PETEWAWA
Petewawa is the training ground of the Canadian Field Artillery and the
Permanent Force. Until very recently it was strictly reserved for them,
and was regarded, by those who had not been there, as a sort of seventh
heaven for soldiers. Later, when the city corps were taken there for
five days one June--or was it July?--we changed our minds and decided
that, geographically speaking, it was part of one of Dante's seven
circles. At present it is the internment camp for enemy aliens, and if
they endure it for the duration of the war the Kaiser should present
them, one and all, with iron crosses.
Fifty square miles of sandy hills, covered here and there with second
growth scrub, it is an ideal ground for the purpose. The temperature
rises to 98 deg. Fahrenheit most of the days in summer. What it is like in
winter the writer does not know--probably 40 deg. below zero, as our
climate does nothing by halves.
The name, curiously enough, means "a sound (or music) as of water
falling in the distance." Anyone who has toiled through its sands in a
July sun can appreciate the subtle humour of the red man who named it.
Other attractions are sand fleas, mosquitoes, and black flies, so that
after passing through a fortnight in Petewawa one is versed in all
modern methods of warfare, including the subterranean and the aerial.
Here the artillery do all their training--heavy and fortress artillery
excepted. The latter, however, send quotas each year, though performing
their actual drill in their armouries. There are other artillery camps,
but none of the importance of Petewawa, for it is essentially an active
service camp. Jackets are strapped to the limbers, shirt sleeves rolled
to the elbows, and straw hats, locally known as "cow-breakfasts," take
the place of the more military cap. The gunner reverts to his original
state and becomes a farmer again. And he is none the less a good gunner
for so doing. Men who can understand the mechanism of a modern combined
reaper and binder have no trouble learning the recoil apparatus of an
eighteen-pounder gun, and for drivers one cannot find a better man than
the farmer, for the man enlisting as such brings his own team with him
and naturally will not neglect them.
So one sees the batteries drawn up behind cover, firing slowly and
deliberately as they do now on a "quiet" day along the Western front.
A sharp report, a glint of flame and of the gun recoiling between the
two men sitting on either side of the trail, and another shell is
whirring on its way to the target. Almost before the recoil is finished
the breech is opened and another round thrust in, and the breech closes
with a clitch-clatch of its own. A few seconds later corrections come
over the telephone and another shell goes speeding overhead.
With the infantry, however, Petewawa is a different matter. To them it
means manoeuvres; and every soldier knows what manoeuvres mean.
There is a popular idea that these tactical exercises are enjoyed by the
officers. Perhaps they are, if perchance one is on the staff, a dizzy
height the writer has not yet attained.
Let us follow the fortunes of a typical Militia battalion during the
several days covered by this mysterious term "manoeuvres."
The General Idea has been received the night before and duly discussed
at the "pow-wow" or conference that always follows the reception of this
document. Much time and whisky has been consumed, and the sum of the
evening's discussion is that the General Idea is exactly the same as
last year's, with the exception that the Blue Force is fighting the Grey
Force this year. "Last year we had the Red Army to contend with, and the
fact that they no longer oppose us is due to the annihilation they
suffered"--so says the colonel. "The invasion is coming from the
north--presumably the Esquimaux are up in arms against us."
Dawn brings with it reveille and brigade orders. This is a magnificent
bluff on the part of the brigade staff to give the impression that they
have sat up all night devising new and wondrous schemes for departing
from the beaten path of military science. This is quite unnecessary, as
sufficient departures will occur naturally in the course of the day, and
nothing on earth will convince the infantry officer that the staff ever
work.
The colonel, however, reads the orders to the little group around him.
First there is the General Idea, laboriously copied from orders of the
night before. Then comes the "Special Idea." This, too, bears a
time-worn similarity to its predecessors, but passes without special
comment. The next heading is "Dispositions": "The advanced guard will
consist of one troop of the Missinabee Horse and one company of the
Umpteenth Battalion." "Thank God for that!" murmurs the colonel,
realising that the one company of his battalion will be spared the
arduous duty of trying to replace cavalry, and that the other three will
be in the first of the fray and consequently the first out of ammunition
and free from the danger always incidental to the use of blank
ammunition at close ranges. Moreover, advanced guards have always been
his hobby, so he proceeds to issue his orders--verbally of course,
though he will write them out later for the sake of curious generals who
make collections of such things. While he is waiting for the cavalry to
report he engages in very earnest conversation with Begbie Lyte, the
signalling officer. Lyte is the serious-faced young man standing arguing
with his little knot of flag-waggers. He has just realised that one
mistake has already been made in the campaign, for, in the enthusiasm
of youth, he brought bicycles to Petewawa. He realises, too, that next
year he will either bring no bicycles or no men, for the latter having
pushed their machines through three miles of sand from the detraining
platform are already expressing their opinion, with true Canadian
freedom, as to their usefulness.
This difficulty is tactfully overcome by leaving the cycles in the
tents, and the "plot," as he calls the instructions he has just
received, is unfolded to them.
Meanwhile the cavalry come up, and the officer-in-charge, knowing
somebody who knows Lyte, spends a few seconds in the exchange of
pleasantries. His name being Horace Smith, it has been quite
conveniently shortened to "Horsey." Smith is one of those geniuses who
knows everybody whom anyone knows; consequently he is always able to
borrow money. Presently he trots off with his troop, and we know we
shall see no more of him until nightfall. In our turn we move off as
well, and the main body, already commencing to munch the haversack
lunches they are carrying, cherish similar opinions as to our fate.
Eventually the whole column is moving down the dusty road and presently
turns northward, following some wheel tracks that eventually merge into
the sand. Then for a long time nothing happens. The cavalry have long
since disappeared; the vanguard of one company shows up occasionally on
a hill top ahead of us and proves that we are at least moving in the
same general direction.
At one time two men detached themselves from the rest of the vanguard
and proceeded to divest themselves calmly of their accoutrements. Then
followed the feverish wagging of a flag in a manner that suggested news
of greatest importance. The colonel becomes impatient as he waits for
the message to come through, and suggests mildly that there seems to be
a falling off from the standard rate.
Lyte, however, is equal to the occasion, and calls to the reading
signallers "Tell the fool to semaphore!" "He carn't," gasps the sergeant
in a horrified whisper; "He's young, an' he don't know nothink but
Morse." Lyte groans. This young lad was pressed into service a few days
previously, on the strength of his boy scout record, to fill a gap
caused by another youth who had suddenly felt the call of the wild and
gone river boating.
Eventually the message is received and the flags on the hill top
disappear as the signallers hasten to catch up with their party. It is
the type of message embraced under the heading "Negative Information"
and stated to be of importance. "Scouts report no enemy in sight as yet,
10.15 a.m.--J. HORACE SMITH (Lieut.)."
There is a feeling that we have been deceived, and we trudge on, kicking
up angry little swirls of dust. Sympathy is already beginning to be
expressed for the children of Israel in their wanderings. The music of
water falling in the distance would be music indeed, for most of the
water bottles are by now empty, and great beads of sweat are standing
out on the men's foreheads as a result. Men will not learn that drinking
large quantities of water when marching only increases their discomfort.
However, other things soon occur to divert our minds; one or two false
alarms that the enemy has been sighted are satisfactorily straightened
out, with more flag-wagging, and finally the plop-plop of blank
cartridge is heard in the distance.
The advance guard now extends in long skirmishing lines with a view to
brushing aside any slight resistance offered by the enemy. Presently we
come on the horses of our mounted brethren in little groups of four in
rear of a hill, and as we climb the hill itself we see the backs of
Smith's gallant troopers as they fire from behind bushes that would
certainly prove their death warrants on active service. The enemy are
hidden in the edge of a large and straggly wood that only two days
before was the scene of a roaring bush fire. Occasionally a man can be
seen moving against the background of the charred trunks, but they, too,
are making the best of what cover there is. Smith, leaving us to clear
the wood, withdraws his men and reports to the colonel, and then moves
around to a flank, hoping to cut off the party inside the wood.
Meanwhile the main guard have reinforced the first thin lines of
skirmishers, and the enemy are already falling back through the wood. We
follow at a more leisurely pace, as the whole place is a mass of charred
tree trunks, burnt underbush and ashes. A voice from the rear bids us
"Lie down" in no uncertain tones, so, reflecting that after all the
Government knows best, we do so, and from then on the khaki begins to
blend with its surroundings in a way that the inventor of this variety
of cloth never dreamed of.
The wood turns out to be pear-shaped, and we, having by chance struck
the small end of the pear, emerge considerably before the other
battalions, who, having come up on our right, are biting into the
largest part of the pear. Sounds of heavy conflict arise, and having
still some five rounds each of blank we re-enter the wood and the
combat. From then on, as Lyte expressed it afterwards, "Things began to
occur just as they happened, like all great battles, the strategy being
worked out later."
Twice we engage friendly battalions until stopped by an irate umpire,
and once we surround and capture three sections of the enemy's horses.
These are found in a little _coulee_ running off a dried stream bed.
Altogether it is a glorious affair, and is just settling down to the
stage when personal combat begins when a bugle blares out the "Cease
fire." This is followed by the "assembly," and we straggle to the edge
of the wood to find most of our battalion there. The brigade is again
formed up and we sit down for lunch. The cavalry, our enemies of the
morning, trot back to camp, where a hot meal awaits them, and we know we
shall not see them again. As we have our blankets following we wonder
what is in the wind. We soon learn, however--the rest of the day is to
be spent in a route march to Chalk River, a stream about ten miles
further north, and bivouac will be made there. Blankets are to be worn
"en banderole."
The whole brigade busies itself in drawing the blankets from the waggons
and rolling them into long cylinders, which with a spare boot-lace are
made into an exaggerated sort of horse-collar. The luckless owner then
thrusts a head and one arm through the roll and he is ready to move on.
A hotter method of carrying a blanket could scarcely be devised, but it
is much preferable to the antique leather equipment that hangs year in
and year out on the armoury walls.
Presently the column moves off along the dusty road, a mere trail
winding through the brush, which, pleasant and green at first, soon is
as drab and sordid as the weltering men along the road. Now and again a
halt is ordered, and we throw ourselves on the roadside while another
battalion passes through to take its turn at the head of the column.
Some artillery waggons pass at the trot, raising clouds of dust and
profanity along the line, and then the piping of a whistle starts the
whole column moving again.
Chalk River is eventually reached and the bivouac formed; then the
joyful shout of "Tea up" is heard. Several buglers at the same time play
the "Men's Mess Call" with variations, and for a while contentment
reigns.
The officers stroll around to the Y.M.C.A. tent and write postcards
home, telling blithely how they are enjoying the lovely weather--not a
cloud in the sky! They mention nothing of the blistered necks and
sunburned noses from which the skin is already peeling. Begbie Lyte,
with a shameless disregard for the truth, buys a postcard of a typical
bunch of troops passing up that very same road, and selecting a figure
well concealed by dust, marks an X over it, and inscribing "This is me"
on the reverse side addresses it to the colonel's daughter.
The cool of the evening soon drives the noisy bathers from the river,
and the camp settles down around the inevitable camp fires until the
warning notes of "Last Post" and "Lights Out" sound.
The moon comes out and shines on long rows of blanketted forms and
stacked rifles, and the only sound is the uneasy stir of the horses and
tossing of an occasional man where the sand flea is already at work.
Such is a typical day at Petewawa.