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diff --git a/16685-h/16685-h.htm b/16685-h/16685-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..3c1af45 --- /dev/null +++ b/16685-h/16685-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,5326 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=ISO-8859-1" /> +<title>The Project Gutenberg eBook of Private Peat, by Harold R. Peat</title> + <style type="text/css"> +/*<![CDATA[ XML blockout */ +<!-- + p { margin-top: .75em; + text-align: justify; + margin-bottom: .75em; + } + h1,h2,h3,h4,h5,h6 { + text-align: center; /* all headings centered */ + clear: both; + } + hr { width: 33%; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; + clear: both; + } + + table {margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;} + + body{margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + } + + .linenum {position: absolute; top: auto; left: 4%;} /* poetry number */ + .blockquot{margin-left: 5%; margin-right: 10%;} + .pagenum {position: absolute; left: 92%; font-size: smaller; text-align: right;} /* page numbers */ + .sidenote {width: 20%; padding-bottom: .5em; padding-top: .5em; + padding-left: .5em; padding-right: .5em; margin-left: 1em; + float: right; clear: right; margin-top: 1em; + font-size: smaller; background: #eeeeee; border: dashed 1px;} + + .bb {border-bottom: solid 2px;} + .bl {border-left: solid 2px;} + .bt {border-top: solid 2px;} + .br {border-right: solid 2px;} + .bbox {border: solid 2px;} + + .center {text-align: center;} + .smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} + .u {text-decoration: underline;} + + .caption {font-weight: bold;} + + .figcenter {margin: auto; text-align: center;} + + .figleft {float: left; clear: left; margin-left: 0; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: + 1em; margin-right: 1em; padding: 0; text-align: center;} + + .figright {float: right; clear: right; margin-left: 1em; margin-bottom: 1em; + margin-top: 1em; margin-right: 0; padding: 0; text-align: center;} + + .footnotes {border: dashed 1px;} + .footnote {margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-size: 0.9em;} + .footnote .label {position: absolute; right: 84%; text-align: right;} + .fnanchor {vertical-align: super; font-size: .8em; text-decoration: none;} + + .poem {margin-left:10%; margin-right:10%; text-align: left;} + .poem br {display: none;} + .poem .stanza {margin: 1em 0em 1em 0em;} + .poem span.i0 {display: block; margin-left: 0em;} + .poem span.i2 {display: block; margin-left: 2em;} + .poem span.i4 {display: block; margin-left: 4em;} + hr.full { width: 100%; } + pre {font-size: 8pt;} + // --> + /* XML end ]]>*/ + </style> +</head> +<body> +<h1>The Project Gutenberg eBook, Private Peat, by Harold R. Peat</h1> +<pre> +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at <a href = "https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a></pre> +<p>Title: Private Peat</p> +<p>Author: Harold R. Peat</p> +<p>Release Date: September 12, 2005 [eBook #16685]</p> +<p>Language: English</p> +<p>Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1</p> +<p>***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PRIVATE PEAT***</p> +<p> </p> +<h3>E-text prepared by Rick Niles, Josephine Paolucci,<br /> + and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team<br /> + (https://www.pgdp.net/)</h3> +<p> </p> +<hr class="full" /> +<p> </p> +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 300px;"> +<img src="images/coverimage.jpg" width="300" height="424" alt="" title="" /> +</div> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 296px;"> +<img src="images/image003.jpg" width="296" height="486" alt="Private Peat +Still smiling though his right arm is useless" title="" /> +<span class="caption">Private Peat +Still smiling though his right arm is useless</span> +</div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h1><a name="PRIVATE_PEAT" id="PRIVATE_PEAT"></a>PRIVATE PEAT</h1> + +<h3>BY</h3> + +<h2>HAROLD R. PEAT</h2> + +<h3>Ex-Third Battalion First Canadian Contingent</h3> +<p> </p> + +<h4>PROFUSELY ILLUSTRATED WITH PHOTOGRAPHIC REPRODUCTIONS<br /> +TAKEN AT THE FRONT.<br /> +ALSO WITH SCENES FROM THE PHOTO-PLAY OF THE SAME NAME<br /> +RELEASED BY FAMOUS PLAYERS—LASKY CORPORATION</h4> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<p><span style="margin-left: 1em;">NEW YORK</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">GROSSET & DUNLAP</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">PUBLISHERS</span><br /> +</p> + +<p><a name="Page_5" id="Page_5"></a></p><p> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">1917</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;"><span class="smcap">The Bobbs-Merrill Company</span></span><br /> +</p> + +<p><a name="Page_6" id="Page_6"></a></p> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<p> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;"><i>To the boys who will never come back</i></span><br /> +</p> +<p> </p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><a name="Page_8" id="Page_8"></a></p> +<h2><a name="FOREWORD" id="FOREWORD"></a>FOREWORD</h2> + + +<p>In this record of my experiences as a private in the great war I have tried +to put the emphasis on the things that seemed to me important. It is true I +set out to write a book of smiles, but the seriousness of it all came back +to me and crept into my pages. Yet I hope, along with the grimness and the +humor, I have been able to say some words of cheer and comfort to those in +the United States who are sending their husbands, their sons and brothers +into this mighty conflict. The book, unsatisfactory as it is to me now that +it is finished, at least holds my honest and long considered opinions. It +was not written until I could view my experiences objectively, until I was +sure in my own mind that the judgments I had formed were sane and sound. I +give it to the public now, hoping that something new will be found in it, +despite the many personal narratives that have gone before, and confident +that out of that public the many friends I have made while lecturing over +the country will look on it with a lenient and a kindly eye.</p> + +<p><a name="Page_9" id="Page_9"></a>To my wife, who has helped me greatly and who has been my inspiration in +this, as in all else, I should have inscribed this volume had she not urged +the present dedication. But she prefers it as it is, for "the boys who will +never come back" gave themselves for her and for all sister-women the world +over.</p> + +<p>H.R.P.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><a name="Page_10" id="Page_10"></a></p> +<h2><a name="CONTENTS" id="CONTENTS"></a>CONTENTS</h2> + + + +<div class='center'> +<table border="0" cellpadding="4" cellspacing="0" summary=""> +<tr><td align='left'>Chapter</td><td align='left'>Page</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'>I <span class="smcap">The Call—To Arms</span></td><td align='left'><a href="#CHAPTER_I"><b>1</b></a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'>II <span class="smcap">In the Old Country</span></td><td align='left'><a href="#CHAPTER_II"><b>17</b></a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'>III <span class="smcap">Back to Canada—I Don't Think</span></td><td align='left'><a href="#CHAPTER_III"><b>31</b></a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'>IV <span class="smcap">Are We Downhearted? No!</span></td><td align='left'><a href="#CHAPTER_IV"><b>39</b></a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'>V <span class="smcap">Under Fire</span></td><td align='left'><a href="#CHAPTER_V"><b>50</b></a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'>VI <span class="smcap">The Mad Major</span></td><td align='left'><a href="#CHAPTER_VI"><b>62</b></a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'>VII <span class="smcap">Who Started the War?</span></td><td align='left'><a href="#CHAPTER_VII"><b>75</b></a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'>VIII "<span class="smcap">And Out of Evil There Shall Come That Which is Good</span>"</td><td align='left'><a href="#CHAPTER_VIII"><b>87</b></a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'>IX <span class="smcap">All Fussed Up and No Place to Go</span></td><td align='left'><a href="#CHAPTER_IX"><b>101</b></a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'>X <span class="smcap">Hello! Sky-Pilot!</span></td><td align='left'><a href="#CHAPTER_X"><b>109</b></a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'>XI <span class="smcap">Vive la France et al Belge</span>!</td><td align='left'><a href="#CHAPTER_XI"><b>123</b></a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'>XII <span class="smcap">Canadians—That's All</span></td><td align='left'><a href="#CHAPTER_XII"><b>137</b></a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'>XIII <span class="smcap">Tears and No Cheers</span></td><td align='left'><a href="#CHAPTER_XIII"><b>169</b></a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'>XIV "<span class="smcap">The Best o' Luck—and Give 'Em Hell!</span>"</td><td align='left'><a href="#CHAPTER_XIV"><b>176</b></a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'>XV <span class="smcap">Out of It</span></td><td align='left'><a href="#CHAPTER_XV"><b>187</b></a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'>XVI <span class="smcap">German Terminological Inexactitudes</span></td><td align='left'><a href="#CHAPTER_XVI"><b>204</b></a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'>XVII <span class="smcap">The Last Chapter</span></td><td align='left'><a href="#CHAPTER_XVII"><b>221</b></a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">The Ten Commandments of a Soldier While on Active Service</span></td><td align='left'><a href="#THE_TEN_COMMANDMENTS_OF_A_SOLDIER_WHILE_ON_ACTIVE_SERVICE"><b>232</b></a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Some Things That We Ought and Ought Not to Send</span></td><td align='left'><a href="#SOME_THINGS_THAT_WE_OUGHT_AND_OUGHT_NOT_TO_SEND"><b>234</b></a></td></tr> +</table></div> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14"></a></p> +<h2>PRIVATE PEAT</h2> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_I" id="CHAPTER_I"></a>CHAPTER I</h2> + +<h3>THE CALL—TO ARMS</h3> + + +<p>"Well," said old Bill, "I know what war is ... I've been through it with +the Boers, and here's one chicken they'll not catch to go through this +one."</p> + +<p>Ken Mitchell stirred his cup of tea thoughtfully. "If I was old enough, +boys," said he, "I'd go. Look at young Gordon McLellan; he's only seventeen +and he's enlisted."</p> + +<p>That got me. It was then that I made up my mind I was going whether it +lasted three months, as they said it would, or five years, as I thought it +would, knowing a little bit of the geography and history of the country we +were up against.</p> + +<p>We were all sitting round the supper table at Mrs. Harrison's in Syndicate +Avenue, Edmonton, Alberta. War had been declared ten days before, and there +had been a call for twelve hundred men<a name="Page_15" id="Page_15"></a> from our city. Six hundred were +already with the colors.</p> + +<p>Now, to throw up a nice prosperous business and take a chance at something +you're not sure of getting into after all, is some risk, and quite an +undertaking as well. But I had lived at the McLellens' for years and knew +young Gordon and his affairs so well that I thought if he could tackle it, +there was no reason why I shouldn't.</p> + +<p>"Well, Bill, I'm game to go, if you will," I said. Bill had just declared +his intention rather positively, so I was a bit surprised when he replied +in his old familiar drawl:</p> + +<p>"All right, but you'll have to pass the doctor first. I'm pretty sure I can +get by, but I'm not so certain about you."</p> + +<p>Ken Mitchell looked up at that and, smiling at me, said, "I can imagine +almost anything in this world, but I can't imagine Peat a soldier."</p> + +<p>"Well, we'll see about that, Ken," I replied, and with that the supper came +to an end.</p> + +<p>That evening Bill and I went over to the One-Hundred-and-First Barracks, +but there was nothing doing, as word had just come from Ottawa to<a name="Page_16" id="Page_16"></a> stop +recruiting. It was on the twenty-second of August, 1914, before the office +was opened again, and on that day we took another shot at our luck.</p> + +<p>The doctor gave me the "once over" while Bill stood outside.</p> + +<p>"One inch too small around the chest," was the verdict.</p> + +<p>"Oh, Doc, have a heart!"</p> + +<p>"No," he said, "we have too many men now to be taking a little midget like +you." That was disappointment number two. I walked out and reported to +Bill, and I need not say that that loyal friend did not try to pass without +me.</p> + +<p>That night—August twenty-second—I slept very little. I had made up my +mind that I was going to the war, and go I would, chest or no chest. Before +morning I had evolved many plans and adopted one. I counted on my +appearance to put me through. I am short and slight. I'm dark and +curly-haired. I can pass for a Frenchman, an American, a Belgian; or at a +pinch a Jew.</p> + +<p>I had my story and my plan ready when the next day I set out to have +another try. At twelve-thirty I was seated on Major Farquarhson's veranda +<a name="Page_17" id="Page_17"></a>where I would meet him and see him alone when he came home to lunch.</p> + +<p>"Excuse me, Doctor," I said when he appeared, "but I'm sure you would pass +me if you only knew my circumstances."</p> + +<p>"Well?" snapped the major.</p> + +<p>"You see, sir, my two brothers have been killed by the Germans in Belgium, +and my mother and sisters are over there. I <i>must</i> go over to avenge them."</p> + +<p>I shivered; I quaked in my shoes. Would the major speak to me in French? I +did not then know as much as <i>Bon jour</i>.</p> + +<p>But luck was with me. To my great relief Major Farquarhson replied, as he +walked into the house, "Report to me this afternoon; I will pass you."</p> + +<p>August 28, 1914, saw old Bill—Bill Ravenscroft—and me enlisted for the +trouble.</p> + +<p>A few days later Bill voiced the opinion of the majority of the soldiers +when he said, "Oh, this bloomin' war will be over in three months." Not +alone was this Bill's opinion, or that of the men only, but the opinion of +the people of Canada, the opinion of the people of the whole British +Empire.</p><p><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18"></a></p> + +<p>And right here there lies a wrong that should be righted. From the days of +our childhood, in school and out, we are taught what WE can do, and not +what the other fellow can do. This belief in our own strength and this +ignorance of our neighbor's follows us through manhood, aye, and to the +grave.</p> + +<p>It was this over-confidence which brought only thirty-three thousand +Canadian men to the mobilization camp at Valcartier, in answer to the first +call to arms, instead of the one hundred thousand there should have been.</p> + +<p>Not many days passed before we boarded the train at Edmonton for our +journey to Valcartier. The first feeling of pride came over me, and I am +sure over all the boys on that eventful Thursday night, August 27, 1914, +when thousands of people, friends and neighbors, lined the roadside as we +marched to the station.</p> + +<p>Only one or two of us wore the khaki uniform; the rest were in their oldest +and poorest duds. A haphazard, motley, rummy crowd, we might have been +classed for anything but soldiers. At least, we gathered this from remarks +we overheard as we marched silently along to the waiting troop-train.</p><p><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19"></a></p> + +<p>Strangely enough no one was crying. Every one was cheered. Little did +hundreds of those women, those mothers, dream that this was the last look +they would have at their loved ones. Men were cheering; women were waving. +Weeping was yet to come.</p> + +<p>On that same August night, not only from Edmonton, but from every city and +town in Canada men were marching on their way to Valcartier.</p> + +<p>We traveled fast, and without event of importance. There were enthusiastic +receptions at each town that we passed through. There was Melville and +there was Rivers, and there was Waterous, where the townsfolk declared the +day a public holiday, and Chapelou in Northern Ontario, where we had our +first parade of the trip. There was a tremendous crowd to meet us here, a +great concourse of people to welcome these stalwarts of the West. We lined +up in as good formation as possible, and our sergeant, who was very proud +of himself and of us—mostly himself—majestically called us to attention.</p> + +<p>"From the left, number!" he gave the command. Such a feat, of course, is an +impossibility.</p><p><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20"></a></p> + +<p>"From the right, Sergeant," yelled old Bill.</p> + +<p>"No," answered the sergeant, "from the left." The crowd roared and the +sergeant raved. Finally our captain straightened us out, but the sergeant +to this day has never forgotten the incident.</p> + +<p>North Bay passed, then Ottawa, Montreal, and at last we arrived at +Valcartier. So far the life of a soldier had been anything but a pleasant +one. My body was black and blue from lying on the hard boards, and I was +eager, as was every other man, to leave the train at once; but as our camp +was not quite ready we had to stay in the cars another night.</p> + +<p>It was a relief, I assure you, when on the morning of September first we +marched into Valcartier. Such a sight: tents everywhere one looked; all +around little white marquees. I said to Bill, "Is this the regular training +ground?" To my surprise he informed me that this great camp had been +organized within the last two weeks.</p> + +<p>I marveled at this for I did not believe we had a man in Canada with the +organizing ability to get a camp of this size in such splendid shape in so +short a time. We were finally settled in our quarters and <a name="Page_21" id="Page_21"></a>told that we +were to be known as the Ninth Battalion, One-Hundred-and-First Edmonton +Fusiliers.</p> + +<p>The second day we were in camp the bugle sounded the assembly. Of course I +did not know an "assembly" from a mess call, but the others ran for the +parade ground and so I followed.</p> + +<p>Gee! what a mob! There was a big man sitting on a horse. Bill said he was +the colonel. He made a speech to us. He told us we were fine men.</p> + +<p>"You are a fine body of men," said he ... "but we are unorganized, and we +have no non-commissioned officers."</p> + +<p>I whispered to Bill, "What's a non-commissioned officer?"</p> + +<p>Bill looked to see if I really meant it. "A sergeant, a corporal—anything +but a private," he replied.</p> + +<p>"Will all the men who have had former military experience fall out," +commanded the colonel; "the rest of you go back to quarters."</p> + +<p>"Have I had any former military experience, Bill?" I was eager for +anything.</p> + +<p>"Sure you have," said Bill. "We'll just stay here and maybe we'll be made +sergeants."</p><p><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22"></a></p> + +<p>About six hundred of us stayed! But, believe me, if they had all had as +much military experience as I, we wouldn't have been soldiers yet. When the +adjutant came around, he gave me a look as much as to say: "That kid +certainly has got a lot of nerve." He offered to make Bill a corporal, but +as that would have transferred him from D Company to F Company he declined +rather than leave me.</p> + +<p>This will give you some idea of the kind of organization or +non-organization when the First Contingent Canadians was formed. Not only +in our own battalion but nearly anywhere in the regiment almost anybody +could have been a non-commissioned officer—certainly anybody that had +looks and the nerve to tell the adjutant that he had had former military +experience.</p> + +<p>It was not very long before we began to realize that soldiering, after all, +was no snap. There was the deuce of a lot to learn, and the deuce of a lot +to do.</p> + +<p>To the rookie one of the most interesting things are the bugle calls. The +first call, naturally, that the new soldier learns is "the cook-house," and +possibly the second is the mail-call. The call that annoyed <a name="Page_23" id="Page_23"></a>me most at +first was "reveille." I had been used to getting up at nine o'clock in the +morning; rising now at five-thirty wasn't any picnic. This, especially when +it took a fellow half the night to get warm, because all we had under us +was Mother Earth, one blanket and a waterproof.</p> + +<p>It was the second day at camp that we started in to work good and hard. +Reveille at five-thirty <span class="smcap">a.m.</span>; from six to seven Swedish exercise, +then one hour for breakfast when we got tea, pork and beans, and a slice of +bread. From eight to twelve saw us forming fours and on the right form +companies. From twelve to half past one more pork and beans, bread and tea. +Rifle practise, at the butts, followed until five-thirty, and ... yes, it +did ... pork and beans, bread and tea appeared once more.</p> + +<p>Neither officers nor non-coms knew very much at the start, but they were a +bunch of good scouts. And we were all very enthusiastic, there is no doubt +about that. Soon we began to realize that if we would put our shoulders to +the wheel and work hard we would certainly see service overseas.</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 474px;"> +<img src="images/image024.jpg" width="474" height="300" alt="©Famous Players—Lasky Corporation. Scene from the +Photo-Play + +THE SONS OF DEMOCRACY." title="" /> +<span class="caption">©Famous Players—Lasky Corporation. Scene from the +Photo-Play + +THE SONS OF DEMOCRACY.</span> +</div> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 300px;"> +<img src="images/image025.jpg" width="300" height="507" alt="Souvenirs brought back from "Over There." + +The enemy calls the Canadian a "Souvenir Hunter." It must be remembered the +author is a Canadian." title="" /> +<span class="caption">Souvenirs brought back from "Over There." + +The enemy calls the Canadian a "Souvenir Hunter." It must be remembered the +author is a Canadian.</span> +</div> + +<p><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26"></a>As a private soldier and no matter how humble my opinion may be, I must +give the greatest praise and credit to the organizer and founder of Camp +Valcartier, at that time Colonel Sir Sam Hughes ... the then minister of +militia for Canada. We had about three miles of continuous rifle range; and +good ranges they were, considering they were got together in less than two +weeks. I will admit that the roads leading to the ranges were nothing to +brag about, yet, taking it all in all, even they were pretty good.</p> + +<p>By this time the majority of us had received our uniforms and our badges, +and had been given a number, and instructed to mark this number on +everything we had. Mine was 18535.</p> + +<p>We had no "wet" canteens at Valcartier, so we were a very sober camp. Each +battalion had a shower bath, and there was no excuse for any man to be +dirty. Even at that it was not very long before those little "somethings" +which are no respecters of persons, be he private, non-com, commissioned +officer or general, found their way into the camp. I'll never forget the +first gray-back I found <a name="Page_27" id="Page_27"></a>on me. I cried like a baby, and old Bill +sympathized with me, saying in consoling tones that I'd soon get used to +them. Bill knew.</p> + +<p>For amusement at Valcartier, we had free shows and pay shows, also moving +pictures. The pay show got to be so amusing that we made a bonfire out of +it one bright September night, and found it more entertaining as a +conflagration than it ever had been as an entertainment. At all events, +that was how one of the boys of the Fifteenth Battalion put it.</p> + +<p>The second week in camp we were inoculated, and again examined for overseas +service. Through some very fine work, I escaped the examination, but could +not get out of the inoculation. We were promised three shots in the arm, +but after the first I resolved that one was more than enough for me. German +bullets could not be worse, I thought, and when I got one I didn't change +my mind.</p> + +<p>As the days wore on we grew more and more enthusiastic. Already rumors were +spreading that we would be leaving "any time now" for France. The +excitement certainly told on some of the boys. In my regiment no less than +nine, I guess they were <a name="Page_28" id="Page_28"></a>ex-homesteaders, went "nutty." One chap, I recall, +killed hundreds of Germans on the bloody battle-fields of Valcartier. The +surgeon assured us the mania was temporary.</p> + +<p>We were pretty thoroughly equipped by the end of the third week, when we +were given puttees instead of leggings. It was sure funny the way some of +the boys looked when they first put them on, for many of them got the lower +part of the leg much bigger than the upper part, but of course that might +happen to any one who had never seen puttees before.</p> + +<p>There was considerable grumbling about these same puttees, because, at +first, they were undoubtedly very uncomfortable. However, before many days +the majority of us were ready to vote for puttees permanently, as they +proved warmer, a greater support to the leg on long marches and more nearly +waterproof than their more aristocratic brother leggings.</p> + +<p>It was during the third week of camp life that we had our first review. We +gave the salute to the Duke of Connaught, who was accompanied by Sir Sam +Hughes. After this review, we were told that <a name="Page_29" id="Page_29"></a>we might expect to leave for +France at two hours' notice.</p> + +<p>The following days we spent on the rifle ranges and in making fake +departures. I wrote home to my friends more than once that "we were leaving +for the front to-day," but when the next day arrived we were still leaving. +I sent my mother six telegrams on six different days to say that I would +start for France within the next hour, but at the end of it we were still +to be found in the same old camp.</p> + +<p>Finally, on the first day of October, 1914, our regiment boarded the <i>S.S. +Zeeland</i> at Quebec. The comment of the people looking on was that they had +never seen a finer body of men. And that was about right. Physically we +were perfect; morally, we were as good as the next, and, taken all in all, +there were no better shots on earth. Equipped to the minute, keen as +hunting dogs, we were "it." Surely a wonderful change this month's training +had wrought. And I say again if the credit for it all must be given to any +one man, that man is Sir Sam Hughes.</p> + +<p>In a few hours we were steaming down the St.<a name="Page_30" id="Page_30"></a> Lawrence, and the next day we +slipped into Gaspé Bay on the eastern coast of Canada, where we joined the +other transports. Here thirty-two ships with as many thousand men aboard +them were gathered together, all impatiently waiting the order to dash +across the Atlantic.</p> + +<p>We did not have to wait very long. On Sunday, October the fourth, at three +o'clock in the afternoon, we steamed slowly out of the harbor in three long +lines. Each ship was about a quarter of a mile from her companion ahead or +behind, and guarded on each side by cruisers. I have memorized the names of +the transports, and at this time it is interesting to know that very few of +them have been sunk by the German submarines.</p> + +<p>The protecting cruisers were: <i>H.M.S. Eclipse</i>, <i>Diana</i>, <i>Charybdis</i>, +<i>Glory</i>, <i>Talbot</i> and <i>Lancaster</i>. The transports were in Line Number One: +<i>S.S. Manatic</i>, <i>Ruthenian</i>, <i>Bermudian</i>, <i>Alaunia</i>, <i>Irvenia</i>, +<i>Scandinavian</i>, <i>Sicilia</i>, <i>Montzuma</i>, <i>Lapland</i>, <i>Casandia</i>;</p> + +<p>Line Number Two: <i>Carribean</i>, <i>Athenia</i>, <i>Royal Edward</i>, <i>Franconia</i>, +<i>Canada</i>, <i>Monmouth</i>, <i>Manitou</i>, <i>Tyrolia</i>, <i>Tunissian</i>, <i>Laurentic</i>, +<i>Milwaukee</i>; Line Number Three: <i>The Scotian</i>, <i>Arcadian</i>, <i>Zeeland</i>,<a name="Page_31" id="Page_31"></a> +<i>Corinthian</i>, <i>Virginian</i>, <i>Andania</i>, <i>Saxonia</i>, <i>Grampian</i>, <i>Laconia</i>, +<i>Montreal</i>, <i>The Royal George</i>.</p> + +<p>All the way across the Atlantic we were in sight of each other and of the +cruisers. Personally, the scene thrilled me through and through. Here was +the demonstrated fact that we, an unmilitary people, with a small +population to draw on, had made a world record in sending the greatest +armada that had ever sailed from one port to another in the history of man. +Personally, I felt very proud because of the thirty-three thousand soldiers +on these boats only seventeen per cent. were born Canadians; five per cent. +Americans, and the other seventy-eight were made up of English, Irish and +Scotch residing in Canada at the outbreak of the war.</p> + +<p>There were no exciting scenes on the way over, except when some wild and +woolly Canadian tried to jump overboard because of seasickness. We were a +long time crossing, because the fastest transport had to cut her speed down +to that of the slowest, and the voyage was anything but a pleasant one. +When we finally steamed into Plymouth, the gray-backs outnumbered the +soldiers by many thousands. The invasion of England!</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32"></a></p> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_II" id="CHAPTER_II"></a>CHAPTER II</h2> + +<h3>IN THE OLD COUNTRY</h3> + + +<p>We were the first of the British Colonial soldiers to come to the aid of +the Motherland. Judging from the wonderful reception given us, it was easy +to see that the people were very pleased at our coming, to put it mildly.</p> + +<p>My first night on English soil I shall never forget. After three weeks on +ship coming over, we were all pretty stiff. The night we landed in England +we marched many miles, and as a result my feet were awfully sore. So, when +we finally arrived at Salisbury Plain and were immediately ordered to march +across the Plain another ten miles to Pond Farm, I knew I shouldn't be able +to do it, and confided my troubles to Bill and another fellow named +Laughlin. After we had gone about four miles we came to an inviting +haystack; it was too much for us and all three of us slipped out of line, +but before we could reach the stack we were caught <a name="Page_33" id="Page_33"></a>by Major Anderson. +Bully old major! He volunteered to carry my pack. In turn, I carried his +greatcoat, and we continued the march.</p> + +<p>It wasn't very long before another haystack came in view and again we +couldn't resist the temptation. This time we made our goal, and there we +slept until early morning. Thus I passed my first night on English soil. +Two days later we landed in camp, after visiting Devizes, Lavington and +Salisbury City on the way. Laughlin wore the major's coat, and by this +device got through where otherwise we should have been pinched.</p> + +<p>After the first two days in England it began to rain, and it kept on +raining all the time we were there. The people round about the country told +us that never before in their lives had they seen such rains, but this must +be characteristic of people the world over. In Western Canada when +strangers come and it gets really cold, we tell the same story of never +having seen the like before.</p> + +<p>We hadn't been in camp long when they began to issue passes to us. The +native-born Englishmen were the first to get leave, and the Canadians next. +At last my turn came, but unfortunately I had to <a name="Page_34" id="Page_34"></a>go alone. Personally, I +think the English people made too big a fuss over us. The receptions we got +at every turn of the way were stupendous; and I am certain a majority of +the men had more money than was really good for them. As one young Canadian +boy said afterward: "Why, they treated us as if we were little tin gods."</p> + +<p>But from a military view-point, we, the boys of the First Canadian +Division, did not make such a tremendous hit with British officials. It was +not long before they even criticized us openly, and looking at it from a +distance I do not blame them. Never in their lives had they seen soldiers +like us. They had been used to the fine, well-disciplined, good-looking +English Tommy. Of course I will admit that we were good-looking all right, +but as far as discipline was concerned, we did not even know it by name. +The military authorities could not understand how it was that a major or a +captain and a private could go on leave together, eat together and in +general chum around together.</p> + +<p>The English people, I dare say, had read a lot about the wild and woolly +West, but now in many instances they had it brought right home to +Piccadilly <a name="Page_35" id="Page_35"></a>and the Strand. With a band of young Canadians on pass, I +assisted once in giving Nelson's Monument in Trafalgar Square the "once +over" with a monocle in my left eye. A few hours later this same crowd +commandeered a dago's hurdy-gurdy, and it was sure funny to see three +Canadian Highlanders turning this hand organ in Piccadilly Circus.</p> + +<p>The folks, of course, took all these little pranks good-naturedly; and, as +a Canadian, I can not speak too highly of the treatment handed out to us by +the Britishers. If there ever was a possibility before this war of Canada's +breaking away from the Motherland, such a possibility has been shot to the +winds. No two peoples could be more closely allied than we of the West and +they of this tiny but magnificent island.</p> + +<p>The little training we had had in Canada was good, as far as it went, and +we had devoured it all. But the most vital part of a soldier's up-bringing +was absolutely forgotten by our officers—discipline! As I've said before, +as far as discipline was concerned, we were a joke. Certainly we were +looked upon as such by the Imperial officers.</p> + +<p><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36"></a>In one of the leading British weeklies there appeared a series of comments +reflecting rather seriously on our discipline. One of the most humorous yet +caustic, it seemed to me, was of an English soldier on guard at a post just +outside of London. His instructions were to stop all who approached. In the +darkness it was impossible for him to distinguish one person from another. +Before long he heard footsteps coming toward him:</p> + +<p>"Halt! Who goes there?" demanded the sentry.</p> + +<p>"The Irish Fusiliers," was the answer.</p> + +<p>"Pass, Irish Fusiliers; all's well."</p> + +<p>Before long some more steps sounded....</p> + +<p>"Halt! Who goes there?"</p> + +<p>"The London Regiment."</p> + +<p>"Pass, Londons; all's well."</p> + +<p>"Halt! Who goes there?"</p> + +<p>"Hic ... mind your own damn business...."</p> + +<p>"Pass, Canadians; all's well."</p> + +<p>At a parade, one bright November morning, when we were at Salisbury, a +certain brigadier-general from Ontario, since killed in action, while +reviewing the soldiers of a particular battalion, made a unique speech to +the boys when he said:</p> + +<p><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37"></a>"Lads, the king and Lord Kitchener and all the big-bugs are coming down to +review us to-day, and for once in your lives, men, I want to see you act +like real soldiers. When they get here, for the love o' Mike, don't call me +Bill ... and, for God's sake, don't chew tobacco in the ranks."</p> + +<p>There is no doubt about it, the authorities probably looked on us as a +bunch of good fellows, but that's about all.</p> + +<p>While still in England, all the men of the First Canadian Contingent were +issued a cloth lapelette or small shoulder strap; the infantry, blue; the +cavalry, yellow with two narrow blue stripes; the artillery, scarlet, and +the medical corps, maroon. I was told that these lapelettes were given to +distinguish us from other contingents. To-day there are only a few hundred +men entitled to wear what now amounts to a badge distinction. Personally, I +feel prouder of my blue lapelette than of anything else I possess in the +world.</p> + +<p>The so-called training that we were supposed to have in England was not +really any training at all. The rain was almost continuous, we were +constantly being moved from one camp to another, and training, <a name="Page_38" id="Page_38"></a>as training +is understood to-day, was out of the question.</p> + +<p>As I have said, our first camp in England was Pond Farm. It was well named. +Later we moved to Sling Plantation. However, it was at Pond Farm we had +some of our most grueling experiences. Many a night, owing to the awful +rains, we would have to move our tents sometimes in the middle of the +night. If any minister of the gospel—except our chaplain—had been +standing around on these occasions he might well have thought from the +sulphurous perfume of the air that every soldier was doomed to everlasting +Hades. But, after all, "cussing" is only a small part of a soldier's life, +and who would not swear under such extraordinary circumstances? Again, we +have authority for it. It is a soldier's commandment on active service—the +third commandment—and here is how it reads:</p> + +<p>"Thou shalt not swear unless under extraordinary circumstances."</p> + +<p>An "extraordinary circumstance" can be defined as moving your tent in the +middle of the night under a downpour of rain, seeing your comrade shot, <a name="Page_39" id="Page_39"></a>or +getting coal oil in your tea. As a matter of fact, all minor discomforts in +the army are counted as "extraordinary circumstances."</p> + +<p>Despite the weather conditions, and the fact that we did very little +training, the men in our battalion were enthusiastic and did their best to +keep fit. However, we all went to pieces when we were told, early in +December, that it was a cinch our battalion would never get to France as a +unit.</p> + +<p>I'll never forget the day our captain broke the news to us. The tears ran +down his cheeks, and he wasn't the only man who cried. We were almost +broken-hearted to know we were to be divided, because Captain Parkes (now +Colonel) was a real and genuine fellow. He had taught us all to love him. +For instance, when after a long march we would come in with our feet +blistered, he would not detail a sergeant to look after us. He would, +himself, kneel down on the muddy floor and bathe our feet. If at any time +we were "strapped" and wanted a one-pound note, we always knew where to go +for it. It was always Captain Parkes, and he never asked for an I.O.U. +either. On the gloomy wet nights <a name="Page_40" id="Page_40"></a>of the winter he would play games with +us, and it was common to hear the boys remark that if we should ever get to +France as a unit, and our captain got out in front, it would not be one man +who would rescue him, but the whole company.</p> + +<p>The day at Pond's Farm was more than a sad one when the old Ninth was made +into a Reserve Battalion. The men were so greatly discouraged and the +sergeants so grouchy that at times it became almost humorous.</p> + +<p>One day, in late December, while at the butts, we were shooting at six +hundred yards, with Sergeant Jones in command of the platoon. We had +targets from Number One to Number Twenty inclusive, and the men were +numbered accordingly. At this distance we all did fairly well, except +Number One, who missed completely. For the sake of Number One the sergeant +moved us down to four hundred yards, and at this distance every man got a +bull's eye except Number One. He was off the target altogether. Our +sergeant, after a few very pungent remarks, commanded the section to move +to one hundred yards. Here again each one of us had <a name="Page_41" id="Page_41"></a>a bull to his credit +but Number One. Again he had missed, and again we moved, this time to fifty +yards.</p> + +<p>At fifty yards I can not begin to describe the look on the sergeant's +face—to say that his eyes, nose and mouth were twitching is putting it +mildly. Nevertheless, Number One missed. Then, something that never +happened before on a rifle range on this earth electrified us all. Sergeant +Jones shouted at the top of his voice: "Number One, attention! Fix bayonet! +Charge! That's the only d——d hope you've got."</p> + +<p>Disappointments were frequent enough in camp. Take the case of the Fifth +Western Cavalry, who could sport the honor of their full title on their +shoulder straps in bold yellow letters. It was they who had to leave horses +behind and travel to France to fight in what they termed "mere" infantry. +To this day we know them as the "Disappointed Fifth." There was also the +Strathcona Horse of Winnipeg who were doomed to disappointment and much +foot-slogging with their horses left behind.</p> + +<p>Among those made into reserve units we of the Ninth had for companions the +Sixth, Eleventh,<a name="Page_42" id="Page_42"></a> Twelfth and Seventeenth Battalions. It was obvious that +somebody had to be kept in reserve, and we were the unlucky dogs. We cursed +our fate, but that didn't mend matters. We had nothing for it but to trust +to a better fortune which should draft us into a battalion going soon to +the fighting front.</p> + +<p>The First Brigade consisted of men of the First, Second, Third and Fourth +Battalions of Infantry. All of these battalions came from Ontario. The +Second Brigade was made up of men from the West, including Winnipeg, +Regina, Saskatoon, Calgary and Vancouver. They were in the Fifth, Seventh, +Eighth and Tenth Battalions, all infantry.</p> + +<p>The Third Brigade was commonly known as the Highland Brigade and was made +up of the Thirteenth, Fourteenth, Fifteenth and Sixteenth Battalions. This +last brigade included such splendid old regiments as the Forty-Eighth +Highlanders of Toronto, the Ninety-First Highlanders of Hamilton and +Vancouver, and the Black Watch of Montreal. There were also some of the far +eastern men in this brigade.</p> + +<p>After all this rearrangement had been made, it <a name="Page_43" id="Page_43"></a>was only a few days till +the rumor flew about that the battalions might leave for France at any time +now. It seemed to us poor devils of the old Ninth that everything was going +wrong. The unit lying next to us, the Seventeenth Battalion, was +quarantined with that terrible disease, cerebro-spinal-meningitis. For a +few days we buried our lads by the dozen. Speaking for myself, my nerves +were absolutely unstrung, and I am sure that most of the men were in the +same condition. It can be easily understood then that when drafts were +asked for, to bring up the regiments leaving for France to full strength, +there was a mad scramble to get away.</p> + +<p>Without even passing the surgeon, I finally drifted into the Third +Battalion, ordinarily known as the "Dirty Third." This battalion was made +up of the Queen's Own, the Bodyguards and Grenadier Regiments of Toronto.</p> + +<p>I landed in on a Sunday afternoon about three o'clock and was immediately +told by the quartermaster that we were leaving for France in a few hours. +He told me that I needed a complete change of equipment. At this news I +rejoiced, because <a name="Page_44" id="Page_44"></a>so far we had all worn, in our battalion, the leather +harness known as the "Oliver torture." I knew that the active service, or +web, equipment could not be worse.</p> + +<p>The rush for equipment issue was like a mêlée on the front line after a +charge, as I found out later on. There were some three hundred men newly +drafted into the Third Battalion; there were some three hours in which we +had to get our equipment and learn to adjust it. As it was, many of the +extreme greenhorn type marched away garbed in most sketchy fashion. Some +had parts of their equipment in bags; others utilized their pockets as +holders for unexplained, and to them inexplicable, parts of the fighting +kit.</p> + +<p>Another of our trials was the new army boot. In Canada we had been issued a +light-weight, tan-colored shoe, more practicable for dress purposes than +for active service. Now we had the heavy English ammunition boot. This is +of strong—the strongest—black leather. The soles are half-inch, and they +are reenforced by an array of hobnails. These again are supplemented by +tickety-tacks, steel or iron headed nails with the head half-moon <a name="Page_45" id="Page_45"></a>shape. +Each heel is outlined with an iron "horse shoe." Until the leather has been +softened and molded with much rubbing and the unending use of dubbing, I +would say, mildly, that these boots are not of the easiest.</p> + +<p>Our departure for France was thrilling in its contrasts. Before setting out +we cleaned camp, and then we had a fine speech from our new commander, +Colonel Rennie, of Toronto, of whom much was to be heard in the hard days +to come.</p> + +<p>We slipped out of the camp in silence and utter darkness. Troops were being +moved through England and into France with the utmost secrecy. We dare not +sing as we marched; we dare not speak to a neighbor. On and on, it seemed +endless, through mud and water and mud again. At times it reached to our +knees as we plowed our way to the railway, where trains with drawn blinds +awaited us.</p> + +<p>Before we were half through our march a terrific electrical storm broke +over us; the thunder roared and the lightning split the sky open as though +Heaven itself were making a protest against war.</p> + +<p>We finally embarked on <i>His Majesty's Transport Glasgow</i>.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46"></a></p> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_III" id="CHAPTER_III"></a>CHAPTER III</h2> + +<h3>BACK TO CANADA—I DON'T THINK</h3> + + +<p>It was seven in the evening before we were ready to start. At that hour we +quietly slipped our anchor and glided out of the harbor. We all thought we +would be in France before midnight. The trip across the Channel in ordinary +times is not often more than two and a half hours. We had no bunks allotted +to us, and didn't think that any would be needed. We all lay around in any +old place, and in any old attitude. I, for one, devoted most of the time +during that evening to learning the art of putting my equipment together. +The majority of the boys were at the old familiar game, poker.</p> + +<p>We had not been on this transport very long when we had our first +introduction to bully beef and biscuits. Bully beef is known to civilians +the world over as corned beef, and to the new Sammy as "red horse." But +even bully beef and biscuits <a name="Page_47" id="Page_47"></a>aren't so bad, and our thoughts were not so +much on what we were getting to eat as on when we were getting to France.</p> + +<p>As the hours went by we more and more eagerly craned our necks over the +deck rails, trying to pierce the darkness of the deep for one flash of +light that might mean France hard ahead. But nothing happened, and one +after another the watchers dropped off to sleep.</p> + +<p>When dawn broke we woke and rubbed our eyes. We were mystified and not a +little mortified. Where was France? There was nothing but water, blue as +heaven itself, around us. We were still at sea, and still going strong.</p> + +<p>The hours of that day dragged out to an interminable length. No one spoke +of the matter—the question of land in sight was not discussed. Some of the +boys went back to poker. Others decided to be seasick, and subsequently +wished for a storm and the consequent wrecking of the ship, with a watery +death as relief.</p> + +<p>Bully beef and biscuits at noon; bully beef and biscuits at our evening +meal, and no sight of land. Night came. The more hopeful of us did the +craning <a name="Page_48" id="Page_48"></a>business over the deck rails for a few more hours. The +pessimistic, deciding France had ceased to be, returned to poker. We slept. +We woke. We watched the sun rise—over the sea!</p> + +<p>About noon that day after the ration of bully beef had gone its round and +we, in consequence, were feeling pretty blue, there was a group of us +standing around doing nothing. Suddenly Tom King came rushing up in great +excitement. He had had an idea.</p> + +<p>"Say, you fellows, I don't care a darn what any of you may say, I believe +these blinkin' English are sick of us and are sending us back to Canada!"</p> + +<p>No such luck. Before sundown that evening we sighted land. We steamed +slowly into the port of St. ——. This is a large seaport town near the Bay +of Biscay, on the southwest coast of France. Why in the world they wanted +to take us all the way round there, I don't know. I was told that we were +among the first British troops to be landed at this port.</p> + +<p>As soon as we disembarked from the boats that evening, before we left the +docks, we were issued goat-skin coats. The odor which issued from them +<a name="Page_49" id="Page_49"></a>made us believe that they, at least in some former incarnation, had +belonged to another little animal family known as the skunk. Ugh! The +novelty of these coats occupied us for a while, and if a sergeant or a +comrade addressed us we answered in "goat talk": "Ba-a-a, ba-a-a-a...."</p> + +<p>It was apparent that the secrecy of troop transportation which held in +England held also in France. The populace could not have known of our +coming, for there was no scene, nor was there a reception. We were to meet +with that later on.</p> + +<p>Here, however, we did meet the French "fag." When Tommy gets one puff of +this article of combustion he never wants another. It is one puff too many. +Of course our first race was to buy cigarettes—but, napoo!</p> + +<p>Before entraining we were all shocked by the dreadful tidings that the +transport carrying the Forty-Eighth Highlanders had been sunk. This news +was soon discredited and the truth was established when the Forty-Eighth +came up the line in a few days and reported that they had heard <i>we</i>, the +Third, had been sunk and all drowned. Apparently it was a part of certain +propaganda to <a name="Page_50" id="Page_50"></a>publish that all transports of British soldiers were +destroyed. So far none had even been attacked.</p> + +<p>The evening of our arrival we boarded the little trains. To our surprise +and to our intense disgust, we had not even the passenger coaches provided +in England and Canada. I say little trains, because they were little, and +in addition the coaches were not coaches, but box cars. Painted on the side +of the "wheeled box" was "<i>Huit chevaux par ordinaire</i>."</p> + +<p>But these are not ordinary times, so instead of eight horses they put +forty-eight of us boys in each car. Forty-eight boys all my size might have +worked out well enough, though in full fighting trim even I was quite a +husky, but the average Canadian soldier is a much bigger man. Take into +consideration what we have to carry. There is our entrenching tool which we +use for digging in. To look at it the uninitiated might well think that it +was a toy, but, as I learned afterward, when bullets are flying around you +by the thousand you can get into the ground with even a toy—or less.</p> + +<p>There is our pack. A soldier's pack on active service in the British Army +is supposed to weigh <a name="Page_51" id="Page_51"></a>approximately forty-five pounds, but when the average +Tommy lands in France his pack weighs nearer seventy-five pounds than +forty-five. Tommy does not feel like throwing away that extra pair of +boots, two or three suits of extra underwear, and so many of the little +things sent from home or given him just before setting out for France. As a +consequence when he arrives in France he carries a very heavy load, though +it does not stay heavy for long. After being on a route march or two the +weight will mysteriously disappear. Then Tommy carries one pair of boots, +one suit of underwear, one shirt, one pair of socks, and they are all on +him.</p> + +<p>There is a mess tin to cook in, wash in, shave in and do all manner of +things with. There is the haversack in which is stuffed a three-day +emergency ration. The emergency ration of the early days of the war was +much different from the emergency ration of to-day. These rations are +intended to be used only in an emergency, and, believe me, only in an +emergency are they used. There was compressed beef—compressed air, we +called it; <a name="Page_52" id="Page_52"></a>there were Oxo cubes and there was tea. In addition there were +a few hardtacks.</p> + +<p>Then there is the bandoleer, and the soldier on active service in this war +never carries less than one hundred and fifty rounds of ammunition at any +one time, and sometimes he carries much more. As a final, there is our +rifle and bayonet. At that time of which I am speaking we Canadians carried +the now famous, or infamous, Ross rifle. This weighed nine and +three-quarters pounds.</p> + +<p>With all this equipment to a man, and forty-eight men to each small box +car, it doesn't demand much imagination to picture our journey. We could +not sit down. If we attempted it we sat on some one, and then there was a +howl. We tried all manner of positions, all sorts of schemes. In the +daytime we sought the roof of the cars, or leaned far out the open doors. +If the country had not been so lovely, and if all our experiences had not +been new and out of the ordinary, there would have been more grousing.</p> + +<p>The second day on the train—we were three days and three nights—while +passing through a city <a name="Page_53" id="Page_53"></a>near Rouen, we had a glimpse of our first wounded +French soldiers. It seemed as though war came home to a lot of us then for +the first time. I was fairly sick at heart when I saw one Frenchman with +both arms bound up, and with blood pouring over his face. I understood that +these wounded men were coming back from the battle of Soissons. From the +glimpses we caught of them in their train they seemed a funny lot of +fighting men, these poilous, with their red breeches, their long blue coat +pinned back from the front, the little blue peaked cap, and their long +black whiskers. I was horrified at the whole sight. For the first time I +asked myself, "What in the world are <i>you</i> out here for?"</p> + +<p>There must have been many of the boys who indulged in the same vein of +thought, to judge by the seriousness of the faces as we proceeded and left +the French hospital train behind.</p> + +<p>On the evening of the third day, as we pulled slowly into the station at +Strazeele, we could hear in the distance the steady rumbling of the big +guns at the front.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54"></a></p> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_IV" id="CHAPTER_IV"></a>CHAPTER IV</h2> + +<h3>ARE WE DOWNHEARTED? NO!</h3> + + +<p>"Hush, boys,... we're in enemy country!" our second in command whispered +ominously. We shivered. The sound of the guns seemed to grow louder. +Captain Johnson repeated his warning:</p> + +<p>"Not a word, men," he muttered, and we stumbled out of the station in +silence that could be cut with a knife. Sure enough the enemy was near. He +couldn't have been less than twenty-two miles away! We could hear him. +There was no disposition on our part to talk aloud. Captain Johnson said: +"Whisper," and whisper we did.</p> + +<p>We trekked over mud-holes and ditches, across fields and down through +valleys. We had many impressions—and the main impression was mud. The main +impression of all active service is—mud. It was silent mud, too, but we +knew it was there. Once in a while during that dark treading through an +unfamiliar country one of the boys would stumble <a name="Page_55" id="Page_55"></a>and fall face down. Then +the mud spoke ... and it did not whisper. There were grunts and murmurings, +there were gurgling expletives and splutterings which sent the army, and +all fools who joined it, to places of unmentionable climatic conditions. We +were in it up to our necks, more or less literally.</p> + +<p>All the way along we could see the flashes of star shells. When one went up +we could fancy the battalion making a "duck" in perfect unison. The star +shells seemed very close. It was still for us to learn that they always +seem close.</p> + +<p>After about seven miles of this trekking, we reached billets. This was our +first experience of French billets. The rest-house was a barn and we were +pretty lucky. We had straw to lie on.</p> + +<p>Notwithstanding our distance from the enemy, as Captain Johnson had said, +we were in his country, and in consequence there had to be a guard. Four of +the boys were picked for the job. There was no change in my luck. I was one +of the chosen four.</p> + +<p>The guardroom, whether for good or ill, was set in a chicken house. And +thereby hangs a tale—feather.<a name="Page_56" id="Page_56"></a> Corporal of the guard was a sport. He was a +young chap from Red Deer, Alberta. Now, figure the situation for yourself. +For days past we had been feeding on bully beef—bully beef out of a tin. +Four men on guard, a dozen chickens perched not a dozen feet away. Would +abstemiousness be human? Ask yourselves, <i>mes amies</i>.</p> + +<p>We drew lots. My luck had turned. But I ate of it. It was tender; it was +good; it was roasted to a turn.</p> + +<p>They say dead men tell no tales. Of dead chicken there is no such proverb. +Wish there had been. We buried those feathers deep. Alas, that Monsieur, in +common with all the folk in Northern France, was so thorough in his +cataloguing of his properties. I don't blame him. He had dealt with Germans +when they overran the territory. He had met with Belgians when they +hastened forward. He had had experience of his own countrymen when they +endeavored to drive back the enemy. He had billeted the Imperial British +soldier. Now he was confronted with a soldier of whom he had no report, +save only the name—Canadian. Monsieur had counted his chickens before they +were perched.</p><p><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57"></a></p> + +<p>We had not yet had read or explained to us the laws and penalties attaching +to such a crime while on active service. Of course, no one killed that +chicken. No one ate it. No one knew anything about it. We were perfectly +willing, if need be, to pay double price for the chicken rather than have +such a term as "chicken thief" leveled at us. We of the guard, however, +protested, but paid five francs each to smooth the matter over. This +totaled about four dollars.</p> + +<p>The next morning the whole battalion was lined up before the colonel while +the adjutant read aloud the law which we boys term the "riot act." This +document informed us very clearly that if any soldier was found to have +taken anything from the peasantry for his own use; if any man was found +drunk on active service, or if he committed any other crime or offense +which might be counted as minor to these two, the punishment for a first +offense would be six months first field punishment. For any offense of a +similar nature thereafter the man would be liable to court martial and +death.</p> + +<p>While this paper was being read, I shook in my boots, to think that I had +been—innocently or at <a name="Page_60" id="Page_60"></a>least ignorantly—associated with what was probably +the first crime of our battalion.</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 499px;"> +<img src="images/image058.jpg" width="499" height="300" alt="On our way" title="" /> +<span class="caption">On our way</span> +</div> + +<p>We went back to billets a very subdued lot of soldiers.</p> + +<p>Later in the day I noticed a lot of boys talking to a young Belgian girl. I +had no opportunity to speak to her then, but after a time I found her +alone, and with the little English Mademoiselle Marie B—— had picked up +from British soldiers lately billeted there, and with the small amount of +French I had stored away, we held quite a long conversation.</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 469px;"> +<img src="images/image059.jpg" width="469" height="300" alt="©Famous Players—Lasky Corporation. Scene from the +Photo-Play + +THE VOICE OF THE TEMPTER." title="" /> +<span class="caption">©Famous Players—Lasky Corporation. Scene from the +Photo-Play + +THE VOICE OF THE TEMPTER.</span> +</div> + +<p>I should judge that she was about fifteen. She told me she was sixteen. She +was piquant and pretty in appearance, but her features were drawn and her +expression was sad. She had a questioning wistfulness in her eyes, but she +showed no fear of the many British soldiers round.</p> + +<p>This young girl, little over a child, was all alone. She awaited in terror +the coming of her baby, and the fiends who had outraged her had brutally +cut off her right arm just a little above the elbow.</p> + +<p>"How did this happen to you, Mademoiselle?" I asked in French.</p><p><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61"></a></p> + +<p>"Ah, Monsieur," she replied, "<i>les Allemands</i>, they did—chop it off."</p> + +<p>"Why, Mademoiselle, surely no German would do such a hideous thing as that +without some reason."</p> + +<p>At that time I believed, as apparently do the majority of people in this +country to-day believe, that the Germans did not commit the atrocities that +were attributed to them. But it is all true.</p> + +<p>"But, <i>oui</i>, Monsieur,... <i>les Allemands</i>, they have no reason. They kill +my two brothers ... my father I have not seen, my mother I have not seen +... no, not for five months. <i>Les Allemands</i>, they have taken them also ... +they are dead also, <i>peutetre</i>."</p> + +<p>"And you?" I continued. "Where was your home?"</p> + +<p>"Ah, but it is the long story. We live close by Liége. It is a small +village. The Uhlans come and we are sorely frightened. We hide in the +cellar, and do not go out at all. While there <i>les Allemands</i> post a notice +in the village. It is that every person who has a gun, a pistol, a shell, +an explosive, must hand such over to the burgomaster.<a name="Page_62" id="Page_62"></a> We do not know of +this, and do nothing. At last, Monsieur, the Uhlans come to our house to +search, and there they see a shotgun and some shot. It is such a gun as you +must know in the house of British, in the house of American. It is the +common gun. We did not know. But there is no pardon for ignorance in war. +My brothers were roughly pulled to the market place and shot dead." Little +Marie choked down a sob. "My mother and my father," she continued, "were +carried away. I refuse. I fight, I bite, I scratch, I scream with frenzy, I +tear. One of <i>les Allemands</i> ... perhaps he was mad, Monsieur, he slash ... +so, and so ... he cut off my arm.</p> + +<p>"I remember no more, Monsieur. After a day ... two days, I find that I can +walk. I walk and walk. It is now one hundred and fifty miles from my home +... it is that I stay here until...."</p> + +<p>I grasped the girl's left hand and turned away. I was sick. What if she had +been my sister?</p> + +<p>And then I thought of the laws read aloud to us that morning. We soldiers, +fighting under the flag of the British Empire, were we to violate one +little <a name="Page_63" id="Page_63"></a>rule ... were we to take any property, no matter how small, without +just payment to its owner; were we to drink one glass of beer too much ... +were we to overstep by a hair's breadth the smallest rule of the code of a +"soldier and a gentleman," we were liable to be shot.</p> + +<p>What of the German who had ruined this young girl and maimed her body? +Believe me, I realized then, if never before, what we were fighting for. I +was ready to give every drop of blood in my veins to avenge the great +crimes that this little girl, in her frail person, typified.</p> + +<p>We passed another night in the same billets. Next morning at five-thirty we +were roused to make a forced march, across country, of some twenty-two +miles. This was the hardest march of the entire time I was at the front. +Those ammunition boots! Those gol-darned, double distilled, dash, dash, +dash, dashed boots!</p> + +<p>It was winter. There was heavy traffic over the roads. There were no road +builders, and precious little organization for the traffic. Part of the way +the surface had been cobblestones; now it was broken flints.</p><p><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64"></a></p> + +<p>We started out gallantly enough with full packs, very full packs. Then, a +few miles out, one would see out of the corner of his eye, a shirt sail +quietly across the hedge-row; an extra pair of boots in the other +direction; another shirt, a bundle of writing paper; more shirts, more +boots. Packs were lightening. Down to fifty pounds now; forty, thirty, +twenty, ten ... the road was getting worse.</p> + +<p>No one would give up. Half a dozen men stooped and slashed at their boots +to get room for a pet corn or a burning bunion. But every man pegged ahead. +This was the first forced march. We were on our way to the trenches. No man +dare run the risk of being dubbed a piker. We agonized, but persevered.</p> + +<p>Armentières was our objective. A fine city, this, and one which we might +have enjoyed under happier circumstances. It was under fire, but not badly +damaged, and consequently many thousands of the Imperial soldiers were +"resting" there while back from the trenches.</p> + +<p>We were the First Canadians. We were expected, and the English Tommies +determined to give us right royal welcome and a hearty handshake. We <a name="Page_65" id="Page_65"></a>had a +reputation to keep up, for in England the Cockney Tommy and his brother +"civvies" had named us the "Singing Can-ydians."</p> + +<p>But on the road to Armentières ... oh, <i>ma foi</i>! There was no singing. Call +us rather the "Swearing Can-ydians," as we stumbled, bent double, lifting +swollen feet, like Agag, treading on eggs through the streets of the city.</p> + +<p>Tommy Atkins to right of us; Tommy Atkins to left of us, cobblestones +beneath us, we staggered and swayed. The English boys cheered and yelled a +greeting. It was rousing, it was thrilling, it was a welcome that did our +hearts good; but we could not rise to the occasion.</p> + +<p>Suddenly from out of the crowd of khaki figures there came a voice—that of +a true son of the East End—a suburb of Whitechapel was surely his cappy +home.</p> + +<p>"S'y, 'ere comes the Singin' Can-ydians ... 'Ere they come ... 'Ear their +singin'."</p> + +<p>Not a sound from our ranks. Silence. But it was too much. No one can offer +a gibe to a man of the West without his getting it back. Far from down our +column some one yelled:</p><p><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66"></a></p> + +<p>"Are we downhearted?" "No!" We peeled back the answer raucously enough, and +then on with the song:</p> + +<p> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Are we downhearted? No, no, no.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Are we downhearted? No, no, no.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Troubles may come and troubles may go,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But we keep smiling where'er we go,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Are we downhearted? Are we downhearted?</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 7em;">No, no, <i>NO</i>!</span><br /> +</p> + +<p>"No, Gor'blimey, y'er not down'earted, but yer look bally well +broken-'earted," chanted our small Cockney comrade, with sarcasm ringing +strong in every clipped tone of his voice.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67"></a></p> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_V" id="CHAPTER_V"></a>CHAPTER V</h2> + +<h3>UNDER FIRE</h3> + + +<p>Broken-hearted! Gee! We sure were—nearly; but not quite. No. This was bad; +there was worse to come, and still we kept our hearts whole.</p> + +<p>But there was another trial now, and we were directed to rest billets in +what presumably had been a two-story schoolhouse or seminary. As soon as we +reached this shelter we flopped down on the hard bare floor and lay just as +we were, not even loosening our harness.</p> + +<p>We were less than three miles from the front lines. Even at this short +distance Armentières, as a whole, had not suffered greatly from shell fire, +though the upper floors of this old seminary had been shattered almost to +ruins long before our arrival.</p> + +<p>The city itself was a good strategic point for the artillery. Behind +houses, stores, churches, anywhere that offered concealment, our guns were<a name="Page_68" id="Page_68"></a> +hidden. Our artillery officers used every available inch of cover, for they +had to screen our guns from the observation of enemy aircraft which flew +with irritating irregularity over the town, and they had to avoid the none +too praiseworthy attention of spies, in which Armentières was rich.</p> + +<p>Armentières in those days was practically a network of our gun +emplacements. The majority were howitzers. These fire high; they have a +possible angle of forty-five degrees. There was no danger of their damaging +our own immediate positions.</p> + +<p>The ordinary infantry man knows less than nothing about artillery. If ever +a bunch of greenhorns landed in France, frankly, we of the First Contingent +were that same bunch.</p> + +<p>As we had marched through the city there had been no sound of gun-fire. All +was quiet except for the welcoming cheers of our British brothers. Silence +reigned for the two hours we had spent in resting on the floor of the +schoolhouse, and consequently we thought we had a snap as far as position +went.</p> + +<p>Our self-congratulations were somewhat rudely disturbed. Of a sudden, one +of our young officers<a name="Page_69" id="Page_69"></a> rushed through the door of our shelter. Poor laddie, +he was very young and his anxiety exceeded even his nervousness. +Nervousness is very natural, I can assure you. It is natural in a private; +it is more so in the officer who feels responsibility for the lives of his +men.</p> + +<p>"Lads," said he, with upraised hand, and obviously trying desperately to be +calm, "lads, I've just been told that the enemy has the range of this +building. 'Twas shelled yesterday, and we are likely to be blown up any +minute ... any minute, men! I'd advise you to stay where you are. Don't any +of you go outside, and if you don't want to lose your lives, don't go +fooling around up-stairs." With that he pointed to the rickety steps that +led to the second floor and disappeared through the door as fast as he had +come.</p> + +<p>For a few moments there was dead silence. "Blow up any minute!" We looked +at one another. We sat tense. Our very thoughts seemed petrified. From the +far corner of the room there came a sound:</p> + +<p>"Gee whiz!... Gee whiz!" the voice gathered confidence. "Gee whiz, +guys"—it was a<a name="Page_70" id="Page_70"></a> boy from the Far West who spoke—"I've come six thousand +miles, and to be blown up without even seeing a German is more than I can +swallow."</p> + +<p>"Gosh!" said I, "I wouldn't mind being shot to-morrow morning at sunrise if +I could have the satisfaction of seeing one of them first."</p> + +<p>Bob Marchington looked up. He was a droll youth, and curiosity was his +besetting sin. "Say, fellows, I wonder why he told us not to go up-stairs. +I bet you there's something to be seen from up there, or he would not have +told us not to go. Any of you boys willing to come up with me?"</p> + +<p>No one took up the challenge. We lay around a little longer. Then the +braver spirits commenced to deliberate on the suggestion. Why not go +up-stairs? At last half a dozen of us decided to embark on the risky +enterprise. We were three miles from the enemy, to be sure, but a German at +three miles seemed to us then something formidable. Many a good laugh have +we had since, in trench and out, at this expedition considered with so much +careful thought!</p> + +<p>We crept up the shaky steps one by one. We crawled along the upper floor, +skirting the gaping<a name="Page_71" id="Page_71"></a> shell holes in the woodwork. We raised our hands and +shaded our eyes from the glare of the light. We scanned the horizon. We had +an idea, I think, that we'd see a German blocking the landscape somewhere. +We were three miles away. What was three miles to us?</p> + +<p>We were deeply engrossed when there came a terrific crash. It seemed almost +under our feet ... Rp-p-p-p-p-p bang, BANG! The next thing I remembered was +landing at the foot of those narrow stairs, the other five boys on top of +me. That is a feat impossible of repetition. When we disentangled +ourselves, got to our feet and gathered our scattered wits, we found the +men who had remained below tremendously excited. Their hair was on end; +their eyes were like saucers. "Who's killed, fellows," they yelled, "who's +killed?"</p> + +<p>Of course no one was hurt. Our own battery was just dropping a few over the +Boches, but it was our first experience under fire. Behind the building a +battery of our six-inch howitzers was concealed. When they "go off" they +make a fearful racket; very likely any other bunch of fellows, not knowing +the guns were there, would do as we <a name="Page_72" id="Page_72"></a>did. I don't know. At all events, we +stayed very quietly where we were thereafter.</p> + +<p>Later in the evening we found out the true and inner meaning of the excited +order not to go outdoors or on the roof. It was a simple device to keep us +from exploring the boulevards of the city. We might have been tempted to do +that, for we had seen none of the charming French girls as yet, and they +are—<i>tres charmante</i>.</p> + +<p>About six o'clock that evening we got the customary—the eternal—bully +beef and biscuits. At seven we were ordered to advance to the front line +trenches. Our captain gathered us around him. He wanted to talk to us +before we went "in" for the first time. He was, possibly, a little +uncertain of our attitude. He knew we were fighters all right, but our +discipline was an unknown quantity. Captain Straight, I understand, was +American-born, from Detroit, Michigan. We liked him. Later we almost +worshiped him. We took all he said to heart. We listened intently; not a +word did we miss. I can repeat from memory that pre-trench speech of his.</p> + +<p>"Boys," the captain's voice was solemnity itself.<a name="Page_73" id="Page_73"></a> "Boys, to-night we are +going into the front line trenches. We are going in with soldiers of the +regular Imperial Army. We are going in with seasoned troops. We are going +in alongside men who have fought out here for weeks. We've got to be very +careful, boys."</p> + +<p>Our captain was obviously excited. We strained closer to him.</p> + +<p>"You don't know a darn thing about war, lads ... I know you don't."</p> + +<p>We fell back a pace somewhat abashed. We had been under fire that very +afternoon; but the captain (fortunately) did not know it.</p> + +<p>"You don't know the first thing about this war. You've not had +opportunities of asking about it from wounded men. Now, boys, I know +exactly what you are going to do to-night when you get in those trenches. +You're going to ask questions of those English chaps. YOU ARE NOT." He +emphasized every one of those three words with a blow of one fist on the +other.</p> + +<p>"You are not. Why, men, you know what the authorities think of our +discipline. How are we to know that this is not a device to try our +mettle.<a name="Page_74" id="Page_74"></a> How are we to know that those boys already in are not there to +watch us, to report our behavior ... and, by heaven, men, if we don't make +a good showing perhaps they will report unfavorably on us; perhaps we will +be shipped out of here, shipped back to Canada, and become the laughing +stock of the world."</p> + +<p>Captain Straight strode up and down. "It won't do, my lads. You must not +ask questions. Why, men, let those English fellows ask <i>you</i> the questions. +Don't you speak at all ... just you be brave. I know you <i>are</i> brave ... +stick out your chests." The captain gave us an illustration. We all drew +ourselves up; we almost burst the buttons from our tunics in our endeavor +to expand ... with bravery.</p> + +<p>"Keep your heads high," the captain went on, one word tripping the other in +the eagerness of his speech. "March right in. Don't stop for anything. Get +close to the parapet. Look at the British boys; throw them 'Hello, guys!' +and begin to shoot right away."</p> + +<p>We were ready for anything. Were we not brave? Hadn't we shown our bravery +by creeping <a name="Page_75" id="Page_75"></a>up a ruined stairway only three miles from the enemy? We +promised our captain, and then we commenced our march to the front.</p> + +<p>The green soldier is always put into the first line at the start. The +general idea is that he should be put in reserves and worked up gradually, +but, save under exceptional circumstances, he is put in the front line and +worked back.</p> + +<p>It has been demonstrated that shell fire is much more severe on a man's +nerves than rifle fire. Reserve trenches suffer more from shell fire than +do the front line trenches. The reason is obvious. Sometimes the front line +is but a stone's throw from the front line of the enemy. Sometimes we can +converse with the enemy from one trench to the other. In such cases it is +impossible for heavy artillery to be trained on the front. Rifles and bombs +are the only explosives under these conditions.</p> + +<p>Again, the green soldier is never put into the trenches alone. A company of +raw arrivals is sandwiched in with seasoned men. As we were the first +Canadians to arrive, and there was none of our own men to help acclimatize +us, we went in with an English regiment. There was one English, one<a name="Page_76" id="Page_76"></a> +Canadian and so on down the line. These boys belonged to the Notts and +Derbys. Jolly fine boys, too. We became fast friends. They chummed to us as +they would to their own. They showed us the ropes. They gave us tips on +this thing and that. They told us the best way to cook, the various devices +for snatching a few minutes' rest. They described the most effective +"scratching" methods for the elimination of "gray-backs," "red-stripes," +"cooties," "crawlies"—any name you like to give those hosts of insect +enemies that infest every trench.</p> + +<p>Now, "going in" isn't so easy as it sounds. We don't advance in companies +four deep. We don't have bands. We don't have pipes to inspire our courage +and rouse the fighting spirit inherited from long dead ancestors. It is a +very—a vastly different matter. We go into the trenches in single file, +each man about six paces from his nearest comrade. There is no question +about keeping behind. Instinct takes care of that.</p> + +<p>A man may have a touch of lumbago; he may have a rheumatic pain. None of +these things matters to him on the way "in." He can bend his back <a name="Page_77" id="Page_77"></a>quickly +enough as he passes along. There are always a few bullets dropping near by. +One will hit the mud somewhere around his feet. The boy nearest springs as +from a catapult until he is close to the comrade ahead of him. No; he never +springs back. If he did ... he would be the man ahead. He would be in +front. Nuffin' doin'—the whole idea is to keep behind; there is no doubt +of that.</p> + +<p>But the guide is very vigilant. All troops are guided to their positions, +and the man on this ticklish job is nearly always a sergeant. He has an +eagle eye, and a feline sense of hearing. He will note your skip forward.</p> + +<p>"Keep your paces, lads ... keep your paces." His voice booms altogether too +loud for us.</p> + +<p>"Hush! for the love o' Mike, Sergeant, not so loud." He chuckles. He knows +that feeling so well, so awfully well now. He has been a guide these many +times. But we skip back to our position, six paces behind. Then another +bullet drops and the whole dance-step is repeated with little variation.<a name="Page_78" id="Page_78"></a> +The sergeant booms once more, and in desperation that the Boches will hear +him, we obey.</p> + +<p>'Tis pretty how we step, too, on that first time "in." We lift each foot +like a trotting thoroughbred. We step high, we step lightly. We tread as +daintily as does a gray tomcat when he encounters a glass topped wall on a +windy night.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79"></a></p> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VI" id="CHAPTER_VI"></a>CHAPTER VI</h2> + +<h3>THE MAD MAJOR</h3> + + +<p>This first night in, had the commander-in-chief, had any one who questioned +the discipline of the First Canadians, seen us, he would have been proud of +our bearing, our behavior.</p> + +<p>The Tommy who has been there before, when on guard never shows above the +parapet more than his head to the level of his eyes. When he has had his +view on the ground ahead, he ducks. He looks and ducks frequently. But +we—we were not real soldiers; we were super-soldiers. We were not brave; +we were super-brave. We went into those trenches; we returned the greeting +of the English boys; we lined up to the parapet; we stretched across it to +the waistline, and then rose on tippy-toe. I do admit it was a very dark +night; at least it appeared so to me. Oh, we were on the brave act, all +right, all right.</p> + +<p>We stood there staring steadily into the blackness. Suddenly a bullet would +come "Zing-g-g-g,"<a name="Page_80" id="Page_80"></a> hit a tin can behind us, and then we would duck, +exclaim "Good lord! that was a close one," then resume the old position. +But we soon learned not to have many inches of our bodies displayed, +target-fashion, for the benefit of the Dutchies.</p> + +<p>The first night in we fired more bullets than on any other night we were at +the front. We saw more Germans that night. They sprang up by dozens; they +grew into hundreds as the minutes passed and the darkness deepened. We felt +like the prophet Ezekiel as he viewed the valley of dry bones. There was +the shaking, there was the noise, and my imagination, at least, supplied +the miraculous warriors. It was an awful night, that first night in.</p> + +<p>Any one knows that if frightened in the dark (we were not frightened, of +course; only a little nervous), the worst thing to do is to keep the eyes +on one spot. Then one begins to see things. It is not necessary to be a +soldier, and it is not necessary to go to the front line in France to make +sure of that statement. Stare ahead into the dark anywhere and something +will move.</p> + +<p>We had our eyes set, and we peppered away. An<a name="Page_81" id="Page_81"></a> English officer strolled by, +and addressed a fellow near me. "What the ... what the blinkety-blank are +you shooting at?"</p> + +<p>"Me, sir ... m-me, sir? Germans, sir...." And he went on pumping bullets +from his old Ross. The officer smiled.</p> + +<p>For myself, I was detailed for guard. I stood there on the firestep with my +body half exposed. I did not feel very comfortable. I thought if I could +get any other job to do, I would like it better. The longer I stayed, the +more certain I became that I would be killed that night. I did not want to +be killed. I thought it would be a dreadful thing to be killed the first +night in. A few bullets had come fairly close—within a yard or two of my +head. I determined there and then, should opportunity offer, I would not +stay on guard a minute longer than I could help.</p> + +<p>My chance came sooner than I had hoped for. I hadn't realized, what I +discovered after a few more turns in the trenches, that guard duty is the +easiest job there is. I was eager for a change, and when I heard an English +sergeant call out: "I want a Canadian to go on listening-post duty," I +hopped <a name="Page_82" id="Page_82"></a>down from my little perch and volunteered: "I'll go, Sergeant. Take +me."</p> + +<p>I had my job transferred in a few minutes. I honestly did not know the duty +for which I was wanted. I knew there was a ration back in the town. I had a +vague idea that we would go back to the town for more bread or something of +the kind.</p> + +<p>I had heard of an outpost, but a listening-post was a new one on me. These +were very early days in the war. The Imperial soldiers had recently +established this new system, and as yet it was not a matter of common +knowledge.</p> + +<p>This war is either so old-fashioned in its methods or so new-fashioned—in +my opinion it is both—that it is continuously changing. The soldier may be +drilled well in his own land, if he comes from overseas; he may be +additionally trained in England; he may have a couple of weeks at the base +in France, but it is all the same—when he reaches the front line trenches +there will have been a change, an improvement, in some thing or other. It +may be but a detail, it may be but a new name for an old familiar job, but +changed it is.</p><p><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83"></a></p> + +<p>The best soldier in the fighting to-day is the type of man who can adapt +himself to anything. He must have initiative; he must have resource; he +must have individuality; he must be a distinct and complete unit in +himself, ready for any emergency and any new undertaking.</p> + +<p>I started promptly to hike down the communication trench, following back +the way we had come. An English private soldier was detailed to go on +listening-post with me. Again, the raw soldier is never left to his own +devices on first coming in. He is given the support of a veteran on all +occasions, unless under some very special condition.</p> + +<p>"Hie!" called the private to me, "where're yer goin' to?"</p> + +<p>"Back, ye bally ass!"</p> + +<p>He looked his contempt. "'Ave yer b'ynet fixed?" he asked, by way of +answer.</p> + +<p>"Bayonet fixed?"</p> + +<p>"Yes," said he, "'urry up! We're late."</p> + +<p>"Late?" I repeated.</p> + +<p>"For Gawd's syke," he exclaimed, "don't yer know as 'ow we are goin' hout? +Goin' over to the German trenches—goin' hout!"</p><p><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84"></a></p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 477px;"> +<img src="images/image084.jpg" width="477" height="300" alt="©Famous Players—Lasky Corporation. Scene from the +Photo-Play + +THE END OF A PERFECT DAY." title="" /> +<span class="caption">©Famous Players—Lasky Corporation. Scene from the +Photo-Play + +THE END OF A PERFECT DAY.</span> +</div><p><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85"></a></p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 595px;"> +<img src="images/image085.jpg" width="595" height="360" alt="Cheerful beggars" title="" /> +<span class="caption">Cheerful beggars</span> +</div><p><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86"></a></p> + +<p>I gulped. "Going to make a charge?"</p> + +<p>"No ... goin' HOUT ... listenin'-post." And that private started out across +No Man's Land as nonchalantly as though he were strolling along his native +strand. I followed. I followed cautiously. I don't know how I got out. I +don't remember. I can't say that I was frightened ... no, I was just scared +stiff. Five paces out I put my hand on the Englishman's shoulder ... I was +quite close to him; don't doubt it. He stopped.</p> + +<p>"How far is it to the German trenches?" I whispered.</p> + +<p>"Eh?"</p> + +<p>I raised my voice just a trifle. I didn't know who might hear me: "How far +is it to the German trenches?"</p> + +<p>"Five 'undred yards." My companion started off again. He stepped on a +stick. I jumped. I jumped high. We continued, then I stopped him once more.</p> + +<p>"Are we alone out here? Are there any Germans likely to be out too?"</p> + +<p>"Why, yes ... plenty of 'em out here."</p><p><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87"></a></p> + +<p>"Do they go in pairs, like us; or have they squads of them...."</p> + +<p>"Pairs, my son, pairs, brace, couples...." The private strode on.</p> + +<p>"Do our boys ever meet any of the Boches?"</p> + +<p>"Sure! Many a time."</p> + +<p>"What do we do?"</p> + +<p>"Do? Stick 'em, matey, stick 'em! You've learnt to use yer b'ynet, 'aven't +yer? Well, stick 'em ... kill 'em! Don't use yer rifle ... the flash would +give you away, and then ye'd be a corpse."</p> + +<p>I felt I was a corpse already. I felt that if there was any killing to be +done that night he would have to do it, not I.</p> + +<p>We crept more cautiously now. My comrade did not tread on sticks. I +whispered to him for the last time: "What are we out here for, anyway?"</p> + +<p>Then he explained. He was a good-hearted chap. "Don't yer know w'ot +listenin'-post is? W'y, there's a couple of us fellows hout at intervals +all along the line. We get as close to the enemy parapet as is possible. We +watch and listen, lyin' flat on the ousey ground hall the while. We are +<a name="Page_88" id="Page_88"></a>the heyes of the harmy. The Germans raid us on occasions. Were these posts +not hout, the raids would be more frequent. They'd come hover and inflict +severe casualties on hour men. They can't see the Boche. We can. Should one +Boche, or five 'undred try to come hover that parapet, one of us must +immediately set hout and run back to hour trenches and give the warnin' for +hour boys to be ready. The other one of us stays back 'ere, and with cold +steel keeps back the rush."</p> + +<p>I nodded. "What happens afterward to the man who stays back here?"</p> + +<p>"Mentioned in despatches ... sometimes," Tommy returned casually.</p> + +<p>I thought over the matter. Tommy whispered further.</p> + +<p>"Oh, yer needn't be a bit nervous. There's two of us lads about every forty +or fifty yards. This is the w'y. 'Ere we are, 'ere the Boches are ... there +the boys are"—he flicked an expressive thumb backward. "Those Boches +thinks as 'ow they 'as to get to our trenches, but before they gets to our +trenches, they 'as to pass us ... they 'as to pass US ... see?"</p><p><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89"></a></p> + +<p>I saw. "Say," I touched him gently, "a while before I joined up, I did the +hundred yards in eleven seconds flat ... those Boches may pass you +to-night, but never, on your life, will they pass me."</p> + +<p>Tommy chuckled. He had been through it all himself. Every man has it the +first time that he goes on any of these dangerous duties. I can frankly say +I disliked the listening-post duty that first time. Nothing happened of +course. There was no killing, but it was nervy work. Later, in common with +other fellows, I was able to go on listening-post with the same nonchalance +as my first coster friend. It lies in whether one is used to the thing or +not. Nothing comes easy at first, especially in the trenches. Later on, it +is all in the day's work.</p> + +<p>When our relief came we crawled back to our trench and spent the night in +our dugouts. Next day we got a change of rations. We had "Maconochie." "He" +is by way of a stew. Stew with a tin jacket. It bears the nomenclature of +its inventor and maker, although Maconochie's is a <a name="Page_90" id="Page_90"></a>firm. This is an +English ration and after bully beef for weeks, it is a pleasant enough +change.</p> + +<p>The weather was fine: clear overhead, blue sky and just a hint of frost, +though it was not very cold. After dinner the first day in the trenches, I +suddenly noticed an excitement among the English soldiers. We became +excited, too, and strained to see what was happening.</p> + +<p>There, sheer ahead of us, darting, twisting, turning, was a monoplane right +over the German trench. It was a British plane, and taking inconceivably +risky chances. We could see the airman on the steering seat wave to us. He +seemed like a gigantic mosquito, bent on tormenting the Huns. Their bullets +spurted round him. He spiraled and sank, sank and spiraled. Nothing ever +hit him. The Boches got wildly hysterical in their shooting. Every rifle +pointed upward. They forgot where they were; they forgot us; they fired +rapidly, round after round. And still the plane rose and fell, flitted +higher and looped lower. It was a magnificent display. We could see the +aviator wave more clearly now; his broad smile almost made us imagine we +heard his exultant laugh.</p><p><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91"></a></p> + +<p>"Who is it? What is it?" We boys gasped out the questions breathlessly.</p> + +<p>"'Ere he comes; watch 'im, mate; watch 'im. 'E's the Mad Major. Look, +look—he's looping! Gawd in 'eaven, they've got 'im. No, blimey, 'e's +blinkin' luck itself. 'E's up again."</p> + +<p>"Who is the Mad Major?" I asked, but got no answer. Every eye was on the +wild career of the plane.</p> + +<p>The Germans got more reckless. They stood in their trenches. We fired. We +got them by the ones and twos. They ducked, then—swoop—again the major +was over them, and again they forgot. Up went their rifles, and spatter, +spatter, the bullets went singing upward.</p> + +<p>It was about an hour after that we heard a voice cry down to us: "Cheer up, +boys, all's well." There, overhead, was the Mad Major in his plane. Elusive +as was the elusive Pimpernel, he flitted back of the lines to the +plane-base.</p> + +<p>"Who is he?" We crowded round the English Tommies when all was quiet.</p> + +<p>"The Mad Major, Canuck," they answered. "The Mad Major."</p><p><a name="Page_92" id="Page_92"></a></p> + +<p>"Yes, but—"</p> + +<p>"Never 'eard of 'im, 'ave yer?" It was a sergeant who spoke, and we closed +round, thinking to hear a tale.</p> + +<p>"'E comes round 'ere every evenin', 'e does. 'E 'as no fear, that chap, 'e +'asn't. Does it to cheer us up. Didn't yer 'ear 'im as 'e went? 'E 'arries +them, 'e does, 'arries them proper. Down 'e'll go, up 'e'll go, and ne'er a +bullet within singing distance of 'im. 'E's steeped in elusion!" The +sergeant finished, proud of having found a phrase, no matter what might be +its true meaning, that illustrated what he wished to convey.</p> + +<p>The Mad Major certainly appeared immune from all of the enemy's fire.</p> + +<p>The sergeant went on. He, himself, had been with the Imperial forces since +August, 1914. He had fought through the Aisne, the Marne, and the awful +retreat from Mons.</p> + +<p>'Twas at Mons, he told us, that the Mad Major earned his sobriquet, and +first showed his daring. During those awful black days when slowly, slowly +and horribly, French and British and Belgians fought a backward fight, day +after day and hour <a name="Page_93" id="Page_93"></a>after hour, losing now a yard, now a mile, but always +going back—then it was that with the dreadful weight of superior +numbers—maybe twenty to one—the Germans had a chance to win. Then it was +they lost, and lost for all time.</p> + +<p>All through this rearguard action there was the Mad Major. Mounted on his +airy steed, he flitted above the clouds, below the clouds. Sometimes +swallowed in the smoke of the enemy's big guns; sometimes diving to avoid a +shell; sometimes staggering as though wounded, but always righting himself. +There would be the Mad Major each day, over the rearguard troops, seeming +to shelter them. He would harry the German line; he would drop a bomb, flit +back, and with a brave "We've got them, boys," cheer the sinking spirits of +the wearied foot soldiers.</p> + +<p>The Mad Major was a wonder. Every part of the line he visited, and was +known the length and breadth of the Allied armies.</p> + +<p>Though for the moment the Mad Major had disappeared from our view, we were +to hear more of him later on.</p><p><a name="Page_94" id="Page_94"></a></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VII" id="CHAPTER_VII"></a>CHAPTER VII</h2> + +<h3>WHO STARTED THE WAR?</h3> + + +<p>The wisest thing that our commanders did was to sandwich the Canadian boys +in with the British regulars. Without a doubt we of the First Division were +the greenest troops that ever landed in France.</p> + +<p>In two short turns that we spent with the British, we learned more than we +could have otherwise in a month's training. We also became inspired with +that "Keep cool and crack a joke" spirit that is so splendidly Anglo-Saxon.</p> + +<p>I am not an Englishman, and I did not think very much of an Englishman +before going overseas. I regarded him more or less as not "worth while." It +did not take a year to convince me that the Englishman is very much "worth +while."</p> + +<p>The English soldier chums up quickly. The traditional formality and +conventionality of the English are traditions only. There is none of it in +the trenches.</p><p><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95"></a></p> + +<p>Discipline there is, strict discipline, among men and officers. Between +officer and man there is a marked respect, and a marked good fellowship +which never degenerates into familiarity.</p> + +<p>There is love between the English officer and the English soldier. A love +that has been proved many times, when the commissioned man has sacrificed +his life to save the man of lower rank; when the private has crossed the +pathway of hell itself to save a fallen leader.</p> + +<p>The English soldier, and when I say English I mean to include Welsh, Scotch +and Irish, reserves to himself the right to "grouse." He grouses at +everything great or small which has no immediate or vital bearing on the +situation. As soon as anything arises that would really warrant a +grouse—napoo! Tommy Atkins then begins to smile. He grouses when he has to +clean his buttons; he grouses loudly and fiercely when a puttee frays to +rags, and he grouses when his tea is too hot.</p> + +<p>But when Tommy runs out of ammunition, is partly surrounded by the enemy, +is almost paralyzed by bombardment; when he is literally in the last ditch, +with a strip of cold steel the only thing <a name="Page_96" id="Page_96"></a>between him and death—then +Tommy smiles, then he cracks a joke. Without a thought of himself, without +a murmur, he faces any desperate plight.</p> + +<p>He smiles as he rattles his last bullet into place; he grins as his bayonet +snaps from the hilt, and he goes to it hand-to-hand with doubled fists, a +tag of a song on his lips, for "Death or Glory."</p> + +<p>That is Tommy Atkins as I saw him. That is the real Britisher of the Old +Country. We shall know him from now on in his true light, and the knowledge +will make for a better understanding among the peoples of the +English-speaking world.</p> + +<p>It was Sandy Clark who, eating a hunch of bread and bully beef in a dugout, +got partly buried when an H.E. (high explosive) came over. Sandy crawled +out unhurt, his sandwich somewhat muddy but intact, and made his way down +the trench to a clear space. Here he sat down beside a sentry, finished his +bully beef and muddy bread, wiped his mouth, and remarked some ten minutes +after the explosion: "That was a close one."</p> + +<p>Imperturbable under danger; certain of his own immediate immunity from +death; confident of his regiment's invincibility; with a deep-rooted love +of <a name="Page_97" id="Page_97"></a>home and an unalterable belief in the might and right of Britain—there +is Tommy Atkins.</p> + +<p>Looking back from the vantage point of nearly two years, it seems to me +that we were somewhat like young unbroken colts. We were restless and +untrained, with an overplus of spirits difficult to control. Gradually the +English Tommy influenced us until we gained much of his steadiness of +purpose, his bulldog tenacity and his insouciance.</p> + +<p>Tommy never instructed us by word of mouth. He lived his creed in his daily +rounds. He never knows that he is beaten, therefore a beating is never his. +We have gained the same outlook, simply by association with him.</p> + +<p>Were I a general and had I a position to <i>take</i>, I would choose soldiers of +one nation as quickly as another—French, Australians, Africans, Indians, +Americans or Canadians. Were I a general and had I a position to <i>retain</i>, +to hold against all odds, then, without a moment's hesitation, I would send +English troops and English troops only.</p> + +<p>Now and again an American or a Canadian newspaper would come our way. +"Anything to read" is a never-ending cry at the front, and every scrap <a name="Page_98" id="Page_98"></a>of +newspaper is read, discussed and read again. In the early days of 1914-15, +these newspapers would have long and weighty editorials which called forth +longer and weightier letters from "veritas" and "old subscriber." We boys +read those editorials and letters, and wondered; wondered how sane men +could waste time in writing such stuff, how sane men could set it in type +and print it, and more than all we wondered how sane men could read it. +"Who started the war?" they asked.</p> + +<p>"Bah!" we would say to one another, "who started the war? If only those +folks who write and print and read such piffle, no matter what their +nationality, could have had five minutes' look at the German trenches and +another five minutes' look at the French and British trenches—never again +would they query, 'Who started the war?'"</p> + +<p>We of the Allied army knew nothing of trench warfare. After the fierce +onslaught on Paris, which failed, the Germans entrenched. Thank God, they +did. They entrenched, and by entrenching they have won the war for us. They +made a mistake then that they can never now retrieve.</p> + +<p>They were in a position to choose, and they chose <a name="Page_99" id="Page_99"></a>to entrench in the high +dry sections, leaving the low-lying swamps, the damp marshy lands, for us. +We had no alternative. It was either to take a stand there on what footing +was left or be wiped off the map. We stood.</p> + +<p>On that sector between La Bassee and Armentières it was practically an +impossibility to dig in. The muddy water was of inconceivable thickness +along the greater length of the whole front. It oused and eddied, it seemed +to swirl and draw as though there were a tide. We did not attempt to dig. +We raised sandbag breastworks some five or six feet high and lay behind +them day in and day out for an eternity, as it seemed.</p> + +<p>Our shift in the trenches was supposed to be four days and four nights in. +It never was shorter, sometimes much longer. Once we spent eleven days and +nights in the trenches without a shift, because our reinforcing battalion +was called away to another sector of the front. I know of a Highland +Battalion that was in twenty-eight days and nights without a change.</p> + +<p>We were unequipped as to uniform. We were in the regulation khaki of other +days. We had no <a name="Page_100" id="Page_100"></a>waterproof overcoats. We had puttees, but the greater +number of us had no rubber boots. A very few of the men had boots of rubber +that reached to the knees. At first we envied the possessors of these, but +not for long. The water and mud, and shortly the blood, rose above the top +and ran down inside the leg of the boot. The wearers could not remove the +mud, and trench feet, frost bite, gangrene, was their immediate portion. We +lost as many men, that first winter of the war, by these terrible +afflictions as we did by actual bullets and shell fire.</p> + +<p>To us who had come from the Far Northwest the weather was a terrible trial. +Our winters were possibly more severe, but we could stand them so much +better, with their sharp dry cold in contrast to the damp, misty, soaking +chill of this non-zero country. Possibly, at night, the thermometer would +register some two or three degrees below freezing. A thin shell of ice +would form on the ditch which we called a trench. This would crackle round +our legs and the cold would eat into the very bone. At dawn the ice would +begin to break up and a steady sleet begin to fall. Later the sleet would +<a name="Page_101" id="Page_101"></a>turn to rain, and so the day would pass till we were soaked through to the +skin. At night the frost would come again and stiffen our clothes to our +tortured bodies, next day another thaw and rain, and so to the end of our +turn, or to the time when an enemy bullet would finish our physical +suffering.</p> + +<p>We could have borne all this without a murmur, and did bear it in a silence +that was grim, but we had a greater strain, a mental one, with which to +contend. We knew—we knew without a doubt that we were out there alone. We +had not a reserve behind us. We had not a tithe of the gun power which we +should have had. Our artillery was not appreciable in quantity. What there +was of it was effective, but as compared to the enemy gun power we were +nowhere. They had possibly ten to our one. They were very considerably +stronger than they are to-day. We, to-day, can say with truth that we are +where they were in 1914-15. We, with our two years of hurried and almost +frenzied work, and they, with their forty years of crafty preparation!</p> + +<p>And they knew how to use those guns, too. Our <a name="Page_102" id="Page_102"></a>engineering and pioneer +corps at that time were non-existent. We had practically none. The Germans +would put over a few shells during the day. They would level our sandbag +breastworks and blow our frail shelters to smithereens. We had no dugouts +and no communication trenches. With a shell of tremendous power they would +rip up yards of our makeshift defenses and kill half a dozen of our boys. +Sometimes we would groan aloud and pray to see a few German legs and arms +fly to the four winds as compensation. But no. We would wire back to +artillery headquarters: "For God's sake, send over a few shells, even one +shell, to silence this hell!" And day after day the same answer would come +back: "Heaven knows we are sorry, but you've had your allotment of shells +for to-day."</p> + +<p>Perhaps one shell, or it may have been three, would have been the +ammunition ration of our particular front for the day.</p> + +<p>It was nobody's fault at the moment of fighting. It lay perhaps between +those who had anticipated and prepared for war for forty years and those +who had neglected to foresee the possibility <a name="Page_103" id="Page_103"></a>of such an enterprise. The +fact remained, we had no shells.</p> + +<p>Every day our defenses were leveled. Every night we would crawl out, after +long hours spent flat on our stomachs, covered to the neck in mud and +blood, and endeavor to repair the damage. Every night we lost a few men; +every day we lost a few men, and still we held our ground.</p> + +<p>The day casualties were the worst. The wounded men had to lie in the damp +and dirt until night came to shelter them; then some one would help, or if +that were not possible, the wounded would have to make his own pain-strewn +way back to a dressing station. During the day some one might discover that +he had developed a frozen toe. He could get no relief; he dare not attempt +to leave his partial shelter. The slightest movement, and the enemy would +have closed his career. By night his foot would be a fiery torture, and by +the time a doctor was near enough to help it would be a rotting mass of +gangrene, and one man more would be added to the list of permanent +cripples.</p> + +<p>I am asked, "How did you live? How did you 'carry on'?"</p><p><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104"></a></p> + +<p>Many a time I have said to myself in thinking of the enemy: "Why don't they +come on—why don't the fools strike now? There's no earthly reason why they +should not defeat us, and roll on triumphantly to Paris, to Calais, to +London, to New York, and so realize their original intention." There was no +<i>earthly</i> reason. No.</p> + +<p>The Kaiser had talked in lordly voice of "ME and God." The Kaiser has +manufactured a God of his own fancy, a God of blood and iron. There is no +such God for us. For us, there was always that Unseen Hand which held back +the enemy in his might. The All Highest who is not on the side of blood and +murder and pillage and outrage and violation; the Almighty, who, crudely +though I may express it, is with those who fight for the Right and on the +square.</p> + +<p>And that is why we were not driven back to the sea. That is why we stood +the test. That is why we, the Allied Nations, shall win.</p> + +<p>Again, if the German hordes, with their iron power behind them, had had +five per cent. of the Anglo-Saxon sporting blood in their veins, they could +have licked us long ago. They did not.<a name="Page_105" id="Page_105"></a> They have not. They are poor +sports. They have eliminated the individuality of "sport" for the +efficiency of machinery, and they can not lick us.</p> + +<p>Who started the war? The War Machine that had the preparation of half a +century, or the peace-loving peoples who, at a day's notice, took their +stand for humanity?</p> + +<p>Who started the war? There is no room for argument. The Germans started the +war.</p> + +<p>Who will finish the war? There is no room or argument. We will finish the +war.</p><p><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106"></a></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VIII" id="CHAPTER_VIII"></a>CHAPTER VIII</h2> + +<h3>"AND OUT OF EVIL THERE SHALL COME THAT WHICH IS GOOD"</h3> + + +<p>The worst days of this war are over. The worst days were those through +which we came in the winter of 1914-15. The war may last ten years; the war +may be over inside of a few months. Neither contingency would surprise me. +We might lose twice as many in killed and wounded as we did through that +winter; every white man, British, French, American, of military age, might +pay the supreme price, and yet the worst days are gone by.</p> + +<p>The worst days of the war passed when the chance of the Hun defeating us +was lost. Though all the flower of our manhood were crippled or dead, +though our old men and our boys were called to the field, though women had +to gird on sword and buckler, none of these things could be worse than to +be licked—licked is the word—by a dastardly and cowardly foe.</p><p><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107"></a></p> + +<p>And if the German Army at the zenith of its strength could not lick one +thin line of English, of French and Canadians, how can they lick us when we +have Uncle Sam in the balance?</p> + +<p>A question to daunt even the scientific brain of a Kaiser, of a Hindenburg, +of a Von Bernstorff.</p> + +<p>The folks back home are always wondering and inquiring how it is possible +to feed the troops under such terrible and awful conditions. The folks back +home are the only ones who worry. We do not. Tommy Atkins is much more sure +of getting his rations to-morrow than he is of living until to-morrow to +eat them.</p> + +<p>Right here I would pay a sincere tribute to two departments of our British +Army. The Commissary Department which supplies every want of the soldier, +from a high explosive shell to a button. It is as near to the one hundred +per cent. mark of efficiency as it is possible for a human organization to +become. It is not too much to say that it is perfect.</p> + +<p>The other department is that of the Medical Corps, the R.A.M.C., or the Red +Cross. It is all the same. It is all run with the precision of <a name="Page_108" id="Page_108"></a>clockwork. +Its whole aim for the comfort and succor of Tommy. Of this department I +speak in a later chapter.</p> + +<p>The food for the millions of men in France is concentrated at what we may +call the Great Base, and from there it is distributed to the different army +corps. In each army corps there are two or more divisions. In a division +there are three infantry and three artillery brigades, three field +companies of engineers, three field ambulances and details. In each +infantry brigade are four battalions and in each artillery four batteries. +To one company are four platoons, and about seventy men to a platoon.</p> + +<p>Each body of men as I have named them is really a separate and distinct +unit in itself, but cooperating with all others. The food from the base is +brought to the army corps by rail, and is distributed to the divisional +headquarters by divisional transports which are operated by the Army +Service Corps or the Mechanical Transport. From the divisional headquarters +the next step is to the brigades, and brigade transports collect the food +and take it another few miles nearer to the boys.</p> + +<p>Battalion transport wagons then bring the food <a name="Page_109" id="Page_109"></a>and other supplies down to +battalion headquarters. At these headquarters are the quartermaster +sergeants of each company, and they, with their staff, during the daytime +pack up and get ready for distribution supplies for each separate platoon. +At night the company wagons, already packed, are drawn up as close to the +trenches as conditions will permit. If the country is too torn with shells +to permit the use of horses, men will drag them.</p> + +<p>I have seen these wagons sometimes within five hundred yards of the front +line trenches, and again ration parties may have to crawl back a mile +before meeting them. It all depends on a number of circumstances. On a +moonlight night it is not possible to come so close as on a dark night. In +rain the wagons may sink into mud-holes, or in badly shelled areas there is +danger of their turning over into a hole. Everything depends on conditions +and the good judgment of the man in charge.</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 562px;"> +<img src="images/image110.jpg" width="562" height="360" alt="©Famous Players—Lasky Corporation. Scene from the +Photo-Play + +THE HUN COMES TO TOWN." title="" /> +<span class="caption">©Famous Players—Lasky Corporation. Scene from the +Photo-Play + +THE HUN COMES TO TOWN.</span> +</div> + +<p>Each evening from each section, and there are four sections to a platoon, +the corporal or sergeant in command will detail a couple of men for ration +<a name="Page_112" id="Page_112"></a>party. Ration party is no pleasant job; as Tommy terms it, it is "one of +the rottenest ever."</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 466px;"> +<img src="images/image111.jpg" width="466" height="300" alt="©Famous Players—Lasky Corporation. Scene from the +Photo-Play + +"WHO'S THE GIRL, PEAT?"" title="" /> +<span class="caption">©Famous Players—Lasky Corporation. Scene from the +Photo-Play + +"WHO'S THE GIRL, PEAT?"</span> +</div> + +<p>The two unhappy boys will crawl out as soon as it is dark. They reach the +supply wagon, or it may be only a dump of goods. There they will find the +quartermaster in charge, in all likelihood. To him they tell their platoon +number—Number Sixteen Platoon, Section Four, perhaps—and the +quartermaster will hand them the rations. One man will get half a dozen +parcels, maybe more. His comrade never offers to relieve him of any—to the +comrade there is designated a higher duty. The quartermaster takes up with +care and hands with tenderness to the second man a jar, or possibly a jug.</p> + +<p>On going back to the trenches a thoughtless sentry may halt the ration +party. I have seen it done. I have heard the conversation. I dare not write +it. There goes one of the boys, both arms hugging a miscellaneous +assortment of packages. He slips and struggles and swears and falls, then +picks himself up and gathers together the scattered bundles. But what of +the other? A jug held tightly in <a name="Page_113" id="Page_113"></a>both hands, he chooses his steps as would +a dainty Coryphee. He dare not trip. He dare not fall. He MUST not spill +one drop. Jugs are hard to replace in France; in fact, it is much easier to +get a jug in Nebraska than in France.</p> + +<p>The boys finally reach the trench in safety, and next morning the rations +are issued at "stand-to." "Stand-to" is the name given to the sunrise hour, +and again that hour at night when every man stands to the parapet in full +equipment and with fixed bayonet. After morning stand-to bayonets are +unfixed, for if the sunlight should glint upon the polished steel our +position might be disclosed to some sniper.</p> + +<p>To my mind stand-to is more or less a relic of the early days of the war, +when these two hours were those most favored by the Germans for attack, and +so it has become a custom to be in readiness.</p> + +<p>A day's rations in the trenches consists of quite a variety of commodities. +First thing in the winter morning we have that controversial blind, rum. We +get a "tot" which is about equal to a tablespoonful. It is not compulsory, +and no man need take it unless he wishes. This is not the time or place to +<a name="Page_114" id="Page_114"></a>discuss the temperance question, but our commanders and the army surgeons +believe that rum as a medicine, as a stimulant, is necessary to the health +of the soldier, therefore the rum is issued.</p> + +<p>We take this ration as a prescription. We gulp it down when half frozen, +and nearly paralyzed after standing a night in mud and blood and ice, often +to the waistline, rarely below the ankle, and it revives us as tea, cocoa +or coffee could never do. We are not made drunkards by our rum ration. The +great majority of us have never tasted medicinal rum before reaching the +trenches; there is a rare chance that any of us will ever taste it, or want +to taste it, again after leaving the trenches.</p> + +<p>The arguments against rum make Mr. Tommy Atkins tired, and I may say in +passing that I have never yet seen a chaplain refuse his ration. And of the +salt of the good God's earth are the chaplains. There was Major the +Reverend John Pringle, of Yukon fame, whose only son Jack was killed in +action after he had walked two hundred miles to enlist. No cant, no smug +psalm-singing, mourners'-bench stuff for him. He believed in his +Christianity like a man; he was ready to fight for his <a name="Page_115" id="Page_115"></a>belief like a man; +he cared for us like a father, and stood beside us in the mornings as we +drank our stimulant. Again, I repeat if a man is found drunk while on +active service, he is liable to court martial and death. A few years' +training of this kind will make the biggest pre-war drunkard come back home +a sober man.</p> + +<p>Each soldier carries into the trenches with him sufficient coke and wood to +last for his four days in. Upon the brazier he cooks his own meals. For the +first few months we were unable to place our braziers on the ground; they +would have sunk into the mud. If we attempted to cook anything we would +stick a bayonet into a sandbag and hang the brazier on it, then cook in our +mess tins over that.</p> + +<p>To-day there are dugouts, trench platforms and other conveniences which +simplify the domestic arrangements of the trenches to a marvelous degree.</p> + +<p>A soldier is at liberty to cook his own rations by himself, but as a rule +we all chum in together. We may all take a hand in the cooking, or we may +appoint a section cook for a day or for a week, according to his especial +facility.</p><p><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116"></a></p> + +<p>After the rum ration we receive some tea and sugar, lots of bully beef and +biscuits. The bully beef is corned beef and has its origin, mysterious to +us, in Chicago, Illinois, or so we believe. It is quite good. But you can +get too much of a good thing once too often. So sometimes we eat it, and +sometimes we use the unopened tins as bricks and line the trenches with +them. Good solid bricks, too! We get soup powders and yet more soup +powders. We get cheese that is not cream cheese, and we get a slice of raw +bacon. Often we eat the bacon at once, sometimes we save it up to have a +"good feed" at one time. One can plan one's own menu just as fancy +dictates.</p> + +<p>Then we get jam. The inevitable, haunting, horrific "plum and apple." This +is made by Ticklers', Limited, of London, England, and after the tins are +empty we use them to manufacture hand grenades. In those days our supply of +hand bombs was like our supply of shells, problematic to say the least. +After a time, back of the line, instruction schools were opened in bomb +making and bomb throwing. One or two out of a platoon would go back and +learn "how," and then instruct the rest <a name="Page_117" id="Page_117"></a>of us to fill the tins with spent +pieces of shrapnel, old scraps of iron, anything which came handy, insert +the fuse, cotton and so forth, and thus form an effective weapon for close +fighting.</p> + +<p>We called those bombers "Ticklers' Artillery Brigade," and they tickled +many a German with Ticklers' empty jam tins.</p> + +<p>A stock of weak tea, some sugar, salt, some bully beef, biscuits crumbled +down, the whole well stirred and brought to a boil, then thickened by +several soup powders, is a recipe for a stew which, as the Irishman said, +is "filling and feeding." Of its appearance I say nothing.</p> + +<p>Regardless of any, we are the best fed troops in the field. While in the +trenches the food may be rough and monotonous, but there is plenty of it, +and it is of the best quality of its kind. No man need ever be hungry in +the trenches. It is his own fault if he is.</p> + +<p>We grouse at our rations, of course, and make jokes and laugh, but we never +run short of supplies.</p> + +<p>Behind the lines, when we go back for a rest and are in billets, we are +supplied with well-cooked and comfortable meals. Three good squares a day.<a name="Page_118" id="Page_118"></a> +We have here our field kitchens and our regular cooks, and Mulligan (stew) +is not the daily portion, but variations of roast beef, mutton and so +forth.</p> + +<p>It is good food, and I have heard men exclaim that it was better than +anything they had had at home. After investigation I usually found that the +men who dilated thus on the gastronomic delights of billets were married +men!</p> + +<p>The authorities are just as careful about sending up a soldier's letters, +his parcels and small gifts from home, as they are about the food and +clothing supplies. They recognize that Tommy Atkins naturally and rightly +wants to keep in touch with the home folks, and every effort is made to get +communications up on time. But war is war, and there are days and even +weeks when no letters reach the front line. Those are the days that try the +mettle of the men. We do not tell our thoughts to one another. The soldier +of to-day is rough of exterior, rough of speech and rough of bearing, but +underneath he has a heart of gold and a spirit of untold gentleness.</p> + +<p>We play poker, and we play with the sky the <a name="Page_119" id="Page_119"></a>limit. Why not? Active service +allowance is thirty francs a month—five dollars. Why put on any limit? You +may owe a man a hundred, or even two hundred dollars, but what's the +difference?—a shell may put an end to you, him and the poker board any old +minute. There is no knowing.</p> + +<p>Weeks pass and no letters. We play more wildly, squatting down in the mud +with the board before us. I have sometimes seen a full house, a straight, +three of a kind, or probably four big ones. "I raise you five," says Bill. +Bang!—a whiz bang explodes twenty yards away. "I raise you ten." Bang!—a +wee willie takes the top off the parapet. "There's your ten, and ten +better." Crash!—and several bits of shrapnel probably go through the +board. "You're called. Gee, but that was a close one! Deal 'em out, Peat."</p> + +<p>Suddenly down the trench will pass the word that the officer and sergeant +are coming with letters and parcels. We kick the poker board high above the +trench, cards and chips flying in all directions. No one cares, even though +he's had a hand full of aces. The letters are in, and every man is dead +sure there will be one for him.</p><p><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120"></a></p> + +<p>We crowd around the officer with shining eyes like so many schoolboys. +Parcels are handed out first, but we throw these aside to be opened later, +and snatch for the letters. But luck is not always good to all of us, and +possibly it will be old Bill who has to turn away empty-handed and alone. +No letter. Are they all well, or—no letter.</p> + +<p>But Bill is not left alone very long. A pal will notice him, notice him +before he himself has had more than a glimpse of the heading of his own +precious letter, and going over to Bill, will slap him a hearty blow on the +shoulder and say: "Say, Bill, old boy, I've got a letter. Listen to this—" +And then, no matter how sacred the letter may be, he will read it aloud +before he has a chance to glance at it himself. If it is from the girl, old +Bill will be laughing before it is finished—girls write such amusing +stuff; but, no matter whom it is from, it is all the same. It is a pleasure +shared, and Bill forgets his trouble in the happiness of another.</p> + +<p>Kindness, unselfishness and sympathy are all engendered by trench life. +There is no school on earth to equal the school of generous thoughtfulness +which is found on the battle-fields of Europe <a name="Page_121" id="Page_121"></a>to-day. There we men are +finding ourselves in that we are finding true sympathy with our brother +man. We have everything in common. We have the hardship of the trench, and +the nearness of death. The man of title, the Bachelor of Arts, the +bootblack, the lumberjack and the millionaire's son meet on common ground. +We wear the same uniform, we think the same thoughts, we do not remember +what we were, we only know what we are—soldiers fighting in the same great +cause.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><a name="Page_122" id="Page_122"></a></p> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_IX" id="CHAPTER_IX"></a>CHAPTER IX</h2> + +<h3>ALL FUSSED UP AND NO PLACE TO GO</h3> + + +<p>Some days in the trenches are dreariness itself. Sometimes we get +discouraged to the point of exhaustion, but these days are rare and when +they do occur there is always an alleviation. In every trench, in every +section, there is some one who is a joker; who is a true humorist, and who +can carry the spirits of the troops with him to the place where grim +reality vanishes and troubles are forgotten.</p> + +<p>The nights pass quickly enough because at night we have plenty to do. But +even while carrying out duties at night many humorous things happen. Take, +for instance, the passing of messages up and down the line.</p> + +<p>To the civilian message-sending might appear much the same day or night, +but not so. In the day we can speak without fear of being overheard, but at +night no one knows but that Hans or Fritz may be a few feet on the other +side of the parapet <a name="Page_123" id="Page_123"></a>with ears cocked for all sounds. So communications +have to be made with care. Sometimes the change of a syllable might alter +the meaning of a sentence and cause disaster.</p> + +<p>A message at night is whispered in lowest tones from man to man. This is a +branch of the service for the young recruit to practise. It means much, and +a thoughtless error is unpardonable. The first man receives the +communication from the officer. Through the silence will come a soft +"Hs-s-s." The next in line will creep up and get the words. He in turn +calls to the next man and whispers on the order.</p> + +<p>It was one night early in the fighting that Major Kirkpatrick sent the +message down the line four hundred yards along: "Major Kirkpatrick says to +tell Captain Parkes to send up reinforcements to the right in a hurry." +That was the message as I got it. That was the message as I transmitted it +to the next man. To Captain Parkes the message ran in a hurried whisper: +"Major Kirkpatrick says to tell Captain Parkes to send up 'three and +fourpence' to the right in a hurry."</p> + +<p>When Major Kirkpatrick received three shillings <a name="Page_124" id="Page_124"></a>and fourpence he was +almost in a state of collapse. Luckily, the situation was not serious, or +possibly we might have lost heavily. This shows how imperative it is to +have absolute accuracy.</p> + +<p>Again, at nights there are different kinds of raids to be carried out. +Probably a raid by wire cutters, or possibly an actual trench raid. Nights +in France are not meant for sleep. There is usually one hour on duty and +two hours off, and something doing all the while.</p> + +<p>But the days frequently grow long and tiresome. We sleep, we tell stories, +we read when there is anything to read, and we write letters if we have the +materials. Or, above all, we work out some new device to spring upon the +Boche.</p> + +<p>In the early days of the war we knew nothing about hand grenades. The +Germans started to use them on us, but it was not a great while before we +fell into line and produced bombs to match theirs. At first we had the +Tickler variety as previously described; since then we have used the +"hair-brush" and others, but to-day we are using the standardized Mill hand +grenade.</p> + +<p>I can never forget the first bomb that was thrown <a name="Page_125" id="Page_125"></a>from our trench. +Volunteers were asked for this new and risky job. I will not mention the +name of the boy who volunteered in our section, but he was a big, hefty, +red-haired chap. He has since been killed. It is noticeable that red-haired +fellows are impetuous and frequently ahead of others in bravery, for a +moment or two, anyway.</p> + +<p>That day there was an additional supply of mud and water in our trench. We +were dragging around in it until the bombing commenced, then we crowded +like boys round the big fellow, who was close to the parapet, his chest +stuck out, his voice vibrant with pride as he said, "Just you wait and see +me blow those fellows to smithereens—just you wait and see!"</p> + +<p>In those days of makeshift bombs there was a nine-second fuse in each. We +were about thirty yards from the Germans' trench. Of course it would not +take nine seconds for the bomb to travel thirty yards; rather would it +arrive in three seconds, and give Hans and Fritz opportunity to pick it up +comfortably and return it in time for its explosion to kill us and not +them. Thus the order was to count at least five—one, two, three, four, +five—slowly <a name="Page_126" id="Page_126"></a>and carefully, after the fuse was lighted and before the bomb +left the hand.</p> + +<p>Every one had his eyes glued to the periscope, except myself. I watched the +fuse in the hand of that red-haired guy. He started to count—one, two, and +his hand began to shake; at three his hand was moving about violently; at +four the bomb fell. I wonder if there is any one in the world who thinks +that we stopped there to see that bomb explode. No, we didn't.</p> + +<p>There was a chance right there for the quick thinker, for the man of +extraordinary initiative, to win the V.C. Somehow our initiative took us in +the other direction. It is really wonderful how fast the average man can +beat it when he knows there is certain death should he linger in one spot +very long. The way we traveled round the traverse and up the trenches was +not slow.</p> + +<p>Usually there is something going on, but there are days when a man would +not think there was a war at all. It is not every day at the front that +both sides are shelling and strafing. We once faced a certain Saxon +regiment and for nearly two weeks neither side fired a bullet. This +particular Saxon <a name="Page_127" id="Page_127"></a>regiment said to us: "We are Saxons, you are +Anglo-Saxons, we are not a bit fussy about shooting as long as you won't." +So, as our turns came periodically, we faced them and did not shoot.</p> + +<p>Actually we sent out working parties in the daytime, both Saxon and +British, but such things do not happen any more. And such a situation never +yet happened with a Prussian or Bavarian regiment. Those devils like to +shoot for the sake of hearing their rifles go off.</p> + +<p>There are days, when fighting at close quarters, that both sides feel +pretty good. The morning will be bright, and we may open the proceedings by +trying to sing German songs, and they will join in by singing British airs, +but always in a sarcastic manner, after putting words to them that I dare +not write.</p> + +<p>On the first day of July, which is Dominion or Confederation Day, the +Germans began by singing to a certain Eastern Canadian regiment the first +verse of our national anthem, <i>O! Canada</i>. When they got through, they +politely asked the young braves of this regiment to sing the second verse. +The Canadian boys sent over a few bombs instead, <a name="Page_128" id="Page_128"></a>for they did not know the +words of the second verse! Not to know the second verse seems to be one of +the idiosyncrasies of the peoples of all nations, bar the German!</p> + +<p>Should we get tired of singing, we would shout across to the enemy +trenches. We would ask pertinent questions about their commanders and +impertinent ones about the affairs of their nation. One thing I can say for +Hans—he is never slow in answering. His repartee may be clumsy, but it is +prompt and usually effective.</p> + +<p>We would inquire after the health of old "Von Woodenburg," old "One +O'clock," the "Clown Prince," or "One Bumstuff." Hans would take this in a +jocular way, slamming back something about Sir Wilfrid Laurier, Lloyd +George, or Sir Sham Shoes, but when we really wanted to get Fritz's goat we +would tease him about the Kaiser.</p> + +<p>We would shout "<i>Gott strafe der Kaiser!</i>" That would put them up in the +air higher than a balloon. We would feel like getting out and hitting one +another, but we dare not even raise a finger because a sniper would take it +off. But after a lull there is always a storm, so before many minutes a +bullet <a name="Page_129" id="Page_129"></a>would go "crack," which would be the signal for thousands of rifles +on both sides to commence an incessant firing. All this over nothing, and +nobody getting hurt.</p> + +<p>It put me in mind of a couple of old women scrapping over a back-yard +fence, and as we say back home, "all fussed up and no place to go."</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><a name="Page_130" id="Page_130"></a></p> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_X" id="CHAPTER_X"></a>CHAPTER X</h2> + +<h3>HELLO! SKY-PILOT!</h3> + + +<p>At the outset of the war there was much speculation as to the response the +Lion's cubs would make to the call for help. Britain, herself, never +doubted that her children, now fully grown and very strong, would rally to +the old flag as in the earlier days of their greater dependency. But +Britain, England, is of the Brer Rabbit type—she sits still and says +nuffin'.</p> + +<p>The neutrals speculated on the attitude of Canada. German propaganda had +been busy, and certain sections of the Canadian public had been heard to +say that they had no part with England—but that was before the war. The +speculative neutral had a shock and a disappointment. Not a Canadian, man +or woman, but remembered that England was "home," and home was threatened. +As one man they answered the short sharp cry.</p> + +<p>Australia, New Zealand and South Africa provided <a name="Page_131" id="Page_131"></a>food for conversation +among the nations then not engaged in the fight. South Africa had a rising, +fostered by German money and German lies, but it fizzled out before the +determined attitude, not of England, but of the men who counted in South +Africa itself. All of these countries, which used to be colonies, came +without question when the need arose. They may have had minor disagreements +with the Old Country, they may have resented the last lingering parental +attitude of the Motherland, but let any one touch as an enemy that +Motherland and that enemy had well have cried, "Peccavi!" on the moment.</p> + +<p>Above all, the neutrals wondered about India. That vast Far Eastern Empire +with her millions of men—what would India do?</p> + +<p>What did India do? The maharajahs threw into the coffers of the homeland +millions of money, they threw in jewels in quantity to be judged by weight +of hundreds, in value to be judged in millions of pounds. They offered +their men and their lahks of rupees without reservation. The regular troops +of the Eastern Empire, the Ghurkas, the Pathans, the Sikhs, a half dozen +others, clamored to be taken <a name="Page_132" id="Page_132"></a>over to Europe to fight at the front for the +great White Chief.</p> + +<p>The Indian troops came to Europe, landed in France, and took up their stand +on the western front. To them I must make special reference. Some idea may +be abroad that because the Hindu troops are not still in France that they +proved poor fighters. This is very far from the truth. The Indian regiments +were among our best, but they could not stand the rigors of the European +climate. They had been used to the warmth and brightness and dryness of +their homeland; they came to cold and rain and mud and unknown discomforts. +It was too much. Again, the Indian is made for open, hand-to-hand warfare. +Give him a hill to climb and hold, give him a forest to crawl through and +gain his point, give him open land to pass over without being seen, he can +not be beaten. But the strain, mental and physical, of trench life was too +much.</p> + +<p>To the Indian, war is a religion. One day I went down the line to where a +body of Ghurkas were lying to our left. I walked along about a mile through +the muddy ditches and at last came up with one of the men. I stopped and +spoke, then <a name="Page_133" id="Page_133"></a>offered him a fag. After this interchange of courtesies we +fell into conversation. He did not know very much English, and I no +Hindustani at all, but in a short time one of the Ghurka officers +approached. The officers and men of these regiments are very friendly, more +chummy almost than are our officers to our men. This officer acted as an +interpreter, and together they told me much that I was anxious to know.</p> + +<p>After a little I asked the Ghurka to show me his knife, but he would not. +The Ghurka knife is a weapon of wonderful grace. It is short and sharpened +on both edges, while it is broad and curved almost to the angle of a +sickle. It is used in a flat sweeping movement, which, when wielded by an +expert, severs a limb or a head at one blow. I was told that at twenty +yards, when they throw it, they never miss.</p> + +<p>At last, through the agency of the officer, I found that it is against all +the laws of battle for a soldier of this clan to remove his knife from the +scabbard unless he draws blood with the naked blade. The unfailing courtesy +of the Hindu forbade a continued refusal, and as I urged him the soldier +<a name="Page_134" id="Page_134"></a>at last slowly drew the blade from its sheath. He did not raise it for me +to examine, nor did he lift his eyes to mine until he had pricked his hand +between the thumb and first finger and raised a jet of his own red blood. +Then only did I have the privilege of looking at his treasured weapon.</p> + +<p>The Hindu warrior believes that to die in battle is to win at once a +coveted eternity in Erewohne. He does not wish to be merely wounded, he +desires death in fight rather than immunity from injury. He does not evade +danger; rather he seeks it.</p> + +<p>Shortly after this, at the great battle of Neuve Chapelle, where the +British took over five miles of trenches and four miles of front from the +enemy, the Hindu troops distinguished themselves in magnificent charges. +They leaped out of the trenches almost before the word of command had +reached their hearing. Fleet of foot and lithe of action, they had sprung +into the enemy trenches and slashed the Hun to submission before the +heavier white men had got across the intervening country. They were +wonderful, full of dash and courage, but the difficulties of the situation +called for an alteration of their fighting <i>milieu</i>.</p><p><a name="Page_135" id="Page_135"></a></p> + +<p>Feeding these troops also was a matter of considerable moment. Their +religion forbade the eating of any meat but that of the goat. These animals +must be freshly killed and must be killed by the Hindu himself. This +entailed the bringing up to the line of herds of live goats. In addition, +many other formalities of food supply had to be taken into account.</p> + +<p>With the most fervent thanks for the good work done on our western front, +the authorities came to the conclusion that our cousins of the East would +be even greater in service on one of our other fronts. They have gone since +to Egypt, to Saloniki, to Mesopotamia, and to the East and West African +fronts. They are playing a magnificent and unforgetable part in the world +war. They have endeared themselves to the hearts of the folks at home and +they have earned the lasting gratitude of all of us. They have defended +their section of the empire as we have defended our northern part of the +red splotches which mark Britain on the map.</p> + +<p>I was sorry that the Indian regiments had to be removed from the west +front, because, undoubtedly, they were the most feared by the Hun. The +Indian <a name="Page_136" id="Page_136"></a>was at his best in a charge, but at night he had an uneasy habit of +crawling out of the trench toward Fritz, with his knife held firmly between +his teeth. Before dawn he would return, his knife still in his teeth, but +in his hand a German head.</p> + +<p>To-day the Canadians in France are known by the enemy as the "white +Ghurkas," and this, to us, is one of the highest compliments. The Ghurkas +are considered bravest of the brave. Shall we not be proud to share a title +such as this?</p> + +<p>As the religion of the Ghurka follows him to the battle-field, so in a +different sense does the religion of the white man. We have our thoughts, +our hopes and our aspirations. Some of us have our Bibles and our +prayer-books, some of us have rosaries and crucifixes. All of us have deep +in our hearts love, veneration and respect for the sky-pilot—chaplain, if +you would rather call him so. To us sky-pilot, and very truly so, the man +who not only points the way to higher things, but the man who travels with +us over the rough road which leads to peace in our innermost selves.</p> + +<p>It does not matter of what sect or of what denomination these men may be. +Out on the battle-field <a name="Page_137" id="Page_137"></a>there are Anglican clergy, there are Roman +Catholic priests, there are ministers of the Presbyterian, the Methodist, +the Baptist and other non-conformist faiths. Creed and doctrine play no +part when men are gasping out a dying breath and the last message home. The +chaplain carries in his heart the comfort for the man who is facing +eternity. We do not want to die. We are all strong and full of life and +hope and power of doing. Suddenly we are stricken beyond mortal aid. The +chaplain comes and in a few phrases gives us the password, the sign which +admits us to the peaceful Masonry of Christianity. Rough men pass away, +hard men "go West" with a smile of peace upon their pain-tortured lips if +the padre can get to them in time for the parting word, the cheerful, +colloquial "best o' luck."</p> + +<p>Does the padre come to us and sanctimoniously pronounce our eternal doom +should he hear us swear? The clergyman, the minister of old time, is down +and out when he reaches the battle-fields of France, or any other of the +fronts we are holding. No stupid tracts are handed to us, no whining and +groaning, no morbid comments on the possibility <a name="Page_138" id="Page_138"></a>of eternal damnation. No, +the chaplain of to-day is a real man, maybe he always was, I don't know. A +man who risks his life as do we who are in the fighting line. He has +services, talks, addresses, but he never preaches. He practises all the +time.</p> + +<p>Out of this war there will come a new religion. It won't be a sin any more +to sing rag-time on Sunday, as it was in the days of my childhood. It won't +be a sin to play a game on Sunday. After church parade in France we rushed +to the playing fields behind the lines, and many a time I've seen the +chaplain umpire the ball game. Many a time I've seen him take a hand in a +friendly game of poker. The man who goes to France to-day will come back +with a broadened mind, be he a chaplain or be he a fighter. There is no +room for narrowness, for dogma or for the tenets of old-time theology. This +is a man-size business, and in every department men are meeting the +situation as real men should.</p> + +<p>Again, at Neuve Chapelle, there was magnificent bravery. Just across the +street, at a turn, there lay a number of wounded men. They were absolutely +<a name="Page_139" id="Page_139"></a>beyond the reach of succor. A terrible machine gun fire swept the roadway +between them and a shelter of sandbags, which had hastily been put up on +one side of the street. By these sandbags a sergeant had been placed on +guard with strictest orders to forbid the passing of any one, without +exception, toward the area where the wounded lay. It was certain death to +permit it. We had no men to spare, we had no men to lose, we had to +conserve every one of our effectives.</p> + +<p>As time wore on and the enemy fire grew hotter, a Roman Catholic chaplain +reached the side of the sergeant. "Sergeant, I want to go over to the aid +of those wounded men."</p> + +<p>"No, sir, my orders are absolutely strict. I am to let no one go across, no +matter what his rank."</p> + +<p>The chaplain considered a moment, but he did not move from where he stood +beside the sergeant.</p> + +<p>A minute passed and a chaplain of the Presbyterian faith came up. +"Sergeant, I want to go across to those men. They are in a bad way."</p> + +<p>"I know, sir. Sorry, sir. Strict orders that no one must be allowed to +pass."</p> + +<p>"Who are your orders from?"</p><p><a name="Page_140" id="Page_140"></a></p> + +<p>"High authority, sir."</p> + +<p>"Ah!" The padre looked at the sergeant....</p> + +<p>"Sorry, Sergeant, but I have orders from a Higher Authority," and the +Presbyterian minister rushed across the bullet-swept area. He fell dead +before he reached his objective.</p> + +<p>"I, too, have orders from a Higher Authority," said the Roman Catholic +priest, and he dashed out into the roadway. He fell, dead, close by the +body of his Protestant brother. They had not reached the wounded, but +Heaven is witness that their death was the death of men.</p> + +<p>Hand in hand with the chaplains at the front is the Y.M.C.A. It is doing a +marvelous work among the troops. The Y.M.C.A. huts are scattered all over +the fighting front. Here you will find the padre with his coat off engaged +in the real "shirt-sleeve" religion of the trenches. Here there are all +possible comforts, even little luxuries for the boys. Here are +concerts,—the best and best-known artists come out and give their services +to cheer up Tommy. Here the padres will hold five or six services in an +evening for the benefit of the five or six relays of men who can attend. +Here are <a name="Page_141" id="Page_141"></a>checker-boards, chess sets, cards, games of all sorts. Here is a +miniature departmental store where footballs, mouth organs, pins, needles, +buttons, cotton, everything can be bought.</p> + +<p>"What's the place wid the red triangle?" asked the Irish soldier, lately +joined up and only out, from a Scotch-Canadian who stood near by.</p> + +<p>"Yon? D'ye mean to say ye dinna know the meaning o' thon? Why, mon, yon's +the place whaur ye get a packet o' fags, a bar o' chocolate, a soft drink +and salvation for twenty-five cents."</p> + +<p>Yes; we get all that in the Y.M.C.A. huts where the padre toils and the +layman sweats day and night for the well-being of the soldier men. In some +of the huts it is actually possible to get a bath. It is always possible to +get dry. 'Twas Black Jack Vowel, good friend Jack, who wrote over to tell +us that there was no hut at one time near his front.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>"Bad luck here, this time in. No Y.M.C.A. hut near. I was coming +out last night for a turn in billets when I fell into a shell +hole. It was pretty near full of water, so I got soaked to the +neck, <a name="Page_142" id="Page_142"></a>and I hit against a couple of dead Boches in it, too. Not +nice. Reached the billet dripping wet. Have got a couple of sugar +boxes, one at my head and one at my feet. Have coke brazier +underneath. If I lie here about three hours and keep turning, I +guess I'll be dry by then."</p></div> + +<p>That's when no padre was handy to lead the way to a hut.</p> + +<p>Can folk wonder why we love the padres, why we reverence the Y.M.C.A.? Can +folk wonder why the men who used to look on such men as sissy-boys have +changed their opinions? Can folk wonder that the religion which is +Christian is making an impression on the soldier? Can folk deny the fact +that this war will make better men?</p> + +<p>Once again I mention Major the Reverend John Pringle. Best of pals, best of +sports, best of sky-pilots! Many a time as we have been marching along we +have met him. He would pick out a face from among the crowd, maybe a +British Columbia man. "Hello! salmon-belly!" would good Major John peal +out. Again, he would see a Nova Scotian: "Hello! fish-eater—hello, +blue-nose!"</p> + +<p>Then through us all would go a rush of good <a name="Page_143" id="Page_143"></a>feeling and good heart. +Through all of us would go a stream of courage and happiness and a desire +to stand right with the man as he was.</p> + +<p>"Hello! Sky-pilot!"</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><a name="Page_144" id="Page_144"></a></p> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XI" id="CHAPTER_XI"></a>CHAPTER XI</h2> + +<h3>VIVE LA FRANCE ET AL BELGE!</h3> + + +<p>We had only been about ten weeks in France when we were moved out of the +trenches and placed in Ypres in billets. Some of us were actually billeted +in the city itself, and others of us had a domicil in the environs.</p> + +<p>Ypres, or Wipers, as Tommy Atkins called it, was then considered a "hot" +spot. The Germans say no one ever comes back from Ypres without a hole in +him. Tommy says, when he curses, "Oh, go to ——; you can't last any longer +than a snow ball in Ypres!"</p> + +<p>At this time Ypres was not yet destroyed by the enemy. I have seen many +cities of the world. I have seen the beauties of Westminster Abbey, the Law +Courts; I have seen the tropical wonders of the West Indies; I have seen +the marvels of the Canadian Rockies, but I have never seen greater beauty +of architecture and form than in the city <a name="Page_145" id="Page_145"></a>of Ypres. There was the Cloth +Hall, La Salle des Draperies with its massive pillars, its delicate +traceries, its Gothic windows and its air of age-long gray-toned serenity.</p> + +<p>There was Ypres Cathedral! A place of silence that breathed of Heaven +itself. There was its superb bell tower, and its peal of silver-tongued +chimes. There were wonderful Old World houses, quaint steps and turns and +alleys. It was a city of delight, a city that charmed and awed by its +impressive grandeur.</p> + +<p>Now the city was massed with refugees from the ravaged parts of Belgium. In +peace times possibly the population would have numbered thirty-five to +forty thousand, at this time it seemed that sixty thousand souls were +crowded into the city limits. Every house, every <i>estaminet</i>, every barn, +every stable was filled to its capacity with folk who had fled in despair +before the cloven hoof of the advancing Hun.</p> + +<p>Glance at the map on page 142 and judge of the condition of a city +practically surrounded on all sides by the enemy. Three miles away to the +left, three miles away to the right, and a matter of <a name="Page_146" id="Page_146"></a>only ten miles away +from the immediate front of the city. For months the Germans had shelled +the town every day. Not with a continued violence, but with a continued, +systematic irritation which played havoc with the strongest nerves. Not a +day passed that two or three women, or half a dozen children or babies did +not pay the toll to the war god's lust of blood.</p> + +<p>But still the people remained in the city. There was no alternative. +Conditions behind Ypres were just the same, and all the way back to Calais. +Every town and every village, every hamlet and every farm had its quota of +refugees. Here they stayed and waited grimly for the day of liberation.</p> + +<p>One day I walked out from Ypres a few miles. I came to the village of +Vlamentinge. I went into an <i>estaminet</i> and called for some refreshment. +From among the crowd of soldiers gathered there a civilian Belgian made his +way over to me. He was crippled or he would not have been in civilian +clothes.</p> + +<p>"Hello, old boy!" he said to me in perfect English. "How are you?"</p> + +<p>I replied, but must have looked my astonishment <a name="Page_147" id="Page_147"></a>at his knowledge of my +language, for he went on to explain.</p> + +<p>"I got over from the States just the week war broke out. I worked in North +Dakota, and had saved up and planned to come over and marry my sweetheart, +who waited in Brussels for me. I have not seen her. She must be lost in the +passing of the enemy. I have gathered a very little money, enough to start +on the small farm which is my inheritance. Come and see it—come and have +dinner with me."</p> + +<p>I accepted his invitation, and we walked over together. The Belgian spoke +all the way of his fine property and good farm. All the while there was a +twinkle in his eye, and at last I asked him what size was his great farm.</p> + +<p>"Ten acres," said he, and laughed at my amazement at so small a holding.</p> + +<p>We reached the house, which proved to be a three-roomed shack. In a little, +dinner was served and we went in to sit down. Not only the owner and +myself, but fifteen others sat down to a meal of weak soup and war bread. +The other guests at the table were fourteen old women and one young <a name="Page_148" id="Page_148"></a>girl. +They sat in a steady brooding silence. I asked the Belgian if they +understood English. They did not, and so I questioned him.</p> + +<p>"Very big family this you've got," I remarked. I knew what they were, but +just wanted to draw him out.</p> + +<p>"Oh, they're not my family."</p> + +<p>"Only visitors?" I queried.</p> + +<p>"Darned good visitors," said he, "they've been here since the second week +of August, 1914."</p> + +<p>"Refugees—" I commented.</p> + +<p>"Yes, refugees, not one with a home. Not one who has not lost her husband, +her son or her grandson. Not one who has not lost every bit of small +property, but her clothes as well. You think that I am doing something to +help? Well, that is not much. I'm lucky with the few I have. There's my old +neighbor over yonder on the hill. He owns five acres and has a two-roomed +shack and he keeps eleven."</p> + +<p>"And how long do you expect them to stay?"</p> + +<p>"Why, laddie," said he. "Stay—how should I know? I was talking to an +officer the other day and he told me he believed the first ten years of +this <a name="Page_149" id="Page_149"></a>war would be the worst. They are free and welcome to stay all that +time, and longer if need be. They are my people. They are Belgians. We have +not much. My savings are going rapidly, but we have set a few potatoes"—he +waved his hand over to where four of the old women were hoeing the ground. +"We get bread and a little soup; we have enough to wear for now. We shall +manage."</p> + +<p>That is only one instance in my own personal experience. Every place was +the same. The people who could, sheltered those that had lost all. It was a +case of share and share alike. If one man had a crust and his neighbor +none, why then each had half a crust without questions.</p> + +<p>It is for Belgium. It is to-day, in the midst of war and pillage and +outrage, that man is learning the brotherhood of man. In peace times no man +would have imagined the possibility of sharing his home and income, no +matter how great it might have been, with fifteen other persons. The +fifteen unfortunates would have been left to the tender mercies of a +precarious and grudging charity. To-day, charity is dead in its old +accepted sense of doling out a few pence to the needy; to-day, charity <a name="Page_150" id="Page_150"></a>is +imbued with the spirit of Him who, to the few said, "I was hungered and you +gave me meat."</p> + +<p>To-day, it is not necessary to go to Ypres, to Namur, to Liége, to Verdun, +or to any of the bombarded cities of Belgium and France to see the ruin +that has been wrought by war among the people. It is the populace who +suffer, even in greater degree than do the fighting men. They must give way +in every instance before the irresistible barrier of martial law. It is the +old men, the women, the children, the babies and the physically imperfect +who must bear the brunt of dreadfulness.</p> + +<p>Go to any of the cities of France, a hundred or more miles from the firing +line. Go to Rouen, to Paris, to the smaller inland towns, to St. Omer, to +Aubreville, and there is war.</p> + +<p>The streets and boulevards, which a few years since were gay with a +laughing crowd of joyous-hearted men and women, youths and maidens, to-day +are gloomy, with the shadow of sorrow and death on them. On a conservative +estimate it will be found that in all the towns and cities of France, one +in three women will be dressed in black.</p> + +<p>The French woman carries through life the tradition <a name="Page_151" id="Page_151"></a>of the veil. She is +christened, and over her baby face there lies a white veil. She is +confirmed, and a veil drapes her childish head. She is married, and a +trailing lace veil half conceals her happy smiles. She mourns, and a heavy +veil of black crape covers her from head to foot.</p> + +<p>We of the Canadians learned to know the wonderful emotion of the French. As +we marched along the streets we would see a Frenchwoman approaching us. She +recognized the strange uniform of an Ally and her eyes would sparkle, and +perchance she'd greet us with a fluttering handkerchief. The shadow of a +smile would cross her face; she was glad to see us; she wanted to welcome +us. And then she would remember, remember that she had lost her man—her +husband, her son, her sweetheart. He had been just as we, strong and +virile. He had gone forth to a victory that now he was never to see on +earth. His had been the supreme sacrifice. She would pass us, and the tears +would come to her eyes, and we'd salute those tears—for France.</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 482px;"> +<img src="images/image152.jpg" width="482" height="300" alt="Over the top" title="" /> +<span class="caption">Over the top</span> +</div> + +<p>And the men, what of them? There are no men. You will see old men, shaken +and weak; possibly they have experienced the German as he was in<a name="Page_154" id="Page_154"></a> 1870, and +they know. You will see boys, eager strong boys, who impatiently await the +call to arms. You will see young men who now look old. You will see them +blind, and led about by a younger brother or sister. You will see the +permanently crippled and those that wait for death, a slow and lingering +death from the Hun's poisonous gases.</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 484px;"> +<img src="images/image153.jpg" width="484" height="300" alt="With the best of luck" title="" /> +<span class="caption">With the best of luck</span> +</div> + +<p>It is no uncommon sight to see the peasantry of France and Belgium, the old +and young women, the children and the very old men, working in their fields +and on their tiny farms, less than a mile from the trenches. It is their +home. It is France or it is Belgium, and love of country and that which is +theirs is stronger than fear of death. Some one of them may be blown to +pieces as he works; it makes no difference. They do not leave as long as it +is possible to remain, or as long as the Allied armies will permit them to +stay.</p> + +<p>Their houses may be leveled, they may only find shelter in a half ruined +cellar. Often they may go hungry, but always there is a grim determination +to stick to their own, to till the ground which has kept them, which has +kept their parents and great-grandparents, and which they mean shall keep +<a name="Page_155" id="Page_155"></a>their children when victory, which they know is inevitable, is complete.</p> + +<p>They have a wonderful faith.</p> + +<p>The casualties of the French army have never been made public. We do not +know them. It may be that they will never be told to a curious world. +France may have had her body crushed almost beyond endurance, but the +unspeakable Hun—the barbarian, the crusher of hope and love and +ideals—has not even made a dent on the wonderful spirit of France.</p> + +<p>France is superb. In the parlance of the man in the street, we all "take +off our hats" to this valiant country.</p> + +<p>I could tell of the most horrible things possible for human mind to +conceive. I have seen things that, put in type, would sicken the reader. I +do not want to tell of these things here, evidence of them can be had from +any official document or blue-book. And yet, in justice to Belgium, I must +tell some of the least dreadful of the things I have seen and only those +that have come to me through personal experience. I do not tell from +hearsay, and I tell the truth without exaggeration.</p><p><a name="Page_156" id="Page_156"></a></p> + +<p>In common with thousands of other Canadian and Imperial soldiers I saw the +evacuation and destruction of Ypres. On the morning of April 21, 1915, we +marched along the Ypres-Menin road, which road was the key to Calais, to +Paris, to London and to New York. We marched along in the early hours of +the morning, just after dawn. To our left passed a continuous stream of +refugees. We looked toward them as we went by. We saluted as they passed, +but many of us had dimmed vision.</p> + +<p>We had heard of German atrocities. We had seen an isolated case or two as +we marched from town to town and village to village. We had not paid a +great deal of attention to them, as we had considered such things the work +of some drunken German soldier who had run riot and defied the orders of +the officers. Though we had certainly seen one or more cases that had +impressed us very deeply. The case I cited earlier in this book never left +my thoughts. But here on the king's highway, we saw German atrocities on +exhibition for the first time. I say exhibition, and public exhibition, +because it was the first time we had seen atrocities in bulk—in +numbers—in hundreds.</p><p><a name="Page_157" id="Page_157"></a></p> + +<p>Ypres had been destroyed in seven hours, after a continuous bombardment +from one thousand German guns. It was a city of the dead. The military +authorities of the Allies told the civilians they must leave. They had to +go, there was no alternative. The liberation they had hoped for was in +sight, but their road to it was of a roughness unspeakable.</p> + +<p>There was the grandfather in that procession, and the +grandmother,—sometimes she was a crippled old body who could not walk. +Sometimes she was wheeled in a barrow surrounded by a few bundles of +household treasure. Sometimes a British wagon would pass piled high with +old women and sick, to whom the soldiers were giving a lift on their way.</p> + +<p>There was the mother in that procession. Sometimes she would have a bundle, +sometimes she would have a basket with a few broken pieces of food. There +was a young child, the baby hardly able to toddle and clinging to the +mother's skirts. There was the young brother, the little fellow, whimpering +a little perhaps at the noise and confusion and <a name="Page_158" id="Page_158"></a>terror which his tiny +brain could not grasp. There was the baby, the baby which used to be plump +and smiling and round and pinky white, now held convulsively by the mother +to her breast, its little form thin and worn because of lack of +nourishment.</p> + +<p>There was no means of feeding these thousands of helpless ones. Their only +means of sustenance was from the charity of the British and French +soldiers, who shared rations with them.</p> + +<p>And there was sister, the daughter—sister—sister. At sight of these young +girls—from thirteen up to twenty and over—we learned, if we had not +learned before, that this is a war in which every decent man must fight. +Some Americans and Canadians may not want to go overseas; they may be +opposed to fighting; they may think they are not needed. Let them once see +what we saw that April morning and nothing in the world could keep them at +home.</p> + +<p>They dragged along with heads low, and eyes seeking the ground in a shame +not of their own making. I am conservative when I say that one in <a name="Page_159" id="Page_159"></a>four of +the hundreds of young girls who walked along in that sad crowd had a baby, +or was about to have one.</p> + +<p>And that was not the only horror of their situation. Many of them had one +or the other arm off at the elbow. They had not only been ruined, but +mutilated by their barbarous enemies.</p> + +<p>That evening we camped just outside the city of Ypres. We rested all night, +and the next day we went into action. During the afternoon of April +twenty-second the Germans, for the first time in the history of warfare, +used poisonous gas. And they used it against us as we lay there ready to +protect the Ypres salient.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><a name="Page_160" id="Page_160"></a></p> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XII" id="CHAPTER_XII"></a>CHAPTER XII</h2> + +<h3>CANADIANS—THAT'S ALL</h3> + + +<p>Less than three months before this we were raw recruits. We were considered +greenhorns and absolutely undisciplined. We had had little of trench +experience. At Neuve Chapelle we had "stood by." At Hill 60 we had watched +the fun. But our discipline, our real mettle, had not yet been put to the +test.</p> + +<p>That evening of the twenty-second of April when we marched out from Ypres, +little did any of us realize that within the next twenty-four hours more +than one-half of our total effectives were to be no more.</p> + +<p>I feel sure that our commanders must have been nervous. They must have +wondered and asked themselves, "Will the boys stand it?" "How will they +come out of the test?"</p> + +<p>We were about to be thrown into the fiercest and bitterest battle of the +war. There were no other troops within several days' march of us.<a name="Page_161" id="Page_161"></a> There +was no one to back us up. There was no one else, should we fail, to take +our place. "Canadians! It's up to you!"</p> + +<p>I could tell of several stirring things that happened to other battalions +during that night, but I am only telling of what I saw myself, and it will +suffice to write of one most stirring thing which befell the Third.</p> + +<p>As we crossed the Yser Canal we marched in a dogged and resolute silence. +No man can tell what were the thoughts of his comrade. We have no bands, +nor bugles, nor music when marching into action. We dare not even smoke. In +dark and quiet we pass steadily ahead. There is only the continued muffled +tramp—tramp—of hundreds of feet encased in heavy boots.</p> + +<p>To the far right of us and to the far left shells were falling, bursting +and brilliantly lighting up the heavens for a lurid moment. In our +immediate sector there were no shells. It was all the more dark and all the +more silent, for the noise and uproar and blazing flame to right and left.</p> + +<p>We were on rising ground now. Up and up steadily we went. We reached the +top of the grade, <a name="Page_162" id="Page_162"></a>when suddenly from out of the pit of darkness ahead of +us there came a high explosive shell. It dropped in the middle of our +battalion. It struck where the machine gun section was placed, and +annihilated them almost to a man.</p> + +<p>Then it was that our mettle stood the test. Then it was that we proved the +words Canadian and Man synonymous. Not one of us wavered; not one of us +swerved to right or left, to front or back. We kept on. There was hardly +one who lost in step. The commanders whispered in the darkness, "Close up +the ranks." The men behind those who had fallen jumped across the bodies of +their comrades lying prone, and joined in immediately behind those in the +forward rows.</p> + +<p>The dead and wounded lay stretched where they had fallen. Coming behind us +were the stretcher-bearers and the hospital corps. We knew our comrades +would have attention. This was a grim business. We pressed on.</p> + +<p>There was a supreme test of discipline. It was our weighing time in the +balance of the world war, and we proved ourselves not wanting. We were +Canadians—that's all.</p><p><a name="Page_163" id="Page_163"></a></p> + +<p>That afternoon the gas came over on us. The Germans put gas across on us +because they hated us most. It is a compliment to be hated by the Germans. +Extreme hatred from a German in the field shows that the hated are the most +effective. They hated the French most at first, they hated the Imperial +British, they hated us; they have hated the English again; soon, when the +United States comes to her full effectiveness, she will take her place in +the front rank of the hated.</p> + +<p>We Canadians were a puzzle to them. When we went into the trenches at +first, the enemy would call across the line to us, "What have you come over +here to fight us for? What business is it of yours? Why did you not stay +back home in Canada and attend to your own affairs, and not butt into +something that does not concern you? If you had stayed at home in your own +country, WHEN WE CAME OVER AND TOOK CANADA, we would have treated you all +right. Now that you have interfered, we are going to get you some day and +get you right."</p> + +<p>Yes; when they came over and took Canada. That was the very reason we were +fighting. We <a name="Page_164" id="Page_164"></a>wanted to keep our own part of the empire for ourselves. It +is ours absolutely, and we had no intention that Germany should own it. We +knew exactly what the Hohenzollern planned to do. If France were subdued, +if England were beaten on her own ground, then Canada would be a prize of +war. We preferred to fight overseas, in a country which already had been +devastated, rather than carry ruin and devastation into our own land, where +alone we would not have had the slightest chance in the world for beating +Germany.</p> + +<p>In the front lines of the Ypres salient was the Third Brigade, made up of +Canadian Highlanders, whom the Germans, since that night have nicknamed +"The Ladies from Hell." In this brigade were men from parts of Nova Scotia, +Montreal, from Hamilton, Toronto, Winnipeg and Vancouver.</p> + +<p>To the left of these lay the Second Brigade of Infantry. These were men for +the most part from the West. There was the Fifth, commonly known as the +"Disappointed Fifth," from Regina, Moose Jaw and Saskatoon. There was the +Eighth, nicknamed by the Germans "The Little Black Devils <a name="Page_165" id="Page_165"></a>from Winnipeg." +The Tenth, the famous "Fighting Tenth," with boys from Southern Alberta, +mainly Medicine Hat and Calgary and Lethbridge. And there was the Seventh +of British Columbia.</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 300px;"> +<img src="images/image165.jpg" width="300" height="318" alt="POSITIONS BEFORE AND AFTER SECOND BATTLE OF YPRES APRIL +1915" title="" /> +<span class="caption">POSITIONS BEFORE AND AFTER SECOND BATTLE OF YPRES APRIL +1915</span> +</div> + +<p>It was the Second Brigade which the First was supporting. To the left of +the Eighth Battalion, which was the extreme Canadian left wing, there were +Zouaves and Turcos. These were black French<a name="Page_166" id="Page_166"></a> Colonials. To these +unfortunates, probably the Canadians owe their near disaster.</p> + +<p>In the far distance we saw a cloud rise as though from the earth. It was a +greeny-red color, and increased in volume as it rolled forward. It was like +a mist rising, and yet it hugged the ground, rose five or six feet, and +penetrated to every crevice and dip in the ground.</p> + +<p>We could not tell what it was. Suddenly from out the mist we men in +reserves saw movement. Coming toward us, running as though Hell as it +really was had been let loose behind them, were the black troops from +Northern Africa. Poor devils, I do not blame them. It was enough to make +any man run. They were simple-minded fellows. They were there to fight for +France, but their minds could not grasp the significance of the enemy +against whom they were pitted. The gas rolled on and they fled. Their +officers vainly tried to stem the flying tide of them. Their heels barely +seemed to touch the ground. As they ran they covered their faces, noses and +eyes with their hands, and through blackened lips, sometimes cracked and +bleeding, they gasped, "Allemands! Allemands!"</p> + +<p><a name="Page_167" id="Page_167"></a>Some of our own French-speaking officers stopped the few running men they +could make hear, and begged of them to reform their lines and go back to +the attack. But they were maddened as only a simple race can be frenzied by +fear, and paid no heed.</p> + +<p>It is in times like this, in moments of dire emergency, that the officer of +true worth stands out, the real leader of men. There were a dozen incidents +to prove this in the next few hurried, desperate moments. None can be more +soul-stirring than the quick thought, quick action and foresight displayed +by our own captain. He did not know what this smoke rushing toward our +lines could be. He had no idea more definite than any of us in the ranks. +But he had that quick brain that acts automatically in an emergency and +thinks afterward.</p> + +<p>"Wet your handkerchiefs in your water-bottles, boys!" he ordered.</p> + +<p>We all obeyed promptly.</p> + +<p>"Put the handkerchiefs over your faces—and shoot like the devil!" he +panted.</p> + +<p>We did this, and as the gas got closer, the handkerchiefs served as a sort +of temporary respirator <a name="Page_169" id="Page_169"></a>and saved many of us from a frightful death. We in +the reserves suffered least. Yet some of us died by that infernal product. +A man dies by gas in horrible torment. He turns perfectly black, those men +at any rate whom I saw at that time. Black as black leather, eyes, even +lips, teeth, nails. He foams at the mouth as a dog in hydrophobia; he +lingers five or six minutes and then—goes West.</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 300px;"> +<img src="images/image168a.jpg" width="300" height="332" alt="Position on April 22nd '15--BEFORE FIRST GAS ATTACK" title="" /> +<span class="caption">Position on April 22nd '15--BEFORE FIRST GAS ATTACK</span> +</div> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 389px;"> +<img src="images/image168b.jpg" width="389" height="300" alt="LINES AFTER GAS ATTACK +FLANK "UP IN THE AIR"" title="" /> +<span class="caption">LINES AFTER GAS ATTACK +FLANK "UP IN THE AIR"</span> +</div> + +<p>Marvelous is the only word to describe the endurance, the valor of the +Ladies from Hell. They withstood the gas, and they withstood wave after +wave of attacking German hordes. And yet even their wonderful work was +overtopped by that of the Eighth, which, being exposed on the left by the +black troops who had fled, had to bear the brunt of a fight which almost +surrounded them.</p> + +<p>It was wonderful. I shall never forget it. There were twelve thousand +Canadian troops. In the German official reports after the battle, they +stated that they had used one hundred and twenty thousand men against us, +and one thousand guns. We had not one gun. Those that we had were captured +when the African blacks had left. It was our <a name="Page_170" id="Page_170"></a>strength against theirs—no, +it was white man's spirit against barbarian brutality.</p> + +<p>For six days and nights that terrible death struggle continued. Every man +was engaged: cooks, doctors, stretcher-bearers, chaplains, every one of us +held a rifle. The wounded who had to take their chance of living because +there was no way to convey them back to shelter—some of them would sit up, +if they possibly could, to load and load again rifles which they lifted +from dead comrades. They would hand us these as our rifles got too hot to +hold. And still the German attacks persisted. Still they came on. And still +we did not budge an inch from our position as it was when the gas first +came over. They did not gain a yard, though when the British reserves at +last reached us, there were only two thousand of us left standing on our +feet; two thousand of us who were whole from out the twelve thousand that +had started in to repel the attack.</p> + +<p>The two thousand of us were still in the old position. Still we held in our +safe-keeping the key of the road to Calais, to Paris, to London and +farther. The key to world power which the Hohenzollern coveted.</p><p><a name="Page_171" id="Page_171"></a></p> + +<p>Behind Ypres to-day there lie four thousand five hundred of the flower of +the Canadian contingent. Four thousand five hundred young men who made the +extreme sacrifice for King, for Flag, for Country, for Right. They lie in +their narrow beds of earth, and over them wave the shading leaves of maple +trees. For thoughtful citizens sent over and had planted "Canada's little +maple grove"—a monument in a strange country to the men who fought and +died and were not defeated.</p> + +<p>On the night of April twenty-second, General Alderson and his officers saw +that the situation was desperate. They thought to save their men. The +general sent up the command: "Retire!"</p> + +<p>The word first reached the Little Black Devils. The men heard it, the +officers heard it, and they looked over the flattened parapet of their +trench. They saw the oncoming hordes of brutes in a hellish-looking garb, +and they sent back the answer: "Retire be damned!"</p> + +<p>The general, the officers, rested content. With a spirit such as these men +showed even against desperate odds, nothing but victory could result.</p> + +<p>The gas and the attacking waves of men poured <a name="Page_172" id="Page_172"></a>on. We were not frightened. +No; none of us showed fear. Warfare such as this does not scare men with +red blood in their veins. The Germans judge others by themselves. A German +can be scared, a German can be bluffed. They thought that we were of the +same mettle, or lesser. At the Somme we put over on the enemy the only new +thing that we have been able to spring during the whole three years—the +tanks. Were they scared? They were terrified! They dropped rifles, +bayonets, knapsacks, everything—and ran. Had not our tanks stuck in the +awful mud of France, or had they a trifle more speed, I believe it might +have been possible for us to have reached Berlin by this time.</p> + +<p>It was because we could not be frightened that General French, then +Commander-in-Chief of the British Expeditionary Force, cabled across the +world on the morning of the twenty-third of April, "The Canadians +undoubtedly saved the situation."</p> + +<p>No word of definite praise, no eulogy, no encomiums. Just six words—"The +Canadians undoubtedly saved the situation."</p> + +<p>The night of April twenty-second was probably the most momentous time of +the six days and nights <a name="Page_173" id="Page_173"></a>of fighting. Then the Germans concentrated on the +Yser Canal, over which there was but one bridge, a murderous barrage fire +which would have effectively hindered the bringing up of reinforcements or +guns, even had we had any in reserve.</p> + +<p>During the early stages of the battle, the enemy had succeeded to +considerable degree in turning the Canadian left wing. There was a large +open gap at this point, where the French Colonial troops had stood until +the gas came over. Toward this sector the Germans rushed rank after rank of +infantry, backed by guns and heavy artillery. To the far distant left were +our British comrades. They were completely blocked by the German advance. +They were like rats in a trap and could not move.</p> + +<p>At the start of the battle, the Canadian lines ran from the village of +Langemarcke over to St. Julien, a distance of approximately three to four +miles. From St. Julien to the sector where the Imperial British had joined +the Turcos was a distance of probably two miles.</p> + +<p>These two miles had to be covered and covered quickly. We had to save the +British extreme right wing, and we had to close the gap. There was no +<a name="Page_174" id="Page_174"></a>question about it. It was our job. On the night of April twenty-second we +commenced to put this into effect. We were still holding our original +position with the handful of men who were in reserves, all of whom had been +included in the original grand total of twelve thousand. We had to spread +out across the gap of two miles and link up the British right wing.</p> + +<p>Doing this was no easy task. Our company was out first and we were told to +get into field skirmishing order. We lined up in the pitchy darkness at +five paces apart, but no sooner had we reached this than a whispered order +passed from man to man: "Another pace, lads, just another pace."</p> + +<p>This order came again and yet again. Before we were through and ready for +the command to advance, we were at least twice five paces each man from his +nearest comrade.</p> + +<p>Then it was that our captain told us bluntly that we were obviously +outnumbered by the Germans, ten to one. Then he told us that practically +speaking, we had scarcely the ghost of a chance, but that a bluff might +succeed. He told us to "swing the lid over them." This we did by yelling, +hooting, <a name="Page_175" id="Page_175"></a>shouting, clamoring, until it seemed, and the enemy believed, +that we were ten to their one.</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 339px;"> +<img src="images/image175.jpg" width="339" height="300" alt="LINES AS THEY APPEARED, APRIL 24 BADLY BENT BUT NOT BROKEN" title="" /> +<span class="caption">LINES AS THEY APPEARED, APRIL 24 BADLY BENT BUT NOT BROKEN</span> +</div> + +<p>The ruse succeeded. At daybreak when we rested we found that we had driven +the enemy back almost to his original position. All night long we had been +fighting with our backs to our comrades who were in the front trenches. The +enemy had got behind us and we had had to face about in what served for +trenches. By dawn we had him back again in his original position, and we +were facing in the old direction. By dawn we had almost, though not quite, +forced a junction with the British right.</p><p><a name="Page_176" id="Page_176"></a></p> + +<p>The night of April twenty-second is one that I can never forget. It was +frightful, yes. Yet there was a grandeur in the appalling intensity of +living, in the appalling intensity of death as it surrounded us.</p> + +<p>The German shells rose and burst behind us. They made the Yser Canal a +stream of molten glory. Shells fell in the city, and split the darkness of +the heavens in the early night hours. Later the moon rose in a splendor of +spring-time. Straight behind the tower of the great cathedral it rose and +shone down on a bloody earth.</p> + +<p>Suddenly the grand old Cloth Hall burst into flames. The spikes of fire +rose and fell and rose again. Showers of sparks went upward. A pall of +smoke would form and cloud the moon, waver, break and pass. There was the +mutter and rumble and roar of great guns. There was the groan of wounded +and the gasp of dying.</p> + +<p>It was glorious. It was terrible. It was inspiring. Through an inferno of +destruction and death, of murder and horror, we lived because we must.</p> + +<p>Early in the night the Fighting Tenth and the Sixteenth <a name="Page_177" id="Page_177"></a>charged the wood +of St. Julien. Through the undergrowth they hacked and hewed and fought and +bled and died. But, outnumbered as they were, they got the position and +captured the battery of 4.7 guns that had been lost earlier in the day.</p> + +<p>This night the Germans caught and crucified three of our Canadian +sergeants. I did not see them crucify the men, although I saw one of the +dead bodies after. I saw the marks of bayonets through the palms of the +hands and the feet, where by bayonet points this man had been spitted to a +barn door. I was told that one of the sergeants was still alive when taken +down, and before he died he gasped out to his saviors that when the Germans +were raising him to be crucified, they muttered savagely in perfect +English, "If we did not frighten you before, this time we will."</p> + +<p>I know a sergeant of Edmonton, Alberta, who has in his possession to-day +the actual photographs of the crucified men taken before the dead bodies +were removed from the barnside.</p> + +<p>Again I maintain that war frightfulness of this kind does not frighten real +men. The news of the crucified men soon reached all of the ranks. It +<a name="Page_178" id="Page_178"></a>increased our hatred. It doubled our bitterness. It made us all the more +eager to advance—to fight—to "get." We had to avenge our comrades. +Vengeance is not yet complete.</p> + +<p>In the winter of 1914-1915 the Germans knew war. They had studied the game +and not a move was unfamiliar to them. We were worse than novices. Even our +generals could not in their knowledge compare with the expertness of those +who carried out the enemy action according to a schedule probably laid down +years before.</p> + +<p>We knew that on the day following the terrible night of April twenty-second +we must continue the advance, that we dare not rest, that we must complete +the junction with the right wing of the British troops. And the enemy knew +it, too.</p> + +<p>We expected that the Germans would be entrenched possibly one hundred or +even two hundred yards from our own position, but not so. His nearest +entrenchment was easily a mile to a mile and a half across the open land +from us.</p> + +<p>The reason for this distance was simple enough. We had succeeded in our +bluff that we had many hundreds more of men than in reality was the case.<a name="Page_179" id="Page_179"></a> +The enemy calculated that had we this considerable number of troops we +would capture his trenches, were he to take a position close in, with one +short and mad rush. He further calculated that had we even a million men, +he would have the best of us if we attempted to cross the long, open flat +land in the face of his thousands of machine guns.</p> + +<p>April twenty-third was one of the blackest days in the annals of Canadian +history in this war, and again it was one of the most glorious. That day we +were given the task of retaking the greater part of the trenches which the +Turco troops had lost the day preceding.</p> + +<p>We lay, my own battalion, easily a mile and a half from the German trench +which was to be our objective. About six o'clock in the morning we set out +very cautiously, with Major Kirkpatrick in command. C and D Companies were +leading, with a platoon or two of B Company following, comprising in all +about seven hundred and fifty men. At first we thought the advance would be +comparatively easy, but when we entered the village of St. Julien, the +German coal boxes were falling all around us. So far our casualties were +light.</p><p><a name="Page_180" id="Page_180"></a></p> + +<p>To the left of the village we formed in field skirmishing order—about five +paces apart—but before the formation of five successive lines or waves was +completed, each man was easily eight paces away from his nearest mate +instead of five. We were told that our objective was an enemy trench system +about four hundred yards in length.</p> + +<p>It is impossible to convey in words the feeling of a man in such a +situation as this. Apparently none of us actually realized the significance +of what we were about to undertake. Probably it was because we were no +longer in the trenches, and because we had been out and in the open all the +night before.</p> + +<p>We stood there waiting. Overhead there was the continuous "Crack, crack, +crack!" of enemy machine gun and other bullets. It was evident that we had +already traversed a mile of our way, and that only half a mile lay ahead of +us. The enemy bullets were flying high. I heard no command; I do not think +any command was given in words, but of a sudden we heard a "Click!" to the +left. No one even glanced in the direction. Every man fixed his bayonet. +The man on the extreme left had fixed his, the "Click" had warned his +comrades eight <a name="Page_181" id="Page_181"></a>paces away, and the ominous sound, ominous for Hans and +Fritz, "Click, click, click!" ran along the lines.</p> + +<p>The advance had started. In front were our officers, every one of them from +junior to senior, well ahead of their men. A wave of the hand, a quarter +right turn, one long blast of the whistle and we were off. We made mad +rushes of fifty or sixty yards at a time, then down we would go. No place +to seek cover, only to hug Mother Earth.</p> + +<p>Our lads were falling pretty fast; our officers even faster. To my left +Slim Johnstone got his; ahead of me I saw Billy King go down. I heard some +one yell out that Lieutenant Smith had dropped. In the next platoon +Lieutenant Kirkpatrick fell dead. A gallant lad, this; he fell leading his +men and with a word of cheer on his lips.</p> + +<p>We were about two hundred yards from the enemy's trench and my estimation +is that easily one-third of our fighting men were gone. Easily eighty per +cent. of our officers were out of the immediate game. Right in front of our +eyes our captain—Captain Straight—fell. As he went down he blew two short +blasts on his whistle, which was <a name="Page_182" id="Page_182"></a>the signal to hug the earth once more. +And we dropped.</p> + +<p>The officers and men who had been hit had begun their weary crawl back to +the dressing station; that is, all of them who were able to make the +effort. We saw that Captain Straight made no attempt to move. Some of us +crept up to his side.</p> + +<p>"Hit in the upper leg," he whispered in reply to the queries.</p> + +<p>"Go back, sir, go back!" we urged, but Captain Straight was obdurate. He +had made up his mind that he was going to see the thing through, and stick +to it he would no matter what the cost to himself. He realized that only by +some super-human effort would we now be able to take the enemy trench. The +machine gun fire was hellish. The infantry fire was blinding. A bullet +would flash through the sleeve of a tunic, rip off the brim of a cap, bang +against a water-bottle, bury itself in the mass of a knapsack. It seemed as +though no one could live in such a hail of lead. But no one had fallen down +on the task of the day. Each battalion was advancing, with slowness and +awful pain, but all were advancing.</p><p><a name="Page_183" id="Page_183"></a></p> + +<p>Captain Straight knew how we were placed for effectives, both in officers +and men. He knew how we adored him. He lay a few minutes to get his breath, +then attempted to stand, but could not, as one leg was completely out of +commission. He dragged himself along with his hands, catching hold of the +tufts of grass or digging his fingers into the soft earth. He made thirty +or forty yards in this way, then one long blast of his whistle and we +rushed ahead, to fall flat on a level with him as he sounded the two-blast +command. Probably ten times he dragged himself forward, and ten times we +rushed and dropped in that awful charge. The captain gritted his teeth, for +his pain must have been horrible. He waved his arm as he lay and waited +ahead of us—"Come on, lads—come on!" And we came.</p> + +<p>I don't know what other men may have felt in that last advance. For myself, +the thought flashed across my mind—"What's the use? It is certain death to +stay here longer; why not lie down, wait till the worst is over and be able +to fight again—it is useless, hopeless—it is suicide to attempt such a +task." Then just ahead of us I saw Captain<a name="Page_184" id="Page_184"></a> Straight crawling slowly but +surely, and through the "Zing!" of bullets I heard his voice, fainter but +still earnest and full of courage, cry out: "Come on, lads—come on!"</p> + +<p>He was one of the first to roll over into that improvised German trench.</p> + +<p>No, we could not have failed; we could not have stopped. As one of our +young boys said afterward: "Fellows, I'd have followed him to Hell and then +some!"</p> + +<p>It was Hell all right, but no matter; we had gone through it, and got what +we had come for—the German trench.</p> + +<p>Out of the seven hundred and fifty of us who advanced, a little over two +hundred and fifty gained the German trench; and of that number twenty-five +or more fell dead as soon as they reached the enemy, and got that revenge +for which they had come.</p> + +<p>I doubt if there will again be a battle fought in this war where the +feeling of the men will be as bitter as at St. Julien. Men were found dead +with their bayonets through the body of some Hun, men who had been shot +themselves thirty yards <a name="Page_185" id="Page_185"></a>down the field of advance. Their bodies were dead, +as we understand death, but the God-given spirit was alive, and that spirit +carried the earthbound flesh forward to do its work, to avenge comrades +murdered and womanhood outraged. It was marvelous—it may have been a +miracle. It was done, and for all time has proved to the boys who fought +out there the power of the spirit over the flesh.</p> + +<p>We had seen atrocities on the Belgians the day before. We had seen young +girls who were mutilated and horribly maltreated. We had been gassed, we +had seen our comrades die in an awful horror. We had had our sergeants +crucified, and we were outnumbered ten to one. After all this, and after +all the Hell through which we had passed from six that morning until after +two, when we reached the enemy trench and presented the bright ends of our +bayonets, Mr. Fritz went down on his knees and cried, "<i>Kamerad! Kamerad!</i>"</p> + +<p>What did we do? We did exactly what you would have done under like +circumstances. "<i>Kamerad!</i>"—Bah!</p> + +<p>There is no doubt that the German soldier is a good soldier as far as he +goes. He is good in a <a name="Page_186" id="Page_186"></a>charge and if he had not done the despicable +things—the dreadful outrages which he has done—he could be admired as a +fighting machine. But there is one department where we of the Allies have +him licked to a frazzle. Talk to any man who has been out there and he will +say the same. The German soldier can not hold in a hand-to-hand fight. He +can't face the cold steel. The second he glimpses the glint of a bayonet he +is whimpering and asking for mercy.</p> + +<p>The German bayonet is a fiendish weapon. It is well its owner can not use +it. For myself I do not know of one case where a comrade has been wounded +by enemy steel. His bayonet is longer than ours, and from the tip for a few +inches is a saw edge. This facilitates entrance into the body, but on +turning to take it out it tears and rends savagely.</p> + +<p>It is impossible to describe the work of every battalion in a battle. In a +charge, a concerted charge, such as we went through on April twenty-third, +there was not one battalion that did better than another. There was not one +officer who did better than another, there was not one man who outdistanced +his fellow in valor. We all fought <a name="Page_187" id="Page_187"></a>like the devil. It is only possible to +convey the doings of the whole by telling the achievements of the few.</p> + +<p>Boys of the Fourth Western Ontario Battalion, commanded by Colonel Birchall +of St. Catharines, who came through this business, have told me that their +colonel lined them up and made a short speech to them. He took them into +his confidence. He told them that the whole battalion should advance +together; that he did not think it good policy to leave any part in +reserve. He said: "I am going to lead you, boys; will you come?"</p> + +<p>There was a sonorous "Aye, aye, sir!" along the ranks.</p> + +<p>Colonel Birchall pulled his revolver from its holster, looked at it a +moment and then threw it to the ground. Then he took his small riding +switch and hung the loop over the first finger of his right hand.</p> + +<p>"Ready, boys!" he cried, and twirling the little cane round and round, he +strode ahead.</p> + +<p>It was a terrible piece of work. On every side shells and bullets were +falling. Men went down like ninepins at a fair. But always ahead was the +<a name="Page_188" id="Page_188"></a>colonel, always there was the short flash of his cane as it swished +through the air. Then he was hit, a bullet in the upper right arm. He did +not stop; he did not drop the cane.</p> + +<p>"On, boys, on!" And the men stumbled up and forward.</p> + +<p>Seven times Colonel Birchall was a mark for enemy fire. Seven times fresh +wounds gushed forth with his life's blood. He was staggering a little now, +but never a falter; on and on he went, the little cane feebly waving.</p> + +<p>Men say that at times the lines seemed to waver and almost to break; that +the whole advancing force, small and scattered though it was, seemed to +bend backward as cornstalks in wind, but always they saw the colonel ahead +and recovered balance.</p> + +<p>Colonel Birchall fell dead on the parapet of the German trench, but he got +what he had come after. His men were with him. There were seven hundred and +more dead and wounded in the battalion, but the trench was theirs and Fritz +was again begging for mercy.</p> + +<p>There are stories, wonderful stories of stirring things done by the several +battalions, but it is not <a name="Page_189" id="Page_189"></a>possible to give them in detail. Men made +undying names in this battle, names which will go down through the ages as +have the names of other British soldiers. There was Brigadier-General +Turner, who is now Major-General, of the Third Brigade. There was +Lieutenant-Colonel, now Brigadier-General, Watson of the Second Battalion, +who, together with Lieutenant-Colonel Rennie, now Brigadier-General, of the +Third Battalion, reinforced the Third Infantry Brigade. These two were of +the First Brigade. Then there came the Seventh Battalion, which is the +British Columbia Regiment of the Second Brigade, and the Tenth Battalion, +also of the Second.</p> + +<p>Lieutenant-Colonel Boyle commanded the Fighting Tenth, and gave his life in +the advance. The Sixteenth Battalion Canadian Scottish were under command +of Lieutenant-Colonel Leckie, who has since become Brigadier-General. The +Tenth had many losses. Major MacLaren, second in command, died in hospital +shortly after being taken there, and Major Ormond was wounded. Major +Guthrie is another man who carried the Tenth forward to more triumphs. +Brigadier-General Mercer,<a name="Page_190" id="Page_190"></a> Lieutenant-Colonel Morrison, Captain T.E. Powers +are others, and Lieutenant-Colonel, since Brigadier-General, Lipsett, +commanded the Ninetieth Winnipeg Rifles, whose men suffered severely from +gas.</p> + +<p>Major Norsworthy was killed while trying to bring up reinforcements. He +endeavored to reach Major McCuiag, who had the great misfortune, after +doing marvelous work and saving an almost desperate situation, to be taken +prisoner by the enemy. Men of the Seventh Battalion were Colonel +Hart-McHarg, Major Odlum and Lieutenant Mathewson. The Second Brigade was +under command of Brigadier-General Currie, who now is the +Commander-in-Chief of the Canadian Expeditionary Forces.</p> + +<p>Lieutenant-Colonel, now Brigadier-General, Armstrong, commanded the +Engineers, but crowning all of these names is that of our beloved +Commander-in-Chief at the time, General Alderson.</p> + +<p>Ten thousand names more could be added to this gallant roll of honor. At +the beginning of the battle of Ypres our lines were a little over twelve +thousand strong, and after six days and nights of <a name="Page_191" id="Page_191"></a>fighting there remained +two thousand of us standing. We had practically not budged an inch. The +Germans had not broken our line, our one thin, straggling, far-stretched +line. We remained the victors of Ypres.</p> + +<p>Perhaps our greatest reward came when on April twenty-sixth the English +troops reached us. We had been completely cut off by the enemy barrage from +all communication with other sectors of the line. Still, through the +wounded gone back, word of our stand had drifted out. The English boys +fought and force-marched and fought again their terrible way through the +barrage to our aid. And when they arrived, weary and worn and torn, cutting +their bloody way to us, they cheered themselves hoarse; cheered as they +marched along, cheered and gripped our hands as they got within touch with +us. Yell after yell went upward, and stirring words woke the echoes. The +boys of the Old Country paid their greatest tribute to us of the New as +they cried:</p> + +<p>"Canadians—Canadians—that's all!"</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><a name="Page_192" id="Page_192"></a></p> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIII" id="CHAPTER_XIII"></a>CHAPTER XIII</h2> + +<h3>TEARS AND NO CHEERS</h3> + + +<p>On May third we commenced our withdrawal to Bailleul, leaving our sector of +the line in safe hands. We were billeted in this town for a rest.</p> + +<p>We were a haggard bunch. Our faces were drawn in lines like old men, many +were gray, some were white; our eyes were wild and glassy and we moved +jerkily or started at the slightest of sharp sounds.</p> + +<p>Reinforcements began to arrive. We needed them. There were C and D +Companies without an officer between them. Major Kirkpatrick was wounded +and a prisoner; Captain Straight wounded and taken; Captain Johnson wounded +and imprisoned; Lieutenant Jarvis, son of Amelius Jarvis, the famous +sporting figure of Toronto, lay dead, and our gallant old Major Pete +Anderson, our sniping <a name="Page_193" id="Page_193"></a>officer, was also captured, though he has now +escaped from enemy hands.</p> + +<p>In billets we had thought we were hard hit. We had not realized it to the +full till the morning we were lined up, one brigade at a time, for review. +We had had an issue of fresh clothing, we had had some long hours of sleep, +we had had all that soap and water could do for us, but we were a sorry and +sorrowful lot of men. We had the light of triumph in our eyes, but even +that was dimmed at thought of the boys who were gone to the great review +above.</p> + +<p>Our beloved commander-in-chief came along the lines to review us. He looked +at us with the brave eyes of a father sorrowing over a dead son. He walked +with head high and step firm, but his voice shook with deep emotion, and he +did not hide the tears which rose to his eyes as he spoke his famous words +of commendation.</p> + +<p>They are immortal words, words which express the regret of a true man for +comrades whose sacrifice was supreme, words which express pride in deeds +done and breathe of a determination to greater deeds, if possible, in a +triumphant future.</p><p><a name="Page_194" id="Page_194"></a></p> + +<p> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Words Spoken to the First Canadian Division</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">(Brigade by Brigade and to Engineers and Artillery)</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">After the Twelve Days and Nights of Fighting</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 7.5em;">April 22d to May 4th, 1915</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 13em;">By</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 6em;">Lieutenant-General E.A.H. Alderson</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 6em;">Commanding First Canadian Division</span><br /> +</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>"All units, all ranks of the First Canadian Division, I tell you +truly, that my heart is so full I hardly know how to speak to you. +It is full of two feelings, the first being sorrow for the loss of +those comrades of ours who have gone, the second—pride in what +the First Canadian Division has done.</p> + +<p>"As regards our comrades who have lost their lives, and we will +speak of them with our caps off [here the general took off his +cap, and all did likewise], my faith in the Almighty is such that +I am perfectly sure that, in fact, to die for their friends, no +matter what their past lives have been, no matter what they have +done that they ought not to have done (as all of us do), I repeat +that I am perfectly sure the Almighty takes care of them and looks +after them at once. Lads—we can not leave them better than like +that. [Here the general put his cap on, and all did the same.]</p> + +<p>"Now, I feel that we may, without any false pride, think a little +of what the Division has done during the past few days. I would +first of all tell you that I have never been so proud of anything +<a name="Page_195" id="Page_195"></a>in my life as I am of this armlet '1 Canada' on it that I wear on +my right arm. I thank you and congratulate you from the bottom of +my heart for the part each one of you has taken in giving me this +feeling of pride.</p> + +<p>"I think it is possible that you do not, all of you, quite realize +that if we had retired on the evening of the twenty-second of +April when our Allies fell back from the gas and left our flank +quite open, the whole of the Seventeenth and Twenty-eighth +Divisions would probably have been cut off, certainly they would +not have got away a gun or a vehicle of any sort, and probably not +more than half the infantry. This is what our commander-in-chief +meant when he telegraphed as he did: 'The Canadians undoubtedly +saved the situation.' My lads, if ever men had a right to be proud +in this world, you have.</p> + +<p>"I know my military history pretty well, and I can not think of an +instance, especially when the cleverness and determination of the +enemy is taken into account, in which troops were placed in such a +difficult position; nor can I think of an instance in which so +much depended on the standing fast of one division.</p> + +<p>"You will remember the last time I spoke to you, just before you +went into the trenches at Sailly, now over two months ago, I told +you about my old regiment—the Royal West Kents—having gained a +reputation for not budging from the trenches, no matter how they +were attacked. I said then that<a name="Page_196" id="Page_196"></a> I was quite sure that in a short +time the army out here would be saying the same of you. I little +thought—we, none of us thought—how soon those words would come +true. But now, to-day, not only the army out here, but all Canada, +all England, and all the Empire, is saying it of you.</p> + +<p>"The share each unit has taken in earning this reputation is no +small one.</p> + +<p>"I have three pages of congratulatory telegrams from His Majesty +the King downward which I will read to you, with also a very nice +letter from our army commander, Sir Horace Smith-Dorrien.</p> + +<p>"Now, I doubt if any divisional commander, or any division ever +had so many congratulatory telegrams and messages as these, and +remember they are not merely polite and sentimental ones; they +express just what the senders feel.</p> + +<p>"There is one word I would say to you before I stop. You have made +a reputation second to none gained in this war, but remember, no +man can live on his reputation, he must keep on adding to it. That +you will do so I feel just as sure as I did two months ago when I +told you that I knew you would make a reputation when the +opportunity came.</p> + +<p>"I am now going to shake hands with your officers, and I do so +wanting you to feel that I am shaking hands with each one of you, +as I would actually do if the time permitted.</p> + +<p>"No—we will not have any cheering now—we will keep that until +you have added to your reputation, as I know you will."</p></div><p><a name="Page_197" id="Page_197"></a></p> + +<p>And there was no cheering. We turned away—the few men of us left whole in +those scattered ranks—our eyes tear-dimmed in memory of those comrades +whose lives had gone out; but our hearts ready to answer the call wherever +it might lead us.</p> + +<p>The world to-day knows what the Canadian boys have done. We have more than +added to our reputation.</p> + +<p>Right after this terrible scrap at Ypres came Givenchy and Festubert, and +then we held the line at Ploegsteert for a whole year, fighting fiercely at +St. Eloi, and stopping them again at Sanctuary Wood.</p> + +<p>In the summer of 1916 fourteen thousand of us went down before German +cannon, but still they did not break our lines. This was known as the third +battle of Ypres.</p> + +<p>From Ypres we went to the Somme, and it was on the Somme that we met our +Australian cousins who jokingly greeted us with the statement "We're here +to finish what you started," and we fired back, "Too bad you hadn't +finished what you started down in Gallipoli!"</p> + +<p>It was not very long before both were engaged <a name="Page_198" id="Page_198"></a>in that terrible battle of +the Somme, where to Canadian arms fell the honor of taking the village of +Courcellette. We plugged right on and soon we put the "Vim" into Vimy, and +took Vimy Ridge. As I write we are marking time in front of Lens.</p> + +<p>At Ypres we started our great casualty lists with ten thousand. To-day over +one hundred twenty-five thousand Canadian boys have fallen, and there are +over eighteen thousand who will never come back to tell their story.</p> + +<p>If the generals of the British Army were proud of us in 1915, I wonder how +they feel to-day?</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><a name="Page_199" id="Page_199"></a></p> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIV" id="CHAPTER_XIV"></a>CHAPTER XIV</h2> + +<h3>"THE BEST O' LUCK—AND GIVE 'EM HELL!"</h3> + + +<p>Imagine a bright crisp morning in late September. The sun rises high and +the beams strike with comforting warmth even into the fire-trench where we +gather in groups to catch its every glint.</p> + +<p>We feel good on such a morning. We clean up a bit, for things are +quiet—that is, fairly quiet. Only a few shells are flying, there is little +or no rifle fire and nobody is getting killed, nobody is even getting +plugged.</p> + +<p>The whole long day passes quietly. We are almost content with our lot. We +laugh a good deal, we joke, we play the eternal penny ante, and possibly +the letters come.</p> + +<p>Just before stand-to at sundown the quiet will be broken. The artillery +behind our lines will open up with great activity. We notice that the big +shells only are being used and we notice that they are concentrating +entirely on the German front line, <a name="Page_200" id="Page_200"></a>immediately ahead and to the right and +left of where we have our position. We are more than a little interested. +There is decidedly something in the wind. We wait, but nothing happens. We +have stand-to and get our reliefs for guard.</p> + +<p>Every man has his bayonet fixed for the night. We give it a little extra +polish. It may be needed soon. There is no outward show of nervousness. No +man speaks to his neighbor of his immediate thoughts. We begin to smoke a +little more rapidly, perhaps. We might have had a cigarette an hour during +the heavy shelling of the day. During the night we will increase to one +every half-hour, every twenty minutes. We light a fag, take a few puffs and +throw it away. That is the only evidence of nerves.</p> + +<p>We are in a state of complete ignorance as to what the outcome of this +shelling may be. We have seen it just as severe before and nothing but a +skirmish result. Some of us have seen shelling of the same intensity and +have gone over the top and into a terrible mélange. We are always kept in +ignorance; no commands and no orders are given.<a name="Page_201" id="Page_201"></a> Did we know for hours +ahead that at such and such a time we would go over the top, our nerves +could hardly stand the strain. The noise, the terrific noise of our +artillery bombarding the German trenches is hard enough on our nerves; what +it must be on the nerves of the enemy is beyond conception. We do not +wonder that in these latter days they fall on their knees and yell +"<i>Kamerad</i>!"</p> + +<p>As a rule a charge takes place just before dawn, when the gray cold light +of morning is struggling up from the East. All night we are occupied +according to our individual temperaments. Some are able to sleep even in +such a racket. The great majority of us are writing letters. There are +always a few last things to be said to the home-folks, a few small +possessions we want to will in special ways. We hand our letters to an +officer or to some special chum. If this is to be our last time over—if it +is to be our last charge—the officer or chum will see to it, if he lives, +or the stretcher-bearers or the chaplains, if he doesn't, that the small +treasures go back home to the old folks.</p> + +<p>Just before dawn there is a difference in the character of the shelling. +The heavy shells are <a name="Page_202" id="Page_202"></a>falling farther back on German reserves and lighter +artillery is being used on the enemy front line. The position lies some +three hundred yards from the enemy front.</p> + +<p>The light shells sweep close overhead as they go by our trench. We have to +hug the sides close; sometimes the vacuum is so great that it will carry +off a cap; if we are not careful it may suck up a head or lift us +completely off our feet.</p> + +<p>This curtain of fire continues for hours; it varies in direction now and +then, but never in intensity. There is a controlling force over this +tremendous bombardment. To my mind the most important man on the +battle-field is he who holds the ordering of the bombardment—the +observation officer. He must know everything, see everything, but must +never be seen. During a heavy bombardment he works in conjunction with +another observation officer. They are hidden away in any old place; it may +be a ruined chimney, it may be a tree which is still left standing, or it +may be in some hastily built up haystack. He controls the entire artillery +in action on his special front, and he holds the lives of thousands of men +in the hollow of his hand. One <a name="Page_203" id="Page_203"></a>tiniest miscalculation and hundreds of us +pay the price.</p> + +<p>He is cool, imperturbable, calculating, ready in any emergency, +good-tempered, deliberate and yet with the power to act instantly. At times +he has command over a magnificent number of invectives!</p> + +<p>As the minutes pass and the day lightens we smoke a fag every five minutes, +every three minutes. The trench is filled with the blue gray smoke of +thousands of cigarettes, lighted, puffed once, thrown away. It soothes our +nerves. It gives us something to do with our hands. It takes our mind off +the impending clash.</p> + +<p>If we make an attack in broad daylight, which is seldom done except under a +special emergency, the only command to charge will be the click, click, +click of bayonets going into place all along the line. But charges are +mostly made at gray-dawn, when bayonets are already fixed. Suddenly, away +down the line we catch sight of one of our men climbing over the parapet. +Then trench ladders are fixed, and in a twinkling every man of us is over +the top with: "The best o' luck—and give 'em hell!"</p><p><a name="Page_204" id="Page_204"></a></p> + +<p>We crawl out over the open. We reach our own barbed wire entanglements. We +creep through them, round them, and out to No Man's Land. We are in it now +for good and all.</p> + +<p>The enemy is now concentrating his fire on our reserves. He knows that we +have not had sufficient men in the front line trench to be of great effect. +He knows that we can not fit them in there. He knows that the moment we +have cleared the top of the parapet hundreds of men have poured from the +communication trenches into our places. He knows that for miles back men +are massed as thick as they can stand in the reserve trenches. His object +is to destroy our reserves and not the immediate trench in front of him.</p> + +<p>We follow the same plan. For, as we advance in short sharp rushes, the +observation officer, who never for a moment relaxes his hold on the +situation, flashes back by telegraph or field telephone the command to the +artillery lying miles away to raise their curtain of fire. They do so, and +shells fall on the German reserves, while we press forward, teeth bared and +cold steel gleaming grayly, to take the front lines. We leap the parapet of +the German <a name="Page_205" id="Page_205"></a>trench. We spot our man and bear down on him. We clean out the +dugouts and haul away the cowering officers, and already we are +straightening and strengthening the German trench.</p> + +<p>Behind us come wave on wave of our reserves. The second will take the +second trench of the enemy; the third, the third, and so on. Then we +consolidate our position, and Fritz is a sad and sorry boy.</p> + +<p>That is the way it should work, but in the early days of the war we used to +find this very difficult. We of the front line would charge and take our +trench. We would get there and not a German to be seen! He would be beating +it down his communication trenches, or what was left of them, as hard as he +could go. We were supposed to stay in the front trench of the enemy. Well, +it was simply against human nature, against the human nature of the First +Canadian boys at any rate. We may have been out there for months and not +had a chance to see a German. And had been wishing and waiting for this +very opportunity. We would see Fritz disappear round a traverse and we +simply could not stand still and let him go, or let the other fellow get +him. We were bound to go after him.<a name="Page_206" id="Page_206"></a> This was really our traditional +weakness. Often-times we went too far in our eagerness to capture the Hun, +and were unable to hold all that we got.</p> + +<p>In the early days, too, we charged in open formation. Certainly we lost, in +the first instance, fewer men by that method, but when we reached the enemy +trench, took it, and had established ourselves therein, we were rarely +strong enough in numbers to repulse the almost certain counter-attacks that +came a few minutes or even an hour or so later.</p> + +<p>We have altered this method now. We attack, not in the close formation, +shoulder to shoulder, of the German, but in a formation which is a +variation of his. We attack in groups of twenty or thirty men, who are +placed shoulder to shoulder. If a shell comes over one group, it is +obliterated, to be sure, but suppose no shell comes; then several such +groups will reach the enemy lines, and Hans has not got the ghost of a +chance once we get to close quarters. He has not the glimmer of a chance in +a counter-attack when we have sufficient men to hold on to what we have +gained.</p> + +<p>On the other hand a German charge on our lines is a pretty sight. They +advance at a dog-trot.<a name="Page_207" id="Page_207"></a> They come shoulder to shoulder, each man almost +touching his neighbor. They are in perfect alignment to start, and they +lift their feet practically in exact time one with the other. Unlike us, +they shoot as they advance. We have a cartridge in our magazine, but we +have the safety catch on. We dare not shoot as we advance because our +officers are always ahead, always cheering the boys forward. The German +officer is always behind. He drives his men.</p> + +<p>They shoot from the hip, but in that way their fire is never very +effective. As they advance it is practically impossible to miss them, no +matter how bad a shot any of us might be. We get fifteen rounds per minute +from our rifles and our orders are to shoot low and to full capacity.</p> + +<p>In the attacks of the enemy which I have seen they certainly have been +brave. One must give them their due. It takes courage to advance in face of +rifle fire, machine gun fire and artillery shells, in this close formation. +Wave after wave of them come across in their field gray-blue uniforms and +they never cower. One wave will be mowed down <a name="Page_208" id="Page_208"></a>and another will quicken the +pace a trifle and take its place. One man will go down and another will +step into the gap. They are like a vast animated machine.</p> + +<p>In one attack which we repulsed I am conservative when I say that they were +lying dead and wounded three and four deep and yet they attacked again and +again without faltering, only to be driven back to defeat in the end.</p> + +<p>This war is not over yet by a long shot, and I should like to offer some +advice to the boys who are going over from this continent. Our officers +know better than we. The generals and aides who have been working on the +problem, on the strategy and tactics during the three years gone by, are +more qualified to conduct the war than the private who has lately joined. +If you are told to stay in a certain place, then stay there. If you are +told to dig in, you are a bad soldier if you don't dig and dig quickly. You +are only a nuisance as long as you question authority. It does not pay. The +boys of the First Division learned by experience. Do as you're told. The +heads are taking no undue <a name="Page_209" id="Page_209"></a>risks. Your life is as valuable to them as it is +to you. They won't let you lose it unnecessarily. Get ahead and obey.</p> + +<p>There is no need to lose your individuality. The vast difference between us +and the enemy soldier is that we can think for ourselves should occasion +arise; we can act on our own responsibility or we can lead if the need be.</p> + +<p>Remember, that every single man is of importance. Each one is a cog in the +vast organization and one slip may disrupt the whole arrangement. Obey, but +use your intelligence in your obedience. Don't act blindly. Consider the +circumstances and as far as you can use your reason as you believe the +general or the colonel has used his. You are bounded only by your own small +sector. What you know of other salients is hearsay. The general knows the +situation in its entirety.</p> + +<p>Obedience, a cool head, a clean rifle and a sharp bayonet will carry you +far.</p><p><a name="Page_210" id="Page_210"></a></p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 474px;"> +<img src="images/image210.jpg" width="474" height="300" alt="©Famous Players—Lasky Corporation. Scene from the +Photo-Play + +SHERMAN WAS NOT ALWAYS RIGHT." title="" /> +<span class="caption">©Famous Players—Lasky Corporation. Scene from the +Photo-Play + +SHERMAN WAS NOT ALWAYS RIGHT.</span> +</div><p><a name="Page_211" id="Page_211"></a></p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 488px;"> +<img src="images/image211.jpg" width="488" height="300" alt="Behind the barrage" title="" /> +<span class="caption">Behind the barrage</span> +</div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><a name="Page_212" id="Page_212"></a></p> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XV" id="CHAPTER_XV"></a>CHAPTER XV</h2> + +<h3>OUT OF IT</h3> + + +<p>Every man who goes into the active service of the present war knows that +someday, somehow, somewhere, he is going to get plugged. We have +expressions of our own as to wounds. If a chap loses a leg or an arm or +both, he'll say, "I lost mine," but when there is a wound, no matter how +serious, yet which does not entail the loss of a visible part of the body, +we say, "I got mine."</p> + +<p>So it was as time wore on, I "got mine" in the right shoulder and right +lung. A German explosive bullet caught me while I was in a lying position. +It was at Ypres; we all get it at Ypres.</p> + +<p>The thing happened under peculiar circumstances. It was the second time in +my army career that I volunteered for anything. The first time was the +night I went on listening post; the second time I got plugged, and plugged +for good.</p><p><a name="Page_213" id="Page_213"></a></p> + +<p>We had repulsed the enemy several times. We were running short of +ammunition and our position was enfiladed. It was absolutely necessary, if +all of us were not to lose our lives, that some one should bring up +ammunition.</p> + +<p>The ammunition dump lay about a mile back of our line. An officer called +for volunteers to creep back for a supply. It was broad daylight, but +twenty-eight other lads and myself stepped forward willing to attempt the +task.</p> + +<p>The men who remained behind had a command to keep up a rapid fire over the +enemy trenches which would lend us some cover. No matter how perfect this +covering may be, it is never completely effective in silencing the enemy +fire. Quite a number of bullets scattered about us as we clambered along +the short communication trench, and up into the open. This was my first +experience in running away from bullets, and I proved in the first five +seconds of that journey that a man, no matter what his propensities for +winning medals may be, can run much faster from bullets than he can toward +them.</p> + +<p>Among us were boys of several other companies, and on the way out three of +the twenty-nine got <a name="Page_214" id="Page_214"></a>hit. I did not know whom. We kept on, breathless and +gasping, running as we were under the weight of full equipment and dodging +bullets as we went. Shells were falling round us too, now. We were not +happy.</p> + +<p>At last we got to our destination and picked up the boxes. A box of +ammunition weighs a hundred or more pounds, so we decided that three of us +should carry two boxes. The boxes are fitted with handles on each end.</p> + +<p>We started off running at top speed, then dropping flat on our stomachs to +fetch our breath and rest our aching arms. The enemy was rapidly getting +thicker. We rose and rushed forward another stretch. At three hundred yards +from the trench, the greater number of our crowd had fallen. We dropped. +Then our hearts stood still, for from our trench there came a silence we +could feel.</p> + +<p>We knew what it meant. There was no need for the enemy to increase the +rapidity of his fire over us and over the boys in the trench to let us know +what was up. Our ammunition had already given out, and we had to face the +last few hundred yards without protection, meager though it had been +<a name="Page_215" id="Page_215"></a>throughout. We knew there was not a man in that trench who had a bullet +left. We knew that as far as we were concerned, we were done. We +metaphorically shook hands with ourselves and wished friend self a long +good-by. We looked at the sun and said "Tra-la-la" to it, and we wondered +in a flash of thought what the old world would be like without us. We +wondered where we would "light up."</p> + +<p>All this passed in a moment of time, and then we decided that it would be +better if we paired up, two men taking one box of ammunition. This offered +a smaller target for the busy enemy, and also made for increased speed in +covering the remaining ground.</p> + +<p>We sprang up once more and dodged and doubled as we leaped through the rain +of bullets, machine gun and rifle. How we lived I don't know. I was sharing +a box with a lad whom I heard the fellows call Bob. He was no more than a +boy, but we were much of a size and ran light. We were the only two of the +twenty-nine left on our feet. To-day I am one of five of that bunch left +alive.</p> + +<p>About fifty yards from the trench we dropped <a name="Page_216" id="Page_216"></a>for a last rest before the +final spurt which would decide the whole course of events in the next ten +minutes. Would we reach that trench and turn in our box of ammunition, or +would we "get ours" and would the boys so eagerly waiting for us be +surrounded and captured? Or would many of them do what they had threatened? +"If it comes to surrendering," several had said in my hearing, "I will run +a bayonet into myself rather than be taken."</p> + +<p>When a man is lying close to the ground there is not so very great a chance +of his being hit by bullets. They pass overhead as a rule. It is when a man +is kneeling or standing, or between the two positions that the great danger +lies. The lad Bob and I were just in the act of rising when mine came +along. I felt no more than a stinging blow in the right shoulder, a searing +cut and a thud of pain as the bullet exploded in leaving my body. I fell on +my face and blood gushed from my shoulder.</p> + +<p>"Hit hard or soft?" queried my companion, as he threw himself down beside +me.</p> + +<p>"Don't know," I gasped.</p> + +<p>"You're hit in the mouth," he said, as the blood poured from between my +lips.</p><p><a name="Page_217" id="Page_217"></a></p> + +<p>"No, by gum, you're hit in the back!"</p> + +<p>I gasped, nearly choked, and spluttered out: "You're a liar; I'm not hit in +the back." But there was a gash in the back where the exploding missile had +torn away and carried out portions of my lung and bits of bone and flesh.</p> + +<p>I closed my eyes. Then from a distance I heard Bob speak.</p> + +<p>"I'm going to fix you," he said, and knelt beside me. He got into such a +position that his own body shielded me from any of the enemy bullets. It +was a marvelous piece of bravery; less has earned a Victoria Cross.</p> + +<p>He turned me round so that my head was toward our reserves and my feet were +toward the Germans. In almost all cases when a man is hit he falls forward +with his face to the enemy. In all probability he will become unconscious. +When he awakes he remembers that he fell forward. A blind instinct works +within him and makes him strive to turn around. He knows danger lies ahead, +but friend and safety are back of him.</p> + +<p>Bob shifted me round. "Remember," he whispered, "that if you should faint, +when you come <a name="Page_218" id="Page_218"></a>to you are placed right. You are in the right +direction—don't turn round."</p> + +<p>A wonderful motto for a man to carry through life. Bob had no thought of +future or fame. In keen solicitude for a fallen comrade he uttered words +which mean more in these days of war and blood than do the words of poets.</p> + +<p>"You're in the right direction—don't turn round!"</p> + +<p>Then the lad got up to go on. He struggled to lift the box of ammunition.</p> + +<p>I whispered to him hoarsely: "You're not going on—you will never get +there. It is certain death."</p> + +<p>"Good-by, old boy," was his answer. "You don't think because the rest of +you have gone down that I am going to be a piker. Say 'Hello!' to Mother +for me should you see her before I do."</p> + +<p>I have never seen his mother. I do not know her. If she lives she has the +memory of a son who, though a boy in years, was a soldier and a very +gallant gentleman. Bob tried to reach the trench, but a rain of bullets got +him and he fell dead only a little way from me.</p> + +<p>I lay where I had fallen for some time. I don't <a name="Page_219" id="Page_219"></a>know how long, but long +enough to see our boys captured by the enemy. And in so dreadful a plight +as I was I had to smile. Those men who had boasted they would kill +themselves, surrendered with the rest. Life is very sweet. There is always +a chance of living, and always a chance of escape no matter how brutal the +system in German prison camps.</p> + +<p>Every man in that trench surrendered honorably. Not a man had a bullet +left. They were hopelessly outnumbered, and it is hard to die when there is +youth and love and strength.</p> + +<p>As evening wore on I feared that I too might be captured, and I commenced a +weary struggle to crawl back across the field. It was while I was resting +after such an effort that a wonderful moment came to me. I saw the Lord +Jesus upon His cross, and the compassion upon His face was marvelous to +see. He appeared to speak to me.</p> + +<p>"I am dying," I muttered, and then thought, "Shall I pray?"</p> + +<p>Of outward praying I had done none. I thought about it and wondered. To +pray now—no, that was being a piker. I had not prayed openly before, now +when I was nearing death it was no time <a name="Page_220" id="Page_220"></a>for a hurried repentance and a +stammered prayer. I watched the vision as it slowly faded, and a great +comfort surrounded me. I was happy.</p> + +<p>I crawled on and reached a shell hole. It must have been an hour later that +a despatch rider came to me. His motorcycle had been shot from under him, +and he was striving to reach his destination on foot. He spoke to me, and +then placed me in a blanket, which he took from a dead soldier. In this he +dragged me to the shelter of an old tumbledown house. It had been riddled +with shot and shell, but the greater part of the outer walls were standing, +and it was shelter.</p> + +<p>I begged the despatch rider to give me his name. I begged him to take some +small things of mine to keep as a token for what he had done for me. But he +would have nothing. He hurried away with the intention of sending help to +me, and as he went I begged his name once more. "Oh! Johnnie Canuck!" said +he. And there it remains. I do not know the name of the man who dragged me +to comparative safety at such terrible risk to himself.</p> + +<p>Behind the old house where I lay there was a battery of British guns, +4.7's. After a while the <a name="Page_221" id="Page_221"></a>enemy found the range, and their shells commenced +bursting round me. God in Heaven! I died a hundred deaths in that old ruin. +Once a shell hit what roof there was and a score of bricks came crashing +about me. Not one touched. I seemed charmed. I could hear the shells +screeching through the air a second before they burst near where I lay. Of +bodily pain I had little. The discomfort was great; the thirst was +appalling. I thought I should bleed to death before help reached me. But +there was nothing to compare with the mental strain of +waiting—waiting—waiting for a shell to burst. Where would it drop? Would +the next get me?</p> + +<p>I hoped and longed and waited, but help did not come. I never lost +consciousness. Darkness came and dawn. Another day went by and the shelling +went on as before. Another night, another dawn and then two Highland +stretcher-bearers came in. They raised me gently. The bleeding had stopped, +but that journey on the stretcher was too much. I had been found and I let +myself drift into the land of unknown things.</p> + +<p>I woke before we reached a dugout dressing station. Here I was given a +first-aid dressing and <a name="Page_222" id="Page_222"></a>immediately after carried away to an old-fashioned +village behind the lines. At this point there was a rough field hospital, +an old barn probably. There were eighty or ninety wounded there when I +arrived. Among the many French and British were some Germans. The very next +stretcher to me was occupied by one of the enemy.</p> + +<p>The Red Cross floated over the building, but that emblem of mercy made no +difference to the Hun. The shells commenced to find range, and in a short +time the roof was lifted off. A wounded man died close to me. I can only +remember the purr of a motor as an ambulance rushed up. Then I saw four +stretcher-bearers; two grabbed the German, and two caught hold of me. We +were rushed to the ambulance and driven at maddening speed through the +shell-ridden town.</p> + +<p>Though I was barely conscious, though I believed that I was nearing my last +moments, I remember how it struck me vividly,—the contrast in the methods +of fighting. German shells were blasting to pieces the shelter of wounded +men and nurses. German wounded were being cared for by those whom their +comrades sought to kill. The Hun <a name="Page_223" id="Page_223"></a>might have killed his own. It did not +matter. What is a life here or there to a Hohenzollern? And the +Allies—here were two British stretcher-bearers bent under the burden of an +enemy patient. They were striving to save his life from the fire of his own +people.</p> + +<p>I do not remember any more after I was put in the ambulance. I came to +myself in a base hospital in France. I was strapped to a water bed. +Everything round me was soft and fresh and clean, and smelled deliciously. +There was a patient, sweet-smiling woman in nurse's costume who came and +went to the beck and call of every man of us. We were whimpering and +peevish; we were wracked with pain and weary of mind, but that nurse never +failed to smile. Call a hundred times, call her once, she was always there +to soothe, to help, to sympathize, and always smiling. Her heart must have +been breaking at times, but her serene face never showed her sorrow or her +weariness.</p> + +<p>Often and often I am asked, "Why didn't you die when you were lying out +there on the battle-field?" Why didn't I die? I could have, several times, +but I didn't want to die, and I knew that if<a name="Page_224" id="Page_224"></a> I were found I need not die. +We raw soldiers when we go to France are interested in the possibilities of +being wounded. We know we've more or less got it coming to us, and we begin +quietly to make inquiries. We notice all those men who wear the gold +honor-bars on their sleeves. Yes; for every wound we get we have the right +to wear a narrow strip of gold braid on the tunic sleeve.</p> + +<p>We talk to the man with the honor-bar. We ask him how he was treated in the +hospital. He may be doing the dirtiest fatigue duty round trench or camp, +he may be smoking or writing a letter, but the minute be hears the word +"hospital" he drops everything. If he be a Cockney soldier he will repeat +the word: "'Orspital, mate—lor' luv ye, wish I wuz back!"</p> + +<p>That is the feeling. Talk to a thousand men after this war; ask them their +experiences and they will tell you a thousand different stories. Ask them +how they were treated in the hospital and there is but one reply: "Treated +in hospital? Excellent!"</p> + +<p>There is only one word. The great Red Cross—Royal Army Medical Corps—is +practically one hundred per cent. efficient. The veterans will tell <a name="Page_225" id="Page_225"></a>the +youngsters, "If you're wounded and have to lie out—then, lie out—don't be +foolish enough to die while you are lying out—because you can't die once +they find you."</p> + +<p>YOU CAN'T DIE.</p> + +<p>We remember that. We remember facts, too, that we hear from time to time. +We remember that out of all the casualties on the western front, only two +and a half per cent. have died of wounds. We remember that we have a +ninety-seven and a half fighting chance out of a hundred, and we are +willing to take it. Some of us have read of other wars and we know, for +instance, that in the American Civil War, from the best available +statistics, over twenty-two per cent. died of wounds—and the reason? No +efficient medical corps—no Red Cross—no neutral flag of red on white.</p> + +<p>I was taken over to London as soon as I could be moved. I was in the Royal +Herbert Hospital at Woolwich. It is not possible to describe in detail the +treatment. The doctors were untiring. Hour after hour and day after day +they worked without ceasing. The nurses were unremitting. No eight-hour day +for them!</p><p><a name="Page_226" id="Page_226"></a></p> + +<p>And here again I saw the treatment of the German wounded. They were in +wards as gay with flowers, as cool, as clean, as delightful as ours. They +had German newspapers to read, and certain days of the week brought a +German band, drawn from among fit prisoners, to play German airs for the +benefit of the sick prisoners. We think of this, and then we meet a British +or French soldier who has been exchanged or who has escaped from a German +hospital prison! It is hard to think of it calmly. The first impulse is to +follow the law, "an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth." But that is +not the way to-day of the square fighter.</p> + +<p>At this hospital I was operated on and it was shown that it was an +explosive bullet that hit me. Several pieces were taken out of me, and +these I keep as grim souvenirs. Several other pieces are still in my body, +and not infrequently by certain twinges I am made aware of their presence.</p> + +<p>I have never seen an explosive bullet, and few of the Allied soldiers +believe that many of us have felt them. Should one of the Allies be found +making an explosive or Dum-Dum bullet, he is liable to be court-martialed +and shot. There are those of <a name="Page_227" id="Page_227"></a>us who would like to use them, but it is not +what we like, it is what we may or may not do. It is discipline, and +discipline forbids a brutal warfare. Thank God that we are fighting this +war on the square, that our leaders are <i>making</i> us fight it on the square. +Thank God that no attempt has ever been made to brutalize the troops of the +Allies.</p> + +<p>Part of the four months I was incapacitated was spent at Dobson Volunteer +Red Cross Hospital, and here I was again struck with the marvelous devotion +of the women. Day after day many of the leading women would come in, +duchesses and others of title, and seek for Canadian lads to whom they +could show kindnesses. Luxurious cars waited to drive us out for the air; +flowers, fruits and books reached us, and quantities of cigarettes.</p> + +<p>When the boys of the U.S.A. reach British hospitals in England, as no doubt +they shall, they will find the same enthusiasm, the same attention bestowed +upon them from the first ladies of the land and from the humblest who may +only be able to give a smile, a cheery word or maybe a bunch of fragrant +violets.</p> + +<p>Two weeks before I was wounded I was recommended <a name="Page_228" id="Page_228"></a>for a commission by my +former colonel, Maynard Rogers, and the official document came to me while +I was in the English hospital suffering from my wounds. It was a great +source of pride and satisfaction that my commission, which I prize so +highly to-day, was signed by the late Sir Charles Tupper, father of the +Canadian Confederation and one of the Dominion's greatest statesmen.</p> + +<p>But my fighting days are over. I am "out of it," but out with memories of +good fellowship, real comrades, kindness, sympathy and friendships that dim +the recollection of death, of destruction, of blood, of outrage, of murder +and brutality.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><a name="Page_229" id="Page_229"></a></p> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XVI" id="CHAPTER_XVI"></a>CHAPTER XVI</h2> + +<h3>GERMAN TERMINOLOGICAL INEXACTITUDES</h3> + + +<p>Some years ago a British statesman, then great, put on record a phrase +which at once is polite and convincing. He wished to convey that a certain +statement was a d—— lie, but as he himself had made the statement he was +in somewhat of an awkward situation. He got out of the difficulty by +calling it a "terminological inexactitude."</p> + +<p>Now since I have been back in America, and more especially in the States, I +have run to earth any number of terminological inexactitudes uttered by +German propagandists. As far as Canada is concerned, the work is not now +progressing very favorably. The German inexactitude farmer is sowing seed +on barren soil. But I have traveled extensively during some crowded weeks +through the States, and I find that among a certain section of the American +public the seed of the German propagandist has taken root; not so deeply, +however, <a name="Page_230" id="Page_230"></a>but that an application of the hoe of truth will remove it. It is +there all the same, and his success is spurring the agents to further +efforts.</p> + +<p>The German in high place is aware that the English are and always have been +very friendly to the American people. He knows that the Englishman has +regarded the American as of the same family. He also knows that one day, +and possibly very soon, there will be a union that will amount almost to an +amalgamation of the three greatest races on earth, closely bound now by +ties of blood and friendship, that will never be broken: France, America, +England. He knows that when that occurs the German day is done, that the +sun has set forever on a German Empire.</p> + +<p>The German in high place has realized this, and with the usual thoroughness +of the race has set out to combat this friendship and prevent this joining. +He is trying to do it by the regulation German method. He knows the British +dislike of boasting, and that the American and the Britisher are woefully +trusting. They themselves abhor deception and they distrust no man until +they find him out. The British and the French have discovered the +<a name="Page_231" id="Page_231"></a>machinations of the German. The people of the United States have yet to be +convinced that they have been deliberately deceived, cozened and duped by +the Kaiser's government.</p> + +<p>I am embarrassed at times as I go from town to town by the intensity of the +congratulations poured on me as a representative of our Canadian Army.</p> + +<p>"You Canadians have done it all. We know that. We know that the English are +hanging back and have done nothing."</p> + +<p>I am ashamed when people talk to me in such a strain. I am ashamed of their +lack of intelligence, ashamed that they will allow themselves to be so +deceived.</p> + +<p>"You Canadians were asked by England to go and help her. When you got there +they put you in front and stayed in safety themselves."</p> + +<p>Think of it! Think of the base lie. Think of believing such twaddle. At +first I did not trouble to deny the statement; then, as it was repeated +again and again, I began to deny it.</p> + +<p>The British Empire is in this fight. Canada is doing her share of it, and +nothing more than her share. We were not asked to send men over. We +<a name="Page_232" id="Page_232"></a>declared war upon Germany ourselves, because we are an independent +dominion. We have had on the battle-field at one time some one hundred and +ten thousand men—that is the greatest number at any one time, though of +course nearly five hundred thousand are in khaki. At Vimy Ridge we held the +longest portion of trenches that we have ever held before or since—five +miles. To right and left of us there were Imperial troops, Anzacs, +Africans, and they held over fifty-five miles of line. We advanced four +miles, and papers on this continent blazed with the news. The English +advanced nine miles on the same day, and there was not so much as a +paragraph about it on this side of the Atlantic.</p> + +<p>For every overseas soldier wounded on the western front there are six of +the Imperial troops wounded. This is true except at Lens, where the +overseas casualties were considerably heavier.</p> + +<p>All this about Canada being in front is a German "terminological +inexactitude" which is so despicable that we in Canada are ashamed that it +should be said of us. It will injure us after the war; it will injure our +prestige in the empire, <a name="Page_233" id="Page_233"></a>which is now higher than ever before. We are not +boasters and egotists, we are fighters. We are fighting men who live +straight and who are proud to fight straight, and who are disgusted at lies +such as this.</p> + +<p>The British, the Imperial troops, have done magnificently. They have done +more than their share. The original agreement with France was to place +fifty thousand men in that country should Germany ever attack. The British +have five million troops under arms, of which only one-fifth are overseas. +They have some five hundred thousand more men in France than have the +French themselves.</p> + +<p>The British are fighting on many fronts. They are not fighting one war; +they are fighting in German West Africa, they are in German East Africa. It +was English troops who fought in the Cameroons. They are fighting in +Mesopotamia and in Egypt. They have an army at Saloniki and in the Holy +Land, and they have, of necessity, a large army in India, because the +borders of that empire must be protected.</p> + +<p>And then we hear that the English are not doing anything! The English are +feeding their own <a name="Page_234" id="Page_234"></a>prisoners in Germany, because the Germans were starving +them. They have been keeping some of their Allies in munitions and money. +They have been sheltering refugees from every nation that has been +devastated and overrun by the mad Huns. They have Belgians and French and +Serbians and Poles—a vast concourse of all nations is sheltered on the +little island which is the Motherland. It would be a poor thing if the +dominions could not protect themselves.</p> + +<p>The British fleet has for three years kept the seas open for the neutral +nations. The English fleet has protected Canada and other parts of the +empire that have no navies of their own. The English must keep an army in +England to protect her own shores. There was danger of invasion—that +danger is past to all seeming, but it would not have passed had not the +English had men on English soil.</p> + +<p>"And, you know, we think it dreadful that our boys are being sent over to +France to fight for democracy when England is keeping her men back in +safety in England."</p> + +<p>Another story this—another "terminological inexactitude."<a name="Page_235" id="Page_235"></a> A fairly clever +one. There is a half truth here. Yes; England has big reserves in England, +and it's well for the world that she has. Well for the neutral world during +these three years that England has her men in England.</p> + +<p>The English have good reserves and they are in England. They are there +because England is nearer to the firing line than is the base in France. +They are there because it is easier to transport troops by boat across the +English Channel, which is a matter of twenty-one miles, and another twenty +or thirty miles in a train on the French side, than it is to transport them +in cattle cars over a congested railroad system from a base some twenty-six +hours from the front line.</p> + +<p>Can not the people who hear these stories disprove them for themselves? Is +there not a war-map sold in America? England is closer to the firing line +than are portions of France, the portions of France which are used as +bases. It takes twenty minutes for a German air-ship to reach England.</p> + +<p>Were the English soldiers all to be kept in France, in addition to being +farther away from the line, they would still have to be fed. Is it better +<a name="Page_236" id="Page_236"></a>sense to keep them near to the food supply, or to send the reserves to +France and use valuable tonnage to ship foodstuffs to them? There is no +surplus food in France.</p> + +<p>It makes me tired and it makes every Britisher the same to think that such +absurd stories should take effect. Of course the German is keen enough to +recognize that there is already the will to think evil of England. He just +wishes to season it a little and stir it up. He is wily, is the German +propagandist.</p> + +<p>Then there is the hoary tale that England is keeping one hundred fifty +thousand troops in Ireland to tyrannize over the poor Irish, while the +States soldiers are sent to France to fight for democracy.</p> + +<p>This I also thought too obvious a lie for denial, but it has been repeated +and repeated again. I do not know whether there are any English regiments +stationed in Ireland at all. There are good barracks in that country, and +good camps, so there may be.</p> + +<p>The Royal Irish Constabulary are quite able to cope at this time with any +Sinn Fein disturbance <a name="Page_237" id="Page_237"></a>which may arise. As far as the true Nationalist or +Home Ruler is concerned, he has enlisted in British regiments and is +fighting at the front. As far as the Ulsterman is concerned, he has +enlisted long ago and is dead already or fighting still. The men of both +sides who are over age are enlisted as Home Defense Volunteers, just as are +the men of England, Scotland and Wales.</p> + +<p>So little is there tyranny over Ireland that when the Conscription Bill was +passed in the British Imperial Parliament it was enacted only for England, +Scotland and Wales. If it had included Ireland some one might have made the +accusation of tyranny.</p> + +<p>In the United Kingdom there are no less freedom of action, freedom of +speech and freedom of the individual than there are in America, and I +include Canada in that word. They are as free as we, but they make no talk +about it.</p> + +<p>The United Kingdom, with the rest of the empire, is fighting to retain her +own democracy. If Germany had won during the three years the Allies have +held the safety of the world, then the world would have been under the heel +of autocracy.</p><p><a name="Page_238" id="Page_238"></a></p> + +<p>When I enlisted, and before I went over to England, I had no use for the +Englishman myself; that was, the Englishman as we knew him in Western +Canada. We had had specimens of "Algy boys," of "de Veres" and "Montmorency +lads." These, we soon found out, were not the English true to type. They +were ne'er-do-wells, remittance men, sent out of the way to the farthest +point of the map.</p> + +<p>In England we were treated with wonderful hospitality. I began to change my +opinion, but not wholly until I reached France. There I met Tommy +Atkins—the soldier and the gentleman. There is no cleaner, cooler, better +sport on the fighting line than Mr. Atkins. Occasionally when the Irish are +in a brilliant charge, when the Scotch punish the enemy with a bit of +dogged fighting, it is reported. When the Canadians do a forward sprint the +world rings with it. When the English advance and advance again and hold +position and hold yet more positions, there is not a whisper of it—not a +word.</p> + +<p>I have no English blood in my veins, but I believe in fairness, I believe +firmly that all the other nations of the empire put together have not done +<a name="Page_239" id="Page_239"></a>so much as have the English Tommies by themselves.</p> + +<p>There has come about a complete change in the Canadian mind in its attitude +to the English. If, before this war, there was ever a possibility of our +breaking away from the empire, that possibility is now dead—dead and +buried beyond recall.</p> + +<p>This statement is not made at random. It is a considered sentence. At the +Convention of the Great War Veterans' Association of Canada, the +organization of the men returned from the world war, I was a delegate from +my home town of Edmonton, Alberta. The first resolution at our first +session was in effect—To propagate the good feeling between the dominions +of the empire and between them and the Motherland; to continue the loyalty +and devotion which have prompted us to fight for the old Union Jack.</p> + +<p>After all, the voice of the men who have fought and bled for their country +is the voice of the people.</p> + +<p>Every criticism leveled at England or any other Ally from this side of the +Atlantic is to throw a German stink-bomb for the Kaiser.</p> + +<p>Feuds remembered are thoughts which are futile.<a name="Page_240" id="Page_240"></a> The England of to-day is +not the England of 1812. It is not possible to blame the man of to-day for +the work of his great-grandfather. Read history and find out the +nationality of the George who ruled in England in those far distant days. +He was a German, spoke German, and could not read a word of the language of +the country on whose throne he sat.</p> + +<p>The Lloyd George of ten years ago was the most hated and hooted man in +Britain. He is not the Lloyd George of ten years ago to-day, he is the +Lloyd George of the present—the most loved and respected man on earth.</p> + +<p>The American people and the British are fundamentally alike. They are of +the one stock. They have the same ideals and principles. If the English did +not make sacrifices in other days, to-day they are making a sacrifice as +great, or maybe greater, than others of the Allies.</p> + +<p>The joining of the peoples of America and Britain in a tie which can never +be broken is imminent. The knot is in the making.</p> + +<p>In keeping with the dastardly methods of "frightfulness" in Europe, the +German propagandist <a name="Page_241" id="Page_241"></a>has thought on this side to strike at the women—to +terrify the mothers.</p> + +<p>It is terribly hard for women to let their men go. We know that. Our women +know it, but they are ashamed should one of their men attempt to hold back. +The German lie-mongers whisper: "It is the last time you will see your boy. +It is certain death on the western front."</p> + +<p>It is not so. The Canadian troops altogether have used up some four hundred +fifty thousand in three years. Of this number, in the three years of severe +fighting, only five per cent. have been killed. Of the four and a half +million, approximately, who have been wounded in the fighting of three +years, only two and a half per cent. have died of their wounds.</p> + +<p>It is bad enough, but it is not nearly so bad as the German scare +manufacturer would seek to make out. Boys come through without a scratch. +Not many, certainly, but they come through. There is every reason to +believe that you will get your boy back. There is still more reason to +believe that if you hold that thought before him while he is <a name="Page_242" id="Page_242"></a>still with +you, and hold that thought before yourself when he is gone, he will come +back.</p> + +<p>Women have a tremendous responsibility in this war. Wars are always women's +wars, mothers' wars. We boys have courage and we need it, but we also need +the greater courage of those women we have left behind to back us up. They +have to bear the brunt of the war, which to them is a fight of endurance +and eternal, everlasting waiting—waiting—waiting.</p> + +<p>Do not think of the sorrow of his leaving, think of the pride of his going.</p> + +<p>The martial spirit is not actively abroad on this side of the Atlantic yet. +Wait till the boys get over to France; wait till they see the outrages on +women and on nature, and all the blood of their fighting ancestors will +boil with indignation and rage. They will thank God that they have come to +prevent such a devastation on the soil of their own homeland.</p> + +<p>In the trenches the boys compare the merits of their mothers. It is a +wonderful thing, that spirit of mother love which surrounds us, blesses us +and <a name="Page_243" id="Page_243"></a>leads us on to higher things. We gather together in the trench and we +talk of mother—mother—mother. The lad whose mother cried and fainted when +he left quietly drops out from the group. We always know him. He is just a +tiny bit afraid that we will ask him how his mother sent him off. He never +shows his letters from home, because it is possible that she writes him +laments and moanings. He is ashamed. But those of us who have a home +courage of which we talk—how we boast! Mother is a mighty factor in the +winning of the war.</p> + +<p>Out to France we go for Flag and Country. "Over the top" we go for Mother. +And mother, that one simple word, embraces the whole of womanhood.</p> + +<p>Remember that your boy is going for you. Talk to the French mother, to the +English mother, who has lost all. Ask her about the war, about peace. +"Peace, yes, we all want peace, but not a German peace. If all the menfolk +die and there is no one else to go, why, we will carry on!"</p> + +<p>And here I want to ask: What is the pacifist in this country doing for +peace? Nothing. He is <a name="Page_244" id="Page_244"></a>only trying to put off this war, for a worse war. +Every man, woman or child who talks peace before the complete defeat of +Germany is a Kaiser agent, spreading German poison gas to the injury and +possible destruction of his own countrymen.</p> + +<p>Back at home we must have the United Spirit which is inspiring us at the +front. After all, it is not the body which is going to take us through to +ultimate victory; it is the Spirit. And because American arms ultimately +will be the deciding factor in this war, so will American womanhood. From +what I have seen already, I have no hesitation in saying that the American +mother will be just as true to herself as the English and French mother has +been.</p> + +<p>Let him go with a smile, and if you can't smile, whistle. You can never +know how much it means to him. We at the front are undaunted. If there ever +had been a thought of defeat, to-day, with the American arms beside us, we +are certain of a sure and glorious victory.</p> + +<p>Because we know that if Cæsar crossed the Rhine for Rome, and Napoleon +crossed it for France and <a name="Page_245" id="Page_245"></a>autocracy, so shall we, the Freemen of the +world, not only cross the Rhine, but will march even to Berlin for the sake +of Liberty, of Love, of Right and of Democracy.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><a name="Page_246" id="Page_246"></a></p> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XVII" id="CHAPTER_XVII"></a>CHAPTER XVII</h2> + +<h3>THE LAST CHAPTER</h3> + +<h4>by</h4> + +<h3>"HERSELF"</h3> + + +<p>War! It was the first of August, 1914, and I almost ran home from the city +to tell the news to my people.</p> + +<p>War! It was like we'd be in it. War between England and Germany. That war +we had all heard of and knew was inevitable. The war of the ages was +imminent.</p> + +<p>I had been free-lancing in Fleet Street for the past three months. Left +<i>The Daily Chronicle</i> over the Home Rule questions, as well as other +things.</p> + +<p>I was in Ireland for the Ulster gun-running. Ireland was a seething mass of +German-inspired sedition south of the Boyne. The authorities apparently +would not listen to the warnings of Ulster. But Ulster was ready for +anything. There were hospitals, clearing stations, bases. There were +despatch <a name="Page_247" id="Page_247"></a>riders, signalers, transport men, all in readiness, besides the +ordinary infantry volunteers, who were pledged by all means in their power +to keep Ireland under the flag of the Union.</p> + +<p>I was in a little country church one Sunday morning. A roll of a drum and +the skirl of a fife came wafting across the valley on the April breeze. The +minister paused a moment in his sermon. Two, three, half a dozen men rose +and softly left. They were going to the rendezvous in case of alarm. No one +knew what might happen. A conflagration might flare out at a moment's +notice.</p> + +<p>But in August there came war, real war. Civilization was threatened. Ulster +handed over men, guns, ammunition, hospitals and nurses to the Imperial +government. Hundreds of the Ulster Volunteers in the Ulster Division have +died for Britain. Hundreds of the men south of the Boyne who have not been +bitten with the microbe of revolution, and a mistaken idea that England is +a tyrant, have died for the cause of world Liberty.</p> + +<p>How we lived through those first electric four days of August! Would the +Liberal government funk? We doubted them unjustly. Then came <a name="Page_248" id="Page_248"></a>the +devastation of Belgium, and Britain gave Germany its +disappointment—Britain declared war. Ireland rallied round the brave old +Union Jack; the colonies, rather we call them now the dominions overseas, +India, Africa, Canada, Australia, New Zealand and the smaller islands, sent +word that they were with us to a man.</p> + +<p>And then the fight commenced. Those casualty lists of the first Imperial +Army! God in Heaven! The thud of distant guns, and then nearer and nearer +we could hear in London the rumble of the enemy artillery as though of +thunder. Smoke drifted over, and we lived in a pall of death.</p> + +<p>It was in October that Fate's apparent working showed itself.</p> + +<p>"This war will alter our lives very greatly," said my aunt one evening in +this month, as we sat around the fire. We have all a trace of second sight. +Most old families of the north of Ireland can claim to be "fey."</p> + +<p>"It will," said I, "for free-lancing is getting played out. I shall have to +get steady work."</p> + +<p>No more was said, and no special work came my way. It was useless to +attempt to train for nursing.<a name="Page_249" id="Page_249"></a> I had no aptitude for that, and munition +workers of our sex were not called yet.</p> + +<p>Then the Canadians came. The First Contingent. For the most part big, +strong, hefty-looking men; well uniformed, well set up. Eighty-seven per +cent. of them Old Country born.</p> + +<p>Among them my cousin, Peter Watson. Dear old man Peter, I wonder do you +know of my happiness which is the outcome of your journey "West"? I wish +you might know it, and share some of the joy. Yours was a lonely and a +sensitive soul.</p> + +<p>Peter had been in the Suffolks. A lieutenant in the Imperial Army. Money +was scarce and he threw up his commission. He tried Canada as a fortune +making ground. Lingered a while in Calgary, and when war broke out enlisted +in the now famous Fighting Tenth.</p> + +<p>Peter came up from Salisbury to see us. He met me in town a few times. We +lunched, dined, did a theater. He brought pals with him. There was Sandy +Clark. Poor old Sandy! I have his collar badge C10. Another soldier took it +off <a name="Page_250" id="Page_250"></a>his tunic for me before they buried him. A sniper got Sandy in June, +1916.</p> + +<p>There was Farmer. He was a signaler, and was transferred. I saw his name +listed killed, too. I don't know where. There were half a dozen other +Canadian boys, Peter and myself. We lunched one day at Pinoli's in Rupert +Street. We pledged to our next meeting after the war at the same place. We +shan't meet at Pinoli's. There is none of the boys alive. I only live of +all the party. It was a strange thing that day. I did not know it would be +the last time I should see Peter, but he came back from down the street and +kissed me "good-by" a second time. I wondered. Old man Peter.</p> + +<p>The war has come home to our family. There is none of us left. Tom Small, +my step-brother, is still living and still fighting. I pray his safety to +the end. They all went, one after the other. The last to go was Hugh. July, +1916, on the eleventh day he was killed. Dear old boy, it is unrealizeable +yet. You won the military Cross and you won yet another undying honor. You +were sniped in the glory of completing a fine piece of <a name="Page_251" id="Page_251"></a>work. Your six feet +of glorious young manhood lie deep in French soil. Good-by, Hugh!</p> + +<p>Peter was reported missing. All of us who were left alive tried every means +of which we knew and of which we heard to find a trace of him. We got none. +At last I decided that an advertisement in a daily paper would bring +replies from wounded soldiers. I advertised in <i>The Daily Express</i>. The +advertisement appeared on a Wednesday, and on the Thursday morning I had a +letter from a young Canadian soldier of the Third Battalion who was in the +Royal Herbert Hospital at Woolwich. He told me of knowing something of what +may have happened to Peter. The possibilities were that he was blown up in +company with a trench full of other soldiers. There is little reason to +doubt this awful ending to a young life; there is no evidence of anything +else.</p> + +<p>The letter of the young Canadian soldier was kindly and frank in tone. I +answered it, and asked if he had any relations in the Old Country. He +replied that he had not, and we decided that we would go and see him in +hospital and try in some way to help him in his loneliness.</p><p><a name="Page_252" id="Page_252"></a></p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 480px;"> +<img src="images/image252.jpg" width="480" height="300" alt="©Famous Players—Lasky Corporation. Scene from the +Photo-Play + +"THEY LOOK BIG ENOUGH, DON'T THEY?"" title="" /> +<span class="caption">©Famous Players—Lasky Corporation. Scene from the +Photo-Play + +"THEY LOOK BIG ENOUGH, DON'T THEY?"</span> +</div><p><a name="Page_253" id="Page_253"></a></p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 486px;"> +<img src="images/image253.jpg" width="486" height="300" alt="A close shave in Flanders" title="" /> +<span class="caption">A close shave in Flanders</span> +</div><p><a name="Page_254" id="Page_254"></a></p> + +<p>Before seeing the soldier I received several other letters, notably from +Sam J. Peters, who came to see us, and was positive that he knew Peter as a +man who had aided him on his being wounded himself. Lance-Corporal Carey +was another who wrote, and Corporal George A. Vowel, known as Black Jack, +then of the Tenth and now of the Thirteenth Machine Gun Corps, wrote a +kindly letter.</p> + +<p>On a Saturday afternoon we went down to Woolwich, and after a short chat +with a nurse in charge were allowed to see the Canadian who had written +first. Private Harold R. Peat was slight, small, and looked almost +emaciated. We talked for some time and he showed us several souvenirs which +he had. We liked him, and promised to come back. He agreed that he would +get a pass for the following Sunday so that we could see him in the +regulation hours.</p> + +<p>He mentioned during conversation how he had seen the advertisement in <i>The +Daily Express</i>, and how he always had the desire to comfort those who had +lost relatives, especially when all the official information could give was +"missing."</p> + +<p>On the next day it occurred to me that the days <a name="Page_255" id="Page_255"></a>must hang long on such a +boy's hands, and I forthwith wrote him a card with some small joke on it. +He replied by a letter. Soon we wrote to each other every day. It was quite +amusing, and at times our letters amounted to a war of wits and repartee.</p> + +<p>Our friendship grew, and then he got well enough to leave the hospital. We +wrote regularly, but finally there were more hospital visits to make when, +as a paralyzed wreck of a youth, he was sent back from France. Private Peat +rallied quickly, and to my astonishment one day he walked in to see me at +the offices where the Efficiency Engineers had their headquarters.</p> + +<p>"Time for me to come and see you!" he exclaimed. I brought him into the +reception room, left him for two minutes until I made some arrangements as +to work. When I returned he was in a faint, from which it took some time to +rouse him. His convalescent camp was in the country, and he had trudged +some five miles of muddy road in the rain in his endeavor to reach a +railway station with the ultimate object in view of visiting me.</p> + +<p>We saw each other frequently from this time. My dear friend, Amy Naylor, +jokingly warned me:<a name="Page_256" id="Page_256"></a> "Be careful, Bebe, you are playing with fire." I +laughed. I had other ideas, but nevertheless her words made me think. I +found out that I, for one, was not playing. It remained to find out whether +the other party to the game believed it a pastime, or something of more +moment.</p> + +<p>Soon there came word that certain of the disabled men were to be returned +to Canada for discharge. Private Peat was among them. He had word that he +would soon receive a commission, though he would not again be fit for +active service.</p> + +<p>Without one word spoken, it came to be understood between us that it would +only be a matter of time before I would go to Canada to join him. Fate +seemed to arrange the matter silently that at some indefinite time when +"he" had had time to look around and "see how things were," he would send +for me.</p> + +<p>It was a matter of weeks before I got a cable: "Come now." I came.</p> + +<p>We met through tragedy. My husband has all the sacredness to me of having +come back to me from the brink of the grave. He has all the wonder of a man +who has offered, and is willing to offer <a name="Page_257" id="Page_257"></a>his life again for right. He has +all the glory of a man who had not to be "fetched." He went.</p> + +<p>He is friend, pal and husband all in one. Of Peter, the unconscious +instrument of Fate's working, we must say of him but one thing: "He died +for his country."</p><p><a name="Page_258" id="Page_258"></a></p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 439px;"> +<img src="images/image258.jpg" width="439" height="300" alt="SIGNS OF RANKS FROM THE TRENCH MAGAZINE" title="" /> +<span class="caption">SIGNS OF RANKS FROM THE TRENCH MAGAZINE</span> +</div><p><a name="Page_259" id="Page_259"></a></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="THE_TEN_COMMANDMENTS_OF_A_SOLDIER_WHILE_ON_ACTIVE_SERVICE" id="THE_TEN_COMMANDMENTS_OF_A_SOLDIER_WHILE_ON_ACTIVE_SERVICE"></a>THE TEN COMMANDMENTS OF A SOLDIER WHILE ON ACTIVE SERVICE</h2> + + +<div class="blockquot"><p>1. When on guard thou wilt challenge all parties approaching thee.</p> + +<p>2. Thou shalt not send any engraving nor any likeness of any +air-ship in Heaven above or on any postcard of the Earth beneath, +nor any drawing of any submarine under the sea, for I, the Censor, +am a jealous Censor, visiting the iniquities of the offenders with +three months C.B., but showing mercy unto thousands by letting +their letters go free who keep my commandments.</p> + +<p>3. Thou shalt not use profane language unless under extraordinary +circumstances, such as seeing your comrade shot, or getting coal +oil in your tea.</p> + +<p>4. Remember the soldier's week consists of seven days: six days +shalt thou labor and do all thy work, and on the seventh do all +thy odd jobs.</p><p><a name="Page_260" id="Page_260"></a></p> + +<p>5. Honor your President and your Country, keep your rifle oiled +and shoot straight that thy days may be long upon the land which +the enemy giveth thee.</p> + +<p>6. Thou shalt not steal thy comrade's kit.</p> + +<p>7. Thou shalt not kill—TIME.</p> + +<p>8. Thou shalt not adulterate thy mess tin by using it as a shaving +mug.</p> + +<p>9. Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy comrades but +preserve a strict neutrality on his outgoings and his incomings.</p> + +<p>10. Thou shalt not covet thy sergeant's post, nor the corporal's +nor the staff major's, but do thy duty and by dint of perseverance +rise to the high position of major general.</p></div><p><a name="Page_261" id="Page_261"></a></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="SOME_THINGS_THAT_WE_OUGHT_AND_OUGHT_NOT_TO_SEND" id="SOME_THINGS_THAT_WE_OUGHT_AND_OUGHT_NOT_TO_SEND"></a>SOME THINGS THAT WE OUGHT AND OUGHT NOT TO SEND</h2> + + +<p>Candies, cigarettes—and ordinary, plain cigarettes are good enough, so +long as you send plenty. If he chews, send him chewing. Cigarettes are an +absolute necessity because they are the only things soothing to the nerves +when under heavy shell fire. Powdered milk in small quantities, or +Horlick's Milk Tablets, are always welcome. Pure jam; don't ever make a +mistake in this and send plum and apple, because if he ever gets back +alive, he will surely take your life for making such a terrible +mistake—different fruit preserves they long for. Never send corned beef. +This would be even a worse crime than the plum and apple jam. A pair of +sox, home-made and pure wool, you ought to send once a week, because you +must remember the Red Cross takes care only of the wounded men and not the +fighters in the trenches; the government and home folks must look after the +fighter in the field. Three-finger mittens knitted up to the elbow, with +<a name="Page_262" id="Page_262"></a>the first finger absolutely bare, are very welcome. Scarfs are quite +unnecessary. Tommy usually gives these to the French lassies. Different +insect powders Tommy likes to get, because he can't buy these out there. +There is no doubt about it that, although we get used to the "cooties," yet +sometimes they outnumber us and it is necessary to put a gas attack over on +them. Strong powders are the only thing. Candles, matches, and if possible +small alcoholic burners are very essential things. Of course, if you send +him a burner it would be necessary for you to keep sending him alcohol, +because this can't be bought in France. Nor can we get sugar out there. Any +of these things with a nice long "letter" will delight Tommy or Sammy or +Poilou.</p> + +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<table border="0" cellpadding="10" style="background-color: #ccccff;"> + <tr> + <td valign="top"> + Transcriber's note: + </td> + <td> + Minor typographical errors in the original text have + been corrected. + + </td> + </tr> +</table> +<p> </p> +<hr class="full" /> +<p>***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PRIVATE PEAT***</p> +<p>******* This file should be named 16685-h.txt or 16685-h.zip *******</p> +<p>This and all associated files of various formats will be found in:<br /> +<a href="https://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/6/6/8/16685">https://www.gutenberg.org/1/6/6/8/16685</a></p> +<p>Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed.</p> + +<p>Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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