A Rifleman Went to War

by Herbert W. McBride

  The Army and Navy Veterans Association of Kingston presented the Battalion with handsome “Colours,” with appropriate ceremonies. These were deposited in the custody of the Canadian High Commissioner, in London prior to our departure for France.

  After many false alarms, we finally received orders to move and on the evening of May 5th, we entrained for Montreal. The citizens of Kingston gave us a grand send-off. At other towns and cities along the way rousing demonstrations were staged for our benefit. There was no mistaking the temper of those people. We had just recently received the reports of the fighting at Ypres and the hideous savagery of the enemy in using poison gas against the Canadians of the First Division. Hundreds of casualties were being posted daily – names of many from these very towns – and we were to go over and clean up on the savages.

  Well, we finally did out bit, but it was a long time before we had the chance.

  We sailed, from Montreal, May 6, 1915, and landed at Plymouth (Devonport Dock) on the 14th. That is really all that need be said about our crossing, looking at it from the vantage point of fifteen years, but, at the time, it was not quite so uneventful. Before we were out of the St. Lawrence we heard of the sinking of the Lusitania. It was really unbelievable. While the news was undoubtedly authentic, we could not conceive how any nation that pretended to be civilized could perpetrate such an atrocious deed. It gave us Americans (there were several in the battalion) something to think about. I remember, it occurred to me that if the report were true, it was a certainty that the United States would be in the war tomorrow. That being the case, my old outfit would be right in it. Had I remained at home I would go over in command of my old company – perhaps with even higher rank. But I quickly dismissed the thought. I had sworn to defend “King and Country” for the duration of the war and was in with an organization which I had come to love. Officers and men were my friends and, come what might, I would stick with them. It never occurred to any of us that there was any possibility that the United States would not declare war immediately. No use talking any more about what really did happen. It is too well known.

  We had aboard, besides our battalion, hospital detachments from both Queens and McGill Hospitals, including about one hundred and fifty Nursing Sisters – “Blue Birds” we called them from their natty blue uniforms. They wear the two stars of the First Lieutenant, which rank they hold, and believe me, they rate it too. Many’s the man on that boat who later had cause to bless those same bluebirds in the hospitals of France and England. It later happened that I was one of these.

  When we got word by wireless that the Lusitania had really been torpedoed an effort was made to suppress the news, but it soon made its way throughout the entire ship. Having had plenty of experience with soldier rumors coming in over the grapevine, which start from nowhere and amount to nothing, I personally did not believe the story. But next morning, when we of the Machine Gun Section got orders to go down into the hold, get our guns and mount them on deck I began to think differently. We then had six guns, two more than the usual quota to a battalion, as two Colt guns had been presented to our Commanding Officer by old friends in Canada just a few days before our departure.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Chapter 3. England

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

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

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

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

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

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

  We would start out in the morning and climb up to the top of Tolsford Hill and take a look at France. Then we would scout down the other side and see what we could find in the way of live things – birds, bugs, snakes – anything. I always have been a sort of nut on all natural history subjects, so was able to boost the game along.

  Redpath caught two young rooks which he took back and tamed so that they would fly to him whenever he called. McFarlin had a hedgehog for a while – a small and harmless edition of the porcupine. We found a wood pigeon’s nest and also some young lapwings. One day a couple of the boys brought me a snake. As most boys would do, they had killed it. Now, I do not approve of the promiscuous killing of snakes and was about to tell them so, when I happened to take a good look at the reptile – and held my peace. It was an adder, so far as I know, the only venomous snake found in the British Isles. I opened the mouth and showed them the fangs and also explained how they could tell a poisonous snake from a harmless one. Yes; we had great times during that quarantine period. If we got tired or the weather was inclement, we stayed in the hut and played poker. Hard lines for the poor soldier, eh, what?

  But there was one thing about which we had a real grievance and that was the food. The time we spent in England was the only period during my Canadian service when we did not have plenty of good food. In Canada, and later in Flanders and France, we had an abundance and of the best quality, but while in England we had to put up with what the people there were accustomed to. It was pretty tough but some of us managed to get money from home and used it to supplement the meager fare. You see, the United States and Canada – and possibly the other British Colonies – have a standard of living that is undreamed of in Europe. We are just spoiled, that’s all. People can live and live comfortably, on much less than what we think is absolutely necessary. Anyway, we survived – and none the worse for it.

  While we were in England many of the men were granted leave to visit relatives in various parts of the British Isles. As I had no relatives that I knew of and as I had no particular desire to go anywhere, I stayed at the camp. I had spent a good deal of time in England and Scotland, on previous visits, and had seen most of the prominent points of interest.

  I did enjoy the little trips to points along the Channel coast, however. Much of the history of England is written there, from the time of the raids of the first sea rovers, on through the era of Roman domination and to the Conquest by the Normans. Nor does it end there, for all along the shore are the remains of the huge, stone towers, the Martello towers, erected as a defense against the threatened invasion by the French under Napoleon.

  Then, Sandling Camp was located in the midst of a lot of the old and interesting places which have figured in the early history of England. Saltwood Castle, built in 499 by the Romans and enlarged later by the Normans, was about a mile from the camp. Here was where the conspirators met and planned the assassination of Thomas à Becket at Canterbury, which was only some sixteen miles away and which I visited many times. Hythe, one of the old “cinque ports” was only a few miles distant, and in it was the old church which dated from the time of Ethelbert, King of Kent. In this old church crypt lie the bones of hundreds of persons which have been there since the time of the Crusades, and in the church there were the arms and armour of some of those old-timers who had been on those same Crusades. But to me, the most interesting of all was a tablet on the wall, “To the memory of Captain Robert Furnis, Commanding H.M.S. Queen Charlotte. Killed at the Battle of Lake Erie: 1813.” Perry’s famous victory, and Camp Perry, so far away, both came to mind as I stood before it.

  Only three or four miles away was Monk’s Horton, Horton Park and Horton Priory. This latter church dates from the twelfth century and looks just about as it did when built. There also was Lympne Castle, one of the old Roman strongholds, and Caesar’s Plain, and Caesar’s Camp, where Julius Caesar is supposed to have spent his time on that memorable expe
dition to England. Also there was Hastings and Battle Abbey, where William the Conqueror defeated Harold and conquered England. Many of the roads over which we marched had been built by the Romans and every town and village we came to had its history running back for centuries. To me it was all very interesting and for those who did not care for ancient history there were Sunday trips to Ramsgate, Margate, Deal, and Dover.

  But we were all getting impatient. Hearing the rumble of the heavy guns, as we could often do – especially at night – and seeing the fast-increasing number of convalescent wounded who were domiciled in various establishments in our vicinity, we were anxious to get over there and get in it.

  Along in September, we had a series of “Reviews.” The King looked us over, as did Lord Kitchener, and I believe we did it again for the benefit of someone or other – darned if I know who. It got rather monotonous after a while but the first time we went through the performance it was quite impressive. As a starter, every company was “sized up,” to give the appearance of uniformity in height. Then we marched to the reviewing field, which, in our case, was some three miles distant. The whole division was massed in one great field, the infantry in front and the artillery and trains following. All were massed as closely as possible and the spectacle of that great body of men, marching in column of companies, with no interval between the front rank of one company and the rear rank of the other, reminded me of nothing so much as a vast field of grain, bowing to the wind, as, on all such occasions, bayonets are fixed and rifles are carried at the slope.