Pen pictures from the trenches

THE AUTHOR

PEN PICTURES FROM
THE TRENCHES

By
LIEUT. STANLEY A. RUTLEDGE

TORONTO

WILLIAM BRIGGS
1918

D

CIO

Copyright. Canada. 1918
by E. S. RUTLEDGE

FOREWORD

BY JOHN A. PATERSON, K.C.

SERVICE well rendered deserves well-rendered
thanks and a life well spent deserves well-worded
praise.

Lieutenant Stanley Arthur Rutledge was for
some time a law student in my office, and I looked
forward to no ordinary future for him. But there
came a time when the sword was mightier than
the pen, and, as one of a noble band of many other
law students, he, like Coriolanus of old, sur-
rendered to the call and said :

" I do love

My country's good with a respect more tender,
More holy and profound than mine own life."

When danger threatened the Scottish clansmen
they sent through the heather-covered glens and
up the rocky cliffs two charred sticks dipped in
blood — the Fiery Cross, and then every fit man
answered the call and flamed forth. And so
Stanley Rutledge went forth. He was not only
an able lawyer and a valiant fighter, but also a
fertile writer, and he charmed his own friends
3

FOREWORD

and many new-made friends 'by the magic of his
pen, as he wove out graphic descriptions of eye-
witnessed scenes. I have before me some of the
letters he wrote me, and I feel honoured in
having them in possession. The Air Service
attracted him, and he became a proficient instruc-
tor, and in that service he rendered up his life.
But we count it death to falter not to die, and
Stanley Rutledge never faltered. His life was
not long as we count it by years, but a life is long
when it serves life's great ends. And so he lived
long and the twilight here merged into the dawn
over there.

I quote from John Oxenham:

"I never hear

The growling diapason of a plane
Up there,

The deep reverb'rant humming of a plane
Up there,

But up to God I wing a little prayer,
Begging His care
For him who braves the dangers of the air.

" God keep you, Bird-man, in your plane
Up there!

Your wings upbear, your heart sustain!
Give you good flight and oversight,
And bring you safe to earth again!"

PEN PICTURES PROM THE TRENCHES

But our prayers are not always answered as we
would like them to be, for we only see darkly
and confusedly — as the tapestry of life is woven
for us on this side of it the pattern appears
mutilated; on the other side, which we do not
see, it is harmonious. Thus " God's finger touched
him and he slept."

CONTENTS

SECTION I.

PAGE

" OUT IN FRONT " 9

THE OLD MAN AND His SMILE .... 12
PAUL HOFFMAN, THE PRISONER .... 15

WILLIE GIERKE 18

A CANADIAN NIGHT RAID . . . . . .22

STEVE'S YELLOW STREAK 26

LA BELLE FRANCE 29

WORKING His TICKET 33

" A NIGHT IN MAGNICOURT " 36

TWILIGHT REVERIE IN THE TRENCHES ... 39
OVER, BOYS, AND AT THEM . . . . .43
ON LES AURA ........ 48

" LAST POST " 52

SUPERSTITIOUS TOMMY 55

" RATIONS UP " 59

HUMAN TARGETS 63

LIKE A THIEF IN THE NIGHT 68

A TRAGEDY ..71

OLD PIERRE . . . . ' . . . .73

IN ORDERS 76

DOWN SUICIDE ALLEY 80

THE CHILDREN OF HALLOY-PERNOIS ... 83
ORA PRO NOBIS 86

SECTION II.

PAGE

BRIEF SKETCH OF THE AUTHOR .... 89

A FATHER'S TRIBUTE 92

LETTERS HOME 95

KIND WORDS FOR THE AUTHOR .... 156

THE PASSING OF THE AIRMAN . 159

14 OUT IN FRONT"

WHAT would be your feelings if, when on
" sentry go/' peering over the parapet, some one
were to come along the trench and whisper:
"Scouts going out on the right and coming in
on the centre." I remember my first twenty-four
hours in the front line. It was a great experience,
crowded with exciting moments. Not the least of
these was the one, about 11 p.m., when the caution,
" Scouts are out " was passed along. Three
figures like silhouettes, appeared out of the gloom.
The night was very dark, one of those in which
Fritz shoots up countless flares. These men were
going out over the parapet. Going out into that
narrow strip of land which knows night prowlers
only. Going out into that bullet-swept zone
banked by huge piles of sandbags, behind which
men cower and wait and wait.

'Surely, I thought, these chaps are the real
heroes. It is nothing to hide behind a wall of
sand, but to go out there, why, I wish it were in
me. Every first-nighter has these thoughts. He
sees the patrol in a heroic light. He peers into
the faces as the men shuffle by, trying to read their
9

PEN PICTURES FROM THE TRENCHES

miraculous escapes — the wonderful encounters in
the dead of night. A patrol will often consist of
three scouts and a " non-com.'* The Canadians
take kindly to this business of raids and patrols.
In fact, some battalions refuse to have the strip
called "No Man's Land." "It is ours/' they
vehemently assert. Some fine results, too. The
German is losing the whip-hand along the whole
front. In the first instance this can be attributed
largely to the daring raids which have unnerved
the " field grey."

The patrol may creep out to our listening post,
along an old trench — these posts are never very
far advanced, and so far the journey can be made
by walking upright. Of course, care must be
had to stand still — not a muscle to move, sir,
when a tremendous flare goes up. Whispered
greetings are exchanged with the boys on listening
post, then the ticklish part of the job. Each man
fingers his revolver, sees that the bomb pins may
be removed quickly, then creeps along on all fours.
Every tree trunk — one would swear it moved — is
watched. It is dark, dark, and if one is new to
the game it is sure to " get you." You are sure
that something is creeping up alongside, you are
certain that Fritz is cutting at our wire. The
patrol is lost to view and making for Fritz's line.
10

PEN PICTURES FROM THE TRENCHES

A machine-gun opens up, the bullets swish through
the long grass, and each man gets down, down
until his face rubs into old Mother Earth. Then
the line moves on, crawling in and out shell holes,
alertness personified. Then a stop is made;
the patrol is now approaching the German con-
glomeration of barbed wire. The noise of a maul
is heard, faintly it is true. The Hun is cautious.
Some dark figures are noted on the sky-line.
" Yes it is," " No it isn't." " Yes, by— it is—
a wiring party." Signs are made, one does
not know hardly what they mean, but the gang
manages to do the right thing, intuition, isn't it?
The patrol creeps cautiously towards the busy
little group. Bombs are made ready. A hoarse
yell and fling, a scampering of terrified feet, a
moan maybe. The " gang," we love to call them,
race back to our lines. Up and over the parapet
and safe. The next morning the following pro-
saic report goes into brigade: "Last night, at

11.15, a patrol, consisting of Sergeant , Lance-

Corporal and Scouts surprised a Ger-
man wiring party. Casualties suspected, but not
known. Sgd., CAREY, Scout Officer."

11

THElOLD MAN AND HIS SMILE

AS WE WENT BY

IT is not a very interesting, certainly not an
unusual, sight to witness, that of a long column
of infantry on the march. But somewhere in
Belgium these marches call up many thoughts.
One feels that some of the boys will be missing
on the next " walk." The bystander peers into
this and -that face, trying to fix it indelibly in
the mind, but the chap in the rank's with "eyes
front" looks past and beyond those who watch
him go by.

Those who were with the battalion on the 27th
of July, 1916, will remember the march from
Reminghelst to Westoutre. Orders had come from
the divisional commander that it was essential
that the troops be prepared to endure a long
march — not that we were having no " stop overs "
between here and Berlin — but one never knows
in these days. Transport, pioneer and scouts sec-
tions—appendages, as it were — went with the
battalion. At first the boys were in happy mood;
singing old favourites: "Keep the home fires
burning/' " We want to go back," and the aged
"John Brown's body." But the buoyancy does
12

PEN PICTURES FROM THE TRENCHES

not last, and soon we settle into a slow, solemn
tread and " hang on " mile after mile. Near West-
outre the soil is intensely cultivated, small hold-
ings are to be seen, and the tenants are mostly
old men, bent double with age.

It is 'about one of these tireless workers I wish
to write. Not to tell the. story of his wanderings
following the invasion, not to tell of his five sons
serving in the Belgian Army, not to tell of his
daughter in Brussels, and for whom he has grave
fears, but to tell of his smile. What an odd sub-
ject, you will say.

We were perspiring and feeling the packs'
weight. The dust was raised, great clouds of it,
by the steady tramp. We had passed a small
estaminet, and there, on the corner, was the old
man. I use the adjective old in the most reverent
way. He nodded his head and smiled. Have you
ever seen a soul through the eyes? I did that
day. One could see that he was offering up a
silent prayer for the boys. " Vive la France!"
How we would have shouted it if the voice could
have been raised. But one knew what was in the
old man's mind: "Those boys will beat the Ger-
mans. They are good sons. They march well.
They will carry on. Some, yes, some will not
come back. May the Ion Dieu watch over them."
13

PEN PICTURES FROM THE TRENCHES

I felt a bond of sympathy come between us, and
experienced a feeling difficult to describe. One
may be too sentimental, but I confess that tears
were not far removed. Here he was, near the
end of life's journey, toiling away, carrying such
a heavy load of sorrow. We went on, 'but I did
not, and hope not to, forget the old man — and
his smile.

PAUL HOFFMAN, THE PRISONER

THERE were four snipers in the little party.
They had been down looking over some aeroplane
hangars. An intimate view was possible and the
R. F. C. were hospitable. I listened to one chap
explaining aeronoids, compass, etc., and managed
to get badly mixed up about the whole business.
Finally I wandered away from the group, and
it was well.

Just down the road one could see men working,
and it was not till close up that I distinguished
the old familiar "field-grey" of Fritz. Here
they were " Deutschland-uber-alles " chaps pick-
ing away at a stone pile, an interesting sight,
surely? Vanquished, crestfallen, prisoners of
war, but glad to be wielders of pick and shovel.
No more shells, no more gas — no more machine-
guns — the war finished for them.

This chap Hoffman deposed as follows : " I
speak English, having lived in London from 1903
to 1905. My home is in Wurtemburg. I do -not
like, the trenches. You see, sir, two years in
between walls of sandbags dulls one's ardour. Yes,
Germany has lots of men left."
15

PEN PICTURES FROM THE TRENCHES

To one question: "When will the war end"
the answer might be foretold. For one cigarette
the prisoner ventured the opinion that the war
would be over in three months. Give him two
and he will obligingly shorten the duration to
two months. Give him three " fags," and you are
startled to learn that he expects to see peace
declared in one month.

Paul was very communicative. We learned that
he was in charge of a minenwerfer at Hooge
some months ago. " Very probably," my pal says,
" this chap fired the ' sausage ' that spilt our tea
one night."

I questioned him closely as to this, but he art-
fully exclaimed : " No, it could not have been
my gun — I was taken off the job, because my
officer said : ' Paul, you are transferred — you
cannot hit a thing.' "

And yet they say the Germans are clumsy in
diplomacy.

My partner, Guerin, was near by. His father is
a dental surgeon in London. Here was my chance
to put one over on my pal. I coached Paul about
going to a Dr. Guerin in London who advertised
" Painless Extraction " ; that this man was his
sworn enemy since his experience, etc. A few
smokes put Paul in the humour, and he told,
16

PEX PICTURES FROM THE TRENCHES

when Guerin came up, to the latter's astonish-
ment, how he would like to meet that Dr. Guerin
in London or any of his kind, raising the pick
at the same time in true piratic fashion. But,
just then, an approaching plane caught my eye,
and when I turned again it was " plain " that
whole plot had collapsed. Paul must have winked.
At all events, my chum placed some more smokes
in a certain prisoner of war's hands.

We were anxious to get some souvenirs. Some
of the boys cut off buttons, some took shoulder
straps, and one wag asked Paul for the pick.
" Some souvenir," was what Paul said— a loud
laugh must be recorded just here.

"These Germans are just like us" — these were
the words used by one of the boys, and which in
homely phrase tells much of truth. One little
chap, only sixteen years of age, was wearing the
Iron Cross ribbon. He had it for patrol work at
Zillebeke. There was the same frank, boyish look
on his face that one would expect to see in our
Canadian lads. Two blue eyes, a fine chin, a
mass of hair which persisted in girlish tendencies.
Dumped down on alien soil — home and mother
far away, here he was trying to handle a shovel
with mature niceness. Blessings on thee, little
man, why not? He is only a boy, but if I mis-
take not he is going to be a man.
2 17

WILLIE GIERKE

As one comes from the trenches at St. Eloi it
is possible, indeed very desirable, that one passes
through Scottish Wood. You will remember St.
Eloi was a Belgian village which happened to
}>e right on the firing line. And it was here that
the huge mines were sprung. Passing through
the wood one has to traverse an open space before
getting into a sheltered forest, known mapically
as Ridgewood. A very good trail is met with,
and, if the powers of observation are keen, on the
right will be seen a military cemetery. It is
typical of a number of these last resting places
of our boys. One may be prompted to step over
the barbed wire and look for the name of some
old pal. In one corner, not set aside, can be seen
a cross bearing these words:

" In Memory of Willie Glerke,
214th German Regiment.
'Died June 19, 1916.

Let me tell you something of Willie. 'He was,
no doubt, a student in one of the Berlin univer-
18

PEN P1CTUKES FKOM THE TKENCHES

sities ; twenty-one years of age and a bright chap.
This I learn from the intelligence report contain-
ing his answers to questions pnt on the night he
died. You see, his stay inside British lines was
very short. He had been to the "front" since
September of last year. At first his regiment had
been placed opposite the French, but two months
ago they came up to Ypres. The Germans say
the fellows out in front do not come back from
Ypres. Willie was not a very good soldier. His
heart was not in the bloody business. He would
rather read Kant. On a sunny afternoon, when
everything was silent as at eventide, Willie could
be found sitting on the firestep, reading mother's
letter and idly philosophising.

Then one night the sergeant came up : " Gierke,
you are on ' listening post ' to-night with Nerlick."
Not the dangerous duty that many imagine it
to be, but still a crawl into " No 'Man's Land "
is rather risky. I remember the night well. Our
battalion was waiting for a favourable night to
" pull off " a raid. It had been dull all day, a
scurrying of heavy clouds, and one had a sort of
feeling that it would be a dirty night. That
favoured our plans. But let me return to Willie.
The sergeant came along at " stand to," and told
him that the listening posts would go out in one
19

PEN PICTUEES FROM THE TRENCHES

hour's time. Half an hour went by and the
British parapet was becoming very indistinct. A
little later, if one had been watching, two figures,
overcoated, with bombs in pockets, could be seen
getting over the parapet at bay 14, trench 36.
They crawled past the cans and rubbish, through
the near entanglements and took up their place
in a shell hole, about thirty feet from their own
wire. Lying flat they listened intently for a few
moments, breathing rather heavily. The rifle
bullets were cracking overhead. Willie nudged
Nerlick and pointed to what he thought looked
like a man in the tall grass. Nerlick peered into
the dark. There was no movement. Then,
Gierke rolled over and Nerlick ran. You see
the suspicious object was one of our scouts, and
the bullet found Willie. Our patrol rushed up
and Stevenson threw the wounded lad over his
shoulder. The scurry was sufficient to send up
flares from the Huns, who did not know but what
an attack was on. Machine-guns started to spit
out viciously. Our patrol lay flat — not a move,
sir, not a move. The tall grass gave good
protection.

Soon the narrow strip of front quieted down.
The flares became intermittent, and our boys
made their way home, coming by way of an old
20

PEN PICTURES FROM THE TRENCHES

trench. Willie was badly wounded. He told us
so, and his face told us more. After alleviating
the pain — the bullet was in the lung, and breath-
ing difficult — he gave some valuable information.
His letters and diary were found, and the officer
had a kind smile for the boy. He knew Willie
hated war. He knew Willie was a mother's pride.
He was just like our own boys now. But the
breathing was difficult. We knew. Willie knew
that the tide was fast ebbing. He knew the war
would soon be over, and in a little while his eyes
turned in answer to the last call. Next day we
buried him in our cemetery, and he lies at peace
besides his old-time foes.

A CANADIAN NIGHT RAID

AN EXTBACT FROM A LETTER HOME.

BELGIUM, August 11, 1916.

AND now for some news of the firing line, and
it may be I shall add a short sketch.

It goes well with us. After a "ding-dong"
fight the Allies are better to-day than ever before..
Rather wonderful — this feeling of coming out
" top dog " as the boys say. Just to-day we had
a bitter artillery duel on our right. In the old
days it might have happened that we would have
had to grin and bear it when Fritz started up
his machinery. Months ago we were inclined to
be sarcastic, when reading in some paper that the
British sent over 'five shells for every one of
the Hun. Many a day we would cower in the
trenches and say, " Oh, yes, the ole devil i& short
of ammunition, so they say in the papers." But
a better day has come. This time our artillery
was great. We were inclined to yell, " That's it,
old boy," when the big shells shrieked high over
the trenches. Just as if we were talking to our
best friend, and all the time our big boys were
singing away up in the heavens carrying their

22

PEX PICTURES FROM THE TRENCHES

ri
nessage of the new days. Don't you feel the blood
coursing through your veins just a little fastter?
\ly ! it was good. Let's all get the feeling— our
cause deserves it, and we will better be able to
" carry on " making every necessary sacrifice.

More and more do we recognise the aptness of
Shakespeare's phrase, " The world's a stage." In
these days the scenes change <so quickly that one
can catch little of the details in the greatest of
dramas, and it is better so. The advance on the
Somme is slow — of course it is; unless the Hun
has become ennervated to a degree unthought of,
we must expect him to make his big fight there.
It is no walk-over, you 'know. We look for too
much, after the flush of initial success. " Roll
them up," the civilian says. "Give us time and
we will," says the soldier.

And now for a brief description of a night raid :
"Are you ready, Mr. Mills?"— the colonel was
speaking to the scout officer. "Yes, sir, every-
thing correct."

They line up — these select ones who are to " go
over " to-night. And a favourable mist covers
the earth. One can >see the chaps look at the
prospects with the joy of an old salt when he
scents a good breeze. Give us a night when the
moon is obscured by a fog and the conditions are
23

PEN PICTURES PROM THE TRENCHES

ideal for a surprise attack. These night raids,
unknown in the early days of the war, are now
a great feature. Some say the Canadians initiated
this line of tactics. I am not sure they did, but
at all events they are adepts at the game. The
thing appeals to the daring in us — stealing across
" No Man's Land/7 bombing a Hun trench, grab-
bing a prisoner or two, >and then a rush home.
It is a job for a red-blooded man. The actual
task is not so bad, it is the anticipation. The
weighing of one's chances, the reckoning witli
death, so to speak, all this oppresses one.

The men are picked. Sometimes volunteers
are called for. But the roll call has the s<ame
names whichever method is used. They get to
the front line. The officer looks his boys over.
Every man has his job. He knows what is required
of him, and bless you, men don't fall down on an
allotted task. Out here the word " failure " is
getting out of date. The flares are going up, the
bullets are cracking across, the machine-guns are
rattling — and out they go, across " No Man's
Land," taking advantage of shell holes or tall
grass to avoid being seen. Always crawling, and
to the Huns we are snakes in the grass. We get
to within twenty yards of the enemy parapet, but
his sentry has not seen anything unusual. And

24:

PEN PICTURES FROM THE TRENCHES

now for the ticklish part. Up and run — run —
run — climb into the trench, and then hell is loose.
Bombs are hurled, revolvers come into play. One
sees blood. Fight, yes, fight it is — no thought
of death — no hesitation — just a stand-up scrap — •
and then we hustle -a prisoner or two over the
parapet. " Come on, you dog " — one gives him a
gentle prod with a bayonet. He does not like
the prospect, murmuring something about " No
speak English," " Married man, little children —
mercy, kamerad." But it does not avail. " Up
on your feet, old boy, and be quick about it."

The little band straggles back to our lines.
Generally, each man gets back as best he can. It
may be we have some of our wounded to bring
over, and how solicitous one chap is for another.
These boys face death together and they have a
feeling — wonderful in its capacity for self-efface-
ment— for their chum of the raid. Then, the glad
handshakes, the stories, a cigarette, maybe a song,
the fondling of souvenirs, and sleep. Such is a
night-raid somewhere in Belgium. One never
forgets these happenings. I wish not to. Finis.

STEVE'S YELLOW STREAK

OF course it is not a story, but we all laugh
about it just the same. It will not go down in
history. It will not be told at the club between
" puffs/' but it will never be forgotten by the gang
how bellicose Stevens became in the last raid. It
is not rare to find some of the chaps, most timid
when anticipating the ordeal, becoming verit-
able heroes in the doing. That is a common
phenomenon. Many a boy has joined up just a
little bit afraid that he will surely flunk it,
absolutely sure that with the first shriek of
shrapnel he would run. But when the din of
battle is around him he has, as the boys say, the
" stuff." I know there are degrees of courage, if
one may use that phrase, and 'Steve had it in the
superlative, but the funny part — lie thought he
was a blooming coward, you know.

Pie used to go around the camp brooding-like.
One day Steve was abnormally moody and con-
fided to me that he was going to try and get a
transfer into the " conscientious objectors' club/'
but sadly he added, " I haven't even got the nerve
to do that." And (then came our raid. You know,
26

PEN PICTURES FROM THE TRENCHES

one of those Apache adventures in which the
Canadians do so well ; a steal across " No Man's
Land," a rush, a fight, and back to our lines It
was a volunteer party. No detailing, no com-
pulsion, just come along, lad, if you have any
itching for it. We never expected 'Steve to make
the trip. Many said that he would hold back even
though asked to go. But, after a sad day, in which
he went about camp more dejected than usual,
Steve's name was found at the head of the list.
Good old 'Steve. A craven, but only a little in
the head. And this is no small subscription list,
either; it is a life that is offered. Some names
on the list may be stroked out in five hours. That
is the sort of business in hand.

Mr. Niven, the officer in charge of the raiding
party, was a bit nervous about Steve, to put it
charitably. He thought the boy would fall down
at the critical moment. And bless me, so he did,
but in the scrap he managed to get on top of <a
spectacled German of ludicrous avoirdupois. The
raid was well thought out, minute preparations
had been made, such as cutting of wire, allotting
a definite task to each man, and so on. We got
within thirty yards of the German parapet before
a startled Boche gave the alarm. A rush was
made and the boys tumbled into the trench. You
27

PEN PICTURES FROM THE TRENCHES

should have seen and heard 'Steve. In regular
Buffalo Bill style he emitted the most terrifying
yell — blood-curdling, and no mistake. The Huns
thought we had imported a band of Sioux Indians ;
our prisoner told us as much. Our officer was
wounded, shrapnel in both legs. Who helped him
back ? Steve. And besides, this " coward " bombed
along fifty feet of trench, beat up two husky Huns,
and fought like a wild man.

And so this poor chap had to go into a raid to
find out if he had a yellow streak. I laugh when
I think — just to-day he was telling me he wasn't
very sure of his nerve yet, and was thinking of
going into another raid, " just to be * gosh darn '
certain." Good "ole" Steve.

LA BELLE FRANCE

OUR battalion is now somewhere in France. La
belle France. It is no wonder the Frenchman
has an aesthetic soul. This sunny land has a subtle
effect on one. The sky has a deeper blue, and the
little " poilu " might well be in a rapturous frenzy
when,he tells of his native land. Vive la France.
She must live. !She has risen to greater height
than any of the nations allied with her. Her's
is a moral grandeur unequalled. Truly the blood
his been cleansed with fire. Yes, very great indeed
are you, " beautiful sunny France."

It has been our lot to make two or three long
marches. The day before yesterday fifteen miles
was covered; that is quite a tramp with a full
kit. Some of the boys had to fall out — various
ailments, sore feet, etc., but, taken all in all, the
battalions concerned did very well. I saw Don
Deacon, Eddie Stewardson and Audrey Scott (boys
from the home town) swing by with the 27th. I
believe they are all feeling fit, and hope to see
them at the game — baseball game — to-night.

I have a few minutes to myself and am going
29

PEN PICTURES FEOM THE TKENCHES

to put down a few lines under the somewhat senti-
mental heading,

" WHEN You COME HOME, DEAR/'

These lines are found in a song which has obtained
wide popularity in England. The composer has
given a very beautiful melody to the chorus :

When you come home, dear,

All will be fair.
Home is not home, dear,

If you are not there.

I was standing just outside our tent when the
band began to play this selection. Many of the
boys had wandered off on a survey down street.
The battalion was scattered, a few men billeted
in a farmhouse, a section bivouacked in an orchard,
a detail putting up in a hay-loft. The snipers
had managed to confiscate two bell tents, and these
we had pitched in an apple grove. To the north,
as I looked, could be seen the long, low bam, some-
what dilapidated, but making a credible appear-
ance in its white coat. Three horses are tethered,
and are busily engaged whisking flies. They are
transport horses, and are very glad to have a short
vacation. The kitchen, in true army style, is in
close proximity to the pond. It is belching smoke,
and soon tea will be up, as the boys say. It is the
30

PICTURES FROM THE TRENCHES

hour when the heat of the day has gone and a
certain stillness pervades. The farm maidens are
bringing up their cows, and I hear the church
bell ringing out vespers. Then there came the
sweet melody of " When you come home, dear."
These are times when a man has no desire to
converse — the time when one has pleasure in intro-
spection. I think of the lads that have gone.
Ellis of the Pats, one of my best trench pals. He
was .studying law, and the profession would have
gained something by his admission. He was mar-
ried before he enlisted, but, poor boy, he did not
come out of Hooge. He was in the front line. Good
old Dick, the Scout — we called him that — used
to hum that song, "When, you come home, dear."
1 wish it were possible to tell his lonely wife how
much we liked him. Then, that chap Williams.
He was blessed with the initials T. L. 0. Rather
thin-faced, not very strong, perhaps, but full of
grit. I did not take to him at first. He seemed
so sure of himself, not that he was boastful, but
a certain reserve held me off. But that night I
got acquainted. He came up smoking the inevit-
able cigarette, and was singing softly, " When you
come home, dear." And do you know that chap
is, or was, a prodigal son, and under the spell of
that song wrote home that night to mother, the
31

PEN PICTURES FROM THE TRENCHES

first letter in two years. You see, music in a
proper environment often does right great wrongs.

I think of the old boys of the battalion, so many
are gone. They are no longer with us on our
walks. They no longer take their turn 'in the
trenches. Yet they used to hear the band play,
" When you come home, dear." They used to hope
they would make the grade. They used to have
their quiet moments when home life came to their
minds so appealingly. Requiescat in pace.

[Written August 24th, 1916, while the Cana-
dians were on the move from the Ypres salient
to the Somme.]

WORKING HIS TICKET

THE phrase, " Working his ticket " is not
original with Tommy Atkins, but it has more
significance in these days of war. Guerin, my
mate, has just been relating about one of these.
Of course there are some chaps that are heartily
sick of the war, in fact, I have heard of no applica-
tions from any of our boys for an extension of time
in this — beautiful but battle-scarred country, but
" stick it " is the shibboleth.

Nevertheless, suppose there is one who resolves
to get out, at all costs. It may happen that nature
is his ally. He may have an instep that will
flatten out at the very moment the medical officer
is examining it, or, obligingly, the heart may beat
insanely, or the head go " round and round." The
legitimate instances of medical unfitness are, of
course, frequent, but Tommy is not long in find-
ing out the pseudo-sick and the quacks — the chap
that is "working his ticket."

The phrase, too, is used in an amusing way when

the occasion seems fitting on the " not guilty "

chap. It may be, such a one who should never

have lifted his voice in song in the little crowd

3 33

PEN PICTURES FROM THE TRENCHES

around, starts up some well-known refrain, when
the retort is heard, " Keep it up, Jack — you'll get
your ticket soon." It may well happen that some
chap will receive a copy of " Sartor Resartus," hy
Carlyle — this from an aunt who has fond dreams
of her nephew's future. The gang will gather
around — they always do when a parcel arrives —
and someone will be sure to remark:

" Just be reading that when the colonel comes
around, Pete, and he will give you your ticket."

But to return to the story as told me. Sanders
abhorred parades. They were to him a dreadful
bore. This business of standing to attention—
this forming fours — this saluting — who ever heard
of these manoeuvres making a man any more cap-
able of fighting? Well, the sick parade was his
hobby. Every day the name of Sanders appeared
on the list handed to the M. 0. This game worked
very well for a time. 'Sanders could get medicine
and " no duty." He could put up the finest whine
imaginable. His head ached; his eyes were sore;
lie had a watered knee; his feet were blistered,
etc. Outside of these continual ailments he
was in good health. The medical sergeant knew
Sanders intimately, and was inclined to humour
him, listening patiently to the recital every day.

But when the new doctor came 'Sanders' sun
34

PEN PICTURES FROM THE TRENCHES

went down. He went forth as usual, but the story
was poured into unbelieving ears. The doctor was
amused and resolved to go Sanders " one better,"
as the street has it. He inquired as to his patient's
parents — yes, his teeth were bad, and two or three
should be extracted — he had, too, alarming symp-
toms of appendicitis. iSanders agreed with every-
thing the doctor said, and repeated o'er and o'er
the infallibility of medical science in these days.
His " ticket " was still good, but the phantom fear
stole over him of the good teeth that might be
extracted. That afternoon Sanders appeared on
parade. His report read, " Medicine and duty."

35

"A NIGHT IN MAGNICOURT"

THE other evening I walked down to Magni-
eourt. It had been raining all day. The camp
huts were cheerless, the wind howling in and
around these ill-constructed buildings. It may
be that the inclement weather affected my spirits.
The night was coming on, and the retrospective
hours were at hand. And so I went to Magnicourt.

This hamlet is typical of many. It is small,
it is near the sandbag trail, and is in pieces. .The
roadway is full of debris ; pieces of scantling
stretch out overhead, threateningly. The windows,
stripped of glass, are ugly in their packing-case
dress. The huge barn gate, one hinge only remain-
ing in place, opens on a squalid yard — and further
back a roofless house. In so many villages, the
barn fronts on the street. I will not comment on
the significance thereof. The old men are poking
about. A stooped grandmother may be carrying
a sack of dirty, wet coal. But the children are
away. A cow may walk serenely up the crooked
street. Unmindful is slhe of the ancient law with
respect to "cattle roaming at large." A mangy
dog will be sure to bark — or whine — for the big
boy that is away.

36

PEN PICTURES FROM THE TRENCHES

When we are relieved in the trenches, rest billets
are had in huts. These convenient villages are
our only hold on civilisation, almost. The boys
soon manage to find a " home." After the routine
of the' -day — parades, lectures and inspections —
small groups will strike off for the " town."
" Let's have some pomme de terre el des ceufs"
proposed Bill, taking some pleasure in his know-
ledge of the French for " potatoes and eggs."
" Right-'O, what say to Constance's place?" is the
reply.

And they all go " 'long " to the little house
" round the corner." The " gang " file in, Pierre
is sitting by the kitchen fire. His pipe is out. The
cat is curled up in cosy comfort. A single candle
flickers uncertainly.

" Bonne soir, Monsieur," we greet him in our
trench French.

He smiles his sad smile. We are welcome.
Pierre thinks very well of the Canadians. The
fire is poked into good behaviour. Constance, the
daughter, busies herself with plates, knives, forks
and spoons, and then our troubles commence. Oh,
that we could speak this language !

Eggs are wanted — that is easy — but the num-
ber. Like the children in second grade we run
over the table — " un, deux, trois, quatre, cinq, six,

37

PEN PICTURES FROM THE TRENCHES

sept, hint, neuf, dix." But we know up to ten
only, and there are six chaps and two eggs each.
So it is left to the savoir faire of Mademoiselle
Constance. (I rather like Constance, she smiles
at all the " Tommies," but manages it so delight-
fully, that each and every chap thinks he alone
is favoured.)

It is a jolly party. Our spirits are high. The
trenches are a mile away. The machine-guns are
impotent in their wrath. The flares (verey lights)
give a fitful glow. The war is over there, and
here des ceufs (the eggs) are sizzling in the pan.
The coffee, all hot and penetrating-like, comes
in. Cigarettes are lit. A quiet content steals
insidiously over our thoughts. It is not such a
bad war. The room is warm. Yarns are spun
of narrow escapes. Peace rumours are gone over.
The old man, the old woman and Constance watch
over the eggs.

The hours go by. Pierre fills his pipe anew.
The cat is asleep. The old woman lights another
candle. We pass out. Such is a " Night in
Magnicourt."

TWILIGHT REVERIE IN THE TRENCHES

count five. Stevens and Smith, in one
corner of the dug-out, are playing checkers. A
candle gives a pale light. Kocky and Holden are
cleaning their rifles, and 'Guerin, our corporal, is
making out reports. Snipers are we, and when
the "gang" is here the nominal roll reveals
sixteen. The night is typical of many. When
the sun goes down a spell of silence seems to settle
on the armies. Twilight, with its hopes and
regrets, is the best part of the day. The men in
the trenches smoke and forget to fight. If no
action is in progress it may well happen that no
rifles will fire, no trench-mortars whistle, and that
machine-gunners will put blankets on their Colts.
Nature, if one may personify, is in restful mood.
A few frogs may croak as they scuddle along in
the Ypres canal.

The boys gather around and " swap " stories,
so to speak. Stevens is one of our best snipers.
A boy from the West, accustomed to the adven-
turous life of the hills fringing the Eockies.
His rifle — how tenderly he watches over it — has
been pulled through, oiled, and is now lying in
the corner. This boy knows the Hun intimately. He
39

PEN PICTURES FROM THE TRENCHES

watches for hours through a telescope, and never
tires. A " Fritz " very foolishly, puts his head up
— and if — then that night we hear the story. I
remember his telling of the last raid our battalion
made. Stevens, of course, was one of those
selected. The officer in charge was a young sub-
altern just out, but he had the stuff, as the boys
say. 'Wiell, the party got over all right. The
Boches were taken by surprise ; they ran here and
there, seeking protection from our bombers. Some
stumbled into dug-outs. You can see them
huddled in the dark corners, rivalling a contor-
tionist in their ability to double up. Symes, we
may call the lieutenant, had a revolver, but car-
ried a cane. He walked along the trench mats,
poking his stick here and there into corners, into
emplacements, feeling for Huns, as it were. Cool
— well, yes — as 'Stevens tells it, " I never saw such

a fool." He poked his head into a dug-out,

then, turning to the bombers, exclaimed, " Put
one in here, old chap/' Then, further on, " Put
two in here, old chap " — this was a large dug-out.
Imagine the emotions of the poor, dear enemy in
these places. " Just like a blooming parade — this
raid — you know." You should hear Stevens tell
his yarn, laughing immoderately as he gets on
with it.

40

PEN PICTUEES FROM THE TRENCHES

Rocky and Holden are mates. It may be you
have heard of Rocky — the Huns know him very
well, indeed. He is a lanky, odd-gaited boy from
" nowhere," and is now a resident of " some-
where " — getting on, isn't he? He has the best
record for one day's hunting Huns — the censor
will not permit me to mention the number.
He snipes and sleeps — that's all — but does both
equally well. He is the butt of many a jest, but
he tells a good one. It has gone the round of
trench newspapers, but will bear repetition. He
owned a handkerchief, a pair of socks and a five
franc note. The handkerchief and socks he
wished to have washed — a Belgian refugee was1 the
laundress. He went for his laundry and presented
the five francs in payment. Madame could not
talk the English. Rocky 'hesitated—" What about
change — Madame, change, please," he said. " No
compre — apres la guerre " — which is to say, " I
do not understand," may be, "after the war." That
is what they all say — "apres la guerre." Ask a
pretty lass for a kiss — and it is "Apres la guerre."
Try to get a meal of chips and potatoes, promising
to pay next week, and it is "Apres la guerre.
Monsieur."

But in the magic interval between the setting
of the sun and the shooting of the flares, let's take
41

PEN PICTURES FROM THE TRENCHES

a tramp along the front line. The men will be
found bunched, three or four in a bay. What do
they talk about? It is mostly about home and
the future. One chap is reading a letter, possibly
the third or fourth time he has turned its pages.
They all tell of marvellous escapes. Every soldier
has felt the whizz " just by his ear," or has had
a coal box crump within a yard of him. But,
bless you, it is only right that some license be
allowed in their narrative — and at any rate, close
shaves we have and many of them. Darkness
comes on. The enemy do not like the nights. The
raids, so frequent, have struck terror into their
hearts. The inevitable flares begin — always, the
Boche starts the fireworks display. And then it
is the same old peering into " No Man's Land."
The same cracking of bullets. The same old rattle
of machine-guns, and the same old war.

OVER, BOYS, AND AT THEM

MY diary tells me that it was on a warm
September day that I first saw the 'Somme region.
We were coming to take part in the " big push."
For two months our " brothers-in-arms " had been
driving on Contalmaison, La Boiselle and Pozieres
— these places exist no longer. It was at La
Boiselle, on our own Dominion Day, that the
German line was forced to bend. Two huge mines
were sprung, two human waves dashed against the
battered work and it fell.

•It was for me a great day, that day in which
I went through this place on a reconnaissance
before the battalion "took over." With what
delight our little party explored these cavernous
dug-outs. It was here the Hun did crouch when
the big shells burst about. It was here he hid his
face from the world. It was here he went for
protection and remained a coward, to be bombed
out by our men. These deep dug-outs may be very
good when a bombardment only is taking place,
but if an attack follows they are veritable death
traps. And there is a psychological aspect. The
German goes in for safety, and at that moment his
43

PEN PICTURES FROM THE TRENCHES

courage oozes out — in seeking to protect his life
lie loses it. They rarely come out to meet the
attack. Terror has seized their hearts.

It is here on the rolling 'Somme that France
and Britain are gathering their men. Troops are
herded on every plain. One climbs a hill and the
whole landscape stretches below, indescribably
full of black dots and streaks — men and trans-
ports scurrying here and there. As this scene is
presented one gets an impression of energy, puls-
ing, chaotic it may be, but it is the secret of the
new drive. We are " going at them." The staff
work is better, more clean cut, more incisive,
and tenacious of its aim. Veterans and "newly
arrives" are carrying out. No more huts, no more
dug-outs, but "active service with a vengeance,"
as one old timer said. Attacks are called for on
a moment's notice. Men go from their areas— ^
"up and over," all in an hour's time. One has
to be ready, always.

We are now past the German third line, and
the fighting has taken on many characteristics of
open warfare. The Huns, after each setback, work
with frantic zeal at their new trenches. Our
artillery rushes up at each new advance and begins
another hammering. Right out into the fields,
galloping horses plunge desperately in and out of

44

PEN PICTURES FROM THE TRENCHES

shell holes. Men crawl into these indents and
commence linking up the new line. The whole
thing is noisy, unearthly so, the din terrific.

Let me endeavour to gather a few impressions
of the day when our battalion went " over and at
them." The attack has been rehearsed, the objec-
tive made known, and an effort made to instruct
the men just how the land lies. They get their
extra ammunition, bombs are packed away, shovels
and picks are taken up by consolidating gangs.
The artillery co-operates. So many batteries con-
centrating on the position to be attacked. The
troops may move up the night previous. Then,
in the early dawn, a heavy barrage is set up —
the " heavies " pound away, the field guns bark
incessantly. The word is passed down. Crowded
in the trenches the boys exchange a word or two,
and then it is "over and at them," and the best
of luck. Advancing in extended order they rush
for fifty yards, it may be, and then dive for Mother
Earth. The German machine-guns are rattling
away, the Fritzes, very brave with their rifles,
open up rapid fire. Men stumble up and on — the
whole scene one wild demoniacal dance — the dance
of death. Bayonets, yes, how the foe hate the long
slender steel. , We engage and chances are that
45

PEX PICTURES FROM THE TRENCHES

the familiar "'Mercy, kamerad," will drown all
other noises.

But the wounded and dying are all about.
Heroism, why, for sheer bravery, nothing can
begin to compare with the deeds of our chaps in
this war. One goes into the fray wondering if
every man will " stick it," and comes out knowing
that every mother's son of them is " of the breed."
And when it is all over a great weariness seizes
one. The tension relaxes. The wounded come
tottering down the roads leading from the field of
battle. The men gather in small groups, telling
of this or that adventure, how they felt, how they
" got " a German, how they nearly got keeled over.
A regular rabble, dirty, clothing torn, no caps, they
form the remnant of the battalion that went out,
" spick and span." Anxious inquiries are made.
"Did you see Bill?" "Yes," replies one, "he
stopped a bullet on the way over." "Hard lines.
Bill was my mate for many months — poor old
Bill." The voice is lowered and the glorious adven-
ture is shut from the mind, giving place to
a surging of silent grief for the lost comrade. The
little company is formed up — the roll is called.
My 'God, how many are gone? They move off.
The news goes around that the battalion had
achieved its objective — an official way of saying

PEN PICTURES FROM THE TRENCHES

that " The boys did well." And then it is back
for a few days. Reinforcements are sent. New
officers " take over." In a few days again it is
" Over, boys, and at them, and the best of luck."
Thus we carry on.

There are many kinds of sorrow
In this world of love and hate,

But there is no sterner sorrow,
Than a soldier's for his mate.

— The Padre.

47

ON LES AURA

JUST recently bill-boards in every part of France
have held a striking poster inscribed, On Us
aura (we will have them). The artist has been
inspired. The figure of the poilu with bayonet fixed
is the incarnation of almost demoniacal energy.
It seems as if this soldier of France, flushed with
the knowledge of victory, was about to leap from
the canvas. There is a wonderful light in the
eyes, in fact, the whole face glows. The hands
are clutching the rifle as if in death. " We will
have them " is a phrase we all feel.

The results of the offensive on the Somme have
justified these posters. While the Allies have not
broken through in the sense that the German
defence lines are shattered, yet they have caused
indescribable havoc, and the morale of the field
grey is weakened. Have you read some of those
captured documents? In one order issued by a
battalion commander there is ample evidence that
the esprit de corps of the German Army is causing
much anxiety. The tone of the whole thing is
lachrymose. " The men must not run when the

PEN PICTURES FROM THE TRENCHES

French attack " is one sentence. What a confes-
sion! The superiority of our artillery, of our
infantry, of our aeroplane service is openly acknow-
ledged. 'Such an order, of course, was never
intended for enemy eyes. And then there is the
Crown Prince interview. He descants on the
terrible sights in this sad region of the earth —
his heart is broken — " Would that I could be home
with my family for the Christmas season." And
this is the idiotic youth who swanked about Berlin
a little over two years ago. Aha, how his spurs
clicked when he told how the Germans were going
to benefit humanity by inculcating their kultur!
"A jolly war for me !" says he. But now the tall
boy is sad. Home — the comfort of his men — the
palliation of woe is his tune now. On les aura,
says the poilu. He is right. " Up, guards, and at
them/' reiterates the Tommy.

When the Canadians were at Courcelette one of
the most dramatic incidents in the campaign
happened. The flanks had been driving hard for
three days, the result being that the German centre
was shoved up into the apex of a triangle, so to
speak. The pressure was constant, but the Huns
held on. We were opposite them, and by reason of
their precarious position a vigilant watch was kept
in order that we might make any retirement costly.
4 49

PEN PICTUEES FROM THE TRENCHES

When night came on — the 20th of September, I
think — the flares were being shot as usual. The
enemy was nervous, but their centre still held.
Green lights, red lights, white lights spiralled
into the gloom. But in the morning the scouts
and snipers, men who do the greater part of the.
close observation, reported a " great calm." There
were no signs of Fritz. Not a head appeared
above the top row of sandbags. We were on
guard against a surprise, yet every report said :
" There is no movement, the trench seems to be
unoccupied." About twelve noon a party of
bombers went up an old trench that led into the
German line; they took the precaution of throw-
ing bombs, but no reply was made. Our men went
on and on. The thing became contagious. Our
boys climbed over the parapet and wandered at
will over " No Man's Land." Where was Fritz ?
It was as if peace had come! Canadians were
everywhere gathering souvenirs, taking up new
lines,, bringing in German wounded from shell
holes. "Just like a bloomin' picnic at home,"
remarked one chap. Never have I felt so buoyant.
Men laughed, joked, shook hands and became
again as children. Those who were there will
never forget that afternoon in September, 1916.
Of course, the Germans had gone back to a new
50

PEN PICTURES FKOM THE TEENCHES

line of defence — a mile back. They were busy
consolidating, and that accounted for the quiet-
ness of the scene. We found them that night when
our patrols were out. Such happenings give
relief to the great tension, but our boys fully
realise that there is still serious work ahead; there
are still trenches to take, and there are still
sacrifices to make before victory is complete.
Nevertheless such an episode gives one an insight
into the compelling force that is being applied
to the enemy by France and Britain on the Somme.

51

"LAST POST"

IN an issue of September, 1916, the Fort William
Times-Journal contained the following special
article from the pen of Stanley Eutledge. To-day,
mellowed by time and with the soldier's death in
service as a grim but noble background, " Last
Post " seems almost prophetic for what the young
soldier realized must, sooner or later, be his own
portion. — The Editor, Fort William Times-Journal.
Nov., 1917.

Stanley Rutledge wrote the following lines evi-
dently under the foreshadow that soon the Cana-
dians would be in action again. — His letter to his
parents so intimates. — Editor,, Times-Journal : —

You mothers who have lost sons — you wives who
have had your husbands snatched up by the chariot
of death— grieve not in terms of yesterday. Ypres,
Hooge and St. Eloi, the triumvirate, the last rest-
ing place of sturdy sons of Canada. The loss must
be borne, but what a clear, beautiful light enables
us to peer beyond the immediate. " Dead on the
field of battle " is the phrase which, to sorrowing
52

PEN PICTURES FROM THE TRENCHES

ones, should carry a message of glorious, noble
import. The madmen of the century come on,
preparing the way by sending over sickly green
clouds of poisonous gas, but our men (your boys,
your husbands) they stand firm. And when the
onset is broken, when the screaming shells are
no longer overhead, the sergeant may call the roll.
Some answer " Here," but some answer " There."

Yes, we miss our chums. Jim does not come
out, but we shed no tears. The feeling that our
mates have given up all that they have in the
fulfillment of life's noblest function dries the eye.
What a glorious passing. Duty calls, the man
responds and dedicates his life to service for that
is what is involved — the keeping inviolate of what
is the alpha and omega of life. " For men must
work and women must weep/' wrote Kingsley —
but weep not in terms of yesterday.

It is so difficult to bring comfort to a sad heart.
The sense of desolation. The awful depression
that comes when one learns of death's inroads
cannot be at once assuaged. But in the calmer
moments, when the wild surgings of grief are
gone, it is then that we must understand what our
dead would have us know. Every man who is
out here has asked himself : " Why am I a soldier
of the king?" They have searched their minds
53

PEN PICTURES FROM THE TRENCHES

and the answer is always the same : " We must
fight — our cause is just." And this implicit faith
should challenge the best in any true man. That
is why men can die with a smile on their grimy
faces — that is why these noble fellows would have
you grieve, not in terms of yesterday. Think on
it — their great sacrifices will have been in vain if
you do not catch the message. The world should
}>e better. Men should serve their fellows more
if we understand this war. Those who mourn
to-day should be so ennobled by the loss that their
influence will be greater in days to come.

" Last Post " — what a wonderful bugle call it
is. With arms reversed the boys stand bowed
before the open grave. What thoughts come to
us? Then the slow march back to the billets. It
may well be that some life is made better. It may
well be that many a resolve is made to " be more
to my fellows," and that is the message that should
make you that are bereft better able to bear your
sorrow.

PEN PICTURES FROM THE TRENCHES

AFRAID

Afraid to live? Nay, I would grow,
Triumph, conquer, fail, forego;
Not one whit of pain or bliss
In the earth-life would I miss.
Life is marvellously good,
Full of love and brotherhood.

Afraid to die? Nay, death to me
Would wondrous fine adventure be.
Beyond the narrow bounds of sense
I would gain experience.
What care I for mould'ring sod —
Death would bring me nearer God !

—Clyde lull.

SUPERSTITIOUS TOMMY

MANY are the tales told of Tommy's super-
stitions. I would not go so far as to say that
every soldier indulges in these fanciful beliefs, but
it is none the less true that we have our " lapses."
If you will remember the old witches in Macbeth,
with their steaming cauldrons, recall the whining
wind on the waste, dwell on the mysteries of spook-
land, then you will know of the agencies that are
55

PEN PICTURES FROM THE TRENCHES

urging — always urging, it would seem, our boys
to swear by some charm or rule. When Viscount
French's " contemptible little army " fought in
the retreat from :Mons, it was told how an angel
host appeared, turning 'back the Hun in an ignoble
retreat. The story obtained wide publication. It
was told in semi-poetic language. And then we
all hoped it had really happened. Glad to- -believe,
you know, in such a manifestation of righteous
judgment. And despite the evidence, which showed
the origin of the story to have been one of our
war correspondents, there are many who will not
disbelieve the vision.

Then, who has not heard of the " rum jar "
superstition ? :Some years ago, when the war was
young, it so happened that the rum was being
carried up the trenches by Tom, Dick and Harry.
All three were fond of the flowing bowl. It was
wet and miserable — the darkness was all about.
" What say if we have a little touch of the stuff
before we hand it over?" said Tom. "Ah," says
Dick, " let's tip the jar for a good toddy — we'll
never be caught." And the keeper of the lower
regions said: " Right, boys — it's fine stuff on such
a night." The cork was pulled, the fiery liquid
coursed through the blood and set the mind afire.
" Let's have another," says Harry. So say we
56

PEN PICTURES FROM THE TRENCHES

all; and the jar was soon empty. Then their
minds began to frame what seemed a wonderful
excuse. "We'll tell the colonel that a shell came
over and broke the jar." The three staggered up
the trench and into the headquarters dug-out. The
explanation was tendered, but the physical con-
dition told the truth. And to this day it is held
that " he who carries the rum jar is flirting with
death."

Then there are the mascots and talismans. Let
me insert what an officer narrated. " I knew of
one man who used to carry in his pack a rosary
that he had picked up in one of the streets of
Ypres. One day his leg was fractured in two
places by a large piece of trench-mortar bomb, but,
in spite of his suffering, he refused to be taken
down to the dressing station until he had hunted
through his pack and found him his rosary. ' If
I don't take it with me/ he said, ' I'd get hit again
on the way down.' ''

But the superstition that holds the most is that
known as "the three cigarettes." Never light three
cigarettes by the same match, is the dictum. Time
and time again I have been reaching over to light
up when a match is going, only to have it blown
out in my face — " sorry, old man, have another
57

PEN PICTURES FEOM THE TRENCHES

match, two of us lit up already from this one/'"
my benefactor says.

Just to-day a lad was telling me of a small
cross he had received. It had written thereon
"He was wounded for our transgression/7 etc.
Will he part with it? Never! To him it is a
symbol, a linking up with the Watcher Over All.
It may seem to some foolish ; it may bring a smile
to the face of an intellectual colossus, but think
of what it means to the wearer. And it is not
ignorance. They who wear these crucifixes, these
charms, know and recognise the fact that it is
symbolic only.

And so let us remember Tommy and his rum
jar, Tommy and his three cigarettes, Tommy and
his dead cow, and smile. But let us not forget
Tommy and his cross, his talisman, his crucifix,
and what they hold for him.

"RATIONS UP"

I AM enclosing a few lines descriptive of the
work of getting up food to the troops. Therein
is incorporated much of the language of our boys.
It seems to me to be very true to the " life." For
that reason it may be of interest to soldiers if not
to civilians.

'Sitting in a dug-out along a communication
trench one can hear more rumours, more com-
plaints, more jests than in any other part of the
line. And if it happens to be a night in January,
when the snow is slushing under one's feet, the
whole repertoire will be heard. Some natures
become jovial in miserable surroundings. Some
men must joke when things go wrong, if only to
offset some pessimistic utterance. When the wind
whines through the telephone wires — you know
the sort of feeling that steals over one — well, it
is not unlike that some nights in France. The
boys want to talk — they become loquacious — any-
thing to keep our minds off the utter unsociability
of naiure.

" Rations up I" is an army shibboleth. Wherever
Tommy is on active service it is like the summon-
59

PEN PICTURES FROM THE TRENCHES

ing of the clan. A few men are told off from each
company and detailed to bring up rations. The
transports haul " the chuck " up to a dump, a
mile or so from the line. Everything is done at
night — the men file down the long communication
trench, and, reaching the waggons, each receives
his load. One carries a bag of coke and a bag
of charcoal, another shoulders a bread bag, another
the meat, and another the mail. Glorious mail —
how we love the sight of a " George Rex " sack.
After groping about, stumbling over trench stores,
and after much fuss and ado, the men get started
up the trench.

It is then socialistic tendencies assert themselves
— I mean (kindly), everybody wants to talk at
once. One chap has heard that the Kaiser says the
war will be over before Christmas (this, by the
way, is our annual rumour). "Honest, boys, I
was talking to 'Jim7 (one of the drivers), and
he said he had it straight from ' Bob ' (who is
batman for a staff officer) — ad infinitum. Give
me a war for gossip. An afternoon quilting party
at Mrs. Smith's could not compare.

In the slush, slush, slush, the soldiers get into

step unconsciously. The line twists and turns

around bays, under flying traverses. Now away

for a straight bit of trench. The flares flicker now

60

PEN PICTURES FROM THE TRENCHES

and then. Some chap will shout out: " That's the
ole boy. :Shoot 'em up, Fritz, so that we can
see the bloomin' mats." " What are you carrying,
Tom ?" " Oh, ' blime ' if I know, it's some weight.
The old quarter-bloke (quarter-master) must have
dropped a couple of sixty-pound trench-mortar
bombs in my bag."

Then another will begin to play the old soldier,
as the Boys say. It has been recognised that the
soldier has one privilege, he can grumble. 'So that
" to be grouchy " is to do the " old soldier " act,
in our parlance. Thus it happens that the ear
will catch something not unlike this : " Our cooks
are the worst ever, why they couldn't cook any
better than a — (here the simile fails the speaker,
so he finishes up) — well, any better than nothing."
Or it may be " the battalion is going to the dogs,"
etc., etc. Then, a machine-gun opens up, sweeps
to and fro, and the voluble one is silenced. At
length the party reaches the sergeant-major's dug-
out. Bags are thrown in, and a further distri-
bution is made, the corporals drawing rations for
their sections. Mail is doled out like so much gold.
"Two for you, Bill, and a parcel." "Hurrah,
Bill's got a parcel." " Now we won't go hungry —
now we won't go hungry — now we won't go hungry
any more," is the chorus of the immediate few.
61

PEX PICTURES FEOM THE TRENCHES

Some chaps get a parcel every week, some get a
parcel every month, and some there are who never
" loose the magic cord that binds a box from
home," and so we pass the eats around.

" Rations up ! boys." Here's hoping we all get
a letter to-night. What say you?

HUMAN TARGETS
THE BRITISH SNIPER HAS THE UPPER HAND

THERE is no doubt about it — when the war was
young the German sniper stood alone. He was
first and the rest nowhere. Every " Tommy " who
felt a bullet crack near him was sure it was a
sniper. The fame of the enemy sharpshooter grew
apace, and wonderful tales of his prowess were
told. The thing got on the men's nerves. Sentries
saw snipers in trees, in " No Man's Land," in
chimneys, etc. To give the devil his due the Hun
was proficient. And he knew it, too. The same
careful attention to detail that characterised all
the 'German scheme of preparedness was in evi-
dence. The game was studied — as the lawyer
would say — with malice aforethought. Conse-
quently, we had reason to fear the man about whom
it has been written, " Oh, who is he who shoots
from trees, from sunken hides, and ofttimes sees
a slug for him come o'er the breeze — the sniper."

But we have learned our lesson. And, as always,
we have paid, paid, paid. To-day the British
63

PEN PICTURES FKOM THE TRENCHES

sniper holds the trump card. I think it is well
within the mark to say that this knowledge has
been of inestimable benefit to our boys. Let men
have the conviction that in any arm of the service
superiority has been established, and the effect on
" morale " is tremendous. What was it but this
feeling of " top dog " that enabled the ranks to
carry on in the face of great obstacles at the
Somme ?

The snipers are picked men. Ability to shoot
is not everything. Initiative and aptitude count
for much. A sniper should " dote " on his job —
he must be keen. A sergeant sniper, who has the
fever for his work, said that he never took a man
into the section on his range record only. " Give
me a man with an appetite for 'Huns/7 was the
way he put it. " Human targets — that's it, sir."

If one walks through a billet area, where men
have a few days rest from the trenches, one may
meet up with a little group carrying, in addition
to service equipment, an assortment of leather
cases and " alien " paraphernalia. The rifles may
excite comment, They are of all sorts and makes
—Long Lee-En fields, the Ross, some with Win-
chesters and some with the ordinary arm. Each
man will have his reason for believing he has the
best rifle in the world.

64

PEX PICTURES FROM THE TRENCHES

Space will not permit me to relate at length
rny experiences, and will mention only a couple,
true, to my knowledge, having happened on our
immediate front. When we " took over " at X
the German snipers had been very active. A cer-
tain portion of the line was in bad shape, and
despite warnings a number of the boys had been
" picked off." The sergeant had us put in " posts "
on each side of the dangerous spot. We fired at
everything in sight. The Hun " came -back," but
we fired clip after clip. Twenty-two periscopes
were smashed in three days. The enemy tried hard
to retain superiority of fire. Our lads were deter-
mined to obtain mastery, and we " stuck it," even
though shots came perilously close, and persever-
ance won. When we were relieved the " Fritzie "
sniper was non est.

An Imperial told me this story : " We were in

the trenches at . It was winter time and snow

covered the ground. A sniper had very effectively
plied on our lines. We had tried to locate him,
but his post was well concealed. The enemy
parapet was searched for those signs which an
experienced sniper notes with care. We watched
for the smoke of his rifle. We examined closely
any suspicious arrangement of sandbags, indicating
the presence of a loop-hole. But we were worried.
5 65

PEN PICTURES FROM THE TRENCHES

Fran'kly, the officer commanding was asking ' why

in we didn't stop that sniper?' One day we

happened to notice a slight discolouration of the
snow in front of the parados, at M|6, B|14, 0|22.
This spot was watched, and sure enough the sniper
was there.

" He had, by skilful arrangement, concealed the
post, but he had forgotten to take into account the
effect of the gas and smoke of his rifle on the snow.
That sniper was stalked, and, as the Imperial told
me, " there was one Boche less then, and another
months afterwards."

Rather a ludicrous experience came to us at

. " Fritz " had three or four loop-holes in

close proximity on his parapet. We saw the little
trap in one open and a rifle barrel protrude. Here
was luck. Our rifles were tuned up and two shots
went " whang " into his loop-hole. I am not sure
but we went clean through the opening. But this
Hun was nervy. Apparently he had not been hit,
but what did the chap do but go along to the next
loophole, and bang one across at us. We followed
up and " rang the plate," as the boys say. The
fun grew fast and furious. Fritz hastened down
the trench, and opening another loop-hole, sent
one blindly. We were right after him — whang
went our bullet on that plate. " Poor Fritz," he
66

PEN PICTURES FROM THE TRENCHES

was out of luck. We were invisible, and he got
desperate. His impotency -exasperated him, and at
last his temper got the upper hand. We saw the
barrel of his rifle come over the parapet. But it
was pointed skyward. He knew better than to
expose himself. "Bang, bang, bang!" spoke his
Mauser. " Poor ole Fritz," he couldn't shoot at
us so he vented his spleen on God's pure air. I
laughed boisterously. It was a sight for a pessi-
mist. I think I could rather like that Hun. He
got so darn mad, and so soon over it. We never
saw him again.

LIKE A THIEF IN THE NIGHT

QUITE the most tragic thing one can observe is
to watch the subtle inroads made by fear into the
heart of a brave man. And yet it is common out
here. I know of many chaps who were as iron in
the beginning and who have " lost their nerve."
The quoted phrase is common in soldier parlance.
The breaking-down process — how damnable it is.

In our last tour I had occasion to be up in a
zone which was being heavily shelled. It seemed
as if the German gunners had poured out all their
wrath upon this spot. The coal boxes whined and
crumpled, tearing up every inch of ground. Whizz-
bangs — those small shells Which carry death's mes-
sage with incredible swiftness — were breaching our
parapets. Now, he, concerning whom I write, was
one of our most intrepid bombers. At Hooge, at
St. Eloi, at Kemmel, he was wonderful. The lust
of blood seemed to course in his veins. After all,
those are the chaps who kill the Germans — men
who see the Hun as a mad beast — men who have
no sentiment (unless the foe is wounded) — men
who regard the German as directly responsible for
every physical discomfort which came with the
68

PEN PICTURES FROM THE TRENCHES

war — men who go about from day to day uttering
fierce imprecations, and Kelly was in that class.

A small bombing attack was to 'be pulled off.
The Germans had a detached post from which
position much damage could be done to our line.
It was thought best to send over a select party
of bombers and snipers and endeavour to clear the
strong point. The officer asked for volunteers,
hoping to get the very men he might have selected.
Kelly knew of the move, and was dreading to be
asked if " he wanted to go over." I met him
squatting in a " funk " hole, seeking protection
from shrapnel. He told me the story.

" It's got me," he said. "After twelve months
of this hell its got me and got me right.

""Some of the chaps will laugh; Kelly the
bomber has lost his nerve. He is done for, they
will say, and it will be the truth.

" I think it was that shell at Courcelette that
snapped my nerve. You know that afternoon when
the gang were in the deep dug-out, and a shell
came over and blew in the mouth of the dug-out?
Well, since then I have never felt the same. Every
shell seems to me to have my name and number
on it. The old spirit has gone out."

Then, dropping his voice : " I hope they don't
ask me if I want to go over."
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PEN PICTURES FROM THE TRENCHES

For myself I know tJie pathos of that sentence.
In war the chalice of sorrow passes from lip to
lip— duke's son and cook's son lay down their
lives. But what is there in the whole wide world
that expresses so much as a heart which was once
strong that becomes craven. A man no more, you
say. And yet I cannot believe that the God of
Battles will send Kelly out into the world in that
condition. It must come to pass that Kelly will
be "born again.'5 Who is there will say me
"Nay"?

70

A TRAGEDY

WHAT is the one indispensable happening in a
tragedy ? Is it not that the main character should
suffer, death? If so, the title of this story isn't
misleading.

You know the inevitable staging of tragedies.
" Possibly, a ghost in a haunted villa, or a blind
man in a dark room may snatch burning papers
from a dead fire, or the wind will howl, and figures
move stealthily on a dark night." But in the life
of every man there comes a time when the artificial
gives way to the real. A moment when it is " nip
and tuck " with Death's own sickle ; and in France
to-day the curtain never goes down.

We were at St. Poe. The winter was upon us
— the days a few hours only, and the nights end-
less, it would seem — pitch dark it was, too, with
a twang in the air. The trees halved and quartered,
branchless and gnarled, gave one the ." creeps."
If on patrol in "No Man's Land," these battered
trunks would take on human shape, and looking
intently one could swear the accursed thing moved
— almost. And that was the picture when Lieutenant
Jones reported from England and became attached
to A company. He was keen — the game was new,
you see, and he had his full share of red blood. At
the mess that night the scout officer told how the
colonel was anxious to know what was in the rear

71

PEN PICTURES FROM THE TRENCHES

of Crater 3. We knew the Germans held the
big " hole," -but mysterious " goings on " had been
noticed over the rear lip.

Jones and Baird, the scout officer, went out —
it was 9.30 when they crawled into the listening
post and then under the wire. Both had Colt's
45's. An old trench was followed for some yards.
It was full of wire and debris of all kinds. It was
when they got out of the sap and began to
creep towards the German line that they got
separated. One cannot whisper when close up, and
as for seeing each other — why, you could not see
your own nose. Baird hung around awhile, shiver-
ing all over, and just a " wee bit " apprehensive
about finding his way back — an old timer he was,
too. What chance had Jones?

That same evening a sentry at bay 21, our line,
saw a figure crouched near our wire. He chal-
lenged sharply, but not loudly. No answer. His
orders were to challenge, and then — well, a shot
rang from his rifle. All was still. A flare shot
up. " It fell quivering — the figure was still near
— bent over like," as the sentry tells it.

A few days later the London Times said : "Killed
in action : Lieutenant David Arthur Jones, Cana-
dian infantry." You see, he hadn't heard the
sentry challenge.

72

OLD PIERRE

WHEN shadows gather one can walk overland
from the front line trench to the little village in
the rear. I went out one evening not long ago.
For two weeks the moon had not been out. At
night the battered houses take on fearful shapes.
Not a ray of light must penetrate into the gloom.
Few inhabitants creep stealthily from house to
house. A sight not unusual — a roof stripped of
its tile by shrapnel from a German 5.9. The
rafters remain grouped grotesquely here and there.
No cowbell tinkles, no pump screeches, and the
cure no longer goes down the long street. The
school, too, just across from the church, no longer
opens to boisterous youth. Desolation — where the
Hun has passed it seems as if no living thing
remains.

Old Pierre and his wife lived in the Rue de la
Gare. When off duty it was my custom now and
again to go and see him. The couple occupied
one room; it really was the only one intact.
Tenaciously they held on to the home, a wreck
now, but still it was home. How they managed
to get a living is beyond me. The fields all about
73

PEN PICTURES FROM THE TRENCHES

had been robbed of the yielding top soil, and shells
had ploughed the worked surface. But they will
never let go.

" Howvs your boy ?" I asked.

" My sons — " (the plural was emphatic). " Oh,
monsieur — one is away since — a long time, in
Germany — a prisoner, and my petit Pierre — he
no longer remains to me."

Always does the old woman tell me of her sons.
You see, the memory is going, and she forgets
that she told me before. Pierre apologises so
wistfully. "She forgets, monsieur; she forgets.
Is it not sad?"

However, the mother love is so intense that one
soon shakes off the depression. Then she startles
me. "Does God answer prayer?"

Old Pierre speaks up — he knew she would ask
me that : "Always, ma femme, le ~bon Dieu answers
prayers — the cure says He never loses one of His
children."

Then, turning to me : " The old woman forgets,
monsieur — she thinks le Ion Dieu may forget,
too. But our boy will not come back. Some days
she talks long with the padre, and is sure that
the good God watches over her boy, but when she
is alone and broods over the missing one she is
not sure."

74

PEN PICTURES FROM THE TRENCHES

Pierre turned and touched her shoulder. " The
letter," he said. The old woman took a key, which
had been hanging from a nail behind the stove.
Stooped and rather uncertainly she went to a
chest of drawers in the corner. The letter was
only a field service postcard. It said : " I am
well." But for the mother it was full of endear-
ing words. She could read between the lines.
Old Pierre had told her its message of affection.
Sentences from other missives speak about home,
the horses and the crops. He tells her then that
their little Pierre has died for France. He tells
her that the good God will surely keep those .who
have died in defence of right. He tells her U
bon Dieu answers prayer always. But she forgets,
she forgets, for a sombre shadow is across her way.

But the veil will be lifted. Winter is going.
Spring will come. The tender roots will peep
into the sun once more in these war-ridden lands.
Pierre will be alone then, and the old woman will
remember always. The attending Angel will not
let her forget.

IN ORDERS

DOES the phrase "We're for it" mean any-
thing to you? The boys use it a great deal.
Suppose one is detailed to bring up rations;
that information may be imparted in this way:
"You're .for it, Bill"; and Bill, knowing it is
ration time will compre the sergeant's words.
And again, suppose it is half-past two on Friday,
the 13th of November. Rather a " decent " after-
noon— a blue sky — a congenial sun. All in all,
not a bad outlook, as war outlooks go. Some of
the boys are in dug-outs, trying to get a couple
of hours sleep. Things seem quite peaceful, and
you are on sentry-go. 'Suddenly, the " ouf, ouf,
ouf," of a big minenwerfer is heard. And then
everything opens up, and Fritz puts over all he's
got. Then, one has to stick it. The rest of the
chaps are snug in a deep dug-out. That unfor-
tunate Tommy will say to himself, "Well, I've
got to stay— ' I'm for it.' "

Last week we went in at Y-26 — that will do
for our map location. Kinnear, a lad from the
land of lochs and porridge, was my mate. Not
long out, but real Scotch fibre — you know, "the
hang-on kind." There were no indications of a
76

PEN PICTURES FROM THE TRENCHES

lively trip. Some trench-inortar stuff in the
afternoons, but no unseemly racket. It looked a
peaceful war day, that, on which we went in at
Y-2>6. But the next morning, at 5.30, the Huns
blew a small mine on our left flank, and their
artillery opened immediately and concentrated on
our front line. Their fire grew in intensity.
Guns of all calibre searched the parapet. Soon the
line was obliterated. We knew what it meant.
Kinnear yelled across — the roar of battle was
deafening — " We're for it," and we were. S. 0. S.
signals were sent up from our lines. The Ger-
man artillery was playing on our communication
trenches, hoping to prevent reinforcements arriv-
ing. Their aeroplanes were flying low, like in
the old days. It was once again the old hell, the
scream of shells, the rattle of machine-guns, and
the nervous bark of rifles. Men were hurrying
here and there. Some with urgent messages, some
tottering around wounded and not able to get
out, some excited, and some as always great in
times of stress.

Such an one was Kinnear. He didn't know war,
either. He had civilian notions of shells, tactics
and such, but he was game. " Come on — make the
attack, you swine," he roared. But the Hun
awaited his own good time. His artillery prepara-
77

PEN PICTURES FROM THE TRENCHES

tion was not finished. The " crumps " were falling
all about, sending up timber, revetting, trench
stores, piles of sandbags, equipment, etc. The smell
of battle — sulphurous fumes — was in one's nostrils.
The aeroplanes " banked " and " straightened
out " over head. Nothing to do but wait for the
attack. Kinnear and I grabbed a few extra rounds
of ammunition. The artillery stopped. We could
see the " field grey " coming over their parapet
and advancing on our positions. " Open order "
work, run a piece and then drop — the Germans
no longer come on in mass formation. Our
machine-guns — two out of four now out of action
— began to spit. Kinnear and I worked our bolts
like fiends possessed. Talk about duck shooting,
here we were potting away at human targets, yes,
sir. Our left flank was in bad shape. The mine
had blown a number of our chaps into God's
haven.

Kinnear, just a new lad, you know, realised
that it was here that the men would be needed.
He "beat it" along the trench, hopping -over
cave-ins and treading carefully over some chaps
that were " down," he got into action. The Huns
tried hard, but we had a machine-gun there and
it was manned by a real man. The Huns tried
to come on, but the machine-gun and Kinnear
78

PEN PICTUEES FROM THE TRENCHES

held them at bay. Had the enemy got around
our left the whole line would have been blotted
out. But about five o'clock the attack began to
weaken. The Hun lost out. He went back (the
few that were left), and twilight brought us quiet
again. Kin near was wounded — a bullet in the
shoulder, a piece of shrapnel in his thigh and one
in his neck.

You have the story. It gives me great pleasure
to introduce Corporal Peter Kinnear, D.C.M.

79

DOWN SUICIDE ALLEY

CEETAIX it is that one cannot go down " Suicide
Alley " without seeing him. The old man can be
found always pottering about in the insignificant
garden which reaches to the street. The years have
come and left him not untouched. If I mistake
not there is palsy in the quivering hand. But he
would tell you that the doctor never had come to
him. He was — well, he was not old. But his
reiteration came as a sad note, for all the time
one could see the night of life beginning to settle.

So we found him when the Duke of Cornwall's
Light Infantry commandeered billets in the vil-
lage. And as the machine-gun section occupied
three of the four houses along one lane the boys
were not long in labelling it " Suicide Alley." So
hazardous, even for war, is the nature of machine-
gun work, bombing or sniping, that those engaged
therein are spoken of as belonging to " suicide
clubs." The old man was asked to turn one room
of his cottage over to the medical staff, and thus
his pride was wounded. He who had boasted of
good health, he who had laughed at the "old
woman " and her headaches, was now to have
80

PEX PICTUKES FROM THE TRENCHES

always in his house a doctor. How the garcons
(boys) of the village would tease him. Bah!
it was a bad, bad war.

The coloured plates above the fireplace gave
way to evil-smelling and worse-looking bottles of
medicine!. The window ledge was piled high with
rolled bandages. And that afternoon the old man
forgot his work. The boys were coming in little
groups, some to have a cut bandaged, and some
to have a blister pierced, some without injury to
make sure they were well, and the medical sergeant
was busy with the iodine. The old man had never
seen such strange sights. But the smell, or do
you prefer aroma, of the room became in time
alluring, for, by reason of unfamiliarity, some
things become attractive. So it was that curiosity
undermined the spirit of opposition in the old
ma>n. He wondered what it would be like to get
painted up with that brown liquid. He had noted
a smile, as of supreme content, come over the
features of those so decorated. He wondered what
would happen if he got covered with " fluffy "
bandages. Wouldn't the people of the village
point to him and say, " Old Father Lehron is a
friend of the doctors — he is learning wonderful
things up there."

The temptation was upon him, and he was not
6 81

PEX PICTURES FROM THE TRENCHES

strong in mind. The brain was tired — some
uncharitable folk said he was in " senile decay/*
But he wasn't. Poor old Father Lehron was
getting young once more — why not leave it that?
But I am not supposed to tell you how the old
man managed to lose a little blood — just a little
he confides to me, but enough to receive the atten-
tion of the "wizard medicine man."

So, old Father Lehron has become young again,
and is looking for the elixir of life among the
doctor's bottles. He is the proudest man in
" Suicide Alley " in a certain village in France.

THE CHILDREN OF HALLOY-PERNOIS

NOT long ago — possibly three weeks have gone
since we were in Halloy-lPernois. It is not of
this village I write, although there was enough
of beauty to call up many thoughts. At the fork
of the roads there is a wayside shrine — carefully
tended — so symbolic of France's devotion to the
cause of humanity. One comes down a long wind-
ing hill. At the top it is possible to see for miles
the clusters of red-tiled roofs — the villages. In
a small plot old women and older men are sweat-
ing a living from a mean soil. They carry on —
these French. Vespers will ring out and still
these sad figures will be bent in toil. And what
of the children — Us enfants?

On the outskirts of iHalloy an enormous brick
chimney is lifted into the clouds. All day long
it belches forth black smoke. Two shaft houses
are to be seen — two long low buildings roofed
with tile — the whole surrounded by an eight-foot
wall. A coal mine, and we wander through the
huge gate and along the gravel path to the sort-
ing room. The fit men are away to the war.
and here are those, some with a leg gone,
83

PEX PICTURES FROM THE TRENCHES

some with an arm missing, and some too old to
fight. These only and the children are at work.
It is not possible to view this scene without
tapping the wells of human sympathy. One has
to think — one has to meditate — the indescribable
sadness of it all.

By intently looking one can see a pair of eyes
peering out from a grimy face. The hands move
mechanically, picking, forever picking slack and
twigs. The scoops fixed on a huge conveying belt,
roll on endlessly. The enfants are paying the
price, surely? From morn till night the buckets
dive into the bowels of the earth. From morn
till night the children are herded in that dreary
room, sorting over black diamonds. And yet they
cannot throw off the mantle of youth. It is that
which makes one better able to look on. Why
one of the young rascals is demanding a cigarette.
In France many of the young lads smoke. The
girls beg for souvenirs — a coat button, it may be,
and all in the most delightful broken English.
And they are observant. I had my telescopic rifle
sight slung over my shoulder. One little chap,
about as big as a minute, raised a general laugh.
He touched the sight and gave an imitation of
what he supposed we snipers could do to the
enemy. Pointing to his little " tummy/' he gave

84

PEN PICTURES FROM THE TRENCHES

it quite a resounding whack and grunted, " Oh,
Boche" — he no like — Boche " allez vite" (go

like ) then he ran the length of the room.

Soon it is six o'clock arid with satisfaction
written in the grimy faces, with the day's work
done, this motley crew file through the gates.
They have done what they could for France. And,
after all, it must be as Browning says : " God's
in his heaven — all's right with the world."

85

ORA PRO NOBIS

WEDNESDAY afternoon I walked down Dead
End Alley in Harlaxton. The street is not invit-
ing: a long row of severe tenements, with here
and there a tidy porch and a gate that still rested
on its worn hinges. The houses abutted the street,
and one could glance into parlours which were
never used. An organ, with a hideously designed
covering, a few chairs, an enlarged photograph of
" Grandfather," which in a softened light looked
smeary, might describe the furniture.

At one window one might see three cards, they
were about six inches square and were resting on
the sill. The flags of the Allies were interwoven
in silk. In order they read:

" Serving King and Country " — John Jackson.
Private, 'Sherwood Foresters.

Another : —

" Serving King and Country " — Albert
Jackson. Pilot N.C.O. Royal Flying Corps.

And the third:—

" Serving King and Country " — Charles
Jackson. Gun-layer H.M.S. Lion.

A week later I passed along the same way.

PEN PICTURES FROM THE TRENCHES

An old man was sitting in front of the house,
smoking. I note that one card has a black ribbon
across its face. The old man showed me a clip-
ping from the London Times : " The King has
been graciously pleased to award, posthumously,
the D.C.M. to John Jackson, No. 109906, Sher-
wood Foresters.

" In the face of concentrated rifle fire Jackson
crept forward and brought in an officer who had
been in " No Man's Land " all night. On gain-
ing his own parapet, and with his task all but
completed, a bullet caught the hero in a vital
spot."

Two months went by. Duty took me along
Dead End Alley. A black ribbon ran across
another card. The old man came out to see me.
He had remembered my visit. "Albert has been
shot down from 18,000 feet by Mueller, the crack
German airman," was all tha,t he said.

The next Sunday the papers told of a great sea
fight off Dogger Bank. H.M.S. Lion had been
sunk. A few seamen were picked up from the
Avater. Again my path was along the unkempt
street. Would another black ribbon be in the
window? Unconsciously, I crossed the roadway,
instinct seemed to lead me away from the sad
house.

87

PEN PICTURES PROM THE TRENCHES

" Best not to look/' something whispered. But
surely, not again — see, there is the old man bask-
ing in the sun. My doubts vanished and a few
paces 'brought me to the gate. The father did
not look up. I knew — there was another black
ribbon. All gone. Three boys. Three heroes —
three black ribbons.

That evening the Harlaxton Gazette, had this
notice : " The community will be very sorry to
hear of the death of Mrs. Amos Jackson at noon
to-day. Together with her husband she was pre-
paring some fruit for preserving when a telegram
from the Admiralty told of the drowning of her
son, Charles."

"All gone — my three boys." All for King and
country, that England might live. She folded
the message and fell into her husband's arms.
Ora Pro Nobis.

8S

BRIEF SKETCH OF THE AUTHOR

LIEUTENANT STANLEY ARTHUR RUTLEDGE,
whose pen pictures and letters make up this little
volume, was 'born at Fort William, Ont., December
24th, 1889, and was thus nearing his 28th birth-
day, when he met his fatal accident.

He attended the public and high schools in
Fort William, worked a few months as a junior
in the Merchants Bank, then for a short time with
the Herald Publishing Co., when he chose law as
his vocation. He matriculated at Albert College,
Belleville, then took the Arts course at Queen's
University, Kingston, where he stood high in his
examinations, receiving his Bachelor's degree. He
then took two years of his Osgoode Hall course,
being employed in his recess as a law student with
Messrs. Kerr, Davidson, Paterson and MoFarland,
Toronto, and during his vacation period at Fort
William with D. R. Byers and J. A. Dyke, bar-
risters. During one of his vacations, also, he taught
school in Alberta, so that at his age he was not
lacking in varied experience.

Then, with his student course almost completed,
he answered the call to arms and enlisted as a
89

PEN PICTURES FROM THE TRENCHES

private with the 4th University Company at Mont-
real, leaving his home September 22nd, 1915, and,
after a short course of training, leaving for over-
seas in November. After less than four months*
training in England he arrived at the trenches,
in the notorious Ypres salient, in March, 1916.
About two months later he secured a transfer to
the 28th Battalion in order to join his brother
Wilfred, who had reached the front line six months
before him. From this time on Stanley was a
sniper in this battalion, and was through the hot
fighting at 'Hooge in June, where the Canadians
suffered heavy losses, and through the Somme
fighting later.

After over ten months in the front line he was
granted a commission, and took his first leave to
England for his course at military school. After
securing rank of lieutenant and passing efficiency
test, ranking among the first twenty out of four
hundred, he joined the Royal Flying Corps and
qualified as a pilot in September. In this service
he had shown marked proficiency, and was doing
instructional work at Grantham when he suffered
fatal accident on November 16th. '

Lieutenant Rutledge's Pen Pictures of episodes
observed during trench life, were, therefore, written
during the latter half of 1916. They were written
90

PEN PICTURES FEOM THE TRENCHES

sometimes from his dug-out, but mostly in his
billet after a tour, and were as "hot sparks from
the anvil." The late lieutenant had the divin-
ing mind, and has been ascribed a seer and a
philosopher, remarkable for his years. His sym-
pathy was great for his fellows, and he seemed
to feel the heart throbs of those about him.

In introducing the author of these sketches,
passing reference should be made to a younger
and only brother, Lieutenant W. L. Rutledge, who
has already passed through more than the average
experiences of a soldier. He was decorated with
the Military Medal at the crater fighting at St.
Eloi in April, 1916, and again won a bar to the
medal at Courcelette in September, and shortly
afterward was awarded a commission on the field.
He fought at Vimy, then joined the Royal Flying
Corps as an observer, and after destroying a Ger-
man aeroplane, was granted a holiday to Canada.
On his return trip his ship was torpedoed and
sunk off the coast of Ireland, and Lieutenant
Rutledge was landed in a lifeboat, without cloth-
ing, excepting his pyjamas. He is now a pilot in
the Air Service.

91

A FATHER'S TRIBUTE

STANLEY, our beloved son, has passed on with
the great army who have given up their lives that
those who follow may have life more abundant.
lie loved not war nor the war-makers, neither did
the spirit of adventure that follows in its train
attract him, apart from the natural zest .to see and
learn through travel, of peoples and conditions.

Through the summer of 1915 the call seemed
to come to him louder and louder, " Enlist," and
quietly he arranged by correspondence to join up
with the 4th University Corps at Montreal, and
with only a few hours' notice to even close friends
and associates he slipped away. Yes, there was
a little note of disappointment in him, that it
seemed necessary for him to go, for with hopes
high he was eager to begin his life's work that
promised so much. All his little business affairs
and personal effects had been arranged with care,
and a tear wells up when we look into the closet,
with all his clothing and other possessions, neatly
hung up or packed away.

I had always regarded Stanley's predominant
characteristic to be business. With a radiant
personality he had a discerning mind, and was
attentive and punctual to a degree. But the great
war developed a latent power within him, the gift
to write, and his word pictures of episodes during
92

PEX PICTURES FROM THE TRENCHES

his ten months in the trenches have been declared
to be surpassing fine. It is possible, indeed, that
had his life been spared he might have given
literary pursuits a chief place in his life's work.
Stanley saw and felt much, as his letters reveal,
and the tragedy of the war had furrowed deeply
into his soul. His sense of wrong and injustice
was deep, and he had a big heart for those who
sorrow and suffer. Read his " Old Man and His
Smile," " Willie Gierke » and " Old Pierre."

And to-day we are sad because those letters to
father and mother come no more, those love mes-
sages, ever unlocking the treasures of his mind.

The following lines, written in memory of
Lieutenant Chester Hughes, another of our " fallen
brave," by his father, Dr. James L. Hughes, I beg
leave to appropriate:

I'm sad because he died so soon,

But glad he lived so long,
His heart with purpose high in tune —

His soul serene and strong.

Eegret oft drives its poisoned dart

Into my breast, but then
I think how well he did his part,

And I rejoice again.

EDWARD S. RUTLEDGE.
93

LETTERS HOME

We present to our readers in the second part
of this little volume extracts from the letters of
the late Lieutenant written home. These, we feel
sure, will be read with no less interest and enjoy-
ment than those episodes already portrayed by his
facile and sympathetic pen.

In collating these letters only such portions
have been taken as seemed to be of general interest,
and paragraphs of personal or family reference
have been, for the most part, left out.

It will be remembered that these letters were
written for the family circle, and doubtless it was
not in the mind of the author that a larger circle
would want to read them. Even a number of
those sketches, *o deeply human, on the pages just
turned, had been searched out for publication after
the death of the author, although written more
than a year before.

We pass over interesting letters, giving an
account of his experiences, from the time of
leaving Montreal till his arrival and second Sun-
day at Shomcliffe.

7 97

SHORNCLIFFE, December 19, 1915.

Dear Father and Mother: —

Once again Sunday has rolled around, and it
finds me over at the Lord 'Koberts' Club, getting
my usual letter away. We have had a busy week,
as we were placed on brigade duties, which means
our company furnished all guards, fatigues,
pickets-, etc. My new job as lance-corporal does
not elevate me very much. A lance-corporal means
one stripe on the right arm, and is the. first step
upwards. These stripes, lance-corporal, corporal,
and sergeant are only provisional and auto-
matically drop when France is reached. It some-
times appears that they are not worth while, as
one's time is more fully taken up and patience
unduly tried. But, still, they enable the wearer
to do, possibly, a greater service to the cause and
to his fellow-soldiers.

This morning I attended service with those of
Anglican faith. In the post-card 'view I mailed
home is a picture of St. Martin's Church where
we went. The church is old, very ancient, the
town has been standing for hundreds of years !
It gives one a curious feeling, rather of awe, as
one may describe it, to walk through the vestibule
and see the old 'memoriam tablets, etc. There is
weirdness about it all; the old stone arches and
98

PEN PICTURES FROM THE TRENCHES

huge weather- worn doors. The service was par-
ticularly appropriate. A little ritual, prayers and
a short talk. The minister read the few lines
telling of how Mary and Joseph came to Bethlehem
to he assessed. The little village inn was crowded,
and so they took refuge in the stable, and here
the Saviour of mankind was born. He besought
the men not to crowd Jesus out of the inn of their
hearts. I think the talk was of about five minutes
duration. Brief, sympathetic and appealing; very
good, indeed, it was.

Then, there is the sordid sight. Last night I
was second in command of a picket stationed at
the " White Lion," a " pub." near the cross-road
leading into Folkestone. The bars close at eight
on Saturday night. Our duty was in the nature
of patrol work. Watch for inebriated soldiers and
prevent any misconduct arising therefrom. It is
a strange sight to see women behind and in front
of hotel bars. England is a revelation in all ways.
The women (and we must be careful not to over-
state or exaggerate), at least the lower or possibly
middle class, like their drink. They come to the
bars and line up with cursing men to get their
portion, and yet they see nothing to be concerned
about. It is so much what one has been accus-
tomed to, and yet one cannot go around these
places and not feel that it is a very big blot on
the good name of England.
99

PEN PICTURES FHOM THE TRENCHES

We are having a big Christmas dinner in camp.
Each man is making a contribution of two " bob "
(50c.). A programme will be given afterwards.
I am arranging that end 'of it, and the different
duties keep me very much on the jump. Better.
I was just remarking, to be born into life the son
of a wealthy old English squire, when I might
\valk around country lanes and hail the bloomin*
common people with " By Jove," or " aw, good
morning, don't you know."

Aff. son,

STANLEY.

SHOHNCLIFFE, February 14, 1916.

To-day is Sunday once again. I have rarely
seen such a fine sunny day. No clouds, no wind —
just 'God's sunshine. Sunday is the day in camp
the fellows have a bath, go through their kit-bags,
rummage through books, diaries and letters, and
generally have a house-cleaning.

A long letter came to hand on Wednesday from
father, and I shall send it on to Wilfred. A very
newsy letter it was, too. Yes, I would like very
much to be a participant in the local bonspiel,
but it looks as if I shall have to leave it off for
another winter. Your comments, father, re the
issues, are pithy, and all in all I imagine you
100

PEN PICTURES FROM THE TRENCHES

and myself would find no great divergence in view-
point. However, the whole struggle is simply
determinahle on the side of that power which has
the greatest talent — munitions and men. It is
difficult for me to put the question on a footing
that "right" never goes down while "wrong"
triumphs. If we win it will not foe because we
are right in God's sight, but because we are
numerically larger and have enough talent and
resources to prevent the enemy conquering by his
superior talent. Ultimately, "right" is to triumph
and the legions of wrong will go down in the dust.
But I do not believe that in every contest between
these twain the winner is known. If England
were not linked with the Allies she would not be
able to withstand Germany. No doubt we would
have made better progress if certain detrimental
influences, national sins, etc., had been swept out
of existence, but that is not to say that we cannot
win unless we so put our house in order. The
best fighter is not always the one who 'resolutely
goes along the path we all should tread, but there
is no doubt we can get 'on faster if these retarding
influences are throttled. It often occurs to me
that a silent, stern man of the type of Louis Botha
could do things in this war. We lack leadership.
There are many to follow, but where are the
leaders?

Aff. son,
101 STANLEY.

PEN PICTURES FROM THE TRENCHES

BELGIUM, March 21, 1916.

You will, no doubt, have had quite a surprise
iu receiving my last field note. As I write I am
laying in rather a cramped position in a small
wooden hut. Three or four candles are around
the floor, but a very flickering and indistinct light.
We are lying around, some writing, some reading,
and some outside watching flares. I have to write
under some restraint, as the censor is a hard man
" to get by." I must necessarily talk in general
terms.

We left England on Thursday of last week, and
have made very fast time since. It is not unusual
to keep drafts at the base depot for some time,
but we were there one day only. The base is a
city of tents, and troops are arriving and departing
at all times. After a sleepless night across channel,
we marched away from the depot, and after a very
tiresome and hot march, our shoulders aching, we
took train for "up country." We spent Saturday
night on board train. The French cars are very
like the English. Eight men were placed in a
compartment — our truck taking up a lot of space.
This night trip was the usual dreary business.
Trying to sleep sitting up. Going to sleep, waking
up — going to sleep, waking up, all night long.
In the morning, still in France. As we stop the
garcons (French children) beg for biscuits and
102

PEN PICTURES FROM THE TEENCHES

bully beef. We pass through the poorer parts of
many cities, and poverty is about. The kiddies
are more and more anxious to get our hard tack.
They run alongside yelling and gesticulating. The
train stops. The boys pile out and run 'hither and
thither looking for water or a loaf of bread.
Reminds one of some harvesting excursions, and
in one sense such it is. We are out to gather up
the Germans. May the harvest be a good one.

We reached our destination at about 4 p.m. on
Sunday, and here all the troops (about 1,000)
detrained. We could hear the noise of the guns
quite plainly. 'There is ceaseless activity going
on. Motor trucks run here and there, a staff
officer dashes by in his motor — a despatch rider
roars past, bumping over the rough cobble stones.
We have a very full pack, as authorities are par-
ticular to supply us with everything needed. When
we 'got off the train we had a walk of about five
miles to the various farms, where the " Pats." had
been resting after a term in the trenches. We
reached home at dusk and piled into a hayloft,
where we were soon fast asleep.

Colonel Buller made a short address, welcoming
the draft and telling us of the traditions to be
kept up. Monday, we started out at 9 a.m., on
our way to the line. Here in Belgium are the big
windmills one always associates with Holland. The
guns are roaring away. Aeroplanes are always
103

PEN PICTURES FROM THE TRENCHES

overhead. Anti-aircraft guns are banging away,
and shells burst near the planes, and one wonders
how they escape. It is a great life. Man flirts
with death out here. And yet it is surprising how
near we can be to the line and yet how peaceful
the surrounding scenes. Women and men are at
work on their little patches of farms. Many keep
little coffee houses, where one can get a fried egg
and a cup of coffee — a welcome change from
" mulligan " (Irish stew) .

I imagine my next letter will be written when
I come out, if so it may be, when I shall be able
to write under better conditions. And now I must
lay down, and so will say good-night.

Aff. son,

STANLEY.

BELGIUM, March 29, 1916.

I have just come from a Y. M. C. A. moving
picture show. It is situated about a mile from
our rest billets. This hut is very popular, and the
place was packed at twopence-halfpenny a head.
Ft was quite a relief after an experience dodging
whizz-bangs and shrapnel shells. The boys laughed
boisterously, and the antics of the actors, which
would be boresome to the civil theatre-goer, were
loudly applauded. Just think — seven or eight

104

PEX PICTURES FROM THE TRENCHES

miles from the front line we go to a cinema show.
This war is all so modernised, and totally different
from our conception of what it would be. We go
to battle in motor omnibuses. After a spell in
the area where men lay down their lives we come
back to recuperate, and one can quite easily forget
here there is such a thing as war. The land is
being tilled — the peasants are about in their
pantaloons and huge shoes. But just over there,
a few miles as the crow flies, the big guns are
roaring, the everlasting flares are going up, and
the machine-guns are spitting out bullets.

We were in quite a hot corner for our spell, and
the boys were very glad to be back for a few days.
Since my last letter, the " Pats," 'being in reserve,
I have covered some ground, and have been observ-
ing conditions and country. Were it not for the
rigorous censorship one could, if the writer was
capable, write articles of consuming interest.
Description of bombarded towns and villages,
narratives of trench life, etc. Our life here is a
day-to-day one. When we go up the boys soon
accept the inevitable and copy the trench-rat's
mode of life. :Hardly ever one shaves, and it is
a rare privilege to get a wash. The rations are
mostly canned food. I might qualify this, as the
ordinary trench fare is orange marmalade, moun-
tain high on a piece of bread, a piece of cheese, and,
if one can manage a fire, a drink of tea at night.

105

PEN PICTURES FROM THE TRENCHES

Our dug-outs, near the front line, are typical root
cellars. Down on your hands and knees and crawl
in — room for nine to sleep, and none for him
who wishes to stretch out. The roof — a sheet or
two of galvanized iron — may leak, but who cares?
We are " dead beat " after a long tramp, and our
shoulder-blades ache. We sleep — in the morning
the cold grey dawn — we wake up, shivering and
wet, and away we go into another day. When we
are not actually in the firing line there are various
working parties. We are never without some
little job, and in many places all labour must be
done at night. One cannot see a foot in front.
We shovel away, and at the end of an hour's muck-
ing in wet clay the astonishing discovery is made
that we have been throwing up the same load. It
may be one is told off to carry trench mats, small
ladder-like affairs placed in the bottom of the
trench. One stumbles on, dropping in a mud hole
here and there with ludicrous results. Muttered
profanity also accompanies the operation — one
cannot swear out loud. The other night we were
trudging along one of these narrow alleys when we
ran into a party of three. The mats are narrow,
and one side or the other must needs give way. We
were most surprised to hear a voice, "Make way for
the wounded." We plunged off into the knee-deep
mud. " Who's wounded," we asked, as the party

106

PEN PICTURES FROM THE TRENCHES

filed past. " I am," bellowed a big; chap, with a
low chuckle.

One of the surprising things is the manner in
which one becomes isolated from all the world,
practically. We 'know little about how the war is
going. In our local way we have first-hand infor-
mation, but few papers come into our 'hands.

The war situation remains much the same. We
are on the qui vive, just as you people must
bo, as to the next move. A great allied war council
is being held in Paris, and while everything is
so uncertain, we all look for concerted action and
favourable results very 'soon. If I manage to get
out of this turmoil in shape, I would like to make
a " vagabond " tour of Belgium and France, taking
my own time. But I suppose when all is> over we
will forget all about roaming around and " beat
it " post-haste for home.

Our draft of fifty men from S'horncliffe is sorted
into different companies, but I managed to get in
with one or two close chums. You know when the
sun is shining war is not. such a bad affair — in
billets. We are as happy as the day is long when
we come out after our tour, with rest and com-
panionship awaiting us.

Aff. son,

STANLEY.

107

PEN PICTURES FROM THE TRENCHES

BELGIUM, April 7, 1916.

I think I must try and send you a few lines
to-day, Saturday, although we are upset, in a
sense, as a new draft arrived last night, and it
keeps me busy shaking hands. Fifty boys came
over from the 4th University Company, and many
of my immediate friends were in the party. 1
think about sixteen of them will come to No. 2,
my company.

When our spell of rest and semi-rest is over we
go into trenches at Hooge. These trenches have
a bad reputation. The lines are not seventy yards
apart, and we hear there is no part wire in between,
or in " No Man's Land/' I imagine we shall have
plenty of excitement here. The salient is still
with us, andi there is more fighting in the vicinity
of Ypres, Hooge and St. Eloi than in all the rest
of the British lines.

New let me digress to mention that Bert
Brigden has ju&t come into my shack. He men-
tions meeting Garfield Clements and Ed. Currie
on the road a few moments before. I must look
them up to-morrow. There will be no oppor-
tunity to-day, as at 6.15 p.m. we go up to Ypres
on a working party. We get a motor-bus, one of
those typical London contrivances with double-
decks. These 'busses carry us to within a few
108

PEN PICTURES FROM THE TRENCHES

hundred yards of the Cloth Hall of Ypres. We
walk up, and our task of repairing trenches com-
mences. We work until 1 or 2 a.m., and get back
in camp about 3.15 a.m.

Shall 1 write of .Belgium, some general impres-
sions? The land is low, lev.el and of great worth,
agriculturally. The pollard willow tree is most
striking. It has a gnarled trunk, and at a height
of six feet, possibly, small faggot-like limbs shoot
out in a crazy sort of manner. The roads are
cobble-stoned and lead here and there, and some-
times nowhere. The cottages are similar in design,
are long, low structures with red tile roofs, not
unlike England. There are the gigantic wind-
mills. You see pictures of them from dyke-land
(Holland). On every hano1, of course, are signs
of the ravages of war. A big hole in the side of a
house, a shattered church tower, battered trunks
of once splendid trees. A country cut into sec-
tions by trenches. We see whole villages laid
waste; not one house standing entire; not a
civilian remaining, but a bleak, stark place. The
result in this most terrible of wars.

In Flanders Land the bells are hushed,

No more doth gladness reign;
And lovers twine their hands no more

Along the moon-swept lane.
Where baby faces used to peer,

Blood streaks the window-pane.

109

1'KX PICTURES FROM THE TUEXCHES

In Flanders Land the trees are dead,

And all the flowers are gone;
No more from happy roofs curls up

The chimney smoke at dawn.
The Hun has ranged his ruthless guns

Across each humble lawn.

A feature of this war is the resort to trendies.
Xo open warfare, where man meets man, but we
are forever peering over the parapet at a place
where the Germans are lurking, and between are
meshes of barbed wire.

I have just read the Chancellor's recent speech
in the Reichstag. It is apparent that the German
is as full of confidence, as resolute in purpose, as
at any period. The tide may have turned for
the publicist, but to the fellows out here the
journey's end is not in sight. But the sun is
shining, and we must keep on. Germany's force is
not yet broken. Her resources are adequate for
many a day. But we are fee winners. It will not
be soon, but ultimately victory will remain to our
arms.

We were given a brisk shelling last night. The
Germans at one time were in possession of these
parts ; have every road marked, and can place shells
at any point desired. These billets are well known
to them, and every other day they give us a busy
half-hour of it. The huts become untenable and
the boys take to the road, getting out of range
110

PEN PICTURES FROM THE TKENCHES

as fast as our legs will carry us. It would be
foolish to remain. The main road was full of a
motley crowd. Horses which were grazing in the
fields are terrified and gallop past us. There is
excitement 'enough to gratify the most adventure-
some soul. After it is all over we wend our way
back, and possibly find one or two of the huts

" gone up/'

AIL son.

STANLEY.

BELGIUM, May 20, 1916.

I write as a member of the 28th Battalion. On
Thursday morning my papers were handed to me,
and, after Availing for the mail to come up, I set
out about 4 p.m. for the camp of the 28th. 'My
pack was full and the day very hot. As I trudged
along the dusty, cobble-stoned road, I remem-
bered the story of the Tinker in Jeffery Faraol's
romantic novel, " The Broad Highway/' Here I
was in the year 1916 roaming the country, a sol-
dier of fortune. In the olden days, it may have
been, one of ' Napoleon's soldats tramped along
this very road. Know ye not that Waterloo is
not a far distance as the crow flies — it may have
been a day not unlike this. Had he been a chap
with a mind for the philosophic similar queries
111

PEN PICTURES FROM THE TRENCHES

may have come to him. It may easily have hap--
pened that he was certain " this would be the last
war." I can see him, a chunky little chap, with
unshaven face. (And do you know, in this con-
nection, the French call their men Poilu, which,
being translated, means the unshaven one, I under-
stand). In th'e days of old, little did our soldiers
realise that, a hundred years hence, beautiful Bel-
gium would be torn asunder, and the spectre of
war walk throughout the land. So I rambled
across fields, resting here and there, and after
awhile was at the old 28th camp. But fortune
was not favouring me. The battalion had moved
nearer the line, and so there was no recourse but
to set out again. Evening was at hand, the sun
going down like a ball of fire (an old but a good
simile) in the west. The temptation was with
me to go into the field, find a shady spot and put
up for the night. But my transfer papers read the
18th, and it behooved me to report on that date.
So on I went, my legs becoming more and more
mechanical in their movements. A stop at a
Belgian farmhouse, where I enjoyed a meal of
two fried eggs, some chips and a cup of coffee,
was a pleas-ant diversion. About 8 p.m. I sighted
a row of huts and heard a band. Here was the
28th. Wilf. was sitting around taking in the
concert. I reported at the orderly room, was put

PEN PICTURES FROM THE TRENCHES

on the strength, being allotted to "A" Company.
Roy Kirkup was orderly sergeant, and I was soon
settled.

Aff. son,

STANLEY.

BELGIUM, June 18, 1916.

To-day is Sunday, and I must try and get a
letter away home.

The past ten days have been momentous ones
for the Canadians. You will read of the various
encounters at Sanctuary Wood and Hooge. I was
familiar with that part of the line, as the " Pats'"
were in there. The 28th made two tours to help
the depleted units, and we certainly were glad to
move out. As is known, and I do not think the
censor will, for that reason, object, the Germans
made an effort at these points upon two or three
occasions. Whether they had serious intentions
or not I do not know. Certain it is that they had
concentrated much artillery around that part and
not a very small infantry strength, also. The
first attack was made against the " Pats," CM.R/s
and R.C.R/s. We heard of it while lying on a
camp near Reminghelst. The " Pats " suffered
very heavily, and are now back reorganising.
Our battalion and the others comprising the 6th
Brigade were rushed up, and we went into the
8 113

PEN PICTURES FROM THE TRENCHES

front line at >Hooge. Myself and three other scouts
went up to the culvert (as a position just back of
our front line on the Menin-Ypres road is called).
Up to this time the line at Hooge had not been
attacked. The fighting had been on the right at
Sanctuary Wood, in front of the village of Zille-
beke. We got in about midnight, the balance of
the scouts remaining at headquarters about half
a mile back. Communication was broken some
day® back by shell fire, and the messages were sent
to the front line and culvert by runners. About
one -o'clock in the afternoon of the next day the
Germans started sending over as much " stuff "
as they could well manage. Our . front line, where
"A" and " B " companies were lying, was given
a terrific shelling, and the communication trenches
and culvert positions had their fair share. One
could hardly hope to come out untouched. We
knew the front line must well nigh be obliterated,
and at about 4 p.m. two terrific explosions took
place. The ground rocked for a great distance.
I was hanging on the side of the trench, and the
sensation was for all the world like being in a
rowboat in a gale. The Germans came over at
once and got in behind what had been our front
line. Captain Milne, Lieutenant Murphy, Lieu-
tenant Kingsley Jarvis were with their men, and
we have no knowledge of what has become of them.
In fact "A" and " B " companies might just as
114

PEN PICTURES FROM THE TRENCHES

well have been swallowed up by a great mediaeval
dragon, so completely did they become lost to us.
Some, no doubt, were made prisoners, but none
returned to us. We are hoping Kingsley Jarvis may
have been spared to us, as no man could do more
than he and all our boys accomplished that day.
They stood fast till the last. Kingsley was very
highly thought of by all those who knew him. He
was a "real fellow," as the boys say. Of poor Arthur
McGovern I need not say how greatly he will be
missed. If ever a chap endeared himself to his
men by his democratic ways, his good fellowship
and his regard for their welfare, "Art " McGovern
was that man. He mixed with them, was catcher
for the battalion baseball team and with it all
" carried on " in strict military manner. But to
continue. The culvert became the front line. The
Germans were with full packs, in blue-grey
uniforms, with their little caps. I imagine they
became confused and out of hand, as isolated ones
kept coming on, leaving themselves open to our
close fire. They would dart here and there, taking
whatever cover they could, waiting a while, then
running on in a crouching manner. There were
about thirty fellows where I was. We kept pegging
away whenever a "Fritz" would appear on the
scene. We set up a machine gun at each end of
the trench, after having made a reconnaissance
and built a barricade as far up as possible. The
115

PEX PICTURES FEOM THE TRENCHES

wonder of it all is, as I look back, that we were
not picked off. The shells were landing right in
the battered trench, and we were shooting away
at Fritz from positions where it was possible to
get us with ease. But Fritz was too busy looking
after his own hide to bother with us, I suppose.
About dusk the artillery fire quietened down and
we " took stock." About midnight we were
relieved, and a most exciting few hours are but a
memory. Will was mighty glad to see me turn
up at headquarters.

The battalion was taken out the next night;
there was really only half a battalion left, and we
put up in battered houses at Ypres. We made
another tour in at the same place, but it was for
forty-eight hours only, and with the exception of
much artillery fire there was nothing happened:
We are now back at our old front, and will likely
go in here again soon. There is talk of the Cana-
dians moving out of the salient shortly, but we
do not know whether there is any truth in it or
not. Some say we were to be here for three months
only, but rumours are not hard to find in army life.

When will the war end? There are many con-
jectures. Certain it is that the position of the
Allies is becoming more and more favourable, and
if the Germans can derive any satisfaction from
the happenings of late they are welcome to it.
116

PEN PICTURES FROM THE TRENCHES

The French hold grimly on ; Verdun still remains
to France.

We arc both well, and can only hope that the
"' Watcher over all " may keep us unto the end.
My love to all at home.

Aff. son,

STANLEY.

BELGIUM, July 10, WIG.

We came out of trenches last night. Our tour
was very satisfactory, and Wilf. and I came out
unscathed. To-day, there is the usual washing up.
We are billeted in what was once the country
residence of a person of some distinction. The
grounds are spacious, with massive trees and well-
arranged driveways. The house is of white stone,
partially demolished now; and architecturally well
conceived, of the chateau style, and surrounded by
a moat. In the brave days of old this has been
the home of a wealthy citoyen of Ypres. It
is situated on one of the main roads to that " dead
city."

Gueiin, my sniping mate, and I occupy a unique
dug-out. A large tree has fallen, and with thia
as a protecting wall a typical shelter has been
made. My partner and I had very good results
last time in. That sounds rather cold-blooded,
117

PEX PICTURES FROM THE TRENCHES

doesn't it? But over here one loses any compunc-
tion as regards taking human life. Of course, if
we " get " a man and see he is wounded,, there is
no further shot fired, even though opportunity
offers. With our high-powered telescopes and
telescopic rifle sights it is possible to see a fly on
the enemy parapet, even five hundred yards away.
Suppose an incautious German puts his head up
for a second, and we happen to be " trained " on
that spot, it means a crack of the rifle, and the
observer, accustomed to this work, can actually
follow the course of the bullet and ascertain the
hit. Of course, one can give a quick peep and get
down, but never show up in the same place. The
German has patience, and is waiting for you.

Such is the work of a sniper — invaluable it is —
we protect our men, let the enemy know we are
on the job, observe new work on his parapet, locate
loop-holes and machine-gun emplacements, smash
periscopes and generally annoy and keep him
" down." I think we have it on the German in
this work. At least, my last two trips in have
shown this result. Our hours are very long, snipers
being on the job in two shifts, from daybreak until
the flares begin at dark. It is a great game in this
year of our. Lord, 1916.

The British and French have a stern resistance
to overcome. I am certain that the German has
made more defensive preparation in Belgium than
118

PEN PICTURES FROM THE TRENCHES

on any other front. We no longer expect to
" breach " a hole and rush through to Berlin. That
may come in the last stages, but not yet. Keep
him fretful, shell him a little every day, that is
the first dose, and then come at him with every-
thing we have. The Berlin newspapers, extracts
from which are published daily in the London
papers, speak to-day of a great trial, dark hours
ahead, and the necessity for calmness. Yes, that
is it, the Hun will need to summon all his forti-
tude. But can a caged lion be calm, can a bayed
deer remain at ease? I do not so understand the
situation. Let him once feel the gloom impend-
ing. Let him once feel the awfulness of defeat and
his sophistic calmness will soon leave him. And
once we get him going, I like to think, he will
be one of the biggest " wailers " in history. Here's
hoping.

Aff. son,

STANLEY.

BELGIUM, July 11/1916.

Enclosed is a poem by my mate, H. F. Guerin.
(iiierin was for many years a newspaper man in
Regina. A fine fellow, a good shot, and not with-
out talent. Will you write it out on the type-
writer and keep it. It may have some interest
apres la guerre. Verse number four has a blood-
119

PEX PICTURES FROM THE TRENCHES

thirsty touch. 1 am sure we would shoot bachelor
Huns only, but we find it impossible to tell by the
look of their faces, despite the theory many hold
Ji bout, a married man's look.

Aif. son,

STANLEY.

THE SNIPER.

Oh, who is he who shoots from trees,
From sunken hides, and oft-times sees
A slug for him come o'er the breeze!
The Sniper.

And when H.E.'s come thick and fast,
Who counts them all as they go past,
And wonders just how long he'll last!
The Sniper.

And when the sun is sinking low,
Who to Headquarters has to go,
To tell the O.C. all you know?
The Sniper.

And when this war is fought and won,
And stories told how it was done,
Who made the widows for the Hun I
The Sniper.

BELGIUM, July 14, 1016.

The Ypres salient is being restored. The
working parties are repairing breaches, and the

PEX PICTURES FROM THE TRENCHES

engineers are busy with their revetting. Were
one to walk through Maple Copse to Sanctuary
Wood, where the "Princess Pats" had to withstand
a terrific thrust, it would be difficult to gather any
definite impressions of what a certain day in early
June brought forth. Evidence on every hand of
the great struggle. One can write of these things,
but who can understand? So much happens in
a few short hours. Our trenches clean and in
good repair, the day sentry glancing now and then .
through the periscope sees no movement, and
wonders if the Huns are having a little sleep after
a. night of watching. The sky may be all blue and
a wandering bird may dare to lift a song, and
(hen a lone shell comes over (just to register up)
and then — well, the* hounds of hell are loosed.
Such it was on a morning in the month of brides,
and, when night came on, Canada had lost a
thousand heroes — they go on " de long voyage/'
but the people at home will not forget how their
men died.

There has been some discussion as to the advis-
ability of retaining Ypres salient. The position
is good in many respects. Our lines are on a
dominating ridge, a good part of the way around,
but our position is something like the half-circle
of a race track, and we suffer from enfilading fire.
It would be very regretful if the mothers ancl
others who have lost loved ones should think the

PEN PICTURES FROM THE TRENCHES

sacrifice was needless. The Canadians are in the
same trenches still. We held them at Hooge — we
stopped them at Sanctuary Wood — who says Jives
were thrown away?

The boys are watching the great events now
happening. We are reorganising, getting rein-
forcements, making trench raids, and worrying
Fritz as much as possible. What part Canada will
play in the winding-up proceedings it is hard to
say. We may be given an opportunity to advance
here. What a great day it would be to push the
Hun back from a position where so often he had
come forth to kill. I think it must come to pass.
Doesn't the prospect please? An opportunity of
repaying, only I think the quotation would be no
longer " an eye for an eye " — this is real war, no
turning of the other cheek.

I was interested in some photographs of the
prisoners taken by us at Hooge. These Germans
seem never to smile. What is wrong with a nation
that does not know how to smile? Always
serious, their faces drawn and set as in a vise.
This characteristic gives the reason for the Ger~
man seeking to impose his kultur on the rest of
the world — he is unable to see the humour of it
all. Take the English or Canadian prisoners. We
are .told that they may break into a song when
trudging along under escort — you understand,
prisoners of war. It is not because they do not
122

I PEN PICTURES FROM THE TRENCHES

realise their position, it is not that they have not
depth of character, but because they know how to
smile. A story will illustrate the ability of the
Tommy to smile, when things go wrong : A column
was marching, each soldier with his usual two-ton
pack to carry, and the way seemed long. The
boys were mated off, chumming it, you know,
when a chap was met going the other way. " How
far," shouted one of the pals, " is it to Bedford
Trench?" "Oh, about three miles," was the
answer. They buck up and go along, and after
a half-hour's walk meet another chap. " How far
to Bedford Trench," is again the question, and
the reply, "just "about three miles." Then, turn-
ing to his pal the questioner chuckles, " Thank
God, Jim, we are keeping up with the bally place
anyway." Wihen one is looking for the causes of
this war, it might be well to inquire into this
inability of the German to smile. There is a
great truth underlying it all.

One thing I have carefully avoided in letters
home, that no captious criticisms are indulged in
— no grievances aired. But do not think the boys
are without their thought on all these matters.
We see where injustice lies — we know the game is
not played fairly in some quarters, but the soldier
is here to " carry on." Apres la guerre one may
put into words thoughts now without expression.
123

PEN PICTURES FROM THE TRENCHES

But when the end comes it may be we will want
to forget all about it.

With regard to the progress of our cause, it is
not safe to indulge in prophecies. Some regard
II. G. Wells as the most prophetic writer in Eng-
land, but he held that the war would finish only
when exhaustion, physical, financial and moral
had come to the powers engaged. We would not
be able to break through and the Hun would be
in the same predicament. But we are past their
second line of defence at this writing, and if we
once get them going, isn't that phrase of Wolfe's
aide going to come in : " See, they run ?"

Aff. son,

STANLEY.

FRANCE, September 9, 1916.
We have been shifted around of late, and no
Canadian mail is to hand for about ten days now.
As a result I have no letters to acknowledge. Our
time has not been our own by any means, and
my correspondence has suffered. Nevertheless, I
like to keep you well informed as to the news, etc.,
from this end. I wrote a letter a few days ago
in which an effort was made to put down some-
thing of a talk I had with a German prisoner. I
find a few moments now, and will send some
further happenings.

PEN PICTURES FROM THE TRENCHES

Wilf. and I are both well. The war has now
entered its third and last year. We have gone
through three well-marked stages: the first, in
which we were hardly managing to hold the enemy
off, was succeeded by the second, in which we
steadily equalled the German strength, and the
third, when we have surpassed -him in almost every
department. It is a fine feeling to have, this
knowledge that you have got the Huns' measure.
It makes for esprit de corps. The boys know that
the field-grey is "clinching in the corners/' to use
a sporting phrase, but the wily old dog has a lot
of fight in him yet, and his artillery is not tamed.
The gunners are magnificent, even though defeat
is all about them. In the new fighting the guns
are often right out in the open. No screened pits,
no dug-outs to shelter the gunners. Dash up and
get the machinery working and take your chances.
Thousands of men are camping on the plains here-
abouts. The nights- are again cool, and one wakes
up with a shiver, and perhaps makes a frantic
grab for an overcoat. It may be that the old feud,
reminiscent of childhood;, is resumed, pulling the
covering from our sleeping mate. The morning
is uninviting — a cold, grey dawn; but, wake up,
is the order. Feeling rnther miserable, we per-
form the day's first task. The sky for a roof.
Officers and men have to undergo the same hard-
ships. I do not like that word very well. Let us
125

PEN PICTURES FROM THE TRENCHES

say, " temporary inconveniences " ; it sounds better
anyway. And all the time — away over the hills
—the guns roaring. Sometimes it happens that
one or two batteries only will be firing, but it
becomes contagious. Another battery will join in,
then another, and soon the old earth is shaking.
Soon the sky is livid with red darts of fire, soon
the pianissimo works into a mighty crescendo, and
the whole front is justifying the term, " Hippo-
drome of Hell." Oh, yes, men are out there, they
grovel in shell holes, the strong helping the weak
to withstand the bombardment, and to prepare for
the counter-attack. The egotistical and insig-
nificant seem alike in the midst of this terrifying
grandeur. -Still, every man is needed. I think
we will yet have to gird our loins a little tighter
— we will yet have to sacrifice. " England has not
drawn the blinds," says Lloyd George. We all
believe that.

But of France — she is magnificent. Where we
join up with her lines, the bombardment never
seems to let up. These Frenchmen must be
supermen. Beautiful, polished, expressive France.
They called you unstable. 'Surely they lied.

Fresh from the trenches and gray with grime,
Silent they march like a pantomime;
" But what need of music?" — their hearts beat time
Vive la France!

Aff. son,
126 STANLEY.

PEN PICTURES FROM THE TRENCHES

FRANCE, December 24, 1916.

Well, here I am in the firing line in France —
on my birthday. Wonderful the experiences that
come to human beings. Even a short life may
hold a long wandering. However, I am still in
the ring. The war is growing older each day and
must needs end some time.

Now, as to your last epistle. I have seen all
the sketches you mention as having been printed,
with the exception of " Superstitious Tommy."
As to "Working His Ticket," I was not very
enthusiastic over it, and after reading it over it
seemed to me that I could have done much better,
even with the same subject matter. But that is
bound to happen. One scribbles them off and
afterwards may think of certain places where
improvements could have been effected. But, after
all, I take pleasure in doing them, and they are
pretty true to life.

Take, for instance, your comment on "Suicide
Alley." You say it is pretty good, but seems to
lack point. Now, I don't agree there. That sketch
appeals, rightly or wrongly, to me. It is a simple,
homely yarn — the tale of an old peasant, who,
hating doctors and medicine, becomes through
association and familiarity, an abject slave, so to
speak. The situation presented there seems to me
to be full of story possibilities. And it appears
127

PEN PICTURES FROM THE TRENCHES

so true to what happens often. Old people — proud
of their physique — will often turn to medicines
and doctors in old age, and become the greatest
believers in the " cure all " efficacy of drugs.
What better situation could one want. Of course
it may be that my telling of this episode does not
get into the story. But I believe the material is
there, and that it cannot lack point — due to the
inherent properties.

To-day or to-morrow I am going to write a
" battle yarn " under the heading, " In Orders."
Hope you like it.

And now, on this my birthday, I give to you,
my father and mother, the fullest assurance of
my love. Your path has not been prepared for
you — the way has been and is hard. But I know
of no parents who have ever been held in greater
esteem by their offspring than you, my father and
mother.

Affectionately,

STANLEY.

P.S.— I did gfet a chance to scribble off a few
lines, which I am enclosing. No military secrets
are divulged ; the account and persons are fictional,
but the experience has been had.

STANLEY.

128

PEN PICTURES FROM THE TRENCHES

FRANCE, January 5, 1917.

On the same day my last letter went forward
to you I received yours of December 9th, enclosing
clipping from the Globe re David Lloyd George;
also the story, "A Tragedy/' I read with interest
the Globe editorial re the Personality of Lloyd
George. As you say, it is able writing. There is
one sentence which I do not understand — "He had
no desire whatever to be successful — he wanted to
be right." It seems to me that the writer lost
control there. Why not desire to be successful?
It is not incompatible with being right. In some
cases it may seem so, but as a preposition — and he
states it thus — it is not true. George's, success is
due to energy more than any other quality. Aquith,
in his greeting to the new Government, said:
" Please do not mistake bustle for business >J —
meaning a good hit at George. Certainly, Mr.
Asquith never made that mistake.

There is nothing much new here. We are going
along on an even keel. Glad to hear all are well.
I hope to write again soon. We have had a lot
of rain lately, and the trenches are not in good
shape, but we manage tolerably well.

Aff. son,

STANLEY.

129

PEN PICTURES FROM THE TRENCHES

LONDON, February 1, 1917.

In England for two months' course. Arrived
yesterday, after reporting to Shorncliffe, where I
was given fourteen days' leave, after which I attend
a course at Military School for Officers for a couple
of months.

Please continue to send the Journal to France,
as Will will have it to read there. Never mind
sending one here, as my address will be chang-
ing continually. I shall keep my lance-corporal
rank until the course is over, I expect, when I
shall be gazetted as a full lieutenant. Very
decent, Wilf. and I both getting " them " in the
field.

Aff. son,

STANLEY.

BRAMSHOTT CAMP, March 10, 1917.

This is Saturday afternoon, and I have come
down from camp to the Salvation Army hut. I
brought along some music and a couple of maga-
zines to send to Wilf. No mail has come to hand
from home since last I wrote, yet it would be well
for me to send some line?.

I have not bothered about doing any writing,
being quite content to lounge around and " day
130

PEN PICTURES FROM THE TRENCHES

dream." Of course every day I expect to have
word to go on my course.

Hampshire is wonderful. I would say it was
English through and through. Go a mile from
camp, in any direction, and one meets up with
shaded lanes, trim hedges and nestling houses,
screened by huge trees, all under a blue canopy.
And so one must needs remember beauty in a
troubled world. Politics, men (great and ungrate-
ful) wrestle with your problems which appear to
each succeeding generation as unsoluble, and so
it will be till the end of time. The Irish question,
the Dardanelles disclosure, which damns deficiency
of departmental chiefs. Out in France the long
hours of vigil are kept, and death dances diaboli-
cally on our parapet.

This letter is rather haphazard, but as befits a
wet afternoon. A few thoughts now come to me
so let's try and make a sonnet.

" FINIS."

After all; a moment of pleasure, an hour of sorrow,
Inevitably mixed, to-day and to-morrow;
Then, the long nights in France — a shot, a quiver,
A loosening of coils— Death's barge on the River.

A if. son,

STANLEY.

131

PEN PICTUBBS FROM THE TRENCHES

STRAND, LONDON, W.C., April 29, 1917.

Arrived here yesterday. Have seven days' "kit
leave." Send mail to me addressed : " Lieutenant
Stanley A. Rutledge, 15th Keserve Battalion,
Bramshott, Hants., Eng." Was amongst first
twenty in class of four hundred.

Love,

STAN.

May 2, 1917.

Met Wilf.— he is fine. He has gone to R.F.C.
at Reading. I am making application for pilot
in R.F.C. I saw R.F.C. people at Hotel Cecil
this morning.

Aft,

STAN.

BRAMSHOTT, HANTS., May 1 , 1917.

I am not on parade this afternoon, so here goes
for a letter home. It is now mid-afternoon, and
a warm sun makes bright our hut. The doors are
open and a breeze comes, lingers and departs with
refreshing results. All in all the fates have been
very kind to Wilf. and I. But many's a day in the
past year this could hardly be said : when the shells
were overhead, when the mud was knee high, and
when the flares went up into a dirty sky.
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Wilf. will take short course and then go as an
observer for a time, eventually to become a full-
fledged pilot. I have made application for transfer
to R.F.C. as a pilot, and thus hope to miss the
intermediate stage as an observer. I shall be here
until such time as I get notice that my transfer
is through.

Everything going along very well here. I am
away behind in my writing, and, at a guess, owe
ten letters. I have had my photograph taken and
will forward one to you. Hope it evokes favour-
able comment.

I was interested in the clipping mother for-
warded. It struck me as being in a similar vein
to some stuff I have written. There is nothing
exceptional about it, but McGill catches the same
note as it was my wont to give.

As to strategy in the war. I imagine the Ger-
mans' efforts from now on will be directed towards
the defensive side. With regard to book by Wells,
have not read it, but if time enables, I shall do
so, as he is by all soundings the brainiest literary
man in England. George Bernard Shaw is a false
prophet and a poor wit. As a matter of fact he
has not shown well in anything since the war.

Aff. son,

STANLEY.

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PEN PICTURES FROM THE TRENCHES

BEAMSHOTT, June 10, 1917.

I was up to London on Thursday and Friday,
and passed as fit for pilot. It was a great examina-
tion. First, we had a doctor look at us for general
physique, then another doctor examines carefully
as to heart and lungs, then an eye, ear and nose
man, and last of all we had a nerve test. The
test as to nerves was quite laughable. One had
to shut the eyes and stand on one leg, there was
hopping along a straight line, balancing .tuning
forks on boards, etc. We were at it from 10 a.m.
until 3.30 p.m. I think they must have had an
" anger " test, as we had to wait around three
hours for a little slip of paper saying we were fit.
Some of the chaps were in quite good s>hape for
a mutiny, but the longer one is in the army the
more one wonders at some of the ways- of running
the job.

If I am allowed to transfer as a pilot — and so
far my papers read thus — I will be on a course
for a much longer period of time than Wilf. But
it all depends on the emergencies of the service.
They may not have sufficient observers, and a chap
would have to fill in. However, I am keen to
be a pilot, and feel that I can fill the bill.

The battle on the western front is all in our
favour. If the Russians would stop day-dreaming
and show some of the characteristic poses of. a
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PEN PICTURES FROM THE TRENCHES

wrathy bruin, we might get in the "knock-out"
blow. But as long as old Fritz can rearrange his
reserves and replenish his war material, it is going
to be a fight for points, with us getting the points.
He has lost his " eyes " all along the front, and
believe me, he is in for a bad winter.

Aff . • son,

STANLEY.

WANTAGE HALL, READING, BERKS.,

June 23, 1917.

I reported here from Bramshott, and shall be
here for five weeks. One learns the technical part
of the game here, such as theory of flight, rigging,
aerial observation, engines, etc. Then, one is sent
to a flying squadron for the actual work as a pilot.
It looks as if I am definitely put down for the
flying officer's course, and I am very pleased, as
if anything happens up in the air I want to be
boss of my own machine, and not depend on some-
body else to get me out of the mess. The pilot's
course is usually for two and a half months, so
fall will have rolled around before France is seen
again.

Reading is on the Thames, about forty-five
minutes from London. It collects taxes from
75,000 people, and seems to have the usual
civic worries. It -suffers and benefits by its close
proximity to London. The jaded city man comes

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PEN PICTURES FROM THE TRENCHES

down for a rest and the Reading chap goes to
London for a u bracer." Our billet is delightful.
Wantage Hall is much like the residences at
Oxford — two-storeys in quadrangle shape, a lawn
in the centre, and a huge, awe-inspiring wooden
gate to enter by. Here, amid ideal surroundings,
we live and eat and study how to rival the birds
high up in a blue heaven.

I am sure both Wilf. and I are going to like
the change from the infantry. The flying service
is the premier service in the army to-day. I am
quite well. As my stay here is over a month, I
am going to take a little " refresher v work in a
vocal way, and have arranged to have a few lessons.
The English are very sound in vocal methods, very
thorough, too.

The war is much the same. The Germans are
putting up a great stand against Haig with his
guns, and we must have more men for the knock-
out punch. That is all that is needed. All the
Canadians over here are quite interested in the
conscription issue in Canada. It had to come.
We cannot leave our ranks under full strength.
It only means that one chap is doing another man's
work and his own, too.

Aff. son,

STANLEY.

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PEN PICTURES FROM THE TRENCHES

READING, July 1, 1917.

Wilf. sends me a highly interesting note on the
back of a letter of father's. He treats it as quite
an ordinary stunt, but I know it is truly a fine
feat. Certainly, he was not long out as an observer
without letting Fritz know that another Canadian
had arrived.

The R.F.C. are taking the Canadians in large
numbers. Flying calls for initiative and other
qualities which the chaps from overseas seem to
possess to a high degree.

Aff. son,

STANLEY.

READING, July 13, 1917.

This is Saturday afternoon, and I have just
returned from a three hours' lecture on the
LeRhoud engine. We make a comprehensive study
of carburetter, magneto, cylinders, timing of gears,
etc. We have to know four engines — two of the
rotary type and two of the stationary type. So
that I should be a blooming amateur expert in
engines when we complete the full course.

Wilf. will, I hope, be able to arrange a definite
stay over there, and take a pilot's course in one
of the Canadian schools. Certainly he will be able
to tell you all the news of the line. When I recall
the months in France (some were there for years)
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PEN PICTURES FROM THE TRENCHES

one has gassed through a wonderful experience.
The nights up in the Souchez sector — in front of
Ypres — the hell-hole at Hooge and the Somme.
The carrying up of rations, the songs in the dug-
outs after "rum up/' Why, Will will he able
to hold you spellbound.

The reading of a " Student in Arms," which
came during the week, gave me pleasure, and I
rather like the originality of it. He puts down
thoughts which strike one as simple, and yet which
one does not see expressed often.

It is becoming more and more difficult to keep
one's perspective in these swift days. Doesn't it
seem, sometimes, as if we couldn't do anything in
a sensible way? The authorities do a certain act,
and yet one feels that it is not what any ordinary
commonsense person would do. We seem to carry
on as if we had a thousand yearsi to win. A mili-
tary dictator could have won the war for the
Allies a year ago. Centralisation, unity of pur-
pose, why we are dabbling in it even now; and,
believe me, we are paying for it. The " Tommy,"
why we don't half use him white. We surround
him with some of the silliest regulations, which
to our everlasting shame are allowed to continue
in force. The thing is, who is going to give U'S
these simple reforms which mean so much to
" Tommy ?" Don't make him feel so conscious
of his temporary inferior rank. I would abolish
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PEX PICTURES FROM THE TRENCHES

all saluting except on parades — no " kotowing "
off. parade. But enough of that.

Aff. son,

STANLEY.

READING, July 21, 1917.

There are very few of the boys in to-night, as
(he day was quite warm, and a cool twilight has
induced many to go on the river, which is about
a mile through the city. I had several little things
to do, so have remained at the Hall, and will get
away some letters. There was no lack of mail
from Fort William this week.

Will will likely be home by now, and it will
be fine to have him about once more. He will be
quite the lion of the hour, and he really deserves
it.

I wish father would ring up and say how

much I regret the news re Don. Deacon's death.
I shall not forget meeting " Don " and " Ted " on
the road to Dickebusch one night. And then again
down on the Somme — the old brick fields, where we
bivouacked like the Arabs — mostly dirt and noth-
ing much to eat.

Poor old Russia — blind (the light of reason

does not follow the red flag of revolution) — is

stumbling about, leaving some of her sons to die

and causing the Allies great worry. And so the

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PEN PICTURES FROM THE TRENCHES

war pendulum sways. The German mailed fist
still beats a steady tattoo on the breast of proud,
tired France. We still argue and procrastinate,
and talk about what we have done, quibble about
the rights of man, and let the other chap go " over
the top " with the swish of a machine-gun in his
ears. " Never conscription " was all right when
every man abhorred war, and was much a law
unto himself. But these are different day?.
Democracy is being assailed and every man must
help — no longer a case of individual choice.

Aff. son,

STANLEY.

26TH SQUADRON, R.F.C.,
TURNHOUSE, MIDLOTHIAN, SCOTLAND,

August 6, 19 IT.

Sunday in Scotland. To-day is quite fine, and
I look from the window upon a wide expanse —
fields of oats, acres of wheat and triangles of
sleepy sheep. Yesterday we experienced a Scotch
mist. The clouds hung low and1 perspired
copiously. It was such a day as " Macbeth would
choose for murder." I could see the three horse-
men riding across the wind-swept moor; I could
hear the kettles boiling on the witch's hearth !
But to-day the sun shines, and the war goes on.
The R.F.C. have quite a depot here, possibly
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PEN PICTURES FROM THE TRENCHES

five or six hundred men. Here we learn to fly.
I am just starting my dual flights. We will be
here four or five weeks and then proceed to an
advanced squadron.

The flying game is very interesting. Rather
a wonderful excitement about it all. Up 2,000
or 3,000 feet, the fields look quite like the back
garden of a tidy city dweller. The houses are dots
arid the people crawl about like ants. All around
one is space, infinite nothingness. The roar of
the engine, the fierce challenging of the wind, and
the shrill whirl of propeller alone fasten one to
earthly realities. I am not sure as to whether the
airmail is not living a double life — up there and
down here — but let's be kind and welcome him to
our fratricidal family.

Just yesterday I finished reading Locke's
" Beloved Vagabond," a romance in the open.
(Here a neat word picture of old " Parapot " in
the story. — Editor). I feel that there is much to
be said for that sort of a life. But as mother
would say: " Wait till you have to get up at five
o'clock in the morning and milk the cows, with
one million mosquitoes buzzing around, and the
simple life loses its story-book charm." Probably
she is right.

I shall not attempt to diagnose the war situa-
tion. To-day, the papers say that Keren-sky has
quit a task which most men would never have had
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PEN PICTURES FROM THE TRENCHES

sufficient courage to tackle. The Russian bear
is a very sick animal. Not all the doctors in all
the world can make him look fierce, let alone fight.
Poor old bruin. He wants to leave off.

Aff. son,

STANLEY.

R.F.C., TURNHOUSE, August 12, 1917.

Turnhouse has been our home for two weeks
now, and, so far, none of the crowd have made any
attempts to hit the earth with undue speed. I
have not been up " solo " yet, but have been mak-
ing quite good progress with " dual." Landing
is the most difficult thing. One has to glide down
from great heights and then at the psychological
moment, " meet " into the earth, as it were. Of
course if one misses that supreme moment, one
misses the joy of living — a casualty.

Scotland is an education. The people are
steady. They go slow, but when once they take
hold of the plough handle a furrow has to result.
They shut up their shops on Saturday afternoon,
when everybody wants to buy something. They
sell honestly, but never lower the price. Men who
look for a pair of suspenders with the purchase
of a pair of trousers will have to hold up such
garments with nails. But Scotland plays the game.
Every ounce of strength is put into the business
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PEN PICTURES FROM THE TRENCHES

of " Hun hunting." So I like Scotland. My next
cigar will be labelled " Bobbie Burns."

The most interesting bit of war news has been
the proposal to send labour delegates to the Con-
ference at Stockholm. But Lloyd George, with a
sureness of touch, has brought the ship of state
once more away from the rocky cliffs of war weari-
ness. The Hun, in a subtle move, is foiled once
again. We've got to beat the German. That's all
there is to it. Not that I am afraid of another
war in a few years if we did not. But the only
way to punish a criminal of Germany's dimensions
is to thrash him soundly.

Oh, beautiful dream of world brotherhood. Oh,
damnable reality of men locked in battle. See
them 15,000 feet up in God's blue — these aviators
— with engines roaring hideously, tumbling for
position — a burst of machine-gun fire and one
comes hurtling to earth. See the men with gas
masks, holding at bay an enemy attack; and all
about the bursting of lyddite shells, the horrible
smoke, the scream of the eighteen-pounder gun,
the crack of rifle bullet, and the groan of the
wounded as men walk over them. Browning said,
" God's in His heaven — all's right with the world."
Twas not spoken of 1915-16-17.

Aff. son,

STANLEY.

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PEN PICTURES FROM THE TKENCHES

HARLAXTON, September 25, 1917.

In my letter home last week I enclosed a post-
card from Wilf., having the rather startling news
that he was married. Have been expecting to
receive particulars of said event, but cannot say
whether the girl's name is reminiscent of the
flowers of the field or associated with the poetry
of Tennyson. So you can well understand how
totally ignorant I am as to my new sister.

I might put down some news re aviation. Yes-
terday I went for my cross-country flight test.
This is really the final test one does on the B. E.
machines, because after twenty hours' flying one
passes on to a scout machine, with more speed and
more tricks. Windover, another Canadian, and I
went off together and landed at South Carleton
and Waddington, and then circled above Notting-
ham, covering in all about one hundred miles.
We had no exciting escapades, engine troubles or
any moments of awful suspense. I am now flying
Martinsydes, and in a few days' time will be on
my final machine, a very powerful bi-plane of
great speed and climbing ability.

The war news has ;been quite interesting of late.
The Pope's note, the peace talk have all made for
excitement. Germany is utilising all the tricks in
diplomacy in an effort to bring about peace with-
out saying she is beaten. But the sands are running
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PEN PICTURES FROM THE TRENCHES

out. She persists in yelling " Peace " while yet her
tentacle grips on Belgium. I think the people of
the allied nations must temper mercy with cold
justice. To reverse the maxim, we are going to
make a mistake if we don't give the Kaiser a
proper chastisement, and do you know, I believe
he deserves it — this higher hypocrite.

I have not heard any news from Canada of late,
and am wondering if the sample market is at hand,
if conscription is really going to be put in force,
and if the Quebec bridge is at last up.

I am very well, but dear me, I am getting old,
and one shudders to think he is over twenty-seven.
Bless me, it is quite possible that I shall be fight-
ing on my ninetieth birthday.

An*, son,

STANLEY.

HABLAXTOX, September 30, 1917.

The only news of interest from here is the
following from our orders :

" To be flying officer (pilot). — Lieutenant S. A.
Kutledge has passed graduation 'A' tests (Martin-
syde)." Thus another milestone has been passed
without the mortal coil being loosed. This entitles
me to the increased pay, about $6 per day ; whereas
in infantry a lieutenant gets $3.60. But the
increase is mainly on paper. Messing is higher
in the R.F.C., and incidental expenses are apt to
10 145

PEN PICTURES FUOM THE TRENCHES

mount up. But, as a matter of fact, money con-
siderations do not occupy much space in our minds.
The main thing is to get on with the job.

The flying game continues to absorb all my
time and all my energies. As mentioned in a
former letter, the excitement which is part and
parcel of the beginner's life in every endeavour
is emphasised in aviation. It is the great job now
on hand. In the air the final punch is going to
be administered. We are counting on the U. S.
a great deal. She has the mechanical brains to
maJke standard aeroplanes, and her boys will make
Al pilots. Personally, I believe the Yankees can
make things hum when they take hold, and a little
1mm in this old weary war will do our ears good.
What say you?

I much regret to see announced the death of
" Hal " Fryer, another seeker after elusive law
maxims, " gone west." Fine chap, too, as the boys
say — one of the best. Au revoir, " Hal."

An*, son,
STANLEY.

HARLAXTON, October 7, 1917.

Well, this lias been quite a week. Have been at
Spittlegate Aerodrome (about four miles from
here) all week, on what is termed a fighting course.
The purpose of such instruction is to prepare pilots
for conditions which have to be met when over-
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PEN PICTURES FROM THE TRENCHES

seas. A pilot's efficiency must necessarily depend
on his ability to manoeuvre his aeroplane in such
a way as to ward off the opposing plane, and place
his opponent in a hazardous position. Thus, he
must know how to stunt. If one flies straight a
Hun can simply sit on his tail, as the expression
goes, and pump lead into one's machine. But sup-
posing the pilot has mastered the plane, then one
becomes as slippery as the proverbial eel. One
loops, spins, dives, etc., and thus his opponent is
thwarted. That is what our programme consisted
of. We stunt — one goes aloft and throws the
machine about, careless of equilibrium and negli-
gent of laws of gravity. Thus does man and aero-
plane become as one. Thus does a pilot get a
great measure of confidence in his ability to meet
any contingency in the air.

I do not know of any sensation to equal that
of stunting. Suppose one goes up for a loop. The
nose of the aeroplane is thrust down until a speed
of a hundred miles is registered. Then one pulls
the " joy-stick " (control lever) back, and the
plane begins to climb. Then, applying pressure
gradually one points the nose heavenwards, and
the plane stalls and flops over. It is when one
is upside down (at the height of the loop) that
one gets a sinking feeling like unto nothing I
know, and one wonders if the thing will go over
or stay upside down for ever. Needless to say.
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PEN PICTURES FROM THE TREXCHES

this evolution cannot be recommended for women
who jump on chairs when rodents appear, or for
tremulous men who whistle their way through a
cemetery. But the spin' is the greatest spectacular
stunt. One comes hurtling down, inside out and
outside in, as it were. The uninitiated would
swear that the aeroplane was out of control and
falling to the earth. But, generally, all comes
right. The pilot puts on a little rudder and
waggles the " joy-stick," and the " 'bus/' obedient
to his touch, straightens out and floats away.
Thus do we carry on in the Flying Corps.

The report has just come in that Sir Wilfrid
Laurier has resigned. Feel rather sorry for Sir
Wilfrid. Xo doubt he is sincere, but I cannot
understand a mind which opposes conscription
now. The issue seems so transparently clear. It
proves, certainly, that there is no such thing as
a fixed and unalterable opinion. Before the war
conscription seemed to me to be the antithesis of
liberty, but now it has become the way to liberty.
More and more do we see this war as a struggle
in which all those principles worth living for are
being assailed. In the beginning there was some
reason for a doubtful mind. The "gambling"
of sovereigns in olden days made us rather
sceptical about the cause. But the footprint of the
", beast" through Belgium, through paths of
diplomacy, through his cunning espionage are not
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PICTURES FROM THE TRENCHES

to be mistaken. Blood is everywhere and we've
got to hunt the blonde beast down. And we must
have every available hunter, because, as Tommy
says, " the Hun will get us if we don't get him."
Canada has the quality in her troops over here,
but we lack in quantity. To Jericho with the
mealy-mouthed orators of the brand, " We've done
our share." Let me as'k them, "Who did their
share?"

In the meantime we are getting on. Haig
does his work thoroughly. I rather like Scotch
prudence in a war such as this. With the aero-
plane as a super-scout, the surprise attack, the
outflanking movements of other days are not
possible. Artillery predominance- is the thing. As
Smuts says, " Let them stand if they will." He
knew the killing power of our guns.

The Kaiser is said to be war weary, and the
Crown Prince is back to the night life of Berlin.
The tall youth has no stomach for war bread. The
" cream puff " of initial victory, was more to his
taste.

Aff. son,

STANLEY.

149

PEN PICTURES FROM THE TRENCHES

HABLAXTON, October 17, 1917.

You will probably notice the interval of ten
days since last I wrote. Saturday, at noon, word
came through that I was to be given three days'
graduation leave, and I made at once for London.

(Here follows a very bright, racy bit of com-
ment on the first meeting and visit with his
brother, Lieutenant Wilfred and his wife.—
Editor.)

I am now available for overseas, and may go at
any time. The machine I am now flying is a
DeH/4. It is a wonderful aeroplane: well
engined; in fact, there is an enormous reserve of
power, and has a speed at high altitudes that will
compare with any of the machines now in use.

While in London I had some photos taken, and
shall send you some when ready.

Note your query re Y. M. C. A. and Chaplaincy
Service in France. The Y. M. C. A. is beyond
criticism. I believe anyone who disparages the
work it has done and is doing in France is allow-
ing some prejudice to get the best of well-con-
sidered judgment. I have been reading a splendid
review of a recent book having to do with the
chaplain at the front, his work, the "new
religion " out there. Wish it were possible to put
down some thoughts I carried away as a result
of reading these articles, but space will not permit.
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PEX PICTURES FROM THE TRENCHES

1 do think our chaplains have tried, but I do
believe they often fail to understand their men
or their religion. And I believe it was a mistake
their going out as captains (honorary). Tommy
is just a wee bit apprehensive about approaching
an officer's uniform. They might have got nearer
their boys in a private's uniform. My mind is
filled with reflections about the new religion
the writer (a chaplain) speaks of, but I cannot
attempt to comment now.

Aft. son,

STANLEY.

HARLAXTON, October 21, 1917.

Yesterday I completed my last test to make me
a service pilot and ready for overseas. Of course
I graduated as a pilot on September 25, but one
has to undergo subsequent training before he is
counted on as ready for combat. Brown and 1
have been going along neck and neck in our
tuition work, and we both finished together. He
is a Canadian from the Maritime 'Provinces, and
was out in France for some months as an observer.
Price, my old-time chum, is a long distance from
here, having been sent to Montrose, Scotland, for
his final training.

I had my first forced landing on Friday morn-
ing, which really means landing without the aid
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PEN PICTURES FROM THE TRENCHES

of an engine. The majority of these landings,
need I say, turn out badly. Sometimes the
machine is .broken and sometimes the pilot is
battered. Luckily, I drew up ten feet from a
hedge, and didn't do any damage. I had to wire,
though, for an engine expert, and the machine
had to be dismantled.

Before I came to the Flying Corps every aero-
plane was an enigma, every pilot a man to be
regarded strangely. Now, it is all known to me.
We can tell a certain make of aeroplane by its
look. We can detect by the sound any motor,
and we can pick out a good, bad, or indifferent
pilot by the way he flies. In such a way does
man learn.

Aff. son,

STANLEY.

HARLAXTON, October 28, 1917.

Since returning from leave my time has been
employed flying, and I have also done some
instruction work — training new men. In a letter
to-day to a friend I went briefly into a phase in
my character, so to spetfk, which it may be of
interest to repeat. While here I have done very
well indeed, and my superior officer has entrusted
me with several dual trips, e.g., instruction of
embryo pilots. I have, strange to say, been referred
to as quite daring, and overly-confident. But that
152

PEN PICTURES FROM THE TRENCHES

does not seem to me to be a true statement of the
case. I have looped and spun the DeH/4, not an
unusual feat, but one which the ordinary chap
does not do for some time. But by nature I am
not of an adventuresome disposition, and yet there
is that within me which makes me want to be
reasonably proficient. I always calculate and
" think over " the business in hand. I may take
chances, but I am always looking ahead, and in
little emergencies it is possible for my mind to
work well. Rather egotistical this, I know.

As to the war situation, we have had several
prophets tell us the war will be over by Christmas,
but, as the wag said, "They forgot to mention
which year." Myself, I was hoping for the end
in the not great distance, but the situation, badly
complicated as it was, is practically hopeless now
that Italy is having such a tragic hour. Not
ultimately hopeless, but I believe we must revise
our estimates once again. Of course it is not
the outward result I am dreading in Italy, it is
that the rot that has set in in Russia may gain a
hold. If the people become dispirited, then good-
bye to courage, to resource, to vision, to hope. And
methinks there are not many nations altogether
free of the taint.

I find my job practically makes it impossible
to get on with any reading or writing. The work in
hand is of such a nature that a return to the quiet
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PEN PICTURES FROM THE TRENCHES

necessary for reading and writing is difficult. One
is filled with this business, and it is well, as one
has to be " saturated " before one is a good pilot.
However, I am hopeful that when once again
France is reached, new experiences will cause me
to want to write. Some days I feel as if it might
be possible for me to grow in ability along certain
lines of writing, but such dreams must needs wait.
An aviator, more than any other military man,
is engaged in a task that I think it is true to say,
" the airman has time and thought for one task
only."

I hope everyone is well, and that this finds you
all as anxious to have me home as I am to get there.

Aff. son,

STANLEY.

lf>4

PEN PICTURES FROM THE TRENCHES

TELEGRAMS INFORMING OF ACCIDENT

GHANTHAM, ENGLAND,

November W, 1917.
Mr. E. S. Rutledge,

122 North May St., Fort William.
Regret to say Lieutenant S. A. Rutledge met
with a serious accident this morning.
Sgd.

A. H. BEECH,
Lieut., 44 Training Squadron.

GRANTHAM, ENGLAND,

November 17, 1917.

E. S. Rutledge,

122 N. May St., Fort William.

Regret to report death your son Lieutenant
Stanley Arthur Rutledge, as result of aeroplane
accident 16th instant, killed instantaneously. *

Aeronautics 44, Harlaxton.

"And with the sound of guns we laid him away, he

for whom earth held so much in store. That

our democratic ideals should not perish,

he gave all that he had."

155

PE-tf PICTURES FROM THE TRENCHES

KIND WORDS FOR THE AUTHOR

Among a hundred kind letters received lament-
ing the passing of our son, we place here these
beautiful tributes:

The Royal Flying Corps have lost the services
of a really good officer and a very gallant pilot,
who would have made a name for himself had he
been spared to proceed overseas. I was personally
very sorry, indeed, to lose your son, as were all the
officers, N.C.O/s and men who knew him.

MAJOR — ,

Xo. 44 Training Squadron,

Harlaxton, Grantham, England.

Nov. 21st, 1917.

I, too, belong to the 28th Canadians, and was
with both 'Stan, and Wilfred in France. I was in
the Scout Section, and Stan, and I used to sleep
together there; and I must say I have never met
a finer boy in my life, and thought as much of
him as a brother; and he was generally liked
immensely throughout the squadron, and by all
who knew him. In regard to Stanley's work here,
it was of the highest order, and he was a very bril-
liant pilot, and the unfortunate accident was and
156

PEN PICTURES FROM THE TRENCHES

is liable to happen to any of us (striking a tree
while teaching a pupil to make a landing).

LIEUT. A. H. BEACH, 44th T. S.,
Harlaxtbn, Grantham, England.

Nov. 18th, 1917.

Poor old, warm-hearted, sunny " Stan." — I
simply can't sense it, that that good old pal of
mine, almost a brother, won't be with us again.
For, all along, it has been one of my deepest and
firmest convictions that, no matter what happened
to the others, somehow, Stan, would soon be back
with us. Stanley, to whom life meant so much,
and to whom life held out such promises, should
have to make the supreme sacrifice. We all can
live and die, but few can achieve as much in a
natural lifetime as Stanley did in his all too few
years. In going he leaves a memory that, to me
and all of his friends, will be the sweetest and
finest that could be. To know Stanley was to love
him.

HARRY II . BEEMAN, LL.B.

Toronto, Nov. 24, 1917.

157

PEN PICTURES FROM THE TRENCHES

" My heart aches for you. Big, clever-brained,
chivalrous Stanley. How much earth has lost in
his removal. I suppose some part of him, more
precious than his voice and brain and pen, had
died if he had not gone. But surely the world
had great need of him. But perhaps God had
greater need."

REV. HENRY IRVINE.
E. s. R.

158

,

LIEUT. RUTLEDGE

Standing in front of his machine in the hangar at
English Training Camp

PEN PICTURES FBOM THE TRENCHES

PASSING OF THE AIRMAN

In Memoriam, Lieut. S. A. Rutledge.
BY A. 0. STEWART.

Courier of the azure steeps,

With Orion holding chase,
Flashing through the diamond deeps

With the jocund Morn a-race ;
Wearied — curving from the skies —
Calm, with folded pinion, lies.

Hushed the hiss of whipping gales,

Flaying the cold altitude ;
Furled from flight, quiescent sails

Home with Mother Earth to brood ;
Home — to the maternal breast.
As the eagle to her nest.

What was dust, to dust returns,
What is soul-loosed — soars away :

Grief may wreathe her finite urns,
Filled with broken shards of clay.

But the spirit star-like sails,

Coursing the eternal trails.

Faith, girt with immediate night,
Angubh- wrung, and torture-riven.

Lifts her streaming eyes where bright
Gleam the star-lit shores of Heaven ;

Comforted, beholds afar

Set one more eternal star.

159

Rutledge, Stanley Arthur
Pen pictures from the
trenches

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