hands with old acquaintances, I reported to hospital again in St. John,
N. B., Canada, where I received electrical and massage treatment.
At that time I could not bend my knee, and my leg was stiff, but
through the wonderful treatment, and my own will power, I finally got
very good use of it before I got my discharge, May, 1918.
[Illustration:
BUCKINGHAM PALACE
5th October, 1915.
It is a matter of sincere regret to me that the death of
Colour-Sergeant Frederick William Hall deprived me of the pride of
personally conferring upon him the Victoria Cross, the greatest of all
Military Distinctions.
George R. I.
Mrs. M. Hall,
179 Spence Street,
Winnipeg, Canada.]
The original letter of the above photo was sent to Mrs. Hall, together
with the Victoria Cross, from King George. This medal, the first
Canadian Victoria Cross awarded in this War, was won by Sergeant Major
F. W. Hall at Ypres, April 24, 1915, who was shortly afterwards killed
in another attempt to bring in a wounded man under rifle and machine
gun. The story of his two brothers appears in this book.
TWO YEARS AND A HALF OF WAR
BY SGT. F. R. MUIR, NO. 81611, 10TH BATT., C.E.F.
SIX months before war had been declared I left New York City for
Winnipeg, Canada, to play at the Winnipeg Theater and remained there
until war was an established fact. On August 6, 1914, I enlisted as an
American and joined the 32nd Battalion, C.E.F. After about five months'
training, my battalion was ready and eager for service. From Halifax,
Nova Scotia, we set out on the former Red-Star liner _Vaderland_ bound
for the battle grounds of Civilization, each and every boy of us keyed
up to the highest pitch of patriotism. When we were three days at sea
we ran out of cigarettes. A number of the boys had boxes of strong
cigars with them and these they passed around quite generously. We
smoked with the usual gusto and also the usual results. A ton of fish
must have been fattened on food that was intended solely to strengthen
us for the combat.
This experience, coupled with seasickness, made four of us refuse to
wake up one morning, for which we were brought up before the major and
sentenced to cleaning port-hole windows. We did not relish this labor
and one port hole each was the extent of our efforts for half the day.
In the afternoon we were set to peeling potatoes, cleaning the dishes
and scrubbing the lower decks, which we finally accomplished after much
pouting and grumbling.
As we neared the coast of Ireland the ships which comprised our convoy
seemed to be making a bee line for any port they could reach. Word had
been received that subs were in the vicinity and full steam ahead was
the order of the day. The fact that our ship was the slowest tub of
the bunch, making only about nine knots per hour, added darned little
to our comfort. Finally after much excitement we docked at Queenstown.
Major Ashton, in command of our battalion, had the gangplanks lowered
and invited us out to a route march through the city. We aroused quite
some enthusiasm and curiosity, as we were the first Canadian troops
to ever land in Ireland. Our next stop was Liverpool and there the
dinkey trains, which to us were a real joke in comparison to our own
huge monsters at home, afforded us opportunity for funny comment. These
trains are little bits of things and from fifteen to twenty men were
crammed into a small compartment normally holding about ten. Several
of us were unable to sit down all the way to London. The best feature
of the train service was the fond good-byes, given us by the young
ladies who usually gave them with a kiss, something that not many of us
found fault with.
On our journey through London we were royally received by English Red
Cross ladies who fed us with welcome lunches that sure did fill the
vacuum beneath the belt. From Folkestone, fully equipped, we left
for France. We knew we were going over to reinforce the gallant 10th
Battalion, and this knowledge added to our good spirits. We were
relieving real heroes and we knew it was up to us to "Carry on" as
nobly as had our predecessors. Every mother's son of us was eager, yes,
anxious, to start in on real action. Canada expected much from us, and
we would not disappoint her. Arriving at Boulogne we were a bit peeved
as we anticipated being received by enemy shell fire, but silence was
the only reception we got.
Red Cross ambulances were arriving in countless numbers, bringing in
the wounded, and this was our first glimpse of battle's havoc. This
sort of took the heart out of us, but only for a few moments, for,
with that scene, came a gritting of the teeth, and on each face could
be seen a new-born determination to see this thing through to a
successful conclusion.
After a night spent, tentless, in the pouring rain, covered only with
straw and the mean, wet sky, we entrained for an unknown destination,
and landed at Poppraine, which surely looked like an unknown
destination, as it was a typical jerk-water village inhabited only by
a few old men and women. Through this village we hiked and up a road
leading to the front line trenches. This road had been shot full of
shell-holes, which made walking very uncomfortable. The further on we
walked, the nearer came "Fritzie's" forty-two centimeter shells, fired
from the largest cannon ever known up to that time; the "Jack Johnsons"
as they were called. We were kept busy dodging the shells that seemed
to burst all around us, yet never hit us, but in our hearts and souls
we realized that at last we were on speaking terms with Mr. Death
himself; and this sobered us up some, you bet. 'Twas no unusual thing
to feel your hair stand right up straight on end and hear your knees
beat a tattoo as they knocked against each other. However, we soon
overcame this feeling as the purpose of our mission dawned upon us. I
had a good opportunity to observe how young fellows act when each
knows that death may be his portion at any moment.
[Illustration: SERGT. FREDERICK MUIR]
In a section composed of eight men I noticed that one was laughing as
lightly as though he was safe and secure at home. Another was singing a
crazy song and kept marching along defying death, or any other horror,
that might overtake him. Still another took the matter so seriously
as to walk along in a sort of semi-conscious daze, with a look of
stupidity on his face, oblivious to all surroundings. There is the
case of Private Fred Wheelhouse, a Canadian lad of about twenty-two
years, who while walking under fire of the German guns kept on playing
his mouth organ or harmonica until struck on the head by a piece of
shrapnel which killed him instantly and spattered his brains upon his
nearby comrades.
This was our first casualty and right then and there we solemnly swore
that we would avenge him. On April 21, 1915, while awaiting orders in
our reserve trenches two miles from the front line which was being held
by the Canadian troops from the 1st, 2nd, 5th, and 8th battalions, the
Germans let loose a heavy gas attack upon them. At that time the gas
mask was hardly known, the men being equipped with small, inefficient
respirators, and naturally the casualties were very heavy. As a result
the men had to fall back, losing a lot of the lighter guns. This made
necessary the use of the men in the reserve trenches, and an order was
immediately issued that we "stand to" ready to take our places in a
counter-attack which was to be launched in the morning.
Imagine, if you can, the feelings of the lads awaiting the rising of
the sun which, probably, meant the last sunrise many of them would
behold. The tortures of the death-house, I am sure, are mild when
compared to those endured by the boys, in the tense hours prior to the
attack; especially when one has to listen to the moaning of the wounded
who are being carried back of the lines. It is far from encouraging,
and it did not surprise me when, after going through a night like
this, that each and every one of us became fatalists. At five-thirty
in the morning, the time set for the attack, we received word to go,
and, believe me, we were glad of it. I felt as though I was ready for
death to end my anxiety, or else to fight it out, right on the spot,
to a finish. Our officer, Lieutenant Ball, was the first to jump to
the front. After a lusty "Come on, boys," he shot forward into the
turmoil, caused by our heavy artillery, with a recklessness bordering
on insanity. His action was an inspiring one and we boys were ready to
follow him to Hell, if needs be.
In that charge I enjoyed the experience of getting my first German.
I crashed into him, a big burly six-footer, and now that my wish to
meet one had been gratified, and I stood before him, I did not know
whether to shoot him, punch him, kick him or stick him as you would a
pig. Not having much experience with the bayonet, I acted on impulse
and rammed it right through his stomach. Oh, boy! What a squeal he
let out. Putting my foot on his breast I pulled the bayonet from out
his vitals, taking along with it his bowels. This nerved me, and I
rushed forward like a raving maniac stopping for nothing. I plowed my
way through them using first my butt and then the bayonet until I had
rushed right into their second line, and, Holy Jerusalem!! right smack
into a whole nest of them. We were proceeding rather methodically,
in cleaning them out, when a shell from a "Jack Johnson" burst in
the midst of our gallant little company, killing five outright and
separating two from their legs and arms, I myself losing a leg and
having my shoulder put out of commission. I was conscious all the time
of what had happened, and managed to crawl into a shell-hole, and slap
a bandage about my leg. With my shoulder I could do nothing and after
lying exposed for two hours the company stretcher bearers picked me up,
and carried me back to the dressing station. From there I was sent to
No. 13 general hospital, Boulogne, but by the time I arrived, gangrene
had set in, and the doctors there could do nothing for me. Again I
was transferred, this time to London, and from there to Cambridge. A
Doctor Cook, holding the rank of major, and from New York, announced
he would cure me in two months. But the job was a more difficult one
than he anticipated and six months was required ere I could walk again.
During that time the leg had to be amputated to the knee. I was then
discharged and received, from the Canadian Government, an artificial
limb which I later discarded for a better one made in little old New
York.
FROM ENGLAND TO FRANCE AND BACK
BY PVT. GEORGE OXTON, NO. 81680, 10TH BATT., C.E.F.
IT WAS the latter end of the month of April, 1915, that the 32nd
Canadian Battalion received orders to embark from the port of
Folkestone, on the south coast of England, for the western front.
By reason of the fact that the Canadians had suffered great losses at
the first battle of Ypres, our order to leave England came at an hour's
notice, but the regiment to a man was extremely anxious to get over,
and get busy.
While we were on board, our time was occupied by assembling our new
issue of Webb Equipment, which we had practically thrown at us, prior
to leaving our huts at Risborough Barracks, Shorncliffe. Consequently
some of us found we were short a portion of the accoutrement while
others had parts to spare. Being sociable, we were all able to make a
complete rigout.
The night was of the pitch-black sort, but, thanks to the science of
navigation, and sea and air escort, we docked at Boulogne, France, safe
and sound, but in a drizzly rain.
As long as I live, I'll never forget the peculiar odor that filled the
air while marching up the long, steep, winding road that led from the
docks to the camp. It seemed miles, and more miles, long, but thank
goodness, we arrived at last, to spend our first night on damp ground,
or I had better say cold mud. It's very true we had canvas over us, but
I'm sure the tents had just been thrown up, for it was quite as dry
outside as inside.
I had no sooner put my head on my knapsack when that poor miserable
little bugler bellowed out his early morning song.
On April the 27th we entrained for parts unknown, at least we poor
privates didn't know where we were bound for; probably our company
commander knew, and, if he was in the humor, the sergeant-major might
have known also.
After traveling all night and part of the next day, packed in cattle
cars like the proverbial sardines, we arrived at Poperinghe. The name
was the largest portion of the town that the German gunners saw fit
to leave. Detraining here, we made a rapid march to within a mile of
Ypres. Here we joined our respective regiments. I went to the 10th
Battalion. It had then earned the name of the "Fighting Tenth."
[Illustration: PRIVATE GEORGE OXTON]
This night we dug ourselves in, along two sides of a large field.
Each man dug a shallow hole large enough to lie down comfortably in.
Owing to my height I had to dig one at least six feet in length. I
was wishing, at that particular time, that I happened to be that poor
miserable little bugler, as he was a little more than five feet tall.
The next morning I, for one, was up before reveille. I found it much
more comfortable walking round in the cool of the morning than lying
in a mud hole with only a greatcoat within a mile of me. I imagine
something always happened to those lovely army blankets, for they were
generally conspicuous by their absence.
The evening of the 28th was reasonably fine when we answered roll call
prior to going up the line. Here we found ourselves in the last line
of reserves, the idea being to get used to the "heavies." At times the
shells became far too familiar with us, consequently I lost some of my
best pals. We spent a week like this on the Yser Canal bank, living
like the old cave dwellers, only we were not there long enough, and it
wasn't peaceful enough, to construct any labyrinths. Our work consisted
of making shelters, after a "Jack Johnson" had obliterated them.
On the move again, this time to billets about seven miles south of
Baieulle, it took a full night to march the distance, with full kit.
The roads didn't appear to get any softer, as time went by, but still
one heard the everlasting (Kipling's) boots, boots, boots. As we had
ten minutes each hour to rest, I was absolutely unconscious for nine
and a half minutes of that time.
On the nineteenth of May, we were on foot again. I had a feeling it
would not be to the last line of reserves this time. Neither it was,
for, by the next night, we were heading for the front line trenches,
one mile east of the village of Festubert. At dusk we traversed
communication trenches to our destination: the front line on the edge
of No Man's Land. At last! After training and waiting for over seven
months. We relieved the Berkshires and took up our posts along with
the "Little Black Devils," as the 8th Battalion is called, in a trench
which was only captured from the Germans the previous day. The portion
of the trench we held was dug in a roadway, and being fairly high
ground was comparatively dry. This speaks wonders for a trench, for we
plodded through much mud and water to reach it. Every second man was
detailed to mount guard, while the remainder fought for forty winks,
then relieved guard. The first two nights were uneventful, though a
heavy artillery duel was the standing program.
The third night, the twenty-first, we were not going to give "Fritzie"
a chance to come across, but we were going to push him back. If a man
tells you he was not nervous going "Over the Top" for the first time,
he lies. I felt nervous, though I never confessed it, and I wager
everyone else felt the same way, as we had to wait about two hours,
after being told we were going over. At eight o'clock we were sent up
to a small communication trench about half way across No Man's Land,
on the side toward the enemy. It cut across diagonally. There was a
good-sized gap, on which some snipers had their rifles trained. At
this point, we lost a few of our company. It was a case of running the
gauntlet for each man who passed it. All of us had to pass it three
different times; for, in our first advance, the order was cancelled, so
we had to return till later on.
About nine o'clock, at dusk, we finally went ahead to the end of
the communication trench. Here we branched out on either side, and
spread out in open order, to charge. By this time my nervousness had
disappeared. My mind was set on the one object of getting someone--and
I gripped my gun, and prayed for all the strength I could muster. With
a wild cry of _"Lusitania,"_ we received the orders to go. All I could
do was yell to the boys to give them "beans," for I was knocked down,
and found my right leg was half blown off, just below the thigh. If
the boys hadn't taken their objective that night, I should have been
a prisoner, instead of a hospital case, for over twenty months, in
England.
I'm just a plain buck private,
Who fought with Canada's Sons,
In a regiment of the Maple Leaf,
That made it hot for the Huns.
I'm just a plain buck private,
And fought on the side of right,
To serve the world for democracy,
And beat the Hunnish might.
I'm just a plain buck private,
From the land of ice and snow,
And gave all I could, for my country,
To help to vanquish the Foe.
It was probably an hour or two after the advance that some of the men
came to see what they could do for us. In my particular case the
shrapnel, which had penetrated and completely shattered the right
femur, had also numbed the nerves, therefore I was left conscious.
However, one of our battalion sergeants tied up the top of the leg for
me with a length of cord, which I was always in the habit of carrying.
Four of the machine gunners, who had just returned from the new
trench, made an attempt to carry me into the old communication trench,
but their good intentions were completely frustrated by the company
captain, a real cantankerous sort, who levelled his revolver at me, and
declared he would shoot, if the boys took me in. Though I felt sore,
in more ways than one, I came to the conclusion that he was perfectly
right, as it might have blocked the trench to the reserves coming up.
The only thing to do was to put me on the ground again. Here I was
expecting another shell every minute, but Providence evidently thought
I had received my share, as I was free from any more shells, though
they were bursting close at hand continually.
About 2 A.M. our battalion stretcher-bearers managed to reach the
position where many more, with myself, were lying. The shelling had
then subsided to a great extent, making it possible to continue the
work of carrying out the wounded.
I knew one of the three men who came alongside of me with a perfectly
good-looking stretcher. Though the way was long and very rocky, we
finally arrived at the first aid dressing station. After resting here
for probably an hour, I was conveyed in one of the "London Scottish"
ambulances about five miles to a field hospital. I saw many of the boys
here. Most of them appeared to be walking cases. The next thing I knew,
I was placed on the operating table, where I smelled ether for the
first time. I remember the doctor saying: "Be perfectly still, now, and
breathe naturally." After that I knew no more till the job of inserting
numerous rubber tubes through the leg was finished. Having to spend two
nights on ambulances and trains, I arrived at a British base hospital
in Boulogne. I remember the people cheering as our train pulled in, but
I wasn't in the mood for caring what they did.
The treatment was of the best in this hospital, though I only remained
in it fourteen days. In the bed next to mine there was a Scotchman who
kept yelling continually. His leg had been amputated so I couldn't see
what he had to kick about. Nevertheless, it made it quite impossible
to get any rest at all.
On the morning of June 3rd, the doctor marked me "out," which meant
that I was going to "Blighty." I hardly realized what it meant then.
Again I was on the table--this time to cut an abscess and to put a
cumbersome iron splint on me. I think they called it a Hodgson's
splint, one of those affairs that extended down two sides of the body
to the feet. It took up a lot of room--so much so that I had to have
a Ford ambulance all to myself; consequently at the boat's side I was
taken for an officer and treated as one. This I didn't object to in the
least.
The _Abert_ set sail soon after, and about two hours afterward we were
in Dover, where we entrained, in a regular hospital train. I was marked
for Norwich, in the County of Norfolk, a short distance from the east
coast. The night of June 5th our train pulled into Norwich station,
where the Red Cross ambulance conveyed us to our hospital. I found
myself in a military ward of the General Hospital of Norwich, but only
for a few minutes. They discovered that the beds were too small for
both myself and the splint, so I was shifted to another ward, where I
was put to bed, and became very much attached to this same bed for ten
long months, undergoing nine more operations in the hope of saving the
limb. They eventually took it off, but I always have the consolation of
knowing that I am far better off than a good many others.
Editor's note:--The verses embodied in this story are in no way
changed, but are printed exactly as Mr. Oxton delivered them to me.
H. L. F.
"WHY I HATE A GERMAN"
BY PVT. JOHN T. MILLER, NO. 122957, 96TH CO., 6TH REGT., U. S. MARINES
ON THE afternoon of July 24, 1917, as I was walking along the streets
of Detroit, Michigan, my attention was attracted by the beat of
drums and the tramp of marching men. It then dawned on me that I was
big enough to do my bit, so I went to the Marine recruiting office,
enlisted, and was sent to Paris Island, S. C., where I was trained for
four months. On January 19, 1918, I left New York and after thirteen
days arrived at a port in France. It was there I got my first glimpse
of war. We were loaded in box cars about half the size of American
cars. They are built for eight horses, but forty marines had to spend
sixty hours in them. We were then in the zone of advance, but stayed
only about three weeks. We went into the line the first night. It was
an experience I shall never forget. Cigarettes were barred and no loud
talking permitted. I thought it very funny, but soon learned different.
The third night in, "Heinie" paid us a visit. There were thirty-seven
of us, holding about 500 yards of front line. This at one time was a
quiet sector but it woke up on this night. We had no reserves, and
retreat was impossible, so all we had to do was to stay and entertain
our visitors. There were about 250, and none of them looked starved
to death. After the barrage lifted we saw some of the boys that we
had traveled over three thousand miles to see. I was in a daze when
I saw my first "Heinie," and he looked about as big as the Woolworth
Building. But I woke up in time to realize that I had a rifle and
hadn't forgotten how to use it. "Heinie" stopped in our wire and stayed
there. Our visitors were all given a royal reception. Six of our boys
went to the hospital but we left over a hundred of the Kaiser's boys
in front of, and in, the trench, and had the trouble of burying them.
From that night on we took more precaution and I was one that was made
the goat. My "bunkie" and I took up our post in No Man's Land at sunset
each night and stayed until midnight. We were put there for the purpose
of announcing "Heinie" if he should call again.
[Illustration: PRIVATE JOHN T. MILLER]