BITS OF BATTLE
On the way over to the barn, where the shell hit the 48th, a piece of a
tree limb smashed into the ground at my feet, following the familiar
whiz just overhead of a large gun missive, with its accompanying wind
gust, and at the same moment something struck with a thud the tree from
which the splinter had come. Glancing up, I noticed a shell lodged in a
fork of the two main branches, that had stuck there without exploding.
For a shell to explode, it is necessary that the nose of the fuse,
containing the detonator, shall come in contact with a solid substance,
in order to make ignition and cause the explosion. This had not been
done; owing to the intervention of kind nature in the shape of the
crotch in that tree catching and holding the shell fast in a firm
embrace, we were saved from that additional disaster and death.
A dried-up creek that was being used by us for a trench on the Ypres
sector was crossed by a wooden bridge about thirty feet long. This
bridge was used as a means of transport at night and by Red Cross men in
the daytime, and was very useful; it was most important that it be kept
in constant repair. I was detailed in charge of the repair party. One
day during the great Ypres battle, about ten o'clock in the morning, the
bridge was smashed and I took my party up and made the necessary
repairs. We had hardly returned to cover when the bridge was smashed
again, and again we rushed out and fixed it up. As we ran, three men
forged ahead of me and got to the middle of the thirty-foot structure; I
was about twenty feet behind them, the rest of the party immediately
behind me. I was shouting an order to them, when a shell exploded in the
middle of the bridge, killing all three. I was saved by twenty feet.
In the late afternoon one day of the battle, I was resting in a hole I
had burrowed under a sand-bank; about 200 men were burrowed in the same
bank in the same way. A monster shell struck the bank immediately above
me, upheaving the ground and completely burying me and half a dozen
others. I was dug out in a half smothered condition, but soon was able
to assist in the work of resurrecting the rest. The only casualty that
occurred in that incident was innocently caused by myself; as I was
digging, my shovel struck the leg of an officer, inflicting such a gash
that when resuscitated he had to go to hospital.
A cunning device of the Germans to misuse the Red Cross came to light
during the next few days. It was in the vicinity of the woods where the
Imperial Batteries had lost their guns. In a counter attack to retake
these guns our men went over, accompanied by the engineers, to destroy
the guns, as it was thought it would be impossible to bring them back.
This turned out to be true, as the enemy advanced in such strong mass
formation that our fellows had their hands full fighting them off until
the engineers made good their work, which they did by smashing the
hydraulic buffers with picks, destroying the sights, blowing the guns
up, and taking the breech-blocks back with them.
In going over the ground that our barrage had covered a few minutes
before, we found lying there German soldiers who had acted as stretcher
bearers, wearing the red cross of Geneva on their arms, for the purpose
of running wires from trench to trench, from battery to battery, and to
headquarters, and the way they did the trick was to take a roll of wire
on a stretcher covered with a blanket, to represent a wounded comrade,
start the roll unwinding and running the wire between their legs as they
walked. The blankets on the stretchers were used to deceive our
observers and make them believe they were doing honest hospital work in
the field. This was only one of their many unprincipled practices, for
the Germans ignored all usages of war as practiced by civilization.
During the busiest days of May, 1915, between the second and third
battle of Ypres, I was on guard duty at field headquarters in the
trenches. The Staff was located in an old two-story building that was
much the worse for wear from German calling cards. My "go" was from
eight to ten P.M. Promptly at ten o'clock a rap came to the door and,
blowing out the light, I inquired who it was. It was my relief, Dave
Evans, one of the best pals whom it has ever been my lot to soldier
with. Dave was a heavy-set man, strong as an ox; I think he could have
almost felled a bull with his fist, so powerful was he. I re-lit the
candle after closing the door. This was Dave's first "go" at this
particular spot, and I cautioned him to be careful not to show himself
in the open doorway with the light behind him, as the building was under
observation and the splinters that were being continually chipped from
it demonstrated how keenly active and alert they were, and made it
necessary for a man to be on the lookout every second of the time. He
said he would take no chances. Dave had just obtained an Enfield rifle,
for which he had been very glad to exchange his Ross, as the Enfield is
better suited for trench purposes, and, not being thoroughly familiar
with its workings, he asked me to explain it to him, which I did. Then I
blew out the light, opened the door, whispered "good-night," and started
down the path. About a hundred feet away I heard Dave calling me back; I
turned; he was standing in the doorway, with the candle light gleaming
behind him. He called out, "Grant, I don't quite get this safety catch
and bolt; would you mind showing it to me again?"
"Blow out the light, you damn fool," I called.
"All right," and he did so and I started back. As he answered me I heard
simultaneously the report of a rifle and the whiz of a bullet passing
me. When I got to the door I stumbled over the body of my friend Dave;
he had received the summons through the head.
While standing guard at the open door, before Dave came, with the light
out, however, I suddenly got a start that frightened me more than
anything else that has happened me in France: In the gleam of a distant
flare, the white faces of two women peered around the corner of the
building, looking at me through the open door. There was something so
damnably uncanny in their appearance, and so startling, that a cold
sweat broke out over me, and I snapped my rifle to the present. Had they
not been women they would not have lived; a loiterer around headquarters
takes his life in his hands.
They had been there that same afternoon, saying they were the owners of
the place, and that they had stopped to take away some supplies. They
were permitted to take their goods with them, but were warned against
coming there again. They did not heed the warning. I reported their
presence to the O.C. and they were promptly arrested and handed over to
the French police. What their lot was I cannot tell, but to this day I
can't help thinking that in some way poor Dave owes his fate to those
women.
After two days' hard marching we reached Givenchy June 9, 1915, a little
town in France lying thirty miles south of Ypres. Our battery of two
guns took up its position immediately outside, on the southwest side of
the town. A few civilians were scattered through the town, living in the
cellars, the rest having fled at the German approach. We were ordered to
put our guns in the very front-line trench for the reason that the
opposing trenches being so close together, it was impossible for the
guns to do justice to themselves without inflicting serious casualties
on our own men. To make our work as noiseless as possible, we took a
number of old rubber tires, cut them in strips and wrapped them around
the gun wheels with hay wire; this facilitated both the movement of the
guns and the preservation of silence.
We again had the honor of being the sacrifice battery for the
division--in other words, having the profound pleasure of going
heavenward, or in the other direction, before any of the others, for the
purpose of working out the plan of action by the Command. We got the
guns into position under cover of night, and thoroughly camouflaged
them with grass and tree branches. We did the job so artistically that
the birds would come and chatter and sing immediately over the guns when
they were not telling their tale of love to Fritz.
Out in front of our guns was a small ridge or embankment, gradually
sloping up to a height of twenty feet and extending east and west for a
distance of three or four hundred yards. This rising piece of ground was
a decided obstacle to our progress and it was ordered mined for the
purpose of leveling it. The engineers attended to the task. It turned
out that Fritz also had mined the ridge in order to blow our sector
skyward.
The stage was set and the play started at 5:30 in the afternoon. Our
orders were to blow holes in the parapet wire which ran in a zigzag
direction every way out in front, for the purpose of enabling the
infantry to get through when they got over. Our ammunition was of the
best; we now took no chance on any defective goods. We had 20 rounds of
shell for each gun. When we got the order--"Fire!" gaps were torn in the
wire by my gun, and the other gun had blown away some small ridges. We
were going strong when a shell--the very first one--took our other gun,
blowing it and the crew into nothingness. We went on firing until we had
exploded 18 shells and had made several gaps in the wire, when, without
a moment's warning, our trench mine exploded. The trenches were packed
with troops ready for the word. A mountain of debris was shot in the air
and back over us, burying a number of soldiers in the trench, where they
died miserably from suffocation. The concussion was so powerful that it
blew the shield of my gun off downwards, cleaving Corporal King's skull
in twain and blowing Gunner MacDonald, who was sitting on the handspike
of the gun, 20 feet away. When we found him next day, every bone in his
body was broken. I was sitting on the gun alongside of Corporal King at
the time of his death, and how I escaped is more than I can tell. Again
I couldn't help speculating that my life must have been spared for some
good purpose; I sincerely hope so.
It was impossible to do any further firing, as the muzzle of the gun was
choked completely with the dirt that had been shot backward by the
explosion of our own mine. Our misfortune, however, did not prevent or
deter for a moment the intended movement. Unable to do anything further
as a gunner, I hopped into the charge with the 48th Highlanders of
Toronto, who had just started with one of their old-time yells to go out
and over. When we reached the German front lines,--or what was left of
them, for the explosion had blown from them all semblance of a
trench,--it was jammed full of German troops--dead. On we went,
inclining to the right and reaching an orchard in which was a nest of
them concealed in the trees. Those on mother earth were speedily driven
to hell or made good their escape, and we then attended to the case of
the squirrels in the branches. This was somewhat difficult, as the night
was excessively dark, but our snipers, circling everywhere underneath
them, finally got them; not a single baby-killer escaped; it was a case
of getting limburgers in an apple tree.
No sooner had we cleaned up the job than the Fritzies returned _en
masse_ formation, compelling us to beat a discretionary retreat to their
front-line trenches, where we held and are still holding, and then some.
Here we remained until the middle of the following month.
Some minor engagements took up my duties after Givenchy, until about
September 1, when my battery was instructed to proceed to Ploegsteert.
Ploegsteert sets in ruins about two miles northwest of Armentières;
there were no buildings that Fritz failed to level with the exception of
the tower, which they used for registry purposes,--a reference point in
artillery technology. We were stationed on this sector for eight months,
and our stay here was more or less of a recreation; battle firing was
only intermittent; and on the days that we did speak to Fritz, we rarely
sent over more than 10 to 12 messages.
Our battery was in a hedge here and we were having our wires cut several
times, causing us considerable trouble and annoyance.
Butler, one of my pals, was started out to make the necessary repairs.
He left on his dangerous mission, crouching along and taking advantage
of every bit of shelter on the way, but several ping! pings! warned him
that he was treading on danger ground. He kept at his work, busily
hunting for the break in the wire, with the sniping pills passing his
ears continually.
Crawling along on his hands and knees, with the wire running through his
hand, he came to a little bush, where it slipped away from him, denoting
that there was the break. At that moment the sniper got him in the leg,
but he held to until he repaired it, and was in touch with headquarters,
reporting that he had mended the break, when the wire was again cut. The
bleeding from his wound now made it necessary for him to mend that break
first, and he bandaged it as quickly as his nervous fingers would work.
Again he took hold of the wire, crawling and stumbling along until he
again came to the break, and again mended it. He was being closely
watched now, as the bullets were whistling about him ceaselessly. Again
he turned his attention to his wound, adjusting the bandage, and he
noticed a British soldier crawling toward him on his hands and knees.
"Hello, matey, what you doing out here?" he asked.
"I'm mendin' me bloomin' leg now," Butler answered.
"Well, if you hadn't been out here you wouldn't have got it. Why didn't
you stay in your trenches?"
"Someone's got to repair the wire," said Butler. He was growing
perceptibly weaker from the loss of blood.
"Oh, repairing the wire, were you? Well, don't repair any more"--and
Butler had just time to see him level his revolver and then he dropped
unconscious. The bullet had hit him in the thigh. But his communication
had reached headquarters that he was wounded and it was not long before
the stretcher bearers came out and found him. They took him to the
dressing station, where it was found necessary to amputate his leg, but
he parted gladly with his dented member when the O.C. told him that his
grit and endurance were a splendid example for the entire unit,--"Aye,"
he added, "and for the whole Empire."
* * * * *
Service was being held here in the field one Sunday morning and an
incident occurred that makes me shake every time I think of it,--not so
much at the incident itself as in the surrounding circumstances. In the
midst of the service, a buzzing overhead announced the presence of
German hawks and a dropping of bombs further announced that they had
seen us and intended paying their respects.
A face turned upward is one of the most easily detected objects by an
airplane, and although we had strict orders on no account to look up,
the temptation for some was too strong. Meantime, the minister continued
to read the service, but the responses were not as hearty as they had
been, and he himself was standing with shoulders hunched up to the back
of his neck, the book pulled up to his nose, and furtively trying to see
through his eyebrows the danger-birds in the blue. In the midst of the
solemn moment an officer, glimpsing some of the men turning their faces
skyward, bellowed, "Damn you, keep those mugs down."
It was our good fortune that none of the messages reached their intended
destination.