Dan’s leg and dressed the wounds temporarily while his partner inspected Kelton.

“This looks like an expert applied this pressure wrap!” Green-how’s partner said.

“One of our party was a med student before he joined up.” Dan said.

“Nice job,” Greenhow said, nodding. “Now, let’s get you out of here. Can you walk?”

“I’ll keep up,” Dan grunted. “Don’t worry.”

The two bearers grabbed the semi-conscious Kelton and slung him neatly onto the stretcher.

“Ready?” Greenhow yelled taking up the aft and the most dangerous position on the stretcher. “Let’s go home, shall we?”

They lifted Kelton smoothly up and began to walk up the rim of the shell hole. Dan hobbled along grimacing with the pain, but true to form, kept up with the stretcher team. Artillery shells continued
to explode nearby and the machine gun bullets relentlessly whizzed past them in search of a target.

“Only fifteen yards to go,” Leslie said as they ran, stumbling around the rim of a large shell crater.

Gunther Bayer was struggling with his Minenwerfer, along with his fellow artillery men, through the forward trenches. With four ten-pound bombs strapped to each man’s waist belt and the 250 pound trench mortar on a two wheeled trolley, it took two strong men to make the weapon even modestly portable over the rough trench floor.

“Is this thing getting heavier or am I just getting old?” he asked his comrade with a smile.

“Yes,” was the reply.

“Ha!” Gunther laughed. The men had covered about two hundred yards of trench and their legs and arms were beginning to burn as one pushed and one pulled.

“Break,” Gunther said, and the two men stopped and put down the small cannon. Both men put their hands on their lower backs just above their rumps and stretched backward trying to loosen their taut muscles.

“Dummkopfs!” Gunther barked.

“Who? Our side or theirs?” his partner joked.

“Both!” he shot back. Both men roared with laughter this time. Their orders had arrived less than one hour ago stating that they were to go to the most forward trench and deliver their bombs so as to reach a target between the danger tree and the British trenches. They were given an approximate grid position, but no further information.

Gunther took his trench periscope, a three-foot tube with an angled mirror on the bottom and another on the top which allowed one to safely peer over the trenches, and took a look toward his
target. All he saw was a wall of dust, dirt, and debris being created by the barrage.

What could his commander possibly be thinking about? It couldn’t be a major assault or they would be sending up troops and using their own artillery. This made no sense.

“Fifty more yards,” Gunther said. “Then we lighten our load and drag this little beast home.” The men took their positions and continued their arduous trek.

Gunther had been on the Somme for several months, he knew the trenches like the back of his hand and they hadn’t changed position the whole time of his deployment.

Nothing has changed but the men keep dying, he thought. They finally arrived at the spot that he knew would give him the best position for firing his gun. They removed the weapon, anchored it with spikes to the dirt, and pointed her in the direction of the target. The distance would be around three hundred yards to the 1st British trench, so he set the Minenwerfer’s trajectory angle at forty three degrees. That would give the small shell nearly two hundred eighty yards of throw, give or take ten yards for possible differing conditions. He would then increase the trajectory by two degrees each round and walk the explosions back toward them.

His partner took the periscope and looked over the parapet. “Nothing but a cloud. What is it we are shooting at?”

“A grid box,” Gunther shouted over the noise. His partner grabbed one of his bombs and held it ready at the mouth of the mortar awaiting the command.

“Fire!” Gunther yelled.

His comrade let go of the bomb and turned away from the gun, covering his ears, as did Gunther. The load slid down the barrel and hit the firing pin igniting the charge that would propel it toward the enemy.

Thunk! The shell was sent high over No Man’s Land to its final destination. They loaded the next round.

Just ten yards to go now, Leslie could see the parapet of the most forward trench plainly. With each step closer came an ever increasing feeling of safety. He knew he could go no faster than the man at the lead and Leslie knew him to be one of the most capable men he had ever worked with. The muddy, rough terrain made for painfully slow going nonetheless.

Through the explosions of the eighteen-pounders and the rattle of the Maxims came a familiar sound – and not a good one. Thunk! It was the distinct sound of a Minnie. He hated that sound.

Leslie had been doing his job long enough to know that to run for cover was pointless. It was better to simply continue what you were doing and try to complete the save. He recited the 23rd Psalm again to himself.

The lead had also heard the Minnie and picked up his pace as fast as he dared. Leslie felt the tug of the increased step and followed suit. The shell exploded about ten yards ahead of them sending a shower of dirt over all four men but miraculously they were not hit.

Thunk! Another round was on the way but it appeared that they had made it. The lead man stepped carefully over the edge of the wall of the trench when the ground behind Leslie exploded, heaving another shower of dirt over them and knocking Dan McKee over the edge to the trench bottom.

The force of the explosion threw Leslie forward down to his knees but he got up and carried Kelton over the edge and into the safety of the trench. At the bottom of the trench the lead began to set the stretcher down as he felt the rear also being gently set down.

He turned to see Leslie drop to his knees and fall forward with a low groan.

“Get off of me!” Kelton howled as Greenhow landed on him. He had no way of knowing that the back of Greenhow’s uniform was tattered and scorched and covered with blood.

“No! Leslie No!” the lead cried out, and scrambled around Kelton to assist his fallen friend. Dan hoisted himself up off the trench floor and limped over to help the leadman with this fallen hero. They rolled Leslie off of Kelton, but Greenhow’s partner turned away, knowing by the extent of the injuries the man was dead.

Somehow Leslie Greenhow had summoned enough determination to carry Kelton down the trench, despite the fact that by all rights he was dead at the trenches edge.

Dan was left cradling Greenhow’s lifeless body as his partner groaned.

Lieutenant Kelton suddenly realized what was happening, he leaned up on his side and looked into the face of the man who had just saved his life. Stunned, he looked at Dan, and his eyes welled up. He gave his life for me,” he said.

McKee held Greenhow in his exhausted arms as if he were a small child and began to sob.

To Minnie

(dedicated to the P.B.I.)
In days gone by some aeons ago
That name my youthful pulses stirred,
I thrilled when’er she whispered low
Ran to her when her voice I heard
.

Ah Minnie! How our feelings change,
For now I hear your voice with dread
And hasten to get out of range
Ere you me on the landscape spread.
Wippers Times/ Somme Times

36TH ULSTER

W
e were three miles south of the staging position for the 29th Division where Terry, Dan and Doc were a part of the 1st Newfoundland Division. Sean, Bill and I were pretty much fed up with the endless racket caused by the unending artillery barrage. Two days of heavy rain and inclement weather had persisted, which made it totally impossible for the forward observers to access the progress of the bombing. Also, no one had the slightest clue that the Germans had built such remarkably strong bunkers, or that the entanglements of the first trench had escaped the intention of our bombardment. All we knew was that our ears had become obvious casualties of the Somme offensive.

Because of the foul weather head command had delayed the ground assault by two days to 1 July. We had two more days of deafening waiting to look forward to. The rain had eased up some and the forecast was for more favorable weather over the next few days, which suited us just fine. Standard issue tents provided minimal protection against the rain unless a liberal oiling had preceded the downpour. Fortunately, we had slathered up our abode just days
earlier. Nevertheless, we could not avoid the wet sloppy conditions completely which added to our misery.

Sean and I had just finished seasoning our bagpipe bags. This is a process that is required with leather bags maybe twice a year to keep them soft and airtight. One must remove all the drones and the chanter and cork off the holes going into the bag. A sticky, smelly, oily substance called seasoning is poured into the bag which is then corked and blown up like a beach ball. You work the seasoning into the bag by rolling the bag around, and the sticky sealant plugs the seams while replenishing the oils the leather loses by being bathed constantly in moisture and saliva. Then it is left to sit for several hours before being played.

Not having much else to do, Sean produced a newspaper and began to read it on his cot. Within five minutes he was laughing hysterically over some article he had been reading.

Bill and I looked at each other, annoyed at being left out of the joke.

“Hey, Giggles, what’s that you’re reading?” Bill asked.

Sean stopped laughing and, wiping his eyes, said, “It’s this paper I found in the latrine. It’s called The Wipers Times and it’s all tongue-in-cheek, very funny stuff.”