In the Autumn of 1914, after John McCrae had gone over-seas, I was in a
warehouse in Montreal, in which one might find an old piece of mahogany
wood. His boxes were there in storage, with his name plainly printed
upon them. The storeman, observing my interest, remarked: "This Doctor
McCrae cannot be doing much business; he is always going to the wars."
The remark was profoundly significant of the state of mind upon the
subject of war which prevailed at the time in Canada in more intelligent
persons. To this storeman war merely meant that the less usefully
employed members of the community sent their boxes to him for
safe-keeping until their return. War was a great holiday from work; and
he had a vague remembrance that some fifteen years before this customer
had required of him a similar service when the South African war broke
out.
Either 'in esse' or 'in posse' John McCrae had "always been going to the
wars." At fourteen years of age he joined the Guelph Highland Cadets,
and rose to the rank of 1st Lieutenant. As his size and strength
increased he reverted to the ranks and transferred to the Artillery. In
due time he rose from gunner to major. The formal date of his "Gazette"
is 17-3-02 as they write it in the army; but he earned his rank in South
Africa.
War was the burden of his thought; war and death the theme of his verse.
At the age of thirteen we find him at a gallery in Nottingham, writing
this note: "I saw the picture of the artillery going over the trenches
at Tel-el-Kebir. It is a good picture; but there are four teams on the
guns. Perhaps an extra one had to be put on." If his nomenclature was
not correct, the observation of the young artillerist was exact. Such
excesses were not permitted in his father's battery in Guelph, Ontario.
During this same visit his curiosity led him into the House of Lords,
and the sum of his written observation is, "When someone is speaking no
one seems to listen at all."
His mother I never knew. Canada is a large place. With his father I
had four hours' talk from seven to eleven one June evening in London
in 1917. At the time I was on leave from France to give the Cavendish
Lecture, a task which demanded some thought; and after two years in the
army it was a curious sensation--watching one's mind at work again.
The day was Sunday. I had walked down to the river to watch the flowing
tide. To one brought up in a country of streams and a moving sea the
curse of Flanders is her stagnant waters. It is little wonder the exiles
from the Judaean hillsides wept beside the slimy River.
The Thames by evening in June, memories that reached from Tacitus to
Wordsworth, the embrasure that extends in front of the Egyptian obelisk
for a standing place, and some children "swimming a dog";--that was the
scene and circumstance of my first meeting with his father. A man
of middle age was standing by. He wore the flashings of a
Lieutenant-Colonel and for badges the Artillery grenades. He seemed
a friendly man; and under the influence of the moment, which he also
surely felt, I spoke to him.
"A fine river,"--That was a safe remark.
"But I know a finer."
"Pharpar and Abana?" I put the stranger to the test.
"No," he said. "The St. Lawrence is not of Damascus." He had answered to
the sign, and looked at my patches.
"I have a son in France, myself," he said. "His name is McCrae."
"Not John McCrae?"
"John McCrae is my son."
The resemblance was instant, but this was an older man than at first
sight he seemed to be. I asked him to dinner at Morley's, my place of
resort for a length of time beyond the memory of all but the oldest
servants. He had already dined but he came and sat with me, and told me
marvellous things.
David McCrae had raised, and trained, a field battery in Guelph, and
brought it overseas. He was at the time upwards of seventy years of age,
and was considered on account of years alone "unfit" to proceed to the
front. For many years he had commanded a field battery in the Canadian
militia, went on manoeuvres with his "cannons", and fired round shot.
When the time came for using shells he bored the fuse with a gimlet; and
if the gimlet were lost in the grass, the gun was out of action until
the useful tool could be found. This "cannon ball" would travel over the
country according to the obstacles it encountered and, "if it struck a
man, it might break his leg."
In such a martial atmosphere the boy was brought up, and he was early
nourished with the history of the Highland regiments. Also from his
father he inherited, or had instilled into him, a love of the out of
doors, a knowledge of trees, and plants, a sympathy with birds and
beasts, domestic and wild. When the South African war broke out a
contingent was dispatched from Canada, but it was so small that few of
those desiring to go could find a place. This explains the genesis of
the following letter:
I see by to-night's bulletin that there is to be no second contingent. I
feel sick with disappointment, and do not believe that I have ever been
so disappointed in my life, for ever since this business began I am
certain there have not been fifteen minutes of my waking hours that it
has not been in my mind. It has to come sooner or later. One campaign
might cure me, but nothing else ever will, unless it should be old age.
I regret bitterly that I did not enlist with the first, for I doubt if
ever another chance will offer like it. This is not said in ignorance of
what the hardships would be.
I am ashamed to say I am doing my work in a merely mechanical way. If
they are taking surgeons on the other side, I have enough money to get
myself across. If I knew any one over there who could do anything, I
would certainly set about it. If I can get an appointment in England
by going, I will go. My position here I do not count as an old boot in
comparison.
In the end he accomplished the desire of his heart, and sailed on the
'Laurentian'. Concerning the voyage one transcription will be enough:
On orderly duty. I have just been out taking the picket at 11.30 P.M. In
the stables the long row of heads in the half-darkness, the creaking of
the ship, the shivering of the hull from the vibration of the engines,
the sing of a sentry on the spar deck to some passer-by. Then to the
forward deck: the sky half covered with scudding clouds, the stars
bright in the intervals, the wind whistling a regular blow that tries
one's ears, the constant swish as she settles down to a sea; and,
looking aft, the funnel with a wreath of smoke trailing away off into
the darkness on the starboard quarter; the patch of white on the funnel
discernible dimly; the masts drawing maps across the sky as one looks
up; the clank of shovels coming up through the ventilators,--if you have
ever been there, you know it all.
There was a voluntary service at six; two ships' lanterns and the men
all around, the background of sky and sea, and the strains of "Nearer
my God to Thee" rising up in splendid chorus. It was a very effective
scene, and it occurred to me that THIS was "the rooibaatjees singing on
the road," as the song says.
The next entry is from South Africa:
Green Point Camp, Capetown,
February 25th, 1900.
You have no idea of the WORK. Section commanders live with their
sections, which is the right way. It makes long hours. I never knew a
softer bed than the ground is these nights. I really enjoy every minute
though there is anxiety. We have lost all our spare horses. We have only
enough to turn out the battery and no more.
After a description of a number of the regiments camped near by them, he
speaks of the Indian troops, and then says:
We met the High Priest of it all, and I had a five minutes' chat with
him--Kipling I mean. He visited the camp. He looks like his pictures,
and is very affable. He told me I spoke like a Winnipeger. He said we
ought to "fine the men for drinking unboiled water. Don't give them
C.B.; it is no good. Fine them, or drive common sense into them. All
Canadians have common sense."
The next letter is from the Lines of Communication:
Van Wyks Vlei,
March 22nd, 1900.
Here I am with my first command. Each place we strike is a little more
God-forsaken than the last, and this place wins up to date. We marched
last week from Victoria west to Carnovan, about 80 miles. We stayed
there over Sunday, and on Monday my section was detached with mounted
infantry, I being the only artillery officer. We marched 54 miles in
37 hours with stops; not very fast, but quite satisfactory. My horse is
doing well, although very thin. Night before last on the road we halted,
and I dismounted for a minute. When we started I pulled on the lines but
no answer. The poor old chap was fast asleep in his tracks, and in about
thirty seconds too.
This continuous marching is really hard work. The men at every halt just
drop down in the road and sleep until they are kicked up again in ten
minutes. They do it willingly too. I am commanding officer, adjutant,
officer on duty, and all the rest since we left the main body. Talk
about the Army in Flanders! You should hear this battalion. I always
knew soldiers could swear, but you ought to hear these fellows. I am
told the first contingent has got a name among the regulars.
Three weeks later he writes:
April 10th, 1900.
We certainly shall have done a good march when we get to the railroad,
478 miles through a country desolate of forage carrying our own
transport and one-half rations of forage, and frequently the men's
rations. For two days running we had nine hours in the saddle without
food. My throat was sore and swollen for a day or two, and I felt
so sorry for myself at times that I laughed to think how I must have
looked: sitting on a stone, drinking a pan of tea without trimmings,
that had got cold, and eating a shapeless lump of brown bread; my one
"hank" drawn around my neck, serving as hank and bandage alternately. It
is miserable to have to climb up on one's horse with a head like a
buzz saw, the sun very hot, and "gargle" in one's water bottle. It is
surprising how I can go without water if I have to on a short stretch,
that is, of ten hours in the sun. It is after nightfall that the thirst
really seems to attack one and actually gnaws. One thinks of all the
cool drinks and good things one would like to eat. Please understand
that this is not for one instant in any spirit of growling.
The detail was now established at Victoria Road. Three entries appear*:
* I only count two. . . . A. L., 1995.
April 23rd, 1900.
We are still here in camp hoping for orders to move, but they have not
yet come. Most of the other troops have gone. A squadron of the M.C.R.,
my messmates for the past five weeks, have gone and I am left an orphan.
I was very sorry to see them go. They, in the kindness of their hearts,
say, if I get stranded, they will do the best they can to get a troop
for me in the squadron or some such employment. Impracticable, but kind.
I have no wish to cease to be a gunner.
Victoria Road, May 20th, 1900.
The horses are doing as well as one can expect, for the rations are
insufficient. Our men have been helping to get ready a rest camp near
us, and have been filling mattresses with hay. Every fatigue party comes
back from the hospital, their jackets bulging with hay for the horses.
Two bales were condemned as too musty to put into the mattresses, and we
were allowed to take them for the horses. They didn't leave a spear of
it. Isn't it pitiful? Everything that the heart of man and woman can
devise has been sent out for the "Tommies", but no one thinks of the
poor horses. They get the worst of it all the time. Even now we blush to
see the handful of hay that each horse gets at a feed.
The Boer War is so far off in time and space that a few further detached
references must suffice:
When riding into Bloemfontein met Lord----'s funeral at the cemetery
gates,--band, firing party, Union Jack, and about three companies. A
few yards farther on a "Tommy" covered only by his blanket, escorted
by thirteen men all told, the last class distinction that the world can
ever make.
We had our baptism of fire yesterday. They opened on us from the left
flank. Their first shell was about 150 yards in front--direction good.
The next was 100 yards over; and we thought we were bracketed. Some
shrapnel burst over us and scattered on all sides. I felt as if a hail
storm was coming down, and wanted to turn my back, but it was over in
an instant. The whistle of a shell is unpleasant. You hear it begin
to scream; the scream grows louder and louder; it seems to be coming
exactly your way; then you realize that it has gone over. Most of them
fell between our guns and wagons. Our position was quite in the open.
With Ian Hamilton's column near Balmoral.
The day was cold, much like a December day at home, and by my kit going
astray I had only light clothing. The rain was fearfully chilly. When we
got in about dark we found that the transport could not come up, and it
had all our blankets and coats. I had my cape and a rubber sheet for
the saddle, both soaking wet. Being on duty I held to camp, the others
making for the house nearby where they got poor quarters. I bunked out,
supperless like every one else, under an ammunition wagon. It rained
most of the night and was bitterly cold. I slept at intervals, keeping
the same position all night, both legs in a puddle and my feet being
rained on: it was a long night from dark at 5.30 to morning. Ten men
in the infantry regiment next us died during the night from exposure.
Altogether I never knew such a night, and with decent luck hope never to
see such another.
As we passed we saw the Connaughts looking at the graves of their
comrades of twenty years ago. The Battery rode at attention and gave
"Eyes right": the first time for twenty years that the roll of a British
gun has broken in on the silence of those unnamed graves.
We were inspected by Lord Roberts. The battery turned out very smart,
and Lord Roberts complimented the Major on its appearance. He then
inspected, and afterwards asked to have the officers called out. We were
presented to him in turn; he spoke a few words to each of us, asking
what our corps and service had been. He seemed surprised that we were
all Field Artillery men, but probably the composition of the other
Canadian units had to do with this. He asked a good many questions about
the horses, the men, and particularly about the spirits of the men.
Altogether he showed a very kind interest in the battery.
At nine took the Presbyterian parade to the lines, the first
Presbyterian service since we left Canada. We had the right, the Gordons
and the Royal Scots next. The music was excellent, led by the brass band
of the Royal Scots, which played extremely well. All the singing was
from the psalms and paraphrases: "Old Hundred" and "Duke Street"
among them. It was very pleasant to hear the old reliables once more.
"McCrae's Covenanters" some of the officers called us; but I should not
like to set our conduct up against the standard of those austere men.
At Lyndenburg:
The Boers opened on us at about 10,000 yards, the fire being accurate
from the first. They shelled us till dark, over three hours. The guns on
our left fired for a long time on Buller's camp, the ones on our right
on us. We could see the smoke and flash; then there was a soul-consuming
interval of 20 to 30 seconds when we would hear the report, and about
five seconds later the burst. Many in succession burst over and all
around us. I picked up pieces which fell within a few feet. It was a
trying afternoon, and we stood around wondering. We moved the horses
back, and took cover under the wagons. We were thankful when the sun
went down, especially as for the last hour of daylight they turned all
their guns on us. The casualties were few.
The next morning a heavy mist prevented the enemy from firing. The
division marched out at 7.30 A.M. The attack was made in three columns:
cavalry brigade on the left; Buller's troops in the centre, Hamilton's
on the right. The Canadian artillery were with Hamilton's division. The
approach to the hill was exposed everywhere except where some cover
was afforded by ridges. We marched out as support to the Gordons, the
cavalry and the Royal Horse Artillery going out to our right as a flank
guard. While we were waiting three 100-pound shells struck the top of
the ridge in succession about 50 to 75 yards in front of the battery
line. We began to feel rather shaky.
On looking over the field at this time one could not tell that anything
was occurring except for the long range guns replying to the fire from
the hill. The enemy had opened fire as soon as our advance was pushed
out. With a glass one could distinguish the infantry pushing up in
lines, five or six in succession, the men being some yards apart. Then
came a long pause, broken only by the big guns. At last we got the order
to advance just as the big guns of the enemy stopped their fire. We
advanced about four miles mostly up the slope, which is in all about
1500 feet high, over a great deal of rough ground and over a number of
spruits. The horses were put to their utmost to draw the guns up the
hills. As we advanced we could see artillery crawling in from both
flanks, all converging to the main hill, while far away the infantry and
cavalry were beginning to crown the heights near us. Then the field
guns and the pompoms began to play. As the field guns came up to a broad
plateau section after section came into action, and we fired shrapnel
and lyddite on the crests ahead and to the left. Every now and then a
rattle of Mausers and Metfords would tell us that the infantry were at
their work, but practically the battle was over. From being an infantry
attack as expected it was the gunners' day, and the artillery seemed to
do excellent work.
General Buller pushed up the hill as the guns were at work, and
afterwards General Hamilton; the one as grim as his pictures, the other
looking very happy. The wind blew through us cold like ice as we stood
on the hill; as the artillery ceased fire the mist dropped over us
chilling us to the bone. We were afraid we should have to spend the
night on the hill, but a welcome order came sending us back to camp, a
distance of five miles by the roads, as Buller would hold the hill, and
our force must march south. Our front was over eight miles wide and the
objective 1500 feet higher than our camp, and over six miles away. If
the enemy had had the nerve to stand, the position could scarcely have
been taken; certainly not without the loss of thousands.
For this campaign he received the Queen's Medal with three clasps.