After the first dressing of my wound, I was sent to our transport station,
a short distance behind the lines, being told that in a few days I would
be fit for duty again. There was a farm here. By the time I reached the
farm house the pain of my wound was terrific. It was like a toothache all
over my head and down into my neck and shoulders. Nevertheless, I threw
myself onto a pile of straw in the barn and, after tossing about a while,
managed to fall asleep.
When I awoke it was daylight again, the entire night having passed.
Leaning over me was a little French girl--she must have been about eight
years old--with a pitcher of milk, which she held out toward me. In spite
of the condition of my mouth, I managed to swallow the milk. I was almost
starved and very weak. I tried to persuade the little girl to accept a
franc for the milk, but she shook her head, and skipped off. Following
her out of the barn, I met her mother to whom, also, I offered payment;
she, too, refused it.
We could hear the rumbling of big guns; shells were exploding not far
away; then came the noise of transport wagons approaching the farm. I
turned back toward the barn and had not gone more than ten paces when
there was a crash overhead. Splinters and shrapnel spattered into the farm
yard. I ducked and hastened my pace. Then there was a thud behind me, as
if a bag of potatoes had been dropped from a lorry. Almost simultaneously
came a scream from the little girl.
I turned just in time to see the mother of the child fall, roll down out
of the doorway in which the two were standing, and lie ominously still.
The little girl stood gazing in terror at the fallen woman. Her little
hands were raised shoulder high before her and she shrieked--hysterically
and helplessly. As I hastened toward them the child seemed to realize the
awful thing that had happened and threw herself upon her mother's body,
pressing her face against the dying woman's. I felt the tears trickling
down my cheek and smarting in my wound as I heard the child's heartbroken
exclamations--terms of endearment they seemed, and pitifully eloquent
enough, though the tongue in which they were spoken was unknown to me.
A lad of ten, barefoot and in overalls, came running from the house. He
knelt and stared into his mother's face, then he turned a dumb,
questioning glance at me. I could not meet his eyes. As I got my arms
under the shoulders of the fallen woman and started to drag her body into
the house, I could hear the little fellow sobbing softly but he didn't
speak. Hoping that it still might be of use, he helped with all his little
strength to move his mother's body. Inside the house, we pushed the
tumbled hair back from her face. A shrapnel bullet had entered her
forehead. It was useless to ask if human aid could serve her. Death had
been almost instantaneous. Then I saw a sight that spoke a volume on the
cruelty of war and the heroism of the sturdy French blood could I but tell
it.
The little lad gathered his sister in his protecting arms and
sat--speaking, manfully, words of comfort to her--beside the dead body of
their mother, shells meanwhile bursting all about the home which had been
their childhood haven of love and safety, and brick and plaster falling
about them from its shattered roof. The children were in serious danger,
but they steadfastly refused to leave their mother. I did not know enough
French to reason with them, and it was not until some French muleteers
sought shelter behind the building that I was able, through them, to
persuade the boy and girl to go farther to the rear, with them.
After this experience, like one in a dream, I made my way back to the
trenches, heedless of the shells whizzing overhead. The sight I had seen
haunted me.
Upon reaching my trench, I was brought back to my senses by some of my
"muckin'-in" pals, who threw all sorts of questions at me in a jesting
fashion, such as:
"Hello, Reuter, been tae Blighty an' back? Ye're a better sprinter than Ah
thocht"; "Hoo's aw wi' th' fokes at hame? Did ye remember the fags?"
It was some time before I was sufficiently myself again to be able to
answer them in the proper strain. My head looked like a cotton-and-bandage
demonstration, and I was a sorry looking sight altogether. I lived for the
next few days on bully beef biscuits, softened, and oxo cubes dissolved in
water.
In a few days we were relieved by French troops, and we force-marched
north to stem the German thrust at Calais.
After some stiff marching, we entrained "somewhere." Our "camions" were
coal trucks, which had been only partially unloaded. Some of my more
hygienic mates who were under the impression that they did not have as
much grime-caked mud sticking to them as the rest, suggested that our
truck be cleaned out, but the general eagerness for a corner "doss" put
this suggestion out of consideration at once. There was a scrambling
match, and when our allotment got entirely in, the quartermaster was
soundly "cussed." It seemed as if the whole regiment had been detailed to
this car. Even in these circumstances, the whimsical philosophy of the
private soldier asserted itself. A little chap, jammed in a corner, said
he wanted a place by the side door, so that he could "see the scenery"!
We travelled all night, and on the following morning drew up at a junction
where a body of recruits joined us. They regarded us with staring eyes,
and I suppose we did look like a lot of cave men, being unshaven,
long-haired, grimy, and black as sweeps with the coal dust. We did not
mind this half so much as the recruits. At the junction, we got a sandwich
and a canteen of coffee which had a most exquisite flavour of rum. This
was so pronounced that some summoned their nerve sufficiently to go back
for a "double attack," but were met with "Napoo."
Conditions have changed now, so that Tommy is able to keep himself shaved
and personally neat, even in the mud of the trenches. It helps keep up our
morale and shatter that of the boches. There is a distinct psychological
effect on the enemy when clean-shaven, tidily-dressed men come up out of
the earth and fall upon them.
Very soon we commenced our journey again. How long we were on the train I
cannot recall, but finally we reached a large town where we got off. On
our arrival we could hear the incessant rumbling of guns, and knew we were
going to have another hot time of it. My face was better, but my beard! I
had not had a shave since before Mons! While on the retreat, most of us,
in order to lighten our loads, had thrown away the little items of our
equipment that we did not urgently need. We kept only our greatcoats and
such articles as we required for warmth.
We force-marched until early morning, when we halted for a rest, as the
feet of many of our men were skinned and in bad shape. For myself, I was
walking on my uppers, as the soles and heels of my shoes were completely
worn out.
We resumed the march. We understood that we were in the vicinity of Ypres.
We force-marched for all we were worth, and late in the afternoon we came
to a village. Here we were billeted on the side nearest us. After getting
rations, we needed no coaxing to sleep.
It was still dark when we got orders to fall in and march at top speed.
The village was being shelled.
This seemed to have been a spot for concentrating for we met with other
regiments there--one of them the King's Royal Rifles. Beyond the far side
of the village at a certain distance one could see trees scattered here
and there, but farther on the country was flat. It was in this direction
we marched.
Orders were whispered along the line that we were to maintain strict
silence and no "fags" were to be lighted, as we were near the enemy, and
were attempting to move without his knowledge. Our officers gave us the
encouraging news that we were about to be up against some hard
fighting--harder than we had so far experienced. Our commander, Major J.
T. C. Murray, expressed the hope that we would keep the name of the "Black
Watch" where our predecessors had placed it--in the foremost rank. And so
we advanced in darkness, with our minds on serious things.
We were in two lines of skirmishing order, one pace apart. Our object was
to reach the flat ground beyond the trees and dig ourselves in before
dawn. We did this. The digging was an easy matter as the earth was marshy
and our entrenching tools proved fit enough for the task. Shells were
flying overhead continually, making an awful humming noise, and some of
them passed so low that the air disturbances blew caps from off the heads
of our men.
There was not a murmur or a word of complaint from our wearied and worn
ranks. We had almost completed our shallow trenches when the boche opened
fire at us with his field guns. It was hardly dawn. We kept on digging,
crouching in all positions to keep under cover from the bombardment.
I suppose that every one under shell fire, at one time or another, in some
manner, prays. I know that I often have done so, although not so
ostentatiously as some of the men. I have seen them, when the shells were
rocking the earth and splinters were whistling past our ears, drop to
their knees and swear to their Maker that, if they were spared, when they
returned home they would go to church regularly and be kinder to their
wives and children.
Some of our men ceased digging after reaching what they thought a safe
depth, and crouched against the parapet for safety. Others of us started
making what are known to-day as dug-outs. Jock Hunter and I made one to
hold both of us. We dug away under the parapet so that we could crawl in
with only our feet sticking out. This not only sheltered us from the
unceasing shrapnel, but from the rain also. Some of the boys lying in the
trenches had been killed and some wounded from the shrapnel bursting
overhead, so the officers gave orders that we were all to make these
dug-outs.
A man from each company had been detailed for look-out duty, at which we
all took turn of an hour each. It was noon before we heard any response
from our artillery, but then it checked the German fire considerably.
The rain came down heavily, flooding us out of our dug-outs, and we were
obliged to stand in the trench like a lot of half-drowned rats, our
greatcoats on and our waterproof sheets over them. At first we were
standing on earth, but before long the muck had reached over our ankles.
There was at least one virtue in the rain--it softened our bully-beef
biscuits, which we ate standing in the trenches, wet to the skin and with
water dripping from our greatcoats and kilts.
Toward night the rain ceased. We had expected to be attacked at any minute
that day, but for some reason or another we escaped it. We got a rum
issue. Then volunteers were asked for, to go and fetch some hot "gunfire."
(It was hot when the ration party got it, but quite cold when it reached
us.)
That night I was given orders to go on night reconnaissance. While I was
away on this duty, the engineers came up and our fellows dug in again in
advance of the old trenches. The engineers then constructed a barbed-wire
entanglement in front of our position.
Wet and cold, and covered with mud, I went off on patrol duty, and many a
shell hole I stumbled into to make me wetter. The enemy's position was
about seven hundred yards from ours.
When moving between the lines, I noticed the outline of a big man. I don't
know why I didn't fall down upon seeing him. My instinct told me to go
ahead to make sure who it was. We were making straight for each other; as
we met we almost brushed sleeves; then, with no more than a glance at each
other, we passed on; but you may be sure that I had my jackknife in the
proper hand. I could not say even now whether or not he was a German.
I returned to our lines and, after reporting, helped to finish the
trenches. I heard the following morning that one of our patrols had
captured a German. I wondered if he might be the big fellow I had passed
in the dark.
We received the order to "stand to" at dawn. Other troops had dug
themselves in some distance behind us during the night. We got another rum
issue just before "stand to"; it was highly appreciated.
At dawn, the Germans attacked in mass formation, but our rifle and
artillery fire made big gaps as they advanced. They did not reach our
trenches. They retired, leaving piles of dead. The nearest of their dead
were not more than one hundred yards from us.
This time we had very few casualties in our battalion--largely on account
of our having dug in ahead of our old position, the range of which the
enemy had. Their fire constantly over-reached us.
After this attack was over, we heard the buzzing of airplanes, and
although we had been instructed not to look up--the white of faces being
very conspicuous from above--we ventured to do so, and saw a British plane
smash headlong into a boche machine. Both went end over end to earth, and
the pilots undoubtedly were killed. The Englishman, in giving his life,
had saved perhaps hundreds of us in the trenches.
In the afternoon, after a heavy bombardment, which tore up some of our
barbed wire, the enemy made another charge. This time they came over in
wave formation. The order was passed along to "fix bayonets," and, as soon
as the Germans reached the barbed wire, to spring out and meet them. This
we did.
We fought off line after line. The Black Watch suffered many casualties
here, but not so many as the Germans. This crowd had less love for the
bayonet than their brothers at the Aisne. Soon we were chasing them out
beyond the barbed wire. We took many prisoners. If it had not been for the
officer's whistle to retire, I think we would have driven them to Berlin,
the way we felt that day. However, back we had to come.
The enemy's artillery fire began to pound on us as we were making for our
trenches, and some of our fellows were bowled over as the result of it. As
many of the wounded as we could bring, we brought back with us.
One fellow was lying about fifty yards away from the trench. Two of his
mates volunteered to go out for him, but in the attempt they were wounded
and forced to come back without him. Two others then went out; these
managed to bring him in--but he was dead. He was a young lad--one of the
latest to join our battalion. His equipment was practically new. I was
given his shoes; they were much too big for me, but nevertheless I was
grateful for them.
That night I helped to carry back more of the wounded, and, with the rest,
assisted the engineers to fix up the barbed wire. This, coupled with the
fighting of the day, well nigh exhausted me, but I didn't get the rest
which I so much desired and expected, as I was detailed as one of our
company ration party, comprising six men and a non-commissioned officer.
Owing to occasional shell fire, we were obliged to crawl close to the
ground while on our way to the supply station. When we were coming back,
the boches used flare lights which made us visible to them. I had a box of
biscuits on my head. It made a fine target, and when I reached our
trenches I found that bullets had pierced it.