A Rifleman Went to War

Away up there, beyond Sausage Valley, beyond Pozieres, in that welter of smoke and chalk-dust, was a road. At one time, ages ago — so it seemed — it was the main highway, the Route National from Albert to Bapaume. It was clearly shown on all the maps, and as it was in direct line with his objective, the young lieutenant tried to find it. This was his first command — fresh from Canada, he had been sent over to replace some one of those who had gone wherever good soldiers go.

The platoon which he commanded was composed of about half veterans — men who had been in the game from the start — and half replacements — new men like himself who had just been sent out. All that the military college could teach, he knew. From the campaigns of Alexander the Great, on down to the last Balkan War, he could describe minutely, the movements of the troops and the errors of strategy which had won or lost those battles. BUT — here was something neither the text-books nor his instructors had mentioned; a barrage so deep and intensive that it appeared not even a snake could crawl through it, and right along where that road was supposed to be. It was not so bad on either side, although the machine-gun bullets were whipping all around and the whiz-bang shells were searching the whole field.

The previous night, upon having been assigned to his platoon and being shown his position on the map, he had noted this road and right then determined that he would make for it and follow it to his objective. Orders are orders and soldiers obey those orders.

Brave? Why yes, he was all that. In spite of his youth and inexperience, no one could challenge his courage. So, having located the road, he led his men into it just as soon as the German barrage slackened up a bit. No sooner had the whole platoon gained the road, however, than the heavy guns opened up again. The platoon were at this time just entering a deep cut in the road, and the lieutenant immediately ordered them to take cover against the bank — toward the enemy side where they would be “sheltered.” The older men where aghast and the two sergeants started up to remonstrate, but both died on their feet as the hail of shells came into them. This was all ground from which the enemy had been driven but a few days before and they knew the ranges to an inch — and they also knew all about this cut in the sunken road. Their shells struck on the stone pave blocks and burst, and the splinters which knew not front from rear simply mowed down the men who were, as they and the lieutenant thought, under cover.

The only men to escape were a few of the old timers who had been through the mill and who recognized the place for just what it was — a trap. They had refused to go into it and had scattered around outside, taking a chance of being hit by a stray shot rather than walk into what they knew was certain death. Out of the fifty men in the original platoon, but five were able to walk out. Thirty were killed outright — including the lieutenant.

Even in the midst of a great battle this small tragedy was noticed and commented upon throughout the rank and file of the surrounding units. Hence, I have spoken of it here, as an example of what the lack of practical experience may cost a junior officer. Any one of those old sergeants could have taken that platoon across that bit of ground and into their position at comparatively little cost — if they had only been consulted.

A few days later, my own Twenty-first Battalion moved forward and occupied the “Sunken Road” along the outskirts of Courcellete, and they remained there for several days until relieved by the Twentieth Battalion.

It was here, in the Somme country, that we made our first acquaintance with real dugouts. Up in Flanders we had to be content with built-up huts of sand bags, as it was too wet to do much digging. Down here, however, the soil was underlaid with a solid bed of chalk and the Germans had constructed a wonderful system of subterranean galleries and chambers at a depth of at least thirty feet. Many of these rooms were furnished with all the conveniences one would find in an ordinary residence. Some of the furniture was rather crudely constructed, on the spot, but much of it was looted from the surrounding villages. One such place had a huge plate-glass mirror (pier glass) standing at least six feet in height, against the wall. I was told of another in which was installed a piano. Those Heinies sure did believe in making themselves comfortable, and the worst of it was that we did not stay there long enough to enjoy the fruits of their labors. We had to keep moving — and keep the enemy moving.

This fighting came about as near to being “open warfare” as any during the war and, probably, as near it as will ever be experienced in any future wars, for wherever an enemy stops, if only for a night, he will dig in and construct some sort of entrenchments. With present-day artillery and the lavish expenditure of ammunition for which the last war has prepared us, there will be no possibility of any considerable force remaining in the open and at rest for more than an hour or two. They would be shelled out of existence if they tried it.

By this time all the Canadians were armed with the Lee-Enfield rifle and most of the time spent in training before joining the Fourth Army was utilized in becoming familiar with it. There was some target practice, on an improvised range, but most of this was at the newly-conceived “marching fire” in which the men were required to fire at a strip target, about three feet high, while advancing from two hundred yards to twenty yards. This firing was done from the hip and was, primarily, designed to keep the enemy down behind his parapet until the advance came within bombing range. Later, as the automatic rifle (Lewis guns) were increased in number, this style of firing was largely discontinued. It never was much good, anyway. In practice, on a comparatively level field, it appeared to be quite effective but, like a lot of other things, when it came to the real business of fighting, marching, stumbling and crawling over the shell-torn and barbed-wire-encumbered battle-field, it proved to be altogether different. This is a point that cannot be mentioned too often, and every officer — yes, every soldier — should understand that, after all the training he can possibly get in peaceful surroundings, he still has a great deal more to learn and that it can be learned only in actual combat.

While the Enfield was some six inches shorter in the barrel than the Ross, the bayonet was correspondingly longer, so that the over-all length, with bayonet fixed, was about the same. Bayonet instruction was gone over again — to get the feel and balance of the new arm — and it was found that the Enfield, with more of the weight right in the hands, was much easier to handle than the Ross with its long barrel and correspondingly heavy muzzle.

Bayonets may be a necessary evil. I am not sure that I would throw them away entirely, but, if I were running things they never would be fixed until within a few yards of the enemy. They are a serious handicap when it comes to accurate firing and are certainly of no use when a hundred yards or more away from the enemy, yet it was (and still is, so far as I know) the usual practice to have them fixed from the beginning of an attack, no matter how far back it started. If every man had a pistol, I would unhesitatingly say that the bayonet could be discarded as an unnecessary encumbrance. On the rifle they are practically useless in a trench. There, the bayonet alone, used as a sword, is much more effective, and in the open you will seldom come to grips with an enemy as long as you have a good shooting iron and know how to use it.

Now, while I am quite willing to agree that some sort of an edged weapon is a very useful part of the soldier’s equipment, I do not believe that the proper place for it is on the muzzle of the rifle. For the fast and accurate work which is necessary during the short-range stages of a fight, the rifle should be as short, light and handy as it can be made without otherwise impairing its efficiency. To hang a pound or more of metal on the end of the barrel is the surest way I know to handicap the rifleman in the use of his weapon as a firearm. Where the difference between life and death is dependent upon one’s ability to fire an accurately aimed shot in one second or thereabouts — anyway, before the other fellow can shoot — this handicap may well prove the deciding factor.

A machete or bolo makes an excellent weapon for actual hand-to-hand fighting; or, if you like, the regulation bayonet, well sharpened, can be used in the same way — as a short sword. The point I am trying to emphasize is that it should not be attached to the rifle unless, as may happen in some cases, the rifle has become disabled or ammunition exhausted. I have often watched men going into action with rifles slung over the shoulder — but always with the bayonet fixed, even if it was a mile to the nearest enemy position, and, a few times, have seen the bayonet actually used — to intimidate prisoners — seldom for any other purpose. One of the rare occasions was when one of our men, crazed with blood-lust assaulted a small group who had their hands up in the air in token of surrender. He stuck two or three before being overpowered by his friends. Now it did not make a bit of difference to that fellow whether he had a bayonet or a club. In similar circumstances, one of our men brained a German with a pick. Among the few souvenirs which I brought home is an ordinary table knife, well sharpened, with which a wounded German killed a wounded Canadian, whereupon a second Canadian, also wounded, took the knife and finished off the German. All three were lying in the same shell-hole when this occurred, with the battle raging all around them. As I was in need of a knife — having lost mine — I took that one and used it, for other purposes, during the remainder of the war.