A TIME OF PREPARATION.
_Christmas, 1916, to April, 1917._
It was certain now that all serious fighting was at an end till next
spring, so everyone settled down to his work with a sense of relief
and tried to make the best of things. A few days after my return from
Albert I went to England.
On my return to France, I heard with some regret that our Divisional
Headquarters were going to move, and that the Corps would make
Camblain l'Abbe their headquarters. On December 20th we moved back to
the town of Bruay, where we were to stay till after the New Year.
Bruay in comparison with Camblain l'Abbe is a large and thriving town,
all the inhabitants being more or less connected with the mines in the
neighbourhood. Our Headquarters were in the administration building of
the Mining Company, in a square, and I had a billet in a street near
by. There was a good theatre in the place, which our 1st Divisional
Concert party took over, and where I had services on Sunday. In and
around the town were several of the battalions; the rest of the
division were in the villages near by. Bruay had not been shelled, and
the mines were being worked as in pre-war days. It was a comfort to
have the men out of the line once again, and the roads round about
were very pleasant, the country being hilly and unspoilt. Bethune was
within easy reach, and a visit to the quaint town made a pleasant
afternoon's ride.
Rumours were abroad that with the opening of Spring we were to begin
an offensive, and it was generally believed that towards the close of
the next year we might hope for the end of hostilities. Our men were
being trained, when weather permitted, in open warfare, and the time
of so-called rest was really a period of constant activity. The chief
hotel in the place became an officers' club, and very pleasant were
the reunions we had there. I was glad we were going to spend Christmas
out of the line, and determined to take advantage of the theatre as a
place for Christmas services. The 8th and 14th Battalions were
quartered in the town, besides some smaller units, so we had a good
many men to draw upon for a congregation. On Christmas Eve, at
half-past eleven, I had a celebration of the Holy Communion. We (p. 160)
had a splendid band to play the Christmas hymns, and a large number
of men attended. The stage was made to look as much as possible like a
chancel, and the service was very hearty. Many made their communion. I
also had a watch-night service on New Year's Eve. The theatre was
almost filled with men--there were rows of them even in the gallery.
It was an inspiring sight, and we all felt we were beginning a year
that was to decide the destinies of the Empire. I told the men that
somewhere in the pages of the book which we were opening that night
lay hidden the tremendous secret of our success or failure. At ten
minutes to twelve we sat in silence, while the band played Chopin's
Funeral March. It was almost too moving, for once again the vision
came before us of the terrible battle-fields of the Somme and the
faces that had gone. Then we all rose, and there was a brief moment
for silent prayer. At midnight the buglers of the 14th Battalion
sounded the Last Post, and at the close the band struck up the hymn "O
God our help in ages past." A mighty chorus of voices joined in the
well-known strains. After the Benediction, I went down to the door and
shook hands with as many of the men as I could and wished them a happy
New Year. No one who was at that service will ever forget it. As we
found out, the trail before us was longer than we had expected, and
the next New Year's Eve found many of us, though, alas, not all, in
that theatre once more, still awaiting the issue of the conflict.
In January, I paid a flying visit to the Canadian Cavalry Headquarters
at Tully near Abbeville, and saw many old friends. On my return, I had
a curious experience which throws a light upon railway travelling at
the Front. A friend had motored me to Abbeville that afternoon, just
in time to catch a leave-train full of men returning from England. I
only wanted to go as far as St. Pol, about thirty miles off, where I
hoped to get a car for Bruay. I got into a carriage with four
officers, one of whom was a chaplain who had just been decorated with
the D.S.O. I had crossed the Channel with him once before, so was glad
to renew our acquaintance. The train left Abbeville about four
o'clock. We found ourselves in a second-class compartment. The windows
were broken, the floor was dirty, and there was no lamp to lighten our
darkness. By pulling down the curtains we tried to keep out the cold
wind, but the draught was very unpleasant, and we had to trust to the
accumulated warmth of our bodies to keep from freezing.
Instead of going directly to St. Pol, for some reason or other, (p. 161)
the train started off to the South. We travelled on and on at a
snail's pace, and had frequent and lengthy stops. When the light died
away, we should have been in complete darkness if one of the officers
had not brought a candle with him. Hour after hour passed by and we
began to get hungry. Somebody had some sandwiches and a piece of cake,
and this was shared by all the company. It served to stimulate rather
than soothe the appetite. About midnight to our astonishment we found
we had got to Canaples, where I had stayed when we were going to the
Somme. Someone said there had been a railway accident and we had to
travel by branch lines. In spite of the cold, we tried to sleep. I sat
between my parson friend, who was inclined to be stout, and another
officer who was remarkably angular. When I leaned upon my corpulent
friend, his frequent fits of coughing made my head bounce as though it
were resting on an air-cushion. When I got tired of this and leaned
against my angular friend on the other side, the jolting of the
carriage scraped my ear against his ribs. I spent the night by leaning
first on one companion, and then on the other. The morning found us
still travelling, and finally at half-past ten the train drew up once
more at our starting point in Abbeville station. Having been eighteen
hours without food or drink or the opportunity of a shave, I thought
it was about time to retire, and told my companions that life was too
short to spend it in railway journeys of that description. So, with a
feeling of superiority and independence which made the others green
with envy, I bid them good-bye. I never heard any more of my friends,
but, although the war has long since ended, I have a sort of dim
impression in my mind that they are still travelling round and round
and coming back to Abbeville again. I went over to the officers' club
and had a good wash and luncheon, and there meeting a very nice
engineer officer, I asked him if he could tell me where I could find
any lorries going North. I told him my railway experience, and it so
moved him that he very kindly sent me off in his own car to St. Pol,
where I was picked up by one of our staff cars and taken home in time
for dinner. Railway journeys in France were not things to remember
with pleasure, and if they were bad for the officers, what must they
have been for the poor men in the crowded third-class carriages?
At the end of January, our pleasant life at Bruay came to an end, and
we moved off to Barlin which was to be our headquarters for a (p. 162)
month and a half. It was while we were there that I had an attack of
trench-fever, which, like being "crummy," is really part of a complete
war experience. Barlin was not a bad place of residence. There were
many men within easy reach, and I had an upper room in the Town Hall
for use as a chapel. The presence of a well equipped British hospital
also gave one opportunities of seeing our wounded men. We had come to
know by this time that the first task which lay before us in the
opening of spring was the taking of Vimy Ridge, and our life became
filled with fresh zest and interest in view of the coming attack.
On the 15th of March our Division moved up to a place called Ecoivres,
where we were billeted in the old Chateau. The Count who owned the
Chateau kept some rooms downstairs for himself, but we occupied all
the rest of the building. In the hall upstairs we had a large model of
Vimy Ridge, which all the officers and men of the battalions visited
in turn, in order to study the character of the land over which they
had to charge. In the garden were numerous huts, and in a large
building in a street to the right of the Chateau was a billet which
held a great number of men. It was almost entirely filled up with
tiers upon tiers of wooden shelves, on which the men made their beds.
They were reached by wooden stairs. Nearly fifteen hundred men were
crowded into the building. On the ground floor beside the door, there
was a high platform which commanded a view of the whole interior. On
this, one of the bands lived and gave us music in the evening. Every
night after dinner, I used to go to the cinema, as we called the
place, and have either a service or a talk with the men on general
subjects. At such times outsiders would crowd in, and we have had very
hearty singing when the band struck up a hymn. I always tried to have
some piece of good news to announce, and would get the latest reports
from the signallers to read aloud. The men were in splendid spirits,
and we were all buoyed up with the hope that we were going to end the
war. I used to speak about the war outlook, and would tell the men
that there were only two issues before us: Victory or Slavery. When I
asked them one night "Which shall it be, Boys?" a loud shout of
"Victory!" went up.
News was not always plentiful, and it was a little hard at times to
find anything particularly interesting to say, and so, one night I
determined to make a variation. I told the men that on the next
evening, if they would bring in questions to me on any subject which
had been troubling them, I should be very glad to try to give an (p. 163)
answer. I thought that an entertainment of that kind might be both
attractive and helpful. On the next evening, therefore, I ascended the
platform as usual and found the place crowded with men. I had my
acetylene lamp with me to furnish light for reading any questions that
might be sent up. I called the meeting to order, and then asked if any
men had any questions to ask. To my great delight, someone at the back
held an envelope above the crowd, and it was passed up to me. I tore
it open, and, holding my lamp in one hand, without first looking over
the letter, I read it aloud to the men, who were hushed in the silence
of anticipation. I give it just as it was written:--
"Somewhere in France,
3/4/17.
Dear Sir:--
I am going to ask you a question which has been a load to my
little bit of mental capacity for a period of months. Often have I
woke up in the old dugout, my hair standing straight up and one
eye looking straight into the eyeball of the other, trying to
obtain an answer to this burning question. I have kept my weary
vigil over the parapet at night, with my rifle in one hand and a
couple of bombs in the other, and two or three in each pocket, and
still I am pondering over this burning question. I will now ask
you the question. When do you think this God dam war will be over,
eh?"
I never was so completely taken aback in all my life. A roar of
laughter burst from the men, in which I joined heartily. From the
tiers of bunks and every part of the building, cheers went up, and we
had one of the pleasantest evenings in that old cinema that we had
ever experienced. I do not know who the man was who sent the letter,
or whether he is alive now. If he is, I wish he would write to me. I
want to thank him for giving us all a good, hearty laugh at that time
of preparation and anxiety. I keep the letter among my most treasured
war souvenirs.
The winter rains had not improved the roads, but still day and night,
through mud and water, a constant stream of vehicles of all descriptions
passed up towards the front carrying ammunition. Ammunition was
everywhere. At certain places it was stacked along the roads. The
strain upon the horses was very great, and numbers of them died, (p. 164)
and their bodies lay by the wayside for many days, no one having time to
bury them.
It was perfectly impossible to get any place in which to hold
Communion services, so, with the permission of the family who owned
it, I made use of a little Gothic shrine near the church, which stood
over a family vault. It was a miniature chapel, and had an altar in
it. The glass in the coloured windows had been broken, but we replaced
it by canvas. I hung upon the wall outside the board which I used as a
sign, with the words "St. George's Church" upon it. In this little
building every morning at eight o'clock I had a celebration of Holy
Communion, and I always had some men attending.
Our trenches were tolerably quiet, and lay beyond the Arras-Bethune
Road. At a place called Maison Blanche there was a large cavern which
was used as a billet for one of the battalions in reserve. Some
strange stories were told about the fighting that had taken place in
it between the French and the Germans at the beginning of the war. I
went down into it one evening when the 16th Battalion was there. It
was a most picturesque place. The walls and roof were white chalk and
the place was cut up by passages and openings which led into other
caves. The atmosphere was smoky, and a multitude of candles lit up the
strange abode. The men were cooking in their mess tins, some were
playing cards, and some were examining the seams of their shirts. I
told them I was going to have a service at one end of the cavern and I
proceeded thither with a good number following. Some of the card
players seemed too interested in their game to care to attend, and so
I called out to the men in a loud voice not to make too much noise,
lest they should disturb the gamblers. One of the men who was playing
cards responded "If you will wait till we have finished this hand,
Sir, we will all come too." I made the announcement therefor that we
would not begin till the players were ready. The result of this was
that in a very little while all the men came and joined in the
service.
The possession of the Ridge gave the Germans a great advantage, because
it commanded a view of a very large piece of country and several main
roads. Further up the road from Maison Blanche there was a place
called Arriane Dump, where the Engineers had stored material in
preparation for our attack. A long plank road connected it with the
Anzin-St. Eloi road. On a dark and rainy night that wooden track (p. 165)
was an unpleasant place for a walk. Lorries, wagons, limbers, transports,
horses and men crowded it, and the traffic every now and then would
get blocked. No flashlights could be used, and it was hard to escape
being run over. Yet to step off the boards meant to sink almost to
your knees in mud. The language that one heard at such times in the
darkness was not quite fit for ears polite. It is well that the horses
were not able to understand the uncomplimentary speeches that were
addressed to them.
There was a tremendous concentration of artillery in the back area.
The town of Anzin, on the bank of the river Scarpe, was filled with
heavy batteries. To ride through it was to run the risk of many
unpleasant surprises from the sudden firing of big guns by the
wayside. Once, I was approaching an apparently harmless hole in a
brick wall, when all of a sudden Dandy and I found ourselves enveloped
in flame and almost stunned by a huge report. As we bounded past the
hole, I saw a large gun moving up and down under the force of its
recoil, and with smoke still curling out of its mouth.
The siege battery in which my third son was a gunner had now arrived
and taken up its position in a field behind Anzin, where a 15-inch
howitzer sent forth its deadly missives to the Germans every fifteen
minutes and in return drew their fire. One day a shell burst in a hut
used by some Railway Troops. A large number of them were wounded and
eleven killed, whom I buried in a row on the hillside.
On the 4th of April, we received news that America had declared war upon
Germany. I thanked God in my heart that at last the English-speaking
world had been drawn together, and I knew that the effect upon the
Germans would be disastrous. I rode out that afternoon to give the
good news to our men. I met a British Battalion coming out of the
line, looking very tired and hungry. They were resting by the
roadside, and I passed along and cheered them by telling them that the
United States had now come in definitely as one of our Allies, and
that I thought the effect would be the shortening of the war.
America's decision could not have come at a better time. The year was
opening out before us, and the initiative was coming into our hands
The prospect was bright and our men were keen for the encounter.
April 6th was Good Friday. It was impossible to have service at (p. 166)
Ecoivres, as everyone was so busy, so I rode over to Anzin and had
service for the 7th Siege Battery in an empty Nissen hut. Most of the
men of the battery were present, and I had forty communicants. The
place was lit by candles which every now and then were extinguished by
the firing of the fifteen-inch gun nearby. Easter Day was originally
intended to be the day for our attack, but it had been postponed till
Monday. We could not do much in the way of observing the great feast.
Every room and shed in the town was filled, and men were lying out
under rubber sheets in the fields. I had two celebrations of the Holy
Communion in the Y.M.C.A. hut, the floor of which was covered with
sleeping men. I managed to clear a little space on the stage for the
altar. Of course, not many attended, but at one of the services was an
officer who had won the V.C. and the D.S.O. and had a foreign
Decoration as well. In the afternoon I visited and gave an address to
one of the battalions moving up the line. I also had a service in the
cinema that evening.
It was a time of mingled anxiety and exhilaration. What did the next
twenty-four hours hold in store for us? Was it to be a true Easter for
the world, and a resurrection to a new and better life? If death
awaited us, what nobler passage could there be to Eternity than such a
death in such a cause? Never was the spirit of comradeship higher in
the Canadian Corps. Never was there a greater sense of unity. The task
laid upon us was a tremendous one, but in the heart of each man, from
private to general, was the determination that it should be performed.
On that Easter night, the battalions took their places in the line.
The men at the guns, which had hitherto been concealed and kept
silent, were ready to open fire at zero hour, and all along that front
the eager heart of Canada waited impatiently for the dawn.