CHAPTER II

There was one big event that we will remember for the rest of our

lives, and that was our review by the King and Lord Kitchener. We were

reviewed on Sir John Moore's Plain, and the entire Second Division of

Infantry as well as the Artillery was out that day; all the roads

leading to the Plain were packed with troops, and as we all marched

down and lined up in review order, it was the biggest bunch of soldiers

I have ever seen together. There were somewhere between fifteen and

sixteen thousand men, and when they were marching with fixed bayonets

it looked like a sea of steel.

After lining up we had a long wait, and all at once a thunderstorm came

up. The rain came down in pailfuls, and soon all the boys were singing

"Throw out the life line, some one is sinking today." One of the boys

near me said, "I don't see why the devil no one has ever thought of

putting a roof over this blamed island." Well, just when we were in

the middle of our song and the whole fifteen thousand men were roaring

it out at the top of their voices, the King's automobile went by. We

were soon put into marching order and the march past the King and Lord

Kitchener commenced. When we got the order "Eyes right!" we looked at

them both--the King was a smaller man than we expected to see, and

Kitchener looked older than we thought he would be. But oh, what eyes

Kitchener had! they seemed to be looking every man straight in the

face--the boys all noticed the same thing, and spoke of it afterwards.

After the march past the officers were called up and congratulated on

the showing the men had made, and they passed it on to us. Well, away

we went back to camp, wet and tired, but delighted over the events of

the day and we all felt proud of being "Britishers." When we got back

to camp and were talking things over, we all agreed that our inspection

was a sign of an early departure for France, and from that on the place

buzzed with rumours of when we were to start. It does not take much to

start a rumour going in the Army--for instance, the Colonel buys a

light shirt, and his batman tells somebody that he thinks we are going

to a warm climate, as the Colonel is buying light clothes. The person

he told it to passes it on this way--"Oh yes, the Colonel's servant

says we are going to India," and No. 3 announces "I have it from some

one high up that we are being sent to India instead of to France, the

Colonel is laying in a supply of light clothes; and in the

Quartermaster's store they have gotten in a supply of sun helmets"--and

so it goes, increasing in size like the report of a German victory in

their newspapers. But we soon saw that our stay was going to be short,

for presently our new equipment was issued to us. This consisted of

two khaki shirts, two heavy suits of underwear, two heavy army

blankets, rifle and ammunition, hat covers, several pairs of socks, a

lot of small things, and last but not least, two pairs of boots.

Besides this, we had our haversack containing emergency rations: tea,

sugar, army biscuits, and bully-beef. I put my pack on the scales when

I got it all together, and it weighed just one hundred pounds.

Our new issue of boots came in for more attention than anything else.

I must tell you about them; they were destined to cause us no end of

misery in the near future. Such boots! "Gravel crushers," we called

them. Big heavy marching boots, armour-plated on the sole and so large

that they looked and felt like barges. In my childhood days I never

could understand how the "Old Lady lived in a shoe," but when I saw

these boots the mystery was solved; though, mind you, they were just

the thing for France; and after they got broken in, we couldn't have

had anything better. But after our light-weight boot manufactured out

of paper by some of our patriotic(?) Canadian firms, it took some time

to get our feet used to the heavier weight.

Just before we were ready to leave for France we were treated to an

air-raid. Some Zeppelins came over and dropped bombs not far from our

camp. Of course the warning was sounded, all lights put out, and we

sat there as still as mice, wondering what was going to happen next. I

fancy we felt something as a rabbit does when there is a keen-eyed hawk

soaring overhead. However, the danger passed and there was no harm

done, but they were evidently looking for our camp, for two days after

we left it, it was properly bombed.

Well, after we got our equipment, we were kept busy for a couple of

days signing sheets and undergoing kit inspection, but finally

everything was attended to and we were ready to start. It was a hot

day when we "fell in" for our eight-mile hike to ----, and when I had

all my kit in place, I think I must have looked like a snail who

carries his house packed on his back. Well, the farther we went the

heavier our load became. Our feet were tortured by the new stiff

boots; some of the boys took theirs off and walked in their socks, but

these had their feet cut and bruised by the stones which plentifully

bestrewed our way. Oh, how we cursed our officers for making us wear

our new boots for the first time on such a hike. We should have had

them long enough ahead to get them broken in. Well, some of the boys

fell out, but the rest of us struggled on, and at last, just at dark,

we reached the pier. We were dripping with perspiration, and we had

eaten nothing except our army ration. Well, we sat around till we all

got cold; and then, to our utter amazement and disgust, the order came,

not to embark, but to "right-about-turn"; and with much swearing and

grousing, we commenced what was afterwards known among the 6th Brigade

as "The Retreat from Folkestone." Of course the officers weren't to

blame--some mines had broken loose in the Channel, and until they were

looked after by the mine sweepers it wasn't safe to cross. Oh, that

march! no one who went through it will ever forget what we went

through. In all my experience in France, I never carried such a pack.

And after going a short distance on the return trip, the boys, like

sinking ships, began to get rid of their cargo--for miles that road was

strewn with boots, shirts, sweaters, cap covers, all kinds of

articles--then the boys themselves began to fall out, and the dog-tired

men rolled themselves in their blankets and lay down in their tracks.

By the way, we were not going back to Folkestone, but were bound for a

place known as "Sir John Moore's Plain"; but nobody knew how far it

was, nor the quickest way to get there; some went one way and some

another. Our battalion kept on going with frequent rests; we were

dripping with sweat, and when the men sat down to rest they were too

tired and disgusted to even swear. Finally our officers turned to us

and said, "Only another mile, boys," and our hopes revived a little;

but meeting a civilian, I asked him how far it was to Moore's Plain,

and he said, "Oh, it's about four miles." Our officer overheard and

said "Come on, boys, let's make camp here," and No. 10 platoon quit

right there. We were going through a little village at the time, and

we piled up on the lawns, rolled out our blankets and went to sleep.

Next morning the lady of the house who owned the lawn found us there;

she took pity on us, and calling us in gave us our breakfast. Later,

we were sitting on the lawn when our Colonel drove up in his

automobile. He called, "Come on, boys, hurry up and get up to the

camp." He told us how to go and then went on to round up the rest--so

we drifted on towards the camp and finally reached it, and all that day

the boys came straggling in, some of them still carrying their boots.

Well, that night we had to pack up and march down again, but this time

it wasn't so hot, and all our spare equipment went by transport. We

reached the port about dusk and we were soon loaded up; as soon as we

got on board, life-belts had to be put on, and the boat started

immediately. We watched the lights of "Old Blighty" flicker and fade

away; and every now and then we caught glimpses of destroyers as they

went by and disappeared into the darkness. Finally the last lighthouse

was passed--no more lights were to be seen, and I turned and looked

towards France, wondering what was in store for me there. Little did I

think that I would spend a year in Germany before I would see the

English shores again.

It wasn't long before the lights of France came in sight. We watched

them get clearer and clearer, and soon the command came to put our

packs on. We were all ready to march by the time the boat was docked,

and off we went. We were on the soil of France, and we all looked

around curiously. The first thing I noticed was a French soldier on

guard, and I saw that he presented arms in a different way to what we

were used to, and also that his bayonet was about twice as long as

ours. We soon passed him, and I don't remember much about the march

that followed. We were dead-tired, and after travelling for what

seemed hours over cobblestones we came to a steep hill--the boys

commenced to swear, but we stuck to it for a while. Finally I gave up

and lay down beside the road; by this time a lot of the boys had

dropped out. After resting a while I started on again, and found Bink

and Bob unrolling their blankets--I wanted them to come with me, but a

sleep looked good to them. Tommy, Steve, and Baldy were doing the same

thing, but instead of following suit I struggled on; at the top of the

hill I found a bunch of tents, but that was all--the visions I had of a

hot meal faded away, there was no grub in sight--I rolled into one of

the tents, spread out my blankets, and had just closed my eyes, when a

voice said, "O'Brien, you are on fatigue." I started to kick, but it

was no use, so I followed the Sergeant out to where he had a bunch

lined up; we were ordered to go down to the commissary tent about five

hundred yards distant and draw rations. Well, away we went, and we

spent the rest of the night carrying up boxes of jam, butter,

bully-beef, and sardines. When I was carrying up the last two boxes,

just at daylight, along came the other boys; they thought it was a

great joke for them to be comfortably sleeping while I worked getting

up grub for them to eat. I couldn't see the fun in it just then, and I

told them so, but they only laughed the more. Well, I curled up in my

blankets, and it seemed that I had just got to sleep when Tommy wakened

me; breakfast was being served, and he had drawn mine. After my bacon

and tea and a good wash I felt better.

While we were at breakfast a lot of little French kids crowded around,

and we were all amused at the little beggars. Their speech, half

French and half English, was very funny. But say, you should have seen

them smoke! Little kids hardly able to walk were smoking just like old

men. They seemed very hungry, and we gave them lots of our food until

we found they were putting it into a sack to carry away.

Well, we stayed in camp till noon, and just after dinner we were told

to get ready to move off. Soon we were marching down to take the

train, and if the French people who watched us so curiously had seen us

go up the night before they would not have recognized us as the same

bunch. The French gave us a great reception; the girls brought us

fruit, candy, and smokes, and our journey to the station was quite a

triumphal procession. One of the girls came running up and gave me a

couple of bottles--Rust was beside me and had been through it all

before, so he whispered, "Put them in your pack; it is red wine." I

guess I was a little slow in getting them out of sight, for our officer

saw them and he said, "Don't touch that, it may be poisoned." Of

course we had to be careful of spies, but I stuck the bottles in my

pack when the officer wasn't looking. Well, we marched to the depot

and were soon packed into the small uncomfortable coaches. We started

to kick and grumble, but Rust said: "You are lucky to have coaches at

all. Last time I went up I rode in a cattle-car," and he pointed out a

lot of cars on which was painted "Capacity, so many horses, so many

men." After that we hadn't anything more to say.

After much talking and jabbering by the French interpreters we finally

got started, and we soon left L----h far behind. I got out my poisoned

(?) wine, and not wanting to take any risks myself I politely let Baldy

have the first drink. I waited a few minutes and he still looked well,

so we finished it up. This put us in good spirits for the trip and

every one was gay; no one would ever have imagined that we were on our

way to the trenches. We were very much interested in the country we

were passing through, but what struck us most forcibly was the number

of soldiers we saw. Everywhere we looked there were crowds of them; we

thought there were a lot in Blighty, but there seemed to be nothing

else here. We passed big railway guns, and once a big Red Cross train

glided slowly by--this made us think a bit--but we tried not to look

into the future, for we realized that the horrible side of the war

would come to us soon enough. Every time the train stopped the French

kids would crowd around the coaches crying "Bully-beef, biscuits,

cigarettes for my papa, prisoner in Germany." It was all new to us,

and we gave them all we could spare. Later on we got wise to the kids,

and we found that if we were soft-hearted or soft-headed, they would

say the whole family were prisoners. One thing that surprised and

shocked us was to hear the little kids swearing; they would use the

most frightful oaths, and the funny part of it was that they gave them

the pure cockney twang; I suppose they had heard and were imitating the

Imperial troops. Well, after travelling all day we finally arrived in

C---- and we were marched off to our first billets. I belonged to "C"

Company and we were quartered in a barn connected with a farmhouse. It

was late when we arrived, and after we had supper we lay down in the

straw and soon were all asleep; but it wasn't long before we became

uneasy, and soon we were awakened by the feeling that some one or

something was trying to bore holes in us. We twisted and turned, but

the first ones to waken, tried to keep quiet, and it was not till every

one was on the move that we realized that we had made our first

acquaintance with the worst pest in the Army--body lice, or "cooties"

as they call them--the straw on which we were lying was fairly alive

with the little beasts. We thought it strange then, but nearly every

billet where there is straw is the same; "soldiers come and soldiers

go, but the same straw goes on forever." The next day we were busy

boiling our shirts, but if we had only known we might have saved

ourselves the trouble, for we were never free from the pests after

that. All the belts and powders people send out only seem to fatten

them--by the way, gas doesn't kill them either; I think they must have

gas helmets. The day was spent in inspection, and the paymaster came

and gave us our first pay in France, fifty francs; that night we were

allowed downtown, and we made our first acquaintance with the French

estaminets or wine-shops; they are only allowed to sell light wines,

red and white, to the troops, and French beer. Well, one might just as

well drink water. Rust had been through the mill before and could

speak French pretty well, and was soon jabbering to the old

Frenchwoman, whose face became all smiles when she found he had been

wounded at Ypres; her husband had also been wounded there. We wandered

in and out every place in the village till it was time to go back to

billets. The next day we had to smarten up and get ready for the

Brigadier-General, who was going to inspect us. Brigadier-General

Ketchen was his name, and instead of a formal inspection he rode up,

dismounted, came into the orchard where we were all lined up and said,

"Dismiss the men, Major." The Major did so and the Brigadier then

spoke to us: "Gather round, boys, I want to have a little talk with

you. You've been under my command about nine months now, and I've

always been proud of you, and now you are going up the line, and I want

to say this to you: Don't go up with any idea that you are going to be

killed--we want you all to take care of yourselves and not expose

yourselves recklessly--never mind if Bill bets Harry that he can stick

his head over without being hit, for if he loses he can't pay. And

remember a dead man is no use to us, we want you alive, and when we

want you to put your heads up, we'll tell you! And I've no doubt that

you will only be too eager. Now, your Colonel and myself have been in

the trenches, where you are going, and you are relieving a regiment

that has a name second to none out here; and I want you to have the

same kind of a name. The food is fine--in fact, we were surprised to

see so much and of such good quality in the front line. Above all, I

want you to trust your officers as I trust them, and I'm sure they

trust you. If at any time you think you are suffering any injustice,

don't talk and grumble amongst yourselves, but let's hear about it, and

if we can remedy it that's what we want to do. Now, I suppose this

will be the last chance I have of talking to you before you go in the

trenches, and I don't think there is much more to say. We have a long

hike ahead of us tomorrow, and you will march through a town where

corps headquarters are, and thousands of soldiers will be there, and I

want you to show, by your marching and march discipline, that as

soldiers and fighting men Canadians are second to none. That's all,

boys!" We thought quite a lot of his speech and the simple way in

which it was delivered, and we got to discussing things and sharpening

our bayonets and doing a lot more fool things. The place where we were

had been occupied by Germans early in the war, a Uhlan patrol having

stayed there, and the Frenchman showed a Uhlan lance and scars on the

doors and sides of the barn where fragments of shell had struck when

they had been chased out. The next day we formed up bright and early,

and away we marched. We had not gone far when every neck was craned

up, watching some little black and white dots in the sky. I asked Rust

what it was. "Oh, anti-aircraft guns shooting at an aeroplane," said

he. We strained our eyes, but it was a long way off and high up, and

we couldn't see the aeroplane. Later on we saw what looked like big

sausages up in the sky. They were the big observation balloons, and so

we kept on, something new and interesting all the time. We passed lots

of troops out in their rest billets; muddy and dirty some of them

looked; they watched us in amused contempt as we swung proudly by, as

much as to say, "Wait till you've been through what we have, you won't

look so smart." We soon came to B----, and with the regimental band at

our head playing, "Pack all your troubles in your old kit-bag" we

marched through in great shape. At sundown we reached camp, tired, all

in, but still interested. We were quartered in huts close to an old

ruined town, and we were within shell fire. Directly we had supper we

were outside watching the shells burst about a mile away; I don't think

we ever thought of Fritz shelling us. Aeroplanes were flying overhead

and our guns were keeping up an incessant roar, but it seemed more on

our right; afterwards we knew that it was the big bombardment before

the Battle of Loos. We all slept well that night and were up early the

next morning. We lounged around all day, and a party of officers and

N.C.O.'s went to look over the trenches we were going in. Just at

nightfall it started to rain, a cold wet drizzling rain, and when we

fell in, it looked as if we were in for a wetting, and we were. We

were carrying our packs, and as we started off we were all feeling

fine, and if it hadn't been for the rain we wouldn't have minded. I

often laugh when I think of that march; we were miles away from any

Germans when we started, yet we spoke in whispers,--of course we didn't

know any better then,--and whenever a flare went up we stopped, then

went on again. We could see where the trenches were as flares were

continually going up, lighting up things for a while and then dying

out. At last we met some men from the battalion that we were going to

relieve, and they acted as guides; past tumble-down houses, along roads

full of holes, in and out of mudholes. We were very careful at first,

but we might just as well have walked through the lot, for we were all

mud to our knees when we got in. We at last entered the communicating

trenches and we followed each other, cracking a joke now and again to

keep our spirits up; every little while whiz! would go a bullet

overhead and we ducked our nuts--we were perfectly safe if we had only

known. We passed some Highlanders (Canadians); I suppose they must

have been amused at us, as we were all eager to know where the Germans

were--I think we had an idea that we were going into a bayonet charge

every morning before breakfast. Soon we came to a place where the

trench jogged in and out, and in every jog were men standing up and

looking across into the blackness; we were in the front line. After

much confusion we at last relieved the others. Listening-posts had to

be placed and machine guns manned and lots of other things done. We

soon found out that one could look over at night and be comparatively

safe; there was always a certain amount of rifle fire, but one can't

aim at night and the bullets mostly go high. At last day dawned, and

we were quite surprised to find that nothing had happened; Scottie and

I had our breakfast,--the cook cooked it, and it was distributed in the

trench,--then we were put on sentry to watch through the periscope,

while the rest had a sleep. We were sitting there talking things over

when we heard a roaring noise overhead, and a bing-bang! in the town

which lay behind our trenches. We thought it was aeroplanes dropping

bombs, and Scottie and I looked for them but we couldn't see anything.

At last an officer came along and we asked him. "Oh yes," said he,

"those are German shells." Well, after a few days in the trenches we

went back to a place called L---- for a rest, or rather we were in

reserve. We were now in what was known as the Kemmel Shelters; here we

turned night into day--we slept or did nothing in the daytime, but at

night we worked like bees--we were busy on fatigue parties carrying up

ammunition and provisions to the front lines. Now, don't run off with

the idea that this is a bomb-proof job; Fritzie knows all about the

supplies that must be brought up, and you can bet your sweet life that

he takes a delight in picking off rationing parties, and such-like.

Every night our supports were heavily shelled; every road leading to

the lines had a battery trained on it and every little while it was

swept by shrapnel. We gradually got used to the danger, and if they

started to shell the road we were on we would flop into a ditch or

shell hole till the storm had passed. Speaking of this reminds me of

something that happened in that first week. A party of us were

carrying coke to the front line, and we had two sacks each; I had mine

tied together and hung around my neck (the way I wore my red mittens

when I was a youngster). We walked single file, and the boy ahead

called back, "Shell hole, keep to the right," but it was too late for

me, one foot had gone in and the weight of the coke made me lose my

balance, so in I plunged head first; there was four feet of water in

that hole, to say nothing of the soft juicy mud at the bottom, and I

gurgled and gasped and was almost drowned before I could free myself

from the coke. Finally I struggled out, and without waiting to recover

my cargo I made a bee-line for my billet--the boys were fairly killing

themselves laughing, and I don't blame them _now_, for I must have been

a pretty-looking bird; I was plastered from head to foot with mud, and

dirty water streamed over my beautiful features. Well, after a week of

this night duty we were sent eight miles back to "Rest Billets"--here

we got a bath--which I assure you was very welcome--also some clean

clothes, but we didn't succeed in shaking our friends the

"cooties";--like the poor, they were always with us. While on rest we

were quartered in some frame huts, and these extended for a quarter of

a mile on either side of the road. Between the huts and the road there

was an immense ditch, and this usually contained a couple of feet of

muddy water; the boys had planks leading from their huts to the road.

One night one of the boys came home loaded and he attempted to cross

one of these planks--in the darkness he missed his footing and _flop_!

he went into the water; he found himself sitting in about two feet of

slushy mud and he put down his hands to push himself up, but the mud

was sticky and he only succeeded in going in deeper. We heard him

calling for help, and when we got to him only his head and toes were

above water; the air around looked very blue, but I don't believe the

Recording Angel put down everything he said. He looked so funny we

could hardly help him for laughing.

Well, our week's rest was over all too soon for us, and we were sent

back to the front lines. This was the routine that we followed that

winter; one week in the trenches, one at the supports, and one on rest.

We had been up to the trenches three times before we had our first

brush with Fritzie; the Battle of Loos was being fought to the

southward, but things had been comparatively quiet with us. However,

one evening when we were "standing to," just at sunset, suddenly the

ground that we were standing on began to rock--we pitched too and fro

like drunken men--and farther down the trench the earth opened and a

flame of fire shot up into the air. It looked more like a volcano in

eruption than anything else, and we couldn't imagine what was

happening. Someone yelled, "The Germans are coming!"; but our officer

said, "Don't be frightened, boys; a mine has been exploded." The

German artillery then opened up a terrific bombardment, and they were

answered by our guns, and for about an hour it certainly seemed as if

hell had been let loose. We were afraid to take shelter in our

dugouts, for we thought that Fritzie might come over any moment, and

sure enough, as soon as their gun fire slackened, we saw them coming.

It was an exciting moment when we got our first sight of them, and I

know I trembled from head to foot; but we opened fire on them and as

soon as I began shooting, all fear left me--they never got farther than

their own wire entanglements--the rapid fire from our rifles and the

support of our guns was too much for them. No doubt they expected to

find us all dead after the explosion and the shelling they had given

us, but we showed them that we were still very much alive. We "stood

to" all that night, but nothing further happened. Just at dawn I

peeped over the parapet, and it looked as though some one had been

hanging out a wash; their wire entanglements were full of German

uniforms. Of course we were not allowed to leave our post during the

night in case of another attack, but when morning came we looked around

to see what damage the mine had done; we found that about fifty of our

brave boys were either killed or wounded--this was the first break in

our ranks, and it made us feel very sore--you could put a good-sized

house in the crater made by the explosion, and it was to occupy this

that the Germans had come over. The crater was immediately organized

as a listening-post and ever afterwards it was known as the "Glory

Hole." It was always the hottest part of our trench, and many a night

I spent in it. The German trench was only thirty yards away, and they

could lob bombs in on top of us. To improve matters, old "Glory"

always contained at least two feet of water, and on a cold rainy night

it was "some job" standing at listening-post, two hours at a stretch,

up to the knees in water. When relieved, you had four hours off, and

you would huddle up on the firing-step with your feet still in the

water, and either smoke or try to get a little sleep. But, often it

rained, snowed, and froze all in the same night, and I have had my

clothes frozen so stiff that in the morning I could scarcely move.

But, to come back to our story. Next morning the killed and wounded

were taken back of the lines, and things went on as before, only now we

did not feel nearly so comfortable, knowing that at any moment the

earth might open and up we would go. We were in the trenches one day

when _shuz-z-z-shiz-bang_! the dirt flew, not far from us, but we

couldn't see what had done it. Later we heard the same noise, and

coming tumbling through the air was something that looked like a big

black sausage; the moment it struck the ground it exploded with an

awful concussion, and dirt and sandbags flew. It was a big trench

mortar, and we soon found that if you saw it in time you could dodge

it. Fritzie had a special spite at the "Glory Hole," and every little

while he would strafe it. About this time we received our first supply

of trench mortars, and I assure you we enjoyed using them. They were

big round balls weighing about sixty pounds, and they looked something

like the English plum pudding. We called them "Plum Puddin's." I

don't know what Fritzie called them, but he got them whether he called

them or not. They had long steel handles and were easily thrown; no

doubt the Germans were just as busy dodging ours as we were getting out

of the way of theirs.

For the next couple of months nothing of any importance happened, and

all we seemed to do was fill sandbags with mud, dig new trenches, clean

out old ones, and wade through mud; and such mud! so many men wading

through it worked it up and made it like glue--in some places it was up

to the waist and many a man got stuck and had to wait till some one

came along and pulled him out--through it all our little bunch stuck

together and had lots of fun laughing at each other's misfortunes. We

were usually on the same working parties and listening-posts; working

on the latter gave us eyes like cats, though I can tell you that it is

no fun staring out into "No Man's Land" (the space between the German

lines and ours) for hours at a time, not daring to move or speak. We

had a wire with us connected with the trench, for a listening-post is

always an advanced position, and we used a code of signals. One pull

meant "Send up a flare, we want to have a good look around," two pulls

"All's well," three "Hostile patrol is out in No Man's Land," and if we

threw the bomb that we always carried it meant that the Germans were

coming and it gave a general alarm. We had only had the one brush with

Fritzie, and the discomforts of the trenches began to get on our

nerves; we would much rather have been mixed up in the real fighting.

Of course when we were off on rest we had clean clothes, better grub,

and our letters and parcels from home; coming up to Christmas the

latter became more numerous, and we usually found a bunch waiting for

us. We were just like one big family, and the boys who got parcels

shared up with those who hadn't any; Bob would pick up Tommy's parcel,

look at the name, and say, "_We've_ got a parcel."

Then came our first Christmas in the trenches, or rather in France. We

were out at the support billets on Christmas Day, and after working all

night we were much disgusted when our Sergeant came in where we were

sleeping and told us we had to go up to the lines with some supplies.

However, they gave us an issue of rum, and we started out. We had made

our trip and were on the road back when a sniper caught sight of us.

There was water in the communication trench, and my chum and I got out

and walked on top; pretty soon a bullet passed between us but we did

not pay any attention, we thought it must be an accident, but a few

seconds later, another hit just ahead of us and we realized that we

were the "centre of attraction," so we made a bound for the trench;

just as we lit, another bullet struck just behind us, so we came pretty

near getting a Christmas box from Fritz. We found that we had to take

over the trenches that night, so there was not much fuss made over our

Christmas dinner, but we had a little extra spread.

However, when New Year's came we were at rest billet, and our beloved

Colonel had planned a big dinner for us. It was served in an old

schoolhouse and we had roast turkey, plum pudding, and almost

everything you could mention, and the Colonel himself came in and

carved the turkey for us. All that week on rest we had a glorious

time, our parcels had arrived from home and every one was feeling happy.

Nothing of any importance happened in the next few weeks, things were

pretty quiet on the line; of course it was raining most of the time and

we were up to our knees in mud and water. We were four months without

seeing the sun, and we were beginning to think that Fritzie had gotten

his range and blown him out. Then too we were crawling with vermin,

and even when we got a clean outfit of clothes in a few hours they

would be just as bad as ever. Being wet all the time, and having to

put up with the discomfort of vermin and rats, were harder on us than

the dangers of actual fighting. The part of the line where we were had

superior artillery positions and observation posts, and any time

Fritzie opened up, our artillery soon silenced him. It used to be a

case of "You let me alone, and I'll let you alone." The trenches were

in awful shape in spite of the continuous working parties, each rain

made them a little worse. We used to get our rum every morning, and I

want to say a word to those at home who say it should be stopped. I

would like to make them lie out in a wet mudhole all night, come in

blue and cold and hardly able to stand, not knowing whether they had

feet or lumps of ice attached to their legs, and see whether or not

they would want something to warm them up--I think we would all have

been dead if it hadn't been for the rum that winter. You see, you are

"all in" after a night in the open, and all you want to do is to sleep,

so you crawl into the nearest dugout and lie down; now, the rum just

keeps the blood circulating and the body warm while you are sleeping,

so that when you waken you have not caught the chill that otherwise you

would have done, for those dugouts of ours were anything but cozy and

comfortable. They were really only little huts in the trench, each one

large enough for two or three men. They were built up with sandbags

and had a piece of corrugated iron over the top; for the floor there

was usually two or three inches of wet mud. I assure you it was cold

comfort, and we were not allowed to lie in peace even here--a rat would

run over your face, or crawl over your body to see if there was

anything eatable in your pockets. Every bit of eats about us had to be

securely fastened up in our mess tins to save it from these pests. I

remember one morning I came in from sentry duty, and after having

breakfast I lay down in a dugout; we were given enough bread ration in

the morning to last us all day, and what was over from my breakfast I

put in my mess tin, but I had lost the cover of my tin, so I hung it up

thinking it would be safe from the rats. Uncle Sam was sleeping when I

came in, and I lay down beside him. I was enjoying a cigarette when

all at once I saw a rat heading for my tin; I didn't want to get up to

chase him away, so I reached over and brought up my rifle--there was

scarcely room to use it in the dugout, but just as the rat reached my

tin I fired. Uncle Sam leaped to his feet, scared half out of his

wits; he was sure that a shell had struck our dugout. When he saw what

I had done, he said, "Why in hell don't you take the brutes out when

you want to shoot them, and not be making a mess here?" There was only

about twelve inches of slush in the dugout at the time. But our

favourite method of killing this loathsome animal was to fix our

bayonet and, sticking a bit of meat on the end of it, put our rifle

over the parapet; then when Mr. Rat came along and nibbled at the meat,

we would pull the trigger and the rat would make a hurried exit out of

this world--of course we could only do this at night.

During the day our favourite pastime was getting up hot lunches and

serving afternoon tea, and most of the soldiers became expert at this.

Our cookstove consisted of an old bully-beef can with holes punched in

it. In the bottom of this can we placed several small pieces of gunny

sack, and on top of this we put several pieces of trench candles. When

the candle melted and ran down over the sacking it produced a good

steady blaze and it gave out considerable heat--best of all, it didn't

make any smoke, for of course smoke in the front line would be apt to

draw shell fire. Over our fire we could boil the full of our mess tin

of water and make our tea--also, we could warm up our rations in this

way, and meat and vegetables tasted a lot better when they were hot.

We also carried Oxo cubes and prepared coffee so we could have a

nourishing drink at any time.

Some time on in February preparations were made for a raid on the

German trenches. Officers and men consulted together, and the men in

charge were busy drawing up plans and perfecting arrangements; we were

very much excited over it, and every one hoped that they would be among

the fortunate ones chosen to take part in the scrap. The 29th

Battalion was holding the line on our right, and they were coming in

with us on this. Finally the plans were given out; the raid was to

cover about fifteen hundred yards of the enemy trench and the battalion

scouts and bombers were the ones chosen to go over. The same number of

men went from the 29th, and the trench mortars of each battalion

protected the flanks of the attacking party and prevented the Germans

in the other parts of the trench coming to the assistance of those

attacked. Also, a party of bombers were stationed in the "Glory Hole"

ready to act as reinforcements if they were needed--I was one of the

latter bunch, and oh how I longed for the signal that would give me a

chance to share in the fun!

The attack was planned for 3 A.M. At the sound of a whistle they were

to go over the top, enter the enemy trenches, do all the harm they

could, and when they heard the second whistle come back, bringing as

many prisoners as they possibly could. But before they went out, two

men, Conlin and another chap, stole quietly out and cut the enemy's

wire entanglements--they lay there for hours right under the noses of

the Germans cutting a gap for our boys to go through--I assure you it

was ticklish work; the success of the whole enterprise depended on

their skilful, silent work. The slightest noise, cough, or sneeze,

would mean their own death and the failure of our plans, but nothing

happened and they had everything ready at the appointed time.

The boys who were going over had prepared for it as they would for a

vaudeville; they all had their faces blackened so they could know one

another in the dark, and they were all allowed to arm themselves in any

way they wished. Some carried revolvers, others the handles of our

entrenching tools (these had small iron cog wheels at one end and they

made an excellent shillalah), a few had bombs, and one of the boys,

Macpherson was his name, armed himself with the cook's meat axe.

Finally the long looked for moment arrived--the whistle blew and over

they went--Lieutenant MacIntyre was in charge of the 28th boys. The

wire cutters were the closest and they reached the trenches first--poor

Conlin was shot as soon as he showed himself on the edge of the

parapet, but MacIntyre got the man who shot him and they fell together.

A little farther along the trench Macpherson was lying on the edge of

the parapet just ready to jump in when a German came running along the

trench shouting "Alarm! Alarm!" Mac leaned over, grabbed him by the

shoulder, and said, "Here, sonny, that's a hell of a noise you are

making," and with that he brought his meat ax down on his head. The

boys were all in now, clearing up the Huns in great shape, and when the

whistle sounded the few that were alive were brought back as prisoners.

While this was going on in the German trenches there was great

excitement in our own. Our trench mortar was being worked

energetically to keep back any German reinforcements. Lieutenant

"Spud" Murphy was in charge of this, and his antics kept us all in

roars of laughter--he jumped around and "rooted" for those bombs as

though they were his favourite players in the National League. When

one went over, he would, like the rest of us, jump up on the

firing-step to see it light. When it lit fairly in the German trench

he would dance around the gunner shouting, "That's a good one!"

"That's the way to put them over!" "Now for another beauty! give them

hell!"

Well, our raid was a great success, and it was the biggest thing of the

kind that had been attempted up to that time. We had a few casualties;

Conlin was a great pal of mine, and I missed him the most. Some of our

boys were decorated; Conlin, our dead hero, won the D. C. M., and the

medal was sent to his people. Lieutenant MacIntyre was awarded the D.

S. O., and "Darky" Andrews, who had taken a leading part, also received

the D. C. M.

One of the prisoners captured was an under officer, and as he was

wounded he was taken to the nearest dressing-station; while his wound

was being looked after, an interpreter was talking to him, and the

German said triumphantly, "Well, you have brought me here, but you

cannot send me over to England." "Oh, indeed!--and why not?" asked the

interpreter. "Because Germany controls the water," said our prisoner

proudly. "No troops can be brought from England now." "Is that so?"

said our interpreter. "Well, sonny, you will find yourself in England

by this time tomorrow, however you get there," and he did.

Shortly after this we had several casualties in Platoon 10--two or

three were killed, and several wounded and got their "Blighty." Dyer

was caught by a sniper, and Tucker was hit in the leg by a machine gun

bullet. Quite a few had been wounded in the company and one or two

killed, but No. 10 was lucky--we got some reinforcements and to No. 10

came McMurchie, "Fat," and McKone. McMurchie was a little Irishman

about five feet tall with a great taste for rum and he didn't know what

fear meant. He had a twin brother in another company and they were

just like two peas in a pod; only his brother was quiet. Mac would go

and line up in his brother's company when rum was being issued and draw

his brother's issue, then come back to "C" company and get his own

ration, and then line up again and tell the Sergeant-Major that he had

given his issue to his brother. He was a proper little devil. One day

we were out on rest and Mac had been away all the day before, and this

day we were wondering where he had gone, when, lo and behold, into the

line of huts marched McMurchie leading a rooster with a piece of string

around its neck--he had swiped it off some Frenchwoman--whether he ever

took it back I don't know, perhaps the cooks could tell--Mac was pretty

friendly with the cooks. He was always getting into trouble when out

of the line, but when in the trenches he was worth a dozen men, not to

work, but his disregard for all danger made one's hair stand on end.

He would do everything one was supposed not to do. He would shave in

the front line when Fritz was shelling the trench and everybody else

was under cover. He had a big rifle; I don't know where he got it, but

it was bigger in the butt than most, and the bore was all worn out; it

had been fired so much that when he used to fire it the report was

deafening; he used to call it "Big Lizzie." When he was shaving and a

shell came close and threw dirt all over him, he would say, "All right,

Fritz, wait till I get through, I'll get Big Lizzie after you," and

he'd stand up and fire five rounds rapid over at Fritz in broad

daylight. Why he didn't get killed was a marvel--when shrapnel was

bursting (shrapnel shells are full of lead pellets and when they burst

they scatter forward about a hundred yards) he would look at them

straight in the face and remark, "That's right, Fritz, lengthen them

out a bit." He was out on a working party one day behind the trench,

filling sandbags, and there were one or two reinforcements with him,

when Fritz started slinging some "Whiz-bangs" over (these are small

shells about fifteen pounds full of shrapnel, but they come with an

awful speed, that's why they call them "Whiz-bangs," you hear the whiz

just about the same time that you hear the bang); well, Fritz was

sending quite a few over; I guess he had spotted the party and the new

men were kind of nervous. "Aw," says Mac, as he kept on working,

"don't bother about those things, there's nothing to 'em but wind and

noise--Ow!" and he jumped about a foot as a piece of shrapnel took him

in the leg. Mac was absent for awhile down at the Casualty Clearing

Station and had his leg fixed up; it wasn't bad. After he had been

there awhile the Sergeant asked him to wash the floor; Mac refused, "Do

you think I came out here to scrub floors?" says he; "I'm a fighting

man." The Sergeant was going to have him pinched, but while he was

away Mac sneaked out and came back to the battalion, absolutely

refusing to go back, and Colonel Embury, our Colonel, who was a good

sport, smoothed matters over and Mac stayed with the boys, and soon was

as "right as rain"--he was too tough to hurt. I will leave him for

awhile--it would take a book to describe all his tricks--and we will go

on to "Fat," who came about the same time. Fat was a big fat

good-natured kid, and he and Bink got quite chummy; they were both

farmers before the war. Fat had a great dislike for machine gun

fire--most of us had too, but Fat was the worst; he also had a comical

little laugh--"Tee hee, tee hee" he would go. We used to go out at

night stringing wire in "No Man's Land"; every now and again Fritz

would sweep the wire with machine gun fire, and directly he started

sweeping we would be down like a flash, and wait till Fritz quit. Fat

would be in a shell hole almost as soon as the first shot was fired,

and would laugh at Bink looking for a hole to hide in. Bink would get

sore; all you could hear was the rat-tat-tat of the machine gun and in

between "Tee hee, tee hee" from Fat as he lay and watched Bink crawling

around looking for a hole. Some of the boys would lie in the hole and

wave their legs in the air hoping to get a bullet through them so that

they could get back to "Blighty," but they were never lucky enough. We

would always lose one or two men on these wiring parties, but we had

very few killed and No. 10's luck still held good. By the way perhaps

you would like to know why we call England "Blighty"--it seems that it

comes from two Hindoo words meaning "My home," and as there were a lot

of Indian soldiers out in France at the beginning of the war and they

were with the regular English troops, I suppose it was passed along

that way--to get a "Blighty" means to get a wound that takes you to

"Blighty." To say that a man has got a "Belgique" means that he is

dead. The boys have different sayings for everything, and they sound

funny unless you know what they mean. "Buckshee" the English troops

call anything that you might have to spare, such as "Have you a

buckshee razor?" meaning "Have you a spare razor?" The word "buckshee"

comes from the Hindoo word "Backsheesh." Well, to continue, the other

boy to come to No. 10 was a freak; how the devil he ever got in the

Army beats me. He was deaf, and when you spoke to him you had to

holler; also, he had a cleft palate so you could hardly understand him

when he spoke, but he was a good man in the line and when he was on

sentry, he was up on the fire-step looking over all the time; only at

night of course. He used to pack along a box of ammunition every night

and do his best to fire the lot before morning. When the scouts were

out as they used to be every night, patrolling "No Man's Land," the

word was passed along in the trench and we would either stop firing or

fire high; desultory fire was always kept up all night. Well, we could

never make McKone understand that the scouts were out; and he would

keep on blazing away--at last the scouts made a kick and we stopped him

firing when they were out--but he was awfully sore. "What am I here

for?--I'm not a dummy," said he. One night he had been blazing away

and had made Fritz sore, and Fritz had turned about three machine guns

on the spot where Mac was. The bullets were coming around him like

bees around a hive, but he couldn't hear them. At last he heard

something; Corporal Banks was coming along the trench at the time, and

Mac stopped him. "Say, Corporal, there's an aeroplane up there

somewhere," and he gazed up into the sky. "Come down, you fool, that's

machine gun fire," says Banks. We used to have lots of fun "chipping"

him, but all he'd reply was "Aw, you go to h----." One night Bink and

Bob were out on "a covering" party--their job was to take their rifle

and bomb and lie out in front of our men as they were putting out wire

in "No Man's Land,"--the idea is to prevent the party from being

surprised by the Germans. It was a wet cold night, and so the officer

gave them a drink of rum before they went; in fact, they asked him for

it. Well, they crawled out and lay down, and I guess the rum gave them

some "Dutch" courage, for after the boys had finished their wiring and

gone back to the trench, Bink and Bob thought it would be a good scheme

to crawl to the German lines and throw their bombs in. So forward they

crawled through his wire till they got up close and heard the Fritzies

jabbering; the rum had about worked off by this time, and instead of

throwing their bombs, they got cold feet and crawled silently back to

our lines--I guess it's as well they did, or I wouldn't have their

story to tell--they often laughed about it afterwards.

Shortly after this we moved off that front and we took over some

trenches from the Imperial troops in the Ypres salient. It was just

about the time that the Imperial troops took back the "International"

trench to the right of the "Bluff," and it was a much hotter place than

the one we were in before; we had to be right on the alert all the

time. We were in there a short time and back we went to M---- for a

rest, and in the meantime the Battle of St. Éloi commenced--it started

with the Northumberland Fusiliers ("Fighting Fifth," as they were

called) blowing up some mines under the enemy lines and occupying the

craters and a trench--they were then relieved by the "Sixth Brigade,

Canadians." It was all quiet for awhile and then the storm broke; all

the German artillery for miles was concentrated on this front of about

a thousand yards, and the men were literally blown out of their

positions. It poured rain and our aeroplanes were unable to take

observations, with the result that, where at first our artillery was

firing too far, when they shortened up, they shelled our own men. The

Germans also concentrated heavy trench mortars on the craters, and

after blowing the men to pieces all day, they attacked at night. What

men were left died where they stood. All the bottoms of the craters

were just a pool of thin mud, and when our boys were wounded they just

slid down the sides of the craters and perished in the pool of mud at

the bottom. Some of the craters were lost, and our relieving parties,

going in at night to relieve, what they thought were our men, found the

Germans in possession and bomb-fights ensued. In the meantime the

enemy artillery had a barrage across behind the craters making it

almost impossible for men to get through alive. The 28th were hurried

up and after spending a night in "Dickebush" we were taken up to

"Scottish" Wood in support. Woodrow, Webster, Corporal Grimsdale, and

all the company bombers were sent out from there, and they held one of

the craters. After hanging on the lip of the crater all day under a

constant rain of "sausages" (one hundred pounds of high explosives in

each) they tried to dig in and consolidate, but they had lost half

their number, and then the Germans attacked them from all sides. They

worked their rifles as long as they could, but they were clogged with

mud; and then fought them hand to hand--those that fell never rose

again--slipping down into that horrible mess at the bottom. Webster

saw Woodrow fall, and he and Grimsdale fought their way out; Grim

happened to find his way to our lines, but Webster got lost and for

twenty-four hours, that night and the next day, he lay out there; in

the daytime he had to lie still and at night he couldn't find which

line was ours; and machine guns were spitting all ways. At last he

crawled near our trench and heard the boys talking, and he came in; it

was two days after when I saw him--five days before he had been a

happy, daredevil sort of a boy--now he looked like a corpse with living

eyes of coal. He never got over it, and after the Battle of Hooge was

invalided home, a complete wreck. While all this was going on, "C"

Company was brought from "Scottish" Wood to the communicating trench,

and where we entered the trench was crowded with men, one bunch trying

to get up, another stream of wounded coming down. As fast as men tried

to get through the barrage, they were wiped out, and at last the

officers decided to lose no more. Fritz started to shell the trench we

were in, and a lot of the boys were hit; our officer took us out in the

open, and we lay there while the trench was being shelled--after

staying there twenty-four hours we were relieved--but the struggle for

the craters still went on; sometimes our fellows holding them, and

sometimes Fritz. At last the weather brightened, allowing us to get

observation, and our artillery was able to work accurately; then the

battle died down, leaving two craters in the Germans' hands, two in

ours, and the rest a sort of "No Man's Land," in which constant

fighting took place for months; sometimes quiet, but flaring up again

whenever either side tried to take and hold the remaining craters.

That was the Battle of St. Éloi as nearly as I can give it. It was the

first big scrap we took part in, and although it wasn't a victory,

nobody knows, but those who were there, how near we were to disaster,

and only individual pluck kept the Germans back; for after the barrage

went on, Headquarters could not get news of how things were going.

Several officers were sent up, but were either killed or wounded trying

to get through the barrage. Those who got through stayed to help those

that were there fighting, as it was almost impossible to get back. It

was there that the Sixth Brigade got the name "The Iron Sixth." While

the company I was in didn't do anything spectacular, I can tell you it

was all we wanted, lying out there in the mud and wet, expecting any

moment to see the Germans advancing, and all the time shells coming

like hail. Some of the companies of the 28th lost heavily--I think we

were the luckiest; but when the battalion went back to rest billets a

lot of boys' faces were missing that we had been familiar with for

months.

Now that heavy fighting had commenced we never knew where we would be

for more than a day at a time--we stayed in the lines till there was

someone ready to relieve us, whether it was two days or ten--then we

went direct to rest billets, and we remained there till we were needed

again in the front lines. The billets were not bomb-proof, by any

means. They were well within range of the big guns, but after the

heavy shelling and bombing in the front lines they seemed like heaven.

We had been out there two or three days when little Mac came to me and

said, "Say, kid, I'm on the track of a bomb-proof job." I said, "What

makes you think that?" "Well," said he, "just as I came down the line

I overheard the old Sergeant telling another guy about it, and if we

can get on, will you come?" I said, "You mutt, it all depends on what

it is." "Oh, I thought I told you," says Mac, "they are calling for

men to go to the tunnellers." "Nothing doing for this child!" "Now,

look here," says Mac, "you've only got to die once, and you might

better be buried in a sap than be blown to hell by a big shell, there

would be more of you left for your friends, anyway, besides a change is

as good as a rest, and as there seems to be small chance of us getting

any rest, we might just as well keep this chance." So I said, "All

right, we can try it for a week, and then if we don't like being

buried, we can come back to life; that's more than most people can do";

so away went Mac to tell the Sergeant that we would go. He said,

"Well, I'm sorry to lose you boys, but I don't blame you for wanting to

get away from what we have been going through lately, and any time you

want to come back to the old boys we will only be too glad to have

you." He told us to report to a branch of the Royal Engineers known as

the 250th Tunnelling Company. They were located in the Kemmil dugouts,

so away Mac and I went to old Kemmil, where we had been all the

previous winter.

When we reached the line of dugouts we stuck our head into one and

asked where we would find the officer in charge. A voice from a far

corner called out, "_Oui_, the bleeder is in the end dugout, old cock!"

We found the officer's dugout without any trouble and reported for

duty. He told us that we would not be needed till night, and that we

had better go and find a dugout to rest in, so away we went back to the

place where we had inquired for Headquarters. It was our first brush

up against the English Tommy, and we were anxious to see more of him.

We went into the dugout and found about a dozen men lying around, some

of them rolled in their blankets trying to sleep, and others smoking.

I went over beside the chap who had answered my first question, and

after telling him who I was and what I was there for, he made room for

me and I sat down. He was a funny-looking little chap about the build

of a wooden toothpick, but he looked as if he was made of steel wire.

We soon struck up a conversation, and his "Cockney" sure did sound

funny to me; he was one of the sappers, and when he found that I had

left the Infantry to join them he was disgusted. "Well," said he, "you

are a bloomin' ass. Why, blime me, mite, this here's the worst

bleedin' job in the Army; a man digs till the sweat rolls off, and all

he gets for it is a bleedin' shilling, and he has to give six-pence of

that to the old woman; blime, it doesn't leave ye enough for bacca, and

all the fellas think this is a bomb-proof job--why, blime, you dig and

sweat for days, and Fritz sends along a blinkin' torpedo and fills up

the tunnel, and there's all your hard work gone to 'ell, and you with

it too if you 'appen to be around," and believe me I found out that

most of what he told me was true, and sapping was no bomb-proof job.

Well, we sat around all day enjoying the conversation of our Cockney

friends. I found that my new friend was nicknamed "Skinny," and during

the next few months he took a great liking to Mac and me, and he stuck

around with us most of the time.

That night at 8 o'clock the Sergeant in charge came around and detailed

eight of us to go up to the sap,--Mac, Skinny, and I were among those

chosen,--so we started off to a place known as "S. P. 13" (Strong Point

No. 13). Skinny was in the lead, as he had been there before. We went

through about a mile and a half of communicating trench, and there we

encountered three or four infantrymen bound for the front lines. The

bullets were whizzing over our heads, and once in a while a shell

dropped near us, but nothing happened till we had to come up out of the

trench and cross an open space. The infantrymen were in the lead, and

almost as soon as we struck the open one of them "got it" in the head.

Skinny was in front of me, and he stopped so suddenly that I said,

"What's wrong, Skinny?" He said, "Blime, but he's got it; I wonder how

many blinkin' kids the poor devil's left." The poor lad was killed

instantly and we picked him up and laid him on one side with his cap

over his face--the stretcher bearers would find him and carry him back

of the lines. We continued on our way, and Skinny, paying no more

attention to flying bullets than he would to flies, led us to the sap

where we were to begin work. At the entrance to this particular sap

was an immense shaft leading down 107 feet, and shooting out from this

shaft were two main tunnels--these tunnels were four feet high and

about three in width, and they ran under "No Man's Land" and past the

first line of German trenches, the object being to reach a small wood

and lay a mine under some pill-boxes that were causing us a lot of

trouble. These pill-boxes were machine gun emplacements made of

concrete, and our heavy shells had no effect on them. Our only chance

of getting them was to blow them up with a mine. When I went in, there

was still quite a distance to go, for the wood lay behind the second

line of German trenches.

I was set to work on one of these tunnels, and using pick and shovel

seemed mighty hard at first; what made it harder to stand was the lack

of fresh air--there was no place for the air to get in excepting

through the main shaft, and that was about four hundred yards away.

Then too, we could never rest ourselves by standing upright, and the

constant bending of the back was torture until we got used to it.

However, our shift only lasted for eight hours, and then we went out on

rest for twenty-four hours, and our rest billets were three miles back,

so they were fairly quiet. Altogether the work was a pleasant change

when our muscles got hardened to it; and there was always something

interesting turning up. Of course the Germans had their tunnels too,

and they were trying to reach our lines. Often we could hear each

other working and sometimes one party would send in a torpedo to block

the other's tunnel. I remember the first one they sent us. That day I

was working at the bottom of the shaft hitching sandbags to the rope by

which they were pulled to the top. Skinny was coming down the ladder

in the shaft, and when he was about ten feet from the bottom, the

torpedo was fired. It just missed our tunnel and the concussion was so

great that it gave us a great shaking up. Poor Skinny lost his hold on

the ladder and fell into two feet of water. I was scared stiff, for I

didn't know what had happened, but when I caught sight of Skinny

sitting in the water I just roared. Skinny sat there with his head

above water making no attempt to move, but when I laughed he looked up

indignantly and said, "Blime, mite, you'd cackle if a fellar broke his

bleedin' neck," and then while I continued laughing he cursed the

Germans with every variety of oath to which he could lay his tongue,

vowing what he was going to do to get even, but all the time sitting

there in the water. Finally he came to his senses, and jumping up

hurriedly he made a bee-line for the ladder and began to climb. I

said, "Where the devil are you going to, Skinny?" He called back: "Do

you think I'm such a bleedin' fool as to stay down here and get buried

alive? I don't intend to be buried till I'm dead." He urged me to go

with him, but I figured that the Germans would expect one torpedo to do

the trick and they wouldn't be likely to waste a second one, so instead

of going out I went back along the tunnel to see if any damage had been

done. I found a little loose earth knocked down--that was all the harm

it did, except to give us a good scare.

Our work went steadily on, and gradually our backs got like iron and we

didn't mind the everlasting bending. In our twenty-four hours at rest

billets we had lots of fun. Mac and I were the only Canadians in the

bunch, and 'the' English Tommy used us "white." About this time there

was great excitement over some German spies that were supposed to be in

our lines, and there was a reward offered of 20 pounds and fourteen

days' leave to any one who would succeed in capturing one of these

spies. We were all warned to keep a sharp lookout for them, and our

own officers were forbidden to go around through the lines without an

escort. Several spies were caught masquerading in our uniforms and of

course they were shot; a spy stands very little show of getting off if

once he is caught, and it is a brave man's job in France. Of course we

have our men behind the German lines, and I don't suppose any one will

ever know all that our secret service has done for us there.

We were all keeping a sharp lookout, and one night one of the boys

caught a German trying to crawl through our front lines, he made him

prisoner, and maybe he wasn't elated over his capture, so he marched

him proudly down through the long line of trench to our Headquarters;

but, on getting there, imagine his surprise when his German prisoner

began to talk and joke with the officers; he was one of our own secret

service men and was just returning from a trip through the German

lines--he thought it was too good a joke to miss, so he let himself be

captured. I had heard all this, and I made up my mind not to be

fooled, but one night I thought sure I had the real thing. Mac,

Skinny, and I were coming off shift at 2 A.M., and in the communication

trench we met an officer without an escort. We saluted as we passed,

and he said, "Good-night, boys." Mac whispered, "I believe he's a

spy." Skinny said, "Blime, I believe he is too." We talked it over

about fifteen minutes and then we decided to follow him, so we gave

chase and caught up with him just outside a line of huts where there

was a sentry posted; when we came up he was talking and laughing with

the sentry, so we stood in the background and listened, and what do you

think--if that guy wasn't the officer in charge of the guard, so our

fourteen days' leave and our 20 pounds was all shot in the head--that

cured my spy catching.

When on rest we were billeted in some of the little villages behind the

lines, and we struck up quite an acquaintance with the French peasants

living there. "Old Madame" was a particular friend of ours, and we got

to know her best because she made her living by serving lunches to the

soldiers; she had a nickname for each of us, and if any one was missing

she had to hear all about it. Many a pleasant evening we spent in her

little home. A bunch of us would go together, and we would take along

our mandolin, banjo, and mouth organ, and have a little concert; Madame

would sit there and smile, not understanding a word we said, but

enjoying seeing us having a good time--another thing, it was always

warm there, and that was something that our billets never were.

But we had a great time trying to get enough French so that we could

ask for what we wanted to eat and many laughable incidents occurred in

our struggles to make Madame understand. For instance, one night

Skinny wanted eggs, and he tried in every way to make his wants known,

but Madame failed to get his meaning, and finally the boy got

desperate, so jumping up, he started to run around the room cackling

like a hen. He got the eggs all right, and I think he earned them; but

it was so funny that we nearly rolled off our chairs laughing.

To make things better, a party of twenty-five Canadians came to the

tunnellers and we had some good old times together; but Mac and Skinny

were still my best pals; many's the prank we played together. One of

our favourite ones was to work the officer in charge for an extra

ration of rum. The British Tommy was given his ration of rum as soon

as he came up from the sap, but we Canadians had to wait for ours till

we reached our rest billets, and it was served to us there by one of

our own officers. The only exception made was in favour of those who

had been working in a wet part of the sap; for instance, at the bottom

of the shaft there was often two feet of water, and at various places

along the tunnel where we had struck springs the water almost flooded

us out; it kept two pumps going all the time to make the place dry

enough to work in. Well, the men on these pumps (two on each) and the

one at the shaft were served out with rubber boots and oilskins, and

these were the only Canadians who received their ration of rum from the

Imperial officer. Usually one of our trio was chosen to work on either

of these wet jobs, and he would line up for his rum ration--after

getting it, he would hurry out and hand over his oilskins to one of us,

and we would slip them on and take our place in the line--after we had

been served we did the same trick, and usually the three of us

succeeded in getting our extra ration of rum. Of course the officer

would catch on after awhile and would chase us out, but we worked it on

every new officer. It wasn't that we cared so much for the rum, but it

was the fun of getting something that we were not supposed to have. It

was the same with our money ration--we were only allowed fifteen francs

every two weeks while we were in France, and the rest of our pay was

_kept for us_ by the military. Now, fifteen francs did not begin to

get us what we thought we needed, and many's the scheme we tried to get

at the balance. Finally we hit on one that worked pretty well. Mac

made over "so much a month" to the family of one of the English boys in

the 28th, they cashed the cheque and forwarded the money to their boy,

and he handed it over to Mac; we were having a "whale of a time" on his

extra money, and one day we were expecting our remittance from England.

Mac met some battalion boys who told him that Sergeant Banks had the

money for him; little Mac was on a carrying party that night when he

met the boys, and he hurried back to tell me the good news. I was

working above the shaft, and Mac and I sat in the shelter of an old

wall, and with the bullets buzzing around us we planned how we would

spend that money. Finally we thought we had lost enough time, so I

went back to work and Mac started down "Suicide Road" for another load

of sandbags and planks for the tunnel. He had about a mile to go, and

the road he was on got its name from the fierce shelling that Fritzie

gave it every night. If you have ever been out in a bad hailstorm you

can perhaps form some idea of how thick the bullets are when Fritzie

turns on his guns and sweeps a road. Well, I had only been working an

hour or so underground when I heard some one at the top of the shaft

calling my name. I answered and he said, "Come on up, Jack, I want

you." I hurried up the ladder and found one of the 28th boys waiting

for me. I said, "Hello! what's the matter, old chap?" He said, "Jack,

little Mac's got it." "Little Mac, oh no, not little Mac!" I cried.

"Why, he was here with me only a little while ago." "Yes, I know," he

said; "he was on his way back with the first load when it got

him--still, he isn't badly hit, and he sure did act funny when he got

it. This is how it happened: we were walking down the road with our

loads when Mac stopped suddenly and said, 'Boys, I believe I'm hit; I

felt a stinging pain go through my leg.' He felt around and walked a

few steps, and said, 'No, I guess I'm all right. But, gee, it was a

close call!' He hadn't gone far when he felt something trickling down

his leg, and slipping his hand inside his trousers he moved it around

the spot where the pain had been, then he pulled it out and held it up;

it was covered with blood. As soon as he saw the blood Mac grabbed his

leg and limped like everything. He dropped his load right there and

made a bee-line for the dressing station. As he hobbled down the road

he called, 'Good-bye, boys, it's Blighty for mine.'" Of course I

laughed at what the boy told me of little Mac, but all the time I felt

an ache in my heart, for something told me I would never see my brave

little pal again, and I never did. He did not get a "Blighty" after

all, but was sent to our base hospital at Le Havre. When he came back

to the lines I was gone, and he went back to the battalion; he "went

west" from Vimy Ridge, where so many of our brave boys fell.

Well, I hunted up Skinny and told him about Mac, and when the shift was

over and we started off to our rest billets we both felt mighty blue;

if we had known that we were to be separated the very next day we would

have felt still worse. But that's one thing that's good about the

Army--you never know what's coming, and after it has happened there is

no spare time for regrets. When I said "Good-bye" to Skinny, he said,

"It's a bleedin' shime that you 'arve to go, mite. Those bloomin'

'Eadquarter blokes doesn't know what they're doin' 'arf the time. It's

blinkin' 'ard to lose both you and Mac, but 'up the line with the best

of luck,' old cock." But I must explain why I had to go. An order

came asking all Canadians who were working with the Royal Engineers

(which was an Imperial unit) to transfer at once to the Canadian

Engineers at Ypres. This did not sound very good to us, as the Ypres

salient was known as a pretty hot place. However, as military rules

say, "Obey first and complain afterwards," there was nothing for us to

do but go. We were sorry, also, to leave before the completion of our

mine at Kemmil--but we heard afterwards that when it was set off it

turned the wood literally upside down. When we arrived at Ypres we

found things very different to what they were at Kemmil--instead of

mine laying we were put into a protection sap; this was only twenty

feet down and consisted of a network of tunnels for the protection of

our own lines against the German sappers. My first duty was on

"listening-post" in one of these tunnels, the hole where I was being

just large enough to lie in, and it seemed almost like being buried

alive. Here I did not get my twenty-four hours' rest as at Kemmil, but

I worked on a six-hour shift and had only ten hours off; even then we

were not sent back to rest billets, but had to stay in the dugout at

the top of the shaft. At the end of seven days we were supposed to be

sent back to rest billets, and another shift would take our place.

Fritzie had been unusually quiet since we came, and we began to think

that the stories we heard were greatly exaggerated.

However, on the morning of the seventh day we changed our minds. We

had gone to work at eight o'clock feeling unusually good--we expected

to be relieved at seven that night, and we had been promised a seven

days' leave to Blighty, so I could hardly wait for the day to pass.

Instead of being put on "listening-post" this morning, the Corporal in

charge took me with him--we went down a long tunnel till we reached the

end, and the Corporal put a listening-tube to his ear; he listened a

few minutes, and then handed it to me and whispered, "Do you hear

anything?" I said, "Yes, I hear some one shovelling." He said, "I

heard them yesterday, and I think they are close enough for us to get

now, we will lay a torpedo for them here," so we got to work to dig a

place for our torpedo, and after working for half an hour or so our

candles went out. Then we noticed that the number of shells falling

above us had greatly increased--we lit our candles again, but it was no

use--there seemed to be a terrific bombardment on and the concussion

was so great that we could not keep our lights going. Fritzie was

certainly making up for lost time. The Corporal said, "Well, Jack, we

might just as well go up and see what is doing," so we started back to

the shaft; our candles were out, so we had to grope our way along. We

had not gone far when we heard some one calling for help. Following

the sound, we came to a bunch of men belonging to the infantry; they

had come down for protection from the shell fire, and a shell had blown

in the entrance to their tunnel. Not being used to the network of

tunnels, they were completely lost. We guided them out to the main

shaft, and it was still intact, so they went up; then the Corporal

said, "I wonder if there are any more back there?" I said, "I don't

know, but I think we had better have a look," so we went back and after

searching every tunnel and not finding any one, we decided to go out

ourselves, and we started back along the shaft. We were feeling our

way along with the shells dropping overhead like hail, when all at once

two "Krupps" landed on the tunnel just over my head; there was a

terrific explosion, the props of the tunnel gave way, and in another

instant I found myself choked with dust and half buried under a pile of

dirt. The Corporal was crawling along three or four yards ahead, and

in the darkness he could not see what had happened. As soon as I could

get my breath I yelled, "Hey! Corporal, come back." He said, "What's

the matter?" I said, "By golly! I have half of Belgium on my back."

So he came back and pulled me out,---my back was badly strained, but

otherwise I was none the worse,--but we both realized now that things

up above must be getting pretty serious, and once more we started for

the shaft. The Corporal was ahead, and he called out, "Say, Jack, we

are in the devil of a fix now!" I said, "What's up?" He said, "Those

confounded Boches have blown in the top of our sap-head." This was a

serious matter, for it meant cutting off our supply of air as well as

our chance for escape--it would be bad enough to be killed in a fair

fight, but we didn't relish being buried alive; however, we would not

give up without a struggle, and we began searching the nearby tunnels

for a shovel. In the darkness I heard some one moving, and I said,

"Who's there?" A familiar voice said, "Who in hell do you think it

is?" I said, "Nobby! is that you? What the mischief are you doing?"

He said, "I'm looking for what you never can find when you need it, a

d---- shovel." The lad was one of our tunnellers, and we were glad to

have his company and also his help in the "digging-out" process. Not

finding a shovel, we commenced work with our hands--after we had been

working for half an hour Nobby grabbed me and whispered, "Do you see

those lights?"--I turned around, and there, about fifty yards away and

coming towards us, were about a dozen lights. We talked it over with

the Corporal and decided they must be Germans who had broken through

the tunnel, so the Corporal said, "One of you boys stay here and dig;

and the other two will go back and stop them," but we made him stay,

and Nobby and I went to meet the Boches. There was a branch tunnel

about thirty yards away, and we hoped to waylay them there; we were

armed with revolvers and their lights made them good targets. We

reached the branch tunnel just before they did, and we had a lively

little scrap with the first two--the others put out their lights when

they heard the pistol shots--anyway, they were several yards back and

they were in no hurry to get into the fun. We lay there and waited for

them, and after things had been quiet for a few minutes they lit their

lights and came on--fortunately the tunnel was only wide enough for one

man, but all the same we were looking for a lively time--they were ten

yards away when there came an awful explosion; a shell had burst

directly over their heads. All I remember was a blinding cloud of dust

and a gust of wind as our tunnel was blown in, and once more I was

buried. We scrambled out and turned to look for our foes, but they had

received the full force of the blow and were safely buried; so we

thanked our lucky stars and went back to our digging. When we reached

our Corporal, we found that he had already dug his way out into the

shaft. We crawled out, and looking up we discovered three more boys at

the top of the shaft--these belonged to the machine gun crew who had

taken up their position there, but a heavy shell had demolished their

gun and buried the men--they were just digging themselves out when we

appeared, and we gave them quite a surprise. One of them said when he

saw us, "Well, where the devil did you come from?" I suppose he

thought that because we came from below we must have some connection

with his Satanic Majesty. Well, we climbed up to where the boys were

and gave them a hand at the digging; finally we made a hole large

enough to let in a little air and then we all lay down and rested. We

were almost dead for want of air, for we had been buried for four

hours, and we did not know what might await us once we got out. After

we rested up a little, we finished our digging and crawled out. We

found ourselves in a large shell hole, the former trench being blown

away. The ground was being swept by machine guns and heavy shells, and

it was not healthy to rubber around very much. There was an officer in

charge of the machine gun crew, and finally he found a spot where there

was a slight protection, and he took a look around and this is what he

saw; the line of trenches we had left there in the morning were

entirely blotted, and the ground, as far as he could see, was literally

riddled with shell holes. Our boys had either been killed, wounded, or

taken prisoners, and our first and second lines were in the hands of

the Germans; however, their advance had been checked, and now, before

going any farther, let me explain that this is known now as the Third

Battle of Ypres, and the history is familiar to all. It was here that

the 1st Division of Canadians made their heroic stand in 1915, just one

year previous. But to come back to our present plight. We were at a

loss to know what to do, for we had no means of knowing how far the

Germans had penetrated our lines; but we knew that if their first wave

of reinforcements ever came up, they would surely get us, so there

seemed to be just one thing to do, and that was to make a dash for our

supports--the Germans who had come over were taking what shelter they

could in the shell holes, but they were lying as low as possible, on

account of the fierceness of our shell fire. It really seemed as

though every gun we had was trained on that spot, and the fire was

coming from three sides. One of the 28th boys who was watching the

battle from a neighbouring hill said that more shells fell to the

minute in this battle than in any he had ever seen, and certainly that

is the way it seemed to us; there was just one chance in a thousand of

our getting through, but the idea of staying and giving ourselves up

never entered our heads.

It took quite a bit of courage to make the first dash, but at 2.30 we

started out over the shell-swept ground. The shell holes were only

from ten to twenty feet apart, but I assure you it seemed quite far

enough. We made a quick sprint for the first one and landed in on the

backs of three or four Germans; they were lying facing our lines, and

hadn't expected any one from the rear. We had them finished before

they got over their surprise and none of us were hurt in this scrap--so

we made a bolt for the next hole. However, we were not so lucky this

time, and before we reached the hole two of our boys went down; we

dared not stop to see how badly they were hurt, but plunged into the

shelter of the hole. Here we were outnumbered two to one, but our

attack from the rear gave us the advantage; still it came near being my

finish, for my revolver jammed, and a big Boche made a lunge at me with

his bayonet--I dropped my revolver, escaped his bayonet by making a

quick side-step, grabbed his rifle, and hung on for dear life. We

rocked to and fro, and all at once it occurred to me to use my feet--so

I lifted one foot and let him have it right in the stomach. He let go

his hold on the rifle and sat down as suddenly as if he was shot, while

I lost my balance and went sprawling in the other direction. I don't

know which of us would have recovered first, but one of our boys

settled the combat by blowing the big Boche's head off. Our three lads

had cleared up all the others and we had time to think of our own

condition. We were a very sorry-looking outfit; we all had wounds and

bruises which we hadn't felt at the time they were received; our tunics

and caps had been left in the sap, and the few clothes we had on were

torn and plastered with mud, our faces were streaked with dirt and

blood, and we were "all in." I hadn't known any of the boys before

except the Corporal and Nobby, and poor Nobby was the first one shot.

Well, we looked after each other's wounds, and then we rested for

awhile; when our strength came back a little, we started out again. We

would have stayed longer only we had no idea how far we were from our

lines, and we felt sure that German reinforcements would come up at

dark. We went out in single file and not too close together, but our

next hole was farther away and just before the first one reached it a

shell burst directly over it; two of the boys were killed and the

Germans in the hole were blown to atoms; the officer and myself were

thrown a little distance and badly stunned, but finally we managed to

reach the hole. We were the only ones left, and we lay there bruised

and shaken. We were pretty well discouraged over the loss of our other

brave lads, and it was quite a while before we felt like venturing out

again; the only redeeming feature was the fact that the shell which had

killed our boys had also cleared the hole of whole Germans. Well, at

last we made another start, and we had almost reached a hole when the

officer, who was behind me, shouted "Look out, lad, there's another

coming!" We leaped for the hole and landed at the bottom only to find

ourselves covered by a dozen German rifles; I sure thought I had a

through ticket for the next world with no "stop-overs" allowed,

especially when I noticed a big "square-head" in the act of bringing a

"potato-masher" (hand grenade) down on my head. I dodged him as he

fetched it down, and just then the German officer in charge of the

bunch bawled out some command. They all lowered their rifles and began

talking in an excited manner, they were evidently trying to decide what

to do with us, and the officer said, "Well, I guess our game is up,

boy." I said, "I guess it is"; and really I didn't much care if they

finished me right then. I knew I had made them pay the price

anyway--we were out of ammunition and, besides, we were too much "all

in" to put up any kind of a scrap.

Well, they evidently decided to take us prisoners, for we were

searched, and then two of them were detailed to take us back--the only

reason we were spared was because it is quite a feather in a German's

cap to take a British officer prisoner--they are always rewarded for

it. Well, they started us out at once over the same road we had come,

and we went from shell hole to shell hole as before, but now that we

were under German escort no one "potted" us, and in spite of the shell

fire we reached what had been "No Man's Land." As we crossed this I

noticed a funny thing. A company of German reinforcements were being

brought up, perhaps a hundred in all; the officer in charge was

bareheaded, and he carried a revolver and a stick of some kind.

Instead of leading his men as our officers do, he walked behind and a

little to one side, really on their flank. They couldn't hear his

commands and he tried to show them where to go by pointing with his

stick, but he kept his revolver levelled on the men all the time. As I

watched them, a couple of our "Big Lizzie" shells burst right over

them; when the smoke cleared away there wasn't one of the bunch to be

seen. Well, we crossed "No Man's Land" and came to where the German

trenches had been, but they were as level as our own. Finally we

struck a communication trench and the going was a little safer. The

trench was crowded with Germans, and they lined up in either side to

let us pass. But here I had another narrow escape; the Boche's hatred

of the British is such that they cannot resist giving vent to it when

they have one in their power, and as we passed one big brute made a

lunge at me with his bayonet. Fortunately, he missed his aim a little

and the bayonet passed through the loose front of my shirt, but I felt

the cold steel on my flesh--the guard said nothing to him. Another

thing I noticed on my way out was the treatment a wounded German

received from the comrade who was taking him out--the man was wounded

through the head and he was evidently dizzy from pain and weakness, for

he rolled from one side of the trench to the other like a drunken

man--instead of carrying him as our men would do, or, at least, putting

an arm round him to steady his steps, that brute walked behind, and

when the wounded man would stop, wanting to sit down and rest, I saw

the brute take that poor man by the collar, jerk him up, and land him a

couple of kicks. This of course sent the man running and sprawling

down the trench, and this is the way they made their way out.

[Illustration: General Ketchen]

Well, we went on till we came to a German strong point, and here we

found fifteen of our boys that had been captured earlier in the day;

when we came on the scene they were being photographed by the Germans.

The Germans allow their soldiers to carry cameras and almost every

soldier has one; we had at least a dozen levelled at us that day--they

were evidently taking pictures to send back to Germany--"Prisoners _we_

have captured" would no doubt be the title.

They kept us hanging around here for half an hour, still under our own

shell fire, and then we were marched back about three miles. Our first

stop was beside an old Belgian church, and here we were taken over by

an escort of Prussian Lancers, and for the first time I realized that I

was really a German prisoner. We were herded together like a flock of

sheep and driven ahead of our captors; we were made to go ten miles

before they allowed us to stop, but to add variety to our otherwise

tedious march, when our escort wanted a little fun they would put spurs

to their horses and ride pellmell through our little bunch. It was

great sport to see us dash in all directions tumbling over one another

in our efforts to escape being trodden down by the horses; no wonder

they laughed and shouted in their glee! And it was on a par with other

things they did on that trip. We passed through several small Belgian

villages, and when the Belgian women saw us coming, they ran out with

jugs of water, chocolate, and cigarettes, but our escort met them and

refused to allow them to give us anything. They were very plucky, and

some of them dashed in past the guards, and these inhuman beasts known

as Prussian Guards levelled their lances and made at the girls.

Sometimes they missed; a water jug carried by one of the girls saved

her, but I saw three women run through the body by these devils, and

all because they wished to do an act of kindness to men who were

wounded. The first thing we do with our prisoners is to feed them and

dress their wounds, but these are the last things a German thinks of

doing. Well, the same thing happened in all the villages, only we

warned the girls away when we saw how they would be treated. I also

noticed that the Belgians were not allowed on the sidewalk when a

German was passing; if they did not get off, they were knocked off.

Finally we were halted in one of the villages and herded into a filthy

horse stable. There were about thirty in the bunch and most of us were

wounded; we had not even had a drink since we were captured, so we were

pretty much "all in." We slept on the floor of the stable that night,

and next morning some German guards came along and picked us up. For

breakfast we were thrown four loaves of German bread and a pail of

water was set inside the door. After breakfast we were lined up on the

street, and a German officer who spoke a little English came along and

asked us questions. He took our name and number and also the name of

the unit to which we belonged. He said he was doing this so that he

might report our capture to the military authorities in London, but he

had another reason. After he got through he chose two from each unit,

lined them up, and marched them off to a large building. I happened to

be one of the number. The building where we were taken was occupied by

a German general and his staff. We were put in a small room and two at

a time marched out for an interview.

The first ones taken belonged to a machine gun crew; they were

conducted into a long room at the far end of which sat the General and

two interpreters. Along each side of the room was a line of Prussian

Guards. The officer who had charge of the boys could speak English

fairly well, and instead of taking them to where the General was, he

sat down with them at a small table just inside the door. He appeared

very friendly, and offered them cigars, cigarettes, and wine. The boys

were cute enough to know why they were offered wine, and they "declined

with thanks" but they took the smokes. The officer asked them

questions about Canada and appeared very much interested in our

country, he talked for half an hour and never mentioned war; then he

asked them to go up to where the General was sitting. On the table in

front of the General was a map of the front line trenches, and through

the interpreter the General proceeded to pump the boys for information.

This is a sample of the questions he asked them:

Interpreter: "Show me, on the map, the position your machine gun was

holding on the Ypres salient."

Boy: "I am sorry, Sir, but I can't read a map."

He asked him several more questions of a similar nature and received

unsatisfactory replies. Then he said, "Now, give me an idea of how

many guns were holding the Ypres salient." The lad thought for a

minute and then said, "Sir, as near as I could guess, it was about a

million and a half." The General let a roar out of him like a mad

lion, and two of the Prussian Guards grabbed the boys and, dragging

them to the end of the room, threw them out of the door and down the

short flight of steps at the entrance. I saw them pass the door of the

room where I was sitting, and said, "Hully gee! what the Sam Hill are

they doing with those chaps?" Sandy said, "Evidently they are not

wanted in there." But the boys didn't seem to be at all displeased

over the treatment they received, for they landed laughing, and as we

went in I heard one say, "We slipped one over them that time, eh?"

A young Scotchman and myself were the next ones called, and we

represented the sappers. The same officer brought us in and treated us

as he did the first two; we helped ourselves to the cigars and

cigarettes, but did not think it wise to touch the wine (Scotty said

afterwards that it was the only time in his life he ever refused a

drink). After having a smoke, we were taken up before the General.

Scotty was a comical chap, very ready-witted, and we had arranged that

he should do all the talking. The first question asked was, "Where was

the sap you were working in?" Scotty looked up very stupidly, and

said, "I don't understand you, Sir." The interpreter said, "Where was

the mine you dug underground?"

Scotty: "Oh yes, I did that for a living before I joined the Army."

Interpreter: "Then show me on this map where the sap was."

Scotty: "I don't know of any sap in the front line."

Interpreter: "But you said you belonged to the miners!"

Scotty: "Yes, but I was not working on a mine in the front line."

Interpreter: "Then what were you doing?"

Scotty: "Well, it was like this; I was only in the trenches twice, the

first time our Corporal put me on a fatigue party and I was carrying up

sandbags and rations."

Interpreter: "Is that all you did?"

Scotty: "Yes, Sir."

Interpreter: "Then what were you working at the second time you were in

the lines?--you were surely put in a sap this time."

I could see that both the General and the interpreter were getting

quite peeved, but Scotty answered smilingly: "I will tell you what I

did. The Sergeant in charge gave me a long stick with a nail in the

end, and I had this stick in one hand and a sandbag in the other, and

my work was to go through the trenches picking up all the paper,

cigarette boxes, and tin cans." When this speech was interpreted to

the General, the old boy was _wild_. I think he would gladly have put

an end to us right there, but he only shouted an order to the guards,

and we were hustled to the door and kicked out. When we picked

ourselves up, we sat down on the steps and had a good laugh. Evidently

the General was not satisfied with the information he received, for

none of the others were taken in. We were all taken back to the stable

and left there till the next morning, then we were marched off to the

railway station and loaded on a train for Germany.

We travelled in cattle and box cars, and we did not sit up to see the

sights because all of us were wounded or injured in some way. My back

was badly strained when I was buried in the sap and I was bruised from

head to foot. I had had nothing to eat all day excepting the small

piece of black bread given to us in the morning. It was about 9 P.M.

when we made our first stop in Germany, and this was at a large prison

camp near Dulmen, Westphalia. Dulmen is a beautiful large city; and

the camp is two miles out. At first sight a prison camp looks very

much like a chicken ranch; the high wire fences around the whole

enclosure and the little frame huts in the centre all carry out the

idea. But when you get in, there is a vast difference, the outside

fence is fourteen feet high, and of barb-wire with the barbs poisoned;

three yards in, there is another fence, a low one this time, to prevent

the "chickens" getting under, and this is made of live wire. In

between these fences there is a line of German guards, each one having

his own beat. The centre of the camp is divided into small blocks,

each with its fourteen-foot fence of poisoned wire; there are six huts

in each block and about fifty prisoners quartered in each hut. When I

was there the camp contained about three thousand prisoners--French,

Russian, English, and a few Canadians. But, to go back to my arrival.

As we were marched into the camp we were a pretty sorry-looking lot.

The old prisoners saw us coming, and rushed back to their huts and

brought us out some food. The new prisoners were not allowed to mingle

with the old ones until they had been two months in camp--I suppose

this was to prevent any news getting in--so in order to do anything for

us, the old prisoners had to catch us on our way through. Well, they

brought us, from the contents of their Red Cross parcels, hardtack,

biscuits, bully-beef, and jam, and when we reached our hut we had a

pretty good meal. The boys had none too much for themselves and it

meant a great deal to give up any of their precious food; but they

knew, from experience, that we were starving, and we thought we were,

for after good army rations, one small slice of black bread does not go

far towards satisfying hunger. But, after existing on German fare for

two months, we knew what it was to be really hungry; we were more like

famished wolves than human beings.