THE RED COCK CROWS
On the afternoon of the 19th I was very busy closing out my
correspondence. I always made it a point while I was out of the
trenches to answer all the letters I had received, and that usually
occupied three or four hours every day while we were out of the trench
line.
Previous to this our battalion has alternated with the Royal Montreal
Regiment in our tour of trench duty. The rule used to be for each
battalion to be three days in the trenches, and then three days out.
In these trenches we were changed around. The 16th Canadian Scottish
were to alternate with the 48th Highlanders. The 16th reported to us
that the trenches were very bad, and we were to go into them the next
night. This evening Majors Marshall and MacKenzie were out visiting
company billets, and my Adjutant, Capt. Dansereau and I went into a
small Flemish restaurant to have our dinner. While we were seated at
the table an officer of the French Flying Corps and several of his men
came in for something to eat, and we engaged in conversation. The
French Officer, whose name is well known, and who was afterwards
killed, was a small perky chap with black hair and eyes. His cheeks
were hollow, as like most of the top-notch aviators he had had his
teeth pulled out.
Many of the aviators have all their teeth drawn because when at very
high altitudes it is very cold, and the nerves of the teeth become
affected and give them most intense pain.
These officers told us that the French Flying Corps was going to leave
that night for a district further south where there was going to be
some "nibbling" at the German front. He told us further that the
Germans were moving a great number of guns into the Ypres section, and
that he had an idea that as soon as the Canadians and British took
over the salient we would be "jolly well shelled," if not attacked in
force. This was very cheerful news, and sure enough the next day they
began shelling the city with big Austrian siege mortars, a shell from
one of which killed Captain Warren.
In the evening of the 20th I rode out to the company billets to see
that everything was in readiness for the battalion to take over the
right section of our line from the 16th. The companies were to march
into three sections independently, shortly after dark, and the idea
was to have the relief over as quickly as possible. I found the men
and officers in excellent spirits. Captain McGregor was to take the
right section of our line, Captain Alexander the left and Captain
McLaren the centre. They started off a little too early in the
evening, and I had to send couriers to halt them and wait for the
darkness. It was a beautiful spring evening, bright and warm. The
larks were still soaring and singing in the sky, and the sun in the
west was going down in a sea of gold and amethyst. South of us at
about Hill 60 the guns were growling, the only sound at the moment to
remind us of the war. But there was something else of ominous portent
noticable. Simultaneously, northwest, east and southeast of our line
three huge German captive balloons reared their heads for all the
world like golden hooded cobras. Away, twenty miles to the south, in
the sky could be seen the snaky outline of a zeppelin. The Germans
were taking observations. When I reached the headquarters' line of
trenches in front of our brigade headquarters, a few hundred yards
west of St. Julien, I sent the horses back with Smith, my groom, and
stood by the roadside to watch the companies go by. First came Major
Osborne, who was to take the left, with his tam-o-shanter bonnet
cocked on the side of his head, as jaunty a Highland officer as ever
trod the heath in Flanders. His company swung after him, marching like
one man. The trenches had certainly not taken anything out of them,
for if anything they looked steadier and sturdier than they did the
day they left their billets in Hazebrouck to take their first march in
France.
Some distance behind came Captain McGregor, his two hundred and forty
men tall as pine trees, with Lieutenant Langmuir and Lieutenant Taylor
at the head of their platoons, both well over six feet. Next came
Captain McLaren, always staid and correct, his company well pulled
together, going so fast that a word of caution had to be given to
them. Last of all came Captain Alexander, whose turn it was to be in
reserve. His company was to occupy and act as part of the garrison at
St. Julien, there to cover themselves with glory.
When I reached the village I found that Major Leckie was occupying the
reserve headquarters of the 16th, and across the road was Colonel
Meighen of the 14th or Montreal Regiment. The south section of the
village was ours and the north was for the reserve corps of the
battalion holding the left section of the line. The house in which we
were quartered had at one time been a small restaurant, but the
village had several times been shot up. The walls almost to the
ceiling were plastered with blood. There was hardly a house in the
village without several shell holes in the roof. Terrible tragedies
had been enacted here. The gardens had a full crop of black and white
crosses.
Colonel Meighen had a very swell house, the windows looking south
towards Hooge and Hill 60. He came over and welcomed me to St. Julien
and showed me his trench diary and plans of the trenches. Colonel
Meighen was a very thorough and painstaking officer, very much loved
by his men. Several companies of his battalion were French Canadians
and they fairly worshipped him. He was a model trench commandant,
never tired of strengthening the works, and always ready himself to do
anything that he asked of his officers or men. He had made an
excellent battalion out of his corps, and as we had alternated with
them in the trenches until this turn, we knew their worth. His second
in command, Colonel Burland, was also a keen and efficient officer.
The commandant of the 14th was not a "fusser." He was always cool and
collected and his example permeated his whole staff and officers.
Captain Holt, his adjutant, was one of the hardest working officers in
the division, cheerful, obedient and alert. He was a model staff
officer.
Major Leckie turned over the trench diary to my adjutant. He reported
that the 16th were hard at work fixing up the trenches which were in a
very poor condition. His brother, Colonel Leckie, was down at
commandant headquarters in the supporting trenches. Major Marshall
went down to take over from Colonel Leckie, and I stayed at report
headquarters to report back as quickly as possible that the trenches
had been taken over. The 16th Battalion did not take very long to get
out, and one by one our Captains reported their companies in place.
The battalions in the trenches reported that the front was quiet, and
it was added that there had not been a casualty in our section among
the French troops for a month.
My sleeping bag was placed in a corner of the only room with a sound
roof in the house, and I slept soundly in spite of the blood-bespattered
wall which told of a desperate struggle in this room during the great
battles of the previous November.
In spite of the fact that the French had not had a casualty for a
month, the map told me we were in the hottest corner in the whole of
Flanders. I did not feel at all nervous, as a matter of fact after a
person has been under shell and rifle fire for a few days he ceases to
be nervous. Nerves are for those who stay at home. At first the heart
action quickens a little with the sound of the explosions and the
crack of the Mauser bullets, but after a while the nerves fail to
respond and the action of the heart becomes slow and the beats below
normal. The explosion of a "Jack Johnson" in the next room will not
give you a tremor. Why should it? Jock will say, "If you are going to
be kilt, you will be kilt ony-way." That is the everyday religion of
the trenches. "When your time comes you will get yours, and all the
machine guns and shells in Germany can have no potency if your time
has not come."
[Illustration: THE FAMOUS ROAD TO YPRES.]
War tends to make us all fatalists, and the officers have to be
continually on the alert to keep the men from becoming careless.
In the morning I tried to arrange to go down to Ypres to the funeral
of Captain Warren. Major Osborne wanted to go also and take a firing
party with him, but much as he would have liked to acquiesce, General
Turner had to refuse, for we were in a dangerous corner and no one
could be spared. Lieutenant Drummond, his brother-in-law, was
permitted to attend. Captain Duguid, the quartermaster, with the
assistance of the engineers, had a metallic coffin made for him and
they buried him in the Canadian burial plot.
That morning I learned of the death of Captain Darling in London. We
had expected that Captain Darling would be convalescent shortly after
he went to England, but about a week before news had come that
gangrene, the terrible disease that took so many of our wounded, had
infected his shoulder, and a number of serious operations had to be
performed. Still we had hoped that his splendid physique would pull
him through. But it was not to be, and the two comrades that had been
the pride of the regiment died within a few hours of each other.
The whole Empire did not possess two kinder or braver men than
Captains Darling and Warren. It is only when men go down into the
valley of the shadow of death together that they learn to appreciate
each other. In the trenches soldiers are true comrades, backbiting,
lying and slandering is left to the slackers and "tin soldiers" who
stay at home. Both these young men were in the flower of their youth,
both left young wives, both were men of means, brought up amidst
wealth and refinement. They gave up a good deal to go to the war, and
their example and their lives should fix a tradition not only for
their fellow officers of "The Red Watch" but also for the whole
Canadian Army. They did not hesitate to "take their place in the
ranks," and they died like the heroes of Marathon and Salamis.
Early in the morning a German aeroplane, an albatress, came over St.
Julien. The German aeroplanes have a large, black maltese or iron
cross on each wing. The allies have a red, white and blue rosette.
Shortly afterwards the German artillery started to shell the southern
section of St. Julien. They threw a few shells at the remains of the
church, then they started after a house and large barn south of us,
about half way to the village of Fortuin. The barn was a large
structure covered with a couple of feet of rye straw thatch
beautifully put on. In a moment there was smoke and we saw some
Canadian artillerymen running towards the barn which was apparently
full of horses. One after another the beautiful artillery teams were
chased out of the burning structure which the Germans continued to
shell. The horses were turned loose in the field and proceeded to
enjoy themselves like colts, and although the Germans fired shrapnel
at them they did not hit one. In a moment the "red cock," as the
Germans say, "was crowing on the roof." The flames rose to a great
height and in a few minutes there was nothing but the charred rafters
left.
The trenches reported everything quiet for the rest of the day.
That afternoon along with one of my signallers, Sergeant Calder, I
made my way to commandant headquarters at the northern extremity of
Gravenstafel ridge, northeast of St. Julien. I met Colonel Meighen,
who showed me a line of trenches east of the church which his
battalion was putting in order. When I got down to commandant
headquarters General Turner came along with his Brigade-Major, Colonel
Hughes. They were looking over the position with a view to having some
dugouts and rifle pits established about five hundred yards south of
my headquarters to support our right in case of trouble, the intention
being to put a company in reserve there. I found commandant
headquarters located in a dugout in the rear of a ruined windmill. The
charred timbers of the mill lay scattered about, and all that
remained of the dwelling house was a heap of bricks and some tiles
still sticking to the roof. A line of short irregular trenches ran
across the front of the slope. Behind headquarters the hill sloped
back to Haenebeek brook, northwest and southeast. Five hundred yards
behind the Gravenstafel ridge ran the road from Zonnebeke to
Langemarck. On this road immediately in our rear there was a ruined
blacksmith shop and several old farm engines. Some of the implements
bore the name of Massey-Harris, which brought back visions of Canada,
and was another evidence of our coming world-wide trade, the
possibilities of which first struck me when I saw the name of another
Canadian manufacturer, Gurney & Co., on a heater alongside the tomb of
William Longsword in Salisbury Cathedral.
A few yards south of the blacksmith shop a dressing station had been
fitted up in the ruins of another farm house at a cross-road which
subsequently came to be known as "enfiladed cross-road." In front of
the blacksmith shop a clear spring of water ran out of a pipe and the
water was cool and good. I quenched my thirst from the steel cup taken
from a French Hussar's helmet. The man who wore the helmet was no
doubt sleeping peacefully beneath one of the crosses that were strewn
thickly over the little cemetery of St. Julien. These little
graveyards were to be found in all the fields and gardens. It was
wonderful how the French soldiers cared for them. Wherever a soldier
of France lay there you would find a cross, with his name and the
legend that he fell on the field of honor. The graves were usually
decorated with tile and flowers, some real, some artificial. France
thus silently worships the memory of her gallant dead.