TO THE FRONT
Being of British parentage and birth, most of my earlier life was
spent in England. On coming of age, I left England for Canada, and
after a few months there decided to study mining engineering in the
United States. I attended a Western college, the Colorado School of
Mines, leaving there in 1910 to practise my profession as a civil and
mining engineer in California, where I took out my final papers as an
American citizen several years before the war.
By reason of my birth my sympathies were naturally much aroused in the
earlier part of the great struggle, and the fact that my brother had
joined the Canadian forces directly after war had been declared, and
the subsequent injury and death in battle of several British cousins,
infantry officers, early in the war, preyed on my mind to such an
extent that I left my home and practice in California in October,
1915, proceeded to New York, and from there to London. I applied for a
commission in the Royal Engineers. No unnecessary questions were asked
as to my nationality. I proved my engineering experience, and within
two weeks was ordered to report to the officer commanding an officers'
training-corps in London to commence training.
It may be of interest to note here that I was then in much the same
frame of mind as many of our soldiers are now--generally afraid that
the war would be over before they reached the trenches. I was first
offered a commission in a field-engineering company of the Royal
Engineers, but informed at the same time that it would be necessary
for me to put in three or four months' preliminary training in England
before I could get over to France.
This did not appeal to me. I was also of the opinion at the time that
the war would probably be over before long; and later, by inquiry,
elicited the fact that mining engineers were in immediate and great
demand on account of very active enemy fighting underground in France.
I found out later that a number of British mining engineers, coming
back to England from India, Africa, and various parts of the globe to
enlist in their country's cause, had applied to the War Office for
commissions, and had been accepted at once, given three days to
arrange their private affairs, obtain their uniforms and active
service-kits, and report to the companies they were posted to in the
front-line trenches. Certainly the red tape was cut here.
In less than three weeks I received my commission as second
lieutenant, with orders to leave the O.T.C. and proceed to Chatham,
to the R.E. Barracks, in company with several other mining officers,
for a few days' further training preparatory to proceeding overseas.
The British Government makes a grant of approximately $250 to all
officers when commissioned in order that they may supply themselves
with uniforms and kit. These were soon obtained, and we were then
instructed to hold ourselves in readiness to sail at any minute. We
were first under orders to sail on Christmas morning, much to my
disgust, as it was my first Christmas in England for many years, but
we did not finally leave until New Year's eve, when we were taken by
troop-train to Southampton, and embarked the same day.
On disembarking in Rouen we were all marched up to the various
infantry and other camps established there some four or five
kilometres out of the town. Together with several other engineer
officers, I was assigned to an infantry camp for a few days' infantry
training whilst awaiting orders to proceed up the line. Life in these
camps is far from unpleasant, although the training is severe and
exacting. The city of Rouen is an extremely interesting one, and
numerous amusements were provided by the British and French
authorities for the troops who are always coming and going from these
base camps. As the scene of the martyrdom of the famous French saint
Jeanne d'Arc, it is well known to all the world.
At the first officers' parade, at Rouen after I arrived in France,
we were all informed by the camp adjutant that cameras were forbidden
and that any man who had a camera in his possession after twenty-four
hours would be court-martialled. I had one--a small vest-pocket-kodak--but
after this order decided to send it back to a friend in England. Some
six months later I was fortunate enough to secure a small kodak in one
of the villages behind the lines and managed to get the few pictures
which illustrate this account.
There are, necessarily, a large number of military-base and training
camps established by the British in France, and the camps at Rouen
seem to have been used mainly for reinforcement troops and returned
casualties. I met one officer of infantry here who was returning to
his regiment in a few days and who had just been reported "fit for
duty" again after his third wound! Even early in 1916 this was not
uncommon.
In the light of subsequent experience, I am more inclined to condole
with the poor fellows who have borne the brunt of the struggle and
escaped for long periods without being wounded.
Even the poor chaps who are fatally wounded seldom realize the fact at
first, and are only conscious of sudden relief in the thought that
they will be away from the trenches for a while. I have seen this
instanced many times. In May, 1916, I was sharing a dugout with
another officer in the trenches near the Vimy Ridge. R.'s orderly, W.,
was returning with a message, and as he nearly reached the dugout he
was caught by a heavy trench mortar and one of his legs blown off. He
was also hit in several other places. We sent for "stretcher-bearers
at the double," the usual call when casualties happen in the trenches,
and R. promptly fixed him up as best he could with one of the
field-bandages we always carried in our blouses. Poor W., one of the
finest lads I have ever known, not realizing fully the fatal nature
of his wounds, remarked cheerfully: "Blime, I ain't 'alf-crocked now
for the rest of my days." We agreed with him, but pretended to envy
his certainty of a "blighty." He was carried off to the nearest
regimental aid-post, about a quarter of a mile down the nearest
communication-trench, but the poor chap never left it, dying within
a couple of hours.
At Rouen we received the usual training given to all combatant
officers and men reporting there. This included daily lectures and
practice in the following subjects: Bomb-throwing, machine-guns and
their operation, infantry close and extended order drill, trench
mortars and their use, gas lectures, etc., interspersed with
long-route marches, sham fights and manoeuvres, trench reliefs day
and night, and practice and lectures on all the varied forms of
frightfulness then indulged in by the opposing armies. The
bomb-throwing was most fascinating. At that time the British were
using eight or ten varieties of bombs, from the old handle-bombs with
streamers attached, to the cricket-ball bomb, which one had to light
from a brassard on the arm. I had never even seen a bomb before, and
always associated them with the playful humor of the now back-number
anarchist. Without any preliminary practice, we were detailed to throw
these "live" bombs. My heart was in my mouth as we approached the
bombing-trenches, but I very carefully watched the operations of the
other fellows, and listened attentively to the very matter-of-fact and
callous British corporal instructors. My nerves, however, were in fair
shape, and I threw every type without any disastrous consequences,
though my heart was certainly working overtime.
While writing of bombs, I want to sound a note of warning to those of
our boys who will have this form of amusement in store for them. In
these days the throwing of "dummy" bombs always precedes the training
with live ones, and this is wise and natural, careful habits being
formed in this way which eliminate largely the fatal accidents which
have happened so often in the early training of British and French
units. The one essential is calmness. Nearly all troops who are highly
disciplined have this calmness bred into them, and very useful and
necessary it is for almost any operation in modern warfare. A "jumpy"
soldier, or one whose nerves are not in the best of shape, very
frequently knocks his arm against the parados whilst throwing a bomb,
drops it in the trench, fails to throw it clear of the parapet ahead,
and in other ways not only seriously endangers his own life but those
of his comrades practising with him.
The training at these base camps is made as realistic as possible, one
feature being the passage through "gassed" galleries or chambers of
all officers and men who report at the camps. The chambers are filled
with the strongest and deadliest of gases, chlorine, phosgene,
bromine, and other gases being used in more concentrated form than one
encounters in the regular attacks. All this and other training gives
men the confidence necessary to face bravely the fighting ahead of
them.
After six days at Rouen I was posted to my company, and ordered to "go
up the line."
Our billet, it developed, was in the village of Sailly-sur-la-Lys, two
miles from the front-line trenches opposite Fromelles, and a little
south of Armentières, incidentally the scene of very heavy fighting in
1914 and recent operations.
I was fortunate enough to get for a billet a small room off the
kitchen of a Flemish farm-house in the village. Our mess, a rough
wooden hut, was just across the street, and after proceeding there to
meet my company officers, we had a very excellent dinner of a couple
of chickens obtained in some mysterious way by our mess corporal.
During dinner I was more or less entertained with stories of that
day's events as related by the other men, one man describing how a
German sniper had put a bullet through his cap during the afternoon in
the trenches. (It was not until six months after this that we were
supplied with steel helmets.) Another man told how an aerial bomb
dropped from an enemy plane had landed within a few yards of him on a
road several miles back. I thought the object was to string newcomers
like R. and myself, but found out later that it was all part of the
usual days' programme.
The next morning my section commander suggested that I ride up with
him to inspect our work in the front line. It was taken for granted
that I could ride an English motorcycle, and although I was familiar
enough with our American varieties, I surely had my troubles with this
one. The slipperiness of the metalled and paved roads in this part of
Flanders increased my uneasiness. I broke down several times on a very
unhealthy road, shelled with annoying regularity by the Boches, much
to the disgust of Captain P., who, however, good-naturedly helped me
out on each occasion. We all had our troubles in riding motorcycles on
the roads in Flanders and France, especially on the pavé or
granite-block paving which is so common. When it's wet, and that means
most of the time, about the only way to prevent skidding is to open
your throttle for all it's worth and travel as fast as you can. One
morning, during my first week, I had some six, more or less, painful
falls within a mile in riding up. After the last one, I was so mad
that I flung the remains of the machine into the ditch on the side of
the road and proceeded to walk the rest of the way up. In a short
time, though, we got the hang of the machine and could ride anywhere
day or night. As a matter of fact, we never lingered on the roads
going in and out of the trenches. Most of the metalled or flint roads
of Flanders had a ditch on either side, into which we took occasional
headers. One had to ride carefully and fast. A motorcycle with the
throttle wide open helps to drown the noise of enemy shells bursting
in one's vicinity.
Many wild rides I remember, especially at night when, of course, no
lights could be used within three or four miles of the front line; and
candor compels me to confess that occasionally we would take an extra
"whiskey and soda"--the standard British drink--at the mess before
leaving in order to give us a little extra Dutch courage. It was
always effective; we didn't care much what shell-holes we hit, or how
many mud-baths we obtained. To resume, after much trouble Captain P.
and I arrived at the advanced material billet, which is always
situated within a few hundred yards of the entrance to the
communication-trenches, and, leaving our machines here, we started up
the trench.
This sector of the trenches, opposite Fromelles, at that time would
have been described by veterans in trench fighting as a quiet sector,
but I cannot say that it appeared particularly quiet to me that day.
My first impressions under fire were quite complex, but I distinctly
recall the fact that I was more scared by the firing of our own
artillery than by the comparatively few shells of the enemy which
burst in our vicinity. So many things were happening around me in
which I was so intensely interested that my curiosity got somewhat the
better of my fears, and only when bullets whistled very close, or
shells burst fairly near, was I much worried. My second day in the
trenches was quite different. I had started to come out alone a few
minutes before "stand to," or "stand to arms," as it is officially
termed, that is, just before dusk; and as I was making for the
communication-trench to go out I was nearly scared out of my wits by a
"strafe" which started as a preliminary to a raid which occurred a few
minutes later. This raid was not on my immediate front, but about a
quarter of a mile farther south, opposite Laventie, and was staged by
the Irish Guards. The abrupt change from more or less intermittent
fire between the trenches to a violent and constant bombardment from
every machine-gun, trench-mortar, rifle-grenade, and other weapon in
the trenches, joined at the same time by the howitzers and guns from
one to three miles back of the lines, combined to make me feel as
though "hell had broken loose," and I made for the nearest dugout with
as much assumption of dignity and speed as any near-soldier could
effectively combine. It was only then that I fully realized that there
was a war on.
I have been in numerous bombardments of this nature preceding night
raids since that time, and they are always peculiarly violent, but I
never recall any occasion on which I was more badly scared. It was
rather curious, too, because nearly all the fire was from our own
trenches at first, and the German retaliation did not come until some
time after; but all our trench-mortars and other shells from the back
just skimmed our parapets so closely that they certainly "put the wind
up" me in more senses than one. One's first raid, anyhow, is
calculated to be more exciting than a pink tea-party. "Put the wind
up" is a term which requires some explanation. The Tommies use it on
every occasion when a man shows fear; they say he is "windy" or "has
the wind up," until now it is an essential part of the trench
language.
Enemy rifle and machine-gun fire was very heavy and we had our share
of casualties in this way. One of our advanced billets, Two Tree Farm,
was an unhealthy spot. The Boche had several rifles trained on the
entrance to this old ruin and the bullets whistled by about
shoulder-high regularly through the night across this spot. It was not
a favorite place for nightly gossip. We had built a wooden track from
near here right up to the front line and would each night tram up our
timber and supplies on this light track. We had plenty of grief when
our trolleys would slip off the rails and into a foot or two of mud
alongside. At one of these times I was going up with supplies and the
enemy were getting us taped nicely with their machine-gun fire.
Several attached infantrymen were working with us. One lad who was
working particularly hard came around to the back to give us an extra
hand in getting the car on the track again, and dropped quietly into
the mud without a sound with a bullet through his head. We used to
figure on two or three casualties a night on this tram. On going in or
out we had to walk from Two Tree Farm over a stretch of level ground
about a quarter of a mile before we entered V.C. Avenue, the
communication-trench. This was not a pleasant walk on account of the
absence of cover and the rain of machine-gun and rifle fire which
swept this area.