LANDING IN FRANCE
The battle song of the British Army, "Tipperary," which was made
imperishable by the men who died at Mons and the Marne, was the first
sound that rang in our ears as our ship drew up to the landing. It
was a beautiful day, for spring had already begun to blossom in that
part of the country, although when we hit the firing line it was
still dead winter, and the scenery in France was disclosed to
perfection that day.
The song was being sung by French children in excellent English who
congregated in hundreds on the quay to see the Canadian soldiers
disembark, and I don't think a finer set of boys ever set foot in
France than Canada's first contingent.
Little did we think that in two short months more than half of us
would be dead, dying and shot to pieces.
A storm of cheering rent the air as our ship was moored to the dock.
Oranges, bananas, grapes and fruit of every description were thrown
to us, to which we replied by sending over buttons, badges, etc.,
these "Souvenirs Canadian" being literally fought for by the crowd.
One stalwart Frenchman earned our undying gratitude by catching our
company commander squarely on the side of the face with a nice plump
orange. It landed with a lovely stinging smack and spread itself
most luxuriantly over his capacious mug. Those who had been
recipients of the numerous punishments dealt out for our misdeeds
chuckled quietly and nudged each other in unholy glee.
We were no sooner safely docked than--to work. Winches groaned as if
in protest, as they hauled guns, ammunition and other impedimenta of
a division on active service. Fatigue parties sweated and cursed as
they stumbled backwards and forwards on and off the ship. Every man
had his work to do, and long before daylight everything was ready for
our departure north.
At five o'clock in the morning we were issued goatskin coats, mittens
and gloves, and inspected by the O.C. The order came to march, and
in heavy marching order, we trudged to the depot. This marching
order consists of rifle and bayonet attached to braces, which in turn
are attached by self-locking buckles to the belt, the knapsack or
valise which usually contains a shaving kit, towel, soap, change of
underwear, socks, one pair of boots, mess tin, and any other little
convenience you may wish to carry. Later on we learned by bitter
experience to dispense with everything except absolute necessities.
The aforesaid goatskin coats were a gift from the then Czar of Russia
and were supposed to have come from China. When we had donned our
gift coats there was a perceptible murmur of comment running from end
to end of the ranks, caused by the odor from the presents of the Czar
not unlike the presence of a skunk. Examination disclosed that the
bloody (literally) coats were dotted in many places with the actual
flesh of the deceased animals still sticking to them. In spite of
stern orders from the O.C's. of the various companies to maintain
silence during inspection, it was plainly discernible that the smell
had penetrated even the seasoned nostrils of the officers themselves,
from the Colonel down. I am certain that the Germans would have been
badly frightened that we had a poison gas of our own if we had had a
chance to tackle them with our coats on when the stink was fresh and
full in its pristine glory, as it was when we first got them.
As fate would have it, and as usual, I got a garment that would have
covered the hairy legs of Goliath of Gath; I almost tramped on the
hairy fringe every time I stepped, and I can't think of anything that
would more aptly describe my appearance than my chum Morgan's
exclamation: "For God's sake, fellows, take a look at this little
runt of a centipede. Shorty, for the love of Mike have you any idea
what you look like?"
"Go to hell," I snorted, whereat the entire platoon held their sides,
and I was mad enough to turn a machine gun on them.
Hanging from the belt is the entrenching tool and handle; it is
shaped like a tiny grub hoe. One would be apt to be amused at the
idea of digging a hole with a toy like that, but under shell fire you
could dig a hole quicker with that little tool than with a pick and
shovel.
Next is the haversack worn on the left side and the water bottle on
the right. In the pouches attached to the belt and braces a hundred
and twenty rounds of ball ammunition are carried. In addition to all
this a man takes his blanket and oil sheet rolled on the top of his
valise.
One can understand from this why men for the army need so much
training. Men of the finest physique would collapse inside of a mile
with marching order on their backs if not properly trained.
We arrived at the depot where we were told to lie down if we wished
and we did so with alacrity and waited for the train. Day broke, and
once more fatigue work. Guns were loaded on flat cars and transport
wagons, horses were placed in box cars, eight to a car, hay, straw,
rations, etc., were loaded in double quick time, and finally the men
were off, so many to a car. On the side of the cars in white letters
was painted the legend Chevaux 8, Hommes 40, which to those who do
not know French means eight horses or forty men.
Forty-three were told off to our car and here the first taste of
active service really began. We were three days on board that train,
but not only could we not lie down, but there was not enough room to
even sit down, and when we rested we took it by relays. However,
with songs and cheers the train pulled out, and in spite of our
cramped quarters we managed to be happy and enjoy our first glimpse
of "La Belle France."
Vociferous were the exclamations of the French at every place we
stopped. Women would draw their forefingers about their throats,
signifying the cutting of that part of the human frame, with the
word, "Allemand," signifying German. An old man, too old to serve in
the army, made the motion of a bayonet thrust, informing us--at least
we guessed that was what he meant--to so treat the hated Allemands.
We were always surrounded by crowds of souvenir hunters, which did
not disturb us at first but before we had half finished our journey
they became an unmitigated nuisance, and the boys were not long in
letting them know their safety depended on the distance they kept
away.
At last on a bleak, raw morning, we detrained at a spot where was
witnessed a desperate encounter between the British and Germans in
the early part of the war. A mile or so from the place is the town
of Hazebrouck. It was here that the terrible toll of this conflict
was brought home to us. Line after line of wooden crosses, with the
names and regiments of the men who lay beneath, stretched for an
appalling distance. Since then a fearful number of graves has been
added, including thousands of our boys of Canada, following the
battle of Ypres.
Later on I noticed the poppies that abound all through sunny France,
waving their pretty heads between the crosses, which gave inspiration
for that beautiful poem by Lieutenant John McCrae, originally
published, I believe, in the London _Punch_. It is well worth
repeating:
IN FLANDERS FIELDS
In Flanders fields the poppies grow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; while in the sky
The larks still bravely singing fly
Unheard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead! Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset's glow,
Loved, and were loved; and now we lie
In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe;
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch--be yours to hold it high,
If ye break faith with us
We shall not sleep 'though poppies blow
In Flanders fields.
After detraining we were placed in billets, ours consisting of an old
barn. The near-by farm was being run by the women of the place, all
the men folks being away in the trenches. These people must have
made a small fortune, as the boys bought eggs, butter, coffee, etc.,
in abundance.
Our experiences in making change for our purchases uniquely expressed
the old saying, "money talks," because the dealers everywhere seemed
to be thoroughly acquainted with the values of English currency,
although they couldn't speak the language.
Here we stayed for a few days until our march to the trenches began.
Nightly, as we lay, we could hear the boom of an occasional big gun,
the rattle of rapid rifle fire, and now and again the peculiar
metallic click and whir of machine guns.
It was in this place that the clock-tower incident occurred: Someone
noticed the hands of the clock on the east end of the tower moving
strangely; two men were sent up to investigate. They did not return
and a search was made for them. They could not be located, but
suspicious sounds were heard up in the tower. The officers decided
it was a case for the guns. One shell brought the tower tumbling
down and with it came the bodies of two German spies and the men who
had been sent to investigate. The spies had been using the hands of
the clock for signaling purposes.