Harold Baldwin

"Holding the Line"

SERGEANT HAROLD BALDWIN

Of the First Division, Canadian
Expeditionary Forces

With Illustrations and Diagrams

CHICAGO
A. C. McCLURG & CO.
1918

Published, February, 1918

Copyrighted in Great Britain

W. F. HALL PRINTING COMPANY, CHICAGO

Dedication

With deep affection and reverence, I humbly dedicate these reminiscences to the memory of the best pals that ever lived, and who shared with me the joys and sorrows of those never-to-be-forgotten days in France and Flanders when we held the line, and who have paid the supreme price—

Major Campbell
Captain Scanlon
Major Hopkins
Private Skerry
Private Shields
Private Hood
Private Small
Private (Runner) Jocelyn
Private Ruth
Private Wellbelove
Captain Meikle
Captain Curry
Major Tanaille
Captain McGee
Lieutenant Mundell

Prefatory Remark

When war's alarm sounded in Canada, like many thousands of young men, the spirit of adventure was strong within me and here was an opportunity, as I thought, to kill two birds with the same stone—gratify my love of adventure and serve the Empire at one and the same time.

I have endeavored to give an exact picture of my surroundings, with its accompanying feelings and sensations, from the time I stepped into the ranks until I got my final Blighty, and if my word picture will have the effect of making any man get into khaki, I will be more than repaid, because the cause of the world's liberty demands the active cooperation of every able-bodied man who can get into the game.

There may be a protest in the minds of some against the swearing habit of the soldier. I firmly believe that if he were deprived of the power to express himself profanely when occasion seemed to warrant, his efficiency would be materially hampered. And, therefore, I have no apology to make. Even the chaplains have been known to swear quite violently at times.

Since beginning the work of putting my data into book form, the United States has accepted the gauntlet of battle thrown down to her by German militarism, and the prospect of American lads and British Tommies fighting shoulder to shoulder in the cause of democracy and the world's freedom has inspired me with a new hope and faith in the outcome, and I am resting content in the unshakable belief that when the might of the Greatest Republic gets into action, the murderous tiger of German autocracy, with its fangs dripping blood from the lives of countless innocent victims, will in short order receive its final death thrust.

Chicago, January, 1918 H.B.

Introductory

While adventure of every kind and character abounds on all sides in the trenches, in billets and in the rear of the front line, yet the grim seriousness of the business soon possesses a man with but a single idea in life, especially when in the vicinity of No Man's Land—to get the Hun and get him as quickly as he can.

In these pages I have but lightly touched on the awfulness in the sections of country over-run by the human devils. I have two reasons for so doing: First, because I do not believe it lies in the power of human ken to adequately describe the inferno created by the Hun, and, secondly, if I were to devote my lines solely to that phase of my life while in active service, every page should be deeply edged in black, because—"I could a tale unfold, whose lightest word would harrow up thy soul."

Such is not my purpose. I am blest by nature with the most intense optimism and this spirit has never deserted me but once; and I think under the same strain it would have taken leave of any man; and since I returned from the front I am more than ever determined that for the balance of my time on earth I shall endeavor to radiate optimism whenever and wherever I can. I think I will live the longer for so doing, and maybe those who come within the zone of my voice and my pen may also be the better for the dissemination of my love in the joy of living.

Therefore, the purpose I have undertaken has been to faithfully relate my experiences, and those of my chums, from the point of view of one who looks at the brighter side of life while undergoing the most severe test of grit and endurance that ever tried mortal men.

Contents

CHAPTER

I [Answering the Call]
II [En Route to Valcartier]
III [Canada's War Camp]
IV [Soldiers in the Making]
V [Crossing the Atlantic]
VI [Land Ahoy]
VII [Salisbury Plain]
VIII [Life in the English Camp]
IX [Getting Ready to Go]
X [Leaving for France]
XI [Landing in France]
XII [My Baptism of Fire]
XIII [In the Front Line]
XIV [Saxons and Prussians]
XV [Training for Runner]
XVI [By the Wayside]
XVII [Steenvoorde]
XVIII [Ypres]
XIX [Battle of Ypres]
XX [Hell Let Loose]
XXI [Hanging On]
XXII [Here They Come]
XXIII [Fighting for Our Lives]
XXIV [The Boches Balked]
XXV [Fun and Fury]
XXVI [Yser]
XXVII [The Fun of It]
XXVIII [Leaving Yser]
XXIX [More Hell]
XXX [The Last Fight]
XXXI [The Aftermath]
XXXII [In Heaven]
XXXIII [Back to Earth]
XXXIV [Home]
[Epilogue]

Illustrations

[Harold Baldwin] ... Frontispiece

[The Bull-Dog Behind the Flag]

[The Remains of a Once Prosperous Village]

[Instruments of War and Peace Working Side by Side]

[Our Nest (Dugout) Is on the Right]

[Meals Are Any Time When One Is Hungry]

[What a First-Line Trench Looks Like]

[German Shell Exploding Near British Battery]

[A Monster British Gun]

[Moving a Gun into Position]

[A Winterly Morning]

[Writing to the Old Folks at Home]

[What Is Left of Ypres Cathedral]

[There Are Leisure Hours Even in the Front Trench]

[Two Tommies Talking It Over]

[Ready for a Raid on the Enemy's Trenches]

[The Raiding Party Going to "Give 'Em Hell"]

[The "War Twins"]

[Feeling Good in Blighty]

Holding the Line

CHAPTER I
ANSWERING THE CALL

One sunny day in the early part of August, 1914, a little man with a bronzed face and a dingy set of overalls walked into the armories in Saskatoon, the wonder city of Saskatchewan. He was the author of this tale.

"Hello, Shorty, what brings you here? Hey, fellows, here's our mascot." This was the greeting I got from one of the recruiting sergeants.

I had come straight from the harvest field, a journey of eighty miles on horseback and train, without a coat, with well ventilated overalls, equally well-worn shoes and an unshaven chin, and my spirits sank perceptibly as I realized the contrast between my shabby five-feet-four and the classy-looking recruits gathered in the armories.

However, like the rest of the Englishmen in Canada who had answered the call I was determined, if it was humanly possible, to go overseas with the first contingent of twenty thousand men, and I duly presented myself for enlistment. My attestation was taken and I was sent to the doctor, being duly warned that I would have to pass the final test at Valcartier, Canada's first great war camp.

When I entered the examining room my spirits took another drop as I saw the magnificent bunch of tall, stalwart fellows who were awaiting their turn. I felt like a pigmy and almost turned tail then and there. "Now or never," I thought, as I stepped up to the doctor.

"What do you want, Bub?"

"To enlist, sir."

"Forget it," he said, "you are too short."

I lacked just two inches of the required height. He gave me the once-over and was a little taken aback when he found my weight was one hundred and forty pounds.

I also thought I would clinch my case by telling him, without winking an eye, that I had served with the First Battalion of the North Staffordshire Regiment in England for four years, which was a battalion of the regular army, and that as they had thought sufficiently well of my stature to sign me up, a Canadian volunteer battalion could not in reason be any more particular than one of the Imperial Army. The falsehood is on record there today in my attestation papers and I'm not in the least ashamed of it.

"Well," said he, "you are as fit as any man, but they are sticklers about the height. I'll tell you what I'll do, you may leave with the boys for Valcartier and that will bring you two thousand miles nearer England. As you are determined to go anyway, part of your trip will be at the government's expense."

I felt as if I had grown two inches when he said this. I got into the ranks at once and commenced drilling with the rest of the boys until we left for Valcartier.

It was a nasty wet night when we left Saskatoon, but a record crowd turned out to see that wild band start for the Great Adventure. Few of us had relatives there; the majority of us were Britishers who had left the Old Country to try our luck in the new land; but many were veterans of other wars who wanted to get into the game again, some had encircled the world in their wanderings, homesteaders, railway men, clerks—every walk of life was represented.

Ardent patriotism for the Old Flag and all that it stood for was the prompting motive of the rush to get into the First Canadian Division, but there was also the spirit of adventure strong within every man.

The mayor and city council and other government officials were present to bid us the soldier's farewell, "Good-bye, Good Luck, and Godspeed," and the train pulled out amid such a roar of cheering that the "Girl I Left Behind Me" was fairly drowned in the waves of departing cheers.

CHAPTER II
EN ROUTE TO VALCARTIER

From the time we left Saskatoon until we got into the great camp, I dare say there wasn't a man of us who gave a second's thought to the idea that within six months' time we would have had such a share in the defense of the world's liberties as would make the name of Canada a household word wherever the English language is spoken, and cause a thrill of justifiable pride to run through the blood of every Canadian, aye, and every Britisher, because every Britisher takes almost as much pride in the feats performed by men from another part of the Empire as he does in the deeds of the men from his own particular corner.

We were not long on the train before we began to get acquainted with each other and friendships were quickly formed that were soon to be tested and tried in the fiercest flame that ever burned, and with no exception did they fail to ring true.

And right here and now I want to say, from a full heart, that the greatest privilege ever accorded an ordinary mortal like myself was that of serving with that devil-may-care crowd of lads who sang and chaffed and swore their way from exile in western Canada to their graves in France and Flanders.

The trip to Valcartier was uneventful except for the loss of a breakfast one morning that was sorely needed. Five or six of the recruit waiters had just entered our car from the supply-car, carrying trays with our ham and eggs, and our mouths were watering as we watched them coming, when a sudden lurch of the train sent the end waiter bumping into the man next him, and he followed suit to the man next him, and so on down the line, and in the effort to keep the trays and themselves from falling, the contents of every blooming tray was spilled on the floor, the seats, and the heads of the hungry recruits.

Our comments would not pass censor. Suffice it to say, if cursing could put the Canadian Pacific Railway out of business that organization would long since have been defunct. We had to go hungry until noon as there was no time to get another meal prepared.

Another incident happened on that trip that concerned me most. We had stopped for a short visit at an Ontario town and our officers decided to give the people a sample of our military bearing, so we were marched through the streets. I think we managed to keep step for fully five minutes at a time. A kind-hearted old creature clapped her eyes on the "child," as she expressed it, marching alongside of his overgrown brothers, and she began to wail and point me out to everyone around there as far as her voice could carry, and to make matters worse we were halted with poor little me standing right opposite her.

"That poor child should not be allowed to go until he has at least stopped growing," was the burden of her plaint, and I was so incensed I honestly felt I could kill her with my bare hands and revel in the gore, because every fellow in the ranks was giving me the snicker, and some of the unfeeling brutes were egging the old lady on. I tried to pay no attention—Lord, how I did want to inform her I was twenty-four years old and had been separated from my mother for six years. It took me a long time to live down the chaffing I got, due to the solicitous wails of that dear old female.

However, sober reflection tells me that she was not so much to blame, because I surely must have been a sorry figure in my five-feet-four and dressed as I was the day I left the harvest field, so I have since credited the outburst to her motherly instinct.

After we had entrained again I was seated beside Morgan, a chum with whom I had become very intimate, who was possessed of what might be called a second sight, a gift of foreseeing things, and he then told me of a number of things that would happen to me, every one of which has turned out exactly as he foretold it. For instance, he said the doctor would pass me at Valcartier; and later in Flanders, he told me when I was going to be wounded. He also predicted his own wound. Morgan's devotion to me all through our campaigning was positively remarkable, and, as this story will show, I have never had cause to regret the chance that brought us together.

We finally arrived in Valcartier, detrained in the broiling sun, and trudged from the depot to our new canvas homes at the foot of the Laurentian Hills, which formed a wonderful background, with the Jaques Cartier River on our front, soon to become the swimming bath of twenty to forty thousand men.

CHAPTER III
CANADA'S WAR CAMP

When we reached Valcartier no one in his wildest dreams would ever have associated us with soldiers, as a more motley-looking crowd would be hard to find. Here trudges a squat Scotchman, his freckled face a stream of perspiration, cursing the heat with a Doric accent you could cut with a shovel; next to him marches Big Bill Skerry, a tall Nova Scotian, as straight as the pine trees of his native province. Dear old Bill! he lies in the death trap at Ypres, dying as he had lived, afraid of nothing in human form, witty and dry of speech, quickest in repartee, and proud of his Irish-Canadian ancestry. And for all his profane mouth and caustic tongue, he was one of the best and bravest comrades a man could find with whom to share the trials and pleasures of active service. Marching with his usual air of detached boredom is Captain Innis Hopkins, the most ridiculed and, later, the best loved officer of all the gallant men who cursed us and nursed us and finally led us into France, as fine a bunch of men as ever stepped from a deck of a transport.

At my immediate right proudly marched a handsome, rosy-cheeked boy, with a complexion a lady might have envied; tall, lithe, with the promise of a fine manhood, and with the frank blue eyes of him shining with good-natured deviltry, he was already winning the hearts of his future comrades. By his side tramped a squat, slightly bow-legged man, of swarthy skin and jet-black hair, streaked with gray, surmounted by a stubble of black beard. The contrast between those two was startling, and yet a friendship sprang up between them that no ordinary civilian ever will understand, a friendship cemented by sharing danger and suffering, sinking every selfish consideration for the well-being of the other.

This will give some slight idea of the boys I soldiered with and who were to be my chums. But of all these, Morgan was closest to me. By that mysterious attraction which draws men to one another we became chums and yet no two men could be more unlike in temperament; he was reserved almost to the point of rudeness, while I have always been ready—perhaps too much so for my own good—to make friends at once. When we got into the game, through the medium of that peculiar characteristic I have already mentioned, he sensed, like the steer nearing the shambles, any disaster or trouble ahead, and at those times he would overwhelm me with demonstrations of affection, and afterwards, apparently ashamed of his outburst, he would find some pretext to pick a quarrel with me, and curse me with a fluency and picturesqueness only acquired by long and careful practice. Many times we got to blows. But we loved each other and still do, and his love for me was thoroughly evidenced later on.

CHAPTER IV
SOLDIERS IN THE MAKING

The first thing we did after our arrival was to go to the doctor for final examination. Again my heart dropped when I saw what seemed to be a physically splendid man rejected, and I felt that my case was hopeless. I stripped, and, with my heart pounding like a trip-hammer, presented myself. I was reassured almost instantly by his kindly manner. He gave me a most rigid looking over and pronounced me fit, but shook his head dubiously at my height. An inspiration seized me: "Doctor, I may be small, but it is concentrated stuff."

He laughed and told me to dress. Trembling with delight and relief I fell into line to take my first "shot in the arm," as we called our inoculation against typhoid, and when the surgeon jabbed me with the needle I promptly fainted for the first time in my life.

Life now began in earnest; day succeeded day of hard training. The weather was ideal, our only trouble being the dust-clouds raised from the sandy ground by marching troops.

Uniforms were issued, and in two weeks' time one would not have recognized us. Many laughable incidents occurred in connection with our uniforms; nearly every man got something that was too big or too small. The quartermaster gave me a hat that was two or three sizes too large. I asked him what I should do and he told me to come back in the morning, which I did.

"You told me to come back and see you, sir, about my cap; it is too big."

"Well, I can tell by your bothering nerve that you've got the swelled head and it won't be long before it fits you. Get to blazes out of here."

I did not think it prudent to pursue the matter further. I was wondering what I would do with the cap when I espied a fellow with a head like a bull and a cap resting just on the crown. "Here's my chance," thought I, and I was after him in a jiffy. He was a Scot.

"Matey, how would you like to swop caps?"

"Wha's the matter wi' yours?"

"Mine's too large." He took mine and examined it critically, feeling the quality and the texture.

"It's no as gude as mine; I wudna swop."

"Why, yours doesn't fit you and mine would."

"Ay, but the quality, lad, look at the quality o' mine."

"It's just exactly the same as mine."

"Naething o' the kind," he said, "the quartermaster is a particular friend o' mine and he gie me one especially."

"He did, like ducks."

"O vera weel. Besides, I dinna mind a little thing like that; it's the quality. But I'll tell you what I'll do," he said, "if you want the cap an' will gie me an extra shillin' on account o' the quality, I'll maybe let ye hae it."

I spent no further time arguing with him; I realized at once he was the original one hundred per cent efficiency man who bought something from a Jew and sold it to another Jew at a profit. I gave him the quarter. He took it, but before giving me his cap, he took mine, tried it on carefully (they were identical in every particular except the size), then handed me his, gave me a wink and walked off. I felt I had really gotten my twenty-five cents' worth.

The happiest people in Valcartier that time were the tailors; they reaped a harvest from our repairs and alterations. An old political campaigner in the battalion suggested that the tailors should get busy with the administration and arrange to throw their support to the government if the chief of staff would agree to retain the services of the quartermasters who were such marvelously strange guessers at the size of the average man. We laughed ourselves to sleep that night.

The growth of Valcartier during our stay was like a chapter in Aladdin. Like mushrooms in the night there sprang up stores, houses and amusement places of every description, and they did a thriving business, because the men rapidly acquired the spending habits of the soldier.

An attempt by one of the moving-picture proprietors to extort money from the soldiers turned out rather badly for him. He advertised the same picture for a number of nights under a different title each night, and a hard-headed Scotch soldier, upon inquiring if it were not the same film they had seen the previous night, was told to go to hell.

"I'm running this show," said the proprietor.

"Weel, ye'll no be runnin' it long, I'm thinkin'," said Jock. "Hey, lad," he yelled to me as I happened along, "run like the deil to Company B, Third Battalion, over yonder, and tell them Red Stuart wants to clean up a crook over here. Hurry, noo."

I shot across in the direction indicated and found a bunch of Highlanders sprawled on the ground, smoking their pipes. I delivered the message and in a twinkling fully fifty brawny sons of the heather sprang from the ground and were dashing toward Red Stuart. I ran after them and awaited developments a short distance off. Red quickly told them what had happened and their Scotch sense of justice wronged was thoroughly aroused.

"Wha'll ye be wantin' us tae do, Red?"

"MacDonald, take thirty men to the rear and up-end the damned show; I'll take care o' the front."

MacDonald and his thirty men circled to the back of the house and inside of a minute it commenced to quiver and slant forward. The soldier-patrons came tumbling out in a hurry, some of them head foremost, and soon were admiring spectators when they learned the cause of the trouble. The other Scotties, under Red Stuart, were lined up in front to catch the theater when it came down. Just then the proprietor came tumbling out.

"Who in hell's doing this?" he demanded of Red. Red's answer was a blow on the jaw that put him to sleep. Then the money from the till came rolling out over the floor and Red yelled.

"Quick, Sandy and Alec, pick it up an' we'll divide it after."

Sandy and Alec let go of the building and gathered up the money in their caps, and Red shouted.

"All together, lads, let her go."

The men at the back gave a heave, the men in front let go, and down crashed the frail building, splitting in two. A streak of flame shot up from the middle and soon a bright blaze lit up the scene, and by its light the Sons of St. Andrew religiously divided the spoils of war.

But the trouble did not end here. A fire-call was turned in by the nearest bugler, was caught up by each successive bugler in turn, and in two minutes the entire camp was in a turmoil. The men fell into line, yelling like wild Indians; it was pandemonium let loose. The roar of noise traveled clear down to the end of the lines, where it reached the artillery, the horses stampeded, made a mad rush for the river, and forty valuable animals were drowned.

CHAPTER V
THE ATLANTIC

Our military exercises had built every man of us up to such a degree of physical perfection that we felt fit for any test of endurance, and the absence of worry, the companionship of so many fine chums, the good wholesome food and invigorating air had worked wonders in us. We were no longer the awkward squad that had slouched off the train into Valcartier.

Our officers told us we were a disgrace to the service, but swiftly the change was taking place. We could walk our ten or fifteen miles in regulation time, and the standard of our shooting was exceptionally high.

At first only twenty thousand men were to go, but as seventy-five thousand had responded to the call and the eagerness of the boys to go had caused them to redouble their efforts to become efficient, the first expeditionary force was increased to thirty-three thousand men.

Toward the end of September we were inspected for the last time by his Royal Highness, the Duke of Connaught, and in the afternoon we were ordered to get our kits packed and stuff ready, as we were leaving for England. Excitement ran high and every man was in his place next morning at ten o'clock. It was a rainy Sunday morning, but that did not dampen our spirits.

"Battalions will move off by the right of companies, No. 1 leading," came the order; the senior officer commanding shouted, "Company, tshun; form fours; right; left wheel; quick march." We were off for England.

After traveling the eighteen miles from camp to Quebec we boarded the big steamer that was to bear us to England. My battalion was assigned to the Lapland, the largest of the fleet transports. In her hold thousands of sacks of flour were stacked, part of Canada's gift to the motherland immediately on the outbreak of the war. Some of us did not appreciate the gift as we might, because it was part of our duty to load it from the dock to the hold.

I had a pardonable thrill of pride as I stood on the dock and watched our fellows file aboard and I could not help asking myself—"Could these bronzed, cleanly-built, athletic men be the same who tramped wearily into camp one short month ago?" Such was the result of our officers' untiring work and the patient efforts of the regular sergeants who first took us in hand, and last, but not least, the keenness of the men themselves to become efficient and disciplined soldiers.

The whole fleet sailed from Quebec to Gaspé Bay, where we were picked up by our convoy. The arrival of the battleships and cruisers was greeted with rousing cheers, which were answered in kind by the men of the fighting ships. It was the most impressive sight I have ever witnessed; up to that time nothing had so majestically expressed the sentiment of the Overseas Dominions hastening to the help of the mother country.

By this time the seriousness of the conflict began to dawn upon the country. The magnificent exploits of French's glorious little force had fired every one of us, and every time the band played "Tipperary," the wildest enthusiasm prevailed.

It was on one of the first nights aboard that the first shadow of the war fell upon me. A sort of gloomy mist rose before my eyes and clouded my brain, and I felt morally certain that something had happened to Tom, my twin brother, and sorrowfully I have to tell that he died in the battle of the Marne. I did not learn the particulars until I reached England. He died as he would have wished to die, fighting gloriously for the Empire.

Very few of the battalions had bands with them, but the Sixth of Winnipeg, that embarked with us, had a splendid band, and they were most generous in supplying us with musical treats all the way across.

I shall never forget the scene at these concerts, especially at night—the moon shining on the sea, calm almost as a lake, the men lounging in various attitudes of ease, some leaning over the taffrail, others in chairs, and all smoking and enjoying the strains to their hearts' content.

The only disagreeable feature of the voyage was the deadly regularity with which we were fed upon stew; our feelings in this regard were put into rhyme by one of the grim humorists of the battalion:

Our daily bread is stew,
That's all the cook can brew,
For kind heaven's sake, please give us some cake
Or anything else that's new.

One night at dinner, when the waiter handed him his stew, he stood up, and, calling for silence, announced that he had a few remarks to offer for the benefit of the misguided souls who entertained the notion that we were not properly fed. There was an angry clatter of knives on the plates of the stew, as the men were fighting mad with the monotony of the grub, but finally the speaker got a semblance of order and he commenced:

"Soldiers of the King, I believe it is duly right and fair to the cook and the commissariat that the idea which has seemed to be finding lodgment in the minds of some of us that we are not properly looked after, as far as our stomachs are concerned, should be banished at once, and I feel sure it will be when I point out to you in a few words how erroneous that thought is.

"Have you ever considered what a load of anxiety is lifted from our minds as to what we are going to have for breakfast, for dinner, for supper? Have you ever thought about that?"

"You're damned right, we have," from fifty throats at once.

The Bull-dog behind the flag has licked all comers in Western Canada. The men are Canadian veterans, who, with bull-dog persistency, "held the line" in Flanders Author on extreme right.

"Be patient, please, for just a moment. Have you ever thought that we are saved absolutely every petty worry as to whether the roast beef will be tough, the chops old and unpalatable, the fish mushy, or the pudding not properly seasoned? Not a particle of troublesome speculation about any of these things."

"For God's sake, let them trouble us all they want," from the audience. He continued:

"We take our places at the table calm and serene in the perfect confidence that there is not the least doubt as to what we are going to eat, and filled full of adoration in the sacredness of our food, for do we not know that it is like unto the holiest man that ever trod this old earth of ours—the same, yesterday, today and forever."

A roar of approval greeted the speech and the somewhat blasphemous reference, but from that time on we took the humorous view of the situation, thereby saving ourselves a lot of misery.

One night at dinner, when our usual stew-portions were served, one of the fellows left the table for a few minutes, and while he was gone we switched his soup, substituting water, and hastily, but thoroughly, scraped every scrap of meat off the bone. He came back, tasted of his soup, then poured it over the table. He picked up his soup bone, looked for the meat, and sent the bone flying down the cabin. Unluckily it struck an officer and he was promptly bundled into the clink (guardhouse). He was an Irishman, and on his trial the following morning he made a thoroughly characteristic defense.

"Sor, to tell yez the thruth, I just happened to think av the athrocities av them damned Germans on the helpless wimen and childher, an' I thought how would I feel if those near an' dear to me were threated in that way, an' on the impulse av the moment, without thinkin', or lookin', I flung the bone, imaginin' I was right in the middle av the fightin'."

It didn't save him, but it cut off some days from his stay in the clink.

On more than one occasion our thirst for revenge on the stew was gratified by seeing it heaved all over the floor by a sudden roll of the boat in rough weather.

Our chief form of entertainment while aboard ship, in addition to the band concerts, was the vaudeville shows that were given. Among our cosmopolitan crowd much fine talent was discovered—songs, readings, exhibitions of juggling, boxing competitions, etc.—served to while away the monotony of the voyage and make life livable during the crossing.

Church services were held regularly every Sunday; the two denominations represented were Church of England (Episcopal) and Roman Catholic. Mass was held at eight-thirty and the Protestant minister commenced his service at ten-thirty, at which were assembled all the balance of the battalion. Although my attendance was compulsory, these services were deeply impressive and will remain in my memory as long as I live. The majestic ship ploughing through the water and the swish of the spray mingling with the men's voices as we sang the hymns we learned in childhood made a lasting impression on all of us, and I am sure that the emotion of those moments has stayed with every man throughout our campaign in France and since.

CHAPTER VI
LAND AHOY

On a beautiful evening in the fall, after a voyage of twenty-two days on the water, the transports quietly stole, one by one, into the harbor of Plymouth. None of the townspeople had the remotest idea that the Colonials were anywhere near England, and it was not until the Strathcona Horse displayed a huge pennant from the ship, which was anchored close to the quay, that our identity was disclosed. It took them but a couple of seconds to grasp the fact that the Canadians had arrived in England, and in less than half an hour the harbor was alive with every conceivable kind of craft, loaded near to the sinking point with cheering humanity.

I wish I could describe my sensations as I once again looked upon the green fields of my native land. To find out how much one loves his home he must leave it, and after my voluntary exile of six or seven years, I wanted to shout and sing for very joy.

We English may be dense, thick-headed, slow to act, and guilty of several other things charged to us, but I doubt if any nation could love its country with more intensity than true Englishmen.

Steering close to our boat the crowd asked us if we needed anything. We replied that we needed everything, and we got it; cigarettes, tobacco, food, candy—in fact, everything that could comfort a soldier's heart, was thrown on our decks.

I gazed at the shores of my native land, listening to the strains of "O Canada," played by the band and echoed back by the glorious hills of Devon, and the thrill within me was indescribable. There was also an undercurrent of wonderful feeling that made me proud, not only that I was a Britisher, but that our grim old mother-nation was nursing there in one of her great harbors the robust manhood of a virile daughter-nation that had heard the call and answered and that I was a part, however small, of that answer.

Songs of the British nations would go floating out to sea and inland to the hills. Following the strains of "Annie Laurie" would come "Men of Harlech," "The British Grenadiers," "Dear Little Shamrock," and then the incomparable lilt of "Tipperary."

We finally received the order to disembark. Now it is an unwritten law in the army, in the practice of that most soldierly art of thieving, that a man must thieve from every battalion and company except his own, and we thought we might just as well start on anything lying around loose on the Lapland. The Colonel may have wondered why we came to the "Present arms" with such alacrity when we said farewell to that splendid ship that brought us over; but the truth of it was we wanted to get away from the scene of our activities before any uncomfortable questions could be asked.

After a thoroughly profane and good-natured farewell with the burly British sailors and a rousing welcome from the people, we marched out in force to be delivered into the hands of the citizens. And such a welcome! It beggars description. I never had my hand shaken so much and I never was kissed so much in all my life.

One middle-aged lady, with two beautiful daughters, exclaimed, "You brave boy, I am going to kiss you for your mother's sake." "I will too," said her daughters, and I was kissed by the entire family. I couldn't help venturing, "How about a kiss for my own sake?" And I glanced at the daughters. "Surely," said the mother, and she kissed me again, but the girls were a little bit abashed and did not respond to my suggestion, much to my disappointment.

At one spot in our welcome I was again the subject of an outburst of damnable sympathy from a motherly-hearted woman who almost went into hysterics at the idea of such a child as I going out to help stem the on-rushing Huns. However, my comrades were filled full of the attentions they were receiving from their male and female admirers and my predicament passed unnoticed this time, for which I fervently thanked God.

In the course of our parade we were taken in front of Drake's monument and I could not help wondering what he would have thought, had he been there in the flesh, at the sight of those hardy adventurers. Surely he would have felt that here indeed were men after his own heart, ready and willing to dare everything, to go anywhere for the sake of the motherland and their own new land across the seas.

By sheer strength we reached the depot at last and entrained for Salisbury Plain.

CHAPTER VII
SALISBURY PLAIN

Midnight, and as dark as pitch found us shivering and blinking sleepily on the platform of a small railway station on the outskirts of Salisbury Plain. From here a truly murderous hike blistered our feet, spoiled our tempers and proved to us in no uncertain manner how stale we had become during our journey overseas. Just as day dawned we floundered wearily to a place where tents flapped sadly against tent poles as if sympathizing with our woeful plight. These tents had simply been erected and loosely staked out and were left for us to tighten and make habitable. We were too weary to bother with them; we simply dropped on the ground and slept the sleep of utter exhaustion.

When we awoke we found ourselves drenched to the skin, our tents still half erected, the commissariat all disorganized and the plain hidden in solid sheets of driving rain. This was just a prelude of the terrible days to come.

In a day or two we had shaken down, with seven men to each tent, and our training began. A brief spell of fine weather followed, with a visit from the late Lord Roberts to inspect us. This visit of our great Little General left me feeling very comfortable, as he was fully an inch shorter than myself, and it seemed to me very wonderful that that slight, courteous old man should be the hero of so many exploits in India, Afghanistan, South Africa, and other parts of the world. It will be remembered of him forever that a few years before he had given Great Britain a solemn warning of the intentions of Germany. With few exceptions the newspapers, the London Times included, had branded him a scare-monger and jingo. Alas, how bitterly true was the great little man's prophecy!

He died a brief month afterwards, just as he would have wished, "in harness," and among his Indian comrades he loved so well.

Then the rains descended, the floods came, and the plain became one seething quagmire of mud. Words are powerless to describe our continual conflict with that mud; it was everywhere—in our eyes, our hair, our tents, our clothes, our grub; we often had to swallow it as well as wallow in it. Again our poet-wit got his work in and this was our universal lament:

Mud, mud, damnable mud,
In mud we must wallow and mud we must swallow,
Mud, mud, damnable mud,
Oh say will we ever get out of the mud.

Our tents leaked incessantly, but with all our discomfort we were healthy and happy and, in consequence, were grumbling all the time. We roundly cursed our officers, anathematized the mud, swore we would mutiny—all done sotto voce. But we were very, very happy.

And now, to crown my happiness, I obtained leave to visit my people in the Midlands, about one hundred and thirty miles from the place. The only way I could curb my impatience was by cleaning and re-cleaning my buttons, badges and boots, and vainly endeavoring to read the newspaper. At last, I paraded before the Colonel and paymaster to receive my pass and money, and after satisfying the critical eye of my commander that I was clean enough to be a credit to the British Army, I was permitted to go.

I boarded a taxi and paid ten shillings for a three-mile ride to the railway station. Had the Shylock asked four times that amount I would have cheerfully given it to him.

Only a son who loves his father and mother can appreciate such a home coming as I got; I shall never forget it. Mother-like, the dear old lady was thoroughly dissatisfied because I hadn't the appetite of a dozen strong men. One of her remarks typified the English mother—the peer of any woman on God's earth today. I asked what she thought of my journey over to do my bit for the Empire and her reply was: "I knew you would come. I knew it. God bless you, my boy. I hate to think of where you are going, but I believe I would hate you more, my own son as you are, if you did not go."

Such a reply from a woman who had already given one son for the cause exemplifies the spirit of self-sacrifice which has so splendidly been evidenced by the women of the Allies today. These mothers deserve the V.C. as truly as any soldier.

My father's greeting was typical of the reserved Englishman. He looked up at me without a word and just at that moment my young sister walked in and stood beside him; the lassie was just as tall as I was short; and my father's first remark was, "If you had been as tall as this girl is, you might have called yourself a soldier." Such was the greeting after an absence of six years and thus does the Englishman cover up any signs of emotion.

The time was all too short to see everyone I wanted to see; my three days' leave passed like an hour; but practically all the friends and chums of my school days were either in France, on the sea, or in training. An athletic club to which I belonged before I left England for Canada had a total membership of two hundred, and of this number one hundred and eighty-eight were in khaki, and even at that early date eight of them had paid the supreme price.

Promising to come back as soon as possible before I left for France I said good-bye and commenced my return journey, feeling very homesick and miserable. But I found a very interesting companion on the way back, one of the gallant boys of French's "Contemptibles." He was one of the few survivors of a battalion of Gloucesters and was one of the twenty-four who held back about seventy times their number and covered the retreat of the remnant of their regiment. When history is written and the deeds of the different regiments recorded, the wonderful stand of the twenty-four will go down as an epoch of the Great Retirement.

Reticent as most British soldiers are, yet being a comrade, he told me enough to give me some idea of what we were going into. Parting from him at Bristol, by a strange coincidence I ran into a corporal of the Second Battalion of Gloucesters. This man had just completed his service with the army and had been about a month on reserve when again called out. He now lies somewhere in France, for within three weeks from this time his regiment was almost wiped out.

While sitting in the train I happened to put my head too far out of the car window and away went my cap. The corporal helped me out. He dug from his kit a cap of a wonderful checked pattern, big black and white squares, and gave it to me. It was staggering in its color scheme, but better than nothing. Next morning, judge of my consternation when I found it impossible to get a cap from the quartermaster in time to go on parade, and I was obliged, to go in my beautiful new headpiece. It seemed to shout its color scheme from end to end of the battalion. Particularly did Morgan make caustic comment on the queer ideas of some people as to the proper head-dress for a soldier, and everyone, from the corporal up wanted to know what in hell I meant by coming on parade with that awful thing on my head.

Finally the Colonel came and ran his eye over his pets. "Tshun," he roared, and everyone "tshuned." A moment of silence while the Old Man critically lamped his battalion; then it broke.

"Who is that man who thinks he may come on parade in his own ideas of fashion? Fall out, that man, I want to speak to him."

I sneaked guiltily up to him, mentally noting those of my pals who snickered loudest, and stood dutifully at attention. After informing me that in spite of my looks I was supposed to be a soldier, and that although it was the dearest wish of his heart to permit me to disgrace the battalion, yet he felt compelled to administer a little correction.

"How came you to be wearing that monstrous thing?"

I explained truthfully, but he insisted that I had been imbibing and had lost my cap as a consequence. That afternoon, when tottering under the weight of sides of beef and other heavy things, which I was obliged to carry, I resolved that if I ever again lost my cap, I would not be guilty of wearing an alibi.

CHAPTER VIII
LIFE IN THE ENGLISH CAMP

After my first trip home, for a few days I went about my work without interest, but when one is in superb physical condition, it is impossible to be depressed long, and soon I was grumbling away again as happy as ever. Still the wretched weather continued. If it did not rain, it snowed; if it did not do one or the other, it did both; if it did not do both, a fog you could take in your hand would hang over the place the whole day long. If the Fates decreed we should have a fine day, we were worked till our bones cried out for rest.

In the early morning we would curse the bugles as they blared out their warning for us to be up and doing. Sometimes the temptation grew too strong and one of us would be missing when we fell in shivering for our mornings physical torture. This is the name the Canadians had for physical drill. The tardy one would regret his indifference to "Reveille" before the day had well begun, for he would usually be told off for all fatigues, as well as turning out for the day's work with the battalion.

A vigorous trot would set our blood coursing through our veins, and after the torture had loosened up our muscles, we wondered why we had ever wanted to stay in bed at all.

Breakfast would follow, and after that we would fall in to be inspected by the officers, tongue-lashed by the Colonel, and finally marched off for instruction in tactics on the field, or other necessary parts of an infantry soldier's training. We might arrive back in time to partake of a noon-day meal, or it would perhaps be in the middle of the afternoon, or again we might stay out the whole twenty-four hours.

Night alarms would see us sleepily but frantically struggling to don our equipment so that we would make a record for our company by being first at the assembling post. The language on such occasions was almost the acme of perfection, because our studies in the army in that regard had brought us to a truly wonderful state of efficiency in fluency and the ability to improvise suitable words for all occasions.

One may therefore imagine the atmosphere when a buckle of Morgan's equipment would fix itself firmly in some inaccessible part of mine and we would struggle to straighten out the tangle by the dim light of a candle. Usually it would end by one of us inadvertently putting out the candle. After this there would be absolute silence as even our vocabulary was not adequate to the situation. With clenched teeth we would relight the candle, if we were fortunate enough to find it; if not, we finished our dressing by touch, each mentally cursing the other for his clumsiness.

Finally we would stumble to the assembly post to receive a wigging from the O.C. (officer commanding) of the company down. On our way back Morgan would tell me that in all his life he had never known one so blankety-blank a clumsy as I was, and I would consign him to everlasting perdition, and the quarrel would wax hotter and hotter, to the great amusement of the other boys, until we arrived at the inevitable stage when the challenge to fight is given. Then the sergeant would step in, and we would be obliged to satisfy ourselves by mentally vowing to settle it once for all when we got back to camp. However, the excitement and fatigue would soon cool our tempers, and the usual sequel was for the two of us to be found foraging in some mutual enemy's camp, or we would settle down, cuddled in one another's arms, for a long refreshing sleep.

At the remount camp, situated about two miles from our own camp, were a number of unbroken horses; these were used as remounts for artillery, cavalry, transports, etc. Every day two or more companies from the battalion were told off as "Remount fatigue" and had to clean and groom the animals, and one day shortly after this, when it was part of my duty to assist in taking a load of provisions for the men who were looking after the horses, we came upon a wondrous object, lying resplendent in all its native beauty, by the side of the road. Hardly believing our eyes, we bore down upon the stranger. It was real, and we rejoiced. Thirty-six gallons of good beer had wandered away from a jolting wagon. After several vain efforts, in which we nearly ruptured ourselves with straining, we finally succeeded in hoisting it on our transport. It was necessary to resort to "camouflage" to hide our treasure, but it was done. The day passed slowly, as we curried and brushed that kicking, squealing mass. We were tortured with fear lest any of the others should discover our find. As expert thieves we respected others of the craft, and in this case we feared them.

Night came, and to our relief, our cask had not been unearthed. That night figures might have been discerned in the gloom, stealthily making their way to a certain big marquee. Inside this marquee was stacked bales of hay and other feed for the transport animals.

By the dim light of two stable lanterns we paid our respects to the delightful stranger until we had exhausted its hospitality, and at "Lights out" we tacked homewards, after an affectionate farewell to one another.

I will not attempt to excuse myself, or the others, but perhaps we may be forgiven when I tell you that on Salisbury Plain we endured the most frightful weather conditions. Add to this our isolation from anyone but soldiers, and the entire absence of amusement except what we manufactured ourselves, and some toleration may be vouchsafed us. If those boys let loose occasionally, they also blocked the road to Calais, and many forget this when criticizing the men, who not only faced hell in France and Flanders, but cheerfully fore-went almost all the advantages that later contingents enjoyed while in training.

On a soaking wet night a few of us tramped over the plains to our new homes and huts, which had been given us in substitution for the tents. For some reason hut life told on the health of the boys and that terrible scourge, cerebral spinal meningitis broke out, and soon many were infected. For myself, I never contracted anything but a trick of getting into trouble. Still the rain descended and the mud deepened. It was in the hut that many of the peculiarities of our comrades helped to amuse us. Big Bill Skerry and young Fitzpatrick had struck up a close friendship with each other, although Bill was about double the age of Fitz. At intervals three solitary long hairs would appear amongst the down on Fitz's chin, then Bill would declare it was time Fitz had a shave, and he would seize his young friend, and a mighty struggle would ensue, but it usually ended by Bill clipping off the three sisters—Faith, Hope and Charity, as someone called them.

Another fellow, Bolous, whom we had with us, was the butt of much of our wicked horse-play. This strange being worked, ate and slept with an automatic colt attached to his belt. For the sake of soldier critics, I may say he kept it under cover on parade, but it never left him. Naturally we asked him when he expected to meet the guy who was looking for him. Many an attempt was made to steal that gun, but no matter how soundly he slept, the slightest movement or touch near him would bring him to a sitting position, with the automatic on a dead line for the would-be thief's head. He had never been in England before, and we romanced to him so earnestly about the denizens of Whitechapel, that on his first visit to London, instead of just his one automatic, he evened up matters by wearing one on the other side, and stalked down Whitechapel, armed to the teeth.

This man was deeply interested in bayonet fighting, and would question our instructors until they loathed the sight of him. He studied the matter from all angles and would endeavor to get the man next to him to act the part of an attacking Hun in order to show us his own method of rendering Fritz hors de combat. Nobody ever volunteered as there is no knowing what he would have done in his eagerness to spit something with that bayonet. He devoured all that he could find in drill books about "Hun Sticking." He was particularly nerve trying at night, when we hobnobbed at cards or were reading before "Lights out." Everything would be quiet, except for the low murmur of conversation and an occasional heartfelt oath from a loser in the poker party. Then suddenly we would almost jump out of our skins, as a figure hurled itself at the rifle rack, seized a rifle from the stand, fixed the bayonet and rushed up and down the hut furiously parrying and lunging at an imaginary foe. Oblivious of everything except dispatching the figurative German, he would rush here and there while we endeavored to avoid the flickering steel. The man was enormously strong, and agile as a cat, and all we could do was to dodge as well as we could until his paroxysm passed and he had settled down to work out some other scheme for Boche killing.

We swore we would murder him if he did not cease these imitations of a madman, but glad are we all who knew him that we took his wild behavior good naturedly, for a very short time afterwards he performed deeds of the most self-sacrificing kind under a wall of shell fire. Not a few men owe their lives today to his devotion to duty on that awful day at Ypres.

One night I was guilty of a betrayal of trust. I was detailed to watch some carloads of coal that stood in a siding. My trick (sentry-go) lasted from four to eight in the morning. The rain was tumbling down as I floundered through the ooze to relieve the other sentry. After the sergeant of the guard had gone, I felt really miserable. There was only one place where I could stand with any degree of comfort and this was a sort of a step that stood up a few inches above the surrounding sea of mud, like a tiny rock in a swamp of brown colored soup. Balancing myself precariously on this forlorn hope, I thought I would pass the time by singing softly to myself. This seemed to bring the rain down with redoubled force so I stopped and took to cursing instead. Then the disaster came. I was gazing through the murk at nothing when a desire to stretch overtook me; I did so and the rifle overbalanced me. After several wild attempts to regain my balance, I floundered face down into the quagmire below. When I had partially digested the highly flavored mud, I addressed my surroundings with much feeling.

It was useless now to bother about trying to keep dry, as I was seeping wet through, so I stood and watched the liquid mass swirling around me and the water flapping at my knees. I could see dimly by the light of a sputtering electric light at one corner of the car.

Slowly the time passed till I heard in the distance very faintly the bugles at headquarters sounding "Reveille." This is one of the most impressive things I have ever heard—the reveille at dawn and the last post at night. Away in the distance the first notes would steal faintly across the plain, each succeeding camp would take it up, until it reached us, then our own massed bugles would blare it out in one swelling din. From us it would pass to the next camp, until it died away as faintly as it had begun. Thus were fifty thousand men awakened from their slumbers, or hurried to them, during the winter of 1914.

Heaving a deep sigh of mingled appreciation of the music and disgust at my physical discomfort, I turned once more to studying the quagmire. Suddenly I was aroused by a gruff voice in a Cockney accent. It was a man of the big crowd of civilians, chiefly men unfit for the army, who worked at different occupations in and around the camp. By the light I saw a little weazened-up man holding two coal scuttles.

"I say, mate, could I 'ave a couple of scuttles of coal?"

"No, you can't," I replied, "beat it."

The little man stood his ground and I was glad of it, because here was someone to quarrel with, and I would gladly have quarreled with my own father at that moment after my night of shivering. However, there was to be no scrap. Just as I came within striking distance he opened his coat and displayed a flat bottle:

"Loike a drink, guv?"

I eyed the bottle for a second.

"How much is in it?" I asked.

"She's full."

Alas poor, frail humanity; my mind was made up in an instant. "You can take the bloomin' car if you'll give me the bottle."

"Righto," said he; "I only want a couple of scuttles-full, but yer can 'ave the bottle."

My stomach was empty, my clothes were soaked, I was wet and chilled through and through, but when my relief came I was supremely content with my lot. The sergeant sniffed suspiciously, but I held my tongue and bottle both.

A few nights following the above I experienced one of those unforgetable sensations that men have at one time or another in their lives. A very old and dear friend of mine, a veteran of a former campaign, had enlisted with the Princess Pats and the first opportunity I had I searched him out at the camp of the Pats. Returning home across the hills to our own camp I suddenly became aware of the roll of men's voices singing an old familiar hymn. The wind blowing in my direction carried the sound even above the swish of the rain; in fact, the solemnity of it all was intensified by the steady swish of the downpour. Every evening men by the thousands congregated in our only place of recreation, the huge Y.M.C.A. marquee, and on this evening they were singing that old favorite of all civilization, "Nearer, My God to Thee." It sounded like a mighty requiem.

CHAPTER IX
GETTING READY TO GO

My second leave arrived. Being issued with a new uniform, my buttons and badges burnished as bright as elbow grease and metal paste could make them, I flattered myself I made a most soldierly figure as I stepped out with the rest, en route for Amesbury station. The major, knowing his boys, gave us a word of warning. He held forth on the nearness of the time when we would be wanted to hold the thin line over the channel. The warning was a hint to be back on time or results unpleasant would follow. This did not prevent me taking an extra day or so.

This was to be the last I saw of my people before embarking on the final stage of the game and the time passed all too quickly. On the day of my final leave-taking not one shadow of sorrow was portrayed on mother's face. On the contrary, she resorted to an old English custom that has been handed down for generations: after my last kiss and embrace she waved a cheery adieu and grabbing an old shoe that she had prepared for the moment she flung it after me with the time immemorial expression, "Good Luck and God-speed."

I held the tears back until I was well out of sight and then my pent-up feelings gave way and I let them freely flow. The memory of that farewell has supported me and given me strength to undergo what sometimes seems impossible when I look back over it all. My youngest sister, Edith, displayed the same bravery of spirit and maintained a brightness and a cheeriness which I well know she was far from feeling. Blessed indeed are we in our women and girls.

THE REMAINS OF A ONCE PROSPEROUS VILLAGE

The frightfulness of modern warfare is shown in this remarkable picture. The bare sticks were once graceful trees; the heaps of debris, beautiful homes.

My return journey was in the company of another of the British-Canadians from my own village. At London we crammed ourselves into a carriage crowded with khaki-clad humanity, and a furious argument arose as to what constituted a real Canadian. Hot and hotter it grew until we steamed into the little depot, and it was only settled when a stalwart Canuck volunteered to knock hell out of any man in the whole damned army who said he wasn't a Canadian.

On arriving at the door of my former hut I found it barred and the boys inside told me to seek other quarters as the spinal meningitis had at last reached our abode. I entered the next hut and found it filled with my chums who had returned from leave, all feeling somewhat dismal, and we cast ourselves down wherever we could and dreamt about home till morning.

As before, my low spirits soon faded and I skipped about as usual. Now began a period of intensive training, chiefly bayonet practice. Musketry, route marching, bayonet fighting, and target practice all took up our time, and such games as football and baseball served to keep the men supple.

On New Year's eve we celebrated and the officers closed their eyes for awhile, and the men took full advantage of their temporary blindness. In our hut, story and song floated more or less musically into the mist outside. The evening finished with a speech from one huge fellow, which he insisted on making in spite of our protest, and to emphasize his oratorical points, he seized the object nearest to him which happened to be me, and taking me by the coat collar and the leg, he drove home his points by thumping me, rear end downward, on the table. That was another time in my life when the way of the small man was hard, and the trouble of it was the table was harder.

Although I suffered somewhat by reason of my short stature, nature evened things up by giving me a stamina which nothing seemed to hurt. In consequence, I was always chosen to be one of the party who paraded before the doctor every few days in order to show the doctor that there was nothing very seriously wrong with our battalion, because the men were afraid we would be left behind when the contingent went to France owing to the amount of sickness in our bunch.

Policemen, whether civil or military, are ever the abomination of a liberty loving soldiery and throughout the camp they were always on the lookout for offenders. However, on Salisbury Plain it was comparatively easy to avenge oneself on the M.P.'s. (military police). At night, after "Lights out" these officious guardians of the peace would be on the look-out for any of the boys who had stayed out too long, and who were dodging the sentries. On a stormy night, with their coat collars turned up to their ears and leaning against the storm, they would be walking on the chalk walks on each side of which stretched the sea of mud. The avenger usually prepared his attack by donning a pair of rubber boots, and stealing up behind the unsuspecting policeman until within a few feet of him, he would step off into the mud on the storm side of the M.P. and deliver a blow with all the pent-up feelings of an aggrieved soldier behind it and into the mud would topple the unlucky policeman. The Canadian idea of discipline had not yet become acclimated to the stern routine of the Imperial Army.

CHAPTER X
LEAVING FOR FRANCE

Our work was harder now than ever; not a moment was lost in whipping us into shape for the Great Game and our nerves were becoming more tense each day. The final event before leaving was a review of the men in the presence of the King and Queen, Earl Kitchener, and other distinguished guests, as well as our kin-folk from all parts of Great Britain and Ireland and the Dominions beyond the seas.

Morning broke with the usual drizzle of rain, which happily stopped later on, giving us instead a very fine day. We filed out to the parade ground, a distance of about two miles. The Highlanders had arrived before us and a splendid sight they made. Standing at ease on the slope of a gently rising hill, their khaki aprons having been discarded for the occasion, they made a wonderful splash of color on the dull landscape. Tall, lithe fellows for the most part, they looked the beau ideal of the British soldier. There seemed to be an air of dashing gallantry about them that was irresistible. Making the air hideous with their terrific skirling, the pipes droned and squealed their defiance of everything non-Scotch. The pipes were decorated with long colored streamers of the same pattern as the kilts and plaids of their owners. The pipers themselves were men of unusually fine physique, and surely Scotland and Canada would have felt proud to have seen the brave sight.

In spite of our dislike for the pipes there was an indescribable lilt to the music that seemed to get into our feet, and shoulders were thrown back and two thousand feet swung as one. In this fashion we arrived on the ground allotted to us for the parade. After the usual movement for placing troops in review order we stood in ranks in platoon formation, two by two, one behind the other.

The royal party not having arrived we stood at ease and had time to take in our surroundings. As far as the eye could see, line after line of infantry stretched up the gently sloping hill. A massed band at our immediate rear did much to give one a curious feeling of elation. I shall never forget the sight. The huge Union Jack directly to our front surmounting the reviewing platform streamed grandly out in the breeze that was steadily blowing across the plain. A curious contrast between the dull drab of the ordinary infantry and the gay attire of the Highlanders struck me most forcibly. To our right the artillery in perfect formation seemed to stand like figures of adamant; there seemed something sinister and threatening in the dull color and lean appearance of the guns.

Immediately to their rear, reminding us of the wrath to come, stood the stretcher bearers of the medical service.

At last the puffing of a train was heard and we knew that our royal visitors had arrived. The King, Lord Kitchener, and other prominent soldiers and statesmen stepped off the train. The band crashed out the first bars of the national anthem, a quick command to us, "Present arms," a movement, and all was still except for the rolling of the anthem across the plain, and then silence once more.

The King shook hands with the officers and the inspection began. This was the second time I had seen his majesty, but in spite of the fact that I am a loyal Britisher, I was much more interested in the martial figure by his side; this was the man who at that time held the defense of Britain's military forces in the hollow of his hand. I had read that Lord Kitchener was an inscrutable man, never known to smile; it was a fiction; he smiled genially at us all. But those keen, dark eyes did not miss one single detail of the men in front of him. My sensation as he passed in front of me was that he was looking straight through me into the man at my rear. No word of approval or otherwise did the renowned soldier utter, but I think he was pleased by the stalwart physique and the soldierly bearing of the boys. After they had duly inspected our ranks, they took their places on the saluting platform and the march past began, every arm of the service being represented in its order. At the word, the artillery sprang into life and thundering down the slope at a mad gallop, they slowed gradually down and the horses walked, as proudly as horses ever did, past the saluting base.

Next the cavalry, the men with their swords at the carry, trotted by. A gallant sight they made with their Stetson hats and long yellow cloaks. The coats of horses perfectly groomed shone in the sun like satin and made a picture that was never surpassed by anything of the kind in the days when "Knighthood was in Flower."

Then came the first battalion of infantry and before I could notice more we, ourselves, had started to march past. The band struck up a martial air and four thousand feet, keeping perfect time, made the ground echo with their tread. My own battalion swung past the royal party with a lilt in its step that thrilled one through and through, and at the order "Eyes right" every head turned like clockwork. The old Fifth certainly made a gallant showing that day.

Immediately after the review, line after line of infantry arranged itself on each side of the track, and as the train bearing our distinguished visitors steamed through, a roar of cheering echoed and re-echoed away over the plain.

From then until our departure for the front each day's work was an unusually strenuous course of bayonet practice. Day after day we systematically stabbed and parried at sacks lying in trenches and hung up on poles till we saw nothing but bayonets in our waking hours and dreamt of nothing else in our sleep. One encouraging thing our instructors used to tell us when they would fluently express their disgust at our poor showing was, "Well, never mind, two-thirds of you will never get up far enough to use them blinkin' baynits."

One sunny afternoon in early February, we received the order to leave behind all surplus baggage and to burn all refuse and waste matter and leave the camp in perfectly sanitary condition. This done we paraded for miles in full marching order, loaded like mules. Hardened as we were by our recent workouts, the strain was terrible, even when we were standing, while the Old Man inspected us.

At last the order to march was given and we knew that this time we were really going into the game. A grueling tramp of about an hour and we reached Amesbury. Again the rain was coming down and we were soaked as we stood waiting for the train.

At this point an unusual difficulty confronted the keeper of one of our soldiers, a recruit named Private Billy. Billy in his early days had jumped from crag to crag of the Rocky Mountains, had been brought down to Valcartier and, in spite of having very prominent veins in his legs, he passed the doctor, and he was the only one of our battalion who ever appeared on parade without being punished for not shaving. Billy had duly marched as was his wont in front of the battalion, when, to the consternation of the boys, the Colonel swore, as is the divine right of a colonel, that the goat must be left behind. Here was a real difficulty. We could not part with Billy; the boys argued that we could easily get another colonel but it was too far to the Rocky Mountains to get another goat.

The difficulty was solved by buying a huge crate of oranges from an old woman who was doing a brisk trade with the boys. The oranges sold like hot cakes and in a jiffy the orange box was converted into a crate and Billy was shanghaied into the crate and smuggled on board the train. Poor Billy! for three days and nights he simply existed in that horrible crate on board train and on transport ship.

Billy, the goat, is still going strong and it is the boast of the Fifth that Kaiser Wilhelm has not yet "got their goat." Bill is a goat to be proud of. When the battalion was drawn up in review order and strictly at attention, no soldier ever stood more erect. He would stand with the transport, all four legs firmly braced on the ground, his head held high, without a flicker or a movement. His only weakness was a fondness for canteen beer that was unequaled by our most seasoned toper. Luckily for him, beer was hard to get. The boys were so amused at his side-splitting antics when in his "cups" that they were forever treating him.

Billy, however, like most ne'er-do-wells, was a valiant soldier, and greatly distinguished himself at Ypres. In that immortal death struggle, Bill remained with his friends clear through. He was seriously wounded and I think the wound was in his back. The old fellow was tenderly nursed and eventually returned to duty with the rank of sergeant.

He was reduced to the ranks in a few days for when on duty near brigade headquarters he casually walked in and chewed up the nominal roll.

Promotion soon came his way again, and Bill, today, a veteran of a dozen mighty battles, worthily upholds the traditions of the Fifth, while his name is entered on the roll as Sergeant Bill.

The story of Billy, the goat, may be read in detail by anyone who cares to send for Canada in Khaki, a book published in England on the doings of Canadians in Flanders.

Our departure was typical of the grim times—no band playing, no fond farewell, just a stealing away in the night. Our own relatives did not know we had arrived in France until they received their first letters from us.

We arrived in the early morning, still dark, at the seaport town of A—— in the Bristol channel. Next day we steamed out, passing Land's End, still southwards, and in a curve up through the Bay of Biscay and dropped anchor in the bay of a certain port in Brittany. During this trip our attachment to the fiends that take refuge in the seams of a man's shirt was closer than ever. We slept where we could and passed the days huddled together on the lower deck of the old cattle barge, for she was nothing else. Mighty games of poker whiled away the time. The boys already imbued with the fatalistic spirit of the true British soldier, argued that fate was so uncertain that while they lived and had money, why not risk it, and the chief gamblers went the limit with all their worldly wealth.

CHAPTER XI
LANDING IN FRANCE

The battle song of the British Army, "Tipperary," which was made imperishable by the men who died at Mons and the Marne, was the first sound that rang in our ears as our ship drew up to the landing. It was a beautiful day, for spring had already begun to blossom in that part of the country, although when we hit the firing line it was still dead winter, and the scenery in France was disclosed to perfection that day.

The song was being sung by French children in excellent English who congregated in hundreds on the quay to see the Canadian soldiers disembark, and I don't think a finer set of boys ever set foot in France than Canada's first contingent.

Little did we think that in two short months more than half of us would be dead, dying and shot to pieces.

A storm of cheering rent the air as our ship was moored to the dock. Oranges, bananas, grapes and fruit of every description were thrown to us, to which we replied by sending over buttons, badges, etc., these "Souvenirs Canadian" being literally fought for by the crowd.

One stalwart Frenchman earned our undying gratitude by catching our company commander squarely on the side of the face with a nice plump orange. It landed with a lovely stinging smack and spread itself most luxuriantly over his capacious mug. Those who had been recipients of the numerous punishments dealt out for our misdeeds chuckled quietly and nudged each other in unholy glee.

We were no sooner safely docked than—to work. Winches groaned as if in protest, as they hauled guns, ammunition and other impedimenta of a division on active service. Fatigue parties sweated and cursed as they stumbled backwards and forwards on and off the ship. Every man had his work to do, and long before daylight everything was ready for our departure north.

At five o'clock in the morning we were issued goatskin coats, mittens and gloves, and inspected by the O.C. The order came to march, and in heavy marching order, we trudged to the depot. This marching order consists of rifle and bayonet attached to braces, which in turn are attached by self-locking buckles to the belt, the knapsack or valise which usually contains a shaving kit, towel, soap, change of underwear, socks, one pair of boots, mess tin, and any other little convenience you may wish to carry. Later on we learned by bitter experience to dispense with everything except absolute necessities.

The aforesaid goatskin coats were a gift from the then Czar of Russia and were supposed to have come from China. When we had donned our gift coats there was a perceptible murmur of comment running from end to end of the ranks, caused by the odor from the presents of the Czar not unlike the presence of a skunk. Examination disclosed that the bloody (literally) coats were dotted in many places with the actual flesh of the deceased animals still sticking to them. In spite of stern orders from the O.C's. of the various companies to maintain silence during inspection, it was plainly discernible that the smell had penetrated even the seasoned nostrils of the officers themselves, from the Colonel down. I am certain that the Germans would have been badly frightened that we had a poison gas of our own if we had had a chance to tackle them with our coats on when the stink was fresh and full in its pristine glory, as it was when we first got them.

As fate would have it, and as usual, I got a garment that would have covered the hairy legs of Goliath of Gath; I almost tramped on the hairy fringe every time I stepped, and I can't think of anything that would more aptly describe my appearance than my chum Morgan's exclamation: "For God's sake, fellows, take a look at this little runt of a centipede. Shorty, for the love of Mike have you any idea what you look like?"

"Go to hell," I snorted, whereat the entire platoon held their sides, and I was mad enough to turn a machine gun on them.

Hanging from the belt is the entrenching tool and handle; it is shaped like a tiny grub hoe. One would be apt to be amused at the idea of digging a hole with a toy like that, but under shell fire you could dig a hole quicker with that little tool than with a pick and shovel.

Next is the haversack worn on the left side and the water bottle on the right. In the pouches attached to the belt and braces a hundred and twenty rounds of ball ammunition are carried. In addition to all this a man takes his blanket and oil sheet rolled on the top of his valise.

One can understand from this why men for the army need so much training. Men of the finest physique would collapse inside of a mile with marching order on their backs if not properly trained.

We arrived at the depot where we were told to lie down if we wished and we did so with alacrity and waited for the train. Day broke, and once more fatigue work. Guns were loaded on flat cars and transport wagons, horses were placed in box cars, eight to a car, hay, straw, rations, etc., were loaded in double quick time, and finally the men were off, so many to a car. On the side of the cars in white letters was painted the legend Chevaux 8, Hommes 40, which to those who do not know French means eight horses or forty men.

Forty-three were told off to our car and here the first taste of active service really began. We were three days on board that train, but not only could we not lie down, but there was not enough room to even sit down, and when we rested we took it by relays. However, with songs and cheers the train pulled out, and in spite of our cramped quarters we managed to be happy and enjoy our first glimpse of "La Belle France."

Vociferous were the exclamations of the French at every place we stopped. Women would draw their forefingers about their throats, signifying the cutting of that part of the human frame, with the word, "Allemand," signifying German. An old man, too old to serve in the army, made the motion of a bayonet thrust, informing us—at least we guessed that was what he meant—to so treat the hated Allemands. We were always surrounded by crowds of souvenir hunters, which did not disturb us at first but before we had half finished our journey they became an unmitigated nuisance, and the boys were not long in letting them know their safety depended on the distance they kept away.

At last on a bleak, raw morning, we detrained at a spot where was witnessed a desperate encounter between the British and Germans in the early part of the war. A mile or so from the place is the town of Hazebrouck. It was here that the terrible toll of this conflict was brought home to us. Line after line of wooden crosses, with the names and regiments of the men who lay beneath, stretched for an appalling distance. Since then a fearful number of graves has been added, including thousands of our boys of Canada, following the battle of Ypres.

Later on I noticed the poppies that abound all through sunny France, waving their pretty heads between the crosses, which gave inspiration for that beautiful poem by Lieutenant John McCrae, originally published, I believe, in the London Punch. It is well worth repeating:

IN FLANDERS FIELDS

In Flanders fields the poppies grow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; while in the sky
The larks still bravely singing fly
Unheard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead! Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset's glow,
Loved, and were loved; and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe;
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch—be yours to hold it high,
If ye break faith with us
We shall not sleep 'though poppies blow
In Flanders fields.

After detraining we were placed in billets, ours consisting of an old barn. The near-by farm was being run by the women of the place, all the men folks being away in the trenches. These people must have made a small fortune, as the boys bought eggs, butter, coffee, etc., in abundance.

Our experiences in making change for our purchases uniquely expressed the old saying, "money talks," because the dealers everywhere seemed to be thoroughly acquainted with the values of English currency, although they couldn't speak the language.

Here we stayed for a few days until our march to the trenches began. Nightly, as we lay, we could hear the boom of an occasional big gun, the rattle of rapid rifle fire, and now and again the peculiar metallic click and whir of machine guns.

It was in this place that the clock-tower incident occurred: Someone noticed the hands of the clock on the east end of the tower moving strangely; two men were sent up to investigate. They did not return and a search was made for them. They could not be located, but suspicious sounds were heard up in the tower. The officers decided it was a case for the guns. One shell brought the tower tumbling down and with it came the bodies of two German spies and the men who had been sent to investigate. The spies had been using the hands of the clock for signaling purposes.

CHAPTER XII
MY BAPTISM OF FIRE

On the morning before we set out for the trenches we were inspected by Sir John French and other well-known leaders of the British Army.

"Holding the line"

"Holding the Line"

CHAPTER IANSWERING THE CALL

CHAPTER IIEN ROUTE TO VALCARTIER

CHAPTER IIICANADA'S WAR CAMP

CHAPTER IVSOLDIERS IN THE MAKING

CHAPTER VTHE ATLANTIC

CHAPTER VILAND AHOY

CHAPTER VIISALISBURY PLAIN

CHAPTER VIIILIFE IN THE ENGLISH CAMP

CHAPTER IXGETTING READY TO GO

CHAPTER XLEAVING FOR FRANCE

CHAPTER XILANDING IN FRANCE

CHAPTER XIIMY BAPTISM OF FIRE