UNDER FIRE
Broken-hearted! Gee! We sure were--nearly; but not quite. No. This was bad;
there was worse to come, and still we kept our hearts whole.
But there was another trial now, and we were directed to rest billets in
what presumably had been a two-story schoolhouse or seminary. As soon as we
reached this shelter we flopped down on the hard bare floor and lay just as
we were, not even loosening our harness.
We were less than three miles from the front lines. Even at this short
distance Armentières, as a whole, had not suffered greatly from shell fire,
though the upper floors of this old seminary had been shattered almost to
ruins long before our arrival.
The city itself was a good strategic point for the artillery. Behind
houses, stores, churches, anywhere that offered concealment, our guns were
hidden. Our artillery officers used every available inch of cover, for they
had to screen our guns from the observation of enemy aircraft which flew
with irritating irregularity over the town, and they had to avoid the none
too praiseworthy attention of spies, in which Armentières was rich.
Armentières in those days was practically a network of our gun
emplacements. The majority were howitzers. These fire high; they have a
possible angle of forty-five degrees. There was no danger of their damaging
our own immediate positions.
The ordinary infantry man knows less than nothing about artillery. If ever
a bunch of greenhorns landed in France, frankly, we of the First Contingent
were that same bunch.
As we had marched through the city there had been no sound of gun-fire. All
was quiet except for the welcoming cheers of our British brothers. Silence
reigned for the two hours we had spent in resting on the floor of the
schoolhouse, and consequently we thought we had a snap as far as position
went.
Our self-congratulations were somewhat rudely disturbed. Of a sudden, one
of our young officers rushed through the door of our shelter. Poor laddie,
he was very young and his anxiety exceeded even his nervousness.
Nervousness is very natural, I can assure you. It is natural in a private;
it is more so in the officer who feels responsibility for the lives of his
men.
"Lads," said he, with upraised hand, and obviously trying desperately to be
calm, "lads, I've just been told that the enemy has the range of this
building. 'Twas shelled yesterday, and we are likely to be blown up any
minute ... any minute, men! I'd advise you to stay where you are. Don't any
of you go outside, and if you don't want to lose your lives, don't go
fooling around up-stairs." With that he pointed to the rickety steps that
led to the second floor and disappeared through the door as fast as he had
come.
For a few moments there was dead silence. "Blow up any minute!" We looked
at one another. We sat tense. Our very thoughts seemed petrified. From the
far corner of the room there came a sound:
"Gee whiz!... Gee whiz!" the voice gathered confidence. "Gee whiz,
guys"--it was a boy from the Far West who spoke--"I've come six thousand
miles, and to be blown up without even seeing a German is more than I can
swallow."
"Gosh!" said I, "I wouldn't mind being shot to-morrow morning at sunrise if
I could have the satisfaction of seeing one of them first."
Bob Marchington looked up. He was a droll youth, and curiosity was his
besetting sin. "Say, fellows, I wonder why he told us not to go up-stairs.
I bet you there's something to be seen from up there, or he would not have
told us not to go. Any of you boys willing to come up with me?"
No one took up the challenge. We lay around a little longer. Then the
braver spirits commenced to deliberate on the suggestion. Why not go
up-stairs? At last half a dozen of us decided to embark on the risky
enterprise. We were three miles from the enemy, to be sure, but a German at
three miles seemed to us then something formidable. Many a good laugh have
we had since, in trench and out, at this expedition considered with so much
careful thought!
We crept up the shaky steps one by one. We crawled along the upper floor,
skirting the gaping shell holes in the woodwork. We raised our hands and
shaded our eyes from the glare of the light. We scanned the horizon. We had
an idea, I think, that we'd see a German blocking the landscape somewhere.
We were three miles away. What was three miles to us?
We were deeply engrossed when there came a terrific crash. It seemed almost
under our feet ... Rp-p-p-p-p-p bang, BANG! The next thing I remembered was
landing at the foot of those narrow stairs, the other five boys on top of
me. That is a feat impossible of repetition. When we disentangled
ourselves, got to our feet and gathered our scattered wits, we found the
men who had remained below tremendously excited. Their hair was on end;
their eyes were like saucers. "Who's killed, fellows," they yelled, "who's
killed?"
Of course no one was hurt. Our own battery was just dropping a few over the
Boches, but it was our first experience under fire. Behind the building a
battery of our six-inch howitzers was concealed. When they "go off" they
make a fearful racket; very likely any other bunch of fellows, not knowing
the guns were there, would do as we did. I don't know. At all events, we
stayed very quietly where we were thereafter.
Later in the evening we found out the true and inner meaning of the excited
order not to go outdoors or on the roof. It was a simple device to keep us
from exploring the boulevards of the city. We might have been tempted to do
that, for we had seen none of the charming French girls as yet, and they
are--_tres charmante_.
About six o'clock that evening we got the customary--the eternal--bully
beef and biscuits. At seven we were ordered to advance to the front line
trenches. Our captain gathered us around him. He wanted to talk to us
before we went "in" for the first time. He was, possibly, a little
uncertain of our attitude. He knew we were fighters all right, but our
discipline was an unknown quantity. Captain Straight, I understand, was
American-born, from Detroit, Michigan. We liked him. Later we almost
worshiped him. We took all he said to heart. We listened intently; not a
word did we miss. I can repeat from memory that pre-trench speech of his.
"Boys," the captain's voice was solemnity itself. "Boys, to-night we are
going into the front line trenches. We are going in with soldiers of the
regular Imperial Army. We are going in with seasoned troops. We are going
in alongside men who have fought out here for weeks. We've got to be very
careful, boys."
Our captain was obviously excited. We strained closer to him.
"You don't know a darn thing about war, lads ... I know you don't."
We fell back a pace somewhat abashed. We had been under fire that very
afternoon; but the captain (fortunately) did not know it.
"You don't know the first thing about this war. You've not had
opportunities of asking about it from wounded men. Now, boys, I know
exactly what you are going to do to-night when you get in those trenches.
You're going to ask questions of those English chaps. YOU ARE NOT." He
emphasized every one of those three words with a blow of one fist on the
other.
"You are not. Why, men, you know what the authorities think of our
discipline. How are we to know that this is not a device to try our
mettle. How are we to know that those boys already in are not there to
watch us, to report our behavior ... and, by heaven, men, if we don't make
a good showing perhaps they will report unfavorably on us; perhaps we will
be shipped out of here, shipped back to Canada, and become the laughing
stock of the world."
Captain Straight strode up and down. "It won't do, my lads. You must not
ask questions. Why, men, let those English fellows ask _you_ the questions.
Don't you speak at all ... just you be brave. I know you _are_ brave ...
stick out your chests." The captain gave us an illustration. We all drew
ourselves up; we almost burst the buttons from our tunics in our endeavor
to expand ... with bravery.
"Keep your heads high," the captain went on, one word tripping the other in
the eagerness of his speech. "March right in. Don't stop for anything. Get
close to the parapet. Look at the British boys; throw them 'Hello, guys!'
and begin to shoot right away."
We were ready for anything. Were we not brave? Hadn't we shown our bravery
by creeping up a ruined stairway only three miles from the enemy? We
promised our captain, and then we commenced our march to the front.
The green soldier is always put into the first line at the start. The
general idea is that he should be put in reserves and worked up gradually,
but, save under exceptional circumstances, he is put in the front line and
worked back.
It has been demonstrated that shell fire is much more severe on a man's
nerves than rifle fire. Reserve trenches suffer more from shell fire than
do the front line trenches. The reason is obvious. Sometimes the front line
is but a stone's throw from the front line of the enemy. Sometimes we can
converse with the enemy from one trench to the other. In such cases it is
impossible for heavy artillery to be trained on the front. Rifles and bombs
are the only explosives under these conditions.
Again, the green soldier is never put into the trenches alone. A company of
raw arrivals is sandwiched in with seasoned men. As we were the first
Canadians to arrive, and there was none of our own men to help acclimatize
us, we went in with an English regiment. There was one English, one
Canadian and so on down the line. These boys belonged to the Notts and
Derbys. Jolly fine boys, too. We became fast friends. They chummed to us as
they would to their own. They showed us the ropes. They gave us tips on
this thing and that. They told us the best way to cook, the various devices
for snatching a few minutes' rest. They described the most effective
"scratching" methods for the elimination of "gray-backs," "red-stripes,"
"cooties," "crawlies"--any name you like to give those hosts of insect
enemies that infest every trench.
Now, "going in" isn't so easy as it sounds. We don't advance in companies
four deep. We don't have bands. We don't have pipes to inspire our courage
and rouse the fighting spirit inherited from long dead ancestors. It is a
very--a vastly different matter. We go into the trenches in single file,
each man about six paces from his nearest comrade. There is no question
about keeping behind. Instinct takes care of that.
A man may have a touch of lumbago; he may have a rheumatic pain. None of
these things matters to him on the way "in." He can bend his back quickly
enough as he passes along. There are always a few bullets dropping near by.
One will hit the mud somewhere around his feet. The boy nearest springs as
from a catapult until he is close to the comrade ahead of him. No; he never
springs back. If he did ... he would be the man ahead. He would be in
front. Nuffin' doin'--the whole idea is to keep behind; there is no doubt
of that.
But the guide is very vigilant. All troops are guided to their positions,
and the man on this ticklish job is nearly always a sergeant. He has an
eagle eye, and a feline sense of hearing. He will note your skip forward.
"Keep your paces, lads ... keep your paces." His voice booms altogether too
loud for us.
"Hush! for the love o' Mike, Sergeant, not so loud." He chuckles. He knows
that feeling so well, so awfully well now. He has been a guide these many
times. But we skip back to our position, six paces behind. Then another
bullet drops and the whole dance-step is repeated with little variation.
The sergeant booms once more, and in desperation that the Boches will hear
him, we obey.
'Tis pretty how we step, too, on that first time "in." We lift each foot
like a trotting thoroughbred. We step high, we step lightly. We tread as
daintily as does a gray tomcat when he encounters a glass topped wall on a
windy night.