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PRIVATE PEAT
by
HAROLD R. PEAT
Ex-Third Battalion First Canadian Contingent
Profusely Illustrated with Photographic Reproductions Taken at the Front.
Also with Scenes from the Photo-Play of the Same Name Released by Famous
Players--Lasky Corporation
New York
Grosset & Dunlap
Publishers
The Bobbs-Merrill Company
1917
[Illustration: Private Peat
Still smiling though his right arm is useless]
_To the boys who will never come back_
FOREWORD
In this record of my experiences as a private in the great war I have tried
to put the emphasis on the things that seemed to me important. It is true I
set out to write a book of smiles, but the seriousness of it all came back
to me and crept into my pages. Yet I hope, along with the grimness and the
humor, I have been able to say some words of cheer and comfort to those in
the United States who are sending their husbands, their sons and brothers
into this mighty conflict. The book, unsatisfactory as it is to me now that
it is finished, at least holds my honest and long considered opinions. It
was not written until I could view my experiences objectively, until I was
sure in my own mind that the judgments I had formed were sane and sound. I
give it to the public now, hoping that something new will be found in it,
despite the many personal narratives that have gone before, and confident
that out of that public the many friends I have made while lecturing over
the country will look on it with a lenient and a kindly eye.
To my wife, who has helped me greatly and who has been my inspiration in
this, as in all else, I should have inscribed this volume had she not urged
the present dedication. But she prefers it as it is, for "the boys who will
never come back" gave themselves for her and for all sister-women the world
over.
H.R.P.
CONTENTS
Chapter
I THE CALL--TO ARMS
II IN THE OLD COUNTRY
III BACK TO CANADA--I DON'T THINK
IV ARE WE DOWNHEARTED? NO!
V UNDER FIRE
VI THE MAD MAJOR
VII WHO STARTED THE WAR?
VIII "AND OUT OF EVIL THERE SHALL COME THAT WHICH IS GOOD"
IX ALL FUSSED UP AND NO PLACE TO GO
X HELLO! SKY-PILOT!
XI VIVE LA FRANCE ET AL BELGE!
XII CANADIANS--THAT'S ALL
XIII TEARS AND NO CHEERS
XIV "THE BEST O' LUCK--AND GIVE 'EM HELL!"
XV OUT OF IT
XVI GERMAN TERMINOLOGICAL INEXACTITUDES
XVII THE LAST CHAPTER
THE TEN COMMANDMENTS OF A SOLDIER WHILE ON ACTIVE SERVICE
SOME THINGS THAT WE OUGHT AND OUGHT NOT TO SEND
PRIVATE PEAT
CHAPTER I
THE CALL--TO ARMS
"Well," said old Bill, "I know what war is ... I've been through it with
the Boers, and here's one chicken they'll not catch to go through this
one."
Ken Mitchell stirred his cup of tea thoughtfully. "If I was old enough,
boys," said he, "I'd go. Look at young Gordon McLellan; he's only seventeen
and he's enlisted."
That got me. It was then that I made up my mind I was going whether it
lasted three months, as they said it would, or five years, as I thought it
would, knowing a little bit of the geography and history of the country we
were up against.
We were all sitting round the supper table at Mrs. Harrison's in Syndicate
Avenue, Edmonton, Alberta. War had been declared ten days before, and there
had been a call for twelve hundred men from our city. Six hundred were
already with the colors.
Now, to throw up a nice prosperous business and take a chance at something
you're not sure of getting into after all, is some risk, and quite an
undertaking as well. But I had lived at the McLellens' for years and knew
young Gordon and his affairs so well that I thought if he could tackle it,
there was no reason why I shouldn't.
"Well, Bill, I'm game to go, if you will," I said. Bill had just declared
his intention rather positively, so I was a bit surprised when he replied
in his old familiar drawl:
"All right, but you'll have to pass the doctor first. I'm pretty sure I can
get by, but I'm not so certain about you."
Ken Mitchell looked up at that and, smiling at me, said, "I can imagine
almost anything in this world, but I can't imagine Peat a soldier."
"Well, we'll see about that, Ken," I replied, and with that the supper came
to an end.
That evening Bill and I went over to the One-Hundred-and-First Barracks,
but there was nothing doing, as word had just come from Ottawa to stop
recruiting. It was on the twenty-second of August, 1914, before the office
was opened again, and on that day we took another shot at our luck.
The doctor gave me the "once over" while Bill stood outside.
"One inch too small around the chest," was the verdict.
"Oh, Doc, have a heart!"
"No," he said, "we have too many men now to be taking a little midget like
you." That was disappointment number two. I walked out and reported to
Bill, and I need not say that that loyal friend did not try to pass without
me.
That night--August twenty-second--I slept very little. I had made up my
mind that I was going to the war, and go I would, chest or no chest. Before
morning I had evolved many plans and adopted one. I counted on my
appearance to put me through. I am short and slight. I'm dark and
curly-haired. I can pass for a Frenchman, an American, a Belgian; or at a
pinch a Jew.
I had my story and my plan ready when the next day I set out to have
another try. At twelve-thirty I was seated on Major Farquarhson's veranda
where I would meet him and see him alone when he came home to lunch.
"Excuse me, Doctor," I said when he appeared, "but I'm sure you would pass
me if you only knew my circumstances."
"Well?" snapped the major.
"You see, sir, my two brothers have been killed by the Germans in Belgium,
and my mother and sisters are over there. I _must_ go over to avenge them."
I shivered; I quaked in my shoes. Would the major speak to me in French? I
did not then know as much as _Bon jour_.
But luck was with me. To my great relief Major Farquarhson replied, as he
walked into the house, "Report to me this afternoon; I will pass you."
August 28, 1914, saw old Bill--Bill Ravenscroft--and me enlisted for the
trouble.
A few days later Bill voiced the opinion of the majority of the soldiers
when he said, "Oh, this bloomin' war will be over in three months." Not
alone was this Bill's opinion, or that of the men only, but the opinion of
the people of Canada, the opinion of the people of the whole British
Empire.
And right here there lies a wrong that should be righted. From the days of
our childhood, in school and out, we are taught what WE can do, and not
what the other fellow can do. This belief in our own strength and this
ignorance of our neighbor's follows us through manhood, aye, and to the
grave.
It was this over-confidence which brought only thirty-three thousand
Canadian men to the mobilization camp at Valcartier, in answer to the first
call to arms, instead of the one hundred thousand there should have been.
Not many days passed before we boarded the train at Edmonton for our
journey to Valcartier. The first feeling of pride came over me, and I am
sure over all the boys on that eventful Thursday night, August 27, 1914,
when thousands of people, friends and neighbors, lined the roadside as we
marched to the station.
Only one or two of us wore the khaki uniform; the rest were in their oldest
and poorest duds. A haphazard, motley, rummy crowd, we might have been
classed for anything but soldiers. At least, we gathered this from remarks
we overheard as we marched silently along to the waiting troop-train.
Strangely enough no one was crying. Every one was cheered. Little did
hundreds of those women, those mothers, dream that this was the last look
they would have at their loved ones. Men were cheering; women were waving.
Weeping was yet to come.
On that same August night, not only from Edmonton, but from every city and
town in Canada men were marching on their way to Valcartier.
We traveled fast, and without event of importance. There were enthusiastic
receptions at each town that we passed through. There was Melville and
there was Rivers, and there was Waterous, where the townsfolk declared the
day a public holiday, and Chapelou in Northern Ontario, where we had our
first parade of the trip. There was a tremendous crowd to meet us here, a
great concourse of people to welcome these stalwarts of the West. We lined
up in as good formation as possible, and our sergeant, who was very proud
of himself and of us--mostly himself--majestically called us to attention.
"From the left, number!" he gave the command. Such a feat, of course, is an
impossibility.
"From the right, Sergeant," yelled old Bill.
"No," answered the sergeant, "from the left." The crowd roared and the
sergeant raved. Finally our captain straightened us out, but the sergeant
to this day has never forgotten the incident.
North Bay passed, then Ottawa, Montreal, and at last we arrived at
Valcartier. So far the life of a soldier had been anything but a pleasant
one. My body was black and blue from lying on the hard boards, and I was
eager, as was every other man, to leave the train at once; but as our camp
was not quite ready we had to stay in the cars another night.
It was a relief, I assure you, when on the morning of September first we
marched into Valcartier. Such a sight: tents everywhere one looked; all
around little white marquees. I said to Bill, "Is this the regular training
ground?" To my surprise he informed me that this great camp had been
organized within the last two weeks.
I marveled at this for I did not believe we had a man in Canada with the
organizing ability to get a camp of this size in such splendid shape in so
short a time. We were finally settled in our quarters and told that we
were to be known as the Ninth Battalion, One-Hundred-and-First Edmonton
Fusiliers.
The second day we were in camp the bugle sounded the assembly. Of course I
did not know an "assembly" from a mess call, but the others ran for the
parade ground and so I followed.
Gee! what a mob! There was a big man sitting on a horse. Bill said he was
the colonel. He made a speech to us. He told us we were fine men.
"You are a fine body of men," said he ... "but we are unorganized, and we
have no non-commissioned officers."
I whispered to Bill, "What's a non-commissioned officer?"
Bill looked to see if I really meant it. "A sergeant, a corporal--anything
but a private," he replied.
"Will all the men who have had former military experience fall out,"
commanded the colonel; "the rest of you go back to quarters."
"Have I had any former military experience, Bill?" I was eager for
anything.
"Sure you have," said Bill. "We'll just stay here and maybe we'll be made
sergeants."
About six hundred of us stayed! But, believe me, if they had all had as
much military experience as I, we wouldn't have been soldiers yet. When the
adjutant came around, he gave me a look as much as to say: "That kid
certainly has got a lot of nerve." He offered to make Bill a corporal, but
as that would have transferred him from D Company to F Company he declined
rather than leave me.
This will give you some idea of the kind of organization or
non-organization when the First Contingent Canadians was formed. Not only
in our own battalion but nearly anywhere in the regiment almost anybody
could have been a non-commissioned officer--certainly anybody that had
looks and the nerve to tell the adjutant that he had had former military
experience.
It was not very long before we began to realize that soldiering, after all,
was no snap. There was the deuce of a lot to learn, and the deuce of a lot
to do.
To the rookie one of the most interesting things are the bugle calls. The
first call, naturally, that the new soldier learns is "the cook-house," and
possibly the second is the mail-call. The call that annoyed me most at
first was "reveille." I had been used to getting up at nine o'clock in the
morning; rising now at five-thirty wasn't any picnic. This, especially when
it took a fellow half the night to get warm, because all we had under us
was Mother Earth, one blanket and a waterproof.
It was the second day at camp that we started in to work good and hard.
Reveille at five-thirty A.M.; from six to seven Swedish exercise,
then one hour for breakfast when we got tea, pork and beans, and a slice of
bread. From eight to twelve saw us forming fours and on the right form
companies. From twelve to half past one more pork and beans, bread and tea.
Rifle practise, at the butts, followed until five-thirty, and ... yes, it
did ... pork and beans, bread and tea appeared once more.
Neither officers nor non-coms knew very much at the start, but they were a
bunch of good scouts. And we were all very enthusiastic, there is no doubt
about that. Soon we began to realize that if we would put our shoulders to
the wheel and work hard we would certainly see service overseas.
[Illustration: ©_Famous Players--Lasky Corporation. Scene from the
Photo-Play_
THE SONS OF DEMOCRACY.]
[Illustration: SOUVENIRS BROUGHT BACK FROM "OVER THERE."
The enemy calls the Canadian a "Souvenir Hunter." It must be remembered the
author is a Canadian.]
As a private soldier and no matter how humble my opinion may be, I must
give the greatest praise and credit to the organizer and founder of Camp
Valcartier, at that time Colonel Sir Sam Hughes ... the then minister of
militia for Canada. We had about three miles of continuous rifle range; and
good ranges they were, considering they were got together in less than two
weeks. I will admit that the roads leading to the ranges were nothing to
brag about, yet, taking it all in all, even they were pretty good.
By this time the majority of us had received our uniforms and our badges,
and had been given a number, and instructed to mark this number on
everything we had. Mine was 18535.
We had no "wet" canteens at Valcartier, so we were a very sober camp. Each
battalion had a shower bath, and there was no excuse for any man to be
dirty. Even at that it was not very long before those little "somethings"
which are no respecters of persons, be he private, non-com, commissioned
officer or general, found their way into the camp. I'll never forget the
first gray-back I found on me. I cried like a baby, and old Bill
sympathized with me, saying in consoling tones that I'd soon get used to
them. Bill knew.
For amusement at Valcartier, we had free shows and pay shows, also moving
pictures. The pay show got to be so amusing that we made a bonfire out of
it one bright September night, and found it more entertaining as a
conflagration than it ever had been as an entertainment. At all events,
that was how one of the boys of the Fifteenth Battalion put it.
The second week in camp we were inoculated, and again examined for overseas
service. Through some very fine work, I escaped the examination, but could
not get out of the inoculation. We were promised three shots in the arm,
but after the first I resolved that one was more than enough for me. German
bullets could not be worse, I thought, and when I got one I didn't change
my mind.
As the days wore on we grew more and more enthusiastic. Already rumors were
spreading that we would be leaving "any time now" for France. The
excitement certainly told on some of the boys. In my regiment no less than
nine, I guess they were ex-homesteaders, went "nutty." One chap, I recall,
killed hundreds of Germans on the bloody battle-fields of Valcartier. The
surgeon assured us the mania was temporary.
We were pretty thoroughly equipped by the end of the third week, when we
were given puttees instead of leggings. It was sure funny the way some of
the boys looked when they first put them on, for many of them got the lower
part of the leg much bigger than the upper part, but of course that might
happen to any one who had never seen puttees before.
There was considerable grumbling about these same puttees, because, at
first, they were undoubtedly very uncomfortable. However, before many days
the majority of us were ready to vote for puttees permanently, as they
proved warmer, a greater support to the leg on long marches and more nearly
waterproof than their more aristocratic brother leggings.
It was during the third week of camp life that we had our first review. We
gave the salute to the Duke of Connaught, who was accompanied by Sir Sam
Hughes. After this review, we were told that we might expect to leave for
France at two hours' notice.
The following days we spent on the rifle ranges and in making fake
departures. I wrote home to my friends more than once that "we were leaving
for the front to-day," but when the next day arrived we were still leaving.
I sent my mother six telegrams on six different days to say that I would
start for France within the next hour, but at the end of it we were still
to be found in the same old camp.
Finally, on the first day of October, 1914, our regiment boarded the _S.S.
Zeeland_ at Quebec. The comment of the people looking on was that they had
never seen a finer body of men. And that was about right. Physically we
were perfect; morally, we were as good as the next, and, taken all in all,
there were no better shots on earth. Equipped to the minute, keen as
hunting dogs, we were "it." Surely a wonderful change this month's training
had wrought. And I say again if the credit for it all must be given to any
one man, that man is Sir Sam Hughes.
In a few hours we were steaming down the St. Lawrence, and the next day we
slipped into Gaspé Bay on the eastern coast of Canada, where we joined the
other transports. Here thirty-two ships with as many thousand men aboard
them were gathered together, all impatiently waiting the order to dash
across the Atlantic.
We did not have to wait very long. On Sunday, October the fourth, at three
o'clock in the afternoon, we steamed slowly out of the harbor in three long
lines. Each ship was about a quarter of a mile from her companion ahead or
behind, and guarded on each side by cruisers. I have memorized the names of
the transports, and at this time it is interesting to know that very few of
them have been sunk by the German submarines.
The protecting cruisers were: _H.M.S. Eclipse_, _Diana_, _Charybdis_,
_Glory_, _Talbot_ and _Lancaster_. The transports were in Line Number One:
_S.S. Manatic_, _Ruthenian_, _Bermudian_, _Alaunia_, _Irvenia_,
_Scandinavian_, _Sicilia_, _Montzuma_, _Lapland_, _Casandia_;
Line Number Two: _Carribean_, _Athenia_, _Royal Edward_, _Franconia_,
_Canada_, _Monmouth_, _Manitou_, _Tyrolia_, _Tunissian_, _Laurentic_,
_Milwaukee_; Line Number Three: _The Scotian_, _Arcadian_, _Zeeland_,
_Corinthian_, _Virginian_, _Andania_, _Saxonia_, _Grampian_, _Laconia_,
_Montreal_, _The Royal George_.
All the way across the Atlantic we were in sight of each other and of the
cruisers. Personally, the scene thrilled me through and through. Here was
the demonstrated fact that we, an unmilitary people, with a small
population to draw on, had made a world record in sending the greatest
armada that had ever sailed from one port to another in the history of man.
Personally, I felt very proud because of the thirty-three thousand soldiers
on these boats only seventeen per cent. were born Canadians; five per cent.
Americans, and the other seventy-eight were made up of English, Irish and
Scotch residing in Canada at the outbreak of the war.
There were no exciting scenes on the way over, except when some wild and
woolly Canadian tried to jump overboard because of seasickness. We were a
long time crossing, because the fastest transport had to cut her speed down
to that of the slowest, and the voyage was anything but a pleasant one.
When we finally steamed into Plymouth, the gray-backs outnumbered the
soldiers by many thousands. The invasion of England!