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Title: "Holding the line"
Author: Harold Baldwin
Release date: May 14, 2024 [eBook #73624]
Language: English
Original publication: Chicago: A. C. McClurg & Co, 1918
Credits: Al Haines
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK "HOLDING THE LINE" ***
[Frontispiece: Harold Baldwin]
"Holding the Line"
By
SERGEANT HAROLD BALDWIN
Of the First Division, Canadian
Expeditionary Forces
_With Illustrations and Diagrams_
CHICAGO
A. C. McCLURG & CO.
1918
Copyright
A. C. McClurg & Co.
1918
Published, February, 1918
_Copyrighted in Great Britain_
W. F. HALL PRINTING COMPANY, CHICAGO
Dedication
With deep affection and reverence, I humbly dedicate these
reminiscences to the memory of the best pals that ever lived, and who
shared with me the joys and sorrows of those never-to-be-forgotten
days in France and Flanders when we held the line, and who have paid
the supreme price--
_Major Campbell
Captain Scanlon
Major Hopkins
Private Skerry
Private Shields
Private Hood
Private Small
Private (Runner) Jocelyn
Private Ruth
Private Wellbelove
Captain Meikle
Captain Curry
Major Tanaille
Captain McGee
Lieutenant Mundell_
Prefatory Remark
When war's alarm sounded in Canada, like many thousands of young men,
the spirit of adventure was strong within me and here was an
opportunity, as I thought, to kill two birds with the same
stone--gratify my love of adventure and serve the Empire at one and
the same time.
I have endeavored to give an exact picture of my surroundings, with
its accompanying feelings and sensations, from the time I stepped
into the ranks until I got my final Blighty, and if my word picture
will have the effect of making any man get into khaki, I will be more
than repaid, because the cause of the world's liberty demands the
active cooperation of every able-bodied man who can get into the game.
There may be a protest in the minds of some against the swearing
habit of the soldier. I firmly believe that if he were deprived of
the power to express himself profanely when occasion seemed to
warrant, his efficiency would be materially hampered. And,
therefore, I have no apology to make. Even the chaplains have been
known to swear quite violently at times.
Since beginning the work of putting my data into book form, the
United States has accepted the gauntlet of battle thrown down to her
by German militarism, and the prospect of American lads and British
Tommies fighting shoulder to shoulder in the cause of democracy and
the world's freedom has inspired me with a new hope and faith in the
outcome, and I am resting content in the unshakable belief that when
the might of the Greatest Republic gets into action, the murderous
tiger of German autocracy, with its fangs dripping blood from the
lives of countless innocent victims, will in short order receive its
final death thrust.
_Chicago, January, 1918_ H.B.
Introductory
While adventure of every kind and character abounds on all sides in
the trenches, in billets and in the rear of the front line, yet the
grim seriousness of the business soon possesses a man with but a
single idea in life, especially when in the vicinity of No Man's
Land--to get the Hun and get him as quickly as he can.
In these pages I have but lightly touched on the awfulness in the
sections of country over-run by the human devils. I have two reasons
for so doing: First, because I do not believe it lies in the power of
human ken to adequately describe the inferno created by the Hun, and,
secondly, if I were to devote my lines solely to that phase of my
life while in active service, every page should be deeply edged in
black, because--"I could a tale unfold, whose lightest word would
harrow up thy soul."
Such is not my purpose. I am blest by nature with the most intense
optimism and this spirit has never deserted me but once; and I think
under the same strain it would have taken leave of any man; and since
I returned from the front I am more than ever determined that for the
balance of my time on earth I shall endeavor to radiate optimism
whenever and wherever I can. I think I will live the longer for so
doing, and maybe those who come within the zone of my voice and my
pen may also be the better for the dissemination of my love in the
joy of living.
Therefore, the purpose I have undertaken has been to faithfully
relate my experiences, and those of my chums, from the point of view
of one who looks at the brighter side of life while undergoing the
most severe test of grit and endurance that ever tried mortal men.
Contents
CHAPTER
I Answering the Call
II En Route to Valcartier
III Canada's War Camp
IV Soldiers in the Making
V Crossing the Atlantic
VI Land Ahoy
VII Salisbury Plain
VIII Life in the English Camp
IX Getting Ready to Go
X Leaving for France
XI Landing in France
XII My Baptism of Fire
XIII In the Front Line
XIV Saxons and Prussians
XV Training for Runner
XVI By the Wayside
XVII Steenvoorde
XVIII Ypres
XIX Battle of Ypres
XX Hell Let Loose
XXI Hanging On
XXII Here They Come
XXIII Fighting for Our Lives
XXIV The Boches Balked
XXV Fun and Fury
XXVI Yser
XXVII The Fun of It
XXVIII Leaving Yser
XXIX More Hell
XXX The Last Fight
XXXI The Aftermath
XXXII In Heaven
XXXIII Back to Earth
XXXIV Home
Epilogue
Illustrations
Harold Baldwin ... Frontispiece
The Bull-Dog Behind the Flag
The Remains of a Once Prosperous Village
Instruments of War and Peace Working Side by Side
Our Nest (Dugout) Is on the Right
Meals Are Any Time When One Is Hungry
What a First-Line Trench Looks Like
German Shell Exploding Near British Battery
A Monster British Gun
Moving a Gun into Position
A Winterly Morning
Writing to the Old Folks at Home
What Is Left of Ypres Cathedral
There Are Leisure Hours Even in the Front Trench
Cleaning-Up Time
Diagram No. 1
Diagram No. 2
The Yser Canal
Two Tommies Talking It Over
Ready for a Raid on the Enemy's Trenches
The Raiding Party Going to "Give 'Em Hell"
The "War Twins"
Feeling Good in Blighty
Holding the Line
CHAPTER I
ANSWERING THE CALL
One sunny day in the early part of August, 1914, a little man with a
bronzed face and a dingy set of overalls walked into the armories in
Saskatoon, the wonder city of Saskatchewan. He was the author of
this tale.
"Hello, Shorty, what brings you here? Hey, fellows, here's our
mascot." This was the
greeting I got from one of the recruiting sergeants.
I had come straight from the harvest field, a journey of eighty miles
on horseback and train, without a coat, with well ventilated
overalls, equally well-worn shoes and an unshaven chin, and my
spirits sank perceptibly as I realized the contrast between my shabby
five-feet-four and the classy-looking recruits gathered in the
armories.
However, like the rest of the Englishmen in Canada who had answered
the call I was determined, if it was humanly possible, to go overseas
with the first contingent of twenty thousand men, and I duly
presented myself for enlistment. My attestation was taken and I was
sent to the doctor, being duly warned that I would have to pass the
final test at Valcartier, Canada's first great war camp.
When I entered the examining room my spirits took another drop as I
saw the magnificent bunch of tall, stalwart fellows who were awaiting
their turn. I felt like a pigmy and almost turned tail then and
there. "Now or never," I thought, as I stepped up to the doctor.
"What do you want, Bub?"
"To enlist, sir."
"Forget it," he said, "you are too short."
I lacked just two inches of the required height. He gave me the
once-over and was a little taken aback when he found my weight was
one hundred and forty pounds.
I also thought I would clinch my case by telling him, without winking
an eye, that I had served with the First Battalion of the North
Staffordshire Regiment in England for four years, which was a
battalion of the regular army, and that as they had thought
sufficiently well of my stature to sign me up, a Canadian volunteer
battalion could not in reason be any more particular than one of the
Imperial Army. The falsehood is on record there today in my
attestation papers and I'm not in the least ashamed of it.
"Well," said he, "you are as fit as any man, but they are sticklers
about the height. I'll tell you what I'll do, you may leave with the
boys for Valcartier and that will bring you two thousand miles nearer
England. As you are determined to go anyway, part of your trip will
be at the government's expense."
I felt as if I had grown two inches when he said this. I got into
the ranks at once and commenced drilling with the rest of the boys
until we left for Valcartier.
It was a nasty wet night when we left Saskatoon, but a record crowd
turned out to see that wild band start for the Great Adventure. Few
of us had relatives there; the majority of us were Britishers who had
left the Old Country to try our luck in the new land; but many were
veterans of other wars who wanted to get into the game again, some
had encircled the world in their wanderings, homesteaders, railway
men, clerks--every walk of life was represented.
Ardent patriotism for the Old Flag and all that it stood for was the
prompting motive of the rush to get into the First Canadian Division,
but there was also the spirit of adventure strong within every man.
The mayor and city council and other government officials were
present to bid us the soldier's farewell, "Good-bye, Good Luck, and
Godspeed," and the train pulled out amid such a roar of cheering that
the "Girl I Left Behind Me" was fairly drowned in the waves of
departing cheers.
CHAPTER II
EN ROUTE TO VALCARTIER
From the time we left Saskatoon until we got into the great camp, I
dare say there wasn't a man of us who gave a second's thought to the
idea that within six months' time we would have had such a share in
the defense of the world's liberties as would make the name of Canada
a household word wherever the English language is spoken, and cause a
thrill of justifiable pride to run through the blood of every
Canadian, aye, and every Britisher, because every Britisher takes
almost as much pride in the feats performed by men from another part
of the Empire as he does in the deeds of the men from his own
particular corner.
We were not long on the train before we began to get acquainted with
each other and friendships were quickly formed that were soon to be
tested and tried in the fiercest flame that ever burned, and with no
exception did they fail to ring true.
And right here and now I want to say, from a full heart, that the
greatest privilege ever accorded an ordinary mortal like myself was
that of serving with that devil-may-care crowd of lads who sang and
chaffed and swore their way from exile in western Canada to their
graves in France and Flanders.
The trip to Valcartier was uneventful except for the loss of a
breakfast one morning that was sorely needed. Five or six of the
recruit waiters had just entered our car from the supply-car,
carrying trays with our ham and eggs, and our mouths were watering as
we watched them coming, when a sudden lurch of the train sent the end
waiter bumping into the man next him, and he followed suit to the man
next him, and so on down the line, and in the effort to keep the
trays and themselves from falling, the contents of every blooming
tray was spilled on the floor, the seats, and the heads of the hungry
recruits.
Our comments would not pass censor. Suffice it to say, if cursing
could put the Canadian Pacific Railway out of business that
organization would long since have been defunct. We had to go hungry
until noon as there was no time to get another meal prepared.
Another incident happened on that trip that concerned me most. We
had stopped for a short visit at an Ontario town and our officers
decided to give the people a sample of our military bearing, so we
were marched through the streets. I think we managed to keep step
for fully five minutes at a time. A kind-hearted old creature
clapped her eyes on the "child," as she expressed it, marching
alongside of his overgrown brothers, and she began to wail and point
me out to everyone around there as far as her voice could carry, and
to make matters worse we were halted with poor little me standing
right opposite her.
"That poor child should not be allowed to go until he has at least
stopped growing," was the burden of her plaint, and I was so incensed
I honestly felt I could kill her with my bare hands and revel in the
gore, because every fellow in the ranks was giving me the snicker,
and some of the unfeeling brutes were egging the old lady on. I
tried to pay no attention--Lord, how I did want to inform her I was
twenty-four years old and had been separated from my mother for six
years. It took me a long time to live down the chaffing I got, due
to the solicitous wails of that dear old female.
However, sober reflection tells me that she was not so much to blame,
because I surely must have been a sorry figure in my five-feet-four
and dressed as I was the day I left the harvest field, so I have
since credited the outburst to her motherly instinct.
After we had entrained again I was seated beside Morgan, a chum with
whom I had become very intimate, who was possessed of what might be
called a second sight, a gift of foreseeing things, and he then told
me of a number of things that would happen to me, every one of which
has turned out exactly as he foretold it. For instance, he said the
doctor would pass me at Valcartier; and later in Flanders, he told me
when I was going to be wounded. He also predicted his own wound.
Morgan's devotion to me all through our campaigning was positively
remarkable, and, as this story will show, I have never had cause to
regret the chance that brought us together.
We finally arrived in Valcartier, detrained in the broiling sun, and
trudged from the depot to our new canvas homes at the foot of the
Laurentian Hills, which formed a wonderful background, with the
Jaques Cartier River on our front, soon to become the swimming bath
of twenty to forty thousand men.
CHAPTER III
CANADA'S WAR CAMP
When we reached Valcartier no one in his wildest dreams would ever
have associated us with soldiers, as a more motley-looking crowd
would be hard to find. Here trudges a squat Scotchman, his freckled
face a stream of perspiration, cursing the heat with a Doric accent
you could cut with a shovel; next to him marches Big Bill Skerry, a
tall Nova Scotian, as straight as the pine trees of his native
province. Dear old Bill! he lies in the death trap at Ypres, dying
as he had lived, afraid of nothing in human form, witty and dry of
speech, quickest in repartee, and proud of his Irish-Canadian
ancestry. And for all his profane mouth and caustic tongue, he was
one of the best and bravest comrades a man could find with whom to
share the trials and pleasures of active service. Marching with his
usual air of detached boredom is Captain Innis Hopkins, the most
ridiculed and, later, the best loved officer of all the gallant men
who cursed us and nursed us and finally led us into France, as fine a
bunch of men as ever stepped from a deck of a transport.
At my immediate right proudly marched a handsome, rosy-cheeked boy,
with a complexion a lady might have envied; tall, lithe, with the
promise of a fine manhood, and with the frank blue eyes of him
shining with good-natured deviltry, he was already winning the hearts
of his future comrades. By his side tramped a squat, slightly
bow-legged man, of swarthy skin and jet-black hair, streaked with
gray, surmounted by a stubble of black beard. The contrast between
those two was startling, and yet a friendship sprang up between them
that no ordinary civilian ever will understand, a friendship cemented
by sharing danger and suffering, sinking every selfish consideration
for the well-being of the other.
This will give some slight idea of the boys I soldiered with and who
were to be my chums. But of all these, Morgan was closest to me. By
that mysterious attraction which draws men to one another we became
chums and yet no two men could be more unlike in temperament; he was
reserved almost to the point of rudeness, while I have always been
ready--perhaps too much so for my own good--to make friends at once.
When we got into the game, through the medium of that peculiar
characteristic I have already mentioned, he sensed, like the steer
nearing the shambles, any disaster or trouble ahead, and at those
times he would overwhelm me with demonstrations of affection, and
afterwards, apparently ashamed of his outburst, he would find some
pretext to pick a quarrel with me, and curse me with a fluency and
picturesqueness only acquired by long and careful practice. Many
times we got to blows. But we loved each other and still do, and his
love for me was thoroughly evidenced later on.
CHAPTER IV
SOLDIERS IN THE MAKING
The first thing we did after our arrival was to go to the doctor for
final examination. Again my heart dropped when I saw what seemed to
be a physically splendid man rejected, and I felt that my case was
hopeless. I stripped, and, with my heart pounding like a
trip-hammer, presented myself. I was reassured almost instantly by
his kindly manner. He gave me a most rigid looking over and
pronounced me fit, but shook his head dubiously at my height. An
inspiration seized me: "Doctor, I may be small, but it is
concentrated stuff."
He laughed and told me to dress. Trembling with delight and relief I
fell into line to take my first "shot in the arm," as we called our
inoculation against typhoid, and when the surgeon jabbed me with the
needle I promptly fainted for the first time in my life.
Life now began in earnest; day succeeded day of hard training. The
weather was ideal, our only trouble being the dust-clouds raised from
the sandy ground by marching troops.
Uniforms were issued, and in two weeks' time one would not have
recognized us. Many laughable incidents occurred in connection with
our uniforms; nearly every man got something that was too big or too
small. The quartermaster gave me a hat that was two or three sizes
too large. I asked him what I should do and he told me to come back
in the morning, which I did.
"You told me to come back and see you, sir, about my cap; it is too
big."
"Well, I can tell by your bothering nerve that you've got the swelled
head and it won't be long before it fits you. Get to blazes out of
here."
I did not think it prudent to pursue the matter further. I was
wondering what I would do with the cap when I espied a fellow with a
head like a bull and a cap resting just on the crown. "Here's my
chance," thought I, and I was after him in a jiffy. He was a Scot.
"Matey, how would you like to swop caps?"
"Wha's the matter wi' yours?"
"Mine's too large." He took mine and examined it critically, feeling
the quality and the texture.
"It's no as gude as mine; I wudna swop."
"Why, yours doesn't fit you and mine would."
"Ay, but the quality, lad, look at the quality o' mine."
"It's just exactly the same as mine."
"Naething o' the kind," he said, "the quartermaster is a particular
friend o' mine and he gie me one especially."
"He did, like ducks."
"O vera weel. Besides, I dinna mind a little thing like that; it's
the quality. But I'll tell you what I'll do," he said, "if you want
the cap an' will gie me an extra shillin' on account o' the quality,
I'll maybe let ye hae it."
I spent no further time arguing with him; I realized at once he was
the original one hundred per cent efficiency man who bought something
from a Jew and sold it to another Jew at a profit. I gave him the
quarter. He took it, but before giving me his cap, he took mine,
tried it on carefully (they were identical in every particular except
the size), then handed me his, gave me a wink and walked off. I felt
I had really gotten my twenty-five cents' worth.
The happiest people in Valcartier that time were the tailors; they
reaped a harvest from our repairs and alterations. An old political
campaigner in the battalion suggested that the tailors should get
busy with the administration and arrange to throw their support to
the government if the chief of staff would agree to retain the
services of the quartermasters who were such marvelously strange
guessers at the size of the average man. We laughed ourselves to
sleep that night.
The growth of Valcartier during our stay was like a chapter in
Aladdin. Like mushrooms in the night there sprang up stores, houses
and amusement places of every description, and they did a thriving
business, because the men rapidly acquired the spending habits of the
soldier.
An attempt by one of the moving-picture proprietors to extort money
from the soldiers turned out rather badly for him. He advertised the
same picture for a number of nights under a different title each
night, and a hard-headed Scotch soldier, upon inquiring if it were
not the same film they had seen the previous night, was told to go to
hell.
"I'm running this show," said the proprietor.
"Weel, ye'll no be runnin' it long, I'm thinkin'," said Jock. "Hey,
lad," he yelled to me as I happened along, "run like the deil to
Company B, Third Battalion, over yonder, and tell them Red Stuart
wants to clean up a crook over here. Hurry, noo."
I shot across in the direction indicated and found a bunch of
Highlanders sprawled on the ground, smoking their pipes. I delivered
the message and in a twinkling fully fifty brawny sons of the heather
sprang from the ground and were dashing toward Red Stuart. I ran
after them and awaited developments a short distance off. Red
quickly told them what had happened and their Scotch sense of justice
wronged was thoroughly aroused.
"Wha'll ye be wantin' us tae do, Red?"
"MacDonald, take thirty men to the rear and up-end the damned show;
I'll take care o' the front."
MacDonald and his thirty men circled to the back of the house and
inside of a minute it commenced to quiver and slant forward. The
soldier-patrons came tumbling out in a hurry, some of them head
foremost, and soon were admiring spectators when they learned the
cause of the trouble. The other Scotties, under Red Stuart, were
lined up in front to catch the theater when it came down. Just then
the proprietor came tumbling out.
"Who in hell's doing this?" he demanded of Red. Red's answer was a
blow on the jaw that put him to sleep. Then the money from the till
came rolling out over the floor and Red yelled.
"Quick, Sandy and Alec, pick it up an' we'll divide it after."
Sandy and Alec let go of the building and gathered up the money in
their caps, and Red shouted.
"All together, lads, let her go."
The men at the back gave a heave, the men in front let go, and down
crashed the frail building, splitting in two. A streak of flame shot
up from the middle and soon a bright blaze lit up the scene, and by
its light the Sons of St. Andrew religiously divided the spoils of
war.
But the trouble did not end here. A fire-call was turned in by the
nearest bugler, was caught up by each successive bugler in turn, and
in two minutes the entire camp was in a turmoil. The men fell into
line, yelling like wild Indians; it was pandemonium let loose. The
roar of noise traveled clear down to the end of the lines, where it
reached the artillery, the horses stampeded, made a mad rush for the
river, and forty valuable animals were drowned.
CHAPTER V
THE ATLANTIC
Our military exercises had built every man of us up to such a degree
of physical perfection that we felt fit for any test of endurance,
and the absence of worry, the companionship of so many fine chums,
the good wholesome food and invigorating air had worked wonders in
us. We were no longer the awkward squad that had slouched off the
train into Valcartier.
Our officers told us we were a disgrace to the service, but swiftly
the change was taking place. We could walk our ten or fifteen miles
in regulation time, and the standard of our shooting was
exceptionally high.
At first only twenty thousand men were to go, but as seventy-five
thousand had responded to the call and the eagerness of the boys to
go had caused them to redouble their efforts to become efficient, the
first expeditionary force was increased to thirty-three thousand men.
Toward the end of September we were inspected for the last time by
his Royal Highness, the Duke of Connaught, and in the afternoon we
were ordered to get our kits packed and stuff ready, as we were
leaving for England. Excitement ran high and every man was in his
place next morning at ten o'clock. It was a rainy Sunday morning,
but that did not dampen our spirits.
"Battalions will move off by the right of companies, No. 1 leading,"
came the order; the senior officer commanding shouted, "Company,
tshun; form fours; right; left wheel; quick march." We were off for
England.
After traveling the eighteen miles from camp to Quebec we boarded the
big steamer that was to bear us to England. My battalion was
assigned to the _Lapland_, the largest of the fleet transports. In
her hold thousands of sacks of flour were stacked, part of Canada's
gift to the motherland immediately on the outbreak of the war. Some
of us did not appreciate the gift as we might, because it was part of
our duty to load it from the dock to the hold.
I had a pardonable thrill of pride as I stood on the dock and watched
our fellows file aboard and I could not help asking myself--"Could
these bronzed, cleanly-built, athletic men be the same who tramped
wearily into camp one short month ago?" Such was the result of our
officers' untiring work and the patient efforts of the regular
sergeants who first took us in hand, and last, but not least, the
keenness of the men themselves to become efficient and disciplined
soldiers.
The whole fleet sailed from Quebec to Gaspé Bay, where we were picked
up by our convoy. The arrival of the battleships and cruisers was
greeted with rousing cheers, which were answered in kind by the men
of the fighting ships. It was the most impressive sight I have ever
witnessed; up to that time nothing had so majestically expressed the
sentiment of the Overseas Dominions hastening to the help of the
mother country.
By this time the seriousness of the conflict began to dawn upon the
country. The magnificent exploits of French's glorious little force
had fired every one of us, and every time the band played
"Tipperary," the wildest enthusiasm prevailed.
It was on one of the first nights aboard that the first shadow of the
war fell upon me. A sort of gloomy mist rose before my eyes and
clouded my brain, and I felt morally certain that something had
happened to Tom, my twin brother, and sorrowfully I have to tell that
he died in the battle of the Marne. I did not learn the particulars
until I reached England. He died as he would have wished to die,
fighting gloriously for the Empire.
Very few of the battalions had bands with them, but the Sixth of
Winnipeg, that embarked with us, had a splendid band, and they were
most generous in supplying us with musical treats all the way across.
I shall never forget the scene at these concerts, especially at
night--the moon shining on the sea, calm almost as a lake, the men
lounging in various attitudes of ease, some leaning over the
taffrail, others in chairs, and all smoking and enjoying the strains
to their hearts' content.
The only disagreeable feature of the voyage was the deadly regularity
with which we were fed upon stew; our feelings in this regard were
put into rhyme by one of the grim humorists of the battalion:
Our daily bread is stew,
That's all the cook can brew,
For kind heaven's sake, please give us some cake
Or anything else that's new.
One night at dinner, when the waiter handed him his stew, he stood
up, and, calling for silence, announced that he had a few remarks to
offer for the benefit of the misguided souls who entertained the
notion that we were not properly fed. There was an angry clatter of
knives on the plates of the stew, as the men were fighting mad with
the monotony of the grub, but finally the speaker got a semblance of
order and he commenced:
"Soldiers of the King, I believe it is duly right and fair to the
cook and the commissariat that the idea which has seemed to be
finding lodgment in the minds of some of us that we are not properly
looked after, as far as our stomachs are concerned, should be
banished at once, and I feel sure it will be when I point out to you
in a few words how erroneous that thought is.
"Have you ever considered what a load of anxiety is lifted from our
minds as to what we are going to have for breakfast, for dinner, for
supper? Have you ever thought about that?"
"You're damned right, we have," from fifty throats at once.
---------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration: The Bull-dog behind the flag has licked all comers in
Western Canada. The men are Canadian veterans, who, with bull-dog
persistency, "held the line" in Flanders Author on extreme right.]
---------------------------------------------------------------------
"Be patient, please, for just a moment. Have you ever thought that
we are saved absolutely every petty worry as to whether the roast
beef will be tough, the chops old and unpalatable, the fish mushy, or
the pudding not properly seasoned? Not a particle of troublesome
speculation about any of these things."
"For God's sake, let them trouble us all they want," from the
audience. He continued:
"We take our places at the table calm and serene in the perfect
confidence that there is not the least doubt as to what we are going
to eat, and filled full of adoration in the sacredness of our food,
for do we not know that it is like unto the holiest man that ever
trod this old earth of ours--the same, yesterday, today and forever."
A roar of approval greeted the speech and the somewhat blasphemous
reference, but from that time on we took the humorous view of the
situation, thereby saving ourselves a lot of misery.
One night at dinner, when our usual stew-portions were served, one of
the fellows left the table for a few minutes, and while he was gone
we switched his soup, substituting water, and hastily, but
thoroughly, scraped every scrap of meat off the bone. He came back,
tasted of his soup, then poured it over the table. He picked up his
soup bone, looked for the meat, and sent the bone flying down the
cabin. Unluckily it struck an officer and he was promptly bundled
into the clink (guardhouse). He was an Irishman, and on his trial
the following morning he made a thoroughly characteristic defense.
"Sor, to tell yez the thruth, I just happened to think av the
athrocities av them damned Germans on the helpless wimen and
childher, an' I thought how would I feel if those near an' dear to me
were threated in that way, an' on the impulse av the moment, without
thinkin', or lookin', I flung the bone, imaginin' I was right in the
middle av the fightin'."
It didn't save him, but it cut off some days from his stay in the
clink.
On more than one occasion our thirst for revenge on the stew was
gratified by seeing it heaved all over the floor by a sudden roll of
the boat in rough weather.
Our chief form of entertainment while aboard ship, in addition to the
band concerts, was the vaudeville shows that were given. Among our
cosmopolitan crowd much fine talent was discovered--songs, readings,
exhibitions of juggling, boxing competitions, etc.--served to while
away the monotony of the voyage and make life livable during the
crossing.
Church services were held regularly every Sunday; the two
denominations represented were Church of England (Episcopal) and
Roman Catholic. Mass was held at eight-thirty and the Protestant
minister commenced his service at ten-thirty, at which were assembled
all the balance of the battalion. Although my attendance was
compulsory, these services were deeply impressive and will remain in
my memory as long as I live. The majestic ship ploughing through the
water and the swish of the spray mingling with the men's voices as we
sang the hymns we learned in childhood made a lasting impression on
all of us, and I am sure that the emotion of those moments has stayed
with every man throughout our campaign in France and since.
CHAPTER VI
LAND AHOY
On a beautiful evening in the fall, after a voyage of twenty-two days
on the water, the transports quietly stole, one by one, into the
harbor of Plymouth. None of the townspeople had the remotest idea
that the Colonials were anywhere near England, and it was not until
the _Strathcona Horse_ displayed a huge pennant from the ship, which
was anchored close to the quay, that our identity was disclosed. It
took them but a couple of seconds to grasp the fact that the
Canadians had arrived in England, and in less than half an hour the
harbor was alive with every conceivable kind of craft, loaded near to
the sinking point with cheering humanity.
I wish I could describe my sensations as I once again looked upon the
green fields of my native land. To find out how much one loves his
home he must leave it, and after my voluntary exile of six or seven
years, I wanted to shout and sing for very joy.
We English may be dense, thick-headed, slow to act, and guilty of
several other things charged to us, but I doubt if any nation could
love its country with more intensity than true Englishmen.
Steering close to our boat the crowd asked us if we needed anything.
We replied that we needed everything, and we got it; cigarettes,
tobacco, food, candy--in fact, everything that could comfort a
soldier's heart, was thrown on our decks.
I gazed at the shores of my native land, listening to the strains of
"O Canada," played by the band and echoed back by the glorious hills
of Devon, and the thrill within me was indescribable. There was also
an undercurrent of wonderful feeling that made me proud, not only
that I was a Britisher, but that our grim old mother-nation was
nursing there in one of her great harbors the robust manhood of a
virile daughter-nation that had heard the call and answered and that
I was a part, however small, of that answer.
Songs of the British nations would go floating out to sea and inland
to the hills. Following the strains of "Annie Laurie" would come
"Men of Harlech," "The British Grenadiers," "Dear Little Shamrock,"
and then the incomparable lilt of "Tipperary."
We finally received the order to disembark. Now it is an unwritten
law in the army, in the practice of that most soldierly art of
thieving, that a man must thieve from every battalion and company
except his own, and we thought we might just as well start on
anything lying around loose on the _Lapland_. The Colonel may have
wondered why we came to the "Present arms" with such alacrity when we
said farewell to that splendid ship that brought us over; but the
truth of it was we wanted to get away from the scene of our
activities before any uncomfortable questions could be asked.
After a thoroughly profane and good-natured farewell with the burly
British sailors and a rousing welcome from the people, we marched out
in force to be delivered into the hands of the citizens. And such a
welcome! It beggars description. I never had my hand shaken so much
and I never was kissed so much in all my life.
One middle-aged lady, with two beautiful daughters, exclaimed, "You
brave boy, I am going to kiss you for your mother's sake." "I will
too," said her daughters, and I was kissed by the entire family. I
couldn't help venturing, "How about a kiss for my own sake?" And I
glanced at the daughters. "Surely," said the mother, and she kissed
me again, but the girls were a little bit abashed and did not respond
to my suggestion, much to my disappointment.
At one spot in our welcome I was again the subject of an outburst of
damnable sympathy from a motherly-hearted woman who almost went into
hysterics at the idea of such a child as I going out to help stem the
on-rushing Huns. However, my comrades were filled full of the
attentions they were receiving from their male and female admirers
and my predicament passed unnoticed this time, for which I fervently
thanked God.
In the course of our parade we were taken in front of Drake's
monument and I could not help wondering what he would have thought,
had he been there in the flesh, at the sight of those hardy
adventurers. Surely he would have felt that here indeed were men
after his own heart, ready and willing to dare everything, to go
anywhere for the sake of the motherland and their own new land across
the seas.
By sheer strength we reached the depot at last and entrained for
Salisbury Plain.
CHAPTER VII
SALISBURY PLAIN
Midnight, and as dark as pitch found us shivering and blinking
sleepily on the platform of a small railway station on the outskirts
of Salisbury Plain. From here a truly murderous hike blistered our
feet, spoiled our tempers and proved to us in no uncertain manner how
stale we had become during our journey overseas. Just as day dawned
we floundered wearily to a place where tents flapped sadly against
tent poles as if sympathizing with our woeful plight. These tents
had simply been erected and loosely staked out and were left for us
to tighten and make habitable. We were too weary to bother with
them; we simply dropped on the ground and slept the sleep of utter
exhaustion.
When we awoke we found ourselves drenched to the skin, our tents
still half erected, the commissariat all disorganized and the plain
hidden in solid sheets of driving rain. This was just a prelude of
the terrible days to come.
In a day or two we had shaken down, with seven men to each tent, and
our training began. A brief spell of fine weather followed, with a
visit from the late Lord Roberts to inspect us. This visit of our
great Little General left me feeling very comfortable, as he was
fully an inch shorter than myself, and it seemed to me very wonderful
that that slight, courteous old man should be the hero of so many
exploits in India, Afghanistan, South Africa, and other parts of the
world. It will be remembered of him forever that a few years before
he had given Great Britain a solemn warning of the intentions of
Germany. With few exceptions the newspapers, the _London Times_
included, had branded him a scare-monger and jingo. Alas, how
bitterly true was the great little man's prophecy!
He died a brief month afterwards, just as he would have wished, "in
harness," and among his Indian comrades he loved so well.
Then the rains descended, the floods came, and the plain became one
seething quagmire of mud. Words are powerless to describe our
continual conflict with that mud; it was everywhere--in our eyes, our
hair, our tents, our clothes, our grub; we often had to swallow it as
well as wallow in it. Again our poet-wit got his work in and this
was our universal lament:
Mud, mud, damnable mud,
In mud we must wallow and mud we must swallow,
Mud, mud, damnable mud,
Oh say will we ever get out of the mud.
Our tents leaked incessantly, but with all our discomfort we were
healthy and happy and, in consequence, were grumbling all the time.
We roundly cursed our officers, anathematized the mud, swore we would
mutiny--all done sotto voce. But we were very, very happy.
And now, to crown my happiness, I obtained leave to visit my people
in the Midlands, about one hundred and thirty miles from the place.
The only way I could curb my impatience was by cleaning and
re-cleaning my buttons, badges and boots, and vainly endeavoring to
read the newspaper. At last, I paraded before the Colonel and
paymaster to receive my pass and money, and after satisfying the
critical eye of my commander that I was clean enough to be a credit
to the British Army, I was permitted to go.
I boarded a taxi and paid ten shillings for a three-mile ride to the
railway station. Had the Shylock asked four times that amount I
would have cheerfully given it to him.
Only a son who loves his father and mother can appreciate such a home
coming as I got; I shall never forget it. Mother-like, the dear old
lady was thoroughly dissatisfied because I hadn't the appetite of a
dozen strong men. One of her remarks typified the English
mother--the peer of any woman on God's earth today. I asked what she
thought of my journey over to do my bit for the Empire and her reply
was: "I knew you would come. I knew it. God bless you, my boy. I
hate to think of where you are going, but I believe I would hate you
more, my own son as you are, if you did not go."
Such a reply from a woman who had already given one son for the cause
exemplifies the spirit of self-sacrifice which has so splendidly been
evidenced by the women of the Allies today. These mothers deserve
the V.C. as truly as any soldier.
My father's greeting was typical of the reserved Englishman. He
looked up at me without a word and just at that moment my young
sister walked in and stood beside him; the lassie was just as tall as
I was short; and my father's first remark was, "If you had been as
tall as this girl is, you might have called yourself a soldier."
Such was the greeting after an absence of six years and thus does the
Englishman cover up any signs of emotion.
The time was all too short to see everyone I wanted to see; my three
days' leave passed like an hour; but practically all the friends and
chums of my school days were either in France, on the sea, or in
training. An athletic club to which I belonged before I left England
for Canada had a total membership of two hundred, and of this number
one hundred and eighty-eight were in khaki, and even at that early
date eight of them had paid the supreme price.
Promising to come back as soon as possible before I left for France I
said good-bye and commenced my return journey, feeling very homesick
and miserable. But I found a very interesting companion on the way
back, one of the gallant boys of French's "Contemptibles." He was
one of the few survivors of a battalion of Gloucesters and was one of
the twenty-four who held back about seventy times their number and
covered the retreat of the remnant of their regiment. When history
is written and the deeds of the different regiments recorded, the
wonderful stand of the twenty-four will go down as an epoch of the
Great Retirement.
Reticent as most British soldiers are, yet being a comrade, he told
me enough to give me some idea of what we were going into. Parting
from him at Bristol, by a strange coincidence I ran into a corporal
of the Second Battalion of Gloucesters. This man had just completed
his service with the army and had been about a month on reserve when
again called out. He now lies somewhere in France, for within three
weeks from this time his regiment was almost wiped out.
While sitting in the train I happened to put my head too far out of
the car window and away went my cap. The corporal helped me out. He
dug from his kit a cap of a wonderful checked pattern, big black and
white squares, and gave it to me. It was staggering in its color
scheme, but better than nothing. Next morning, judge of my
consternation when I found it impossible to get a cap from the
quartermaster in time to go on parade, and I was obliged, to go in my
beautiful new headpiece. It seemed to shout its color scheme from
end to end of the battalion. Particularly did Morgan make caustic
comment on the queer ideas of some people as to the proper head-dress
for a soldier, and everyone, from the corporal up wanted to know what
in hell I meant by coming on parade with that awful thing on my head.
Finally the Colonel came and ran his eye over his pets. "Tshun," he
roared, and everyone "tshuned." A moment of silence while the Old
Man critically lamped his battalion; then it broke.
"Who is that man who thinks he may come on parade in his own ideas of
fashion? Fall out, that man, I want to speak to him."
I sneaked guiltily up to him, mentally noting those of my pals who
snickered loudest, and stood dutifully at attention. After informing
me that in spite of my looks I was supposed to be a soldier, and that
although it was the dearest wish of his heart to permit me to
disgrace the battalion, yet he felt compelled to administer a little
correction.
"How came you to be wearing that monstrous thing?"
I explained truthfully, but he insisted that I had been imbibing and
had lost my cap as a consequence. That afternoon, when tottering
under the weight of sides of beef and other heavy things, which I was
obliged to carry, I resolved that if I ever again lost my cap, I
would not be guilty of wearing an alibi.
CHAPTER VIII
LIFE IN THE ENGLISH CAMP
After my first trip home, for a few days I went about my work without
interest, but when one is in superb physical condition, it is
impossible to be depressed long, and soon I was grumbling away again
as happy as ever. Still the wretched weather continued. If it did
not rain, it snowed; if it did not do one or the other, it did both;
if it did not do both, a fog you could take in your hand would hang
over the place the whole day long. If the Fates decreed we should
have a fine day, we were worked till our bones cried out for rest.
In the early morning we would curse the bugles as they blared out
their warning for us to be up and doing. Sometimes the temptation
grew too strong and one of us would be missing when we fell in
shivering for our mornings physical torture. This is the name the
Canadians had for physical drill. The tardy one would regret his
indifference to "Reveille" before the day had well begun, for he
would usually be told off for all fatigues, as well as turning out
for the day's work with the battalion.
A vigorous trot would set our blood coursing through our veins, and
after the torture had loosened up our muscles, we wondered why we had
ever wanted to stay in bed at all.
Breakfast would follow, and after that we would fall in to be
inspected by the officers, tongue-lashed by the Colonel, and finally
marched off for instruction in tactics on the field, or other
necessary parts of an infantry soldier's training. We might arrive
back in time to partake of a noon-day meal, or it would perhaps be in
the middle of the afternoon, or again we might stay out the whole
twenty-four hours.
Night alarms would see us sleepily but frantically struggling to don
our equipment so that we would make a record for our company by being
first at the assembling post. The language on such occasions was
almost the acme of perfection, because our studies in the army in
that regard had brought us to a truly wonderful state of efficiency
in fluency and the ability to improvise suitable words for all
occasions.
One may therefore imagine the atmosphere when a buckle of Morgan's
equipment would fix itself firmly in some inaccessible part of mine
and we would struggle to straighten out the tangle by the dim light
of a candle. Usually it would end by one of us inadvertently putting
out the candle. After this there would be absolute silence as even
our vocabulary was not adequate to the situation. With clenched
teeth we would relight the candle, if we were fortunate enough to
find it; if not, we finished our dressing by touch, each mentally
cursing the other for his clumsiness.
Finally we would stumble to the assembly post to receive a wigging
from the O.C. (officer commanding) of the company down. On our way
back Morgan would tell me that in all his life he had never known one
so blankety-blank a clumsy as I was, and I would consign him to
everlasting perdition, and the quarrel would wax hotter and hotter,
to the great amusement of the other boys, until we arrived at the
inevitable stage when the challenge to fight is given. Then the
sergeant would step in, and we would be obliged to satisfy ourselves
by mentally vowing to settle it once for all when we got back to
camp. However, the excitement and fatigue would soon cool our
tempers, and the usual sequel was for the two of us to be found
foraging in some mutual enemy's camp, or we would settle down,
cuddled in one another's arms, for a long refreshing sleep.
At the remount camp, situated about two miles from our own camp, were
a number of unbroken horses; these were used as remounts for
artillery, cavalry, transports, etc. Every day two or more companies
from the battalion were told off as "Remount fatigue" and had to
clean and groom the animals, and one day shortly after this, when it
was part of my duty to assist in taking a load of provisions for the
men who were looking after the horses, we came upon a wondrous
object, lying resplendent in all its native beauty, by the side of
the road. Hardly believing our eyes, we bore down upon the stranger.
It was real, and we rejoiced. Thirty-six gallons of good beer had
wandered away from a jolting wagon. After several vain efforts, in
which we nearly ruptured ourselves with straining, we finally
succeeded in hoisting it on our transport. It was necessary to
resort to "camouflage" to hide our treasure, but it was done. The
day passed slowly, as we curried and brushed that kicking, squealing
mass. We were tortured with fear lest any of the others should
discover our find. As expert thieves we respected others of the
craft, and in this case we feared them.
Night came, and to our relief, our cask had not been unearthed. That
night figures might have been discerned in the gloom, stealthily
making their way to a certain big marquee. Inside this marquee was
stacked bales of hay and other feed for the transport animals.
By the dim light of two stable lanterns we paid our respects to the
delightful stranger until we had exhausted its hospitality, and at
"Lights out" we tacked homewards, after an affectionate farewell to
one another.
I will not attempt to excuse myself, or the others, but perhaps we
may be forgiven when I tell you that on Salisbury Plain we endured
the most frightful weather conditions. Add to this our isolation
from anyone but soldiers, and the entire absence of amusement except
what we manufactured ourselves, and some toleration may be vouchsafed
us. If those boys let loose occasionally, they also blocked the road
to Calais, and many forget this when criticizing the men, who not
only faced hell in France and Flanders, but cheerfully fore-went
almost all the advantages that later contingents enjoyed while in
training.
On a soaking wet night a few of us tramped over the plains to our new
homes and huts, which had been given us in substitution for the
tents. For some reason hut life told on the health of the boys and
that terrible scourge, cerebral spinal meningitis broke out, and soon
many were infected. For myself, I never contracted anything but a
trick of getting into trouble. Still the rain descended and the mud
deepened. It was in the hut that many of the peculiarities of our
comrades helped to amuse us. Big Bill Skerry and young Fitzpatrick
had struck up a close friendship with each other, although Bill was
about double the age of Fitz. At intervals three solitary long hairs
would appear amongst the down on Fitz's chin, then Bill would declare
it was time Fitz had a shave, and he would seize his young friend,
and a mighty struggle would ensue, but it usually ended by Bill
clipping off the three sisters--Faith, Hope and Charity, as someone
called them.
Another fellow, Bolous, whom we had with us, was the butt of much of
our wicked horse-play. This strange being worked, ate and slept with
an automatic colt attached to his belt. For the sake of soldier
critics, I may say he kept it under cover on parade, but it never
left him. Naturally we asked him when he expected to meet the guy
who was looking for him. Many an attempt was made to steal that gun,
but no matter how soundly he slept, the slightest movement or touch
near him would bring him to a sitting position, with the automatic on
a dead line for the would-be thief's head. He had never been in
England before, and we romanced to him so earnestly about the
denizens of Whitechapel, that on his first visit to London, instead
of just his one automatic, he evened up matters by wearing one on the
other side, and stalked down Whitechapel, armed to the teeth.
This man was deeply interested in bayonet fighting, and would
question our instructors until they loathed the sight of him. He
studied the matter from all angles and would endeavor to get the man
next to him to act the part of an attacking Hun in order to show us
his own method of rendering Fritz _hors de combat_. Nobody ever
volunteered as there is no knowing what he would have done in his
eagerness to spit something with that bayonet. He devoured all that
he could find in drill books about "Hun Sticking." He was
particularly nerve trying at night, when we hobnobbed at cards or
were reading before "Lights out." Everything would be quiet, except
for the low murmur of conversation and an occasional heartfelt oath
from a loser in the poker party. Then suddenly we would almost jump
out of our skins, as a figure hurled itself at the rifle rack, seized
a rifle from the stand, fixed the bayonet and rushed up and down the
hut furiously parrying and lunging at an imaginary foe. Oblivious of
everything except dispatching the figurative German, he would rush
here and there while we endeavored to avoid the flickering steel.
The man was enormously strong, and agile as a cat, and all we could
do was to dodge as well as we could until his paroxysm passed and he
had settled down to work out some other scheme for Boche killing.
We swore we would murder him if he did not cease these imitations of
a madman, but glad are we all who knew him that we took his wild
behavior good naturedly, for a very short time afterwards he
performed deeds of the most self-sacrificing kind under a wall of
shell fire. Not a few men owe their lives today to his devotion to
duty on that awful day at Ypres.
One night I was guilty of a betrayal of trust. I was detailed to
watch some carloads of coal that stood in a siding. My trick
(sentry-go) lasted from four to eight in the morning. The rain was
tumbling down as I floundered through the ooze to relieve the other
sentry. After the sergeant of the guard had gone, I felt really
miserable. There was only one place where I could stand with any
degree of comfort and this was a sort of a step that stood up a few
inches above the surrounding sea of mud, like a tiny rock in a swamp
of brown colored soup. Balancing myself precariously on this forlorn
hope, I thought I would pass the time by singing softly to myself.
This seemed to bring the rain down with redoubled force so I stopped
and took to cursing instead. Then the disaster came. I was gazing
through the murk at nothing when a desire to stretch overtook me; I
did so and the rifle overbalanced me. After several wild attempts to
regain my balance, I floundered face down into the quagmire below.
When I had partially digested the highly flavored mud, I addressed my
surroundings with much feeling.
It was useless now to bother about trying to keep dry, as I was
seeping wet through, so I stood and watched the liquid mass swirling
around me and the water flapping at my knees. I could see dimly by
the light of a sputtering electric light at one corner of the car.
Slowly the time passed till I heard in the distance very faintly the
bugles at headquarters sounding "Reveille." This is one of the most
impressive things I have ever heard--the reveille at dawn and the
last post at night. Away in the distance the first notes would steal
faintly across the plain, each succeeding camp would take it up,
until it reached us, then our own massed bugles would blare it out in
one swelling din. From us it would pass to the next camp, until it
died away as faintly as it had begun. Thus were fifty thousand men
awakened from their slumbers, or hurried to them, during the winter
of 1914.
Heaving a deep sigh of mingled appreciation of the music and disgust
at my physical discomfort, I turned once more to studying the
quagmire. Suddenly I was aroused by a gruff voice in a Cockney
accent. It was a man of the big crowd of civilians, chiefly men
unfit for the army, who worked at different occupations in and around
the camp. By the light I saw a little weazened-up man holding two
coal scuttles.
"I say, mate, could I 'ave a couple of scuttles of coal?"
"No, you can't," I replied, "beat it."
The little man stood his ground and I was glad of it, because here
was someone to quarrel with, and I would gladly have quarreled with
my own father at that moment after my night of shivering. However,
there was to be no scrap. Just as I came within striking distance he
opened his coat and displayed a flat bottle:
"Loike a drink, guv?"
I eyed the bottle for a second.
"How much is in it?" I asked.
"She's full."
Alas poor, frail humanity; my mind was made up in an instant. "You
can take the bloomin' car if you'll give me the bottle."
"Righto," said he; "I only want a couple of scuttles-full, but yer
can 'ave the bottle."
My stomach was empty, my clothes were soaked, I was wet and chilled
through and through, but when my relief came I was supremely content
with my lot. The sergeant sniffed suspiciously, but I held my tongue
and bottle both.
A few nights following the above I experienced one of those
unforgetable sensations that men have at one time or another in their
lives. A very old and dear friend of mine, a veteran of a former
campaign, had enlisted with the Princess Pats and the first
opportunity I had I searched him out at the camp of the Pats.
Returning home across the hills to our own camp I suddenly became
aware of the roll of men's voices singing an old familiar hymn. The
wind blowing in my direction carried the sound even above the swish
of the rain; in fact, the solemnity of it all was intensified by the
steady swish of the downpour. Every evening men by the thousands
congregated in our only place of recreation, the huge Y.M.C.A.
marquee, and on this evening they were singing that old favorite of
all civilization, "Nearer, My God to Thee." It sounded like a mighty
requiem.
CHAPTER IX
GETTING READY TO GO
My second leave arrived. Being issued with a new uniform, my buttons
and badges burnished as bright as elbow grease and metal paste could
make them, I flattered myself I made a most soldierly figure as I
stepped out with the rest, en route for Amesbury station. The major,
knowing his boys, gave us a word of warning. He held forth on the
nearness of the time when we would be wanted to hold the thin line
over the channel. The warning was a hint to be back on time or
results unpleasant would follow. This did not prevent me taking an
extra day or so.
This was to be the last I saw of my people before embarking on the
final stage of the game and the time passed all too quickly. On the
day of my final leave-taking not one shadow of sorrow was portrayed
on mother's face. On the contrary, she resorted to an old English
custom that has been handed down for generations: after my last kiss
and embrace she waved a cheery adieu and grabbing an old shoe that
she had prepared for the moment she flung it after me with the time
immemorial expression, "Good Luck and God-speed."
I held the tears back until I was well out of sight and then my
pent-up feelings gave way and I let them freely flow. The memory of
that farewell has supported me and given me strength to undergo what
sometimes seems impossible when I look back over it all. My youngest
sister, Edith, displayed the same bravery of spirit and maintained a
brightness and a cheeriness which I well know she was far from
feeling. Blessed indeed are we in our women and girls.
---------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration: THE REMAINS OF A ONCE PROSPEROUS VILLAGE]
The frightfulness of modern warfare is shown in this remarkable
picture. The bare sticks were once graceful trees; the heaps of
debris, beautiful homes.
---------------------------------------------------------------------
My return journey was in the company of another of the
British-Canadians from my own village. At London we crammed
ourselves into a carriage crowded with khaki-clad humanity, and a
furious argument arose as to what constituted a real Canadian. Hot
and hotter it grew until we steamed into the little depot, and it was
only settled when a stalwart Canuck volunteered to knock hell out of
any man in the whole damned army who said he wasn't a Canadian.
On arriving at the door of my former hut I found it barred and the
boys inside told me to seek other quarters as the spinal meningitis
had at last reached our abode. I entered the next hut and found it
filled with my chums who had returned from leave, all feeling
somewhat dismal, and we cast ourselves down wherever we could and
dreamt about home till morning.
As before, my low spirits soon faded and I skipped about as usual.
Now began a period of intensive training, chiefly bayonet practice.
Musketry, route marching, bayonet fighting, and target practice all
took up our time, and such games as football and baseball served to
keep the men supple.
On New Year's eve we celebrated and the officers closed their eyes
for awhile, and the men took full advantage of their temporary
blindness. In our hut, story and song floated more or less musically
into the mist outside. The evening finished with a speech from one
huge fellow, which he insisted on making in spite of our protest, and
to emphasize his oratorical points, he seized the object nearest to
him which happened to be me, and taking me by the coat collar and the
leg, he drove home his points by thumping me, rear end downward, on
the table. That was another time in my life when the way of the
small man was hard, and the trouble of it was the table was harder.
Although I suffered somewhat by reason of my short stature, nature
evened things up by giving me a stamina which nothing seemed to hurt.
In consequence, I was always chosen to be one of the party who
paraded before the doctor every few days in order to show the doctor
that there was nothing very seriously wrong with our battalion,
because the men were afraid we would be left behind when the
contingent went to France owing to the amount of sickness in our
bunch.
Policemen, whether civil or military, are ever the abomination of a
liberty loving soldiery and throughout the camp they were always on
the lookout for offenders. However, on Salisbury Plain it was
comparatively easy to avenge oneself on the M.P.'s. (military
police). At night, after "Lights out" these officious guardians of
the peace would be on the look-out for any of the boys who had stayed
out too long, and who were dodging the sentries. On a stormy night,
with their coat collars turned up to their ears and leaning against
the storm, they would be walking on the chalk walks on each side of
which stretched the sea of mud. The avenger usually prepared his
attack by donning a pair of rubber boots, and stealing up behind the
unsuspecting policeman until within a few feet of him, he would step
off into the mud on the storm side of the M.P. and deliver a blow
with all the pent-up feelings of an aggrieved soldier behind it and
into the mud would topple the unlucky policeman. The Canadian idea
of discipline had not yet become acclimated to the stern routine of
the Imperial Army.
CHAPTER X
LEAVING FOR FRANCE
Our work was harder now than ever; not a moment was lost in whipping
us into shape for the Great Game and our nerves were becoming more
tense each day. The final event before leaving was a review of the
men in the presence of the King and Queen, Earl Kitchener, and other
distinguished guests, as well as our kin-folk from all parts of Great
Britain and Ireland and the Dominions beyond the seas.
Morning broke with the usual drizzle of rain, which happily stopped
later on, giving us instead a very fine day. We filed out to the
parade ground, a distance of about two miles. The Highlanders had
arrived before us and a splendid sight they made. Standing at ease
on the slope of a gently rising hill, their khaki aprons having been
discarded for the occasion, they made a wonderful splash of color on
the dull landscape. Tall, lithe fellows for the most part, they
looked the beau ideal of the British soldier. There seemed to be an
air of dashing gallantry about them that was irresistible. Making
the air hideous with their terrific skirling, the pipes droned and
squealed their defiance of everything non-Scotch. The pipes were
decorated with long colored streamers of the same pattern as the
kilts and plaids of their owners. The pipers themselves were men of
unusually fine physique, and surely Scotland and Canada would have
felt proud to have seen the brave sight.
In spite of our dislike for the pipes there was an indescribable lilt
to the music that seemed to get into our feet, and shoulders were
thrown back and two thousand feet swung as one. In this fashion we
arrived on the ground allotted to us for the parade. After the usual
movement for placing troops in review order we stood in ranks in
platoon formation, two by two, one behind the other.
The royal party not having arrived we stood at ease and had time to
take in our surroundings. As far as the eye could see, line after
line of infantry stretched up the gently sloping hill. A massed band
at our immediate rear did much to give one a curious feeling of
elation. I shall never forget the sight. The huge Union Jack
directly to our front surmounting the reviewing platform streamed
grandly out in the breeze that was steadily blowing across the plain.
A curious contrast between the dull drab of the ordinary infantry and
the gay attire of the Highlanders struck me most forcibly. To our
right the artillery in perfect formation seemed to stand like figures
of adamant; there seemed something sinister and threatening in the
dull color and lean appearance of the guns.
Immediately to their rear, reminding us of the wrath to come, stood
the stretcher bearers of the medical service.
At last the puffing of a train was heard and we knew that our royal
visitors had arrived. The King, Lord Kitchener, and other prominent
soldiers and statesmen stepped off the train. The band crashed out
the first bars of the national anthem, a quick command to us,
"Present arms," a movement, and all was still except for the rolling
of the anthem across the plain, and then silence once more.
The King shook hands with the officers and the inspection began.
This was the second time I had seen his majesty, but in spite of the
fact that I am a loyal Britisher, I was much more interested in the
martial figure by his side; this was the man who at that time held
the defense of Britain's military forces in the hollow of his hand.
I had read that Lord Kitchener was an inscrutable man, never known to
smile; it was a fiction; he smiled genially at us all. But those
keen, dark eyes did not miss one single detail of the men in front of
him. My sensation as he passed in front of me was that he was
looking straight through me into the man at my rear. No word of
approval or otherwise did the renowned soldier utter, but I think he
was pleased by the stalwart physique and the soldierly bearing of the
boys. After they had duly inspected our ranks, they took their
places on the saluting platform and the march past began, every arm
of the service being represented in its order. At the word, the
artillery sprang into life and thundering down the slope at a mad
gallop, they slowed gradually down and the horses walked, as proudly
as horses ever did, past the saluting base.
Next the cavalry, the men with their swords at the carry, trotted by.
A gallant sight they made with their Stetson hats and long yellow
cloaks. The coats of horses perfectly groomed shone in the sun like
satin and made a picture that was never surpassed by anything of the
kind in the days when "Knighthood was in Flower."
Then came the first battalion of infantry and before I could notice
more we, ourselves, had started to march past. The band struck up a
martial air and four thousand feet, keeping perfect time, made the
ground echo with their tread. My own battalion swung past the royal
party with a lilt in its step that thrilled one through and through,
and at the order "Eyes right" every head turned like clockwork. The
old Fifth certainly made a gallant showing that day.
Immediately after the review, line after line of infantry arranged
itself on each side of the track, and as the train bearing our
distinguished visitors steamed through, a roar of cheering echoed and
re-echoed away over the plain.
From then until our departure for the front each day's work was an
unusually strenuous course of bayonet practice. Day after day we
systematically stabbed and parried at sacks lying in trenches and
hung up on poles till we saw nothing but bayonets in our waking hours
and dreamt of nothing else in our sleep. One encouraging thing our
instructors used to tell us when they would fluently express their
disgust at our poor showing was, "Well, never mind, two-thirds of you
will never get up far enough to use them blinkin' baynits."
One sunny afternoon in early February, we received the order to leave
behind all surplus baggage and to burn all refuse and waste matter
and leave the camp in perfectly sanitary condition. This done we
paraded for miles in full marching order, loaded like mules.
Hardened as we were by our recent workouts, the strain was terrible,
even when we were standing, while the Old Man inspected us.
At last the order to march was given and we knew that this time we
were really going into the game. A grueling tramp of about an hour
and we reached Amesbury. Again the rain was coming down and we were
soaked as we stood waiting for the train.
At this point an unusual difficulty confronted the keeper of one of
our soldiers, a recruit named Private Billy. Billy in his early days
had jumped from crag to crag of the Rocky Mountains, had been brought
down to Valcartier and, in spite of having very prominent veins in
his legs, he passed the doctor, and he was the only one of our
battalion who ever appeared on parade without being punished for not
shaving. Billy had duly marched as was his wont in front of the
battalion, when, to the consternation of the boys, the Colonel swore,
as is the divine right of a colonel, that the goat must be left
behind. Here was a real difficulty. We could not part with Billy;
the boys argued that we could easily get another colonel but it was
too far to the Rocky Mountains to get another goat.
The difficulty was solved by buying a huge crate of oranges from an
old woman who was doing a brisk trade with the boys. The oranges
sold like hot cakes and in a jiffy the orange box was converted into
a crate and Billy was shanghaied into the crate and smuggled on board
the train. Poor Billy! for three days and nights he simply existed
in that horrible crate on board train and on transport ship.
Billy, the goat, is still going strong and it is the boast of the
Fifth that Kaiser Wilhelm has not yet "got their goat." Bill is a
goat to be proud of. When the battalion was drawn up in review order
and strictly at attention, no soldier ever stood more erect. He
would stand with the transport, all four legs firmly braced on the
ground, his head held high, without a flicker or a movement. His
only weakness was a fondness for canteen beer that was unequaled by
our most seasoned toper. Luckily for him, beer was hard to get. The
boys were so amused at his side-splitting antics when in his "cups"
that they were forever treating him.
Billy, however, like most ne'er-do-wells, was a valiant soldier, and
greatly distinguished himself at Ypres. In that immortal death
struggle, Bill remained with his friends clear through. He was
seriously wounded and I think the wound was in his back. The old
fellow was tenderly nursed and eventually returned to duty with the
rank of sergeant.
He was reduced to the ranks in a few days for when on duty near
brigade headquarters he casually walked in and chewed up the nominal
roll.
Promotion soon came his way again, and Bill, today, a veteran of a
dozen mighty battles, worthily upholds the traditions of the Fifth,
while his name is entered on the roll as Sergeant Bill.
The story of Billy, the goat, may be read in detail by anyone who
cares to send for _Canada in Khaki_, a book published in England on
the doings of Canadians in Flanders.
Our departure was typical of the grim times--no band playing, no fond
farewell, just a stealing away in the night. Our own relatives did
not know we had arrived in France until they received their first
letters from us.
We arrived in the early morning, still dark, at the seaport town of
A---- in the Bristol channel. Next day we steamed out, passing
Land's End, still southwards, and in a curve up through the Bay of
Biscay and dropped anchor in the bay of a certain port in Brittany.
During this trip our attachment to the fiends that take refuge in the
seams of a man's shirt was closer than ever. We slept where we could
and passed the days huddled together on the lower deck of the old
cattle barge, for she was nothing else. Mighty games of poker whiled
away the time. The boys already imbued with the fatalistic spirit of
the true British soldier, argued that fate was so uncertain that
while they lived and had money, why not risk it, and the chief
gamblers went the limit with all their worldly wealth.
CHAPTER XI
LANDING IN FRANCE
The battle song of the British Army, "Tipperary," which was made
imperishable by the men who died at Mons and the Marne, was the first
sound that rang in our ears as our ship drew up to the landing. It
was a beautiful day, for spring had already begun to blossom in that
part of the country, although when we hit the firing line it was
still dead winter, and the scenery in France was disclosed to
perfection that day.
The song was being sung by French children in excellent English who
congregated in hundreds on the quay to see the Canadian soldiers
disembark, and I don't think a finer set of boys ever set foot in
France than Canada's first contingent.
Little did we think that in two short months more than half of us
would be dead, dying and shot to pieces.
A storm of cheering rent the air as our ship was moored to the dock.
Oranges, bananas, grapes and fruit of every description were thrown
to us, to which we replied by sending over buttons, badges, etc.,
these "Souvenirs Canadian" being literally fought for by the crowd.
One stalwart Frenchman earned our undying gratitude by catching our
company commander squarely on the side of the face with a nice plump
orange. It landed with a lovely stinging smack and spread itself
most luxuriantly over his capacious mug. Those who had been
recipients of the numerous punishments dealt out for our misdeeds
chuckled quietly and nudged each other in unholy glee.
We were no sooner safely docked than--to work. Winches groaned as if
in protest, as they hauled guns, ammunition and other impedimenta of
a division on active service. Fatigue parties sweated and cursed as
they stumbled backwards and forwards on and off the ship. Every man
had his work to do, and long before daylight everything was ready for
our departure north.
At five o'clock in the morning we were issued goatskin coats, mittens
and gloves, and inspected by the O.C. The order came to march, and
in heavy marching order, we trudged to the depot. This marching
order consists of rifle and bayonet attached to braces, which in turn
are attached by self-locking buckles to the belt, the knapsack or
valise which usually contains a shaving kit, towel, soap, change of
underwear, socks, one pair of boots, mess tin, and any other little
convenience you may wish to carry. Later on we learned by bitter
experience to dispense with everything except absolute necessities.
The aforesaid goatskin coats were a gift from the then Czar of Russia
and were supposed to have come from China. When we had donned our
gift coats there was a perceptible murmur of comment running from end
to end of the ranks, caused by the odor from the presents of the Czar
not unlike the presence of a skunk. Examination disclosed that the
bloody (literally) coats were dotted in many places with the actual
flesh of the deceased animals still sticking to them. In spite of
stern orders from the O.C's. of the various companies to maintain
silence during inspection, it was plainly discernible that the smell
had penetrated even the seasoned nostrils of the officers themselves,
from the Colonel down. I am certain that the Germans would have been
badly frightened that we had a poison gas of our own if we had had a
chance to tackle them with our coats on when the stink was fresh and
full in its pristine glory, as it was when we first got them.
As fate would have it, and as usual, I got a garment that would have
covered the hairy legs of Goliath of Gath; I almost tramped on the
hairy fringe every time I stepped, and I can't think of anything that
would more aptly describe my appearance than my chum Morgan's
exclamation: "For God's sake, fellows, take a look at this little
runt of a centipede. Shorty, for the love of Mike have you any idea
what you look like?"
"Go to hell," I snorted, whereat the entire platoon held their sides,
and I was mad enough to turn a machine gun on them.
Hanging from the belt is the entrenching tool and handle; it is
shaped like a tiny grub hoe. One would be apt to be amused at the
idea of digging a hole with a toy like that, but under shell fire you
could dig a hole quicker with that little tool than with a pick and
shovel.
Next is the haversack worn on the left side and the water bottle on
the right. In the pouches attached to the belt and braces a hundred
and twenty rounds of ball ammunition are carried. In addition to all
this a man takes his blanket and oil sheet rolled on the top of his
valise.
One can understand from this why men for the army need so much
training. Men of the finest physique would collapse inside of a mile
with marching order on their backs if not properly trained.
We arrived at the depot where we were told to lie down if we wished
and we did so with alacrity and waited for the train. Day broke, and
once more fatigue work. Guns were loaded on flat cars and transport
wagons, horses were placed in box cars, eight to a car, hay, straw,
rations, etc., were loaded in double quick time, and finally the men
were off, so many to a car. On the side of the cars in white letters
was painted the legend Chevaux 8, Hommes 40, which to those who do
not know French means eight horses or forty men.
Forty-three were told off to our car and here the first taste of
active service really began. We were three days on board that train,
but not only could we not lie down, but there was not enough room to
even sit down, and when we rested we took it by relays. However,
with songs and cheers the train pulled out, and in spite of our
cramped quarters we managed to be happy and enjoy our first glimpse
of "La Belle France."
Vociferous were the exclamations of the French at every place we
stopped. Women would draw their forefingers about their throats,
signifying the cutting of that part of the human frame, with the
word, "Allemand," signifying German. An old man, too old to serve in
the army, made the motion of a bayonet thrust, informing us--at least
we guessed that was what he meant--to so treat the hated Allemands.
We were always surrounded by crowds of souvenir hunters, which did
not disturb us at first but before we had half finished our journey
they became an unmitigated nuisance, and the boys were not long in
letting them know their safety depended on the distance they kept
away.
At last on a bleak, raw morning, we detrained at a spot where was
witnessed a desperate encounter between the British and Germans in
the early part of the war. A mile or so from the place is the town
of Hazebrouck. It was here that the terrible toll of this conflict
was brought home to us. Line after line of wooden crosses, with the
names and regiments of the men who lay beneath, stretched for an
appalling distance. Since then a fearful number of graves has been
added, including thousands of our boys of Canada, following the
battle of Ypres.
Later on I noticed the poppies that abound all through sunny France,
waving their pretty heads between the crosses, which gave inspiration
for that beautiful poem by Lieutenant John McCrae, originally
published, I believe, in the London _Punch_. It is well worth
repeating:
IN FLANDERS FIELDS
In Flanders fields the poppies grow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; while in the sky
The larks still bravely singing fly
Unheard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead! Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset's 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
We shall not sleep 'though poppies blow
In Flanders fields.
After detraining we were placed in billets, ours consisting of an old
barn. The near-by farm was being run by the women of the place, all
the men folks being away in the trenches. These people must have
made a small fortune, as the boys bought eggs, butter, coffee, etc.,
in abundance.
Our experiences in making change for our purchases uniquely expressed
the old saying, "money talks," because the dealers everywhere seemed
to be thoroughly acquainted with the values of English currency,
although they couldn't speak the language.
Here we stayed for a few days until our march to the trenches began.
Nightly, as we lay, we could hear the boom of an occasional big gun,
the rattle of rapid rifle fire, and now and again the peculiar
metallic click and whir of machine guns.
It was in this place that the clock-tower incident occurred: Someone
noticed the hands of the clock on the east end of the tower moving
strangely; two men were sent up to investigate. They did not return
and a search was made for them. They could not be located, but
suspicious sounds were heard up in the tower. The officers decided
it was a case for the guns. One shell brought the tower tumbling
down and with it came the bodies of two German spies and the men who
had been sent to investigate. The spies had been using the hands of
the clock for signaling purposes.
CHAPTER XII
MY BAPTISM OF FIRE
On the morning before we set out for the trenches we were inspected
by Sir John French and other well-known leaders of the British Army.
That night the guns roared, Maxims barked and rifles kept up an
incessant fire all night. We began to have a very heartfelt idea of
what we were in for and the tightening up of the faces of the men was
distinctly perceptible, accompanied with ejaculations from some of
the English Tommies in our battalion, such as "Gawd blime me, but
it's gettin' close now."
Next day at about twelve o'clock we fell in, joined the remainder of
the battalion in Hazebrouck, and the march to Armentieres commenced.
This march will long be remembered by all who survived. Everyone was
in great spirits, and songs and jokes were the order. Along the
cobbled roads we swung in full marching order, and the first part of
the journey was accomplished with ease. But those awful cobbled
roads began to tell their tale. They are paved with rough, uneven
cobbles, and when a little rain has fallen a man goes slipping and
sliding all over the place. A thin layer of mud makes it ten times
worse; so by the time we had done fifteen miles, men began to lag.
On and on we went, until at last the officers were obliged to halt
the men.
As is usual, toward evening we felt better, and lustily informed the
natives that, "The Gang's All Here;" "Here We Are Again;" and various
choruses of a like nature were roared by us as we swung like one man
into Armentieres. Here we received vociferous welcome from those
fearless fighting men, the boys of the British regular army. Their
welcome was a royal as well as a noisy one, because they shoved
refreshing drinks and cigarettes into our hands, which were eagerly
taken.
"What in blazes do you call this stuff?" I asked of a burly Tommy who
had thrust a bottle of liquid at me.
"Wy, that, don't you know? That's beer, French beer."
"The devil, you say!"
"'Pon my soul, it is."
"Is the French fightin' man anything like his beer?" I asked.
"Oh no, Gawd forbid," said he, "for this damn stuff is as much like
beer as kissin' your own sister."
And I thoroughly agreed with him, because although it looked like
beer and smelt like beer, it was no more like beer than the kiss of a
man's sister would be when compared to the kiss of his sweetheart.
Our long march ended and we were billeted in the best billets I ever
remember while abroad. It was the luck of our platoon to be billeted
at an _estaminet_, or inn. The owner of this was somewhat of a
naturalist, the walls of his house being hung with all kinds of
valuable skins, cases of butterflies, etc. The people here were the
acme of kindness. You may guess how we slept that night.
During our stay in this billet I was always very conscious of a
curious frightened feeling, and as I looked at the carefree faces of
my comrades, I often wondered if they felt as I did. Sometimes a
dull, menacing boom, making the air vibrate, would cause a silence to
fall and a far-away look in the eyes told me more emphatically than
any words could that the rest of the boys were "thinking it over,"
probably just as hard as I was doing.
Next morning we had a grand breakfast, due to the kindness of Major,
then Captain Hopkins. Before actually going into the trenches we
were taken some thousand yards to the back of the first line and
started to work at filling sandbags and generally improving the
condition of the rear of our lines. Mile after mile at the back of
the firing line, trenches are being improved in case of retirement.
The Germans are doing the same, but they make theirs of concrete, so
when grumbling at the slow progress of the Allies, just think for a
moment of the tremendous task in front of them.
An occasional bullet would whistle over our heads as we worked, while
some would imbed themselves in the mud around us. No one was hit and
just at dusk we were marched back to our billets for one more night's
rest before taking our places in the first line.
Engaged in conversation that night with the good Monsieur Prevot, the
worthy host of the _estaminet_, was a man who looked the typical
Tommy of the British Army. Of medium height, thickset, dark hair and
dark moustache, he was about the last person one would suspect of
being anything but the soldier he proclaimed himself to be. Soon he
was hobnobbing with the boys, playing cards and telling them stories
of the earlier days of the war.
He had been spending some little time there, but unlike all British
soldiers he showed a strange neglect of his rifle, scarcely ever
looking at it and much less cleaning it. This aroused the suspicion
of Sergeant-major Demaille and the latter, coming into the
_estaminet_ one day and finding him there, began to question him.
The man's replies only heightened the S-M's suspicions and he was
placed under arrest. That was the last we ever saw of him, but his
was a short shrift. He paid the price for his daring.
To many people the work of a spy carries with it an odium that is
unspeakably disgusting; his activities are associated with everything
that is dirty, sneaking and contemptible. This, in my opinion, is
true of all shades of spies except the man who operates in the battle
lines. In this case he knows there is absolutely no shadow of a
chance for his life if caught, and it requires a nerve that is brave
indeed to engage in that type of the work. Spying, a soldier
detests, but, while detesting, he is full of admiration for the
courage of the spy.
The following day we fell in about four-thirty in the afternoon and
started for, as we thought, the trenches. To stiffen our backs, as
it were, we were ordered to fall in immediately beside the graveyard
at Armentieres, where scores of little wooden crosses marked the
resting places of the numberless children who were killed in the
bombardment. We were allowed to talk and smoke until we had gone
some distance, then strict silence was kept. By and by we were
halted and split up into sections, to minimize the effect of shell
fire. The road was pitted with shell holes, these being full of
water. The night being very dark, except when a flare would light up
the country with its weird color for a moment, the men now and then
would trip and fall with a muttered curse.
It was all quiet in front, but occasionally a burst of fire would
wake the echoes and bullets would whiz over our heads. A few of them
fell around us, but no one was hurt. It is a peculiar sensation to
find yourself under fire for the first time. A man feels utterly
helpless and at first he will duck his head at every whiz he hears.
Of course ducking is useless, because if you hear the whiz of the
pill, or the report of the rifle, you are still untouched, but every
man who has ever experienced this will tell you that he could not
help ducking even knowing how useless it was. I went so far as to
put up my shoulders to cover my jaws, as if in a boxing stunt.
One of the British Tommies gave me a bit of brief but sound
philosophy on ducking: "If you 'ear them, they won't 'urt you; if you
don't 'ear them, you're dead." A little later on a bit of Irish
humor was tragically mingled with ducking. A shell was coming, as an
Irish soldier thought, straight for him, and he ducked, and the shell
swept away the head of the man behind him. Said Paddy, "Shure it
always pays to be polite." By and by we were halted and lead through
a kind of tunnel into a barn. Here were a bunch of British, most of
them having taken part in the Mons retirement. We found we were to
act as a reserve with these men, that is, in case of attack we would
make our way to the front line as quickly as possible. A trench led
from both sides of this barn, but it was so skilfully concealed that
no one would have dreamt of its being there. In this barn the
Tommies had made themselves very comfortable, having straw to lie on,
and fires with which to boil tea. We soon were great friends with
the regulars, who gave us many valuable tips for active service.
We stayed here for twenty-four hours, the only excitement being a
German shell dropped in the separator of an antiquated threshing
machine, some two hundred yards to our rear, and the way those
thresher men bolted makes me think that they are probably running yet.
The natives at that time farmed away, just about five hundred yards
from the firing line, as if nothing was out of the ordinary. I saw
them finishing land in one part of a small field, while shrapnel was
spraying the other part, and at that time a family was living in
every house around there. Since then, however, both they and the
town of Armentieres are just dust heaps, being shelled to a finish at
about the same time as the great bombardment of Ypres.
At nightfall we trudged silently from the barn and without any
casualties succeeded in reaching our hospitable _estaminet_. The
good lady of the house, after counting us over, prepared hot coffee
for us.
In this town is the French and Belgian burial ground and at that time
it was full of statuary; even the humblest grave had its own little
shrine above it. The monuments were very fine, particularly a huge
marble one which had been erected by the sons of Armentieres for
those who had died for _La Patrie_, at Quatre Bras, Algiers, the
Crimea and the war of 1870. It was a beautiful monument, some thirty
feet high, and could not possibly be of any advantage to either side,
yet the Germans, a few weeks afterwards, shelled this graveyard,
utterly destroying all the beautiful monuments and exhuming piecemeal
dozens of bodies.
A crucifix, with the figure of the Savior, was in the most
conspicuous place in that burial ground; it was easily twenty feet
high; yet it remained untouched throughout the whole bombardment. In
not one single instance (and I think all returned soldiers will say
the same) have I seen the figure of the Savior anything but intact,
no matter how destructive the shelling has been. The cross itself
has been smashed to dust, but the figure has never been hit. This is
very remarkable, but a fact.
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[Illustration: INSTRUMENTS OF WAR AND PEACE WORKING SIDE BY SIDE.]
The reaping machine is harvesting the grain. The monster gun is also
reaping--but the harvest is death. A German shell is exploding on
the right.
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The next afternoon at four-thirty came the order, "Fall in," and we
knew we were booked now for the real thing. Rifles were examined,
ammunition inspected, and as night was falling we swung through the
town and across the bridge, temporarily erected by the engineers, the
Germans having destroyed the original one in their retreat. The
townspeople turned out _en masse_ apparently none the worse for a few
shells that had been flying among them a few hours before. _Bon
chance_ was shouted from all sides, to which we replied in English.
Being very much on the short side and all the more conspicuous by the
majority of the boys being very much on the tall side, I came in for
much chaff from the people who christened me _le picannin_. It
became a great joke among my chums and I had to submit to a lot of
chaff. At last we came to the hospital and the order was passed down
the line for silence. Again splitting into small sections we trudged
silently along, now and again stumbling into the shell craters.
Once we were placed at the side of the road to let the casualties go
by. Nothing is so weird as to meet those stretcher bearers on a
quiet night at the back of the line. Not a word is spoken, the
bearers stepping as one man. Up in the air goes a flare and the
faces of everyone take on a ghastly green tint, accentuating the
expression of suffering. It is a wonderful experience, and only a
soldier can realize the heroic stoicism of a wounded comrade. Racked
with pain they may be, but with the inevitable smoke between their
lips, they will grin at you as they pass.
If you want to imagine what a bullet wound feels like try and think
that you have got it and then imagine what it is to be carried over
the bumpy road, dumped down time after time, so that your bearers may
drop on the ground and live to carry you out. The Huns fire on
everything that moves, and every time a flare rises, down your
bearers must drop or run the certainty of being sniped. Sometimes in
a big action men will lie for days, some with desperate wounds,
sniped at if they show the slightest movement, and then comes the
journey from the dressing station along a road raked with shell fire.
Just try and imagine it, and if you see a soldier back from hell
kicking over the traces, and going a little bit wild, just think of
what he has been in and endured.
In my case the sight of these casualties caused me to shiver, for
there I was in perfect health and strength, yet how long before I
would be like one of these boys!
However, we were not given much time for thinking. "Keep absolutely
quiet and no talking," was the whispered command that was passed
among us. The blackness of the night made seeing anything clearly
absolutely impossible. No smoking was permitted and if a machine gun
opened on the road we were to throw ourselves flat. This was most
encouraging as the road had a beautiful layer of nice clinging mud,
while pools of water, from two to ten feet deep, were scattered
everywhere. We were all green troops and when the "plut-plut-ping"
began over our heads, the ducking would have done credit to Jim
Corbett.
By and by we steadied up, especially as we heard some British
Tommies, who were returning from their spell in front, enjoying a
quiet laugh at our expense. However, as one of them put it, "The'll
get used tew it lad, we were as bad at start. Goot neet." "Silence
there!" from our Old Man. I had a kind of "home and mother" feeling
in my stomach and I expected every minute to hear the machine guns
begin to bark. We had been told that a strip of railway about two
hundred yards from the trenches was a veritable death trap, the
Allemands peppering it about every hour. It was on the road to our
trenches, so we were obliged to go over it. When we came to the spot
I fancied that that strip of land was about a mile across instead of
about ten yards.
Judge of our astonishment, when the door of a house opened and a
woman came out and stood calmly watching us pass, mind you, only two
hundred yards from our own front lines and three hundred yards from
the Germans. And there I was trying to make myself as small as a
midget, and she standing calmly erect as if butterflies instead of
bullets were flying around. Thought I, "If that woman can stand like
that, surely I can at least walk erect." I did so, but it was a
terrible effort.
A guide from the Tommies took us in hand and the pace he set was a
caution. He was used to it, but we were on strange ground, and it
was as dark as pitch. We carried our rifles at the trail as a guide
to the man behind. Now and then our worthy guide would stop to get
over or through some obstacle, causing a momentary halt. Bang! goes
the rifle of the man in front of me, the butt catching me plumb in
the stomach. Swearing came from all around as some of the boys would
run their noses onto a pair of boots or something equally hard in the
valises of the men in front, or the muzzle of a rifle prodded someone
in the back.
The upshot of it all was that Fritz grew suspicious and up went a
flare, but we were not spotted except by a few snipers who sent over
a few souvenirs, which luckily none of us accepted. The pain in my
tummie obliged me to stay behind for a time, and when I felt able to
go on, the boys were disappearing in front. The man who dug his
rifle butt into my stomach was named "Slaughter" and he gave me solid
proof that he earned his name that night, for my tummie was sore for
weeks.
I was afraid I was going to get lost, so I mustered up all my
strength to try and run after the boys, and after covering a few
yards, over I went into a Jack Johnson hole (crater made by 16 inch
shell, often fifteen to thirty feet wide and as deep). There wasn't
much water in the hole, but lots of mud; my rifle was absolutely
choked with it and I was in an awful mess. I managed to flounder
out, and on going a short distance I was challenged and found I had
come right into the trench we were to occupy.
CHAPTER XIII
IN THE FRONT LINE
A gruff voice with a broad Lancashire accent asked me who I was. I
replied, "Fifth Canadians." "Aw reet," said he, "the'll be on the
next trick wi' me," meaning I was to be sentry with him. A bunch of
these British Tommies was out at the back filling sandbags, and their
utter contempt for the occasional shots fired at them soon told me
they were regulars. My companion and I soon became great chums, he
explaining to me the various things about trench life.
As we talked, a succession of flares suddenly leapt skyward, the
whole district being lit up by the green flare. The boys filling
sandbags raced for the trench, grabbed their rifles and stood ready
for anything that might come along. The Germans were sending a
perfect fusillade over. It was no attack, however. They had simply
sighted our listening patrols and had commenced firing on them.
My turn for sentry came, and with as little of myself showing as
possible, I peered over the parapet. Of course, looking over the top
is certain death during the day, but darkness makes it possible. It
was a curious feeling I had. I could see nothing but inky blackness
except when a flare went up. I would search the ground in front of
me while the light lasted, then duck as the inevitable snipers took a
pot shot.
For an hour I stood sentry, then was relieved. Five of my companions
and myself huddled into a partially completed dugout in a vain effort
to keep warm. While getting up to the trenches the weight of the
equipment kept us warm, also the heavy traveling, but standing still
in that trench was a different matter. The mud rose to my thighs in
places. Inside the dugout was a small charcoal fire, but very little
heat came from that. The night was bitterly raw and cold, and wet
and muddy as we were, we could not keep from shivering, while I lost
all feeling in my feet. Then we found we could get a certain amount
of heat in the dugout, as the floor was dry, by hugging each other
tightly. While it would be hard to conceive of a bunch of boys
feeling more miserable than we did, yet I have to smile to myself
when I think of those moments. With our arms clasping each other
tightly, leaning over a little charcoal fire, our teeth chattering
like monkeys, almost keeping time to the rattle of the machine guns,
we managed to keep our heads. It is wonderful what men will endure
when sweet life is the price.
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[Illustration: OUR NEST (DUGOUT) IS ON THE RIGHT.
MEALS ARE ANY TIME WHEN ONE IS HUNGRY.]
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It was while trying to keep warm that first night over the little
charcoal fire that I first learned how to handle my bayonet, if I was
ever to be lucky enough to ram it so far into a German belly that I
couldn't pull it out handily. The lesson came from a corporal of the
East Lanks (Lancashires) who was explaining the advantages of the
Lee-Enfield rifle and bayonet over the Ross, and his description was
so realistically vivid that my teeth forgot to chatter with the chill
I had.
"You see," he said, "if you push it in too far, you canna get it oot
again, because this groove on the side o' it makes the 'ole
air-tight; as soon as it is jabbed into a man the suction pulls the
flesh all over it and you canna chuck it oot."
"Well, what would you do if you couldn't get it out and another mug
was making for you?" I asked.
"Why if a twist won't do it, stick your foot on the beggar and wrench
it out; if that won't do it, just pull the trigger a couple of times
and there you are--she will blow out."
"Did you ever have any trouble yourselves?"
"Oh, aye. I remember at Landrecies, in the 'ouse to 'ouse fightin',
my chum, Topper, and me were backed into an alley, with a wall at our
back and a bunch of hulking Prussians pressing us hard. Some more of
the boys fell on them from the side, but Topper and me had all we
could do with the two or three that took a fancy to us. The Pruss
that took a fancy to me raised the butt of his gun to smash me nut
and I took a chance an' lunged. I lunged too 'ard and I 'ad the
trouble I've just been tellin' ye, and in my funk I did just what I
told ye; I twisted--she stuck; I wrenched and tugged--she stuck; and
if I 'adn't fired and got the bloomin' blade free, I wouldn't a' been
'ere a-tellin' you about it."
"And why couldn't I do the same with this one?" I asked, referring to
my Ross bayonet.
"It's too broad at the point. The man that gave ye that dam'd thing
might just as well 'ave passed sentence o' death on yer in a 'and to
'and go."
As a loyal Canadian I was at first inclined to resent the imputation
that our rifle was in any way inferior to anything on earth, but the
corporal's prophecy proved only too true within a short month.
With another spell at sentry the night wore on and at last day began
to break. The morning was foggy and raw, but our hearts were cheered
by the coming up of the rum. Yes, you may be horrified, good people
who read this, but that rum is a God-send, and so you too would think
if you had been standing with feet that you did not feel you
possessed, shivering, plastered with mud and wet to the skin,
standing with rifle ready an hour before dawn, expecting that any
minute you might have to line the trenches and fight for your life.
Under those conditions you may understand why a man needs something
to warm the blood in his veins.
One of the Tommies, my sentry chum, stole out under cover of the fog
and returned with a jar of water. We built a fire (we were allowed
fires as long as the fog lasted) and dined sumptuously on bully beef
and strong tea. One of the regulars, a man about thirty years old,
was alternately cursing the Germans and trying to warm his feet.
Apparently he did not care whether he was hit or not, as he stood at
the back of the trench, his entire body exposed, his chief concern in
life apparently being to get warm.
In his efforts to get his blood circulating he said he would rather
be home again than standing all night in that bloody trough of water
and mud. Something in his tone about home suggested a thought to one
fellow who queried: "You would rather be home again? Is it nearly as
bad as this?"
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[Illustration: WHAT A FIRST-LINE TRENCH LOOKS LIKE.]
This picture is typical of the first line of an European
battle-field. Barbed-wire entanglements are everywhere. Sandbags
are piled high on the top of the trench.
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"Well, to tell you the truth," he said, "I was 'oping I'd 'ave a bit
of a change, don't you know, and a sort o' relief from Lizer's
everlastin' tongue, but, strike me pink, if I wouldn't rather 'ave
'er dear old tongue than this--yes, even on a Saturday night, when
I'd come 'ome drunk and me wages spent."
A rather tough-looking nut who was listening to the dialogue chimed
in contemptuously: "Huh, she jaws yer, does she? Wy that's nuffink.
When I was a-leavin' of Sary Jane I was a-biddin' 'er good-bye, an'
just to make a showin' I tries to kiss 'er, but, pepper me eye-balls,
she lands me a swipe on the jawr an' sez, 'Kiss yer mother; if yer
licks the Germans as bad as you've licked me, you won't be gone
long.'"
After the dissertations on married life by the happy benedicts, our
suicidal friend of the East Lanks, who, reckless as ever, was still
standing on the parados, which is the step in the rear side of the
trench and, therefore, had three-quarters of his body exposed,
suddenly yelled, "There's your Allemands;" our boys jumped to his
side to see our friends on the other side of the street. Crack! and
down fell the Tommy, and, a fraction of a second later, Slaughter,
holding his hand to his jaw, slid forward slowly and convulsively
into the trench. It was my first experience with the reality of war
and my feeling was one of horror, then curiosity at what a stricken
man looked like, then blind fury at everything German.
The King's Own man was lying on his back with a hole through his
cheek, the cheek-bone completely smashed. I hastened over to him,
placed my overcoat under his head and started to bandage his face.
He was badly hurt, but worth a dozen dead men, and was the recipient
of hearty congratulations on his luck in getting such a Blighty
(sufficiently wounded to take him home); it being evident that his
wish to be home with his wife was soon to be realized.
For quite a long time after I had a constant reminder of him and his
wound in the blood-stained condition of my overcoat, which was soaked
through at the time.
My friend, Slaughter, was hit in the side of the neck, the bullet
passing down his back and out of the loin. He had a narrow escape
and it finished his active service there and then. I saw him later
in England on military police duty and looking fine, but he will
never again carry a pack.
To illustrate the peculiar course a bullet will sometimes take, this
will serve as an example. The King's Own man had his left arm
extended pointing to the German lines and the bullet first passed
through the sleeve of his coat, then through to his cheek, came out
at his ear, passed over in an oblique direction, hitting Slaughter in
the neck, passing out at his loin, then through two sandbags and
embedded itself in a third. We dug it out and one of the boys kept
it as a souvenir.
A volley of sulphurous language warned me that my guardian angel,
Morgan, was approaching. He had been farther up the trench
hobnobbing with the fellows, and on hearing of Slaughter's mishap
came to see how he was faring. In reality he had come over to see if
I was safe and sound, but, as usual, concealed his real feelings in a
mask of profanity.
"Well, runt, you're pretty white about the gills, ain't ye? You
should have stayed home with your mother instead of coming out on a
man's job. Poor little fellow! Shall I get you a glass of water?"
"O, go to hell, you black-whiskered devil. Your face is too damned
homely to be spoiled, or I'd smash it with this rifle."
I wasn't feeling any too chipper as it was, but I knew full well that
it was his own peculiar method of displaying his affection for me,
and thus was it answered.
The day passed uneventfully, except for a lively duel between a bunch
of regulars and Canucks and some frisky snipers in a house about
three hundred yards off. None of our boys were hit and they silenced
Fritz for awhile. Every time we moved the snipers would let go, but
we had become wary and no further casualties happened. The day
turned out fairly warm, for which we were very thankful. Toward
half-past four in the afternoon one of the Tommies near me remarked,
"It's time he started the Woodpecker." "Woodpecker! What do you
mean?" "Oh," said he, in a matter of fact tone, "they have a machine
gun laid on the way out and he takes a few sighters to get her right
for us when we go out." "Lord!" thinks I, "more of it."
True enough, about four thirty-five Fritz started the "Woodpecker"
and we could see the bullets striking the corner of an old house,
just where we were to pass that night. You can imagine how I felt
when our relief came and we started our journey out. We stooped as
low as possible, expecting every minute to be opened on, but for some
reason he did not let her speak to us that night. One of the
fellows, however, had three fingers sniped off by a stray bullet
before we were out of the danger zone. It was almost worth the price
to hear the exuberance of his swearing; but he was lucky; it was a
comfortable Blighty for him, and some of us were positively green
with envy.
An amusing thing happened on our way out. We were green at that
time, of course, and we went down the road and across the country as
if we were treading on eggs, our heads between our shoulders and our
backs humped. Morgan walking directly behind me, remarked, "What the
devil are you ducking for? You don't have to duck, you poor little
mite; they can't hit you, you're too small." My retort was big
enough to suit even him.
Presently we met a big bunch of the Lancashire Fusileers going in;
they were striding along, heads up, talking freely to one another as
if out for an ordinary day's work. Immediately we saw their attitude
we determined we were not going to be disgraced. Up went our heads
and I can honestly say every man walked along like a seasoned
veteran. But in order that this record may be true in every detail I
desire to say that it was the hardest effort I ever put forth in my
life.
That finished our baptism in the trench brotherhood. Twenty-four
hours for a start and not many casualties; in the whole battalion we
had two killed and fourteen wounded.
We were taken back to billets in Armentieres and next day we rested
and sported with the people, fell in at dusk and after two days
marching, trench digging, etc., were marched to take our own line of
trenches at a place called Fleur Baix.
In the afternoon before we started, Morgan and I agreeing for once in
our career, set out to have a "time." A few hundred yards from our
lodging was an _estaminet_ kept by two Belgian girls; these girls
were already a by-word in the army for their tremendous physique. We
entered and a lively scene indeed it was. On the floor were Tommies
and Johnnie Canucks dancing to a rag-time tune played by an American
musical box. One of the famous sisters, as well as what few girls
were available, were dancing with the soldiers and some of the boys
were lending an accompaniment by keeping time, hammering the floor
with the wooden shoes worn by the peasantry.
"Hello, runt," from one; "Come in, Shorty," from another, while my
immediate pals set up a howl of welcome. But the acme of my welcome
was reached when the other of the giant sisters, leaning over the
counter of the _estaminet_ and greeting me, "Hello, chick," almost
the only English words she knew, grabbed me with one hand, pulled me
half way over the counter, hoisted me with perfect ease clear over
and sat me gently down on a chair at the back. I was like a baby in
her grasp, and you can imagine the side-splitting roars that ensued.
I felt so humiliated that had I been able I would gladly have smacked
her face, but that was physically out of the question. However, I
made the best of my uncomfortable feelings for the moment and managed
to enjoy myself thoroughly while I was there, because the hospitality
of the sisters knew no bounds; everything they had to eat or drink
was at our disposal; they seemed to be unable to do enough for us.
My round of pleasure that afternoon ended with an exhibition dance by
"Shorty" and the Giantess of Lebezet, as announced by one of the
boys, and the way that girl whirled me off my feet was uproariously
appreciated by the audience, and in my final whirl she wound up by
catching me and hoisting me up in the air and imprinting a sound
smack on my lips. I must hasten to add that this favor from the
perspiring amazon was not at all to my liking, but I couldn't very
well protest for two reasons: First, I was utterly helpless in her
grasp and, second, it might have been poor taste. So I joined in the
laugh.
Much happened during our two days out, but do not think because we
were not in the trenches that we were out of danger. In a quiet time
the safest place sometimes is the very front line, as the enemy is
often no more than twenty yards away and neither side dare shell the
other for fear of hitting their own men.
On our march from Armentieres there came a blinding snow storm,
together with a wind that seemed strong enough to take us off our
feet. It was almost dark and we were compelled to halt, as the
transports coming the opposite way were held up. We sheltered as
best we could, but it was a muddy wet bunch of boys that tramped into
Salle late that night, where we rested till next morning. As usual,
we were placed in barns, and I was fortunate enough to get a fine
bunch of straw. I didn't require any rocking to sleep that night.
Next morning a bunch of us slipped out and dined on the best in a
partly demolished _estaminet_. Having a good working knowledge of
French, if the people speak slowly, I acted as interpreter for the
boys. If I did not remember the exact word, I would say it in
English. As Tommy Atkins had been very chummy with the natives here,
they had acquired some decidedly Billingsgate English; so in a
mixture of bad French and English profanity we got along fairly well.
It was side-splitting though to hear our hostess speaking pure French
interlarded with fearful oaths of profanity in English, the nature of
which she was entirely ignorant. She, poor soul, imagined she was
speaking our tongue very well.
Another luxury came our way in the shape of a bath and complete
change of clothing. We took our ablutions in the big brewery vats
and barrels. Here was the water wagon with a vengeance. After a
grueling afternoon of bayonet fighting practice we were away again
till at last the now familiar star shells told us that we were going
to exchange greetings with Fritz once more.
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[Illustration: GERMAN SHELL EXPLODING NEAR BRITISH BATTERY.]
The Germans are trying to get the range of the hidden battery. Two
of the Tommies of the gun crew are taking cover to avoid injury from
the flying bits of shell.
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It was not till next morning that we found where we were.
Tremendous, ear-splitting crashing of artillery was shaking the very
ground under our feet.
Our own artillery at this time was entirely too inadequate to
suitably answer the thunderous message of the enemy. To give some
idea of the odds against us in those days, and how we were
out-gunned, it is only fair to say to the people who were so ready to
criticize the Allies that, apart from the wonderful French
seventy-five millimeter guns, our artillery was practically _non
est_. The Germans had guns ranging from fifteen pounds to the
gigantic howitzers hurling a shell of 1,800 pounds, with an unlimited
supply of ammunition.
It is a well-known fact that for months the average per gun was about
six shells per day. Ah! many a gallant lad might be alive today if
he had been properly covered by artillery in those days! And you,
dear reader, do not forget, when glorifying in the deeds of America's
brave lads, that it is unfair to compare present conditions with
those dark days, for in fairness to our dead, it must be said that
you in America are learning war from the nations who have paid for
their experience by bitter losses.
At our back were a few of these sixty-pounders, but, few as they
were, the very earth trembled at their detonation, making our ears
ring and our heads ache. There is a peculiar metallic ring in the
report of these guns which seems to split the drums of one's ears.
It causes one to be strangely irritable, and quarrels often took
place which otherwise never would have happened, the sole cause of
which was shell-shock.
The curious sustained roar of fire and answering fire fills a soldier
with awe, much the same feeling as of a man viewing a mighty cataract
for the first time. The very ground shakes and if a man is standing
on a hard road, he will be repeatedly lifted from the ground by the
shock. Gun crews suffer from gun-shock and men are often sent down
to recover from, not so much the bursting shells of the enemy, as
from the effect of the deafening voices of their own pets.
This effect is evidenced in a number of different ways, the most
common being a trickling of blood from the ear, which in nearly every
instance is the prelude for ear trouble for the remainder of one's
days. The dazed effect is shown by a shivering and shaking of the
entire body, accompanied with a sort of vague, expressionless staring
from which men have been known to suffer for months after they have
left the firing line.
It was my good fortune once to see one of the first of the British
heavies to reach the firing line, and to be present when it was fired
for the first time. Naturally, we were all agog to see one of these
monsters, for we had heard for weeks the rumor that they were coming.
It was one fine day in early spring that the first 15.2 rifle rumbled
into the village in which we were billeted. I did not see it arrive,
but Morgan came to tell me.
"See the little pea-shooter?" said his swarthiness.
"No, has she arrived?"
"Yes; going to see her?"
"I might if I went in good company."
"Clever, ain't yuh? But who can explain pea-shooters better than
your Uncle Dudley?"
"Yes, your knowledge extends possibly to pea-shooters, but this thing
is a man's gun."
"Well, how in hell can you understand it? Nobody ever mistook _you_
for a man, you poor little runt," the last with such a look of
compassion that I had to laugh.
"All right, come on."
Quarreling all the way we arrived at the gun emplacement. The gun
supports rested on a solid concrete base, while the muzzle tilted at
an angle of about forty-five degrees. The system of hoisting the
enormous shells I could not fathom, but a mass of wheels and other
machinery seemed to do the business as if by magic. The gun had been
hauled by a powerful tractor to its present position. Brawny
six-foot marines of the Royal Marine Artillery sweated as they hauled
and levered to get everything in shape to make their pet comfortable
while she passed the time of day with the Boches.
It was all that four of these husky marines could do to roll the
enormous shells by the aid of crowbars.
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[Illustration: A MONSTER BRITISH GUN.]
Giant guns such as this are moved about on specially constructed
railways, which are always built ahead, so that when the enemy is
driven back the guns can go forward instantly.
---------------------------------------------------------------------
The gun, emplacement and impedimenta were painted to deceive the keen
eye of the Hun air-men. A wonderful medley of colors, but experience
had taught the Allies by this time the proper shading to use to make
the whole thing merge with the landscape.
At last everything was ready and the monster was prepared to send
over her first calling card. The marines stepped away from the gun
to the rear of an old barn about twenty yards off, telling us to
follow. The sergeant of the marines instructed us to lie down. The
ground being rather muddy, we chose to disregard his advice. The gun
roared, we were knocked flat by the concussion, and when we had
collected our wits sufficiently to look around we found that the barn
had been knocked flat too.
On another occasion, Morgan and I, at great risk to ourselves, had
stolen a liberal ration of tea, with its necessary dressing of sugar,
from C Company's supply. It must be remembered that the heavy
artillery ranges from two to five miles back of the line and men may
be in billets with these guns behind them. Morgan suggested that we
make our hot tea between two walls that were yet standing and we took
an old pail, and made a fire in it, and proceeded to brew our tea.
Just as the nectar was giving out a most fragrant odor and causing us
some misgivings lest other prowlers should spot us, the heavies at
that identical moment started an argument with the Boche. The air
concussion drove straight between the two walls where the tea-party
was in progress and carried the fire, the tea and the tea-party clear
out on to the cobbled road, where all the elements of fire, water,
tea and tea-party were most damnably mixed.
We both involuntarily exclaimed "---- ---- ---- ---- ----."
CHAPTER XIV
SAXONS AND PRUSSIANS
We were to take over the trenches from the West Yorkshire Regiment.
An illustration of the wonderful spy system of the Germans came under
our notice at this time. The West Yorks had no idea that any
Canadians were in Flanders, yet on the departure of a relieved German
battalion opposite them, the latter shouted across to the West Yorks
in good English, "Good-bye, West Yorks, the Canadians will relieve
you tomorrow night."
We duly relieved the West Yorks shortly after midnight. The Saxons
were in front this time and they gave us no trouble at all. In fact,
our listening patrols found a notice fixed on their wire reading, "We
will not fire if you don't. Save your ammunition for the Prussians."
We could walk up the road any time at night and never be even sniped
at. Indeed, for the three days we faced the Saxons, we had only one
casualty, a man had his brains blown out, and unfortunately it was
due to an accident caused by himself. These Saxons were certainly a
different kettle of fish to the Prussians or Bavarians.
I haven't yet mentioned that although we were an infantry battalion,
originally we were cavalry and we still kept our name, "Fifth Western
Cavalry," as designated by the yellow letters on our shoulders. It
was a big joke to our comrades of the Second Infantry Brigade, and
indeed to the whole division, and we were designated under various
titles, "The Disappointed Fifth," "The Wooden Horse Marines," "The
Fifth Mounted Foot," etc. _ad libitum_, and we were always being
chipped about it. Judge of our astonishment, when we had taken our
places in the trench and were preparing for the night's duties, a
hail came from the German trenches. We listened and in perfect
English a voice yelled, "Hello, you Fifth, what have you done with
your horses?" And in the morning, when peering across to the German
parapet through a loophole or periscope, the lookout called our
attention to something moving on the German parapet. As it grew
lighter we saw that it was a little wooden horse--a child's toy they
had probably looted from some house.
"Open fire on it someone; see what they'll do," said the lookout.
Two or three of the boys opened up on the dummy horse and knocked it
down into their trench. A roar of laughter went up from our boys a
moment or two later when the dummy reappeared, swathed in bandages
from head to tail. Fritz displayed a rare sense of humor in this
instance and we enjoyed the joke immensely.
At night those fellows would sing songs and our boys would reply.
Going along the road I could hear them jeering and chaffing and then
start singing to one another. However, on the third night the
Prussians relieved our friends, the Saxons, and the difference was
striking.
Back came our friends, the snipers, and bursts of rapid fire all
night kept one from being bored--or, I might say, kept one bored.
Several sentries at different spots on the road were killed at their
posts. At one spot a man suddenly leapt out of the darkness onto an
isolated post and tried to disarm our sentry, Mitchell, only to
receive six inches of steel in his stomach for his pains.
We were never allowed to go anywhere alone, as shots came from every
direction and it was suspected that men in civilian clothes were
sniping at the back of our lines. One day, at this time one of these
incidents was brought very close to me.
Morgan burst into the old cellar as I lay dozing in the early morning:
"What the devil do you want now?" I said irritably. For once he did
not reply in his usual manner, he was so full of his news. "What do
you think, chum, do you remember that guy that was plowing in the
field over yonder? Well, he is the devil that is responsible for the
casualties in the ration party and those sentries."
"How is that?" I asked.
"You know Lieutenant M----? Well, the other day the lieutenant
looked over at the fellow plowing and he noticed something that we
mucks never tumbled to before. Now, think it over, chum; use your
own brains; don't you remember that field was never shelled with
anything but shrapnel and light shrapnel at that?"
"God! yes," says I, "that's right."
"Well, the lieutenant got suspicious, took over a file of the kids
from the cross roads farm and goes over to investigate."
"Yes, yes, go on."
"He reaches the fellow plowing and something in the man's face told
him that he had hit it right. Well, you know that straw he had wound
around the plow handles and down to the mold board? Well, shoved
down in the straw was one of those damned Mauser carbines; you
remember the kind the A.S.C. used in Africa? Well, the minute the
lieutenant laid his hand on the plow handle, the bloke's face turned
ashy gray, and when he grabbed the carbine the dog turned green and
flopped down with funk, and then the lieutenant was sure of his man."
A light dawned on me as Morgan stopped for want of breath, as there
came back to me the memory of the dead sentry I found when I went to
relieve him at that very cross roads.
"For God's sake! What did they do with the cur?"
"Well, I don't know for sure, but it's a safe guess, as they have
taken his horses for transport work and you can bet he will do no
sniping forevermore."
This was only one of many instances where Germans use all sorts of
devices to "get" our boys in the back.
Our billet came in for the German gunners' attention next day and a
woman walking up the road was killed. Such a scene of heart-rending
grief on the part of the woman's husband and children I do not want
to see again.
Carrying barbed wire at night over that awful mud and by those gaping
craters was our task and this time it was dangerous work as we were
exposed constantly. We were in for five days of it this trick. Big
Bill Skerry seemed to fit naturally into dangerous jobs and Bill was
the non-com. in the barbed wire gang. His duties took him out in
front every night in No Man's Land and his work together with the
gang was to repair the wire, set up new wire, cut the enemy's wire,
and generally do his damndest to cause Fritz trouble with his own
wire.
I was standing in the trench, resting after one of our journeys, when
a big figure hoisted itself over the parapet and dropped by my side.
It was Bill.
"Hello, Bub," said he, "what do you think of this?" showing me the
side of his jersey and pants. A machine gun had narrowly missed
cutting him to pieces and the whole of the left side of his clothes
was simply riddled; his escape was nothing short of miraculous; in
fact, it was uncanny. Bill silently rolled a cigarette and smoked
awhile without saying anything. Suddenly, with a "So long, Bub,"
("Bub" was my pet name with all my intimates) Bill started to mount
the parapet again.
"Where on earth are you going to now?" I asked with a gasp.
"I'm going to try and get that machine gun."
I heard and saw nothing of him until daylight, when he brushed past
me.
"Did you get the gun, Bill?"
"I didn't get the gun," he said with a grim smile, but--pointing to
his bayonet blade--"there's the gunner." Sure enough it was stained
a deep red.
Poor Bill! he was always taking chances of that kind and he always
got away with them.
During this time we fed sumptuously as we were bagging hares every
day, while potatoes, leeks, onions, etc., were still in good
condition in parts of the field.
On our last night in this billet I came almost to earning the D.C.M.
(distinguished conduct medal). I was on sentry the two hours after
midnight. One has to be very wide awake so near the line, and every
little thing that looks in any way suspicious must be investigated.
The night was quiet in our own lines, but away to the left a
tremendous cannonade and rifle firing was going on. An occasional
German souvenir would whine above my head. Things that look very
simple and plain at two o'clock in the afternoon, when the sun is
shining, have a very different appearance at two o'clock in the
morning, on the front line. At the end of my beat was a huge yew
bush, giving the place a somber, weird effect. As I was turning my
back on the bush during one of my rounds, every single hair of my
closely cropped skull rose on end, while my scalp literally crawled,
as a rustling noise came from the bush. My first instinct was to
start for the south of France, as quickly as my legs could take me,
but reason and duty came to my rescue. Still terrified, a blind fury
took possession of me at the thing that scared me. Holding my rifle
and bayonet at the "ready," I ran into the bush at the top of my
speed and lunged with all my might into its depth, being brought up
suddenly and sharply by a forked branch under my chin.
The result of my charge was a melancholy meow, and I cursed softly,
but with infinite relief at the cause of my panic. Thinking the cat
might be a good companion, I made overtures by softly calling to her,
and nothing loath she came, and when dawn broke a small figure in
khaki might have been seen strolling slowly up and down the road,
with a huge black cat alternately dodging between his legs and
rubbing her sleek hide against his muddy puttees.
CHAPTER XV
TRAINING FOR RUNNER
Our next move was to the town of the best town we had yet "honored"
with our presence. We reached here in the dead of night and awoke
the sleeping inhabitants by lustily informing them that, "Here We Are
Again." Another classic of the Canadian Division went echoing over
the place, a well-known American hymn--"Hail, Hail, the Gang's All
Here." Twenty-four hours had not passed before the long-suffering
citizens were only too well aware that the gang was all there.
It was while we were stopping at the city of E---- on one of our rest
billets that I first began my training as a company runner. These
runners were formed after Neuve Chapelle. In that engagement
disastrous results followed the cutting of all telephone
communication, and it was suggested that men be trained to run with
messages when other means could not be used. Being small, though not
slight, and active, I was chosen for this duty and my training began.
In such condition were we that in two weeks' time I could carry forty
pounds comfortably at a jog trot for a distance of five miles.
Of the utmost importance was the carrying and delivering of messages
correctly. An amusing instance of the difficulty of doing this
occurred while being trained. We were running at relays and we would
do our work exactly as it would be done in the heat of battle, and
the first man was given the message, "To O.C. Seventh Battalion: Am
held up by barbed wire entanglements; send reinforcements to my
right." When the message was delivered by the seventh and last man
of the relay, the officer receiving it got the following astounding
information, "Am surrounded by wild Italians; lend me three- and
fourpence till tonight."
A period of intense training followed, chiefly instruction in trench
making, including attacking and defending, and for us runners a
grueling spell of practice in carrying messages and endurance work.
At this place we would dash along the canal bank in our early
morning's training, exchanging greetings in execrable French with the
owners of the barges that floated lazily down the stream. Next, we
would meet a bunch of Sikhs, who would gravely extend greetings in
their dignified manner. Farther along a group of Hindoo cavalrymen,
riding their horses with superb grace, would smile at us, informing
us in what English they knew that they would sooner ride than run,
with which we agreed. Huge Pathans, dwarfing us by their tremendous
height, would gaze in grave wonder at these foolish Feringhees.
After our run we would strip and, shouting with health and laughter,
hurl ourselves into the icy waters of the canal, much to the wonder
of the ladies of the barges, who gazed unabashed at our naked beauty.
With these splendid open-air exercises we were continually
undergoing, it is little wonder that the resources of the
commissariat were at times sadly taxed to meet the voracious demands
of our appetites.
After breakfast the runners would fall in, in front of the battalion,
for the purpose of carrying messages backwards and forwards--all done
with the idea of still further improving the discipline necessary for
that most important work, which must be done without any errors as
there is no room for excuses of any kind.
---------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration: MOVING A GUN INTO POSITION.]
Work of this kind has to be done by man power, no other being
available so near the front. The men are British Tommies, and the
gun is a heavy fieldpiece.
---------------------------------------------------------------------
To many people the work of a runner is an unknown quantity but its
tremendous importance is told by Neuve Chapelle. On March 10, 1915,
the advance there and the fearful casualties to the British forces
warned everyone of the nature of the German defenses. It was our
first advance since November, 1914, but the ground gained wasn't
worth the price paid. One of the causes of the premature holding up
of the attacking troops was the failure of reinforcements to be
hurled in at the proper time; this, in turn, was due to the fact that
all telephonic communication had been cut off, and that although men
were sent on foot with messages, it was found, if they arrived at
their destination at all, that they bungled the message unless it
were a written one. Since that time the staff has been thoroughly
awake to the dire need of having properly trained runners who can
endure the utmost strain for such duties.
Other regiments of the British Army were billeted here, and the
endless stream of traffic was a sight to see. Infantry would swing
through the streets--short thickset Tommies, tall and dignified
Sikhs, gigantic Pathans, short, stocky Gurkhas, lithe Canucks, all
making a wondrously interesting procession. Transports, limbers and
ambulances rattled and roared unceasingly over the cobbles.
Many interesting scraps took place between various champions of
regimental traditions. Here a burly Highlander and an English
cavalryman exchanged fisticuffs for a minute, until a guard turned
out and seized the unruly ones.
One enterprising Frenchman hung out a sign bearing the magic legend,
"Bass in bottle--Guinness' Stout," and in half an hour the
_estaminet_ was jammed with husky humanity. In less than no time the
nectar was exhausted, but not the soldierly thirst, and the
disappointed ones became so unruly that the services of the guard
were again required. My good angel was with me that day, for I
managed to possess myself of two full bottles of Guinness' and,
keeping up the reputation of the battalion, it didn't cost me
anything.
CHAPTER XVI
BY THE WAYSIDE
Being very much interested in the habits of the Indian troops I would
often be found studying them at a respectful distance; their rigid
laws of caste obliged me to keep somewhat apart from them. One day
an unexpected opportunity of gratifying my curiosity came my way.
Off duty for the afternoon I went for a stroll in the country and on
turning a corner of the road I saw a big, tall Sikh gravely studying
a tree by the roadside. He looked up as I approached, "Ram, ram,
Sahib," said he. "Ram, ram, yourself," says I. It was all the
English he knew and all the Indian I knew.
Seeing my jackknife at my side he managed to impress on me that he
wanted to know if we used the jackknife for stabbing. By signs I
replied that if necessary we would. Now, around the turban of every
Sikh I had noticed a ring of steel, about six inches in diameter, and
my curiosity in regard to it had never been satisfied; here, I
thought, was the chance to find out. Still standing at a respectful
distance, I pointed to his turban, turning my hand round in imitation
of a ring, and I indicated I wanted to know its use. Showing his
splendid teeth for a second in a smile of understanding, he took the
ring with a curious motion from his turban, and spinning it around
his hand for the fraction of a second, he hurled it at the tree. My
eyes bulged with astonishment, for the ring sank for half its
diameter into the hard bole of the tree. I went to examine it, but
dared not touch it for fear of offending some tradition connected
with the ring. I found that the ring was really a circular knife,
the outside edge being very keen and sharp, then thickening away to
the inside. It will be seen that the whirling motion, preparatory to
throwing, imparts a spin to this peculiar weapon. A man's arm, leg
or head will part company with the trunk if struck.
My Sikh friend smiled gravely, recovered his turban ring, bowed with
grace, and with a "Salaam Sahib" turned with great dignity on his
heel and stalked majestically away.
I also was mightily interested in the short, stocky Gurkhas, those
wonderful troops from Nepal. These men, although small, are wonders
of strength and endurance. Mountaineers and soldiers from childhood,
their greatest joy is hand to hand combat. Perhaps a description of
their favorite weapon, the terrible kukri, would be of interest. It
is from fifteen to eighteen inches long, with a keen edge, tapering
from a thickness at the back of about a quarter of an inch, to a
razor-like edge. The handle or haft is of wood, bound tightly with
copper wire, the distance between each band of wire being enough for
a man's finger to snugly enclose itself around the handle. These
little smiling men are equally adept at throwing or using the knife
at close quarters.
It is useless for a man to try to escape by running, since before he
has gone more than ten yards he is minus a head.
It was curious to watch them killing goats for their meat supply.
The goat would be browsing comfortably, when something would flash
through the air, and to the onlooker's amazement, a headless goat
would stagger a few yards and then fall. Later on, these troops were
removed to warmer fronts, for the bleak winters of northern France
and Flanders proved disastrous to the Indian constitution.
To show the resourcefulness of the Canadian soldier, the following
incident is an illustration: Big Bill Skerry, one of the boys named
Walworth, and Big Bill Bradley were left on the other side of the
canal from their billets. At eight o'clock in the evening the bridge
was drawn up making it impossible to cross. The three worthies
approached the bridge end at about 10 P.M. Alas for human weakness,
they had contrived to soften the heart of a French lady and she had
given them a liberal portion of cognac. They were by no means
intoxicated, but sufficiently stimulated to make the night echo with
their songs of gladness. Arriving at the bridge they were challenged
by a sentry. The following conversation took place: From the sentry:
"Halt, who are you?" "Go to hell," was the retort. "Well, I don't
know about that," says the sentry, "but you're going in the clink,
and you'll get hell from the Old Man." The reply was a splash as
Skerry took a header into the icy waters of the canal. Like a flash
Walworth and Bradley followed suit and the trio, fully dressed as
they were, swam the canal. They almost ran from the frying pan into
the fire, for they could not resist the temptation to jeer the sentry
from the other side of the canal. They had apparently forgotten that
another guard was stationed at the other bridge end. However, they
melted into the night, stepping over our bodies as they entered the
factory where we were sleeping, to receive a heartfelt cursing from
those who were subjected to a shower from their dripping clothes.
Every day punctually at 6 P.M. the massed Kiltie Band would parade in
front of the old Hotel De Ville or town hall. It was a curious
sight. The stalwart Highlanders gazing neither to right nor left,
swaggering up and down on the old cobbled square, Tommies, Canucks,
Frenchmen, Gurkhas, Sikhs, Pathans and French Colonial troops would
gather round and a babel of tongues would soar skywards. Just at the
minute of six all would be hushed and a silence uncanny would hang
over the place. The "Retreat" would sound, and the Highlanders would
start their tatoo.
I have mentioned, I believe, the irritating parasites who so lovingly
crowd in the seams of a man's shirt. Even these pests, which are an
involuntary growth born of the natural heat of the body and
accumulated moisture, become more or less endurable, and the
inevitable fatalism of the soldier shows even in the matter of body
lice.
Libby, Morgan, Fitzpatrick and Bill Skerry were holding a heated
argument as to the relationship of the Canadian louse to its
Flanders' prototype, and the discussion, which was held in the midst
of a hunting expedition, took the turn that each was ready to back
with money the assertion that the particular brand of louse with
which he was associated day and night was superior in color, size,
and ferocity to any that the others possessed.
"How about this gent?" says Morgan, exhibiting a particularly husky
specimen that he had captured in the seam of his shirt. Morgan, as I
have said, was dark in complexion almost to swarthiness.
"That dark streak down its back," chimes in Libby, "comes from boring
through your damned black skin."
"Aw, hell," replied Morgan, "if their color is made by what they eat,
then yours must be the color of a checker-board."
This was an allusion to Libby's partially gray hair.
"No, they ain't," said the imperturbable Libby, bringing out a
specimen fully the equal of Morgan's, and actually lighter in color.
Morgan gazed thoughtfully down on his capture and, pushing his cap
back on his head and speaking slowly, addressed it:
"You blankety-blank, I believe that it was you that browsed on the
middle of my spine the last time I did sentry at headquarters in
Marching Order. I hate like hell to do it, for you have grown dear
to me, and your color I know would delight the eye of a blinkin'
artist, yet I can't allow you to divert me from my duty so as to
endanger the efficiency of the forces of His Majesty, King George, of
Great Britain and Ireland and the Dominions beyond the seas, and you
must pay the penalty."
Snap! and it went the way of all flesh and the chase was resumed.
---------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration: A WINTERLY MORNING.
WRITING TO THE OLD FOLKS AT HOME.]
---------------------------------------------------------------------
Although we had trained as infantry, most of us wore the riding pants
or Bedford cords of a cavalry battalion. Being now a runner I
appealed, as did the other runners, for something not so tight around
the knees. We were given infantry slacks which allowed freer motion
of the limbs. Our orders were to burn vermin-infested clothing, and
although I was sure I had rid myself of mine, I decided, when I
changed my clothes in the billet, to burn my riding pants.
Just as I was about to throw them into the fire a diminutive French
gamin asked me to give him the pants. "All right, son," says I,
handing him the garment. The boy was wise in his generation.
Turning them inside out he examined the seams, and, something
arousing his suspicion, he hurled them into the fire as if something
had bitten him. "No, no, Monsieur," says he, "_tres beaucoup itchy
coo_" shrugging his shoulders and scratching himself as he turned his
back on the pants. The shrug, the scratch and the gesture was
inimitable and done as only French expressiveness can render it.
One of the finest regiments of French's "Contemptible Little Army"
was the "Notts and Derbys" (Nottingham and Derbyshire). They covered
themselves with glory in the Great Retreat. Several titles have been
conferred upon them by popular affection, such as "The Sherwood
Foresters," "The Robin Hoods," etc. Coming as they do from the
ancient haunts of Robin Hood and his merry band, their regimental
crests and badges represent the Archers of Sherwood.
One day, while on the march, we met the Robin Hoods, and as the two
regiments passed each other a storm of good-natured chaff flew back
and forth, and one of the Robin Hoods, noting by our shoulder badges
that we were a cavalry battalion, yelled in his broad Midland accent,
'"Ello, you blokes, wot ha' ye done wi' yer bloody 'osses?" Back
came the answer like a flash, "We packed 'em away with your
blankety-blank bows and arrows years ago."
CHAPTER XVII
STEENVOORDE
After a stay of a week at E---- we again got orders to move,
eventually arriving in the little town of Steenvoorde. We sported
here for a few days at cricket, football, and baseball.
I acquired in this burg a repugnance for restaurant coffee that I
have not yet been able to overcome. The sergeants of my platoon were
in the habit of consulting together directly after duty at the house
of a good old dame who was renowned for her excellent _cafe au lait_,
and the non-coms. seldom missed an opportunity of partaking.
On one occasion when they were there, seeing me pass the window, they
hailed me to come in and join them. As I was broke at the time, I
hastened to accept the invitation.
"Want a good cup of coffee, son," said Campbell.
"Thanks, I will."
Campbell pointed to the cup and I drained it down.
"Have another, Shorty," said Britton.
"Don't mind," says I.
"Hop to it, son," and another went the same route.
They could hold themselves no longer and roared with laughter. I was
at a loss to understand their mirth, and happening to glance at the
old lady, a light broke in upon me. The poor lady had one very bad
eye from which tears, copious tears, dripped with sickening
regularity, and as she busied herself around the coffee cups, the
tears would drop now and again into the cups.
In spite of my disgust, I couldn't help joining in the laugh,
although I had an almost ungovernable desire to vomit. The secret of
it all was that they themselves had been up against the same dose and
they wanted someone else to share with them the burden of the coffee
and tears.
Sometimes on the march, should I happen to be grouchy about anything,
Campbell, with his winning smile, would say, "Never mind, son, it
won't be long before we'll be back having a good cup of coffee." And
then the memory of that treat would dispel my grouch.
One of our boys, McBean, had an instinctive horror of rats; it was a
marked fear that he could not overcome. Returning from parade one
day, Mc was lying on the straw in the barn, reading a letter, with
the thatched roof of the barn directly at the back of his head. His
cap was lying beside him and suddenly, a huge rat scuttled past his
head. He sprang to his feet with a deafening shout of terror. The
rat took refuge in the thatch of the roof. Fixing his bayonet to his
rifle, while one of the boys sounded "Charge," Mc lunged ferociously
into the thatch. We never imagined he would get the creature, but to
our astonishment, at about the third lunge, he drew back the bayonet,
with the rat kicking its last kick on the bayonet's point.
Soon after this Mc had a splendid opportunity of demonstrating his
ability to stick his needle (as the bayonet was termed) into the
bodies of our German foes and he ably exemplified his skill.
An inspection of the officers and non-commissioned officers by
General Smith-Dorrien and a general inspection of the whole division
by the general officer ended our stay at Steenvoorde, and one morning
we were packed aboard London omnibuses, with the advertisements still
upon them asserting the superiority of Pears' Soap to any other soap
on the market, and rode for some distance, finally being dumped at a
small hamlet where the Royal Welsh Fusileers were resting. These
good fellows showed us the greatest hospitality, sharing their
rations and making us big draughts of the inevitable, but none the
less welcome tea.
Our battalion football team played the Welshmen, winning by the odd
goal in three.
With mutual expressions of good will, we parted from the Royal Welsh,
resuming our journey on foot.
One of our diversions from the horrors of war here was unique, to say
the least. We bought up every fighting rooster in the neighborhood
from the natives and made arrangements to have an exhibition of
cockfighting worthy a Roman celebration. We backed B Company's bird
to the limit of our resources as our bird was selected by a lad who
was an expert on the game and a past-master on all its points. So we
felt perfect confidence in his judgment, and our faith was not
disappointed.
A proper cockpit was made in an orchard and the reserved seats were
in apple trees and brought two francs apiece per man. Every reserved
seat in every tree was occupied; there wasn't room for half the
patrons. I lost mine before the performance was over through the
collapse of the blooming tree and every man on that tree lost the
seat that he had bought and paid for, but, owing to my convenient
size, I was able to get a good view of the balance of the show seated
on Big Bill Skerry's shoulders.
To the huge delight of us all, B Company's bird emerged a dilapidated
but triumphant winner from all its contests, coming out with final
honors. In addition to the rooster fight there were several
differences of opinion between connoisseurs as to the points involved
in the game of cockfighting, which finally resulted in heated
fisticuffs and black eyes, and altogether we easily had our two
francs' worth.
CHAPTER XVIII
YPRES
At last we entered the historic town of Ypres. Our first impression
was the flash of bursting shells over a distant corner of the town.
At this time Ypres, although showing traces of recent bombardment,
was in the main intact and we were very much interested in the fine
buildings there. The famous Cloth Hall was in good condition, as was
the splendid church; however, some fine stone buildings lay in ruins.
An amusing incident might here be told of the "lack of humor" of the
Britisher: Two battalions were passing each other in the dead of
night, two companies of one battalion carrying with them wooden
crosses to be placed at the heads of the graves of some of the lads
who had fallen the day before and who were to be buried at the back
of the line. The British Regiment could not see the Colonials, and
vice versa; but an enterprising Cockney determined to identify the
regiment. Stealing away from his ranks, he sidled across, like a
good soldier, stooping to get a better skyline, and just at that
moment a series of bursting flares from up the line lit up the square
for a second, but it was long enough for the keen-sighted Tommy to
see who the other battalion was and what they were carrying. In a
half-whispered, half-hushed shout he turned to his comrades
ejaculating, "Well, strike me pink, mates, if those blokes ain't
carrying their own bloomin' tombstones."
As we were passing through the square it was almost dark and we were
startled to hear a yell from the other side, "We should worry!" It
was the Princess Pats. The usual order for comparative silence was
given, and we knew we were close to business again.
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[Illustration: WHAT IS LEFT OF YPRES CATHEDRAL.]
Ypres Cathedral was considered one of the most beautiful in Europe.
It is now a mass of debris with here and there a spire standing.
---------------------------------------------------------------------
Searchlights were playing everywhere, artillery roared, and bursts of
rapid fire told us we had arrived at the place where "the Allemands
are very truculent," as General Smith-Dorrien put it. It was now the
turn of the other companies for fatigue work and they were placed in
the village about half a mile from the front ditch. Our platoon took
up dugouts under the hedge. So cunningly were these made that a
person walking on the other side of the road would hardly see them,
even in the daytime. They had been occupied by French troops and,
however valiant our Allies are, they are far from being as clean as
the British soldiers, and the first thing we did was to go to work to
make these dugouts a little less offensive to our nostrils. These
holes of ours were only two feet six inches high, just enough room to
turn, and when we wished to sleep, the first man was obliged to crawl
in and the rest follow on. It reminds me of the family who lived in
one room and slept in one bed so closely packed in that when one
wanted to turn there was no way of turning unless all the others did.
We made ourselves comfortable as far as circumstances would permit
and composed ourselves to sleep.
Morning came and we had a look round. Fritz was exchanging
compliments with a battery of French seventy-fives and several shells
whistled most uncomfortably through the poplar trees on each side of
the road. I, for one, considered the dugouts the best place to
observe shell fire. The rest of the boys shared my opinion and we
lay till the gunners had retired to _dejeuner_ (breakfast).
Then we emerged like human rats and breakfasted on hot bacon, bread
and coffee. After washing myself thoroughly in a shell crater, I
felt at peace with all the world, even the Germans, and having
nothing much to do, Morgan and I took a stroll to see the country.
In front of us, on the other side of the road was a row of French
graves, and while we were here we kept them in first-class condition.
A field of "volunteer" wheat waved in the breeze and a shell of a
house surrounded by apple and pear trees in full bloom, stood at the
corner. It must have been a lovely place before this conflict of
hell swept over it.
CHAPTER XIX
BATTLE OF YPRES
It may perhaps seem strange that we should exercise so much care
within the precincts of our own lines, but there were two reasons for
it: The first one was that the ramifications of the German spy system
extended to our own ranks and there was always a possibility that a
man in khaki, whom you would take for a fellow soldier and pass with
a nod, would put a bullet through your head the moment your back was
turned. That element of German espionage, strange and incredible as
it may sound, is something with which the military authorities have
constantly to contend.
The other reason for exercising extreme care is that many poor
people, half demented by the horrors they have witnessed and the
indignities and wrongs they have been subjected to, secrete
themselves in all kinds of places, and they do not wait to see who
approaches, but will shoot or stab at sight. I saw a man from the
Worcesters shot dead by a poor demented woman in this condition in
Ypres.
Away to our left was the village of L---- absolutely deserted. Being
curious, we grabbed our rifles and searched the village. It was a
big place, but was shelled out of all shape. We ran upon occasional
decomposing bodies of Germans, English, women, dogs and fowl. It
gave one the most eerie feeling to see this place. In fancy we could
feel the silence that brooded over it. Utter desolation everywhere.
The sound of a bit of falling plaster, or the slightest rustle, would
send us flying to the nearest cover to wait with rifles ready, like
Mr. Micawber, "For something to turn up."
Here Morgan was surprised into letting his affection for me show
through. Every fancied danger, and he would instinctively place
himself in front of me, and when we flew for cover he unconsciously
took up the most exposed position. My chum's solicitude for my
well-being has always seemed, to me at least, unexplainable, yet such
was the fact.
We returned from the village, making a detour of a few hundred yards
in front of the road. The land around was shelled everywhere, each
few yards showing a hole, some big enough to engulf a house. It
spoke volumes for the fighting that had taken place in this now
historic spot. It was here that the Guards, Lincolns and other
famous regiments smashed up the Prussian Guards in the first battle
of Ypres. In places there were heads, hands and feet sticking out of
the ground. In one old trench laid fully sixty dead Boches half
exhumed. Broken rifles, ammunition, equipment, broken machine guns
of every kind lay about. It was here that the Canadians were to make
their grand debut into the history of the war.
The day was beautiful, the larks singing away as if nothing was wrong
with the world, and Morgan, feeling the influence of the day upon
him, apparently forgot the war and raised his voice in song--a new
phase of his character--and hymns and songs by the dozen poured from
his throat.
That night rumors began to circulate that Fritz intended mischief,
and the roaring of a trench mortar and burst of rapid fire was the
signal for pandemonium to begin. From end to end of the line it was
taken up, and we began to think something was really happening. A
sergeant came along shouting my name. Finding me he rushed me to the
officers; a staff officer was talking and they were deeply absorbed.
I immediately learned that the rumors were not unfounded.
I was dispatched to headquarters with a written message. Captain
Hopkins gave me my instructions. "I have chosen you because you keep
the pace up longer than the rest." This compliment deeply pleased
me. "Go to headquarters as quickly as your legs will carry you,
report immediately you get there and place yourself under the orders
of Sergeant C----."
The words were barely out of his mouth when I was out of the cellar,
and down that gloomy road I scudded, a queer mixture of terror and
elation--terror because of what might happen to me, and elation in
the satisfaction of doing my duty. Hard as I traveled I was
breathing with perfect ease when I arrived at headquarters and
reported. I was told to lie down as it might be hours before I would
again have a chance to rest. It was impossible to sleep as file
after file of bombers and reinforcements piled into the different
buildings. I found out that the Germans were expected to attack the
French that night on the left of the salient, some hundred yards or
so from our position.
The signal, if the Huns attacked the French, was to be three red
flares flying up in rapid succession. Our Intelligence Department
was not asleep; the attack was expected at three o'clock and promptly
on the minute it began. The French held easily and we were not
needed.
Next morning I was sent back to my platoon and nothing very exciting
happened except the sharp shelling by Fritz of our position until
about ten o'clock, when a thing new to our experience came over. The
noise was appalling. It was the commencement of the awful
bombardment of Ypres.
CHAPTER XX
HELL LET LOOSE
That night we relieved the Tenth Battalion and took over the front
line. Right from the beginning casualties piled up; the shell fire
was terrific. In the lulls of the bombardment we dug frantically to
consolidate our flimsy defenses. Barbed wire we had none; we simply
threw out in front any obstructions we could find.
One amusing incident occurred here; I laugh at it now, although I did
not at the time. The little dark man, Libby, was the hero. Libby
translated means "Coolness and indifference to danger." A volume
could be written of the events in which this man figured that for
sheer daring almost surpassed belief. Libby and I were working on a
traverse, which, as every one knows, is a cross-section of trench,
and we were exerting every effort to fill bags of dirt and pile them
up on this cross-section.
Buried underneath our trench were dead men planted as thickly as they
could be laid. Digging down I turned up a boot containing a foot.
"Stick it in," said Libby.
"Do you think I'm going to touch that thing with my hand?"
"What's the odds," said he, "but if you don't want to, shove it on
the shovel with your foot."
I did so and he placed it in the sack, I holding the sack open, and
the grisly thing touched my hand in passing. I shuddered, almost
fainted, but never a sign of perturbation from Libby. Again he dug,
this time bringing up the other foot, with the leg bone still
sticking.
"Shove her in," he said.
Sweating with horror, yet fearing his scorn, I again rolled the
ghastly thing on the shovel and it was then transferred to the sack.
Placing the sack on the corner of the traverse, the little man coolly
slapped it out with his spade as if he were handling common dirt. He
then called to me for another sack, but I was lying on the parados,
sick with horror and vomiting my insides out. So for the time being
he had to continue his ghoulish work alone.
Morning came, finding us still at work and almost dead with fatigue.
The bombardment continued without intermission all through that day
and afternoon, and our casualties were growing with deadly
regularity. At nightfall it died down in our vicinity, but never
ceased at our back.
The object of this will be easily seen. They kept hammering the
roads and the whole country at the rear of the front line, in order
to keep reserves and supplies from getting to us, and they did the
job so thoroughly that no two transports could get within miles.
Good old Bill Skerry and a man named Bradley, braved this bombardment
on purpose to be with their own battalion when the attack, which we
all knew was bound to come, took place.
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[Illustration: THERE ARE LEISURE HOURS EVEN IN THE FRONT TRENCH.
CLEANING-UP TIME.]
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They told us how the Germans had been using a horrible gas, that the
French Algerian troops had evacuated their trenches, that the
battalions in reserve at Ypres had been called out and had gallantly
come up through that curtain of shell fire, taking up the French
trenches and were holding on like limpets, although their losses were
terrible.
The glorious charge of the Tenth and Sixteenth had taken place and is
now eternal history for Canada. Just think of it, that thin line of
men with no artillery to cover them, holding back the mass of the
enemy ten times their number.
It now became an anxiety to us to know how they were faring, for if
they were obliged to give way we would be entirely cut off. However,
it was no use wasting time in idle questioning, so to work we went,
frantically making our trenches as strong as possible.
Fritz again got busy with his weeping pill and our eyes were
something to remember. The smart was terrible, while the awful odor
got in our throats, making them raw and every breath a pain.
Still we worked steadily on, throwing over everything that might
prove an obstacle in front of the trenches. Listening patrols were
sent out and came back with the news that the Germans were
unmistakably massing for an assault.
For myself, so nervous was I that I would have welcomed an attack to
end the suspense. However, we were left in peace till daybreak,
which came with a drizzling rain. This made conditions in the trench
very bad indeed. But all we could do was to sit tight and wait.
When it was almost light the bombardment started again. It was one
roaring, shrieking blast of destruction. Never can I describe the
din, the awful rumble of the heavy-weight champions; the magnified
thunderclap of their heavy shrapnel; the moaning of the Black Marias;
the hiss and scream of their medium-size shells, and the hated whiz
bangs, bursting over every section of the trench. And, remember, not
a British gun to reply. Hell's gaping craters were open everywhere;
now and again a shriek or an oath told that some lad had been
stricken down; our parapets were crumbling like matchwood; but all we
could do was to wait.
To the sorrow of every one of us, the gallant soul of Bill Skerry
took its flight to his Maker about ten o'clock that morning. A small
shell ricochetting from a stunted willow tree simply tore him to
pieces, along with a little chap named Wellbelove, which was his
family name, and a name he most aptly deserved.
Bill! one of our best beloved mates. We never had time to bury him,
but, thank God, he didn't fall alive into the hands of those human
devils. A curious effect of the shell burst was to lengthen out his
body. When alive and well he was a man of six feet two, and when we
examined him after his death, he easily measured seven feet. The
sorrow of his little chum, Fitzpatrick, was overwhelming; nothing
could comfort him for days.
It was here that I first felt real fear. Terror of course we all
have, but that soul-gripping inaction took all manhood away from me
as I crouched in the bottom of the trench, trying with might and main
to appear unconcerned. I have never experienced quite the same
sensation of fear in the front line at any time as I did that night;
I felt deadly danger on every hand and my face and head were wet with
cold sweat.
In curious contrast to my constitutional dread of the danger
abounding on every hand was a man who happened to have possessed
himself of a fairly dried dugout. With that torrent of shell
hurtling everywhere, he calmly read chapter after chapter of a
magazine, apparently as deeply interested as if he were sitting in
his own room at home. How I envied him his nerves--or, rather, the
absolute lack of them.
CHAPTER XXI
HANGING ON
About fifty yards to the rear of us was a huge pile of bricks, fully
a hundred yards long by thirty feet high. The ground we were
occupying had originally been a brick yard and these bricks had been
put out to dry, but the war coming on they had been left and had
gradually settled down into a solid mass.
Someone was rash enough to show himself for a second near the brick
pile, and it was his last second. It had become a joke that they
would snipe at you with a fifteen-pound shell at Ypres, and the
Boches evidently imagined there were men near the brick pile, for
they took one shot as a sighter and then turned their heaviest field
guns on it. The huge pile looked strong enough to last for a week,
yet by night it was a crumbling powder.
This added a very disagreeable fury to the bombardment. The huge
shells would burst with a crumbling crash, a great sheet of flame
would flicker for an instant, then from out the pall of acrid smoke,
flying bricks would hurtle for yards. Dozens of them flew back into
our trench and I still bear the marks on my back and hands where
flying pieces of brick caught me.
Several men were killed by these curious missiles, while all of us
were bleeding from cuts and scratches caused by the wounds.
On went the bombardment and nothing seemed to exist but a riot of
noise, flying shrapnel, flashes, and the steady drizzle of the rain.
Twice during the day we stood to retire, but each time the major sent
word that, "We are holding on and we can hold them 'till the cows
come home."
Luckily, owing to the heroism of our signalers, the line to
headquarters remained intact. These fine boys repaired the line time
and again under shell and machine gun fire of the fiercest nature.
One fellow earned the V.C. a dozen times during the day; he exposed
himself recklessly, working with all his might in the very heart of
the German barrage. He is still living, but was badly hurt later on
at Festubert.
Toward evening we managed to get the wounded out and were I to tell
the entire story of the self-sacrifice of the boys, it alone would
fill a larger volume than this. They were obliged to carry the
wounded along an old communication trench about six feet deep, with
mud two feet deep at the bottom, then emerge into the shell-swept
open for a distance of two or three hundred yards. Curiously enough,
very few of the wounded were again hit traveling this road, and
"Long" Mitchell, a boy from Michigan, and another boy, Manville, from
Prince Albert, walked time and again down that highway of hell with
their wounded comrades. Apparently they did not know the sheer
heroism of their tasks, and probably don't know to this day.
CHAPTER XXII
HERE THEY COME
Sergeant Campbell, one of the finest soldiers I ever met in my life,
called me and asked me to run to the dressing station and tell them
there that none of our boys, who had gone down with the wounded, were
to attempt to return to the trenches till after dark. Away I
started, never expecting to get to my destination, but doing
something dispelled my "yellow streak" and I arrived there intact.
What a sight met my eyes! Row after row of brawny Canadian
Highlanders lay raving and gasping with the effects of the horrible
gas, and those nearing their end were almost as black as coal. It
was too awful--and my nerves went snap!
However, a lull came at night, except for the steady fighting on our
left, where the Seventh and Eighth were making history, and I managed
to get back all right, and repairing trenches was again the order of
the moment.
A fine, handsome Scotch lad, Jim Muirhead, one of my best chums, was
working with me repairing a section of trench. At this place we
hadn't any sandbags, but simply had to pile up the loose earth in
front of us. Deep down in the ground we had made two sloping holes,
propping up the top by odd timbers we found lying about. We did this
to save ourselves from a big shell Fritz would occasionally lob over
in our immediate vicinity. Now Jim is about six feet high and his
hole was a big one, mine a small one. We could hear this shell
coming and if we moved quickly, we gained the shelter of our holes
before it burst. Once, we heard the faint pop in the distance and
then a gradually increasing shriek; it was coming--to my excited
fancy--straight for our heads. In my panic to escape the crack of
doom I hurled myself into Jim's hole, beating him by about the
fiftieth of a second.
"Get to hell into your own hole."
"Go to the devil."
Our colloquy was barely ended when the shell burst, but this time it
was too far off to do any damage. I was thoroughly ashamed of my
selfishness, which was due to the first instinct of nature, but good
old Jim saw nothing in it but a good joke on himself.
All night long to left and right the scrap went on, just one steady
crackle of rifle and machine gun fire, while from every angle they
shelled the Seventh Battalion. Their trenches were simply one huge
shamble, but they held. Morning came, and still the bombardment
raged.
At about three in the afternoon we saw a figure approaching our
trenches and by his style we knew it to be our dear old major. On he
came in spite of the fire.
By this time Fritz was spraying our parapet top with machine guns and
we knew he was at last going to try us. Still, on came the old
soldier. He was well over sixty, but a hero's heart belonged to him.
Orders had come through from headquarters for the Fifth to retire and
all the staff at headquarters had been either killed or wounded with
the exception of the major and Captain Hillion, our adjutant, a
soldier from his feet up. These two decided, after vainly trying the
field telephone, to give us our orders by word of mouth and they set
out on foot.
Captain Hillion was hit before he had gone fifty yards and the old
major was left to make it alone. He managed to get within fifty
yards of us and then received two bullets in his body. And then the
wonder of it--the sheer, dogged spirit of that old warrior! Above
everything we heard his yell of pain, yet instead of giving up, he
gathered himself together and with a staggering run reached the
trench and collapsed. Not till he had delivered his message did he
give way and swoon.
Things now were stirring with a vengeance. We knew by the cessation
of the shell fire over our trenches that they were coming. I looked
through a loophole and my heart seemed to choke in my throat. If it
had not been more dangerous to run than to stay where I was, I would
have been running yet. To my magnified imagination I never believed
the earth held so many people. They came swarming over their parapet
in huge waves, the flash of their bayonets making my spine crawl.
Singing, cheering, cursing and shouting, they came on, but we never
fired a shot.
"Not till they are near our barbed wire," was the order.
"Oh, if I could only fire!" I groaned mentally.
On they came with trumpets continually playing their charge. At last
the order came. "Fire!" and when I saw them falling in heaps, every
drop of blood in my body surged with a desire to kill and I blazed
away into the mass of shrieking humanity as fast as my fingers could
click the shells in and out of my rifle. I could not miss them if I
tried, so thick were they.
We checked them momentarily, but suddenly bullets began to come at us
from our rear and we knew they had broken through somewhere and were
behind us. The mob in front having quit for awhile, we waited for
the next move. The bullets from behind kept us wondering where they
had made a gap in our lines.
"Get ready to retire," came the order, so we slipped off all but our
ammunition and water; few of us had any of the precious liquid left.
Little Hilliard, who was next to me, said, "Well, Bub, we'll have a
cigarette anyway before we cash in." "All right," I replied and we
rolled a cigarette apiece, thinking we were having our last smoke.
We did not know for sure, but guessed that we were surrounded. Our
lack of knowledge of our own situation may seem curious, but a modern
battle field is on such a vast scale that only in your immediate
neighborhood do you know what is happening. In these (for me) dull
piping times of peace, when I look back and scan my memory over the
individual behavior of my chums, the nerve they displayed surpasses
my power of description. As we were lying there smoking what I
thought was to be our last fag, I was utterly amazed at the next
words of Hilliard:
"Say, Bub, that must be Picric acid that makes our eyes smart so;
those shells I bet haven't come more than fourteen hundred yards.
Did you see the burst of that last one?" he asked, pointing to the
place where a "coal box" had landed. I made no reply; I was too
frightened to bother my head about what the shells contained. But
Hilliard persisted in getting my opinion about the matter and made me
think he was far more interested in that detail than in the fact that
it was the most probable thing on earth that he would be dead within
a few minutes. However, this situation did not seem to worry him at
all; he kept on smoking till the end. I am glad to be able to say,
that so far as I know, he came through with only the loss of an arm.
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[Illustration: The break on both sides of the Fifth's trenches shows
how perilously close they came to being cut off by the enveloping
Huns. _See page 174_]
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As the ground sloped away toward Ypres we could see for some distance
down that way and our hearts bounded as two thin lines of men came
toward us in skirmishing order.
"Can it be reinforcements?" asked Milliard.
"It can be nothing else," said I, and then we witnessed a sight that
made us want to cheer with all our might. The coolness of those men
was wonderful; steady as a rock they came. They were British
regulars, and now you will know why all of us who have been at the
front have such an admiration for the British soldier. They trotted
steadily in two long lines for about a hundred yards, then down for a
brief rest, then up and on again, all done by the arm signals.
Officers dropped on every hand, but others instantly took up their
duties and like a finely regulated machine on they came--all done
under a murderous fire, but never a flinch. It was a marvel of
coolness and iron discipline.
After witnessing that advance of the Northumberland Fusileers and the
Cheshires I have ceased to marvel at the Great Retirement of Mons;
those wonderful feats of fighting seem to me now to be the entirely
natural thing for the British soldier to do.
Suddenly on our left a bedlam of German cheers cleared all doubts of
their being through, and the order came for us to retire. Back we
went to save ourselves from being flanked. So close a call was it
that the last man was only fifty yards from Fritz. Our old major
asked our boys to leave him, and of course they refused; but it was
by the skin of their teeth they got him out.
Thank God the old major is still living and back again with his boys.
He refused a comfortable staff billet in England on his recovery.
"My place is with the boys," he said, and he is with them today. God
bless him!
By some marvel we fell back safely till we met the Northumberlands,
but how we did it is more than I can tell. One thing I shall always
remember. As we filed out of the trench Sergeant Campbell stood in
full view of the oncoming Germans till the last sound man was out,
quietly seeing to it that we did not get unsteady. After we were all
out, with the exception of some of the wounded--alas, some of them
had to be left, and I leave the reader to guess their fate--we joined
up with the Northumberlands, and as we came past these Tommies they
let out a terrific cheer for us. More to us than all the eulogies of
generals or newspapers was that cheer from our brother soldiers. And
when one remembers that it was given while a hail of bullets was
being poured upon them, and they were dropping down, killed and
wounded, some idea may be had of the unconquerable spirit of those
men and the sporting blood that courses through their veins. And if
you have never known it before, you now know why they are able to
"play the game" as the Germans never can.
That cheer was an acknowledgment to the men from Canada for the work
we had done.
CHAPTER XXIII
FIGHTING FOR OUR LIVES
When we joined on with the Fighting Fifth, as the Northumberland boys
are so aptly named, I was sent with a message to the O.C. of the
Cheshires, but could not get back to my own battalion, so I stayed
with the Northumberlands. How can I describe the scene! The riot of
noise, the never-ceasing hell-hiss, the scream and roar of shells,
everywhere blazing buildings and everywhere writhing or ominously
still figures.
Star shells were beginning to flare up as it was almost twilight, the
weird green lights glinting on the bayonets of the oncoming Germans.
Firmly the Northumberlands waited, quietly and confidently, and then
I learned what disciplined courage really is. With wild shouting and
trumpeting and a kind of prolonged "Ah-h-h" the mass of Boche
infantry came steadily on. I began to fidget; I preferred the noise
Fritz was making to the awful quiet of our own men.
Silently, yet with celerity, little short of marvelous, ammunition
boxes were ripped open and bandoliers distributed in a quarter of the
time it takes to write it. A burly corporal, noticing my itching to
fire, chuckling, said, "Take thy toime, lad." The corporal gave me
almost confidence, so cool was he. I felt better and waited for the
word. At last, when they were within fifty yards, the order came to
"Let go." It was then I understood what rapid fire meant. The way
the troops worked their Lee-Enfields made me doubly curse that Ross
toy.
The Ross rifle at this stage of the game verified the prophecy of the
corporal of the East Lanks. The reader will remember the
conversation in the dugout at Armentieres. To my dismay, when I
began to fire with rapidity, the cursed bayonet shook itself clear of
the rifle. I had fired about six rounds when the bolt refused to
work. The rifle was hopelessly jammed, and I tried to hammer the
bolt open by placing the butt on the floor of the trench and stamping
on the knob of the bolt with my heel. It was hopeless, however, and
I hurled "the thing" in the direction of the advancing Germans, with
a scream of fury that pierced even that infernal din.
The flimsy magazine-spring of these rifles often fails to work, and,
generally, at the most critical moment. As a sniper's rifle, the
Ross is everything to be desired; but when fifteen rounds per minute
have to be ripped off to make up for a lack of machine guns, the Ross
is a miserable failure.
The front of the Germans just crumpled. It was horrible. From
yelling it changed to one prolonged wail. Firing like lightning, but
with awful effect, the two machine guns pumping into their midst, the
boys held them back. So close a shave was it, that a few of them
penetrated right on to our parapet. They were bayoneted on the
instant. They were fine big men, mostly Prussians and Bavarians, but
terrible was the price they paid for their advance.
I thought of our poor fellows writhing in agony from the gas
poisoning, and any feelings of pity were easily suppressed. In fact,
at the time I fairly exulted in seeing them mown down. Three times
that night they launched attacks and at their third attempt succeeded
in again forcing us to retire by sheer weight.
Contrary to so many, I consider the Boche a brave man. Their advance
at this time proved it. They were literally mowed down at times when
attacking; but, still, they came on, scarcely faltering. As an
individualist, Fritz is, to a degree, inferior to the poilu or Tommy.
The perfection of the Prussian war machine has this flaw--its iron
discipline has killed the initiative of its private soldiers.
Without their officers they seem to wilt and, in many cases, promptly
surrender. At this time, however, Fritzie was flushed with the
thrill of pushing us back, and, therefore, full of fight. Any
prisoners we took were always ready to inform us that Germany was
invincible, and that their release would soon follow.
Do not, dear reader, call the Boche coward because he surrenders.
For you, it is easy to say you would fight to the death rather than
be taken prisoner, but consider a man who has endured a week's
bombardment--crash! crash! crr-r-r-r-mp! Roaring, blasting, one
hideous din, for days; everything being smashed to smithereens; the
smoke, the fumes, the stench, and last, but not least, dead and
mangled comrades lying around.
Now, think how much fight there would be left in you.
Shell fire will destroy the morale of any soldier, for when a man is
fair enough to look facts in the face, he will acknowledge that
courage is common to any nation. No nation has a monopoly of it, and
the German has his share.
In these days, perhaps, he gives in rather easily; but he is getting
hell from the Allied artillery--at least on the Western Front. And,
who knows, perhaps doubts of their ultimate triumph have begun to
assail them. I have seen them fight well with the bayonet, and a
clump on my head from a Hun no bigger than myself I well remember. I
hate to admit it, but he licked me honestly and fairly; and only his
sportsmanship saved me. He simply knocked me silly--and passed on.
I hate and loathe their barbarity--I hate them for bringing this hell
upon the world, but I am English, and as such, must give the other
fellow his due.
In my experience with their infamous deeds in Belgium and France, I
always remember two occasions when the Huns belied their name. One
of them came within range of my own experience. During our
retirement one of our men was hit in the leg, and of course fell
down. It was impossible to take him with us, for we had to get back
quickly in order to make conjunction with the other troops who had
fallen back. Much as we hated the idea, we had to leave him. That,
unfortunately, is the fate of many of the wounded when retiring. He
was taken prisoner and, naturally, we thought he had either been
bayoneted, or was on his way to Germany. Judge of our surprise, when
in billets, the man walked into our farmyard. We crowded around,
simply crazy to hear how he had hoodwinked the Germans and escaped.
We marveled when he told his story.
He had been taken by a mob of Saxon troops. He expected either death
or capture. These men, however, dressed his wound; inoculated him
against the possibility of lockjaw; placed him in a cellar with clean
straw to lie on, and when his slight wound permitted him to walk,
they allowed him to make his escape to his own lines.
Once, since I have returned, I was told a story by one of the
Princess Patricia Regiment. At a certain place in Belgium a dozen or
so of the Pats were lying behind some cover. The day was a quiet
one, and the Pats had that heavenly concoction called "char" in mind.
"Char" is tea to those unacquainted with English. They had the
wherewithal for the making of the tea with the exception of the
water. Of course there was enough lying around to float a boat, but
anyone who has smelt that "aqua vitae" would not dream of using it
for tea. When a seasoned soldier will not use it, it is pretty bad.
A little distance from where they were lying was a pump from which
good water could be obtained, but covering the pump and the approach
to the pump was a sniper. However, a hot drink is worth risking
something for and a man started out to try and bring back some water.
Crack! down he went. The man was badly hit but not killed, and his
chum determined to try and get him in. He went out, expecting to be
hit every second, but nothing happened and he carried his stricken
chum in. Now Fritzie has a habit of firing on anything that moves,
and the Pats wondered. At last, another man, feeling sure that the
sniper had either retired for the day, or had gone to lunch, set
forth to fetch the water. Again that ominous crack, and again a
prone figure. Again a chum sallies out to at least try and save his
stricken comrade, if he is not shot dead. He returns with his chum
unhurt. This happened a third time, and then it dawned on the Pats
that a soldier who was a gentleman and a sportsman was sniping in the
German lines.
So long as the British soldier was on his feet, and an active enemy,
the sniper was only too pleased to knock him over, but as soon as the
foe was a stricken, wounded man, he was entitled to everyone's
consideration, and for his part he was done with him.
I, for one, hope that that German is back in Germany with a nice
cushy wound, and getting the best that the Fatherland can give him.
Hard as we tried, their reinforcements kept piling in, and finally
they effected an entrance at one end of our trench, so to keep in
touch with our left, we fell back slowly to an old evil-smelling
trench, knee deep with the foulest water I have ever seen. If we had
had but two batteries of artillery we could have held them, even with
their gas. However, to hope to keep them back with infantry alone,
against their gas and murderous artillery fire, was something for the
Canadians to figure out. As it was, they only succeeded in forcing
us back for about a mile.
The whole Canadian Division had been surrounded, but with the timely
arrival of the Tommies had fought its way out again. In the early
stages of the battle, so close had it been that one battery of
artillery had reversed their guns and fired point-blank, at about
three hundred yards, into the mob of Germans. The gunners were all
killed or taken prisoners, but the price they made Fritz pay was dear
indeed. After this our artillery was obliged to retire for some
short distance back, but there the line held.
CHAPTER XXIV
THE BOCHES BALKED
After we had rested somewhat in the spot to which we had retired, the
corporal, of whom I spoke before, asked for someone to go with him to
try and find out what Fritz was up to. I felt I would be all right
with him, and I almost preferred instant death to the odor of that
foul water-hole, so I went along with him.
To my horror the first thing he did when we got fairly out was to
strike a match and light his pipe. Like lightning I jumped from his
side.
"My God! Corporal, what are you doing?"
"What's the excitement?" he asked, puffing calmly.
"You'll get sniped as sure as fate."
Then it was he showed the typical fatalism of the soldier.
"Son, if I'm going to get hit, I'll get it; but if it's not my turn,
I wouldn't get it if I lit a bloomin' bonfire."
"If you take unnecessary chances you'll get it."
"Don't be afraid, lad, I'm not throwing my life away. You are as
safe with me as you would be up in the trench."
We soon ran on to their listening patrol, but my corporal had not
been in three campaigns for nothing. He took me, to my excited
imagination, almost to their very feet. They were talking like mad
and we had evidently been seen a few minutes before, for they rushed
to the spot we had occupied just before they got there. We circled
about for a few hours and finally decided that Fritz had dug in for
the night.
Toward daylight, an order came for all Canadians who had stayed
behind to go down to the rear, as the Canadians had been relieved.
How tired we all were; I did not care if I lived or died. We ran on
isolated bunches of Germans, with some of whom we exchanged a few
shots.
At last we emerged on the road, and, to my dying day, I shall never
forget the sights that met our eyes. Everywhere were shell craters,
both on the road and on each side of us. In every shrine, where the
Belgians placed their crucifixes, men in agony from the gas had
crawled and died there; dead bodies, dead horses, wrecked ambulance
cars, gun limbers, ammunition limbers, and in one place were six of
the very finest horses I have ever seen, with their drivers, dead.
Villages, where the people had been living when we went up, were now
utterly desolate; everything a smoldering mass of ruins, such had
been the fury of that shell fire. And it was still going on, shells
screaming over us or bursting close by.
At one place the Boches had pushed so far forward that they were only
a short distance from the road and they opened up on us, but only
succeeded in wounding a few. Finally we came down to an open space
and found the brigade busily cooking breakfast. "Hurrah," thought I,
"grub and a sleep." Hastily I began to look around for something to
eat, but alas, the order came to be ready to advance again. I was
utterly weary, but it couldn't be helped.
Finding my own crowd, who had been fortunate enough to get in a few
hours' sleep and were correspondingly cheerful, I fell in, and in
skirmishing order we began the advance.
Suddenly at our backs came an ear-splitting report, and of all the
music I ever heard that was the sweetest. It was our own heavy
artillery replying to the Germans. We skirmished on in long lines
until the order came to "Dig in." I was so hungry and tired that I
absolutely did not care whether I got hit or not. Happening to
notice my condition, Sergeant Campbell came up to me:
"What the hell is wrong with you?" said he.
"Well, if you want to know, Sergeant, I'm hungry, thirsty, and tired
out. You people have had an hour or so's rest; I've had none. I'm
dead beat and if I get it, so much the better."
I spoke the absolute truth, because that was the one time in my life
I honestly wanted to die.
"You get busy and dig in; we need you; not that you're worth much
anyway, but you're the only trained runner we've got around."
"Not till I get something to eat," I answered, deliberately defying
him. Again that wonderful understanding spirit of dear old Ken
showed forth. Instead of telling me the punishment that would follow
my insubordination, he said, "All right, son, I'll see what I can do."
I lay exhausted on the ground and in a few minutes, to my great
happiness, the sergeant returned, bringing a dirty old bone, but
covered with meat. It was aged, and the flies played upon it, but to
my mind and memory no meat ever tasted so sweet. I sunk my teeth in
it and the very first bite gave me a new inspiration to live.
Again we advanced, but I clung to my bone, and as soon as we halted
to dig in again, I buried my face up to the ears in the meat. As
soon as I was full I carefully slipped the bone in my belt in order
to be prepared for the next hunger-pinch. I then felt a very earnest
desire to live, and when the next halt came and the shells were
coming over in a never-ending stream, I had an intense desire to
explore the bowels of the earth. On feeling for my entrenching tool,
to my dismay, I found it gone. Grabbing my bayonet from the scabbard
I went to work, and the way I burrowed with my hands on that bayonet
was a caution. I would not have taken a back seat to a prairie
badger.
CHAPTER XXV
FUN AND FURY
We lay here for awhile, every now and then some poor boy going over,
although we were fairly safe from shrapnel if we closely hugged our
holes. But we had no protection whatever from their high explosive
shells; these hit the ground, tearing huge holes, and woe to those
who were near. The shell fire was terrific, but our own guns were
roaring back magnificently. To show how men will rise to the height
of dare-devil coolness, I must tell of the men who were supplying our
guns with ammunition. Six horses on a limber, with three drivers,
and two carriers on the limbers, would trot steadily to the
bomb-proof shelter where the ammunition was kept, load up, and still
at the steady trot return to the guns. All the time heavy shrapnel
was bursting overhead, and the awful crack of this shell is enough to
break the strongest nerve. A huge shell burst right overhead, a few
yards in front of us, killing some of the gun crew, but without a
falter, except to remove their dead comrades, the rest went on
steadily working their guns.
Again we moved forward, and so furious had become the artillery duel,
that we could only advance in small parties. A chum of ours died
here. We were lying down for a time behind a hedge and one of the
heavy shrapnel shells burst a little to the front of us, the forward
sweep of the shrapnel landing the bullets right among us. When a
shrapnel shell bursts the bullets sweep forward and obliquely to the
ground, having a forward range of three hundred yards and a lateral
zone of fifty yards. The three hundred odd bullets of the German
shell fly like a fan. It will be seen that a shell may burst right
over your head without injuring anyone, but the men three hundred
yards or so to your rear are hit.
The report of the explosion stunned us for a few seconds, and this
chum of ours, as soon as we began to feel that we were still alive,
got to his feet and said, "Boys, I'm hit." "Where?" we asked.
"Through the head, I think," said poor Dick, and then dropped dead.
On examining his body we found that a ball had passed right through
his heart.
It was now that the British troops again began to deploy over the
plains toward the trenches. Line after line, for hour after hour,
they pressed steadily on. It was a sight, I can tell you, a lesson
in steadiness and coolness. Again we dug in and were ordered to stay
and be ready to support the attack the British were making. However,
we were not needed and we stayed in our self-made holes for four days
under that hail of shells. The casualties were very heavy and our
own little band was soon minus some well-known faces.
One amusing, yet, in a way, tragic thing happened here. This plain
of which I am speaking was not unlike the prairie. All hedges were
gone except a few here and there. It was mostly grass land and
apparently there had been a crop taken off there the autumn before.
Scattered over this place were farmhouses, which of course were in
ruins, but a bunch of cows had by some means managed to keep alive
here, and this same herd were quietly grazing away, while men all
around them were burrowing in the ground for their lives. It was
most amusing to see a cow calmly lying down and chewing away. Poor
creatures, they did not last long. How they managed to live any time
was marvelous, considering what was flying around them.
Next night, to our great joy, a tea ration was brought up, but our
hopes were dashed to the ground by the O.C's. forbidding any fires to
be lighted. Of course, there were blazing stacks and buildings
everywhere, but not in our vicinity. Water was plentiful enough, but
we were obliged to go some distance for drinkable water. Here we
were, with tea, sugar and water, yet unable to make a dixie of tea,
and it must be remembered that we had had neither hot food nor a hot
drink for twelve days.
Fritz, however, very obligingly solved our difficulty. We were lying
close to a thatched barn, which, by another of those miraculous,
unexplainable things, had not yet been shelled. However, Fritzie
must have known our trouble, for bang! bang! and a couple of "hissing
Jennies" hit the barn plump, and in an instant that barn was ablaze.
It soon burned to the ground and, utterly reckless of shell fire or
machine guns, we crowded round the hot embers and brewed our tea.
The officers raged at us for a bunch of suicidal fools, as exposing
ourselves with a light background was liable to draw half of the
Boche artillery on us. The Old Man himself saw us crowding round the
embers--a splendid mark on the top of that hill. Over he rushed, his
face fairly blazing with rage. "Get into your holes, you suicidal
fools," he roared. But, colonel as he was, some one told him where
he might go. We all feared for the result of this remark, as it was
no less than deliberate insubordination punishable with a very heavy
penalty. If it had been a German private soldier who had answered
his commanding officer in such fashion, he would not have had time to
say his prayers.
But I suppose the Colonel had a heart somewhere under his belt and he
passed it up. It probably brought home to him what his men had been
through. So we got our tea, "and of all the drinks I've drunk" my
gratitude to Fritz far exceeded Kipling's Tommy to Gunga Din.
CHAPTER XXVI
YSER
When relieved from this hillside we once more marched through Ypres,
had two days' rest in the adjoining fields, and were then sent to
guard the Yser Canal.
Our flanks touched the very city itself and during the day we could
see houses falling and the city being systematically pounded to dust.
I shall never forget the day that Fritz turned his attention to the
canal bank. Most of the battalion were in dugouts they had made
themselves, just on the sloping side of an orchard; the orchard was
the top of a bank; on one side was the Yser River and on the other
side was a brook. It will be seen that we were dug in between two
streams, with the brook flowing about forty feet below us, and we
stationed on the side of the bank in our holes about three quarters
of the way up from the bottom.
---------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration: The Fifth are dug in on what was a beautiful orchard
and garden, 60 feet above the French, enabling them to sweep the
French front with cross-fire. The German lines completely enveloped
this salient. The bridge (Hell's Corner) was an important
transportation factor, hence Fritz's constant attention and its
nickname. [_See page 201_]]
---------------------------------------------------------------------
Huge shells began to burst with deafening noise in the field on the
other side of the brook, while a few dropped right in among us,
causing many casualties, and such was the fury of the bombardment
that the ground rolled and heaved as though being shaken with a quake.
Trembling with terror I hugged the bottom of my dugout, expecting
every moment to be either buried or thrown up in the air. However,
it was not to be. But, suddenly, the ground beneath me began to
slide, and for what seemed an age I felt myself riding on the top of
a solid mass of earth. What had happened was this, the whole bank
had slid away in the direction of the brook, and, incredible as it
may seem, the brook afterwards flowed some twenty yards farther away
than it had done previously.
Still nothing could depress for long the spirit of the Fifth and soon
the boys were taking note of their surroundings. Presently a bunch
of French soldiers passed along by us with two huge panniers loaded
with bottles full of the best vintage in the neighborhood; they had
gotten them in the city. Instantly the boys pricked up their ears
and longing glances were cast toward the stricken town. In a short
time the more adventurous spirits had found their way into the city
and returned laden with all kinds of good food and the same
refreshing liquid that the Frenchies carried.
Libby, who was ever a leader in any reckless enterprise, accompanied
by Fitzpatrick, made their way into Ypres and came back with stores
of good things to eat and drink and bursting stories of the quantity
of stuff lying around. "If we only had a motor truck we could have
filled it," they said.
Next day I went with a party. It was no small feat to get away from
the battalion without being noticed, but we managed it and Libby led
the way to the barracks occupied formerly by the Belgians, and used
during the winter of 1914-15 as headquarters for the British
divisions who were holding the salient.
---------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration: THE YSER CANAL.]
The barbed-wire entanglements mark the first-line German trenches.
The men in the picture are German officers.
---------------------------------------------------------------------
A Belgian sentry at the battered gates allowed us to go in and we
mounted the stairs of the barracks, entering a long room that
apparently had been the sleeping quarters of the Belgian soldiers,
for pegs and numbers and framework of cots were hanging on the wall.
But what interested us most was a number of brand-new Lee-Enfield
rifles packed away in boxes; we possessed ourselves with one each.
Then we turned our attention to the clothing left by the
quartermasters of the British Army. We quickly selected underwear, a
good jackknife each, and anything else to which we took a fancy. The
underwear was of the very finest quality, being sent out by the
ladies in England to the young subalterns. Canned fruit, rations of
tea, chocolate--everything heart could desire was there in abundance.
Our chief trouble was in determining what to select and what to leave.
When we sallied out the difficulty was to dodge the pickets who had
been placed in the town to prevent looting. Now we had been
unquestionably looting, but it was excusable in that we took nothing
that belonged to the civil population; still it properly came under
the head of looting and the pickets would have shot us on sight had
they caught us with our spoils. Therefore, it was one thing to get
it, but quite another thing to transport it in safety to our dugout.
We separated into twos, Libby and Fitzpatrick with the rifles taking
one route, and a boy named Powell and myself with the rest of the
loot, taking another. All went well with us until we ran into the
arms of a Tommy, alas, one of the pickets. He was a typical John
Bull and he was there to prevent just such things as we had been
doing. We tried bluff--
"Good-day, chum."
"What are you doing without your arms in here?" he asked.
Here was a poser, for to be without arms in the danger zone is a
terrible crime. Powell tried to rise to the occasion by explaining
that we had been sent with messages and had not far to go.
"What have you got in those valises?"
Our hearts sank into our boots. Our answer did not satisfy him in
the least. Still holding his rifle at the "ready"--
"Right-about face! an' don't try any bloomin' funny business or yer
dead. Quick march."
My heart sank into my boots and I gave up in despair, for escape
seemed impossible. And then followed as fine a bit of team work as I
have ever witnessed in my life. The Tommy not only had his bayonet
fixed, but in his rifle we knew there were at least five rounds of
live ammunition. But the thought of quietly giving up had not
entered Powell's head. Just as we were passing a huge crater hole,
he stumbled over and fell right at our captor's feet and frantically
grabbed them. My own wits, I am glad to say, acted like lightning
and I grabbed him round the neck and he toppled over. Quicker than
it takes to tell, we rolled him to the edge of the crater hole and
gave him a vigorous, though not too violent a push over, and down he
rolled to the bottom. I can still see the smoke of his ascending
remarks.
Then we ran for dear life. Luck was with us and we landed safely in
our dugouts, loot and all. We hurriedly unstrapped our valises from
our shoulders and disposed of our stuff in a concealed hole, because
we were afraid, knowing the character of the British soldier, that he
would find out where we belonged.
And sure enough, before long, he heaves on the horizon. Now was
exemplified the old saw, "Money talks." Before he could reach the
headquarters' dugout, Powell darted across and intercepted him. I
followed.
"Say, chum," said Powell in broken-hearted tones, "you ain't going to
split on us, are you?"
"Horders is horders, an' you blokes played me a damned nasty trick."
"Have you any money, chum?" asked Powell.
"No."
Powell took a five-franc bill out of his pocket and I followed suit.
Lucky we were to have it as we were generally as destitute as he.
Ten francs is wealth untold to a soldier on the Western Front. While
Tommy's eyes glinted, he hesitated.
"Come on, chum," says I, "you know you would have done the same if
you had been up the line like we have for the last fifteen days or
so, and wanted some good grub and a change of clothes."
"But how am I to know that nobody saw me with you two blokes?"
"Nobody saw us," Powell hastily assured him.
"Well, besides, you bunged me into that 'ole, an' yer were none too
gentle over it neither."
Desperate and thinking the game was about up, I ventured,
"Don't you think that was a pretty neat trick, partner, all the same?"
The humor of it all came to our rescue, for a slow smile spread over
his English mug.
"P'raps yer right," says he; "give me yer ten francs an' we'll call
it square. But, remember, if I gets 'auled hover the coals, I'll
'ave to come for yer then."
He left with the last of our money, but leaving us a huge pile of
comfort, and we heard nothing more of the matter.
One afternoon I sat reading a book and happening to glance up I
beheld a strange sight. Walking, or I should say limping between two
stalwart French infantrymen was a cripple. His left arm was doubled
up at the elbow; later on I discovered it was withered. One leg was
fully six inches shorter than the other and, to my astonishment, the
Frenchmen were treating him none too kindly. They were not abusing
him, as the natural courtesy of every Frenchman will not permit him
to be impolite even to the hated Boches, but I could see that they
would have dearly loved to have thrown their crippled prisoner down
the steep banks of the canal. Being a runner, I was more or less
privileged and my curiosity being aroused I determined to follow the
party. They stopped at the headquarters' dugout and pushed their
prisoner in. Walworth, in the absence of an interpreter, always
officiated when difficulties of language cropped out. He was sent
for. I listened to the Frenchmen's story. It appears these
Frenchmen noticed, when coming down the main street of Ypres, that
one of the houses showed very little signs of hard usage. After such
a bombardment, this struck them as being suspicious, and knowing the
cunning of the Hun only too well, they determined to search the
house. Nothing did they find, but they were still dissatisfied.
Quite by accident they hit on a door leading to a cellar underneath
the house. Installed in this cellar was a complete telephone system,
and our cripple and another man were operating it. The cripple's
accomplice was promptly bayoneted by the irate Frenchmen, but they
decided to take the other man along to the nearest headquarters,
which happened to be ours. Whether or not these men were spies I
cannot tell, but the evidence would point that way. Suffice it to
say that the cripple was sent away to brigade headquarters and I am
absolutely in the dark as to his ultimate fortune.
It was not only my immediate chums who were refitting themselves and
feeding themselves in the "hospitable" city of Ypres; every soldier
who could do so partook of its bounty.
Many and varied were the souvenirs that the boys brought back with
them. To their credit be it said that they never took a thing that
had belonged to any of the inhabitants, but the army was a different
and legitimate prey. There was one exception, however, and a bunch
of Number Seven Platoon were the proud purloiners of a brand-new
gramophone. They had consumed a little wine and were correspondingly
gay. Now, my Holy Rollers I suppose we shall have you holding up
your hands in horror at those awful soldiers. Don't worry your
precious souls; those boys were not allowed to get drunk. If they
did disobey orders, we did our best to shield them and take over
their duties until they were themselves again. It was very rare that
they ever transgressed in this regard.
Soon the gramophone was playing merrily away and we poured from our
holes like so many rabbits to listen. Oh, the power of music! War
may seem romantic in a certain sense to those at a distance, but to
those actually engaged in it, it is a sordid monotonous business.
Home, parents and loved ones were brought nearer to us than before
and memories of an existence that seemed to have passed and gone from
us long ago filled my very being.
Under the influence of the music the boys evidently forgot there was
a war, for one by one we crept from our dugouts and gathered around
the charm box. Fritz, however, had not forgotten about the war at
all and he soon reminded us that we were there for more serious
business than daydreaming under the influence of a gramophone. A
salvo of five whiz bangs readily brought us down to earth and into
earth we scuttled like a bunch of human ground hogs; I think I made
the twenty-yard space to my hole in one leap; at least it seemed like
a single jump. No one was hit, but we hugged our holes knowing that
the dose would be repeated.
I couldn't help but laugh when I heard the voice of one of the boys
raised in anger to his chum. "Didn't you bring in the gramophone?"
"Do you think I was going to wait for that?" replied the chum.
"Well, we wouldn't miss you," was the rejoinder, "but if that music
box gets smashed, what shall we do?"
The awful possibility of such a contingency must have instantly
aroused the negligent one to a sense of the impending danger, for
darting from his hole he recovered the precious instrument and made a
return trip for the records.
For the few days that we were sunken in those miserable holes, which
were the merest apologies for dugouts on the canal, we lightened the
tedium of the many hours of weary waiting by the magic of that
wonderful box.
The initiative of our mob was never better shown than in the
following amusing happening. At night those of us who were not
engaged in fatigues were told off to patrol the canal banks. Day and
night a never-ending stream of French soldiers would pour from the
city carrying with them loads of wine, etc. Walworth, who spoke
French like a native and who was the possessor of a commanding
physique and air, would temporarily, at the wish of his comrades,
take charge of the patrol, and they would halt a party of these
Frenchmen and tell them that they had orders to confiscate all loot,
and, deeply as they regretted it, they must disgorge their wine,
together with the et ceteras they had. An argument would follow and
the Frenchmen would protest. Then Walworth, with an air of
condescension, and a warning to the Frenchmen to say nothing about
this breach of duty, would agree to a division of the spoils.
Through this handy medium we were saved the trouble of going after it
ourselves. Arriving at our dugouts in the morning we would find a
bottle or two of very excellent wine which had been thrown into our
holes by the Frenchies, and this wine heated made a very acceptable
drink in the chill hours of the morning.
Another evidence of my "yellow streak" took place one day when we
went for a bath in the canal. Every man who knew me and who is alive
today laughs every time the incident is mentioned. My chums had all
left the water, but I decided to swim the canal once more. Just then
a shell landed plumb in the water, most uncomfortably close. The
sensation I experienced was peculiar, to put it mildly. I spun round
and round, after the fashion of a top, and fancied that I had
swallowed half the water of the canal. Struggling in a sort of
frightened frenzy to the shore, and without waiting to put on my
clothes, I dashed like a flash of lightning up the canal bank into
the orchard and hurled myself into my hole, where I sat blubbering
and sobbing like a scared child.
CHAPTER XXVII
THE FUN OF IT
One incident, although nearly tragic, makes me laugh when I think of
it. In our platoon we had a very peculiar character; he was (as most
of us were) an Englishman, but I strongly suspect he had a big splash
of Gypsy blood in his veins. In spite of all orders to the contrary,
this boy would wander away and be gone for hours, and would return
laden with all kinds of souvenirs--helmets, bayonets, bottles--almost
every conceivable thing, and one day he came in with a woman's full
rig-out of clothes. Another day he was missing and came back at dusk
with a string of six beautiful fresh fish. Two of us accidentally
fell on the place where these fish abounded; it was a kind of fish
preserve, after the fashion of the fish ponds around old mansions in
England, but this fellow, I believe, found them by instinct. The
boys who knew him would have wagered their shirts or their last
nickels that if he was asked he would fetch Von Kluck's sword from
out of the German lines in broad daylight. Of course around Ypres he
was in the seventh heaven and at the back of his dugout such a
bewildering mass of junk was never collected by living man. Old
clocks, pieces of shrapnel, sabots, wine bottles, needles and a host
of other things, including all kinds of clothing. Of course he could
not take them with him, but he was to my idea a kind of left-handed
kleptomaniac.
He was very busy ferreting along the canal banks and in the orchard
one afternoon, when Fritz sent over five whiz bangs in rapid
succession. With a yell he clapped his hand to that part of his
anatomy where a kick is usually administered, staggered a few paces
and fell. The apple tree above my head was cut to pieces, but when
the banging commenced I lost no time investigating the innermost
corner of my dugout and escaped unhurt; greased lightning was a slow
freight to the way I dived for safer regions.
After waiting a few seconds to let the splinters settle, I looked for
Gypsy. He was severely wounded, but not of a too serious nature, and
in spite of his being so badly hurt, I could not help saying, "Tahn,
son, that got you right in the proper place."
The story went up and down the line many times afterwards, because it
seemed so funny for a man who was always poking his nose in forbidden
places, that he should get hit just where a boy would, who had been
stealing apples.
Tahn and I had a good laugh afterwards at the convalescent camp over
the incident, although he said that at the time he couldn't see my
side of the joke at all.
The ignorance of some of the native peasantry of this part of France
concerning Canada was comically exemplified. The officer went to the
house of an old lady for the purpose of finding out how many men she
could take care of, and she asked him, "What kind of men are you
going to put in my barn?"
"Canadians, madam," he replied.
"Oh, no, Monsieur, I will not have any more black men here."
The officer hastened to assure her that our skin was as white as hers
and the native courtesy of the old French lady was trebled to make
amends for her mistake.
This same officer was keenly desirous of showing his knowledge of
French, which was at its best quite limited, and he would converse
always in that language with the French soldiers or people with whom
he came in contact. He inquired at an _estaminet_ in his best French
for some red pepper, and the good housewife, who happened to speak
only patois handed him a nicely folded little paper package of
cootie, or lice killer. Of course he had to endure a laugh. But his
enthusiasm for displaying French was most marked when I heard him at
the close of a short talk with a French soldier, who happened to be
equally desirous of displaying his knowledge of English. When they
were parting, our quartermaster shook his hand and said, "Oh,
reservoir."
"Tanks," replied Frenchy.
CHAPTER XXVIII
LEAVING YSER
Before we left the canal we had a really miraculous escape--I and the
other members of my platoon. We were detailed on ration party and
while waiting for our loads we straggled up the road, the boys being
only a few yards apart from one another. Suddenly we heard the
ever-increasing roar of a huge howitzer shell coming straight at us.
Throwing ourselves flat we waited for what seemed an hour, although
in reality only a second, and with a shrieking roar, like the crack
of doom, it landed in our midst. I remember going up, but I never
remembered coming down. When I came to my senses some sixteen hours
later I was told what happened after the arrival of the German
souvenir. Not one of our boys had been killed, nor even wounded,
although several were sent home suffering from shell-shock, and very
bad cases too. We had all been stunned and consequently put out of
action for that night.
A second ration party took our place and the same thing was repeated,
but this time with terrible results; forty-eight of our boys became
casualties--killed, wounded or shocked.
The wonder is that any of us stayed on duty at all, and in my
particular case the result was to make me a mass of irritated nerves,
while my hands and limbs twitched for days. I believe if the M.O.
had seen me I would have been sent for at least a week's rest, but I
stayed it out.
It was midnight and as hot as Hades when we started from the banks of
the Yser. Now we had been some twenty-two days constantly in action.
I have not spoken of the numberless times we stood to, to be launched
into the line to help our terribly hard-pressed French and British
comrades. Every time a tornado of German artillery fire would open
up, we would stand ready to advance across open ground to the front
line. Also, in spite of our fun on the Yser's banks, we were often
subjected to terrific bombardments from the Boche heavies. In short,
our casualties on the Yser were fearfully many.
Judge then of our condition for a twenty-five mile march. The
beginning of our march commenced by doubling us out between batteries
of roaring seventy-fives and sixty-pounders. The awful din was the
finishing touch and our nerves went snap. At last we were clear and
we settled down to a steady hike. The Warwickshire Regiment, which
took our place on the banks of the canal, was there about twenty
minutes when a fearful bombardment burst upon it. Poor gallant
Midland lads; God rest you where you lie! Next morning a few
survivors still hung to their positions, but, alas, the gallant
Warwicks were almost decimated.
Who was it first published the scurrilous lie that the British
sacrifice their Colonial troops and save their own? No fouler slur
on those quiet tenacious warriors of the Old Land was ever cast. If
Tommy Atkins fails in taking or holding a position, no other nation
on God's earth can take it or hold it.
On, on, we tramped! God! Would we never halt? One after the other,
exhausted men would fall and sleep, sleep, sleep. On and ever on
till legs moved mechanically, all sensation of movement having left
them. Men dozed as they walked, fell as they dozed, lay where they
fell.
True to my mighty vow that I would never fall out on a march, I
lurched on, but, God! the effort. At last, as day was breaking, they
took us into a field, and a hot drink of tea, some food and a rest of
one hour revived us somewhat.
I noticed that one of the officers was carrying a puppy in his arms.
It was only a few days old and I marveled at his wonderful heart in
forgetting his own troubles and caring for the poor little helpless
creature. Our curiosity was aroused and we asked him, "Why the pup?"
"Boys," said he, "that pup is worth a fortune. It was born at the
time of the very heat of the bombardment." I never knew what
eventually became of the poor little creature.
On again, all through the blazing heat of the day we hiked. Tommies
would walk with us, easing our lot in their rough, kindly manner.
They promised us Fritz should pay dearly for his dastardly gas attack
before they were through. On, on, till we entered Bailleul. Thank
God! Rest, we thought. But no, ever on.
And then the men, the limit of endurance reached and mad with
disappointment, began to get in an ugly mood. Discipline was sorely
strained, and we openly shouted our opinion of the officers to their
faces.
And then we witnessed a thing which brings tears to my eyes every
time I think of it. Those officers of ours--alas, some of them were
not there; they sleep near Bill Skerry and the rest--were in no
better shape than ourselves; in fact, owing to their responsibility,
they were in worse plight. Instead of marking down the offenders for
future punishment, they inflicted worse punishment on us by making us
thoroughly ashamed of ourselves. Lining up across the road, they
bade us halt for a space, telling us that they had a bet to decide,
and it must be decided at once. They were going to run a race.
Their effort was pitiful in the extreme. They started out bravely
enough, but a few paces, and one after the other would stagger and
fall; but they struggled to their feet and staggered away again.
After such an exhibition of courage what could we do or say. Not
only was it a lesson to us, but it is one of the grandest memories I
have. To a civilian, perhaps, there does not seem a great deal in
it, but it was a sight we soldiers never can forget. There were
those battle-weary men, utterly worn out, their nerves on edge,
scarcely able to walk, yet to encourage their men, and show them that
they were game to the end, they went through the threefold agony of
that race. Such an example of pluck, resourcefulness, knowledge of
men, and chivalry, I shall never witness again.
All things must have an end, be they good or bad, and at last, what
remained of us, stumbled into the yard of the big farmhouse owned by
the lady who objected to the black soldiers of Canada. The sun was
just setting when we were finally dismissed. Some of the boys never
moved from the spot where they stood before they were dismissed.
They simply sank down and slept! slept! slept! For myself I managed
to climb to the second floor of a barn, and seeing some deep straw in
one corner made for it. I had my fingers on the buckle of my belt,
and when I awoke twenty-four hours later my fingers were still
clutching the slide-buckle. When I had fallen down I had turned my
head, and while I slept on my stomach, my head was turned sideways.
On awakening I could not turn my head in its proper position, and for
some hours, to the amusement of the boys, I was walking about with my
chin resting on my left shoulder. A vigorous massaging at last gave
me relief. Then taking off my clothes I bathed in a dyke, and, such
was my physical training, I was on duty at headquarters next day.
A broiling hot day, and Libby, perspiring profusely, hailed me as I
thoughtfully watched the progress of a hen to her laying place. We
were not supposed to steal anything, but a hungry man is not
over-scrupulous and that hen interested me. The little dark man,
with his whimsical manly face, was the most cheery comrade I ever had.
"Coming for a bath, Bobbie?" "Lord! I haven't energy enough to
smoke."
"Aw, come on."
"All right," said I, and away we started, singing at the top of our
voices, and made our way to a huge sheet of water we could see in the
distance. At last we arrived at its shores only to find that its
greatest depth was about six inches. For the first time since I knew
him I found that Libby sometimes did read his Bible. Gazing at the
fraud with an air of resigned disgust he said thoughtfully, "Well,
Bobbie, Simon Peter would not need a hell of a lot of faith to take a
stroll on the waves of that blankety-blank lake."
We determined to bathe somewhere. There were lots of dykes, but they
were either too shallow, too dirty, or too muddy to be swimable.
Hailing a farmer, we inquired of him where we could find a dyke deep
enough to swim in. Luckily he understood my execrable lingua franca,
and he led the way to a corner of one of his fields; here a dyke had
widened out to about thirty feet. The water, so said the farmer, was
about ten feet deep. We did not doubt him, but the color scheme of
the water was something even our seasoned tastes did not fancy.
Libby looked at the water, then at me, then at the farmer. "Hell!"
said he, "I came out to have a swim and here goes."
Taking off his few clothes he dived straight into the green mess. He
emerged, swam around for a minute, then climbed the bank. I howled
with laughter. Libby, like Esau, was a very hairy man, and the green
spawn clung to his hairy hide in long streamers, while from his head
hung long green veils almost to his heels.
"Oh, look at the bride," came a voice over my shoulder, and a small
party of our immediate crowd came up.
"Isn't she perfectly sweet?"
"Yes, but isn't it a pity she's bow-legged!"
"Congratulations." This to me. "You are some money saver, Bub, all
you have to do when she wants a new dress is to pitch her into the
bridal vat."
"Oh, come to me sticky embrace," said Batch.
"Sure," ejaculates Lib, and straightway leaps at Batch, encircling
him lovingly with his spawn-covered arms. The party scattered to
right and left, for they feared that the fickle bride would shortly
transfer "her" affections to any one of them. Lib, with a yell of
satisfaction, relinquished his hold on Batch, scurried to a shallow
but clean patch of water farther down the dyke, and was soon rid of
his nuptial garments. I had to be satisfied with a wash in the same
place.
And now, great joy and satisfaction came to cheer the hearts of the
Fifth. The Colonel was seen to sneak guiltily from the farmhouse.
Stealing away to a spot, where he fondly imagined he was unobserved,
he sat down and divested himself of his upper garments. Then with a
furious wrench he tore off his shirt and, to the observers' unholy
joy, he commenced to scratch! scratch! scratch! Having gone well
over his bare hide, he turned his attention to his shirt. What joy!
The Old Man was lousy.
Speaking of our clinging friends, the lice, it may be of interest to
discuss the various methods of taking the offensive, when they have
massed for an attack under your shirt. The old method of hunting,
according to Morgan, was not really hunting, but strategy.
"Well, my black-whiskered evil genius," said I, "what is your
wonderful system of beating them to it?"
"My poor, innocent child," said he, "I suppose I must pity your
benighted ignorance and explain. You take off your shirt, pinch a
quantity of salt well over it, lay it down flat on the ground; then
get a pail of water and place it a few feet away. The stock will
fall for the salt and will eat it. Naturally, they get thirsty, and
then beat it for the pail. Now is your chance, grab your shirt and
run."
"Chatting" was the professional term for hunting on the Western
Front. It is simply searching for your gray-back foes, and
dispatching them by the medium of one's nails. Another method,
practiced by highly trained experts, is to take a lighted candle and
run it up and down the seams of your clothes. None but the very
expert can do this as it often results in burning holes in your
clothes.
Church parade took place the Sunday before we left for further work
with the Huns. The General was to look us over. It was a lovely
morning when we lined up in the field awaiting our leader. The scene
will live in my memory as long as I exist. Very few traces of war
could be seen here. The field was carpeted with a thick growth of
beautiful green grass, while the spring flowers were perfect in their
beauty and fragrance. Tall poplars fringed three sides of the field,
and the breeze bent them gracefully this way and that. The soft,
sighing sound of this gentle wind, playing through the poplars,
seemed to be a sweet requiem for the very gallant gentlemen of
England and Canada who would parade with us no more.
And the men. God! the wonder and pathos of it. To see them standing
easy, chatting and joking one with the other, one would have thought
war was non-existent. But take a closer look. See those faded,
patched uniforms, mud-stained and blood-stained, yet spotless as far
as human effort could make them. And the look in their eyes; the
look! that far-away, dreamy pathetic stare of men who have looked
straight into the mouth of hell.
A strange contrast they made to the newly arrived reinforcements from
England. The latter, with their clean uniforms and their fresh
faces, looked very boyish and young against the boys who had been
through the jaws of death at Ypres.
All familiar with the history of Canada's part in the great conflict,
know the speech delivered to us by the General, and his words of
confidence and advice for the future. His splendid talk inspired all
of us with renewed faith in our fight.
After a reorganization, we soon were ready to interview the Fritzers
again, and before long we were engaged in another scrap that in some
respects surpassed even Ypres for its proportion of casualties on a
narrow front.
Our work this time was to take over a section of the line that was in
imminent danger of being broken; few people in these later days ever
dream of the nearness of the Allies to absolute defeat in the first
months of the war.
Now I have something to tell those people, who are forever lauding
the deeds of Britain's Allies, and forever forgetting that Tommy
Atkins, the British soldier, does a little fighting, too.
We hear of the tragedy of Belgium, and God forgive any man who fails
to honor that noble little nation; we hear of the soul of France, the
Anzacs, the Canadians, but very little is said of the men who
quietly, without fuss or advertisement, lay down their lives in this
great conflict, the Tommies of Great Britain--
"For he does not advertise, but he wins the day or dies."
---------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration: TWO TOMMIES TALKING IT OVER.]
No doubt the opinions of the soldiers would prove interesting
reading. The cumbersome outfit, as shown, is hardly conducive to a
pleasant frame of mind, but Tommy is nearly always cheerful.
---------------------------------------------------------------------
People who have never felt the breath of war, chat glibly of the
nations engaged in the conflict. "Where are the British?" they ask.
I'll answer them in a few words. The business of the British soldier
is to down Fritz, and he is doing it so well that the newspaper men
naturally have grown to expect great things from him, and
consequently never mention what seems the perfectly natural thing for
a British soldier to do.
It was to the aid of a sorely-tried remnant of British Tommies that
we were sent. They had suffered, only God and themselves knew how
much--but they were holding, and reinforcements were needed badly.
As usual, we fell in at dusk. The ordinary banter and repartee
flashed backwards and forwards, but it seemed to me a trifle forced.
I knew it was in my case, but I had to keep up the bluff that I was
not afraid.
Male readers may smile at my cowardice, that is, those who have not
seen men die in battle. But reason it out, O contemptuous ones.
You, perhaps, may be brave. I am not, and in addition I have always
had a repugnance for fighting. I am afraid in an ordinary fight, and
can always, in imagination, feel the impact of a fist landing with a
sickening crunch on my features. Before the war, I have often, only
by sheer effort of will, kept myself from fainting at the killing of
a hog.
Imagine then, after having had experience with the killing and
maiming of strong men; after having seen young boys mangled and
dying; heard the pitiful cry of lonely, wounded laddies from the
blackness of No Man's Land at night, the gasp for "mother" from some
expiring stalwart; the stench; the filth--ah God! how I sweated with
horror at the thought of being sent into it again. Yet, thank God, I
hold the respect of my surviving comrades, and those in Valhalla will
welcome "Bobbie," when he joins them.
A letter from one of my officers that reached me in the
hospital--just a short pencil-written message--is my greatest
treasure on earth. Knowing to the full how fearful I always was in
action, and how that constant dread was ever present, I show it to
few. I am utterly undeserving of such a message from such a man.
Courage is no greater in one nation than in another. Among French,
Italian, Russian, Canadian, Anzac or British, human self-sacrifice is
about equal. Bravery is the monopoly of none, and bravery has so
many different sides that it cannot be defined.
I have seen boys, brought up in refined homes, gentle sweet-faced
laddies--the last people in the world one would associate with
soldiers--rise to heights of the most superb self-sacrifice. Their
very refinement has sent them into the jaws of hell with pale faces
and horror-stricken eyes, but the mighty spirit has carried them
through.
You, mothers or sisters, who fear for your boy, because he is timid,
or because he has never left your side, cease troubling your hearts.
This conflict demands more than the physical courage of the animal,
and the timid man often turns out the very bravest in action.
But back to our campaigning. The order was given to the column to
move off, and soon nothing was heard but the trudging of feet.
Marching over rough cobbled roads, pock-marked with shell holes, is
not conducive to conversation. We met small groups of Tommies on
their way to rest. The wonder of it! Plastered with mud, scarcely
able to walk from sheer fatigue, they joshed us unmercifully, telling
us with grim humor what we were in for. Whole platoons from the
regiments of these men lay out in No Man's Land, never to hear the
word of command again, yet their comrades who survived had the
stomach to crack jokes at our expense. And then came a bunch of the
guards. Cut to ribbons at La Bassée, only a day or so before, yet
here were the survivors, tired out as they must be, marching along to
the music of a few mouth-organs, with that little swaggering swing of
the shoulders--"a touch of the London swank."
Dear reader, when some skeptical anti-British friend asks why France
should be called upon to do it all, please tell them that the British
Guards Brigade has been remade no less than twenty-five times since
the war began. Not reinforced, but _REMADE_--new men, new equipment,
new everything.
How could we see all this, is asked, if it was dark. Out in France,
near the firing line, flares and searchlights are continually
lighting up the whole country side.
Ambulances with their moaning freight would roll past us. The sight
of these again caused my heart to tighten, as though clutched by some
big hand. Their number was appalling, and so near to the firing line
were they, that we knew the fighting was terribly severe.
Still, I was not given much time to let my feelings of horror work on
me. There was work to be done. No sooner had the last ambulance
passed us than we began to click casualties. I was despatched with
different messages up and down the column. Round the corner we
swung. Wh-o-o-f! Crump! a big one landed just over the heads of the
leading platoon. Woo-oo-oo! screamed a "coal box" (5.9 shell),
landing and exploding with a mighty rumble only a few yards away from
the major.
Fritz was getting ready to give the roads a thorough searching. To
defeat his plans as much as possible, we deployed from the road into
the fields on our left. The Boche, unfortunately for us, chose this
moment to send up a series of flares. He evidently grew suspicious
and had probably seen us moving. T-r-r-r-r-r-r said his magic
(machine) guns. "God!" "Oh mother!" from here and there as some
poor lad went over. We dived into shallow ditches and, crouching
under this frail cover, tried to avoid the shower. We were
successful in dodging the machine guns, but shelling was a different
matter. However, both died down after awhile, and we began to
stretch ourselves.
In utter darkness we moved off. We turned once I know, but it was
not till day broke that we found we were behind a low parapet, built
of nothing but earth covered with sods. As protection from fire, it,
of course, was useless, but it served its purpose by affording cover
from view. It was about a thousand yards from the second line, was
hard to reach by machine gun fire, but an easy prey to artillerymen.
While we occupied this flimsy defense, however, we were fortunate in
getting off for several hours without casualties. The Colonel was
agreeably surprised when I took the message from the major to him,
stating that we had had no casualties that day.
Although it was our good fortune to escape that day, such was not the
case with a battery of artillery that was parked some six hundred
yards at the back of us. This battery about four o'clock in the
afternoon opened up for a few rounds on the Fritz position. Probably
the gunners were annoyed at the repeated efforts of the Germans to
locate them. Big shells had landed uncomfortably close to the copse
in which the British battery was hidden throughout the day, and it
was evident the German gunners were searching for them. In all
probability, some wandering German airman had seen the battery open
fire, and of course directed the fire of his own guns. A huge shell
dropped into the very center of the copse, to be followed almost
instantly by another. Trees and "camouflage" of grass and boughs
were blown to ribbons, while half the body (the head and forelegs) of
a horse landed on the front side of our flimsy defenses. The battery
of course was silenced, and presently the dazed, shell-shocked men
were incoherently telling the story of what had happened to their
guns.
As the sun went down a storm of strafing began, while up and down the
line flares soared skyward, and an incessant stream of rapid fire
told us that either one side or the other had attacked. The order
came "Stand to." We were not to be launched into it, however, for
the firing died down into an intermittent rifle exchange, but the Hun
guns never ceased their hateful roaring till almost daylight.
The limit to which human endurance can go was practically reached one
afternoon, when, throwing myself down for an hour's sleep, I was
aroused and told to report to the major. He gave me a message and
told me to get to headquarters with it as quick as my legs could
carry me. Headquarters, as the crow flies, was about a mile away,
and instead of the usual road, I thought I would go straight to it.
That decision came very nearly preventing the writing of this record
or the delivery of that message.
Just as I started out the Germans began a furious strafe and, at the
same time, the French seventy-fives and our own few sixty-pounders
raised their voices in a mighty chorus. Shells were bursting
everywhere and the din simply stunned me. In addition I was
continually falling over a wreck of barbed wire and trip wires, into
shell holes and my face once coming in contact with that of a dead
guardsman's almost caused me to lose my reason, then--blank. All I
remember was reaching the road, sitting down and trying to remember
what my name was, what I was there for, and where I was. Another
runner happening to notice my plight, took me to headquarters
himself. What happened I was not conscious of. It was told me later.
The Colonel, growing black in the face, trying to elicit what I was
there for, was fast losing his temper. I tried to make him
understand, but all I could do was to open my mouth and make a
gasping sort of noise. My wind and senses had absolutely left me. A
captain standing near guessed what the trouble was, took hold of me
kindly, bathed my face and head in cold water and revived me
sufficiently to enable me to deliver my message.
CHAPTER XXIX
MORE HELL
The next morning the word was passed for runners, and the company
runners hied themselves to the major. He in turn told us we were to
report to the Colonel for detailed instructions, and that we were to
find out as much about our whereabouts as possible, the best routes
to headquarters, to the front line, etc. This we promptly proceeded
to do, and in due time arrived before the Old Man. His words to us I
have forgotten, but we left him with an appreciation of the ticklish
work on hand.
On our way back we all took different routes back to the company.
The idea, of course, was to get a knowledge of all the best roads to
take when things were hot. Each man mapped out a rough sketch of the
road he had taken for the benefit of the others. My road took me for
about a quarter of a mile down the cobbled road, where I turned off
for the major's headquarters. I parted from another of the runners
here, his route taking him through the village. Incidentally, this
coolest of all cool fishes, stopped amongst the shattered houses to
see, as he afterwards phrased it, "If there was anything there that
nobody had any use for."
I might say the Germans were always busy with their guns on the
devastated place, but the incident only goes to show the very
peculiar fatalism, that every soldier unconsciously acquires. If he
was to be killed in that village, he would get it; that is all there
was to it, so he calmly searched the brick piles. The horribly
mangled trunk of a tall soldier did not make me any too happy when I
stumbled over it directly after leaving my partner. Still I
carefully mapped out my route, and meeting another clan runner, we
walked the rest of the trip to the major's quarters together.
"Hi mates," said a voice apparently from the bowels of the earth,
"come and 'ave a drink o' tea."
The voice came from a field kitchen cunningly hidden in a bank of the
road.
"You bet," was our reply together.
The owner of the voice, a short sturdy Cockney, filled a dixie and
handed it to me.
I took a long drink, then handed the canteen to my chum.
"I think I'll stretch me legs," said our host.
Forthwith he stepped from his shelter into the road. He had barely
taken a dozen steps, when a small shell landed quite a distance in
front of him. About a second after the explosion, with a cry, the
man threw himself flat on his face and lay still. Both of us knew
that the shell had landed too far up the road to be very dangerous to
him. We ran to our host, turned him over, only to find that he was
stone dead.
"Well I'm jiggered," said my runner chum.
"What is it?" I asked.
"Killed by a stone."
It was quite true. The shell had hit the cobbles, and a flying
splinter of stone had taken him in the head, killing him instantly.
We helped to bury him. Killed in the very act of showing kindness to
a comrade! Another debt to brother Boche.
That day the company was gradually moved to a more advanced position,
and again my heart tightened as I listened to the roar of the fight
in front. I was kept busy carrying messages backwards and forwards
to headquarters, to the front line, to the signallers, and with
frequent messages to the artillery.
It may be of interest to some for me to relate how I saw one of my
messages acted upon. My message was a verbal one, and I delivered it
as I received it as follows:
"To O.C. 2nd Artillery Brigade:
"Please search wood on my left flank, range about 2,000 yards."
"From O.C. No. 2 Co. 5th Battalion.
"_Time, 3 P.M._"
The artillery O.C. in charge was seated in the forked branches of a
tall elm tree, which by another of those unaccountable miracles had
escaped Fritz's attention. Knowing the Boche's methods, I expected
every minute to see the tree smashed to flinders by a salvo from his
guns. The message, however, had to be delivered to him, so up the
tree I scrambled. I felt as though forty different Boche artillery
observers had their eyes glued upon me when I climbed that tree.
Nothing happened however to the tree or its occupants, and I hailed
the beaming artillery O.C.
"Hello!" roared he.
"Hello, sir."
"Great work the boys are doing."
"Yes, sir."
Then I repeated my message.
"Yours to command," said he, and bellowed an order through the
mouthpiece of his 'phone.
"Do you want to see what happens?" said he.
"By gum, yes," said I, forgetting his rank in my excitement. True
enough the wood was tapped at the very first shot, but after a few
rounds, although the shooting was excellent, he gave the order to
"Cease fire."
"What have you quit for, sir?"
"No more shells," laconically.
I descended the tree and returned to the major.
All this time the fight increased in intensity, the Germans putting
over a fearful bombardment, both on the front line and away to the
rear. Casualties were coming by our location in an endless stream.
Some were being carried to the dressing station, but those who could
walk or hobble at all, were making their way back as well as they
could. It was a pitiful, yet a wonderful sight. Their battered
uniforms, plastered with mud and filth, bandages of various hues on
their heads, and dressings on their limbs and bodies. Some were
being helped along by their comrades; others limped past with the aid
of a rifle used as a crutch. Some would stop for a rest, and we
would do all we could to help them, at the same time asking how
things were going up in front. They told a story of tremendous
bombing attacks, on both sides, but Fritz was having the better of
the argument, being more liberally supplied with bombs. On hearing
this, I felt again that gnawing feeling at the pit of my stomach, for
I knew there would soon be some ticklish work for me. Suddenly the
sight of that stream of wounded sickened me and I turned to hide my
face, and ran straight into Campbell's arms.
"Good God! Ken, I shall go crazy if I don't do something, those poor
devils are getting on my nerves."
"Pluck up, son," said he, "you'll feel better when we go up, and I
for one am expecting it any minute."
No word of condemnation at my funk, just encouragement. Such was our
Ken Campbell. Brave as a lion himself, yet possessed of a rare
sympathy for those not so blessed.
The cheeriness of these wounded was wonderful, and, in spite of their
hurts, they regaled us as they passed with the story of the times
they were going to have in Blighty.
Then my call came. "Pass the word for a runner." Away I went to the
major.
"You know the way to headquarters well?"
"Yes, sir."
"Take this to Colonel T----, and on your way up you will leave a
squad of bombers at the bottom of the road leading to Colonel L----'s
trenches."
The bombers were all ready for me, and stringing out in a line we
began our journey. We were lucky, and I left the bombers, minus two
who had been slightly wounded by shrapnel, at the appointed place.
Wishing them luck I managed to reach the Old Man, terribly scared,
but unhurt.
Just as I started on my return journey a fusillade of bullets began
to chip up everything, and I crawled along thanking heaven I was a
little man, and wishing at the same time I was half as big. By and
by I arrived in safer territory, and in spite of the nature of the
ground, finished the trip at a jog trot.
Again the boys were moved nearer to the first line. Under a terrific
shell fire, in small bodies they stole to the dugouts in the grounds
of what had been a beautiful residence. An order came that night for
the boys to go up on a working party. I was utterly worn out, but
gritting my teeth I fell in with the rest. Once more Ken Campbell
showed his great heart. "God bless him and rest him where he lies."
His superior does not exist, and he will always be my soldier ideal
so long as I live.
"Say, Baldwin, you stay behind."
"What for, Sergeant-major?"
"Don't answer me back; you're to stay here and sleep."
Without a word I fell out, and walked to a dugout where I stretched
myself out to sleep. But sleep would not come. I was worried. I
was wondering whether it was really a working party the boys were
detailed for. I imagined what they would think of me if I stayed
back when they faced it. Sleep was out of the question, so I walked
out to the sentry on the road.
"Say, Alec," said I, "do you think the boys are going to take part in
an attack tonight?"
"Don't know, Bobbie, but why should you worry?"
"Hell! the boys will think I funked."
Further conversation, for awhile, stopped as we crouched, while Fritz
treated the dressing station opposite to two big shells. We were
unhurt.
Wounded men were now passing in streams, and I asked if any of the
Fifth were there.
"No," was the reply, "the Fifth went over tonight."
"Oh, heavens! Alec, they've been in a charge and they'll think I
funked."
"Don't be a blankety-blank fool, Bub. You have done your share today
and you were ordered to stay back."
But my mental agony increased. What would Fritz and Lib think of me?
What would Muirhead, Shields and the others think?
Presently a breathless runner stopped and asked, "Do either of you
guys know the way to headquarters?"
"Sure," said I, "come on."
"What's doing?" said I, as we trotted along.
"Oh Fritz has the wind up (excited) and is rapid firing."
"Is that all? You're from the Eighth, eh?"
"Yep."
"Has the Fifth been doing anything?"
"I heard they had gone over on our right."
I almost vomited with shame as I heard his words.
The two of us successfully dodged everything, and I led the way to
the Old Man. The runner gave his message and was asked how
everything seemed.
"Are the men holding?" said the adjutant.
"Sure, sir," was the reply with that ring of pride in his comrades
that made one's heart sing.
"Take a rest then, my boy, you need it, and take your own time
getting back."
"Thank you, sir."
This over, I ventured to address the adjutant, who I thought was a
little gentler natured than the Old Man.
"Sir, did the Fifth go over tonight?"
"No, they have a damned ticklish job, though, digging out in front."
"May I go to them, sir?"
"Why?"
"You understand, sir, they'll accuse me of funking."
"You go straight away and sleep, or I'll have you crimed for
insolence."
Oh, the relief! I slowly trudged back and slept the coma of utter
exhaustion. The afternoon following things became desperate, and it
was our lot to be sent up to help reinforce our depleted lines.
A curious incident that often gives me food for thought took place
just before we ventured out on our desperate attempt to reach the
line in broad daylight. In the corner of two battered walls, birds
had built a nest, and two or three young ones were occupying it. To
keep from view of the airmen we took shelter behind these walls. I,
as usual, was full of forebodings about the journey we were so soon
to make. Judge of my wonderment when one of the boys called me to
look at the way the parent birds were feeding their young.
Apparently oblivious of war or anything else, with exclamations of
delight, he studied the birds as no naturalist ever did. The sight
sent my thoughts flying back to a little English home in Derby.
"Spread out, boys," came the order.
Our journey had begun. As we passed the third line we were handed
additional ammunition, two bandoliers per man. The major left a file
of men under the command of a lieutenant to look after our ammunition
magazine. They shook hands and then we deployed out, bang in the
open.
With fearful cracks the shrapnel burst over our heads. Machine guns
clattered, but with perfect steadiness the boys made their way to the
second line. Here a fearful sight met our gaze. The trench was
battered to pieces, while dead and wounded men lay everywhere.
A call was sent for volunteers to get some of the stricken lads from
the first line. An immediate response was given and under a terrible
fire most of the bad cases were pulled out.
The attack we expected fizzled out, but the fire never ceased.
Campbell came along and asked for volunteers to carry out a badly
smashed man. Four of my chums, each one as husky a specimen of
manhood as one would wish to see, swore profanely they were "his
meat."
"Will you go out with them and carry their rifles?" said he to me.
"Yes," said I, as my knees knocked together. The wounded man was
placed on a stretcher and our journey began.
The man on the stretcher was a big man and in spite of the strength
of the four volunteer bearers, they were taxed to the uttermost owing
to the roughness of the ground and the necessity for taking cover
every other minute in order to save the wounded man and themselves
from injury.
We finally reached the road safely, with me bringing up the rear. I
was carrying five rifles besides my own, and thinking it would be
easier to handle them, I slung two over each shoulder, and fastened
them with the bayonets slanting front downwards, and with the wounded
man's and my own, one in each hand, I fairly bristled with bayonets.
In one of our dashes for the ditch to seek cover, I tripped and fell
forward and the bayonets of the rifles that were slung on my
shoulders and slanting forward plunged into the earth and forcibly
suspended me in midair, and there I was compelled to hang until my
chums released me by taking me by the collar and setting me on my
feet. Roaring with laughter my pals advised me to unfix the bayonets
and, said Batch, "Don't go trying to stab yourself with them the next
time we have to beat it for cover. Oh, runt, you will be the death
of me yet with your comical ways."
Even the wounded man, with five bad shrapnel wounds, laughed and then
moaned with the pain.
Nothing further happened until we came to the dressing station and
one of the doctors curtly dismissed us. Batch and myself decided we
would make for our old dugout by a short route, going by the north
side of the dressing station. It was now getting dark and on our way
Batch inadvertently plunged head foremost into a dyke. First, a
guzzle, and then things unprintable. I successfully cleared the dyke
by grabbing an overhanging willow and swinging myself across.
Again we started, falling over tangled wire in the rank grass, and,
to make matters worse, stinging nettles, which grew plentifully in
this particular place, came constantly in contact with our hands or
faces. Words again failed us. As a climax to our feelings, Fritz
right at this particular moment decided to shell this particular
place. Deafened, almost blinded by the detonation and the flash of
shells, we found ourselves finally not at our dugout, but at the
dressing station from which we had started. We had traveled in a
circle. I could hear nothing but the grinding of Batch's big white
teeth. I then determined to be the guide of our little party and so
informed Batch, and in half the time that we had taken to make the
long course, we found ourselves comfortably ensconced in the dugout
at the house I have previously mentioned, and in short order Batch
had his pipe out, smoking strongly with the complete satisfaction of
a man who has done his duty. I searched for my pipe and was dismayed
at not being able to find it.
"Where is your pipe, Bub?" said Batch.
"Blime me, I guess I must have left it out in the dugout by the apple
tree so I will go and see if it is there."
"Better find it, as I have some St. Clair's mixture from Newcastle."
This tobacco was the joy of a soldier's heart and I made my way to
the dugout where I felt sure I had left it and there sure enough it
was lying on a couple of sandbags. I grabbed it and started back to
rejoin Batch, but, just as I did so, I heard the peculiar moaning
sound of a "coal box" that seemed to be coming straight at me.
Sweating with apprehension I threw myself flat and waited the arrival
of hell's messenger. Cr-r-r-mp! it landed right on the dugout I had
just vacated. Why I was not killed instantly is one of those miracle
mysteries that can never be answered, for I was only about twenty
feet away when that shell, which was a 5.9 high explosive, burst
directly on the dugout.
I flung myself down beside Batch, telling him of the incident. All
the sympathy I got was, "Serves you damn well right; a soldier ought
to know better than to leave his pipe lying around loose."
About an hour after this the boys came down again, with many familiar
faces missing. We were allowed a few hours of interrupted sleep, and
about daylight we stood to, as is the custom on the Western Front.
It was most uncannily quiet after the past days of a continuous fire;
the silence disturbed us, and we could see by the actions of the
officers that they too were uneasy. Still the fatalistic spirit of
the men reasserted itself and the poker parties soon resumed their
sittings.
CHAPTER XXX
THE LAST FIGHT
Midnight; we were sleeping in an orchard about a mile back of the
lines; I was awakened by a sergeant and told to "Fall in." We did
so, and the captain told us what we had to do.
"Boys, you are going to try and take Redoubt B; the artillery, what
we have of it, will shell their first line for half an hour, and then
will lift and play on their second line. While they are doing this
you will go over. There's a lot of us who are not going to come
back, but the job must be done and I know you will do it."
While he was speaking, thoughts of mother, father and home surged
more vividly through my mind than at any other time, but moments for
reflection were few. We swung out of the orchard on to the road and
nothing could be heard except the dull sound of trudging feet.
Flares would shoot up into the sky, to hang suspended for a moment,
and die away leaving everything in gloom once more. Every now and
then a muffled shriek or a coughing gurgle would tell of the passing
or wounding of some gallant lad.
By that corner of hell we trudged silently, every man busy with his
own thoughts. At last we turned up the death trap to our left, on
the famous Z---- road. Over its ghastly piles of dead we filed on
for many yards without touching solid ground, so thickly lay the dead.
At this time we were sighted by the Huns and treated to a fusillade
of machine guns and rifle fire. We were now almost to shelter and
the men made their way, as only men under fire can, to the safety of
a well-constructed trench.
A short rest, then on again, this time up a shallow communication
trench and then out behind a low-lying parapet. Three or four huge
Bavarians lay with faces to the stars; they had been hurriedly laid
to one side by our leading files.
The fitful light of the flares intensified the mute horror of the
fallen jaw and the unspeakable terror of the dead faces. Still, such
sights now failed to move us, and with but a perfunctory glance we
passed on.
Here we waited in silence for the word. What an hour of mental
agony. The steady hammer, hammer of the light guns, the monotonous
bass muttering of the heavies, the shrill, hysterical crackle of
machine gun and rifle and the shrieking and cracking of bursting
shells seemed to sing hell's requiem to us poor mortals waiting. My
God! that waiting. At such a time man's trivial thoughts sink into
utter oblivion and the naked soul shows bare.
Apparently calm and indifferent, yet filled with a fear, the like of
which no one except those who have waited as we waited can
understand, we listened for the word.
---------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration: READY FOR A RAID ON THE ENEMY'S TRENCHES.
THE RAIDING PARTY GOING TO "GIVE 'EM HELL."]
---------------------------------------------------------------------
"Over and at them," and the next thing I remember I was plunging
forward through the mud of No Man's Land. On each side of me men
were falling, cursing, praying and gasping, but unscathed I went on,
two things mingling queerly in my head: One was the words of a
doggerel song we sang on the march,
Wash me in the water that you wash the dixies in
And I shall be whiter than the whitewash on the wall,
and the other, a dull wonder why I was not killed. After an
"eternity" of plunging forward, we, a pitiful few, reached our
objective, the Huns hurriedly leaving, that is those of them who had
not joined their comrades in hell. Still our work was not yet done.
The ground had been won, but to take it is one thing, to hold it
another, and with all our officers gone and sixty per cent of the
men, we must work to consolidate.
Just as I seized a sandbag full of earth to place in front of me, I
felt a stinging smack on my ankle, as though I had been kicked. I
turned to curse the man who I thought had kicked me and then I fell
over with a scream of pain. My left foot was smashed completely by a
soft-nosed bullet.
I had merely commenced to feel the sting of the pain when the Huns
rushed us again and it was hand to hand. A Bavarian lunged toward me
with rifle clubbed; I closed my eyes, as I was utterly helpless and
waited for my skull to be smashed. The blow did not fall. I opened
my eyes just in time to see our sergeant-major plunge his bayonet
through the Bavarian's neck. Down flopped the Hun on all fours, with
his hands one on each side convulsively clutching the bayonet, and he
sat immediately opposite me, just a bare few yards intervening,
during all the hours I was there, with a hellish grin on his face.
When the pain of the wound would subside and I would doze away for a
few minutes I would awaken with a shudder, as I thought the dead Hun
was moving his face closer and closer toward mine.
At this time I had an undying instance of the devotion of my chum,
Morgan. He also was wounded, not so badly as I was, but time and
again, at a terrible risk to himself, he would crawl over and help me
regain a more comfortable position, all the time suffering intensely
from his own wound, which was very painful.
Nothing could be done for any of the wounded, so serious was the
position of the remnant of the boys. Their business was to hold what
they had won and the wounded must do the best they could. The
remnant, however, were of the Fifth and they held until relieved and
reinforcements arrived twenty-four hours later.
CHAPTER XXXI
THE AFTERMATH
Once during that weary day, the Germans put over such a terrific
barrage of shrapnel, that I, for one, thought it impossible for any
of our wounded to survive. Such is the mercy of the Hun. Hour after
hour passed, casualties mounted steadily up, but those laddies held.
As time went on, the pain in my wounded leg became excruciating, and,
forgetting the etiquette of the Western Front that a man must not
squeal too much when he is hit, I groaned aloud. I shall be ashamed
to meet many of my comrades in later days, for they remember my
whimpering.
Night came, darkness being heralded by a storm of strafeing on both
sides. The bullets thudded about the top of the water hole, while
the noise of the strife drowned my yells, as the gangrene slowly ate
its way up my limb. Hour after hour I lay, till at last that grand
sergeant-major of ours came along and gave me a nip of rum. Oh, you
psalm-singers, who raise your holy hands in horror at the thought of
the perdition the boys are bound for, if they should happen to take a
nip of rum to keep a little warmth in their poor battered bodies, I
wish you could all lie shivering in a hole full of icy liquid mud,
with every nerve in your body quivering with pain, with the harrowing
moans of the wounded forever ringing in your ears, with hell's own
din raging all around. Any one of you would need a barrel of it to
keep his miserable life in his body.
Here and now let me say, the man who refuses the rum issue is
considered a fool.
Picture to yourselves the dawn after a bitter cold night in the
trenches. Weary soldiers wet to the skin, working all night in a
most dangerous place, probably expecting an immediate attack from the
enemy, dirty, vermin covered, muddy, and without one single comfort.
If rum helps under these conditions who can say nay. Some people
have the idea that the men are liberally dosed with rum before they
go over the top. This may be true in some instances, but as far as I
know, no British troops ever need that kind of Dutch courage to go
over the top. All the rum I ever got during my whole term of service
in Flanders would not make a man drunk, and it is a question whether
the amount I had for three months in the summer would make a seasoned
toper unsteady. All that a man gets is about the third part of a
small cup every night and morning.
The following from the London _Winning Post_ just about expresses my
thoughts in this regard:
I suppose we're a lot of heathens,
Don't live on the angel plan,
But we're sticking it here in the trenches,
And doing the best we can.
When preachers over in Blighty,
Who talk about Kingdom Come,
Ain't pleased with our performance,
And are wanting to stop our rum,
Water, they say, would be better;
Water! Great God, out here?
Why, we're up to our knees in water--
Do you think we're standing in beer?
Oh, it sounds all right from the pulpit,
When you sit in a cushioned pew;
But try four days in the trenches,
And see what water will do.
Some of the coffin-faced Blighters
I think must be German-bred;
It's time that they called in the doctor,
For it's water they have in the head.
That nip of rum put hope into my heart once more, and I bit my lips
and stifled my agony as well as I could.
Dawn broke, and just as the first streaks crept into the sky, the
firing died down and that mystery which broods over the wonder of
night turning into day pervaded outraged nature and even warring man.
As I watched, the details of my watery retreat became plainer and
plainer; I grew ashamed of my cowardice, and I did my best to stifle
my groans.
At last Sergeant Purslowe, a replica of Campbell in coolness and
leadership, noticed my plight and immediately set to work to get me
carried out. My comrades were only too willing, but they waited in
vain for a stretcher. Alas! There were entirely too few to
accommodate half the wounded. Nothing for it but to carry me on
their backs. Oh! the agony of that rough ride, and oh! the sacrifice
of those blood brothers of mine. With my foot hanging by a shred of
flesh, the bones grating against one another, shivering with cold,
yet with perspiration standing out from every pore with the pain, I
was gradually carried from the line we had taken. Once when passing
a huge shell crater, the pain not yet having robbed me of my senses,
I asked to be left till night-time in its shelter. It was broad
daylight, and there was that little bunch of men risking utter
annihilation just that a stricken chum might live.
They cursed my groans; they cursed the Huns; in fact, their language
was sulphurous, yet I noticed I was saved from all jar or jolt, as
far as they could prevent it; and when I asked to be left in the
shell hole they cursed me for a blankety-blank fool, and profanely
refused to do it. Think of it, you psalm-singers, who are worried
over the morals of your soldiers. Picture those men, in full view of
the Huns, in broad daylight, refusing to leave their chum at any
cost. Any minute, any second, might blast them off the face of the
earth, yet no thought for their own safety, until "Shorty" was at the
dressing station. Since that time, Campbell, Shields and Cameron,
have paid the supreme price, while Muirhead, Mead and Nish are
crippled for life.
It was curious to watch their hesitation, even in the face of the
danger they were in, to get me over the parapet into what was now the
second line trench. They hated to cause me pain. A sympathetic
Cockney, of the L.R.B.'s, gently lowered me to the fire-step and
proceeded to get a stretcher. My ride now, although terribly
painful, was decidedly easier. They tied my wounded leg to the sound
leg, thus preventing that horrible rubbing together of the fractured
bones.
Reaching the dressing station I shook hands--for the last time,
alas--with Campbell and Shields and the others, and received a huge
draught of scalding tea. The dressing station was completely empty
and it was thought I would have to wait until night, but one belated
ambulance driver came to have a final look to see if any of the boys
needed a ride down. I was hoisted aboard and oblivion promptly
followed. I awoke to find myself lying in the middle of a road on a
stretcher and a doctor smiling down at me.
"How are you, son?" said he.
"Not so bad," said I, "is it good enough for Blighty?"
"Yes," replied the genial saw-bones. "I'm going to take that foot
off right now, and I'm going to hurt you, son. It's hardly worth
while giving you any dope, since I've only to cut through that bit of
flesh. Are you game?"
"Go ahead," I replied, "I'm sick and tired of seeing the thing."
Smiling down at me, to reassure me, he reached in his pocket,
produced two cigars, placed one in his mouth, lit it, then placed it
in mine. The other he placed in the pocket of my shirt. I lay back,
averting my eyes, expecting every minute to feel a horrible cutting
sensation. Then I heard the doctor sigh. I looked up and to my
astonishment my foot was gone. Such was the amazing gentleness and
skill of the wonderful doctor; God bless him wherever he is!
CHAPTER XXXII
IN HEAVEN
My foot gone, I knew that my fighting and marching days were over,
and the feeling of safety after what I had undergone brought on the
inevitable reaction. I became light-headed, and shortly after my
senses left me completely, and I remember only vaguely snatches of my
journey from the firing line to the embarkation port for Blighty.
Several more operations on my leg I knew had taken place, but except
for a night at, I believe, Le Touquet, I remember little.
Here a little French nurse attended to six of us. As far as I can
recollect, we were in the room of a chateau, for the walls were
covered with old tapestry. Oh! the wonderful little French lady. No
task was too mean for her to perform for us. In my weak condition I
wanted to stroke her spotless apron, to see if she were real, and
that little French nurse was the first angel I ever saw. I doubt
whether I shall ever see any angels after this life finishes for me,
but if anyone doubtful of their future in the next world wishes to
see the real angels, let them go to any of our big hospitals in
France or Britain; there they will see them. God bless those
magnificent women of France and Britain. And I know, before the Hun
is finally vanquished, the women of the United States will be vieing
with their sisters overseas in their devotion to the land they
represent and the holiness of the cause to which they have so freely
given their stalwart men folk.
At last I was loaded on the Blighty ship, and my journey to heaven
commenced. So far as I remember, nothing of moment happened on the
trip. Southampton was our destination, and the first breath of air I
took into my lungs, when lying on the deck of the ship there, seemed
the sweetest thing I ever tasted--free from all smell of bursting
shells, free from taint of rotting bodies, free from the danger of
flying death, and, above all, the air of England.
And now I came near to losing what the Huns had failed to take. The
people, when we were being moved from ship to train in their
desperation to show their sympathy for us, showered kindness upon us.
Right here and now I want to say I would lose fifty legs, if I had
them, or fifty arms, for those wonderful people; and in my weak
condition I was in danger of dying from sheer excitement and
happiness.
Up through that wondrous green country side we sped, and oh, how I
persisted in lifting myself from my cot, in spite of the protests of
the nurses, to look out on that smiling land. What a change from the
utter devastation of that hell's land from which I had come. At
Birmingham we stopped for a space, being met by a party of nurses,
doctors and Red Cross people. Oh, their wondrous kindness! In spite
of the pain, I considered myself the luckiest man alive to be so
spoilt. I often wish I was wounded again.
Leaving Birmingham, from where I sent a short message to my mother,
acquainting her of the fact of having "got mine," the train did not
stop till we reached Liverpool. We were met at the depot by
ambulance cars, and on these we were loaded. I was so happy, I swore
at the driver so picturesquely, and so fluently, that he stopped his
car to congratulate me. Passing through the city we were bombarded
by the populace with every conceivable dainty they could get. Some
of them landed on my game leg, and I again earned the driver's
profane admiration.
Suddenly I became aware that the man on the other stretcher was
trying to attract my attention.
"What is it, chum?" said I.
In a husky whisper he answered, "Shot through the guts, and I ain't
seen a bloody German. Ain't that the devil?" I agreed and nodded my
acquiescence. To the anxious ones I am glad to say he recovered,
and, although not fit for more active service, is still doing fine.
Arrived at the hospital we were unloaded and carried to our
respective cots. When they set me down by the side of what was to be
my bed, the orderly says to me:
"What's the matter with you?"
"Oh, just a bit of a wound in the foot."
"Is that all?" said he.
"Take a look," says I. He did so.
"Aw hell," said he, "I was going to cuss yer fer swinging the lead,
and going to tell yer ter get on th' bed yerself, and I begs yer
pardon. All right, son."
Next along came Doctor Evans, who, apparently oblivious of my yells
and sulphurous remarks, proceeded to examine my leg.
"Another piece to come off," says he, "and it will have to be done in
a few hours' time or you'll lose the whole limb."
I was sick of the wretched thing.
"Go ahead, sir," said I. Then after a few hours' waiting I started
for the "pictures"--for my last carving. Now although I remembered
little of my journey through France, I remembered sufficient to know
that I had used some typical Canadian profanity while under the
influence of ether. Out there I did not mind, for only men were
present at the carving, but here was a situation. A nurse was
accompanying me to the operating theater. "Oh, horrors!" thought I,
"I know I shall cuss. What will she think? I mustn't swear, oh! I
mustn't swear!" Trying to impress on my subconscious mind that I
must not swear while under the influence of ether, I was placed on
the table and--oblivion.
I came to myself with a yell. I fancied I had been rising to the
surface of a deep ocean, as black as ink, and just as I was about to
drown I awoke. Taking stock of my surroundings, I looked across the
ward. A man was looking at me and laughing till I thought he would
hurt himself.
"Well! what the devil is amusing you?" I asked irritably, the
horrible nausea having its effect.
"Well, my son," was the reply, "I've been in Africa, India,
Singapore, and a few places on this old globe, but I'm hanged if I
ever heard language till I heard you a little while ago. Whew! it
was an education."
Then he told me the story. All had gone well until I had been placed
on my cot. Now a man will, under the influence of an anaesthetic,
apparently seem to know what is going on around him, and will answer
questions coherently, though he knows nothing about it. I had been
lying on my cot a few minutes when an orderly came by, carrying a
tray of enamel cups. He stumbled and fell, upsetting the tray and
its contents with a crash. It was then I reached to heights of
superb eloquence, and I was in disgrace.
CHAPTER XXXIII
BACK TO EARTH
It was curious to watch the nurses glance furtively in my direction
with looks of mingled horror and curiosity. They, too, had heard
swearing in their career of healing broken, fighting men, but in one
apparently so young and unsophisticated--"it is just shocking!"
After the horrible nausea had left me, the nurse asked me what I
would like, and what I had longed for a thousand and one times in
France came to my mind. "A bottle of Bass or Guinness'," I said.
Back she came with a little of the Guinness' in a cup, and I sank
into the first dreamless sleep I had had for ages.
I was awakened by the pain in my limb, so began to interest myself in
the other patients. Oh, the exhibition of patience, courage and
suffering, both on the part of patients and the doctors and nurses.
Doctor, or Major Evans came to see me. "How are you, laddie?"
"Doing all right, sir."
"Good boy! From the prairies, aren't you?"
"Yes, sir."
"You need fresh air, for a constitution like you possess was never
made indoors, and I will have you carted out into the open air every
fine day we have."
He was as good as his word, and the orderly duly came and, with the
help of the sister, I was taken out on to the lawn in front of the
ward. I had been there about a quarter of an hour when another
patient was carried out and his bed placed alongside mine. I turned
to look at the other fellow and a familiar face glared at me.
Spontaneously from both of us--"Well, I'll be damned!"
It was Bill Moore, of my own company, sometimes called "Rosie," for a
pet name.
"When were you hit?" I asked.
"In the charge a week back."
"Not when we lost all but two of the officers at Z----?"
---------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration: THE "WAR TWINS"]
My chum Moore and I enlisted at the same time, served together at the
front, lost our left legs in the same fight, and are now engaged in
the same work--trying to help the Cause.
---------------------------------------------------------------------
"Yes," said he.
"I got mine there too."
"The devil, you say!"
"Sure," I said.
"What you got?" he asked.
"An explosive bullet."
"Well, I'm jiggered, I was hit by one, too. But where did it take
you?"
"In the ankle."
"This is some coincidence, kid, mine was in the ankle, too."
"Which one?"
"The left."
"Same here. When did you get your final chunk taken off?" I asked.
"About thirty hours back."
"Same here. But, say, who gave you the right to mimic me?"
We talked and talked until exhausted and we were told to stop it.
This wonderful chain of coincidences would scarcely be complete were
I to leave out the fact that we are of the same age, enlisted at the
same time, in the same company, and, as related above, were wounded
at the same time, in the same battle, on the same day. And, to make
the chain perfect, we received our artificial legs on the same day in
the city of Toronto, Ontario. And, the finishing touch to the list,
here we are again, working together for all we are worth in the task
of getting recruits through the British-Canadian Recruiting Mission
in Chicago. Little wonder is it that we are christened the "War
Twins."
Time sped rapidly in the hospital, and the Angel of Healing, coupled
with the untiring ministrations of two of the dearest women, my
night, and my day nurses, rapidly brought me back to my normal
condition of health.
I cannot go further without telling of the wonderful power that lies
in a good woman. Nurse Daniels, the night sister, called me her
"model patient." I suppose she called every other patient the same
thing, unknown to the others. This woman could make men feel better
by simply smiling at them. It was pitiful to see the eagerness with
which the boys watched for her coming at night. In she would walk,
erect as a guardsman, looking the perfect English lady in her uniform.
"Good evening, children."
"Good evening, sister."
"Have you been good boys today?"
"The little Canuck has been trying to swipe some of your photographs,
sister."
"Oh, the little rascal! Doesn't his face belie his character?" With
such light badinage she would make her way through the ward,
smoothing a pillow, soothing some poor lad's agony with those
wonderful cool hands of the born healer, jokingly chiding a few of us
slightly wounded men for making so much of our wounds in order to get
a caress from her, but we always got the caress.
One night, in my restlessness, I had completely removed the dressing
from my stump, and that wonderful woman had redressed the stump,
brushed my hair, or what remained of it at that time, and departed to
other duties without even awakening me.
One of the things which most troubled me during the night was the
recurrence, regularly for many nights, of a torturing dream, in which
I fancied I was being rushed into the fighting again, with my foot
hanging on by a shred, and the pain that I felt in my dream, as well
as the terror, would cause me to wake up with a frightened shriek,
but almost instantly the gentle, cooling hands of my angel nurse
would be soothing my aching head, and in a few moments I would be
myself again.
The blessed woman seemed to be possessed of a wonderful intuition,
for never would I want a glass of lemonade, or some other soothing
nourishment, but it was on the locker at my hand before I asked for
it.
The attentions showered upon us by visitors were so many and varied
that it would take a volume in itself to recount them. Some of them
have afforded me a good laugh, more than once. They were all
heartfelt and sincere, comical as some of them were, in their desire
to do something for us, no matter how small the courtesy might be.
Once when careening about on a wheel-chair, amusing the rest of the
boys by my antics, the head sister brought in a lady visitor. This
lady had befriended a Canadian boy before he went to the front, and
she thought the world of him. The lad had been wounded in the same
action as myself, and, learning of his being in the hospital at
Liverpool, she hastened to try and find him. Incidentally the good
lady had some little comfort for every Canadian boy she ran across.
The lady peered at me through her spectacles, and the head sister,
noticing her short-sightedness, came to the rescue with the following:
"No, although this little fellow came over with the Canadians, he is
not the one you are looking for, for he is only an Englishman."
"Dear, oh dear, you don't tell me! Only an Englishman," the old lady
repeated, half to herself and, smiling at the thought, she resumed
her search for the Canadian.
In the light of the detailed accounts given in the newspapers of the
United States and Canada of the splendid work performed by the
Canadian soldiers on the Western Front, it is barely possible that
the lapsus lingua of the nurse may find a responsive chord in the
minds of some in America. There is no doubt it would make an
admirable talking point for German propagandists in the spread of a
certain phase of their humbug.
Another dear old lady, in the fullness of her heart, and thoroughly
sincere, came into the ward one visitors' day. She carried in her
hand a bag of candy acid drops, which is often advised as an antidote
for thirst. It would take a good many acid drops to ease the parched
throat of a wounded man on a hot summer's night.
"Oh, you poor dear boys," said she, as she gravely placed two of the
acid drops on our lockers, "how you have suffered for us! Sometimes
in the night you may get thirsty, and one of these drops will quench
your thirst."
Out of respect for the old dear, we held our outburst until she was
well out of the door. The thought of some of those tough old
campaigners alleviating their thirst with an acid drop was so
irresistably funny that it is a wonder some of the fellows didn't
crack some of the stitches of their wounds, so convulsed were they.
One Tommy was particularly uproarious.
"Fawncy the old deah coming round of a morning in the ditch and
'anding us hout one of those hacid drops in plice o' the rum ration!
Just fawncy!" And I thought he would split.
Another time when my war twin had laboriously wheeled himself to the
hospital gates to see the visitors come in on visitors' day, he had
his knee covered with a blanket, and no one could really tell what
ailed him. Bill sat thoughtfully watching the "sweet-hearts, wives
and muvvers everlastingly passing by," and fuming somewhat to himself
at the tardiness of the demure little maiden who had claimed him as
her especial charge. While waiting impatiently, a dear old lady
approached. She carried a little bag of plums.
"Good-day, my boy, how are you feeling today?"
"Oh, fairly well, madam, thank you," said Bill.
"You are a Canadian," noticing the Canadian badge Bill wore proudly
on the breast of his hospital jacket.
"Yes, I am a Canadian."
"From what part of Canada do you come?"
"Saskatchewan, madam."
"Dear me, and how far is that?"
"About five thousand miles."
"And are you badly wounded?"
"Oh, no," exhibiting his legs, "the canary flew out of its cage and
bit me."
"How terrible! but how wonderful! how magnificent! Just fancy, you
have come all that distance to fight for us, and lost your poor leg,
too. How can we possibly reward you! Won't you have a plum?"
holding out the bag, and Bill extracted a plum.
"Oh, that's nothing at all, ma'am," said Bill. "I'd do the same
thing over again, and lose my other leg, if necessary, for the Old
Flag."
"How perfectly splendid and noble of you! We never, never can repay
you sufficiently. Oh, do have another plum."
Bill gravely and thankfully accepted the other plum, and the good old
lady proceeded on her mission of kindness.
When I had become sufficiently strong to take notice of my
surroundings, and the love of life had come back to me, I began to
wonder how it fared with my own immediate chums. Campbell, Cameron,
Muirhead, and Nish, and Shields were all right, for they had carried
me from the line, but I was anxious about Libby and Morgan and little
Fitzpatrick. Billy Meade, who has not had the prominence in this
record that he deserves, was intact, for I remember he almost wept
when I said good-bye to him at the dressing station. Bill had been
one of my intimates, but so quiet and unassuming in his manner that,
knowing him as I do, and knowing that he had returned recently to
Canada, it is with diffidence I mention his name at all, but the
spirit of Bill was so thoroughly akin to that of my comrades, I must
relate a little story about him.
When we started for France, Bill Meade and his chum, Bill Richards,
or "Farmer Jones," as we nicknamed him, were in London on French
leave. Returning to Salisbury Plain they found the battalion gone.
Immediately those two stowed themselves away among the baggage of a
departing artillery brigade. They managed successfully to board the
artillery transport, and when the ship was well on her way they
showed themselves.
They were arrested and taken before a British officer at S----. Such
men delighted the heart of this officer, and he saw to it that they
were sent along to us. Our officers, of course, reprimanded them for
their conduct, but I know that they often refer to these two boys as
men to be proud of.
Little Fitzpatrick wrote me from a hospital in London, and I was
relieved to hear from the laddie. In writing, though, he sorrowfully
told me that Libby must be dead, for nothing had been heard of him
since the night before the charge. As a matter of fact, he was
reported as being killed.
And now I was to have another exhibition of Morgan's peculiar gift of
second sight. My chum was located in a hospital in Dublin and at
first chance he wrote me. I quote from his letter. He was referring
to Libby and the general belief that our fearless little comrade had
"gone West."
"Libby is alive! I know it. I saw him last night wearing sergeant's
stripes, and you know they can't kill that little black-whiskered
stiff."
Next morning I received a letter from Libby himself. He was badly
hurt, but alive and in a hospital at Boulogne. He had been hit by
shrapnel, and one of them had actually pierced a valve of his heart.
In spite of this he lived and actually re-enlisted to go back to the
front. After his discharge in Canada, although he hated the thought,
he said he felt that his place was back with the lads in Flanders.
He lied to the doctors so artistically that he got back to the firing
line. But the life had told its tale and poor Lib was again returned
and discharged.
That his wonderful nerve has not yet deserted him, let me say that
Bill Moore and I attended his wedding in Saskatoon, a few months ago.
Fitzpatrick, only sixteen years old, returned to Canada, but he felt
just as Lib felt, and his wound healing perfectly he became sound as
ever and again enlisted. He has since been wounded again, healed
again, and at this time is probably fighting round Cambrai. Just
think of it, you slackers! Only nineteen and the veteran of a dozen
tremendous battles.
After being spoiled by everybody, I at last was sent from the
hospital to a convalescent camp. Here I cut loose, the reaction
setting in. I was arrested and cautioned, and, having thoughts of a
visit home, I decided to behave myself for awhile and apply for sick
leave. My repeated applications were for awhile ignored, but at last
I said to myself that I must swing the lead. I asked to be paraded
in front of the Colonel. I managed to acquire a look of awful
suffering on my face, as I walked wearily in to see him on my
crutches. Without waiting to be told, I flopped into a chair with a
groan, the realism of which surprised myself.
"Well, what is the matter, son?" said the Colonel, as he subsided
into his chair after the start he had at my wonderful groan.
In a husky voice, like that of a man absolutely worn out, I replied,
"I would like a few weeks' leave, sir."
"Oh, and for why, pray? Are you not comfortable here?"
I began to unwrap my stump, and presently held it up for inspection.
"Look at it, sir," with another splendid groan.
"What is the matter with it? Yes, it does look inflamed."
I knew it was inflamed; I had suffered quite a little pain making the
stump acquire the inflamed appearance it had for this particular
occasion, and I wanted him to see it before it lost its color. He
touched it, and he nearly collapsed as I let a bawl out of me that
shook the building.
"Gee whiz, sir, don't, for goodness sake, hit it again."
"Why, my man, I barely touched it."
"Oh! Oh! Oh!" I moaned.
"You will have to go back to the hospital," said he.
This did not suit me a bit, and I thought I had shammed too
realistically.
"But, sir, I have people in England, and they'd look after me fine."
"Where do they live?"
"Derbyshire, sir."
"Hm! Can you get the best of medical attention there?"
"Why yes, sir. There is a military hospital within ten minutes' walk
of my home." (It was twenty minutes by road, and an hour by car.)
"Your mother lives there?"
"Yes, sir."
He turned to the acting clerk.
"Write this man an indefinite furlough."
I nearly forgot to keep my look of agony in my delight, for that
meant at least a month.
"You must report every day to the hospital there."
"All right, sir." (I just went once to square it with the matron,
whom I knew.)
In my excitement and joy I was almost out of the room before I
remembered I was a very sick man. However, the day was saved by a
really marvelous yell of pain I managed to emit as I was crutching
out of the door.
[Illustration: FEELING GOOD IN BLIGHTY.]
My journey home was one long series of examples of the treatment of
the women of England to their fighting men. I had to make two
changes of trains and on both occasions I was literally carried by
those tireless women from one train to the other. Nothing but the
most luxurious traveling was good enough for me. In fact, I really
was ashamed of myself, for the little sacrifice I had made was a drop
in the ocean compared to that of many men in all parts of the land.
CHAPTER XXXIV
HOME
Home at last. As before, no wild hurling of ourselves into each
others' arms, but just a prosaic question from my mother:
"Well, how are you, laddie?"
"Feeling fine. Got anything to eat, Mater?"
Thus was all emotion covered.
My father came in the morning to see me. I tried just for fun to
surprise him into some display of emotion by suddenly slipping out in
front of him. I did not know the real Englishman till then. All he
did was to pale a little, and then, coolly eyeing me from head to
foot, he remarked, "They didna get thee after all."
"No, Dad, I got away very lucky."
"Tha did; let's go and hae a look round."
Just like that grim old land today. No fuss, no braggadocio, just a
quiet, grim resolution to see it through without wasting time on any
heroics. Thus are the English misunderstood. Self-effacement is not
comprehended by some people, and they mistake the quiet of the Old
Land for lethargy, and believe that damnable lie manufactured so
skilfully by German propagandists about the quitting Britisher. When
the history of the war is really written, if other nations will be
fair and forget their inherent prejudice toward the British, they
will understand something of what they have done for the cause of
humanity in this War of Wars.
EPILOGUE
I cannot let this opportunity pass without a final word to the man,
who, if he is of proper age and physically fit, has not, as yet, for
some reason or other, come forward prepared if necessary to make the
sovereign sacrifice for the cause of human liberty and those ideals
which are our blessed heritage, and for which our fathers fought and
bled and died.
It may be that some put forward as the reason for their staying out
of khaki that the pay allotted them, together with the governmental
allowance, does not admit of their families living in the same
circumstances of comfort which they have been accustomed to enjoy; it
may be there is someone who is helpless, depending on your effort for
support; perhaps it is a fear that your business will suffer from
your absence, as no one can care for it with the same practical
efficiency as you yourself; or it may be that the fear of bodily
injury--wounds or death--has deterred you from getting into the ranks.
If any of these be the cause and there is any human way of
surmounting the obstacle, in the name of everything that the honor of
freemen holds sacred, rouse your sleeping manhood and remove the
obstacle. By all that you hold dear, do not go through life branded
with the abominable taint of _slacker_. Even if death should befall,
it is unutterably more worthy to die serving the cause of all men,
than to live in the ever-present consciousness of duty undone, solely
because you are a coward.
If it should be your lot to receive a wound, serious or slight, or
come through the fire unscathed, you will not then have to "hold your
manhood cheap whilst any speaks" who fought with us in France.
Of course if your moral turpitude is of such a low order that the
preservation of your life and limbs is of vastly more importance than
any other consideration whatsoever, then there is no appeal of mine,
or anyone else's, that can pierce your hide of self-satisfied
consciousness. But I trust it will be my good fortune that none such
will read this tale.
The aims and ambitions of the German high command, which have
permeated the entire German nation, and which have caused them to
prepare for this war for generations, and waged with a scientific
brutality that out-Herods Herod--formulating and carrying out
excesses, that in point of exquisite torture and overwhelming number,
surpass the dreams of any ancient or modern potentate of
fiendishness, has made them an outcast among the nations of earth
that have for their ideal of citizenship the undying pronouncement of
the constitution of the Greatest Republic--that all men are endowed
with an equal right to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.
Therefore, I say, with all the earnestness that is in me, to you who
have not settled this thing in your conscience, think what it means
for you and your children and your children's children if through any
mischance, the Fates should decree a victory in this war for the
Teutons! Do not, I beseech you, lull yourself into a state of torpid
inactivity with the idea that there are plenty of men to do the
fighting without making it necessary for you to take the risk. If
most of the men took that attitude, it would only be a question of
time, and not a very long time, when the Hun would be knocking at our
gates in America. Can you imagine anything worse that could befall
the world?
And to those who cannot possibly go to the firing line by reason of
physical infirmities or age, or other reasons, there are numberless
ways in which you can assist the great work; there are many things to
be done at home which are just as necessary as the fighting in the
front line trench.
To my mind one of the most important things to be done here is to put
the quietus once and for all upon the disloyal tendencies of several
citizens whose sympathies are avowedly ranged alongside the Central
Powers.
It is almost incomprehensible to think that any man, or set of men,
who have made not only a comfortable living, but amassed fortunes in
this land, and have enjoyed the freedom of our institutions and our
laws, should avail themselves of the protection given them by that
very freedom and those very laws to undermine the power of the land
they have sworn to defend. Yet, such is the fact. They are so
short-sighted and their skulls are so thick that they cannot discern
the difference between freedom of thought and action, and German
Kultur or German efficiency.
It is not necessary to enter into a dissertation here upon the German
point of view, because those who read this book have, I take it, long
since settled in their minds the absolute unrighteousness of the
German proposition and the corresponding righteousness of that for
which the Allies are contending, and if by chance the tale should
fall into the hands of any of the proponents of Kultur, they would
not understand the explanation if I made it.
So, I say, if any of these human snakes cross your path and their
traitorous activities, either through the spoken word or the disloyal
action, come under your observation, it is just as vital, if not more
so, that you take the necessary steps to see that it is not repeated
as it is to perform any other service for the cause.
In conclusion, let me say to you, prospective fighting men who have
not yet signed up, and I say it in all humbleness of spirit and with
a deep sense of regret that I was not permitted to do more than I
did, that if I had it to do over again and knew beforehand that I was
going to be maimed, as I have been, I would still go and thank God
for the opportunity of going.
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