If there was nothing remarkable about the publication of "In Flanders
Fields", there was something momentous in the moment of writing it.
And yet it was a sure instinct which prompted the writer to send it to
'Punch'. A rational man wishes to know the news of the world in which he
lives; and if he is interested in life, he is eager to know how men feel
and comport themselves amongst the events which are passing. For this
purpose 'Punch' is the great newspaper of the world, and these lines
describe better than any other how men felt in that great moment.
It was in April, 1915. The enemy was in the full cry of victory. All
that remained for him was to occupy Paris, as once he did before, and
to seize the Channel ports. Then France, England, and the world were
doomed. All winter the German had spent in repairing his plans, which
had gone somewhat awry on the Marne. He had devised his final stroke,
and it fell upon the Canadians at Ypres. This battle, known as the
second battle of Ypres, culminated on April 22nd, but it really extended
over the whole month.
The inner history of war is written from the recorded impressions of men
who have endured it. John McCrae in a series of letters to his mother,
cast in the form of a diary, has set down in words the impressions which
this event of the war made upon a peculiarly sensitive mind. The
account is here transcribed without any attempt at "amplification", or
"clarifying" by notes upon incidents or references to places. These are
only too well known.
Friday, April 23rd, 1915.
As we moved up last evening, there was heavy firing about 4.30 on our
left, the hour at which the general attack with gas was made when the
French line broke. We could see the shells bursting over Ypres, and in
a small village to our left, meeting General----, C.R.A., of one of
the divisions, he ordered us to halt for orders. We sent forward
notifications to our Headquarters, and sent out orderlies to get in
touch with the batteries of the farther forward brigades already in
action. The story of these guns will be read elsewhere. They had a tough
time, but got away safely, and did wonderful service. One battery fired
in two opposite directions at once, and both batteries fired at point
blank, open sights, at Germans in the open. They were at times quite
without infantry on their front, for their position was behind the
French to the left of the British line.
As we sat on the road we began to see the French stragglers--men without
arms, wounded men, teams, wagons, civilians, refugees--some by the
roads, some across country, all talking, shouting--the very picture of
debacle. I must say they were the "tag enders" of a fighting line rather
than the line itself. They streamed on, and shouted to us scraps of not
too inspiriting information while we stood and took our medicine, and
picked out gun positions in the fields in case we had to go in there
and then. The men were splendid; not a word; not a shake, and it was a
terrific test. Traffic whizzed by--ambulances, transport, ammunition,
supplies, despatch riders--and the shells thundered into the town, or
burst high in the air nearer us, and the refugees streamed. Women,
old men, little children, hopeless, tearful, quiet or excited, tired,
dodging the traffic,--and the wounded in singles or in groups. Here and
there I could give a momentary help, and the ambulances picked up as
they could. So the cold moonlight night wore on--no change save that the
towers of Ypres showed up against the glare of the city burning; and the
shells still sailed in.
At 9.30 our ammunition column (the part that had been "in") appeared.
Major---- had waited, like Casabianca, for orders until the Germans were
500 yards away; then he started, getting safely away save for one wagon
lost, and some casualties in men and horses. He found our column, and we
prepared to send forward ammunition as soon as we could learn where the
batteries had taken up position in retiring, for retire they had to.
Eleven, twelve, and finally grey day broke, and we still waited. At
3.45 word came to go in and support a French counterattack at 4.30 A.M.
Hastily we got the order spread; it was 4 A.M. and three miles to go.
Of one's feelings all this night--of the asphyxiated French soldiers--of
the women and children--of the cheery, steady British reinforcements
that moved up quietly past us, going up, not back--I could write, but
you can imagine.
We took the road at once, and went up at the gallop. The Colonel rode
ahead to scout a position (we had only four guns, part of the ammunition
column, and the brigade staff; the 1st and 4th batteries were back in
reserve at our last billet). Along the roads we went, and made our place
on time, pulled up for ten minutes just short of the position, where I
put Bonfire [his horse] with my groom in a farmyard, and went forward on
foot--only a quarter of a mile or so--then we advanced. Bonfire had soon
to move; a shell killed a horse about four yards away from him, and he
wisely took other ground. Meantime we went on into the position we were
to occupy for seventeen days, though we could not guess that. I can
hardly say more than that it was near the Yser Canal.
We got into action at once, under heavy gunfire. We were to the left
entirely of the British line, and behind French troops, and so we
remained for eight days. A Colonel of the R.A., known to fame, joined
us and camped with us; he was our link with the French Headquarters, and
was in local command of the guns in this locality. When he left us eight
days later he said, "I am glad to get out of this hell-hole." He was a
great comfort to us, for he is very capable, and the entire battle was
largely fought "on our own", following the requests of the Infantry on
our front, and scarcely guided by our own staff at all. We at once set
out to register our targets, and almost at once had to get into steady
firing on quite a large sector of front. We dug in the guns as quickly
as we could, and took as Headquarters some infantry trenches already
sunk on a ridge near the canal. We were subject from the first to a
steady and accurate shelling, for we were all but in sight, as were the
German trenches about 2000 yards to our front. At times the fire would
come in salvos quickly repeated. Bursts of fire would be made for ten
or fifteen minutes at a time. We got all varieties of projectile, from
3 inch to 8 inch, or perhaps 10 inch; the small ones usually as air
bursts, the larger percussion and air, and the heaviest percussion only.
My work began almost from the start--steady but never overwhelming,
except perhaps once for a few minutes. A little cottage behind our ridge
served as a cook-house, but was so heavily hit the second day that we
had to be chary of it. During bursts of fire I usually took the back
slope of the sharply crested ridge for what shelter it offered. At 3 our
1st and 4th arrived, and went into action at once a few hundred yards in
our rear. Wires were at once put out, to be cut by shells hundreds and
hundreds of times, but always repaired by our indefatigable linemen.
So the day wore on; in the night the shelling still kept up: three
different German attacks were made and repulsed. If we suffered by
being close up, the Germans suffered from us, for already tales of good
shooting came down to us. I got some sleep despite the constant firing,
for we had none last night.
Saturday, April 24th, 1915.
Behold us now anything less than two miles north of Ypres on the west
side of the canal; this runs north, each bank flanked with high elms,
with bare trunks of the familiar Netherlands type. A few yards to the
West a main road runs, likewise bordered; the Censor will allow me to
say that on the high bank between these we had our headquarters; the
ridge is perhaps fifteen to twenty feet high, and slopes forward fifty
yards to the water, the back is more steep, and slopes quickly to a
little subsidiary water way, deep but dirty. Where the guns were I shall
not say; but they were not far, and the German aeroplanes that viewed
us daily with all but impunity knew very well. A road crossed over
the canal, and interrupted the ridge; across the road from us was our
billet--the place we cooked in, at least, and where we usually took our
meals. Looking to the south between the trees, we could see the ruins
of the city: to the front on the sky line, with rolling ground in the
front, pitted by French trenches, the German lines; to the left front,
several farms and a windmill, and farther left, again near the canal,
thicker trees and more farms. The farms and windmills were soon burnt.
Several farms we used for observing posts were also quickly burnt during
the next three or four days. All along behind us at varying distances
French and British guns; the flashes at night lit up the sky.
These high trees were at once a protection and a danger. Shells that
struck them were usually destructive. When we came in the foliage was
still very thin. Along the road, which was constantly shelled "on spec"
by the Germans, one saw all the sights of war: wounded men limping
or carried, ambulances, trains of supply, troops, army mules, and
tragedies. I saw one bicycle orderly: a shell exploded and he seemed
to pedal on for eight or ten revolutions and then collapsed in a
heap--dead. Straggling soldiers would be killed or wounded, horses
also, until it got to be a nightmare. I used to shudder every time I
saw wagons or troops on that road. My dugout looked out on it. I got
a square hole, 8 by 8, dug in the side of the hill (west), roofed over
with remnants to keep out the rain, and a little sandbag parapet on
the back to prevent pieces of "back-kick shells" from coming in, or
prematures from our own or the French guns for that matter. Some straw
on the floor completed it. The ground was treacherous and a slip the
first night nearly buried----. So we had to be content with walls
straight up and down, and trust to the height of the bank for safety.
All places along the bank were more or less alike, all squirrel holes.
This morning we supported a heavy French attack at 4.30; there had
been three German attacks in the night, and everyone was tired. We
got heavily shelled. In all eight or ten of our trees were cut by
shells--cut right off, the upper part of the tree subsiding heavily and
straight down, as a usual thing. One would think a piece a foot long
was just instantly cut out; and these trees were about 18 inches in
diameter. The gas fumes came very heavily: some blew down from the
infantry trenches, some came from the shells: one's eyes smarted, and
breathing was very laboured. Up to noon to-day we fired 2500 rounds.
Last night Col. Morrison and I slept at a French Colonel's headquarters
near by, and in the night our room was filled up with wounded. I woke up
and shared my bed with a chap with "a wounded leg and a chill". Probably
thirty wounded were brought into the one little room.
Col.----, R.A., kept us in communication with the French General in
whose command we were. I bunked down in the trench on the top of the
ridge: the sky was red with the glare of the city still burning, and we
could hear the almost constant procession of large shells sailing over
from our left front into the city: the crashes of their explosion shook
the ground where we were. After a terribly hard day, professionally and
otherwise, I slept well, but it rained and the trench was awfully muddy
and wet.
Sunday, April 25th, 1915.
The weather brightened up, and we got at it again. This day we had
several heavy attacks, prefaced by heavy artillery fire; these bursts
of fire would result in our getting 100 to 150 rounds right on us or
nearby: the heavier our fire (which was on the trenches entirely) the
heavier theirs.
Our food supply came up at dusk in wagons, and the water was any we
could get, but of course treated with chloride of lime. The ammunition
had to be brought down the roads at the gallop, and the more firing the
more wagons. The men would quickly carry the rounds to the guns, as
the wagons had to halt behind our hill. The good old horses would swing
around at the gallop, pull up in an instant, and stand puffing and
blowing, but with their heads up, as if to say, "Wasn't that well done?"
It makes you want to kiss their dear old noses, and assure them of a
peaceful pasture once more. To-day we got our dressing station dugout
complete, and slept there at night.
Three farms in succession burned on our front--colour in the otherwise
dark. The flashes of shells over the front and rear in all directions.
The city still burning and the procession still going on. I dressed a
number of French wounded; one Turco prayed to Allah and Mohammed all the
time I was dressing his wound. On the front field one can see the dead
lying here and there, and in places where an assault has been they lie
very thick on the front slopes of the German trenches. Our telephone
wagon team hit by a shell; two horses killed and another wounded. I did
what I could for the wounded one, and he subsequently got well. This
night, beginning after dark, we got a terrible shelling, which kept up
till 2 or 3 in the morning. Finally I got to sleep, though it was still
going on. We must have got a couple of hundred rounds, in single or
pairs. Every one burst over us, would light up the dugout, and every hit
in front would shake the ground and bring down small bits of earth on
us, or else the earth thrown into the air by the explosion would come
spattering down on our roof, and into the front of the dugout. Col.
Morrison tried the mess house, but the shelling was too heavy, and he
and the adjutant joined Cosgrave and me, and we four spent an anxious
night there in the dark. One officer was on watch "on the bridge" (as we
called the trench at the top of the ridge) with the telephones.
Monday, April 26th, 1915.
Another day of heavy actions, but last night much French and British
artillery has come in, and the place is thick with Germans. There are
many prematures (with so much firing) but the pieces are usually spread
before they get to us. It is disquieting, however, I must say. And all
the time the birds sing in the trees over our heads. Yesterday up to
noon we fired 3000 rounds for the twenty-four hours; to-day we have
fired much less, but we have registered fresh fronts, and burned some
farms behind the German trenches. About six the fire died down, and we
had a peaceful evening and night, and Cosgrave and I in the dugout made
good use of it. The Colonel has an individual dugout, and Dodds sleeps
"topside" in the trench. To all this, put in a background of anxiety
lest the line break, for we are just where it broke before.
Tuesday, April 27th, 1915.
This morning again registering batteries on new points. At 1.30 a heavy
attack was prepared by the French and ourselves. The fire was very heavy
for half an hour and the enemy got busy too. I had to cross over to
the batteries during it, an unpleasant journey. More gas attacks in the
afternoon. The French did not appear to press the attack hard, but in
the light of subsequent events it probably was only a feint. It seems
likely that about this time our people began to thin out the artillery
again for use elsewhere; but this did not at once become apparent. At
night usually the heavies farther back take up the story, and there is
a duel. The Germans fire on our roads after dark to catch reliefs and
transport. I suppose ours do the same.
Wednesday, April 28th, 1915.
I have to confess to an excellent sleep last night. At times anxiety
says, "I don't want a meal," but experience says "you need your food,"
so I attend regularly to that. The billet is not too safe either. Much
German air reconnaissance over us, and heavy firing from both sides
during the day. At 6.45 we again prepared a heavy artillery attack, but
the infantry made little attempt to go on. We are perhaps the "chopping
block", and our "preparations" may be chiefly designed to prevent
detachments of troops being sent from our front elsewhere.
I have said nothing of what goes on on our right and left; but it is
equally part and parcel of the whole game; this eight mile front is
constantly heavily engaged. At intervals, too, they bombard Ypres. Our
back lines, too, have to be constantly shifted on account of shell fire,
and we have desultory but constant losses there. In the evening rifle
fire gets more frequent, and bullets are constantly singing over us.
Some of them are probably ricochets, for we are 1800 yards, or nearly,
from the nearest German trench.
Thursday, April 29th, 1915.
This morning our billet was hit. We fire less these days, but still
a good deal. There was a heavy French attack on our left. The "gas"
attacks can be seen from here. The yellow cloud rising up is for us a
signal to open, and we do. The wind is from our side to-day, and a good
thing it is. Several days ago during the firing a big Oxford-grey dog,
with beautiful brown eyes, came to us in a panic. He ran to me, and
pressed his head HARD against my leg. So I got him a safe place and he
sticks by us. We call him Fleabag, for he looks like it.
This night they shelled us again heavily for some hours--the same
shorts, hits, overs on percussion, and great yellow-green air bursts.
One feels awfully irritated by the constant din--a mixture of anger and
apprehension.
Friday, April 30th, 1915.
Thick mist this morning, and relative quietness; but before it cleared
the Germans started again to shell us. At 10 it cleared, and from 10 to
2 we fired constantly. The French advanced, and took some ground on our
left front and a batch of prisoners. This was at a place we call Twin
Farms. Our men looked curiously at the Boches as they were marched
through. Some better activity in the afternoon by the Allies'
aeroplanes. The German planes have had it too much their way lately.
Many of to-day's shells have been very large--10 or 12 inch; a lot of
tremendous holes dug in the fields just behind us.
Saturday, May 1st, 1915.
May day! Heavy bombardment at intervals through the day. Another
heavy artillery preparation at 3.25, but no French advance. We fail
to understand why, but orders go. We suffered somewhat during the day.
Through the evening and night heavy firing at intervals.
Sunday, May 2nd, 1915.
Heavy gunfire again this morning. Lieut. H---- was killed at the guns.
His diary's last words were, "It has quieted a little and I shall try to
get a good sleep." I said the Committal Service over him, as well as
I could from memory. A soldier's death! Batteries again registering
barrages or barriers of fire at set ranges. At 3 the Germans attacked,
preceded by gas clouds. Fighting went on for an hour and a half, during
which their guns hammered heavily with some loss to us. The French lines
are very uneasy, and we are correspondingly anxious. The infantry fire
was very heavy, and we fired incessantly, keeping on into the night.
Despite the heavy fire I got asleep at 12, and slept until daylight
which comes at 3.
Monday, May 3rd, 1915.
A clear morning, and the accursed German aeroplanes over our positions
again. They are usually fired at, but no luck. To-day a shell on our
hill dug out a cannon ball about six inches in diameter--probably of
Napoleon's or earlier times--heavily rusted. A German attack began, but
half an hour of artillery fire drove it back. Major----, R.A., was up
forward, and could see the German reserves. Our 4th was turned on: first
round 100 over; shortened and went into gunfire, and his report was
that the effect was perfect. The same occurred again in the evening, and
again at midnight. The Germans were reported to be constantly massing
for attack, and we as constantly "went to them". The German guns shelled
us as usual at intervals. This must get very tiresome to read; but
through it all, it must be mentioned that the constantly broken
communications have to be mended, rations and ammunition brought up,
the wounded to be dressed and got away. Our dugouts have the French
Engineers and French Infantry next door by turns. They march in and
out. The back of the hill is a network of wires, so that one has to go
carefully.
Tuesday, May 4th, 1915.
Despite intermittent shelling and some casualties the quietest day yet;
but we live in an uneasy atmosphere as German attacks are constantly
being projected, and our communications are interrupted and scrappy. We
get no news of any sort and have just to sit tight and hold on. Evening
closed in rainy and dark. Our dugout is very slenderly provided against
it, and we get pretty wet and very dirty. In the quieter morning hours
we get a chance of a wash and occasionally a shave.
Wednesday, May 5th, 1915.
Heavily hammered in the morning from 7 to 9, but at 9 it let up; the
sun came out and things looked better. Evidently our line has again been
thinned of artillery and the requisite minimum to hold is left. There
were German attacks to our right, just out of our area. Later on we and
they both fired heavily, the first battery getting it especially
hot. The planes over us again and again, to coach the guns. An attack
expected at dusk, but it turned only to heavy night shelling, so that
with our fire, theirs, and the infantry cracking away constantly, we got
sleep in small quantity all night; bullets whizzing over us constantly.
Heavy rain from 5 to 8, and everything wet except the far-in corner of
the dugout, where we mass our things to keep them as dry as we may.
Thursday, May 6th, 1915.
After the rain a bright morning; the leaves and blossoms are coming out.
We ascribe our quietude to a welcome flock of allied planes which are
over this morning. The Germans attacked at eleven, and again at six in
the afternoon, each meaning a waking up of heavy artillery on the whole
front. In the evening we had a little rain at intervals, but it was
light.
Friday, May 7th, 1915.
A bright morning early, but clouded over later. The Germans gave it to
us very heavily. There was heavy fighting to the south-east of us. Two
attacks or threats, and we went in again.
Saturday, May 8th, 1915.
For the last three days we have been under British divisional control,
and supporting our own men who have been put farther to the left, till
they are almost in front of us. It is an added comfort. We have four
officers out with various infantry regiments for observation and
co-operation; they have to stick it in trenches, as all the houses and
barns are burned. The whole front is constantly ablaze with big gunfire;
the racket never ceases. We have now to do most of the work for our
left, as our line appears to be much thinner than it was. A German
attack followed the shelling at 7; we were fighting hard till 12, and
less regularly all the afternoon. We suffered much, and at one time were
down to seven guns. Of these two were smoking at every joint, and the
levers were so hot that the gunners used sacking for their hands. The
pace is now much hotter, and the needs of the infantry for fire more
insistent. The guns are in bad shape by reason of dirt, injuries, and
heat. The wind fortunately blows from us, so there is no gas, but the
attacks are still very heavy. Evening brought a little quiet, but very
disquieting news (which afterwards proved untrue); and we had to face
a possible retirement. You may imagine our state of mind, unable to get
anything sure in the uncertainty, except that we should stick out as
long as the guns would fire, and we could fire them. That sort of night
brings a man down to his "bare skin", I promise you. The night was very
cold, and not a cheerful one.
Sunday, May 9th, 1915.
At 4 we were ordered to get ready to move, and the Adjutant picked out
new retirement positions; but a little later better news came, and the
daylight and sun revived us a bit. As I sat in my dugout a little white
and black dog with tan spots bolted in over the parapet, during heavy
firing, and going to the farthest corner began to dig furiously. Having
scraped out a pathetic little hole two inches deep, she sat down and
shook, looking most plaintively at me. A few minutes later, her owner
came along, a French soldier. Bissac was her name, but she would not
leave me at the time. When I sat down a little later, she stole out and
shyly crawled in between me and the wall; she stayed by me all day, and
I hope got later on to safe quarters.
Firing kept up all day. In thirty hours we had fired 3600 rounds, and
at times with seven, eight, or nine guns; our wire cut and repaired
eighteen times. Orders came to move, and we got ready. At dusk we got
the guns out by hand, and all batteries assembled at a given spot in
comparative safety. We were much afraid they would open on us, for at 10
o'clock they gave us 100 or 150 rounds, hitting the trench parapet again
and again. However, we were up the road, the last wagon half a mile
away before they opened. One burst near me, and splattered some pieces
around, but we got clear, and by 12 were out of the usual fire zone.
Marched all night, tired as could be, but happy to be clear.
I was glad to get on dear old Bonfire again. We made about sixteen
miles, and got to our billets at dawn. I had three or four hours'
sleep, and arose to a peaceful breakfast. We shall go back to the line
elsewhere very soon, but it is a present relief, and the next place is
sure to be better, for it cannot be worse. Much of this narrative is
bald and plain, but it tells our part in a really great battle. I have
only had hasty notes to go by; in conversation there is much one could
say that would be of greater interest. Heard of the 'Lusitania' disaster
on our road out. A terrible affair!
Here ends the account of his part in this memorable battle,
And here follow some general observations upon the experience:
Northern France, May 10th, 1915.
We got here to refit and rest this morning at 4, having marched last
night at 10. The general impression in my mind is of a nightmare. We
have been in the most bitter of fights. For seventeen days and seventeen
nights none of us have had our clothes off, nor our boots even, except
occasionally. In all that time while I was awake, gunfire and rifle fire
never ceased for sixty seconds, and it was sticking to our utmost by a
weak line all but ready to break, knowing nothing of what was going on,
and depressed by reports of anxious infantry. The men and the divisions
are worthy of all praise that can be given. It did not end in four days
when many of our infantry were taken out. It kept on at fever heat till
yesterday.
This, of course, is the second battle of Ypres, or the battle of the
Yser, I do not know which. At one time we were down to seven guns,
but those guns were smoking at every joint, the gunners using cloth to
handle the breech levers because of the heat. We had three batteries in
action with four guns added from the other units. Our casualties were
half the number of men in the firing line. The horse lines and the wagon
lines farther back suffered less, but the Brigade list has gone far
higher than any artillery normal. I know one brigade R.A. that was in
the Mons retreat and had about the same. I have done what fell to hand.
My clothes, boots, kit, and dugout at various times were sadly bloody.
Two of our batteries are reduced to two officers each. We have had
constant accurate shell-fire, but we have given back no less. And
behind it all was the constant background of the sights of the dead, the
wounded, the maimed, and a terrible anxiety lest the line should give
way.
During all this time, we have been behind French troops, and only
helping our own people by oblique fire when necessary. Our horses have
suffered heavily too. Bonfire had a light wound from a piece of shell;
it is healing and the dear old fellow is very fit. Had my first ride
for seventeen days last night. We never saw horses but with the wagons
bringing up the ammunition. When fire was hottest they had to come two
miles on a road terribly swept, and they did it magnificently. But how
tired we are! Weary in body and wearier in mind. None of our men went
off their heads but men in units nearby did--and no wonder.
France, May 12th, 1915.
I am glad you had your mind at rest by the rumour that we were in
reserve. What newspaper work! The poor old artillery never gets any
mention, and the whole show is the infantry. It may interest you to
note on your map a spot on the west bank of the canal, a mile and a half
north of Ypres, as the scene of our labours. There can be no harm in
saying so, now that we are out of it. The unit was the most advanced
of all the Allies' guns by a good deal except one French battery which
stayed in a position yet more advanced for two days, and then had to be
taken out. I think it may be said that we saw the show from the soup to
the coffee.
France, May 17th, 1915.
The farther we get away from Ypres the more we learn of the enormous
power the Germans put in to push us over. Lord only knows how many men
they had, and how many they lost. I wish I could embody on paper some of
the varied sensations of that seventeen days. All the gunners down this
way passed us all sorts of 'kudos' over it. Our guns--those behind
us, from which we had to dodge occasional prematures--have a peculiar
bang-sound added to the sharp crack of discharge. The French 75 has a
sharp wood-block-chop sound, and the shell goes over with a peculiar
whine--not unlike a cat, but beginning with n--thus,--n-eouw. The big
fellows, 3000 yards or more behind, sounded exactly like our own, but
the flash came three or four seconds before the sound. Of the German
shells--the field guns come with a great velocity--no warning--just
whizz-bang; white smoke, nearly always air bursts. The next size,
probably 5 inch howitzers, have a perceptible time of approach, an
increasing whine, and a great burst on the percussion--dirt in all
directions. And even if a shell hit on the front of the canal bank, and
one were on the back of the bank, five, eight, or ten seconds later
one would hear a belated WHIRR, and curved pieces of shell would
light--probably parabolic curves or boomerangs. These shells have a
great back kick; from the field gun shrapnel we got nothing BEHIND the
shell--all the pieces go forward. From the howitzers, the danger is
almost as great behind as in front if they burst on percussion. Then the
large shrapnel--air-burst--have a double explosion, as if a giant shook
a wet sail for two flaps; first a dark green burst of smoke; then
a lighter yellow burst goes out from the centre, forwards. I do not
understand the why of it.
Then the 10-inch shells: a deliberate whirring course--a deafening
explosion--black smoke, and earth 70 or 80 feet in the air. These always
burst on percussion. The constant noise of our own guns is really worse
on the nerves than the shell; there is the deafening noise, and the
constant whirr of shells going overhead. The earth shakes with every
nearby gun and every close shell. I think I may safely enclose a cross
section of our position. The left is the front: a slope down of 20 feet
in 100 yards to the canal, a high row of trees on each bank, then a
short 40 yards slope up to the summit of the trench, where the brain of
the outfit was; then a telephone wired slope, and on the sharp slope,
the dugouts, including my own. The nondescript affair on the low slope
is the gun position, behind it the men's shelter pits. Behind my dugout
was a rapid small stream, on its far bank a row of pollard willows, then
30 yards of field, then a road with two parallel rows of high trees.
Behind this again, several hundred yards of fields to cross before the
main gun positions are reached.
More often fire came from three quarters left, and because our ridge
died away there was a low spot over which they could come pretty
dangerously. The road thirty yards behind us was a nightmare to me.
I saw all the tragedies of war enacted there. A wagon, or a bunch of
horses, or a stray man, or a couple of men, would get there just in time
for a shell. One would see the absolute knock-out, and the obviously
lightly wounded crawling off on hands and knees; or worse yet, at night,
one would hear the tragedy--"that horse scream"--or the man's moan. All
our own wagons had to come there (one every half hour in smart action),
be emptied, and the ammunition carried over by hand. Do you wonder that
the road got on our nerves? On this road, too, was the house where we
took our meals. It was hit several times, windows all blown in by nearby
shells, but one end remained for us.
Seventeen days of Hades! At the end of the first day if anyone had told
us we had to spend seventeen days there, we would have folded our hands
and said it could not be done. On the fifteenth day we got orders to
go out, but that was countermanded in two hours. To the last we could
scarcely believe we were actually to get out. The real audacity of the
position was its safety; the Germans knew to a foot where we were. I
think I told you of some of the "you must stick it out" messages we got
from our [French] General,--they put it up to us. It is a wonder to me
that we slept when, and how, we did. If we had not slept and eaten as
well as possible we could not have lasted. And while we were doing
this, the London office of a Canadian newspaper cabled home "Canadian
Artillery in reserve." Such is fame!
Thursday, May 27th, 1915.
Day cloudy and chilly. We wore our greatcoats most of the afternoon,
and looked for bits of sunlight to get warm. About two o'clock the heavy
guns gave us a regular "black-smithing". Every time we fired we drew a
perfect hornet's nest about our heads. While attending to a casualty,
a shell broke through both sides of the trench, front and back, about
twelve feet away. The zigzag of the trench was between it and us, and we
escaped. From my bunk the moon looks down at me, and the wind whistles
along the trench like a corridor. As the trenches run in all directions
they catch the wind however it blows, so one is always sure of a good
draught. We have not had our clothes off since last Saturday, and there
is no near prospect of getting them off.
Friday, May 28th, 1915.
Warmer this morning and sunny, a quiet morning, as far as we were
concerned. One battery fired twenty rounds and the rest "sat tight".
Newspapers which arrive show that up to May 7th, the Canadian public has
made no guess at the extent of the battle of Ypres. The Canadian
papers seem to have lost interest in it after the first four days; this
regardless of the fact that the artillery, numerically a quarter of
the division, was in all the time. One correspondent writes from the
Canadian rest camp, and never mentions Ypres. Others say they hear heavy
bombarding which appears to come from Armentieres.
A few strokes will complete the picture:
Wednesday, April 29th*, 1915.
This morning is the sixth day of this fight; it has been constant,
except that we got good chance to sleep for the last two nights. Our
men have fought beyond praise. Canadian soldiers have set a standard for
themselves which will keep posterity busy to surpass. And the War Office
published that the 4.1 guns captured were Canadian. They were not: the
division has not lost a gun so far by capture. We will make a good job
of it--if we can.
* [sic] This should read April 28th.--A. L., 1995.
May 1st, 1915.
This is the ninth day that we have stuck to the ridge, and the batteries
have fought with a steadiness which is beyond all praise. If I could say
what our casualties in men, guns, and horses were, you would see at a
glance it has been a hot corner; but we have given better than we
got, for the German casualties from this front have been largely from
artillery, except for the French attack of yesterday and the day before,
when they advanced appreciably on our left. The front, however, just
here remains where it was, and the artillery fire is very heavy--I think
as heavy here as on any part of the line, with the exception of certain
cross-roads which are the particular object of fire. The first four days
the anxiety was wearing, for we did not know at what minute the German
army corps would come for us. We lie out in support of the French troops
entirely, and are working with them. Since that time evidently great
reinforcements have come in, and now we have a most formidable force of
artillery to turn on them.
Fortunately the weather has been good; the days are hot and summer-like.
Yesterday in the press of bad smells I got a whiff of a hedgerow in
bloom. The birds perch on the trees over our heads and twitter away as
if there was nothing to worry about. Bonfire is still well. I do hope he
gets through all right.
Flanders, March 30th, 1915.
The Brigade is actually in twelve different places. The ammunition
column and the horse and wagon lines are back, and my corporal visits
them every day. I attend the gun lines; any casualty is reported by
telephone, and I go to it. The wounded and sick stay where they are till
dark, when the field ambulances go over certain grounds and collect. A
good deal of suffering is entailed by the delay till night, but it
is useless for vehicles to go on the roads within 1500 yards of the
trenches. They are willing enough to go. Most of the trench injuries are
of the head, and therefore there is a high proportion of killed in
the daily warfare as opposed to an attack. Our Canadian plots fill up
rapidly.
And here is one last note to his mother:
On the eve of the battle of Ypres I was indebted to you for a letter
which said "take good care of my son Jack, but I would not have you
unmindful that, sometimes, when we save we lose." I have that last happy
phrase to thank. Often when I had to go out over the areas that were
being shelled, it came into my mind. I would shoulder the box, and "go
to it".
At this time the Canadian division was moving south to take its share in
the events that happened in the La Bassee sector. Here is the record:
Tuesday, June 1st, 1915.
1-1/2 miles northeast of Festubert, near La Bassee.
Last night a 15 pr. and a 4-inch howitzer fired at intervals of five
minutes from 8 till 4; most of them within 500 or 600 yards--a very
tiresome procedure; much of it is on registered roads. In the morning I
walked out to Le Touret to the wagon lines, got Bonfire, and rode to
the headquarters at Vendin-lez-Bethune, a little village a mile
past Bethune. Left the horse at the lines and walked back again. An
unfortunate shell in the 1st killed a sergeant and wounded two men;
thanks to the strong emplacements the rest of the crew escaped. In the
evening went around the batteries and said good-bye. We stood by while
they laid away the sergeant who was killed. Kind hands have made two
pathetic little wreaths of roses; the grave under an apple-tree, and
the moon rising over the horizon; a siege-lamp held for the book. Of
the last 41 days the guns have been in action 33. Captain Lockhart, late
with Fort Garry Horse, arrived to relieve me. I handed over, came up to
the horse lines, and slept in a covered wagon in a courtyard. We were
all sorry to part--the four of us have been very intimate and had agreed
perfectly--and friendships under these circumstances are apt to be the
real thing. I am sorry to leave them in such a hot corner, but cannot
choose and must obey orders. It is a great relief from strain, I must
admit, to be out, but I could wish that they all were.
This phase of the war lasted two months precisely,
and to John McCrae it must have seemed a lifetime since he went into
this memorable action. The events preceding the second battle of Ypres
received scant mention in his letters; but one remains, which brings
into relief one of the many moves of that tumultuous time.
April 1st, 1915.
We moved out in the late afternoon, getting on the road a little after
dark. Such a move is not unattended by danger, for to bring horses and
limbers down the roads in the shell zone in daylight renders them liable
to observation, aerial or otherwise. More than that, the roads are now
beginning to be dusty, and at all times there is the noise which carries
far. The roads are nearly all registered in their battery books, so if
they suspect a move, it is the natural thing to loose off a few rounds.
However, our anxiety was not borne out, and we got out of the danger
zone by 8.30--a not too long march in the dark, and then for the last
of the march a glorious full moon. The houses everywhere are as dark as
possible, and on the roads noises but no lights. One goes on by the long
rows of trees that are so numerous in this country, on cobblestones and
country roads, watching one's horses' ears wagging, and seeing not much
else. Our maps are well studied before we start, and this time we
are not far out of familiar territory. We got to our new billet about
10--quite a good farmhouse; and almost at once one feels the relief of
the strain of being in the shell zone. I cannot say I had noticed it
when there; but one is distinctly relieved when out of it.
Such, then, was the life in Flanders fields in which the verse was born.
This is no mere surmise. There is a letter from Major-General E. W. B.
Morrison, C.B., C.M.G., D.S.O., who commanded the Brigade at the time,
which is quite explicit. "This poem," General Morrison writes, "was
literally born of fire and blood during the hottest phase of the second
battle of Ypres. My headquarters were in a trench on the top of the bank
of the Ypres Canal, and John had his dressing station in a hole dug in
the foot of the bank. During periods in the battle men who were shot
actually rolled down the bank into his dressing station. Along from us
a few hundred yards was the headquarters of a regiment, and many times
during the sixteen days of battle, he and I watched them burying their
dead whenever there was a lull. Thus the crosses, row on row, grew
into a good-sized cemetery. Just as he describes, we often heard in the
mornings the larks singing high in the air, between the crash of the
shell and the reports of the guns in the battery just beside us. I have
a letter from him in which he mentions having written the poem to pass
away the time between the arrival of batches of wounded, and partly as
an experiment with several varieties of poetic metre. I have a sketch of
the scene, taken at the time, including his dressing station; and during
our operations at Passchendaele last November, I found time to make a
sketch of the scene of the crosses, row on row, from which he derived
his inspiration."
The last letter from the Front is dated June 1st, 1915. Upon that day he
was posted to No. 3 General Hospital at Boulogne, and placed in charge
of medicine with the rank of Lieutenant-Colonel as of date 17th April,
1915. Here he remained until the day of his death on January 28th, 1918.