Trench tea and sandbags

TRENCH TEA AND SANDBAGS

by David McMillan

TRENCH TEA AND SANDBAGS

i>y David McMillan

Produced and Published by R. McAdam DTP 01459 10 9851

All proceeds from the sale of this publication will go to the Regimental Museum of the Queens Own Highlanders, Seaforths, and Camerons, and the Queens Own Cameron Highlanders of Canada.

A Canadian Cameron Highlander

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FOREWARD

This is a brief account of my great uncle's army service in a Canadian Highland Regiment during the First World War. I became aware of it recently after reading a family history book written by him in 1976, for members of his close family. It has been produced to coincide with the 80th anniversary of the Battle of the Somme in which he took part, and which he describes in some detail. It is reproduced verbatim in his own rather engaging style, and as far as I am aware, this is the first time it has been made public. It was written some time after the events to which it relates, and covers the period when he first joined the army, through his subsequent training, both in Canada and England. It also includes his active service in Belgium and France, covering the Battle of Ypres, as well as The Somme. He then goes on to relate events during his convalescence in hospitals in France and the U.K. after he was seriously wounded. It is apparent that he has consulted official records on the war to aid his memory; nevertheless this should not be looked upon as a definitive, historically correct version of tire battles in which he took part. It is a personal interpretation by an active participant as he saw it. The title of the booklet derives from his and his fellow soldiers' appreciation of tire importance of "The Brew Up" in trench life, along with the many uses to which the Sandbag was put. Uncle Dave was bom in Dumfries, Scotland on 16 July, 1887. He was one of a family of five children - two girls and three boys. All the boys served in and were wounded during the war, but all survived. He came from a fairly humble background and was fortunate enough through his own endeavours to obtain a bursary allowing him to receive a higher education at which he excelled.

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After working for a short time in Dumfries he emigrated to Canada in 1910 at the age of 23. He eventually joined the Toronto Dominion Bank in Winnipeg as a ledger keeper. On 8 December, 1914, along with thousands of other expatriot Scots, he enlisted in the 43rd Battalion Queens Own Cameron Highlanders of Canada, a Militia Regiment. He spent approximately eight months on active service and on 8 October, 1916, was hit by a shell fragment, which resulted in the loss of his left arm. After many months hospitalisation he was invalided out of the army and returned to Canada to join his bank. He eventually met and married his wife and they had two daughters. He retired from the Toronto Dominion Bank as a bank manager on 30 June, 1952, and thereafter lived a happy and active life until his death on 9 October, 1975 at the age of 88. There is no need here to explain my uncle’s character, it comes out plain and clear in the touching and unpretentious way he describes his exploits. That he was a product of a bygone age is obvious, and we are not likely to see the likes of him or his kind again. He was proud of his Scottish heritage, his adopted country, Canada, and of course his Regiment. He would, I think, be happy to know that his modest version of events was shared with others.

R. McAdam May, 1996

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I enlisted as a private in the Cameron Highlanders of Canada, or, as it was officially designated, the 43rd Battalion C.E.F * and so embarked upon a new phase of my life which was to last three years. The Regiment was housed in Minto Street Barracks, Winnipeg, which also accommodated the 44lh Battalion, so there were some eighteen hundred souls under the one roof. The Officer Commanding was Col. R.M. Thompson** and his second-in-command was Major Hugh Osier. The majority of the men were Winnipegers, but a substantial number came from outlying districts. We were a motley crew, and with the exception of a few old "sweats", some of whom had served in the Boer War, we had no military experience. The Regimental Sergeant Major had been a career soldier and he did a good job of licking our outfit into shape. In retrospect, it looked like a formidable task to weld this loosely knit aggregation of raw recruits into a Fighting Unit, but it was accomplished eventually. One of the first tasks facing those who had the responsibility of shaping the Regiment was to establish a full complement of Noh-Commissioned Officers. It is said that the N.C.O's are the backbone of any Regiment, and this is true to a greater or lesser extent. Assuredly, the training of the recruit is their responsibility. A class was formed under an experienced Warrant Officer and I was amongst those selected to take the course. Because of the time element, this might be termed a "crash course". We took our task seriously and worked hard. At the finish we had to go through an examination by the O.C. and some members of his staff and we were graded according to our marks. You can realise that we scanned the daily "orders" with some apprehension I admit, and at last the promotions appeared, and I got quite a thrill when I found that I had "made” Sergeant. * Joined at Winnipeg on 8.12.1914 ** Killed 8.10.16 at Battle of Somme, having already been wounded in leg; he was being conveyed to first aid post by ambulance when it was struck by shellfire. He was buried at Albert Cemetery.

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From then on army life took on a new aspect, and I can truthfully say that, until I was "disarmed" by a German shell, I found the life to be challenging, interesting, and at times exciting. It should be remembered that we were amateurs who had enlisted for the duration of the war, and I don't think that any of us intended making a career in the Service. We did the best job we could, and at the finish we returned to our peacetime activities, and most of us resumed where we had left off. The life of an N.C.O. could be interesting if he applied himself assiduously to his duties, as most of them did, but the life of a private was a bit humdrum at times. Doing the same thing day in and day out could become monotonous for him. It did not need to be so for us, as we had many and varied duties to occupy our time. At the end of the day the private soldier had little to do other than go into town and have a few beers or go to a picture show. On the other hand, the N.C.O's with the rank of Sergeant and up had their own Mess where we could while away our evenings pleasurably when we had nothing better to do. Let me say a word about the Sergeants' Mess in case you don't know. The Regimental Sergeant Major is the President, and believe me, his word is law. No officer is allowed over the threshold unless invited. One day the Officer of the Day tried to enter the Mess at lunch-time, thinking that it was his duty to inspect ours in the same manner as he had inspected the men's dining quarters. He got no further than the door when the R.S.M. bawled at him and he stopped in his tracks. He was a young officer, not versed in army etiquette, but I venture to say that he never again entered a Sergeants' Mess uninvited. By augmenting the army rations, we fared well as far as food was concerned, and did not lack in the liquor department, the profits from which enabled us to obtain little luxuries which made life that much more pleasant. We even purchased a second-hand piano which we donated to a nearby hospital when the Regiment left for France. Many happy times were spent in song and story in that Mess. As is not uncommon when men find themselves in company with their fellows, some undiscovered, or I should say unknown talent appears, and our Mess was no exception. There were two or three excellent voices, and at least one of the chaps was a better than average performer at the piano.

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Consequently, it was almost a nightly affair to have a sing-song, and although I would like to quote the words of some of the songs, I daren't. We were working hard at "soldiering", and gradually we were being licked into shape. A good spirit was becoming evident, and I think we were all proud to be known as "The Camerons"*, never did the O.C. or any of the troops refer to us as the 43rd Battalion, although we could not prevent outsiders from doing so. We continued training in Winnipeg in the winter of 1914; the severity of the weather did not slow us down. If it was no colder than zero, we worked outside. Because of the cold we had to go to it vigorously, and it was quite a sight to see a Company blowing icy breaths, and doing physical jerks as if it were a matter of life and death. Then there were the long route marches about every other day. We wore balaclava helmets, but nevertheless, it was quite common to see frozen noses and checks which only required the application of a handful of snow to effect a cure. The troops assuredly got toughened up by this rigorous training, and as far as 1 was concerned, I never felt in better health. Nothing much of an unusual nature occurred while we were in Minto Street Barracks, but I recollect the time when the troops were hit by some form of food poisoning, and the majority spent that day in the latrines. Uncomfortable, but not serious. One day I was Sergeant of the Guard and when I made the rounds to see that the sentries were all at their posts, I discovered one missing and his rifle leaning against the wall. He returned late at night, looking the worse for wear, and I had to put him under arrest. He had to appear before the O.C. next morning, and he pleaded guilty. When asked his reason for deserting his post, he told the O.C. that it was very quiet at the time, and he thought he would slip into town for a couple of beers. Such an offence would have carried a severe penalty if we had been in France or even in England, but I imagine he got off lightly as he was a recent recruit, and did not realise the seriousness of his crime. * Raised as die 79di Cameron Highlanders of Canada in Winnipeg in 1910. Known as the Queens Own Cameron Highlanders of Canada and allied to die Queens Own Cameron Highlanders which has now been amalgamated into the Highlanders Regiment.

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Another rather amusing incident comes to mind. One morning one of the privates requested to be paraded before the O.C. which was his right when "Orderly Room" was being held. He was duly escorted before the O.C. who requested him to slate his case. It turned out to be a simple request. He said: "Sir, I want to hand in my resignation." Don't ask me if request was granted. I doubt it. We left for overseas about the end of the winter, by train to Montreal, where we embarked on the "Grampian" which was convoyed part of the way across the Atlantic. The train trip was long and somewhat tiring. We were on a troop train which had to give way for everything else on the line it seemed to me, and I was not sorry to get to Montreal. The trip on the ship was quite enjoyable and a contrast to the train journey. I shared a cabin with two other lads, very comfortable, and I had no fault to find with the food. We had certain duties to perform, doing guard duties on the ship, and about an hour’s physical jerks each day. We N.C.O's had a few other tasks to perform, but we had lots of time to loaf on deck, play cards, enjoy a drink at the bar, and the inevitable talks on the war, always wondering if we would be in time to see action. We need have had no fear on that score. We saw action, and plenty of it. We landed in Southampton* after an uneventful crossing, and entrained for Sandling in Kent. We were encamped in tents on St. Martins Plains, a wind-blown, sandy and barren part of the country, situated between Hythe and Folkestone. As you may suspect, we became quite familiar with those towns while we were there. We soon got into the routine of the camp, and of course, we were delighted to be in England. Living conditions were not quite as comfortable as they were in Winnipeg, but we did not suffer, and certainly we never complained. We slept six in a tent, with feet towards the pole and used our kit bags for pillows. We slept on the ground with nothing between us and the good earth but a ground sheet. We did not delay in establishing a Sergeants' Mess, and in no time at all we were in business. The training took on a different aspect. The troops had to be taught musketry, bomb throwing, bayonet fighting, day and night manoeuvres, etc., so the N.C.O's had their work cut out for them. * 10 June, 1915

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I was detailed for a course in physical drill and bayonet fighting under a Guards Sergeant, who was one of the "Old Contemptibles"*. He was a typical British Army Instructor and he had a vocabulary with words such as I had not heard before or since. He had the usual contempt (assumed, of course) for those who were consigned to his care, and he could rail for ten minutes without changing gear. He told us at the outset that he despaired of making anything out of such a conglomeration, and while we might break our Mothers' hearts, we would never break his. Although we knew these tirades were part of his stock in trade, it never entered our heads to do other than our best to please him. We had to "fall in" at 7.00 a.m. in slacks and a light sweater to do physical jerks for an hour with rest periods. Everything was done at the double. When your name was called, you got up on your toes, and doubled out to the front of the class, where you carried out your assignment. We had to yell loud and clear so that everyone would hear without difficulty and "His Nibs" was right beside you to bawl you out unmercifully if you made a mistake. No-one in the class ever laughed at his cutting remarks, as each knew he most likely would be the next victim. It was not uncommon for someone to fall flat on his face, the result no doubt of a rough time the night before, but this was not a serious matter. He soon regained his equilibrium. I came across this instructor once afterwards. I was then discharged from the army and worked in a London bank. One night I dropped into a pub in Putney which we used to frequent when I was convalescing at Clarence House, about which I shall write something later, was dressed as a "civvy" - dark suit, dark overcoat, bowler hat and chamois gloves - a real dandy I thought. When I entered the saloon, I noticed two Sergeants having a beer and one looked * Some of the Regular and Reserve British troops who were sent to Belgium immediately after the outbreak of war on 4 August, 1914.

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familiar. Sure enough, it was my old instructor. Thinks I, "I'll get a rise out of him”, so I tapped him on the shoulder and asked if he was Sergeant Grant. When he turned round 1 told him I had been on the look-out for him, and promised myself that if I ever met up with him I would tell him what I thought of him. I was taking a big chance of getting a punch in the nose, but he just looked at me for a minute and then turned to his pal and said: "Say Bert, wot do you know! Tire's one of my Canadians you've 'eard me speak oaf. Wot are ya doin' 'ere lad?" he says to me, so I brought him up to date. I bought them a couple of pints and we had a nice friendly visit for half an hour or so. He told me that he actually thought we were a good bunch of lads, and although he would not have confessed it for worlds, he was quite satisfied with the manner in which we had handled ourselves in his class. Personally, I never had any doubts to the contrary. The bayonet fighting part of the course was not too strenuous. It was held in daytime so we did not have to work on an empty stomach, as we did in the physical drill. The equipment used was quite simple. There was a gibbet-like structure with four dummies of straw. The troops advanced on these dummies at the run, rammed the bayonet in, gave it a jerk and pulled it out. The instructor was also a Sergeant in an English regiment, and when making the charge he would exhort us "to hadopt ae fierce hexpression, and be sure to give the bayonet a good twist before wifdroeing". This was supposed to have some effect upon the victim, but what, I never did find out. Probably it was to ensure that the bugger would never again "Hoch der Kaiser." So he said. On my return to the Regiment, I was detailed with several others to instruct in bayonet fighting, and I will not dwell upon this assignment except to say that I shouted "in" "out" "on guard" so often that my voice was hoarse and my throat dry at the end of each session. The remedy, however, was close at hand - a couple of pints of beer in the Mess and I was back to normal. Because of the conditions under which we were living, we were a gregarious crew, but most of us had a special pal with whom we went to town for a drink at the "local" or for a visit to a picture show. I chummed up with a very fine lad from Aberdeen named Tom Rae. We knew each other in Winnipeg mid we both became Sergeants at the same time. We remained close chums all the time we were in the army, and as we were alike in appearance we became known as the "Gold Dust

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Twins". Tommy was killed in action on the day I was wounded. He was a good soldier, and a good pal. I'll never forget you Tommy. I must relate one more incident. Our Mess caterer had deviated from the paths of righteousness and had put the Sergeants' Mess in the hole to the extent of some £80 - no small sum in those days. I was delegated to step into the breach and try to get the Mess "out of the red". I did not relish the assignment for two reasons: 1 did not like to have any involvement in the malpractice of a fellow Sergeant, and I did not want to be separated from my Company. However, I took on the job and what happened was something of an eye-opener. I drew plans and tried to formulate a scheme which would enable me to clean up the mess and return to my regular duties as quickly as possible. So I rolled up my sleeves, so to speak, and went to work. 1 am not sure of the circumstances, but in some illegal manner I came upon a hundred pound bag of rice which 1 promptly purloined, and put in care of our cook who agreed to serve rice pudding about four times a week for dessert. The boys accepted this, but I had to hike a lot of ribbing about it, and the dessert became known as "McMillan Pudding". I was not disturbed about this in the slightest degree, and even if it were my only claim to fame, what other soldier in the Canadian Forces could claim the honour of having a pudding named after him? None, I am sure. To assist in the canteen, I had the services of Private Harry........who, before coming to Canada, had worked for his father who owned and operated a pub in Bristol. Harry knew all the tricks of the trade, which I assure you were many and varied. He knew that my objective was to free the Mess of debt, and he made a worthwhile contribution I can assure you. Bottled beer was popular and we used glasses which held almost a bottlefull, but not quite. Instead of setting the bottle and glass on the table for the customer to help himself, he poured the drink and whisked away the bottle which had about half an inch of beer left at the bottom. When the Mess closed, Harry emptied those dregs into the bottles and topped them off with draught beer. The end product was returned as "flats" and replaced by fresh bottles. We dealt with a brewery in Folkestone and as we used a fairly large quantity of beer, we were good customers. At first they didn't demur about the "flats" although this was happening with monotonous regularity, until one day I was warned that I had to appear before the O.C. and I had better have a good excuse. It transpired that we had gone to the well once too often. 7

Our "flats" had been analysed and found to contain not bottled beer entirely, but a goodly portion of draught, and so the fat was in the fire. When 1 was wondering how 1 could wriggle out of the dilemma the whole matter resolved itself - we got our orders to proceed to France, and 1 did not have to stand trial for my dastardly deed. This was not the only questionable method employed to accomplish the goal I had set for myself. Probably because we served bread, cheese, and sliced Spanish onions soaked in vinegar late in the evening, we usually had a goodly number of visitors from other Messes in the vicinity, and we encouraged this, as everything we could wangle from the sale of liquor was "grist to the mill". As the evening wore on the boys would begin to feel merry and bright, and when they approached the stage of having "one over the eight” Harry the steward went into action. He cut the whisky and watered it down just a little bit and as far as I know no-one discovered the trick. In any event, the lads had about had enough, and what was done was for their own good. Needless to say I should never have condoned it if it hadn't been that the members themselves were the sole beneficiaries, and if we were getting the Mess back to a solvent state, what matter the methods employed. I’ll conclude by saying that before very long we had paid all our debts and had a surplus in he bank which, surprisingly, became a troublesome matter at first, as we did not know how to dispose of it. We found a way. We had a pipe band and a brass band which always went with us on route marches. When a piper returned at night with a few drinks under his belt after a session in the men's canteen, he invariably wanted to blow his pipes, much to the consternation of others who wanted a little shut-eye. A story is told which is said to concern one of our men, but could be applicable to any piper. The Regiment was giving a concert at which the O.C. was present. One of the turns was a solo by a piper, but this lad was a mediocre performer and slightly inebriated to boot. His effort left much to be desired and someone from the audience shouted "Sit down you bugger.” The O.C. demanded the name of the man who made the rude remark and stated that the show would not continue until he was located. Presently a chappie stood up, also somewhat under the influence, and shouted "I dinna ken wha ca'ed the piper a bugger, but I wud like tae ken wha ca'ed the bugger a piper."

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And now I am off to France because I feel that if I don't get there soon, the war might be over. The Regiment left Bramshort, the assembly base for troops going to France*, and an hour or so before "falling in" to entrain for Southampton, my young brother arrived to visit me. He was on leave from his Regiment and had somehow managed to track me down. It was most regrettable that we had such a short visit, but he did come with me to the railway station and saw me off. He then went to London and spent a weekend there. We crossed from Southampton** on an old tub named La Marguerite; she was loaded to the gunwale with troops and artillery. The Channel was very rough, and the men were really packed in below decks. The air soon became so foul that many became seasick and the confusion worsened. I took one look at the nether regions and decided it wasn't for me. I located a coil of rope at the stem of the ship, curled up on it, and stayed there all night. We were a sorry looking outfit when wc disembarked, but it did not take long to get back to normal. A Scottish regiment, wearing the kilt, always arouses amusement, and our outfit was no exception. At the time we wore a khaki coloured kilt which the troops called "the sandbag” tartan. Later, we wore the Cameron kilt I should mention that before leaving England I had been Company Quarter Master Sergeant (C.Q.M.S.), but must confess that I never did like the job. The duties.consisted of keeping stores of uniforms, boots, underwear, shirts and everything that the soldier needed. The C.Q.M.S. also drew the day's rations, and when we were in France he had to accompany the limbers every night when we were in the line. I felt that I was nothing more than a glorified storekeeper, and after I had served a short time, 1 applied to revert to Sergeant. I was promptly "ticked off" by the R.S.M. and ordered to continue on the job.

* On 19 February, 1916 ** On 20 February, 1916

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I was pleased, however, that shortly after we landed in France, I was promoted to Company Sergeant Major with Warrant Officer's rank (2nd class) and I felt that at last 1 had found my proper niche. My Company Commander was a Winnipeg lawyer named Bill Chandler, and I got along with him quite well. He was a good soldier, and later became the Commanding Officer of the Regiment. He was a stickler for detail, and I had always to watch my P's and Q's, which was quite right and proper. He had a caustic tongue which he would use to the discomfiture of the person addressed when he thought the occasion demanded it. I remember a chit coming by runner from one of the brass hats at Headquarters while we were in the front-line, to the effect that this laddie "presumed" we had complied with such and such an order, "presumed" that we were aware of something or other, and "presumed" a report of some sort (I forget what) would be forthcoming in due course. Bill Chandler read the chit, wrote at the foot "Your presumption is presumption" and handed it back to the runner with orders to take it back to the officer who wrote it. Nothing further was heard of it. At dial time a company should have consisted of the O.C., four platoon officers, four Corporals, four Platoon Sergeants, four other Sergeants, Sergeant Major, and about two hundred men. But we never were at full strength. Our ranks were always depleted by casualties, by N.C.O's and men going on courses, etc., by men going on leave, or as the soldier always referred to it "on leaf'. We got reinforcements from the Depot in England, but we never seemed to get them in sufficient numbers, and at any rate, they had to be "broken in" (which look a short lime) before they became efficient soldiers. 1 liked my job because it kept me fully occupied, and I had no time to indulge in such fancies as the end of the war and when I might get back on Civvy Street. My duties were many and varied and the O.C. appeared to be content to leave the running of the Company to me, just as long as I did so to his satisfaction. I was ably supported by the Company N.C.O's for whom I held the highest regard. If an aggregation such as ours was to operate smoothly, there had to be esprit de corps, and I venture to say that we had it. It should be remembered of course

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Unit we had problems. Our Regiment was no better than any other in the Corps*. We had our share of delinquents, malingerers, and a few dead­ beats who were no credit to themselves or to the Regiment. But, thank God, they were in the minority and on the whole the Regiment comprised an aggregation of fine men, who were good soldiers and a credit to the Canadian Corps. I feel I am justified in making this statement, and I do so from the experience acquired when 1 had the honour of being a Cameron Highlander. When we were in France, each company as a rule operated independently, and we only came together when the Regiment was going "up the line". We had our own Field Kitchen and two cooks. We also carried our own utensils in a large basket procured in England, which held eight cups, eight saucers, eight plates and eight knives and spoons. No matter where we were, no matter what the conditions (except if we were in the front-line), we always had a Sergeants' Mess of sorts and we made a point of living with some semblance of decency, and never "pigging it”. We set up shop in many unusual places and in many a varied manner, but I think that in doing what we did, we helped to maintain morale. I had a runner who acted as my "man Friday" when we were in the line, but when we came out his job was to look after the Sergeants' Mess and scrounge around for eggs and anything else he could find to augment the army rations. Fortunately, we could always get a hot brew of "Sergeant Major's Tea", and to the uninitiated this consisted of a sweet, extra strong, and boiling hot beverage, usually brewed over a Primus stove. It was amazing how much could be cooked on a Primus stove, and it was one of our prized possessions. We took it up the line with us, and it produced many a life-saving brew. I think perhaps we were somewhat different in our mode of living from the other companies of tire Regiment. Some of them took the line of least resistance, and very few took the trouble to establish a Mess as we did. Of course this was done only when each company was on its own. When the Regiment was together, we usually had a Regimental Mess. * The Queens Own Highlanders of Canada were part of the 9th Canadian Brigade of the 3rd Canadian Division, which formed part of die Canadian Corps.

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When we disembarked from the troop ship we proceeded on the march north. No-one knew definitely what would be our destination. It turned out to be a place called Plocgsteert, or "Plug Street" as it was named by the troops. When we made our initial trip to the front-line with the 4th Battalion of the 1st Division* we got our baptism of fire, so to speak. It was a fairly quiet sector and if we had any casualties, they were very few. After that we headed for Ypres in Belgium, and we stayed there for six or seven months. There you find the infamous Ypres salient, which had to be held at all costs, and I cannot tell you the countless thousands who made the supreme sacrifice or were wounded in defending it. There was no defence to speak of between the salient and the coast, and although several attempts were made by the Germans to break through, all were repulsed, but usually at a lamentable cost. A certain sector was assigned to us, and such names as Zilliebeck, Maple Copse, Sanctuary Wood became very familiar to us before we left. One thing I never could get used to - RATS. They were there in thousands, large ugly diseased brutes which made me cringe to look at them. There was no possible way to get rid of them, so "what couldn't be cured had to be endured". Not everyone hated the sight of rats as I did, and they were fortunate. I am going to mention briefly another matter. When first I went to the Ypres salient, I was immediately conscious of the stench of the dead, humans and animals, which permeated the atmosphere, and even now if I close my eyes and let my mind wander back to those days I again experience it. I have mentioned the two things which bothered me at the time and now I shall leave them.

* To which they wre temporarily attached

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When we came out of the line we usually went to camps known as A and B camps, and there we could live a life which was quite tolerable, even though our stay was never more than four days, then back up the line. We were located between Poperinge and Vlamartinge, and while the former had not been shelled extensively, the latter had suffered, and most of the buildings had been hit. When we were in rest camp we endeavoured to make the most of the time at our disposal, and to try to get a bit of fun out of life. The duties were nominal and excepting those on some sort of "fatigue", the boys had a soft time. The evening meal (such as it was) was served about 5.30 p.m., and the lads could repair to the Local estaminet to down a few beers. Belly wash it was! It was not possible to have a Sergeants' Mess in this sector, but usually a number of us congregated in one of the huts, and managed to put in a convivial evening. Officers only were allowed to purchase hard liquor at the army canteen in Poperinge, but we got around this by getting one of the Company Commanders (usually mine) to sign a chit authorising us to get a case (twelve bottles) of whisky. After die chores for the day were over and the evening meal served, we repaired to one of the huts and prepared for a night's fun. A Master of Ceremonies was appointed, and he presided over the gathering, probably twelve to fifteen of us. We had a round of drinks, stiff ones I may say, and the proceedings got under way. The M.C. sat at a table with a stick which he would point at someone and that guy had to get up on his hind legs and perform. He could sing, recite, tell a story, or anything he desired, but perform he must. As the evening wore on, more and more dead soldiers (empty bottles) were in evidence and the tempo was mounting steadily, but surely. When each soloist had done his bit, we usually joined in group singing, and I must leave it to your imagination to get a picture of the nature of the songs and the words. Well! what do you expect from bunch of guys who were going up the line on the morrow not knowing what was in store for each? Maybe when we were lucky, we could save a couple of bottles for medicinal purposes at some later date. I suppose you are imagining that we had terrific hangovers, but you are wrong. We were all fairly young, in A1 physical condition, and a binge such as I try to describe had little or no effect on us. As far as I was concerned, when I awoke the next morning, I stuck my head under the

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cold lap, gave myself a shake, shaved, dressed and got away with the best breakfast I could scrounge. Then I went about the business of the day and at night the Regiment would fall in, and off we went up die line for another tour. Oh me, what a life! The routine did not change very often. We marched by way of Vlamartinge dirough Ypres, past the Menin Gate, on to Shrapnel Comer where shells fell with monotonous regularity, past Hell Fire Corner and up to Zilliebeck Bund. From there we took over our section, and stayed, usually for four days. It was rather tedious for the private soldier, although he too had plenty to keep him occupied. He had to go on work parties, ration parties, do sentry duty on the firing step at night and he had a pal to talk to. I was perfectly happy performing my duties, and I diink I can say that the task was rewarding. I remember once I had occasion to proceed to the rear area, accompanied by a runner, on a mission of some sort. While we were gone an unusual shelling had commenced along our front. On the way back a soldier passed us on his way out. He looked dead beat, dirty and I am sure he was fed up with the whole "ruddy" war. Thinking he might know the reason for the shelling, I asked him what was going on up there. Without stopping, and scarcely lifting his eyes, he muttered one word: "fightin"’. I think that must be the shortest reply to a question on record. On June 2, 1916, we had completed a tour of front-line duty, and when relieved, headed back to A camp for the usual rest of four days. Just when we were settling in, a terrific bombardment commenced along the Front which we had just left. The Regiment was ordered to "stand to" and there was much speculation about the cause of the racket. We were soon to find out. About 5.00 p.m. we got our marching orders, and we were on our way back up the line. It transpired that what has since been termed the third battle of Ypres had commenced.* The Germans attacked along a wide front, and the brunt in the first instance was borne by the Princess Pats**, and the C.M.R's which were holding tire line at * The third Battle of Ypres was the following year. This action could refer to a strong German attack on or about 2.6.16 in which they gained several hundred yards through British trenches over a 3000 yard front. ** Princess Patricias Canadian Light Infantry and the Canadian Mounted Rifles.

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the time, both suffering heavy casualties. It has to be conceded that a surprise attack, such as this one, usually meets with a measure of success in the initial stages. Our troops, notwithstanding a heroic defence, were gradually pushed back, and there seemed to be some confusion when wc got to Ypres. It was obvious that the Germans had intended to break through and make for the coast, but fortunately, they were stopped in their tracks. A defence of sorts was established which held until plans were made for a counter-attack. The top brass went into action, and in a comparatively short time the counter-attack was launched in which the enemy suffered heavy casualties. The Canadians succeeded in regaining all the lost ground and in re-establishing a sound front-line, but the cost was heavy. Going up the line one night, we were experiencing the usual "strafing", nothing serious, but one of my good pals got killed - Bill Laird Company Sergeant Major D Company*. A shell burst, and a small piece of shrapnel went right through his heart, killing him instantly. It was a hundred-to-one chance against anyone becoming a casualty going in the line that night, but this particular shell must have had Bill's number on it, and that was it. He was a fine specimen of a soldier, and one of the tallest men in the Canadian Corps. He stood six and one half feet or more . He was on the staff of the Bank of Montreal in Winnipeg while I was stationed there and he was well regarded in banking circles. Bill Cunningham, another C.S.M. and I decided that we would undertake to sec that Bill was given a decent burial, and we conceived the idea of erecting some sort of cairn over him to mark his resting place. We commandeered two signallers to assist us and the work got under way. There were plenty of sandbags in the vicinity, and the signallers filled sandbags, passed them to Bill Cunningham, and he and I commenced the erection of the cairn. We planned the design and as it began to take shape, we got so enthusiastic and interested that I am afraid we forgot at times that Bill was lying underneath. At the head of the structure wc built a cross, with sandbags, of course, and we were mighty pleased with ourselves when we saw the end result. One of the signallers happened to be a pretty fair artist, and he made a pencil sketch, adding a couple of trees for effect, which Bill Cunningham later sent to Bill Laird's fiancee * C.S.M. Laird was killed on 10.6.16 and is listed as missing. commemorated on the Menin Gate memorial, Panel 28.

15

He is

in Scotland. And so wc laid Bill to rest as best we could, and I can only add "Requicscat in pace." 1 heard subsequently that the cairn was there quite a time after we left the sector, but 1 cannot imagine that it would last too long as the sandbags would not and the whole thing would disintegrate. It may be thought that we were callous and perhaps this is the time to write briefly on a combat soldier’s demeanour as he is confronted with death almost every day he is in the line. He must learn to suppress all emotion, and this applies particularly to those in authority. If he can become fatalistic, and establish in his mind that the shell which does not carry his number is not likely to harm him, he may not worry too much. The shell which has his number is the one which will probably get him and if he is fortunate in being a true fatalist, he will accept this. Don’t ever think that a front-line soldier is callous, with no feelings or emotion. It is nearer to the truth to say that he has encased himself in a cocoon from which his true feelings will not be allowed to escape. This is how he will preserve his sanity, and enable himself to look upon death with no outward sign of emotion. The emotion is there just the same, bottled up within him but no-one will ever know it if he can help it. Death and the front-line soldier are never far apart, and I think I can say truthfully that he is not afraid to die. Certainly he wants to live, just as other people want to live, but he knows that the odds are against him and that he has a fifty-fifty chance at best. And so we plodded up the line and back again, the troops singing their marching songs - with "Tipperary" being the most popular. Sometimes I got the feeling that I had been doing this all my life, that I never had had a nice warm bath, that I never had slept between clean, white sheets, that I never had eaten a steak (medium rare) in a good restaurant, and oh! so many other things which now seemed but dreams. Our Regiment, while not in the attack, was used for many and varied functions, and we were in the line for some fourteen days before we were relieved. It was a hard, if somewhat inglorious task that we performed, but I think that our boys did a good job.

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One of my duties was to keep a nominal roll of the Company and I kept track of those killed, wounded and missing. One lad reported as "missing" turned up one morning in the trench we were occupying and, of course, an explanation was needed. This is what he told me: "You remember the night we were going in the line there was a real traffic jam when were going through Ypres. Well, I found myself marching with the RCR's*, and I said to myself "Oh well, they are our allies so I might as well go in with them." On the second or third day an R.C.R. officer spotted me and asked me what the hell I was doing here, so I told him I had lost my Regiment. He told me to get the hell out of here and search for it. After scouting around I found out where you were, and so here I am." Well, thinks I, the guy was not trying to desert, and no harm had been done, so why raise a stink about it. Lucky for him, that was the end of it. I feel that I must devote a page or so to write about another good friend, Sergeant Davie.... He was a native of Greenock, Scotland, and emigrated to Canada about the time I arrived in Winnipeg. Davie was a plumber, or as he liked to call himself, with tongue in cheek, a Sanitary Engineer. Actually, his main work was to clear choked drains in the various homes in Winnipeg, and he took a delight in relating some of his experiences as he performed his tasks. There was one choked drain the house of one of the society dames in the city which had Davie baffled, and trying to get at the root of the trouble he asked this lady a number so questions, one of which was "Tell me Mrs. —, what kind of paper arc you using? Maybe it's a bit on the coarse side, and perhaps you had better change it for a softer kind which will be easier both on you and the drain!" He was a strict tee-totaller, and probably for that reason, he was put in charge of die men's canteen. He did a good job and maintained law and order in his little domain. He never should have been with a fighting unit. Far better had he been working away behind the lines as a noncombatant. He was just not suited for front-line duty, and the O.C. never * The Royal Canadian Regiment

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expected it of him . While in England, the Regiment operated a wet canteen with Davie in charge, but when we went to France, there was no Mess as far as my recollection goes, but he performed other duties at the transport lines, and at Regimental Headquarters. We had many casualties while in the Ypres salient and periodically we got drafts from the base in England. One of these drafts of about a dozen men arrived while the Regiment was in the line, and Davie was detailed to escort it to Zilliebeck. There was always shelling going on when we were going up the line and it was especially heavy from Ypres on in. As we neared what might be termed the danger zone, the troops formed single file, and each man could do whatever he thought best if he thought he was getting too close to a shell - maybe dive into the side of the road until it burst. Unfortunately for Davie, the strafing was heavier than usual on the night he was on the way up. It should perhaps be pointed out that baptismal of fire can be a terrifying experience under any circumstances, but not too bad when the recruit is in the company of seasoned veterans. Davie had those lads jumping into and out of cover practically all the way from Vlamartinge, and I am sure the men were on the verge of being nervous wrecks. Well, Davie never did deliver the draft, at least not on that occasion. Eventually he about-turned and marched the whole caboodle back to camp, he was sent back with them the following night. It was a ticklish business at any lime to gel the troops up the line and it was more of a problem with new men going in for the first time. So I was detailed to go down after dark and meet the draft. I knew the roads quite well by this time, and the danger spots to watch. I waited on the other side of Ypres, and presently I saw some figures approaching. I called out "Is that you Davie?" and he replied with "My God, Mac, am I glad to see you!" He had been worrying himself stiff whether he was going to get through, and when I appeared on the scene his troubles were over, so to speak. Before proceeding I told the boys that they had nothing to fear, and that in no time at all they would become so accustomed to gunfire, they would think nothing of it. It was not quite true when I told them that about this time every night Fritz liked to shoot off his artillery and make one helluva big noise, but that he scarcely ever hit anything. I am sure that, later, some of these boys branded me as an awful liar, but at the time I think I was able to allay their fears. Probably if they had known it, I was just as apprehensive as they. Davie, of course, was up

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"for office" before the Company Commander, charged with dereliction of duty. The O.C. wanted to know the circumstances which prevented him from carrying out the assignment to which Davie replied "I am sorry, Sir, that because of heavy shelling, I was unable to proceed to Zilliebeck with the draft that night, but thank God we all got back safely." Only Davie could get away with it. Anyone else would probably have been court-martialled. 1 should mention that our Padre was Dr. Gordon, or, as he was better known, Ralph Connor, under which nom de plume he wrote many books, and was considered to be an outstanding author, fie conducted most of the religious ceremonies, but the men had little contact with him. He was well on in years when he came to us and could not be expected to do anything which necessitated physical exertion. Much to the annoyance of the troops, he was liable to conduct a short service when we had fallen in to proceed up the line. His favourite hymn was "Hear us when we cry to Thee for those in peril on the sea." We were of the opinion that there was peril on the land sufficient for us to tackle, and as far as we were concerned, the ruddy sailors could paddle their own canoes. In my efforts to record some of the incidents that come to mind, I have endeavoured to describe the routine, so that you may get an idea of what it is all about. Each night sentries were posted, in pairs, along the front that we were holding. One stood on the firing step, watching, and the other rested in the trench. Then the procedure alternated. It was a long night, especially in winter, and I am pleased that I was never called upon to perform such duties. My job was to patrol the front, with a runner, speak to each of the sentries and make sure that nothing of an untoward nature was happening. When one stares into darkness steadily the eyes will play peculiar tricks. It is quite easy to imagine that some stationary object, such as a post, is moving. I remember on one occasion when I was pretty green as a C.S.M., a sentry asked me to have a look at an object which he was sure had moved. I did not think it had, but it gave me an opportunity to fire the Very pistol with which I had no experience whatever. I wedged this Blunderbuss against my shoulder, too loosely as I soon discovered, pointed it to the sky, and pulled the trigger. I had never been told that this horrible missile had a kick like a mule. It went off with a bang and slammed me up against the trench with such force that I was quite certain I had "copped it", but nothing happened. 1

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picked myself up, told the sentries to wipe the grins off their faces, tried to restore my lost dignity, and went on my way. Needless to slate, from then on I treated the Very pistol with respect. I should perhaps explain that a Very pistol fires a sort of illuminated shell which floats for some two or three minutes. If one is Fired by the enemy, you had better "freeze" and be sure not to move, otherwise you are liable to experience a burst of gunfire. At daybreak the order to "stand down" was passed and most of the troops commenced to get some sort of meal underway. This was the time the rum ration was issued and this was my job. A runner accompanied me, carrying the jar, and I used the top of a thermos bottle which I carried with me all the time I was at the front. You have to try to picture a man who has been on sentry duty for eight or nine hours, cold, wet and hungry, and consequently, he is not in a cheery frame of mind. However, we shall try to change that - the rum ration is on the way. You must also understand that this was no watered-down concoction. It was the real stuff - plus, and you had to be careful in steering it down the gullet and into the gut, or you might choke in the process. The hardened cases got a full measure; the younger fry got what I thought they could handle. Actually each man was entitled to the same ration but I paid no heed whatever to this regulation. We eventually reached the end of the line and I retraced my steps back to my palatial quarters (dug-out to you). On the return trip the whole picture had altered. The rum was beginning to lake a hold and instead of gloom and dejection, there was a spirit of well-being and good fellowship amongst the men. "Hi Major, lovely day isn't it" was one of the remarks. Primus stoves were out. Tea was brewing and various other "dishes" were being prepared for the breakfast menu. The soldier is an improviser, and it was astonishing how he could whip up a meal of sorts out of very little. I should here explain that a Company Sergeant Major is always addressed by the troops as "Major". We heard about the preachings of those busybodies, the "Do-gooders", against the demon rum and I believe there was a movement started to ban it entirely. I think this was because liquor was thought to contaminate the youth of the country who were in the service and encourage them to become drunkards. What damned tommy rot! I am

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not going to dwell upon this matter as it makes me hot under the collar. I would only say this to those nosy old biddies: "Devote whatever energies you have to expend in bettering the lot of those who are in need, and keep your noses out of matters about which you are ignorant, and which do not concern you." We did not know it at the time, but our departure from Ypres was imminent, so before we leave I must remark on the extremely pleasant relationship we enjoyed with the Belgian people. Even now the Last Post is sounded every night at the Menin Gate. The St. George's Memorial Church, Elverdingestraatt, Ypres was erected as a tribute to those who had made the supreme sacrifice in defence of the Ypres salient. I am proud to be associated in a very minor way with this Church by contributing to the Newsletter, a most interesting little document, which is published periodically. I do not know the number of casualties suffered by Canadians in this sector, but it was in the thousands. Most of the dead are buried in the various cemeteries in the vicinity and the graves are maintained reverently by the citizenry. Before I leave Ypres, I’ll recite just one more incident. For a short time after we arrived in France, I mentioned that I was C.Q.M.S. and one of my duties was to draw rations each day for the Company. On this particular occasion I noticed a case of strawberry jam and on sudden impulse told the lad who was helping me to throw it in the limber. When we returned to company quarters I divided this unheard of luxury amongst the various huts and it was about then that the enormity of my crime hit me. I knew that there would be a fine old hullabaloo when this dastardly deed was discovered as the strawberry jam was intended for the Officers' Mess. So something had to be done. I went to each hut, called the troops together and swore them all to secrecy, explaining that my whole army career was in their hands. I told them, but not with any degree of assurance, that if any one member as much as opened his trap, he would suffer dire consequences. To their credit not one squawked, and as there was always something else to think about,the matter died down and the danger was over. I know you are going to ask "How did they get rid of the tins without detection?" If you ask such a question, all I can say is that you don’t know the troops.

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I have never had the slightest tinge of remorse for my action. I figured dial as the troops had to eat plum and apple jam (with a sizeable portion of turnip) whey the hell should the officers indulge in strawberry jam. Just a moment. I almost forgot to tell you about Marie, and I feel that I should do so. She was a nice kid. On one occasion after a tour of trench duly, we came back for the usual rest of about three days, and we were billeted at a small farm which was owned by an elderly gentleman who was semi-invalid. His wife was a buxom wench, very voluble, who hated the Germans bitterly. She could speak a few words of English which she had picked up from the troops - words not fit to be spoken by a lady really, but she used them to advantage on occasion. She had a daughter named Marie, a comely maiden of about twenty years of age, and easy on the eyes, I assure you. Marie spoke English quite well and she and I got into conversation every now and again. I enjoyed talking to her but I had a suspicion that the old lady thought 1 had designs on her daughter. Nevertheless, Madame also conversed with me on occasions, although we experienced a little trouble understanding each other. She had three sons in he Army and she had just had word that the youngest had been wounded. I met her coming into the yard in a towering rage, arms waving, and shouting imprecations upon the whole German nation - so it seemed. When she saw me she let loose, and boy was she mad! What she had in mind about the Germans was something. The tirade went something like this: The bosche, he pig, he Basted, he son-beech, 1 keel 'im, I keel 'im. Oui, oui, I keel 'im. This went on and on until, regretfully, she said: I no can keel bosch. 1 no see bosch. Pointing to me she said: You go in trenches tonight. You see bosch. You keel bosch, keel 'im. You keel one bosch for me, 1 let you sleep with Marie.

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Well, all I can say is that to a woman-starved Company Sergeant Major in his twenties, the proposition was not without allure, but!!!! I doubt whether I could have found a German who was willing to make the supreme sacrifice so that my carnal concupiscence might be appeased. We never went back to this billet and, if by any chance Marie lost her virginity, the blame could not be laid to my door. I like to imagine that she married a nice boy, gave him children, and that they all lived happily together. Now my tour of duty at Ypres had come to a close, and we headed south for somewhere we did not know at the time, but which turned out to be the Somme. We had been in the salient quite a long time, and we were not sorry that we were getting a change. Ypres was no bed of roses, and we thought that no matter where we went, conditions could not be worse than those with which we had had to contend for some six months. When we took over at Ypres at the beginning of 1916, the weather was foul - rain, rain, and more rain. The trenches were a quagmire, and when we were in the front-line our boots and socks were perpetually soaking wet. Some of the men suffered from trench feet" which I can assure you is a painful business, and not easily curable. I was one of the fortunate ones, and any trouble I experienced with my feet was of a minor nature. When the weather bettered, the situation changed, but once a soldier got trench feet, he could expect a recurrence at any time, even after he thought he had been cured. We were relieved by a regiment of the Irish Fusiliers, and we were on our way, headed south. The Regiment was at full strength (or nearly so) with four Companies, a Pipe Band, a Brass Band, limbers, field kitchens and other transport. Each man carried all his accoutrements and his personal effects, and the aggregate weight was about sixty pounds. Judging by present day standards, we must have looked a motley crew, but we were not unhappy. We were on the march and there was an exhilarating excitement about the future. We seemed to have convinced ourselves that better conditions awaited us, but oh! how wrong we were. We started the trek down that long stretch of highway leading to Poperinge, lined with gently waving poplar trees on each side of the road, and we gradually got away from the sound of gunfire, which had

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been our orchestration for so long, life began to take on a new interest. I do not know the exact route we took, but as the march continued we passed through numerous hamlets. I don’t think the populace had seen many Highland regiments, and the skirl of the pipes always created curiosity and interest. I would like to pay tribute to both bands for their valiant efforts to provide march music all the way to the Somme. On the march when one band stopped the other picked it up, thereby providing continuous accompaniment to the march of the troops. Regulations called for a rest of ten minutes every hour, and the troops welcomed the opportunity to loosen belts, throw off equipment, and spread themselves along the roadside. To those people who would like to know what a Highlander wears under the kilt, I would say that they might find the answer if they were to come across a Highland regiment taking a rest - the troops spread out on their backs along the roadside. If my memory serves me right, I would say we marched six or seven hours each day in which time we covered a fair amount of ground. We were always pleased when the trek ended for the day, whereby we could discard our packs, have a wash up (if we were lucky) and relax. The cooks, bless their hearts, kept the fires going in the field kitchens, and a hot meal of sorts appeared soon after we made camp. I recollect one of our stops was in an apple orchard and, as we had a long and dusty trek that day, it did not take as long to discard bools and socks. I’ll never forget the glorious sensation of wandering barefooted in die orchard, munching apples. The next night we stopped at a farm and a chum of mine, named Sandy Craig, and I decided we would scout around and try to locate a shed or some other structure where it might be possible to get a comfortable night’s rest. Well, we came cross one which had possibilities. It was a pig sty, with an ample supply of straw which we decided would constitute a good resting place, and so in due course we bedded down for the night. We had only one small problem. Next to our "bedroom" and separated by a flimsy partition was the living quarters of an old sow and about a dozen piglets, and die whole family was in residence. This old lady, perhaps resenting the intrusion, grunted and groaned most of die night, but I just grunted back at her, and actually we did get in a fairly good night’s rest.

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The weather had been quite good most of the time, but on the last day we experienced torrential rains, and when we reached Albert, we were literally drenched to the skin. We set up a camp of sorts at the Chalk Pits there, and had a bite to eat. Our arrival on the Somme was sometime in August, but I forget the date. Historians have written about the Battle of the Somme and 1 have no intention of inflicting my humble opinion upon you regarding the reason for the offensive, the manner in which it was conducted, and the lamentable outcome, but I might be permitted to say this: The British seemed to have been prodded persistently by General Joseph Jacques Ccsaire Joffre (to give him his full name) who had been appointed the professional chief of the French army and who wished to extend the front of a planned attack, the British Expeditionary Force, to assault between the Somme and Arras. Joffre's colleague on the western front was Sir Douglas Haig. He was 54 years old at the time, a commoner of Brazcnose, a prizewinner at Sandhurst, and a graduate of the Staff College. Haig had been studying the prospect of a summer offensive in Flanders where the Channel flank could be exploited by the Royal Navy. The British Cabinet had second and third thoughts about an offensive in France, and it is said that they had hopes there might be none at all. Joffre, however, appears to have been determined upon an offensive north and south of the Somme and expected the British to undertake the bulk of the northern assault. When the "jockeying" was over it was planned to wage a full scale offensive on July 1, 1916, and the battle of the Somme was launched in earnest. To get back to my Regiment - after a short rest of a few hours, we proceeded to take over the section assigned to us which was in the area of Courcelette. Never to my dying day shall I forget the picture that was unfolding as we marched up the line. I thought God had surely forsaken this land as there was nothing but desolation and a terrible feeling of being alone with the dead. Whatever the reason for this horrible battle, which has been described as one of the most bloody and protracted in history, in which the flower of British manhood was destroyed, I have never been convinced that it was justified. Certainly we got nothing out of it.

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My object in writing this is to try to describe as best I can the attitude of the troops to this holocaust and if I am to succeed in my intentions, I must put down on paper the horrors with which we were confronted. No-one could describe the Somme battlefield in any other way. 1 think I have already mentioned that we always endeavoured to bury our dead, and to get the wounded out. This was an impossibility on the Somme. I would not venture to hazard an opinion on the number of unburied bodies of men who had fallen in battle since July 1. Those of us who came afterwards did what we could to bury those poor lads but our efforts, of necessity, were pitifully feeble. The whole country was a desolation. There was not a living animal or bird other than our own mules and horses, and the casualties amongst these were very heavy. I saw a horse with a severe gash on the throat standing there bleeding to death, apparently abandoned. There was not a living tree or shrub in all this desolation. Of course we had rats - hundreds of thousands I should think - and oh! how I hated those detestable brutes. My tour of duty on the Somme front is somewhat hazy. I recollect being perpetually tired, thirsty and often hungry. I worked hard, of necessity, and all of us actually were on call twenty-four hours of each day. Don't get the idea however that we were despondent. The morale of the Regiment was high, and always there was the usual light banter. Believe me, those lads were smothering their innermost feelings as they had not done before. I recall one tour of duty at Courcelette, during which I had no opportunity of getting any sleep, other than short snatches leaning up against the parados. We had had a pretty rough lime, and the shelling had been heavy, resulting in a number of casualties. Eventually, we were relived and went back to the sugar refinery, a short distance to the rear of the trenches which we had occupied. The refinery was a favourite target of the Hun and it was shelled with steady regularity. There were a few fairly deep dug-outs there, and to one of these I repaired and flopped down on the floor. Actually, I was so fatigued that I went into a sort of coma. It would happen that Fritz opened up with his heavy artillery that night. I discovered next morning that my Company had got a bad strafing and that we had suffered quite a few casualties. When the shelling was at its height my O.C., Bill Chandler, tried to awaken me but I was "out like a light" and all his efforts to bring me

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back to consciousness failed. He left me to sleep it out, and next day, with the old batteries recharged, I was all ready to go. History as a rule records only cold statistics and the best way to get an idea of a soldier's experience is to try to get hold of a private diary. The following excerpt from one might bring home to you, better than I can relate, the thoughts of the writer which parallel my experience and which are not exaggerated: "Whoever it is we are relieving, they have already gone, trench is empty. In the watery moonlight it appears a very ghostly place. Corpses lie along the parados, rotting in the wet; every now and then a booted foot appears, jutting over the trench. The mud makes it all but impassable, and now, sunk in it up to the knees, I have the momentary terror of never being able to pull myself out. Such horror gives fresh energy, and I tear my legs free and go on. Turning sharply around a bend, I come across a fearsome sight. Deep water lies in a descending right angle of the trench, and, at arms length from me, a body has fallen face downward in the water, barring the way. Shall 1 push the body aside and wade? Thank Goodness I brought six pairs of socks. Morning and evening we make the men take off their boots and rub their feet, but it isn't much good - they simply cannot keep them warm or dry under such conditions, and some of them are already badly frost-bitten. This is the very limit of endurance." Although I did not know it, I was about to meet my own "Waterloo". In contrast to the case of Bill Laird who, as I have told you, was killed by a small fragment of shrapnel, I feel that I should try to explain that the human body can and often does survive after almost being torn to fragments by shell fire. To best illustrate this, I am going to try to give you an account of what happened to me. I confess that I do so reluctantly, but I can express my own feelings better than I can express those of someone else. In front of Courcelette there was a German stronghold named "Regina Trench" which the Canadians were to attack, as it was considered to be of prime importance that it be wrested from the enemy. Our Regiment

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was in the attacking force. The assault was to cover a long frontage and a large number of troops were to be engaged. Zero hour was 4.45 a.m. on October 8, 1916. On the previous evening there was a briefing of Officers and senior N.C.O's and we were then told that the strategy would be to employ a "creeping" barrage as there was little barbed wire in front of the stronghold that we were to attack. How completely wrong this turned out to be! Either the reconnaissance was faulty or the Hun had strung wire during the night, but I don’t see how he could have done so in such a short time. The fact is that when the attack commenced we very soon found out that there was barbed wire to contend with and plenty of it, with little or no possibility of getting through. Some of our lads managed to reach this wire, but got strung up on it and were sitting ducks for the German rifles. We had to face German marines, big husky men and fearless I gather, and they had ; field day. I am fairly sure in my own mind that the attack was expected and we had to face rifle fire, bombs, grenades and shells which were pouring in from the rear area. Our casualties were very heavy. We went into die line about eight hundred strong and the Regiment, when it was pulled out next day, numbered sixty-five officers, N.C.O's and men. These were all the survivors. We went over in three waves, and the O.C. and I, with two signallers, were between the first and second wave. I managed to get close to the German trench, but men were dropping all around and eventually 1 found that there was no-one alive near me. I figured I could not take on the whole German army myself, and I tried to get back to the jumpingoff trench to find out if it were possible to reform ranks. I met up with Jimmy Low, one of our platoon sergeants, and we could find only about ten men in the Company who hadn't been hit. There may have been others, but they were all that 1 saw. While Jimmy and 1 were discussing what best to do we were being shelled unmercifully, and one had my number on it. I could feel that shell bursting on the left of my head. A large chunk of the casing caught me on the arm, almost, but not quite, severing it and I got a splatter of shrapnel on the right side of my face. One piece, about the size of a pea, was lodged underneath my eye, and I had it removed about three months ago. There was no hope of evacuating the wounded that morning, but I understand a good many were carried out later. I knew that if I hoped to survive I had to get to an advanced dressing station pretty quickly. From

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a piece of rope Jimmy made a rough tourniquet which stemmed the bleeding but by this time I was soaked in blood anyway. Jimmy had cut off my tunic to get at my arm, and scantily dressed as I was, I started out pointing myself in the direction of an advanced dressing station. I cannot remember how many times I fell, stumbled to my feet, and made a little more progress. But I came to the end of my resources at last, and I could no longer even pull my legs under me. I was lying there when a runner from the Royal Canadian Regiment came along. He asked me if I could make it to the dressing station which was jut over a small hill in front of us, but I couldn’t make the effort. He said that he had been delivering a chit and was on his way back to his regiment, otherwise he would have lent me a hand. He looked at me for a moment and then said "To hell with it, I'm going to help you get to that dressing station." He put my good arm round his shoulder, clasped me around the waist, and virtually dragged me to the dressing station. I never came across that lad again, nor did I ever learn his name but, assuredly, he saved my life that day and I am eternally grateful to him.* When one is in the state I was in, the thought of death must enter the mind. I had seen death too often and I may have become inured to it, because I can say truthfully that I did not fear it, but jut the same I had no intention of "cashing in my chips" unless the Good Lord willed it so. My troubles were far from over when I reached that dressing station, and perhaps I should try to give you some idea of the condition I was in. I have mentioned that Jimmy Low applied a tourniquet and cut off my tunic. Therefore, about the waist I had nothing on but an undershirt, and as it was raining that morning, I was neither decently nor comfortably clad. An orderly gave me an anti-tetanus injection by sticking a needle into my chest, and a doctor had a look at me. My arm was not completely severed and, although I cannot vouch for this, I have a vague idea that the doctors stitched it up. Only minor surgery was done at the advanced field dressings stations as they did not have the medical aid nor the equipment to handle serious cases. These had to wait until the men could be transported to base hospitals.

* At the end of this day's fighting 8 men from he 43rd Battalion had been killed, 224 wounded and 150 were missing.

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About that dressing station I remember only two things. When the doctor gave me a quick once-over he told me not to worry as I would likely make "Blighty" and the worst that was likely to happen would be the loss of about ten years from my expected life’s span because of shock to the system. I should mention that there was no blood plasma nor blood transfusions at that time - at least I had not heard of them. 1 was young and the ten years' penalty did not trouble me too much. 1 diought it would be a small price to pay, and incidentally, I may say that I am now in my 83rd year! My next recollection is falling flat on my face and coming to some time later stretched out on a cot in a hut, somewhere behind the dressing station. Just as I regained consciousness, two orderlies passed carrying a stretcher, and the laddie in the cot next to me told me that was the third one that had been carried out that day. He also volunteered the disturbing information that if you stayed here two days, you would never leave. Immediately I asked how long I had been there and he informed me that I was brought in the previous morning. So according to him, my time was running out. However, it so happened that I was very shortly on a hospital train headed for Etaples. After a nightmarish trip of 24 hours we arrived there and I landed in St. John’s Ambulance Brigade Hospital, Etaples, where I was to stay three weeks, but fortunately I did not know this at the time. It would be difficult for me to describe the hospital, but at die outset I will say that the whole staff of doctors, nurses and orderlies did all that was humanly possible to alleviate the sufferings of the casualties, and to speed diem on the way to "Blighty". When I was bedded down in a large ward where there were some thirty odier men, the doctor came and had a look at my arm which by this time was no thing of beauty. Before I knew what was happening, a nurse gave me an injection, and I was prepared for immediate surgery. I have a hazy recollection of being placed on a stretcher, and I knew nothing more until I came to some time next day and found myself back in bed, minus die arm, of course. Day succeeded day, and no word of my being evacuated. The doctor examined each of us every morning and gave die word which were fit enough to leave. When he examined me I watched his face intently to sec if it would be a nod or a shake of die head. Day

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after day I was disappointed, as were so many others, and as the weather was dismal with incessant rains, we were all getting a bit despondent. But one day after I had been in hospital about two weeks the skies cleared and the sun shone for the first time in a long while. The nurse who made the rounds always had an encouraging word for us, and this day she asked the usual questions: how was I feeling, and was there anything I wanted? I told her that the thing I wanted most I knew I could not have. Of course she wanted to know what this impossible request might be, and actually it was a very simple one. I told her that I would like, more than anything else, to be out in the sunshine and to get away, even for a short time, from the smell of the hospital ward. She remarked: "You don't want much, do you?" It was only a passing fancy, of course, and I never dreamed anything would come of it. Imagine my surprise, therefore, when two orderlies came in with blankets which they spread on my bed. I told them I wasn't cold and didn’t need extra blankets. "Oh yes you do" one of them remarked, "because you are going outside." They opened a sliding door, pushed my col onto the veranda, and before I had time to think much about it, my wish was an accomplished fact and I was out in that glorious sunshine. Oh, the joy to be able to smell God's pure fresh air once again with the sun on my face. For the first time I think since was wounded, I had a feeling of well-being and the old world did not seem such a bad place after all. Presently along came my kind nurse to see how I was doing, and to ask if there was perhaps some other "impossible" wish I would like to make. "Just one, Sister," I said, "and this I know would be asking the impossible." "And what might that be?", she queried. So I said to her that if some kind fairy would wave a magic wand and place a glass of pleasant-tasting wine in my hand for me to sip while luxuriating in such glorious sunshine, my cup of happiness would surely be full to overflowing. Well, this wonderful girl made this dream also come true. She went to her domain and returned with a glass full of "nectar" which not only delighted my taste buds, but created such a glorious sensation that I believe I must have become slightly inebriated. Not quite, but you know what I mean. I won't go as far as to state that the special treatment I had that day created an instant cure, but it helped my mental outlook, and I can say that it was good therapy. It was fortunate for me that I felt as I did because next morning when the doctor came he took a towel from the

1'\

nurse and told me to bite on it as hard as 1 could, because he was going to probe the wound and it would be painful. He was so right. I cannot remember having experienced more excruciating pain. You might wonder why I was not given a local anaesthetic, but I had to be in a conscious state for the doctor to find out what he was seeking and, at any rate, it lasted but a short time. It was soon after that little episode that, to my great relief, the doctor nodded his head one day instead of shaking it, and I knew then that I would soon be on my way across the English Channel. Sure enough, next day I was carried on a stretcher on board a hospital ship. But, alas, one more disappointment was in store for me. Just when we were all aboard, the order to sail was cancelled. It appeared that a hospital ship had been blown up by a mine just before our sailing time and our ship was not allowed to leave until the Channel had been swept. It was five days before we set sail for Southampton, but we reached there without mishap.* It would be hypocritical of me to say that I was sorry to leave France, but I took along many memories. My length of service in France and Belgium was above the average, and I had crammed a good deal into the short period from the time I arrived until I left. There were long marches, the sometime monotony of trench warfare, the convivial times when we came out for a short rest of maybe three days, the constant shelling by the enemy, the occasional raid, the trips in and out of the line, the exhilaration I felt when the Regiment at last reached France, the butterflies in my stomach when I was going up the line for the first time, the peculiar sensation when I looked upon death for the first lime, the responsibility of keeping my eyes open to see that things were as they should be when we were in the trenches, the arranging of work parties, and oh, so many other thoughts. My career as a combat soldier ended on the Somme and I do not intend to add anything to what 1 have already written about that Hell on Earth.

* His army record shows him arriving at Shoreham on 28.10.16.

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The battlefields of France and Flanders were pictures of utter desolation beyond description. But nothing is forever, and the war was over at last. Countless thousands of our finest young men died or were maimed, and their blood spilled over the battlefields. The Canadian casualties in the war were 60,661 killed, and 175,950 wounded. Out of a population of 7,500,000, a total of 619,636 men and women enlisted. The conflict was supposed to be a War to end all wars, but it did no such thing. Did we break faith with the Dead? I wonder. When man had finished his devastation of the lovely lands of France and Belgium, Mother Nature took over and, although the scars remain, the wounds are healed and the land has been restored to its pristine loveliness. Watch over those who died. We leave them in your care. Tend their resting places with reverent care and you will earn the heartfelt thanks of the mothers, wives and sweethearts of those who died.

None of the controversies accruing from the battle of the Somme has been more extensively argued than the matter of the casualties. Whatever the exact final figure, the approximate total British and French was about 600,000 and the German casualties were said to be about the same figure. For what? As Cowper tells us: War's a game, which, were their subjects wise, Kings would not play at. Perhaps a "career" soldier would view matters differently but, in my humble opinion, I could see no good reason for the glorification of war. If blood, sweat, lice, mud, scabies, and the sickly stench of putrid flesh constituted the ingredients for glory, then you had it in abundance, and on that note the Battle of the Somme is ended as far as it affected me. When we disembarked from the hospital ship we entrained for the sectors to which we had been allotted. It was my good fortune to go to Scotland and after a reasonably easy trip I arrived in Edinburgh* late at night. The ambulances met the train and in comparatively short order I was ensconced in Craigleith Hospital near Leith, just outside Edinburgh. * His Army record shows him arriving at the hospital on 2.11.16.

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I have to admit that I was in a pretty weakened state about this time, and I was not a bit sorry to get in between the sheets, and in short order I was sound asleep. This was a British hospital and for some reason I was the only Canadian there at the time so I was somewhat of a novelty. The Matron and the nursing staff were a fine aggregation and they did everything possible to make us comfortable. 1 occupied a room with two other lads, one of whom was an "Old Contemptible" who was wounded at Mons. There was an open fireplace in this little ward and two comfortable chairs, but I was still a bed patient and had to stay "put". Sister Finlay, an Irish lass, was in charge of the floor. She was thoroughly competent, good-looking, and all the troops were in love with her - me loo, I think! I have always found that servicemen, no matter how sick they may be, like to sing, laugh, and play tricks on the unsuspecting when the opportunity arises. There were a number of nurses' aides in the hospital, young girls who were doing a wonderful job, and when a "green" one appeared on the scene, one of these pranksters could be depended upon to pull a trick on this unsuspecting girl. In accordance with the good old British custom we had a cup of tea each morning on awakening, but before tea was served, temperatures were taken and this was done by a nurses' aide, who would stick a thermometer in your mouth and come back a few minutes later to read it. Some goon could always be certain to take a slug of tea while the thermometer was in his mouth, sending (lie reading up to 105° - 106°. The nurse would take a look at it, and dash out to get Sister Finlay who, with tongue in cheek, would give the culprit a tongue-lashing. She was never fooled by such antics, and probably thought: "Well, boys will be boys!" The Matron was an exceptionally fine lady, and very efficient as she had to be in order to keep such a large hospital functioning satisfactorily. One morning after I had been fed, washed, and made comfortable for the day, she came to my room and told me that she had a pleasant surprise for me. It transpired that she had been in communication with my mother, and had arranged for her to visit me, even sending railroad warrants to enable her to travel from Maxwelltown by train. In fact, my mother and my brother-in-law, Harry Hannan, who had accompanied her, were waiting in Matron's office. Remember - I was not yet ambulatory - but Sister Finlay had me ensconced in a big chair by the

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fire, put cushions at my back, brushed my hair, put a warm rug over my knees, and I was all ready to "receive". I should mention that, anticipating I might be going on leave from France, I had let my hair grow for about four weeks before I was wounded. I had not yet had a hair cut, of course, and when my mother arrived I looked very much like one of our present day "hippies". Well, at last the confrontation took place, and although she displayed no outward signs of it, I am sure that my mother got a shock at my appearance. Naturally, 1 tried my best to put on a bold front, and I hope I succeeded. I do not recollect what we talked about, but probably it was of home, family and trivial matters about my boyhood, but not about war and wounds. I can remember that it was quite a strain upon me to keep lire conversation going, and I was rather glad when the time arrived for their departure so that I could get back to bed. My weakness stemmed from the loss of blood, but I was becoming stronger each day and it was not very long until I was getting around under my own steam. It was then possible for me to go into Edinburgh by tram with two or three of the other lads. We would make for the famous Mackies’ Tea Rooms on Princes Street and there we would drink cup after cup of delicious tea and feast on scrumptious scones and cakes. I had an opportunity of revisiting Mackies' Tea Room about six years ago and it brought back memories of the time I was a patient at Craigleith. The people of Edinburgh were exceedingly kind to war casualties, and I was privileged to visit a number in their homes and partake of their hospitality. The younger set visited the hospital bringing "goodies" for the troops and brightening the atmosphere with their presence. I remember one young girl, learning that I was from Canada, came to see me one day to ask if I knew her cousin, George Hasten, who had gone to Canada some years previously. That sounds like a silly question but, strange as it seems, I told her that I knew her cousin very well. It transpired that he was one of my fellow campers from the Red River, Winnipeg. A strange coincidence.

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When I had been at Craigleith about three months, orders came through that I was being transferred to the large Canadian Hospital at Bushy Park, outside London.* I was sorry indeed to say Goodbye to the Matron and nurses at Craigleith, and to the kindly people in Edinburgh who were doing so much to make life a little more endurable for the wounded. I shall always remember you with feelings of deep appreciation, and a big "Thank You" for all you did for us. I stayed but a few days at Bushy Park and then I was transferred to Clarence House, Priory Lane,. Sheen, on the other side of London. Clarence House formerly was the home of the Duke of Clarence, and was taken over by the Canadian government for amputation cases only. It was run by the Canadian Red Cross and was staffed by volunteer workers from different parts of Canada, mostly from Ottawa and Toronto. It was located close to Roehampton where there was a large hospital for the limbless, and it was here we went to be fitted with artificial limbs, and instructed in the wearing of them. Clarence House was a commodious and comfortable mansion with extensive grounds, and I must say we lived "the life of Riley". The food was good, and there was plenty of recreation provided. I shared a good sized room, looking onto the garden, with Company Sergeant Major W. Fanner, and I'll tell you more about old Bill later. The Matron was Miss Lewis from Eastern Canada somewhere, and I must say she ran her little "show” very successfully, considering the characters she had in her care. They were the most carefree, happy-golucky, fun-loving bunch of rascals you could ever hope to encounter. Not one of them felt sorry for himself. There were single amputations, arm or leg, some double amps who had lost two limbs, and other cases which I will not mention. There was a large British military camp nearby and drafts leaving for France marched past Clarence House on the way to the station. There was usually a band of sorts to cheer them on their way and when the music was heard in the distance, the old "fragments" from Clarence House would repair to the Lodge** gates and * The building was called "Upper Lodge" and used by die Canadian Govern­ ment as die King's Canadian Red Cross Hospital, Bushy Park, Teddington. ** Clarence Lodge and Gate also still stand in dieir original condition.

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line up, leaning on crutches, canes, etc. to wish the boys " God speed". These were young lads of around eighteen or nineteen years of age and I am very sure that seeing such a mangled heap of humanity did nothing to boost their morale. We gave them a great send-off just the same and I hope they took it in the right spirit. I made a number of close friends at Clarence House, and I was very happy there. It was a free and easy sort of life. We wore our uniforms, and we could travel far and wide as long as we did not overdo it. There were certain rules and regulations, but I’m afraid these were observed more in the breach than in the observance. Let me tell you about my roommate, old Bill Farmer. First of all, he was around 50 years of age at the time, and I don't know how he had hoodwinked the authorities to be accepted for active service. He must have done some tall lying about his age. I admired old Bill very much and he and I became close friends while we were at Clarence House. His father was an Army Schoolmaster, and Bill was raised on army tradition, so to speak. He was always the gentleman, in speech and deportment, but he could use sarcasm when the occasion demanded it, in a manner that was an education. He was a leg amputee, and he detested the very sight of the artificial limb with which he had been fitted. Seldom would he wear it, going about on crutches instead. The leg would be lying in some comer of the room where Bill had heaved it in disgust. I well remember one occasion when he and I were going up to London to see a show, I think. Bill was on crutches as usual and after a struggle to get on the bus, he eventually made it and settled down to get his wind back. A dear old lady sitting opposite us remarked that she was so sorry to see that he had lost his leg, and Bill, being in anything but an amiable frame of mind at the time, said to her: "Madam, I am touched by your concern about the loss of my leg, but let me put your mind at rest by telling you that it is not lost I know exactly where it is. The damned thing is reposing underneath my bed in the hospital, and that is where it is going to stay." As far as I know, Bill never drew any pay. He got a cash remittance every two weeks or so, through his solicitor I think, and he was always well heeled. His wife lived somewhere in the south of England and when he took the notion he would go AWOL and travel down to spend a

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weekend at his home. He would be "up for office" when he returned, but this did not phase Bill. He was quite a "barracks room lawyer" himself and he could wriggle out of any trouble without difficulty. His one desire was to get his discharge and return to civilian life, and he got his wish eventually, he settled down in the small town in the south of England where he had his home and was quite happy. I had a long letter from him telling me of his activities which included the Secretaryship of the local cricket club and he sent me a photo of the team with himself in the centre, looking happy and contented. There was a fellow banker in hospital with me, named John Duncan. He was with the Canadian Bank of Commerce, and he and I travelled back to Canada together as civilians after finally being discharged from the Army. John came from the north of Scotland and had that soft drawl peculiar to Highlanders. He was a good-looking lad with wavy hair, and he made a few conquests with the young ladies. One of his admirers was the barmaid at the "local" and I remember one night when John, another pal and I went to "wet the whistle", she greeted him with: "Well, here comes auburn-haired Charlie". The other guy asked her where she got that "auburn hair" stuff as in Canada we just called him a red-headed S.O.B. I became acquainted through John Duncan with a widow and her three daughters, named MacLeod, who formerly had been neighbours of his family in Scotland, but who now lived in Hammersmith. They had a lovely summer place on the Thames, and they owned a punt on which we spent many pleasant hours on the river. They were exceptionally kind to us and invited us frequently to spend the day at the cottage. I will remember the orchard which seemed to produce an unlimited supply of fruit on which we gorged ourselves shamelessly. Punting on the river was a delightful way to pass a few hours, especially in the evening when music would be wafted across the water from other punts and from the cottages. We took advantage of the hospital's proximity to London to take in some of the good shows, and I think the one that stands out in my memory was Chu Chin Chow with Oscar Ashe. It ran for five years and was still going strong when I left. For a night of hilarious entertainment, the Palladium Music Hall was the place to go. The house played to full

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capacity at each performance and the audience, as might be expected, was practically all servicemen, some of whom were on leave from France. They responded to the various "turns" so enthusiastically that the artists gave them all they had, and it was always a thrilling performance. I was walking down Piccadilly one day when I was accosted by a soldier in hospital blues on crutches who asked me if I was Company Sergeant Major McMillan. I answered in the affirmative, and he told me that he was in my Company. I had to admit that I did not recollect him and this bothered me as I prided myself in knowing all the men who had passed through "A” Coy. while I was C.S.M. He then explained why I was not likely to remember him. It transpired that he came to France on a draft and was attached to our Company. That same night we went in the line, and on the way up, he got hit and lost a leg as a result, so his service in France lasted but a few hours. Another example of what happens when the shell has your number on it. I had the pleasure and privilege of visiting with another lad from the hospital, one or two Masonic Lodges in London, and the hospitality extended to us was of the highest order. We were usually accepted as the guests of honour, and everything possible was done to ensure an enjoyable and unforgettable evening. One of the outstanding events was a dinner at Frascatti's, one of London's famous restaurants, and although meat was rationed, fish was not, and I don't remember ever seeing such a variety of delectable seafood dishes. Liquor was not rationed (at least not that night at Frascatti’s) so there was no shortage in that particular department. While I was at Clarence House, I got leave on a few occasions to visit Scotland, and it was so nice to get back to the atmosphere of home for a time, and to see my parents. My sister Jean was still living at Terrcgles (Dumfries, Scotland) and I must confess that I spent most of my leave there. She and her husband, Harry, were kindness personified, and what pleased me greatly was that I had the use of a saddle horse when I wanted it. Many a pleasant ride I had, and I was happy to get astride a horse again, just to experience the feel of it. I spent a restful holiday in Scotland, and in due course I returned to Clarence House to take up where I left off. The long convalescence was

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having a beneficial effect, and gradually I was getting back into good physical condition. I should mention that we limbless people had to go into training to fit ourselves for civilian life. I mean, we had to learn to manage for ourselves, and not to depend upon others to help us. Amongst my small problems was learning to lace my shoes and to tie a knot which would stay "put". With the years of practice I have had, I think I can claim to do this today as well as one with two hands. Other items included learning to trim toe and finger nails, how to tie a tie, shave, dress, eat meals without the aid of a knife, and remember to walk with shoulders squared and not fall into a slouch as one could do very easily, learning how to swim with one arm (not too difficult). With regard to sports, I took up badminton, tennis and golf again and if perhaps I never got above the level of mediocrity, at least I got the exercise I needed, and I thoroughly enjoyed it. There were many little problems to solve before I reached die stage of being wholly self-reliant, and I would like to say that all the members of my family observed my wishes to do everydiing for myself and never offered to help. In fact, I doubt if they ever diought I was different in any respect form others. Later, I learned to drive a car and I have driven for 45 years. This is one of the pleasures left to me. I was on indefinite leave of absence from the bank, and they had kept in contact with me. It was arranged that when I was finally discharged from hospital I would join die staff of the bank's branch in London, England. This arrangement suited me quite well as I felt that I would rather be in Britain while the war was still in progress. Why, I don't really know, and later I changed my mind. I had been in hospitals for some eleven months, and I was as fit as I was every likely to be, but I had to await the pleasure of die powers diat be to get my discharge. A preliminary was the transfer to the Granville Hospital at Ramsgate for a "medical". Ramsgate is a famous and beautiful summer resort, but the hospital was nothing to write home about. The food was unappetising so two of the odier patients and 1 had most of our meals in a little restaurant in town. The staff for the most part comprised men who had never seen active service, and in consequence, we "old sweats" looked upon them with disdain, I am afraid. I was ordered to appear for my "medical” and there were a number of others on the same mission that morning. One laddie, with

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the rank of Captain, was taking particulars of each patient before entering the examining room an the first question he asked each one was: Well, what's the matter with you?" Just ahead of me was a long, lanky six-footer on crutches, having lost a leg, and I could tell by the look on his face that he was thoroughly disgusted with the hospital, the war, and everything connected with it. He hirpled up on his crutches before this character who, without even looking up, sang out his greeting: "Well, what's the matter with you?” The soldier looked at him disdainfully and venomously said: "Buster, I might ask what the hell's the matter with you. Have you lost your bloody eyesight?" This Captain I mention was one of those (in the minority, thank goodness) who never seemed to realise that for most of us the war was actually over, and recourse to discipline in any form had not the slightest effect upon us. He would have been wise if he paid attention to this soldier's retort to his stupid question and profited by it. I appreciate that someone had to perform such necessary duties, but I think preference should have been given to men who had served at the front and who had become incapacitated for one reason or another. I have one more incident to report, and when I do so please do not think I went around with a chip on my shoulder looking for trouble. The fact of the matter is that I just had not time for those Johnnies who had never been to the front, and who never intended to be there if they had any say in the matter. They just did not play in our league. When a casualty was discharged, he was supplied with a cheap suit and (I think) an overcoat in which I would not be found dead. As I was on the verge of getting my discharge, and as all my civilian clothes were back in Canada, I arranged with the tailor to make me two suits and an overcoat, and I would make up the difference. I think the tailor may have been a bit leary about supplying clothes to servicemen who were being discharged, and leaving the area, and I didn't blame him. He evidently had contacted a certain officer at the hospital to find out, I suppose, if I constituted a good risk. I happened to hear that this officer had been a salesman in a store in Winnipeg. He sent for me to appear before him and addressed me something like this: ”1 understand you are going around town ordering goods at various stores, and I want to know if you intend paying for your purchases." It was an impertinent question that might easily have been framed in a different manner without causing offence, if the guy had given it some thought. So, I looked him

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in the eye and said to him (although these may not be the exact words): "Mister (not Sir), all through my life I have made a point of paying for everything I bought, and I expect to be doing so long after you are back on your counter-hopping job in Winnipeg." Maybe I was a bit childish, but I was somewhat miffed. Well, the time has come when I should write "finis" to my military career, and I am somewhat reluctant to do so. There seems to be so much I have omitted, but I must remind myself that 1 am not recording history, but rather making an effort to give my family some idea of my personal experiences through life as far as I can remember them. I would like to state that I was fortunate in being medically fit to enlist at a time when the country was in danger, and to make what could only be termed a microscopic contribution to the war effort. I was proud to have served with a Highland regiment which formed part of the Canadian Corps, and rather than try to express an opinion on the merits of our troops, I will quote the following from the War Memoirs of David Lloyd George: "In that month (August 1916) the Canadians entered the Somme battle where they played a part of such distinction that, thenceforward, they were marked out as storm troops, and for the remained of the War they were brought along to head the assault in one great battle after another. Whenever the Germans found the Canadian troops in the line they prepared for the worst. All through the final advance to victory, Canadian troops were to the fore, and a few hours before the Armistice they marched through the streets of Mons to the tune of "Tipperary" played on the bagpipes. I consider that such a tribute coming from the leader of the Government of the day sums up in a few words, but quite adequately, the calibre of the Canadians. The day of my transference from military to civilian life arrived at last, and on 12th November, 1917 I was given my discharge. As a matter of interest, the following are some of the entries on the certificate issued by No.2 Canadian Discharge Depot, London:

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numerous oilier ways. Never did I hear expressed even an infinitesimal doubt that victory would be ours as 1 am sure we all felt that right over might would prevail. The war was not of our making, but against our will we had become embroiled in it, and we had to see it through to the bitter end. The losses were appalling, and the "war to end wars" proved by subsequent events to be nothing more than wishful thinking. Perhaps we had set our sights too high, but were we not justified in thinking (dreaming, if you like) that after the cleansing process the world would lie a better place in which to live, and that perhaps "man's inhumanity to man" would disappear or at least be ameliorated? However, the end of the conflict was not the beginning of the millcnium, and for our own |>cacc of mind we had perhaps belter accept the words in the Good Book that there will be wars and rumours of war. Who can say that this is not part of the plan laid out by the Great Architect of the Universe?

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Acknowledgement Thanks are given to my wife, Pat, and my cousins Elma Bell and Jean Forster, for their wholehearted co-operation and support in the production and publication of this booklet.