| War and History Fiction posted January 18, 2024 |
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Two soldiers a generation apart
Two Soldiers
by Mary Vigasin
“In the event of my death, I give the whole of my property and effects to my sister, Miss Bride DeLouchrey, Little Bay, Newfoundland."
Signed:
Harold DeLouchrey, Private No 1966
1/1 Newfoundland Regiment.
On July 23, I signed over my benefits to my sister in case I did not survive this war. I must admit, I am terrified. I cannot block the sounds of the wounded screaming in pain, some calling for their mother, and the chaplain giving last rites. The smells of gunpowder and blood are heavy in the air.
We have been engaged in battle in Somme, France, for months. The Brass tells us it will hasten the end of the war., We are, after all, fighting a “War to end all wars.” However, with bodies everywhere, I wonder if there will be anyone left when this war ends.
Let me back up and formally introduce myself. My name is Pvt. Harold DeLouchrey of the Royal Canadian Newfoundland Regiment, I turned 19 this summer while shooting at the Huns.
Before I enlisted, I lived with my sister, Bride, in Little Bay, Newfoundland. There were just the two of us; Mom and Dad had passed. My older brother Joe is the head mechanic at the mine and is married with a young son. I am his apprentice; however, Joe needed to reduce my pay as the mine work was slowing down.
Joining was the biggest mistake of my life. Now that I have more time to think, I am still determining why I enlisted. I am not overly patriotic; indeed, Newfoundland was not threatened. I would defend it if it had, but I doubt no country would invade our small island. It was a chance to see more of the world and help my sister. But French mud is all I see with the view from the bottom of the trenches. My day begins with inspections and repairs to these mud walls.
Could it be that I wanted to prove at 18 that I was now a man?
Here, if dysentery, typhoid, or trench foot doesn’t get you or you go loopy from shell shock, sheer boredom will also drive you nuts. We sit in the mud all day, waiting for an attack that does not come. It is at night that the patrols are dangerous. We must come out of the trenches and cross “No Man’s Land” to repair the barbwire or spy on enemy movements. “The crossing is dangerous, with flares giving away our position.
When I get home to Newfoundland, I will buy a boat and never step on land again.
Unfortunately, I will never have a boat or even see Newfoundland; my note is now stamped with November 18, 1916, which means that Bride is getting my benefits, a month to the day that a Hun’s bullet ripped through me.
I am now in France for eternity, lying at rest at the Beaumont-Hamel Newfoundland Memorial Cemetery in Somme, France.
The 2nd Canadian Soldier
I am Corporal Bertram DeLouchrey of the Royal Canadian Army, Armored Division. Let me tell you my story before you thank me for my service. When my dad died, Mom took me and my three brothers, Joe, Bill, Harold, and sister Marie, to the States looking for work.
At 18, I returned to Canada to live my dream of becoming a professional prizefighter.
As a light middleweight contender, I have had a few successful fights. I am light on my feet and have a powerful punch.
My problem is that I fight in the ring, and after a few beers, I am a street brawler. It is not always my fault; being a relatively good-looking fellow with blond hair, the ladies often flirt with me. Of course, that sets the boyfriends off, and they take me on. They all regret it once I give them a one-two punch.
The judge was tired of my appearances in his court and gave me an option. I could go to jail or enlist in the Army to fight Hitler. The Army seemed the better option, so I enlisted in the Royal Canadian Army. The thought of Paris nightlife was compelling.
At first, I was a reluctant soldier, but once I joined the Armored Division and sat in that tank, I realized I had an important job for Canada. I was proud to be a soldier and was even promoted to Corporal. I plan to become a sergeant and become a career man.
On Armistice Day, the buglers play taps for me and my mates.
On November 28, 1942, an explosion killed me and blew my tank apart. I just turned 21.
 Recognized |
#37 January 2024 |
My father's name was Harold. He was named after his teenage uncle, who died in 1916. I know my dad was unaware that he even had an Uncle Harold. I know my dad's father, Joe, was Harold's brother, and he died young, so there was no one to tell him whom he was named after My grandmother often told tales of her family but never of the DeLouchrey clan.
I put this as fiction because I had, of course, told Harold's story. I did not know of his existence until I did a search last year and found his name in the Newfoundland story of the Battle of Somme.
I found most of his family stories in the Pilleys Island story archives, which gave detailed information about each member of the DeLouchrey family.
The figures I found were from Wikipedia and other sources.
Bert's story is my recollection of what my dad told me. He knows his brother Bert died the day of the Coconut Lounge fire in Boston in 1942. My dad and his brother Joe enlisted in the Army the next day.
Bert is buried in England.
Harold is buried in the Beaumont-Hamel Newfoundland Memorial Park in France, which includes graves and preserved trenches, including holes left by exploding shells.
Note: Harold was Bert's uncle. Bert was born five years after Harold's death.
Mary (DeLouchrey) Vigasin
© Copyright 2024. Mary Vigasin All rights reserved.
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