A Gunner’s Waterloo

Thomas P. van Eeden

William Sean Jacobson, his parents had called him when he first stuck his head into
the world. Out here he was just Will, just plain Will of the 65th Royal light artillery.
All the posters back home, with the Queen staring down her majestic nose at you, had
eagerly proclaimed their hunger: ‘Join the infantry! See the world! Bring glory to her
Majesty.’ Why he had resisted the call to glory in massed ranks ad instead joined the
artillery was one of those secrets that God kept to himself. Maybe, Will had once
thought, it was because of the incessant pipe smoking of his old Da. His mom used to
say that the first breath of air Will’s newborn lungs had felt was a choking blast of
pipe smoke from his old Da who had sat at the receiving end of the birth. After all, he
had to admit that he found the thick, chocking smell of artillery smoke somewhat
appealing.

Whatever the reasons, he now cursed them all for getting him here, knee-deep in the
boot-sucking mud, pushing for all he was worth against the studded left wheel of his
bronze six-pounder cannon. The only sense he had ever had was joining the light
artillery instead of the heavy: Light artillery was assigned horses to help move the
cannons. Unfortunately… both their horses had gone lame along the way.
The regiment Quartermaster had taken them in hand after a quick inspection and Will
did not even want to guess where the poor beasts had ended up.
Likely in last night’s stew. he mused.
Food was always in short supply on the front-line. A loud, throaty curse from the
other side of the cannon brought Will out of his musings. Carl, the other remaining
crewman of the six-pounder, lay nose down and spluttering in the mud behind the
right wheel where he had slipped. Suddenly the weight against Will’s shoulder
doubled and the cannon started slowly pushing him backwards. He nervously glanced
down at the two hundred yards of muddy slope behind him. Oozing sheets of mud slid
over his calf-length boots as his heels slowly but surely gave way.
“Carl!” bellowed Will, “Carl! Get that bloody wheel, you oaf! I can’t hold this thing
alone!”
Carl jerked his head up in reply and knocked his brow against the wheel. With another
curse he fell backwards and slid ten yards down the hill before managing to claw
himself to a stop. Will groaned and desperately reached for the equipment box. Prying
it open with his thumb, he jerked out one of the hooked stopping blocks and slammed
it into place behind the unmanned wheel. The cannon groaned to a stop.

Will slumped to the ground with a sigh. That little slip had come far too close to
chasing the heavy bronze cannon down the hill.
“Carl! Get back up here! Major Evens will have our ears for his rations if we don’t get
this bloody beast up the hill!”
Just as Will finished shouting, the right wheel slipped and rolled backwards. The
barrel swung sideways with alarming speed and knocked the plumed shako clear of
his head. Carl stood staring wide eyed and speeches at him with one arm outstretched.
Will breathed a heavy sigh of relief and rose once again on shaky legs. His shiny,
black shako lay bent double in the mud some ways downslope.
“Get that for me would you?”
Carl gathered the damaged headpiece as he made his way back to his wheel, handing
it to Will when he arrived.
“Thought I’d lost you there mate.” said Carl with a whistle, and started to push the
cannon straight. “That bloody barrel very nearly took your head with it!”
Will grumbled and tried vainly to brush the mud off his red coat.
“The quartermaster will flay my hide when I show him this.” he complained, then
crammed the bent shako back on his head.
“Oi! Help me here, will you? This thing isn’t going to get itself up this hill.” Carl
gasped.

Will stared up at the sky. Black clouds rumbled overhead and a chilly wind cut at his
face in gusts. If it started to rain again, the already slippery mud would become a
waterfall down the hill, and cannon be damned then. Digging his heels in, he helped
push the barrel back to facing down the hill.
“Fine, Carl, your highness. Who was it that let the wheel slip in the first place? Hmm?
Not me! This time hold the damn thing or you’ll have to explain to the Major how
you got my head knocked off.” scolded Will.
“Of course, that’s what we get paid for don’t we.” replied Carl with an impish smile,
“Oh, that’s right, we don’t get paid for this, do we? This is the bloody horse’s job!”
“I always thought you looked like a horse,” said Will brightly.
“Hey! You just get your back against that wheel.”
“...or maybe a horse’s arse...”
“You just push that wheel Will, and shut up!”
“...ox’s arse...”
“Will!”
“Yeah, okay, okay!”
Will shut his mouth, and pushed, but smiled to himself anyway. Humour was rare in
war, and his old Da had always said that letting a chance for a joke slip was like
throwing a good apple to the hogs.

Some time later Will, Carl and the cannon reached the crest of the hill. With a final
heave, taking all his remaining strength, Will secured his wheel and slumped to the
mud. His uniform was so soiled by now that he didn’t mind the ooze seeping into his
white trousers. At least his feet were dry. Good boots was one good thing about the
artillery. The infantry were simply too many to dress up and keep dressed up. Her
Majesty made up for it in parades by dressing up the artillery- and cavalrymen neat as
you please.
Next to him, Carl splashed down onto his knees, breathing deeply.
“That was quite a push, hey Carl?”
“Quite a push he says! That was bloody carnage! I’ll have blisters on my blisters for a
month.”
A sudden loud boom sent Carl sprawling. A mocking laugh lifted Will’s gaze up to
see Major Evens lifting his looking glass to his eye. He was neatly dressed and
powdered. The absence of mud on his sparkly uniform spoke volumes of his
participation in the moving of his artillery pieces.
Will glanced sideways. All along the hilltop cannons were lining up and one close to
them had smoke emerging from its barrel.
“Get up! This thing won’t fire itself! Move it you dogs!”
Carl shot up like reed and saluted. Will almost beat him to it. The Major’s voice had
that effect on troops.
With practised efficiency, the two artillerymen began readying the cannon. Will
unstrapped the ramrod from the guncarriage and pulled off the oilcloth wrapping,
before starting to clean out the barrel with the brush end. On the other side of the
piece, Carl measured out the correct amount of gunpowder into a wooden scoop and
selected the smoothest cannonball he could find from the ammunition box on the back
of the front of the carriage. In short order the powder and shot was rammed tightly
into the barrel and the gun primed. Will took up position to the side of the gun and
came to attention. Carl did the same on the other side while readying a smoking
match.
“Gun ready to fire, Sir!” Will called out.
Major Evens approached and inspected the work. Then, seemingly more or less
satisfied, he began sighting the gun on a distant ridge, directing Will to make minor
adjustments to the gun’s facing. Finally he straightened and lifted his looking glass to
the same distant ridge.
“Prepare to fire.”
Carl stepped forward and lifted the match to the primer, holing it still inches above.
“Fire!”
The match dipped and the cannon bucked, rocking back high on its carriage. At the
same time, a deafening roar sounded, leaving a short ring in the ear of everyone close
by. Will tracked the flight of the cannonball but its landing was lost in the smoke and
mist on the distant hilltop.
“Reload!” bellowed the major, loud enough to be heard over the ringing in the
gunners’ ears. Then he marched off to the next piece that needed sighting.

Will had just finished brushing out the barrel when a loud screech filled the air,
followed shortly by a deafening bang. Glancing to his left, he could see a crater where
one of the other gun teams had been positioned, near the edge of the ridge.
“Heavy artillery counter-barrage!” bellowed Major Evens, “Damn French have drawn
a bead on us. Everyone get ready to relocate! We’re moving to the next hill!”
Will stared at the muddy mass far to the right that the Major had pointed out before
meeting Carl’s miserable gaze. Then he shrugged. Such was a gunner’s Waterloo.