A Rifleman Went to War

by Herbert W. McBride

  That was the beginning. What the end will be nobody knows. Recent developments in the line of mechanizing the army have been so rapid that it will not surprise me in the least to see battles fought by whole fleets of these land “Dreadnaughts” accompanied by their fast “cruisers” and squadrons of the little “whippets” taking the place of the destroyer screen, following the same tactics as the armadas of the navy. Armed, as the larger ones now are, with rapid-fire guns of heavy caliber, they could certainly put up a fight worth going miles to see.

  But all these cumbersome fighting machines – and that includes the whole category of tanks, airplanes and rigid and semi-rigid aircraft – must have certain bases from which they can operate. They are susceptible to many and varied indispositions which must be nursed and treated by a corps of experienced practitioners. To enable them to operate efficiently for a week, they must have at least a day or two in the shop. These infirmities will, no doubt, be minimized, but probably never entirely eliminated. Well, who is going to ride herd on these cripples when they are in the home corral? More tanks? Hardly. Those in condition for action will be needed elsewhere. No, it will be the everlasting, ubiquitous doughboy, with his little rifle, who will inherit the job of standing off any attack.

  It is quite within the bounds of reason that this same foot-soldier will be armed with something more efficient than the present-day rifle. Some genius may evolve a method for squirting the juice of the grape-fruit into the other fellow’s eye at a range of two or three miles or one of our up and coming radio fiends may find a way to extract static and use it for a lethal weapon, but, of one thing I feel sure, it will be the individual soldier, with his individual weapon, who will have to come in and take charge after the ruction is over; so, until something more efficient has been perfected, let us do the best we can with our rifles.

  Upon receiving notice that I had been commissioned as a First Lieutenant (June 19, 1916) I also received my orders to report at our old base camp at Sandling – in England.

  A brigade, in the British service, consists of four battalions of active troops, with another, so-called reserve or depot battalion. Our Brigade – the Fourth – comprised the Eighteenth, Nineteenth, Twentieth and Twenty-first as active Service Battalions, with the Thirty-ninth as the “Base” Battalion. Now this base or reserve or depot battalion – whatever you want to call it – is the training place for the “replacement” troops for the others and from it are sent the officers and men needed to fill the gaps in the active units.

  That was the kind of job I inherited, working as an instructor at the base camp. It was not a bad sort of a job for one who just wanted to go to war without actually getting into it. (I had the same sort in the U.S. Army in 1917 and 1918.) But it just did not appeal to me and I was glad of the opportunity to get back to France and the scene of action, during the latter part of the Somme battle.

  Chapter 13. The Somme

  WELL, here we are, down on the Somme. “What’s that? Didn’t know we had moved? Thought we were still up at Ypres? Hell, no. We moved down here in August, while you were over in Blighty, in hospital or something; probably running around and having a good time with the girls. Had a month or so back of the lines trying to learn something about these new Enfield rifles after they took the Ross away from us.”

  That is about the way I was received when I rejoined my outfit in September, 1916, after having been absent since June. But before I found my own people I had an interesting experience. At Boulogne, as I received my traveling orders from the R.T.O., it happened that I was the only Canadian in a bunch of officers, the others being from the Gloucestershire regiment and from the Ox and Bucks (Oxford and Buckinghamshire) regiment; so, by a queer quirk of fate, I was given orders similar to theirs and, a day or so later, found myself, just at nightfall, at the headquarters of the “Gloster” outfit. A few minutes’ conversation acquainted me with the fact that I was miles south of where our corps was located; but, as there was no possibility of getting up there at night and these Glosters were scheduled for an attack in the morning, I made bold to ask the Commanding Officer, in effect, “is it a private fight, or can anyone get in?” When I told him I was an “Emma Gee” officer, he threw up his hands and said, “The Lord doth provide.” It seemed that their machine-gun officers had all been put out of action during the last few days and no replacements had come up.

  Thus it came about that for a short time I was a member of one of the oldest and proudest regiments in the British Army. The Glosters and the Ox and Bucks were brigaded together. The insignia of the Ox and Bucks is a silver swan (it seems that there are some particular swans around Buckingham palace and it comes from that, but I never did hear just how it came about that the device was conferred on this particular regiment). The Gloucestershire regiment (Gloster, for short) wear a bronze sphynx and I noticed that they wore it, not only on the front but also on the back of their caps and, on asking “how come” was told that it was because of a fight that the old regiment had gone through in Egypt. Fighting a great force of tribesmen, they suddenly found themselves assailed by another force, from the rear. The commanding officer simply ordered the rear rank to face about and, in this formation, they had won the battle. For this, they were granted the right to wear their regimental insignia both front and rear. It was only the first battalion, however, which had this right. During the war, all the British Line regiments were augmented by many new battalions – for the duration of the war. The originals were the Regulars, enlisted for from seven to twelve years. This outfit which I went in with was the original, Regular, Gloucestershire unit.

  I found four guns and a willing but rather inexperienced lot of gunners. The best thing about them was that they knew all the various kinds of “jams” and how to clear them. It made me chuckle (to myself) when one gunner, his gun being silent for a moment, explained to me, as he quickly stuck in a finger and pulled out an empty case, “It’s a number three, sir.” All the various causes for “stoppage” of fire, in machine guns, were classified by numbers and the gunners were taught, in the schools, to refer to them in that way. Number three was the correct designation for a failure to eject the empty cartridge case.

  Our objective was the town (or city) of Combles, which the French had been trying to take for two months. They were now at its doors. The attack was carried on, simultaneously, by both forces, we squeezing in on the north side of the town and the French, on our right, coming at it from the south and the front (west).

  The operation went through successfully and the place was taken. While it lasted, it was a pretty good fight, the enemy putting up a very determined resistance until we had them outflanked and could take them from three sides. They then gave up, of course. Who wouldn’t? That was the first, last and only time I ever saw French troops in action. The Canadian Corps was always sandwiched in somewhere along the British line and, from the time of the first gas attack, at Ypres, until the end of the war, I think they never were in direct contact with the French.

  It was during this action – at Combles – that I first saw the little so-called “Infantry-Accompanying Cannon” – the little thirty-seven millimeter fellows. Soon after the action opened and we were working around into position, I heard, amongst the bursts of larger shells, a peculiar “small burst,” if I may so describe it, something like the old “pom-pom,” and soon noticed that some sort of small shells were pouring in on one of the nearest buildings of those held by the enemy. Being held up for a few minutes, I scanned the country off to the westward and soon picked up the source of this fire.

  A French detachment, with one of these little “cannon” were working their way forward, stopping at frequent intervals to fire a few shots. By the time they had arrived at about six hundred yards, they were simply plastering the front of that particular building and at about four hundred yards they were putting most of the shots right smack through the machine-gun loop-holes. That was what really chased the Boches out, and when we caught them in flank
with our machine-gun fire – well, there was nothing for them to do but quit. We were never nearer than four or five hundred yards from the French, but I believe there was another British outfit – the Warwicks if I am not mistaken – who actually joined up with them and who accompanied them into the captured town. Our crowd never did actually get in there; we were just one arm of the “pincers” which squeezed them out.

  This was one of the few occasions where I personally saw one of these “specialist” weapons being of actual use during an advance or in the midst of a battle. All of these accompanying cannon, light trench mortars, anti-tank weapons, and what not are all very well in the trenches where their ammunition supply can readily be replenished and where they can be “serviced” every day or so. But just as soon as you step off into an attack or make any sort of advance away from the supply-detail they all have the same story to tell – time and time again when you locate these outfits on the battlefield and need them badly, they are “out of ammunition.” They soon shoot away everything they have and are then out of action for the rest of the day, leaving the infantry to push ahead with nothing but their rifles, Emma Gees, and ammunition as best they can.

  The great battle of the Somme opened on the first day of July 1916 and continued without intermission until October. It embraced a front of more than fifty miles, the British, on the left, holding from Combles north for some thirty miles and the French operating to the southward from that point. It was the Fourth British Army, under General Rawlinson.

  Our Division (Second Canadian) had remained in the Ypres salient until August 24th, when they turned their sector over to the Fourth Division and started a march which, after four days, took them to the 2nd Army training area, at Zouafques, where they remained until September 5th. Four days later they were at Brickfields, on the outskirts of Albert, which was about the center of the Somme battle front. During the next few days they advanced, first to the reserve trenches in Sausage Valley, near La Boiselle, and then, on the 14th, to assembly positions in the front line near Pozières.

  At 6:20 A.M. on the 15th, they attacked, accompanied by the first tanks ever used in warfare. By 7:03 A.M. they had taken the strongly defended Sugar Refinery of Courcelette, which was the limit of their objective for the day. At 6 o’clock that evening, units of the Fifth Brigade continued the advance and captured the entire village of Courcelette – the 22nd Battalion (French Canadian) took a leading part in this assault.

  The tanks undoubtedly were of great assistance. Crude though they were, as compared with the later types, they must have caused considerable consternation in the enemy ranks. All the ground fought over was furrowed with trench after trench, with many communication trenches by way of which the Germans retired from one line to another before the irresistible advance of the Canadians. Some of these fighting trenches were so wide as to make it difficult for the tanks to cross them, and one, at least, of the ironclads got stuck and remained there during the remainder of the fight. I believe there were six of them in this particular area that day, and on the whole they acquitted themselves nobly. They would waddle over and straddle a trench and then proceed to enfilade the occupants with machine-gun fire. Encountering a machine-gun “nest” or strong emplacement, the occupants of the tank would proceed to deposit one or more bombs (lay an egg, as they said) where they would do the most good, and then move along. In a very short time, each tank was followed by a cheering procession of infantrymen, but this formation was quickly dispersed when the enemy began to concentrate his artillery fire on the monsters. Two that I know of were put out of action in this manner – perhaps more. One of them, bearing on its side the name “Creme de Menthe” was overturned in the ditch alongside a road, but, apparently, not much damaged. They had two wheels sticking out beyond their tails and these appeared to be the most vulnerable points – like Achilles’ heel. I suppose these wheels were part of the steering gear. At any rate, when one of them was broken, the machine was out of business until repairs were made.

  So much for the official record. The designated objectives were captured, held and consolidated, therefore, the operation was a success. As a matter of fact, this was the greatest advance, in which all captured territory was permanently retained, on any part of the Allied front, up to that date.

  What did this Somme Battle cost? Oh, well, that is another matter. I have some of the figures for the Twenty-first Battalion. They lost, in killed alone, six officers and seventy-four men. As to the wounded, I have no record, but they usually run about four or five to every man killed, so it can readily be understood that it was a real battle. Other battalions, I am told, suffered even more serious losses.

  There is an old, old saying that history repeats itself. Undoubtedly in many instances this is so, and I am now going to relate an occurrence which happened at just this time and which will prove that Napoleon was not the only soldier to be betrayed by a sunken road. This sunken road did not cost an army the battle however, but it did cost them the lives of many valuable men, and I am relating the incident to show just how costly the lack of a little practical knowledge may prove to be.

  Away up there, beyond Sausage Valley, beyond Pozières, in that welter of smoke and chalk-dust, was a road. At one time, ages ago – so it seemed – it was the main highway, the Route National from Albert to Bapaume. It was clearly shown on all the maps, and as it was in direct line with his objective, the young lieutenant tried to find it. This was his first command – fresh from Canada, he had been sent over to replace some one of those who had gone wherever good soldiers go.

  The platoon which he commanded was composed of about half veterans – men who had been in the game from the start – and half replacements – new men like himself who had just been sent out. All that the military college could teach, he knew. From the campaigns of Alexander the Great, on down to the last Balkan War, he could describe minutely, the movements of the troops and the errors of strategy which had won or lost those battles. BUT – here was something neither the text-books nor his instructors had mentioned; a barrage so deep and intensive that it appeared not even a snake could crawl through it, and right along where that road was supposed to be. It was not so bad on either side, although the machine-gun bullets were whipping all around and the whiz-bang shells were searching the whole field.

  The previous night, upon having been assigned to his platoon and being shown his position on the map, he had noted this road and right then determined that he would make for it and follow it to his objective. Orders are orders and soldiers obey those orders.

  Brave? Why yes, he was all that. In spite of his youth and inexperience, no one could challenge his courage. So, having located the road, he led his men into it just as soon as the German barrage slackened up a bit. No sooner had the whole platoon gained the road, however, than the heavy guns opened up again. The platoon were at this time just entering a deep cut in the road, and the lieutenant immediately ordered them to take cover against the bank – toward the enemy side where they would be “sheltered.” The older men where aghast and the two sergeants started up to remonstrate, but both died on their feet as the hail of shells came into them. This was all ground from which the enemy had been driven but a few days before and they knew the ranges to an inch – and they also knew all about this cut in the sunken road. Their shells struck on the stone pavé blocks and burst, and the splinters which knew not front from rear simply mowed down the men who were, as they and the lieutenant thought, under cover.

  The only men to escape were a few of the old timers who had been through the mill and who recognized the place for just what it was – a trap. They had refused to go into it and had scattered around outside, taking a chance of being hit by a stray shot rather than walk into what they knew was certain death. Out of the fifty men in the original platoon, but five were able to walk out. Thirty were killed outright – including the lieutenant.

  Even in the midst of a great battle this small tragedy was noticed and commented upon throughout t
he rank and file of the surrounding units. Hence, I have spoken of it here, as an example of what the lack of practical experience may cost a junior officer. Any one of those old sergeants could have taken that platoon across that bit of ground and into their position at comparatively little cost – if they had only been consulted.

  A few days later, my own Twenty-first Battalion moved forward and occupied the “Sunken Road” along the outskirts of Courcellete, and they remained there for several days until relieved by the Twentieth Battalion.

  It was here, in the Somme country, that we made our first acquaintance with real dugouts. Up in Flanders we had to be content with built-up huts of sand bags, as it was too wet to do much digging. Down here, however, the soil was underlaid with a solid bed of chalk and the Germans had constructed a wonderful system of subterranean galleries and chambers at a depth of at least thirty feet. Many of these rooms were furnished with all the conveniences one would find in an ordinary residence. Some of the furniture was rather crudely constructed, on the spot, but much of it was looted from the surrounding villages. One such place had a huge plate-glass mirror (pier glass) standing at least six feet in height, against the wall. I was told of another in which was installed a piano. Those Heinies sure did believe in making themselves comfortable, and the worst of it was that we did not stay there long enough to enjoy the fruits of their labors. We had to keep moving – and keep the enemy moving.