Jefferson got inside the mill without difficulty. It was a creaky,
rat-haunted old place, and no one lived within half a mile of it.
Poking about, he discovered nothing until his eyes happened to fall on
a little medallion stuck between two boards on the floor.
Picking it up, Jefferson recognised it as one of those little
“miraculous medals” which he had seen strung on a light chain around
Martha’s neck. He frowned thoughtfully, and put it in his pocket.
He hid himself in a corner and waited. He waited so long that he fell
asleep. The opening of the little wooden door of the mill roused him
with a start. There was a long pause, and then the sound of footsteps
coming up the wooden stairway which led to where Jefferson lay. The
window in the mill-face reflected the dying glow of a perfect sunset,
and the light in the mill was faint. He could hear the hum of a
biplane’s engines as it hurried homeward, the day’s work done.
A peaked cap rose above the level of the floor, followed by a stout,
rubicund face. A Belgian gendarme.
Jefferson fingered his revolver, and waited. The gendarme looked
around, grunted, and disappeared down the steps again, closing the door
that led into the mill with a bang. Jefferson sat up and rubbed his
head.
He did not quite understand.
Perhaps ten minutes had passed when for the third time that night the
door below was opened softly, closed as softly, and some one hurried up
the steps.
It was Martha. She had a shawl over her head and shoulders, and she was
breathing quickly, with parted lips.
Jefferson noiselessly dropped his revolver into his pocket again.
With swift, sure movements, the girl began to set the machinery of the
mill in motion. By glancing over to the window, Jefferson could see the
sails move slowly--very, very slowly. Martha fumbled for a paper in her
bosom, and, drawing it forth, scrutinised it tensely. Then she set
the machinery in motion again. She had her back to him. Jefferson rose
stealthily and took a step towards her. A board creaked and, starting
nervously, the girl looked round.
For a moment the two gazed at each other in dead silence.
“Martha,” said Jefferson, “Martha!”
There was a mixture of rage and reproach in his voice. Even as he spoke
they heard the whine of shells overhead, and then four dull explosions.
“Your work,” cried Jefferson thickly, taking a stride forward and
seizing the speechless woman by the arm.
Martha looked at him with a kind of dull terror in her eyes, with utter
hopelessness, and the man paused a second. He had not known he cared
for her so much. Then, in a flash, he pictured the horrors for which
this woman, a mere common spy, was responsible.
He made to grasp her more firmly, but she twisted herself from his
hold. Darting to the device which freed the mill-sails, she wrenched at
it madly. The sails caught in the breeze, and began to circle round,
swiftly and more swiftly, until the old wooden building shook with the
vibration.
* * * * *
From his observation post a German officer took in the new situation at
a glance. A few guttural sounds he muttered, and then turning angrily
to an orderly he gave him a curt message. “They shall not use it if we
cannot,” he said to himself, shaking his fist in the direction of the
whirring sails.
* * * * *
In the little village part of the church and the baker’s shop lay in
ruins. Martha had sent but a part of her signal, and it had been acted
upon with characteristic German promptitude.
In the windmill on the hill, which shook crazily as the sails tore
their way through the air, a man and a woman struggled desperately, the
woman with almost superhuman strength.
Suddenly the earth shook, a great explosion rent the air, and the mill
on the hill was rent timber from timber and the great sails doubled up
like tin-foil.
“Good shooting,” said the German Forward Observation Officer, as he
tucked his glass under his arm and went “home” to dinner.
COURCELETTE
“It was one of the nastiest jobs any battalion could be called on to
perform; to my mind far more difficult than a big, sweeping advance.
The First Battalion has been in the trenches eighteen days, on the
march four days, and at rest one day, until now. No men could be asked
to do more, and no men could do more than you have done. I congratulate
you, most heartily.”
In the above words, addressed to the men and officers of the First
Canadian Infantry Battalion, Western Ontario Regiment, Major-General
Currie made it plain to all that among the Honours of the First
Battalion few will take higher place than that which will be inscribed
“COURCELETTE.”
On the night of September 20th, 1916, the First Battalion moved up from
support to the firing-line, beyond the ruins of the above-mentioned
little hamlet. For the past few days it had rained incessantly, and
all ranks had been working night and day, in mud and slush, carrying
material of all kinds to the front line. The men were soaked to the
skin, caked with mud, and very weary, but they went “up-along” with
an amazing cheeriness, for rumour had whispered that the regiment was
to attack, and the men were in that frame of mind when the prospect
of “getting their own back” appealed to them hugely. Although the
enemy opened up an intense barrage during the relief, casualties
were comparatively few, and by morning the First Battalion was,
Micawber-like, “waiting for something to turn up.”
Three companies, “A,” “B,” and “D,” held the front line, with
“C” Company in close support. The positions were to the east of
Courcelette, opposite a maze of German trenches which constituted a
thorn in the side of the Corps and Army Commanders, and which had for
several days checked the advance and were therefore a serious menace
to future plans. Just how great was the necessity to capture this
highly organised and strongly manned defensive system may be gauged
by the letter received by the Commanding Officer from the Divisional
Commander on the eve of the attack. In it the G.O.C. expressed his
confidence in the ability of “The Good Old First” to capture the
position, and to hold it, and he added that it _must_ be taken at all
costs--“if the first attack fails, you must make a second.” On the
capture of this strong point hung the fate of other operations on the
grand scale.
It was the key position, and it fell to the First Canadian Battalion to
be honoured with the task of taking it.
Until two and a half hours previous to the attack (when the Operation
Order had been issued, and final instructions given), the latest _maps_
of the German defences had been all the C.O. and his staff could work
upon. Then, truly at the eleventh hour, an aerial _photograph_, taken
but twenty-four hours before, was sent to Bn. Head-quarters with the
least possible delay. This showed such increase in the enemy defences,
and trenches in so much better shape to withstand attack, that the
whole tactical situation was changed, and it became necessary not only
to alter the operation order completely, but also to draw a map,
showing the most recent German lines of defence. This was done.
It is difficult to single out for praise any special portion of a
regiment, or any member of it, especially when _all_ the units have
been subjected to intense and violent bombardment prior to attack,
not to mention the activities of numerous snipers. One Company alone
lost half their effectives through the fire of a “whizz-bang” battery
which completely enfiladed their position. The Battalion and Company
runners cannot be too highly praised--they were the sole means of
communication--and risked their lives hourly, passing through and over
heavily-pounded trenches, and in and out of the village of Courcelette,
which was subjected to “strafing” at all hours of the day and night,
without cessation. Tribute is also due to the carrying parties, who
took from beyond the Sugar Refinery, and through the village, bombs,
ammunition, water, and rations, leaving at every trip their toll of
dead and wounded.
Zero hour was at 8.31 P.M., preceded for one minute by hurricane
artillery fire. Previous to this the heavy guns had carried out a
systematic bombardment of the German defences, yet, as was subsequently
discovered, failing to do them great damage, and not touching the main
fire trench at all.
At 8.28½ P.M. the Germans suddenly opened with a murderous artillery
and machine-gun fire along our front. They had by some means or other
discovered that an attack was about to take place. At this time the
assaulting waves were in position, “A” Coy. on the left flank, “D”
Coy. in the centre, and “B” Coy. on the right flank, while a Battalion
Reserve of eighteen men--five of whom became casualties three minutes
later--waited for orders a little in rear. These men belonged to
“C” Company, the major portion of which had already been sent to
reinforce the front line. All our guns then opened up with an electric
spontaneity. To such an extent that one charging company was forced
to halt a full minute in No Man’s Land until the barrage lifted a few
hundred yards in rear of the German lines, to catch their reserves
coming up.
Among the _Fragments from France_ there is a Bairnsfather picture
entitled “We shall attack at Dawn” and “We do!” The situation much
resembled it.
One could hear nothing but the vicious “splack” of high explosive
shrapnel, the deep “Krrumph” of 6-inch and 8.2’s, “coal-boxes” and
“woolly bears”; great herds of shells whined and droned overhead, and
now and then emerged from the tumult the coughing, venomous spit of
machine-guns. One could see myriads of angrily-bursting yellow and
orange-coloured flames, and all along the front dozens of green Verey
lights, and red, as the Germans called frantically on their artillery,
and at the same time showed that some of their own batteries were
firing short (a thing which always gives great joy to all ranks). Now
and then a deeper series of booms announced a bombing battle, and the
air was heavy with the odour of picric fumes and thick with smoke.
On the left flank “A” Coy. met with stubborn opposition. Four
machine-guns opened on their first wave, cutting it to pieces, as
it was enfiladed from the flanks. The Company reformed at once, and
charged again. This time they were met by a heavy counter-attack in
force. In the cold words of official phraseology, “This opposition was
overcome.” It was here that two very gallant officers were lost--Lieut.
B. T. Nevitt and Major F. E. Aytoun--while leading their men. The
last seen of Lieut. Nevitt, he was lying half in and half out of a
shell-hole, firing his revolver at the enemy who were almost on top of
him, and calling to his men to come on. Major Aytoun’s last words were,
“Carry on, men!”
“B” Coy., on the left flank, met with little opposition, attained the
whole of their objective, and established communication by patrol
with the troops on their right flank, a difficult operation. Here
Lieut. Unwin, a splendid young officer, laid down his life, and
Lieut. MacCuddy, who had carried on in the most exemplary manner, was
mortally wounded. This Company captured a German Adjutant from whom
much valuable information was obtained. Thoroughly demoralised, his
first words were: “Take me out of this, and I will tell you anything,
but anything.” On this German’s reaching head-quarters he amused every
one by saying: “I come me to the West front September 22nd, 1914, as
a German officer. I go me from the West front September 22nd, 1916,
Heaven be thanked, as a German prisoner. For me the war is over,
hurrah!”
In the centre “D” Coy. also attained their objective and captured a
trophy, in the shape of a Vickers gun (which had been converted to
German usage). This gun was taken by Lieut. J. L. Youngs, M.C., who
bombed the crew, which thereon beat a hasty retreat, leaving half their
number killed and wounded. This was one of the best pieces of work done
individually in this action. Major W. N. Ashplant was wounded here, at
the head of his men, and is now missing, and believed killed.
Bombing posts were thrown out at once, and manned by Battalion and
Company bombers, who, time and again, repulsed German bombing attacks.
“A” Coy. linked up with “D” and “D” Coy. with “B,” while the Lewis gun
sections worked admirably, but one gun being lost, despite the heavy
artillery fire. The whole line was at once consolidated. Hundreds of
German bombs, Verey lights and pistols, many rifles, and quantities of
ammunition were captured, and also forty prisoners, the great majority
of whom were unwounded.
“C” Coy.’s reserve was almost immediately used up, a company of the 4th
Bn. coming up in support, at the request of the Commanding Officer of
the First Battalion.
“Your attack was so vicious,” declared a prisoner, “that no troops
could withstand it.”
“Too good troops”--this from a tall, fair member of the Prussian
Guard--“better than we are!”
The Germans opposed to the First Battalion were picked troops, among
whom the iron-cross had been freely distributed.
On capturing this network of enemy lines to the east of Courcelette,
the First Battalion discovered that what was at first deemed a small
stronghold, was in reality a formidable position, held by the enemy in
large numbers. Not only was there a deep, fire-stepped main trench, in
which they had dug many “funk-holes,” but also a series of support and
communication trenches, and numerous bombing posts.
During the thirty hours following the capture of this ground, numerous
counter-attacks took place, all of which were repulsed with heavy enemy
losses. Bombing actions were frequent along the whole line, and at
least two attacks were made in force.
A small post, held by two men, on the right flank of “D” Coy., to
communicate with “B,” accounted for six Germans in the following
manner: Early in the morning six of the enemy advanced with their hands
up. Our men watched them closely, albeit they called out “Kamerad” and
were apparently unarmed. The foremost suddenly dropped his hands and
threw a bomb. Our men thereupon “went to it” and killed three of the
Germans, wounding the remainder with rifle fire as they ran back to
their own lines.
At dusk on the 23rd the Germans tried another ruse before attempting
an attack in force. Two of them were sent out, calling “Mercy, mercy,
Kamerad,” and as usual with their hands up, and no equipment. But the
officer in charge saw a number of Germans advancing behind them, and at
once ordered heavy rifle and machine-gun fire to be opened on them.
This, and bombs, resulted in the attack being broken up completely. “B”
Coy. dispersed several bombing attacks, and “A” Coy. broke up a heavy
attack, as well as bombing attacks. Fog at times rendered the position
favourable for the enemy, but not one inch of ground was lost.
Every man of the fighting forces of the First Battalion was engaged
in this action, and much valuable assistance during consolidation and
counter-attack was rendered by the Company of the Fourth Battalion sent
up to support. For over thirty hours after the assault the regiment
held on, heavy fog rendering relief in the early hours of the 24th
a difficult undertaking, all the more so in view of the intense and
long-continued barrage opened by the enemy during the hours of relief.
In fact, during the whole tour of the First Canadian Battalion in the
Courcelette sector, the regiment was subjected to intense and incessant
fire.
When the remainder of the First Battalion marched out to rest, with Hun
helmets and other souvenirs hanging to their kits, they marched with
the pride of men who knew they had done their bit.
The Corps Commander rode over to congratulate the Commanding Officer
and the regiment, and such terms were used from the Highest Command
downwards that the “Old First” knows and is proud of the fact, that
another laurel has been added to the wreaths of the battalion, the
brigade, the division, and the Canadian Army.
We have but one sorrow, one deep regret, and that is for Our Heroic
Dead.
CARNAGE
There is a little valley somewhere among the rolling hills of the Somme
district wherein the sun never shines. It is a tiny little valley, once
part of a not unattractive landscape, now a place of horror.
Half a dozen skeletons of trees, rotting and torn, fringe the southern
bank, and the remnants of a sunken road curve beneath the swelling
hill that shields the valley from the sun. Flowers may have grown
there once, children may have played under the then pleasant green of
the trees; one can even picture some dark-eyed, black-haired maid of
Picardy, sallying forth from the little hamlet not far off with her
milking-stool and pail, to milk the family cow in the cool shade of the
trees and the steep above.
But that was long ago--at least, it seems as though it _must_ have been
long ago--for to-day the place is a shambles, a valley of Death. Those
who speak of the glory of war, of the wonderful dashing charges, the
inspiring mighty roar of cannon--let them come to this spot and look on
this one small corner of a great battle-field. Within plain view are
villages that will have a place in history--piles of broken brick and
crushed mortar that bear silent, eloquent testimony to the Kultur of
the twentieth century. Round about the land is just a series of tiny
craters, fitted more closely together than the scars on the face of a
man who has survived a severe attack of small-pox; and here and there,
scattered, still lie the dead. No blade of grass dare raise its sheath
above ground, for the land is sown with steel and iron and lead, and
the wreckage and wrack and ruin of the most bitter strife.
Even those who have seen such things for many months past pause
involuntarily when they reach this valley of the shadow. It is a
revelation of desolation--the inner temple of death. In that little
space, perhaps three hundred feet long and a bare forty wide, lie the
bodies of nearly a hundred men, friend and foe, whose souls have gone
on to the happy hunting ground amid circumstances of which no tongue
could give a fitting account, no pen a fitting description.
Once a German stronghold, this place passed into our hands but a short
while since. Two guns were tucked away in under the hill, and the
infantry, suddenly ejected from their forward position, fell back on
them, and taking advantage of a pause strengthened their position, and
brought up reinforcements. Thereupon our guns concentrated on them
with fearful results, although when the infantry swept forward, there
were still enough men in the deep, half-filled in trench to put up a
desperate resistance.
It is not difficult to read the story of that early morning struggle.
The land is churned in all directions, two of the bigger trees have
fallen, and now spread out gnarled branches above the remnants of some
artillery dugouts. Pools of water, thick glutinous mud--both are tinged
in many spots a dark red-brown--and portions of what were once men, lie
scattered around in dreadful evidence.
But for his pallor, one might think that man yonder is still living. He
is sitting in an easy attitude, leaning forward, one hand idle in his
lap, his rifle against his knee, and with the other hand raised to his
cheek as though he were brushing off a fly. But his glassy eyes stare,
and his face is bloodless and grey, while a large hole in his chest
shows where the enemy shrapnel smote him.
Corpses of dead Germans are piled, in places, one over the other, some
showing terrible gaping wounds, some headless, some stripped of all
or part of their clothing, by the terrific explosion of a great shell
which rent their garments from them. In more than one place old graves
have been blown sky-high, and huddled skeletons, still clad in the rags
of a uniform, lie stark under the open sky.
Papers, kits, water-bottles, rifles, helmets, bayonets, smoke goggles,
rations, and ammunition are scattered everywhere in confusion. Some
of the _débris_ is battered to bits, some in perfect condition.
Shell-cases, shell-noses, and shrapnel pellets lie everywhere, and
there arises from the ground that peculiar, terrible odour of blood,
bandages, and death, an odour always dreaded and never to be forgotten.
In one German dug-out three men were killed as they lay, and sat,
sleeping. Some one has put a sock over their faces; it were best to let
it remain there. Yonder, a Canadian and a German lie one on top of the
other, both clutching their rifles with the bayonets affixed to them,
one with a bayonet thrust through his stomach, the other with a bullet
through his eye.
At night the very lights shine reluctant over the scene, but the moon
beams impassive on the dead. Burial parties work almost silently,
speaking in whispers, and, shocking anomaly, one now and then hears
some trophy hunter declare, “Say, this is some souvenir, look at this
‘Gott mit Uns’ buckle!”
“A” COMPANY RUSTLES
When we got into the bally place it was raining in torrents, and the
air was also pure purple because the Colonel found some one in his old
billet, and the Town-Major, a cantankerous old dug-out who seemed to
exist chiefly for the purpose of annoying men who did go into the front
line, was about as helpful as the fifth wheel to a wagon. Finally,
the Colonel shot out of his office like an eighteen-pounder from a
whizz-bang battery, and later on the tattered remnants of our once
proud and haughty Adjutant announced to us, in the tones of a dove who
has lost his mate, that there were no billets for us at all, and that
officers and men would have to bivouac by the river.
Under all circumstances the Major is cheerful--and he has a very
clear idea of when it is permissible to go around an order. Also the
Town-Major invariably has the same effect on him as such an unwelcome
visitor as a skunk at a garden-party would have on the garden-party.
Having consigned the aforesaid T.-M. to perdition in Canadian, English,
French, and Doukhobor, he said: “We are going to have billets for
the men, and we are going to have billets for ourselves.” That quite
settled the matter, as far as we Company officers were concerned. In
the course of the next half-hour we had swiped an empty street and a
half for the men, and put them into it, and then we gathered together,
seven strong, and proceeded to hunt for our own quarters.
There is a very strongly developed scouting instinct among the
Canadian forces in the Field. Moreover, we are not overawed by outward
appearances. In the centre of the town we found a château; and an hour
later we were lunching there comfortably ensconed in three-legged
arm-chairs, with a real bowl of real flowers on the table, and certain
oddments of cut-glass (found gleefully by the batmen) reflecting the
bubbling vintage of the house of Moët et Chandon. Our dining-hall
was about sixty feet by twenty, and we each had a bedroom of
proportionate size, with a bed of sorts in it. Moreover, the place was
most wonderfully clean--it might almost have been prepared for us--and
McFinnigan, our cook, was in the seventh heaven of delight because he
had found a real stove with an oven.
“I cannot understand,” said the Major, “how it is no one is in this
place. It’s good enough for a Divisional Commander.”
There was actually a bath in the place with water running in the taps.
Jones, always something of a pessimist, shook his head when he saw the
bath.
“Look here, all you boys,” he said, “this is no place for us. There is
an unwritten law in this outfit that no man, unless he wears red and
gold things plastered all over his person, shall have more than one
bath in one month. Now _I_ had one three weeks ago, and I am still----
but why dwell on it?”
Needless to say he was ruled out of order.
Just to show our darned independence, we decided to invite most of
the other officers of the battalion to dinner that evening, “plenty
much swank” and all that kind of thing. Would that we had thought
better of it. Of course we eventually decided to make a real banquet
of it, appointed a regular mess committee, went and saw the Paymaster,
and sent orderlies dashing madly forth to buy up all the liqueurs,
Scotch, soda, and other potations that make glad the heart of man. We
arranged for a four-course dinner, paraded the batmen and distributed
back-sheesh and forcible addresses on the subjects of table-laying and
how to balance the soup and unplop the bubbly.