A Rifleman Went to War

Of one rifle — yes, two, I can speak with authority. The U.S. Springfield, vintage of 1903 and the Ross, Marks 3 and 4, (III and IV). As to the former, all readers of this book are able to judge for themselves and the latter has been so freely discussed — praised and berated — in the foregoing chapters that we can dismiss them.

Now, I hate to say anything in disparagement of our Springfield Rifle (Model 1903 — with 1906 ammunition). It does not require my recommendation. Too many people know all about it. But, why don’t they put a sight on it? As it now is, I would certainly pick one of the S.L.E. (Short Lee-Enfields) for the ordinary, short-range work of actual battle. Argue all you want to about ballistics but what a man needs when he gets into a fight is a short, “handy” weapon — something with which he can take a hasty, snap shot at a target which only shows for the fraction of a second and then disappears. And he wants a sight that you don’t have to hunt around for — just something that you look through — not look for.

But, when it comes to discussing the merits of the foreign rifles — Mausers and Lebels — the best I can do is to refer the anxious inquirers to Captain Crossman or any other of our well-qualified experts. You see, it is this way — when you get into real war — right up there in front — you have no time to do any experimental firing and no inclination to fuss around with any strange rifle. You have trouble enough with your own without looking for more.

During the course of any engagement, if your side is successful and you get into enemy territory, you will be sure to find rifles scattered all around, and, if fighting over ground that has been contested for a year or more, as we were during the first winter, you can pick up any number of arms which have been used by the various combatants. These things were so common that we paid no attention to them other than, perhaps, pick up this or that one and play with it — just to see what made it tick, as you might say. As we never were associated with any French troops, I know nothing about their use of the rifle beyond what I saw one morning at the capture of Combles, when I was temporarily attached to a unit of the Gloucester Regiment, and that was at a distance of some three or four hundred yards. I have fired the Lebel on a number of occasions but simply at some mark just for fun, you might say.

The same thing applies to the German Mausers, the only exception that occurs to me now being one which I took from a young and cocky Yager who had been wounded and taken prisoner. That one was a beauty. Short and trim — a regular “sporter” in fact. The former owner vouchsafed a supercilious smile when I held it up beside my own heavy Ross, and I don’t blame him. He had a real, honest-to-goodness battle rifle, beside which ours were just clumsy clubs. I never had a chance to really give it a good try-out but did take a few shots. It had a decided wallop both fore and aft with the regulation 8 mm ammunition which was picked up here and there. The initial velocity of this stuff was, I understand, about three thousand feet per second, as against the 2440 of ours. In one way, this worked to our advantage, for where the lines were close together we had a defiladed space or “safety zone,” behind our parapets, much greater than the enemy had and we could get along without a lot of overhead traverses.

And, believe me, anything that lessened the work of filling sandbags and building up parapets and traverses was welcomed by the Canadian soldier. He was always willing to fight, but hated, like hell, to work with a shovel. Some of this feeling was due to the fact that it was almost impossible to dig anywhere within our lines without disintering bodies of men who had been buried by previous occupants of the position. That whole Ypres Salient was one vast graveyard. I do not know what disposition has been made of it, but were it in the United States I am sure it would be declared a National Park. There, in October, 1914, the flower of the old British Army — the so-called “Old Contemptibles” — effectively checked the German advance, just as they, with the assistance of the Canadians, did again in April 1916. Gurkhas from India and Indians from Canada mingled their blood with the flower of British manhood on that field, together with legions of French and Belgians. It should be an international shrine. There are a few other places, notably Verdun, where every foot is holy and consecrated ground but none, I believe, can compare with Ypres and the Ypres Salient.

I just cannot seem to keep going along any single track. We were discussing rifles, were we not? Well, I know of nothing more to say about the ones that were used in the last war, so let’s do a little figuring on something for the next.

There is a gentleman who, so far as I know, never wore a soldier’s uniform, but who has shown by his writings, a better insight into the real business of soldiering than any general or other officer it has been my pleasure to meet, and I wish to quote just one little stanza from one of his poems.

“When half of your bullets fly wide in the ditch,

“Don’t call your Martini a cross-eyed old bitch.

“She’s human as you are; just treat her as sich

“And she’ll fight for the young British soldier.”

(Of course, you know who I mean — Rudyard Kipling.)

The following is probably a repetition of what I have said elsewhere in this yarn: “The only way to learn a game is to play it.”

Do you know of any good football coaches who never, themselves, played the game, just as — well, what we might call, “privates?” Or, in any other line of sport or endeavor. Can you think of any of them who have not, literally, “come up from the ranks?” Why should this great, glorious game of war be an exception?

What a blessing it would be if all the officers who have authority in our army had first taken a course in soldiering in the ranks, in active warfare. Having been an officer before the war, then serving for more than a year as a soldier during some of the toughest campaigns and finishing again an officer, I have an insight into a lot of things that never would be suspected — or admitted — by the gentlemen who have always sported commissions.

This is just a preliminary to the general attack, which will be directed against the proposal to arm each and every infantry soldier with an automatic or semi-automatic rifle. Up to date, no soldier has been able to carry enough ammunition to take him through a day’s fighting — that is, in a real battle. They say they will reduce the calibre and thus reduce the weight of the ammunition. Yeah? How much can you reduce it? You can probably cut it down from say, ten pounds to eight or, to make it more plain, by reducing the calibre from thirty to twenty-six (and keeping up the same velocities) you will have made a reduction such as may be represented by the difference between sixty and fifty-two or thereabouts. Let the school-boys figure out the percentage; it is not worth our while.

What with the machine-guns and automatic rifles already in use, there is absolutely no reason for this innovation. I tell you, and I know what I am talking about, that in a battle you cannot keep those men supplied with ammunition for more than fifteen minutes of real fighting. Having handled machine guns and automatic rifles during periods of desperate fighting, I am sure of my ground — I am not guessing or trying to figure anything out with a slide rule or a mil scale. (By the way, did anyone ever hear of any soldier, in active battle, making use of that mil- scale? I had a standing reward, for several years after the war for any machine gunner who would testify that he had used it, with no takers.)

During one protracted action where we were continuously engaged for fourteen days, I had twelve machine guns — that is, we started in with twelve. As they were wiped out, we got up reserves as soon as possible. One time we had eight German guns working, but assuming that the twelve of our own were working all the time, which of course they were not, I have memoranda, made at the time and on the spot, which shows that we required sixty thousand rounds of ammunition a day. As our machine-gun crews consisted of but six men, and numbers one and two were constantly on the gun, while the others were reloading belts, it can readily be seen that we could not conceivably have brought up our ammunition. Not by a damn sight. What I did was to — well, “holler for help,” if you want to consider it that way — simply passed the word to headquarters that if they wanted those guns to keep going, they would have to send the ammunition up to us. It required the services of one hundred and twenty men just to do that — ten extra men to a gun. Now, mind you, we never did have the full twelve guns going and, as before mentioned, at one time had but four of our own, but just the same we ate up sixty thousand rounds a day just as easy as you eat your two eggs for breakfast. One gun, I remember, fired twenty-eight thousand rounds in one day. (For the benefit of ordnance officers, I will remark that that gun never fired a shot after that.) It was a Colt; the barrel was literally welded to the bands and when it finally cooled off it was of no use whatever. I have often seen those guns going — at night — with the barrels glowing cherry-red.