A Rifleman Went to War

could get it to his mouth, it would be literally covered with the little, tiger-striped insects. After several ineffectual attempts to get a square bite, he gave it up and then, with some of the grim perversity that had enabled his ancestors to conquer the wilds of Quebec, he went in to clean up on the robbers, who had spoiled his meal. Bending the lid of the can (tin, they call it over there), he left just enough opening for the little jokers to crawl in. Within a few minutes the thing was literally crammed full of the little sugar-hunting bees.

I had just finished the sketching, which was a preliminary part of a range chart which I was making for our machine gun work when “Bou” called to me, “Now I got ’em, what the hell am I goin’ to do with ’em?” He had squeezed down the lid of the can — or “tin,” if you happen to be English, and was holding it toward me, perhaps three or four feet away when — “wheet” comes a bullet and very nicely decided the matter. It took the can and its contents and it also snipped out a slice of Bou’s finger — just like that.

“W’at ta hell,” says Bouchard — and I just laughed.

We tied up the finger and that was that. Smoking a cigarette (that is, he did, I always stuck to my pipe), we lay there and looked out over the valley which separated us from the Messines-Wyschaette ridge. That was Germany. Stray bullets, like that which had hit the jam tin (by golly, I got it right, that time), were drifting in now and then all around us and, while we watched, several salvoes of whiz-bang shrapnel were poured into a communication trench, just in front of us. It seems incomprehensible to me, after a lapse of over fifteen years, but, as a matter of fact, we did not pay the least bit of attention to them other than to idly wonder if they “got anyone.” Right now, I would be scared stiff if a shell burst near me. I know I would but, somehow or other, in those days, when we all took it as a matter of course that we were going to be bumped off most any time — well, we just didn’t worry about it at all.

Blackberries and bullets — that is the way I always remember that afternoon. Lazing there in the sunshine, looking away across the valley, for all the world like somewhere in southern Indiana, sketching in prominent points on the sky-line (to be used as aiming points for future machine gun strafing) while all the time the kid was picking the delicious blackberries and, every now and then, bringing me a handful, shells winging their way overhead, some going and some coming and occasionally bursting within a hundred yards or so and the frequent whisper or sput of a bullet close alongside — well, I tell you, folks, that is something worth living for — or dying for, if it’s your turn.

Chapter 5. The Trenches

THE Battle of Loos occurred during what turned out to be our last tour in those trenches at Ploegsteert. When we came out again, we marched, that very night, away off to the northward. The word went up and down the line that we were bound for “Wipers” and after the usual hard march in the rain we stopped about daylight, at the town of LaClytte which turned out to be our billeting place for many months afterwards. The infantry remained there and rested for a few days but we machine gunners went right on in and took over some support positions along the Ypres-Neuve Eglise road and at Groot Vierstraat, relieving the King Edward Horse who, like all the cavalry, had been acting as infantry.

Early in October the rains started, rains that were to continue, with few interruptions, until the following April. We have read of how the Duke of Wellington’s soldiers “swore at the mud in Flanders.” No doubt but what they did but I’ll bet, if some of those old timers had heard the things we said while on that march up from Dranoutre to LaClytte, they would have hung their heads in shame. Swearing, like most everything else, has improved with time and our modern vocabulary is much more comprehensive than that of our ancestors. The rain was just going good when we received our orders to move. It was night, of course. There was no chance to move about on the roads in daylight. We went via Kemmel, as I well remember, for it was in that village that we made a short halt for rest and I simply “flopped” on my back, in the middle of the road; my head on my pack, and was sound asleep, instantly. I was not the only one; most of the others did the same. I suppose the halt may have been for as much as ten minutes but, during that time, I got a good night’s rest, not “singin’ in the rain” but sleeping in the rain. Then up and away.

Our position, when we all finally got there, was at the angle at the southeast “corner” of the Ypres Salient, our left opposite the village of St. Eloi and our frontage, about eleven hundred yards for the Battalion, extending to the Voormezeele-Wyschaette road. On our right was the Nineteenth Battalion with about the same frontage. Directly opposite us was the Bois Quarante, along the front of which were the German front line trenches. The distance between our lines varied from about seventy yards on the right, to something over two hundred at the left where the Germans held a dominating hill called (on our maps) “Piccadilly Farm” which merged with the high ground in the village of St. Eloi which was designated as “the Mound.” Back of our front line, at a distance varying from four hundred to six hundred yards, was our support line, which was not, really a line at all, but merely a series of redoubts or, as we called them, “Strong Points,” with, here and there, a bit of completed trench. These redoubts were concealed among the trees of the Bois Carre and other woods the names of which I have forgotten. Back of that, ranging from eight hundred to twelve hundred yards, was what was known as the G.H.Q. (General Headquarters) line, which was our last defense. This line was unoccupied during the time I was there but was the place where the Germans were stopped at the time of their big “push” in March 1918. Just back of this was Ridgewood, a considerable forest, where Battalion Headquarters was located and where we established a cemetery. I go into detail about these things because, as we made our home in this place for eight months, I shall have occasion to refer to these locations from time to time as we go along.

The Twentieth and Twenty-first Battalions worked together, alternating between front line and support and the Eighteenth and Nineteenth did the same on our right. These four battalions comprised the Fourth Brigade, Second Division, Canadian Expeditionary Force (Canadian Army Corps).

For the first few days, after moving into this new territory, the machine guns were located in detached buildings (I should say, ruins) just back of the G.H.Q. line, where we relieved detachments of the King Edward Horse. At that time I was a Number One, with the honorary rank of Lance-Corporal and in charge of one of the guns. Our gun was stationed in the ruins of a group of farm buildings which, on our maps, was designated “Captain’s Post.” Several good machine gun emplacements had been constructed inside the ruins and, though we were often severely shelled, we had no casualties there. During the following months, in fact as long as we remained in that sector, we used this as a resting place, preferring to go there rather than back to the village of LaClytte, where the outfit had a so-called “Rest Camp.” What a joke that was. The most arduous work we ever had to do was done while back in those rest camps. True, there was a chance for a bath and some clean clothes, but we soon fixed up our own bath house there in Captain’s Post and managed to do our own washing. Some of the boys would go to town but several of us preferred to stay “at home,” even though it was subjected to pretty severe shellings at odd intervals.

At this point we will digress a moment while I tell something about the German spy system as we encountered it in the field.

The Belgium of today is made up of a conglomeration of peoples. From the time of Caesar, who mentions the Belgae as among the most fierce and warlike of all the tribes which he encountered in his conquest of Gaul, this particular region has been a sort of free-for-all battlefield. It has been held by Romans, Germans, Spaniards, English and French, in whole or in part, off and on, for nearly two thousand years, so it is easy to understand that the race is somewhat mixed. However, we may ignore all of them but two, as the Kingdom as we now know it, is composed of but the two really definite races — the Flemings, akin to the Dutch of Holland, who occupy the country along the Northern coast, known as East Flanders and West Flanders, and the inhabitants of Brabant and the other provinces to the South. These latter all speak the French language, while the Flemings stick to their own Flemish.

During the war it was soon learned that, while the people of French-speaking Belgium were, for the most part, intensely loyal to their country, a large portion of the inhabitants of Flanders were, either secretly or openly, friendly to the German cause.

As we, the Canadians, spent a year or more up in that part of the country, we had ample opportunity to verify this. The demeanor of the people was usually sullen and unfriendly toward us. Information was difficult to obtain and was often deliberately false. Back of the lines, where some of them operated estaminets (Herbergs, they called them) they were keen enough to gather in all of our money they could get, just as did the French when we moved