We were at Cuinchy only two days, but we took three lines of trenches
there, and retreated. The dead we left on the field covered the barbed
wire entanglements. The Germans in their counterattack came at us in
serried ranks. Our coffee grinders smashed their first, their second,
their third lines, but they came on and on, resistless as a flood. We
could not but give way and withdraw before that awful advance. They
cared not for the lives of men, but thought only of the ground they
gained. Every foot they advanced cost them many, many lives. But those
trenches from which we retreated are now occupied by the British. All
their silly outlay of men was in vain.
To the south of Cuinchy, we fought at Givenchy. Five days we were in
the third line, and four in the first. German mortars opposite us were
belching forth thunderous volumes of flame and death. Chaos was at
Givenchy. Lightning lashed us--the swift lightning of 10,000 rifles
and great batteries of field guns. Yet we destroyed their mortars and
took fifty prisoners. Do you wonder that I am still proud that I fought
there--proud of the French Canadians? What soldiers ever fought more
valiantly? Who ever gave their lives in a noble cause more gladly? Who
ever met certain death more steadfastly and unafraid? Whatever I think
of war--and before I am done, I shall tell--whatever I think of war, I
say that braver soldiers never lived or died than the gallant French
Canadians. But oh! I am sorry to think how their handsome lines have
been thinned--thinned more than most people know.
Two of our men cared for ten prisoners. A Sergeant led them away. I
suppose that they are in England now, spectacles for the curious. They
were brave men. I am sorry for their captivity, on their account; but
glad to see their terrible martial strength thus ebbing. When we took a
trench, the Germans would throw up their hands and cry "Comrade." The
Saxon Germans always surrender the quickest, because they are so nearly
akin to the English. The Bavarian Germans and the Prussian Guards are
different propositions.
At Béthune, a town of 50,000 population, we had a ten-day rest. They
shifted us to Oblingham--and then another rest. And then three more
weeks of fighting at La Bassée. It was the same story!
I had fought in the first line of the battle front until all the bed
I knew was wet earth, and all the rest I knew were snatches of sleep
obtained during lulls in the rocking tumult. From almost the very
opening of the war I had fought. And long since I had had my fill of
the fighting.
The American Consul at London wrote me a letter. It came, I remember
well, in October, 1915. It brought me my first ray of hope--my first
real hope of life. For I knew that that strange chance which had spared
me so many months, when so many of my comrades had died, would not
always be mine. I knew that death fought by my side in the day and
slept with me in the night. I saw him grinning at me from the twisted
features of those shot in the battle. I heard him gibbering on the
horrible field at night!
The Ambassador gave me the hope that, having been under age and an
American by birth when I enlisted, my Government might secure my
discharge. Influential friends were working for me.
On Jan. 10, 1916, in the forenoon, I was notified to report to
headquarters, 300 yards behind our firing line. I laid low in the front
trench all day, fearful lest at the last moment I should be shot. For
a friend, who had obtained a long furlough for rest in England, on
the very eve of his departure, had been killed by my side a few days
before. It seemed so pitiful an ending, just when he was going home.
So eager was I to leave, that I planned the best I could how to escape.
But I knew that if I yielded and went, I should forfeit my life. By a
great effort, I restrained myself. But at 4:30 o'clock I could stand it
no longer. My friends wept at the parting--for joy for my sake that I
was going back to life; for grief that they were left, to die probably,
so far from their fair Canada.
At 4:30 o'clock, then, with last hand-grips and the well-wishes of all,
I jumped a little ditch and crept on hands and knees in a circuitous
way to the headquarters.
I walked seven miles to the railroad. The firing sank away. The
trenches and their fevers, their wounded and dead, their noxious odors
and their deadly gases, and the man-eating rats--all became a memory.
I was free, going home to my wife and child, my parents, my friends,
unwounded.