A Rifleman Went to War

of the bonds of community, to give a man every chance to fit smoothly and proudly into his organization for war.

There was a much further departure in this same direction: Men were allowed to wear a uniform to which they were by racial tradition and sentiment attached. I wonder how many Americans know that the Scotsman in Canada might wear a kilt. Not only might he wear a kilt, but several choices were provided, so that, although he might not find the tartan of the clan of his own name, he might nevertheless wear one to which he was sentimentally or otherwise attached. The Royal Highlanders of Montreal sent out the 13th Battalion clad in the kilt worn by the Black Watch (42nd) of Scotland. In that same brigade, the Third (of the First Division), were two other Scottish battalions, the Fifteenth and the Sixteenth. The Fifteenth was from Toronto, sent out by the 48th Highlanders, who wore the Davidson tartan, allied with the Gordons. The Sixteenth came from some place in the West, I believe, and wore the Seaforth kilt. And there was at least one other Scottish unit, also from the West and wearing the kilt of the Seaforths. Of the later battalions, which never got to France as units, I recall two that were Scottish. There may have been others, but since this is in no sense intended to be either a history or a complete record of the Canadian service, I have not gone to the trouble to inform myself.

But I am informed as to the wisdom of letting the military organization take shape as naturally as possible from civil life. The idea that it must be as arbitrary and violent as it can be made — and that a feeling of solid unity can be imposed upon it — is of a piece with the notions of little minds regarding authority. We have all seen these little fellows, who, not having within them the quiet consciousness of authority, are at pains to display the outward semblance of it, foolishly supposing that thereby they prevent themselves being seen for what they really are.

Well, the records of the Canadians probably will be conceded to have some bearing upon the quality of their organization and training. And one of the most radical departures from this precious uniformity — those Scottish battalions — did their part towards earning and maintaining the reputation of “The Ladies From Hell.”

But I must get on, back among the boys — old and young — of my own battalion. In age, they ranged all the way from sixteen to fifty-two. At both extremes there was probably considerable lying done, but that’s the kind of lying that I believe even old St. Peter himself would overlook. By hook or crook, those boys were determined to get into the game. Some that I came to know very well in later days showed me medals for Indian campaigns which were over long before some of the youngsters were born. The same way, many of the really young ones confided to me that they had to resort to all sorts of subterfuges before they were accepted.

A very large percentage of both officers and men had been in the organized militia, and many had served in South Africa, the Sudan and other campaigns. Our Colonel dated his active service from the Riel Rebellion, in 1885, and I am not sure but that Major Bennett (Second in Command) could claim the same honor. Many others of the officers and N.C.O.’s carried the ribands proving long and meritorious service, but here and there in every company would be found some of the very, very young ones.

The first time I took any particular notice of these kids was when, during our training in England, we went in for a course of signalling. The instructor of the class to which I was attached — a corporal — had been a Scoutmaster and he had picked out several ex-Boy Scouts as likely candidates for the signallers section. At the very first day’s instruction it was painfully apparent to myself and a few others who knew nothing about the signalling game, that we would have to get up and hustle. Those boys already knew the Morse alphabet and most of them knew the flag codes — both single and double — while we had to learn the whole business from the ground up. However, by perseverance and endurance we managed to catch up. I can only speak for myself, but I am willing to admit that I did more real studying during those few weeks than I had ever done in my life.

From that time on I was rather partial to the youngsters. Of course I had some up and coming nephews, back home, who were Boy Scouts; and I had, one time and another, taken enough interest in their work to boost them along whenever any matter came up in the way of camping, hunting, fishing and all that sort of thing, but had really never taken them very seriously. Now, however, I realized that the training they had received was just exactly that needed as a foundation for the making of real soldiers. Intelligence, straightforward honesty of purpose, devotion to duty — they had them all, and many’s the time during the following years that many of us older ones had reason to be glad that we were supported by those same boys. Boys? Yes; they were that, in years; but no man, of whatever age, has ever excelled them in the patriotic way in which they did their duty through fair weather and foul. Courage? They were the very exemplification of it. Clean, upstanding, forthright men, they never shirked or dodged a hazardous enterprise, but took their chances with the best.

The crew of the first gun which I commanded was composed entirely of these boys: Bouchard, Wendt, Toms, McFarlin and Shangrow. The combined ages of the oldest two of them was at least two years less than my age at the time. I believe (and sincerely hope) that McFarlin and Shangrow are still living. They were both wounded and sent home and I do not find them among the list of those killed. The others are peacefully sleeping in their graves, close to where they made the great sacrifice — “For King and Country”.

During the time, in the summer of 1916, that I was back in England and attached as instructor to our Reserve Battalion at Sandling, I had occasion to take numerous detachments down to the Hythe ranges for musketry instruction, and there I came into contact with some of the real Boy Scouts of England. They were taking the places of the older Coast Guards and were on regular and active duty, patrolling the shores of the Channel. I would judge that their ages were between thirteen and seventeen, but they, each and every one of them, were doing the work of a man. More than one German submarine was caught by their vigilance, and I doubt not that they also were responsible for the frustration of many attempted air raids.

I have often thought that General Sir Baden-Powell must have, during his epochal defense of Mafeking, noticed that the young boys were more susceptible to instruction than the older men of the available forces and that it was there that he conceived the Boy Scout idea. Of course, I may be all wrong about this but that is how it looks to me. The young men do learn easier and more quickly than the older ones (how well I know it).

Yes; I remember those youngsters very pleasantly — over this interval of a decade and a half. Then I realize that not all of them are alive now, that within the year, perhaps, after I last saw them, the oldest among them had gone to join the colours — and the dead. But, still, the memory of them is not a depressing one. We are depressed with the death of a soldier only when he has died unnecessarily — when he has been sacrificed to inefficiency, sent into battle poorly equipped, inadequately trained or falteringly supported. I do not believe that those fellows were thus sacrificed — this despite my feeling that toward the last many of their officers lacked the stuff — and the experience — to develop that inspiring leadership, the cool and consummate courage and sureness, that characterized a great number of British officers at the beginning. But the battalion had something which held them together and pulled them through. This something belonged to the battalion — and to the British Army. It could not be destroyed by the war, which destroyed the best men and the best officers.

It is this something I have tried to get at in this chapter about the British Army. And it is this something that I should like to get across — in addition to the value of rifletraining — as I try to sort out the experiences and impressions of my “military career”. Of this career, there are a score or so of years that need not be counted, except in so far as they familiarized me with the rifle and gave me the rudiments of military training. With this equipment I went to Canada, where I taught something of the little I knew, and learned a lot myself. A little period of active service enabled me to test this — to see what counted and what didn’t count. Then I found myself back in this country — with no very high opinion of myself as an instructor, but with a very definite knowledge as to what mattered on a modem battlefield. I had rosy visions of a magnificent army — built to fight and to stand up to it, shoulder to shoulder, each man proud of the next man.

Well, the contrast between the early days of Canada’s preparations and the early days of our preparations was painful to me — as an American, as a soldier, and as a man of a bit of common sense — and to my budding pride in this coming American Army. I had come back with a great deal of admiration for the British; but not the least part of my feeling was this anticipation of an even greater admiration for the United States.

I was sure of this. I had seen what Britain could do with material not as good as ours. With two years in which to observe and with this vast resource of dynamic energy, self-confidence and adventurous spirit on which to draw; the United States, I thought, might well startle the world with a model and magnificent army.

I soon became convinced that those who were in charge of things had somehow lost all touch with the realities of the situation. The finest sort of beginnings for a real army were deliberately destroyed. It was like a madhouse. The important thing seemed to be a lot of theories which did not even have the virtue which should belong to theories: that of having evolved from logical thought. These had evolved from a lot of wrangling, petty