vindictively, "if ye got within fifty yards uv 'em."
Plantsfield's garrulity was proverbial. He had been known to buttonhole
generals and draw them to one side to whisper a choice bit of scandal in
their unwilling ears--his age excusing him from reprimand.
He looked wrathfully at Wilson, but that wily youth kept his rosy cheeks
carefully out of arm-shot. Turning back to his more respectful
auditors, and for the nonce ignoring the disrespectful one, he pursued:
"The Supply Column on their way to the front saw a German aeroplane over
them, forgot discipline in their excitement, jumped down off their
waggons and blazed away at it with their rifles."
"Without orders, I'll bet?" exclaimed Jogman, slapping his knee.
"Of course," grinned Plantsfield.
Honk had been standing with his mouth open, listening intently and
taking in every word orally. He opened it a shade wider as Jogman
finished speaking, and was about to make an observation, when Huxford,
who was somewhat of a mimic, took the words out of his mouth:
"Just like them blawsted Canydians--'avin' their poke at th' bleedin'
Hun. W'y cawn't they wyte fer h'orders like h'everybody h'else--wyte
until 'e gits aw'y?"
Honk's indignant protest was drowned in the general clamour which
followed this sally, but his eyes--individually--said wonders.
At the outset discipline was a sore point with the Canadians. Like the
peoples of all free-born countries, it took a long time to suppress the
desire for individual initiative and an innate independence resented
authority. But as the war progressed, Tommy and his seniors came to
realise the absolute necessity for discipline, and bowed with what grace
they might before its yoke. Perhaps what reconciled them most was the
acquired knowledge that it pervaded all ranks from the generals down.
They soon saw that the chain of responsibility must have no missing
link.
In the early days of the war, however, on Salisbury Plains in the rain
and mud, discipline was almost an impossibility, and officers seeking to
inculcate this quality in their men had many strange experiences.
A Tommy was doing "sentry go" one evening in front of his battalion
lines when an officer approached to speak to him. Tommy kept his rifle
firmly on his shoulder, at the "slope," and made no attempt to come to
attention or salute. The officer, wishing to see if he understood his
duty, demanded:
"What are you doing here?"
"Just walkin' up an' down," Tommy replied nonchalantly, forgetting, or
at least omitting that important suffix: "sir."
"Just walking up and down," the officer reiterated, with annoyance.
"What do you suppose you're walking up and down for?"
"To see that none of them guys comes in soused an' disorderly, I
s'pose," he replied, but without any apparent interest in his
occupation.
"Don't you know who I am?" the officer demanded testily, exasperated
beyond endurance by such slackness.
"No," Tommy answered shortly. The absence of the "sir" was striking,
and the tone implied further that he didn't care.
"_I'm the commanding officer of your battalion!_" Each word dropped
like an icicle from the official lips.
"Holy--Jumpin'--Judas!" Tommy exclaimed, doing the "present arms" in
three distinct movements--one to each word; "court-martial fer me!"
It was too much for the gravity of the most hardened disciplinarian.
The colonel turned and fled from the spot until he was far enough away
that the God of Discipline might not be incensed at his shouts of
laughter.
Tommy escaped the court-martial, but he wondered all evening what a
sentry really was supposed to do.
It was almost a month after Plantsfield's momentous announcement before
the Canadians commenced arriving at our hospital. They came in twos and
threes, scattered amongst large numbers of other British troops, but
they were mostly cases of illness or slight wounds--and we had little
opportunity for comparing the stoicism of our own boys with that of the
English, Irish and Scotch who arrived in droves. What would our lads be
like when they too came back broken and torn? Would they be as patient
and brave as the other British Tommies? Could they measure up to the
standard of heroism set by these men of the Bull Dog breed? We waited,
we watched and we wondered.
There was only desultory fighting during the month of March, and most of
the wounds were from "snipers" or shrapnel.
The first seriously wounded Canadian to reach the hospital was an
artillery officer, from Alberta. A small German shell had dropped into
his dug-out and exploded so close to him that it was a miracle he
escaped at all. When he arrived with his head completely swathed in
bandages, and fifty or more wounds about his body, he looked more like
an Egyptian mummy than a man. His mouth and the tip of his nose were
the only parts of his body exposed to view, and they were burned and
swollen to such an extent that, apart from their position, they conveyed
no impression of their true identity. It was somewhat gruesome to hear
a deep bass voice, without the slightest tremour, emerge from this mass
of bandages. It was as if the dead had suddenly come to life.
"Would you be kind enough to put a cigarette in my mouth, sir?" he
asked.
One is tempted to believe that after this war the eternal question will
no longer be "Woman," but "Cigarette."
"Do you think you can smoke?" I asked him doubtfully.
Something remotely resembling a laugh came from the bandaged head, but
there was not the slightest visible sign of mirth.
"I can manage it fairly well," he returned confidently; "my right arm
has only a few wounds."
Only a few wounds! And he could lie there and speak calmly of them! He
might have been excused for hysterics. The English officers in the
other beds smiled appreciatively:
"He's a brick!" I heard one murmur.
The nursing sister, a keen, young woman of ability, looked across the
bed at me with a slight smile of pride. She made no remark but as she
leaned over her patient to unwind his bandages, a flush of pleasure at
his heroism dyed her cheeks. We would have no cause to be ashamed of
our own boys. As we stood beside the bed of that gallant chap, the
epitome of all that was best and bravest from home, a lump arose in our
throats and choked back speech.
With the aid of cocaine, I removed about a dozen small pieces of shell
from his chest and arms. His face was mottled with myriads of splinters
of stone, and his right eye was practically gone. The hair had been
completely burned off his head and in the centre of the scalp a piece of
nickel, about the size of a penny and as thin as a wafer, had been
driven. One large piece of shell had buried itself in the right leg;
half a dozen more smaller scraps were in the left; his wrist watch had
been smashed to atoms and the main spring was embedded in the flesh.
"I can't see yet," he explained, "so please watch where I lay my
cigarette. I suppose my eyes will come around in time?"
How much would we have given to have been able to assure him of such a
possibility! I had grave doubts, but answered as encouragingly as I
dared. Reggy came in later to examine the eye and shook his head over
it despondently.
"There's a chance for the left eye," he remarked to me, as we passed out
into the hall, "but the right eye will have to be removed as soon as he
is able to stand the operation."
(Apart from this loss, in the course of time, he recovered perfectly.)
We went into the room of a young officer from British Columbia, who had
also just reached the hospital. He was a tall, handsome, fair-haired
youth. He rose to his feet, trembling violently, as we entered. He was
still dressed and after we had passed the customary greetings I
enquired:
"Have you been wounded?"
"No," he replied with a smile, although his lip quivered as he spoke.
"I wish I had been. It's rotten luck to get put out of business like
this. I got in the way of a 'Jack Johnson'; it played me a scurvy
trick--shell-shock, they tell me, that's all."
It might be all, but it surely was enough. There is nothing more
pitiable than the sight of a strong, active young man, trembling
continuously like an aspen leaf. Shell-shock, that strange, intangible
condition which leaves its victims nervous wrecks for months or years,
was uncommon in the early days of the war, but with the advent of
thousands of guns is much more common now.
We chatted with him for a little while, and then continued our
pilgrimage to the larger wards. Nursing Sister Medoc, a tall graceful
girl, a typical trained nurse, met us at the door.
"Here's a strange case, Major," she remarked, as she pointed to one of
the new arrivals who had just been placed in bed. "He is quite insane
and thinks he is still in the trenches, but he refuses to speak."
"He must be insane if he won't speak to you, Sister," Reggy suggested
facetiously.
"That will be quite enough from you, young man," she returned with calm
severity.
Sister Medoc preceded us into the ward, and Reggy whispered
confidentially in my ear:
"Do you know, you can't 'jolly' our trained nurses--they're too clever.
Sometimes I think they're scarcely human."
"You're quite right, Reggy," I returned consolingly, "too many are
divine."
Reggy looked as if he would have liked to argue the point, but by this
time we had reached the bedside of our patient. I addressed a few words
to him, but he made no response and returned my look with a fixed and
discomfiting stare. I wondered how, if he refused to talk, the nurse
could tell he believed himself still in the trenches.
The riddle was shortly solved. Turning on his side and leaning on one
elbow, he grasped the bar at the head of the bed and cautiously drew
himself up until he could look over the "parapet." He shaded his eyes
with one hand and gazed fearfully for a moment or two into the mists of
"No Man's Land." Then quickly raising his elbow in an attitude of
self-defence, he shrank back, listening intently to some sound we could
not hear, and suddenly, with a low cry of alarm, dived beneath the
sheets (into the trench) as the imaginary shell went screaming over his
head.
As soon as it had passed he was up at the "parapet" again, straining his
eyes and ears once more. His nostrils dilated tremulously as his breath
came in quick short gasps. His upper lip curled in anger, and in that
grim moment of waiting for the German charge, his teeth snapped firmly
together and every muscle of his body was tense.
By the strained look in his eyes we knew the enemy was almost upon
him--Reggy and I in the forefront. With a wild cry of hate and fury he
sprang at us, lunging forward desperately with his bayonet. Reggy
backed precipitately against me, but before he had time to speak our
assailant, with a shiver of horror, had retreated into his "dug-out."
"Thank the Lord that was only an imaginary bayonet!" Reggy gasped; "I
could hear my finish ringing the door bell."
"If we had been real Germans, Reggy," I returned with conviction, "we'd
be running yet!"
"Do you think he'll recover?" Reggy asked.
"Yes. The attack is so violent and sudden; I think he has every chance.
We'll send him to England to-morrow."
Another month passed. It was the night of the twenty-second of April
when this startling message reached the hospital:
"Empty every possible bed. Ship all patients to England. Draw hospital
marquees, beds, blankets and paliasses, and have your accommodation for
patients doubled in twenty-four hours."
Something unlooked for had happened. We worked like slaves. The
hospital grounds soon looked like a miniature tented city. In half the
time allotted us we were able to report that we were ready for six
hundred wounded.
A despatch rider, covered with mud, whirled up to the door on his
motorcycle. A little crowd gathered round him.
"Anything new?" we asked him excitedly.
"The Canadians are in one of the most frightful battles of the war," he
replied. "The wounded will be coming in to-night."
And this was the day for which we had been waiting! This was the day
for which we had crossed the sea! It was as if an iron hand had
suddenly gripped the heart and held it as in a vise. We asked for
further news, but he knew nothing more, and with anxious and impatient
minds all we could do was--wait.
*CHAPTER XVIII*
As the sun hid its face on that tragic evening of the twenty-second of
April, 1915, the Turcos and Canadians, peering over their parapets, were
astonished to see a heavy yellowish mist rolling slowly and ominously
from the German trenches. In the light breeze of sundown it floated
lazily toward them, clinging close to the earth. Although the Turcos
thought it a peculiar fog, they did not realise its true significance
until it rolled into their trenches and enveloped them in its blinding
fumes, stinging their eyes, choking their lungs and making them deathly
ill. They could neither see nor breathe and those who could not get
away fell in heaps where they were, gasping for air, blue in the face,
dying in the most frightful agony.
Germany, discarding the last tattered remnant of her mantle of honour,
had plunged brazenly into a hideous crime--poison-gas had been used for
the first time in the history of war!
Coughing, sneezing, vomiting; with every breath cutting like a knife,
crying tears of blood, the unfortunate Turcos who had not already
fallen, fled from the accursed spot. The horses too, choking and
startled, whinneying with fear, stampeded with their waggons or gun
limbers in a mad endeavour to escape the horror of the poisoned air. A
storm of shrapnel, high explosive and machine-gun bullets followed the
flying masses and tore them to pieces as they ran.
For four miles the Allied trenches were left unprotected, and a quarter
million Germans who had been awaiting this opportune moment, started to
pour through the broad gap on their drive for Calais.
A brigade of Canadian artillery in Poperinghe received a hurried message
that evening to move forward, take up a position on the road near Ypres
and wait for further orders. They had but a faint notion of the great
trial through which they were to pass.
When they arrived at the point designated it was almost dark and the
noise of the German bombardment was terrific. Presently along the road
from Ypres came crowds of fleeing civilians. Feeble old men tottering
along, tearful women carrying their babes or dragging other little ones
by the hand, invalids in broken down waggons or wheel-barrows, wounded
civilians hastily bandaged and supported by their despairing friends
hurried by in ever-increasing numbers. Some had little bundles under
their arms, some with packs upon their backs--bedding, household goods
or clothes, hastily snatched from their shattered homes. With white
terror-stricken faces, wringing their hands, moaning or crying, they ran
or staggered by in thousands. Their homes destroyed, their friends
scattered or killed, with death behind and starvation before, they ran,
and the greedy shells, as if incensed at being robbed of their prey,
came screaming after them.
To add to the confusion and horror of the evening, the Turcos, wild-eyed
and capless, having thrown away their guns and all encumbrances, came
running in stark terror across the fields shouting that the Germans had
broken through and would be upon them any moment. They cried to the
artillery to escape while they yet had a chance--that all was lost!
It required more heroism to stand before that onrush of terrorised
humanity than to face death a dozen times over. To the Canadian
artillery these were the most tragic and trying hours of their lives,
but with stolid and grim determination they stood through it, waiting
impatiently for the order to move forward.
All through the night the homeless, despairful creatures from St.
Julien, Vlamertinge, Ypres and the villages round about streamed by in a
heartrending, bemoaning multitude. Sometimes in agonised fear they broke
through the ranks of the soldiers, stumbling onward toward Poperinghe.
The shriek of shells and the thunder of the guns continued hour after
hour, while on high the vivid glare of bursting shrapnel cast a weird
unearthly glow over the land. Between the blasts of artillery, from
time to time on the wings of the wind, human cries blending in a
gruesome murmur added to the horror of the night.
Through it all those men of iron stood by their guns waiting for the
word of command. At 3.00 a.m. it came. A murmur of thankfulness that at
last they were to do something went up, and in a twinkling they were
galloping eagerly forward toward their objective.
They chose the most advanced position in the line of guns, close to the
Yser, and soon were in their places ready for the fight. Shells fell
about them in thousands, but the men happy to be in the thick of the
battle turned to their guns with a will and worked like mad.
The dawn broke, but there was no cessation of the fight. The guns
became hot, and screeched complainingly as each shell tore through the
swollen muzzle, but still there was no reprieve or rest, and all day
long they belched forth smoke and death over the Yser's bank.
When the Germans commenced to pour through the gap which their
treacherous gas had made, they overlooked one important obstacle. On
their left were the men who had lived through four months of misery in
the rain and mud of Salisbury Plains, each day laying up a bigger score
against the _Bosches_ for settlement.
With this unhappy memory, it was not likely that the First Canadians
were to be ousted from their trenches or killed by gas alone without a
struggle for revenge. For some reason only their left wing had received
an extreme dose of the gas. Many fell and died, but those who remained
stuffed handkerchiefs into their mouths, covered their noses and held on
like grim death for the great attack they knew was coming. They had not
long to wait. Most of them had never seen the enemy before, and the
sight of thousands of Germans marching forward in dense masses was to
Tommy a distinct and unlooked for pleasure. But on they came in a
multitude so great that it looked as if no guns on earth could mow them
down.
In spite of the sight of these great numbers, it was with the utmost
difficulty that the officers could restrain their men from rushing out
at the enemy with the bayonet. Tommy argued: "Between Salisbury Plains
and Wipers we've been stuck in the mud for six months, never so much as
seeing the nose of a German, and now here they come, just asking to be
killed and you won't let us get out at them!" The mere fact of being
outnumbered twenty times over didn't seem sufficient excuse to
disappointed Tommy for remaining under cover.
Myriads of self-satisfied _Bosches_ came marching past, as though the
world were theirs. They were due for a rude awakening. They had not
progressed far when the extreme violence of the counter attack caused
them to pause in irresolute wonder. Who were these bold, desperate men
who dared remain in the trenches when half an army had passed? No army
in its senses would remain with unprotected flank. There must be
tremendous reinforcements at their back--so reasoned the Germans. To
stay with one wing "in the air" seemed too much madness even for the
"untrained" Canadians.
But one thing was clear to the Teuton mind; whoever they were, they were
a decided menace to their advance and must be annihilated or forced back
at all costs before the German Army could progress. But what a lot of
annihilating they seemed to take!
The third brigade swung across the enemy's flank and poured such a
withering fire into the _Bosches_ that they were sore pressed, with all
their horde, to hold their own. Men and guns were fighting back to
back, grimly, determinedly, unflinchingly and with invincible valour.
The enemy artillery now had command of the main road to Ypres, and of
many of the lesser roads, and was keeping up a hellish fire on all to
prevent reinforcements or supplies from reaching the Canadians.
All that night our plucky men fought them off, driving them back through
the woods. They retook four captured guns. All the next day, thousands
without food or water fought side by side with unconquerable spirit. In
impossible positions, raked by enemy shell fire, without chance to eat
or sleep, they held on and tore at the Germans like angry wolves,
fighting with such unheard of ferocity that their opponents were
absolutely staggered.
If a seemingly hopeless message came from headquarters to a battalion:
"Can you hold on a few hours longer?", back would come the answer piping
hot: "We can!"
Again and again the doubting question came to the trenches: "Can you
still hold on?", and again and again returned the same enheartening
reply: "We can and _will_ hold on!"
Then an unheard of thing occurred--neglect of an order. The message
from headquarters, couched in generous words, read: "You have done all
that human power can do. Your position is untenable. You must
retreat!"
A flush of disdainful anger swept over the officer's face as he read
this message, and he replied in three words: "Retreat be damned!"
The Canadians had not learned the meaning of the word "retreat." It had
been left out of their martial vocabulary--some one was responsible for
this omission. The Germans tried to teach them its meaning with gas,
with bayonet and with shell; but thick-headed Tommy and his officers
always misunderstood it for "hold" or "advance." It took four days of
starvation and four sleepless, awful nights to make the most intelligent
amongst them understand the word, and even then it was a scant
concession to the _Bosche_.
Little bands of men, the remnants of dauntless battalions, holding
isolated, advanced points, were commanded to fall back in order to
straighten out the line. But the brave fellows who had so gallantly
defended their posts, were loath to give them up. Unnerved, weak and
exhausted, they still wanted to remain, and when their officers insisted
on their leaving, some actually sat down in the trench and wept bitter
tears of humiliation and chagrin.
During these four fateful days British and French reinforcements had
been rushed up to fill the gap, and further German progress was
impossible. Harassed from the flank, beaten back from the front,
decimated and discouraged, the Germans had suffered a disastrous and
momentous defeat--for to them Calais, their greatest hope, was
irretrievably lost.
During the great battle the Field Ambulance in which Jack Wellcombe was
stationed was working night and day at fever pitch. Time and again the
German guns sought out their quarters and big shells levelled to earth
the houses round about; but, as if the hand of Providence were watching
them, the little field hospital escaped with its patients each time,
just before the buildings were wrecked.
Five times during the three days this fortunate move was accomplished
not a moment too soon, but still they stuck doggedly to the village, as
close as possible to the guns. Sleep was out of the question. Even if
the noise and imminent danger might have been ignored, the streams of
wounded coming in had to receive attention, and during those frightful
days no man flinched before his precarious and arduous duty.
In the seventeen consecutive days and nights of the artillery battle
there was never a full minute's break in the bombardment from either
side.
On the fourth day, during the lull in the infantry fighting, the door of
the field ambulance was suddenly darkened by the figure of a man. He
staggered in. His eyes were bloodshot. His clothes were torn and
covered with mud, his chin had not been shaved for days and his
appearance betokened utter weariness and exhaustion.
Jack Wellcombe met him at the door and, in spite of his unkempt and wild
appearance, recognised him at once as the Commanding Officer of a
Canadian battalion.
"Good morning, sir," he said in his usual cheery manner.
The colonel looked toward him with glazed, unseeing eyes and without a
sign of recognition.
"I want four coffins," he muttered, ignoring Jack's greeting.
"You want what, sir?" Jack exclaimed, with a puzzled look.
"Four coffins," he repeated with mechanical firmness and in a tone of
command, "and I want them at once!"