ONE YOUNG MAN AT HILL 60
Many have described in vivid, and none in too vivid, language the
fighting in the spring of 1915. This one young man went through it
all, through the thickest of it all. He can tell a tale which, if
written up and around, would be as thrilling as any yet recorded of
those heroic days. But I prefer, and I know he, a soldier, would
prefer, to chronicle the events of his day after day just as they
occurred, without colour, and without comment.
I print, then, Sydney Baxter's account of the fighting as he wrote it.
I promised that this should be an altogether true chronicle, and it is
well that some who live in the shelter of other men's heroism should
know of the sacrifices by which they are saved. And then, too, as I
read his pages, I heard a suggestion that we were all in danger of
"spoiling" the wounded who come back to us after enduring, for our
sakes, the pains he here describes.
"For three nights the bombardment had been tremendous.
"It was 7 o'clock on the Sunday morning when we first got
the alarm--'turn out and be ready to march off at once.' We
heard that the Hill--the famous Hill 60--had gone up and
that we had been successful in holding it, but the rumours
were that the fighting was terrific. We were soon marching
on the road past battered Vlamertinghe. Shells of heavy
calibre were falling on all sides, and we made for the
Convent by the Lille gate, by a circuitous route--round by
the Infantry Barracks. We dumped our packs in this Convent,
where there were still one or two of the nuns who had
decided to face the shelling rather than leave their old
home.
"We were sorted up into parties. Our job was to carry barbed
wire and ammunition up to the Hill. I was first on the
barbed-wire party; there were about fifty of us and we
collected the 'knife-rests' just outside the Lille gate, and
proceeded up the railway cutting. Shells were falling fairly
fast, as indeed they always seemed to along this cut. At
last we got our knife-rests up by the Hill and dumped them
there. Fortunately we had very few casualties. We started to
go back, but, half-way, we were stopped at the Brigade
Headquarters, a badly damaged barn, and were told that we
had to make another journey with bombs. We were just getting
a few of these bombs out of the barn when the Boches landed
three shells right on top of it. Many of our men were laid
out, but we had to leave them and try to get as much
ammunition out as possible. The barn soon caught fire, and
this made the task a very dangerous one indeed. Every minute
we were expecting the whole lot of ammunition to go up, but
our officer had already taken a watch on it and gave the
alarm just a few seconds before the whole building went
clean up into the air.
"We then began to retrace our steps along the railway out to
the Hill. Each man carried two boxes of bombs. Just as we
reached the communication trench, leading on to the Hill
itself, the Boches sent over several of the tear-gas shells.
We stumbled about half-blind, rubbing our eyes. The whole
party realised that the boys holding the Hill needed the
bombs, so we groped our way along as best we could,
snuffling and coughing, our eyes blinking and streaming. We
stood at intervals and passed the bombs from one to the
other, and had nearly completed our job when the word came
down that no one was to leave the Hill, as a counter-attack
was taking place a few minutes before 6 o'clock. We had
then been at it for nearly ten hours. By this time the
bombardment from both sides was stupendous; every gun on
each side seemed concentrated on this one little stretch, on
this small mound.
"Six o'clock came and I heard a shrill whistle and knew that
our boys were just going over the top. Immediately there was
a deafening rattle of machine guns and rifle fire. And then
a stream of wounded poured down this communication trench.
The wounds were terrible, mostly bayonet. None were dressed;
there had been no time, they were just as they had been
received. Many a poor chap succumbed to his injuries as he
staggered along our trench. To keep the gangway clear we had
to lift these dead bodies out and put them on the top of the
parapets. It was ghastly, but you get accustomed to ghastly
things out here. You realise that fifty dead bodies are not
equal to one living. And these poor fellows, who only a few
minutes before had been alive and full of vigour, were now
just blocking the trench. And so we simply lifted the bodies
out and cast them over the top. By this time the trench was
absolutely full of wounded, and our little party was told to
act as stretcher-bearers, and to get the stretcher cases
down. We were only too glad to do something to help. The
first man that my chum and I carried died half-way down the
cutting. We felt sorry for him, but could do nothing. He was
dead. So we lifted his body on to the side of the track and
returned for the living. This work lasted some considerable
time, and when more stretcher-bearers came up, most of the
cases had been carried down, so we returned to the Convent
exhausted, nerve-shaken, and very glad of the opportunity of
a few hours' sleep. The sights we had seen, the
nerve-racking heavy shelling had upset our chaps pretty
badly. Many of them sobbed. To see and hear a man sob is
terrible, almost as terrible as some of the wounds I have
seen--and they have been very awful. However, as quite a
number of the men had only recently come out, it was natural
enough that we should be upset by this ordeal. Time and
repeated experiences of this kind toughen if they do not
harden a man--but for many this was the first experience.
"Early the next morning the whole battalion made a move
nearer to the Hill. For the greater part of the day we stood
to in dug-outs on the side of the railway embankment, but at
dusk we lined up and received instructions as to the work we
had to do that night and the following day. Our officers
told us that we were going to the Hill to hold off all
counter-attacks, and that if any man on the way up was
wounded no one was to stay with him. He must be left to wait
for the stretcher-bearers. Every man would be needed for
the coming struggle, and although it seemed almost _too_
hard that one must see his chum struck down and be unable to
stop and bind up his wounds, there was no doubt that the
order was very necessary.
"We started off in single file by platoons. This time we did
not go up the cutting, but made our way round by the
reservoir and the dilapidated village of Zillebeke. The
first man to go down was one of my own section. We
remembered the order not to stop, although the temptation
was very strong. So we left him, wishing him the best of
luck and hoping that he would soon be in Blighty. After this
the casualties came faster and faster as we entered into the
shell-swept area. The machine guns were sweeping round and
were making havoc in our ranks. Gradually we drew near to
the little wood just beside Hill 60, and were told to occupy
any dug-outs there until further orders. It was at this time
that the whizz-bang shell made its debut. We had not
encountered this kind of shell before; it was one that gave
absolutely no warning and was used for quite small ranges.
"We had been in these dug-outs for about half an hour when
we were told to fall in and each man to carry two boxes of
bombs. We then went into the communication trench of the
old front line. At this stage our company commander was
wounded.
"However, we got on to the Hill, and each man was
detailed--some for firing, some for bombing, and some for
construction. All the trenches were blown in entirely, and a
large number of us, including my chum and myself, were
detailed for this construction work. Under heavy shelling we
tried to build up the blown-in portions of the trenches.
This was just at a corner leading right on to the Hill and
part of our old front line. We laboured here all night
through. Just before dawn the shelling increased, and the
bombardment grew very terrific. All possible were rushed up
into the crater to take the places of the fallen. Casualties
were terrible, and the wounded came past our corner in one
stream; several of my own friends were amongst them, and two
of them, who had come out with me, were killed just a few
yards away. This terrific cannonade continued until dawn,
when things quietened down a little. Every one's nerves were
on edge, and all of us were thoroughly tired out. In every
part of the trench lay numbers of dead bodies; in fact, to
move about, one had to climb over them. I sat down, dead
beat, for some time on what I thought was a sandbag. I
discovered afterwards it was a dead body.
"Shortly afterwards we were relieved by another regiment,
and in small parties of tens made our way back into Ypres.
This was done in daylight, and we were spotted and shelled
by the Boches. However, we were only too glad to get away
from that ghastly hell, and literally tore along the hedges
down past the reservoir into Ypres. At the hospital, at the
other end of the town, the remnants of the battalion were
collected, and it was there that Sir Horace Smith-Dorrien
spoke to us, congratulating our battalion on its stand the
night before. Worn out, we lined up and marched back along
the road to Vlamertinghe, fondly imagining we were going
back to our well-earned rest (as a matter of fact that was
the programme), but we had not been in these huts more than
half an hour when down the road from St. Julien there rushed
one long column of transports, riderless horses, and wounded
(mostly of the French Algerian regiments). And everywhere
was the cry, 'The Boches have broken through!'
"Orders were soon forthcoming, and we turned out, loaded
magazines, and marched off in the direction from which the
Boches were supposed to be coming. On our way up many
dispatch riders passed, and each one had the same comforting
message--'The Canadians are holding them.' We went no
further, but received orders to dig ourselves in across the
road, and that in the event of the Boches getting as far as
this we were to hold them until the last man. Fortunately
the splendid Canadians had not only held their ground, but
with terrible losses had pushed the enemy two or three miles
back; had, in fact, practically regained all the ground
lost.
"At nightfall we drew picks and shovels and made our way in
the direction of St. Julien. We got to the Yser Canal, and
in crossing the bridge met the batch of wounded coming back.
This was not heartening, but certainly gave all of us a
keener desire to get to grips. On the side of the banks of
the Yser we were formed into three waves and received
instructions that we were going over in extended order to
drive the Huns from the position. But the Canadians had done
so grandly that we were not needed until the following
morning, when, in broad daylight, the remnants of the once
whole battalion, in single file, made their way along the
hedges, taking advantage of every possible cover, up to the
village of St. Jean.
"Much to our surprise we did not stop there, but went right
through and came within view of the Boches. Immediately we
were under the special care of their artillery, and within a
short space of time lost half of our numbers. We had to dig
ourselves in with entrenching tools, but after having got
fairly decent cover, had to move on again over to the left.
We got right forward into the front line, and found it held
by a mere handful of the Canadians, who received us with
enthusiasm and were so heartened by our reinforcements that
they were more determined than ever to hang on to the last.
"Meanwhile between the two lines our wounded lay unattended,
those who were able made their way, crawling and rolling
through the barbed wire, into our lines. At dusk half of the
Canadians occupying the trench made one rush after another
to bring in their wounded and helpless comrades. It was a
wonderful sight. Again and again these fellows went out,
each time carrying back a wounded man. I was the extreme end
man of our regiment, and so was right next to the Canadians
themselves. Their officer, who was hit some time during the
evening, came back with his arm in a sling, refusing to go
down the line to the dressing station, as he preferred to
stay with the remnants of his company. He was a most
encouraging chap, and it was here that I noticed the
difference between the companionship of these officers and
men and those of our own army. The ordinary private would
pull out his small packet of Woodbines and offer one to his
officer, who would accept it with the same feeling of
gratefulness as he would a cigar from a brother officer.
"We stayed with these Canadians for two days. For some
reason or other the transport had failed to bring up our
rations, but we did not suffer for lack of food, for
whatever the Canadians had, we had too. They shared with us
all their rations and kept us for those two days.
"At the end of that time, during which we had witnessed
several attacks on the right, we were relieved from those
trenches and marched back to the farm on the other side of
the Canal. But it was not for a rest; for every night we had
to go up digging and consolidating the trenches regained and
digging communication trenches.
"It was on one of these digging fatigues that my chum was
killed. He and I had been given a small sector to dig, and
it was really a fairly quiet night, as far as firing was
concerned. We had dug down a depth of about three feet and
had secured ourselves against rifle fire and were putting
the final touches to our work, which we had rightly viewed
with pride and satisfaction, when the order came--'D Company
file out towards the left.' We were terribly disappointed
for we had worked all that evening on digging ourselves in
here and we knew that it meant a fresh start elsewhere. We
were just clambering out when there rang out one single shot
from a sniper, apparently lying in front of the German
lines.
"We all got up with the exception of my chum. I did not for
a minute imagine he had been hit, but merely thought he was
making sure that the sniper had finished, so I touched
him--and he half rolled towards me. I lifted him up and
said, 'Did you catch it?' All he could do was to point to
his chin. He was an awful sight. A dum-dum or explosive
bullet had caught his jawbone and had blown the left lower
jaw and part of the neck away. I realised at once that it
was hopeless, for it took four bandages to stop the
spurting. One of our fellows ran off for the
stretcher-bearers. One of these came back, but he could not
stop the flow of blood at all, and the corporal said, 'No
good: it will all be over in a minute.' I could not believe
it at all--it did not seem possible to me that George with
whom I had spent every hour, every day in close
companionship for so many months past, was dying.
"The party went on and I was left alone, but I risked all
chances of court martial and stayed with my wounded friend.
I couldn't leave him until I was absolutely certain that he
was past all aid. He did not last very many minutes, and I
knelt there with my arm round his shoulders, hoping against
hope that something could be done. He was called to pay the
supreme sacrifice of all. And with just one gasp he died.
"I was in a terrible condition. My clothes were soaked in
blood, my hands all red, my mind numbed. Nothing could be
done, so I went and joined my company, but first made
application to the sergeant-major that I might help to bury
my chum. This was granted, and as three other men were
killed that evening, a party of us were detailed to make
graves for them. I can see now those four graves in a
square, railed off by barbed wire, on the cross-roads
between St. Jean and St. Julien. On one corner stood an
estaminet and trenches ran all round. A chaplain was
passing, and we had a service of a minute or two. The time
was about 2 o'clock on Saturday morning. We were only able
to dig down a couple of feet, and these graves must, I fear,
have suffered from the heavy shelling which followed, but I
like to think that my chum still rests there undisturbed.
"How I got back to the barn that night I do not know. I
certainly was not my natural self, and it was more a stagger
than a march. It was impossible to realise that I should see
George no more. And on the following day I had to face the
still harder task of writing to his parents and to the girl
he had left behind."
To this, written by Sydney Baxter, I add nothing. Not to me has it
come to dig a shallow, shell-swept grave for my chum. What words,
then, have I?
One Young Man Receives a Letter