The Last Lady from Hell (9 page)

The Germans used three basic gas types. First there was Lachrymator, a form of tear gas, non-lethal, but effective in disabling troops for a brief period of time. Next were a group of gasses that were all lethal and debilitating. These included chlorine, phosgene (which damaged the respiratory system), disphosgene (which could dissolve the filters in gas masks), and asphyxiant gas (which displaced oxygen and caused suffocation). Even if initially survived, these gasses would cause slow death or long term damage.

Finally there was dichlorethylsulphide, a blistering agent commonly called mustard gas. It was inexpensive to produce, easy to handle and its ability to sink into trenches and linger for long periods made this the most frequently used gas throughout the war.

The Fourth Army was standing ready for the word from the Pioneer’s meteorologists and specialists. The next opportunity would not be lost to over-caution. This time they had increased the amount of gas canisters, thereby creating a far more lethal and long lasting attack.

The artillery was also ready to lay down an initial barrage short of the allied lines to cover up the approaching gas cloud. Then they would pound the back of the allied positions to prevent the troops from advancing from the rear as well as retreating from the front. It was a death trap.

The attack plan was to open a gap wide enough to send a large number of the Fourth Army troops through the center of the hole with enough room on each side to reduce the possibility of being flanked. Then they would push for the coast and cut off the allied supply lines.

Gunter knew of the plan; it was no great secret. A lot was riding on the outcome of today’s attack because this infernal trench war provided little movement in either direction. If the attack proved successful and allowed the Germans to advance, the gas attacks would increase and it would be the new weapon of choice.

But there are so many variables, Gunter thought to himself. He lit up a cigarette and took a long draw on it. As he exhaled the smoke, the field telephone rang causing both him and the telephone operator to jump.

“The meteorologists in the north sections say they have wind! They are asking for our observation,” the operator relayed to Gunter.

The meteorologist who should have given the information was at that moment indisposed with a rather persistent case of the trots. Gunter looked over at the latrine and took another deep drag of his cigarette. As he exhaled, he realized that his smoke was drifting away in a north westerly direction. Perfect.

“Tell them that the wind is North westerly at three to five kilometers,” Gunter said. The operator quickly passed the information along, then looked questioningly at Gunter.

“You don’t have to be a meteorologist to watch my smoke float away!” Gunter said indignantly.

“They say they will begin the artillery barrage in twenty minutes if there is no change in conditions,” the operator said. “Please give a condition report in ten minutes and in twenty minutes.”

Gunter wished he had kept his mouth shut. He quietly cursed the sick meteorologist. He didn’t need this extra stress. After all he
had a 2.5 km. section of the gas line to tend to and he needed to ensure that the continuity of the release mechanisms were good.

“Get the damn meteorologist out of the crapper!” Gunter barked. “I have my own work to do!” He stormed off.

YPRES SALIENT, 24 APRIL, 1915. TIME: 12:00

In flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below
.

We are the dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In flanders fields
.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch;be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In flanders fields.
Lt. Colonel John McCrae MD C.E.F.

A
lan kept trying to run, but it was pointless. He stomped his boots on an area of duck board that for some reason had no mud on it in an attempt to loosen the stubborn sludge from his hob nails. It wasn’t that he needed to get back with any urgent news.

“This horse is heading for the barn” he told himself. Even though he had traveled the same path less than an hour ago, he pulled out his route directions and made sure of his position.

He recalled a chum who had gotten disoriented and wound up in an area of the front trenches that were so close to the German lines that he heard the German troops talking to each other.

“No friggin’ way,” Alan said out loud, determined not to have the same fate befall him.

He began to trot along the main trench then turned right into a shallow mud-filled communications trench, it seemed familiar. The short trench was slow going but it soon plopped him out into the main trench where he saw the two dead soldiers in the funk-hole. He looked down as he walked by them, he wasn’t really interested in renewing the mental image of those poor souls.

“I’ll send someone,” he quietly said to the lifeless men. He picked up his pace again. He rounded a bend in the trench and was momentarily startled as he came face to face with a detachment of replacements clanging, talking, and smoking as they marched through the muck toward the Front.

“How is it up front today, mate?” one cockney fellow asked.

“Quiet so far!” Alan said, relieved to find he was not alone. He stood aside to let the men through. With all of the junk that was attached to them it’s a wonder they fit down some of these narrow trenches Alan thought. As the voices and clanging faded behind him he felt alone again. Looking up at the sound of a passing reconnaissance aeroplane high above, he noted that the sky was a clear blue backdrop to his dismal surroundings. The sun was now high enough in the sky where it shone over the edge of the trenches. It felt warm and welcome on the back of Alan’s wool tunic.

Alan knew this area of trench well and was feeling more at ease to the point where he allowed his mind to wander back to Wolfe Island. The warmth somehow triggered thoughts of springtime back on the farm with brother Ian. That was a good time of year. The cold winter was behind, the summer ahead, crocuses were up, and robins were bouncing across greening lawns. The world was coming back to life. Alan looked around at this bleak trench hoping to find some sign of spring, of life. He knew that if he were to look over the parapet all he would see was a country side gutted by countless artillery bombardments, snapped and limbless tree trunks, remnants of farm houses or churches and countless bodies strewn everywhere. All signs of normal life had been obliterated and the landscape had been reduced to a lifeless, unrecognizable scar. A small tuft of sod that was clinging to the upper edge of the trench caught Alan’s eye and he stopped to look at its few blades of grass. The small patch of green invoked a slight smile as he marveled at its tenacity in hanging on to life. Alan’s moment of reflection was interrupted by the buzzing sound of bullets overhead, like angry hornets. In the distance a German Maxim 08 rattled and growled as it delivered its deadly message. Alan picked up his pace.

Alan knew the main trench he was now in very well. Approximately 100 meters ahead of his position, the trench connected with the Yser canal where an advanced dressing station had been established some time ago. He would often stop there on the return run if his mission was not urgent. Even if it was a time sensitive mission there was a field phone located in the station and he could pass on information to his superiors more quickly from there.

There was a mildly selfish reason he looked forward to stopping in upon his return trips and that was because of a friendship that had developed with the chief surgeon, Major John McCrae. McCrae was from Guelph just outside of Toronto and the two men would kid each other with a good-natured rivalry between Queens and Toronto University. Major McCrae was always quick with a cup of hot tea, if there were no wounded to attend to, and he would sit with
Alan for long periods of time discussing matters of art, politics and religion. Their conversations were always civil and good-natured, McCrae not being one to make display of rank.

Dr. John McCrae was twenty years Alan’s elder and looked at Alan almost as a son. He feared that this bright and energetic young man would become victim to this mad war that had devoured so many young men before him. It was a weight that became increasingly heavy day after day in McCrae’s mind. He needed a break badly, but the wounded needed him more.

Alan was looking forward to a nice visit. Perhaps John would have some good news from back home. A hot cup of tea and some good company was a welcome thought. A slight breeze kissed the hair on the nape of Alan’s neck, which along with the warmth of the sun on his back made for a comfortable combination.

Suddenly he stopped in his tracks, and tuned toward the front. The mild breeze was now blowing directly in his face at what he estimated was about four kilometers an hour. A chill ran down his back. It was an ideal wind for the delivery of gas. Alan spun and began to run toward the dressing station as quickly as was possible. This change in conditions was information that was of extreme importance, he had to get to that field phone. As he ran the last fifty meters through the muddy trench, he listened for the clanging of shell casing behind him, none so far.

YPRES, BELGIUM, 24 APRIL, 1915 TIME: 14:00

T
he French, Algerian colonials and the Canadians had learned some valuable lessons from the gas attack two days prior. For example, the Germans would begin a large-scale bombardment of the rear of the area being attacked. This would, of course, trap the troops on the front between a death by gas and a death by artillery bombardment. The deadly trap also provided protection for the Germans against any troops moving up to reinforce those being slaughtered.

With this knowledge in hand, the French and British commanders decided that if a subsequent gas attack was to again be unleashed, the immediate response would be to have the heavy British sixty-pound guns return a counter attack on German artillery positions, and for the smaller French 75 mm field cannons, with their superior accuracy and rapid fire capability, unleash a concentrated attack on the areas suspected of being the gas release points. It was hoped that the plan would reduce the deadly firepower of the German heavy guns and disrupt the even-blanket dispersal of the poisonous gas by forcing it to dissipate more rapidly.