A Rifleman Went to War

by Herbert W. McBride

  The Battle of Loos opened on the 25th of September and lasted about a week. We were outside the immediate sphere of the action but were called upon to stage a demonstration to prevent the taking of reinforcements from our front to the scene of the big battle. The Nineteenth Battalion of our Brigade (the 4th) carried out the feint, the others simply standing by to take care of any counter-attacks. All the machine guns of the Brigade took active part in the show and we were kept busy for some twenty minutes or so, laying a barrage along the line of the enemy parapet to cover the advance of the infantry who only went far enough to throw a few grenades into Heinie’s trench and then retired.

  The casualties on our side were light and I suppose the same was true of the enemy but the performance accomplished the desired result; keeping our enemy on the qui vive and preventing the dispatch of reinforcements to the embattled troops to the south where the combined British and French attack was gaining headway every hour. Unfortunately, at that time, as in several subsequent attacks, our High Command had evidently underestimated the strength of the enemy artillery and our batteries ran out of ammunition, necessitating a retirement to the original lines. Had the supply of shells for our guns been adequate, I think it quite probable that the battle would have resulted in a decisive victory for the allied cause. However, it was to be long, weary months later before the allies did catch up with the Germans in the number of guns and the supply of fodder for them and by that time they had suffered such enormous losses of men that the advent of the United States, with its fresh divisions was most welcome. No, I do not think the United States won the war but they certainly did a good job of shortening it. If, in a major battle, a commanding officer holds back a substantial reserve until the critical point of the action and then hurls them in to overcome the weakened and tired enemy, thus winning the battle, it could hardly be said that these reserves won it. Those who took the shock of the earlier stages of the struggle are, in my opinion, entitled to something more than half the credit.

  Those of us who were operating the machine guns during the little show above mentioned, simply took them back of our front line to slightly higher ground in the rear, to insure safe clearance over the heads of our advancing infantry and just set them up, right up in the open. It was at night and we were safe from observation but fully exposed to the rifle and machine gun fire. It was our first experience of the kind. The bullets were cracking all around us, exactly as it sounds in the pits at Camp Perry during a stage of rapid fire during the National Matches – the only difference being that we were right up on top of the parapet instead of down behind a concrete wall. Neither I nor my No. 2 man, who was feeding in the belts, were hit. He was just a kid, about seventeen, and the little rascal kept shouting and laughing in high glee so, of course, I could not do less, even had I wanted to. As a matter of fact, I did rather enjoy the performance. The fact that I might be hit never occurred to me. The whole show was over within about a half hour, but in that short time we had learned a thing which can be learned in no other manner – that it is possible for thousands of bullets to pass by or come close to you without doing any harm.

  During those last few days in September, we had beautiful Indian Summer weather. I remember one afternoon when, things being quiet, Bouchard and I sneaked away for a look around to see what we could find in the way of souvenirs. At that stage of the game, we were all souvenir hounds. We never gave a thought to the matter of disposing of our finds or how we could get them out of there. It was only the men of the other services who had any chance to take anything home. The infantryman and the machine gunner had enough to do to carry their own equipment, but that did not prevent us picking up this and that and gloating over it until the time came to make a move, when we regretfully turned it over to some artilleryman, transport man or medico.

  We had worked our way around to where we were on a hillside, well behind our lines and a mile or more from the Ridge (Messines) when we suddenly came upon a great patch of blackberries, growing along a hedge, and there we spent the rest of the afternoon.

  The warm glow of the westering sun beat gently upon us as we sat there behind the hedge. It was late September, but the autumn was tardy that year and the gentle breeze carried the warmth of summer. I was idly sketching the landscape across the wide valley, the boy busily picking and eating the luscious big berries.

  After a while, the youngster ransacked the haversack which he was carrying and dug up a piece of bread and the remnant of a can of jam. Prying loose the top of the can with a big knife, he proceeded to scrape out the contents and spread it on the bread. As if by magic, dozens, hundreds, yes thousands of “yellow-jackets” appeared and fastened themselves on to the sweet-tasting stuff. He would spread some jam on the bread and, before he could get it to his mouth, it would be literally covered with the little, tiger-striped insects. After several ineffectual attempts to get a square bite, he gave it up and then, with some of the grim perversity that had enabled his ancestors to conquer the wilds of Quebec, he went in to clean up on the robbers, who had spoiled his meal. Bending the lid of the can (tin, they call it over there), he left just enough opening for the little jokers to crawl in. Within a few minutes the thing was literally crammed full of the little sugar-hunting bees.

  I had just finished the sketching, which was a preliminary part of a range chart which I was making for our machine gun work when “Bou” called to me, “Now I got ’em, what the hell am I goin’ to do with ’em?” He had squeezed down the lid of the can – or “tin,” if you happen to be English, and was holding it toward me, perhaps three or four feet away when – “wheet” comes a bullet and very nicely decided the matter. It took the can and its contents and it also snipped out a slice of Bou’s finger – just like that.

  “W’at ta hell,” says Bouchard – and I just laughed.

  We tied up the finger and that was that. Smoking a cigarette (that is, he did, I always stuck to my pipe), we lay there and looked out over the valley which separated us from the Messines-Wyschaette ridge. That was Germany. Stray bullets, like that which had hit the jam tin (by golly, I got it right, that time), were drifting in now and then all around us and, while we watched, several salvoes of whiz-bang shrapnel were poured into a communication trench, just in front of us. It seems incomprehensible to me, after a lapse of over fifteen years, but, as a matter of fact, we did not pay the least bit of attention to them other than to idly wonder if they “got anyone.” Right now, I would be scared stiff if a shell burst near me. I know I would but, somehow or other, in those days, when we all took it as a matter of course that we were going to be bumped off most any time – well, we just didn’t worry about it at all.

  Blackberries and bullets – that is the way I always remember that afternoon. Lazing there in the sunshine, looking away across the valley, for all the world like somewhere in southern Indiana, sketching in prominent points on the sky-line (to be used as aiming points for future machine gun strafing) while all the time the kid was picking the delicious blackberries and, every now and then, bringing me a handful, shells winging their way overhead, some going and some coming and occasionally bursting within a hundred yards or so and the frequent whisper or sput of a bullet close alongside – well, I tell you, folks, that is something worth living for – or dying for, if it’s your turn.

  Chapter 5. The Trenches

  THE Battle of Loos occurred during what turned out to be our last tour in those trenches at Ploegsteert. When we came out again, we marched, that very night, away off to the northward. The word went up and down the line that we were bound for “Wipers” and after the usual hard march in the rain we stopped about daylight, at the town of LaClytte which turned out to be our billeting place for many months afterwards. The infantry remained there and rested for a few days but we machine gunners went right on in and took over some support positions along the Ypres-Neuve Eglise road and at Groot Vierstraat, relieving the King Edward Horse who, like all the cavalry, had been acting as infantry.

/>   Early in October the rains started, rains that were to continue, with few interruptions, until the following April. We have read of how the Duke of Wellington’s soldiers “swore at the mud in Flanders.” No doubt but what they did but I’ll bet, if some of those old timers had heard the things we said while on that march up from Dranoutre to LaClytte, they would have hung their heads in shame. Swearing, like most everything else, has improved with time and our modern vocabulary is much more comprehensive than that of our ancestors. The rain was just going good when we received our orders to move. It was night, of course. There was no chance to move about on the roads in daylight. We went via Kemmel, as I well remember, for it was in that village that we made a short halt for rest and I simply “flopped” on my back, in the middle of the road; my head on my pack, and was sound asleep, instantly. I was not the only one; most of the others did the same. I suppose the halt may have been for as much as ten minutes but, during that time, I got a good night’s rest, not “singin’ in the rain” but sleeping in the rain. Then up and away.

  Our position, when we all finally got there, was at the angle at the southeast “corner” of the Ypres Salient, our left opposite the village of St. Eloi and our frontage, about eleven hundred yards for the Battalion, extending to the Voormezeele-Wyschaette road. On our right was the Nineteenth Battalion with about the same frontage. Directly opposite us was the Bois Quarante, along the front of which were the German front line trenches. The distance between our lines varied from about seventy yards on the right, to something over two hundred at the left where the Germans held a dominating hill called (on our maps) “Piccadilly Farm” which merged with the high ground in the village of St. Eloi which was designated as “the Mound.” Back of our front line, at a distance varying from four hundred to six hundred yards, was our support line, which was not, really a line at all, but merely a series of redoubts or, as we called them, “Strong Points,” with, here and there, a bit of completed trench. These redoubts were concealed among the trees of the Bois Carré and other woods the names of which I have forgotten. Back of that, ranging from eight hundred to twelve hundred yards, was what was known as the G.H.Q. (General Headquarters) line, which was our last defense. This line was unoccupied during the time I was there but was the place where the Germans were stopped at the time of their big “push” in March 1918. Just back of this was Ridgewood, a considerable forest, where Battalion Headquarters was located and where we established a cemetery. I go into detail about these things because, as we made our home in this place for eight months, I shall have occasion to refer to these locations from time to time as we go along.

  The Twentieth and Twenty-first Battalions worked together, alternating between front line and support and the Eighteenth and Nineteenth did the same on our right. These four battalions comprised the Fourth Brigade, Second Division, Canadian Expeditionary Force (Canadian Army Corps).

  For the first few days, after moving into this new territory, the machine guns were located in detached buildings (I should say, ruins) just back of the G.H.Q. line, where we relieved detachments of the King Edward Horse. At that time I was a Number One, with the honorary rank of Lance-Corporal and in charge of one of the guns. Our gun was stationed in the ruins of a group of farm buildings which, on our maps, was designated “Captain’s Post.” Several good machine gun emplacements had been constructed inside the ruins and, though we were often severely shelled, we had no casualties there. During the following months, in fact as long as we remained in that sector, we used this as a resting place, preferring to go there rather than back to the village of LaClytte, where the outfit had a so-called “Rest Camp.” What a joke that was. The most arduous work we ever had to do was done while back in those rest camps. True, there was a chance for a bath and some clean clothes, but we soon fixed up our own bath house there in Captain’s Post and managed to do our own washing. Some of the boys would go to town but several of us preferred to stay “at home,” even though it was subjected to pretty severe shellings at odd intervals.

  At this point we will digress a moment while I tell something about the German spy system as we encountered it in the field.

  The Belgium of today is made up of a conglomeration of peoples. From the time of Caesar, who mentions the Belgae as among the most fierce and warlike of all the tribes which he encountered in his conquest of Gaul, this particular region has been a sort of free-for-all battlefield. It has been held by Romans, Germans, Spaniards, English and French, in whole or in part, off and on, for nearly two thousand years, so it is easy to understand that the race is somewhat mixed. However, we may ignore all of them but two, as the Kingdom as we now know it, is composed of but the two really definite races – the Flemings, akin to the Dutch of Holland, who occupy the country along the Northern coast, known as East Flanders and West Flanders, and the inhabitants of Brabant and the other provinces to the South. These latter all speak the French language, while the Flemings stick to their own Flemish.

  During the war it was soon learned that, while the people of French-speaking Belgium were, for the most part, intensely loyal to their country, a large portion of the inhabitants of Flanders were, either secretly or openly, friendly to the German cause.

  As we, the Canadians, spent a year or more up in that part of the country, we had ample opportunity to verify this. The demeanor of the people was usually sullen and unfriendly toward us. Information was difficult to obtain and was often deliberately false. Back of the lines, where some of them operated estaminets (Herbergs, they called them) they were keen enough to gather in all of our money they could get, just as did the French when we moved down into Picardy, but the Flemings never showed a trace of the real friendliness with which the French greeted us.

  One night I was with a crowd in an estaminet, in the village of LaClytte. A sergeant in our party bought a round of drinks and, as he pulled out a handful of silver coins to make payment, noticed one particularly bright new coin. It was a Belgian franc and, as he passed the change over the bar to the proprietor, he called attention to the new coin, which bore the likeness of King Albert. The man took the coin, looked at it and then deliberately spat on it, at the same time almost shouting, “Bah, he make the war, the ––.”

  Well, there were four of us in our party, all standing close together and if ever there was unanimous and synchronized action, it was right there. The man who had passed the money, being a little closer, hit him first but all hands got at least one good crack before the bar went down. Several other natives joined in and a good time was had by all until the military police came in and took charge. The whole place was a wreck and I suspect that many a Canadian soldier went back to billets that night with a bottle or two which he managed to grab during the fracas. The M.P.’s on being informed as to the circumstances decided that the fellow had only got what was coming to him and took no action whatever.

  That is just an instance, to illustrate the temper of these people. The whole region was a nest of spies, some of whom were detected from time to time, but probably the majority of them went all through the war without being discovered. It was pretty generally believed that the Germans had been for many years, “planting” spies in that neighborhood, in fact I think there is no doubt at all that they did the same thing all over France, too.

  No one knows how many schemes these people had for getting information across the lines. For a while, they made use of the windmills – spelling out messages, in code, by manipulation of the sails. After this was discovered, all the mills were required to keep the sails at exactly a certain angle when not running. That they made use of pigeons was well known but, for a long time, it was a puzzle as to how they brought the birds over from “Germany.” When one of our men happened to see a small parachute coming down out of the sky, well in back of the lines, just after dusk one evening, that puzzle was solved, for in a cage attached to the parachute were four pigeons. These were turned in to our Intelligence Department, and if they did not make good use of them they were n
ot as intelligent as I give them credit for being. A chance like that, to send over misleading information, would hardly be overlooked.

  At another place, near Wulvergheim, we found, in the old shell of a wrecked farm building, a giant periscope which extended from the ground floor up through the chimney, which was still standing. With such a device, it was a simple matter to send over a message by simply using a flash-light at the bottom mirror.

  Doubtless there were certain men who made it their regular business to go to and fro between the lines. Not nearly so difficult as it might seem, at that. Disguised as one of our men, they could walk right up into the front line and wander along until they found a likely looking spot and simply crawl over. We had a few who did the same thing – going the other way, but not so many, I believe, as the enemy, as these fellows were right at home and knew every inch of the ground.

  One morning, just after “stand-to,” I captured a German who deliberately climbed over our parapet. He said he was a Canadian officer but, as he was dressed in full German uniform, I did not take his word for it but sent him back under guard. He swore that he would have some awful things done to me but they never materialized.

  Soldiers at the front seldom have any opportunity to hear of the underground work of the Intelligence System, as most of their work is done away behind the lines. As a matter of fact, it is a waste of time for any spy to search for information from the men in the front line. They don’t know a damn thing beyond the fact that they are there – and wish they were somewhere else. The contour of the lines themselves and the building of any new defensive works can almost invariably be detected from the airplane pictures which both sides are constantly making. No, the spy gets in his work back around the Headquarters. Of course he may pick up some minor information as to when such and such an outfit is going back into the lines, from any more or less befuddled soldier in some estaminet, but seldom is this of much value for, like as not, the soldier did not know anything about it and was just talking for another drink.