THE AFTERMATH OF THE GAS.
The day after the gas attack I reported to headquarters, that in my
opinion the gas used was chlorine with possibly an admixture of
bromine, and that a mask with a solution of "Hypo" to cover the nose
and mouth would probably absorb the gas and destroy its effectiveness.
I also suggested that the battle area be searched for masks which the
Germans were sure to have had prepared as a protection for their own
men. (Most of the morning I had spent in bed with an attack of
bronchitis suffering from the effects of the gas.)
Later I learned that German prisoners had given the information that
the gas was contained in cylinders but would not admit that they knew
what kind of gas it was. They also said that the men who operated the
tanks wore protective masks and gloves.
All that day the Indians of the Lahore division from our area were
passing through our town on the way to Ypres.
On Sunday afternoon Captain Ellis and I left for Vlamertinge to find
out just what had happened. The suspense had become terrible and we
felt like quitters because we were not in the salient fighting with
our fellows. At Poperinge we saw a cart on the road beside a house
which had been recently blown down by a shell. As we drove slowly by,
a wounded old woman was carried out and laid beside the bodies of two
other white-haired women who had just been dug out of the ruins.
Though fatally injured, they were still living, and I shall never
forget the pitiful looks on those ashy gray faces as they looked up
into my face with eyes like those of sheep about to be slaughtered.
At No. 3 Canadian Field Ambulance we found that 2,600 Canadian
casualties had already passed through during the three days since the
gas attack. We heard there that Major Mothersill, Medical officer of
the Eighth Battalion, had been lying out in front of the lines for two
days, unable to move and apparently paralyzed. It was one of those
personal experiences which brings the war home to us with startling
reality, for I had made a tour of his area with him just a few days
before. You hear of the loss of a thousand men and it affects you very
little, but if you know personally a single one of the thousand, the
news of his death may give you the blues for days. The loss of a
million unknown Russians does not really mean as much to one as the
loss of a single friend.
On our return trip we passed a large number of London busses loaded
with wounded; they were all sitting-up cases and were a very happy
looking lot. It was an odd sight to see bus after bus tearing down
that long, straight road, with the tall trees on either hand, each bus
with rows of soldiers seated on the upper deck, with heads and arms
bandaged, looking about at everything with the greatest
interest,--like tourists rather than men who had just come from the
very gates of hell. They waved hearty greetings to the French
artillery which was then pouring up the side roads.
As the French 75's bumped along the roads, drawn by rat-tailed, wiry
horses, they looked like pale blue, painted wooden guns, instead of
what they were--the deadliest weapon that the war had till then
produced. An officer who watched them the following day gallop onto
the field, unlimber and start firing, told me that the way their fire
covered that front was an absolutely uncanny sight. With mathematical
precision the shells would begin to drop at one end of a field and cut
out a belt across it from side to side, the belt growing as each
explosion threw up a splash of dust from the showers of shrapnel;
having completed the belt they would begin another a few yards farther
back until the whole field had been covered and not a soldier hiding
anywhere in it left alive.
On the day of the first gas attack there were soldiers everywhere back
of the line; that day as we drove home there was not a single one to
be seen. They had all gone forward toward the front where they could
be of the greatest use.
When the French people of the little villages through which we passed
saw the name "Canadian" on our car they nudged each other and repeated
the word "Canadien." It was the name in everybody's mouth those days,
for it was now general knowledge that the Canadian division had thrown
itself into the gap and stemmed the German rush to Calais. The whole
world was ringing with the story of how the colonial troops had barred
the road to the channel to a force many times its size in men and
guns, and armed with poison gas, the most terrible device of warfare
that had yet been invented.
And well may it be said that the 22nd of April, 1915, was, to the
allies, one of the two most vital days since the beginning of the war.
The Germans had planned to break through and seize the French coast
along the narrowest portion of the channel. Once established there
they would have attempted to cover the channel with their long range
naval guns, while they would have established for their submarines
harbours which could be protected by the same guns. Under such
circumstances, cross channel traffic and the maintenance of our lines
of communication would have proved to be a very difficult matter
indeed, for the subs would then, at any time, have easy access to our
channel path.
The importance of the Canadian fight during that first twenty-four
hours was out of all ratio to the size of our forces. The whole
success of the battle hinged on the attack by two battalions on the
morning of the 23rd of April. These two battalions were sent up into
the centre of the gap left in the line by the retreat of the French
colonials. Supported by four field guns, they advanced steadily under
a terrific fire from the enemy. As General Mercer said to me
afterwards, it was, according to the book, probably as crazy a bit of
military tactics as could possibly have been tried, but the very
daring of the attempt proved its success. The Germans, believing that
such a counter attack must be backed up by much stronger forces,
hesitated to come on and the day was saved, for while they hesitated
and made sure of their ground, troops were hurried up from other parts
of the line and the Huns had missed their chance. That first night if
the Germans had simply walked ahead they would have found nothing to
stop them, but they were too much dazed with their own success to
realize the situation and take advantage of it.
Naturally we were thrilled with pride at the success of the division;
we had been present at its birth; we had watched it through the
various vicissitudes of its eventful career; and now its great
opportunity had come. Now its name had been indelibly written on the
scroll of fame. It had saved the situation in one of the most critical
happenings of the whole war.
The next day the General of the fourth corps, accompanied by his
staff, paid a visit to our laboratory, and the General told us that
the Germans had tried their gases on the Belgians the very day after
they had gassed the French and Canadian colonial troops. But the
Belgians breathed through wet handkerchiefs till the gas had passed
over, and when the Germans came on, full of confidence in the efficacy
of their deadly new weapon, the Belgians gave them a severe punishing.
On April 27th the three of us started out after 5 o'clock to the
Canadian area in search of news. The military policeman on the road at
the outskirts of Poperinge on being queried said, "All right, no
shells to-day in Pop." But we got only about 150 yards into the town
when there was a terrific hair-raising explosion near us, followed by
showers of bricks and bits of whizzing shell. It was a shell of very
high calibre, and as we passed the next cross street and looked up
it, we could see four houses settling into dust and a few people
running towards the spot. A telephone wire cut by a flying fragment
fell upon a car just ahead of us. It looked funny to see the doors of
the houses along the street belch forth their inmates who rushed to
the shutters, banged them to, rushed in again and no doubt hid
themselves in the cellars. It reminded us exactly of the actions of a
flock of chickens when a hawk appears in the sky.
A moment after, as we were leaving the town, another shell went
screaming overhead, exploded to our right near the station close to
the road, while a third went off on our left. Some Belgian soldiers
who were bringing in a wounded man on their shoulders dropped flat
upon the ground, letting the poor wounded chap fall with a crash. We
opened the throttle and speeded on. A motor ambulance convoy loaded
with wounded flew by us toward the base; in fact everything on the
road was going at top speed that evening. We buttoned our coats up to
our throats and took a fresh grip on our cigars as we tore up the road
into that "unhealthy" district, feeling that we must go on. "This is
the life," said the Major with a grin. Perhaps it was foolish but the
excitement was worth the danger.
In the fields by the roadside were picketed cavalry horses, saddled
and bridled, and ready to be mounted at a moment's notice. No
contingency appeared to have been overlooked; everything had been put
into readiness for anything that might happen.
At Vlamertinge everybody was standing by ready for the word to move.
Heavy shelling had been going on all day and the shells were still
coming pretty thickly. The street was littered with broken bricks,
fresh plaster and other debris; on all sides were crumbled walls and
ruined houses. The office of the A.D.M.S., Colonel Foster, had a shell
hole right through it and his desk was covered with plaster. The
office staff occupied the cellar and they informed us that the
officers were housed in a white chateau on the opposite side of the
street. There were several officers there; most of them evidently
thought that we were fools to come voluntarily into a place that they
would have given a good deal to be out of.
The front line was being held, and things were going fairly well in
the salient. But sitting around in a building that was liable to be
blown up any moment was not pleasant work for either officers or men,
and some of the men who had been subjected to the strain for several
days showed unmistakable evidences of it. The Canadians had lost
heavily but as yet no accurate figures were obtainable on account of
the complicated nature of the fighting and the fact that the wounded
were going through several ambulances.
We did not stay any longer than was necessary to obtain the news and
our return trip to Poperinge was a record one. We saw freshly-killed
horses on the roadside, and in the Grande Place in "Pop" the fresh
shell holes showed that the process of hammering was still going on
with undiminishing vigour. Dinner was half over when we reached our
mess that evening. As we entered the room a tin bowl fell to the floor
with a crash. Every person in the room started as though it were a
bomb, and we, fresh from our day's experiences, ducked our heads for
safety. Tired out, we said nothing about our trip and went to bed
early.
The next few days were full of interest. The news from the Canadian
Division was both good and bad, they had had 6,000
casualties,--practically half of the infantry,--but all the reports,
even those of the Germans themselves, agreed in giving them credit
for having fought like fiends and having spoiled the great German
plan. The first lists of the killed had come out and contained the
names of many of my personal friends, and the sense of a great pride
in the achievements of one division was marred by the sorrow for
their loss.
The town of Poperinge was now deserted. Travelling in that direction
one morning I met streams of refugees coming from it and on entering
it found it like a city of the dead. Not a soul could be seen except
one small unit which had been temporarily forgotten. The French
gendarmes had driven the inhabitants out of the place because it was
said to be full of spies who had been of great assistance to the enemy
at a time when any bit of information might be of incalculable value
to them. From one of the men of this stranded unit I obtained a
three-pound piece of the 15-inch shell which had exploded close to us
a few days before.
A non-com of the sanitary section who had come through Ypres an hour
before told me that he had seen an old woman over 80 years of age
sweeping the front sidewalk and polishing the windows. She was perhaps
the only remaining resident.
The city was being steadily reduced to ruins by a continuous avalanche
of shells and he spoke to her and tried to induce her to come with him
but without avail. "She had lived there all her life and she intended
to die there; it had been her custom to clean the windows and sweep
the sidewalks, and if Providence willed that shells should come and
knock down her neighbors' houses and make a lot of dust, she would
just have to sweep oftener, what was the difference anyway?" And so he
had to leave her.
The laboratory at this time was a place of much interest and many
distinguished generals and medical men came to find out about the gas
and methods of combating it. General Headquarters had sent for me to
watch some practical field experiments and to give them the benefit of
our experience on this question. With the chief engineer of the local
army we carried out some experimental work of our own on a large
scale. These experiments led to certain recommendations which were
later found to be of value in making the German gases less effective.
We also did a good deal of experimental laboratory work with other
gases which might possibly be used, with the object of discovering
their antidotes.
On May 5th the Canadian transport was strung along the roads leading
from Ypres and we knew that the division was out for a rest. We hunted
out some of our friends in Bailleul,--some of the few that were left.
There were 7 of the 25 officers in the 3rd (Toronto) battalion and 6
out of the 25 in the 48th Highlanders of Toronto, though the missing
ones had not all been killed. They were greatly changed in
appearance, were very tired, and could tell little of their
experiences in any connected way; at that time they had simply a
succession of blurred impressions; they could recall a terrible
excitement but had little idea of the sequence of events. The men,
sitting around the streets of Bailleul in the sun, looked as if they
had seen and experienced more than they could ever tell.
One of my officer comrades had gone insane, and another had been so
shell shocked that he was of no further use and had been sent to
England,--the latter was one of those officers whom I had seen in the
little club house at Winnezeele. Two of my friends had been buried out
in the front one night with two other officers--all in the one shell
hole.
The medical officer, Captain Haywood, conducted the burial without
candle or book. The green white light from the German flares and the
red flashes of the guns was the only light to show the sad little
party where their erstwhile comrades rested. The lay parson, exhausted
with seventy hours' continuous work, and unable to recall a single
word of the burial service, broke huskily into this rugged
commendation, "Well, boys, they were four damn good fellows; let us
repeat the Lord's prayer," but they couldn't manage to say even the
Lord's prayer among them.
What a setting for a soldier funeral! The black night, the roar and
flash of the guns and the green flare of the German star shells
silhouetting those bowed heads above the soldiers' grave. What a
fitting tribute to a soldier! The broken voice with the rough and
ready words of praise: "They were four damn good fellows." What more
could be said? What more would any soldier desire?
One chap had seen General Mercer, with his aide-de-camp by his side,
crossing a fire-swept field deliberately stop in the middle of it to
light his pipe. Everybody agreed that the General was the coolest man
in sight that day. The Aide himself assured me that it took several
matches to light the General's pipe and that the matches were the
slow-burning variety; he said that it seemed to him to have taken
about an hour to light that pipe, and all the time he was wishing
himself safe in the shelter of a ditch. It had not been mere bravado
on the General's part but a deliberately planned act to steady his
men.
Some of the Canadian soldiers came into the dressing stations during
the battle, accoutred in wonderful equipment that had taken their
fancies. One wounded chap wore an Indian's turban, a French officer's
spurs and a British officer's pistol.
Major W.D. Allan had seven bullet holes in his clothing, two of them
through his hat; and yet his skin was not broken. The nearest approach
to a wound was a big triangular bruise on his shoulder, made by a
piece of spent high explosive. One of the bullets had gone through his
hat and tipped it over his eyes as his unit was falling back from one
trench to another; he said that he was positive he had broken the
world's record for a hundred yards in the next few seconds.
The First Battalion, at whose mess I dined one night, had lost 400 out
of a total of 800 men during a 600-yard advance into the breach made
by the German gas in the face of a terrific fire.
Meanwhile preparations were in progress for a battle in our area
evidently for the purpose of relieving the pressure on the line
elsewhere, and on the 9th of May we were wakened at 4.30 a.m. by the
final bombardment. I had been invited to witness the battle by a
general on the staff but I was unable to go.
The first wounded came in about noon and by four o'clock the hospital
where we took our meals was filled. From the windows above we could
see scores of wounded lying in rows on stretchers in that sunny
courtyard, some conscious and others unconscious. Every conscious
wounded soldier held a cigarette between his lips and I even saw them
going in to the operating table smoking. The wounded were a depressed
lot that day; the men themselves realized that they had been badly cut
up for little purpose, for the wire had not been destroyed and they
had been unable to make any progress. The authorities in England had
not yet realized that high explosives were necessary to cut wire in
spite of the fact that everybody in the field knew it. It required a
newspaper agitation to convert some of the authorities as to the need
of high explosives.
After a rest the Canadians took over a new piece of line near
Festubert, and a hot spot it was. We knew this area well as far
forward as the advanced dressing stations, and had been there by day
and night in the car.
When the Canadian attack at Festubert began, I was wakened one night
by a lull in the booming of the guns, and got up to sit by the
window. It was one of those still nights in June when every sound
carries for miles. The odours of sweet flowers floated up from the
garden below, and the splash, splash of frogs hopping into the river
could be heard from time to time. The guns had stopped, but the rattle
of rapid rifle fire was as distinct as if it had been only half a mile
away; then the rattle of machine guns could be distinguished,
succeeded by the explosions of hand grenades, and I knew that the
Canadians were hard at it, probably with the bayonet. It was not a
comfortable feeling to sit seven miles away and listen to a succession
of sounds so full of meaning, nor is a vivid imagination a good thing
for a soldier to have in the field.
The following day a young lieutenant whom I had hunted out three days
before, came in to the clearing station down the street, wounded in
shoulder, head, hip and leg, with shrapnel. That boy is now Major
Mavor, M.C., D.S.O.
Two days after, we drove over to headquarters of the 1st army. With
the sun setting in a gorgeous glow, and with hedges in full blossom,
Flanders was transformed for once that evening into a land of beauty.
About ten o'clock we heard a hum of an aeroplane overhead and then a
series of explosions, like those of a heavy gun. Flashes were seen in
the direction of a French town where there were great steel works and
we drove home that way. The inhabitants of the country and the hamlets
along the road were all out of doors gazing at the sky, and as we
entered the bombed town we found everybody quite excited. Eight bombs
had been dropped in the place, but none of them had any effect,
except to rouse the populace to a condition of excitement.
Our headlights were burning, and suspicion was evidently aroused as to
the possibility of this being connected with the attack, for we were
suddenly halted by a blue-coated French soldier stepping in front of
the car and holding his gun above his head in the usual way while
eight other French soldiers surrounded us. Some of them pointed
bayonets threateningly at us while we were all covered by rifles. It
was quite a picture. Our headlights shone brilliantly on the three men
in front, while the faces of the others, nearly all with moustachios
and goatees, lit up by the moon and the glare of the red lights from
the works, looked most ferocious. The slender, flashing French
bayonets seemed to be at least three feet long.
As we waited to be identified, a British sergeant lounged forward, a
little the worse for beer, and nodded cordially as he leaned
carelessly on the front door and explained all about the bombs. At a
word from him the Frenchmen fell back, and we moved on. Every house
seemed to have a soldier on guard, but we were not questioned further,
and drove peacefully home along the canal, whose iris-decked banks
were perfectly reflected in its glassy waters in the brilliant
moonlight.
Again I changed my billet by the bridge to live at a fine old house
farther up the river. It had a beautiful old garden which was
separated from the street by a high iron fence on a brick foundation.
Walnut trees from the garden overhung the street and shaded a little
octagonal summer house. The old-fashioned, square, red brick house
faced the lawn, in the centre of which was an elongated brick-lined
pool of water with a bridge over it. In the centre of the lawn was a
large polished silver ball on a pedestal; this was regarded as a fine
ornament. The lawn was separated from the garden by a high hedge. The
garden proper, a real old-fashioned one, containing many berry bushes,
fruit trees, and a few old-fashioned flowers, ran right back to the
river. A brick boundary wall kept the river from washing away the
banks, and brick steps led down to a little floating platform. There
was much shade in that old French garden; it was the most peaceful and
restful place that I ever found in France. Even aeroplanes sailing
overhead on their missions of destruction seemed from my garden to be
harmless.
I always took my French lesson there after dinner, when the bees
droned about and one had an irresistible desire to sleep. My teacher,
Professor Paul Balbaud, had been a lecturer in Toronto University, and
at this time was drawing the magnificent sum of one cent a day as a
private in the French 77th territorial regiment. On one occasion he
presented me with ten days' pay which he had received that very
morning, and I had the two five-sou silver pieces made into watch
charms. Monsieur Balbaud was engaged in the telegraph service, and was
an excellent teacher. Later on that year the pay of the French soldier
was raised to five cents a day.
Madam Carré, a dear old lady, owned the house and she was kindness
itself. Nothing was too good for the Canadians. Her grand-daughter, a
tall good looking girl of Spanish descent, twenty-one years of age,
had been married seven months when the war broke out, and her husband,
an artillery man, had been killed. Three times a day during that first
year did the girl go to church to pray for the safety of her husband,
for she would not believe him dead.
I was wakened the very first night at my new billet, about 2 a.m., by
the rat-a-tat of a kettle-drum, and two dreary notes continuously
repeated by a bugle. It was the alarm for a fire at a farmhouse about
half a mile from town. Our men from the hospital helped to get most of
the furniture out, and were standing around watching the farmhouse and
barns burn down, when the 17 Brigade Lancers appeared with the hand
hose-reel, which, however, proved to be useless. The Lancers had
broken into the fire hall and stolen the apparatus.
The local firemen afterwards came to the fire hall but found the
engine gone; after some discussion they went home and donned their
white duck trousers, blue tunics, and polished brass helmets. The fire
chief and first deputy then had a dispute about something which
resulted in the deputy going home in a huff, while the chief and the
second deputy (the whole fire brigade) resplendent in their spotless
uniforms of white, blue and gold, marched out to the fire. The British
soldiers lined up when they saw them coming, and gave them three
rousing cheers, while one of the Tommies solemnly swept the road
before them with a broom. As my chauffeur "Rad" said, "It was just
like a scene from a blinking comic opera."
The area was now well known to us, for, in the course of our work, we
had been over every bit of road in it. It was very noticeable how the
farmhouses along some roads, which paralleled the front line trenches
about one and a half miles behind it, gradually disappeared. On Monday
perhaps we would have to go down to a certain battery located on this
road, and there would be a dozen intact farmhouses in the course of a
half mile. On Friday of the same week, one or more of them would be
burned down, while the shell holes in the fields and road around them
indicated deliberate concentration of fire.
Our work was interesting and we kept busy all the time. The monotony
of working seven days a week, however, becomes very great after a few
weeks and seriously affects the health and the ability to work. In the
other army services work came in periodical bursts; ours was a steady
grind of seven days a week.
We saw the hay mowed and gathered in; we noticed the grain fields
gradually turn to gold, saw the reaping and all other operations of
mixed farming carried on in all its interesting detail. Meanwhile the
First Canadian Division had settled down in the Ploegsteert section,
which was out of our area, and the second Canadian Division had
arrived and joined up with them. The Second Division had come over to
teach the First Division a lot of things and there was a fair amount
of feeling between them as will be seen from the following
confidential conversation between two brothers in different
divisions, upon meeting for the first time:
"Say, we have had a hell of a time trying to live down your
reputation," said the younger brother.
"Yes, and you will also have a hell of a time trying to live up to it,
too," retorted the senior.
And there the matter rested until events subsequently showed that both
divisions were composed of exactly the same stuff.