PLOEGSTEERT--A LULL IN OPERATIONS.
_July to December, 1915._
Leave in London during the war never appealed to me. I always felt
like a fish out of water. When I went to concerts and theatres, all
the time amid the artistic gaiety of the scene I kept thinking of the
men in the trenches, their lonely vigils, their dangerous working
parties, and the cold rain and mud in which their lives were passed.
And I thought too of the wonderful patrol kept up on the dark seas, by
heroic and suffering men who guarded the life and liberty of Britain.
The gaiety seemed to be a hollow mockery. I was not sorry therefore
when my week's leave was over and I went back to the line. A staff
officer whom I met on the leave boat informed me that the Division had
changed its trenches, and my Brigade had left Bethune. We had a most
wonderful run in the staff car from Boulogne, and in two hours arrived
at the Brigade Headquarters at Steenje, near Bailleul. There, with my
haversacks, I was left by the staff car at midnight and had to find a
lodging place. The only light I saw was in the upper windows of the
Cure's house, the rest of the village was in complete darkness. I
knocked on the door and, after a few minutes, the head and shoulders
of a man in pyjamas looked out from the window and asked me who I was
and what I wanted. On my giving my name and requesting admission, he
very kindly came down and let me in and gave me a bed on the floor. On
a mattress beside me was a young officer of the Alberta Dragoons, only
nineteen years of age. He afterwards joined the Flying Corps and met
his death by jumping out of his machine at an altitude of six thousand
feet, when it was hit and burst into flames. The Alberta Dragoons
later on became the Canadian Light Horse, and were Corps Troops. At
that time, they were part of the 1st Division and were a magnificent
body. The practical elimination of cavalry in modern warfare has taken
all the romance and chivalry out of fighting. It is just as well
however for the world that the old feudal conception of war has passed
away. The army will be looked upon in the future as a class of citizens
who are performing the necessary and unpleasant task of policing the
world, in order that the rational occupations of human life may (p. 094)
be carried on without interruption.
Brigade Headquarters now moved to a large farm behind the trenches at
Ploegsteert. I bid farewell to my friends of the Alberta Dragoons and
found a billet at La Creche. From thence I moved to Romarin and made
my home in a very dirty little French farmhouse. The Roman Catholic
chaplain and I had each a heap of straw in an outhouse which was a
kind of general workroom. At one end stood a large churn, which was
operated, when necessary, by a trained dog, which was kept at other
times in a cage. The churn was the breeding place of innumerable
blue-bottles, who in spite of its savoury attractions annoyed us very
much by alighting on our food and on our faces. I used to say to my
friend, the chaplain, when at night we had retired to our straw beds
and were reading by the light of candles stuck on bully beef tins,
that the lion and the lamb were lying down together. We could never
agree as to which of the animals each of us represented. At the head
of my heap of straw there was an entrance to the cellar. The ladies of
the family, who were shod in wooden shoes, used to clatter round our
slumbers in the early morning getting provisions from below. Life
under such conditions was peculiarly unpleasant. It was quite impossible
too to have a bath. I announced to the family one day that I was going
to take one. Murdoch MacDonald provided some kind of large tub which
he filled with dishes of steaming water. Instead however of the fact
that I was about to have a bath acting as a deterrent to the visits of
the ladies, the announcement seemed to have the opposite effect. So
great were the activities of the family in the cellar and round the
churn that I had to abandon the idea of bathing altogether. I determined
therefore to get a tent of my own and plant it in the field. I wrote
to England and got a most wonderful little house. It was a small
portable tent. When it was set up it covered a piece of ground six
feet four inches square. The pole, made in two parts like a fishing
rod, was four feet six inches high. The tent itself was brown, and
made like a pyramid. One side had to be buttoned up when I had
retired. It looked very small as a place for human habitation. On one
side of the pole was my Wolseley sleeping bag, on the other a box in
which to put my clothes, and on which stood a lantern. When Philo and
I retired for the night we were really very comfortable, but we were
much annoyed by earwigs and the inquisitiveness of the cows, who (p. 095)
never could quite satisfy themselves as to what we were. Many is the
time we have been awakened out of sleep in the morning by the sniffings
and sighings of a cow, who poked round my tent until I thought she had
the intention of swallowing us up after the manner in which the cow
disposed of Tom Thumb. At such times I would turn Philo loose upon the
intruder. Philo used to suffer at night from the cold, and would wake
me up by insisting upon burrowing his way down into my tightly laced
valise. There he would sleep till he got so hot that he woke me up
again burrowing his way out. It would not be long before once again
the cold of the tent drove him to seek refuge in my bed. I hardly ever
had a night's complete rest. Once I rolled over on him, and, as he was
a very fiery tempered little dog, he got very displeased and began to
snap and bark in a most unpleasant manner. As the sleeping bag was
tightly laced it was difficult to extract him. Philo waged a kind of
submarine warfare there until grasping his snout, I pulled him out and
refused all his further appeals for readmission.
My little tent gave me great comfort and a sense of independence. I
could go where I pleased and camp in the lines of the battalions when
they came out of the trenches. This enabled me to get into closer
touch with the men. One young western fellow said that my encampment
consisted of a caboose, my tent, a cayouse, which was Dandy, and a
papoose, which was my little dog, friend Philo. Now that I had a
comfortable billet of my own I determined that Romarin was too far
from the men, so I removed my settlement up to the Neuve Eglise road
and planted it near some trees in the field just below the row of huts
called Bulford Camp. At this time, Murdoch MacDonald went to the
transport lines, and his place was taken by my friend Private Ross, of
the 16th Battalion, the Canadian Scottish. He stayed with me to the
end. We were very comfortable in the field. Ross made himself a
bivouac of rubber sheets. Dandy was picketed not far off and, under
the trees, my little brown pyramid tent was erected, with a rude bench
outside for a toilet table, and a large tin pail for a bath-tub. When
the battalions came out of the line and inhabited Bulford Camp and the
huts of Court-o-Pyp, I used to arrange a Communion Service for the men
every morning. At Bulford Camp the early morning services were
specially delightful. Not far off, was the men's washing place, a
large ditch full of muddy water into which the men took headers. (p. 096)
Beside it were long rows of benches, in front of which the operation
of shaving was carried on. The box I used as an altar was placed under
the green trees, and covered with the dear old flag, which now hangs
in the chancel of my church in Quebec. On top was a white altar cloth,
two candles and a small crucifix. At these services only about ten or
a dozen men attended, but it was inspiring to minister to them. I used
to hear from time to time that so and so had been killed, and I knew
he had made his last Communion at one of such services. It was an
evidence of the changed attitude towards religion that the men in
general did not count it strange that soldiers should thus come to
Holy Communion in public. No one was ever laughed at or teased for
doing so.
Neuve Eglise, at the top of the road, had been badly wrecked by German
shells. I went up there one night with an officer friend of mine, to
see the scene of desolation. We were halted by some of our cyclists
who were patrolling the road. Whenever they stopped me at night and
asked who I was I always said, "German spy", and they would reply,
"Pass, German spy, all's well." My friend and I went down the street
of the broken and deserted village, which, from its position on the
hill, was an easy mark for shell fire. Not a living thing was stirring
except a big black cat which ran across our path. The moonlight made
strange shadows in the roofless houses. Against the west wall of the
church stood a large crucifix still undamaged. The roof had gone, and
the moonlight flooded the ruins through the broken Gothic windows. To
the left, ploughed up with shells, were the tombs of the civilian
cemetery, and the whole place was ghostly and uncanny.
Near the huts, on the hill at Bulford Camp was a hollow in the ground
which made a natural amphitheatre. Here at night concerts were given.
All the audience packed together very closely sat on the ground.
Before us, at the end of the hollow, the performers would appear, and
overhead the calm stars looked down. I always went to these
entertainments well provided with Players' cigarettes. A neat trick
was played upon me one night. I passed my silver cigarette case round
to the men and told them that all I wanted back was the case. In a
little while it was passed back to me. I looked into it to see if a
cigarette had been left for my use, when, to my astonishment, I found
that the case had been filled with De Reszke's, my favourite brand. I
thanked my unknown benefactor for his graceful generosity.
The field behind the huts at Court-o-Pyp was another of my (p. 097)
favourite camping grounds. It was on the Neuve Eglise side of the
camp, and beyond us was some barbed wire. About two o'clock one night
I was aroused by an excited conversation which was being carried on
between my friend Ross in his bivouac, and a soldier who had been
dining late and had lost his way. The young fellow had got it into his
head that he had wandered into the German lines, and Ross had great
difficulty in convincing him that he was quite safe. He was just going
off with mind appeased when he caught sight of my pyramid tent on a
rise in the ground. "What's that?" he cried in terror, evidently
pointing towards my little house. "That's the Rev. Major Canon Scott's
billet" said Ross with great dignity from under his rubber sheets, and
the man went off in fear of his identity becoming known. He afterwards
became an officer and a very gallant one too, and finally lost a leg
in the service of his country. But many is the time I have chaffed him
about the night he thought he had wandered into the German lines.
One day when I had ridden up to Court-o-Pyp I found that a canteen had
just been opened there, and being urged to make a purchase for good
luck I bought a large bottle of tomato catsup, which I put into my
saddle bag. I noticed that the action was under the observation of the
battalion, which had just returned from the trenches and was about to
be dismissed. I mounted my horse and went over to the C.O. and asked
if I might say a word to the men before he dismissed them. He told me
the men were tired, but I promised not to keep them long. He called
out, "Men, Canon Scott wants to say a word to you before you are
dismissed," and they stood to attention. "All I wanted to say to you,
Boys, was this; that was a bottle of tomato catsup which I put in my
saddle bag, and not, as you thought, a bottle of whiskey." A roar of
laughter went up from all ranks.
It was about this time that our Brigadier was recalled to England to
take over the command of a Division. We were all sincerely sorry to
lose him from the 3rd Brigade. He was ever a good and true friend, and
took a deep interest in his men. But the immediate effect of his
departure, as far as I was concerned, was to remove out of my life the
hideous spectre of No. 2 General Hospital, and to give me absolute
liberty in wandering through the trenches. In fact, as I told him
sometime afterwards, I was beginning a little poem, the first line of
which was "I never knew what freedom meant until he went away."
One day, General Seely invited me to go and stay with him at his (p. 098)
Headquarters in Westhof Farm where I had a most delightful time.
Not only was the General a most entertaining host, but his staff were
very charming. At dinner, we avoided war topics and shop, and talked
about things political and literary. The mess was in the farm building
and our sleeping quarters were on an island in the moat. My stay here
brought me into contact with the Canadian Cavalry Brigade, and a fine
lot of men they were.
But a change in my fortunes was awaiting me. The Senior Chaplain of
the Division had gone back to England, and General Alderson sent for
me one day to go to Nieppe. There he told me he wished me to be Senior
Chaplain. I was not altogether pleased at the appointment, because it
meant that I should be taken away from my beloved 3rd Brigade. I told
the General so, but he assured me I should not have to stay all the
time at Headquarters, and could go with the 3rd Brigade as much as I
pleased.
This unexpected promotion, after what I had gone through, opened up a
life of almost dazzling splendour. I now had to go and live in the
village of Nieppe on the Bailleul-Armentieres road. Here were our
Headquarters. General Alderson had his house in the Square. Another
building was occupied by our officers, and a theatre was at my
disposal for Church Services and entertainments. The town was also the
Headquarters of a British Division, so we had plenty of men to look
after. I got an upper room in a house owned by an old lady. The front
room downstairs was my office, and I had a man as a clerk. Round my
bedroom window grew a grape vine, and at night when the moon was
shining, I could sit on my window-sill, listen to the sound of shells,
watch the flare lights behind Armentieres and eat the grapes which
hung down in large clusters. Poor Nieppe has shared the fate of Neuve
Eglise and Bailleul and is now a ruin. Everyone was exceedingly kind,
and I soon found that the added liberty which came to me from having a
definite position really increased my chances of getting amongst the
men. By leaving my clerk to do the work of Senior Chaplain, I could go
off and be lost at the front for a day and a night without ever being
missed. I knew that each brigade must now have an equal share of my
interest and I was very careful never to show any preference. A
chaplain had at all times to be very careful to avoid anything that
savoured of favouritism. I was now also formally inducted into the
membership of that august body known as "C" mess, where the heads (p. 099)
of non-combatant departments met for dining and wining. Somebody
asked me one day what "C" mess was. I told him it was a lot of
withered old boughs on the great tree of the Canadian Expeditionary
Force--a description which was naturally much resented by the other
members. I had no difficulty now in arranging for my billets, as that
was always done for me by our Camp Commandant.
Life in Nieppe was very delightful and the presence of the British
Division gave it an added charm. We had very pleasant services in the
Hall, and every Sunday evening I had a choral Evensong. So many of the
men who attended had been choristers in England or Canada that the
responses were sung in harmony by the entire congregation. On week
days we had smoking concerts and entertainments of various kinds. I
sometimes had to take duty with the British units. On one occasion, I
was invited to hold a service for his men by a very staunch churchman,
a Colonel in the Army Service Corps. He told me, before the service,
that his unit had to move on the following day, and also that he was
accustomed to choose and read the lesson himself. I was delighted to
find a layman so full of zeal. But in the midst of the service I was
rather distressed at his choice of the lesson. It was hard enough to
get the interest of the men as it was, but the Colonel made it more
difficult by choosing a long chapter from Deuteronomy narrating the
wanderings of the children of Israel in the desert. Of course the C.O.
and I knew that the A.S.C. was to move on the following day, but the
congregation was not aware of the fact, and they must have been
puzzled by the application of the chapter to the religious needs of
the men at the front. However the reader was delighted with his choice
of subject, and at tea afterwards told me how singularly appropriate
the lesson was on this particular occasion. I thought it was wiser to
make no comment, but I wondered what spiritual fruit was gathered by
the mind of the ordinary British Tommy from a long account of Israel's
pitching their tents and perpetually moving to places with
extraordinary names.
We had several meetings of chaplains, and I paid a visit to the Deputy
Chaplain General, Bishop Gwynne, at his headquarters in St. Omer. He
was exceedingly kind and full of human interest in the men. The whole
conception of the position of an army chaplain was undergoing a great
and beneficial change. The rules which hitherto had fenced off the
chaplains, as being officers, from easy intercourse with the men (p. 100)
were being relaxed. Chaplains were being looked upon more as parish
priests to their battalions. They could be visited freely by the men,
and could also have meals with the men when they saw fit. I am
convinced that it is a mistake to lay stress upon the chaplain's
office as a military one. The chaplain is not a soldier, and has no
men, as a doctor has, under his command. His office being a spiritual
one ought to be quite outside military rank. To both officers and men,
he holds a unique position, enabling him to become the friend and
companion of all. Bishop Gwynne upheld the spiritual side of the
chaplain's work, and by establishing conferences and religious
retreats for the chaplains, endeavoured to keep up the sacred
standards which army life tended so much to drag down.
The Cathedral at St. Omer is a very beautiful one, and it was most
restful to sit in it and meditate, looking down the long aisles and
arches that had stood so many centuries the political changes of
Europe. One morning when the sun was flooding the building and casting
the colours of the windows in rich patterns on the floor, I sat under
the gallery at the west end and read Shelley's great elegy. I remember
those wonderful last lines and I thought how, like an unshattered
temple, the great works of literature survive the tempests of national
strife. My mind was carried far away, beyond the anxieties and sorrows
of the present,
"To where the soul of Adonais like a star
Beacons from the abode where the Eternal are."
In the square was a large building which had been used originally as
headquarters for the Intelligence Department. Later on, this building
was taken by the Bishop and used as the Chaplains' Rest-Home. There is
an amusing story told of a despatch rider who came to the place with a
message for its original occupants, but when he inquired for the
Intelligence Department the orderly answered, "This is the Chaplains'
Rest Home, there is no Intelligence here." At St. Omer also was the
office of the Principal Chaplain who had under his charge all the
Non-Conformist Chaplains at the front. The very best relations existed
between the various religious bodies, and it was the endeavour of all
the chaplains to see that every man got the religious privileges of
his own faith.
We arrived in the Ploegsteert area at a good time for the digging and
repairing of the trenches. The clay in Belgium in fine weather (p. 101)
is easily worked; consequently a most elaborate and well made system
of trenches was established in front of Messines. The brown sides of
the trenches became dry and hard in the sun, and the bath-mats along
them made walking easy. The trenches were named, "Currie Avenue,"
"McHarg Avenue," "Seely Avenue," and so forth. The men had their
cookers and primus stoves, and occupied their spare time in the line
by cooking all sorts of dainty dishes. Near the trenches on the other
side of Hill 63 were several ruined farm houses, known as "Le Perdu
Farm," "Ration Farm," and one, around which hovered a peculiarly
unsavoury atmosphere, as "Stinking Farm." Hill 63 was a hill which ran
immediately behind our trench area and was covered at its right end
with a delightful wood. Here were "Grand Moncque Farm," "Petit Moncque
Farm," "Kort Dreuve Farm" and the "Piggeries." All these farms were
used as billets by the battalions who were in reserve. In Ploegsteert
Wood, "Woodcote Farm," and "Red Lodge," were also used for the same
purpose. The wood in those days was a very pleasant place to wander
through. Anything that reminded us of the free life of nature acted as
a tonic to the nerves, and the little paths among the trees which
whispered overhead in the summer breezes made one imagine that one was
wandering through the forests in Canada. In the wood were several
cemeteries kept by different units, very neatly laid out and carefully
fenced in. I met an officer one day who told me he was going up to the
trenches one evening past a cemetery in the wood, when he heard the
sound of someone sobbing. He looked into the place and there saw a
young boy lying beside a newly made grave. He went in and spoke to him
and the boy seemed confused that he had been discovered in his sorrow.
"It's the grave of my brother, Sir," he said, "He was buried here this
afternoon and now I have got to go back to the line without him." The
lad dried his eyes, shouldered his rifle and went through the woodland
path up to the trenches. No one would know again the inner sorrow that
had darkened his life. The farms behind the wood made really very
pleasant homes for awhile. They have all now been levelled to the
ground, but at the time I speak of they were in good condition and had
many large and commodious buildings. At Kort Dreuve there was a very
good private chapel, which the proprietor gave me the use of for my
Communion Services. It was quite nice to have a little Gothic chapel
with fine altar, and the men who attended always enjoyed the (p. 102)
services there. Round the farm was a large moat full of good sized
gold-fish, which the men used to catch surreptitiously and fry for
their meals. "The Piggeries" was a large building in which the King of
the Belgians had kept a fine breed of pigs. It was very long and
furnished inside with two rows of styes built solidly of concrete.
These were full of straw, and in them the men slept.
I was visiting one of the battalions there one evening, when I heard
that they had been ordered to go back to the trenches before Sunday. I
told some of the men that I thought that, as they would be in the
trenches on Sunday, it would be a good idea if we had a voluntary
service that evening. They seemed pleased, so I collected quite a
large congregation at one end of the Piggeries, and was leading up to
the service by a little overture in the shape of a talk about the war
outlook, when I became aware that there was a fight going on at the
other end of the low building, and that some of the men on the
outskirts of the congregation were beginning to get restive. I knew
that a voluntary service could not stand up against the rivalry of a
fight, so I thought I had better take the bull by the horns. I said,
"Boys, I think there is a fight going on at the ether end of the
Piggeries, and perhaps it would be well to postpone the service and go
and see the fight, and then return and carry on." The men were much
relieved and, amid great laughter, my congregation broke loose and ran
to the other end of the building, followed by myself. The fight was
soon settled by the intervention of a sergeant, and then I said, "Now,
Boys, let us go back to the other end and have the service." I thought
the change of location might have a good effect upon their minds and
souls. So back we went again to the other end of the building and
there had a really enthusiastic and devout service. When it was over,
I told the men that nothing helped so much to make a service bright
and hearty as the inclusion of a fight, and that when I returned to
Canada, if at any time my congregation was listless or sleepy, I would
arrange a fight on the other side of the street to which we could
adjourn and from which we should return with renewed spiritual
fervour. I have met many men at different times who look back upon
that service with pleasure.
We had a feeling that Ploegsteert was to be our home for a good long
time, so we settled down to our life there. We had visits from Sir Sam
Hughes and Sir Robert Borden, and also Lord Kitchener. I was not
present when the latter inspected the men, but I asked one who (p. 103)
was there what it was like. "Oh Sir," he replied, "we stood to
attention, and Kitchener passed down the lines very quietly and
coldly. He merely looked at us with his steely grey eyes and said to
himself, "I wonder how many of these men will be in hell next week."
General Hughes' inspection of one of the battalions near Ploegsteert
Wood was interrupted by shells and the men were hastily dismissed.
A visit to the trenches was now a delightful expedition. All the way
from Nieppe to Hill 63 one came upon the headquarters of some unit. At
a large farm called "Lampernise Farm" all the transports of the 3rd
Brigade were quartered. I used to have services for them in the open
on a Sunday evening. It was very difficult at first to collect a
congregation, so I adopted the plan of getting two or three men who
could sing, and then going over with them to an open place in the
field, and starting some well known hymn. One by one others would come
up and hymn-books were distributed. By the time the service was
finished, we generally had quite a good congregation, but it took a
certain amount of courage and faith to start the service. One felt
very much like a little band of Salvationists in a city square.
In spite of having a horse to ride, it was sometimes difficult to
cover the ground between the services on Sunday. One afternoon, when I
had been to the Cavalry Brigade at Petit Moncque Farm, I had a great
scramble to get back in time to the transport lines. In a bag hanging
over the front of my saddle, I had five hundred hymn books. Having
taken a wrong turn in the road I lost some time which it was necessary
to make up, and, in my efforts to make haste, the string of the bag
broke and hymn books fluttered out and fell along the road. Dandy took
alarm, misunderstanding the nature of the fluttering white things, and
started to gallop. With two haversacks on my back it was difficult to
hold on to the bag of hymn books and at the same time to prevent their
loss. The more the hymn books fluttered out, the harder Dandy bolted,
and the harder Dandy bolted, the more the hymn books fluttered out. At
last I passed a soldier in the road and asked him to come to my
assistance. I managed to rein in the horse, and the man collected as
many of the hymn books as were not spoilt by the mud. Knowing how hard
it was and how long it took to get hymn books from the Base, it was
with regret that I left any behind. But then I reflected that it might
be really a scattering of the seed by the wayside. Some poor lone (p. 104)
soldier who had been wandering from the paths of rectitude might pick
up the hymns by chance and be converted. Indulging in such self
consolation I arrived just in time for the service.
Services were never things you could be quite sure of until they came
off. Often I have gone to bed on Saturday night feeling that
everything had been done in the way of arranging for the following
day. Battalions had been notified, adjutants had put the hours of
service in orders, and places for the gatherings had been carefully
located. Then on the following day, to my intense disgust, I would
find that all my plans had been frustrated. Some general had taken it
into his head to order an inspection, or some paymaster had been asked
to come down and pay off the men. The Paymaster's Parade, in the eyes
of the men, took precedence of everything else. A Church Service was
nowhere in comparison. More often than I can recollect, all my
arrangements for services have been upset by a sudden order for the
men to go to a bathing parade. Every time this happened, the Adjutant
would smile and tell me, as if I had never heard it before, that
"cleanliness was next to godliness." A chaplain therefore had his
trials, but in spite of them it was the policy of wisdom not to show
resentment and to hold one's tongue. I used to look at the Adjutant,
and merely remark quietly, in the words of the Psalmist, "I held my
tongue with bit and bridle, while the ungodly was in my sight."
People at Headquarters soon got accustomed to my absence and never
gave me a thought. I used to take comfort in remembering Poo Bah's
song in the Mikado, "He never will be missed, he never will be missed."
Sometimes when I have started off from home in the morning my sergeant
and Ross have asked me when I was going to return. I told them that if
they would go down on their knees and pray for illumination on the
subject, they might find out, but that I had not the slightest idea
myself. A visit to the trenches was most fascinating. I used to take
Philo with me. He found much amusement in hunting for rats, and would
often wander off into No Man's Land and come back covered with the
blood of his victims. One night I had missed him for some time, and
was whistling for him, when a sentry told me that a white dog had been
"captured" by one of the men with the thought that it was a German
police dog, and he had carried it off to company headquarters under
sentence of death. I hurried up the trench and was just in time (p. 105)
to save poor little Philo from a court martial. There had been a
warning in orders that day against the admission of dogs from the
German lines.
The men were always glad of a visit, and I used to distribute little
bronze crucifixes as I went along. I had them sent to me from London,
and have given away hundreds of them. I told the men that if anyone
asked them why they were at the war, that little cross with the patient
figure of self-sacrifice upon it, would be the answer. The widow of an
officer who was killed at Albert told me the cross which I gave her
husband was taken from his dead body, and she now had it, and would
wear it to her dying day. I was much surprised and touched to see the
value which the men set upon these tokens of their faith. I told them
to try to never think, say or do anything which would make them want
to take off the cross from their necks.
The dugouts in which the officers made their homes were quite
comfortable, and very merry parties we have had in the little earth
houses which were then on the surface of the ground. One night when
some new officers had arrived to take over the line, one of the
companies gave them a dinner, consisting of five or six courses, very
nicely cooked. We were never far however, from the presence of the
dark Angel, and our host on that occasion was killed the next night.
Our casualties at this time were not heavy, although every day there
were some men wounded or killed. The shells occasionally made direct
hits upon the trenches. I came upon a place once which was terribly
messed about, and two men were sitting by roaring with laughter. They
said their dinner was all prepared in their dugout, and they had gone
off to get some wood for the fire, when a shell landed and knocked
their home into ruins. They were preparing to dig for their kit and so
much of their dinner as would still be eatable. As they took the whole
matter as a joke, I joined with them in the laugh. One day as I was
going up the line, a young sapper was carried out on a sitting
stretcher. He was hit through the chest, and all the way along the
bath mats was the trail of the poor boy's blood. He was only nineteen
years of age, and had done splendid work and won the admiration of all
the men in his company. I had a short prayer with him, and then saw
him carried off to the dressing station, where not long after he died.
The sergeant who was with him was exceedingly kind, and looked after
the boy like a father. As the war went on, the men were being (p. 106)
united more and more closely in the bonds of a common sympathy and a
tender helpfulness. To the enemy, until he was captured, they were
flint and iron; to one another they were friends and brothers.
It always took a long time to pass down the trenches. There were so
many men I knew and I could not pass them without a short
conversation. Time, in the line had really no meaning, except in the
matter of "standing to" or "changing guard". On fine days, the life
was not unpleasant. I remember, however, on one dark rainy night,
being in a trench in front of Wulverghem. The enemy trenches were at
that point only thirty-five yards away. I was squeezed into a little
muddy dugout with an officer, when the corporal came and asked for a
tot of rum for his men. They had been lying out on patrol duty in the
mud and rain in front of our trench for two hours.
Dandy was still the envy of our men in the transport lines, and one
day I nearly lost him. I rode up to Hill 63. Just behind it was an
orchard, and in it there were two batteries of British Artillery,
which were attached to our Division. I was going up to the trenches
that afternoon, so I gave the horse some oats and tied him to a tree
near the officers' billet. I then went up over the hill down to Ration
Farm, and from thence into the line. It was quite late in the
afternoon, but walking through the trenches was easy when it was not
raining. I was returning about 10 o'clock, when the second in command
of the 16th Battalion asked me to wait for him and we would come out
together over the open. It must have been about midnight when I
started with the Major, and another officer. The night was dark and it
was rather a scramble, but the German flare lights would go up now and
then and show us our course. Suddenly a machine gun opened up, and we
had to lie on our faces listening to the swish of the flying bullets
just overhead. I turned to the officer next to me and asked him how
long he had been at the front. He said he had only arrived that
afternoon at four o' clock. I told him it wasn't always like this, and
we laughed over the curious life to which he had been so recently
introduced. We finally made our way to Ration Farm and as I had a long
ride before me, I determined to go back. I was very hungry, as I had
had nothing to eat since luncheon. I went into a cellar at Ration Farm
and there found one of the men reading by the light of a candle
supported on tins of bully-beef. I asked him for one of these and he
gladly gave it to me. As I started up the hill on the long (p. 107)
straight road with trees on either side, I tried to open the tin with
the key, but as usual it broke and left only a little crack through
which with my penknife I extracted strings of beef. I could not use my
flashlight, as the hill was in sight of the enemy, so I had to content
myself with what nourishment I was able to obtain. Half way up the
hill I noticed a tall figure standing by one of the trees. I thought
he might be a spy but I accosted him and found he was one of the
Strathcona Horse who had a working party in the trenches that night. I
told him my difficulty, and he got his knife and very kindly took off
the top of the tin. By this time a drizzling rain was falling and the
night was decidedly uncomfortable. I went over the hill and down to
the orchard, and made my way to the tree to which poor old Dandy had
been tied so many hours before. There, I found the tree just where I
had left it--it was of no use to me, as, like the barren fig tree, it
had no fruit upon it, but to my horror the horse, which was so
necessary, had disappeared. I scoured the orchard in vain looking for
my faithful friend, and then I went over to the Artillery officers'
house and told them my trouble. We all decided that it was too late to
search any longer, I was provided with a mackintosh, and determined to
make my way over to Petit Moncque Farm where the 3rd Infantry Brigade
Headquarters were. It was a long walk and the roads were sloppy. The
path I took led through a field of Indian corn. This, though not ripe
and not cooked, would remind me of Canada, so with my search-light I
hunted for two or three of the hardest ears, and then, fortified with
these, made my way over towards the farm.
From past experience, I knew that a sentry was stationed somewhere in
the road. The sudden challenge of a sentry in the dark always gave me
a fright, so I determined this time to be on the watch and keep from
getting a surprise. However when I arrived at the place where the man
usually stood, no one challenged me. I thought that perhaps on account
of the night being rainy and uncomfortable he had retired to the guard
room, and I walked along with a free mind. I was just near the large
gateway, however, when a most stentorian voice shouted out, "Halt, who
goes there?" and at the same instant in the darkness I saw the sudden
flash of a bayonet flourished in my direction. Not expecting such an
event, I could not for the moment think of what I ought to say, but I
called out in equally stentorian tones, "For heaven's sake, my boy,
don't make such a row; its only Canon Scott and I have lost my (p. 108)
horse." A burst of laughter greeted my announcement, and the man
told me that, seeing somebody with a flashlight at that time of the
night wandering through the fields, and searching for something, he
had become convinced that a German spy was at work cutting the
telephone wires that led back to the guns, so he had got near the
guard room where he could obtain assistance, and awaited my approach
in the darkness. It was a great relief to get to headquarters, and the
officer on duty kindly lent me his comfortable sleeping bag. The next
morning I made my way back to Nieppe, and telegraphed to the various
units, searching for Dandy. Later on, in the afternoon, he was brought
in by a man of the Strathcona Horse. His story was that the
intelligent animal had untied himself from the tree and followed the
working party home from the orchard. It is most likely that he had
preceded them. Luckily for me, their quartermaster had recognized him
in the Strathcona lines, and, being an honest man, had sent him back.
The incident taught me a great and useful lesson, and in future I was
very careful to see that my horse was safely guarded whenever I had to
leave him.
Our signallers had been active in setting up a wireless telegraph in a
field near Headquarters and were able to get the various communiques
which were sent out during the night by the different nations. The
information was passed round Headquarters every morning on typewritten
sheets and made most interesting reading. We were able to anticipate
the news detailed to us in the papers. Later on, however, someone in
authority put an end to this and we were deprived of our Daily
Chronicle.
About this time we heard that the 2nd Division was coming to France,
and that the two Divisions, which would be joined by a third, were to
be formed into the Canadian Corps. This meant a very radical change in
the status of the old 1st Division. Up to this time we were "the
Canadians"; now we were only to be one among several divisions.
General Alderson was to take command of the Corps, and the question
which was daily asked among the officers at headquarters was, "Are you
going to the Corps?" It was a sundering of ties amongst our friends,
and we felt sorry that our society would be broken up. One of the
staff officers asked me to write a poem on his departure. I did so. It
began--
"He left the war
And went to the Corps,
Our hearts were sore, (p. 109)
We could say no more."
My friend was not at all pleased at the implication contained in the
first two lines.
Bailleul was made Corps Headquarters, whither General Alderson moved.
His place at the division was taken by General Currie, who afterwards
commanded the Corps and led it to victory. The old town now became a
great Canadian centre. The General had comfortable quarters in a large
house, which was nicely furnished, and had an air of opulence about
it. The Grande Place was full of activity, and in the streets one met
many friends. The hotel offered an opportunity for afternoon tea and a
tolerable dinner. Besides this, there was the officers' tea room, kept
by some damsels who provided cakes and served tea on little tables,
like a restaurant in London. Here we could be sure of meeting many of
our friends and very pleasant such gatherings were. In a large hall a
concert took place every evening. We had a very special one attended
by several generals with their staffs. The proceeds were given to the
Canadian "Prisoners of War Fund". The concerts were most enjoyable and
the real, artistic ability of some of the performers, both Canadian
and British, was remarkable. It was always pleasant to live in the
neighbourhood of a town, and the moment the men came out of the
trenches they wanted to clean up and go into Bailleul. After a
residence in the muddy and shaky little shacks in and behind the front
lines, to enter a real house and sit on a real chair with a table in
front of you was a great luxury.
There were several well-equipped hospitals in Bailleul. One large
British one had a nice chapel set aside for our use. In it one day we
had a Confirmation service which was very impressive, a number of
candidates being present.
While Headquarters were at Nieppe the British attack upon Loos was to
take place, and it was arranged that the Canadians, in order to keep
the Germans busy in the North, were to make an attack. I happened to
be visiting "the Piggeries" in the afternoon previous. The 1st
Battalion was in the line. I heard the Colonel read out to the
officers the orders for the attack. We were not told that the whole
thing was what our soldiers call "a fake". As he read the orders for
the next morning, they sounded serious, and I was invited to be
present, which of course I gladly consented to. The guns were to open
fire at 4 a.m. I had been away from Headquarters for some time so (p. 110)
I determined to ride back and return later. At three o'clock a.m. my
servant woke me up and I had a cup of coffee, and started off on Dandy
to go up to "the Piggeries". I took a tin of bully-beef with me, and
so was prepared for any eventuality. It was just before dawn and the
morning air was fresh and delightful. Dandy had had a good feed of
oats and was full of life. He seemed to enjoy the sport as much as I
did. We rode up the well known roads, and round their curious curves
past the small white farm houses, till we came into the neighbourhood
of our batteries. All of a sudden these opened fire. It was a splendid
sound. Of all the music I have ever heard in my life, none comes near
the glorious organ sound of a barrage. I look back with the greatest
pleasure to that early morning ride through the twilight lit up by gun
flashes from batteries scattered along our whole front. One great
dread I always had, and that was the dread of being killed by our own
artillery. On this occasion, I had to ride down roads that looked
perilously near batteries in action. When I got to a corner near "the
Piggeries", I was just stopped in time from what might have been my
finish. There was a concealed battery among the trees by the wayside,
and I, not knowing it was there, was about to ride by unconcernedly,
when a gunner came out from the bushes and stopped me just in time,
telling me that in half a minute the battery was going to open up.
Dandy and I waited till the guns had fired and then went on. Along our
front line there was much stir and commotion. Bundles of lighted straw
making a hideous smoke were poked over the trenches, and the whole
night previous, all the limbers available had been driven up and down
the roads, making as much noise as possible. The Germans were
convinced we were preparing for an attack on a big scale, and that the
yellow smoke which they saw coming towards them was some new form of
frightfulness. Of course they returned our fire, but our men knew by
this time that the whole affair was only a pretence. Far off to the
South, however, there was a real battle raging, and the cemeteries
which we afterwards saw at Loos bore testimony to the bitter struggle
which the British forces endured.
The village of Ploegsteert behind the wood was very much damaged. Like
the other villages at the front, it must at one time have been quite a
prosperous place. The church, before it was ruined, was well built and
capacious. There was a building on the main street which a (p. 111)
British chaplain had used as a clubhouse, and handed over to me when
his division moved south. It was well stocked with all things necessary
to make the men comfortable. It had a kitchen, reading rooms, and
upstairs a chapel. Two or three shells, however, had made their way
into it, and the holes were covered with canvas. The Mayor's house was
on the other side of the street, and he had a young girl there as a
servant, who kept the keys of the club. The chaplain who moved away
told me that this girl, when the town was being heavily shelled one
day, saved the lives of some men who were lying wounded in the house,
by carrying them on her back over to a place of safety in a farmhouse.
It was a deed that merited recognition, because she had to pass down
the road which was then under heavy shell fire. I brought her case
before the notice of the military authorities, and General Seely was
asked to take the matter up and make an application to the King for a
reward for the girl's bravery. There was a doubt as to what award
could be given to her. We got the sworn testimony of the Mayor and
other eye-witnesses, and the document was finally laid before the
King. It was decided that she should receive the bronze medal of the
Order of St. John of Jerusalem. Later on General Alderson sent for me
and took me to the Mayor's house in Romarin, where we had the ceremony
of conferring the medal. It was quite touching in its simplicity. The
girl, who had a fine open face, was on the verge of giving way to
tears. The Mayor and some other of the chief inhabitants were arrayed
in their best clothes, and a Highland regiment lent us their pipers.
One of the citizens presented the heroine with a large bouquet of
flowers. General Alderson made a nice speech, which was translated to
the townsfolk, and then he presented the medal. We were invited into
the house, and the girl's health was proposed and drunk by the General
in a glass of Romarin Champagne. We heard afterwards that the country
people were much impressed by the way the British Army had recognized
the gallantry of a poor Belgian maidservant.
One day a German aeroplane was brought down behind our lines, near
Ration Farm. Of its two occupants one was killed. On the aeroplane was
found a Colt machine-gun, which had been taken by the Germans from the
14th Battalion several months before, in the Second Battle of Ypres.
It now came back to the brigade which had lost it. I buried the airman
near Ration Farm, in a grave, which the men did up neatly and over
which they erected a cross with his name upon it.
Although our Headquarters were at Nieppe, the village was really (p. 112)
in the British Area, and so we were informed towards the end of
November that we had been ordered to move to St. Jans Cappel. On
Monday, November 22nd I started off by car via Bailleul to my new
billet. Although I had left Nieppe and its pleasant society with great
regret, I was quite pleased with my new home. It was a small house
belonging to a widow, on the road that led from St. Jans Cappel up to
Mount Kemmel. The house itself was brick and well built. The
landlady's rooms were on one side of the passage, and mine were on the
other. A large garret overhead gave a billet for Ross and my sergeant
clerk. In the yard there was a stable for the horse. So the whole
family was quite comfortably housed, and Ross undertook to do my
cooking. The room which I used as my office in the front of the house
had two large windows in it, and a neat tiled floor. The furniture was
ample. At the back, up some steps, was my bedroom, and the window from
it opened upon the yard. A former occupant of the house, a Major
Murray, of King Edward's Horse, had left a series of maps on the wall,
on which pins were stuck with a bit of red cord passing through them,
to show the position of our front line. These maps deeply impressed
visitors with my military exactness. In that little office I have
received many guests of all ranks. I always said that the chaplain's
house was like a church, and all men met there on equal terms.
Sometimes it was rather difficult however, to convince them that this
was the case. On one occasion two privates and I had just finished
luncheon, and were having a delightful smoke, when a certain general
was announced, and the men seized with panic, fled up the steps to my
bedroom and bolting through my window hurried back to their lines.
The landlady was quite well to do, and was a woman well thought of in
the village. She both paid calls upon her neighbours and received
callers in her rooms. Sometimes I used to be invited in to join these
social gatherings and frequently she would bring me in a nice bowl of
soup for dinner. Philo, too, made himself quite at home, and carefully
inspected all visitors on their admission to the mansion. In front of
the house, there was a pleasant view of the valley through which the
road passed up towards Mont des Cats. Our Headquarters were down in
the village in a large building which was part of the convent. General
Currie and his staff lived in a charming chateau in pleasant grounds,
on the hillside. The chateau, although a modern one, was reputed (p. 113)
to be haunted, which gave it a more or less romantic interest in the
eyes of our men, though as far as I could hear no apparitions disturbed
the slumbers of the G.S.O. or the A.A. & Q.M.G.
The road past my house, which was a favourite walk of mine, went over
the hill, and at the top a large windmill in a field commanded a fine
view of the country for several miles. My garden was very pleasant,
and in it was a summer house at the end of a moss-grown walk. One
plant which gave me great delight was a large bush of rosemary. The
smell of it always carried my mind back to peaceful times. It was like
the odour of the middle ages, with that elusive suggestion of incense
which reminded me of Gothic fanes and picturesque processions. Many
elm trees fringed the fields, and made a welcome shade along the sides
of the road. A little stream ran through the village and added its
touch of beauty to the landscape. We were only a mile and a half from
Bailleul, so we could easily get up to the town either for a concert
or for dinner at the hotel. The Camp Commandant allotted me the school
house, which I fitted up as a chapel. It was very small, and not
particularly clean, but it served its purpose very well.
My only objection to St. Jans Cappel was that it was situated such a
long way from our men, for we still held the same front line near
Ploegsteert. It was now a ride of twelve miles to Hill 63 whither I
frequently had to go to take burial services, the round trip making a
journey of nearly twenty-four miles. The Bailleul road, which was my
best route, was a pave road, and was hard on a horse. I did not want
poor willing Dandy to suffer from overwork, so I begged the loan of
another mount from Headquarters. It was a young horse, but big and
heavily built, and had no life in it. I was trotting down the road
with him one day when he tumbled down, and I injured my knee, causing
me to be laid up with water on the knee for about six weeks. The men
used to chaff me about falling off my horse, but I told them that I
could sit on a horse as long as he stood up, but I could not sit on
the air when the horse lay down. I was very much afraid that the
A.D.M.S. would send me off to a hospital, but I got private treatment
from a doctor friend, who was acting A.D.C. to General Currie. Luckily
for me, things were pretty quiet at the front at that time, and my
being confined to the house did not really make much difference. I had
a supper in my billet one night for a number of Bishop's College (p. 114)
men. Of those who attended, the majority have since made the supreme
sacrifice, but it was an evening which brought back many pleasant
memories of our Alma Mater.
The roads round St. Jans Cappel were very pretty, and I had many a
pleasant ride in our staff cars, which I, as Senior Chaplain, was
permitted to use. It was always a great delight to me to pick up men
on the road and give them a ride. I used to pile them in and give them
as good a joy ride as the chauffeur, acting under orders, would allow.
One day, in a heavy snowstorm, I picked up two nuns, whose garments
were blowing about in the blizzard in a hopeless condition. The
sisters were glad of the chance of a ride to Bailleul, whither they
were going on foot through the snow. It was against orders to drive
ladies in our staff cars, but I thought the circumstances of the case
and the evident respectability of my guests would be a sufficient
excuse for a breach of the rule. The sisters chatted in French very
pleasantly, and I took them to their convent headquarters in Bailleul.
I could see, as I passed through the village, how amused our men were
at my use of the car. When I arrived at the convent door at Bailleul,
the good ladies alighted and then asked me to give them my blessing.
How could I refuse, or enter upon a discussion of the validity of
Anglican Orders? The nuns with their hands crossed on their bosoms
leaned forward, and I stood up and blessed them from the car, and
departed leaving them both grateful and gratified.
The village of St. Jans Cappel had been captured by the Germans in
their advance in 1914, and we heard some unpleasant tales of the
rudeness of the German officers who took up their quarters in the
convent and compelled the nuns to wait upon them at the table. In
1918, when the Germans made their big push round Mont Kemmel, St. Jans
Cappel, along with Bailleul and Meteren, was captured once more by the
enemy, and the village is now in ruins and its inhabitants scattered.
I do not look back with much pleasure to the cold rides which I always
used to have on my return from the line. In frosty weather the pave
roads were very slippery, and I had to walk Dandy most of the distance,
while I got colder and colder, and beguiled the time by composing
poems or limericks on places at the front. Arriving at my billet in
the small hours of the morning, I would find my friend Ross not always
in the best of humors at being kept up so late. The ride back from
Wulverghem or Dranoutre, owing to the narrowness of the road and (p. 115)
the amount of transport and lorries upon it, was rather dangerous. It
was a matter of ten miles to come back from Wulverghem, and the roads
were very dark. One night in particular I had a narrow escape. I had
mounted Dandy at the back of a farmhouse, but for some reason or other
I seemed to have lost control over him and he was unusually lively.
Luckily for me a man offered to lead him out into the road, and just
before he let him go discovered that the bit was not in his mouth.
The Alberta Dragoons had billets in a side road that led to Bailleul.
It was a quiet and peaceful neighbourhood, and they had good barns for
their horses. In the fields they had splendid opportunities for training
and exercise. I often took service for them. One Sunday afternoon I had
been speaking of the necessity of purifying the commercial life of
Canada on our return, and I said something uncomplimentary about land
speculators. I was told afterwards that I had caused much amusement in
all ranks, for every man in the troop from the officers downwards, or
upwards, was a land speculator, and had town lots to sell in the West.
In conversations with privates and non-coms., I often found they had
left good positions in Canada and not infrequently were men of means.
I have given mud-splashed soldiers a ride in the car, and they have
talked about their own cars at home. It was quite pathetic to see how
much men thought of some little courtesy or act of kindness. A young
fellow was brought in on a stretcher to the Red Chateau dressing
station one Sunday afternoon at Courcelette. He was terribly wounded
and gave me his father's address in Canada so that I might write to
him. He was carried away and I heard afterwards he died. Some months
later I had a letter from his father, a Presbyterian minister in
Ontario, thanking me for writing and telling me how pleased his son
had been by my giving him a ride one day in a Headquarters car. I
mention this so that people will realize how much the men had given up
when they considered such a trifling thing worth mentioning.
The position of a chaplain as the war went on became very different
from what it had been at the beginning. The experience through which
the army had passed had showed to the military authorities that there
was something more subtle, more supernatural behind the life of the
men, than one might gather from the King's Regulations. Our chaplains
had done splendid work, and I think I may say that, with one or two
exceptions, they were idolized by their units. I could tell of one (p. 116)
of our chaplains who lived continually at the advanced dressing station
in great hardship and discomfort, sharing the danger and privation of
his men. The curious thing about a chaplain's popularity was that the
men never praised a chaplain whom they knew without adding "It is a
pity that all chaplains are not like him". On one occasion when I was
going through the Division, I was told by the men of one unit that
their chaplain was a prince, and it was a pity that all chaplains were
not like him. I went to another unit, and there again I was told that
their chaplain was a prince, and it was a pity that all chaplains were
not like him. It seems to be a deeply rooted principle in a soldier's
mind to beware of praising religion overmuch. But it amused me in a
general survey to find that ignorance of the work of other chaplains
led to their condemnation. I fancy the same spirit still manifests
itself in the British Army and in Canada. I find officers and men
eager enough to praise those who were their own chaplains but always
adding to it a condemnation of those who were not. An officer said to
me one day that the war had enabled chaplains to get to know men. I
told him that the war also had enabled men to get to know chaplains.
Large numbers of men in ordinary life are very seldom brought into
contact with religion. They have the crude notion of it which they
carried away as unfledged boys from Sunday School, and a sort of
formal bowing acquaintance through the conventions of later life. In
the war, when their minds and affections were put to a severe strain,
it was a revelation to them to find that there were principles and
relationships of divine origin which enabled the ordinary human will
easily to surmount difficulties moral and physical, and which gave a
quiet strength that nothing merely earthly could supply. Certainly the
war gave chaplains a splendid opportunity of bearing witness to the
power of Christ. A great deal has been written about the religion of
the men at the front. Some have spoken of it in terms of exaggerated
optimism, as though by the miracle of the war men had become beings of
angelic outlook and temper. Others have taken a despairing attitude,
and thought that religion has lost its real power over the world. The
truth is, I think, that there was a revelation to most men, in a broad
way, of a mysterious soul life within, and of a huge responsibility to
an infinite and eternal Being above. There was a revelation also, wide
and deep, to many individual men, of the living force and example of
Him who is both God and Brother-man. Where the associations of (p. 117)
church and home had been clean and helpful, men under the batterings
of war felt consciously the power of religion. In the life at the
front, no doubt there was much evil thinking, evil talking and evil
doing, but there was, underlying all this, the splendid manifestation
in human nature of that image of God in which man was made. As one
looks back upon it, the surface things of that life have drifted away,
and the great things that one remembers are the self-sacrifice, the
living comradeship, and the unquestioning faith in the eternal rightness
of right and duty which characterized those who were striving to the
death for the salvation of the world. This glorious vision of the
nobility of human nature sustained the chaplain through many
discouragements and difficulties. I have often sat on my horse on
rainy nights near Hill 63, and watched the battalions going up to the
line. With wet rubber sheets hanging over their huge packs and with
rifles on their shoulders, the men marched up through the mud and cold
and darkness, to face wounds and death. At such times, the sordid life
has been transfigured before me. The hill was no longer Hill 63, but
it was the hill of Calvary. The burden laid upon the men was no longer
the heavy soldier's pack, but it was the cross of Christ, and, as the
weary tramp of the men splashed in the mud, I said to myself "Each one
has fulfilled the law of life, and has taken up his cross and is
following Christ."
I told the men this one day on church parade; and a corporal sometime
afterwards said that, when next their battalion was moving up into the
line, a young fellow beside him was swearing very hard over the amount
of stuff he had to carry. My friend went over to him and said, "Don't
you know that Canon Scott told us that this really isn't a pack, but
it's the Cross of Christ?" The lad stopped swearing at once, and took
up his burden without a word.