Chapter 6 BITS OF BATTLE

On the way over to the barn, where the shell hit the 48th, a piece of a tree limb smashed into the ground at my feet, following the familiar whiz just overhead of a large gun missive, with its accompanying wind gust, and at the same moment something struck with a thud the tree from which the splinter had come. Glancing up, I noticed a shell lodged in a fork of the two main branches, that had stuck there without exploding.

For a shell to explode, it is necessary that the nose of the fuse, containing the detonator, shall come in contact with a solid substance, in order to make ignition and cause the explosion. This had not been done; owing to the intervention of kind nature in the shape of the crotch in that tree catching and holding the shell fast in a firm embrace, we were saved from that additional disaster and death.

A dried-up creek that was being used by us for a trench on the Ypres sector was crossed by a wooden bridge about thirty feet long. This bridge was used as a means of transport at night and by Red Cross men in the daytime, and was very useful; it was most important that it be kept in constant repair. I was detailed in charge of the repair party. One day during the great Ypres battle, about ten o'clock in the morning, the bridge was smashed and I took my party up and made the necessary repairs. We had hardly returned to cover when the bridge was smashed again, and again we rushed out and fixed it up. As we ran, three men forged ahead of me and got to the middle of the thirty-foot structure; I was about twenty feet behind them, the rest of the party immediately behind me. I was shouting an order to them, when a shell exploded in the middle of the bridge, killing all three. I was saved by twenty feet.

In the late afternoon one day of the battle, I was resting in a hole I had burrowed under a sand-bank; about 200 men were burrowed in the same bank in the same way. A monster shell struck the bank immediately above me, upheaving the ground and completely burying me and half a dozen others. I was dug out in a half smothered condition, but soon was able to assist in the work of resurrecting the rest. The only casualty that occurred in that incident was innocently caused by myself; as I was digging, my shovel struck the leg of an officer, inflicting such a gash that when resuscitated he had to go to hospital.

A cunning device of the Germans to misuse the Red Cross came to light during the next few days. It was in the vicinity of the woods where the Imperial Batteries had lost their guns. In a counter attack to retake these guns our men went over, accompanied by the engineers, to destroy the guns, as it was thought it would be impossible to bring them back. This turned out to be true, as the enemy advanced in such strong mass formation that our fellows had their hands full fighting them off until the engineers made good their work, which they did by smashing the hydraulic buffers with picks, destroying the sights, blowing the guns up, and taking the breech-blocks back with them.

In going over the ground that our barrage had covered a few minutes before, we found lying there German soldiers who had acted as stretcher bearers, wearing the red cross of Geneva on their arms, for the purpose of running wires from trench to trench, from battery to battery, and to headquarters, and the way they did the trick was to take a roll of wire on a stretcher covered with a blanket, to represent a wounded comrade, start the roll unwinding and running the wire between their legs as they walked. The blankets on the stretchers were used to deceive our observers and make them believe they were doing honest hospital work in the field. This was only one of their many unprincipled practices, for the Germans ignored all usages of war as practiced by civilization.

During the busiest days of May, 1915, between the second and third battle of Ypres, I was on guard duty at field headquarters in the trenches. The Staff was located in an old two-story building that was much the worse for wear from German calling cards. My "go" was from eight to ten P.M. Promptly at ten o'clock a rap came to the door and, blowing out the light, I inquired who it was. It was my relief, Dave Evans, one of the best pals whom it has ever been my lot to soldier with. Dave was a heavy-set man, strong as an ox; I think he could have almost felled a bull with his fist, so powerful was he. I re-lit the candle after closing the door. This was Dave's first "go" at this particular spot, and I cautioned him to be careful not to show himself in the open doorway with the light behind him, as the building was under observation and the splinters that were being continually chipped from it demonstrated how keenly active and alert they were, and made it necessary for a man to be on the lookout every second of the time. He said he would take no chances. Dave had just obtained an Enfield rifle, for which he had been very glad to exchange his Ross, as the Enfield is better suited for trench purposes, and, not being thoroughly familiar with its workings, he asked me to explain it to him, which I did. Then I blew out the light, opened the door, whispered "good-night," and started down the path. About a hundred feet away I heard Dave calling me back; I turned; he was standing in the doorway, with the candle light gleaming behind him. He called out, "Grant, I don't quite get this safety catch and bolt; would you mind showing it to me again?"

"Blow out the light, you damn fool," I called.

"All right," and he did so and I started back. As he answered me I heard simultaneously the report of a rifle and the whiz of a bullet passing me. When I got to the door I stumbled over the body of my friend Dave; he had received the summons through the head.

While standing guard at the open door, before Dave came, with the light out, however, I suddenly got a start that frightened me more than anything else that has happened me in France: In the gleam of a distant flare, the white faces of two women peered around the corner of the building, looking at me through the open door. There was something so damnably uncanny in their appearance, and so startling, that a cold sweat broke out over me, and I snapped my rifle to the present. Had they not been women they would not have lived; a loiterer around headquarters takes his life in his hands.

They had been there that same afternoon, saying they were the owners of the place, and that they had stopped to take away some supplies. They were permitted to take their goods with them, but were warned against coming there again. They did not heed the warning. I reported their presence to the O.C. and they were promptly arrested and handed over to the French police. What their lot was I cannot tell, but to this day I can't help thinking that in some way poor Dave owes his fate to those women.

After two days' hard marching we reached Givenchy June 9, 1915, a little town in France lying thirty miles south of Ypres. Our battery of two guns took up its position immediately outside, on the southwest side of the town. A few civilians were scattered through the town, living in the cellars, the rest having fled at the German approach. We were ordered to put our guns in the very front-line trench for the reason that the opposing trenches being so close together, it was impossible for the guns to do justice to themselves without inflicting serious casualties on our own men. To make our work as noiseless as possible, we took a number of old rubber tires, cut them in strips and wrapped them around the gun wheels with hay wire; this facilitated both the movement of the guns and the preservation of silence.

We again had the honor of being the sacrifice battery for the division-in other words, having the profound pleasure of going heavenward, or in the other direction, before any of the others, for the purpose of working out the plan of action by the Command. We got the guns into position under cover of night, and thoroughly camouflaged them with grass and tree branches. We did the job so artistically that the birds would come and chatter and sing immediately over the guns when they were not telling their tale of love to Fritz.

Out in front of our guns was a small ridge or embankment, gradually sloping up to a height of twenty feet and extending east and west for a distance of three or four hundred yards. This rising piece of ground was a decided obstacle to our progress and it was ordered mined for the purpose of leveling it. The engineers attended to the task. It turned out that Fritz also had mined the ridge in order to blow our sector skyward.

The stage was set and the play started at 5:30 in the afternoon. Our orders were to blow holes in the parapet wire which ran in a zigzag direction every way out in front, for the purpose of enabling the infantry to get through when they got over. Our ammunition was of the best; we now took no chance on any defective goods. We had 20 rounds of shell for each gun. When we got the order-"Fire!" gaps were torn in the wire by my gun, and the other gun had blown away some small ridges. We were going strong when a shell-the very first one-took our other gun, blowing it and the crew into nothingness. We went on firing until we had exploded 18 shells and had made several gaps in the wire, when, without a moment's warning, our trench mine exploded. The trenches were packed with troops ready for the word. A mountain of debris was shot in the air and back over us, burying a number of soldiers in the trench, where they died miserably from suffocation. The concussion was so powerful that it blew the shield of my gun off downwards, cleaving Corporal King's skull in twain and blowing Gunner MacDonald, who was sitting on the handspike of the gun, 20 feet away. When we found him next day, every bone in his body was broken. I was sitting on the gun alongside of Corporal King at the time of his death, and how I escaped is more than I can tell. Again I couldn't help speculating that my life must have been spared for some good purpose; I sincerely hope so.

It was impossible to do any further firing, as the muzzle of the gun was choked completely with the dirt that had been shot backward by the explosion of our own mine. Our misfortune, however, did not prevent or deter for a moment the intended movement. Unable to do anything further as a gunner, I hopped into the charge with the 48th Highlanders of Toronto, who had just started with one of their old-time yells to go out and over. When we reached the German front lines,-or what was left of them, for the explosion had blown from them all semblance of a trench,-it was jammed full of German troops-dead. On we went, inclining to the right and reaching an orchard in which was a nest of them concealed in the trees. Those on mother earth were speedily driven to hell or made good their escape, and we then attended to the case of the squirrels in the branches. This was somewhat difficult, as the night was excessively dark, but our snipers, circling everywhere underneath them, finally got them; not a single baby-killer escaped; it was a case of getting limburgers in an apple tree.

No sooner had we cleaned up the job than the Fritzies returned en masse formation, compelling us to beat a discretionary retreat to their front-line trenches, where we held and are still holding, and then some. Here we remained until the middle of the following month.

Some minor engagements took up my duties after Givenchy, until about September 1, when my battery was instructed to proceed to Ploegsteert.

Ploegsteert sets in ruins about two miles northwest of Armentières; there were no buildings that Fritz failed to level with the exception of the tower, which they used for registry purposes,-a reference point in artillery technology. We were stationed on this sector for eight months, and our stay here was more or less of a recreation; battle firing was only intermittent; and on the days that we did speak to Fritz, we rarely sent over more than 10 to 12 messages.

Our battery was in a hedge here and we were having our wires cut several times, causing us considerable trouble and annoyance.

Butler, one of my pals, was started out to make the necessary repairs. He left on his dangerous mission, crouching along and taking advantage of every bit of shelter on the way, but several ping! pings! warned him that he was treading on danger ground. He kept at his work, busily hunting for the break in the wire, with the sniping pills passing his ears continually.

Crawling along on his hands and knees, with the wire running through his hand, he came to a little bush, where it slipped away from him, denoting that there was the break. At that moment the sniper got him in the leg, but he held to until he repaired it, and was in touch with headquarters, reporting that he had mended the break, when the wire was again cut. The bleeding from his wound now made it necessary for him to mend that break first, and he bandaged it as quickly as his nervous fingers would work. Again he took hold of the wire, crawling and stumbling along until he again came to the break, and again mended it. He was being closely watched now, as the bullets were whistling about him ceaselessly. Again he turned his attention to his wound, adjusting the bandage, and he noticed a British soldier crawling toward him on his hands and knees.

"Hello, matey, what you doing out here?" he asked.

"I'm mendin' me bloomin' leg now," Butler answered.

"Well, if you hadn't been out here you wouldn't have got it. Why didn't you stay in your trenches?"

"Someone's got to repair the wire," said Butler. He was growing perceptibly weaker from the loss of blood.

"Oh, repairing the wire, were you? Well, don't repair any more"-and Butler had just time to see him level his revolver and then he dropped unconscious. The bullet had hit him in the thigh. But his communication had reached headquarters that he was wounded and it was not long before the stretcher bearers came out and found him. They took him to the dressing station, where it was found necessary to amputate his leg, but he parted gladly with his dented member when the O.C. told him that his grit and endurance were a splendid example for the entire unit,-"Aye," he added, "and for the whole Empire."

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Service was being held here in the field one Sunday morning and an incident occurred that makes me shake every time I think of it,-not so much at the incident itself as in the surrounding circumstances. In the midst of the service, a buzzing overhead announced the presence of German hawks and a dropping of bombs further announced that they had seen us and intended paying their respects.

A face turned upward is one of the most easily detected objects by an airplane, and although we had strict orders on no account to look up, the temptation for some was too strong. Meantime, the minister continued to read the service, but the responses were not as hearty as they had been, and he himself was standing with shoulders hunched up to the back of his neck, the book pulled up to his nose, and furtively trying to see through his eyebrows the danger-birds in the blue. In the midst of the solemn moment an officer, glimpsing some of the men turning their faces skyward, bellowed, "Damn you, keep those mugs down."

It was our good fortune that none of the messages reached their intended destination.

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