A Rifleman Went to War

in Canada just a few days before our departure.

The Machine Gunners got up all six of the guns and mounted them in advantageous positions around the upper deck and on the bridge and we remained on duty throughout the rest of the voyage. I think all our crowd realized how futile would be any efforts of ours to stop a submarine but, in a psychological way, it was probably justified as it gave the others on board, especially the women, a feeling of security. At any rate, it gave us an opportunity for some valuable target practice, for we were continually firing bursts at sea birds or any other objects that offered any kind of target — estimating ranges and all that.

I was stationed with the two forward guns and as we ran into several days of really rough weather it was a cold and wet job. The ship changed direction several times a day and the wireless was continually crackling and sputtering. We saw very few boats on the way across and had no convoying warships, until one night about nine o’clock several dark and slim shadows came slipping out of the gloom and establishing themselves all around us. Boy! what a grand and glorious feeling that moment was, one of the really big thrills of the war to me. And the sigh of relief that went up from those gun crews was loud and sincere. Those British destroyers showed no lights and we could barely discern their outlines as they slipped silently along with us. This was a bit of the real thing I had come to see.

News that the British destroyers were about us soon reached throughout the entire ship. I forgot to mention that one of the advantages of sitting watch on those machine guns for the past several days was that we Machine Gunners and the ship’s crew were the only ones permitted on decks. When the rest of the battalion learned the news the grapevine started working overtime and the wise guys gave out just which port we were heading for; some said Liverpool, some Bristol and some even had the ship headed straight for France. However, just before sunrise we dropped anchor inside Plymouth breakwater. But no one made any kick then, any port looked good at that time. A few hours more and the ship moved into the harbor and tied up at Devonport Dock.

We lay there at the dock and unloaded cargo and supplies all that day. It rained too, but then it usually rains down on soldiers every time they change station, or move up to battle. Right alongside our ship was another big transport, loaded with troops and supplies for the Dardanelles. The troops were the Dublin Fusiliers and they gave us a great cheer that morning as our ship came in. Poor devils, they were in for a rough time of it down there.

It kept raining all day, but we gradually got all our stuff off the ship and loaded on the trains and about dark we pulled out. Not a soul knew where we were going. The only training camp we had heard of in England was Salisbury Plain, where the First Canadian Division had trained. The reports they sent home had been anything but encouraging so we hoped for some other place than that. We were told off eight men to a compartment, equipment and all, and we traveled all night long in those stuffy little carriages. Soon after daylight the train stopped and we were told to get out. The name of the station was Westerhanger, which meant nothing at all to us. Westerhanger, it soon developed, was in Kent, and after a march of some three miles we found ourselves in West Sandling Camp, our home for four more months.

We had quite a parade from the station on out to camp and the roads were lined with soldiers who cheered and cheered as we came marching along. Some more of the old Lion’s Cubs coming back to line up shoulder to shoulder in defense of the Empire. How proudly we marched up that long hill and past the Brigade Headquarters, the pipers skirling their heartiest and our drummers laying it on as never before, two beats to the step. We were on exhibition and we knew it. The loads were heavy, the mud was deep and we were all tired, but not a man in that column would have traded his place for anything. And our “Rifleman,” who is now telling all this, held his shoulders just as square and put his feet down just as hard as anybody in that column. It was grand.

There did come a day when we hated that hill and that camp as the devil hates holy water, but on that Sunday morning, as we marched into a British camp, with British soldiers cheering like mad all around us, everybody felt that we ought to go right on across the channel and clean up Kaiser Bill. Say, the meanest private in the Twenty-first Canadians felt able to do it single handed.

Chapter 3. England

OUR camp at West Sandling was some three miles from the famous Hythe rifle ranges — home of the Hythe School of Musketry. We took up a course of training which covered many features of modern warfare which we had omitted in our Canadian training. Trench construction, signalling, bombing, all came in for attention but we kept up the old practice of marching and shooting. We spent many days down on the Hythe range. For several weeks, our range practice was confined to the same sort of program we had followed back in Canada. That is, it was practice shooting, pure and simple. At the last, however, we did fire through the full course for qualification and I can certify that it was a tough one. The targets for a large part of this course are not bull’s-eyes but dull-colored silhouettes of the head and shoulders of a man. They are not black, like the silhouettes used in the U.S. Army, but of a greenish- khaki color, extremely difficult to pick out against a neutral-colored background. Most of the shooting at these targets was at rapid fire — fifteen shots to the minute — and, with the wind whipping in from the Channel (the range is right along the beach) and swirling in and out among the old Martello towers which line the shore, it is no cinch for anyone to put two successive shots in the same place. But our crowd had, by that time, become so familiar with their rifles that we managed to make a very creditable showing, qualifying a goodly number of Marksmen and two or three attained the very highest rating of Marksman-Distinguished.

A part of the course is fired with the bayonet fixed, and, during one afternoon’s shooting, I had occasion to replace three rifles which had become disabled due to the bayonet coming loose and swinging around in such a way as to obstruct the muzzle. This, I believe, was afterward corrected by a modification of the bayonet-catch but I cannot be real sure about that. I never after that fired a rifle with the bayonet on it. Even during a battle, if I wanted to do any shooting, I first removed the bayonet. I know and knew then, that this was contrary to all rules, regulations and orders, but we got away with it — that is, those of us who believed in using the rifle as a weapon of precision, in deliberate, aimed fire.

During all this time, the Machine Gunners, in addition to going through the whole infantry course, had covered the full course of instruction and firing as prescribed for machine guns, at that time. We afterward learned a lot more about that particular game and made our own rules accordingly.

Our four months in England was not entirely a period of work and worry. We followed a carefully planned schedule of strictly military work but this same schedule allowed ample time for the diversions and recreation which the High Command deemed necessary for the wellbeing of the soldier. The idea that the wars of England have been won on the cricket fields at home, has not entirely died out and I hope it never will be allowed to perish. My later experiences in some of the training camps in the United States — in 1917 — where every officer and man was kept busy at something or other from dawn to late at night, and then allowed Saturday afternoon for recreation, have convinced me that that system is wrong. The work is administered in too large doses. Six hours a day is quite sufficient for the strenuous training work — as much, in fact, as the average man can stand and derive any profit from the instruction. To drive men for from twelve to fourteen hours, as was done at Camp Shelby — just to mention one camp, which I suppose was typical — is a mistake. No doubt they can stand it, physically, but not mentally. A short day of carefully planned instruction, with several hours of absolute freedom for rest, recreation or study, will bring results far more quickly.

That was the way we worked it. I doubt if we ever put in more than six hours actual work in any day — with the exception of the times when we were out on maneuvers or on the rifle range and in both those cases there was ample time for rest and relaxation. Sunday was all our own and many of us took advantage of that day to visit many of the places of historic importance along the Kentish Coast. Our very camp was on ground that had been occupied by Caesar’s Roman Legions and there were ruins of old Roman works scattered all over that region. Saltwood and Lympne Castles still show the remnants of their work and all the main roads in that part of England were built by those same Romans.

We had only been at Sandling about a week when a couple of the members of the Machine Gun Section developed fine cases of measles. Well, that was fine. They quarantined the whole bunch of us — wouldn’t allow us to go out and march around with the rest of the battalion. At first we were ordered confined to our hut, but a few well-directed suggestions to our Medical Officer brought permission for us to go out for exercise every day, only we must go in a body and stay away from the other troops. Can you imagine anything nicer?