A Rifleman Went to War

by Herbert W. McBride

  By this time we knew that we were just about due to “shove off” for some unknown destination. We machine gunners got orders to load up every belt with a new lot of the Mark VII ammunition and we had a merry time that day. It takes quite a while to load eighty-four belts – even with the loading machines – and we put in the whole day at it. We had fourteen boxes, each holding a belt of 250 rounds, for each of our six guns. In addition to this, we drew ten thousand rounds, in boxes, for each gun. Then we got one hundred and twenty rounds per man for our rifles. In all, we had about ninety thousand rounds in the section. We took our bayonets over to the Armourer and had him sharpen them on his grindstone – and drew an issue of files with which to keep them sharp in the future.

  The next orders were to pack up all surplus clothing and equipment, to be stored against the time of our return. (I have often wondered if anyone in that outfit ever got back there to claim the things he had left.)

  We were to take, in addition to our guns, rifles, ammunition and such equipment, one ground sheet (a rubber sheet, similar to a poncho but without the hole in it), one extra suit of underwear, one extra pair of socks, one overcoat (great coat, they call it), and the numerous small articles that go to make up the kit. It was permitted to take one blanket. I am not sure whether or not any of our crowd did this. I know I did not, nor did any of the others with whom I was closely associated. We took no extra shoes and it was with regret that I left two pairs behind.

  Then we got our “transport.” I will not tell you how many waggons we had. (Get that double g.) At any rate, the stuff we piled into the little limbers soon filled them to the top. We had to make our own drivers but, fortunately, had plenty of men who were familiar with horses.

  Now, all these things were done during one day and the ensuing night and it was near morning when we had finished packing and loading. We had breakfast and then the orders came to move out. Everybody was jubilant. Here we were, on our way, at last. We formed on our own parade ground and then moved out on to the road. But, what the hell? Instead of turning toward the right and so on to Folkestone, we turned to the left. Oh, well, just some maneuver to get the division straightened out, we thought. Huh: we had another think coming – in fact, several thinks. We hiked all that day and camped in a great park (Hatch Park) with the deer scampering all around us. I say we camped. We simply lay down in formation and slept a few hours. If anyone cares to look it up, he will find that there was a beautiful, full moon at that time for I remember lying on my back and wondering what was up there, for an hour or so before going to sleep. That was about the 10th day of September, 1915.

  Well, sir, we marched all over Southern Kent for three days. Of course it is plain now that this was simply to get the whole division licked into shape so that they could take the road over in France without using up the space that was needed for an army corps, but we could not fathom it at that time.

  On the third night we arrived back at our Sandling camp but only halted for a short time – only until it became real dark, in fact – then moved out again. This time we did head for the coast and, after the usual confusion and delays, found ourselves aboard a train – going somewhere. By this time all hands were tired enough to sleep anywhere and in any position, so it was not until the next morning that we discovered that we (the Emma Gee Section) had the train to ourselves. Our horses and waggons, (again, don’t forget that extra g; that’s the English of it) were loaded in freight cars – and, by the way, they are called waggons, too, so, I guess we will have to call our conveyances carts or limbers from now on – and we, the men, were in the usual second class carriages.

  We travelled all that day and the next night, going by a very devious and roundabout way – probably to deceive any spies who might be trying to keep track of our movements – and finally arrived at Southampton, just about daybreak. There we were required to keep to the docks and, as much as possible, under cover during the day. Our ship (I never did know the name of it) was snug up against the side of one of the covered docks and we were able to load all our gear and horses without going outside. Right alongside was another ship on which some British troops were embarking. They said they were going to the Dardanelles, so we figured that we were probably slated for the same place.

  Most of our crowd wrote letters and posted them here. I had no writing materials handy but noticed a box on the dock which contained a lot of post cards, placed there, as an inscription on the box related, by the “Missions to Seamen.” On the off chance that it might go through, I addressed one of them to my mother in Indianapolis and told her that we “don’t know where we’re going, but are on our way.” Without any stamp, but with the magic letters: “O.H.M.S.” (On His Majesty’s Service), it went straight through to her.

  It was a cold and drizzly night when we pulled out, or, as I should say, “shoved off.” We had carefully stowed all our guns down in the hold of the ship, but no sooner had we cleared the harbor than a couple of us had to go down and dig out two of them and bring them up and mount them on the deck. For my sins I was one of the two and Sandy MacNab, because he was not so good either, was the other. Oh, well, what the hell! We were all so glad to be out and going somewhere that we did not worry about a little thing like that. There were “subs” in the Channel and they had been sinking everything on sight – even shooting up the crews in the small boats after torpedoing the transports, so there was a chance that we might be able to take a few “Huns” with us if they did get us with a torpedo.

  So as I have said, Sandy and I finally got two machine guns and some ammunition on deck, and by dark we had them mounted, mine to starboard and Sandy’s to port. Then the ship steamed out of the harbor and we two “stood to” until daybreak, expecting anything or nothing to happen. After a few hours, we didn’t care which.

  Everything was in pitch darkness, not a light showing aboard ship or elsewhere and the trip passed uneventful until about the middle of the night. Then I saw a bright glow on the horizon, just dead ahead. It was mighty puzzling, but the ship’s lookouts said or did nothing and I did likewise. I had about decided that it must be a ship afire, and was wondering what we would do about it; but the thing gradually kept taking on the appearance of an immense Christmas tree and I began to think that the English booze was sure holding up for a long time. Finally I could stand it no longer, so I sneaked over to MacNab’s side to see if he saw what I saw. He did, but we were both too bewildered to ask any questions so we waited, and a Red Cross hospital ship, lighted from stem to stern and from waterline to truck with hundreds of electric lights, swept past. There were flood lights sweeping downward to show the green stripe along its side as prescribed by the Geneva Convention, and the ship could not possibly have been mistaken for anything else in the world – yet the Germans sank all of these “Castle” liners before the war was over. Sandy MacNab, who stood by my side that night, came back on one of these ships within a month and I took my first ride to Blighty on the Carisbrook Castle a year or so later.

  About daybreak we picked up a string of colored lights and dropped anchor. When daylight came on we could see that it was the harbor of Le Havre we were in; I had been there before and recognized it immediately. Then and there we knew that it was France we were headed for and that the Dardanelles was not to be our destination.

  We waited around a bit for the tide to rise, and then a few tugs pushed us in against the dock and we tied up. The Promised Land at last. The docks were swarming with men, practically all in uniform and all very busy. Most of the French soldiers were still wearing that old uniform of red and blue, the new “horizon blue” not having yet been adopted. Many elderly English soldiers were about, from the so-called “Nawie’s Battalions.” But the most puzzling of all were some whose uniform was the subject of much speculation, until we happened to notice that they always kept in groups and that a poilu invariably followed them with a rifle and fixed bayonet. It was our first sight of German prisoners and it was one of the real genuine thrills of the
war, which was getting closer and closer all the time.

  That disembarkment was nothing but common, every-day, hard labor accompanied by an unusual amount of confusion and cussing. Occasionally we were relieved by the antics of some horse which did not want to come down the steep and narrow gangway; it had been a devil of a job to get them aboard in the first place and was even harder to get them to go ashore. But finally, about noon we got everything off, the waggons loaded and teams hitched and made our way through the city and moved into a so-called “rest camp.” Just about time for a shave and wash-up. Then a biscuit, but mighty little rest we got, as we started again at dark, in a driving rain as usual, and marched for miles across the city.

  That rain never let up until after we had entrained, and it was a night of horrors. Sloshing through the mud, over unknown streets and roads, soaked to one’s skin and then loading our train for the Front. The English language is not adequate to describe the loading of that train; getting all those waggons on those dinky little flat cars and then the horses aboard. At that the horses fared better than we did because they were only eight to the car while we had to cram in forty or more, and in the very same car too – the Forty and Eights. Chevaux huite; Hommes quarante – that’s what is said on the side of each car.

  While we had been loading the cars, our cooks had somehow managed to make up a mess of good hot tea, and that helped a lot. Then we got an issue of cheese, bully and biscuits which we took into the car with us. There were fifty-six in our section at that time, but we all managed to get into one of the things. There was no room to lie down or even to sit down without piling up two or three deep but we managed, somehow or other, to get along. We were soaked to the hide and all our equipment was in the same condition, but what do you suppose those birds did? Commenced to sing; yes they did, and kept it up all day long. We had some cheese and bully-beef and a few chunks of bread, so we made out nicely.

  On the way up to the front, we passed through some of the most historical parts of France, but then all of France is an historical pageant. Here we were landing at Harfleur, which other British armies had done centuries earlier, then through Rouen with its memories of Jeanne d’Arc, Rollo the Norman, Duke William and Harold, all of whom had their walk across history’s pages. Although we went right through Rouen without stopping we could see the wonderful cathedral and the hospice on the river. After crossing the river one has a brief glimpse of the village of St. Adrien, with the curious church in the face of the cliff where maidens come to pray Saint Bonaventure for a husband within the year.

  Then past the field of Crecy, where, several centuries earlier, another British army had made history, and on across the Somme which later on was to become such an experience to many of us. At Abbeville we joined the rest of the battalion. They had come directly across from Folkestone to Boulogne. From Abbeville the entire battalion rode on together and about three o’clock the next morning we pulled into St. Omer, at that time the British Headquarters in France. It had taken almost a year to make it, but the war was just around the corner at last.

  There was no loafing at St. Omer; we immediately detrained and before daylight were on the march – headed eastward. Stopping for a couple of hours at some little town to make tea, we then headed on. This was the hardest day we had had, and that march was just about as tough an experience as I have ever endured – and I was pretty tough, myself, at that time. It was hot and we were loaded down with our packs and ammunition, everyone being overloaded, as a new soldier always is. Moreover, our packs and clothing had not dried out and we were carrying about twenty or thirty pounds of water in addition to the regulation sixty-some pounds of equipment. The roads were pavé, of Belgian blocks, or cobbles, as we would call them, and our iron-shod soles slipped on them as though they were ice. On the hard smooth roads of England we would not have minded it, but this sort of going was new to us; our ankles were continually turning, our feet eternally slipping. All in all I consider this the hardest march I have ever made in my life, and I have made as much as forty-eight miles in one day over the snow of the Northwest in my time.

  So far as I can remember, none of our crowd dropped out on this march, but I am sure that every one of us would have liked to. We kept going on our nerve after we were worn out physically and whenever we did stop for a short rest every man was asleep in less time than it took to lie down. About dark we halted at a farm and the word went out that we would bivouac and probably be there for a week or more. There was a large barn there with plenty of clean straw in it, and we machine gunners promptly took possession of this while the rest of the battalion were standing about waiting for the Quartermaster to assign them somewheres. This called for a fight with the signallers and scouts who were finally assigned to the barn; we compromised and let them use the poorer part of the place. There were names, inscribed on the beams, of earlier organizations who had stopped in that barn, amongst them being the Princess Pats. However, we read all those the next day, that night we were too tired to even eat and everyone just dropped into the straw and slept. We got just one day’s rest here and were as good as new for it – astonishing how quickly healthy, active men can recuperate.

  Next morning, everybody got busy and cleaned up or dried out his kit, in anticipation of that promised week’s rest. But about four o’clock that afternoon we formed up and were marched some two or three miles distant for a review and talk by General Alderson, the Commander-in-Chief of the Canadians. We arrived at the reviewing ground a bit ahead of time and while lying about waiting we had our first sight of real war. It was high up in the air and well away from us, but it was a thrilling sight just the same. A couple of German planes were being shelled by some of our own anti-aircraft guns, and we held our breath expecting to see them come tumbling down at any minute, as the shells were apparently bursting right alongside the Germans. But none was hit and they went on their way. We soon learned that it was a rare thing indeed for a plane to be brought down by a gun on the ground. Later on I saw thousands of shots fired at them and never saw one hit by an “Archie” and only one hit by machine-gun fire from the ground. Most of the planes which are shot down are hit by machine-gun fire from another plane while in combat.

  Generals are always late in keeping their appointments, but this one finally came. He looked us over and then gave the usual bit of hooey about what a splendid lot of men we were, glorious spirit, and all that, and then went on to say that as a reward for our magnificent appearance and maneuvering he was going to let us go right on up into the front line, instead of putting the battalion through the usual procedure in reserve and support. We got all swelled up about this, but later on learned the truth – that the British Army was about to start the big offensive known as the Battle of Loos and that at that time they did not have enough troops in France to be able to keep any reserve. However, that day we merely swung back to billets and spent a busy night getting our belongings together and packed, as we were to march at daybreak.

  We moved out at dawn and had another stiff march of it, the weather having turned very hot again. Through Hazebrouck and many small villages we went, stopping at Bailleul for an hour’s rest. The Machine Gun Section halted right in the market square, so we had a splendid chance to see the main points of interest in this ancient town: the Hotel de Ville with its twelfth century trimmings and the Hotel Faucon, which latter I particularly remember owing to the excellence of its cold beer.

  After our rest we continued on our way and as we advanced towards the east, we commenced to observe an increasing number of the scars of war. The first German push, in August, 1914, had carried them well into France but their repulse at the Marne had been so sudden and unexpected that they had no time to do much in the way of pillaging. Live stock was killed or driven off and the inhabitants had to stand for many indignities but, so far as we heard, there were no atrocities such as were reported from Belgium.

  One of the boys pointed out a house which had a hole through it big enough for a cow to ju
mp through, and we all realized, without a word being spoken, that it had been made by a shell. That was the first one, as we went along these signs increased and multiplied. Soldiers of the Pioneer Corps were busily engaged in repairing the roads, and in this work they were assisted by detachments of German prisoners, each wearing on his back the conspicuous PG (Prisonnier de Guerre). We had seen some of these prisoners before, at work on the docks at Havre.

  Naturally, all these things helped to keep us going – even after we should have been utterly exhausted. At one place, I remember, we halted for a few minutes just opposite where an old timer of the Pioneers was shovelling the accumulated mud and debris out of the ditch alongside the road. As he dug up each shovelful, he deposited it on a little mound alongside the ditch and patted it down, accompanying the action with a flow of words such as: “There ye are, me laddie buck: rest aisy”: and a lot of other things which I dare not write.

  Curiosity impelled one of us to ask him what in hell he was doing: whereupon he turned about and took the two or three steps necessary to bring him to our position. He reached in his tunic pocket and pulled out a lot of buttons and a belt buckle which bore the inscription: “Gott Mit Uns” and told us: “ ’E was a Oolan, ’e was. I dug the blighter up in the ditch an’ ’e was fair ripe, ’e was. ’ow about a bob for the buckle an’ a tanner apiece for the buttons – oo wants ’em?”

  Some of our bunch bought the whole lot. That was the start of the souvenir-hunting craze. From trifles picked up in this manner, to various objects found in the ruins of the houses and the many types of fuses or, as we called them, “nosecaps,” we gathered and hoarded everything. When we finally commenced to get live prisoners we had perceptibly slowed down on this game. We had found that, although we might gather and accumulate the most wonderful collection of these trophies, whenever we made a move, it was necessary to ditch the whole lot.