CANADA IN WAR-PAINT
All rights reserved
MULES
(see page 26) From a drawing by Bert Thomas.
CANADA
IN WAR-PAINT
BY CAPT.
RALPH W. BELL
LONDON AND TORONTO
J. M. DENT & SONS LTD.
PARIS: J. M. DENT ET FILS
NEW YORK: E. P. DUTTON & CO,
b
Pint PubHshtd imgiy
PREFACE
THERE is no attempt made in the little
sketches which this book contains to deal
historically with events of the war. It is but
a small Souvenir de la guerre a series of
vignettes of things as they struck me at the
time, and later. I have written of types, not
of individuals, and less of action than of
rest. The horror of war at its worst is fit
subject for a master hand alone.
I have to thank the proprietors of The
Globe for their courtesy in allowing the re-
production of "Canvas and* Mud" and
" Tent Music," and of the Canadian Magazine
for the reproduction of " Martha of Dran-
voorde."
Finally, I feel that I can have no greater
honour than humbly to dedicate this book
6 CANADA IN WAR-PAINT
to the officers, N.C.O.'s and men of the First
Canadian Infantry Battalion, Ontario Regi-
ment, with whom I have spent some of the
happiest, as well as some of the hardest, days
of my life.
RALPH W. BELL.
December nth, 1916.
CONTENTS
PAGE
CANVAS AND MUD! ...... g
TENT Music . . . . . . .15
RATTLE-SNAKE PETE . . . . . .21
MULES 26
" OFFICE " . . . . . 31
OUR FARM ........ 37
AEROPLANES AND "ARCHIE" . . . . .41
STIRRING TIMES ....... 47
SICK PARADE 53
BATMEN . . . . . . . . 60
RATIONS ........ 67
OUR SCOUT OFFICER ...... 73
MARTHA OF DRANVOORDE ..... 78
COURCELETTE ....... 89
CARNAGE ........ 101
" A " COMPANY RUSTLES ..... 106
"MINNIE AND 'FAMILY'" . . . . .113
AN OFFICER AND GENTLEMAN . . . . .118
" S.R.D." 123
BEDS ......... 128
MARCHING . . . . . . . .134
THE NATIVES ....... 140
" OTHER INHABITANTS " 147
BOMBS 153
7
8 CANADA IN WAR-PAINT
PAOB
SOFT JOBS . 158
" GROUSE " 163
PANSIES ... .... 169
GOING BACK 174
THREE RED ROSES 181
ADJUTANTS . ; . . ,.--. . , . . 187
HOME . , . * ;. -'...; . . . 193
ACTION . . . ... . . .198
CANADA IN WAR-PAINT
CANVAS AND MUD!
To those men who, in days of peace,
have trained on the swelling, lightly-wooded
plains round about Salisbury, no doubt this
portion of Old England may seem a very
pleasant land. But they have not been there
in November under canvas. When the old
soldiers of the Canadian contingent heard
that we were to go to " the Plains," some of
them said, " S'elp me! " and some a great
deal more! It was an ideal day when we
arrived. The trees were russet brown and
beautiful under the October sun, the grass
still green, and the winding road through
picturesque little Amesbury white and hard,
conveying no hint of that mud for which we
have come to feel a positive awe.
At first we all liked our camp; it was high
and dry, the tents had floor-boards, that
traitorous grass was green and firm withal,
9
io CANADA IN WAR-PAINT
and a balmy breeze, follower of the Indian
summer, blew pleasantly over the wide-rolling
land. We liked it after the somewhat arid
climate of Valcartier, the sand and dust.
Then it began to rain. It rained one day, two
days, three days. During that time the camp
named after the fabulous bird became a very
quagmire. The sullen black mud was three
inches deep between the tent lines, on the
parade ground, on the road, where it was
pounded and ridged and rolling-pinned by
transports, troops, and general traffic; it in-
troduced itself into the tents in slimy blodges,
ruined the flawless shine of every " New
Guard's " boots, spattered men from head to
foot stickily and persistently. The mud
entered into our minds, our thoughts were
turbid. Some enterprising passer-by called us
mud-larks, and mud-larks we have remained.
Canadians think Salisbury Plains a hideous
spot. Those who have been there before
know better, but it were suicide to say so,
for we have reached the rubber-boot stage.
When the rain " lets up " we go forth with
picks and spades and clean the highways
and byways. Canadians do it with a settled
CANVAS AND MUD! 11
gloom. If the Kaiser tries to land forces in
England they hope he will come to Salisbury
with his hordes. There they will stick fast.
In the fine intervals we train squelchily and
yearn for the trenches. What matters the
mire when one is at the front, but to slide
gracefully into a pool of turgid water, in
heavy marching order, for practice only, is
hardly good enough. Most Canadians think
the concentration camp might preferably
have been at the North Pole, if Amundsen
would lend it, and we could occupy it without
committing a breach of neutrality.
That brings us to the cold weather, of which
we have had a foretaste. It was freezing a few
days ago. The ground, the wash-taps, and we
ourselves, all were frozen. A cheerful Wilt-
shireman passed along the highway. There
was a bitter damp north wind; despite the
frost everything seemed to be clammy. " Nice
weather for you Canadians," he shouted
happily. Luckily we had no bayonets. It is
quite natural that in this country it should
be thought that Canadians love cold weather
and welcome it. But there is cold and cold.
The Salisbury Plains type is of the " and
12 CANADA IN WAR-PAINT
cold" variety! It steals in through the tent
flaps with a " chilth " that damply clings. It
rusts rifles, blues noses, hoarsens the voice,
wheezes into the lungs. It catches on to the
woollen filaments of blankets and runs into
them, it seeks out the hidden gaps in canvas
walls and steals within, it crawls beneath
four blankets when one has been able to steal
an extra one through overcoats, sweaters, up
the legs of trousers, into under-garments, and
at last finds gelid rest against the quivering
flesh, eating its way into the marrow-bones.
Like the enemy, it advances in massed forma-
tion, and though stoves may dissipate platoon
after platoon it never ceases to send up re-
inforcements until a whining gale has seized
on the tent-ropes, squeaks at the poles, draws
in vain at the pegs, tears open loose flaps,
and veering round brings back sodden rain
and the perpetual, the everlasting mud. We
know the hard, cold bite of " 20 below," the
crisp snow, the echoing land, the crackling of
splitting trees, even frost-bite. But it is a
dry cold, and it comes: "Whish!" This
cold of England's creeps into the very heart.
It takes mean advantages. " Give me the
CANVAS AND MUD ! 13
Yukon any old time," says the hard-bitten
shivering stalwart of the north-west. " This,
this, it ain't kinder playin' the game."
It must not be thought that Canadians are
complaining, for they are not. But England's
climate is to them something unknown and
unspeakably vile! One must have been
brought up in it to appreciate and to antici-
pate its vagaries. Canadians feel they have
been misled. They expected English cold
weather to be a " cinch." But it's the weather
puts the " cinch " on, not they ! There will
come a time when we shall be in huts, and
the leaky old canvas tents that are now our
habitat will have been folded and we hope
for the benefit of others stolen away ! Those
tents have seen so much service that they
know just as well how to leak as an old charger
how to drill. They become animated even
gay when the wind-beaten rain darkens their
grimy flanks, and with fiendish ingenuity they
drip, drip, drip down the nape of the neck,
well into the eye, even plumb down the throat
of the open-mouthed, snoring son of the
maple-land.
14 CANADA IN WAR-PAINT
No matter, we shall be old campaigners
when the winter is over; old mud-larkers, as
impervious to wet earth as a worm. Even
the mud is good training for the time we shall
have in the trenches!
TENT MUSIC
IT is not often that Thomas Atkins of any
nationality wears his heart upon his sleeve,
and it is quite certain that the British Tommy
but rarely does so, or his confrere of the
Canadian Contingent. Perhaps he best shows
his thoughts and relieves his feelings in
song.
Salisbury Plains must have seen and heard
many things, yet few stranger sounds can
have been heard there than the chants which
rise from dimly-lighted canvas walls, when
night has shrouded the earth, and the stars
gleam palely through the mist. It is the habit
of the Canadian Mr. Atkins, ere he prepares
himself for rest, to set his throat a-throbbing
to many a tune both new and old. The result
is not invariably musical sometimes far from
it, but it is a species of sound the male creature
produces either to show his " gladness or his
sadness," and by means of which he relieves
'5
16 CANADA IN WAR-PAINT
a heavy heart, or indicates that in his humble
opinion " all's well with the world." On every
side, from almost every tent, there is harmony,
melody, trio, quartette, chorus, or noise! It
is a strange mixture of thoughts and things,
a peculiar vocal photograph of the men of
the Maple, now admirable, now discordant,
here ribald, there rather tinged with the
pathetic.
No programme - maker in his wildest
moments, in the throes of the most conflict-
ing emotions, could begin to evolve such a
varied, such a startling programme as may
be heard in the space of a short half-hour
under canvas in a rain-sodden, comfortless
tent anywhere on Salisbury Plains. It does
not matter who begins it; some one is " feel-
ing good," and he lifts up his voice to declaim
that " You made me love you ; I didn't want
to do it!" The rest join in, here a tenor,
there a bass or a baritone, and the impromptu
concert has begun.
Never have the writers of songs, the com-
posers of music, grave and gay, come more
into their own than among the incorrigibly
cheerful warriors of the Plains. The relative
TENT MUSIC 17
merits of composers are not discussed. They
are all good enough for Jock Canuck as long
as there is that nameless something in the
song or the music which appeals to him. It is
curious that we who hope to slay, and expect
to be slain many of us should sing with
preference of Killarney's lakes and fells,
" Sunnybrook Farm," " Silver Threads Among
the Gold," rather than some War Chant or
Patriotic Ode, something visionary of battle-
fields, guns, the crash of shells. Is not this
alone sufficient to show that beneath his
tunic, and in spite of his martial spirit, Tommy
" has a heart," and a very warm one ?
Picture to yourself a tent with grimy,
sodden sides, lighted by three or four gutter-
ing candle-ends, stuck wherever space or in-
genuity permits. An atmosphere tobacco
laden, but not stuffy, rifles piled round the
tent-pole, haversacks, " dunnage " bags,
blankets, and oil-sheets spread about, and
their owners, some of them lying on the floor
wrapped in blankets, some seated, one or two
perhaps reading or writing in cramped posi-
tions, yet quite content. Yonder is a lusty
Yorkshireman, big, blue-eyed, and fair, who
i8 CANADA IN WAR-PAINT
for some reason best known to himself will
call himself an Irishman. We know him as
" the man with three voices," for he has a
rich, tuneful, though uncultivated tenor, a
wonderful falsetto, and a good alto. His
tricks are remarkable, but his ear is fine. He
loves to lie sprawled on his great back, and
lift up his voice to the skies. All the words
of half the old and new songs of two peoples,
British and American, he has committed to
memory. He is our " leading man," a shining
light in the concert firmament. We have heard
and helped him to sing in the course of one
crowded period of thirty minutes the follow-
ing varied programme : " Tipperary," " Silver
Threads Among the Gold," " My Old Ken-
tucky Home," "Fight the Good Fight,"
" A Wee Deoch an' Doris," " When the Mid-
night Choochoo Leaves for Alabam," " The
Maple Leaf," " Cock Robin," " Get Out and
Get Under," " Where is My Wandering Boy
To-Night," " Nearer, My God, to Thee," and
" I Stand in a Land of Roses, though I Dream
of a Land of Snow." But there is one song we
never sing, " Home, Sweet Home." Home is
too sacred a subject with us; it touches the
TENT MUSIC 19
deeper, aye, the deepest, chords, and we dare
not risk it, exiles that we are.
Very often there are strange paradoxes in
the words we sing, when compared with
reality. ... "I stand in a land of roses ! "
Well, not exactly, although Salisbury Plains
in the summer time are, like the curate's egg,
" good in parts." But the following line is
true enough of many of us. We do " dream
of a land of snow " ; of the land, and those
far, far away in it. Sometimes we sing " rag-
time melodee," but that is only pour passer
le temps. There is something which prompts
us to other songs, and to sacred music. It
often happens that in our tent there are three
or four men with voices above the average
who take a real delight in singing. One of
the most beautiful things of the kind the
writer has ever heard was a quartette's sing-
ing of " Nearer, My God, to Thee." Fine,
well-trained voices they possessed, blending
truly and harmoniously, which rang out
almost triumphal in the frosty night. They
sang it once, and then again, and as the last
notes died away the bugles sounded the
" Last Post."
20 CANADA IN WAR-PAINT
Taa-Taa, Taa-Taa, Ta-ta-ti-ti-ti-ti-ta-ta-ta-
ta-ta. Ti-ti-ti-ti-ti-ti-ti-ta-ta-ta-ta-taa, Taa-
Taa, Taa-Taa, Taaa, Tiii!
Verily, even under canvas music hath
charms to soothe the savage breast.
RATTLE-SNAKE PETE
VERY tall, thin, and cadaverous, with a strong
aquiline nose, deep-set, piercing black eyes,
bushy eyebrows matching them in colour, and
a heavy, fiercely waxed moustache, streaked
with grey, he was a man who commanded
respect, if not fear.
In spite of his sixty years he was as
straight as the proverbial poker, and as
" nippy on his pins " as a boy a third of his
age. Two ribbons rested on his left breast
the long service ribbon and that of the North-
West Rebellion. His voice was not harsh,
nor was it melodious, but it could be heard
a mile off and struck pure terror into the
heart of the evil-doer when he heard it!
Rattle-Snake Pete was, as a matter of fact,
our Company Sergeant-Major.
Withering was the scorn with which he
surveyed a delinquent " rooky," while his
eyes shot flame, and in the terrified imagina-
tion of the unfortunate being on whom that
21
22 CANADA IN WAR-PAINT
fierce gaze was bent his ears seemed to curve
upwards into horns, until he recalled the
popular conception of Mephistopheles ! We
called him when he was safely beyond hear-
ing Rattle-Snake Pete, but that worthy
bravo was far less feared than was his name-
sake.
First of all, the Sergeant-Major was a real
soldier, from the nails in his boots to the crown
of his hat. Secondly, he was a man of strong
prejudices, and keen dislikes, and, lastly, a
very human, unselfish, kind-hearted man.
Discipline was his God, smartness on parade
and off the greatest virtue in man, with the
exception of pluck. He ruled with a rod of
iron, tempered by justice, and his keenness
was a thing to marvel at. At first we all hated
him with a pure-souled hate. Then, as he
licked us into shape, and the seeds of soldier-
ing were sown, we began to realise that he
was right, and that we were wrong and that,
after all, the only safe thing to do was to obey!
One day a man was slow in doing what his
corporal told him to do. As was his habit,
the S.-M. came on the scene suddenly, a lean
tower of steely wrath. After he had poured
RATTLE-SNAKE PETE 23
out the vials of his displeasure on the head
of the erring one, he added : " I'll make you
a soldier, lad, or I'll break your heart ! " He
meant it; he could do it; we knew he could,
and it resulted in our company being the
best in the regiment.
Shortly before we moved to France, a per-
sonage and his consort inspected us. He
shook hands with Rattle-Snake, and spoke
to him for several moments.
" How old are you ? "
" Forty-five, Your Majesty."
" Military age, I suppose ? " queried the
Personage with a kindly smile.
" Yes, sir."
Never in his life was Rattle so happy as he
was that day, and we felt rather proud of
him ourselves.
Our Sergeant-Major had shaken hands with
the King!
Those who had stood near enough to hear
what had passed achieved a temporary fame
thereby, and in tent and canteen the story
was told, with variations suited to the im-
agination of the raconteur, for days after the
event.
24 CANADA IN WAR-PAINT
When we moved to France Rattle-Snake
Pete came with us. I think the doctor saw it
would have broken his heart not to come,
although at his age he certainly should not
have done so. But come he did, and never
will the writer forget the day Rattle pursued
him into an old loft, up a broken, almost per-
pendicular ladder, to inquire in a voice of
thunder why a certain fatigue party was
minus a man.
" Come you down out of there, lad, or
you'll be for it ! " And, meekly as a sucking-
dove, I came!
He was wounded at the second battle of
Ypres, and, according to all accounts, what
he said about the Germans as he lay on that
battle-field petrified the wounded around him,
and was audible above the roar of bursting
Jack Johnsons.
They sent him to hospital in " Blighty,"
an unwilling patient, and there he has been
eating out his heart ever since, in the face of
adamantine medical boards.
One little incident. We were billeted in
an old theatre, years ago it seems now, at
Armentieres, We had marched many kilo-
RATTLE-SNAKE PETE 25
metres in soaking rain that afternoon, and we
were deadly weary. Rattle, though he said
no word, was ill, suffering agonies from rheu-
matism. One could see it. Being on guard, I
was able to see more than the rest, who, for
the most part, slept the sleep of the tired out.
One fellow was quite ill, and he tossed and
turned a good deal in his sleep. Rattle was
awake too, sitting in front of the dying embers
in the stove, his face every now and then con-
torted with pain. Often he would go over to
the sick man and arrange his bed for him as
gently as a woman. Then he himself lay
down. The sick man awoke, and I heard his
teeth chatter, " Cold, lad ? " said a deep
voice near by. " Yes, bitter cold." The old
S.-M. got up, took his own blanket and put
it over the sick man. Thereafter he sat until
the dawn broke on a rickety chair in front of
the dead fire.
MULES
UNTIL there was a war, quite a lot of people
hardly knew there were such things as mules.
" Mules ? " they would say, " Oh, er, yes . . .
those creatures with donkey's ears, made like
a horse ? or do you mean canaries ? "
Nous avons change tout cela ! " Gonga Din "
holds no hidden meaning from us now. We
have, indeed, a respect for mules, graded
according to closeness of contact.
In some Transports they think more of a
mule than of a first-class, No. I charger.
Why? Simply because a mule is a mule.
No one has yet written a theory of the evolu-
tion of mules. We all know a mule is a blend
of horse and donkey, and that reproduction
of the species is mercifully withheld by the
grace of heaven, but further than that we do
not go.
When the war began our C.O. was talking
about mules. We had not crossed the water
26
MULES 27
then. He said: " I will not have any mules.
No civilised man should have to look after a
mule. When I was in Pindi once, a mule
. . . Mr. Jenks " our worthy Transport
Officer " there will be no mules in this regi-
ment." That settled it for a while.
Our first mule came a month after we had
landed in Flanders. It was a large, lean,
hungry-looking mule. It stood about 17 feet
2 inches, and it had very large floppy ears
and a long tail: it was rather a high-class
mule, as mules go. It ate an awful lot. In
fact it ate about as much as two horses
and a donkey put together. The first time it
was used some one put it in the Maltese cart,
and it looked round at the cart with an air
of surprise and regret. We were on the move,
and the Transport was brigaded, and in-
spected by the Brigadier as it passed the
starting point. James the mule behaved
in a most exemplary fashion until he saw the
Brigadier. Then he was overcome by his
emotions. Perhaps the red tabs reminded
him of carrots. (James was a pure hog where
carrots were concerned.) At all events he
proceeded to break up the march. He took
28 CANADA IN WAR-PAINT
the bit between his teeth, wheeled to the left,
rolled his eyes, brayed, and charged across
an open ditch at the G.O.C. with the Maltese
cart.
The G.O.C. and staff extended to indefinite
intervals without any word of command.
James pulled up in a turnip patch and
began to eat contentedly. It took six men
and the Transport Officer to get him on to
the road again, and the Maltese cart was a
wreck.
After that they tried him as a pack-mule.
He behaved like an angel for two whole weeks,
and then some bright-eyed boy tried him as a
saddle mule. After that the whole of the Trans-
port tried him, retiring worsted from the fray
on each occasion. One day the Transport
Officer bet all-comers fifty francs on the mule.
The conditions were that riders must stick on
for five minutes. We used to think we could
ride any horse ever foaled. We used to fancy
ourselves quite a lot in fact, until we met
James. Half the battalion came to see the
show, which took place one sunny morning at
the Transport lines. We looked James over
with an appraising eye. We even gave him a
MULES 29
carrot, as an earnest of good-will. James
wore a placid, far-away expression and, now
and then, rolled his eyes sentimentally.
We gathered up the reins, and vaulted on
to his back. For a full two seconds James
stood stock still. Then he emitted an ear-
splitting squeal, laid back his ears, bared his
teeth, turned round and bit at the near foot,
and sat down on his hind legs. He did all
these things in quick time, by numbers. The
betting, which had started at 2-1 on James,
increased to 3-1 immediately. However, we
stuck. James rose with a mighty heave, then,
still squealing, made a rush of perhaps ten
yards, and stopped dead. We still stuck. The
betting fell to evens, except for the Trans-
port Sergeant, who in loud tones offered 5-1
(on James). That kept him busy for two
minutes, during which time James did almost
everything but roll, and bit a toe off one of
my new pair of riding boots.
There was one minute to go, and there was
great excitement. James gave one squeal of
concentrated wrath, gathered his four hoofs
together tightly, bucked four feet in the air,
kicked in mid-ether, and tried to bite his own
30 CANADA IN WAR-PAINT
tail. When we next saw him he was being
led gently away.
Since then we have had many mules. We
have become used to them, and we respect
them. If we hear riot in the Transport lines
we know it is a mule. If we hear some one
has been kicked, we know it is a mule. If we
see one of the G.S. wagons carrying about
two tons we know mules are drawing it. Old
James now pulls the water-cart. He would
draw it up to the mouth of the biggest Fritz
cannon that ever was, but Frank Wootton
could not ride him!
" OFFICE "
" CHARGE against No. 7762543, Private Smith,
J.C.; In the field, 11.11.16, refusing to obey
an order, in that he would not wash out a
dixie when ordered to do so. First witness,
Sergeant Bendrick."
"Sirr! On Nov. nth I was horderly
sergeant. Private Thomas, cook, comes to
me, and he says as 'ow 'e 'ad warned the
pris the haccused, sir, to wash out a dixie,
which same the haccused refused to do.
Hordered by me to wash hout the dixie, sir,
the haccused refused again, and I places 'im
under hopen arrest, sir."
" Cpl. Townsham, what have you to say ? "
" Sirr! On Nov. nth I was eatin' a piece
of bread an' bacon when I was witness to
what took place between Sergeant Bendrick
an' Private Smith, sir. I corroborates his
evidence."
" All right; Private Thomas ? "
" Sirr! I coboriates both of them wit-
nesses."
32 CANADA IN WAR-PAINT
" You corroborate what both witnesses
have said ? "
" Yessir."
" Now, Smith, what have you got to say ?
Stand to attention ! "
" I ain't got notbin* to say, sir, savin' that
I never joined the army to wash dixies, an' I
didn't like the tone of voice him " indicat-
ing the orderly Sergeant " used to me. Also
I'm a little deaf, sir, an' my 'ands is that cut
with barbed wire that it's hagony to put 'em
in boilin' water, sir! An' I'm afraid o' gettin'
these 'ere germs into them, sir. Apart from
which I ain't got anything to say, sir! "
After this Private Smith assumes the in-
jured air of a martyr, casts his eyes up to
heaven, and waits hopefully for dismissal.
(The other two similar cases were dismissed
this morning!)
The Captain drums his fingers on the table
for a few moments. " This is your first offence,
Smith."
"Yessir!"
" But it is not made any the less serious by
that fact."
The gleam of joy in Smith's eye departs.
" OFFICE " 33
" Disobedience of an order is no trivial
matter. A case like this should go before the
Commanding Officer."
Long pause, during which the accused
passes from the stage of hope deferred to
gloom and disillusion, and the orderly Sergeant
assumes a fiercely triumphant expression.
" Twenty-eight days Field Punishment
number one," murmurs the Captain rumina-
tively, " or a court-martial " this just loud
enough for the accused to hear. The latter's
left leg sags a trifle, and consternation o'er-
spreads his visage.
" In view, Smith," says the Captain aloud,
" in view of your previous good record, I will
deal with you myself. Four days dixie wash-
ing, and you will attend all parades ! "
Before Private Smith has time to heave a
sigh of relief the C.S.M.'s voice breaks on the
air, "Left turrn! Left wheel, quick marrch! "
" A good man, Sergeant-Major," says the
Captain with a smile. " Have to scare 'em a
bit at times, what ? "
Battalion Orderly Room is generally a very
imposing affair, calculated to put fear into
the hearts of all save the most hardened
c
34 CANADA IN WAR-PAINT
criminals. At times the array is formidable,
as many as thirty witnesses, escort, and
prisoners being lined up outside the orderly
room door under the vigilant eye of the
Regimental Sergeant-Ma j or. It is easy to
see which is which, even were not the " dress "
different. The prisoners are in clean fatigue,
wearing no accoutrements or equipment be-
yond the eternal smoke-helmet. The escort
are in light marching order, and grasp in
their left hands a naked bayonet, point
upwards, resting along the forearm. The
witnesses wear their belts. Most of the accused
have a hang-dog look, some an air of defiance.
" Escort and prisoners. . . . Shun! "
The Colonel passes into orderly room,
where the Adjutant, the Battalion Orderly
Officer, and Officer witnesses in the cases to
be disposed of await him, all coming rigidly
to attention as he enters. In orderly room, or
" office " as the men usually call it, the
Colonel commands the deference paid to a
high court judge. He is not merely a C.O., he
is an Institution.
The R.S.M. hovers in the background,
waiting for orders to call the accused and
" OFFICE " 35
witnesses in the first case. The C.O. fusses
with the papers on his desk, hums and haws,
and finally decides which case he will take
first. The Adjutant stands near him, a sheaf
of papers in his hand, like a learned crown
counsel.
Not infrequently the trend of a case de-
pends on whether the C.O. lunched well, or
if the G.O.C. strafed or complimented him
the last time they held palaver. Even colonels
are human.
" Charge against Private Maconochie, No.
170298, drunk," etc., reads the Adjutant.
After the evidence has been heard the
Colonel, having had no explanation or de-
fence from the accused, proceeds to pass
sentence. This being a first " drunk " he
cannot do very much but talk, and talk he
does.
" You were drunk, Thomkins. You were
found in a state of absolutely sodden in-
toxication, found in the main street of Ablain-
le-Petit at 4 P.M. in the afternoon. You were
so drunk that the evidence quotes you as
sleeping on the side-walk. You are a disgrace
to the regiment, Thomkins! You outrage the
36 CANADA IN WAR-PAINT
first principles of decency, you cast a slur on
your battalion. You deliberately, of set pur-
pose, intoxicate yourself at an early hour of
the afternoon. I have a good mind to remand
for a Field General Court-martial. Then you
would be shot ! Shot, do you understand ?
But I shall deal with you myself. I shall
not permit the name of this battalion to be
besmirched by you. Reprimanded! Repri-
manded! Do you hear, sir! "
(Voice of the R.S.M., north front.) " Right
turn. Right wheel; quick marrch! "
OUR FARM
July $otb 9 1916.
WE are staying at a farm; quite an orthodox,
Bairnsfather farm, except that in lieu of one
(nominal) dead cow, we possess one (actual)
portion of Dried Hun. The view from our
doorway is somewhat extensive, and full of
local colour ! There are " steen " other farms
all around us, all of which look as though they
had been played with by professional house-
wreckers out on a " beno." " AK " Com-
pany what there is left of it has at present
" gone to ground," and from the lake to
" Guildhall Manor " (we are very Toney over
here!) there is no sign of life. A Fokker
dropped in to call half an hour ago, but
Archie & Sons awoke with some alacrity, and
he has gone elsewhere. It is too hot even to
write, and the C.O. of " AK " Coy., who will
wash every day, is a disturbing influence.
He splashes about in two inches of " wipers
swill " as though he really liked it, and the
nett result is that somewhere around 4 " pip
37
38 CANADA IN WAR-PAINT
emma " the rest of us decide to shave also,
which ruins the afternoon siesta.
This is a great life. Breakfast at 2 A.M.,
lunch at noon, dinner at 4 P.M., and supper
any old time.
Macpherson one of those enthusiastic
blighters insisted on taking me for a walk
this morning. Being pure Edinburgh, Mac
collects rum, whisky, and miscellaneous junk
of all descriptions. When he returns to Canada
he intends to run a junk shop in rear of a
saloon.
The Boche was in a genial mood this morn-
ing. As we squelched along Flossy way, " out
for bear," he began to tickle up poor old
Paradise Wood with woolly bears, and Mount
Sparrow with Minnies. Mac has no sense of
humour, he failed to see the joke. " There is
a pairfectly good pair of field-glasses to the
left of Diamond Copse," he said mournfully,
" and we cannot get them." Diamond Copse
is the sort of place one reads about, and
wishes one had never seen. It is about an
acre and a half in extent, and was once a
pretty place enough, with a few fine oak
trees, and many young saplings. Nowadays,
OUR FARM 39
it can hardly show a live twig, while shell
holes, bits of shrapnel, stinking pools tinged
with reddy-brown, and forlorn remnants of
trench not to speak of dead bodies make
it into a nightmare of a place.
" There is a sniper in Paradise Wood, and
I do not like him," Mac announced gravely,
after the fifth bullet, so we dodged over a
grave, under a fallen oak, and into a shell-
wrecked dug-out full of torn web equip-
ment, machine-gun belts, old bully-beef,
biscuits, a stained blanket, and a boot with
part of the wearer's leg in it. The horse-flies
were very annoying, and a dead donkey in a
narrow street of Cairo would be as violets to
patchouli compared with the smell. Mac
kept nosing around, and finally retrieved a
safety razor and a box of number nine pills
from an old overcoat. " There is some one
over there in need of burial," he said, " I
can see the flies." The flies were incidental,
but Mac is that kind of chap.
We found what was left of the poor fellow
near by. There was nothing but bone and
sinew, and torn remnants of clothing. It
was impossible to identify the man, and
40 CANADA IN WAR-PAINT
equally impossible to move him. By his
side lay a bunch of letters, dirty and torn,
and in a pocket which I opened gingerly with
a jack-knife, a photograph of a girl " With
love, from Mary." The letters had no en-
velopes, and all began, " Dear Jimmy." Mac
read one, and passed it over to me : " Dear
Jimmy, Enclosed you will find a pair of
socks, some chewing gum, and a pair of wool
gloves I knitted myself. The baby is well,
and so am I. Peraps you will get leeve before
long. Take care of yourself, Jim dear. The
pottatoes have done good, an' I am growing
some tommatos. My separashun allowence
comes reglar, so don't worry. You will be
home soon, Jim, for the papers say the Ger-
mans is beaten. I got your letter written in
May. Alice is well. Your lovin' wife, Mary."
" Och, it's a shame," said Mac, not looking at
me. " A Tragedy, and but one of thousands."
We covered poor Jim over with old sand-
bags, as best we might, and his letters and
photograph with him. Then we came back
to our farm to lunch.
AEROPLANES AND ARCHIE "
THERE is something fascinating about aero-
planes. However many thousands of them
one may have seen, however many aerial
combats one may have witnessed, there is
always the desire to see these things again,
and, inwardly, to marvel.
Ten thousand feet above, round balls of
black smoke appear in the blue sky, coming,
as it were, out of the nowhere into here. After
long listening you hear the echo of the distant
explosion, like the clapping together of the
hands of a man in the aisle of an empty
church, and if you search very diligently, you
will at last see the aeroplane, a little dot in
the ether, moving almost slowly so it ap-
pearson its appointed course. Now the
sun strikes the white-winged, bird-like thing
as it turns, and it glitters in the beams of
light like a diamond in the sky. Now it banks
a little higher, now planes down at a dizzy
41
42 CANADA IN WAR-PAINT
angle. Suddenly, short, sharp, distinct, you
catch the sound of machine-gun fire. Quick
stuttering bursts, as the visible machine and
the invisible enemy circle about each other,
seeking to wound, wing, and destroy. Ah!
There it is! The Fokker dives, steep and
straight, at our machine, and one can clearly
see the little darts of flame as the machine-
guns rattle. Our man quite calmly loops the
loop, and then seems almost to skid after the
Fokker which has carried on downwards,
evidently hit. He swoops down on the stricken
plane, pumping in lead as he goes. The twain
seem to meet in collision, then yes, the
Fokker is plunging, nose-diving, down, down,
at a terrific rate of speed. Our aviator swings
free in a great circle, banks, and at top speed
makes back to his air-line patrol, while the
German Archies open up on him with re-
doubled violence, as, serenely confident, he
hums along his way.
It is truly wonderful what a fire an aero-
plane can pass through quite unscathed as
far as actual hinderance to flight is concerned.
Many a time you can count nearly two hun-
dred wreathing balls of smoke in the track of
AEROPLANES AND " ARCHIE " 43
the machine, and yet it sails placidly onward
as though the air were the native element of
its pilot and the attentions of Archie non-
existent.
It is Tommy who first gave the anti-air-
craft gun that euphonious name. Why, no
one knows. It must be intensely trying to be
an Archie gunner. Rather like shooting at
driven partridges with an air-gun, though far
more exciting. The shells may burst right on
the nose of the aeroplane, to all intents and
purposes, and yet the machine goes on, veer-
ing this way or that, dropping or rising,
apparently quite indifferent to the bitter feel-
ings it is causing down below. It is the most
haughty and inscrutable of all the weapons
of war, to all outward appearances, and yet
when misfortune overtakes it, it is a very
lame duck indeed.
Archie is very much like a dog, his bark is
worse than his bite until he has bitten! His
motto is " persevere," and in the long run he
meets with some success. Halcyon days, when
he wags his metaphorical tail and the official
communiques pat him on the head. He does
not like other dogs, bigger dogs, to bark at
44 CANADA IN WAR-PAINT
him. They quite drown his own bark, so that
it is useless to bark back, and their highly
explosive nature forces him to put his tail
between his legs and run for it, like a chow
pursued by a mastiff. No common-sense
Archie stops in any place long after the five-
nines and the H.E. shrapnel begin to burst
around it. In that case discretion is indubitably
the better part of valour.
Aeroplanes have a nasty habit of " spot-
ting " Archies, whereby they even up old
scores and prove their superiority. For even
the lordly aeroplane does not charge an Archie
barrage by preference.
It is when the planes come out in force, a
score at a time, that poor Archibald has a
rough time, and, so to speak, scratches his
ear desperately with his hind leg. The planes
do not come in serried mass, but, wheeling
this way and that, diving off here and down
yonder, so confuse poor Archie that he even
stops barking at all, wondering which one
he ought to bark at first! By this time most
of the planes have sidled gracefully out of
range, rounded up and driven down the iron-
cross birds, and, having dropped their " cartes
AEROPLANES AND " ARCHIE " 45
de visite " at the rail-head, are returning by
ways that are swift and various to the place
whence they came. All of which is most un-
settling to the soul of Archibald.
In the evening, when the west is pink and
gold, Archie's eyes grow wearied. He sees
dimly many aeroplanes, here and there, going
and coming, and he has been known to bark
at the wrong one! Wherefore the homing
aeroplane drops a star-signal very often to
let him know that all is well, and that no
German hawks menace the safety of the land
over which he is the " ethereal " guardian, in
theory, if not always in practice.
At night Archie slumbers profoundly. But
the birds of the air do not always sleep.
Many a night one hears the throb and hum
of a machine crossing the line, and because
Archie is asleep we pay him unconscious
tribute : " Is it ours, or theirs ? "
Once, not a mile from the front line, Archie
dreamed he saw a Zeppelin. He awoke, stood
to, and pointed his nose straight up in the air.
Far above him, many thousands of feet aloft,
a silvery, menacing sphere hung in the rays
of the searchlights. And he barked his
46 CANADA IN WAR-PAINT
loudest and longest, but without avail, for
the distance was too great. And the imagina-
tive French folk heaped unintentional infamy
upon him when they spoke quite placidly of
" Archie baying at the moon! "
STIRRING TIMES
AT the corner of the Grande Route de
Bapaume near the square, stands the little
old Estaminet of La Veuve Matifas.
It is only a humble Estaminet, where, in
the old days, Pierre Lapont and old Daddy
Duchesne discussed a " chope," and talked
over the failings of the younger generation,
but nowadays it bears a notice on the little
door leading into the back room, " For officers
only." The men have the run of the larger
room, during hours, but the little parlour in
rear is a spot sacred to those wearing from
one star upwards.
Madame Matifas is old, and very large.
" Mais, Monsieur le Capitaine, dans ma
jeunesse. ... Ah! Alors! " and she dearly
loves a good hearty laugh. She also sells most
excellent champagne, and let it be mur-
mured softly Cointreau, Benedictine, and
very rarely a bottle of " Skee " ( B. & W."
for choice). She has twinkling brown eyes,
fat comfortable-looking hands, and we all call
47
48 CANADA IN WAR-PAINT
her " Mother," while she calls those of us
who please her " Mon brave garden."
But La Veuve Matifas is not the sole at-
traction of the Bon Fermier nor are even her
very excellent wines and other drinks, that
may inebriate. She has two children: Cecile
and Marie Antoinette. The former is, strange
to say, " petite " and " mignonne " she is also
very pretty and she knows all the officers of
our Division; most of the young and tender
ones write to her from the trenches. You may
kiss Cecile on the cheek if you know her
well.
Marie Antoinette is of the tall, rather rich
coloured, passionate type. She was engaged
to a " Little Corporal " of the 7/th Infantry
of the Line. Alas, he died of wounds seven
months ago. She wears mourning for him, but
Marie is now in love with the Senior Major,
or else we are all blind ! (Uneasy rests the arm
that wears a crown !) However, that is neither
here not there. We like the widow Matifas,
and we all admire her daughters, while some
of us fall in love with them, and we always
have a " stirring time " when we reach rest
billets within walking distance of the " Esta-
STIRRING TIMES 49
minet du Bon Fermier," or even gee gee
distance.
In defiance of the A.P.M. we float into town
about 8 " pip emma " (the O.C. signals will
bring " shop " into every-day conversation)
and stealthily creep up the little back alley
which leads to the back door of the Estaminet.
We gather there four of us, as a rule and
we tap thrice. We hear a fat, uneven walk,
and the heavy respiration of " Maman," and
then:
" Qui est la ? "
"C'est nous, Mere Matifas!"
The door is unbolted, and we enter. Scholes
invariably salutes Maman on both cheeks,
and we if we have the chance salute her
daughters. Then we carry on to the parlour.
Pelham who thinks all women love his goo-
goo eyes tries to tell Marie Antoinette, in
simply rotten French, how much he loves her,
and Marie gets very business-like, and wants
to know if we want Moe't et Chandon at 12
frcs. a bottle or " the other " at six.
So far we have never dared to try "the
other," for fear that we appear " real mean " !
Maman bustles about, and calls us her brave
50 CANADA IN WAR-PAINT
bays, and never says a word about the war,
which is a real kindness to us war -weary
people.
Cecile makes her entrance usually after the
second bottle; probably to make her sister
envious, because she always gets such a warm
welcome. In fact there is an almost scandalous
amount of competition for the honour of
sitting next to her.
La Veuve Matifas stays until after the third
bottle. She has tact, that woman, and a con-
fidence in ourselves and her daughters that
no man who is worthy of the name would take
advantage of.
Last time we were there an incident oc-
curred which literally took all our breaths
away. We were in the middle of what Allmays
calls " Close harmony " and Allmays was
mixing high tenor, basso profundo, and
Benedictine, when suddenly the door opened
in a most impressive manner. That little
plain deal door felt important, and it had the
right to feel important too.
The C.O. came in.
We got up.
The C.O. turned to Cecile, who was sitting
STIRRING TIMES 51
far too close to Pelham, in my estimation
(for I was on the other side), and said, " Cecile,
two more bottles please! " Then to us, " Sit
down, gentlemen, carry on." We were all
fairly senior officers, but Maman nearly
fainted dead away when we conveyed to her
the fact that a real, live, active service Colonel
was in her back parlour at 9.15 " pip emma,"
ordering up the bubbly.
He stayed a whole hour, and we had to sing.
And then he told us that he had been offered a
Brigade, and was leaving us. We were all
jolly sorry and jolly glad too and we said
so, We told the girls. " Un General! " cried
Cecile. " Mon Dieu ! " and before we could
stop her she flung her arms round the C.O.'s
neck and kissed him. We all expected to be
shot at dawn or dismissed the service, but the
CO. took it like a real brick, and Pelham
swears he kissed her back downy old bird
that he is !
After he had left we had a bully time.
Marie Antoinette was peeved because she
had not kissed the Colonel herself, and Cecile
was sparkling because she had kissed him:
Which gave us all a chance. Mere Matifas
Si CANADA IN WAR-PAINT
drank two whole glasses of champagne, and
insisted on dancing a Tarantelle with Allmays,
whom she called a " joli gallon," and flirted
with most shamelessly. Pelham got mixed up
with a coon song, and spent half an hour
trying to unmix, and Scholes consoled Marie
Antoinette. As for me, well, there was nothing
for it Cecile had to be talked to, don't you
know!
Mother " pro-duced " a bottle of " B. & W."
also. In fact we had a most stirring time !
We still go to see La Veuve Matifas. She
never speaks to us without saying at least
once, " Ah! Mais le brave General, image de
mon mari, ou est il ? "
I have a photograph of Cecile in the left
hand breast pocket of my second-best tunic.
Scholes says he is going to marry Marie
Antoinette, " Apres la Guerre," in spite of
the Senior Major!
SICK PARADE
" THE Company," read the orderly Sergeant,
" will parade at 8.45 A.M., and go for a route
march. Dress: Light marching order."
A groan went up from the dark shadows of
the dimly - lighted barn, which died down
gradually on the order to " cut it out." " Sick
parade at 7.30 A.M. at the M.O.'s billet Menin-
lee-Chotaw," announced the O.S. sombrely.
" Any of you men who wanter go sick give in
your names to Corporal Jones right now."
Yells of " Right here, Corporal," " I can't
move a limb, Corporal," and other statements
of a like nature, announced the fact that
there were quite a number of gentlemen whose
pronounced view it was that they could not
do an eight-mile route march the next day.
Corporal Jones emerged, perspiring, after
half an hour's gallant struggle. Being very
conscientious he took full particulars, accord-
ing to Hoyle: name, number, rank, initials,
age, religion, and nature of disease. The last
53
54 CANADA IN WAR-PAINT
he invariably asked for by means of the code
phrase, " wossermarrerwiyot* f "
Having refused to admit at least half a
dozen well-known scrimshankers to the roll
of sick, lame, and lazy, he finished up with
Private Goodman, who declared himself suffer-
ing from " rheumatics hall over. Me legs is
somethin' tur'ble bad."
There were thirteen names on the report.
Menin-le-Chateau being a good three kilo-
metres distant, the sick fell in at 6.30 A.M.
the next day. The grey dawn was breaking
in the East, and a drizzling rain made the
village street even more miserable-looking
than it was at all times. As on all sick parades,
all the members thereof endeavoured to look
their very worst, and succeeded admirably
for the most part. They were unshaven, im-
properly dressed, according to military stan-
dards, and they shuffled around like a bunch
of old women trying to catch a bus. Corporal
Jones was in a very bad temper, and he told
them many things, the least of which would
have made a civilian's hair turn grey. But,
being " sick," the men merely listened to him
with a somewhat apathetic interest.
SICK PARADE 55
They moved off in file, a sorry-looking
bunch of soldiers. Each man chose his own
gait, which no injunctions to get in step could
affect, and a German under-officer looking
them over would have reported to his superiors
that the morale of the British troops was
hopeless.
At 7.25 A.M. this unseemly procession
arrived in Menin-le-Chateau. In the far
distance Corporal Jones espied the Regi-
mental Sergeant-Major. The latter was a
man whom every private considered an in-
carnation of the devil! The junior N.C.O.'s
feared him, and the Platoon Sergeants had a
respect for him founded on bitter experience
in the past, when he had found them wanting.
In other words he was a cracking good Ser-
geant-Major of the old-fashioned type. He
was privately referred to as Rattle-Snake
Pete, a tribute not only to his disciplinary
measures, but also to his heavy, fierce black
moustachios, and a lean, eagle-like face in
which was set a pair of fierce, penetrating
black eyes.
" If," said Corporal Jones loudly, " you all
wants to be up for Office you'll walk. Other-
56 CANADA IN WAR-PAINT
ways you'll march! There's the Sergeant-
Major! "
The sick parade pulled itself together with
a click. Collars and the odd button were
furtively looked over and done up, caps pulled
straight, and no sound broke the silence save
a smart unison of " left-right-left " along the
muddy road. The R.S.M. looked them over
with a gleam in his eye as they passed, and
glanced at his watch.
" 'Alf a minute late, Co'poral Jones," he
shouted. " Break into double time. Double
ji , . march! " The sick parade trotted away
steadily until they got round a bend in the
road. " Sick! ! ! " murmured the R.S.M.
"My H'EYE!"
A little way further on the parade joined a
group composed of the sick of other battalion
units, some fifty in all. Corporal Jones handed
his sick report to the stretcher-bearer Ser-
geant, and was told he would have to wait
until the last.
In half an hour's time the first name of the
men in his party was called Lance-Corporal
MacMannish.
" What's wrong ? " asked the doctor briskly.
SICK PARADE 57
" 'A have got a pain in here, sirr," said
MacMannish, " an' it's sair, sorr," pointing to
the centre of his upper anatomy.
" Show me your tongue ? H'm. Eating too
much! Colic. Two number nine's. Light
duty."
Lance-Corporal MacMannish about-turned
with a smile of ecstatic joy and departed,
having duly swallowed the pills.
" What did ye get, Jock?"
"Och! Light duty," said the hero with
the air of a wronged man justified, " but
you'll be no gettin' such a thing, Bowering! "
" And why not ? " demanded the latter
scowling. However, his name being then
called put an end to the discussion.
" I have pains in me head and back, sir,"
explained Mr. Bowering, " and no sleep for
two nights." The doctor looked him over
with a critical, expert eye.
" Give him a number nine. Medicine and
duty. Don't drink so much, Bowering ! That's
enough. Clear out! "
" His no doctor," declared the victim
when he reached the street. "Huh! I
wouldn't trust a cat with 'im! "
$8 CANADA IN WAR-PAINT
The next man got no duty, and this had
such an effect on him that he almost forgot
he was a sick man, and walloped a pal play-
fully in the ribs on the doorstep, which nearly
led to trouble.
Of the remaining ten, all save one were
awarded medicine and duty, but they took so
long to tell the story of their symptoms, and
managed to develop such good possible cases,
that it was 8.45 before the parade fell in
again to march back to billets, a fact which
they all thoroughly appreciated !
Wonderful the swinging step with which
they set forth, Corporal Jones at the head,
Lance-Corporal MacMannish, quietly trium-
phant, bringing up the rear. They passed the
Colonel in the village, and he stopped Corporal
Jones to inquire what they were.
" Your men are marching very well, Cor-
poral. c A ' Company ? Ah, yes. Fatigue
party, hey ? "
" No-sir, sick-parade-sir! "
" Sick Parade! God bless my soul! Sick!
How many men were given medicine and
duty?"
" Nine, sir."
SICK PARADE 59
" Nine, out of thirteen. ... * A ' Com-
pany is on a route march this morning, is it
not ? "
" Yessir."
" My compliments to Major Bland, Cor-
poral, and I would like him to parade these
nine men in heavy marching order and send
them on a nine-mile route-march, under an
officer."
"Very good, sir!"
Next day there were no representatives of
" A " Coy. on sick parade !
BATMEN
THIS war has produced a new breed of man-
kind, something that the army has never seen
before, although they have formed a part of
it, under the same name, since Noah was a
boy. They are alike in name only. Batmen,
the regular army type, are professionals.
What they don't know about cleaning brass,
leather, steel, and general valeting simply
isn't worth knowing. They are super-servants,
and they respect their position as reverently
as an English butler respects his. With the
new batman it is different. Usually the diffi-
culty is not so much to discover what they
do not know, as what they do ! A new officer
arrives at the front, or elsewhere, and he has
to have a batman. It is a rather coveted
job, and applicants are not slow in coming
forward. Some man who is tired of doing
sentry duty gets the position, and his " boss "
spends anxious weeks bringing him up in the
way he should go, losing, in the interval,
60
BATMEN 61
socks, handkerchiefs, underwear, gloves, ties,
shirts, and collars galore! What can be said
to the wretched man when in answer to
" Where the is my new pair of socks ? "
he looks faint and replies : " I've lost them,
sir!" Verily, as the "professional" scorn-
fully remarks, are these " Saturday night
batmen! "
Yet even batmen are born, not made.
Lucky is he who strikes on one of the former;
only the man is sure to get killed, or wounded,
or go sick! There is always a fly in the oint-
ment somewhere. The best kind of batman
to have is a kleptomaniac. Treat him well
and he will never touch a thing of your own,
but he will, equally, never leave a thing
belonging to any one else !
" Cozens, where did you get this pair of
pants?"
" Found them, sir! "
" Where did you find them ? "
" Lying on the floor, sir," with an air of
injured surprise.
"Where!"
" I don't justly remember, sir."
Voice from right rear: " The Major's com-
62 CANADA IN WAR-PAINT
pliments, sir, and have you seen his new
pants ? "
"Cozens!"
" Yessir."
" Give me those pants. . . . Are those the
Major's ? "
" Yes, sir, them's them."
Cozens watches the pants disappear with a
sad, retrospective air of gloom.
" You ain't got but the one pair now, sir."
This with reproach.
" How many times have I got to tell you
to leave other people's clothes alone? The
other day it was pyjamas, now it's pants.
You'll be taking somebody's boots next.
Confound it. I'll I'll return you to duty if
you do it again! . . . How about all those
handkerchiefs ? Where did they come from ? "
"All yours, sir, back from the wash!"
With a sigh, one is forced to give up the
unequal contest.
Albeit as valets the batmen of the present
day compare feebly with the old type, in
certain other ways they are head and shoulders
above them. The old " pro " refuses to do a
single thing beyond looking after the clothing
BATMEN 63
and accoutrements of his master. The new
kind of batman can be impressed to do almost
anything. He will turn into a runner, wait
at table, or seize a rifle with gusto and help
get Fritz's wind up. Go long journeys to
find souvenirs, and make himself generally
useful He will even " bat " for the odd
officer, when occasion arises, as well as for
his own particular boss.
No man is a hero in the eyes of his own
batman. He knows everything about you,
even to the times when your banking account
is nil. He knows when you last had a bath,
and when you last changed your underwear.
He knows how much you eat, and also how
much you drink; he knows all your friends
with whom you correspond, and most of your
family affairs as revealed by that corre-
spondence, and nothing can hide from his
eagle eye the fact that you are lousy! Yet
he is a pretty good sort, after all; he never
tells. We once had a rather aged sub. in the
Company whose teeth were not his own, not
a single one of them. One night, after a some-
what heavy soiree and general meeting of
friends, he went to bed or, to be more
64 CANADA IN WAR-PAINT
accurate, was tucked in by his faithful hench-
man and lost both the upper and lower sets
in the silent watches. The following morn-
ing he had a fearfully worried look, and spake
not at all, except in whispers to his batman.
Finally, the O.C. Company asked him a ques-
tion, and he bad to say something. It sounded
like " A out mo," so we all instantly realised
something was lacking. He refused to eat
anything at all, but took a little nourishment
in the form of tea. His batman was to be
observed crawling round the floor, perspiring
at every pore, searching with his ears aslant
and his mouth wide open for hidden ivory.
We all knew it; poor old Gerrard knew we
knew it, but the batman was faithful to the
last, even when he pounced on the quarry
with the light of triumph in his eye. He came
to his master after breakfast was over and
asked if he could speak to him. Poor Gerrard
moved into the other room, and you could
have heard a pin drop. " Please, sir," in a
stage whisper from his batman, " please, sir,
I've got hold of them TEETH, sir! But the
front ones is habsent, sir, 'aving bin trod on ! "
The biggest nuisance on God's earth is a
BATMEN 65
batman who spends all his spare moments
getting drunk! Usually, however, he is a
first-class batman during his sober moments!
He will come in " plastered to the eyes "
about eleven o'clock, and begin to hone your
razors by the pallid rays of a candle, or else
clean your revolver and see if the cartridges
fit ! In his cups he is equal to anything at all.
Unless the case is really grave the man wins
every time, for no one hates the idea of
changing his servant more than an officer
who has had the same man for a month or
so and found him efficient.
Not infrequently batmen are touchingly
faithful. They will do anything on earth for
their " boss " at any time of the day or
night, and never desert him in the direst
extremity. More than one batman has fallen
side by side with his officer, whom he had
followed into the fray, close on his heels.
Once, after a charge, a conversation ensued
between the sergeant of a certain officer's
platoon and that officer's batman, in this
fashion :
" What were you doin* out there, Tommy ? "
" FollerinV
E
66 CANADA IN WAR-PAINT
" And why was you close up on his heels,
so clost I could 'ardly see 'im ? "
" Follerin' 'im up."
" And why wasn't you back somewhere
safe? " (This with a touch of sarcasm.)
" Lord, Sargint, you couldn't expect me to
let 'im go out by 'isself! 'E might ha' got
hurt!"
RATIONS
" BULLY-BEEF an' 'ard-tack," said Private
Boddy disgustedly. " Bully-beef that's canned
dog or 'orse, or may be cats, an' biscuits that's
fit for dawgs. . . . This is a 'ell of a war.
W'y did I ever leave little old Walkerville,
w'ere the whiskey comes from? Me an'
'Iram we was almost pals, as you may say.
I worked a 'ole fortnight in 'is place, at $1.75
per, an' then I " Mr. Boddy broke off
abruptly, but not soon enough.
" Huh ! " broke in a disgusted voice from
a remote corner of the dug-out, " then I guess
you went bummin' your way till the bulls
got you in Windsor. To hear you talk a chap
would think you didn't know what pan-
handlin' was, or going out on the stem."
" Look 'ere," said Boddy with heat, " you
comeralong outside, you great long rubber-
neck, you, an' I'll teach you to call me a
pan-'andler, I will. You low-life Chicago
67
68 CANADA IN WAR-PAINT
bum, wot never did 'ave a better meal than
you could steal f m a Chink Chop Suey."
" Say, fellers," a quiet voice interposed,
" cut it out. This ain't a Parliament Build-
ings nor a Montreal cabaret. There's a war
on. If youse guys wants to talk about rations,
then go ahead, shoot, but cut out the rough
stuff! "
" Dat's what / say, Corporal," interrupted
a French-Canadian. " I'm a funny sort of a
guy, I am. I likes to hear a good spiel, wid-
out any of dis here free cussin' an' argumenta-
tion. Dat ain't no good, fer it don't cut no
ice, no* d'un cVen ! "
" Talkin' of rations," drawled a Western
voice, " when I was up to Calgary in '08, an'
was done gone busted, save for two bits, I
tuk a flop in one of them houses at 15 cents
per, an' bot a cow's heel with the dime. You
kin b'lieve me or you needn't, but I tell you
a can of that bully you're shootin' off about
would ha' seemed mighty good to me, right
then, an' it aren't so dusty naow."
Private Boddy snorted his contempt. " An'
the jam they gives you," he said, " w'y at
'ome you couldn't give it away! Plum an'
RATIONS 69
happle! Or wot they call plain happle! It
ain't never seed a plum, bar the stone, nor a
happle, bar the core. It's just colourin' mixed
up wiv boiled down turnups, that's what
it is."
" De bread's all right, anyways," said
Lamontagne, " but dey don't never git you
more'n a slice a man! An dat cheese. Pouff !
It stink like a Fritz wot's laid dead since de
British takes Pozieres."
Scottie broke in.
" Aye, but hold yerr maunderin'. Ye canna
verra weel have aught to clack aboot when
'tis the Rum ye speak of."
" Dat's all right," Lamontagne responded,
" de rum's all right. But who gets it ? What
youse gets is one ting. A little mouthful down
de brook wot don't do no more than make
you drier as you was before. What does de
Sargents get ? So much dey all is so ram-
bunctious mad after a feller he dasn't look
dem in de face or dey puts him up for office!
Dat's a fine ways, dat is! An' dem awficers!
De limit, dat's what dat is. I was up to
de cook-house wid a wid a rifle " "a
dirty rifle too, on inspection, by Heck," the
70 CANADA IN WAR-PAINT
Corporal supplemented " wid a rifle, as I
was sayin'," continued Lamontagne, with a
reproachful look in the direction of his section
commander, " an' I sees wot was in de cook-
house a cookin' for de awficers " (his voice
sunk to an impressive whisper). " D'ere was
eeggs, wid de sunny side up, an' dere was bif-
steaks all floatin' in gravy, an' pottitters an*
beans, an' peaches an' peyers."
" Quit yer fool gabbin'," said Chicago.
" H'aint you got no sense in that mutt-head
o' yourn ? That's food them ginks BUYS ! "
Boddy had been silent so long he could
bear it no longer.
" 'Ave a 'eart," he said, " it gives me a
pain ter fink of all that food the horficers
heats. Pure 'oggery, I calls it. An' ter fink
of th' little bit o' bread an' biscuit an' bacon
wot's all fat wot we fellers gets to eat.
We does the work, an' the horficers sits in
easy chairs an' Heats ! ! Oh ufy did I join
theHarmy?"
At this moment, Private Graham, who had
been slumbering peacefully until Lamontagne,
in his excitement, put a foot in the midst of
his anatomy, added his quota to the dis-
RATIONS 71
cussion. Private Graham wore the King and
Queen's South African medal and also the
Somaliland. Before drink reduced him, he
had been a company Q.M.S. in a crack regi-
ment. His words were usually respected.
" Strike me pink if you Saturday night
soldiers don't give me the guts-ache," he re-
marked with some acerbity. " In Afriky
you'd ha' bin dead an' buried months ago,
judgin' by the way you talks! There it was
march, march, march, an' no fallin' out.
Little water, a 'an'ful o' flour, an' a tin of
bully wot was fly-blowed two minutes after
you opened it, unless you 'ad eat it a'ready.
An' you talks about food! S'elp me if it ain't
a crime. Rations! W'y, never in the 'ole
'istory of the world 'as a Army bin better fed
nor we are. You young soldiers sh'd learn a
thing or two afore you starts talkin' abaht
yer elders an' betters. Lord, in th' old days a
hofficers' mess was somethin' to dream abaht.
Nowadays they can't 'old a candle to it. Wot
d'yer expec' ? D'yer think a horficer is goin'
to deny 'is stummick if 'e can buy food ter
put in it ? 'E ain't so blame stark starin' mad
as all that. You makes me sick, you do ! "
72 CANADA IN WAR-PAINT
" Dat's what / say," commented Lamon-
tagne !
From afar came a voice crying, " Turn out
for your rations."
In thirty seconds the dug-out was empty!
OUR SCOUT OFFICER
WE have a certain admiration for our scout
officer; not so much for his sleuth-hound
propensities, as for his completely degage air.
He is a Holmes-Watson individual, in whom
the Holmes is usually subservient to the
Watson.
Without a map he either has several
dozen or none at all he is purely Watson.
With a map he is transformed into a Sher-
lock, instanter. The effect of a new map on
him is like that of a new build of aeroplane
on an aviator. He pores over it, he reverses
the north and south gear, and gets the mag-
netic differential on the move; with a sweep
of the eye he climbs up hills and goes down
into valleys, he encircles a wood with a pencil-
marked forefinger and asks in an almost
pained way for nail-scissors. Finally, he sends
out his Scout Corporal and two men, armed
to the teeth with spy-glasses and compasses
(magnetic, mark VIII), to reconnoitre. When
they come back (having walked seventeen
73
74 CANADA IN WAR-PAINT
kilometres to get to a point six miles away)
and report, he says, wagging his head sagely:
"Ah! I knew it. According to this map,
8lxD (parts of), 82 GN, south-west (parts
of), 32 B 1 , N.W. (parts of), and 19 CF, East
(parts of), the only available route is the
main road, marked quite clearly on the map,
and running due east-north-east by east from
Bn. H.Q."
But he is a cheerful soul. The other day,
when we were romancing around in the
Somme, we had to take over a new line; one
of those " lines " that genial old beggar
Fritz makes for us with 5.9*8. He the Scout
Officer rose to the occasion. He went to
the Commanding Officer, and in his most in-
gratiating manner, his whole earnest soul in
his pale blue eyes, offered to take him up to
his battle head-quarters.
This offer was accepted, albeit the then
Adjutant had a baleful glitter in bis eye.
After he had led us by ways that were
strange and peculiar through the gathering
darkness, and after the Colonel had fallen
over some barbed wire into a very damp
shell-hole, he began to look worried. We
OUR SCOUT OFFICER 75
struck a very famous road along which even
the worms dare not venture and our In-
telligence Officer led us for several hundred
yards along it.
An occasional high explosive shrapnel shell
burst in front and to rear of us, but, map
grasped firmly in the right hand, our Scout
Officer led us fearlessly onwards. He did not
march, he did not even walk, he sauntered.
Then with a dramatic gesture wholly un-
suited to the time and circumstances, he
turned and said : " Do you mind waiting a
minute, sir, while I look at the map ? " After
a few brief comments the C.O. went to earth
in a shell-hole. The Scout Officer sat down
in the road, and examined his map by the
aid of a flash-light until the Colonel threw a
clod of earth at him accompanied by some
very uncomplimentary remarks. " I think,
sir," said the Scout Officer, his gaunt frame
and placid countenance illumined by shell-
bursts, " that if we cross the road and go
North by East we may perhaps strike the
communication trench leading to the Brewery.
Personally, I would suggest going overland,
but " His last words were drowned by
76 CANADA IN WAR-PAINT
the explosion of four S.i's 50 yards rear
right. " Get out of this, sir! Get out of this
DAMN quick," roared the C.O. The Scout
Officer stood to attention slowly, and saluted
with a deprecating air.
He led.
We followed.
He took us straight into one of the heaviest
barrages it had ever been our misfortune to
encounter, and when we had got there he
said he was lost. So for twenty minutes the
C.O., the Adjutant, nine runners, and, last
but not least, the Scout Officer, sat under a
barrage in various shell-holes, and prayed in-
wardly with the exception of the Scout
Officer that he (the S.O.) would be hit plump
in the centre of his maps by a ij-inch shell.
It were well to draw a veil over what
followed. Even Holmes-Watson does not
like to hear it mentioned. Suffice to say that
the C.O. (with party) left at 5.30 P.M. and
arrived at battle head-quarters at 11.35 P - M -
The Scout Officer was then engaged in dis-
covering a route between Battle H.Q. and
the front line. He reported back at noon the
following day, and slept in a shell-hole for
OUR SCOUT OFFICER 77
thirteen hours. No one could live near the
C.O. for a week, and he threatened the S.O.
with a short-stick MILLS.
If there is one thing which the Scout Officer
does not like, it is riding a horse. He almost
admits that he cannot ride! The other day
he met a friend. The friend had one quart
bottle of Hennessey, three star. The Scout
Officer made a thorough reconnaissance of
the said bottle, and reported on same.
A spirited report.
Unhappily the C.O. ordered a road recon-
naissance an hour later, and our Scout Officer
had to ride a horse. The entire H.Q. sub-
staff assisted him to mount, and the last we
saw of Holmes-Watson, he was galloping
down the road, sitting well on the horse's
neck, hands grasping the saddle tightly, rear
and aft. Adown the cold November wind
we heard his dulcet voice carolling:
" I put my money on a bob-tailed nag! . . .
Doo-dah . . . Doo-dah!
/ put my money on a bob tailed nag;
. . . Doo-dah! . . Doo-dah!! . . DEY ! 1 1 "
MARTHA OF DRANVOORDE
MARTHA BEDUYS, in Belgium, was con-
sidered pretty, even handsome. Of that
sturdy Flemish build so characteristic of
Belgian women, in whom the soil seems to
induce embonpoint, she was plump to stout-
ness. She was no mere girl; twenty-seven
years had passed over her head when the war
broke out, and she saw for the first time
English soldiers in the little village that had
always been her home. There was a great
deal of excitement. As the oldest of seven
sisters, Martha was the least excited, but the
most calculating.
The little baker's shop behind the dull old
church had always been a source of income,
but never a means to the attainment of
wealth. Martha had the soul of a shop-keeper,
a thing which, in her father's eyes, made her
the pride of his household.
Old Hans Beduys was a man of some
strength of mind. His features were sharp
and keen, his small, blue eyes had a glitter
78
MARTHA OF DRANVOORDE 79
in them which seemed to accentuate their
closeness to each other, and his hands lean,
knotted, claw-like betokened his chief desire
in life. Born of a German mother and a
Belgian father, he had no particular love for
the English.
When the first British Tommy entered his
shop and asked for bread, old Beduys looked
him over as a butcher eyes a lamb led to the
slaughter. He was calculating the weight in
sous and francs.
That night Beduys laid down the law to
his family.
" The girls will all buy new clothes," he
said, " for which I shall pay. They will make
themselves agreeable to the English mer-
cenaries, but " with a snap of his blue eyes
" nothing more. The good God has sent
us a harvest to reap; I say we shall reap it."
During the six months that followed the
little shop behind the church teemed with
life. The Beduys girls were glad enough to
find men to talk to for the linguistic difficulty
was soon overcome to flirt with mildly, and
in front of whom to show off their newly-
acquired finery. From morn till dewy eve
8o CANADA IN WAR-PAINT
the shop was crowded, and occasionally an
officer or two would dine in the back parlour,
kiss Martha if they felt like it, and not worry
much over a few sous change.
In the meantime old Hans waxed financially
fat, bought a new Sunday suit, worked the
life out of his girls, and prayed nightly that
the Canadians would arrive in the vicinity
of his particular " Somewhere in Belgium."
In a little while they came.
Blossoming forth like a vine well fertilised
at the roots, the little shop became more and
more pretentious as the weekly turnover in-
creased. Any day that the receipts fell below
a certain level old Beduys raised such a storm
that his bevy of daughters redoubled their
efforts.
Martha had become an enthusiastic busi-
ness woman. Her fair head with its golden
curls was bent for many hours in the day
over a crude kind of ledger, and she thought
in terms of pickles, canned fruits, chocolate,
and cigarettes. The spirit of commerce had
bitten deep into Martha's soul.
More and more officers held impromptu
dinners in the back parlour. Martha knew
MARTHA OF DRANVOORDE 81
most of them, but only one interested her.
Had he not shown her the system of double
entry, and how to balance her accounts ? He
was a commercial asset.
As for Jefferson, it was a relief to him,
after a tour in the trenches, to have an occa-
sional chat with a moderately pretty girl.
One rain-sodden, murky January night,
very weary, wet, and muddy, Jefferson
dropped in to see, as he would have put it,
" the baker's daughter."
Martha happened to be alone, and wel-
comed " Monsieur Jeff " beamingly.
Perhaps the dim light of the one small
lamp, perhaps his utter war weariness, in-
duced Jefferson to overlook the coarseness of
the girl's skin, her ugly hands, and large feet.
Perhaps Martha was looking unusually pretty.
At all events he suddenly decided that she
was desirable. Putting his arm around her
waist as she brought him his coffee, he drew
her, unresisting, on to his knee. Then he
kissed her.
Heaven knows what possessed Martha that
evening. She not only allowed his kisses, but
returned them, stroking his curly hair with a
82 CANADA IN WAR-PAINT
tenderness that surprised herself as much as
it surprised him.
Thereafter Martha had two souls. A soul
for business and a soul for Jefferson.
The bleak winter rolled on and spring
came.
About the beginning of April old Beduys
received, secretly, a letter from a relative in
Frankfurt. The contents of the letter were
such that the small pupils of the old man's
eyes dilated with fear. He hid the document
away, and his temper for that day was
execrable. That night he slept but little.
Beduys lay in bed and pictured the sails of a
windmill -HIS windmill and he thought also
of ten thousand francs and his own safety.
He thought of the distance to the mill a full
two kilometres and of the martial law
which dictated, among other things, that he
be in his home after a certain hour at night,
and that his mill's sails be set at a certain
angle when at rest. Then he thought of
Martha. Martha of the commercial mind.
Martha the obedient. Yes! That was it,
obedient! Hans Beduys rose from his bed
softly, without disturbing his heavily-sleeping
MARTHA OF DRANVOORDE 83
wife, and read and re-read his brother's letter.
One page he kept, and the rest he tore to
shreds, and burned, bit by bit, in the candle
flame.
High up on the hill stood the windmill
the Beduys windmill. Far over in the German
lines an Intelligence Officer peered at it in the
gathering dusk through a night-glass. Slowly,
almost imperceptibly, the sails of the mill
turned, and stopped for a full minute. Slowly,
almost imperceptibly, they turned again, and
stopped again. This happened perhaps twenty
times. The German made some notes and
went to the nearest signalling station.
Five minutes later a salvo of great shells
trundled, with a noise like distant express
trains, over to the left of the mill.
There were heavy casualties in a newly-
arrived battalion bivouacked not half a mile
from the baker's shop. The inhabitants of the
village awoke and trembled. " Hurrumph-
umph! " Again the big shells trundled over
the village, and again. There was confusion,
and death and wounding.
In his bed lay Hans Beduys, sweating from
head to foot, while his brain hammered out
84 CANADA IN WAR-PAINT
with ever-increasing force : " Ten thousand
francs Ten Thousand Francs."
In the small hours a shadow disengaged
itself from the old mill, cautiously. Then it
began to run, and resolved itself into a woman.
By little paths, by ditches, by side-tracks,
Martha reached home. She panted heavily,
her face was white and haggard. When she
reached her room she flung herself on her
bed, and lay there wide-eyed, dumb, horror-
stricken, until the dawn broke.
Jefferson's Battalion finished a tour in the
trenches on the following night. Jefferson
marched back to billet with a resolve in his
mind. He had happened to notice the wind-
mill moving the night before, as he stood out-
side Company head-quarters in the trenches.
He had heard the shells go over away back
and had seen the sails move again. The
two things connected themselves instantly in
his mind. Perhaps he should have reported
the matter at once, but Jefferson did not do
so. He meant to investigate for himself.
Two days later Jefferson got leave to spend
the day in the nearest town. He returned
early in the afternoon, put his revolver in the
MARTHA OF DRANVOORDE 85
pocket of his British warm coat, and set out
for the windmill. He did not know to whom
the mill belonged, nor did that trouble
him.
An Artillery Brigade had parked near the
village that morning. Jefferson got inside the
mill without difficulty. It was a creaky, rat-
haunted old place, and no one lived within
half a mile of it. Poking about, he discovered
nothing until his eyes happened to fall on a
little medallion stuck between two boards on
the floor.
Picking it up, Jefferson recognised it as
one of those little " miraculous medals "
which he had seen strung on a light chain
around Martha's neck. He frowned thought-
fully, and put it in his pocket.
He hid himself in a corner and waited. He
waited so long that he fell asleep. The open-
ing of the little wooden door of the mill
roused him with a start. There was a long
pause, and then the sound of footsteps coming
up the wooden stairway which led to where
Jefferson lay. The window in the mill-face
reflected the dying glow of a perfect sunset,
and the light in the mill was faint. He could
86 CANADA IN WAR-PAINT
hear the hum of a biplane's engines as it
hurried homeward, the day's work done.
A peaked cap rose above the level of the
floor, followed by a stout, rubicund face. A
Belgian gendarme.
Jefferson fingered his revolver, and waited.
The gendarme looked around, grunted, and
disappeared down the steps again, closing the
door that led into the mill with a bang.
Jefferson sat up and rubbed his head.
He did not quite understand.
Perhaps ten minutes had passed when for
the third time that night the door below was
opened softly, closed as softly, and some one
hurried up the steps.
It was Martha. She had a shawl over her
head and shoulders, and she was breathing
quickly, with parted lips.
Jefferson noiselessly dropped his revolver
into his pocket again.
With swift, sure movements, the girl began
to set the machinery of the mill in motion.
By glancing over to the window, Jefferson
could see the sails move slowly very, very
slowly. Martha fumbled for a paper in her
bosom, and, drawing it forth, scrutinised it
MARTHA OF DRANVOORDE 87
tensely. Then she set the machinery in motion
again. She had her back to him. Jefferson
rose stealthily and took a step towards her.
A board creaked and, starting nervously, the
girl looked round.
For a moment the two gazed at each other
in dead silence.
" Martha," said Jefferson, "Martha! "
There was a mixture of rage and reproach
in his voice. Even as he spoke they heard
the whine of shells overhead, and then four
dull explosions.
" Your work," cried Jefferson thickly, taking
a stride forward and seizing the speechless
woman by the arm.
Martha looked at him with a kind of dull
terror in her eyes, with utter hopelessness,
and the man paused a second. He had not
known he cared for her so much. Then, in a
flash, he pictured the horrors for which this
woman, a mere common spy, was responsible.
He made to grasp her more firmly, but she
twisted herself from his hold. Darting to the
device which freed the mill-sails, she wrenched
at it madly. The sails caught in the breeze,
and began to circle round, swiftly and more
88 CANADA IN WAR-PAINT
swiftly, until the old wooden building shook
with the vibration.
From his observation post a German officer
took in the new situation at a glance. A few
guttural sounds he muttered, and then turn-
ing angrily to an orderly he gave him a curt
message. " They shall not use it if we can-
not," he said to himself, shaking his fist in the
direction of the whirring sails.
In the little village part of the church and
the baker's shop lay in ruins. Martha had
sent but a part of her signal, and it had
been acted upon with characteristic German
promptitude.
In the windmill on the hill, which shook
crazily as the sails tore their way through the
air, a man and a woman struggled desperately,
the woman with almost superhuman strength.
Suddenly the earth shook, a great explosion
rent the air, and the mill on the hill was rent
timber from timber and the great sails doubled
up like tin-foil.
" Good shooting," said the German Forward
Observation Officer, as he tucked his glass
under his arm and went " home " to dinner.
COURCELETTE
" IT was one of the nastiest jobs any battalion
could be called on to perform; to my mind
far more difficult than a big, sweeping advance.
The First Battalion has been in the trenches
eighteen days, on the march four days, and
at rest one day, until now. No men could be
asked to do more, and no men could do more
than you have done. I congratulate you,
most heartily."
In the above words, addressed to the men
and officers of the First Canadian Infantry
Battalion, Western Ontario Regiment, Major-
General Currie made it plain to all that among
the Honours of the First Battalion few will
take higher place than that which will be
inscribed " COURCELETTE."
On the night of September 2Oth, 1916, the
First Battalion moved up from support to
the firing-line, beyond the ruins of the above-
mentioned little hamlet. For the past few
days it had rained incessantly, and all ranks
89
90 CANADA IN WAR-PAINT
had been working night and day, in mud and
slush, carrying material of all kinds to the
front line. The men were soaked to the skin,
caked with mud, and very weary, but they
went " up-along " with an amazing cheeri-
ness, for rumour had whispered that the regi-
ment was to attack, and the men were in that
frame of mind when the prospect of " getting
their own back " appealed to them hugely.
Although the enemy opened up an intense
barrage during the relief, casualties were com-
paratively few, and by morning the First
Battalion was, Micawber-like, " waiting for
something to turn up."
Three companies, " A," " B," and " D,"
held the front line, with " C " Company in
close support. The positions were to the east
of Courcelette, opposite a maze of German
trenches which constituted a thorn in the
side of the Corps and Army Commanders,
and which had for several days checked the
advance and were therefore a serious menace
to future plans. Just how great was the
necessity to capture this highly organised and
strongly manned defensive system may be
gauged by the letter received by the Com-
COURCELETTE 91
manding Officer from the Divisional Com-
mander on the eve of the attack. In it the
G.O.C. expressed his confidence in the ability
of "The Good Old First" to capture the
position, and to hold it, and he added that it
must be taken at all costs " if the first
attack fails, you must make a second." On
the capture of this strong point hung the fate
of other operations on the grand scale.
It was the key position, and it fell to the
First Canadian Battalion to be honoured
with the task of taking it.
Until two and a half hours previous to the
attack (when the Operation Order had been
issued, and final instructions given), the
latest maps of the German defences had been
all the C.O. and his staff could work upon.
Then, truly at the eleventh hour, an aerial
photograph, taken but twenty-four hours
before, was sent to Bn. Head-quarters with
the least possible delay. This showed such
increase in the enemy defences, and trenches
in so much better shape to withstand attack,
that the whole tactical situation was changed,
and it became necessary not only to alter the
operation order completely, but also to draw
92 CANADA IN WAR-PAINT
a map, showing the most recent German lines
of defence. This was done.
It is difficult to single out for praise any
special portion of a regiment, or any member
of it, especially when all the units have been
subjected to intense and violent bombard-
ment prior to attack, not to mention the
activities of numerous snipers. One Com-
pany alone lost half their effectives through
the fire of a " whizz-bang " battery which
completely enfiladed their position. The
Battalion and Company runners cannot be
too highly praised they were the sole means
of communication and risked their lives
hourly, passing through and over heavily-
pounded trenches, and in and out of the
village of Courcelette, which was subjected to
" strafing " at all hours of the day and night,
without cessation. Tribute is also due to the
carrying parties, who took from beyond the
Sugar Refinery, and through the village,
bombs, ammunition, water, and rations, leav-
ing at every trip their toll of dead and
wounded.
Zero hour was at 8.31 P.M., preceded for
one minute by hurricane artillery fire. Pre-
COURCELETTE 93
vious to this the heavy guns had carried out
a systematic bombardment of the German
defences, yet, as was subsequently discovered,
failing to do them great damage, and not
touching the main fire trench at all.
At 8.28^ P.M. the Germans suddenly opened
with a murderous artillery and machine-gun
fire along our front. They had by some means
or other discovered that an attack was about
to take place. At this time the assaulting
waves were in position, " A " Coy. on the
left flank, "D " Coy. in the centre, and " B "
Coy. on the right flank, while a Battalion
Reserve of eighteen men five of whom be-
came casualties three minutes later waited
for orders a little in rear. These men belonged
to " C " Company, the major portion of
which had already been sent to reinforce the
front line. All our guns then opened up with
an electric spontaneity. To such an extent
that one charging company was forced to
halt a full minute in No Man's Land until
the barrage lifted a few hundred yards in
rear of the German lines, to catch their
reserves coming up.
Among the Fragments from France there
94 CANADA IN WAR-PAINT
is a Bairnsfather picture entitled " We shall
attack at Dawn " and "We DO!" The
situation much resembled it.
One could hear nothing but the vicious
" splack " of high explosive shrapnel, the
deep " Krrumph " of 6-inch and S.z's, " coal-
boxes " and " woolly bears " ; great herds of
shells whined and droned overhead, and now
and then emerged from the tumult the cough-
ing, venomous spit of machine-guns. One
could see myriads of angrily-bursting yellow
and orange-coloured flames, and all along
the front dozens of green Verey lights, and
red, as the Germans called frantically on their
artillery, and at the same time showed that
some of their own batteries were firing short
(a thing which always gives great joy to all
ranks). Now and then a deeper series of
booms announced a bombing battle, and the
air was heavy with the odour of picric fumes
and thick with smoke.
On the left flank " A " Coy. met with stub-
born opposition. Four machine-guns opened
on their first wave, cutting it to pieces, as it
was enfiladed from the flanks. The Company
reformed at once, and charged again. This
COURCELETTE 95
time they were met by a heavy counter-
attack in force. In the cold words of official
phraseology, " This opposition was overcome."
It was here that two very gallant officers
were lost Lieut. B. T. Nevitt and Major
F. E. Aytoun while leading their men. The
last seen of Lieut. Nevitt, he was lying half
in and half out of a shell-hole, firing his re-
volver at the enemy who were almost on top
of him, and calling to his men to come on.
Major Aytoun's last words were, " Carry on,
men!"
" B " Coy., on the left flank, met with little
opposition, attained the whole of their objec-
tive, and established communication by patrol
with the troops on their right flank, a difficult
operation. Here Lieut. Unwin, a splendid
young officer, laid down his life, and Lieut.
MacCuddy, who had carried on in the most
exemplary manner, was mortally wounded.
This Company captured a German Adjutant
from whom much valuable information was
obtained. Thoroughly demoralised, his first
words were : " Take me out of this, and I
will tell you anything, but anything." On
this German's reaching head-quarters he
96 CANADA IN WAR-PAINT
amused every one by saying: "I come me
to the West front September 22nd, 1914, as
a German officer. I go me from the West
front September 22nd, 1916, Heaven be
thanked, as a German prisoner. For me the
war is over, hurrah! "
In the centre " D " Coy. also attained their
objective and captured a trophy, in the shape
of a Vickers gun (which had been converted
to German usage). This gun was taken by
Lieut. J. L. Youngs, M.C., who bombed the
crew, which thereon beat a hasty retreat,
leaving half their number killed and wounded.
This was one of the best pieces of work done
individually in this action. Major W. N. Ash-
plant was wounded here, at the head of his
men, and is now missing, and believed killed.
Bombing posts were thrown out at once,
and manned by Battalion and Company
bombers, who, time and again, repulsed Ger-
man bombing attacks. " A " Coy. linked up
with D " and " D " Coy. with " B," while
the Lewis gun sections worked admirably,
but one gun being lost, despite the heavy
artillery fire. The whole line was at once
consolidated. Hundreds of German bombs,
COURCELETTE 97
Verey lights and pistols, many rifles, and
quantities of ammunition were captured, and
also forty prisoners, the great majority of
whom were unwounded.
" C " Coy.'s reserve was almost immediately
used up, a company of the 4th Bn. coming
up in support, at the request of the Com-
manding Officer of the First Battalion.
" Your attack was so vicious," declared a
prisoner, " that no troops could withstand it."
" Too good troops " this from a tall, fair
member of the Prussian Guard " better
than we are ! "
The Germans opposed to the First Battalion
were picked troops, among whom the iron
cross had been freely distributed.
On capturing this network of enemy lines
to the east of Courcelette, the First Battalion
discovered that what was at first deemed a
small stronghold, was in reality a formidable
position, held by the enemy in large numbers.
Not only was there a deep, fire-stepped main
trench, in which they had dug many " funk-
holes," but also a series of support and com-
munication trenches, and numerous bombing
posts.
98 CANADA IN WAR-PAINT
During the thirty hours following the cap-
ture of this ground, numerous counter-attacks
took place, all of which were repulsed with
heavy enemy losses. Bombing actions were
frequent along the whole line, and at least
two attacks were made in force.
A small post, held by two men, on the right
flank of " D " Coy., to communicate with
" B," accounted for six Germans in the
following manner: Early in the morning six
of the enemy advanced with their hands up.
Our men watched them closely, albeit they
called out " Kamerad " and were apparently
unarmed. The foremost suddenly dropped
his hands and threw a bomb. Our men
thereupon " went to it " and killed three
of the Germans, wounding the remainder
with rifle fire as they ran back to their own
lines.
At dusk on the 23rd the Germans tried
another ruse before attempting an attack in
force. Two of them were sent out, calling
" Mercy, mercy, Kamerad," and as usual
with their hands up, and no equipment. But
the officer in charge saw a number of Germans
advancing behind them, and at once ordered
COURCELETTE 99
heavy rifle and machine-gun fire to be opened
on them. This, and bombs, resulted in the
attack being broken up completely. " B "
Coy. dispersed several bombing attacks, and
" A " Coy. broke up a heavy attack, as well
as bombing attacks. Fog at times rendered
the position favourable for the enemy, but
not one inch of ground was lost.
Every man of the fighting forces of the
First Battalion was engaged in this action,
and much valuable assistance during con-
solidation and counter-attack was rendered
by the Company of the Fourth Battalion
sent up to support. For over thirty hours
after the assault the regiment held on, heavy
fog rendering relief in the early hours of the
24th a difficult undertaking, all the more so
in view of the intense and long-continued
barrage opened by the enemy during the
hours of relief. In fact, during the whole tour
of the First Canadian Battalion in the Cour-
celette sector, the regiment was subjected to
intense and incessant fire.
When the remainder of the First Battalion
marched out to rest, with Hun helmets and
other souvenirs hanging to their kits, they
ioo CANADA IN WAR-PAINT
marched with the pride of men who knew
they had done their bit.
The Corps Commander rode over to con-
gratulate the Commanding Officer and the
regiment, and such terms were used from the
Highest Command downwards that the " Old
First " knows and is proud of the fact, that
another laurel has been added to the wreaths
of the battalion, the brigade, the division,
and the Canadian Army.
We have but one sorrow, one deep regret,
and that is for Our Heroic Dead.
CARNAGE
THERE is a little valley somewhere among
the rolling hills of the Somme district wherein
the sun never shines. It is a tiny little valley,
once part of a not unattractive landscape,
now a place of horror.
Half a dozen skeletons of trees, rotting
and torn, fringe the southern bank, and the
remnants of a sunken road curve beneath the
swelling hill that shields the valley from the
sun. Flowers may have grown there once,
children may have played under the then
pleasant green of the trees; one can even
picture some dark-eyed, black-haired maid of
Picardy, sallying forth from the little hamlet
not far off with her milking-stool and pail,
to milk the family cow in the cool shade of
the trees and the steep above.
But that was long ago at least, it seems
as though it must have been long ago for
to-day the place is a shambles, a valley of
Death. Those who speak of the glory of war,
xox
102 CANADA IN WAR-PAINT
of the wonderful dashing charges, the in-
spiring mighty roar of cannon let them come
to this spot and look on this one small corner
of a great battle-field. Within plain view are
villages that will have a place in history
piles of broken brick and crushed mortar
that bear silent, eloquent testimony to the
Kultur of the twentieth century. Round
about the land is just a series of tiny craters,
fitted more closely together than the scars on
the face of a man who has survived a severe
attack of small-pox; and here and there,
scattered, still lie the dead. No blade of
grass dare raise its sheath above ground, for
the land is sown with steel and iron and lead,
and the wreckage and wrack and ruin of the
most bitter strife.
Even those who have seen such things for
many months past pause involuntarily when
they reach this valley of the shadow. It is a
revelation of desolation the inner temple of
death. In that little space, perhaps three
hundred feet long and a bare forty wide, lie
the bodies of nearly a hundred men, friend
and foe, whose souls have gone on to the
happy hunting ground amid circumstances of
CARNAGE 103
which no tongue could give a fitting account,
no pen a fitting description.
Once a German stronghold, this place
passed into our hands but a short while since.
Two guns were tucked away in under the
hill, and the infantry, suddenly ejected from
their forward position, fell back on them,
and taking advantage of a pause strengthened
their position, and brought up reinforce-
ments. Thereupon our guns concentrated on
them with fearful results, although when the
infantry swept forward, there were still
enough men in the deep, half-filled in trench
to put up a desperate resistance.
It is not difficult to read the story of that
early morning struggle. The land is churned
in all directions, two of the bigger trees have
fallen, and now spread out gnarled branches
above the remnants of some artillery dug-
outs. Pools of water, thick glutinous mud
both are tinged in many spots a dark red-
brown and portions of what were once men,
lie scattered around in dreadful evidence.
But for his pallor, one might think that
man yonder is still living. He is sitting in an
easy attitude, leaning forward, one hand idle
104 CANADA IN WAR-PAINT
in his lap, his rifle against his knee, and with
the other hand raised to his cheek as though
he were brushing off a fly. But his glassy
eyes stare, and his face is bloodless and grey,
while a large hole in his chest shows where
the enemy shrapnel smote him.
Corpses of dead Germans are piled, in
places, one over the other, some showing
terrible gaping wounds, some headless, some
stripped of all or part of their clothing, by
the terrific explosion of a great shell which
rent their garments from them. In more
than one place old graves have been blown
sky-high, and huddled skeletons, still clad in
the rags of a uniform, lie stark under the
open sky.
Papers, kits, water-bottles, rifles, helmets,
bayonets, smoke goggles, rations, and am-
munition are scattered everywhere in con-
fusion. Some of the debris is battered to bits,
some in perfect condition. Shell-cases, shell-
noses, and shrapnel pellets lie everywhere,
and there arises from the ground that peculiar,
terrible odour of blood, bandages, and death,
an odour always dreaded and never to be
forgotten. In one German dug-out three men
CARNAGE 105
were killed as they lay, and sat, sleeping.
Some one has put a sock over their faces ; it
were best to let it remain there. Yonder, a
Canadian and a German lie one on top of the
other, both clutching their rifles with the
bayonets affixed to them, one with a bayonet
thrust through his stomach, the other with a
bullet through his eye.
At night the very lights shine reluctant
over the scene, but the moon beams impassive
on the dead. Burial parties work almost
silently, speaking in whispers, and, shocking
anomaly, one now and then hears some trophy
hunter declare, " Say, this is some souvenir,
look at this * Gott mit Uns ' buckle ! " -
"A" COMPANY RUSTLES
WHEN we got into the bally place it was rain-
ing in torrents, and the air was also pure
purple because the Colonel found some one in
his old billet, and the Town-Major, a can-
tankerous old dug-out who seemed to exist
chiefly for the purpose of annoying men who
DID go into the front line, was about as help-
ful as the fifth wheel to a wagon. Finally, the
Colonel shot out of his office like an eighteen-
pounder from a whizz-bang battery, and later
on the tattered remnants of our once proud
and haughty Adjutant announced to us, in
the tones of a dove who has lost his mate,
that there were no billets for us at all, and
that officers and men would have to bivouac
by the river.
Under all circumstances the Major is cheer-
ful and he has a very clear idea of when it
is permissible to go around an order. Also
the Town-Major invariably has the same effect
on him as such an unwelcome visitor as a
106
" A " COMPANY RUSTLES 107
skunk at a garden-party would have on the
garden-party. Having consigned the afore-
said T.-M. to perdition in Canadian, English,
French, and Doukhobor, he said: "We are
going to have billets for the men, and we are
going to have billets for ourselves." That
quite settled the matter, as far as we Com-
pany officers were concerned. In the course
of the next half-hour we had swiped an empty
street and a half for the men, and put them
into it, and then we gathered together, seven
strong, and proceeded to hunt for our own
quarters.
There is a very strongly developed scout-
ing instinct among the Canadian forces in
the Field. Moreover, we are not overawed
by outward appearances. In the centre of
the town we found a chateau; and an hour
later we were lunching there comfortably
ensconed in three-legged arm-chairs, with a
real bowl of real flowers on the table, and
certain oddments of cut-glass (found glee-
fully by the batmen) reflecting the bubbling
vintage of the house of Moe't et Chandon.
Our dining-hall was about sixty feet by
twenty, and we each had a bedroom of
io8 CANADA IN WAR-PAINT
proportionate size, with a bed of sorts in it.
Moreover, the place was most wonderfully
clean it might almost have been prepared
for us and McFinnigan, our cook, was in
the seventh heaven of delight because he had
found a real stove with an oven.
" I cannot understand," said the Major,
" how it is no one is in this place. It's good
enough for a Divisional Commander."
There was actually a bath in the place with
water running in the taps. Jones, always
something of a pessimist, shook his head when
he saw the bath.
" Look here, all you boys," he said, " this
is no place for us. There is an unwritten law
in this outfit that no man, unless he wears
red and gold things plastered all over his
person, shall have more than one bath in one
month. Now / had one three weeks ago, and
I am still but why dwell on it ? "
Needless to say he was ruled out of
order.
Just to show our darned independence, we
decided to invite most of the other officers
of the battalion to dinner that evening,
" plenty much swank " and all that kind of
" A " COMPANY RUSTLES 109
thing. Would that we had thought better
of it. Of course we eventually decided to
make a real banquet of it, appointed a regular
mess committee, went and saw the Pay-
master, and sent orderlies dashing madly
forth to buy up all the liqueurs, Scotch, soda,
and other potations that make glad the heart
of man. We arranged for a four-course dinner,
paraded the batmen and distributed back-
sheesh and forcible addresses on the subjects
of table-laying and how to balance the soup
and unplop the bubbly.
Nobody came near us at all. As far as the
Town-Major was concerned we might have
been in Kamtchatka. The Major had gone
to the C.O. (after lunch) and told him we had
" found a little place to shelter in," and as
the latter had written a particularly biting,
satirical, not to say hectic note to the Brigadier
on the subject of the Town-Major's villainy,
and was therefore feeling better, he just told
the Major to carry on, and did not worry
about us in the least.
Nineteen of us Majors, Captains, and
" Loots " sat down to dinner. It was a
good dinner, the batmen performed prodigies
uo CANADA IN WAR-PAINT
of waitership; the wine bubbled and frothed,
frothed and bubbled, and we all bubbled too.
It was a red-letter night. After about the
seventeenth speech, in which the Doc. got a
little mixed concerning the relationship of
Bacchus and a small statue of the Venus de
Milo which adorned one corner of the room,
some one called for a song. It was then
about ii "pip emma."
We were in the midst of what the P.M.
called a little " Close Harmony " singing as
Caruso and McCormack NEVER sang when
we heard the sound of feet in the passage,
feet that clanked and clunk feet with
spurs on.
A hush fell over us, an expectant hush.
The door opened, without the ceremony of
a knock, and in walked not any of your
common or garden Brigadiers, not even a
Major-General, but a fully-fledged Lieu-
tenant-General, followed by his staff, and the
Town-Major.
In our regiment we have always prided our-
selves on the fact that we can carry on any-
where and under any circumstances. But this
fell night our untarnished record came very
" A COMPANY RUSTLES in
near to disaster. It was as though Zeus had
appeared at a Roman banquet being held in
his most sacred grove.
The General advanced three paces and
halted. Those of us who were able to do so
got up. Those who could not rise remained
seated. The silence was not only painful, it
was oppressive. A steel-grey, generalistic eye
slowly travelled through each one of us, up
and down the table, unadorned with the
remnants of many bottles, the half-finished
glasses of many drinks. Just then the Town-
Major took a step forward; he was a palish
green, with an under-tinge of yellow.
" WHAT is the meaning of " said the
General, in a voice tinged with the iciest
breath of the far distant Pole, but he got no
further.
There was a sudden rending, ear-splitting
roar, the lights went out, the walls of the
chateau seemed to sway, and the plaster fell
in great lumps from the frescoed ceiling.
That (as we afterwards discovered) no one
was hurt was a marvel. It is the one and only
time when we of this regiment have thanked
Fritz for shelling us. In the pale light of early
ii2 CANADA IN WAR-PAINT
dawn the last member of the party slunk into
the bivouac ground. The General, where was
he ? We knew not, neither did we care.
But it was the first and last time that
" A " Company rustled a Corps Commander's
Chateau!
"MINNIE AND 'FAMILY*
WHEN first I met her it was a lush, lovely
day in June; the birds were singing, the
grass was green, the earth teemed with life,
vegetable and animal, and the froglets hopped
around in the communication trenches. Some
cheery optimist was whistling " Down by the
Old Mill Stream," and another equally cheery
individual was potting German sniping plates
with an accuracy worthy of a better cause.
It was, in sooth, " A quiet day on the Western
Front."
And then she came. Stealing towards me
silently, coming upon me like a brigand in
the leafy woods. I did not see her ere she was
descending upon me, but others did. There
came distant yells, which I failed to interpret
for a moment; then, glancing upward, I saw
her bobbing through the air, her one leg
waving, her round ugly head a blot on the
sky's fair face. The next thing that happened
was that the trench gathered unto itself
wings, rose and clasped me lovingly from the
113 H
H4 CANADA IN WAR-PAINT
neck down in a cold, earthy embrace, the
while the air was rent with an ear-splitting
roar, like unto a battery of 1 7-inch naval
guns firing a salvo. After that I respected
Minnie; I feared her nay, I was deadly
scared of her.
Of all the nasty things " old Fritz " has
invented, the Minenflamm is perhaps the
nastiest of all. She is purely vicious, utterly
destructive, and quite frightful. The very
slowness with which she sails through the air
is in itself awe-inspiring. I never see Minnie
without longing for home, or the inside of
the deepest German dug-out ever digged by
those hard-working German Pioneer blighters,
who must all have been moles in their respec-
tive pre-incarnations. Minnie reminds one of
Mrs. Patrick Campbell in The Second Mrs.
Tanqueray ; all fire and flame and perdition
generally.
If you are a very wide-awake Johnny,
absolutely on the spot, don't-you-know you
may hear her sigh ere she leaves the (tem-
porary) Vaterland to take flight. It is a
gentle sigh, which those verblitzender English
artillery-men are not meant to hear. If you do
" MINNIE AND ' FAMILY ' 115
happen by chance to hear it, then the only
thing to do, although it is not laid down in
K. R. & O. or Divisional Orders (you see they
only hear about these things), is to silently steal
away; to seek the seclusion which your dug-out
grants. Later, if you are a new officer, and
want to impress the natives, as it were, you
saunter jauntily forth, cigarette at the correct
slope, cane pending vertically from the right
hand, grasped firmly in the palm, little finger
downwards, cap at an angle of 45, and say:
" Minnie, by Jove ! Eh what ? God bless my
soul. Did it fall over heah or over theah ? "
Which is a sure way of making yourself really
popular.
Fortunately Minnie has her dull days. Days
when she positively refuses to bust, and sulks,
figuratively speaking, in silent wrath and
bitterness on the upper strata of " sunny "
France, or Belgium, as the case may be.
After many Agags have trodden very deli-
cately around her, and she has proved in-
curably sulky and poor-spirited, some one
infused with the Souvenir spirit carts her
away, and pounds her softly with a cold-
chisel and a mallet, until he has either dis-
ii6 CANADA IN WAR-PAINT
sected her interior economy, or else she has
segmented his.
Minnie has her little family. The eldest
male child is called by the euphonious name
of Sausage, and he has brothers of various
sizes, from the pure-blood Hoch-geboren
down to the bourgeois little chap who makes
an awful lot of fuss and clatter generally. I
remember meeting little Hans one day, about
the dinner hour, when he was a very naughty
boy indeed. The Company was waiting to
get a half-canteenful of the tannin-cum-tea-
leaves, called " tea " on the Western front
(contained in one large dixie placed in a
fairly open spot in the front line), when
suddenly little Hans poked his blunt nose
into the air, and all notions of tea-drinking
were banished pro Urn. In other words, the
Company took cover automatically, as it were,
without awaiting any word of command.
Personally I tripped over a bath-mat, came
into close contact with an old shell-hole full
of mud, and offered up a little prayer in the
record time of one-fifth of a second. Instead
of entering Nirvana I only heard a resound-
ing splash, followed by a sizzling sound, like
" MINNIE AND ' FAMILY ' 117
that made by an exhausted locomotive. Little
Hans had fallen into the dixie, and positively
refused to explode. I think the tannin (or the
tea leaves) choked him!
There is also an infant a female infant
who deserves mention. Her name is Rifle-
grenade, and, according to the very latest
communication from official sources, the
gentleman who states with some emphasis
that he is divinely kingly, refuses to sanction
any further production of her species. Like
many females she is one perpetual note of
interrogation. She starts on her wayward
course thus : " Whrr-on ? Whrr-oo ? Whoo ?
Whoo ? Whe-oo ? Whe-oo ? " And then she
goes off with a bang, just as Cleopatra may
have done when Antony marked a pretty
hand-maid.
To sum up: Minnie and her children are
undoubtedly the product of perverted science
and Kultur, aided and abetted by the very
Devil!
AN OFFICER AND GENTLEMAN
HE was a tall well-built chap, with big, blue
eyes, set far apart, and dark wavy hair,
which he kept too closely cropped to allow it
to curl, as was meant by nature. He had a
cheery smile and a joke for every one, and
his men loved him. More than that, they re-
spected him thoroughly, for he never tolerated
slackness or lack of discipline for an instant,
and the lips under the little bronze moustache
could pull themselves into an uncompromis-
ingly straight line when he was justly angry.
When he strafed the men, he did it directly,
without sparing them or their failings, but
he never sneered at them, and his direct hits
were so patently honest that they realised it
at once, and felt and looked rather like
penitent little boys.
He never asked an N.C.O. or man to do
anything he would not do himself, and he
usually did it first. If there was a dangerous
patrol, he led. If there was trying work to
do, under fire, he stayed in the most danger-
118
OFFICER AND GENTLEMAN 119
ous position, and helped. He exacted instant
obedience to orders, but never gave an order
that the men could not understand without
explaining the reason for it. He showed his
N.C.O.'s that he had confidence in them, and
did not need to ask for their confidence in
him. He had it.
In the trenches he saw to his men's comfort
first his own was a secondary consideration.
If a man was killed or wounded, he was
generally on the spot before the stretcher-
bearers, and, not once, but many times, he
took a dying man's last messages, and faith-
fully wrote to his relations. A sacred duty,
but one that wrung his withers. He went
into action not only with his men, but at
their head, and he fought like a young lion
until the objective was attained. Then, he
was one of the first to bind up a prisoner's
wounds, and to check any severity towards
unwounded prisoners. He went into a show
with his revolver in one hand, a little cane in
the other, a cigarette between his lips.
" You see," he would explain, " it com-
forts a fellow to smoke, and the stick is useful,
and a good tonic for the men. Besides, it
120 CANADA IN WAR-PAINT
helps me try to kid myself Pm not scared
and I am, you know! As much as any one
could be."
On parade he was undoubtedly the smartest
officer in the regiment, and he worked like
a Trojan to make his men smart also. At the
same time he would devote three-quarters of
any leisure he had to training his men in the
essentials of modern warfare, his spare time
being willingly sacrificed for their benefit.
No man was ever paraded before him with
a genuine grievance that he did not endeavour
to rectify. In some manner he would, nine
times out of ten, turn a " hard case " into a
good soldier. One of his greatest powers was
his particularly winning smile. When his
honest eyes were on you, when his lips curved
and two faint dimples showed in his cheeks,
it was impossible not to like him. Even those
who envied him and among his brother
officers there were not a few could not
bring themselves to say anything against
him.
If he had a failing it was a weakness for
pretty women, but his manner towards an
old peasant woman, even though she was
OFFICER AND GENTLEMAN 121
dirty and hideous, was, if anything, more
courteous than towards a woman of his own
class. He could not bear to see them doing
work for which he considered they were unfit.
One day he carried a huge washing-basket
full of clothes down the main street of a
little village in Picardy, through a throng of
soldiers, rather than see the poor old dame
he had met staggering under her burden go
a step farther unaided.
The Colonel happened to see him, and spoke
to him rather sharply about it. His answer
was characteristic : " Fm very sorry, sir. I
forgot about what the men might think when
I saw the poor old creature. In fact, sir, if
you'll pardon my saying so, I would not
mind much if they did make fun of it."
He loved children. He never had any loose
coppers or small change long, and two of
his comrades surprised him on one occasion
slipping a five-franc note into the crinkled
rosy palm of a very, very new baby. " He
looked so jolly cute asleep," he explained
simply.
Almost all his fellow-officers owed him
money. He was a poor financier, and when
122 CANADA IN WAR-PAINT
he had a cent it belonged to whoever was in
need of it at the time.
One morning at dawn, he led a little patrol
to examine some new work in the German
front line. He encountered an unsuspected
enemy listening post, and he shot two of the
three Germans, but the remaining German
killed him before his men could prevent it.
They brought his body back and he was given
a soldier's grave between the trenches. There
he lies with many another warrior, taking
his rest, while his comrades mourn the loss
of a fine soldier and gallant gentleman.
"S.R.D."
WHEN the days shorten, and the rain never
ceases; when the sky is ever grey, the nights
chill, and the trenches thigh deep in mud and
water; when the front is altogether a beastly
place, in fact, we have one consolation. It
comes in gallon jars, marked simply " S.R.D."
It does not matter how wearied the ration
party may be, or how many sacks of coke,
biscuits, or other rations may be left by the
wayside, the rum always arrives.
Once, very long ago, one of a new draft
broke a bottle on the way up to Coy. H.Q.
(The rum, by the way, always goes to Coy.
H.Q.) For a week his life was not worth
living. The only thing that saved him from
annihilation was the odour of S.R.D., which
clung to him for days. The men would take a
whiff before going on a working party, and
on any occasion when they felt low and
depressed.
There are those who would deny Tommy
his three spoonfuls of rum in the trenches;
123
124 CANADA IN WAR-PAINT
those who declare that a man soaked to the
skin, covered with mud, and bitterly cold,
is better with a cayenne pepper lozenge. Let
such people take any ordinary night of sentry
duty on the Western front in mid-winter, and
their ideas will change. There are not one,
but numberless occasions, on which a tot of
rum has saved a man from sickness, possibly
from a serious illness. Many a life-long
teetotaler has conformed to S.R.D. and taken
the first drink of his life on the battle-fields
of France, not because he wanted to, but
because he had to. Only those who have
suffered from bitter cold and wet, only those
who have been actually " all-in " know what
a debt of gratitude is owing to those wise
men who ordered a small ration of rum for
every soldier officer, N.C.O., and man on
the Western front in winter.
The effect of rum is wonderful, morally as
well as physically. In the pelting rain, through
acres of mud, a working party of fifty men
plough their weary way to the Engineers'
dump, and get shovels and picks. In single
file they trudge several kilometres to the
work in hand, possibly the clearing out of a
" S.R.D." 125
fallen-in trench, which is mud literally to the
knees. They work in the mud, slosh, and
rain, for at least four hours. Four hours of
misery during which any self-respecting
Italian labourer would lose his job rather than
work and then they traipse back again to a
damp, musty billet, distant five or six kilo-
metres. To them, that little tot of rum is not
simply alcohol. It is a God-send. Promise it
to them before they set out, and those men
will work like Trojans. Deny it to them, and
more than half will parade sick in the morning.
It is no use, if the rum ration is short, to
water it down. The men know it is watered,
and their remarks are " frequent and painful,
and free ! " Woe betide the officer who, through
innocence or intentionally, looks too freely on
the rum when it is brown! His reputation is
gone for ever. If he became intoxicated on
beer, champagne, or whisky, he would only
be envied by the majority of his men, but
should he drink too much rum that is an
unpardonable offence!
As a rule, one of the hardest things in the
world to do is to awaken men once they have
gone to sleep at night. For no matter what
126 CANADA IN WAR-PAINT
purpose, it will take a company a good half-
hour to pull itself together and stand to. But
murmur softly to the orderly Sergeant that
there will be a rum issue in ten minutes, and
though it be I A.M. or the darkest hour before
dawn, when the roll is called hardly a man
will be absent! That little word of three
letters will rouse the most soporific from their
stupor!
Few men take their rum in the same fashion
or with the same expression. The new draft
look at it coyly, carry the cup gingerly to
their lips, smell it, make a desperate resolu-
tion, gulp it down, and cough for five minutes
afterwards. The old hands the men of
rubicund countenance and noses of a doubt-
ful hue grasp the cup, look to see if the issue
is a full one, raise it swiftly, and drain it
without a moment's hesitation, smacking
their lips. You can see the man who was up
for being drunk the last pay-day coming
from afar for his rum. His eyes glisten, his
face shines with hopefulness, and his whole
manner is one of supreme expectation and
content.
It is strange how frequently the company
" S.R.D." 127
staff, from the Sergeant-Major down to the
most recently procured batman, find it
necessary to enter the inner sanctum of H.Q.
after the rum has come. The Sergeant-Major
arrives with a large, sweet smile, acting as
guard of honour. " Rum up, sir." " Thank
you, Sergeant-Major." " I've detailed that
working-party, sir." " Thank you, Sergeant-
Major." " Is that all, sir? " " Yes, thank
you, Sergeant-Major." He vanishes, to re-
appear a minute later. " Did you CALL me,
sir?" "No" ... long pause . . . "Oh!
Still there ? Er, have a drink, Sergeant-
Major ? " " Well, sir, I guess I could manage
a little drop! Thank you, sir. Good-night,
sir! "
BEDS
" THINK of my leave coining in two weeks,
and of getting a decent bed to sleep in, with
sheets!"
Sancho Panza blessed sleep, but perhaps
he always had a good bed to sleep in; we,
who can almost slumber on " apron " wire,
have a weakness for good beds.
To appreciate fully what a good bed is, one
must live for a time without one, and go to
rest wrapped in a martial cloak to wit a
British warm or a trench coat, plus the uni-
versal sand-bag, than which nothing more
generally useful has been seen in this war.
Any man who has spent six months (in the
infantry) at the front knows all about beds.
Any man with a year's service is a first-class,
a number one, connoisseur. The good bed is
so rare that whoever spends a night in one
talks about it for a week, and brings it up in
reminiscences over the charcoal brazier.
" You remember when we were on the long
hike from the salient? And the little place
128
BEDS 129
we struck the third night Cattelle-Villeul I
think it was called ? By George, I had a good
bed. A peach! It had a spring mattress and
real linen sheets not cotton and two pillows
with frilly things on them, and a ripping
quilt, with a top-hole eider-down. I was
afraid to get into it until my batman pro-
duced that new pair of green pyjamas with
the pink stripes. It simply hurt to give that
bed up!"
And if you let him he will continue in like
vein for half an hour. Recollections of that
bed have entered into his soul; it is one of the
bright spots in a gloomy life.
Needless to say, the farther you go back
from the line, the better the beds. They can
be roughly classified as follows: Battle beds.
Front line beds. Support beds. Reserve beds.
Divisional rest beds. Corps reserve beds, and
Army Reserve beds. Beyond this it is fifty-
fifty you will get a good bed, provided there
are not too many troops in the place you go to.
Battle beds, as such, are reserved for
battalion commanders, seconds in command,
and adjutants. Sometimes Os.C. units have
a look-in, but the humble sub. has not, unless
i
130 CANADA IN WAR-PAINT
he is one of those Johnnies who can always
make something out of nothing.
When there is a " show " on nobody expects
to sleep more than two hours in twenty-four,
and he's lucky if he gets that. The C.O. takes
his brief slumber on some bare boards raised
above the floor-level in a dug-out. The Os. C.
units use a stretcher, with a cape for a pillow,
and the others sleep any old where on a
broken chair, in a corner on the ground, on
the steps of a dug-out, on the fire-step of a
parapet, or even leaning against the parapet.
One of the best snoozes we ever had was of
the last variety, while Fritz was plastering
the communication trenches with a barrage
a mouse could not creep through.
There is one thing about battle beds; one
is far too weary to do anything but flop
limply down, and go instantly to sleep. The
nature of your couch is of secondary im-
portance. Possibly the prize goes to the man
who slept through an intense bombardment,
curled up between two dead Germans, whom
he thought were a couple of his pals, asleep,
when he tumbled in to rest.
Front line beds vary according to sector.
BEDS 131
Usually they are simply a series of bunks,
tucked in one above the other as in a steamer-
cabin, and made of a stretch of green canvas
nailed to a pair of two by fours. Sometimes
an ingenious blighter introduces expanded
metal or chicken wire into the general make-
up, with the invariable result that it gets
broken by some 2OO-pounder, and remains a
menace to tender portions of the human
frame until some one gets " real wild " and
smashes up the whole concern.
In support, the "downy couch" does not
improve very much. Sometimes it is worse,
and it is always inhabited by a fauna of the
largest and most voracious kind.
There is a large element of chance as to
reserve beds. They are generally snares of
disillusionment, but once in a while the con-
noisseur strikes oil. It will not have sheets
clean sheets, at all events but it may possess
the odd blanket, and the room may have been
cleaned a couple of weeks ago. If Madame
is clean the bed will be clean; if otherwise,
otherwise also.
All the beds at the front are the same in
some respects. They are all wooden, and
132 CANADA IN WAR-PAINT
they nearly all have on them huge piles of
mattresses, four or five deep. It is wisest not
to investigate too thoroughly the inner con-
sciousnesses of the latter, or the awakening
may be rude. In the old days, long, long ago,
when the dove of Peace billed and cooed
over the roof of the world, no self-respecting
citizen would sleep in them, but now with
what joy do we sink with a sigh of relief into
the once abominated feather-bed of doubtful
antecedents, which has been slept in for two
years by one officer after another, and never,
never, never been aired.
C'est la guerre !
Divisional rest beds are at least two points
superior to the last. They are the kind of
beds run by a sixth-rate lodging-house in
Bloomsbury, taken on the whole. Usually
there is one bed short per unit, so some one
has to double up, with the result that the
stronger of the twain wraps all the bed-clothes
around him, and the other chap does not
sleep at all, or is ignominiously rolled out on
to the brick pave.
Every one in French villages must go to
bed with their stockings on.
BEDS 133
Judging by the permanent kinks in all the
beds, they must have been beds solitaire for
a life-time, before the soldiers came.
Once we were asked to share a bed with
bebe, who was three. We refused. On another
occasion, when we were very tired indeed, we
were told that the only bed available was that
usually dwelt in by " Jeanne." We inspected
it, and made a peaceful occupation. " Jeanne "
came home unexpectedly at midnight, and
slipped indoors quietly to her room. It was
a bad quarter of an hour, never to be for-
gotten! Especially when we found out in the
morning that " Jeanne " was twenty years
old, and decidedly pretty. Our reputation in
that household was a minus quantity.
In corps reserve one gets beds with coffee
in the morning at 7 A.M. " Votre cafe, M'sieu."
" Oui, oui, mercy; leave it outside the door
la porte please!" "Voii, M'sieu! Vous
avez bien dormi ? " And of course you can't
say anything, even if Madame stands by the
pillow and tells you the whole story of how
Yvonne makes the coffee!
They are fearless, these French women!
MARCHING
WE have left the statue of th(T Virgin Mary
which pends horizontally over the Rue de
Bapaume far behind us and the great bivouacs,
and the shell-pitted soil of the Somme front.
Only at night can we see the flickering glare
to the southward, and the ceaseless drum of
the guns back yonder is like the drone of a
swarm of bees. Yesterday we reached the
last village we shall see in Picardy, and this
morning we shall march out of the Departe-
ment de la Somme, whither we know not.
It is one of those wonderful mid-October
days when the sun rises red above a light,
low mist, and land sparkling with hoar-frost;
when the sky is azure blue, the air clean and
cold, and the roads white and hard. A day
when the " fall-in " sounds from rolling plain
to wooded slope and back again, clear and
mellow, and when the hearts of men are glad.
"Bat-ta-lion . . . Shun!"
It does one good to hear the unison of
sound as the heels come together, and a few
134
MARCHING 135
moments later we have moved off, marching
to attention down the little main street of
Blondin-par-la-Gironde, with its 300 inhabi-
tants, old, old church, and half-dozen esta-
minets. Madame, where we billeted last
night, and her strapping daughter Marthe,
are standing on the doorstep to see us go
by. " Bonjour, M'sieurs, Au revoir, Bonne
chance!"
" Left, left, left ri left," the pace is short,
sharp, and decisive, more like the Rifle Brigade
trot. Even the backsliders, the men who
march as a rule like old women trying to
catch a bus, have briskened up this morning.
Looking along the column from the rear one
can see that rhythmical ripple which betokens
the best marching, and instinctively the mind
flashes back to that early dawn three days
ago no, four when they came out of the
trenches, muddy, dead-beat, awesomely dirty,
just able to hobble along in fours.
Ninety-six hours and what a change!
" March at ease."
The tail of the column has passed the last
little low cottage in the village, and the
twenty-one kilometre " hike " has begun.
1 36 CANADA IN WAR-PAINT
Corporal McTavish, mindful that he was
once a staff bugler, unslings his instrument,
and begins after a few horrid practice notes
to play " Bonnie Dundee," strictly accord-
ing to his own recollection of that ancient
tune. The scouts and signallers are passing
remarks of an uncomplimentary nature anent
the Colonel's second horse, which, when not
trying to prance on the Regimental Sergeant-
Major's toes, shows an evil inclination to
charge backwards through the ranks. The
bombers are grousing, as usual; methodic-
ally, generally, but without bitterness. " They
will not sing, they cannot play, but they can
surely fight."
" A " Company band consisting of the
aforesaid Corporal McTavish, three mouth-
organs, an accordion, a flute, and a piccolo,
plus sundry noises, is heartily engaged with
the air " I want to go back, I WANT to go
back (cres.), I want to go back (dim.), To the
farm (pizzicato)," which changes after the
first kilometre to " Down in Arizona where
the Bad Men are." They are known as the
" Birds," and not only do they whistle, but
they also sing!
MARCHING 137
" B " Company is wrapped in gloom; they
march with a grim determination, a " just-
you-wait-till-I-catch-you " expression which
bodes ill for somebody. Did not a rum-jar
a full jar of rum vanish from the rations
last night ? Isn't the Quartermaster and the
C.S.M.'s batman too endowed with a frantic
" hang-over " this morning ? This world is an
unfair, rotten kind of a hole anyhow. The
Company wit, one Walters, starts to sing
" And when I die." He is allowed to proceed
as far as " Just pickle my bones," but " in
alcohol " is barely out of his mouth when
groans break in upon his ditty, coupled with
loud-voiced protests to " Have a heart."
For six months past " C " Company has
rejoiced in the generic title of " Scorpions."
Their strong suit is limerics, the mildest of
which would bring a blush to the cheek of
an old-time camp-follower. Within the last
twenty-four hours their O.C. has been awarded
the Military Cross. His usually stern visage
somewhat belied by a twinkling blue eye
is covered with a seraphic smile. Cantering
along the column comes the Colonel. The
artists of the limeric subside. Pulling up, the
138 CANADA IN WAR-PAINT
C.O. about turns and holds out his hand. " I
want to congratulate you, Captain Bolton.
Well deserved. Well deserved. Honour to
the regiment . . . yes, yes . . . excellent,
excellent . . . ahem . . . thank you, thank
you. . . . ! " With one accord the old scor-
pions, led by the Company Sergeant-Major,
break into the refrain " See him smi-ling, see
him smi-ling, see him smi-i-ling just now."
And Bolton certainly does smile.
By this time we have marched for an hour,
and the signal comes to halt, and fall out on
the right of the road. The men smoke, and
the officers gather together in little groups.
It is wonderful what ten minutes' rest will do
when a man is carrying all his worldly goods
on his back.
A few minutes after starting out again we
see ahead of us a little group of horses, and
a red hat or twain, and red tabs. The Divi-
sional Commander and the Brigadier. The
Battalion takes a deep breath, slopes arms,
pulls itself together generally, dresses by the
right, and looks proud and haughty. There
is a succession of " Eyes Rights " down the
column, as each unit passes the reviewing
MARCHING 139
base, and then we all sigh again. Thafs over
for to-day!
On we march, through many quaint little
old-world villages, every one of which is filled
with troops, up hill and down dale, through
woods, golden and brown, tramping steadily
onward, a long green-brown column a thou-
sand strong. Cussing the new drafts who
fall out, cussing the old boots that are worn
out, cussing the war in general, and our packs
in detail, but none the less content. For who
can resist the call of the column, the thought
of the glorious rest when the march is done,
and the knowledge that whatever we may be
in years to come, just now we are IT!
THE NATIVES
" BONN joor, Madame! "
"Bonjour, M'sieu! "
" Avvy voo pang, Madame ? "
" Braed ? But yes, M'sieu. How much you
want ? Two ? Seize sous, M'sieu."
" How much does the woman say, Buster ? '
*' Sixteen sous, cuckoo! r
" Well, here's five francs."
" Ah, but, M'sieu ! Me no monnaie ! No
chanch! Attendez, je vous donnerai du
papier."
Madame searches in the innermost recesses
of an old drawer, and produces one French
penny, two sous, a two-franc bill of the Com-
mune of Lisseville, stuck together with bits
of sticking-paper, a very dirty one-franc bill
labelled St. Omer, and two so-centimes notes
from somewhere the other side of Amiens.
" Je regrette, M'sieu," Madame waves her
hands in the air, " mais c'est tout ce que
j'ai. . . . Alldat I 'ave, M'sieu!"
The transaction, which has taken a full ten
140
THE NATIVES 141
minutes, is at last completed. They are very
long-suffering, the natives, taken on the whole.
In the first place " C'est la guerre." Secondly,
they, too, have soldier husbands, sons, and
brothers and cousins serving in the Grandes
Armees. Is it to be expected that they be
well treated unless we do our share ? And
these British soldiers, they have much money.
And they are generous for the most part.
So Madame, whose husband is in Cham-
pagne, gives up the best bedroom to Messieurs
les OfHciers, and sleeps with her baby in the
attic. The batmen use her poele, and sit
around it in the evening drinking her coffee.
Le Commandant buys butter, milk, eggs
" mais, mon dieu, one would think a hen laid
an egg every hour to hear him ! Trois douzaine !
But, Monsieur, I have but six poules, and
they overwork themselves already! There is
not another egg above eleven dans tous le
pays, M'sieu. Champagne ? But yes, cer-
tainement. Benedictine ? Ah, non, M'sieu, it
is defendu, and we sold the last bottle to an
officier with skirts a week ago. Un tres bon
officier, M'sieu; he stay two days, and make
love to Juliette. Juliette fiancee ? Tiens, she
142 CANADA IN WAR-PAINT
has a million, M'sieu, to hear them talk, like
every pretty girl in France. So soon you enter
the doorway, M'sieu, and see Juliette, you
say ' Moi fiance, vous ? ' You are tres taquin
verree bad boys les Anglais ! "
Sometimes there is war, red war. Madame
enters, wringing her hands, her hair suggestive
of lamentation and despair. She wishes to see
M'sieu TOfficier who speaks a little French.
" Ah, M'sieu, but it is terrible. I give to
the Ordonnances my fire, my cook-pots, and
a bed of good hay in the stable, next to the
cows, and what do they do ? M'sieu, they steal
my gate that was put there by my grand-
father he who won a decoration in soixante
et six and they get a little axe and make
of it fire-wood! And in the early morning
they milk the cows. Ah, but, M'sieu, I will
go to the Maire and make a reclammation !
Fifteen francs for a new gate, and seventeen
sous for the milk that they have stolen ! And
the cuillers ! Before the war I buy a new set,
with Henri, of twenty-four cuillers. Where
are they? All but three are voices, M'sieu!
It is not juste. M'sieu le Capitaine who was
here a week ago last Dimanche for I went
THE NATIVES 143
to Mass say it is a dam shame, M'sieu. I
do not like to make the trouble, M'sieu, but
I must live. La veuve Marnot over yonder,
two houses down the street on the left-hand
side, she could have a hundred gates burned
and say nothing. She is tres riche. They say
the Mayor make deja his advances. But me,
what shall I do, my gate a desecration in the
stoves, M'sieu, and the milk of my cows
drunk by the maudits ordonnances ! "
Note in the mess president's accounts : " To
one gate (burned) and milk stolen, 7.50 francs."
All over France and Belgium little stores
have grown and flourished. They sell tinned
goods without limit, from cigarettes, through
lobster, to peaches.
Both are practical countries.
In nearly all these boutiques there is a
pretty girl. Both nations have learned the
commercial value of a pretty girl. It in-
creases the credit side of the business 75 per
cent. In the Estaminets it is the same, only
more so. Their turnover is a thing which
will be spoken of by their great-grandchildren
with bated breath.
More cases than one are known where the
144 CANADA IN WAR-PAINT
lonely soldier has made a proposal, in form,
to the fair debitante who nightly handed him
his beer over the bar of a little Estaminet.
Sometimes he has been accepted pour 1'amour
de sa cassette sometimes " pour 1'amour de
ses beaux yeux! "
In a little hamlet several days' march behind
the firing-line, lived a widow. She was a grass-
widow before Verdun, and there she became
" veuve." She was a tall, handsome woman,
twenty-seven or twenty-eight perhaps, and
her small feet and ankles, the proud carriage
of her head, and the delicate aquiline nose
bespoke her above the peasantry. She kept a
little cafe at the junction of three cross-roads.
The natives know her as Madame de Maupin.
Why " de " you ask ? Because her father
was a French count and her mother was a
femme de chambre. The affair made an
esclandre of some magnitude many years ago.
Madame de Maupin was fille naturelle. She
married, at the wishes of her old harridan of
a mother, a labourer of the village. She
despised her husband. He was uncouth and
a peasant. In her the cloven hoof showed
little. Despite no advantages of education
THE NATIVES 145
she had the instincts of her aristocratic
father. The natives disliked her for that
reason.
Madame de Maupin kept a cafe. Until the
soldiers came it did not pay, but she would
not keep an Estaminet. It was so hopelessly
" vulgaire." After closing hours, between
eight and ten, Madame de Maupin held her
Court. Officers gathered in the little back
room, and she entertained them, while they
drank. She had wit, and she was very hand-
some. One of her little court, a young
officer, fell in love with her. Her husband
was dead.
Her lover had money, many acres, and
position. He proposed to her. She loved him
and she refused him, " because," she said
simply, " you would not be happy."
He was sent to the Somme.
Madame de Maupin closed her Estaminet
and vanished.
There is a story told, which no one believes,
of a woman, dressed in a private's uniform
of the British army, who was found, killed,
among the ruins of Thiepval. She lay beside
a wounded officer, who died of his wounds
146 CANADA IN WAR-PAINT
soon after. He had been tended by some one,
for his wounds were dressed. In his tunic
pocket was a woman's photograph, but a
piece of shrapnel had disfigured it beyond
recognition.
But, as I said, no one believes the story.
"OTHER INHABITANTS"
THERE is a little story told of two young
subalterns, neither of whom could speak the
lingua Franca, who went one day to the
Estaminet des Bons Copins, not five thousand
miles from Ploegstraete woods, to buy some
of the necessities of life, for the Estaminet
was a little store as well as a road-house.
Both of the said subalterns had but recently
arrived in Flanders, from a very spick and
span training area, and neither was yet
accustomed to the ways of war, nor to the
minor discomforts caused by inhabitants other
than those of the country, albeit native to
it from the egg, as it were.
They entered the Bons Copins, and having
bought cigarettes and a few odds and ends,
one of them suddenly remembered that he
wanted a new pair of braces, to guarantee the
safety of his attire. But the French word for
braces was a knock-out. Neither himself nor
his friend could think of it, and an Anglo-
148 CANADA IN WAR-PAINT
French turning of the English version met
with dismal failure.
At last a bright idea smote him. He smiled
benignly, and vigorously rubbed the thumbs
of both hands up and down over his shoulders
and chest. Madame beamed with the light of
immediate understanding. " Oui, Monsieur,
mais oui . . . oui ! " She disappeared into
the back of the store, to return a moment
later, bearing in her hand a large green box,
labelled distinctly: " Kea ting's Powder! "
There are few things that will have the
least effect on a vigorous young section of
" other inhabitants."
Those good, kind people who send out
little camphor balls, tied up in scarlet flannel
bags, and tins of Keating's without number,
little know what vast formations in mass these
usually deadly articles must deal with. We
have suspended camphor balls little red sacks,
tapes, and all in countless numbers about
our person. We have gone to bed well con-
tent, convinced of the complete route of our
Lilliputian enemies. And on the morrow we
have found them snugly ensconced grand-
mamma, grandpapa, and their great-great-
" OTHER INHABITANTS " 149
grandchildren right plumb in the centre of
our batteries. Making homes there; waggling
their little legs, and taking a two-inch sprint
now and then round the all-red route. What
is camphor to them ? This hardy stock has
been known to live an hour in a tin of Keat-
ing's powder, defiant to the last! What boots
it that a man waste time and substance on a
Sabbath morn sprinkling his garments over
with powders and paraffins. He is sure to
miss a couple, and one of them is certain to
be the blushing bride of the other.
From deep below the calf comes the plain-
tive wail, spreading far and wide, to the very
nape of the neck : " Husband, where are
you ? I am lost and alone, and even off my
feed! " With no more ado hubby treks madly
down the right arm and back again, hits a
straight trail, and finds the lost one.
And the evening and the morning see the
grandchildren.
Grandpa leads them bravely to the first
collision mat, an area infected with coal-oil.
"Charge, my offspring!" he cries, waggling
his old legs as hard as he can, " prove your-
selves worthy scions of our race! " And the
ISO CANADA IN WAR-PAINT
little blighters rush madly over the line
with their smoke-helmets on, metaphorically
speaking and at once set about establish-
ing a new base.
Henry goes to Mabel, and says : " Mabel,
darling! I have found a sweet little home for
two or (blushing!) perhaps three in the
crook of the left knee. Will you be my bride ? "
And Mabel suffers herself to be led away, and
duly wed, at once. So they dance a Tarantellc
under the fifth rib, and then proceed to the
serious business of bringing up little Henrys
and Mabels in the way they should go !
There is only one way to deal with them,
cruel and ruthless though it be. Lay on the
dogs ! Remove each garment silently, swiftly,
relentlessly. Pore over it until you see Henry
hooking it like Billy-oh down the left leg of
your er, pyjamas. Catch him on the wing,
so to speak, and squash him! Then look for
Mabel and the children, somewhere down the
other leg, and do ditto! Set aside two hours
per diem for this unsportsmanlike hunt, and
you may be able to bet evens with the next
chappy inside a couple of months ! Even then
the odds are against you, unless you hedge
" OTHER INHABITANTS " 151
with the junior subaltern, who gets the worst
and therefore most likely to be tenanted
bed!
If you see a man, en deshabille, sitting out
in the sun, with an earnest, intent look on his
face, and a garment in his hands, you can
safely bet one of two things. He is either
(i) mad, (2) hunting.
It adds variety to life to watch him from
afar, and then have a sweepstake on the
total with your friends. You need not fear
the victim's honesty. He will count each
murdered captive as carefully as though he
were (or she were!) a batch of prisoner Fritzes.
There is a great element of luck about the
game, too; you never can tell. Some men
develop into experts. Lightning destroyers,
one might say. A brand-new subaltern joined
the sweepstake one day, and he bet 117.
The chap had only been at it half an hour
by the clock, too!
The new sub. won.
You can always tell a new sub. You go up
to him and you say politely : " Are you er
... yet ?" If he looks insulted he is new.
If he says, " Yes, old top, millions of 'em! "
and wriggles, he is old!
152 CANADA IN WAR-PAINT
There was a man once who had a champion.
He said he got it in a German dug-out; any-
how, it was a pure-blooded, number one
mammoth, and it won every contest on the
measured yard, against all comers. He kept
it in a glass jar, and fed it on beef. It died
at the age of two months and four days,
probably from senility brought on by over-
eating and too many Derbies. Thank heaven
the breed was not perpetuated, albeit the
Johnny who owned it could have made a lot
of money if he had not been foolishly careful
of the thing.
He buried it in a tin of Keating's mummi-
fied, as it were and enclosed an epitaph:
" Here lie the last ligaments of the largest
louse the Lord ever let loose! "
Some people think Fritz started the things,
as a minor example of fright fulness. One of
them caused a casualty in the regiment, at
all events. A new sub., a very squeamish
chappie, found one just one!- and nearly
died of shame. He heard petrol was a good
thing, so he anointed himself all over with it,
freely. Then his elbow irritated him, and he
lighted a match to see if it was another !
He is still in hospital!
BOMBS
WE counted them as they came up the com-
munication trench, and the Commander of
" AK " Company paled; yet he was a brave
man. He cast a despairing glance around him,
and then looked at me.
" George," he said (you may not believe
it, but there can be a world of pathos put
into that simple name). " George, we are
Goners."
By this time they had reached the front
line.
My thoughts flew to the Vermoral sprayer,
last time it had been the Vermoral sprayer.
Was the V.S. filled, or was it not. . . . ?
They came from scent to view, and pulling
himself together with a click of the heels
closely imitated by the S.I.C., the O.C.
" AK " Coy. saluted.
" Good morning, sir! "
The General acknowledged the salute, but
the ends of his moustache quivered. G.S.O.
154 CANADA IN WAR-PAINT
one, directly in rear, frowned. The Colonel
looked apprehensive, and glared at both of
us. The Brigadier was glum, the Brigade
Major very red in the face. Two of those
beastly supercilious Aides looked at each
other, smiled, glanced affectionately at their
red tabs and smiled again.
It was exactly 2.29 " pip emma " when
the mine went up.
" Discipline, sir," said the General, " disci-
pline is lacking in your company! You have
a sentry on duty at the head of Chelwyn Road.
A sentry! What does he do when he sees
me ? Not a damn thing, sir ! Not a damn
thing!"
Of course the O.C. " AK " made a bad
break; one always does under such circum-
stances.
" He may not have seen you, sir."
G.S.O. one moved forward in support, so
that if overcome the General could fall back
on his centre.
A whizz-bang burst in 94 we were in 98
and the Staff ducked, taking the time from
the front. The Aides carried out the move-
BOMBS 155
ment particularly smartly, resuming the up-
right position in strict rotation.
The General fixed us with a twin Flammen-
werfer gaze.
" What's that ? Not see me ? What the
devil is he there for, sir ? I shall remember
this, Captain ah, Roberts I shall remember
this!"
Pause.
" Where is your Vermoral sprayer ? "
Like lambkins followed by voracious lions,
we lead them to the Vermoral sprayer.
I was at the retaking of Hill 60, at Ypres
long months ago, at Festubert and Givenchy,
but never was I so inspired with dread as
now.
Praise be to Zeus, the V.S. was full!
We passed on, until we reached a bomber
cleaning bombs. The General paused. The
bomber, stood to attention, firmly grasping a
bomb in the right hand, knuckles down, fore-
arm straight.
" Ha! " said the General. " Ha! Bombs,
what?"
The bomber remained apparently petrified.
" What I always say about these bombs,"
156 CANADA IN WAR-PAINT
the General continued, turning to the
Brigadier, " is that they're so damn simple,
what ? A child can use them. You can throw
them about, and, provided the pin is in, no
harm will come of it. But " looking sternly
at me " always make sure the pin is safely
imbedded in the base of the bomb. That is
the first duty of a man handling bombs."
We all murmured assent, faintly or other-
wise, according to rank.
" Give me that bomb," said the General to
the bomber, waxing enthusiastic. The man
hesitated. The General glared, the bomb
became his.
We stood motionless around him. " You
see, gentlemen," the General continued jocu-
larly. " I take this bomb, and I throw it on
the ground so! It does not explode, it
cannot explode, the fuse is not lit, for the
pin "
Just then the bomber leapt like a fleeting
deer round the corner, but the General was
too engrossed to notice him.
" As I say, the pin "
A frightened face appeared round the bay,
and a small shaky voice broke in ;
BOMBS 157
" Please, sir, it's a five-second fuse an' /
9 ad took HOUT the pin ! "
After all the General reached the traverse
in time and we were not shot at dawn. But
G.S.O. one has gone to England " Wounded
and shell-shock."
SOFT JOBS
THIS war has produced a new type of military
man so-called to wit : the seeker after soft
jobs. He flourishes in large numbers in train-
ing areas ; he grows luxuriantly around head-
quarters staffs, and a certain kind of hybrid
a combination of a slacker and a soldier
is to be found a few miles to the rear of the
firing line in France and Flanders. There are
some of him in every rank, from the top of
the tree to the bottom. If he is a natural-born
soft-jobber he never leaves his training area
not even on a Cook's tour. Should the
virus be latent, he will develop an attack,
acute or mild, after one tour in the trenches,
or when one of our own batteries has fired a
salvo close by him.
If he is affected by very mild germs he may
stand a month or two in the firing line in
some sector where fighting troops are sent
for a rest and re-organisation. Broadly speak-
ing, therefore, he belongs to one of three
158
SOFT JOBS 159
classes, of which the second class is perhaps
the worst.
There are some men who join the army
without the least intention of ever keeping
less than the breadth of the English Channel
between themselves and fighting territory.
Not for them the " glorious " battle-fields, not
for them the sweat and toil and purgatory of
fighting for their country. Nothing at all for
them in fact, save a ribbon and a barless medal,
good quarters, perfect safety, staff pay, week-
end leave, with a few extra days thrown in as
a reward for their valuable services, and a
soft job !
They are the militaresques of our armies.
The men who try hard to be soldiers, and who
only succeed in being soldier-like beings erect
upon two legs, with all the outward semblance
of a soldier. Yet even their lives are not safe.
They run grave risks by day and by night in
the service of their country.
Zeppelins !
There is an air of bustle and excitement
around the officers' quarters in the training
camp to-day. Batmen hoary-haired veterans
with six ribbons, whom no M.O. could be
160 CANADA IN WAR-PAINT
induced to pass for active service, even by
tears rush madly hither and thither, parley-
ing in odd moments of Ladysmith, Kabul to
Kandahar, and " swoddies." Head-quarters
look grave, tense, strained.
In the ante-room to the mess stand soda
syphons and much " B. & W." There are
gathered there most of the officers of two
regiments base battalions, with permanent
training staffs. In the five seats of honour
recline nonchalantly two majors, one captain,
and two subalterns. (O.C. Lewis gun school,
O.C. nothing in particular, Assistant O.C.
Lewis gun school, Assistant Assistant Lewis
gun school, Deputy Assistant Adjutant.)
They are smoking large, fat cigars, and con-
suming many drinks. Are they not the heroes
of the hour ? When the sun rises well into the
heavens to-morrow they will set forth on a
desperate journey.
They are going on a Cook's tour of two
weeks' duration to the trenches ! (So that they
can have the medal!) In the morning, with
bad headaches, they depart. In Boulogne
they spend twelve hours of riotous life. (" Let
us eat and drink," says the O.C. nothing in
SOFT JOBS 161
particular, "for to-morrow, dont-cher-know! ")
They arrive in due course at Battalion battle
H.Q. The majors have the best time, as they
stay with the C.O., drink his Scotch, and do
the bombing officer and the M.G.O. out of a
bed.
The rest of them are right up among the
companies, where they are an infernal
nuisance. About n "pip emma " Fritz
starts fire-works, and finishes up with a
bombing attack on the left flank. The O.C.
nothing in particular stops at B.H.Q. The
O.C. Lewis gun school mistakes the first
general head-quarters line (one kilometre in
rear) for the front line, and goes back with
shell-shock, having been in the centre of a
barrage caused by one 5.9 two hundred yards
north. The Assistant Assistant gets into the
main bomb store in the front line, and stops
there, and the Assistant O.C. Lewis gun
school remains in Coy. H.Q. and looks after
the batmen. The Deputy Assistant Adjutant
gets out into the trench, finds some bombers
doing nothing, gets hold of a couple of bombs,
makes for the worst noise, and carries on as a
soldier should.
162 CANADA IN WAR-PAINT
After the show the O.C. nothing in particular
tells the Colonel all bis theories on counter-
attack, and goes sick in the morning for the
remaining period of his tour; the other twain
stand easy, and the Deputy Assistant Adju-
tant makes an application for transfer to the
Battalion. Incidentally he is recommended
for the military cross.
When the four previously mentioned return
to England they all of them apply for better
soft jobs, on the strength of recent experiences
at the front. The one man who threw up his
soft job to become junior subaltern in a fight-
ing regiment is killed in the next " show "
before his recommendation for a decoration
has been finally approved.
Fiat justitia, ruat ccelum.
"GROUSE"
WE aren't happy; our clothes don't fit, and
we ain't got no friends! Rations are not up
yet confound the Transport Officer it's
raining like the dickens, as dark as pitch, and
we've only got one bit of candle. Some one
has pinched a jar of rum, that idiot batman
of mine can't find a brazier, and young John
has lost his raincoat. In fact it's a rotten war.
We had lobster for lunch; it has never let
us forget we had it ! The Johnny we " took
over " from said there were 7698 million
bombs in the Battalion grenade store, and
there are only 6051. The Adjutant has just
sent a " please explain," which shows what
you get for believing a fellow.
The little round fat chap has left his gum
boots (thigh) " Somewhere in France," and
fell into the trench tramway trying to wear
an odd six on the right foot, and an odd nine
on the left. George has busted the D string
of the mandoline, and A. P. has lost the only
pack of cards we had to play poker with.
163
164 CANADA IN WAR-PAINT
It's a simply rotten war !
John has a working party out of sixty
" other ranks " and says they are spread in
two's and three's over a divisional frontage.
He has made two trips to locate them, and
meditates a third. His language is positively
hair-raising. If he falls into any more shell-
holes no one will let him in the dug-out.
Those confounded brigade machine gunners
are firing every other second just in front of
the dug-out. Heaven knows what they are
firing at, or where, but how a man could be
expected to sleep through the noise only a
siege artillery man could tell you.
George went out on a " reconnaissance "
recently. George is great on doing recon-
naissances and drawing maps. This time the
reconnaissance did him, and the only map
he's yet produced is mud tracings on his
person. Incidentally he says that all the com-
munication trenches are impassable, and that
no one but a cat could go over the top and
keep on his feet for more than thirty seconds.
(N.B. George fell into the main support line
and had to be pulled out by some of John's
working-party.) George says that if the
" GROUSE " 165
Germans come over it's all up. Cheerful sort
of beggar, George.
My new smoke-helmet the one you wear
round your neck all the time, even in your
dreams is lost again. This is the third time
in the course of six hours. The gas N.C.O.
has calculated that with the wind at its
present velocity we should be gassed in one
and three-quarter seconds, not counting the
recurring decimal.
John has just told a story about a bayonet.
It would be funny at any other time. Now, it
simply sticks!
The cook has just come in to say our rations
have been left behind by mistake. Troubles
never come singly. May heaven protect the
man who is responsible if we get him! John
has told another story, about an Engineer.
It can't be true, for he says this chap was out
in No Man's Land digging a trench. No one
ever knew a Canadian Engineer do anything
but tell the infantry how to work. It's a
rotten story, anyhow.
Just look at this dug-out; a bottle of rum
on the table empty. The odd steel helmet,
some dirty old newspapers, and a cup or two
i66 CANADA IN WAR-PAINT
(empty!), and a pile of strafes from the
Adjutant six inches thick. My bed has a
hole in it as big as a " Johnson 'ole," and
there are rats. Also the place is inhabited by
what the men call " crumbs." Poetic version
of a painful fact.
John says this is the d est outfit he has
ever been in. John is right. My gumboots
were worn by the Lance-Corporal in No. 2
platoon, and they are wet, beastly wet. Also
my batman has forgotten to put any extra
socks in my kit-bag. Also he's lost my Ger-
man rifle the third I've bought for twenty
francs and lost.
This is a deuce of a war!
The mail has just arrived. George got five,
the little round fat fellow nine, A. P. two, and
John and me shake hands with a duck's-egg.
Still the second mentioned has his troubles.
One of his many inamoratas has written to
him in French. He knows French just about
as well as he knows how to sing! Nuff
said!
John has " parti'd " to his triple-starred
working-party. The men have not got any
letters either, You should hear them! The
" GROUSE " 167
most expert " curser " of the Billingsgate
fishmarket would turn heliotrope with envy.
George is feeling badly too. He lent his
flash-light to dish out rations with. That is
to say, to illuminate what the best writers
of nondescript fiction call the " Cimmerian
gloom! "
A. P. has had letters from his wife. Lucky
dog ! She takes up four pages telling him how
she adores him.
This is a beastly rotten war.
Fritz is a rotter too. My dug-out is two
hundred yards north by nor'-east. Every
time I have to make the trip he never fails
to keep the Cimmerian gloom strictly " Cim."
And the bath-mats are broken in two places,
and I've found both of them every time.
Another strafe from the Adjutant. May
jackals defile his grave, but he'll never have
one in France, anyhow. " Please render an
account to Orderly Room of the number of
men in your unit who are qualified plumbers."
We haven't any.
If we had we should have mended the hole
in the roof, which leaks on John's bed. It has
only just begun to leak. It will be fun to hear
168 CANADA IN WAR-PAINT
what John says when he comes back. Only
he may be speechless.
The little round fat fellow is still reading
letters, and A. P. is hunting in his nether
garments. " Kinder scratterin' arounM " So
far the bag numbers five killed and two badly
winged, but still on the run.
Somebody has turned out the guard. Yells
of fire. After due inspection proves to be the
C.O.'s tunic. It was a new one! May his
batman preserve himself in one piece.
More yells of " Guard turn out ! " Support
my tottering footsteps! Our that is to say
my dug-out is on fire. . . . Confusion. . . .
Calm. ... I have no dug-out, no anything.
* . . This is, pardonnez-moi, a Hell of a war!
PANSIES
THERE are some pansies on my table, arranged
in a broken glass one of the men has picked
up among the rubble and debris of this
shattered town. Dark mauve and yellow
pansies, pretty, innocent looking little things.
" Pansies that's for thoughts."
Transport is rattling up and down the
street guns, limbers, G.S. wagons, water-
carts, God knows what, and there are men
marching along, mud-caked, weary, straggling,
clinging fast to some German souvenir as
they come one way; jaunty, swinging, clean,
with bands a-blowing as they go the other.
It is a dull grey day. There is " something
doing " up the line. I can hear the artillery,
that ceaseless artillery, pounding and hammer-
ing, and watch the scout aeroplanes, dim grey
hawks in the distance, from the windows of
the room above the broken-down room with
the plasterless ceiling, and the clothes scattered
all over the floor.
" Pansies -that's for thoughts."
170 CANADA IN WAR-PAINT
The regiment is up yonder the finest regi-
ment God ever made. They are wallowing
in the wet, sticky mud of the trenches they
have dug themselves into, what is left of
them. They are watching and waiting, always
watching and waiting for the enemy to attack.
And they are being bombarded steadily,
pitilessly, without cessation. Some will be
leaning against the parapet, sleeping the sleep
of exhaustion, some will be watching, some
smoking, if they have got any smokes left.
I know them. Until the spirit leaves their
bodies they will grin and fight, fight and grin,
but always " Carry On."
Last night they went up to relieve the th,
after they had just come out of the line, and
were themselves due to be relieved. Overdue,
in fact, but the General knew that he could
rely on them, knew that THEY would never
give way, while there was a man left to fire a
rifle. So he used them as they have always
been used, and as they always will be to
hold the line in adversity, to take the line
when no one else could take it.
We have been almost wiped out five times,
but the old spirit still lives, the Spirit of our
PANSIES 171
mighty dead. There are always enough " old
men " left, even though they number but a
score, with whom to leaven the lump of raw,
green rookies that come to us, and to turn
them into soldiers worthy of the Regiment.
Dark mauve pansies.
I knew all the old soldiers of the Brigade,
I have fought with them, shaken hands with
them afterwards those who survived
mourned with them our pals who were gone
buried many a one of them.
This time I am out of it. Alone with the
pansies . . . and my thoughts. Thomson
was killed last night; Greaves, Nicholson,
Townley, between then and now. Nearly all
the rest are wounded. Those who come back
will talk of this fight, they will speak of hours
and events of which I shall know nothing.
For the first time I shall be on the outer
fringe, mute ... with only ears to hear, and
no heart to speak.
Perhaps they will come out to-morrow
night. Or, early, very early the following
morning. They will be tired so tired they
are past feeling it unshaven, unwashed, and
covered with mud from their steel helmets
172 CANADA IN WAR-PAINT
down to the soles of their boots. But they
will be fairly cheerful. They will try to sing
on the long, long march back here, as I have
heard them so many times before. When
they reach the edge of the town they will try
to square their weary shoulders, and to keep
step and they will do it, too, heaven only
knows how, but they will do it. Their leader
will feel very proud of them, which is only
right and proper. He will call them " boys,"
encourage the weak, inwardly admire and
bless the strong. And he will be proud of the
mud and dirt, proud of his six days' growth
of beard. Satisfied; because he has just done
one more little bit, and the Good Lord has
pulled him through it.
When they get to their billets they will
cheer; discordantly, but cheer none the less.
They will crowd into the place, and drop
their kits and themselves on top of them, to
sleep the sleep of the just the well-earned
sleep of utter fatigue.
In the morning they will feel better, and
they will glance at you with an almost affec-
tionate look in their eyes, for they know-
as the men always know whether you have
PANSIES 173
proved yourself, whether you have made
good or failed.
" Pansies . . . that's for thoughts. . . ."
And I am out of it out of it ALL . . .
preparing " To re-organise what is left of the
regiment."
For God's sake, Holman, take away those
flowers !
GOING BACK
A LARGE crowd packed the wide platform,
hemmed in on one side by a barrier, on the
other by a line of soldiers two paces apart.
The boat-train was leaving in five minutes,
That a feeling of tension permeated the crowd
was evident, from the forced smiles and
laughter, and the painful endeavours of the
departing ones to look preternaturally cheer-
ful. In each little group there were sudden
silences.
Almost at the last moment a tall, lean
officer pressed through the crowd, made for
a smoking-carriage, and got in. He surveyed
the scene with a rather compassionate in-
terest, while occasionally a wistful look passed
over his face as he watched for a moment an
officer talking with a very pretty girl, almost
a child, who now and then mopped her eyes
defiantly with a diminutive handkerchief.
" All aboard."
The pretty girl lifted up her face, and the
lonely one averted his eyes, pulled a news-
GOING BACK 175
paper hastily from his overcoat pocket, and
proceeded to read it upside down!
As the train pulled out of the station a
cheer went up and handkerchiefs fluttered.
The sole other occupant of the carnage, a
young very young subaltern who had just
said good-bye to his mother, muttered to
himself and blinked hard out of the window.
The Lonely One shrugged himself more deeply
into his seat, and abstractedly reversed the
newspaper. A paragraph caught his eye:
" Artillery activity developed yesterday in
the sector south of Leuville St. Vaast. An
enemy attempt to raid our trenches at this
point was foiled." He smiled a trifle, and
putting down the paper fell to thinking. Un-
able to contain himself any longer, the boy
in the corner spoke.
" Rotten job, this going back show," he
said. The other assented gravely, and they
fell to talking, spasmodically, of the Front.
Pure, undiluted shop, but very comforting.
Finally the train arrived at the port of
embarkation. A crowd of officers of all ranks
surged along the platform, glanced at the
telegram board, and passed on towards the
1 76 CANADA IN WAR-PAINT
boat. The Lonely One stopped, however, for
his name in white chalk stared at him. He
got the telegram eventually and opened it.
It contained only two words and no signature :
" Good luck." Flushing a trifle he walked
down to the waiting mail-boat, and getting
his disembarkation card passed up the gang-
way.
An air of impenetrable gloom hung over
the dirty decks. Here and there a few men
chatted together, but for the most part the
passengers kept to themselves. The lonely
man found the young lieutenant waiting for
him, and together they mounted to the upper
deck, and secured two chairs aft, hanging
their life-belts on to them.
A little later the boat cast off, and they
watched the land fade from sight as many
others were watching with them. " Ave
atque Vale."
" I wonder ..." said the youngster, and
then bit his lips.
" Come below and have some grub," the
other said cheerily. They ate, paid for it
through the nose, and felt better. Half an
hour later they were in Boulogne.
GOING BACK 177
As they waited outside the M.L.O.'s office
for their turn, the younger asked:
" I say, what Army are you ? "
" First."
" So'm I," joyfully, " p'raps we'll go up
together."
" I hope so, but we shall have to stop here
the night, I expect."
Even as he said so a notice was hung out-
side the little wooden office : " Officers of
the First Army returning from leave will
report to the R.T.O., Gare Centrale, at
10.00 A.M. to-morrow, Saturday, I7th instant."
" That settles it," said the elder man,
" come along, and we'll go to the Officers'
Club and bag a couple of beds."
" Nineteen hours," wailed the other, " in
this beastly place! What on earth shall we
find to do ? "
" Don't worry about that there is usually
some one to whom one can write." It was
both a hint and a question.
"Yes- ra tber/"
They had tea, and afterwards the boy
wrote a long letter, in which he said a great
deal more to the mother who received it than
M
178 CANADA IN WAR-PAINT
was actually written on the paper. The
Lonely One sat for some time in front of the
fire, and finally scribbled a card. It was
addressed to some place in the wilds of Scot-
land, and it bore the one word " Thanks."
After dinner they sat and smoked awhile.
The Lonely One knew much of the life-
history of the other by now. It had burst
from the boy, and the Lonely One had
listened sympathetically and with little com-
ment, and had liked to hear it. It is good to
hear a boy talk about his mother.
" What shall we do now ? "
"We might go to the cinema show; it
used to be fairly good."
"Right-oh! I say" a little diffidently
" last time I was on leave, the first time too,
I came back with some fellows who were
pretty well pretty hot stuff. They wanted
me to go to a to a place up in the town, and
I didn't go. I think they thought I was an
awful blighter, don't-you-know, but "
" What that kind of chap thinks doesn't
matter in the least, old man," interposed the
other. " You were at Cambridge, weren't
you ? "
GOING BACK 179
"Yes."
" Well, you may have heard the old tag ?
Besides, I don't think some one some-
body . . ." he hesitated and stopped. The
youngster flushed.
" Yes, I know," he said softly.
They boarded the train together, and
shared the discomforts of the long tedious
journey. Every hour, or less, the train
stopped, for many minutes, and then with a
creak and a groan wandered on again like an
ancient snail. Rain beat on the window-
panes, and the compartment was as drafty
as a sieve.
It was not until the small hours that they
reached their destination, a cold, bleak,
storm-swept platform.
" This is where we say good-bye," the
youngster began regretfully, " thanks awf'ly
for"
" Rot," broke in the other brusquely, tak-
ing the proffered hand in his big brown one.
" Best of luck, old man, and don't forget to
drop me a card."
" A nice boy, a very nice boy," he mused,
as he climbed into the military bus, and was
180 CANADA IN WAR-PAINT
rattled off, back to the mud and slush and
dreariness of it all.
" Have a good time ? " asked the Trans-
port Officer the next morning, as the Lonely
One struggled into his fighting kit, prepara-
tory to rejoining the battalion in the trenches.
" Yes, thanks. By the way, any mail for
me?"
" One letter. Here you are."
He took it, looked an instant at the hand-
writing, and thrust it inside his tunic. The
postmark was the same as that of the wire
he had received at the port of embarkation.
THREE RED ROSES
IN the distance rose the spires of Ypres, and
the water-tower, useless now for the purpose
for which it was built, but still erect on its
foundations. The silvery mist of early April
hung very lightly over the flat surrounding
land, hiding one corner of Vlamertinghe from
sight, where the spire of the church still
raised its head, as yet unvanquished. A red
sun was rising in the East, and beyond Ypres
a battle still raged, though nothing to the
battle of a few short days before. Hidden
batteries spoke now and then, and the roads
were a cloud of dust, as men, transport, guns,
and many ambulances passed along them.
Overhead aeroplanes droned, and now and
again shells whistled almost lazily overhead,
to fall with a thunderous " crrumph " in
Brielen and Vlamertinghe.
By the canal there was a dressing-station.
The little white flag with its red cross hung
listless in the still air. Motor ambulances
drove up at speed and departed with their
181
1 82 CANADA IN WAR-PAINT
burdens. Inside the dressing-station men
worked ceaselessly, as they had been work-
ing for days. Sometimes shells fell near by.
No one heeded them.
Beyond the dressing-station, down the road,
the banks of which were filled with little
niches hollowed out with entrenching tools,
hurried a figure. He was but one of many,
but there was that about him which com-
manded the attention of all who saw him.
His spurs and boots were dirty, his uniform
covered with stains and dust, his face un-
shaven. He walked like a man in a dream,
yet as of set purpose. Pale and haggard, he
strode along, mechanically acknowledging
salutes.
Arrived at the dressing-station, without
pausing he entered, and went up to one of
the doctors who was bandaging the remnants
of an arm.
" Have they come yet ? " he asked.
The other looked at him gravely with a
certain respect and pity, and with the eye
also of a medical man.
" Not yet, Colonel," he answered. " You
had better sit down and rest, you are all in."
THREE RED ROSES 183
The Colonel passed a weary hand over his
forehead.
"No," he said. "No, Campbell; I shall
go back and look for the party. They may
have lost their way, and they were three
of my best officers, three of my boys. . . .
I I "
"Here, sir! Take this."
It was more of a command than a request.
The Colonel drained what was given him, and
went out without a word.
Back he trudged, along the shell-pitted
road, even now swept by occasional salvos
of shrapnel. He took no notice of anything,
but continued feverishly on his way, his eyes
ever searching the distance. At last he gave
vent to an exclamation. Down the road was
coming a stretcher party. They had but one
stretcher, and on it lay three blanketed
bundles.
The Colonel met them, and with bowed
head accompanied them back to the dressing-
station.
" You found them all ? " It was his only
question.
" Yes, sir, all that was left."
1 84 CANADA IN WAR-PAINT
The stretcher was taken to a little empty
dug-out, and with his own hands the C.O.
laid the Union Jack over it.
" When will the the graves be ready ? "
he asked the doctor.
" By five o'clock, sir."
" I will be back at 4.30."
" You must take some rest, Colonel, or
you'll break down."
"Thank you, Campbell, I can look after
myself! "
" Very good, sir."
As he went away Captain Campbell looked
after him rather anxiously.
" Never would have thought he could be
so upset," he mused. " He'll be in hospital,
if
Straight back to Brielen the Colonel walked,
and there he met his orderly with the horses.
He mounted without a word, and rode on,
through Vlamertinghe, until he reached Pop-
heringe. There he dismounted.
" I shall be some time," he said to the
orderly.
He went through the square, up the noisy
street leading to the Vehrenstraat, and along
THREE RED ROSES 185
it, until he reached a little shop, in which
were still a few flowers. He entered, and a
frightened-looking woman came to serve him.
" I want three red roses," he said.
It took the saleswoman several minutes to
understand, but finally she showed him what
she had. The roses were not in their first
bloom, but they were large and red. The
Colonel had them done up, and left carrying
them carefully. The rest of his time he spent
in repairing as well as might be the ravages
of battle on his clothes and person. At 4.20
he was again at the dressing-station.
A quiet-voiced padre awaited him there, a
tall, ascetic-looking man, with the eyes of a
seer.
They carried the bundles on the stretcher
to the graves, three among many, just behind
the dressing-station.
" Almighty God, as it has pleased Thee to
take the souls of these, our dear brothers . . ."
the sonorous voice read on, while the C.O.
stood, bare-headed, at the head of the graves,
holding in his hand the three red roses. The
short burial service came to an end.
The Colonel walked to the foot of each
1 86 CANADA IN WAR-PAINT
grave in turn, and gently threw on each poor
shattered remnant a red rose. Straightening
himself, he stood long at the salute, and then,
with a stern, set face, he strode away, to where
the Padre awaited him, not caring that his
eyes were wet. The Padre said nothing, but
took his hand and gripped it.
" Padre," said the Colonel, " those three
were more to me than any other of my officers ;
I thought of them as my children."
ADJUTANTS
IF Fate cherishes an especial grievance against
you, you will be made an Adjutant.
One of those bright beautiful mornings,
when all the world is young and, generally
speaking, festive, the sword of Damocles will
descend upon you, and you will be called to
the Presence, and told you are to be Ad-
jutant. You will, perhaps, be rather inclined
to think yourself a deuce of a fellow on that
account. You will acquire a pair of spurs,
and expect to be treated with respect. You
will, in fact, feel that you are a person of some
importance, quite the latest model in good
little soldiers. You may and this is the
most cruel irony of all be complimented on
your appointment by your brother officers.
Vanity of vanities, all is vanity, saith the
preacher !
As soon as you become the " voice of the
C.O.," you lose every friend you ever pos-
sessed. You are just about as popular as the
187
i88 CANADA IN WAR-PAINT
proverbial skunk at a garden party. It takes
only two days to find this out.
The evening of the second day you decide
to have a drink, Orderly Room or no Orderly
Room. You make this rash decision, and you
tell the Orderly-Room Sergeant only heaven
knows when he sleeps that you are going out.
" I will be back in half an hour," you say.
Then you go forth to seek for George
George, your pal, your intimate, your bosom
friend. You find George in your old Coy.
head-quarters, and a pang of self-pity sweeps
over you as you cross the threshold and see
the other fellows there : George, Henry, John,
and the rest.
" Come and have a " you begin cheerily.
Suddenly, in the frosty silence you hear a
cool, passionless voice remark,
" Good evening, SIR! "
It is George, the man you loved and trusted,
whom you looked on as a friend and brother.
" George, come and have a " again the
words stick in your throat.
George answers, in tones from which all
amity, peace, and goodwill towards men have
vanished :
ADJUTANTS 189
" Thanks very much, sir " oh baleful little
word " but I've just started a game of
poker."
Dimly light dawns in your reeling brain;
you realise the full extent of your disabilities,
and you know that all is over. You are the
Adjutant the voice of the C.O. !
Sadly, with the last glimmer of Adjutant
pride and pomp cast from out your soul, you
return to Orderly Room, drinkless, friend-
less, and alone.
" The Staff Captain has been ringing you
up, sir. He wants to know if the summary of
evidence . . ." and so on. In frenzied despera-
tion you seize the telephone. Incidentally you
call the Staff Captain away from his dinner.
What he says, no self-respecting man not
even an Adjutant could reveal without lay-
ing bare the most lacerated portions of his
innermost feelings.
You go to bed, a sadder and a wiser man,
wondering if you could go back to the Com-
pany, even as the most junior sub., were you
to make an impassioned appeal to the C.O.
About i A.M. some one comes in and
awakensjyou.
190 CANADA IN WAR-PAINT
" Message from Brigade, sir."
With an uncontrite heart you read it:
" Forward to this office immediately a com-
plete nominal roll of all men of your unit who
have served continuously for nine months
without leave." That takes two hours, and
necessitates the awakening of all unit com-
manders, as the last Adjutant kept no record.
In psychic waves you feel curses raining on
you through the stilly night. Having made
an application in writing to the C.O., to
be returned to duty, you go to bed.
At 3.30 A.M. you are awakened again.
" Movement order from Brigade, sir! "
This time you say nothing. All power of
speech is lost. The entire regiment curses
you, while by the light of a guttering candle
you write a movement order, " operation
order number " what the deuce is the num-
ber anyhow. The Colonel is shall we say
indisposed as to temper, and the companies
get half an hour to fall in, ready to march off.
One Company loses the way, and does not
arrive at the starting-point.
" Did you specify the starting-point quite
clearly, Mr. Jones ? "
ADJUTANTS 191
" Yes, sir."
" Where did you say it was ? "
" One hundred yards south of the * N ' in
CANDIN, sir."
" There are two ' N'S ' in CANDIN, Mr.
Jones ; two ' N'S ' ! How can you expect a
company commander to know which ' N ' ?
Gross carelessness. Gross carelessness. Go
and find the Company, please."
" Yessir."
You find the Company only just out of
billets, after scouring the miserable country
around the wrong ' N ' for fifteen minutes,
and falling off your horse into one of those
infernal ditches.
The battalion moves off half an hour later,
and the C.O. has lots to say about it. He also
remarks that his late Adjutant was " a good
horseman " a bitter reflection !
There is absolutely no hope for an Adjutant.
If he is a good man at the " job " everybody
hates him. If he is feeble the C.O. hates him.
The Brigade staff hate him on principle. If
he kow-tows to them they trample on him
with both feet, if he does not they set snares
for him, and keep him up all night. He is
192 CANADA IN WAR-PAINT
expected to know everything: K. R. and 0.
backwards and forwards, divisional drill, and
the training of a section. Routine for the cure
of housemaid's knee in mules, and the whole
compendium of Military Law. He is never off
duty, and even his soul is not his own. He is,
in fact, The Adjutant.
Sometimes people try to be nice to him.
They mean well. They will come into the
Orderly Room and say: " Oh, Mr. Jones, can
you tell me where the ngth Reserve Battery
of the 83rd Reserve Stokes Gun Coy. is
situated ? " Of course, Adjutants know every-
thing.
And when you admit ignorance they look
at you with pained surprise, and go to Brigade.
" I asked the Adjutant of the th Battalion,
but he did not seem to know."
Adjutants die young.
HOME
THERE is one subject no man mentions at the
Front unless it be very casually, en passant.
Even then it brings with it a sudden silence.
There is so much, so very much in that little
word " Home."
If a man were to get up at a sing-song and
sing " Home, Sweet Home," his life would
be imperilled. His audience would rise and
annihilate him, because they could not give
vent to their feelings in any other way. There
are some things that strike directly at the
heart, and this is one of them.
You see the new officer, the men of the new
draft, abstracted, with a rather wistful look
on their faces, as they gaze into the brazier,
or sit silently in billets when their work is
done. You have felt like that, and you know
what is the matter. The symptoms are not
to be encouraged in the individual nor the
mass. They lead to strong drink and dissipa-
tion, for no man can preserve his inward
calm for long, if he dwells much on his dearest
recollections of Home. There is but one
193 N
I 9 4 CANADA IN WAR-PAINT
remedy: work, and lots of it, action, move-
ment, anything to distract.
Many a man has committed some small
" crime " that brought him to Orderly Room
because he allowed his mind to wander . . .
Home and realised too fully the percentage
of his chances of ever seeing that home again.
The Front is not a garden of Allah, or a bed of
roses, or even a tenth-rate music-hall as some
people would have us believe. It has to be made
bearable by the spirit of those who endure it.
There is enough that is grim and awe-
inspiring aye! and heart-rending, without
seeking it. That is why we do not like certain
kinds of music at the Front, why the one-
time student of " intense " music develops
an uncontrollable predilection for wild and
woolly rag-time strains, and never winces at
their execution however faulty. That is why
the Estaminets sell so much bad beer, and so
much vin mousseux under the generic title of
Champagne.
Men want to forget about Home, for they
dare not think of it too much. I have never
heard a man speak of Home without a little
hush in his voice, as though he spoke of some-
thing sacred that was, and might not be again.
HOME 195
How often one heard the remark, a kind of
apologia : " One must do something." Yet,
in spite of all they do to forget Home, they
are least happy who have none to forget.
Fortunately they are few. It is a strange
provision of Providence that lends zest to the
attempt at oblivion, and induces a frame of
mind that yearns through that attempt for
the very things it would fain forget!
After all, it is very much like the school-
boy who longs for privacy where he can
blubber unseen, and is at the same time very
glad that he has not got it, and carft blubber,
because his school-fellows would see him!
A superficial observer might think that the
men at the Front are purely callous, intent
on seizing lustily on every possible chance of
doubtful and other pleasures that they can
obtain. He may think that war has brutalised
them, numbed their consciences, steeled their
hearts. Or he may class them as of low in-
tellect. In all of which he is wrong, and has
utterly failed to grasp the morale of the man
who lives to fight to-day, never knowing of a
certainty if he will see another dawn.
The soldier knows that he may not dwell
in his heart on all he holds most dear. It
196 CANADA IN WAR-PAINT
" takes the stuffing out of him." So, according
to his lights, he works very hard indeed to keep
up his spirits ; to forget. Not really to forget,
only to pretend to himself that he is forgetting.
What good is it for the man whose sweet-
heart ran away with the other fellow to think
about it ? Therefore, Tommy rises above his
thoughts, he puts them away from him as
best he can. And if that best is not all that
people at home might wish it to be, surely
some allowance may be made for what may be
called the exigencies of the military situation !
Perhaps it is the last thing some people
would imagine, but homesickness is a very
real disease at the Front, and he may count
himself lucky who escapes it.
" Wot price the Hedge ware Road ? " says
Bill, ruminatively, as he drinks his glass of
mild very mild beer.
And his pal sums up his feelings in the one
word "Blimey!"
If you have seen men go into action, not
once, but many times; if you have heard
them sing, " Oh my, I don't want to die; /
want to go Home," " My Little Grey Home
in the West," and many other similar ditties,
then you will understand.
HOME 197
The very trenches shout it at you, these
universal thoughts of Home. Look at some
of the names : Oxford Street, Petticoat Lane,
The Empire, Toronto Avenue, Bayou Italien
even the German trenches have their Wil-
helmstrasse! Each nation in arms is alike in
this respect. Every front-line soldier longs
for Home.
A singer whose voice was chiefly remark-
able for its sympathetic quality, gave a con-
cert within sound of the guns. A battalion,
just out of the trenches, went to hear her.
She sang several bright little songs, every one
encored uproariously, and finally she sang one
of those beautiful Kashmir love songs which
go straight to the depths. There was a
moment's tense silence when she had finished,
and then the " house " rocked with applause,
followed by a greater trumpeting of handker-
chiefed noses than was ever before indulged in
by any regiment en masse. She had awakened
memories of Home.
There are many who rest beneath foreign
skies for whom all earthly homes are done
with. They have been gathered to the greatest
Home of all.
ACTION
" MESSAGE from Head-quarters, sir." The
runner was breathing hard, and his eyes were
strained and tense-looking. He had not
shaved for days. Fritz's " thousand guns on
the Somme," that the papers talk of so glibly,
were tuning up for business.
Major Ogilvie took the message, read it,
and handed it on to me. " Zero hour will be
at 6.30 P.M. AAA. Our artillery will bombard
from 5.30 to 6.20 P.M., slow continuous, and
from 6.20 to 6.29 P.M. hurricane fire AAA.
You will give all possible assistance, by means
of rifle and machine-gun fire to ULTRAMARINE,
and arrange to re-inforce, if necessary, in
case of heavy counter-attack AAA. ULTRA-
MARINE will indicate that objective has been
gained by firing two red rockets simultane-
ously AAA. Please render situation reports
every half hour to B.H.Q., A.2i.d.i.4J.AAA."
We looked at each other and smiled a little
grimly. To be on the flank of an attack is
198
ACTION 199
rather worse than to attack, for it means
sitting tight while Fritz pounds the life out
of you.
" You stop here," said Ogilvie, " in this
glory-hole of ours, while I go up and see
Niven. He will have to put his men in those
forward saps. If you get any messages, deal
with them, and make sure that Townley keeps
those bombers of his on both sides of the
road. They must stop there, as long as there
are any of them left, or the Hun might try
to turn our flank. So long.'*
He set out towards the north, leaving me
in " AK " Coy.'s " head-quarters." The
latter consisted of a little niche, three feet
wide, ran back a foot, and was four feet high,
cut in the parapet of the front line. The
runner, Thomson, one of our own company,
was curled up in a little cubby-hole at my
feet, and had fallen asleep.
It was lonely in that trench, although there
were invisible men, not thirty feet away, on
both sides of me.
The time was 5.25 P.M.
Our guns were still silent. Fritz was warm-
ing up more and more. He was shelling our
200 CANADA IN WAR-PAINT
right most persistently, putting " the odd
shell " around head-quarters.
Punctually to the minute our artillery
started in. Salvos of heavies, way back,
shrapnel all along the front line and supports.
A wickedly pretty sight along a thousands
yard front: Fritz began to get irritated,
finally to be alarmed. Up went his red lights,
one after the other, as he called on his guns,
called, and kept on calling. They answered
the call. Above us the air hissed unceasingly
as shells passed and exploded in rear. He was
putting a barrage on our supports and com-
munication trenches. Then he opened up all
along our trench. High explosive shrapnel,
and those thunder-crackling " woolly-bears."
I wondered where Ogilvie was, if he was all
right, and I huddled in close to the damp
crumbling earth.
It was 5.50 P.M.
" Per-loph-UFF." An acrid smell of burnt
powder, a peculiar, weird feeling that my head
was bursting, and a dreadful realisation that
I was pinned in up to my neck, and could
not stir. A small shell, bursting on graze, had
lit in the parapet, just above my head, ex-
ACTION 201
ploded, and buried me up to the neck, and
the runner also. He called out, but the din
was too great for me to hear what he said. I
struggled until my hands were free, and then
with the energy of pure fear tore at the
shattered sand-bags that weighed me down.
Finally I was free to bend over to Thomson.
" Are you hurt ? "
" No, sir, but I can't move. I thought you
was dead."
I clawed him out with feverish haste. The
air reeked with smoke, and the shelling was
hellish. Without any cessation shells burst
in front of, above, and behind the trench;
one could feel their hot breath on one's cheek,
and once I heard above the din a cry of agony
that wrung my torn and tattered nerves to a
state of anguish.
" Get out of here," I yelled, and we crawled
along the crumbling trench to the right.
"Hrrumph!" A five-nine landed just
beyond us. I stopped a second. " Stretcher-
bearer! " came weakly from a dim niche at
my side. Huddled there was one of my boys.
He was wounded in the foot, the leg, the
chest, and very badly in the arm. It took
202 CANADA IN WAR-PAINT
five minutes to put on a tourniquet, and
while it was being done a scout lying by my
side was killed. He cried out once, turned,
shivered, and died. I remember wondering
how his soul could go up to Heaven through
that awful concentration of fire and stinging
smoke.
It was 6.15 P.M.
There were many wounded, many dead,
one of those wonderfully brave men, a
stretcher-bearer, told me, when he came
crawling along, with blood-stained hands,
and his little red-cross case. None of the
wounded could be moved then, it was im-
possible. I got a message, and read it by the
light of the star shells : " Please report at
once if enemy are shelling your area heavily
AAA." The answer was terse : " Yes AAA."
Suddenly there was a lull. One of those
inexplicable, almost terrifying lulls that are
almost more awesome than the noise pre-
ceding them. I heard a voice ten yards
away, coming from a vague, shadowy figure
lying on the ground:
" Are you all right, ' P.' ? " It was Ogilvie.
" Yes. Are you ? "
ACTION 203
We crawled together, and held a hurried
conversation at the top of our voices, for the
bombardment had now started in with violent
intensity from our side, as well as from
Fritz's.
" We'll have to move to the sap, with
Niven ... bring . . . runners . . . you . . .
make . . . dash for it."
" How . . . 'bout Townley ? "
" 'S'all right."
Then we pulled ourselves together and
went for it, stumbling along the trench, over
heaped-up mounds of earth, past still forms
that would never move again. On, on, running
literally for our lives. At last we reached the
saps. Two platoons were out there, crowded
in a little trench a foot and a half wide, no-
where more than four feet deep. Some shrapnel
burst above it, but it was the old front line,
thirty yards in rear, on which the Germans
were concentrating a fire in which no man
could live long.
The runners, Major Ogilvie, Niven, and my-
self, and that amazing Sergeant-Major of ours,
who would crack a joke with Charon, were all
together in a few yards of trench.
204 CANADA IN WAR-PAINT
Our fire ceased suddenly. It was zero
hour. In defiance of danger Ogilvie stood up,
perfectly erect, and watched what was going
on. Our guns opened again, they had lifted
to the enemy supports and lines of com-
munication.
"They're over! " we cried all together.
Machine-guns were rattling in a crescendo
of sound that was like the noise of a rapid
stream above the roar of a water-wheel. The
enemy sent up rocket upon rocket three's,
four's, green and red. Niven, as plucky a
boy as ever lived, watched eagerly. Then a
perfect hail of shells began to fall. One could
almost see our old trench change its form as
one glanced at it. It was almost as light as
day. Major Ogilvie was writing reports. One
after another he sent out the runners to head-
quarters, those runners every one of whom
deserves the Victoria Cross. Some went never
to return.
All at once two red rockets burst away
forward, on the right, falling slowly, slowly to
earth.
ULTRAMARINE had attained the objective.
It was then 6.42 P.M.
ACTION 205
Curious, most curious, to see the strain
pass momentarily from men's faces. Two
runners took the message down. It proved
to be the earliest news received at H.Q. that
the objective was reached.
But the bombardment did not cease, did
not slacken. It developed more and more
furiously. Niven, one of the very best the
boy was killed a few weeks after lay with
his body tucked close to the side of the trench.
I lay with my head very close to his, so that
we could talk. Major Ogilvie's legs were
curled up with mine. Every now and then he
sent in a report.
My conversation with Niven was curious.
" Have another cigarette ? " "Thanks, Bertie."
" Fritz is real mad to-night." " He's got a
reason ! " " Thank the Lord it isn't raining."
" Yes." Pause. " Did you get any letters
from home ? " " Two. . . . Good thing they
can't see us now!" "Jolly good thing!"
"Whee-ou, that was close!" " So's that,"
as a large lump of earth fell on his steel hat.
Pause. " I must get a new pair of breeches."
"When?" " Oh, to go on leave with." "So
must I." We relapsed into silence, and
206 CANADA IN WAR-PAINT
from sheer fatigue both of us fell asleep for
twenty minutes.
I was awakened by Ogilvie, who kicked me
gently. " I have had no report from Townley
or Johnson for nearly two hours " it was
past eleven. " I want you to go up to the
right and see if you can establish communica-
tion with them. Can you make it ? " " I'll
try, sir." Our guns had quieted down, but
Fritz was still pounding as viciously as ever,
and with more heavy stuff than hitherto. My
experience in travelling perhaps a quarter of
a mile of trench that night was the most
awful that has befallen me in nearly two
years of war at the Front.
The trench was almost empty, for the men
had been put in advance of it, for the most
part. In places it was higher than the level
of the ground, where great shells had hurled
parapet on parados, leaving a gaping crater
on one side or the other. Fear, a real personal,
loathly fear, ran at my side. Just as I reached
the trench an eight-five exploded on the spot
I had crossed a second before. The force of
the explosion threw me on my face, and
earth rained down on me. I knelt, crouching,
ACTION 207
by the parapet, my breath coming in long
gasps. " Lord, have mercy on my soul." I
rushed a few yards madly, up, down, over;
another pause, while the shells pounded the
earth, and great splinters droned. I dared
not move, and I dared not stay. Every shadow
of the trenches loomed over me like the
menacing memory of some past unforgettable
misdeed. Looking down I saw a blood-
stained bandage in a pool of blood at my
side, and I could smell that indescribable,
foetid smell of blood, bandages, and death. As
I went round a traverse, speeding like a hunted
hare, I stumbled over a man. He groaned
deeply as I fell on him. It was one of my
best N.C.O.'s, mortally wounded. An eternity
passed before I could find his water-bottle.
His face was a yellow mask, his teeth chattered
against the lip of the water-bottle, his lips
were swollen and dreadful. He lay gasping.
" Can I do anything for you, old man ? "
With a tremendous effort he raised his head
a little, and opened wide his glazing eyes.
" Write ... sir ... to my . . . mother."
Then, his head on my arm, he died.
On, on, on, the sweat streaming from me,
208 CANADA IN WAR-PAINT
the fear of death at my heart. I prayed as I
had never prayed before.
At last I found Johnson. He gave me his
report, and that of Townley, whom he had
seen a few moments before. I went back,
another awful trip, but met Major Ogilvie
half-way.
After nine and three-quarter hours, during
which they threw all the ammunition they
possessed at us, the German gunners " let
up." And Ogilvie and I went to sleep, along
the trench, too weary to care what might
happen next, to wake at dawn, stiff with
cold, chilled to the bone, to face another day
of " glorious war! "
LCTC
D Bell, Ralph W.
640 Canada in war-paint
B48
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