Choosers of the Slain

Daniel and his nephew Samuel were billeted in a barn five miles from the Belgian border. They went to company talent shows in an abandoned mill and ate omelettes and pommes frites at the home of an old widow. Despite the singing and the home-cooked meals they couldn’t escape the signs of a build-up. Lines of mule-drawn wagons kept rolling to the front, and the small trickle of trucks had become a stream. What had been sporadic bursts of artillery became a steady rumbling. The explosions were getting closer. There wasn’t any doubt that a big show was coming, but even Archer, the company know-it-all, couldn’t say when it would start.

On the morning they were ordered to the trenches, Daniel spotted the brigade priest standing in a field. The padre’s white hair and green chasuble were whipping in the wind as half a dozen men knelt in front of him. Daniel trotted through the snow flurries and fell to his knees to receive Communion. A minute later the priest pressed the chalice to his chest and scurried back to the church, which had lost its steeple to artillery fire. The officers blew their whistles, and the men began forming ranks, but in the next minute the priest was back, carrying a small wooden bench. He placed the bench on the side of the cobbled road before returning to the church. When he reappeared, he was carrying a large crucifix. He climbed onto the bench and with his arms extended began making the sign of the cross with the crucifix. A few men genuflected, but the officers were hurrying them along, and soon the priest was alone. The wind had picked up force, and the priest’s stole lifted and fell against his chest. He looked like a scarecrow directing an orchestra. As Daniel passed in front of the bench, he saw that the priest’s arms were shaking and his cheeks were purple with cold, but his lips kept moving with the words of forgiveness.

The men marched four abreast; when they stopped for their first fall-out, the snow was two inches deep. By late afternoon they were half a mile from the staging area and three more inches had fallen. When a barrage started from the German line, the men took cover in gullies on both sides of the road and waited for British artillery to return fire.

“Iron rations!” Hollins yelled, sinking down beside Daniel as the sound of a hundred thunderstorms crashed overhead. After the pounding stopped, Daniel’s ears buzzed, and when he stood and tried to walk, he was unsteady on his feet.

The next day ammunition came into the trenches, and officers patrolled the duckboards, stopping at fire bays to look through angled mirrors. The show would start soon, and when Daniel was sent to bring up food for the platoon, Sergeant Hawkins said it might be their last hot meal for a while.

The field kitchen was fifty yards from the support trench, but the cooks weren’t ready to fill dixies, so Daniel wandered across the road to where men were setting up a tent. Daniel recognized one of the men as Lloyd Sheehan, a carpenter from Alberta, who’d joined the Field Ambulance the same day Daniel and Samuel had joined the engineers. Daniel had last seen Lloyd during their training in England, when Lloyd asked if he’d take a look at some milk cows the doctor had won in a card game.

After the tent was anchored, Lloyd hunched down to smoke a cigarette, while the other men trotted off to unload a wagon.

“Hey,” Daniel called. “You slackin’ off, Sheehan?”

“Setting up the station,” Lloyd said, nodding to the tent. Daniel knew there was supposed to be an advance dressing station for every brigade, but until this moment he hadn’t thought how the posts had to be ready before the battle started.

“You’ve been busy?”

Lloyd thrust his chin to where five wagons were standing. “Three killed by snipers and another two brought in...