JUST LOOKING ABOUT
At the front you never need to go beyond
the day on which you write to find things
of interest to tell those who have not known
the life, who are so unfortunate as to have to
remain hundreds, or perhaps thousands, of
miles from the center of interest in the
greatest game the world has ever known--the game
of war--being played at this moment by all
the highly cultured, civilized, and refined
peoples of the world!
It is a bright spring day in May, 1917,
for so-called Sunny France is trying to redeem
herself after an abominable winter. I am
sitting on a tin biscuit box at the entrance of my
R.A.P.--regimental aid post--just on the
outskirts of a ruined village. Had I taken
this position one month ago my stay in the
land of the living would have lasted
something under ten minutes, for then the German
front line was about three hundred yards away.
But since that time the Battle of Vimy Ridge
has come and gone, and the Germans are
pushed back well beyond the ridge. So it is
comparatively safe to sit here, for the only
danger is from a stray shell, as it happens at the
moment the Huns are too busy defending
themselves from a heavy assault from the
Canadians on our right to send any shells this way.
This morning a number of villages opposite
our right front are to be taken, and as
I sit looking about our guns are firing so
continuously that they make what the boys call
drumfire, that is, a continuous roll such as
kettledrums make. Our artillery is so immense
in numbers of guns that drumfire is common by
day. By night the sky on the horizon is lit up
in all directions by the repeated flashes of the
guns, giving the appearance of an immense
fireworks exhibition.
All about me are the signs of war. I am
looking toward a mass of ruins which occupy
the site of what was once a well-built and
prosperous little city. All that now remains of it
is a stone wall here and there, and everywhere
piles of stone and brick and mortar. Not one
roof remains. There on the left, that high pile
of demolished walls, is all that exists of a once
elaborate church. Amidst the ruins the cellars
are occupied as habitations for the troops. If
you wander among them you will see some
strange names given to their quarters by the
wags of the companies--such names as The
Devil's Inn, Home Sweet Home, The Savoy,
The Sister Susie Hotel, and other such devices.
But there is one object amongst the ruins
that strikes my eye. It is two hundred yards
from where I am seated. It appears plainly
to be the shattered trunk of a tree, two feet
in diameter and twenty feet in height. It is
the largest in the vicinity of those that remain
to wave their withered and emaciated arms in
mocking derision at our so-called civilization.
Let us walk across to it together. Until we
are almost touching it we recognize nothing
but a shattered tree-trunk. On closer inspection
we find that what appeared to be the bark
is only a good paper imitation of bark, and
its irregular upper end has been made by hand,
not, as we had supposed, by the impact of a
shell. Behind the tree, at its root, is a
passageway down which we go to find ourselves
actually entering the trunk through a small
door. Looking up we see a perfectly made
steel cylinder, up which steps lead to the top.
Here a seat is placed and an observer may
look through a small slit in the steel casing and
through a split in the imitation bark, getting
a good view of things far in advance.
This is the explanation of this strange
affair: A large tree which stood upon this spot
had been shattered by a shell, the shattering
having taken place when the Germans held
Vimy Ridge. This shattered tree was only
four hundred yards from the enemy front line.
Months before the Battle of Vimy Ridge some
quick-minded engineer noticed this tree, and
the idea occurred that it could be utilized to
good advantage. The steel frame was made
and covered in exact imitation of the tree
trunk, all other arrangements made, and one
night the tree was removed and this counterfeit
of it was put up. When day broke an
observer was sitting comfortably in this strange
observation post looking out upon the enemy
trenches, watching the movements of the
Germans, at the same time being safe from any
danger except the straight hit of a shell.
Now let us return to our biscuit box and
see what else there is of interest. All about
are sitting boys with red crosses on their
sleeves. They are stretcher bearers for a field
ambulance. Here and there is a gun position
from which a bang and a flash come spasmodically,
as the guns throw their lead and steel
souvenirs at the Germans. To our right as we
face the enemy lines is a much used road, up
which we can see motor lorries by the score
pouring forward their loads of ammunition.
Then there are packmules, motor cyclists,
ambulances and--a strange sight--cavalry are
going forward.
Is the war changing from the old trench
warfare of the past three years into open warfare
of the past century? Ah! There is still
another sight, and a pleasant one. It is a group
of German prisoners going to the rear,
guarded by a couple of Tommies. Word comes back
that the attack which began some hours ago,
and at which the guns are still mumbling and
rumbling in anger, has been a success; the
objectives have been reached and many prisoners
taken, though the Huns are making a stiff
stand of it.
Overhead aeroplanes are humming to and
fro, looking far in advance of our troops,
seeing the effects of our gunfire, signaling
instructions to our artillery, watching the
movements of the enemy, and generally acting as
the eyes of the army.
In front of us, and to the left, is a
crater--an immense hollow in the ground, caused by
the explosion by the enemy or ourselves at
some earlier stage of the war, of a huge load of
dynamite, ammonal or some other high
explosive. This crater is situated in what was No
Man's Land before April 9 and the great push,
at which time it was used as a killing place for
our enemies. Now it is a burial place for our
friends. The French Government has notified
us that if, in burying our dead, we will put the
bodies in groups of fifty in each burial plot,
they will buy the hallowed ground, keep it in
repair, and present it to the British people.
And the corps burying party has utilized
Lichfield Crater for this purpose, has gathered
together fifty or sixty of our gallant dead, and
deposited their sacred remains in this spot,
erecting over the grave a large wooden cross
with the names of the dead upon it. In
limestone they have laid out the following
epitaph:
To THE BRAVE CANADIANS OF THE SECOND
DIVISION WHO GAVE UP THEIR LIVES ON
APRIL 9,1917.
R. I. P.
What hallowed shrines these cemeteries of
fifty will become after the war, when those
whose loved ones paid their full measure of
devotion in the cause of freedom are able to
come to visit the deservedly honored graves of
their husbands, fathers, sons, brothers, and
sweethearts. I visited this little cemetery this
morning. As I left it some Tommies passed
with a large, red paper balloon sent across by
the Germans with the message, "Canadians,
we are ready to quit if you are."
But the Canadians, the British, the Americans,
or the French, are not yet ready to quit!
Nor will they be till the day comes when
Prussian militarism is curbed so thoroughly that
your boys and mine will not have to give up
their lives in conquering it ten years from now!