The
last few wisps of fog floated up and away, dissipating into nothingness, burned
away by the relentless spring sun. Although fog had lain heavy on the Channel
for days, today, of all days, it vaporized into thin air, much like the dreams
of all his yesterdays; it seemed that Nature had turned her back on the prayers
of the men in the boats. Ernie looked skyward, into the now clear blue, cursing
himself, the command, even God. Today, of all days, they lose the fog blanket
so necessary for the success of the attack.
“Well,”
stated Sergeant Rupp, from the back of the boat, “looks as though all hope for
a surprise landing is shot all to hell.” No one replied. It was not needed, the
statement spoke for itself. If the Krauts didn’t know they were coming already,
the absence of fog cover would sure give them plenty of time to adjust, and
bring their guns to bear on the landing craft as they beached.
“We
turn back then?” asked Scotty, up near the bow, beside the door that was
designed to lower on impact with the beach, spilling men onto the sand. “Ain’t
no sense in going on, is there? I mean, If the Jerry’s see us coming, what hope
we got in taking that damn beach?”
Rupp
shook his head. “Nope, we go on as planned. Surprise or no, why, one of us
Canucks on the sand is worth two Krauts in the tree every time, right? Besides,
word has come down from the top, mission to advance, no matter what. Mountbatten
wants us to whelm the Jerry’s hard, make a name for his self as a top battle
commander.”
The
boat filled with mutterings at that. It had been assumed that they would only
attack if the fog held and surprise was on their side. Casualties would be high
without the aid of nature. Ernie, who had heard enough, spoke up at last,
saying, “Battle commander? What battle is he going to be a part of? Why, he
isn’t even in one of these boats. He is safe at home in England, probably still
asleep in his bed!”
“That’s
enough, Private,” Rupp answered. “You know full well, I meant as a tactician,
and not a field man. Besides, this is our chance to show the Limey’s that we
colonials are just as fit as they are, if not more so. Battle goes on. ‘Sides,
it is far too late to turn back now, Beach is within sight.” All eyes turned to
the bow, men standing to see beyond the high walls of the metal tub that they
called a boat. There, in the distance, were the cliffs of Dieppe, tall and
forbidding.
“Sweet
Jesus,” muttered O’Riley. “They are some high. You think the Jerry’s have guns
dug in all throughout that there cliff?”
“We
are like to find the answer to that soon enough, lads,” Rupp said, sympathy
touching his voice for the first time. He knew that most of the lads in his
squad were raw, and unblooded. Today would make men of the youngest boys
amongst them, would even break a few down to nothing.
A
distant siren was beginning to wail. The German’s had seen the boats coming.
The fog was gone; of course they had seen them. A dull boom sounded, a long gun
spewing forth a shell. It was beginning. “Helmets on lads,” called Rupp, “keep
those pretty heads down now; things are going to get hairy.”
Ernie
strapped on his helmet, and re-checked his radio equipment. As the company
radio man, he was their contact with the outside, with the command away from
the beach. He had to be ready, or he would fail his mates. Beside him, Dilby
checked his rifle and ammo for the hundredth time. Dilby was Ernie’s best mate,
and had sworn to watch his back, so that Ernie could operate the radio without
needing to worry about firing back at the foe. Usually a talkative fellow,
Dilbs was not saying a word, his face pale, and covered in a cold sweat.
As
the boat got closer, the sounds of gun fire grew more pronounced. All the men
in the boat paled. Some began to pray, lifting quiet words up to a God unknown
to war. Others checked ammo belts, still others wept silently, the tears
streaming, almost unnoticed. Loud “pings” sounded as bullets began raining down
on the ship. Mitchel, the preacher’s son from John Street, leaned over and
emptied his stomach onto the floor of the craft. No one said a word. There was
no shame in the fear; they all felt it, deep inside. The bullets might be
falling like rain all about them, but no rain was ever so deadly.
“Heads
down, NOW,” called Rupp, just as they heard a long piercing whine through the
tumult. The boat rocked, listing to the port side as a shell exploded within a
few yards of the starboard wall. The concussion was not a sound to be heard,
but was rather felt, deep within the chest. It seemed as though the air was
stolen from Ernie’s lungs, and he thought he saw stars. Prayers came louder
now, some of the men almost screaming out to God as their fear reached a new
pitch. Others added the contents of their stomachs to the pile started by
Mitchel. Pale, strained faces, eyes wide, tearful, stared at one another. Above
it all rose the stink of shit. Young Geordie, a lad of Eighteen in theory, but
more like to be fifteen, had soiled his britches. The others were too lost in
their own fear to notice, or to comment.
“Steady
now, lads, steady,” called Rupp. The men loaded near the bow, slipping in the
vomit, as the boat ground up onto the sand, the door slamming down, opening
like the gates into some unnamed circle of Hell …
The
clarion call of the trumpet, bugling the Last Post, brought Ernie back to the
present. He shook his aged head, trying to clear it. The memories could do that
to him, even now, when he was old and gray, stooped and bent, they could come
flooding back, and make him relive that day over and over again. Usually it was
triggered by some loud noise, thunder or some such thing. Today, who could say?
Maybe it was triggered by the presence of the other veterans, none of whom
Ernie knew, crowding around in their dress uniforms, just has the men had
crowded around the door of the ship, waiting to begin their assault up that
French strand.
Normally,
Ernie did not bother with such formality, did not pay attention to the pomp and
ceremony surrounding military functions, but he was a man who believed in
looking ones best when you left the house, whether it was a trip to Kresky’s
for a soda and a gab, or to stand at attention in the cold November rain, to
remember a friend. And so he stood there in his finest, his medals gleaming, and
his eyes dry after so many years. Dilby had been true to his word, and had
shielded Ernie. Ernie could still see it, that dash up the stony beach, side by
side. Dilby, his head exploding, as a German bullet blew out the back of his
skull, falling dead to the strand. The feeling as another bullet entered
Ernie’s own, open, shrieking mouth, only to exit below his left ear, shattering
his jaw. Ernie had fallen, and had dragged Dilby over to him, using the body of
his slain friend as cover, pushing rocks and the corpse of a loved one to the
fore, a shield between himself and the rain of German steel. For six hours he
had lain thus, covered in the gore of his friend and from his own wound,
calling over his radio, his broken jaw in agony, hoping to be able to sound the
retreat as men were mown down like fleshy, bloody wheat.
A boy
stopped to stare when the Last Post had been reached its stirring conclusion.
Did Ernie want to donate and get a yellow ribbon? Surely he supported the
troops? The silver maned veteran shook his head mutely, ignoring the youth’s
shocked and somewhat sullen response to his rebuff.
Up on
the stage, near to the tomb of the Unknown Soldier, the politicos sat, and then
stood, clearly ready to deliver their rehearsed words. With their slick, oiled
smiles, and dead, venomous eyes, they would regale the crowd, using words like
“honour”, “freedom”, “sacrifice”, and “duty”. Words that were so much wind, for
those that would speak them had no idea what they meant, not deep down. They
were scripted, used like tools to shape a response from the crowd, political
slogans to assist in an upcoming campaign, or to help show that this minister
or that was a “warrior” in a time of war. None were; it was utter hogs wallop. None
had ever stormed a fogless beach, as friends lay slain around them, covered in
ichor.
Ernie
noted, tuning out his ears to the soulless drone, that this politico, indeed
that all of them, wore not only the poppy, but also the yellow ribbon. That
caused him to smile. Of course they did. Those boys, sent to die and to kill in
the wild marches of high Asia were easy to support; none were the children or
the beloved of the politicos. They were all safe and snug here at home,
lawyers, and doctors. It made Ernie want to spit, but he refrained. It would
not do to spit on this hallowed ground where he came to honour Dilby, Rupp,
O’Riley, and the others who were all lost that fateful day on the shores of
Dieppe.
The
young man asked him, pointedly, why he did not want to wear the ribbon. Ernie
considered telling the lad, but again, just shook his head. He had tried to
explain it so many times, and today was not the place to do so. There was not
enough room for another man to stand on a soap box and preach; enough foul wind
was emanating from the mouth of the politician at the pulpit now as it was.
Ernie
had discovered a few years back, that he was now beyond all such partisan
emotion. He had gone back to Dieppe, to that place of horror. His son had
suggested it to him, and reluctantly, Ernie had agreed to go. It was important
to Ricky that they share in it together. While there, on the cold, windswept
beach, he had seen another gray and grizzled man wandering about, looking here
and there, not registering the present, but recalling the past, as Ernie
himself was doing. Rick had gone to get them coffee or tea, to warm his old
bones. Ernie walked over, and shook hands with the man. “Ernest,” he said by
way of introduction, “Royal Hamilton Light Infantry.”
The
man shook heartily. “Hans,” he replied, with a thick Germanic accent, “Ze
Ninety First Panzers.”
Ernie
had recoiled. After the war, he had hated the Germans, hated them all, no
matter whom or what they had been. When a family had moved to his street, Ernie
had made it a point to ignore them, to revile them. There had been no forgiveness
in him. Hans saw his motion, and smiled sadly, nodding. He understood. “It waz
here” he said, “vhere I lost zis.” He pointed to his chest, over his heart. “I
shoot,” Hans made the motion, like he was holding a rifle, “boom, boom, boom,
and many Tommys, zhey fall. It kills inside of me too.” He finished, staring
out at sea, eyes bright.
Ernie
stared. What did this Kraut want from him, forgiveness? No, it was not that. It
had been war, there was nothing to forgive. Ernie knew given the chance back
then that he would have shot Hans, just as Hans had quite possibly shot Dilby
or the others. Not sure what else to say, Ernie said, “My insides died that day
too.” Hans again nodded. And then something remarkable had happened. The two
aged warriors shook hands again, firmly, as men. And they had smiled.
When
Rick found Ernie, he was alone, but he was far away. “You know Ricky,” he said,
“a part of me died here that day. All the good things, anyway, the innocence,
the naivety, the youth…the wonder. Men are savage beasts, capable of such
horror, and yet we are also capable of such remarkable kindness, even to an old
enemy.” And he looked off up the strand where there walked another gray haired
man, moving away from the father and son.
Ernie
was not about to explain to this young man that what he had found then was the
belief that to support the troops necessitated a lack of support for the other
side, who were equally human, equally good, and equally bad. If he wore the
yellow he was saying “I hope that Canadian soldiers shoot to kill, while those
we fight die.” This was not something Ernie was willing to ever say, not since
that windy day in Dieppe when he had found a friend hidden behind a Germanic
accent.
Another
youth (all men younger than fifty being youthful to Ernest nowadays) on another
day had scolded him for saying such. “How would you explain that to the mother
of a dead soldier?” he had demanded to know of Ernie. Ernie had smiled sadly,
much like Hans had done when Ernie had made to pull away, and said “How would
you explain that to the mother of a dead Afghan?” The man had stormed away in a
huff. It was funny how those who had never tasted of the bitter draught of war
were so quick to condone its savagery, and forgive its excesses, so long as its
excesses were committed against some nebulous, fearful “other” in lands
unknown.
Ernie
turned to look back up at the stage. The poison eyed politico was wrapping up
to sedate and appropriately solemn and muted applause. He was looking pleased
with himself, as was usual. This man had an uncanny ability to look smug most
of the time, a feature Ernie found galling in the extreme. No doubt he had
successfully married the image of the brave World War veteran with the Afghan
conqueror. This was his favourite past time it seemed to Ernie, especially once
the leaves began changing, and the summer season turned to autumn.
Lions
led by donkeys, he thought, looking again to the leaders of the nation, filing
away, having paid their public debt to the fallen, garnering votes and applause
for how well they successfully tugged on the heart strings of a bygone
generation. He thought of Dilby, and of Hans, of some unnamed Afghan bleeding
out into the dry hillside, a Canadian bullet lodged in his intestines, of
himself in that damned boat, nearly pissing himself in fear. All of us, Lions
led by donkeys.
