THE BATTLE OF ARRAS
Our journey was uneventful, save that we were derailed at St. Paul; no
one, however, was killed. All along our journey we spoke of the Battle
of Amiens, “the greatest isolated victory to the credit of Canadian
arms.” It had taken but five days to free Amiens and its railway.
The allied troops engaged in the battle were one American division,
five Australian divisions, four Canadian divisions and four English
divisions. There were also four hundred tanks and three British cavalry
divisions. These troops had met and routed twenty German divisions, and
taken twenty-two thousand prisoners and over four hundred guns. The
line was advanced twelve miles from points held at the hour of attack
on August 8th.
Of these totals the Canadians claimed ten thousand prisoners, nearly
one hundred and seventy guns, one thousand machine-guns, over one
hundred trench mortars, and great quantities of other materials. They
had freed over sixty miles of territory. They had been the apex of the
wedge that attacked. It was, indeed, a great victory! Later, I read in
Hindenburg’s account of the war, entitled “Out of My Life” (Harper &
Brothers, New York), the following:
“I had no illusions about the political effects of our defeat on August
8th. Our battles from July 15th to August 4th could be regarded, both
abroad and at home, as the consequence of an unsuccessful but bold
stroke, such as may happen in any war. On the other hand, the failure
of August 8th was revealed to all eyes as the consequences of an open
weakness. To fail in an attack was a very different matter from being
vanquished on the defense. The amount of booty which our enemy could
publish to the world, spoke a clear language. Both the public at home
and our allies could only listen in great anxiety. All the more urgent
was it that we should keep our presence of mind and face the situation
without illusions, but also without exaggerated pessimism.
“The military situation had certainly become serious. Of course the
position on the part of our front which had been attacked could be
restored, the lost war material made good, and fresh reserves brought
up. But all this did not exhaust the effects of our defeat. We could
only expect that, encouraged by his great victory, our enemy would now
open similar attacks at other points.” (Vol. II, pp. 217 and 218.)
This is just what we did. On August 26th the Second Canadian Division
had opened the Battle of Arras and, as we hastened towards them, were
in the thick of the fight.
We detrained at Aubigny and were taken from there to Arras in busses.
During the night of August 28th we moved up from the ruins of Arras
to relieve the Second Division. We had been waiting in reserve at
Arras. Already the Second Division had been gaining victories. Before
September 1st we had gained a minor engagement or two.
On the morning of September 1st I received word that we were preparing
for a great attack; we were to break the Drocourt Quéant line. The line
had been accounted impregnable, for the whole system was the result of
years of patient toil on the part of the Germans. In the attack, the
Canadian Corps was to be the battering ram of the advance.
The night of September 1st was very dark, and rain fell as the men
assembled for the attack. Zero hour was to be 5 a. m. Captain Shea,
one of the medical officers of the First Field Ambulance, with whom I
was going to work the following day, found a square hole in the ground
about two feet deep, and he and I rolled ourselves in our blankets
and tried to sleep. The Germans were shelling this area very hard and
shells were dropping all about us, and the rain upon us. Every little
while I could hear the doctor, who was a very devout Catholic, give
voice to the following soliloquy: “Think of a priest lying out in the
mud a night like this! What awful times we are living in! I wonder
what his people at home would say if they could see him now. A priest
sleeping in a mud-hole!”
Then, perhaps, a shell would drop very near us and I could hear him
say, optimistically: “Well, the worst we can expect is to be buried
alive!”
I could not help laughing as the doctor continued. Everything seemed so
strange to him, for he had but lately come to the front. And I had now
been long enough in the army to take things as they came.
At five o’clock a. m. the earth began to thunder and rock as the
terrible barrage began that was to sound the death-knell of the
Drocourt Quéant line. We watched the men advance, then we were busy
with the wounded. A great number passed through our hands, including
some Irish lads from the Naval Division on our right. It took but
an hour or two for the Canadians to break the Drocourt Quéant line
which had been considered impregnable. Passing through the trenches
and over the battlefield that day, I marvelled at the system of deep
trenches from which led great dugouts lighted with electricity. We
encountered many wounded Germans lying in shell-holes, and dispatched
German prisoners to bring them to the Field Ambulance that had now been
established near Cagnicourt.
We had not been shelled very much that day, but two or three days
before, in one of the minor engagements, the shelling had been
terrific. George and I had run the gauntlet of shell-fire known as a
“creeping barrage.” Wall after wall of bursting shells had swept over
us, killing nearly all our companions. George and two privates and I
were the only ones out of fourteen who were not casualties.
Towards evening, as I was anointing some German wounded, one of our
prisoners, an officer, stepped over and began to speak to the lad
to whom I was administering. The officer told me in French that he
would interpret, as he was a Catholic. I asked him to try to dispose
the dying soldier for absolution. He did, and then helped me while I
anointed the lad.
When I was through I thanked the officer for his aid and remarked
that he seemed well grounded in his religion. He smiled a little at
this, as he said: “I should be, for I am an ordained deacon.” I was
still talking to this young ecclesiastic when I heard a friendly call
from a stretcher, and, looking in that direction, I saw it was Lt.
Maxwell-Scott--he who had first served my Mass at Fosse-dix. It seemed
years ago. He was wounded, though not seriously.
The following day I waited, with an Anglican chaplain from the Third
Brigade, till all the dead were brought in from the battlefield. Among
the officers of the Sixteenth were two or three of my dear friends. One
was the gentle officer who had slept in my billet at Carency, months
before--the one who had been called “Wild Bill;” even in death there
was a gentle expression on his kind face. We buried one hundred and
twenty-five that day, and called the place “Dominion Cemetery.”
Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow,
But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead
And bitterly thought of the morrow.
We remained in this area till September 4th, and each night we were
bombed almost continuously. It was terrible and there were many
casualties. One could scarcely count the airplanes. We could hear them
coming from a great distance and each moment drawing nearer and nearer.
We would lie on the ground unprotected--nothing between us and the
airplanes but the thin sheets of our bivouacs. When they would arrive
over our camping ground, great lights resembling arc light would drop
slowly down, lighting up the entire area. Then would come in quick
succession the awful crash of bursting bombs. Often I have gripped the
grass beside me with both hands, as I lay there waiting to be blown
into a thousand fragments. Then, one fleet of ’planes having exhausted
its supply of bombs there would be relative silence till the next was
heard approaching. During the interim, slowly, silently, and anxiously,
our searchlights swept the sky, the great long shafts of light crossing
and recrossing each other.