THE DAYS BEFORE YPRES.
The following day we drove over to Estaires, five miles away, to see
the first Canadian division coming back into rest after a month in the
trenches. As we passed the infantry on the road it was pleasant to see
broad smiles spreading over the faces of the men who recognized us as
having been with them at Valcartier and Salisbury Plain. Fit and
rugged they looked as they swung along with the confident air which
newly arrived troops often seem to possess. Their officers were
pleased with them, and were satisfied that the division needed only an
opportunity to make good. The division had been on the left at the
battle of Neuve Chappelle, and had had no real fighting as yet; but it
had received an excellent month's training in trench warfare, and was
now well broken into the new game.
The division remained for a week in that neighborhood resting, and we
had several opportunities of visiting our friends. On Sunday three of
us called on my old friend General Mercer of the first brigade, and
had tea with him and Majors Van Straubenzie and Hayter of his staff.
General Mercer expressed himself as being delighted with the men and
as having the highest confidence in them.
We also had dinner with Colonel (now General) Rennie and our old
friends of the third (Toronto) battalion who were located in a little
peasant cottage in Neuf Berquin. In a room adjoining Captain Haywood,
the medical officer of the battalion, lay on a pile of straw with
symptoms of appendicitis. He was not too sick to give some extremely
graphic descriptions of his first experiences in the trenches, while
we all sat around and smoked. The room was lighted by a single stable
lantern which also smoked and we sat on boxes; I have seldom passed a
more pleasant evening in my life than that spent in the little peasant
cottage with my soldier friends, Captains George Ryerson, Muntz,
Wickens, Major Allan (all since dead), Major Kirkpatrick (now a
prisoner in Germany), Captains Hutchison, Bart Rogers, George,
Lyne-Evans, Robertson, (of the first battalion) and others. Some of
these chaps I knew well in Canada and we talked of home and the old
times, all the while realizing that some of us would never again get
back. The feeling was now fast settling down upon us that we were
actually at war, and that soon some of the men we had grown to admire
and love would have to pay the price.
During the evening two stocky little French girls came in and sang
"Eet's a longa, longa wye to Teeperaree" in English for the "seek
Capitan."
The Canadian division was in rest during those early April days when
the cold, long-drawn out spring became almost imperceptibly warmer and
the buds were beginning to swell on the trees and bushes.
On the first day of April, Bismarck's birth-date, we were expecting
something unusual along the front and were not disappointed. While
driving up to the Clearing Station to breakfast, we noticed a couple
of Hun aeroplanes being shelled by our "Archibalds." When we returned
to the town half an hour later we found that the place had been
bombed.
One bomb had gone right through Rankin's billet, exploded in the
workshop on the ground floor and blown out all the windows; another
had fallen in the square about twenty yards in front of my billet and
had failed to explode, while six others had fallen in different parts
of the town, half of which were "duds." Nobody was hurt and no other
damage was done.
Bittleson, Captain Rankin's batman, who happened to be looking out of
the top window at the time, swore that the bomb which went through the
roof beside him had grazed his forehead.
The bomb which had failed to explode in the square was taken
possession of by our staff sergeant and placed on my laboratory table
as a souvenir. A staff officer from headquarters, fortunately, came
along before we returned and bore it off to his chief after promising
to return it. Needless to relate it never came back, much to my relief
and to the disgust of the staff sergeant who on several occasions
referred to the iniquity of this high handed action.
On Easter Sunday we were invited to some sports by the divisional
cavalry. As we drove up to the orchard specified in the invitation a
crowd of typical big western cowboys with their broad brimmed Stetson
hats came streaming up the road from a nearby farm where they had been
foregathering.
A clear stretch of turf was selected, a ring formed by the crowd and
the first event was announced--a cock fight between Von Kluck and
Joffre. Cock fighting is the native sport of the countryside in that
region where nearly every farmer keeps a couple of game cocks and
fights them on Sunday afternoons, incidentally betting on the results.
After everybody had been warned not to move, the two birds were placed
gently on the ground on opposite sides of the circle. Carelessly, and
without apparently having noticed one another, the roosters walked
about picking at the grass but gradually getting nearer to one
another. When they got within a yard of each other they became more
wary, though still feigning carelessness, until one seeing an
opportunity, sprang into the air and struck at the head of the other
with the curved wire nails attached to his legs in place of spurs. The
other dodged and counter attacked and the action became general.
Using beak, wings and spurs they jumped, flew and struck at one
another as opportunity afforded, until Joffre got a strangle hold on
Von Kluck and buried his spurs again and again into the prostrate body
until he finally struck a vital spot and the combat was over. Then,
stretching himself, the victor flapped his wings once or twice as if
to say "bring on the next" and went on picking at the grass as before.
It was the first time that I had ever seen a cock fight and I hope it
will be the last. The concentration on the faces of those men as they
watched the cruel "sport" and the play of expression passing over them
was intensely interesting to me; you could almost tell what some of
them were saying within their minds and it was pleasant to know that
to the great majority of them the game was as repulsive as it was to
us. It was obviously unsuited to the taste of our new country and men
who might themselves be dead in the course of a week or two.
One other cock fight was put on and then we turned to a game much more
suited to our men--a wrestling bout on horseback. Four men on each
side mounted on horses, without saddles or bridles, were drawn up at
opposite sides of the field. The men were dressed in trousers and
shirts only; the horses were guided solely by a halter.
At a given signal the two parties approached one another at a trot,
each man selecting as his antagonist the one opposite him. In the
first crash a couple were dismounted almost instantly, and the battle
resolved itself into several separate encounters.
The horses seemed to enter into the spirit of the thing and backed up,
wheeled, side-stepped and did their best to help their owners win.
Meanwhile the riders, grasping one another by body, arm or leg, did
their utmost to tear one another off their horses. When it became
three against two, the two would tackle one opponent and it was the
task of the single man to try to keep the two others on the same side
so that they could not grasp him on both sides at once. It was
exciting enough to see one man being pulled by one arm from one side,
while another man was trying to throw his opposite leg over the horse.
Even when they succeeded in accomplishing this he clung to the horse's
neck and it was only with the greatest difficulty that his feet were
made to touch the ground and he was thereby put out of the game.
One or two obstreperous animals who objected to the game ran away with
their riders and tried to brush them off on the apple trees. The
contestants were all as hard as nails and could stand any amount of
rough usage such as they received in this gladiator-like contest.
After the games were over we adjourned to the Colonel's billet for
afternoon tea and music. The Colonel was exceedingly fond of his
gramophone, and, being troubled somewhat with insomnia, would
sometimes rise in the middle of the night and put on a few of his
favorite records, much to the annoyance of the rest of the staff
billeted in the same house. Knowing this, one did not think it so
strange as it might otherwise have seemed, that, during the course of
a move of the division, the gramophone fell from a wagon and was run
over by six other wagons. What did seem mysterious was the fact that
none of the drivers had seen the gramophone in the road until it had
been crushed as flat as a board.
When I visited the divisional cavalry a few months later the Colonel
was still carrying forty dollars' worth of records with him but had
not yet ordered a new gramophone.
Gradually the Canadian division moved on. One night we found them in
the neighborhood of Winnizeele and Oudezeele, hamlets near the Belgian
border. In searching for a battalion headquarters we asked one soldier
sitting in front of a barn what village this was and received the not
uncommon answer "I don't know." It was astonishing how frequently
that answer was given. Apparently some men were quite content to be
moved about like pawns in a game of chess without question as long as
they were fed and clothed; they seemingly had adopted the attitude of
the Mohammedan, "It is the will of Allah."
We had dinner with Colonel Rennie and his staff that night, and a
pleasant dinner it was. I remember yet how envious we were of Major
Kirkpatrick who took us up to his room and there opened up a box just
received from his wife in England--a box containing cigarettes,
chocolates, taffy, gum, magazines and other things so greatly
appreciated by the soldier in the field, and so liberally shared by
them with less fortunate ones. Some men were very lucky in having
wives who seemed to spend a great deal of thought--and money--in
things that would be appreciated by their husbands in France. The
Major was taken a prisoner a fortnight later and I sincerely hope that
he was as lucky in having his boxes come through to him in Germany.
After dinner we accompanied some of the younger officers to a
mysterious place called "The Club"--an Estaminet in the village,
operated by a French woman and recently "out of bounds" for several
days because of failure to observe the early closing law.
The scene in that little French "Pub" that evening might have been
from a comedy written of the period of one hundred years ago. In the
common room were a number of officers playing cards at little tables.
The air was blue with smoke and numerous bottles of wine stood on the
tables.
A young French woman sat over in a corner chatting confidentially in
French to a Canadian officer who thought he was replying in the same
language. Neither understood a word that the other said, though both
were obviously delighted at their success in making themselves
understood, so what was the difference?
The scene, which grew more and more interesting as the evening
advanced, was brought to a sudden conclusion by the entrance of a
Lieutenant, who announced that nine o'clock had struck; in a moment
the room was emptied, lights were out and we were all wending our ways
homeward.
The first impressions of a soldier at the front are invariably the
most vivid. A week after we had settled down to routine work we had
occasion to visit one of the advanced dressing stations in our area.
Leaving our little town by motor we crossed the canal by the
lift-bridge after waiting to allow three Dutch barges to pass through.
These lift bridges are hinged about one third of the way from one end
and are raised by means of stout cables hitched to the other end and
passing back to towers. They are so balanced that little effort is
required to raise or lower them.
Turning to the left we struck into a pavé road which led for some
distance along the canal bank. Pavé is not a bad road when kept in
good repair as this one was, and when you get used to the vibration of
the car bouncing from one cobble stone to another; when, however, it
is not kept in repair, depressions form which rapidly increase as cart
and motor wheels fall into them and hammer them deeper and deeper.
A little grey tug boat, painted the regulation battleship grey,
slipped quietly along through the canal towing several barges loaded
with road metal and lumber.
A buzz like a huge bee approaching us across the fields attracted our
attention, and we looked up to see an aeroplane, like a gigantic
dragon fly bearing directly down upon us. A hundred yards away it left
the ground and passed over our heads climbing steadily in a great
spiral into the sky. Another aeroplane, and another followed till
there were five circling above us, getting smaller and smaller as they
soared into the heaven, looking like herons in flight among the
clouds. They then made off towards different parts of the German lines
to their daily task of reconnaissance.
The women, old men and children, were busy on the farms ploughing,
harrowing and putting in the seed. Though the men were away there was
no dearth of labour on the farms and everything was going on as it
should. The silly-looking, heavily-built, three-wheeled carts, empty
or loaded with manure, bumped along behind the broad-backed Flemish
horses, guided solely by a frail looking piece of string. The driver,
seated crosswise on a projecting tongue of wood, guides the horse by
mysterious signals conveyed through jerks of the piece of string, and
steers the cart by leaning over and shoving the small front steering
wheel to the right or left by hand. The Flemish horses are very placid
and are never startled by motors, gun fire, or anything else.
Away to the right we could see the spires of a church in a little
village nestling among the trees. Our road took its tortuous course
through fields as flat as a board. Tall trees flanked the roadside
which was separated from the fields by ditches three or four feet
wide, serving to drain both road and fields and ultimately emptying
into some canal or creek. In this particular part of Flanders hedges
were not in universal use for fences. In one place we execrated the
Germans for having cut down dozens of the roadside trees, only to
discover later that the British themselves had cut them down in order
to clear the course for aeroplanes ascending and descending to the
aerodrome close by.
We overhauled a trotting dog team dragging a heavy little milk cart
and driven by a boy who ran alongside. At the sound of the motor horn
the dogs turned sharply to the right without waiting for orders from
the boy, ran over his foot, and nearly upset the cart. One judged that
they had had some previous and possibly not pleasant experiences with
motor cars, and were taking no chances. What the boy said to them was
shameful, judged even by our limited knowledge of French and the short
time we were within hearing of him.
Coming into the little town of La Gorgue we could see to our right a
chateau in quite pretentious gardens--a chateau in which the German
Crown Prince is said to have been staying when a British shell crashed
through the roof and made him move on the double quick. This town like
our own was intersected by a canal which was used both as a sewer and
source of water supply for washing purposes. The streets in this town
are dirty and ill kept; the stores uninteresting, and the houses
squalid; it ran into the next town of Estaires by the continuation of
the main street.
Canadian soldiers were everywhere in evidence, wandering along the
roads in the manner so characteristic of them. Canadians have never
been over fond of saluting officers, and have never quite accepted the
statement that it is the uniform of the representative of the King
they are called upon to salute--not the man.
The first story I heard was about a chauffeur I had had in Valcartier.
He had been standing at the doorway of a store trying to talk to a
French girl when a couple of British officers passed. The man did not
see them till they were just going by and drew himself up to a sort of
a half attention. The officers passed, halted, and came back.
"Why didn't you salute?" queried one officer.
"I didn't see you," replied the man.
"Oh, yes, you did; you came to a kind of sloppy attention as we
passed," said the officer.
"Yes," said the man. "I did as you were almost past; but anyway we
don't salute much in our army."
"What?" said the officer, "are you a Canadian?"
"Yes, sir," said the chauffeur proudly, and the British officers went
on laughing heartily.
The officers we came to see were out and we seized the opportunity to
run over for a look at the shell-shattered town of Laventie--the first
battered town we had seen. To us, at that time, it was an
awe-inspiring spectacle, though nowadays it would be considered a
comparatively undamaged town.
The houses on the outskirts were quite intact, but as we approached
the centre of the town, shattered windows, pitted walls, and scarred
woodwork indicated that the town had been heavily shelled. Near the
church the buildings were wrecked; roofs were lifted off, windows
blown out, and walls were frequently half down or had great holes in
them, while the block right around the church was a heap of rubbish.
The church itself had been hit scores of times, and the walls though
still standing were perforated like a sieve. The stones in the
foundation of the church were fractured by the force of the exploding
shells into tiny fragments, still pressed together with the weight of
the material above them. So crushed were they that if removed, a tap
with a hammer would make them fall into thousands of splinters.
The houses round about the church had been completely razed to the
ground. Those adjacent were partly unroofed, with perhaps a wall blown
out showing an upstairs with a stairway swinging from the floor, beams
from the roof fallen over the iron bedstead, sheets of wall paper
dangling from the walls, and every other imaginable combination of
wreckage. And yet a few doors away down the street where the houses
had not been very badly damaged they were occupied by civilians who
tried to eke out an existence by selling candy and foodstuffs.
It is a never-failing source of wonder to see people in such places
which were being shelled daily, hanging on desperately to the old
homes, not knowing when a shell might come through the roof and kill
them all. That was brought home to me later on when, as I passed
through a village one afternoon, I saw three women being dug out of
the cellar of a house in which a shell had exploded a minute before.
On another occasion in a village close by a mother with her babe at
her breast, three children of various ages, the husband and the
grandmother, were all killed in one room by a German shell, the walls,
ceiling and floor being splattered with blood and brains. And so it
goes on day after day among the civilians in the shelled area in
France. Most of them escape but many of them pay the price.