A Rifleman Went to War

Before someone else asks the question, I am going to answer: “No, I never heard of a Ross bolt blowing out or coming back in a man’s face, until several years after the war was over.” I have said this many times, possibly previously in this same book. As we used those rifles for nearly two years, it is my opinion that it just never did happen, and that all these accounts told throughout the United States regarding the likelihood of such a happening have been based upon one or two isolated instances — possibly due to a wrongly assembled bolt or reloaded ammunition.

Well, let’s skip along. We made our own fun when and where we could. On the second day of June, 1916, the machine-gun section, having just completed an arduous tour of duty in reinforcing the lower stories of the buildings in the town of Dickebusch, was engaged in a little “field day” of its own. We had drawn for our quarters the best building in town (it had been a bank) and had thoroughly reinforced it with sand-bags and, here and there, a layer of railroad iron, so we felt pretty safe. George Paudash and I had started a game of “duck on the rock” in the public square, which was immediately behind our quarters, when Heinie started shelling us. He was using those eight-inch rifles — the ones that shoot so straight and with such a low trajectory that you never have a chance to dodge. He was looking for a big 15-inch howitzer which was mounted on a railroad car and was, at that moment, operating from a position just about one hundred yards behind our position. The first two or three shells were short and one of them killed a lot of men of the Nineteenth Battalion which was located just across the street from us. Then a few shells dropped into our “dooryard” and scared most of the recruits into their holes. George and I, however, wise in such affairs, kept on with our game and soon others of the section came out and joined us. We knew from past experience that it was useless to try to dodge those fellows. If one happened to light where you were, it was going to get you. Those shells, evidently from naval guns, had delay- action fuses and there was never a dugout or other place in our line that offered the slightest protection from them. We carried on with the game and, as I said, others came out and joined us and we were right in the midst of it when the word came to pack up and move up North.

That was the day of the great surprise attack on the “Pats” and the Mounted Rifles — June 2, 1916. Heinie slipped one over on the Third Division and simply blasted these two battalions out of their position, which extended from about the village of Hooge, south to Hill Sixty. For the short time it lasted it was about as hot a fight as was ever pulled off. The Germans succeeded in penetrating our lines to a distance of some seven hundred yards and almost annihilated the two organizations mentioned. It was the second time for the “Pats,” as they had been almost cleaned out on a previous occasion. Both outfits put up gallant fights but were simply overwhelmed, first by a tremendous concentration of artillery fire and then by a powerful infantry attack.

We did not get into it until that night and then only as supports — just to hold on at our G.H.Q. line, where the attack was stopped. There was little opportunity for any real rifle work. Those of the infantry who were engaged did all their fighting at such short range that a shotgun would have been better than a rifle, anyway. When you get down to that kind of fighting, it don’t make any difference what kind of a weapon you have — if you have guts. And, let me tell you, it takes just that (or those — which is it?) to stand the gaff when it comes to the real show-down.

To regain the ground lost on June 2nd, required a little time. We went in, opposite Hill Sixty and The Ravine, and got well established, while the Higher Command was mobilizing enough new batteries to insure against a recurrence of the St. Eloi affair. One thousand guns against one thousand yards of enemy trench was what they prescribed — and a lot of those guns were of twelve and fifteen inch calibre. Say, didn’t they give Heinie a dose of his own medicine? For long, weary months we had been looking and praying for just that and I want to say that that fight (in which I participated as a sergeant, although I had been commissioned a first lieutenant several weeks before but had not yet found it out) was the most enjoyable I ever attended.

Wow, when all those guns opened, our guns, mind you, it was like music to our ears. So long had we endured the overwhelming weight of German metal. Now, for the first time, we had the best of them in that respect. It was a lark — even though we were still receiving all that the enemy had, and suffered severe casualties, just the knowledge that we had them out-gunned, seemed to put everybody on edge.

The attack went through like a hot knife through butter. All the lost ground was regained and then some — and consolidated. Our battalion suffered severely from the activities of a heavy trench mortar which was secreted down in the railway cut, just below Hill Sixty. This was the most awful thing I ever experienced. Even in the later and greater battles down South never did I encounter anything in the way of destructive agents to equal it. It fired a plain tin can filled with 160 pounds high explosive — probably T.N.T. (We got one that did not explode, so know all about it.) The effect of those damnable things was worse than that of any shell. Even the big Austrian eleven-inch howitzers or the naval guns of like calibre could not do such execution. Coming as they did up out of that cut less than a hundred yards from our line and dropping almost straight down, our parapet offered no protection whatever.

We had a machine gun down at the left end of our line where this thing was operating and I got word that the gun crew and a whole platoon of infantry had been wiped out. Well, it was up to me to find out about it. We had a gun crew in reserve and they were sent down, and after making a hasty inspection of the other guns along the line I went down there myself. Bouchard, of course, came along. That boy followed me around like my shadow.

Just as we were starting out, a particularly intense shelling began over our whole area, one big shell striking right on top of one of our signaller’s dugouts, killing the occupants and seriously wounding Captain Caldwell, who was standing in the doorway, dictating a message, I think. Bou and I went along until we reached a “dead-line” — that is, the officers in charge had withdrawn all men from that particular sector until the heavy shelling had subsided. All but the machine-gun crew; they were still out there — somewhere. Colonel Hughes was there with a couple of staff officers. (Depend on that man to be where the trouble was.) I explained to him that it was necessary for us to go down to the M.G. at the end of the line and away we went. We wished the sentries on guard the same as they wished us which was something like “hope you get your heads blown off,” embellished with a few of the apt but not printable adjectives then in common use.

Beyond this point, all was chaos. That deadly trench mortar or, as the Germans called it Minnenwerfer had completely wrecked things. Our parapet was just about obliterated. We had to crawl most of the way but soon arrived at the old M.G. emplacement, right on the bank of the railroad cut and directly opposite Hill Sixty. The gun crew were still there but, as there was scarcely any shelter and nothing for them to fire at just then, I sent them back, outside the immediate shelling area and then stayed there with Bouchard, just to keep an eye on things and summon the crew if it became necessary — that is, if the enemy attempted an advance.

The dead were everywhere. Of the original machine-gun crew, Simpson was laid out on the firing step, covered with a rubber sheet. Head was back at the mouth of a communication trench, both legs blown off and otherwise shot up — dead, of course. The others were unrecognizable. Bodies and parts of bodies were scattered all around, mostly mangled beyond recognition. I spent some time going around and endeavoring, by means of identification tags, to get their names. I located several, but in many cases the destruction had been so complete that no tag remained. While I was doing this, Bouchard was keeping a close watch over the parapet and when he called, “Here, Mac, hurry — here’s a good chance to get some of them,” I hastened back to where he was standing.

From there we could see through a gap in the enemy line, made by one of our big shells, a column of German soldiers going to the left (over toward Hooge where the fight was still raging fiercely). I rustled up a rifle and had Bou go on a hunt for more — and started shooting. It was something less than two hundred yards. I kept it up for some twenty minutes or half an hour, the kid loading and passing up rifles and I shooting all the time. By that time the “targets” had all disappeared — probably found another way around, but so far as we could tell they never knew where this fire was coming from, which was not surprising considering all the other noises.

While doing this shooting, I was standing on the only bit of firing step which remained — astride the body of Simpson — and I remember thinking, as I knocked ’em over, that he would be delighted to know that his death was not going unavenged. Yes, there will always be chances for the rifleman to get a little shooting, in any war — big or little.

Numerous queries have come to me as to the comparative excellence of the various rifles used during the late war. Before going any further into this subject, I want to say a few words in explanation of my apparent (and real) ignorance in this matter.